#and obviously his flights would be late or the weather would be shitty | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

quidfree · 3 years

Note

prompt: tdbk in a post-apocalyptic setting (HEHEH)

self-servicing AND a helping hand to a friend in need, we love a good strat

this got incredibly out of hand but i hope you enjoy!!

it’s been two months and five days since he last saw someone that katsuki lays eyes on him. two months and five days, and yes, he is fucking keeping score, why wouldn’t he be?

two months and five days is long. two months and five days is long enough that he’s taken up the habit of muttering to himself to fill the air, because dead silence makes him paranoid, always expecting sudden interruption, and he chooses to ignore the fact that muttering to himself is a quirk he might have picked up elsewhere. jesus. if deku, scrawny and asthmatic and perennially, psychotically self-sacrificing, is somehow still alive, he thinks he might be glad to see him again, just out of sheer disbelief.

there’s other people he’d be glad to see. perfect timing, for the zombie apocalypse to erupt right when he’d been on a summer internship in tokyo. to think the old crone had been bitching about it before he’d left- don’t get mugged on the underground, all that shit. like he was some hare-brained tourist. like people didn’t expect him to mug them. whatever. he thinks his parents are safer, out in a smaller city, than anyone has been in tokyo, tells himself it’s not blind hope that makes him explain the radio silence away. it’s statistics, and the geography of the outbreak, and the memory of his mother beating a would-be pickpocket over the head with her shoe until he passed out.

six months ago he’d first walked into his cramped rental flat in tokyo, barely the space to unroll his mat. six days later the pandemic had begun. slowly, first, confusingly, two weeks of shadowing jeanist to court and back while the news got increasingly weirder, and then by the third things took a turn for the fucked, and his parents were calling frantically telling him to come home stat, but by then it was too late. tokyo’s the new york of japan- in sci-fi movies it’s always struck first. the city was on lockdown before he could so much as book a flight out.

that was five months ago. by four and a half his phone carrier service had gone dead.

he doesn’t like to linger on anything, but he especially doesn’t like to linger on what happened between the start and the middle of it, the slow descent from incomprehending disbelief into hell on earth. he doesn’t throw the term around- not one for flowery prose. for the first while there’d been something almost rewarding to it, the whole survival strategy, him and the interns and lawyers at jeanist’s office taking scope of their resources and planning their ways out. now it’s been two months and five days since he’s run into anyone alive, he fails to see the bright side.

the media called them the infected, or the walkers, or some other dumb shit, but everyone knows they’re zombies. it’s some kind of chemical weapon- americans, if you ask him- that’s mutated them, but they’re zombies by anyone’s definition. lumbering, decaying, dead, very keen on extending the invitation. the first time he’d seen one up close- whatever. he’d killed it. he’s killed so many by now he’s lost count, and that’s not an exaggeration. these days he’s not so big on those.

the office had been overrun, in the end. some of the other interns, panicking. bitten. dead. jeanist had held them off while katsuki dragged hysterical staffers out of the window, and the last he’s seen of the man he was catching his unflappable gaze as the doors burst open and jeanist slammed the window shut.

they’d scattered. maybe he would have stayed on, tried the group thing out of a sense of responsibility alone, but there were too many subgroups for him to rotate around. he’d split off, eventually, cut his losses. sometimes he catches someone he recognises walking the streets, wonders when and how and what. he’s still never seen jeanist. he thinks probably he offed himself.

if it ever comes to it that’s what he’s doing. he has a gun ready for it. one bullet. in the apartment he’d stayed in for a while, some forensic doctor’s place, he’d studied the angle that worked best. straight through the temples, angled down.

then there had been that thing with the league. he doesn’t want to think about that, but he does, constantly, because that’s how he knows. two months and five days. the last person he spoke to was that fucking girl.

like zombies weren’t enough- criminals who fancy themselves cultists roam the streets in packs. it’s like every shitty blockbuster movie he’s never bothered to see packed into one.

two months. five days. there’s no way of communicating with the outside world. after he’d shaken off the league he’d had jack shit on him- lost his bag in the initial fight, and his apartment was a lost cause. in the end he’d made his way back to the firm, but that had been a literal dead end too. he’d managed to retrieve, of all things, his phone, skirting the streets around the firm, probably dropped in their original escape. it’s functionally useless but he’s managed to charge it once or twice, stare at old photos and texts that fail to send. he has nothing else of his own except the clothes he’d worn that last day with jeanist.

he’s remade his belongings, obviously. he’s competent, as it turns out, in apocalypses. somehow it doesn’t surprise him. he works out a routine. when he’d first found a hole to burrow himself in post-league he’d spent days just picking up patterns- when, who, from where, how. once he was entirely sure he’d gotten it down to a science he’d risked it back out, mapping the area out incrementally, one rotation at a time. two months and five days in he has it down to an art instead.

he moved regularly for the first month post-league, avoiding anywhere that seemed inhabited by zombies and people alike. can’t trust anyone, and besides it’s way too much of a liability having other people around to get themselves bitten. he can look after himself, but he’s not signing up for charity work. by the second month he’d found his current address, the top floor of a mid-rise apartment complex in meguro city. apartment complexes are risky, but this one’s door locks are still functional, and once he’d cleared out the ground floor and made the rounds to check for stragglers he’d wagered it about as secure as it could get. the stairs are a bitch, but the zombies don’t like them either, preferring to straggle in lobbies, and for another thing the height is convenient. the roof’s close by for a way out, and it gives him a good view of the surroundings.

the apartment itself is nothing special. residential. he picked the cleanest one, which also meant the one half-moved out in a hurry. he pretends like he thinks the owners got out but he spotted a suitcase with their name abandoned in the elevator. the guy was a teacher at the university. the woman was in sales. it’s decent for a tokyo flat, two bedrooms, a bathroom, good kitchen, nice living area. the fridge had been full of expired goods, but the shelves had some cans in them- soup, rice, beans. pots and pans. he’s been working through the floors of the place one room at a time taking inventory, lugging the useful shit back up. nothing beyond the strictly practical- he takes food, medecine, clothes, someone’s watch once, binoculars. he’s not making a home for himself, just stocking up. he sleeps with his bag on his back, the essentials locked and loaded. the gun was an apartment find too.

his biggest problem is transport. he recognised this early on, because so could anyone with half a brain. tokyo’s teeming with public transports overrun by the undead, cars abandoned on the streets, but the actual streets are packed day in and day out. whatever movie said zombies hate the sun was full of shit, because as far as he can tell the only time they actually react to the weather is when it rains. all night and day they’re shuffling in tireless motions around the city, gaining numbers. there’s a rhythm to it, sure- they’re more sluggish at night- but it’s an incessant flow. he can’t drive a car, has found no convenient manual stored nearby, and google went and croaked on him when the electricity did, so there’s no way he can just take advantage of a lull and jump in. by the time he’s figured out how to get any given vehicle to start he’ll be surrounded. even if he could find a way in, there’s no way out- driving through streets packed with zombies is a doomed exercise, especially given that half of the cars in the city are busted or low on fuel.

his current plan involves boats. he’s not sure if zombies can swim yet, but they don’t like the rain so he’s betting no, and even if they do they’d fare no better than a human at climbing a boat from the waters below it. if he can make it to tokyo bay somehow- at least off the coast there’ll be room to manoeuvre. but he needs to figure out the basics of ship-operating first, and also to relocate his supplies nearer to the bay somehow. if he ends up on the open seas he’ll need the food to last him the journey.

so he’s been doing this. rounds, collecting shit. taking inventory. scoping the streets out. he spends the nights planning, the early mornings reading. there’s no power in the building. it’s freezing. six months since his internship, winter rolling in. if he gets to tokyo bay the waters will be frigid, but the sea doesn’t freeze over.

his biggest concern at the moment is hypothermia, if he’s being honest. he’s collected every fucking duvet in the building, it feels like, but there’s only so much he can bury himself under. he’d be warmer if he didn’t insist on bathing in melted snow, but he went so long without washing in autumn that he fucking refuses to waste the opportunity. he smells like some ridiculous apple berry blast bullshit because he’s cycling through shampoos, but sometimes he thinks he’s only sane when he’s brushing his teeth in the mornings so he’s not about to let up on the hygiene.

three and a half months ago he was meant to be back at school. he has no idea what’s happened to his classmates. most of them were home for the summer. he thinks yaoyorozu was abroad. lucky her. kirishima was the last he heard from, all suppressed terror, and even now it makes him feel sick to think about it, because he knows full well the asshole was scared for him. sometimes he thinks about what it would have been like facing this shit as a group, but he never dwells on it. he’s better off alone.

he’s cold. he’s tired. he needs to get to the nearest library, because no one in the building has shit about boats. he doesn’t want to leave the building yet, but he needs a book. can’t go into this shit blind, not without knowing what he’ll need once he gets there. and besides he needs to stay sharp on the streets- get back into the swing of it, literally. one month since he moved in and he’s barely seen a zombie in the rotting flesh. the doors have been holding up, and he’s far up enough that none of the regulars outside can smell him, decide to unionize and break the door down.

he’s had an assortment of weapons, since the start of this. most effective was the gun, also a heavy chair once. his trusty hockey stick had snapped on his way into the building, a month ago, leaving him to fend the last three tenants off with goldfish bowls and doors to the neck. he’s found a sturdy baseball bat since that he’s claimed as new weapon of choice, though never used. he takes this, when he goes. the bat, the backpack that never leaves his back, the longest coat he can find in his collection. not the heaviest, despite the biting cold, because that restrains movement, but the longest, to minimize contact. hat and gloves for the same reason. balaklava just for the cold.

the apartment is empty as he winds his way down, footsteps loud, and it’s dusk- just late enough that the zombies are slower, though not late enough that it really makes a difference. it’s be too dark if it were; he’s trying to save flashlights for real emergencies.

the setagaya library is the only actual library near him, as the maps inform him, but too far to risk. in the address book he finds a local bookshop three blocks away, and it’s there that he heads, already cold to the bone as he grits his teeth and locks the complex door assiduously behind him. there are zombies just across the street beginning to moan in his direction. he ignores them, breaking into a jog.

maybe because their blood doesn’t flow to their brains, maybe because their muscles are deteriorating: zombies aren’t incredibly fast or incredibly intelligent. what they are is resilient, and single-minded. but outrun them and outsmart them he can, and so he does- runs the paths he’s memorized, sticks to corners and shadows and scales ladders and crosses rooftops and just about manages to get to the street in question without even having to swing his bat.

once he gets there, though, he gets swinging. the bookshop is in an unfortunate position, and there’s an entire group parked in front of it. he lets them spot him first, so they break off in his direction, then climbs onto the overturned truck they’ve shifted to and springs back down into the doorframe of the bookshop, kicking the door in before they can register his itinerary. he slams it shut just before a greying hand scratches at it in outrage, heart pounding a steady tattoo, then glances around rapidly. no sign of life, but that means nothing.

there is, then, an unmistakable jingling sound from the very back corner of the room, behind rows and rows of antique-looking books. keys, or metal on metal. movement.

company, katsuki thinks, between anticipation and trepidation. his bat sits comfortably in his hands as he raises it.

jingling, closer, and he moves in on instinct, breathing feeling loud as he brushes past the anthropology section. he can just about see around the corner when a sudden sixth sense makes him whip around, bat swinging down heavily, and just in the nick of time- wood connects with metal, hard, knocking him back a pace as his teeth snap together from the impact, but he’s swinging again in self-defense just as there’s a sharp intake of breath and his brain catches up- red, white, painfully familiar. the bat makes an aborted spasm.

“bakugou,” shouto todoroki says, in disbelieving tones, crowbar lowered but not dropped. katsuki gapes.

“am i fucking hallucinating?”

the crowbar lowers further.

it is him, unmistakably. maybe with someone else he would have hesitated longer, but todoroki's hard not to single out. his red-white hair is tousled, long behind his ears like he's absently tucked it and forgotten about it, and he's grimy, smells sour and dusty, but it's him. katsuki's own hands stay gripped around the bat, their gazes playing some odd symmetrical game as they catalogue each other for the same exact thing- looking for bite-marks. todoroki's less covered than katsuki is, but there's blood on him, old, dried. too old for recent bites, anyways. inconclusive.

"what are you doing in-" todoroki starts, maybe having concluded that there's no way to assess his status with the layers he has on, but then his frown twists. "oh. your internship?"

which answers katsuki's own question, sort of, because now that he thinks of it enji was on that high-profile murder case in the high court. still- still, his brain is stuck on the incongruity of it, shouto todoroki in the apparently living flesh, and it's been two months and five days. he just keeps staring.

"i came for a book," is what leaves his lips, eventually, rough, and his voice sounds hoarse with disuse. it jars him into action, moving past todoroki on auto-pilot, because somehow he can't quite register his presence, doesn't know where to begin. he wasn't factoring this into his day.

it's dark inside, books hard to discern, so he gets his flashlight out, hits it against a shelf so it alights. there's a section on travel near the back. nautical travels of the eastern seas. useless. a map book of the japanese seas- maybe. he mechanically slides it into his bag. his fingers feel rigid. he's still cold. what the fuck is shouto todoroki doing holed up in a bookstore? where is his father? how long has he been here? what is he doing, alive, talking, walking, in the apocalypse, ambling into katsuki's routine with a crowbar in hand?

he can't see or hear him at all. now he's back here he can tell the ringing was rigged up- tiny trap-wires set around the store, what looks like fishing wire with bells attached. smart. of course it is. he's losing his mind. where has the bastard gone? is he even here? it's fucking freezing in the bookstore. where does he sleep? he hadn't looked starving. actually he hadn't looked anything- just blank as usual, barring the surprise. fuck! he's been staring at the same book for a good thirty seconds without registering the title.

beginner's guide to boating. miraculous. he nearly breaks todoroki's kneecaps when he sees his legs appear silently next to him.

