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loki--fics · 3 years

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Stardust - Part 7

Loki x Reader

content warnings: cancer / illness mentions

author's note: i'm sorry about the hiatus! here's the update you've been waiting for, i hope you like it! ♡

"Don't worry," The agent said, a malicious smile on his face. His eyes were cold, boring into yours with an intensity that shook you to your core. "This will only hurt a bit."

He lied. The serum he injected you with felt like hot lava pouring through your veins, and you pulled hard against your restraints as you screamed. "Stop!" You wailed, tears flowing down your cheeks. "Please, make it stop.."

"We need to understand how you got your powers, don't you see?" He asked. "You're going to be a part of the next great step in mankind's evolution."

You sobbed. "I was born with them, I've always had them please, I'll do anything, just stop torturing me."

He grinned, his cruel features contorting in satisfaction as he spoke. "Anything, you say?"

"Yes, I'll do anything. Whatever you want, just please, I can't take it anymore!" You shouted.

Grabbing your chin, the agent forced you to look into his cold, calculating eyes. "What I want is to continue to search for the source of your power."

He picked up another needle, shoving it into the IV drip and emptying it while you screamed.

"Y/N! Wake up!"

Flailing, you felt someone grab your forearms and you yelped, shying away. "Please, no more," You begged.

"Look at me," The voice said, and you opened your eyes, seeing Loki staring at you in concern. "What happened?"

You took a shuddering breath as you tried to calm down, feeling the wetness of tears on your cheeks. "It was just a bad dream," You mumbled.

Loki eyed you, understanding and sorrow evident on his face. "It wasn't just a dream, was it? It was a memory." As you nodded, Loki released your arms. "Do you wish to talk about it? You have no obligation to-"

"I was taken by HYDRA, upon the discovery of my... Well, supernatural abilities," You said, interrupting him. "I've had them for as long as I can remember, I was born with them."

He realised that, in all the time he's known you, he had yet to ask what your abilities were. "What are they?"

You sighed. "I have a connection to the elements. I don't control them, but they come to me when I summon them, as long as I don't try to abuse them."

"Can you show me?" Loki asked, curiosity piqued.

You blushed, but nodded, holding out your hand. "Air, please come to me." You watched Loki's eyes grow wide as a soft breeze surrounded the two of you, brushing against your skin and lifting your hair in a mini-whirlwind. A ball of air swirled in your palm as Loki stared.

"Fire, please come to me," You continued, and suddenly the air around you was filled with the rich, woody scent of a roaring fire, and your skin grew warm. Fire replaced air in your palm.

"Water, please come to me." The warmth was replaced by a coolness, and the smell shifted to a clean, salty scent, water washing over the fire in your palm. Loki could only stare, eyes wide as the sensations washed over him.

You watched him subtly as you continued. "Earth, please come to me." A rock formed in your palm, and the air was filled with the smell of freshly cut grass and wheat, the feeling of a soft meadow beneath you.

"Last, but certainly not least, spirit. Please come to me."

Feeling his own chest leap, Loki gasped. The ball in your palm turned a shimmering shade of lavender, and it was as though the two of you were surrounded by the elements.

"Incredible," Loki murmured softly. With a flick of your wrist, a breath of warm air caressed his cheek.

"I know what you're doing," You said softly. "Thank you."

Loki nodded. While he wanted to hear your story, he was aware that you should share that when you were of good mind to do so, not when the memories had been so freshly pushed to the forefront of your mind where you believed them to be real again. "You're welcome."

"Air, Fire, Water, Earth, and Spirit, thank you. You may depart," You said softly. As the elements departed, you both felt the loss, like saying goodbye to a friend.

"But more than that, Loki, I really wanted to thank you for being my friend these last few weeks," You continued.

With a start, Loki's eyes snapped to yours. "What did you just say?" He asked. Surely he had misheard-

"Thank you for being my friend," You repeated.

"I am your friend?" He asked.

You chuckled. "Of course you are. Am I yours?"

"You are my only," He replied softly, and your heart broke for him. "Without ill intention or ulterior motive."

"Well, I know things were a bit shaky at the start, but I've felt more like myself around you than I have since I was diagnosed. Considering what's going on with my brain, it's-"

"Your brain?" Loki interrupted. "What do you mean?"

You mentally curse yourself. How could you have been so foolish? "You cannot say a word to anyone, especially not Tony. Promise me, please."

Loki had never made a promise in his life. But for you, he found himself doing so. "I promise I will say nothing."

Sighing, you told Loki the truth. "I have a new tumour, on my brain. My cancer spread."

Even though he did not wholly understand your cancer, he did understand that this was serious. "Why have you not told anyone?" He asked.

"Because then I won't get even a moment's peace," You said. "The team is going to be up my arse day and night."

"I can see how that would be frustrating," Loki teased, and you suddenly remembered how they had been doing the same to him. "Is there nothing that can be done?"

"No," You replied. "Like the tumours on my lungs, it's inoperable. They're hopeful that treatment will help."

Loki's chest felt tight. He didn't like this, he was getting too close. How could he have let this happen? He was a God, he would live for centuries after you passed, even if you weren't ill and besides that, you were kind, gentle, and pure. Too good for the likes of him.

Without a word, Loki got up and left. You watched his back as he walked away, wondering if you had said or done something to upset him. The couch was cold without him, and you wished you had thought before you spoke. What a stupid slip up! You scolded yourself. Why did you have to say that? Now he's upset.

With a sigh, you gathered your blankets and walked to your room, not wanting to deal with anyone right now. You sincerely hoped that Loki would keep his promise, the mere thought of Tony finding out causing anxiety to fill your chest. He won't find out, he can't, You thought.

Pacing his room, Loki ran a frustrated hand through his hair. What were you thinking? He asked himself. Letting the girl close, you should know better than that! You are not Thor, you do not consort with mortals! You know that it only brings pain when they inevitably die.

He couldn't help the way his chest tightened knowing that your cancer had spread, it meant you were dying more quickly. Especially to your brain, Loki knew that you didn't stand a chance. How much longer did you have? Months? Maybe a couple of years?

You knew this, He thought. Mortals are fragile, weak creatures. They grow old, they get sick, they die. He made up his mind to stay away from you, but it was much easier said than done. You had called him your friend, without malicious intent, something he had not heard in quite some time. You had thanked him for it, something he had not even realised he'd done. How could he ignore you now?

As you sat in your room, doodling in your notebook, all you could think about was Loki. It was wrong of you to burden him, You thought. You should have lied. You thought back to that first day you had seen him in the library.

"Did you truly believe you could lie to me, the God of Mischief?" He'd asked. "I basically invented lying."

You smiled at the memory. No, you couldn't have lied to him, nor did you want to. You had always been open with Loki, more so than anyone else at the tower, even Thor. He had been your best friend, yes, but you felt a kind of soul connection with his brother. While you cared for him, you realised that Loki truly understood you in ways that Thor could not begin to.

Not wanting to lose that, you scribbled a note on a spare sheet of paper, folding it and taking it to Loki's bedroom, sliding it under the door.

Loki watched the paper glide across the floor, picking it up with his long, slender fingers.

~ Loki,

I'm sorry if I've upset you in any way. Please, let me know if there is anything I can do to make it up to you.

Yours, Y/N ~

"I truly am an asshole," He muttered.

128 notes · View notes

drawlfoy · 4 years

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Wonders of Ohio - P.7

masterlist (catch up with the series here!)

request guidelines (yes i am taking them!)

pairing: draco x reader

request: no! this is my original idea

summary: american high school senior is in for a surprise when her family takes on a foreign exchange student with a mysterious past.

warnings: teen drinking, mentions of an armed robbery, language, a brief hospital visit, and descriptions of illness

a/n: hey. so. this is definitely where stuff starts to go down. thanks so much for waiting...i have so many more things planned for this series and i’m thrilled to see it come together the way that it is right now. thank you very much for reading and thank you for your patience!

taglist: @gruffle1 @missmulti @cleopatera @hahaboop @accio-rogers @geeksareunique @eltanin-malfoy @war-sword @cams-lynn @itsivyberry @ayo-cowbelly @nerd-domland @yesnerdsblog @shizarianathania @evanstanfanatic @strawberriesonsummer @hariosborn @night-ving @straightzoinked @imintoodeeptostop @icintliviinyiniilsiji @erisdogwood @loveissupernatural

word count: 6k

song recs:

murders - miracle musical

pink in the night - mitski

always, forever - cults

ice dance - ashton gleckman

enjoy!

Y/N should’ve felt cold when she awoke on the wet pavement. Despite a figure looming over her and blocking out most of the rain, the back of her neck and body was drenched in the cool water from the puddle to her right. It was easily in the mid 40s at this point in the evening, something that would ordinarily make her toes curl and her figure tremble, but it felt...different.

She felt like her insides had been scorched, like she’d downed an entire pitcher of boiling hot water. Every movement she made hurt--right down to wiggling her fingertips and her eyes. Her body was exhausted. If she hadn’t known any better, she would’ve thought that she’d just finished running a marathon in hell.

“Can you hear me?” A posh British voice cut through her musings as the figure above her came into focus.

Draco.

“Yeah. Was there a fire?” Her words left her throat painfully, scratching their way up her vocal chords.

“Er...what do you remember?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. The memories of the night slowly began trickling back--she’d done Draco’s tie, told him to watch his drink, argued with Chad about how funny he was, and walked to...Oh, yeah. The antique store. The box. The stars inside of her.

She flinched. “I fainted. I’m sorry. That was really stupid of me.”

“What?” Draco shifted back, the light from the front of the antique store catching his face. There were lines in his forehead that she’d never seen before. “Why?”

“I didn’t eat enough today,” said Y/N. Speaking was starting to feel less and less like lighting her trachea on fire. “I was really nervous and I lost my appetite. I’m an easy fainter.”

He cleared his throat. “Er, okay. Yeah. That was it. Anyways, we have to get home. You need to, uh, eat.”

“Okay.”

Y/N allowed herself to be hauled up onto her feet, swaying slightly once her full weight was on her feet. Her sense of gravity felt like it had been loosened. With every step, she felt pulled to the ground from a different part of her core.

“Steady. Don’t fall.” By some miracle, once Draco’s hands were gently guiding her shoulders, she was able to make her way to the backseat of Heather’s car before she collapsed.

“Where are we going?” asked Y/N. Despite no longer feeling like she was near death, her head was still cloudy.

“Home,” was all Draco said as he slid in on the other side of the car.

She didn’t bother putting on her seatbelt--she still felt like she was about to keel over--and rested her head on the car window. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Draco open the passenger car door for a moment, pause, shut it, and instead tug open the door across from her and slide in.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“My insides feel like they’re on fire.” Y/N winced as she tried to shift and get the weight off of her neck. “I think I’m sick.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” said Heather from the front, her eyes catching Y/N’s from the mirror. “You were just laying down in the middle of a rainstorm. Go home and take some Zi-cam or something, jesus.”

Y/N tried to chuckle in response, but it came out as a sorry squeak instead. No one made a move to further comment on the evening’s events as Heather pulled onto the freeway and began to gain speed. The sudden lurches and changes of speed in the car set Y/N’s stomach into a churning frenzy, her head growing light again.

“Draco.”

Her voice was so soft it was hardly audible--the syllables jumbled together on her lips in a quiet mess--but he immediately snapped to attention.

“What is it?”

She took a deep breath. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“For the love of god, at least try and hold it until we get off the freeway.”

“Shut up, Heather,” said Draco. Y/N couldn’t help but feel the slightest twinge of satisfaction as he rolled his eyes and turned his attention back on her. “Is it the motion? Are you sick from that?”

“I don’t know,” she managed.

He sighed. “Helpful.”

“Dick.”

Draco frowned at her, but she could see the slightest twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Can you move into the middle seat for me? Do you need help?”

Once Y/N had scooted over from her side, he leaned away from her and pointed up to the sunroof above them. “Go ahead and count all the lights that you can see in the sky. I promise it’ll make you feel better. Just keep your head pointed up.”

She tilted her head back. The night sky was largely gloomy, but the flickering lights of the planes that dove in and out of clouds provided some glowing dots. As she counted, Heather hit the fog strips and nearly threw her back into her original seat. She felt a warm hand wrap around her wrist and gently grip, the long fingers completely encircling it.

Y/N blinked. The nausea was gone. “What are you, a sorcerer or something?” she joked, not expecting to see Draco so frozen at the comment. “Kidding. I just feel better already. Thank you.”

He nodded and turned away to look out the window. His soft grip on her hand was long gone, and Y/N took Heather’s slightly uncoordinated driving as a cue to slide back into her seat and buckle up.

“If you really need to puke,” said Heather, “I have a Target bag back somewhere under the passenger seat. Please avoid the seats. They’re authentic vegan leather.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“Just don’t throw up, okay?”

Y/N was in Art History when it happened. The chills began, so intense and teeth-chattering that her teacher took one look at her and sent her immediately to the nurse. Sylvia offered to walk her, but she was only allowed to under the condition that she avoid all physical contact with her and sanitized each surface that Y/N touched. It was a wonder she made it to the first floor office--each step felt heavier than the last, and from the beginning she felt moments from simply passing out.

A temperature check revealed that she had a mild fever--100.3 F, to be exact--and a call home resulted in her mother’s full voicemail box and the remembrance that her parents were out for the week.

“Can someone else drive you?” Nurse Hazelwood asked as she stepped away to douse her hands in hand sanitizer. “I don’t think you should get yourself home in this state.”

After some deliberation, it was decided that Sylvia would take her home and call someone for a ride back. It was a bit overkill--but she didn’t know what else to do.

“And can you make sure Draco has a ride home today?” Y/N asked as they pulled into the driveway of the Y/L/N home.

“Stop stressing so much, dude.” Sylvia took the keys out of the ignition to give her an expectant look. “You’re sick. Go inside and make some soup or something. I’m sure your boyfriend will figure it out.”

“Now I really am gonna be sick,” said Y/N as she rolled her eyes.

The rest of her afternoon was a blur. Y/N tried to force down some chicken soup, but it took all her might to keep it from coming right back up. It was safe to say her appetite was gone.

After a failed attempt at walking up the stairs to crawl into bed, she collapsed onto the couch. The last thing she remembered was the sound of footsteps outside the front door.

Y/N hadn’t been to the hospital since she had to get stitches in middle school. Then, all she did was lie back in the chair and try to shut her eyes as the needle wove in and out of her torn thigh (bad bike accident, in case anyone was curious). But now was different.

Her eyes hurt to open, like someone had thrown soap in them and the very line where her two lids met were lined with knives. Everything inside of her was on fire--a manic, all-consuming fire that made it impossible for her to keep anything down.

The nurses and doctors were no help--not like Y/N actually had her eyes long enough to see any of them--but their voices were enough to let her know what was going on.

“Fever of 104--”

“Can’t keep anything down--”

“Severely dehydrated--”

“Tested negative for everything we tried--”

“Never seen anything like this before--”

“No viruses were detected--”

“Not mono--”

As she wove in and out of consciousness, one fact stuck in her mind: I think I might die here. Something is very wrong.

When she did dream, images of the box she picked up plagued her mind. The symbol, etched lightly into the black top, glowed menacingly in her hands. Open it, open it something around her urged, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t.

It was during one of these dreams that her world suddenly shifted back to her hospital room. She was suspended above her body, looking down at the tangle of IVs and various other wires that imprisoned her...but she wasn’t alone.

The dim lighting and darkness outside confirmed her suspicion that it was indeed late at night. A figure, tall and slim, was sitting to her left. It was whispering something unintelligible as it gently took her hand and squeezed.

If Y/N could scream, she would’ve. The sudden pull back to her body was so strong that she was yanked across the room so she just barely hovered over her corporeal form. She could feel a grip, steady and firm, wrapped around her hand as a rush of cool ran through her. Each breath, each pulse, each heartbeat pulled her back to herself. It felt like a bucket of water had been poured over--into--her, extinguishing the flames that were eating away the inside of her.

The figure’s whispering finally came to an end as she settled back into her physical body. Before she drifted off to a peaceful slumber, a familiar voice rose above the quiet whispers.

“I’m sorry.”

“Y/N!”

Her eyes shot open to see her mother, heavy eye bags and all, standing over her bed. “Hi Mo-”

“You scared me half to death!” Mrs. Y/L/N interrupted, placing her hand on her forehead. “No fever. Thank god. You know, when you were a baby, you were horribly ill with…”

Y/N sat and pretended she was listening as she relinquished in the fact that she was awake, she was here. The fire inside of her was long gone, replaced with the familiar...whatever was there before. Nothing? Maybe. Nothing was good, or at least better than the painful fire. It struck her with a sudden urgency that she had no idea what day it was, much less time. What about her homework? What about her UChicago application? Her counselor was supposed to submit her letter of rec a week ago...or a week ago from whenever she was brought to the hospital.

“Honey, are you even listening?”

“Uh, yeah,” she said.

“That’s what I thought. The food here is horrendous--of course you’re excited to go home.” Mrs. Y/L/N took her glasses off to wipe at the lens in a gesture that seemed more habitual and less effective. “You poor thing. Your father is still in New York--John simply couldn’t have him leave--but he’ll be back as soon as he can. Let’s get you out of here.”

The next few hours were a strange blur of paperwork, changes of clothes, and a bag of medication. The nurses and doctors were bewildered at her miraculous recovery and expressed this at every chance they had on her way out, reminding her to immediately seek attention if she feels anything similar again.

“What day is it?” Y/N finally asked once they were on the way home.

“Wow, you really were out of it.” Mrs. Y/L/N flicked her blinker on as she merged onto the freeway. “Sunday. You were there almost a whole week.”

“Huh? What about school? Do my teachers know? How did Draco get to school? Is he ok?”

“Of course your teachers know, hun. They’re all being very forgiving with their late work policies. As long as you’re putting effort into learning the material you missed, they have no problem letting you skip out on the homework. As for Draco...I think he’s fine. Sylvia’s family took him under their wing for the week. He’s still alive.”

And such a statement was proven when Y/N walked through the front door. Draco shot up from his seat at the living room couch the moment they locked eyes, his hands wringing back and forth.

“You’re okay.”

“You’re okay too,” she responded airily. “When I wasn’t dying I was worrying myself about how you’d do without me. I see my fears of you walking into moving traffic didn’t come true, thank God.”

His lips, tight, offered her the slightest upturn.

“Y/N, dearie, no need to harass the boy,” her mother said. “Up to your room. I’ll bring you some soup in a moment. You need to rest, young lady.”

She sent one last teasing grin at Draco before she was ushered up the steps, her mother fussing over her the entire way.

“So,” Sylvia said, crossing her legs over the other and giving Y/N a wicked look, “Consider this your last formal invitation to my Halloween party. It’s this Friday. It’s not even the night before the ED deadline. You should go.”

“I don’t know, Vy,” said Y/N. Her art history notes lay untouched in front of her as the teacher droned on about something related to how mannerism as an art style came to fame during the...Reformation? She didn’t know. “I’m kind of tired. I feel bad about leaving Draco alone, too.”

“Dude.”

“What?”

Sylvia rolled her eyes. “Will you just do us all a favor and admit that you like him? It’s getting exhausting. Just ask him to come with you.”

“You’re absolutely off your rocker if you think I’m gonna do that,” Y/N said.

“I’m just saying, you’ve done weirder things. Like almost dying from...literally nothing.”

