#much of them are still in there but i’m still an impulsive dumbass so i ignore that and desperately try to seek him out and he’s so fuckin

[bo0zey]

boys be mad asl when i don’t giggle n tehe n show cute emotions like bitch my wounded inner child just got done drunk sniveling begging for daddy not to yell n hate her while her intoxicated narcissistic father screamed n gaslit her until she dissociated to euthymic plane 🙄🙄🙄

#‘trauma dumping’ eat my shorts loser assholss #so funny he said if my narcissistic sociopathic insane brother killed himself then it’s ‘goodbye to the rest of y’all too’ #like ohhhhh so ur eldest daughter n youngest son don’t mean jack fuckjn shit to u right??? lmfao lolll #yeah just go rot with that selfish egotistic psycho while ur 15yr old son who lost his mom at 7yrs old #i want to strangle my fuckjgnf dad sometimes he’s so cruel n said so many mean things to me #he always has to defend my middle brother ‘he’s depressed what if he kms’ like??? #my middle brother literally manipulates tf out of my dumbass emotionally unintelligent father he’s tearing this family apart #meanwhile i never planned on seeing 18 nor living past 22 n now i have to go exist n find a job when i never thought i’d have to do this sh #shit ever b. i was supposed to #be dead 4 years ago lololllll #god forbid i tell him that or my plan to kms at 27 lollll #so worried abt a fucking LOST SOCIOPATH SEFISH NARCISSITIC CAUSE ur gonna make me and my baby brother suffer?? as orphans ?? #my dad n i used to get breakfast every sunday in middle school n talk abt life n drive around after n those days meant the world to me #i never realized how much i missed them. how much i looked forward to him saying he’d call me while i’m away at college #but my middle brother egosticizl fuck is like ‘lolyh i just nod n say what dad wants me to hear’ when my dad is trying so hard to save him f #my dad admitted to neglecting my lil bro lol it makes me so fkcing angry he doesn’t give af abt us #says ‘im worth more im the ground than i am alive’ n my inner teen bursts into tears bc she experienced that already #yeah moms life insurance money was so fun!! until it ran out bc of college n impulsive manic spending n the materialistic thrill never laste #i want to hate him but i can’t even deny i love him so much he hurts me and everyone i love and disappoints us all n we still care for him #he’s letting my brother fuckjgn kill him literlaly my dad is physically sick bc of my sociopath narcissistic bros drama #he blames me for not going to him n telling him abt my ‘’mental issues’ as if i didn’t have to grow up n become mom the day after my 16th #i am my mothers child he didn’t know anything abt our childhoods until she died and he had to step up n parent us himself #he doesn’t know what it means to be a parent he shouldn’t be a parent but oh fuckjgn well oh my god WE ARE YOUR KIDSMWE NEED YOU WH #WHY CANT YOU SHOW US YOU CARE WHEN WE ALL HAD TO LEARN ALL WE HAVE IS OURSELVES #i am so angry he tried to throw me under the bus abt not having a job as a new grad nurse instead of my brother for dropping out everything #ur son wants to drop his ap classes bc he procrastinated n doesn’t wNna do the work so now he’s manipulating u to let him quit #i am just not exiting the identity crisis coming to terms w the fact that i’m 22yrs old n alive n need to start living n working #tonight was a shitshow but the ending calmed down but i couldn’t stop crying sniveling whimpering when dad yelled #yelled n accused n attacked me n chose to defend my middle bro over me like..he’s trying to kill u n i freaked out bc stepmom said u cut #ramblings

[nightshadow1607]

Immortal Izuku: What’s up guys? I’m back.

Shinsou: What the- you can’t be here. You’re dead. I literally saw you die.

Immortal Izuku: Death is a social construct.

--

Aizawa: I slept for almost 12 hours but I might still be tired so let’s go for 12 more just in case.

Hizashi: Shou, that's a coma.

Aizawa: Sounds festive.

--

Vigilante Shinsou: Are you sure this is the right direction?

Informant Kaminari: Certainly, I'm as sure as I am honest!

Vigilante Izuku: In that case, we're definitely lost.

--

Vigilante Izuku: I was arrested for being too cool.

Shinsou: The charges were dropped due to a lack of supporting evidence.

--

Feral Izuku: Just because I'm too short to reach the lowest self in the cabinet doesn't mean you shouldn't watch out for your kneecaps.

--

Shinsou: With great power comes great need to take a nap. Wake me up later.

--

Aizawa: I’ve come to a point in my life where I need a stronger word than fuck

--

Izuku, holding a python: I impulsively bought a snake, what do I name him

Hizashi, in the verge of a heart attack: You did WHAT–

Shinsou: William Snakepeare

--

Izuku: Jail is no fun. I’ll tell you that much.

Aizawa: Oh, you’ve been?

Izuku: Once. In Monopoly.

--

Shinsou: I think I'm having a mid-life crisis.

Aizawa: You're like 15 years old

Shinsou: I MIGHT DIE AT 30!

--

*Izuku and Shinsou are doing something absurdly dangerous*

Vigilante Izuku: I think Houdini did something like this once! Why, if I recall correctly, he was out of the hospital in no time!

Vigilante Shinsou, deadpan: Well that's encouraging.

--

Izuku: Bad things keep happening to me, like I have bad luck or something.

Bakugou: Deku, you don't have bad luck. The reason bad things happen to you is because you're a dumbass.

--

Kirishima: If I accidentally sat on a voodoo doll of myself, would I be trapped forever in that position, doomed to starve to death?

Tokoyami: How am I supposed to know?

Kaminari: You say, as if we don’t use you as a source of knowledge of the occult.

Tokoyami: *sighs*

Tokoyami: You wouldn't be trapped.

--

Spinner: What do you think Dabi will do for a distraction?

Mr. Compress: They’ll probably, like, make a noise or throw a rock. That’s what I would do.

*Building explodes and several car alarms go off*

Mr. Compress: ... or they could do that.

--

Izuku: I've already sent good vibes your way… they’re coming. There’s nothing you can do to stop them.

Shinsou: This is the most threatening way I’ve ever been cheered up.

--

Quirkless Izuku: I’m going to defeat you with the power of friendship! ... And this knife I found.

--

Uraraka: What do you call a fish with no eye?

Iida, not looking up: Astyanax mexicanus

Uaraka: 

Uraraka: fsh

--

*Shinsou and Izuku sitting in jail together*

Vigilante Izuku: So who should we call?

Vigilante Shinsou: I’d call Aizawa, but I feel safer in jail

incorrect quotes because why not? (part 5)

#vigilante izuku #shinsou hitoshi #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #kaminari denki #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #tokoyami fumikage #spinner mha #mr compress #uraraka ochako #iida tenya #incorrect qoute bnha #dadzawa

[autisticlancemcclain]

fic rec friday 18

welcome to the eighteenth fic rec friday! where, on friday, i rec five of my favourite fics.

1. A Kind Of Cosmic Joke by @eatdirt

And it's not like it's a big deal. It's decidedly not a big deal. Really it's hardly a deal at all. It's just that, maybe, in the trick of the light, if you squint and turn your head just so, Keith is…

Keith is big.

nothing in the entire history of voltron legendary defender, nay the history of voltron entirely, is funnier than the moment where lance called keith grizzled. he absolutely deserves to be clowned on for that for eternity, even in modern aus, like this fic. lance freaking out about keith getting bigger is funny in every universe in every way and this fic nails it lol

2. only a hippopotamus will do by perfchan

Lance walks into the kitchen and stops. Physically stops, the cup in his hand that’s in need of a refill completely forgotten.

He turns, slowly. Raises an eyebrow. Are those...cookies? He blinks.

Yep. He leans in closer to inspect. Sugar cookies in the shape of pine trees. Green icing, mostly, with the stars on top slathered on in yellow. Well. They’re sort of messy, more like green and yellow blobs, actually. But that’s clearly the intention. Sprinkles for ornaments.

Christmas cookies.

There’s a whole plate of them---a paper plate, stacked high with handmade cookies, wrapped in plastic wrap---and they just randomly appeared. Right here on his kitchen counter.

Lance huffs out little sigh and shakes his head. Maybe mutters something under his breath. But he doesn’t give it much thought once he’s left the kitchen. Afterall, his perpetually cranky, sourfaced roommate basically lives to do weird shit to annoy him. Or something. Lance has found that living with Keith means one thing: expect the unexpected.

And everything tends to get a little crazier when the holidays roll around.

sweetheart keith! overdramatic lance! yes yes yes! and i mean overdramatic lance in this fic lmfao he is epitome dramaqueen bisexual. this fic kills me tho bc for starters its a modern au, and i fckn love modern aus, but further still it is an au wherein lance gets keith as a roommate entirely bc he finds keith hot and his smile breathtaking. what a dumbass nerd. love him

3. Trying Times by @shyfoxes

Keith comes back Hot and Lance has a crisis on the bottom bunk.

u know those fics that make u fan ur face a little? not necessarily bc it’s explicit or anything but bc its just so swoony and romantic and shit and ur embarrassed about how affected u are?? that’s this fic.

4. As If by @surveycorpsjean

The five times Lance was his impulse control, and the one time he wasn't.

y’all know me with 5+1s. i love this one in particular tho bc keith is such a prick lmao. i love when keith is rough and scowly and doesnt handle other people well and can’t emote to save his life. i love when he loves deeply and endlessly with his whole heart but in the least conventional possible way, and i love fics where lance slowly learns to recognise the strange ways in which keith says i-love-you and this fic kills that

5. A Human Thing by @xirayn

Lance comes through a wormhole as a woman. It doesn't change much. aka Lance is gender fluid so getting gender bent by space magic only presents one problem, which turns out not to be Keith.

“Lance, can we just talk? After that you can go back to avoiding me.” Lance scoffed even as her eyes remained stubbornly forward. “I’m not avoiding you.” “Then what are you doing?” That earned him a glare, which would have been annoying if not for how happy Keith was to have her looking at him again. “I’m being a good partner and giving you space while I'm not your type.” Keith crossed his arms and met her eyes with a glare of his own, brow furrowed and lips a tight line. “Not my type?” Lance let out a long sigh of exasperation. “Female, Keith. I don't want you to feel like you have to force yourself to be attracted to women just because your boyfriend currently is one.”

genderfluid lance loml! this fic explores that entire concept so so well, even with the complications of extablished klance and team dynamics and UGH this fic is genuinely one of my faves. the slow trickle to the reveal near the end was planted there the whole time, but i was so caught up that i didnt realise it so when it finally came to light i was gagged!!

that’s it for today!! i’ll see y’all back next friday for the next fic rec post!!!  

#very klance focused again #at this point just assume theyre all going to be klance focused tbh we all know that's three quarters of this fandom 💀💀 #vld #voltron #lance #lance mcclain #keith #keith kogane #klance #established klance #secret relationship #getting together #modern au #tall keith #bamf lance #langst #keith angst #klangst #genderfluid lance #red paladin lance #black paladin keith #lance is keith's impulse control #fic rec #fic rec friday

[candeathbereal]

Just a small roast of some placements

If a person has Leo and Aries placements then that Virgo Venus means meh imo. Idk I’ve met so many with that and they don’t act like people with Virgo Venus that I’m used to. The impulsive and dumb manner of us fire signs are a moment. I can roast these motherfuckers cause I got all three fire signs in my chart. Quite literally a fire dominant with a Virgo moon. That Virgo moon is fucked but she is trying her hardest. I think if I didn’t have my Saturn in my tenth house I probably would have a shitter work ethic than I do now. I have no proof but ehh fuck it.

Also cancer placements don’t pack the punch I thought they would have. Scorpios aren’t mysterious they are just dumbasses who know how to keep their mouth shut. Yeah I said it! Plus Pisces I got nothing for you sorry. I got Pisces in my eighth house so you guys are confusing to me. I can’t roast without proper interaction. Like you guys are delusional but so are us Neptune dominants.

All the fixed signs have an odd stubbornness which is to be expected from them. And yet it surprises me how much it’s there. Mutable signs have the fun parts of going with the flow and all the lovely vibes of not properly dealing with their emotions especially mutable moons. I don’t blame us for wanting to try new shit but dealing with our emotions in a “healthy” manner is not one of the ways I’m going to be trying. I have to deal with my trauma first before I even try to grasp the idea of crying in front of people unless I intensely trust them. Don’t even get me started on the idea of comfort while going through a mental breakdown. I try to take care of my shit before I get to that point because it’s either that or having a mental break and being extremely exhausted but still having shit to do. Like bruh how can I get better if I have to depend on others emotionally? The Virgo moon is busting out of me rn. Like I know it sounds dumb asf but I feel like ranting and roasting at the same time. This is how dumb we sound but it’s just the brain functioning like it has to.

To sum it all up emotionally we can deal with it later cause other people need a good/easy time. Sag moons do it by staying positive and fun and I love them for it. They just gotta learn that crying your eyes out can be fun. Just make it a game you fools! Geminis have a similar vibe but idk how to describe them. I think they are more likely to have a decent upbringing compared to sag moons. Idk most sag moons I’ve met have some of the worst upbringings oddly similar to cap moons. The key difference is how they cope with those emotions. Cap moons can be workaholics whereas sag moons probably can but not really ya know?

-I am wondering how people can say moon square moon in synastry shows short term. I can grasp it to a certain degree but general this aspect can stay together. It just seems that the common theme is that they have something shared like a child or a pet. Maybe even a business but ehh. For instance my own parents have squared moons and stayed together for years before their divorce. They argued a lot sure but in the end, shit moved on. Traumatizing a little bit but overall could have been worse for sure imo. Oh and they were together for 20ish years but married for 18 of them I think.

That’s it for now

#astrology #astrology observations #astro #astro observations #astro posts #astrology synastry #moon square moon #moon square moon synastry #fixed signs #leo #virgo #scorpio #aquarius #taurus #aries #virgo venus

[mur-art]

*Spicy* Historical California Headcanons (Part 1)

I found a book at the used bookstore called “Hellacious California! Tales of RASCALITY! REVELRY! DISSIPATION! and DEPRAVITY! and the Birth of the Golden State” by Gary Noy. 

Needless to say, I had to buy it. 

It includes tons of primary sources and is like, a totally serious historical account of 19th century California. Anywaaaay...here are some silly headcanons about my favorite dumbass elbow macaroni, based on some of my favorite facts from said book. I’m sure there’ll be a Part 2 at some point. 

-California is extremely reckless and impulsive; it’s ingrained in his fundamental personality. As this book points out, hundreds of thousands of people traveled across the world on a reckless gamble: that they would find gold and get rich against all odds. That’s the kind of culture that California grew up immersed in, this “try everything, morality be damned” mindset. Yes, he likes to tell himself that he’s changed and is more rational now, but even today, every time he gets into an argument solely for the adrenaline rush or can’t stop himself from making an unnecessary comment, that’s the impulsiveness shining through. He still finds it really hard to turn down a dare or a decision he knows won’t end well. 

-Related to the first point, he has “died” so many times in really stupid ways. He’s pissed off the wrong people and gotten shot in the chest. He’s fallen off of cliffs while drunk, messed around with rattlesnakes, drowned at sea, and gotten trampled while racing horses. Of course, he gets right back up and recovers and ends up doing it all over again. Because what’s self-preservation when you’re immortal? 

-California taught Nevada how to gamble. California always enjoyed it, and played card games and other games of chance almost religiously. (In the 1850s, playing cards were even called “California Prayer Books,” and the first slot machines were invented in CA.) California gave Nevada his first deck of cards, and taught him all the table games. Nevada rolled with it (literally) and California tried to distance himself from it later during the Gilded Age/late 1800s, when he was trying and failing to be more “respectable” and “mature.” (Gambling was *officially* outlawed in CA in 1872, but that stopped exactly no one.)  

-When he was younger, California was incredibly awkward around girls, and was terrified to even talk to them. This is based on the fact that only 8% of people in Gold Rush California were female. People would literally pay money just to SEE  a woman. 

