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happylittledrabbles · 3 years

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When Tomorrow Starts Without Me

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: Koutarou Bokuto x Keiji Akaashi

Rating: M (non-graphic smut, cursing)

Warning(s): Major character death

Genre: Angst

AO3

—

"When tomorrow starts without me, and I’m not here to see; if the sun should rise and find your eyes; all filled with tears for me."

He first noticed it when they were on vacation. And there's no changing the diagnosis.

He first noticed it while they were on vacation.

Bokuto’s hands are cold as they slide up his husband’s torso; spending all day out in the frigid, Icelandic air clearly left its footprint on their skin. That is how they ended up in this position in the first place: Bokuto had not-so-subtly suggested they should do this to “warm up,” and Akaashi didn’t have the courage to deny him. Losing his calm demeanor, Akaashi gave into the neediness in his body and the puppy-dog look his husband had mastered whenever he wanted something.

“They’re still cold,” Akaashi mumbles, tilting his neck to the side to give Bokuto’s lips more room to roam. He flinches as they go further and further down into more sensitive territory until the cold is too much to bear. “Ugh—stop, I’ll do it. I’m warmer.”

He pushes the bigger man off him, his eyebrows furrowing as he uses more force than usual. Has Bokuto been putting on weight? He looks the same…

He rolls on top of his husband, seating himself comfortably in his lap. Akaashi’s thighs frame Bokuto’s hips in a way that makes Bokuto shiver, and it brings a satisfied smile onto the dark-haired man’s face.

“Whatever will get those pants off,” Bokuto comments with a smirk, lifting an arm and bringing Akaashi in for a kiss by the back of the neck. Their lips pull away with a smack as Akaashi busies himself with removing both their shirts. Bokuto’s eyelids are heavy, his breath coming out as puffs as he gazes at the beautiful Greek god of a man on top of him. “You’re right, you are warmer.”

They are just beginning to move together when Akaashi’s arms, holding him up as his hands fisted the bedsheets, suddenly give out, his muscles feeling like Jell-O.

“Feels that good?” Bokuto asks with that dastardly grin of his, but Akaashi isn’t having it. He tries to push himself back up, his arms trembling with the immense effort he is putting in until they give out once again, leaving him frustrated. He would roll his eyes affectionately at Bokuto’s insinuations, but he is genuinely perplexed. He isn’t even close to finishing—they had only started two minutes ago, for Pete’s sake. He has yet to start feeling good, so…?

“I’ll take over from here,” Bokuto eventually says after watching Akaashi struggle for a few moments. He finds the sight of his husband huffing and blowing the locks of hair out of his face exasperatingly as he adjusts himself incredibly amusing, but it’s hindering their time together. He rolls Akaashi gently onto his back effortlessly; meanwhile, Akaashi’s arms are still trembling mysteriously. What the hell? Thoughts of frustration overtake the thoughts of lust in Akaashi’s mind, wondering when his husband got so much stronger than him. Had it been because he hasn’t gone to the gym in a while? It must be that.

Bokuto gladly continues their lovemaking session despite Akaashi’s difficulties, and Akaashi finally gets to that ‘eyes rolling from pleasure and not annoyance at his imprudent husband’ point. But that moment of sudden weakness stays in the back of his mind, only resurfacing in that post-sex clarity.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, scratching his lower back as he ambles over to the bathroom to clean himself up and pee. He’s washing his hands when he smells smoke.

“I thought I told you to stop smoking,” Akaashi admonishes as he stomps back into the room. He swipes his boxers from the floor and slips them back on to protect some of his modesty. He’s at Bokuto’s bedside before the other can even open his mouth to retort, grabbing the cigarette and putting it out on the decorative ashtray on the nightstand, tossing the cigarette and tipping the ashes from the tray into the trash. While Akaashi’s constantly worrying about his cholesterol and blood pressure levels, taking vitamins and supplements galore, Bokuto freely does whatever he wants. As long as he’s performing at his best for volleyball, that’s all that matters in his eyes. And it’s working out for him: he’s completely and utterly healthy. Akaashi’s thankful if not envious of such healthy genes.

“Blame it on Coach Ukai,” Bokuto replies, grinning widely at his fussy partner. “It’s his fault for putting me onto cancer sticks.”

“At least try not to do it in an Airbnb, please. We could get fined.” He flicks Bokuto on the forehead as he climbs back into bed and cuddles up to his side. Iceland is gorgeous but damn, is it freezing.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to fuck in an Airbnb, but we did that anyway,” Bokuto teases, causing Akaashi to immediately turn over and give him the cold shoulder—no pun intended. He barks out a laugh and rolls over, rubbing Akaashi’s arm and placing butterfly kisses on the soft skin of his back. He feels that it’s stopped trembling, but he notices how limp it is by his side. He’s never seen this reaction in Akaashi before. Did he do something different this time…? “Aw, c’mon, babe, don’t be like that. You very clearly liked it.”

He pauses, stroking Akaashi’s arm absentmindedly as his mind hops on the train of thought.

“What was that about, anyway? Does fucking in an Airbnb excite you that much? I’ve never seen you like that.” He grins and pulls Akaashi closer to his chest, his breath leaving the shell of Akaashi’s ear pink. “It was sexy as hell.”

However, Bokuto’s horniness is not reciprocated. All Akaashi can think about is the heavy pit that buried itself in his stomach in that moment, and he reaches forward to grab a pillow. He doesn’t exactly need it—he could just turn over and use Bokuto as his body pillow. But it’s almost as if he wants to test his muscles, see if they had come out of their Jell-O state. He hates Jell-O.

Perhaps it really did feel that good. But…his stomach hadn’t been flipping or filled with butterflies then as it usually did when they had sex—it had sunk.

…

Bright and early, the two men are back to their worldly adventures. They tour local villages, eat local food, and chat with the local people until the sky is an ombre of purple and navy blue.

“There’s supposed to be an aurora tonight, according to the locals,” Akaashi says as he figures out a map he got from a gift shop, trying to find their next stop.

“Oh, it was the bakery guy who said that, right?” Bokuto asks, peering over Akaashi’s shoulder to try and help with the navigation. However, he knows he would only make Akaashi more frustrated since Akaashi likes figuring everything out by himself. “He said we have to go to this point.”

He takes a chance at helping and saddles up next to Akaashi, pointing to a particularly tall lookout point. “Think you can climb that?”

“Just because you work out every day doesn’t make me a weakling in comparison,” Akaashi counters. He bites the cap off the marker and circles the lookout point’s name, the paper crinkling underneath his hand. As if to prove how strong and capable he is, his bicep bulges as he marks the lookout point, and Bokuto very obviously stares. He’s always loved Akaashi’s body, how muscular yet lean it is. He has curves in all the right places and strong where it matters. His body is nothing short of beautiful, a marble sculpture made by Michelangelo.

Akaashi places the cap back on and tosses a smug look over his shoulder, saying, “Remember how I constantly had to pick you up whenever you’d get depressed over a missed hit? Carrying a hundred-kilo man isn’t an easy feat.”

“Seventy-eight kilos, thank you very much!” Bokuto corrects instantly, grabbing Akaashi by the wrist and dragging him to their rental car. “Fine, then let’s see your skills. We have to be there in two hours.”

The drive is full of punk and hard rock songs, all at Akaashi’s request. Bokuto tries to compromise with just one pop song in the queue of AC/DC and Green Day, but because of his sly comments throughout the trip, this is his punishment.

“Turn here,” Akaashi says over the blaring of “Readymade” by Ado, pointing to the upcoming sign. The tires squeal as they try to compensate for the horrible Fast and Furious move Bokuto does as he turns, righting as they reach the fairly full parking lot for the lookout point. Akaashi would have cussed Bokuto out if not for a steady mix of yellow and green lights highlighting both their faces and all the cars in the parking lot, the metal reflecting the light and causing everywhere to be flooded in a mock bokeh.

He cannot get out of the car fast enough, slamming the door closed and getting a head start on the hike. He trips a few times since his eyes are transfixed on the lights, his hand reaching out for Bokuto, who had since caught up to him and helps him steady himself. He’s panting by the time they reach the tallest point, revealing a crowd of people and, most beautiful of all, a lake that looked as if it was made out of glass. The sky and the water join into one, doubling the number of lights and showcasing a waterfall of colors.

He jogs over to where everybody is seated, their chins craned up in unison as they watch with awe the lights dancing in the sky. It’s like watching a ballet, each part of the sky following its own storyline and choreography. Akaashi stumbles from the vertigo of looking up too fast, Bokuto hot on his heels and ready to catch him until he rights himself.

“Be careful,” he warns as he unfolds their blanket and sets it on the knee-high grass, wading into it and sitting down. He pats the fabric, trying to get Akaashi’s attention. “Come here.”

Akaashi blinks as if he has snapped out of a trance, stumbling forward and into Bokuto’s arms. His head is foggy, the lights flashing in his vision every time he closes his eyes.

“They’re so beautiful,” he whispers, craning his neck up again now that he is on solid ground.

“Yeah,” Bokuto replies as he leans his head on his husband’s shoulder. “Beautiful.”

But Bokuto isn’t looking at the lights.

Their rings glimmer underneath the aurora, the gold morphing into all different shades thanks to the rippling of the colors above them. It really is like looking at the ocean, the sound of the waves being replaced with soft murmurs in Icelandic and the ambient breeze twisting through the tree branches. Akaashi almost stops breathing since his breaths come out an opaque white, obscuring the lights from his vision.

…

When tomorrow starts without me And I’m not here to see If the sun should rise and find your eyes All filled with tears for me.

…

Bokuto is nearly asleep once the lights finally fade out. They had gotten lucky—this aurora lasted nearly an hour. And Akaashi didn’t break eye contact for that entire hour. He was in love, his lips upturned into the faintest smile.

When the lights melt into the black night, he pats Bokuto on the cheek to wake him up and stands up, beginning to fold the blanket with the other still on it.

“Hey, hey, what’s the rush?” Bokuto exclaims, followed by a deep yawn as he rolls off the blanket and into the grass.

“I want to leave before both of us fall asleep.” One hour of keeping his eyes wide open with barely any blinking leaves Akaashi’s eyelids fatigued, and they are hanging low as he neatly folds the blanket in his lap and starts toward the car.

“Babe, I’m fine,” Bokuto replies, followed yet again by a yawn. They share a look, and he gives in. “Okay, okay, I’m getting in the car.”

They’re driving down the slope, both their eyelids heavy, drunk on sleep.

“Turn here?” Bokuto asks, beginning to slow down as he turns to his husband, who is fast asleep. “Hey, wake up, navigator.” He shakes Akaashi’s thigh before moving up to his shoulder. “Akaashi, hey—”

He’s paralyzed by the red lights that flood his vision, and his foot flies to the brake too slowly.

…

“We see accidents like that all the time on that slope,” the doctor says disapprovingly, shaking her head as she flips through the paperwork on the clipboard. “They should start putting streetlights there.”

“But then the lights wouldn’t be as pretty,” Bokuto protests, his arm shaking in its sling.

The doctor gives him a stern once-over before going back to her paperwork. “Tell that to the claim you’ll have to settle with the rental car agency. I’ll release you both in a couple of hours. For now, please rest.” She turns to Akaashi, who is sitting in the chair next to Bokuto’s bed with a pack of ice to the bump on his forehead. “Can you start filling these out, please?”

Akaashi nods and takes the offered pen, but as he puts it to the paper, his hand begins trembling uncontrollably. It isn’t violent, but it’s noticeable enough to make him stop trying to write and stare at his hand for a second. He looks up at the doctor, who is also staring at his hand.

“Hm.” She meets Akaashi’s puzzled gaze with a sympathetic smile. “Must be an after-effect of the accident. Don’t worry too much.”

She begins to walk out of the room but stops in the doorway, looking over her shoulder at Akaashi. “If that persists, I would check with your physician back home.”

She nods a goodbye before leaving the room, escaping just in time for Bokuto to wail about having to contact the rental car company and pay for the damages. But Akaashi isn’t listening. He usually ignores Bokuto when he gets like this, but now it’s for a different reason. He’s back to staring at his hand, willing the trembling to go away. It eventually does, and he proceeds to sign the papers, but that pit in his stomach never leaves. It only expands.

…

It’s Akaashi’s 36th birthday three days after the accident, and he’s celebrating it by helping Bokuto wrap his arm in plastic wrap in order to go to The Blue Lagoon. It has been thirty minutes, and Bokuto is yet to be satisfied by the amount of wrapping.

“What if it gets wet?” he whines. “I don’t want to interrupt the healing process. I have a game to play in two weeks!”

“Have you told your coach yet?” Akaashi asks pointedly, to which Bokuto grumbles something in response. “That’s what I thought. You’re not going to play for a while. Probably eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks?!” Bokuto shouts, causing everybody within a twenty-foot radius to turn their heads to the Japanese man so clearly in despair.

“You should’ve just stopped the car on the side of the road,” Akaashi replies, immediately regretting his words. This would only start a fight. And it does.

“If you could’ve just woken up,” Bokuto retorts heatedly, snatching his wrist back to do the wrapping job himself. “There wasn’t anywhere to pull over, anyway. We would’ve been the ones rear-ended if I stopped.”

“Okay, well—” Akaashi stops himself, his hands dropping to his lap as he turns his head to gaze out into the picturesque lagoon. He knew this argument would happen eventually. He swings his eyes back to Bokuto, who has put his finishing touches on the wrapping. “Can we not fight on my birthday?”

Bokuto huffs. “We aren’t fighting,” he explains but pauses, realizing he’s only furthering the argument. He purses his lips and nods, standing up from the beach chair and adjusting his swim trunks. They can’t go naked like in the bathhouses at home, so the rough fabric feels strange on his skin, especially when he submerges himself in the warm, milky blue water. He sighs, keeping his wrist elevated as he uses his other hands to splash the water in his face, running his fingers through his hair. He looks over his shoulder, watching as Akaashi busies himself with taking off his shirt, revealing his toned body that still had healing hickeys from a few nights ago. His muscles flex as he spreads sunscreen on his skin, causing Bokuto to roll his eyes and grin affectionately. Akaashi, forever concerned about skin cancer.

“Come on, babe. I’m waiting for you.”

Akaashi’s heart hurt a little from the fight, but it warms at the expectant look on his partner’s face. He nods and puts the sunscreen down, dipping his toes in the water before stepping into the pool and involuntarily letting out a long sigh of relief. All his muscles relax, and not in the strange way they did before, as if they were Jell-O. No, now they relax as if they’re softened butter, melting into his body. He rests his arms up on the edge, letting his head hang back like a ragdoll.

“Better?” Bokuto asks.

“Better.”

…

They stay nearly the entire day at the lagoon, switching between being inside the lagoon and the various spas and restaurants around the pool. Bokuto treats Akaashi to a couple’s massage until he gets kicked out of the room by his husband for groaning too loud and for making too many weird comments. He stays in the bar until Akaashi sits next to him, looking completely refreshed, his skin practically glowing in the soft haze of the sunset provided by the large bay windows.

“You look relaxed,” he comments. He hesitates to touch Akaashi, feeling as if he needs to wash his hands beforehand, but finally rests his hand on his bare shoulder. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were pregnant.”

“Yet again, mood ruined,” Akaashi replies, except it comes out as a joke rather than an admonishment. He leans on the bar and asks for a beer. “I don’t want to go back home.”

“Why not?” Bokuto asks, cocking his head. “We have to get back to Emiko. She’s waiting for us.”

It’s hard to believe that Bokuto isn’t related to their dog, Emiko, because he looks exactly like a dog at that moment, his still-drying hair flopping over like ears and his bushy eyebrows raising up his forehead quizzically.

Akaashi chuckles and sips at the foam, licking it off his top lip. “This place brings me some kind of…peace. I want to live here one day. Or at least come back.”

“We’re definitely coming back,” Bokuto replies with an emphatic nod. “I couldn’t get enough of looking at your face as you watched the aurora. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“The aurora?”

Bokuto turns his head to see Akaashi staring back at him with a thin white foam mustache on his top lip after taking another sip, clearly unaware of how endearing he looks.

He smiles softly. “Yeah. The aurora.”

…

“So, you say you’re having tremors?”

Akaashi never thought he would muster up the courage to go to the doctor. But he finally does after about a month, and as he’s sitting in the uncomfortable chair, his hands gripping the arms, he regrets he ever came.

“Y…es,” he replies haltingly. “It’s probably nothing, but the doctor in Iceland said I should get it checked out, and it’s just been so strange. I have probably just been overworking myself at the gym. I’m not twenty anymore, ha. Actually, I think I should just go—”

“Keiji, please sit down.” Akaashi does as he is told and watches his doctor pull out a forearm exerciser and sets it on the table. “If you can.”

Akaashi raises a brow but shrugs and reaches forward. He grabs the forearm exerciser and uses it as usual before putting it back on the table.

The doctor watches on silently, a finger on his top lip as his eyebrows furrow together. He puts the forearm exerciser back in his desk drawer and clasps his hands together. “You seem fine. I’ll just take some urine and blood samples from you to rule some things out. If you notice anything else, please give me a call.”

After peeing in a cup and giving up some of his blood, he practically glides out of the office. It seems as if there’s nothing wrong with him, which is exactly the diagnosis he was expecting. He had been over-exaggerating, and the doctor back in Iceland was definitely correct: his trembling hand had been a result of the near concussion he received. He drives back home and greets Bokuto with a grand smooch on the lips and musses up Emiko’s floppy ears before going into the kitchen and cooking them a beautiful three-course meal. He’s happily eating, but Bokuto finds it harder to eat. Not because of the cast on his wrist, but because of something else.

Akaashi is being a lot messier than usual. Dropping food back into the bowl, getting sauce on his face. He’s probably still excited, Bokuto thinks, but the ramen going down his esophagus turns into a pit that buries itself in his stomach, and he can’t shake the feeling. No matter how much Akaashi kisses him or hugs him or cuddles up by his side as they watch a movie, he still can’t smile to his full potential.

…

I wish so much you wouldn’t cry The way you did today While thinking of the many things We did not get to say.

…

It’s a few days later when Akaashi’s joyous mood crumbles. Doctors only call after tests when something is wrong. And sure enough, while in the middle of working on his computer, Akaashi’s phone rumbles on the desk with his doctor’s name lit up on the screen.

He’s once again sitting in the uncomfortable chair, his hands gripping the arms much tighter than before. He’s doing the breathing technique his therapist taught him for his anxiety, but it only makes him want to pass out.

“Your blood tests came back alright. No HIV, hepatitis, your vitamin B12 levels are good, and no cancer from what I can—.”

“Oh, my God.” Akaashi exhales out all the anxiety in his chest, nearly doubling over from the weight taken off his chest. He looks back up at his doctor and grins. “That means I can go, right? I’ll get going—"

The doctor holds up a hand to get Akaashi to be quiet. “These blood and urine tests are only to rule out diseases. But I wouldn’t have called you into the office if I hadn’t found something.” His doctor takes a sharp breath as he shuffles his papers around as if he got a paper cut. “Your CK levels are abnormally high.”

Something in Akaashi drops. His stomach? His heart? All he knows is that he’s heavy like a bag of rocks, and he feels strapped to the chair.

“What…is that?” he asks, his chest so tight, he’s afraid he’s going to have a heart attack. No better place to have it than in front of a doctor, though.

“Creatine kinase. It’s an enzyme that’s released into the blood when there’s some muscle damage. It’s released when you’re either having or had a heart attack—”

“Dr. Hirose, I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“No, you’re not, Keiji,” his doctor says with a look of pity on his face. It makes Akaashi’s panic heighten. Pity? “Or when you do a lot of strenuous exercises—”

“That’s what I said! It’s because I’ve been exercising—”

“Keiji,” his doctor breathes forcefully, giving the dark-haired man a stern look. “Or it’s a sign of a degenerative muscle disease. I’m going to schedule you for an MRI in two weeks. If it really is because of strenuous exercise, then nothing will show up. I just want to make sure there aren’t any tumors or pressure on your spinal cord.” His doctor scribbles something down on the notepad in front of him and crosses something out on his clipboard. “In the meantime, lay off the weights and rest at home.”

“O…kay.” Akaashi leaves, hope still bright in his chest. He goes through all the workouts he’s been doing over the past few months, and he nods his head to himself as he confirms that he has overexerted himself a few times. Now he has permission to just laze around at home instead of pushing himself to go to the gym. Doctor’s orders.

A week passes with nothing of note. Bokuto finally gets his cast taken off, brandishing his newly healed wrist like a trophy. Akaashi claps, unamused, but can’t help the smile that forms when Bokuto kisses him until his breath is taken away, using that wrist to grip the small of his back and press their fronts together.

“You still need to do physical therapy,” Akaashi reminds him, but Bokuto rolls his eyes and thanks the doctor before pulling his husband out of the clinic and into the car.

“That can wait,” Bokuto says, pulling Akaashi in by his tie and almost knocking his glasses off by the sheer force of his kiss. “Now let’s celebrate.”

Ever since that vacation, Akaashi hadn’t tried to go on top. He’s been scared that the same thing would happen, and it’d be on his mind the entire week. He had just gotten cleared by his doctor—the last thing he needs is for his arms to go weak.

After scolding Bokuto for smoking and after cleaning himself up, he walks to the kitchen and opens the fridge. He flinches at a pain in his ass, evidence left behind of Bokuto taking ‘celebrating’ to a whole new level. It isn’t as if he hadn’t enjoyed it, but damn, the aftermath was painful.

He grabs the filter pitcher and lifts it up, and the second he does, his right arm gives out. He watches helplessly as the pitcher cracks on the edge of the fridge and freefalls onto the floor, the top coming off and spilling four liters’ worth of water all over the kitchen. Not to mention the giant crack in the plastic. If they tried to fill the pitcher to full capacity next time, it’d surely split open.

Akaashi doesn’t even notice when Bokuto skids into the kitchen or when he yells at Emiko to stop drinking the water. He doesn’t notice when Bokuto grabs the roll of paper towels and begins to mop up the water or his husband’s arms around him, whispering explanations or jokes or whatever nonsense he says to cheer him up. He only snaps out of it when he feels Bokuto’s finger on his cheek, lifting a tear from his skin.

He turns around in Bokuto’s arms, looking up at him, his bottom lip quivering. “I’m not okay, Koutarou.”

Bokuto wishes he could deny it. He so desperately wishes he could say ‘no, babe, you’re overreacting.’ To see that relieved smile on his face like he had on when he came home from the clinic. But he can’t. Because he knows that Akaashi isn’t okay.

“Let’s go back to bed, babe. I’ll get you some water. Go rest,” he says softly, ushering Akaashi away from the distressing scene and bending back over to dry the rest of the floorboards. But he can’t help it when he wets the hardwood further with his own tears.

…

Bokuto skips physical therapy to go with Akaashi to the hospital despite the latter’s many attempts to go alone. Akaashi had managed to convince Bokuto the previous times that he was just going in for a routine checkup, but now Bokuto’s not falling for it.

“The MRI is painless,” the doctor explains, beginning to help Akaashi sit down, but he waves away any help.

“I can walk, thank you.” Ever since the incident in the kitchen, Akaashi has grown more defensive of everything he does. If Bokuto asks if he needs any help, Akaashi fires back with ‘do I look like I need help?’ or ‘I’m not helpless.’ He has always been snarky, but his current demeanor is callous, uncaring. There’s no love in his sarcastic remarks, just hurt.

He lays down on the bed, shifting around until the doctor tells him to stop. It’s quick, and, like his doctor said, painless, and he’s out in less than five minutes.

“The results will be out in two days,” his doctor warns after coming out of the small glass room adjacent to the machine. “If you get a call from me, that doesn’t automatically mean bad news.”

“Okay.” Akaashi hasn’t mentioned the pitcher incident to his doctor. He knows it’s the stupidest thing he can do. But if he doesn’t mention it, treats it as yet another injury sustained from overworking himself, then maybe it doesn’t exist. And it doesn’t, not on paper.

The next few days pass by like molasses. Akaashi doesn’t get any work done, and each time his phone rings, he nearly passes out. When he finally does get the call, he actually does pass out, and Bokuto has to pick up the phone for him while trying to wake him up.

“Doc? Hey, it’s Koutarou.”

“Oh, Koutarou. If you could pass along to Akaashi that the MRI is all clear, that would be great.”

As if on cue, Akaashi wakes up and snatches the phone out of Bokuto’s hand, holding it up to his ear. “What, Dr. Hirose?”

“I said that your MRI is all clear. No tumor, nothing messing up your discs. There’s nothing wrong with your brain or spinal cord.”

Akaashi is out again like a light.

When he comes to, he’s in bed, the covers up to his chin. He sits up groggily and wipes his eyes, turning to see a bowl of mochi on the nightstand, nearly melted.

“Bokuto?” he calls, his voice hoarse. He reaches over and brings the bowl into his lap, nibbling on a mochi. Despite the mochi being cold, he’s warm. He can only picture Bokuto picking him up and tucking him in before making his famous mochi. It’s one of the only things he knows how to make, and he knows exactly when to make it.

Bokuto pads into the room, followed closely behind by Emiko. The two are twins, Akaashi swears. Emiko hops up onto the bed and nuzzles Akaashi’s arm before collapsing onto his thighs, laying her head down with a grunt.

"Hey, you feeling better?” Bokuto asks, walking over and sitting down cautiously at the foot of the bed as if Akaashi’s made out of glass. “I made you mochi to celebrate the clean bill of health.”

Akaashi smiles and nods, scarfing down another piece of mochi. “Thank you,” he says, his voice muffled by the sticky rice dough. The sight is enough to make Bokuto laugh and scoot closer, wiping a bit of ice cream from the corner of Akaashi’s lips and lick it off his finger.

“I’m going back to practice tomorrow,” he continues. “My physical therapist says I’m good to go. So we’re both doing awesome.”

Akaashi grins and leans forward, pulling Bokuto in for a kiss, burying his fingers in the white-gray hair. They continue to eat mochi together, making small talk and eventually watching a movie together, but Akaashi still isn’t fully happy. When Bokuto falls asleep, he gets up to put the bowl in the sink. Before he can finish the trip, he drops the bowl onto the carpet. The thud is muffled, Bokuto too deep in sleep to wake up. But Akaashi, who was drowsy before, is now fully awake. He looks to his right arm, his hand trembling and his forearm cramping up. He simply bends down and picks up the bowl with his left arm, puts it in the sink, and silently slips underneath the covers. He snuggles up next to Bokuto, much closer than usual, resting his head on his chest.

“Mm, Keiji,” Bokuto mumbles, more asleep than awake. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replies a little too quickly. He grips Bokuto’s tank top in a fist, savoring the warmth of his husband’s skin against his cheek. “Just want to be close to you.”

“Mm,” is all that Bokuto replies before draping an arm lazily over Akaashi’s waist, burying his nose in the other’s dark hair.

Akaashi closes his eyes, but he doesn’t think he sleeps at all.

…

It’s a pretty normal month, but Akaashi’s knees are roughed up with all the tripping and tumbles he’s taken. He doesn’t tell Bokuto or his doctor, and he thanks God it’s nearing autumn so that he has an excuse to wear long pants. They bought a new pitcher, but Bokuto can’t help but notice Akaashi never gets near it. It’s particularly difficult to keep a straight face and not notice when Akaashi’s spoon trembles as he spoons sugar into his coffee or when food has made its home on his face whenever they eat. He needs to receive an Oscar for his acting abilities because every time he’s left alone, he can’t help but bury his face in his hands and pray.

It’s another month before Bokuto sits Akaashi down and stares hardheartedly at him.

“You need to go to the doctor.”

Akaashi, who already knew what the conversation would be about due to Bokuto’s seriousness when he sat him down, crosses his arms and shakes his head. “No. Why? There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Really, Keiji?” Bokuto using his actual name means serious business. “You think I don’t realize you dropping everything? All the stains on your shirt? How you can’t even fucking talk sometimes?”

“Hey. Don’t…curse,” Akaashi says, and, as if his body wants to prove a point, his words slur together.

Bokuto slams the table, sending both Akaashi and Emiko’s heads snapping upwards at the loud bang.