“Hey, hey, don’t be rude. I’ll think about it but no guarantees. I don’t really think Draco is the partying type, though.”

“I’d be careful about making such a wild assumption. You never know what goes on in those posh private British schools for rich kids or wherever he went.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Her friend laughed. “No. Just an optimist.”

Y/N swung the sleeve of her cardigan at her, whacking her pretty good on the bicep. If Sylvia was bothered by it, she didn’t show it. “Fine. I’ll ask him as a friend.”

“Pansy.”

Y/N was never the type to enjoy background noise as she worked, but there was something nostalgic about hearing the identical voices of her local news anchors in the room over as she sat at the kitchen table and worked on a last minute Physics review set.

“Hey loser,” she called out as she saw a head of blond hair pass by her to get to the kettle. “Care to join me?”

Draco turned, his mouth open and ready to issue a retort before he appeared to change his mind. He’d been oddly distant lately, avoiding her in the common spaces they often saw each other and choosing to get breakfast and his evening tea at times that he knew she wouldn’t be down in the kitchen for. Perhaps that was the reason why she was sitting at the kitchen table at present, but of course she’d never admit that. Not even to herself.

“Can’t. I’m a bit busy with work.”

“Draco,” she chided. “What work is it? I can help you, you know.”

He paused for a few seconds, taking in the scatter of papers on the table and the nearly complete review sheet. “The Physics review is taking me a bit of time,” he said, his tone forced and resigned.

“Go grab it!” She grinned as his scowl deepened. “If you’re nice I’ll let you copy.”

She lost track of time as they went over his work, his pencil marks filling the page with symbols that were unfamiliar to her.

“Your handwriting is really nice,” she noted. “Like, so nice that I feel like you could really make it as a study youtuber or a study blogger or whatever. You have that potential if you want to tap into it, dude.”

“I have no idea what that is,” he said neatly as he punched an equation into her calculator.

“Fair.”

She sat still for a few more moments, watching as her study partner’s chest rose and fell with each breath he took. Sylvia’s Halloween party was just a few days away, and she needed to ask him at some point. Every time she mustered up the courage to open her mouth and hitch her breath, the words would die on her tongue.

The silence weighed heavy in the air as the words of the news anchors floated over…”multiple reports of an armed robbery….suburbs surrounding Cincinnati...cautioned to lock doors...potential link to the missing persons case…”

“Draco,” she said finally. He jolted up from his work to gaze at her. His eyes were probably the prettiest things she’d ever seen--all pale and metallic and silvery. “Uh, I’m going to this Halloween party this Friday. You should come with me, it sounds like it’ll be fun. I think that Heather will be there.”

Y/N mentally groaned at her admission to Heather’s attendance but didn’t know what else to say. She wanted him to come--even if it was so he could spend the whole time being woo-ed over by her.

“Er,” he began, twirling his pencil around his fingers. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Homework, you know.”

“Just finish it before--That’s what I’m doing.”

“I think I’m go--”

The slam of the front door made both of them jump, scattering Y/N’s long forgotten work and threatening to knock Draco’s mug over.

“Hi kids,” Mrs. Y/L/N greeted as she entered the kitchen, an armful of grocery bags in tow. “Studying?”

“Yeah,” Y/N answered. “By the way, Mom, Sylvia invited me over to her house on Friday for a sort of Halloween get together. Can I go?”

Her mother was silent for a few moments as she methodically unpacked the paper bags on the counter.

“I don’t see why not. Is Draco coming too?”

“No,” he replied before Y/N even had the chance to open her mouth.

“I don’t think you should be home alone at night, my dear,” said her mother. “Have you seen the news? There’s someone on the loose. I’d feel much better if you were with Y/N--Robert and I are going to an auction that night. We won’t be around.”

“I’ll be fi--”

“If Y/N is going, you’re going,” Mrs. Y/L/N said as she finished unloading and brushed her hands off on her thighs. Her no nonsense demeanor rarely showed itself, but when it did, she was difficult to argue with.

Y/N shrunk down in her seat as Draco sent her a sour look.

Sorry she mouthed. If he noticed, he didn’t show it.

“Remind me again why we’re walking?”

Draco’s snotty tone carried through the crisp fall air as they neared the street that Sylvia lived on.

“Because,” said Y/N, “Quite frankly, I don’t think I can get through being in an enclosed space with Heather for an entire night without being at least a little buzzed. And I’m not gonna have you drive us home.”

“Hmph.” His dress shoes, odd pointed tips and all, kicked at the fall leaves below them. His costume was literally nothing different than what he wore when he arrived--a crisp white dress shirt, an oddly cut blazer, and a weird looking green and silver pin attached to his lapel.

“If anyone asks,” she had told him from the hallway as they were getting ready to go that afternoon, “Just say you’re a corporate rat or something.”

He’d snorted at her choice of clothing--a completely dark brown set up with a picture of a shoe taped to her chest.

“I’m the shoe that that Iraqi reporter threw at Bush,” she had explained.

He just stared.

“If you aren’t having fun, please just let me know,” Y/N said as they turned one of the last corners. “We can tell her our fish died or something. Sylvia would totally understand.”

“We don’t have a fish.”

“I know, genius,” she teased, giving him a little punch. Instead of balking, he just crinkled his nose. “But she doesn’t.”

“I think she does.”

“You’re missing the point. You’ll tell me if you want to go back home, promise?”

“I want to go home.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

He grinned as they waited for Sylvia to open the door.

The next few hours were a bit of a blur. Y/N didn’t drink much at first--maybe the equivalent of 2 or 3 shots, spaced out in between a couple of sips of water--but the energy in Sylvia’s home definitely had her more buzzed than usual. There was something about her home that always felt twice as spooky, a type of underlying energy that pulsed at the seams.

To her surprise, Draco actually took a cup of whatever Sylvia offered him and downed it. She laughed when she saw him finally lower the cup as he furrowed his brow at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

His features looked softer in the dim lighting of Sylvia’s living room--all the tension that he carried in his shoulders and face seemed to be gone. When he smiled at her, it was all she could do to keep herself from disintegrating into the couch.

As the night wore on, Y/N felt herself getting progressively more tipsy, and, in her haze, she could see that Draco was going down a similar path. He was touchier than she would have expected--hanging onto her elbow or sleeve whenever Sylvia or Y/N said anything funny, not moving his leg when her thigh was pressed against his, stretching his arm out behind her and resting it on the back of the couch--and she found herself wishing she was sober enough for it to feel real. Maybe she was so drunk that she was imagining it all. Maybe she was actually asleep next to her toilet at home after throwing it all up and was just dreaming.

“Fuck!” Someone exclaimed, prompting her to look up. Abby, a girl she kind of knew from her grade, had spilled the entirety of her drink on the coffee table.

“Y/N,” Sylvia whined, “I’m too tired to get the paper towels. Will you and Draco go?”

Despite the half-hearted protests from Draco, she managed to haul him up by his arm as she pushed back the pleasure that Sylvia saw them as a sort of team, a sort of unit.

“I think she keeps the extra paper towels in her pantry,” she told him as they made their way over to the quiet part of the house. The light hanging over the kitchen island was on, but the rest of the room was bathed in darkness.

“Right he--”

Y/N froze as she saw it--or, as she would come to discover, them.

Heather and Chad stared back at them, looking much more disheveled than one is permitted simply sitting on the kitchen counter. It was hard to make it out clearly, but Heather’s cheeks looked flushed. Chad’s matched.

“In a fucking kitchen? Chad, I thought you were better than this,” Y/N said, turning and grabbing the paper towels from the cabinet behind them. “Get a room, you weirdos.”

Chad laughed, a short lived and awkward sound.

Once they were back out in the living room, Y/N tossed the paper towels to Sylvia. “I think we’re gonna head back. We have to walk, you know.”

Sylvia dramatically threw herself back onto the couch. “I suppose. Thanks for coming guys, it was nice to see you outside of class again.”

“Likewise!” Y/N called over her shoulder as she walked out of the door with Draco by her side.

The walk home was silent for the first few moments. Despite the fact that it was late October, the night was pleasantly crisp and not too cold. The only sources of illumination were the scattered street lights, casting a soft orange hue on the two.

As they turn the corner onto the main street, Y/N’s shoe caught on a crack in the pavement in a movement that would’ve sent her sprawling face-first into the cold concrete if it hadn’t been for Draco’s hand grabbing her own and yanking her back up.

“Thanks,” she said. His hands were warmer than usual despite the coolness of the air.

He just sent her a small smile as he untangled their fingers and placed his hand back into his pants pockets.

“Weird to see Chad and Heather, right?” Y/N nudged him with her shoulder. To her surprise, he nudged back.

“I guess. I thought it was obvious, though.”

“What?! No way.”

“Are you blind? Heather’s been all over Chad,” he said.

“Are you? I thought she was obsessed with you!”

“No, definitely not.”

“Are you sure about that?” she asked, turning to look at him. The dim glow of the streetlights made his hair look almost like a halo. “She wouldn’t leave you alone.”

“Dunno.” Draco shrugged. It was then that Y/N remembered how much he’d had that night.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re probably not in the right mindset to be analyzing other people right now,” said Y/N.

His lips twitched upwards. “No, no, it’s ok. I’m fine. I just couldn’t be bothered over the whole ordeal. Entirely uninspiring, I think.”

“You’re such a nerd, even when you’re drunk,” teased Y/N. “It’s honestly a wonder that you spent the first month near failing physics.”

“Sod off.” He nudged her again, hard enough to make her sway. “You’re the one who’s still an insufferable smartass. I figured drinking would make you more tolerable.”

“Don’t be a dick,” she muttered as she shoved him back. “You know you love me.”

He froze in the middle of his retaliatory shove, his hand rested on her forearm.

“Sarcasm, king,” said Y/N. “I don’t mean it. I wouldn’t blame you if I were right, though. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m quite the commodity.”

“Oh, yes, most certainly.” His tone was dripping in faux genuity as he gave her a gentle push.

As he was doing this, Y/N grabbed the offending arm and took him down with her, landing in the soft garden bush in poor Ms. McCoyle’s front yard.

“Gotcha!” she cheered as he frowned from his spot on top of her. It took all her might to ignore the fact that his face was inches away. “It’s just my smart physics brain at work.”

“Your neighbor is gonna kill us.”

“She can try.”

Draco sat up, grabbing her hand and hauling her to her feet. She took the opportunity to hang onto the sleeve of his coat as a sneaking suspicion overtook her that things wouldn’t be like this again without the clever excuse of intoxication.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

Y/N let go of his sleeve to look up at his face in confusion. She followed his eyes, suddenly hardened with an emotion she couldn’t quite place, to their house at the end of the street.

“You shut the door behind us, right?” Draco asked.

“And locked it.”

Their front door, hanging wide open and swinging in the breeze, told a different story.

Sobering up was easy once the police sirens showed up and searched their house. Y/N could tell the responding sheriff knew they’d been drinking, but since they weren’t driving and were speaking clearly, he didn’t mention anything.

“We’ve searched the house,” he told them as they sat together outside on the curb. “It looks like it fits the profile of the other armed burglaries in the area, but nothing was taken this time. The bedroom that looks out into the garden is completely trashed--it seems like the suspect was looking through your things for something. The bedroom across the hall was displaced a bit, but nothing compared to the first.” He took another look at his notes, adjusting the thick rimmed glasses that were perched on his nose. “You kids are lucky. Whoever this is means business. There’s unfortunately not much we can do except set up a patrol to watch over the street for now. Please give us a call if you see anything or hear anything.”

They nodded. Y/N had placed a call to their parents while they waited a safe distance from the home for the police to arrive. She’d been shaking as she pressed their number into her phone, and Draco, to his credit, rested his hand on her thigh.

“We’ll be fine,” he’d said before retracting it. “Don’t worry.”

Draco seemed considerably calm for someone experiencing a home break in in a foreign country as they made their way into the house. The first responders had left the lights on, and the wash of LED bulbs did nothing to hide the disturbance of her bedroom. Everything of hers was thrown into the middle of the room from her drawers, closet, and dresser. Her laptop, open and plugged in, was left completely untouched.

“Draco,” she said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Depends, what is it?”

Y/N noted that he was getting considerably paler as they stood in her doorway. “I don’t think I can sleep here. Knowing what happened. Especially when it’s still a disaster.”

“Understandable.”

His features looked hardened again, like he’d gone through a filter of seriousness. She decided that this was probably her last chance to ask for any act of intimacy before the effects of alcohol dissipated in his system. “And I don’t want to sleep alone.”

“Er...Oh.” He stared at her. “What?”

“I know that this is really awkward, but can I, like, sleep on your floor or something? Just for tonight.” When she swallowed her throat felt painfully dry. “I don’t snore or anything. It’ll be like I’m not even there.”

Draco sucked in a long breath, casting his eyes up to the ceiling. Y/N wished she knew what he was thinking about. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

“Thank you thank you thank you,” she sang, darting into her room to grab a blanket and a pillow as he watched wordlessly by the doorframe.

The walk to his room was dead silent except for their sounds of shock when they saw the broken glass in the middle of the floor.

“I think that was from the picture frame,” Y/N said as she carefully walked into the middle of the room. Sure enough, a framed photo of her and their late dog that had been left on the wall was face down on the carpet.

“Is this when you ask me to sleep in my bed, too?” quipped Draco as he sidestepped the wreckage and sat on the opposite side of the queen mattress.

“Um...we can make a pillow barrier so we don’t touch.”

He rolled his eyes and tossed his blazer over his chair as he took off his shoes and buttonup, leaving nothing but his undershirt and dress pants. “I’m going to get changed. If you’re asleep before I get back, this is me saying goodnight.”

With that, he grabbed something from his dresser and walked into his bathroom, Y/N ripped off the picture of the shoe and placed her phone on the bedside table. Before she knew it, she was completely passed out.

It was barely dawn when she next woke up. Her head was heavy--no doubt the beginnings of a hangover--but she’d never felt more electrified.

A small huff prompted her to look to her left where Draco was just a few movements away from her. He was very clearly still sleeping, each breath leaving his lips with a whisper. His hand, draped over the covers, was millimeters away from touching her. The pink of the sunrise made his hair, now ruffled and sticking up in the side, glitter in the light. She resisted the urge to reach out and brush it away from his face.

Y/N lay there, admiring the boy sleeping next to her, until the urgency of her situation struck her. She was absolutely parched, and if she wanted to mitigate the damage she’d already done, it was in her best interest to drink a glass of water and take 4 Ibuprofen.

With a sigh, she quietly slid out from under Draco’s covers and made her way to her room, careful to avoid the glass scattered all about. She knew she had a packet of Ibuprofen somewhere in one of her dresser drawers.

The pile in her room was bigger than she remembered. She began by just throwing her clothes that had been on the ground onto her bed, sorting through everything in rough categories. When this proved unhelpful, she turned to the mini pile by her door which, to her surprise, had a few sweatshirts that definitely weren’t hers.

Draco she thought absentmindedly as she combed through the pile. Aha. A small green pouch, just like the one she kept her over the counter medications in.

Her hands struggled to undo the tie--Did she normally knot it like that?--as she admired the lining. She never noticed that the edges had silver thread stitched in.

Once she finally opened it up, she grabbed her water bottle and prepared to be faced with a variety of pill bottles as she tipped it over; however, what came out was very different.

A collection of letters. Namely, Draco’s. She knew it was wrong, but he was sleeping, and every letter looked official, stamped with a seal and etched with some sort of crest. They couldn’t have been that personal.

After a bit of bargaining, she decided to open one. If it was personal, she made the deal with herself to put it away and never speak of it again.

The parchment was heavy and clearly expensive. Her hands were shaking as she unfolded the first one, feeling guilty the whole way.

Foreign words flooded her vision. It wasn’t like the letter was written in a foreign language--but there were so many terms she didn’t understand.

Death eater...Voldemort...Crimes against the ministry...Conspiracy against Dumbledore...Hogwarts-sanctioned punishment...

She read on until a word popped out that made sense--Magic. And there it was again--Magic. Wizard. Magic.

Swallowing hard, she shoved the letter back into the envelope and opened one more. This one was much more coherent.

“Dear Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy:

It has been made apparent to us that, while serving the punishment of your accused crimes, you have unlawfully used magic (namely, a Glamour spell) in front of a muggle. Consider this to be your first strong warning. One more slip up and the Ministry will be forced to reconsider your dropped sentence of Azkaban.

Sincerely and warmly,

The Ministry of Magic -- Justice Sector”

What. What the fuck. What the fuck.

Her racing mind was put to a screeching halt at the sound of someone clearing their throat behind her.

#draco x reader #draco malfoy x reader #draco imagine #draco malfoy imagine #draco x oc #draco x y/n #draco malfoy x oc #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy #draco lucius malfoy

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drabblily · 4 years

Text

Bad Confessions

Pairing: Bakugo Katsuki x Reader

Warnings: Cursing, of course. Fluff.

Word Count: 2.1k

Synopsis: Y/N seems to have fallen in love with a certain hotheaded blonde, might as well confess and get rejected to move on with it, right?

A/N: First Post! Hope you enjoy <3

------

Falling in love was scary.

There was nothing gentle about it, hence the “falling” part of it. You were either all in or not in at all. You could be pushed, you could take that jump, or you could accidentally take one certain step and fall to your impeding doom.

And it was so, so fucking terrifying to you. When you fall in love there is supposed to be someone waiting for you at the bottom to catch you, that was the fortunate option. The unfortunate side was that when you fall in love, that person could move at the last second to let you splat to the ground.

You guess, that’s what made you so scared of it. That someone would move to let you die. To be manipulated. To be used like that. It scared the hell out of you.

That was probably why you never noticed the signs when you were in it. The constant checking of a text message to see if he texted you, the sweaty hands and speedy heart whenever he walked by, the overthinking about him, trying to grab his attention by looking pretty.

It was torturous and you thought nothing of it, perhaps you were going crazy, though. Because you definitely should not be feeling like this.

So, you visited the school nurse, Recovery Girl, in hopes that she would cure your unknown disease.

“Hello? Recovery Girl?” You knocked on the open door to alert her that you were there before stepping in.

The old woman turned towards you with a smile on her face, “Hello, Y/N, are you hurt?”

You gulped, fiddling with your fingers, what if she weren’t able to help you? What if it was a fatal deadly disease and you couldn’t be cured no matter what??

“Well…actually, not really. I just think I might be feeling sick and wanted to ask you for your advice on how to help me out with it?”

She patted the hospital bed she had, implying for you to take a seat, so you did.

Recovery Girl silently grabbed her thermometer, going across your forehead to see if you had a temperature. You didn’t, normal temperature. She grabbed a stick and told you to open your mouth and say, “Ahhh…” With her gloves, she felt around your throat to see if there was anything that could hint at you being ill.

Unwrapping her gloves and throwing them out, she finally spoke with that constant smile of hers, “Well I did the minimum and it doesn’t look like you are sick. You don’t have a fever or any signs of a sore throat. Are you sure you feel sick? What are your symptoms exactly?”

You furrowed your eyebrows, there was no way you couldn’t be sick. Oh my god, what if you were right. What if you were uncurable!! Leg slightly bouncing in anxiousness, you told her, “W-well, actually, I think my mind is all fuzzy. I’ve been getting urges to check my phone when we are out of class…I sometimes get really feverish around people and it feels like my stomach is twisting when around somebody…do you think a villain could’ve used their quirk on me to make me feel like this?”

