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the7thcrow · 3 years

Text

indulgence | part one

pairing: felix x (fem) vampire!reader series

summary: an indulgence grows to become dangerous, as the society of hampden college takes note of y/n’s new blood bag.

series masterlist.

word count: 4.9k

genre: forbidden love, angst (sorta), fluff, suggestive.

warnings: blood, suggestive content (kissing and a shirt comes off, nothing too crazy lmao), hook-ups (but nothing is explicitly described), strong language, and vampires ofc.

rating: 16+

a/n: hi everyone! this is my first fic, so i’m sorry if it’s a little messy. this is part one of what will be a series. i’d love to hear some feedback, so don’t be afraid to shoot me an ask or message! i hope you enjoy!

...

You are late. The pattering of rain echos from atop your umbrella, the puddles of pooling water soaking your loafers as you hurry along the busy street. However, you pay no mind as the liquid seeps into your shoes, mud embedding itself along your pant leg. On a normal day, you’d scowl. You’d curse the shitty weather, and grumble as you marched home to change into a dry pair of shoes. Only today is different. Today it doesn’t matter, not when you have far greater troubles warranting your concern.

The Council isn’t pleased. They’d be even more upset, if that were even possible, if you arrived tardy. You can imagine their old, petulant faces, looking down on you with disgust. Perhaps even pity, seeing you as nothing more than a childish young girl, who’d been foolish enough to break her vow. You frown to yourself, that’s all they would ever see you as. It didn’t matter how the years passed by, to them you were, and would always be simply that. A child. Always younger, always naive. Most of all, always beneath them.

The headquarters becomes visible in the distance, clouded in the slight haze of fog. It appears to be like any other building on the Hampden Campus. Old and rustic, elegant in the way it was shaped and carved, a relic of history reflected in a modern day era. Only this building holds a far different tale than those surrounding it.

Far more bloody. Far more gruesome. A home to monsters.

Monsters like yourself.

You knock on the door. Twice, slowly. Then a pause, before three times quickly. A code, letting anyone inside know that you are, in fact, a member of The Society.

The door opens with a creak, a young boy with electric blue hair peeking out through the crack. After recognizing your face, he smiles, ushering you in quickly as the door slams shut behind you.

“Y/N! It’s good to see you. It’s been a while, huh?” The boy says, casually leaning against the door. It has been a while, you never came to this god awful building unless it was absolutely necessary.

“I guess it has been. But it’s nice to see you too, Jeongin,” you speak warmly in return. You’ve known Jeongin for a couple years now, since he first arrived at The Society doorstep. Alone and confused. A freshling, having just been turned. While perhaps not physically, he’s certainly grown since then, in both confidence and courage.

Suddenly, the smile drops from his face, his expression becoming sullen. “I hear you’ve gotten yourself into some trouble,” he states. When you don’t respond, he continues. “It’s not true, is it? I know you wouldn’t-”

“Listen, Jeongin,” you cut him off quickly. You aren’t in the mood to be lectured, especially not by someone whose opinion you actually care about. “I’m already running late. I’ll catch up with you after, okay?”

“Wait, Y/N!” He calls after you, but you’ve already disappeared down the hall, heading towards the council room. You quickly cast a glance at your watch. Shit, five minutes late. They wouldn’t forget that.

With only a quick breath to gather yourself, you burst in through the large wooden doors. The silence in the council room is deafening, as all heads turn to face you. In all your life, you’ve never seen so many dissatisfied faces.

“Ms. L/N,” the head councilman calls. He has an old face, embedded with wrinkles and a scalp of thinning white hair. Unlucky. He could have been beautiful, or at the very least, young. However, he must’ve been turned late. A pity, to stare at such a reflection for eternity.

You stifle a laugh. The frown he always appeared to be wearing probably wasn’t helping.

“Take a seat,” he states, motioning to the chair seated in the center of the room. How dramatic you think, to put you in the middle of so many staring eyes. While the council was only composed of three individuals, the room seems to be full of other lower ranked members of The Society.

As you take your seat, your gaze wanders the room, landing on a familiar head of shaggy brown hair. His eyes bore into your own, his expression serious. Perhaps even angry, the longer he stares at you.

You want to say something. Mostly, to ask him what the fuck he’s doing here. This isn’t any of Chan’s business, yet for whatever reason he has the audacity to stare at you as if it is. As if you will grant him answers. As if he deserves answers.

“Ms. L/N,” the chairman interrupts your thoughts. “Do you know why you’re seated here today?”

Why are you seated here today? Well, that answer is complicated. How could you have possibly gotten yourself into such a mess? How could you have been so foolish? You knew the rules. You knew what was permitted and what was not. Yet, you chose to ignore these conditions.

Why? What could possibly have made you toss everything you’d promised to the side?

Well, that story starts with a head of bright blonde hair, and a set of curious eyes.

~~~~

The library of Hampden College had become something of a second home to you. Late nights spent bent over a book, transcribing various philosophies and literature into latin. Sometimes greek, however you didn’t have quite the same knack for it. That’s where you found yourself tonight, your beaten down copy of The Iliad staring back at you from its place on the table.

Your classics degree was coming along just fine. You didn’t mind the endless books to read and poems to analyze. Nor the papers you often found yourself crafting from this very spot in the corner of the library. It was always quiet, always solitary at this time. Even the night owl students having gathered their books, departing the library for a brief rest before their early classes the following morning.

Tonight however, was different. You heard the door creak open, glancing up as a boy appeared in the doorway. He had long blonde hair, fluffing at the nape of his neck. Sporting a sharp blazer and a pair of oxfords, you couldn’t deny he was well dressed. Perhaps that’s why he grabbed your attention immediately, you were attracted to effort. To someone who was put together, who cared.

The boy took a seat just a few tables away from your own, gently setting his books down and disappearing into the maze of shelves to your left. You attempted to go back to your work, but couldn’t seem to find your focus. Who was this boy? You’d never seen him before in all your time at Hampden. Also, why would he possibly be at the library so late? You recognized the faces of those who while rare, might possibly be here at this time of night. He wasn’t one of them.

You would remember if he was.

You strained your neck trying to find his figure, having lost him almost immediately.

“A fan of Homer?” A voice rang out from beside your ear. You jumped in shock, greeted by a sweet smile and wide eyes. The boy chuckled. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

You smiled sweetly, trying to calm your beating heart. “No worries. And well, you translate the entirety of Book Eight overnight into Greek, and tell me if you could still consider yourself a ‘fan of Homer.’”

The boy laughed before beginning to pull a chair out beside you. “May I?” He asked.

Looking back, you should have said no. You had a lot more work to do, and near no time to do it. Not to mention of course, rejecting him initially could have saved you from this whole mess. Instead you nodded, a grin forming at the corners of your lips as he sat down.

“What’s your name?” He asked. His voice was sweet, sultry. Alarming in just how deep it was, not quite fitting his bright and youthful exterior.

“Y/N, classics department. Yourself?”

“Felix,” he answered. There it was, the first time you heard the name that would cause your undoing. “I’m majoring in history. Listen,” he began, leaning in slightly closer as if he were going to tell you a secret, his voice lowering further. “I must say, I’m in here all the time, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”

You hummed, leaning in closer to him as well. His eyes glinted. “Well that’s simple, I’m assuming you don’t frequent the library at-” you glanced at your watch- “2:32 in the morning.”

Felix’s eyebrows furrowed with something like concern. “You’re here every night at this time? Why?”

“Hey,” you began, not wanting to lose the playful nature to the conversation. You’d heard enough concerned voices to last a lifetime already. “Aren’t you here this late yourself? You’re in no place to judge.”

He laughed, and you knew you could get used to that sound. “Fair enough, I’ll leave it be.”

“Why are you here this late, anyway?” You asked.

“Oh, so you get to know my secrets, but I can’t know yours?”

“Of course.”

He rolled his eyes playfully, resting his head on the desk, cradled by his crossed arms. “If you must know, I couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d read some of your classics, thought they might help me doze off.”

You shoved his arm, to which he feigned a groan of pain, clutching his shoulder. “Excuse you,” you laughed. “I have a lot of Homer to struggle through, and no time for your cheap shots. You can go ahead and leave now.”

You were surprised when he got to his feet, worried for a moment he’d taken you seriously and was actually about to make his exit. Instead, he disappeared into the philosophy section, emerging with a copy of The Odyssey. Felix flopped down back in his chair beside you, extending his feet on top of the table and leaning backwards.

“Well, then I guess I’ll suffer along with you,” he said. Without another word, he flipped towards the first page.

Felix was a good person to study with. Well, technically you weren’t studying with him, but nonetheless it was nice to have him in the room. He didn’t bother you, didn’t speak, just let you do your work. Sometimes you’d look up and meet his gaze, his eyes imploring you. Curious. Mischievous.

Dangerous.

“Alright,” you yawned after an hour or so had passed by, stretching your arms high in the air. “I’m done.”

He smiled, slowly closing his book and setting it down on the table. “Yeah? Finally going to go home and sleep?”

“Sleep? What’s that?” You said, playfully scoffing. “Nah, it’s already past 3:30, it’ll be 4 by the time I get back to my apartment. Not worth it at this point.”

“Hmm,” Felix hummed, a flicker of mischief in his growing smile. “What ever will you do to pass the time?”

“I don’t know,” you returned, excitement building in your chest. “But I suppose I’ll leave you now. You still have about 3 quarters of The Odyssey to get through, and I don’t want to tear you away from-”

You shouldn’t have been surprised when his lips crashed into yours, but you were. You let out a small “mff” against the sudden impact. It took your brain a second to catch up to speed on what was happening. Here you were, with this incredibly beautiful boy of whom you literally just met, kissing in the middle of the library.

Your second thought was about how you’d never done this before. Not kissing someone, hell you’d done a lot more than just that. But never a stranger, and certainly never a human, for that matter. You had to be careful with who you got close to, you never knew who could be dangerous, who could be a hunter. Besides, The Society had rules, and this alone was undoubtedly breaking a few of them.

So what the hell were you doing?

You should stop this, you thought. But the more you settled into a rhythm, the more your worries trailed from your mind. Felix was a good kisser. A really good kisser. His lips were soft, warm, his breath sharp with the taste of mint. When the dork had a chance to pop a tic tac you didn’t know, but it made you smile against him.

You ran your fingers through his hair, leaning into him. He groaned in response, moving his hands down your figure, settling in on your waist. Carefully he began to fiddle with the buttons at the bottom of your blouse, and with that it all suddenly became real.

“We can’t do this,” you breathed, finally breaking away from him.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I went too far, I-” he began to apologize, frantically removing his hands from your body and shifting backwards into his chair.

“No,” you replied, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips at his sweetness. You grabbed the collar of his shirt, gently tugging him closer to you. “We can’t do this here.”

The Society had rules, plenty. Human’s, in any sort of relationship, were out of the question. Public displays of affection with even your own kind, especially of the more vulgar sort, were off limits as well. The idea was to not bring attention to yourselves, to not cause a scene. And if you were going to break one of these rules so terribly, you figured you could at least pay the respect to do so privately.

“Okay,” he mumbled, placing his forehead against your own. “Where should we go?”

“My place? It’s a little far from here, but I don’t have any roommates. So..”

Felix smiled, planting a soft, lingering kiss at the nape of your neck. “Lead the way.”

