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taexual · 5 years

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HOLIC - 44 | jb x reader

pairing: Im Jaebum x Reader

genre: enemies to lovers au | roommate au

warnings: it’s just raw angst

words: 7.2k

disclaimer: i do not own the gif, please let me know if it belongs to you, so i can give proper credit

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It only took you a few days to finish editing all of the pictures you’d taken of Jaebum that night. You ran them by him first – and smacked him when he tried to make you swear he’d always be your only model – and then emailed them to his agency. You still needed their approval so, even though Jaebum had insisted you take these pictures, it was possible that his employers were going to end up hiring someone else, after all.

Except, as you learned on your way to work that Friday, they didn’t. As it turned out, the only problem Jaebum’s producer had with the pictures you’ve taken was that he couldn’t choose one. It felt like the biggest compliment you’ve ever been told.

The entire day would have been wonderful – Fridays already carried a certain aura of just being plain great – had it not been for a text Jiho sent you right when you were wrapping up, ready to head home. Apparently, his old friend was holding an exhibition at one of the out-of-town galleries he’d worked with before so you needed to keep your Saturday free.

Grateful that he’d warned you—sort of—in advance this time, you texted back in confirmation and were surprised to learn that Jiho actually expected you to bring your camera to the exhibition. For a moment, you thought he’d found out you’d taken Jaebum up to the balcony and had completely stolen Jiho’s photoshoot spot, so he was now going to get back at you by taking your camera and locking it away or something equally as unrealistic. But then you realized that made no sense – even if he had learned about your impromptu photoshoot, why would he try to get back at you? You’d done nothing wrong. Quite the opposite, actually.

Getting the approval of Jaebum’s agency provided you with a huge boost of confidence that you obviously needed. They liked your pictures so much, they didn’t know which ones to use – that had to mean you were, at least, somewhat better than average at what you did. What was more, that had to mean that, perhaps, you’d been too pessimistic about the number of opportunities you would get to make yourself known. Maybe you wouldn’t have to completely rely on Jiho to get your name out there, after all.

In the time leading up to the exhibition you had to attend with Jiho that Saturday night, you couldn’t get the memory of the photoshoot with Jaebum out of your head. Taking pictures of him had been nothing short of wonderful. You both had fun – although you did nearly freeze your hands off – and just seeing him through the lens of your camera inspired you so much, you had come up with three new ideas for a photoshoot if this one didn’t work out. But it did work out. Not only did you thoroughly enjoy the photoshoot itself, but the end result was also splendid. You couldn’t have been happier.

However, ruining the utter bliss of your routine with Jaebum as the two of you munched on pizza in his bed that Friday night, you got a call from Hyojin who was demanding to see you immediately. Normally, you’d have turned any offer to go out down – there was simply nothing you’d have rather done that what you’d already been doing – but because she was one of your best friends and, frankly, she sounded absolutely terrifying on the phone, you forced yourself out of bed.

“Are you seriously leaving right when Johnny Depp discovers the—”

“Oh, no,” you stopped Jaebum by extending your hand in front of his face. “Just because you’ve seen Sleepy Hollow before doesn’t mean you get to spoil the ending for me. Or watch it without me. Pause it, I won’t be long.”

“That’s not the ending, it’s barely even the middle,” he mumbled, pausing the movie nevertheless. “And are you saying I’m going to have to stare at the ceiling while I wait for you?”

“It’s just fifteen minutes,” you said. “Jacob’s dropping her off in front of our building. There’s no way Hyojin will make him wait for very long.”

“Why is she coming all this way over here, anyway?” he asked, already knowing all about your friends and their boyfriends. “And, at this hour, nonetheless?”

“It’s nine on a Friday night,” you said matter-of-factly. “She was probably out drinking like normal people do. It’s just you and I who get drunk on a Monday night instead.”

Jaebum grinned at the jab. “Fair point. I’ve paused the movie for you – consider that when you’re out and don’t keep me waiting for too long.”

“I will keep your sacrifices in mind,” you leaned over to kiss him and then stumbled out of his bedroom, your jeans still only halfway on.

Hyojin hadn’t been to your neighborhood before and it showed – she had her boyfriend drive around the block three times before she called and got you to come to the building they’d eventually parked outside of. But even despite getting lost, she looked like she thought that coming all the way over here was worth it.

“It’s great to see you,” you told her after the two of you hugged hello. “But, seriously, what’s up? You’ve never driven this far for me before, usually we just—”

“No, I know,” she cut you off, pulling her phone out of her pocket. “But you need to see this. I couldn’t text you the link because, well, yelling at you over text is not the same as yelling at you in real life. So, here. Look.”

She pressed something on her phone and then passed it on to you.

From the looks of it, Hyojin had opened up a tabloid site – with some very bad formatting that warped the text in every second paragraph – but you didn’t get to check what kind of site because your eyes immediately caught Jiho’s name in the headline. And then your name following right after.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered under your breath, reading on.

The article seemed to be a quick recap of the dinner you’d attended with Jiho earlier this week. It was accompanied by some high-quality pictures of the people who were there – and thus, you realized that this wasn’t actually a tabloid site at all, this must have been a blog-like website by one of the dinner guests – but its’ main focus, without a doubt, was the “budding relationship between the most promising young photographer” – Jiho – “and his muse” – you.

“I’m not—this wasn’t supposed to—oh, fuck,” you tossed around helplessly, handing Hyojin her phone back. “How did you even find this?”

“I didn’t. Jacob showed it to me,” she replied, her face executing every sign that she was about to scold you good. “One of his friends from publishing was at that dinner, so he was showing Jacob the pictures and Jake thought he’d recognized you. Turns out, his friend was actually looking forward to meeting you. He’d referred to you as “Jiho’s girlfriend.”

“God, no, it’s not—”

“Yeah, I sure hope it’s not,” Hyojin continued, too fired up to let you finish, “because this implies that you’re still in touch with that asshat and, not just that, but you’re also dating him.”

You momentarily recalled your last conversation with May at Mark’s bar. Evidently, she’d kept quiet about the revelation that your entire future depended on Jiho, so Hyojin was completely in the dark about it all.

“I’m not. I swear, I’m not. I would never! Jaebum—he’s right upstairs, waiting—God, this is messed up,” you brought your hands over your face in an attempt to collect your thoughts so you’d finally form a coherent sentence. “Listen, you can’t tell anyone because I’m not sure if I’m allowed to speak about this – at least not to the press – but—”

“Well, go right ahead,” she urged, “I’m not the press.”

“Yeah, but Jacob is,” you nodded your head towards the car Hyojin had just stepped out of – or, perhaps, sprinted out of would have put it more accurately since she hopped right out, slamming the door shut before you even got a glimpse of her boyfriend.

“He’s not that kind of press,” Hyojin rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t care about some photographer that’s fresh out of the womb. No one does. No offense.”

You didn’t take offense – she was right. As Mark had pointed out in his bar the other day, the only people who cared about photographers were other photographers.

“Right,” you swallowed. “Well, this was Jiho’s idea. He thought I should get some exposure before my exhibition.”

Hyojin frowned. “Why does he get to decide that?”

God, you thought you appreciated May for not telling the rest of your friends about this – she must have thought you should have been the one to do that – but now you wished she had, just like she revealed the truth about who your roommate was. You’d planned to keep Jaebum’s identity a secret but ended up spilling it all to her while wine-drunk and, in turn, May had told the rest of your friends. If she’d done the same thing now, perhaps you wouldn’t have had to face Hyojin’s judgemental eyes.

“Because,” you closed your eyes, “it’s his gallery.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” you groaned, your fingers suddenly very drawn to your scalp and, particularly, ripping your hair out of it. “God, it’s a long story.”

“Honey,” your friend put her hand on your shoulders, a very determined expression on her face, “I’ve got all night.”

Jacob pulled his window down, having overheard her say this. “You really don’t, love. We have a movie to catch in half an hour. Hello, by the way.”

“Hey, Jake,” you gave him an awkward wave which he acknowledged with a nod and then slid his window back up, giving you and Hyojin some privacy – even though he could, clearly, hear everything from inside of the car anyway. “You should go, Jin. I swear nothing’s happening. His gallery reached out to me and offered me… something. It’s not just an exhibition, it’s a whole ton of other stuff, too. It’s a great contract, really. But before I get to lay claim to any of those perks, I have to become more well-known so that my first exhibition isn’t a complete bust. That dinner is a part of a-a PR stunt, you know? Like, we were supposed to appear together as two photographers, having dinner—”

“Is that not what you did?” she asked, interrupting you.

“It is, but—well, they’re calling me his muse,” you replied. “Not his colleague. So, that’s not exactly what was supposed to happen but, I guess, it’s still exposure.”

“Are you going to do something about this, then?” she continued.

“I don’t know what I can—”

“And what does Jaebum think about this wonderful stunt?”

Her questions already made it difficult to catch your breath but this last one seemed to punch you right in the lungs.

“He doesn’t know,” you wheezed out, not raising your eyes from the pavement.

For the second time that night, Hyojin’s jaw opened and froze in that position. “What?”

“N-no, I mean, he knows I’m doing these events for publicity,” you tried to explain, guilt flashing all over your face. “He just doesn’t know—”

“That they’re with Jiho?” she raised her eyebrows in an oddly accusing manner. “Babe, what are you doing?”

“I’m—”

She shook her head, choosing not to listen to another excuse. “You have to tell him.”

“I will!” you said, sounding far too exasperated. You’d already told everyone but Jaebum and the constant promises you made about telling him were starting to weigh down on your consciousness. “He’s just been so happy, getting that contract with an agency, and all. Everything’s going so well, it just doesn’t feel right to piss on his parade. He wanted this for so long.”

That sounded like an excuse and both of you knew it.

“Don’t think you’re doing him a favor by not telling him,” Hyojin reprimanded immediately.

“I know I’m not,” you said. “And I will tell him. Just not right this moment.”

“Well, if he sees the article, it will be too late, won’t it?”

“He won’t see it,” you said and then, after a moment of panic, added a fearful, “will he?”

Hyojin sighed. “Honestly, no, he probably won’t. The only reason Jake even saw that was because of that co-worker who showed it to him. There are probably, like, six people who read that website and I don’t think Jaebum is one of them. I hope that isn’t the kind of publicity Jiho meant.”

“I hope not,” you echoed. “Although it makes sense that no one cares about this. We’re irrelevant.”

“No, he had one thing right – people don’t care about these dinners but they do care about who’s dating whom, even if the people in question aren’t too famous,” she said. “Sex sells—”

Your eyes widened. “Sex?”