Your elder slightly chuckled, as if she knew a little secret, smiling even wider with a slight tint of pink to her cheeks, “Oh dearie,” She patted your bouncing leg to calm you down, “you sound like you’re in love.”

Your eyes widened, blood rushing throughout your entire face, “What! With who?”

“With whoever you want to be around, or whoever you think about most.” She clasped her hands together, nodding her head to convince you further. You couldn’t believe it though. You? In love? Doubtful, you were a future pro-hero! You had no time for love!

The bell rung, hinting you should be at your first period class soon, “Well, dearie, you better get to class now. You know how your teacher acts when you are late.”

You numbly nodded, jumping off the hospital bed and walking out of the nurse’s room. On your way to class, you felt heavier, your mind racing with ideas of who exactly you could be “in love” with. No one came to mind. It was torturous.

Finally, you made it to class, opening the door—luckily Aizawa-Sensei wasn’t here yet—and walking to your seat. Eyes scanning the chatter filled room, you made eye contact with mean crimson eyeballs, your heart picking up pace and your tummy feeling nauseated again.

“Got somethin’ to say, damn extra!?” His rough voice asked you loudly, looking to pick a fight.

Your bottom lip quivered in realization, breaking eye contact and sitting down in your chair. You put your head on the table between your arms, “No no no no no no…him?? Really? That cannot be true, he’s an asshole for crying out loud, what is wrong with you??”

You felt a loud slam on your table, “Hey! I’m fucking talking to you, dumbass!”

Your head jolted up at the suddenness, your big eyes staring up at your crush and classmate, Bakugo in confusion and sudden fear. Your cheeks flushed and you licked your lips, feeling thirsty out of nowhere now, “I…”

You noticed a deep red dust his ears as he opened his mouth, “Nevermind.”

Heart skipping a beat at his unexpected calmness, your eyes trailed his body as he stomped away to his chair with a slouch in his posture.

You felt a tap on your right shoulder, your close friend, Mina leaning over to whisper to you, “Bakugo’s never that nice to anyone, he’s totally got the hots for you!!” She squealed in excitement.

You choked on your air, sputtering out words, “N-No! I doubt that’s it, he probably just didn’t want to deal with Aizawa-sensei, he could’ve walked in at any second after all…”

The pink alien playfully punched your shoulder whilst giggling, “Hah! Yeah right, he doesn’t care if he gets in trouble, he totally has a crush on you, I can tell!”

You opened your mouth to respond when your teacher walked in with a ‘dead inside’ expression plastered onto his face, the entire class going silent so they wouldn’t get in trouble.

----

Ever since you found out your crush on your hotheaded classmate two weeks ago, you’ve done your best to avoid him as well as possible. No eye contact, no walking near each other, no talking—which meant also doing your best to not piss him off so you wouldn’t have an excuse to talk to one another. You did whatever you could in hopes of your stupid crush on him to fade away.

But nothing was working. So, you could only come to one reasonable conclusion.

Confess to him. You knew rejection was coming and you just wanted to get it over with so you could wallow in self pity instead.

Maybe that’s why you were here, standing in front of Bakugo Katsuki’s door, a rather large lump caught in your throat as you raised your hand to knock on the door. Swallowing it down, your fist quivered, hesitating to actually knock.

You couldn’t do this. It was way too nerve wracking and you were too much of a coward to actually do it. Placing your hand back down to your side in defeat, you pressed your head on the wall next to his door with a sigh.

“Why can’t I just tell him…” You murmured to yourself, looking down at your hands, imagining his rough ones holding yours. Which was stupid, considering it would never happen, you told yourself, pushing the silly daydreams away.

“What the fuck did you just say, damn extra?”

The sudden voice made you yelp, jumping away only to trip on your own foot and fall straight onto your ass. You groaned at the impact your palms and butt just got, both in extreme pain. You brought your hands up to your line of sight, inspecting how they were red and felt like it burned.

The man above you clicked his tongue in frustration before offering you his hand, “Dumbass. How did you hurt yourself from that?”

“I...” You started, grabbing his hand hesitantly; staring at your hands connected made blood rush to your face, “You scared me. I didn’t see you there.”

The blond snorted, “Idiot. How are you going to become a hero if you just jump from hearing my voice.” He mocked, narrowing his eyes at you before tugging you up and off the ground.

You flushed, reluctantly pulling your hand away from his to cover your face in embarrassment, “Shut up…”

“What the fuck are you doing in this hall anyways?”

“I just, um, you see…”

“Spit it out already, idiot.”

You peeked through your fingers, making eye contact with him, and taking a deep breath, “I just…wanted to tell you something.”

Bakugo crossed his arms—which you couldn’t help but admire how his muscles tensed and moved—raising one annoyed eyebrow at you to signify to continue.

Okay. You had to do this now or never. If you didn’t do it now, youd be a failure, a disgrace. Maybe rejection was what you needed! Maybe if he rejected you, your feelings for the hothead would dissipate and you could focus on more important things, like being a hero. Not fantasizing what kissing your classmate would feel like in the middle of a test.

‘Okay, just spit it out. You can do this’ You told yourself, putting your hands together and gulping.

“Alright, just listen,” You glanced towards him, seriously, hoping he wouldn’t interrupt you until you got your words out so you wouldn’t feel like a fool midway, “I, well to put it simply, I think…I think I like you, a lot. And its terrifying because ive never felt this way about anyone before. But I know you don’t feel the same way, so…please—”

Before you knew what was happening, Bakugo pushed forward, uncrossing his arms to grab ahold of you.

This was different. A lot different than how you expected.

Soft lips captured yours, passionately. You froze up, your mind going haywire trying to figure out what the fuck is happening right now. You noticed two things, does this mean he liked you back? It had to be right? That thought made you dizzy, there was no way this man liked you back. Bakugo fucking Katsuki, no way.

The man in question pulled away, taking note of your flustered expression, smirking at it waiting for you to speak again.

You reached up to touch your lips, still unbelieving that just happened. The second thing you notice was that his lips, oh god. They were heaven. You expected them to be chapped, rough, but it was far from it. Of course! This man would be perfect like this, after all he did seem like one to take care of himself.

Suddenly snapping up to your senses, your eyes widened, “W-what was that!? I said not to interrupt me!”

Katsuki snickered, “Seriously? I just fucking kissed you and you’re thinking about how I interrupted your stupid confession?”

“N-no! The kiss was nice!” His smirk widened. “No! It wasn’t nice, that’s not what I meant! Well, it was nice, I mean I liked it of course! B-but—”

“You’re stupidly cute when you ramble, you know?”

Your breath hitched before reaching over to smack his arm for teasing you, his strong hand catching your wrist and tugging you into his arms, his free hand coming to grip your waist.

“Stop teasing me!” You whined, struggling against his grip to leave your embarrassment.

“Hell no. Its fun to see your expressions when I do.” Bakugo grinned, his grip tightening for a second, “Your confession was ass though.”

You placed your head on his chest, squeezing your eyes shut. You knew it was bad, but he didn’t have to point it out for crying out loud!

You felt the pressure on your wrist disappear only for it to show up on your chin, “Hey, look at me.” His vermillion eyes surprisingly gentle, his tongue coming out to lick his lips.

You were the one to lean in this time, tilting your chin up to kiss him, after all, you didn’t exactly reciprocate it when he did. However, Bakugo immediately responded, his mouth moving against yours with a passion.

After what seemed like an eternity to you—which in reality was about thirty or so seconds—you pulled away, speechless and breathless.

His forehead leaned against yours, his eyes snapping open to make eye contact with you, “I like you too dummy, don’t forget it.”

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nicoscowboyhat · 3 years

Text

PJO/HoO/ToA characters as things me and/or my friends have said

a lot of these are discord messages bc we haven't seen each other in person in a while :( some of the ones at the end are from a notebook i had though where i would write down the funny shit we would say. came in handy lmao

Clarisse: i would've been a heavyweight for a cheerleader and thrown some hoes

Arrow of Dodona: Thou side bitches art foul for i despise thy hairstyle

Octavian: i love how i'm just automatically the misogynist

Percy: hey guys i can make my dick invisible

Jason: NO FUCKING WAY

Nico: ill fucking kill you. squash you like bug

Leo: piper wants a smoothie. a smoothie i shall make

Lester: hey besties pro tip: don't make brownies in the microwave

Annabeth: ayo ive got like. reverse appendicitis rn tell me some comforting shit 🔫🔫

Percy: you're sec c, don't die

Annabeth: ty

Percy: aw shitttt almond butter and jelly on da everything bagel

Leo: Vigarous gay sex

Jason: Vigorous is spelled with an O.

Piper: sexo gay vigoroso

Meg: don't worry

Lester: i will worry if i so please

Will: but i don't think you can kill monkeys

Nico: you can but they put up a pretty good fight

Will:

Nico: oh you mean like legally

Ethan: my power went out while i was sleeping

Luke: lmao loser

[the gang is arguing about some guy eating white chicken. like literally snow white. not boiled, WHITE]

Clarisse: well the whole point is that it's not raw and the man took a bite and it wasn't

Silena: he died later that week clarisse

Percy: foo fighters in algebra what will happen next

Octavian: dick an d balls

Reyna: No politics in chat plz!

Luke: submerges into the spin cycle

Luke: god

Ethan: is always watching

Luke: hope he didn't see me push that elderly woman down the stairs

Ethan: definitely did

Luke: shit

Grover: fuck school i just wanna play animal crossing 😡😡 enough of this "physical education" shit i am planting tulips 😡😡😡

Connor: i'm going to throw up into someone's mouth like a bird

Travis: as you should king

Harley: [holding out a decapitated rubber chicken filled with grape juice] would you like a drink from the chicken chalice?

[everyone's name was changed in a discord server]

Nico: why is my name spaghetti i just realized this

Hazel: we're all sketti here

Nico: ah

Nico: i thought it was so you knew who to kill when the italian genocide came around

Leo: penis

Piper: sometimes

Jason: i have chronic cool guy syndrome

Frank: is it contagious? i'm feeling a cough

Reyna: just heard octavian speak day ruined

Will: CISHET MAN ALERT 🤢🤢

Percy: bro what if we went to japan

Grover: AHAH I WAS EATING CHEESEBALLS WHATS THE CONTEXT??

Jason: how's octavian been doing? has he gotten worse?

Reyna: he's pretty much the same. considering driving a semi truck into his house.

Percy: yo did u do work?

Annabeth: no but thank u for asking

Luke: pillage an empire to assert dominance

Nico: Noose?

Will: Nooses are not very hot nico

Will: thor got that gay little bridge

Annabeth: i'm gonna put my alphabet soup in numerical order

Leo: pog to your mother

Will: [sends a drawing he made of jar jar binks with kylo ren's outfit + lightsaber that says "meesa finish what youssa started"]

Everyone:

Will: react

Will: react to jar jar

Luke: you ever just,,, eat someone on accident

Jason: yo gamma your fam still vibin?

Jason, 2 seconds later: that felt gay to type

Thalia: crimbo this year is gonna be litty titties

Thalia, 12 am on christmas day: merry shitscream my dudes

Nico, 10 years old: i have question

Nico: please

Nico: bro

Nico: q,ueshtun

Nico: kweshtin

Nico: i've just one

Nico: query

Nico: pleabse

Clarisse: you sound like gay cat in the hat

Kayla: BIG BOYS BIG STEPS

Meg: words are for CHUMPS

Luke: i'm laughing because i ran over a cat yesterday and i can't stop thinking about it

Nico: yo titties are gross

Frank: please don't spoil cinderella

Leo: she loses her slipper

Frank: does she ever get it back???!?

Piper: [surfer voice] fudgecakes, dude

Will: i watched star wars in the bathroom... probably tmi but i don't care

Coach Hedge: you're trash. i will run you over

Lester: please stop singing miss mary mack!

Meg: i hope you get dragged my miss mary mack.

Percy: [singing] i wanna be the mayonnaise to your bologna, wanna be the cheese to your macaroni

Octavian: i'm above everyone! except, um... triangles. they scare me

Luke: my mom asked me what i wanted for dinner and i said "chinese food" and she said "how about olive garden" i said "MAY i SAID CHINESE FOOD"

Nico: my mom died [default dance]

Connor: the thing is, i didn't ask.

Travis: damn bro that really hurt my feelings

Connor: i'm sorry bro i didn't mean to hurt your feelings

Travis: it's ok i lied

Connor: that's ok i did too

Reyna: [clone high JFK voice] bitches be like "i'm the shit" nah you ain't even the fart

Lavinia: me having a stroke after inhaling caffeine like it's a tuesday

Leo: damn girl, you shit with that ass?

Austin: i'm about to eat a rock. hungry like gertie

Nico: who is sports? i've never heard of them

Lester: i think it's a band

#long post bc my friends and i are cursed with being fucking hilarious #pjo shitpost #this post is severely lacking in hazel bianca and frank quotes i am so sorry #i'll make it up to you i promise

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melforbes · 3 years

Text

seaglass blue annotations

hello! i just posted the last chapter and thought i’d put together some ~fun context~ for that fic. it got way way more attention than i ever expected and for something i feel i didn’t put that much effort into i think i did in the end put a lot of effort into it so i might as well talk about it and answer some potential questions.

my favorite book of all time is the sunlit night by rebecca dinerstein (yes, that one) and something i find really compelling about that book is how sparing the prose is, forcing the reader to fill in certain gaps, and i think having to fill in those gaps makes the book a really acquired taste with which either you love it or hate it and there’s not really an in-between

i also really adore how in that book the natural world backdrop comes to life, something i find really challenging to write. recently i even read into thin air, the book about the 1996 mount everest disaster, and even though the writing was superb, i still had to google what the hillary step was because i couldn’t picture it on my own. i don’t know how people write nature because to me it feels damn near impossible, but this sparing approach really worked, so i thought i might try it out. i tend to be longwinded (gestures vaguely at this post) and wanted to have certain parts of this be a lot smaller and more contained without negating impact. whether or not i made it work is anyone’s guess. definitely not my normal style, so to speak

based on the comments i’ve received i think this might be everyone’s favorite part. in my mind age of consent by new order was playing in the background. in pretty much every fic i have a scene like this one and all of them are based on the poem first base gold by rh*annon mcg*vin from her book branches (censored because she has a tumblr and i don’t want her seeing this haha)

i absolutely can’t do the poem justice by describing what it’s about, but the simplest, most basic interpretation of the poem is that there is no better place to kiss than right here, right now, because of the past. i really like that imagery and tend to use it a lot. she as a writer has been a big inspiration for me and if you’ve read my fic true minds i should add that the nonfiction inspiration for that was directly as a result of one of her youtube videos. i particularly love how the last paragraph (stanza? im not a poet) is one big run-on sentence that’s jovial and tongue-in-cheek and colloquial and straightforward. it feels triumphant in a quiet way to me and i love how it’s done. obviously my attempts at something similar are nowhere near as insightful, but still, the most basic image of this is that there is no better place to kiss, and that’s how i felt about the two of them finding pudding in the supermarket

this part is autobiographical; while writing this last year, i went through six months of intravenous drug treatment, a month and a half of which involved long days of doctor visits on every weekday. when you’re on stuff like that for a long time you end up with a central line for better access (potential plot hole in all of this: scully never had one) but for a month and a half i got poked almost every day and strangely enough it got harder over time. the first couple you never feel, but a week or two later you start flinching, and if the needle goes in the same vein each time, it hurts the more it gets prodded. i reached a point toward the end of the in-office visits in which i would bleed a lot every time i got poked, and i can’t watch anything like that happen to me so i was looking away each time, and when i felt that the nurse was done, i would look back over, and sometimes i would be looking down at a pool of blood that i hadn’t expected to see. it’s weird, you don’t actually feel yourself bleeding, i would’ve expected a hot bloody feeling but instead it felt like nothing. and when i say a pool i mean that it would drip down beneath my elbow, stain the sheet they’d put underneath, and i wouldn’t get all of it off until i showered. i didn’t necessarily find it scary, but it was surreal and kind of pulled me out of normalizing the experience i was having. for a very long time needing iv drugs was my greatest fear and i was surrounded by that then and fine, and then, there was blood all over my arm, and like, haha, this is actually not fine. you’d think something else would’ve been scarier, but it wasn’t. and now looking back at this paragraph i wish i’d edited it differently but hey that’s life

i’d never really understood the purpose of religion as a self-driven part of life until i took anatomy in college. i was raised catholic and though culturally i understand having a religion and being raised with one, i’ve never really reached for religion when i wanted answers, and i haven’t personally understood why that’s someone’s first option. and i know there’s been plenty of commentary on the hypocrisy of dana scully as a catholic who believes in science, yada yada yada, i think everyone has read all of that by now. but what struck me while learning anatomy is that there is a kind of neuron we don’t know the function of. there are four kinds of neurons, and one of them is still a mystery to us. and then, there’s all of these different parts of human bodies that exist in a certain perfect way, but why do they exist like that? to support life, yes, but why is it that we can make comparisons? why were irises not the same color? and we name valves of the heart after religious figures. we are so hell-bent on meaning that something literal will never be enough. and all of that made me think that dana scully has god to fill in what science won’t answer, at least not yet. and there’s definitely a bigger conversation about science as denial of indigenous cultures that i am nowhere near qualified to start. after taking those classes, i think i would be more shocked if she wasn’t religious. you can ignore pretty much all of the paragraph above but it was important to me that at some point in this fic she willingly conceded that she didn’t know what would happen and that she didn’t have answers. with illness, there is no logic, there’s no thinking your way out of it, and i think that would plague her for a long time. to me, she only would accept her death when she could say she had no idea what would happen, she has no answers, there’s nothing filling in her gaps anymore, and she’s comfortable with that. and i put all of that in a paragraph about my thoughts on god because it made sense to me. there are times that just feel like you’re in a movie and there’s no one else you can say caused them. it’s not enough to build belief on but it’s enough to bring a certain kind of wonder. also one time my parents insisted on watching stripes because it was so funny and when watching it none of us found it funny at all and my parents grimaced and were like what were we on that made that good back in the day so that’s in here now haha

and now, the biggest question: does she die at the end? when i came up with the idea for this fic, i knew the beginning and ending but not the middle, and i posted this as a smaller project (ie: chapters below 3,000 words) while illness made my bigger projects harder to work on and essentially flew by the seat of my pants the whole time. i wrote the last line a long long time ago and have always seen the ending as written as the concrete ending. when i started writing this, i never intended for there to be a definitive answer to whether or not she dies. i like premature endings (the ending of girls burn brighter comes to mind) and i think that this works better without saying whether or not she lives. and i also have a hard time with giving a definitive answer because this fic very much is about death and having her die would, of course, be traumatic, but showing her living instead i think ruins any takeaways people could have. i’ve never had cancer but as a chronically ill person i think i can speak to how you never actually win with illness; the best you can do is tie, and sometimes, no matter how much effort you put in, you “lose” anyway, you lose spectacularly, and all of your effort was for nothing. i wholeheartedly believe that humans can’t emotionally or logically process natural disasters or illness, hence why much of the talk about illness in this is from mulder’s perspective as he experiences her terminal illness secondhand; that way, he doesn’t need to (but still likely will) find logic or reason or meaning for death from a terminal illness, so his discoveries and his coping mechanisms aren’t as urgently needed. had i written a chapter that describes how she lives, i think that the discussion of death in this would be voided altogether. and i also don’t believe the ending would be much different whether she lives or dies; there’s still the need for death acceptance and talking about dying, whether or not she lives, and none of the story in this fic would have happened had the characters known she would live. the whole point is not knowing.

for a little while i toyed with writing an unofficial sequel of sorts in which i spelled out what i think happens after the ending, but after realizing that that would end up being longer than the original fic and would also have some massive plot holes, i decided against it. i do have my own version and i don’t want to share that version because i never really intended for my version to be some kind of genuine sequel in which every question gets answered and everything is wrapped up and happy ever after and whatnot. it was just where my brain wandered in the same way it wanders when i watch an open-ended movie. all of that to say, if you think she lives, then she lives. if you think she dies, then she dies. it’s your decision. i’d much rather you choose than me. i never marked this as “major character” death on ao3 because, well, she doesn’t die in this fic. whether or not she dies after the fic ends, that’s for you to decide.

thank you for taking the time to read my writing. i never expected this to blow up (it blew up for me at least, for a while it was my most popular fic ever, with i think thousands more hits than anything else i’d written) and the response has been mind-boggling and wonderful. i don’t respond to comments often because it makes me feel like a pompous jerk (”thank you for enjoying this! i, too, enjoy this thing i have written! oh ho ho!” is how it sounds to me in my head, whereas when other writers respond to comments to me it just looks like thanks man have a good day, feel free to call me a weenie) but i’ve appreciated all of them very much. THANK YOU! i hope your new year is a Whole Lot Less Shit than 2020. i don’t plan on writing more msr because i don’t really have any ideas for them. thank you for making my last time special <3

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deancas-fanfiction · 3 years

Text

Hardest Part is Letting Go

Part 1/7

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Castiel

Summary: Upon his diagnosis of a terminal illness, Dean vows to spend the rest of his short life with Cas by his side, completing his bucket list while learning what it really means to live and love.

