#the one that smiles brightly at the person behind them in a store queue and buys the last of the item the guy just said they wanted

[laxmiree]

[CN] 5th Anniversary - Lucien (King Fuk Street)

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT!! ⚠️

This post contains a detailed spoiler for a story that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~

“I'm a bit surprised by this future me.”

“Since a long time ago, my eyes have always been fixed on the direction of the world, and I am accustomed to searching for truth and answers alone.”

“So I never imagined that there would be another person standing beside me one day in the future.”

✧ 5th Anniversary Event | Prologue | Creative Workshop | King Fuk Street (You’re here!) | Wonderland | Star Plaza | Final Day- Heart Rain Lake | Roast! | Truth and Dare Pinball Machine | Random Event tidbits

(T/N: since every day basically follows the same routine of MC waking up in their hotel room to find Lucien not doing anything about his 'report' (lol), being suspicious about it, and then Lucien diverting her suspicion, for now I'll only translate the main part of the story and add other parts (chibi & hotel room) later~)

With the sun shining brightly, we went to a small store called "Step in Time" as recommended by the guidebook.

But when we got to the store, we met with a long queue of people.

MC: Isn't this store too popular…

I said that as I took a big step and hurried to the end of the line. Lucien stood behind me and reached out to lift my hair that was caught in my scarf.

Lucien: The store's AI technology is really attractive, according to the brochure.

Lucien: Using the keywords, descriptions, and personal characteristics entered by the participant, a simulation of their image from ten years ago can be generated.

Lucien: Then you can have a dialogue with yourself from 10 years ago

Lucien: I think this is a surreal experience that most people wouldn't want to miss.

I can't help but imagine myself and Lucien ten years ago, and I curiously tilted my head.

MC: If their AI technology can achieve this effect, it is worth looking forward to it.

MC: However…

I glanced at the long, endless line and angrily raised my fist.

MC: If it is over-hyped, I have to make an honest evaluation and defend the rights of consumers!

Lucien: The Great Producer has spoken, so how can I, as the program consultant not help?

Lucien: When the time comes, we will work together and strive to make them speechless.

Seeing that Lucien agreed with me in a good mood, I also smiled at him.

We finally entered the store just as the sun was about to fall into the horizon.

The clerk led us into a graphite-colored room with cube machines in the center, which reminded me of the technology that often appears in science fiction movies.

Clerk: Enter your information into the machine and proceed to the corresponding holographic projection room when you are done.

The clerk gestures to the two more doors at the end of the room and then turns to leave.

Lucien and I went to the machine with an unspoken understanding and began to enter information according to the guidance on the screen.

It's just that the process is taking longer than I thought –

It is necessary to capture the face and voice and enter personal information, preferences, personality, experience, and other information.

After pressing the final "ENTER", the screen popped up with small letters - "Do not worry about privacy issues. The system will automatically eliminate all information after the end of the dialogue."

MC: So professional...

I tilted my head and looked at Lucien, who was two machines away from me

MC: I'm finished. I am just waiting for the generation to be completed~

As soon as my words fell, Lucien also slightly tilted his head and looked at me with a smile.

Lucien: But… I'm more interested in talking to MC from ten years ago than to myself

MC: Eh? If you put it that way… I think I want to talk to you from 10 years ago too!

As I said that, I glanced at the closed entrance, made a plan, and lowered my voice.

MC: Lucien, should we secretly change places and enter each other's rooms?

MC: If both parties agree, it should be considered in line with the rules. What do you think?

Lucien: Of course, I have no problem with that.

In the dim light, I seemed to see a sly arc rising from the corner of Lucien's mouth. There is a faint illusion of "being tricked".

The machine beeped, "generation complete", not giving me time to think deeply about it.

Lucien: Come on, let's go in.

As he said that, he walked toward the room facing me, and I stepped in the opposite direction.

As the door closed, there was no light in sight. About a few seconds later, there was a glimmer of light around me.

A blurred outline of a human figure appeared, and a much younger "Lucien" appeared in front of me.

It was him at age 16.

I carefully traced the "Lucien" in front of me. The expression of his eyebrows and the angles of his eyes were slightly youthful, but on closer inspection, they seemed to be the same as now.

Isn't this AI technology too powerful? There is a sense of time travel, a real sense of facing each other.

As I was thinking about it, "Lucien" slowly blinked his eyes.

Young Lucien: Hello.

I couldn't help but smile as his youthful voice fell on my ears.

MC: Hello, Lucien. I'm MC from 10 years later.

Young Lucien: MC...

He softly read my name. His deep eyes lit up a little.

Young Lucien: So, are you someone I'll meet in the future?

MC: Yes, I'm the person you will definitely meet in the future.

He raised his eyes slightly, and his gaze carried some probing and scrutiny.

MC: You don't seem to believe it?

Young Lucien: There is something special about you, but you are no different from anyone else.

MC: Really? And how do you see me now?

Young Lucien: Like… a butterfly.

Faced with his young face, I can't help but want to tease him.

MC: Pfft. Little Lu, the future you will have a different answer to this question.

MC: If you are curious, grow up quickly, and the future will give you the answer.

He looked at me as if he saw something through me. After a few moments, the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.

Young Lucien: Then, I'm a bit surprised by this future me.

MC: Why do you say so?

Young Lucien: Since a long time ago, my eyes have always been fixed on the direction of the world, and I am accustomed to searching for truth and answers alone.

Young Lucien: So I never imagined that there would be another person standing beside me one day in the future.

Young Lucien: I'm surprised that you're here.

"Lucien's" voice is soft but clearly fell on my heart.

MC: In fact, you are still on the path of exploring the world ten years later, more determined than anyone else.

Young Lucien: If that's the case, then why are you still with me?

MC: Because...

I didn't know how to answer this question for a while, so I instinctively spoke without thinking.

MC: While you keep exploring the world, I will always try to catch up with you.

MC: Although you're walking very fast, I've managed to catch up with you a few times!

The "Lucien" in front of me froze and soon smiled.

Young Lucien: A future like this seems very promising if it really exists.

Young Lucien: But I'm curious about the answer. Maybe the future me has come to the exact result.

Young Lucien: That's why you're here.

Somehow, at this moment, I felt as if he and the current Lucien had overlapped with each other.

Young Lucien: See you in the future, MC.

As his voice fell, the figure in front of me slowly disappeared, and the door behind him opened automatically. I walked out of the room in a trance, just in time to see Lucien come out of another door.

Lucien: It seems that our swap was a good choice.

Lucien: MC from ten years ago was even cuter than I expected.

Remembering the miraculous "conversation through time" behind that door, I subconsciously blurted out.

MC: What did you and the "me" from ten years ago talk about?

Lucien: What did you say to the "me" from ten years ago?

Our voices speak in unison and then tacitly pause as if waiting for an answer from the other side.

MC: Hmph, I'm not going to say it first.

While we were talking, there was a joyful noise outside the window. When I look at the time, it's time to release the lanterns.

MC: Lucien, look!

The ink-colored sky was drenched with candlelight-like lanterns, fluttering and flying high.

The sky is filled with wishes, letting each of the sincere expectations given to the night have a home to return.

MC: It's so beautiful… Should we also release a sky lantern?

Before I finished my words, a sky lantern descended in front of us against the "tide" of lanterns.

I blinked and subconsciously raised my hand to catch it.

Underneath the tiny lantern filled with tiny flame, there was a note with familiar handwriting-

"Hello, MC."

In a flash, it seemed to mirror Lucien's "See you in the future" from ten years ago.

MC: Why is it here…

Lucien tightened his grip on my palm and looked at me with a smile in his eyes.

Lucien: Perhaps because this wish has unknowingly become a reality.

Lucien: So it no longer needs to fly to the sky, but to meet us.

#BABYYY #mlqc #mlqc lucien #mr love queen's choice #mlqc cn #mlqc translation #love and producer

[jimin-day]

Stare at me

Summary: You frequent a coffee shop only to be met with his dark eyes every time.

Pairing: Jungkook x reader

Genre/tags: Smut, fingering, oral (female receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, if you squint daddy!Jungkook, shy!reader, dirty talk,

a/n: hello! This is my first time writing a fanfic so please be kind! This kind of just fell out of me and developed into something I couldn't control, so.. enjoy! :)

You leaned back with a sigh and threw your notebook on the coffee table. Knowing you needed a well deserved break from studying you decide to head down to the local coffee shop for a caffeine boost.

You emit a big loud yawn and walk to your room down the hall. You decide to exchange your sweatpants with some jeans and put on a bra for the first time that weekend. You give a small huff in the mirror noticing you still look a bit ragged, but who cares? Your not trying to impress anyone and your definitely not trying to turn any heads.

After breaking up with your long term, long distance boyfriend you felt like your life was on hold. You thought you were going to marry this man, have his children in fact. But the sad truth was he had cheated on you and you couldnt let that stand, so you left. Feeling emotionally bruised and sore you had holed up in your on-campus apartment and tried to forget by studying and binging on chinese food for the last few weeks.

The only thing that brought you any joy nowadays was getting some coffee a few blocks down from where you lived. It may have seemed like a small excursion but it got you out of the house and let you take in a fresh breath of air, somehow restoring your will to stand on this planet.

But you would be lying if that was the only reason you visited that coffee shop. Every so often a black haired man at a small table next to the window would be working on his laptop, to say he was handsome was an understatement.

He was jarringly handsome and if you were lucky you would catch eyes with him, only to be completely embarrassed when he caught you staring. But that didnt stop you from looking for him every time you went to the shop only to be met with those dark doe eyes.

You walked down the side walk, a cool breeze hitting your face, making you feel refreshed now that you were being met with crisp air. You took a deep breath and tried to ignore the fact that you were still deeply hurting from your breakup. You silently thought to yourself that maybe it was you. Were you not good enough? Not pretty enough? You guess you could stand to lose a bit of weight. Maybe not good enough in bed? No, do not let yourself go there this was his problem. You were more than an ideal girlfriend and you refuse to blame yourself for his actions.

Almost like he had heard you thinking about him, your phone rings a familiar chime and you lift your phone to take a look.

[DONT ANSWER] 11:46pm

Hey please message me back, i miss you.

Nope, not a chance. Since the break up your ex has been trying to contact you but you wouldnt give him the light of day. There is no way you were going to let him convince you back into his arms and you wouldnt even give him the chance.

You put your phone in your pocket and looked up at your destination. You pull the door open to be greeted with warm air defrosting your body. You take a step inside and almost involuntarily look to your right where that brown haired man normally sat. You were thrilled to see him sitting there studiously staring at his laptop with his eyebrows stitched together, probably figuring out a tough question you assume? Today he was wearing all black, not like he wore anything else, a black oversized tee shirt, a black face mask pulled down to his chin and ripped black jeans. A leather jacket hung from one of the chairs which he had thrown over previously before your arrival. He sighed and leaned back taking a sip of his coffee before looking up.

As if knowing you were going be there at this exact time he met your eyes immediately. You felt embarrassed, obviously for staring so long, but you were a bit bolder today meeting his gaze a little longer than normal. Maybe seeing that text earlier gave you a bit more confidence in knowing you would be fine without your ex, even though you were torn inside.

His eyes didnt back down and he one upped you by cupping his hand underneath his chin and giving you a sexy smirk while tilting his head. This was as much confidence as you were going to show today, as you quickly turned your head and got in queue. Your cheeks burned and admittedly your pussy clenched with desire. You put your face in your hands and shook your head trying to regain your composure. Feeling so hot and blushed.

You didnt notice but the man was quietly giggling and taking you in as much as you were oogling him. Of course he noticed you looking at him everytime you walked through those doors. In fact, he may have noticed you before you had noticed him. When he caught you the first time staring, he was elated. Knowing that you felt attracted to him made this even more fun, and what topped it off was you were so shy. Every time he looked at you, you couldnt help but be incredibly embarrassed and cave in on yourself. He loved that, Jungkook fed off it, each time you walked through the door he pictured more than one things to do to you.

Even catching you in sweatpants drove jungkook crazy. Seeing them hangoff your hips teasing him and wearing a tight camisole made him ache in pleasure. What was it about you that made him dizzy?

Jungkook was an average student but excelled in about everything else. At uni he was very often sought after by women but he had no motivation to chase after anyone. He would have flings here and there but they meant nothing to him. Not even knowing it, jungkook became the white whale around the university. Women would try to reel him in but to no avail, leaving them high and dry. Getting him in bed meant you were of the elite class, earning you a high spot in womens books, often jealousy.

But jungkook was oblivious to this, and if he was being honest nothing was special about those women. Just right place, right time.

But to Jungkook, you felt special.

Jungkook thought about his plan of action that he had rehearsed in his head a few times. He always wanted to confront you but never felt confident enough. But today was the day. He woke up with a surge of motivation and admittedly went to the coffee shop early to make sure he didn't miss you, praying you would show up.

You were the next person to place your order when you feel a presence behind you. You paid it no mind and kept looking forward deciding if you should get a small breakfast sandwich to go with your coffee. As you tell the clerk that you'd like a hot coffee a voice speaks up behind you, "and I'll be paying for that"

You turn around as if your head was on a swivel and notice the beautiful man coming up around you and handing his card to the employee. "Oh and I'll have a breakfast sandwich too" you say while giving a meek smile to the man who was paying for you.

He gives a mischievous grin and you turn to face the clerk, blushing. Once he receives his receipt and is handed his card back, you step to the side and wait for your order to be finished. Not far behind, jungkook follows and stands beside you. "You know, I would've paid for you even if you ordered the whole menu" jungkook looks at you with kind eyes and a little grin.

You cant help but blush and stare at your feet. You quickly try and sike yourself up and finally look up at him "Well maybe next time I'll try and buy the whole store" Jungkook laughed brightly with a bunny smile while his dark hair falls into his eyes, you can't help but think how adorably handsome he was in that moment.

He looks at you a bit more seriously making your face burn in anticipation. "You think I haven't noticed you staring?" At that you turned red. You knew he saw you, most days you would catch his eyes but being so upfront about it had you in a tizzy. Jungkook takes the small slip of paper he just received and starts scribbling on it and places it into your hand.

You glance down at the paper and it's his name and phone number, you look up and blush at him. Jungkook leans closer to you almost brushing your ear. "If you would like you can stare at me outside of this shop, preferably in my room princess."

Jungkook gives a sly smirk, turns and walks away to sit back down at his table and you are drenched to say the least. 'Holy shit, what did he just call me?'

You hear the barista call your name and you were so startled by it you jump pulling you out of the trance you were in. You safely put the receipt in your pocket grab your order and before pushing the doors open you take one last glance.

As if making it known to the whole world jungkook was unabashedly smiling at you. Your cheeks turn hot pink and you rush out the door, trying to get yourself together.

------------

You sit at home, lifting the small piece of paper up and staring at it. 'Jungkook', now that you think about it you feel like you have heard this name in small circles around campus but never had the face to put to the devil. This makes you outwardly cringe, scrunching up into a little ball and give a silent scream. From your recollection this man is a catch, THE catch and if you were not mistaken very good in bed.

At that thought you said fuck it, since your ex you haven't even thought of sex or pursued anyone and decided enough was enough. You were getting dick.

[Y/N] 7:56pm

Hey.. it's coffee shop girl

[Jungkook] 8:01pm

Hi baby, did you get curious?

Your heart stops at the nickname, oh fuck he's reducing you to a puddle. You can feel your panties getting uncomfortable and you try and shift to relieve some much needed tension. You take a deep breath and decide to just go for it.

[Y/N] 8:03pm

So what does staring at you in your bedroom entail?

[Jungkook] 8:04pm

Hmm.. well Y/N i could tell you or I could show you?

You were reeling, not even believing it yourself you take a second to calm your nerves. But honestly you couldnt, too high on whatever cloud your are on to still your beating heart. Your pussy clenches around nothing, and you are beginning to pool in your panties, thinking of all the things Jungkook would do to you.. will do to you.

-------

Next thing you know your knocking on his door, in the cold.

Before you left you told your friend where you were going just in case this man was a serial killer. You could never be to careful. Your friend wanted to hear all about it but you have no time for that yet, but definitely over brunch tomorrow.

You hear a click and the door swings open, there stands a man with honey skin and beautiful dark locks, he gives you a bright boxy smile "Hi, can I help you?" You almost trip over yourself when you are greeted by him, too focused on just how handsome he was.

"Um, ya I'm here for Jungkook?"

Just as you asked Jungkook is strolling up to the door and telling his roommate that he's "got it from here". That made you freeze, what have you gotten yourself into? This man was practically a stranger, a stunning one, but a stranger none the less and now your going to let him "take it from here" almost as if you were a plaything.

Jungkook gestures you in and you wave to who you later learned was Taehyung, thanking him for opening the door for you. As you turn to follow jungkook down the hall, your cheeks feel hot, not only about what is going to happen in Jungkooks room but how Taehyung knows exactly why you are here, and you just looked him in the eyes and thanked him.

Jungkook let's you into his room and as you walk in you take a look, it's tidier than you would have thought, there is a light up keyboard and computer in the corner, on top of his desk sits a very expensive DSLR camera, a mic stand just beside the desk and he has purple lights strung up around the walls. Nice touch.

Jungkook closes the door behind you, no turning back now. He looks at you almost as if he were to tear you to shreds. His eyes transition to blown out black as he rakes over your body and you can almost hear your heart thrumming in your ears. He moves closer putting his left hand on the wall, at his bold gesture, you begin to feel overwhelmingly shy.

Coming to a strangers house to fuck? This was not you, you liked to take your time and get to know the person. Maybe a date or two to see what your getting into. Right now you were way out of your comfort zone.

Jungkook pinning you to the door has your eyes looking at your feet, feeling quite nervous, and possibly wanting to flee. Jungkook gently takes his finger and lifts up your chin to meet his eyes. His eyes still blown out with lust but showing a bit more restraint making your heart feel less tight. "Hey baby, it's okay. I've got you, you tell me if this isn't something you want and I'll stop right now."

Your heart sank you didn't want him to feel like he was pressuring you, you wanted this. So bad your pussy is aching for some sort of release. It was all just so new to you, the situation, the man, the way he looked at you like an animal. You shook your head and told him you were okay, not wanting him to stop.

He starts slowly with a quick kiss to the lips, then soon after turning sloppy tasting them and molding to them. He licks your lips so he can explore your mouth. Giving you sloppy wet strokes of his tongue making you weak in the knees.

His hand comes to your hip squeezing and rubbing soft circles, slowly moving higher underneath your shirt. Your lips detach and he licks up your neck, sucking on the flesh that is right underneath your ear. "Fuck baby you have no idea how long I wanted this." He sucks harshly leaving a purple mark with his plush lips, grinding his hips into your core for some sort of friction.

You don't pay his comment much mind as you are way to distracted by his hand cupping your breast and his cock rubbing your clit deliciously. Jungkook gently pinches your nipple and starts playing with your nub expertly twisting and massaging. You let out a soft moan, and jungkook is floored. His erection so hard and uncomfortable in his pants, but he can wait.

Jungkook takes his hand and starts stroking your clothed core with his long fingers, feeling how much you have soaked through your clothes. Feeling how wet you are for him he groans "Does this feel good princess? Do you like when a stranger plays with your pussy?" You moan even louder, no one has talked to you this way and you can't help but feel a new gush of arousal take over.

He quickly picks you up by your bottom and throws you on the bed, "Strip, everything but your panties" there is no hesitation, you fling your shirt off your body undo your bra and shuffle your pants down to the floor leaving only your underwear on.

As you sat there you began to cross your arms over your chest, somewhat embarrassed being mostly naked in front of this man. Jungkook tutted, "Don't be shy princess" jungkook reaches for your wrists and pulls them up over you head pinning them to the headboard while giving you quick kisses to your forehead and jaw. "Don't hide from me, let me see you."

His sweet coos and kisses soothe your heart and you relax more into the position your are in. Jungkook begins to move down your neck with kisses, licks and some biting to stave off his hunger. Seeing you in this position is driving him crazy. You are so cute and shy your soaked pussy waiting for him. From this angle he can see you all hot and flustered trying to hide your face. Jungkook gives a quick smile that you don't see because you are too busy trying to hide from your embarrassment.

Jungkook moves down next to your core playing with the elastic of your panties, taunting you. "Will you be a good girl for me?" His question barely registers in your blown out state but you quietly nod your head. Not being a good enough answer for jungkook he slaps your pussy right on your bundle of nerves. "Use your words, Y/N." The spank sends shock waves throughout your body and has you on high alert. Your walls clenching hard, aching for any type of touch.

"YES, yes, please Jungkook I'll be a good girl" You look him in the eyes and don't want to stop staring at how gorgeous he looks. Sweaty glistening skin, dark hair in his eyes, looking like he could eat you alive.

Never breaking eye contact Jungkook removes his shirt and pants along with his boxers. His cock hitting his stomach with force, hard and angry red. He was so thick and long, you wanted to taste him so bad, swallow his cock full.

Jungkook starts to pump his dick up and down, using his thumb he wipes his slit to cover his length in cum. He leans back down to your soaking core. "Now princess I want you to watch me while I play with your pretty pussy, can you do that for me?"

You look at him with half lidded eyes, feeling like your in a strange head space that you can't describe. But you would do or say anything for him at this moment almost subdued by that fact you know he will take care of you. "yes daddy." Jungkook is surprised to hear that come off your lips but it makes him want to fill you up with cum, make you his.

He notices your shift in expression and realizes you've slipped somewhere, but he decides to save that in the back of his mind, he'll play with that Y/N another day. Right now he just needs to be inside of you.

Jungkook bunches the material of your panties and pulls upward rubbing your aching clit. The friction feels so good and you want to throw your head back and moan but remembering the rules you fix your eyes on jungkook looking pleased at what little he has to do for you to go crazy.

Seeing your perfect clit bulge from your panties being pulled up, jungkook wraps his soft lips around your clothed bundle and starts sucking you, along with long slow languid licks.

You couldn't take it any more, Jungkooks mouth sucking on your clothed clit is visual overboard, you throw your head back and give a loud moan, your clit throbbing feeling so close to cumming.

"Please, kook!"

Jungkook let's go of your panties and pulls them down your legs. He starts rubbing your bundle of nerves in circles and figure eights, earning loud moans from your lips from the new bare sensation. "Please what, princess?"

"I wanna come, please let me cum, jungkook!"

He quickly leans down and strokes his tongue up your slit gathering your juice on his tongue "fuck baby you taste so good", jungkook moves up to your clit, his hot breath ghosting over you making you whine. With a wet and flat tongue jungkook eats you almost like he is a starved puppy, his strong muscle giving you some well deserved attention.

Feeling your stomach coiling you know you are so close, your legs start shaking and your breathing starts to speed up. Your eyes tight ready for what comes next.

Jungkook slips two fingers into your pussy curving them so he hits your spongy g-spot, never stopping his tongue on your clit while he fucks you with his fingers. Suddenly the coil snaps within you and you are seeing stars. Your orgasm has your thighs shaking around jungkooks head and tears begin to slip from your eyes. You throw your head back and let out a deep and long moan. "My princess looks so pretty cumming." You gush all over jungkook tongue and he is happy to lick all of your essence up all up not letting any go to waste.

Jungkook slows his tongue and fingers to help coax you through your orgasm, he gives you a quick kiss to your sensitive clit and gets up to hover over top of you. " You did so well princess, you ready for my cock?"

You give a very enthusiastic nod, tears still streaking down your face from the force of your orgasm. "Yes please, I want your cock daddy."

He strokes his member a few times and starts to press the head of his member in your wet folds moving it up and down your slit soaking his cock. He starts to push in your velvet entrance and you can feel the delicious sting and stretch of him. Half way in jungkook stops to let you get used to his size. Looking at you with your tear stained cheeks his cock twitches and he can hardly control his hips from pounding into your messy cunt.

"Your pussy is so tight princess, were you waiting for my cock?" Jungkook pushes his thick member all the way in your pussy and he let's out a guttural moan. "Fuck baby you feel so good".

You reach out and grab jungkooks shoulders pulling him closer, your face is buried in the crook of his neck both of you hot and sweaty. Jungkook takes advantage of this position and hooks his arms underneath your shoulder blades and grabbing your shoulder from the back giving him excellent grip to thrust deep and hard inside you.

He starts moving slowly but quickly picks up the pace at a bruising speed. Using his arms as leverage to slam into your pussy as he whispers in your ear, "I've been eye fucking you for days princess, did you know that? I've been wanting to fill this pussy up since I saw you and now I have you crying beneath me. Do you like a perfect stranger filling this tight cunt?"

You shiver at his words and feel yourself clenching around him your pussy desperately trying to hold on to his thick cock. You moan loudly and start to produce fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

"Your words, princess."

Jungkook did not say that lightly and you did not want to test his patience in this moment, while you were already in a vulnerable position. "Yes I love a strangers cock in my pussy!"

Jungkook swallows hard at your words and can't believe how well you are doing for him. The shy girl he saw in the coffee shop is saying such dirty things, just for him.

You try and match his speed with your hips but to no avail, your breath hitches every time he thrusts into you leaving you almost breathless. Your orgasm is rising and its almost painful to follow, he hits your g-spot so nicely and he has you crying, tears continue to fall from your eyes and onto the bedsheets. Trying to hold on you reach for his back and start clawing at it. The pain of your nails digging into him. Jungkook let's go of your shoulders and sits up while fucking you, getting a whole new and beautiful view of you crying, and writhing on his cock while he thrusts in your sweet pussy.

Jungkook reaches down to your folds and drags his finger around your arousal and brings it up to your clit. Rubbing harsh circles on your very sensitive bundle. You start to feel the familiar twist in your stomach rise and it has your legs start shaking and your breath becomes shallow. "Come on princess cum all over your daddys cock".

With another thrust of his hips he sends you into your second, back breaking orgasm. In jungkooks eyes you look like art, hair splayed out around you wet from all the tears you were producing, thighs shaking uncontrollably with intense pleasure, and your mind so fucked out and begging to be praised by your daddy after cumming on his cock so well.

You look up at jungkook and his eyes are all over you, watching you become a mess underneath him.

Jungkook not being able to last much longer looks you right in the eyes and grabs your chin. "Look at me in the eyes princess while I fill up your slutty cunt with my cum. Don't you look away, I want you to see how much of a slut your are for me."

Your pussy clenched at his vulgar words and you nod in his hands. You have no choice but to look into his intense dark chocolate eyes. His hips become sloppy and he can feel your pussy throbbing and milking his cock, with a couple more sloppy thrusts he spills into your cunt filling you with warmth, making you feel so full. Jungkook let's out a guttural groan, while looking into you as he claims you as his.

You found your eyes were glued to Jungkook as he came, not being able to look away, seeing his dark eyes swirl with relief and lust, licking his lips and hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. You were completely in awe of him.

Jungkook rests his forehead on yours taking deep breaths until he removes himself from you and gets up to walk away. He comes back with a wet cloth in hand and gently cleans you up. He throws the towel to the side and lays down beside you. You both take a deep breath and look at each other.

"Uhmm, I think I should go." You start to get out of his bed when you feel his hand grab your wrist.

"Stay with me, you don't have to go." Jungkooks words have your heart lump in your throat. You felt embarrassed walking in here for a quickie and afterwards when reality hit you, you felt mortified. But looking into his eyes he was gentle, finding some truth in his words you let him pull you on his his chest to cuddle. Your cheeks burning red at the action but your were admittedly enjoying the feeling of his warmth.

Without realizing how exhausted you had become, your eyes begin to feel heavy. You fall asleep while he strokes your hair, jungkook being left with his thoughts.

'Fuck'

---------------------------------------------------

a/n: Ahh! thank you for making it this far! I had a lot of fun (and difficulty) writing this! It's my first time ever writing a fanfiction so please be kind! Let me know what you think :3

#smut #jungkook smut #daddy!jungkook #shy!reader #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #my first fanfic #jungkook bts #bts smut #jimin-day #jiminday #jeon jungkook #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jeongukk #jungkook/reader

[sunniebelle]

Surprises In Store

She thought it was a mistake, at first, but it seems destiny is determined to bring Rose and James together.

(tagging @doctorroseprompts)

Ten x Rose AU

Ao3

Rose’s morning had not been going well. Sleeping in was a luxury she was rarely afforded, yet her alarm failing to go off on time had allowed her to indulge an extra fifteen minutes this morning. The rush of adrenaline when she discovered this made it easy for her to beat her record for quickest clothing change and make-up application she could remember, though she chose not to fuss with her hair aside from flipping it upside down and teasing it to give it volume.

And of course, this would naturally be the day for her to realize she’s out of both tea and coffee—though to be fair, there really wasn’t time for either, already needing to run to catch her bus. Scarfing down a piece of toast, she ran out the front door and tore down the stairs, thankful that her job allowed her to wear trainers.

The only thing that kept her from giving up and wanting to return home to hide from the expectations of the day was the fact that she managed to make her bus, though just barely. And there were far fewer people boarded today than normal. She hoped that might allow her to make up some time.

A few minutes later, bright smile lighting her face, she stepped off the bus with still several minutes to spare. If she hurried, she’d have time for a coffee run at the recently opened coffee shop adjacent to Henrick’s. She’d not been in there yet and this morning she could really use the caffeine.

She made her way through the front entrance of Kasterborous Coffee, thankful there was only one person queued before her. Smiling pleasantly at the young woman helping her, Rose made quick work of paying for her coffee and moving to retrieve her drink.

So anxious was she to get to work on time, she turned hastily to exit the coffee shop and ran directly into a solid body, her coffee spilling down her front.

Her momentum bouncing her off the man, as well as the shock of hot coffee drenching her, resulted in her losing her footing slightly. Strong, long fingered hands grasped her biceps in a gentle but firm grip, helping her regain her balance.

Her gasped sputtering and muttered curses were suddenly drowned out by the smooth sounds of an Estuary accented voice talking quickly and apologizing profusely.

Her eyes traveled up the lean figure of the brown pinstriped suited man, all her anger, and any temptation of shouting at him to watch where he was going, suddenly flew from her mind. She was immediately captivated by his handsome face, hair styled in a modern sticky-uppy fashion, and deep brown eyes that looked at her sharply but with genuine concern. He suddenly stopped talking, allowing her brain a moment to restart and no longer focus on his pouty lower lip.

“Miss? You alright?” he asked anxiously, bending slightly to catch her eye and look her over for possible injury (apart from a mild scalding due to hot coffee, anyway).

“Yeah, yeah. ‘M fine, thanks. Just…mind’s a bit scrambled, I guess,” she laughs.

He smiles, words seeming to tumble from his mouth. “Sorry about that. So sorry. I was a mite distracted, but of course, if I’d been paying attention then we wouldn’t be in this predicament, would we?” he asks, pulling on an earlobe. “Then again, if you’d watched where you were going, you might’ve avoided me altogether. Oo, was that rude? That was a bit rude, wasn’t it. Donna’s always gettin’ onto me about that, being rude, that is. Not running into lovely ladies and spilling their coffees on them. She’d probably give me a slap if she saw me now, too.” His jaw suddenly snapped closed, as though the thought of this Donna person giving him a slap was the only thing keeping more words from exiting his mouth.

Watching his face turn a bit pink as he continued to tug on his ear nervously, she wasn’t sure whether to be irritated for being insulted by him, or amused by his rambling and embarrassment. She thought his adorable ‘kicked puppy’ look made up for the insults.

“No, it’s fine, really. No permanent damage. I’m sure a good wash’ll get this right out. And I bet one of my coworkers has a shirt or something I can borrow.”

It suddenly dawned on her that she was likely to be late clocking in unless she left immediately. And her witch of a manager, Cassandra was unlikely to have any pity for her regardless of the circumstances surrounding her tardiness.

“Sorry, gotta run. My boss’ll have my head if ’M late. Um, well… bye, then.” Not giving the man any time to reply, Rose shot out of the coffee shop, throwing away her nearly empty cup on the way. She managed to make it just in time to clock in, roughly thirty seconds from being officially late. Lucky for her, since a reprimanding from Cassandra would have been the icing on the cake to her day that she really didn’t need.

The rest of the day seemed to drag, allowing her mind plenty of free time to wonder about the bloke who was the cause of her wearing a slightly too-small shirt (borrowed from Linda with a y; though her perkiness could at times be annoying, she had turned out to be a good friend). Too many times Rose had to drag her mind back to what she needed to be focused on and away from thinking of her mystery man.

The feel of his long-fingered hands gripping her arms, what it might feel like to run her hands through his great—really great—hair, or to puts a kiss to his tempting, pouty lower lip.

Stop it! God, what was wrong with her?! It was one disastrous meeting and now her mind would not stop thinking about him. She didn’t even know his name!

She’d likely never see him again, which was just as well. She would probably wind up making a fool of herself. He looked too well off to want anything to do with a shopgirl from the estates who never got A-levels. It was time to put all thoughts of the handsome stranger behind her.

Her resolve crumbled many times over the next few days, but slowly she was able to leave all thoughts of Mr. Sticky-Uppy Hair behind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Almost a month to the day of the coffee incident, Rose walked into Kasterborous Coffee. This morning seemed to be going much smoother for her, so far at least. There hadn’t seemed to be any major problems cropping up, and she was really looking forward to enjoying a cup of coffee on a rare day off.

However, she got quite the shock when she finally went to order.

Standing behind the counter was the man she’d bumped into, still looking amazing with his wild hair that defied gravity and brown pinstriped suit that seemed to hug his frame perfectly. His bewildered look quickly gave way to a bright smile and twinkling chocolate-brown eyes. She spared a moment to think that he really had no right to look that gorgeous, it wasn’t fair since he seemed to be able to scramble her thoughts with a single look.