~~~~

The walk over to your apartment wasn’t awkward per say, it was simply...charged. Felix had his arm looped around your own, making your way silently down the dark, lantern lit path through campus. You could feel your heart beating rapidly in your chest, a desire thrumming down inside you, resurfacing. It had been a long time since you’d last been with someone. That last person being Chan, your ex as of eight months ago.

Things had been good with Chan. Great even, in the beginning at least. He was intense, thoughtful. He loved you deeply. Most of all, Chan understood. Like you, he was a member of The Society. He was under every restriction you were, and felt all the same frustrations.

Of course, not all good things can last. Eventually your relationship began to sour. Your arguments became full on brawls. Your differences and quirks became unbearable. You couldn’t be in the same room without being at one another's throats. You were the one who finally decided to end things.

Chan was the only man you’d ever loved, and since him you’d never entertained the thought of being with another. Until now, that is. You glanced towards Felix, who was staring ahead down the street, his eyes dark. You could feel his own desire radiating off of him, visible in the way he slowly swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing. Besides, Felix could give you something more. Something Chan could never.

No. You stopped yourself. That wouldn’t be happening tonight. It would only make things more complicated, more dangerous. Still, you could feel it deep inside you, pounding for control. That familiar, incessant hunger. The more you tried to ignore it, the more it was there. Becoming stronger as your ears focused in on Felix’s heart beat, the sound of blood pumping through his veins.

You were pulled from your thoughts as the sight of your apartment complex appeared in front of you. Quietly you entered, making your way up the stairs and towards your own door. Releasing your arm from Felix’s, you fumbled for your keys in your purse. Giving him a small smile, you twisted your key in the lock, and allowed him inside.

The moment you closed your apartment door, all bets were off. Felix tossed his books onto your kitchen table, clashing into you with a speed that almost made you lose your own breath. You felt your back press against the wall behind you, Felix’s lips devouring your own. Desperate and wanting.

He quickly revisited the buttons of your blouse, this time starting at the top and beginning to make his way down. All the meanwhile his lips traced your neck, gently brushing against your skin. With every new kiss fueling your own desire, you slowly began to rock your hips into his own. This was escalating. Fast. As he finished with the last button, he allowed your blouse to drop from your shoulders, smiling to himself as he took you in.

“Your turn,” you breathed, tugging at the collar of his shirt as a signal to take it off. He did so, absent-mindedly tossing it aside into your living room. He took your chin in his hand, forcing you to look up at him, staring deeply into your eyes. Then he proceeded to say the very last thing you ever expected him to:

“Look at your eyes… You haven’t fed in weeks, have you?”

You slapped his hand away and shoved him off of you, rushing to the otherside of the room, putting the coffee table between yourselves. “How-How do you?” You stammered, physically unable to form a complete sentence. How could he possibly know what you were? How did he even know you existed?

Felix’s eyes widened, clearly shocked by your reaction. “No, no. Don’t worry!” He said frantically, outstretching his hand to you. “Listen, I’m not going to hurt you or anything. I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry! I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, disbelievingly. “Yeah? And how do I know that?” You let this man into your home, your safe space. How could you have been so stupid?

“Look, I grew up around Vampires okay? My neighbors, back in my childhood home, they were like you. I know the signs. I know how your eyes blow out when you’re hungry, the way they glaze over when you haven’t fed in a while. That’s it. I didn’t even realize until I got a good look at you, back when you were translating. It’s no big deal, really.”

You scoffed. No big deal? Felix didn’t seem to realize just how big of a deal it actually was. Humans weren’t supposed to know what you were, certainly not at Hampden. The Society had made well sure of that. God, if The Council saw you now...

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I should have told you back at the library. I honestly didn’t think it would freak you out this much. That’s on me,” he said, inching slightly closer to you. Despite yourself, you didn’t move away. “I’m serious though, it’s been a while since you last fed. Hasn’t it?”

A while was an understatement. The Society had been going through a shortage of blood bags, after having severed their connections with one of the nearby hospitals. Meaning if you wanted to drink, it would have to be from one of their Certified Donors. Which was another, fancier and far more innocent way of saying prisoners. These were humans who had given their lives to The Society, some willingly and others not so much.

You didn’t like going to their quarters. Located in the basement of the main district, it was always quiet down there. Always solemn. You’d never been to a place lacking so much hope. You’d only gone once, and drinking from that man still haunts you to this day. The way he didn’t move or speak, or even wince when your fangs broke his skin. The way his eyes were hollow and empty. How when you were done he simply laid down in his bed and turned away from you, without another word.

The Certified Donors were what made you begin to hate The Society in the first place. Since then, your resentment only seemed to grow.

You sighed, walking past him and flopping onto your couch. “Yeah, it’s been a while,” you confessed.

Felix carefully approached you. Instead of seating himself next to you, he got down on his knees, resting a hand on your thigh. “It’s okay, you can use me. I don’t mind.”

You were ready to tell him no, the word lingering on the tip of your tongue. However, you couldn’t bring yourself to deny him. Perhaps it was your hunger, the fact that a few more weeks in this drought, you might actually become ill.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that you wanted to disobey the society. That this little act of rebellion, this utterly wrong indulgence, was what made your desire grow unbearable, unchained. You hated The Council, you hated the Certified Donor system, and you hated the way they had such a firm grip and control on your life.

A beautiful boy was seated in front of you, begging you to drink from him. How could you possibly say no? Better yet, why would you say no? To deprive yourself of something so great, for something you despised so deeply seemed ridiculous. That was the moment your judgment lapsed, that you crossed the point of no return. If you drank from Felix, there would be no going back. If the council found out, there would be consequences. Big ones.

But who doesn’t love a little risk?

You sunk down to meet him on the floor, staring at his bare chest. You could hear his heart pumping, its pace quickening the closer you got to him.

“Are you sure about this?” You asked.

“Yes,” he whispered. You shifted your position. Not quite seating yourself in his lap, but hovering above, your knees on either side of him.

“This might hurt a little bit,” you warned. You extended your fangs, approaching his neck, carefully. You didn’t realize until then how nervous you were. It had been a long time since you’d fed from a human. You’d drank from Chan of course, but he was also a vampire, and your blood didn’t have quite the same effect. There was pleasure in it, usually accompanied in moments of ecstasy, but it didn’t replenish you. It didn’t heighten your senses, nor fill you with energy. Most of all, it didn’t satisfy your hunger, your thirst. Not at all.

Felix’s blood would.

You kept this in mind as you finally plunged your fangs into his neck. Felix let out a gasp, tensing beneath you, his hand clutching onto your arm for support. The taste of his blood grazed your tongue, metallic and warm. Delicious.

Fuck, did blood ever taste this good before? You didn’t think so.

The sweet taste consumed you. Intoxicating. Raw. Cascading over your mind in a blanket of pleasure, reveling in the way its effects seeped over your body. You could feel your mind growing sharper, your senses becoming more alert. It was a relief, after weeks of blurry weakness, of being too close to humanity in your thirst. You felt yourself again, the monster you are. The monster you are glad to be.

Here you were powerful. Invincible. And all you wanted was more. More. More.

More of this power, this sensation, this strength. This is what feeding should be. What feeding can give you. Not from a blood bag, nor a helpless prisoner, but from someone you want. Someone you desire. Someone who desires you in return.

It was as you felt Felix’s grip on your arm loosen that you finally broke away, breathing hard as you caught your breath. Felix’s eyes shifted to yours lazily, dazed. Perhaps even delirious. For a moment you feared that you’d taken too much. He blinked slowly, his eyes regaining focus.

Then he smiled. “Shit Y/N…” he began, his voice appearing more of a croak. “That felt really fucking good.”