Also available on ao3.

Dean had never been a romantic – that was always Cas and his extravagant date planning. It was incredibly endearing, but Dean just wasn’t one of those people that cared about that kind of stuff. He loved it because Cas loved it. Funny how a terminal illness can change someone.

It was one year earlier, just after Dean’s thirtieth birthday. Recently he hadn’t been feeling well. His energy level was low, and the sweeping waves of nausea became all too familiar. While low energy wasn’t exactly uncommon for him, this was different. Dean barely had the energy to get out of bed. At first, Cas assumed it was some kind of flu, so they spent day in bed watching old western movies and eating soup. It was a few days later when Dean realized something wasn’t quite right. Along with the loss of energy, came the loss of appetite, and consistent headaches. Dean hid it well, though. After all, he didn’t want to worry Cas or Sam. So he pretended everything was fine for the next few weeks and almost convinced himself he was starting to feel better. He thought that with time it would eventually go away. However, it ws quite the contrary.

One morning Dean awoke at his worst with a sharp, hot pain in his head; it was by far the most excruciating thing he has ever experienced. Biting down on his pillow, he screamed. He screamed until his voice was hoarse, just trying to release some of the pressure in his head. His nails dug into the blankets, begging for the pain to end. Soon darkness took over his vision and he drifted into blissful unconsciousness, away from the pain.

The next time Dean woke up he was in a hospital, with an IV hooked to his right arm and an oxygen tube in his nose. The fluorescent lights were harsh, highlighting the deep bags under his eyes. At least the pain in his head had subdued. His vision became sharper as the flog from the drugs cleared. Dean looked around the room, noting the ‘get well soon’ balloons and cards that littered the room. To his left was a card with a scrawl so ineligible it could only be identified as Sam’s attempt at handwriting. But the thing that caught his attention was Cas, sitting in this stiff chair next to his bed, his head resting on his hands.

Dean shot up, suddenly alarmed as he remembered the events that led to him being here. He sat up, pulling at the IV, panic rising in his chest. His hate for hospitals was heightened and all he could focus on was getting out of here. But then Cas’s head shot up to the sounds of Dean rustling in bed. He scooted his chair closer to the bed, resting his hand on Dean’s.

Dean frowned as he observed his boyfriend’s face. His nose was runny, and his eyes were pink and swollen. He had been crying. It was enough to stop Dean’s frantic movements as his heart rate increased. Cas very rarely cries, and when he does it’s for good reason. Cas ignored Dean’s questioning look. With light touches, he brushed Dean’s matted hair out of his face. It was comforting, but if anything, it just worried Dean more.

An advanced terminal illness. That’s what the test results said.

Those four words ruined Dean and Cas’s life. Those four words unraveled years of plans the two had previously made, imagining they had all of the time in the world. Now he was told he would have two years if he was lucky. Dean’s doctors offered aggressive treatment to prolong the inevitable, but he denied it. He knows what that treatment does to patients. They’re violently ill, bed ridden, and spend most of their time imprisoned in hospitals. Dean wanted to spend the rest of his short life as himself, with Cas by his side.

It wasn’t something to easily become accustomed to. Cas was in denial in the beginning. He went about life as if nothing has changed, but at night he would hold onto Dean extra tight, with no intention of letting go. It went on like this for a few weeks, until Dean came home from visiting Sam for the weekend to find Cas sitting on the kitchen floor sobbing. Dean dropped his duffel bag and wrapped his arms around Cas. He held him close, kissing the top of his head, burying his nose into his boyfriend’s dark hair, memorizing his scent. His hand rubbed small circles on Cas’s back, knowing it comforts him. He nearly let out a humorless laugh at the thought that he was the one dying, but also the one doing the comforting. It was then that he realized Cas is the only that has to live without him. If it was Cas dying, Dean knew he’d be completely broken too.

After they both released the emotions they had been repressing, they actually felt a little better. Now that they accepted the inevitable, they could live each day to the fullest. Without further discussion, Dean and Cas quit their respective jobs to focus on living life in the now. Besides, that’s what emergency savings are for, right?

This brings Dean to where he is now. Sitting in the living room at three in the morning with a glass of bourbon, paper, and a pen. He could feel his health slowly deteriorating and he knew he was running out of time. Dean estimated he had about six months remaining. At night he’d close his eyes and be met with the image of a clock. It would start with the seconds slowly ticking by and then morph into something sinister. Suddenly it was a calendar, with pages tearing away and flying off until there was nothing left but blackness and silence. There was nothingness. He’d wake in a cold sweat, with the constant reminder of the inevitable looming over his head. Dean shook his head, shaking the dark thoughts. He took a sip of his drink before focusing back on the task at hand.

1. Have breakfast in bed

2. Stargaze until the sun rises

3. Kiss in the rain

4. Rent a beach house for the weekend

5. Watch Sam graduate from law school

6. Go on a road trip with a kickass playlist

7. Get married

8. Go skinny dipping

9. Die loved

Dean hadn’t realized he was crying until a tear his list, smudging some of his handwriting. There was still so much he wanted to do, so much more he wanted to see but deep down he knew he didn’t have the time for it. Hell, he didn’t=’t even know if he had time for his list. But he was going to try. He looked back at a few items on the list and managed a small smile, so much for not being a romantic.

Dean looked up when he heard some shuffling and the opening of a door. His eyes met a sleepy Cas, with his blue eyes bleary and hair ruffled more than usual. It was a sight he could never get sick of.

“Can’t sleep?” Cas asked quietly. Dean hummed in response, struggling to get his emotions in check. He hated this vulnerability that came with the diagnosis. Making this list made him even more emotional and he knew that crying in front of Cas would only make things harder.

“Me neither,” Cas sighed, joining Dean on the couch. He leaned into his side, curling in to soak in his body heat. “I can never sleep very long without you next to me.”

Dean smiled at that and kissed Cas on the temple. Cas sighed contentedly before frowning when he saw the list in Dean’s hand. “Is that your bucket list?”

“Yeah, I figured since we have some time, we should make the most of it, you know? And there’s a lot of things I’ll never get the chance to do, so I thought I’d make a list of the ones most important to me.”

Cas gingerly grabbed the list out of his hand and read through it, a sad smile on his face. “No backpacking across Europe?”

“I don’t think there’s time for a trip to Europe,” Dean mumbled. He and Cas had dreamed of backpacking across Europe since they were in college. They talked of romantic stops in Italy for the food, France for the champagne, Ireland for the Guinness and beautiful countryside, Scotland for the scotch, and so much more. Cas just nodded in response, swallowing the lump in his throat. He didn’t want to think about the concept of time at the moment.

“What do you want to do first?” Cas asked, his voice cracking.

“Right now, all I want to do is go to bed with you.”

“Alright, then let’s go to bed,” He replied, grabbing Dean’s hand and leading him into the bedroom with a sly smile on his face.

The next morning Dean awoke with another headache. He wasn’t surprised, it’s been happening a lot more often lately. He sat up and reached for the numerous pill bottles on the table next to the bed and took the numerous pills prescribed to him by his doctors to keep his symptoms under control. Forcing his legs out from under the warmth of the blankets, Dean got up to go see what Cas was doing. While Dean has always slept later than Cas, he usually lays in bed with him reading a book while waiting for Dean to wake. After all, Cas knows how much Dean hates waking up alone.

Just as Dean was crossing the door, he was met with Cas carrying a tray full of chocolate chip pancakes, eggs, a heaping pile of bacon and his usual cup of coffee.

“Cas…” Dean started, realizing what he was doing.

“Dean! You ruined it. To have breakfast in bed, you actually need to be in bed.” He pouted which caused Dean to laugh at his boyfriend. He quickly turned around and crawled back into their bed.

“We don’t have to do everything on the list right away, angel.” He retorted, pulling the warm blankets on his lap. His voice came across softer than the joking manner he intended. His gratefulness for Cas shone through his usual sarcastic façade. Cas chose to ignore the comment and set the tray on the middle of the bed, settling next to him. “But thank you,” Dean added, giving Cas a kiss on the lips.

Cas smiled, his blue eyes impossibly bright in the early afternoon light. Dean sighed, staring as he admired Cas’s beauty. His dark hair is tousled, sticking in all directions accompanied with the stubble that comes from not shaving for a few days. He’s dressed in one of Dean’s classic rock shirts and a pair of boxers, with the smell of coffee lingering on his breath. Dean smiles at him, bacon momentarily forgotten, only consumed by thoughts of Cas. When things get bad, he wants to remember this specific moment and how happy the two of them are. ‘When things get bad…’ Dean ended that train of thought and shook himself out of his daze, turning his attention to his delicious breakfast instead.

________

A/N: Hi friends! I’m so excited to post my first Dean/Cas fanfic! I’ve written for other fandoms before but I just can’t shake the finale so here’s my coping mechanism. This fic is finished, totaling at about 15,000 words. I plan to post either weekly or twice a week, depending on the reception this gets. Please let me know any feedback or submit any prompts!

#destiel #fanfiction #deancas #supernatural fanfiction #destiel fanfiction #destiel fanfic #angst #fluff #eventual character death #dean knows how to communicate his feelings for once #dean winchester #castiel #alternate universe #chaptered

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clumsyclifford · 3 years

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hi my love i’m hope not too late but i would like you to tell me about my loves jewish cake, anything you want to but specifically baker calum 🥰 thank you i love you

of course you aren’t too late!!! ESPECIALLY to talk about jewish cake oh my goodness meg i shall die for you i love you. alright let’s see what i can dig up

ha’ahava hazot shelanu + it’s so simple

a cut, per usual

so let’s start WITH:

ha’ahava hazot shelanu

jewish cake was a labor of love for myself. little known fact about me is that i am in fact jewish! :) and around christmas time i always get a little prickly about the surplus of christmas spirit and in this case the amount of fic for it. and i’d sort of had this hesitant idea to write a jewish fic in the back of my mind for a long time, but it felt like a really big divergence from the Cast of Characters that was for some reason a lot more dramatic than any other circumstances into which i could place them, so i’d basically been hesitating for several months. in november we had a brief conversation about it in the club which looked like this

but the idea still made me a little nervous and so i kind of talked myself out of writing it, as always. and THEN, middle of december, iba sent me this 1d fic out of nowhere with this accompanying message:

and i kinda lowkey almost cried!! it was such a jewish fic. i read the word kvetch and i almost lost it. the fic was just so unabashedly jewish. and i was like...well. that’s what ive been wanting to do. so now i have no reason not to do it.

in the ao3 notes i talked a little bit about my internal debate over How Jewish To Go with the fic because on the one hand i really do understand that it can feel alienating going into a fic with zero understanding of the culture but on the other hand since it was MY fic i wanted to make it jewish the way i’m jewish. which is like...............very. i don’t think i ended up striking a balance so much as just deciding to say fuck it and write it the way i would want to read it, but i definitely think that was the right decision for me.

there was actually one more motivator for writing this fic, especially the WAY i wrote it, in eight chapters, and that motivator was that i wanted to break 400k on ao3 before the year ended. i just wanted to have an even number and 400k was a good goal. which i did achieve thanks to jewish cake fic being the 13.6k beast that she is! so that was also part of it

NOW! as for the PROCESS. i created the doc on december 22 and i originally kind of thought it was a little bitchy to write a hanukkah fic after hanukkah had already ended but was reminded that most christmas fic is neither written nor posted on actual christmas which reassured me well enough. i had already had the idea to divide it into eight chapters for the eight nights of hanukkah and i thought that would be a nice way to showcase different aspects of the holiday (seeing family, playing dreidel, opening presents etc) and also in certain cases (like the third chapter where they do some baking) some days that weren’t necessarily hanukkah-driven but just a nice natural consequence of being on break for hanukkah. i wanted it to feel like hanukkah feels to me!! normally i don’t like people seeing the way my outlines look but this one i don’t mind sharing so here’s what i had at the top of the doc for reference while i was writing. not everything in that first list got included but most of it did !!!

i’m not really sure how this fic ended up being cake. i never used to default to cake but for some reason as i was diving into this one it just felt right. that’s all i can say about that. meg you have genuinely shifted my approach to fic i DO default to cake sometimes now and that’s on YOU.

the very first thing i ever wrote down for this fic was this part that ended up going in the summary:

“Happy Hanukkah,” Calum says, smiling at Luke as their fingers intertwine.

Luke murmurs, “Chag sameach, ahovi,” and Calum’s face is aglow in the candlelight.

that was The Moment for me. i didn’t even write the rest of that scene until later but i had those two lines written down straight out the gate and i knew they were gonna close out the first scene because it just Felt Right. and i was right! very cool and fun for me

now the nice convenient thing about having this fic separated into eight discrete scenes/nights/chapters was that i didn’t have to write it in order, and i didn’t. i DID write the first night/chapter first, but then over the course of maybe a week, i wrote (deep breath get ready): the first half of chapter 2 (hemmings family) > the beginning of chapter 5 (the dreidel game) > most of the scene in chapter 7 > the beginning of chapter 3 (where they bake) > finished writing chapters 2 & 3 > started chapter 4 and finished chapter 5 > finished chapter 4 and wrote the rest of chapter 7 > all of chapter 6 > all of chapter 8 aka the proposal. i deliberately saved the proposal for last because i don’t think i could have written it exactly right without knowing the events that came before it but everything else was all over the place as you can see.

a problem i ran into a lot, and i talked to my sounding board and fellow jew sam about this among many other things, was that i had a lot of trouble characterizing very obviously Not Jewish people in a way that made them Very Jewish. not even like, Jewish But You Can Ignore It. i wanted them to be front-and-center jewish like i am and that was hard for me to navigate because obviously my speech patterns and vocabulary as an american jew are extremely different from 5sos’s as australian goyim (non-jews) like i do use hebrew words in my day-to-day communication all the time and i somehow had to keep their mannerisms but also insert mine BUT not insert so many of mine that the fic became incomprehensible and it was just. a Challenge. here’s some insight into THAT crisis

and then again writing the other characters in other chapters

i sent sam the doc when i was mostly done writing it, mainly just to be reminded that at least one person was going to appreciate this fic, which worked out nicely because she very very much did. genuinely i cannot stress enough how insecure i was to write and share this fic. like i’m gonna be really straight up with you meg, i think part of the reason i had calum and luke baking sufganiyot was because to me that felt like a sort of bribe? i basically wrote what felt to me like the least appealing fic ever and then my mission from there was to add stuff in that would convince people to give it a shot anyway. i was trying to make it worth everyone’s while. the baking was my trade-off, i was like “well yeah it’s a jewish fic but maybe she’ll be happy enough that it’s cake and they’re baking that she’ll forgive it for being a jewish fic” yes i realize how kind of hilariously tragic this sounds but !!! you never get jewish fics!!! and you especially don’t get them in fanfiction for obviously non-jewish bands!!! anyway. we’re not gonna get into this whole thing but like. even though objectively i knew that i had been told again and again people would appreciate the fic i still had doubts and knowing something and feeling secure in it are very different things.

also, i didn’t remember this, but apparently i had a lot of problems with writing the proposal! here’s a sneak peek into that mental breakdown

don’t actually think the fic specifies (making life easier for myself) but they have already had dinner in that scene. so now you know.

i could choose to not get this elbows-deep in the details of Crises I Had While Writing This Fic but instead i am choosing to go all out. here’s another thing i had trouble with:

(i did end up using transliteration obviously but i DO think actual hebrew would have been a cool flex)

and as for the title, ha’ahava hazot shelanu is the name of an ivri lider song that i love, and it translates to “this love of ours” and i realize titling the fic in hebrew was a Choice but i did talk to sam about this as well and that went roughly like this

by the way here is the song, i absolutely love it and i cannot recommend it enough. also i’m not sure how glaringly obvious this is but the chapter titles on ao3 are just hebrew numbers. like the first chapter is echad which literally means one. and so on. are they the correct genders? i don’t know ! fuck gendered language.

one more thing and then ill move on but an unfortunate natural consequence of writing a hanukkah fic (at least the way i wrote this one) is that it necessitates presents. so i had to come up with presents for these dumb boys to give each other. and to be completely honest with you i don’t remember how i did!!! the ones calum got for luke were trickier because they were actual things. for some reason this luke was always a version of luke that just kinda like, wore makeup, so that was just a question of figuring out an eyeshadow palette that would be Nice but not obscenely schmancy (i did ask the club for help since i know nothing about makeup but as usual i ignored their replies). but that by itself didn’t feel like enough of a gift, and so i tried to think of something that would be more than just the gift of an object. like, something that would maybe enable luke to spend more time on something he loves. piano music made sense to me because it wasn’t just a thing by itself it was a thing that encouraged luke to play piano and even to improve at it and to learn songs that he could be excited about. so! that was that

the trip to israel gift was a little bit of a retcon situation i really liked the idea that luke had been planning to give that “gift” to calum for a hot sec that he’d have had it ready, but i’d already written the scene where he and mali talk about israel, so i went back to it and edited it a little to hint at the idea (luke plays it off very casually because he is a clever boy) but i thought there was something very romantic in the idea of the israel trip, of luke planning a future with calum and a trip to a place that means so much to him (to me yes maybe luke and i are the same blah blah) and getting to drag calum around to falafel places and teach him words in hebrew and it just seemed like the appropriate trip for these two cute jewish boys to plan so i rolled with it.

okay moving on slightly!! to baker calum <3 baker calum was more of a cameo in the hanukkah fic, in the chapter i wrote with you in mind, but i can talk about it’s so simple here as well because i fucking adore that fic.

