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ithebookhoarder · 3 years

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More Than Blood (Ez Reyes x F!reader)

Description: Of course it happened the one night you and your fiancé finally had time for a date. All you’d done was go into town and somehow, you’d still ended up in the hospital…

Warnings: Swearing, angst, pregnancy, reference to violence, blood, mentions of injuries, mentions of surgery, gunshot wounds, Angel being a protective big bro (Let me know if I missed any)

Masterlist:

Gunshots.

They echoed over and over in your brain as you stared at your blood soaked hands.

You hadn’t had time to stop. To think. To panic.

Instead, you’d become eerily calm as you’d clung to Ez’s trembling body, one hand pressing your jacket into his stomach, the other frantically trying to steer the truck towards the hospital admissions bay.

You’d started rambling - you remembered that much as the night hit you in waves.

You’d begged Ez to stay with you, to stay awake and press with you against his bleeding sternum, to keep his promise and love you for eternity.

“Ezekiel Reyes, so help me if you die on me I’m bringing you back so I can kill you myself. You hear me?”

He’d managed a weak laugh at your threat, causing a brief glimmer of hope to appear despite your terror.

His smile had always been able to enchant you. “You… you p… you promise?”

“Always, mi amor. Where you go, I go. Remember?”

This wasn’t how your story ended, with some crazed rival biker shooting your fiancé in the middle of the street. No. You’d been through too much together to lose this now.

You couldn’t let it happen. Not now. Not when your future was so close you could almost taste it. A future free of the demons that had been haunting you both since the day his mother had died.

Maybe that was why it felt as if the ring on your finger was mocking you, your engagement ring now crusted with blood, an eerie reminder of the ordeal you’d just been through… and how close you’d been to losing it all.

A sob escaped your lips as you continued to stare at the lino flooring. Blood stained your shoes, tiny little pinpricks of red harsh against the once white sneakers.

You’d never felt so helpless in all of your life.

It was hard to bite back the tears as you paced back and forth in the hospital corridor. You didn’t feel foolish about the fact your date night dress now looked like something out of Carrie, even as you felt the curious eyes of passersby linger on you a moment too long.

Why wouldn’t they? You looked a sight, hands still coated in blood, Ez’s blood.

The sight was one that made even you nauseous, to think how you’d felt the warmth of his blood seeping over your hands as you’d staggered into the hospital, screaming for help… praying for a miracle…

How had your lives been torn apart so fast?

“Y/N!”

“A… Angel?”

His voice startled you out of your panic as he tore towards you, a weary company of Mayans following close behind. His eyes were wild as he stared at your blood soaked figure, terror clear as he feared the worst.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes.”

“And Ez? Where is he?”

“He… he’s in surgery,” you managed to choke, allowing him to haul you close as he rushed to your side.

The feeling of being held in his arms was enough to tell you that you were finally safe, that the whole nightmare was almost over.

Something about your soon-to-be brother in law’s hugs had always been like that, though. Maybe it was because Angel was just so tall, or maybe it was because he had always been as much of a brother to you as he had Ez.

He’d often held you as a kid, like the time you’d been picked on by a snotty nosed group of girls at your school. He’d rocked you back and forth while Ez had gone to make sure they never bothered you again.

The Reyes brothers had always cared and looked out for you like that… No wonder you felt even more guilty at the realisation that you’d let them down.

“They said he should be fine… they think it went right through… they’re just repairing the damage… he lost so much blood, Angel. I couldn’t stop it. I tried but it just kept coming and he came out of nowhere-”

“Hey, hey, it’s not your fault,” Angel growled fiercely. You could hear the rage in his voice, so strong it made him tremble against you. “You didn’t fucking do this. That son of a bitch with the gun did.”

“But I should have seen him coming. Ez was only out there because of me and the fact I wanted a fucking snack-”

“Nah. Stop with that bullshit, Y/N, right now. You hear me?”

“Y… yes.”

“Ez’s tough. He’ll be alright.”

“He sure is,” Gilly added softly.

He and the others all looked too full of pain for you. You refused to meet his eye as he tried to coax you - and Angel - into sitting on the plastic chairs that lined the eerie hallway.

“You’ll do yourself no good if you wear yourself out before the doctors are finished,” he whispered. “Ez will need you to be strong for him. Both of you.”

“Maybe you should get cleaned up and shit too?” Coco shrugged. “Look less like a horror movie extra… don’t want to scare old man Reyes when he gets here.”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little at his disgust and brutal honesty. It was like any other conversation between you both at the clubhouse, with him teasing you in some childish game until you gave in and gave as good as you got.

It made your eyes burn with unshed tears; you could always count on these guys to look out for you and not just because you were Ez’s Old Lady. No. They saw you as one of their own and the Mayans always took care of their family.

It was why you listened to Coco’s request rather than shrugging it off like you had when the staff and police had tried to coax you into cleaning yourself up.

Unlike with them, you knew better than to argue with Coco. It would do no good and with Ez’s brothers guarding the hallway, you weren’t so scared to leave your post anymore.

“O… ok.”

“Good, querida,” Angel stated firmly, finally pulling away with a kiss to your forehead.

His eyes quickly raked over you once more as if to convince him that you really were alright, if not a little shaken. Only when he was sure did he release you, shooting a look back at the group of worried bikers behind him.

“We’ll get you cleaned up. Pops is on the way and you can tell us once he gets here what happened, ok? Every fucking last detail. I need to know which sorry son of a bitch I’m about to put a bullet in to.”

His words made you blood turn to ice as you tried not to flinch. Maybe the nightmare wasn’t completely over yet…

You’d been sat in the chair for hours now.

You didn’t know how Angel had sat so still, waiting… waiting for any news about what had happened and what was to happen next. Perhaps it was the others and their presence that calmed him enough to sit, hands clasped together in silent prayer as they spoke words of comfort to you both.

Hell, Gilly had brought you a coffee which you had politely declined, and even made Angel try to walk off his nervous energy outside. It was a good thing too considering Angel managed to seem somewhat calmer by the time his father arrived and was sent home again a mere hour or so later.

In fact, Angel had been doing rather well considering… until one of the others happened to mention the fact the gunman was only down the hall, in a room of his own.

Yeah. Not even God himself could have stopped Angel Reyes then as he shot you a look of apology and tore off out into the corridor to ‘deal with this shit’.

With a sad sigh, you had let him go. He had the others with him to take care of him for now and stop him from doing anything rash.

In the meantime, your concern still lay with the Reyes brother lying on the bed in front of you.

Thankfully, Ez had been wheeled out of surgery almost an hour ago, placed to recover in a ward of other post-op patients. Sure, with the privacy curtain pulled around you, you could almost pretend you were alone, but there was something comforting in having so many people around you.

They felt like shields… witnesses keeping you and your sleeping fiancé safe as he began his journey back to the land of the living.

Was it horrible of you to hope he slept a little longer?

That he could stay blissfully unaware of the world and remain at peace for even a moment more?

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered softly, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. “We… we’ll get through this, Ez. I know it. We’ll get through this and you’ll be ok and we’ll get that house you always talked about… the one with the garden and that old porch swing out back… we can buy it and start our life together properly.”

You’d been talking to him for a while now, as if you somehow believed he could hear you.

Even if he couldn’t, you felt better acting like you two were back in your room, lying in bed whispering to one another about your days.

“Hell, we still have a wedding to arrange, Ezekiel Reyes, so you better bounce back and fast. I am not sorting out shit like which of the boys outside in the hall get to be your groomsmen, or… or what flowers we want and do we want a band or a DJ? I can’t even decide what our first song will be… I need you to help me make those choices. Together.”

“As… As long as it isn’t Taylor Swift… we’re good.”

You hardly dared breathe.

Your eyes widened.

You looked up, shock written across your face as you realised Ez was awake, even if still groggy from the anaesthetic. He looked like he’d just woken up, with his hair a little fluffy and his face wrinkled as he blinked at the lights shining over head.

Like that, you were half way out of your seat. You hand was reaching for his like you were drowning and he was your life raft.

You didn’t even care how your legs threatened to buckle beneath you, as everything hit you all at once.

Maybe you should have taken Angel up on that offer for a nap after all.

“Woah - Easy does it.” It was Ez who ironically scolded you, watching as you managed to land safely on the bed next to him. His hand was warm and comforting against yours as you held it close, peppering kisses of gratitude everywhere you could. “Damn, hermosa. You’d almost think you liked me or something.”

“I’m just glad you’re awake,” you sobbed, “how are you feeling?”

“Like I got shot.”

You smirked through your tears at his smug ass tone. “Ok, stupid question.”

“Is… W… where’s Angel? Is he here?”

“Causing trouble down the hall,” you whispered, smiling down at him, unsurprised his second thought upon waking from major surgery was for his brother.

They really did come as a package deal, but you wouldn’t have had it any other way. Family was all you had in the end.

“Your Dad was here too briefly, but the others sent him home. Said they’d call and let him know when you woke up… Why? Is the company of the woman who saved your life not enough?”

“Don’t know… thought I might wake up and find some sexy nurse.”

“I swear, Ezekiel Reyes,” you giggled, thankful to hear his own weak laughter as well as his lame ass joke. “I’ll get Angel for you. Bishop will be grateful for the help. He’s been tearing the damn hospital apart waiting for you to wake up. You were in surgery for a while whilst they fixed the worst of the damage.”

“Sounds like him.”

“He… we were all scared shitless Ez.”

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, squeezing your hand gently. “When I heard the gun and you screamed… I thought… Thank god you’re ok … But I don’t regret it, Y/N. I’d take a bullet for you in a heartbeat… I couldn’t stand it if you’d got hurt, if our places were switched.”

“But they weren’t,” you whimpered, trying desperately to forget the horrific image that was now seared into your mind. You’d never forget the sight of your fiancé bleeding out all over you and the front seat of the truck. “Anyway, I’m so fucking relieved you’re ok. We all are.”

Ez smiled, but didn’t seem to realise what you meant as you gently pulled his hand to your abdomen. “Me too… you’re my whole world, Y/N. You’re my family and I meant it when I swore I’d keep you safe, no matter what.”

Tears pricked your eyes.

Family… the word made your heart stop for a second.

Maybe it was the fear that you’d almost lost him, or maybe it was the realisation he’d almost died and never even known that you were carrying his child… either way, you weren’t waiting another damn minute.

You’d waited long enough to tell him and you’d had a perfect plan in place before your date had been interrupted the night before.

If you didn’t know better, you’d have said the universe was trying to send you a message.

“Speaking of family,” you sighed, “this family, our family, needs you, Ez… So, you have to promise me this business with the club is done. Else, it better be in the next 7 and a half months cause we have a countdown clock now.”

Ez froze.

His eyes widened in wonder and disbelief and you half believed it was all the drugs in his system. “You… we’re… you’re pregnant?”

Your smile lit up the whole room as you nodded, more tears escaping your eyes. “Yeah, I am. I was going to tell you last night but things didn’t exactly go to plan-”

“No. They certainly didn’t.”

That was the understatement of the century.

“But now you know, no more scares like last night. Please?”

“I… I’ll do my best.”

That was all you could ask for, given the circumstances. After all, he was your entire world too and you’d soon have one more member to add to your little universe of chaos.

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wsmoonsik · 2 years

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solo | goodbye, my angel | wc: 548

dated late 2018

tldr; suji leaves yuseong. moonsik misses his best friend

it took moonsik twenty some odd years to realize that he wasn't good at goodbyes. but, maybe he never had been. it wasn't something that he would actually know. it's hard to lean about goodbye when most people leave before hello. and then the ones who stayed around never had enough impact for him to realize just how heart shattering a goodbye really could be. at first, everything seemed to be happening too fast for him to process. suji had been dropping casual hints about what the future would bring. both of them unsure about the future that the g.ni girls had with yuseong. moonsik didn't let the thought phase him too much. the company would be crazy to let go of talent like her. he was wrong.

it was an early morning when his world came crashing down. silence filling the air over their morning cup of coffee instead of the usual chatter. he stumbled out of the cafe, not long after hearing "i'm going home."

it felt wrong to try to make her stay. and shameful for her to see him cry.

it plays out like a scene from a cliche movie. suji's smiling face in the window of the train as she waves goodbye. he plasters his own smile on, not wanting her her to know how much leaving was going to hurt. "goodbye, angel." he mouths, waving back through the window. its peaceful for a moment, nothing more than a shared gaze as he takes in her face for what he feared to be the last time. "please don't go." he whispered, fighting back tears as the train began to roll away, taking the most important piece of his life along with it. he quickly sidesteps through the crowd, his small self trying as best as he could to keep up alongside her window for as long as he could, reaching out as if to say 'please come back'. but it was too late to make her stay, the realization amplified by the emptiness between his fingers where hers used to frequent. choi moonsik. alone, again. his best friend gone.

it takes an hour for him to gather himself enough to drag himself home, nose snotty and eyes red. people had stared at the strange boy with the strawberry red hair crying in the middle of the station. but appearance was the last thing on his mind in that moment. he makes his way home, opting for the comfort of his bed rather than a studio for one of the first time in his life. all he wants to do is cry. it seemed dramatic, but he felt as if he were losing a piece of himself along with her.

they had promised to talk every day. but it was far from the same. conflicting schedules and daily banter were hard to keep up with when they were halfway across the country. and moonsik already dreaded the drift that would come with his busying schedule. all he could do was hope for the best. he does his best to wipe his tears and sends her a quick text before settling in to sleep awake the headache he had given himself with his tears.

'call me when you're home! i miss you already, my angel.'

#((☽ solo || moonlight ☽))#wsmoonsik

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meliaaizawa · 3 years

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SEASONAL ALLERGIES

It’s that time of the year for Mei.

Word count: 1,372

*Meiya’s POV*

“Achoo!” I sneezed, waking myself up. I didn’t feel any shift in Sho’s arm around my waist, so I thankfully didn’t wake him up. I could feel my face was heavy, and I couldn’t breathe out of my nose. It was officially that time of the year again… allergy season. For as long as I can remember I’ve had sinus issues. Honestly, I think it’s because of Obo’s cloud quirk. It uses up a lot of fluid and really takes a toll on my breathing. Obo was always smart enough to wear a nasal strip, so he never had issues. I, however, have suffered the consequences of poor sinuses due to the years and years of using Obo’s cloud quirk. That, paired with the pollen that comes with springtime, makes a deadly combo.

I carefully peered up at the alarm clock on Sho’s dresser. It was still early, but I decided to get up anyway. As much as I wanted to stay in bed with my husband, what I really needed was a tissue to clear out my nose. I gently wriggled myself from under the weight of his arm and headed to the bathroom. I blew my nose several times, but still felt stuffy, so I took a steamy hot shower, which did help relieve the pressure I felt in my face for a bit. I got dressed in my normal hero attire and headed to the kitchen to make a cup of tea with some honey. I sat at the kitchen table, sipping on my tea and eating some leftover soba for breakfast.

I noticed it was 10 minutes before it was time to leave for school, so I went back into the bedroom to wake up Shota. “Sho…” I said gently, stroking his head with my hand. Shota was not a morning person. Through our years of marriage, I have discovered the best way to wake him up was as gently as possible. He valued the sleep he got, so when taking that sleep away from him, it was important to do so in a calm, loving way. He stirred awake and looked at me, his eyes barely open. “Ten minutes,” I said, before turning away from him to sneeze. I headed back out to the kitchen and blew my nose again before packing up our bento boxes for lunch and packing Sho some breakfast.

It only took Shota a couple minutes to get ready in the mornings, which explains why he often looks like he just rolled out of bed… most of the time it’s because that’s exactly what happened. I did my best to smile at him as he came out, ready to go. Despite me trying to act normal, Shota could tell almost instantly that I was feeling under the weather. “You need to stay home?” he asked, a hint of sleepiness still in his voice. I shook my head. “No, I’ll be fine. You know this is normal for me,” I replied, handing him our shared lunchbox to carry as we walked towards the door.

Since we had to arrive at U.A. much earlier than the students, we were always able to walk together without fear of them seeing us and starting gossip about us. As we arrived at the staff room, Shota immediately reached for his sleeping bag stored under his desk and zipped himself up in it, knowing he could get in a decent nap before classes started. I sat down at my desk, which was in between Sho’s and Hizashi’s, and rested my face in my hands, putting my fingers on the bridge of my nose where I could feel the sinus pressure.

“Oof, that time of year again?” I heard Hizashi ask as he set his stuff down at his desk. “You already know,” I replied, looking up at him. “You look exhausted!!” Hizashi said, upon seeing my inevitably swollen eyes. “I’m fine!! I usually get better as the day goes on,” I told him, which was true, but for some reason was not true today. I managed to make it through my first class, but became more and more stuffy and tired as the day went on. One class I was teaching was dismissed earlier than normal, so I found myself in the staff room alone. *I can make it through the rest of the day if I can just get a little nap* I told myself.

I noticed that Shota left his sleeping bag under his desk, so I pulled it out and zipped myself in it. It was so warm and comfortable and smelt like him… I found myself falling asleep almost instantly. I don’t know how long I was asleep before I was woken up by the deep, slightly concerned voice of Shota. “Mei…” I heard him interrupt my sleep. I slowly opened my eyes to find Shota crouching down in front of me, his eyebrows furrowed. “You’re going home,” he said matter-of-factly. I rubbed my eyes as I emerged from the sleeping bag and stretched. “I’ll be fine,” I replied simply before sneezing three times in a row, then reaching for the tissue box on my desk.

“Even if you’re ‘fine,’ your teaching has been lacking according to others. If you can’t teach properly, you have no business being here,” Shota said, shortly. “You’re right… I’m sorry,” I said, feeling like a failure since I couldn’t even do my job properly, despite my best efforts to ignore my allergies. Shota sighed and said, “you tried, but you need to go home and rest,” as he stood up and took my hand to help me up. “Mic will drive you home,” he said, handing me my bag, which he already packed for me. I smiled smally at him and nodded as if to say thank you.

Upon getting home, I put on comfy clothes, grabbed a tissue box, and put some essential oils that would help in my diffuser. I pulled out Shota’s, or rather our sleeping bag, as it was big enough for both of us, and zipped myself in it before sitting on the couch. I turned on my favorite anime that I’ve seen a million times and just relaxed, not moving a muscle, except to blow my nose. I wasn’t terribly sleepy, but my sinuses felt relieved when I closed my eyes, so I found myself dozing off a few times. The remainder of the day flew by, and before I knew it, Shota was home.

“What’s that?” I asked as he came into our apartment with a paper bag in hand. “I picked up some spicy ramen. Should help with clearing your sinuses up,” he said, setting it on the kitchen table before disappearing into the bedroom. He reappeared seconds later, now out of his hero costume and in sweats. He opened up the bag and pulled out two to-go bowls of ramen. I began unzipping the sleeping bag, which he heard and said, “I’m bringing it to you,” knowing that I was about to try and get up to help him. I forced myself to stay seated, trying to clean up the mountain of used tissues that were sitting next to me on the couch so Shota would have a place to sit.

He set up a tv tray in front of the couch, and I sat up completely, with my lower half still zipped up in the sleeping bag. He returned with ramen bowls in hand, and looked down at me, as if wondering whether or not I would let him into the sleeping bag too. “I’m all snotty and gross,” I said, expecting him to sit on the couch a bit away from me. “But not contagious,” he retorted, all too familiar with the nature of my allergies. He put the two bowls on the tv tray before crouching down and unzipping the sleeping bag enough for him to get in. He slipped himself in right beside me, zipping it back up over our legs before handing me my bowl of spicy ramen. “Feeling any better?” Sho asked. “I am now,” I replied with a grin, leaning over and giving him a quick kiss before digging into my ramen.

#shota aizawa #aizawa shouta #bnha #fluff #meizawa #aizawa #aizawa x wife #aizawa x oc

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myaekingheart · 3 years

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133. +

read the scarecrow and the bell on ao3 index | from the beginning | < previous | next >

Kakashi stirred awake, rubbing his tired eyes and attempting to untangle his legs from the blankets. He had no idea what time it was, but the sun had barely begun to rise. He felt around the mattress for Rei but she was nowhere to be found. It was that absence that initially snapped him out of his daze. The runner-up was the sound of retching echoing from the bathroom.

Kakashi rose to his feet, stepping lightly as he approached the door. He idled there for a moment, catching notes of her gagging, gasping for breath, and the way she’d bang her fist on the toilet seat as she struggled to contain herself. Finally, he creaked the door open and he felt a tightness clutch his chest.

Immediately, he knelt down beside her and pressed a firm hand on her back. Her entire body trembled and heaved as she vomited, her face red and dewy with sweat. Kakashi brushed the bangs back out of her face, then fished around in the disorganized drawers for that little yellow hair clip of hers in order to pin them back. He had no idea how long she had been in here for, or how much time had passed once she had finished. All he knew was that this was becoming a problem.

Rei’s stress was no secret to him. He knew the past month had been hard on her. She couldn’t sleep, so much so that dark circles had permanently taken residence under her eyes. Her appetite was atrocious. She never seemed to eat anymore outside of a snack here and there, always junk food, always sparse. And even then, she could hardly keep anything down.

He tried not to hound her too much for it. He didn’t want to add more fuel to the fire. Besides, he rememberd how sick and anxious he had been when he had first made captain himself. It was all just a byproduct of change.

Gasping for breath, Rei collapsed into Kakashi’s arms as she lazily flushed the toilet. She sniffled and wiped her nose, congested and snotty, with the back of her hand. “Sorry if I woke you” she croaked, apologetic.

Kakashi shook his head. “No, it’s alright” he whispered in reassurance. He held her close, letting her lay her head on his chest as he leaned his back against the bathroom counter. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, whispered, “Yeah…yeah, I’m fine. Just food poisoning.”

Kakashi, admittedly, was unconvinced. It was the same excuse she had been using for the past week and a half. He believed her at first, but now he wasn’t so sure. After all, if her mother’s cooking had made her so sick, then why wasn’t he incapacitated by it, too? Or anyone else, for that matter?

He helped Rei to her feet, wrapping an arm around her for support. “What time is it?” she asked, rubbing her puffy, watery eyes.

“I don’t know” Kakashi replied earnestly, “but you should try to get some more rest.”

Rei, however, shook her head. “It’s not worth it” she replied. “I’m up now. I’m never going to be able to fall back asleep.”

Kakashi grimaced but did not protest. Knowing her, she would pass out on the couch around noon and sleep until dinnertime anyway. He was just grateful that it was her day off. After the chaos of her last mission, she deserved a break.

He had to admit, when she came home and explained what had happened at Komaeda Outpost, Kakashi was a little more than shocked. He knew full well the potential for chaos that rogue ninjas could bring, but the complete destruction of a hotel was on an entirely new level. Not to mention Rei’s unrelenting illness.

He helped her into the kitchen where she steadied herself against the counter and poured a glass of water from the sink. From the tap, it wasn’t nearly as cold as she would’ve liked but at least it helped to get the rancid taste out of her mouth. Once he was sure she was steady, he made his way to the living room to begin tidying up all of the random mail that had accumulated on the coffee table. Toshio lumbered nearer, nudging Rei’s hand in silent comfort. As she sipped, her eyes trailed to the calendar pinned to the wall and she furrowed her brows. “Hey, Kakashi?” she asked over her shoulder. “What day is it?”

“Friday, June 5th” he answered, skimming through a handful of envelopes. He furrowed his brows at an electric bill they probably should’ve paid two weeks ago. “Why do you ask?”

Shaking her head, she set her glass down and pulled a pen from the junk drawer. “I’ve been slacking on the calendar” she replied. She hadn’t checked off any dates for nearly three weeks now. Evidently, her hangover from Sekkachi’s birthday atop her overall stress had made her irresponsible in that regard. Her hand trembled as she x-ed out each date one by one until reaching June. And that’s when she noticed it. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she spun around and keeled over the kitchen sink.

“Rei!” Kakashi sped to her side in an instant as she gagged, clutching the edge of the counter with a white-knuckle grip. She stood there hyperventilating for a long moment before the nausea finally subsided. She whimpered softly as her eyes unfocused for a moment, little blotches of indescribable color dancing across her vision. When her knees buckled, Kakashi wrapped an arm around her in support and pulled out a chair. He sat her down gently, poured her another glass of water. His anxiety mounted.

“Rei, I think you should see a doctor” he said, setting the glass in front of her. She pressed a hand to her sweaty forehead, brushing the flyaways away from her face, and shook her head. “You’ve been getting worse and worse. Something has to be going on.”

“I’m fine, Kakashi” Rei insisted, staring at him hard. It was just the stress. She was overworked, tired, anxious. That’s all it was. Just stress.

Sighing, Kakashi sank down in the chair beside her and ruffled his hair in defeat. He didn’t know what to do with her. He hated seeing her suffer like this. Pursing his lips, he filtered through his limited knowledge of diseases to try and figure out some sort of explanation to all of this. This certainly went beyond the scope of food poisoning. The stomach flu was on thin ice. He didn’t even want to consider something more serious, like abdominal cancer. And then he was struck with perhaps the most ridiculous idea of them all. Restraining a chuckle, he mused, “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Rei’s heart leapt into her throat. With a gasp, she leaned across the table to smack Kakashi hard on the arm. “Shut the fuck up, Kakashi!” she shouted. Her face burned bright red. She refused to believe this was a possibility. Not after everything else. Not after the twist her life had already pulled on her. No, this was not happening.

And yet Kakashi’s joking question seemed to bring life to the idea. A manifestation of thought. Furious, Rei drew her knees up to her chest and sipped at her water. Toshio rested his head on the seat of her chair, looking up at her with big, kindhearted eyes.

“I’m sorry” Kakashi apologized, heaving a sigh. “I know I shouldn’t joke about that.”

“You’re fucking right, you shouldn’t” Rei snapped. Suddenly his joke wasn’t so funny anymore.

