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#gods i so wish i could go to a print shop and print stuff huh
therem-harth · 3 years
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Aaaaaaaa so my dear friend @fandom-of-random​ (but really she doesn’t use tumblr except to stalk) made art of my D&D char firbolg paladin Maskan that I’m saying goodbye to and leaving to make soup in feywild as his personal healing journey! And I love it so fucking much even when it’s uncolored that I though to share (with permission ofc) so maybe some of you get the nourishment from his peaceful smile too! The tshirt text is from this pic i shared in the group chat, under the cut
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gukyi · 4 years
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midas | jjk
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summary: jeon jungkook was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and the power to turn whatever he wants into pure gold. you were born with healing and invisibility powers but without a cent to your name. so when you’re plucked off of the streets for pickpocketing and assigned to be his minder as punishment, you realize you’re going to have to overcome a lot more than class differences if either of you are going to get what you want.
{enemies to lovers!au, ceo!au, magical realism!au}
pairing: jeon jungkook x female reader genre: fluff, comedy, angst word count: 32k (my hand slipped) warnings: alcohol consumption (brief), mentions of bruising and injuries, characters being emotionally constipated and afraid of commitment, your usual guyi e2l lineup a/n: finally!! oh god this fic took forever to write and just kept getting longer and longer. remember when i overestimated the wc by saying 25k-30k? yikes. anyway, i hope you all enjoy this monster! nothing says gukyi like a jk e2l fic, am i right?
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The best time to be on the streets is just past noon on weekdays and eleven o’clock on Sunday mornings. When every working professional is out on their lunch break or weekend brunch, basking in the nice weather by choosing to fill up every outdoor dining area available to them. When they plop their bags, their purses and totes, on the chairs opposite them or onto the pavement beside them, thinking that the plastic fence that guards them will be enough to deter pickpockets and thieves. 
Unluckily for them, they usually fail to consider the prospect of someone invisible swooping in to steal the bills from their wallets, a nondescript force reaching into their purse as they stare down at their phones while they eat, forkfuls of to-go salads and pasta dishes stuffed into their mouths. 
Pickpocketing is a skill that the most desperate learn and the shameless master. Normally, people work in teams, one person to distract and the other to fish for the wallet, grabbing the cash and credit cards before tossing it onto the sidewalk and disappearing without a trace. If you wanted to be especially good at it, you would have to be able to complete the entire thing in less than thirty seconds, in the time it takes for people to switch trains in the subway stations. 
But when you work alone, you don’t get that luxury.
But you suppose that the higher powers above, whatever they may be, are relatively benevolent, because in exchange for your prickly personality, you were blessed with the gift of being invisible. 
Unfortunately, that’s something that you don’t need magic to feel. 
The truth is that it’s always been easy to ignore a girl who has no family, no friends, and no money. Living isn’t the hard part, living with purpose is. Nobody wants to pay any attention to someone who has nothing, literally nothing, to offer in return. At least, nobody interesting. 
The only times when you ever feel truly at peace are when you’re sleeping, and when you’re walking down the streets of the city, letting the rest of the world pass you by without sparing you a second glance. You’ve never been one desperate to stick out, to make an impression. Never been someone that people stop to do a double take at when they walk past you. Strange as it sounds, you love the feeling of being insignificant. It is, in a way, liberating. 
So far today you’ve hauled eighty dollars and a subway card from the wallet of some poor tourist standing outside of a bakery looking at a map the size of Jupiter. Some people you feel particularly bad about robbing, but a bald man with dad sunglasses and a fanny pack isn’t one of them. Besides, being pickpocketed is a classic tourist experience. You’re actually doing him a favor. Something to check off of his bucket list. 
You stow away the money and the card into your pocket, bills folded neatly into your raggedy jeans, rips and holes lining the fabric not for fashion, but from wear alone. You’ll make a mental note to buy yourself a croissant or something later. A treat to reward yourself for all of the hard work you’re putting in today. You’ll be able to pay off your phone bill for the next month with this money.
When the lunch breaks are over, you’ll probably retire to your bed and wallow in self-pity for a little before returning for the dinner rush. Having no life is a constant job, and you don’t even get any legally-mandated breaks to keep you going. Every moment you aren’t on the streets is another moment you aren’t making any money. It’s sort of like being a salesman, which, if you think about it, is just a legal way to rob people. When have salespeople ever sold something of real value?
With the eighty dollars on your mind, you start to scope out nice bakeries on your route, coffee shop signs and pastries on display in the window, looking for a nice place to settle down and buy yourself something sweet. Seeing as you live off of Campbell’s soups and bread from dollar stores, anything is an upgrade. 
You walk a couple more blocks before stumbling upon one of those picture-perfect bakeries, with pristinely decorated cupcakes and cakes lining the window display. You can tell that this place is good because there’s a line out the door and a little seating area that is packed to the brim. However, you are currently invisible, which doesn’t accommodate purchasing goods particularly well, but you make a mental note to return to the bakery a little later when people can actually see you. As if you’d ever turn right here, in front of all of these people. 
While you’re here, you decide to snoop around the line and the outdoor seating area to see if anybody strikes your fancy. Everyone standing either has their bag on their shoulder or their wallets gripped tightly between their fingers, so that’s off the table. But, there is one woman wearing a massive wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses as she chows down on a pink strawberry cupcake, her Louis Vuitton tote bag sitting a good two inches away from her, possibly even out of her periphery. 
Bullseye. 
There’s never a need to be stealthy when you’re already invisible, so you trot over, eyeing the woman to make sure that she can’t see anything in front of her. She doesn’t seem to be paying any attention, so you quickly reach down into her bag, a close watch on her gaze, hand fishing around amongst the receipts and the lipsticks and hand sanitizer until you feel her leather wallet. Nimble fingers fumble with the zipper until the tips come into contact with the crisp dollar bills, which you quickly nick and stuff into your pocket, bounding off without a trace. 
Halfway down the block, you surreptitiously glance at your haul—two hundred dollars!
That’ll be enough to last you and your phone bill for the next three months, at least. 
You’re so busy mentally applauding yourself for your pickpocketing skills that you don’t notice someone standing right in front of you. At least, you don’t notice until you crash into them, the surprise forcing you to turn. 
You sputter out an apology, hoping that whoever it is you’ve nearly run over isn’t observant enough to notice that the currently-visible thing they bumped into was previously invisible, and that’s when you notice exactly who it is that you’ve collided with. 
It’s the woman from the bakery, Louis Vuitton bag and everything. And she’s staring you down like there’s no tomorrow, arms crossed over her middle-aged chest as she sends daggers at you. Oh, you’re so fucked. 
“Sorry?” You say unhelpfully, already knowing the direction of this conversation. This woman wouldn’t be sending you a death glare if she didn’t already know who you are. They definitely did this just to trap you, set you up like a mouse and a cheese trap. 
“Don’t play stupid, Y/N,” she orders. “You must already know why I’m here.”
“I was hoping you’d let me off the hook?” You say guiltily, her hand already wrapping tightly around your wrists as she handcuffs you, sharp metal pressing against your wrists. One wriggle and you know that there’s no magicking yourself out of these. They think of everything, they do.
“Tell that to the courts,” she snaps, effectively shutting you up as she drags you away, money digging a hole in your pocket as you begin to envision yourself six feet under. You’re as good as dead, caught red-handed.
Well, life was good while it lasted. At least you might never have to have Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup anymore. 
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There’s no such thing as an attorney in the Realm. No such thing as a fair trial (even if they say there is), no such thing as defense and prosecution. No grand juries, no crowds, no sketch artist. Just a judge with a stick up his ass and a punishment to be delivered. You’re either guilty or a liar. 
And you’re rather good at being both. 
“The charge is as follows,” says the burly man at the head of the makeshift courtroom, reading off of a piece of parchment like it’s 1433 and the printing press hasn’t been invented yet. “Burglary, possession of illegally-gained goods, and petty theft.” Because charging you for burglary alone wasn’t enough, apparently. You have a sneaking suspicion that they invented the other two charges just so they could have more to punish you for. “Does the defendant have anything they wish to say?”
“Don’t you guys have anything better to do with your lives?” You ask with a dramatic sigh, having already resigned yourself to your fate. “Like, you could be playing golf round after golf round instead of sitting here, charging an orphan girl with no money.”
“This is my job,” says the burly man. Clearly he has never done anything fun in his entire life. 
“Also, stealing is my only crime, right? So do you really need to punish me like I’ve murdered someone?”
“You burglarized a Realm Leader,” he deadpans. As if Realm Leaders really wear wide-brimmed hats, sunglasses, and carry around a three-thousand dollar Louis Vuitton bag on their days off. 
“You set me up,” you accuse. Might as well go out swinging. “What if I charge you for lying, huh? How will you be punished?”
“Anything else?”
“Fuck you,” you spit. 
The burly man sighs, thinks about the potential verdict for approximately two seconds, and says, “The court finds the defendant guilty of all three charges. Sentencing will now be arranged.”
Big whoop. You could sniff out your ’guilty’ verdict from three miles away, knowing that the Realm takes plenty of pride in charging its constituents for whatever crime that they can invent. You slouch back in your chair as the judge and his heartless buddies discuss your punishment. You suppose that being jailed might not be too bad—you’d always have meals and a place to sleep, even if you would have to give up magic in return. And community service would also be alright. You’d be fine with cleaning up the expressway that runs through the city, though knowing the Realm, they’d probably put you up to some stupidly dangerous magical task. And at this point, death seems rather inviting, and would solve everybody’s problems because they wouldn’t have to deal with you and you wouldn’t have to deal with them anymore. 
The judge coughs, summoning the bare minimum of your attention. “The court has reached a sentencing decision for the convicted. We are offering you two options, of which you may choose one.”
Right, like you’d willingly volunteer for both punishments. 
“You may either be sentenced to serve time in the Realm Penitentiary for six months with the possibility of parole after four, or conduct supervised community service until the task at hand has been completed. Please select which option you would like.”
It’s like asking you to choose between being given one hundred dollars or having to pay one hundred dollars. What does the Realm think people will pick? Do they really think anyone in their right mind would choose to be jailed, forbidden to use their magic, and then let the Realm trick them into thinking parole is really an option, over some measly community service?
“Community service,” you say gruffly. 
“Excellent,” the judge says, writing something with a quill and ink because apparently, ballpoint pens are too complicated. “Your community service will be supervised by a Realm Leader with visionary powers, so you will not need to meet with them in order to discuss your progress, nor will they watch you in person.” And they said that crystal balls aren’t real. 
“What do I have to do?” You ask. Knowing them, it’ll probably be something like scrubbing all of the toilets in the Penitentiary, or going deep into the Amazonian forest to collect some magical sap or fighting off a magical beast. Something that could serve as a death sentence, or at least be extremely unpleasant, in the hopes that it’ll get you off of their backs. 
“The court will be assigning you as a minder to correct the ways of another mage,” the judge states. 
A minder? 
So, your community service is that you have to be a glorified magickal babysitter?
Well. It could be worse. 
“Alright, fine,” you say, though it’s not like you have a choice one way or another. Where was your minder? Why weren’t you assigned one, instead of just being hauled off by an undercover Realm leader to be sentenced for the same crime three times over? “Who will I be assigned to?”
The judge looks down at the parchment in front of him through his tiny old man glasses, and says, “Jeon Jungkook.”
Huh?
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Jeon Jungkook lives on the top floor of an apartment complex the size of the Empire State Building and worth more than your entire life. There are ceiling-to-floor windows that span the entire perimeter of the penthouse, a whole security team in the lobby vetting every single person that walks through the automatic glass doors, and an elevator with a touch-screen instead of buttons. It sickens you, the fact that some people can live like this. The fact that some people have known only this world as their entire life, and have not once glanced the other way. 
Getting to Jeon Jungkook’s front door isn’t the hard part. The Realm gave you succinct instructions and permission to use your powers whenever necessary throughout the whole thing, two things more than you thought they would. It’s easy to slide by the big buff security guards when they can’t see you. Easy to turn in the comfort and privacy of the elevator, easy to figure out which door is his when he’s the only person who lives on the top floor. 
The hard part is getting there without feeling like you’re way in over your head. Getting Jeon Jungkook to stop abusing his powers will be no easy feat. He’s rich, powerful, and spits on people like you, people who are not either of those things. Not to mention the fact that if he really wanted to, he could just turn you to gold and set you up in his penthouse like a statue, frozen in time. 
For once, the only thing that makes you feel a little bit better is the Realm. They’ve handed you a strict order that neither you nor he can magic your way out of, lined with stipulations and regulations and requirements that both of you will follow or so help you God. If Jeon Jungkook doesn’t comply, he, his company, and his reputation are done for. 
So at least there’s that. 
Jeon Jungkook’s front door is made of a deep mahogany brown and about thirteen feet tall, towering over you just to serve as a reminder that he can pretty much afford to buy out the entire city if necessary. You feel like an ant in comparison, an insignificant little thing, no money, no power, no nothing. 
A fluorescent doorbell light flashes beside the door frame. 
The sound echoes throughout the hallway you’re standing in, a classic ding-dong noise that reverberates across the walls. 
“Coming!” A voice from inside calls. Is Jungkook expecting someone?
You quickly make any last minute efforts to look as presentable as possible—well, as presentable as someone who lives in a dilapidated, abandoned house at the edge of the city can be—before the door opens. 
For someone who’s got money to burn, Jeon Jungkook sure as hell doesn’t look like it. He’s wearing an oversized button down that hangs loose by his thighs, ripped jeans, and a pair of charcoal grey socks, like he got home from work five hours ago and decided to change into whatever feels most comfortable. 
“Oh, good, I called and they said that you would be another twenty minutes,” Jungkook says, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Let me go grab my wallet, you can just set the pizza down on the counter.”
“Uh, I’m not—”
Jungkook rushes off down one of the fifteen different hallways that branch off of the main living room, leaving you stranded as you wander into his massive abode. Windows line the walls, giving you a perfect view of the city below you, twinkling lights of skyscrapers as people slowly leave their offices and return home. His kitchen alone is double the size of where you live. How can one person possibly take up all of this space? Doesn’t it ever get lonely?
You wait awkwardly besides the counter, which is pizza-less, until Jungkook returns, a shiny black wallet between his fingers as he fumbles for some cash. And normally, you have zero qualms stealing from the rich and giving to the poor (aka, yourself), but seeing as he thinks you’re providing a service, you have the compassion to feel at least a little bit bad. 
Jungkook stops when he notices the bare countertop. “Uh,” he begins with a frown, “where’s the pizza?”
“I’m not the pizza delivery guy,” you explain hesitantly. You don’t suppose Jungkook would have opened the door otherwise. 
“Then where is the pizza delivery guy?” He asks, like you somehow know. 
“I don’t know,” you tell him. Was an interrogation supposed to be a part of this?
“Who are you?”
“I’m Y/N,” you say, hesitant to touch anything except the floor for fear that you will either dirty or break something and then spend the rest of your life trying to pay back the damages. “I’m your minder.”
“What?” Jungkook scrunches up his nose in disgust. “I never asked for a minder.”
“Well, you’ve been assigned one anyway,” you say with a frown. To be fair, it’s not like you expected this to be easy.
“That’s ridiculous,” Jungkook dismisses, already making his way to the door to shoo you off into the night, like he probably does with all of his problems. “I don’t need a minder. I’m fine.”
You look over his shoulder, noticing the flecks of golden accents that line his house, the golden teapots on shelves, picture frames hung up on the wall. Even the rods that hold up the massive satin curtains are gold. There isn’t so much gold to be garish and kitschy, like a teenager who can’t control what he touches, but enough to assert that he’s either wealthy or gifted, or in his case: both. 
“That really sucks, because I’m still your minder,” you tell him, refusing to budge. Jungkook can’t possibly imagine he’ll somehow be able to get out of this. Not when the law is working against him.
“Says who?” Jungkook spits back. 
“The Realm,” you tell him rudely, manifesting the agreement the Realm had given you to force Jungkook into accepting. The parchment is laid out on the countertop, curling up at the edges, black ink written neatly on top of it. He glares at it suspiciously, as if he’s suspected that you forged it. When you make no efforts to explain yourself further, he takes a hesitant step forward, eyes narrowing in on the parchment sitting in front of the both of you. In pitch black ink, loopy calligraphy, it says this:
As recommended and required by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, the recipient, Jeon Jungkook is to be assigned a minder, whose duty is to watch over him, regulate his use of magic, and work towards decreasing his magical activity. 
This minder is being assigned as a result of misuse of magic by the recipient, either by abuse or from the intent to inflict harm upon mages or non-magic users. The Realm decrees that all mages who disobey the laws that govern society either be reformed or punished. 
This minder must ensure that the recipient makes progress towards decreasing his magical activity by indefinitely accompanying and supervising him for every hour of the day. This minder’s term will expire once they have achieved their goal of decreasing the recipient’s use of magic and ensuring that abuse of it does not reoccur. 
Should the recipient disobey this proclamation in any form, including vandalism, ignorance, or rejection, he will be brought to court and sentenced to jail accordingly. 
Jungkook seems to read the parchment for about five seconds before crumpling it up in his hands and tossing it into the trash bin by the edge of the counter. 
“Absolutely not,” he scoffs. “I do not need a minder. I don’t know what The Realm told you but I have no problem with my powers and your services are not required. There was probably some sort of mistake.”
As if. The paper says his name. Jungkook’s almost as bad at violating the rules of the Realm as you are. 
“Uh—” you begin again, but Jungkook is already shooing you out of his penthouse, flicking you away like an animal that’s gotten too close. You find yourself backing up furiously in a desperate attempt to not be trampled by him and his oversized button-down and intimidating death glare, until you’re a foot out of his apartment. 
“Maybe you can go bother someone else instead,” he suggests unhelpfully, before slamming the door in your face. 
You stand there for a few more seconds, face to face with the dark mahogany wood. The bright side is that, even if Jungkook only read the first paragraph of the decree and then tossed it into his recycling bin, there’s no escaping the Realm. You have half a mind to just bugger off and let him face the consequences of his own actions. You can picture it in your head: Realm officers barging into his place of work and arresting him on the spot for consciously disregarding an order of the Realm. That might satiate you for a while. 
Resigning yourself to the fact that if you knock on Jungkook’s door and politely suggest that he pull the parchment out from the trash and read the whole thing will probably not go down particularly well, you turn, letting your body vanish before you, before making your way back to the elevator. The pizza delivery guy arrives just as you reach it, letting you easily slide past him as he goes to make Jungkook’s day a little better by being an expected guest rather than an unwarranted visitor. 
Jungkook may not have agreed to this today (not that he has a choice in the matter), but there’s always tomorrow. 
Passing by the security, who spare no second glance at the fact that the automatic glass doors have just opened seemingly by themselves, you turn left when you reach the sidewalk and head home. 
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Home is a janky abandoned house at the very edge of the city, where the buildings meet train tracks and old highways, graffiti decorating every open surface within a five-mile radius. It’s not so much a house as it is a shack, old and rickety and forgotten. You think that the locals and the nons believe the place is haunted, since no one ever comes within one hundred feet of the entrance, the broken glass in the windows and big red spray-painted X on the door deterring most folks. 
People who invite you into their houses and say, “it’s not much, but it’s home,” are such liars. For as long as you have lived here, this place has never felt like home. You never come back from a long day and think, ah, home sweet home. You will never dream of wasting away within these walls. That’s a death sentence. 
You enter through the back door, ducking your head low to avoid hitting it on the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling by a wire or two. You’re not electrically-proficient enough to know how to fix it yourself so it’s less of a fire hazard, and you don’t have nearly enough money to call anyone to come repair it, so there it stays. It still works, though, and you use it in a pinch when you can’t see where you’re stepping. 
There’s a small pile of folded clothing on the floor by the mattress, the remnants of a past life that feels more like an alternate universe than it does part of your history. The fridge doesn’t work, nor do most of the utilities, but the little stack of Campbell’s soup cans on the countertop is reliable and unchanging. As is the fact that you will probably never get out of this dump, so long as you shall live.
When you were little, you used to dream of living in a big castle, and wanting for nothing. You would have people to cook for you, clean for you, dress you, bathe you, entertain you. All of these stories about being a little princess, doted on and loved by all, innocent and pure and beautiful. All of these stories about finding Prince Charming, meeting the love of your life as waltzes into your life on a gorgeous white horse, getting married, having kids, and growing old together. You dreamed of a perfect life, a perfect love, where you never have to worry about anything, where no one is ever mean or rude, no government to dictate what you do. 
It’s no wonder all of those stories were simply fairy tales. 
It makes you even angrier when you think about Jeon Jungkook. He’s lived a life as close to perfection as possible, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a silver platter placed in front of him. He’s grown up with people adoring him, telling him he can do no wrong, rewarding him with a brand new toy when he gets in trouble, teaching him that his powers are for himself first and for other people next to you. Not much is fair in the world, but especially not the fact that he was bestowed with the gift of being able to turn whatever he wishes into gold. 
He is everybody’s Prince Charming: wealthy, handsome, powerful. Too bad you aren’t a princess anymore.
Strangely enough, even after a long day, you aren’t feeling at all hungry. The scent of the pizza Jungkook had ordered to his door was enough to satisfy you, a warm feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. Normally, this late at night, you might even be daring (or sleep-deprived) enough to break into one of your precious ramen packs, but instead you collapse onto the mattress, heavy heart willing you fast asleep, the light flickering above your head. 
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The next day you are faced with a choice: leave Jungkook alone and let him deal with the repercussions of his actions on his own (much to your delight), or go back and continue pestering him until he agrees to having a minder (much to your chagrin). 
A new parchment has manifested itself on the counter, words copied from the one Jungkook threw out before your eyes. It shimmers, almost as if there’s a golden halo that surrounds it, another trick that the Realm has up its sleeve. You have a feeling that this one won’t be as easily ripped, crumpled up to be tossed into the nearest trash bin. It terrifies you—how closely they watch. You suppose that it was only a matter of time before they caught you. 
Quite frankly, you’re shocked it took them this long to realize you were a serial pickpocketer in the first place. 
As much as you’d love to see Jungkook get arrested and tried for defying the rules of the Realm, see his face plastered all over the newspapers and tabloids with stupid headlines like JEON JUNGKOOK: CRIMINAL? and ARRESTED FOR HAVING TOO MUCH MONEY?, and count it as a personal win, letting that happen would mean that you would have failed to do your court-ordered community service, which is a one-way ticket to prison. 
So even if Jeon Jungkook was the grouchiest, greediest, cockiest person in the entire world (which, judging by what you know about him, he probably is), and even though you would happily let his career and reputation plummet, you don’t have a choice. The two of you will either go down together or not at all. 
Resigning yourself to the fact that you will have to be within close proximity to Jeon Jungkook for the foreseeable future, you rally yourself out of bed, tugging on what you deem to be your nicest clothes and splashing your face clean. The rags you have on are probably worth a cent of what Jungkook wears on a daily basis, crisp suits and silver watches and golden earrings. He could spit on you and that would increase your net worth. But surprisingly enough, there is something empowering about the fact that Jeon Jungkook will no longer be able to ignore the plight of those in a lower class than him. Not when he, a person who has everything, will be forced to reckon with you, someone who has nothing. 
It’s easy to find your way to Jungkook’s place of employment. It’s this enormous skyscraper with his name in a golden serif font above the entryway, marking the entire building as his own. It isn’t garish and ugly, per se, but it definitely makes a statement. This, combined with the cool, chic design of his penthouse apartment, redeems him a little. At least he has taste for someone with money to burn like fireworks. 
There are two massive security guards and a whole squad of receptionists standing guard inside the building’s lobby, dressed pristinely and narrowing their eyes at anybody who dares enter. You wait across the street for a few minutes, loitering outside of a coffee shop and trying to avoid having people bump into you, watching. The only people that seem to be worthy of entering are wearing suits and dresses that cost more than what your abandoned house could sell for on the market after being restored, nodding their hellos to the security guards and receptionists as they press the elevator buttons and disappear into the building. You and your thrifted blouse would be laughed out in an instant. 
Lucky for you, you happen to have a rather foolproof method of getting yourself through those doors, and it mostly involves the fact that nobody can even see you. 
You rush across the road at the next green light and wait until you see someone heading in, the grand glass doors automatically opening when they register someone’s presence. It’s easy to slip in undetected, and you hang around in the lobby, secretly judging every single person that walks in after you. You could, quite honestly, spend all day in here, watching the receptionists tap away at their keyboards with robotic efficiency, answering calls left and right and fielding all sorts of questions from folks entering. It’s a world you have never dared step into, a world filled with wealth and power and class hierarchy, with Jeon Jungkook sitting on a pile of money at the very top of the pyramid. 
Some of the people that work in this building will never in their entire lifetime get the chance to speak with him. They will come in, day after day, working for someone who they have no personal relationship to, someone that they will never be afforded the chance to meet. 
Those people are, in your opinion, dodging a bullet. 
If only your life was as kind to you. 
A nervous young man walks in, clearly more out-of-place than anyone else. He seems to have barely bypassed security, flashing some sort of pass that lets him through the doors, but if a breeze came blowing through the lobby, he’d topple right over. He stumbles towards the receptionist desk, all of whom have phones to their ears as they furiously type on their keyboards. One woman holds up a hand, making him freeze in place. If he grinds his teeth any more they’ll all fall out before he even gets a chance to speak. 
It’s another two minutes before the lady puts the phone down and says, “How can I help you?”
“I’m—I’m, uh—I’m here for a meeting,” the man fumbles out. You’re embarrassed for him. 
“With who?” The woman asks, peering over the glasses resting on her pointy nose. She begins to look over the list of people who have meetings. It must be a rather extensive list. 
“Mr—Mr. Jeon, ma’am,” the man sputters. 
She looks doubtful. “Your name?”
“K-Kim…” he begins, staring down at his feet, “Kim Taehyung.”
“And your business with Mr. Jeon is?”
“I’m—uh, well, I’m a photographer for… for an article being written about him by F-Forbes,” he explains rather helplessly. He must have superb photography skills to make up for his extreme nervousness. You’ll be surprised if he makes it all the way to Jeon Jungkook’s office without wetting his pants out of fear. 
The lady hums to herself, looking suspicious until she finds the man’s name on her list. “Mr. Jeon’s office is on the top floor. Make two lefts and then a right. You will have to wait to be called.”
“Thank you v-very much.” He scurries towards the elevator, and you strike while the iron is hot. 
Rushing over, you manage to squeeze into the elevator right before the doors close, waiting patiently in the corner as the man tries to calm himself down, doing some sort of breathing exercise. Well, he’s got plenty of time to put his nerves aside, seeing as this building has seventy floors and Jeon Jungkook is apparently at the very top of them all. You feel bad for him, in a way. Jeon Jungkook was rude and unapologetically uncouth when you spoke to him, even if an aura of professionalism and extremely good social skills surrounds him at all times, and you don’t cower in fear at the sight of him. 
There’s no telling what he’ll be like when Taehyung walks into his office. 
One tense elevator ride later, the both of you arrive at the seventy-fifth floor, the silver doors opening to reveal a busy office space filled with people near the very top of the building’s pyramid. People like his secretary and accountants and managers, people who come into direct contact with Jeon Jungkook every day from nine to five. In a way, you pity these people for having to deal with him, but it’s not like you’ll be any different. 
Taehyung rushes out and you make sure to follow before the elevator doors crush you, following the receptionist’s instructions. Two lefts and a right. 
Jungkook’s office, much like his apartment, is not hard to miss. His name is written on a plaque on the door, and a guard stands outside with a clipboard, regulating everybody who passes in and out of the room. The walls that surround him are glass but he keeps the blinds drawn permanently, so that no one has the pleasure of seeing his face while they work tirelessly to impress him. Taehyung gives his name to the man, who checks him off on the paper on his clipboard before entering the room. 
“Sir, your 12:30 is here,” the guard says. 
Taehyung looks about ready to pass out. 
“Let them in,” Jungkook’s voice bellows in response. The man nods to Taehyung, who trembles where he stands, twiddling his thumbs like there’s no tomorrow. He shuffles in awkwardly and the door shuts behind him. Luckily, the walls are sound-proof. 
The thirty minutes of waiting is agony. You have nothing to do but rehearse in your head how this next conversation is going to go down, the scroll burning a hole in your back pocket. If Jungkook was displeased at best to see you in his apartment, you can only imagine the horror on his face when he sees you’ve infiltrated his workplace as well. Especially since you don’t have even a fraction of the money and power needed to enter the building on more professional terms. 
The good news is that, no matter what Jungkook says, no matter how many times he kicks you out of his penthouse and his skyscraper, he has no choice but to accept the deal, regardless of how long it will take for him to realize this. You never thought you’d ever be relying on the Realm to carry you through a predicament, and nor did you ever think you’d be doing their bidding, and yet, here you are. 
The door opens at one o’clock on the dot. 
“Th-thank you so much for your time again, Mr. Jeon,” Taehyung says, bowing profusely as he heads out. “I really appreciate it, you—you won’t regret it, I promise, thank you again!” You quickly rush towards the door, even making to hold it slightly open for Taehyung as he heaps his thanks on top of Jungkook. In the split second it takes for Taehyung to let the door go and for it to shut, you slip inside. 
“Finally,” Jungkook huffs out to himself, hand rubbing against his forehead. He’s not wearing a suit like you had expected, rather, a silken button-down shirt and tailored slacks. He doesn’t even have a tie. 
Well, you suppose that being your own boss has its perks. 
Jungkook’s stomach growls. “Fuck, I’m hungry.” He presses a button on the phone in his office. “I’m taking my hour lunch break now,” Jungkook informs the person on the other end. “Put all of my meetings on hold until two o’clock and not a moment earlier.”
He hangs up the phone and runs his hands through his hair, neatly straightened and styled. You hate to admit it, but there’s no wonder the man has captured the hearts of people all over the city. He’s rather good looking, the flecks of gold scattered around his office complementing his swirling brown eyes, making them look like caramel instead of cocoa. You have a hunch that, in the eyes of the general public, unattractive people instantly become good-looking the moment that they acquire wealth, power, fame, or all three, but Jeon Jungkook doesn’t need any of those things for people to think he’s beautiful. To him, they’re just bonuses. 
He turns around for a moment to look for something, probably to fish his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, and you turn. Nothing says hello like magically manifesting yourself in his office. 
“Jesus fu—!” Jungkook practically jumps out of his skin when he sees you. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I’m your minder,” you explain again. 
“I told you I don’t need a goddamn minder,” Jungkook spits out, turning around again just so he doesn’t have to see your face. “Get out.”
“Sorry, no can do,” you say, rocking back and forth on your feet. “Realm’s orders.”
“Fuck the Realm,” Jungkook says. “I don’t need a minder. Your services are unnecessary. Now get out, before I call security.”
You purse your lips. “You may want to think twice about that.” With a flourish, you whip out the scroll, a golden yellow glow still surrounding the parchment, handing it to Jungkook like a Christmas cracker. He snatches it out of your hand and unfurls it. “You should probably read the whole thing this time. It won’t rip like the last one.”
Jungkook glares at the paper like it’s ruined his life—which, judging by his attitude, it probably has—as he scans over the words, scowl worsening with every second that passes. 
“You shouldn’t frown like that, it’s not a good look on you,” you chide. At least Jungkook knows that there’s no bribing his way out of this one. 
“I told you I don’t need a minder,” he says again like it hasn’t already been made abundantly clear. 
“Well, I didn’t want to be assigned to you, but unfortunately, it looks like neither of us are going to get what we want,” you retort. “It’s this or prison, Jeon. You pick.”
“Why the fuck were you assigned to me, then?” Jungkook asks, rounding on you. “What are your powers?”
“Healing and invisibility,” you spit out. Not nearly as glamorous or lucrative as his own, but they come with their own benefits. For example, the ability to infiltrate high-level, upper class places of employment. “Maybe they thought I’d make a good babysitter since those are two skills often used with children,” you tell him pointedly. 
“I don’t need a minder,” Jungkook repeats for the umpteenth time. “I don’t misuse my magic or abuse my powers.”
“Uh,” you point out, an eyebrow raised skeptically, “I think I’d like to beg to differ.” There’s more gold in this room than miners probably found in San Francisco in the nineteenth century. The fact that nons haven’t noticed the abundance of it in his office is outrageous to you. How else do they think he and his family built up this empire?
“Please,” Jungkook says with a frown. “As if we don’t all use our powers for our own benefit. Huh? What did you do that was so terrible that you had to be assigned as my minder?”
“I pickpocket,” you explain economically. No point in sugar-coating it. Jungkook has probably already figured out you don’t come from nearly as much money as he does. “And I got caught.”
“Sucks,” Jungkook comments callously. 
“Sucks for you, too,” you fire back. “You got caught as well. Agree to the terms or go to jail, Jeon Jungkook. I don’t care. But don’t say I didn’t try to help.”
You stand there in silence for a few more seconds, letting your words dissipate into the air, sinking into the ground. Jeon Jungkook seems to have this furious battle within himself, brows furrowing as he rubs at his chin, pacing back and forth behind his desk. He knows he doesn’t have a choice. He goes to jail and his reputation is soiled. The Realm repossesses all that he has made of himself and he must start from scratch under their ruthlessly watchful eye. There will be no recovery. Only survival. 
Or, he deals with you for a couple of months until the Realm is satisfied with the both of you, and you both go on your merry way, never having to see each other again. 
You know what you’d pick if you were in his shoes. 
“Fine,” Jungkook spits out, pointing an accusing finger your way. “But you are to be invisible whenever we are in public, and that includes here.”
“Done. But you have to decrease your turning otherwise we’ll be stuck with each other forever,” you negotiate. “I’ll also have to come and live with you. Can you handle that, or are you too ashamed to have someone else inside your home?”
Jungkook scoffs. “I live in a penthouse the size of a museum. Pick whatever bedroom you fucking want. I doubt we’ll even see each other.” At least there’s one upside to having to stay with him in his massive residence.
“Fine,” you spit out, just for good measure. 
“Fine,” he counters back. Like anything about this conversation, this agreement, this goddamn life you have to live, is fine. 
Yeah, right. 
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Jungkook’s penthouse is much more magnificent when you are more than two steps in the door. From where you had stood before, barely just past the door frame as he crumpled the parchment in his hand and tossed it into the trash bin, you hadn’t been able to see it in half its glory, let alone in full. When you can stand in the center of it all, eyes darting from the hallways and archways and spiral staircases leading to a rooftop pool or gym or both, it is overwhelming. Suffocating. 
His living room alone is larger than anything you have ever lived in, anything you have ever had the pleasure of calling your own. The ceiling is sky high and completely glass, streaks of sun shooting down and casting its rays on his chic furniture, deep hardwood floors. You’re so busy looking up that you nearly trip on a white rug laid out on the floor. 