You grinned, leaning into him and pressing a series of kisses up along his jaw. Felix shivered, allowing his hands to slowly slide up your figure. Wanting.

“Yeah?” You whispered, your lips brushing against his ear. “Then how about we continue where we left off?”

~~~~

The next morning you woke to the sound of your alarm buzzing, sunlight peeking through the opening of your drapes. You heard a low groan next to your ear, quickly becoming aware of the hand wrapped around your waist.

So last night really happened. The reality of your situation dawned on you. You’d both drank from and fucked a human. There was no going back now, you’d completely disobeyed The Society.

Worst of all? You didn’t care. At least, not near as much as you should have.

You shifted to face Felix, seeing his eyes still closed, eyebrows furrowed. “Hey,” you whispered, planting a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. “We have to get up. I have class.”

He groaned again in protest, shaking his head and burying his face into the crook of your neck. Between last night's events and the ringing of your alarm, you both only got about two hours of sleep, and that was being generous. This was no problem for you, as while sleep was a luxury, it was not a necessity. The same didn’t go for Felix.

“Come on,” you laughed, worming out of his grasp. “You’ll be fine, I’ll go make us some coffee.”

You rolled out of bed, throwing on Felix’s discarded shirt and heading towards your kitchen. Flicking on the radio, you felt oddly blissful as you grounded the coffee beans into a filter. It had been a long time since there’d been another person in your apartment. It made the space seem less… haunted. No longer lingering with the essence of Chan’s ghost. It felt fresh. New.

Felix emerged from your bedroom, rubbing his eyes sleepily, sporting only his khaki’s from the past day. His gaze met yours and he smiled. “So, I take it my shirt is yours now?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, leaning forward over your kitchen counter. Felix bent down, causing you to become nose-level with one another. The close proximity made your heart race.

“Mean,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss you softly. There was no unchained desire, no promise of more. It was simple, warm. A morning of peace after a night of wildness.

You could get used to this, you thought.

The thought sunk in your chest like a stone. This wouldn’t be as simple as you wanted to be, as you needed it to be. There would be sacrifices to make, and cautions you’d have to adhere to. You had to get the truth out in the open. Better to rip the bandaid off now rather than later.

“Felix, you can’t tell anyone about this.” You said. The smile faded from Felix’s face, and for a moment he looked so… hurt. He stepped back.

“About the feeding? Y/N, I wouldn’t tell anyone what you are, don’t worry about-”

“No, not just the feeding. About us. About any of it.”

Felix opened his mouth to say something, but then quickly closed it. His gaze hardened. “Ah. Got it,” he stated sharply, grabbing his blazer and motioning to the door. “I’ll just head out then.”

“Wait, Felix! No, it’s not like that,” you said, rushing around the kitchen island and reaching for his arm. He turned around to face you, his expression wounded. “Listen, I don’t know how it was with your old neighbors, but here at Hampden things are different. There’s certain rules we have to follow, and what you and I did? Well, that broke about a hundred of them.”

Felix was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Okay… But what do you mean rules? Who’s enforcing them? Hampden?”

“No, it’s bigger than that. There’s a group of us here, a society. There are rules we abide by, and they’re meant to keep us safe. Keep us united,” you explained.

“Like a cult?” Felix asked, and you had to refrain from rolling your eyes.

“Well, if that helps you, then whatever. Yeah, sure. A cult.”

“Where do you-”

“I’m sorry,” you cut him off. “But that’s all I can really tell you, at least for now. Honestly, the less you know, the better. Just for safety’s sake.”

“Oh. Alright,” Felix said, his lips pursed. He wasn’t pleased, that much was obvious.

“I know this sucks, I’m sorry. But if we want to keep doing this-”

“Wait,” Felix interrupted, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “You want to keep doing this? I thought you’d get in trouble?”

You smiled, and were pleased to see the corners of his mouth curve up in return. “I’ve already risked getting myself in trouble.” You trailed your finger along the bare of his chest, feeling the warmth radiating from his skin. He was so alive, so real. And it only made you want him more. Perhaps, that’s why he wanted you as well. You were unpredictable, wild. A challenge.

A match made in hell.

“I dug myself a grave, Lix.” You looked up at him, entranced by the curiosity swimming in his eyes. “Might as well lie in it.”

next chapter

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andromedasstarship · 3 years

Text

are you free tomorrow?

pairing - spencer reid x gn!reader

warnings - nothing! just a sweet & cliche ‘first meeting’ story :)

summary - midterms are coming up and all the good cafes on campus are filled, maybe the sweet looking curly haired guy in the back will share his table with you?

a/n - for my valentines day oneshot series! 'every table is full, but i really need to study, is there any way we could share?'

-------

Stressed, was a simple way to explain the current state you were in. The semester had snuck up on you, moving faster than you had ever expected. As the fifth week was coming to a close, you were getting dangerously close to the storm of midterms you had waiting for you in the sixth week. And you desperately needed to study. The only thing stopping you- surprisingly not your own procrastination-, was that it seemed as if the rest of campus was also in the same predicament as you.

This was the third cafe on campus that you had entered that was absolutely filled.

Your eyes scanned around the room, hoping to catch someone in the middle of packing their things. Nope. You considered circling back through the other two cafes you’d just been in or maybe even just going off campus. Except you couldn’t justify wasting more time by circling the same few cafes over and over, nor could your college student budget justify paying for coffee when you could just use your allotted campus cash.

Just as you were about to give up and leave- begrudgingly deciding that studying in your room would have to be good enough-, you spotted a man sitting alone towards the back of the cafe. He sat at a large table with plenty of space; even though he had one of the largest stacks of papers you’d ever seen one individual possess.

You weighed your options, internally debating if it’d be worth potentially hurting your pride by asking him to share the table and getting rejected. Seeing as the other option was definitely hurting your pride by hovering the same cafes like a hungry park bird, you tightened your grip on your tote bag and started walking towards him.

Whatever he was reading must’ve been exciting, as his focus didn’t stray even for a moment nor did he notice you at all until you were right up against the chair across from him. You awkwardly cleared your throat to catch his attention, giving him a tiny wave when he looked up at you.

“Hi!”

“Hello?”

“I’m really sorry to bother you, just every table is full and I really need to study and I know it’s not the best, but could I share this table with you?” You asked anxiously, holding your breath as you waited for his answer.

As he opened his mouth to respond, you quickly added. “I swear it’ll be like I’m not even here!”

He gave you a ‘please calm down’ look and you felt some of the weight dissolve from your shoulders as he nodded his head. “Take a seat, no worry at all.” He told you, adding a kind smile as he looked back down at his stack of papers and pulled them closer; giving you more room at the table.

You let your bag fall off your shoulder and hit the ground with a thunk, relieved to no longer be carrying the physical weight around. You clasped the top of the chair in front of you, leaning towards him just so. “Thank you,” you said, giving your best gracious smile, “let me get you a coffee or something?”

He looked almost shocked- or was he flustered? you weren’t sure-, quickly shaking his head in response. “No! You don’t need to do that at all.” He assured you, but you weren’t so quick to back down.

“It’s the least I can do, please?” You pressed, giving him a very exaggerated pleaaaase look, “with all those papers you must need some serious caffeine.”

You thought he was going to continue this little back-and-forth with you, but you watched as his body relaxed ever so slightly, signs of what you hoped was him conceding. “Just a black coffee.”

"Just black?" You countered, raising your eyebrow, leaving it unsaid that he was just choosing the cheapest drink they had.

"Room for cream? I'll fix it up myself." He replied.

----

From the line, you had your first opportunity to really give this guy a look. The papers in front of him had sucked him back in as soon as you stepped away from the table; meaning you weren’t too worried about him catching you in your little…, creeping moment. The student population was large, but it was still small enough that you found yourself repeatedly seeing the same strangers. Yet, you’d never seen this man before. And you were sure you would’ve remembered this man, had you seen him before. What? He was undeniably attractive. There was something about the way his hair just perfectly curled around his face that made you just want to reach out and ruff- that’s weird. Even his little sweater-tie-button up outfit was doing it for you. Maybe today won’t be so bad.

The line moved quickly and you found yourself carrying the two drinks back over to the table in under five minutes. You set his cup by him, taking care to put it away from the massive stack of papers. You set your cup down next, sliding in the chair diagonal from him.

“You know,” you started, hefting your bag up into the chair next to you, “I never got your name?”

“Thank you,” he quickly got out, holding up his coffee as he did so. “I’m Spencer, uh…, Spencer Reid.” He told you, a faint red creeping up from under his collar.

You gave him your name in return, a bit distracted as you pulled more of your things from your bag. From the corner of your eye, you saw him hold his coffee up again, nodding his head towards the cream and sugar station before walking off to fix his drink up properly.

In his absence, you pulled out the rest of your books, debating which subject you should tackle first. You were glad you were finally towards the end of your college career, meaning the majority of your classes were specific to your interests rather than a four hundred student gen-ed; not that it made you any more excited to study for this exam.

When Spencer came back he set his coffee down with a slightly shaky hand. “Did you know coffee is actually classified as a fruit?” He asked, as he slid back into his seat against the wall.

“I didn’t know that.” You replied, shaking your head.

“The coffee bean itself grows on a bush and they’re actually the pit of a berry, which is what makes them a fruit. They come in two main varieties, green and red.” He rambled, as if reciting from some magic book stored in his brain. As soon as he was done he clamped his mouth shut, remembering how most people reacted to his ramblings.

You raised an eyebrow at him, but your face didn’t show any signs of annoyance. “Big coffee fan Spencer?”