it’s so simple

so the inspiration behind the fic came from the “kitchens are for lovers” rhetoric and the realization that that would be the perfect...sort of thesis to build on for a fic for you in specific, because you are, in my mind, a very kitchen-based person, given your baking habit. it actually just worked out pretty nicely for me honestly because i’ve been wanting to write a big Kitchen Romance type fic for a while and you just gave me the perfect opportunity. here’s what i had at the top of the doc for the fic for you

and then once i sort of landed on the idea for the fic, it just made a lot of sense to make it jewish cake because, well, im gonna be real w you, because i identify very strongly with jewish cake and the kitchen-romance aspect felt like a very bella thing in the same way that jewish cake felt like a bella thing. and so i wanted to be able to romanticize these kitchens to share the way that i, bella, feel about them, and that was easy to do when the characters were so similar to me. not to mention this cake already existed in my head as a very settled, domestic duo, and they had their own home and had already had a kitchen-romance scene in the hanukkah fic and the whole thing just fell together perfectly. i had this sentence in my head and it was: “Shabbat in Luke and Calum’s kitchen looks something like this.” the kind of thing you would read in a fic summary right? and especially having it take place on shabbat felt like an extra layer of domestic easy romance to me so that was kind of my guide

here was my "outline” for this:

Romance :)))

obviously calum was going to be the one doing most of the cooking/baking because he had been established as the Kitchen Boy between the two of them and maybe i realized in the course of writing it that while i was luke, you were very much calum. so the goal was then basically to romanticize (1) the kitchen and (2) luke as much as humanly possible for you (see: message sent to helen and ainslee)

unfortunately i was unable to do baker calum justice as much as i would have liked because i could not have him baking anything complex because i can’t bake anything complex and if i had tried to describe him baking something complex and then described it wrong i would have died of shame so that is why he is only baking brownies BUT they have chocolate chips which hopefully makes up for it. also i just stumbled across this which i think pretty well represents the crisis i had regarding baker calum

:)))

re: the soundtrack (so to speak), i wanted to include some songs that i associate with you meg but you see the situation is that some of those songs are 5sos/mali/atl songs and so i couldn’t include those, for obvious reasons, which did narrow down my choices somewhat. fortunately i think the mcfly worked pretty nicely i mean yeah it’s a little obvious that i was forcing mcfly into the story but they deserved to be there. i think i’ve mentioned this but i genuinely have a memory of listening to star girl on a loop in my kitchen at home and in my head the hood-hemmings kitchen looks like my kitchen because i have zero imagination so it felt to me like these songs just belonged in kitchens. and that they’d be inherently romantic. woah i think my brain is short-circuiting i’m not sure i’m making sense anymore. point being i hoped that you would appreciate it nonetheless.

a note about the short introduction, because it’s very unlike anything i’ve put in any other fic to my knowledge. i kind of wanted it to feel like the prologue to a fairytale, almost. i wanted it to feel like the beginning of a movie, when the camera is slowly, slowly zooming in from a Big Picture down to one house on one street and then through the window into the kitchen while the voiceover is very serenely describing the scene. i wanted it to feel like we were in the kitchen before even calum was and that we were standing against the fourth wall watching the fic unfold. and also, i wanted to make the fic romantic as fuck, from the get-go. there was to be no confusion: this fic was going to romanticize the living daylights out of the hood-hemmings kitchen.

(also you may have noticed that despite having “london” in the list of Meg Things at the top of the doc, the fic never actually specifies that they’re in london. that’s because this fic was really an exercise in “how much can i hint that they’re in london without outright saying it so i don’t establish a canon that i may later regret” which went as far as me asking helen what her kitchen floors and counters are made of. like. if you want it to be in london then hell yeah it’s in london but i didn’t wanna lock myself into that decision just in case so i never actually said it but i hope it kinda felt london-y anyway lmao)

so...............i THINK that’s all i have to say. “all” as if i havent just written an entire dissertation but at least it’s done now. i sure did say a lot! that was a lot!!! but also a very very fun and interesting dive into the ~process~ of writing these jewish cake fics. also, for what it’s worth, the way hanukkah fic was received basically calmed all my fears about writing jewish fic, which was a relief for me. so thank you for loving it, i don’t think you know how much that means to me!!!! i love YOU so very much

#kaleidoscopeminds #ask #answered #christ go off i guess????????#i honestly have Nothing to say in the tags because i said so fucking much in this answer #fgldkhgsdflj #here are some other questions i asked helen the resident london expert:#'you guys don't have saturday morning cartoons do you'#'what do you call french toast' to which i was informed that you (brits) don't HAVE french toast #and then i decided to ignore that information and include it anyway because jewish tradition trumps british absence of food #and french toast is jewish CULTURE #'do you guys say suck-up or is there a different thing you say'#i did NOT like the answer to that one #also 'do you guys have dishwashers'#'do you guys do april fools'#helen litearlly went and took a photograph of her counters so that i could see what they looked like. THATS love baby #the fact that i said i had nothign to say and then i continued to say things anyway #thats pretty on brand for me #meg #director's cut #okay im posting this now. FOR REAL #dunno what happened before that was very unsexy but this time for real

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heathers-wig · 3 years

Text

come & find me - heathney hanahaki au part two

note: please please PLEASE read part one first!

iii. acacias & carnations; concealed love & fascination

The flowers change again, but this time, Heather has adapted to it.

They’re yellow acacias, which symbolized concealed love, which was pretty fitting, and carnations, which ranged from every color, was generalized to fascination, which Heather supposed was fitting as well.

The issue was that, since her realization, Heather couldn’t stop thinking about Courtney and all the things she had observed but hadn’t even realized she had observed to begin with. For instance, the way Courtney’s eyes light up when she figures out an answer before anybody else, or how she has seven freckles dotting her face, or how she’s able to whip anybody in shape with just a few words. Her physical capability was able to rival Heather’s own flexibility, and her sharp tongue could keep up with Heather’s own quick-wittedness.

It’s as admirable as it is — Heather was slightly embarrassed to admit she felt this way during high school, as high school romances were her personal taboo — hot with Courtney, and it took everything Heather had not to stare at her too much.

She did notice Gwen, Eva, Izzy, and Harold’s stares, however, with the former two being filled with empathy and the rest with sympathy, but she ignores them most of the time. During others, she stares back.

She’s aware of what their stares entail. Confess.

For Gwen, she shoots one look that makes Gwen break her gaze. Hypocrite.

Harold, Izzy, and Eva all get the same one. What are you, crazy? I’m not going to go up to Courtney and go ‘Hey, Courtney, so funny story: I’m actually so in love with you it literally hurts to breathe, and I know you hate my guts but I just thought you should know!’

Apparently, the message is not as clear with them as it is with Gwen, as they continue to stare and it’s actually Heather to break off their intense and unofficial staring contest.

Their request is clear, and Heather knows that they’re right. They were just three words — I love you — but they felt so wrong and unworthy on her tongue when she tried to practice them. They came out warbled and pathetic sounding, as if someone had their hands clamped around her neck, and Heather knew she’d never have the guts to say them to the brunette, even if it killed her.

The thought brings a lump to her throat, and a familiar hot and thick stuffiness too, but Heather keeps both the flowers and blood down, instead intently staring at the clock, waiting for lunch to come.

❀

Later that week, it’s their lunch period when the self-appointed Hanahaki Club meets next. The only noises in the library are the hustling of workers and students, the opening and closing of books, and keyboard keys hurriedly being typed, but in their corner of the library, it’s nearly silent excluding the regular clearance of either Heather or Gwen’s throats.

Gwen is fiddling with her pink bracelet when Heather makes another one of her mistakes. Something idiotic and foolish in hindsight, but something that seemed harmless in the present.

She asks, “What’s the deal with you and the bracelet? You’re always playing with it,”

Gwen looks surprised. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

Heather remains silent, unsure what to say, but Gwen smiles and looks down at the bracelet. “He gave it to me.”

Heather doesn’t have to ask for clarification on who the ‘he’ was, instead nodding and returning to peeling her orange.

However, the thing Heather hadn’t accounted for was triggering Gwen’s illness. So when the goth coughs, she doesn’t look up, but when she begins shrieking, that’s when Heather’s eyes widen.

Gwen’s hands were simultaneously switching between holding her throat at chokehold, as if to unlodge something from inside, and to covering her mouth in a vain attempt to hide the blood pouring out from her mouth. She was shaking, and beginning to shriek louder in panic as she choked, and all Heather could do was stare.

She registered Harold doing all he could to help the coughs as Eva called an ambulance. Izzy had already sprung out of her seat to alert a teacher, deadly serious. Still, Heather sat and stared at Gwen, whose eyes had fallen shut despite her body still contorting and twitching, and the trail of sweet peas that had fallen from her mouth and piled all around her.

Sweet peas, Heather finds herself thinking, the feeling of movement returning to her legs as Gwen is carried out the room to an ambulance waiting outside, they mean departures and goodbyes.

Heather’s ears feel muffled as if she were underwater. Her head is pounding, too, and she desperately wants to clear her throat of the scratchiness that was resurfacing, but feeling Harold, Izzy, and Eva’s stares, she doesn’t. Instead, she ignores the feel of their heavy and pitying gaze, and pictures herself drenched in her own blood, leaving a trail of sweet peas as she’s hauled in an ambulance, ridden to her presumed death. She’ll be choking on flowers and blood and her love for Courtney that was destined to be unreturned.

Heather staggers out of the library and drags herself to the second-nearest bathroom. Reaching the sink, she retches flowers, all while ignoring the aftertaste of copper on her tongue, instead washing the residue away and tossing the petals in the trash.

❀

iv. violets & marigolds; modesty & cruelty

There was only one outcome Heather hadn’t anticipated unfolding, which was Courtney finding out herself, so, of course, predictably and dreadfully, that is exactly what happens.

It was Study Hall, and Heather was reading in the library. The material was an outlandish, stupid comic about pirates in space that Harold had recommended, and so, Heather spent her valuable free time reading about the misadventures of space pirates targeted at 4th graders. At least there was no romance, though, or flowers, which was something Heather was grateful for.

She’s unsure how exactly Courtney had found her; all she knew was that she felt a single tap on her shoulder inflicted by the eraser end of a pencil, and that Courtney immediately leaped to her point as per usual.

“Are you sick?” She asks, voice uncharacteristically concerned instead of conceited. Heather decides that she likes it just as much as her pride — Courtney’s attention and concern were so wonderful to feel and have.

Heather blinks, realizing she had been staring for too long. She doesn’t know how to respond, so she just parrots back, “Sick?”

“Just like Gwen,” Courtney elaborates. Heather blinks in realization.

Word about Gwen had spread fast — after all, someone coughing up blood and flowers and leaving a trail of them while being hauled to an ambulance, all while showing symptoms of a fictional disease, was bound to get people talking. Heather hadn’t expected someone to connect the dots back to her, even less than by Courtney herself.

The back of Heather’s throat burns when she realizes Courtney’s confidence hadn’t wavered, but now she was gripping Heather’s forearm in concern. Her eyes were pooled with sympathy.

She can feel a wave of flowers — violets, meaning modesty and acceptance, and marigolds, symbolizing cruelty and grief — along with her own blood rising up her throat. Her lungs rattle and shake as she breathes quivering breaths, and it takes everything in her not to open her mouth and allow the blood and flowers to crack through and onto the clothes that fit Courtney like a glove.

Heather’s suddenly aware of how much she doesn’t want to cough up petals in front of Courtney.

And here is where Heather makes another mistake: she instinctively opens her mouth to reply in the form of a possibly blatant lie, but instead, the action makes her throat itch and by reflex, she’s coughing into the palm of her hand, instead of biting down the flowers and blood like she had intended to.

Heather screws her eyes shut as she sighs, lungs momentarily clear of the flowers that plague her. She can feel Courtney’s wide-eyed and appalled stare, but when she opens her eyes to the sight of the book drenched with blood, all Heather can bring herself to do is sigh and shut the bloodied book.

“Great,” she murmured. “Another book and set of clothes ruined,”

“You’re —” For once, Courtney is left flabbergasted and struggling with her words, and Heather hates that she finds it inexplicably cute. “You’re just like Gwen?” She says. Her disbelief makes the reaffirmation a question.

Heather can only bring herself to chuckling dryly, biting down the urge to point out that she was the one to make the accusation to begin with. She gives a feeble nod instead and smiles forcibly to Courtney to keep herself from crying from either the bitter irony or the pain. Or both. Most likely both.

“How long?” Courtney asks, taking a deep breath. She grips Heather’s forearm once more, and Heather hates that the simple touch sends an unpractical spark of excitement through her and heat to her cheeks.

Somehow, Heather finds herself shaking the thought off and shrugging. “A few weeks,”

Courtney stares at her with her mouth agape in exasperation and incredulity. “Why didn’t you tell anyone, you idiot? Do you want to die choking on flowers?” Heather looks away as Courtney sighs. “Why didn’t you at least tell me? We’re lab partners, after all,”

Heather wants to laugh. She wants to laugh at how cute it was that Courtney considered herself close enough to Heather to know about her fatal illness just because of an assignment. She wants to laugh because maybe she’s right — maybe, despite the pain, dying would be easier. She wants to laugh because of the cruelty that the girl of her affections was offering help despite being the cause of her suffering.

A marigold blooms from Heather’s lips. Cruelty.

It would be so easy to confess while she’s vulnerable and they’re alone. Courtney is sitting there, perhaps the most patient Heather had ever seen her, and it would be so easy, but when she opens her mouth to say the words that are already withering from the tip of her tongue, nothing comes out but the petals fighting their way up her windpipes.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

(Seven ‘I love you’s for all seven of the freckles dotting Courtney’s face.)

Instead, what leaves her mouth is none of the three words she needs to say.

“Don’t worry about it.”

❀

Ever since then, Courtney barely left Heather’s side. Others thought it was odd how she willingly stayed by Heather’s side, but the attention and concern made Heather’s heart swell.

(And her throat and chest burn, but that was unimportant.)

Currently, it was homeroom period, and Courtney had seated herself next to Heather. The brunette was flipping through a manual on different ways to ease pain in the stomach and throat. She occasionally asked for Heather’s opinion on a girl, attempting to find her crush. It was cruelly ironic, but Heather had already accepted she was as good as a dead man. Plus, Courtney looked really cute when her eyebrows were scrunched together in concentration even over something as measly as Heather’s crush. She didn’t have the heart to argue when Courtney even brought a small notebook to record her thoughts and findings in.

“Hmm, what about Sierra? You guys got along that one time in Sophomore year, right? Ooh, wait, is it Lindsay? You guys are pretty close.”

Heather hummed, giving a half-answer. Courtney frowns.

“It’s not them,” is all Heather can bring herself to say before the flowers welling up in her chest get the better of her.

Heather loves her, and she doesn’t know if she hates Courtney for it or if she hates herself. Worst of all, she isn’t sure if she wants to stop and have to look at Courtney in the annoyance and indifference she used to look at her with before her feelings spiraled out of control.

Maybe it would be better to love her quietly, Heather thinks, and then just peacefully die while Courtney remains none the wiser.

Courtney frowns, placing a gentle hand over Heather’s. The action makes her freeze, feeling heat rush to her cheeks, and all Heather can do is pray that she doesn't visibly blush.

“Hey,” she says comfortingly, giving her hand a squeeze, “We’ll find them, I promise,”

All Heather can do in response is cough once, twice, and watch as a violet and marigold flutter down from her mouth, a grave omen of what was to come.

❀

v. sweet peas & purple hyacinths; departures & sorrow

Heather rarely speaks anymore. When she does, the flowers and blood come up, and while many now have a good idea she’s sicker than feeling “under the weather”, she’d rather pretend for her own dignity that they don’t. And so, she doesn’t speak, so no one knows about the sweet peas and purple hyacinths that claw their way up Heather’s throat.

(The sweet peas she coughs up are the same as the ones Gwen had on the day she was rushed to the hospital while dying, and Heather knows her time is running out, but that doesn’t stop her from identifying that sweet peas mean goodbye and purple hyacinths mean sorrow each and every time she coughs one up.)

Gwen, however, has returned to school now that she has recovered, and the first thing she does is call a Hanahaki Club meeting during lunch. Now, Heather is the only one in the club who has the flower disease, and now, whenever she is shot a concerned glance, she scowls back until the original sympathetic look is disintegrated off of the owner's face.

“You know, they’ve developed a surgery for removing the roots from your lungs,” Gwen tells Heather during one of their meetings. “I nearly took it, and the medication honestly hurt like a bitch, but then Geoff showed up and we worked things out and… you know…” Gwen shyly looks away, and Heather just stares.

She’s not jealous of Gwen and Geoff or Izzy and Eva. She’s not — it’s better this way.

“Anyway,” Gwen continues, unaware of Heather’s inner turmoil, “You should check it out, Heather, especially since you’re hellbent on not confessing,”

“Whatever,” Heather murmurs, reaching for her water bottle. “It’s better this way. It’ll be over soon, and soon Courtney won’t be my ‘enamored’ or whatever.”

Gwen snorts half-heartedly. “And you seriously can’t confess? I mean, she rejects you, you move on and you don’t die. She returns your feelings, congrats, you have a girlfriend and you don’t die. Seriously, Heather, do you think this is really the way —”

Gwen gets cut off by Heather’s hacking. Revealing a purple hyacinth in hand, Heather sighs before crumpling it up.

“Rich coming from the person who did get the happy ending,” Heather mutters bitterly. She notices Gwen’s mouth opening to defend herself out of the corner of her eye, so she murmurs, “Look, I don’t think whatever it is I’m feeling for Courtney is going to go away overnight. But it’ll be over soon, I know it.”

Gwen blinks once, twice, three times when she realizes what Heather was implying. “Heather,” she says slowly, deadly serious. “Are you telling me you’re fine with dying when it’s preventable?”

Heather just gives a nod, unable to give words. She’s selfish like that, Heather thinks, that she’d rather die than confess and risk rejection.

Of course the thought of having Courtney’s love is tempting and wonderful. Of course the thought of staring into her eyes and being able to run her fingers across her freckles makes her hand twitch in longing, and of course the thought of doing all the things she wants to do with Courtney — going on dates, holding hands, going about their usual banter, kissing — is something that sends butterflies erupting in her stomach, but it’s something that she knows she can’t have.

The thought makes her crack a small smile, but even she can identify the sadness that lingers in her eyes despite not seeing them for herself. After so much time spent setting herself up for her own death, she’s still falling. She was still falling for Courtney, and the brunette was unaware that she was literally the death of her.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she announces to no one in particular, and this time, she just feels the group's saddened gazes following her.

❀

When Heather is out of earshot, Gwen takes the opportunity to make a sardonic quip accompanied with a chuckle that is anything but amused.

“And she calls me the goth,” she murmured, blinking fiercely before wiping a tear away.

Gwen didn’t understand just why she was crying. She and Heather had barely gotten along before, but after all of this, it felt too wrong to leave it at that. She sighed and rose.

“I’m going after her,” Gwen mutters, already knowing which bathroom Heather was heading to.

❀

As soon as Heather slams into the bathroom that’s the second-closest one to the library, she feels the roots digging into her chest and, specifically, her lungs. Her breaths feel jagged and rough, but she has gotten used to the feeling, though the shortness of them as they shrink while she breathes is unfamiliar.

Oh, Heather thinks, stumbling to the sink as she desperately clutches the edges of the porcelain, so this is what dying feels like.

It was already unbearable, but Heather knew that the worst was soon to come. It was time.