“It hurts me, too. You think you’re the only one suffering, but you’re being so goddamn selfish. Because it hurts seeing you like this and not do anything about it. Listen, I’ve been trying to ignore it, too, hoping it’ll just go away. But it’s getting worse, Keiji, whatever this is. And I’m not going to stand by while you kill yourself.”

Bokuto’s eyes well with tears, and it only takes his husband getting emotional—which only happens in a sports-related context—to get Akaashi to pick up the phone and call his doctor.

“Muscle weakness and slurring speech?” his doctor asks, pausing to ponder something. “Come in tomorrow. I’ll get an EMG appointment set up for you.”

The two men look at each other, and Akaashi stands up and walks to the bedroom with Emiko, slamming the door closed. Bokuto takes that as a sign that he’s sleeping on the couch.

…

“This will cause a bit of discomfort,” the neurologist says gently before conducting the test. Akaashi shifts in his chair each time the instrument sends small electrical shocks in his wrist and frowns when the needle is inserted in his arm.

“Move this way…and that way…perfect.” The neurologist is studying the screen, and Akaashi is studying the neurologist. He’s studying her facial expressions, the way she moves, anything that will give him an indication of the meaning behind the squiggles onscreen. Bokuto squeezes his shoulder even though the neurologist told him not to touch him, planting a butterfly kiss on the shell of his ear. Finally, after over half of an hour of uncomfortable tests, Akaashi is instructed to go to his doctor’s office.

“I’ll send the results over to your doctor now,” the neurologist says. Yet again, there’s that look of pity. The pit in Akaashi’s stomach expands until he feels bloated and barely able to walk to his doctor’s office. He uses Bokuto’s hand for balance, but he finds that his right arm can barely sustain his weight anymore.

“Your EMG test is abnormal,” his doctor says lightly, but just the word ‘abnormal’ is a shot to the face.

“What does that mean, doc?” Bokuto asks, seeing that all of Akaashi’s mental strength was zapped out from the tests.

“It means that the EMG showed electrical activity even when your muscles were in a resting position,” the doctor replies, setting down the paperwork on the desk and resting his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes flicking between the two men. “You have a degenerative muscle disease. This is consistent with your CK levels, which show muscle damage. I want to do a few more tests, but from what I can see, you might have amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.”

“What the fuck is that?” Bokuto shouts, practically jumping out of the chair and snapping his fingers in front of the doctor’s face. “Japanese, please!”

“Koutarou, stop,” Akaashi pleads, tugging on Bokuto’s sleeve, and even if he didn’t have degenerating muscles, he wouldn’t have been able to stop Bokuto in the state he’s in now.

“ALS,” the doctor clarifies, and both men freeze into place like statues. “Motor neuron disease, Lou Gehrig’s disease—there are many names. I’m not saying you have it for certain, but all the evidence points to it. Your accident back in Iceland certainly didn’t help. Now, I want to discuss treatment—”

Akaashi grabs the nearest trashcan and vomits into it, and no matter how much he throws up, the pit in his stomach stays, growing ever bigger.

…

I know how much you love me As much as I love you Each time that you think of me I know you will miss me, too.

…

It seems coincidental, but the second Akaashi receives the diagnosis from both his primary doctor and a second opinion from a neurologist, his symptoms worsen tenfold. He can’t drink coffee anymore, having burned himself too many times from spilling hot coffee all over himself. He’s going to physical therapy every day, taking a handful of pills every day, going to an ALS clinic every day. He works whenever he can. He tries to go to every one of Bokuto’s games. Climbing up the bleachers is rough, and he tries to arrive before the teams come out of the locker rooms so Bokuto doesn’t see him like this. He attempts to write posters—keyword: attempts. His handwriting comes out more like a scrawl, his fingers failing him and letting the pen slip through multiple times. They said this would happen back at the clinic. Loss of fine motor control. It’s one thing to hear it, it’s another thing to experience it.

If somebody didn’t know better, they’d think a child wrote the poster board. But instead of a child holding the poster and cheering on their father, it’s Akaashi, pointing at Bokuto when he jogs onto the court with as much of a fist as he can hold. Bokuto grins when he sees his husband, but his face visibly falls when his eyes drop to the poster. He misses the first shot, saved just in time by their outside hitter. He turns back to the game, but his mind is elsewhere. His mind is on his husband, who had just been given a death sentence, and he’s watching it all unfold.

Because that’s what it is: a death sentence. Stephen Hawking gave hope to everybody with ALS, as they say every day at the clinic and physical therapy, but he knows the statistics. He studied them until he fell asleep at the kitchen table: only about 20% of people live five or ten years after diagnosis, a far cry from Hawking’s 55 years. Hawking’s survival rate is as much of an enigma as the black holes he studied.

Akaashi knows all the statistics by heart. Memorization and Stephen Hawking won’t change the fact that he will die far too young.

He cries and laughs all the time. It’s not even because he’s sad or seeing something particularly funny; it just happens. In the rare moments where he’s particularly entrenched in his work or watching a titillating movie with Bokuto and can forget about his life, he’s interrupted by a bout of laughter or gobs of tears, and he has to excuse himself to go to the bathroom, dragging his now-limp foot along with him.

Bokuto accused Akaashi of being selfish for not seeking out a diagnosis, but now the guilt has fallen onto him. He’s more selfish than Akaashi is, pitying himself for having a sick spouse. He feels guilt every single time he cries because he needs to be strong for Akaashi. He needs to be the one supporting his husband. He needs to try and get his mind off the stress. He needs put on a brave smile when he’s faced with Akaashi’s worsening symptoms. But he can’t help but suffer for Akaashi, absorb all the pain he’s feeling every time he can’t speak or struggles to lift a fork. Sure, it doesn’t hurt physically, but it tortures the mind. It must be torture to count down the days until your muscles lose all functionality and you’re left limp in a wheelchair, on oxygen until your diaphragm or heart give out because they, too, are muscles. Bokuto has a list of all of Akaashi’s symptoms, and his Internet history is full of experimental treatments, made up of both Western and Eastern medicine. They try acupuncture, chiropractic, essential oils, anything.

“Hey, I found this tea that might boost your CK levels—”

“Koutarou,” Akaashi breathes. His chest must be acting up again. “Enough. No more of that.”

When Akaashi doesn’t feel the symptoms as intensely, he tries to initiate sex with Bokuto every chance he gets. If I don’t do it now, when’s the next time I’ll have the strength to? he reasons to himself every time. Bokuto accepts, of course—not necessarily because he’s constantly horny (he used to be, not so much now), but because he has the same reasoning as Akaashi. He doesn’t mind being ravished at nearly every moment of the day if it means he’ll still have the hickeys to remind him of their intimacy together on the days Akaashi is too weak.

“I want to try being on top again,” Akaashi purrs in Bokuto ear one day, feeling particularly invigorated after a good physical therapy session. Perhaps all those pills he’s been taking are kicking in. Perhaps he’s getting better.

“Are you sure?” Bokuto asks, breathless. He’s never had to work this hard during sex before, and even though missing practice may have something to do with his lost endurance, he doubts it.

Akaashi nods, watching Bokuto flop onto his back before sitting up and tossing a leg over and beside Bokuto’s hip. Even though he had just been laying there and having Bokuto do all the work, he’s already breathless from that one move, his arms cramping up as he leans them on Bokuto’s chest. Flashbacks of their time in Iceland spot his vision. If only he had known back then that he had this disgusting disease…

He shakes that out of his head. He needs to focus on the now. And now, Bokuto was staring up at him with worry, his hands lifting up to Akaashi’s hips to provide him stability. He needs to wipe that worry off his face, and the only way to do that—

“Shit.” And he’s crying uncontrollably again. His arms give out, and he face-plants onto Bokuto’s chest, his left leg useless by Bokuto’s side while the other cramps up. “I can’t—”

He tries to push himself up, shifting his hips backward to try and continue, but the mood was gone. “Just give me a second—”

“Keiji.”

“Hold on, let me just—”

“Keiji.”

“One second! God, y-you act like I can’t do—ugh, did you go soft?”

“KEIJI.”

Akaashi’s head snaps up, his hand stopping its stroking to see Bokuto sitting upright, staring him down. “…What?”

“Stop.” Bokuto’s crying. “Just stop.”

“What, why? If you had just given me a second—”

“It’s not exactly sexy watching you struggle to hold yourself up because your muscles are degenerating.” Bokuto gasps at what he just said, his hand flying up to his mouth much too late. Akaashi just stares at him, his mouth in a small ‘o’. All Akaashi does is slowly sit up straight—as straight as he can—and stare directly into Bokuto’s eyes.

“If you hadn’t gotten into that fucking accident,” Akaashi grumbles, wrestling one of the sheets and wrapping it around himself as he uses all the spite in his body to get off Bokuto without falling over. Luckily, his muscles participate, and he’s off the bed, stumbling to the bathroom.

“Oh, you’re bringing that shit up again?” Bokuto exclaims, lifting his hand up in a show of exasperation. “Don’t tell me you’re blaming your stupid disease on me because I couldn’t wake you up.”

Akaashi whips around and stares daggers into his husband, his lips pulled into a scowl. “You heard Dr. Hirose. It certainly didn’t help.”

“I didn’t help? You know what isn’t helpful? Seeing my husband slowly die in front of me, knowing that the person I love more than anything in this goddamned unfair world is leaving me alone, and there’s nothing I can do about it except watch. To think that I contributed—to have you tell me I made this worse as if I’m the one who’s killing you—to know that no matter what fucking home remedy we try or expert we see, we can’t change anything!” He sniffs. “So it doesn’t matter how it fucking happened, it happened.”

SLAM!

The sound of the bathroom door echoes throughout the apartment, and Emiko scuttles out of the room in fear. Bokuto follows not long after because he knows he’s not welcome there, but also because he can’t stand the sound of Akaashi crying anymore. His sobs are quiet and muffled, no doubt trying to hide them, but he’s doing a terrible job. Bokuto doesn’t do that good of a job either.

He’s sleeping on the couch again. This time, Emiko sleeps with him, snoring away on the loveseat next to the couch.

He tries to sleep, but it’s as if something is blocking his ability to. He sits up with a prophetic realization.

This is so fucking stupid. We don’t have time for this.

They don’t have time for arguments. They don’t have time for pettiness. They don’t have time for anything, really, least of all this.

He tosses the thin blanket off his body, standing up and striding over to the door. His hand is almost on the knob before it turns and the door opens, revealing a disheveled Akaashi with a bright red nose and bloodshot eyes.

“I’m—”

“Sorry.”

Akaashi moves first, diving into Bokuto’s arms and hiding his face in the crook of his neck. Bokuto moves cautiously before giving in and wrapping his arms tightly around Akaashi’s frail form. He really does feel like porcelain compared to the built and fit man he was before. He loved Akaashi’s muscles. He’d have to learn to love his bones eventually as well.

…

I promise no tomorrow For today will always last And since each day’s the exact same way There is no longing for the past.

…

Akaashi’s parents come to stay with their dying son, and it’s morbidly silent. Usually, it’d be a joyous time, full of large meals, traveling, and laughing. But Akaashi’s mother can’t stop fussing over her son’s crutches, telling him he should get a walker, and Akaashi says he’d rather die earlier than he already is than use a walker that’s made for old people.

Finally, Akaashi’s father suggests they all take a walk in the park to brighten their spirits. Bokuto, who has taken the season off to stay with Akaashi—against his wishes, but a dead man’s wishes don’t mean much—agrees wholeheartedly. He puts on a wide smile, and even though it’s mostly false, it gets the rest of the family smiling and hopeful as well.

The cobblestones are a little rough to walk with crutches, but Akaashi manages. His forearms are still relatively strong compared to his legs, which degenerated far faster than his arms, even though the latter started to go first. The forearm holders in the crutches are uncomfortable, but Bokuto ordered padding, which should be coming in a few days.

Something to look forward to.

He doesn’t notice Bokuto giving the evil eye to anybody whose eyes linger on the strange man with crutches for too long, puffing up his chest intimidatingly until nobody has the courage to look in Akaashi’s direction.

“It’s a nice day,” Akaashi remarks as he stops in front of the pond. He smiles and giggles softly at the ducks waddling along the bank, hopping into the green water and fluffing up their feathers. A duck followed by an orderly line of yellow ducklings waddles past, stopping by to pick at the grass. “Hey, look, Mom, a mama duck.”

He lifts his arm to point, but the crutch goes along with his arm, leaving him destabilized. Luckily, his father is on his other side, and he holds him up without making too much of a big deal, keeping his face front.

“Oh, will you look at that,” Akaashi’s mother coos, getting out a bag of seeds from her purse along with her phone. “Koutarou, be a dear and take a picture of us with the mama duck, please.”

Akaashi’s smile fades. He knows his mother only used the mother duck as an excuse to take as many pictures as she can with her dying son before he’s six feet under or ashes. He’s yet to figure out which route to take. She had been taking pictures the entire trip. He has to remember to go through her phone and delete all the ugly pictures of himself before she prints them out to use at his funeral.

“For sure, Mama Akaashi,” Bokuto says, taking the offered phone and holding up the phone, waiting for Akaashi to turn around. “C’mon, Keiji, lemme see that pretty smile.”

Akaashi smiles, tries to think of the mama duck to get his smile to look halfway real, but when Bokuto shows them the photo, it looks horribly forced. He looks awful, anyway. A smile can’t save the way his body’s contorted with the crutches, how skinny he’s gotten, how sunken his face has grown. Eating has become more and more difficult. The movement of eating used to be the only problem, but now it’s swallowing. He’s mainly eating soups now, and he didn’t even have to tell Bokuto because Bokuto always knows before he does what he’s feeling. The perks of being together for nineteen years.

He turns back to the pond in search of the mama duck, but she had disappeared in the time they took the photo. Akaashi’s face falls, his hand clutching the plastic bag of seeds. A bit of pollen tickles his nose, and he sneezes into his elbow.

“Oh, Keiji!”

His head snaps to his mother, whose hand had flown up to her mouth to suppress her gasp. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

He follows her line of sight down to the crotch of his pants, which had darkened and become wet.

He had peed himself. Slightly, but enough to make him never want to step outside ever again.

The warmth on his legs hadn’t been the sun after all—it had been his bladder leaking from the force of the sneeze, with its host none the wiser.

He had read about the loss of bladder control as a symptom since the bladder is surrounded by muscles, and the bitch of the disease targets those. But he never expected that to happen to him. Bladder incontinence only happens to older victims. Urge incontinence, however, doesn’t have as small of an age range when it comes to ALS.

Only now, standing in wet underwear, does he realize how these diseases are sanitized. The movies he watched of HIV, ALS, cancer…none of them show how disgusting they actually are.

“Get me home,” Akaashi whispers, his eyes welling with hot tears of humiliation. Sweat prickles on his hairline and the back of his neck, a panic attack in the works. Every single pair of eyes is on him. Everybody’s staring, laughing, pointing. Everybody’s full of pity. Oh, poor thing, he can’t help it. He’s never been more embarrassed.

Humiliated, humiliated, humiliated…

“Come, Keiji,” his mother murmurs, leading him to the public bathroom. “Let’s go to the bathroom while your father and Koutarou pull up the car.”

Nobody questions the old woman as she enters the men’s bathroom, mostly because of the man in crutches who reeks of urine next to her. She takes him into the biggest stall and sits him on the toilet, beginning to undo his belt until he stops her weakly.

“Please,” he says, his breathing heavy. “Let me have a little dignity left.”

He has a few months left until he needs a 24/7 nurse to transfer him to the toilet and wipe his ass. He will postpone that until the last minute.

She waits outside while Akaashi cleans himself up. She listens for any sign of struggle and nearly jumps with surprise when the door opens, revealing her son, who smells a little better. The pee is already beginning to dry down.

“Let’s get you in the shower,” she says when they get home. Bokuto places a hand on her forearm, signaling for him to take over, and attempts to wrap an arm around Akaashi’s waist, only to be rejected when Akaashi dodges and nearly trips over his crutches.

Bokuto frowns but proposes, “Come on, let’s take a shower together.”

“Don’t get near me,” Akaashi says as he ambles over to the bathroom. “I’m disgusting.”

Bokuto laughs and shakes his head. “Akaashi, babe, I’ve had to clean up your vomit three days in a row before, both from food poisoning and booze. You literally brush your teeth while I’m shitting in the same bathroom. A little pee doesn’t hurt. Don’t act like a princess—”

“Please, leave me alone,” Akaashi begs, throwing his crutches on the floor of their bedroom and using the doorknob as support as he steps inside and closes the door. Bokuto knocks on the door and tries the doorknob, but it’s locked.

“Keiji,” he mumbles, hoping his quiet voice carries through the door. “Open the door.”

“No.”

“Keiji,” he repeats.

“I’m not letting you bathe me or wipe my ass. I’d rather slip and crack my head open in the shower before letting you do that.”

“Keiji,” he repeats for the third and last time. “You remember what Kuroo said? He was a terrible officiant, but he said some good things.”

The other side is silent.

“In sickness and in health. ‘Til death do us part. I’m here for the long game. I’m not leaving you.”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Remember what I said in my vows?”

Again, silence.

He clears his throat. “Keiji Akaashi, I will love you until we’re two wrinkly old and ugly grandpas. I will love you, even if we both lose our hair and all our teeth. I will love you, even if we forget each other. Because I will remember you the next day, and I’ll fall in love with you all over again.”

Bokuto feels the light spring breeze on his face, almost as if he’s back at their wedding venue. He feels the ancient cobblestones underneath his feet, smells the cherry blossoms surrounding them, tastes the red velvet cake on his tongue when Akaashi smashed it in his face. Nothing has changed. Except they’re not going to be wrinkly old men.

“Really puts everything into perspective, huh? A little piss and shit won’t ever change my vows,” he ends, rapping the door yet again with the back of his knuckles. “Come on, Keiji. Open up and lemme see you naked. That always makes me feel better, at least.”

The lock tumbles and the door slowly creaks open to reveal Akaashi in his boxers. He clearly wasted no time taking off the soiled clothing.

“I needed to take a shower anyway,” Bokuto says with a shrug, stepping inside and closing the door. He strips down to his boxers before walking over and turning on the shower, but as he’s walking back, he feels just how healthy his muscles are. He used to never think about his muscles, except maybe when they were sore from the gym or how to make them bigger to impress Akaashi. Now he feels horrible every time he exists next to Akaashi, almost as if he was mocking his disease or bragging about how healthy he is.

“You know what will cheer you up?” Bokuto asks, ignoring the guilt blooming in his chest. He drops his hand to pinch Akaashi’s rear, causing the man to explode into a red blush.

“Koutarou! My parents are here!” Akaashi whispers harshly, swatting Bokuto’s hand away. “Besides…I won’t be able to…s-support myself.”

“I’ll do all that, baby,” Bokuto drawls flirtatiously, wrapping his arm around Akaashi’s lower back for support and using his other hand to push down both their boxers.

“Koutarou, stop,” Akaashi pleads, the corners of his eyes leaking tears. “I’m…I feel so ugly. I smell.”

“That’s what the shower is for.” Bokuto grins before leading his husband over to the shower, carefully helping him in, shielding Akaashi from the water with his back as he checks to see if the temperature’s good. Once he approves, he moves to let the water drizzle over Akaashi’s pale frame. Akaashi uses the support bar Bokuto installed a couple of days ago for balance as he steps forward into the water, closing his eyes as he feels the stickiness between his legs wash away. He lets out a sigh at Bokuto’s hands on his skin, the smell of fresh cucumber drifting from the lather on his shoulders.

“Turn around,” Bokuto commands, and Akaashi obeys, his eyes still closed. However, they fly open when he feels his body lifting up and the cold wall of the shower pressed against his back. His hand shoots out to grip the support bar, glaring at Bokuto.

“Could’ve warned me,” he grumbles, letting out a gasp when Bokuto ignores his complaint and dives straight into his neck to leave marks. “Not there! My parents will see them!”

“It’s turtleneck weather,” Bokuto replies easily.

Akaashi nearly succumbs to Bokuto’s seducing until he remembers something. “What if I shit on your dick?”

Bokuto tosses his head back and laughs, causing Akaashi to laugh along nervously.

“That’s what the shower is for,” he repeats without a second thought, going back to his seducing. His hand overlaps Akaashi’s on the support bar, squeezing it as both of them forget the trauma of today and melt into each other’s bodies. The sex is a form of amnesia because as Bokuto sets down a thoroughly fatigued Akaashi on the counter to get them both towels, Akaashi can’t for the life of him place why he was sad earlier that day.

He, thankfully, didn’t shit on Bokuto’s dick. And—Bokuto’s right—it’s chilly that night. It gives Akaashi the perfect excuse to cuddle up on the couch in a turtleneck, concealing the evidence of their spontaneous lust in the shower. The night is full of hot chocolate with marshmallows and caramel drizzle, just like Akaashi likes it, cheesy rom-coms he and his mother adore, and playing around with Emiko that he forgets that he’ll die in a few months or years. He talks and talks and talks until his vocal cords are sore the next day. Tonight, he isn’t Keiji Akaashi with ALS. He isn’t Keiji Akaashi who can barely form a sentence anymore. He isn’t Keiji Akaashi who will die before he reaches middle age. He’s just Keiji Akaashi.

…

The sense of normalcy continues for the rest of the year. His symptoms seem to have plateaued, and thankfully, he doesn’t have any more run-ins with urge incontinence. Bokuto attributes the slowing progression to his daily physical therapy sessions, and he finally feels comfortable enough to go to practices again and leave Akaashi to his work. Typing is difficult, and it takes him three times as long to edit a page of a manga, but it feels nice to be of use. To not be completely inept and earn his own keep. He always hated being doted on, but he’d have to get used to the idea soon enough.

Akaashi’s parents go home a month after their arrival once they see their son’s condition stabilizing, making him promise to call them every day and tell them updates. He struggles to muster up the courage to call their closest friends to break the news because he knows that the second he says the words ‘I have ALS,’ they’d be knocking down the door. And that’s exactly what happens.

“Why the actual hell didn’t you tell us the second you got the diagnosis?!” Kuroo shouts, causing Kenma to smack the back of his head and apologize for his partner.

“The man’s sick, Tetsurou. Don’t scream.”

Akaashi appreciates the gesture since Kuroo’s voice is much too loud for their little apartment, but he also doesn’t want to be labeled as ‘sick.’ He’s already had enough of being treated like porcelain from Bokuto; he doesn’t want his friends to do the same.

“Kuroo, calm down,” Bokuto warns, but he was in the same position Kuroo not too long ago. When Akaashi refused to go to the doctor and admit he had a problem. He can’t blame the frustration. “He’s doing fine. The crutches are working out well, and his motor skills are good enough to type and write. He’s improving.”

The initial shock of the diagnosis undoubtedly made every single symptom seem worse and did nothing to slow the progression. It racked Akaashi’s body like cancer, and he wishes he did have cancer because then he might have a shot of surviving and living a normal life. Cancer seems like a blessing compared to the curse his body harbors.

“Well,” Kenma starts with a sympathetic smile. He picks up a controller from the coffee table and sits down next to Akaashi, handing it to him and picking up a controller for himself. “Ready for me to kick your ass in Mario Kart?”

Akaashi laughs. Genuinely. Not caused by those random bursts of laughter or crying he gets. He was so worried about getting treated as if he’s breakable that the comment caught him off-guard—of course Kenma would beat him. Not only because he’s a savant at anything video game-related, but because Akaashi literally has almost zero motor skills left. And Kenma knows this very well. They ate together. Kenma watched Bokuto help wipe Akaashi’s mouth and cut up a bit of the tougher side of the steak. He winced every time Akaashi dropped his fork, the clatter causing the conversation to come to an abrupt stop. And yet, he still proposes to beat him in a game that is all about motor control. Because Keiji is still Keiji. And he deserves to play a game of Mario Kart.

Kenma, of course, wins. Bokuto promises to avenge Akaashi’s honor, but he, too, loses his honor when he’s defeated horribly by the video game developer. Kuroo is the only one who puts up a good fight before ultimately losing as well from all the practice the two do on a daily basis. Kuroo and Bokuto busy themselves playing another round while Kenma helps Akaashi stand up, and the two walk over to the small patio in the kitchen.

“Have you been smoking?” Kenma asks, motioning to the ashtray populated by a few cigarettes as he sits down. Akaashi sits down across from him, his hand absentmindedly stroking Emiko.

“No, that’s Bokuto’s,” he replies with a disappointed shake of the head. “I’m trying to get him to stop. But even if they…were mine, it wouldn’t matter. I’m going to die anyway.”

Kenma stiffens. He can sense the distaste dripping from Akaashi’s tone like acid. He knows Akaashi would never wish sickness on Bokuto, least of all lung cancer. But Kenma can tell how frustratingly ironic it is that Bokuto, whose diet consisted of the most sugary and fatty foods before Akaashi stepped in, who smokes nearly every day, is the perfectly healthy one. He’s healthy, not the one who meditates and does yoga and cooks homemade, healthy meals every day. Even Kenma has a frown of consternation, irritated at how unfair the world can be.

He needs to ask. He needs to be able to brace himself for when the time comes. “How long do you think you have?”

Something Akaashi always appreciated from Kenma is that he never beats around the bush.

“The way I’m going, Dr. Hirose says three years. I’ll hopefully make it to my 40th birthday,” he explains, staring down at his hands. “I’ll probably n-need…a wheelchair in a year. And a 24/7 nurse a few months after that.”

He’s planned out the whole timeline in his head. He finds that expecting changes in his body is a lot less shock-inducing than just waiting for them to happen.

“I won’t be able to talk soon. Sometimes I d…on’t want to talk anymore. My vo…voice is starting to sound so ugly.” He thought he didn’t have any more tears to shed, but he finds himself choking back tears, his eyes red-rimmed.

He was trying to speak as much as possible before his voice eventually gives out, but he was never talkative to begin with, so it all comes off as fake. As a desperate attempt to redeem himself, say all the things he never got to say his entire life. He compliments Bokuto every day. Tells him how amazing of a job he’s doing. Bokuto is, of course, pleased to receive the compliments, but they’re soured when he realizes why he’s receiving them in the first place.

He baby talks Emiko, even though he only ever spoke to her like an adult human. Baby talking allows him to showcase more of his vocal range, which is getting smaller and smaller each month. But after a while, he goes days without uttering more than ten sentences. What’s the point if he’s going to lose his voice anyway?

Kenma reaches forward and grips Akaashi’s hand in his before letting go, gazing into the sunset splashing rays across the horizon. “You should make a bucket list.”

Akaashi lets out a sigh. Finally, somebody who doesn’t bring up Stephen fucking Hawking. Somebody who’s realistic, who offers solutions instead of false hope. He’s going to die whether he likes it or not—he needs to stop pitying himself.

“A bucket list isn’t a half-bad idea,” Akaashi says, stroking his chin pensively. He needs to shave, but last time he tried, he nicked himself so many times that he looked like he had a beard of toilet paper. “I don’t even know where I’d go. It’d be so expensive, too.”

“Are you going to use that money when you’re dead?” Kenma asks. “You have a savings account, right?”

Akaashi nods.

“Problem solved.” Kenma smiles and gets out a small leather-bound notebook, handing it to his friend. “I brought this for you. For your bucket list.”

Akaashi’s looking down at the notebook, but when he looks back up, Kenma’s crying. He’s never seen Kenma cry before.

“Go live life, Akaashi. Live the life people who live eighty years will never have.”

…

First, it’s the Alps in Switzerland for New Year’s. Akaashi’s strapped to Bokuto’s chest as they ski down a hill made for children, but Akaashi can’t wipe the smile off his face even if he tries. He’s laughing, begging Bokuto to go again. Bokuto agrees, but he’s wary of anything and everything now with Akaashi’s declining health. His bones have started to rise underneath his skin, and the dark circles under his eyes are growing ever darker. The common flu could have him bedridden for a week.