"fuck! don't sneak up on me, you asshole!"

"boats," todoroki says. "that's your plan?"

it makes him flare hot with something like rage, because he doesn't fucking want input on it, doesn't want to be told odds, and it has him on his feet, slamming todoroki back into the opposite bookshelf within seconds.

"mind your own damn business!"

todoroki seems mildly startled at best, shifting a little so a book isn't digging into his neck, and for a moment katsuki is distracted by the scalding warmth of him under his arm. he doesn't know when he last came into contact with a living body. it's disorienting. he thinks probably it was the senior partner who fell down the stairs, minutes before the zombies swarmed the lobby, pulse skittering frantically with fear.

he drops todoroki, steps back. two months five days. maybe he's gone a little crazy.

whatever! whatever. he's fully functioning, he has his book, he's leaving. he's going to be off-schedule at this rate, times gone muddy with distraction. even without touching him he feels like there's residue warmth on his palm, making the rest of him shiver by contrast. if the zombies could have just gotten properly active in summer...

he's halfway to the door when he remembers- again- todoroki is actually there, watching him inscrutably from the bookshelf, swaying a little on his feet. despite himself he turns to stare back. he doesn't know what to- this wasn't in the plan, he doesn't know. he's going anyways.

it's because he's staring-cum-glaring at todoroki that he sees his eyes widen, and then he's leaping forwards on instinct as the window in the door shatters, decaying arm bursting through as loud moaning suddenly fills the dead silence.

"shit!"

"it's because there's two of us," todoroki reasons, in a tone like he's annoyed with himself for not realising this, which would make katsuki feel marginally better about his own stupid lack of thought if he wasn't so pissed. he'd counted on the zombies losing interest on his presence once he was out of sight, but the smell of two live humans in close proximity would obviously keep some of them near.

"is there another way out of this place?"

"back entrance, but it leads into a dead-end alley," todoroki retorts, suddenly functioning, eyeing the creaking door as thumping intensifies from the other side. "there's a way to scale onto the drain-pipe above but it wasn't made to take two people's weight."

"shit," katsuki curses, feelingly. "where's the drain-pipe lead?"

"roof. i don't know if either of us could scale it fast enough for the other to follow before they get there."

katsuki looks at him, crouched calmly stacking something or other into a loose duffel bag, rusty crowbar by his feet, then looks back to the groaning door. his gut tightens with a sort of pissed off fatalism.

"how long 'd it take you to get to the roof? five minutes?"

"i could do it in three, maybe less," todoroki estimates. "it's slower with the frost."

three minutes. katsuki hoists the bat higher, takes a step then two back from the door.

"fine. go. i'll follow."

"bakugou-"

"it's the most logical fucking plan of action," katsuki snaps, eyes still on the door, adrenaline spiking. "if you get up there before i get outside i can make it to the drainpipe before anyone nabs me. i can hold them off for three fucking minutes. and you're the one who knows the way up. you go."

"i know," todoroki says, which makes katsuki glance back at him, finds his face set with nothing but fixed determination. "i was going to say to give me your bag. it'll make it easier to climb."

there's something about this that makes katsuki's head briefly thud with something like a pounding headache, lungs gone tight, but he refocuses, blinks away the dizzy spell. the last fucking thing he wants is to give the bag away, but unless the plan goes as hoped he's dead anyways, so there's no point in arguing.

he shrugs his backpack off, slides the gun out, shoves it into his back pocket. todoroki fastens the straps around his shoulders without comment, then turns and runs, not wasting any time. it makes something in him-

the door breaks in.

there's five of them at least, the ones from before. the first one goes down with a direct hit to the head, skull caving in with a crunching sound, but he has to retreat immediately, make them spread out of their pack formation as he zig-zags back through the rows of books. they're slower than humans but not slow, breaking into a fast paced shuffle after him; he turns a sharp corner, doubles back as fast as he can to catch a second one from behind. crack, snap. the one in front lunges back before he can swing again, sending him running back; he jumps onto the seller's counter, dodging an arm, then brings the bat down full-force onto the zombie's neck. three. there's another one nearing the broken door, the other two circling back to the front at the commotion. he jumps over the counter, ducking under an arm, knocks into the nearest bookshelf with all of his weight, sending it sprawling towards the door, books flying and frame landing awkwardly across the doorframe. it doesn't block entry, but it befuddles the would-be incomers.

there's an arm grabbing his shoulder; he dodges a gaping mouth, bat spinning to hit at the rotting jaw, once, twice, bones splintering decisively on the second hit, but the last straggler is on him and the others are crawling in through the door. he runs, down to the back of the store, nearly trips over todoroki's traps himself as he goes, miraculously jumps clean of them as his pursuers stumble. it gives him the seconds to jump up to the back portion of the shop, grab a nearby chair and throw it at the advancing huddle, knocking them back a step, then turn sharply into a row, sprinting down to the back of the room where the emergency exit sign hangs half-broken. it's closed, likely behind todoroki, but he slams through it before any of the zombies near, staggers at the sharp gust of cold air that hits once he's out. the sun is nearly set, casting a red haze over the alley, and there's a pack of six zombies right beneath the glinting drainpipe, still trailing after todoroki's scent, moaning around the corner signalling backup. fuck.

there's a loud scraping from above, then todoroki's head appears over the edge of the roof, something grey and unwieldy in his hands; a satellite dish comes falling down, catching speed as it goes. it hits the pack dead-centre, crushing two of the zombies into pieces on impact, others reeling backwards in confusion, and he doesn't have the time to question his odds four-on-one. he runs in while they're still dazed, beats one into the wall, head splattering, turns and swings into the second as it zeroes in on him, head collapsing inward and drenching him in blood. the other two are too close to hit; he twists, jumps back, curses, eyes the alley entry where others have scented blood. fucking- no, two on one, god, he's not dying two on one, not after the bullshit he's been through. he kicks heavily into the one's chest, just missing the hand trying to nab his ankle, which sends it knocking into the other, and like that they're just aligned enough that he yells and slams the bat through the first one's head, in three rapid blows, hitting the one behind it on the third as bits of skull go flying. it's not enough to take it out; he hits again, manic, and it gets him on the second go. then he's scrambling to the drain pipe, mindful of the others closing in, shoves his bat down the back of his shirt and under his waistband before he throws himself at the drainpipe.

"brace against the wall," todoroki calls, almost in the moment he does so, hands slip-sliding on the damp pipe as his boots hit concrete; there are arms nearing, outstretched, but he bunches his stomach and drags himself up, feet first then arms, side of his arm scraping heavily against the wall as he moves almost horizontally upwards, fingers clenched around metal. the fucking gloves are no help; he pauses, braced and shaking with tension, to rip his gloves off with his teeth, one hand then the next, dropping to the floor below as his bare palms hit the freezing metal.

he's so cold it hurts, but he's halfway up the wall. methodically he moves. one foot. other foot. one hand. other hand. stomach muscles, straining, arms pulling. up a fraction. then another. then another.

"wait," todoroki says, closer than he feels, and he glances up for the first time, finds him an arm and a half's length away. "you'll slide at the top."

"then what the fuck do you suggest i do?" katsuki bites, half a yell, too strained to scream. todoroki leans, heavy, arms outstretched.

"do one more. then take my hand."

katsuki wishes he could spit on him. todoroki's expression has gone tight like he knows what he's thinking, like he's not sure katsuki won't let himself fall all the way down rather than put himself into the uncalloused hands of shouto todoroki.

the pipe creaks. katsuki moves up, ignores the way his blood boils, eyes the outstretched hands. he can hear todoroki breathing, hot against the cold air.

"drop me and i'll turn you."

he braces. one hand leaves the pipe, and for a godawful moment he's grasping at nothing. their hands connect, rearrange themselves; todoroki has a death-like grip on his wrist. his foot slides. the second hand is thrown rather than extended, and todoroki's eyes flash alarmingly as their fingers brush and miss, but he doesn't fall, hangs there by an arm for a heartbeat, jolt like he's dislocated his shoulder before his boot catches something and he shoves upwards, todoroki grabbing hold of his hand and yanking full-body at him.

katsuki falls over the top of the roof in disjointed movements, the both of them half-hitting each other as momentum carries them down, lands with an elbow in todoroki's stomach and a hit of tile to the jaw.

his head spins; he shoves up immediately, falls back down when his arms protest, adrenaline pounding hysterically. his limbs are shaking with belated exertion. todoroki is still holding his wrists, punishingly tight, his breaths heavy nearby. his body is still hot beneath him.

he scrabbles backwards, onto his knees, todoroki dropping his hands and dragging himself up to his elbows. for a moment they stare at each other, panting loudly.

he wants to yell at him but the words don't come. two months, five days. it's not even todoroki's fault, really. he was living there unperturbed. there's a flush of exertion over his cheeks now, and maybe he's just gone crazy what with the constant thinking about unbeating hearts but he feels a little obsessively interested in the visible flow of blood beneath his skin, wants him pink all over if that'll prove him living a minute longer.

he shakes himself, exhales in a burst.

"are you all right?" todoroki asks, and up close katsuki realises his voice is hoarser too. in the shop he'd been too dumbstruck to register it, but it's there beneath his normal cadence, a scratchy undertone. he hasn't spoken in a while either. something about it-

all right, he'd asked. unbitten, he means. katsuki shakes his head.

"we need to get going."

he hadn't meant the 'we', but he thinks at some point when todoroki's fingers dug into his arm hard enough to pierce flesh the message had gotten under his skin too. they're not fucking splitting up now. of course they're not. this isn't model un or a baseball match; it doesn't matter that the guy drives him insane. and this is todoroki, too- excruciatingly hyper-competent at every challenge life throws at him. if there's anyone less likely to rely on katsuki for the next however-long until one of them is forced to shoot the other, he hasn't met them.

"where?"

"my place. 's not far. how d'you get down from here?"

"the next building over has a fire-escape."

"fine. let's go then."

todoroki hands him back his backpack. he hits his bat against the wall to shake some bits of bone and flesh off, eyes unfocused on the task. he thinks desensitisation is the word. it's maybe the third or fourth time he's fought them off without registering anything about them once. usually he gets stuck on some detail or other, schoolgirl shirt or smile wrinkles. freckles. proof of life. there's that movie he watched once with kirishima and the rest of them, some kind of sci-fic thing, and at the end when the monsters come the dad shoots his whole family dead to spare them. turns out it's the military instead, come to rescue them. kirishima had cried.

questions pile up in his throat. he forces them down.

they jump from the rooftop to the next with relative ease, the gap narrow, his foot just catching on the edge before he rights himself. the fire escape is solid where the drain pipe wasn't. he wonders how in the fuck todoroki ended up here, in some old bookstore.

he's gotten good at scaling shit. he thinks in another life he'd have made a top-grade gymnast, or a superhero. when he'd broken out of the league's hold he'd made a spiderman worthy leap onto a clothes-line.

they make it back to the apartment as the sun vanishes, late, and because they're late his perfect scheduling is off, leaves them facing a pack of easily a dozen zombies swarming around the doors. there's another way in through the side, but it requires forcing a door open that he doesn't have keys for, and that means an entry-risk.

"i'll clear a way to the door," he says, hoisting his bat higher. "you keep them off my back."

todoroki follows his gaze, nods.

they advance in the dark, close together, and it's bizarre having someone breathing down his neck after so long, makes him on edge, expecting a bite that never comes. when the first zombie starts turning their way he breaks into a run, brings the bat down fast and heavy so it connects with a sick thud, flashlight clicking to life where he holds it between his teeth. it blinds one zombie long enough that he gets it too, and then it's chaos, flashlight swinging drunkenly as he batters this way and that, fighting off the clawing arms with irate kicks and loud swearing. if there's one thing he fucking loathes about the apocalypse it's how touchy-feely everyone is, all endlessly grasping hands and drooling maws straining for a piece of him. it makes his skin crawl, which makes him see red, which makes him go through fights like this, all furious movement, too keyed up to feel afraid. he never goes into a fight expecting to lose.

behind him, around him, wet crunching and moans track todoroki closing the pack; in off-beat synchronisation they move their way through the group, dropping bodies as they go. he's by the door before he knows it, light catching the heavy glass, switches the bat to one hand as he drags out the keys. the first time he'd gotten in the door had been open; his luckiest find since was the functioning key, sealing him out of harm's way. he's efficient with it, no fumbling, has it in and open in the time todoroki exhales sort of shortly as their backs connect. bakugou yanks the key out in the same movement he grabs blindly at todoroki's collar with his bat-holding hand, hooking a finger to swing him through the door and diving after him to slam the door shut on a wrist, bone snapping and the hand falling limply to the floor as they put their weight on the door for as long as it takes him to lock it again.

todoroki's crowbar is sopping red, guts in his hair; he casts a look around, doesn't even ask if katsuki thinks the door will hold, if katsuki has thought of their scent luring zombies in. most people would have.

he has, obviously. thought of it. that's why he lives on the top floor. the scent doesn't linger. doesn't matter if there's two of them up there. the door holds for as long as the stragglers press up against it, but as soon as they're out of sight the zombies will drift again.

they make their way up the stairs. he's warmer now, purely from the exercise. heat rises. another reason he lives at the top. doesn't feel like it when he's freezing his ass off at night, but he knows his science.

they make it to the top floor in silence, and he pushes his door open (unlocked, this one, because by the point anyone reaches him up here he'll be long gone), goes for the camping lamp on the floor, trudges along with it in hand. remembers his houseguest.