“You know what I mean,” she waved your surprise off. “People care about that shit. They want to know who’s sleeping with—”

“It’s just—just a few events,” you cut her off, just the mere mention of anyone assuming you and Jiho were having sex enough to send your stomach into a panicked frenzy. “Any publicity is good publicity, right?”

“Well, Jake would disagree but he’s not trying to become a celebrity. He just writes about them.”

“Right,” you nodded, allowing the looming awkward silence to finally engulf you both.

“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?” Hyojin asked another uncomfortably long moment later.

“No. I’m not sure about anything,” you replied honestly. “But I want that exhibition and if that’s the only way—”

“You know it’s not,” she disagreed right away. “And, frankly, faking a relationship with someone doesn’t seem worth it.”

You continued to count the tiles on the pavement, feeling – and looking – like a scolded kindergartner. Any other time, you’d have felt like she just didn’t understand your situation. Merely a few days ago, you were convinced you weren’t good enough to find a place to host your exhibition some other way, but now you’d achieved a huge breakthrough with the pictures you’d taken for Jaebum. Now you believed in yourself a little – oh, alright, a lot – more.

“This isn’t long-term,” you decided to say. “It’s just a few weeks tops. That’s two or three more events and I’ve got another one tomorrow night. It’ll all be over before long: I’ll have my exhibition and then I can forget all about Jiho.”

“Hmm,” Hyojin had crossed her arms and was now looking decidedly skeptical. “And, I suppose, you’ll tell Jaebum about this another decade later, yeah? I don’t really understand why you—”

“I’m afraid,” you cut her off. She didn’t seem to understand why you sounded so agitated so, after sighing so deep, your whole chest began to ache, you explained, “I don’t want to lose him. I’ve already fucked up before and it lead to some hefty arguments. But that was before we were together, so they weren’t as significant.”

“When are arguments ever not significant?”

“Fine, they were significant,” you said. “But they never posed a threat to our relationship because there wasn’t one. And now that there is, I’m afraid that if we fight, it will break us up.”

“So, what, you’ll spend the rest of your life walking on your tip-toes, avoiding arguments with him because you’re afraid?” Hyojin asked. The more she talked, the less your words made sense to you. Suddenly, you couldn’t understand why you kept talking at all.

“No,” you said awkwardly. “No, that’s just stupid, I can’t avoid arguments with him for the rest of my life, but it’s so soon. We’ve only been together for, what, a few weeks, a month—”

“When did you move in with him?”

“I-I don’t know, a few months ago,” you blinked, not sure how this question was relevant. “Maybe three, three and a half—”

“Alright, so you’ve been with him for three and a half months, then,” Hyojin concluded.

“No, but we weren’t together before—”

“No,” she declared louder so she could talk over you – just like she seemed to do the whole night tonight. “No, babe. Every argument you’ve had with him since the day you moved in was equally as significant, and yet, not a single one posed any threats to your relationship. Not-a-single-one, you hear me? Because, from what you’ve told me, you and him have gotten pretty intense with each other before and yet, neither of you moved out. Not even when you didn’t think you were going to end up together. You have some real stuff between you, you know what I mean? The kind of stuff that can’t be broken by arguments… but might get irrevocably stained by secrets.”

You didn’t have a response to give her and sighed instead but Hyojin understood everything you couldn’t say just from your breath.

“You don’t want to do this with Jiho, either,” she said gently. “So, don’t put yourself through something you don’t want to do. Do it your way. So what if it takes longer?”

It wasn’t the first time someone had said that to you and it certainly wasn’t the first time that you considered the weight of these words. They were heavy but that was the case with the truth – it weighed you down until you could barely move.

“We said we were going to do this together,” you whispered under your breath, the engine of Jacob’s car nearly drowning your words out. “So, if I don’t do this, I’ll just have to watch him walk away from me.”

“Walk away from—honey, no,” Hyojin sighed, wrapping her arms around you, her sweet perfume so familiar, you almost started to cry. “He wouldn’t.”

“He wouldn’t have a choice,” you insisted. “That’s how life works sometimes. I don’t want it to. I don’t want him to—I just want us to do this together.”

“And you will,” she promised, pulling away slightly so she could look at you. “But maybe at different speeds. But who the hell cares? You were together before fame and you’ll be together after. You’ll wipe your stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame together and then walk into the sunshine, hand-in-hand. Who cares if you’ll host your exhibition a month, or a year after he releases his album?”

You cared, sniffling as you refused to meet her eyes. “A lot can happen in a year.”

“And a lot will,” she nodded. “But you two had already gone through so much, you might as well go through a little bit more.”

“What if that’s where the breaking point is? What if we don’t have a year—”

“Sweetheart,” she stopped you, suddenly grave serious. “What if I reach down inside of you, grab that paranoia of yours, and strangle it so it no longer bothers you, hmm? That would save us all a lot of time.”

You couldn’t control the snicker that passed your lips and got Hyojin to smile as well.

“Go back,” she told you then. “And don’t forget where you’re going, okay?”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean? Where am I going?”

Hyojin smile meaningfully. “You’re going home.”

Hyojin’s last words helped you more than you’d realized at first, and you woke up the next morning with a decision – tonight was going to be the last event you’d attend with Jiho. Once it was over, you would sit him down and tell him that you had to find another way because you simply couldn’t approve of this one. He’d have to agree to let you host your exhibition right now and not “when you were more popular.” You’d tell him about the pictures you’d taken of Jaebum and how much his agency liked them if he refused to listen to you.

And then, if he’d agree, you’d go home, talk to Jaebum, host your exhibition, and live happily ever after. And if he wouldn’t, you’d still go home, talk to Jaebum, and find a way to live out your happily ever after without getting your exhibition.

You hoped for the former but, as you applied your make-up for the night, you braced yourself for the latter. You knew that the chances of Jiho agreeing to just cut straight to your exhibition were slim – you and him were only seen together twice; surely, that wasn’t going to be enough in his eyes – but you trusted your ability to sound convincing. He’d insisted the gallery wanted you for your potential, so, maybe he’d fight harder to hold on to you and agree to your terms, after all.

In the end, whatever happened tonight, this was going to be the last time you were out with Jiho for publicity.

You nearly blacked out when, after leaving a note to let Jaebum know you were off to a photography event, you walked out of your building and saw Jiho step out of a limousine. A sleek black limousine – as if you two were headed to your wedding or something.

“W-what is—” you began but didn’t get to finish before Jiho’s bright laughter cut you off.

“I thought we’d arrive in style! What do you think?” he asked. You thought he was a lunatic. “Attract some more attention, hmm? Come on, get inside – got your camera? Good! – there’s champagne.”

You felt like you’d just skipped through, at least, three chapters of your life when you climbed into his limousine. Who were you, exactly, to have this expensive ride with undoubtedly equally as expensive glass of champagne thrust into your hand as soon as you sat down?

It was impossible to understand what was happening – although, from the laid-back way Jiho was acting, you’d have thought he took the limo to go to work and do his grocery shopping, so this wasn’t weird to him in the slightest – and, what’s more, it was impossible to figure out what would happen next.

As it turned out, what happened next was silence. Jiho was texting someone on his phone, so the only sound in the car was the rapid click-clacking of his fingers against his screen and the ever-so-often sip of champagne. You, on the other hand, refused to drink and remained completely quiet and overly alert the entire ride. When thrust into a situation you’ve never experienced before, it was probably best to stay sober and aware of your surroundings.

Once the limousine stopped – tossing your heart from your chest to your heels – about fifty minutes later, Jiho finally put his phone away and turned to look at you.

“Here’s the plan,” he declared in a way that made it seem as though you two were about to rob a bank Bonnie-and-Clyde style. “I didn’t tell you to bring your camera just so people would know you’re a photographer. That will come up anyway. I asked—”

“Will it?” you cut him off reflexively.

“What?”

“Will it come up?” you repeated, deliberately this time. You had decided to tell him you didn’t want to do this – even though he had to know that himself already – and you were going to stick with that decision. “Because, judging from the article written about us after the dinner, I’m not actually a photographer at all. I’m just a girl on your arm.”

Jiho, for some reason, hadn’t expected you to have read the article. Once the initial surprise wore off, however, he looked pleased that you’ve seen it and was almost inclined to ask who’d shown it to you. Clearly, you had your own sources and he was all the more curious to know who they were.

“Right, but that’s where it starts,” he insisted. “Slowly, more and more people will stop focusing on the fact that we’re together and, instead, will start to focus on us as individuals. I mean, come on, there are only so many speculations that can be made about the relationship of two people. Sooner or later, people are bound to get bored.”

“If they’re bored, they’ll ignore me and focus on you,” you said, “and I will still be the girl—”

“Quit thinking I’ll be quiet through it all,” he cut you off, showing you, for the first time since you’ve met him, that he also had the ability to get annoyed. “I’m doing this for you—for the gallery. Obviously, I will do everything in my power to make it clear that we are both photographers. Hence your camera here, tonight. I want you to capture this event from your own point of view. I will use one of your pictures in my review of tonight’s exhibition – with proper credit, of course – and that’s how everything will kick off.”

You bit your lip, looking down. If he’d told you of this plan earlier, perhaps you’d have felt less revolted riding this limousine with him. Still, though – was the expensive car so necessary?

“Fine,” you said, choosing to leave the conversation about how you wanted to finish doing these events until after the night was over. You were sort of an expert at postponing potentially complicated conversations. “Let’s just get this over and done with.”

Jiho smiled in response – the smile, that was most likely fake, looked so real that you started to wonder if he’d been faking this nice exterior the whole night tonight – and, opening the door of the limo with one hand, extended his other one to you.

“What do you want me to—”

Not waiting for you to start questioning his motives again, he took your hand against your wishes, and helped you get out of the car. There were three people taking pictures of the guests arriving at the exhibition and all three of them suddenly had their cameras on you and Jiho, eager to capture you two stepping out of the car, hand-in-hand. It was almost blinding and most surreal.

“Good to see you, Jiho!” one of the photographers hollered, his flash going off every two seconds. You were sure you had your eyes closed in every single picture he took. “Is that the missus?”

You cringed – but hoped it wasn’t too noticeable – and tried to pull your hand out of Jiho’s grip now that you were out of the car, but he didn’t let you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Jiho replied sneakily, shooting a wink in the direction of the camera. “I’m here to have a grand night, admiring the artwork of a dear friend with a dear friend.”

“Is she just a friend, then?” another one asked. You felt yourself clutch the camera in your hands tighter in hopes of drawing more attention to it. “A close friend, perhaps?”