“Big fan of facts.” He corrected, giving you a sheepish smile.

“Oh yeah? Well you seem pretty smart then, which class should I study for first?” You asked, holding up two of your textbooks.

He looked at both books curiously, trying to take a guess at what your major might’ve been. He pointed at the one in your left hand. God’s, Monsters and Mortals.

“Are you an…, English major?” He guessed, wondering if the book was some supplement for a unit on the Iliad. Not to mention the other book you held up was quite literally called ‘Literature Through The Ages’.

You shook your head, putting the book he chose down on the table while you returned the other one to your bag. “Close! Classics,” you said, giving him a sheepish grin, “I know, it’s a bit niche, kinda ridiculous, but there’s something about how we immortalized memories of ancient times through literature that are just fascinating. There’s something about the lessons of the past that I think a lot of people are ignoring today, ya know?” You replied, quickly closing your mouth before you’d go on some incredibly long tangent about your interests and studies. Didn’t you say it’d be like you weren’t even here?

“No, no!” He hurriedly said, shaking his head. “Understanding the lessons and patterns of the past and how they’ve morphed humanity today? That’s cool!” He assured you.

“Well what about you, Spencer Reid? What’s your major, you must have some horrible professors, if that stack of papers is the norm.” You joked, liking the way the corner of his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

“I’m uh…, a professor here.” He responded, his face cringing ever so slightly as he watched your mouth drop open simultaneously as your eyes nearly fell out of your head.

“You’re a…, professor?” You repeated, extremely confused as to how someone who looked only a few years older than you was somehow employed to such a degree.

“Just a visiting one!” He clarified, clearing his throat. “I’m on a sort of, uh, sabbatical from work.”

“Isn’t a sabbatical when someone gets away from academia?” You countered, smiling to show you meant no actual aggression.

“Big fan of facts, remember?” He repeated plainly, but you caught the joke in it and you smiled wider at that.

“No offense Professor, but you look a bit young to ya know, be one.” You said, hoping he’d give his age in response.

“I’m 29.” Ah, only four years older than you.

“29 and already a professor at a university like this? What, do you have like 20 Phds. or something?” You asked jokingly, laughing a bit as you said so.

“Three actually.” He replied, a mix of shyness and pride across his face.

Your mouth dropped back open again, trying to wrap your mind around the man in front of you. “What are you? A genius then?”

“By some standards, yes.”

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence after that. Him paying special attention to each paper he graded- you wished all your professors cared about student work the way he seemed to-, while you were busy deciding which parts of the taught units were the most important.

After what you imagined was nothing short of four hours you felt your head begin to throb and your eyes were starting to go fuzzy. In that time, the two of you had downed at least five coffees each, going back and forth over who paid for them. You had managed to create an individual study guide for nearly all your upcoming exams and a quick glance told you that Spencer still had a few papers left. Unbeknownst to you he could have finished those papers hours ago, even with the in depth comments he entered into the computer for each one; there was just something about you that drew him in.

He wasn’t sure whether it was the funny unfiltered comments you’d make sporadically while you worked or the way you actually seemed to be interested in every little tangent he had gone on whenever one of his students brought up a particularly good or amusing point in their papers’. His therapist had recently recommended that he engage in conversations with those not already well acquainted with him and it seemed like the world had lined up perfectly to put you in front of him so soon after.

You loudly slammed your textbook shut with a groan and let your head fall against the table. “Why does academia have to be so boring?” You asked rhetorically, bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Is it some requirement to get published? Your work needs to put college kids to sleep?”

“The works that you’re reading are quite literally ancient, in their defense. The term ‘academia’ itself comes from the school of thought taught by Plato himself in ancient Athens.” Spencer explained, putting down the paper he had been grading.

“And now, all these years later I have to suffer because Plato was such a bore.” You sighed dramatically, rolling your eyes.

“You said you were studying the downfall of Icarus weren’t you?” He asked, once again unbeknownst to you, he remembered everything you had said today. “It’s one of my favorites of ancient Greek mythology. The power of the mind of man, yet how quickly that very power could be taken away if man oversteps. Really makes us wonder if we’ve overstepped as humans yet, if we use Icarus’s fall, quite literally from grace, as a lens for other devastations we’ve seen across history then-”

“Spencer, are you free tomorrow?” You asked, effectively cutting him off.

He looked a bit like a fish, the way you had stopped him mid sentence and his mouth hadn’t yet closed. His eyebrows turned up, head tilting with them. “Tomorrow? The 14th?”

“Yeah, are you free tomorrow?” You repeated, holding back your nerves.

“Oh.” He said, eyes going wide as you assumed he finally connected the dots, “Oh!”

You were about to speak again, retract your question completely before he could reject you, suddenly wondering why you decided to go out on whim like that at all. But he beat you to it.

“Yes, yes I am.”

------

happy valentines day (almost) i love yall!!

tagging a few people who asked + a few mutuals i think might like this (no pressure!!) - @hqtchner @ssahoodrathotchner @kylorendrip @feverdreamreid @homoose

permanent taglist - @sunflowersandotherthings

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid/reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid/you #vday oneshots 2021 #spencer reid #spencer #reid x reader #reid/you #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #'stori writes #are you free tomorrow?#spencer reid x gn!reader #spencer reid/gn!reader #gn!reader

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thecomfywriter · 3 years

Text

Questions / Ask game

Hey guys! I haven’t posted in a while because school so I decided to do something nice, fun and simple because why not. At first I was gonna do a “ask me a question from this list!” kinda thing until I realized none of y’all will do that LOL

So I was like screw it. I’ll answer my own questions 😎

Imma put the questions as bolded, so if you would like to, answer these questions yourself. Consider this me tagging you lol. Alright, let’s begin:

1) Why did you join tumblr?

because I honestly feel it’s the most inclusive of all social medias, and the most chill. you have a community for everything here, and the writing community here >>>

2) Tea or coffee?

tea, 100% i grew up on chai (because i’m punjabi lol) but chai is now more a comfort/culture tea. my staple tea is green tea, especially for writing or studying.

I tried coffee, and it did nothing to keep me awake. All it really did for me was take my appetite away and considering i am recovering from an ed...? yeah no.

3) Who’s your favourite author?

i don’t think I have one specific favourite, to be honest. But i feel like i’m betraying uncle rick by saying that LOL

Okay but in all seriousness, my favourite authors would be Rick Riordan, Khaled Hosseni, Lois Lowry, HOMBOI HOMER (yes he counts), Emily Bronte, and Kristen Britain

4) What books are on your favourites shelf?

Glad you asked! Or didn’t lol.

My favourites shelf is right beside my desk so I can look at it every day. It included the books (not in order):

A Sense of the Infinite (i have a lot of memories with this book. it was the first thing i was able to read again when i started recovering from my ed)

The Vampire Diaries: I’m a whore for Damon. I hate Stefan because of this inexplicable grudge I have had on him from the very beginning. I love Elena since she acc has a personality and it’s completely diva at first. The angst had me rolling

The Last Dragon: a book translated from italian that I read in my childhood. it was the first book i ever pulled an all-nighter for and i’m pretty sure it’s the reason why I love dragons so much. 10/10 recommend

The Giver: if I could say one book out of all of them is my favourite, it’s the giver. it changed my entire perspective on life and my entire worldview. it got me thinking so much and, god, i still get emotional and think about what an amazing and impactful book it was to me. and i love the adaption to the movie because it made the brilliant decision to add the music scene. i still listen to rosemary’s lullaby whenever i need a pick me up or feel like crying LOL

A Thousand Splendid Suns: the first book to ever make me ball my eyes out. it was 1 am, I had just reached part 4 of the book and I was crying so hard and loud, I had to hide in my closet to muffle my tears so my parents didn’t wake up. Wow, it was such a beautiful and well written book. 10/10 recommend. Khaled Hosseni only likes my heart after he shatters it

Wuthering Heights: I have never read a book more well written or with such elegant and descriptive and captivating english than this book. from the very first description of heathcliff’s suspicious brows that darkened shadows under his eyes, god, it inspired my writing style so much. plus, i’m a whore for emily bronte

the ILIAD: i will always like the iliad more than the odyssey. it just hits different. the epicness of the war. the meddling of the gods. the tragedy of achilles and the fear and glory from his wrath. achilles was the biggest piece of shit asshole ever, after agamemnon, but god he was such a drama queen, it was kind of fashionable. it was epic to see him be such a glorified warrior and he was so humanized by patroclus. by the way, patrochilles. if you disagree, i don’t understand you and i will fight you on your opinion. the man almost took a dagger to his heart the moment he found out patroclus died, like...

Percy Jackson is not on the favourites shelf for one reason and one reason only. He has his own shelf dedicated to him. :)

Also, Kristen Britain’s green rider has their own shelf too. with the pretty pastel horse covers. god i love them

5) What am I studying in school:

I’m a senior in highschool in Canada, first of all. Second of all, I am in the SHSM (Specialist High School Major Program) for healthcare. I’m applying to universities for health/life sciences but I wanna get an english degree too, sometime in the future

6) My favourite OC’s and why?

Evan.

You knew I was gonna say him LOL

Okay acc fr tho. lemme rank them.

Evan is first, then Amaka, then Caramel, Blaire, Faer, Vranks and Shadow. And I can’t forget about Yozar, of course, but he kinda counts with Evan.

Now lemme explain why.

Evan is charismatic. He’s brave. He’s resilient. He tries to make the best of every shitty situation that is thrown his way and despite all the shit that he goes through, he believes that he deserves better and so he works and trying to get to the end of the tunnel, where there is light and happiness waiting for him. he tries his best and enjoys the process, even if the results aren’t guaranteed or success. he’s charming, and humourous because he knows how to have a good laugh. he doesn’t take life to seriously and i admire him for it.