"kitchen's there. there's a bathroom. two rooms. living room. no power or running water but i have some water in the bathtub if you want to wash."

"it's nice," todoroki says, and the worst thing is he sounds like he means it, almost politely. it makes katsuki stop dead to look at him, struck again by how unreal it all feels, but it almost feels reassuringly normal, staring at todoroki in disbelief. in the bad lighting he looks otherworldly, even despite the filth and zombie gunk he's covered in, all half-lit and angelic like something out of a hazy dream.

"i can't fucking believe it's actually you, half 'n half."

it escapes him unthinkingly, but it's true, and besides that it has the unforeseen consequence of making todoroki's composure fracture, shoulders rising and falling on a mute laugh, exhausted wryness in the tilt of his head. for a split second his gaze is dizzyingly and uncharacteristically frank, almost intimate.

"the feeling is mutual."

if the moment stretches he might do something wholly deranged; he rolls his aching shoulder, gestures to the bathroom.

"you go first. you reek."

todoroki says his thanks to his back as he retreats.

he returns to routine. strips, despite how fucking cold he is, wraps his shoulder tight enough that it hurts, rubs alcohol onto the more worrying cuts and scrapes. drags some bedding to the second room, then drags himself to the kitchen, shivering, mentally redoing his maths, then pulling out his notebook to jot down the edited stock. pauses, hesitates. in the margin under the date he writes: found half 'n half. it's not a diary, but he feels like he should make note.

todoroki appears silently in the doorframe, wrapped in a towel and scrubbed red, and there's something reassuring about how clean he looks, balanced out by how disturbing it is to see him so casually bare. he's barely glanced up at him that he drops the towel.

"the fuck-"

todoroki just turns in a neat 360, then wraps himself back up. katsuki snaps his jaw shut, ears burning but head clear. no bites. right. the previous times- whatever. reluctantly he stands and turns. when todoroki eyes his boxers he glares.

"you don't think you would have noticed if i got bitten on the dick today?"

he's not entirely sure todoroki won't fight him on it, but he concedes after a moment's assessing stare, shifts from foot to foot.

"you can have some of my shit to wear," katsuki says, pointing to the wardrobe he's requisitioned. "some of it's too big. should fit."

todoroki just nods, follows suit.

he wonders, as he scrubs himself down with a bucketful of water, teeth chattering and bath-tub still half full, if todoroki was always so goddamn quiet or if he's traumatised or some shit. the guy was always the annoying silent type, but he doesn't remember him this monosyllabic. habit, probably. what does he know.

he dresses, layers up, shoves his dirty clothes with todoroki's in the basket. when it fills he'll dunk the whole lot into a tub of his used water, but until there's that many dirty clothes he leaves them out.

todoroki is sat on the couch wrapped in blankets and wearing someone's dad's heavy knitwear, illuminated by (of all things) a gas lamp that katsuki had found but never managed to light. so the asshole has matches.

"you hungry?" katsuki asks, really only to make him speak. todoroki nods, counter-productively, but he's talking next.

"don't waste your food on me."

"shut up, asshole," katsuki mutters, on instinct, fatigue setting into him. jesus. the martyrs he's surrounded with. "you can make the next grocery run."

todoroki only looks at him longly, but he follows him into the kitchen, eats the cold soup without complaint. he likes cold food, katsuki thinks, then stops at the thought. he has no idea how he knows it. it feels like a memory from a different life. he likes cold food. like that matters.

it's not very late, though it's pitch black out. he goes to bed early these days to make the most of the sunlight. he's not sure what to do with todoroki, though rationally that's not his concern.

he can't find it in himself to ask the obvious questions. it's partly because he doesn't want to hear the answers and partly because he doesn't want to have to give his own. it's not like they were fucking bosom buddies before this all went down- he's past hating the guy, despite how unbearable he finds him, would call them something adjacent to friends under duress, but it's not like they make a point of hanging out outside of class. and todoroki's a terrible conversationalist, always.

even so. two months, five days. he wants to talk, if only for the pleasure of getting to call him a superior bastard, if only to know that he's still the same confounding weirdo whose face he wears. it's not even the words, really- he wants to hear a pulse beat near him, to catch alert eyes on his, to watch his chest rise and fall. alive.

he can't believe the asshole stripped naked like that. pale flesh all over, but not that diseased grey tint, just regular winter cold, like the inside of a peach. bruises and scratches littering his limbs. nasty half-healed scar like someone had tried to gut him with a knife.

his lips are peeling when he licks them. he found vaseline in someone's drawer but he uses it sparingly. whenever he goes outside his lips crack to the point of blood. against the glow of the stove he can see only half of his new flatmate where he sits surveying his newly clean crowbar.

"what's in the duffel?"

he'd have bristled more at the invasion, pragmatic though it is, but todoroki only shifts obligingly to raise it to his lap.

"medical kit- bandages, aspirin, tweezers, needle and thread. three water bottles. instant noodles. biscuits. matchbox. a city map. a change of shoes. a space blanket. my wallet. wire. rope. an alarm clock. a mechanic's manual." he pauses, feels around, drags out a glass bottle. "this."

it's vodka, of all the things. katsuki half wants to laugh.

"you drink now?"

"kept me warm," todoroki shrugs. which is, maybe, all there is to it. maybe not.

"i'll run you through inventory in the morning," katsuki says, if reluctantly. best todoroki knows what they have on hand, despite how little he feels like letting him into his notebook. it's not like he's deku, writing down his little feelings all over it, but it feels revealing anyways, for todoroki to know what he's been tracking.

there's nothing else for them to talk about without heading into dangerous territory. todoroki packs his things back into the bag, careful, and katsuki is sick of his own weird emotional breakdown, doesn't know where this sudden needy cloying bullshit is even coming from.

two months five days, his brain says, chipper, and then offers to rewind the days preceding that. he hisses through his teeth before he remembers he has company.

"i'm going to bed. 's fuck all to do without wasting light. stay high up if you want to go exploring."

todoroki has gone back to muteness, because he only nods as katsuki glowers at nothing in particular and makes his way back to his room, unhappy at the sight of his diminished bedding. it's not like he's actually able to use the whole apartment's bedding anyways- too unwieldy, too heavy, whatever- but the three duvets and two quilts had been working well enough to insulate him against the chill, and with two sacrificed he's resigned to a night of tossing and turning.

fuck his life. he thinks maybe the reason he's been having these fits of weirdness across the days is just fatigue. between the nightmares and the cold and the actual zombie break-ins over the past six months he doesn't think he's managed a single night's good sleep beyond the times he's blacked out. he feels untethered, at times both more and less emotional than he's used to being.

no surprise that having a real life human being around- and one that he knows at that- is making him almost ill with conflicting urges. part of him wants to lock todoroki out in a cold sweat and never lay eyes on him again. part of him wants to cut him open and grab at his beating heart just to confirm he's not alone. the rest of him lies there wondering what the fuck is wrong with his brain.

he lies there for maybe an hour trying to get to sleep, but his mind has kicked into overdrive in the way that it does every goddamn night nowadays, replaying scenes he didn't even notice in the moment. one of the zombies by the bookstore had barely reached his shoulder. when he'd washed his bat there had been bits of an eye clinging to the base.

he's too busy being cold and annoyed and possibly hysterical to notice the soft footfall until it's close, jerking up on instinct to brandish his bat, but he can tell by the moonlight filtering in slivers through his blinds that it's todoroki, if the lack of shuffling hadn't given it away.

"what the hell is wrong with you?"

"i didn't mean to startle you," todoroki says. monotone, but in an off way, almost dreamy, like he's asleep. it makes katsuki's skin prickle with foreboding; he stares at the little he can see of his face, alert now.

"then what do you want?"

"you sound cold," todoroki says. still in the doorframe, unmoving. he wishes there was more light.

"it's the middle of winter, jackass, of course i'm cold. can you fuck off?"

"my father is dead," todoroki says, completely unprompted, voice not changing in timbre in the slightest, and it makes katsuki's heart jump before he sits fully upright, trying harder to make his face out.

enji todoroki, gone. he guesses he'd known that on some level, for todoroki to be roaming around like a ghost, but it doesn't compute. jesus. maybe todoroki's actually fucking lost it since. he imagines two months and five days tracking back to losing his father, feels that gut-punch of paralysis in his stomach.

he's so caught on processing it that he doesn't even register todoroki is climbing into the bed before he's halfway under the sheets.

"what the fuck are you doing?" his voice half-breaks on it, rising in sheer disbelief as he jerks violently back, because seriously- there's insane and there's insane, and he's starting to suspect todoroki is so out of it he'd snap his neck in his sleep.

todoroki has the audacity to shush him, distracted, and it takes katsuki actually grabbing him hard by the shoulder, braced to hit at the slightest flicker of intent, to stop him in his tracks.

"hey, asshole, i'm talking to you! are you out of your goddamn mind?"

where he's stopped now todoroki's one eye catches the moonlight, big and dark and eerie. he blinks slowly like he's coming out of a trance.

"oh, i-" he pauses. his pulse is sluggish under katsuki's hands, skin fire-hot. feverish, maybe. shit. feverish, very possibly. he'd had no layers in that shitty bookshop. "sorry."

he says it like he's not sure he means it. katsuki doesn't let up with his grip.

"how long you been sick, icyhot?"

"sick," todoroki repeats, processing it. his gaze sharpens. "days. i think maybe- what day is it?"

"wednesday. thirteenth."

"six days, then," todoroki says, quiet. their gazes catch, more consciously now. "i'm fine. the adrenaline helped."

"sit still," katsuki warns, and then pulls up quickly, shrugs his backpack off, digs out the medical kit. he has a decent stock of medicine in the apartment, enough that he only hesitates a beat before pulling out the advil bottle, unscrewing the cap to fill it. he knows the dosage by heart. "drink."

he nearly drops the whole bottle when todoroki just obediently sticks his mouth to the rim of the cap instead of taking it himself, hot breath fanning over his fingers as he drinks. it makes his own pulse go skittering with discomfort when he fills it a second time, brandishes it back. the cap is sticky and wet when he screws it back on; todoroki is still half-sitting where he told him to when he's done his bag up and slid it back onto his back.

"why'd you tell me about your dad just then?" katsuki asks, despite himself, if only to fill the silence.

"did i?" todoroki asks, on an exhale, visible eye swivelling to him. "i don't know. i was thinking about the cold, i think. he wasn't cold in the end."

he resists the urge to check his temperature. probably it got worse once he tried to go to sleep, all the residue adrenaline gone. it can't have been peaking all day, or they'd have never made it out in the first place. and it's not from a bite. just a fever. he's medicated. he'll sleep it off.

"i'm not crazy," todoroki informs him, suddenly cool, not so hazy. "just sick. i could hear you tossing and turning. that's why i came."

"why're you in my bed?" katsuki shoots back, on the edge of combative, not really. maybe he's a little relieved. he's a lot pissed off, even though he knows todoroki probably genuinely didn't realise what a state he was in the last week, might have actually been trying to make sense of his fluctuating mood himself. no shit he'd been so weird when they first ran into each other.

"i'm not sure," todoroki admits. "it seemed important at the time."

this makes him want to laugh, though he doesn't. the cracked-open raw part of him that still smarts loudly whenever he thinks of jeanist thinks he missed him somehow.

"glad we solved that mystery. get out now."

todoroki makes to move, stops when they're facing each other, blue eye white-pale on his. "actually i remember now, i think."

"i swear to god, half 'n half..."

"you're cold," todoroki repeats, factual, then back to floaty. "and i couldn't hear..."

he doesn't expect him to do what he does, which is why he doesn't stop him when he puts a too-hot palm directly over his heart, doesn't even pull back when he pushes, knocking him onto the bed.