Bokuto still has hope that Akaashi will live for years and years. His stabilizing condition only further cements that hope, and if he doesn’t pay too much close attention, he completely forgets about Akaashi’s condition. They say that people who get it early in life live longer…

Akaashi can’t drink with his medications—and even though his motto is now “I’ll die anyway,” he’d much rather complete his Switzerland trip before offing himself. So he’s left to take care of Bokuto, who gets much too drunk off eggnog, and Akaashi loves it. He loves being the one fussing over somebody else. He loves being the stronger one, the caretaker. And now, he finally has a reason to take care of Bokuto and drag him to the bed.

“Keiiijii!” Bokuto sings at the top of his lungs, reaching his arms up as the bedroom spins around him. “Keiji Akaashi, I loooove youuu!”

“I love you, too,” Akaashi murmurs with a chuckle, balancing his crutches against the wall and flopping onto the bed.

“Please don’t leave me.”

Well, that’s quite a change in mood. Akaashi laughs and quirks a brow at Bokuto, whose arms had since dropped to his chest and his eyes closed.

“I’m not leaving—”

“I don’t want you to leave me,” Bokuto slurs. His hands fly up to cover his eyes. “Why…why couldn’t it have been me? God, it’s all my fault. If we hadn’t gotten into…that crash. Of all people…why you? Live forever and forever for me. Please don’t leave me, Keiji, please…”

He continues blabbering until snores overtake his sobs, but Akaashi stays silent. Bokuto says it hurts him to see his husband’s decline, but it also hurts him to see Bokuto suffering so much. Perhaps if he died earlier rather than later, Bokuto wouldn’t be hurting as much. He’d have more time to get over him and fall in love again, preferably with somebody without a terminal disease.

He crosses off “go skiing” and “go to Switzerland” in his notebook and smiles as he goes to sleep.

…

Second, it’s Brazil. They coincidentally run into Hinata playing volleyball with his Brazilian friends on Copacabana Beach, but his expression doesn’t change when his eyes drop to Akaashi’s crutches. He just grins even wider and holds up the volleyball in his arms for Akaashi.

“Wanna play a set?”

He gets on Bokuto’s shoulders and misses nearly all the blocks and hits. It’s less about his condition and more so the fact that he was a setter and hadn’t played professionally in nearly fifteen years, but that doesn’t discourage him. He accepts Hinata’s ‘another game?’ proposition until Bokuto puts a stop to it, afraid he’s overworking himself.

Bokuto gets drunk, yet again, off too many caipirinhas, and Akaashi, yet again, has to take care of him. But he doesn’t complain once. As Bokuto sleeps, he gets out his leather-bound notebook as crosses both “meet up with Hinata one more time” and “go to Brazil” off his list. Slowly and surely, his list is being whittled down. It’s bittersweet: he feels accomplished whenever he crosses something off the list, but that just means he’s growing ever closer to his expiration date.

…

Third, it’s Italy. It’s been nearly a year since he was first diagnosed and add on two months for when he first started noticing symptoms. They’re celebrating Akaashi’s 37th birthday in a fancy seaside restaurant, the salty breeze making both their faces glow. They’re in their own little world, ignoring the other customers who either stare at them or ask to be moved to another table.

Bokuto now has to feed him nearly everything, spooning minestrone soup and twirling pasta onto a fork before putting it into his husband’s mouth. He fixes Akaashi’s bib, which has “what’s cookin,’ good lookin’” embellished across it, per Bokuto’s suggestion.

“This…is goo…d-d,” Akaashi says with a giggle, accidentally spitting out a bit of soup that dribbles down his chin.

“I know, right?” Bokuto’s heart aches at the sight, but he forces his acting skills to their maximum as he lifts a napkin up to clean Akaashi up. “We’re coming to Italy every…er, we should come back.”

He keeps catching himself saying presumptuous things that only make Akaashi draw back inside himself. Things like “I can’t wait to do this every day with you,” or “we need to come back here in three years” because, frankly, three years is a stretch.

“I wan…t the c-calamari,” Akaashi continues, seemingly not noticing Bokuto’s slip-up.

“Okay, we’ll have the calamari next. But save me some, okay? Your eye is bigger than your stomach,” Bokuto recites in a motherly voice, making Akaashi laugh again.

“Okay,” Akaashi replies, his eyes sparkling.

Bokuto hesitates to leave to go to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner, but Akaashi practically pushes him out the door with the little strength he still had. They’d have to switch to a wheelchair soon.

“I’ll be fine,” Akaashi promises in his now-unnaturally low voice. “I’ll be…on the couch.”

Bokuto bites the inside of his cheek before relenting, bidding goodbye and practically sprinting to the grocery store. When he comes back, his arms carrying a bag full of fruit and pasta, he shouts Akaashi’s name. No response.

“Akaashi?”

He hears a groan, and he can’t drop the groceries fast enough before running in the direction of the sound, coming across Akaashi on the floor in the bathroom, his pants halfway hiked up his legs.

“I h-had to p…ee,” Akaashi sobs into the terracotta tile, and Bokuto bunches him up in his arms, and he finds that his husband’s body feels much too similar to the bag of groceries. Dead weight. He weeps in Bokuto’s arms for a few more moments, and Bokuto’s about to get up before Akaashi lets out a choked wail.

“I don’t want to die!” he shrieks, almost intelligibly with how fast he gets it out in order to not slur his words together. He hits Bokuto’s forearms as hard as he can, which Bokuto barely notices with how light the taps are. He shakes his head, gobs of ugly fat tears and snot trailing down his face. He’s unraveling; all the fear and dread in his body bubbling to the surface like boiling water. The water runs down the sides of the pot, stoking the fire even more until everything eventually burns down into embers. That’s what’s left of Akaashi now. Embers.

“I d…on’t want to die. I’m s-sca…red. I don’t wan…t-t to die…I don’t…”

Akaashi thought dying was what he wanted. But the second he was alone in the dark bathroom, hopelessly and utterly alone and lying on the cold floor, he realizes that death is the furthest thing he wants. He’s scared. He’s been putting off his true emotions for too long. He’s always been terrified.

He dissolves back into quiet tears, hanging his head low over Bokuto’s forearm. For a while, all Bokuto can do is stare, biting his bottom lip until it bleeds in order to keep a stoic face for his husband. But he’s crumbling, too.

“Oh, Keiji,” Bokuto coaxes into Akaashi’s hair, stroking the locks and cradling him like a newborn baby. For every smile Akaashi gives, he weeps five times. The ratio used to be backwards. He wonders how much bigger the disparity in the ratio will grow.

Bokuto doesn’t leave him alone for longer than five minutes after that.

…

They can only do one more trip before Akaashi needs to be transferred to a wheelchair, according to Dr. Hirose.

“There are many comfortable and intelligent varieties,” he says, but nothing makes Akaashi want to die more than the thought of no longer being able to move on his own.

They end up in England, where they meet up with Oikawa and Iwaizumi.

“Yikes, you look horrible, Akaashi,” Oikawa says with a grimace, motioning to Akaashi’s outfit and bib. “Just because Bokuto has to dress you now doesn’t mean he should get to pick out your outfits. Cargo shorts, really?”

Akaashi laughs and turns to Bokuto, shaking his head. “You h-hear…d the man. I…ge-t-t to choose.”

Bokuto rolls his eyes and glares daggers into Oikawa’s soul as he takes out a tissue to clean up the drool in the corner of Akaashi’s mouth. “I picked out this outfit with a lot of love. I think it shows off his model legs. Doesn’t it, Iwa?”

But Iwaizumi isn’t taking the news as easily as Oikawa. He’s still visibly processing how quickly his friend’s health went downhill, and his hands are fisting the sides of his jeans.

“Um, yeah,” Iwaizumi replies after nearly choking on the lump in his throat. “Maybe a vest would be tasteful.”

Akaashi taps Bokuto on the chest, which would have been a slap back in the old days. He raises his eyebrows in a ‘you hear that?’ motion, finding body language is a lot easier and less awkward for the other person in the conversation than attempting to speak. He ignores Iwaizumi’s reaction—he understands it. He’s gotten enough of those reactions to just laugh it off. But the lingering stares and pitiful glances still hurt.

When they get back to their hotel, Akaashi crosses off “go to England” and “see Oikawa and Iwa one last time” in his journal. Bokuto helps him brush his teeth, holding up a cup of water for him to rinse and spit into and wipes the toothpaste foam off his face.

“Look at those pearly whites,” Bokuto says, grinning in a way that bares all his teeth, and Akaashi copies as much as he can with his limited range of facial muscles. They dissolve into laughter, and Bokuto sits his husband on the foot of the bed and places a pajama set on the bed. “Alright, now because of stupid Oikawa, I have to get your approval on everything you wear because I have ‘horrible fashion taste’ or whatever. So, what do you think?”

Akaashi is silent, and Bokuto meets his gaze and sees his cheeks are dusted with pink.

“Koutarou…” Even with his slurred and irregular voice, his name still sounds like pure gold on his tongue. Akaashi blinks slowly, tipping his chin back and lifting his arms up haltingly until his hands find support by clinging to Bokuto’s face. “Ma…ke love to…to me.”

Bokuto’s eyes widen, and he fights the urge to step back in surprise and tear Akaashi’s hands off his face. He closes his eyes and covers Akaashi’s hands with his own, detaching them from his cheeks and bringing them back down to his lap.

“I can’t do that, Keiji,” Bokuto whispers.

“Why not?” Akaashi asks, his lips pulling into a frown. “Am I…too ugly?”

His face is so skinny. His eyes bulge out of their sockets, his eyelashes even longer than they were before. His lips are chapped, and there’s a growing sore in the corner of his mouth. Bokuto can see the blue-green veins running underneath his skin, feel the spots he missed when he helped him shave this morning.

But he couldn’t be more beautiful.

“Never,” Bokuto breathes, squatting down to be eye-level with his Greek god. “I’m just scared I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Akaashi continues. “I can take it.” When he still sees hesitation in Bokuto’s eyes, he practically begs, “One last time…pl…ease. Hawking still…fu-ucked while in…h-his wheel…wheelchair.”

Bokuto laughs, and Akaashi can see the last glint of reluctance turn into amusement.

“You’re not even in a wheelchair yet,” Bokuto says, and Akaashi nods eagerly. He sighs, the phrase ‘one last time’ echoing in his head. It really will be the last time they make love. Because even though Stephen Hawking was still a womanizer in his wheelchair, Bokuto doesn’t think he’ll have it in him.

He undresses Akaashi slowly, unbuttoning his Hawaiian shirt, letting Akaashi fumble with the last few buttons. He tries to take back as much of his autonomy whenever he can, and Bokuto gladly allows him.

Akaashi watches as Bokuto stands back up and pulls his shirt over his head, letting it drop onto the floor, and leans over to press kisses onto his abs. He runs his fingertips over the muscles, both in admiration and in jealousy. He remembers when he used to have ab muscles like these, how much Bokuto loved touching them. He looks down at his own torso, wincing at the sight of his ribs slicing his skin.

He smiles as Bokuto carries him up the bed, laying him down delicately like a baby. He whimpers at the warmth on the crook of his neck, his shoulders hiking up and his body racking with pleasure. He hasn’t felt so beautiful, so worthy of love, in so long, and it’s all thanks to Bokuto’s soft caresses.

“Are you okay?” Bokuto asks, and Akaashi has a feeling that question will be recurring throughout this session.

He gazes down at his husband, who has reached his happy trail, and nods. He gathers up all his energy to say, “I’ve never felt…better.”

It’s slow and tender, both because Bokuto is afraid he’ll break Akaashi and because it’s their last time together. He wants it to last forever. He wants to imprint every touch, every sound, every taste into his brain. He wants Akaashi tattooed on his body, wants any evidence that he was here, that he was loved, that he was strong until the very end.

He guides Akaashi’s arms to cling onto his back, holding up his bony legs as he locks lips with a particularly noisy Akaashi.

“The whole hotel can probably hear you,” he jokes, and Akaashi needs to catch his breath before responding.

“Good,” he finally replies, using the last of his strength to push Bokuto down into a deep kiss.

Akaashi’s tattooed on his body alright. After Akaashi falls sound asleep directly after finishing, Bokuto cleans him up and dresses him in the pajamas in case it gets chilly during the night. He pulls the covers up to his chin and kisses his forehead, brushing a few locks of sweaty hair out of his face. He smiles and heads to the bathroom, immediately spotting the hickeys Akaashi must have left on him while he was fumbling around with the pillows to make sure he was completely comfortable. He turns around to see scratch marks all over his upper back. He needs to stifle his laughter in fear of waking Akaashi, but it’s more than endearing to see how his husband marked him up. He needs to stop himself from going to the nearest tattoo artist and getting the scratches tattooed immediately.

He slips back into bed, and Akaashi responds by turning over and flopping his limbs over Bokuto’s torso. He smiles and wraps his arms around the love of his life and dreams of him with gray hair, wrinkles, and sunspots. All of which are considered to be the worst things to happen while aging, but what he wouldn’t give to see all three on Akaashi. That would mean he lived long enough to gain them.

…

Akaashi hates the wheelchair. It gets him places faster, yeah, and it’s very high-tech, but at what cost? He can barely move around the apartment without bumping into something and knocking it onto the floor. Bokuto rarely ever leaves the apartment anymore, so he’s always there to help, but Akaashi is still stubborn about doing everything himself. He asks Bokuto to buy him a grabber tool, but when his forearm strength eventually dies out, he has to swallow his pride and call Bokuto into the room to pick up the fallen bowl of cereal.

He celebrates his 38th birthday in their apartment, Emiko on his lap and in the process of trying to steal a slice of cake. She, unlike her owner, loves the wheelchair. It means a seat plus access to human food when he’s in a good mood.

“Mom, Mom, you’re…miss…ssing it,” Akaashi drawls, waving sloppily at the phone Bokuto’s holding up to FaceTime his parents. “I’m gon…na blow it-t out.”

“Go and blow it out, honey!” his mother encourages over the speaker. “Koutarou, did you use sparklers? You better not have, or so help me I’m flying over there—”

“You wound me, mother-in-law,” Bokuto exclaims dramatically, his hand flying up to his chest as if he has just been shot. “Hath you no trust in me?”

“Not after you did that on my birthday,” Akaashi’s mother retorts, giving him the evil eye. “Now flip the camera back to my baby boy!”

“He’s always had a pair of lungs on him, haven’t you, my boy?” his father shouts, and Akaashi laughs weakly.

Almost as if to disprove his father’s words, his lungs fail him in the middle of blowing out the candles. The flames pop right back up mockingly, stronger than ever. Akaashi attempts again but only manages to blow out a few.

“I bought the strong kind, I think,” Bokuto mumbles, trying desperately to make the situation better and to cover up the sound of Akaashi’s painful wheezing. He leans over to prepare to blow the rest out. “Let me just—”

“I want to do it!” It’s rare when Akaashi gets out a full sentence nowadays, which makes his faint shout even more potent. “I want…to do-o it.”

Bokuto steps back slowly, nodding encouragingly and lifting his hand up. “Okay. Go ahead, Keiji.”

Akaashi straightens himself as much as he can in his chair, leaning close to the cake and inhaling for a good few seconds before exhaling it all, leaving himself lightheaded, and with one candle still dancing tauntingly in his face. He slumps back in his chair, thoroughly exhausted, and feebly lifts a hand up to signal Bokuto to go ahead and blow the last one out. Bokuto obeys, and they both say quick goodbyes to his parents before cutting the cake silently.

“I’m…sorry,” Akaashi speaks up after a while, his mouth full of red velvet cake.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bokuto instructs, wiping up the creamy mess around Akaashi’s mouth. He pauses, letting out a sigh. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re frustrated.”

Akaashi stays silent, slowly and methodically chewing his food ever since he had a choking scare a week ago. He swallows, but he doesn’t open his mouth for more. Bokuto raises a forkful of cake, but when he sees Akaashi’s mouth closed, he sets it down and slips his hands into his husband’s, his thumb running over the bony joints.

“Have you thought about joining a support group?” he asks. Akaashi scoffs, and he can see that he’s thinking all sorts of nasty things that he’d yell at Bokuto, but he doesn’t have the energy to bicker anymore. Fighting with each other is now a privilege since by the time Akaashi gets out a comeback, they’ve both had enough time to cool down and think about their actions.

“I know you don’t like the idea,” Bokuto says, speaking Akaashi’s thoughts to life. “I know you think it’s stupid, that it’s only for pussies.”

“I…would…n’t put it-t li…ke that.”

Bokuto chuckles and shrugs. “Something like that, then. But maybe if you vent to them, you’ll feel better. You won’t have to bottle everything up inside.”

Akaashi ponders it for a moment before opening his mouth again for more cake, and he thinks about it for the better part of the night while he watches Bokuto perform magic card tricks that he learned on YouTube in lieu of going to volleyball. In the morning, he gives Bokuto the go-ahead to find a group. He doesn’t really have any other reason to get out of the house. He can’t travel, and their small neighborhood barely has any wheelchair accessibility. When Bokuto finds one and signs him up for the following afternoon, he can’t deny that he’s excited to go.

“Hello, Mr. Akaashi, I’m Fumi Sugita,” the woman greets, and he lets out a sigh of relief that she doesn’t put her hands on her knees to talk to him like a child. But he supposes it’s because she’s literally the leader of an ALS group—she most likely knows how to talk to people in wheelchairs.

“Call him Keiji,” Bokuto says for him, and Akaashi confirms with a nod. He’d have to switch to communicating with the computer installed on his wheelchair, and even though the voice isn’t as robotic as the older models have it, it still isn’t his voice. Who is he kidding, his own voice isn’t even his own voice anymore. But he still hasn’t set it up yet.

“Alright, Keiji, let’s get started. Mr. Bokuto—”

“Koutarou.”

“Koutarou, please wait in the living room or come back by 3:15.”

Bokuto nods and places a kiss on the corner of Akaashi’s lips. Kisses are rare now since Bokuto’s so busy keeping house and taking care of Akaashi’s needs. Plus, there’s always something smeared across his lips or a painful sore from too much accumulating drool that it’s flat-out unpleasant to kiss him. But Bokuto got him pristine for the group session, and he didn’t even nick him while shaving. He’s getting better at it.

“Be nice,” Bokuto whispers, and Akaashi rolls his eyes and waves him off.

“Everybody, this is Keiji,” Fumi introduces to a room filled with people in varying stages of ALS. A chorus of slurred and robotic greetings follow her introduction, and Akaashi awkwardly waves as he maneuvers his chair with the joystick into the circle.

“We were just talking about fun things you can do in a wheelchair,” Fumi continues, motioning to a woman in a similar model wheelchair to him. “Do you want to show your trick off, Haruko?”

The woman nods eagerly and sticks her tongue out for concentration as she fiddles with her joystick, the chair moving backward, then forwards, then spins in the blink of an eye. Another woman shows off her trick: typing 80085 into her computer, which proceeds to read it out as “boobies.”

That earns a chuckle from Akaashi. Perhaps this isn’t too bad.

After the third session, Akaashi has grown quite close to Haruko, especially after she gladly showed him how to do her spinning wheelchair trick.

“My…hus…band thought-t it wa…s cool,” he says, and Haruko laughs. Akaashi had to tell Bokuto to stop making him do the trick over and over, but it was reluctant since he hadn’t seen that look of pride and excitement on the man’s face in a long while. Bokuto makes him promise to learn more tricks to show him, and he goes so far as to take videos to send to their friends and family. Kuroo replies with That’s dope, Akaashi! Parkour! and that makes both men crack up laughing.

Kuroko looks at her computer, waiting for the eye-tracking technology to start up, and flicks her eyes around the screen.

“I’m glad he liked it,” the robotic female voice replies. “How long do you have left?”

It’s a common question among the group. It’s never a sure answer since everybody still prays they have Hawking’s luck, but there’s usually an empty space when it gets near the time a person says they have left.

“A…year,” Akaashi says, and he suddenly has the urge to just use the computer to have a semi-normal conversation again. He’ll ask Bokuto to set it up tonight. “But…I wan…t to m-make it to-o my 40th…birthd-day.”

“That’s a short time,” Haruko says, her previous smile down turning into a frown. “I mean, I have shorter, but it’s more real hearing it out loud. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

Akaashi nods, and that’s the end of the conversation until he can get the computer booted up and figures out how to use it.

After the fourth session, Akaashi approaches Haruko with a brand-new set of communication, and he proves it by picking up on their conversation left from yesterday. “I have decided what I’m going to do.” The voice is, of course, robotic, and Bokuto tried to call Kenma for help on how to fix it, but Kenma’s advice only made it sound creepier. But it’s worth it to carry a conversation and not hear how awful his voice sounds. He tried to use his voice until it gave out, but it became impossible. He had to swallow his pride, and it worked out. He can now hold a regular-ish conversation.

“And what’s that?” she asks, a look of intrigue on her face.

“I want to be cremated and buried under a cherry blossom tree I loved as a kid,” Akaashi replies, a sense of tranquility washing over him. The thought of dying always used to scare him before he was diagnosed, as it does to everybody. But now, he can’t think of anything more peaceful. “I used to read books underneath it, and I fell in love under it for the first time.”

His mind wanders to that one picnic in the humid spring weather. How reluctant their touches were because they were both in love but were too scared to admit it. How the sun lit up Bokuto’s face just in time for him to confess, highlighting the deep blush on his face as he picked up a cherry blossom from the blanket, tucking it behind Akaashi’s ear. How Bokuto smiled and laughed out of pure relief once Akaashi confirmed his feelings as well. How they cuddled, savoring each other’s touches before they had to leave for university. How the light filtered in between the branches of the cherry blossom tree until the horizon swallowed it. How he wishes he could go back to that memory one last time.

“I want to be cremated, too,” Haruko says, breaking Akaashi out of his thoughts. “But tossed in the ocean to be fish food.”

They both laugh, but Haruko interrupts the moment by asking, “Have you told your husband yet?”

Akaashi shakes his head, letting it droop forward in a show of embarrassment. “He still thinks I’m going to be the next Stephen Hawking. Sometimes I get mad at him because he gave us all false hope.”

“I wouldn’t want to live that long like this anyway,” Haruko retorts. “I’m tired. I’ve made my peace. My family has made their peace. I just want to close my eyes and open them in Heaven. Or Hell. I’m not jinxing anything.”

Akaashi stays silent, and the two cease their conversation when Fumi comes by to feed them a few pieces of fruit while both their caretakers come to pick them up. When she leaves to tend to the other people, Haruko turns back to Akaashi.

“’When tomorrow starts without me, and I’m not here to see; if the sun should rise and find your eyes; all filled with tears for me’,” she recites, and Akaashi cocks his head in confusion. “It’s my favorite poem now. I’ve always loved poetry, but this one resonates with me. You should look the rest up.” A man walks into their peripheral vision, a grand smile on his face when he spots Haruko.

“Come on, babe, I made soba! Let’s go before it gets cold,” he says, and Haruko grins and starts her wheelchair toward him. She spins around and lifts her eyebrows in a sign of goodbye, and Akaashi tips his chin in acknowledgment.

Bokuto isn’t too far behind Haruko’s boyfriend, nearly doubling over with how out-of-breath he is. “Sorry, honey, there was a ragin’ line at the grocery store. I had to elbow a middle-aged woman out of the way for a box of crackers.”

Akaashi laughs, and Bokuto laughs with him. He tells him all about his day at the grocery store, the never-ending tale lasting all the way back home. And while Akaashi usually loves listening to Bokuto’s intriguing tales, he finds his mind wandering to the poem Haruko quoted. When Bokuto is washing the dishes, he tries to look up the first lines of the poem as quickly as he can, and when he finds it, he reads it over and over until he can recite it by heart.

When Bokuto lifts him out of his wheelchair and into bed, draping the blanket over him, Akaashi clears his throat. Bokuto slips into bed and listens attentively, brushing the hair out of Akaashi’s eyes.

“I w-want…to be crem…cremated,” Akaashi says. He pushes on, even though he feels Bokuto stiffen next to him, the mattress sagging under the added weight. “Un…der the cher…ry bloss…som tree.”

Bokuto wants to argue. He wants to scream and yell and repeat over and over that Akaashi’s not dying, he’s not going to die anytime soon until it becomes true. But he knows better. He’s been to group sessions of his own—partners of those with ALS—and knows that denial is the first stage of the grieving process. But all this knowledge doesn’t make the air in the room any less heavy whenever the morbid subject is brought up.

He’s about to reply to Akaashi when he continues. “’When…tomo-rrow start…s…without me…’” He recites the lines Haruko told him today, slowly but surely, until he’s panting with exertion. Usually, he’d be crying whenever the subject of dying is brought up, but just like Haruko, he’s made his peace with the idea. He used to be terrified of the idea of death, but now, he’s expecting it like a visit from an old friend. It’s comforting to know that their suffering will be over soon. He wants Bokuto to be happy. He can see how stressed he is, how he’s been losing weight alongside the actually diseased person. He’s grown paler, and his smile carries the weight of an eighty-year-old man’s. He’s tired. They’re both tired.

Bokuto, however, doesn’t take it as well. He hates seeing how accepting Akaashi has grown over the idea of death. Fight a little harder, he wants to shout. Fight like you mean it. Fight like you want to live.

But Akaashi has no more fight in him left to give. He can no longer make fists with his hands. He can’t move his legs at all. He’s lost almost all his facial muscles. ALS is the grand champion of this fight, and Akaashi isn’t getting up from the floor.

“What’s the rest?” Bokuto asks, but by the time he’s finished wiping away his own tears, Akaashi is asleep.

…

Sleeping next to Akaashi is nearly impossible now. His wheezing is loud and sharp, the sound a constant sheer whistle in Bokuto’s ear. When they get him an oxygen machine, it isn’t much different. The tank makes clicking noises every time he inhales like a clock, ticking down the time until it goes silent, meaning Akaashi took his last breath.

Akaashi snores up a storm, which he supposes is payback for all the times he complained about Bokuto’s snoring. But Bokuto can’t risk moving to the couch and missing Akaashi’s last breath. Akaashi had chosen to have Do Not Attempt Resuscitation status, even though every single bone in Bokuto’s body screamed at him to stop the notary from signing off on the papers. He wanted to claim that Akaashi wasn’t mentally fit enough to have given permission, but he knew that Akaashi would never forgive him if he did that. The official paper framed above Akaashi’s nightstand mocks him every day, jeering at him, saying, “The love of your life will die, and you legally can’t do anything about it.”

Dr. Hirose tells Akaashi he should finish putting all his final touches on his will, but Akaashi hasn’t even started it. Yes, he’s accepted that he’s going to die—it’s another thing to put it on paper.

Akaashi spends his 39th birthday in a musty office, trying to think of everything he owns that will eventually go to Bokuto. Bokuto waits outside the office as he speaks with the drafter about his will. He covers his ears since he can still hear the muffled robotic voice from Akaashi’s wheelchair. If he hums a song loud enough and squeezes his eyes tight, he almost forgets where he is.

Each week, Akaashi recites one more stanza from the poem. Bokuto has to suppress the urge to just look it up and read until the end, wanting to hear it from Akaashi’s mouth. Each week, Akaashi gets sicker and sicker, his mouth nearly freezing up multiple times through his recitations. He chokes on a noodle during lunch one day, and the near-death experience knocks him out for a few weeks, having to skip multiple group sessions. When he shows up again, people nearly drop their food out of pure shock. Akaashi had left an empty space in the group, and nobody questions an empty space. They just move closer together, as if covering up that the space was ever there.

But Akaashi notices Haruko isn’t at the group session. When he asks Fumi, she just purses her lips and shakes her head: the universal sign of ‘they passed away.’ He wonders if she’s in Heaven or Hell. He wonders if he’ll meet her wherever she is and hear her real voice.

Akaashi isn’t too far away from dying either. He’s filled out the paperwork. He’s made funeral arrangements. He’s contacted the cremation place. He’s said all that he needs to all his friends and family. All there is to do now…is wait.

“Koutarou,” Akaashi says one day as Bokuto’s giving him a sponge bath. He remembers a time where he said he’d rather slip and die in the shower than let Bokuto bathe him, hire a nurse, fight tooth and nail to the very end. He never expected he’d be so tired by the end. He thought he’d go out with a bang. But it’s quicksand instead: slow, inescapable, and exhausting.