“She’s all of that and a lot more,” Jiho replied and you felt a cold wave wash over your entire body at his words. “And she’s one of the most talented young acts I know. Careful, boys, her pictures tonight might just overshadow yours.”

“We’re looking forward to it, Jiho!” the photographer said as Jiho lead you inside. Your feet were nearly frozen solid. “Have a great night!”

“You, too!” Jiho wished with a gentle wave of his hand and the two of you finally escaped the cameras by entering the building.

As soon as the photographers were behind you, you pulled your hand out of Jiho’s a little more forcibly than you’d intended and gave him a horrified look.

“What the hell are you saying to them?!” you demanded, not even trying to keep your voice down. “You told me you’d leave our relationship up for speculation and then you went ahead and—”

“And what?” he snapped, your sudden outrage frustrating him much more than your persistent doubts in the limo did. “What was it that I said to them that wasn’t precisely that? I’m planting the seeds of doubt—”

“You’re planting rumors!” you disagreed vehemently. “Do you really think they’ll care about my photographs now that you’d made it seem as if we’re together? As if we’re in love?”

“Of course, they will—”

“They couldn’t care less about that shit!” you continued, noticing how each swear word out of your lips made Jiho cringe and look around to see if anyone heard. “All that their cameras focused on was you holding my hand. I’m nothing to them—”

Jiho cut you off by taking a threatening step towards you, his face dangerously close to yours as he whisper-yelled through clenched teeth, “how do you expected to be something when you haven’t done anything? Popularity is earned. I’m earning it for you so show more gratitude and stop making a fucking scene.”

He stepped away a second later and, if you hadn’t been there, listening to him curse and put you down, you probably wouldn’t have believed it. Jiho was a fantastic actor, truly – the way he kept his composure around you all of this time was admirable. But there had to be a reason why you were so adamant to get away from him at all times; clearly, it wasn’t just because you’d misunderstood his intentions the first time you met him. It was also because somewhere deep in your subconscious, you figured he was just playing a role of Jiho, the sweet and eager-to-help photographer, while his real personality was buried deep underneath.

Well, you’d caught glimpses of his real face just now and, when he told you to straighten up and proceeded to wrap one hand around your waist to enter the exhibition hall, smiling as if you hadn’t just argued, you knew that the decision to drop everything, cancel the contract, and find another way to get your name out there was the right one.

“Jiho, I—”

“Shh,” he hushed sharply. “I need you to stay quiet right now. I’m looking for the host, I’m going to introduce you and then off you go, taking your pictures. Got it? I’m not in the mood to talk to you right now.”

“Me neither. I was just—”

His grip on your waist tightened. “What did I just tell you?”

His voice sounded like it came straight from hell and yet, instead of feeling intimidated, you felt incredibly relieved. You weren’t wrong, Jiho may have just been the devil incarnate with some very well-trained – albeit pretend – manners.

You stayed quiet, allowing him to search for the host of the night because you figured that if you had to end the night without a contract – you didn’t think it was possible that Jiho would agree to cut short to your exhibition instead of just dropping you right away – then it’d be great if you would get to meet a few more influential people beforehand. They probably weren’t going to help you out, knowing their relationship with Jiho, but it wouldn’t hurt to have them learn your name.

As soon as you shook the hand of the photographer whose pictures hung on the walls of the hall around you – your face hurt from all the fake smiles already, even though you’d only been here for less than twenty minutes – something happened that made you regret leaving your house tonight even more. You should have bolted in the opposite direction as soon as you saw the limousine approach, really.

“Hello,” an awfully familiar voice sounded next to you. You thought you experienced what falling from the twentieth story of a skyscraper must have felt like when you turned around to meet Jackson’s eyes. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh. H-hey,” you choked out, painfully aware of Jiho’s hand still on your waist. “I’m here with—”

“Hello,” Jiho turned around as soon as the host of the exhibition walked away. You may have feared Jaebum meeting Jiho but you couldn’t even begin to imagine what was going to happen when one of Jaebum’s best friends met him instead. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m—”

“Could you excuse us for a moment?” Jackson asked, his hand coming to rest on your waist instead.

Taking advantage of Jiho’s confused features, Jackson pulled you away from him and – before you could protest – walked you to the closest bathroom he could find, closing the door behind you.

“I’m sorry for cutting it straight to the chase,” he spoke as calmly as he could given the situation, “but, shit, who the hell is that?”

“T-that’s Jiho. He’s—”

“A scumbag that’s about to get his ass kicked, I hope?” Jackson finished for you. “What are you doing here with him?”

“I’m—God, it’s a long story,” you said, the exhaustion you’ve felt since you signed the contract showing in your voice. “I’ve signed a deal with his gallery, so I have to—”

“Does Jaebum know you’re here?”

“Jackson—”

“Because, I swear to God, I have no idea what you’re doing but I—”

“Jackson!” you said louder, suddenly afraid of the fire behind his eyes. He looked frantic. He looked like he was going to knock Jiho out right after he left the bathroom and his hand was already reaching for the door handle. “Please listen, I’m just—I came to the exhibition. I’ve signed a contract with a gallery Jiho represents and I need some exposure—”

“Some exposure?” he frowned, the look on his face depicting every frustration you were feeling inside. You were afraid to look him in the eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I can’t host my exhibition while no one knows who I am,” you answered. “I need to—”

“That’s bullshit!” Jackson snapped. “How are you supposed to get exposure without hosting any exhibitions? Did he convince you this was a good idea?”

“No, I don’t think this is a good idea, I—”

Jackson threw his hands in the air, startling you. “Well, then what the fuck are you doing here?!”

“I’m trying to get my name out there!” you replied in agitation. Jackon’s accusing tone and the questions he was firing at you confirmed that your raised voices in this bathroom were going to be nothing in comparison to the storm this would cause with Jaebum. “Fuck! I’m just—I’m trying to get some publicity. That was part of the contract.”

Jackson scoffed. “That guy has you pressed against his side like you’re his trophy wife. I don’t know what kind of publicity you’re seeking but I can assure you, this isn’t it. Jaebum—fuck, is he on board with this?”

You almost flinched when he mentioned Jaebum again.

“Of course he’s not—actually, uh, he doesn’t know the—”

“He doesn’t know?!”

To say that Jackson was appalled would have been an understatement.

“He doesn’t know the details!” you tried to explain, feeling yourself tear up but desperately trying to remain calm – or, well, as calm as you could with Jackson looking at you like you’d just killed your way through the West Coast. “He knows I have to attend these events for a little while, he just—I didn’t tell him about Jiho. The three of us go way back, he hates the guy.”

“Oh,” Jackson said in an uncharacteristically high-pitched voice. It was scary to hear his deep, somber tone take such a sarcastic chirp turn. “So, that makes all of this better!”

“It doesn’t,” you tried. “And I’ll tell him—”

“Like hell, you will.”

“W-what?”

“If you hadn’t told him yet, clearly, you’re not that eager to tell him at all,” he stated.

“No, I want him to know,” you insisted but you weren’t sure if you meant it. Hearing Jackson voice your real intentions was the ultimate turning point and every single ounce of guilt came pouring out of your eyes in tears. You really didn’t want Jaebum to know. “I-I just don’t want to fight with him about this—”

“Then maybe don’t do this!” Jackson continued, still as loud as before but gentler now that you started to cry, “if you’re doing something that’s going to start a fight with your boyfriend when he finds out, then you’re probably stepping out of line in a major way, don’t you think?” he paused as soon as he realized how riled up he was. He brought his hands through his hair to calm himself down. “God, I’m sorry, I can’t—I seriously have a hard time understanding this. W-why did you think this was a good idea? How the hell did you think faking a relationship with someone was going to go under your own boyfriend’s radar?”

You sniffled, trying to focus on your breathing so you wouldn’t sob out loud, “I’m not faking a relationship—”

“Oh, okay, well, don’t worry about that – that guy out there is doing it for you,” Jackson countered.

“No, I—this,” you felt yourself hiccup, “it w-wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“Fuck, what was it supposed to be like?” Jackson asked. “Because last time I was on the phone with Jaebum, he was in my studio, writing a fucking song about you. I definitely didn’t think I’d hang up the phone, turn around, and see his girl walk right past me with another guy.”

You barely had enough time to process what he had just said when a knock came on the bathroom door.

“Is everything alright?” Jiho’s voice called out. “I hate to bother you but we should probably get back out here. We’re here for your benefit, after all.”

“In a moment!” you replied through a stuffed nose. Jackson sighed, his hands on his hips and his eyes focused on the floor. The fact that he couldn’t even look at you felt like a whole new stab of pain. “Look, this is the last event I’m doing. I’m ending it tonight. If they won’t let me host an exhibition, I’ll find another solution. I won’t do this anymore.”

You wiped the tears from your cheeks and tried to steady your breathing.

“How many events like this have you done already?” Jackson asked another moment later. He may have been angry with you but he hated to have been the reason why you started to cry.

“Just a few, it hasn’t been that long—”

“And how long were you planning on doing this for?”

“N-not long,” you said, your breath hitching again. You exhaled slowly before finishing, “ideally, I want to end this tonight.”

“But you’ll still work with him – with a guy who’s obviously very interested in making the public think he’s dating you – and Jaebum will still not know about it, is that what you’re planning?” Jackson continued, watching your eyes fill with tears again but not being able to stop himself. He’d have put his life on the line for his best friend and it was starting to feel like that was exactly what he was doing right now because he knew he was going to wish he was dead as soon as this blew over. The sight of you crying because of the things he’d said was too awful to bear. “Jaebum will come to your exhibition, not having the slightest clue that there’s a guy who’s—”

“I’ll tell him!” you shouted desperately, pain spilling from your eyes without the slightest intention of stopping. “God, I will! I’ll tell him everything.”

“Will you? Will you, really? Because he’s my best friend. I can’t just stand here after I learned about the shit that he doesn’t know but should know. Fuck. I think you’re great, I really do. And, God knows, I’m so sorry I’ve made you cry tonight,” he added and then, even despite all that he’d just said, stepped closer to provide you with some comfort by carefully wrapping his arms around you, “I think the two of you are perfect for each other but, fuck…” he sighed after hearing you sob against his shoulder, “you know his heart better than I do, but even I can tell that you’re walking dangerously close to breaking it.”

“I wouldn’t,” you whispered, pulling away from him to look him in the eyes. “I couldn’t. I would never, I-I—”

“I know you probably don’t mean it,” he said softly, releasing you. “But he’s going to hate the fact that you’re keeping this a secret.”