-Luckily, Cali loved the other 92% just as much as he loved women...

-There’s a section on wine history in this book which further solidifies my HC that California used to not-so-secretly steal communion wine from the padres (the Catholic dudes, not the baseball team, although he would steal wine from the baseball team if he could) and get super drunk to make it through Mass whenever he was forced to sit through it. 

-There’s a really hilarious story in the book about a bunch of California winemakers trolling a “Wine Expert” who was super snobby about European wine being better than California wine. They replaced all the labels on the European wine with California labels, and vice versa, and suddenly the “Wine Expert” was unknowingly complimenting everything about California wine. And THAT, my friends is Pure California-- California would absolutely pull a stunt like that. 

-California has literally always been an annoying little argumentative shithead. I love this quote:

“The Californian [spirit] involved [...] a certain daring,  a refusal to be fazed or be put off by bad luck or circumstances, an unwillingness to give up... But there is still more to the California spirit than a willingness to gamble and accept dares... The Californians promptly acquired rather large chips on their shoulders, and in addition to a certain [haughtiness], the California character becomes notably disputatious [argumentative] and competitive.” 

#in this essay i will-- #welcome to the table #wttt #wttsh #welcome to the statehouse #wttt california #wttt headcanons #history inspired headcanons #girls when calif-- #calif when girls--

[eliasthemagi]

who?: @chancellorxlaer where?: hakanalia

♒

They needed the elves to teach them and not even Elias was an exception, but he didn’t need anyone’s help in Rome for an entire year. A paradigm shift changed things sure, yet that didn’t mean that he was going to start kissing their asses all of a sudden. But Elias’ impulses were still very human. The elves walking around the party looked good, really good, and maybe it was the molly but he couldn’t help but go slack jaw whenever one of their radiant bodies floated past. He felt like a dumbass locked in silent eye contact for so long only to look to the ground slightly bashful first in the end, so his ego wouldn’t allow him to let things end there. “I like your outfit,” Elias blurts out as he shoves his way through to the Chancellor. He had to say something, not wanting the elve to turn away and think him stupid or something. “Honestly, color me impressed. How all you guys squeeze into the tightest outfits is beyond me, but I’m thankful for it. Eye-candy is useless if my imagination has to pick up too much slack.”

#chancellorxlaer #laer ❃ 001

[vampirewalterskinner]

ok i love love love loved the previous alphabet answer so here's more for the most normal fbi agents and their boss :3

g, t, u, z

I’m so glad you loved it 🥰

It think it’s a pretty safe bet to say it all starts with Fox and Dana getting together 😂 They all certainly had strong feelings for one another but those two getting their act together is what leads to Walter getting involved. As well put together he is, I don’t think Walter has much confidence when it comes to romance and I don’t think it’s necessarily because of a lack of confidence, I think he’s just one of those people who just doesn’t expect others to crush/lust after him. It takes awhile for Dana and Fox to get him to understand they are NOT joking when they tell him they’re interested in him. (That said, canonly speaking, I think Fox and Dana started pursuing/admitted their feelings to Walter in season 6. The tension and unsaid words in SR 819 was INSANE. It reeked of “my agents told me they loved me but I don’t believe them” vibes. I still can’t get over how sassy Fox and Walter were to each other when Fox questioned him about waking up alone 😂 spicy boys)

Fox is the king of shitty nicknames. Dana and Walter are exasperated by every last one of them, but they still love him. (Much to their chagrin.) Although, Walter and Dana do tend to refer to Mulder as “dumbass” and “asshole” frequently enough to be considered a nickname. 😂 The only nickname Walter allows is “Walt” but he still prefers his full first name to be used. (Ngl, they say each other’s last names way too much for me to get excited about nicknames. I was foaming at the mouth in season 7 when Fox called Walter by his first name. FOAMING. I played it on loop. Season 8 alone contains the three of them saying each other’s first names so much I 🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠 best season. Anyone else who says otherwise: fuck you, you’re wrong ajsvxgdshsbs)

Fox is the most impulsive but Dana definitely has her fair share of impulsive activities. The two of them definitely keep Walter “eats at the same restaurant and sits in the same spot every time” Skinner on his toes 😅 For the most part he just loves to be near them, even if that means breaking into the pentagon or catching a cold from UFO hunting on a rainy night in the middle of the woods.

Fox was definitely the most eager! He yearned long enough. As soon as he knew a relationship with the both of them was possible he went for it. He wouldn’t let anything stop him. Not even Walter’s “I’m not good enough” stubbornness 😂 I think Dana would be very straightforward and adamant about her wants but I think she has more patience than Fox because she understands Walter’s thoughts/personality a little better than Fox does. Walter was definitely reserved. He didn’t want to come between the two of them and lord knows he was struggling with himself for liking two people at once. Plus, he knows he can be closed off emotionally and he does worry about how that will make them feel. (Little does he realize they actually help him open up 🥰)

#asks #ask meme #the x files #ot3: never beating those favoritism allegations

[ruhrohrichie]

“What’s the most selfish thought you’ve had lately?”

Eddie’s breath caught in his chest. God, Richie always asked the most unexpected questions when they had their deep, late night one-on-one hangouts. When the quiet of the night subdued them a bit, the clandestine feeling of nighttime making them even more open with each other than usual—vulnerable, brave.

“Just thoughts?” Eddie asked. He squeezed at the beads inside the bean bag they were lying on through the fabric and didn’t look at Richie. “Or things I’ve done?”

“Thoughts,” Richie said decisively, sitting up. “You think through your actions too much. I wanna know what Eddie Kaspbrak’s pure id looks like.” He smirked as Eddie met his eyes. “Relax, Eds, this is a judgement free zone. I’m not gonna arrest ya for thought crimes.”

But Eddie couldn’t relax. Richie wasn’t wrong—there were times Eddie could be impulsive, but that wasn’t his usual MO. Usually he did still monitor himself somewhat, but that was only polite, right? He couldn’t go around saying and doing everything he thought. Especially not around Richie.

Which was why he was hesitating now.

“Come on,” Richie goaded him. “Something you’ve thought about, all consequences and niceties be damned.”

Eddie swallowed. Met Richie’s eyes, then looked away. Selfish. Eddie’s brain could get quite selfish, especially at times like this, when he had Richie all to himself, just like he was always wanting so bad.

He started out soft. “I dunno,” he mumbled, still looking at his own lap. “I guess I was a little selfish today. I was really fucking annoyed you picked Bill as your Scrabble partner.”

Richie barked out a laugh at that. “Yeah, that’s fair. None of you stood a fucking chance.” Eddie huffed and crossed his arms.

“Not because he’s an author and you’re a freak genius, dumbass.”

Richie’s eyebrows shot up past his glasses, and that’s when Eddie knew Richie knew even though he hadn’t said it. “Aw, Eds,” he beamed, clearly too pleased as he leaned in closer, “did you wanna be my partner?”

“Yes!” Eddie burst out. He was aware he was pouting, and blushing, but Richie didn’t even comment on it. His eyebrows were lifted more gently now, like he was surprised and waiting for more, waiting for an explanation, or a cue.

So Eddie explained. “I always wanna be your partner,” he said. “I always want you to choose me. I want you to want me, more than you want anyone else. That’s my most selfish thought.”

“Eds—“ Richie started. But as dilated as his eyes were, as soft as his voice was, Eddie couldn’t stop there.

“No, I’m more selfish than just that. I want you to want me so bad you can’t think straight. I want you to want me so bad you can’t help yourself.” At some point, Eddie’s hands had balled up into fists. “You know what I think about, Richie?” He turned his head toward him, finding Richie already leaning closer, absolutely rapt. Eddie took a shaky breath and, looking at Richie’s lips, said, “I think about sucking you off. Every night before I fall asleep I think about how nice it would feel to have your cock in my mouth, to feel it on my tongue.”

Richie’s jaw clenched, and he took in a breath through his nose, purposeful, like he was trying to control himself.

Eddie didn’t want that.

“My most selfish thoughts are the ones I have about you every day,” Eddie breathed. “If I could have anything I want, I’d want to be on my knees with your hand in my hair and your cock down my throat. I want to feel you slowly lose your grip on your control—because I know you would try to control yourself at first. You wouldn’t wanna hurt me. But I wanna see how long you last caring about that before you go just a little too far and feel me gag around you. I wanna watch you try to hold back, try to apologize, but you just have to shove your cock even further down my throat, because it’s really hot to watch me choke on it, isn’t it? I want you to think I’m so pretty while I’m crying on your cock, I want—“

“Eddie,” Richie nearly growled. And that was all the warning Eddie got before Richie rolled on top of him, nailing him to the bean bag as he kissed him. “You’re so fucking pretty,” he panted. Eddie could feel Richie’s lips curling into a smirk. “So pretty, and so small, and so cute.” Richie pinned Eddie’s wrists down and forced his hips between Eddie’s legs. Eddie cried out as Richie bit down on his neck. “And it is just so fucking cute that you think I’m gonna even try to control myself once I have my cock forced down your tight little throat.”

#and Richie definitely teases him afterwards #’every night huh eds?’ #and it really is every. night. #ns/fw #reddie #dark content #not really but a little on the rougher side at least #long post #under negotiated kink

[justahopelessaromantic]

In your dreams, kid (Ch. 2: early to rise)

Fandom: Omori Timeline: Post Good Ending Ships: Suntan (Sunny/Kel) Links to First and Next Chapter List of Accompanying Playlists for this Fic Pinterest Moodboard for this Fic Summary: Under Sunny’s hypocritical, well-intentioned advice, Kel puzzled over his mental checklist as the bruised house drifted out of sight, now a grey blur. An assortment of surgery, artery-clogging snacks? Check! Mixtape Sunny made special for him, covered in little red hearts and a doodle of the two of them holding hands? Check (No, actually, he will not read into that, thank you for asking). An 8-pack of Monster so Aubrey wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel while he drives her mad with alien conspiracies and iSpy all night? Check! (Sunny downed three, the absolute madman, before they even stepped foot in the car, but he figured it still counted) Homework? ...check. An excuse for stealing Ms. Suzuki’s car, running away with her son and "future daughter-in-law", and showing up at his incredibly busy brother’s dorm room? You know, something even remotely better than “You sounded like you were about to cry over the phone last night and you don’t cry and I’m so worried and distracted and madly in love with you, I simply had to come check on you, so...Surprise!” ...He’d check that one off sometime before they got there. Probably.

If Aubrey stuck to her early jogging routine like she once stuck to Mari or Basil’s insomnia didn’t feel like lending itself any rest, there was a good chance they’d spot his widened eyes from the stairs and ask about a supposed morning. Kel, of course, would say no, but he’d take note of the thin hue of light draped over the sky, since that basically meant it was sunrise, which basically meant it was morning.

To him, at least.

Kel was intrinsically aware that “morning” meant going out and getting…something, but putting together mental to-do lists was hard on good days. Harder still with bony arms gingerly wrapped around him in a vain attempt to stop Kel’s trembling, whispering scripted yet sincere sweet nothings. The hands on his back were embarrassingly welcome, yet so hesitant, only daring to brush over the cotton fabric, tickling rather than soothing. The effort, as always, was appreciated. Even his gentle rocking back and forth feels awkward, like Sunny never learned quite how to shift his weight right.

Like he was the one used to being held.

...Oh. Oh, boy.

He was probably about to cross some boundaries today. Maybe even upset Sunny. God, he hoped not. He could hear the signature pitter-patter of a wild Basil from the living room, the clang and clatter of nervous hands finally quieting. They didn’t seem stable enough to handle two friends close to tears.

Still though. He always had questions (Hero used to gush over that. Called it a “learner mindset!” His teachers were less impressed). If he didn’t get an answer today, he’ll be restless all morning, and no one liked a restless Kel besides Kel (and Aubrey, when she was looking to pick a fight).

“Heh,” Kel prayed his sleepy voice didn’t make that sound forced. “Mari teach you all this?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Ah.”

Something anxious and kinda pushy in the back of his head told him to add something about being totally fine now, no worries, man. Maybe some kinda vague, tongue-in-cheek “no homo” joke to make sure Sunny didn’t read any farther into this blatant cuddling. You know, with “ENJOYING HIS WAY TOO MUCH FOR A STRAIGHT MAN” practically stamped in bold red ink on his massive forehead.

The impulsive dumbass with too much control in his head felt it appropriate (for some ungodly reason) to comment on how this was the perfect atmosphere for a first kiss. The nerve-wracking silence made shutting him up difficult, but Kel was always up for a challenge.

Still, his touch-starved ass was taking any distraction from that lingering dream he could get his slick hands on. He buried his nose further into the black shoulder strap instead. Sunny seemed satisfied with that answer, hummed in response. Hummed again, and again, and again, and…

Oh, Kel knew this song!

...Well, not by name, but he knew Mari and Sunny’s songs when he heard it. Their duet, Mari called it. Close enough. Kel had a feeling Sunny would rather he not know the title. He seemed determined to keep it a sibling thing, something he could share with her beyond the grave. Kel could respect that.

Despite the raspy texture of grogginess and selective mutism, he carried each note with such loving precision. Like a musician who loved their job more than their well-being. Kel knew how dangerous dwelling over her memory in public was, (stupid overemotional bullshit, worrying anyone who caught him!), but, hey. It was late (well, it felt late), and the strongest image of her floating around in his head at the moment was too unnerving to really tinker with. So, using a faint memory of their impromptu duet during one of her picnics as reference, he scrunched up his face in thought and tried to picture the implications of that melodic texture.

Just the two of them, snuggled up in her fluffy sheets, shadows cascading over their silhouette (How did they always manage to look so mysterious?). Sunny’s little fingers digging into her sides, like his lifeline could slip through his fingertips at a moment’s notice (the irony is rude and disrespectful, as far as Kel is concerned). His ragged breaths and tightlipped whimpers settling into a steady unison part, intertwining with her voice as he slowly melts into her chest. The dispassionate rigor of their violin and piano playing could never compare to the sound of them mixed up in each other, communicating in a way only they understood. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’ll protect you.” without words to bog down the intimacy of its delivery.

The last time he crawled into bed with Hero, he chuckled and said something about Kel being a little too old to deal with nightmares like this, ruffling his hair before draping the covers over him and pecking his forehead. He probably wasn’t being serious.

Kel stayed out of his room anyway.

#omori #omori suntan #fanfiction #sunkel #hurt/comfort #nightmare comfort #supportive #fanfic #post canon #late at night #sleepover #late night talking #omori sunny #omori kel #omori game #omori sunkel #suntan #sunny #kel #friendship #lying #cuddling & snuggling #cuddles #cuddling and touching #omori hero #hero #mari #omori mari #siblings #family bonding

[jmagnabo92]

Trevor’s Body (fic)

I wrote a little bit of a different ending for Thursday’s episode.  Spoilers.  Starts with Jay POV and goes to Trevor’s POV as he deals with his death.

AO3

***

Trevor’s Body

        Despite understanding exactly why Trevor and Sam are so gung-ho about getting Trevor’s parents back together, Jay still can’t help thinking that it’s a bad idea as he makes breakfast the next morning.  He and Sam had actually argued about it since she seemed to think that he didn't understand why it was so important to both of them.  

        Hence, why he’s up early, having not really slept.  He doesn’t like to disagree with Sam, it reminds him of the event that started this mess and the reason that no matter how much he loves their eight idiot kids he has a very difficult and different life to the life he imagined with Sam when they got married.  Sometimes, he wonders if it wouldn’t be better if they’d never inherited the house, but then again, they have given some closure to the ghosts and their families... which is good, even if they also come up with hair-brained schemes to get their parents together.  

        Why do you hate me?

        The question rings out in the air of the kitchen, causing him to jump about a mile.  “What the fuck, No Pants?!”

        Why do you hate me?

        Given that Trevor is clearly wants an answer to his question, Jay sighs, “I don’t hate you.  Why would you think that?”

        Besides the obvious?