“Yes, Keiji?” Bokuto asks, his breath hitching in his throat. He tries not to cry around Akaashi anymore. When Akaashi’s absentmindedly watching a game show on TV, he feigns needing to go to the bathroom and instead locks himself inside and sobs into the sleeve of his shirt. He wishes he could one day wake up and be the one with ALS, for Akaashi is the last person on Earth deserving of such hell. He feels so helpless—none of his kisses or hugs or feeble attempts at jokes are enough to save Akaashi. He’s going to die, and there’s nothing Bokuto can do about it except watch his soulmate slip through his fingers like watching Akaashi lobbing a perfect set his way, and no matter what he does, Bokuto’s hand goes straight through the ball. The ball falls pitifully on their side of the net—match set point. The point is irreversible. There’s no way to get it back. There’s no way to win the game. They can reflect on the things they did wrong in hindsight all they want—“we should’ve done this,” “we could’ve done this better”—but there’s nothing they can do to change the game. They lost. Both of them.

“I want to go to Iceland again,” Akaashi says. “That’s my final wish.”

The words ‘final wish’ is a gut punch, and Bokuto has to take a few seconds to reel from nausea swirling in his stomach. He squeezes the sponge in his hands until all moisture dissipates from it, his nails digging into the foam. He tries not to splash the computer as he wets the sponge again.

“Dr. Hirose won’t let that happen,” Bokuto replies, returning to lightly wiping Akaashi’s skin.

“He can’t deny a dying man a final wish,” Akaashi defends. “You can’t deny me my final wish.”

Bam. Straight to the heart. Akaashi always knew exactly what would get Bokuto’s blood pressure through the roof. Because that’s exactly what Bokuto is trying to do. If they do go to Iceland, Akaashi will either die onboard the plane, in Iceland, or on the plane back. He’s not surviving the trip. He will die there. And Bokuto will be left cold and alone.

“Okay,” Bokuto relents, bowing his head so Akaashi can’t see the tears pricking his eyes. “I’ll book it tomorrow.”

…

The arrangements with the airline take longer than Bokuto ever thought since the subject matter is a dying man. He shouts one too many times into the receiver that Akaashi doesn’t have that many days left, and even after repeating and emphasizing that point, it’s as if his brain blocks that fact. It substitutes it instead for the idea that they’re simply going on another vacation, and the two of them are coming back together, not with one in a body bag.

He doesn’t let any of the flight attendants touch Akaashi or his wheelchair. He’s the one who folds up the wheelchair. He’s the one who lifts Akaashi into the first-class seat. He’s the one who touches him because any touch could be his last before his husband turns cold.

“Comfortable?” Bokuto asks, buckling both their seatbelts. “I’ve never been in first class before.”

Akaashi nods, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the headrest. However, his eyes flutter open when Bokuto snaps his fingers in front of him, shaking his head.

“No, we’re watching Despicable Me 2. No sleeping on my watch.” Partly because he wants to watch their comfort movie together one last time, and partly because the mere sight of Akaashi’s eyes being closed gives him indescribable amounts of anxiety.

Akaashi rolls his eyes, which is one of the few things from his past he can still do now, and leans his head against Bokuto’s shoulders as they start the movie. Akaashi wheezes for a laugh since they couldn’t bring his oxygen tanks on board (it isn’t as if he’s going to need them for much longer, anyhow), and Bokuto senses the other passengers shifting uncomfortably in their seats. He couldn’t care less. He’s embarrassed for the other passengers, shifting away from a dying man. Pathetic.

He’s evidently fallen into the anger stage of the grieving process.

When they get to the hotel, the first thing Bokuto asks is when the northern lights will appear. The woman says possibly in two days. He bites his lip and looks down at Akaashi, who blinks slowly to reassure him that everything is alright. He’ll hang on for a little while longer.

They lay in bed those two days, Bokuto listening to Akaashi’s breaths and Akaashi savoring the warmth and fullness of Bokuto’s torso in his arms.

“Are you scared?” Bokuto asks, his voice cracking in the middle.

Akaashi holds up two fingers, meaning ‘no.’

“Will you miss me?”

He holds up one finger, meaning ‘yes.’

“Are you happy?”

One finger.

“Do you regret anything?”

One finger.

Bokuto reaches for his phone and opens the notes app for Akaashi to type. He does it so slowly, Bokuto nearly forgets what question he asked.

“Making you sad. Making you worry.”

“Oh, Keiji,” Bokuto whispers, setting down his phone and hugging Akaashi close, resting his chin on his oily hair. “You’ve only ever made me happy. And annoyed when you’d steal my secret stash of Oreos.”

A sharp breath comes from Akaashi, signaling a laugh.

“It’s the thought of you being gone that makes me sad. You never made me sad. I’m just worried about myself.” Bokuto chokes back a sob. “I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone.”

They fall into silence again, until Bokuto asks one last question.

“What’s the end to the poem?”

He looks down, and Akaashi’s sound asleep on his chest. He slowly and steadily picks up his phone and takes a picture. Akaashi looks…normal in the photo. He looks peaceful. He doesn’t look tired at all. He looks ready.

They arrive at the same lookout point where they had that transformative crash. It seems only natural to end where everything started. Bokuto sets out a blanket and sits down on it and next to Akaashi’s wheelchair, leaning his head against Akaashi’s forearm.

“Are you excited?”

One finger.

“Me, too.”

Before long, the light show starts. Akaashi gasps, but it isn’t one of those ‘searching for breath’ gasps. It’s one of amazement, his eyes widening as the colors dance across the sky, resuming the previous ballet dance they saw three years ago. His eyes, which had since gone dull many years ago, shine like he’s a child. They shine like mirrors, reflecting the aurora in their blue irises. He wants to tell Bokuto to look.

But Bokuto, once again, isn’t looking at the lights.

“Keiji,” he starts, the lights illuminating the wet film over his eyes. “What’s the end of the poem?”

Akaashi’s head lolls to the side to meet Bokuto’s gaze, the corner of his lip twitching into a smile.

Flashes of their life together, all culminating to this moment, streak across the sky in the form of the aurora. White for Fukuroudani’s volleyball uniform, where they first met and became the closest of friends. Green for the pistachio mochi Bokuto always made when Akaashi was sick. Purple for the color of the petunias at their wedding reception. Yellow for Emiko’s collar. Pink for the cherry blossom tree where they confessed their feelings for each other, where he realized his setter was the love of his life. Blue for Akaashi’s eyes. Black for the ink used to sign Akaashi’s will.

Instead of saying the end, the computer recites the poem from the beginning.

When tomorrow starts without me And I’m not here to see If the sun should rise and find your eyes All filled with tears for me.

Akaashi wheezes painfully.

I wish so much you wouldn’t cry The way you did today While thinking of the many things We did not get to say.

Akaashi’s eyes close. I know how much you love me As much as I love you Each time that you think of me I know you will miss me, too.

Akaashi’s hand on the joystick goes limp.

I promise no tomorrow For today will always last And since each day’s the exact same way There is no longing for the past.

Akaashi’s head drops.

So when tomorrow starts without me Do not think we’re apart For every time you think of me Remember I’m right here in your heart.

Akaashi dies before the computer finishes the poem.

He dies 301 days before his 40th birthday. He dies under the northern lights that he first fell in love with more than three years ago. And a part of Bokuto dies with him.

…

Akaashi’s father digs the hole underneath the tree and watches as his mother tips her son into the earth. The ashes land in a neat pile. Fitting. Everything Akaashi ever did was neat and tidy.

His mother breaks down before she can fill the hole. Emiko rushes to her side, their whimpers resonating together.

His father helps his wife out of the way, and Bokuto takes over. He takes one last look at what remains of Akaashi before scooping the earth into his hands and tipping it over, scooping and patting until the hole is filled. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the dirt underneath him darkens. He nearly collapses on top of the hole before Kuroo catches him by the shoulders. But even Kuroo can’t stop the tears. The two men sob into each other’s shoulders until they have no more tears left to cry.

“Petunias were his favorite,” his mother says. She hands Bokuto a bouquet to lay down. He complies, his body on autopilot.

He sits next to the pile of dirt, even when everybody else has left. They all bid him goodbye, kissing him on the cheek, giving him hugs. But he doesn’t register any of it. He just keeps his hand on top of the pile of dirt, hoping that Akaashi is sitting right next to him, his hand on top of his.

Akaashi gives him everything he owns, minus his money. His money is reserved for his parents—to provide them medical care for when they get old because they’re afforded that luxury—for his favorite nonprofits, and the biggest sum is split among various ALS foundations. Bokuto is left with his wheelchair, his crutches, his medications, his too-smart computer, his photos, and most bittersweetly of all, his memory. His body shape etched into their mattress. His scent—eucalyptus and black tea—that bursts out whenever he opens his closet. He’s everywhere and anywhere Bokuto goes. But he can’t bring himself to leave the apartment.

He buries Emiko next to Akaashi underneath the old cherry blossom tree. It’s bare-bones by now, having shed all its leaves and flowers in the autumn. They say Emiko’s death was from grief, but she was growing old as well. It seems as if everybody’s leaving him. What did he do to deserve this? To see all his loved ones turn into ash?

He enters the depressed state of his grieving process. He’s often too tired to eat the food his neighbors and friends bring him. He stopped smoking, which is what Akaashi would’ve wanted, but it’s less so about making Akaashi happy as it is he can’t even lift an arm up to grab the carton and put a cigarette up to his mouth. He just stares at the other side of the bed, his hand resting on the indent left by Akaashi’s body, wishing for his love to fill it once more.

When he finally gains the courage to get up and clean out Akaashi’s closet, a note falls out of one of his jackets when Bokuto tosses them into a pile on the bed. He picks it up and opens it. Inside is a horrible scrawl, barely decipherable. But Bokuto knows the poem all too well to need to decipher it.

When tomorrow starts without me…

The poem has haunted his every waking moment. He never really listened to Akaashi tell the poem. Mostly because it was too difficult to follow along with how little he could speak by the end, but also because he was too focused on savoring every little moment with him, ingraining it into his head. But as he sits down on the floor and stares at the poem, he now has the time—all the time in the world; wretched, wretched time—to read it in its entirety.

Each day is difficult. But with each day, he gets out of bed quicker and quicker. He eats bigger portions and more frequently. He brushes his teeth. He goes to the volleyball courts to say hello to his former teammates. When he spikes a ball, he instinctively turns his head next to him to seek out his setter. But with each day, he eventually stops looking. But Akaashi isn’t gone. He’s in his husband’s heart, just like the poem says. Akaashi’s body is no more, the ashes gone to feed the nature around him. But his spirit is more than alive. It thrives.

Every time he passes by the tree, he swears the tree grows a few more flowers. And every time he visits the aurora on his annual trip to Iceland, he swears there’s one more flash of light than usual in the sky.

#haikyū!!#haikyuu!!#angst #heavy angst #chronic illness #bokuaka #haikyuu bokuaka #akaashi #keiji akaashi #haikyuu koutarou #koutarou bokuto #bokuto #haikyu #haikyu fanfiction #fanfiction #haikyuu #hq angst #hq

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seriouslyhooked · 4 years

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When We Collide (Part 3)

Emma Swan has always known one thing: trust no one but yourself. Unfortunately she forgot her one rule and now she’s paying for it. One bad decision led her to the monstrous ‘Crocodile’ a mobster in New York who goes by the name Gold. Hope seems lost until she meets another person in this underworld, Killian Jones. Despite the place they find each other, a true love blossoms, and they manage to get away. But what will happen when Emma discovers who Killian really is? Will love prevail? Um, yeah, I’m writing this, so duh – it’s all love all the time. Fic features motorcycles, hot guys in leather cuts, and a bit of action/drama. Will end happily, and despite the first chapter, will be light on angst. Part 1, Part 2. Available on FanFiction Here and AO3 Here.

A/N: Hey everyone! So we are back again for another installment of this new fic, and I have to admit it’s been so fun to write this. It’s a strange new tone for me, but I’m trying to marry my love for fluff, and the intrigue/peril of this story that my muse dreamed up. There’s much more to come, but I am also trying to keep chapters shorter this go around. I definitely will end up with more than the 12 I was planning originally, but just in terms of pacing, it’s a changeup to have the shorter chapters that I use to have. Anyway, regardless of length, I hope you will enjoy this installment, which shows Emma and Killian post-Gold while also providing a flashback too. Can’t wait to see what you all think, and thank you so much for reading!

Five days into their drive towards destiny, and Emma was really starting to wonder – how far away was home exactly?

Okay to be fair, she knew where they were headed – a tiny town not far from Big Sur, clear across the country from Gold and his crew. Killian had told her as much weeks ago, but only when he was certain they wouldn’t be overheard. She loved the idea of California, never having been there herself, but she didn’t really account for how long it would take to travel that many miles. They rode and rode every day, but they could be traveling further if Killian would let them. She tried to tell him as much, but he disagreed. Responding every time with thoughtful things that made her heart melt a little more:

“I won’t risk you hurting, love. Not when you are everything, my heart and my soul.”

“You may not realize it yet, but the road can be unforgiving. Best to take it easy, especially when the cargo is as precious as you.”

“Please, Swan, let me have this. Let me take care of you. Trust in me, Emma – I promise, I won’t ever let you down.”

At every stage of this journey Killian had put her comfort first, which was wild since they were really on the run. Still Killian treated this like it was a trip to be remembered, instead of one to be rushed through. Emma was amazed at the places they’d been staying, and how each one was out of the way while still being beautiful and well-kept. They never stayed anywhere too populated, always choosing local hideaways over hustle and bustle or household names, but every place had its own organic beauty and charm. They explored these little safe havens, talking and loving and living together, and every stop along the journey, Emma felt the weight of her fear ease away. The further they got from New York the freer she felt that she was. And the thought of her freedom was so perfect, especially if she could spend that freedom with a man she loved as fiercely as Killian.

“What’s put that smile on your face, love?”

Killian’s words washed over her at the same time his arms wrapped around her, hugging her from behind. She closed her eyes and let out a happy sigh, loving the fresh air and the hum of the natural world around them on the balcony at this little bed and breakfast they’d happened upon. They had ‘the best room’ in the house, which was to say a stand-alone cottage at the back of the inn, and it felt private and peaceful and perfect.

“Just this guy,” she teased, loving the growl that Killian released. Leave it to her man to get jealous over nothing. There were no men in her life like him, certainly none that mattered, and he knew that. Still it was fun when he got all worked up, and the vibrations of the grumble he’d let out mixed with his roaming hands made her body tense in the most pleasurable way.

“Ah, anyone I know?” Killian joked, nuzzling into her neck and laying a kiss on her skin that made her shiver. Unable to resist, she spun around in his arms and melted into him, her hands resting on his chest.

“Hmm, it’s hard to say. You see not a lot of people know him – the real him. He’s mysterious that way.”

“And you?” Killian asked, his voice taut with sincerity as he dropped the charade. “Do you feel you know me?”

Looking into his eyes, Emma saw how important this question was to him. After years of hiding himself in darkness, working with Gold and other evil, vile people, Killian was wary of himself and his worth. She saw the doubts that he carried, the worry in his heart, but she knew this man completely. Honestly, she’d known there was more to him from the start. Something honest and real. But if she’d still needed convincing that he was good and true and kind underneath it all, he’d handed it to her in one perfect, thoughtful moment that sealed the deal and stole her heart…

And there it is: I, Emma Swan, am officially homeless. Again.

The weight of that knowledge cut Emma to her core. For years she had worked day in and day out to claw herself into something resembling stability. After years in her foster homes, and more on the street and living in her car, it meant everything to her to have a place, a real place, to call her own. In fact, it meant so much to her that she’d paid up front to her landlord. She didn’t want to risk him looking for new tenants, so she always paid promptly and in full. This time she’d actually taken it further, giving three whole months rent, just before this all went down. Her landlord was grateful, but still clear with her – just because she paid up front, didn’t mean he’d accept late payments. And now she was late. A full month behind, and just entering the window for eviction. When the clock struck midnight, she’d passed the final day. Her home would now be vacated, cleared out, and everything she owned would be tossed, sold, or stolen.

The reason she knew how this would all go was because she’d seen it many times. Her building was filled with people who for, whatever reason, could not pay the bills. As such, a number of them had been evited, and always with the same cold, calculated precision. The landlord didn’t even show himself. He hired workers to clear it all and used the cops to intimidate people into leaving. It was awful, but it was life. And now it was her life. Damn it, why the hell was this her life?

“Yo, blondie, you gonna get us our beers, or you gonna keep staring at the clock some more?”

The rude call from one of the patrons snapped Emma back into the moment, and she fought tooth and nail to force the tears in her eyes from falling. She had yet to let these men see her pain, and she would die before she ever did. As badly as this hurt, as agonizing as this was, she couldn’t let it show. She had to keep moving, keep going, and just remember that the most important thing was to survive.

The next few hours were all a blur of rowdy miscreants and a lot of ballsy drunks. The worst part, though, was that Killian wouldn’t be by. He mentioned to her the last time he was in that he was going on a run. He’d be out of town for some time, and wasn’t supposed to be back until the end of the week. She’d only known him for a little while now, but it was a disappointment when he didn’t stop in. Seeing him made all the difference in her day. He kept the savages at bay, and though they both did their best to be discrete, she felt his presence, sensed his eyes on her any time they could be, and savored every moment when he came close, asking for a drink or paying his tab at the end of the night.

Thinking of those good moments ultimately got her through the rest of her shift, and through some kind of small mercy, Sydney let her out a half an hour earlier than he normally would. She was excused from after-hours clean up, and for once she took the out, rushing upstairs, hoping to get away from everyone and everything. She reached for her keys, as she came down the hall, but her door was open as she got closer and immediately her guard went up. No way in hell she’d left this door open. She was always meticulous about keeping it shut. Then there were footsteps inside and she looked in to see the one man she’d been missing most of all.

“Killian?” she asked, shocked at seeing him as she raced inside. How was he back so soon? And what was he carrying in that cardboard box? Wait, was that…?

“Emma, love, you’re early,” he said, looking totally caught off guard at her entrance. “You’re shift’s never over at this time. You’ve usually got -,”

“That’s my stuff,” She said interrupting him.

“Aye,” he said, looking defeated. “Well it’s what I could salvage any way. As soon as I heard, I tried to get back sooner, Emma, I swear I did. But by the time I made it, so much was already gone. This was all I could save.”

Emma reached to the item on the top of the box, the one thing she actually cared about – her blanket, emblazoned with her name, and still bearing the same scent of honeysuckle and an ocean breeze that it always seemed to have. It was like magic, that smell, imprinted on the woven bands that made this knitted shrug as long as she could remember. No matter where it was or what it had seen, the smell always remained, comforting her, and making her believe that it must have been crafted with love. It was a sign to her that there had been people who loved her, for however brief a time, and this was their one precious gift to her.

“I’m so sorry, Emma. If I had known this was happening… I tried to reason with your landlord, to pay off what’s due just to buy you more time but -,”

Dropping the blanket back into the box, gently, Emma pulled the cardboard compartment from his hands and tossed it onto the couch beside them. Then she stepped into Killian’s arms, cupping his face, and kissing him surely. There was no other way for her to make him see how much this meant to her. No words could be uttered, no thanks could be shared. All it took was a single second for him to be there with her, holding her close, wrapping her up in a warm embrace that made her feel whole when for so long she was broken. It was transcendent, so much more than just a kiss, and when they finally broke apart to breathe, Emma looked at him and saw the heat and the care and the goodness in his eyes. She knew then that she trusted him. That he was honorable and true, despite the line of work he was in, and that she was scarily close to falling for him, in a total and irrevocable way.

“I can’t believe you did this. No one’s ever cared, I mean, no one even thought…” Emma felt tears threatening again, and she closed her eyes. Unbidden, they fell, and then she felt Killian’s thumb swipe them away as he came to hold her. She opened her eyes again, and smiled through the little bit of crying. “Thank you, Killian. Thank you so much.”

“You deserve the whole world, Emma,” he said, staring at her so intently, a battle going on in his mind that she couldn’t quite read. “Fuck me, just one more taste.”

He growled out the words and pressed his lips to hers again, this time taking things even further than before. This was a kiss of hunger, of passion, of wanting. It was a spark that flared brightly, a flame catching into a burning fiery force, and she loved it. She needed this, needed him, and didn’t realize how dulled and cut off she’d been. To get through this she’d been numbing herself, surviving but not living, but in his arms and with this kiss, she felt so alive. More so than she ever had in her life.

Too soon the kiss was over, and this time, when they broke away, Killian straightened, putting a bit of distance that she hated between them. “Much as I might like to take this further, Swan, I can’t. You’re vulnerable still. Reeling from the day, and if we continue…”

“When we continue,” she said boldly, causing him to shake his head even as that wicked, sexy wanting sparked back to life in his blue eyes.

“If we continue, I won’t ever stop. One taste could never be enough, and two will damn near kill me. If I taste you a third time, you’ll be mine.”

“Yours?” she asked, her heart thudding in her chest even as the voice in her head pleaded with her to make that jump.

“Aye, mine. Right now, my world is ugly, Emma. Far too ugly a place for a woman like you. I need to make it better. Need to find some light before I let you in. But I’m only so strong. The next time you kiss me, there will be no turning back. You’ll seal our fates. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Emma whispered.

“Good,” he replied, grabbing his leather jacket, his hands curling into fists as he put it on and made for the door. Then he looked at her, a million things left unsaid between them for a beat until he finally nodded at the door. “Lock up behind me.”

She nodded, and was going to ask him to wait, but she was too slow. He raced out of the apartment, like he was scared to make good on his word, and Emma was left stunned. Her lips still tingling from the feel of him, and her whole body buzzing in kind. She made her way to the door, following his order to bolt everything in place and then she leaned against the wood, pressing her back against the cool paint finish. Her hand came up to cover her mouth, and she looked around the room, her eyes catching on the box once more. Then she smiled and closed her eyes, knowing that the next chance she got she was kissing that man. Consequences be damned – she was going to be his, and she sure as hell hoped he’d be hers in return...

“I don’t feel that I know you, I know that I do,” Emma said honestly, coming back from the memory and into this moment with Killian once more. At her words, he let out a sigh of relief and she ran her hand along his jaw. He leaned into the motion, clearly loving the feel of her soft skin against his rough beard, and she wanted to give him that comfort and certainty. “We may not know every little detail about each other yet, but that doesn’t change the way I feel. There are ghosts in our past, and dreams of the future that we maybe haven’t shared, but I know you, Killian. I know you and I love you.”

“Gods I’ll never get enough of that,” Killian said holding her close, before making a heartfelt confession of his own. “And there will never be another woman I love so much as you, Emma. You were it for me the moment I saw you. You’ll be it for me until my final breath.”

“Only until then?” she teased, trying to lighten the mood and laughing when he growled again and pulled her so close they were centimeters away from a kiss.

“You know what happens when you tease me, love.”

“Mhmm,” she said, breathlessly confirming that she did as she licked her lips. She waited agonizing moments for him to kiss her but then he surprised the shit out of her throwing her up over his shoulder and heading downstairs and out towards the lake. She shook with laughter, confused as to what he was doing until they reached the sand and he put her down.

“Loose the dress, Swan. I make no promises on your salvaging it if you leave it to me.” She shivered at the command in his voice. Damn he was hot. Especially when he went all alpha like this. Luckily, they’d been dressed for a possible swim, so she had a newly purchased swimsuit underneath.

Holding his eyes as much as she could, Emma delighted in how focused Killian was on her. But then he returned the favor, losing his shirt and she was lost. She always got dizzy seeing him like this, and that feeling lingered through their swim and as they sprawled out on the dock some time later. Letting the heat of the fading summer sun dry them off, Emma hummed out a sound of contentment. Okay, honestly, this right here was the life. But as that thought went through her mind she shot up, looking all around them suddenly frantic.

“Emma what is it?” he asked, genuine concern lacing his voice.

“We can’t be like this, can we? I mean we’re on the run,” she whispered. “Gold could find us. He could -,”

Killian silenced her with a kiss, thoroughly distracting her before explaining his seemingly lax behavior. “Gold has been successfully brought into custody and is none the wiser of my involvement in his demise. His lieutenants have also all been charged, and the henchmen have gone to ground. The syndicate is bleeding, Emma. There’s no one around to ask questions, and you and I are not the only ones in Gold’s service who’ve made a run for it.”

“How do you know?” Emma asked.

“I have my ways,” he grinned, and she rolled her eyes but smiled all the same. “And don’t think for a second that I’ve made any compromises on your safety. We’re relaxing as we are because I have complete and total confidence in the safety of our stops.”

“What did you do, set up some trip wires or something?”

“Didn’t have to – the whole place has surveillance capabilities set up already.”

“It does?” Emma asked, shocked and Killian laughed.

“Aye, love. Tiana’s special forces.”

“You’re kidding,” Emma said, looking at him for signs of jest. “Wait, seriously?”

“Seriously. Her mother runs the inn when she’s deployed, but this place is a haven of sorts. Most of the places we’ll land over the next week will be.”

“Wait, so you’re telling me there’s like a secret, high tech, military bed and breakfast system scattered across the country?” Killian laughed heartily at that and shook his head.

“Not quite. As you’ll recall, not every place we’ve stayed has been like this. There are simply many, many favors I had to cash in from my days with the SEALs. This is one of them.”

“You’re incredible, you know that?” Emma asked and Killian’s look softened as he held her close.

“I’d be anything for you, Emma.”

“All you have to do is be yourself,” she promised, kissing him sweetly but pulling back just as the kiss was set to begin. He groaned at her absence, and watched with warry eyes as she stood up, moving away from him. With motions so fast and controlled she marveled at them he got up too, never letting too much space between them.

“Change your mind, on something, love?”

“Hardly,” Emma said grabbing her dress and toying with it, but not putting it back on. “I was just thinking…” she said, letting her gaze run down his body as she licked her lips. God he was gorgeous, and time was doing nothing to dull the effect he had on her.

“What were you thinking?” he ground out, moving forward again, but she put her hand up.

“Trust me, honey,” she said, knowing how much the little pet name riled him up. “Nothing I’m thinking is fit for this place. Way too public. For what I want, we need a bit more privacy.”

“As you wish,” he promised, once again sweeping her into his arms and making her melt against him. And as he carried her away, no doubt towards a night of steamy passion in his arms, Emma felt what it was to be truly happy. For though the road was still uncertain, and their future might not be totally clear, she had faith it would all work out, as long as they had each other and many more moments like this one.

Post-Note: Okay so some of you are no doubt cursing me for not writing out the smut. I know exactly who you are, and let me just say, I have no intention of defending myself. I was mean like this on purpose, but trust me, I’ll make up for it in this fic many times over. In the meantime, I hope that you guys enjoyed this little glimpse into the present and the past. I want to include some memories from their shared from the dark days as much as I can, and from their lives before Gold too, and the only way I know how to interact with that kind of angst, is to wrap it up in present day fluff. Anyway, hope that you all enjoyed, and I appreciate your cheering me on and letting me know what you think. See you all next time!

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momtemplative · 4 years

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Once Upon a Time.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there lived a Grammy and a Grampy who lived in a wonderful house in Boulder, Colorado. Two young girls, who happen to also be my kids, would come to visit them every Wednesday afternoon. Grammy would meet them at the front door with big hugs and their favorite lemonade in the fridge and their favorite snacks and fruit in bowls on the table. Their mom, who happens to be me, would then go to work massaging old people and then have the rest of the night to herself, time she would fill with heavenly kid-free activities—she would often see a movie in the theater or meet a friend for a drink, or maybe have an acupuncture appointment or hit the library for some writing. Such luxuries! Their dad would bring the girls home and put them to bed, and it would all seem so balanced and beneficial for everyone.

Then, abruptly, most of the parts of that simple paragraph were no more, as are most of the parts of many of the paragraphs for most people. No Grammy and Grampy’s house. No old people to massage. No movie in the theater or friends to chat with in-person or acupuncture or library. Two months later, we ask ourselves, is this the new normal?