Kakashi hesitated a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek, before finally asking, “Rei…you don’t really think you’re pregnant…do you?”

“Kakashi, I don’t want to talk about this” she groaned, squeezing her eyes shut tight. Toshio whimpered at her side.

Her answer wasn’t very helpful. If anything, it only furthered Kakashi’s suspicions. Reaching across the table, he pulled her hand into his and forced her to look him in the eyes. “Rei” he said, his voice firm and pleading. “Do you really think that you could be pregnant?”

Rei shivered and gulped. “I-I…” she stammered, but she didn’t even know where to begin, how to condense her thoughts into something comprehensible. Finally, she just pointed at the calendar with a shaky finger and curled even further in on herself.

Kakashi’s gaze slowly trailed to the kitchen wall, to the little calendar tacked under the clock. Squinting, he rose and inched nearer, then flipped the pages back and forth to compare April, May, and June. His eyes zeroed in on the little red dot marked on April 29th. “Rei…” he whispered.

Sniffling, she replied quietly, “M-my period is late…”

Whipping around, Kakashi cupped her face in his hands, desperate. “D-do you want me to go out and get some pregnancy tests? Or take you to the doctor? D-do you really think you might be--?”

“I don’t know, Kakashi! I-I don’t know!” she cried. Her eyes overflowed with panic, fear. “M-Maybe it’s just the stress, you know?” she continued, negotiating with herself. “I mean, stress can often lead to late periods. A-and I know my eating hasn’t been the best. Diet can fuck your cycle up, too! A-and poor sleep, and body weight, and…”

No matter how she tried to justify it, there was no avoiding the truth. She pressed a hand to her stomach, whimpered, reeled. There was no way this was happening. Not now. Not after everything else. She was just overthinking. This had to be a mistake.

Before she could say anything else, Kakashi was already tugging his mask up over his face and sliding his shoes on frantically. Rei’s anxiety heightened as she watched him. “W-where the fuck do you think you’re going?!” she asked.

“Where do you think?” Kakashi replied. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Just…try to stay calm.” He shoved his wallet and his keys into his pocket and then disappeared.

Defeated, Rei called after him sarcastically, “Not likely, but thanks!”

Realistically, he was only gone for a half an hour. For Rei, however, it felt like an eternity. She chewed her lower lip and circled the edge of her glass with a trembling finger. Toshio rested his heavy head in her lap and much like a weighted blanket, it soothed her, but only slightly. When she heard Kakashi’s key turn in the lock, her head snapped up. Panic. She wasn’t sure which was worse: the unbearable waiting and consequential avoidance, or his return with pregnancy tests in tow.

Kakashi entered the apartment quietly, cradling a large paper bag in his arms. Rei blinked, uncertain. “What did you do? Buy out the entire store?” she asked. There was no way a box of pregnancy tests required a bag that big.

Shaking his head, Kakashi set the bag down on the table. He reached inside and one by one, pulled out a loaf of bread, a sack of oranges, a box of those rice crackers she liked, the works. “I didn’t want to look suspicious” he replied sheepishly. Rei watched with panicked intent, a part of her hoping that perhaps in his attempt to appear normal, he had forgotten the pregnancy tests completely. But then there it was, last but not least. That little pink box made Rei furious.

Kakashi sucked in a deep breath, fiddled with the box in his hands. “You ready?” he then asked.

Rei bit the inside of her cheek, pressed a hand to her stomach. She didn’t think she was. “Y-You know what, Kakashi?” she stammered out. “Maybe we can just avoid this altogether, you know? I-I’m sure everything’s fine. It’s just the stress, right? Like it’s probably just stress and I’ll get my period any minute now!” Her nervous laughter did not help her argument.

“Rei, look at me” Kakashi said, gently cupping her cheek and tilting her head up toward him. “If this is a genuine concern like I think it might be, we need to know.” Besides, for all they knew, the test could come back negative. Rei could be right in her halfhearted, desperate assumptions. But the only way to find out was to actually take the test.

Rei deliberated for a moment, knowing deep down that her fiancé was right. She rubbed her stomach, nodded slowly. “O-okay…” she croaked. Her eyes landed on the box and she was filled with unimaginable fear. She gave a single nod before taking it into her own hands and replied weakly, “Let’s do this.”

Of all the times Rei had had pregnancy scares in the past, she had always just gone to the hospital for a blood test. Home pregnancy tests were not her forte and therefore she felt awkward and stupid trying to figure out the best possible way to do this. Kakashi sat on the edge of the tub as Rei pulled her pants down and sat on the toilet, ripping open the box and pulling out one of the little sticks inside. She pouted as she turned it over in her hand, studying it’s structure. Meanwhile, Kakashi took the box from her lap and pulled out a small paper outlining instructions.

“It says to remove the plastic cap and place the absorbent tip directly within the urine stream” he read off. Rei paused. There were so many things wrong with the words that were coming out of his mouth right now.

“Well, how the fuck am I supposed to make sure everything’s lined up?” she asked. “It’s not like I can see down there.”

Kakashi hesitated, almost tempted to offer himself as a second pair of eyes, but even he didn’t know how that would work. It wasn’t like he had byakugan and could see straight through the toilet.

Frustrated, Rei flicked the little plastic cap off the test, muttering, “Fine, whatever, we’re just gonna fucking wing it then.” She shifted slightly so as to place the test beneath her, hoping upon all hope that everything was in the right spot, and then she waited.

The one thing that she had not considered about all of this was whether or not she could even pee in the first place. It was early in the morning, she hadn’t been drinking much water, and the anxiety of it all was making it hard to go to the bathroom anyway. She sat there for a solid five minutes but it was to no avail.

“Maybe this is a sign” she said with a hollow sense of hope. “Maybe the universe just isn’t taking us seriously right now and is trying to tell us that we’re overreacting.”

Kakashi shook his head, skimmed the back of the box as if he would find any tips on how to help resolve the issue. He wasn’t surprised when he came up empty. “Maybe you just need a minute” he replied. “Do you want me to turn around? Do you think that would help?”

“Kakashi, I’m not a guy” Rei snarked. “Women don’t get the same sort of stage fright about pissing in front of other people that you all do.”

Raising his hands in surrender, Kakashi murmured, “Just figured I’d offer.” In an effort to be helpful, he rose to his feet and approached the bathroom sink, filling a paper cup with tap water. He handed it to her and she drank it silently, knowing full well that it would not work that fast but making an attempt with it anyway.

Meanwhile, Toshio, curious about the commotion, nudged the door open and strode inside. He circled the tub mat once, twice, three times over before flopping down comfortably. Rei watched him and wondered what it was like to be a dog. No rules, no responsibilities. Just stealing table food and taking naps. She only wished she could be as carefree.

After another ten minutes passed with no help, Kakashi ruffled his hair with a sigh and suggested, “Maybe we should just come back to this later then.”

Rei shook her head. “No, it’s fine” she protested. “You know, I think I feel it coming.”

Kakashi cocked a brow, watching her curiously. Another few minutes passed. Still nothing. Toshio snored loudly from the floor.

“Come on” Kakashi sighed in defeat, extending a hand to help her up. “There’s no use sitting here ramping our anxiety up if nothing is going to happen.”

Rei hated that she had no choice but to agree. She set the test down on the counter as she gathered her pants and underwear around her ankles, but as she did so, she finally felt that much-anticipated urine make it’s belated debut. Panicked, she scrambled to grab the pregnancy test off the counter and shove it underneath her yet again. She had no idea whether she had positioned everything properly, but she hoped upon hope that she had. She did not want to have to do this again.

Kakashi blinked despondently, watching her in amused surprise. Once she was finished, he chuckled softly under his breath. “I guess reverse psychology works on bladders, too” he mused.

“Alright, what do we do now?” Rei asked. She placed a wad of toilet paper on the counter and set the test on top, face-down.

“It says to recap the test and wait five minutes” Kakashi said, glancing back at the instructions. Rei gave a single nod, doing as the instructions told her, before wiping and flushing. And then came the waiting.

Rei paced back and forth, chewing her lower lip and toying with the fraying threads on her shirt collar. Kakashi watched her, fingers tented in front of his face, apprehensive. For a long while, they said nothing. The moment was far too delicate. They feared that should they speak, they would shatter their composure and lose their sanity completely. Rei was already halfway there.

“You’re making me dizzy” Kakashi quipped at the three minute mark.

“Do you think we really have to wait the full five minutes?” she asked. “I mean, if there’s nothing there then we could be waiting here forever, you know?”

“And if there’s something?” Kakashi countered.

Rei paused and pursed her lips. “Then I’m sure the result would be far too eager to show itself.”

“Fair enough” Kakashi replied. They stood there in almost-silence for another long moment, only the sound of Toshio’s heavy snoring serving as soundtrack to their panic. Then, finally, Kakashi asked the question Rei was hoping he would never verbalize. “What result do you want to see?”

She genuinely did not know. If he had asked her that same question a month ago, she would have had a very different answer but now she wasn’t so sure. Things were different. Their lives were different. No longer was she in the best place to have a baby.

And yet…she still desperately did want this. The thought of being pregnant, of finding a positive test result, excited a deep, guilty part of her. There was no logic in it, though. In reality, it didn’t make sense. Her life was divided into two very different paths. She was not allowed to be in two places at once.

Shaking her head, Rei sank down beside Kakashi on the side of the tub and asked, “What result do you want to see?” She spoke the question almost like a joke, delivered in a snarky, half-mocking tone.

A soft smile touched Kakashi’s lips and Rei’s heart leapt into her throat. She feared she already knew the answer, and she wasn’t sure if she could stomach it. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, averted his eyes. “Honestly? I…” he started, then paused. Rei chewed her lower lip. Something in Kakashi shifted. He glanced to the clock, as if running out of time, swallowed hard. “Rei…”

“W-what…?” she whispered, hoarse and weak.

He turned to face her then, meeting her gaze with frantic, uncertain eyes. “Our five minutes are up” he croaked. Rei’s back went ramrod straight, digging her nails even deeper into her palms. Her throat tightened and her heart was racing and oh my god she was going to be sick.

She stood up slowly, her legs like limp ramen beneath her, and shuffled slowly toward the counter. Kakashi watched with bated breath. Rei leaned against the counter, squeezed her eyes shut tight, inhaled sharply. A trembling hand hovered over the test. “K-Kakashi…I can’t…” she whimpered.

“Do you want me to look instead?” he asked, rising to his feet. He approached slowly, placing a gentle hand on the small of her back. Rei shook her head.

“N-No…I know I need to do this myself” she protested. After all, it was her own body that was at stake. She felt her stomach creak in anxiety. In the back of her mind, she forced herself to remember that the only way out is through. Dragging the situation out would only make things that much worse. Pursing her lips, she let out a small squeal of fear before snatching the test up and finally flipping it over in her hands.

It took a moment for her to fully register the results. Once she did, however, her entire body went numb. She stood still for a long while, paralyzed.

“W-what? What is it?” Kakashi asked, growing frantic.

Rei swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure which was worse: the disappointment or the delight. Her hand shook as she slowly turned the test around to face her fiancé. “K-Kakashi…” she croaked, clapping a hand over her mouth. Now she was definitely sure she was going to be sick.

Kakashi leaned forward, squinted at the little test window. Staring back at him was the faintest little pink line. His heart skipped a beat. “I-It’s positive…” he whispered in disbelief.

Rei nodded slowly, a sob catching in her throat. “K-Kakashi…it’s positive” she repeated.

A soft, incredulous little laugh bubbled up from deep within Kakashi’s chest, his vision growing blurry with tears. “Rei…” he whispered, unable to fight the smile spreading on his face. He cupped her cheek, laughed again, pressed a hand to her stomach. “Rei, we’re going to have a baby. W-we’re having a baby!”

Sniffling, Rei wiped her nose with the back of her hand and nodded. “I-I’m pregnant…” she laughed softly, staring back at the test. “I-I can’t believe I’m pregnant…!”

Overwhelmed with emotion, Kakashi pulled her tight into his arms, burying his face in the crook her neck and stroking her loose, tangled hair. She could feel his hot tears against her skin, the inconsistent trembling of his upper body as he sobbed into her shoulder.

“I can’t believe it” Kakashi whispered, voice hoarse and happy. He leaned back then, pressed his forehead against hers so as to lock eyes, and his heart swelled. “We’re going to have a baby” he said, as if repeating it would make it somehow more believable. He grinned, in love with the way it sounded, caressed Rei’s cheek, whispered, “Our baby.” She smiled back at him with a sob and god, he was so weak. Unable to contain himself, he pressed his lips hard against hers, holding her close and revelling in this incredible moment.

Once the euphoria had subsided to at least a manageable degree, Kakashi snuck into the kitchen and began making them breakfast. He refused to let Rei lift a finger—after all, if ever there was a time to care for her in full, this was it. He watched as she sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, picking at her toast. She was distracted, staring off into space, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She set her food down, slowly rolled her shirt up, pressed a hand firmly against her lower stomach. There was so much to process.

“Kakashi…” she whispered, “What do we do now?” This was far too big for her to fully comprehend. Their entire lives had just changed in an instant, and yet the rest of the world was spinning just as it always had. How could she possibly function like normal with this new adjustment? She supposed there was no expectation for her to.

“Well, seeing a doctor would probably be a good start” he suggested. As desperately as he had always wanted a family, Kakashi hated to admit that he didn’t know the first thing about pregnancy. Not really. He knew how it happened, he knew the process and of course the end result. Anything in between, however, he had only ever been exposed to during his time guarding a pregnant Kushina. He knew that pregnancy was complicated and intense, but he understood it only in the haziest of senses. The details were beyond him. What did they need to do? What obligations did they have now? Where were Rei’s limitations? When was she due? Was their child healthy? What if the test hadn’t even been correct and it turned out they weren’t pregnant at all? He knew there was such a thing as a false positive but he didn’t understand how it worked or how that happened. There was plenty he did not understand, and now it was becoming ever clearer to him just how ignorant he was.

Rei nodded slowly, sucking a sharp breath. “I guess I’ll call the hospital up and make an appointment then” she replied. She rose to her feet without even finishing her food, scoured the junk drawer for that notepad with all the important numbers on it, then lingered in front of the phone. How was she even supposed to do this? What was she supposed to say? She twirled the phone’s cord around her finger, chewing her lower lip, before finally dialing the number. The phone rang three times before a cheery receptionist answered on the other end.

Kakashi listened closely to the rather roundabout conversation. He could feel the tension tightening in Rei’s muscles and he wondered for a moment if perhaps it would be easier to just walk into the ER like they had done so many times before. But then the call ended and Rei sat back down with a definitive nod. “Well?” Kakashi asked. “What happened?”

“The earliest they could book me was Wednesday” she replied.

“That’s not too bad” Kakashi replied. “Only four days. We can wait that long, can’t we?”

“I hope so” Rei replied. She pulled apart another bite of her toast and swallowed her anxiety along with it.

The rest of the day passed in a strange haze. Their newfound discovery did not mean that they could skimp on their predetermined errands—a trip to the butcher to pick up meat for dinner, a quick walk around the park for Toshio’s upbeat energy, and a stop at the Yamanaka flower shop to purchase a small bouquet for a grave. Normally, Rei would conduct these errands with a sense of poise and decorum. She would be alert and confident and graceful and quick. Now, however, she stumbled over her own two feet, became distracted by her own thoughts. She had to hold Kakashi’s hand always so that she would not stray into foot traffic and get trampled by eager pedestrians. The sun was so bright and the air was so humid, the pollen hanging heavy in the air so that her eyes watered and her nose stuffed up every five minutes. And then there was the nausea.

The discovery of her pregnancy did nothing to quell her sickness. If anything, it only made it worse. Whenever she’d feel the tinge in her stomach, that sour little lurch, her mind now immediately screamed That’s right, it’s because you’re pregnant. That word echoed through her mind nonstop: pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. You are pregnant. Taunting her. Maddening her.

When they reached the butcher shop, Rei staggered in the doorway and clapped a hand over her mouth. The stench of raw meat, the sight of carcasses hanging from the ceiling, was enough to send her over the edge. She swiveled on her heels and ducked into the nearest alleyway, hands on her knees and breathing heavy. Toshio tilted his head and curiously followed close behind. The smell of rotting garbage from the dumpsters did not help her case and after only a few moments, Rei keeled over and vomited into the trash.

Kakashi’s hands trembled as he rushed through his purchase, desperate to get back to her side. The butcher smirked as he packaged their meat. “Your girlfriend’s got a pretty weak stomach, huh?” he asked. There was something in his tone that irked Kakashi. A condescension. If only this man knew Rei had a kill count in the hundreds, that she was an elite ninja and one of the strongest women he knew.

Narrowing his eyes, Kakashi took the parcel in his hands and replied, “My wife is just having an off day.” He hoped his words were scathing enough. He hoped the butcher began to reconsider crossing the Copy Ninja, even if verbally. Kakashi shot him a shit-eating, masked grin then before turning and exiting the shop.

Kakashi turned the corner and rushed to Rei’s side immediately, wrapping an arm around her for support. She brushed her bangs back out of her face and shook her head as they stepped out into the sun. “God, this puking shit is going to kill me” she muttered under her breath.

“I’m sorry” Kakashi replied, rubbing the small of her back. He glanced out at the passerby and hoped that no one had seen. They both agreed that they did not want to arouse suspicion. The pregnancy was still far too new, too raw. If they hadn’t even fully accepted it yet, how the hell were they supposed to tell other people? And people who may not take kindly to the news, at that.

“I just hope this lets up soon” Rei sighed.

Kakashi nodded. His heart ached to see her suffer, and he wished there was more that he could do. All he could manage was a dose of half-baked optimism. “Just think” he whispered, “at least it will all be worth it in the end, right?”

A small smile tugged at Rei’s lips, pressing a hand to her stomach. Across the way, a new mother pushed a stroller along. Rei gazed at the little baby swaddled inside and something in her chest tugged. She shared a knowing gaze with Kakashi and it took all of her strength not to cry right then and there.

The rest of the afternoon went smoothly enough, constant nausea aside. The fresh air and relaxed atmosphere of the park helped ease Rei’s tension and something about the flowers in Yamanaka shop made Rei more emotional than usual. Kakashi insisted on buying her half a dozen red carnations while they were there because she could not stop looking at them.

Dinner was relaxed, quiet. Kakashi opened the windows so that the smell of food would not nauseate Rei further and fixed the carnations in a vase on the table. Rei collapsed onto the couch, draping an arm over her face and quickly falling asleep. He spread a blanket over her and his heart soared. She looked so peaceful, so full and soft, her face dewy with sweat and her hair a tangled mess. She was so much more to him now than she ever was—which was saying a lot. After all, how could she possibly be more than his everything? The answer lie in her womb, in the little life that was growing inside of her now. Their life. Their baby. He could hardly contain himself at the thought. He rubbed her stomach gently, eyed the way her shirt lifted slightly to reveal her skin. He tugged his mask down to sweetly kiss just below the navel. They had only known about the pregnancy for a single day and yet he was already so in love with this child. A soft smile touched his lips, tender. I can’t wait to meet you.

Rei curled up against Kakashi’s chest that night, his hand caressing her waist as she attempted to fall back asleep. The issue with having napped that evening was that now, when it truly mattered, she was wide awake. And even worse: she was awake and overthinking. “Kakashi…?” she whispered. “Are you still awake?”

“Hmm?” he hummed tiredly. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Rei nodded slowly, halfheartedly. If he was tired, she didn’t want to keep him up, but she was also desperate to address her overwhelming concerns. The darkness seemed to make way for the fear and uncertainty that came with this newfound discovery. “Kakashi, I just…what are we going to do?” she whispered.

Kakashi shifted so as to get a better look at her, his eyebrows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

Rei sighed and tried to form a comprehensible thought. “I guess…I don’t know, I’m just…scared” she admitted. “Like I’m happy, of course, but…what does this mean for us moving forward?”

Kakashi didn’t quite understand what she was getting at. He cupped her cheek, replied, “It means that we’re building our life together, just like we always planned. I’m not going anywhere, Rei, and I never was.”

Rei shook her head. “No, I know that” she replied. “I never thought otherwise, and it’s not our relationship that I’m really concerned about anyway. It’s just…” She felt selfish even considering this, but she knew it needed to be addressed. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, groaned. “It’s just about my fucking job.”

“Oh…” Kakashi murmured.

“I just don’t know what to do, I mean…I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am, and becoming captain is a huge deal. I didn’t realize how much it was going to mean to me until I had it in my hands but now…well, now this changes everything. I can’t be in the black ops and have a baby, it just doesn’t work like that. Even if I wish it did.” Rei gazed down at her stomach, frowned. “I just wish I knew what the right choice was.”

“Rei, look at me” Kakashi replied, tilting her chin up to face him. What he said next broke Rei’s heart, sent her hands shaking and her heart pounding. “You need to give up on your career.”

She didn’t want to be offended, but she was. With a gasp, she snapped upright and glared at him through the darkness. “Excuse me?”

“You’re right. You can’t do both. It’s too dangerous” Kakashi explained. “Rei, this is about more than just yourself now. You need to think about what’s best for our baby. And what’s best is quitting your job.”

Rei drew her knees up to her chest, averted her gaze. She felt tears prick at the back of her eyes and a lump rise in her throat. True as that may be, Kakashi didn’t need to be so damn harsh about it. Sniffling, she nodded slowly and croaked, “I know. You’re right.”

As she laid back and tried to get some sleep, she kept her hand firmly cemented on her stomach. She thought of the child they were bringing into the world, of the sacrifices you make when you become a parent. Her life really was bigger than just herself now. God, this is so fucked up, she thought to herself. Where was this a month ago, when she was ready for it? Why did life have to be so cruel? To promise her one thing and then rip it away from her for something else? She rolled onto her side and buried her face in her pillow, attempting to muffle the tears that would not stop coming now. Toshio crawled up nearer to her from the foot of the bed and rested his heavy head against her thighs. Rei scratched behind his ear and wondered if he knew. If he could sense that something was different in her now. She was sure he could. Animals always seemed to know these things.

Sleep did not come easy that night, but as she deliberated, Rei forced herself to accept the chaos that her life had become. To accept the daunting realization that nothing would ever be the same again. She rubbed her stomach and chewed her lower lip, ultimately making a difficult decision. In the next few days, she would approach Lady Tsunade and tell her the situation. And she would, as unfortunate as it was, be forced to back out of her captain’s duties. There was no other choice.

#kakashi hatake #rei natsuki #kakashi x oc #the scarecrow and the bell #naruto #naruto oc #fanfiction #ramblings

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beerecordings · 4 years

Text

“Jackie, I'm fine.”

This is true. This is a true fact. A true statement. It's true the moment it comes out of Henrik's mouth and it's true when it hits Jackie's ears, but somewhere between the cochlea and the processing part of his brain it becomes not true, and he's sobbing so hard he can barely breathe, clinging to his little brother's shoulders as Marvin tries to drag him away.

“Oh, I know, I know!” he cries, trying to stop heaving with tears, trying to calm down and smile all nice and unalarming, but it may as well be a miracle he's asking himself for. “Absolutely, of course you are, darling, of course, I know, it's just – ”

“Jackie.” He can't tell if Chase is groaning or laughing or maybe a little bit of both, his hand over Jackie's on Henrik's shoulder. “He's going to be a-okay, man, there's nothing to worry about. We've been here for hours.”

“Yes, but – but – you have your medicine, Schneep?”

“Oh, fuck's sake,” moans Marvin, putting his head down against Jackie's back in resignation. “We've gone through this checklist five fucking times – ”

“Jackie,” says Henrik, smiling at him. “I've got it.”

“You've got your first aid kit? Your phone? The emergency pager? All your clothes and your favorite things, your little mystery show dvds and that board game you like and JJ's painting?”

“Yes, Jackie.”

“Hung it up myself!” signs JJ, pausing only to give Henrik a last kiss on the cheek before brushing out of the apartment, his face flushed with pride for his brother and a little of the beer they've been using to celebrate. He turns to Marvin and adds, “This is worse than we expected.”

Marvin sighs deeply. “Jackie, please. He's moving three blocks away.”

“All on his own!” Pain screwdrives through his ribs and he lets out another choking sob, stepping back into Henrik's apartment for the third time in as many minutes, stroking his gloved fingers down his brother's beard, adjusting his glasses, brushing across his hair, squeezing his shoulders tight, tight, tight. “Oh, oh, oh, my poor little brother, my Schneep, my Doc-Doc, what if something happens to you, what if you get scared, what if he comes to get you and I'm not here?”

“Jackie.” Chase reaches out and grabs his hand, squishing hard to steady him. “Jackie. He's dead. Remember? He's gone. And this nerd – ” He ruffles up the hair Jackie's smoothed down and shoves Henrik playfully, making him laugh, nudging their heads together before stepping back down beside JJ. “He's going to be okay.”

“Come on, man,” begs Marvin, tugging gently on his hood. “Time to go. We'll come back tomorrow, how does that sound?”

“How about I stay here, Schneep, just for one night, just for one – ”

“No!” cry two voices and a pair of hands at once. “Jackie, we talked about this!”

“Guys,” chuckles Henrik.

His face is clear and bright, his mouth curved in an easy smile. There's a light in his eyes that re-ignited some months ago, and ever since then, Jackie feels like he's been trying to be happy for him through a thousand changes that scare the absolute hell out of him.

“Why don't you give us a second alone, hm? Jackie can meet you downstairs, right?”

Jackie whimpers, clutching Henrik's hands, putting his head down. The others sigh and agree and kiss Henrik goodbye, and then they are alone on the steps of the fresh new apartment, smelling of paint and wood and cardboard boxes stuffed full of everything that used to live in the bedroom directly above Jackie's. He could hear Henrik through the vents back then. If he cried, if he shouted, if he rambled to himself when he stayed up too late working or if Chase and Jamie and Marvin came in to hang out with him or if he sang to himself when he was happy. He could hear him.