“I know he is,” you nodded, stepping away from him and sniffling before slowly bringing your index fingers under your eyelids. Your make-up was most definitely destroyed but that was the least of your worries right now. “That’s w-why, the longer I stay quiet, the harder it gets to find a way to tell him.”

He sighed again. “You know someone has to.”

“J-Jackson, I—”

“Just go, okay?” he asked, turning away from you and resting his hands on the sink, his head hanging low. It was you who felt beyond ashamed and yet he looked like he was the one making the biggest mistake of his life. “That guy’s waiting for you out there.”

“Please, I’ll tell Jaebum about this, I just—”

“Go,” Jackson repeated. “Please.”

You reached the door but turned around as soon as the last tears slid down your cheeks. You waited for him to turn around to look at you but he wouldn’t.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” you said slowly, the ball in your throat from the tears and the pain and the guilt suffocating you. “I love him.”

Jackson whipped his head to face you. “Does he know?”

Looking down again, you didn’t even dare to shake your head – and you didn’t have to, Jackson knew the answer already. This was another thing you’d never gathered the courage to tell to Jaebum.

Jackson looked away again and, after another torturous moment, you dared to exit the bathroom, closing the door behind you and feeling yourself tear up yet again as soon as you saw Jiho’s polished shoes.

“What was that about?” he asked you right away.

“Jiho,” you said sternly, your vision clouded with tears. You thought you saw him take a small step back in shock once he saw your puffy red eyes. “I won’t do this anymore. I need an answer right now – can I host my exhibition at your gallery or not? Because if not, I’m ending the contract right this moment.”

“Well, of course, you can,” Jiho replied, surprised. His fake face was back on and you wished nothing more than to claw it off. “You just need a little bit more exposure and—”

“No,” you shook your head. “I don’t like this. I didn’t like the article written about us, I didn’t like what you told those photographers out there, and I don’t like the fact that we’re, essentially, pretending to be in a relationship. I’m not—I don’t want to do that. Either, I host the exhibition now or I’m leaving.”

“Well—that’s—where is all this coming from? I thought we’d reached an agreement. You’re so close to—”

“The only thing I’m close to is ruining the only thing that makes sense in my life,” you were the one who kept cutting him off this time. It was nice to have the upper hand for a change even if you had a feeling it would backfire. “So, tell me right now: will I have the exhibition at your gallery or not?”

“I-I can’t give you an answer immediately,” he replied. “I need to check in with the gallery and we need some time to consider this.”

“Okay. Consider it, then,” you said, exhaling shakily as you turned around towards the front door of the hall. “And give me an answer as soon as possible.”

“Wh—right, but where are you going?”

You didn’t stop as you answered curtly, “I’m going home.”

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emospritelet · 5 years

Text

This is my offering for the Rumbelle Big Bang! It’s Woven Lace, a prequel to my fic Things Left Unsaid, detailing Weaver and Lacey’s first meeting and their friends to lovers journey. My RBB buddy @evilsnowswan did gorgeous artwork to accompany it. There are 5 chapters, and this is the first. Read all 5 chapters on AO3

Whatever the time of year, it was always fucking raining in Seattle.

Detective Weaver turned up the collar of his jacket as he stepped out of the humid warmth of Roni’s bar, scowling as rain began to pummel the top of his head. He zipped the jacket, the brown leather already slippery beneath his fingers, and headed off in the direction of his apartment, shoulders hunched to keep out the wind that was trying to cut him in two. Raindrops danced on the sidewalks, glittering in the light from bars and late-night diners, soaking into the hems of his jeans and spreading up his calves. At ten-thirty, it was early to be heading home, but he liked to keep a clear head on the streets. There were too many people out there with a grudge against him, with a score to settle. Besides, there was a decent bottle of whisky in his kitchen, and he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone in order to get a glass.

He turned into an alleyway, which cut off most of the bitter wind, and walked past the dark metal fire escapes, the rain beating out a dull, clanging tune on their steel treads. It was not far to his apartment, and this was the quickest route from Roni’s, but he moved quickly, hands loose at his sides, alert to any potential threat. Distant shouts made his eyes narrow, and then there was the rhythmic sound of running feet. Weaver flexed his fingers, glancing around, but could see no one, and the noise died.

He walked on, quickening his pace, and turned into the final alleyway before his street, a narrow rat-run between apartment blocks, dumpsters wedged at angles beside rotting cardboard boxes of discarded flyers, coffee cups rolled into the gutters. That rhythmic sound was there again, the patter of running feet, and Weaver skirted one of the dumpsters, towards the sound. Immediately a body slammed into him, almost knocking the breath from him, and instinctively he grasped at his assailant’s arms, turning and shoving them against the alley wall.

“Get off me!”

A woman’s frantic voice burst out, and he loosened his grip as he found himself gazing into a pair of wide eyes above a short, rain-slicked black coat. Weaver released her arms immediately, but didn’t step back, merely reaching for his badge to identify himself.

“Detective Weaver, Seattle P.D,” he said. “Who’s chasing you?”

She was small and pale, her hair dark and tied up in a messy bun, stray wet curls sticking to her smooth cheeks and the straps of a backpack over her shoulders. Young: late teens or early twenties. And terrified, although she was trying not to show it, her jaw protruding as she glared at him.

“You have to let me go!” she insisted, and made to push past.

“I can help,” he said firmly. “Who’s after you?”

The sound of running feet was approaching again, this time heavy, uneven. Two people, he thought. Two men. The girl’s eyes had gone very round, and she shook her head frantically, glancing from left to right as though looking for a place to hide.

“She has to be down one of these fucking streets!” grated a voice from the end of the alleyway. “What the fuck were you playing at, letting her get away?”

“Bitch fucking bit my hand!” complained the other.

“You’re a pussy!” snapped his companion. “Can’t even handle one little girl? You’ll be lucky if you’ve still got your balls by the time the boss is done with you.”

“Just help me fucking find her, okay?” Footsteps came nearer, splashing in the puddles. “You take the left, I’ll take the right. She can’t be far.”

Weaver shifted position, his hand coming to rest on his gun, his body tense, and the girl shook her head.

“If they find me, they’ll kill us both!” she whispered. “You have to let me go! I’m faster than they are, fucking lumbering wankers!”

Her accent was Australian, and he wondered what had brought her to an alley in Seattle, of all places. He put a finger to his lips and she bounced on her toes, chewing her lip as though she was wrestling with a decision, before grabbing his face in her hands.

“Sorry about this!” she breathed. “It doesn’t mean anything, okay?”

She pressed her mouth to his, and Weaver’s eyes flew wide, his body freezing. Rain coursed over their faces, making their lips wet, and the girl slid her arms around his back, moving them down to his rear and tugging him hard against her so that her back hit the wet bricks behind. He was vaguely aware of rapid footsteps approaching, slowing as they did so, and just as he was about to pull back and spin around her tongue pushed between his lips, causing a groan to erupt from deep within him.

“Hey, have you—” The man who had spoken earlier cut off with a muffled curse. “Fuck!”

The sound of footsteps quickened and then faded, growing faint as he headed off down the alley. She broke the kiss with a wet, sucking sound, pushing Weaver back and glancing over his shoulder.

“I can’t believe that worked,” she said, almost to herself.

He stared at her, eyes wide with shock, his heart thumping. Her lips were very red, her chest heaving with exertion, and she fixed him with a firm gaze, raising her chin.

“Zero-two-one-nine, okay?” she said, and in a trice she was gone, slipping past him and running into the night.

Weaver was about to call after her, and swallowed the words down with the taste of her, wary of the two men hearing him, and tracing her presence. Rainwater was trickling down inside his collar, and he shivered, turning on his heel and striding along the alleyway to the street where his apartment was located. Almost immediately he stopped, feeling something in the back pocket of his jeans. Frowning to himself, he reached in, pulling out a slim cell phone. He figured that the girl must have slipped it in while she was kissing him, and he tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket; he needed to look at the thing more closely, but that would be best done back at his apartment. Shaking his head, he set off once more, leaving the alley and trotting up the steps of his apartment building. This was turning into one of his weirder evenings.

He locked the door behind him when he got inside, tossing his keys onto the hall table and shrugging off his jacket. Rain began to drip from it as he hung it up, falling with dull, wet splatters on the tiled floor. He rolled his shoulders, going to his kitchen and fetching some of the latex gloves that he kept around for use in collecting evidence. Tugging on a pair, he went to retrieve the phone from his jacket pocket and carried it into the kitchen. The strip light in the ceiling cast a pale, harsh glow across the work surfaces, and he squinted at the brightness after the dark of the alleyway. He went to pour himself a glass of whisky, taking a sip and relishing the burn in his throat before setting the glass down on the table and taking a seat.

The phone lay in front of him, a slim model in shining silver with a finger-smudged screen showing the date and time on its face, so he pressed the button at the bottom. Immediately a phone keyboard flashed up, wanting a code. Weaver sighed to himself. He was going to have to remove one of the gloves to get anywhere with the thing, and so he peeled one off. What was it she said? Zero-two-one-nine. He tapped the numbers, and the screen flared to life, rows of applications appearing. Weaver nodded to himself. Step one, at least.

He checked the telephone directory, which had around a dozen numbers, none of which had full names next to them, instead a series of initials. There was nothing that suggested a family member, or the identity of the phone’s owner. He went back to the applications, and checked the photo gallery. The last entry was a video taken earlier that evening, and he sucked his teeth before clicking on the play button.

The video was unsteady, the quality a little unfocused, and he suspected it had been taken surreptitiously due to the strange angle. The picture was of what seemed to be the inside of a building, its walls bare brick with exposed wiring and ducting. A warehouse? A cellar? Three men were in the picture, one in a suit with short dark hair, and the other two in dark pants and bulky black coats, shown from behind a pillar of some sort that kept cutting across the figure on the far left. The man in the suit had his hands up, a wide, false smile on his face, as though he knew what he was about to say was bullshit but that it was the only chance he had.

“Look, I told you, I can get it,” he was saying. “I just need a little more time, that’s all.”

“You’ve had all the time you’re getting,” growled one of the men.

Weaver recognised the voice he had heard in the alley. The man was stocky and somewhat heavy-jowled, his hair swept back off a high forehead. His partner was a little taller, but with the same stocky build, his face turned away from the camera a little. Distortion cut out whatever was said next, a crackle obliterating their words as the picture wobbled. When it focused again, he could hear rapid breathing, and imagined it was the girl, out of sight of the three men on video. The first man raised a gun, and the girl’s breathing cut off with a harsh catch in the throat. There was the crack of a gunshot, a muffled squeak from the girl and a spray of crimson as the body fell.