Last week, I visited my in-laws for the first time since early March. Opal (she already visited them the previous week with Jesse) and I drove to their house in North Boulder, parked on the street out front, and sat on the sidewalk next to my car, using it for shade. It was toasty in the sun. The maple tree in their front yard still had no leaves to soften the emboldened springtime rays. Grammy brought a chair out into the yard that looked like it belonged in the lobby of a haunted hotel, wooden and upholstered—a benign artifact when out in the light of day. She plopped down. She mentioned the warmth a number of times, while wearing a thick yellow sweater, dark pants and heavy, black shoes.

Opal pulled her booster seat from the car and used it as a pseudo-stool while I sat on the sidewalk with my legs in a V (while Opal concerned herself with the red ants circling my bare knees). We joked that if this went on for much longer, we’d have to equip ourselves with more advanced accouterments for front yard hang-time. I just read about how people are now starting to use masks as a form of boutique expression—sewing sequins and affixing the fabric with dried flowers, like facial art. COVID lawn furniture could be the same: custom-made social distancing party goods—fancy awnings with RV lights, swanky travel chairs and shag-carpet lawn rugs. Kanye could develop his own line. There could be catalogues to order from.

For now, though, the front yard presented more classic, minimalistic furnishings. Grammy brought us a plate of fresh cookies and placed them at the halfway point between us on the lawn. Then she returned to her chair to sit down. I got up and put the goods in my front seat. Then, a moment later, Grammy remembered a few more things. She disappeared into the house, returned, and placed a bag of spicy chips from Trader Joes and a loaf of fresh local sourdough bread at the halfway point, and sat down again.

Nothing like this can happen with Ruth in the equation. She’s four. She would block, slow and question every minuscule action with a sort of stop-motion interrogation. Why are you doing it like that? Why does it look like this? Why is everyone acting so weird?

Ruth hasn’t seen her grandparents since early March. She doesn’t understand social distancing and masks are for Halloween. As for hand washing, well, she still picks her nose constantly. So we’ve kept her visits to video chats only.

While at Grammy and Grampy’s, our time went on like this, with Grammy dropping off merchandise for us in the yard before our very eyes, at least five times, like a part of some wonderful off-tempo choreography. We laughed and chatted as it went. When Grampy came too close with the oranges for Opal, she said— “Freeze! Leave them there on the grass please and my mom will pick them up.”

To that, all the grown-ups shared a sweet, impressed look. My expression said: Wow, the ten-year-old has more confidence and command around protocols then the cotton-picking president.

All the while, bees circled the hundreds of dandelions; they’d land, relocate, land, and relocate. The peony bush just began to launch forth. I know what glamorous blossoms it will grow up to have—soft pink ruffles like a doll dress growing upwards. But for now, it had a dozen stalks with finger leaves reaching, unabashedly, for nourishment.

Tiny purple flowers peppered the lawn, less like the star of the show and more like shading for a backdrop. Opal picked one and handed it to me, and it struck me as a tiny cluster of purple balloons.

I considered for a moment what kind of fairytale world would support a tiny purple balloon cluster. Then, Grammy sat down another pile of goods for us on the lawn. This batch was arts and crafts to take home for the girls to play with, together, and without her.

Everyone is doing the Grandparent Experience differently. It’s a supremely individual thing. Some friends have grandparents living in the same house with them and their children. Some friends continued to visit with grandparents, even as the other compartments of their social lives shut down. Some, like us, agreed with the grandparents on the importance of keeping our distance. (My parents live in Ohio, 2,000 miles down the road, so distance is built in to the equation. Insert sigh here.*)

Our little family-of-four has, for the last eight weeks, spent the lion share of our time in the house. We are (presumably) not little fleshy vectors of contagion. Hell, we are more pristine and untouched by the outside world as we have ever been or likely ever will be. Even if Ruth cannot keep her distance (or her fingers out of her nose), now seems to be a pocket of time when the stars are aligned for us to be the safest to come in contact with.

Add on the fact that Trump is determined to ‘liberate’ the world—May 1 was his target date—and that many local businesses are lighting their OPEN signs (though I don’t plan to get a haircut anytime soon), it does seems like the next conversation to be had is, when’s the grandparent party and who’s bringing the sangria?

I checked in with the oracle of the internet to see if I was on the same page as the rest of the country. But, as per usual for the duration of this craziness, I found myself searching for answers from a vacuum of uninformative noise. I keep hearing, “Let the states decide,” but there is nothing from Polis except that he is joining the republican governors to reopen many non-essential businesses, and that he has a plan. There was much written about taking precautions with grandparents at the beginning of the story, back in March. Lifetimes ago.

The only thing I could find that has been posted since March (and it’s May!) was an excerpt from a larger article from April 21, from a website called CNET. (—?) Two small paragraphs about visiting the elderly—“While the decision to hang out with your grandparents is a personal one to be made by your family, just remember that these are the people who are most at risk at developing a serious and potentially fatal illness if infected with the novel coronavirus.” Buzzkill.

A few things to consider:

1. We could all be silent carriers. From the Associated Press: “A flood of new research suggests that far more people have had the coronavirus without any symptoms, which means it’s impossible to know who around you may be contagious. That complicates decisions about returning to work, school and normal life.”

2. With the impending re-opening of businesses and retailers, comes more exposure for all of us. Flash forward to fall, when schools start again and the kids are on top of one another, we’ll be much more likely to be silent (or loud) carriers than we are now. What this all says to me is, we better get on with it! Knowing full well that we will likely need to dial back the interactions and reinforce more social distancing come fall and the presumed second wave.

3. It’s been proven that the virus is much more likely to be contracted while inside, and that outside is a much safer option for (socially distant) meeting. Seems obvious but good to consider. And thank god it’s spring.

The conversation across my in-laws’ lawn veered in numerous directions. It was the most satisfying of small-talk bits, precious little morsels that, during a typical era, would have likely gone overlooked. We were catching up, which is something you don’t typically have a chance to do with local family. (Also to be noted, we were without the fantastic but impressively distracting Ruth.)

Grammy asked if she could come and park on our street and watch the girls play in the front yard from her car.

Grampy said, “Yea, I wonder when we can start doing Wednesdays again. I miss Wednesdays.” Then, he rolled down the driveway on his bike, a white scarf around his face that, with the shades, made him look like an outlaw.

“Soon,” I said. “Hopefully, soon.”

#momtemplative #mindfulparenting #COVIDwords #onceuponatime

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barnesthesarge · 5 years

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Here For You (3)

Bucky X Enhanced!Reader

Summary: The Avengers have a new enhanced on their radar when they run into you during a HYDRA extraction mission.

Warnings: swearing, lots of time gaps lol

TAGLIST: @dreamyalienz

You watched the TV in absolute disbelief, your own face alongside Bucky’s was on the screen.

“Witnesses say that the woman had some sort of powers, and used them to injure the HYDRA agents. Speculation that this woman is the same one that Tony Stark rescued is currently unclear, we’ve reached out to Shield, but so far we’ve received no response. As you can see from the security footage, which is very graphic, she cuts an agent’s hand clean off. Many are wondering if the Winter Soldier And this new enhanced are on their own te—“ Bucky turned the TV off.

“That channel is garbage. Real big on hating the Avengers.” He plopped down beside you, “Don’t worry about this, I just talked to Tony and while you will have to sign some hefty paperwork, it’ll all be okay.”

“Bucky, this is bad.” He shook his head.

“No this is fine, who cares? You were on the news. It was a blurry shot.” You turned to face him.

“I care! How on earth am I supposed to hop around the world when everyone sees me as a dangerous Enhanced?!” You stood up and started pacing, “That’s it. I have to leave.”

“Woah woah doll, you’re going to burn a whole in the floor.” He put a hand on your shoulder and you pushed him by his chest away.

“Bucky I have to go. Please..I need you to do something for me.” His face fell.

“You can’t go doll, you need to sign the—“

“I need you to delete my file. Everything you have on me, I need to get rid of this.” You pulled the Stark Phone out of your pocket and set it on the table. “Please, Bucky..” He shook his head again.

“Y/N, they aren’t going to stop looking for you, and trust me, when they find you they won’t take you politely. They might go HYDRA style.” He grabbed your wrist and you pulled it away.

“Bucky, I don’t think you understand. I’m leaving, you won’t see me again, and you’ll tell them I’m going to hide back in London, tell them I have a safe house there. I can’t let them find me. They’re going to ruin everything.” You cupped his cheeks. “You have to promise me, delete my file, lie.”

“Let me go with you! I can take care of you, watch your back!” You shook your head.

“Bucky, it’s too risky. When I know it’s safe you’ll hear from me. Just promise me. I won’t tell anyone but you.” You paused, his eyebrows were knitted together, a frown etched on his face, “please.”

Bucky nodded, “I’ll delete what I can. If I do it all they’ll know. You promise I’ll hear from you?”

“When it’s safe Bucky.” You squeezed his hands, “thank you. I’ll talk to you soon.” And with that you went down the elevator and used the car Stark gave you, driving to the docks.

———————————————————————

You loved it in Spain. A year had passed and you loved it so much you never left. While you didn’t work, you had plenty of money under another name. It was easy to blend in, slipping between the chaotic streets, shopping in local markets. It was a new home. Every once in a while there would be a sighting of the rogue enhanced once known to associate with the Avengers, but you knew better now. You wore a mask, concealed your skin and hair, the only distinguishing detail being your purple powers.

Tonight another plane flew overhead and woke you up in a cold sweat, had the Avengers found you? Was that Tony? A swat team? The UN? It was always just a plane.

You got up and got dressed, heading out to the market for fresh fruit, staying within the ordinary. You windowshopped for a while, and then headed home, turning on the TV. You flipped to one of the only English News channel you had.

“Today marks one year of the enhanced that somehow slipped through the UN’s fingers. While there’s no clear image of her, there’s still hope that the Avengers, or anyone can step forward and reveal who she is. Tony Stark conducted a press conference earlier.”

“There’s been word that you’re able to track her, is that true Mr. Stark?” Tony stood at a podium, an indifferent look on his face.

“Don’t you think that if I could, I would? She’d be a great asset to the Avengers.” You blushed, Tony was lying for you. He could find you if he wanted.

“So in your time of helping her, you didn’t even get the enhanced’s name?” Another piped up.

“She gave me a fake name, we’ve already dig into it and the investigation hit a dead end.” He lied again.

“Why can’t you release an image of her face?” A woman shouted, a couple others talked over her as well.

“This is a UN and Shield case, and the enhanced is dangerous. I’m sure if she was confronted in public, there would be mass casualties. We would’ve already if we knew it was safe.” He paused, waiting for everyone to quiet down, “Besides she seems to be living peacefully and taking down suspects silently.”

The footage stopped and the news anchor was back, “we have the rest of the press conference on our website, now back to—“

You turned the TV off and moved to make dinner, settling on chicken and rice. Within the next 30 minutes you sat at your table and ate dinner, watching people walking home to their families.

You thought about Bucky a lot more than you’d like to admit. Sometimes you imagined what would’ve happened if you actually let him come with you. Right now he could be coming home to see you, and sitting down to eat with you. You felt stupid for thinking like this, in such short time you knew him, you fell for Bucky Barnes. The stupidest part was that he probably only found you to be a nuisance now. Dealing with the aftermath of your departure had to of done a number on him.

Without thinking much else, you moved to wash your dishes, thinking about the sad creases in Bucky’s forehead as you told him goodbye. It didn’t matter that he made you promise to reach out when it was safe, by now he would’ve moved on and changed his mind. You longed sometimes to go back and see what could be different if you stayed.

Later you were getting ready for bed, when you remembered something. You quickly raced into your bedroom and unscrewed the case on the light switch, pulling out a flip phone. You had a great idea.

The next morning you purchased another flip phone, filling up minutes on each phone. Then you put your phone number into one of the flip phones and prepared to send it, sending a quick text message to the other.

I believe it’s safe.

You grinned and turned the phone off, wrapping it neatly into a box, you put a bunch of stamps on the box, and addressed it to Bucky’s P.O. Box in the Avenger’s compound. To grab his attention, you put your first name in the corner. You raced to the post and sent the package, paying extra to have it sent right away.

But it it’d been a week, and you hadn’t received anything.

———————————————————————

Bucky hated being in public, Steve was starting to think maybe his anxiety was getting worse. It wasn’t like that. Bucky didn’t want to leave and miss a message from Y/N, it’d been a year, and she still hadn’t reached out, but maybe it was coming up.

“Bucky, you haven’t left the compound in weeks.” Steve had his signature worried face. “Do you want to talk about anything?”

“Steve, for the last time, I’m fine, I just need a break from all the stress.” He lied easily. “I’m gonna check my mail. Get my steps in.”

Bucky went to his P.O. Box, it was never as full as anyone else’s, but that was okay to him. It was weird to see a package, but it made it through screening, so it’s not like it was a bomb. Bucky picked up the white box, turning it over and gasping loudly. He quickly looked around and then grabbed the couple letters in the box and racing back up to his room. Bucky looked the door behind him, ignoring the slam.

Bucky used a knife to cut the tape and opened the box, unwrapping bubble wrap to reveal a flip phone. It was dead, so Bucky pulled the charger out and plugged it in, waiting not-so-patiently. When it turned on, there was a message notification from Y/N’s contact.

I believe it’s safe. Simple, cut right to the chase, classic Y/N.

I hope so Y/N, how are you? Bucky looked at her number and saw it had a foreign number. When he googled it on his other phone, it revealed she was in Spain.

There was a reply almost instantly, I’m doing good, you were right about how lonely being on the run is. I actually really miss having my Stark phone and having people to talk to whenever I needed it. How’s everything in NY?

I miss talking to you if I’m being honest. It’s not fair that you came into my life so abruptly and left just as quick )-: I wanted more time with you. I don’t like it here. It’s too crowded.

I don’t think it’s much safe for me to be on my own. My apartment doesn’t exactly have security. I’m sorry I had to leave Bucky, I didn’t want to leave a friend like that, but I wasn’t ready for “Avenger stuff” you sound just as lonely as me

Are you saying you want to be one now?

An Avenger? Hell no, but if it gets people off my back, I might bite. I hate having to hide now, I don’t know how I loved it for so long. Don’t get me wrong I love it here in Spain, having a normal life, but I’m lonely. It was nice feeling cared about. I watched Tony lie on TV about being able to find me and knowing anything about me, and honestly it fucked me up. I think I’m gonna come back.

Holy shit please do.

Wanna do me a favor and pass the knowledge of me coming back to Tony? I’m gonna take a boat from Spain so it’ll be a bit.

Yes doll, I will, I’ll see you soon.

———————————————————————

“Tony, hey, I’m sorry to barge in like this but—“ Bucky froze, Tony wasn’t alone. Rhodey got up from Tony’s office chair and chuckled.

“I’ll take my leave, Tony please consider, alright?” He left the room and shut the door gently, and Tony crossed his arms.

“You really don’t know how to knock?” He grumbled, Bucky frowned.

“I’m sorry, the door was open, I didn’t think it mattered. There’s something I needed to bring to your attention.” Tony crossed his arms and moved stuff aside on his desk to sit down.

“Is it about your arm? I don’t think the color is flattering either.” Tony sassed.

“It’s about Y/N.” Bucky mumbled, Tony perked up and looked around his office, holding up a finger to silence him.

“That’s still a stupid name for a fish Bucky. You’re wasting my time.” He beckoned Bucky to follow him, and dragged him into the elevator, talking about anything but Y/N. When they got into Tony’s car, he sighed.

“They bugged my office.” He rubbed his temples, “they don’t trust me about Y/N. They know I haven’t been honest.”

“She wants to be an Avenger now.” Bucky blurted, “I um, okay this is gonna sound crazy. Remember how she left under my watch? She didn’t attack me at all. I lied about that. She heard about having to sign the Accords and went nuts. She was getting hysterical—“

“She asked you to delete the file, didn’t she.”

“Yes, she asked me to delete the file and lead everyone on a wild-goose-chase in London. She told me that she would contact me when she knew it was safe.” Bucky confessed, Tony shook his head.

“Bucky, God’s sake, I can’t trust you with her. I can’t believe she convinced you to delete the file. Do you have any idea how much shit I got for having such a weak system that some random woman was able to hack it?!”

“I’m sorry Tony! I wanted to go with her, she just wants to be free and safe and she looked like a trapped animal, she was so antsy and upset. I like her a lot Tony, shit I’m falling for her. But she’s not mine, and I wouldn’t be the one to trap her.” He paused, “Look. Y/N sent me a flip phone in the mail with her number in it, I texted her for a bit and she said she wants to come back, and that she’s finally ready to join us.”

“Give me her number, actually no, give me the phone.” Tony demanded. Bucky pulled it out of his pocket and Tony opened it, scowling at the outdated device. He opened the contacts and started calling Y/N.

Within a couple rings, you answered, “Hey Bucky.”

“It’s Tony.” His voice was flat. “So you’re coming back?”

“Yes, I’ll come back. I’m sorry I left, it was stupid and immature, but I’m ready now.” Tony sighed.

“Look, Y/N, as soon as you get here, it’s not going to be fun. There’s a lot of shit we have to cleanup, I’ll send you a suit to pick you up tomorrow, there’s going to be officials from the UN who’re going to need you to sign stuff. I’ll have FRIDAY brief you on everything you need to say, otherwise Barnes and I are both looking at jail time, alright?”

“Yes of course, thank you Tony. Thank you for covering for me, I know it hasn’t been easy. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

He sighed again, “It will be nice to have you around Y/N. I’ll have a suit tomorrow, so be ready to leave in the morning. See you soon.” He hung up the phone and handed it back to Bucky. “Come on, we have a phone call to make.”

———————————————————————

As soon as you arrived to the Avengers compound, you had a collar placed around your neck, and you were pulled into what you believed to be Tony’s office. Around the room was UN officials, who did not look thrilled to see you. You were forced into a chair and recorded, your official statement of the last year.

Next you had to sign a million legal documents, given a strict set of rules, and you had your own copy of the Accords to read over to next week. Once everyone left, Tony took the collar off and apologized.

“Not everyone here thinks you want to be a good guy. You should’ve heard them.” He frowned, “as much as I don’t like them, its best you listen to their rules, otherwise you’ll be thrown in a prison in the middle of the ocean with a collar for the rest of your life.” He paused, “anyways, I have training set up for you for the rest of the day, so let’s go.” Tony dragged you to one of the basements with a coach.

While you didn’t mind your new training regimen, you hated having to do it two times a day, and the little time you actually had was spent reading the Accords. You hadn’t even seen Bucky and the date on your phone reminded you that you’d been here five days.

You unlocked your phone and sent Bucky a message, You busy right now?

The question is, are you? (-:

Not too busy for you (; come here

Aren’t you stuck reading the Accords all week?

Come read it to me lol

There was a knock on your door, you opened it and Bucky grinned ear to ear, “Hi Y/N.” You stepped aside and let him come in.

“Hi Bucky.” He bit his lip to try and hide how hard he was smiling, before you pulled him into a hug. “Thank you.” Bucky still wore the same cologne.

“For what?” He chuckled, burying his face in your neck, you giggled and moved away.

“For protecting me, from how I felt.” You paused, “Its so nice to finally see you again.”

Bucky sat down on your bed, and looked at whatever page of the Accords was open, he looked just as handsome as you remembered.

“You still need me to read this to you?” You grinned and grabbed the booklet, setting it on your nightstand.

“No Buck.” You sat beside him now, “I just wanted to see you.” He raised his eyebrows, “I’ve been here for almost a week and didn’t even get to see you, it just doesn’t seem right.”

“It hurts me too doll, trust me.” You felt your cheeks heat up, “I wasn’t kidding when I said I hadn’t gotten enough time with you. As soon as you finish this stupid reading assignment, let’s go out. Celebrate new beginnings. I hear that Tony has you on that god awful training regimen? It’ll be like that for two weeks and then you get normal training hours.”

“It’s horrible. I don’t get enough time. And that sounds wonderful, I would love to spend time with you.” Bucky stood up.

“Well, that’ll start when you finish this.” He gestured to the Accords, “And that won’t be anytime soon if you keep hanging out with me.”

You groaned, “Nooo don’t leave me with that thing!” Bucky laughed loudly, his smile was so contagious and you wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of your life sharing it with him. Had you fallen in love with him?!

“Yeah yeah doll, I’ll see you soon once you finish it. Get to it.” He shared one last handsome smile before leaving the room.

You slumped back onto the bed, after spending an entire year away from Bucky, you had somehow fallen for him. Sometimes you’d go to the libraries in Spain just to look at the news of Bucky, to see if he’d done anything new. You’d even gone the lengths of buying newspapers that featured articles of him. You couldn’t imagine how he felt hearing nothing about you, other than the occasional solo mission you did. Thoughts of Bucky grounded you, it reminded you that someone in the world liked you for who you were, the someone who couldn’t stick to one place. Someone who didn’t want to tie you down and keep you, and someone who treated you as an equal. Bucky was an anchor, a reason to try and get better. Now you’d done the dumb thing of falling for him.

He didn’t feel the same way, you could tell.

———————————————————————

Bucky found it hard to stay away from you. He knew you finished reading the Accords, but now Tony had you doing all different kinds of tests. How strong you were, everything your powers could do, combat skills, mission strategies, and areas you needed to improve.

It went on for days, and Bucky was suffering knowing you were in the same building but you’d never been so far from his reach. He was shocked that somehow you both had a closer bond than before you left.

During the year you left, Bucky never went a day without wondering how you were doing, sometimes months went by without a sighting of you, and Bucky thought you were dead, or maybe HYDRA got you.

Everyday, Bucky thought about the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, how witty and strong you were, how endearing it was that you could intimidate everyone. Bucky loved how you were rough around the edges, and soft on the inside. He’d fallen for you ages ago, and now he was stuck with unreciprocated feelings.

At least he had you as a friend, right?

———————————————————————

You knocked on Bucky’s door, you heard him scuffle around in his room before the door opened, “Y/N!” He smiled and opened the door wider. You came inside, his room was simple and nice, with old decorations and old pictures up. “Are you finally available for me?” He teased, coming to stand next to you in front of an old picture of him and Steve with the Howling Commandos. “See something you like?” You rolled your eyes and elbowed his side.

He grunted, “Watch your mouth. Maybe I won’t spend the next couple free hours I have with you. I wonder if Wanda’s around?”

“No no! She’s with Vision, don’t be ridiculous!” He giggled and turned you by grabbing your arms, “I just got you backkkk.” He whined dramatically.

“That’s what I thought. Trust me I could definitely use the rest, but instead I’ll spend my time doing something better.” Bucky smirked.

“Doing something better? Did you mean someone?” He wiggled his eyebrows boyishly and you gasped.

“Okay that’s it I’m taking a nap!” You hollered.

“I take it back! It was a joke!” You giggled.

“It better’ve been, sicko. Hurry up and put on your shoes, you’re wasting our time.”

“Didn’t know I was that repulsive to you.” He fake sniffled and sat down on his bed to put his shoes on. You started back at the collection of photos.

You focused on one of Bucky and small Steve, Bucky had such a beautiful-full-of-life-smile. You knew at once why every girl in the 40’s fell for him. Maybe it was the same reasons you did.

“Do I look better with short hair or somethin’?” You jumped, realizing Bucky had somehow snuck up on you.

“I’m gonna put a bell on you if you’re gonna start sneaking around.” You threatened, he grinned.

“You didn’t answer my question, doll.” You shrugged and looked back at the picture.

“You look handsome either way Bucky.” His eyes widened, “can we go now?” He was blushing now and you felt your own cheeks heat up. “Bucky?”

He snapped out of the spell, “Yes, of course let’s go.” You followed him to the garage and he brought you to his motorcycle again. “Maybe this time you’ll actually get to enjoy the ride, huh?” He handed you a helmet.

He climbed on and you got on behind him, once he got the engine started, his hands went to the handlebars and yours went around his middle. He slowly left the garage and drove down the private road towards the city. Within fifteen minutes Bucky brought you to a nice restaurant, linking arms with you down the sidewalk. When you got to the table he pulled your seat out for you.

“Aren’t you a gentleman?” You teased as he sat down across from you.

“Only for you madam.” He winked and opened his menu, you rolled your eyes at him and opened your own.

“Have you eaten here before?” You asked and he shook his head no.

“A certain Spider-kid recommended it to me.” A waitress came by and asked for drink orders.

You looked around the restaurant decor, it was modern and niche, big windows surrounding the areas. “See somethin’ pretty?” He chuckled from across the table, “I know I do.” You met his eyes and he looked right at you, boldly smiling.

“What are you implying?” You bit the inside of your lip a little to hide that you liked when he flirted with you, he wasn’t supposed to know.

“I’m implying many things, Doll.” He said suggestively.

“Okay, shoot.” You replied.

“M’definitely implying that despite how nice this restaurant looks, you’re by far a much better view.” You raised both eyebrows.

“Is that so?” You chuckled nervously, “are you trying to flatter me into spending more time with you?”

“We both know I don’t have to bribe you to spend time with me.” Bucky looked smug, “I’m just being honest. Have the times changed where a man doesn’t compliment his date?” His face dropped, “Not date..I meant—friend.”

The waitress came and put drinks down and took food orders at the perfect time, you sipped on something fruity Bucky ordered for you quietly. “What kinds of things did I miss out on while I was gone?”

“Oh just a lot of small scale missions, nothing big.”

“No I mean just like fun things the team did.” You smiled at him, watching his brows furrow while he tried to come up with stuff.

“There was a nice Halloween party, Sam dressed up as me by wrapping tinfoil around his arm, I dressed as him by putting on fairy wings and sunglasses, we did secret Santa for Christmas, Tony and Steve helped host the New Year’s Eve party in Times Square...at one point most of the team went on a team bonding camping trip.” He shrugged, “April Fools was the worst, Clint and Natasha had a prank war and just about everyone participated, it was like a civil war.”

You giggled, “I feel stupid for running away. Really really stupid. I was so scared to be part of something like that, but now it just sounds so—nice.”

“Don’t feel bad about running away from things that scare you, I do it all the time. It’s just something we gotta work on, doll.” You frowned.

“What’s with the nickname? Is that an insult?” You questioned and Bucky’s jaw dropped.

“I—no! Uhh, it’s just a term of endearment.” You grinned at him.

“Alright and mine for you will be..” you thought for a moment, “Ah, Fucky.”

“Thanks Y/N.”

———————————————————————

#bucky barnes #james barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #marvel #mcu #bucky imagine #bucky x reader #bucky x you #fanfiction #the winter soldier x reader #winter soldier #the winter soldier

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gloss-glass-ash · 5 years

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Sunday's

Request: no

Summary: the farmer!ashton Au that nobody asked for

Tags: @cal-pal-cuddles

Sunday's were spent at Ashton's after the various services let out. His friends and brothers with their kids would roll up the drive, stirring up dust from the dirt road. The dogs would yip with excitement alerting him of his visitors. He'd turn off the stove top and step outside with a dish rag in his hands.

The kids would happily shout at him, crawling and climbing all around him. They'd tell him about Sunday school and regular school, Luna Hemmings would proudly show off her latest lost tooth while Charlie Clifford acted too cool for the whole ordeal. Eventually, everyone made their way inside and settled in for an early dinner.

Ashton loved Sunday's. On Sunday's he had company more than just his animals and the nosy old bat of a neighbor. He wasn't alone on Sunday's.

"I'm thinking of renting the apartment over the garage." He didn't really know why he said that. He figured it was the only interesting thing he could respond with to the "what's been up with you this week?"

"Yeah?" Calum leaned the chair back, rubbing his stomach through his shirt. "What if I move back in?"

"Cal, I love you, but I ain't cleaning your shit up again."

So, he left that alone and published his want ad in the newspaper. He didn't anticipate getting a response so soon, especially not from a teacher. Ashton arranged to meet with the applicant on Saturday after the farmer's market for coffee at the only coffee shop in town.

Ashton settled into a booth by the window, removed his cap, and unzipped his jacket. He ordered a cup of tea and waited. Teachers, by nature, were punctual and Y/N was no different. She arrived promptly dressed like a Pinterest board with a folder in hand and bag on her shoulder. Ashton threw up a hand.

"Mr. Irwin?" Polite, perhaps southern. Ashton smiled and nodded.