“Jackie,” whispers Henrik, squeezing his hands in return. “I'm fine. I'm fine. It's going to be okay.”

“Don't want you to go.” Jackie's voice is a hush and he knows how weak he's being, how weak and ridiculous, and he's sorry, but he doesn't know how else to be. He's too scared, too tired, too worried to stop. “Can't see you get hurt again. Or have another breakdown or attempt or... need me and not be there again, can't...”

Henrik's hands are rubbing across the knobs of his spine, one by one, just how he knows he likes. “Nothing's going to hurt me,” he says.

“What if you get scared?”

“I'll call you.”

“What if you get lonely?”

“You're three blocks down.”

“What if you get sick and can't let anyone know in time?”

Henrik laughs, his little “Hah. Hah. Hah,” his slightly crooked front teeth grinning and his eyes all squinty with joy, different from the way anybody else laughs. His big blue eyes glow like algae and his hair shines, healthy and combed back, his face scarred cleanly now and his stomach all filled out again, soft and happy beneath a sweater and a dress shirt, though you couldn't call him unfit with as much as he's been running. Out every morning, even in the pouring rain, his sneakers slamming against the pavement and his eyes fixed gentle on the path before him, running for longer and longer every morning. Jackie used to sit by the window and wait to see him coming towards the door, scampering away before Henrik noticed, trying to avoid another lecture about helicopter parenting and paranoia, until watching over Henrik became almost as furtive and hushed for him as Marvin sneaking in the house with a new kitten. Late at night he would creep up the stairs and stand between Chase's and Henrik's rooms and listen to the sound of them both breathing.

“Come on,” says Henrik. “We both know someone's going to be checking in on me every day.”

Jackie blows out a long, snotty breath, tears making his face hot. Henrik takes the hood of his red sweatshirt and uses it to brush the salt and water away. Never skin on skin, not from hands, he knows. He knows.

“It's going to be okay,” he repeats, very soft. “I'm going to be okay. I want to do this. Live on my own again. Go to work and come home and cook for myself. Prove to you that I can. Prove to myself that I can.”

“I know,” sniffles Jackie. “I know. I want you to. It’s just - it’s just... Schneep...”

“Jackie,” he says, his hands drifting away from his spine. “I'm always going to love you.”

“Promise?” croaks Jackie.

“On my life.”

“No, not on that,” says Jackie. “Just promise.”

Henrik smiles.

He's so fucking perfect Jackie thinks the sun is probably jealous. He's so perfect roses and stars are jealous. He's so perfect Jackie knows, in a place that he tries to keep hidden, that Henrik does not need him in the same way that he used to.

“I promise,” says Henrik. “I will. I do. So much.”

“I love you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“So, when you get hurt doing something dumb...”

Jackie can't help but laugh, hearing the old scolding in his little brother's voice.

“Where are you going to go?”

“Right here,” he says. “Right to room 208.”

“And when you get lonely and everyone else is asleep...”

Jackie guffaws, shaking his head. “I know your dumb-ass will still be awake.”

“Working on something dorky,” Henrik speculates, nodding. “And when there's a hedgehog in the house?”

Jackie bursts into laughter, throwing his head back, clapping his hands together. “I didn't know what the hell it was, okay? I only got a glimpse of it! I needed help chasing it out!”

“JJ's fault for letting it in anyway,” smiles Henrik, laying a hand on his shoulder, right over his heart. Jackie sighs and wipes away his own tears and takes one step closer into Henrik's space. Just one moment more. Just one moment more.

“I know you have to start putting the past behind you,” he whispers. He clings to the sleeves of his sweater, rubbing his thumbs down the indents that run across the fabric. “I just... don't know why you have to do it three blocks away from me.”

“I know,” says Henrik. “But, my brother, my guardian, my friend – it is not for you to understand everything about every one of us. I would rather see you come to understand yourself again.”

“You,” says Jackie, and even as he feels the sentence rising on his tongue he knows it doesn't make sense. “You, the four of you – you are me. You... you are me.”

Henrik leans forward and he knocks their foreheads together. Just like Jackie has done to him since the day he was born. Fond and close, close enough that their noses nudge together, and Jackie can see the long eyelashes draped across Henrik's cheeks, and they are breathing, just for a moment longer, the exact same air.

Henrik pulls away.

Smiling again.

“Well,” he says. “Time to go figure out who the rest of you is.”

Jackie's heart aches tangibly, raw and hot in his chest. He swallows back another round of tears. He can do this. He has to do this. This is what Henrik wants, what he's wanted for months. A new job. A new place to himself. A new start. He doesn't understand exactly why right now, but he trusts him.

“Everything's going to turn out okay,” says Henrik.

“You're sure you've got everything? Medical bracelet? The leftovers Chase brought? Your fancy camera? The emergency pager? All your clothes and your favorite things, your little mystery show dvds and that board game you like and JJ's painting?”

Henrik laughs at him, in a way that means “I love you.”

“Yes, dumb-ass. Stop asking. Let go of my sleeve and go on, you big wonderful pest.”

Jackie grins at him, standing there in the light of his new apartment, glowing like a star. His little brother. The healer. The prisoner. The free man. The fighter. Still fighting to this day, but picking his battles now, and the places he wants to have them.

He lets go of Henrik's sleeve.

“Night, Schneep,” he says, eyes stinging. “I love you.”

“Good night, Jackie,” says Henrik. “Won't even be long before you see me again. Sleep, okay? Promise me.”

“Yes, doc.”

“Good man. Go on, then. I love you too.”

He trails down the stairs in a haze, snuffling away the last of his tears, feeling empty and tired now, the fear drifting distant. He opens the apartment door and tastes the cold sweet sting of the winter air on his face. His brothers are waiting for him in the light of a streetlamp, haloed in that white gold, chatting together all bundled up in their coats and their gloves, tired and happy from a day of moving their brother into his home.

“Thank God,” sighs Marvin, reaching up to zip Jackie's coat for him.

“Knew you could do it!” cheers Chase, clapping his shoulder.

And his sweet baby brother, standing up straight, so Jackie sees, suddenly, that all four of them are the exact same height, widens his mouth in a glowing smile and asks, gentle as the snow starting to come down: “Okay, Jackie?”

Jackie wraps an arm around him, pulling him to his chest, hearing his heartbeat thudding against his own. Strong and warm and steady.

“Yeah,” he says, letting his brothers lead him three blocks away. “Or if it isn't right now, it will be. Hey, I love you guys.”

“Good,” signs JJ. “You should. I love you too.”

“I love you all!”

“Yeah, yeah, you soppy disasters. I love you all too. Very much.”

At least he’s got three of them here to echo it back to him, and the fourth, he knows, will never stop ringing in his head.

“Everything’s going to be okay.”

#bee writes #writers of jack #jacksepticeye #jackieboyman #schneeplestein #short and sweet snippet :)#snippets from nowhere

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zodiyack · 4 years

Text

Forgotten Love

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x reader

Warnings: Fluff, torturing and death, angst, a couple swear words, lyrics, SPOILERS

Song: Forgotten Love by AURORA, (the song’s meaning is a bit different for this fic than what it’s supposed to mean.)

Note: Bold + italic = Lyrics, italic = memory/flashback

masterlist

Can you tell if I’m cold? If I'm out of daydreams? If I lose what is loved? Will a new love await me? I am touched by wonder, When I am blind in the dark

Y/n sighed for the hundredth time that day. Draco begged for her to come back to him after their fight the night before. It wasn’t the first fight, nor was it the first time he pleaded for her forgiveness. However this fight was the one she was sure would end it all. He had a dark mark, not letting her see until she found it herself. They fought, his excuse of how it was “none of her business” only making it worse.

She was sad, sleepless, bored, still..almost as if her mind had died but left her body behind. He was the same, not eating, doing well in school, or even talking to his family or friends. They knew needed each other, but they refused to admit it. He even saw the way she was acting, and she saw how he was, they worried for each other secretly. Draco was scared that he was losing his bond with her, as lovers and as friends.

The h/n (house name) girl was confused and crowded with emotions. She didn’t know whether to feel angry, frightened, hurt, or if she should just ignore the situation and continue on with her boyfriend since 3rd year. They hadn’t officially ended it, but the tension whenever the two were in a room together said something was happening. Y/n knew she loved Draco deep down, unsure if Draco actually loved her. The truth was, it was the same exact situation for him. He grew more curious each day she ignored him.

As Y/n rested her head on her pillow, she thought of him anew. He filled her thoughts again and again. She closed her eyes, trying her hardest to fall asleep. All she could think about was Draco and their fight. Did she say the right things? Could she have done anything different? If she could... would she? It was all nagging at her. Regret and sorrow replaced her worry and anger. Could she even recover from this in the future? Would anyone trust the girl or give her a chance like Draco did?

She fell asleep with more stress than she woke up with, dreams and thoughts of the Slytherin Prince not escaping her head. Maybe she wasn’t seeing things right. Maybe she was seeing them the way they actually were. She’d never know until she took a step back and examined the situation as a whole.

But you drown me in daylight, Don't swim with me darling. I prefer the sound of you, When you are away

Draco watched his aunt Bellatrix torture a random mudblood girl, not really paying attention. Neither him, or Y/n knew it of each other, but they both missed one another. Draco missed y/n, her smile, her hair, her voice and when she would reassure him that he was loved and not like his father. He missed everything about her. He missed her ever so much now that he was out of Hogwarts and staying with the rest of the Death Eaters. Y/n missed him and his blonde locks, snarky comments that would make her laugh, the flirty praise that made her turn beat red. The 3 words he spoke ever since the day she found him weeping on the floor in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, as well as the action he made after he had said them.

“Draco?”

A shuffle was heard, then Draco cleared his throat to speak up. “..who is it?”

“It’s me Dray, y/n.”

“Oh. I’m over here...”

She walked over to the puffy eyed boy. His nose was red and snotty, hair a mess and tears staining his face. Y/n gasped, rushing down to his level and brushing the hair out of his face. “What on earth happened to you!? Are you alright?! Tell me.” She mumbled something at the end of her sentence that caught Draco’s attention.

“No it’s okay. I’m fine, you don’t need to hurt anyone, I did this to myself.”

“Oh...you heard that....” He nodded and smiled slightly. “Um...but for real, what can I do to help?”

“Sit with me.”

“Is that all? Just sit with you?”

“Just sit with me.” He pat the ground next to him and wiped his eyes free of tears.

“Okay..anything else?”

“No..I just need it to be us right now...” He inhaled then turned to her, “Thank you. This means a lot to me, even if I don’t act like it. The truth is...I love you. I may be an arse, but I really do love you.”

The young girl’s eyes widened. She took a couple seconds to register what he had said before she could respond correctly. “I love you too Dray...Y-” Y/n was interrupted when Draco tackled her in a hug, crying softly into her shoulder but hugging her tightly. At that moment, they held onto each other as if it was their last moment together, neither of them wanting to let go.

His aunt interrupted his sweet but emotional trip to the past with news. She was excited to announce that the Dark Lord wanted Draco to do something for him that was of great importance. She cackled and left Draco to dream once more of his forgotten love.

If I am left with a rose in my hand, let it die, It's the beauty in forgotten love! And I don't care if you don't understand why I cry, It's the beauty in forgotten love!

Draco came back to Hogwarts to fulfill his quest of killing Dumbledore. The headmaster isn’t surprised, having expected the blonde and the death eaters. Draco was full of fear, he didn’t want to kill Albus, even Dumbledore himself knew that. Albus remained calm and reasoned with Draco. Informing him of his knowledge of Draco’s plans and insecurities. It wasn’t long before the rest of the group got bored and hurried to the two.

Snape killed Dumbledore that night, Bellatrix and the death eaters wreaking havoc on the school and scaring the students in it. Bellatrix stopped at one part of the school, calling for Draco with a smile that could only hint bad things. He approached his aunt and dropped to his knees once he caught sight of the scene in front of them. Y/n lied limp on a table in one of the classrooms, a wilting rose in her hand. Draco knew that rose. It was the same rose he had given her for their 4th anniversary.

He pushed into the room, shaking her awake. Matching tears fell down their faces. The slytherin boy didn’t care who saw him cry, they could piss off for all he cared. Right now, all that mattered was his y/n, who was looking up at him with the same puffy eyes he looked at her with when he had told her he loved her. She reached a hand up and cupped his cheek, whispering to him softly. “You didn’t forget me...”

He nodded and put his hand over hers, “No, I could never forget you. I love you y/n.” She shook her head and smiled at him. It confused Draco greatly. She wasn’t dying, but she acted like it, she wasn’t safe, but it didn’t affect her, she loved him, but she wouldn’t let him say that he loved her. “Why won’t you accept that I do?”

“You need to let me go.” He nodded again, but inside he refused to give in. It was like making a pinky promise but crossing your fingers. He would let her be, but when the time was right he swore he would make it up to her. Draco grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles and forehead, leaving the building with his group that had tagged along.

I forget how emotions dance when they aren't inside of me. I forget how the sun feels when she isn't around me. And my dreams become sweeter when something is missing. I'm in love with the hunt itself It makes me feel alive, alive

Y/n slept soundly that same night, dreaming of the love she told Draco to stop holding onto. Her favorite memories making her smile without even noticing it. Draco was gone, but that didn’t upset her. She knew he loved her now, and it was all she needed to know in order to continue with more hope than she had before.

She felt alive for the first time since their fight. She felt alive when she remembered the good times they had together. She felt alive knowing that he was still alive. She felt alive after their first kiss, and she felt alive when he kissed her goodbye. She felt alive with the chance that he might kiss her the same way he did before they grew distant. However, what made her feel alive the most was knowing he was still out there, somewhere, waiting for her find him.

It came as a surprise to Hermione when y/n kept a straight face everyday, hardly saying a word. If only the gryffindor knew what y/n was actually thinking about behind her emotionless mask.

If I am left with a rose in my hand, let it die! It's the beauty in forgotten love! And I don't care if you don't understand why I cry! It's the beauty in forgotten love!

Hun går Ölessu Hun går ferilisseræna féressu Hun går Ölessu, Hun går ferilisseræna féressu Ferilisseræna féressu Ruriguere Ruriguere Hun går Ölessu Hun går ferilisseræna féressu Fîri lisinof Fîri lisinof Fîri lisinof

I release my body and there is no ghost of you inside my mind, I am moving on and thank God you let me try. You are the reason I can dance Within the fire of goodbyes, of goodbyes, I can lie in the dark room without the feeling that I'm lonely Oh, (it's the beauty of forgotten love!)

As the crowd of Hogwarts students gathered around the front of the school, it became y/n’s mission to find Draco. Voldemort stood in the front of his follower’s side, Lucius urging Draco to come forward into the Dark Lord’s embrace. Y/n took the chance and ran to Malfoy before he could move, tackling him in the same love filled hug that took her breathe away years ago. Gasps were heard among both sides, some cheers mixed in as well.

When Y/n pulled away, she cupped Draco’s cheeks, voice softer than when she said goodbye, but this time filled with determination and hope. “You’re not alone. We either fight together, or run together. I admit, my heart isn’t content without you by my side. I love you, I always have. My heart could never belong to another for it belongs to you and only to you.”

Draco gazed at her in a state of awe and admiration. He pulled her in for a kiss. It was more passionate than they’d remembered, full of new emotions and an even stronger spark. It was the new thing that made them both feel alive, that made them both not want to ever pull away.

Unfortunately, Lucius cleared his throat, causing the couple to separate with red faces. “Draco.” He reached out to his son again. Narcissa joined her husband in summoning her son.

“Draco. ....Come.” Draco looked over to y/n, who winked at him before lightly kissing his hand that was holding hers and walking with him to Lord Voldemort.

“Ah, well done Draco! Well done.” Voldemort pushed y/n to the side and gave an awkward hug to the poor blonde before pushing him to his parents. Y/n rushed to join him, the lovers clinging to each other almost immediately.

If I am left with a rose in my hand, let it die! It's the beauty in forgotten love! And I don't care if you don't understand why I cry! It's the beauty in forgotten love!

Oh, oh, oh, oh, ah (it's the beauty in forgotten love!) Oh, oh, oh, oh, ah (it's the beauty in forgotten love!)

Y/d/n chased after her older brother Scorpius, slowing down when their mother scolded them. Draco chuckled at his wife’s frustration and kissed her hand that was intertwined with his. She did as he had expected and flushed red, forgetting about her children racing to Platform 9 3/4.

As the family halted to kiss the messy headed blonde 11 year old goodbye, y/d/n noticed a girl staring at her. She squeaked and pulled on the skirt of her mother’s dress. “What is it pumpkin?” Y/n’s 4 year old daughter pointed over to a young red haired girl. Y/n smiled and tapped Draco’s arm excitedly, not dropping her eyesight from the child. Draco turned around and caught sight of what his girls were looking at, waving at Harry and Ginny, then at their children.

The little girl’s eyes widened when y/d/n stuck her tongue out at her and hid behind her father. Harry picked her up and walked over to the Malfoys, introducing his daughter to them. Ginny and Y/n chatted about their kids and husbands, laughing when both men gave them funny looks upon hearing their names.

When it was finally time to say an actual goodbye to their kids, the Potters and Malfoys did it together. Scorpius and Albus boarded the train and waved goodbye to both families. Y/n and Draco had said goodbye to Harry and Ginny after y/d/n took off down the platform. Y/n held her husband’s hand and leaned on his shoulder, walking with him while their daughter, full of energy, skipped in front of them.

Forgotten Love - AURORA | Aurora Aksnes

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spiderparkerpeterman · 4 years

Text

so basically i’m baby

hmm. my last fic wasn't very popular, oops. back to fluff and feel-good content! enjoy!

content: fluff, reader being done with peter's shit, shenanigans involving those of the fur and baby kinds

warnings: reader is a meme because i have chaotic energy, lapslock, minor existential stuff

word count: 2139 (fuck oops)

you were lying on your stomach on peter's bed, watching him putter around his dorm room, putting together a presentation for his photography elective. you didn't have a due date for another week, so you had taken the chance to lounge around and laugh at peter for his assignment woes. you were scrolling through instagram when an ad for some baby clothes company came up.

"urgh," you groaned, "i look up baby carriers one time and now instagram thinks i'm pregnant."

peter looked at you from the floor where several undeveloped rolls of pictures surrounded him. "why'd you look up baby carriers?"

"i thought it'd be funny to put my spider-plushie in there and carry it around campus. like 'here's my baby, oh wait it's spider-man!'" you replied with a grin.

"i should have never allowed spider-plushie to be made. you're a menace to society, y/n," peter replied. "anyways, what's so bad about instagram giving you all those ads? never too early to start looking for good baby stuff."

you raised an eyebrow. "i'm not going to hoard baby supplies for a baby that i'll never have, peter. that's weird."

"what do you mean, 'for a baby you'll never have?'" peter asked, to which you groaned again.

"peter. my darling. love- no, wait- larb of my life. i thought you knew? must not have told you. i don't really want kids," you said, shuffling to the edge of the bed so you could hang off of it, putting your hands on the floor to keep yourself horizontal. you were really close to peter's face.

peter's now sad, pouting face.

"you don't want kids?" he asked, feeling his future almost melt away. he'd always imagined having a few kids, watching them grow up and go off to school and then college and growing old with you in your cosy little suburban house with a nice backyard and secret basement for all his spider-man needs. peter loved kids. he often went to orphanages and hospitals to play with and give hope to the kids of new york.

"sorry," you said honestly. "i've just never seen myself with kids."

"you'd make a great mom though," peter whined. you blushed a little- it was a nice compliment, sure, but motherhood wasn't really your style.

"thanks, but... i dunno. it's just not for me."

"not even hearing tiny human feet running to you after a hard day of work and having the tiny little body belonging to said tiny little feet run into you, babbling about how they missed you?" peter asked, his puppy-eyes in full effect now.

but you weren't going to fall victim to his tricks. "no," you replied, a soft smile on your face. "that's your dream, not mine, babe. 'no kids' is the first clause of my mental relationship contract."

"but why not?"

"like i said. not my thing."

three days passed, and you had started on your assignment. it was now peter's turn to hang around your dorm and laugh at your assignment woes. you were at your desk, typing away; peter was sitting against your bed on the floor, messing around with his camera.

he cleared his throat. you decided to ignore him, thinking it was just something he needed to do. but then he did it again. you spun your chair to face him.

"yes, peter?" you asked with an air of exasperation.

"i was just thinking. about what you said the other day," he replied, innocent smile on his face- but you knew better. you knew what he was talking about- that damn kids conversation, but you decided to mess with him a little.

"what did i say the other day? was it the thing about deep-dish pizza? because i'm still absolutely serious about that, you know. or was it about naming my spider plant peter- is that a little too on the nose? because the name has stuck, i'm not changing it," you said, giving a leaf of peter the spider plant on your desk a soft stroke.

"ha ha," peter deadpanned. "first of all, i'm still deeply, truly offended about the deep-dish pizza, this is new york, we are not heathens. secondly, naming a plant after me is a little weird. thirdly, it's about the kids thing."

you raised your eyebrows and formed your mouth into a little 'o' in mock surprise. "that little old thing?" you asked, heavily faking nonchalance. "i do not remember it. i cannot read suddenly, i do not know."

"it was a verbal conversation, babe," peter laughed. "it's just- you don't wanna feel that fear and apprehension but also relief of sending your kid off to their first day of school? being so proud of them for making it this far, knowing that it was all you?"

you shrugged. "again, not really for me. i don't like feeling, peter, you know that."

"you literally sobbed over that talking dog movie the other day," peter pointed out, and you flapped a hand at him vaguely.

"i was on my period, hormones do that to you," you huffed. peter just looked at you with his eyebrows raised. you stared at him, before- "okay, fine, he was abandoned, that shit's sad! and right at the end of the movie? who does that! so i feel very strongly about dogs being abandoned. but other than that, i don't like feeling, having emotions is so last year."

peter laughed, so you turned back around and continued your essay.

it was another week before peter brought up the kid thing again. you had refused to even so much as think about children the whole time, because how dare peter try to out-debate you.

that was until you were having your fortnightly date night, involving a nice dinner, and a walk around central park, or watching a movie at the cinema, or just ordering pizza and making a blanket fort to watch disney movies in. on this particular night, you had gone to mcdonalds and ordered exclusively off their breakfast menu then left to have a faux-picnic at the local play park. it was almost seven in the evening, so all the kids had cleared off to go have dinner because it had gotten dark, so you two were sitting on a wooden bridge between the slide and mini rock-climbing wall.

peter was staring off to the side of the park, where a small group of teenagers were playing basketball on the one-hoop court. you stared at him.

"whatcha thinking about?" you asked, taking a bite of your mcmuffin.

"what if we have a kid and they grow up and want to go play basketball with their mates at seven in the evening and you're, like, worried they'll get mugged or make bad choices but also happy that they've got friends and do sports and trust you enough to ask?" peter blurted out. you stared at him, mid-chew.

you swallowed thickly. "if you wanna go play basketball with the kids so bad, go. i'll keep your food safe for you. by eating it."

"no, i'm serious!" peter looked at you. "like, that's a milestone! but what if the kid gets mugged or kidnapped or something and we have to pay a ransom or call the police about it?"

"you're spider-man, peter," you pointed out, now taking a sip of your milkshake. "you'd probably go and watch over the kid then rush home when they leave and try to be nonchalant about the fact that you were just watching them, and they'd see through you because you're a horrible liar or something."

"does this mean you want a-"

"no."

peter flashed his puppy-eyes at you, but you were too busy seeing if mcmuffins, hash browns and milkshakes tasted good when eaten at the same time to care.

"ok, y/n," peter announced as soon as he opened his dorm door for you, "i thought about why you don't want kids. most mothers are terrified of childbirth. so, and hear me out, we adopt."

you put your bag down on his floor and flopped on his bed. "nah."

"seriously?"

there was something in peter's tone that made you sit up and look at him, fully prepared to be sincere and honest. "pete, look. it's not childbirth that scares me- i mean, yeah, that much pain is terrifying and i never ever want to go through it, but... i just don't like kids. never have."

"why? how can you not like children, they're adorable."

you raised an eyebrow. "they're messy. snotty. gross- dirty in general. they can't wipe their own noses until they're like, three. that's disgusting, i'm not cleaning other humans' snot off their faces. you get no sleep, no breaks, and you know i'm not a people person- i can't really handle being around people 24/7. even you, pete, i'm sorry," you explained, and peter pursed his lips.

"you like your cousins," he said.

"i kind of have to like my cousins, pete. but i don't have to see them every hour of every day. i barely even see them once a month. i need breaks, and rest, and to be alone sometimes. and to be appreciated. and validated. i'm basically baby and need validation, like, all the time. kids don't do that." you stood up and walked to peter, holding his hands. "i know how much kids mean to you, and maybe i'll change my mind in the future, but right now, i'm scared."

"of what?" peter whispered.

"of growing up. of being responsible for another human life. of having to be an adult and having all these responsibilities. i love you and i trust you, but i don't like to think of the future too much. i live in the present, pete. live mas, forever is composed of nows, everything else is uncertain, carpe diem, the world is burning, hotel trivago, i don't know," you sighed, "just trust me on this, okay?"

peter nodded, giving you a quick kiss. "i love you so much, i'm sorry for bugging you."

"it's okay, love," you giggled, "it was getting kind of funny, actually. you did research on why people don't have kids. that's hilarious."

peter laughed, dipping his head down. you poked at his curls. "i guess i got a little carried away."