“The fuck?” shouted the second man. “You weren’t supposed to fucking kill him, what the hell were you thinking?”

“It was an accident!” yelled the other.

“Great, we’re fucking dead men!”

The picture became jumbled, a loud clattering noise sounding, and Weaver suspected the girl had dropped the phone.

“Hey!” came a shout, and the screen went dark, the play arrow appearing as the end of the video was reached.

Weaver frowned, using a finger to rewind the footage, and watched the murder again. He didn’t recognise the man killed, or the two assailants, but it looked as though he had a reason for the girl’s flight and their pursuit. He wondered what she had been doing in there, and whether she knew the victim or his killers.

He sat back in his chair, taking a sip of whisky, fingers tapping on the glass. It was evidence of a murder, even if he didn’t yet have all the pieces, and he needed more information to get the full picture. Sitting forward again, he opened up the photo gallery to see what else was in there. Random photographs and selfies, the girl grinning into the camera against the backdrop of a bar, a coffee shop, a deserted beach with a forbidding grey sky. The pictures told him nothing except that she was extremely pretty, with very blue eyes and white teeth, and that she seemed to be alone. None of the pictures was older than a few weeks, and he briefly wondered what her life had been like before that, and how it had led her to a murder scene.

Weaver put down the phone, and pushed away his whisky glass, pinching the bridge of his nose to clear tired eyes. He would be more effective at solving mysteries if he actually got some bloody sleep for a change, but given that he had evidence of a murder, it was best to get to the precinct to see if anyone else knew the victim or the shooters. With any luck, Dunbroch would be on duty and would have made some of her excellent coffee. It looked as though it was going to be another all-nighter.

Officer Merida Dunbroch was a fellow Scot, a no-nonsense woman with a shock of bright red curls, who had told him to fuck off within the first two sentences they had shared. Three years down the line, she appeared to have assigned herself the role of his big sister, despite being twenty years his junior, and would make disparaging comments on his sleep schedule, nutrition and lack of romantic entanglements until he snapped at her to go and do something fucking useful. She was foul-mouthed, hot-tempered and dedicated to her work, and he liked her very much. He had a sneaking suspicion that she and Detective Fa had a thing for each other, but neither of them seemed willing to act on it, and he wasn’t sure that playing Cupid was his strong suit, given his own non-existent love life. Merida raised an eyebrow as he wandered into the office, putting her hands on her hips as he slouched into his chair and tapped out a login on the computer.

“I didn’t know you were on the graveyard shift,” she said suspiciously.

“Left at eight thirty,” he replied.

“So what the bloody hell are you doing here, then? Don’t you have a home to go to?”

“What I have is work to be done,” he said tersely. “No doubt you can say the same.”

“You pulling double shifts or something?” she asked. “Because I’m almost certain that Lieutenant Drake told us all to rat you out if you started doing that again.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m busy!” he snapped. “Did you make any coffee?”

She stomped off with a long-suffering sigh, returning with the coffee pot.

“It’s probably bloody sludge by now.”

“Perfect,” he said absently, and she poured him a cup, black and bitter.

“What’s the big emergency?”

Weaver sat back in his chair as he let the computer complete its login sequence, and reached into his pocket for the phone.

“I received evidence of a murder,” he said. “I need to know who these people are.”

He played her the video, and Merida peered at it, not batting an eye when the fatal shot rang out.

“Never seen them before.”

“Thanks, that’s a big fucking help.”

“Fa might know,” she suggested. “Or Nolan. They’ll both be in after lunch. By which time I’m expecting you to be at home sleeping.”

“Yeah, that’s looking unlikely,” he said. “Okay, I’ll see what I can find out before then.”

“Give me the phone, then,” she said. “I’ll get it checked, see if we can run some prints off it.”

“Mine are on there,” he said, and she nodded.

“Where did you find it, anyway?”

Weaver hesitated.

“A girl,” he said. “I think she was a witness to the murder.”

“And she just handed it over?”

“Not exactly,” he said, turning his attention to the computer so he wouldn’t have to see her expression. “She came across me in an alley, running from two men who I think are the ones in that footage. She - uh - slipped it in my pocket. Didn’t notice until she’d gone.”

“Must be good to get past you,” said Merida, with a snort, and he shrugged.

“She kissed me,” he muttered.

“What?”

She was almost giggling, and he sighed.

“She kissed me,” he said flatly. “Slipped it into my pocket while she did it.”

“So she’s running for her life and she stops to snog you?” Merida snorted in amusement. “Must have been fucking desperate.”

“Don’t you have prints to run?” he snapped, and she wandered off, chuckling to herself.

He took a slurp of the coffee and logged into the computer, opening up a new file and writing up his report of the encounter with the girl, interspersed with sips of coffee. Merida refilled his cup when she passed his desk, and he murmured thanks, reaching out to take a drink. It was lukewarm, but he didn’t care. He wrote down everything he could recall about the men on the video. It wasn’t enough to give him much of a steer, but he flicked through the database of known violent offenders, on the chance he might see one of them. His search was fruitless, and so he went through some of his other cases, writing up two of them and going through evidence on the rest. His eyes were grainy by the time he had finished, and it was getting light outside, so he thought perhaps he should get some sleep. At least until the prints arrived.

“Weaver,” called Merida. “Message for you.”

“Whoever it is, they can fuck off,” he growled, and she shot him a look, bright red curls bouncing around her shoulders as she stomped over.

“Go home and get some bloody sleep, you miserable bastard,” she said, and he curled his lip at her, making her grin. She dropped an envelope on his keyboard. “This was handed in at the front desk just now.”

“Really?”

He picked up the envelope, ripping it open. A matchbook dropped out, turning end over end on his desk before falling flat. It showed the name of a local diner - Granny’s - a place he had been in once or twice. Turning it over, there was a figure scrawled on the back. 7:15.

“Who brought this?” he asked, holding it up, and she shrugged.

“One of your street kids, I thought,” she said. “Short. Dark hair and blue eyes. Hoodie. Not seen her before.”

Weaver nodded to himself, and checked his watch. Almost seven. He had time to get to the diner. He shrugged on his jacket, trying to shake off his tiredness.

“Could be her,” he said.

“Her?”

“The murder witness.”

“The one that stuck her tongue down your throat?” Merida’s eyes had widened. “Bloody hell, she was barely twenty! I take it back, she’s not desperate. She’s blind and desperate.”

Weaver shot her a look.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“No you won’t,” she said, in a flat tone. “See your source and bugger off home. You’re bloody useless on day two of insomnia.”

“Who are you, my mother?” he groused, and she sniffed.

“Thank fucking Christ I’m not, you’re too big to spank.”

“Is this personal abuse just to piss me off or does it have a higher purpose?” he demanded, and she flashed him a smile.

“Get some sleep and I promise to make you an entire pot of coffee to yourself tomorrow,” she said. “Won’t even spit in it, how about that?”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Tell Drake where I’ve gone, would you?”

“She’ll probably say ‘good riddance’...”

“And if Nolan knows any of the people in that clip, tell him to call me.”

“Will do,” she said. “Try not to snog this mystery girl again.”

“You’re fucking hilarious,” he said dryly, and she cackled as he left.

The rain was just starting to spit as he left the building, and he turned up his collar, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked quickly. Drizzle had turned to a downpour by the time he reached the diner in question, and he ducked in through the door with relief, brushing the rain from his hair as he glanced around. The diner was busy, its tables filled with construction workers in heavy boots and guys in nondescript suits and ties loading up on coffee, eggs and pancakes. Weaver took a table by the window, keeping a sharp eye out as the door opened and closed. The rain was drumming against the road, making those outside run for cover or cower beneath their umbrellas.

“What can I get you?”

He looked up to see a waitress smiling at him, long dark hair with two red streaks held back from her face by a red headband. A pencil was poised on the little pad she carried.

“Just coffee for the moment, thanks,” he said. “Black.”

“Sure thing,” she said brightly, jotting it down. “If you want anything from the menu, just holler.”

Weaver nodded absently, and she hurried off, dark hair bouncing. He turned his attention back to the street outside, and his eyes narrowed as a small, slender figure hurried past, swathed in a black coat with a hood over her head. The diner door opened, the sound of the rain outside like radio static, and then the door swung shut, the girl looking around nervously. It was her, he was sure of it. Pale oval of a face, high cheekbones and full lips, her eyes startlingly blue. She spotted him, and seemed to sag a little in relief, hurrying over, the rain dripping from the sleeves of her coat.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, slipping into the seat opposite.

“Well, you left me with some rather interesting evidence,” he said, threading his fingers together. “Do you want some coffee?”

She nodded, and he turned to catch the eye of the waitress, who stopped to snatch up a second cup along with the coffee pot. She poured for them both, and Weaver watched as the girl shrugged out of her coat. Thin black hooded sweater above thick tights, a tiny skirt and sturdy boots. She must be bloody freezing.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

She looked up at him slowly, mouth flattening.

“Oh yeah?” she said suspiciously. “And you think that gets you what, exactly?”

Weaver’s eyes narrowed.

“I think it gets you fed,” he said, his tone even. “You look as though you could do with a few decent meals inside you, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you spend every day eating caviar and fucking oysters. You want the bloody breakfast, or not?”

She eyed him cautiously, but nodded, and he gestured to the waitress again.

“Give her the works, please,” he said.

“Eggs over well,” added the girl, and the waitress nodded, scribbling on the pad.

“You want cream for that coffee?”

“God, please!” said the girl fervently, and the waitress smiled, going to fetch one of the small jugs.

Weaver watched as the girl added sugar and cream to her coffee and stirred it, folding her hands around the cup as she hunched forward a little, as though she was afraid of taking up too much space. Her nails were painted dark red, the lacquer a little chipped at the edges. Her knuckles were white with cold, and he wondered how far she had travelled to get to the diner. Or where she had spent the night.

“What’s your name?” he asked, and she hesitated.

“Lacey,” she said, a little reluctantly.

“Got a last name?”

“No, I’m a pretentious musician who only goes by one word,” she said witheringly, and he felt one corner of his mouth pull upwards. She had spirit.

“So can I have it?”

“Last name’s on a need-to-know basis,” she said. “Right now you don’t need to know. It’s just Lacey.”

“Alright, Lacey No-Name,” he said. “I’m Detective Weaver.”

“I remember.”

She was still cupping the mug of coffee, restless in her seat, her eyes flicking around the diner, and he nodded to himself. He’d seen kids like her many times: uncomfortable at having to sit in one place for too long and nervous of those around them. He wondered how long she had been on the streets, and what corner of Seattle she called home. If indeed she slept in the same place two nights running.