I made evan’s charavter when i was going through a rough patch of life, and I would put him in similar situations to my own just so I can see him persevere and survive. to teach myself that you can be brave and strong, and that you can make it out at the end of the day. evan’s character gives me hope.

Amaka was a character I made as a child. i grew up with her, creating her, writing her, watching her grow, adoring her. She was so realistic about life. Not overly cheerful or optimistic. Not a jokester for everything. She was a bit more serious toned. A bit more mature. A bit more quiet natured and sordid. Serene. She has this quiet beauty to her; always thinking, always pondering, always wanting to learn more.

She went through it rough too. And she took her time to make it out. She accepted it for what happened to her, and she let herself feel. to grieve. Amaka taught me friendship. She taught me maturity. She taught me how to process emotions. And she inspired so much of my knowledge-lust.

Caramel was the first female character I had ever made. I made her in complete defiance to every stereotype I had ever faced or heard about girls. I made her the strongest in her lot, not because she was a girl or she was quirky, but because she worked hard and was determined. She was a thief, and a bit rowdy. She knew how to have fun and was the life of the party. A flirt, a romantic. She didn’t fancy reading only because she didn’t think she was good at it, but the things that she was good at, she worked to excel. She was a mentor, despite her impatience. She grew as a person, and learned selflessness. She wasn’t a natural mother or an empathetic person at all really. She had to figure that out and learn, but she took the time and she did. Caramel felt real to me, because she had her strengths and her flaws, but she was amazing nonetheless because she always tried to be better. And she was fun. Caramel was the character that gave me pride in being a girl.

This post will get too long if I continue on, so I will cut it off here. But this was fun so I might do this again :)

Tag yourself and respond to these questions. I’m curious about all your responses!

@p-tchaikovsky @bottleofspilledink @pretend-im-normal @writingismydrugs @genuinewriting @adelinemwriting @amarantine-amirite

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alatismeni-theitsa · 5 years

Note

So I have a webcomic in development but here’s the thing... I race like majority of them and changing things to better fit the story. But I been going through your blog and reading through your tags and post about the topic and now I’m conflicted. (Pt.1)

On one hand I need and want to respect the Greek culture, their people and their issues but on the hand I spend so long on this and I know that my entitlement shouldn’t even be considered or even on the scale when respecting another person culture. I came here to ask for your opinion as an actual person of the culture. I would have some advice on how I can fix this. I hope this doesn’t come off as rude of anything! (Pt.2)

=============

It's not rude at all, thank you for asking! Oooh.. as a person who does art I am fully aware of the hours and effort it takes to create something even close to a webcomic! Believe me when I say I understand why you are hesitant to change things and that doesn't make you a bad person. Work is work and it matters. Now, I would suggest better try to stay close to the ancient and modern standards. A Greek friend chose to include a foreign culture in her book and she had written 150.000 words (more than a year's work) but she had many of the cultural aspects wrong. She then decided that she wanted to make things as accurate as possible. She got out on the internet and took opinions from people of that culture and rewrote a big part of her wip. Was it mad extra work? Yes. But she and I think the changes were for the best.

I am not suggesting this with a light heart because I know, it hurts. But I believe that you will become a more knowledgeable person after doing all the research in order to get close to the culture. You may even end up producing even better work than before after that experience.

I also suggest this because depictions have an effect on Greeks on the long run. Even today Greek people are viewed as not diverse enough, not "Greek enough" because they are white and we are told to check if we are real Greeks etc. I encountered a post from 4 years ago that was like "let us racebend the Greek gods, it's not like anything bigger is gonna happen". But social media and internet creators have power. They affect more creators and more and more people. Corporations get informed about this and they try to gain profit from it. So now we have BBC Troy that changed the depiction of Achilles from the Iliad ("blond", "they washed his white body") and made half of the Greek gods Black in the name of progress. But really what progressive is there to changing an established ancient religion of another culture to fit your narrative. There are more ways to include non-white narratives than erasing other narratives. Greeks generally are not happy with how American media has portrayed our culture and I have even stumbled upon shows (one of them on national TV) that discussed this.

But the general misrepresentation is how I ended up hearing from a Nigerian that he thought half of Greeks were Black, because of the American media he consumed :P And then I had more than ten Americans telling me they thought we were "brown with dark curly hair" and "how does Greece have white people"? Imagine this level of ignorance for a country that is maybe the most discussed in the western world. Greeks definitely feel weird about it, as we continue a lot of aspects of the culture. And at the same time this shows that foreigners a lot of times just care for only 300 years of Greece's history and they assume the rest. Sometimes they also assume the majority of things even for those 300 years they claim they know. But let's not leave people assume things about us any more. The internet is a thing, all the information is on our hands. We need to become better at depicting cultures outside of our own - as my writer friend also decided.

You can, of course, put humans of many ethnicities in ancient Greece. While we don't have documented communities it's sure people from other countries were there (just not in big enough numbers to be considered a solid community). You may also want to discuss some racial matters in your work? Greeks were not that friendly to strangers. A more negative metaphorical meaning of "philoxenia" is "we want you to come, but we don't want you to stay" :P You can be hospital and still be xenophobic. Persians could come and trade luxurious goods with Greeks but still be considered effeminate and barbaric by some. Which is bad, but it happened. Never underestimate the salty-ness of Greeks :P

For the simple people and the diversity also take into consideration the location of your story. Is it in ancient Macedonia where Greeks were more likely to mix with blond Scythians and red haired Thracians or is it ancient Crete (or even the Peloponise) where north Africans and middle easterners passed relatively often?

Ok that was a long answer and it took a lot of time to write, sorry :P If you want to send me a message on chat I would be happy to help with any cultural details or artistic suggestions. Learning more about your work would help me give more accurate directions on how to achieve inclusivity with respect to the Greek culture. Like, is it set in modern day Greece? Ancient Greece? Is it only about the gods or mortals as well? Etc. I am happy when people approach Greek culture and take inspiration from it! I am currently helping two other creators the same way so don't hesitate to come pick my brains! My tag #ancient greek art may be proved helpful if you want references for facial features and skintones. Just a tip, those noses in sculptures are hella unrealistic 😂 I don't think we ever had them, tho that's pretty much understandable by any logical person 😂 For more realistic noses maybe the tag #greek people would be better.

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neo---blue · 6 years

Text

These Sheets, Those Shelves, and This Shitty Place (—and Shion)

Shion's warmth is fading from the mattress. Nezumi feels disarmed.

Shion has just finished the Iliad and is going off to look for the Odyssey after Nezumi told him they were related works. What of it?

A loaded exchange between Shion and Nezumi in the library vault on a night before the Manhunt

hello. i finished this after my birthday so of course i wanted to update the shion/nezumi birthday fic, but this finished itself first so... hehe. >:) anyway, here it is. in the manga and novel, they said that the manhunt came "one day, out of the blue" so i just supposed it didn't immediately happen after that chapter nezumi had an episode and danced with shion to make him stop worrying about him, and i supposed that that didn't immediately happen after they ambushed fura. yes. super wordy and introspective, but i really enjoyed writing this. i hope you enjoy reading it as well!

6.6k+ words on ao3 or Keep Reading!

Nezumi whistles, not looking up from his book, not even when he feels Shion stirring beside him. "You sure about that?"

"Yeah," Shion answers from the other side of their bed, "I'm sure there was a copy when I organized all our books."

‘Our books?’ Nezumi twists himself towards the wall on his side of their bed, away from the rest of their room, having to raise his book slightly to keep his shadow from covering words he hasn't been registering. "Good luck," he mutters as courtesy, not meaning it but earning a response from Shion anyway,

"I'll go check right now."

Shion sits up. It's with much effort that he lifts the blanket off of himself, body quick to protest the loss of direct warmth from Nezumi. It's for this sole reason that Shion considers not leaving anymore. But shortly he's able to reason that he already has half of all the books over there in his mental catalog, and he already knows how to maneuver around this general area, knows it like the back of his hand; he won't take too long.

Shion dangles his legs off the bed, with less effort now, peering down at the floor. He reaches for each of Nezumi's slippers by stretching his legs, using his toes to turn one over and using his heel to drag the other closer. He shifts all of his weight forward and stands, every movement careful not to disturb the mattress nor Nezumi.

Nezumi doesn't mind it. He just eyes the same line on the same page for the nth time. He comes close to giving up altogether; on top of not having been able to read in silence all evening, Nezumi is becoming thoroughly distracted now that Shion is continuing,

"I'm just not sure where I categorized it under." Shion's padded towards the shelves, looking through the sections, blinking slowly to connect his rote memory to this overwhelming reality. He has an urge that he holds: the urge to comment, again, for the nth time, on how amazing this place is, by the sheer number of books housed within it; he feels the same immense sense of curiosity now as he did the first time he'd entered here, books piled up high on the bed and the couch and the floor and every other surface in the room. That they're organized now doesn't change how his heart beats with excitement every time he thinks of how many stories there must be here to read and learn about, how much of all of it makes up the boy he saved four years ago. He only goes on now, "Besides, Nezumi..."