"live the extra life, peter. never let anyone tell you that there's such thing as getting carried away."

you were sitting in a class, barely awake, your laptop in front of you showing an empty word document. your silenced phone lit up, showing your lock screen of peter running into tape in the doorway of his room at aunt may's apartment. you unlocked it to see peter's newest text message.

peter: i did a thing

y/n: oh god what did you do

peter: i found a baby

y/n: i'm sorry? a whole ass baby?

y/n: you found an entire baby? lying around????

y/n: peter we talked about this you know i'm frightened of responsibility, that's your thing

peter left you on read, so you stared, mildly outraged, at your phone, totally ignoring your professor. ten minutes later, peter replied.

peter: sorry the baby peed on my backpack i had to put it in the wash

y/n: i'm SORRY??

peter: i know we can't have babies in the dorm but he was just so cute i couldn't help myself

y/n: peter did you just kidnap a random trash baby what is happening do i need to leave class

peter: nononono i've got it, he's a little rambunctious

y/n: big words for a dumbass

peter: i couldn't say no to those eyes, y/n

a picture popped up on your screen. of a puppy. a little spaniel puppy was looking into the camera with the biggest, brightest brown eyes you had ever seen on any living being. peter's camera was so close to the puppy's face that his snout was elongated, making him look even cuter.

y/n: !!!

y/n: those eyes!

peter: those eyes!!!

peter: !!!!!!!!!!

peter: can we keep him?

y/n: i think you need to take him to the vet first

peter: i found him by a dumpster while doing patrol, i don't think anyone owns him

y/n: wait ten minutes so i can get out of class and then we are taking him to the vet, peter benjamin 'dognapper' parker, this isn't about if someone owns him it's about if this dog has worms and you just infested your entire dorm with illegal trash puppy worm germs

peter: can we name him spider-pup i think he needs to be my sidekick

y/n: PETER YOU MAY HAVE JUST INTRODUCED FLEAS TO YOUR DORM BUILDING YOU ARE SO LUCKY I LOVE YOU

peter, of course, left you on read. god damn that boy.

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ashwayssunny · 5 years

Text

carry that weight.

hello! here’s a lil fic that nobody asked for. aka, dennis spends the night on the couch. set during “the gang gets romantic,” so it’s tagged for spoilers! warnings for brief mentions of v*miting, drug use, and dennis-typical creepiness.

Like most nights, he couldn’t sleep. He’d felt a headache building for hours, had known it would be a nasty one as soon as the woman Mac had unceremoniously decided to pair him with revealed she was no single woman after all. He wasn’t sure if he’d lost interest in the scheme then, or if he’d simply never had any to begin with. Either way, he’d had to swallow his complaints. It would’ve been so simple - should’ve been so simple - for him to crawl into Mac’s bed, drift away, and forget the scheme altogether, but the way his skin burned like he’d laid down on a bed of hot coals told him it simply would not be.

The couch was not meant to host an overnight guest. It was uncomfortable on the best of days, and today was not one of its best days. It was cold, the leather warped and torn in odd places, and so lumpy, Dennis felt as if he were trying to get comfortable on the head of a giant mushroom. He was cold, too, as he always was, and the throw blanket he must’ve stolen from his sister no less than ten years ago offered him no support. He dreaded the way his back would ache in the morning, and the thought of it was almost enough to send him running back to Mac’s room with his tail between his legs. Almost.

The woman - Lisa, he remembered vaguely, though he’d thought he’d made it a rule for himself that knowing their names cheapened the experience - was attractive enough. Slender figure, inauspicious features, a face he’d forget once it wriggled out from underneath him. He liked redheads. Mac knew that, of course. Mac seemed to know many things about him; Dennis didn’t know why that surprised him after nearly twenty-five years of cohabitation. I know you, man, Mac had said to him once in a way that sounded quite like he was saying something else. Dennis remembered fighting back tears for the first time since childhood. Mac was so close, he thought, just in the other room, nothing but paint and drywall between them. If Dennis concentrated hard enough, he could make out the sound of him snoring obscenely; he pictured Mac’s arms and legs tossed haphazardly over themselves, knew he was drooling into his one and only pillowcase-less pillow. He wondered, if he had stayed, if Mac would be drooling into his shoulder instead.

Dennis rolled onto his side, pushing those thoughts away. The current occupants of his room seemed to still be awake; the walls in their apartment would certainly win no awards for protecting anyone’s privacy, and despite his best efforts to soundproof the room, sound escaped just as frequently and as forcefully as so many failed sexual escapades that passed through that very same door. Twenty-five years’ worth of sexual escapades. Dennis tried not to think too hard about how long twenty-five years truly was. Until recently, he’d been twenty-five in his head, willfully ignorant of the passage of time, but now as he stared down the reality of being nearly twice that age, the bliss that came with his willful ignorance had all but disappeared. At twenty-five, he could shoot tequila till the sun came up, sleep for a few hours, and go on about his day, rinsing and repeating each night in a pattern that became as comfortable and familiar to him as waking up and falling asleep. He would always vomit, of course, because a weak stomach and an easily triggered gag reflex was something, among other things he didn’t care to admit, he shared with his twin sister. Now he was lucky if vomiting was all that came of nights like that. After thirty-five, his hangovers seemed to evolve, lasting days and robbing him of usefulness for what seemed like weeks, like months, like years. Now, pushing forty-five, it was not so easy to rinse and repeat.

A brief but unmistakable sob came from his room, and Dennis rolled his eyes but was secretly grateful for distraction. His thoughts returned to the woman, Lisa. He remembered trying to stare at her. It wasn’t unusual; he often studied his targets, drank them in like a smooth crème de menthe. He knew it made them uneasy, and he’d liked it that way. But his eyes kept drifting, and it was jarring to him in a way he could not pinpoint. He didn’t feel anything when he looked at her; then again, he didn’t feel anything when he looked at any of them, but a deep, burning lust that boiled in his brain and in his stomach and told him he would combust if he didn’t touch someone was ever-present. Or it had been. It wasn’t now, and that was most jarring of all. Lisa was attractive enough; sweet-faced, red-haired, curvy in the best places, and totally, completely uninteresting to him. He wondered if something in him was broken for good this time, if he could never get it back, if he even wanted to get it back. If he even wanted anything at all.

Another sob choked its way through the silence of their apartment, grating on Dennis’s eardrums. He groaned aloud, hating Mac for putting him through this. He considered turning on the TV in the living room and popping in a Rambo DVD just to rattle him awake with the sound of gunfire. When more muffled whimpering made him clench his fists tightly to his body, he decided he needed some other noise, anything else, to drown it out. He reached for his phone across the coffee table, sliding past the home screen and opening his Spotify app. With shaky hands, he pressed the ‘shuffle’ button on a Rock Classics playlist, closing his eyes and placing his phone next to his ear. Soft, simple piano chords started to loosen the knot in his chest, and when Paul McCartney’s sweet voice began to dance against his eardrum, he smiled in spite of himself. His eyes drifted shut. “Once there was a way to get back homeward,” Paul sang, “once there was a way to get back home...”

He’d tried to look at her legs. He’d forced himself to stare. They were nice enough, as was the curve of her ass, but he felt no familiar twinge of desire. Why couldn’t he just look at her legs? Instead, he felt fear. Months could by at times without him feeling anything at all, and though that frightened him, he knew he could substitute physical arousal for emotion with a relatively high rate of success. It didn’t make him feel happy, but it made him feel something. And that counted. Every drop of water in the desert of his emotional terrain was appreciated, was needed. Like any desert, he could dry up for months, not a feeling in sight, but once the rainy season began, it ran its course with such forceful agony, he wondered if the therapist he’d seen with Dee so many years ago was on to something after all.

“Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry...”

Why had he agreed to the scheme at all? As the verses repeated, he turned the question over and over in his mind, poking holes in his own arguments, tearing down his own defenses. Obviously he’d done the scheme to satisfy Mac, but... why? Dennis bristled at the thought of Mac having purposefully booked a married couple to force Dennis into his room, but his reaction to the unfortunate existence of Lisa’s husband seemed genuine. Dennis knew Mac well enough to know when he was lying. He paused, considering that thought. He’d seen Mac lie through his teeth a thousand times, and he was bad at it because Dennis knew that he wore his heart on his sleeve, but how many others knew that about him? How many others could sniff out Mac’s lies, pick his laugh out of a crowd of a thousand, recognize even the faintest hint of his scent when Mac’s clothes inevitably mixed with some of his own in the wash? I know you, man, Mac’s voice whispered in his head.

Lisa, he said to himself. He needed to think about Lisa. Lisa, with her red hair and her red, snotty nose and her husband. Dennis nearly scoffed. What a ridiculous thing to want to have. Perhaps if he tried hard enough, conjured Lisa’s face above Jackie DeNardo’s chest, it would work. He could rub out a quick one and be asleep in twenty minutes. For whatever reason, however, his mind’s eye could not linger on her. Lisa’s face warped and changed shape, shifting into something so unrecognizable, he could not remember it at all. What was it he’d said to Mac earlier? That this whole thing felt desperate, felt unlike him? Odd, he conceded, for a man who once purchased a boat to help him attract women. But Dennis had run the same course, danced the same steps so many times between twenty-five and forty-five, he’d finally begun to dream about packing up his tap shoes and retiring the show for good. Performing, yes, it was all a performance - albeit an excellent one, he gave himself - but a performance nonetheless, and one he feared may finally be better left to a younger man. But perhaps he could do it. Dennis Reynolds had done everything in his life with grace, with poise and mystique. Why should aging be any different? He could retire the skin of his old self like a baseball jersey; some ill-fitting thing at which he could look back and smile but no longer had the power to squeeze him to fit its mold. Yes, that would be nice.

The drums cascaded like a waterfall down the track and forced in a new tune. “Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight, carry that weight a long time...”

And what would be left there, in the empty space between the old Dennis and the new? Dennis swallowed hard without meaning to as another face took shape in his mind, a much more familiar face. Mac smiled at him so sweetly that morning, his giddiness about scheming together again palpable in the air. Mac smiled at him earlier, too, lying next to him silently, their arms brushing just enough to set that part of Dennis’s skin on fire. Mac had always looked at him that way. It made him seem younger. Dennis wondered if perhaps that was because it reminded him of high school, of smoking pot underneath the stadium bleachers, of Mac staying late at his house and beating him for fifteen rounds of Killer Instinct just so he wouldn’t have to go home. Mac still looked at him that way, even when that Dennis and the Dennis he was now seemed lifetimes apart.

“Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight, carry that weight a long time...”

Feet moving before he even made the conscious decision, Dennis slinked off the couch, feeling his way through the darkness until his fingers curled around Mac’s doorknob. Yes, maybe he’d done the scheme to make Mac happy, to spend time with him, to make-believe their friendship hadn’t taken a turn for the worst in recent years. Dennis knew he had to shoulder most of the blame, but perhaps it didn’t have to be that way. He was so tired of performing, so tired of playing a character that nobody, especially Mac, believed in anymore. And if Mac already knew him, truly knew him in the way that he had so long feared being known, then why play the character at all?

Dennis assuredly but slowly creaked open Mac’s door, shuffling forward until he nearly tripped over the bare mattress. Mac was snoring, but the sound was familiar, and Dennis was suddenly tired enough to deal with it. He laid down as quietly as possible, but Mac’s cheap old mattress practically screamed beneath him, and Mac rolled over, eyes wide and stark white in the darkness, searching until he found Dennis’s face.

“Den?” he asked. “What are you doing?”

“Shhhh, go to sleep,” Dennis said, slipping his legs underneath Mac’s blanket. He curled his arms inward on his chest, contouring his body to fit around Mac’s shape without actually touching him. Mac didn’t protest, only sighed softly and inched just a bit closer. “The couch was killing my back,” Dennis whispered, and Mac chuckled.

“Figured,” he yawned, rolling back over. Dennis’s eyes popped open, and he stared at the back of Mac’s head for a long moment before swallowing and letting out a little yawn himself. He released the tension he’d been holding since that morning in his jaw, and with the familiar scent of Mac’s hair gel on their shared pillow consuming him, sleep finally came.

#iasip s14 #s14 spoilers #the gang gets romantic #iasip #it's always sunny in philadelphia #mac mcdonald #dennis reynolds #macdennis #macdennis fanfic #fanfiction #WOW #i'm uhhhh #idk what to say about this one #i just wanted to write some macdennis shit for abbey road's 50th anniversary ig #anyways stan macdennis #and stream abbey road!!!!#personal #lonely girl queue are my world

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sunflower-le-tournesol · 5 years

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Snowbaz - Relationship, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow Characters: Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Snow Storm, Cuddling/Snuggling, for survival!, mostly!, Fluff, Light Angst, Hypothermia, Frostbite, Pre-Relationship, so many tropes and cliches, baz is lovesick, Hurt/Comfort, Protective!Baz Summary:

Clearly, this is not the first time that Simon Snow has nearly frozen to death.

It’s a bit horrifying, so I try not to dwell on it.

Fortunately, I have plenty of other things to keep me occupied, like the threat of frostbite and hypothermia.

... Or, Simon and Baz get stuck in a blizzard.

Baz

Clearly, this is not the first time that Simon Snow has nearly frozen to death.

It’s a bit horrifying, so I try not to dwell on it.

Fortunately, I have plenty of other things to keep me occupied, like the threat of frostbite and hypothermia.

While I’m not actually sure that the cold can kill a vampire, it’s certainly not a pleasant experience, and I know the cold can definitely kill a Chosen One.

Simon is shivering so hard I’m afraid that he might chip a tooth.

I give his fingers a squeeze.

Crowley, mine barely want to cooperate.

If we don’t do something soon, we’re fucked.

“We nn... need shelter,” Simon manages to mutter through his chattering teeth. He’s got his hand wrapped around mine to link us together, fearful that we’ll lose each other the storm, an unseasonal white out that swept in quickly and viciously. “We’ll never ma-make it b-b-back to Watford.”

He’s right.

The strength of my warming charms waned as the chill set into my bones, and every time I tried to start a fire, the frigid wind snuffed it out.

We’re running out of time.

“L-look for a ca-cave or a b-b-big tr-ee.... Any-nything that can b-block the w-wind.”

We trudge through more than a foot of snow, and it’s slow going despite our best efforts.

Simon squints against an icy gust and murmurs, “Th-think... I see... something. Up. Ahead.”

I follow his line of sight and am suddenly grateful for my enhanced senses. There’s an outcropping of rock no more than half a meter in the distance. Patches of gray stone and muddy forest floor are just barely visible, but it’s enough.

“Thank fuck,” I mumble through my chapped lips.

I start tugging Snow in the proper direction, but he stumbles and lags behind a step.

“M’fine,” he answers before I can ask, and then he’s back in step at my side. The wind howls as we continue in silence, and Simon bumbles into me a handful of times as we cross the icy expanse. He apologizes, and I notice that his lips are turning blue.

I urge him faster.

We’ve nearly made it to our best chance at shelter when his hand goes limp in my own and his knees buckle.

I get an arm under his shoulders just before he hits the ground and lower him the rest of the way. Protectively, I hunch over him and brush the frosty curls from his uncharacteristically pale face.

“Shit, Simon,” I swear. “Shit. Get up.”

His eyelids twitch, but he doesn’t open them. “Ngh. Baz?” he groans. His mouth twists into a frown. “S’cold.”

It can’t be good for him to be lying in this shit.

“I’m fucking aware, Snow,” I curse as I haul him back to his feet. It’s harder than it should be for someone like me, and he sways as soon as he’s upright.

“M’tired, Baz,” he whines as the snowflakes catch on his eyelids. They don’t even melt, and he’s normally a furnace.

I brace him with both hands on his biceps and look over his shoulder toward the makeshift cave.

And then I scoop Simon into my arms.

He doesn’t complain, which is a bad sign in its own right.

Somehow he’s languid and stiff, and he uses the last of his strength to curl against my chest.

His breath puffs against my jaw in short pants.

His head lolls onto my shoulders and a few bronze curls spill out from beneath his hat.

Fuck.

I tighten my arms around him, and l haul us both through a blizzard with single minded focus.

Simon

Baz is swearing and spelling under his breath, and he sounds scared, which is weird.

Baz is never scared.

My eyes don’t want to open, so I take stock with my other senses.

I’m lying on the ground, but there’s something soft under my head.

Something rustles, and there’s a sudden burst of warmth. Baz sighs audibly and sags in relief somewhere near my head.

Then his hands are on my face, and they feel warm to me, which is not probably not good because Baz runs so much cooler than I do.

I crack open an eye. His expression floods with relief, and he drags me closer to the small crackling fire.

“Crowley, you’re fucking soaked,” Baz cringes and starts stripping me out of his coat with fumbling fingers. “Don’t you own anything that’s waterproofed?”

It’s not really a question. “Fuck. Why aren’t you shivering?”

This one isn’t really, either, but I force myself to respond even though my tongue feels like it weighs twenty pounds, “S’bad.”

Baz pauses in his ministrations before he’s back at it with military precision. Once he’s got the coat off, he tries a drying spell, but he’s too drained for it to do any good.

Baz snarls, punches the frozen ground, and proceeds to tug off my sopping jumper and undershirt. They hit the rock with a wet smack when Baz flings them to the side.

Baz’s mouth twists into contemptuous scowl when he sees my trainers. I don’t own boots, but I don’t bother to point it out. He pulls off my shoes and socks. I can’t quite hide the wince.

“Aleister fucking Crowley,” Baz swears. My feet have been numb for awhile. They just look awful.

Baz grimaces, but then his expression becomes more resolute.

He deftly unbuttons my trousers and tugs them down over my hips, knees, and frozen toes.

I’m left in my pants, but only for a moment.

I’m too tired to care anyway.

Baz sheds his own coat, wraps it around me, and then drags me into his lap. My heads come to rest against his chest, but he’s still not finished.

His missing scarf must have been my makeshift pillow, and he unfolds it before wrapping it around my feet and tucking them under the coat.

When he’s done, he pulls it over my head to trap in the heat.

“If you fucking feeeze to death, Simon, I’ll kill you,” Baz threatens. I make an affirmative noise low in my throat. It’s all I can manage right now.

“Don’t go to sleep,” he chides after a few minutes of quiet. He’s parroting my advice back to me, and I chuckle. It comes out a little hoarse, a little broken. “Why exactly do you know so much about exposure? Did the Mage take you on an exhibition to fight a Yeti?” I shake my head.

“No? Do tell,” Baz is going for his usual snotty aristocratic tone, but I know him well enough to hear the tremor of panic hiding underneath his sneer.

I lick my lips and try to force the words out of my mouth, “L-locked out. Got. Locked out.”

I was little. It was a crowded group home with overburdened foster parents, who were strict on curfew. To drive their point home, they locked their door at nine o’ clock and refused to open it.

I missed the deadline one time, and I never missed it again.

An older girl who had been living on the streets prior to the placement told me everything she knew about surviving exposure as we huddled for warmth against the side of the house.

“Just in case you ever need to know,” she’d said. She was probably no more than fifteen, but her eyes seemed much older. “Sometimes I have better luck roughing it.”

It was a long night.

She ended up running off again a few days later, and people the children’s welfare office eventually took us all to a new group home.

I don’t know what happened to her.

Sometimes I still wonder.

Baz

Simon still isn’t shivering.

I’m bloody freezing, and it’s getting more difficult to remember all the bits about survival he’d rattled off from memory when the storm took a turn for the worse.

I know he mentioned something about skin-to-skin contact because I nearly went into cardiac arrest.

Not that I can go into cardiac arrest.

I think.

If anything is going to give me a heart attack, though, it’s definitely the idea of being pressed together with Simon Snow in nothing but our pants.

I’m too worried to really enjoy his proximity at the moment, but I can’t imagine I’ll have any real composure if I’m forced to strip down as well.

Idiot. Of course he couldn’t have dressed for the weather. My layers are relatively dry, but Snow walked out into a blizzard in his usual brand of street urchin chic and fucking trainers.

And now I’ve got a lapful if Chosen One freezing to death in my arms.

I used the last of my magical reserves to dry enough kindling to keep the fire going and cast Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

I’m spent.

I’m out of options.

And then Simon sniffles.

Fuck.

Okay, sure, this is fucking happening.

This is what my fucking ridiculous life has come to.

I can’t help my frustrated snarl as I yank my tie loose and unbutton my sweater.

Bundling the coat more securely around Snow, I push him away just long enough to finish removing my own clothes.

Once I’m basically starkers, I drag him back into my lap and fold him against my chest. He’s compliant, like a limpet, and I hate it because usually he’s sparking with life and energy. Literally .

I wrap my clothing over both of us and rub my hands up and down Snow’s arms, hoping to create some friction and generate some warmth.

I tuck his frozen feet underneath my bare thigh and suck in a suffering breath through my nose because fuck, those are fucking cold.

And then I try to ignore that fact that I’m in my pants, pressed up against Simon, who is also in his pants.

He doesn’t make a single comment about our predicament, which only serves to make me more anxious.

Okay. I need to keep him awake, like he said; I’ll keep him talking.

“Snow,” I nudge him with my shoulder, “How d-did you get l-locked out?” He doesn’t respond, so I jar him a little more forcefully.

He grumbles weakly, but he finally says, “Was... late.”

“Late?”

“Care... home,” he says, like it explains anything. “Locked... out.”

“You w-were late,” I puzzle out aloud, lowly, “so they locked y-you out?”

Simon nods.

“Use your words, you n-nightmare,” I chastise, but there’s no real best to it. It’s just habit, an automated response.

Because right now I’m sticking on the implication of his words.

Who the fuck locks a child outside for being late?

Even a child as annoying as Simon Snow.

I had assumed that a number of the care homes had left something to be desired: Every year Simon came back underfed, his blue eyes too big in his face, and sometimes he ended up sicking up in the bathroom after the first few meals if he overcompensated.

Truthfully, he’d come back to Watford bruised up some years, but I had assumed it was related to the Mage or the Humdrum, or that Simon had just gotten into a row with some other boys their age.

I curl more protectively over Simon without realizing what I’m doing.

What if there were no summer excursions with the Mage? What if it was more than a few tussles with peers?

Suddenly, the sickening image of a faceless man towering over a too thin Simon Snow fills my mind.

I’m shaking now, but it’s not cold anymore: It’s rage.

Simon

“Baz?” I ask. He’s gone strangely rigid, tensed like he’s angry, like a snake coiled to spring.

His shivering feels more like fine trembling, and I can sense a shift in his mood.

Baz is pissed off.

I hope he’s not about to shove me off him and back into the blizzard. I don’t think I’d last long, especially in my pants.

I’ve actually started to warm up, I think. I might just be imagining it, though. I guess that’s what happens when you’re too cold for too long. You don’t even realize you’re cold anymore, and that’s what kills you.

I really don’t want to die out here.

It’s too anticlimactic for the Mage’s heir.

Baz shifts, and somehow I’m snuggled even closer to his bare chest. My cheek rests on his shoulder, and my lips are pressed against the skin just above his collarbone.

It’s intimate.

I can feel the heat creeping into my face.

“Baz?”

He flinches when I repeat his name, but then he abruptly settles. His voice is emotionless when he asks, “What h-happened next?”

Talking is exhausting, so I try to keep it brief. Even I know that’s counterproductive, but I’m so fucking tired.

“S’long night. Rainy,” I try not to think about the way my lips brush over his skin, like a kiss.

I like it.

I want to do it again.

I stop that train of thought before it can gain any more traction.

This is survival. This is purely platonic.

We’re just cuddling platonically for survival, like I told Baz earlier.

I’ve always found Baz to be pretty fit, though, and feeling him up close like this is doing things to me.

I don’t know where the urge to snog my roommate is coming from right now, but I can’t let myself make this weird.

And then Baz buries his nose in my hair and inhales.

I shiver. Baz’s fingers flex.

He whispers, “They l-locked you out all n-night?”

It’s so strange to hear him stuttering, so unlike the carefully composed Baz that I’m used to.

He must be freezing.

“Mhmm,” I answer. “Welfare... c-came a few days... la-later. Moved all.. all of us.” I close my eyes and picture her face, “Sometimes... I still... look for her?”

“Who?”

“The girl,” I say. I don’t know why I’m telling him of all people. I’ve never told anyone. “She ran... away. Said... sometimes it was better... on the streets.”

A chill pierces me to the core. Sometimes I worried it was my fault. The police questioned me and everything once they found out she’d run off, but I couldn’t tell them anything useful.

I cuddle closer to Baz before I share the next bit, the fate I hoped she’d avoided, “She... saw a guy freeze... to death once... Said he went to sleep... and he never woke... up.”

I’m seeking comfort more than warmth at the moment, but I hope he can’t tell the difference.

Thankfully, he does comment on the fact that I’ve wiggled even closer, nestled snugly into his chest. Instead, he asks, “H-how old w-were you?”

I purse my lips, think, and answer, “Seven? Probably.”

Baz curses under his breath and spits something about a prize for fucked up childhoods.

“S’fine... I think... they felt b-bad,” I recall. “I got an... extra serving at breakfast the next... morning.”

I’m not sure I’m making sense anymore, honestly.

Baz seems to follow my train of thought, thiufh, as he darkly drawls, “How nice of them to feed you .” He huffs, “I can’t believe this is how we’re going to die.”

“You’re already dead,” I remind him, and then I frown because it seems sort of cruel, “Kind of.”

Baz snorts, and I like the sound.

But I’m tired, so I yawn, my eyelashes flutter, and Baz twitches before he softens, “Stay awake. It’s my destiny to kill you. I won’t be upstaged by a snowstorm.” I can feel his lips quirk against my forehead, “The irony would be insufferable.”

“Mmm,” I agree. “Do... you still want to...kill me?”

“Of c-course,” he responds without missing a beat, and somehow this makes me sad.

Most of the time I think he’s joking now, but if I’m going to die of hypothermia, I don’t want to take any chances or leave anything unsaid.

“Oh.”

The cold is really starting to get to me, making me emotional, because I want to make sure he understands. He needs to know.

I need him to know.

I swallow, “I don’t... want... to kill you.”

“How noble,” he lilts, and I know he’s not taking me seriously.

Fine.

I’ll make him listen.

My limbs feel heavy and clumsy, but I sit up even though Baz makes a sound of confusion and tries to pull me back, but I’m on a mission.