“There are four bedrooms down that hallway and two down that one,” Jungkook says gruffly, flinging his keys into a bowl resting on a shelf and shrugging off his jacket, letting it hang over his forearm. How could one person possibly take up all of this space?
“Where do you sleep?” You ask. 
“That’s none of your business,” Jungkook says with a frown. 
“There’s no point in not telling me,” you remind him helpfully, “there’s only so many places you can be.”
Jungkook sighs. “It’s upstairs. But you can just sleep in any of the empty ones down here.”
“Thanks,” you deadpan. 
“Is that all you brought?” Jungkook asks with a raised eyebrow, looking at the backpack hanging loose off your shoulder. The zipper’s broken, so the outer flap is in a constant state of being folded over, but it works. 
“What, did you expect a moving truck?” You retort. 
“Ugh, forget I asked,” Jungkook says, shrugging his shoulders as he turns away from you. He begins to point around the room. “There should be some ready meals in the fridge if you’re hungry. TV’s always set to the news, but feel free to change it. Volume shouldn’t ever be over forty. Books are alphabetized by the author’s last name. No parties, though I don’t imagine you frequent those.” 
You can’t tell if that’s a jab or just him being observant, but either way, it’s true. You don’t even have any friends. 
“Fine, anything else?”
“Every bedroom has an ensuite bathroom,” Jungkook informs you. “So use that one. Don’t come into my bedroom. There’s more than enough space here for the both of us to go without seeing each other, so let’s keep it that way.”
“Aw, you mean I’m not allowed to wake up to your handsome face and infectious attitude every day?” You pout sarcastically, making Jungkook scrunch up his nose and frown. “Don’t forget that the only way you’re gonna get me out of here is if you listen to the Realm and follow my rules.”
“Yeah, which are?”
“You’re not allowed to turn at all when I’m around, whether or not you can physically see me. Every time you do is a strike. Three strikes—because I’m generous and forgiving—and I’ll report you to the Realm. The whole point of me being here is to make you stop using your powers all of the time.”
“It’s not like I’m doing any harm to people,” Jungkook defends. “You steal, what’s your excuse?”
“You use your power to add onto your already-enormous bank account,” you point out crudely. “I use mine to survive. It’s different.” Jungkook isn’t convinced. “But it doesn’t matter anyway, because I got caught and so did you and now we both have to deal with the consequences.”
He huffs to himself. 
“So do we have a deal?” You ask, glaring up at him, unrelenting. Jungkook’s chocolate brown eyes flicker as the gold around his house reflects off of his irises, like he’s trying desperately to find a way to get himself out of this before it’s too late. 
What he doesn’t realize is that the very first moment he ever turned something to gold, the very first time the object began to shimmer and spark, he was already too far gone. 
You suppose that in a way, so were you. 
“Fine,” Jungkook gruffs out, a veiny hand held out towards you. It’s stiff and cold, much in the same way that his penthouse is, that he is. This is not an agreement birthed from choice. It came from necessity, out of self-preservation. He is doing this to protect his reputation. You are doing it to protect your freedom. If all goes well, after a couple of months the two of you will never have to cross paths again. Oh, doesn’t that sound lovely? “Deal?”
You grab his hand in your own, squeezing tightly. There is no going back from this. 
“Deal.”
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On the bright side, being a minder has finally given you something to do instead of stalking the streets and wasting away on your mattress on the floor. Granted, office life isn’t that much more entertaining, but at least you don’t have to be out in the summer heat anymore. 
As per your side of the deal, you remain invisible whenever Jungkook is out in public, which, quite frankly, is less frequently than you had originally anticipated. His entire life seems to go back and forth from home to work then work to home, an endless cycle, a Newton’s cradle on repeat. Maybe that’s why he’s such a prickly asshole—he doesn’t ever make time for things he enjoys. 
You thought he would at least have business dinners or fundraising events or company galas to attend. Isn’t that what most CEOs do? Flaunt their wealth to other wealthy people? Jungkook has so much money that he could easily entertain himself by one-upping all of his fellow CEO friends at every event he goes to, flashing the Rolex watch on his wrist or the fancy Italian shoes he always wears. 
But no. He wakes up, gets dressed, eats a meal from the ready-made ones wrapped in foil in his fridge, and goes to work. When he comes home, he takes off his suit jacket and shoes, eats dinner, and lounges around his penthouse. Works out sometimes, maybe watches a movie. 
Being rich always seemed to be a lot more fun than what Jungkook makes it out to be. Maybe it’s because everything in modern media is completely fake and wholly unrealistic. Or maybe he’s just purposefully making his life boring because you’re here now. 
But even if the only two places Jungkook ever goes are work and home, his personality doesn’t seem to change no matter what location he’s at. All of his employees are simultaneously frightened of him and desperate to please him, lowering their heads when he passes by their cubicle but placing finished report files and completed tasks at the edges of their desks for him to glance over as he does. You follow him like a wearied assistant (of which he actually has three, and you are just the annoying invisible one) and he acts like you aren’t even there. When Jungkook returns home with you carelessly traipsing in after him, turning visible the moment he closes the door, he shrugs off his outerwear and goes back to doing his very favorite thing in the whole world: pretending you don’t exist. 
At least that hasn’t changed since you moved in. 
The bright side is that Jungkook hasn’t turned at all since you’ve shown up. Not in his penthouse and not at work, though he is usually far too busy dealing with real-world issues to dwell on whether or not he’s got enough gold to his name. The answer is that he does, but he doesn’t give a shit about that. Too much is apparently never enough. 
Even if you are invisible, being in an office setting is somewhat unsettling to you. From a people-watching perspective, you love it, because you get an entire building of people to observe and judge, but from a personal perspective, it’s just another reminder of a life that you are not meant to live. 
All of these people in their ties and pencil skirts and uncomfortable leather shoes, fighting to beat each other out for the next promotion and desperate to please their absolutely unpleasable boss. A nine-to-five job, day in and day out. A fat check in their bank account every month. These are things that are both undesirable and unattainable to you. A glimpse into their lives doesn’t spur you to pursue a career path like theirs, it tells you that no matter what, you won’t ever be able to do what they do. 
“Sir, here are the finished analysis reports on the Lee Corporation joint stockholdings,” a proud young man says, plopping it down on Jungkook’s desk as you watch on in silence. The not-speaking part has been rather difficult, but you do get to whisper annoying things into Jungkook’s ear whenever nobody’s around. 
“They are completed?” Jungkook asks without even looking up at the man, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. 
“Yes, sir.”
“Did I not ask for them to be completed by Friday?”
The man goes white in the face. 
“Uh—” he begins, immediately losing all confidence he had when he entered Jungkook’s office. “Well, I—”
“I don’t appreciate belated work,” Jungkook spits out. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
The man nods and scurries out of the office before Jungkook can say anything else. He doesn’t even seem to care.
“Wow, couldn’t even say a ’thank you’?” You chide. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”
“Late work is unacceptable,” Jungkook says. You’re lucky that his blinds are always drawn, or everyone would see him talking to apparently nobody. “There are no exceptions.”
“He was a day late,” you point out. 
“Three, if you include weekends.”
“That doesn’t make a difference; he wouldn’t have been able to turn them in over the weekend,” you tell him. 
“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Jungkook orders sternly. He looks angry, but also foolish, because even though he can judge where you’re standing from the sound of your voice, he still can’t meet your eyes. He’s staring holes into the succulent plant on the shelf to your right. 
“I’m not,” you defend, annoyed. “I’m telling you how to be a nice person.”
“I don’t need lessons on that, either.” Jungkook frowns. “He turned in work late and was reprimanded. It’s not any different than what happens in school.”
“But you didn’t even thank him for his time or for showing up to your office, or for the fact that he did the work!” You cry out. 
“What should I be thanking him for? For making the thirty-feet trip from his desk to my office? For turning in work that he was obligated to do late?” Jungkook challenges. “He had to do those. He wasn’t doing me any favors.”
“Except he was, because if he didn’t do that work, then you would’ve had to do it,” you remind him. “Everybody here is doing work because you aren’t able to do all of it yourself. And that’s not your fault—there are only twenty-four hours in a day and you are only one person. But you should be thanking them for their contributions. Even when they turn in something a little late. It’ll do wonders for other people.”
“Are you implying that people don’t like working here?” It’s like he wants to keep this fight going. 
You sigh, loud enough for him to hear despite being a good few steps away from him. “I’m saying that everybody out there—” you say, opening the blinds that cover the walls ever so slightly, just enough for him to see out into the sea of people that sit outside, “—everybody wants so desperately for you to like them. Or at least outwardly display that you don’t hate them. And if you just said please and thank you every now and then, people wouldn’t be so afraid of you.”
Jungkook opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead, he shuts it like a trap and sits back down. He probably doesn’t really appreciate the fact that you’re directing him on how he controls his office on top of how he uses his magic. But it’s the truth, and he had to hear it one way or another.
“I didn’t ask for suggestions on how to run this office,” he spits out. “Next time I think advice like this is warranted, I’ll ask.” Which will be never.
“I’m here whether you like it or not,” you stand your ground. Jungkook gets to put up with you no matter what! “So I’ll tell you whatever I feel is necessary.”
Jungkook scowls. 
“Don’t frown, it ruins your pretty face,” you tease. You walk a couple of steps and lean over to stretch his lips into a smile. He stiffens up, clearly having lost a sense of humor alongside his patience. “That’s better, don’t you think?”
“I can’t wait to get rid of you,” he bites. 
“You’ll have to get rid of that attitude, first,” you counter. “Or neither of us are going anywhere.”  Entitlement and greed go hand in hand. There’s no way you’ll be able to get Jungkook to stop turning everything around him into gold without giving his personality a makeover as well. Somewhere in there is a decent human being.
You just aren’t sure if you’ll ever be able to find him.
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The time spent at home is less eventful. Besides you, Jungkook has no one to shout at and be rude to, and in any case, he, for the most part, avoids you entirely. Which is understandable but totally counterproductive, because if you never interact, neither of you will ever get what you want. 
Still, there is plenty to keep yourself busy inside of his penthouse. He’s subscribed to every streaming service under the sun and has a movie theater-esque surround sound system lining the walls. He has more books than some small town libraries. His internet is stupidly fast. Even if this setup is temporary, you sure as hell aren’t going to waste a second of it. 
It is sort of weird to eat food with golden forks and knives, though. You always think you’re going to crack your teeth on your utensils. 
You and Jungkook aren’t on speaking terms right now because an hour ago you caught him turning a vase in his office gold, the metal slowly wrapping around the base of the pot like pixie dust, sparkling and shimmering as the clay was overlaid with a deep, lustrous yellow. It increased the value of the vase tenfold and sent the both of you flying back to square one. 
“Jungkook, what the hell?” You had shouted, storming into the room as Jungkook’s face turned beet red. “Just because I’m not sitting in the room with you doesn’t give you a free pass to do whatever you want.”
“It was just one pot!” Jungkook had defended himself. “I’m not even going to sell it or anything, it just looks nice. The room needed something extra.”
“I’ve upheld my side of the agreement, what’s so difficult about upholding yours?” 
“Oh yeah, like telling me how to do my job even though you have no experience in business whatsoever?” He had challenged. “I don’t think I agreed to that part of the deal.”
“Strike one, Jeon Jungkook,” you had spat out at him. “Otherwise there’s no way in hell you’re ever going to get rid of me.”
Granted, the vase did look much better in gold than it did when it was made of clay, a glazed design of ferns and vines wrapping around the base. But even if Jungkook does have a particularly good eye for interior design, it doesn’t give him a free pass to turn things just to match his chic aesthetic. How many other things has he turned when you weren’t around to shout at him? You’ll have to go through his entire house every day, taking stock of every single item inside of it, making sure that nothing has inexplicably turned to gold.
Defeated, you had returned back to the main living room, flopping around like a beached whale on the leather. Jungkook always has the television set to the news, so you put it on in the background as you count the minutes until you’re finally free. Judging from what’s happened so far, you think you’ll be here forever. 
There’s a knock on the door. You don’t recall Jungkook answering any buzzes to his home, but maybe he’s just ordered a pizza or something and it’s here. It’s nearly dinnertime, anyway. 
You wait a few seconds to see if Jungkook’s going to make any attempts at answering the door himself. When the knock repeats itself and Jungkook still doesn’t appear, you hop off of the couch to get it yourself. You’re hungry, and pizza sounds delicious right now. A massive upgrade from Campbell’s soups. 
When you open the door however, there is no pizza delivery guy behind the door. Instead, there is an extremely well-dressed couple who are smiling happily at you, albeit a little surprised to see you on the other side of the door. 
“Hello?” You ask, polite but confused. 
“Hello!” The man says happily, chortling to himself. “Who might you be?” One good look at the two of them tells you that they’re Jungkook’s parents. His dad has the same nose, and his mom has the same big, bright eyes. They would kick you to the curb if they knew who you were. 
“I’m Y/N,” you explain unhelpfully. 
“Well, Y/N, do you mind letting us inside? The air conditioning out in this hallway has always been too strong,” his dad asks. You nod awkwardly and step to the side, letting the two of them in. “Ah, looks the same as always. You must give Jungkookie that interior designer’s number, alright? He could do something much nicer with the place,” he tells his wife, who nods in agreement. She passes by the bowl that Jungkook always throws his keys into when he returns home and presses a finger to it, letting gold wrap around the edges until it’s transformed into the metal. 
“Jungkook!” You shout down the hallway, desperately hoping that he isn’t going to leave you alone with his parents. 
“What?” He shouts back. 
“We have visitors!” You call. 
Jungkook’s parents are already picking out all of the things about Jungkook’s living room layout that they would change, turning picture frames here and decorative sculptures there gold, careless and without reason. You’re standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying your best to look as unsurprised and as normal as possible. Luckily, you haven’t been interrogated yet, but there’s no telling what will happen if Jungkook doesn’t show up yet. 
Two minutes later, Jungkook comes strolling down the hallway, clearly uninterested, but his eyes practically bulge out of his head when he sees who’s come to say hello.
“M-Mom! Dad!” He sputters out, terrified. “What—what are you doing here?” He asks, looking at you nervously. You shrug unhelpfully. All you did was answer the door. 
“Came to pay our wonderful son a visit, of course!” His father says, guffawing loudly. He reaches an arm out and pulls Jungkook into a crushing hug. “How are you doing?”
“Fine, I mean—” Jungkook begins, speechless. “I wasn’t expecting you at all, you know.”
“I know!” His mother cries happily. “But you know that families must always stick together.”
“Yeah…” he trails off. “Listen, it’s really nice to see the both of you, but I’m kind of busy at the moment—”
“We should stay for dinner!” His mother suggests, a lightbulb going off above her head. “We haven’t seen you in so long—we have so much to catch up on! What do you say, honey?”
Jungkook’s father looks peachy keen. “Sounds like a great idea! And you can introduce us to Y/N too, hmm?”
“Okay…” Jungkook says. He turns to you and you’ve never seen him so caught off guard. With his big, wide eyes, he’s a deer in headlights. “Just, uh, give us a second, would you? Thanks.”
That’s the only warning you’re given before Jungkook is pulling you down the hallway and into the nearest bedroom, slamming the door shut behind the both of you. The sound of the wood hitting the frame makes you jump as Jungkook furrows his brows and turns to face you directly. 
“Alright, here’s the deal,” he says, looking you dead in the eyes as you stare up at him, unimpressed. “My parents can’t know that I’ve been assigned a minder. They just can’t. They’ve trusted me to run this business and to be in control of my life and I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do if they find out why you’re really here.”
“Okay, so?” You say with a frown. “I’ll turn invisible. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“But they’ve already seen you, you opened the goddamn door,” Jungkook says with a sigh, clearly exasperated. He rubs his forehead before his hand makes its way through his hair, brushing through the long, dark strands. 
“Well, sorry for not wanting to leave whoever was outside hanging,” you retort. 
“No, it’s fine, whatever,” Jungkook says. He paces around the room slightly, eyes glossing over the still life painting hung up on the wall and the door to the walk-in closet. He pauses in front of it for a moment, thinking, before he rounds on you. “Can I trust you to pretend to be my girlfriend for just one night while they’re here?”
“I’m sorry, what?” 
“Please? They seem to already be under the impression that we’re dating anyway, and I don’t want to have to think of a different explanation for you,” Jungkook pleads. He’s desperate. 
“Let me get this straight: you want me, your minder, to fake being your girlfriend for your parents?” You ask, punctuating every word. This is worse than actually being his minder. 
Jungkook nods. “Just while they’re here. And then we can go back to avoiding each other. Please?” 
And for once, when you see Jeon Jungkook’s stupidly beautiful face, you don’t feel angry, or resentful, or envious. You feel… sympathy. It’s easy being rich and powerful, even easier when you don’t even need to work for your money, but parents are parents, no matter how much gold is in your pocket. 
Besides, it’s not like you rejecting him will have much of an effect on the grand scheme of things, anyway. You do, and then Jungkook has to spend an awkward night with his parents and you won’t accomplish anything. 
“Fine,” you say, begrudgingly so. “But only for tonight.”
“Oh God, thank you,” Jungkook says, and he actually means it. He dashes into the walk-in closet and pulls out a summery day dress, all flowy and floral, coming down to right above your knees. “Here, put this on. You know I don’t give a shit about what you wear but my parents will.”
“Why do you have this?” You ask, holding the hanger in your hand. One touch of the fabric and you can already feel the craftsmanship, the material sturdy and soft.
“An old hookup or something, probably.” Jungkook shrugs, nonchalant. 
You decide not to question whether or not you are about to wear something that Jungkook has had sex with someone in and head into the closet to change. From inside, you can hear Jungkook pacing back and forth in the bedroom, no doubt trying to come up with a believable story as to why you’ve suddenly appeared in his life and where you had come from. 
When you emerge, Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. This dress is easily the most expensive (and clean) thing you’ve ever put on your body, draping seamlessly along your hips and smoothing over all of the parts of your body you’ve never been too fond of. The sensation is pleasant but uncomfortable, as you have always vastly preferred your own clothes to other people’s, but wearing this at least doesn’t make you feel like you live in an abandoned house on the edge of town. 
“Wow,” Jungkook says dumbly, looking at you with his lips parted like a fish, mouth agape. He scratches at the nape of his neck and coughs. “You look kinda good.”
“How thoughtful of you to say,” you chide, basking in the feeling of finally catching Jungkook off guard. 
“Hopefully my parents won’t be here too long,” Jungkook says as he opens the door, letting you exit first. “Normally, they stick around just long enough to tell me about all of the things in my life that I’m currently doing wrong or should improve upon, and then they leave.”
“Fun.” It doesn’t sound very fun at all. 
“At least this time they won’t be grilling me about a girlfriend,” Jungkook says, offering you a grateful smile as you return to the main living space, where Jungkook’s parents are in the middle of turning some of the decorative trinkets on his shelves gold. “Sorry,” he begins, catching his parents’ attention. “We were just talking. Y/N had to change.”
“She looks lovely in that dress, did you buy it for her?” His mother asks. You send a small smile of thanks. 
“Yes, of course,” Jungkook lies. You think not knowing the origins of this dress is best for both you and him. He shuffles the both of you into the kitchen, an awkward hand on the small of your back. If you were a third party watching the two of you, you could sniff out the fake gestures and affection from a mile away. No two people in love are this stiff around each other. 
His parents wait in the living space, blissfully ignorant, as the two of you fumble around in the kitchen in a last-minute attempt to scrounge up something resembling an acceptable meal. You, admittedly, do not use a kitchen fairly often, and stick to pouring the four of you some wine as Jungkook fishes through his fridge and cabinets. He eventually decides on heating up a pre-made pasta dish, filled with all sorts of vegetables you couldn’t name even if you tried. It smells good, at least. 
For someone who seems to rely entirely on a personal chef to do most of his cooking, Jungkook knows his way around the kitchen fairly well, bouncing from one end to the other as if he’s running on a mental timer. Granted, he isn’t actually cooking anything, but compared to you, he may as well be a top chef at a five-star restaurant. Ten minutes later and he’s got a mouth-watering spaghetti dish, topped with vegetables and what looks to be an herb garnish, a side salad, and four glasses of wine that you so expertly poured. 
Unfortunately, with his parents around, you and Jungkook don’t get to go through your usual meal ritual of sitting as far away from each other as physically possible and not talking whatsoever, sitting down next to each other in his fancy suede dining chairs as his parents take the two seats opposite you. Jungkook’s dining table only seats six, despite the sheer size of his actual dining room, and quite frankly, you have never seen him actually use it for what it’s meant for: dining. 
“Delicious, did you make this?” His father asks, already reaching over to serve himself some. 
“Y/N helped.” No you didn’t.
The serving utensils then move to Jungkook’s mother, who does not turn them into gold, instead opting for a baby tomato, which she places in her drink to serve as some sort of extremely niche ice cube. You can’t imagine how good that will taste. Jungkook’s father laughs at his mother, who is obviously proud of herself. Jungkook forces himself to chuckle ever so slightly, and you crack a very helpless smile. It doesn’t really take a genius to figure out where Jungkook got his turning habits from. 
“So, Y/N,” Jungkook’s father begins, catching you right as you shove an entire forkful of pasta into your mouth, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk getting ready for the winter, “how long have you known our son?”
“Uh, a couple of—”
“A couple of months,” Jungkook interrupts, speaking louder than usual. “We met at the Park Gala that they hosted, do you remember?”
You kick Jungkook’s shin under the table, making him wince. 
“Ah, yes.” His mother nods in recollection. “Unfortunately we were on that cruise through France, so we couldn’t make it. A shame, we would have loved to meet you then. Are you a friend of the Parks?”
“An associate,” Jungkook explains as vaguely as possible. “Y/N works in law.”
“Ah, law,” Jungkook’s father says romantically, twirling his fork around in the air. “The conscience of business.”
“Yeah,” you say, forcing out a small laugh. The less you say, the better. Though it is ironic that you now apparently work in law, considering your favorite activity is breaking it. You suppose that nobody knows the law better than its criminals. 
“Where are you from, Y/N? Do we know your parents?” This is starting to sound less like a dinner conversation and more like an interrogation. 
“Y/N actually built herself up,” Jungkook covers for you. Lord knows revealing your true background would send both of his parents storming out of the building. “She doesn’t like to talk about her parents very much.”
That’s one way of putting it. 
“Ah, what a shame,” his mother tuts, shaking her head. “We’d love to meet them.”
“Yeah…” you agree distantly, making a mental note to give Jungkook a good shove when this is all over. Well, two can play at this game. “Jungkook is teaching me a lot about how you guys run your business.” You add pointedly, earning a leg kick in return. “It’s very interesting to see from a law perspective.” More like from a human perspective. 
“Oh, you must be very impressed,” his father says proudly, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “We’ve all worked extremely hard to get where we are.” Because turning things to gold at the press of a finger is truly such a taxing job.
“I’m certainly surprised,” you say back, sending a patient but stiff smile their way. They return the favor easily. Maybe you’re more like these people than you thought. “It’s a big change from what I’m used to.” Jungkook smacks his leg against yours, and you retaliate not a moment afterwards.
“I’m sure,” his mother says, voice sickly sweet. “But you’ll be able to adjust in no time. It’s definitely a level up, is it not?”
Jungkook looks like a lost child in a grocery store aisle, eyes wide as they flit back and forth between you and his parents, hurling thinly-veiled insults at each other like it’s nobody’s business. 
“It’s different,” you respond. 
“Well, I’m sure that Jungkook is doing all that he can to accommodate you,” his father says. “Sometimes the people he chooses to date are… not ideal for this sort of lifestyle. We hope that you are able to adjust quickly. We understand that this is a lot.”
“I certainly hope that I’m a good match, then,” you finish, because something inside of you can’t bear to let Jungkook’s stuffy, elitist parents get the last word. 
The rest of the meal is rather silent, save for a few mindless comments about how poorly Jungkook’s decorated his dining room. You and Jungkook have been warring underneath the dinner table all evening, your shins undoubtedly sporting bruises, because apparently everything the two of you are saying to his parents is wrong. Jungkook’s parents either don’t know or don’t care, because they don’t say anything about the tension that settled over the table like a cloud of fog, thick and potent. 
When everyone’s finished eating, Jungkook’s parents head straight to the door, determining that their contributions to his evening and his penthouse are enough—for now. Who knows if or when they’ll return. You and Jungkook have no choice but to see them off, rounding out the night just as you started: fake, empty smiles. 
“It was lovely to meet you, Y/N,” his mother tells you, hand clutching her purse. “I hope that we may see each other again sometime soon.”
“Yes, I am looking forward to it,” you say with glee, knowing that the chances of you never having to speak to her again are well in your favor. 
“Nice work, son,” his father says, a heavy hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Just let us know if you ever need anything.”
“Will do,” Jungkook promises distantly. You can tell that Jungkook doesn’t ask his father for advice too often. 
You bid your goodbyes and Jungkook shuts the door behind them, and it’s almost as the atmosphere immediately begins to clear, the air conditioning cycling out the tension, like a breath of fresh air. 
“Ugh, thank God that’s over,” you huff out, already itching to get out of this dress and back into your own clothes. It was gorgeous at first, but now it’s just an ugly reminder. 
“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Jungkook says. 
“’Wasn’t that bad’?” You repeat. It’s as if the words went in through Jungkook’s one ear and right out the other. “Are you serious? It was unbearable. Your parents were judging me from the moment I opened the door. No wonder you’ve never had a lasting girlfriend. I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to deal with that.”
“Excuse me?” Jungkook says, rounding on you as fire burns in his eyes. “What do you mean, ’that’?”
“I mean that I don’t know how on Earth people just accept the fact that in other people’s eyes, they’ll never be good enough?” You tell him like it’s obvious, because it is. This sort of life has been so ingrained into Jungkook’s head that he doesn’t even recognize it as unwelcoming and stifling. “I couldn’t stand being your girlfriend. Your parents are judgy and rude, and you all act like people who don’t come from as much money and power as you have no business sitting where you sit.”
“So your best approach was to shade and insult my parents in return?” He combats. “I would hate to be your boyfriend. My parents get more aggressive when people fight them, but you shove me under the table when I try to get you to back down? Just so you can have the final word to two people you’ll probably never see again?”
“The fact that anyone has dated you astounds me,” you tell him. 
“The fact that nobody’s dated you doesn’t astound me,” Jungkook spits back. 
You frown, embers flaring in your boiling blood. What, did Jungkook think you were going to enjoy yourself tonight? By pretending to be some sort of ditzy, desperate-to-please girlfriend? “You’re welcome for doing you a favor and not just straight up telling your parents you’ve been assigned a minder because you can’t handle your own powers. Don’t expect me to do it again.”
“I’m not planning on it,” Jungkook mumbles to himself, just loud enough for you to hear. 
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
You and Jungkook march down opposite hallways, desperate for this night to be over. You tear off the dress and let it sit at the foot of the bed, taunting you. 
There is no way in hell you are ever leaving this place. 
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The time spent at work is allocated half towards following Jungkook around like an invisible puppy with a personal vendetta against him, making sure that he doesn’t turn, and half towards wishing that something actually interesting will happen. Jungkook runs so tight a ship that nobody ever seems to want to do anything fun or exciting, no doughnuts, no inside jokes, no pranks. Just an endless cycle of trying desperately to please the unpleasable.
Admittedly, nowadays, you don’t really mind being here as much as you used to, when you would mentally criticize every person that walked through the glass doors to Jungkook’s office, hands filled with stacks of paper and manila folders, plopped onto Jungkook’s desk one by one. Jungkook’s started to keep extra food up in his office, the mini-fridge by his bookshelves constantly filled with takeaway salads and fruit. Apples are a definite no-go because they’re too loud, and you can only ever risk eating salads when nobody’s around to hear you pop the plastic top off of the container, but other than that, it’s nice.
Jungkook has pretty good taste in food, too, which is an added bonus. Though anything is a leg up from what you normally eat.
And even though you’ve begun to start roaming around, exploring the nooks and crannies that line the clean-cut layout, your favorite place to be is Jungkook’s office. He’s got these magnificent floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with a view directly over the biggest park in the city, thousands of feet up in the air. From up here, it almost feels as though you’re looking down at a different world, a different universe. It’s difficult to imagine that everyone down there, every ant-sized person walking along the sidewalk or resting on a park bench or ordering from a food stand, has lives of their own.
Especially when they are but specks of dust in yours.
Jungkook looks at this view forty hours a week. You wonder if he ever gets sick of it.
The door to Jungkook’s office creaks open as you’re staring out of the windows, watching as the clouds pass overhead. They look like little white dogs, like cotton candy, like angel wings.
“Mr. Jeon?”
The owner of the voice is the same man you berated Jungkook for shouting at a few weeks ago, the one who had turned in an analysis report a day late. He seems just as frightened of Jungkook now as he did back then, and it makes you wonder if any of Jungkook’s employees aren’t afraid of him.
“Here’s the completed budget report for the Lee Corporation for last fiscal year,” the man says, reaching a trembling hand out to lay a manila folder on Jungkook’s desk. Jungkook only looks up once he sees it out of his periphery, hand pausing mid-write, pen still hovering over the papers on his desk.
He meets the man’s eyes, and when he does, he cracks a small smile, this sort of barely-there grin, lips curling upwards ever so slightly. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
It’s as if the man has won the lottery. He thanks Jungkook quickly before bouncing out of the room, steps much lighter, like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. You watch as he leaves the room, a smile etching itself onto your face. It’s rather incredible what a simple ‘thank you’ can do to people.
You don’t say anything to Jungkook, instead just turning back around to gaze out of the window. There’s an entire city below your feet, one that bustles around like bees in a hive, everyone with a place to be and things to do. There is this strange but comforting feeling of insignificance, one where you feel as though you could disappear and nobody would notice a thing. The rest of the world can and will move on without you. But that doesn’t mean that your life means nothing. It means that your life can be whatever you want to make of it, because in the grand scheme of things, nobody else will know what you have done.
History is like that, too. You must be remarkable to be remembered. But that doesn’t mean the unremarkable people were forgotten. They touched lives, too.
Staring out the window as the clouds swim over the sun, a light grey shadow casting itself over the park, you feel at peace.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
You jump at the voice, Jungkook’s presence next to you having gone totally unnoticed. You didn’t even hear him get up from his chair.
“How did you know I was here?” You ask.
“I could sense it," Jungkook says with a grin, making you raise an eyebrow. You’re invisible. “I’m kidding, I saw you come over here a bunch last week when you first got into my office and I figured you’d probably still be here.”
“You figured correctly,” you tell him.
“You know, I don’t spend enough time looking out these windows,” Jungkook admits, and you aren’t sure if it’s to you or himself. “I’m always staring at my computer or writing something at my desk with my head down. I’ve got the best view in the whole city and sometimes, I don’t even remember what it looks like.”
“You work hard,” you tell him, because that’s something that is undeniable about who he is and what he does. “But you deserve to give yourself a break, every now and then.”
“For lunch breaks, the first thing I do is get out of my office. I spend all day in there and when it’s finally time for me to put work on pause, I rush out of the room like it’s on fire,” Jungkook comments. “Maybe I should stay up here every once in a while instead.”
“It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere,” you joke.
“You can, you know,” Jungkook tells you. “You don’t have to stay up here all day.”
“I know,” you say. “But I don’t really mind it. I like being here. It’s calming, in a way.” In a way that you can’t explain. Like you’re stuck in freeze frame while everyone else moves around you. Like you’re watching a movie about everybody’s lives but your own. Like you’re a spectator in your own body. “Plus, the view is gorgeous.”
“It is,” Jungkook agrees.
You stand there in silence for a few more moments, the only sounds filling the room your inhales and exhales, soft and slow, your hearts beating in time. Jungkook is more than a foot away from you but here, in his office, looking out over the world, he has never felt closer.
“Thank you,” you whisper, letting the words hang in the air in front of you.
“For what?” Jungkook asks.
“For listening to me.”
You feel Jungkook turn to you, and when you dare to look up at him, you meet his hazy brown eyes, warm and sparkly. He looks like a goddamn celebrity, like a magazine cover come to life, crisp shirt collars and fancy Italian shoes, glossy brown hair and perfect skin. He smiles at you, this homey sort of thing that makes you feel like summer is running through your veins, like the rays of the sun are pressing against your skin.
“Of course,” he tells you.
Jungkook is a lot of things. He’s unabashedly gorgeous and outrageously wealthy. He walks around like he owns everything that he touches. His house is clean and chic and minimalist, almost like nobody lives there at all. He’s determined and a workaholic, and hates admitting when he’s wrong.
But maybe, just maybe, in the white afternoon light of his office, the rest of the world underneath his feet, standing next to you as the two of you stare out in a city you call your own, he’s not that bad.
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Being alone in Jungkook’s penthouse is, to put it lightly, absolutely terrifying.
It’s hard to believe that Jungkook--and maybe a girlfriend for a brief period--has occupied this entire space on his own, no one else to talk to, no one else to spend time with, no one to occupy his massive couches or fill up the chairs in his dining room.
You’ve always wondered why rich people buy the biggest houses. Sure, it’s because they’re rich, and because they can afford it, but it’s impossible for one person, or even two, to make the entire place feel like their own. You leave countless rooms untouched, meant for guests that you never have and parties that you never host. It’s like you’ve moved into half of a house, a quarter of a mansion. What’s the point of having so much space if you don’t ever have anyone to fill it up?
Normally you wouldn’t leave Jungkook’s side, following him around the city whenever he has errands to run or needs to dash back to work to pick up something he had forgotten. But Jungkook hasn’t been turning anything lately, even when you sleep in four hours later than he does, even when he stays up into the early hours of the morning while you pass out before it’s midnight. It’s like he’s somehow lost the will for his magic entirely, like it’s vanished from his body.
Well, you’re not complaining. That just means you’re one step closer to finishing your sentence.
Jungkook’s penthouse feels bigger when he’s not around. Even though you hardly ever see each other while you’re at home, the mere knowledge of his presence makes you feel like you’re not alone. Makes you feel like there is someone else in this little corner of the world.
Everything in here has always looked untouched. Like it doesn’t belong to anybody, like a house listing come to life. His marble counters are always empty, his cabinets always closed and organized. His books are always alphabetized and the stack of art books on his coffee table has never been touched. All of the bedrooms look like they belong in a hotel. The bathrooms look like they belong in a museum.
Jungkook’s house has never felt like a home but then again, neither has yours.
Still, if you had to choose between living in your abandoned shack at the edge of town or living in an enormous penthouse in the center of the city, you would never look back at that old, dilapidated building. The difference between you and Jungkook is that Jungkook chooses to live in this tragically empty place.