"What?"

"You wouldn't help me," Shion mumbles, content with skimming his fingers along rough, old spines, each hiding yellowed pages that held words and worlds he's yet to explore. "It's why organizing all the books took longer than I wanted."

"Don't complain," Nezumi complains, chides, switching his book over to his other hand, "you're the one who volunteered to do it." He's positive they both remember clearly, even if it was several months ago:

'It'll take a hundred years—' 'I'll do it in a week!’

"I did," Shion agrees instantly, though it took a week and a day. He shakes the thought off, crouching down to look from the bottom shelf up. "But it would have been nice if you helped me decide whether to catalog them by author, year published, title, or genre—"

"And? Where would you have put it if I told you I wanted them arranged by author?" Nezumi challenges, "You didn't even know who Homer was yet at that point."

"Well," Shion replies, still scanning the titles. "I do now—"

"No you don't," Nezumi cuts in. "I don't even know who Homer is. Actually, no one knows who Homer is."

"...What’s that mean?"

"The problem with all these epics is that they're so old no one even knows who the hell actually wrote them or where the hell they actually came from anymore. Was Homer a bard who ran around singing epics for money and fun? Was Homer a bunch of poets coming up with stories off the top of their heads at a symposium? Was Homer an entire country that wanted to decide on an origin story once and for all? And did Homer even exist to begin with? In reality, there's a huge possibility that Homer's epics have been edited a handful of times by different people from different times. And remember, this was ancient, a point in history when they'd just started actually writing stuff down, and by then the story's already been no less than a hundred years old..."

Shion didn't seem to notice when exactly his gaze drifted away from the books, to fix itself on Nezumi's figure: his untied hair, his steady back, the fingers poised gracefully to hold his book to the wall. All Shion knew was that he was hanging on to every one of Nezumi's words with wonder. See, when Nezumi spoke, nothing else in this room mattered to Shion except him.

When Nezumi's trailed off for a moment, a thought— several thoughts— wedge themselves in the back of Shion's mind. As he processes the cognitive overload from ideas he's never once imagined in his life, especially having never been exposed to the topic at hand, heavily discouraged from pursuing the arts and humanities in No.6, he's led to a related feeling: annoyance...? or something akin to it.

Any memory Shion has of anyone talking this much was of the students in his grade of elites— err, the one he was kicked out off for 'poor decision-making skills.' The kids in that class always talked about their own specialties like they knew it all.

And with No.6's education system, really, it wasn't unlikely that they did know it all. But more than that, they talked like they were the only ones that mattered. Of course they would feel that way as citizens born into a special status that promised them lofty quarters to rest and relax in, endless electronic resources for elaborate self-study, and overall sophisticated houses that fit their lifestyle perfectly. This education, providing for the maximum ideal conditions for growth and development, ensured that students will know it all.

Shion recollects that even Safu found ways to fit her specific neuroscientific register and vocabulary in everyday conversations. But to him she was never annoying, he never felt spoken over. She was slightly, slightly awkward, a little rough around the edges towards those who made fun of the way she dressed, and she didn't know how to pause for breath when she lectured Shion on hormones and their consequent bodily reactions— but she only ever sounded passionate, never like a know-it-all; she didn't speak just to gloat about how much she knew or boast her special status as the high-class citizen she was.

Additionally, Safu was actually talented. Shion has been turning it over in his head for a while now since the time he was evicted from Chronos, because it hadn't felt all that different: had he actually been talented himself or did he just luck out getting top scores in his early assessment? Developmental cognitive studies is as far from his own ecology major as emergency medical procedures, but if he were able to perform an impromptu suture-surgery on a bullet wound by memory of one video at age 12, he guessed there was a high chance that he wouldn't be wrong to assume that an aptitude exam taken at age 2 could hardly be reliable especially the older a subject gets.

In the least, even if Shion weren't talented— and by no means does he have any misgivings coming to terms with this— he was never at risk of flunking out from the special course. Maintaining grades in the special classes wasn't exactly easy, and he saw a handful of other classmates leave for unsatisfactory performance, but if he focused enough it was a breeze. Still not as talented as Safu, though. And besides, he flunked out of the special course regardless, just for his own reasons.

As he helped his mother pack up their things from Chronos to prepare for the tedious move to Lost Town, Nezumi's words made carved deeper impressions in Shion's mind and gave his feelings a tact that helped him realize how out of place he'd felt all along at the very top with the smartest kids in his grade. His plain, humble times with Karan at Lost Town didn't make him feel any less dignified or any less real.

And even as he jumped out of the Security Bureau's remote-controlled car and tossed his official citizen ID to keep moving, keep running (and swimming) to find himself here in an underground library vault in West Block, Nezumi's words materialized and Shion could finally fully grasp them:

'Petri dish elites' was on-point, is exactly what they are, what Shion used to be— brought up and pampered in artificially perfect environments to be reared and controlled exactly as they should.

But in Lost Town and West Block alike, especially here in this room— in a place that experiences the real impacts of fickle weather and he has to either turn the heater up or scoot closer to Nezumi to make it through the night without his teeth chattering the entire time, in a place where he's free to pursue any book he wants to read on any topic, whether scientific or literary (but mostly literary) and learn about heroes and dramas and tragedies— a place he can call his starting point, Shion realized that human beings needed much less than the luxuries in Chronos and in No.6 in order to live a content life.

With little to nothing but the clothes on his back, with Nezumi and the library and this bunk they share, Shion feels like he has everything he could ever need.

Shion wonders how Safu would react if he said that to her.

It's because I left No.6... He comes up with the words in his mind, as if addressing them to Safu, that I discovered what kind of person he really is, the very reason I didn't get to push through with the special course. That I discovered what kind of person I really am. It's not a walk in the park, but... I don't regret meeting him, or following him, or staying with him. In fact... he's just like you, in a way.

He could almost hear Safu's voice, pretend-condescending but undeniably sweet, What are you talking about, Shion?

Shion closes his eyes. What was he talking about?

Safu and Nezumi may speak on relatively similar levels of enthusiasm when it came to things they're knowledgeable about— whether it's neuroscience or literature— but there's no way Safu and Nezumi are alike, not even at the base level however he cut it.

Nezumi never spoke warmly, or cheerfully, or looked at Shion like he was the most wonderful part of his life. Nezumi's words were always cold, edged, and quite frankly he looked down on Shion more than anything.

Shion treasures them both, though. That's about all they may ever have in common. He would do anything to keep them both in his life, protect them at any cost.

Shion recalls vividly the sensation of Nezumi's fingers interlocked with his, and he's able to calm down the extreme anxiety that rises in his chest with every thought he gets of Safu these days.

The only way he's able to stand his ground knowing Safu is currently in danger is by Nezumi, the faith he has in the plans they have to go save her themselves. The waiting is just part of the plan. And it's a huge part of the plan— if he breaks by utter tension now, it's all going to be for naught.

So Shion takes a deep breath for the time being, lends himself to the soothing feeling of being here, falling for Nezumi. He's able to smile as he opens his eyes to look through the old books again, listening not to his haphazard, discomforting, annoying thoughts, but to Nezumi.

"What I'm trying to say is, authorship for the really old stuff is quite the controversial thing. And from the start, it was a no-go for you to arrange them by year published either. I would suppose that even the greatest libraries still have no clue about everything to this day," Nezumi is explaining. "Hear me, Shion? Get what I mean?"

"I get it," Shion hums, "somehow. And there's no appeal to having just arranged everything alphabetically, right?"

"Right, exactly."

"Right," Shion nods to himself, "exactly."

"So?" Nezumi prompts again, "Where do you think you would have put the Odyssey?"

"Well, if I knew everything I know now," Shion starts, sounding a tad bit dramatic as he gets back on his feet, stretching away the strain in his legs from bending his knees for a second too long. "I might've just put it under classics with the Iliad. How would I have known the Odyssey was a sequel?"

"A spin-off, technically— but fair enough. I don't think there was any way you could've known better before anyhow."

"Yup," Shion concedes, casually, unafraid to admit he didn't know; he likes to believe that he's entirely past the shame of knowing less than he ought to when it comes to things like this. "Even now, I still hardly know anything about literature. Can you cut me some slack?"

Nezumi shrugs his shoulders. He folds the page he's been stuck on and sets his book down. He rolls over away from the wall, arm unconsciously falling forward to feel Shion's residual warmth on his side of the bed. He glances at the copy of the Iliad Shion's left behind before finding that Shion's disappeared into the space between the other bookcases. "Since I'm feeling generous," Nezumi simpers into the pillow, "fine."

While it's a topic close to Nezumi's heart for various reasons, he can't fault Shion for his naivety if it's not about the hideous workings of this world or the nihilistic cruelty of reality. Tonight, there's no need for hostility; he wouldn't let Shion make excuses for anything else.

"I will cut you some slack."

"Thanks," Shion answers from a far corner of the library, voice muffled from being absorbed by the volume and volumes of books.

"I gotta say though, Shion," Nezumi calls, raising his voice if only slightly to reach Shion from the bed and beyond the first shelves across the room, "You finished the Iliad in three days. I'm surprised."

"I don't know," Shion chuckles sheepishly, voice automatically adjusting as well, "Once I was past all the language in Shakespeare, other things seemed a little easier to digest."