He’s staring at me in the relative darkness of our clothing fort like I’ve gone round the bind, but it doesn’t matter.

I take his perfect face in my hands and try to ignore the softness of his skin.

I force him to look me in the eye, and now our faces are probably too close together.

Close enough to kiss.

“I don’t want... to kill... you,” I repeat. “I haven’t... for a long... t-time.”

Baz

Snow is driving me mad.

I’m sick with worry over how quickly he’s deteriorating, but I’m also completely distracted by him.

Every tiny shift, the brush of his lips against my clavicle when he speaks, his eyelashes on my skin, his breath against the column of my throat, the soft little noises he makes when he leans more firmly against me, it’s going to be the death of me.

I knew Snow would kill me.

Proper noun, common noun, fuck it all, this is my life.

Now he’s cupping my face between his palms like I’m something precious, important, and pinning me with the intensity of those vibrant blue eyes.

I think my heart is going to beat out of my chest.

I love this stupid, noble idiot.

His speech is slurred, but he fights to make his point.

“I’m... glad the Crucible... put us together.”

Oh, fuck no.

My blood sours in my veins.

This is not goodbye.

I am not doing this right now.

My hands drop to his shoulders and I shake him, “Shut up.” I’m growling, which would be embarrassing if weren’t so fucking scared right now. “Shut up.”

He shakes his head, “I... mean it.” He tilts forward until our foreheads are touching, “I mean... it, Baz.”

He shudders abruptly, and his eyes roll, like he’s used the last of his strength to say this to me, like my name is the last word he’ll ever say, like I would want him to waste his fucking breath on me right now.

He collapses against me.

Fuck.

“Simon,” I shake him. Nothing. “Simon. Wake up.”

The panic I’ve managed to contain begins to grip my body like a vice. “Simon,” I implore. “Simon. Please.”

The silence stretches.

The whiteout rages around us.

We may as well be the only two people in the universe.

I pat his face insistently, trying to wake him, “Simon, love, please.”

Fuck.

His heart rate is so slow, and his nails are turning blue.

And I can’t watch him die.

So I smack my numb hands against my thigh until I get some feeling back.

And then I slap him.

Hard.

“Ngh,” he groans pathetically, but his eyes blink open. “Stay awake,” I demand. I clear my throat, suck in a breath, and confess, “I don’t want to kill you either, okay? So stay awake.”

He sighs, “S’good. T’nks.”

And then then he reaches for me.

I’m hovering over him, so I lean forward. When I’m close enough, he grabs my shoulders and pulls at me until I lie beside him. He’s too weak to make me do anything, but I go willingly.

I rearrange our cocoon, and Simon tucks himself against my side until there’s no space between us.

My arm comes around him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I run a hand over his back, and he makes a pleased humming sound that makes my heart hammer in my chest and my face flush.

He whispers, “Hey, Baz?”

“What, Snow?”

He waits, like he’s thinking of something, “I like... this better than... k-killing each other.”

My fingers still for a moment before I admit, “Me too.”

I smile humorlessly, “Though I could do without the threat of frostbite.”

“Mm,” Simon agrees.

The fire snaps and pops, merry and indifferent to our predicament, and if I close his eyes, I can almost imagine that we’re anywhere else.

It’s a stolen moment, where I can’t help but dream that this is something that I can have, keep.

The wind howls, Simon shudders, and I weave my fingers through his matted bronze curls.

It’s indulgent.

I can’t even justify it by claiming that I’m trying to keep Simon warm.

No, this is just affection and desire, the desire to bring comfort, the desire to be something more if only for a little while.

Simon

Baz slaps me two more times before he announces that the worst of the storm seems to have passed.

He crawls out of the mess of clothing.

When I peek our, he snarls at me, “You’re g-going to freeze.”

And then he pulls his coat back over my head.

The next time I try to look, he’s fully dressed and somehow still looks poised and posh in spite of the last few hours.

It’s unfair.

When he doesn’t scold me, I make a grab for my discarded shirt, but it’s cold and stiff and damp.

Baz flowers. “I didn’t save your l-life just for you to c-catch your death now.”

He punctuates his sentence by tossing his sweater to me.

I catch it out of reflex and blink, “But won’t y-you be c-cold?”

Baz barely looks up from primly straightening his bloody tie and quips, “I’m considerably more durable than you, Snow.”

“S-Simon,” I say automatically.

“Hmm?” he asks absently. He takes the jumper from my numb, fumbling hands and pulls it over my head. He does up the buttons in a snap.

Sputtering, I say, “You c-called me S-Simon. Earlier. I h-heard you.”

“You’re h-hallucinating,” Baz contradicts firmly, but the shivering ruins the effect.

He turns and hands me my trousers, which had been drying by the fire. I try not to combust when his fingertips graze my hips as he helps me pull them on.

I make a point not to look at him again until I’m mostly dressed.

“You d-did. You c-called me S-Simon.” I pause and consider my next admission, “I l-liked it.”

Baz whips away to grab his coat before I can see his reaction, and then he throws it over my shoulders with a flourish. It’s so long on me it nearly drags the ground.

“B-Baz,” I protest.

He presses a long, thin finger against my lips, and I’m suddenly thankful for the cold because I’m sure I would be crimson now.

I want to kiss his finger.

What the fuck.

“Be q-quiet, S-Simon.”

And I am.

Quiet, I mean. Stunned into silence while my heart tries to beat out of my chest.

His stormy gray eyes drop to my mouth, I swear, and then he turns away, brandishes his wand, and casts, “Follow the yellow brick road. ”

And maybe I am a bit delirious because I laugh when I hear the spell.

A yellow brick road rolls out in front of us before it disappears under the small hills of snow.

Baz steps out into it and kicks a mound aside to reveal more of the brick. He squints against the light.

I’m practically snowblind, but of course he adjusts quickly.

“It’s n-not far,” he says, and then he smirks, “You w-were leading us in the right d-direction after all.”

I’m glad because I don’t think I’m up for a long jaunt back to Watford. I have trouble just trying to stand up, and my feet feel like lead weights.

And then Baz is there with his hand outstretched.

I take it and slump unsteadily into his side.

I wait for a comment about my deficits of grace, but it never comes. Instead, he smoothly wraps my arms around his neck, twists, and lifts me onto his back with the sort of fluidity that’s both enviable and annoying.

His hands slide under my thighs.

“I can walk,” I lie.

“Don’t be stupid,” he replies.

He carries me like I weigh nothing, even if he teases me a few times and complains, and something about it all makes me feel lighter.

When we finally make it back to the gate, the yard is thankfully empty.

I’m already daydreaming of my bed and maybe a shower.

I’m sure Penny will come by later, and I’m sure I she would be happy to bring breakfast and cast a few warming charms.

But Baz doesn’t walk toward Mummer’s House.

I groan, “Can’t we j-just go to b-bed. Where c-could you possibly need to go r-right now?”

Baz hitches me a little higher on his back, and I yelp, which is embarrassing.

“The infirmary, obviously.”

My brow furrows. Is Baz sick? Is he hurt? Is he worse than he let on?

I squirm a little to get a better look at him and ask, “What’s w-wrong? Are y-you okay?”

He makes a put upon sound, “I’m fine.”

“Then w-why...?”

“You’re r-ridiculous,” he announces as he enters the main building.

A gust of heat rushes up to greet us, and I sigh.

He makes a left, and then we’re in the infirmary. He settles me on an empty bed with a gentleness I wouldn’t have thought him capable of before last night, and then he runs a hand through my hair before he disappears into the office.

“Dithering about in this weather,” Olga chastises as she emerges alongside him a minute later. “You’re lucky Basilton found you.”

I shoot him a look, and he shakes his head imperceptibly. Apparently we’re here for me, and he’s getting off scot free.

Olga jams a thermometer in my mouth and tuts when she reads the numbers, “Going to need warm saline.” She makes a note on a chart that seems to have appeared out of thin air and instructs, “But first you need to be dry. Take those wet things off.”

When she opens the supply closet to rifle for supplies, I start removing my clothes again , which is stupid. Really, I’m not that wet. Just my pants, my trousers, my shoes. Baz’s fancy designer jumper and coat kept me dry on the walk back to the school.

He’s the one she should be fussing over.

A button on the jumper catches on my hair, and I’m

about to tear it loose when Baz stills my hands and untangles the knot.

“This really isn’t necessary,” I tell him once I’m free of the thing. “And w-why aren’t you up on one of t-these beds getting l-looked over?”

Baz eyes me like I’m insane.

“You’re t-temperature is 35 degrees,” he says. He fixes me with a hard look and whispers, “I don’t think anyone needs to know m-mine.”

Oh. That’s a pretty good point, actually.

“Isn’t there a s-s-spell or s-something for this?” I ask him.

But it’s Olga who replies as she bumbles back over with an IV drip and a needle, “Sometimes the Normal way is best.” She jams the needle into the crook of my elbow, and I cringe.

A few droplets of blood well up around the puncture, and I glance to Baz, who looks wholly indifferent.

He must’ve fed sometime before we left last night.

Before I can think on it anymore, Olga bustles back over and holds out a few pills in a little paper cup and a glass of water.

I eye them warily. I’m not really in any kind of pain, or at least any I can’t handle. Dubiously, I insist, “I’m f-ine. Really.”

Olga isn’t having it. She rolls her eyes, “Basilton, please fill this tub with warm water. Warm, not hot.” Then she waves her wand at the bed until I’m sitting up in a reclined position. “Sit it here, please.”

Baz frowns thoughtfully, “Does he have frostbite?”

“Near enough,” she explains. “Mild though.”

She gestures for me to put my feet in the tub.

Once she’s finished prattling around me, she announces that she’s going to put the kettle on for tea in her quarters and insists it’ll do us both a world of good.

And then we’re alone.

Baz

I’m not sure what to do with myself once Olga vanishes back into to her rooms. While Snow and I have shared a room ourselves for years, there’s no real precedent for this moment.

Something between us has shifted, and I don’t know how to proceed.

I know what I want, but that’s a fantasy.

I’ll settle for whatever this is now, a truce, a tenuous friendship at best?

I’ll take what I can get.

I won’t ask for more.

I’m relieved when Olga pronounces his frostbite to be mild, and I’m amused by the way he pouts once her back is turned.

Honestly, this idiot came in here insisting he was fine. He thought there was something wrong with me , which is as endearing as it is ridiculous. I’m the vampire, as he has pointed out all these years. I didn’t even bother to correct him when he brought it up earlier. Why is he worried about me when he is the one who actually has frostbite?

Frankly, I’m already feeling marginally better now that we’re back inside, and I’m looking forward to the promise of tea.

I’m wondering if Olga will bring enough sugar and trying to figure out how to approach the change in our relationship when Simon suddenly hisses a breath through his clenched teeth.

I snap into focus and almost bask, “What?” His face scrunches up. “Do you need...?”

“No,” he gasps. “Shit that h-hurts.”

Oh. My eyes drift to the tub of water. Yes, re-warming is probably pretty miserable, like when a limb has fallen asleep too long, pins and needles.

Simon groans and his head drops back.

And I grab his hand.

Because I’m an idiot, and I can’t help myself.

The last several hours have been endless, and my overtaxed stronghold on my emotions is starting to fray.

But he doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes my hand and flashes me a grateful smile that soon becomes a grimace of pain

I brush my thumb over his knuckles, and he relaxes minutely, so I do it again.

The door opens, and I pull away before we’re seen.

Olga strides back into the room with two cups of tea that I accept gratefully. The warmth surges through me.

Meanwhile, Olga takes one look at Simon’s gray face and gives him a sympathetic pat, “The medicine should be working soon. You’ll likely sleep through most of the morning.”

I’m glad because his constant wincing is hard to watch.

“I’ll be back to give your feet a rest in half an hour,” she remarks. “Knock if you need me.”

And then she’s off.

I study the door and consider her for a moment as I take a second sip of my tea.

While everyone knows we don’t get along, Olga believes in the Crucible. Even if we were the reason the other was in the infirmary, she always still insisted on treating us like we were friendly.

And I’m grateful for it now because I don’t have to explain why I don’t want to leave.

Shakily, Simon sets his cup on the bedside table.

“You should s-sit,” he nods toward the chair next to his bed. “You h-have to be t-tired. I’m kn-knackered.”

I mock him lightly, but do as he asks, and he looks pleased.

We lapse into relative silence, save for the soft, pitiful noises he makes when the pain spikes. I hear him suck in a breath through his nose and see him squeeze his eyes shut against the pain.

And then he takes me by surprise because he suddenly grabs my hand, laces our fingers together like he’s done it a thousand times.

Stunned, I gaze at our joined hands a little too long before I look up to search his face.

Merlin, he’s blushing .

The color is hot in his cheeks, and I swallow.

He averts his blue eyes before he looks at me firmly, presses his lips together, stammers, “Is... Is this all r-right? I... kind of f-feel better, uh, f-felt better. When y-you were... um, holding me? I mean, when y-you were holding m-my hand, you know?”

Crowley. It’s too easy to remember the way he felt, pressed against my naked side. It’s too easy to picture him in my jumper, just a bit too long, and wrapped in my coat, like lovers sharing clothing.

And I imagine it.

I imagine waking up in the mornings with his head on my chest, his lips against my collar, my name on his tongue, a soft, sleepy smile just for me.

I see him in my football jersey, Pitch spelled out across his back like a declaration.

We hold hands just because we feel like it, just because it feels right .

And I love it.

Now that we’re out of the literal woods, it’s like an uncontrolled fire has been set alight inside of me.

Love, warming me from the inside out, too hot, too fast, too bright.

It’s blinding.

I can’t answer him.

I don’t trust myself.

But I don’t let go.

And I hope that’s enough.

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ccandystripe · 5 years

Text

Post Award Season Drag

Awards season did a number on everyone's immune system, but Rami had managed to expertly steer clear. It was the post-award season drag that was quick to knock him down.

Apparently his body had decided that after all important appearances were over for the time being, all immune defenses could be lowered for the time being. At least his body was being lymphatically considerate.

His ideal form of celebration was not slumping on the couch with lukewarm and subpar tea- he certainly hadn't pictured this while holding his Oscar- but it was the best he could do under the current conditions. He frowned at the bottom of his mug when he finished his...2nd, maybe 3rd...cup of tea. The honey wasn't doing anything promising for his scratchy throat, and nothing would stop the persistent sniffle interrupting the throwaway movie he had put on in an attempt to distract himself.

He pulled out his phone and opened his texts, looking for a new distraction. The last person he had texted was Joe, so he became the victim of Rami’s miserable ramblings. A quick text told Joe that he was still getting over that cold. Another quick text told Joe that Rami was going to run out of tea at this rate. And another, dreaded, third long text told Joe that Rami was bored, didn’t even have any more good movies to watch, and couldn’t remember the last time he ate.

Rami threw his phone on the pillow next to himself on the couch and let out a long and impatient sigh while he flopped himself into a more horizontal position. He probably looked dramatic, in fact, he was aware he did, but he was praying for his phone to buzz and relieve him from boredom. He sunk into the couch momentarily, running his hands through his hair and waiting.

BZZZZZZT

Even though he was waiting for it, the sound startled him, and with perfect timing a sneeze caught him off guard as he tried to sit up and grab his phone. He grabbed a tissue and looked extremely unamused as he added to the uncomfortable redness around his nose.

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

It took Rami a moment to realize that he wasn’t being spam texted, but called by a panicked Joe who was ready to mother hen him to health like his life depended on it. Rami, unsuspecting, picked up the phone with a sniffle and started with a congested, “Hello-” that Joe quickly interrupted.

“I’m on my way over- and I’ll pick you up some tea, too- what kind do you drink?” Rami had to pause for a hot second to register what Joe was saying. Joe had started rambling off about something but Rami coughed and took a sip of his tea without the faintest idea what he was listening to.

“Joe-”

“-and I could stop and rent a movie or something, or maybe we could just find something to watch on netflix- wait what tea did you say you like?”

“JOE!” Rami immediately regretted raising his voice, and he made a face of disgust at the mucous in his throat. He scoffed at his own condition before using the attention he had finally been given. He had to play nice, and that meant telling Joe he didn’t need to come over even though Rami really wanted him to come over and keep him some company. “Just green tea is fine- but you know you don’t have to, right?”

Joe was already in his car, and Rami could hear the key turn in the ignition. He couldn’t help but smile just a little. “This is non-negotiable, Rami Malek, I’ll see you in 10 minutes.”

“Thanks, Joey.” Rami, though nasally, had a warm tone flowing through his voice, and his smiled stayed long after the call clicked off. He kicked back onto the couch before realizing he’d have to get up to unlock the door for Joe. Instead he sat up and looked into his empty cup with a frown. He did not want to make the effort to get more tea.

Instead he got up and unlocked the door before retreating back to the couch. He realized he probably looked miserable, and he almost made an effort to clean himself up before reminding himself that Joe wouldn't care. Rami also realized that he might have been more comfortable if he got out of the jeans he had been wearing for undeniably too long. Maybe he really was a mess that needed some help.

He was looking into his mug of tiny tea leaves swirling in not even a sip of tea at the bottom when Joe knocked at the door loudly, opening the door before getting a response. He was holding a grocery bag in his hand and looked somewhat determined. He frowned a little when he looked at Rami. “How are you feeling?” Joe walked over to sit next to Rami on the couch without a second thought, digging through the bag that he had sat in his lap.

Rami rose an eyebrow at him when he pulled out a cheap bottle of iced tea with a guilty smile. “Nice tea, Joe.” Rami laughed and noticed Joe crack a bigger smile too at hearing the sarcasm in his nasally voice.

“Well..i stopped at a gas station and realized that wasn't exactly the prime tea destination- but if you’re feeling adventurous I can throw it in the microwave.” Joe grinned.

“No!” Rami snatched the tea from his hand, knowing perfectly well that if he didn’t put a stop to that thought Joe would be running to destroy his microwave. “It’s alright, it’s the thought that counts.” Even without the heat of his past tea, the taste was good, and the freezing cold soothed his throat momentarily in a new and welcomed way.

Rami almost choked on his tea when Joe slapped a hand down on his thigh, looking outright disgusted with Rami. He froze mid-sip of tea and managed not to spit the last sip all over himself. “Why are you wearing jeans?” He seemed to shudder just saying it, his hand recoiling away from the offending denim. “This is unacceptable- where are your sweatpants?” Rami put the tea down on the table in front of them and looked down at Joe’s pants with accusation in his eyes.

“You’re wearing jeans, too.”

“We’re both breaking the lazy lounging law.” A look of false fear filled Joe’s eyes, an edge of comedy on his tongue.

Before Rami could respond, he was laughing as Joe darted for his bedroom, obviously finding the dresser. Rami could hear the drawers being opened frantically, some clothes needlessly thrown around for dramatic effect while Joe made his way to the spot where comfy pants belonged. Joe returned from the bedroom with hilariously messy hair, a dumb smile on his face, and two pairs of sweatpants. One pair was on him to replace his jeans, and the other hanging from his arm.

Rami sipped his tea slowly and reached out to accept the offering of sweatpants to change into. “Glad to know you fit my sweatpants.” Rami sighed as if he had to work up the energy to switch pants. Maybe he did. But his thoughts were interrupted when Joe got another idea.

“You’re going to need a blanket too.” Joe was quickly charging back to the bedroom to look for a comfy blanket for Rami to wrap himself in. Rami made sure to remind himself to thank Joe later for all the thought he felt the need to put into that. He also managed to exert enough energy to get those sweatpants on. He was surprisingly worn out from that simple task.

“Joe, you know, I’m fine- there’s probably a blanket out here-” It was truly too late, as Joe had already decided to wrap Rami in a cozy blanket from behind the couch. “Thanks, Joey.” He really did smile at that, happy that someone was around to make him feel at least a little cared for, maybe provide a pleasant and humorous distraction. Joe always was a good friend when it came to this sort of stuff.

Speaking of Joe, he finally slumped onto the couch next to Rami and grabbed the TV remote. “Netflix?” Rami shrugged and let his weight fall onto the back of the couch, laying down in a sort of awkward way. He didn’t even see what Joe decided to put on, he was busy being overwhelmed with how tired he was quickly feeling. He had to stop himself from nodding off when he almost folded in on himself and fell asleep.

“Woah there- maybe you should just get comfy and take a nap, Ram.” Joe offered a supportive hand on Rami’s shoulder to stop him from plummeting face down into the couch as he clicked on a random show that he knew Rami had already finished once over. It would only end up serving as comfortable background noise now anyway.

“I’m...good- just ti...red- I’m awake!.” Rami was not convincing as his increasingly snotty voice tapered off and slurred tiredly. Joe laughed at the way a very sleepy Rami wiped his nose on his sleeve. Joe also reached for a tissue to let Rami blow his nose. He was convinced that there should have been an award for being close enough friends to help your friend blow his nose. There was a level of care and dedication there.

The breath was briefly knocked out of him when Rami fell against his chest, still awake, but dead weight as far as his level of effort was concerned. Joe just smiled and giggled softly at Rami sniffling weakly and half-asleep. He carefully lowered himself onto the couch, trying not to disturb Rami and draping the blanket over them craftily. “Get some sleep, dork- you need it.”

Rami curled into Joe's chest and found himself getting closer to sleep, surely thanks to the warmth Joe gave off and the warmth of the blanket covering them. “You...didnfft....” His voice was slow, and muffled in Joe's shirt. “You didn't come ovfer to sleepf.” He tried minimally to fight back, grabbing Joe's arm and almost mumbling something before slow, soothing circles rubbed on his back nearly knocked him out.

It only took a few more minutes of gentle back rubs, a hand briefly running through his hair, and Rami was finally lulled to sleep. He was really out, and Joe was sure he was in desperate need of the rest he was about to get.

With nothing left to do, Joe found himself getting drowsy as well, the hand that absentmindedly moved in circles finally stopping as he fell asleep with his arms holding Rami in place. The TV dimly lit the room as the sun set, and the static noise was the only thing in the room next to their soft and peaceful breathing.

#this is literally just me expressign my love for rami and joes friendship #like they just hang out and fall asleep #and its goofy #so enjoy that gjfjfj #ill still tag it rpf cause its not everhones cup of tea #but it is platonic #rpf #arin writes #its also like. sick fic i guess #but its realistic i didnt write it gross #sick fic #snez posting #obligitory tag #ill. throw it in there #cool vjfj no one kill me and enjoy the fic #mazlek

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davidchill · 5 years

Text

This Is My Truth - The Final Blog (For Now)

After over ten years of writing a personal blog I feel that now would be a good time to wrap things up. I’m sure I’ll still write blogs from time-to-time, but they’ll be a completely different animal to this curious beast.

Social media has changed an awful lot over the years. As I scroll through my timeline this morning all I see are snappy memes, gifs, people arguing with strangers about the perils of Brexit, and sponsored posts based on my browsing habits.

Another thing that’s changed is how people engage and interact with others. Over the years I’ve seen friends who appeared to be warm and affable suddenly go stone cold and aloof, virtually overnight. Typed communication can often be misinterpreted or misconstrued, and I have, on a few occasions, tried to strike up friendships with people who I’ve genuinely liked, only for their shields to go up - and I watch them vanish at warp speed.

The truth has always been important to me - so when people lie in order to make their lives easier I find myself distancing myself from them so they don’t need to lie anymore. But I can’t judge anyone. Lying is easy. Anyone can lie. How many lies have got people out of awkward social situations without damaging the friendship? Thousands, I would imagine. The truth is much harder to swallow at times. So if you’ve found this blog to be a difficult read then that’s certainly not a bad thing.

Of course, a few “friends” haven’t stayed the course, and opted to “unfriend” or “unfollow” me on social media for posting “too many dog photos” or “too many blogs on mental health”. Well… all I can offer here is my “sperm” analogy…

“Out of the approximately 1,000 sperm that enter the fallopian tube, only about 200 reach the egg. The rest get attached to the lining of the oviduct, or just give out and die. Out of the approximately 200 sperm that reach the egg, only one fertilizes the egg.”

If you’ve stuck by me on Facebook during the most turbulent period of my life (between 2014 and the present day) then consider yourself a healthy sperm. The others might resurface in a few years when everything in my life is hunky-dory and say “Is it safe to be your friend again?” but they have no chance of reaching the egg.

In this case the “egg” is a metaphor for my “circle of trust”.

Friends don’t fall off the radar when you struggle with your mental health, and nor do they sit back and watch you struggle financially when they *could* throw you a bone. Oh, and they certainly don’t walk away when you share anecdotes about your dog.

So if you are still with me - thank you. And if you’re sitting comfortably then let’s begin...

Keeping the Faith

For much of my adult life I never had a huge amount of faith in myself. Too many crushing doubts played on my mind as to what role I had in this world - or even if I had a part to play. My creative abilities were certainly brought into question, as I lie awake at night wondering when people would wake up and give me the same amount of judgement and scrutiny that I subjected myself to on a daily basis.

Despite a very happy home life I was a prime target for the school bullies - thanks to a winning combination of ginger hair and small, round head - so it’s hardly surprising that I entered adulthood with several insecurities and a huge chip on my shoulder. Children can be cruel and wretched creatures at times. Snotty-nosed brats.

Throughout college I drew comic strips at every available opportunity and was always genuinely flabbergasted when my peers told me how talented and gifted I was - and how much they loved my sense of humour. Well, my written word - as I was practically mute in those days. “You’d be funny if you spoke!” commented one guy.

While most of the students gallivanted off to university I chose not to pursue further education and opted to get a “real” job in order to feed my comic book addiction. So for the next six or seven years I took on a variety of roles… packing plastic, kennel hand, factory worker.

I’m not sure what my parents thought of me coming home covered in dog poo and toner dust - but my duties were the perfect cover for an artistic creative soul who had zero faith in his abilities. I couldn’t fail.