You don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand Jungkook’s life. Not just the technicalities of the company he runs, the economics and business that he has spent his whole life mastering, but also the way he sees the world in terms of money and power, how everything has some sort of value, even people. Even you. His biggest concern has always been himself. How much money he has matters, how many investments his company owns matters, how the public views him matters. He has spent so long crafting this perfect image of himself that he’s willing to spend as much money as necessary to maintain it. 
Jungkook doesn’t even look at the total on the card reader when he purchases things. He simply tugs his silver card out of a sleek black wallet and swipes, crumpling the receipt up in his hand before shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. He comes back home to a gigantic penthouse with a gym and his pool and more bedrooms than he can count on both hands, to a personal chef in his kitchen making him five-star meals to last him the rest of the week. 
Money is never on his mind, but it is always on yours. 
When will you get enough to pay off your phone bill, will you ever be able to afford a repairman to fix the broken, exposed lightbulb above the back door, how many Campbell’s soups can you buy and still have enough funds to last you until the next day? What if, God forbid, the city comes knocking on your door and either evicts you or orders you to pay up for the three years you’ve been living in that house, rent-free? What will you do then?
Life is by no means easy for either of you, but Jeon Jungkook has never had to want for anything. If it isn’t handed to him, he works for it himself. If he can’t buy it, he’ll just make more money. If he doesn’t already own it, what’s stopping him?
People dream of having Jungkook’s life. People fear having yours. 
Alone in Jungkook’s apartment, the differences between the two of you have never been clearer. 
Your greatest fear is the fact that, in the past few weeks you have spent here, you are already becoming used to it. You are dreading going back to where you were before, stealing money from people off of the streets and living in a house in such disrepair that local nons think that it’s haunted. You fear that you will never want to leave. 
It’s such a terrifying feeling, isn’t it? Becoming attached to something. Feeling as though your life will be worse without it. Knowing that your life will be worse without it. 
There are parts of you that make you wish that life wasn’t so unfair. 
The living room is three times the size of the dining room but you hate eating there, sitting at an empty table with no one to talk to but suede chairs, reminding you that you don’t even have any friends to invite anyway. At least in the living room you can sit on the couch and watch television and pretend that you have at least some semblance of a life. 
You pick at a pre-made salad that has too much lettuce and not enough everything else—Jungkook needs a new chef, you decide, plucking out all of the croutons and slices of cheddar cheese, when the front door swings open, slamming against the wall adjacent to it as Jungkook storms inside. 
“Oh my God, what happened to you?” You exclaim, eyes practically bulging out of your head as you jump off of the couch. Even from here, you can see the dark bruising around Jungkook’s eye, purple and blue, the busted up knuckles clenched around the bag he’s carrying. There’s even a small streak of blood on his upper left cheek, already beginning to scab. 
“Nothing, I’m fine,” he says, wiping away the blood on his lip with the back of his hand. 
“No, you’re not,” you tell him, rushing up to meet him in the middle of the foyer, standing in front of him as you look up at his face with wide eyes. He waits there patiently, avoiding your gaze, steely eyes looking elsewhere, as you reach up to hold his head in your hands, tilting it from side to side. “What happened to you?”
“Some dudes jumped me in the parking lot on the way back,” Jungkook says casually. You’d almost believe he didn’t feel anything if he doesn’t wince when you press a gentle fingertip along the bruise on his jawline. He meets your frightened expression and smirks wickedly, something glinting in his eyes. “Don’t worry, I got ‘em good.”
“Are you alright?” You ask him, even though it’s obvious he’s not. “You aren’t seriously injured or anything, are you?”
“Don’t worry about it, Y/N,” Jungkook says with a sigh, even as he obeys your movements and moves his body pliantly to the feeling of your hands pressing against his skin. Most of the visible damage seems to be to his face and hands, and quite frankly, you’re not exactly sure if you want to see what’s underneath his dress shirt. “I’m strong. I work out and eat healthy and everything. I’ll be better in no time.”
“No, are you kidding?” You say, reaching out to grab his hand without a second thought, pulling him towards the nearest bathroom. “You can’t just leave it like this. Here, let me heal you.”
“I don’t need you to patch me up or anything,” Jungkook resists, frowning as you sit him down on the edge of the bathtub and begin to fish through his bathroom cabinets. “First aid isn’t in that one.”
“No, you idiot,” you chide him. “I’m not gonna patch you up. Aren’t you forgetting that I’m a healer?” 
“So what are you gonna do, then?” 
You finally find the first aid kit and pull it out, revealing rolls of gauze and bottles of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant. There’s even a couple of rows of Ibuprofen. “Well, you should be patched up anyway,” you decide, turning back to look at Jungkook’s face as he waits obediently on the edge of the tub. “But I can heal you faster than what time and medicine can do on their own.”
“You don’t have to,” Jungkook says softly. 
“Please, of course I do,” you reply instantly. You’re not gonna let Jungkook walk around like that. “We can’t have your pretty face all messed up, now can we?”
Jungkook cracks a small smile but it’s obvious that the simple gesture alone pains him, making him wince slightly as his lips turn upwards. You wet a face cloth with cold water and press it against Jungkook’s bruises, looking intently at his features as you move the cloth around, letting the cold water draw out the heat that sizzles beneath his skin. Jungkook watches you the whole time, his eyes never leaving yours, even as your brows furrow in concentration, determined to fix Jungkook back up so he’s brand new. Slowly, the bruises begin to fade, going from an angry violet to a light lavender, and then to a pink that could almost be mistaken for a heavy blush.
It feels weird, knowing that he’s right there. Knowing that he’s watching you, eyes following yours as they scan his face. His clean-cut jawline is a little swollen, perfect skin angry and marked, but his eyes are still the same. Still wide and bright, like a young child, like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time. They look almost caramel in the yellow light of the bathroom, flecks of gold to mirror the accents in the room. 
There’s something about them that makes you not want to turn away. 
When the bruises have faded, leaving only petal pink remnants along his skin, you move onto the small cut along his cheek. It’s rough and jagged, like the skin had been torn right through, a nick from a fingernail or a knuckle. It’s not long, but it is somewhat deep. You imagine it might scar permanently. 
Kneeling down in front of him, you pull out some rubbing alcohol and a cotton pad, dabbing a gentle amount onto the round before moving closer, holding his head in your hand as you reach out. 
“This might sting,” you say, like he doesn’t already know. 
“That’s alright,” Jungkook tells you. “Fix me up, doctor.”
At his cue, you softly press the cotton pad against the scab, rubbing away at it until it comes off cleanly, leaving only fresh, exposed skin behind. For wounds like these, a cloth won’t do. Your mother used to tell you that healing didn’t come from your hands, it came from your heart. That even if your fingertips had the magic, it was your heart that had the power to wield it. 
Slowly, you rest your palm against his cheek, rubbing your thumb along the cut. Jungkook blinks, big eyes shimmering, as you do so, and you feel trapped in his gaze. Like you couldn’t turn away even if you tried. Like you almost wouldn’t want to. His skin is baby soft, perfect, a far cry from the calloused pads of your fingertips, worn from so many days and nights out on the streets. 
There is magic in your fingertips, surely, but there is something different in your heart. Something that you don’t think you have the words to explain.
The cut seals up instantly, the skin patching over itself until nothing is left but a mark, a little scar that will stay there forever. And yet, you stay there, locked in his magnetic pull, like tearing away will hurt you rather than him. The cut is healed, and his bruises are fading, and there is no reason to stay like this. 
And yet. 
“There,” you whisper, watching the words appear between the two of you, lingering like ghosts. “All better.”
Jungkook grins. It doesn’t hurt him, but something in you feels a sharp jolt, an ache. Like a spark in the pit of your belly. Like magic in your veins. 
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Jungkook has been tearing his hair out over this one manila folder in front of him for the past twenty minutes. Every ten seconds he writes something down before scribbling it out, the ink bleeding through the paper to the next one. He flips through the files relentlessly, carelessly, until they’re all out of order and splayed all over his desk. He’s instructed the guard outside not to let anyone in, even if it’s some sort of emergency. 
You’ve seen Jungkook at work a lot, but you’ve never seen him like this. Even his anguished sighs are difficult to listen to. 
Creeping over to the wall that overlooks the rest of the office, Venetian blinds shielding the both of you from view, you crack open a slat, peeking out at everyone else. None of them pay any attention to Jungkook’s office, too busy worrying about the next report they have to complete and all of the office meetings they have to attend, so you take it as a good opportunity to turn visible. Just for a little bit. 
“You alright?” You ask, nearly making Jungkook fall out of his seat at the sound of your voice. 
“What?” He asks, surprised. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
“What’s the matter?” You ask, because you’ve never seen Jungkook as stressed out as he is now. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to organize this new collective to monitor our investing habits so we can assess where investments need to be divvied up into in order for clients to find us worth of their own investments as opposed to other companies,” Jungkook explains, though he sounds positively exhausted while doing so, like the very mention of what he’s slaving over is enough to send him over the edge. “But no one can agree on how we can use this information to promote this company to our clients and the public. People invest in both of us either way.”
“You want people to invest more money in your company, don’t you?” You ask with a raised eyebrow. 
“Well, yeah.” 
“How much money does this company give to small businesses? To nonprofits and charity?”
Jungkook frowns, scrunching up his nose as he thinks. He clicks around on his computer for a few seconds before saying, “About five percent.”
“And your investments are public, correct?”
“Yes.” Jungkook nods. 
“You should be giving way more than five percent of this company’s investments to small, local businesses and charity,” you tell Jungkook, already worming your way behind his desk to look at what he’s looking at. You point to the numbers on his screen, single-digit percentages, some even less than one, being sent to local businesses, nonprofits, and charities. “Look at this. Ninety-five of your investments go right into stocks. If you invested more money into nonprofits and local businesses, people would see you taking the time to help boost the local economy and the organizations that serve it for free. Then, those businesses would invest in you in return, and clients would see that you’re investing in noble causes and give you more money as a thanks, which can then be funnelled back to small businesses and nonprofits.”
It’s a rather roundabout sort of proposal and you’re almost positive that it has no real footing anywhere in real economics and finance, but it makes sense to you. If you had money to invest in major companies, you would choose the ones that invest in the things that will benefit you, like local businesses and nonprofits. If you saw that the companies you were giving money to were simply giving it away to the stock market, you’d pull your money out. 
You know that the stock market is nothing but the world’s biggest economic gamble, but that doesn’t mean that you have to gamble with it. Companies that stand for what you stand for are much more appealing than companies with a bigger investment bank behind them. 
You turn to Jungkook, who is squinting at his computer screen as he fumbles around with the numbers, flicking from Excel sheet to Excel sheet, bouncing back and forth between the information online and the files on top of his desk. 
“Is that stupid?” You ask, breaking the silence. It’s not as if people know you for your groundbreaking economic policies. 
Jungkook spares one more glance over all of his files, and turns up to look at you. “No,” he tells you with a shake of his head. “It’s not.”
“Really?” You’re actually impressed with yourself. 
“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees happily. “You’re right—I’d want to know that my investments were going to a company with good morals that lifts up local businesses. It would encourage me to invest more, too.”
“It’s not a very sound economic theory…” You admit. Jungkook’s probably seasoned in how investments and the stock markets work, charts upon charts of client behavior that shapes the way he organizes his company. And you? You don’t have enough money to even buy food some days. 
“It doesn’t have to be,” Jungkook assures you. “Theory is total bullshit anyway, because nobody can predict what will happen with the economy. But human nature has always been reliably good. People like to know that their money is going to a good cause.”
“So, it helps?” You ask with a smile. 
Jungkook nods. “It does. It’s actually a great idea, Y/N. You might have a future in business.”
You scoff. “Me? I don’t know the first thing about this stuff.”
Jungkook shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to. You’re a good person who thinks about everyone, Y/N. That’s why you’d be good at business. Because your clients can trust you, and you’ll actually put your money where your mouth is.” 
“I guess,” you say unhelpfully. Just because you think about others doesn’t make you especially remarkable. It makes you human. Isn’t that how everyone’s supposed to be? “I just don’t think about clients and money like you do. Money’s always been really valuable to me, since I’ve never had much of it, but you guys see it as expendable. I need to know where my money goes, I don’t want to see it just vanish into the hands of someone else.” Jungkook’s nodding along, eyes looking intently at your own, like he’s committing the words you say to his memory. “I just think that people and companies with tons of money have a duty to give back to those who are less fortunate. That’s all.”
“That’s noble of you,” Jungkook says. 
“It’s just common sense,” you explain. “Why wouldn’t you want to do something like that?”
Jungkook heaves a sigh, a long, winded sort of one, like there’s a whole conversation behind it that he wishes he could have with you. But instead, he just shakes his head, a fond smile lacing its way across his features. He chuckles to himself. “Maybe you aren’t cut out for business after all, Y/N,” he tells you softly. “You have too big a heart.”
And maybe that’s true. Maybe you’re too kind, too generous, to ever make it in business. To succeed without losing every penny to your name. 
But if that’s the case, then where does Jungkook stand?
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When Jungkook stays at work late, the two of you eat dinner together. 
There’s just something so demoralizing about coming back to an empty house, letting the hollow sound of the door slamming shut echo throughout the room, and then marching off in different directions to spend the rest of the night alone. When it’s dark, and late, and you’re starving, it’s all you can do not to beg Jungkook to eat with you. Even if in silence. 
By the time you get home, your stomach is just about ready to consume the art books sitting in a neat stack at the top right corner of the coffee table. You begin to clear off some space for the both of you to eat as Jungkook heads towards the refrigerator, when not three seconds after, you hear him swear, “Oh, shit.”
“What’s the matter?” You call out. 
“We’re out of premade meals!” Jungkook shouts back. What? You could have sworn there were at least two full tupperwares still available. Actually, maybe you had eaten them for lunch… 
“Really?” You get up from the coffee table and make your way into the kitchen, where Jungkook is standing in front of a refrigerator with the entire middle section wiped clean, empty shelves mocking the both of you as you glare at them. “Oh, wow. Really.”
“I didn’t know we ate that much,” Jungkook comments, shocked at the sight before him. 
“What are we gonna do?” You ask. You’re hungry. 
“What do you mean?” Jungkook says with a laugh. He kneels down and begins to pull vegetables from the drawers, plucking different bottles from inside the fridge door and plastic cartons from the top shelves, the ones that you never dare touch. “We’ll cook something, obviously.”
“Can’t we just order takeout?”
“You don’t wanna cook something with me?” Jungkook asks, eyes wide and pouty. You shake your head guiltily. Is ordering a pizza really so much to ask? Jungkook narrows his eyes at you suspiciously, a grin pulling at his lips, before he nods knowingly. “Oh, I get it.”
“Get what?” You challenge. 
“You don’t know how to cook.”
“What? I know how to cook!” You cry out, aghast. True, your past meals have mostly involved warming food up in the microwave, but that counts, in your book. Jungkook frowns in disbelief. “I know how to use a microwave.”
Jungkook tosses his head back and laughs, this warm, hearty sound filling up the kitchen, before he starts placing all of the containers and bottles and vegetables he pulled out from the fridge onto the counter. “Okay, we’re going to make something together.”
“Seriously?” You say, borderline whining. “Can’t you just do it?”
“No,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, “because you have to help me. Kitchen’s orders.”
“You’re the kitchen!”
“Exactly,” Jungkook says, smiling to himself. He pulls out some more ingredients from the cabinets, hands deftly reaching for the exact ones he wants, until you have a collection of food, seasonings, and sauces on the countertop, and an apparent recipe to be made. 
“What are we making?” You ask, looking down at everything on the counter. All of these things can’t go into one dish… can they?
“An old family recipe,” Jungkook says. “Kimchi jjigae. It’s kimchi stew.”
“Is it easy?” 
Jungkook grins something wicked, something devilish. “It’s fun.”
He sets out to put a pot on the stove, turning the gas on, bouncing back and forth between the stovetop and the counter as you stand there like a floundering fish, waiting for him to either give you an instruction or do everything himself.
“Can you cut the green onions?” Jungkook asks as he adds water and what looks to be tiny little fish to the pot, reaching behind his back to gesture wildly at the ingredients sitting on the marble. 
“Which are those?” You scan the countertop. Your familiarity with food and recipes extends about as far as anything non-perishable that comes in a tin can. Never in your life have you seen so much laid out in front of you, all meant to go into the same meal. 
The metal lid clinks as Jungkook covers the pot to boil, turning around to join you at the counter, where you wait awkwardly in front of an unused chopping board, no knife in sight. 
“These,” he says, reaching over you to pull up several stalks of something that looks similar to the wild onions that grow in your backyard. He fishes through the drawers before he pulls out a kitchen knife, gently placing it in your hand as he moves around to grab all of the other ingredients he needs for the boiling water on the stovetop. 
Hesitantly, you line up the onions and begin to chop, carefully sawing through each one until it comes cleanly off of the stalk. It’s awfully time-consuming, especially since Jungkook seems to have already made the stock base in the time it’s taken you to cut one. Nevertheless, you persist, because Jungkook wants these to go in the pot, and you refuse to be seen as incompetent in the kitchen, especially when Jungkook seems to be rather proficient when it comes to cooking despite the fact that a chef makes the majority of his meals for him. 
Old family recipes die hard, you suppose. 
Jungkook turns around to check on you and grab a small red container of what looks to be some sort of spicy pepper paste. When he sees you carefully slicing through each onion stalk, he laughs. 
“Hey, what are you laughing at?” You say, pouting. You don’t think you’re doing a terrible job, even if you are a bit slow. 
“You,” Jungkook says with a grin, not even bothering to think of something else to say instead. “Here, let me show you.”
He comes to stand behind you, his torso pressing against your back, as he reaches his arms around you, hands gently resting atop your own. There is something in the way his breath hits your skin, tickles the part right behind your ear that’s always been sensitive, how he leans down to look over your shoulder. The rise and fall of his chest against you. Something strange and foreign and calming, like when you tense up right before you fall asleep.
Frozen, you watch with nervous eyes as he holds your hand in his own, grasping onto the knife. He stacks a few onion stalks next to each other on top of the cutting board and slowly begins to cut—thin, quick slices until he develops a rhythm, an imaginary beat to the drumming of his heart, to the pounding of your own. 
The seconds seem to drag on for eternity, as if every cut through the vegetable is done in slow-motion, like time has slowed down just for the two of you. His breath tickles your skin, hot and tingly and filled with fire, lighting sparks everywhere it touches. You think that, if you concentrate hard enough, you can hear the way his heart thumps like a bass drum, ringing in your ears. Or maybe that’s just you. 
When four green onion stalks have been cut down to their very tips, suddenly the world speeds up, like the breaths that have slowly been leaving your lips come out all at once, like your heart picks up time to a universal metronome, desperate to realign itself once more. 
“There,” Jungkook murmurs from behind you. The words are soft and distant, almost like someone else had uttered them. “All done.”
You blame the tears welling in your eyes on the onions. 
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Thirty minutes and an overwhelming amount of slicing different ingredients later, there is a boiling pot of kimchi stew on the stove, steaming up the inside of the glass lid that Jungkook has placed on top to keep it warm. He’s big on optimizing the time spent in the kitchen, cleaning up everything before you eat, stuffing all of the used plates and bowls and knives into the sink as they come, wrapping up the vegetables in the thin plastic bags that they came in and putting them back into the fridge. Jungkook says it’s because he doesn’t like having to clean the kitchen up after he’s eaten. You think it’s because he thinks you’ll run off and leave him to do all the work. 
You, admittedly, don’t make your own meals very often (or at all), but you can see the appeal. There’s something different about food that you make yourself, food that you turned from ingredients to a meal. Something rewarding. 
Or maybe it’s just because Jungkook did most of the cooking, and he’s got this inexplicable magic touch. 
“Good, right?” He asks when you’re finished, the both of you heading back to the kitchen to wash up the last of your dishes.
“It was okay,” you tease, even though your empty bowl says otherwise. There’s not a drop of soup, a scrap of food left inside of it, just an orange ring around the inside from the kimchi color. 
“Okay, Miss ‘Okay’,” Jungkook says, placing his bowl gently into the sink. “Hand me your thing, I’ll finish washing up.”
“You sure?” You ask. You feel like you’ve contributed absolutely nothing to the making of this dish. Not cooking it, not putting away the ingredients or washing the pot, nothing. The least you could do is clean up a couple of your bowls. Or put them in the dishwasher. 
“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jungkook says, hand already latching onto it. “Takes two minutes.”
“Okay,” you tell him, watching the bowls fill with soap as his big hands scrub away the remnants of a very delicious meal. 
You linger in the kitchen. Despite not really having anything else to do, you don’t want to go back to your room, or curl away in some corner of the apartment where Jungkook can’t find you. You’re finally spending time together. Isn’t that what you wanted?
“It was pretty good,” you add on belatedly, when Jungkook is just drying his hands on the dish towel. There’s a precarious stack of dishes, utensils, and pots on the drying rack, like adding one more chopstick will send the whole thing tumbling down, but Jungkook isn’t worried about it at all. Even though he likes cleaning stuff up, he doesn’t like putting it away. 
“Aha!” Jungkook shouts, pointing at you accusingly. “I knew you would like it.”
“You’re a good chef,” you tell him. Maybe kimchi jjigae is the only thing he’s good at making, but rather be a master of one than a jack of all trades but master of none. Though, you have to admit that Jungkook is a master of several trades, none of which you think you could ever do. “You should cook more.”
“I wish,” Jungkook says with a sigh. The two of you have retired to the leather couch, the conversation drifting away from the kitchen and towards the sofas. When he collapses on the cushions, he relaxes, like the feeling is sucking out all of the tension in his body. “Every time I get back from work, I’m so drained and exhausted. I just want to go to sleep.”
“You weren’t tired tonight,” you point out. 
“No,” Jungkook says. The words are distant and faintly register in his mind, almost like the realization has just dawned on him for the first time, “I wasn’t.”
“Is there something else you wanna do?” You ask, not feeling particularly lethargic either. Normally, you’d spend the rest of the night raiding the rest of Jungkook’s amenities, watching old shows on his television or taking a bath until your body looks like a raisin. Something you can do by yourself, something that you’d want to do by yourself to make up for the fact that Jungkook doesn’t ever want to do anything with you. Watching him at work is getting less boring, because you’re actually starting to interact, but at home, you go right back to square one. Or, you did. “Watch a movie, or anything?”
“Nah, I’m alright,” Jungkook shakes his head, scrunching up his nose. You watch him as he chews the inside of his cheek, finger tracing over the scar that’s been left from that night, the night you patched him up. You’re a healer, but some things are meant to leave marks. You almost think that Jungkook is going to up and leave, heave himself off of the floor and spend the rest of the night alone in his bedroom, but then, he turns to you and he asks, “How often do you heal people?”
“I haven’t in a while,” you admit. Not because the opportunity has never presented itself, but you never had anyone to heal. “I used to when I was a kid, a lot. You know, scraped knees and paper cuts.”
“What about you?” Jungkook asks. “Do you have to heal yourself as well?”
“No,” you explain, “healers’ bodies heal by themselves.” It’s why, whenever you get back to your shack after crashing into a tree on the sidewalk that you hadn’t spotted, or stubbed your toe on the leg of a table, or pulled a muscle from stretching too far, you let yourself rest, and your body does the work for you. “But healing isn’t… it isn’t something I do very often. I turn invisible much more.”
“I can tell,” Jungkook muses. “But you’ve been invisible around me so much that it feels like I can still see you.”
“That’s because I’m always in your office when I’m invisible,” you point out. Jungkook knows you’re there because you wouldn’t be anywhere else. Where would you even go, when the whole point is to watch him? “In a place like this, there is no way you would be able to find me.”
“You wanna bet?”
“You know what, yes, I do,” you say, because Jungkook can’t possibly think his human-snuffing skills are as good as yours. Especially when the only person he’s trying to find is invisible. “You think you’re such a hotshot, hmm? Try and find me, then.”
“First floor only,” Jungkook rules. “And, when I do, I get to turn something.”
“Fine,” you agree, only because you know that that’s not going to happen. “One thing. That’s strike two, though.”
“You won’t tell,” Jungkook chides, eyes narrowed. 
“Will I?”
“Twenty seconds!” Jungkook says, already beginning to count down. “Nineteen, eighteen—!”
You turn invisible at once, not wasting a second, scurrying off down one of the hallways. There are plenty of places to hide in Jungkook’s house, from the walk-in closets in every bedroom to the one-foot-tall gap underneath every bed. But you won’t go for one of those, because Jungkook expects you to. He’s going to hunt around his entire house, looking in all of the nooks and crannies, the armoires and cabinets and cubbyholes, because he thinks that that’s where you’ll be hiding. But the truth is that there is no way that Jungkook will be able to find you when he can’t see you, because he doesn’t know what he’ll be looking for. 
So, you pick the second-to-last bedroom down the hall, and you wait. You’d sit down on the mattress, but Jungkook easily be able to spot a dip in the comforter, so you stand, right next to the door, holding your breath. If Jungkook really does think he can sense your presence, or whatever psychic nonsense he’s on about, then he should have no problem finding you. 
You hear Jungkook’s voice echoing down the hallway, a sickly sweet singsong as he walks into every room. 
“Y/N…” He calls out, like a ghost in a horror movie. “Where are you?”
From your angle, you can peer down the corridor, watch as he trickles in and out of each room after five minutes, no doubt searching through every one with both of his arms out, desperate to crash into you. Good thing you’re standing, otherwise Jungkook might accidentally elbow you. Slowly, he makes his way out of the room right before yours, casually walking towards you. You suck in a quick breath, holding yourself perfectly still.
“Are you here?” Jungkook flips his head around the doorframe, a foot away from where you’re standing. He isn’t looking right at you, thank God, otherwise you think you might just burst into laughter. “Hmm, I think you are.”
He begins to walk around the room, one hand tracing over the quilted pattern on the comforter, the other reaching out, grabbing fistfuls of air. He looks like someone’s blocked his vision, wandering around aimlessly as he tries to find something to cling onto. You bite your lip, refusing to laugh and give yourself away as he makes his way into the bathroom, singing your name like a chant, a curse to be laid upon you. When he obviously has no luck, he returns to the bedroom, eyes narrowed, as if that will better help his vision. 
You don’t think you’ve ever held your breath for this long, lungs about to burst, but you can’t let Jungkook find you. There’s more than just your powers on the line, and his reward. There’s your pride, and his massive ego that you refuse to stroke. The fact that he looks absolutely ridiculous is also doing nothing to aid you, but giving yourself up would be a metaphorical death sentence. 
Jungkook has one foot out of the door, already heading towards the last bedroom in the hallway, when you crack. You sputter out a half-breath, this miniscule exhale, and he stops in his tracks, turning around. You freeze up, hoping that maybe Jungkook will just think it was a trick of his own ears. 
“Y/N?” He taunts. He looks around the room again, trying to see if the wind is blowing a different way, if there is something different. He almost doesn’t notice you. 
Almost. 
You turn in shock when Jungkook reaches a hand out, his fingers pinching at your lower torso, shrieking as you practically topple over, Jungkook’s arms the only things that prevent you from diving head first onto the floor. He encases you in his hold as you sink to the floor in defeat, laughing as he follows you, one arm holding your waist as the other wraps around your back. He chuckles to himself while you curl up in shame, desperate not to meet your eyes. Your skin sizzles where his fingers had touched it, like oil in a pan after it’s been taken off of the stove, like the remnants of a flame, embers left to burn into ashes. It feels like your body is on fire. 
“Found you,” Jungkook teases, but it’s soft and sweet and fond. “I told you, I just know.”
“You just heard me breathe,” you defend yourself, because the former is impossible to accept. 
“Whatever you want to say to make yourself feel better.” He grins, cheeky and prideful, making you shove his head away with the palm of your hand. 
“Fine, whatever,” you say, resigning yourself to the fact that you lost this round. “What do you want to turn? The bed frame? The door knob? That really ugly pot in the living room?”
“Hey, that pot isn’t ugly,” Jungkook exclaims. You frown at him. “Okay, it’s only a little bit ugly.”
“For someone with so much money, you sure don’t have the best taste,” you tell him, even though everything else in his house reads expensive like nothing else. That pot is just weirdly out-of-place. “Maybe the gold will make it look better.”
“What’s this?” Jungkook asks, reaching a hand out from behind you to toy at the bracelet on your wrist, this silver chain with a couple of charms dangling from it. It’s rusted beyond belief, from rain, from humidity, from wear, but you refuse to take it off, even when it loses what’s left of its shimmer, even when the silver fades to a scratchy red iron. 
“An old bracelet,” you say, fingers instinctively making to play with it, rubbing away at the metal. “From my mom.”
“You wear it every day,” Jungkook notices. 
“I never take it off,” you say. 
“It’s pretty,” Jungkook tells you, and you know that he isn’t just saying that. That he means it, despite its abysmal condition. The years have not been kind to it, but then again, they haven’t been very kind to you either. “It must be really special.”
“It is.” You shuffle the bracelet around so that all five of the charms are in view. “She would buy a new charm every year for my birthday.”
“I like this one,” Jungkook says, pointing to the milk carton charm. “It’s cute.”
“Yeah…” you trail off. The bracelet isn’t much, but it’s all you have left of a childhood that you had been robbed of. You had to grow up too fast, that you know, but at least this bracelet reminds you that you are never too old for your memories. 
“Can I turn it?” Jungkook asks. It’s as if you can see the words leave his lips, resting in front of you, waiting for your response. 
You turn around to face him, eyes wide. Your hand goes to rest atop the bracelet protectively, the idea of letting someone else touch it almost unfathomable. 
“You can say no,” Jungkook quickly stammers out, face beet red. “It was just—you wear it so much, and it looks like the silver is fading, so I was thinking maybe the gold would… fix it up a bit, or something. Make it look new again. Ignore me, you don’t have to say yes, it was just a suggestion.”
Your fingers drop into your lap as you look at him, expression softening. Here, in this unused guest bedroom, Jungkook looks nervous, lost, stumbling over his own words like he isn’t sure of himself anymore. He looks away from you, eyes already beginning to scan the room for something else to turn instead, doubtful you would even agree to such a wild request. It is your bracelet, after all. Why would he do something like that for you?
“You want to?” You ask him, hopeful and wishing. 
Jungkook nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “I do.”
“Then you can,” you say, holding out your wrist to him, the charms dangling over your laps. “Please.”
Jungkook’s shocked that you even said yes, but he scrambles to twist you around, moving your bodies so you aren’t pressed against each other like two peas squished inside of a pod. In this new position, you’re facing each other, staring right at each other as Jungkook reaches out a tentative hand, delicate fingers padding against your wrist. He breathes, and so do you, because you’ve gotten so used to the way this bracelet has looked, so familiar with every rust and crack and dent, knowing that it has remained unchanged for years. 
But this isn’t a change. It’s a rebirth. It’s something different, something fresh, something to remind you that not all is lost. That old memories can become new once more. 
Slowly, as Jungkook presses soft fingertips against the metal, sparks fly. A golden sheen wraps around the bracelet, inch by inch, leaving behind this unmistakeable shimmer, glinting in the sunlight. You can’t tear your eyes away, watching the magic unfold in real time, the silver vanishing before you. The gold consumes it, erasing all of the rust, the wear and tear, until it looks brand new.
Your mother would have loved it. 
“Is that strike two?” Jungkook asks, a cherry red blush decorating his cheeks. 
“Thank you,” you breathe out, not caring if it’s strike two or strike two hundred. Your fingers press against the metal, smooth and shiny, the bumpy texture gone. It must be worth thousands, now. But to you, it is priceless. “It’s beautiful.”
Jungkook nods, and you can distantly feel the weight of his gaze on you. 
“I know,” he says. 
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You can’t sleep. 
You’ve slept better here than you have for the past three years of your life. At this point, sleeping on cement would be more comfortable than your bed back at your own house, but here, the soft, plush mattress takes away all of the exhaustion that manifests itself in you throughout the day. Not to mention the fact that for the first time in over a decade, you finally have a normal routine, an internal clock to direct your body, rather than the other way around. There is something soothing in knowing exactly what the next day will bring. Something that doesn’t keep you up with worry.
But tonight, you are wide awake. 
The golden bracelet on your wrist clinks against itself as you sit up, rubbing at the gunk that’s collected in your eyes. You’ve been keenly aware of its existence on your wrist much more in the past several days, ever since Jungkook turned it from its previous faded silver, fingers instinctively toying with it whenever there’s nothing on your mind—and even when there is. 
What you fear most is the fact that you feel as though you are relying on Jungkook to be there more and more, counting on the fact that you know he will be by your side no matter where you are, no matter what you do. You are relying on him to be there, on his house to be there, shaping the way that you run your life based on the belief that at the end of the day, he will be asleep under the same roof as you. 
You pull yourself out of bed. Maybe a night spent alone will remind you of the days where you would watch the moon move across the sky, sitting underneath trees and counting the stars that you can see. Remind you that no matter what, the moon will always be there for you, too. Remind you that this, all of it, is temporary. 
You know that you aren’t allowed to go up to the second floor of Jungkook’s apartment, and that you’ve never been solely because Jungkook requested that you stay downstairs, a promise you have kept throughout the weeks. But there must be some appeal to the rooftop, you think, because Jungkook never comes downstairs whenever he’s having a restless night. Besides, it’s not as if you have any plans to go into his bedroom. 
Softly, you creep upstairs, hand dragging along the golden rail, feet leaving creases in the carpet. The top of the stairs opens up into a general hallway, a dark wooden door undoubtedly leading towards his bedroom, while the walls on the other side turn to glass, leading towards the pool. You tiptoe down the hallway, making sure to avoid making too much noise by Jungkook’s bedroom door, passing by the gym that Jungkook must use all of the time, whenever he’s not around to bother you. The glass door at the end of the hallway must exit out to the pool, so you twist the doorknob and push it open, the cool summer atmosphere hitting you like a breath of fresh air. 
All of the lights are on outside, this soft white that reflects off of the metal railing and the pool water, crashing in waves against the tiled edges. You think it’s just for show, like how people leave their Christmas lights on twenty-four hours a day, visible through their windows, but then you round the corner and see him.
Jungkook sits along the edge of the water, legs swishing around in the pool, as he looks up at the sky. The summer breeze blows through his hair, messy and loose, the way it looks right when he gets out of the shower, before he puts any product into it. Whatever he’s playing with in his hand glints in the lights, that distinctive yellow glow. It must be a coin or something, something small, something to keep his fingers occupied. 
“Are we considering that strike three?”
He whips around when he hears your voice, hears the way the pool water carries it across to him. 
“I thought you promised never to come up here,” he muses back. 
“Then I guess maybe both of us can be forgiven,” you suggest.
You amble over to him, crouching down to dip your feet in as well. You seat yourself along the edge of the pool beside him as the water sloshes around, the sensation sending shivers down your spine despite the humidity in the air. 