Heather tried to cough, as it seemed her mind was ready to go yet her body hadn’t accepted it, but all she got was blood and a few stray petals stained with her blood. Still, she kept trying, despite the fact that the action wore her out more than saved her.

Her vision swam as her head pounded, and she staggered as she attempted to stay balanced. Her body burned all over, but especially her chest; Heather gasped and heaved as she writhed on the ground, her body fighting for a bit of oxygen.

It hurts. It hurts like a bitch, as Gwen would have put it.

(She hates being in love, but at the same time, she had brought this on herself, so how much did she really hate being in love?)

As she felt her eyes flutter shut, her body laying in a pool of her own blood and petals, Heather notices the door kicked open by Gwen. The goth’s eyes flick across the room, before landing on Heather.

“Heath— shit!”

Immediately propping Heather up in her lap, Gwen stares down at her with terror filling her features.

“It’s okay, just hold on a little longer — don’t you dare close your eyes, Heather,” Gwen instructed, somehow giving instructions despite her panicked state. Then, she looked up and away from Heather, and shouted, “EVA! I found her, call an ambulance!”

The last thing Heather remembers before her memories flicker in and out of consciousness was Gwen squeezing her hand. It was so similar, yet so different than the way Courtney had squeezed her hand.

She had wanted to live in that moment forever, and now it seemed she’d be dying with that memory.

Heather smiled and, against Gwen’s wishes, shut her eyes.

❀

(Lots of blood on tiles. Staggering out the school doors. Being laid on a stretcher. Cold, hard, unwelcoming hands that don’t squeeze her own. Hustling and bustling of a hospital. Stiff beds and IV machines. Courtney.)

❀

vi. lotuses & azalea; rebirth & ‘take care of yourself for me’

It starts with a text. Well, if Courtney were being honest, it started far beyond the first initial text, but the notification is where everything fell into place.

It was English class right after lunch. There was no teacher, as the teacher ran out hastily and gave no explanation. Mr. McLean had just called over his shoulder that it was “quiet reading time”. Of course, many students took the opportunity not to read or be quiet, but Courtney paid them no mind as she flipped through her copy of Pride and Prejudice.

Her copy was filled with folded-over pages, highlighted passages, and various sticky notes. Many would think that, because of her perfectionism, she would be opposed to marking and folding pages, but Courtney found it soothing — just as long it was a personal copy, of course.

She had raised her highlighter to highlight a passage when she felt her phone vibrate from her bag. Carefully looking around to make sure no one was looking, Courtney carefully slid her phone from the pocket and switched it on.

Bridgette - 12:37 PM: have you heard about heather?

Courtney frowned at the words. Hiding her phone within her book — she had learned a thing or two from her peers, after all — she quickly typed a response back.

To Bridgette - 12:37 PM: No, what happened?

Her response is quick.

Bridgette - 12:38 PM: she got hauled to the hospital. gwen and eva loaded her in the ambulance but weren’t allowed to come with. heather wasn't visible, but gwen had a bunch of blood and flowers on her, and since she and eva are in relationships, they’re from heather.

Courtney felt herself pale. She had known about her illness, of course, but she didn’t know how Heather would react to everyone else knowing if she came back.

(When. When she came back, Courtney corrected, though the hammering in her heart did not calm down at the forced reassurance.)

Fingers shaking, Courtney sent one last response.

To Bridgette - 12:40 PM: Oh my god, is she going to be okay??

The question seems to throw Bridgette in loop, as Courtney watches as the blonde types and re-types her message, the little bubble with the ‘...’ symbol appearing, disappearing, and reappearing.

Bridgette - 12:41 PM: they don’t know.

Courtney shuts off her phone, closing her book as she stares defeatedly at the ceiling.

They don’t know.

Releasing a shaky breath, Courtney rushed to her feet and hastily left the room without offering an explanation to her peers. Instead, she goes down to the office to excuse herself, and goes straight to the hospital without looking back.

❀

At the hospital, Courtney arrived before any of Heather’s family did. She found it strange, admittedly, since an hour had passed since Heather had been hospitalized, but she didn’t pay it much mind. Instead, she was the only one waiting for Heather in the waiting room; the silence was deafening, and was further punctuated by how stiff and awkward the taps of Courtney’s feet were. The brunette was scared and impatient, and that combination unveiled tics she forgot she even had.

Eventually, after many hours spent bored after finishing her homework, a doctor in a white lab coat enters the room. His face does not give away if he is about to give away good or bad news, but his entrance makes the room smell heavily of chemicals.

“Ma’am, you’re going to have to go home,” He says to her, not looking up from his clipboard. “Ms. Wilson is under stable condition and won’t be accepting visitors.”

Ms. Wilson, Courtney realizes, is Heather. Instead of arguing, like she so desperately wanted to do, the brunette gave a stiff nod, rising from her seat with her heart sinking further in her stomach and a lump forming in the back of her throat. A scratchiness bubbles in the back of her throat, but Courtney can’t bring herself to clear it while she feels she’s choking on unidentifiable emotions.

❀

On the ride home, Courtney takes a lot of time to think.

She thinks about many things — Heather, mostly and predictably. She reflects on how intimidating and powerful Heather had been just months ago, and how she was now reduced to a hospitalized girl due to the growing pains and flowers in her lungs. They had been rooted from Heather’s love for somebody — the only issue was that Heather didn’t know who it was.

And so, being the wonderful friend Courtney was, Courtney heavily researched everything she could find on the Hanahaki Disease. It was near impossible since it was deduced to be a fabrication of fiction, but Courtney knew better than anyone else that the blood and flowers Heather hacked up were very real.

In her research, Courtney found that the flowers produced gave telling signs on the type of person the beloved was and the dynamic the beloved and victim have. And so, she had gathered the information from Heather and did the very thing she did best — make a list.

Meanings of Heather’s Flowers: Unrequited love, secret love, pride, loyalty, concealed love, fascination, modesty, cruelty, departures, sorrow

She had also made a list of the people that were definitely not Heather’s enamored, though there wasn’t as much progress as she would have liked:

Eliminated: All boys (Heather’s a lesbian), Ella, Eva, Gwen, Lindsay, Leshawna, Sierra, Izzy, Dakota, Dawn, Zoey, Sky, Amy, Samey, Jasmine, Sadie, Katie, Bridgette, Anne Maria, Jo, Staci, Scarlett, Sugar

That left two people: herself and Beth.

And suddenly, Courtney realized a particular mistake she made long ago, and felt very, very stupid.

The object of Heather’s affections, the very reason Heather had been suffocating on her own flowers and blood for the past few weeks, and the cause of Heather’s death if the doctors at the hospital slacked off was her. Beth wasn’t as prideful as she was, and certainly not as loyal — and besides, she and Heather had had a falling out years ago.

It was her. It had to be.

Courtney barely registered her car pulling up to her house while she was lost in thought — the rest of the night was spent in a dizzy daze that, thankfully, her lawyer parents were not there to witness due to a business trip.

It felt surreal to finally know the truth. After so much time spent worrying and interrogating Heather, Courtney finally had the truth in the palm of her hands, but she couldn’t even do anything because of the visiting hours.

Sighing, Courtney resolved to check in with Heather the next day, before shutting her eyes and sliding in bed, too exhausted to even change in her pajamas.

❀

At first, when Courtney awakens, she’s confused.

She’s confused as to why her cheeks feel sticky as if tears had been dried on them, and how she can feel bags underneath her eyes as if she had been crying, and how she was in her clothes and how her hair was undone, before everything came back to her in a sudden fit of realization.

Heather. Hanahaki. Hospital.

Still, though, even as she hastily pops a breath mint in her mouth, for once uncaring about her appearance, Courtney can’t stop herself from foolishly smiling. Heather loves her, she really does love her, and with her smile widening, Courtney realizes that she loves her too.

Her drive and ambition had always been admirable. The way the corners of her lips would twitch when she made a dry remark at someone else’s expense was something Courtney found herself seeking out as she spent more time with Heather; her laugh was as damning as it was enchanting to hear. Her hair was mesmerizing to look at — it was long and flowy and the exact color of ravens, and swayed with every movement she made gracefully.

Above all, Heather was someone Courtney had unknowingly become infatuated with, and she couldn’t keep her schoolgirl-like grin off her face as she entered a florist shop with only one certain flower in mind.

A bundle of white heathers for Heather.

Maybe it was a bit cheesy, and maybe Heather would scoff at the corniness when she saw them, but even the thought of that couldn’t rain down on Courtney’s mood.

❀

At the hospital, the staff are taking forever.

Courtney thought she would have been prepared for it, except, she finds out, she wasn’t. Every second that passes are seconds that Courtney thinks would be better spent informing her on Heather’s condition, but no matter how much she silently hopes and asks, the doctors in white coats and the nurses in scrubs don’t stop by. Instead, they bustle forth and through the halls, passing papers and exchanging hushed words as they navigate from room to room.

The waiting room was unbearably quiet. It was so silent that even as Courtney picked at her nails, tapped her feet, cleared her throat, and played with her hair, each movement would make a noise that was deafeningly awkward and suffocatingly unbearable. Occasionally, the secretary would shoot her a settle-down now look that reverberated in her soul, but not even the nasty glare managed to calm her nerves.

Courtney was unsure why she was panicking, really. Last she checked, Heather was in stable condition but she was fine. Why wasn’t she herself fine?

She had to ask for a piece of hard candy to keep from chewing on the inside of her cheek in her own fit of nerves.

The flavor was lemon, making Courtney outwardly wince. Still, she chewed, and the grating sound was awful, but it kept her mind off of Heather for long enough. She didn’t even have the mercy of homework to distract her in the waiting room, this time.

The clock hits 7 PM — long after when Courtney should have left to eat dinner — when a nurse timidly approaches her with nothing but a box. Not even a clipboard or name tag is on their person — just a cardboard box that had been sloppily closed.

Courtney felt a sinking feeling in her gut, but swallowed it down and forced herself to smile politely.

The nurse nodded to her. She was dressed in plain scrubs, Courtney noted — there were no vibrant colors or even a flicker of joy in the nurse’s eyes, doing little to settle Courtney’s nerves.

“You’re Ms. Courtney Barlow, correct?”

She found herself nodding, and the nurse took a shaky breath, looking from the box to Courtney’s confused eyes.

“The patient you were here for, Ms. Heather Wilson, she —”

Courtney abruptly stood, desperate to overpower the thoughts that were screaming at her that something was very, very wrong. The nurse may have been speaking at a normal pace, but it was still too slow for Courtney.

“She’s what?” Courtney chokes out. The question became chillingly still, making it seem more like a statement rather than an inquiry.

The nurse sighed heavily as if the weight of the world was contained in the box she was carrying.

“Ms. Wilson has died during her stay. She requested that this box was to be left in your possession. I’m going to have to ask you to leave, though…”

Courtney drowned out the rest of the nurse’s explanation, only staring numbly at the box that had been passed into her hands that felt clammy and cold. She mumbled a thanks she didn’t mean, and soon enough, rose out of her seat and out of the hospital before someone could escort her.

In the comfort and solitude of Courtney’s clean but cold car, it’s only then that the brunette realizes that tears were running down her face at an alarming speed, and upon that realization, they rushed down at an even quicker one as she heaved for the girl that was alone, cold, and deceased in a hospital room.

The bouquet of white heathers sat in the passenger's seat, wilting as if it knew that the reciprocator was gone.

❀

Inside of the box was a journal. It was dated and old, Courtney could tell; the pages were old and bent, and lead was smudged inside the pages from writing so much. She didn’t have to be a genius to realize that the thing Heather had left her, for whatever reason, was her diary.

Hesitantly, as if the owner was still alive and had privacy to be protected, Courtney opened the diary and began reading the highlighted words of the girl who lived and loved and died to herself — a girl who lives and loves and cries.

❀

## / ## / ##

It could be worse, I guess, but that doesn’t make it any better. I could have been partnered with Ezekiel, the sexist slug, or Justin, who would be too busy looking at himself in his compact mirror to do any work, but I got Courtney.

Courtney Barlow. The most uptight, infuriatingly prideful Know-It-All to ever walk the halls of Wawanakwa High.

And I know it’s only one project, so it’s not even bad, but something tells me that this is going to spiral out of control. Knowing my luck, Courtney’s going to lose it and have us both sent to the principal’s with a few points off our lab assignment.

That’s not a bad idea, actually. That will show her.

I’ll break Courtney, one way or another. Just you wait, Barlow. Just. You. Wait.

## / ## / ##

We got a new seating chart today. I don’t know why, seeing as how the next marking period isn’t close, but whatever. My seat isn’t that bad.

I have a good vantage point, at least. I’m in the back with Tyler, and he never bothers me, so at least I have that. Beth used to blab away about how immoral it was to observe everyone in the middle of class. Whatever. Now I get to observe how hideous and lopsided her side-ponytail is and she can’t say squat about it.

I can see Bridgette and Geoff well, though, but apparently Geoff himself can’t see Bridgette’s looks in Alejandro’s direction. I’ll have to do something about that.

I also see Courtney the best. I can see her stupid Star Student, light academia aesthetic clothes and I can see her perfect hair and posture from behind her. It’s infuriating how perfect she is. At least she makes up for all of that in an annoying personality.

## / ## / ##

Something weird happened today.

I had the urge to cough in science, but I waited it out. Then, Courtney went to check to make sure I was paying attention and, as soon as I was alone, I coughed. I coughed up a petal.

I know, it sounds like something stupid from one of Harold, Tyler, Sierra, and Cody’s mangas, but whatever. I plan on doing more research later.

Maybe if I’m sick I could be excused from that project with Courtney?

END OF PART TWO

#total drama #heathney #td heather #td courtney #td gwen #td eva #td izzy #td harold #gweoff #izva #evzy #my writing #heathney hanahaki au #hanahaki #part 2/3

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mightydragoon · 4 years

Text

Prince Luke fanfic Recs

@silvereddaye you know the drill

For all your Prince Luke Skywalker/ Amidala/Organa etc needs. Also ft a lot of Leia Skywalker along with that.

1. The Prince and the Bodyguard Toomanyfandoms99

Bail is unsure why he’s being told this, but he is intrigued. “Where is the boy now?”

“Here,” Mon smiles, “on this base, being cared for by Shara Bey and Kes Dameron.”

Bail nods upon recognizing the names. Shara is their best pilot, and Kes is their best combat leader.

“However,” Mon states, “they cannot care for the boy full-time. There is something...unique about him. Something you are more equipped to handle.”

Bail narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Ezra Bridger is Force-sensitive,” Mon reveals.

Bail leans back in his chair and blinks once. “I see…”

“If your son is anything like his true parents,” Mon says, “he will soon require guidance. This boy also requires that guidance.”

“So,” Bail says, “you want me to shield them both from the Empire. Get them a...teacher.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22633573/chapters/54092221

2.First Impressions Idhren15

Mara Jade attended the rich party on Coruscant for one purpose: to kidnap the Alderaan heir, Prince Luke Organa.

She didn't expect any of these complications.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22740592

3. Crowned Usurper planningconquest

Princess Leia managed to capture the elusive rebel Jedi. She finds someone she never expected.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17663147/chapters/41657678

4. The kidnappings of a Sith Lord maedre13

How a certain Sith Lord may or may not kidnap his rebel son. One-shots. Strongly inspired by sparklight´s “Where Our Intrepid Hero Doesn´t Get Away”.

Current chapter: In which the prince of the Sith gets a new bodyguard (3/3)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606992/chapters/23453241

https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606992/chapters/52681459 (Part 1)

(Note* Fic is episodic often not connecting, sometimes is, so there is a good variety of stories, some involving Prince Luke others not)

5. Sparks SpellCleaver

Vader had every intention of ignoring that petty—if notorious—burglar on Coruscant, until evidence suggested that this "Angel" had Rebel ties.

Meanwhile, Luke never expected his father to actively hunt him down, and he doesn't like it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031373/chapters/47433331

6. No Distance Far Enough KaelinaLovesLomaris

Imperial Prince Luke Skywalker is kidnapped by the Rebellion. His father is not happy.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17549516

7. Hostage Slx99

AU in which Luke grows up as the Prince of Alderaan and Bail and Breha Organa’s son. When Luke is sixteen Bail becomes too outspoken against the Emperor, who sends Lord Vader to take the young prince as a hostage and cow his father into submission. Held captive aboard Vader’s ship, Luke is faced with the unpleasant reality of being the pawn in this power play under his captor’s watchful eyes; until they both realize a thing or two…

https://archiveofourown.org/works/9707774/chapters/21902741

8. Hostage Interludes Slx99

Interlude pieces of the ‘Hostage’ universe from my ongoing long-fic that don't fit into the main story, but which I still wanted to share. Some will be more fun, others more serious. They have no influence on the main story.

Basic premise of the main story: Luke grew up with Bail and Breha Organa as the Prince of Alderaan. When Bail becomes too outspoken against Palpatine he orders Vader to take the young prince as a Hostage. Luke now lives aboard the Executor. He finds out rather soon that Vader is his father and the story goes from there.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15148811/chapters/35129507

9. Hostage

https://archiveofourown.org/series/1063433

10. Runaway SilverDaye

Imperial Prince Luke runs away from home to escape his overprotective father Emperor Vader. Jumping from planet to planet he finds himself creditless on Tatooine. While working for more money to leave the planet, Luke meets an old man named Ben Kenobi. But Luke knows he can't stay in one place for long for surely his father is hunting him down.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14630196/chapters/33813027

11.A Song of Dragon's Fire & Slaves Blood Fan0fFIM17

A Slave is finally truly made Free.

Lost in a strange primitive Land, he takes advantage of his circumstances to rise to the position of King. A Slave, a Jedi Knight, a Lord of the Sith, Darth Vader, Anakin Skywalker, Father, Son, all this and more. Read as he Fights for the Iron-Throne!

Winter Is Coming!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15400920/chapters/35743227

12. My sister has it jedileia (cptnwintersoldier)

"You want me to fight my dad? Kill him? How could you think I would be capable on any of that, after what I just heard? Have I been training just so I could kill my father? Is that what this Jedi training was about? If so then i deeply regret the evening I went to look for parts for my speeder and ended up at Obi-Wan's yard."

Leia, a farm girl from Tatoiine, learns that she is force sensitive and the daughter of the evil Darth Vader, once known as Anakin Skywalker. She begins her Jedi training, meets her twin brother Luke Organa and confronts his father.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/6537682/chapters/14957098

13. what is lost in the darkness.....hanorganaas

Starkiller is destroyed, the great Jedi Hero who saved the Galaxy Leia Skywalker Solo and her husband Han are presumed dead, and Luke mourns. But he isn't alone in his grief

https://archiveofourown.org/works/7668604

14. our eyes; they were pointed at the sky (looking for answers) pieandsouffle

The last few weeks have been a nightmare: Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru are dead and gone, the farm is skeletal and dead, she found out her father was a Jedi, brutally murdered by a traitorous friend, and now she's going to die because Han Solo is an incompetent nerf-herder who is apparently completely incapable of opening a krething door.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11159772/chapters/24904917

15. Possibilities of If May Be - Valerie_Vancollie

Co-authored by Selinthia Avenchesca.

What if two different Star Wars realities started to merge?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/12946578

16. Skywalker Swap - stitchy

https://archiveofourown.org/series/930435

(Note Series is a mixture of a fancomic and a fanfic and it is glorious)

17. There Is Another stitchy

A comicbook retelling of Episode IV in the spirit of the old Star Wars Infinities!