        Jay frowns, “If this is about your hair-brained scheme, I’m not rejecting the idea because I hate you because I don’t hate you – you’re one of our eight idiot kids – I love you as much as I love all of the ghosts (even if you annoy me sometimes) –, but I don’t think you’re considering the repercussions of trying to get them back together.”

        Eight idiot kids?

        “You’re going to ignore the rest?”

        Yes.  It’s just – I was the cause of their divorce - well, my death.  And it’s bad enough that they didn’t know that I died and why I suddenly went missing.  But for that to cause them to split up - I just feel responsible for getting them back together.

        “You are not the cause of their divorce – there’s obviously other factors at play here, divorce isn’t something that is caused by one thing.”

        Even if it was just a factor, what if it was the one factor that pushed things over the edge?

        Jay wishes he could actually see Trevor for this conversation but settles for giving him a soft look in the direction of the iPad.  “Look, T-dog, I understand your impulse, but you have to think about what they want.  Okay, so your plot for the perfect date worked out and they got back together last night - how long is that going to last back in New Jersey?  Do you think that one night is enough to make things last when it ended twenty years ago?  Twenty years is a long time.”

        Look, I get what you’re saying - really, I do.  I just - maybe they didn’t divorce because of me.  Maybe I should be thinking of them rather than myself, but I don’t have a lot here and I just want to see them be happy.  Don’t you understand how hard it is to be so close and so far at the same time?  I mean, it was just heartbreaking to hear them talk about not knowing where I was or what happened to me and they went through that because I was a dumbass – because I trusted my bros, who turned around and threw me in the lake.  I just...

        Jay sighs, he can see now what Sam says about Trevor being like a kicked puppy.  He sounds like a kicked puppy and Jay can’t even hear his voice or see him.  “Okay, alright.  I can see this means a lot to you and I did make that special dinner you asked for for them because as I said I do love you, and I still don’t get how you knew that.  I don’t know that kind of information about my parents, but I want you to promise me that that’s it – if they wake up this morning and decide that was it, one final hoorah, you let it go, capiche?”

        I know it’s weird.  It’s just I always loved hearing the stories about it.  I always wanted a relationship like theirs and instead, I wasted the only time I had to find that.  Then to find out that they divorced... but I promise that I won’t do anything else – it helps that it appears to have worked, and I am sorry if it’s been making you and Sam fight - I just had to try at least and I couldn’t have done it without either of you.

“I’m sorry, bro.  I am.  Sometimes, I think I forget how much it must suck to realize that the world kept turning in a world that you’re only partially a part of,” Jay states.  “A world that you can barely interact with and a world that your family is still a part of – unlike the others, you’re one of the few whose family is still around.”

        He really does feel bad for Trevor now.  It’d been just like Bela had said at Christmas that he really was a good guy underneath all that false douchey frat bro stuff.  That maybe he’d judged the surface rather than get to know him despite living with him for the last year and a half.  Not that Trevor made it easy, but Jay could’ve tried harder.

        Yeah.  Not easy.

        Before either of them could speak again, a new voice speaks.  “What - what was that?”

        It is Trevor’s mother.  She’s staring at the iPad very concerned and confused, but before Jay could even think to ask what she’s talking about and pretending that he hadn’t just had an entire conversation with her ghost son, the iPad speaks again.

        Hi, mom.  It’s Trevor.

        Jay throws his hands in the air in frustration as he sees Esther looking very confused, but oddly accepting.  “This is why I called you one of our idiot kids.”

        “I - I don’t understand.”

        “Well, it’s kind of a long story, you see apparently about five percent of people stay behind as ghosts, and you don’t see them, but we - my wife and I - know about them because Trevor was playing around with his power, which is to touch things, and knocked over a vase.  Sam fell down the stairs and was technically dead for three minutes and when she woke up, she could see ghosts,” Jay states.  “Including your son.”

        I just happen to be one here at the estate.  I was here partying with my ... friends and it made my heart explode.  Since we were doing drugs, they didn’t call an ambulance and instead threw me in the lake - I didn’t know for a long time.  Only when Ari showed up at the mansion last year did I find out what they did.  I was rather distracted by suddenly being a ghost to know what happened – Sass told me when we heard Ari being all suspicious during the visit.

        “Why haven’t you written to us if you’ve had this ability the whole time?” Esther asks, entering the room and moving by the iPad where they are both assuming Trevor is standing.  

        Given that Trevor’s been the one to encourage interaction with Pete’s family and Flower’s brother, Jay can’t help wondering this himself.

        Well, I - I guess I was afraid to reach out... besides, what I was I going to say - hi mom, I’m the ghost of your dead son, maybe you should visit the B&B sometime?

        “What is going on here?” Sam asks, jarring their attention to the doorway.

        It’s quiet for a minute until... Jay and I were talking, and my mom overheard so ... now she knows.

        Sam looks very stunned, so Jay offers, “We weren’t really thinking about being overheard, and it just makes more sense to tell the truth.”  He pauses and turns to Esther, “And now, I’m sure that you’d like some time alone with your son.  If you’d like, you can take the iPad into another room... I’d offer this room, but I’m cooking so...”

        Esther smiles.  “Yes, I’d like that.”

***

        Getting to talk to his parents had not been something he had ever expected, but he was far more thrilled with that than getting them together for what would definitely be one last time.  His mother had explained that they had been on the verge of divorce since he’d been a preteen since his father was always busy with work and wandering eyes (clearly he inherited some bad traits from his dad) and only stayed together until he and his brother had left the house (only Jeremy never left) and they decided to divorce once Trevor went missing.  

        Knowing that it really had nothing to do with him or his death had helped him a lot.  He just wants them to be happy, and his mother assured him that as long as they could talk now, they’d be happy.

        After their talk, they had the memorial before they packed up to leave.  

        Seeing them leave was not as hard as he thought it would be since he would be able to talk to them whenever he wanted, but it still hurts a little bit.  It hurts that he couldn’t hug them goodbye.  It hurts knowing that he might never properly see them, again.  It hurts knowing that they’ll move on with their lives (even if they should).  It just… hurts realizing that he couldn’t go with them, no matter how much he wishes he could.  He didn’t want to watch them drive away – he wanted to be in the car with them, pretending that this this was all a bad dream.  

        But it wasn’t a dream.  He was dead – he’d be buried soon and that was it.  

        Deciding that he needs some space to deal with the overwhelming emotions coursing through him, he goes for a walk by the lake.  The place that had been his watery grave (only he didn’t know it) for so long.  Now, it isn’t.  They would bury him in New Jersey when they arrived home.

        He can feel a sense of closure but loss as well.  He still can’t believe they spent twenty years not knowing anything about what happened to him, at least now they knew.  

        He wishes that he hadn’t let them down because whether or not they think it, he feels it.  He let them down by dying stupidly and trusting the wrong people with his life.  He let them down by not reaching out and even though they have closure now, he’s sure that they’d rather he’d not be stuck as a ghost.  

        It’s just so much that he’s dealing with right now, so much that he doesn’t want to deal with.

        “Trevor?” A voice calls to his left.  

        He turns and sees Sam standing there.  “Hi, Sam.”

        “I just wanted to check on you,” Sam says, offering him a soft smile.

        “I’m fine,” Trevor lies.  He didn’t know if he was fine exactly, but he didn’t want to worry her.  He knows that she and Jay had fought a bit over the parent trap situation, and he feels guilty about it.  He doesn’t want to cause problems for them because they might actually be the one couple that could be aspired to.  

        “It hasn’t been an easy couple of days for you – I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now and…”

        “You don’t have to worry about me, Sam,” Trevor states, sincerely.  “Despite Jay saying that I’m one of your idiot kids, you don’t have to babysit me.  But I do appreciate you trying to help me this weekend, even though it caused you and Jay to fight.  I didn’t want you guys to fight.”

        Sam chuckles.  “We weren’t fighting about you – exactly.  It’s more that I tend to go a little crazy when it comes to situations like your parents or …”

        “Or Bela and Eric?” Trevor offers.  He should’ve figured that after how crazy she’d been over the holidays that she was really crazy about romance ideals.

        “Yes, them, too,” Sam admits.  “I think it’s because my parents divorced when I was young enough to keep hoping that every time there was an event that they could’ve gotten back together at and kept being let down.”  She pauses.  “You’d think I’d be a little less idealistic instead, but all I want is to make people happy.”

        Trevor gives her a small smile that he knows probably doesn’t reach his eyes.  “Yeah, I could see that.”

        “And you don’t really look very happy…”

        “I told you that I’m fine.”

        “Really?  Considering how things have been last month or so, I’d be surprised if you actually were fine.”

        Trevor shakes his head.  Yeah, it had been a rough month or so – almost getting to be with Bela, the entire situation with Hetty, and now the situation with his parents and death.  He had a lot more going on than he ever believed possible, but he’ll figure out – he’s got an endless amount of time.

        “Alright, you’re right.  I’m not doing great, but to be honest, I think I just need some time to figure things out on my own.”

        Sam nods.  “I get that – I just wanted you to know that if you ever wanted to talk, Jay and I are here for you.”  She smiles, “Because you’re one of our idiot kids.”

        Trevor laughs.  “Thanks, Sam, I appreciate that and thank Jay for me – he, uh, was actually helping a lot this morning before my mom interrupted.”

        “I will.”

***

        When he finally heads back inside, he doesn’t go to his room that he shares with Thor. Choosing instead to go his old room since there weren’t any guests and it would give him a chance to not have to talk to anyone as he really didn’t want to talk.  He just wanted to cuddle with someone and pretend that everything was fine – and maybe it will be, but he knows that’s not to be as no one usually likes cuddling with him.

        He makes it to his old room only to see Hetty standing by the window.  “Hetty, I’m not in the mood to argue with you –”

        “I’m not here to argue with you, Trevor,” Hetty states as she moves towards him.  She’s so quick that he can’t manage to ask what she is there for before he suddenly finds himself being hugged by don’t-you-dare-touch-me Hetty.  

        He doesn’t react at first, but as she tightens her arms around him, he finds himself melting into her arms.  It’s exactly what he’d been craving – just someone to hold him.  He’s just surprised it’s Hetty.

        Not that he minds.

        He closes his eyes and just enjoys the feeling, especially as Hetty runs one hand through his hair.  It feels good, surprisingly comforting and he’s not sure how long they stand there before they both loosen their grips although not letting go completely.  He brushes under his eyes (because even though he can’t cry, he can still feel as though he has been crying).  

        He clears his throat.  “Uh, thanks.”

        “I am – not – the best at being comforting, Trevor, but is there something that I can do that would make you feel better?” Hetty offers.

        “Honestly, I don’t want to ask anything of you that you wouldn’t want to give – I know cuddling isn’t really your thing and that’s all I really want right now.”

        Hetty smiles at him and grabs his hand before leading him to the bed.  “One might be surprised how much cuddling I could enjoy.”

        “Really?” Trevor asks as she gestures for him to lay down.  

        “Yes, really.  I have recently discovered that I am more than okay with it,” Hetty states as he lays down and offers his arm, so that she can cuddle into him.  

        As she cuddles into him, despite feeling content, he can’t help asking, “Why are you doing this – for me?”

        “Trevor, we all care for you, but after our little dalliance, I find myself caring for you quite a bit differently than I imagine the others would care for you.  I wanted to be the one to be there for you, but I do not know how to be that person.”

        Trevor smiles, softly.  “Well, I think you’re taking a step in the right direction.  Just being here – like this and silently supporting me through my parents visit.  Although I never want to hear about you watching them ever again.  Maybe if you want – we could just say what we need and it’s okay if one of us doesn’t want to do whatever it is.”

        “I believe that is acceptable.”

        “Good – then, let’s just … relax here for a while – maybe fall asleep.”

        “As you wish, Trevor.”

        It’s quite for a few minutes as Trevor realizes just how comforting it is to have someone so close after so long and for it be Hetty after the last few weeks means more to him than he can say.  

        “Hetty?”

        “Yes, Trevor.”

        “Thank you for being here.”

        “Of course, Trevor.  Always.”

        Trevor smiles.  “Always, I like the sound of that.”

        “Good.”

        And just like that, he feels a lot better and can put this whole messy last month behind him, and hopefully onto a better future.  Only time would tell.

#trevor lefkowitz #jay arondekar #samantha arondekar #hetty woodstone #HMoney #H-Money #Trevor lefkowitz/Hetty woodstone #Trevor's Body #Season 2 #Spoilers #CBS Ghosts #Ghosts CBS

[yeehawbvby]

EDIT 12/4/23 - IGNORE ALL THIS unless you’re interested in Max’s old lore!! It doesn’t apply to her anymore :3

-

Because I’m balls deep in PLA brainrot, and I didn’t wanna make a new oc just for this, I now have properly outlined Maxine lore for those who care 🗣🗣🗣

- born in Unova

- became a trainer at like 13 and was kinda on her own/constantly on the move from then-on. Stayed in the region for the most part but rarely went home

- moved to Galar at like 19-21

- earned the terribly corny nickname DynaMax from Leon and Hop and when she grew popular it became a widely used nickname for her amongst fans UGHHHHH

- almost the same story as the protag in SWSH. Became champion at 24

- pressure got to be too much so she left for Paldea a year or 2 later to try and settle down a little bit/go to school/figure out what she wanted

- wound up getting mixed up in all THAT stuff

- eventually graduated, didn’t know what to do from there

- impulse got a bunch of pokemon-related tattoos during a crisis lol, mainly related to legendaries she’s encountered and her starters but some god-likes (Arceus + Giratina) were mixed in there

- canonically she fucking dies (I still dunno how, maybe pokemon battle or something)

- is reincarnated from the same age into Hisui because Arceus saw the tattoo as some kind of pitiful plea at a second chance from someone it deemed like.. mildly worthy (even though It Was Not lmaooo DUMBASS)

- kinda follows a mix between canon and a few fanfics I’ve read from here

- keeping it vague for now but I just know she fuckin SOBS when she sees Ingo because she knew him and his brother and hasn’t seen them in forever but now Ingo doesn’t even know her because of his memory loss. Like she doesn’t handle it well at all that her one connection to her prev life doesn’t recognize or remember her or anything (she gets it and doesn’t hold it against him or anything and hides it the best she can but still!!)

Idk how I’ll bring her back for the next games but I think this is kinda fun uwu I might make character sheets for each region too✨

#I’m in so deep with pokemon again rn.. #I hate the constant fandom flipflopping I do but I can’t help it #being normal about pokemon #pokemon #pokemon oc #pokemon oc lore #pokemon trainersona #pokemon trainer oc #trainer oc #pla #pokemon legends arceus #pokemon swsh #pokemon scarvio #pokemon bw #Ingo pokemon #oc maxine

[bonesandthebees]

Anyway, back to [“Huh. Didn’t think Techno would be down for prison labor.”] I laughed, very hard. [it’s a little fucked up, y’know?”] It’s good to see Tubbo being aware of how fucked the entire situation is, I think Wilbur might be starting to forget that a little (in his defence he’s pretty used to skipping past a lot of fucked up shit).

I’m already failing at doing this by character because I am Looking at Wilbur telling Tubbo he’s staying willingly and I just can’t help myself. It’s the wanting to be different, but having no proof thing again. He needs Tubbo to know that he’s different. That he has changed. Because he feels so different form who he was and he wants to be more than just the Pythia, so he needs to say something and change the image Tubbo has off him in his mind.

Poor Tommy, that wasn’t even the most terrifying thing to happen to him that day. Also, I give him a lot of shit for being an impulsive dumbass, but Wilbur is just as bad. Like he did not think ahead to have to explain himself further. It’s a good thing Tommy is so good at adapting. And he’s not technically lying, he’s just leaving out exhibit B.

Remember when I said Tommy was an impulsive shit? Yeah why would you tell him Wilbur could have left MULTIPLE TIMES?! Like it's because he’s still pissed about Tubbo suggesting killing him. He’s still trying to prove he’s not a threat. But don’t tell him Wilbur had the opportunity to be a threat multiple times. Like it works to convince him, but this is gossip land and you don’t want that to get back to Jack or Niki. Also, people would either get pissed at Tommy or Phil and Techno depending on who they think should have told them.