"todoroki-"

"it's fine," todoroki says, scratchy, sweat-warm. he slides onto his own side in a heavy, graceless motion. face to face, half an arm between them, palm stuck to his chest. "it's fine."

it's the scratchiness that wins him over, or maybe the fever flush of him. todoroki may be fucked in the head but he's not, which is why he knows full well he's being insane by not shoving him out. it's just that on some extremely uncomfortable and deranged level he gets it, because he's been tracking his pulse like a shark since they first ran into each other. there's something less insane beneath it too, pragmatic acknowledgment that it is actually a great deal warmer when there's body heat to share, but he knows full well he'd have toughed it out, six months ago, sent him back to bed and spent the night half-awake in spiteful resignation.

it's six months later, though, and somewhere along the line he's been rewired wrong. he thinks it's not unlikely that he's just this desperate for a full night's sleep.

it doesn't really matter why, though. he lets him stay. in the morning if todoroki is back to himself he'll see right through whatever he says, and on balance he doesn't fucking care.

he's so fucking tired. two months and five days, six months and three. the last time someone touched him for more than a second without trying to kill him it was a crying intern, this bespectacled guy whose name he'd never bothered to learn choking on his own blood as he clutched katsuki's wrist for comfort. before that he thinks it was his mother, exchanging their usual routine of brusque ruffling before he got on the train. he hasn't cried since the start of this, but he feels like crying now, hot throbbing behind his eyes. he sucks in a breath, forces it down. time and place. he's said it like a mantra since the start, like there's ever going to be one.

todoroki is fast asleep, but his hand's still there. his fingers have curled into the wool.

two months and five days, he thinks again, remembering other hands, clutching his face, pinning his arms. that's changed now, he realises. still marks the date, but not the last time he's spoken to someone.

ten minutes, thirty seconds. he reaches to pull the covers higher over todoroki's shoulders, feels his stomach constrict when his hand brushes medicine-sticky lips in passing.

maybe todoroki can sail. that's a rich kid thing to do. he'll have to ask in the morning.

he falls asleep within fifteen minutes, forty seconds of todoroki, and doesn't wake until the sun rises.

#qui ecrit #deandra #tdbk #qui repond #prompts #bnha #mha #lashawn beyond is living rn #todobaku #apocalypse au

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chenziee · 4 years

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Swipe left, please

[Read on my AO3 (link in blog description) or by copypasting link below, or under the cut]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26932909

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin Ship: Jean/Armin Rating: General audiences Words: 2643 Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Airports, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Minor Levi/Eren Yeager, jean is smitten, Because of course he is, Tinder, but not really, jean is a very responsible working adult, armin is a very responsible PhD student, you can interpret those words however you want, hanji is not a responsible lab boss, don't be like hanji in a lab

Summary: Getting stuck at the airport for hours because of the weather was the last thing Jean wanted today, but it was what he got and honestly, if it meant he could chat with this cute guy who swept a hard 'no' on Jean's Tinder for longer, he wouldn't say no to a few more hours.

Based on a twitter post which I don’t know how to dig up.

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This is a birthday gift for the sweetest, most precious @roxi4 <3 I’ve said this a lot of times but I love you so much and I wish I could personally beat 2021 into submission so that it’s the best goddamn year of your life for you. But, sadly, I’m not a god yet so I gotta settle for writing fics for now.

Also yes, I am posting here like two weeks late because I’m lazy I’m sorry.

----------

Jean glared at the departure board, wishing he could set it on fire just like that. He understood things like this happened; he could see the heavy rain and wind outside—and people called this spring? Jean demanded a refund—so really, it could have been much worse, but a three hour delay for his three hours and thirty-five goddamned minutes flight was absolutely ridiculous and only slightly rage inducing.

He sighed in frustration and, grabbing his suitcase, he turned away to head to the closest coffee shop. He needed a damn coffee. Preferably spiked or with 8 shots of espresso, he’d decide in the line.

This was seriously so stupid. He had spent an entire week on this business trip and he was tired and the only thing he wanted was getting home to his cat and passing the hell out. At least the Melbourne airport was decent enough and he could safely be bored out of his mind with as much coffee as he needed without worrying he’d catch tetanus like he was at a certain American airport a few years ago. He would take his comfort where he could at this point.

Finally, he managed to order his coffee with only two extra espresso shots—he didn’t want to seem like that much of a psycho but the barista didn't even blink at his order and Jean had to wonder what weird shit the people at a busy airport had to deal with—and headed to the corner of the departure hall that seemed the quietest. There were only a few people loitering around there, all looking just as exhausted as Jean felt. Seemed like Jean would fit right in with their collective coma.

Making his way to one of the empty seats, Jean had to weave his way through the maze of suitcases until one of them caught his attention. Or, more specifically, the book laying carefully bookmarked and discarded on it. Who in their right mind read what looked like an entire fucking encyclopaedia full of words Jean probably couldn't even pronounce while waiting on their plane? No wonder the owner put it aside eventually.

Jean inadvertently looked up at the person sitting next to the suitcase and he did a double take. He had expected some old fart, the type that just screamed of a dreadfully boring college professor who preferred his test tubes or calculations to his students—or people in general, really—not this… tiny, adorable, small animal type of guy who, from his profile, looked around Jean’s age or even younger.

He took in the young man’s small frame, the short, blond hair, and the way he sat cross legged on the hard, uncomfortable airport chair and Jean couldn’t get over how cute the sight was. He was really glad the other man was so engrossed in his phone because even Jean could tell he was staring .

And then something else caught Jean’s eye.

Was that Tinder on his phone? Was that… Jean’s ancient Tinder he was looking at?

Jean felt heat coming up to his face. He hadn’t used the stupid app in years, probably since like... his second year of college. He didn’t even know why he didn’t delete his profile but now he was glad he didn’t because it would be really nice to know if he should even bother trying to strike up conversation here.

With bated breath, Jean waited for the verdict. He watched as if in slow motion as the blond’s thumb moved to touch the screen and swiped—

Left.

Of course it was left.

Unable to stop himself, an awkward laugh forced its way past his lips and he heard himself say, “Hard no for him?”

Even the way he jumped at Jean’s words was cute. And when wide, impossibly blue eyes met his own, Jean felt his stomach drop. Damn, this left swipe really hurt. Jean really had a talent for getting his heart broken before he even had the chance to try. First Mikasa, now this. Did someone up there have something against him?

A few silent, painfully awkward seconds of the two of them just staring at each other passed, until the blond opened his mouth to speak, “If it makes you feel any better, your profile pic really doesn’t do you any favours.”

Jean groaned. Of course. He knew he shouldn’t have let Eren choose his picture, the absolute asshole. He couldn’t believe he still called this guy a friend. Getting roomed with him at the dorm in college was seriously the worst thing to happen in his life.

“Thanks, I guess,” Jean said lamely, sheepishly scratching at the back of his head. Could this get any more awkward?

The other guy laughed then, and it was the sweetest laugh Jean had ever heard. “You’re welcome,” he said, smirning at Jean as he held out his hand. “I’m Armin. Jean, right?”

Jean shook Armin’s hand, almost asking where he had learned his name but managing to stop himself at the last second. They literally just talked about Jean’s embarrassing Tinder profile for God’s sake.

“Nice to meet you,” he said instead, hoping that was a better way to go about it than making a bigger idiot out of himself.

Thankfully, it seemed like it was, as Armin gestured to the empty seat next to him and Jean gratefully took it, making himself as comfortable as he could in the stupid airport chair. Seriously, why were airport chairs always so uncomfortable? People were sitting on these for hours at a time every day, one would think someone would make sure their asses were not hurting. Although, now that he thought about it, cushioned chairs probably wouldn’t last very long—or stay reasonably sanitary, for that matter. It was probably a good thing his ass hurt already.

Jean took his first, long-overdue sip of his coffee before he gestured towards Armin’s suitcase. “Interesting book you’ve got there. Wanted a bit of light reading?”

Armin paused, looking at Jean as if he was trying to figure him out. “Please tell me that was an intentional Harry Potter reference,” he said after a moment. Oh, Jean was so happy he had caught that.

“Maybe,” he only replied, hiding his smirk behind his coffee cup.

Huffing in amusement, Armin glanced at his terrifying looking book instead. “Just trying to do some research for my final thesis. But I have to admit some people really can’t write in an interesting way even when talking about interesting topics.”

“Hear, hear,” Jean muttered. “Some people really shouldn’t be allowed to publish books, especially if they then make people study from those.” He still remembered the pain from school. He particularly enjoyed the teachers who required the students read their own God-awful books. It was always a guarantee for the most boring read of the year.

“I know!” Armin cried, gesturing around in frustration and Jean couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “I can’t wait to finish my Ph.D. so I that can not read the things I don’t want to.”

Jean chuckled at his enthusiasm. He really had to love his field of study to get this passionate about shitty books. “What are you studying?” he asked curiously.

“Marine biology,” Armin beamed, making Jean gulp.

Ocean. Fish. Corals. That was about as much as his humble business management brain knew about marine biology. Couldn’t really impress with that, could he? “And you’re doing a PhD. in that?”

Armin nodded. “Yeah. Actually, I’m just coming back home from giving a guest lecture at the university."

"Melbourne university?" Jean asked, raising a brow. He kind of hoped he was wrong and he wasn't just casually chatting with some up and coming scientist celebrity.

"Yeah," Arming confirmed and blushed slightly.

"Damn, that's impressive," Jean admitted, though now he was positive that if Armin started talking science to him, he wouldn't understand a word.

Armin's eyes dropped as he looked away, obviously embarrassed by the praise, then he shrugged and quietly replied, "Not really. This stuff is really easy when you have good teachers."

Jean shook his head. "Nah, if you don't have it in you, it doesn't matter how good a teacher is. You can kiss any degree goodbye then, never mind giving lectures."

He heard Armin huff in amusement and goddamn it, it gave him butterflies. He was so fucked.

"Thank you," the blond said, smiling at Jean brightly before he continued. "How about you? Where to?"

Jean sighed wearily, sagging in his seat as he remembered his exhaustion. "Also home. On my way back from an absolutely stupid business trip."

"Why stupid?" Armin asked as he turned around in his seat to face Jean properly.

Jean mirrored him immediately, hooking one arm behind the backrest as he leaned on the chair sideways. He really enjoyed talking to this random, sweet stranger and he was really glad it seemed to be mutual. He was going to hate saying goodbye.

Suddenly, he wouldn't have minded if his flight got delayed a few more hours.

"Just, you know, people," Jean muttered in distaste. "One would think only customers can be complete idiots. Turns out coworkers can sometimes be even worse."

Armin laughed at his words, nodding along enthusiastically. "God I know. Sometimes I want to kill the doctor leading my lab. Hanji’s a genius but there is so much energy and she can be so stupid. She almost blows up or floods the lab at least once a week."

"I'm sorry, that must be so hard to deal with—" Jean cringed in sympathy at the mere idea of it— "Reminds me of my team. I love them but once in a while, I just want to fire them all when they start organizing paper boat races in the bathroom. Paper boats made from paperwork they don't want to do, by the way."

"Ouch." Armin sounded solemn but Jean could hear the hidden laughter and he just knew he found Sasha and Connie's stupid ideas hilarious. Which… Jean could admit they were, just not when he was the one who then had to explain the mess and unfinished work to his boss.

“Stop laughing,” Jean hissed, though with no real venom in his voice.

“I’m not!” Armin defended himself, but then burst out laughing when Jean glared at him so he quickly corrected himself, “Okay, yeah, I am. Sorry.”

He didn’t sound sorry at all and Jean sighed. “Everyone always finds my suffering funny.”

Armin let him grumble to himself for a bit, the two of them sitting in relative silence for a moment and… it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was actually relaxing and Jean really didn’t want this to end. “So hey—” He paused, glancing at Armin carefully, almost afraid to ask— “when is your flight?”

“Hopefully, in like two and a half hours. Got delayed almost as long as the flight itself.”

Jean almost said it was the same for him but he stopped. Could it be…? “You’re not flying to Auckland, are you?”

Armin visibly startled, blinking at Jean with eyes full of surprise. “Yes, actually,” he said slowly and Jean couldn’t believe it. He had thought he would never see this this cute, fun person ever again but—

“Me, too,” he said quietly and the two of them continued staring at each other in shock for a few moments more until they both burst out laughing.

Incredible. They were both flying to the same place and they would be within reach of each other and maybe there was a point in actually pursuing this. “So, uhm, wanna grab a coffee?” Jean asked awkwardly, pointing in the general direction of the food court.

And only when Armin looked pointedly at his pointing hand, did Jean realize he was still holding his over-caffeinated coffee cup. He really hoped his face wasn’t as on fire as it felt.

Armin only chuckled, thankfully not commenting on Jean’s blunder, and rather suggesting, “How about some actual food instead?”

-------------

By the time they got off the plane in Auckland, Jean was on cloud nine as he gently squeezed Armin’s hand in his. Jean was still not sure this was real; they had spent the entire time at the airport and during their flight chatting—not that they had miraculously had seats next to each other like in the movies, but Jean did bribe an older lady with wine to switch seats with him—and it was the best damn flight delay he could have asked for.

It felt so natural and easy being with Armin, he couldn’t wait to get to know him more during their date tomorrow, and hopefully many more after. Because Jean would be lying if he said he wasn’t completely gone for this charming, adorable genius already.

As they walked through the exit into the arrival hall together, Armin immediately waved at his friend who was picking him up. Jean had offered to give him a ride since he had his car parked at the airport but Armin had said this friend of his would be worried if he just suddenly cancelled and—

Oh hell no.

Jean stared at the tall, young man with long hair tied up in a messy bun who was walking towards them, watching as his wide smile froze when their eyes met. Of fucking course. Jean just couldn’t have any nice things in life, could he?

“Unhand my best friend, Horse Face,” Eren growled and Jean took a deep breath in an effort to calm down.

It didn’t work. “Unhand my boss, then,” he shot back, throwing a pointed stare at where Eren had his arm wrapped around the short, grumpy man who just so happened to be both Jean’s boss and his ex-roommate’s boyfriend. Levi was already sighing and rolling his eyes at them and Jean really hoped this wouldn’t affect his bonus this quarter.

But Eren started it.