“Hello!” he proclaimed brightly. “Come to get a coffee? Don’t worry, I’m behind the counter today so it’s unlikely I'll drench you with it.”

Laughing with him, she smiled brightly, her brain suddenly working again.

“Yeah, I generally prefer to drink my coffee rather than wear it,” she teased him, smiling with just a hint of her tongue showing. She felt a pleasant jolt when she saw his eyes stare at her mouth.

Seeming to realize what he was doing, he blushed slightly and rubbed the back of his neck. “So, coffee! What kind would you like? Cappuccino? Or maybe a latte? Oh, we have a brilliant espresso that tastes brilliant with caramel or chocolate?”

Rose felt rather bemused for several moments as he threw out possible suggestions of drinks she might like. Before she could say anything though, a red haired woman walked up and smacked him hard on the arm.

“Oi! What was that for?!” he exclaimed, rubbing his arm, managing to look simultaneously offended and a bit scared.

“To get you to shut up, Spaceman. If you’d stop blathering away at the poor girl she might be able to tell you what she wants!” The ginger woman's face and voice told of her exasperation, but there was a hint of a mischievous smile peeking through and humor danced in her eyes as she winked at Rose.

He gave Rose a sheepish smile as the woman walked off, muttering under her breath about idiots and outerspace dunces.

“Spaceman?” Rose asked, puzzling over the odd name.

“Oh, that’s one of the many nicknames Donna has for me. Not sure why she calls me that, honestly. Started when we were kids and it seemed to stick, I guess. Anyway, my name’s James Noble.”

She shook the hand he offered, trying to ignore the tingling she felt when they touched. “’M Rose, Rose Tyler.”

“Lovely to meet you Rose Tyler!” She wasn’t sure what to make of the pleasant feeling that flowed though her at hearing him say her name like that, as though he were caressing it.

She nodded and smiled, not trusting her voice. When he asked again for her drink order, after a pointedly cleared throat from a customer behind her, she ordered the first thing she saw on the display, which happened to be a mocha latte. She balked a bit when he wouldn’t let her pay for it, declaring that he owned her one since he caused her to spill hers last time. Feeling a bit flustered, but in a good way, she chose not to argue the point, not wanting to hold up the queue any longer.

When she made to get her drink, she was handed a large cup, a generous helping of whipped cream and chocolate shavings decorating the top. Since business had dramatically picked up, she wasn’t able to talk to James longer than to say goodbye.

Aimlessly strolling the busy walkway, completely forgetting anything else she'd had planned that day, she sipped at her drink and let her mind wander. What were the chances that she had met him again? And working in the shop next door, at that!

Just as Rose was trying to pull her thoughts away from the handsome James Noble, she noticed a flash of color on the cup’s sleeve. There, written in blue ink, was James’ phone number. His…phone number. He had given her—her—his phone number!

A megawatt smile lighting her face, Rose slipped the sleeve off the cup and tucked it into her pocket, before throwing the cup away. Pulling out her phone to look up the hours of operation for Kasterborous Coffee, she headed home, all the while making plans for an important phone call later in the day. Not even realizing she was chewing her cuticle a bit, she ran through possible conversation topics and what she might say, and what he might say back.

Though she wasn’t sure what would happen in the near future, she was certainly excited to find out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Happy Birthday, @creativebec! Hope you have a lovely Birthday, Bec!

#creativebec #doctor who #tenth doctor #rose tyler #ten x rose au #coffee shop au #meet-cute #fluff #donna noble #doctorroseprompts

[merlins-hurt-comfort]

I’ll be here until you’re okay

Fandom: TS Sanders Sides Warnings: parental emotional abuse, talking about violence (only talking, though), food mention, Roman swears once, Remy’s mother is kind of transphobic and sugarcoats anxiety. Pairing: Remy/Emile Characters: Remy Sanders, Emile Picani, Patton Sanders, Logan Sanders and Roman Sanders Wordcount: 3511

A/N: so first of all, this is for @shut-up-emrys​, i love you lots. the thing with this fanfiction is that it’s kinda personal, i basically put my mother in this story and made Remy go through some of the things i had/have to go through and have them comforted in the end. because that is what hurt and comfort fanfictions are for, isn’t it. whatever. i do feel better after writing this, though.

The early morning sun shone through a little window in Remy's room, lightly waking them on this mild Tuesday morning.

After a few times of turning around, trying to get ahold of the sweet warm sleep, Remy stretched their body and slowly sat up, leaning against their bed's headboard.

They rubbed their eyes and blinked a few times to get their eyes used to the bright rays of sun, lighting up their room- or more accurate- their mess of it.

Remy breathed in deeply but the heavy weight on their shoulders didn't ease. They felt their throat hurting, warm anger rising as they remembered last night's events.

No surprise their mother was involved. Remy remembered trying to open up to her, telling her about yesterday's therapy session. Not to get them wrong, they loved their mother. And their mother loved Remy. At least that's what they were sure of. But sometimes Remy couldn't think of her anything other than hurtful, then again they immediately felt guilty about thinking that way. Their mother was a good mother. She was. Even though Remy felt like her hatred towards certain groups of people outweighed her love for her child.

Remy didn't want to get up. Not this day. A long work day was ahead of them and their motivation non-existing. But since not coming to work due to emotional issues was "just being lazy" and "not going to happen", according to their mother, they slowly got out of the warm bed to get changed while thoughts about other events, similar to last night came crushing down. Like that one time, years ago, when they took all the courage they got. They wrote their mother a letter, explaining being non-binary in all it's details.

Remy started shaking, just as they had been shaking back then, as if they were reliving the whole scenario instead of simply replaying it in their thoughts. They didn't get support. They didn't get thrown out either but that could not be where the bar for acceptance was. Instead, after getting interrupted, their mother tried to talk Remy out of it, brushed it off as a phase and neither of them brought up the whole conversation ever again. That day Remy swore to never come out to her ever again.

But their mother was a good mother, she let them visit a therapist to manage their anxiety issues. After six months of all of their professors talking to her, she finally agreed. She didn't like her child going to therapy. It would not look good on college or work applications, she said. They would never get an "actual full-time job", she said. It would ruin her good reputation, she said. Almost as if that was more important than Remy learning to deal with their anxiety. Almost. She loved them, Remy knew it. They just didn't feel it. But she was a good mother, right? She was. She had to be.

Remy shook their head, trying to get rid of all the memories as they dropped the clothes they slept in on the floor. After last night's argument, Remy didn't manage to do anything else other than walk into their room, slam the door shut and lie down on the bed hoping to fall sleep before the growing heartache would tear them apart.

They picked a blue jeans and a white shirt from The Chair™, put them on and turned around to look in a mirror hanging on the wall to fix their sleep hair. One look in the mirror made them stumble back in shock. All those thoughts, racing and stumbling through their mind, made them forget that this day was their eighteenth birthday.

Usually, they didn't care about their birthdays. What's so great about them? Remy was glad their friends respected their feelings and didn't bring it up. And every other birthday would have been just another ordinary day. But not the eighteenth. On one's eighteenth birthday they would get a black mark somewhere on their body where their soulmate would touch them first. Or next- if they already knew each other.

After a few seconds, Remy stepped closer to the mirror, carefully touching their left cheek with their fingertips. There was a black handprint on their face covering half their chin and lips and the cheek they were so delicately touching right that second. In awe and confusion Remy traced the print of the thumb to below the left eye and the other four fingers just below their left ear. All those thoughts about their mother disappeared, that stain was the only important thing in this moment, until-

Remy was outraged. So their soulmate would slap them? Was that what was going to happen? They scoffed, of course other people got friendly touches and they were left with this.

"Seems like, it's just what I deserve," they mumbled to themselves. For a short moment they considered covering the mark with make up but they decided not to do such thing. If people knew, people knew. And they would know- one way or another.

They put on their black leather jacket and grabbed their phone to leave the house, not bothering to say good morning or goodbye to their mother. She didn't bother either.

On their way to work Remy put in their headphones and let the music take over, trying to ignore the strangers looking at their face, now decorated with a black handprint.

A few miles away Emile stared at his right hand. Today was his eighteenth birthday as well and he couldn't help but overthink it. When he woke up this morning, his right palm was all black.

Emile's thoughts have been creating dozens of possible scenarios already. It could be a handshake, or a high-five. It could be a mark from holding someone's hand. Nonetheless, he worried a little bit. What if he would slap his soulmate? Could happen, right? Less likely than all those other possibilities but with his luck, that's what it was going to be.

He just took a shower and got dressed, a black jeans, a light blue sweater and his brown coat. He then grabbed his phone and backpack and left for uni, hiding his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Halfway there, Emile stopped at the local Starbucks and entered the café. It was a busy morning but to see his best friend Remy behind the counter brightened his mood. Somehow, Remy, as the most sarcastic and pessimistic, also unquestionably short-tempered person, always managed to cheer him up. As a psychology major, college took a lot of Emile's time and Remy covered many of their coworkers shifts, but they still managed to spend time together. Remy was working on one of the coffee machines with their back to Emile but their coworkers already noticed him.

From the other end of the long queue Emile watched Patton say a few words to Logan, then take a paper cup from the counter and make his way through the café to the psychology major.

Patton was older than Remy and Emile and already got his mark months ago. Two fine black lines on his forehead, looking like someone would touch him while brushing some hair out of his face. Logan didn't have his mark yet.

"Good morning, Emile. Remy already prepared your daily order!" Patton pulled them in for half a hug and light pats on his back before handing Emile the cup.

"Patton, hey! Thank you for bringing me my hot cocoa." Patton smiled so brightly, it was literally contagious, then pushed up the glasses on his freckled nose.

"Always my pleasure. We wish you a very happy birthday! Let's see your mark!" Emile took his right hand out of the pocket of his jacket and opened it, showing Patton the black palm.

The café employee was fascinated. "That is so cool!!" His eyes widened. "I bet it's a high-five! Or you shake their hand." Emile chuckled lightly, stepping out of the way for some customers exiting the Starbucks. "I hope you're right about that."

"You should see Remy's mark. But I feel like it's not my place to tell you about it." Patton's voice got softer. "They wish you a very happy birthday, they said they will text you after work." Emile raised an eyebrow in confusion. Where could Remy's mark possibly be? He was tempted to just walk over to the counter but even the fact that they're his best friend didn't change that right there and then would not be a good place or time to talk about soulmate marks.

Patton interrupted him spacing out. "Now off you go or you'll be late for your first class." He stopped while making his way back to the counter, turned around and made finger guns, pointing to the hot beverage in Emile's hands. "The cocoa is on us, by the way. As a birthday present."

Emile left the café, thinking about soulmates.

Remy's shift took forever. Even though they had a lot of work, time still refused to pass. They knew every customer at some point stared at the fresh black soulmate mark. And no one said it out loud but Remy knew they all shared the same thought. Their soulmate would hit them in the face. They tried their best to get on with work as if it was any other given day and forget about the handprint adorning their face but with every single new customer looking at them, they got reminded of what would inevitably happen.

After a long day of serving people all different kinds of drinks and cleaning more tables than they could count, they finally registered the cash and Patton locked the store. Logan's shift had already ended earlier that day.

The freckled boy put the keys in one of his pockets, then encouragingly looked Remy in their eyes. "Don't worry about the mark too much, Remy. It does not look like a slapping hand to me." Patton gave them a soft smile. "It's your soulmate, it will be alright."

Remy sighed and buried their hands deep in the pockets of their leather jacket. "I hope you're right. I don't think so, but I hope."

"Kiddo, you need to tell me as soon as you meet them!" Their customers couldn't exactly tell but Patton, Logan and Remy weren't only coworkers, they also were good friends, knowing each other almost as long as Remy and Emile knew each other.

"Of course I will. But only if you'll tell me about yours, and don't kiddo me, you're only a few months older!"

Remy put in their headphones after the two Starbucks workers said goodbye and went their separate ways.

At home Remy carefully walked into the kitchen, stopping close to the door. They watched their mother cutting some carrots for dinner before quietly speaking.

"Mom? I wanted to talk-" Their voice failed them.

Their mother put the knife down and sighed. "Speak, Remy. I don't have all evening." After eighteen years with their mother, she still managed to take away all of their courage the moment they tried to talk about something that was important to them.

"I-" Remy started, but it felt like all the sentences they formed on their way here were gone as if they didn't know any words, as if their head was empty, making room for anxiety to slowly fill their body limb after limb. Remy's heart raced, their body was so cold they felt it in their bones. They already regretted trying to get their mother to make up for last night.

She turned around, impatient of their child's silence, but of course noticed the mark before anything else. She raised an eyebrow.

"Looks like someone's gonna get slapped."

Remy started fidgeting with their fingers, took all the energy their racing heart provided them with to say it as quickly as possible. "I wanted to talk to you about last night." This was supposed to be about last night, not about the mark.

Their mother sighed again, crossing her arms. "Remy, there is nothing to talk about. I get it, your therapist diagnosed you with an anxiety disorder." She took a deep breath, like what she just said had cost her all of her energy. "Listen, we all get nervous sometimes and I could help you just as well, I don't see why you have to see a therapist for that."

Remy tried their hardest to not show their hurt as it climbed up their throat.

"But, mom-"

Their mother cut them off. "Well, thank you for the conversation, I was not done talking. I taught you better than speaking out of turn." She massaged her temple and closed her eyes, letting out an exasperated sight. "You don't understand my situation. What will people think? I need to get used to this."

She turned around, picked up the knife and continued cutting the carrots. A few seconds passed. By now Remy's chest felt like a rattling nest full of angry wasps, their breathing short and uncontrolled. "Don't tell me you're crying."

Remy was close to crying. But they knew their mother- crying was for weak people and they were not weak. They couldn't be weak. They tried to swallow the hurt, pushing it all down to wrap the angry wasp nest.

"I am-", they cleared their throat, taking a deep, long breath. In a voice, as steady as possible, they continued. "I am not crying."

"Good. Adults don't cry." Their mother put the cut carrots in the pot on the oven. "Do you want to help me cook dinner?" she asked, in a tone implying that this whole conversation didn't happen. Remy knew she simply couldn't stand the atmosphere she created. They wanted to cry.

"Actually, I am going to meet Emile."

Remy's mother aggressively grabbed the tomatoes. "I am doing everything for you, Remy." She almost threw them in the sink. "And I ask for help one time, just once, but no." She washed them quickly and started cutting. "I have to do everything myself. You're making me break down, do you hear me? I'm going to break down. You don't ever help me."

"Gee," Remy wondered while closing the kitchen door on their way out and leaving the house. They wiped their teary eyes, then pulled out the phone to text their best friend. "I wonder why."

This didn't go the way they planned. But then again, with their mother, things would never go according to plan.

Emile sat on his favourite table in the local library when he got a text notification. He tapped twice on his dark display to wake it up and read the message.

"Hey, can we meet?" Remy. Emile got excited. So their shift was finally over and they got to spend some time with each other.

He leaned back in his chair and typed. "I am in the library. Do you want to come here?"

It only took seconds for Remy to answer. "On my way."

Emile often came to the city's local library, sometimes to read but most of the time to study for an exam. Just like this day. He shifted in his chair to get comfortable and continued reading and making some notes.

After another ten minutes, he heard the big front door opening and quietly closing. A distant. "Hello, Remy!!"

Emile looked up from his book. Remy was here and that made him so incredibly happy, even though it was kind of late already and he was exhausted from hours of studying after a complete day at uni. He heard a weak "Hey." in response to Roman's greeting.

Emile's heart dropped. That did not sound good. The bad feeling in Emile's gut got confirmed when Remy appeared in his vision.

Head down, hands in the pockets of their jacket, walking with slow, tired steps. As if something had drained them for everything they had- or someone. Emile knew about their mother, she was something Remy had been dealing with their whole life, much longer than Emile knew them.

He stood up and walked around the table to Remy, softly pulling them in for a hug. Remy slowly put their arms around Emile as well and buried their face in the taller boy's neck, holding him close. Emile carefully put one hand on the back of Remy's head as he slowly rubbed their back with his other hand. Neither of them moved.

Remy was safe now. They could cry now. Feeling Emile's beating heart so close to theirs, his warm-sunshine presence all around them, feeling his hands holding them, his steady and calm breathing, Remy finally felt like they could give in to the hurt stinging in their chest, poking the angry wasp nest everytime they breathed in.

The words just spilled over. "Emile, you need to know that I love her. I do." They paused, getting quieter with each word they said. "She just makes it so hard for me. And- and I think she loves me. I mean, she has to, she just has to-" Their voice cracked as tears filled their closed eyes. Remy was glad their face was hidden, that no one could see them this vunerable, even though Emile kept telling them, crying was healthy and human. "I just can't- I just can't feel it."

Emile closed his eyes, fighting back his tears. This was Remy's moment and he knew they didn't get many of those.

"Remy, it's alright. You're here with me now, only with me." Emile's reassurance was nothing more than a quiet, soft whisper, and that was all Remy needed.

"I'll be here until you're okay." As Emile felt their shoulders trembling, he pulled them even closer, holding his sobbing friend in silence. Minutes after minutes passed, neither of them knew how long they stood there, until Remy had cried all that there was for them to cry.

"Thank you, Emile." Remy mumbled, definitely sounding like they were feeling better. Emile slightly loosened up, not enough to break the comforting atmosphere, but enough to have their foreheads almost touch. He cupped their face, carefully wiping away the tears. "Always, Remy."

"Heeeyyy, guys. I just wanted to tell you it's almost closing time."

Emile waved Roman hello as Remy turned around, startled by the librarian who popped up out of nowhere as he continued talking.

"But if you want to stay a few- uh more minutes that's- that's not a-." Roman's words failed him, leaving him speechless for a few seconds.

"Woah. Those are fucking magnificent marks." Helpless faces stared at him, as if he just spoke in a different language. Roman cleared his throat and gestured at the stains. "Yea, your soulmate marks, don't tell me I am the first to see them!"

Emile looked at his hand, the palm no longer black but instead looking like white marble. At the same time Remy carefully touched his face, right where Emile's hand was just a moment ago while they turned around to their best friend again.

They looked at each other. Emile's heart grew warm as he saw the young adult standing in front of him. His best friend with not only a clueless look on their face but also a handprint in the most beautiful blue Emile had ever seen.

Roman was sure, at this point Emile made actual heart eyes at Remy. He smoothly stepped forward and handed them a tiny mirror. He believed it to be of great importance to always carry one with you. Roman then left them alone to put a few more books back in the shelves. It appeared this day he could not close on time, but it didn't bother him at all.

Remy couldn't trust their eyes as they saw their reflection. The hand print that shocked them so much this morning, that made them so angry, that they slowly knew they would grow to hate was now as blue and deep as the sky.

They looked back at Emile, delicately waving his right hand, the palm like white marble. He had a smile that bright, it could easily compete and win against the bubbly-sunshine Patton.

Emile raised his hand and carefully put it on his friend's face. That touch alone was enough to make Remy burst into tears of happiness as they fell into a tight hug. They could have spent hours standing there, holding the other as close as physically possible, if it weren't for Roman.

"Guys, I am having a Déjà vu here." They let go of each other, just then being able to stop laughing.

Emile looked like he would pass out from excitement any second as he very proudly declared: "Well, looks like I have the best freaking soulmate on this planet, huh?"

Remy took Emile's hand in theirs, tracing the grey lines. "Emile." They cleared their throat as they met their soulmate's rich chocolate brown eyes. "I don't need fate to know we're meant to spend our lives together."

#sanders sides #sanders side fic #ts #thomas sanders #remile #emile picani #cartoon therapy #ts sleep #remy sanders #fanfiction #hurt and comfort #patton morality sanders #logan logic sanders #roman creativity sanders #soulmate au #alternate universe #tw parental abuse #tw emotional abuse #tw violence #tw food mention #tw transphobia #tw swearing #yea roman swears once #also remys mother downplays anxiety #i feel like tagging the song i listened to on repeat while writing this so #talk to me by cavetown #i think thats it #its not the best because i am not used to write comfort #i only ever write angst #anyway if you read this far

[azwriting]

A Jealous Tango (The Writer and The Photographer, Harry Holland x Reader) - Chapter Five

Hi everyone! Here is chapter five sorry it took so long, but nonetheless I hope you enjoy! Also the lack of Harry gifs is disturbing... Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! 

Summary: Harry and (Y/N) go to the mall where much to Harry’s dismay a pretty girl catches a lot of unwanted attention. 

Warning(s): Language, Not edited

Word Count: 2004

Kingston, England was on the verge of June, the warmth of the summer months beginning to stick, and Harry was happy? He felt like the word did little to sum up how he felt but everything was going well, he did not feel that gaping hole in his chest anymore. The vast black hole had seemed to vanish and the British boy had a sneaking suspicion on why.

Knocking on the dark blue door beforehand, Harry let himself into the neighbor’s flat. It had become a regular occurence, for the curly haired boy to let himself in over the past few weeks, his knocks were always drowned out by the blaring tunes. Kicking off his converse Harry tiptoed into the oddly silent house searching for any signs of life. At the white dining room table sat Hayley in a pair of sweatpants and what looked to be an old high school t-shirt, editing a book cover on her laptop. “Hey” She greeted her eyes barely lifting from the brightly lit screen.

 “Hey” Harry responded, scratching the back of his head as his eyes scanned the downstairs for a particular brunette. It’s not that he did not like the twin girls, in fact he got along with them quite well, many of the days and nights of the month of May spent over here. Harry had practically become their fourth roommate and first official British friend. It was just he had plans with one in particular today. 

“She’s upstairs.” Hayley laughed watching Harry’s roaming eyes. 

The boy spun back to face her, “Wha- I didn’t even ask where she was?” The one twin only remained silent, lifting her eyebrows into a ‘seriously’ look, a look which caused a faint blush to appear on Harry’s neck and cheeks.

 “She’s ‘writing’” Hayley added, her hands lifting from the keyboard to do air quotes as she said “writing.” 

Furrowing his eyebrows, Harry gave her a questioning look, “What does that mean?” He mimicked her air quotes. And as if on queue loud thumping was heard from ceiling, Hayley only snickering too herself. “Oh you’ll see.”

Trekking up the stairs Harry heard the faint sound of the thumping again and what he believed to be singing. At the top of the stairs were three white doors, one door to his right was cracked open slightly. He approached the door, the door that led to her room, knocking slightly before poking his head in. The humorous sight on display in front of him had Harry covering his mouth to hide his laughter. (Y/N) clad in black pjs, which to his luck included a pair of shorts, was dancing around her room wildly. Her headphones were in as she twirled and jumped around singing along to the song.

 “Ob la di, ob-la-da, life goes on, bra. La-la, how the life goes on. Ob-la di, ob-la-da, life goes on, bra. La-la, how the life goes on!” She shouted into her imaginary fist of a microphone, eyes closed and completely oblivious to the other person now in her bedroom. A malicious smile worked its way onto Harry’s face, she was practically asking for it. Quietly sneaking up behind her, Harry outstretched his hands ready to attack. (Y/N) continued on in her blissful ignorance, still shouting out the words to the song.

 Her arms shot up as the chorus came giving Harry the perfect opportunity to quickly grab her sides. A loud shriek escaped (Y/N)’s lips, eyes wide in horror as she spun to find Harry laughing and clutching at his chest.  “You fucker!” She screamed, ripping off her headphones, Harry only staggering back to fall onto her neatly made bed. (Y/N) only stood there trying to rein in her racing heartbeat, giving Harry a look that could kill. 

“The Beatles really?” 

“I hate you.” She deadpanned, ignoring his question, and lightly punching his arm. 

“I’m sorry, it was too perfect of an opportunity to give up!” (Y/N) rolled her eyes setting her headphones down onto her desk, still a bit startled. Propping himself up on her bed, Harry eyed her pajamas once again, “Did you forget we are going out today?” For the second time this morning, (Y/N)’s eyes widened. 

“Um..No?” (Y/N) grinned sheepishly at the boy, she had been attempting to get into the writing mood, but had gotten sidetracked. Harry rolled his eyes feigning annoyance but, his large smile betrayed him. 

“Hurry up and get dressed!” (Y/N) gave him a quick innocent smile before rushing into her bathroom with a pile of clothes tucked into her arms.

The Westfield Mall was… overwhelming. Sure (Y/N) had been to the Mall of America, but that was familiar places. As she walked around Westfield, eyes scanning the stores, she realized hadn’t even heard of half of them. Harry had been showing her around, introducing her to new stores for the past hour. The two were quite simply just having fun and enjoying each other’s company.

 “So did you always write or was it something you just stumbled upon?” Harry pondered as he took a large sip from his drink. (Y/N) peeled her eyes away from the patterns on the tile floor, her eyes falling onto his. Both of their hearts leaping just a tiny bit. 

“I think I was always meant to tell stories in some way or another. When I was little, before I could even write full sentences, I would create these little books of just drawings and I would tell stories based on the images to my classmates.” Harry laughed at that, earning him that shy smile of hers that was always destroying his heart piece by piece. “When I got into my early teens, I started writing fanfiction.” Harry lifted an eyebrow at that. “Don’t you say a word!” (Y/N) giggled into the palm of her hand before continuing. “So yes, I guess writing, storytelling, was always in the works for me.” Harry nodded imagining a little (Y/N), pigtails and wide eyes telling stories to the other toothless children in her classroom. 

“Is there a music store in here?” (Y/N) questioned as she swung her bags back and forth, in between her and Harry. “Ye-” Harry’s response was cut off by a high pitched squeal, piercing through the mall nearby. (Y/N) and Harry shared a concerned look before identifying the source, two teenage girls in their school uniforms. The two girls were wide eyed gawking at them from the other side of the hall.

 “Uh-Oh.” 

Harry muttered bracing himself for the ambush. Ever since Tom had risen to fame, Harry started getting noticed just for being Spiderman’s brother. He even had his own fanbase… The girls rushed over, shoes clacking heavily against the white tile.

 “Oh my god, it’s you!” One girl gushed her cheeks burning. 

Harry went to speak up when the second girl interrupted him, “I, well we absolutely love your book!” Harry’s jaw snapped back up in surprise, looking over to a grinning (Y/N). Sometimes he forgot she was famous. 

“Awe thank you!” (Y/N) responded making the girl’s giggle at the difference in accents. 

“Your book really helped me to embrace myself and my inner crazy. It helped me realize that it's okay to be different.” The first girl added. (Y/N)’s eyes shone in admiration, she would never get over hearing how her book had helped others. The book that had taught her to heal was now helping others, it was beautiful. 

“I’m so glad, would you like a picture?” The two girls nodded rapidly, the second retrieving her phone from her purse. “Well perhaps my trusty photographer can take the photo?” 

The girls finally looked over to Harry, eyes widening even more. “Harry Holland!” The girl handed him her phone, both of their eyes flickering back and forth between the Harry and (Y/N). “Are you two friends?” The girls both smirked.

 (Y/N) moved to stand in between the two girls, a large smile on her face. “Yeah, It’s a pretty small world isn’t it?”

(Y/N) and Harry continued on heading towards the music store, conveniently located on the other side of the shopping center. “You know it’s really nice meeting fans…” (Y/N) sighed, trailing off. 

“Yeah?” Harry pushed, of course he knew how amazing it was, but he sensed there was more to her statement. 

“I-I always felt like an outsider growing up, didn’t really fit in with the crowds. Things got better after I met the twins in high school, but I was still different. It warms my heart hearing from people that I, little ol’ me, helped them accept their differences and appreciate it.” Harry offered her a small smile. 

“I know what you mean, I still struggle with feeling on the outside, especially after Tom. Everyone does a great job of making sure my brothers and I don’t feel that way, but sometimes you can’t help feeling like your standing in his shadow. But I don’t feel that with you.” Harry would never admit it, but he felt like he was standing in the blistering hot sun when he was with her, no shadows to be found.

The two split up once they were inside the music store, (Y/N) hunting down a John Williams record while Harry sorted through the CD’s. He did not pay much mind to her until he heard a deep “Hi” echo throughout the store. Harry’s head instinctively lifted searching for the origin of the greeting, finding something much to his dismay. A tall brunette worker stood in front of (Y/N), grinning down at her. Harry stood up straight, the CD’s he was ransaking through now forgotten. He watched as the guy flirted shamelessly with (Y/N), who in return only smiled back. Maybe she was just being polite or maybe she thought he was cute. Whatever the case, Harry’s stomach dropped as he continued to watch the events unfold.

 “You’re American? That’s so cool!” He could not handle it anymore, he could not allow for it to get out of hand. What if he asked for her number? Harry quickly zigzagged through the aisles of music, stopping once he was in front of (Y/N). 

“Hey,” Harry pushed himself in between the tall brunette and his favorite American, “Um… your… Aunt… Jemima called she needs our help!” And with that, Harry wooshed (Y/N) out of the music store, her record hunt being abandoned. 

“Harry!” (Y/N) called in protest, but he only continued to guide her out into the main hall of the mall. “My Aunt Jemima? The syrup lady? What the hell was that about?” (Y/N) demanded once they were far enough from the store. She could almost laugh at his excuse, but she was not sure as to why he felt the need to use it. 

“I was saving you from that asshole back there.” Harry simply stated as they walked towards the exit.

 “What? Harry he was only helping me find my record!” 

He rolled his eyes at that, “Oh please! Helping my ass!” (Y/N) scoffed crossing her arms, her bags whacking Harry slightly.

 “Oh so what about the girl at the burrito place? Was she just helping make your burrito?” Harry’s head whipped over to look at her, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

 “This is different, she was just doing her job.” (Y/N) laughed at that, head dropping back for dramatics. 

“Oh did her job include being all over you and not so subtle winks?” That silenced Harry, he did not recall the girl being over the top like that. His attention had been elsewhere… 

“I didn’t notice.” 

(Y/N) sighed once again, uncrossing her arms. “I swear on everything, I’m going to kick your ass when we get home.” Harry smirked, nudging his shoulder into hers. 

“Oh… I’m getting a little excited!” (Y/N) bit back a laugh, both of the friends returning to their previous calm and joyful moods. Neither one wanting to admit that there bickering had been about the jealousy growing inside them. 

“Stop or else I’ll have to call Aunt Jemima.”

Taglist: 

@aloneinherroom​

@ineedabifriend​

@with-my-soul-and-heart​

#Harry Holland #harry holland imagine #harry holland x reader #harry holland x you #Harry holland x y/n

[kmindset]

Monster’s Daughter (2019): Chapters One and Two

Summary: BTS' biggest fan may stir up five-year-old secrets between their leader and someone very familiar. Re- vamp of my 2015 tumblr story.

Word Count: 4k

Type: Angst/Fluff

Full Story (2015)

ao3 (2019)

‘Youtube:

BangtanTV has just uploaded a video’

With a heavy sigh, you called out. “Jooie! New Bangtan video!”

Almost immediately, the sound of little feet padding their way towards the kitchen could be heard. You unlocked your phone to set up the video as she bounded into view. It barely loaded before she was grabbing it with a smile. Her little body happily settled into the couch to enjoy, She stared lovingly at the antics on screen but you stared sadly at her.

Your little girl, your reason for carrying on through the mediocrity of day to day life, Jooie. Korean name Kim Namjoo, American name Grace.

She is the daughter of you and Kim Namjoon. Possibly the biggest BTS fan ever.

The sound of fan chants startled you to attention as she moved on to a live performance. A strong candidate for BTS’ biggest fan yet she doesn’t even know her father is the leader. Almost on queue with this thought, you can hear the distinct voice of your former love. Quickly, you retreat to your room.

“Cierra! ___! Cashier and bagging on 3.”

Catching Cierra’s eye you share an exasperated look before following instructions. She stands behind the register and gets ready to bag as a swarm of waiting patrons flock to the now lit number of your line.

Four hours later and duty change to mopping a spilled milk jug, you’re sliding on your jacket with building relief at the end of the day’s shift. As soon as it is on you feel an arm hook your own.

Cierra smiles at you and you return it. “You know what I want to see.”

You laugh as you pull your phone out. Cierra squeals as you hand her your phone playing a video of Jooie dancing and scream-singing in Korean.

Cierra is eight years older but quickly befriended you when you started at the grocery store that has become the bane of your existence. Her outgoing personality reminds you of the best friend you left behind in Korea not to mention she takes on the role of adoring aunt to Jooie. The best example of which happening now while she lovingly stares at the video. On long days like today, she begged to see videos and pictures of her “sweet Jooie”. It made you laugh as she was the only one there besides you that called her by her Korean name.

“Look at my smart girl singing flawlessly in another language at four!” She gushed as she swayed a bit to the music. “This is that group BST right?”

You tensed. “Uh BTS, yeah.”

“Why do you always get so rigid and stiff when those guys come up in conversation? Jooie mentioned them when you brought her up here last month and I thought you were going to have a stroke.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She scoffed. “Please. The plug up your ass twists every time you hear their names.”

Her comment caught you off guard and you took the phone back. “Extra, really extra.”

“It’s true though. How do you expect to get through her birthday when you act like that? Didn’t you promise Jooie a trip to Korea for that BST concert?”

For some reason, her constant mispronouncing made you upset. Ignoring that, she had a point. For her upcoming birthday, you promised to take her to see Bangtan in concert. The original plan was to see them on tour but your aforementioned best friend back in Korea, Min Ju, suggested you come to visit her around Jooie’s birthday as the next muster was coming up and a special fanmeeting on the day of her birthday. You tried to explain waiting for their tour was fine but she already got tickets for both. Using the money you were saving to visit her anyway, you booked two tickets to the place you left years back.