Anyway, Tubbo accepts that Wilbur is no longer a threat because they are all still alive and (skips straight over the fact that he had multiple opportunities to leave and nobody knew even though he should be mad about that) offers to have dinner together.

Also, for as much as Tommy pushes his own opinions, he still makes sure if Wilbur wants to eat with them (despite it being very obvious that he wants to ear with his friends and misses them). And I’d say this is the first real brother’s moment because Wilbur just looks at how excited Tommy is and gives in immediately.

(2/3)

-🌲

I'm glad you laughed at that line I thought it was really funny and definitely something tubbo would say. I love writing tubbo's dialogue so I was very happy to get back into it with this chapter. and yeah, because tubbo is more of an 'outsider' to the situation (hasn't interacted with the pythia as much) he's still able to see just how fucked up the situation is, while wilbur, and by extension the people closest to him, are starting to lose perspective a bit

he needs to be different!! he desperately wants proof that he's changed as a person since he got there but he can't admit that to himself. he wants proof that he's not really the pythia anymore but also he can't not be the pythia because what else would he be??

literally wilbur and tommy are so well suited to each other bc they're both dumbasses

yeahhh that was a really dumb move on tommy's end. it did the job at convincing him, but really bad way to phrase it right off the bat. at least tubbo was able to accept that wilbur is no longer an immediate threat to them. he also is definitely pissed that no one mentioned the fact that he had a chance to leave several times now, but he just knew he wasn't really gonna get anywhere getting angry about it now and more than anything tubbo is tired of being pissed at tommy, just like how tommy's tired of being pissed at tubbo. the two of them are best friends. they miss each other and are overwilling to move past stuff they really shouldn't just to talk again

wilbur can't say no to tommy when he looks that excited... the little brother effect is working now

#ask #spruce anon #through a glass divine #glass ch 20

[ashesandhalefire]

i know you're fine (but what do i do) - 2/4

-

on ao3 here

-

In another few weeks, he and Michael have gone back to exactly what they were before: they see each other when one of them needs something, and then they immediately go their separate ways. Alex hates it more than when they were openly hostile with each other. At least that was predictable.

This new version of Michael doesn’t seem any happier to see that Alex is trying to move on than he was when Alex was still pining pathetically after him. Gossip spreads quickly in a town like Roswell, where almost everyone who lives there has always lived there and knows everyone else living there, and Alex’s social circle is depressingly, incestuously small. He figures that news of his trying to date Forrest a little more purposefully will soften Michael’s attitude. He won’t have to worry about Alex sitting up in the middle of the night and gazing longingly at his picture. The past can be put to rest, finally.

But it doesn’t fix things with Michael. It doesn’t feel like anything will fix things with Michael.

So Alex perseveres, even though he takes to dating Forrest like a fish to a bicycle—not well, and with shockingly little grace. It’s a project now, so Alex does what he always does. He grits his teeth and makes it work.

Kyle has renewed opinions about all of it.

“Remember how I said there was no timeline for stuff like this? Forget that. At some point, you have to recognize when you’re Sisyphus going up the hill.” At Alex’s raised brow, Kyle rolls his eyes and slumps back against the plastic booth in the hospital cafeteria. “Shut up. I had literature requirements in college just like everybody else. The point is— you have to know when to call it.”

“But the mountaintop is so close.”

“Ha, ha. He’s a funny guy. A fucking dumbass, but a funny guy.”

Rolling his shoulders, Alex sighs. “It’s not like I’m trying to work miracles. I’m just—”

“You’re doing chest compressions on a stiff, man. Seriously, you should not have to try so hard to like this guy.”

Alex frowns at him. “It’s salvageable. I just need to come at it from a different angle.”

“That’s all very sexy and romantic, Captain Manes, but this is a relationship we’re talking about.” Mouth twisting into a wry smile, he adds, “It’s not a war.”

Kyle is right, except that he isn’t.

Being with Forrest feels as much like fighting a battle as it feels like anything else. The flip side of dinner-and-a-movie and strolls through the weekend farmer’s market is that every day comes with a new rule Alex sets for himself. Be patient. Be kind. Open up. Learn to compromise. Let go of irritation. Lie better. Be open-minded. Hide the ugliness that drives everyone away once they get a good look at the blood on your hands and the poison in your veins and the piles of bodies stacked up in your name.

And, above all: forget about Michael.

Each rule is a challenge, and each challenge is its own fight, and Alex has played this game before.

The struggle starts as soon as he eases out of bed in the morning, and it lasts until he lays his head back on the pillow at night. Some days, he wins, and he falls asleep without playing his moments of failure on a loop inside his head. Memories of the day settle over him like a blanket, stiff and scratchy from newness but enough to keep warm. Other days, things are more difficult.

It would be a lie to say that the struggle doesn’t grate on him. He wants things to be easier.

Public physicality is still outside of Alex’s comfort zone. It doesn’t come naturally to him, and that’s as much about the liquid anxiety that floods along his spine as it is about being stuck in old habits. Maybe, with years of therapy, Alex can unpack how his life has hardwired him to equate privacy and secrecy with safety, but it’s going to take a lot more than one impulsive kiss to change him. And, honestly, if the end goal is to tear open his scar tissue wounds so he can one day feel better about swapping spit with Forrest Long where the dregs of Roswell can see, he thinks the universe may need to dangle a larger carrot.

Forrest, frustrated, accuses Alex of backsliding in the most polite way he can manage, and Alex tries not to be annoyed by it.

He knows he isn’t what Forrest thought he was getting. The articles that come up when his name is typed into Google paint him with a rich, patriotic brush and call him a hero, and Alex, knowing Forrest had no interest in waiting out someone’s self-discovery, had said he was ready. But Alex’s service has never been about his country, and his sense of self has never really been the problem. Knowing his preferences and labeling them out loud are not difficult. It’s a coincidence Forrest suspects that to be why they haven’t had sex yet, which means Alex gets less questions about it but Forrest is a little meaner than he should be. Alex gives him exactly an inch on this account because he was at least upfront about not wanting to deal with anyone’s coming-out drama. The fact that it’s entirely unrelated can remain Alex’s problem to navigate.

Their whole deal is about compromise, and on his worst days Alex wants to ask why the documentaries Forrest records for them to watch together are always the ones that sound the most like conspiracy theories, are always about the men that got away and escaped justice, and are never about the truth. He wants to ask why Forrest will occasionally recite quotes from the articles written about his leg getting blown off like Alex wants to hear puffed up awe and epithets of heroism and bravery while on line for egg sandwiches at the deli.

The one thing he gets from Forrest that works in his favor is a dead dad pass, and even that comes with a side of irritation. Alex is grieving, understandably, so he gets slack on a hundred unrelated things. Forrest doesn’t mind the occasional moment of mind-wandering so long as he can justify it with a nice speech about loved ones never really leaving. Alex swallows the lies with a half-smile.

The truth is that Alex is trying, and Alex is failing more often than not, but sometimes it feels like trying to pour juice into a moving glass while blindfolded. Most of his efforts are going to waste because he and his partner aren’t on the same page.

-

-

-

Forrest floats the idea twice before Alex recognizes the offer as an actual invitation and not a hypothetical.

“California’s not too far away,” he says to Alex in the middle of a trip to the bookstore. He has three alarmingly thick non-fiction best sellers under his arm and taps Alex on the chest with a fourth. “It could be, like, a chill long weekend kind of vibe. For our three-month-iversary.”

“Do month-iversaries have chill vibes?” Alex swallows, but the moisture has already run out of his mouth. He thumbs the edges of a harlequin paperback with a farmer and a UFO on the cover that he’s been carrying since they arrived because Forrest had called it ridiculous when he saw it through the front window. “It sounds like something inherently not chill.”

“Well, I’m telling you it would be chill. It’s not even a vacation. It’s just a long weekend.”

Alex drifts towards the display of three dimensional wood puzzles. A long weekend means cutting into his PTO and praying Roswell can make it two months straight without any alien adjacent emergencies. He doubts it can. The stakes get higher every day, and the threads of conspiracy twist into bigger knots, and almost nobody Alex knows is good at looking ahead beyond the four steps they’re about to take.

A long weekend also means four days of uninterrupted time with his boyfriend, no hiding and no escape. By the end, there will be total commitment or complete retreat.

He had thought of Michael twice in the morning: once, fairly innocently, while he was making his bed, and again, somewhat less innocently, while he was in the shower.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

The harlequin novel comes home with him.

At lunch a few days later, he tells Kyle, “I’m going out of town next week.” He pumps his straw up and down inside his milkshake, trying to loosen the ice cream enough to be able to dip his fries without snapping them. “Just a couple days. Like a long weekend.”

Kyle raises an eyebrow and asks what the occasion is, mouth twisting like he expects to be invited on a reconnaissance road trip and is already mourning the lost hours of sleep.

“Forrest wants to go to California.” Alex concentrates on sinking a particularly crispy fry into the soupy chocolate around the edges of his glass to avoid meeting Kyle’s eyes as he says, “It’s our three month-iversary.”

When he finally looks up, a reluctant grin splits across Kyle’s face. “I wish you could see how miserable you look saying that word out loud.”

“I’m only telling you so nobody freaks out when disaster hits and they have to wait three to five business days before I can wipe the security footage. I can already imagine the phone calls.” Nobody notices his absence until they need him, which is his own fault.

“You know, if we were all closer, Isobel would probably set up an Outlook calendar for us to schedule our vacation time,” Kyle scoffs. Then, he shrugs. “Might not be a bad idea, actually.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Yeah, wouldn’t want a conflict between my next dental cleaning and our plans to blow up another alien torture prison.”

Spearing an olive on the tines of his fork, Kyle sighs. “Feels like there’s always something, right? But that’s why it’s good to get away, even just for a few days. I’m glad for you. This is a good move.”

“Really?” Alex sat back in the booth and clicked his tongue. “No snide comments about me fruitlessly dragging my relationship into perpetuity?”

“Hey, I don’t actually have any problems with the guy. That’s never been the issue. And if you want to fruitlessly drag your relationship into perpetuity, you might as well drag it all the way to the beach.”

A few minutes later, Alex watches him roll a grape tomato from one end of his plate to the other and back again with pursed lips.

“What’s wrong?”

Kyle wrinkles his nose. “Nothing, I just— I just feel like I’m going to be thinking about it now. Like when you knew somebody had a test or a presentation and you hoped it went well. I’m going to be hoping it goes well, and I feel like that makes me a little too invested in the whole situation.”

“What situation?”

“The— you know. The situation.”

Alex stares at him.

“The situation,” Kyle repeats with an emphatic tilt of his chin, and then he puts down his fork. After a quick glance around the dining room, he pokes his tongue into his cheek and jerks his fist twice. Alex’s eyes go wide, and he ducks forward and rattles the table with a slap of his palm on the Formica.

“Excuse me?”

Hands held up penitently, Kyle shrugs. “Is that not what we’re talking about? I thought that’s what we were talking about.” Alex stammers indignantly, and Kyle asks, “Does Forrest know that’s not what we’re talking about? Or is he, like, really into sightseeing? ‘Cause I don’t know a single guy that ever suggested an overnight trip without specifically thinking about opportunities to get laid.”

Alex draws a long breath in through his nose and then says, slowly and deliberately, “It hasn’t come up.”

“Well, obviously,” Kyle says, miming a peek over the table at Alex’s lap. “Isn't that the issue here?”

-

-

-

The morning of his flight, Michael appears on his doorstep. His curls rustle in the warm breeze, matching the anxious, jittery energy in the rest of his body, and he has shadows beneath his eyes that speak to a restless night. It’s a little before ten, which means this is probably not the result of a hangover, but that just means Alex isn’t sure what could possibly be going on.

“If this isn’t an emergency, either take it to Kyle or wait for me to get back and deal with it on Wednesday,” Alex tells him with a shake of his head. His thigh bumps the side of his rolling suitcase as it sits beside the door, and Michael glances down as it skitters against the tile.

“It’s kind of an emergency,” he says, voice hoarse.

Unimpressed, Alex crosses his arms. “I’m not missing my flight for ‘kind of’.”

“Look, I know— Valenti told us you were leaving today. I just need a minute.”

Technically, because Alex has been packed since the night before, he has time to spare. His original plan for the rest of the afternoon was to triple check his spreadsheet of things to pack, agonize over the potential itinerary, and worry himself into a panic attack. Condoms and lube went in and out of a zippered pouch at the bottom of his suitcase a half-dozen times last night, and he’s still second-guessing himself. So, as uneager as he is to deal with an agitated Michael that only ever wants to fight anymore, at least it will save him the trouble of overthinking himself out of his trip.

Alex pulls the door open with a sigh and takes a step back. “Alright. Let’s go.”

He leads Michael to the living room, stopping at the dining room table to fuss with his neat stack of papers—boarding pass, IDs, room reservations—just to avoid watching Michael retrace his steps around the upholstered chair. He crosses in front of the bookshelf and takes a seat on the far side of the couch, and Alex turns to stand behind the chair.

“What’s your emergency?”

Licking his lips, Michael sits up straighter and rubs his palms along his thighs. The bandana on his left hand doesn’t slide easily against the denim of his jeans, catching awkwardly. His eyes dart up to Alex and back down to the coffee table three times before he finally swallows and says, “I always imagined you in a different kind of house.”

“What?”

“The house,” Michael says. “It’s just— I always imagined you in something different.”

He’d said something similar the first time he’d been to the house, the day before Isobel nearly caught them at the Airstream.

Michael had seen him loading a new generator into the back of his car at the hardware store and followed him home under the guise of helping to move it from the trunk to the garage. Alex hadn’t meant to invite him inside, but Michael ended up peering around the living room anyway. Alex’s few possessions had still been in boxes at the time, so the furnishings that came with the house were all bare and impersonal.

Whistling lowly, Michael had scratched at the stubble on his jaw. “Not how I pictured it.”

Something had buzzed under Alex’s skin as he careened down an intensely dangerous line of thought: he had locks and a security system and a garage big enough for Michael’s truck and if Michael parked behind the door and they drew the curtains and set the alarms, Michael could stay and they would still be safe. They’d never been safe, not for one minute, and that was a real chance. That was Alex’s safe place, totally within his control. But the last time Alex let Michael into a safe place of his, he got sloppy and almost ruined everything.

“How did you picture it?” Alex had asked.

Michael answered with his back turned as he looked out the big windows that faced the yard. “Farther away, for one thing.”

That had stung, and in a way Alex figures retrospectively he probably didn’t deserve. It was true enough that he never planned on coming back to Roswell in any permanent way, but Michael had also never asked him to stay. The last two weeks of summer before Alex hauled his things to the bus stop were tense and awkward and implied nothing about a future. If anything, they made Alex watch the hopeful fantasy of taking the bus from California to spend the night in a UNM dorm well and truly disintegrate. Michael had shucked himself of all his attachments—his friendship with Max, his college scholarship, and, for the small price of Kyle’s chrome rims, Alex. It wasn’t hard to extrapolate the data. And it wasn’t fair for Michael to keep accusing him of drawing the wrong conclusions when he had been the one who it turned out was knowingly withholding information.

They had slept together after that first house tour anyway, but back at the Airstream, and everything was still ruined.

Now, Michael still doesn’t elaborate on why the house feels wrong. Instead, he stands and wanders towards the keyboard. He traces his fingertips against the keys and then plays a few notes in slow succession. The power strip is off, so the only sound is the uniform clicking of plastic, dull and monotonous, but Alex can see which notes he’s playing.

E, E, F, G, G, F, E, D, C, C, D, E, E, D, D.