“You have no say in that,” Eren hissed, visibly bristling as his hold on Levi only tightened.

“Oh, so you admit it’s unreasonable?” Jean asked, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

Jean could hear Armin gasp as he finally realized what was going on. Obviously, he also didn’t expect this to happen and Jean was glad he wasn’t the only one. Although, really, how did it not occur to Jean that Armin was that Armin? It wasn’t exactly a common name around Auckland…

Just as Eren was getting ready to snap back at him, both Levi and Armin sighed before Levi intervened, “Shut the hell up, both of you. Have this fight when I’m not around for it or I’m talking Armin and leaving your asses here.”

“I second this movement,” Armin said firmly tugging at Jean’s hand for good measure.

Both Eren and Jean closed their mouths then, both knowing full well that was not an empty threat coming from the short grump. Not that Jean wouldn’t get back by himself but he would be stuck with driving Eren, too, without anyone there to mediate, and that would be a disaster.

They glared at each other silently for a second, until Eren hissed at him, “Usual bar, tonight. We’re having a talk.”

“I’ll be there, I need a fucking drink after this,” Jean muttered back, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Giving Armin a kiss on the cheek, Jean quickly retreated out of Eren’s glare’s range and towards his car so that he could get some fucking sleep before he would go out and get drunk while Eren threatened him with violence for apparently seducing his best friend, or whatever Eren would take out of this… situation. How did shit like this even happen in real life? He seriously wondered what he did in his past life to get karma like this.

At least Armin was worth it.

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batwynn · 5 years

Text

Suicide Bones

Sterek drabble about being overwhelemed to the point of breaking, and the ‘Maybe We Can Make It Out.’

Trigger warnings: Suicidal thoughts/ actions, depression, anxiety, ADHD/ADD, death, body horror. His mother sometimes said he was a the wrong size skeleton inside his flesh suit, to which his father warned that ‘this is going to shape his sense of humor in weird ways.’ He was right, obviously, but so was she.

Stiles never fits in his skin.

He‘a too long, too weird, too wild. He jumps from too high, digs in the dirt, sings too loudly, and knows entirely too much about everything before he was ten years old. Sometimes, late at night when his brain refuses to shut up, he bends his knees as far as he can just to watch his skin stretch over his bones. Sometimes he wants it to rip open, so he could be free. To be fully himself, and not feel smothered all the time. But it doesn’t, and he goes back to listing the elements of the periodic table until he falls asleep.

It isn’t until his mom is buried deep in the dirt he used to play in that he realizes there is one sure-fire way he can escape the flesh. One absolute in life that could solve all his misfit problems. The only issue is that he has people that need him to stay. They need his bones encased in skin and muscle, tendons and fat. They need his bad singing voice, and his endless curiosity. It keeps his dad going, it keeps Scott safe, it keeps his teachers happy, it makes the barista smile, it keeps his neighbor’s garden watered.

So grit your teeth and stay, Stiles. Ignore the growing pains and all the wrong, wrong, wrong.

He throws himself into helping. He pushes his face right into the snarling, rabid face of death and smirks. Stiles fights his instincts every day, to force that stupid fight or flight to land firmly on fight every time. Every time. He can’t back down, he can’t stop. He has to help. That’s his purpose. That’s who he is: Ill-fitted bones and sarcastic remarks. But, god, he will fucking help you.

He will, and he does.

He thinks he does?

“I don’t need your help, Stiles!”

“I think you do, wolf-boy,” he sneers, flicking the map stretched across the table in front of them. Derek outright snarls, which means he’s either about to give in or throw Stiles out on his ass.

“I know you have some sort of issue with your self-worth,” Derek begins, voice not at all soft.

Stiles narrows his eyes, daring him to continue. “It’s funny how this didn’t come up when you needed me to use mountain ash.”

“Because that’s when you were useful!”

Stiles rolls his eyes back as well as his head. The ceiling is dark and stained with old factory grease. He wonders, for a brief second, why Derek resides in these kinds of places. They’re like prisons, where he’s guarding himself.

“I can help you find Erica and Boyd,” he says at last, drawing his attention back to Derek. “I know this town better than anyone.”

Derek‘s voice grows quiet, “my family founded this town.”

“And a lot has changed since then. I know it how it is now.”

Whatever fight was in him seems to fade to the usual rumbling discontent that’s always present as Derek looks over the map again. See, this is why Stiles volunteered to help him find them. He doesn’t even like Isaac, Erica went mean, Boyd barely acknowledged him, and he and Derek have a very low tolerance for one another. But right now, Derek’s stupidly pretty eyes are looking at buildings he doesn’t know and new streets, and showing how hopeless he’s really feeling. Derek doesn’t think they’ll find them.

“Okay,” Derek says at last. In his heart, Stiles believes they will. That’s why he’s here. That’s why he’s helping. His bones, though. They already ache with the loss.

Stiles scrunches up his nose, and points to a potential area on the map. He’s ignoring his bones, for now.

“Okay.”

It’s not when Scott hurts him—not the first time, no, but the worst time—that he realizes things have changed. It’s not when Derek-STUPID–Hale has another plan fall through that would have worked if he had just listened to Stiles. It’s not when some other creature is riding his bones and damaging him and everyone around him for fun. No, it’s not even when an awful lot of his friends die. It’s much later, when they save that stupid stump, save Scott, save the town, save everyone they can. It’s not until Derek leaves and comes back all soft-looking, and god his anger issues weren’t as hot as he thought because that fucking sweater—

It’s then that he realizes that everyone has grown up from needing him. Scott’s doing his own thing now, and hasn’t called for Stiles to go over his homework or love letter or help deal with a monster in months. His dad has been dating, actually dating, and isn’t home as often as he used to be. He doesn’t call up to check on Stiles twice a day, or demand Stiles give him an idea of his whereabouts as often as he used to. His teachers—well, they (mostly) know he’ll be fine in college. He went through hell and still got A’s. The neighbor moved during the first wave of wolfy-like problems. That barista, well, she was killed two years ago. One of the ones they couldn’t save.

And Derek? He’s so much better. Really, he’s better. He went out and healed, and now he’s building something for himself in the town his family founded and died in like it’s just fine and normal and—

Stiles stretches, feels his scars ache. His bones pop and protest inside him. Soon now. Soon, he promises them.

Because no one needs him anymore, and he’s built up a value based on that need. Now it’s all useless facts at one am and tired—so tired—promises to himself to find a vocation where all that he is will be applicable. Where he can weather the aches and misshapen bones because it will be worth it, again. But there’s nothing. College seems pointless, busy work and knowledge he’s already long since devoured. A job—where? He’s such a mess he doesn’t trust himself to cook at home anymore, never mind providing food or service to other people. Will he break down and cry at the first rude customer? Will he hallucinate his way through a shift at Home Depot? When will they notice? When will they see that he’s a skeleton of what he used to be?

When will they see he isn’t a person anymore?

Soon, he mutters to his bones. Soon.

“Have you talked to anyone?” Is the first thing he says when he finds Stiles sitting on the stump with a bottle of whiskey stolen from his dad’s dusty liquor cabinet.

Derek, looking settled and grounded in ways Stiles hasn’t seen since he was nine or ten years old. Those few times he ran into the younger Hales in town before most of them died. Derek, his eyes actually honest on the first try instead of the second, third, or fourth.

Honestly worried.

“Talk to who?” Stiles slurs, cracking an easy smile that sends pain all the way through him.

“Someone,” Derek replies as he sits down next to him. “Anyone.”

“Why should I? Why?”

Derek stares at him without answering. Stiles wants to push his face closer, jut his jaw out and fight.

“Why, Derek?” He challenges, not looking away.

“Because... it helped me,” he says, sounding sure and steady. “Because I was just pushing myself through whatever shitty thing happened next and never looking back unless I needed the anger to fuel me.”

Stiles lets out a shaky breath and looks away. He can’t say anything now, not like that.

“It’s not easy, either,” Derek continues, calmer than Stiles has ever heard him. “I clammed up a lot; lashed out even more. I hated everything and everyone more and more until I wanted to kill random strangers I saw on the street with no provocation.”

Stiles raises a brow to himself, because yeah, that’s a bit different than the Derek who kind of died to save everyone more than a few times. But maybe not so different than how he’s feeling right now. Derek lets out a huff of a laugh, and Stiles feels something hard and bitter inside him start to melt. Just a little.

“More than that, though, I just wanted to die. I wanted god or whoever to kill me already, and stop pushing me to do it myself. Put the blood on their hands for once, not mine.”

Stiles pulls his lower lip between his teeth and bites down. He’s not going to talk. He won’t.

“But it never happened. And stupid shit keeps happening, but...” Derek trails off for a moment, “But I can handle it a little better now. I can drop my mom’s favorite cup and it sucks—it still sucks—but it’s not the last straw anymore. It doesn’t make me want to claw my throat out, or scream until I lose my voice.”

Stiles hiccups quietly and tries to cover it up by taking a swig from the bottle. He refuses to look at the asshole opening up next to him. He can’t do this, he’s too tired. He can’t open up again and spend the time, and effort, and love it takes to matter to someone and be dropped like he’s nothing. Not again. Please, not again.

“I’m not telling you this because I think we’re exactly the same,” Derek continues, sounding less solid and more sad now. “I know we’ve lived different lives and lost in different ways. It’s going to be different no matter what, I’ve found out.”

“Why?” Stiles croaks out.

“You know why.”

Stiles glares into the surrounding trees and hates himself a little bit more for rising to the bait. Of course he fucking knows why, but it doesn’t matter.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters out loud. “None of it does.”

“Why not?” Derek asks quietly.

Stiles gestures broadly to their surroundings, to the giant stump they’re sitting on, to himself. He can’t find the words, really, to sum up everything that’s led him here. There’s too much bad, and not enough good. Too much bad, too fast and too often. Too much everything.

“That’s not an answer,” Derek says, and Stiles finally turns to glare at him.

“Not everything is so fucking literal,” he snaps.

Derek shrugs it off. “Sometimes it is.”

“Then tell me what makes it worth it, okay? Tell me why dropping my mom’s favorite cup after most of her stuff got destroyed is shitty, but it’s fine,” he spits, his insides burning. “I should just be fine about all this shit and smile through it.”

Derek shakes his head, and says, “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“Then what?”

“You don’t have to smile, Stiles. You don’t have to be fine. You can be upset and hurting, or angry... I’m still angry, you know?” Derek smiles ruefully and looks away again. “but I needed to talk about it all to realize what was external and what was internal. I didn’t even think about what I could fix versus what I couldn’t. I didn’t know there even was stuff I could fix.”

Stiles keeps glaring, but that hard part of him is melting out his eyes and nose now. He hates that. He hates crying because it doesn’t do anything for him. It never did any good.

Derek doesn’t seem to mind that he’s dribbling all over himself now, or that he’s still not opening up. Stiles doesn’t know what that means, or what he’s supposed to do now.

“Find a therapist,” Derek says, turning back to him with a soft smile. “And remember not to feel guilty for unloading on them. They’re being paid for that.”

“I d-don’t know if I can afford that,” Stiles chokes out, half laughing, half crying. What a fucking mess.

“I could cover it?” Derek offers tentatively, almost as if he knows Stiles will refuse.

But.

But maybe he won’t. Not this time. Not when he’s this close to cutting his awkward, aching bones out to be free.

“O-okay,” he sniffles, wiping his nose on the end of his sleeve. “I’m t-tired, though.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and reaches a hand out. Stiles takes it. He doesn’t know what else to do. “Yeah, I know. Put some of that weight on someone else for a little while. See if it helps.”

Stiles looks at their hands, linked there between them like that’s normal and fine. “What if it doesn’t?”

“Then we come back here and brainstorm some more.”

Stiles watches at Derek’s thumb brushes over his hand. It should probably be huge, but for now it’s just fine. “Y-yeah?”

“It’s what we’re good at,” Derek replies. He smiles at him. “Okay?”

Stiles hesitates. His bones say he won’t make it. They’ll end up here again, messier and more misshaped. But he’s tired and someone is finally noticing. Someone is looking and seeing that he’s being crushed under the weight of everything. His heart, though. His heart says maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” *

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline Call: 1-800-273-8255

Or Text HELLO to 741741 for the crisis text line.

#Sterek #Depression #Teen Wolf #stiles stilinski #Derek Hale #drabble #tw: body horror #Tw: Suicidal thoughts #tw: Depression

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notorious-fiction · 5 years

Text

pros x cons (a peter parker one-shot)

based on the prompt:

“Are you hurt?” “No.” “Then why are there bruises all over your face?”

pairing: peter x reader. pure fluff. pre-homecoming.

It was late at night - very, very late, as in late almost morning - and Peter had one very important decision to make: would he climb to his window like An Actual Superhero or would he be A Normal Human Being and take the elevator?

Climbing Like A Superhero pros: his hands were sticky.

(Thanks, radioactive spider!)

Cons: his body hurt, he was out of web fluid, he may have been stabbed...? and for fucks sake would he die if he just took the elevator for once?

So he changed to his regular clothes on the back alley of his apartment building and hurried in the (empty, amen!) lobby as fast as he could, slumping against the elevator door in pain as soon as its doors opened.