Thanks to Min Ju, you wouldn’t be taking her to any of those activities involving Kim Namjoon.

“I’m leaving.”

“No! At least send me that video! ____!____!”

You pretended not to hear, fast walking to the exit.

The cabin lights were off and all you could hear was the hum of the plane engines.

As you looked down at the little one in your arms, it was hard not to succumb to the emotions her precious face made you feel.

Holding her in your arms as you ventured back to the place in which you left behind the love of your life, you drifted back. A young, single, new mother with a heart so broken it was almost physical. It was less than ideal to put it simply.

The first few nights were a struggle. No one was available to help you take care of her. The feelings of guilt were so strong as you felt like a horrible mother. That was one of the first times you fully allowed yourself to think of Namjoon. There was no denying you missed him. Despite promising yourself not to listen to his music around Jooie, you broke.

You didn’t know how to stop her from crying but you turn on ‘Rain’ to at least try to gather your thoughts. Almost as soon as it started, she stopped crying. You couldn’t believe it. “Yeah, baby, that’s your daddy.” You’d whispered to the calmed little one. The music you were actively avoiding became your sure fire way to calm her down.

With seven hours left to go on your flight, it was hard to ignore the feeling in your stomach.

Something was going to happen you just weren’t sure what.

From the minute you arrived to begin your study abroad program, Shin Min Ju has been your best friend. From school stress through the “Namjoon era” as you both called it, to long distance Facetime calls at strange times due to time zones. She even flew out to be with you for Jooie’s birth.

Yet seeing her after so long, you almost cried. She was so gracefully mature now.

She still looked like the 19-year-old high energy international business major with the two ponytails and fake luxury brand clothes but now her hair was shorter and curled with more defined facial features, all hints of baby fat gone, and you were more than sure she could afford to buy three Gucci handbags right then.

“______, if you’re going to cry at least hug me first.” she chided, playfully. You quickly obliged, squeezed the toddler in your arms, between you.

“My goodness, is that Kim Namjoo or a rookie actress?”

The little one giggled. “Auntie!”

Min Ju took her from your arms as you gathered your bags.

“Before you begin spoiling my daughter rotten, can you point me to the nearest and cheapest restaurant, please? I’m tired of western interpretation Korean food.”

Though you clearly asked for budget-friendly cuisine, Min Ju brought you to the least wallet friendly-looking place near the airport. You wanted to complain but not only would it do no good but it smelled heavenly.

After telling you fifteen times that she was paying, she ordered enough food to satisfy the jetlagged and airplane food disgusting monster of hunger you were harboring inside.

Stuffing the last bit of bean sprouts into your mouth you looked over to Min Ju and Jooie giggling about something. It felt like home. Despite the bad feeling you had, it was damn good to be back.

~

Years later and you can still barely control your emotions at times. You had two hours to try.

A damned family emergency put your whole plan out of whack and now you had to figure out how to tell your daughter that Min Ju couldn’t take her to the concert and fan meet today. You wanted to be mad but a family emergency wasn’t something that could be rescheduled. Every time you thought you had mustered the courage you would see her in her BTS shirt and little birthday sash with her ARMY bomb in hand ready to go and you would turn to stone.

“…I could read your mind 물음표 대신 미소만…”

You listened as Jooie rapped along to Born Singer, unable to contain her excitement. As cliché as it was, she sounded pretty natural despite her age.

‘Maybe skills like that are hereditary’ you though, laughing to yourself.

That sealed it. You couldn’t do this to her. “Sweetie,” Those sparkling eyes looked at you. “I’m taking you to the concert today.”

The words came out hesitantly but as soon as they were all out of your mouth her eyes light up brighter than her ARMY bomb. “Really?”

With a forced smile, you nodded. She squealed cutely and ran to hug you as tightly as her little arms would allow.

She pulled you down right after to sit next to her while she watched Bangtan Bombs. RM was showing off some of his “philosophical” dance moves. She giggled. “Auntie Min Ju says I look like Namjoon Oppa.” You smiled and nodded but made a mental note to get Min Ju for that later. Family emergency or not.

The concert went by fast and you had to admit, you had fun. You and Jooie sung and rapped at the top of your lungs.  It made you think of the times you went to support Namjoon. Thankfully, unlike then, you weren’t anywhere near the front. Out of sight.

The autograph event was where the nerves kicked back in. You were quick to pull your mask over your nose and mouth. The hair around your face acted as a sort of curtain. Or at least you hoped it did. Joo began fidgeting in your arms near the front of the line when she spotted Taehyung. Her dimples grew their deepest in front of Jimin. “You are even cuter in person.” He laughed sweetly. You couldn’t help but smile at the interaction. She wasn’t wrong. They all commented how adorable she was in her sash, telling her happy birthday and autographing her poster while you held her, bowing and thanking each of them as you slowly moved down. She would reply with a small ‘Thank you’ in Korean until the last person, Namjoon. You watched as he smiled brightly at her and patted her head. Jungkook leaned over “Hyung, she looks like you. Hmm much cuter though.” She grinned from ear to ear and turned back to see if you had heard. You didn’t bother thanking him or making eye contact. You just grabbed her poster from the table and went to wait for the photo session.

As you neared the front of the line once again your nerves started to build- much worse this time. There was a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach. As your turn neared, it took all you had not to grab your daughter and walk the other way. All it took was one look down at her excited face as she stood next to you to remind yourself it was for her. When it was finally your turn, Jooie ran straight to Jimin as you hid your face further in your mask.

“Oh,” Taehyung said. “You must be famous if you’re covering your face like that.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his joke. You weren’t famous but they definitely knew you. He always made you laugh but this was funnier. Three other ARMYs settled in for the picture and Jimin held Jooie in his arms. You took a spot next to them which is unfortunately on the other side of “Dad” himself.

“Wait,” Jooie said. “Mommy take off your mask.”

Your heart sped up slightly. “No, no.”

“Please?” She pleaded, dragging out the word for effect.

“Jooie, people are waiting just-”

“No.” She pouted holding out the ‘o’.

“Let’s go, Miss.” a security guard said.

You shifted uncomfortably. “Namjoo” You whispered sharply.

Everyone around you began to feel uncomfortable. You heard a sigh but before you could finish you felt familiar fingers pull down the front of your mask. You were exposed before you could even grasp what was going on.

Your breathing stopped. Jimin was the first one to recognize you. The moment your name left his lips your blood ran cold.

Jooie turned. “You know my Mommy?”

“Mommy?!” the members said in unison.

You panicked. Not waiting for the picture you grabbed Jooie from Jimin and ran. You weren’t sure where you were going but you were moving as fast as you could.

“Mommy?”

Joo was calling you. She had been doing so for a few minutes but it wasn't until you stopped to catch your breath that you finally noticed. You glanced down at her face to see it was red with tears running down both puffy cheeks. “Namjoo-”

“Mommy, what’s wrong? I-I didn’t mean to be a bad girl.” you could tell she was confused and sad as drifted between Korean and English. She obviously heard Jimin recognize you. You were sure she saw the way they looked at you. Most importantly, she didn’t get her picture. Remembering how much it meant to her, you felt immense guilt continue to build on top of everything else.

“Ohh Grace, no. I am so sorry. Mommy just. I-” Before you could gather a good excuse a hand touched your shoulder. A desperately out of breath man with a staff pass lanyard stood over you. “Ex-Excuse me, ma’am. Please come back.”

“No thank you.” You said as politely as possible.

He pursed his lips. “Your daughter is obviously upset just please come back. I promise we can resolve whatever the problem is.”

You knew he wouldn't be able to keep that promise. You glanced down to Jooie. Her head was in the crook of your neck as she hiccuped through her tears. With a reluctant nod, you quietly followed the man back to the venue.

Every curse word you knew, in every language that came to mind, was running through your head. Your leg shook violently as your nerves ran wild. Jooie, on the other hand, was ecstatic. After you wiped her face, there was no sign she had ever been upset. She was bouncing around with you phone watching Bangtan Bombs. That child would never tire of those things.

The man who turned out to be their event manager told you to wait in the room designed as their venue dressing area.

Her bouncing stopped when the door opened. The phone was abandoned on the ground when they walked in.

You were met with seven pairs of eyes and had nothing to say. Simply, holding up your finger to your lips you point at Jooie. Taehyung was the first to move. He swept her up as she yelled “Tae Oppa!”

The two were already chattering excitedly as he carried her out of the room. Jungkook followed behind them sparing you a smile. You returned it as much as you could, knowing he didn’t want to be around for the following interaction.

It was clear there were many eyes still on you but your gaze found the floor.

Jin finally spoke. “There...are so many questions I’m sure we all have.” He emphasized we all. Trying not to single Namjoon out you were sure.

“Understandable.” Tears began to build. For what reason? You weren’t quite sure. Hoseok approached you first, sitting next to you with a comforting arm around your shoulder. They all seemed to be rather concerned about you. Except for Namjoon. He looked as though he was putting the pieces together. The moment it clicked you saw it in his face. He turned to meet your eyes. You only gave him a raise of your brows. Now you waited for the other shoe to drop.

“We didn’t mean to make you upset. Especially not earlier. We were just in shock. We didn’t know you got pregnant again.” Jimin spoke softly.

“What?” You looked to Jimin, seeing only pure confusion on his face.

“Jimin-” Namjoon started.

You were the one confused now. “Again? What do you mean? I’ve only been pregnant once.”

Namjoon sighed as he buried his face in his hands. He knew his lie was about to completely unravel. The confusion kept you silent now, waiting for someone to speak. They knew about Namjoo. They were some of the first to know. You were clearly more than lost in that moment.

Yoongi spoke this time. “Namjoon told us you suffered a miscarriage.”

Everyone looked at Namjoon now. The other shoe had fallen.

You couldn’t believe what you heard. Your head turned to the culprit who was avoiding your eyes at all costs. “Namjoon.” You said in a stern voice.

He sighed and removed his hands from his face. “Once I realized we weren’t going to come to an agreement on the kid-”

“Her name is Grace.” You spat.

“On Grace,  I lied and told them you miscarried.”

“No shit. Yoongi just said that. I want to know why.”

Jimin spoke again. “Wait! Hyung, you said you still went to see her after she lost the baby.”

Hoseok nodded, remembering too. “When we asked to visit her to see how she was doing. You said she was too broken up over what happened to see anyone else.”

Namjoon chewed the inside of his cheek, clearly frustrated all his old lies were no longer buried. The hurt on your face showed clearly on your face. Confusion and anger clouded your brain preventing you from forming a coherent sentence short of profanities.

“I think we all need answers, Namjoon,” Jin said in his most authoritative voice. “Especially her.”

“Fine!” The leader shouted. “Obviously, she didn’t miscarry. I didn’t think it was smart to have a child then. We were just breaking into the level of popularity where our efforts could be noticed. How would it look for me to announce I was having a baby out of wedlock? No one outside of our circle and company knew I had a fucking girlfriend!” He paused for a moment to contain himself. “She wanted to keep the baby but I didn’t It was clear she wasn’t going to change her mind so we broke up. I came up with the whole lie to give myself time to figure out how to tell you all we ended it. Every time I lied saying I was going to see her I was actually looking for her because she had already moved out of her apartment. Min Ju refused to tell me where she went. Eventually, I heard she moved back home so I could say we broke up without anyone running into her.”

You didn’t realize just how much whatever lie he cooked up would affect you until it was all out. You broke down, with Jimin thankfully there to console you.

Jin came and whacked him across the top of his head. Namjoon stared at him in shock.

“Idiot. First, don’t speak as if she isn’t here. She is the mother of your child. Have some respect. Second, we would have figured something out! It wasn’t your place to decide anything for the group’s sake. You aren’t the whole group! You are one member, Namjoon. One person! One person who should have been honest instead of a coward. You’re our leader but it looks like your decision making isn’t as good as we thought.” Jin spoke quickly and angrily. You could tell how disappointed he was in his fellow member. “We are supposed to be like a family. It was good you considered other people, I suppose, but don’t you think you left out the most important people? Did you consider how Grace would feel not knowing her father?”

Yoongi chimed in. “Or worse. What if she found out one day that her father chose fame over her.”

The thought sent pain through your heart. You continued to cry into Jimin’s chest. Hoseok rubbed Jin’s back to calm him. After catching his breath he looked up at Namjoon once again. “We are going to leave so I can calm down. You need to speak to her. If I find out you weren’t giving her the respect she deserves, it will be your ass, Kim Namjoon.” Before Namjoon could protest, the four men were out of the room and you were left alone. It was quiet and tense. What do you say to a person you hurt so deeply? The mother of your child?

How do you begin to form words when the were hoping to never see to again to keep his lies and secrets buried?

Finally, he spoke to you. “What? You’ve finally come for money?”

Unbelievable. “The first conversation we have had alone in years and the first thing out of your mouth is insensitive idiotic bullshit. No, you jackass. I came because my daughter is a BTS fan. Min Ju was supposed to relieve me of this nostalgic nightmare and bring Grace but she couldn’t.”

“Instead, you came?”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t going to waste a year of saving up just because I didn’t want to see you. If I thought I would even have to make eye contact with you I would have saved myself the grief.” Tears began to slip from your eyes again.

He tilted his head. “I don’t believe you don’t want to see me.” He spoke a little too smugly for your liking.

You wiped harshly at the tears you couldn’t stop. “I was perfectly fine seeing you from a distance but she wanted to meet you all. Try saying no to those damn dimples. Unlike some people, I don’t like to disappoint or hurt the people I’m supposed to love.”

He stared, silent. The wheels were turning in his head trying to figure out what to do or say.

You groaned at his silence before turning to leave.

“Jangmi!”

You froze for a moment before turning back to see if he really said you thought he said. Almost as if he read your mind, he said “You heard me, Jagmi. Do you remember what that means?”

You sneered through the remaining tears. “Yes, Namjoon. I still remember simple Korean words. What makes you think you can call me that?”

“Because you’re my rose.” He spoke without hesitation. An answer more absolute than anything he said in the last thirty minutes.

“I stopped being your rose when you left.”

“You could have called me.”

“And you could have been a man.” He had to admit that one stung. “What would it have done? It wouldn’t have mattered, Joon. You weren’t going to change your mind and I sure as hell wasn’t changing mine. I was overwhelmed too but I was over the moon about the child I had growing inside me.”

He smiled sadly, letting his dimples show some. “You called me Joon.”

“Yeah, well... You called me Jangmi.” You sniffled, trying to hold more tears. Unfortunately, it did not work because in seconds were sobbing like the day you left Korea.

Seeing you let go, he quickly closed the gap and caught you as your knees gave out. His arms took a familiar place around your waist to grip you tightly.

You didn’t want to show any more vulnerability in front of this man. You felt he didn’t deserve to hold you like this anymore. It couldn’t be helped much though. Your heart always felt delicate around him. It had taken five years to pick up the pieces but you were right back to this.

You put your arms between the two of you for what little distance you could bring yourself to create. “You don’t know how much I missed you, Joon.”

He stroked your hair, giving a soft ‘I missed you too’ .

You regained some of your senses and pushed him away. “No, you didn’t. You walked out of my life with a pitiful ‘I’m sorry’ lingering behind you.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “You claimed once you fell in love you could never let that person go but you let me go so easily. You let Jooie and I go.”

“Wait, I just said that in an interview a week ago. How did you know that?”

“Grace showed me. She watched everything Bangtan related.

He seemed confused. You chuckled in disbelief. “Did you not hear me say she is a HUGE BTS fan? Why else would I be here?”

He was quiet for a second. “Can I meet her?”

You were taken aback? “R-Really?”

He nodded. You were skeptical but he smiled so you did the same.

“Go wait with her and I’ll be in there in a sec.”

You nodded, still smiling. You found Taehyung and Jungkook still with Jooie in the area near the one you were just in.

They both hugged you tightly before getting a text. They look up at you and Jooie, giving reassuring smiles, before leaving.

You waited.

And waited.

And waited.

It wasn’t until Jooie had fallen asleep that you got up to find him. Finding only cleaning staff you began to feel uneasy.

“Excuse me?” getting the attention of a woman with a badge. “Have you seen RM?”

She looked at you strangely. ”From BTS? They all left a while ago.”

With those words, you felt your heartbreak in smaller pieces than before. Tiny un-repairable pieces.

Not only had he left you-again!- but this time he lied to your face and left your daughter waiting.

Despite your anger, you picked up your sleeping daughter as carefully as you could. Her face reminded you of Namjoon’s in the most innocent way. But you didn’t want to think about him right now.

There was no forgiving him this time.

#Namjoon angst #Dad Namjoon #Namjoon Fluff #Namjoon Fanfic #bts angst #bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts #bangtan #kpop angst #kpop fanfic #kpop stories #Namjoon is kind of an asshole #namjoon #rm angst #rm fanfic #rm fluff #rap mon angst #rap monster angst #rap monster fluff #rap monster fanfic

[virmillion]

Coffee’s for Closers

alternative title: lab has absolutely no chill when airing out their dirty laundry

Summary: Virgil is a barista. Logan is a barista. Everyone is gay—it's just that this gayness only occurs at Logan's cafe. Warnings: cursing, rude customers and coworkers, let me know if you think of any more Ships: romantic analogical, romantic royality, platonic LAMP+Remy Words: 22,222

Check it out on ao3!

    Grande white mocha latte. Steam milk to the third line, four pumps of syrup, two shots of espresso, put on a sleeve, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Kid’s hot chocolate. Steam milk to the bottom line at one-twenty seven degrees, two pumps mocha, one pump vanilla, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Venti iced caramel macchiato upside down with coconut milk and an extra shot. Pull two shots of espresso into each teacup, six hits of vanilla in the cup, espresso over the vanilla, coconut milk to the top line, ice to the rim, caramel drizzle of seven vertical, seven horizontal, two circles, lid, hand it off, next. This is literally the only thing running through Virgil’s mind anymore.

    Alright, maybe not the only thing. There is the odd customer who gets annoyed at receiving a small cup when they asked for a tall, because ‘I thought tall meant large!’ and Virgil has had just about enough of people not understanding the price difference. There’s also a regular here and there that hands off their reusable cup with a grin, so he can fill it with caramel and decaf and nonfat milk for the regular’s wife, and the guy can get a tall pike place roast with caramel syrup in a grande cup, and Virgil can hand it off and feel proud of himself for knowing a regular’s order so precisely. Oh, and lest we not forget the ever-present parents thinking it’s cool to let their toddlers run wild and knock down his signs and spill drinks everywhere because ‘it’s okay, honey, he gets paid to clean that up!’

    Okay, so there are several things running through Virgil’s mind right now. At this incredibly specific moment, one of those several things is the fact that he only has to survive twelve. More. Minutes. With the literal worst coworker on the face of the earth. He can’t speak to the quality of workers beneath the earth’s crust—sorry, team members—but for air breathing losers such as he, his buddy here just. Takes the damn cake. Stole the candles. Blew out his wish. On his birthday. Without a birthday gift. Spit on the frosting. Grabbed two chunks with her bare hands. Ate them like a toddler. Complained when she was the only one eating cake. Took the cake anyway.

    Virgil doesn’t particularly care for cake.

    “Hey, how’re you doing?” Kim asks the next guest, plastering the absolute fakest smile Virgil has ever seen on her face. Like, he’s pretty sure it’s bordering on genuine. That’s how fake it is.

    Virgil doesn’t particularly care for Kim, either.

    “I’m good, how’re you?” the guest replies, staring up at the trifold menu and holding up a line of seven people behind them because they didn’t have the foresight to decide on a drink during the fifteen minutes they spent in line. “I’ll take a grande salted caramel mocha.” Virgil ignores Kim as she delivers the spiel about the limited supply of whipped cream, instead focusing on the measurements of all the drinks waiting to be finished. Sure, he admires that one lady for getting eight shots of espresso—he could definitely do with some of what she’s having—but her drink is doing a terrible job of holding up the line when their dinky little store only has one mastrena.

    Ten minutes.

    “Venti double quad for Debra?” Virgil calls, ignoring the line of drinks that haven’t been claimed yet. Seriously, if these people are as intent as they seem to be on getting out of here quickly, you’d think they’d jump at the chance to take their drinks. Virgil doesn’t really care either way, as he only has to survive nine more minutes.

    “Hey, we need a milk run before tomorrow,” Virgil tells Kim, shuffling down the line of drinks. To be fair, they’re moving much more quickly now that the whole espresso machine isn’t focused on one drink from five minutes ago. “Want me to do it?”

    “Ugh, yeah,” Kim groans, rolling her eyes. She waves off the concerned look from the next guest, eyeing Virgil’s obscenely long queue of drinks. “I’ll finish those up, you go get the milk, peace out in ten?”

    “Something like that,” Virgil agrees, topping off the last row of grande hot chocolates. “You know where the button is for extra help?”

    “Duh, of course I know where it is.” Rather than give a sarcastic remark to her attitude—which is what he wants more than anything—Virgil smiles brightly, pushing his way past the swinging door and straightening the hat that never sits quite right on his head. In the near back, he pulls out his constantly dying phone to snap a picture of the barren fridge. All the way to the back of the main store and into the freezer, he trundles one of the squeaky-wheeled carts between the aisles, dodging oblivious mothers and manspreading dudes with man-buns and ratty tennis shoes.

    “Okay, twenty two blue, five pink, seven red,” Virgil mumbles to himself, double- and triple-checking the picture to reassure himself of what they need. “Maybe just seventeen blue, five pink, five red.” These corrections continue as he sets about pulling every jug he can find from the crates, absently tugging down his sleeves as the cold sends goosebumps skittering over his skin. “Two more red, maybe a few half and half?” Thinking back, he’s pretty sure corporate didn’t ship any half and half this week, either. Sunday’s gonna be a blast. “Still no heavy whipping cream, no surprise there. The rations thin. The plot chickens.” Allowing himself a small laugh at his own nonsense, Virgil backs the cart out of the fridge and deepens his chronic slouch to put more force behind the wheels. They squeal and scream in protest as he shoves the—trolley? Is that what they call it?—back to the front, practically spilling it everywhere as he swerves around a narrow corner to avoid a stray child pinballing off the end cap displays.

    Finally at the near back again, Virgil fights with the cart to get it through the doors and over the floor mats covering the little alley, very nearly ramming his head into the sink when the wheels free themselves with no warning. “Okay, freakin’ ow,” he mutters, rubbing the bruise on his side from the impact. “Whatever, just a few more minutes, and I can go somewhere that doesn’t totally suck or drain the life from its patrons.”

    True to his word, Virgil eventually succeeds in restocking the rest of the milks, popping his head out to check on Kim’s status in regards to whether she’ll survive the next three minutes. One severely long line that’s steadily trickling out, most of them with drinks in hand, and if the flurry of legs outside the shuttered window is anything to go by, another slam is hot on its heels. Virgil tosses out a flippant farewell to Kim and makes a break for the punch clock, having absolutely no desire to stick around for the hell that awaits.

    “Okay, cool, cool, love driving in the rain, favorite part of my Saturday,” Virgil sighs, glancing at the window. If nothing else, should customers not be deterred by the weather? Seriously, just go home. Go home!

    Of course, no one is listening to Virgil’s complaints. All too aware of this fact, he rolls his shoulders forward to shrug on a hoodie over his work-mandated black shirt—at least the uniform doesn’t suck, he supposes. Flipping his hood up to protect his hair and tucking in his earbuds, Virgil strolls out into the clogged aisles of people and things, easily blending in with the other loners that would rather be literally anywhere else, were it not for their families dragging them along. Virgil has no such ties, and accordingly escapes from the store with ease.

    And no, he won’t lie—Virgil absolutely walks slower in the rain to the beat of the song in his ears, and he absolutely imagines some cheesy pathetic music video happening around him, and he absolutely would deny that if you confronted him with it.

    By the time Virgil reaches his car—neon blue, mind you, because it was the cheapest model he could afford—his hoodie is sopping wet, and he has had just about enough of this whole ‘existing’ nonsense for today. But no, no, he wants to go to that new cafe one of the regulars told him about. Stupid stubbornness. Of course, he’s too stubborn to get rid of it. So. On he drives.

    You might think this is where the stars align—where Virgil stumbles his way into a warm cafe from a cold car, where he bumps into his soulmate on first sight, where he knows in an instant that this is where he belongs, that this new place is the home he was always meant to find.

    You would be wrong.

    “Damn broken phone,” Virgil scowls, shaking his phone as the screen refuses to wake up, despite being at a solid seventy percent. He keeps his gaze toward his shoes and the tiled floor beneath them, pressing the home and lock buttons harder than he probably needs to. “If anyone dares to so much as look at me the wrong way, I am chucking you out the window and letting you electrocute yourself like a tiny toaster in the rain.”

    “—Upside down, iced, and pick your poison for the milk,” the person waiting at the register is saying, leaning forward as if they have all the time in the world. Virgil’s frown deepens as the person starts to socialize with the barista.

    “Ah, Roman? I believe there might be someone waiting behind you,” the barista says, their voice carrying over past the pompous person that’s basically a wall at this point. As the guest scuttles away to wait for his drink, the barista beckons Virgil forward, saying, “sorry about him. Never seems to understand that other people occupy this world besides himself.”

    “It certainly would appear that way, wouldn’t it?” Virgil says out of the corner of his mouth, not looking up to meet the barista’s eyes. Regardless of whether they’re the social type, he isn’t about to find out the hard way. The hard way being the only way, of course. Virgil does not want to talk to this person, is what he’s saying. “I’ll just take a small of whatever the cheapest thing you have is that isn’t brewed coffee. Please.”

    “Sure, that’ll be one fifty.”

    “Keep the change.” Virgil passes over the first crumpled bill he can find in his pocket—a five—and moves for a table around the corner of the bar to wait. According to that regular, the baristas here are competent enough to hunt down the guests when their drinks are done. So. Hiding around the corner. His modus operandi.

    The worn chair at a table for two is more than welcoming enough, offering a decent view of the crying clouds outside and the over-soaked flowers decorating the windowsill. Virgil dusts off the plum colored seat, which probably used to be plush when it was new—at this point, it’s so well-loved that there can’t be more than an inch of fabric separating Virgil’s rear from the wooden underside. He tucks one leg beneath himself, propping the other foot along the reddish brown window edge. The beaten-up greys and purples of his sneakers offer a painful contrast to the flowers, shining dull under the relentless rain.

    “Hey, haven’t seen you here before,” a new voice says. The same guy that was bugging the barista plonks himself down across from Virgil, pressing his nose to the window. What was his name, Ho Man? “Did the rain scare you away from a main chain trash place like Starbucks?” Rather than dignify him with a response, Virgil holds up the too-small black cap he’s supposed to wear to work. Proudly displayed in white stitches is the Starbucks logo. The way Ho Man’s face turns beet red as he fumbles to cover up the mistake is almost enough to make Virgil laugh. Almost. “Okay, wait, I didn’t mean—it’s not like I wanted to—obviously I don’t disrespect your profession—not that it’s like you have to have it! I mean, unless you like it, but I didn’t want to assume—that’s what they always say about assuming, isn’t it, ass out of you and me, right?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Okay, yeah, yeah, cool! I, uh, I’m just gonna—I’m gonna go sit over there now.” Ho Man jabs his thumb back over his shoulder, loudly scraping his chair back under the table as he stumbles over his own feet in a mad scramble for the front area of the cafe.

    “He seems fun,” Virgil mumbles to himself, resting his chin on a knee and pressing his forehead to the window. Out in the parking lot—if you can even call it that, it’s basically just ten rectangles that happen to be outlined in white—his car looks incredibly crowded in. Neon blue trapped by dark greys and flat reds, all of them reduced to shields sending rain shooting to the concrete.

    A few tables away, Ho Man has plonked himself at a bigger table, facing off with someone turned away from Virgil. They certainly seem to be in deep conversation about something, but Virgil doesn’t care enough to figure out what, much less elaborate on it. To drown out the light conversation of a considerable amount of quiet patrons around him, he digs his laptop out of his shoulder bag and unfolds it on the table. In any fantasy story he’s ever imagined, this is probably the part where his one true love appears in the vacant chair across from him, reaching out to close the laptop and reveal sparkling blue eyes that dance like the stars on a dark and clear night.

    Yeah, no thanks.

    “There you go, cheapest thing we’ve got that isn’t brewed coffee,” the barista says, appearing very much in Virgil’s field of view to hand over a ceramic mug decorated with tinier cups in every shade of blue and purple. “Apple cider with cinnamon and caramel.”

    “That’s the cheapest thing you’ve got?” Virgil sputters in disbelief. “That’s, like, four bucks at a chain place.”

    “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized we were on par with a ‘chain place,’” the barista replies, making air quotes around the words. “Anyway, make sure you return the mug when you leave. If you take it with you, bring it back next time for a refill, five cent discount.”

    “Seriously? Cool,” Virgil says, reaching for the mug as the barista turns away. “Seems like a good way to encourage people to steal the mug if you ask me, but alright.” The barista hesitates, looking from the bar to Virgil and back. No guests demanding service. Without asking permission or begging forgiveness, the barista slips into the seat across from Virgil. “Yeah, sure, have a seat.” Virgil closes his laptop, bringing the mug to his lips.

    “So I’m not even going to ask whether this is your first time, since it’s pretty obvious,” the barista says. “For one, you didn’t even make eye contact when you ordered your drink, which, okay, rude, and for another, you don’t know the system with the mugs, not to mention that you didn’t even say hi to—”

    “Yeah, yeah, cool, great, can I just enjoy my cheap drink in peace here?” Virgil interrupts. He certainly wouldn’t admit it if this guy asked, but it’s better than what they make at Starbucks. “Yes, my first time, I don’t like eye contact, I certainly don’t like conversation—actually, come to think of it, I have a long list of dislikes, and you are quickly working your way to the top. Please go away.”

    “My name’s Remy.” The barista sticks his hand out, prompting Virgil to merely stare at it with thinly veiled disdain until he retracts it with an awkward laugh. “I run this place with my brother, since he bought the building when the lister needed to move before the taxes got too high, and he pulled me in on the deal for my sparkling charisma—”

    “Of which you have none.”

    “—and because he likes dealing with the numbers more. He’s actually sitting right over—”

    “Don’t care. Why are you sitting here?” Remy wags a finger at Virgil, biting his lower lip and puffing out his cheeks. “Spring a leak much?”

    “Mostly ’cause I was bored. You seem interesting, I don’t know. Thought I could educate you on the mystical ways of how we don’t go bankrupt from people stealing our mugs.”

    “Okay, yeah, sure, cool. Great. Educate away. Special tip, though? You kind of suck at educating so far. Like, a lot.”

    “Noted. We’re small enough that we don’t get many guests, and the ones that come in pretty often usually have their own mugs reserved. Picked yours out for you when I saw you walk in. Brand new, never used. Just for you. So special.”

    “Alright, let’s lay off the dramatically short sentences, Mettaton. You still haven’t convinced me why I should care.”

    “I mean, I think you’re cute, so there’s that. Anyway, we use the same mugs for our regulars, and we get so few one-timers that we barely ever lose a cup. Even when we do, they normally come back out of guilt for keeping the cup, and get another drink at a crap discount. That’s our motto, you know? Come for the guilt, stay for the five cents you save. Well, not really our motto. We don’t have a motto. I’ve always wanted one, but we never set one in stone, since my brother isn’t exactly into all that stuff. Speaking of which, you wanna meet him? He’s right over—”

    “I do not want to meet your brother,” Virgil says. He shakes his head, trying to force his mind to register Remy’s nonstop babbling. “I literally just want to finish my drink in peace.”

    “You’ll be back,” Remy replies, tapping out a rhythm on the table. “The cute ones always come back.”

    “I have literally never wanted to come back to a place less than I do right now. Please go away.” Finally, miracle of miracles, Remy takes the hint, scraping his chair back and moving for the table where Ho Man is still chatting up whoever it is that probably doesn’t want him there.

    Alone once more, Virgil exhales, scraping off part of the dollop of whipped cream on his drink with a finger. Before the caramel drizzle can drip down his hand, he fwips it off with a sharp inhale, pretending like he doesn’t care that he’d probably be drawing thousands of weird looks if anyone were paying attention. Over at Ho Man’s table, Remy slams his fists down on the tiled surface, making the collection of mismatched mugs bounce around dangerously. Ho Man’s friend relaxes their perfect posture by half an inch before straightening again as Remy leans forward to whisper something. Virgil quickly shifts his focus to stare out the window.

    While the rain seems to finally be letting up, its aftereffects are long from forgotten. Orange tulips and red roses in the distance are wobbling on thin stems, desperately holding onto the last of their leaves as the wind does everything it can to wrench them away. Even the trees are mourning the early summer storm, their overgrown leaves tearing away and drifting across the streets to stick themselves to windows. Virgil fights back the urge to recoil as a particularly large leaf smacks into the other side of the glass, tiny drops of water peeling away to race for the flowerbed below.

    When he lifts the mug to his mouth again, it’s empty. Smalls are always so much smaller than larges. Time to go.

    “Hey, uh, where do I, um…?” Virgil calls to Remy as he moves for the door, lifting his empty cup as indication. “Like, do I just leave it on the table, or…?”

    “Just keep it,” Remy replies, waving off Virgil’s annoyed sigh. “Seriously, keep it.”