“I saw you last week,” Michael says, his back still turned. He continues the silent, looping refrain of Ode to Joy, and it occurs to Alex that he hasn’t heard Michael play music in years. And Michael was only ever interested in the guitar. Once, after the ninth period bell emptied the music room, Alex had tried to coax him into a rudimentary version of Camptown Races on the piano, but Michael hadn’t had the patience for it. He was eager to get out of the building. “You were coming out of Bean Me Up together, and he was drinking something covered in whipped cream. I almost blew it up in his face.”

Alex frowns. This is the most Michael has spoken to him in weeks.

“He likes his coffee very sweet,” Alex says. “It’s disgusting, I know. Now, what’s your big emergency?”

Michael ignores the question. He slips his legs around the edge of the bench and sits, keeping up the staccato tapping. His rhythm is just the wrong side of the tempo, a half-beat too slow. “And then I saw you at the bookstore. And the bank. And the pharmacy. Always with him. Everywhere I go, there you are.”

Irritation spiking, Alex crosses his arms. “There’s only one pharmacy on this side of town. We were bound to run into each other at some point. There’s not really anything I can do about that.”

A hum is all he gets in reply.

“If you want to make up a joint-custody schedule for every store in Roswell, it’s going to have to wait until I get back. Now, can we get back to your big emergency, or did you just drop by to waste my time?”

Hands stilling, Michael stares down at the silent keyboard. “You like him.”

“What?”

“You like him, right?”

He should tell Michael to fuck off. There’s a certain audacity to showing up unannounced just to poke a stick in an emotional beehive that reeks of spending too much time with Isobel, and Michael has already forfeited rights to Alex’s private life. Whatever doubts, however plentiful, he has about Forrest, they aren’t going to be offered up to Michael. Kyle has been a willing if judgemental ear, and he doesn’t want Michael involved in his new relationship any more than he wanted to be involved in Michael’s new relationship.

But he takes a deep breath to brace himself, and what comes out instead is, “Yeah, I do.”

While not technically a lie, it’s also barely a truth. Michael twitches when he hears it. Alex isn’t sure if that’s a win or not.

“That makes me feel weird,” Michael says carefully, and he cocks his head and takes his hand off the keyboard. “Is that a shitty thing to say?”

Alex stares at him with lips parted in surprise. He isn’t looking to be drawn into a real fight just a few hours before his first vacation in three years officially begins, but Michael certainly seems to be spoiling for a right hook to the jaw again. At the very least, he’s angling for an argument. Provoking reactions at any cost is nothing new for Michael, and Alex for once refuses to rise to the bait.

After taking a long breath through his nose, Alex answers in an equally measured tone. “You can’t help how you feel. At least, that’s what people keep telling me.”

Unfortunately, it isn’t enough of a rebuke to chastise Michael into silence.

“I think it’s because I’ve never had to share you before.” The admission comes out of Michael in a rushed exhale, and an icy feeling winds itself up Alex’s spine. Michael grips the edge of the bench as he stares forward out the living room window, and Alex watches the line of his back as it twists with anxious energy. “I’ve never seen you look at someone else like that.”

Narrowing his eyes at the back of Michael’s head, Alex tries to reconcile his wistful tone with the man that burned Alex’s last remaining memento in a fire pit, with the months of angry reminders of being unwanted.

“This doesn’t sound like an emergency.”

“Feels like one,” Michael says. He lifts a leg over the side of the bench and spins around to brace his elbows on his knees. He looks up at Alex with a furrowed brow. “You love him?”

Alex stares at him. He wants to say, no, wants to say, it’s only been a few weeks, wants to say, we do lunches and coffee and he’s never stayed over at my house because I get a stress headache just thinking about it, wants to say, you’re a fucking asshole.

“Is that relevant to your problem?” he asks instead, tone edging to just the wrong side of restrained politeness.

“You’d be surprised.”

Exasperated, Alex takes a step back and drops his arms to his sides. “Alright, it’s time to go. I have a flight to catch, and this isn’t actually an emergency.”

He starts off down the hall, intending to lead the way back to the front door, but Michael slips around to block his way. Steps stuttering, Alex stops with a scowl. They’re almost the same size, but Michael’s bravado takes up more room. Michael moves self-assuredly, pushing into Alex’s space without hesitation, and it’s an outrageously irritating habit in the context of their redefined relationship. Once upon a time, it was a comfort to know that Michael knew exactly how to touch him, what the limits were of what he could get away with. But Michael is the one that asked for space and distance. Alex showed up when he called and faded into the background when he knew he was being dismissed, and now it’s clear that Michael isn’t going to afford him the same courtesy.

“You should go,” Alex says.

And then, like he’s done so many times before, Michael catches Alex’s face between searingly hot palms and tows him into a kiss.

The press of his lips is frantic, and Alex grunts in surprise, but the sound tapers off into a soft hum as his hands come to rest on Michael’s hips. In close proximity, his instincts for Michael default to embrace every time. He can’t help it. Alex tows him in closer even though it would be smarter to push him away. Kissing Michael always gives him a head rush that seems to shut down the rational, decision-making portions of his brain. It leaves him with a breathless feeling. Kissing Michael is like reliving the first drop on a roller coaster, the tightly bound coil of anticipation somehow winding tighter just before the free fall, and repeating it over and over: buildup and exhilaration as a tireless cycle.

There is nothing easier. He can search the rest of his life, he’s sure, and he won’t find anything easier. Loving Michael is etched into his bones. It’s the only thing that makes sense to him.

Alex gasps when his back hits the wall, guided there by Michael’s gentle nudging, and Michael eases his tongue into the kiss with a coaxing grind of his hips. Sometimes Michael’s heat is a balm on an aching muscle. It soothes parts of Alex that have been sore for as long as he can remember. But this touch burns across his skin like hot iron, fiery and agonizing, and Alex sinks into the hold on his neck with a sigh.

After the doctors amputated his leg, arousal became a concept instead of a feeling. His body, in constant pain, didn’t look like his body, and it didn’t move like his body. He had to relearn how to move it and how to live in it, and it took a long while for the urge to touch himself to return. And once it did, he couldn’t always sustain his interest. Patience became something else he had to relearn. Historically, he has been very bad at cutting himself slack, and it hadn’t been an easy endeavor.

Forrest piques his interest in the right ways, but he still has to work on coaxing out his arousal. He’s interested, conceptually, but the feeling misses something. It’s hollow, lacking substance, like trying to get something going with a poster on the wall. The view is fine, but his imagination has to do all the heavy lifting, and he has to be willing to put in the work. But with Michael, as always, one touch has arousal bubbling to the surface, fierce and overwhelming. It’s almost embarrassing how easily it comes. One kiss from someone who has sworn over and over that he doesn’t want Alex anymore, has told Alex those words to his face without hesitancy or regret, and Alex is ready to miss his flight to California. He’s ready to send Forrest a text and call the whole thing off, and yesterday Michael probably would have sent his calls to voicemail.

He can’t explain Michael’s flip-flopping interest, but he also doesn’t want to think about it too much. They’ve had borderline-miserable sex where it’s hard to make eye contact without the risk of crying, and they’ve had frantic sex with aggressive hands, but they’ve never had angry, hateful, spiteful sex. That might break his heart a little too much.

He expects Michael to make a move towards his jeans. When he gets like this, needy and desperate, he always goes for Alex’s jeans. But Michael just keeps kissing him, hands straying down to his neck or up into his hair but never farther. They haven’t just kissed since they were out in the desert.

Alex wants so badly to be those boys again.

Then, Michael pulls back.

He thumbs at the corner of Alex’s mouth, eyes lingering on skin that must be flushed red from the scrape of his beard, and then he strokes his palm lightly over Alex’s cheek and up to brush the hair off his forehead. Alex sways forward, half-instinct. Their foreheads bump together, and Michael presses a short kiss against his Cupid’s bow.

“Don’t fall in love with him,” he breathes, chest heaving as he cages Alex against the wall. “Date him, screw him, go to fucking California, do whatever you want. But don’t fall in love with him.”

Alex blinks. The gears of his mind shudder back into motion, and suddenly, miserably, things make sense.

When Alex was chained up as a bargaining chip by his childhood friends’ mothers, Michael came swooping in to build the bomb they wanted. He worked tirelessly. And then he left. He pulled the doors shut with Alex still handcuffed to a radiator and missing his prosthesis, and he went back to CrashCon. He saved Alex, but only just.

At the end of the day, Alex is a childhood toy for which Michael still has a smidgen of sentimental attachment, and he doesn’t like for anybody else to play with it. Even though he’s moved on to shinier things, even though his memories of Alex are tainted with enough misery that he’ll never want Alex again, he’d prefer Alex stay on his shelf, gathering dust, than be given to anyone else.

Alex doesn’t know exactly how many townies he’s shared Michael’s attention with over the years. The number is probably a lot lower than Michael likes to have him think, but it’s definitely higher than one. It’s been higher than five since they were twenty. Alex knows that much for sure. It’s included his former best friend since last year. But Alex tries to look somewhere else once, and Michael decides to make it his business.

“Get off me,” Alex says.

“Alex—”

“No, get out. Get out of my house.” He leverages all of his strength into a firm shove against Michael’s chest and sends him tripping back down the hallway. He stumbles, foot tangling in the strap of Alex’s waiting duffel bag, and keeps protesting. “Get out!”

“Alex, would you just—?”

“Out!”

He herds Michael onto the porch, and then he steps back and slams the door.

Michael calls for him two more times before giving up, and Alex leans back against the wall in the foyer to listen for the rattle of the Chevy’s engine until he’s sure he’s alone.

Frustrated tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

Kissing Forrest has never felt like kissing Michael, and he can’t imagine it ever will. Their kisses aren’t heavy with a decade of history, heartache, longing, and desperation mixed into every touch. He doesn’t lose himself in kissing Forrest. His higher brain function doesn’t go completely offline. But maybe Kyle was right. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. It’s just different.

-

-

-

Forrest watches him carefully on their flight and the drive to their AirBnB. The stare is light but steadily appraising. Alex makes a point of being wildly interested in the scenery—in the highways, the retaining walls, the traffic, the road signs, the tightly-packed neighborhoods, and the glimmer of greenery struggling to peek through wide stretches of gray cement. He wants to be present, promised himself he would be, but he can still feel the prickled scrape of Michael’s stubble against his chin and the hot flush of shame lifting color into his cheeks. He’s surprised Forrest hadn’t read it in the corners of his eyes as soon as he saw him.

The sun dips below the horizon just before they park outside the building where they’re staying. The apartment is a second-story walk-up about a mile from the ocean, and Alex can taste the salt in the air from the parking lot. Forrest tries to carry his bag, and Alex waves him off. He takes the stairs slowly, counting his breaths as he climbs, and he takes the opportunity to refocus himself. Forrest deserves a real chance. Alex deserves something that’s been given a real chance.

His last bitter, miserable thought before he reaches the second floor landing is that those two thoughts are not necessarily related.

The rental is small but clean, and Alex glances around, cataloging the decorations and doorways and any visible wires as he moves through the main living space and into the bedroom.

“You never shut it off, do you?” Forrest finally asks with a laugh as he swings his duffel onto one side of the queen mattress. “Constant vigilance.”

His tone is light and amused, but Alex knows a vein of genuine frustration runs through the words. Forrest’s service was a job that ended, and now he buries himself in military history that’s all stories. Alex’s captaincy is a job too, but the rest of his life isn’t something he can turn off for a weekend away. He slips up even for a minute, even for a second, and people get hurt.

“Nanny cams can look like anything these days,” he says.

It’s easy to lie to Forrest—not in the sense of him being dumb or gullible or of Alex being a master manipulator, but in the sense of feeling very little guilt when he does it. Kyle and Liz have each done their fair share of hemming and hawing about letting people in on the alien secret, wrestling with the pain that was apparently tearing them up inside. That hasn’t been a problem for Alex. Forrest does not get to know his secrets, and it’s as simple as that. Whether or not that means an end to things between them isn’t important.

“Well, then I say we give them a show.”

“Tempting,” Alex says as Forrest eases up behind him and drops a kiss on the back of his neck. He thinks of Kyle’s crude gesture at lunch and how quickly he’d gotten hard in his jeans when Michael kissed him. “But I want to see the beach. And I’m starving.”

Forrest relents quickly enough, and the rest of the day becomes more of the same.

They walk down the main street—a road littered with tourist trap t-shirt shops and overpriced curbside dining—and Alex finds that it isn’t any easier to be openly affectionate with Forrest, which finally answers the question of whether or not getting out of Roswell might have solved any of his issues with Michael. He stills looks over his shoulder when Forrest holds his hand on the boardwalk and feels the prickling heat of curious gazes when Forrest makes a clumsy attempt at spinning him around outside a bar with loud music leaking through the open windows. The trauma follows because it’s in him, not in Roswell.

The first night is awkward but manageable.

The queen-sized bed in the bedroom isn’t big, but it’s big enough. Forrest unsubtly wanders into Alex’s space while he’s packing his dirty clothes into the plastic bag at the bottom of his suitcase, and Alex makes an equally unsubtle escape into the bathroom.

In the shower, he almost convinces himself to do it. He cleans off the grime from traveling and from walking through town, and then he cleans a little deeper. The idea of a man waiting for him in the next room could be tantalizing if he talks himself through it the right way. Forrest has a nice enough face and a decent body, and he looks at Alex like a man who wants. He would be eager. Alex doesn’t know if he would be attentive, how interested he would be in foreplay. That makes him anxious. He likes knowing what to expect.

Alex massages at the back of his knee on his right leg with a washcloth. Forrest had almost proudly showed him the listing with the built-in shower bench when he was planning out the trip. Accessibility accommodations can sometimes be difficult to come by, so Alex had appreciated the effort, but it’s also something akin to getting a non-smoking room or a room with a locking door: the bare-minimum, the essentials.

Michael has never taken him anywhere, he reminds himself, except one skeevy motel in Santa Fe during a three-day leave that ended in a particularly nasty fight.

But then, he thinks, that’s not true at all. If he lets himself, he can remember the hot flush of embarrassed excitement of standing awkwardly in the desert while Michael crawled around on his one good hand and his knees, carefully covering the rough metal truck bed with a threadbare blanket and a splayed-open sleeping bag.

“It’s not much,” he said when Alex finally hoisted himself onto the tailgate. “But no one’ll find us out here.”

Jesse, he had meant, won’t find us out here. And he’d been right. Alex got sunburns on the back of his neck far more times than he would have liked, and once, after getting caught in a storm, had a head cold so bad that he was in bed for three days. But out in the desert, in the back of Michael’s truck, he never even thought twice about looking over his shoulder. If Michael’s hand hadn’t been broken, tied up in dirty bandages and sloppily splinted as it sat between their bodies, Alex might have forgotten everything those afternoons in the sun.

Comparing is what stalls him every time, grinding his minuscule progress to a halt. Michael, who has never had anything, has always given him everything. It’s a sentiment almost impossible to match, and Alex’s whole concept of love has been reared on it. Raised on it, and now left to starve.

It feels cheap and dirty to do it out of spite after having put it off for so long to make sure it feels right, so he slips into his sweatpants after toweling off and climbs into the bed with an exaggerated wince.

“Goodnight,” he says, and he stares at the wall until he hears Forrest’s breathing even out.

For the next two days, it’s a miserable cycle. He kisses Forrest, lets Forrest sneak hands beneath the hem of his shirt to cup at the base of his ribs, and thinks about Michael. He gets distracted, wondering why Forrest’s touch feels so different—his body temperature is lower, for one thing, and Alex is unused to anything but searing hot hands on his body, and he smells like chemical cologne instead of the sharp, clear scent of rain—and then he gets angry at himself.

Michael doesn’t want him, something he’s said over and over again. Alex tries again, out of sheer desperation, and he disappoints himself. And then suddenly, it’s their last night.

The countdown is all in Alex’s head, but he sees it like a neon sign in the corner of his eye. The analog clock ticks down, seconds and minutes and hours until they get on a plane back to New Mexico. It has become now or never, he knows. Fish or cut bait.