“You slipped your phone into my pocket,” he said, and she looked up, alarm on her face.

“You don’t have it, do you?”

“Of course not,” he said. “It’s evidence.”

Lacey sagged with relief.

“Thought it might have a tracker on it,” she explained. “Figured that if they wanted to track it to the police department, they could knock themselves out.”

He nodded slowly.

“And ‘they’ are...?”

Lacey seemed to shrink in on herself, shoulders rising up, and she buried her head in her cup, blowing on the coffee to cool it.

“Alright,” he said, feeling weary. “Let’s try something less complicated. I watched the video. Where was the footage taken?”

She was silent, and he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, shaking loose some of the raindrops that clung to it and scattering them across the table top.

“Fine,” he said, half-wondering whether she had been sent by the murderers to distract him. “In that case, why don’t you talk me through what led you to be in that alleyway?”

“Look, I just wanted a bloody job!” she blurted, suddenly animated. “I answered an ad on the wall of the shelter and some dude gave me the phone and a backpack and I was a bloody dispatch rider, that’s it! And then all of a sudden I’m dropping off a package and I can’t find anyone to fucking sign for the damn thing and before you know it—”

She made finger guns and mimed shots being fired, and then sat back, looking aggrieved.

“I didn’t sign up for this shit!” she went on. “And I’m sure as hell not going back to base ever, which means I won’t get bloody paid!”

Weaver pulled a notepad and pencil from his pocket, but she shook her head, glancing around worriedly, pale hands reaching up to tug her hood forward again.

“Don’t,” she said. “I don’t know who I can trust, and if the wrong person sees me sitting here with you taking notes, it’s gonna be pretty obvious why, you knows?”

“You do realise that sitting here with your hood up and your shoulders hunched makes you look like you’ve got something to hide, right?” he remarked. “If I was looking for someone on the run I’d spot you a fucking mile away.”

Lacey opened and closed her mouth, but sat back a little, reaching up to lower the hood. Her hair was a dark chestnut, split into braids over her ears, reddish strands gleaming in the harsh lights of the diner. He nodded.

“Better.”

“So you think this won’t look suspicious?” she said wryly, gesturing between them. “You buy a lot of girls breakfast?”

“Actually yes,” he said. “I have a number of informants to take care of.”

“I’m not an informant,” she said immediately. “I just - you’re a cop, and I thought you could use the information, that’s all.”

“And your definition of an informant is what exactly?”

She looked frustrated, tugging at her lip with her teeth as she glanced out at the street.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” she muttered. “If the wrong person sees me here with you…”

“You could always come to the police department,” he suggested, tapping his pencil on the notebook.

“Same issue.”

“You came earlier.”

“Yeah, for like a minute,” she said scornfully. “I dropped off the matchbook and took off again. No one could accuse me of hanging around to give a bloody statement, could they? Just put your damn notebook away.”

He slipped the notepad and pencil back in his pocket with a sigh.

“Memory it is, then,” he said. “Which company did you work for?”

“Black Knights,” she said immediately. “Money wasn’t bad, either. Fifteen bucks an hour plus tips. Should have known it was too good to last.”

“You ride a motorcycle?”

Lacey shook her head.

“Bike,” she said. “Easier to get around, and you can go more places.”

“How long did you work there?”

“Just over a month.”

“Any problems up to this point?”

She wrinkled her nose, but shook her head.

“You don’t seem so sure,” he said, and she shrugged.

“Few sleazy clients and a creepy boss, but honestly I’m pretty used to that. Mostly it was fine.”

“Who were the clients?”

“Mixture,” she said. “Lawyers, businesses, restaurants, private addresses - you name it.”

“And what sort of things were you delivering?”

Lacey shrugged.

“Never asked. Turned up at base, got a route and the packages, and off I went. No time to hang around poking into other people’s business.”

“Anything illegal?” he asked, and she shifted in her seat.

“Like I said. Never asked.”

Weaver nodded slowly. It was possible that at least some of the packages would interest the police, but he believed her when she said she didn’t know. The desperate asked few questions.

“Were the packages signed for?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “It was a more expensive service, so for most stuff we just went by address. Sometimes there’d be a named person we’d need a signature from, though. It varied. Instructions were on the itinerary.”

“Don’t suppose you still have that?”

She shook her head, and Weaver took a sip of his coffee.

“Alright,” he said. “So tell me about this last drop you made. Pretty late to be making deliveries.”

Lacey fidgeted a little, plucking at the sleeve of her coat.

“Yeah,” she said. “I mean that’s not unusual - they ran a twenty-four-seven service for the right price. Got the call around nine when I was on my last run. Special delivery, which means the guy paid to have it hand-delivered to a specific person. So I rode back to base, picked up the package, got the name and address, and turned right around.”

“What was the address?”

“Warehouse on Misthaven Avenue,” she said.

“And the name?”

“Perry Mason.”

Weaver let out a tiny grunt of annoyance, running a hand over his face.

“So,” he said. “A lawyer.”

She pulled a face, lifting the coffee cup.

“How should I know?”

“No, it’s - it’s a false name,” he explained patiently. “He was a fictional character. A lawyer on a TV show.”

“Oh.” Lacey took a slurp of coffee and sat back. “Before my time, I guess.”

“So what happened then?”

“Locked up my bike outside the side door,” she said. “It was open, so I went in.”

“Did you see anyone outside?” he asked. “Any vehicles you remember?”

Lacey wrinkled her nose.

“No one outside,” she said. “Big black car. Couldn’t tell you the make - I wasn’t really looking.”

“And then?”

“Place seemed deserted,” she said. “Empty office, but the lights were on. There was a set of stairs next to it, so I took ‘em. Went up to a corridor that opened out on the warehouse. That was when I heard voices. Saw the two big bastards and thought they looked like trouble, so I hung back.”

Weaver nodded.

“Go on.”

“The guy in the suit looked like he was trying to convince them of something,” she said slowly, rolling her mug between the palms of her hands. “I dunno - something made me take my phone out and start recording. I figured if I couldn’t get a signature the boss would wanna know why, you know?”

“Do you remember anything they said to each other before you started recording?”

Lacey wrinkled her nose.

“Something like ‘out of patience’?” she said, looking uncertain. “They looked like hired muscle. Or maybe regular-paycheck-muscle, I guess. Working for someone not so nice. Seemed like they wanted something from Suit Guy and he didn’t have it, huh?”

“Maybe,” said Weaver. “Then what happened?”

“They blew the guy’s brains out,” said Lacey, shuddering a little. “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen anyone get shot before, but…”

She shrugged, shrinking in on herself again, and Weaver nodded.

“Then you ran.”

“I - I kind of squeaked when he was shot,” she admitted. “I couldn’t help it, it was - it was a lot of blood. And I dropped the phone. That’s when they saw me, so I scooped it up and ran for it. One of them grabbed me, but I bit him as hard as I could and he let me go. I managed to beat them out of the warehouse, but I didn’t have time to unlock my bike. I just ran as fast as I could for the nearest alley and kept fucking going. Then I bumped into you.”

Weaver took a slurp of his coffee, nodding.

“And what happened to the package?”

“Still got it.”

“Can I see it?”

“I don’t have it with me,” she said, as though he were stupid. “It’s hidden.”

“So can you get it to me?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

The waitress returned, setting a large plate in front of Lacey with eggs, bacon, hash browns and a short stack of pancakes. She set down a glass of orange juice, along with a plate of toast and a dish containing packets of butter and grape jelly.

“That looks awesome, thank you!” said Lacey, reaching for the ketchup, and the waitress smiled and hurried off.

There was silence for a few minutes as Lacey began working her way through the breakfast. Weaver finished his coffee, nodding his thanks to the waitress when she refilled it, and Lacey folded a slice of bacon in half, stabbing a piece of fried egg and shoving it in her mouth. She was watching him as she chewed, and he wondered what was going through her mind.

“I assume there’s something you want in exchange for this package, and the breakfast’s not gonna cut it,” he said. “What about twenty bucks?”

Lacey shrugged, setting down her knife and holding up four fingers.

“Forty, then,” he agreed. “But promise me you’ll at least spend it on food or a place to stay, hmm?”

She frowned at him, as though she didn’t like the implication that she might do otherwise. He didn’t much care if she was pissed at him; he’d had more than one of his network of informants die young from drink and drugs, and he didn’t want her to be the next. He held her gaze for a moment, and eventually she nodded, before turning back to her breakfast. She was eating more slowly now, the eggs and bacon gone, and the pancakes about half done. He watched as she spread butter on the toast and followed it with grape jelly, and she flicked her eyes up to meet his, a sudden spark of mischief in them, as though the food had restored her spirit.

“You didn’t say anything about me kissing you,” she said, and he shrugged.

“Was I supposed to?”

Lacey’s brow crinkled a little, blue eyes sweeping back and forth across his face, as though searching for something.

“Not every day a strange girl decides to corner you in an alley and suck face, right?” she said, with a grin.

“I presumed you had your reasons.”

“Yeah.”

She seemed surprised by his response, and it appeared to make her almost uncomfortable, as though it was not what she had expected. He wondered if she had kissed other strange men, with different, perhaps more predictable results.

“I was - well, I guess I was trying one of those things in the movies?” she explained awkwardly. “You know - where they make out to hide from the bad guys? Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out or - or make you think I was maybe offering something else.”

“I didn’t,” he said, in a wry tone. “You said it didn’t mean anything.”

“It didn’t.”

“Well then,” he said. “Since I very much doubt you want to kiss me again, we’ll say no more about it.”

Lacey stabbed a piece of pancake with her fork, watching him curiously.

“Okay. Cool.”

She turned back to her breakfast, mopping syrup with the piece of pancake, and he took a sip of his coffee.

“So,” he said. “The package.”

Lacey gestured at him with her fork.

“Let’s see the forty bucks first.”

“I’m not gonna bloody rip you off,” he snapped. “And you seem to think I came down in the last fucking shower! The package first, then you get the cash, deal?”

She eyed him for a moment, her gaze cautious, but finally nodded.

“Deal.”

“Okay,” he said. “So when are you handing it over?”

Lacey ate her final piece of pancake, setting down her knife and fork and picking up a piece of toast. She took a bite, dropping it back onto the plate and sucking crumbs from her thumb.

“I’ll find you,” she said decidedly. “Not here. Expect to see me sometime within the next day or so. Try not to shove me against a wall this time. You know, unless it’s for something more exciting.”