    “Seriously, no.” Rather than take the mug and run, which would be immensely gratifying if it were, you know, actually against the rules, he deposits it on the island with cream and sugar for coffee. Dammit, even their carts are nicer than the crappy little nothings that Starbucks has.

    “See you later?” Remy yells as Virgil wills the door to close faster behind him.

    “Maybe. Probably not, but maybe.” Before the bell over the door frame has even finished chiming, Virgil is already at his car, not bothering to dodge the few remaining raindrops. “Weirdo. Hate to see how much of a disaster his brother is.”

---------------

    “How long, exactly, did you talk to that poor guy?” Remy appears none too impressed by the question, much less the implication of how annoying he probably was to said poor guy.

    “Look, bro, he looked lonely, I thought I’d just pop in on his day and—”

    “And encourage him to leave my cafe without taking the mug for a discount next time? Try harder to cover for yourself. And stop calling me ‘bro,’ it makes you sound like a teenager.”

    “Alright, Logan,” Remy retorts, letting the mocking tone dangle in the air, “FYI, I am a teenager, so lay off for a hot sec, why don’t you?”

    “I would rather not. Don’t use acronyms out loud, you sound like a preteen. You turned twenty last week. Roman, kindly refrain from displaying the inside of your mouth like that.”

    “Dude, what? Happy birthday, man! Why didn’t you tell me?” Roman demands, leaning his elbows on the table and forcefully inserting himself into a conversation where he’s decidedly not welcome.

    “I’m having a surprise party for myself,” Remy hisses in a stage whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, Logan thinks I don’t know about it.”

    “I am not planning you a surprise party,” Logan says. “There is literally not one person planning you a surprise party, in this cafe or otherwise. Go help that next guest, I never said you could take a break for this long, anyway.”

    “You aren’t the boss of me,” Remy grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching lower in his chair.

    “Technically, I am, having been the one to buy the place, not to mention that I was born first. Go help the next guest.” Logan rolls his eyes as Remy trudges over to the bar, a completely different demeanor washing over him like a wave as he steps behind the register and turns into a cheerful mannequin. Shifting his focus back to Roman, Logan presses his glasses up higher on his nose and releases a low, steady, frustrated groan.

    “Talk to me, man, what’s goin’ on?” Roman asks. “Are you really that mad that what’s-his-nuts didn’t take his mug? You didn’t even pick it out, Remy did.”

    “Mmm, no, that’s not it.” Logan rubs his knuckles against a sore spot on his forehead, considering Roman’s earnest look. “We haven’t been doing too well in sales lately, not that many new guests coming in, much less any of them returning for the discount, and I’m still waiting on your list of ideas for how to make myself more welcoming.”

    “Well, for one, don’t dump all your emotional baggage on the first person to ask.” Roman waves his hands quickly as Logan moves to get up, trying to fan whatever flames of frustration are boiling in his brain. “Kidding! Kidding, I am totally, completely, legit-ly kidding.”

    “Legitimately.”

    “Tomato, potato.”

    “To-mah-to.”

    “I’m pretty sure it’s tomato. Anyways, I did draw up that list for you, which, objectively, is the literal best thing in existence ever to be created. In existence. Ever. Objectively.” To be perfectly frank, Logan is incredibly close to shutting the cafe down and locking himself in the fridge to cool down, both literally and figuratively. Nevertheless, he endures, propping his chin on his fist and sighing heavily as Roman draws a stack of bent and ruffled papers out from who-knows-where. At the very least, if Roman’s antics don’t put him out of business, he’ll be able to end the month with a bang. Maybe.

    Roman smooths out the uppermost pages on the tiled table, letting the bottom sheets flare out like a background for the top nonsense. Pointing to each piece of paper as it comes up,  he fumbles his way through the chaos, periodically looking up to make sure Logan is paying attention. Against better judgement, he is.

    “Okay, so first off, it’s June, right? Pride month, bay-bee! Break out a new collection of mugs—”

    “I am not changing the mugs.”

    “He is not changing the mugs,” Remy seconds, returning from the last guest.

    “Alright, alright, truce, no new mugs. I know you don’t totally go for the pizzazz side of things, but—and hear me out here, just something small—we could put different colors of powder on each drink, like purple sprinkles on a latte can be called a purple drink—”

    “We cannot do that, Starbucks already has pink and violet drinks, and I will not associate with them.” Logan straightens his glasses again, pulling one piece of paper out from beneath the rest. “Are all of these ideas centered around pride month?”

    “No,” Roman grumbles, scraping about half of the papers off the table. “I do think it would be cool if you did pride stuff, though. Show support to everyone.”

    “Me, in particular,” Remy cuts in. “Show some support to my gay ass.”

    “Your ass is trans.”

    “What’s your point?”

    “I guess I don’t have one, Remy. Roman, please, if you would?” Logan gestures with his hand, indicating for Roman to find a new thread of ideas to follow. The watch on his waving wrist boasts of closing time rapidly drawing near, as a solid third of his patrons slowly head for the door, carefully selected mugs clutched between their fingers.

    “Right. Okay, so you said no new mugs, and you said no pride stuff, and you said no fun, so let me just jot that down, and we’ll keep going.”

    “I said no new mugs, I asked for different pride stuff that wouldn’t infringe on corporate coffee franchises, and fun is a subjective measurement on behalf of our patrons. Drop the attitude, or I’m cutting you off.”

    “What? No, I’m your best customer!” Roman whines, wearing a pout for a good few seconds before continuing. “I really do think some nice decorations would probably help the atmosphere, maybe string up some white fairy lights around the ceiling? I know you hate those, but they do wonders for how the interior looks once it’s dark outside. Turn off the main lights, turn on the tiny ones, and bam, you’ve got a fairytale date night. Literally.”

    “I don’t think you know what literally means.”

    “I also think you should hire me. Not with obscenely high pay, I know how frugal you try to be, but Remy and I are basically your best bets for customer service. Let me cover the shifts when he disappears for clubs and stuff, you can make the drinks as precise as you like, and I’ll chat up the guests to keep the drinks coming. If nothing else, it’ll train me for how I should exist in the real world.”

    “You’ve existed in the real world for years without working in a cafe.”

    “What’s your point?”

    Logan is very well aware by this point that the conversation is going nowhere. A few decent ideas, a few pieces of nonsense, and that’s about it. As such, he snaps the piece of paper he already grabbed, watching the top stand at attention at the peak of its arc.

    “I guess I don’t have one. Remy, please, if you would?” Struck by how he’d unintentionally repeated himself, Logan shifts his focus to the paper, blowing a long breath out through puffed cheeks. “We’re supposed to close up soon, and I sincerely do not have the willpower to do it tonight. I have way too many things to deal with behind the scenes, and I can’t just—”

    “Say no more,” Remy interrupts, plucking the paper from Logan’s hands. “Sit here, close your eyes, don’t do anything. I’ll teach Roman how to make your usual.”

    “Seven extra shots,” Logan murmurs, dropping his head to rest on the table. “Actually, make it eight. Please.”

    “Yeah, no, we’re only gonna give him hot tea,” Remy whispers to Roman, dragging him away from the table. A heavy exhale from Logan sends a few more sheets of paper fluttering to the floor. “He doesn’t get caffeine until he can go a full night without waking up to finish whatever piece of work he forgot about.”

    “And you think he can’t tell there’s no espresso in that?” Roman asks, watching Remy move as quietly as possible, considering that he’s dealing with the sound of metal on metal.

    “Oh, no, he can definitely tell. We’re both lying to each other, it’s kind of our thing, you know?”

    “Sounds like a great sibling rivalry.”

    “You could say that. Here, put these gloves on, protects from germs and junk when you’re handling the tea bag.” As the last dredges of guests file out of the cafe, most of them pausing to knock gently on the table in lieu of a soft goodbye to Logan, Remy and Roman fall into an amicable silence.

    “Maybe the pride powder would be fun?” Logan mumbles to himself, dragging his chin to his chest so only his forehead rests on the tiles. “Or I could get some food coloring, dye the whipped creams? We definitely don’t have the funds for colorful cups or anything like that, but maybe I could put a little colored dot on the bottom of each cup, have random chance dictate what color whip they get? But then I might not meet the demands, we could run out of food coloring, run out of whip, it doesn’t let me appeal to vegans or people who abstain from dairy products, not to mention that the color might leech into the actual drink. Maybe the fairy lights, just as a summer thing for softer lighting, quiet hours once they go on, I could probably get some people to do open mic stuff or something, clear out a couple tables…”

    Logan lets his words trail off at the sound of Remy plunking a drink beside his head, and while he knows very well that there’s no caffeine in the cup, he downs the whole thing in one go. Roman appears behind Remy, offering an identical drink in a bigger cup.

    “Whoa, try coming up for air bro—brother of mine. Brother. Is what I was going to say. Was brother. And not bro. Brother.” Remy excuses himself to finish dealing with closing up the bar, letting Roman reclaim his seat across from Logan.

    “Hey, buddy, you want to maybe get home, get some sleep?”

    “Yeah, probably,” Logan mumbles, not lifting his head from the table. “Still got so much to do, though. Barely even touched most of your ideas.”

    “Oh, please, you tore them to shreds!” Logan allows himself the smallest of smiles at that, shaking the back of his head and pressing his forehead deeper into the table. There’s probably a pattern of indents appearing on his skin by now. “And we didn’t even get to the best ones, which you can tackle tomorrow, after you get some sleep.”

    “Get some sleep!” Remy echoes, flitting between the sinks with every possible piece of dishware in the building. “But not at home. Go hang out at Roman’s.”

    Roman splutters indignantly, sending the rest of the papers flying. One lands over Logan’s head like a blanket. He does not remove it. “Why does he have to come to my place?”

    Although he can’t see it happening, Logan would wager a good fifty dollars that Remy has positioned himself atop one of the counters that food doesn’t touch in a dramatic pose. “Because he literally lives at work. Like, the next floor up. He needs to get some distance from this place. Plus, I mean, look at him. I’m not putting him up for the night.”

    “I’m the one paying your rent,” Logan retorts to the floor, watching his heels and toes click together.

    “You’re also the one keeping me awake at three in the morning because you had a sudden idea and are seemingly incapable of restraining yourself from writing with a squeaky marker on a squeaky whiteboard, but no one’s asking me. Just go with Roman. Roman, take him. I am not asking you, I am telling you. Take. Logan.”

    “Taking Logan,” Roman confirms. “Come on, Logan. I, Roman, am taking you, Logan. Onward, to my house, owned by a man named Roman, where I am taking Logan!”

    “Shut up, you goof.” Remy’s semi-humored tone is accompanied by the sound of what is probably a balled-up napkin punting Roman in the head, but Logan still isn’t paying enough attention to see. When he hears Roman’s chair scraping into place, he forces himself to stand on exhausted legs.

    Once he sees Logan steady on his feet, Roman shouts, “dibs on the bed!” and runs for the door. Logan offers a half-hearted wave to Remy before trudging after Roman, wincing against the ringing bell. Sure, the tea was good, but it does absolutely nothing to help his flagging energy.

    “Why would I ever want to take your bed over the couch?” Logan mutters, barely stifling a yawn as he slides into Roman’s bright red car. “Moreover, you knew it was supposed to rain today. Why on earth did you not close your windows?”

    “Because I like how it looks better with the windows down.”

    “I want to make sure that you are aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief. Are you aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief?”

    “I am aware of whatever it is you just said. Now be quiet, I can’t have you talking if I want to see the road.” Logan doesn’t bother to explain just how many levels of incorrect that is, instead reclining in the passenger seat and removing his glasses to watch the lights float by in blurry spirals of red and yellow. “So how ’bout that new guy?”

    “What, the one that Remy assigned a mug to based on first sight? Yeah, no, just another guest. What about him?”

    “Well, super cute, for one, and you’ll never believe this, but he actually works at—” Roman cuts himself off, glancing at a very much asleep Logan. “Alright, fine, I won’t tell you. Let you work it out for yourself.” With that, Roman turns up the radio and hums along quietly, careful to keep the noise low, to let Logan rest. Until tomorrow, at least, when Roman has every intention of screwing with his friends’ love life.

    Come on, you’ve gotta let Roman have some fun.

---------------

    “Ma’am, I’m sorry, we really don’t have blond espresso beans here, and we don’t have blond roast, and we don’t have decaf roast, as our shipment doesn’t come in ’til tomorrow. Is there anything else we can help you with?” To tell the truth, it is taking every single miniscule last ounce of willpower for Virgil not to vault over this counter and punch the very nice lady in the face.

    “Okay, but could you just do a blond pour over?” The very nice lady seems to be getting very agitated, but Virgil very much does not care. “Like, I get that you don’t have blond roast brewed, but I’m willing to wait for a while for a pour over.”

    Virgil is incredibly close to having to physically restrain himself from saying you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, since that’s when your stupid shipment will come in. Instead, he continues, “Sorry, no, we can’t do that. No blond roast beans.”

    “Yeah, but I’m not asking for blond roast beans. I am asking for a blond pour over.”

    “Pour over machine’s broke,” Virgil finally sighs. Yeah, sure, it just takes a small filter and some hot water, but he doesn’t have the patience for this person, much less to find any missing blond beans. So. Broken and nonexistent machine.

    “Oh, well that’s perfectly understandable!” the very nice lady says. “I’ll just take a medium blond roast, then.”

    Virgil leans over to grab Kim’s shoulder, pulling her closer to hiss in her ear, “if there are any hammers in here, you need to find and hide them immediately, because it will end up inside of this lady’s skull, and it will then find mine in quick succession. Fix her situation, I’ll catch up on the hot bar drinks.” Kim nods quickly, and Virgil is half-convinced that she thinks he’s serious. Maybe he is.

    Nonetheless, he moves past her for the mastrena machine, praying for the end of his shift to come quickly and with reckless abandon. It does not.

    “Grande affogato vanilla bean frap for Jenna?” he calls, handing off the espresso-drenched smoothie. “Thanks, have a nice day.” She probably says something or other about him having a good one,  but Virgil doesn’t even bother pretending to care, already busying himself with the next drink. “Couldn’t’ve possibly picked a better day to start grinding beans slower,” he mutters, wincing against the comparatively louder screams from steaming coconut milk. Of literally all the times for the mastrena to decide that it was being too efficient with the espresso, this is the worst time imaginable—smack dab in the middle of a rush of people, none of whom understand the concept of ‘not having blond espresso.’

    “Venti iced americano in a trenta cup with extra ice for Matthias?”

    The end of his shift literally cannot come fast enough.

    “Okay, dude, I’m really trying here, but I have absolutely no idea what this says,” Virgil informs Kim, showing her the illegible box on the cup. “You need to write the order down, and when you do, you need to make it possible for the most basic computer to decipher.”

    “It’s a salted caramel mocha with two extra shots and almond milk instead of two percent for Tommy,” Kim says. It does not slip Virgil’s notice that she has to squint incredibly close at the cup for a solid five seconds to figure out what it says.

    “Awesome. Great. Try to write it more neatly next time, yeah?” Finding a rare moment of gratefulness for his constantly cold hands, Virgil presses a frozen finger to his temple as he waits for the machine to finish rinsing. Is his shift over yet?

    Miracle of miracles, his boss, Anne, pops her head around the corner of the bar. “Hey, Virge, call for you guys, I’m covering food av, can you take it?” Virgil plasters a fake smile on his face and nods, neglecting to comment on how he never agreed to that nickname as he accepts the phone.

“Gainesville Starbucks north, this is Kim speaking, how can I help you?”

“Breakfast sandwiches.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Breakfast. Sandwiches.”

“I, ah, I apologize, I’m unclear what you’re asking me.”

“Breakfast sandwiches! You got any?”

“Oh! Yes, um, we’ve got tomato mozzarella paninis, sausage egg and cheddar sandwiches, ham and cheese croissants, turkey basil—and they hung up. Cool.” Virgil nods at the dial tone coming from his hand, quirking his mouth to the side. “Just, uh, just gonna stick that right down there.” Dropping the phone on a nearby counter, he returns to the hot bar, where Kim is absolutely drowning in the chaos she caused by sucking so much.

“Virge? Seriously?”

“If you even think about calling me that, I am going to go find that hammer I was talking about and bury it in your spine.” Kim pulls her lips between her teeth and nods, turning back to the register. Sniffing twice, Virgil tops off the next round of drinks. “Salted caramel mocha, two extra shots and almond milk for Tommy?”

“Hey, Virge, over here,” Anne calls again. “Need to see you for a sec.” Virgil bites back a relieved huff for the break from Kim, instead settling for a long exhale through his nose. No, he doesn’t really care for the nickname, but he’ll suffer through it for a brief reprieve like this.

“What’s up?” he asks, leaning over the swinging door. “’Nother phone call?”

“No, it’s just—you’ve got a lot of overtime, you know that?” Virgil glances back at Kim, who is currently occupied with trying to find the serious strawberry frappuccino button.

“Frapp creme, second row, last on the right,” he calls, taking great pride in how he doesn’t roll his eyes at her. Turning back to Anne, he continues, “yeah, I kind of have to have a lot, since she’s kind of, you know…” Virgil trails off, hoping Anne is enough on his page to fill in the blanks.

“Drowning? Yeah, I noticed. You’re doing a great job carrying her, you know that?”

Virgil pokes a tongue against his cheek, unsure how to respond. “I mean, I’ve only been here a couple months.”

“You’re really doing great. Anyway, too much overtime for you, and we aren’t supposed to be letting team members have any overtime. You think you’d be good to head home early?”

“There’s nothing that would make me happier, but are you sure she’ll be okay with this on her own?”

“Definitely not, which is why I’m here. I’ll relieve your position, but you need to get going, like, now.” If Virgil were a more confident person, he would take Anne by both hands and press them to his lips in a show of relieved thankfulness. As it stands, he snaps and offers her a pair of finger guns, skirting the swinging door and making a run for the break room before Anne can change her mind.

“No human has ever existed with a better soul than Anne,” he murmurs, punching out faster than he’d ever done so before. There’s a certain cafe he’s interested in getting to a little earlier today.

In his car, Virgil hisses lightly as he scrapes his bare wrist against the scalding metal of the seat belt buckle. Now safely secured and ready to go, he queues up the route to the cafe on his maps, bopping his head along as a song starts up on the radio. Skip, skip, skip, skip, skip, he chants in his head, getting through a solid twenty songs on shuffle before finding one he likes.

The lights of the streets, not yet bright as they battle the sun for dominance over the mid-afternoon sky, pepper the sidewalks with golden flecks between the cracks of beige and white. Virgil tilts his head to avoid the glare of the light reflecting in his eyes, skipping through his chosen song before it’s over. As he flicks on his indicator to pull into the cafe’s parking lot, he belatedly wonders whether the owners will start to think he’s weird for showing up this often. Especially that Remy guy, what was his deal?

This worry chases him past several traffic lights and more than a few disconcertingly fast drivers, right up to pulling into the same parking spot as yesterday—decently far from the doors, but not so far that it’d be a hassle to get there if he happened to be holding seven cups of coffee. He shifts into reverse, triple-checking that he’s perfectly within the lines before parking the car and sliding out.

A cold breeze swipes over his face, startlingly out of place in the mid-June heat. Were it not for this abnormality giving him pause, maybe he would’ve gotten inside safely without drawing the attention of the silver car careening into the parking lot. It beeps brightly as it pulls into the furthest spot from the door, spitting out a driver dressed in bright blues and pale greys.

“Virge, hey, you made it! I was wondering whether you’d ever listened to my suggestions!” he calls, running over to Virgil and ignoring how his loose sleeves smack against his chin. “Find your way okay?”

“I mean, I’m here, so I guess I did.” Virgil shrugs, electing not to comment on the forbidden nickname that he would punch Kim in the face for using again. “And anyway, I always listen to your suggestions. Come here, try your usual—not a fan, by the way—and call you Pat. I’m not really one for nicknames, either, so I’d rather stick with Patton, if that’s okay with you.”

“Whatever makes you happiest!” Patton replies, taking Virgil by the hand and swinging it violently as he leads the barista inside. “So did you get to meet the owner yet, or is this your first time? I can introduce you to—”

“Pantone!” Remy exclaims, vaulting over the register counter to greet Patton. Virgil steps aside, bumping into someone’s shoulders and muttering his apologies as they leave. “I haven’t seen you around here in forever, what the heck, man? Hanging around with the cutest riffraff in town, I see.” Virgil scowls, moving for the register and scanning his eyes over the menus. Handwritten in white chalk, they look much more personal than the ones at Starbucks. Maybe not very colorful, but nice enough.

“Remy, how many times have I told you not to let any part of your body make contact with that counter? It doesn’t know where you’ve been,” someone scolds from a nearby table. The same person Ho Man and Remy were tormenting yesterday. Remy ignores them, still chatting up a storm with Patton. The person sighs, pushing back from a table covered in loose papers and moving to the register.

Virgil sizes them up as they walk, inspecting their carefully strict gait, the tie cinched perfectly around their neck, the strict khakis with only the most uniform of creases. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear they were going out for a job interview at some craphole like Starbucks.

“Sorry about Remy. Little brothers, what can I do, right? What can I get started for you?” Virgil doesn’t answer, his gaze fixated on a speck of dirt marring their sharp glasses. They blink, waiting patiently and having no idea of where Virgil’s attention is directed.

Ho Man appears from around the corner, where only a few other patrons occupy the tables overlooking the windows. “Hey, it’s you! Logan, buddy, he was the guy here yesterday, the one Remy gave the wrong mug to! Wrong mug guy, this is Logan, he runs this joint!”

“Wrong mug?” Virgil repeats.

“Wrong mug,” the new person—Logan, apparently—confirms. “We carefully select mugs based on the person they go to, rather than selecting one at random like Remy does. He refuses to learn the process behind choosing mugs, so whatever he hands you, it’s probably wrong.”

“Sounds about right,” Virgil agrees, glancing back at Remy and Patton, both of whom are staring at him and giggling.

“So what can I get started for you?” Logan repeats. Virgil cocks his head to the side, considering Logan for a long moment.

“Surprise me.” Logan’s steely expression lightens for the briefest of seconds, revealing a soft grin and bright eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came.

“I’ll have that right out for you.”

Virgil offers a small smile in return, passing over a five dollar bill and waving off Logan as he tries to hand him his change. “Just keep it.”

“We really don’t do tips—”

“Just. Keep it.” Virgil slips around the bar and moves for his seat from yesterday, tucking his legs under himself and watching Remy nudge Patton repeatedly. After a solid few bumps to the back, Patton stumbles forward, bumping into Ho Man as he curbs around the bar to straighten the creamer cart. Distracted by the way Patton’s hands flutter around his face as he talks to Ho Man, Virgil hardly notices Logan until he’s positioned himself in the empty seat across from him.

“Drink it first, then tell me what you think it is.” Logan pushes a mug across the table toward Virgil, careful to keep the motion near the bottom so it doesn’t splash. Unlike the cup covered in cups from yesterday, this one is something Virgil might actually consider stealing, if they hadn’t drained the excitement of doing so by explicitly allowing thievery.

Midnight blue and splattered with tiny white dots, this mug looks to be plucked straight from the heavens themselves. The inside offers a pale blue to offset the darkness folding in at the rim, enveloping the top of the drink’s meniscus in hues to rival the sky. Virgil traces a finger over some of the constellations skirting the outside—bright enough against the blue to be recognizable, but not going so far as to connect the dots with garish straight lines. All in all, a good mug. Maybe he will steal it.

Virgil takes a long, slow pull from the cup, pretending to be deep in thought as Logan stares unabashedly into his eyes. He holds the mug over his mouth a few seconds later, waiting for the flush in his cheeks to subside. Why couldn’t Logan have been the one to take his order yesterday?

Virgil lowers the mug, licking away the drink moustache on his upper lid and pulling his tongue back in with a pop. “First guess?”

“First guess.”

“Green tea latte.”

Logan grins, rapping the table three times. “Nailed it.”

“It’s ’cause I’m a genius,” Virgil says, lifting the mug once more. This Logan guy might keep some strange company, but he can make a mean green tea latte. “Eleven out of ten, would order again.”

“That’s an improper fraction,” Logan mutters, but there’s a gleam dancing behind his eyes. The bell chimes over the door, drawing Virgil’s attention to where Ho Man and Patton look to be in a particularly compromising position. With Patton flattened against the door and Ho Man hovering closer than necessary, Virgil can only watch as Remy appears out of nowhere, shoving Ho Man forward without warning. Logan releases a breathy laugh as he watches the debacle—moreover, as he watches Ho Man thrust his hands out to brace himself on the wall, as well as caging Patton in around the shoulders by doing so. If this were a romance movie, they’d probably start kissing right about now.

As it is, Ho Man stammers out some excuse, cheeks almost as red as the roses smattered his white shirt. Patton only smiles back widely, not moving from the wall. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear his eyes were delirious. Maybe he doesn’t know better.

“I see you understand the nonsense I’m forced to endure around here,” Logan says. “With Roman being a flirt and Remy being the charming everyman, I do pretty much everything myself. Any tips on how to better survive it?”

Virgil blinks, unsure why Logan decided to dump all this on him. At least he knows what Ho Man’s actual name is now. Full disclosure, Virgil’s gonna miss calling him Ho Man. “I don’t know that I’m your best bet for help running a small coffee shop.”

Logan huffs something close to a laugh, gnawing on the corner of his lip. “Not a problem, I’m just uncertain where to go from here, and they’re being of little help. All they’ve done is force me to get sleep and toss a couple papers about pride at me, and that’s hardly a reliable way of forming a more successful business.”

“Sleep is important,” Virgil says. “I can’t speak from experience, but I’ve heard a lot of people say so.” Still midway through processing Logan’s words, his mind catches on a certain piece of information. “Did you say papers about pride?”

“Indeed, Roman thinks I ought to spruce the place up for pride month, and he’s even managed to pull Remy into the idea. You’re welcome to help, if you want to, but there’s no obligation on your end.”

“Sounds fun,” Virgil admits, raising the cup again and startling himself as he finds it empty. “I’ll take a look, if you want to show me those papers. Oh, by the way, my name is Virgil, in case I haven’t said that yet.”

“Virgil,” Logan repeats, testing the word and rolling it around his mouth. He peels his lower lip out slowly, savoring the V, puckering his lips out around the R and letting his tongue hesitate against his teeth on the L. “It’s a pleasure. I’m sure one of the other two said it at some point or another, but I’m Logan.”

“Logan,” Virgil confirms. “So, Logan, about those pride papers and this empty mug?”

Logan stands, somehow managing not to scrape his chair as he pushes it back. Virgil attempts a similarly graceful move, wincing at the grating sound of metal on tile. “Let me get that mug from you and I’ll fill you up—do not even think about handing me another five, this one is on the house, and I am returning your three dollars and fifty cents at my first opportunity. These papers, disorganized and chaotic as they are, are the only things we’ve got in the way of ideas to drum up more business.”

Virgil seats himself at the cluttered table, grabbing a sheet at random and letting the distant clanks of Logan behind the bar fill his head. Stuff about colored whipped cream—probably too expensive, not to mention non-vegan friendly, and powdered sugar colors—kind of similar to Starbucks with their colored drink gimmicks, which doesn’t seem like Logan’s style. He pauses on the mention of white fairy lights, glancing around the room and imagining how they might look framing the windows. Maybe a little too winter-holiday for mid June, but the tackiness could very well add to the overall charm of the place. Certainly a warmth that overcrowded Starbucks stores could never hope to have. Or they could line the windows in different colors, if Logan really does want to keep with the whole pride thing, or else—

“Try that, tell me what you think,” Logan says, plunking the blue mug on one of very few clear spaces between the papers. Virgil complies, poking his tongue at a crooked front tooth as he considers the flavor.

“Tastes like cinnamon, but that’s all I’ve got.”

“Cinnamon and almond milk latte, one of our most popular drinks,” Logan confirms.

“You don’t get called out for it being too similar to the one Starbucks does?” Logan goes deathly still, an expression somewhere between fury and shock freezing on his face.

“We are nothing like Starbucks here, and I’m going to pretend you didn’t just compare me to that steaming pile of garbage.” Virgil nods, deciding this probably isn’t the best time to inform Logan about his own line of work. “Anything good come out of that disaster?”

“Maybe.” Virgil takes another swig from his mug, running his tongue over his lips and humming to himself. “The colored powders and whipped creams seem kind of impractical, but the lights and quiet-hour thing doesn’t seem to bad. You could do soft pastels for a warmer tone around the room as a whole, and different colors around each window to fit pride month. I don’t know about open mic, since that’s a lot to organize, but maybe use that empty corner on the other side of the door for some little bookshelves and comfy chairs, have a chill zone when the lights go down and the moon comes up? Oh, and this is definitely just a suggestion, so you don’t, like, have to do it, or anything like that, but it might be cool if you changed up the colors of your menu signs, so they weren’t all just white and plain. You could do one board in blue and purple and pink for bi, and another in purple and yellow and white for nonbinary, and another in pink and yellow and blue for pan, and then do a bunch of little drink drawings on all of them in every color to represent gay pride as a whole?” Virgil bites his lip, suddenly realizing that Logan is staring intently at him. Again.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t trying to—you don’t have to do all that, obviously, and it’s not like I’m forcing you to, and I wasn’t trying to—” Virgil cuts himself off, ducking his head down and hiding his face behind his mug.

“No, no, that’s great, really, I love those ideas,” Logan stammers, waving his hands frantically to shake away Virgil’s hesitation. “They’re splendid, exactly what I was looking for.” Virgil nods quickly, not coming out from behind his mug. Logan places a hesitant hand on Virgil’s shoulder, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. Against his own volition, Virgil leans into the touch, tilting his head toward Logan’s knuckles before he can stop himself. The moment his ear grazes the back of Logan’s hand, he jerks out of the seat, spilling the rest of his mug all over his work-mandated khakis.

“Oh, jeez, oh man, I mean, shoot, crap, okay, I just, I’m just gonna go,” Virgil rambles, stumbling for the door and clutching his unwittingly emptied mug tightly in his shaking fingers. Before Logan can even think about calling after him, he’s behind the wheel of his car and careening out of the parking lot, already berating himself for being such a dork.

---------------

“Where’d Wrong Mug Man go?” Remy asks, popping his head over the bar as he pauses midway through restocking the milk fridge. “Scare him off with your utter lack of charm and cold exterior?”

“A little too on the nose,” Roman calls out from his usual spot in the corner. Well, not ‘usual,’ per se—Roman can barely tolerate staying in the same place for more than a week before moving on for bigger, better seating options. He’s had much the same opinion regarding boys for as long as Logan can remember, and the selection of the week seems to be Patton on the windowsill with the Toy Story clouds mug. Practically a real-life version of Clue, with romantic motives to boot.

Remy finger guns at Roman and ducks back down to finish with the fridge. Logan blinks, the exchange flying past him as he tries to come up with a reason for Virgil’s sudden disappearance. The first person to choose his flatter tones over his brother’s exuberance, and they run away like an owl from a forest fire in the middle of Canada.

Logan has never been one for analogies.

He reaches across the counter, startling Remy in the process as he grabs for a clean rag and sanitizing spray. In no less than five minutes, the spilled latte is gone without a trace. At least Virgil took the mug with him—if nothing else, he’ll come back to return it. Maybe even to use it for that discount—not that Logan would charge him. Virgil doesn’t seem like the type to acquiesce not to pay, but Logan is the owner, so what’s to stop him from making every drink free for the short instances when Virgil shows up?

“Roman,” Logan says, “what are the odds you have some colored chalk you don’t need?”

“Fifteen out of three,” Roman calls back, not looking up from the phone tucked in his lap. Across from him, Patton mirrors the position, curled into the corner of the windowsill—not strictly a real seat, but they both seem to be making do well enough.

“So five?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. I’ve got, like, a whole crate full of art supplies that I can’t use, because someone told me not to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming the next Leonardo Dicaprio.”

“Da Vinci. And I would hardly phrase it like that—I merely suggested that, were you to aim for realism, it might be wise to avoid giving your elephants tails for trunks and trunks for tails.”

“Stop stifling my creative energy!”

“Stop stifling his creative energy,” Patton echoes. Oddly enough, Logan doesn’t feel that familiar urge to roll his eyes as he watches Roman glance up from under a curtain of bangs, staring at an oblivious Patton. He’s never looked at one of his weekly obsessions like that before. Or maybe he has, Logan doesn’t pay very much attention to that sort of thing.

“The point being, you do have colorful chalk, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I need some. Bring it in with you tomorrow, if you would be so kind.”

For reasons Logan doesn’t care to puzzle out, Roman tumbles off the windowsill, jumping to his feet and brushing off his knees as he rushes to Logan’s side. “Or,” he whispers excitedly, bouncing on his toes and waving his hands around his face, “I could run home and get them now! I could even go out to a store, buy more stuff you didn’t know you needed, spruce the whole place up! Patton could come with me!”

Patton’s head perks up at this revelation, and he pockets his phone before joining the other two. Even Remy leans over the bar, half-intruding on the conversation as he waits for the next guest to decide what they want. Logan crosses his arms, considering Roman’s eagerness.

“You know very well that I don’t trust you to decorate my cafe to your tastes, much less on your own dime.” Glancing at the menus in plain black and white, Logan does have to admit they look, well, plain. Boring. Virgil wasn’t wrong when he said they might look better with more colors. And yes, Logan would greatly prefer having Virgil here to coach him on how to properly execute the pride color schemes—Logan’s never been one for art—but Patton doesn’t seem totally hopeless. “Tell you what. I’ll close up early tonight, and us three can all go out and stock up on decorations. Keep the place closed tomorrow, and we’ll plan out how to make it look best to ramp up business.”