Forrest finds a sushi restaurant close to the pier that has a queue down to the corner of people waiting for tables. They wait in the line, making polite conversation about how incredible the weather has been and how little they’re looking forward to work on Monday. When they’re finally seated, Forrest orders for the table. Alex lets him, his mind wandering.

He could do it. Taking Forrest back to their little rental would be easy, and Forrest would be eager for it after this long. Getting undressed would be manageable. He would probably leave his prosthesis on. He would definitely leave his prosthesis on. Forrest has a perfectly okay face, even with the distraction of his unevenly home-dyed hair, and very straight teeth. His jawline is sharp, and Alex would be able to use that. He would be able to distract himself on the angles, keep his head tucked low—very low because Forrest is also short—and let everything else happen without having to look at it. He would feel whatever he might feel, like the hairless expanse of Forrest’s chest, and he would fill in everything else with whatever he needed to for his interest to stick around. Trying to map out the rest of it becomes a jumbled mess in his head because he doesn’t really know what sex with a boyfriend looks like when it isn’t with Michael.

You shouldn’t have to work this hard, Kyle had told him. He suspects that he will have to work this hard for the rest of his life. But for now, he’s tired.

He pays the bill when it comes.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he says to Forrest, and it’s the beginning of what Kyle will probably call a healthy life choice over their next set of drinks. Mostly, it just feels like surrender and defeat. “Somewhere quiet. So we can talk.”

#malex fic #malex #roswell new mexico #rnm fic #michael x alex #my fic #i figured i'd just make it tumblr accessible bc i hated the formatting of the post i did yesterday lmao

[unheavenlybody]

hi i ended up writing an entire essay while trying to vent so feel free to ignore: 

its frustrating that there's no way to talk candidly about mental health problems without the looming fear of forced institutionalization, at least in my case. people trying to force medication on you. wellness obsessed fitness people recommend you start doing yoga and “clean eating” and only using certified nontoxic products and adopting a more positive mindset and ~recognizing your inner magic~ or whatever even though no one asked (literally a dig at my sister LMAO). so much of it just seems self righteous and self congratulatory and devoid of any genuine compassion or understanding for people’s unique circumstances??? recognizing that a lot of life is just hard and miserable and sometimes its ok to just sit with that??

i hate the idea of some dude with a degree from whatever ivy at my school’s counseling department keeping a record of everything i say which can potentially be used against me even tho its supposed to be confidential. treating me like a fragile baby bird but also slicing our meetings in half and arriving late and leaving me to fend for myself after asking me to dig up buried trauma and then offering no support for the next two weeks other than “i understand, that must be hard.” recommending we look into a psychotherapist during our next meeting, which i cant even afford, and then not following through. repeatedly tiptoeing around the question of whether i have suicidal thoughts and if so how severe, like, my guy, i 100% wouldnt tell you that in a million years. even if it’s true.  

i'm caught between recognizing that a healthy diet and exercise and enriching hobbies and social connection are necessary parts of getting better, but people seem to conveniently forget that these aren’t equally accessible options for everyone. and even if i maintain all of these things, will it be enough to keep me here? i just don't understand the impulse to shame people for not trying “hard enough” when it’s so easy to neglect these things if you don’t have money, adequate resources, or emotional support. not everyone was born to be entirely self sufficient (is anyone really, lol?) but grindset wellness fuckers will have you convinced you’re just an undisciplined weak-willed piece of trash and simply need to become more like them. or at the very least get medicated and stop complaining. but can you prioritize a healthy organic diet if you barely have enough money to scrape by as it is, when understandably cheap fast foods are one of the only things that still bring you comfort that you can regularly afford? how can you safely exercise in a way that's both sustainable and enjoyable if you can't afford a gym membership or exercise equipment and live somewhere that neglects public parks or is highly polluted and congested? or if you have chronic pain or fatigue and can’t get treatment for it because your dumbass country doesnt think universal healthcare is a human right? you can’t even maintain certain hobbies and especially long term relationships unless you have money for outings and some means of reliable transportation (which in the US obviously means having a car). how can you get out of an abusive or hazardous living situation when the resources that do exist are often underfunded, discriminatory, or exploitative themselves? when you have no one else to depend on? everything is increasingly designed to strip you of any opportunity at having a happy fulfilling life and maybe some people are just less equipped to deal with this reality. maybe i am weak lol. or they see through the bullshit and can’t bring themselves to care anymore. 

like yeah i know that’s not a great mindset to have, and you should still try to find joy in life, but most days i can't help but feel that I am trying to get better by exercising or eating healthy or allowing myself to love things all for nothing. like maybe ive already been robbed of a healthy, happy life by circumstance and i could try to exhaust myself further by insisting things can and will get better when maybe realistically they won't in the way i want them to. i dont know how to end this i just wish it was easier to talk about with someone lol sorry for the essay byeeee

#this post sounds so aggressive i am just in a Mood

[imthejudge]

make sense of me

Warren Graham x Nathan Prescott

Chapter Three Word Count: 8,700

Chapter Two

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort

Read on Archive

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41111322/chapters/106002777#workskin

-

Chapter Three: without you

When Warren opens his eyes there are a lot of things that run through his brain. Most prominently among them, and at the forefront of his mind, is a simple: huh. Warren blinks his wide, disbelieving eyes owlishly. There’s nothing. No wind, no rain, no lightning…no storm. And it’s somehow daytime.

Okay then.

He’s strangely calm about it, until a fact that comes rushing back to him makes him launch himself forward in his seat to peer at the ground in front of his car. Oh shit. Yup. He definitely hit something. With a still blank mind, Warren’s body reacts for him, fumbling clumsily at the door handle to let himself out and almost trip his way around to the front of his car. Shiiiiiiiit.

There’s a soggy, red heap on the ground.

No—a person.

Oh no, not a person.

Nathan Prescott.

He hit Nathan Prescott with his car.

Are you kidding me?

Warren might have laughed for the sole reason that this was some cruel twist of fate, except he might’ve just killed Nathan Prescott. That will definitely affect his chances of getting into Stanford University, he might as well throw his 4.0 GPA out the window at this point. Oh my God I killed Nathan Prescott. He’s spiralling, quickly. And he doesn't realize he hasn’t taken a breath since leaving the car until the red heap—that he has deduced is Nathan—stirs and lets out a long groan.

Crouching down next to him, Warren immediately has a grip on each of Nathan’s shoulders as he rolls to his side, “oh fuck, you’re alive!” Okay, that was a little dramatic to yell in his face.

Warren’s sure Nathan is barely conscious enough at this point to even know what’s going on, but it doesn’t stop him from swatting away Warren’s hands and spitting like some feral cat. “Getthefuckoffme!”

Straightening up, Warren can’t help the relief that floods through him at Nathan’s reaction. He didn’t kill the guy, after all. I can still go to Stanford. “Oh my God, you’re okay. I mean–are you? Are you okay?”

Nathan’s now standing up beside him and Warren realizes how close they are. Only inches apart, really. Nathan seems to notice, too, as he gives Warren a quick yet scrutinizing once over before jabbing a finger into Warren’s chest. “You? Again? How–no, I’m not okay. Ease the fuck up though, would you?”

Stumbling back a little, Warren rubs the spot that Nathan so forcefully prodded him with, “right, yeah…uh, sorry.” He’s able to properly take in Nathan’s appearance now, still completely dripping wet as if walking straight out of a storm–which he had–to the point where a puddle has begun to form beneath his feet. That varsity jacket he always seems to wear has somehow grown, its arms sagging way past Nathan’s hands and overall looking much more weighted than usual. His dark blonde hair sticks to his temples and neck in a wild fashion, droplets of water running down his cheek…and his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt–

“Can you stop looking at me like some freak science experiment that you’re trying to analyze?”

Warren’s attention immediately snaps back to the situation at hand, his eyes averting back to Nathan’s hard stare that bores into him, “right, s-sorry!” Warren apologizes again, mentally cursing himself for making the already awkward situation ten times more awkward. He thinks of a way to rectify it, though it’s on impulse that he suddenly shoots out a hand in offering to Nathan, “I guess first things first, I’m Warren Graham.”

At first, Nathan doesn’t do anything, then his eyes narrow to slits and Warren thinks he might get decked in the face by him. Again. “I know who the fuck you are, dumbass.”

“You do!?” Warren doesn’t mean to sound as surprised as he is, clearing his throat after a second, “I, uh, didn’t think you did.” He still holds out an extended hand, which Nathan looks down at as if Warren just offered him a cake made out of dogshit. But before he has the chance to retract it, Nathan turns one eighty degrees and proceeds to stomp away. “Uh… wait, where are you going?”

“Away.” Nathan responds without turning around.

“Away?” Warren repeats, trying to catch up. “Where?”

“I don’t know, to get some dry fucking clothes for starters.”

Warren supposes he has a point, the guy was sopping wet. He gives a slight shrug while continuing to follow behind Nathan. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. But I’m also slightly concerned over–well–pretty much everything that–”

“Without you.” Nathan reels back around to face Warren, making him come to a sudden halt and try his best to avoid crashing into him. The words, full of venom, cut Warren off. “I don’t know what the fuck just happened, or why the storm we were caught in two minutes ago has somehow miraculously disappeared and it’s fucking daytime,” he digs a finger into Warren’s chest again, forcing him to take a couple of steps backwards, “but I do know that you’re right at the centre of it all. So stay the fuck away from me.”

Ow. This time Warren doesn't bother to say anything, or follow, when Nathan continues walking away from Warren and out of the parking lot. Suits me just fine, he thinks to himself. After all, he had been trying to avoid the guy since the whole incident earlier that day. If Max could have seen the complete and utter trainwreck that occurred just now–with Warren stupidly trying to introduce himself, nonetheless–he can’t bare to think it. He brings a hand to rub over his face, letting out a strangled groan. How embarrassing.

But embarrassment aside, Warren is finally able to ponder upon the very strange occurrence of the storm and its sudden disappearance. He drops his hand, casting his gaze upwards to the cloudless sky, no hint of a storm ever having happened. Something is off… There’s no way he could have been imagining it, not when he’d been driving in it mere minutes ago. Not when Nathan was proof of how badly it had been raining due to his soaked and dishevelled state.

It made no sense.

“You okay, my dude?” Beside Warren stands a guy who’s currently stopped to check him out and Warren doesn’t have to glance over to know that it’s Trevor, judging from his cropped black hair and baggy skater clothes that can be made out in his peripheral vision.

“Oh, hey Trevor. I’m okay, it’s just been a…strange day.”

“Trevor?” The guy questions, prompting Warren to actually look at him. The Trevor he thought was Trevor wasn’t Trevor upon closer inspection…Though he looked strikingly similar. Too much so for it to be a coincidence. Does Trevor have a brother? No, he would know that… “Sorry dude, you must have me confused with someone else. Pretty tubular name tho, if I do say so myself, so I’m not mad about it.”

Tubular? Warren hasn’t heard that one… pretty much ever before in his life.

“And I’ll say, strange indeed, my dude. I was just asking since you’re staring into space and your car’s smokin’ away.”

Not Trevor certainly talked as much as actual Trevor, wait–“my car’s smoking?” The guy shrugs, pointing behind Warren and sure enough, when whipping around to face his car, there’s a cloud of smoke forming at the back end.

Oh shit. Warren’s running over to his poor old Chevy, dancing on his feet a little in his hesitation to even touch it in case the whole thing goes up in flames. Shit shit shit. It dawns on him that the smoke doesn’t actually look like it coming from the car but rather within it. He furrows his brows together, curious at what that could possibly mean when a thought occurs to him. He tentatively reaches out a hand to pull open the door to the back seat, confirming that it is indeed not his car, but rather his time machine–thesis project–that was to blame.

Warren stares at it open mouthed like an idiot, because he doesn’t understand. A creeping suspicion forms in his mind, one that he’s quick to shake off because no. But it’s hard not to piece together the storm and how he was sure he’d been struck by lightning–which happened to be enough energy to power his time machine–right before being launched into a stormless, bright and sunny day.

But no, no way.

Out of curiosity–and if only to squash any lingering doubts on the ridiculous idea–Warren pops his head out of his car to zero in on not Trevor, who has luckily hung around and is toeing his skateboard idly. “Hey,” he calls out, “uh, what year is it?”

If it’s a weird question to ask, not Trevor doesn’t let it show as he barely even blinks when responding, “1983, my dude.” He waggles a ‘hang loose’ gesture with his hand, but Warren can’t fully comprehend it. His eyes drift back to the time machine, almost laughing because no. No, no, nope. Nahhhhh. That’s a joke, not Trevor’s just messing with him.

But then his gaze focuses on the digital interface of his time machine, which still glows with the date he’d set it to back at the lab. The date he’d insisted on wanting to travel to. The date October 7th, 1983.

Fuck.

-

He has to tell Nathan.

…right? Would it really be so bad if Warren didn’t? On one hand, the guy kinda deserves walking aimlessly around a Blackwell 30 years prior to their current time. Or future time. Especially since Warren still doesn’t feel inclined to go anywhere near Nathan, who will most likely rip Warren to shreds once he does mention the fact that they’ve been launched back in time. If Nathan believes Warren, that is.

Warren barely believes it himself, still wrestling with his own mind at the sheer impossibility of it all. The idea of him dreaming all of it up definitely crossing his mind, but Warren rarely dreamed and never this vividly. Things were too real.

And on the other hand…there’s no way that Warren, in good conscience, can let Nathan go about like this unknowingly. As much as Warren hates the guy, he can’t leave him stuck here. He considers that Nathan might not have been involved in the accidental time travel were it not for Warren in the first place, having hit him with his car at the exact moment it got struck by lightning which Warren presumes is when they got spat back out in 1983. It’s only right that he tries to amend Nathan’s unintentional involvement.

So when Warren finally snaps out of his dissociative state of acceptance, he goes after Nathan. Except…he doesn’t know exactly where he’s run off to, no way of knowing in which direction to head past leaving the parking lot. All Warren has to go on is that Nathan intended to find a change of clothes. Naturally, his dorm room is the most likely place he’d want to go. The only issue is that Nathan’s room…isn’t his room anymore. He can only assume it’s vacated by a student attending Blackwell during the current time they’ve been sent to.

Rolling the back windows of his car down just enough to let the remainder of the smoke escape, Warren clicks his car keys over his shoulder to lock the Chevy as he bolts out of the lot, waving a tentative goodbye to not Trevor as he goes. If he’s right, and Nathan’s headed to the dormitories, then Warren has to catch up. Quickly.

As much as the fact remains that he’s been sent back in time 30 years ago, it’s very much still October with the same notorious chill in the air. Warren makes haste across the school grounds, taking in the people he passes as he does so. Blackwell Academy itself looks exactly as it does 30 years in the future, its tall, orange-bricked building standing ageless while nestled at the foot of Arcadia Bay’s hilly forests.

What really strikes Warren are the students that loiter around campus, their image alone a true representation of the '80s. Neon and denim donned by nearly every person around him, with hair so voluminous or slick with gel he wonders how early each student has to get up before classes just to style it. The amount of gel some of them use would give Nathan a run for his money.

If he wasn’t in such a rush, Warren might have ogled the people he passed more thoroughly. He’s glad that at the very least, the layout of the school is the exact same, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting lost in his frantic race to the dormitories as much as getting lost in the crowd of people. Warren narrowly manages to break through the crowded steps down to the courtyard, squeezing between a couple of guys carrying a ridiculously large boombox that he thinks is a bit too on the nose for the setting with a strangled ‘scuse me!' before seeing a flash of red at the building's entrance.

“Nathan, hey, wait up!” but he doesn’t. Because of course he doesn't. He’s out of breath when he finally catches up, planting himself in front of Nathan like a roadblock in his path, arms spread out on either side of him. “Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but this isn’t the Blackwell we know. Somehow we’ve been sent back in time to 1983…”

Nathan’s stopped now, and Warren waits for him to react. But all he does is stare blankly back at him. Then something like heated annoyance flashes behind his eyes. “Oh gee. No way.”