“Hold it!” He heard someone yell.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck”, Peter mumbled not knowing if he should first finish zipping his backpack (a little bit of red sleeve poking out), wipe the blood running from his nose (again) or keep pressing the wound (maybe stab wound? Or was it just a knife graze? Either way, his aunt would kill him if she saw blood on him) on his stomach in case someone walked in.

Or he could do neither of those things and not hold it...?

(He’d be a shitty neighbor.)

(But he did have maybe a broken nose and maybe a stab wound and one of his ankles hurt like shit so he wasn’t having the best night/day so maybe just maybe he could be a shitty neighbor and it’d be okay?)

So he didn’t “hold it”, pressing the button of his floor nervously over and over again until...

A girl, correct that, his cute, older neighbor, you!, cleared your throat, muttering a “thanks” sarcastically looking a little disheveled, a little out of breath, and obviously a little angry, as your weird neighbor, Peter Parker, broke basically the number one rule on “Good Neighboring: Apartment Edition”: thou shall always hold the door when someone yells hold it, or some shit like that.

Peter Parker had always been your weird little neighbor: every single time you’d run into one another (whether at the hallway, or lobby, or elevator), he’d stutter something about the weather, or drop whatever he was holding, or just act like he was in some kind of pain, like now.

You almost never saw him around anymore, so much you asked your mom if he’d gone to college or moved out.

(Your mom thought it was cute you noticed. Cute. Like you had a crush on him. A crush on your younger, weird neighbor, Peter Parker.)

(Scoff.)

(She asked his aunt May and she simply said it was a coincidence.)

(You just thought it was weird. You’d always been running into one another in the elevator and then bam: never again.)

(Was he now one of those creepy people addicted to exercises that only took the stairs?)

You noticed him eyeing you, and you were obviously coming back from a party - judging by your messy hair, and makeup and outfit (or maybe you just dressed in sparkly dresses every Saturday at four am and ran for a mile around the block?) and the smell of alcohol emanating from your body.

(No spidey sense needed for that, he would be able to smell that with regular, human senses.)

(Maybe you liked your alcohol or maybe you had a gallon of beer thrown at you, he’d never know.)

Peter prayed to God you’d be drunk enough to not noticed how tightly he was holding his stomach when you turned to him and asked:

“Are you hurt?”

“N-no.”

“Then why are there bruises all over your face?”

“I-I... fell?” He stammered again, and one of your eyebrows raised.

Boy looked like he’d just got the shit beaten out of him and he was going to use the “oh I fell” excuse?

“Fell? Down three flights of stairs, got hit on the face with a frying pan and attacked by rabid dogs?” You replied, motioning at his bloodied face, and now that you noticed, body.

Bloodied body.

There was blood stain on the hem of his white shirt. Holy fuck.

You both got to your floor.

And with the ring of the elevator, came the obvious: “Did you get mugged?!”

Fun fact about you: you were very good at acting on crisis that didn’t involve, well, you!

You felt the alcohol evaporate from your veins as you took another good look at him, pulling Peter into the hallway “I heard there’s this group of muggers acting up a few blocks from here! Oh my God.”

(Would he ever be able to tell you he got into this state exactly trying to beat up said muggers?)

“I did? I did. I did!” He replied, cringing when you tried to take a better look at his nose, the dingy hallway not the best place for a medical examination “Shit that hurts.”

“I think we should go to the hospital.” You held his chin tightly, trying to keep him from moving his face around so much “I’ve had my fair share of soccer balls to the nose and this doesn’t look so good.”

“Doesn’t feel so good either.” Peter grumbled, and he felt his cheeks getting redder. Could be the pain, could be the fact that the neighbor girl he had a crush on since he was around thirteen was examining his face closer than he’d ever thought possible and damn he’d imagined that lot “I-I can’t go to the hospital.” He whispered “I, ahm, Aunt May doesn’t know I’m out. She’ll get mad and worried and I don’t want that?”

He had to stop saying every sentence like it was a question.

He had to, if he wanted to be y’know, An Actual Superhero.

“I don’t know if she’ll be more worried about, ahm, me getting mugged or more mad about me sneaking out when she told me I couldn’t.” Peter added, more firmly. You did seem convinced by his answer, so he wanted to shake his own hand in congratulations to himself.

Dodging hospital bills and medical questions and getting a surprised look from you? Actual Superhero Stuff.

“Never thought of you as one to sneak around, Parker.” You shook your head in disbelief, and yup, he definitely was going to shake his own hand as soon as he patched up his ab, iced his nose and took a look at his ankle, cause it was probably the first conversation you two ever had that ended up with you looking at him admiringly and not like he was some sort of lunatic.

(Not exactly his fault.)

(Before the bite he always got startled and nervous and awkward and after the bite it all became too much, his spidey senses, his feelings, all the smells, sounds...)

(One of the many reasons why he found easier to swing and or climb buildings than running into you in the middle of the hallway.)

Freezing in your tracks in front of your apartment door, you decided to just ask him.

Ask him the question that had been running through your head for a while now:

“So... is there a special reason why I never see you around in the elevator anymore?”

Peter choked. You seemed concerned for a bit, until he replied: “Uh, I... I really like stairs now. Heard it’s very good for your health.”

Fuck. He was one of those stairs freaks. You shook your head, “Bye, Peter. Get better soon.”

(Just when you thought he’d go from Weird Neighbor Peter to Cute Neighbor Peter.)

You closed your door, and Peter let out a big sigh. Fuck. He needed to start using the elevator again.

(Cause you were noticing his Weird Superhero Behavior, obviously.)

(Wait.)

(Did that mean you were noticing... him?)

He definitely needed to start using the elevator again.

Climbing to his window like An Actual Superhero pros: his hands were sticky.

Using the elevator like a normal human being pros: he’d get to see you.

#peter parker #tom holland #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x reader #tom holland x reader #spiderman #notorious-fiction #far from home #homecoming #spider-man far from home #tom holland imagine #i am so lame #peter parker imagine

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shookethbrooketh · 5 years

Text

Blanketed

Summary: When a classic snowstorm hits New York City the night before Valentine’s Day, Dan finds himself stranded and unable to catch his flight back home to London, so he does what any functional 27-year-old would do and hits the airport bar. It’s there that he finds another stranded passenger by the name of Phil. The two bond as they learn that they’re going to be stuck in the airport overnight, and in the morning they find themselves cuddled up for warmth underneath the same blanket. But what happens when the snow melts and they have to go their separate ways?

Warnings: Alcohol

Word Count: 3.7k

Artist: @pine-tree-gi Beta: @themeoweclipse

Read it on Ao3 Read it on Wattpad!

A/N: This is one of two fics I’ve written for the @phandomreversebang, and I love this fic so much. It’s probably the first (fairly) pure fluff I’ve written in a while, and I really enjoyed writing something soft. I hope you enjoy it as well! I know it’s a bit short, but my second one will be longer, I promise :)

“Bartender? Another drink, please?”

Dan looked up from his empty plastic cup branded on one side with “JFK Airport” in textured letters. The bartender walked over and poured more champagne into his cup. He gave the man a nod and he turned to serve other customers down the bar.

Dan took a sip from his third cup as a man slid into the seat beside him. “Champagne, please?” The bartender poured him a cup identical to Dan’s and then left the two alone. “Lemme guess,” he said, catching Dan off guard. “Snowed in?”

“News flash, buddy; we all are.” He thrust a thumb over his shoulder at the departures screen behind him. Every flight was accompanied by a red ‘cancelled’. “Not a single flight leaves until this damn snowstorm dies down and they clear the tarmac.”

“Good to know you’re just as annoyed as I am.” The man chuckled. Dan had never been one to talk to people in social settings, but he seemed to be a good-hearted man trying to make light of a shitty situation.

Dan rotated his barstool toward him and got his first good look at him. He had raven-black hair, and he was wearing a grey jumper covered in foxes along with a jean jacket the cold weather had prompted him to throw on over it. He could only see half of the man’s face, but, in all honesty, he was pretty attractive for an airport luck of the draw.

“I’m Dan.”

“Phil.”

Dan had done his part in the social contract, and they drank in silence for a moment before Phil finally spoke up.

“So, where-” he was cut off by a computerized voice ringing from speakers nobody could seem to locate.

“Attention all travelers. The weather forecast shows the current snowstorm continuing into the morning hours. Our crews cannot clear the tarmac until precipitation stops, so all flights are delayed until at least daylight tomorrow morning. We apologize for the inconvenience; thank you for flying through JFK International Airport.”

There was an audible groan from both men as well as everyone around them. Whines of tired children were heard even from outside the bar.

“Guess we’re gonna be here a while, huh?” Phil asked, shrugging off his jean jacket.

“Sadly,” Dan muttered, swirling the champagne remaining in his plastic cup.

“Hey, lighten up a bit!” Phil shouted, attracting a few glares from people around them. “You look plenty fun; you’re wearing a Christmas jumper in February.” He looked Dan up and down. “And it looks like you brought it through a wormhole from 2009.”

“Oh, thanks. Random strangers talking about my fashion sense is my favorite thing to encounter on an already shitty day.”

“Always happy to deliver.” Another moment’s silence passed. “I like your nails, by the way.”

Dan glanced down at his black-painted nails. He really did look like a 2009 emo. “Thanks,” he said monotonously.

“You seem upset. Like, beyond the level of upset a person would be just by this situation. I know we just met, but do you wanna talk?”

Dan sighed, throwing himself backwards and holding onto the bar to lunge himself back forward. “Boy, have I got a story.” He waved to the bartender. “Another round.”

“So let me get this straight,” Phil said, at least ten minutes later. “You wanted to use Valentine’s Day tomorrow as an excuse to confess to this guy you like, but there’s someone else he likes, and they’re ALSO planning to confess tomorrow, and now that your flight’s delayed, they’ll beat you to it?”

“Yup. I sound like a bloody teenager, but that’s what’s happened.”

“You really are having a bad day. I’m sorry, man. But come on!” he called out again, apparently the loud type. He threw his arm around Dan and shook his shoulder a bit. “Enjoy yourself! It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “Have you got any suggestions?”

“You wanna go grab a bite? Might as well get some food before everyone gets paranoid and buys it all up.”

Dan shrugged. “Sure, why the hell not? Might as well not spend the night alone. Besides, I should probably stop drinking, or else I’ll spend the night alone and blacked out.” The two of them looked at the bartender and called out in unison.

“Check!”

A few moments later, they were rounding out their ice cream cones as they strolled through the terminal.

“Remind me why we decided to get ice cream during a snowstorm?” Dan joked, making eye contact with Phil. He hadn’t gotten a good look at his eyes earlier, but they were absolutely gorgeous. They were a wonderfully mixed turquoise with yellow flecks around the pupils; he’d only seen them once, but he knew they would be impossible to forget.

“Because we’re inside a heated airport and there just happened to be an ice cream shop in this terminal.”

“Fair enough,” Dan smiled, taking his first bite of the cone.

“Speaking of, what terminal are you headed to?”

Dan thought for a moment, almost having forgotten the details of his flight after a few drinks. “Terminal three. I only checked in here because the website said the security wait times were slower. I have a bit of a tendency to be late for flights. I thought I was going to miss this one, but, you know...” he trailed off, gesturing to the snowflakes falling through the illuminated night sky.

“Oh, nice! Same here.”

“The terminal, or the irresponsibility?”

Phil laughed, and Dan couldn’t help but smile just at that laugh. “Both.”

After they each laughed and Dan gushed over Phil for a moment, he returned to normal conversation. “Do you think there’s a tram we can take over there? I’ve had enough exercise for one day.”

“Should be. I took a train in, and I’m pretty sure it runs through the airport.” Phil paused for a moment, forcing Dan to do a double take and walk back. “It should be...” he trailed off, looking around; they’d found themselves in a four way intersection. “that way.” He pointed left and turned that way.

“There’s a sign right in front of us, Einstein.”

“Let’s just say I got pretty bored earlier and I happened to be sitting near an airport map.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “Nerd.”

After a short ride on the oddly fascinating tram, they were in terminal three, and they were both pleased to find that the terminal had a McDonald’s. Ice cream or no ice cream, Dan was planning to eat dinner on his flight back to London, and he was starving.

“A 20-piece McNugget meal, please.” Phil said to the worker at the counter, who clearly just wanted to go home.

“20 piece! I guess that ‘everyone’ who was buying up all the food out of paranoia was just you.”

Phil shrugged. “Man’s gotta eat.”

There ended up being two 20 McNugget meals in front of them as they sat in the far corner of the terminal. They hadn’t really discussed where to sit; they’d simply walked until they found an open outlet to plug their phones into, which took until the last gate in the terminal. That gate didn’t seem to have a flight planned to fly out of it, so there were no people gathered around it, allowing the boys to have their own little corner in the crowded airport. Sure, there were plenty of people within the vicinity, but it still felt as if they had a bit of privacy in their own space. And, most importantly, they could charge their phones.

“I cannot believe you got ketchup,” Phil scoffed at Dan as he dipped his McNugget into the ketchup pile he’d made on the open lid of his box.

“Don’t shame me for my dipping sauce choices!”

“Come on! Barbecue is obviously superior.” Phil made sure Dan was watching as he dipped a nugget of his own into his barbecue sauce and dramatically ate it.

“Do you wanna fight, Phil?”

“Do it, you won’t!” Dan quickly dipped a nugget in ketchup and shoved it in the direction of Phil’s mouth, smearing ketchup all over his face. “Hey!”