Unfortunately my cover was blown in 1998 when my line manager insisted on promoting me to “champion operator” - a job that involved assembly work, but also gave me the opportunity to walk around with a bit of paper and use the new fangled “e-mail” system that was becoming popular in the workplace. “What is this wizardry?” I asked myself, as I bluffed my way through the job.

It was during this time that I was asked to give a PowerPoint presentation to an office full of co-workers and the type of senior management you’d cross the street to avoid if you saw them out shopping on a Saturday morning. When the CEO gave his feedback on the presentations he threw the spotlight on me and said; “David, I thought you were excellent.”

Swine. “I’m a fraud I tell you!” (I didn’t actually say that out loud)

Thankfully, just before my head expanded to dangerous levels of self belief I was made redundant from the position. This was no reflection on me - the whole company went under. Nothing to do with my “excellent” presentation skills or the time I spent walking around with a bit of paper.

The following year I was inflicted with a condition called spasmodic torticollis and forced to take three months off work. In English; I suffered with a severe muscle spasm in my neck. As a result, my chin was permanently touching my shoulder and only lying down made me feel “normal”. We didn’t have box sets to lift the mood in those days, so it was an extremely dark chapter in my life. I was pumped full of valium, I couldn’t drive or walk the dog, and my mother had to chop my food up for me.

Eventually, after a series of tests, the consultant told me I’d have to have injections in my neck - but this wouldn’t guarantee success. Truth be told I became very low and depressed - but, with the support of my friends and family, I got through each day. One of my church friends even picked me up, took me to church, and prayed for me. This wasn’t like my “last rites” or anything, I hasten to add.

One day, as I walked into town, all hunched up and averting eye contact - something very peculiar happened. My head wasn’t tilting to one side anymore and I found myself walking in a STRAIGHT line. “What is this hogwashery?!” I thought to myself. “I’m walking with my head in an upright position!”

The specialist who mooted the idea of injections then examined me, scratched his head, and concluded that I was some kind of weird “enigma”. Yes, it took three months of pain, frustration and fear to reach the conclusion that I was a bit odd. Blimey, I didn’t need to go through all that to work that one out.

The Slippery Slope

Several years later, and after being made redundant three times between 1998 and 2003, I was beginning to think I was cursed.

In 2006 I quit full-time employment and went down the “self-employed” route - mostly focusing on wedding websites for the subsequent eight years. On reflection that was far too long to spend on one endeavour, and a few close friends urged me to expand my portfolio. Again, I felt “safe” doing wedding websites, the money was coming in, and I didn’t want to run the risk of straying too far. However, I should have taken the advice given to Peter Davison when Patrick Troughton advised him to only play the Doctor for three years. Eight years is a very long time in the world of technological advances, and I became the Ken Barlow of wedding websites.

Looking back, it’s not surprising the work had a detrimental impact on my mental health. I poured my heart and soul into those blasted websites, and sometimes sat up until 3am to please my transatlantic Bridezillas. Sometimes Groomzillas. No, I didn’t *have* to, but when I take on a role I like to give it my all.

Unfortunately because my “office” was then based in my bedroom I could never “switch off” and those sites consumed me to a point where my anxiety and depression deepened. The line between business and pleasure just became far too blurred and it became a seven day week thing.

After all the stress of moving into my maisonette (and then buying the maisonette) I still found the websites to be an extremely negative factor in my mental health. Things got on top of me and I’d begin to procrastinate… put off tasks, until, eventually, I hit my brick wall. My dark place.

Enter Luna, the Staffordshire Bull Terrier X Akita, who took a lot of stick for being the author of my demise. No, she was merely the straw that broke the camels back.

Before I knew it, I lost my regular income after being told that my services were no longer required. Sadly, despite being told that my salary would be safe until January 2014, it was then slashed by £500 for two months on the trot. November and December, respectively.

Suddenly, I had this huge financial hole to fill… and a mortgage to pay. When you lose £1000 without sufficient forewarning then what do you do? No money from extra part-time work would have reached me in time - even if my mind had been “fit” to work. The anxiety just consumed me, and the mind starts imagining these highly unlikely scenarios… My neck condition might flare up again… I might lose the dog… I might lose my home.

Okay, that last one actually happened.

People often tell me that debt is a slippery slope that should be avoided at all costs. People who’ve never experienced debt to the extent that I did. My friends, I’ve taken to that slope. I’m the Eddie “the Eagle” Edwards of the slippery slope.

So yes, I know that debt begins very slowly... and it gradually creeps up on you… the £5 penalty charge on your emergency borrowing becomes £10, £15, £20… and then you’re late with the gas and electric bill… and then BOOM! You’ve lost your home and overzealous cleaners are pulling things off your wall as you struggle to pack everything into boxes.

I lost more that day than I can ever put into words, and I’ve hated myself for it ever since.

Yes, people made my life more difficult than it needed to be, and some people could have helped more - rather than just telling me it’d all be okay. But I lost everything because I lost faith in myself.

There’s No Guarantors

Today, eighteen months after losing my home, I’m sat here writing a business plan - and I find myself in this role reversal. Almost like a weird mirror universe from Star Trek. Suddenly, for perhaps the first time in my life, I have faith in myself - but others are doubting my judgement, or have very little faith in my abilities.

Whenever I hear that someone has been awarded a business loan I punch the air [on their behalf]. Even if it’s someone on Twitter who I don’t know very well - I always make a point of congratulating them and wishing them well in their new endeavour. Or endeavor if they’re American.

With me, I expect a few would question if I knew what I was doing.

Not that I was awarded a business loan, but I came very close. Honestly, my heart sank when Eugene (the guy from the bank) uttered the words “We just need your guarantor…”

Guarantor? Me? Find a guarantor? He might as well have asked me to find the hair of a Sasquatch, a stool sample of a dodo, and the DNA of William the Conqueror.

“Hey, dear,” says a friend, turning to his partner. “David C. Hill is looking for a guarantor for his business loan. You in?” “The same David C. Hill with the anxiety issues?” “Yep.” “The same David C. Hill who had 5,000 comic books printed without testing the market?” “Yep.” “The same David C. Hill who lost his home after falling into a horrifying amount of debt?” “Yes, dear. You in?”

Yes, I had to ask… but of course I can’t blame anyone for not rising to the challenge.

My new bank friend, Eugene, then followed up with a phone call to assure me that the £10,000 funding would be granted if I could give him a name. So I looked at Luna, and for that brief moment her eyes just said “Don’t look at me!”

The “Homer Simpson” in me thought about seeing how far I could go with this guarantor lark. “John. My guarantor’s name is John. John Smith. His address? 12… Evergreen Terrace.”

Sadly, it’s going to be almost impossible for me to come back from that defeat of losing my home. That sort of thing sticks. It’s like I have “not good with money” or “dog who returns to his vomit” scrawled on my forehead. It’s akin to someone on a dodgy register trying to acquire a job as a school caretaker.

No, to paraphrase Tiffany, the pop goddess of 1987… “I think I’m alone now.”

People will argue that if my business plan was that convincing then I wouldn’t need a guarantor. However, these days banks are far more guarded when it comes to funding businesses. I don’t have any assets therefore I need someone with assets to have my back. My 27” iMac won’t cut the mustard as an asset.

Anyway, I’m sure most people can find a guarantor with relative ease. If a guarantor was such a ridiculous concept then requiring a guarantor wouldn’t even be a thing. According to the website, 98% of businesses are successfully funded. So I guess that places me in the 2% camp.

It’s been a week of bad news, and it would be so easy for me to slip into a depression and consume my body weight in wine gums. My car payment has just bounced and I have more rent due in ten days, and now I’m telling people that without funding my business can’t move forward.

I know the rich frown upon those who have to take out loans, and in the last few years I’ve seen the rich grow considerably richer. But I don’t think some people realise how rich they are, and how, if they need something, they can just go out and buy it - or ask their rich family to chip in. Of course most people have worked very hard for their wealth - but the majority of people do work very hard. I know at least two nurses who work for the NHS and they work exceptionally gruelling shifts. So one should never judge the rich - or the poor.

Yes, some people do inherit wealth or marry into rich families, so not all the rich work hard - and not everyone who’s poor works hard either. Sometimes ill-health doesn’t permit you to work long hours - and yes, lazy work shy fops do exist.

If I have to calumniate £5,000 or £10,000 worth of debt in order to make £20k then I’ll do it. All businesses need funding and we don’t all have savings to inject into our cashflow. People who don’t have debt a get bit sniffy about it, but there’s no shame in having manageable debt - and sometimes it’s a necessary evil.

Final Words

There’s always a way forward. Sometimes its not about working harder - it’s about working smarter. And I have enough faith in myself to know that I can work smarter. I’ll find a way forward, even if I do have to accrue debt - even if I have to march into hell for a heavenly cause. People will call me batcrap crazy, and people will cast doubt on me, but that’s to be expected. Life is very short, memories are very precious, and sometimes those of us who want to achieve our goals need to take calculated risks.

My greatest fear is losing faith in myself - because that will be the day that I die. But that’s never going to happen. I mean losing faith in myself - I fully except to die one day! I’m not Connor MacLeod, Mister Immortal, or Captain Jack Harkness.

Thank you to those who have helped me over the last few years - and those who continue to support my work. Make no mistake, when I’m rich I’m not going to live in a huge castle, pull up the drawbridge and yell “Let them eat cake!”. I’m going to live in a modest dwelling and help those who have helped me in the past.

That’s my guarantee.

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starry19 · 6 years

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AN: This takes place in the How to Pretend universe, though it can certainly stand alone. For my anon who wanted DomesticGarcy - be careful what you wish for.

After The End

The first time it happened, baby Amy was five months old.

The day had been quite normal, or what passed for normal in the Flynn household. The morning was a wild flurry of loading diaper bags and getting herself ready for her Modern History lecture at nine. Amy had been perched in her father’s lap, contentedly gnawing on his wristwatch while he attempted to send e-mails from his phone before heading out the door.

She had paused for a second to kiss Flynn goodbye, Amy squished happily between them, then tickled Amy’s bare toes until she giggled. The sound followed her out of the house, and she got into her car, smiling.

Morning lectures meant Flynn dropped Amy off at the sitter’s before he headed in to work. He had gone back to the NSA, though he had announced his days of intelligence gathering were over. Instead, he oversaw their local field office and did a great deal of consult work. Mostly, he kept regular hours, though occasionally he pulled all nighters, coming home in the early hours of the next day, muttering about Chechen rebels that were never where they were supposed to be.

Her class had gone well, though she had stumbled once. It still threw her every once in a while, the changes they had made to history. Dates, events, names that she could have once bet her life on, no longer mattered or were the same.

Amy had spit pureed peaches all over Flynn that evening at dinner, and she’d laughed out loud before handing him a towel, though usually Amy ate like she was starving. Slightly concerned, she watched her daughter closely throughout the rest of the night.

By bedtime, she was convinced Amy was coming down with a cold. Unsurprising, since day cares were full of small, usually snotty children who loved stuffing things into their mouths.

A few hours later, she was getting into bed herself, curling into her husband’s arms, trying to remember if they had any baby Tylenol. Hopefully they wouldn’t need it, but she had learned that the second you counted on it not being necessary was when it became absolutely necessary.

Flynn kissed her temple, her jaw, and she smiled softly, the general craziness of the day and the warmth of his body luring her to sleep.

She woke abruptly in the darkness, confused.

Then it hit her - the baby monitor.

She sat up slightly, Flynn’s arm falling away from her. Heard what must’ve woken her up in the first place.

She moved again, swinging her legs down. There was a sleepy murmur from the bed behind her, and she knew he wasn’t quite awake yet.

“Amy’s coughing,” she breathed. “I��m gonna go check on her.”

And in the next second, everything changed.

Flynn sat bolt upright, tension practically radiating out of him.

Before she could ask, he was gone, grabbing the gun he still kept in the bedside drawer, and sprinting out of their room.

There was a shocked second where she sat absolutely still, and then…

Then she knew. He had told her the story, after all. And that night, that awful night, had started in just this same way.

She felt a shiver of terrible, irrational fear lodge itself in her chest.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, hurrying after her husband.

She found him in the doorway to their daughter’s room, posture rigid, gun clutched in his hand, the lights flipped on. Amy’s coughing had turned into crying.

Tentatively, she touched his back.

He didn’t respond, and she wondered what was going on in his head. He was reliving the worst night of his life right now. God, was he even breathing? She couldn’t tell.

But Amy couldn’t wait any longer.

She ducked around Flynn, scooping Amy up and gently rocking her, still keeping one eye on her husband. At the same time, she glanced around the room, which was, of course, empty, and wondered if she was now destined to share Flynn’s deepest fear, too.

Slowly, she approached him, baby in her arms. In the soft spill of light from the hall, his face looked like it was made of marble. When she stood perhaps six inches away, he sucked in a sharp breath, then, with hands that shook, he reached out and gently touched one of Amy’s chubby, flushed cheeks.

Then he was gone, turning abruptly.

She shushed Amy, rubbing her back, humming as her tears ebbed.

From across the hall, she could hear the sound of retching, and she thought her heart was going to break. She needed to hold him, needed to tell him it was alright, but just now, their daughter needed her, too.

When Amy was quiet again, she gently eased her back down into her crib, hand resting on her tiny back, measuring the space between her breaths.

And then she went to save Flynn from his own personal hell.

He was in the shower, steam billowing out from behind the curtains. She was fairly certain he was crying, and she suddenly lost her nerve, or wondered if she was wrong to intrude on his grief at just this moment.

Instead, she waited for him, perched on the edge of their bed.

She just…she had no idea what to do. She could never take the pain of Lorena and Iris away, and she knew that he honestly wouldn’t want her to.

When Flynn emerged, looking lost and tortured and haunted, she did the first thing that popped into her head - she opened her arms. He didn’t hesitate.

With a bit of adjusting, they lay with his head on her chest, her arms wrapped around him as tightly as she could. No one spoke, and she wondered if his English had left him temporarily.

He was utterly rigid, every muscle drawn taut, every breath sharply precise - he was holding himself together and she wanted to weep.

“I love you,” she whispered to him, but in Croatian. He’d taught her a few simple phrases over the years, and though she didn’t think she’d ever be able to have a real conversation with him in his native language, she knew enough for this.

His breathing became slightly shakier. “I love you,” she whispered again. “Everything is well.”

He looked up at her, and the pain she saw took her breath away. She kissed him, softly, tenderly, deciding that words were less important at the moment.

He kissed her back, emotion making him less careful than he usually was. Their teeth clinked together, his mouth desperate against hers.

Later, she would find bruises from his fingertips, from how tight he had held her. In the moment, it didn’t matter. She knew - knew his need to feel alive, to assure himself that his world hadn’t been destroyed again, to have proof that she was there, too, alive and whole and well. This was…life affirming.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, linked her hands behind his neck. He moved over her with deep, urgent thrusts, his wet hair falling into his face.

Her climax was sudden and unexpected, and he followed her over, her name falling from his lips at the last moment.

When he looked at her again, she recognized the person behind his eyes once more.

He gathered her into his arms, his chest heaving beneath her cheek.

“I’m-“ he began, but she cut him off.

“If you tell me you’re sorry,” she told him, forcefully, “I’m going to hit you over the head with a phonebook.”

His startled silence was…a little amused, and she was grateful for it. She pressed a kiss against his heart. She was never more grateful for the way they could leave so much unspoken. There was no need for apologies or explanations.

“I love you,” he eventually breathed.

And that was enough.

She dozed lightly, restlessly, for the remainder of the night. For his part, she didn’t think Flynn slept at all. Around dawn, by silent consent, they crept out to check on Amy.

She had rolled to her stomach, her rear in the air. She was also, adorably enough, snoring, though that just meant the poor girl had a stuffed up nose.

No one left the house that day.

Amy, even sick, was delighted with her parents’ undivided attention, and took her afternoon nap against her father’s chest, while he managed to finally relax enough to sleep himself.

That night was uneventful, though Lucy was awake more than she was asleep, half her attention on the baby monitor and the other half on the man beside her.

It didn’t happen with quite the same urgency any time after that first, awful time, but it did still happen. He never left their room armed again, but his pistol never left the drawer.

Once, when she woke to an empty bed, she found him asleep on the floor of Amy’s nursery.

He was trying, she knew that. And this would all ease in time.

She hoped it was soon-ish, because apparently they were going to need to stock up on sleep. It was going to be a rarity again, in just about 8 months.

The night she told him, his jaw dropped, and then he had grinned widely. There was no fear in his eyes, none at all, and she was so grateful for that.

For herself, she was quite convinced this child had been conceived that night, as Flynn had fought to come back to her from his nightmares, both real and imagined.

She chose to think of it as a sign from God. More giving, less taking away.

Yes, their hands were going to be full.

But so were their hearts.

#garcy #garcy ff #timeless

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kmorelikegay · 6 years

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rice, tea and chopsticks

Written for Sarumi Fest, Day 5: Fight/Reconcile. (it’s still the 11th here so I don’t even feel bad this time)

This is a follow-up chapter to another fic I wrote, so you may want to read that first or this might not make a whole lot of sense (it’s not that long though!)

Also on AO3 (first chapter is here).

The first time Yata wakes up in the hospital room, it is to the sight of the Blue King standing over Saruhiko’s sleeping form, lightly touching the back of the hand Yata isn’t gripping. His eyes are closed, and he’s muttering something under his breath, and if Yata concentrates through bleary eyes and a sleep-addled mind he thinks he can see airy blue tendrils drifting into the space directly above where Munakata and his injured friend are touching.

His immediate reaction is to yank the King’s hand away from Saruhiko and demand an explanation for why he’s touching his Saru, why he’s even here, but – then he really looks at their hands again, really looks at Munakata’s face, and he looks sad, emotional like Yata’s never seem him, and then he really looks at Saruhiko’s face, and even as he watches some of its pallor gives way to a healthier-looking flush, and even the most defensive part of Yata’s brain recognizes that Saruhiko’s King must be using some healing property of the blue aura on him. His body slowly loses its grip on its fight instinct as he recognizes this, and he relaxes, letting the tiredness take over again a little, and turns back to gaze at Saruhiko’s (handsome – has he always been so handsome?) – face.

A few minutes later, Munakata finishes whatever he is doing, and Yata hears him shift, turns to watch him break out of the trancelike state he was in, watches as his eyes open and sees the worry and fear and relief fill them all at once before he realizes he is being watched. Yata doesn’t think he has ever been this close to the Blue King, and his first thought at he meets that piercing violet gaze is that he doesn’t know how Saruhiko and his coworkers manage it if they have to be the subject of this man’s calculating eyes all the time. But he is Saruhiko’s King, so Yata has some amount of respect for him despite himself, and he forces himself to hold eye contact as Munakata begins to speak.

“He is recovering well,” he starts, removing his hand from Saruhiko’s as he speaks. “I have helped him where I can, but I believe I have done all I can do. I do not know if they have told you, but he should be able to be released within the week,” he continues, giving Yata a soft smile that Yata thinks should look out of place with his always-professional demeanor but somehow fits him, softens him, makes him look like a concerned parent or older sibling, and Yata relaxes even more; this man is definitely not a threat to Saruhiko, and Yata hadn’t realized how much he cared about his employee. Maybe – and Yata thinks this begrudgingly, but this time with sympathy and even with understanding – maybe this man really was meant to be Saruhiko’s King. Maybe this was always who he belonged with. Yata breaks eye contact at the thought, feeling a confusing mix of contentment for Saruhiko’s happiness, and even his defection from Homra, and of jealousy, for belonging somewhere that isn’t with Yata.

Before Yata can wallow in his thoughts too much, the man catches him off guard again with an even wider disarming smile, adding, “I think he will be safest and happiest in your capable hands, Yata-kun,” as if he can read Yata’s mind. (Hell, maybe he can; Saruhiko did always say his ability to read people was disconcerting. Maybe he’d meant it literally.)

Either way, though, Munakata lets his gaze drift from Yata to linger on Saruhiko again, and gives his hand one last gentle pat before turning and striding to the door. Yata notices, then, that he isn’t in his uniform, is wearing jeans and a casual collared jacket instead, and he looks so different and young like that that Yata almost laughs.

As if the Blue King knew Yata was watching him leave, he turns around after he’s pushed open the door and is standing in the doorframe and says, “I believe you have an apartment nearby, Yata-kun?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing, “Perhaps Fushimi-kun would be best off there until he recovers completely.” He gives Yata a knowing smile before disappearing through the door, and Yata has a moment to think about his words and his smirk, after which he feels his face flush for reasons he cannot understand. In truth, he had been thinking the same thing; but something about how Munakata suggested it gave Yata the impression he knows something Yata doesn’t. It’s a little unsettling, but not unsettling enough to keep Yata awake when he is so tired from staying up to keep an eye on Saruhiko these past couple of days (has it really only been a couple of days?) and as soon as his head hits the pillow he’d snatched from the vacant second bed in Saruhiko’s room he is out like a light again.

Even in sleep, his grip on Saruhiko’s hand never falters.

The second time Yata wakes up in the hospital room, it is because his hand is being squeezed quite roughly, and he lifts his head to find Saruhiko watching him.

It is so good to see his eyes again. It had been so good just to see his chest moving up and down with his breath that Yata thought that would always be enough, just to have that evidence that he’s alive, but now, seeing his eyes again, Yata doesn’t know how he ever thought anything else would be enough.

They are so blue, and Yata is so breathless with relief and something else that his first words to Saruhiko then aren’t anything normal at all. Instead, what comes out is, “Oh, good. I thought you were going to let your rice get cold again.”

Saruhiko had still been staring at him, but at Yata’s words his brow furrows and he looks down at his lap, where indeed a plastic tray stretched across the bed presents to him a bowl of lukewarm rice accompanied by a cup of tea and a pair of chopsticks. While Saruhiko takes in the food, Yata takes the opportunity to study his profile – the line of his nose, the fall of his lashes against his upper cheekbone, the cascade of mussed and unwashed and beautiful hair over the far side of his face, the part of his lips as he breathes before turning back to Yata and saying, “Misaki.”

Yata’s grip on his hand tightens even more, and he feels Saruhiko respond with a hard squeeze of his own, and then Yata can’t help it, he falls forward against Saruhiko’s chest and lets all of the emotion that fear and lethargy have kept at bay these past two days flow from his eyes onto Saruhiko’s hospital gown. Some distant part of his mind has the awareness to be surprised when Saruhiko doesn’t hesitate, just hugs Yata to him, tilts his head against the top of Yata’s, keeps squeezing Yata’s hand with a desperate grip. It’s as if he is just as afraid of Yata leaving again as Yata is, and that shouldn’t be possible, Saruhiko is the one who’s been asleep, Saruhiko is the one who almost died, but here he is, hugging Yata as if he could disappear at any moment.

Yata doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but it feels so good to hold each other, even if they haven’t actually talked beyond sniffles and snotty tears and desperate whispers of each other’s names. Eventually he pulls back, wipes his nose on the sleeve of the arm that isn’t still held happily hostage in their mutual death grip, and looks at Saruhiko for real for the first time since he’s woken up.

He looks pale and exhausted, but mostly he looks hopeful, and it takes Yata’s breath away. Hope looks good on him. Hope looks beautiful on him, and Yata has to ask, has to know, so he starts, “Saruhiko,” he says, “Saru, do you – do you remember what happened? Why you’re here?”

Saruhiko regards him a moment longer before breaking their gaze and regarding the rice and tea and chopsticks and plastic tray instead. He squeezes Yata’s hand again, nods slowly, then looks away from Yata at the far wall, but not before Yata sees that he’s blushing, and it’s cute as hell but it won’t do, not since Yata knows it’s not out of embarrassment but out of fear, and he doesn’t want fear on Saruhiko’s face, wants to put the hope back on it (hope looks beautiful on him), so he says in a too-fast rush of breath, “I want it.”

Saruhiko’s head whips back and his eyes start searching Yata’s face for any trace that Yata is joking, just messing with him, as if he would joke about something like this – and doesn’t Saruhiko know, anyway? Doesn’t he know that he makes Yata’s heart pound, that he makes Yata feel smart and loved and needed? Doesn’t he know that he makes Yata’s life interesting, worth living – that even when they fought more than they talked, he was what made Yata get out of bed in the morning, made him look forward to the day? Doesn’t he know that for Yata, he has always, always been it?

But he knows that Saruhiko doesn’t know, but Yata is still smiling because he will. He will. And as he leans in he sees Saruhiko’s eyes quickly cycle through the stages of acceptance – denial, confusion, anger, confusion again, and then, finally, understanding – and Saruhiko’s eyes that reflect his happiness and that flutter shut as Yata’s mouth closes in on his tell him the rest of what he needs to know.

I want it, too.

#sarumi fest 2018 #i really like this verse even though it involved the demolition of fushimi in the first part #but it sets up a whole lot of reconciliation opportunities which is nice #nothing like a near-death experience to force the confessions out of our boys #anyway hope someone enjoys this!#sarumi #k #fic #mine

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redthreadtugs-blog · 5 years

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jet lag, tears and insomnia

I hate jet lag. Wide awake for the last hour and it is the middle of the night here even though I was awake for a full day yesterday. I need to sleep. Active brain. And my tummy is growling. And my arm/ hand hurts. And I could just cry if that damn procedure I had yesterday is gonna net me nothing... I do not want to be a fucking medical mystery. My brain actively tracing over the anatomical nerve pathways in the dark... willing myself to unravel just where the source of the compression is if we got it wrong this time. What the next clinical pathway ought to be. Neuro consult? better PT evaluation? nerve conduction study. Whatever it is, I simply refuse to live like this with compromised sensation in my dominant hand. I have too many years ahead of me and too much of my life and livelihood relies on full sensation. I follow the calendar in the dark back to the onset of symptoms. How long since I had full normal neuro function? Too long, and yet within a safe window.

and now my brain bounces to the work ahead. cedar or leather? how many lengths? how should I affix them at the top? what color crow beads should I use... where are my notes? was is confederated tribes of... what was it now? red, white, pale blue, yellow? should I use mixed sizes of beads? how fussy should I work? I only have on working day - and what if they don’t like it... sigh. a band of leather at the top. And then a sleeve of patterned green earth fabric sewn into a sleeve.... and did I remind them the other peice will need a new sleeve affixed to it for the new hanging device I am providing.... will they have remembered? Have to send a text in the morning... or maybe I should get up now and send it since I am awake anyway. Noooo they will just think I am bat shit crazy and I can’t have that. Wait until a sane hour. Can I cut the cedar cording I have or will it unravel? Do I need to secure it where I cut it? and with what... wrap it with a smaller cordage... again... can’t be too fussy or it will draw the eye a place I do not want it to do. And the feathers.... simple half hitch cordage wrap around the stem with a slip of torn fabric to add color worked into the wrap? do I have all that I need in my studio or do I need to buy more leather cord? Small feathers need to be acquired... Think assemblage. Think collage. Keep it simple. Less is more. fuck. and a label. Just make a label... oh... and a few more lines of quilting to hold the false back together. Again... do not go crazy with this or time will run away.