She grinned at him, wiggling her eyebrows, and Weaver frowned.

“You can stop that right now,” he said severely. “This is about the package, nothing more, got it?”

Lacey rolled her eyes.

“That’s usually the line I have to use,” she remarked. “Anyone ever tell you you’re weird for a guy?”

“Constantly,” he said dryly.

He drained his cup, digging in his pocket for some cash and tucking it under his cup, and Lacey’s eyes followed it.

“I guess I’ll see you when I see you,” he said. “And this cash is to pay the nice young lady that brought your breakfast, by the way.”

“I wasn’t gonna take it!” she said indignantly.

“Just making sure,” he said, pushing back his chair. “Until we meet again, Lacey No-Name.”

“Go fuck yourself, Detective.”

He grinned at that, turning up his jacket collar and striding out into the driving rain again.

#rumbelle big bang #rumbelle fic #fic: opening lines #woven lace fic #my fic #woven lace #rumbelle

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ifishouldvanish · 6 years

Text

The Boston Hour (15/?)

In which Belle is an Antiques Roadshow super-fan and Gold is her favorite appraiser.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Belle receives two phone calls. Rumford and David go out for “a couple beers”. RATING: T WORDS: 9,087 A/N: Big thank you to @whimsical36 for beta reading this chapter!♥ TMI’s for last chapter - [x]

Also: With this update, this story has officially hit the 100k mark! I wanna thank everyone for sticking with this story, because it's become my baby-- and it never would have happened if not for all of you guys' support! *blows kisses*

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Read on AO3]

Belle shifted in bed as she finished reading her emails on her phone. It was well past time to get up and start the day, but since she was in no hurry to be anywhere this morning, she just rolled onto her back and switched to the gallery app instead.

She happily began skimming through the pictures from her weekend with Rumford, which included shots of the wares on display at the market, the things they had eaten, and views of the docks and the park. Rumford seemed to shy away from having his photo taken, but hadn’t refused when somebody offered to take their picture while they were walking along the docks Saturday evening.

It had come out quite well, Belle thought. The sun had just begun to set, she looked so happy with Rumford’s arm around her shoulders, and he looked so handsome with his pinstriped suit and boutonniere. She smiled and continued swiping, lingering on the handful of shots where she’d managed to capture glimpses of him– an arm, a shoulder, his back, a blurry figure in the distance. There were a few she’d taken at the soap vendor where he could be seen sniffing lotions and bars of soap, including one he must not have liked, judging by the funny look on his face. But then there was one of him smiling– or perhaps laughing– dimples and all, and she decided it was her favorite.

Her phone suddenly buzzed in her hand, the screen overtaken by an incoming call.

What a man, what a man, what a mighty good man! Say it again, now! What a man, what a man, what a mighty good–

“Oh!” Belle gasped and scrambled to answer it, only to drop the phone onto her face. She sputtered and picked it back up, hoping she hadn’t accidentally answered it with her nose.

A call from Rumford!

Taking a deep breath, she tapped the screen and pressed the device to her ear. “Rumford?”

“Ah… Belle?”

Her insides did a little dance at the sound of his voice, and she squirmed under her sheets. “Hi, Rumford...”

“Hi.” he said, and oh! His voice was just so soft and gentle and sweet!

Belle bit into her lower lip. “...Hi.”

“I ah… well, you said I should give you a call once I made it back to Syracuse.”

“Oh, yeah!” she smiled and snuggled up against her pillows. “How was the drive?”

“Interminable.” he scoffed. “I ah… wouldn’t have minded some company.”

“I’d have happily kept you company if I could...” she said.

He let out a little chuckle, not seeming sure of what to say to that. “So ah… w-what are your plans for today?”

Belle blew out a long breath. “I have classes, but they don't start until two, so I get to sleep in.”

“Ah.” he chuckled. “You know, I tried to come into the shop on time at nine this morning, but ah… it seems my employees and my son have conspired to make sure I get some sleep after the trip, so… I just got out of bed myself.”

Fresh out of bed Rumford!

He probably had cute, matching pajamas, Belle thought– his eyes glazed and sleepy, and his hair mussed from the pillows…

“Sounds like they worry about you a lot,” she smiled, giddily tugging the covers up to her chin.

Rumford scoffed. “Aye, they do. Neal's always taken very good care of me– making sure I sleep, making sure I eat. And Ariel, she's… she's very sweet. Lovely young woman and a great worker. Don't know how I'd run the shop without her.”

“Well I'm glad you have people over there looking out for you.”

“Aye. Though I did manage to steal copies of the proposals Ariel worked on before she kicked me out, so… I may still get some work done yet.”

“Rumford!” Belle admonished. “You’re so bad…”

“Oh, I know.” he said. “But from what I've seen so far, they all look great. Haven't found a thing I'd change yet.”

“Can I ask what the proposals are for? Or is that… I don't know,” she shrugged, “confident–”

“Sure, sure.” he said. “The ah… biggest project is restoring a dining set from the 1860s. ‘Nother is repairing an old family Bible that was printed and bound in 1807.”

“Oh, wow.”

“And the others aren’t proposals, but insurance valuations. Got one for a collection of model trains. Quite impressive. Another for an old set of silverware, one for a stamp collection... and another for a few paintings from the Ashcan School.”

Belle rolled onto her belly. Propping her chin upon her fist, she let out a wistful sigh.

After a beat, Rumford smacked his lips. “Which ah… which classes have you got today?”

“Oh, uh... resources for children, and then my capstone.”

“Ah. Resources for children, what's that all about?”

“Um… basically how to develop a curriculum for an elementary school library. How to target the needs of children who are still learning to read, or still uh, developing their comprehension skills.”

“Oh.” Rumford chuckled. “And that's… y-you’d enjoy that, you think? Working with children?”

“Well, yeah!” Belle smiled, beginning to paddle her feet through the air. “I uh, I love kids.”

“Oh. That's… that's wonderful, sweetheart.”

Of course she loved kids!

She wanted to have some of her own one day!

Did Rumford want to have more kids? Because she'd totally have kids with him. Lots of them.

Well, like… three, tops, but still.

Or was it too soon to be thinking about having babies together?

No , Belle decided. That was silly!

She'd always known she wanted to have children. It was only natural, that if she was seeing somebody who gave her butterflies, and it was going well, that she'd daydream about a future with them! A future with babies! Cute, snuggly, precious, little babies with their tiny hands and tiny feet and tiny noses and tiny everything! So soft, and with pudgy cheeks, too!

“...Belle?”

Her feet stopped paddling. “Mhm?”

Rumford coughed. “Well, I-I just wanted to say that I ah… I had a lovely time last night. Th-the whole weekend, I mean.”

Belle nibbled her lip and snuggled her pillow a little more tightly. “...Me too.”

“I regret that I had to leave so soon, but…”

“I know.” she said, glancing toward the window. “You got work, I got work, school…”

“Aye.” he said. “But you know, I-I have to say it, Belle. You were... incredible last night.”

“Oh.” she giggled, feeling herself blush.

“It was a ah... honor, to see such a brilliant mind at work.”

“Well…” Belle fought back a smile, “the other members of the University Word Warriors club don’t call me the Bogglemeister for nothing.”

“...Quadricentennial.” he sighed. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“You weren't so bad yourself,” she murmured. “...Mr epistemologies.”

“No no–” he said. “Child's play compared to your schadenfreude. I-I'd never even considered playing loanwords before, Belle. You… reinvented the game for me, sweetheart. Truly.”

“Oh, I don't know about that…” she blushed, her legs swaying in the air again.

“Oh, but I do.” he crooned.

Belle nibbled her lip again and pressed her thighs together. “...Yeah?”

“I'll ah, never look at a Boggle grid the same way again.”

“You know, all this flattery will get you nowhere,” she teased. “Dr Gold.”

“No?” he asked. “Because so far it seems to be doing a great job of bringing that lovely blush to your face. Miss French.”

“Rumford!” she giggled. “What makes you think I'm blushing, hm?”

“Oh, I can tell.” he murmured. “I can hear it in your voice– sounds even sweeter than usual...”

A delighted little squeal escaped her, and Belle clamped a hand over her mouth.

“...what?” he asked.

“Well, if anyone would know what I sound like when I’m blushing, it’d be you…”

“O-oh?” he stammered, and the silken quality that had been in his voice was suddenly replaced with something shaky and uncertain. “I–”

“It’s hard not to blush whenever I’m talking with you, Rumford…” she spelled out for him.

“...Oh,” he chuckled. “Well… I’m afraid I’m the one who’s blushing now, sweetheart.”

*****

Ruby had just crawled out of bed and was headed to the kitchen when she heard giggling from Belle's bedroom. She paused and hovered outside the door, unable to resist the temptation to eavesdrop.

“Rumford…”

She couldn't make out much, or any of Dr Gold's half of the conversation for that matter, but they were definitely exchanging sweet little nothings.

Thank God, Ruby thought, continuing towards the kitchen. They finally boned.

She hadn't expected Dr Gold to still be in town, but she supposed she couldn't blame the guy, either. If there was any excuse for him to extend his stay in Storybrooke, being too worn out from a night of dancing the horizontal Mambo would be it.

A high-pitched squeal sounded from Belle's room, and Ruby smothered a laugh. The apartment had been completely quiet when she got home late last night, but it appeared a good night's sleep had the two lovebirds ready for another roll in the hay.

Once in the kitchen, Ruby prepared herself a big bowl of cereal and carried it (and the box) over to the couch – making sure she had a good view down the hall. Belle and Dr Gold was one walk of shame she wouldn't want to miss. And surely enough, within a few minutes, there was some movement down the hall and Belle's door creaked open.

Belle appeared, raising her arms up and letting out a big yawn. She had a little pep in her step as she came down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Hey there, peanut.” Ruby said behind a sly grin. “Ya have a good time last night?”

“Mhm!” Belle answered, opening the fridge.

“Looks like it.” she teased.

Belle plucked a cup of yogurt out of the fridge and spun around for the utensil drawer, grabbing a spoon before slamming it shut with a saucy sway of her hips. She had a big smile on her face she was clearly trying to be casual about– which was what Belle always did when she was dying to tell her something. But of course, in typical Belle fashion, she was just standing there, leaning against the counter, happily eating her yogurt like she was auditioning for a Yoplait commercial.

“So…” Ruby took the bait. “How was–”

“I showed Rumford my spreadsheet.” Belle volunteered.

“Oh, God.” Ruby dropped her spoon into her bowl and leveled her a look before remembering that whatever had happened last night, clearly went well. And naturally– she was curious. “...What did he say?”