"Miss Y/L/N?" He teased showing his teeth. "Came prepared I see."

"There's a reference from my last land lord, my resume and schedule, and two bank statements." Y/N settled into the booth, ordered a chai, and folded her hands on the table.

Ashton glanced over the papers with pseudo intelligence. He didn't know shit about what all that stuff meant; his roommate interest was entirely about someone to use the apartment on the farm and maybe offer human interaction on day's other than Sunday's.

"Why are you leaving your old lease? Those are swanky apartments downtown." Ashton took a sip of his tea, deciding being nosy was his best bet.

There was a blush of embarrassment to her cheeks. "You can look at my bank statements teachers we don't get paid shi-nothing, we don't get paid anything."

He remembers Liz mentioning stuff before about teachers having to protest for pay and pensions. At the time, he didn't care. Today, sitting before this gentle creature soft with curves and gentle eyes, he decided he did care...a lot.

The two got on nicely so he agreed for her to come visit the following Monday evening and move in the next weekend. Monday evening arrived quickly which left Ashton little time to fix any repairs in the apartment while tending to the farm.

Calum left a lot of his shit there that Ashton placed in a box to give him later. He moved the bed frame toward the window and added some plants,interior designers be damned. Y/N arrived in a hatchback, hair falling from a ponytail. She held a coffee mug in her hand.

"Rough day?" Ashton led her up the stairs to the apartment, his hand hovering over her back close enough for protection without being invasive.

Y/N laughed a joyful sound. "Shakespeare for Seniors was today." Sometimes she was so in the education bubble that she forgot there were people who didn't live and breathe school. Ashton's confusion was apparent as he opened the door. "The language arts and social studies departments team up to study Shakespeare and perform for residents of local nursing homes."

"Woah that's so" good, adorable, amazing, "awesome." Ashton entered the apartment. "It's got a living room, bedroom, full bath, basically an open floor plan." He settled onto the bench by the front door, letting her look around. "I'll do maintenance. Heating and air is pretty stable. However, if we get a winter like last years, you'll have to come in the farmhouse it'll be too cold."

"Can I repaint? And can my car go in the garage below?"

She signed papers right away, paying him first months rent with the promise of last months soon. Ashton waved a hand dismissively and assured her he'd help move her in. Slowly throughout the week he would move her belongings over in his old pickup and trailer.

Y/N was all settled by Saturday night, just in time to snuggle up in bed and watch SNL. She was exhausted from her work week and all the stress of moving. Perhaps she should have considered farm life a bit more, but the idea of not sleeping in on Sunday's hadn't crossed her mind.

A rooster crowed at sunrise, perched on top of the fence just outside her window. Dogs barked consistently. Ashton whistled quite loudly as he went about his daily chores. Y/N managed to lay in until 8. Dressing, she headed out to the barn barn where Ashton was happily feeding his pigs.

"Morning sunshine, I didn't wake you did I?" The worry in his eyes was so sincere she couldn't say yes.

"No, I'm used to getting up early." She peeked behind Ashton to the pig pen. "Not to judge or be ungrateful, but you don't, you know" she slid her thumb across her throat.

"I sell them. I eat bacon. I don't eat my own pigs though, wouldn't feel right."

"They're awfully cute."

Without hesitation, Ashton scooped up a squealing piglet and passed it to her. "You get attached then I can't sell her. Do with that what you will."

Poppy got a little red ribbon tied around her neck by that afternoon. Ashton was quite pleased that the little piglet was staying because it meant Y/N was staying. He waved her in from the barn to his back porch. "My family is stopping by for dinner, you're welcome to join us unless you're busy."

Y/N was not, in fact busy. She had finished posting grades, she was caught up on laundry, and she was painfully single. "Are you sure?"

The sunlight hit his smile in the way only movies could, in the way that made him look like James Dean or maybe even Harry Styles. "I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it, honey." A certain smugness tightened in his chest at the way her eyes widened at his quip. "They'll be over soon."

It had been several years-10 maybe- since she'd been to Sunday dinner but she reasoned her teacher wardrobe would suffice. She searched what food she had brought to move in with, grabbed a bottle of wine, and headed to the farm house. Better to show up with a cheap bottle of wine from CVS than empty handed.

Ashton had changed into sinfully tight black jeans with a crisp white shirt that made him glow. "You wash up nice." Y/N teased handing him the wine. "Not exactly Sunday dinner material but it's something."

Without paused, Ashton took her under his arm and into his chest. A musky yet clean scent filled her senses as he gave her a quick squeeze. "You're the one who needs the housewarming gift, my dear."

Calum arrived before Y/N could worry about making a fool of herself. Ashton kept his arm secured around her while ushering her to the kitchen with Calum. The rest trickled in until they were settled around a table that didn't set level with floor and chairs that creaked.

"Mrs. Y/L/N, why are you living with Uncle Ash?" Charlie Clifford asked, fondly setting next to his favorite teacher. "I mean, I'm not complaining if it gets me an A , but I have a responsibility to report the facts."

"Charlie, you were the school news reported one day and almost got suspended, leave your teacher alone." Y/N quite liked Michael and Crystal. She liked his entire family for that matter. It had been a long time since she sat at a table and felt she belonged there.

"It's okay, Charlie. I'm not living with your Uncle. I'm renting the apartment over the garage."

"And domesticating my pigs." Ashton teased before taking her hand and Cal's to bless dinner and wow she was fond.

During the week, they adopted a routine that switched dinner from each of their places. Wednesdays were interesting, as Y/N watched from her bedroom window while Ashton did yoga with his goats ("I'm telling you they make it better"). Friday's were a little odd, watching Y/N assault his blender making cocktails while watching cable news ("I've had a long week and our country's going to hell in a hand basket I deserve this").

Somewhere between Sunday dinners and Charlie's play or maybe it was after Luna's dance recital, Ashton wasn't sure. Regardless, at some point he forgot what life was like without her. That was scary in the beautiful way. He wanted more than what they had. So, he changed into his best flannel shirt and slicked his hair back. He cut flowers from his rose garden and put a little glitter on.

Marching right up the stairs to her apartment, he knocked upon entering. Poppy squealed from her pet bed zooming right for his legs. Y/N had taken off her heels by the door and was in the process of starting dinner when he touched her shoulder.

"I'd sure like to take you out tonight" Ashton paused, hazel eyes filled with affection, "and maybe kiss you. I'll walk you home after." He winked with a sparkly smile.

True to his word, Ashton took her out, asked and then kissed her, and walked her home the morning after. Things changed for the best. It wouldn't be long before Ashton would move her stuff in into the house with the intention of forever.

#Ashton Irwin imagines #aahton Irwin imagine #ashton Irwin blurb #ashton Irwin blurbs #5sos blurbs #5sos blurb #5sos imagines #5sos imagine #5 seconds of summer imagine #5 seconds of summer imagines #farmer!5sos #farmer!ashton #ashton Irwin au

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tremendouspeachduck · 5 years

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2 Things You Must Know About the REPUBLICAN, AMERICAN INDIAN

No. Really?

above car - 1933 Chevy 3-window coup w/rumble seat

Do you think Pres. Trump is a bully, I don’t. Why?

Talking about the “War on Men” … 5 touchy subjects …

Abortion – should the man have an opinion and be able to voice it?

Free Birth Control HERE and HERE *** Please notice, abortion is not listed as a birth control option

Pres Trump would have never won if it weren��t for the black vote

See Video and this video too don’t forget this one

Men seem to take it to a whole other level. The Bible has something to reveal about name calling. Also, the systematic criticism and self-doubt are what takes it from name calling to verbal abuse – it’s a repeated pattern that, over time, can make the victim believe the insults, making it harder for them to leave (“no one will love me because they said so”).

Beyond name calling, abusers may belittle their partner, either privately publicly, or disguise disparaging comments in jokes. This can be followed up by more judgment and criticism (“You’re too sensitive”) or acting as those what they’ve said is trivial (“I was only joking”). Other examples of name calling include putting someone down, making them feel guilty, or embarrassing and humiliating them.

Healthy relationships don’t use name calling to resolve conflict or express love. Both partners make the other one feel good about themselves. It’s relaxing and fun, and neither tries to “prove” they are the only ones that will ever love them. Instead, each partner sets boundaries on what’s acceptable behavior, including what nicknames or jokes are okay.

Can you think of a great sight to see walking in the city? Click to see it

Recognizing these early warning signs can make the difference between staying in an unhealthy relationship that worsens over time, or ending it and being in one that’s healthy.

Should men care about your makeup? The correct answer is “yes,” if it makes the woman happy. Lips and the smile are what is very appealing to a man.

How to support a woman’s period? No rude comments about what’s in the trash bin, about her being moody… no jokes, no nothing. It’s ok to make her laugh, laughter is good medicine BUT do not joke about it being “that time of the month again”.

By knowing her cycle, you can be more aware and sensitive to her changing moods and physical discomfort. This develops a deeper trust as your woman knows you are really present with what she is experiencing. Put it in your calendar so you have a heads up.

Interestingly, having an orgasm can relieve menstrual cramps, though your attitude during the whole cycle will determine whether or not she’s willing to explore this. Again , this is probably best to bring up when she isn’t in the middle of it.

She may act like she doesn’t want you there, but remember she may actually desire some TLC. Your full presence is the best medicine. She will love you for this!

Help create a cozy environment for her, and cook her comfort food. Hugs are also great. The main thing is to not be an ass. (closing down and or not wanting to deal is being an ass)

Finding ways to be positive is the key to building a healthy body image and positive self-esteem. What we read and watch has a huge impact on how we feel about ourselves. Because of this, we should be very particular about the magazines and websites we will look at. We might love reading about the interesting things that people, and women in particular, accomplish. Shopping centers aren’t only sucking your money, they are also sink holes for body confidence. Getting caught up in a conversation about the way someone else looks, whether they have put on weight and so on, inevitably leads to thoughts on our own appearance. Don’t participate. Touch is an incredibly powerful way of reinforcing the way you feel about your body. And if you’re touched gently, with love and care, you will feel incredible. So, try to practice gentle love and care with yourself. Wash your hair the way the hairdresser did. Wash your face the way a beauty therapist would. Give yourself a massage when you’re applying moisturizer. It feels good. And it reinforces a positive, kind relationship with your body. Meditation is an incredibly effective tool for clearing away unhelpful thought cycles. 10 minutes. 5 minutes. 1. Whatever. Just sit, close your eyes and breathe.

Eating respectfully means accepting and being mindful of the nutrients that your body requires to function. It means eating plenty of good food and ditching sugary and pretend foods that compromise our digestive health, our hormonal balance, our mood and energy levels. The flip side of eating respectfully is to move past the binge-fast guilt cycle. If you eat something unhealthy, please don’t punish yourself or try to restrict caloric intake. Healthy eating and body respect is not about food deprivation. It’s about food celebration. When you look in the mirror, try to replace any negative thoughts that are pushing their way through with an affirming thought about the way you look or feel.

People who have purpose are too busy getting stuff done to worry about how they look. In the end, creative expression, passionate parenting, effective leadership and growing the best-goddamn-tomatoes-in-the-neighborhood is far more satisfying than making sure you look good in an outfit at all times.

Positive self-image is a habit, not an attribute and your partner can be helpful.

This is an excerpt from my post: THE IROQUOIS CONFEDERACY: THE “SAVAGE” EMPIRE.

The Haudenosaunee (Iroquois: Mohawk, Seneca, Oneida, Onondaga and Cayuga) really cherished population stability. Being that their population was so limited and ever diminishing due to disease outbreaks and near constant conflicts, the Haudenosaunee highly preferred losing as few men as possible. They usually evaded fighting armies that outnumbered theirs as well as avoiding fortified enemy positions and fighting pitched battles. The Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) preferred instead to employ ambushes, strike preemptively, and launch lightning fast raids under the cover of darkness. The Haudenosaunee would travel deep into enemy territory in very large numbers to scare off potential enemies from attacking them before breaking up into smaller war parties, after which these war parties would utilize swift and stealthy attacks usually in the form of ambushes or night raids.

Closer Look by Doug Hall.

Another tactic the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) employed was after traveling by way of canoes under the cover of night they would place rocks in the canoes to weigh them down and cause them to sink out of sight They would then speedily assault the enemy in coordinated attacks, vanish back into the wilderness and return to their canoes before the enemy had enough time to recuperate, assemble and counterattack. With the deadliness of firearms introduced into the equation, the Natives learned to fire at enemies from behind the cover of trees instead of the European practice of firing coordinated volleys from fixed formations.

One Step at a Time by Doug Hall.

One disadvantage the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) had over the Euro-American colonies was that Native populations were constantly diminishing and fluctuating. The Euro-American colonies surrounding them, on he other hand, were growing and receiving a constant flow of immigrants with the occasional military reinforcement from Europe. The limited number of Natives as well as their fear of dying and becoming lost souls, urged them to retreat from battle more readily than Euro-American forces – even after just a few casualties. They used safer methods of combat like the previously mentioned ambushes, night raids, espionage, and scorched earth tactics: destroying their settlements or crops in order to retreat and deprive the enemy of shelter or resources.

A Quick Glance by Doug Hall.

The Natives that wanted to lead a proposed raid against a perceived enemy would send a messenger with tobacco tasked with expressing the purpose and details of the mission, asking them to join their cause. The Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) who decided to engage in said raid would first take part in the smoking of a pipe filled with tobacco. Before leaving for the raid there would be a feast and dancing, during the ‘Dog (War) Feast’ the warriors would engage in a ceremony called the ‘striking-the-warpost’ where they would sing war songs, dance, and boast about their military exploits. After each achievement is mentioned the warrior strikes a red-painted post with their weapon (club or hatchet), the young Natives that had yet to have achieved any great feats simply danced and struck the warpost once.

A Moment Away by David Wright.

If these young Natives had proven themselves to be brave warriors during their expedition they would be seen as men and accepted as a warrior by being given their first feather. These young braves could also attain higher status, honor and prestige. I read of one story of an elder who joined in but in place of dancing he performed an awe inspiring passionate reenactment of his life as a warrior, a deep performance that displayed an array of emotions as he described all that he had experienced and accomplished throughout his lifetime.

man on right - Carson Cooper is a member of the Tlingit and Haida tribes and an Alaska native. Lee Redeye (on left) is a member of the Seneca tribe and was raised on the reservation in Irving and in New Mexico. Both attorneys are relatively new to the law firm Lippes Mathias Wexler Friedman LLP , with Cooper having joined in 2017 and Redeye earlier this year.

Another attorney, Owen Herne, branched out on his own after beginning his career in corporate counsel for a tribe. He is a member of the Mohawk tribe and runs Herne Law PLLC.

These three local attorneys in Buffalo, NY took different paths to focus on Indian law, but they share a bond in the desire to build careers around their ancestry.

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The Jogah, or Jungies, are a race of small humanoid nature spirits from Iroquois folklore, sometimes referred to in English as “dwarves” or “pygmies.” They are usually invisible but sometimes reveal themselves to humans

After nightfall, the call of the Whip-poor-will signals their arrival. It is important to leave baskets of food, such as corn cakes and berries, or even meat in the woods for them. Those who see the Little People should not look directly at them, they think it’s rude. If they catch you staring, they might point a finger at you, rooting you to the ground, while they take your belongings. Another rule is don’t speak of them in the summer, when they are most active.

At this time of Bad Spirits, there lived a medicine woman. One night, during a terrible storm, she heard the whip-poor-will. When she looked outside, the bird wasn’t to be found, but a small boy stood in the rain on her doorstep. It turned out he was a grown Jogah, who told her to come help someone who was sick. Though the storm was fierce, he led her through the woods a long way.

Suddenly, the storm seemed to stop as they began to descend into the ground. They were in the realm of the Little People. Weegun led her to a beehive shaped chamber of rocks. Inside, a very old woman lay in bed, very ill. The Makiawisug told the medicine woman that this was Granny Squannit, who must be made well. Granny Squannit is very powerful, and she is known to cause storms when she argues with her husband. Her illness was the reason for this storm. Worse, healers often look to Granny Squannit when the need is dire for help in healing, and here she was the one who was sick. The medicine woman treated Granny Squannit for nearly a moon before she got better. In return for restoring Granny Squannit’s health, the Makiawisug gave the medicine woman a basket of gifts and told her to remember them. She was blindfolded and taken back home.

Only when she returned did she open the basket. Inside were quartz crystals, painted skins and bunches of herbs.

People in the USA have natives who are very spiritual living maybe next door. Embrace your neighbor - let’s get back to our community roots.

Community involvement is the solution to mass murder/shootings

Close your eyes, lean head back on pillow or head-rest, take deep breaths and listen to the story unfold Special Cherokee Nation Song video

nice fire & listen to music flute music vid Do you want to learn the Mohawklanguage? the sacred horse song See My fav horse

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Please leave message below, then Go To top, nav to previous or next

#american indian #ai #iroquois #south dakota #tamara st #tamara #politics

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bhavnasblog-blog · 5 years

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Kedarnath Trek

My first proper introduction to Kedarnath was post the tragedy that struck it in 2013.

I was roped in by Wizcraft and Entertainment Production House to do a live charity show for Star Plus to collect funds to help for relief and rescue.

From learning about Kedarnath to having the privilege of inviting the first man who flew the helicopter to give an overview of the extent of damage caused to being in constant touch with NIMS until they built the new trek route – Kedarnath became a part of me!

It was finally in 2017 that I finally decided to embark on the journey myself.

Mumbai to Dehradun by flight and then a hired car to take us to Sonprayag – the base of the trek, was a simple plan.

The drive from the airport with the usual traffic jam at Rishikesh was pleasant until the sun set.

Before that the driver had taken the route into Badrinath and only after an hour of driving on the road did we realize that we were on the wrong route.

Treading back to the point where we had to take a right, we saw quite a few landslides and rescue operations at work simultaneously.

The night drive into Sonprayag was anything but pleasant.

The roads were bad because in the month of July, the monsoon had set in and the nightfall wasn’t helping much.

The saving grace was the hotel which happened to be one of the best in the small town.

Except of course for flies!

The deluxe room had a lovely balcony but one couldn’t open the door, because that would be an invitation to hundreds of flies, which would then not leave the room.

The next morning we took the hotel car and went to the market wherein there is the government office which makes your biometric pass, mandatory if you are traveling to Kedarnath.

The small little office had no electricity for a half hour. But once the power came on, it didn’t take even 30 seconds to get the biometric pass made.

Not really knowing how the 18 kilometers would be, the next morning, we tried our best of calling all the helicopter carriers asking them if they had seats available. We were out of luck.

Trekking was the only option and a little reluctant at first, we decided to go for it.

The hotel car dropped us at the same spot like the day before where we were pounced upon by guides.

The first one sounded reasonable and decent enough and we agreed to go with him. Little did we know that he was only an agent and would hand us over to others.

From Sonprayag the walk of about a kilometer and a half with a running stream on the right are the first steps towards heaven.

With excess shooting luggage on our backs, it would be a difficult trek but we were by now raring to go.

A shared car from there takes you the next 5 kilometers to Gaurikund.

For a mere 20 rupees per passenger, we were at the Gaurikund parking lot in less than ten minutes.

Before we could alight from the car, rain was greeting us.

Thankfully having read a lot about the place, we were ready with our ponchos. No, not raincoats! Ponchos. Which are more ideal for mountain trekking and when you have luggage on your back.

The flight of stairs from Gaurikund were heavy and the rain stalled us for almost an hour.

Sitting at a local chai stall, I started chatting up the locals asking them their personal experiences of the 2013 tragedy.

They all had stories to tell of loss, of faith, and most importantly of things returning to normalcy.

Within no time, our guide who had earlier been racing up and down because he couldn’t manage to find boys, and had gotten into an ugly squabble, finally appeared with two teenagers who were supposed to accompany us the rest of the way.

The guide’s job was done and he put us on our mules and wished us luck.

I remember literally crying as it had been years that I had ridden a horse. A luxury which I had experienced growing up because back in the day, Juhu beach was allowed to have horses and camels.

This terrain was difficult and the mule wasn’t a huge, sturdy one. Unlike a horse!

There was no turning back now. The only way was the way forward.

Chanting Om Namah Shivay, I went from screaming everytime the mule climbed a step to enjoying the scenery around in no time.

The first stop was Bhimbali where we alighted the mule after almost an hour.

The mule had sips of water and we had some light snacks before setting on the journey once again.

I remember looking at the road signs and thinking to myself, we are never going to make it to the top.

You never really get used to the motion of the mule because the trek route is not a steady one. At times there is a climb, or a downhill or steps, it is like being on a roller coaster for hours on end.

The most important tip of the day was to pack light and carry only bare minimum essentials, but we were stuck with carrying all our shoot equipment and that loaded on our backs was making each step difficult.

It would even maybe easier to walk all the way if you are not carrying too much luggage.

I have to admit that looking at much older men and women who were walking it up slowly and steadily, it did put me to shame more than once during the entire journey.

NIM has done a wonderful job of building sheds to protect people from the random mountain rains and pit stops for mules to feed and drink and also places to sit.

On the way the guide pointed to Rambara which used to be an entire village enroute to Kedarnath which was washed away in the 2013 flashfloods and the site was scary.

No remnants of the place now were visible.

A little after Lancholi, the second pit stop, where some people halt the night before trekking the next day to Kedarnath, comes a point where the path is covered with snow and it is very likely for even the mule to slip and fall.

We decided to get off the mule just before that point and walk it from there on for a bit.

The wet ponchos and the cold breeze were making it difficult to walk on the upwards slope and we found ourselves stopping after every 15 to 20 steps.

After about an hour of walking, we found our mules and our guides lazing and decided to hop back on.

There are several places on the trek route, where there are no railings and one is constantly under the fear of the mule going astray and jumping into the valley.

I must’ve given my mule a scare a couple of times with all the screaming.

Having started at 10 am on the mule from Gaurikund about 3:30 in the afternoon was when we finally reached the point till where the mules are allowed.

It was a 2 kilometer walk even past this point.

We were lucky to have been approached by Ganesh whose job was to hunt for guests to rent out rooms to.

He offered to carry our luggage as we slowly made our way to the top.

This is the toughest part of the trek because after 5 to 6 hours on a muleback, every part of your body is literally aching and with not adequate oxygen at that high above the sea level, it is a task to walk for 2 kms.

But the first moment you lay your eyes on the Kedarnath temple with its magnificient backdrop, every pain, every ache, every difficulty is forgotten in an instant.

Trekking to Kedarnath once in your lifetime is highly recommended.

More about tips in the next blog.

To watch the trek video, click here

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUwTsyAH6RA

#kedarnath #uttararakhandtourism #ChaarDhaam

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miyotesse · 5 years

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Every day

Make sure you wash every day. (don't use palm oil soaps though. Or cruelty tested ones. Or any shampoo in a plastic bottle)

Brush your teeth. (Fluoride is the devil's work and will rot your brain, so be careful of that. Also, no plastic)

Eat a meal in the morning. (Organic food, buy it from local shops not the big corporations otherwise you're contributing to the world's downfall. Also, no plastic wrappers)

Make your bed. (Synthetic fibres have microplastics so don't buy those cheap ones. Also, avoid anything made for less than minimum wage by someone not in a union)

Put on clean clothes. (Again, synthetics, expensive and unions. Also, nothing that came in a plastic wrapper)

Go to work. (Your car needs to be on at least 60mpg otherwise you personally are killing the planet. Just buy a brand new electric car instead, but not from Tesla because a billionaire owns it. Also, no plastics involved in the car at any point. If you do insist on driving a planet killer, make sure to turn it off whenever you stop moving otherwise you're needlessly pumping pollutants into the air)

Arrive at work. (Be sure to be nice to everyone, regardless of wether or not they deserve it. Every customer is always right and deserves your full attention even if your boss, who is always right, has told you to do something else. Make sure you don't work for an evil corporation and that you're not doing anything that could offend anyone. Also, you need to be in a union, or not in a union because they're evil or good, no-one's really sure)

Do your work. (9+ hours a day on your feet, running here there and everywhere, lift the heavy things, move the bulky things, carry the hot things, remember where everyone is and everything goes and KEEP SMILING and always be polite and never ever ever ever let out that you might not be happy with this situation because not being happy means you're not a T E A M P L A Y E R and that is the worst thing)

Eat your lunch. (Don't eat any animals because they have feelings. Don't eat any plants because they are needed for the planet to survive. Sustainable, locally sourced, line caught, home grown, home made (OH YEAH DON'T FORGET TO MAKE YOUR LUNCH BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE). Never let the cracks show, keep on SMILING)

Finish work. (An extra 15 minutes today, unpaid, to sort everything out. And yesterday. And tomorrow. And every day. Never paid, never acknowledged, never THANKED, never rewarded. Don't slouch, don't stop, never rest for a moment or focus on anything other than work. You're here on the company's dime!)

Do you need food at home? Did you check? (Whoops that's another thing to do, how could you be so forgetful?)

Arrive at home. (Alone? Too bad. At your parents? Too bad. Living with someone else? Don't forget all THEIR needs too. Kids? HAHAHAHA good luck fucker)

Spend some quality time doing the hobbies that you love. (Gamer? Ridiculed. Anime fan? Ostracised. Artist? It's just drawings, do it for me for free. Writer? UPDATE UR FIC NAO WHY HAVENT YOU POSTED IN EIGHT HOURS? Tired from work, tired from SMILING, tired from living, tired of existing)

Organise a rally. (Politics? Haven't your heard? Signing petitions, being worried, that's not enough, you have to be active, you have to BE the change you want to SEE. No-one's going to do it for you, no-one's going to rescue you. Why aren't you doing more for the community? Why aren't you doing more for the town, the state, the country, the world? Lazy. Idle. Layabout. Good for nothing. Malcontent, worthless, poor, disabled, marginalised, OTHER)

Relax with some quality entertainment. (Who did that man hit? What racist thing did she say? Is the corporation that owns the corporation that owns the studio that owns the warehouse that this show was filmed in secretly burning babies for fuel? If you don't know, you're a villain for laughing when that thing happens. Want to discuss it? IF YOU DON'T SHIP MR a. WITH MR q. YOU ARE A HOMOPHOBE AND DESERVE TO DIE. Send death threats to the creators or you're not a true fan. Why aren't you angry? Why aren't you outraged? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?)

Get ready for bed. (Turn off the lights when you leave the room, Las Vegas is lit up like a Christmas Tree but the red dot on your TV is killing the planet. Sort the rubbish, plastics, cardboard, glass, paper, compostable, burnable. Prepare for tomorrow, why are you crying, everyone does it, everyone is better than you, everyone is coping but you're not, why bother?)

Curl up in bed, and get some sleep. (Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?)

.(Why am I alive?)

#depression #daily life

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cloudyyoonji · 6 years

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Study Love.

Summary: After a long day at university, you’re left stressed. But Jungkook is always there to save you from your stresses.

Jeon Jungkook and Reader (Y/N).

Genre: Fluffy.

Word Count: 1363 words.

Authors Note: Hello guys! Here’s another JK imagine to ease your troubles!

Edit: to anyone who has seen this post, originally it was an angst uni imagine. But I was unhappy with the writing so I decided to change it and make it a fluffy uni destress imagine, as Im sure it relates to a lot of people’s stresses right now. Again Thankyou for the support and enjoy!

_____________________________________

University, the best years of your life some say. Yet, university had easily worked its way into being the most stressful part of your life. You were really beginning to doubt if your degree was even worth it anymore.

But of course, he’s there.

Jeon Jungkook, Your boyfriend of 5 years. He’s been there all the way through it. Though the application process all the way to the studying for your final exams that were in a few weeks.

Studying was tough, but you were almost at the end. And it would be so worth it.

You sigh, signing your name amongst the thousands of others on the lined paper. Exam season unfortunately meant a jam-packed library.

Sitting down at a small desk in the corner, you pull out the books from your bag. A light wind generated from your rapid flipping of pages tousles your hair, your eyes scanning over the blank pages for a sign of your cursive handwriting.

Expecting the few lines of a summary, youre instead met with the small, neat handwriting of your boyfriend.

You roll your eyes at the note, a smile gracing your lips. These were special moments you cherished.