I get up. my tummy is growling. not enough calories yesterday after too many calories while traveling. And my tummy thinks it is the middle of the afternoon, not the middle of the night. I fix myself a piece of multigrain toast. brush my teeth again.

and then I am crying in the middle of the night. quiet sobs until I can’t breath. nose full of snot and shoulders heaving. guilt ridden that I have awoken my spouse. I just want him to wipe my tears and kiss my forehead. but he is all logic and planning. pushing me to move past my tears and be all adult about it... pushing me to access the adult part of my brain... the one that has already kept me awake for the last hour working and planning and thinking and now I am beyond exhausted and I just want someone to take over and let me be “little” so i can go back to sleep. And once he is satisfied a plan is made for the morning, his breathing settles to sleep and I am still wide awake. Silent tears streaking down my face and too snotty nosed to breath except through my open mouth.

40 minutes later... I am still wide awake and freshly crying. my brain is black and the tears are without object. just black and fearful and unhappy and my tummy is still hungry (another thing I want to cry about... 100 miles walked and still +3 # since I left home... fuck me with a spoon gdi... though J says... wisely... muscle weighs more than fat and to be calm about this and to just keep going, not feel discouraged etc etc) and my head hurts and I CANNOT wake him again tonight. I crawl out of bed to the couch where I can sit up to sleep the rest of the night. Find more blankets and another box of tissues...cry some more feeling helpless and just mad, scared, upset and wanting J RIGHT NOW. More tears slide down my face. At least I can breath now. And I am only disrupting MY sleep, no one else’s.

Lists keep popping up. A PM I didn’t answer before vacation that really should be attended to soon. I start composing in my head and it quickly gets away from me... too much too much. less is more... less is more. only a few lines are needed, no explanation is required, and certainly not THAT explanation. Just stop. And then a promise I made on a thread to come back and say more by the end of the week... well TGIF... it is then. will I have time? should I make time? what do I have to say anyway. And these tears... do they make me a little? or a middle? and how does that answer the questions I posed and said I would answer? That squeaky voice in the middle of the night when the tears won’t stop and I can’t adult that says... literally “I am so afraid I will never get better...” and he says... I can’t understand you... forcing me to clear my throat and try again in my grown up voice which apparently is the only one he can hear... my lip quivers and the tears slide faster, my head throbbing from lack of sleep. Swallowing hard.

And then I am problem solving again. Should I figure out stand up desk situation for my lap top at home? How can I improve thing anatomically? what is making things worse. What is the right answer? Or maybe just a lap desk for the lap top to at least get it a bit more off my lap? And my mind flails to a promise I made to myself to make an almond cake for the next council meeting. Adding to the list that I need to find out when they meet next... as my busy brain spins out a fantasy of giving a mini speech to the room about why an almond cake and how it came to my from my friend Karen, a mentor, a wise soul and young and progressive at heart, with a true understanding of hospitality and a link to the past and a vision to the future. How she should see this moment where we are standing at the crossroads and how I can imagine her challenging us to our best selves even if the future seems scary. She was never afraid of the future - a mousy unassuming woman with a spine of steel. Left a first husband, a police officer, because he held a gun to her head. When her grand-daughter had a baby out of wedlock with an african american boy, the mother, throwing the girl out of the house at 15, she took her and the baby in, loving her and the boyfriend and the baby most of all - ending up raising that great grandchild essentially as her own when she was in her late 70′s and her third husband was 94... her husband as good to the young kids and baby as she was. So when I serve that almond cake... all of these things come rushing back to me and all the hopes I have for my community with them, in spite of what has seemed to be so impossible and hopeless in the past 2 or three years... and I want to end my little soap box speech asking the council to taste the hopes and promise the a guinue future of service to others, like the one that Karen modeled, when they eat of her cake. But I can already feel how indulgent such a speech would be, i do not know if anyone even wants to hear from me any more.

And the tears fall faster as I think of Karen and how much I miss my friend and the wise counsel she would give and how she would actually swear at the stupidity of the things that have gone on since her death.

Too much for one girl to take in the middle of the night... and it is dawn now...

must face the day.

©redthreads

陪同

#fears #can't sleep #musings

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wtf-taeyong · 7 years

Text

Thursday // Taehyung

word count - 10.9k+ __________________

It was a Thursday.

Kim Taehyung’s skin was heavy with makeup, the artists fingers that were way too cold tilting his head this way and that. His temper was rising, being tired and frustrated enough that the chattering of the makeup artists was enough to piss him off, despite usually joining in with their gossip and laughter.

He hadn’t slept properly in a few days, being way too busy with preparations for the band's latest comeback and the stage that they were due to be on in less than twenty minutes. He was being worked to the bone and the few hours that he had time to have a nap, he was being kept awake by another member or simply his recurring anxieties that plagued him until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. It seemed all he did lately was stare at the darkened ceiling and pray to any of the gods out there to take mercy on him and allow a few hours of sleep. Nobody out there listened.

He couldn’t make himself fall asleep in the makeup chair like he usually would, so Taehyung nabbed a newspaper that was on the side, hoping that the words would lull him to sleep like they usually would.

Except they fucking didn’t, and Taehyung had ended up reading the entire newspaper, cover to cover, for the first time in his entire life. Well most of it; Taehyung had skipped the birth announcement and obituary page, usually finding it both uplifting and depressing.

Shrugging slightly, he ignored the constant sensation of the makeup brush dancing across his skin despite the fact that he had so much product on his face it almost felt like he couldn’t smile without it cracking, and turned to the aforementioned page - promising himself he wouldn’t look at the obituary page for fear of resuming his crotchety foul mood. However, when he was finished smiling about all the little babies that had been introduced to the world, he couldn’t help himself when his eyes darted to the opposite page.

It was all black and grey, as dismal as the topic the ink was describing, and his eyes absorbed the words like they would fall off the page if he didn’t do it fast enough. It was mostly elderly people that had passed away, which in a way was a good thing. They had lived full lives, had plenty of experiences, and Taehyung absentmindedly thought that he would prefer to die when he was old and grey.

Maybe he would be surrounded by his huge family and hundreds of dogs, thinking back to all the experiences he’d had. All of the times he’d had with his closest friends growing up, all of the hardships getting through school, all the times he’d met a cute dog in the street. All of the times, the hours, the days he spent with his brothers; on stage, in the studio, in the practise room, sitting around the dining table at the ass crack of dawn, eyes swollen shut and no words needing to be shared to express a shared exhaustion. Eventually he would think to the woman he would marry, his soulmate, and all of their children they would have. All of the sleepless nights and changing nappies, all of the birthday parties and school runs. Yes, Taehyung would be okay with dying when he was old and grey.

His eyes finally made it to the bottom of the page, to the smallest little section of writing, and he read it quickly.

It was a woman, his age. His heart was already heavy at the loss, and when he read it was a murder, a robbery gone wrong, that claimed the lady’s life, he felt even more sorrowful. He couldn’t imagine what the family and friends of this woman were going through and he was thankful it wasn’t anybody he knew.

He folded up the paper, and set it down to the side of him again. The stylist was just spraying his face with setting spray, his eyes closing automatically, and he couldn’t sleep now even if he was about to drop off. His mind was swimming with a faceless woman, alone and defenceless. Did they have long hair? Short hair? Were they tall, or short? Was she a mother? Did she have a job? Are her family okay? Were her friends dealing with this alright?

Taehyung had too many questions that he would never find the answers to.

“Thank you, Osaka!” Namjoon shouted over the roar of the crowd, and all of them bowed again before running offstage.

Panting and breathless, Taehyung was quick to pull off his microphone wires and had the equipment to a nearby stagehand. Grabbing a bottle of water, uncapping it and sipping at the liquid that had never tasted so good in his entire life, he allowed another stylist to start dabbing at the sweat that had built up around his face.

Knowing he was expected back in the chair to have all the makeup taken off him, he shirked off his heavy, velvet jacket and trailed off after Jimin and Jungkook, barely mustering the energy to join in with their banter. The sweat was beginning to dry up in the cold air, leaving him feeling slightly clammy and gross, and he hoped the stylists would hurry up this time and take all the crap off his face so he could go and shower.

Better yet, go back to the hotel and shower there. The water pressure was divine.

Staring at his reflection with incredibly blank eyes, Taehyung didn’t even find it within himself to flinch when his bags were revealed under the shield of makeup he was wearing. He hoped that the fans hadn’t noticed how tired he was. He didn’t want them to worry needlessly about him; he was okay. They had a few days off soon and they would spend it resting. He was alright.

Just as his face was being moisturised, one of the managers approached Taehyung unsteadily, biting his lip and clutching a phone tightly to his chest.

“Taehyung?” He started, and immediately Taehyung was on edge. The tone of voice was too nervous, too worried, and Tae wasn’t sure if he wanted to know why.

“Yes? What’s wrong?” Taehyung asked, barely able to turn his head to make eye contact that wasn’t through a mirror before the stylist tutted and brought his head back round. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at her sudden need for speed, Taehyung merely raised his eyebrows at the manager through the mirror reflection.

“You all gave your phones in before we started, but yours has been ringing constantly. I didn’t check who it was because I don’t want to invade your privacy, but I thought you should probably call whoever it is back,” The manager said, holding the phone out to Taehyung. “They sound pretty desperate to get into contact with you.”

His heart in his mouth, Taehyung took the suddenly offensive rectangle of metal and turned it over. Quashing down the urge to vomit, he skipped past the twenty something missed calls from his mother, and called her back.

Stepping out of the chair and ignoring the outraged stylist, Taehyung started rubbing the remaining product into his face by himself, stepping out of the room and into the much quieter hallway.

The phone rang only twice before his mother picked up, as if she had been waiting for her phone to go off.

“Taehyung? Is that you?”

“It’s me, Mom. Is everything okay?”

“Oh, Taehyung, sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry!” Taehyung grit his teeth, remembering what he had lost the last time she had said these words.

“What is it?”

“It’s your friend, Tae!”

“Which one, Mom?”

“It’s Y/N! I only just found out today - in the papers - I can’t believe they didn’t call or say something, I can’t-”

“What’s wrong with Y/N, Mom?” Taehyung asked, his oesophagus closing up in panic. If something had happened to you, he didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle his oldest and most treasured friend being hurt.

Suddenly wishing he had thought to call you this morning, he pressed the phone further into his head.

“Mom? What’s wrong with Y/N?”

“She’s dead, Taehyung! She was murdered!”

You had been killed.

Some person, some filthy, scum of the earth, had put their hands on you and they had murdered you.

Why had Taehyung not heard about this?

His stomach was clenched uncomfortably tightly and there was a burning sensation in his eyes. Was he exhausted or was his grief not registering with his mind?

He couldn’t believe it. You had been murdered. Your presence, your stunning, beautiful being had been robbed from him and everybody around you. He couldn’t even fathom. His mind was moving far too quickly for him to comprehend, his heart slamming against the wall of his ribcage and his lungs were being squeezed too tight and suddenly Taehyung was lurching forwards, spewing his guts all over the floor and everybody around him were exclaiming in shock, asking him what was wrong and running to get cleaning equipment (maybe a bucket too) and Jimin’s hands were on his shoulders and patting his head and Taehyung was

Taehyung was crying.

He was crying, crying your name and other words he didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand it. He was picturing your smile, the most wonderful thing he had ever seen, and then he tried to picture someone even thinking about harming you. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make the connection.

Taehyung was crying desperately in Jimin’s arms and he couldn’t answer any questions, his tongue not allowing him to make any movements. Not when it felt like his heart had just been removed and there was an empty hole where it used to be.

People were asking his mother questions through the phone, but Taehyung’s mind was elsewhere. Swathed in horror and agony, he thought back to the newspaper and the obituary page and suddenly he was retching again, spilling possibly everything he’d ever eaten all over the floor again.

He needed to call somebody. He needed to call you, even if it was to hear your voicemail message. He needed to do something even as tears were dripping down his face and his nose was all snotty and his eyelashes were clumped together. His hands were shaking and he needed to grasp onto something; something soft and something that smelled like you, not Jimin. He wanted you, he needed you, but he got Jimin and that wasn’t good enough anymore.

It was the same Thursday and he was standing in the queue to check in his baggage and get through security. He was flipping through his passport, ensuring that he still had his boarding pass tucked inside for the hundredth time, then adjusted his beanie and face mask to make sure there was no risk of anybody noticing who he was.

Honestly, without the familiar six bodies flanking him as well as all of their managers, it would be harder to identify him as V from BTS.

For today, he just wanted to be Kim Taehyung. That’s all you knew him as and for once, he wanted to make everything about you.

Taehyung was sickened to think that everything else up until then had been about him.

Eventually he made it through security, with a minor issue where he had to remove his face mask and sunglasses to let the woman checking passports that it was actually him. Her eyes had widened marginally but she was thankfully professional about the situation, especially when Taehyung had raised a finger to his lips in a motion that told her to keep this under wraps.

As far as everybody else knew, Taehyung was lying in his hotel room, suddenly taken ill with some kind of flu. Only the members and a select few managers knew that he had booked a flight back to Daegu to visit your parents, his family, and then go to your funeral.

Your funeral. Tae hadn’t thought this day would come for many, many years yet.

His mind felt very detached from his body. He was going through the familiar motions of finding an empty table at a coffee shop and connecting to the WiFi, ordering a coffee that he probably wouldn’t drink, unable to keep much down since the devastating blow had been delivered to his very soul.

He pulled his phone back out of his back pocket and plugged his earphones in. There was no music playing, but Taehyung was hoping that having his earphones in was enough of a deterrent for anybody that might have approached him.

He was leaning his head on his hand, scrolling absentmindedly through the last messages the two of you had sent to each other. The last text was only last week, from him, mentioning briefly that they were doing a show near Daegu in less than a month and he would be able to get you a ticket to come and see him. He didn’t know if he even wanted to perform in Daegu anymore if you weren’t going to be there.

You had replied with only a series of texts full of happy emojis, and he sent his own in reply. Tears lined his eyes when he remembered that you would never send a text again, waking him up at 4am because you’d had a nightmare, or you couldn’t sleep, or - even better - you were drunk and uncharacteristically affectionate. When that was the case you usually only called with the sole purpose of reminding him how much you loved him. His stomach clenched uncomfortably again when he recalled how he didn’t put nearly enough effort into your friendship. He never text you first or called you to see how you were like you did. You even ordered him food from the local delivery place, paying for it online, at stupid hours in the morning so he wouldn’t go without dinner. The few times that you had visited from home, you had made so much effort to get on with the other members. It was you that managed to coax Jungkook out of his room and to play video games with you, Taehyung and Jimin, exclaiming that ‘Two against one isn’t fair! Jimin will be slaughtered, you couldn’t have that on your conscious, Jungkook’. After that, Jungkook had actually started talking to the rest of them and Taehyung had gained another invaluable friend.

You were his best friend for years and years, and he didn’t even give you the time of day; now you were gone, and Taehyung felt like he was dying too.

He sighed, resting his head on his carry on luggage. Retrospectively, bringing his favourite Gucci holdall as his hand luggage was a poor decision, based on the few glances he was receiving, but nobody seemed to think too deep into it. Making the connection between a Gucci bag and him leaving the country seemed like a stretch, but Taehyung knew enough about his fans to know that they were all detectives in the making. One picture would be all it took for thousands of questions to be asked and he was way too tired - incredibly too sad - to answer anything.

The next thing he did was scroll through your private instagram that he had followed a long time ago but never really checked. It was a normal instagram that you’d see from anybody; pictures of scenery, pictures from nights out, the odd selfie here and there. He scrolled and scrolled and scrolled - mentally thanking you that you had a love for photography because even the pictures of leaves, cozy coffee shops and woodland walks were so intrinsically you that he almost wept - all the way to the start, and the first picture you had posted made him pause.

It was you, smiling so widely it must have hurt, and your eyes were screwed shut. Ice cream was all over your face and your hair was wild around you, but you looked so unbearably happy that Taehyung couldn’t find it within him to look away.

You were wrapped in his arms and he was also covered in ice cream, hair pushed from his forehead and slightly sweaty. His tongue was sticking out towards you, as if he was about to lick the sweetness from your cheek. His hands were gripping onto you, pulling you closer as it looked like you were about to squirm away.

Taehyung’s entire body went cold. The picture had a modest amount of likes, and the two of you looked like you were having a lot of fun, but he could not remember a second of the moment shared between the two of you.

He tried. He tried so hard, searching within his very soul for any moment shared between the two of you involving ice cream and shoving it in each others faces, but there was absolutely nothing there.

He might have vomited again, right in the middle of the airport, if he had eaten anything for the last few days for him to vomit up. Maybe it would be entirely coffee based.

It was almost surreal, staring at that picture. The two of you were obviously young in it, maybe mid-adolescents, but it was startling how much the two of you had changed. There he was in the airport, an internationally famous singer, and there you were, reduced to a single obituary. Different though you were, Taehyung didn’t think scrabbling for happy memories of you would make him this… Nervous.

He couldn’t seem to remember you properly. How long had it been since he saw you last? A year? Two? It couldn’t have been more, could it?

Taehyung couldn’t even remember that much.

Landing in Daegu and getting into a taxi to go home was something that he thought would make him feel better. He thought that he would be able to feel the exhaustion leaving him, seeping from his body through his pores, but it only made him feel more miserable. For a long time, he had wished to go home for at least for a few days, but he hated - no, detested - that the reason he was flying home for a week was because you had been stabbed to death. The weight of the things he should have done whilst you were alive was physically causing him to droop, his shoulders curling forwards on himself, and even the taxi driver asked him if he was okay.

Taehyung just shrugged, saying that he had a lot of things on his mind, and the taxi driver had nodded as if he understood.

A single flicker of his temper from the days before flared up before inevitably dying down - How could this man, this stranger, possibly understand what Taehyung was going through? How did he know? How could he feel the same impenetrable numbness that came with the sudden death of his best friend?

Were you even his best friend? Did he have the privilege of calling you that anymore? He didn’t know that much about you anymore.

He sighed, scrubbing his eyes angrily to remove any evidence of his momentary lapse in strength. He wanted to spend time with his family, but he had a suspicion that he would spend most of his visit in your room, surrounded by your things lest he forget what being with you feels like.

He was lying in his childhood bedroom, staring at the blank ceiling. Being home, lying on a mattress that was as familiar to him as his mother’s arms, was supposed to make him happy. He wasn’t even meant to be lying down, he should have been spending time with his mother and father, perhaps going out and treating them to a dinner. On the contrary, the house had been almost deafeningly still and quiet when he got home, his mother only embracing him and kissing him twice before he holed himself in his room like he was fifteen years old again.

His walls were completely bare, lines indicating where posters and pictures once were. Where your face used to be, alongside his, plastered all over his room. He didn’t know when your pictures and his posters had been taken away but he didn’t care enough to get up and ask his parents.

Perhaps his room was about to be converted into something, figuring he wouldn’t come home for a long time, but the tragedy had shaken apart those plans. He wondered what it was going to be changed into. Probably a small gym, knowing his father wanted to do exercise to help his health and weight.

He realised he didn’t really care what his bedroom was turned into, as long as he could have those pictures back. If he couldn’t have you, then he would take your pictures back to Seoul with him. You hadn’t seen his new bedroom anyway and he knew you’d love Namjoon’s extensive Ryan plush collection.

The sun was beginning to go down, and Taehyung still hadn’t moved. He’d ignored his mother when she knocked on his door to call him down for dinner and he didn’t even move when his stomach growled angrily. His phone had fallen off the side of the bed several hours ago and, even when it vibrated several times, he didn’t make any movement to collect it.

He didn’t really do anything at all for what felt like several minutes but was the entire day.

By the time the sun had completely gone down and the slight draft from the open window was beginning to get uncomfortable, he was up and pulling his shoes back on. Thundering down the stairs and grabbing his coat, he merely nodded at his father who gave him a thin smile in return.

Heading out the door and down the darkened street, his feet carried him all the way to your face like they had a thousand times, before they had taken him to the other side of South Korea and away from you.

Staring up at your house, with its dark and cold windows, Taehyung felt another part of him disappear. It was almost as if a part of him hadn’t believed it, and seeing your house as empty as his life suddenly was shocked him.

The last time he had been standing in this spot, hands wrapped around the top of the wrought iron gate at the end of the path up to your door, he had been shorter. He had been smaller, weaker, completely unknown. He had been wearing nothing but jeans and a t-shirt and he didn’t even have any money on him. His hair was black and his skin was darker, imperfect, but you still opened your door to him and smiled at him like he had brought you everything you could have ever wanted even though his hands were empty.

You were always smiling at him like that, even when he had done things that were less than desirable. No matter what mood you were in, you always smiled at him like he had hung the sun in your sky for you, and goddammit he would have. He’d have done anything for you and he still would.

He’d launch himself into space and bring you the brightest star if it meant that you’d open your door, right now, to him.

You didn’t though, even after standing there for what could have been hours. His hands were burning from the coldness of the gate and he couldn’t help but let go.

He had to let go.

Turning to leave, he grit his teeth and dug his hands into the pockets of the coat that he suddenly hated. It was too big, too white, too expensive and staring at himself in the reflection of a car he walked past made him uncomfortable. He didn’t recognise himself at all, and if it wasn’t so cold he would have ripped the coat off and left it there in the road.

The street was deserted thankfully, and he made his way straight to the arcade that was on the small high street not far from the centre of town.

After school, you would usually go there together and try to beat your high scores. If one of you’d had a particularly trying day, you’d spend even longer, running back home and begging your parents for more money to spend on the machines with the bright flashing lights and excitable music that rang through his eardrums and sent pre-pubescent Taehyung into a frenzy.

No matter how hours Taehyung spent at the arcade by himself after you had gone home, practising at that one game that you were always frustratingly better than him at, you always beat him. He was going to confess one of these days, but now he never could. You would have scoffed probably, then laughed at his pettiness; back then, his anger at your perfect streak of wins was the most vexing thing in the world.

He wondered vaguely if anybody had beaten your high score.

It was closed now, the shutters brought down tightly over the entrances. No lights were on, leaving the place look unfortunately rundown and abandoned. The paint peeling from the sign was a far cry from its glory days during Taehyung’s youth, with its constant stream of happy, screaming children with exasperated adults in tow or equally excited friends.

Now, it was vacant and dark and old, and Taehyung didn’t feel the familiar surge of joy at the sight of his favourite hangout. It just wasn’t the same, staring up at the sign, without you next to him. You would have been rolling back and forth on your heels, as you always did instead of standing still, and your hands would have been clasped together in front of you. Eventually, sick of his standing and staring, you would have tugged on his sleeve and whined about going in already.

Taehyung didn’t realise he was crying until a tear fell off the edge of his jaw and onto the floor below.

It was stupid, really. He’d been crying on and off for the better part of the entire week before his flight back home, and he still wasn’t done. Honestly, he didn’t think he’d ever be done crying over you.

Scrubbing at his eyes furiously, almost angry at his own grief and how apathetic it made him feel towards everything other than you, he turned on his heel and strode down the road away from the arcade. With every step away he took, he felt a tugging, as if it was the last time he’d ever visit the place. He knew it wasn’t, though.

He’d come and play games again, one day. Maybe with his own children. Perhaps he’d even beat your high score, finally.

The walk to the dessert shop was incredibly quick, which is how the two of you preferred it. Knowing that you’d have to walk any longer than five minutes to get a huge bowl of ice cream to share would have put the two of you off, so the place that was within walking distance was too perfect for you.

Sometimes you’d skip the arcade completely, too drained by life to play, and just immediately grab your usual booth and devour the biggest sundae together before walking home, complaining about your bulging stomachs and promising never to eat that amount of ice cream again. You always did the next day.

The place was more or less the same. Perhaps the colour of the walls had changed to a more obnoxious pink rather than the muted cream it used to be, but other than that, it was all the same. The tables, the seats, the counter, the menu. Walking past and staring in, his eyes zeroed in on the booth you usually sat at and he knew that if he went in now, he’d find your names carved into the top of the table, near the wall.

It had been a good day, and exhausted from at least two hours of shooting zombies at the arcade, the two of you had chosen to sit rather quietly after demolishing the mountain of ice cream.

The sun was out, despite it being nearly evening, and Taehyung’s shirt was stuck to his skin uncomfortably with sweat. Your cheeks were slightly flushed and you were fanning your face lazily with your maths exercise book.

He was just rummaging through his backpack to locate his water bottle when his eyes fell upon a maths set that his mother had insisted on buying, despite the fact that Taehyung didn’t know what some of the stuff did. Bringing out a compass and pressing his finger gently to the sharp point and withdrawing immediately when it hurt, you laughed at him.

“What the hell is this thing for?”

“It’s a compass, Tae. You use it to draw circles or whatever.”