“Excuse you,” Remy cuts in, “but I think you mean us four. Don’t go excluding me from the party.”

“Who said you were invited?” Logan retorts. Roman stifles a snort behind his fist as Patton’s jaw drops in startlingly believable dismay.

“Logan! We have to take Remy with us, he brings half the fun! It wouldn’t be as exciting without him there!”

“Who said I wanted it to be exciting?” Logan mutters to himself, shooting a quick look toward the back of the cafe. Pretty empty, save for a couple patrons here and there nursing at their personal mugs. Casting his eyes to the ceiling, Logan pulls in a long breath through his nose, blowing it out through his lips and wondering why Virgil couldn’t be here to endure this nonsense with him. Immediately thereafter, he wonders why he wonders that. He didn’t even know Virgil’s name yesterday, why is he so set on having him here now?

Remy and Patton’s hopeful expressions drag him back to the moment—specifically, the moment where Logan is being forced to take three overgrown toddlers on a shopping spree to decorate the building that makes up his entire livelihood. No pressure.

“I am definitely going to regret this,” Logan sighs. Pretending as if he hadn’t said that, he continues, “fine, I guess Remy can accompany us. No candy, though—we don’t need to be buying food when we already have some upstairs.”

“Aha, but I have tips!” Remy declares, shaking a paper cup full of coins. “I’m gonna buy so many peanuts with these.”

“Explain how,” Roman says.

“Do not explain how,” Logan says. Not allowing either of them the chance to finish their charade, Logan turns to Patton. “You walked in with Virgil, didn’t you? Do you two know each other?”

“Something like that. I’m a frequent customer where he works.” This catches Logan’s attention. A direct pipeline to the owl that got away.

Again, Logan has never been one for analogies.

“Where does he work?”

A mischievous glint takes residence in Patton’s eye as he nudges Roman’s shoulder.  The latter snickers quietly, nudging right back as the former gets out between giggles, “that’s just something you’re gonna have to figure out on your own. The answer will shock you.”

“If he works as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, I am banning both you and him from this establishment.”

“He does not work as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, but you’ll never guess what he does instead!” Roman hisses in an action-star voice. “This summer, coming directly to your screens, and coming soon to own on video and DVD—” He drops his tone to an impossibly deep register while ramping up his volume, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the room. Patton and Remy join in on the tagline, both yelling at the top of their lungs.

“Are you quite finished?” Logan asks, wholly unimpressed. Having failed to get so much as a huff of acknowledgement, the other three sigh dejectedly and nod. “Good. Remy, finish cleaning up behind the bar. Roman, can you wipe down the tables and start stacking chairs? Patton, I know you don’t work here, but—”

“On it,” Patton interrupts, already moving toward the back to gently rouse the student that fell asleep doing their homework at a table. Morally, Logan has no problem letting people stay as long as they like, even if they don’t buy anything, but it’s a little more difficult to be lenient about that sort of thing when he’s closing up the cafe. He turns his attention back to the papers scattered across the table as the other three flit about their respective tasks, and wonders whether Virgil might try to come back tomorrow. If they close the cafe for renovations, would he even get out of his car? Or would the lack of business  and other patrons scare him off? Maybe Logan should position the other three at various seats in the back as he does all the work himself, making it look like he kept the place open so Virgil would still come in, without being terribly obvious about that being his goal all along. Of course, that brings up the inevitable he knows that I know that he knows situation, but it’s not as if—

“Hello? Earth to Logan? Paging alien squadron fleet two K four one nine oh?” Roman waves a hand in front of Logan’s face, pulling him out of his head. Before him is the only unwashed table in the cafe, still littered with papers that have yet to be picked up. The  only page that managed to find its way into Logan’s arms is the one Virgil was talking about when he made additional suggestions. Logan blinks, gathers up the rest in a haphazard bundle, and steps back to let Roman finish his cleaning.

“Can I drive?” Remy asks. He slides around the bar, dusting his hands off on his pants and tossing a dirty rag over the lip of the sink.

“We need to get you an apron,” Logan replies absently, eyeing the gathering dirt stains on Remy’s thighs.

“I didn’t hear a no!” Remy singsongs, tilting his head to lean against Logan’s shoulder. The top of the mess of hair tickles along the crook where his jaw meets his earlobe, and Logan blinks as his mind unhelpfully conjures an image of Virgil in the same position under a blanket of stars. Where on Earth did that come from?

“No, you cannot drive. Give me Roman’s car keys.”

Roman emits an unholy shriek, somewhere between miffed and scandalized that Remy had managed to steal the keys to his soccer mom car. Granted, those things basically live in various spots around the cafe as it is, but still. Groaning in a pitiful attempt at getting sympathy, Remy tosses the jingling chain to Logan, who snatches them out of the air with ease. Before the owner of said keys can protest, Logan passes them on to him, biting back a laugh as Roman instinctively ducks.

“Hey! No dangerous projectiles in the house!” Roman whines. The keys hit the door and clatter to the tiles below.

“Not a house, and you don’t make the rules here, anyway.” Logan wisely keeps his gaze elsewhere as Patton makes his way to the door, grabbing the keys to pass them to Roman. Of course, the windows are reflective surfaces—this unfortunate reality fails to protect Logan from having to see how Patton’s hand lingers a moment too long on Roman’s. Honestly, the whole point of looking away was to not have to deal with their nonsense in the first place. “Let’s go.”

Lingering at the back of the group, Logan lets the other three exit before him, double- and triple-checking that everything is off, unplugged, cleaned up, closed, and generally in various states of presentable. The last thing he needs right now is for his life’s savings to literally go up in flames. Well, not his life’s savings. He’s got some common sense—everything he hasn’t spent is carefully accumulating interest in various reputable banks. So. The expendable portion of his life’s savings. That’s what he doesn’t want to go up in flames.

“What happened to ‘let’s go,’ sonny boy?” Roman calls, popping his head back in the door and making the bell chime. Logan tilts his head, wondering if anyone would ever question why he picked that bell in particular to greet his guests.

“I’m older than you.”

“Patton dared me to call you kiddo, but I thought mine was funnier,” Roman admits.

“I’m older than Patton, too.”

“You didn’t even tell me Patton’s name until last week!”

“Ever heard of barista-guest confidentiality?”

“No, because it doesn’t exist. Now hurry up and get in the car, or we’re tying you to the roof and I’m letting Patton use the backseat as his own personal lounge area.”

Tossing a sigh to the ceiling and casting one last glance at the way his cafe was always meant to be—before everyone else barges in to redecorate for him—Logan follows Roman out.

He slides into the back on the passenger’s side, not voicing his apprehension at Patton taking the front seat. That’s Remy’s seat, he thinks. Remy doesn’t seem to mind, though, already pressing his nose to the window and bouncing on the worn cushion.

“Seatbelt,” Logan reminds his brother—and the car as a whole, he supposes, as even Roman jolts to comply. “I am hereby imposing a price limit of one hundred dollars on this excursion. Anything over that will be coming off of your dime.”

“I don’t even—” Roman begins, but Logan isn’t having any of it.

“I know, I know, you don’t even work for me, but if you want to? And you want to help, shall we say, ‘spruce up the place,’ you will refrain from exceeding my budget, lest you pay the overages.”

    “If we go to the place on the corner of Eighth and Main, I’ve got an employee discount for ten percent,” Patton offers.

    “By the Texaco?” Roman punches the coordinates into the car, tapping his foot impatiently as Siri attempts to connect with his dwindling internet connection.

    “You really ought to know your way around the town by now,” Logan opines. “You’ve been to the Texaco more times than Remy’s flirted with my guests.”

    “Shut up, Logan!” Remy hisses. Were his face not pressed against the window and his shoulders hunched defensively, Logan is certain his comment would be rewarded with cheeks glittering ruby.

    “Got it!” Roman exclaims, punching the roof. “And I refilled the tank a couple days ago, which means no gas money going into this excursion! Can I get a what what?”

    “You cannot,” Logan says.

    “What what,” Patton agrees.

    “Plus,” Roman continues, shifting into drive and doing a mediocre job of backing away from the building, “with the discount, just think of how much more stuff we can get!”

    “Yay.” Logan has never known his own voice to be more flat. He glances up just in time to see Patton shoot him an apologetic look, mouthing the word sorry. He smiles as he does it, though, so Logan isn’t completely convinced of Patton’s regret.

    The excited conversation of the other three fills up the car as Logan lets his gaze drift out the window, watching the bright greens of summer flash by in bursts between the blemishes of humanity’s invasion upon the world. Traffic lights, street signs, lampposts, telephone lines, couches at curbs, discarded plastic bags, crushed coffee cups, dead patches of grass, cracked squares of concrete, buildings crawling for the skies and stretching to escape the natural world without which they could never dream of existing.

    Logan does not particularly care for the overdevelopment of what used to be a homey nook of nature around his cafe. He can hardly see the stars at night anymore, what with all the city lights pulling his eyes to the ground.

    “Beep beep!” Roman announces, punching the roof again before slipping out of the car.  Logan blinks, suddenly realizing they’d already arrived at the store. Time to suffer.

    “One hundred dollars,” he reminds the others. His words fall on deaf ears as they all sprint for the doors, chattering excitedly amongst themselves about color schemes and bargaining and how to make the most of spending every last dime they can squeeze out of Logan’s pockets. More to himself than anyone else, he murmurs, “I bet Virgil would understand the significance of imposing a spending limit before getting surprised with an obscenely high total crowning the receipt.”

    “Come on,” Remy groans, doubling back to grab Logan’s wrist. Patton and Roman have already vanished, probably traipsing through the birthday party aisles for decoration ideas. “At least pretend you’re having fun, yeah? Show some enthusiasm for Virgil’s ideas, I bet he’d love that.”

    “When did he tell you his name?”

    “He didn’t. You used it when you asked Patton where he worked.”

    “Where does he work?”

    “If you push the price limit up to two fifty, maybe I’ll tell you.”

    “Maybe I’ll stop letting you accept tips.”

    Remy’s eyes widen slightly at that, and he wobbles on his toes before running the rest of the way to the door, waving his hands over his head. “La la la, I can’t hear you, I’m too fast for the sound barrier to keep up!”

    “That’s not how—oh, whatever,” Logan mutters. Hands in his pockets, he dips a chin to the greeters just inside the door and maintains a leisurely pace, waiting for his friends to reveal themselves. Admittedly, he’s a little impressed when he sees them next—they’ve managed to avoid getting covered in streamers and sparkles. So far, at least. Unfortunately for Logan, the night is still young.

    “Hey, what about these?” Patton asks, grabbing a pack of pride-themed playing cards from an end cap display.

    “How are those supposed to drum up business?”

    Patton shrugs, turning the cards over in his hand. “I dunno, they just look neat.”

    “Make it a puzzle,” Roman suggests, picking up a matching set. “Have different fun facts about pride history written on cards from one set, but keep out a piece of important information. Someone finds a card and can tell you the answer without having to look it up, they get a card from the deck you didn’t write on. Get a full suit, get a prize. Maybe they get all the diamonds, then they get to name a drink after themselves. Get all the hearts, they can save ten cents instead of five.”

    Logan has to admit, it isn’t the worst idea Roman’s ever come up with. The worst was probably that time with the stuffed sheep, the empty ramen cup, and the half-eaten ring pop. He shudders at the memory before relenting. “How much for a pack?”

    Patton glances at the sticker on the side, sucks a sharp inhale through his teeth, and sets the deck back where he found it. “More than it’s worth, even with the discount. Come on, I know where the shelf is for stuff we’re trying to get rid of. It’s hidden in the back so we can make more money, but who ever had fun paying full price?”

    “I did, back when it meant doing less damage to my cafe,” Logan grumbles. Nevertheless, he follows dutifully behind, stifling a snort as Roman grabs Patton’s hand and they skip—literally skip—down the aisles. Every few steps, one yanks the other to a stop, cooing over some toy or game meant to catch the eye of passing toddlers. Remy’s eyes sparkle, and he leans over to Logan when he thinks the other two aren’t listening.

    “You know,” he whispers, “I like this one a lot more than Roman’s other flings.”

    “They’ve barely been talking for more than a few days,” Logan retorts, careful to keep his voice low. “You cannot place all your eggs in the basket when the eggs don’t even exist yet.”

    “You lost me, but seriously, bro, look at them.” Tutting to himself, Logan watches the way Roman’s eyes catch on Patton more often than they catch on bargain bin attractions. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe you don’t see it.”

    “That’s hardly any of my business. All I care about is how much they’re making me spend. And what did I tell you about that ridiculous nickname? It isn’t even original.”

    “Nothing’s original, not even originality,” Remy fires back. “A redux of something that already exists is way more fun than not doing it in the first place. Or would you rather have me tell Virgil the real reason you opened up the cafe?”

    Logan yanks Remy to a stop by the neck of his shirt, balling the fabric up in his fists. “If you do that, then so help me, I will have you shipped back home faster than you can spit out that infernal nickname, and you will never set foot in my cafe again.” Remy blinks, laughs, and bops Logan’s nose.

    “I bet Virgil would think you’re cute when you get all angry like that.”

    “That’s not—I don’t—shut up!” Logan sputters. The epitome of elegance.

    When Logan’s first instinct upon releasing Remy is to wonder whether Virgil would think he looked cute like that, he knows he is well and truly screwed.

    Elegance, indeed.

---------------

    Virgil’s current favorite shift is opening. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he shows up at the ass crack of dawn for work. A solid hour by himself to get the bar set up to his liking, to work in silence without worrying about angry guests, and the knowledge that he’ll be out by noon. The turning stomach of too little sleep is certainly less than ideal, but he’s lying to himself about liking being here this early. Cut him some slack.

    “Just fire her already,” he mutters to himself, moving faster than he’d like to as he restocks the pastries. Not for the first time, Natalia closed last night, and she never does any of the shift’s duties right. Case in point, the expired pastries still being in the serving zone. The milk fridge being barren. Having less than three whips. Forgetting the refresher shaker lid in the washing machine—still dirty, mind you. Not wiping down the tables before stacking the chairs. Not washing the half and half from the little cart. A quick sniff reveals the insides to be well past curdled.

    You know, maybe Virgil just wants to gripe in general about the incompetence of his fellow team members, and it really has nothing to do with the quality of his workplace experience.

    Or it could be that he’s still reeling from the ridiculous note he left Logan on yesterday. That is a very strong possibility.

    Glancing at the clock on the register he has yet to open, Virgil weighs his options. He can either sprint for the milk fridge and pray there’s enough left to restock, or he can stay up here and try to straighten up the place for the off chance that corporate shows up and tears Anne a new one. Though he likes Anne well enough, he’d rather face the consequences of corporate’s wrath than deal with pissed-off customers who can’t have their precious two percent milk.

    Just his luck—the stock fridge is empty. This is the moment Virgil’s mind chooses to remind him that today is Monday, and that they’re supposed to be getting a shipment in later. So no half and half, no two percent, no heavy whipping cream, and an insatiable desire to go home before the whole ‘interacting with the public’ part of his shift has even started.

    As the clock ticks over to eight, his boss’s boss’s boss, Stephen, walks over with his usual fistful of crumpled singles. Virgil doesn’t even bother asking for his numbers, already keying in the discount and punching the order into the register. In the amount of time it takes him to start lingering on yesterday’s disaster, Stephen’s usual—grande mocha, no whip—is already done and gone. Whether this is because Virgil is fast with making drinks or because he’s very adamant about the masochism of reliving embarrassment is open for debate.

    Seriously, what was that? Logan puts a hand on his shoulder and gravity decides to be a little bitch, dragging Virgil’s head to the side to lean on a basic stranger? Naturally followed by the most logical reaction—dumping his entire drink all over himself. Yesterday was the first day he wore those pants after their wash, too; he can usually get three or four days out of a pair before they need to be cleaned. What a waste.

    One singular glimmer of positivity in the hellscape that is the opening shift, though, is how much faster it seems to go by on Mondays. When the mid shows up, they vanish to the back to take care of the order, so Virgil basically has the bar to himself for four hours, then the fifteen minutes of dealing with the other mid. All the better to suffer through his own blunders in peace.

    At least it’s a slower stream of guests.

    “I’ll take a trenta very berry, but with all the kinds of berries in it,” some guy with a greasy man bun says, strolling up and scrolling through his phone. Virgil nods, keying it in and going through the usual polite spiel while he waits for him to pay.

    “Anything else for you?”

    Man Bun glances up from texting, raking his eyes over the purple fading from Virgil’s bangs. “Yeah, can I also get extra blackberries—”

    “Sure.”

    “—and your number?”

    “No. Five twenty-nine.” Virgil turns his back to the register as Man Bun sets about dealing with his credit card, and wonders whether this guy’ll be a nuisance for him as he finishes the drink. “Trenta very berry, extra blackberries, have a good one.”

    Man Bun takes the cup, tearing off the straw wrapper and throwing it on the floor. Literally, the garbage can is, like, right there, dude. Don’t be an ass. “So I seriously don’t have a chance with you?”

    “Definitely not.”

    “What, are you not gay? I mean, with the hair, and with—”

    “I’m gay, just not for you. Have a good one.” To escape any further annoying questions, Virgil vanishes into the near back, organizing the drying dishes to wait out Man Bun. Once the coast is finally clear, Virgil returns to the bar, where Patton awaits with a bright grin. Fantastic.

    “Hi, Virge!” Patton calls, bouncing on his toes. He does a twirl to make sure no one else is in line behind him before propping his elbows on the counter and leaning in as if he were sharing a secret. “I’ll take a venti iced caramel mach-yeet-ato with an extra shot of eek-spresso, if you please.” With another spin, Patton nearly crashes to the floor, the weight of the bag on his back yanking him faster than he can recover from.

    “I got the yeet, but you’re gonna have to explain the eek bit.”

    “I want you to pull three shots like normal, but scream at the fourth one. Scare it into submission. Then I’ll drink it, and get the scared bean energy.”

    Virgil blinks, his pen hovering over the boxes on the side of the cup. “You. Want me. To scream at your espresso?”

    “Only the fourth one! I need the other three to be brave, so I can have the bravery in addition to the terror.”

Virgil opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and shakes his head. “Okay. Five thirty five.” Patton presses a ten across the counter, refusing as Virgil tries to pass back the change, and slides to the end of the bar before Virgil can force him to take his money. True to form, Patton leans over the counter to watch Virgil making the drink, scrutinizing the pouring shots. “You know,” Virgil remarks, “it’s faster to pull two and two shots than two and one and one.”

“Yeah, but then my drink would be half scared, and we can’t have that, now, can we?”

“I guess not. What if I just pull the last two into two separate cups, and apologize to one to get rid of the scared emotions?”

Patton quirks his mouth to the side and hums. “I guess that could work. Make sure the apology’s genuine though, so I can have some empathy in my drink, too. And you don’t have to actually scream at it, either—just rile it up a bit. Scare it into submission however you see fit.”

This was one of the worst possible things Patton could have told Virgil to do. The barista leans in as the second round of shots pours, putting his mouth as close to the cup as he dares. “I’m going to stand outside your house and chant ominously about your sins while pouring expired coffee grounds on your sidewalk, then I’m going to hack into your sims account, give everyone full autonomy, and age them up to the maximum elderly age possible. Sorry, other espresso—I promise your sims are safe and your sidewalk is clean. For now.”

Patton looks understandably disconcerted by the time Virgil has finished, although the latter isn’t completely convinced that what he said was necessarily scary. He hands off the drink, drenching it in far more caramel than necessary and leaving the lid off. With an unholy grin on his face, Patton brings the cup to his lips and swallows half the caramel drizzle before the scared espresso even has a chance to settle.

“So hey, are you coming by Logan’s cafe today?” Patton asks. Virgil glances at the clock—five more minutes, and no line to be seen. He swings around the bar to sit at one of the guest tables, pulling out a sharpie and setting about dating the pastries. Whoever the mid is, they didn’t bother to show up on time, so they certainly can’t be trusted to do something literally in their job description. “You kind of left in a hurry yesterday.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t need a repeat of that embarrassment. I’m just gonna go home and hide under a blanket.”

“What embarrassment? I think Logan liked talking to you, I bet he’d like to have you come back.”

“Definitely. I’m sure he’d adore talking to the guy who couldn’t even keep his drink in his mug, much less remember to leave the mug there.”

“Virge, that’s the point of the mug system. You weren’t supposed to leave the mug there.”

“It’s not the point of my system, though. Now I’m basically, like, obligated to go back and return the cup, if not use it for that discount. Not to mention—which I already did—how I literally dumped my drink all over myself. I do not want that to happen again.”

“So just don’t drop your drink, and it won’t happen again! Simple.”

“Oh, and I bet you’ll just go ahead and police Logan so he doesn’t touch my shoulder again, prompting the situation that drove me to run out in the first place.” At the way Patton’s eyes sparkle, Virgil rushes to backtrack. “Not that it meant anything! It just startled me, so I shook my hand and my drink spilled.” Virgil glances at the bar, but there’s still no guests appearing to save him from this disaster of his conversation. All the pastries are dated, too, so he doesn’t even have the excuse of occupying his hands. “I do not want to go back.”

Patton grins. “So you’re going back?”

Virgil throws his hands in the air and groans. “I’m going back.”

“Promise?” Holding back a sigh as Patton thrusts out a pinky, Virgil links it with his own.

“Promise.”

“Great! Because your shift just ended, and Logan’s keeping it closed for the day so he can do renovations. Just you, him, and a few other people for as long as we’re there, doing decorations and generally engaging in close teamwork. Forming bonds to last a lifetime.”

“You tricked me,” Virgil hisses. “You scheming snot.”

“But it worked, didn’t it? And oh, look, there’s your mid! Let’s leave.”

Virgil glares behind him, where Natalia is tying her impeccably clean apron around her waist and fastening the hat on her hair. The only reason her stupid apron is so clean is because she’s impossibly slow, so as not to get anything dirty. The one time he could use her tardiness to his advantage, too.

“Fine, whatever, give me five minutes to clock out and I’ll meet you back here.”

Patton takes another sip from his quarter-scared drink and nods. “But if you aren’t back within those five minutes, I’m gonna find your boss and file a missing team member report.”

“You don’t even work here.”

“You don’t even understand the extent of my relentless matchmaking skills.”

“Nor do I want to. See you in five.”

“Make it four.”

This is how Virgil finds himself begrudgingly driving toward Logan’s cafe, with Patton’s car hot on his heels. Clever enough, he supposes, since now there’s a literal heavy piece of machinery holding him accountable for reaching the destination he pinky promised to attend. Virgil would rather be hiding under the covers at home.

Swinging into the parking lot and taking his normal spot, Virgil wonders whether Patton would notice if he just hid out in the bathroom until everyone went home. He glances at the mug nestled in the passenger seat—secured with a seatbelt, of course—and decides against it. If nothing else, Logan would probably get suspicious about the goings-on in there, not to mention he’d be the one to have to clean it. Patton’s cheerful honk rings through the air as he locks his car, scooting over to press his nose to Virgil’s window.

Virgil raps the glass lightly, jolting Patton into taking a few steps back before he not-so-discreetly points at the door and dances on his toes. To tell the truth, Virgil is procrastinating, because he absolutely does not want to go inside and see Logan.

“Hi, Logan!” Patton calls, bursting through the door with Virgil in tow. “We’ve been waiting all day to see you!”

“We?” Virgil repeats skeptically.

“Oh, right, right, my bad,” Patton says, waving his hands sheepishly. “Virgil has been waiting all day to see you!”

“That is not better,” Virgil mutters. He lifts a hand to his shoulder, massaging a sore spot along the slope of his neck and wishing he could be literally anywhere else right now. In an effort to diffuse the awkwardness that Logan hasn’t bothered to notice, he continues, “looks nice in here with the lights down. Kind of home-y.”

    “Indeed,” Logan agrees, balanced precariously on the second-highest rung of an unreasonably tall ladder. At its base, Roman holds the legs steady, grinning as Patton slings his backpack onto a nearby table. “Patton, I assume you brought more decorations I never greenlit?”

    “You know it.” Patton grins, upending the bag and watching every manner of rainbow trinket spill over the tabletop and onto the floor. “Okay, so see these? They look like normal food coloring, but they actually—”

    “If they sparkle or make the drink behave like pop rocks, I do not want them.”

    Patton pouts before tossing the food coloring stuff back in the bag. “Alright, well how about this one? It’s like a DIY mug for—”

    “Don’t use acronyms out loud, and I am not having mugs that guests design themselves. That defeats the purpose of my system.” Patton puts the mugs away.

    “Fine, so I also found these little mythical creature trinkets that—”

    “No.” Patton puts the trinkets away.

    “Or these things that look like scratch off tickets, but instead of the lottery, you can—”

    “No.” Patton puts the tickets away.

    “I found this book of stickers that has—”

    “No.” Patton puts the stickers away.

    “You know, I’m beginning to think you didn’t want me to bring all this stuff.”

    “I did not want you to bring all that stuff.”

    “Well, fine! I’ll just take it back home, then!”

    “Good! I do not want it here! Please remove it from my establishment!” Virgil cocks his head to the side, his thoughts catching on the mock enthusiasm in Logan’s voice. If anyone could possibly be the breathing personification of a sarcastic exclamation point, it’s Logan.

    “Can I help you up there?” Virgil offers. Logan glances down, still precariously balanced on his ladder and stretching out an arm to toss a strand of string lights over the menu boards. “You know, it might be more effective to pull the signs down and write the menu first, then tape some lights to the top, then hang them back up.”

    Thrusting out a hand for stability on the top rung, Logan lowers the spool of lights waiting to be thrown. “You may have a point. Roman, if you even think about shaking this ladder, I am going to ban you from helping any further with the decorations.”

    “Come on, dude, it’s pride month! Show some spirit!” Roman whines. Regardless, he holds the ladder steady as Logan descends.

    “I’ve already shown my spirit by deigning to allow you in my cafe while it’s closed. Don’t push your luck.” At the sound of a yelp and something crashing near the seats around the corner, Logan presses his middle finger to his glabella and groans deeply. “Remy, if you broke one of my windows, I am legally obligated to inform our parents that you are unfit to be an adult, and that I am sending you back to them, effective immediately.”

    “No, nope, everything is totally fine back here. You aren’t legally obligated to do anything whatsoever.” Remy pops his head into view, his cheeks flushed and his hair flopping into his eyes. Taking one look at Logan’s stern face and Virgil’s reserved one, he jerks his head at Roman. “Hey, wanna give me a hand back here? Your boyfriend can come too, I guess.”

    “He’s not my—” Roman begins, but Patton barrels right through it.

    “Sounds fun!” he declares, grabbing Roman by the elbow and dragging him toward whatever chaos Remy already caused. With a quick pause to point from his eyes to Virgil’s and back, Patton winks and vanishes from sight. In their absence, silence reigns supreme.

    “So,” Logan says.

    “So,” Virgil agrees.

    “How’s your handwriting?” Logan asks, clearly just as desperate to fill the awkward silence as Virgil.

    Virgil shrugs, grabbing one of many pens spilling from Patton’s abandoned backpack and twirling it between his fingers. “Not terrible, I guess. I do most of the boards where I work.” For a brief moment, Virgil wonders whether he’s ever mentioned to Logan where he works, but ultimately decides it’s not important just yet. He watches the pen spins for another few moments before continuing, “I have this style of super straight lines, though. Not exactly bubbly and inviting for your guests.”

    “My guests know I own this place. They aren’t expecting any manner of bubbliness, inviting or otherwise. Help me pull down the signs?” Allowing himself the smallest laugh at Logan’s matter-of-factness, Virgil moves for the lower right corner of the trifold board, hoisting it off the wall in tandem with Logan. “I suppose we ought to erase it first, before we go about ruining it.”

    “Do you know what kind of scheme you’re going for?” Virgil asks, shifting into decoration mode as he starts wiping off the first section. He shoves aside any lingering thoughts of yesterday’s fiasco in favor of focusing on the task at hand. Maybe if he pretends to have forgotten, it’ll be like it never happened in the first place.

    “Scheme? I was simply going to write the drink options in various colors,” Logan admits. He scrapes together a pile of chalk from a children’s craft box leaning against the bar, grimacing as he rubs the dust from between his fingers. “Unless you know of a better idea.”

    “I mean, we could do something like cold drinks here, and hot ones here, and you could have some people personalize based on this third one over here? And then, like, each third can be a different pride flag, like how I was saying yesterday—maybe make the miscellaneous board the pan flag, since it’s basically everything? Unless you don’t like the pun side of that, of course, then we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Or we could do the whole rainbow there, again with the ‘everything’ deal, but it might not look so cohesive as being strictly separated thirds of the menu. We don’t even have to separate by themes, if you wanted the whole menu to be just one section. Maybe we could do the bi flag for the cold drinks—if you decide to go for the cold, hot, miscellaneous boards, I mean—just because the blues and purples could go well with cold drinks, color theory and all? Or I guess there’s also the possibility of stuff like the transgender flag, or the polyamorous flag—maybe you could have a pastry menu, and put it there for a sort of pie-pi pun? I don’t know how well that one would go over, but if it sticks out to you well enough…”

---------------

    Logan props his chin on a fist, his legs crossed beneath him and his knee supporting his elbow. All of Virgil’s words are floating straight over his head, and he doesn’t even pretend to hide it, so entranced is he by Virgil’s enthusiasm. In all honesty, Logan stopped listening by the third sentence, more focused on how Virgil’s pale lips formed the soundless words, washing the cafe in an ocean of rolling tones and low asides. Not ten seconds into his rambling, Logan is certain he saw Virgil’s eyes light up, ever so slightly, at the prospect of having creative control over something so simple as menu theming.

    “Does that work for you?”

    Shit. Logan forgot he was supposed to be listening.

    “Er, I’m actually somewhat unclear on what you meant. Do you mind rewording your suggestion?”

    Virgil blinks at him, and Logan feels his soul melt—no human has a right to look that much like a confused puppy. “I don’t really know how you expect me to reword ‘I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick while you think about which theme you like,’ but I’m certainly willing to try if you need me to.”

    “Yes, no, I mean—of course, absolutely. Go right ahead, second door on the right in the back.” Logan waves a flippant hand as Virgil pushes off from his knees, tossing a two-fingered salute to the other three working in the back. Logan has no idea what they’re doing back there anymore, nor does he really care. He’s slightly more concerned with that complete social blunder between Virgil and him. Could he have come across any more ridiculous?

    “So what do you think of Virgil, hm?” Patton asks, appearing over Logan’s shoulder. Logan flinches, sitting up straighter and nearly slamming his head into Patton’s chin. “Think he’s got a cute butt?”

    Pausing to absorb the second question, Logan wonders whether he doesn’t look too dissimilar to a computer rebooting itself. “He certainly has an ass.”

    “Do you know any other swear words?” Remy groans, trudging over and draping himself across the bar. Meanwhile, Patton is spluttering in disgust at Logan for daring to use a more crude synonym for the word ‘butt.’

    “You should be proud that he even knows that one,” Roman chimes in. “Why, when I first met Logan—”

    “We are not doing emotional history montages,” Logan declares, getting to his feet and waving a hand at Roman. “We are here only to improve the environment in and around my cafe, so that is what we are going to do.”

    “Actually,” Remy corrects, “I’m mostly here because I want to set you up with Virgil. He was a dick from the moment he walked in that first time, which is exactly your type.” Pointing at Logan with a wink, Remy moves to lean against the wall.

    Logan doesn’t bother to question his motives, and pretends he didn’t hear the first half of Remy’s statement. He does, however, hear the general motivation behind the words, and responds accordingly. The sly grin on his face makes Roman take a subconscious step back.

    “Oh, and you aren’t here to set Roman up with Patton?” Turning his focus on them, Logan wonders in the back of his mind whether Virgil might walk in on this. “Of course, everyone’s talking about it, Remy. Don’t you want to be the first trendsetter with the newest, hottest couple?”

    “Since when does he know what ‘hottest’ means?” Roman hisses in a stage whisper. Patton shrugs, pressing his lips together as his cheeks stay annoyingly neutral, not at all embarrassed by Logan’s tirade. “Do you think he doesn’t know?”

    “I think he doesn’t know,” Patton replies. He doesn’t even bother to lower his voice, which serves only to further infuriate Logan.

    “What don’t I know?”

    “He definitely doesn’t know,” Remy agrees, peeling himself away from the wall. “It’s almost pity full, really.”

    “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You don’t even know the pronunciation.”

    “But I know you use it on me, like, all the time, which is only that much more pity full for you.”

    “Pitiful. Like your tenuous grasp of the English language.” At the sound of the sink faucet turning on around the corner, Logan glances back at Roman and Patton, who are still whispering together intently. Patton is barely hiding his giggles. “So, tell me; what is it, exactly, that I don’t know?”

    “Should we tell him?” Roman whispers. Patton shrugs, pushing his glasses up by pressing his finger directly against the lens. Logan can feel something shattering, deep inside his innermost soul.

    “Oh, tell him, you dorks,” Remy groans. “It’s literally, like, so obvious, it’s almost sad that he hasn’t figured it out yet.”

    “Figured out what?” Virgil asks, materializing around the corner.

    “That me ‘n Patton are dating,” Roman says.

    “Duh, everybody knows that.” Glancing around, a look of concern grows on Virgil’s face. “Was I not supposed to know that?”