“Can’t sleep?”
Jungkook shakes his head. “My body’s tired but my mind isn’t.”
“What’s that?” You ask, pointing at the coin in his hand. It isn’t a form of currency that you recognize, certainly nothing used here. 
“A family heirloom,” Jungkook tells you, holding it out for you to see. It’s covered in a thin layer of cold but you think that you can make out some sort of crest, an emblem or insignia above the coat of arms. “Apparently it had been stolen from someone of royalty or high status back in the day. My family turned it into gold and made it ten times more valuable.”
“Oh, but I pickpocket a few people and suddenly I get sentenced by the Realm to be a minder, I see how it is,” you joke, rolling your eyes. Your eyes glaze over the crest, tracing the lines of a lion, a spear, a shield. It must mean something to someone, but to you and Jungkook, it could be anything. 
“Hey, but being my minder hasn’t been terrible, has it?” Jungkook asks, mockingly offended. His lips curl down into a pout as he looks at you, a hand on his heart like it’s been punctured by your words.
“It’s…” You begin. You suppose that it hasn’t been terrible. In the beginning, it was positively nightmarish, left you feeling like there was no way you would ever complete your sentence. Now, there’s this weird, hidden part of you that doesn’t want to leave. The part of you that has become attached to this world, this lifestyle. The part of you that relies on there being another person in your life to be with. “It’s not that bad.”
“You know what, I’ll take it.” Jungkook grins. “Even though I know you secretly love me.”
You give Jungkook a shove, pushing him on his side. “You wish.”
He laughs, pulling himself back up off of the cement, knocking his shoulder into yours. “I know that we both kind of didn’t have a choice in any of this,” he tells you, looking up at the stars, watching their faint light, twinkling from millions of light years away. “But I think I really needed you here.”
“Oh, now he admits he needs a minder,” you say sarcastically, flinging your arms out in front of you. 
Jungkook chuckles. “I didn’t realize I turned so much until you forced me to stop cold turkey.”
You nod. The truth is, you can’t blame Jungkook for his turning habits. You can’t blame him for living the way that he lives, when it’s the only thing he’s ever known. When the two most important adults in his life turn like wildfire, when they taught him everything he knows. But Jungkook is his own person, now, not a product of his parents, anymore. He has his own choices to make. He can become whoever he wants to be. 
He has become someone he wants to be. 
Jungkook’s magic habits aren’t any fault of his own as much as yours aren’t, either. They were born out of ignorance, out of necessity. Out of the fact that neither of you have ever known a world where you didn’t have powers, where you didn’t feel as though you needed to use them. You couldn’t imagine not having your magic. You know that Jungkook feels the same. 
“Why did you?” It’s as if the words don’t even belong to you. Like someone else has spoken them—the moon, the sky, the stars. 
Jungkook purses his lips, and sighs. “It was all I had ever known.”
Jungkook grew up drunk on his powers. You wonder if he’s sobered up now. 
(You wonder if you had anything to do with it.)
“When I was little, my parents gave me that whole ‘you’re different, and that makes you special’ talk. They told me that my powers were valuable. A gift. And that people with gifts like mine must never waste them. That if we had been given this magic, we ought to use it, right? So that’s what I did. God, every day I would turn a new toy gold, and then I would get another one to replace it, and I would turn that one gold, too. My parents probably sold that to our banks, another hundred thousand dollars into their pockets,” Jungkook says, forcing out a laugh at the memory. The thought is rather endearing, when you think about it. Little Jungkook turning a stuffed bear gold, crying when it isn’t soft and fuzzy anymore. 
“And my parents encouraged me. They told me that I was doing the right thing, that I wasn’t letting my gift go to waste. You saw them that evening that they came over. They were turning things gold left and right. Things that I had wanted to stay their natural material. Like that bowl for my keys. Do you know how easily gold is scratched?” He exclaims, gesturing frantically in front of him. “I purposefully kept that as the clay it was made out of. And now it’s gold.”
“A modern day crisis,” you joke. 
“I guess…” Jungkook begins, but the words trail off and he pauses, almost like nothing he says will be correct. “I guess I just never knew the difference between not wanting my magic to be in vain, and not wanting to ever stop using it. Like you. You only heal when you need to. And even then, you don’t treat it like this precious gift. You treat it like something you owe to others.”
“That’s because without other people to heal, my power is useless,” you explain. Being able to heal others has no direct benefit for you. It doesn’t make you stronger, or faster, or better. It is a gift that is meant to be shared. “It’s different.”
“Every time I turn something, I feel like shit afterwards,” Jungkook admits to you. “Like I’ve turned so many things, that I don’t have the right to do it anymore. Like I’ve exhausted my magic.”
“You feel guilty,” you explain to him, resting a hand on top of his own, his fingers losing their grip on the coin he’s been tossing between them. “And that’s okay,” you tell him, meeting his eyes with your own. “Your parents are right—what you have, this power that you possess, it is a gift. It has made your life better in a way that nothing else could. But your fear of letting it go to waste, of not truly appreciating it for what it is, is a two-way street.”
Jungkook blinks at you, petal pink lips parted ever so slightly. 
“Wasting a gift by never using it is the same as wasting it by overusing it, because it loses its specialness. When you turn things now, it doesn’t feel amazing or blessed or exciting, because it’s lost the ability to feel like that for you. It’s almost second-nature, at this point,” you say.
“Then what do I do?” He asks, feeling helpless. “How do I make it feel special again?”
You squeeze his hand in your own, making him look up at you, the pool water reflected in his big brown eyes, like a warm chocolate ocean. “You only use it on things that make you feel like a better person.” Things that make Jungkook feel special, as opposed to things that make his magic feel special. “Not just things that will put more money in your bank account, or things that will make your house decor nicer. Things that you really, truly care about.”
Jungkook’s eyes glance downward at something, but he nods. He breathes out this exhale, this heavy sort of breath, like he’s trying to reteach himself the things that make him tick. Things like alphabetized books, and homemade kimchi stew. 
“Gifts like that only come once in a lifetime,” you say. “Remarkable things don’t happen to us all the time.” You know this, because it’s true. Because you’ve lived it.
Because in another life, in another universe, there is a you who can’t turn invisible, can’t heal people, and there is a Jungkook, too, one who can’t turn whatever he pleases into gold. And they would live their whole lives not knowing what it would be like to have these powers, to ease their way of life. And they would never meet each other, either. Too busy trapped on opposite sides of the world, too busy to worry about anybody but themselves. 
“So we have to learn to treasure them.” It feels as though you’re drowning in him. Like you’re floundering, barely staying afloat. “We have to make sure that they always feel special to us.”
You curl your hand around his own, lacing your fingers together as your palms rest against each other’s. You watch as his gaze drifts down to where your hands are interlocked, a bridge between the two of you, a lifeline that connects the two lives you had lived without each other in them. 
“Do you understand?” You ask. You can see the words as they appear, watch as they linger in between the two of you, hot summer breaths on a cool summer night. 
He squeezes your hands together, and he smiles, warm and round and real. He looks at you, and he is there, he is sitting by your side. And he is beautiful and extraordinary and remarkable. And he says, “I’m starting to.”
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You wake up the next morning to find a shimmering piece of parchment sitting on the dresser in your bedroom. 
As declared by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, it reads, 
The recipient, Y/N, has successfully completed her sentence of community service as mandated by the courts. She no longer needs to serve as the minder to Jeon Jungkook, and may return to her former residence. 
Though the sentence has been carried out, The Realm, its leaders, and its government, reserves the right to re-charge the recipient for the crimes for which she had been originally tried should she commit them again. Should this instance occur, the option for community service will not be available. 
We thank you for your service.
Oh. 
Already? 
It feels like you just started. Like it was only yesterday that you stormed up to the front door of Jungkook’s penthouse, watched as he crumpled up the parchment and tossed it into the bin. Like it was only yesterday you reappeared at his office, this time with a declaration that won’t be so easily destroyed. 
You wonder why this one is all sparkly as well. 
You don’t know exactly what prompted the end of your sentence, what duties you had somehow fulfilled to earn you your freedom. What is the Realm searching for? What data are they using to determine whether or not you have met your goal? It certainly couldn’t have just been the fact that Jungkook hasn’t turned in a while. Not turning is not the same as not wanting to turn. 
So what changed?
You stare down at the parchment, each word leaving you more confused than the word before it. 
It isn’t over already, is it?
Knowing that you are now free to return back to your own house means that your worst fear has been realized. You don’t want to. 
You want to stay here, in Jungkook’s massive penthouse, relishing in the glory and wealth that comes alongside it. You want his chef to make pre-made meals for you and the extra kimchi stew he keeps in the fridge. You want Jungkook’s five thousand different streaming services and enough books to last you several lifetimes. You want the sense of normalcy that staying here has given you, the regular routine that you have so effortlessly fallen into. You want the late-night pool chats and rounds of hide-and-seek. 
Why would you want to give up all that you have?
“You want fried or poached eggs?” Jungkook knocks on your closed bedroom door, tapping softly with his knuckles, already awake and ready to make breakfast. 
“Either,” you tell him, glaring down at the parchment with furrowed brows. You’re too afraid to touch it, too afraid to even look at it any closer. Because that will make it real. 
“Alright,” Jungkook calls. “It’ll be ready in ten! Got freshly-squeezed orange juice too!” You can hear his footsteps as he heads back down the corridor, the thump, thump, thump of his fuzzy slippers against the hardwood floor. 
“Coming,” you say weakly, too focused on the glowing paper on the dresser. 
 Just because you can go back to your house doesn’t mean you have to. Just because you can go back to your old life, doesn’t mean you have to. 
You grab the paper and stuff it in an old tote bag, covering it with old clothes, memories of the former world you lived in. Not anymore. 
After all, isn’t this the life you’ve always dreamed of?
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Kimchi stew is, as it stands, delicious, but it can’t be the only thing that the two of you ever cook together. 
Jungkook does all of the grocery shopping, mostly because the both of you know that if you went out to the store with a list of ingredients, you would be lost for days searching for them. So when he returns home with three tote bags filled with ingredients, your mouth already starts to water. 
“What are we making today, chef?” You ask, bounding into the kitchen as Jungkook begins to unpack. 
“Another Korean recipe,” Jungkook says happily, pulling out a bright yellow pack of thin grey noodles. “Japchae!”
“Sounds delicious,” you say, though at this point he could make you microwave mac-and-cheese and you’d snarf it down like nothing else.
“You bet it is.” Jungkook grins, slowly dumping out the rest of the contents of the bags. They are filled to the brim with vegetables and seasonings, peppers and zucchini and everything in between, the makings of a colorful little homemade dish. 
Jungkook seems to be making more time to actually cook things these days, fishing through the cabinets regularly to see what meals he can make with all of the ingredients in his kitchen. The chef only comes once every two weeks now, and usually brings with him any groceries that Jungkook has personally requested. He’ll ask you what you think of a new recipe that he wants to try, showing you the guide on his laptop screen, writing down whatever he needs to buy from the store. 
And you thought that the chef’s meals were appetizing. 
“Have you ever thought of meal-prepping?” You ask as Jungkook sets the noodles in a pot of boiling water, turning the heat on high. 
“Why?” Jungkook says. 
“I don’t know,” you tell him, washing the red pepper underneath the faucet, cutting board and knife ready and waiting on the counter. “So you don’t have to go through the process of cutting everything up and sauteing it, or whatever.”
Jungkook turns around, shakes his head. “No. Half the fun of cooking is making it.”
“But you could save yourself a lot of time when you come back from work,” you point out. Jungkook’s always so exhausted by the time he walks through the front door, keys scratching the golden bowl on the table on the way in. 
“But then we wouldn’t get to cook together,” he says like it’s obvious, like it’s the thing that he thinks about the most when he comes back home. The two of you, filling up his kitchen, leaving oil stains on the countertops and burnt vegetables at the bottom of the pans. The scent of spices, of onions, of sizzling vegetables wafting through the air. 
Another person to fill up this barren house. 
You never eat in the dining room, because two people still isn’t enough to make that room feel like it’s full, like there are people that regularly use it. But now, there are grease stains on the leather of Jungkook’s couch, and a little bit of ketchup on the rug that he doesn’t know about, reminders that just because Jungkook’s house is big doesn’t mean it has to be empty as well. 
“I’m a horrible chef,” you say, because you’re not quite sure what else to tell him. Up until a few weeks ago, you had never cut up an onion in your life. Things in the kitchen that take Jungkook five minutes to do take you twenty. You certainly aren’t any help, not when Jungkook has to pause whatever he’s doing to teach you something that you should already know. So what’s the appeal?
“You’re not that bad,” Jungkook assures you gently. “You just need to do it more.”
“Oh, so is that your mission? You don’t meal-prep because you want me to learn how to make my own food?” You ask, rounding on him. 
“You got me.” He grins guiltily, pinching the part of your waist where he knows you’re the most ticklish, making you laugh as you turn invisible for a moment, a sort of gut reaction whenever you’re sensitive. “And because I like cooking with you.”
“Can’t imagine why,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “It must be my infectious personality, right?”
“That, and teaching you how to cook stuff is fun.” Jungkook smiles, reaching out as he begins to chop vegetables beside you. Standing here, in the middle of his kitchen, you wonder if this is how life is supposed to be. Someone you can cook with, someone you can eat with. Someone who will teach you the things that you don’t know, who will help you master the things that you do. Someone who doesn’t care where you came from, only that you’re here now, that you are right beside him. 
Homemade meals make your insides warm and fuzzy, but having someone to spend the night with makes your heart feel comforted. Makes it feel like it’s been wrapped in a blanket, cradled in someone’s hands. 
“What happens when I learn everything?” You ask. “What will you do then?”
Eventually, this routine must come to an end. Eventually, there will be nothing left for him to teach you, nothing left for you to learn. You know that your days are numbered, that there is only so much time that the two of you can spend together. What will happen when you reach the last day? When there will be no tomorrow for you to rely on?
Jungkook must know that you can’t stay here forever, even if the two of you try to keep it that way. But he doesn’t miss a beat when he says, “Then, I’ll find something new to teach you.”
This arrangement has always been temporary. 
But for a moment, just a moment, an echo in time, he makes you believe otherwise. 
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There’s a golden glint on your chest of drawers when you walk into the room, the glare flashing in your eyes as the sun hits it. 
You, admittedly, don’t go into your room very often, usually only to do the thing that bedrooms, at their most basic level, were meant to do: sleep. But Jungkook retired early to his room tonight, citing some ridiculous reason like he hadn’t worked out enough this week, and everything in the house suddenly becomes less inviting whenever he’s not around. 
When you step closer, you can see it. See the thin chain that rests on the dresser, the key that hangs from it, a similar size to the charms on your bracelet. The gold is faded, shine erased, leaving behind this gentle matte texture, smooth but worn. It’s much more vintage than the sorts of things you would find in jewelry stores today—bright, sparkly necklaces and shiny, lustrous rings. It was made to look old, to look worn. It probably is.  
There’s a little note next to the necklace, a torn piece of paper from a notepad, the edges rough and uneven. 
To Y/N,
Found this in my mother’s old jewelry that she always leaves here when she decides it’s not her style anymore. Didn’t really think of anybody else that would make good use of it like you. I think it’ll match your bracelet well! I hope you like it.
Jungkook
You smile as you read the words, take in this meaningful little gesture that Jungkook has done for you. The bracelet from your mother has always been your most prized possession, but with its new golden makeover, it reminds you that you don’t always have to look to your past to be happy. That what you have, right here, right now, is enough. Now, your mother’s charm bracelet has a matching partner. 
Standing in front of the mirror, you put the necklace on, fingers craning to attach the clasp to the chain, metal slipping from your grip. After a bit of a battle, you finally manage to connect the two ends, letting the key hang low past your collarbones, the gold resting gently against your skin. It doesn’t match your bracelet perfectly, but the two aren’t so much a matching set as they are a pair, two pieces that are meant to complement each other rather than complete. 
You seriously doubt that Jungkook’s already asleep. 
Sneaking up the stairs to the second story, you see that the door to Jungkook’s bedroom is wide open, revealing a little glimpse into the room he spends so much time in. It’s dark, empty, a signal that Jungkook is elsewhere on this floor. You don’t spend too much effort peering into Jungkook’s bedroom, not when it feels like you’re invading his space, his privacy. He’s already given up so much of his home for you. He deserves to keep his bedroom his own.
He’s not in the gym, you determine as you pass by, which means that there really is only one other place he could be found. 
You push open the door to the rooftop, rounding the corner to the deck to find Jungkook doing laps in the pool, wearing nothing but his swimming trunks. The water sloshes around his body as he swims back and forth, kicking up splashes as he goes. You watch for a few moments as he works out, not wanting to interrupt him he burns away the calories in his body. This is the closest you’ve ever come to seeing Jungkook undressed, but you don’t really mind. At least he’s got shorts on. 
When he stops, he stands up in the pool, sopping wet hands running through sopping wet hair, strands that frame the sides of his face, make his hair look longer than it actually is. He wipes away the water on his face, blinking the chlorine from his eyes, when he spots you. 
“What are you doing up here?” He asks, not even caring to fight away the grin that has laced itself on his features. 
“Came to say thank you,” you tell him, fingers toying with the key around your neck. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”
“I wanted to,” Jungkook says honestly. “Besides, my mother was never going to come back to get it, so I figured that it should go to someone who will actually wear it.”
“It’s beautiful,” you say, slowly sitting down along the edge of the pool, letting your legs dip into the water. Jungkook makes his way over to you, water splashing at his torso as he walks through the pool to stand before you. “Was it always gold?”
“It was, yes,” Jungkook says with a nod. “My mom liked to turn a lot of things, but she preferred her jewelry to be naturally gold. That’s why it’s pretty faded.”
“It looks nicer this way,” you say. “Shiny gold looks cheap.”
“Spend a couple of months in a mansion and suddenly you think gold looks cheap?” Jungkook jokes. “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”
“Can’t help that I’ve got an eye for nice things,” you tease, looking Jungkook up and down just to be dramatic. You have to admit that he’s got a rather attractive figure, fit, built, toned. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you weren’t eyeing him at least a little bit. 
Jungkook pretends that he isn’t paying attention to the fact that you are blatantly ogling his body and laughs. “You swim?”
“I learned when I was little,” you tell him. “But I haven’t done it in a long time.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Jungkook says with a disapproving shake of his head. 
“What? I like being dry,” you say, hands on your hips as you defend yourself. Besides, when you were little, swimming always meant showering afterwards, which sucked because then you had to waste water just to clean yourself of other water. Your mother always said that being able to swim would carry you far in life, would be an invaluable skill. You haven’t swum since she died. 
“But, you wouldn’t mind if I… oh, never mind,” Jungkook dismisses, being purposefully vague just to capture your attention. 
“What?” You demand. 
“If I…” Jungkook begins, leaning back down in the pool until all but his head is submerged. He floats towards you, paddling until he’s right beneath your feet. “Did this—?”
Without a second of warning, Jungkook’s wet hands are grabbing onto your ankle, pulling you and your fully-clothed-self into the water with a splash, making you shriek as you feel your skin freeze up at the cold temperature. Luckily, it’s shallow enough here that you can stand rather easily, but now you’re soaked from head to toe, sopping fabric sticking to your figure.
You come up from beneath the water, positively accosted, hands wiping across your face as you clear your eyes so that they can narrow in on your target. “Okay, that was uncalled for,” you say, splashing Jungkook furiously, even as the two of you fight off the laughter that is bubbling up from your throats. 
“Oh, but it’s such a nice night for swimming,” Jungkook grins devilishly, that cheeky sort of look reserved for when he knows he’s being a nuisance. 
“Maybe for you!” You say, punctuating every word with a splash. Jungkook takes them all in good fun, accepting his punishment for pulling you into the pool. “I’ve been betrayed.”
“Admit it,” Jungkook coaxes, “you love me.”
You refuse.
When the rage has died down and the water begins to feel less like an icy death trap and more like a pleasant dip, you and Jungkook paddle around each other, swimming in circles like two fish in a school. Looking up, it is a nice night, clear skies as a crescent moon hangs above your heads. There are seldom any stars in the middle of the city, but the especially bright ones still shine, flickers of white in an otherwise deep blue ocean. You wonder how many times Jungkook has come out here, spent the night underneath the sky when he cannot sleep away the hours in bed. 
You wonder how many times you missed the opportunity to spend the night with him. 
“I sort of wish that we could stay like this forever, don’t you?” Jungkook asks, the two of you floating on top of the water like light against the sea. 
There’s a lot of things in your life that you wish would never change. This is just another bullet point added to the list. 
“Yeah,” you breathe out, because out there somewhere is a timer, counting down the moments until you have to say goodbye. “I do.”
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“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” you say, looking at Jungkook. 
He sits across from you in the booth, face lit up in a warm yellow from the rustic exposed light bulb above your heads, this soft, homey glow to his features, sharp jawline but rounded cheeks. He’s cleaned up well, in a different way than how he gets ready for work, when he has to make sure his collars are crisp and his hair is sleek and straight. Here, his dark brown hair is bouncy, loose, like he had blown it out after jumping out of the shower and then immediately ran his hand through it a couple of times to mess it up. He wears a plain button down, nothing fancy or chic, no tie, no suit jacket. The beauty of how he looks is that it’s so simple, so timeless, like he doesn’t need to put any effort into how he looks because he is just naturally perfect. Like the cover of a magazine. Like a sculpture come to life. 
“I wanted to,” Jungkook says happily, fork twirling around the pasta in the dish in front of him. “We can’t just eat premade meals and leftover Korean food forever.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t complain if we did…” You reason, because you’ve been better fed in the few months you’ve lived with Jungkook than in the years you have spent on your own. Not to mention the fact that everything Jungkook makes tastes eons better than the meals the professional chef whips up, for some odd reason. “But you’re right, a night out is fun.”
“Sometimes food tastes better when you don’t make it yourself,” Jungkook points out, motioning to the dishes before you, these high-class servings of fish and pasta and vegetables that look like they belong on a cooking show rather than on the table in front of you. You and Jungkook may have mastered (or at least… gotten better at) cooking, but presentation is a whole other battlefield. Besides, it’s all going to the same place, so why bother?
“Mmm,” you murmur in agreement, savoring the flavor of the meal in front of you. A year ago you wouldn’t have dared step foot in a restaurant like this one, would have probably gotten kicked out after you walked through the door, so being here feels like a real treat. One that you think you could definitely get used to. 
“Thanks, by the way,” Jungkook pipes up, as if suddenly remembering something. 
“For what?”
“For your idea about the investment management,” Jungkook says, sending the both of you back to that day in his office, where Jungkook was on the verge of flipping his desk over because he couldn’t figure out a solution. 
“Oh, is it working out?” You ask, curious to know if your suggestion is truly paying off or if you just had too much faith in the goodness of humanity. 
“It is.” Jungkook nods happily. He seems very proud of himself. “It was slow going at first, because a lot of clients were starting to wonder why we weren’t investing in other stocks that would guarantee us a higher payout, but then they saw where the money was going. We aren’t bigger than our rival companies, but this levelled the playing field.”
“I’m glad,” you say, because it’s one thing for Jungkook to tell you you had a good idea, and it’s another for him to actually implement it. “That makes me happy to hear.”
“You’re not as bad at business or economics as you think you are, Y/N,” Jungkook informs you, waving around a nonchalant hand. “All they are is an in-depth study of human nature. Some economists assume that everyone in the world is selfish and cares only about themselves, but you’re different. You see the good in everyone, you believe that people can be honest, and selfless, and giving.”
Like Jungkook. 
Like Jungkook, who has given up his home, his work, his life just to deal with another person hovering around him. Who gifts you gorgeous pieces of jewelry and takes you out to fancy meals, who lets you screw up a recipe in the kitchen and obligingly eats peppers that have been charred beyond recognition. Who is so much more honest, so much more selfless, so much more giving, than you could ever be, sticking around because to not do so would cost you your freedom, because you would rather stay here than be anywhere else. 
“I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone,” Jungkook says, cracking this weak, terrible smile. He shakes his head as if to banish the thought from his mind, to exist only in this very moment, choosing to ignore both the past and the future. “I think I’m starting to rely on you being there.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, distantly. Something weighs heavy on your chest, pressing your heart down, slowing its temperate rhythm. The truth is that your heart stopped a long time ago, it stopped when you realized that there’s more to Jungkook that you want to know, when you realized that you can’t bear to imagine a life different than the one that the two of you share, no matter how temporary it is. But this weight, this burden on you, it serves as nothing but a reminder that without Jungkook, your heart cannot count in time. “Me too.”
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You return home with plastic tupperwares in your hands, leftovers from the enormous meal that the two of you couldn’t have finished even if you tried. Jungkook takes the container from your hands as you excuse yourself to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the thoughts that rest heavy in your heart, cleanse yourself of the lies you can’t seem to stop telling. There’s this naive part of you that thinks, when you wash off the makeup, change back into your raggedy old clothes, all of the secrets you carry with you will vanish as well. 
You know you’ll have to come clean eventually. Eventually, Jungkook will get suspicious as to why you’ve hung around so long even though he is no longer turning. He’ll begin to wonder why you haven’t dashed out of the penthouse you once used to disparage, desperate to return to your old life, where you didn’t have to know him the way that you do now. When you didn’t feel like there was something else trapping you here. 
When all is said and done, though, it feels like here is where you were always meant to end up. 
You head back out into the living room, ready to settle down and wrap up the night by watching a movie or something, when you see Jungkook standing by the couch, your old tote bag sitting on the cushions from a laundry trip earlier today, a shimmering piece of parchment in his hands. 
“Jungkook—”
“How long?” He asks, voice cracking. He’s clenching the paper so hard that his knuckles are turning white, like he can’t believe the words that he’s reading. “How long have you been free to go?”
“Listen, I can explain—”
“A week? A month? When were you going to tell me?” He pleads. When you can’t even muster up the dignity to look at him, he shouts. “When?”
“A month,” you tell him weakly, desperately. 
“A month? You’ve been staying here for a month when you didn’t even need to?” He asks, and he isn’t angry, or furious, or full of rage. He looks helpless, like there is no longer light behind his eyes, twinkles in his irises. Like he’s in pain, like he’s hurt. Exposed, his walls broken down and nothing left to repair them. “When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to say anything?”
“Yes, Jungkook, but I—”
“All this time,” he says, more to himself than to you, like he can’t believe how foolish he’s been. “All this time you’ve been using me? Using my money?”
“No, Jungkook, it’s not like that.” You are desperate, desperate to salvage what you can from this broken arrangement, desperate to start anew. 
“Then what is it like?” He demands. “If you weren’t using me for my house, or my money, or my personal chef, then what is it? What did you want from me that you couldn’t get on your own?”
You stop. Why did you stay? Normalcy? Opportunity? Company? All things that you never dreamed of having in a million years. And while being with Jungkook did provide you with all three, none of them feel quite right.
“I don’t know, I just—” You begin, scrambling for the right words and feeling like nothing you say will be correct. “I didn’t want to go back just yet.” It’s a pitiful excuse. 
“So you just decided to stay? To play along with me, with all of the things that I was doing with you, for you?” Jungkook shakes where he stands in front of you, blindsided. “Let me teach you how to cook and give you expensive jewelry and take you out to fancy dinners? Just for fun?”
“I never asked for you to do those things for me,” you remind him firmly. It’s not like you were scrounging for money from his pockets, selling insignificant gold sculptures on the black market to buff up your empty bank account. “You wanted to.”
“Because I thought we had something special, Y/N,” Jungkook admits helplessly, collapsing back on the couch. “I did those things because I felt it, Y/N. What you were talking about, that night at the pool, where you saw me sitting at the edge of the water. I felt it. With you,” he begs, hopeless and anguished. “I didn’t understand what it meant to make the magic feel special again until I did it for you. I turned your bracelet and it made me feel like I had something to give to others.”
“You know that that’s not what I meant,” you say, shaking your head. “I was talking about your gift, not us.”
“Aren’t they all the same, though? Magic? Powers? Love? Don’t they all make us feel like we have something special beneath our fingertips?” He asks, to you, to himself, to the moon and the stars, searching for an answer that none of you can give him. 
“Love? You don’t mean that,” you say, refusing to admit it. You have no explanation as to why Jungkook did the things he did, just as much as you don’t have an explanation as to why you did the things you did. They just happened. 
“I thought we had something,” Jungkook admits sadly, unable to even bring his head up to look at you, at the tears that are welling in your eyes, the ones you refuse to let fall. “And I thought the reason that you wanted to do all of those things with me was because you felt it, too.”
“Jungkook, you know that—”
“What?” He erupts. “What do I know? I know that you’ve been using me all of this time, that you did those things with me because you were getting freebies out of it. I know that I was foolish and—and stupid to think that maybe it was because you were falling in love with me just like I was falling in love with you.”
“Jungkook…” You reach out a trembling hand, wanting to feel the warmth of his body once more, the weight of his head in your palm. 
“Don’t,” he says, swatting it away and standing up. “I get it, Y/N. I was stupid and I thought that we had something, when we don’t.” He turns back to look at you, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get the image out of your head, the sight of him, broken and beaten and empty, a shell of the beautiful, vibrant man you had become so attached to. “There’s nothing left for you here. Your services are no longer required.”
He disappears down the hallway, leaving you with nothing but a tote bag, a necklace, and a bracelet left for you to remember him. 
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When you step into your house for the first time in months, it feels even less inviting than it normally does. Which is, as far as you’re concerned, rather impressive, considering you’ve always dreaded coming back regardless of what happened throughout the day. 
But now, you can name no place you would rather not be than in this graffiti-laden house, a dangling light bulb above the back entrance and dirt and dust all along the walls. You’ve never had time to fix up this place and make it look even the slightest bit presentable, never had the money to paint over the walls and get rid of the big red X on the front door. Day in and day out, this would just be a place where you could sleep, a mattress on the floor and Campbell’s soups on the cracked kitchen counters. The first thing you’d do every morning is get out. The last thing you’d want to do every night is come back. 
No place has felt like home in a long time. Not since your mother died, when you lost how her smile would light up a room, how she would spin you in circles and kiss your forehead when you got scared that you were going too fast. You had almost forgotten what it meant to have a home, to have a place that felt sacred, like coming home to a warm hug and a steaming cup of tea. To have a place that you didn’t dread returning to, a place that you could gladly waste away in. 
The bracelet that dangles from your wrist is the closest thing that you have left to the feeling of home, of comfort and warmth and solace, of something that makes you feel truly happy. But now, the bracelet has been tinted with the memories of another, of the only other person you can think of that has brought you that same feeling of joy, of these rose-stained memories that rest deep within your heart’s attic. They have always been there, hidden, buried beneath the bad, but when there is nothing left they surface. To remind you of what good life can bring you. 
To remind you of the magic inside you. 
You hate living here. And for a time, you hated living with Jungkook, too. Hated how extravagant his house was, hated how he refused to even speak to you. How there were so many unused rooms, so many empty spaces. But what changed, there, and what hasn’t changed, here, is how people, and not things, are what fill up rooms. 
Living with Jungkook made you feel like coming back after a long day was worth it. Planted the knowledge inside you that you would always have him there, could always rely on another’s presence within the apartment. He’s only one person, but he fills up the room like nothing else, lights it up like New Year’s Eve. He’s funny, and witty, and gorgeous. He’s caring and honest and cheeky, just cocky enough for it to be charming as opposed to egotistical. He cooks like nothing else and spends his sleepless nights beneath the stars, looking at the same moon and sky as everyone else. 
You don’t hate living here because it’s shit. You hate living here because it’s lonely. 
There was a space in your heart that you didn’t even realize was empty. It had been overtaken by the part of you determined to make it to the next day, determined to stick it to the Realm, to its leaders, to all of the people that look down on you because you aren’t made of money. 
But when you left Jungkook’s house, you realized that that space had slowly been filled up with him. That over time, bit by bit, moment by moment, Jungkook returned what you had lost, revived what you thought had long been dead. 
The truth is that you wanted to stay with Jungkook because you couldn’t stomach the thought of being alone again. Of being forced to fend for yourself, forced to come home to an empty house with no one to waste away the night with. Of being forced to live like every day is a threat rather than a gift. 
Jungkook has magic in his fingertips and his heart. It was only a matter of time before it spread to you as well. 
Being hurt by someone you love feels like an arrow to the chest. Like a puncture wound, deep and piercing, but too painful to even want to pull it out, patch up the hole. You had already experienced it once. You didn’t have any plans on experiencing it again. 
But losing the opportunity to love someone feels like an ache throughout your whole body, this crippling sort of pain that spreads through your bloodstream, setting every organ it passes on fire. It feels like there is something tearing you apart from the inside out, like every piece of you is slowly crumbling. 
Jungkook’s biggest mistake wasn't falling in love with you. It was thinking that you were still falling in love with him, when the truth is, you had already fallen. It was letting you leave when both of you wanted nothing more than for you to stay. 
Loving someone is a gamble. It’s a risk, a toe in the water, a spark from your fingers. 
But not loving someone? That is magic, wasted. 
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Who knew twenty dollars could get you one large pizza and extra garlic rolls? Certainly not you. 
The smell wafts through the hallway to Jungkook’s apartment, filling it with the scent of warm, fresh bread, of a hot meal waiting to be devoured. If you don’t knock soon, the pizza will go cold and you’ll probably eat all of it before you can even say hello to him. You have more food in your hands now than you have the past week you’ve been back at your old place. 
You ring the doorbell. 
 “Coming!” Jungkook shouts. Oh, is he expecting someone?
Ten seconds later the door opens to reveal someone you hardly even recognize. Gone are the soft loose strands of hair and oversized button down shirts. Jungkook opens the door still wearing his suit jacket, tie tight around his neck, like he hasn’t bothered to change since he got home from work over two hours ago. His hair is sleek and straight, a little shorter than you last remember it. He looks the way he did when you first met him, this rigid, workaholic guy that doesn’t care about anybody except himself. He looks like he’s done nothing but work for a week. Not even sleep. 
“Hi,” you begin, a short, quick intake of breath. “Did you order a pizza?”
“No.” Jungkook shakes his head, already starting to close the door. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”
“Wait, Jungkook, please? I need to talk to you,” you plead, a hand going out to stop him from shutting you out completely. All that you can see through the crack of space between the door and its frame are his piercing brown eyes, absolutely unreadable. He doesn’t budge. “Also, did you just get back from work? You must be starving. And as it so happens, I have an entire large pizza that I won’t be able to finish all by myself.”
Jungkook budges a little bit. 
“Please?”
“Fine,” he says reluctantly, opening the door. “I hope you aren’t planning on staying here too long, this time.”
The words are biting cold, send angry shivers down your spine. 