“You’re.. strangely calm about it.” Warren drops his arms, taking on a slightly skeptical expression.

“Yup.”

Warren’s face falls, “you don’t believe me.”

“Nope.”

“Okay, okay, I can explain–” Nathan’s already pushing past him, even as Warren continues to ramble on in some sort of attempt at convincing him, following him up the set of stairs that lead to the dorms. Nathan slips inside the building, and Warren almost has the door slam in his face behind him. “My thesis for science class, that thing that you smashed to pieces? It’s a time machine I’ve been building–and then fixing. Not a real one! Or–it wasn’t supposed to be. But there was a storm, right? And then there wasn’t, because what I think happened is the energy from a bolt of lightning from the storm hitting my car somehow launched us–since I, uh, hit you with the car at the same time–all the way back to–”

“Stop talking.”

Warren does, only because Nathan’s suddenly halted and reached out his arms at their full length to keep Warren from running into him, holding him in place. The contact jolts him and keeps him quiet after Nathan drops his arms and begins to dig in his pocket for something. It’s a key, his dorm key, Warren assumes, making him look around where they’ve stopped in front of Nathan’s room. And parallel from it across the hall, Warren’s room. Future room.

It’s eerie how similar everything looks. Part of Warren can’t blame Nathan for taking literally anything he’s said as true, considering the two of them aren’t even friends to begin with. They’re barely acquaintances, Warren wanting next to nothing to do with the guy before today. “Nathan, I really don’t think you should–”

“Hey, Prescott!” Whatever Warren was going to say dies in his throat when he’s interrupted by the booming shout that echoes down the hallway toward them. Both boys whip their heads in the direction it came from to see a big, burly guy. Hardly someone Warren might suspect to be a student attending Blackwell from the looks of him. Maybe students in the ’80s were just built different.

Instead of facing them like Warren expects, the guy is forcefully pounding at one of the doors a couple rooms down from where they stand. It comes to an abrupt stop when the door suddenly whips open and reveals the student Warren can only assume whose room it belongs to. He has blonde hair, styled out of his face in a way that represented the current time period they were in yet also maintained a certain air of maturity to it. He’d answered the door with a scrutinizing demeanour, offering a slightly demoralizing, “what is it?” Kurt and equally commanding. “Did my father send you?” it comes out as a scoff more than anything else, and Warren almost flinches on behalf of the dude at the other end of the interaction from how harsh it sounds.

“Yes, family business.” the burly guy gruffly responds.

“It’s about time, I’ve been waiting for ages. I swear sometimes I think I’m the only competent one in this damn family.” The student’s ushering burly guy in with an impatient motion of his hand, glancing down the hallway to assure their discretion before deeming it relatively good enough–Warren assumes–when he slams the door shut once more.

“I totally thought he was talking to you for a second, almost crapped my pants–” Warren’s breathing out in relief but cuts himself off after turning back to Nathan. His face has drained of all colour, resembling that of a sheet of white paper, and his eyes have blown wide with some sort of disbelief, gaze still fixed past Warren.

It clicks in place for Warren then, his rational mind finally catching up with the rest of him as he quickly sucks in his breath, “was that…? Is that your dad!?” He says it under his breath, fixing Nathan with a pointed expression, but the guy is clearly far from the conversation at hand. Without warning, Nathan’s pushing past Warren back the way they’d come in, leaving Warren dumbstruck before calling after him yet again and willing himself to follow. “Where are you going now!?”

But of course, there is no answer, just a frantic Nathan to follow after as he launches out of the building. He walks right up to the first person he spots, an unsuspecting student lounging against the railing of the dorm steps who is chatting with some of his friends. The guy eyes Nathan intensely when he corners him and points a finger at his raised hand. “Give me one.” His cigarette, that’s what Nathan had been interested in, and now extorting this poor guy over. Warren thinks he’s gone feral.

“Uhh…” the guy starts, his and his friends' laughter immediately cut off by the unexpected disruption that is Nathan, who remains rooted to the spot, eyes narrowing further.

“Now.”

Warren’s shocked to find the guy start rooting in his pocket, fumbling as he brings out a pack and then a single cigarette from within it. Nathan snatches it and walks off without so much as a ‘thank you’. Warren offers them an apologetic smile as he runs past, their frozen state of shock imprinted in his mind.

“What was all that about?” Warren’s caught up with Nathan now, who’s ceased his alarmingly fast pace to stop and dig a hand into his still soggy jacket.

“Neededa fuckin’ cigarette,” Nathan mumbles around said object now sticking out of his mouth.

“Right.” Warren’s pretty sure he could’ve figured that much out himself. “You good?”

“Mm’fine.” He produces a lighter, cupping a hand over the flame as he ignites it and brings it to the end of the cigarette. Warren watches as Nathan hastily sucks in, the action greedy as if he was using an inhaler after having an asthma attack. It accentuates his already prominent cheekbones and Warren realizes he’s staring for a socially unacceptable amount of time again when Nathan’s eyes flick up to his under heavy lids.

“I, uh–I, are you sure?” Warren devastatingly stutters out. “Just because, you know, that was your dad and all, which pretty much proves what I’ve been trying to say…” he trails off toward the end, unable to hold Nathan’s penetrating stare.

“I’m fuckin’ dandy, alright? So you can leave me alone now.”

“What? No–come on, dude! We need to get back, and the best chance of that happening is if we stick together.”

“I said, fuck off, Graham.”

“Listen, I get it, this is all pretty fucking crazy. At first I thought this was…” Warren reflexively runs a hand through his hair. “At first I thought this was some insanely detailed dream my mind managed to conjure up. But it’s not! Somehow we’ve both ended up in 1983–”

“No thanks to you.” Nathan hisses out.

“I know, and I’m sorry! But we need to try to get back, so please!” His hands motion erratically in front of him, “please try to be a little more helpful with this. Try to be less–” he cuts himself off, not knowing exactly how to express what it is he’s trying to say.

“‘Nathan’?” Nathan suggests, eyes narrowing and lips pressed down into a thin-lipped frown. “Less like myself? Less crazy?”

Warren’s quiet because, yeah. That’s basically what he’d meant, without fully thinking it, at least. He’d never openly admit that, though.“No!” Warren sighs, finding his own frustration building and trying his best to let it fizzle out. Of course it has to be Nathan Prescott of all the people he is stuck in time with. It would have been manageable with literally anyone else, hell, it might have even been fun with Max. The thought of trying to figure it all out on his own the only thing motivating him to pursue Nathan so fervently at this point. “I need your help, Nathan." Warren finally admits.

He scoffs at that, which comes out eerily similar to when his dad had done the same.

Just then a noise that sounds like a smothered animal of some sort erupts in the air between them. Startled, Warren can’t help the way his attention snaps to the culprit, which happened to be Nathan’s stomach. He then looks back up at Nathan, “you…hungry?”

“No,” Nathan immediately retorts. An awkward silence follows, Warren not exactly knowing what to do in this sort of situation with a guy you kinda hate but can't walk away from like you want to do ‘cause you need his cooperation but his stomach just growled at you and now you’re just staring at each other and no one wants to break the silence because what do you say after something like that, not to mention he’s still wet from the storm they’d escaped, though, not dripping like he’d been previously but still damp enough to the point where Warren thinks it must be uncomfortable and even his hair has dried somewhat, making the ends curl, a detail that Warren is strangely hung up on, since when did Nathan have slightly curly hair–

“You’re doing it again—“

“—I’m sorry.”

An idea then crosses Warren’s mind, grabbing at his butt pockets with both hands in search of–yes. He still has his wallet. He’s thankful that he’d come to the past somewhat semi-prepared with a few necessities. Extracting it, he unfolds the wallet and finds two twenty dollar bills inside. Nathan’s eyeing him skeptically all the while, brows drawn together with scrutiny but not without interest at what Warren is doing.

“How about this,” he holds the bills up, “we go to Two Whales to get some food in you–”

“You trying to get in my pants? I can buy my own dinner, thanks.” Nathan’s smirking triumphantly at what Warren can only assume is a successful attempt at a jab at him. Warren tries not to roll his eyes at his stupid interruption.

“Yeah? You don’t really strike me as the type of guy who’s carrying wads of cash in his drenched-through jacket.”

The realization dawns on Nathan’s face, smirk promptly falling away. He takes another drag of his cigarette, scowl back in place. “Fine. So what’s in it for you then?”

It’s Warren’s turn to smile now, flashing Nathan his teeth when he responds, “I get you some food, you spend the time it takes to eat going over ways we can get back to our time with me. Deal?”

He can tell that Nathan isn’t overly fond of the idea, his mouth pulled down with an air of disgust. But then he rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever."

-

Warren opts to use his car to drive the two of them to the diner. As much as taking a bus may have been preferred, saving the little bit of cash won out in favour over having to sit in a still somewhat smoking car. To be fair, the smoking came primarily from the reactor still buckled in the back seat, not the car itself. That and a still smoking Nathan, who salvaged the rest of his cigarette right up until the butt, which Warren tells him to finish outside the car before getting in.

“Why? Your car smells burnt to shit anyways.”

“Burnt metal and plastic can air out, cigarette smoke becomes part of the car.”

“Doubt it…” Nathan says under his breath as he finishes his cigarette, dropping it to the ground to crush under his heel. Warren gets in behind the wheel of his car and Nathan slips in on the passenger side. There’s something so odd about it all, Nathan sitting in his car beside him. It’s weird just being around the guy without being targeted in some way. He can’t recall many times in the past that they’ve crossed paths, really. The only interactions consisted of passing each other in the halls where Warren altogether avoided looking his way. It was always brief, and Warren never felt the need to linger. Nothing like the physical alteration that now feels like ages ago. Taking place in the same parking lot that they’re currently sitting in now. Yeesh.

Driving isn’t so bad, if not a little awkward. The smoke actually stopped a while ago by the looks of it. The slight hazy aftermath all that was truly left in its wake, nothing a brief roll down of their windows didn’t solve. Warren’s internally thankful he’d opened the windows earlier, too, before chasing Nathan down so as to avoid hotboxing the interior of the vehicle.

They eventually make it to the Two Whales diner, finding the lot to be relatively busy. Nathan’s eager to exit the car, and Warren scrambles to follow after him in what is quickly becoming routine for the two of them, but not before collecting his backpack from the back seat.

The light jingle of the diner door opening is quickly drowned out by the crowd of people inside. Warren feels like he’s just stepped foot into a movie by the look of the place and the people that inhabited it. Not to mention a much more loved jukebox that is in full swing. The diner had its busy days, sure, but Warren has never seen it like this, so lively and full of other teens. It must have been the hotspot for Arcadia Bay back in the day because the place was packed.

It all seems to be dawning on Nathan by the looks of it, too, standing beside Warren in the entryway with a slightly overwhelmed look about him. Warren has no idea how he’s taking the whole ‘travelling back in time to the 1980s’ thing internally, but externally he’d been holding up pretty well. Almost too well, other than when he’d seen his father, which solidified what Warren had been trying to tell him.

After the brief moment of being blasted by this past version of the diner, they walk over to what looks to be the only free booth–which happens to be Warren’s booth of choice whenever coming here– towards the back of the room. Warren and Nathan slide in opposite of one another, and Warren can’t help but notice the almost new condition and vibrant colour of the seats.

Two Whales has always been a place of sanctuary to Warren, spending countless nights studying for his classes over a constant flow of their signature coffee. Or even the occasional visit with Max for lunch to chat about the latest movies they’ve watched. It’s safe to say Warren was familiar with the worn and graffitied tables, the wear of pleather on the faded booths, and even how the Jukebox would glitch and play a song unprompted after sitting idle for a solid couple of hours. Warren’s aware of how time had taken its toll on the old diner but continues to hold a certain fondness over even these minuet flaws. So when he’s sitting there now in the days of its prime, Warren can’t help but find himself a little emotional at its pristine condition. All that’s missing is–

“Welcome to the Two Whales, can I start y’all off with some coffee?” Warren peers up from his seat to see a young waitress giving him an all too familiar warm smile and a quirked eyebrow. Her long, blonde hair is pulled into its usual high ponytail as she leans on the table with one hand on her hip and the other branding a coffee pot, steaming and waiting to be poured.

Warren is staring with his mouth gaping open, noticing that Nathan is surprisingly mirroring his expression, the both of them fully gawking at the girl. The girl that Warren has no doubt is Joyce. Her complexion is much more youthful, though she still has the same easygoing glint in her eyes.

When the two continue to stare in stunned silence, her brows crease together in concern, “did y’all…need some time to think it over? I can come back…”

“Uh…” Warren dumbly responds, aware of how his mouth still hangs open, which he quickly snaps shut.

“I’ll come back,” she concludes, giving them a wink. And then she’s gone.

The two immediately lock eyes for a split second before frantically lowering their heads closer together within the booth,“did you see–!”

“Was that–!?!”

“No way that was–”

“–Joyce!” Warren finishes whisper-shouting between themselves. The excitement in the air quickly dissipates as Warren clears his throat and Nathan’s already leaning back in his seat. “First your dad, then Joyce, not to mention all the wack fashion and technology,” Warren’s counting on his fingers as he lists all the proof he’s seen since leaving his car after the storm, “you have got to believe that we travelled back in time now.”

“80’s fashion is better than whatever you call that,” Nathan nods at Warren, looking him up and down.

Warren frowns, “what’s wrong with my clothes?” It’s not that he disagrees with the statement, hell, Warren totally nerds out over all stuff 80s. The video games, the movies, the old world tech, but he can’t deny himself a good graphic tee.

“Where to begin…”Nathan mutters from behind a menu that he’s conjured up like a wall between them.

In a stroke of courage, Warren places a hand on top of the menu to press it flat against the table, “but you believe me right? About–” he throws a cautious glance around them, lowering his voice when he turns back to Nathan, “about ending up in 1983…”

Nathan takes a second before he replies, his expression suddenly unreadable, “yeah. I believe you.”

Warren exhales in relief, sinking back into his seat. Nathan believes him. And Warren believes Nathan when he says he believes him. He doesn’t realize how desperate he is for the justification. Perhaps it’s only for the sake of knowing he isn't losing it. They really did get sent back in time.

Oh fuck, we really are stuck in 1983. A new wave of anxiety washes over Warren, Nathan confirming what he already knows hitting him with the reality and severity of the situation all over again. How the fuck are we going to get back.

“I can’t choose between the waffle or house special.”

Blinking, Warren stares at Nathan, who is back to looking over the menu in his hands. This whole thing is crazy, sure, and Warren still doesn't understand how it is at all plausible, but at least he isn’t alone. At least he has someone to keep him grounded, someone who is in the same boat as he is and assure him he’s not going crazy.

“You look crazy.”

Nathan’s now staring at him and Warren hadn’t realized he’s pressed his fingers into his hair on either side of his head, elbows leaning against the table edge. He drops his hands if only to retain some semblance of keeping up a totally sane appearance. “Yeah, just…freaking out a little.”

“I can see that. Anyways, I can’t choose between the–”

“You can have some of my Belgian waffle. I usually don’t finish it anyway… That way you can order the house special.”

Joyce makes her way back to the table and they order their food, she mentally notes everything while pouring their coffees before passing it along to the kitchen. They down their coffees in unison. Warren can’t remember the last time he had something to eat, thinking back to the coffee shop he’d driven to to fix the reactor before the storm and how it was the last place he’d consumed anything. The smell of bacon frying is enough to make his mouth start watering but the anticipation of digging into the diner’s famous waffles manages to hold him over.

“Okay. Let's go over what we know…” he takes a deep breath, crossing his hands on the table between them. Nathan looks back at Warren with little to no interest when breaching the subject, so Warren begins. “We got sent 30 years into the past. A fact most likely due to my totally not meant to be real reactor I built for my thesis project…which then became an actual time machine, with my car as a vessel, when activated after absorbing enough energy from a well timed lightning bolt brought on by the storm.”