Luke and Leia are placed in opposite homes after the fall of the Republic. Young Leia Skywalker is called to adventure when she meets two droids that belong to the strange witch, Old Kah.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597686/chapters/23428284

(Note* Seriously this comic retelling is fantastic )

18 Here Among The Clouds stitchy

In a universe where Leia Skywalker joins the Rebel Alliance of her long lost brother Prince Luke Organa, the Millenium Falcon and her crew arrive to Cloud City with a fully functioning hyperdrive. In the weeks following the Battle of Hoth, Lando Calrissian becomes entangled in their their quest to defeat the evil Empire.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13507038

19. A Farm girl, a Twink, and an Uber driver- Daniellecluck

This is literally just a collection of drabbles of a New Hope rescue scene various original trilogy scenes but gayer and Luke and Leia swapped places.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13345347/chapters/30553272

20. The Adventures of Leia Skywalker, Episode One: The New Hope MaraWinchester

Nineteen-year-old Leia Skywalker lives with her Aunt and Uncle on the remote desert planet Tatooine, where there’s something ready to kill you behind every corner. Three moons make the nights bitterly cold, and the two suns makes the days unbearably hot. When a droid bought by her uncle contains a message by a prince, asking for help from a legendary Jedi Knight, Leia senses her ticket off world. Little does she know that her journey will take her right and center to a galaxy torn apart by war, involve smugglers of ill repute, and possibly shed more information on her father that she could possibly imagine...

https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122483/chapters/18619693

21. Another Kind of Hope Skyrissian (ErinacchiLove)

In a period of a galactic civil war, the brave Rebel Alliance has won their first victory against the Galactic Empire and stolen the plans of the Empire's ultimate weapon, the Death Star.

When the starship of Prince Luke Organa, who is transporting the plans, falls under the Empire's attack, the future of the galaxy depends on two droids carrying the secret plans and their new owner, a farm girl named Leia Skywalker.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18705637

22 The Princess, the Smuggler and the Sith Lord's Son Sassaphrass

Han Solo was trying to rescue her Royal Annoyingness from the Death Star when he runs smack into Vader's kid. Naturally he does the logical thing and takes him hostage. This is where the story starts. OR

Luke just wanted to get some snacks when he ran into a Wookie, a Princess and a Space Pirate. The day's pretty much downhill from there.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/5751661/chapters/13252696

23. At Least the War is Over Sassaphrass

The only thing Luke and Leia have in common are those nine months they spent in the womb and that time they brought down the Empire.

It's hard to build a new family when the last one got blown to smithereens with the entire planet, but Leia's never thought anything worthwhile would be easy.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/12663834

24. His Imperial Highness Luke Amidala - Sassaphrass

https://archiveofourown.org/series/744999

25. Chiaroscuro SpellCleaver

A series of oneshots focusing on Luke and Vader's relationship, with other characters occasionally thrown into the mix.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16363772/chapters/38293637

26. Prince Luke Organa: A New Hope -lightningbisexual

An AU where Leia was sent to Tatooine with Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru and Luke was sent to Alderaan as the prince. It begins from where Luke is captured by the Empire in A New Hope. I follow more his story than Leia's because we all know she's going to be a badass on her own and I really want to see Luke grow up and learn to face his fears.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19024390/chapters/45181531

(Note* see sequel below Leia centric)

27. Leia Skywalker: The Empire Strikes Back lightningbisexual

A continuation of my twin swap fic. Leia Skywalker is being sought by the Dark Side and the Light, who both hope to use her power for their own agendas. However, her ferocity and anger make it difficult for her to train as a Jedi. Han Solo is also developing feelings for Prince Luke Organa and has no goddamn clue how to deal with it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20533487/chapters/48737117

28. Between the Light and Shadows: Luke & Vader One-Shots SilverDaye

One-shot collection focused on Luke and Vader. All AU.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128117/chapters/48583628

29. How the Other Half Lives -aradian_nights

(Note* How can I talk about Prince Luke fics without mentioning them cause WOW. 10/10. I highly recommend even if you aren’t a fan of the Prince Luke trope cause wow. It is something. Warning: Angst . )

https://archiveofourown.org/series/609151.

Trial and Error - https://archiveofourown.org/works/8417668

Layers of Dust - https://archiveofourown.org/works/8900971

For Love of a Queen - https://archiveofourown.org/works/9342596/chapters/21167591

Deep Doubt- https://archiveofourown.org/works/10361913

Vision Void- https://archiveofourown.org/works/10628475/chapters/23511120

Fate Defied- https://archiveofourown.org/works/10947714

When Destinies Split - https://archiveofourown.org/works/11017986/chapters/24552093

Risk and Chance - https://archiveofourown.org/works/11506092/chapters/25817655

A Shout in the Dark - https://archiveofourown.org/works/11699232/chapters/26341971

Walking the Line Between - https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172817/chapters/30129249

AO3 Tag

https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Prince%20Luke/works

#prince luke #luke skywalker #star wars #fanfic recs #fanfic reccomendation #list #sw #leia organa #long post #i am reccomending a lot of fics so hold on

175 notes · View notes

stevemoffett · 3 years

Text

A Hard Nap, The Fall of Math, The Star Wars Holiday Special, Disco Point, and There You Are

In January last year, I noticed a sign in myself of the same cancer my dad had back in 2008. Unlike the usual symptoms that set off my paranoia, it wasn’t some vague feeling, it wasn’t an intermittent pain, and it wasn’t a general ill feeling—it was clear and unambiguous, out of the ordinary and one of those symptoms that, if you google it, is under the list of “call your doctor if you experience any of the following.”

It was also nonspecific: this symptom could mean cancer, but it could also mean about five other cancer-unrelated conditions. I called for an appointment that morning with my general practitioner, who said that the earliest available date was about two weeks later.

I knew that the only way my fear would be effectively relieved was with the one sure-fire diagnostic tool for this type of cancer, one that’s recommended for everyone, but not until about age 50: a colonoscopy.

For the two weeks before my GP appointment, I mentally prepared for death. For the record, I do this every time I interpret my body’s signals as cancerous, but the mental preparation usually stops after a few days when the symptom either goes away or when a clear alternative cause presents itself. This time, I didn’t get that kind of relief and, in fact, the symptom repeated more than once between setting the appointment and going to it. Each time, it was like an intrusive thought come to life: you’re going to die. You’re going to go through surgery and chemotherapy like Dad and you’re either going to die early, or find out like he did that the cure is worse than the disease, or maybe you’ll hang on just long enough to experience both.

Winter mornings in Texas can sometimes be surprisingly cold. While stepping out the door on a midsummer morning is like walking into someone’s hot exhale, as you might expect, a 33-degree morning is more like a slap in the face. When I packed everything I figured I’d need to move here a couple of years ago, I threw away my winter coat, thinking, I won’t be needing this anymore. (The coat was also about ten years old at that point.)

My first winter in Texas, I layered a bunch of shirts underneath a light jacket and wore a scarf on freezing days. The second winter, I decided that I’d had enough of being cold. After all, I rationalized, here in Texas it was monetarily possible to never have to feel cold again if you really don’t want to. So I bought the warmest coat I could find, an unstylish, bulky parka made by Caterpillar, the company that makes construction vehicles. No more layering, no more checking the weather before leaving in the morning. I could just put this coat on and not worry about it.

But now, under the shadow of a cancer scare these January mornings, wearing the big coat made me feel less like I was smarter than the weather and more like I was trying to smuggle a terminal disease wherever I went. Under my coat, tie, button-down shirt, undershirt, skin, fat, and muscle, something was growing silently in the dark. While maybe it had slipped up and showed some of its handiwork to me, it was already too late to do much about it now.

Since it has affected my life several times before, and since it is such an exquisite mixture of dread and uncertainty, cancer is one of my mind’s biggest bogeymen. I feel personally insulted by the idea of it. I treat you so well, body—why would you betray me? Was I not nice enough? Is this poetic justice for my vanity? Is it, as the old anecdotal saying goes, due to my worrying?

Not only did I feel like I was smuggling cancer under the big coat, I was also warming it up by drinking my coffee. I was feeding it directly when I ate something too sugary. And I was probably even giving it an evil sense of satisfaction when I got stressed out about it. If I was able to keep my mind off it by working in the lab, mixing and pipetting, using kits, and doing arithmetic in my head, it would come crashing back into focus when I was pulling my gloves off to wash my hands.

I pulled up incognito mode on my phone’s browser during my breaks, googling “5-year survival rate colon cancer age 35.” “Cancer staging colon prognosis.” “Colon cancer smoking.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack in college.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack 18 years ago.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack after seeing Luke Wilson smoking in The Royal Tenenbaums.”

At home, I suddenly started noticing the expiration dates on my nonperishables. What will last longer, I thought, the freshness of this baking soda, or me.

I knew I wasn’t going to be comforted by the first GP visit. After all, they’re usually the first stop to a specialist, unless you have a PPO insurance plan, which I don’t. The doctor listened to my symptoms and family history. “Well,” he said, “Given your history, it’s a good idea to refer you to a GI. But, you seem like you lead a healthy lifestyle otherwise, with none of the other risk factors, so we’ll see what he says.”

I made the GI appointment and had to wait two more weeks for it, with the same circular worrying and googling. At the GI appointment, I sat in the waiting room, the youngest patient there by a few decades, and I felt a little bit ridiculous. On the other hand, I’d also just read a harrowing story about a woman in her late 20s who had colon cancer and died from it. That was a real person, I thought, who at the first phase of it probably went through all the same feelings I was now, the I’m-being-ridiculous and is-this-worth-the-time-and-vacation-days, all the way up until her diagnosis. Not just because I was scared, I felt a pang of sympathy. A disease of the old picking a victim from the young is terrible luck.

And I figured, if it could be her, it could be anyone. But most of all, it could be me.

That last bit, I think, is one of—one of—my greatest flaws, the vanity of always thinking that the worst things will happen to you, in spite of the odds. It’s a way of making yourself feel special, but it has no upside. You don’t feel confidence with this type of special-feeling. In fact, you’re more likely to be timid and self-centered, and you just come across as weird to the outside observer. They might think, There’s only a few steps between that guy and Howard Hughes. Somewhere, deep in your mind, they think: Wires are crossed.

Shortly before I went in, another patient arrived, a man around my age or maybe younger who, despite a dozen or so free seats, declined to sit down. My name was called, and I passed a sign on the way to the back that said, “If you have recently traveled to China and have a fever you must let our staff know.”

This doctor’s exam rooms had floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind you’d see in a movie, instead of the usual dull and bulby, off-white plastic exam room interior. A Spanish medical student came in to give a pre-appointment questionnaire and to take my vitals. He asked, in much better English than I could have mustered in Spanish, “So. There is some blood in they crep?”

When he came in, the GI repeated what my GP had said, and since he was also the person who would be performing a colonoscopy, he said I should set an appointment for one with him. I managed to get a date three weeks later.

From other people’s stories, I knew two things about colonoscopies: they are no fun, especially the night before, but the general anesthesia on the day of the procedure, on the other hand, is fun. I was nervous enough on the day before that I actually asked someone at the pharmacy for help finding the items I was looking for: Polyethylene Glycol (or PEG, which we use all the time for lab experiments, and which I was going to have to drink 2 liters of), Gatorade, and laxative pills. I had to take about 800% of their recommended dosages, each.

The bodily effect of those chemicals was dramatic, and I will spare the details. The worst parts of it, I found, were the generally exhausting physical toll it took, and the feeling by the end that I had some kind of dangerous sodium imbalance: I was sweating between my fingers, for example, but the rest of me felt as dry as paper. At 10PM, I was too tired to do anything, but too nervous to sleep for more than a few hours.

One smaller worry that I felt the next morning, as I took a selfie in my hospital gown to send to a friend back home, making a backward peace sign to show off the IV sticking into my hand and also how brave I was being, was that I might just die right there on the table from the general anesthesia. Part of my grad school research was on Propofol, the most-used general anesthesia nowadays (which, incidentally, also killed Michael Jackson). This was the same drug I was to be given.

I’d never been fully put under anesthesia before. It was astronomically improbable that I’d have an adverse reaction to it and die (and by the way, Michael Jackson abused it, using it far outside of medical praxis—if you’re afraid to get a colonoscopy yourself, don’t be, it could save your life), but keep in mind what I said about my vanity.

“Hey, I’m really scared,” I told the anesthesiologist. He said something, muffled by his mask, that sounded like, “It’ll be all right.” Then he busied himself with a syringe, connecting it to my IV. He depressed it about a third of the way. “This should help you,” he said.

The last thing I said was, “Whoa…I feel it.”

After what felt like a hard, late-afternoon nap, I said, “Hello?”

My head was wrapped with something. When I touched my face, I could feel that there were cotton pads underneath the wrapping, holding my eyes shut. I guess that at some point either mid-procedure or after, my eyes had opened, unseeing, and they’d done this to keep them from drying out. “Hang on, sir,” I heard a nurse say, and my head was unwrapped.

“It’s over?” I asked.

“You’re all done,” he said.

“Gimme a minute, please,” I said, my South Jersey accent peeking out. “I feel a little weird.”

Eventually, I sat up. Two of the nurses helped me stand, and I pumped my arms like I was lifting light, invisible dumbbells. As I put my glasses on and looked around, I thought that they all seemed like they were fighting to not smirk. What did I say while I was blacked out? I wondered, with a twinge of panic, before deciding that it would be worthless to speculate. It could have been anything. There are literally millions of possibilities. Again—it would be worthless to speculate, I told myself, firmly.

An Uber driver, I had been told by hospital staff during a consultation, was not a legally strong enough party to take responsibility for me at discharge. Someone I knew would have to escort me to my apartment. Also, they said, they really would do that thing where you’re back in your own clothes, and they push you to the exit in a wheelchair when you’re all finished. After my procedure, my co-worker stood waiting in the discharge zone with his car as an orderly wheeled me out of the hospital exit. I stood up from the wheelchair and got into the passenger seat of his car, for some reason more aware than usual of the heat coming from the vent and the smell of the car’s leather upholstery. “I still feel weird from the anesthesia,” I said to my friend.

“I’ll bet you do,” he replied.

It was about lunch time, and I had taken the rest of the day off from work. When I got home, I ordered a pizza and lay on my bed. I ate the pizza and watched Star Wars. I had not felt any euphoria when I woke up, I thought hollowly. And my first solid meal in almost forty hours tasted unremarkable. I was still groggy, but not in a pleasant way. I felt cheated.

The hospital staff had put a manilla envelope into my hands as I left. It contained sheets of images the doctor had taken during the procedure. Once lucid, I leafed through them and compared the thumbnail-sized images on printer paper with googled images of cancerous tumors viewed through a colonoscope, trying to diagnose myself.

A couple of the images on the papers had shapes that looked weird, with what seemed like variations in the texture or color of my colon wall that to me, at least, appeared one hundred percent fatal. It was another two weeks before I had a follow-up appointment to go over them with the surgeon.

“See this?” The GI said, two weeks later, pointing to one of the images that had seemed completely normal to me, unlike other ones I had thought were much more scary and unusual-looking. “That’s a low-risk polyp. Of course, now it’s a no-risk polyp, ‘cause it’s gone.”

This medical episode ended only three or so weeks before the whole world changed, but I was all the more grateful for that. If I’d waited to be checked out, then I would have been weighing whether it was worth getting tested against the possibility of being infected with COVID.

The doctor recommended that I get a colonoscopy every five years from now on, but added, “If you want, you can go earlier than that.” I told him thanks, but once every five years sounded fine.

I wrote about the first seven weeks of the pandemic in my last entry. After that, May and June passed in the same way as March and April had. I went back to work in mid-June for two weeks before the first summer COVID spike closed things back up. I continued to play Quake, and I continued to fret about my family.

I had a job interview for a position in northern Maryland in April. I didn’t get it, but I had a good idea why I’d been turned down: the position wanted people with proven math skills. Which makes sense—for the last few years I’d said repeatedly that I wanted to have a job that involves less lab work and more data analysis. This was one of those jobs.

My graduate program gave me a degree in “Computational and Integrative Biology.” Sometimes I shorten it to “Integrative Biology,” or “Computational Biology,” but I always feel sort of dishonest when I tell people my degree. (Apparently this feeling is common among grad students). My own reason for feeling dishonest was because, in any other college, the work I was doing would probably just fall under normal old “Biology.” While it was true I had done course work that reflected “Computational and Integrative” Biology, they were courses taught in a remedial way.

When I say remedial, I mean that they were courses designed to get biologists up to speed on how to do higher-level data analyses with their experiments. For instance, in my “Biomath” course, we went over ordinary differential equations and graph theory. Those are both intermediate-level math types, ones you’d encounter in the later part of an undergraduate math degree program. Throughout that course, there was a lot of handwaving whenever I asked questions.

“Eh…,” the professor might have responded to something I had asked, “that requires a lot of background explanation we don’t need right now to handle the problem here. Just take it as a given for what we’re working on.”

In grad school, it’s common to be well-versed in only your narrow little research tunnel that leads outward to the edge of “known” biology. But a few times each month, several of us students would head to the bar down at the city’s waterfront after work to talk about our research. It usually began with a complaint—“This is the third time this kit wouldn’t work this week and it takes twelve fucking hours to run it each time,”—but to give us a more context for their problem, whoever was griping would have to go back and start at the beginning, recounting all the steps leading to their experiment’s failure.

This was a useful exercise, since a pair of new eyes on your work meant that at least you could get feedback on how to better relate the subject matter when you talked to a non-science audience, and at most, you might get a real solution for the problem you were bumping up against.

But I would sometimes get privately upset, as I sipped my beer and glanced out the window at the river, when a math-centered Computational and Integrative Biology student would start talking about their research. As someone who feels an unpleasant, TV static-like anxiety in my chest the moment I see letters in italics, or one of those big, orphan sorority sigmas following an equal sign during a math seminar, this upset feeling was directed at myself. Because, as a result of my insecurity, I would start listening to the beginning of the math student’s explanation of their research, trip over the first unfamiliar term I heard, lose the thread of what they were talking about, give up, and zone out. The math students, overall, just seemed light years ahead of me.

A critical vocabulary word that I began to mentally tie to the situation—slumming, these math types were slumming when talking to us biologists—was the grain of sand to my insecurity’s oyster. By the time I got my diploma a few years later, it had developed into a little pearl; now I had the feeling that I was, relative to those who’d come from a math background, a fake computational biologist.

Unhelpfully, the people in charge of hiring for the jobs I want nowadays seemed to agree. All the job listings I was interested in applying for made me feel the same panic that advanced math symbols on powerpoint slides did. The subjects they wanted their applicants to have experience in—machine learning, deep learning, regression analyses—were all frightening, impregnable terms, reminding me either of some kind of giant machine made up of endless tubes and valves, all spitting dangerously hot steam, or of a highly secure, underground bomb shelter that requires fingerprints or eyeball scans to get into. I knew from my previous learning experiences that if I didn’t understand the fundamentals and learned only the higher-level, applied stuff, it was just going to make me feel unworthy, and I’d forget it at once.

But summer had come—it was midsummer now, in fact. The pandemic wasn’t going anywhere, so what was I going to do if I didn’t start learning something? I ended up registering for three classes at a community college back home, which offered their fall semester online. For two thousand dollars, including textbooks, I got a spot in Introductory Statistics, Linear Algebra, and Calculus III.