“Just enough for you to hear me out,” you say, placing the pizza box on the coffee table as Jungkook rummages through his kitchen for plates. He eventually manifests two paper ones—you didn’t even know he had those!—and returns, taking a seat on the carpet as he inhales the cheesy, greasy scent. 
Your stomach grumbles, but you can’t eat just yet. First, you have to explain yourself. 
“What did you want to talk about?” Jungkook asks, cold and distant, the same way he spoke to all of his employees before you encouraged him to do otherwise. “If it’s about my company, we can compensate you as necessary for your contribution. It won’t be much, though.”
“No, no, it’s not about that,” you say with a shake of your head. “It’s about us.”
“What ‘us’ is there to talk about?” He asks economically. 
“The ‘us’ that I left behind that day,” you say softly, a gentle reminder. “The ‘us’ I should have realized existed before I let the door shut behind me.”
“If you’re just here to tell me that you’re sorry for not loving me back, don’t,” Jungkook says bitterly. “I don’t expect you to love me back or anything. You can’t change how you feel about people.”
“You still love me?” You ask, a spark, a flash, a ray of light. 
Jungkook grumbles. “Yes. It doesn’t go away that easily.” 
“You aren’t stupid, or foolish, or idiotic for thinking that I was falling in love with you at the same time that you were falling in love with me,” you tell him, the words light and airy, like weights plucked off of your chest, like butterflies released from a jar. “You were stupid for thinking that I wasn’t already in love with you.”
Jungkook’s head jerks up, eyes blinking wildly. You can see the way that they glisten, with hope, with tears, with desperation. With the possibility that not all is lost. 
That old memories can become new once more. 
“You were right,” you muse, more to yourself than to anyone else. Even Jungkook. “Magic, powers, love, they’re all the same thing. They are meant to be treasured. Cherished. Protected. They are meant to make us feel special.” You breathe, reaching out next to you, an open hand for Jungkook to take. “But most importantly, they are meant to be shared.”
A small smile. A lip half-turned up, this gentle little grin. 
“I stayed because I wanted to keep sharing my life with you, Jeon Jungkook,” you tell him honestly, because it’s real and it’s true. Because, at this point, you can imagine nothing else. “And I’m here again because I can’t stand living without you anymore. I never want to stop sharing my life with you.”
“You make me feel like my heart is made of magic,” Jungkook admits, finally, finally, finally. “You make me want to use it just for you.”
“You don’t need to,” you say, pressing yourself into him, letting your lips hover above his own. He reaches a hand out, lets it rest on your waist, waiting desperately for you to close the last inch between the two of you. “You’re already made of it.”
With that, you close the gap, pressing your lips against his, the soft sweet cherry taste of his lip balm filling up your senses, leaving you gasping for air. It’s just a kiss, just a press of lips, this simple gesture, but it takes your breath away nevertheless. It makes you feel like magic swirls inside of you, like your heart is sparking, catching fire, sending it sizzling through your veins. Jungkook has taught you what it means for a house to become a home. You have taught him that magic is only special if he has someone to share it with. 
It’s hard to think about the lessons you would have never learned without the other. 
It’s hard to think about how different life would be, had you never even met. 
Jungkook kisses you and it feels like you’re finally whole. It feels like what has been missing in your life has returned. What you have kept locked up, in the dusty, cobwebbed corners of your heart, in the spaces between your bones, has finally been remembered. 
Jungkook takes your old memories and turns them new. He is the only thing you ever want to remember.
“I love you,” he whispers, watching as the words sink into your skin, leaving embers in their wake. “You are my most precious gift.”
“You are my home, Jeon Jungkook,” you murmur. “I love you, too.”
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Pizza is good and all, but nothing beats homemade kimchi stew. 
You made it all by yourself for the first time last night to celebrate Jungkook donating over a million dollars to various different animal rescues and human rights organizations, taking the kindness that he has been given and paying it forward. Besides, he can make money at the touch of a finger whenever he wants, so he might as well, right?
You also don’t accompany Jungkook at his work anymore, because you’ve gotten enough of a taste of office life and have declared it not your ideal profession, but the nice thing about that is getting the whole house to yourself while he’s gone. Not that you want to do very much without him, but napping in different bedrooms is always exciting. 
You never realized how good love makes you feel. How it lifts you up from the inside out, brightens up every day no matter how dull it is to begin with. You had forgotten. What love can do to a person. 
Jungkook always comes home and tells you about how happy his employees make him whenever they’re happy. Good feelings like joy, like laughter, like love, they are contagious. It’s a wonder that neither you nor Jungkook figured that out before you met each other. 
Well, you suppose that there’s a first for everything. 
Jungkook comes home and you can hear the door slam, even from where you’re hiding. You listen as he stops at the door, picks up the note that you left for him. 
Loser washes the dishes! ♡
You hear his keys clink in the bowl, metal on metal. He pauses for a moment, for dramatic effect. 
And then he shouts, 
“You’re on!”
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gojos-sidepiece-69 · 3 years
Text
Tokyo Tech Training- Chapter 6
By the time you woke up on Wednesday, you were still seething with rage. Who does that little shit think he is? Was he still a little boy? He was 28, for Christ’s sake, when was he going to grow up??! You shoved the microscopic train of thought that you found Gojo Satoru’s immaturity charming deep into the depths of your subconsciousness. You felt an unwanted warmth spread upwards and inwards from your thighs when you opened your phone and saw the inappropriate picture Gojo had sent you last night, dangling your lacy pink underwear from his index finger. You were still angry, but your heat pulsed at the thought of your panties in his hands. You shook the thought away when you felt drool shamelessly pooling at the sides of your mouth.
What you hated to dwell on even more was the growing realization that the more Gojo touched you with those long fingers of his, the more his tongue and his overly moisturized, glistening lips ghosted across your skin, the more you felt deprived of the sensation when he was gone. The hunger was only growing. You realized that you had only taken his dick inside of you once, just once...you felt empty. No, you thought to yourself. This was selfish and pathetic on both of your ends; your little schoolgirl crush had gone way too far. You needed to stop fucking him, even if he made your body tremble your throat moan in ways no one else could even dream of doing.
The past five days had been such a chaotic blur that you hadn’t processed the fact that tomorrow was your...your birthday. How had you not realized it when Sukuna first proposed his deal that day at the mall? “The Itadori boy’s room on Thursday at 11 PM. If you’re late, you’ll be punished however I see fit.” You could still hear his deep, demonic voice. So that was how you were going to be spending your birthday evening tomorrow: being tossed around like a plaything by a 1,000 year old curse. You sighed deeply and put your head into your hands, not even surprised anymore at the absurdity of the situation. What the hell were you doing with your life? You came to Tokyo Tech to train to become a Jujutsu Sorcerer, not practice your Kegel techniques with your teacher every other day. Just take things one day at a time, you reminded yourself, as you begrudgingly dragged yourself out of your bed.
Today was your second day filled with exerting and harsh training, but at least it wasn’t as traumatizing as your earlier Field Training expedition. When you got to the grassy training field on campus, you looked around for Gojo, feeling a tiny sliver of disappointment when Maki told you, “He’s out for the day. He’ll be back tomorrow, but us second-years are overlooking your training today.” Damn, you thought. You couldn’t resist how delicious the thought of showing off was for your cocky....fuck, stop thinking about him. It was as if his stupid, dimpled smile was permanently branded to the right side of your brain. You turned around to watch Nobara and Panda goofing around, swinging each other in circles and getting thrown around like frisbees. Track-star Yuji and a stubborn Megumi were racing each other up and down the track like their first names were Usain.
Your friends all looked so cute in their blue tracksuits, you smiled. Toge was yelling, “Salmon! Tuna-salmon!” as Maki practiced her new, crisp cursed-tool technique on him with her incredible agility. “Wait up!” You yelled after Yuji and Megumi, challenging the two boys to a quick hundred-meter dash. “Loser buys us all drinks for my birthday tomorrow!”
Somehow, Megumi lost the race but promised to buy you all drinks tomorrow; you smiled inwardly, thinking about something he once said about having a strong moral compass that couldn’t easily be shaken. At least you knew of two good guys you could rely on, even if they were a spiky sea urchin and an extra large pink cupcake. “Hold on, hold on. Why didn’t you tell us tomorrow was your birthday?! Explain yourself,” Nobara demanded, crossing her arms at you. “I guess I just forgot...” you started, but she wasn’t having it. “I love birthdays, and we’re using yours as a chance to celebrate. I think we all deserve some more sweets and drinks, right? And I can go shopping to get you a present!" She gushed, and before you told her it wasn’t a big deal, she tutted at you. “No ifs and buts. I’ll decorate my dorm and we can all meet there tomorrow at 9 PM. No excuses,” she pointed a finger in your face. “Okay, okay,” you smiled, before wickedly challenging Yuji and Megumi to a rematch.
The rest of your day was filled with arduous exercise and training with your second-years, and it was soon time for bed. You woke up the next day sore again, but thought to yourself that you might as well get used to the muscle ache - it was only going to get worse from here. You were going to have the bones of an 80-year-old soon, if you kept this up. You laughed darkly and nervously at the thought of having arthritis as a teenager, before a spirited Yuji and Nobara bursted into your room yelling, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! :)” You thanked them, head ringing slightly from their yelling at 8 in the morning. They jumped onto your bed with you, tackling you with warm hugs and tickling you.
Yuji slapped a birthday cake sticker against your cheek, insisting that you must keep it on all day. “Guys, guys, stop,” you laughed, eyes watering from laughing. Megumi stood at the doorway and nodded your way before wishing you a happy birthday. Yuji got up and dragged him into the group hug, Megumi’s face smashing against Yuji’s stomach. Your dark haired friend groaned as the rest of you poked fun at him. This was the best birthday morning you had in a very long time.
You peeled the cake sticker off of your face and stuck it onto your mirror. “Let’s go out again today and hit every good Ramen shop in the damn city! And then go shopping in Harajuku!” Nobara ordered rather than suggested, and you both reeled from excitement. She knew how much you loved food. She grabbed you by the wrists and pulled you all the way to the front of the school, not even giving you time to change. So the four of you stood in front of Tokyo Tech in your pajamas, hailing a cab to get downtown. You spent all day with your friends, and the three of you loved teasing Megumi for his seriousness. You could’ve sworn you saw him smile once, when a waiter at one Ramen restaurant placed a big steaming bowl in front of him. Everyone ate out of each other’s dishes greedily, snatching and stealing.
After that, you headed to shops selling outrageously expensive clothing, including one dedicated to just selling corsets. You all pushed inside, trying on ones that you could never afford. You laughed as Yuji tried on a pink frilly corset, making Megumi wear a deep blue one. Nobara tried to talk you into a plan for shoplifting a set for the both of you to share, but you were too afraid you’d get caught. “Oh my god! Is that Nanami?” Nobara whispered too loudly, and the blonde man turned towards the four of you. He had a lacy set of undergarments in his hands, and Yuji hooted. “Who’s that for, Nanami-Sensei?” He jumped up and down. “I told you not to call me that. And that’s none of your business. Tch.”The man answered in his slightly-flustered deep voice, adjusting his leopard-print tie. He quickly walked over to the cash register to avoid dealing with you four. You all laughed it off, making jokes the whole way out.
“HAHA-and what if he’s into some super weird kinky stuff, too?!” Nobara asked. “I can see it! He’s totally a Fifty Shades of Grey type-man...he’s probably secretly a sadist or something,” Yuji said spookily, waving his arms around.
Before you knew it, you were back in your dorm and it was almost 9 PM, time for your little party. You tugged open your closet doors, wondering what you should wear for the occasion. Since it was your birthday, you decided you could afford to show some skin and let loose for the night. Nobara had even warned you and the boys earlier that if you didn’t wear something nice she would “use the straw doll ritual technique on you.” So you settled on a short black dress with spaghetti straps, still an avid supporter of the Bloutfit. You knocked on Nobara’s door and entered, and seeing all your classmates in there dressed nicely for you warmed your heart: Megumi, Toge, and Yuji wore cute slacks and button-down long sleeve shirts, Nobara wore a pink skirt and a white top, and Maki dressed up in a power suit. Panda was panda.
Your stomach did three consecutive backflips when your eyes landed on none other than Gojo Satoru, leaning back against a wall and smiling at you. Oh, so he was back from his trip already, huh? This try-not-to-stare game was getting really hard when he, too, was wearing nice slacks and a crisp button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He wore his dumb sunglasses, and damn, did this man look expensive.
Megumi shoved two bottles of fancy-looking wine into your hands, keeping his promise. Everyone passed the bottles around, laughing and swaying to music (which Yuji was again in charge of, starting the night off with Walk Down by FNF Chop). You played a couple of intense rounds of charades, and you would never forget Yuji’s impersonation of John Cena. Ever. Because you now had a permanent stain on your dress where you had spat out your wine. See, this is why we wear black, though! You felt someone grab your wrist and lead you outside of the room and into the dimly lit hallway.
Before you could even process it, a certain 6’ 3” tree bent into your ear and whispered, “Happy birthday, princess,” while shoving a small box into your hands. He pulled back up and leaned against the wall, nodding at you with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. You opened your mouth to angrily argue with him, but he put a finger to your mouth and shushed you. “Just open it.” You narrowed your eyes as you popped the lid of the box open, heat instantly rising to your cheeks. You stared down at a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs. “What the fuck is this?” You asked him bluntly, and he stupidly replied, “Handcuffs, dummy. I was thinking we could use them soon during one of our training sessions. Trust me, you’ll like them,” he winked at you through his sunglasses. Before you could scoff and tell him you weren’t the type of girl who was into bright pink sex toys, he said, “Oh, and one more thing before I forget.”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the panties he had stolen from your pile of clothes in the shed last night. He took a step toward you and pulled the top of your dress out, slipping your underwear inside. His hand lingered on your chest longer than it should have, until he pulled it back out and placed his hand on the back of his neck. “Well, you’d better get going. Yuji knows about the deal, blah blah blah, so meet Sukuna at his room at 11, okay?” You froze and your stomach dropped. How could you have forgotten? What time was it? You glanced at your phone frantically. “It’s 11:27, you moron! Why didn’t you remind me earlier??” You panicked. “Oh shit, sorry about that. Well, you better get going now, then.” Gojo called after you “Have fun!” And “Be safe!” And “Use protection!” As you scrambled down the hallway to meet your impending doom.
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notfunnydean · 3 years
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SPN Advent Calendar Day: 07
Prompt: Wooden train Pairing: None Warnings:  deaged!Dean / John Winchester A+ parenting /  Word Count: 1.438 Summary: Dean gets deaged by a witch and Sam is a bit overwhelmed. But with the help of Castiel, they make Dean smile again. Link (if posted on AO3): https://archiveofourown.org/works/27823264/chapters/68437712
“Are you sure it’s only for twenty four hours, Rowena?” Sam is almost growling into his phone at this point. He’s frustrated and his head hurts like hell, after this stupid witch threw him against a wall.
“Of course I am, dear. It’ll wear itself off, Margot was a new witch. It’s nothing harmless. Enjoy it!” Rowena answers and promptly ends the call. Sam almost throws his phone to the ground.
“S-sammy?”
Dean sounds so different like this. Well of course he does, but it still gives Sam chills. He looks down towards his brother, who seems scared and his big green eyes look almost hopeful.
“Yeah, it’s okay Dean. I’ll figure something out.” Sam says and he almost sways from exhaustion. Dean nods and doesn’t dare to speak again. He’s always been the good little soldier.
Sam had never been good with kids. He never really had the chance and now he feels like it’s almost too late. He scares them with his height and ugh, Dean would know exactly what to do in this situation.
Hopefully they could laugh later about it.
“Sam!” 
Finally. Castiel looks a bit startled when he lands besides them. Dean is still only dressed in his old too big shirt and a blanket Sam got out of their trunk and sits on the bench in front of Sam.
“I prayed ages ago to you.” Sam says and then points at Dean who looks with wonder up at the angel. Of course.
“I had some business in heaven and… hello Dean.” Castiel says and his words turn so softly at the end, when he’s talking to Dean. He even kneels down in front of him, Dean smiles shyly back.
“Hi.” 
Sam had never really known that at one point of his life, Dean had been this shy. It’s adorable.
“Rowena said the curse will take 24 hours and then he’s back to normal, but I guess in the meantime he should still wear clothes, so we'll have to go shopping.” Sam says and points at a shopping center.
“And you couldn’t do this alone?” Castiel asks, a bit annoyed himself now. Dean makes himself even smaller and even puts his thumb in his mouth. Sam tries not to gag, because who knows what Dean had touched.
“No. It’s almost Christmas, there are people everywhere.” Sam answers and then walks towards the mall. He figures Dean would be happier with Castiel anyway. Profound bond and all.
Castiel takes Dean into his arms and realizes that Dean is shaking a bit. He still doesn’t speak though and Castiel closes the car’s door, before following Sam.
Sam was right, inside the mall are way too many people. Castiel tries to stay close to Sam and thank god they find a shop for kids on the first try. It’s overwhelming and loud inside. There are kids everywhere.
“Okay I will get a car seat and stuff like that, while you should get him dressed. Meet me at the checkout.” Sam says and just like that he’s gone. Castiel huffs.
“Then lets see where we find some nice clothes for you.” Castiel says, more to himself, but Dean nods anyway. Castiel is almost relieved to see that it’s quieter in this section of the shop.
“Hey can I help you?” A young woman comes towards him, probably alarmed that Dean is wrapped only in a huge blanket and a shirt.
“Yeah uh, he fell in a puddle and I don’t have anything with me to change him, since I forgot his diaper bag. We’re having a really bad day.” Castiel says and he is so glad that Dean taught him how to lie a while ago. The saleswoman smiles.
“Uh huh were you a naughty little guy, hm?” She asks and tickles Dean, who giggles adorably. Castiel feels himself smiling at that sound.
“Do you have anything really warm?” Castiel asks and luckily she doesn’t stay with them any longer than showing him some underwear and really cute onesies. Castiel can’t help it. He takes a really fuzzy green one and changes Dean into it. 
Dean seems a bit confused but so much happier than before. Castiel finds some socks and shoes as well and helps Dean to put them on. He forgoes any animal printed things because he knows Dean would hate that or pretend to.
“Are you warm now?” Castiel asks and Dean nods so shyly again. Castiel’s heart melts. He even gets him a jacket and another set of onesies, underwear and socks. 
“Cas!” Dean says surprised when he’s been put down. But Castiel needs to carry all their things now.
“Thought maybe you wanna walk, but please take my hand.” Castiel says and Dean does that immediately. Castiel wonders how much discipline the little guy already had when Mary died. Castiel sees a lot of other children running around and screaming, but Dean is just quiet.
Sam is nowhere to be seen though.
Castiel is content with just waiting here, but he sees that Dean keeps looking in a certain direction. At first Castiel thinks it’s because he sees Sam, but there is nobody.
Then he understands.
“Dean would you like a toy?” Castiel asks and to his surprise Dean shakes his head. He seems flustered and looks down at his feet. 
“It’s okay you can have one.” Castiel says and walks over to the toy aisles. Since it’s nearly christmas there are so many toys, that even Castiel feels overwhelmed. 
“Are you done?”
Of course that is the moment Sam chooses to come back to them. He has a cart with a few things in it. Castiel throws the clothes on top of them.
“I wanted to buy Dean a toy.” Castiel says and for a moment Sam seems to be irritated, but then he nods in understanding. 
“Sure Dean, get anything you like.” Sam offers and he is sure that Dean would go for the power rangers or even the Batman figure. Instead Dean stays where he is, not daring to touch anything.
“Dean, hey what’s wrong?” Sam asks and he kneels down in front of Dean, who starts to cry silently. It looks like he’s a bit overwhelmed.
“Sweetheart it’s okay, hm? Sam and I have the money.” Castiel lies, because he has the feeling that’s the problem.
“B-but…” Dean cries even harder and Castiel takes him back into his arms. Dean really looks like he could use a hug. Dean freezes at first, but then relaxes and cries into Castiel’s trenchcoat.
“I have no idea what’s wrong.” Sam admits and Castiel carefully strokes over Dean’s back.
“I think it was a lot today. He’s probably tired too and we should also get something to eat for him.” Castiel says and Dean sniffles.
“Are you sure you don’t want something, Dean? Look, they even have plushies!” Sam says, but Dean just points to the bottom of the shelf. 
“You want the train?” Castiel asks, a bit surprised. It’s made out of wood but colorful. Dean nods, rubbing over his eyes. It’s really cheap, so Castiel takes it. He would buy anything to make Dean happy.
Dean happily takes the train into his hands, smiling again.
“Were you afraid to ask for it?” Castiel asks when Sam paid for all their stuff and they’re outside the store. Dean is still holding the wooden train, but Sam also gave him a pacifier, which he sucks happily on.
“Yah.” Dean admits, not really looking up. Castiel sees how angry Sam gets at that, but he doesn’t say anything. Castiel understands the feeling, he could strangle John Winchester as well.
Castiel kisses Dean’s cheek, just as Sam does.
“Never be afraid of asking for something you want.” Castiel mumbles into Dean’s hair. Dean doesn’t answer but makes little noises for his train.
It’s not a long way back home but when they arrive Sam puts a blanket down and lets Dean play with his train. They’re a bit surprised to hear Dean squeal a lot as he plays with something so simple.
“He really likes the train huh?” Sam says smiling, when he sees that Castiel is watching over him.
“Yeah. I wish he would always be this happy.” Castiel admits. As shy as Dean is as a toddler, this is just adorable, seeing him so free.
“Cas! Sammy. Choo choo?” Dean asks, holding the train up while smiling widely.
“You want to play with us? I thought you’d never ask.” Sam says as he sits down next to Dean. Castiel smiles widely and joins them both.
Dean’s giggle grows louder with each minute.
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ahtohallan-calling · 4 years
Text
chapter 9 of it’s always ourselves we find is here!
1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8
[kristanna / m / modern au / coworkers & enemies to lovers ;) ]
It was a marvel, really, how quickly she returned to him: his Anna, with all her ungraceful laughter and bright smiles and brighter eyes.
He thought of her as such not because he dared to think he had any real claim to her, but rather because this Anna, the one who had let go of his hand only to eat her lunch, was the one he’d grown so familiar with and fond of over the past months, the one who drove him absolutely insane in more ways than he could count.
Currently, she was in the midst of explaining in excruciating detail precisely how awful the two dates she’d been on with Hans had been, and Kristoff found himself laughing so hard his sides were beginning to hurt. 
“Seriously, Kris, it’s not funny,” she said between giggles of her own. “I ruined my tights crawling out the window, and I’d just bought them.”
“Sorry,” he managed to gasp. “Just-- I’m trying to picture how you even managed to get up on the ledge--”
“Shut up, you great big brute, not all of us can be the size of a tree.”
“Sorry,” he said again, though he wasn’t at all. “Just-- was it really that bad that you had to climb out of the bathroom window?”
She grew a little more solemn then. “Yeah, like-- like Hans ordered a salad for me, and said to put the dressing on the side, and of course I scarfed it down like a crazy person since I’d just been hiking all afternoon with my sister, and he was going on and on and on about his vision for the company, and I kept wondering what he’d do if I just reached across the table and stole a piece of his steak.”
Kristoff grew quieter, just watching her as she took a sip of her drink. Her gaze fluttered up to him after a moment, curious. “Cat got your tongue?”
He shifted awkwardly in his seat, weighing his words carefully for fear of using them carelessly again. “Just...wondering why you thought I’d do that to you on purpose.”
“Do what? Say what you did this morning?”
“No-- shit, I’m sorry again for that-- but I meant setting you up with Hans.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Was it really not on purpose?”
“Do you really think I’d do Hans Westergaard a favor like that?”
“A favor, huh?”
“Well,” he stammered, “he’s-- well-- you know how he is with pretty girls.”
A little smile slid onto her face. Please don’t ask me, he thought desperately, please don’t ask me if I think you’re pretty, because I can’t lie to you, Anna, not any more.
She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “So...okay. So from my perspective, it was like...I was in the break room with Jessica and Lissa, and they were trying to get you to ask me.”
“Wait, what?”
“Mhmm. That’s why they were like ‘hey, Kristoff, Anna needs a date to the fundraiser ball, do you know anyone who could take her?’, and then Hans came in--”
“That’s what it was! I didn’t see him, I swear. Sorry, go on.”
“So then why did you say ‘I’m sure Hans is on the lookout’?”
“I was being sarcastic. He brings a new girl to everything. I didn’t mean for him to actually ask you.”
Anna sat back, looking as if she’d just been handed the meaning of the whole universe. “You really didn’t? After the party-- which was awful, by the way, you didn’t miss anything-- I thought you’d set me up for it almost like a prank. And then he asked me out again in front of people, and I couldn’t really say no, so that’s how I ended up on the second one, and after that I was really convinced you hated me.”
Kristoff shook his head, leaning over the table, and said as sincerely as he could, “Anna, even if I did hate you, I wouldn’t wish that rat bastard on my worst enemy.”
She beamed at him so brightly he had a feeling she’d be holding his hand again if there weren’t plates in the way. He wished she would anyway; who cared about getting a little ketchup on your sleeve when a girl like that wanted to touch you?
A sudden thought struck him then. “Wait-- but why did your friends want me to ask you?”
Her cheeks turned a brilliant shade of scarlet. “For reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“Silly ones.”
“Anna,” he cajoled, half-singing her name and wondering in the back of his mind how she’d managed to make him act so...silly. “C’mon, you can tell me. It’s just your favorite worst enemy.”
“You can’t laugh,” she said sternly, her blush darkening. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
She sighed and slanted her eyes away from him, leveling a determined glare at the shrimp tails on her plate. “Because I told them I thought you were handsome.”
He didn’t know what answer he’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been that. “Seriously? You really thought that?”
She rolled her eyes as she dared to glance back up at him. “Oh, come on, Kristoff, as if you don’t know you’re all…” She waved a hand vaguely. “Big and blonde and. And your face and stuff.”
He wanted to take a long moment to let it sink in; it was almost too much for one day, realizing that Anna not only cared about his opinion, not only seemed to actually sort of like him, not only wanted to keep touching him-- but that she thought he was handsome. “Wow,” he heard himself saying. “I can’t believe it.”
“Okay, okay, well, it’s your turn in the hot seat, mister,” she said grumpily, though the effect was ruined somewhat by the still-red tips of her ears. “Why did you snap at me this morning?”
It was his turn to flush. “It was nothing. I was just-- just in a bad mood.”
“You’re always in a bad mood,” she said, her brows knitting together as she leaned over the table. “Tell me the truth.”
Fuck, that gave him a great view right down the front of her shirt, which definitely was not making this any easier. He tried not to shift too obviously in his seat as he kept his gaze firmly locked on her face. “Just-- one of those...things.”
And now she was reaching for him across the table, concern in her eyes as she settled that little hand over his arm, that little hand that he’d dreamed that morning she’d had wrapped around his cock, for god’s sake, and her voice was so gentle as she said, “Kris, just tell me the truth, please?”
He swallowed hard and shook his head in a last ditch effort to make her back down. She tilted her head to the side, confused, when suddenly understanding dawned in her eyes. “Oh.”
“It wasn’t ‘cause you were there,” he said quickly, although it most definitely had been at least in part because of that. “I promise I’m not a--”
She sat back a little, though she didn’t move her hand. He could tell she was trying to contain her mirth and spare him further embarrassment. “It’s okay. I’ve had boyfriends before, I know how it is.”
“It’s different,” he ground out, feeling his face heat further than he thought was possible. 
He realized suddenly that something else had dawned on her, that her amusement had transformed into realization-- of what, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He shifted awkwardly in his seat again, and at last she withdrew her hand, running it absentmindedly through her hair. “Sorry, again,” he muttered, looking anywhere but her eyes.
“It’s okay,” she reassured him. “Seriously. You can’t help it. And you already apologized enough for the other stuff.”
“I still feel bad. Let me make it up to you, let me buy your lunch or something, yeah?”
She waved him away. “Let’s just say you owe me one, maybe I’ll have you drive me to the print shop next time I need to pick up a banner or something.”
He blinked in surprise. “You don’t need a favor to ask me to do that.”
Her eyes softened. “Really?”
All Kristoff could do was nod, feeling grateful that the waiter chose that moment to come by with the check. As he began to do the mental calculations for what he’d have to give up next week to cover both of their meals, Anna said quickly, “We’re splitting it, no matter what he tries to say,” even as he began to fumble for his wallet. 
And damn, if that didn’t make him lo-- like her even more.
---
By the time he emerged from the bathroom, wearing his softest old t-shirt and sweatpants, Anna was already nestled under the blankets, keeping carefully to her side of the pillow wall. A little flutter in his chest accompanied the realization that she’d decided to keep their arrangement from the night before and hadn’t set a pillow between where their faces would be.
He came to a pause by his side of the bed. “Anna?”
“Hmm?” she asked, not looking up from her phone.
“Can I...this pillow here, the one by your shoulder...do you mind if I move that one and use it tonight? Sorry, I know it’s-- well, sharing a bed and all-- but my neck kind of hurts from staring at the screen all day, and--”
She did look up at him, a look of fond amusement on her face. “‘Course. Just don’t go getting fresh with me.”
He huffed out a laugh as he shifted the pillow to his side before climbing in bed next to her, being as careful as he could not to jostle the mattress too much. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
(Except he would. And he had.)
He glanced over at her then, giving himself one last chance to take in the sight of her long, tawny lashes brushing down almost to her freckled cheeks each time she blinked. She noticed him staring and glanced up at him. “What? Have I got something on my face?”
“Are you gonna snore again tonight?” he asked, accompanying the words with an exaggerated wink just to make sure she knew he was joking.
She slid further down the pillows, set her phone on her nightstand with an exaggerated tap, and stretched one final time, arching her back enough he felt his mouth go dry, before turning lazily to him and giving him a smirk. “Depends. Are you gonna say my name in your sleep again?”
For a split second, he could have sworn every moving thing in his body came to a complete halt. Any half-asleep thoughts that had been trailing around his mind collapsed into the terrifying refrain of she knows.
“Anna?”
No response.
“Anna, did I really say that?”
She reached up and flicked off the light, leaving them in complete darkness. “Sweet dreams, big guy.”
He could hear the barely concealed laughter in her voice. Fuck, he was in massive trouble; there was no way he’d ever live this one down or that she’d let it go. He felt like a window fogged with steam, too warm and cloudy-minded as he struggled to come to grips with the fact that she knew he had feelings for her, knew he’d woken up hard because he’d dreamed of her-- and, the realization hitting him like a splash of cold water to the face-- she was still lying in bed beside him.
“Kristoff?”
“Yeah?” he asked, a little too quickly.
“Are you still awake?”
“Obviously.”
“Because you’re worrying you’ll say my name again?”
He swallowed so hard he wondered if she could hear it. And perhaps she could, because a moment later there was a rustling of the sheets, and that now-familiar little hand was resting on his chest as Anna’s fingertips idly traced patterns across the thin white fabric of his t-shirt. “It’s okay, Kris, really,” she said, her voice gentler now. “I thought it was sweet.”
Perhaps he was in less trouble than he’d thought.
He drew in a deep breath. Her hand began to slow, and then to pull away, but before she had entirely lifted it from his chest he set his own hand down over it, so suddenly he startled even himself. He heard a sharp intake of breath from her before her hand relaxed again under his, palm flattening just over his heart.
For a few minutes they simply laid next to each other, as he let his thumb slide back and forth over her hand. As he felt his heart rate slow under the gentle press of Anna’s hand, he heard her breath slow down, evening out until a faint snore escaped her. He couldn’t help but smile then, giving her hand one last squeeze before carefully setting it on the mattress between them and rolling on his side to face her.
“Good night, Anna,” he whispered, but the only response was another snore.
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lovelylogans · 5 years
Text
where you lead, i will follow
previous chapter / chapter seven / next chapter
start from the beginning!
ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?
warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, transphobia and homophobia, verbal fighting, top surgery mention, classism, deadnaming, misgendering, see more specific warning below
pairings: moxiety, logince
words: 13,664
note: this chapter contains purposeful deadnaming, misgendering, transphobia, homophobia, someone hitting someone else (neither of them are sides) and slut-shaming language, as well as the portrayal of a fairly heated argument. that section begins with "i've gotta see my parents," christopher says, anxious. and it is safe to continue reading at the section that begins with logan's in the backseat of the car. a summary can be found here. please take care of yourselves.
the sanders men walk out of virgil's diner, patton ducking his head into his elbow to cough, logan almost bouncing a little with victory.
see, that whole you need to at least paint the diner idea had not subsided. fallen to the wayside a little with the approach of logan's birthday, sure. but now his birthday was over, he was still insisting on it, more and more. it had started up in full during breakfast, the following monday.
and today—thursday, dinner, nearly two weeks since logan's birthday—virgil had finally, grudgingly, agreed.
"we'll have to bring over paint swatches tomorrow during breakfast, or something," patton tells logan, because the way virgil had finally actually agreed was because patton promised to stop over and help, and they could make a whole night of it, sometime this weekend. "i think we could just do pretty similar colors to what he's got now, you know how virgil gets about change."
he does not like it, to put it delicately.
"how long do you think it's been, since he's done anything to the diner?"
"before we got here, probably," patton says. "it's been that color for forever. just fading slowly."
"how much time do you think it'll take me to get him to get the furniture reupholstered?" logan says thoughtfully, already plotting.
"maybe by the time you graduate college," patton teases, nudging logan (carefully soft, so he didn't bump his son off the sidewalk and into the road.)
"maybe i can sneak one at a time," logan says. "introduce change slowly."
"that might work," patton begins, but he's cut off by a distant rumbling of an engine.
a distant, familiar rumbling of an engine. that's getting closer by the minute.
no, patton thinks. no, it can't be. my ears aren't that good. it's probably another motorcycle, not that old indian.
"it would probably be most effective if i begin with the barstools, they have the most obvious wear and tear," logan says, and patton tries to focus again, taking away the urge to look back over his shoulder at the motorcycle that's surely approaching. they stop at one of the four crosswalks in town. that motorcycle keeps getting closer.
"hey," the motorcyclist grunts, when they pull up to the stop.
"hi," patton says cautiously, trying to remember if he's seen a motorcycle parking at the inn the past couple days, if it's someone new to town.
"nice shirt," the motorcyclist says to him. "take it off."
huh. okay, so patton's ears really are that good.
patton's smiling despite himself as he tugs off his helmet, and patton bursts out with "christopher!" when he sees that face, those familiar whiskey-colored eyes and that tousled hair and that messy five o'clock shadow and suddenly he's sixteen again.
"hey!" he says, and patton's moving forward before he could have even considered stopping, hugging him tight and inhaling—same cologne, same old leather riding jacket, same solid chest. same christopher.
patton steps back, grinning at him—it still strikes him as strange, now, that with the addition of t and the growth spurt it'd given him, they're practically the same height. patton's always going to think of him as tall.