"Ooh," Nezumi moves onto his back, looking up at the ceiling and picking up Shion's book instead of his own. He raises it above him, makes a show of fanning through the pages elegantly, to no one in particular, perhaps to himself. With his arms outstretched and dust catching in his shirt sleeves, he idly muses that there was always something so calming about flipping through these pages this way. His eyes fall closed in relaxation, lips curling in satisfaction. "I'm impressed. So Your Majesty truly is a fast learner."

"Why," Shion sings, from another corner of the library, "my most trusted liege Nezumi, was that praise?"

Nezumi's eyes shoot open at the comment, he freezes— had he really just praised Shion? His fingers are clutching at the book now, and he has to physically stop himself from using it, open and dusty, to cover his face.

Instead, he feigns plaintiveness despite knowing Shion hadn't seen his reaction, doesn't even turn his head. He closes Shion's book carefully and puts it down beside him, shifting to sit by propping himself up on an arm.

Shion's warmth is fading from the mattress. Nezumi feels disarmed.

Several thoughts occupy his mind, faster than any of the words he's given up repeatedly trying to take in all evening, and they're all about Shion.

Easily, effortlessly, expectedly, all he can think about again is Shion.

Nezumi licks his lips, trying to decide what to quip about first, which to scoff at and make a snide remark on, to save himself from this disarmed feeling that he absolutely hates: that Shion just sang-song an obvious attempt at a comeback, that the book by his hand lay perfectly flat and even, or that these sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place will never be the same again—

Shion, his voice, it has a specific quality: genuine-sounding and engaging, modulations mice and children alike have grown fond of listening to for a reason or another. If he just learned to project and animate that pathetic monotone Macbeth wouldn't have to roll over in his grave— that's what Nezumi used to think. But just now, Shion's response, it was sanguine, true to character: a one-liner that undoubtedly matched Nezumi's well-rehearsed effort to play with him this king-vassal ruse.

Nezumi lets his mind wander in that direction— when did Shion learn to act so well? It was probably a fluke and nothing more, but a part of Nezumi wouldn't put it past Shion to just learn how to do it even if they'd both agreed that he wasn't cut out to play roles he's not suited for in the least. He contemplates what kind of person Shion is, and arrives to some conclusion that if there were any book on theatrics laying around here— not unlikely, by the way— Shion could just practice as soon as he knew the theory, and he could probably do it that way with technically anything.

Along with Nezumi's mind, his hand wandered, too, seeking more of Shion's warmth before it fled the sheets completely. Finding not nearly enough anymore, his hand settles back on Shion's book, pads of his finger flipping through the corner of the pages. Nezumi's mind settles here, too.

Shion has tons of quirks but among those that intrigued Nezumi most was how, as he read along, Shion would unfold any dog ears Nezumi's left in the book from whenever long ago he'd read it. Nezumi adored these books but that didn't keep him from vandalizing them, folding pages to mark where he left off, or underlining or encircling or boxing lines he liked to revisit, writing his own footnotes wherever there was space. Shion, though, did none of that— he would turn these pages so gently that even the dust wouldn't shuffle. He wouldn't even use a bookmark, that boy, he would only memorize which page number he was last on, then pick it up from there next time.

If Shion had extra time, which he always seemed to have on top of meticulously washing Inukashi's rental dogs or shopping for bargains for low-tier groceries for him and Nezumi, he would sit down with his book and read, smooth out the old folds, fix up any tears with some clear tape, and remove those pencil markings while he was at it.

'I mark those for reference, you know,' Nezumi had confronted him once, recently, when he caught him fiddling gently with a worn copy of Tristan using an eraser. 'Well, if you ever need a line for anything,' Shion returned, airily tapping his temple with his pointer finger, 'It's in here now. You can just ask me.'

Nezumi remembers snorting to ask if he was showing off, so this is the brain of an elite, huh? But Shion only chalked it up to mental exercise, said that if he had the Correctional Facility floor plan with its numbers of steps and angles of exposure and vulnerability crammed on its own in his head, he would lose it. And besides, he's done all this since coming here to begin with, earnest in his quest to learn about Nezumi and take him in through these books. So it happened, that every book Shion touched, though visibly aged and still dust-laden, sat nearly as flat and bound to its spine as it was the day it was printed.

Nezumi straightens his back now.

He vaguely recounts his grandmother's words, 'Never sigh for anyone.' She also used to tell him all the time, that this chamber had everything he would ever need.

It was only after she was gone and he'd barely managed to get back here alive that he started to learn that they were loaded words— words that seemed to mean more than they did the last time he thought of them, each time he thought of them.

Not sighing for others meant fighting for himself and himself alone. It meant doing anything it took to keep himself alive, coming in and out of every ordeal with new ways to survive if only for another week longer, another day. Nezumi was to sink his teeth into his lip and silently prowl anywhere he can fit, steal from the unguarded but never take more than he needed.

And on days there was absolutely nothing to take from anywhere, places even his mice couldn't loot for the barest minimum, because that's just the kind of place the West Block is, he could retreat into this room.

This room, dark, quiet, and underground, was secure, a safe haven.

Not sighing for others meant crying for himself and himself alone. It meant doing anything it took to keep himself sane, and Nezumi, half-delirious from hunger and a fever, would reflect and realize that they were true, his grandmother's words: this place really did have everything he needed.

Here, he could pick a book, a story, a line to lose himself in, keep starvation at bay by occupying himself with all kinds of tales told on paper. Here, he could practice sighing and soughing, for those characters and their tragedies, but never still for anything or anyone else. Here, he would learn about the simplistic tendencies of the human, their sensibilities, their desires; Nezumi was to smirk and whisper, grant the weak-willed's wishes with choreographed sweet nothings.

And here, he would learn that which was his sure salvation from cold, hard poverty— Nezumi was to learn how to sing. How to let lyrics flow from his mouth and ride the wind that steals away suffering souls, and how to let scripts live through him to thieve the hearts of other humans by enchantment.

Nezumi was to never sigh again.

The thought came over him as he caught himself sitting motionless with baited breath— he was about to sigh again. He's lost count of how many times he's sighed in the last few months, lost count of how many times he's fought and cried but never just for himself or these stories.

Nezumi can't even remember the last book he finished. He had an extensive, unorganized reading list, and on his off-days from the playhouse he would lay in bed the entire time and bury himself in his mountains of books to read to his mice.

But now, distracting him from ever finishing another book, someone has stolen his attention— someone who took this place over by reading to the mice, organizing all the bookcases, making this bed every morning, keeping him warm.

Shion has been like the sun, full of light and life and warmth, and when Nezumi is with him he feels real, and alive— Living people sure are warm.

When they conversed, even when Nezumi had little to no idea where on earth Shion got what he's saying or how the hell he has the guts to be saying them at all— naive ideals, bare confessions, words of irrefutable hope and love— Nezumi felt real, and alive, so alive, that for the first time in his life he had more than himself and fiction to cling to.

Whether harsh debates or playful banter, it was accompanied by stale and moldy bread, meat a day away from rotting, water heated in an old kettle— and Macbeth soup, on relatively better days, like either of their paydays from giving dogs baths and putting on shows in the theater— and they've never quite felt like luxuries before, just the bare requirement not to starve to death or completely go insane. But that he had Shion's company over shamefully cheap dinner made him ignore orders from his grandmother never to sigh, and instead Nezumi would agree with her other words, with all his hesitant heart, that this chamber—

—these sheets, those shelves, this shitty place—

(—and those ignorant, innocent words, and that light that stubbornly, incessantly shone through— and Shion—)

—is all Nezumi would ever need.

And while during these days Nezumi experienced several episodes of emotional unrest, somehow he couldn't help thinking that these have been the most peaceful days of his life. Even if there were less air to breathe in this cramped vault, less room to move on this single-size bed, less surface area of this cheap blanket to put over his scrawny body, there was also less fuel and tinder used up to keep the kerosene heater lit, less nightmares or sleepless nights to be had, and less cold mornings to wake up to.

Life like this is comfortable.

That Shion would come back and slip under these sheets after fiddling and twiddling around those shelves to retire with him in this room— as has become routine— is comforting to Nezumi. Life like this, with Shion, is all Nezumi would ever need.

But the warmth that spreads through Nezumi's chest at the thought freezes over instantaneously, unnaturally; it becomes a sharp sensation stabbing at his lungs and his heart— these peaceful, comfortable days can't last.

These sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place—

—and Shion—

Nezumi suddenly feels uncertain if he's willing to wager all of this; it's the same feeling he got when he decided by himself to gather information how-many monthly paychecks' worth to get as far as he can without involving Shion and his reckless tendencies, the same feeling of grudge against salty tears forcing their way out of his eyes after clueless, inexperienced lips touched his for the very first time only to kiss him farewell, the same feeling when he held the trembling hand that struck his cheek and he had to swallow any doubts he had and keep them down, for his own sake and Shion's.

The Manhunt is going to happen soon, so soon Nezumi can feel it in his bones, and however much he wishes to deny that these past few day have felt like he was desperately living out the remainder of this peaceful, comfortable life, it doesn't matter. The reality of the situation is that this waiting it out is part of a plan.

Nezumi had come up with this plan— a plan with a chance at success so low that this risk shouldn't even be worth considering, even if they've maxed every factor on their side— but he had to continue keeping those doubts down, believe in his own plan, promise they would make things work out, to preserve Shion's sanity, keep his spirit alive, protect his smile.

Now isn't the time to waver.

Now isn't the time to waver, Nezumi knows, but even at present, on a nice, friendly night, he's beginning to yearn for these sheets, those shelves, this shitty place, and Shion—