You were both so busy that small, precious notes were the only way you two could comunicate in the day.

Closing the book, you reach for the small stash of palm cards in your planner but instead.

“Fighting!”

You can’t help but laugh at Yoongi’s messy scrawl.

Had everyone written you a note of motivation?

Taehyung, than Seokjin, Hoseok, Namjoon and even Jimin, all seven of the boys reminded you to stay on top of your studies, and remember to take a break when you needed it most.

Sighing happily, you began your summary on your essay.

These boys knew just what you needed today.

How long you actually studied, you had no idea. But the ringing of what signaled the end of a hard day of studying made you race to your car, desperate to get home.

Today, the beautiful evening pink sky made you feel somewhat better about your study, but made you even more excited to get home.

*****

Shoving the keys into the door, your mind is pounding with the positive words of the notes and with the sligh headache of long term study. You remind yourself to bring you glasses with you tomorrow.

“Hey!”

His silky voice is music to your ears, your preoccupied mind melting away in an instant, but the sight of your planner clutched in your hand is enough to arise the bittersweet reality of today. You still needed to study.

Sighing slightly at the work ahead, you walk into the kitchen, dropping your bag onto the tiled floor beneath you.

You’re met with the gaze of your boyfriend, who stands in the kitchen, coffee in hand. His eyes are glazed with worry as they scan your face.

You smile brightly, assuring him that you were just tired. He mirrors your smile, satisfied that you were okay.

Putting your planner down, you hummed in procrastination, Jungkook raising his eyebrows at you. He knew your procrastination habits were bad.

“Let me guess, you’re not going to do that.”

“Nope.”

He laughed at you, “So what are you going to do?”

You smiled, a perfect plan for tonight forming in your mind.

“I’m going to go have a shower.”

The warm water washes away your troubles, settling yourself on the couch wrapped in the comfort of your favourite blanket to further relax yourself. The random movie playing on the television doesn’t quite have all your attention as you wait for him. But the moment he walks in, you feel yourself relax a bit more. He sits down next to you, estranging no words as he moves to get comfortable.

As moments pass, your studying mind eases just by his presence.

“Y/N.”

Your eyes shift from the tv in front of you to your boyfriend.

But his eyes are already trained on you. Your heart pounds at just the site of him.

“Hi.”

You smile at the simple words. “Hi.”

Laying his head on your shoulder, you hear him sigh in content.

This was rare, the two of you being at home together, uninterrupted. One or all of the boys were normally over after they finished practice. And sometimes you weren’t home until late hours in the night, staying up at the local library drilling the countless words sequence into your head.

“You know how that I’m so proud of you right?” He asks, pulling you a little closer to him.

Nodding, you take in his rare scent and presence.

“Then you’ll believe me when I say you’ve been overworking yourself?”

Sighing, you nod again. It’s true. The exams, now less than a week away, we’re being to replace your boyfriend. The desk now your bed, and the words formed by your pen replaced the texts from phone.

But somehow, you still couldn’t get your head around this essay, and it was stressing you out.

“You’ve been so busy getting ready for the next comeback and you’re always so tired or busy… I didn’t want to bother you with a meaningless essay.” You tell him. It was the truth after all.

Amongst all the positivity in your life, this was one you couldn’t really control. And you wanted to be able to do it yourself.

This time it’s his turn to sigh. He shakes his head at your words.

“Jagi. Seriously, I don’t care if you wake me at 3 in the morning to tell me you’re having a problem studying. I can help. I want to help. These exams are hard, and I want to help as much as I can. You know that I love you unconditionally, and you know I hate seeing you under so much stress? So please, let me help you somehow. ”

His words hit you right in the heart, you’re eyes avoiding him in guilt. You’re speechless at his sincere words. It had not even occurred to you to ask him for help while you two were at home like this. You were so determined to just spend time with him that you... you procrastinated a lot, than made up for lost time at the library.

But Jungkook has his own plans to help you de stress today.

Taking your hand, he pulls you up from your comfortable spot on the couch and guides you to your shared bedroom. Gesturing for you to lie down, as he climbs into his side of the bed. You obey his gesture, climbing into your own side, and pulling the covers over yourself.

“What are you -“ he cuts you off with a finger to your lips.

“Cuddling.”

His lame reply makes you smile, rolling your eyes a little at his goofy smile. The essay completely gone from your mind.

He pulls you close, intertwining your limbs to ensure there was no gap between you both, your head pushed into his chest.

A soft smile graces your features as you pull back to take a look at him, your noses now touching. He laughs at the gesture, making you shyly pull back a bit more. But your shyness only makes him laugh more, instead, he opts for a different approach to your shy nature - closing the gap between you both.

His lips are soft on yours, the kiss being slow but full of passion. Every brush of lips against lips sends shivers down your spine. The quick swiping of his thumb on your cheekbone and the silent shaky breaths calming the raging storm in your mind, the memories of today completely melted away by this moment.

He was worth it all.

His touch, his kiss, his breath. It is worth all the short amount of time you’re weren’t studying.

You smile into the kiss, Jungkooks touch sending ripples of shivers down your body. When the kiss is broken, you both are left completely breathless.

“I love you. So much.” Your breath, your eyes flicking up to meet his warm brown ones.

He smiles, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

“And I love you more.”

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terri9274 · 6 years

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Taylor’s Unreleased Songs

This is me trying to coalesce some of her unreleased songs and how I interpret a pretty clear queer reading. I might do more than one of these, not sure. I’m definitely not a lyric analysis person but I’ll highlight the songs and some choice lyrics I think are very gay-coded and about her experience as a young gay teenager. Now, who could these songs be about you may ask? For most I don’t know. I don’t really know when most of these were written but most of her unreleased songs were written Pre-2006, prior to the release of her first album. So in that vein, some of them could be about her high school girlfriends, Lacey and Kelsey. Or an unknown crush or hook up. Okay, let’s get into this. Most of the credit for lyrics goes to AZlyrics.com. Most of the songs I’m gonna talk about are here.

“Angelina”

There’s some posts about this already around here and an amazing analysis by @that-curly-haired-lesbian here EDIT: This was written much younger than I thought. She wrote it in middle school in 2002(x)

“Being with my baby”

All is quiet in the world tonight Catching stars and fireflies The summer sings a lullaby With just me and my baby On the hood of his daddy's car Pass around his old guitar Bet mama's wondering where we are It's just me and my baby The world is spinning round Cause look just what I've found

Ooh, life's so sweet right here Ooh, keeping it young and crazy Ooh, just wanna stay right here Cause nothing's quite like being with my baby Driving home by the river side Wishing I could slow down time Taking pictures in my mind Both me and my baby The car pulls up and I'm home too late We didn't take that interstate Back roads was a better way For me and my baby The closer that we get Oh, I can't leave yet

Look at what we've found So turn that car around

This reminds me of “Our song” with the subtle-ish sneaking around and the mama lyric. Otherwise cute af song. What if this is about the same person “Tim Mcgraw” is about. She mentions summer in both songs. It seems like she wants time to slow like they only have the summer left like “Tim Mcgraw”. The whole car date under the stars seems familiar(and gay). What if “Tim Mcgraw” is about Lacey, her first girlfriend. The timeline of what we know about Lacey and her fit. Written in 2004(x)

“Better off & “Fall back on you”

Talked about these songs here (x) EDIT: “Better off” written in 2004. “Fall back on you” written in 2005.(x)

“Closest to a cowboy”

Snap buttons on a denim shirt Blue jeans and a little dirt That’s the closest you’ll see me Feet hanging out a pickup truck Crazy and a little rough Running free That’s the closest to a cowboy You’ll see me Before I met him I was so sane and grounded Before he taught me how to lie And crawl out the window I learned the dirt roads And I got my heart broken Cause that cowboy taught me how to cry And how to let go I thought there for a little while Every sunset I’d be a riding off with him

It was all a little Wonderful and strange But I’ll never look At a sunset the same light

There’s sneaking around again that is similar to “Our song”, which is important to note she wrote around the same time, like 2005, like most likely most of these songs. What is this is again about the same person “Tim Mcgraw” and “Our song” are about(x) Boyfriend Taylor for the win!

“I know what I want”

Don’t try me Don’t fight me You be you and I’ll be me They say I’ve always known What I wanted My friends and enemies Will tell you it’s true You will find out I always get it I know what I want And it ain’t you Your mum and daddy’s walls Are covered up in pictures of you You never met a mirror That you didn't look again into So sorry, don’t worry I’m sure there are so many girls Who love you like you do

Oh baby, don’t persuade me I know that you ain’t used to no So let me say it real slow

This song is badass and GAY. I love a Taylor song that’s feisty and self-assured and confident. It could be about a guy bothering her even though she has been so clear she knows what she wants and it will never be him(or any guy), especially not some conceited asshole who won’t leave her alone. I love this cuz listening I’m like “You go, Taylor tell him off that you’re fucking gay!” Lol. There are some myspace comments of Taylor’s that are similar the theme of this song a little that I was fascinated by so here they are.

Dec 29, 2005 2:44

Lil’ Kels.

hahahhaha

I looove love love your new pictures. You are pretty,

You’re right.. you better watch out.

Because I do what I want.

-T-

What if this song is at least indirectly about Kelsey? Am I losing my mind? Possibly, possibly. The poem really just reminds me of this song, but like a sadder side of the coin. Either way, this is MAN-HATING LESBIAN WITCHERY. I’m gonna leave you with some wise words from Ms. Leslie Jones that I think is appropriate.

“I used to fly”

I’m hopelessly lost with this song. Maybe a metaphor for hiding a relationship with someone, and they broke up? Its just so vague I really don’t know.

“I’m every woman”

This is a cover and its sexy and cute. Go, Taylor!

“Just south of knowing why”

She didn't have a reason to go, oh no She didn't have a reason to stay Either way she didn't tell anyone about her first ray of sun She looked at her keys and found a reason to run And time stands still when you're nowhere bound But I understand it somehow If I could drive all night would I find my peace of mind? Would it be a million miles of cold white lies And unfamiliar exit signs? I just drive on by, just south of knowing why I didn't really know her that well But I could tell that her smile was only something to hide behind She felt so out of touch, cuz she just felt too much If you don't know what you want nothing's ever enough

I don't have a plan, I don't have a map I don't even know if I'm ever going back I don't have a when and I don't have a where I don't even know if I'll know when I'm there

Female pronouns!!! Don’t really get what the songs about exactly except obviously she’s very upset(maybe because of the girl). Maybe she was with a girl for a short time and the girl broke up with her because she didn’t know what she wanted, leaving poor Tay heartbroken and alone in her feelings.

“Live for the little things”

One daybreak, one heartache Every once-upon-a-time That black dress, happiness Bubble baths and quarter lines

This is interesting. That verse remind you of anything? “ When you think happiness I hope you think that little black dress”. “Tim McGraw” anyone? Possibly this song is also about Lacey?

“Long time coming”

I got a lying smile I never put out for you Cause I guess I never felt like I really needed to And they say little girls have big dreams And nothing in the world was gonna come between me and you And it was a long time coming I waited half my life just to find someone like you I spent a long time finding out love hangs around after you walk out Not knowing it'd be a long time going They say it's better to have lost than never to have loved at all And I say, whoever said that didn't have too far to fall And they say little girls are so naive That wasn't how it was supposed to be with me and you

I've burned my bridges, had sleepless nights Washed my sins on the neon lights And I'm still not over you

What that? Oh, just the sound of my heart breaking. “ Washed my sins on the neon lights”. *coughs*gay. Reminds me of the Red album prologue actually. The Neruda quote she quote, “Love is so short, forgetting is so long”. Right, @theredalbumprologue? Sorry, absolutely could not resist. Gender neutral.

“Mandolin”

People there can't help but care About the friendly music of a guy Who's getting by from their applause He's got a song that moves along He's got his local crowd tonight At Angelina's family bar and grill He's got his heart on his sleeve The songs he plays just living free But who knows what goes through his mind When he plays a song it brings along Everybody saying Who's that guy who plays the mandolin... mandolin Oh yeah, mandolin

Oh he's the kind of guy Who never really wanted fame His feet are planted firmly on the ground He never wanted people to remember his name He never wanted word to get around That he found heaven on earth He's got his heart on his sleeve The songs he plays just living free But who knows what goes through his mind When he plays a song it brings along Everybody saying Who's that guy who plays the mandolin Oh, I'm the guy who plays the mandolin Mandolin Oh, mandolin

This song is a mindfuck! I was just minding my business walking my dog and then the last verse plays and ????. What kind of gay shit have I stumbled upon. I don’t even think Taylor plays the mandolin, but not sure. The whole, what goes through his mind when he plays a song is very interesting, maybe she’s saying “hey, I got closeted by my team so I can be successful in country music and maybe everyone doesn’t know who I’m really singing about and how I feel, cuz the whole my songs are my diary isn’t exactly me, its a persona.” At Angelina's family bar and grill, what the fuck, right @that-curly-haired-lesbian? I am confusion though, I don’t get how most of this remotely fits Taylor. BUT VERY GAY.

“The diary of me”

I’m a laid back T-shirt, blue jean, mood ring Kinda girl Hey yeah what’s the word on you Lay low I’m a mission rebel Angel devil Little left of the middle Sometimes I get temperamental But here I am an open book Turn the page it’s all the rage Get a look on the inside Oh what you get is what you see Baby you hold the key To the diary of me

This is like the song form of her public persona during the start of her career. Total boyfriend Taylor in full view. She clearly used to write before she really made it more openly about certain things that later she couldn’t really talk about, like it seems she rather not wear traditionally feminine clothes in favor of nice t-shirt. Yet what does she wear in public and for performances? Just something to think about. She writes lyrics like this in many earlier songs, “A place in this world”, “Tim Mcgraw”, “Diary of me”, “Closest to a cowboy”, “A Place in this world”, “What to wear”,”You belong with me”. Forced femininity AND being closeted and having to act “straight” is a nasty combination. The whole my songs are my diary was the inception of her authenticity problem because Swifties STILL think that they know everything about her and that she wouldn’t “lie” to them. Closeting is not a lie. This era she’s really trying to get the farthest away from that than ever. See the Rep prologue. She has been inviting speculation into the simple clear fact that people just see what she shows them and that things aren’t always as they seem.(x) But it’s more explicit than ever now.

“My turn to be me”

Something about me didn't fit into your perfect world I bet the bluegrass stained your smile You should use a darker color when you write on the wall I haven't read it a thousand times Maybe if you saw me for a second you would realize Honey I was trying so hard To talk, walk, think, stop Anytime you want me to Bend all my rules I used to let you choose Who you wanted me to be This time I'm flying free It's my turn to be me

Looks like she’s trying to fit into the mold of heteronormative standards, she wanted to be accepted. The straights think this song is about a guy she was dating that was very controlling, but through a queer perspective it seems obviously much deeper than that. Although, possibly she dated a guy for a little bit as part of her trying to fit in and she felt trapped and with all these expectations that were not her. Just an idea. Either way, this song is about breaking free from that toxic thinking and realizing the most important thing is making yourself happy. In other words, the rise a gayby boyfriend Taylor?! GAY.

“My cure”

I know we've got a lot to say Between now and forever But I'd be a game if you would play And not dare this to get better So all throughout the day You smile and walk away All I can think to do Is follow you If you ever leave I'll be crawling back for more If you ever need love I'm standing at your door I'll be sick inside if baby you would be my cure Wherever you think I am tonight Just know we're miles from a heartbreak Because in the blink of one pretty brown eye I'll be right where you are baby

Sometime along the way You took my breath away Distracted by the view I fall right into you

They say I need to see all the people out there waiting But you take one look at me And I know the mistake I'd be making

I know we've got a lot to say between now and forever

I LOVE THIS SO MUCH. One of my favorites that I listened to. It is such a soft gay anthem! Although, yes very adorable, seems she could also be referencing that a lot of people did and still do say that being gay is a sickness and unnatural(x). So it seems in this she is saying that she doesn’t care if people know or find out and call her things because “This love”(her queerness) is good no matter what they say. Gender neutral. She says pretty brown eye, so if that is accurate it can’t be about Kelsey(she has green eyes). Maybe Lacey or an unknown girl.

“Never mind”

Look at you Look at me Look at who we could be I wanna know who you are What you want from the stars And every time I look at you I can hardly say a thing My head starts to spin and it hits me then I love you And every time you look at me I could go crazy but I don't Say it but I won't 'Cause I'd rather be alone than lose you And all I really wanna do is be next to you But I'm too tired to fight And I could tell you now But baby, never mind All the time Everyday There's nothing I can do, baby, to make it go away So look at you And look at me And think of who we could be But every time I look at you I can hardly say a thing My head starts to spin and it hits me then I love you And every time you look at me I could go crazy but I don't Say it but I won't 'Cause I'd rather be alone than lose you

All I really wanna say is I need you, babe But how could you understand? What happens if you turn away and everything turns blue and grey? And I just wish I told you never mind And I could tell you now, but baby, never mind Yeah, oh yeah I could tell you now but never mind Yeah, oh yeah yeah And I could tell you now but never mind

This screams straight girl crush who she was friends with.

“Don’t hate me for loving you”

He walked around my life And made me blind With every single move He caught me staring at him Mad about him Little that I knew Love is different When you play the fool And all I wanna do is say Don't walk away now And don't rip my heart out Don't you make cry tonight Like you always do And don't hate me for loving you

Unrequited straight girl crush. She’s written many songs like this but this is this is very stark and explicit and just very gay-coded more than others like this, i think. Some examples, “Teardrops on my guitar”, “Invisible”, “Stay beautiful”, “Hey stephen”, “You belong with me”, “Don’t hate me for loving you”, “Never mind”. What straight girl would worry that a boy would HATE her for liking him? Thinking the girl you have a crush on would be disgusted by you and your feelings and totally reject you is terrifying and heartbreaking and something basically all lesbians can relate to especially when they were young. SAD.

“One thing”

It wasn't just like a movie The rain didn't soak through my clothes, down to my skin I'm driving away and I, I guess you could say This is the last time I'll drive this way again When there's nothing to say and I try to grab at the fray Cause I, I still love you but I can't Bye, bye, to everything I thought was on my side Bye, bye, baby I want you back but it's coming down to nothing And all you have is to walk away From the one thing I thought would never leave me, yeah The picture frame is empty It's black and white, you're smiling down at me I take your photo off the dash And back to the conversation I was so sure of everything we thought we'd always have I'm lost in the sound of it But here in the now comes in Seems like I'm becoming part of your past

And there's so much that I can't touch You're all I want but it's not enough this time And I can feel you like your slipping through my hands And I'm so scared of how this ends

Gender neutral. Has echoes of “If this was a movie”. SAD and gay. Break up:(

“Spinning around”

Not sure what its about but it seems metaphorical. Maybe her feelings for girls in a way make her feel cornered and caged, if I may. Hard to say.

“Stupid boy”

Let me know, how's it feel To be under my skin, wrapped around my heart Is it like anywhere you've been? And everything I do, I do it just for you So why the hell don't you love me? Why the hell don't you need me like I need you? Are you so far above me? Don't you know that there's nothing I wouldn't do? But I was just a toy, which you destroyed Stupid boy I have been looking in, trying to read your mind Give you the benefit of the doubt, every single time And then you walk right by, I'm screaming out inside Why the hell don't you love me? Why the hell don't you need me like I need you? Are you so far above me? Don't you know that there's nothing I wouldn't do? But I was just a toy, which you destroyed Stupid boy What happens when you wake up, to see that you've lost? You take one look at me, 'cause that's what it cost. I was gonna be everything you need 'Cause you're everything to me

No-homo and of course still so gay. Maybe about a girl who was just using her and didn’t have feelings for her or a girl scared of her feelings for Taylor? Very emo gay. Poor Tay.

“Perfect have I loved”

If you love me, then I love you Swear by the freckles on the moon And maybe this will be enough I'd like to keep you till I'm old But if I can't, at least I'll know That, baby, perfect have I loved Do you remember the stupid things we used to do Before September stole me away from you? The time we got your truck stuck in the creek 'Cause, baby, roads weren't wild enough for you and me Saying...

I used to see you by the bridge we used to cross I found the feeling of trying to get lost You would smile that smile that I tried so hard to forget It's hard to light a fire that I still haven't put out yet

Love was all we knew And faith was growing on the vines Words were all we had And for one summer, you were mine Saying...

Very similar theme and possible timeline with this and “Tim McGraw” which I think is also about Lacey. Summer times and september? Lacey was 2 years older, this feels like a twin song to “Tim Mcgraw”. I think the timeline fits. Such a soft gay anthem, can’t get over it. Gender neutral.

“Sugar”

What a thing to see What a thing to be What a perfect love, what a perfect home 'Cause every time she walks And every time she talks Is every time he knows what a perfect world he's living on But whenever he's gone and when she's all alone His heart goes out to her on the telephone And he says, "Sugar, how I love you How I think about you all the time" He calls her "Sugar" 'cause she's the sweetest thing Oh, she's the best thing he'll ever find With her midnight hair And with his favorite stare She's a southern belle, he's a rockout king When she looks around Oh, she knows she's found Such a perfect life, such a perfect thing

Oh, there's a reason for every season There's a change within the range of every heart But the reason and the season Seem to be right so far

AAAAHHH. We all know in many songs Taylor steps into the perspective of the boy to sing about girls. It just hit me much after thinking about this, that she’s doing the same but for an entire song! At first I didn’t really think if its personal, but usually with Taylor it is even when she says its not, so its a strong possibility. SO GAY. “ Oh, she's the best thing he'll ever find”, “Mine” parallel!!! Also, rockout king?? “king of my heart anyone?? Except in this case, Karlie isn’t the king. Lol. Who, pray say, is a musician?. She wrote it like that so no one would think its about her. GAY GAY. Lesbihonest.

“Sweet tea and gods graces”

Tire swings, summer dreams, honeysuckle on the breeze Whistle County creek Laying in the green grass, I was watching clouds pass Baby, you were watching me Cold barn struck bed, everything you said Slowly educating me I never had a lesson so sweet You can get high on a first kiss You can get by with sweet tea and God's graces You can love like a sinner and lose like a winner Nothing's shatterproof You can crash and burn and come back someone new And that's what I learned from you Autumn rain, window pane, looking how the leaves change Just like the two of us Still got your laugh, your ghost, your jacket Guess I loved you way too much But I'm a little smarter, my heart's a little harder But it's still soft enough to cry Cause I remember those times I remember.........

Saw you just the other day All that I could think to say was, "Hey, how have you been?" You caught me with that old smile Said, "It's really been a while, And I still think about back when.."

“Don’t blame me”, anybody? Getting high on kissing? Loving like sinners? Hmmmm. What do a lot of religious people call gay people again? Another song talking about summer. Lacey? Relating her experiences growing up christian with her queer relationships and feelings. Seems like she is very positive and accepting of her being gay and not struggling with religion in this, which is good. She said recently at a Rep secret sessions that she isn’t religious. Character development.

“Tell me”

It was something like a perfect start to This love yesterday but now who are you I thought I knew Your eyes how to know to look right through me It's like you forgot the words you whispered to me They weren't true It's like it wasn't you Could you tell me what did I do Because it can't be we're already through Did you sell me out for a fool After you held me is that just what you do What did you need from me Tell me Take time to realize I know That people change their minds But that was something I wished you would say To my face But you run away

If I had a reason or a simple goodbye Baby even a lie Yeah Yeah

It seems to me to be about Taylor and a girl, they had a nice night and then the girl got scared about her feelings and when into repression mode. She could be terrified of everything, including anyone finding out, her family, the idea of getting kicked out. So she decided to fully stop talking to Taylor or explain whats going on because she doesn’t trust being around Taylor. Just an idea.

“Ten dollars and a six pack”

This is about a person Taylor was dating who was bad news and who wasn’t really faithful. It looks like Taylor broke up with her. Maybe Kelsey?

“Matches”

I LOVE this. Gives me such “Picture to burn” vibes. I’m quite a slut for angry Taylor, sue me. “Truck on fire”, also reminds me of “Should’ve said no”. So maybe this is also about Kelsey? Badass song.

“That’s life”

“Love or lie, live or die I, well, I guess that's life”

That lyric caught my eye. Could be gay, not sure. Take it as you will.

“Thinkin’ bout you”

I walked into a chair today ‘Cause I was thinking about you Your face jumped right in my way Like lately things do Oh, baby can’t you see The thought of you makes a mess of me I walked into a chair today ‘Cause I was thinking about you and now I I can’t walk straight, I can’t talk straight I can’t think about anything but the way It should be and it could be And till you come around again I will be Doing what I usually do Thinking about you I get lost when I drive around town Thinking about your smile I always end up on your side of town And I don’t know why There must be something under this hood That’s got a mighty strong liking to you I walked into a chair today ‘Cause I was thinking about you and lately

Your eyes are the color of the deep blue sea The one that I go swimming in every time you look at me

I walked into a chair today ‘Cause I was thinking about you...

Gay ass hilarious mess of a song! She really is a lesbian icon. I mean how much more relatable can she get?? She’s channeling Sappho with this. Hahahaha. Clearly she ain’t talking about a “straight” crush. LOL. “Gorgeous” anyone? Ocean blue eyes? Haha. The song form of too gay to function.

“Thirteen Blocks”

Beautiful. Sad. She’s driving to break up with someone but she’s uncertain and hesitant and sad about it. Very well-written.

“This is really happening”

Beneath the chandelier of stars and atmosphere Tangled like the roots on the ground The windows opened up The wind is blowing and we're both not making a sound It’s like I’m melting on into you Give me a reason why we should ever move and Tell me You’ll never leave me and I’m not crazy and This is really happening That this is really happening Could this be better? You write me letters So you see me everyday You tend to treat me like My name is up in lights It really blows me away Lock me up in a dark room And I still can’t take my eyes off you

All those kisses up against your car For all those wishes on planes We thought were stars Memories like photographs Oh Baby,Here we are

Tell me You’ll always need me That I drive you crazy And this is really happening Oh,that this is really happening

The softest gay anthem! The pickup truck under the stars seems familiar again, doesn’t it? About Lacey? Written probably before “Tim Mcgraw” because this is the start of the relationship. If about Lacey makes sense why she is so wonderstruck because this could be all new to her. “This love”(her queerness) is good and Its how she’s supposed to feel!

“Til Brad Pitt comes along”

Do you remember the day I leaned up against your car And it started rolling down the street You screamed and ran after it And tried to open the door And it ran over your foot And I was too busy laughing on the ground to see. It would take Brad Pitt to leave you It takes five seconds to need you When I'm mad at all the lovebirds 'Cause they don't know to play our song I wish that pretty girls couldn't see you I wish that all your roads would lead you right to me 'Cause that's where you belong Until Brad Pitt comes along Do you remember the time we watched Carrie And you said it reminded you of me And I threw the remote at you And you said "my point exactly" And later on that night, under the neon city lights, You paid a homeless guy to sing a song to me.

You call me lucky 'cause I lose everything But I swear I'd be careful with it If you gave me a ring

CUTE. Another funny song, amazing! Taylor as Carrie? Hahhaaha. Funny that in the chorus she says “Our song”. Maybe Lacey again?

“We were happy”

When it was good baby, It was good baby We showed 'em all up No one could touch the way we Laughed in the dark Talking 'bout your daddy's farm We were gonna buy someday And we were happy

Subtle sneaking around? Gender neutral.

“What do you say”

What do you say, when you just know That he's the one, and you wanna go fast But he's taking it slow And what do you do, when he's next to you But he's a little bit shy Well here's something you can try Hey, hey what do you say We go walking down the river all together It's a warm May beautiful day And I feel like I could Talk to you forever With the sun shining bright It feels just like a day When everything's gonna go just right I know it will be a sweet memory For you and me someday What do you say? What do you see, when you look in his eyes There's something there That he can't disguise No matter how he tries And what do you feel, when you know its real And you can't sit still If you don't own up will yeah

My imagination's running away Just dreaming about What I want you to say

Another soft gay anthem! Taylor taking the lead because the other person is “shy”. *coughs*Gay. Adorable laughing in the end.