Phil glared at him as he dipped a nugget in barbecue and attempted to give Dan a taste of his own medicine. The two continued to shove nuggets in each other’s faces like children until finally Dan cried out. “Stop! Stop the violence!” The two paused, getting a few looks from random travelers in earshot. “I’ll eat yours, and you’ll eat mine.” They politely handed each other their nuggets and each took a bite. “Hmm,” Dan said, surprised. “This isn’t half bad.”

Phil looked up from the cup he was downing a sip of soda from. “Ketchup still sucks.”

Dan shoved him a bit, and they both laughed. Luckily, they ignored the dipping sauce choices for the fries and continued their meals until they’d each eaten to their heart’s content. They both smelled horribly of ketchup and barbecue sauce, but it was definitely worth it.

It was beginning to grow late, and the airport had dimmed the lights, allowing people around them to settle down and try to sleep. “This is so fucking uncomfortable,” Dan whispered, turning to Phil.

“We’ve both got carry-ons, right? We’ve got to have some useful things in there.” Phil sat up and unzipped the bag he was resting his head on. “I, for one, never travel without a blanket.”

“Phil, you’re a life saver.” Dan opened his carry-on, which was significantly smaller than Phil’s. “I’ve got a pillow, but it isn’t big. I think there’s still one store open down the terminal we can buy some small pillows from. If they’ve got enough, we can buy some to sit on and to rest our backs and heads on. Here’s some money; we can pool some together.”

“That’s a great idea!” Phil exclaimed, rummaging through his bag and pulling out about the same amount of money as Dan. “Stay here; I’ll go buy them out.”

“You really like buying people out of things, don’t you?” Dan asked, a smile crossing his face.

“It’s my specialty.”

A few minutes later, Dan looked up from his phone to see Phil waddling back down the terminal with pillows stacked up over his head. He jumped up and took a few from him so that he could see his face. “How did you get back down here in the dark with all those blocking your view?”

Phil shrugged. “Luck?”

Dan rolled his eyes and set down a couple of pillows for them to sit on. “Guess you didn’t bring back any change.”

“They had a lot of pillows,” he said as if to defend his actions. They each took a pillow and placed it behind their backs, topping it off with a pillow behind each of their heads.

“Clearly.”

After sitting independently on their phones for a while, Dan decided his phone had enough charge and unplugged it, favoring a pair of headphones and a dongle. “You want to watch some Netflix?” Dan asked, nudging Phil.

“Hell yeah!” he gravitated closer to Dan to see the phone. “What’ve you got?” Dan scrolled through his Netflix for a few seconds before Phil reached out and scrolled back up and settled on an icon. “You watch Queer Eye?”

“I love Queer Eye! I’m only halfway through season 2, though.”

“I don’t have Netflix, so I’ve never seen it, but I’ve always wanted to. Pick up where you left off; I’ll get into it quickly.”

They dove immediately into the show. Dan had to explain the premise and characters to Phil, but he really did pick up quickly. Then, every now and then they’d have to pause to discuss a good joke or especially gay moment. Ultimately, it ended up taking them an hour and fifteen minutes to watch 46 minutes of content. After the one video, they were both about ready to doze off.

“You know, Phil,” Dan said, plugging his phone back in. “I’ve never really had anyone to discuss Queer Eye with before. I really enjoyed that.”

Phil’s face was difficult to see in the darkness, but Dan could tell he was smiling. “I enjoyed it a lot too.” Phil bit his lip, avoiding eye contact. “I enjoyed... you.”

“What do you mean enjoyed?”

“Huh?”

“I’m still here.”

“What?”

“You said enjoyed. Past tense. But I’m still here. Enjoy, present tense.”

“Oh. Well, I enjoy your presence, I guess.”

“Hey Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“You know why I said that?”

“No. In fact, it just made this situation extremely awkward, so I can’t imagine why.”

“Because it would be significantly more awkward if I told you I liked you in the past tense, when, in fact, I like you. Present tense.”

“Oh.” They sat in silence, the sound of people shifting in their sleep around them filling the void. After a few seconds, Dan felt a hand slide into his underneath the blanket. He turned his head to see Phil grinning wildly at him. “I like you too.” Then Phil was leaning in, and before Dan even had time to think about it, Phil was kissing him. Dan’s eyes bugged out of his head, but he settled into it and eventually began to kiss him back, a feeling of peace filling his stomach. For that one moment, they forgot that they were complete strangers. They forgot that they didn’t even know each other’s last names, and they definitely forgot that they’d wake up in the morning and go their separate ways. In that one moment, none of those things mattered. After what felt like an eternity that somehow wasn’t long enough, they disconnected, but their fingers remained intertwined at their waists.

“Goodnight, Phil,” Dan said, nestling his head into the crook of Phil’s neck.

Phil kissed his forehead and settled himself under the blanket with him. “Goodnight, Dan.”

Dan awoke to sunlight pouring in through the airport windows. He yawned and checked his phone before slipping it in his pocket; it was a bit past 8:00. Other travelers were moving about the terminal and getting breakfast, but there was still no movement at any of the gates.

Dan immediately and painfully realized that he hadn’t gone to the bathroom in about twelve hours and tried to carefully slide out from under the blanket so as to not wake Phil. It took him a few seconds to stand up, but when he did he looked down and saw Phil still asleep, and he exhaled a sigh of relief. He started to walk in the direction of the bathroom when he heard stirring behind him. He clenched his face up in knowledge that he had failed and pivoted to face Phil, who was blinking his eyes open.

“Morning,” Dan said, looking down at him.

“Morning,” Phil groaned, his voice deep from sleep.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom; you start getting our stuff together.”

Phil nodded groggily as Dan made his way down to the strip of stores in the middle of the terminal. He glanced at the flight screen to find that no flights had been announced to be leaving soon; he was thankful for that, as his gate was in the half of the terminal on the other side of the stores from where he and Phil had set up camp, and he definitely didn’t feel like running back and forth that early in the morning.

The trip to the bathroom took ages; the line was so massive that he was sure Phil could have packed twenty bags in the time he was gone. Eventually, he returned from emptying his bladder to find Phil extending his bag to him. It was significantly puffier than it was the night before. “How many pillows did you put in there?”

“Two.”

“I can’t believe you fit the other four in your bag.”

“I’m magic.”

They walked down the terminal and back to the McDonald’s. “You know, Dan,” Phil said, a grin on his face. “I know McDonald’s serves breakfast, but I’d rather have a McFlurry.”

“Do you always eat this much ice cream?”

Phil laughed. “I wish!”

They stood in front of a window as they each downed their respective M&M McFlurry. The tarmac was blanketed in a layer of white, and trees in the distance glimmered in the winter sun. Dan could see a snowplow clearing off the tarmac in another terminal. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Dan asked. “I love to see the world blanketed in snow.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, turning to look at Dan. “But not as beautiful as you,” he said, pulling a bouquet of chocolate roses out of nowhere. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dan.”

Clearly Phil was thinking of another kind of blanket. A dark, anxious feeling made its way into Dan’s stomach. “Where did you even get those? And when?” he asked, reluctantly taking them.

“Airports have everything. I found them this morning while you were in the bathroom.” He smiled, seeming quite proud of himself.

Dan sighed. “We should probably talk about this.”

“What? Did I overstep?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just-I met you yesterday, and we’re complete strangers. After this is over, we’re probably never going to see each other again. Are you sure we should do this?”

Phil took Dan’s hands, and Dan elected to stare at the floor. “Look at me.” Dan sighed and looked into Phil’s colourful eyes. “Maybe we’ll never see each other, or maybe we’ll come across some sort of miracle and we will. Regardless, what have we got to lose?”

Dan bit his lip and took a deep breath. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Phil said, giving Dan a short kiss.

“Attention all travelers,” said the computerized intercom voice. Both gasped and separated to listen to the message. The entire area settled into complete silence. “The tarmac is currently being cleared, and flights are beginning to be rescheduled. Arrivals will continue as scheduled, and departure times will depend on whether your plane was here when the snow began or if it still has to fly in. Please check the departure board for specific flight details. Thank you for flying through JFK International Airport!”

A cheer erupted through the terminal as a whole wave of passengers made its way towards the arrival and departure screens. “Something tells me we should finish our ice cream before going over there,” Phil said.

Dan watched people shouting at each other as they attempted to jump and shove each other out of the way to see their flights. In all honesty, it was purely terrifying. “Smart.”

After the area cleared up some, the two gathered their things and strolled over to the screens. Dan found his flight fairly quickly. “Mine’s back on. Leaving in half an hour.”

“Mine is too.”

The two turned to each other, a somber look on each’s face. “Guess this is goodbye?” Dan said, taking Phil’s hand in his.

“Guess so.”

They fell into a tight embrace. “Thanks for the blanket.”

“Thanks for the ice cream.”

They fell back into a kiss lasting longer than their first. This time, Dan felt a spark he didn’t feel the first time. He bit his lip, angry at himself for falling for someone in the last moment they’d ever be together. “I’m gonna miss you, Phil.”

“I’ll miss you too.” They smiled faintly at each other before Dan turned and began walking toward his gate. It wasn’t long before he realized Phil was still beside him. After walking about half the terminal, they were still side by side.

“Well, this is awkward,” Dan chuckled. Could Phil just leave already so he could mourn in peace?

Dan began to trail off towards his gate. “Dan?” He turned to see a genuine smile on Phil’s face. “Don’t tell me you’re flying into London.”

“Oh my God,” Dan said, doubling over in laughter. “We’re on the same flight, aren’t we?” Phil nodded, unable to speak from laughter. “Do you live in the city?” Phil nodded again, attempting to compose himself. “I do too!” Dan sighed as they wandered to take two empty seats in the corner. “How do these things happen?”

“I have no clue.”

“We were together for twelve hours; how did we never one ask each other where we were going?”

“I was going to when I first met you, but that dumb announcement cut me off!”

Dan couldn’t help but laugh again. “We both have British accents; how did we not expect this?”

“Two Dumbasses in an Airport: 2018′s worst romance movie.”

Each of them laughed so hard their stomachs hurt. When Dan finally wiped the final tear from his eye, Phil gave him a bit of a nudge. “Hey Dan?”

“Yeah?”

“When we get back to London, do you wanna go out sometime? Like, on a date?” Phil asked, excessively awkward for the context of their situation.

“Of course, you dork. I’ve kissed you what, four times now? You think I’m going to turn down a date?”

“Hey, you never know. You were talking about that guy earlier.”

“Hey. I found someone else.” The corners of his mouth twitched up into a smile.

An intercom beeped on near them and this time a real, male voice spoke from the desk near the gate. “Flight 1728 to London is now boarding.” The two jested of their stupidity as they turned their boarding passes in to the attendant and boarded the plane. Dan found his seat about midway through the plane, but Phil kept walking.

“Guess this is goodbye,” Phil said, altering his voice to sound like Dan.

“That’s a horrible impression of me,” Dan said, rolling his eyes. He smiled at Phil as he took his seat. “See you in London, valentine.”

“Or sooner,” Phil said with a wink, taking off before Dan had a chance to respond.

Dan stared off into space as he put in his earbuds. It was going to be an interesting seven hours.

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #phic stuff #dong and ping #phandom reverse bang #prb #tw alcohol

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mrredfeet · 3 years

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Winter, Tree, Frank-father.

Icy skies with a chilly wind blowing so strong, it sways a big thick tree that has always stood firm and upright next to my apartment. I would always look at it from my balcony and as my distorted memory serves me, it was a giant Christmas tree which isn’t possible because this was the winter of 92’ in Dubai and you have nothing but regular-looking trees and of course palm trees. But I guess when you’re 5 you chose things to be the way you want it to be with all the fun, innocence, and magic that you don’t even realize you possess at the time – these wondrous thoughts etching themselves into the brain. I try to shake it off but it will remain a giant pine tree in my memory forever. I never saw the Christmas tree sway around so helplessly before. I was feeling helpless too – I did not want to go to school. My cousins from Bombay were on their way over to my place, my mother was preparing lunch and she had taken out the pack of chicken frankfurters from the freezer and kept it out for defrost to make a quick pre-lunch snack for my cousins, while I would be at school sulking and envying Danny and Anil who would probably be touching all my toys in my absence and my mum would even give away a few or two if they wanted it bad – no, they were good goods, I remember it being the other way round – I begged and cried for all the toys when I was at their place in Bombay. I liked them very much they were good to me, even though they were 5-6 years older than me, they treated me the same they would the other kids who were of their age. But mostly I was sad that I wasn’t going to be there when they arrived. I was there standing at the balcony in my uniform waiting for the bus to come – sky blue shirt, grey shorts, dark blue and white striped tie, and a dark blue cardigan a water bottle hanging around my neck, feeling the weight a lot more that day than usual – and bang! The Christmas tree falls apart right in front of me onto the pavement damaging a few cars parked around it. It was scary cos it fell towards my direction – or maybe I imagine it to be way closer than it actually was. The thing was it didn’t shake my dad up a bit. His eyes were icy cold as the winter. On a side note, you must know that the winter in Dubai was something at the time – obviously, it is nothing compared to Kashmir or Russia – but in a place where the summers toast you almost throughout the year – the 92’ winter was something, ice buttons would shower 5 in the morning, everyone would walk around with their tits pointed out, both men & women. While we are at the thought – I was pointing out that this was mad and bad weather and my father just looked at me with those icy cold eyes and simply said “You should never miss a day of school, it's not good for your attendance”.