    “Well, actually, Logan here—” Remy begins, but with a swift smack to the arm from Logan, he cuts himself off. “Nope, yep, totally justified in knowing that. Seven out of three. Good job. So smart. We stan a clever icon.”

    “Please stop talking,” Logan says. “Can we just get back to decorating?”

    “Way ahead of you.” Virgil drops to his knees, gathering up scattered pieces of chalk and positioning the blank slates in front of him. “Did you decide which theme you liked?”

    Logan very much did not do that. “I like both the gender flags and the sexuality flags. What do you think?”

    Virgil, clearly not prepared to be in control, blinks twice. “Um. Well. Maybe we could make the first board sexualities, and the second one genders, and have each drink be a different flag based on which menu theme they’re under? And Remy likes making up drinks, yeah?”

    “Yes,” Remy unnecessarily confirms. Logan scowls at him until he disappears around the corner with Patton and Roman.

    “Cool,” Virgil continues, “So that way we can do a little of everything on the menus, and then the lights can just look nice in general, and they don’t strictly have to coordinate with the menus.”

    “Where do you work, some interior design place?” Logan asks, raising an eyebrow at Virgil’s confidence, which rapidly grows the more he talks himself through ideas. “You really seem to know what you’re talking about.”

    “Not exactly,” Virgil admits. “Where I work doesn’t really matter, though, does it?”

    “Want to work here?” Logan blurts, before immediately clapping his hands over his mouth. “Sorry, that was probably too forward. I don’t even know why I said it, I mean, look at this place, I can barely pay Remy, let alone add another hire, not to mention—”

    “You’re fine,” Virgil says absently, more focused on the menu spread. “Anyway, so the flags. Do you want to start listing off some drinks you serve, and I’ll write them on my phone, and we can just go from there to decide which drink goes with which flag?”

    Logan swallows thickly and nods, launching into his perfectly memorized list of everything he makes on a day-to-day basis. At least Virgil elected to ignore his outburst.

    As the sun makes its trek toward the horizon, shooting beams of light through floating bits of dust in the air, Logan sits back on his haunches to admire Virgil’s handiwork. For how consistently they’d been working all day, he has to admit some small amount of pride in the outcome.

    The first board, comprised of iced and frozen drinks, proudly bears all manner of gender orientation flags that Logan could find, both common and obscure. Each in bright pastels, of course, as neither Roman nor Patton had the foresight to bring darker colored chalk. The second board boasts hot drinks and sexuality flags, and despite himself, Logan quite likes the soft brightness of the middle menu. The third is still blank, with an added wooden board at the bottom to hold chalk.

    “That way,” Virgil explained, “whoever makes the custom drink of the day can draw it there, and write the ingredients without having to hunt for the chalk.” Although Logan doesn’t particularly care for letting guests take control of the menu, he begrudgingly agreed that it was a good idea.

    “You guys took, like, forever to do basically nothing,” Remy complains, now sprawled out across a table.

    “Guests eat off those,” Logan remarks, still more focused on the menus than his brother’s antics. “And you only managed to string up a few sets of lights between the three of you. I would hardly call that an achievement.”

    “Among,” Virgil corrects.

    “What?”

    “You said between the three of them. Since it’s more than two, it’s among the three of them.” Logan can’t decide whether to be horrified or enchanted by how Virgil managed to catch his own grammar mistake.

    “Roman?” Logan calls, drawing attention away from his flub. “What, exactly, might you be doing?”

    Roman merely grins in response, precariously balanced on one of the tables near the front. He lowers his hands from the upper frame of the window and jumps to the floor, trying to duck into a somersault and failing miserably. Patton giggles before helping him up and glancing at what he’d been messing with.

    “This is my cafe,” Logan reminds them, “so I believe I ought to know what you’ve done to it.”

    Offering a shrug and a wince, Roman follows Patton’s gaze to the window. “Mistletoe.”

    “Mistletoe,” Logan repeats.

    “Mistletoe!” Patton agrees.

    “Mistletoe,” Remy choruses. At Logan’s glare, he raises his hands defensively. “Sorry, I just wanted to feel included.”

    “Why, pray tell, is there mistletoe in my cafe?” Logan sighs.

    “Bitchmas in July,” Roman replies. Logan can’t decide whether to throttle him or to simply scream.

    “Roman?”

    “Yes, my dearest friend and barista?”

    “It is June.”

    “Yes.”

    “Bitchmas, as you say, is in July.”

    “Yes.”

    “June is not July.”

    “You lost me.”

    “Actually,” Patton cuts in, “I think I know why Roman put mistletoe there.”

    “Why might that be?” Logan is extremely close to tossing one of the people in this room out the window, and based solely on proximity, it very well might be Virgil.

    “For this.” With no further warning, Patton grabs Roman by the neck of his shirt and yanks him to stand behind the chair he’d been using as a stepstool. Logan hardly has the chance to blink before Patton is pulling Roman in, closing his eyes, and—

    “Yep, nope, super cool, very much did not need to see that,” Virgil announces, mercifully drawing Logan’s eyes away from the scene. “Besides that nonsense, did you guys get the lights all finished? I need to peace out pretty soon here, but I want to see the cafe in its full glory before the guests come and destroy it by existing in its presence.”

    Roman hesitates to answer, still breathless beside a beaming Patton. Remy cuts in first, allowing the other two to regain their composure.

    “We got everything done, so if you wanted to pack up whatever stuff you brought, I’ll get the last of the connections and cords all set up, so you can bask in the splendor before you go.” Leaning in close enough to whisper so that Virgil can’t hear, Remy’s breath tickles Logan’s ear. “His mug is on the side pocket of his bag. Sneak it away while I distract him, and make him a personalized drink. It’ll be totally endearing, I know it.”

    “I am not doing that.”

    Remy dangles the mug from his fingers with a smirk, thrusting it at Logan when Virgil isn’t looking. “You are doing that.”

    Logan frowns and reluctantly takes the mug. “I am doing that.”

    “Unless you want to be doing—”

    “Don’t you dare say it,” Logan hisses, snapping his head around to cast the entirety of his glare at Remy. “If you swear, in this moment, to shut your damn mouth, I will make him a drink.”

    “That’s all I want,” Remy says, dusting his hands off and tugging Virgil to stand in front of the door. The mistletoe dangles a few ominous feet away. Logan’s scowl melts into a vague feeling of contentedness as he watches Virgil taking in the unlit decorations. His hands work on autopilot, making an old favorite of his that has long since outgrown its recipe. When Remy clicks the lights on and Logan catches Virgil’s face in the light, the barista is pretty convinced he might just collapse right then and there, coffee and all.

    Framed in the soft blues and yellows of twinkling artificial lights, Virgil’s pale skin almost seems to glow against his jet black hair, a silhouette of ethereal splendor captured oh-so-perfectly for a split second, before the illusion shatters. Virgil turns to look at Logan as the latter absently slides the full mug across the counter, so entranced is he by the former.

    “You good?” Virgil asks. Logan can only manage the smallest of nods, barely capable of closing his stunned mouth as he watches the way the moonlight flicks off the purple tips of Virgil’s hair. “Dude, you didn’t have to go and make me anything!”

    “It’s one of his oldest favorites,” Remy cuts in, rescuing Logan from himself. “No, no, put your money away, this one’s on the house for helping us remodel.”

    “All I really did was draw on a couple menus,” Virgil protests. Nevertheless, he pockets his wallet and takes a hesitant sip from the mug. A beauty to rival that of his shape against the night sky lights in his eyes as he tips the mug, draining the rest as fast as he can manage.

    “Good, right?” Remy asks. Logan wonders whether his own mouth will decide to start functioning properly any time soon.

    “So good,” Virgil murmurs, still holding the rim of the mug to his nose and inhaling deeply. “Smells amazing, too.”

    With a swift elbow jab to the side from Remy, Logan manages to choke out a broken “thanks,” his voice cracking on the vowel. Miracle of miracles, Virgil doesn’t notice. Or, if he does, he pretends not to, which only makes it worse—or better, Logan isn’t sure.

    “Well, uh, thank you too,” Virgil mumbles. He clutches the mug as tight as he can manage, shouldering his way out the door. Not two feet beyond the threshold of the door, he absently raises his shoulders toward his ears against a cool summer breeze.

    “Logan, close your mouth,” Roman calls. Logan moves his jaw up, realizing all too late that he’d been staring open-mouthed at Virgil for no reason. Turning his face toward Patton’s neck, Roman giggles and whispers, “he’s so head over heels.”

    “That’s an understatement,” Patton replies. “If his head is where it is now, you’d need a cinderblock and the Mariana Trench to get to his heels.”

    “That was a bit of a stretch,” Remy says. “I know you’re trying, hon, but maybe try more puns, fewer metaphors?”

    “Puns,” Patton echoes, rolling the word between his lips and chewing the n. “Pun pun pun.”

    “Now look what you’ve done,” Roman groans.

    “Pun,” Patton repeats, pointing up and nudging Roman to the side. Roman blinks and follows his finger to the mistletoe, which is wobbling dangerously. “Don’t think you used enough tape there, Crumb cake.”

    “Maybe not,” Roman agrees. As he reaches up to adjust the decoration, Logan’s hand thrusts out of its own volition.

    “Do you maybe want to move that over the door instead? Maybe? I mean, you don’t have to, I just—”

    “Logan’s rambling,” Remy announces. “Better do what he wants before he short circuits entirely.” Roman and Patton titter at this before the former pulls down the mistletoe, removing the old tape and producing a new roll from his pocket.

    “Thanks,” Logan sighs, watching Roman stick the mistletoe just to the right of the bell. What he wouldn’t give to be under that with—

    “Closing time!” Logan shouts suddenly, ignoring how the other three flinch. “It was all very fun and nice, but it is time for everyone to go home. Right now. Please leave. This very second. Immediately. Get out.”

    Remy exits first, followed quickly by Patton and Roman, none of whom bother trying to hide their laughter. Logan is the last to leave, still focused on that mistletoe. Still focused on who he wants to see beneath it.

---------------

    Virgil is having a bad day.

    He woke up with only two minutes to spare before having to leave for work. He stepped on poop from his neighbor’s dog when he went outside. He found a smear of mocha syrup along the seam of his pants in a very conspicuous pattern. He didn’t have any other clean pants ready. His car wouldn’t start fast enough. His USB cord to his phone wouldn’t connect, no matter how many times he turned it. His throat ached, but without a fever, he was still legally allowed to work with food. His voice was all but gone.

    Virgil wants nothing more than to go back home, crawl under a mountain of blankets, and stay there until the sun goes away.

    This would be a task much more easily achieved if Natalia would bother to show up on time. Virgil forces a tight smile onto his face as he mindlessly nods along to the latest guest’s conversation. Ten more minutes and he’ll hit compliance, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and her boss, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and him, which is basically the last thing keeping Virgil from walking out of the store right now.

    Virgil wants to go home.

    “Have you seen Natalia?” Anne asks, appearing on the other side of the bar once the line dribbles down to nothing. Virgil shakes his head, already halfway through making her usual order as she groans. “Okay, well, you’re gonna hit compliance in a second here.”

    “I know that,” Virgil snaps. “There’s not exactly a whole lot I can do about it.”

    “Mind your tone,” Anne chides lightly, and though Virgil can tell she’s kidding, he really isn’t in the mood for it today.

    “Yeah, sorry. Do you mind, uh, you know?” He tilts his chin to the next guest, as well as the cluster of families preparing to queue up behind them. Anne nods and apologizes with a laugh, scurrying off to do whatever it is she deems more important than helping Virgil to keep this line in check.

    This is the part where Virgil is supposed to launch into a spiel of every drink he makes, as well as the struggles that accompany calling out complete orders with a voice that basically doesn’t exist, but based on the morning he’s had so far? He has absolutely zero desire to get into it. Guests are rude, baby boomers are impatient, the sky is blue, Virgil is in hell, next question.

    “Hey, um, excuse me?” Some dude leans over the counter, shaking his empty cold cup at Virgil. Evidently, he did not notice the line waiting to be helped. “Barista boy?”

    Virgil glances where his name tag should be, shrugs at its absence, and nods. Yeah, that’s a fair nickname. “What’s up?”

    “You made my drink wrong.” His empty drink, that is.

    “Oh, I’m so sorry about that, did you want me to remake it for you?”

    “No, I want you to give me a refund.”

    “Sir, I—you already finished your—by store policy, I can only make you a new drink, I can’t give you a refund if there’s no drink to take back in return for the money, sorry.”

    “Yeah, but I didn’t like it.”

    “Then why did you—never mind, would you like me to make you a new one?”

    “No, I want compensation for a miserable drinking experience.”

    This goes on for some time, and while Virgil is largely skilled at keeping his composure when he has to, that’s much more easily said than done when the guest is flinging curse words at him left and right.

    “Sir, I’m sorry, it’s—there’s a long line, so unless you want to have me remake your drink for you, there’s really nothing I can do.” Angry Guest Man rips out a few more choice words before storming off, shouldering patiently waiting customers out of the way. Virgil rolls his shoulders back and moves on to the next guest, relieved when all they want is a grande mocha.

    Virgil.

    Wants.

    To.

    Go.

    Home.

    “Hey, I’m here to cover for Natalia!” Kim announces, prancing behind the bar without a hat on, as if she doesn’t notice the hold up Virgil’s dealing with.

    “Awesome. Get here sooner next time. Put on a hat—or a hairnet, I don’t care which—and start taking orders while I catch up on hot bar. We’re almost out of skim milk, and the almond milk shipment is behind today, so only offer coconut and soy milk.” Virgil tosses out orders almost as fast as he hands off drinks, waving off Kim’s bewildered demands. “I don’t care how or why Natalia got you to show up late—better than not at all—but I need you to kick into gear. I’ll get you as caught up as I can, but I’m gonna hit compliance, so savor this partnership before you’re on your own.”

    Kim bites back whatever protests she might’ve had, instead nodding and moving for the register. She plasters a welcoming smile on her face and starts chatting up the next guest as Virgil slowly but surely picks apart his backlog of orders.

    Virgil does not want to be here.

    Another guest complaining about their cappuccino not having enough foam is incredibly close to being the straw that shatters his back. Virgil bites back a groan as he gingerly takes the unlidded cup from her, nodding his apologies and profusely assuring her he’d remake it. She scowls and mutters something about hurrying up.

    “There you go, sorry ’bout that,” Virgil says, passing off the new cup.

    She removes the lid, glaring at the drink and completely ignoring the swarm of people behind her that would very much like to get their orders. “There isn’t enough foam for the caramel to sit on top.”

    “Yeah, that’s how physics—I mean, yes, my bad, do you want more caramel drizzle?”

    “No, I want you to make it right.” With no further warning, she scrapes off the top layer of foam and flicks it at Virgil, cocking her head to the side as it plops across the bridge of his nose.

    He might just scream.

    “So you’ll have me remake it, then?” Virgil forces himself to smile as she nods with a harrumph. “Right, okay, just give me a minute here, aaand—there you go.” He pushes the latest creation over the bar and comforts his shot nerves with the mental image of throwing the drink in her face.

    “There’s not enough foam.” Before Virgil can even pretend to be sympathetic to her first world problems, she dips her finger into the foam.

    And flicks this one square at his chest.

    “Anne?” Virgil’s voice is sugary sweet as Anne drifts lazily over from across the seating area, moving as if she had all the time in the world. “I’m going to hit compliance in less than two minutes, so I am going to clock out. I will not be coming in tomorrow, as I have a backlog of sick days, and I will be using one to figure out whether I want to come in the day after that. Good luck getting someone to cover for me, since it was obviously such a difficult task for Natalia.”

    “Virgil, if you don’t come in tomorrow, you can kiss this job goodbye,” Anne snaps.

    Virgil considers this, removes his hat, and places it squarely on her head. “If you want me to stay away, I’ll do so happily. In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a whole lot of qualified backup for you here.” Anne can only manage bewildered sputters in response as Virgil unties his apron, drapes it over a chair, and strolls off to the break room.

    Virgil is leaving this hellscape.

    “I really wanna leave this stupid town,” he sings to himself in the car, ignoring his blatantly wrong lyrics as he tears out of the parking lot. “And today, the time has come.” Ramping up his voice to little less than a furious scream, he pounds the steering wheel to the rhythm, and feels an odd lightness when he sees the empty passenger seat. For once, he doesn’t have to have the ever-present company of that obnoxious apron, wrapped up and tucked inside that ridiculous hat.

    Virgil is going home.

    At least, Virgil thought he was going home.

    No one could be more surprised than him when he finds his hands steering the car toward Logan’s cafe of their own volition.

    “Hey, Virgil, what’s going—wait, hey, you walked under the mistletoe!” Roman whines from the counter, where Remy is closely monitoring his work behind the bar. “You can’t just walk past mistletoe without a kiss-letoe!”

    “Stop talking, or that mistletoe is going up your ass-letoe,” Virgil mutters, making a beeline for the mound of bean bag chairs in the corner. A nice touch of comfort amidst the soft lighting and colorful menus they’d added yesterday. Probably Patton’s idea.

    He falls to his knees before he knows what he’s doing, shoving his face into the plasticky surface and letting the rustling beans consume his senses. He’d barely bothered to notice how loudly his pulse was thrumming through his head until it stopped, overpowered by the artificial cushion beneath him. At the sound of footsteps drawing near his head, Virgil briefly considers sweeping out a leg and knocking them to the floor. An action movie sequence fantasy at best.

    He feels them speak before any words come out, and has never felt closer to cussing out someone he met mere days ago.

    “Hey. Rough day?” By some merciful chance, it’s not Roman, or Remy, or even Patton. Logan continues, careful to keep his voice low and measured, “I get that. I had the lights turned down temporarily to test the environment in direct sunlight, but I’ll leave them down for your sake. We also received several compliments on the new menus—all your handiwork, of course.

    “Remy’s training Roman on how to make drinks right now, since I’ve heard many guests discussing how to get their friends to join them on trips here. With that kind of increase in business, I could really use his extra set of hands, no matter how inexperienced. I see you brought your mug, as well—if it doesn’t upset you too terribly, I’ve already had Remy begin teaching Roman how to make up drinks, so you might get an odd flavor combination, what with the steep learning curve and all. Roman is creative, I’ll give him that, but he’s never truly been one for understanding the intricacies of taste and texture among our staple ingredients.”

    With every word out of Logan’s mouth, Virgil can feel his mounting headache slowly, ever so slowly, draining away. In the wake of Anne and Kim’s nonsense, he hadn’t cared to notice the exhaustion, much less how severely it hurt. Even now, his pulse is pounding like a jackhammer against the roof of his skull.

    “When Remy first picked out that mug covered in cups for you, I have to say, I was horrified. As far as I could tell, it was just the first thing he grabbed, which is about as basic a tactic as any other. Your current one, with all the constellations and the blues, just felt right, if you know what I mean. Not exactly a logical way to select your mug, but I can’t really explain it.”

    “I like to call them mug-mates!” Roman announces. “You know, mug, soulmate, mug-mate?” An image crosses Virgil’s mind of throwing his current mug at Roman’s head, and he laughs. “See, Remy, told you I was funny.”

    “I hate to break it to you,” Remy says gently, “but Patton was only lying about you being funny because you suck at everything else.”

    “Shut up,” Logan singsongs, his voice achingly calm against their raising tones. In a voice that somehow manages to be even more soothing than before, almost dulcet, he continues, “most of my guests have a particular piece of clothing or accessory that stands out, matching their immediate mug. You just felt, well, different, somehow.”

    Virgil fights the instinct to flinch as he feels something come to rest against his head. A moment passes, two, before it starts to move, lightly combing through his matted hair and gently scratching at his aching head beneath. Against his own volition, a contented sigh escapes his lips. The scratching continues unaffected.

    If it were possible, Virgil would stay here, just like this, forever. Motionless in a pile of bean bags, with only Logan’s presence to remind him he still exists. Naturally, this isn’t possible, as a gentle set of three raps against the wall over his head jerks him out of his half-conscious state.

    Logan nods with a smile as a guest lowers their hand, moving for the door and stashing their mug in their bag. At Virgil’s questioning gaze, Logan raises his hands and explains, “that’s how my best guests say goodbye. The first few regulars I had liked the peaceful silence, so instead of cutting through the air with words, they’d just knock on the tables. It sort of became habit, I suppose.” Virgil glances from Logan’s mouth to his shoulder and back, releasing another sigh as the scratching shifts down to his back.

    “Feel any better?” Logan asks. His eyes are filled with a warmth that Virgil swears wasn’t there yesterday.

    “Little bit,” Virgil mumbles. “Work sucks.”

    “And where, exactly, do you work?”

    “Starbucks north.”

    The shock in Logan’s expression is almost laughable. “I have never been more disgusted with a single human being in all my life than I am right now.”

    “Yeah, that’s fair. I think I just kind of quit, though. Not exactly a ceremonious end to my shift, if you know what I mean.”

    “Rude guests?”

    “Try obscene and pathetic. One flicked her foam at me.”

    “Wait, don’t you get free drinks when you work there? Why buy my drinks when you can get stuff without paying for it at all?”

    “We aren’t, like, a chain place, since we’re owned by the department store we’re in, so we kind of follow different rules than the regular stores. I only get one grande drink per shift, and it has to be while I’m on the clock.”

    “Okay, but you can still get those drinks. Just make them on your last five minutes and walk out with them. Why bother spending money on what could be free?”

    “I’m not funneling the money I get from that place directly back into it. They are a capitalist regime based on the basic downfall of the foremost man empowering story, and I refuse to fuel their fire.”

    “How closely did you analyze Moby Dick?”

    “Sparknotes.” Virgil pushes himself onto his elbows, still savoring the feeling of Logan’s fingers gently scraping along his back. “Hey, what was that you were saying yesterday about offering for me to work here?”

    Logan’s face colors immediately, flush with about as much red as is humanly safe. “I didn’t mean to impose—I mean, er, I didn’t want you to feel like—”

    “It’s cool,” Virgil interrupts. “Anyway, were you even a little bit serious? Because I don’t really have a reference from my last place, but if you’re willing to accept a new hire with a shady history who knows how to run a coffee bar, I’m your guy.”

    Logan nods quickly, glancing back to where Roman is struggling considerably under Remy’s watch. “You’re hired. You start today.”

    “Actually, I know this is probably a bad first impression on my new boss, but do you mind if I start tomorrow? I’m not really feeling it today.”

    “Indeed, I should probably draw up the paperwork, as well.”

    The finality of this tenuous agreement hangs in the air, an oddly relaxed cloud of, well, something that can only wait to be shattered.

    Roman does a perfectly fine job of carrying out this task.

    “Logan, you’re gonna be so proud of me in a second here—I made my very first drink! Remy said I have to give it to Virgil, since you won’t take it.” Roman passes the constellation-covered mug over to Virgil, who glances warily at the murky substance rippling within. “Relax, it’s literally the easiest drink I can make.”

    “Earl grey tea,” Remy calls over. “Two tea bags, hot water, and honey. I promise he didn’t poison it.” Only after Remy’s reassurance does Virgil take a hesitant sip, admiring the flavor as soon as it hits his tongue.

    “Oh, that reminds me!” Logan exclaims, raising a finger in the air. It takes everything in Virgil not to whine at the loss of the reassuring hand against his back. “I got something as a thank you for helping us with the decorations yesterday—it’s right upstairs, actually. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll have it right back down here for you.” As Logan rises, something jingles and clatters to the floor, escaping his notice as he moves for the door. A keyring, covered in at least ten keys and even more keychains.

    “Hey, wait, you dropped these,” Virgil says, grabbing the keys and following Logan to the door. Logan lifts his chin slightly, taking the keys and shoving them in his pocket—careful enough that they won’t fall out this time.

    “Oh, look at that,” Roman coos. Virgil raises an eyebrow, turning to see where Roman and Remy are excitedly elbowing each other and giggling. Even Patton appears from around the corner and smiles along with them—probably leaving the bathroom.

    “Look at what?” Logan asks, obviously quite finished with their nonsense. Rather than dignify him with an answer, Roman merely points above their heads. Virgil follows the motion to see the last decoration he could’ve expected in June.

    Mistletoe.

    To the tune of the other three quietly chanting, “kiss, kiss, kiss,” Virgil swallows an annoyed moan and glances at Logan, whose face somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade of pink.

    “If you don’t want to, I mean, if you didn’t, you know, feel comfortable with—” Logan stammers, every word darkening his cheeks, but Virgil cuts him off with a laugh.

    “Maybe I do want to. Kiss you, that is. I mean, if you want to.”

    “No, yeah, I mean—yes. I would like that. To kiss you, I mean.”

    Virgil’s face glows like a rose on fire. “Okay, cool, because I also want to do that. Also.”

    So he does.

#labhwrites #analogical #romantic analogical #royality #romantic royality #virgil sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #remy sanders #cursing tw #mine #this is. so. long. omg #i feel myself pushing my boundaries of what constitutes a oneshot #but my rage cannot be stopped #i demand all the words for my left brain boys #dorky as they may be #// i'll reblog later for time zones with the ao3 link and the taglists #fun fact - the word /okay/ appears twenty three times in this #a word from lab post-italics formatting: lab what the FUCK stop using so many damn italics #also i bash starbucks a lot in this but its mostly for the memes #its actually a really nice place to work depending on who's working the shifts around you #anyway here's this monster of a fic

[emo-fanfics-uwu]

i belong to you (1/2)

dan x reader

requested by @phanderblog uwu i love this sm: It's an idea I've (phanderblog) had for a while now: The reader has a music store and Dan happens to go by one day. He decides to enter and immediately loves it. He starts looking and finds really old and great music, albums of his favorite bands and beautiful instruments. The reader then goes and asks if he is looking for anything in particular. Dan has a Muse album in his hands and she realises so they start talking about them and other bands, things like that, etc...and become friends real quick. After a while going to the store and hanging out with her, he falls in love and asks her out. You can continue from here! Thank you!

honestly this is so wholesome, i couldn't stop smiling while writing this😂

Flashback Records, dan read the brightly lit sign of the music shop. phil was out with his mum for the day so he decided to walk around and get out of the house for a change. shocker.

he walked inside the shop to be met with vintage guitars, vinyls, and CD's ranging from pop to bowie to rock. it smelled like hot chocolate,,,nice. he walked up and down a few aisles finding CD's from guns n' roses, the beatles, then came across Origin Of Symmetry. smiling, he stared at the album in his hands.

he didn't know how long he was standing there until someone starting speaking to him.

"hey there, i didn't know if you needed help or something. i saw you standing here,,,so uh--" you looked down to the album in his hands and smiled. "that album's amazing. are you feeling good about buying it?"

dan laughed at their pun and looked up from the CD. woah. they're really,,,woah. dan realized he had his mouth open before replying, "yeah. it really makes me bliss."

you smiled thinking you could get used to this guy.

"i'm y/n, by the way," you spoke as you put your hand out.

"i'm dan." holy,,,his hands are so soft. you were both staring at each other, hands still connected before someone cleared their throat and tapped your shoulder.

"s'cuse me? could you step away from your boyfriend for a minute to let me pay for this? jeez-"

you both looked down and realized your hands were still together. you and dan blushed as you mumbled a 'one moment' to dan before walking to the register to help the man.

a few minutes later you came back to see dan with three more CD's. laughing at his antics you sat on the couch and watched him.

"what," dan smiled at you.

"nothin',,,"

"so what music are you into?"

"mostly rock, alternative stuff. y'know?"

for the next hour and a half, the two talked about bands like my chemical romance and muse, and even about their personal lives. dan was just starting as a youtuber with his friend, phil. he made you laugh just by saying one word.

before you knew it, it was late into the night. you parted ways after exchanging phone numbers. you didn't have the nerve to text him first, but neither did he.

you went back to work and not a thing changed. except dan now came in more often, stayed to talk with you while you worked, and occasionally bought a new CD. you didn't think anything of it. you were both becoming close and eventually had phone calls late into the sleepless nights.

but today, when dan walked through the music shop's door, he seemed more tense than normal. he was fidgeting a lot until he asked you, "are you single? cause if you aren't that's going to make this so much more awkward than it already is," he laughed nervously.

"y-yeah dan. i am single."

"okay. well, uh, i was just,,,do you want to go on a date with me? maybe friday?"

you looked at the calendar behind you seeing as it was wednesday. i have time to prepare.

"i'd love that," you smiled. dan blushed and nodded.

"i'll text you later!"

"alright, bye danny!" he chuckled then did a small skip out the door.

oHMYGODDANHOWELLISGOINGONADATEWITHMEAH.

it finally registered in your mind that he truly was asking you on a date. you're mind was racing but one thing stuck out--

what were you going to wear?

sorry it's short, i hope this is okay!! i'll probably edit this later cause i just wanted to have something posted. i've had so much homework and it's been a rough week but i'm starting to get better. i didn't know if this is written okay, but part 2 maybe tomorrow or tuesday. if i have enough energy i'll write it all then queue it. uwu thanks loves.

stay alive |-/

XOcourt

[harrysmeadow]

HELD - CHAPTER 10

// CATCH UP HERE // PLAYLIST // HARRYS INSTA // ERINS INSTA //

A/N - Oh my God, I updated!??! Less than a month after I posted the previous chapter!? It’s a miracle!

Thank you so much to everyone who sent me a lovely message about the last chapter, it was the most feedback I’ve ever had, and it really motivated me to write this chapter! I really hope you like it, and again I’d love to know what you think! My ask is open!

As always a special thank you to my gorgeous besties @islareeveswriting and @cuddlemusclestyles for all their help with this chapter, and general life advice. I love you both very, very much.

“Erin? What do you think of this one?” Harry called over to me.

It was a dreary Saturday afternoon, rain clouds had been hanging low, grey and threatening in the sky for hours, meaning Harry and I had continuously put off our shopping trip until we really couldn’t wait any longer. Even though we were supposed to be shopping for a present for Izzy’s birthday, we’d somehow ended up in the men’s section in Fenwick’s department store, and we had yet to buy anything for the upcoming birthday girl.

He was stood in front of a long mirror, twisting and turning each and every way trying to figure out whether the floral shirt he held in his hands would suit him or not. I stopped just behind him, looking at him in the mirror and smiling when his lips jutted into a pout, showing his conflicting thoughts.

“I like it.” I said confidently. “It suits you.” But then again, the boy could wear a potato sack and still look like he could grace the pages of Vogue.

“Are you sure? If I wear it tonight we won’t clash?” He asked seriously, spinning round to face me.

A laugh escaped my lips as I shook my head trying to reassure him. “I’m absolutely sure, Harry.”

Tonight would be the first night since arriving back for second term that my housemates and I, would be going ‘out, out’, and it was all thanks to Niall Horan. The boy was nothing if not persistent; for the past week or so my day would not have been complete without him asking or texting me about the night out that I had apparently promised to organise.

Even though I’d tried to put it off at first, after awhile I realised I could probably do with a night out with my friends. The first few weeks back had really got on top of me, and I was ready to not think about coursework and projects for at least one night.

After paying for the shirt, we left the shop hand in hand, making our way through the centre of town discussing idea’s of what we could buy Izzy. I knew I would be buying her another charm for her bracelet, but there needed to be something else.

“Oh! I know!” Harry suddenly exclaimed. “Sam text me the other day saying Josie and Chris were buying her a turntable, we should get her some old records so she has something to play on it!”

“That’s a great idea!” I gushed, but honestly with the way he was smiling, so clearly proud of himself with the idea, he could have suggested buying her socks and I would have agreed.

After a quick Google, Harry and I made our way to a small independent record shop just outside of the town centre. The shop front looked old and weathered, the pale blue paint that covered the window panes and door frame was faded and peeling away, and the rusty sign that was swinging above the door that said ‘Butler Records’, squeaked as it moved back and forth in the wind.

Stepping into the shop, the bell above the door chimed and it felt as though I’d been transported back in time. Posters of artists from all genres and eras covered the walls from floor to ceiling, and the faint scratching of a record finishing, sounded as if it was playing in another room not too far away.

Harry stepped out from behind me, making his way over to the large selection of records in the middle of shop. The table ran the entire length of the place, and was divided into sections; first by genre, then alphabetically.

“Do you think they have the Spice Girls!?” I beamed, as I trailed behind him and began to scan over the rows of records, hoping something worthy of a gift would jump out.

“Oh my God.” Harry mumbled, and I could practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“What!? You know Izzy loves them!” I exclaimed, struggling to understand why he didn’t share my enthusiasm for the classic girl power group.

“I know she does!” He agreed, stopping in front of a row and trailing his fingers down the edge, scanning over the labels until he found what he wanted. “I just can’t believe we find a place like this, that’s literally packed with every kind of music you could think of, and you ask for the Spice Girls.”

“They are a treasured British music act Harry, and you can’t deny it.”

****

Whenever I ended up at the end of a queue outside a club, I always regretted my life choices that led to that moment. I hated the cold. Why is it not acceptable to go clubbing in a jacket? Rosie, Nicola, Jamie, Adam and I, stood huddled together like penguins as we waited in line to gain entrance to Vision. Harry and Niall had already arrived, and I’d sent our groups drink order in a text to Niall with the hope that we could skip the line at the bar when we finally got in.

I jumped from foot to foot, rubbing my hands up and down my arms trying to keep warm in the freezing night air. The temperature hadn’t risen above single figures in weeks, but that obviously hadn’t stopped the group of freshers that were stood in front of us in the line, from getting dolled up in their short skirts and dresses.