"what are you doing here?"
"here to see the birthday boy, of course," he says, and patton turns to see where logan's still standing at the crosswalk, staring at them both. "and you."
"logan—"
"my birthday was two weeks ago," logan says tightly, arms crossed.
"well, i know," christopher says, a little uncomfortably. "i texted you. i wasn't sure if you got it, because i didn't get a response, but—"
"why are you here?" logan says.
"well, my folks are back in town, so i'm here to see them," he says. "and on the way i thought i'd drop by and surprise the sanders guys. are you surprised?"
"the teeniest feather could knock me right over," patton says, because—christopher. here. in sideshire. 
"so, where would someone find a place to stay around here?"
"if you don't mind a couch, we can keep you for a couple days," patton says.
"there's the inn," logan adds. away from us, he doesn't say, like you've been for years and years and only come back when it's convenient for you.
"thanks, pat," christopher says. "you two won't even know i'm there. logan, you wanna hop on?"
"i'd rather not sustain a serious head injury," logan says coldly. "and anyway, i was going to drop by the courant."
"logan—" patton starts, but logan's already moving.
"see you later!" christopher hollers after him, then turns to patton. "god, he's turned into a teenager, huh?"
"you thought a kid of ours wouldn't have his moments?" patton says.
christopher concedes the point with a self-deprecating laugh, before he pats the motorcycle seat.
"what do you say, lor—uh, love?—old time's sake?"
patton bites his lip, trying to unhear the little slip-up he made—it’s okay, it’s okay, he caught himself, he didn’t actually deadname patton, mistakes happen and chris knew him by his deadname for longer than he did his name now—before he grins, shoving all those worries behind him. or trying to. 
"yeah," he says, "all right," and he slings his leg over and slides close behind christopher and clings to his waist, and it's all coming back to him, so old and so familiar and yet like he hasn't been away from him for even a day, let alone sixteen years.
 patton's busy making up the couch and christopher's in the shower when logan walks in.
"hey, how was rudy?"
"fine," logan says tersely. "i managed to correct several errors before tomorrow's paper went to print."
"that's great!" patton says encouragingly, fluffing a pillow. "can i get any sneak previews?"
"why is he here?" logan says, and patton sets aside the pillow.
"your dad? like he said, i guess, his folks are back in town so—"
"dad," logan says. "i mean why is he here. you could have sent him to the inn."
"he's never been to sideshire before," patton says. "it'd do him well to have some familiar faces around."
"he'd have familiar faces at the inn," logan says. "it's your inn."
patton frowns and straightens up. "are you really uncomfortable with him staying here? he's your dad, and—"
"you're my dad, and do you remember what he did last time?"
"that was a slip-up, it happens sometimes," patton says, trying his hardest not to wince.
"with him it happens every time," logan says. 
"logan, he's trying, and he wants to be here for you," patton says. 
"i don't need him here, nor do i want him here," logan snaps back. "i have you. he's just an—an interloper."
"logan!"
the shower shuts off, and patton quiets himself so he can lecture his son.
"look," patton says in an undertone. "i know he hasn't been here a lot, but he's here. in sideshire. that's gotta mean something different, right?"
"he's going to come and go as he pleases, you know that," logan hisses. "i'm not particularly interested in his attempts of playing happy family and his insistence that he's really got his life together this time before it all comes out that he's here because he needs money, or something else from you, and you're going to give it to him, because you can never see him clearly."
"that is enough," patton says, but there's thunking on the stairs before they can get into it.
"your water pressure," christopher says, toweling off his hair, "is divine."
patton puffs himself up, pleased. "i repaired that showerhead."
"you did not," christopher says, with a laugh.
"i did!"
"okay, you nearly flunked shop class, forgive me if i can't exactly believe that you suddenly know your way around the tool box," christopher says.
"are you hungry?" logan asks mechanically. 
"starving," christopher says.
"we could order some food in," patton says. "we just ate. logan, could you get some of the take-out menus from the drawer?"
logan does as he says, and ends up excusing himself for homework early. 
"tomorrow's friday, nearly the weekend," christopher says.
"i have school on fridays," logan says witheringly. "excuse me."
patton sees right through him, but, well—he can only really sigh after him, and then cough into his elbow again. christopher, somehow, doesn't notice their son's mood. never been too observational, though, christopher, especially with emotion stuff.
"he's a great kid," he says warmly, and any frustration melts away. patton smiles.
"i wish i could say i see more of myself in him than straight hair instead of curls," he adds, fondly tugging at the same curl he used to tug all those years ago—it had been longer, then, but it's in the same place, still just as stubborn about hanging in patton's eyes. 
"i just can't believe you're here," patton says. "here, i mean. in sideshire. why didn't you call?"
"it really was a spur of the moment thing," christopher says. "so much has been changing for me, macaron."
patton's smile widens, and—
"you haven't called me that in years, biscuit."
see, for years and years and years at christopher and his parents' joint gatherings, the most tolerable and most smuggle-able dessert was macarons. patton would swipe handfuls and handfuls into any spare pocket he had, dumping them into christopher's suit pockets, and they'd escape out onto patton's balcony, to eat and drink and giggle in private.
it had been a game they'd played, when they were young. a competition, really, of who could manage to smuggle away the most food. patton's choice had been macarons. christopher's had been biscuits—they'd steal a little honey bear from the fridge, too, little pre-packaged pats of butter, and feast gloriously on their sweet stolen goods.
"i think i finally have all my ducks lined up in a row," christopher continues, smoothing his fingers over patton's curls. "i don't know how much your parents have told you, but i'm on the verge of a big success. for real, this time. i've got a company with actual cash flow, i've got employees, I've got an accountant, for god's sake. i mean, it's for real this time, mac."
patton reaches across to squeeze his wrist. "i'm really happy for you, chris," he says, genuine. "i always knew we'd turn out okay."
"there's some things i need to do. take care of, i mean."
"like what?" patton asks, soft. 
"i haven't been enough a part of logan's life," christopher says, just as soft, just as genuine, and patton can't help but smile, because—because now logan would see, know him the way patton had known him, and they wouldn't be the big happy family that patton had daydreamed about in his weaker moments, years ago, but logan would have both his dads there.
"so i wanna be around more," christopher says, and patton hopes it's because he's bolstered by patton's smile. "to be a pal he can depend on. i mean, i'm not crazy, i know you've got a life going on here, roonie, and god knows he doesn't need anyone besides you, but if you give me a chance—"
"hey," patton murmurs, reaches up to squeeze christopher's wrist, remove his hand from patton's hair and twine their fingers together. "i've always had the door to logan open to you, you know that."
"i do," christopher says. "and thank you for that. i know i haven't used it much, but i wanna use it now. is that okay?"
"of course it is."
christopher huffs out a soft breath of relief. "good," he says. "that's—that's really good."
"yeah," patton says, and smiles wider. "yeah, it really is."
(logan, sitting at the top of the stairs, closes his eyes and tries not to grind his teeth. he consults the segment of his notepad he'd begun working on at the courant. he doesn't get to do this to his dad. to them. not again.)
"been a while since we've done this, huh?"
"hmph. hope it doesn't go like it did before i went to chilton."
"yeah, i'll try my best not to. oh, thanks—can i snag your—? oh, you beat me to it."
"it just seems more fruitful to offer it to you before i drink any, considering you always steal my cherry."
"i could make so many inappropriate jokes about that, but i am a gentleman, so i won’t."
"...i don't think i understand. considering you do, that's just fact."
"it's a slang thing."
"ah, i see."
"you're kinda stalling."
"i suppose i am. blanket?"
"yeah, it's freezing. budge up, we're cuddling."
"body heat is effective."
"mm. why the crisis gazebo meeting?"
"my other father's in town."
"...oh."
"yes."
"you, um. you don't like him much, right? you don't really talk about him."
"that's an accurate assessment of the situation at hand. yes."
"...can i ask about it? him, i mean."
"i just... i don't like how my dad gets around him."
"is he... mean? your other dad, i mean."
"not intentionally, i don't think. no. it's just that when they see each other, all they can think about is how things used to be. they know all of each other's secrets. they grew up together. they used to make all of their bad decisions together—apparently, dad is still saving some stories about his misspent youth. my other father was the first person dad told about transitioning. they always thought they'd be together."
"i'm not seeing how this is a bad thing yet."
"he gets the idea, every couple of years, that he wants to spend more time with us. be there for me, watch me grow up, so on."
"...still not getting it."
"he gets the idea, he spends at most a week attempting to play at it, but as soon as reality comes knocking he rides off into the sunset to chase another unattainable dream and leaves my dad behind again, and dad is crushed because my father managed to convince him that this was it this time, really, and dad believes him over and over and over. is that clear enough for you?"
"..."
"i shouldn't have been so harsh to you."
"no. uh, no, that's, um. that's okay. it sounds pretty rough."
"he comes knocking back for money, or we get together for another holiday, and dad forgets all about what happened last time and all he can remember are the good times. so to answer your question in a very roundabout way—no, i don't believe my other father is being intentionally mean."
"but he breaks patton's heart every time anyway."
"yes."
"because he's..."
"thoughtless, immature, irresponsible, should i go on?"
"yikes, l."
"yes. and the cycle's already begun again. i overheard them. i found—something. and i don't want him doing that to my dad again."
"what about you? you don't want it to do that to you again, right?"
"i would say yes, except i never really got my hopes back up after he promised me over and over that he'd make it for my sixth birthday and he showed up a week late, clearly having been on some variation of booze cruise, i believe the term i overheard was, during the actual time of my birthday. apparently he believed that he was actually on time."
"god, logan."
"i shouldn't be complaining to you."
"hey, having a deadbeat dad and having a dead dad are probably in equally sucky categories. they just both suck in different ways."
"hm. if you say so."
"yeah, i do. at least mine's not about to disappoint me in new and surprising ways. not until the zombie apocalypse, anyway."
"roman."
"it could happen!"
"i have lectured you at length on why it would not possibly happen, on multiple occasions."
"that's what people said about flying across the atlantic!"
"that is a remarkably different circumstance."
"that sounds like you can't think of a more convincing argument."
"you infuriate me."
"yeah, i know, you too."
“...”
"done?"
"yes, i am."
"yeah, me too."
"i'll get the next one."
"i know you will... logan?"
"yes?"
"are you going to do something? about your other dad, i mean."
"oh."
"you don't have to—"
"no. no, i am. i didn't think i would be so... transparent."
"that's patton."
"what?"
"trans-parent—hey!"
"you deserve to get kicked off the step for that one. that was terrible."
"patton would laugh."
"dad has a horrible sense of humor."
"i mean, but, um. seriously. are you?"
"i am. yes. i've already begun."
"...you know you can count me in. right?"
"of course i do."
"because sometimes—lately... no. nevermind."
"what?"
"it's nothing."
"it's clearly not."
"i just—fine. lately, sometimes it feels like with—with everything that's happened lately. jess and chilton and your grandparents and all of it. it feels like we haven't been..."
"i know."
"you do?"
"yes. i thought—i thought, maybe, we could... we could do this a bit more. if that would be all right."
"oh. yeah. i'd like that."
"it wouldn't interfere with... anything?"
"you're my best friend, okay? you come first for me."
"oh. yes. me too."
"so what's this plan?"
"it's really less of a plan, and more of a... of a necessary trade. i think. but it requires research, first."
"oh. so your wheelhouse, then."
"yes."
"if you need my expertise—"
"yes, roman, if i need someone to monologue at him, you'll be the first one i call—hey!"
"that was payback for the response to the pun!"
"so, why are we going here, again?"
"this is virgil's," patton says, a little droopy with the absence of caffeine. "virgil's my best friend. he keeps me in caffeine. he also keeps us at a proper ratio of vegetable-and-fruit to unhealthy things. plus, i promised i'd bring by paint swatches today, logan's been working to get him to try some attempt at remodeling for weeks, haven't you, honey?"
logan grunts. patton hopes to chalk it up to absence of caffeine instead of logan still being upset that his dad's in town. 
there's the cheerful, discordant jangling of the bell above the door, and patton waves at virgil, pointing over to a booth. 
virgil lifts a hand to wave at him, but then he falters and stares, unnoticed by patton, who's sliding into the seat beside christopher, logan across from them. 
"so, what do you have going on at school today?" patton asks him. 
logan starts talking, then, about a lab he's doing in his science class, and virgil swings by, dropping off two mugs of hot cocoa/coffee.
"virgil!" patton says. "this is christopher, he's logan's other dad."
"hey," christopher says, sticking out a hand, but virgil's already sweeping back to the kitchen, ignoring him.
"he wants coffee!" patton calls after him, and turns to christopher, who looks thrown-off, lowering his hand.
"virgil's shy," patton says. "he's not really a people-person."
which is true, except virgil had made one of his virgil-faces, jaw set stubbornly and eyebrows lowered, absolutely sulky. so either virgil was in a Mood, which just happened sometimes, no helping it, or...
"logan, why don't you tell your dad about the franklin?" patton suggests.
"i haven't actually done any work on it yet," he says. "there isn't much to tell."
"ah, i remember the franklin," christopher says. "do they still have the jefferson?"
logan scowls. "yes."
patton scowls, too.
"that old gossip rag," christopher says. "i mean, it was brutal, back in our day, do you remember—"
christopher breaks off at the look on patton's face. of course he remembers one of the main tools utilized to terrorize him at school. 
virgil swings back by, and drops an unordered omelet in front of logan, along with a cup of coffee for christopher.
"there's vegetables in it," virgil tells logan. "eat them or i stalk you until you do."
"i'm hardly the one you need to lecture," logan says, digging his fork into it.
"so, do you think i could get—" christopher begins, but bam, virgil's off again.
christopher huffs out a breath. "it's not even that busy in here."
"i'm going to take a look at what breakfast pastries virgil's got today," patton says decisively, as if he hasn't had the pastry rotation memorized since logan was six months old. "logan, why don't you tell your dad about mel?"
logan shoves a heaping forkful of omelette into his mouth. patton moves before he can lecture him about it.
"heyo," patton says, leaning over the counter.
"hi," virgil mutters. "what's up?"
"i should probably be asking you that," patton says. "i know you're not usually mr. congeniality, but what's with the whole situation with chris?"
"what situation?" virgil mutters, sorting scones into the display case. "there's not a situation."
"virgil," patton says, in his best Dad Voice. he's pretty good at it, if he says so himself.
virgil scowls. 
"he's logan's dad, v."
"you're logan's dad," virgil says sharply. 
"have you and logan been exchanging notes behind my back?" patton says wearily.
"well, you are," virgil says. "in all the ways that matter. you're the one who taught him how to walk and talk, you're the one who helped him through colic, you're the one who—"
"he wasn't in a place to be a parent," patton says, "he was sixteen."
"so were you," virgil hisses sharply. 
"look, i—" patton looks around, coughs, and lowers his voice. "if you have to know, chris actually offered to do the 'decent' thing and marry me. i was the one who said no. i was the one who decided to do it on my own. don't punish him for my choice."
virgil grinds his teeth.
"at least, just—just try to play nice," patton says. "okay? he was my best friend once too. you kind of usurped his title. he's probably still licking his wounds."
suddenly, virgil looks a lot less sulky, and a lot more like he's trying to hide his smile. 
"fine," virgil sighs at last. "fine, but—"
"and i brought paint swatches," patton adds. "bring him a menu, and we can talk about them?"
"i'm not pretending to like either of these things."
"i wouldn't expect it to go any other way," patton says. "can i have a chocolate croissant?"
virgil looks like he's wrestling with it, before he sighs, and says, "you're having the healthiest thing i can wrangle up and no ditching any vegetables, okay?"
"you're a saint," patton says happily, and takes his croissant and floats back to the table.
when he gets back to the table, chris is on his phone, smiling.
"i've been great, emily," he says, and patton slides into the booth.
it's your mom, he mouths, and patton nods. logan's tapping away on his phone.
(behind the counter, virgil digs out his phone when it buzzes to read the second message from this particular number this morning. the first had been My other father is in town for the first time. I dislike him and I suspect something abnormal is going on that will adversely affect my dad. Kindly ensure his breakfast is unpleasant as a form of pre-emptive strike. now, it was I'll tell you more about why later, but the general basis of your understanding should include how my dad gives people too many second chances.)
"well, i'm actually sitting here with your boys," he says, and there's a pause. "sure." he holds out the phone to patton. "she wants to talk to you."
"got it," patton says, and plucks his phone from his hand. "hi, mom."
"patton, christopher is in town!" emily says excitedly.
"yep, mom, i know," he says. "he's staying over at my place. i'm sitting right next to him."
"well, i had this wonderful idea," she continues. "christopher's parents are in town too. you remember straub and francine?"
patton feels slightly lightheaded. he licks his lips, which are suddenly dry. "i—yes. the haydens."
"well, i called them up and invited them to dinner tonight," she says. "they said they're free to join us all."
"us all?" patton says blankly.
"yes," emily says. "you, logan, christopher, your father."
"that's, um," patton says, and tries to clear his throat but it erupts into coughing. "that's quite the gathering, mom."
"well, i should say so," she says. "we haven't all been together since before logan was in the picture, and straub and francine haven't seen logan since he was a baby."
"well, yes, i know, but mom—"
"it'll be like a wonderful reunion," she says blissfully. "all of us together again. i never thought it would happen."
"mom," patton says in a tiny voice, but very suddenly, she's telling him to hand the phone back to christopher, and he does, and then they talk to patton’s dad (it has not escaped richard's notice that planning this little dinner is the most his wife has smiled since whatever revelation she'd had at their grandson's birthday party. it makes him even gladder for christopher's appearance than normal) and patton sleepwalks through helping virgil choose paint swatches and deciding that virgil will get the paint at the hardware store and they'll paint tonight after dinner with his parents and seeing logan off to school and going to the inn for work and—
the haydens.
the dread's like a living thing in patton's stomach.
"i've gotta see my parents," christopher says, anxious.
"i've gotta see your parents," patton rejoins. 
christopher looks at him strangely. "what, no complaints about yours?"
"we've been getting along, lately," patton says.
"because of my assault," logan adds helpfully. 
"your what?!"
but someone's swinging open the door, and emily is beaming at them.
"you're here!" she says, delighted. "christopher, look at you!"
christopher steps forward to hug her. "emily," he says fondly. "as always, perfect."
"i am so glad to see you," she says fervently.
"hello, grandma," logan says, stepping in, and patton trails after. 
"richard's in the living room, he's dying to see you," emily says, beginning to lead them there. 
"can we go back to logan's story?" christopher mutters to patton. "since when is he getting into fights?"
"he got into a debate," patton corrects. "and this terrible boy kept goading this girl and she punched him."
"well, here they are!"
"hi, grandpa," logan says, filtering into the room.
"hello logan, patton," he says, and then he beams at christopher. not for the first time, patton wonders why they're so much blatantly fonder of him than they are of patton. "christopher, old boy, how are you? my gosh, it's good to see you!"
"how are you, richard?" christopher asks, enthusiastically pumping richard's hand.
"well, i'm better than most, not as good as some."
"and annoyed with all," christopher finishes.
richard laughs heartily. "ah, you speak the truth, young man!"
"martinis," patton murmurs, and takes one from the tray. logan shoots him a look, and patton tries to smile at him reassuringly. logan is seated between his fathers on the couch. it's so strange that logan feels the urge to just... squirm until patton's the one between them both.
"so, christopher," richard says, ignoring him, "tell me all about your business."
"oh, let the poor boy relax," emily scolds.
"well, i simply want to know how it's going!"
"it's, uh," christopher says. "it's going great, richard, i'm almost afraid to jinx it by telling you how good it's going."
liar, logan thinks viciously, and his plan is the only reason he doesn't snarl it.
"oh, that is wonderful," richard gushes. "i always knew you had it in you. you have a splash of greatness, as my mother would say. you always had that splash of greatness."
"oh, richard," emily continues soppily, and logan thinks he might throw up from all the coddling. "isn't logan just the spitting image of christopher?"
logan looks at his other father in confusion. just about the only thing he's inherited from him is his straight hair.
"i just hope you inherit your father's business sense also, my boy," richard says.
i'd be so much better off inheriting your son's business sense, and it's so close to all spilling out of his mouth and he has to take a long gulp of soda to keep it from just emerging.
there's the ring of a bell.
"that would be straub and francine!" emily says, and leaves the room.
"i haven't seen your parents in quite some time," richard says. "we were practically inseparable, for a while."
he follows after his wife, and logan turns to patton, suddenly a little panicked.
"what do i call them?" logan asks him. he's never really met these people.
"call 'em what i call 'em," christopher grumbles from his other side. "ass—"
"chris," patton says sternly, and coughs a couple times.
"just, um," chris says. "call them straub and francine. mr. and mrs. hayden? you know what, just avoid calling them anything."
very suddenly, it strikes logan why patton must have been so nervous.
in terms of grandparents, and, in roman's terms, rich white people nonsense? the haydens must be even worse than the sanders'. 
with that revelation, his grandparents lead in a set of two people, and if he hadn't thought it before, he certainly would have thought it upon seeing them for the first time. the woman's wearing the kind of sleek skirtsuit that he's seen before, with a string of pearls, and the man is wearing an officious suit. they look like snobs. they even walk like snobs, noses in the air, sniffing disapprovingly at the world around them.
patton swallows at the sight of the haydens, smooths his sweaty hands over his slacks as chris greets them with a "mother, pop," and patton stands to shake hands.
"mr. and mrs. hayden," he says. "long time, no see."
"you look..." mr. hayden says, and sends an inquisitive, disdainful eye over him. "well." a pause, and then, like a taunt, “now, lorelai lucy, are you still going by... what was it again?”
logan's bristling beside him like a cat. 
" i am doing well, thanks, and yep, my name’s still patton,” patton says tightly. “it’s patton thomas, actually, not lorelai lucy. it hasn’t been lorelai lucy since before logan came into the picture, and i don’t think you forgot that like you’re trying to pretend you did to be polite, but that’s not why we’re here, is it? you remember logan? you haven't seen him in quite a while."
"no, we haven't," straub says, turning his attention off of patton.
"i think he was just starting to speak in complete sentences," francine adds, as if logan is not standing directly in front of her. "logan, hello."
"hello," logan says stiffly, accepting her hand to shake, and then his other grandfather's. he wants to drop them. he wants to sneer in their faces. he wants to kick out any sign of his other father and his terrible parents who have thrown his dad off so greatly. who deadnamed him on first introduction. logan hates them.
"straub, francine, how about a martini?" richard says.
"please," straub says.
"how is retirement treating you?" richard says, and emily continues, "yes, do tell us about the bahamas."
they all sit back down. logan arranges it specifically so patton is between christopher and himself—his dad a familiar line of defense, a known quantity.
"you can get an entire island there for the cost of a decent house here," straub says.
it's small talk. it's boring, but it's small talk, tempered and even and predictable, even if it is so dull and patton's so clearly nervous between them that logan kind of wants to tear his hair out.
"really?"
"how about you, richard, any thoughts of retirement crossing your mind?"
"oh, straub, if only you could talk him into it," emily says wearily. "i've given up."
"we're very pleased about christopher's business success out in california," richard says.
fake, fake, fake, logan wants to shout.
"yes," straub says, angling a similarly disdainful look at his son that he leveled at patton. "it's taken a while but it seems to be finally coming together. seems to be."
"so," logan says. "straub and francine. are you enjoying your time here?"
"how old are you, young man?" straub says, entirely disregarding his question.
"sixteen," logan says tightly.
"dangerous age, for girls especially," he says, and patton stiffens.
right, logan thinks. i have to kill him.
"logan's a very special boy," emily intercedes quickly, panic in her tone. "excellent student, very bright."
"is that so?" straub says.
"you should have a talk with him," richard says. "he could give you a run for your money."
"well," logan says, disregarding that attempt to misdirect entirely. "sixteen being a dangerous age in the way you've so clearly been implying shouldn't be a problem the way you seem to perceive it has been for my fathers."
"oh?" straub says. "we thought christopher was a bright boy, too. much like everyone thinks of you now. why are you different?"
"well," logan says, and then, as if it's a declaration of war, "i'm gay."
straub turns an interesting shade of near-purple. francine looks faint and actually fans herself.
"oh, here we go," christopher says, under his breath. patton and christopher exchange a look over logan’s head, and both patton and christopher down the rest of their martinis like a shot. just like old times.
"though of course," logan says, tilting his head, "that isn't the most effective argument, considering that the relationship between my fathers was between two men, as well, but considering your rampant transphobia, you wouldn't consider it as such. you would be incorrect, but considering your attitude toward my dad, i'd wager it's hardly your first time being an absolute blithering idiot."
patton chokes on air, and then he starts coughing. straub doesn't wait for his coughing to die down.
"i see your grandson is just as out of control as his mother," straub says, and logan surges to his feet, only stopped by patton's fingers closing around his wrist, getting to his feet too.
"logan—"
"pop, keep it civil," christopher says.
"dinner's ready," emily adds hastily, looking wide-eyed between logan and straub.
"we should have known that leaving him with that harlot would turn him to a deviant," and now patton's the one about to surge forward, eyes bright.
"don't you dare talk about my son like that," he says, cold and furious.
"what have you been doing with your life, anyway?" straub sneers. "besides deluding yourself into thinking this phase is real, or perhaps just carrying on and on for attention, lorelai, i'm just curious."
"richard, lead us into the dining room," emily insists, but she goes unheard yet again.
"i run an inn," patton says stiffly, tone still a little off from his coughing fit, and a little off from being called that name again.
"really?"
"yes, really."
now emily is staring between patton and straub, eyes even wider.
"dad, come on," christopher says urgently.
"oh, and your life is everything you hoped it would be?"
"even better," he says, and it's not as sentimental and happy as it might be in normal circumstances, because he's so—
"because it seems to me you might not want to take such a haughty tone when you announce to the world that you work in a hotel."
"there is nothing wrong with where i work," patton says hotly. “and there’s nothing wrong with who i am.”
"straub, please, i'm getting a headache," francine says wearily.
"nice to see you found your calling," straub says snidely. "if you had stopped pitching a fit to get attention, which i see you’re continuing with your histrionics,” he says, flicking a scornful gesture toward patton’s suit, “if you had attended a university as your parents had planned and as we planned in vain for christopher, you might have aspired for more than a blue collared position, though frankly i'm shocked you aren't living off food stamps, begging for handouts you don't deserve."
"don't do this," christopher tries again.
"and i wouldn't give a damn about you derailing your life if you hadn't seduced my son into being swept along with you!"
"chris," patton says sharply, because logan's actually shaking in rage right now, "take logan into the next room."
"dad" and "l—patton" at the same time, and patton says "now" in a voice so strongly commanding that it shocks even him, and chris takes over grabbing logan's wrist to tug him along, out of the room.
"i'm going to have to echo christopher's call for civility here," richard says, as soon as the door closes. "a mutual mistake was made many years ago, but they've both come a long way since."
"a mutual mistake, richard?!" straub shouts. "this whole evening is ridiculous! we're supposed to sit here like one big happy family and pretend that the damage that was done is over, gone? i don't care about how good a student you say that shirtlifter is—"
"HEY!" patton and emily both shout, in the exact same tone of voice.
"our son was bound for princeton," straub seethes. "every hayden male, including myself, attended, but it all stopped with christopher. it's a humiliation we've had to live with every day, because that little slut couldn't keep her legs—!"
logan isn't even the one to burst back into the room to hit him. it isn't chris, it isn't emily.
it's richard.
"you recant that, straub!" richard shouts, from where he's towering over where straub has fallen to the ground.
"you hit me," he says in disbelief.
"you owe my grandson and my son an apology—"
"an apology, that's rich—"
"how dare you?!" richard demands, leaning down to seize straub by the lapels and haul him to his feet. "how dare you?!"
"richard, what are you doing?!" emily shrieks.
"how dare you come into my house and insult my family!" richard shouts. 
"let go of me!"
"whoa, whoa, whoa," patton says, getting over his shock just a little, trying to get between them and break it up, but his father has an iron grip on straub's jacket and starts shaking him.
"shame on you, straub!" richard bellows. "shame on you for your small-minded, hateful language toward your own flesh and blood, for opening all this up again—"
"get your purse, francine—"
"my son is VERY successful at what he does," richard shouts, "and ten times the man you could ever dream of being!"
"we're leaving!"
"you aren't leaving, i'm kicking you out!" 
straub and francine storm out in a huff, richard following closely on his heels to ensure that they leave and patton tries to just breathe, but his inhale is so shaky that it's almost like he can't and—
"patton?"
"could you please check on logan and chris?" patton says, voice odd and faraway even to him. "please. i don't want him to—i want to be sure logan didn't hear any of that."
"patton—" she begins, approaching, but he curls into his jacket, away from her, because it’s so similar to her tone when she said lorelai— when he was fifteen and hurting and close to drowning and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.
"mom, please," he says, strangled. "please. i just need a—a couple minutes alone."
she lowers her hand, and her usually haughty expression has changed into—into something else, but she turns before he can really identify it, and he tries to get control of his breathing, to calm down, but he just—
patton sits hard on the ground, vibrations reverberating up his spine, and he buries his face in his hands, breathing shaky breaths in and out over and over, willing the angry tears in his eyes not to escape, burying the heels of his hands into his eyes.
 when he's managed to calm himself down, just enough that he doesn't think he'll cry if someone looks at him wrong, he gets to his feet and goes to look for his dad.
of course, he's right where patton expects. but he's not alone, like patton had expected. emily turns to face the door, too, and it's so clear he's interrupted something that he can't help but freeze.
"oh," patton says, and hesitates at the door of the study. he feels little again—like he's walked into their bedroom after having a nightmare, like he's waiting to be lectured after yet another less-than-stellar report card.
"um, hey, mom. i was just going to—to ask if dad wanted something to eat."
"i'm not hungry."
it strikes patton, very suddenly, how tired both his parents look. how haggard. how old. patton coughs, swallows, and forges onward.
"okay. well, i just—i just wanted to thank you."
"thank me," richard repeats. "for what?"
"well," patton says, uncertainly. "for what you did in there. i'm just—" he darts a look to his mother, meets his father's eyes again. "i'm really grateful for what you said to him. for defending us like that—for defending logan like that, and me. i know i've made it hard for you, but—"
"do you?" richard says, and patton blinks.
"what?"
"do you know?" richard says, voice purposefully even. "how hard you've made it for us."
patton swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat. "i know i put you both through a lot, but i just—thank you."
"why do you think i did it?"
patton blinks, utterly thrown off. "um. i don't know. out of, um. out of protectiveness, i guess. because he was being homophobic and transphobic."
"it’s hardly about all that,” richard says wearily. 
“um,” patton says again, torn between patching up and bursting out with yes it is very much about all that, that is about who i am and who i’ve always been and i don’t like your tone, what do you mean, all that, does it matter so little to you?! but richard goes on before he can.
“you don't need to be protected," richard says, and emily's looking between them now, the way she looked between patton and straub—except patton's on the flipped side of the stare now. "you've made it exceedingly clear that you can look after yourself and that you need nothing from no one."
"wait, that's not—" patton begins desperately, because he was trying to be nice, he was trying to salvage the wreckage of an already terrible evening—
"my family was being attacked," richard says sharply. "the very sanders name was being attacked and i will not stand for that under any circumstances."
"okay, well, it doesn't matter why—"
"yes, it does matter why i did it!" he yells, and slams his hand down on the desk, and patton jumps at the suddenness of it. "it matters greatly! what are you going to take away from this?! that everything you've done in the past is suddenly fine because i defended you?"
"i—no," patton says, in a helplessly small voice.
"that the hell you put your mother and i through for the past sixteen years is suddenly washed away?"
a distant part of patton wonders if all that is part of the hell he put them through, to his dad.
"i—no, dad, i just—"
"well, it's not!"
patton can't help but shrink under the sheer size of his dad's noise, his dad's wrath. his dad was never the one who yelled at him. looked at him disapprovingly, yes. sighed and tsked, yes. but his mom was the one who yelled. never, ever his dad.
"i had to tell my friends, my colleagues, that my only child was pregnant and leaving school."
"i—"
"and then you run away and treat us like lepers," richard says, and this has been an argument sixteen years in the making, and it's been put into motion and patton's too late to notice, to stop it, and—
"your mother couldn't get out of bed for a month, did you know that?"
patton's eyes swivel to his mother, who's still looking at him like—like he's a stranger, like he's an intruder—
"did you?!" richard screams, and patton flinches.
"no," he says, and his voice breaks. "i—no, i—"
"we did NOTHING to deserve that," he howls, "nothing to earn that!"
patton tries to defend himself, he tries, but he can't find any words, he can't—
"do you know how terrifying it was to come home one night to find your only child and grandchild gone?!" he yells. "do you know what that was like?!"
patton bites his lip hard to keep himself from breaking down into tears and can only shake his head.
"you hated us that much?"
patton blinks, hard, looks to his mom, and—
"what?"
"you had to take that little boy away," emily says. "that was bad enough. but to keep shutting us out?"
"but i'm—i'm not anymore," patton says desperately. "i'm here, that was the deal, we agreed and we've been—we've been getting along lately, haven't we?"
"we could have," she says, "if you'd stayed," and patton has to suck in a breath.
"mom," he says, strangled. "we've talked about this before. we wouldn't have, i would have—i would have drowned here. i needed to go somewhere else. i was young, and i was so unhappy, and i just needed somewhere, anywhere that wasn't here—"
but his mother's making this a soft, tremulous little gasping noise he's never, ever heard her make before, and it hits him with the force of a falling star that she's close to crying.
i'm sorry, he's about to say, except—except he's not. he can't be sorry for leaving here when he was so close to losing himself. he can't be sorry for meeting everyone he's met in sideshire. he can't be sorry for working at the inn. he can’t be sorry for going to a place where all that is celebrated and a part of life and just the way things are. he can't be sorry for raising logan in the pool house and then an apartment, and finally, finally a house. he can't be sorry for bringing logan to the place he'd meet his best friend of all time. he can't be sorry for meeting virgil.
he can't be.