Calculus III was a risk. I’d taken Calc I and II in undergrad, now about seventeen years ago, and I had earned Bs back then. I didn’t remember much of the material from either class. I’d tried watching Khan Academy videos at various points in the meantime, but could never stick with it. I’d watch several videos in a row, feel like I understood things, try a practice problem, get it wrong, and forget about it after a day or two. But now, I had put actual money into it and, in a few months, a grade would be spit back out, so this time I had real skin in the game.

But I had misgivings that I was too old to learn new stuff, or that I would be one of those students I remember when I was in undergrad, the older students who would grind class to a halt with their endless questions. Or maybe I would get worse grades than I had in undergrad, despite taking things more seriously now.

Two of the classes were taught asynchronously, meaning each lecture was a video that you could pause or replay at your leisure, and all tests were take-home, but the other class, Statistics, was done over Zoom. You might think a Zoom class could be a better way to learn—clarifying questions can be asked immediately, for instance—but for me, at least, it was not. Instead of focusing on the material being taught, the whole time I’d be thinking, “They can see me. Everyone here can see me. I can see me, and I have a dumbass expression on my face. Can they tell that I have a bedsheet instead of a curtain over my window blinds?”

My mind wandered during class just as much as it had while sitting in a lecture hall when I was eighteen, but now, these classes were held later at night, after I’d been working all day and had eaten dinner. As a result of this, and the fact that I find Statistics to be boring when it’s taught as a series of don’t-worry-about-how-we-derived-it formulas to plug numbers into, I did the worst in Statistics.

But Calc and Linear Algebra were more interesting. When I watched the class videos, I got familiar with the disembodied voices of the teachers, who each seemed to be trying to do an impression of Khan Academy videos. My Calc teacher, with his strong Vietnamese accent, would punctuate every few lines of derivation or proof with, “So what does that mean then?” Every time—new topic, new chapter, new problem, exactly the same tone of voice: “So what does that mean then?”

Eventually, in my head, his cadence merged with the tones of Woody Woodpecker’s laugh, and I began saying it to myself as I did chores around my apartment. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d half-sing at my garbage can liner as I cinched it shut. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to a wrinkled button-down shirt, enjoying the pepper shaker-y smell of my iron when it’s turned up to its hottest setting. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to the window blinds, when considering whether I should replace the bedsheet I’d hung there with an actual curtain, before answering myself that No, this apartment is too temporary for something as tony as curtains.

Sometimes I’d say it three times in a row, like Woody Woodpecker himself:

“So what does that mean, then?”

I kept a Google Sheet of how much time I spent doing work for each class, and found that I averaged about 20 hours a week total. That broke down to approximately an hour and a half each weekday, and on Saturday and Sunday I would go for about six or seven hours each. I’d get up at 7:30 those weekend mornings and brew a pot of coffee, then sit taking notes and working through every part of each assigned homework, not moving on from a problem until I understood everything about it.

I think that those Saturday and Sunday mornings may have been the happiest I felt during the year 2020. In the middle of a difficult Calc problem, not having the answer yet but certain I was on the right track, while also buzzing on caffeine, as a beam of early horizontal sunlight hit my kitchen backsplash and filled the apartment with more brightness than all my lightbulbs put together, I for once did not feel worried. I was unworried about my parents, my sisters, my brother, my sister-in-law, my niece and nephew, and all the pets. Unworried about COVID, or cancer, or the work stresses of the week. Unworried about getting older, about being alone still, or about enjoying being alone too much; unworried about letting all of this time go by and still feeling like real life hasn’t started; unworried about my dad having another stroke, or about my mom just suddenly up and dying out of nowhere, or cancer, or whether my hairline is changing, or the fact that my heart has been skipping a beat sometimes lately, or whether my friends who I speak to on the phone were getting sick of me, or whether I am too graphic when I describe symptoms I am afraid mean I might have cancer, or whether my apartment neighbors will keep me up with their noise again tonight, or whether the tooth sensitivity I feel drinking cold water lately means I need to risk a dentist visit during a pandemic, or whether I will be able to have healthier boundaries with my parents whenever I return to the northeast, or whether I’ll ever feel truly satisfied and content, or whether I’ll ever feel actual joy some day, or whether my hang-ups, and anxieties, and fears, and regrets about my personal and professional choices will end up all ganging up on me at once, or, of course, whether at any given moment, I might have cancer.

My attitude going into the classes was that I would disregard whatever grades I got and simply aim for as much comprehension as possible. But about halfway through the semester, I lost my nerve and began to think of my grades as a direct indicator of my level of understanding. So I started fretting about my grades, and on days of Calc III exams during the second half of the semester, I took vacation time so I could spend the whole day working on them.

It got a little crazy toward the end, but finally, it was over, and I managed to get all As. That made me happy, even if I knew that that kind of satisfaction is a bit immature. But I felt like I was making up for some of the sins I had committed as a college student, my laziness and my previous lack of appreciation for education finally, in a small way, absolved.

I spent Christmas here in Texas. When I think back on Christmases from previous years I find that I can remember the past two years very well because I flew home and packed a lot of family and friend time into a few short days. Before 2018, though, I can’t remember any specific Christmas well enough to recount anything that happened on the day.

But when I was a little kid, I remembered each Christmas perfectly, mainly due to the gifts I got and the room where we put the Christmas tree—where “Christmas happened”: in 1990, it was in the back room and we got a magic set, and also my brother pretended to faint when he saw he’d gotten Reebok Pumps. In 1991, it was in the family room, and my brother and I got the Nintendo game “Base Wars.” In 1992, it was in the living room and we got a Sega Genesis along with the game “Sonic 2.” In 1993, it was in the family room again, and I got a Hot Wheels Key Force car, and my brother got the Genesis game “Hard Ball 3 With Al Michaels.”

In 1994, my grandfather died a few weeks before Christmas, and we got a Sega CD. That was the year I became aware that the Christmas spirit was vulnerable to external forces, one’s first experience with death being the most offensive of those forces, and after a few months I also became aware that a hot new gaming console like the Sega CD could “fail,” slipping into obscurity with a small and unremarkable library of games. As a result, the indestructible-seeming sheen of Christmas fell away, leaving behind a better idea of what Christmas really is: a bare, thin-glassed lightbulb plugged into the middle of the year’s darkest period. After 1994, I can’t really remember what happened each Christmas.

This past Christmas will always be memorable, though, because I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day pretty much doing one of three things: playing Quake (yes, that hobby still refuses to die), watching something Star Wars-related, or video chatting with my family. At any time when I wasn’t speaking to family, I had Christmas music playing in the background, including while Star Wars was on. I turned the heat up in my apartment to 75 degrees and enjoyed how money-wastingly hot it was getting, until my nose started to bleed from the dry air.

I want to take this opportunity to say that I much prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. Christmas Eve is generally all anticipation and guest arrivals, buoying the mood long into the falling night. From the viewpoint of Christmas Eve, any miracle might happen the following morning. But then after a late, over-buttered breakfast on Christmas Day, there’s nothing much else to do except think about cleaning up and regret how much you’ve eaten. The “anything could happen” feeling is now all gone, collapsed from a dazzling infinity’s worth of possibilities down to one homely outcome.

I hadn’t put up any decorations for my apartment, unless the Christmas music can be considered a decoration. This ended up being a good thing, though, since I didn’t have to take anything down once the holiday was over.

I started taking walks pretty early in the pandemic, my first walk happening after about one week of lockdown. That day there was a surprisingly large amount of people also walking. We all stayed far away from one another, since none of us were wearing masks—the width of even a modest suburban Texas street is still impressively wide, so there was no safety issue. I always took the initiative to be the one who crossed the street if I saw someone, exaggeratedly swinging my arms as I crossed so the person walking toward me could see my intentions even from far away. I did this because I figured it would be harder for the dog-walkers to wrangle their dog across the street and get out of my way, and the people without dogs were either old or were walking in a group.

In the beginning I was walking maybe twice a week, which then became three times, which became five. It held at five times a week during the fall semester because I’d have to be on Zoom from 6:30-8:30 PM Tuesdays and Thursdays, which took up the whole span of time in which I would usually walk. Nowadays, no longer taking classes, I walk every night.

For a while, I tried to get home before sunset, because I’m afraid of being hit by a car in the dark. After the clocks shifted back, I had to choose between walking earlier, during rush hour when everyone was arriving back at their houses from work, or waiting to walk until after the sun has set. I ended up buying one of those reflective construction worker’s vests for $8 on Amazon and waiting for nighttime. I feel like a dork when I wear the vest, but most of the people walking at night who I see are also wearing reflective clothes. Theirs are more chic than my vest, though, looking like they were ordered through an expensive fitness-wear catalogue. I’d buy the same type, but to me, walking is a meditative, solitary act, and I don’t want to feel that I’m catering to externalities like looking stylish while I’m trying to feel solitary. It also acts as a tacit acknowledgement that I’m not a criminal: “I’m making myself as visible as possible! I’m not casing your houses to break into them later on!”

Even though the focus of COVID is on the transmission of disease through shared, respired air, I still pay a lot of attention to contaminated surfaces. When I go out anywhere, I have a routine: first, I put on my going-out clothes (newly clean), then my shoes, which are possibly dirty, since I have to re-tie them sometimes with unwashed hands, so before I touch anything else after tying my shoes, I wash my hands. Then, I put on a mask, turn off all the lights except the one at the front door, pick up my keys with my right hand, slip my phone into my left pocket, and walk to the door. I put my keys in my right pocket (my wallet is already there), open the door with my right hand, turn out the light, step out the door, and take the keys out of my pocket to lock the door with, again, only my right hand.

I use my right hand pretty much everywhere outside—to push or pull open doors, to open my car to retrieve something from it, to open my mailbox and carry my mail in—because I know that if I use my left hand, my phone-operating hand, I’m going to have to put the phone into a little UV light phone-sterilizing box that I bought when I get home. And for some reason, I feel like it’s a small moral failure to have to use that UV box, so I try to keep my left hand from touching anything except for the phone. But I know that if I drive anywhere, all bets are off—both my hands touch the steering wheel, my left hand touches the car door handle while getting out, and I push open doors with both hands whenever I get somewhere. I’m sure that my left hand ends up touching something that may have SARS-CoV-2 on it as I carry out an errand, and therefore into the UV box my phone must go when I get home. But, when I go out to walk, there’s a good chance that I won’t need to touch anything with my left hand between leaving the apartment and coming back. If that’s the case, I can use my phone freely while walking if I want to, but when I get home, I can still just take it from my pocket and place it on my desk, no ultraviolet sterilizing waves needed. But of course then I still have to wash my right hand.

The walk is the same route every night now. It’s a vaguely circular, level 2.7 miles, starting northbound, bearing west, south, then east. It takes about forty minutes for me to walk the whole thing, plus or minus four minutes, depending on how warmed up I get while walking. My heart rate generally goes up to about 115 beats per minute for most of the walk, according to my watch, then spikes to 135 as I climb the stairs to my fourth floor apartment at the end.

Insulated by the sound of music or an audiobook on my headphones, and with my hands stuck in my pockets, actually holding onto the cloth pocket linings themselves, I feel less like a person on a walk and more like someone steering a large, inertia-filled thing—a sailboat that I have to tack against an unfavorable wind, or a bobsled whose blades I have to turn out of deep ruts on the ice. But despite feeling bodily awkward, I find suburbia to be a soothing place to move through. I really don’t understand how some people think of the suburbs as some kind of dystopia, to be honest. My neighborhood has wide streets, as I mentioned, and the houses are almost all ranch-style. The trees, like the houses, are shorter than they are in the northeast. Some of the trees look more like very tall shrubbery. As for the ground, the blades of grass are wider, and the soil is just a bit sandier. Sometimes, I see two-inch-long cockroaches, what people back home would call “water bugs,” creeping across the sidewalks.

I can’t remember the names of the streets on the walk, except for Forrest Street, which I noticed once when I saw the street sign while I was running and it made me think of “Run, Forrest, run!” and Kenilworth Street, which has the same name as a street back at home. Other than those, I only know points along the route by the informal names I’ve assigned to them. There’s a road where it changes direction from heading north to heading east, and it looks over a little park. The lack of houses there gives an unobstructed view of the western horizon. For that reason, I call that part of the route “Sunset Bend.” At another point on the route there is a house where, in the beginning of lockdown last spring, a family was always outside, the parents sitting motionless in Adirondack chairs while their kids all went nuts on the front lawn, playing with the sprinkler, or doing hopscotch, or sitting at one of those tiny plastic picnic tables, playing some board game. That part of the walk I called “Kidville.”

There were other houses that were always so inactive, so abandoned-seeming—the blinds were always closed and there wasn’t a car in the driveway—that I started to wonder if anyone lived there at all, and whether maybe the neighborhood association was mowing its lawn to stave off the shabbiness. But after the switch from walking in daylight to nighttime, I saw that some of those houses, while still shut up and silent, had lights on inside in rooms not facing the street. Looking at those houses is like staring into the vents of a space heater in a dark room.

Eventually I started thinking about how the walk is exactly 2.7 miles. Then, idly, I realized that if you multiply 2.7 by 30, you get 81. That number of years, eighty-one, seems like a decent amount of years to hope to live—it’s not greedy, you’re not asking for a hundred years, for example—but also, maybe when I get closer to 81, there will be better medical treatments and 81 will seem younger. Assuming that doesn’t happen, though, I think of 81 years as more or less “a complete life.” It is very sad, but not exactly a tragedy, to die at 81.

With this in mind, I started translating the distance along my walk to human ages. For instance, 1.0 miles into the walk, times 30, would equal 30 years. And 1.2 miles times 30 would equal 36 years, which is how old I am now. Since by the time I’d discovered this “conversion formula,” the walk was already so familiar to me that I had a very good perspective on how far into the walk any given point felt—the precise moment when I sense that I’m transitioning from the middle to the end phase of the walk, for example. So when I came up with the multiply-by-30 conversion formula, I was interested to see exactly what part of the walk 1.2 miles, or 36 years old, corresponded to.

The answer is that it was later in the walk than I’d hoped. The moment I reach 1.2 miles is long past the most scenic parts of the route; it’s just after a left turn that puts me on a long straightaway of modest houses leading to an arterial road, known to me as the hook-around part of the circuit where in past walks, I had thought, “Now I’m on my way back home.”

Over the next few evenings, I noted other points, ones that had come before the 1.2 mile marker, and compared them to parts of my already-lived life: I graduated high school at 0.6 miles into the walk, which was the beginning of Sunset Bend. I got my master’s degree in a spot where, at nighttime, a streetlight shines through the leaves on a tree, giving the street a dance hall, disco-ball kind of lighting (hence, “Disco Point”). That friendly, lighted patch of street, with a jaunty-looking house standing next to it, makes it my favorite part of the walk. As for points I have not yet reached: still ahead of my current age distance, at around 1.5 miles, is Kidville, but I haven’t seen anyone in the front yard there in months now.

Toward the end, almost back home, there’s a large school property. I’ve never seen anyone on the grounds, except for the occasional person who sneaks onto the running track to jog it. Along one of the fences that borders the school, in springtime last year, someone started zip-tying laminated sheets of paper with jokes written on them to the chain links. The jokes are all clean, and pretty lame—these days it seems like almost all kid-friendly jokes are just puns, like “How did the farmer find his wife? He tractor down!”

One time, I saw a kid about ten years old on his bike, riding along the sidewalk and stopping to read each joke. The fence ends at a small park for toddlers. There’s a big plastic sign at the entrance of the park, faded but still legible, that has a boy’s name displayed on it. Below his name is written a tragically short span of years, and below that, a message: “This park is dedicated to the memory of (the boy’s name), and to all of the little tykes of (the neighborhood).” Whoever it was putting up jokes on the schoolyard fence stopped replacing them with new ones some time during the fall, and I walk too late to ever see anyone playing at the playground. Well, that’s not quite true: very rarely, around 9 PM on warm nights, I might see what appears to be a young mother scrutinizing her phone as her kid swings in the dark.

I haven’t been to the gym to lift any weights since lockdown started. I’ve been able to do cardio in my apartment, but the result of all the cardio and all the walking is that I’ve lost a decent amount of lifting strength, as well as about ten pounds. This is consistent with how life in general has evolved: I have also reduced the list of spaces I travel to, leaving my apartment only to go to work, to pick up groceries, and to walk through my neighborhood. My body, and the edges of my life, have gone through a great miniaturization, but my perspective has adapted with it—each feature within this smaller space seems more detailed, and the day’s moments are of a finer grain. Inside my apartment, I have realized how much the lighting affects the atmosphere, and as a result the mood, so I can change which lights are on when to reflect the mood of each time of day. When I walk at night, sometimes I have the same feeling I did the week before I moved here from New Jersey, a sort of farewell feeling. That feeling started in the fall as a dessert-like flipside to my happy mornings spent doing math homework. Those evenings, I also felt like I was saying goodbye, to a more insecure, more ignorant version of myself, I guess. Nowadays, I get the feeling that I’m saying goodbye to the person who had, until now, always feared that he was missing out on things.

There will be a time, closer to now than now is to the beginning of the pandemic, when I will leave Texas. I will be happy and relieved to return home, whenever that is. But at the same time, there’s a new feeling that is starting to take root, and it’s a weird one: for all the hardship that the pandemic has presented to me, the anxiety for my family and the limitations it’s put on my mobility, social life, and career, for more than ten months now, its most memorable effect, unless I’m affected by the illness itself, will be that it made me love my neighborhood. I have walked more than 500 miles of it over the months, and scores of miles remain to be walked before I move away. I’ve walked during steaming afternoons, during cloudy sunsets, in pre-dawn twilight on cool mornings, and during soft, breezy evenings. It’s always picturesque, pleasant, very green. The houses look inviting, and the dog-walkers wave to me. I listen to music that suits my mood and do the geographical equivalent of palm reading. That’s all, really.

Can a person love a place? Feel gratitude toward landscaping, houses, parked cars, and people viewed only from a distance? Can someone feel affinity to a fox seen in a churchyard and streetlights shining through leaves in the night? Affection for lawn mower exhaust, for the noise of an approaching SUV slowly carving out a bend? Love for landmarks that correspond to moments in one’s past, or to moments that one might encounter in the future?

There will be a time, I hope, when my years in Texas are far in the past. But some day, I will hear a song, or see a house with a certain architecture, or smell a variety of grass, and Texas will return to me. At the same time, I also hope that it isn’t too overwhelming. I’ve found that I can never tell how potent a memory of a particular time or place will be until there’s a lot of distance between me and it. Sometimes, a memory will come gently, settling on me like a haze, ready to be indulged, even laughed at. In such cases I turn up the music that brought the memory, or take a luxuriating whiff of the scent, and I think back on the time, feeling only a little bit sad.

But other memories swoop down like some kind of predatory bird, and in those cases, the nostalgia feels more like the punch of the bird’s talons in the back of my neck. The sense of missing is so strong that it feels less like nostalgia and more like a distilled, portable homesickness. Ridiculously, I’ll even want to return to the memory’s time and place, despite knowing that in reality it had been fraught with pain or unease. Which makes the sneaking feeling growing during this time, at this place, all the more uncanny. I mean, all that this span of time has been, is me, and some terrain, and the wind, and the light of the sun or the moon. No one else. My nostalgia for anything before this was always about times and places with other people. So who will I be missing?

Someone once said, Wherever you go, there you are. But now, I wonder: is that really true?

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