"Sorry, it's not a tragedy this time. But did you hear that? Nezumi praised me."

It's hearing this gentle exchange that jolts Nezumi right out of his thoughts and back to reality; he's so startled by Hamlet's chirp and shuffling and Shion's voice that his heart feels like it's on the verge of bursting.

His hand comes up automatically to soothe his chest but when he sees Shion approaching with a copy of the Odyssey clasped tightly in his fingers, a victorious grin on his face, and the flickering orange tint of the heater in his translucent hair, Nezumi slides his hand further upward to hold his nape in an attempt at nonchalance, poorer than before all of these thoughts.

Shion glances at him and in his ears Nezumi can hear his heart drumming loudly and erratically to the sensation of his chest tightening, clenching, wrenching— unsoothed, because his palm has gone elsewhere, covering his vitals to make up for the fact that he'd been so disarmed he's left himself exposed again. He could swear Shion must have seen right through him.

But Shion is only cheerfully treading back towards the bed, and when he's seated on the edge of the mattress toeing off Nezumi's slippers, happily and jokingly mumbling "Even Hamlet couldn't believe that you were praising me," the fickle warmth within Nezumi's chest, or the loss of it, puts the thorns back in his next words:

"—Praise?" Nezumi just might have; following all the sentiment off the top of his mind just now up to this point, it felt safe to say that tonight was one of those nights that he, full from Macbeth soup, felt gracious enough to take the thorns out of his words to give Shion a real compliment. But when he thought about how this night could probably be their last together, even Nezumi can't fight the bitterness that makes him make haste of taking the praise back: "As if." He means to glare at Shion and his profile, but when he sees Shion turning to him he just rolls his eyes and they land on the flat, dusty copy of the Iliad by his hands. "You're just as good as Paris."

Shion is blindly pushing the slippers with his heels, fixing them in an orderly fashion against the edge of the bed next to his own shoes. He tilts his head, unfamiliar with the look he caught in Nezumi's gaze before he broke eye contact to click his tongue.

Shion revisits the words in his short-term memory, unsure of what to make of what Nezumi's just said. But, the tone of his comment was low like his usual scoffs, and the way Nezumi is averting his eyes makes Shion guess the words were meant to offend him, provoke him— yet he finds himself calm and unfazed, neither by Nezumi's words nor by his demeanor.

It would be a grave insult to Nezumi and his praise, whether he meant it or not, if Shion hasn't learned by now how to react, if he hasn't realized that Nezumi's words are never empty. And if he didn't understand them, Shion didn't have to pry or demand or throw some kind of tantrum— he just had to figure it out on his own. He's used to it.

Shion's learned as much in this room as Nezumi has. Perhaps even more.

Less a serious response to what Nezumi said than an offhand answer, he tilts his head, and speaks up amidst the strange tension hanging in the air, "Then you must be Helen?"

"The face that launched a thousand ships?" The delay in Shion's reply allowed Nezumi to regain his composure, and he's able to bring his hand away from his nape and to his chest, no longer aching, only the tips of his fingers touching the cloth of his shirt in a mock-timid gesture. He even manages a smile, sensual and pretty. "What a great compliment. That's so generous of you to say, your Majesty—"

"You know it, Nezumi," Shion interjects, eyes lowering for a moment to imagine touching those sensual lips with his, fleetingly, before looking right at Nezumi, "You could easily be the most beautiful—"

"Shion." Nezumi says this in a tone that warns Shion not to finish that sentence, not to finish that thought. This smile, one he reserved for seduction, worked to derail Shion, but all too well. It's no secret that Nezumi is attractive and that Shion is attracted to him, but if this carries on, Nezumi's not sure he can stay composed. His smile fades along with any emotion in his face and he continues, "Calling you as good as Paris wasn't a compliment."

Shion gets it. Nezumi doesn't want to hear it. He drops the need to tell Nezumi he's beautiful altogether, despite believing it to be the honest truth. He settles for a noncommittal reply instead, throwing in a shrug. "Didn't think much of it, so it's fine—"

"I'm telling you to think about it now, Shion." Nezumi picks up the book and hands it to him, lifting his facade to explain, "Paris could get the power to rule over a huge chunk of the world or the intelligence to fight and conquer any other place he wanted— but he chose a girl."

Shion takes the book and looks to the shelves, deciding by the cold floor and the slippers tucked under the bed that he'll put it back tomorrow. He tosses it gently to the bottom of the bed before pursing his lips as he looks Nezumi over again. "You... You're so cynical."

Nezumi snorts, "Great, what else is new—?"

"Paris didn't choose a girl over power and intelligence," Shion continues without missing a beat. "Simply put, wasn't he just not interested in what Athena and Hera had to offer? Aphrodite, on the other hand, didn't promise just a girl—"

"—the heck are you saying—"

"—Aphrodite promised him the love of the most beautiful mortal in the world."

Nezumi's eyebrows draw together and he finds himself scowling, "What did you say?"

"Paris chose love," Shion repeats, sounding like he had all the confidence in the world to be concluding such a cheesy speech. "Over power or intelligence, Paris chose love—"

"—And ended up waging war on all of Greece? Over such a pointless thing?" Nezumi could say a thousand things about how rotten and obsolete some values portrayed in literature are, especially in the classics, but he only scoffs: "Pretty dumb if you ask me—"

"It's not dumb—!" Shion starts to retort, but Nezumi snides,

"It is!"

Literature held tens and thousands of stories about humans making dumb decisions, and what good was literature if one didn't look past the entertainment it brought to learn from it? Especially in Nezumi's experience, from being smoked out like a literal rat out of his first home by greed-ridden intelligence and merciless power, to having to live in a literal dumpsite where people struggle everyday to make ends meet— Nezumi knew that it was human nature to just take and take and take, graciously receive anything offered to them that would benefit themselves, or seize that which isn't theirs by force if they were rapacious enough— at the very least No.6 was a prime example of this.

And then it hits Nezumi, the realization— it's right in front of him. In front of him is Shion, candid, altruistic, simple-minded Shion, who's barely made a dent in learning about the true, hideous nature of No.6— but for sure, for sure, Shion knows that if he had stayed on the other side of the wall, no, if he had never opened that window and taken Nezumi in, he would be well on his way to becoming the elite he was destined to be, apathetic and oblivious and uncaring but ultimately well-off, sleeping in a luxurious bed complete with plush pillows and duvets, reading and writing theses on ecology as his expertise without having to even lift a finger, and living in a completely technologically equipped mansion designed to give him the best life.

Despite all of that, Shion is right here, in front of him. On these thin, dirty, secondhand sheets, among those dusty, dilapidated, old-fashioned shelves, in this shoddy, dingy excuse of a room. Shion is right here because of him, because Shion was drawn— mind, body, and soul— to Nezumi.

"Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Someone who had immense power and intelligence for the taking..." The words steadily come forth from Nezumi's mouth lacking bite or any trace of derision. He just sounds like what he's stating is matter-of-fact, "...but he chose to run after love."

"Ah." Shion understands this fully well.

He always thinks about the what-if's of having never met Nezumi— when he can't sleep after Nezumi kicks him out of bed or hogs the blanket, when he zones out trying to pick something new to read from hundreds of choices without Nezumi's explicit review and recommendation, or when he's watching the kettle to keep the water warm while he waits for Nezumi to come home. This train of thought always goes through No.6 and living his successful and sheltered and boring life— but it eventually finds its way back to the West Block, living his inconvenient, danger-filled, heart-stopping life with Nezumi.

"So that's what you meant..."

"...That's how it is, isn't it." Nezumi lays back down, hair sprawling all over their pillow.

"Yeah." Shion feels like this should have hurt, like it always does when he has to question everything he ever thought he knew— But there's no questioning here, only a feeling in his core that he can't name, something reassuring.

Shion feels like Nezumi had finally acknowledged his feelings: yes, like Paris, Shion was ready to wage war against all of No.6, because over intelligence and power in that artificial paradise, that greedy parasite, Shion felt real and alive here, too. Shion had chosen these sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place; Shion had chosen Nezumi, and he had chosen love.

Oddly fully satisfied by what's just transpired, Shion takes a deep breath that thins out into a smile as he lays back down beside Nezumi, not before Nezumi can grab his own, unread book out of the way. "Well, sorry. I guess I'm just not as cynical as you. It can't be helped. Besides, at least for me, I know it'll all be worth it in the end."

Can it really not be helped? Nezumi could hear the self-assured smile in Shion's voice, and his first instinct is to attack him for saying such a naive thing— Shion doesn't know enough, he hasn't seen enough, hasn't read enough of this world to be saying he isn't a cynic. He doesn't have enough an idea of what's going to happen from here on out to be saying it was all worth it. In what end?

If the manhunt really happened tomorrow... would you still be able to smile and say that? Shion?

But Nezumi only returns to his earlier position when Shion had gone off to look for the Odyssey right after finishing the Iliad, facing the wall. He unconsciously sighs at the relief— Shion's warmth is reaching him again.

He thinks to tell Shion not to start another book when he hears him open to the first page of the Odyssey. If the Manhunt really happened tomorrow, he might never be able to come back to it.

Nezumi opens his book. The lines still don't register. He might never be able to come back to it, either. He wills himself not to think of it. He wills himself to say nothing more.

Tomorrow, Nezumi is going to have hogged the sheets again but Shion will make the bed nevertheless. Nezumi is going to ask about another title to try to read and Shion will guide him through the shelves using his mental catalog. They'll take turns reading their books to the mice, maybe dance again in this room before going out.

They won't know that it will be the last of these sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place that they'll ever see.

#no.6 #no. 6 #why am i only crossposting this a week-ish later? who knows #since receiving nice comments on ao3 i was encouraged to crosspost immediately like How It Should Be Done but like #aNYWAY here this is yay tis on my tumblr now #i hope its ok!!!#4 years later i still dont have a writing tag

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