"you hated us that much?" richard repeats his wife, and his face is gaunt and haggard, and patton—
patton can't say a word.
and that's when it gets ugly.
logan's in the backseat of the car.
this is not exactly typical. granted, it hasn't been a particularly typical dinner, but he's so used to seeing his dad out of the corner of his eyes, and not the tiny little sliver of a reflection he can see in the darkened windshield.
his dad's pale-faced. red-eyed. entirely, completely silent, the way he'd been since he descended the stairs from the study, where there had been shouting and then silence and then screaming, and christopher had ushered him deeper and deeper into the house so he wouldn't hear it.
and now his father is curled up in the passenger's seat of his own car, head resting against the window, staring ahead of the road and clearly not seeing any of it.
logan isn't inclined toward metaphor, but his father looks like a ghost. he looks so completely and utterly drained of anything of substance—fight, or indignance, or defensiveness, or protectiveness, or happiness—and he's just staring mutely out of the window, not really responding to any of logan or christopher's clumsy attempts at conversation. he just coughed a few times, and that was an involuntary response.
he thinks about how he'd felt when patton was so hopeful about him and his parents getting along now more, that it would continue—"it was a fluke."
logan isn't happy that he's right.
and then he abruptly remembers who he was talking with, and virgil, and his plan, and—
and logan needs to institute this plan. now. if this is the result of his other father coming to town and bringing up the past, he wants him gone, he wants him out, and so he needs to execute the plan. any lingering doubt is gone. there is only certainty.
"virgil," logan announces abruptly, in the midst of the car.
christopher blinks at him, through the rearview mirror. "what?"
"virgil," logan says. "dad, you had plans to paint with virgil tonight. we need to drop dad off at virgil's."
"uh, logan," christopher says, darting a glance toward patton hasn't picked up his head from leaning against the door.
"you had plans with him, dad," logan says, a little forceful. "you promised him. he already picked up the paint. he's probably waiting for you. dad, you promised."
"maybe now isn't the—"
"no," patton mumbles, and it's the first word he's said since logan was pushed out of the living room, and it shocks him, a little, how scratchy and terrible his dad's voice is. "no. logan's right. drop me off. a promise is a promise."
(does he feel bad for guilting his dad? a little. but virgil will help. virgil will make it better.)
christopher looks between them and seems to realize that it's a lost battle, and turns to drop patton off at the diner.
"you hungry?" christopher asks logan, once they see patton get into the diner safely.
"we have food at home," logan says, and looks at him through the rearview mirror. "i'd like to have a chat. just you and i."
(when patton walks into virgil's dinner, virgil starts a story about the various trials of trying to buy paint, and half-turns and trails off when he sees the look on his face, and patton tries for a smile that falls flat before he can even pretend to be okay.
patton keeps trying to tell virgil that he's fine, except virgil wordlessly tugs him into a hug and patton can't, patton can't, and he's sobbing into virgil's chest before he can even try to hold them back, and virgil doesn't even say a word, chest aching as he tries to stroke through patton's hair as patton just bawls.)
when they get home, immediately logan gets to work making a carafe of coffee.
"pretty late for caffeine, isn't it?" christopher says. 
pretty late to attempt to be a permanent figure in my life, isn't it? logan bites back. instead, he says, "it'll be fine. we have frozen pizza, or macaroni and cheese, or supplies for sandwiches. i don't have much of a preference."
they end up loading the pizza into the oven in relative silence, christopher continually shifting awkwardly across the kitchen, leaving logan to be the one who digs out the pizza pan and the cutter and setting up the oven to preheat and then the timer, and eventually taking out two mugs.
"you're pretty quiet," christopher notes, as logan's pouring the coffee.
"i tend to be."
"you mentioned that you'd like to have a chat."
"i was going to wait until we had food," logan says, "but if you insist, we could do it now."
"oh. um—"
"i just need to get some things," logan says, and goes to retrieve the manila folder full of research and a notebook. when he enters the kitchen again, his other father is still standing, just as awkwardly, where logan's left him.
"i didn't really think a father-son chat needed a file folder," christopher says. 
“you'll see,” logan says coolly, and sits down at the kitchen table. “let’s talk.”
he gestures to the seat opposite him. “sit.”
“i feel like i’m in trouble with the principal,” his other father tries to joke.
logan takes a sip of his coffee, sets down his mug, his folder of research, his notebook, and at last clicks his pen. he feels like he’s conducting an interview. the routine sets him at ease. obviously he would never interview his father, bias, but...
"so. you’re planning on proposing to my dad.”
his other father chokes on his coffee. “how did you—?”
“don’t ask how i know things, it gets tedious,” logan commands. “or at least, it will. why do you want to marry him?”
(he knows because he snooped through his father's bag that first night, when he was asleep on the couch, and he'd found a ringbox and immediately decided that he needed to get out of the house Right Then, for milkshakes with roman, and knew that he did not want this and that patton could not know.)
christopher blinks at him. “isn’t it obvious?”
“indulge me.”
“well,” christopher says. “for starters... did you know that your grandparents wanted us to get married? when you first came into the picture.”
“i do.”
“i was all for it. patton wasn’t.”
“i know that too,” logan says. “that can’t be your only reason.”
“well,” christopher said, “we’re already a family, we could make it official.”
“who?” logan says.
“what?”
“who’s already a family.”
“us! you, patton, me.”
“oh,” logan says tonelessly. “well. isn’t that nice to know?”
christopher flinches as if logan’s struck him.
"i don't think you particularly know what a family is," logan continues. 
"it's people living together."
"no," logan says. "being a father especially, it's a big commitment, it's responsibility, it's hard work. those are three things you don't particularly seem to excel at, stating it delicately."
"hey," christopher says, sharp. "i know i'm not here a lot, but that doesn't mean you can talk to me like that."
"i can speak to you as i like, you want to propose to my father. traditionally there's someone to..." his nose wrinkles. "it's an archaic term, but defend his honor. traditionally it would be his father, but considering grandpa would likely be delighted, it seems it falls to me. so. try again. why do you want to marry him?"
"fine," christopher says. "fine. i can be responsible—"
logan sets down his coffee mug to give him the most disbelieving look he can possibly execute.
"i can," christopher says. "look, i told your dad, but my business is actually managing this time—"
"it really would be in your best interests not to lie," logan says.
"what makes you think i'm lying?"
"i was hoping you'd ask," logan says, and flips open his folder of research, laying out his first sheet of paper.
"real estate transaction, when you were first setting out. you used an llc, but that's easily enough tracked."
another sheet of paper.
"only for it to be sold about a week before you came here. no new bids on anything that i could find, under the name of the previous llc, the law firm you used last time, or under your legal name. what i did find under record of your name, however," he says, and lays out another sheet of paper, "is your previous record of bankruptcy, which i don't suppose is very surprising, considering what i remember from then, i don't suppose dad knows the money he gave you went to trying to dig yourself out of a hole of your own creation—"
"logan—"
logan ignores him, lays out another sheet of paper.
"—but then dad's always been the trusting type. though, i did also find your charges, mostly speeding tickets and the like, but i think dad doesn't know that you got charged with a dui a year and a half ago, did he?"
christopher's gone ashen.
"misdemeanor, though i suppose that's small enough considering some of the other charges that could escalate from there. i will say though that it might make dad a bit more hesitant to hop back on your indian knowing this, though."
logan lays out the last sheet, and adds, "your previous accountant was very willing to do an interview, by the way, so don't attempt to lie to me again."
“how did you find all this out?” his father says, staring at the paperwork, sorting through it disbelievingly, flipping the pages of the transcript of the interview logan had with the accountant.
“it’s all public domain,” logan says, secretly pleased that his research was correct—of course it is, but just... the confirmation. “anyone could find it if they were looking.”
“and you were looking,” christopher says, and shakes his head, sitting back with a scoff. “jesus, you’d make a good cop.”
logan’s nose wrinkles without his meaning to, and he taps his pen against his notebook. “journalist, actually.”
christopher sighs. "i was going to tell your dad if it didn't pick up soon, i swear."
"if i recall correctly, you told him it was," and he flips through his notebook to note the exact words. "ah, yes. i don't know how much your parents have told you, but i'm on the verge of a big success. for real, this time. i've got a company with actual cash flow, i've got employees, I've got an accountant, for god's sake. i mean, it's for real this time, mac."
he taps his pen against the notebook again, and says, "that doesn't particularly sound like you were about to tell him anything."
"you were eavesdropping?!"
"don't be obtuse, of course i was," logan says. "and before you start in with any of the how dare you, we're your fathers nonsense, dad encourages my journalistic skills."
he probably wouldn't be thrilled that logan was eavesdropping on him, but it was for his own good, logan reasoned. and besides, christopher wouldn't tell him that, he'd have to reveal the whole nature of this chat and thereby tell his dad everything. 
"so," logan says. "financially, you have nothing for him. romantically, you two haven't been involved since i was a baby and you've certainly had other people in the interim. i ask you again: why do you want to marry him?"
this is it. this is the fulcrum on which his plan has been resting. the scales will tilt depending on the answer: logan will be left to dissuade him or (more likely) offer him a deal. 
christopher takes a deep breath in, and says, "you might be my only child."
ah. deal it is, then.
"you have no conceivable way of knowing that," logan says.
"no," christopher says. "i don't know how much i miss you until i see you again, even if you infuriate me."
"i've been told being a father does that."
christopher snorts, and looks a little brighter, as if he's taken logan's words as some kind of peace offering. 
"so," logan says, and puts his pen down. "i have a solution. one that wouldn't require you to settle somewhere you know no one, one that wouldn’t have my father go through tonight again with the addition of who would be his in-laws, one that wouldn’t have someone nearly misgendering him on a daily basis, one that wouldn't require me to bring all of this forward to my dad, and one that wouldn't require my dad to deal with a proposal when he's in love with someone else."
christopher looks as if logan has hit him over the head with the pizza pan. "what?!"
"virgil," logan says. "he's in love with virgil."
"the diner man?"
"watch it," logan says sharply, "that diner man has been far more present in our lives than you've ever been."
"it's just," christopher says, and frowns. "him?"
"yes, him," logan says, "they're both hopeless and clueless about it and i certainly won't have you interfering."
"isn't it, um. is it kinda weird for you knowing that?" christopher says. "your dad's romantic life, i mean."
logan huffs out an aggrieved sigh—honestly, he's been used to patton and virgil obliviously flirting over meals for as long as he can remember, but it is a little weird, he can't deny that—and says, "do you want to hear the solution or not?"
"fine, yes," christopher says. 
"a deal," logan says. "from my understanding, this marriage is so you can get closer to my dad and myself. is that correct?"
christopher nods.
"fine," logan says. "then for dad, you work on educating yourself about lgbtqa issues. you work on never, ever having a name stumble with him ever again. if you contact dad regularly, he’ll be happy to respond, you know.” 
christopher looks a little cowed, at that. he says, “and you?”
“for me,” logan repeats. “i’m not as trusting as dad, as it happens. but. if you put in the effort to get to know me, i'll put in an equal amount of effort in getting to know you. you text me, i'll text you back. you call me, i'll pick up. you send me an email, i'll respond."
he holds up his hand before his father can speak.
"you haven't been here," logan says simply. "what did you think would happen when you proposed to dad? did you think he'd say yes? did you think i'd be so swept up with delight that oh, my parents are getting married that the past sixteen years wouldn't matter?" 
christopher looks down at his hands.
"so," logan says. "you become a better ally. you don't mention marriage to my dad. we work up to you being another dad to me. slowly. and i don't tell dad about all of this. do we have a deal?"
christopher takes a deep breath in. 
"deal," he says. "yes. deal."
logan sits back, and allows himself the smile of someone who's won.
"but seriously," christopher says, "the diner man?!"
patton tries to creep back into his house as silently as he can—he'd fallen asleep in a booth after his crying-and-painting session at virgil's, which he hadn't done since logan was little-little, and he can feel the difference in his back— virgil had shaken him awake right before opening to see if he wanted to take over virgil's room in the apartment or go home to get more sleep. patton had picked his own house. but now, the pale light of dawn is beginning to suffuse through his curtains and he's trying not to cough.
he comes to a stop in his living room.
there's a mostly-eaten pizza sitting on his coffee table, with an empty coffee carafe sitting between two mugs. sitting on the ground, on his bright orange rug, leaning against the wall and against each other, are his son and his son's other dad.
logan's glasses are askew and in danger of falling off his face. christopher's cheek is resting against logan's hair, mouth agape, snoring softly. they're sharing a blanket. in christopher's lap, if patton squints and tilts his head, he can see a photo album open, and patton—
patton has to bite his lip to keep from crying, but in the happy way, this time. because whatever happened last night while he was gone, it led to this—to logan giving his dad a chance, to chris maybe actually stepping up a little and humbling himself and apologizing, because there's no way that logan would have done all of that otherwise—and it actually seems like chris is going to step through that door now. for real.
however, he's pretty sure that none of them have actually spent the night sleeping where they should, so patton goes over, crouches down, and uses both hands to shake some shoulders.
"hey there, sleepyheads," he whispers, fond. 
"dad?" logan asks, and nearly punches his glasses off of his face when he reaches up to rub his eyes.
"ugh," chris mutters, and cracks his neck. "how did we fall asleep?"
"told you it wasn't too late for coffee," logan mumbles back.
"maybe we could go out for coffee now?" patton offers. "or spend some time sleeping in our own beds."
chris' eyes widen. "did you spend the night with the diner man?!"
"i fell asleep in a booth after we painted," patton says, truthful, but chris is already swiveling to logan.
"i thought you said they were clueless!"
"they are," logan sighs, "virgil probably just draped his hoodie over dad and tutted after him and they were all—" he waves a hand dismissively. "sentimental. also, gross, that's my dad."
patton turns wide, betrayed eyes to logan. "you told him?!"
"it's not like it's a secret," logan says pointedly.
"oh, are we playing this game, mister?" patton says, and coughs into his shoulder.
logan blinks. "i'm unaware that we initiated an activity that we're meant to engage in for amusement."
"as in," patton says, "oh, we're playing the game where we're talking about hopeless crushes on someone in town, mister?!"
christopher swivels his head to logan. "a crush?!"
logan's gone very red. "take that back."
"it's a crush," patton teases. "romantic attachment. puppy love. infatua—"
a pillow hits patton square in the face. he supposes he should have expected that.
"you have a crush on someone?" christopher says.
"it's a non-object considering he has a boyfriend," logan grumbles.
"yeah, but," patton says. "you still like-like him."
"i'm going to brush my teeth."
"this is what happens when you have two dads!" christopher calls after him.
"i'm regretting this already!" logan shouts down the stairs.
"he has a crush?" christopher asks, when logan's door has safely slammed.
"he has a roman," patton corrects. "who, again, has a boyfriend. it's a whole situation, i could tell you about it later."
christopher shakes his head, and says, "we made a pretty good kid, huh?"
"yeah," patton says, smiling. "yeah, we made a good kid."
"he's really smart. like, terrifyingly smart."
"i know," patton says, smiling even wider. 
"god, i really need that coffee," christopher says, and patton laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.
"welcome to the sanders household," he teases. "you're fitting right in."
christopher's smiling, and the good moment swells up inside patton like a bubble, bright and shiny and happy and—
"about last night."
—easily popped.
patton doesn't say anything.
"are you, um. are you okay?" christopher asks. 
patton shrugs and tries for a smile. the steps on the stairs save him.
"right," logan says. "virgil's, then?"
"before that," patton says. "we didn't really get a chance to talk about last night. are you okay?"
logan blinks at him. "shouldn't i be asking you that?"
"i asked you first," patton says, because he's a Mature Dad. "you know they were pushing all those horrible things at us and not at you, right?"
"they were directing them at you because you had me," logan says, and then looks slightly furious with himself for letting that slip.
"no," patton says. "they were directing them at me because i ruined everyone's 'citizen kane' plans, that's all."
logan chews at the inside of his cheek for a few seconds.
"um," christopher begins, hesitant. "they're just... look. none of that means anything, right? my dad's actually a pretty good lawyer, and they're both really active in their community, and wow i can't believe i actually kept this up with a straight face."
patton lets out a giggle that's a bit too high-pitched and hysterical to really pass as normal, and a few coughs to boot.
"they're both assholes," christopher says bluntly. "look, i know you heard a lot about disappointments last night, but i want to make it super clear that you—who you are, your existence—have not and never have been, even for a second, been included in that. okay?"
"they're full of anger and stupid pride," patton continues. "it's their loss and a huge one."
"okay," logan says. 
"no regrets," patton says.
"from either of us," christopher says.
logan looks between them and says, "is this what parenting is like?"
patton laughs and reaches over to squeeze logan's shoulder, before he claps his hands.
"okay, everyone, grab your jackets for breakfast at virgil's!" patton declares brightly, before anyone can ask him if he's okay. 
it actually works. on the way, he bears teasing from christopher about his cru-ush, which is so familiar it aches in a good kind of way, and logan complains like ugh, dads, which makes both christopher and patton smile so wide it aches in the good way, and patton nearly forgets the sore throat he's woken up with and the whole disaster of last night, which both ache in the not-good way.
the bell jangles familiarly, and patton gestures to the now-dry walls.
"so, what do you think?" patton asks logan.
"acceptable," logan says, but he's smiling, so patton counts it as a job well done.
they sit (in a different booth than the one patton fell asleep in, because, you know, yikes) and virgil swings by, dropping off three mugs.
patton looks up at virgil in utter betrayal.
"what's that?" logan asks, peering at patton's drink, which is a different shade of brown than his usual.
"tea?!" patton says in disgust, as if being served tea is akin to some benedict arnold-esque level of backstabbing. 
"with honey," virgil says. "you have a cough."
"tea," he repeats, wide-eyed. "virgil. you're giving me tea. today of all days."
"i would bet ten million dollars that you have a sore throat," virgil says, steadfast in his decision, "and you are definitely going to sleep when you get back to your house."
"but," patton says, and screws up his nose. "tea."
"for the love of god, just—drink it," virgil scowls. "it's not like i managed to sneak brussels sprouts in there, it's just tea. it'll make you feel better."
patton and virgil have a stare-down for a few seconds. patton then slumps in defeat and sighs, tugging the mug closer.
"i'll drink it but i don't have to like it," patton mutters.
"that's the spirit," virgil says dryly. 
"you know," christopher says thoughtfully, grinning openly at virgil, "you aren't half-bad."
"uh," virgil says, and flees any potential conversational awkwardness to the safety of behind the counter.
patton kicks christopher under the table. "if you try to wing-man me," he hisses, "i will—i'll—!"
"i'm a great wing-man," christopher says, offended. 
"i have two words for you," patton says, and ticks them off on his fingers. "kieran. wagner."
"that was ONE time," christopher starts, "i'm great with romance."
patton starts coughing, but he tries his best to make it sound fake by throwing in a "MITZIE" in there.
"that was one time!" he splutters.
"for three months!" patton protests.
they're interrupted by the jangling of the bell, and logan, who's facing the door, perks up, and then glowers at patton when patton grins at him for perking him up.
"budge," roman tells logan, and logan rolls his eyes, but moves, and roman's about to start talking when he stops and frowns.
"hey, i'm christopher," he says. "logan's other dad."
"oh," roman says, and glances at logan, who gives him a surreptitious nod, like, it's okay. roman reaches across to shake his hand "i'm roman prince."
christopher looks delighted, and then he says "ow!" when someone stomps on his foot under the table.
virgil swings by to drop off a drink for roman, and tells patton, "drink your tea."
patton takes the sulkiest sip he can, and pulls an over-exaggerated face at the flavor of it.
"french toast," roman tells virgil imperiously.
"you're a trial upon my patience," virgil responds, and heads back to the kitchen.
"she wasn't that bad," christopher says to patton.
"roman, you met mitzie," patton begins.
"she was that bad," roman says immediately, and patton gestures at him like there, you see!
"god, when'd you see mitzie again?" christopher says.
"my birthday," logan says, nose wrinkling. "she was the overly personal one who kept insisting she wasn't trying to be rude, wasn't she?"
christopher sighs. "that... sounds like mitz."
patton snorts, and the breakfast is lost in 1, patton and christopher reminiscing about The Old Days, 2, christopher trying to subtly probe both patton and logan about their crushes, 3, virgil continuously heckling patton into finishing his tea.
by the time they're done, christopher shakes hands with virgil with a "good job taking care of our guys, yeah?" and patton...
patton stares at the pair of them.
there's christopher, all leather jacket and broad-chested and tousled hair, tan and easy smiles and a face that holds so many of the good memories of his childhood. and then there's virgil, pale and with deep under-eye bags and hunched into his too-big hoodie and hair that flops into his eyes, sulky, and a face that holds so many of the good memories of his adulthood.
like the past and the future are all lined up together. it's enough to give patton whiplash.
"well," virgil says, in the gruff voice that means he's flattered, "i try."
"you succeed," patton says, and his voice comes out softer than he means to be, and virgil ducks his head in the way he does when he's flustered.
"well," virgil says, "um," and then he goes back behind the counter again, to hide from squishy emotions.
patton grins and waves at him when they all walk out together, him and christopher and logan and roman, and virgil looks a combination of relieved, and something else, something in his eyes that he can't really name.
"well," christopher says, when the road divulges between the prince studio and the sanders house, "it was nice to meet you, young man."
christopher looks kind of tickled to be referring to anyone as a "young man," like a teenager gets when they do something Adult™ like deposit a check or run a grocery errand.
"it was nice to meet you too," roman says, and accepts christopher's hand to shake.
"i mean," christopher says, with a glint of a mischievous smile that patton loved once (and loves now in a different way) "i've heard so much about you."
logan looks mortified, which he covers up swiftly when roman swivels to look at him.
"thanks," roman says, and jerks his thumb. "i should. um."
"bye, roman," patton says, trying not to laugh.
as soon as roman's turned his back, logan drives his elbow hard into christopher's side as christopher cackles to himself.
(roman notices, a few paces away from christopher and the sanders', that jess is staring at them, and then at him, and roman realizes last second what it must have looked like, him eating breakfast with logan and his dads, and his other dad shaking roman's hand, and roman thinks about a lot of things, like trading his jam cookies for logan's strawberries the first day they met even though jam cookies are his favorites, he thinks about the day that logan came back from the optometrist with an eyeglass prescription and a request for roman to come along to pick out his first pair of frames and that logan still wears the square ones that roman had declared he liked best to this day, and logan volunteering for backstage crew for roman's shows even though he always talks about them as professional make-believe, and how logan's never missed one of his shows ever, and the countless milkshakes at lucy's they've had over the years, and the time that roman had given logan a ring pop when they were seven and had gotten down on one knee to do it, and he thinks about all the old copies of the sideshire courant that he's got in a box with logan's clips, and the way logan's face lights up every time roman gives him his birthday present that he stays up for countless nights to complete and all that exhaustion and writer's block is so worth it, and their late-night talks at the gazebo, and birthday kisses and how he kept wondering and wondering and wondering if he'd ever be brave enough to plant one on logan's lips, and at logan's birthday party, what had flashed through his head, the way i feel about logan is as unchangeable as my blood—
—and he knows it's long past time for him and jess to have a Talk.)
when they get to the sanders house, instead of going inside and immediately crashing, like patton expects, christopher stops both him and logan in the living room.
"patton," christopher says. "you okay?"
patton takes a breath. and another. he shrugs.
"not the best," patton says. "you might be going alone to friday night dinners for a while, logan, sorry."
"i don't want to go," logan says, immediate. "not if they fought with you."
"they were right, a little," patton says, and logan's about to argue.
"i know you'll say i'm being too nice," patton adds wearily. "and i’m not saying they were right about everything, not by a long shot, but at the center of that argument—of every argument we’ve had for a long time, really—at the center of it, they were right. with the perspective of being a parent now, the way i ran away, with just a note and refusing to call for a week and not telling them where i was living for months, it was—"
he chokes up, and forces himself to cough a few times to clear it.
"i think it's the worst thing i ever did to them," patton says, and he tries so hard not to let his voice break. 
"but it was what was best for you," logan says.
"it was," patton agrees. "but things can be good for one person and bad for another, you know. and that wasn't the only thing between us. we have a lot of history, right? and so much of it isn't good."
patton lays a hand on his son's shoulder.
"it was really hard for them, the distance i made between you three," patton says, and he makes his voice gentle. "you have at least one decent set of grandparents, you know. even if their idea of happiness is a lot different from mine. just because i'm fighting with them doesn't mean you have to be fighting with them."
"i don't like the way they speak to you."
"to be perfectly honest, i don't, either," patton says. "but we don't all have to be fighting. don't make up your mind right now," he adds. "think about it. you have time before you have to see them next, almost a whole week."
(oh, patton. he doesn't. not really. he has less than two days, really, since this is a saturday morning. but that's for next chapter.)
"okay," logan says. internally, he knows that when it comes down to it, he's always going to be on his dad's side and not his grandparents'. but if he said that right now, it would probably make him more upset, and more prone to defending his parents, even though his parents had definitely made him cry, and logan very much does want to fight with anyone who makes his dad cry, even if they're his grandparents.
but he doesn't say any of that.
"with that closing note," christopher says, and patton swivels, frowning.
"what?"
"i think i'm gonna," he says, and jerks his thumb toward where his indian is visible in the window. 
"oh," patton says, and he frowns. "so soon?"
"i did mostly come to town to visit my folks," christopher says gently, and reaches out to tug at patton's curl. "i don't want to make things any more stressful than they have to be for you, right now, roonie."
"you can stay if you want," patton starts.
"i know," christopher says. "but you know me, can't stay in one place for too long."
patton sighs, and slumps, because he knows when christopher's mind is made up. christopher grabs his bag, and the two sanders men follow him out to the curb.
"don't be a stranger, yeah?" he says, and steps forward to hug christopher.
christopher wraps his arms around patton tight, and patton rests his chin on christopher's shoulder. 
no one in patton's life knew him quite like christopher did. the pair of them, born just a month apart, with matching silver spoons in their mouths (christopher’s perhaps a touch shinier than patton’s) and playdates scheduled as soon as playdates were a thing both of them were capable of. christopher was there for all his demure moments in his childhood, and his attempts to throw all of those off. he was there for patton's rebellions, and patton's sobbing dysphoric days, and for the whole coming out process. he was the first person patton ever told that he thought he was maybe a boy. he was there to burn patton's skirts and dresses in a massive bonfire to make a statement, even though christopher had mostly thought it was an act of rebellion rather than a loud refusal to act like someone he wasn't. christopher was there when patton needed comfort, and christopher was there when he was euphorically happy, and christopher offered to be there when it was right and proper for him to do so, even though neither of them really wanted it.
patton's always going to love him, in some kind of way. patton doesn't think anyone can know someone in the way he knows christopher and not love them in some kind of way. but he doesn't love him like he did when he was sixteen. it's different. but there's that remembrance, there. that history. christopher knows patton isn't perfect, and patton knows that christopher isn't perfect. god, he’s far from it. but patton's relationship with him gave him logan.
and logan's the most precious thing anyone's ever given him.
"all right," christopher says, and he sounds a little choked up, too, like he was thinking about a lot of the same things. he gives patton several Manly pats on the back, to absolutely Bro Up such a hug, and patton can't help a laugh that sounds a bit like a sob, because they had a kid together, shouldn't they be past that kind of thing?
and then, to patton's ultimate surprise, logan steps forward, and holds out his hand to shake.
christopher stares at it, and then he smiles, wide, and takes his hand.
"remember what we said," logan says cryptically, and patton looks back and forth between them, but neither of their faces give it away.
"i know," christopher says. "i will."
logan nods, a sharp, jerky thing, and steps back onto the sidewalk beside patton.
christopher slings his leg over the motorbike, and pulls on his helmet, and with that familiar rumbling, he rides off into the morning sunlight, getting stronger and stronger with every passing minute.
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meeks-writing · 5 years
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Throwing lemons / Sometimes Love Is Not Enough
Chapter 5
His ears were tingling. Eijirou didn’t really remember what happened. His head was dizzy and his belly hurt. Like a burn. But how? His quirk should have protected him from that? had he been too slow?
He blinked. It was kind of dark in here the lights almost outside of his vision.
“Fuck…” he mumbled and tried to get up. He saw Bakugou staring at him like he would leap at him any moment. But Eijirou still smiled at him soothingly, memories returning to him slowly.
He had hugged the blond on a whim, not really thinking about if that was a good idea. Ge gad sounded so distressed and lonely. But it seemed to have the opposite effect Eijirou had in mind. Bakugou seemed to be content with hugs. So he had defended his personal space.
“I am sorry.” Eijirou said while sitting up. He didn’t remember going down. And sitting up made him flinch in pain. So he looked down at himself seeing his shirt charred and still smoldering. Underneath the skin was red and burned. No blisters were showing so it seemed to be a low degree burn. Nothing serious.
Katsuki snapped out of his reverie eying the redhead on the ground. He came back to his senses and reached out his hand. “You better should get up.” They both had been lucky for Kirishima’s quirk. Katsuki could have killed him. But he got off with some scratches and minor burns. It would probably heal without leaving a scar, Eijirou figured.
But still…
The redhead took the offered hand and pulled himself up. He seemed to be a bit wobbly on his legs. “You okay?” Katsuki asked reluctantly. He hated to do this. He should leave and get a shower. Now that Kirishima stood again he pulled his hand back fast, wiping it off on the fabric of his pants. He hated the feeling of skin on skin.
“Yeah. Just a bit startled. Man…” he rubbed his neck, seeming to feel guilty. “I am really sorry. I… shouldn’t have…”
“Shut up!” Katsuki snapped rubbing his eyebrows. I don’t have time for this and you should be at home by now too. So just forget it!”
Eijirou eyed him suspiciously. “You know. You really should get some rest. Admit it or not. So leave the cleaning to me and head home first today.”
Katsuki snorted. “Yeah of course. I leave you here alone with the daily takings. Will totally still be there in the morning.”
Eijirou sighed. “Come on. You have to at least trust your employees. You know where I live, my name, my insurance number and all. If something would be gone you could just go to the police and sue me.” He sighed heavily at the thought.
“Tsk. A lawsuit doesn’t mean that I would get anything back.”
“But it would end my career for sure. And that before it even began!”
Katsuki raised a questioning eyebrow, not being able to connect the pieces to a satisfying answer. Maybe he really was tired …
“I am currently on my road to join the police once.” explained Kirishima thankfully without having to be asked first. “So there would be too much at stake for me. However how tempting it might be.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment. “You’re really do-gooder, huh? Helper complex too. This world will destroy you.” Katsuki paused. “But fine. then get cash and start counting. But if one cent is missing I will get your sorry ass to court and roast you!”
“Yes, sir!” Eijirou said, “Only counting, it is!”
“I give you a safety bag. Leave 30.000 ¥ for change the rest goes into the beg. Make your to do that right. Otherwise, my taxes will rise unnecessarily.”
Katsuki walked over to the cash register, followed by the redhead. He let it snap open pulling out the drawer and handed it to Kirishima while letting the register print the stats of today. Seeing the numbers made Katsuki ease a bit down. It had been a rather successful day. Maybe they weren’t so wrong in suggesting a day off. At least it should be possible. He swallowed down a weary sigh. He felt worn out and raw. His muscles were sore but the hot bath was still far away. At times like these, it was better for him to be alone. The solitude gave him strength. It was like charging up. It had to wait. To drive out the redhead would cost him more energy than just pulling through.
So he went back and then upstairs to his little office. Putting away the receipt into the folder where all the other receipts of the days before already waited to greet their new companion. In here it was silent. He couldn’t hear the silent counting of Kirishima so for a minute he just closed his eyes and took a deep rigid breath. He hated it when others were right. He wanted to prove everyone around him wrong. They all imagined knowing what he needed or wanted. It was disgusting how all these people were looking down on him. But managing a restaurant was not able without employees and he had to prove that even that was within his powers. He could manage everything! But sometimes a little voice in his head asked if it were true then why was he so desperate to prove it to everyone? Wasn’t it a sign that he didn’t believe it himself.
But that little voice was a damn fucker. And he wouldn't listen to it. No one was allowed to talk down to him. Not even his own motherfucking brain throwing a teenage tantrum. Shit god, he was over twenty! He was too old for such shit.
After taking his little break he grabbed one of the safety bags, He would need to buy new ones soon, and eventually headed down again. To his kitchen where the first aid kit was stored away. Fishing out a burn ointment and going back to the redhead. He sat at one of the tables counting coins. His face was torn in concentration, worrying his bottom lip. A little trickle of blood ran down his chin. He didn’t seem to notice. Most likely this was a common thing to happen with such sharpass teeth. Katsuki was sure eating wasn’t an easy thing for Kirishima. At least anything beneath meat, which he could tear apart with these crazy sharp canine. He would keep that in mind.
“Stand up. And for goodness sake take off this shitty rags, shitty hair.”
Kirishima looked up startled. Then cursing, seeming to have forgotten where he stopped counting. So fucking stupid! But that fucker still managed a smile. He really was an easygoing person. But somehow it didn’t bother Katsuki as much as before. Stupid sleep deprivation!
“I happen to undress in front of you a lot, it seems” the redhead teased. “Hope you’re not doing this on purpose. If you want to marvel my abs, just ask!”
It was true that the body of the other man was trained and there were certainly a lot of people who would enjoy such a few. But Bakugou didn’t belong to these. So he growled deeply in his throat while Kirishima got rid of the remains of his shirt, as he was told. “Don’t worry. Your shitty abs are the least on my mind.” It kind of unnerved him that the guy had the guts to joke around while he should be tired and in pain. Strange. Even stranger that Katsuki somehow didn’t mind. But he hadn’t had to admit that or be assumed.
He took a closer look at the burn. For a first grade burn, it was rather severe. So he coated his fingers with the ointment and started applying it. “You should go to the hospital tomorrow. Shop will stay closed tomorrow anyway.” He made the decision at the moment the words left his mouth. It was the right thing to do. Even though someone else had suggested it.
The redhead just nodded. He at least had the audacity not to brag about Katsuki’s defeat in that matter. Better for him. He would have killed him for sure, elsewise.
Both of them were silent during the treatment. Only as Katsuki retreated his hand Kirishima dared to speak. “You don’t like being hugged, huh?” His voice was distant and clouded in thought. But no pity was audible from it.
“No one is allowed to touch me in any way, without my personal permission.” the blond growled deep in his throats feeling kind of menaced.
But it wouldn’t be Kirishima Eijirou if he would stop his noisy questions here. “So… where is that coming from? I mean, I do understand and will respect it in the future, promise, man! But it’s easier if I knew what the actual problem is, usually this kind of things have a certain cause.”
“Don’t treat me like a fucking freak!” Katsuki snapped getting aggravated again.
“You aren’t.” Kirishima deadpanned. And took all of the winds out of Katsuki’s sails. “It just means that you don’t work the way society is wanting you. But you never applied to those rules anyway, don’t you?”
“I don’t fucking care about stupid shit like society or it’s rules!”
“I figured as much.” Eijirou laughed. But he still wondered. A hug caused such a strong reaction and he would draw back when other people tried to touch him but then from time to time Bakugou touched him so casually. It seemed to be an issue who was the initiator. And if there - and he was sure there was - a story behind it, it would probably be a rather severe one. Hopefully, Bakugou would trust him enough to tell in the future. But that day seemed rather far right now.
The rest of the night they didn’t talk about much of importance. Eijirou had just talked about some casual stuff and Bakugou had pretended not to be interested.