The words come out in a rush, left to hang in the air between them. Wow. Some people say it can be cathartic to voice everything out loud, but Warren only comes to the conclusion that this whole situation is completely fucking bonkers.

“So, how come my ass came along for the joyride?” Nathan questions, to which Warren is thankful of. Anything to keep him from internally spiralling on the matter.

“Honestly, I’m surprised it didn’t kill you,” Warren blurts out, the image of Nathan in lump formation in front of his car flashing before his mind. It sends a shiver across his whole body which he tries to shake off. “It makes no sense, but none of this really makes any sense. I think I’ll go crazy if I try to make sense of it.” Just thinking about it is enough to make his head hurt, putting his thoughts out in the open becoming a whole new level of weird.

The sweet and savoury aroma of their food hits Warren before he actually sees it, turning his head just as an incoming Joyce places their heaping plates of food down in front of them. He’s ravenous at this point, not holding back with knife and fork already equipped in each hand as he begins to demolish the generously garnished waffle before him. It’s topped with strawberries, blueberries, chocolate sauce, ice cream, and whipped cream which he haphazardly cuts himself a piece of with the attempt at getting a little bit of everything in one bite. He fails, naturally, as the blueberry he’d forked on falls away and the dollop of ice cream dejectedly plops in the space between the plate and his mouth. But he doesn’t care, it’s still the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted in his entire life.

“I suppose it doesn't really matter.” Warren thinks aloud, the words muffled from speaking around a mouth full of waffle. He swallows to continue, “we don’t have to figure out why we came here, all that’s important is how we get back.”

Nathan, who’s taken a much more retained approach to eating his own food, shrugs in response. “Sure.” He’s far more interested in his meal than the conversation, so Warren lets him indulge.

Inhaling the rest of his waffle, Warren makes sure to leave a solid quarter for Nathan. “Time to devise a plan,” he pushes the remainder of his waffle beside Nathan’s plate, making room for all the things currently in his possession. He begins by taking out his car keys–adorned with a keychain of the millennium falcon–his wallet, phone, and the USB drive Max returned to him, placing them down on the table. Once his pockets are empty, he swivels to begin unpacking his bag. There isn’t too much within, namely his pencil case consisting of the tools he’d taken to the coffee shop to fix his reactor and his notebook full of notes on the machine as well as a list of materials he’d used to build it–coming in more handy now than ever.

“What are you doing?” Nathan’s finished his food, moving onto the bit of waffle Warren has left him and sending a furrow-browed look over all the items Warren has placed on the table.

“Taking out everything I have with me. Maybe something here can help us.” It was a long shot, but Warren thinks it's worth trying. At the very least, it couldn't hurt.

To Warren’s astonishment, Nathan starts doing the same. He digs into his pockets to produce a lighter, a set of keys, a folded up flyer–thoroughly dampened by the way it flops on the table–and his own cell phone. He places them adjacent to Warren's pile in a substantially neater fashion. Upon doing so he proceeds to shed his varsity jacket and cardigan–equally as soggy–underneath it so he’s left with only a black tee. Warren notes how he doesn't think he’s actually ever seen him without his jacket before, being a staple to who Nathan is in his mind.

Then Nathan’s back to eating, leaving Warren to freely examine everything in their combined collection. There isn’t much to go over–lighter, USB, dorm room keys–most of which are items of little use to their predicament. Their phones, too, which are nothing more than digital bricks in this time. Upon further examination Warren can’t help but notice the poor shape Nathan’s is in, a spider web-like crack covering more than half of the screen. Must be nice to have the money not to care over safeguarding such things, Warren thinks to himself with slight disdain. He tries not to let it fester, but it’s difficult when he’d spent the entirety of the summer before moving to Blackwell Academy working a shitty part-time job just so he could afford to upgrade his own while people like Nathan just got whatever they wanted whenever they wanted.

His eyes travel back up to where Nathan sits quietly crouched over the remainder of his meal–or, the leftover meal Warren gave him. It’s a stark contrast to the angry, spitting, frantic version he’d been stuck with for the last 12 hours. His focus migrates to the still-angry looking scratch marks on his cheek, then lower to a bruise that’s beginning to form along his jaw. Was that from punching him earlier? Warren presses his lips together, he’d never been one to get into physical altercations, he might have still avoided doing so were it not for Max being involved. The thought of his friend walking away from the confrontation with a bloody nose more terrifying than it happening to himself, and all because of some stupid run-in between them in the bathroom.

Warren still doesn't know what went down in the bathroom between him and Max, and what caused Nathan to go full rage after her like that. Although, he supposes it doesn't take much for someone like Nathan. Warren still wants to know, desperately, but part of him convinces himself now’s not the time. Especially with how calm Nathan is for the time being. Warren doesn’t want to risk setting him off again.

As if suddenly aware, Nathan shifts under Warren’s quickly-growing noticeable gaze, darting his attention back down to their things strewn about the table. He latches onto the first thing–which happens to be the flyer–reaching over to pick it up and unfolding it under the guise that he’d sought to do so in the first place.

Written across the back, smudged but still legible enough, is a neatly printed list of…drugs. Ah. Of course. The lettering is too neat to be Nathan’s hand, though other than that fact there’s really nothing else of significance to the paper. That is, until he turns it over to examine the flyer itself. The list of drugs aptly makes more sense now as Warren realizes it’s a poster for the upcoming Vortex club party. The same poster he’d seen in the hallway what seems like eons ago, all crazy fonts and neon graphic design. Horribly done, in Warren’s opinion. He wonders if Nathan had any involvement, but before he can ask, something catches his eye.

Holding the poster a little further away from his face, Warren takes the time to properly read it.

Enter the Vortex Club: Struck by Lightning Party. It’s Going to be Electric! Don’t miss out. October 10th.

October 10th. Of course! Warren wants to laugh–or cry–with joy. That feeling of eureka! hitting him as if theorizing in class or taking a test and suddenly finding the exact answer he’d been looking for. Eureka! like he’d been Archimedes exiting the bathtub, but instead of discovering volume displacement in regards to water, it’s of how they’ll get back home.

“Why are you grinning like that?”

“Like a genius?” Warren offers, smiling as he lets the poster fall on the table.

“Like an idiot.”

“Because this is it! This is how we get back home! Look,” Warren smooths out the poster in front of Nathan so it’s facing the right way for him. “Do you see? October 10th.”

Nathan tilts his head down to study it, going from a deep frown to a slightly-less-furrowed frown. “The anniversary of when the statue outside Blackwell got struck by lightning…30 years ago.”

“Exactly! That's in 4 days. Another bolt of lightning, another bolt of energy to send us on our way.” Warren excitedly explains, though Nathan doesn’t seem to share his enthusiasm.

“What about your thesis thingy? Isn’t it fucked from getting us here in the first place?”

“It is, but luckily I have all my notes with me right here,” he pats his notebook fondly.

“Okay… but how are you actually going to fix the thing?”

“I have an idea for that, too. Who’s to say we aren’t still students attending Blackwell Academy? We simply gain access to the science labs and I’m positive I can get the reactor back up and running.” Nathan lets out a reserved hmm while Warren’s already running through the process in his head. “We might need to replace some materials, but I’m sure it’s doable. Then all that’s left is securing a proper line of power from the impact of where the lightning is supposed to strike on the 10th.”

Something dreadful occurs to him then, halting his burst of elation in its tracks. In order for this to work, they need to know not only the place but the precise time the lightning strikes. They didn’t exactly have the option to wait it out for the entirety of the day, not without raising suspicion, at least. How the hell are we going to figure out the exact time it will happen? There’s no way they can even figure something like that out–

“10:04 P.M.”

Warren blinks.

Nathan rolls his eyes, “I could see you freaking out.”

“But how? How do you know?”

Nathan taps the poster, “it’s a Vortex party. Vic and I had to come up with the theme. She does most of the planning and research behind them, but,” he shrugs, “I thought of the idea after going through one of my father’s books on the history of Arcadia Bay.”

If Warren didn’t have more self-restraint–or a table between them–he might have hugged the guy right then and there. This was going to work. Their plan was going to work. His excitement from before comes rushing back. So much so that he doesn’t get the chance to be hung up over the fact that Nathan Prescott took the time to read a history book. “That settles it then! We have 4 days to fix the reactor and be sent back into the future. This is going to work.”

Nathan’s gone quiet again, prodding at a lone blueberry halfheartedly. Warren’s too distracted to notice from the anticipation bubbling within him. With a plan ready to go and their food long finished, he flags down Joyce for their bill. She takes their plates and tells them she’ll be back in a minute, leaving the two in each other's company once more. A silence falls between them filled only by the clanging of cutlery and distant conversation from the diner’s other patrons. It leaves Warren with difficulty at finding something to say. He has the option of staying silent, though he’s never been one to sit comfortably in it.

His focus shifts erratically around the diner’s setting but eventually finds its way back to Nathan, clearing his throat when he does so. “How’s your cheek?”

“It’s alright. How’s your nose?” he counters flatly, making Warren wonder how he can remain so calm after everything they’re currently going through. Calm in the sense that he isn’t freaking out about the whole time travel thing even half as much as Warren is. Nathan still retains his anger–as dormant as it may be at the moment–but that’s just who he is.

“Okay.” He answers. It was true, the pain had long subsided since getting smashed into at the parking lot. It only really stings when he touches it. Safe to say it isn’t broken. He thinks all things considered, Nathan probably has it worse. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

Confusion is evident on Nathan’s face, amongst the usual scrutiny.

“For hitting you with my car. I’m sorry, I never apologized for, uh…that.”

That same blank stare turned into something venomous that Warren received earlier is back as Nathan’s eyes narrow and stare daggers toward him.

“W-what?” Warren stutters out, slightly taken aback by the sudden flip, and harsh expression pointed his way.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend to care. About my fucking cheek or getting me back to 20fucking13 or apologizing for shit like we’re friends or something.”

Warren frowns, not having anticipated the sudden lash of anger from Nathan, “I wasn't–”

“Wasn’t what? Trying to help me? Don’t act all fucking selfless, Graham. Why bother helping me at all?”

“I guess I…feel like you’re my responsibility.”

As capricious as ever, the anger momentarily melts away when Nathan’s face contorts back to confusion.

Warren sighs before deciding to elaborate, “It’s my fault you’re here, isn’t it? I accidentally brought you with me, so it’s only right that I try and get you back to our time, too.”

Nathan’s face drops, Warren finding it hard to get a read on him as he grabs his phone and turns away to shrug his varsity jacket back on. “Well, don’t worry about it. I’m absolving you of any responsibility. You’ve got your plan, now you can leave me the fuck out of this.”

“Why?” Warren demands, stone-faced and trying hard to sound commanding when he directs the question at Nathan. It’s enough to gain Nathan’s attention back. “Why won’t you try to figure this out together?”

“Because we’re not friends!” Nathan shouts, jolting up from where he’s sitting to lean over the table, and by extension, into Warren’s face. “I’m not your problem. So don’t act like it, okay?” He doesn’t give Warren the opportunity to respond this time, storming off to leave Warren as the sole occupant to their booth before he even gets the chance to fully process what just happened.

Whatever Warren expected to transpire from the conversation, it definitely isn’t the turn of events he’s now faced with. And yet after everything he can’t help thinking back to what Max said about Nathan during their phone call. How she felt bad for him and that something was going on with him. Warren’s sure Nathan wouldn’t appreciate her pity, but he’s starting to understand she might’ve been right. That there is more to Nathan than he’d originally thought.

“Everything all good, hun?” Joyce returns to the table, bill in hand and a look of concern creasing her features. He gives what he hopes is a reassuring nod. She returns one that’s just as convincing before leaving the bill with him. Warren places his money on top and begins to put all his stuff from the table back into his bag, making sure to grab the Vortex club poster and Nathan’s lighter that he left behind.

Waving his departure to Joyce behind the counter, Warren finds Nathan standing at the curb just outside the diner, his frame illuminated by the harsh neon light of the Two Whales sign. He approaches, though hesitantly, offering a thin-lipped smile in hopes of it acting as an olive branch when Nathan looks over his shoulder. He looks back to the road in front of him, somehow not running off or turning around to clock Warren in the face like he half expects him to, which he considers a win.

Nathan fidgets with a cigarette in his hands, Warren not having the faintest idea of how he managed to get another one. He then takes out Nathan’s lighter, holding it out to him. Warren decides to let the silence linger this time, seeing if Nathan will be the one to initiate anything between them.

Nathan takes the lighter from Warren’s hands, sticking one end of the cigarette in his mouth to light the other. He takes a drag, exhaling slowly, then shuffles on his feet. “You’re my ride back to school.”

Ah. There it is.

“Listen, I’m sorry–” Nathan throws him a warning glance more threatening than any glance Warren has received before,“–I mean, no more apologizing, right–I just want to say that I get we’re not friends. And though you don’t actuallyreally need to be friends with someone in order to apologize to them–”

“I swear to God, Graham.”

“Not the point, right,” Warren takes a deep breath. Right now is not the ideal time to be rambling, taking a second to try to collect his thoughts and put into words what it is he wants to articulate. He’s not even a hundred percent sure what it is that he wants to say. The only thing he knows for certain is that he wants to try. He wants to try and help Nathan. He’s not going to leave him behind. “We’re not friends,” he repeats, “and I’m not saying we will be, but that doesn’t mean we can’t work together. If we stick it out, then I think we can make it. I just know I can’t do this alone.”

Nathan’s still looking ahead as Warren speaks, letting the exhale of smoke out in breaths to cloud around them. He has no idea if anything he’s saying is even being absorbed by Nathan, or if he’s choosing to blatantly ignore him. It’s with a last ditch attempt and a swell of courage in his chest as he holds his breath that Warren offers a single question.

“Are you with me?”

There’s a long, existential pause that seems to last for an eternity between them. Until at last Nathan responds. “I’m with you.”

#life is strange #grahamscott #warren graham #nathan prescott #nathan x warren #nathan Prescott x warren graham #warren graham x Nathan Prescott #lis #lis fanfiction #happy arcadia bay being destroyed week #mywriting

[captawesomesauce]

Thoughts at 955am...

An Ode to an Idiot.... 

Most of the books I read are about normal people in abnormal situations, just doing their best and almost all of them succeed. It’s a common motif through the majority of them. 

But sometimes... sometimes!!! these books are written by morons. Absolute morons, the stupidest fuckers around. Normal people mind you... just really fucking stupid ones. 

And they’ll be the first to admit that. Looking back 20-30-40 years on their life, and their decisions... these books are full of regret about the choices they made, the actions they did, and so much internal and external.

I think back to Brennan’s Wars - and how he always had choices to better himself, be an officer, go to this school, marry this girl... and instead he was impulsive and impudent and often wasted great opportunities and almost always nearly got himself killed. 

The book I’m reading now is also THAT kind of moron. He thinks everyone hates him and he feels isolated, and he’s not wrong! He admits that he was foolish, and brash... impulsive and undisciplined... and that if they hadn’t kicked him out, he would probably have gotten everyone around him killed. He had been given a full ride to go to college and was even given a private tutor and still refused to study or even go to class. He met an amazing woman but he screwed that up too by being selfish, aimless, and just stupid. He was even given the chance to be a partner in a company, and he worked really hard at it for once, was good at it, and because he was stupid, while everyone else got very very rich by holding on to the stock and stuff, he sold it early for just a couple of hundred bucks because he was bored with the whole thing. 

He even ends up doing hard time in jail, and it’s not until he gets out that he manages to get some control over his dumbness.  So why am I reading a book about a moron? Because as cringeworthy as most chapters are, it’s the people around him that are intriguing. Here we have a complete and total dumbass, but he’s constantly in the mix of greatness, strength, heroism, and brilliance. Think forest gump without the aww shucks sweetness and ability to always come out on top. 

We’ll see how i feel once i finish the book though...

#thoughts #books #booklr #bookblr