I had entered and left that phase very quickly after getting to uni. I now prefered to take a ‘warm up nap’ before going out, instead of spending ages getting ready. I felt like I was wasting my time applying hordes of makeup that I wouldn’t want to take off properly at 3am when I came in, and I’d take comfort over style any day when it came to choosing an outfit.

I winced as I watched one of the girls in front of me twist her ankle in her stilettos while attempting to move over the cobbles.

“Remember when we made that mistake?” Rosie giggled in my ear, nodding her head in the direction of the poor girls whose wobbly legs made them look like Bambi on ice.

I looked down at my own feet, surrounded by a comfy layer of rubber and canvas, and thanked the heavens that we’d found fairly quickly in first year that Vision didn’t have a strict dress code, and that they’d let you in wearing tatty old converse. My gorgeous black heels that my parents had bought me for my eighteenth birthday, hadn’t been out of my wardrobe in months.

The line was slowly but surely moving along, the music from inside becoming louder as we got closer to the door.

“That is sickeningly cute.” Nicola huffed over my shoulder.

“What is?” I asked, confused.

“That.” She said, pointing to my phone in my hand where a message from Harry lit up the screen.

I’m still worried we’re gonna clash with me wearing this shirt you know. x

“Where did you find him, and how do I get one?” She joked.

I looked down at my outfit, a simple black slip dress with lace detailing around the edge, over a plain white t-shirt, (the first years might be able to stand the cold, but I certainly needed layers) before sending a reassuring text to Harry, that he had no need to worry about his shirt.

“She’s completely gone for him.” I heard Rosie mutter to Nic, as I dropped my phone into my bag.

The thing was, I couldn’t deny it. I was gone for him, or I was well on my way. Growing up with Izzy, Sam and Evie, I always found it easier to slink back and blend in, rather than fight for attention. But the way he looked at me made me feel so special, and wanted, like I was the only other person on earth. Sure he hadn’t kissed me, but I knew his reasons, and I knew that when the time came, everything before that moment would feel like nothing.  

****

Weaving my way through the crowd, it didn’t take me long to spot Harry and Niall stood at the end of the bar; and as we neared them I was very glad to see they were surrounded by an amount of drinks that surely couldn’t have just been for the both of them.

“Hi!” I beamed brightly to the both of them when I approached them.

“Hi, Sweets.” Harry replied with a smile. “This is yours.” He said, grabbing one of the many glasses off of the bar and handing it to me. “Now, which is everyone else's?”

Harry had met all of my flatmates in the past few weeks, so I introduced Niall to my friends as everyone gathered round. Introductions were made, drinks were passed round, and the conversations started flowing immediately.

I stuck close to Harry's side, and wasted no time snaking an arm around his back, tucking myself securely into his side. It was my safe space, encased in his warmth, and his familiar scent surrounding my senses made me feel at home. I felt a soft kiss being placed to the top of my head, and even though the music was pounding, and conversation was flowing around us, it was like my senses tuned themselves to sync with him, as I had no trouble understanding the whisper he spoke to my ear. “You’re so pretty.” He uttered, and the butterflies that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my stomach, suddenly burst to life as if they’d been set free from a cage at the sound of his voice.

“Thank you.” I replied, leaning up on my toes to present him with a peck on the cheek.

“Love the shirt Harry!” Rosie gushed, sneakily sending me a wink as she leant across us to grab her drink from the bar, and I didn’t miss the satisfied smile that took over his features.

“Thanks!” He replied, looking chuffed as he smoothed down the fabric over his front.

“You do look great. I told you not to worry.”

“I know.” He drawled, running his fingertips down my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps and lacing his fingers through mine when he reached my hand. “But I knew you’d look gorgeous, and I would never want to show you up.”

I groaned deeply, rolling my eyes at his comment. He was unfairly charming. I tugged my hand from his grasp, playfully poking him in the chest. “First of all, you have got to stop doing that -”

“What!?” He shrieked incredulously.

“Being stupidly nice, and complimenting me all the time. You know I like you, you don’t have to try so hard.” I teased, trying to hold back a giggle, as he tried to figure out whether he should be offended or not. “And second of all, you show me up everytime I’m with you. I’m constantly a mess, and you look like...that!” I gestured wildly at him, trying to somehow convey that I thought he looked like a Greek God, without inflating his ego too much.

“You do realise the more you put yourself down, the more I’m gonna keep going on about how amazing you are.” He smirked, and I grumbled childishly, attempting to disguise how flattered I really was.

I didn’t have chance to retaliate though, as Niall very charmingly pretended to be sick over our exchange.

“You two are disgusting.” He chided. “Now, if you can manage to pry yourselves away from each other for two minutes, I’d like to get this night started right. With shots.”

****

Surprisingly the night went on without a hitch. I didn't drink enough to get absolutely mortal, but I was definitely past tipsy. Niall had been quite the entertainer, drinking enough for the entire group of us really. His traditional Irish dancing had gone down a storm, I don’t think I’d laughed so much in ages. I noticed Nicola taking a particular interest in his Irish charm, as she laughed wildly at his jokes all night.

We decided to call it a night when Niall started crying when he remembered he didn't have any turkey dinosaurs in the freezer at home, and Rosie (who was about as far gone as Niall) started crying with him.

The bitter chill in the air hadn’t lifted when we left the club in the early hours of the morning, but the warm buzz flowing through my veins was enough to distract me from the temperature. A dull throb was pulsating in my ears as my body readjusted to normal levels of sound.

“Erin! Do you know? You’re Harry’s hero.” Niall slurred, gesturing between us with a drink in hand that was spilling onto the floor, how he’d managed to get out of the building with it I had no idea.

“What?” I laughed.

“Harry told me about you ages ago.”

“Oh really?” I asked, nudging Harry’s side playfully.

“Yeah.” He muttered, grabbing at my hand that was poking him in the side.

“What did you say!” I asked excitedly.

“I told Ni-”

“-He told me that you’re the reason he plays rugby.” Niall spoke matter-of-factly, and interrupting Harry’s own explanation. My eyes went wide at his confession, shooting to Harry in confusion; yet he didn’t stop Niall from continuing. “He said if you hadn’t helped him with his technique or something one time when you were 9-

“13” Harry said with a roll of his eyes.

“-Whatever, said that he would have never got on the team at school, and that he wouldn’t be where he was now if ‘it wasn’t for Erin’.” He said bringing his hands up to form air quotes.

“Is that true?” I asked, suddenly feeling very sober, my voice barely above a whisper, but like always we had no trouble understanding each other, and he nodded in confirmation.

I didn’t know if it was the alcohol that had heightened my emotions, or whether I would have reacted the same without the substance, but I felt tears pooling in my eyes.

Although the memory wasn’t clear in my mind, I could recall a time a good few years ago in which Izzy, Sam, Harry and I were playing rugby in the paddock at the front of the farmhouse. It must have been one of the last times I’d seen Harry before we met again only about 2 months ago.

He’d kept hold of this memory under lock and key for years, remembering me as someone who helped him achieve something he’d always wanted to do. Everything seemed to snap into place in my mind; why he was so hesitant to move us along any further, even why we’d argued so much when we first met. He’d had me placed on a pedestal in his mind for so long, he didn’t want to lose me completely; or worse, find out I wasn’t the person he’d thought me to be. When I’d shown up at Christmas being the grand high bitch herself, trying to protect Izzy, it must have taken a lot for him to face me being so horrid when all he’d remembered was me being nice.

He needed this time to make sure that he’d been right about me all along, when I’d given him reason to think otherwise.

“Can I come back to yours with you?” The words slipped past my lips before I’d realised what I’d said.

“You want to stay over?” He asked bewildered.

Even though we spent so much time time together, and a lot of that time was spent with us curled up to each other sleeping, we’d never spent a night together, each of us always going back to our own homes before we could settle down to sleep properly. I’d never had a problem with it, always respecting how Harry wanted to do things, plus we hadn’t kissed yet, so staying over had felt like we were doing things the wrong way round. But for some reason, this tiny piece of knowledge, this small little nugget of a memory seemed to push me further to him.

“I don’t have to! I just..It doesn’t matter, I’ll go back with Rosie and Nic.” I sputtered, pulling away from him towards where the others were waiting for a taxi, before he grabbed my wrist and turned me back to him. “Erin, you can stay.”

“Are you sure? I want to do this at your pace, and if you don’t want me to stay I’m fine with it. It’s always your choice, Harry.”

“I want you to stay. Plus, I could use the help taking care of Niall to be honest.” He grinned.

****

Soft passes of air tickled my cheek as I woke up the next morning; that and the gentle rise and fall beneath me told me without me having to open my eyes that Harry had pulled me close while I was asleep. Not that I minded at all, I loved being close to him.

I knew he was awake, I could feel his fingertips dancing across my back in different shapes and patterns, each touch on my skin leaving sparks that filtered through my bloodstream straight to my heart. I sighed in content, snuggling further into him and basking in his warmth. Harry was always warm, which made me never want to stop cuddling him. He was surrounded by an aura of calm, that was entirely comforting and soothing, like all my problems disappeared into nothing when I was around him. I was pretty sure that with the amount of alcohol I’d drunk last night, I should have at least had a headache, but I felt nothing other than his hands on my skin.

“I know we take naps together all the time, but waking up with you like this feels different.” He whispered sweetly into my hair, obviously realising I was awake.

“Good different?” I asked, groggily, the full weight of sleep not completely lifted from me as I struggled to open my eyes all the way. “Very good different.” He assured me, placing a kiss to the top of my head that rested against his chest.

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks immediately at his words. Even though he was never shy with compliments, I found it hard not to get flustered. I think it was because I could almost feel the sincerity in his words. Harry only ever spoke with purpose, so when he told me I looked pretty, or that I was smart, or funny, his words held so much more meaning it took me a while to process.

As my fingers traced over the lines of black ink that were the beautiful tattoo’s on his arm, I thought back to last night, and how I was always able to see them out of the corner of my eye. When he’d held my hand and twirled me round as we danced, I threw my head back smiling with pure glee and adoration, I locked my eyes on the drawings on his skin so I didn’t lose my balance. When Rosie, Nic and I were having a gossip by the bar, and the boys were stood not too far away, probably laughing at one of Niall’s stories, I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander to him. They trailed over his broad back that I clung to like a koala when we napped together, down his muscular arms that always held me so gently, and back up to his face, where as usual his gorgeous green eyes were ready to lock with mine.

“How come you never mentioned that story that Niall told last night?” I mumbled, suddenly remembering Niall’s drunken tale.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to bring that up.” He chuckled, and I shrugged. “I just thought you wouldn’t remember, and that I’d seem really weird because I had remembered.”

“I do remember! I think. But it’s not weird Harry, it’s sweet.” I cooed, bringing my fingers up to his forehead to brush away a curl that was about to fall in front of his eyes.

In that moment, I was convinced he was an angel. His gorgeous grin was glowing brighter than the morning sun that was peeking through the curtains, his green eyes were bright like jewels under a light in a museum, so fragile and precious, and his soft curls lay messily, but so elegantly framing his face. Yet of all the people in my life, I could think of no one more deserving of such beautiful features than Harry. His kind heart was reflected in the way his eyes could portray such emotion, and if it was true what they say about eyes being the window to the soul, I had no doubt that Harry’s was pure and beautiful; to me he was otherworldly, and I didn’t know what I’d done in my life to attract and deserve such beauty.

“Ok.” He smiled. “When do you think it was?”

I hummed to myself, tapping my finger against my chin while shuffling onto my tummy next to him, and propping up on my elbows to see him fully.

“I think, it was that day in summer, just before you and Izzy went back to school and I went back home. We were in the front paddock, because the grass was shorter and easier to run in than the back field, Sam always tripped on the longer grass when we played footie. Auntie Josie used to go mad about the stains on his jeans.” I laughed.

“Anything else?” He asked.

“I remember we were playing tag rugby, but that’s it really.” I admitted, feeling slightly ashamed that I couldn’t remember any more detail, but if the grin on his face was anything to go by, I’d say I’d guessed correctly.

I wondered how many other memories he had of me stashed away in his mind; sweet moments from the odd days we’d spent together as children at the farmhouse, passing glances out of car windows as my family and I left Holmes Chapel after a week long visit, or even just Izzy mentioning my name from time to time at school. I felt almost guilty that all I’d remembered of him back in December was his curly hair.

“You’re right, we were at the farmhouse at the end of the summer holidays.” He began, reaching out to twirl a lock of my hair through his fingers lazily, and I sighed happily at his delicate touch. “Iz and I were just about to go into Year Nine at school, so I was 13 and I knew when we went back I wanted to try out for the school’s rugby team. Sam and I had been playing all day, trying to practice and get better so I’d be more likely to get picked.”

I hummed in response, flopping myself back down next him again, and my brows furrowed as the memory became more vivid in my mind. Turning on my side to face him fully, really he didn’t look all that different to how he did all those years ago. With the soft grey duvet covering his broad chest and long legs, and the sprinklings of black ink that appeared every so often on his skin, the sleepy, pouty face that was so close to mine looked so young and innocent, it felt bad to want to kiss his rosy lips.

“But then you and Izzy came along.” He chuckled. “Insisting you wanted to join in too, and that girls are just as good at rugby as boys.”

“They are!”

“I know! You proved it that day anyway. You tackled me so many times I don’t know whether I was scared or in awe of you!” He laughed, and I could feel my cheeks heating as he recalled a younger, more confident Erin.

“You didn’t brag though, you were just playing the game, but afterwards you came over and told me that I was too slow offloading, and that’s why I always got tackled. You lined up Izzy and Sam on either side of me and helped me improve. I remember you stood off to the side watching us like a hawk screaming ‘NOW!’ whenever you wanted me to make the pass. I made the team that year, the year after that I was made Captain, and now, here I am.”

A moments silence passed between us as the weight of his words fell, heavy like fog that dropped on a winter’s night it had been building gradually until I could no longer make out anything around me. It wasn’t as though it was a grand revelation, it was a sweet and simple memory, but one that I hadn’t known I’d been a part of, and that held to much meaning to him. I was completely overwhelmed.

“Harry.” I whispered. Reaching out I traced my fingertips gently across his cheek, like I was making sure he was actually real. The warmth under his skin coloured his cheeks the most beautiful shade of pink, and I couldn’t help myself from letting my eyes drop to his lips that were that gorgeous colour too.

I wasn’t surprised when he began to lean forward, but I could see the nerves in his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders. In an attempt to ease his worry I let my own eyes flutter shut, and met him halfway.

His lips were soft and sweet as they brushed against mine in a gentle kiss, and my fingers laced themselves in the curls at the back of his neck as I attempted to anchor myself to him when I felt like I was floating.

Although the kiss was short, it was the sight of him when I opened my eyes that left me breathless; because he was just that. Breathtaking. Harry was beautiful, in every way possible, I’d been sure of that for a long time now, but the smile that graced his features in that moment was quite possibly the most stunning sight I’d ever seen.

#1dff #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #held #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles concepts #uni!harry #harry styles uni au #harry styles au

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Nature The Eternal Life of the Instant Noodle

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Nature

At the age of 12, Coss Marte began dealing drugs in New York City. At 15, he was sent to prison for a year. That’s when he began to learn how things worked behind bars. “This guy next to me was serving 12 years,” says Coss. “We started cooking together.” That was the first of three stints in prison – including New York’s famously brutal Rikers Island prison. Each time, Coss existed on “prison burritos”, a regular makeshift snack for US inmates. “Instant noodles, potato chips, Cheezits. If you get lucky, you steal an onion from the mess hall,” he says. “You shuffle it up, you throw in a little bit of ketchup, mayonnaise maybe. I’ve had people tell me it tastes like Taco Bell.”

Basic instant noodles are the cheapest thing on sale in most prison stores, where three packs cost about a dollar. They’ve replaced cigarettes as the most traded item inside American prisons. They’re so important, inmates use them as money. As Coss was learning the ropes in prison, another young man living on the other side of the globe was also figuring out how to rely on instant noodles. Back in 2004, Kieran “Danger” Dooley was 20 years old and training to be a teacher in Dunedin, in southern New Zealand. But he was harbouring a dream to be a movie director. And one night he saw a film that gave him an idea. “It was Supersize Me,” he says. “I latched on to it and I thought, ‘Well, you know, old Morgan Spurlock, he’s a bit of a legend as far as I’m concerned.’ And I thought I’ll make the sacrifice. I can give this a shot too.” In his documentary, Morgan Spurlock eats nothing but McDonald’s for a month, recording the drastic physical and psychological impact. Danger Dooley chose the obvious student equivalent with his student film, Noodle Me. “I couldn’t really afford McDonald’s every day or Kentucky Fried Chicken or Burger King or whatever,” he says. Instant noodles were an inevitable choice. Sixty years after their invention, they have become the default food for anyone short on money, or time, or a kitchen. They even pop up in disaster zones and on long-haul flights. Last year, across the globe, more than 100 billion servings of instant noodles were eaten. That’s more than 13 servings for every person on the planet.

In the birthplace of instant noodles, Japan, they’ve been voted – repeatedly – Japan’s most successful invention, ahead of high-speed trains, laptops and karaoke. Instant noodle sales have certainly fallen in Japan since the invention’s heydey in the 1970s and 80s, and now occupy around 5% of all global sales. But don’t let that number fool you, Japan is still the world’s third-biggest consumer of instant noodles, after China and Indonesia, with more than 5.5 billion servings being eaten a year. But perhaps the story behind instant ramen is more important to Japan than actually buying and eating the product. It’s believed that the dried noodles sitting in many university dorms can trace their culinary ancestry back to an early form of ramen noodles brought over to Japan by Chinese chefs in the 1880s. Traditional ramen noodles are, in their most basic form, wheat noodles served in a soupy broth with some slices of meat or tofu on top. Over the decades, that simple recipe has been adapted and expanded over and over again, giving imaginative chefs the ability to show off their skills by making complex broths, perfectly textured noodles and an ever-expanding variety of toppings. The original ramen was eaten by Japanese labourers by the bowlful. World War Two changed everything. Large tracts of Japan were decimated by bombing. When the war came to a close in 1945, the surviving population was starving. Enter our unlikely hero – a failed businessman named Momofuku Ando. Ando, as he’s affectionately known, had earned and lost fortunes, first in his native Taiwan and then in Japan. He made millions in industrial parts during the war, then lost it. At one point, he went to prison for fraud. He then headed a bank, which collapsed. But Ando was persistent. He wanted to rebuild his reputation and his fortune. A decade after the war had ended, contacts in Japan’s ministry of agriculture told him they were eager to figure out how to push Japanese people to eat more American wheat flour – the key component of US aid at the time. That’s when, so the story goes, Ando remembered something he’d seen at the end of the war – queues of exhausted people waiting patiently in long lines for bowls of steaming ramen noodle soup. What was needed, Ando thought, was a modern, speedy version of that working-class comfort food. A food that, conveniently, used lots of American wheat flour. And so, at the age of 48, Ando transformed himself into a food inventor. He disappeared into a wooden shed in his back garden every day for a year. When he emerged, he’d invented a product that looks almost identical to rectangular bricks of instant noodles that are stacked on supermarket shelves around the world. You can see faithful recreations of that shed if you visit Japan’s three – yes, three – instant noodle museums. The one we visited, in the coastal city of Yokohama, is the biggest and newest. It is owned by the food company Nissin, which was founded by Ando. The red, square block of a building is all clean, straight lines. Inside there are shiny floorboards and pristine white walls – it looks like a modern art museum. Apparently, it’s a hot place for first dates. Visitors are quickly led into the “instant noodle history cube”, a brightly lit room lined with thousands of instant noodle products, starting with Ando’s original block of Chikin Ramen. At the end, there are even luxury instant noodles – in convenience stores in Japan, you can buy noodles from famous Michelin-starred ramen shops. In between the two extremes sit some of the thousands of instant noodles on sale across the globe. The cube is a mind-boggling showcase of what food inventors can do. Instant noodles were born in Japan, but marketers go to pains to make them seem local, wherever they’re eaten. Some countries like the basil and olive flavour. Others prefer cheesy curry or creamy seafood. In Mexico, noodles are eaten with salsa and slices of lime. Nissin’s Kasura Suzuki beams as we examine the packaging. “We launch over 300 products yearly,” she says, “just in Japan, for our company. But only 1% remain in the market. The products have a really short life cycle because consumers are always looking for something new. So we have to be very inventive.” Most of the museum’s visitors are Japanese, but then Raquel Scott, a teacher from San Francisco, appears bubbling with enthusiasm. “I grew up on cup noodles,” she says. “Especially in college, needing a cheap meal. So I thought it would be fun to come here. What other better food to have a museum for than the cup noodle?” There is no obvious mention of environmental concerns – such as the styrofoam cup used for cup noodles – in the Yokohama museum.

To embrace the mindset of this museum, you’ll need to swallow any lingering doubts about the wonders of instant noodles and their contribution to human civilisation. Kasura guides me to the last room in the museum. “Here we have Space Ramen, which is the final invention that our founder Momofuku Ando created,” she explains. “This product was developed especially for astronauts to eat during space travel.” I hesitate, but she doesn’t blink. You’re saying that at the age of 95, Momofuku Ando was responsible for this invention? “Yes,” comes her immediate response. “He wanted to go beyond the atmosphere and take his invention to outer space.” The museum staff and its visitors ooze a sense of national pride. Ando was actually born in Taiwan, but it was in Japan that his invention came to life. Instant noodles came along at a turning point in Japan’s history, accompanying its rise from a struggling nation to a modern economic powerhouse. They came of age when Japanese households were filling up with new home appliances, such as kettles. Television commercials from that age showed the effervescent commercials promoting convenient new foods. Today, a whole culture of appreciation has grown around instant noodles in Japan. At the heart of the movement sits a shy, unassuming man named Toshio Yamamoto. He’s better known to his fans as Ton Tan Tin – a name he gave himself because he liked the sound of it. He’s the world’s most prolific instant (ramen) noodle reviewer. “Oh I love instant ramen very much,” he smiles. “I’ve been eating ramen since I was 10 years old. I’m pretty much made of ramen.” Yamamoto once worked as an engineer, but his noodle reviews became so popular that he was able to quit and devote himself to testing instant ramen. Companies send him their newest offerings for testing and followers send him boxes of instant noodles from overseas. He’s reviewed more than 6,200 kinds of instant noodles. You can check out Ton Tan Tin online. Each video is almost identical – you see the package of the product he’s going to review, you watch it being prepared, and then you watch the noodles’ score out of five. The entire process is oddly mesmerising. But you’ll never actually see Ton Tan Tin on screen – just his hands. In person, he’s a slightly awkward man. He shuffles around his suburban house in Japanese slippers. “I haven’t found ramen that’s five stars yet. I’m still on the journey to find that,” he explains. “The noodles will need to be perfect. The soup will need to have great quality and the condiments perfectly balanced, with a nice harmony.” On a large computer screen, he begins to click through all of his reviews. Most scores hover around three out of five. Suddenly, a shockingly low score pops up – a 0.1 out of five stars. “Those noodles were really thick and ‘guagua’,” he says. “It was a really bad texture in my mouth. And the soup is really thick. It’s a very kind of artificial flavour. And the condiments you chew but they just keep staying in your mouth. They were very difficult to swallow.” The product in question? One of the UK’s top sellers – Cup Noodle Chicken and Mushroom flavour. Millions of British university students survive on this, I tell him. I also tell him I would like to be here on the day that he eats that perfect five. I’d love to see the look on his face. He smiles and closes his eyes a little bit, as if imagining what those noodles would taste like. “I would share my happiness with everybody,” he sighs.

If Japan is the county that gave birth to the instant noodle, China’s the country where it came of age. Out of the 100 billion servings of instant noodles consumed last year, 38 billion were eaten in mainland China. But in China, there’s none of the romance that’s associated with instant noodles in Japan – there are no museums dedicated to them here. Ton Tan Tin would be shocked. Inside a bustling railway station in central Beijing, travellers are preparing for long journeys ahead. In a cavernous waiting room, weary-looking people are clutching thin plastic bags, mostly holding a few containers of instant noodles. “It’s garbage food,” complains one young woman. She’s eating a pot as she waits to board her train. “Everybody knows it’s bad for your health. I don’t like eating it, it’s simply for convenience.” In the centre of the train, tucked into a cosy compartment, we meet Huan Zhuo Ming and Wang Li, a friendly couple in their 50s. It’ll be three in the morning when they reach their hometown. They are visiting their elderly parents for China’s tomb- sweeping public holiday. The train has just left the station and Huan Zhuo Ming is already tucking into his supper. “There’s nothing else to eat. Of course, its instant noodles,” Wang Li patiently explains as her husband enjoys the spicy beef flavour – a favourite in China. A convenient hot water tap sits at the end of every train carriage, and a queue of like-minded folk are filling up their cup noodles as we chat. Huan Zhuo Ming is a security guard in Beijing and Wang Li works as a cleaner. They’ve been married for decades but they don’t live together anymore. Instead, they each stay in dormitories provided by their employers. Their daughter, who’s a nurse, lives in a third dormitory. Three family members, all scattered across the city. But, when asked about their living conditions, they shrug. They don’t question their scattered existence. It’s passengers like these who’ve helped make China richer. They’re migrant workers who left their homes in the countryside to work in the country’s factories and major cities. China’s astonishing economic growth clocked 9.5% a year for three decades, the World Bank says. It’s the fastest growth in economic history – but it’s also growth that hinged on the makeshift lifestyle of migrant workers and the sacrifices they’ve endured. Imagine you’re a bottom-of-the-ladder worker in China, sleeping in a dormitory bunk bed every night and eating canteen food every day. What do you eat if you want a filling snack? Instant noodles filled that gap. But the instant noodle lifestyle is becoming a thing of the past. Sales peaked at more than 50 billion servings a year in 2010 – just after the Chinese economy clocked record gains. But instant noodle sales have been dropping every year since – down 16% last year, alone. “Every food is a product of its own time,” says Professor Meng Suhe. She’s the grande dame of the noodle industry. Behind a pair of thick glasses, she’s witnessed the arc in noodle consumption and how it followed China’s own path over the past 40 years. “Each rise and drop in instant noodle sales has reflected distinct times in China’s modern history,” she says. The government’s numbers show that half of workers lived in dormitories in 2011. Five years later, only 13% of factory workers did so. Sixty percent had moved into rented housing – places with kitchens allowing them to cook what they want, so there’s less need for instant noodles. Now, China’s workers are starting to reject noodles as they crave their mum’s cooking, Professor Meng says. “Also, Chinese people are starting to crave less processed food.” But noodle makers shouldn’t pack up yet. Lots of millennials haven’t learned how to cook, sighs Professor Meng, and they’re dependent on convenience foods and deliveries.

Coss Marte strides through the streets of New York’s Lower East Side with total confidence. “I used to sell drugs on this corner,” he says breezily as we walk across the street to a grocery store. He grabs items off the shelves. Doritos, instant noodles – the processed food favourites he used to rely on in prison. He pauses, staring at the packs of noodles. “This really is survival food in prison.” Michael Gibson-Light has heard this many times before. He stumbled across the importance of instant noodles when he was researching prison jobs. His resulting research on instant noodles made headlines when it emerged last year. He’s the one who declared something that US prisoners have known for ages – in the past few years, instant noodles have come to replace cigarettes as the most traded item in US prisons. “It was totally taken for granted by the prisoner population,” he says. “I was surprised since all you ever really see on TV and movies, or read about in research about prisons is that cigarettes are the de facto currency.” That’s notable because it’s such a huge population. The US has more known prisoners than any other country in the world 2.2 million at the last count. And the change – from cigarettes to instant noodles – boils down to money. Prison budgets have been slashed and most prisons feed inmates the minimum number of calories per day. Many offer just two meals a day on weekends. Prison food has been the subject of recent state Supreme Court lawsuits, with prisoners arguing that prison food is inedible. “So, the food is even worse and there’s less of it,” Gibson-Light explains. “If you’re in prison and you want or need more food than you can get from the chow line, then you have to buy it yourself. The costs of nutrition have shifted to the prisoners themselves. Instant noodles are a go-to because they’re cheap.” But it goes further. Noodles function as currency. Over time, they became so valuable that people started using them to trade with. It didn’t take long for them to essentially replace tobacco products as the new black market currency, explains former prisoner Chandra Bozelko. “They’re easily stored and they’re non-perishable, so they can be kept for a very long time,” she says. Chandra served six years in prison in Connecticut for identity theft. The press called her the “Connecticut Princess” – an Ivy League graduate who was caught stealing credit card information and forging signatures to buy thousands of dollars worth of goods online. Now she’s out, she writes about prison life, including why instant noodles are so valuable on the inside. “You might have a certain book from the outside that I want to read. You might say, ‘I’ll give you 10 soups – 10 packages of ramen noodles – in exchange for that book,’ or to even borrow that book. I’m sure it’s been used for payment for sexual acts.” Noodles can ease social interactions inside a prison, Chandra says. “It can be used as a gratuity. So a lot of times there’s a laundry worker who washes people’s clothes, and even though you’re not required to do that, they might hand over a package of noodles when the laundry worker gives an inmate back her clothes, when they’re folded and dried.” It’s the same story for the men. Coss Marte says things can get violent when instant noodle debts aren’t repaid. “There are all types of hustling inside the system. People juggle. Juggle means you get, like, a 200% mark-up. If you give someone two ramen noodle soups, you get four [more] ramen noodle soups back within a week. “I’ve seen people get cut and stabbed for ramen noodle. And it’s not about the 30 cents it’s worth. It’s about the principle. It’s currency in the system.” Edible currency, that is. Chandra says she’ll never eat instant noodles again, but for Coss Marte, it’s a different story. He serves up his prison burrito and I give it a try. Warm and starchy, it’s full of flavour. Synthetic flavour – fake cheese and ketchup, mostly – but it’s easy to see why this would pass as comfort food inside a prison. In fact, prisoners turn noodles into all sorts of things, from tortillas to pizza bases. “I’ll make this once a year,” he explains, after eating a forkful of the burrito. “Maybe I’m watching a prison show or something and it’s like, ugh, memories.” Burritos are mostly off the menu because Coss is in shape now. He’s come a long way from prison, and runs his own gym. “I was eating all this junk food every day,” he says, gesturing towards the instant noodles. “The doctors told me my cholesterol levels were so bad I could die of a heart attack in five years. I was sentenced to seven years. That motivated me.” On his self-assigned exercise regime, he lost 70lb in just a few months. He didn’t want to die in prison, he explains. “The [prison] cemetery doesn’t say your name, just a number. I didn’t want to die in the system. I’ve seen people die in there. It’s pretty sad. Most of the time family don’t show up.” There’s now a big push to make the food served in prisons healthier. And globally, the trend’s the same. Noodle makers in China and Japan told us that they’re under pressure from consumers to overhaul their products, to subtract salt and add nutrients. But what happens if you eat only instant noodles? What would it do to your body? Kieran “Danger” Dooley can tell us – he’s the person who forced himself to exist only on noodles for a month as part of a student film project. After 30 days, Danger lost 11kg. Normally an easy-going guy, he experienced unusual mood swings. “I would go up and down, up and down. I wouldn’t say depression. It was more of a meh! I just couldn’t be bothered,” he explains. “I couldn’t be bothered making the noodles. I’d just stare at them for 10 minutes and think, ‘Why the hell did I do this?’” Danger made it through the month, with one sneaky trip to a pub to drink three pints of beer. The silver lining was that he won the top prize in his university documentary competition. And what did a month of eating square packets of noodles teach him? “Man can’t live on noodles alone. Well, they probably could but it wouldn’t be an existence worth living.” Tell that to those who still revere Momofuku Ando. In the instant noodle museum in Yokohama, there’s a cardboard cut-out of him. He is surrounded by, and equated with, famous historical figures – Marie Curie, Beethoven, Galileo, Einstein. But does the creator of instant noodles deserve a place of honour among the world’s greatest figures? Here’s one thing we can say – instant noodles are the world’s true convenience food, the hot food that’s always waiting there, in the background, for those who are short on money or time. As long as there are people living in dormitories, or shopping in convenience stores, or concocting meals in prisons – the instant noodle will live on.

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Nature The Eternal Life of the Instant Noodle, in 2018-09-28 02:55:13

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Nature The Eternal Life of the Instant Noodle

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At the age of 12, Coss Marte began dealing drugs in New York City. At 15, he was sent to prison for a year. That’s when he began to learn how things worked behind bars. “This guy next to me was serving 12 years,” says Coss. “We started cooking together.” That was the first of three stints in prison – including New York’s famously brutal Rikers Island prison. Each time, Coss existed on “prison burritos”, a regular makeshift snack for US inmates. “Instant noodles, potato chips, Cheezits. If you get lucky, you steal an onion from the mess hall,” he says. “You shuffle it up, you throw in a little bit of ketchup, mayonnaise maybe. I’ve had people tell me it tastes like Taco Bell.”