Every time I have reruns of this day in my mind, my father never ceased to amaze me. He didn’t care if it flooded, if he saw my school bus floating in distress in the waters, I think he would make seating arrangements for me on top of the bus! I’m sure when the tree fell hard and loud, he might have thanked the lord for it not falling on the one-way street from where my school bus comes through. H never missed a day at work – be it his shitty general manager or sickness – he would wake up at 5 am- have a bath, light a diya and pray to God, wake up my mum for breakfast, have his breakfast while completely immersed in the news and says his goodbyes to my sister and me in our sleep. When I think about it, he really was a good man, but that day he wasn’t to a kid who didn't want to go to school. He was leaning over the balcony alongside me like he was making sure that no matter what happens my kid is not going to miss a school day. I will shield you from all the ice buttons, from the falling trees, from the stormy breeze but I will make sure you make it to school - all of them heroic feats till it gets to the end. My father finally stands upright and tells me to pick up my school bag. I brood-walk into the hall and everything looked so dull and dark but it also was my state of mind. The bag was so heavy – that was also my state of mind. I walk into the kitchen – I was sporting my popular sad face which I use to get toys and stuff – I was using it then to make my mother know and it was working but my father stood behind me to remind her that this is not to be entertained. I now see the chicken frankfurters all nice, shiny, and defrosted in the vessel, a stack of bread next to it – she was making her special sausage sandwiches – she used to slice the frankfurters in half along the length and place four halves on the bread so it lay properly and nicely stuck in between the two slices of bread with the help of mayonnaise spread generously alongside ample chilly ketchup. She couldn’t make any more me because there were only three left and she just wanted to finish the stock off I guess and she was going to have some hungry kids who were coming home straight from a long flight from Bombay. She knew I wanted to stay back, heck my father knew I wanted to stay back and it was like he heard my thoughts “Pavan, you have to go to school” and my mother added, “you can play with them after you get back from school”. Aah nothing mattered, I didn’t get what I wanted at the time, all of the words just flew right through my ear and out the other. I turned around and she squeezed a tiffin into my heavy bag and zipped it right up. She whispered, “I put a sausage sandwich for you in the tiffin, there will be more when you get back”. Oh, how happy it made me until I saw my dad waiting for me to make a quick move towards the door – punctuality was also a strong suit of my father. We could wait for people but must never make others wait – where is the equal form of reciprocity? If I make it late to the bus, I'd make the driver late, then make his remaining pick-ups late, and then we would all reach school really late – that cannot happen, even on a cold stormy winter of 92’ – it simply cannot happen. I walk out with a load on my back, literally and metaphorically. My dad calls out to me to be careful when I walk down the stairs, and I look back, I still don’t know why, and bam! I tumble down the stairs like the scene from Kung Fu Panda when Po and Tai Lung battle down the stairs – my bag was Po and I was Tai Lung – even now when I watch this scene from my favorite movie – it reminds me of the day. My father comes running down the stairs to check if I were okay – I had quite a bulge on my forehead and then he quickly pressed it hard, I squealed in pain. He checked for bruises on my knees and elbows and wherever else possible and asked me if I felt pain, remember I’m a boy, I can’t and not supposed to cry, I said ‘No’. But regardless I knew any moment now he would carry me back into the house and inform the bus driver to continue on his route. He put my school bag around his shoulder and carried me into his arms and continued walking downstairs. I was shocked and worried – Did he care about me at all? What will it take for me to not go to school today? I genuinely fell down the stairs and it's stormy outside but I still have to go to school?

When we reached the ground floor, he put me down and I was sulking, disappointed, and upset, I don’t care about the world anymore, my folks don’t love me, that bus driver is always mean to me, I know some of my friends won’t be there at school today because their parents care about them and don’t want to see their kids in cardigans been blown away like kites in a storm. I looked at the fallen tree on my left, my hopes were like the tree – fallen. It looked even bigger upfront but that too didn’t waiver my father. I looked towards the bus walking slowly and I saw the mean bus driver waving at my dad and mumbling something, and my dad waved back at him with a smile – almost seemed like they were having a telepathic conversation with each other, where their common goal was to just get me to school. And I’m hating both of them, I’m hurt and my cousins and my folks are all going to have fun without me and I’m not going to be around, I’m going to miss so much. The automated bus door opens with that swooshing sound ready to suck me into the abyss that is school and my recent trauma. I grab onto the handle to get in and find the bus empty, weird. The driver tells my father that the school has been canceled because of the storm and he was just doing his rounds to inform everybody – he wasn’t waving at my father – he was just trying to tell him “No school today” with that typical South Indian hand gesture. I dropped my bag and ran up the stairs, rang the bell, my mum opened the door surprised. I yelled ‘No school today, ran into the kitchen, grabbed a frankfurter from the vessel and off to the couch and just ate it unfried, while I waited for my cousins with excitement on an icy stormy winter day with a fallen tree right outside my balcony.

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tamiddyinyourcity · 5 years

Text

"Well, it be like that sometimes"; - the struggle of resenting a job where I'm paid to do nothing, when other people have it worse.

Saturday, August 24th of 2019. 8:31pm.

Three days till I turn 19.

Just got done talking to someone I find very cool, not gonna say any names.

Just enjoying our talk as it goes from tears flowing over their big move, to good conversations flowing naturally, the way I always love how it does. Smiling with the phone on speakerphone, laughing at each other's jokes, and just... vibing, naturally, like things would finally be alright in the stars for us both tonight.

Yes, that sounds cheesy. And yes, youll have to deal with it. Fuck you, thats just the fancier way of saying "I like this dude, and the conversations always make me feel happy no matter how hard things get."

And of course, the classic road bump that aaaaalways screeches our nicely moving conversation to a waaaaavering halt, blindly swerving us to a dead end, a huge crash and burn situation in the middle of a calming talk.......

How my week at work has been.....

Ahhh..... Typical.

They listen, always, even when I think they're not. But I can always tell they get tired of hearing it, just as much as I get tired of saying this:

"I really hate this fuckin job, bro, I'm so serious."

I know, I know. How can I hate a job where they give me free lunch, longer lunch breaks, and I barely have to do anything other than sit on my phone, stay nearby, and not leave until its 3pm or 4pm?

.....WELL.

Here's a nice little list on why I resent this job so much, at a charity foundation, (yes, I said it.... a charity foundation,) meant to help at-risk youth kids struggling through poverty find job opportunities.

And before I begin... NO, I don't hate helping children, if anything I love to. I babysat for YEARS and will HOLD YOUR BABY IF YOU ASK, since yeah, kids are the future and theres no doubt about it. NO, I don't have a problem with charities that give back to underdeveloped communities. And NO, I am not a TOTAL spoiled asshole....

My problems with my job, are:

My boss never gets things done. Everyone has their shitty boss stories, and I have plenty. But the only real problem about my job was my BOSS..... I was around flight simulators, fancy computer equipment, high tech video recording and editing boxes, (no where else would I be getting paid to be taught how a VR-5 media/audio editing box works,) and all the lights and cameras I wanted.... with absolutely no action. Why? My boss never showed up on time. There I was, waking up at 6 or 7, taking TWO buses in hot ass weather, through all types of shady or intimidating neighborhoods, and making it RIGHT on time.... and my boss? Showing up always an hour or so late. And then? Never properly giving us tasks for the rest of the day. I was sacrificing time I could've spent out with friends, sleeping, resting, creating artwork, etcera etcera..... to come to a job, where not even the head honcho of it cared enough about his own workers to show up on time. We had no other way to access the building without him either, so that meant extremely long periods of time mindlessly scrolling Instagram, waiting.... waiting.... aaaaand then sometimes just so long that he'd show up halfway through our scheduled work time, just to immediately go, "Alright! Lets get lunch!" ....Free lunch and phone use is great. But

Their treatment of women at work. There was one woman, older, obviously had hip problems and was in severe pain from her nerve damage... and I guess she had basically mothered all of these grown ass men the EXACT age as her, so they felt waaaay too used to their old mindsets of "Women are natural caregivers, and men must reap the rewards".... cue them being too lazy to actually go to the fridge and get out the lunch meat and bread themselves. If the woman Margie wasn't there, then, me and the other 15 year old girl would have to go grab everything from the fridge and prep it ourselves, just to barely get thanks, and get ordered around... by these men in their 50s or 60s.... who just decided all by themselves, we should serve them instead of using their own hands to make meals. Like a normal, non-entitled person would do. Yay....... Plus, another factor was the countless times of being pushed to the side or flat out ignored whenever I made an effort to do my job or help around there, since they were too caught in the whole "Leave it to the men! Yall just sit somewhere quietly", idealogy, that... just, we didnt learn jack shit.

I guess my point would be that, I love filmmaking and editing, but they would consistently avoid having me do anything, even if I was skilled and knew more about something than them... they just didn't wanna give me the chance, since "oh look; teenage girl wants to do it, but Old Wise Men can do better"... and then they all crowd around one tv for three hours failing to hook up monitors, when I could've easily succeeded in minutes.

The condescension. Sure he wrote "easily provoked" on my work review, which was entirely accurate, but I am ten times more patient than a person believes.... I can go "thank you!", to things that an average person would do a WWE Smackdown style attack on another person over. But this man? Never cut me any slack. Never anything nice to say, always sarcastic and backhanded comments, things like that. Ugh. Constantly being treated inferior does make a person tick. And also his annoying tendency of, "Ask a question I know the answer to, tell you you're wrong no matter what, and giving an extremely long or even more vague version of the answer you gave"...... over and over again... was not fucking cool.

Doing no tasks at all. Since not everyone relates to my whole "i was around film equipment but not allowed to film or do anything", picture it like... a baseball team you had joined. The coach always comes an hour late, immediately takes a lunch, then goes "Well, we've got LOTS to do today HUH???", and then.... just makes every single kid and player sit on the bench, locks up all the baseball bats, and instead spends the whole day staring at his phone or stating out at the baseball field.".... eventually you'd go, "What's the point of even having a team? Why even have a baseball stadium if you never play in it? I could have done much more at home in my backyard than out here in the sun with absolutely no achievements for 5 hours straight...." Thats exactly how I felt. I couldve had more success with an at-home youtube channel, than I did letting an old man who barely knows how to turn on a laptop, somehow try to teach ME, the actual film nerd, how to edit a video or work a VR5 box.... and failing.... then never letting me chime in on solutions. Do yall get why its annoying now? All the time wasted when i really wanted a job to feel productive on?

They didnt care about the children. A little girl always came in; just to be brushed off and put to the side, ignored, etc.... this little girl loves film and is passionate about it, but oh sure boss, stick her in a leather chair and make her play roblox for a few hours, toooootally making a good reputation out of the fucking program.

Sigh.

Just.... my current bro doesnt understand why I hate it. I'm sorta pissed that he doesnt. It was just showing up to work and loathing my time there, legitimately doing NOTHING and being allowed to do NOTHING and getting condescended to ALL THE DAMN TIME.....

Juuuuust for my boss to write "easily provoked" and "cell phone" as my problem areas.

Would've never been a fucking problem in the first place, if he actually *gave me tasks to do and respected me during any conversations*.... could dish it out but couldnt take it.

Guess i didnt appreciate the dismissive nature of my man going "well EVERYONE has a job they dont like at least ONCE, EVERY job has its low days or slow down times...." Well yes, but not 24/7, and without any sign of improvement.

"Well, now you know what to work on and just take the constructive criticism to the heart, man!" Fuck you. He shouldve never been an asshole to me, and shouldve had his shit together. Nobody would be snappy with him if he had basic manners and respect. And nobody would be on their phone if he bothered to let them have their two cents... or better yet... ACTUALLY GIVE THEM WORK ASSIGNMENTS!

All in all, I am writing this here, with my fingers cramping and my anger flaring up tonight.

I would do what I'd usually do and just keep re-elaborating over and over again until he FINALLY got my point, but like...

I don't wanna be an asshole to him tonight.

Hell, hes one of the reasons i got through my week alright, my bro. (Not calling him bf, i suppose.)

But yeah.

Just doesn't feel good how many times I've tried to explain to people why the job is wack, and they go "You have five hour or less work days and free food and get to be on your phone???"

...yeah, and i also get blatantly ignored for hours straight, wasting my time, and with no experience gained, children helped, or anything.

Reaaaaallly hard not to flip shit right now.

Fuck this

#what was the purpose of coming if yall didnt want me here to work #why are yall passively misogynistic #why am i sitting here on instagram when you could literally let me assist in running things #why arent you running your own program????#why do none of yall care enough to start the program correctly???#its not me being nitpicky or spoiled or entitled #its just the basic knowledge of #just #agh #i wanna break my fist im so upset #this whole week was a hot meas #and i didnt even get to talk to my baby abt any other more interesting things since i was ranting abt my shit job :#:;(((((#im upset #alright peace #i really didnt appreciate hearing 'it be like that'....since....it rlly dont #its normal to be bored at work; its not normal to be excluded from work tasks entirely then shunned for not doing anything #I didnt even learn shit at this program for fucks sake #literally the most disappointing shit ever #this would be like if i got a dope film internship that looked promising but instead they locked me in a room for 5 hours alone b4 paying me #it was so stupid

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