“It’s so sharp though.”

“I know. People use it to carve stuff into the tabletops rather than draw actual circles.”

“Carve stuff? Like, names?”

“Yeah.”

“Shall I carve our names into our table?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He had slaved over it laboriously, determined to make his handwriting perfect. You had watched him silence as he dragged the sharp instrument back and forth, making the rivulets in the table even deeper so it’d last for a long time. Initially, he had been quite reserved when scarring the table for fear a staff member - or, God forbid, the belligerent owner that Taehyung swore hated him; the only reason he didn’t say anything was because Taehyung was a loyal customer for years - caught him. However, halfway through carving your name into the table, he hunched over so his eyes were as close to the surface of the table as possible and scratched with a desperate fervour.

When he had finished, and was satisfied with the results, he wiped away the flecks of wood that he had carved out and smiled impishly at you, making you laugh and swat his hand that was resting on the table. You had called him a criminal and, laughing, gathered your things together, saying that you needed to get home soon for dinner.

Pouting but nodding, Taehyung was quickly to shove the compass back into his bag and hightail it out of the dessert shop after you.

Feeling almost as if he was watching his past self, Taehyung stood outside the window of the establishment, staring at the door. If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear the ring of the bell above the door and your laughter, morphing into a shriek when he started to run after you.

Now, he was completely alone and his ears were beginning to go pink from the cold. Zipping his coat up and tucking his chin into it to defend himself from the cold that still somehow managed to wrap itself around his body.

He couldn’t even bear to look at his reflection in the window of the dessert shop.

Continuing down the still vacant road, he stopped for a moment in front of all of them. The formal wear shop, that you had dragged him into to help you choose a dress for prom. You had forced him to rent a tuxedo and it was the first time he had ever worn anything so expensive. The fear of accidentally ruining the suit nearly overwhelmed the fun he had with you that night, but spending the entire night with you looking as exquisite as you did helped quash his anxieties.

He paused in front of the pet shop, that always had a great display of puppies or even kittens, rolling around and playing, in the front window. You would both spend more time than necessary with your noses pressed against the glass, cooing and tapping on the glass to attract their attention and yelling at the other when the animal chose their finger to go towards.

He stopped in front of the bookstore that he personally hated but had still spent hours in. The WiFi was good, and watching you get excited about a newly released book or gushing over a book you’d read a thousand times before, or even a book you’d never heard of before but had just discovered, made it worth it. The atmosphere was refreshingly calming too, although he would never admit it to you. Maybe he would now, when you couldn’t get mad at him for his constant whinging when you would take him by the hand down the road and into the shop.

Honestly, he just liked the feel of your hand in his. He feared that if he didn’t whine loudly about it, you wouldn’t hold his hand, and he liked that bit the most.

He even slowed down in front of the row of clothing stores that you had dragged him around. Well, he said dragged, but he quite enjoyed this bit too. He would pick out the ugliest things for you whilst you went elsewhere and actually put together an outfit that looked amazing on you. You’d try it all on, even the most hideous things, because you said that the way he giggled was adorable. He always corrected you and maintained that he didn’t giggle, he’s a man, but honestly, seeing you in embroidered jacquard flare trousers was too good not to giggle at.

You had quite the eye for fashion, and he’d never forget the months of bullying he’d endured from you when he had first debuted with the rest of Bangtan and you’d seen their outfits. Honestly, his fashion sense had only developed out of fear of your reaction if he wore anything bad again. He was traumatised.

He stopped outside the tattoo parlour that was still open, neon signs flashing and painting his face an orange shade. It was here that you’d come to for your first ever ear piercings, and he had held your hand throughout the entire ordeal.

Again, it wasn’t because you were scared. He just liked holding your hand.

Considering entering and getting a spur of the moment tattoo, Taehyung was brought out of his reverie when he heard voices down the road. Turning his head, he saw some students exit the bar, obviously drunk.

Figuring they may recognise him if he hung around any longer, he slid his hands into his pocket and abandoned all thought of getting a tattoo that Namjoon would kill him for. Not only Namjoon, but he’d have to explain to his fans why he’d lost his mind and got your face tattooed across his chest.

Deciding it was probably a good idea to go home and try to get some sleep, he began the ten minute walk back to your neighbourhood. The front door was left unlocked, probably for him, and he went straight up the stairs without bothering to take his shoes off.

Flopping face first onto his bed and burying his head into his pillow, he sighed heavily.

He didn’t feel any worse, or any better, from his walk. Perhaps he was slightly more raw, like his soul had been pulled out and bared for all to see, but he felt no different. It’s not that he expected to, honestly, but he was thinking he’d feel more of something. Maybe slightly resolved? Perhaps sobbing so loudly his parents woke up? Something slightly… More.

Instead of sleeping, like he originally was going to, Taehyung found himself staring into the blackness of his room until the sun rose and brought the pale light flooding in through the window he had forgotten to draw the curtains over.

When his mother knocked on his door for breakfast, it wasn’t so hard to act like he’d just woken up. Rolling out of bed and messing up his hair slightly, he stripped out of his clothes from the day before and pulled on some sweatpants and a t-shirt. Then, almost tripping down the stairs, Taehyung sat himself at the dining table adjacent to his father who was already reading the paper.

Feeling strangely like he wasn’t quite in his body, Taehyung could only muster eating some of the food his mother had made him before returning to his room. He didn’t know if it was the lack of sleep or suddenly having nothing to do at all for the first time in a long time, but he still felt like he was dreaming. It was a strange sensation of nothingness and Taehyung wasn’t sure if anything was tangible suddenly.

It was a Friday morning and, if his entire world hadn’t been tilted off its axis, he’d be in Manila, preparing for this evening's concert with his members. Currently, however, he was lying on his front with his head slightly off the edge of the bed, staring at his phone as Yoongi’s face pops up on caller ID. He didn’t make any move to pick up the phone, not having the energy and for the first time ever, Taehyung purposefully ignored Yoongi’s phone call.

The screen went black and Taehyung’s eyes slid shut.

It was a few hours later that his mom knocked on his bedroom door, opening it and seeing her son sitting on the carpeted floor, knees drawn up to his chest and still in what she thought were his pajamas.

His clothes were crumpled on the floor, his costly coat thrown onto the ground without a second thought, and his Gucci bag was still on the bed that he had slept on; not having the energy or motivation to even put it on the floor, Taehyung had merely slept alongside it. The room was freezing, the window still open and untouched. Taehyung was doing nothing except scratching his nails gently at his knees, but he turned his head slightly when his mom entered the room.

“Oh, honey,” she said, shutting the door behind her and immediately Taehyung’s face crumpled and tears started flowing down his face. She sat on the floor next to him and brought his head to her chest, kissing his head and smoothing down his hair. Her hand ran rhythmically up and down his back, occasionally kissing his head again, but the tears didn’t stop. They fell uninterrupted down his face, soaking through his mom’s blouse, but she didn’t say a word.

She just let her son cry in her arms for the loss of his best friend.

Later in the day, when Taehyung had mustered up the drive to shower and brush his teeth - skipping washing his face - he dressed himself in the most inconspicuous clothes he had brought with him and his mother drove him to the nearest drugstore.

Entering quickly, he ignored the suspicious look he received from the checkout guy when Taehyung reached forward to hand him his card and his jacket sleeve rode up, revealing three cartier bracelets on his wrist that were a stark contrast from his old and slightly ratty clothes. Thankfully, the guy didn’t seem to actually recognise him, and Taehyung was in and out with a box of black hair dye without any incidents.

Until, of course, he accidentally almost ran into a mother and her teenage daughter.

“Kim Taehyung!” she exclaimed, much to the bewilderment of her mother, and Taehyung forgot his manners momentarily, turned, and sprinted towards his mother's car. “Taehyung! V!”

Only when he was settled into the seat and his seat belt was strapped around him did the beginnings of guilt settle into the pit of his stomach; he regretted running away from the girl, wishing he’d stopped to talk to her and treat her the way she deserved to be treated, but he was still meant to be sick with the flu. If she had taken a picture and posted it anywhere on the internet, he’d have a lot of questions to answer, and he was enjoying his time away from the spotlight for now. If people knew he was back in Daegu - without the other members and without any kind of security - he’d suddenly appear all over the front of most magazines and branded a liar.

Technically, he was lying, but it was for a very good reason. He didn’t want to expose your existence, fearing that your relationship would be taken the wrong way, and he still needed time to grieve for you without the added hassle of explaining everything to everybody.

When he left, even Hoseok, Jin and Jungkook didn’t know exactly what had happened. He just got home from his embarrassing breakdown in front of everybody in Osaka, showered, packed some stuff, and left the dorm immediately without even getting proper permission from management.

He shouldn’t even have to get permission to go home and attend his best friend’s funeral.

Arriving home, he ventured upstairs to the bathroom and tore into the box. His tresses were a pleasant honey blonde kind of shade that he had initially really liked on him, but suddenly he missed his natural black hair. Being back home in Daegu, and revisiting his times with you, had made him think that he had changed into somebody he wasn’t. He was just Taehyung; weedy Taehyung that played too many games and never studied enough and always hung out with Y/N. Wearing the flashy clothes with the hair, the expensive jewellery and being in an internationally famous boyband didn’t change that.

Besides, you’d always said that you preferred him with black hair. He looked more familiar that way.

So, there he was, in his parents bathroom and colouring his hair black. He’d taken his earrings out, and taken off those bracelets that he had been able to buy without giving it much thought despite them costing more than they should.

He had lost his puppy fat - the muscles in his arms flexing when he raised them - and had grown several inches, but at least he looked more like your Taehyung than he did when he landed.

Raising his fist up to knock, Taehyung sank his front teeth so hard into his lip that the skin split and started to bleed. Wiping away the blood and ignoring the sting, he knocked again and soon after the door swung open, revealing your suddenly aged mother. A handkerchief was fisted tightly in her hand and her eyes were bereft of any emotion, face looking thin and gaunt.

Your mother looked exactly how Taehyung felt and he couldn’t even muster a weak smile at her. If she was surprised by his sudden appearance in Daegu, she didn’t show it. She merely bowed her head and opened the door wider to let him in.

Crossing over the threshold he had stepped over countless times before had never felt so awkward and alien. He didn’t even recognise the house properly anymore, time having taken away most of his memories of the house that was once as much home to him as his actual one. Your mother didn’t say anything to him, she just disappeared further into the silent house and Taehyung shut the door behind him, took his shoes off and ventured upstairs.

Feeling slightly like he was a young teenager again, he felt weird entering your room without you accompanying him. Having the strange feeling that he was trespassing your privacy, he almost knocked before entering your room, then remembered where he was and what he was doing.

As much as he wished he was, he was not thirteen anymore. You weren’t here to tell him to come in, or leave you alone, or anything else you might have said.

He took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

The room was untouched. Clearly neither parent had entered the room either; or, if they had, they didn’t touch change anything.

The bed was still unmade from the morning that you left it, and your laptop was still on; plugged in and constantly on charge, it’s fan humming quietly. Making a mental note to turn it off before he left, Taehyung stepped into the room and closed your door gently behind him and took a seat at your desk. It was almost exactly how he remembered it, with the addition of a few notes here and there on your pinboard from university. The same art was still hanging up - most of which he had helped you pick out - and the same photographs were still littering your walls and shelves.

The pens were all in the pencil pot, several lying scattered on your desk on top of a notebook, lids uncapped and ready for you to return to use them again. Your laundry basket in the corner was half filled, a jacket tossed over the edge of it, and your wardrobe had a shirt sleeve hanging out the door.

If Taehyung didn’t know any better, he’d think you had merely left the room several hours ago to run an errand or go to class; he didn’t think you’d simply not exist anymore. It felt too surreal.

Sighing heavily, he used one foot to push the chair so he span, facing the rest of the room. Retrospectively, that was a bad idea, as suddenly he was faced with several pictures of the two of you. Your eyes were glittering with joy at him from every direction he looked and he could have screamed in horror if he felt it strong enough.

It felt like you could see him. You were looking at him, with his poorly dyed hair and deep eye bags, thin looking face and skin breaking out. No matter what he looked like at that moment, you’d still be staring at him, immortalised forever in film, and the thought made him sick. If you were here, you’d lay a hand on his cheek and ask him gently what was wrong. If he said nothing, you’d switch tactics quickly; punching him firmly on the arm and demanding to know at once. Instead, you merely stared at him, several years younger and arms wrapped firmly around an equally younger Taehyung.

He turned back around, facing your desk and the wall that was empty of your eyes, staring at him with an unmoving expression. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like not being able to tell you how sorry he was that you died, alone and in the cold, and he didn’t like not being able to tell you how sorry he was that he wasn’t around for the last few years of your life. He was sorry for not offering to help pay for your university tuition to make things easier for you, and he was sorry that he didn’t text you every single morning, telling you how beautiful you were and to have a good day. He was sorry that you hadn’t been able to travel around Europe like you had always wanted, and he was sorry that you didn’t get to move out and buy your very own cat like you wanted.

He was sorry for a lot of things, but mostly the fact that you had died and he hadn’t, leaving behind an empty, apathetic shell of who he was a few days ago.

Later in the day, he found himself with his face buried into your bed. It still smelt faintly like you, and he initially found himself inhaling your scent like it was the only drug that could satiate his craving. Now, he was content to bask in your presence, wrapped in your duvet like he was never going to move again. Honestly, if anybody had asked him, he would have said that he would prefer to stay there for the rest of his life. He didn’t want to get out of bed and fly back to wherever the members might be, merely to continue his life as if a huge chunk of it hadn’t just been carved out.

He wondered vaguely if your parents would have any problems with him staying in your room this night, but he didn’t have the energy to get out of bed and ask. He didn’t think they’d come in, lest they disturb him in the middle of his deepest pit of grief that he had fallen into, and he didn’t have his phone on him so he couldn’t even do the lazy thing and call the house phone.

So, he stayed there anyway. He lay on his back in your bed, staring at your ceiling and barely noticing when the darkness swallowed all the pictures of you that were still staring at him from the walls.

Before Taehyung knew it, the sun had risen on the day he was dreading more than anything.

He dragged himself all the way home, scuffing his shoes all the way and kicking a random bottle that had been carelessly thrown onto the floor all the way to the front of his house. It wasn’t a long walk at all - five minutes at the most - but for some reason Taehyung was exhausted by the physical exertion. He all but fell through the door, and the look that his mother gave him when he wandered into the kitchen was enough to tell him that he looked like shit.

Where was the boyband member he had become? He was in here, somewhere; hidden under the eyebags, greasy hair and scruffy clothes. Under the heartbreak and grief.

The other members would have a fit when he eventually rejoined them, he thought as he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. A toothbrush hung from his lips, toothpaste messily smeared around his mouth, and droplets of water from his freshly washed hair was dripping down his bare skin.

The originally golden skin seemed pale, and it was apparent that he’d already lost weight in his three day depression. He didn’t know that heartbreak could show through his appearance so quickly, but he swore never to think twice if he met someone with the same defeated look in his eyes that he was staring at himself with.

It felt horrible. He didn’t know what exactly felt horrible, but it did.

Suddenly he was stood in front of another mirror in his bedroom, a finely tailored suit enveloping his body. The lapels were firmly pressed, and the contrast of the black fabric against his sickly skin was harsh. He had even put in the extra effort and styled his hair, doing the best he could with just a hairdryer and brush. Still, there was something off about his appearance. He looked like he was about to go to an awards show, not say goodbye to his most precious friend for the last time. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was wrong with the way he looked, and he knew his parents felt something off about him when he finally stepped downstairs and met them where they were waiting in the front hall.

One of them may have asked if he had slept at all, but Taehyung couldn’t remember what he had replied with. They wouldn’t properly grasp the turmoil in his head anyway; Taehyung slid his sunglasses onto his eyes, despite it being an overcast day. He didn’t want anybody to look into his eyes and see what a mess he was.

Being that there was a chance plenty of people would recognise him at your funeral - the two of you were, of course, completely inseparable and the idea of him not attending your funeral was as absurd as the idea of you being dead at all - Taehyung had even mustered up the strength to slather some foundation over his suddenly flawed and blemished skin.

He almost smiled slightly when he thought that you existence was sustaining him, and now that you were gone he was starting to decompose whilst walking around the town that you had grown up together in.

Stepping out the front door, Taehyung’s anger suddenly hit him as hard as the blistering heat did. It was sunny, not a cloud in sight, and that pissed him off more than anything. It should have been raining and windy, akin to a hurricane, and the fact that the weather was happier than he was annoyed him greatly. Feeling like he was ten years old again, he slid into the back seat of his Dad’s car and did his seatbelt up with the same clockwork motions that had been allowing him to do anything since he had read your stupid fucking obituary and received that call. He stared out the window on the way to the church - a location that annoyed him too; you weren’t even slightly religious - and he didn’t say anything in response to his parents lighthearted questions.

They asked him what he had been up to when he left the house, but he could only muster a slight hum, staring at all the houses and shops that whizzed past the car. Everybody was living their lives and he felt rather like an outsider looking in, watching all these people live their normal daily lives whilst he was feeling incredibly despondent. He felt almost like he was entirely grey, both on the inside and out.

Before he had any time to ponder this at all, his father was pulling into the car park of the church where several of your relatives had already gathered. They were all dressed in dark colours, and weirdly, the sight bothered him.

He hated the happy weather but he also hated the sight of any misery.

He’d prefer the constant catatonic state rather than these overwhelming waves of emotions Taehyung had never even felt before.

Irritation flared when his mother laid a hand on his bicep and he was quick to pull himself out of her grasp, striding towards the doors of the church without his parents. The murmurs of the relatives and friends did nothing but worsen his already foul mood, and he didn’t hang around long enough for them to take any pictures. To take pictures of him at his best friends funeral was in poor taste, but perhaps he had put too much trust in those he didn’t know as he swore he heard at least two camera shutters.

Closing his eyes in frustration, he paused on the steps leading up the church doors that were propped open, and turned slowly to the small crowd of people that were staring at him in silence. “Don’t take any pictures,” he started, voice slightly hoarse from the lack of use. “And if you can’t seem to control yourselves and take pictures anyway, there will be legal repercussions.”

He entered the church after that, and had to inhale sharply, deeply, before turning the corner. He knew that your coffin would be there, with your body so close to him yet light years away. There was nobody around to give him a fake, sad smile that he would have liked to punch off someone’s face. Not in a church though. Perhaps on the steps outside, in front of the crowd with the cameras and trigger happy fingers.

So, he stood there, staring at the stain glass windows that depicted a weeping Jesus. Before any of this, Taehyung hadn’t been adverse to religion. He wasn’t a Christian, or a Buddhist, or anything else. He didn’t really believe in God, but he never thought less of anybody that did. Now, though, he couldn’t fathom it. They said that God had a plan for everybody, that everything happens for a reason, but why did you die? What sick kind of plan was that? He didn’t think he could believe in a God that allowed your death. He refused to.

Staring at the Jesus that was crying only made him even angrier than before, so he cast his eyes downwards to the row of candles that stood on a metal stand. Some seemed to be recently lit, still tall and proud, but others were burnt down to a mere stub, light still flickering feebly despite its life running quickly out.

Taehyung didn’t ever think before this that he could relate to a candle.

He stepped closer, bending down slightly to collect an unused candle from the box full of them. Holding it above another candle to light it, he placed it in the highest bracket. Then, he stood back and admired your candle, taller and burning brighter than any of the others. Turning his back, he tensed his shoulders slightly and held his breath as he turned the corner.

God, there you were.

He didn’t blink or breathe as he stepped closer, eyes locked firmly on the mahogany coffin at the front of the congregation seating. It was an open casket, but Taehyung kept his eyes focused on one of the handles fixed to the side of it.

It was shiny, light glinting off it, and Taehyung figured that he could draw it perfectly from memory after standing in the middle of the aisle and staring at it for as long as he did. The smooth surface of the coffin grabbed his attention next, and Taehyung glued his eyes to the light that was reflected on it. He didn’t want to look at your face. Jesus Christ, he didn’t want to look at you.

He didn’t know how long he was stood there, but when he turned around again, he was vaguely surprised to see most of the people had filtered into the church and were taking their seats. Your parents were talking quietly with the priestess, your mother clutching a handkerchief to her mouth and your father’s arm wrapped tightly around her upper arms. He didn’t make eye contact with anybody, not even his own parents and siblings, he just took a seat furthest away.

He still did not look at you. He just stared at the Priestess reading mindless words, brain feeling like it was about to slide out of his ears.

He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to Seoul and pretend none of this was happening.

He wanted to ignore the people that were turning to glance at him; at he who was still wearing sunglasses inside a church, at he who was doing nothing to stifle the tears dribbling down his face. The muscles in his face were tight, almost aching, but Taehyung refused to let his lip wobble or a sniff to escape him.

Hymns were sung that he did not join in on, and prayers were said as if they could do anything for you anymore, and when the pallbearers began to walk down the aisle to hoist you onto their shoulders, his eyes bored into the side of your face.

The thought that your pale, lifeless and stiff face would be the last image he had of you almost made him vomit all over the stone floors.

They shut the lid of the coffin, lifted you onto their shoulders and slowly carried you down the aisle and out the doors that were still propped open. Gradually, all the guests followed behind you, your mother being supported by your father. His mother could only muster a weak smile at her son but Taehyung didn’t even react.

His eyes were focused on another stained glass window at the back of the church, depicting Jesus spread across the crucifix upon which he died. Taehyung couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than contempt.

His suit wasn’t rented. He’d had it tailored especially for his body several months ago, and whilst the shoulders didn’t fit as perfectly as they had back then, the suit still fit him incredibly well. It had cost him a dear amount and at the time, he had worn it with pride and was able to feel relaxed in front of the thousands of cameras that were focused on him and the six others surrounding him.

Now, he was wearing that very suit, cross-legged on grass that was still damp from the earlier rainfall. Despite the blistering fucking heat, the grass was still cold and wet and he knew the odds of getting grass stains all over this damn suit were high. He didn’t care, though; he fisted the grass between his fingers, ripping it out of the ground and throwing it several feet to the side of him.

His legs were beginning to go numb, so he extended them flat in front of him, leaning backwards and supporting himself on his arms, hands getting wet on the grass.

The sky was completely blue, the odd white and fluffy cloud drifting slowly past. His sunglasses lay next to him in the grass, and the leaves on the trees around the perimeter of the graveyard were rustling ever so slightly in the breeze.

The freshly dug pile of earth in front of him remained unchanged, even after several hours of sitting there and doing nothing. Honestly, he didn’t know what it was that he expected. Maybe for you to come up behind him and tell him this had been an elaborate, sick prank? Perhaps you would suddenly come back to life and crawl out of the ground. That would be much better than the reality.

You didn’t even have a gravestone; the amount of time between your death and your funeral was too short an amount of time for the undertakers to design and commission your headstone, so all there was in front of him was a shitty sign, hammered into the ground, with your name, date of birth and date of death.

He was going to pay for the headstone himself. He’d’ve made it huge, made of the finest marble with gold lettering, but he knew that you wouldn’t do that. He’d design it himself, taking extra care into what you’d prefer.

Goosebumps broke over his skin as a particularly strong breeze brushed over him, and he tore his eyes away from the recently settled mound of dirt. He could barely register that your body was under that, six feet below him. Even though your killer had been caught and apprehended, and he had just attended your funeral and watch you get buried, he couldn’t believe you were gone.

He didn’t want to believe it.

His phone buzzed against his leg, and Taehyung had to lean back slightly in order to slip it out of his trouser pocket. It was Yoongi again; the only one who had been calling him regularly. Deciding not to ignore him again, Taehyung answered and held the phone up to his head but didn’t say anything.

Yoongi was breathing relatively heavily, letting Taehyung know that the group had just finished practise for tonight’s concert or something of the sort.

“Kid?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“You good?”

Taehyung didn’t answer for a moment. His eyes were still trained on your grave.

Were you okay, wherever you were? Were you scared when you died in that dirty alleyway? Did you think about him?

He knew that when he died, he’d think of you. He’d think of his family, yes, and his friends, and his band members, but he’d think of you the longest and the hardest.

He wondered how you were doing. He knew that you’d be watching over him from wherever you were miles above him, smiling fondly at him like you always did. Taehyung knew that he’d join you one day and the two of your would walk to the arcade again, hand in hand. He knew that you’d spend every day of forever holding hands, shoving ice cream into each others face and carving names into everything.

When he saw you again, he knew you’d be surprised; maybe sad, too. But you’d run to him, leaping into his arms. You’d look as youthful and stunning as you always did and maybe he’d look more mature, but still the same. His happiest days were those with you, and he’d like to think he’d look like he does now when he sees you again. If he were wrinkly and grey you’d tease him mercilessly everyday for the rest of eternity; thinking about it, he wouldn’t mind that much. You were so pretty when you smiled.

Maybe the pain was so incredibly fresh in his heart currently, but time would help him heal. He’d be able to think back about all the years you spent together, the happy times and the most tragic, with a fond smile. He’d be able to tell his future wife and children about you; about how wonderful, smart and funny you were. How you were his first and only best friend, how you would write him letters despite being a phone call away because you always found something so wonderful and romantic about receiving a handwritten letter.

He’d tell them how hard you worked to get into University, and that you had started working at sixteen years old to support yourself and help your parents with the bills. He’d tell them about the time you sliced your finger helping Seokjin cook dinner, and Namjoon had stubbed his toe, breaking it, on his way to help you.

He’d even tell them of that time you had gotten so angry with him that you didn’t talk to him for a week because he once said that your annoyed face was so ugly that it offended him to look at it.

He’d tell them everything, and he’d keep you alive that way.

He breathed in deep, standing up and stretching himself out. He cast a single look back at the sight of your burial, before he turned his back and walked away.

“Not really,” Taehyung replied, his voice hoarse and slightly cracked. “But I will be.”

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