“Me and Britney”

This song is about Taylor’s childhood and still current friend Britany Maack. She played this at the Bluebird cafe. She wrote this really young, probably 13.

“What to wear”

Sixteen blue jeans, Abercrombie T-shirt Shoes, purse, hair tied back And you should see her She's got her magic Floating through the air

She wrote this song so you aren’t sure if its about her or a story but usually she is writing personally even when she says she isn’t(”You are in love”). Boyfriend Taylor again. She sure loves t-shirts.

“Who I’ve always been”

About her music career and hard work. Feisty Tay.

“You do”

She’s enamored with someone. “Boy, you got me like a shot to the heart Got me shakin' so bad, spilled my coffee in the car”. These lyrics reminded me of “Getaway car” and the shakin’ lyric “dress” and “So it goes”. Just sayin’.

“Your anything”

I bet you lie awake at night Trying to make up your sweet mind Wondering if you'll ever find Just what you want A home-town number one Or a California loaded gun But you know you only get one Or that's what you thought But here's what you've got [Chorus:] I could be your favorite blue jeans With the holes in the knees In the bottom of the top drawer I could be your little beauty queen Just a little outta reach Or the girl living next door I'll be your angel giving up her wings If that's what you need I'd give everything to be your anything If you want hard to get If you want... All you have to do is let me know If you want a bumpy ride Or someone with a softer side Either one'll be alright Just let me know Cause this is where it goes

It's not like I'm giving up who I am for you but for someone like you it's just so easy to do

Massive crush Tay. But thats very normal for baby gaylor. She got it real bad. Hard to say if it’s unrequited or not, doesn’t really say. Tay, you don’t need to change yourself tho! Haha

“Your face”

I heard a song tonight on the radio Another girl sings about a boy Just sees his face in every space in every room And i know that if i turn around you won't be there If i close my eyes will you be there? I don't wanna lose your face And i don't wanna wake one day And not remember what time erased And i don't wanna turn around Coz i'm not scared Of what love gave me and took away And i don't wanna lose your face I've got a picture of you in my bedroom And i hope it never falls And i hope i never lose that feeling I used to get when you would call And now i wonder to myself Who were you and where are you? Were you ever here at all?

That girl in the song had it so good I wish i could close my eyes and see you I wish the sky had your face And the oceans had your eyes And the sunset had your lips And i had you

Clever, Swift! Talk about a girl and boy outside of your experience for comparison so everyone would assume she’s also singing about a boy but in actuality totally gender neutral! Nice. She wants the sunset to have this person(girls) lips? Not gay at all...

“Wait for me”

Amazing anaylsis of this by @that-curly-haired-lesbian right here!

Finishing this long ass post just to further the point that her unreleased songs are fucking amazing and Gaylor Swift is a musical lesbian icon back then and of course still is! See you on the Gayside.

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aplacetotellanything · 2 years

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The Old Glory-Hole Switcharoo

So I’m living with the girlfriend that pooped in the back seat of my car while I drove her to school. A couple of years later we broke up, moved back in with our parents, then decided it was cheaper to live together again in a one bedroom apartment (haha). So we got back together. We had signed a 1 year lease and broke up while on vacation in Hawaii (another story I may tell) about 2 months into the lease. We didn’t want to move back in with our parents, so our genius idea was to live together and live separate lives. Verbally agreeing not to bring any dates or partners home (more stories there).

About 6 months later (8 months into the lease) I started looking online at craigslist personals with another woman I was seeing in the same apartment complex. She spent much of her day reading the personals and it was fascinating. I was 20 years old at the time and the woman I was seeing was 31 (the girlfriend I was living with was 21 at this point). I eagerly learned a lot from the 31 year old. She also opened my mind to new experiences (she had done some amateur porn in her college years and was quite knowledgeable about lot’s of subjects. She taught me some extremely helpful “pointers” from a mature woman’s perspective. She had tried most sexual things I could think of or that I had seen in porn. She eventually invites a friend over (both were bisexual and had a preference for women) and after a couple times hanging out and partying they started talking about the craigslist personals. I knew what a glory-hole was, but didn’t have any real world experience with the etiquette. The three of us would send messages and post messages to see what was out there. The possibilities seemed endless. Most people just wanted to message and were afraid to meet in person. That was the hardest step for me, but once you cross that line, it gets really easy if you are comfortable with yourself. Eventually we came across a post about a bathroom at a local college that had a stall with a hole drilled in it, a glory-hole. So we message and get the clandestine location.

The ladies drive me to the college and it takes us some time to find the correct building. We find it and they wait in the car while I do reconnaissance on the restroom situation. I am nervous as hell. Excited but rather unsure of what the hell is actually going to happen. I walk in and see a stall open up, and I walk in. Voila! Jackpot!?! There’s a perfectly cut round hole about waist high in one of the dividers. Not the sexiest place and before I can do anything or get my bearings, I see a finger poke through the bottom of the hole. I’m not sure what this means and try to briefly see what else is on the other side with no luck. I rolled with the idea that it’s the person we were messaging and told us about it. It’s sketchy and dangerous to trust a stranger with a cherished part of your anatomy. What mysterious happenings are going on right on the other side? So I nervously unzip, while super excited for several reasons and start to float above my body. It’s a new and mysterious adventure in a busy public bathroom with many people shuffling in and out. It’s a huge, adrenaline producing set of circumstances. I felt like I was getting away with something that I never thought was possible. I never thought I would be in such a situation.

I’m so nervous and excited I don’t want to spend more time there than I have to, so I put myself partially through the hole. It was so intense I don’t remember much, just rushing back into my body as I finished quickly and messily (what a newbie) all over the bottom of the hole (and some strangers face). I’m shaking uncontrollably at this point (which had only happened a little when I lost my virginity). I zip up, wash my hands, and walk back to the car where the ladies are waiting.

Apparently I was in there longer than I thought. I was so anxious that the time flew by. They wouldn’t stop asking questions and I couldn’t really describe what had happened. Since this is around 2005, we didn’t have access to emails on our phones. So we drove back to my neighbor’s apartment and checked her email. Nothing from craigslist. She immediately emailed the person that told us about the setup. Thanking them for an interesting and exhilarating time. We immediately got a response “oh, I’m glad you had fun, but that place was way too busy. So it wasn’t me, I walked in and back out immediately”. The ladies start laughing their asses off and I turn red, but can’t stop thinking about how intense the encounter was and how crazy the whole situation was. That was the only time I did that in a public place. I also have some other crazy events from that same bathroom and college that I may have to write about at some point. There are also some from private glory-hole experiences a few years later. Time will tell. Happy glory-hole hunting!

-Clue

#publicrestroom bathroom stall glory-hole shaking semipublicsex stranger oncampus hole

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paintedrecs · 6 years

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302, I Love You

[Read on AO3]

It was a beautiful summer morning—mid-70s with a light breeze, ideal weather for soaking up the sun without fear of overheating. If anyone asked, that was why Stiles was sitting on his balcony with a book he hadn’t touched in the last half hour and a mug of coffee he’d been absently sipping from, his gaze fixed on the parking lot several stories below.

Coincidentally, one of his neighbors—Hot Dude From 302, not that it was relevant—had chosen the same morning to wash his stupidly flashy Camaro. Stiles wasn’t watching him. He was sitting on his balcony, which happened to face the back parking lot, and Hot Dude happened to be in his general line of sight. And anyway, if he had been watching him, it was only to document the details of his flagrant lease-breaking activities, in case Stiles decided to file a complaint with their landlord.

Washing vehicles in their parking lot was explicitly against the rules, along with smoking, loud parties after 11 PM, and leaving trash bags in the hallway for people to potentially trip over, rather than dragging them all the way to the dumpsters—which were also located in their parking area.

If pressed, Stiles might admit that he’d broken the latter two rules once or twice. And that there might be an overstuffed trash bag sitting in the hallway at this very moment—deposited there because the smell had started to bug him, but not enough to motivate him to put on shoes and non-pj pants and make the trek downstairs. But that was more like rule-bending. It wasn’t an egregious violation like the unnecessarily thorough car washing that took place every Saturday, like clockwork.

Obviously this guy wasn’t originally from California, or he’d know how important water conservation was, and how much his utterly unacceptable behavior made everyone else in the building grind their teeth. Beacon Hills was in the middle of a fucking drought. And there 302 was, spraying water not only over the car’s sleek black surface, but over himself, too, making his loose shorts cling to his thighs, his already too-tight white tank top plastering against his chest and abs.

What was the point of even wearing a shirt to begin with if he was just going to get it soaked through every time, leaving the fabric offensively sheer?

“So you want him to take his shirt off for you,” Stiles's supposed best friend Scott said, kicking his feet up on the railing and crunching through a handful of pretzels.

“Shut up!” Stiles hissed. He instinctively tried to duck down in his lounge chair—as if that would accomplish anything—but 302 didn’t seem to have heard the exchange. He was too busy stretching across the hood, his back to them, the fabric of his wet shorts leaving little to Stiles’s admittedly very active imagination.

“You’re drooling,” Scott said. “This is kinda gross. I thought we were gonna be watching cartoons, not this guy’s ass.”

Stiles spluttered indignantly, then, when Scott motioned at his face, wiped away the possibly-drool from his chin. That happened sometimes when he was tired, okay? He hadn’t had enough of his coffee yet this morning. “I’m judging him,” he insisted. He firmly shut his mouth and twisted it into his most convincingly judgmental face.

“Judging whether you can get into his pants,” Scott said.

“Judging him for...not knowing how to use his hose,” Stiles countered, scrambling for a reasonable comeback.

Scott was, thankfully, silent for a bit. He popped more pretzels into his mouth and chewed while staring at Stiles meaningfully. Eventually, he concluded, “So you wanna teach him how to use his hose.”

302 suddenly swore loudly from down below, and Stiles jerked in his chair, nearly knocking his coffee—and himself—over. Once he’d made sure his mug and limbs were safe, he leaned forward to see what had happened.

Point proved, really. 302 had somehow sprayed himself right in the face with the hose, which required a special sort of uncoordinated talent that even Stiles didn’t possess. Scott was right; the guy clearly did need some hose-handling lessons. He was dripping wet, his dark hair flattened, leaving it almost as shiny and black as his car. Even from this distance, Stiles could see the water streaming off the sharp cut off his cheekbones.

Despite all that, the idiot hadn’t shut the hose off —he was just standing there, frozen in place, holding it as water arced into the air, the spray catching the sunlight in a miniature, shimmering rainbow.

He looked absolutely pitiful. Stiles almost felt bad for him. At the same time, though: “You remember that fountain by the library?”

Scott nodded. Of course he did. It’d been major drama when they were starting middle school; the local PTA had campaigned to have it torn out, claiming it was “inappropriate” for a public building to house a lifesize reproduction of The Birth of Venus. The sculptor’s argument—that it was a classic work of art that could be found in multiple books within the library itself—eventually toppled under the ire of parents with too much time on their hands.

Stiles had mourned its loss, taking art classes throughout high school with the vague idea of using his inevitable fame to battle similarly misguided attempts at censorship. As it turned out, he had no artistic skill, and he’d gradually found better channels for his righteous indignation. He was wondering now, though, if his bisexual awakening would’ve happened sooner if Venus had been replaced by something like...Eros. Or by a recreation of the tableau currently spread out below him. He would’ve spent a lot of time studying by that fountain during his teenage years.

“I should take the trash out,” he decided abruptly.

Scott moved his legs so Stiles could clamber over him and back into his studio’s compact living room. “So I should just go home, then?” he called after Stiles.

Stiles was too busy pulling on presentable pants, twisting in front of the mirror, then switching to his tighter jeans, to reply. He was cramming his feet into his shoes when Scott came inside.

“You might as well take this,” Scott said, shaking the now-empty bag of pretzels in front of Stiles’s face. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to leave,” Stiles grunted, tying off his shoelaces and grabbing the crinkly bag as he stood.

“I really think I do,” Scott said. “Good luck. Please don’t text me any details.”

“I’m not going to hit on him,” Stiles grumbled after Scott rudely slammed the door on his way out. He wasn’t. Mostly because his knowledge of 302 boiled down to a few key facts:

- Overcompensating (that car, c’mon) - Environmentally unfriendly - Antisocial (Stiles had never seen him interacting with anyone, and the majority of their neighbors were annoyingly friendly; most of them had shown up, uninvited, to his last after-11 PM party. Which Stiles had definitely not thrown hoping that 302 would be among the attendees. He’d only posted the sign by the mailboxes as a courtesy notice, not an invitation. Technically.)

Perhaps most importantly, according to those same mailboxes, 302 was living with someone named “Laura Hale.” It was the only name listed, and although Stiles had snooped on the various packages that were too big to fit inside, he hadn’t managed to uncover any additional details. He had lurked in the entryway for long enough to see a beautiful dark-haired woman collect one of those boxes, which had smashed the final hope he’d deny he’d been harboring.

Expecting a guy like that to not have an equally hot girlfriend to ferry around in his douchey car? Dream on, Stiles.

He attempted to crumple the pretzel remnants—something he’d been planning to eat himself, thanks a lot Scott—into the trash bag, which only resulted in squeezing out a mess of banana peels and coffee-stained paper towels. Okay, maybe that rule existed for a reason, too. He sighed, wiped his hands off on his jeans, and heaved the bag up, beginning the trudge down to the garbage bins.

Once outside the building, Stiles stepped gingerly over the sudsy water snaking along the pavement, thumped the dumpster lid loudly enough to announce his presence, then oh-so-casually headed over to check on his Jeep, which was parked two spaces away from 302’s current location. Their building had unassigned spots—too few for the number of residents, leaving the rest to park out on the street. That created a headache sometimes, but it’d allowed Stiles—after some careful planning and light bribery—to set up this accidental meeting.

302 glanced at Stiles when he passed by, then fumbled his hose, spraying himself again.

“Wow,” Stiles said, attempting to hop out of the way, grimacing when that movement sent him splashing right into a puddle. “You have a serious problem, dude.”

“Sorry,” 302 said, in a soft voice that Stiles could barely hear over the water’s relentlessly wasteful flow. Now that Stiles was closer to his elusive neighbor, he was able to see the red shading those marble-carved cheekbones; he’d probably been out in the sun for too long, considering himself too manly to reapply sunscreen.

The thought brought back a sudden flash of memory: an afternoon in late summer; a sprinkler hissing in circles as Stiles jumped through the cool, stinging spray; a dark-haired boy laughing, the silver glint of his braces catching the sun as Stiles tried to flick water in his direction, convincing him to join the fun. Stiles’s mom had come outside then, tsking at him in feigned disapproval, then calling them both over for a fresh coating of smelly, sticky sunscreen that Stiles would immediately do his best to wash off.

Scott, Stiles thought, then: No. He hadn’t moved to Beacon Hills yet. That was when Stiles was younger, when his best friend was a quiet boy who’d always said—despite Stiles’s constant attempts to get him into trouble—that the Stilinski household was a lot more peaceful than his. He’d liked Stiles’s mom’s cookies, his dad’s stories about work, and—Stiles liked to think, anyway—Stiles’s magnetic personality.

“Derek,” he said aloud, and 302 jumped.

“What?”

“Sorry, I was just—” Stiles shook his head. Why was he thinking of Derek now? The guy had moved away ages ago. They’d exchanged letters for a few months, then Scott had moved to town, Stiles had started spending a lot more time noticing girls, and the letters had stopped.

302 was still staring at him, his multicolored—mostly green?—eyes wide. Looking at him for too long was making Stiles feel weird, like there was something pressing at the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite grasp.

“You should be wearing sunglasses,” Stiles said stupidly. The bright light reflecting off the pavement was making him squint, and he’d been out there for less than five minutes.

“You’re not,” 302 said.

“My eyes are darker; more melanin means better protection,” Stiles automatically countered—it was an argument he’d often used as a know-it-all kid who didn’t want to stop playing outside—then tried to restrain his wince. He was being obvious. You didn’t start out a totally innocent conversation with a hot stranger by talking about his eye color, for fuck’s sake.

But 302 smiled. He had front teeth that were a little too big for his mouth—something that he might’ve been teased about when he was younger, because he immediately ducked his head and rolled his lips together, pressing them into a line that didn’t hide the equally endearing dimples in his cheeks.

Damn, Stiles thought. The guy was supposed to be kind of a dick. Not...this. Maybe he avoided hanging out with over-friendly neighbors because he was shy? Stiles had to mentally readjust his entire battle plan, which had mostly involved snarky commentary and a few clever innuendoes designed to test whether he really was taken.

“I was gonna ask you to wash my car,” Stiles said, plunging after his first thought, but unable to resist a slight dig. “While you’re wasting all that water.”

“Oh,” 302 said. His smile dimmed; even the curve of the hose seemed dejected suddenly. He released his tight grip on the spray attachment, the noise in the parking lot fading to the hum of bees in the hedge next door and the metallic creak of swings from the playground down the street. “I guess I could. It’s the Jeep, right?”

“Um,” Stiles said. “Yes. How did you know that?”

302 slid his hand down the hose, like he was planning to start rolling it back up, even though there were still suds on the Camaro’s roof. “It looks like your mom’s,” he said. “I remember you always used to say you wanted a car just like it, once you found out ordinary citizens couldn’t get Batmobiles.”

“How the—” Stiles stared at him. This was new. He hadn’t had a stalker before; at least, not that he’d known.

302 met his gaze for a few seconds, then looked away, his mouth twisting—in disappointment, weirdly, if Stiles was reading that expression correctly. “You don’t remember me, do you.”

“Should I?” Stiles asked. Maybe he’d hooked up with the guy and forgotten him, but that seemed incredibly unlikely. He’d remember a jawline like that. And why the hell would they have spent the night talking about Stiles’s childhood? He didn’t get that personal in relationships until...well, he’d always figured he’d start digging into the really gritty stuff at about the year marker, and no one had ever lasted that long.

“I guess not,” 302 said. “It’s been a long time. Laura said you wouldn’t and that I should get over myself and be the first one to say something. I was trying to work up the nerve, but then, just now, when you...”

He trailed off, so Stiles repeated it. “When I what?”

“When you said my name,” 302 said. “I...didn’t imagine that, did I?”

Stiles looked at him again, like he was seeing him for the first time. That’s what he’d thought this encounter was, but...he traced his gaze over the guy’s inky black hair, drying in the sunlight and beginning to wave slightly at the tips; the delicate curves of his ears, which somehow seemed a little smaller than they should be; the unusual color of his eyes.

“Derek,” Stiles said slowly, pulling that memory back to the forefront, the hazy image of his friend overlaying 302’s features. He had to make significant adjustments for puberty and an apparent explosion of late-blooming attractiveness, but: “Hale. Oh my god. Laura’s your sister. The scary older one you never wanted us to hang out with. How did I not make that connection?”

“It’s a common name,” Derek said. “Not like Stilinski. It was a lot easier for me to connect the dots.”

“Goddamn,” Stiles said. “Good thing my dad talked me out of joining the force. I would’ve been a shitty detective.”

“I doubt that,” Derek said, as generous as he’d been when they were kids. He had so many of the same mannerisms, now that Stiles was paying attention. “I look a little different than I used to.”

Stiles snorted before he could consider whether that was rude. That brought up a sudden, unsettling thought. “Wait, does that mean I don’t?”

As a kid, Stiles had been 80% eyes and mouth, and always a head shorter than the other boys his age. He’d hit his growth spurt late in high school, then shot up to six feet during college, but if his face was still that recognizable...

Derek was shaking his head. “I told you, I saw your name. A few weeks after we moved in.” He hesitated, then added, “But I think I would’ve recognized you anyway. You’ve changed, but there’s something...”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He felt it, too. He’d first seen Derek about a month ago—or so he’d thought at the time—and had nearly been bowled over by the degree of instantaneous attraction. It wasn’t just the physical part, although that was undeniable. It was the sense that something about Derek felt right. Familiar, almost. He’d thought stupid things, like maybe soulmates weren’t as outlandish as he’d always assumed. Turned out all it’d meant was that some part of his brain was still connected to those old memories of Derek.

He tried not to let the disappointment wash over him. This was cool, too. It’d be fun to reconnect, to revisit the old times, like: he flushed suddenly, another long-forgotten image drifting out of the past. He touched his lips without thinking, remembering the dry press of Derek’s mouth against his, the brilliant green of his eyes as he pulled back, mouth still parted, looking terrified that Stiles would laugh at him.

“I just...wanted to try that. Before...” Derek had said. Then, before Stiles had any time to react or process it, Derek had revealed that his family was leaving town. He was gone the next week.

The red along Derek’s cheekbones was darkening. So he remembered it, too. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you think...” He started to turn away, coiling the hose in abrupt, jerky movements, like he was trying to figure out the fastest way to clear out of there. Just like he’d done after the kiss, dashing off, claiming he had to start packing.

“That last letter you wrote me,” Stiles said. Derek stopped, his back to him, shoulders tensed. “I didn’t reply. I’m sorry. I was a stupid kid; I didn’t know what to say.”

“I never knew if you’d stopped talking to me intentionally,” Derek said. “I tried a couple times, and then I figured if you wanted to get in touch again, you would.”

And Stiles never had. At first, it really had been that he was busy; middle school had seemed like the most exciting and terrifying thing in the entire world, and trying to navigate its treacherous waters while keeping Derek updated had proved too difficult to maintain. Then that third unanswered letter—the last one Derek had written—had arrived. Stiles didn't remember much of it. But he could still see its closing line, a shaky scrawl that looked like it'd been added at the last minute.

I’m sorry I made things weird.

The kiss had made Stiles feel weird, in a way he hadn’t been able to articulate. It’d taken a few more years before he’d really understood why, and by then, Derek was a distant memory. By the looks of it, the reverse hadn’t been true.

“I used to wonder why you did it,” Stiles said.

Derek finished putting the hose back, twisted the water off and removed the nozzle, then finally turned back around. “Why I kissed you? Or why I wrote you that stupid letter?”

Stiles touched his mouth again, watching as Derek’s gaze followed the movement. Things were a lot different now than they were back then. Odd lingering connection or not, they’d both grown into entirely different people. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t really need an answer to either.”

“So what’s your real question?”

“I liked you back then,” Stiles said. “A lot. I hated that you left me, right when everything started getting really big and confusing. I know you couldn’t help it, but every time I wrote you, it reminded me that you weren’t around anymore.”

Derek’s lips flattened a bit. He nodded, slowly. “So it was easier to let it go.”

“I don’t think it’d ever be easy to let you go,” Stiles said.

Derek’s mouth parted, his eyes searching Stiles’s.

“My question is,” Stiles said, taking a couple steps forward, then grimacing when that sent his sneaker splashing through one of Derek’s puddles.

“Sorry,” Derek said, but Stiles was already squelching the rest of the way over to him.

“So much for the seductive walk,” he said, close enough now for this to all go horribly wrong.

Derek hesitantly reached out, setting his hands on Stiles’s hips, then tightening his grip when Stiles reacted by leaning closer. “I remember the fountain, too.”

“The—shit, you heard that?”

“You’re pretty loud,” Derek said. “And hard to ignore.”

From most people, that might’ve seemed like an insult. The way Derek was looking at him, though, it felt like one of the nicer compliments Stiles had ever received.

“You weren’t here, though,” Stiles objected. “I remember, because that was the longest letter I wrote you. I think I transcribed half the town hall debate—the part I got to hear before my dad found me and kicked me out.”

“I remember,” Derek repeated, then cleared his throat. “I still have the drawing you sent.”

Stiles paused, his hands halfway up Derek’s chest—thick hair visible through the sheer fabric, as he’d guessed from his earlier vantage point—to his bare shoulders, which he’d been aching to touch for the last hour. The last month, if he was being honest. “Oh, the one of the fountain? God, I can’t believe you kept that. It’s gotta be barely recognizable.”

“I liked it,” Derek said. “It made me feel like I was there with you.”

It was strange to look into eyes this familiar, belonging to someone Stiles hardly knew anymore. He slipped a finger under the strap of Derek’s still-damp tank top, testing to see if it was as absurdly tight as he’d thought. There really was no point to him wearing this flimsy excuse for a shirt.

“You never asked your question,” Derek said.

“Right,” Stiles said. He had a lot of them, too numerous to delve into now. When Derek decided to move back, had he known Stiles was still around? Why had he returned? Was it for Laura, or was it his decision? And why had he ended up with a wet dream of a car, when he’d always been the practical one in their friendship?

For now, though, only one was pressing enough to ask. “Do you think it’s too late?”

“For what?” Derek asked.

“To try again.”

The first touch of Derek’s lips was hesitant, like it’d been all those years before. It was his answer—but a question, too, begun more than a decade ago.

This time, Stiles knew exactly how to respond.

“Okay,” he said after a while, setting a hand back on Derek’s chest but letting him chase his mouth for a few more lip-tingling moments. “You’ve gotten a lot better at that.”

“I should hope so,” Derek said, with a throaty chuckle that made Stiles feel warm all over.

“We should move out of the parking lot,” Stiles said reluctantly. “I’m not the only one with a balcony. And you should probably do something with your ridiculous car before anyone needs to back out of their spaces.”

“Not my car,” Derek said. He tangled his fingers with Stiles’s, dropping a very distracting kiss onto the tip of his nose.

“Not your—yes it is. You wash it every damn weekend.”

“It’s Laura’s,” Derek said. “I have a Camry. You probably haven’t seen it; Laura makes me park it out on the street so hers doesn’t get scratched.”

Stiles stared at him, processing that information. “Let me guess; she also makes you wash it for her?”

“It’s a trade-off,” Derek said. “She hates handling all the grocery shopping and apartment cleaning when I’m on shift, but she said she’d stop complaining if I spent an hour out here every Saturday. She claimed she was the one doing me a favor, but I haven’t been so sure about that.”

“She might’ve been right,” Stiles said, wondering if everyone in the building—everyone but Derek—had been watching this whole thing unfold. “Wait, what kind of shifts do you work? Are you at the hospital?”

Derek cleared his throat again, looking oddly embarrassed. “No, I uh. I’m at the station. I work with your dad now. He makes a pretty great Sheriff.”

“Deputy Derek Hale,” Stiles said. That part really shouldn’t have come as a surprise; Derek had always been the one hanging off stories from the station. While Stiles snooped around in his dad’s files, dreaming up exciting new criminal-catching methods, Derek had stayed by the then-deputy’s side, asking boring questions about procedure and policy. “For fuck’s sake. I can’t believe my dad didn’t tell me you were back.”

Derek’s cheekbones took on that pink tint again. “He said he, uh. Doesn’t like getting involved in your romantic life anymore. But that if we ever did figure things out, he wanted us to both come over for dinner.”

“Well,” Stiles said. “Then I guess we should get back to figuring things out.”

It took 207’s extended, irritable honking to finally move them out of the parking lot. Stiles was the one who ended up with a sunburn, as it turned out. But he didn’t mind that much, not when it came with Derek in his apartment, smoothing aloe vera onto the back of his neck, and then playfully kissing his nose again before smearing the gel along his lips’ path.

The next Saturday morning, the parking lot was quiet and still. Stiles was out on his balcony, a mug of coffee in one hand, the other resting lightly on Derek’s knee.

“Derek, look,” he hissed, nodding at the silver SUV that 401 was attempting to very quietly unlock. Rookie move; should’ve parked on the street if she didn’t want to be seen. “I bet you anything she’s sneaking off to the casino again before her husband wakes up.”

Derek didn't lift his eyes from the thick book he was reading—some boring examination of the history of European conflicts, last Stiles had checked. He hummed in the back of his throat, though, then rested his hand on top of Stiles’s to show he was listening.

Once 401 was safely on her way, revving the engine triumphantly as soon as she'd made it halfway down the block, Stiles drained the rest of his coffee. “Alright, I'm gonna take a shower.”

“Okay,” Derek said. He moved his hand and flipped a page of his book, still frowning in concentration at the dense, tiny text.

“You should join me,” Stiles said. “In fact, I think we should make that a habit for a while. It's about time you started making some serious strides in water conservation.”

“Honestly, Stiles,” Derek sighed.

But he set the book down.

#sterek #eternalsterek #sterekweek2017 #sterekmeetcute #derek hale #stiles stilinski #my fics

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