But still Eijirou was surprised but how much and how tiring work there was after closing the restaurant. Counting the money wasn’t everything. Every purchase needed to be written down and the amount of cash that remained in the register to be noted as well. It seemed to be important for taxes or something like that. Eijirou didn’t really understand the answer Bakugou had given him after asking. He was just happy that even after the little fight they had that Bakugou seemed to have opened up at least a bit, tonight. It gave him this cozy feeling that he always had when he was starting to make a new friend.
It was 2 am and eijirou felt so exhausted. His lids were heavy and he wished to just get to sleep right here right now. Or that his bed would just suck him in so he hadn’t had to move at all. But all wishing was futile. “See you the day after tomorrow, then. And remember to relax a bit, yeah?”
“Shut the fuck up and go home already shitty hair!” Bakugou snapped while locking the backdoor.
“I do, I do!” Eijirou smiled and waved goodbye. Despite everything that happened it had been a good day… Somehow. He felt closer to Bakugou now. And that was such a great feeling. He loved to get to know people better, understanding them. And Bakugou was somehow an even more special case.
At home he just fell in his bed, falling asleep immediately.
Today he was going to learn for sure! After he had gone on a walk with Toto, showered and eaten breakfast he made himself a pile of snacks and sitting down at his kotatsu, his books in front of him, music playing softly in the background, his hair tied back in a sloppy ponytail, a Bandana keeping his bangs out of his eyes.
Opening his textbooks and notes he tried to remember what the professor had lectured about. But his notes were sloppy and chaotic while being accompanied by some doodle he had made to channel his concentration. He remembered drawing them way better than the stuff he actually should learn. Damn!
He sighed. Probably he should at least arrange his notes first and copy them neatly. It would take quite some time but it would may help him remember. So he stood up to get a stack of paper.
Rearranging his notes was tiresome and took so much time! He wouldn’t be able to do much more than just this today. It was so frustrating. He checked the time regularly. Maybe he actually needed a tutor. How did the other students manage that? Did they have more hours to the day? He sighed again. Something he did more often in these last month. He laid his head down on the desk for a moment. The make-up exam wouldn’t go any different than the finals at this stake.
He got up, looking at his crimson riot poster in monochrome and red, just above his television. He had to ma up! A little break and then just back to work! So he raised from under the kotatsu and fetched himself a drink. Iced coffee would give him some energy.
He was about to sit down again when the doorbell rang. He hadn’t expected any guests. Bt well maybe it was one of his neighbors needing some help. So he hurried to his door opening it a little to see Himiko in front of it grinning happily at him. Dabi accompanied her as usual. Sometimes Eijirou wondered if he was her boyfriend. Till now he hadn’t bothered asking. It wasn’t something that could be asked so easily and actually, it wasn’t really any of his business.
“Ei-kun!” Himiko sang with that bright smile of hers growing even bigger, clinging to him in a warm hug. All girly noises. Dabi only raised his hands in a short greeting gesture. He was always rather composed, almost appearing bored, his turquoise eyes scanning his surroundings lazily.
“Come on in you two.” Eijirou waved them to come out of the hallway. Yes, he was busy and he knew it wouldn’t get any better with a distraction, but when his friends bother to actually visit him he couldn’t bring himself to send them away.
“Good to see you again! You were so busy these last days. I thought you didn’t want to see us anymore!” Himiko chirped while releasing him, took off her shoes and danced into his living room. She was always this cheerful. A trait the redhead really liked about her. “No of course not! I love to have you over!”
Dabi followed her with his shoulders relaxed and his hands in the pockets. Eijirou followed them. “I am sorry! I don’t have much to offer. But can I bring you something to drink?”
Himiko had already snuggled herself under the kotatsu, stuffing some chips in her mouth and sorting through Eijirou’s notes. “Do you have some sparkling soda?” She smiled sweetly while holding one of the papers against the light like it would give away some secret. Like a kid. She was really a cute girl.
“And you Dabi-kun?”
“Tea. If you can make it decent?”
“Of course! Just wait a sec!”
He hurried into his little open kitchen, boiling some water while eyeing his guests. Dabi had settled down on the couch, flipping through a magazine Eijirou had been given the other day. He hadn’t had the time to look into it yet, but he didn’t mind these two getting themselves at home. He really liked to have friends over.
“How do you keep up with boring stuff like this?” Himiko asked throwing back the paper on the pile as if it was disgusting.
Eijirou laughed. “It’s all for the greater cause.” Dabi snorted but didn’t say anything in that matter.
“I think you should stop that bullshit and go for art!” Himiko laughed her sweet girly laugh. “I don’t know why you would want to chain yourself to a stupid society. I mean it’s not like the police does actually any good.”
A sigh escaped the redhead's lips at that statement. They had talked about that matter so often till now. “You know that it is my dream.” he laughed again, slightly embarrassed. “And if someone isn’t starting things will never change. I just have to work hard for it.”
“My poor, Ei-kun. Still believes that he’ll change the world with his kind heart. I really want you to make that happen.” She sighed in a way that made clear that she knew it was impossible. It reminded him of what had Bakugou said to him.
Eijirou served his friends their drinks than sitting down at his kotatsu too, trying to sort his papers. But it was hopeless since Himiko were still looking through them not paying attention if she made a mess of things.
“Ah, here it is! The Eijirou art piece I was looking for.” She giggled. “And as always Ei-kun draws concentrated young students at work. It’s so sarcastic. I bet you looked exactly the same while drawing it.” More giddy giggles.
Eijirou couldn’t stop himself blushing. Because she was probably right.
“I wonder why you only ever draw guys. Are you too good of a guy to sketch a girl stealthily or are these the naughty kind of paintings you hide in your bedroom for lonely hours?”
The redheads face now matched colors with his hair at that statement, not being able to think straight. “N-No! I don’t do drawings like that! I always sketch what catches my eyes! And… and in my class, there aren’t many girls… that’s all!”
Himiko laughed again highly amused. Teasing Eijirou seemed rather satisfying to her. Dabi still sat silently on the couch. Now checking his phone. It was a very modern looking phone that Eijirou envied. His own was already six years old. He didn’t know what kind of job Dabi had, but it sure paid well.
“I guess in a boring class like that are only plain girls that never look out for them, anyway. I couldn’t imagine going out of the house without at least a basic make-up.”
She sighed deeply, kind of upset about something. That alarmed Eijirou.
“It’s so sad some girls have to suffer under their old-fashioned cruel parents. Can you imagine what a girl feels like without make-up? Exposed to the world and prohibited from showing their true potentials, not being able to be their true selves?”
She really was worked up about this topic, while Dabi only snorted as an answer, not even looking up. “Bullshit.”
“Dabi-kun!” the blond girl whined stressing the name of her friend, dramatically still managed to look cute while doing so. “You are so mean! That’s why you don’t have a girlfriend!” Hah! So they weren’t a thing Eijirou figured. He had known sooner or later he would find out the truth without having to pry. “You don’t understand a woman’s heart at all!”
Eijirou figured the raven's opinion could have something to do with his own appearance. The scares mixed with the piercings. Of course, he wouldn’t be anyone to look for outer beauty.
Himiko now turned to Eijirou showing her other friend the cold shoulder. “But you do! Right Ei-kun? You understand what cruel punishment it is for a girl to be forced to sacrifice her beauty and youth.”
“O-of course.” Eijirou stuttered. Actually, he couldn’t imagine that this was that big of a problem, but she was so distressed it just had to be true. And he didn’t want her to cry or this situation to escalate further. And it seemed that Dabi was in less need of help than little Himiko.
“Wonderful! Then you will help me, don’t you, sweety? It’s what makes you such a great person, you help everyone! You are just too precious for this world!”
Eijirou felt his stomach clench. Somehow felt like he walked into something he had lost control over. But Himiko was right. He always helped if he could. He wanted to see people happy and of course, he would help her out this time again.
“But how can I help? It’s not like I can talk to every stubborn mom in the city.”
Himiko laughed all of her sadness gone, Eijirou relaxed. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to do much. Just let the poor souls sent their packages here and deliver them. I sued to do that, but I was found out so I have to stop. So you would make sooo many girls very happy! Especially me!” she chirped reached across the kotatsu and took Eijirou’s hand. The redhead grinned. That sounded rather easy to do and not very time-consuming. And she was cheerful again. That was all that mattered. Dabi still gave them the silent treatment but didn’t seem too upset, so that would be okay, Eijirou figured. These two often fought but always made up. They were really close.
“Then I am very happy to help!” Eijirou said and the happy squeal he received from Himiko was worth it. He lived for that, even would sacrifice meals. His friends’ happiness. He had always been like this. Always holding back for the sake of others. And he had never regretted it once.
“Oh while we’re at girls and their beauty, I found some earrings I really like. You have to take a look and give me your opinion!”
With the two of them, it had always been like this. She had been the first friend he made in Musutafu. And it seemed that she hadn’t made any female friends to cheer over girly stuff so somehow Kirishima had filled into this hole. Only problem? He almost every time found himself buying her that stuff. So this time, too, was not an exception. But she for sure would look gorgeous with these earrings and the fitting necklace. What were 8.000 Yen a price in terms of happiness?
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missmaclay · 7 years
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I could make this post about my entire 1,5 week trip through the UK, but I’m sure y’all only want to hear about the last day in Liverpool ;).
Quick recap of where I’ve been and what I’ve seen though; Telford (met Jeremy Jordan, David Harewood, Brit Morgan, Rahul Kohli and more), London (met Mehcad Brooks, Stephen Amell and much more), went to the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, Ripley’s, Wembley, Bath, Stonehenge, Windsor castle, Big Ben, Leicester square, Piccadilly and spend a lot of time in the Underground. Also saw the new Alien film AND Beauty and the Beast.
Anyway, that’s not what y’all wanna hear. Here’s my recap of May 29th;
I woke up in London after 2 days of HVFF. Went downstairs for my lovely UK brekkie (HASH BROWNS!) and then jumped in the shower and off I went. To Euston station to catch a train to Liverpool. Apparently, it was the first train to go straight to Liverpool from London that day, earlier ones were cancelled. Thank God I’d splurged on a first class ticket. I heard people had been standing the entire trip (2 hours!). Anyway, the train ride is beautiful. Would have been better if it hadn’t been raining, lol. 
Got to Liverpool a bit delayed due to a signal failure (uh-huh..) and the taxi stand at Liverpool Lime Street is insane. So many folks needed one. BUT I got to my hotel for around 4, thankfully. Since I was around the corner from the venue, I saw the Cavern already when the taxi dropped me off. Queue the nerves. The hotel was beautiful too. Beatles song playing as you walked in, lol. 
I hadn’t eaten since 9 am that morning so I Googled mapped the area and saw that there was a Gregg’s nearby. Perfect, sausage roll it is. I was there half an hour before closing time, but apparently they don’t care in Liverpool, because the door was locked. Oh well, a bag of crisps and an apple it is. Met up with @amyroot near the venue and we walked around a bit, the area is pretty cool!
Anyway we waited outside like we thought we had to when we were informed that the line had already started inside. We rushed downstairs and joined the queue. This was at 6pmish. 
The earlier concert started at 4pm and our gig was supposed to start at 8pm, but they were still doing M&Gs so everything ran a little late. No problem, everyone should get to do their M&G but my damn legs were killing me, lol. 
Pleasantly surprised there was some seating in the venue when we finally got in. Not near the front, but it’s OK, we could sit. I’ll upload some actual videos from the concert so I won’t talk about that, but them singing “Imagine” and then bringing Anni on stage were awesome.
Before the M&Gs started, they had an auction for St. Vincent’s school, all DC stuff. I have to admit that the two guys doing the auction were hilarious. Absolutely hilarious. They auctioned some stuff in the venue and said the rest would go online (haven’t seen it yet anywhere?)
Onto our M&Gs. I have no idea how many people were there but it seemed like a never ending line, lol. I think they started around 10/11ishpm with the first people. I think they first said you would get a photo, 1 minute to talk and 2 things to sign, but of course all of that went out the window pretty soon. They managed to have a pretty good system. First person you saw was Nathan (who gives amazing hugs), Gemma or Angelo would take your photo with Nathan, then when the person in front of you had finished talking with Chyler, you’d move onto her and get hugs, photos and autographs, etc. Pretty good system.
Nathan ended up walking/running around the hall and thanking people in line for their patience as it was taking soooo long. Folks who had to catch a bus/train/whatever were pushed to the front, that was a good idea. 
I was eating tic tacs by that time (it was nearing 1am and we were still in line) because I hadn’t had dinner, but they hadn’t either. Nathan was having a discussion with someone in line, leaning over the barrier when Chyler tried to get his attention for something. He was too focused on whoever he was talking to though, so he didn’t hear Chyler calling for him. Her calls for “babe. love. honey. love of my life.” were completely ignored until the guy (Neil?) from the Canvern lovingly shouted “Nathan darling!” very loudly, lol. THAT’s when he turned around. 
Around 2am we were finally at the front of the line. The security who ticked your name off of the VIP list was hilarious, too. All the staff were. Pronouncing my name for him the way it’s supposed to be didn’t help the poor guy. To be fair, I couldn’t understand him either. Damn accent, lol. 
Aaaaanyway, it was finally our turn and Nathan straight off the bat asked about my necklace and we proceeded to geek out for several minutes over PS4 games. We apparently took so long I looked passed him to see Chyler on her own, the person in front of me already left. Oops. I hugged Nathan (and in my haste forgot to take a photo with him) and rushed over to Chyler. Now. As I’m sure you can imagine, I cannot explain or descibe how that was. To see Chyler up close, giving her a hug, talking to her. No words. She asked what I was talking to Nathan about as we both looked so passionate about the subject, lol. She’s absolutely amazing. Gave her a massive bag of gummi bears and she loved it, lol. I printed off a photo from the I love you scene which she signed with “I <3 you” which... asdfghjkl. We chatted for a bit (fun fact; the dibs gun is NOT the gun her son drew, which she talked about at SDCC I think?) and I thanked her for coming over and doing these things, and she thanked ME for coming over. Can you believe that? Like, duh. Nathan was off to bathroom at that point so I moved to the side to give Amy some time with Chyler while I waited to Nathan to come back to get a double photo (him and Chyler) which we then did in turns. It was great.
We walked off to the side to collect everything and put photos etc. away when I realised I hadn’t had my photo with Nathan. I didn’t want to interrupt their whole thing they had going so we waiting until the very last person had gone (4 am people!) for us to go back and get the last photos. Nathan was very happy to oblige and we even snagged another one with Chyler as the lighting was pretty awful where we first were. I had to pull poor Chyler away from her McNuggets, that was probably the first food she’d seen since 3pm, lol. 
Managed to actually say what I wanted to say to Chyler at that time (I was so nervous before) and thanked her for everything she’s doing for us as a community and even though we have Twitter it’s impossible for her to see every reaction so I wanted to personally say we all appreciate how she fights for us. 
We got caught talking a bit to the people from Charity Pulse and St. Vincent’s too, lovely people. Ended up nearly cleaning out the venue as we were the last people there (those big boxes aren’t even that heavy). Nathan AGAIN thanked us for coming said we were ‘amazing’ and then we finally walked out of there.
It was 5am when I finally calmed down enough to goto sleep and I looked out my window and it was daylight already. 
When I woke up, everything hurt from so little sleep, of course. Went downstairs for my last day of UK brekkie (HASH BROWNS!). I walked over to the corner of the room as I didn’t want to take up a 4 person table by myself but I was shoo’d away to another side of the room as they’d already made up these tables for lunch. Well, okay, whatever. I plopped down at a 4 person table and as I look up I see Nathan and their 3 kids also enjoying a UK brekkie, they were staying at the same hotel as me, lol. 
As they left he recognized me and said hi and we wished eachother a good day and that was that. Spent some time shopping and then went to the airport (The driver was an Everton supporter, which isn’t good for me as a Liverpool supporter) and went home.
I’m a little flu-y now but I’m enjoying going through the videos and photos. It was an amazing day and they were very positive about doing a gig in Amsterdam so I hope to see them again very soon.
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cecehathaway · 7 years
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New Additions | Para
Tagging: Dorothy & Lena McCoy Location: Queens, NY Time Frame: Afternoon, April 22, 2017 General Notes: Some more sisterly talk.
Dorothy took her time heading upstairs to consider her options. Rather, she wandered about the familiar downstairs part of the house, mentally taking notes of what had changed versus what hadn’t. Lena hadn’t painted over any of the rooms here, and only some of the photos hanging up had been changed out. Their mom’s interior decorating was still very present otherwise.
Upstairs had been a different story but Dorothy was already well aware of the changes that were made some years ago. Lena converted Dorothy’s room into a spare bedroom with a purple and grey color scheme to it. Some of Lena’s own belongings were split between her old bedroom and the master bedroom. The master had been completely re-done to fit Lena’s personal taste. The once cream-colored walls were now a caramel color and although Dorothy hoped she might maintain something more subdued, she couldn’t have been more wrong the moment she stepped into the room.
All of the bed and bathroom accessories were some sort of faux animal print. The comforter was leopard while the area rug was zebra. Somehow, she managed to find a giraffe skin print fabric to drape across her vanity. The bath towels were brown with zebra print lining the hem and mixed among the hair and beauty products on the counter, a safari of figurines were strewn about. Dorothy did her best not to say anything at first, but when she emerged from having a look, she gave her sister a worrisome look.
“You said Vic was going to move in with you, right?”
“Yep!” Lena replied from inside the walk-in closet. “He asked about changing some things and I guess that makes sense but I told him that a lot of this is new so it’s not all going away.”
Taking a deep breath and quietly letting it go, Dorothy could only shake her head at her sister. “You’re always changing things up so maybe you guys can rotate things in and out.”
“Eh. Yeah. Maybe,” Lena replied, which Dorothy already knew was code for ‘that’s not happening’. 
Eventually, Lena emerged from the closet with her arms full of different dresses: bodycon and bandage, skater dresses, swing dresses, backless, plunging necklines, spaghetti straps, strapless, thigh slits, floral prints, stripes, solids, animal print...
“Jesus, Le, shop much?”
“Yes,” Lena proudly replied, “And you’re welcome. You’ve got options galore thanks to me. And all for the low low price of noth--”
“A new wardrobe for me. Yes, I know.”
With a roll of her eyes and a flick of her wrist, Lena excused herself to the bathroom. “Start looking and trying things on. I’ll be right back.”
Almost immediately after the bathroom door closed, Dorothy pulled anything with animal prints out. Considering the height difference between her and her sister, and the closer inspection of the dress options, she was beginning to wonder if this was a bad idea or not. Dorothy was the taller of the two and the last thing she wanted was to end up showing off her goodies to a bunch of people at party. Eventually, she found some that she could see herself wearing and began pulling her clothes off to try them on. In that time, Lena emerged from the bathroom but hung back and merely watched her little sister.
“It’s weird for you, huh?” she asked, watching Dorothy from the door. When she wasn’t given a response Lena added, “Being here. It’s why you don’t come around much anymore.”
Holding onto a hanger, Dorothy stood still for several moments before turning her back to her sister again, “That’s not it. I’ve been busy.”
“Right, with work. But I still get it. It’s kinda weird for me too. That’s why I changed a lot up here and it’s a big reason I don’t want to change a ton more when Vic moves in. I don’t want everything to look so perfectly domesticated like they had it.” Folding her arms across her chest, Lena sighed, “Sometimes I wish we had just sold this place... but I know neither of us could do it.” To lighten things up, Lena headed over to the bed for a seat added, “Plus it’s paid off so that helps me out big time, financially.”
After a roll of her eyes, Dorothy stepped into a form-fitting dress and shimmied it up her body. She turned her back to Lena but took a couple of backwards strides toward her to get help zipping it all the way up. “Sometimes I wish we had too. But I’m also glad we didn’t.” 
Lena gently tugged and pushed on her sister’s hips to get her to turn around and face her. “Listen. The house isn’t going anywhere, Dottie. We’ve got a looot of great memories here. And...” Pausing, Lena got up from the bed to the bathroom only to return within seconds. “in no time, your little niece or nephew will start making memories here too.”
Dorothy’s eyes went wide as her sister held a positive pregnancy test up for her to see. She gasped, “Oh my God, Lena!” The law was crazy and her sister was predictably unpredictable most of the time, but Dorothy couldn’t find herself feeling any way other than happy in the moment. She tightly closed her arms around Lena and pulled away quickly after a few seconds to joke, “Wait, don’t get that pee stick on me. I need to wear this in a week.”
Lena laughed but gave her sister a gentle swat on the arm. “Hey with this bachelorette party, you better make sure you sober up in time to do your maid of honor duties the next day or else I’m kicking your ass.”
Dorothy laughed through her words, “Says the woman who was planning to pre-game the day of my wedding. And now you can’t.” Playfully, Dorothy stuck out her tongue at her sister and then moved to the vanity to have a look at herself.
“That’s the dress by the way. I’ve decided for you because you look bangin’ and that’s the only way you can go to a bachelorette party. In fact, you should borrow it a little longer and let this Will guy see you in it--maybe you’ll end up like me sooner than later.” Lena winked and was already beginning to hang her dresses back up as she teased her sister. “And I want your help along the way with this pregnancy stuff. I’m not a complete idiot but you’re trained for this stuff. Just don’t go hovering like crazy, okay? I’m gonna work for as long as I can on this run with Chicago but I already know Vic’s one helluva worrier so I don’t need two of you being like that, okay?”
“You’re my sister. I’m gonna worry anyway but I won’t hover. And if Vic starts driving you nuts, I’ll try and talk to him too.”
“Good. I’ll be holding you to that when I can’t see my feet anymore.”
Wiggling back out of the dress to return it to its hanger, Dorothy paused and gave Lena a long, meaningful look. They certainly didn’t see eye to eye all the time but Dorothy loved her sister unconditionally. Without a word, she set the dress on the bed and walked over to give her sister another hug. “Thanks, Lena.”
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thatashame · 6 years
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GroundWork; Q’n’A
ABOUT
Let me cut right to the chase, if I may. Go ahead. Ok. Just one more second... Bring it on, man. Do your worst. Show me what you got. Hey, easy on the tough guy talk. You got it. Sorry. Ok. I'm going to ask you about this Groundwork book. Shoot. What's the point? What's it meant to do? Wouldn't the world be a better place without it? Why don't I answer these one at a time, all right. Actually, now that I think about it, the first two are pretty much the same question. I guess you're right. Ok then. Groundwork is a textbook. Textbooks are supposed to teach people things. Does this one? I'm pretty sure it does. Then how come my client didn't learn a thing? Is your client by any chance a fat lazy moron with no work ethic? Yes, but that's beside the point here. See, that's where you're wrong. Explain. This is a two-way street we're talking about here. How so? Well, this book does have a lot to offer. But at the same time it asks a lot of the reader. Like what? Like that you actually read it and think about what it says and try hard to remember what you read. I see. Does it say that anywhere in the book? It's a given. My client begs to differ. Then your client shouldn't have bought the book. Well, he did. I didn't hold a gun to his head, did I? Although I wish I did now. Anyway, isn't it enough that he paid for the book? Is he expected to put in some work on top of that? Sorry to break it to you, but that's how learning generally works. I see. Listen, you sound like a reasonable person, unlike that waste of space you're representing. It's awfully nice of you to say that. The first part, I mean. So I wonder if maybe you have a recommendation? How is my client going to improve his English? He isn't. Would you mind expanding on that? Happily. It's pretty obvious that your client is a good-for-nothing slob with no ambition other than being a pain in the ass, someone who would rather make excuses for himself than buckle down, hit the books and get some work done. Wow. You really nailed it. That pretty much sums the guy up. It does, doesn't it? Yeah. Also, suing an English teacher? What kind of a dick move is that? You can say that again. Anyway, could you repeat what you just called him one more time so I can write it down? Sure. Does this mean you're dropping the lawsuit? Oh yeah, for sure. My heart was never in it anyway. I could tell. Wanna grab a beer later? Why the hell not. BY So who wrote this thing anyway? A guy. What guy? What's his name? What's he like? Does he dye his hair? Does he HAVE hair? Does he know how to replace a flat tire? Didn't he used to date my cousin? Stop already. Does any of that really matter? I mean, what difference does it make if he's getting a bald spot or he hasn't gone grocery shopping in fifteen years? It has nothing to do with what's in the book. I guess. Still, I wonder who's behind all of this. Maybe you're better off not knowing. What do you mean? What if the guy's a jerk? What if he did date your cousin, the ugly one with the lisp? What if he married her and never told you? What if he kidnaps little children and makes them read his books? Oh my God. I never thought of that. Makes you wonder, huh. Sure does. I hate that guy now. I wish he was dead. I should never have bought his book. Well, at least you learned a lesson. I guess I did. What's the lesson again? I don't really know. Don't trust anybody in their early 40s? Oh, right. © Hey, do you think this book's copyrighted? Why are you asking me that? I was thinking that maybe we could steal it. You mean like the whole thing? Like, just reprint it? Yeah. I mean, what's the worst that can happen? Well, we could get sued. By who? This guy's a nobody. He wouldn't dare mess with us. Apparently not. Besides, unless he has copyright, we're off the hook. I guess. What's copyright anyway? It means there's a piece of paper that says, This here is mine, I'm the one who created this and whoever tries to cheat me out of money is gonna hear from my lawyer. Oh, I'd hate to hear from anybody's lawyer. So would I. But the thing is, getting that piece of paper is kind of expensive. Oh. Well, the guy who wrote this, he sounds kind of cheap. He sure does. I don't think he could afford a lawyer. Also, who cares? That's a good point. All this legal stuff goes way over my head anyway. Hey, don't blame me. You're the one that brought it up. Fair enough. So you're not worried that we could get in trouble? Hell no. This is a win-win situation. Not for the guy, it isn't. Right. Forgot about him. But mark my words, this book is going to make us filthy rich. What if no one buys it, though? I mean, it's a grammar textbook. It is? I haven't read it. You haven't? No. I assumed it was one of those vampire books. Whatever gave you that idea? It says Grammar right here on the cover. Oh, give me a break. I'm too busy making money to read stuff. Including the stuff that's supposed to make you all that money? Huh? You know what, forget about it. Wanna shoot some pool? Sounds great. Ok. So just to be sure, the book thing's off, right? What book thing? Never mind. Line up the balls, will you? D.O.A. Hey bro, how many of these are you thinking of printing? What do you think would be a good first run? Depends on how many readers there are out there. Let me think. Uh, right now... there... are... none. You're a real smartass, you know that? I do. What was the question again? Once the book's out, how many buyers will there be, you think? Not many. A couple dozen? A couple? Half of a couple? Oh. Well then, here's an idea. Don't print it. Just save yourself the trouble. Financially speaking, that makes total sense and I appreciate it. Except... Why do I even bother giving you advice? Look, I just can't not print it. It'd kill me. This book deserves to exist. Even if no one gives a rat's ass about it? Especially then. Seriously, man. Would anyone care if this book didn't exist? Not that I know of. Sounds like a no-brainer to me, sorry. I know. I'm still going to go through with it, though. Well, consider yourself warned. I will. Hey, can I borrow a grand? You have got to be kidding me. No, really. I'm broke. And the book wants out. You got a hell of a nerve, man. I know. I get that from Dad. Of course you do. Let me get my wallet. And that pretty much covers everything you really need to know about this book. ABOUT Tak já půjdu přímo k jádru věci, jestli to nevadí. Klidně. Ještě chvilinku... Sem s tím. Se předveďte. Ukažte, co ve vás je. Ty drsné řeči trošku omezíme, ano. Jasně. Omlouvám se. Tak. Dám vám několik dotazů ohledně knihy Groundwork. Ptejte se. Jaký má kniha smysl? Co je jejím cílem? Nebylo by bez ní na světě líp? Já na ty dotazy s dovolením odpovím postupně, ano? No, když nad tím tak přemýšlím, ty první dva jsou v podstatě shodné. To asi jo. Dobrá tedy. Groundwork je učebnice. Učebnice mají za úkol učit. A tahle učí? Podle mě určitě. Tak jak to, že můj klient se z ní nic nenaučil? Není to náhodou tak, že váš klient je líný tlustý pamprd, kterému se nechce pracovat? To sice ano, ale o to nejde. No a v tom se právě mýlíte. To mi vysvětlete. Tahle knížka totiž vyžaduje úsilí na obou stranách. V jakém smyslu? No, ona sice hodně nabízí, ale zároveň toho po čtenáři hodně chce. Co třeba? Třeba to, aby ji skutečně četl a přemýšlel nad tím co čte a snažil se něco si semtam zapamatovat. Aha. Je tohle někde v knize zmíněno? Ne. To se rozumí samo sebou. Můj klient se na to dívá jinak. Pak si váš klient tuhle knihu neměl pořizovat. Už se stalo. Stál jsem snad za ním s nabitou puškou? Nestál. A teď vidím, že je to škoda. Nestačí snad, že za tu knihu zaplatil? To se ještě předpokládá, že bude muset vynaložit nějaké úsilí? Asi to neuslyšíte rád, ale tak to při učení všeobecně chodí. Aha. Poslyšte, vy mi připadáte jako rozumná ženská, na rozdíl od toho hňupa, co ho tady zastupujete. To ráda slyším, tedy tu první část. Doporučil byste mému klientovi něco? Jak si zlepší svou angličtinu? Nezlepší si ji nijak. Mohl byste být konkrétnější? Rád. Je zcela evidentní, že váš klient je naprostý budižkničemu bez jakékoli touhy se někam posunout, který dokáže jenom otravovat a prudit a který radši hledá výmluvy, než aby zabral, sedl ke knížkám a něco se naučil. No teda. To jste ho vystihl úplně přesně. Takový on fakt je. Že jo? Jo. A žalovat učitele angličtiny, to přece může udělat jenom debil. Souhlas. Mohl byste mi prosím ještě jednou zopakovat, jak jste ho před chvílí popsal, abych si to mohla zapsat? Není problém. Takže beru to tak, že žalobu stahujete? Pochopitelně. Mě to stejně nějak nebralo. To mi bylo od začátku jasné. Co, nezajdeme spolu na jedno? Výborný nápad. BY Takže kdo to vůbec napsal, tady toto? Jakýsi borec. Jaký? Jak se jmenuje? Co je to za člověka? Barví si vlasy? Má vůbec vlasy? Umí vyměnit pneumatiku? Nechodil náhodou s mou sestřenicí? Už toho nechej. Vždyť na tom vůbec nesejde, co je zač. Hraje snad nějakou roli to, že začíná plešatět nebo že už patnáct roků nebyl na nákupu? S knížkou jako takovou to nemá nic společného. To máš asi pravdu. Ale stejně by mě zajímalo, kdo za tím stojí. Možná je lepší nic nevědět. Jak jako? Co když je to nějaký pitomec? Co když s tou tvojí sestřenicí fakt chodil, s tou škaredou, co šišlá? Co když se vzali a neřekli ti o tom? Co když unáší malé děti a nutí je číst ty svoje učebnice? Ježišmarjá, to mě vůbec nenapadlo. To jsou mi věci. Vidíš? Už o něm nechci ani slyšet. Doufám, že chcípne. A tu jeho knížku jsem si neměl kupovat. Aspoň jsi zas o něco chytřejší, že? To nejspíš ano. A o co přesně? O to, že už nebudeš důvěřovat lidem co je jim lehce přes čtyřicet. Jo, o to. © Ty, myslíš, že na tuhle knížku má někdo copyright? Proč se mě na to ptáš? Sem si říkal, že bysme ji čórli. Jakože celou? Že bysme ji prostě přetiskli? Jo. Co tak hrozného se nám může stát? Mohli by nás zažalovat. A kdo, prosímtě? Tenhle borec je úplná nula. Ten by se ničeho neodvážil. To asi ne. Navíc, pokud ten copyright nemá, tak jsme úplně z obliga. Jo. Co to vůbec je, ten copyright? To je takový papír, na kterém je něco ve smyslu, Toto je moje, to jsem vytvořil já a kdo mě bude chtít odrbat, na toho pošlu právníka. Já bych nerad, aby na mě někdo posílal právníka. Já taky. Ale jde o to, že ten papír není úplně levný. Aha. Ten týpek je podle všeho docela držgrešle. No právě. Podle mě si právníka ani nemůže dovolit. A i kdyby, tak co? To je pravda. Mě všechny tyhle právnické věci stejně úplně míjí. No, na mě se nedívej, tys s tím přišel. To uznávám. Takže ty se nebojíš, že bysme z toho mohli mít nějaké problémy? Vůbec ne. Tohle je pro všechny strany přínosné. Kromě toho druhého člověka. Jo, na toho jsem zapomněl. Ale pamatuj – tahle knížka nám vydělá hromadu peněz. Co když si ji nikdo nekoupí? Ona je to přece jenom učebnice gramatiky. Jo? Já jsem se do ní nedíval. Ty ses do ní nedíval? Ne. Já jsem předpokládal, že to je něco s těma upírama. Jak tě něco takového vůbec napadlo? Přímo tady na obale je napsáno Gramatika. Furt se do mě kruci nenavážej. Já mám tolik práce s vyděláváním peněz, že nemám čas číst. Nemáš čas číst ani to, co ti ty peníze má vydělat? Co prosím? Nic, zapomeň na to. Nedáme kulec? Supr nápad. Fajn. Takže to s tou knížkou se ruší, chápu to správně? S jakou knížkou? Žádnou. Připrav koule, jo? D.O.A. Brácho, poslyš, kolik přemýšlíš, že těch knížek vytiskneš? Co myslíš, že by byl dobrý náklad? Přijde na to, kolik máš čtenářů. Moment. Aktuálně... mám... nula čtenářů. Ty chytrolíne. No jo. Na co ses to ptal? Až ta knížka vyjde, kolik lidí si ji myslíš koupí? Málo. Pár desítek? Pár? Půlka páru? V tom případě ti poradím – nic netiskni. Ušetříš si spoustu problémů. Z finančního hlediska je to skvělá rada a díky ti za ni. Akorát že... Že já se vůbec snažím ti radit. Podívej, já to vytisknout prostě musím, jinak bych strašně trpěl. Tahle knížka si zaslouží existovat. I pokud o ni nikdo ani nezavadí? Obzvláště pokud o ni nikdo ani nezavadí. Teď vážně. Vadilo by někomu, kdyby neexistovala? O nikom takovém nevím. Tak potom není co řešit, sorry. Chápu. Já do toho ale stejně půjdu. Varoval jsem tě. Já vím. Ty, nepůjčil bys mi litr? Si snad děláš prdel. Nedělám, jsem úplně bez peněz. A ta knížka musí vyjít. Neuvěřitelná drzost, fakt. To mám po otci. To jo. Zajdu si pro peněženku. A to je tak zhruba všechno co o téhle knize potřebujete vědět.
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