Basic instant noodles are the cheapest thing on sale in most prison stores, where three packs cost about a dollar. They’ve replaced cigarettes as the most traded item inside American prisons. They’re so important, inmates use them as money. As Coss was learning the ropes in prison, another young man living on the other side of the globe was also figuring out how to rely on instant noodles. Back in 2004, Kieran “Danger” Dooley was 20 years old and training to be a teacher in Dunedin, in southern New Zealand. But he was harbouring a dream to be a movie director. And one night he saw a film that gave him an idea. “It was Supersize Me,” he says. “I latched on to it and I thought, ‘Well, you know, old Morgan Spurlock, he’s a bit of a legend as far as I’m concerned.’ And I thought I’ll make the sacrifice. I can give this a shot too.” In his documentary, Morgan Spurlock eats nothing but McDonald’s for a month, recording the drastic physical and psychological impact. Danger Dooley chose the obvious student equivalent with his student film, Noodle Me. “I couldn’t really afford McDonald’s every day or Kentucky Fried Chicken or Burger King or whatever,” he says. Instant noodles were an inevitable choice. Sixty years after their invention, they have become the default food for anyone short on money, or time, or a kitchen. They even pop up in disaster zones and on long-haul flights. Last year, across the globe, more than 100 billion servings of instant noodles were eaten. That’s more than 13 servings for every person on the planet.

In the birthplace of instant noodles, Japan, they’ve been voted – repeatedly – Japan’s most successful invention, ahead of high-speed trains, laptops and karaoke. Instant noodle sales have certainly fallen in Japan since the invention’s heydey in the 1970s and 80s, and now occupy around 5% of all global sales. But don’t let that number fool you, Japan is still the world’s third-biggest consumer of instant noodles, after China and Indonesia, with more than 5.5 billion servings being eaten a year. But perhaps the story behind instant ramen is more important to Japan than actually buying and eating the product. It’s believed that the dried noodles sitting in many university dorms can trace their culinary ancestry back to an early form of ramen noodles brought over to Japan by Chinese chefs in the 1880s. Traditional ramen noodles are, in their most basic form, wheat noodles served in a soupy broth with some slices of meat or tofu on top. Over the decades, that simple recipe has been adapted and expanded over and over again, giving imaginative chefs the ability to show off their skills by making complex broths, perfectly textured noodles and an ever-expanding variety of toppings. The original ramen was eaten by Japanese labourers by the bowlful. World War Two changed everything. Large tracts of Japan were decimated by bombing. When the war came to a close in 1945, the surviving population was starving. Enter our unlikely hero – a failed businessman named Momofuku Ando. Ando, as he’s affectionately known, had earned and lost fortunes, first in his native Taiwan and then in Japan. He made millions in industrial parts during the war, then lost it. At one point, he went to prison for fraud. He then headed a bank, which collapsed. But Ando was persistent. He wanted to rebuild his reputation and his fortune. A decade after the war had ended, contacts in Japan’s ministry of agriculture told him they were eager to figure out how to push Japanese people to eat more American wheat flour – the key component of US aid at the time. That’s when, so the story goes, Ando remembered something he’d seen at the end of the war – queues of exhausted people waiting patiently in long lines for bowls of steaming ramen noodle soup. What was needed, Ando thought, was a modern, speedy version of that working-class comfort food. A food that, conveniently, used lots of American wheat flour. And so, at the age of 48, Ando transformed himself into a food inventor. He disappeared into a wooden shed in his back garden every day for a year. When he emerged, he’d invented a product that looks almost identical to rectangular bricks of instant noodles that are stacked on supermarket shelves around the world. You can see faithful recreations of that shed if you visit Japan’s three – yes, three – instant noodle museums. The one we visited, in the coastal city of Yokohama, is the biggest and newest. It is owned by the food company Nissin, which was founded by Ando. The red, square block of a building is all clean, straight lines. Inside there are shiny floorboards and pristine white walls – it looks like a modern art museum. Apparently, it’s a hot place for first dates. Visitors are quickly led into the “instant noodle history cube”, a brightly lit room lined with thousands of instant noodle products, starting with Ando’s original block of Chikin Ramen. At the end, there are even luxury instant noodles – in convenience stores in Japan, you can buy noodles from famous Michelin-starred ramen shops. In between the two extremes sit some of the thousands of instant noodles on sale across the globe. The cube is a mind-boggling showcase of what food inventors can do. Instant noodles were born in Japan, but marketers go to pains to make them seem local, wherever they’re eaten. Some countries like the basil and olive flavour. Others prefer cheesy curry or creamy seafood. In Mexico, noodles are eaten with salsa and slices of lime. Nissin’s Kasura Suzuki beams as we examine the packaging. “We launch over 300 products yearly,” she says, “just in Japan, for our company. But only 1% remain in the market. The products have a really short life cycle because consumers are always looking for something new. So we have to be very inventive.” Most of the museum’s visitors are Japanese, but then Raquel Scott, a teacher from San Francisco, appears bubbling with enthusiasm. “I grew up on cup noodles,” she says. “Especially in college, needing a cheap meal. So I thought it would be fun to come here. What other better food to have a museum for than the cup noodle?” There is no obvious mention of environmental concerns – such as the styrofoam cup used for cup noodles – in the Yokohama museum.

To embrace the mindset of this museum, you’ll need to swallow any lingering doubts about the wonders of instant noodles and their contribution to human civilisation. Kasura guides me to the last room in the museum. “Here we have Space Ramen, which is the final invention that our founder Momofuku Ando created,” she explains. “This product was developed especially for astronauts to eat during space travel.” I hesitate, but she doesn’t blink. You’re saying that at the age of 95, Momofuku Ando was responsible for this invention? “Yes,” comes her immediate response. “He wanted to go beyond the atmosphere and take his invention to outer space.” The museum staff and its visitors ooze a sense of national pride. Ando was actually born in Taiwan, but it was in Japan that his invention came to life. Instant noodles came along at a turning point in Japan’s history, accompanying its rise from a struggling nation to a modern economic powerhouse. They came of age when Japanese households were filling up with new home appliances, such as kettles. Television commercials from that age showed the effervescent commercials promoting convenient new foods. Today, a whole culture of appreciation has grown around instant noodles in Japan. At the heart of the movement sits a shy, unassuming man named Toshio Yamamoto. He’s better known to his fans as Ton Tan Tin – a name he gave himself because he liked the sound of it. He’s the world’s most prolific instant (ramen) noodle reviewer. “Oh I love instant ramen very much,” he smiles. “I’ve been eating ramen since I was 10 years old. I’m pretty much made of ramen.” Yamamoto once worked as an engineer, but his noodle reviews became so popular that he was able to quit and devote himself to testing instant ramen. Companies send him their newest offerings for testing and followers send him boxes of instant noodles from overseas. He’s reviewed more than 6,200 kinds of instant noodles. You can check out Ton Tan Tin online. Each video is almost identical – you see the package of the product he’s going to review, you watch it being prepared, and then you watch the noodles’ score out of five. The entire process is oddly mesmerising. But you’ll never actually see Ton Tan Tin on screen – just his hands. In person, he’s a slightly awkward man. He shuffles around his suburban house in Japanese slippers. “I haven’t found ramen that’s five stars yet. I’m still on the journey to find that,” he explains. “The noodles will need to be perfect. The soup will need to have great quality and the condiments perfectly balanced, with a nice harmony.” On a large computer screen, he begins to click through all of his reviews. Most scores hover around three out of five. Suddenly, a shockingly low score pops up – a 0.1 out of five stars. “Those noodles were really thick and ‘guagua’,” he says. “It was a really bad texture in my mouth. And the soup is really thick. It’s a very kind of artificial flavour. And the condiments you chew but they just keep staying in your mouth. They were very difficult to swallow.” The product in question? One of the UK’s top sellers – Cup Noodle Chicken and Mushroom flavour. Millions of British university students survive on this, I tell him. I also tell him I would like to be here on the day that he eats that perfect five. I’d love to see the look on his face. He smiles and closes his eyes a little bit, as if imagining what those noodles would taste like. “I would share my happiness with everybody,” he sighs.

If Japan is the county that gave birth to the instant noodle, China’s the country where it came of age. Out of the 100 billion servings of instant noodles consumed last year, 38 billion were eaten in mainland China. But in China, there’s none of the romance that’s associated with instant noodles in Japan – there are no museums dedicated to them here. Ton Tan Tin would be shocked. Inside a bustling railway station in central Beijing, travellers are preparing for long journeys ahead. In a cavernous waiting room, weary-looking people are clutching thin plastic bags, mostly holding a few containers of instant noodles. “It’s garbage food,” complains one young woman. She’s eating a pot as she waits to board her train. “Everybody knows it’s bad for your health. I don’t like eating it, it’s simply for convenience.” In the centre of the train, tucked into a cosy compartment, we meet Huan Zhuo Ming and Wang Li, a friendly couple in their 50s. It’ll be three in the morning when they reach their hometown. They are visiting their elderly parents for China’s tomb- sweeping public holiday. The train has just left the station and Huan Zhuo Ming is already tucking into his supper. “There’s nothing else to eat. Of course, its instant noodles,” Wang Li patiently explains as her husband enjoys the spicy beef flavour – a favourite in China. A convenient hot water tap sits at the end of every train carriage, and a queue of like-minded folk are filling up their cup noodles as we chat. Huan Zhuo Ming is a security guard in Beijing and Wang Li works as a cleaner. They’ve been married for decades but they don’t live together anymore. Instead, they each stay in dormitories provided by their employers. Their daughter, who’s a nurse, lives in a third dormitory. Three family members, all scattered across the city. But, when asked about their living conditions, they shrug. They don’t question their scattered existence. It’s passengers like these who’ve helped make China richer. They’re migrant workers who left their homes in the countryside to work in the country’s factories and major cities. China’s astonishing economic growth clocked 9.5% a year for three decades, the World Bank says. It’s the fastest growth in economic history – but it’s also growth that hinged on the makeshift lifestyle of migrant workers and the sacrifices they’ve endured. Imagine you’re a bottom-of-the-ladder worker in China, sleeping in a dormitory bunk bed every night and eating canteen food every day. What do you eat if you want a filling snack? Instant noodles filled that gap. But the instant noodle lifestyle is becoming a thing of the past. Sales peaked at more than 50 billion servings a year in 2010 – just after the Chinese economy clocked record gains. But instant noodle sales have been dropping every year since – down 16% last year, alone. “Every food is a product of its own time,” says Professor Meng Suhe. She’s the grande dame of the noodle industry. Behind a pair of thick glasses, she’s witnessed the arc in noodle consumption and how it followed China’s own path over the past 40 years. “Each rise and drop in instant noodle sales has reflected distinct times in China’s modern history,” she says. The government’s numbers show that half of workers lived in dormitories in 2011. Five years later, only 13% of factory workers did so. Sixty percent had moved into rented housing – places with kitchens allowing them to cook what they want, so there’s less need for instant noodles. Now, China’s workers are starting to reject noodles as they crave their mum’s cooking, Professor Meng says. “Also, Chinese people are starting to crave less processed food.” But noodle makers shouldn’t pack up yet. Lots of millennials haven’t learned how to cook, sighs Professor Meng, and they’re dependent on convenience foods and deliveries.

Coss Marte strides through the streets of New York’s Lower East Side with total confidence. “I used to sell drugs on this corner,” he says breezily as we walk across the street to a grocery store. He grabs items off the shelves. Doritos, instant noodles – the processed food favourites he used to rely on in prison. He pauses, staring at the packs of noodles. “This really is survival food in prison.” Michael Gibson-Light has heard this many times before. He stumbled across the importance of instant noodles when he was researching prison jobs. His resulting research on instant noodles made headlines when it emerged last year. He’s the one who declared something that US prisoners have known for ages – in the past few years, instant noodles have come to replace cigarettes as the most traded item in US prisons. “It was totally taken for granted by the prisoner population,” he says. “I was surprised since all you ever really see on TV and movies, or read about in research about prisons is that cigarettes are the de facto currency.” That’s notable because it’s such a huge population. The US has more known prisoners than any other country in the world 2.2 million at the last count. And the change – from cigarettes to instant noodles – boils down to money. Prison budgets have been slashed and most prisons feed inmates the minimum number of calories per day. Many offer just two meals a day on weekends. Prison food has been the subject of recent state Supreme Court lawsuits, with prisoners arguing that prison food is inedible. “So, the food is even worse and there’s less of it,” Gibson-Light explains. “If you’re in prison and you want or need more food than you can get from the chow line, then you have to buy it yourself. The costs of nutrition have shifted to the prisoners themselves. Instant noodles are a go-to because they’re cheap.” But it goes further. Noodles function as currency. Over time, they became so valuable that people started using them to trade with. It didn’t take long for them to essentially replace tobacco products as the new black market currency, explains former prisoner Chandra Bozelko. “They’re easily stored and they’re non-perishable, so they can be kept for a very long time,” she says. Chandra served six years in prison in Connecticut for identity theft. The press called her the “Connecticut Princess” – an Ivy League graduate who was caught stealing credit card information and forging signatures to buy thousands of dollars worth of goods online. Now she’s out, she writes about prison life, including why instant noodles are so valuable on the inside. “You might have a certain book from the outside that I want to read. You might say, ‘I’ll give you 10 soups – 10 packages of ramen noodles – in exchange for that book,’ or to even borrow that book. I’m sure it’s been used for payment for sexual acts.” Noodles can ease social interactions inside a prison, Chandra says. “It can be used as a gratuity. So a lot of times there’s a laundry worker who washes people’s clothes, and even though you’re not required to do that, they might hand over a package of noodles when the laundry worker gives an inmate back her clothes, when they’re folded and dried.” It’s the same story for the men. Coss Marte says things can get violent when instant noodle debts aren’t repaid. “There are all types of hustling inside the system. People juggle. Juggle means you get, like, a 200% mark-up. If you give someone two ramen noodle soups, you get four [more] ramen noodle soups back within a week. “I’ve seen people get cut and stabbed for ramen noodle. And it’s not about the 30 cents it’s worth. It’s about the principle. It’s currency in the system.” Edible currency, that is. Chandra says she’ll never eat instant noodles again, but for Coss Marte, it’s a different story. He serves up his prison burrito and I give it a try. Warm and starchy, it’s full of flavour. Synthetic flavour – fake cheese and ketchup, mostly – but it’s easy to see why this would pass as comfort food inside a prison. In fact, prisoners turn noodles into all sorts of things, from tortillas to pizza bases. “I’ll make this once a year,” he explains, after eating a forkful of the burrito. “Maybe I’m watching a prison show or something and it’s like, ugh, memories.” Burritos are mostly off the menu because Coss is in shape now. He’s come a long way from prison, and runs his own gym. “I was eating all this junk food every day,” he says, gesturing towards the instant noodles. “The doctors told me my cholesterol levels were so bad I could die of a heart attack in five years. I was sentenced to seven years. That motivated me.” On his self-assigned exercise regime, he lost 70lb in just a few months. He didn’t want to die in prison, he explains. “The [prison] cemetery doesn’t say your name, just a number. I didn’t want to die in the system. I’ve seen people die in there. It’s pretty sad. Most of the time family don’t show up.” There’s now a big push to make the food served in prisons healthier. And globally, the trend’s the same. Noodle makers in China and Japan told us that they’re under pressure from consumers to overhaul their products, to subtract salt and add nutrients. But what happens if you eat only instant noodles? What would it do to your body? Kieran “Danger” Dooley can tell us – he’s the person who forced himself to exist only on noodles for a month as part of a student film project. After 30 days, Danger lost 11kg. Normally an easy-going guy, he experienced unusual mood swings. “I would go up and down, up and down. I wouldn’t say depression. It was more of a meh! I just couldn’t be bothered,” he explains. “I couldn’t be bothered making the noodles. I’d just stare at them for 10 minutes and think, ‘Why the hell did I do this?’” Danger made it through the month, with one sneaky trip to a pub to drink three pints of beer. The silver lining was that he won the top prize in his university documentary competition. And what did a month of eating square packets of noodles teach him? “Man can’t live on noodles alone. Well, they probably could but it wouldn’t be an existence worth living.” Tell that to those who still revere Momofuku Ando. In the instant noodle museum in Yokohama, there’s a cardboard cut-out of him. He is surrounded by, and equated with, famous historical figures – Marie Curie, Beethoven, Galileo, Einstein. But does the creator of instant noodles deserve a place of honour among the world’s greatest figures? Here’s one thing we can say – instant noodles are the world’s true convenience food, the hot food that’s always waiting there, in the background, for those who are short on money or time. As long as there are people living in dormitories, or shopping in convenience stores, or concocting meals in prisons – the instant noodle will live on.

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Nature The Eternal Life of the Instant Noodle, in 2018-09-28 02:55:13

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Nature The Eternal Life of the Instant Noodle

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At the age of 12, Coss Marte began dealing drugs in New York City. At 15, he was sent to prison for a year. That’s when he began to learn how things worked behind bars. “This guy next to me was serving 12 years,” says Coss. “We started cooking together.” That was the first of three stints in prison – including New York’s famously brutal Rikers Island prison. Each time, Coss existed on “prison burritos”, a regular makeshift snack for US inmates. “Instant noodles, potato chips, Cheezits. If you get lucky, you steal an onion from the mess hall,” he says. “You shuffle it up, you throw in a little bit of ketchup, mayonnaise maybe. I’ve had people tell me it tastes like Taco Bell.”

Basic instant noodles are the cheapest thing on sale in most prison stores, where three packs cost about a dollar. They’ve replaced cigarettes as the most traded item inside American prisons. They’re so important, inmates use them as money. As Coss was learning the ropes in prison, another young man living on the other side of the globe was also figuring out how to rely on instant noodles. Back in 2004, Kieran “Danger” Dooley was 20 years old and training to be a teacher in Dunedin, in southern New Zealand. But he was harbouring a dream to be a movie director. And one night he saw a film that gave him an idea. “It was Supersize Me,” he says. “I latched on to it and I thought, ‘Well, you know, old Morgan Spurlock, he’s a bit of a legend as far as I’m concerned.’ And I thought I’ll make the sacrifice. I can give this a shot too.” In his documentary, Morgan Spurlock eats nothing but McDonald’s for a month, recording the drastic physical and psychological impact. Danger Dooley chose the obvious student equivalent with his student film, Noodle Me. “I couldn’t really afford McDonald’s every day or Kentucky Fried Chicken or Burger King or whatever,” he says. Instant noodles were an inevitable choice. Sixty years after their invention, they have become the default food for anyone short on money, or time, or a kitchen. They even pop up in disaster zones and on long-haul flights. Last year, across the globe, more than 100 billion servings of instant noodles were eaten. That’s more than 13 servings for every person on the planet.

In the birthplace of instant noodles, Japan, they’ve been voted – repeatedly – Japan’s most successful invention, ahead of high-speed trains, laptops and karaoke. Instant noodle sales have certainly fallen in Japan since the invention’s heydey in the 1970s and 80s, and now occupy around 5% of all global sales. But don’t let that number fool you, Japan is still the world’s third-biggest consumer of instant noodles, after China and Indonesia, with more than 5.5 billion servings being eaten a year. But perhaps the story behind instant ramen is more important to Japan than actually buying and eating the product. It’s believed that the dried noodles sitting in many university dorms can trace their culinary ancestry back to an early form of ramen noodles brought over to Japan by Chinese chefs in the 1880s. Traditional ramen noodles are, in their most basic form, wheat noodles served in a soupy broth with some slices of meat or tofu on top. Over the decades, that simple recipe has been adapted and expanded over and over again, giving imaginative chefs the ability to show off their skills by making complex broths, perfectly textured noodles and an ever-expanding variety of toppings. The original ramen was eaten by Japanese labourers by the bowlful. World War Two changed everything. Large tracts of Japan were decimated by bombing. When the war came to a close in 1945, the surviving population was starving. Enter our unlikely hero – a failed businessman named Momofuku Ando. Ando, as he’s affectionately known, had earned and lost fortunes, first in his native Taiwan and then in Japan. He made millions in industrial parts during the war, then lost it. At one point, he went to prison for fraud. He then headed a bank, which collapsed. But Ando was persistent. He wanted to rebuild his reputation and his fortune. A decade after the war had ended, contacts in Japan’s ministry of agriculture told him they were eager to figure out how to push Japanese people to eat more American wheat flour – the key component of US aid at the time. That’s when, so the story goes, Ando remembered something he’d seen at the end of the war – queues of exhausted people waiting patiently in long lines for bowls of steaming ramen noodle soup. What was needed, Ando thought, was a modern, speedy version of that working-class comfort food. A food that, conveniently, used lots of American wheat flour. And so, at the age of 48, Ando transformed himself into a food inventor. He disappeared into a wooden shed in his back garden every day for a year. When he emerged, he’d invented a product that looks almost identical to rectangular bricks of instant noodles that are stacked on supermarket shelves around the world. You can see faithful recreations of that shed if you visit Japan’s three – yes, three – instant noodle museums. The one we visited, in the coastal city of Yokohama, is the biggest and newest. It is owned by the food company Nissin, which was founded by Ando. The red, square block of a building is all clean, straight lines. Inside there are shiny floorboards and pristine white walls – it looks like a modern art museum. Apparently, it’s a hot place for first dates. Visitors are quickly led into the “instant noodle history cube”, a brightly lit room lined with thousands of instant noodle products, starting with Ando’s original block of Chikin Ramen. At the end, there are even luxury instant noodles – in convenience stores in Japan, you can buy noodles from famous Michelin-starred ramen shops. In between the two extremes sit some of the thousands of instant noodles on sale across the globe. The cube is a mind-boggling showcase of what food inventors can do. Instant noodles were born in Japan, but marketers go to pains to make them seem local, wherever they’re eaten. Some countries like the basil and olive flavour. Others prefer cheesy curry or creamy seafood. In Mexico, noodles are eaten with salsa and slices of lime. Nissin’s Kasura Suzuki beams as we examine the packaging. “We launch over 300 products yearly,” she says, “just in Japan, for our company. But only 1% remain in the market. The products have a really short life cycle because consumers are always looking for something new. So we have to be very inventive.” Most of the museum’s visitors are Japanese, but then Raquel Scott, a teacher from San Francisco, appears bubbling with enthusiasm. “I grew up on cup noodles,” she says. “Especially in college, needing a cheap meal. So I thought it would be fun to come here. What other better food to have a museum for than the cup noodle?” There is no obvious mention of environmental concerns – such as the styrofoam cup used for cup noodles – in the Yokohama museum.

To embrace the mindset of this museum, you’ll need to swallow any lingering doubts about the wonders of instant noodles and their contribution to human civilisation. Kasura guides me to the last room in the museum. “Here we have Space Ramen, which is the final invention that our founder Momofuku Ando created,” she explains. “This product was developed especially for astronauts to eat during space travel.” I hesitate, but she doesn’t blink. You’re saying that at the age of 95, Momofuku Ando was responsible for this invention? “Yes,” comes her immediate response. “He wanted to go beyond the atmosphere and take his invention to outer space.” The museum staff and its visitors ooze a sense of national pride. Ando was actually born in Taiwan, but it was in Japan that his invention came to life. Instant noodles came along at a turning point in Japan’s history, accompanying its rise from a struggling nation to a modern economic powerhouse. They came of age when Japanese households were filling up with new home appliances, such as kettles. Television commercials from that age showed the effervescent commercials promoting convenient new foods. Today, a whole culture of appreciation has grown around instant noodles in Japan. At the heart of the movement sits a shy, unassuming man named Toshio Yamamoto. He’s better known to his fans as Ton Tan Tin – a name he gave himself because he liked the sound of it. He’s the world’s most prolific instant (ramen) noodle reviewer. “Oh I love instant ramen very much,” he smiles. “I’ve been eating ramen since I was 10 years old. I’m pretty much made of ramen.” Yamamoto once worked as an engineer, but his noodle reviews became so popular that he was able to quit and devote himself to testing instant ramen. Companies send him their newest offerings for testing and followers send him boxes of instant noodles from overseas. He’s reviewed more than 6,200 kinds of instant noodles. You can check out Ton Tan Tin online. Each video is almost identical – you see the package of the product he’s going to review, you watch it being prepared, and then you watch the noodles’ score out of five. The entire process is oddly mesmerising. But you’ll never actually see Ton Tan Tin on screen – just his hands. In person, he’s a slightly awkward man. He shuffles around his suburban house in Japanese slippers. “I haven’t found ramen that’s five stars yet. I’m still on the journey to find that,” he explains. “The noodles will need to be perfect. The soup will need to have great quality and the condiments perfectly balanced, with a nice harmony.” On a large computer screen, he begins to click through all of his reviews. Most scores hover around three out of five. Suddenly, a shockingly low score pops up – a 0.1 out of five stars. “Those noodles were really thick and ‘guagua’,” he says. “It was a really bad texture in my mouth. And the soup is really thick. It’s a very kind of artificial flavour. And the condiments you chew but they just keep staying in your mouth. They were very difficult to swallow.” The product in question? One of the UK’s top sellers – Cup Noodle Chicken and Mushroom flavour. Millions of British university students survive on this, I tell him. I also tell him I would like to be here on the day that he eats that perfect five. I’d love to see the look on his face. He smiles and closes his eyes a little bit, as if imagining what those noodles would taste like. “I would share my happiness with everybody,” he sighs.

If Japan is the county that gave birth to the instant noodle, China’s the country where it came of age. Out of the 100 billion servings of instant noodles consumed last year, 38 billion were eaten in mainland China. But in China, there’s none of the romance that’s associated with instant noodles in Japan – there are no museums dedicated to them here. Ton Tan Tin would be shocked. Inside a bustling railway station in central Beijing, travellers are preparing for long journeys ahead. In a cavernous waiting room, weary-looking people are clutching thin plastic bags, mostly holding a few containers of instant noodles. “It’s garbage food,” complains one young woman. She’s eating a pot as she waits to board her train. “Everybody knows it’s bad for your health. I don’t like eating it, it’s simply for convenience.” In the centre of the train, tucked into a cosy compartment, we meet Huan Zhuo Ming and Wang Li, a friendly couple in their 50s. It’ll be three in the morning when they reach their hometown. They are visiting their elderly parents for China’s tomb- sweeping public holiday. The train has just left the station and Huan Zhuo Ming is already tucking into his supper. “There’s nothing else to eat. Of course, its instant noodles,” Wang Li patiently explains as her husband enjoys the spicy beef flavour – a favourite in China. A convenient hot water tap sits at the end of every train carriage, and a queue of like-minded folk are filling up their cup noodles as we chat. Huan Zhuo Ming is a security guard in Beijing and Wang Li works as a cleaner. They’ve been married for decades but they don’t live together anymore. Instead, they each stay in dormitories provided by their employers. Their daughter, who’s a nurse, lives in a third dormitory. Three family members, all scattered across the city. But, when asked about their living conditions, they shrug. They don’t question their scattered existence. It’s passengers like these who’ve helped make China richer. They’re migrant workers who left their homes in the countryside to work in the country’s factories and major cities. China’s astonishing economic growth clocked 9.5% a year for three decades, the World Bank says. It’s the fastest growth in economic history – but it’s also growth that hinged on the makeshift lifestyle of migrant workers and the sacrifices they’ve endured. Imagine you’re a bottom-of-the-ladder worker in China, sleeping in a dormitory bunk bed every night and eating canteen food every day. What do you eat if you want a filling snack? Instant noodles filled that gap. But the instant noodle lifestyle is becoming a thing of the past. Sales peaked at more than 50 billion servings a year in 2010 – just after the Chinese economy clocked record gains. But instant noodle sales have been dropping every year since – down 16% last year, alone. “Every food is a product of its own time,” says Professor Meng Suhe. She’s the grande dame of the noodle industry. Behind a pair of thick glasses, she’s witnessed the arc in noodle consumption and how it followed China’s own path over the past 40 years. “Each rise and drop in instant noodle sales has reflected distinct times in China’s modern history,” she says. The government’s numbers show that half of workers lived in dormitories in 2011. Five years later, only 13% of factory workers did so. Sixty percent had moved into rented housing – places with kitchens allowing them to cook what they want, so there’s less need for instant noodles. Now, China’s workers are starting to reject noodles as they crave their mum’s cooking, Professor Meng says. “Also, Chinese people are starting to crave less processed food.” But noodle makers shouldn’t pack up yet. Lots of millennials haven’t learned how to cook, sighs Professor Meng, and they’re dependent on convenience foods and deliveries.

Coss Marte strides through the streets of New York’s Lower East Side with total confidence. “I used to sell drugs on this corner,” he says breezily as we walk across the street to a grocery store. He grabs items off the shelves. Doritos, instant noodles – the processed food favourites he used to rely on in prison. He pauses, staring at the packs of noodles. “This really is survival food in prison.” Michael Gibson-Light has heard this many times before. He stumbled across the importance of instant noodles when he was researching prison jobs. His resulting research on instant noodles made headlines when it emerged last year. He’s the one who declared something that US prisoners have known for ages – in the past few years, instant noodles have come to replace cigarettes as the most traded item in US prisons. “It was totally taken for granted by the prisoner population,” he says. “I was surprised since all you ever really see on TV and movies, or read about in research about prisons is that cigarettes are the de facto currency.” That’s notable because it’s such a huge population. The US has more known prisoners than any other country in the world 2.2 million at the last count. And the change – from cigarettes to instant noodles – boils down to money. Prison budgets have been slashed and most prisons feed inmates the minimum number of calories per day. Many offer just two meals a day on weekends. Prison food has been the subject of recent state Supreme Court lawsuits, with prisoners arguing that prison food is inedible. “So, the food is even worse and there’s less of it,” Gibson-Light explains. “If you’re in prison and you want or need more food than you can get from the chow line, then you have to buy it yourself. The costs of nutrition have shifted to the prisoners themselves. Instant noodles are a go-to because they’re cheap.” But it goes further. Noodles function as currency. Over time, they became so valuable that people started using them to trade with. It didn’t take long for them to essentially replace tobacco products as the new black market currency, explains former prisoner Chandra Bozelko. “They’re easily stored and they’re non-perishable, so they can be kept for a very long time,” she says. Chandra served six years in prison in Connecticut for identity theft. The press called her the “Connecticut Princess” – an Ivy League graduate who was caught stealing credit card information and forging signatures to buy thousands of dollars worth of goods online. Now she’s out, she writes about prison life, including why instant noodles are so valuable on the inside. “You might have a certain book from the outside that I want to read. You might say, ‘I’ll give you 10 soups – 10 packages of ramen noodles – in exchange for that book,’ or to even borrow that book. I’m sure it’s been used for payment for sexual acts.” Noodles can ease social interactions inside a prison, Chandra says. “It can be used as a gratuity. So a lot of times there’s a laundry worker who washes people’s clothes, and even though you’re not required to do that, they might hand over a package of noodles when the laundry worker gives an inmate back her clothes, when they’re folded and dried.” It’s the same story for the men. Coss Marte says things can get violent when instant noodle debts aren’t repaid. “There are all types of hustling inside the system. People juggle. Juggle means you get, like, a 200% mark-up. If you give someone two ramen noodle soups, you get four [more] ramen noodle soups back within a week. “I’ve seen people get cut and stabbed for ramen noodle. And it’s not about the 30 cents it’s worth. It’s about the principle. It’s currency in the system.” Edible currency, that is. Chandra says she’ll never eat instant noodles again, but for Coss Marte, it’s a different story. He serves up his prison burrito and I give it a try. Warm and starchy, it’s full of flavour. Synthetic flavour – fake cheese and ketchup, mostly – but it’s easy to see why this would pass as comfort food inside a prison. In fact, prisoners turn noodles into all sorts of things, from tortillas to pizza bases. “I’ll make this once a year,” he explains, after eating a forkful of the burrito. “Maybe I’m watching a prison show or something and it’s like, ugh, memories.” Burritos are mostly off the menu because Coss is in shape now. He’s come a long way from prison, and runs his own gym. “I was eating all this junk food every day,” he says, gesturing towards the instant noodles. “The doctors told me my cholesterol levels were so bad I could die of a heart attack in five years. I was sentenced to seven years. That motivated me.” On his self-assigned exercise regime, he lost 70lb in just a few months. He didn’t want to die in prison, he explains. “The [prison] cemetery doesn’t say your name, just a number. I didn’t want to die in the system. I’ve seen people die in there. It’s pretty sad. Most of the time family don’t show up.” There’s now a big push to make the food served in prisons healthier. And globally, the trend’s the same. Noodle makers in China and Japan told us that they’re under pressure from consumers to overhaul their products, to subtract salt and add nutrients. But what happens if you eat only instant noodles? What would it do to your body? Kieran “Danger” Dooley can tell us – he’s the person who forced himself to exist only on noodles for a month as part of a student film project. After 30 days, Danger lost 11kg. Normally an easy-going guy, he experienced unusual mood swings. “I would go up and down, up and down. I wouldn’t say depression. It was more of a meh! I just couldn’t be bothered,” he explains. “I couldn’t be bothered making the noodles. I’d just stare at them for 10 minutes and think, ‘Why the hell did I do this?’” Danger made it through the month, with one sneaky trip to a pub to drink three pints of beer. The silver lining was that he won the top prize in his university documentary competition. And what did a month of eating square packets of noodles teach him? “Man can’t live on noodles alone. Well, they probably could but it wouldn’t be an existence worth living.” Tell that to those who still revere Momofuku Ando. In the instant noodle museum in Yokohama, there’s a cardboard cut-out of him. He is surrounded by, and equated with, famous historical figures – Marie Curie, Beethoven, Galileo, Einstein. But does the creator of instant noodles deserve a place of honour among the world’s greatest figures? Here’s one thing we can say – instant noodles are the world’s true convenience food, the hot food that’s always waiting there, in the background, for those who are short on money or time. As long as there are people living in dormitories, or shopping in convenience stores, or concocting meals in prisons – the instant noodle will live on.

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Nature The Eternal Life of the Instant Noodle, in 2018-09-28 02:55:13

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