“That it was a highly valuable set of data and incredibly helpful.” Belle said proudly, joining her on the couch. “...and then he um, called me sweetheart. Again.”

Ruby blinked. Of course they'd end up making foreplay out of the damn spreadsheet.

Should've expected it, honestly.

“Anyway, we ate dinner after that… he really seemed to enjoy the meatloaf by the way... and then we talked and cuddled right there…” Belle continued, looking fondly at the other end of the couch as she licked the yogurt off of her spoon. “And um, things may have gotten a little heated after that…”

Ruby flared her nostrils and tried not to fidget too noticeably where she sat.

They boned. On the couch. Where she was now sitting. Less than twelve hours later. Eating.

Hadn't she specifically begged her not to do it on the couch?

Belle sighed. “Rumford is such a good kisser, Rubes.” she said. “And he smells so good. Have you ever made out with someone who smells really good? Because it's like… you feel all hot and tingly from the things they're doing with their mouth, and then when you pull back to catch your breath, it's like BAM! Sexy smell!”

“Yeah. It's… something else…” Ruby nodded along, peering down the hall. Where was the man of the hour, anyway?

Belle glanced over her shoulder, spoon in her mouth, and frowned when she saw that nothing was there. “...What is it?”

“He takin’ a shower or something?”

Belle creased her brows. “What?”

Ruby shrugged. “Rumford.”

She shook her head. “He left the apartment at eleven or so last night. Had to leave really early this morning for Syracuse– It's like a six-hour drive, you know.”

“Oh. I just thought I heard…” Ruby trailed off.

“Heard what? We were on the phone.”

Ruby rolled her eyes and set her cereal bowl on the coffee table. Doing her best impression of Belle, she dropped her wrist and giggled, “Rumford!”

Belle’s eyes went wide and she huffed. “I don't sound like that!”

Ruby threw her head back and laughed. “Yeah, you do!”

“Do not!” Belle said, throwing the empty yogurt cup at her. It bounced off Ruby's arm and tumbled onto the floor.

“Around him? That is exactly what you sound like!”

“Yeah, well–” Belle began to protest, “...maybe Rumford happens to be really funny.” she said, lifting her chin.

Ruby shot her a skeptical look. “Is he, Belle?” she asked. “Is he really funny?”

Belle pursed her lips, refusing to look her in the eyes. “Okay, fine. Maybe he's just really cute and I like him a lot and can't help getting all giggly around him.” she admitted. “So what?”

“...Mhm.” Ruby grinned, picking her cereal bowl back up and continuing to munch away. “Nothing.”

“Come on,” Belle sighed. “You and Dorothy don't act giggly and cute around each other? Not even a little?”

“Nah.” Ruby swallowed. “But then again, I don't need to act cute. I just am, ” she shrugged. “I mean– look at me.”

Belle narrowed her eyes, trying not to laugh.

“So.” Ruby shoveled another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. “...How was it? Did he uh... give you full market value?” she asked, wiggling her brows.

Belle tilted her head. “Huh?”

“Oh, come on!” she whined. “Full market value! That was good!”

“...what?”

“Hang on.”

Ruby brought her bowl up to her lips and tilted her head back, slurping the milk down before setting it back on the coffee table.

“The sex!” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “Did you guys finally bone or what?! I need to know! Did. My girl. Get. Laid. Did she ride that–”

“Oh!” Belle realized with a smile. “No.”

Ruby deflated in an instant. “What.”

“No. We uh, we didn't have sex.” she said, dusting some imaginary crumbs off her lap.

Ruby rubbed a hand over her face and groaned. “Christ, I'm starting to get blue balls here!” she said. “I don't even have balls, Belle!”

“I mean, we almost did…” she mumbled.

Ruby gestured impatiently for her to continue. “But…?”

Belle shrugged. “We just decided we aren't ready for that yet.”

“I mean–” Ruby huffed. “That's cool. And I respect that. But–” she trailed off and flapped her arms wildly in frustration.

Belle laughed. “We wound up playing Boggle instead. You know– he's quite good!”

“I'm… sure he is.” Ruby grumbled in defeat.

There was a sound then, coming from the bedroom.

“...Phone.” she said, nodding towards the hall.

Belle raised her brows. “What?”

“Your phone, peanut. Someone's calling you.”

“Oh.” she blinked and hopped off the couch. “ God, how can you hear that?” she asked, following the muffled melody to her bedroom.

Ruby shrugged. “We all have our gifts, Belle. Clairvoyance, supersonic hearing, mad Boggle chops…”

Belle rolled her eyes and disappeared into her room, returning a moment later with reluctant pout on her face.

“What's the matter?” Ruby snickered. “You look like somebody spilled coffee on your copy of Pride and Prejudice.”

“It's my dad.”

“Yeah, I figured.” she said, darting a pointed glance at Belle's phone, where it continued to blare Papa Don't Preach in her hand. “Your ringtones? A little on the nose. What does he want?”

Belle let out a deep sigh. “I don't know.”

*****

Every so often, Rumford would receive a call from David, inviting him out for a couple beers. Usually he'd find some excuse not to go– Working late tonight. Going in early tomorrow. Too many errands to run.

But when David called Tuesday, asking him to come out for a couple beers on Thursday, Rumford had been feeling a little saucy and said yes.

He knew just what the source of his newfound sauciness was, too.

It was no doubt the work of certain aspiring librarian in Maine. He and Belle had talked about so many things last weekend– the sort of things that emboldened a man, and made him feel more like he had a right to the space he occupied in the world. Like he had something to offer, something to give. That invitations to the pub from someone as likeable as David Nolan were born of a genuine desire to actually enjoy his company rather than being some reluctant act of pity.

Of course David Nolan wanted to hang out and have a couple beers with Rumford Gold!

Rumford Gold was sharp and witty! A good listener! Was maybe even a little handsome, depending on who you asked– though he'd prefer it if you asked Belle.

And so on Thursday night, Rumford drove up to one of the Irish pubs in town. To meet David. For a couple beers.

Not literally a couple beers– as he didn't drink beer and intended to order whisky instead– but figuratively a couple beers, as in heterosexual male bonding.

...Or was it just platonic male bonding?

When he and Jefferson used to go out, they didn't have to do so under the guise of some passive activity like drinking beer! They'd just say it: I haven't heard from you in a while. We should catch up.

At the very least, it would be I’d like to try that new restaurant that opened up. But even then, if they wanted to try the new restaurant that opened up, then they tried the new restaurant that opened up. Critiqued the menu, the decor, the lighting concept, how comfortable the chairs were.

Rumford had been on this earth long enough to know that when someone invited you out for a couple beers, their intentions were rarely so simple.

But maybe a couple beers wasn't a heterosexual thing so much as it was a “men who aren't attracted to each other” thing. Maybe two men who, while attracted to other men but not necessarily each other, also went out for a couple beers.

Rumford reached the pub’s front door and hesitated.

Was this what people meant when they said bisexuals were confused? Because he was definitely feeling confused right now. As confused as he was certain about his interest in men and women.

Should he tell David about his little discovery, he wondered?

It had felt liberating to tell Belle. Like a weight off of his shoulders. But now that he was back in Syracuse, the weight seemed to have crept back over him.

Maybe he shouldn't.

It seemed rather self-important, didn't it? Oh, let me just interrupt you for a second there to tell you that I like men.

Just... unprompted like that.

And what if David took it the wrong way? Thought he was confessing to being attracted to him? What if it made things weird?

It wasn't fair, was it? Nobody else had to work up the nerve to tell their friends and colleagues that they were heterosexual! People just assumed they were and there was never any need to correct them!

Rumford shook his head and finally stepped inside the dimly lit pub, doing his best to avoid eye contact with the hostess– to look like he knew where he was going because it was always uncomfortable when you were meeting somebody and couldn't find them. Then the hostess would try to offer you a table, and you had to explain to them that you didn't need their help finding a table– you just needed a few more seconds to adjust to how bloody dark it was in there so you could distinguish one shadowy figure at the bar from another.

Fortunately however, the hostess was preoccupied with taking a dinner reservation and it never became an issue. Rumford swept past her podium without having to endure so much as a gratuitous service smile!

Anyway, he'd want to tell Neal at some point, too. If there was anybody he wanted to completely be his true self around, it was his boy.

But what about somebody like Miss Halloran? Was it any of her business to know? It'd be nice if she knew, he supposed– they worked alongside each other every day at the shop after all. But still, he didn't feel like they had the kind of relationship that warranted a whole conversation about his sexuality.

Because what now? Would he just have to keep bringing it up again and again? With every person he grew close to? Where did one draw the line? Was he just supposed to spend the rest of his life explaining himself to people?

Bloody hell.

How exhausting!

“Gold?”

If only there was some way he could… broadcast that information, but on a low frequency. Something subtle that whispered, “bisexual,” to whomever was listening. He wouldn't be hiding it, but he wouldn't be making a big deal of it either. It’d just be there. Like any other clearly observable fact about him. Like his height, or his hair color, or the keen eye for aesthetics that frequently had ladies in department stores approaching him and asking his opinion while they shopped for their husbands.

A hand clapped over Rumford's shoulder and he startled.

“You alright there, man?” David asked.

Rumford blinked.

Jefferson never clapped him on the shoulder like that before either. He would gently touch his shoulder. Or brush his arm. Sometimes, when they were being brought to their table at a restaurant, he'd trail behind him, splaying a guiding hand over his back.

God, Rumford thought.

How oblivious was he?

“Aye. Just… dark in here, is all,” he said.

“Yeah, you can say that again,” David chuckled. “Got us a spot right here, buddy,” he said, pointing to a vacant spot at the bar.

Yes, Rumford thought as he followed David over.

His bisexuality wouldn't be a big deal unless someone else wanted to make it a big deal– in which case he could show them the door. After all, what did he have to lose? He was a grown man who owned a house in the historic district! It's not like his father could disown him!

Bastard already did that when he was eight years old!

Risk getting fired from his job? It was his business!

Lose customers? Please. Their work had been featured in Antiques Quarterly half a dozen times! The waiting list to get an appraisal with him was a month long! Restoration work– four!

Four months!

If half those people decided they didn't want their R & J Adam dinette chairs repaired by a man who liked men, what did he care!?

Fewer deadlines for him to worry about!

He’d probably sleep better!

What else was there...

Milah making insensitive remarks over dinner when she visited for the holidays?

She did that anyway!

“So, what's up?” David asked, seating himself on one of the barstools. “What's happenin’?”

Rumford stared at the empty stool beside him for a moment, determining how best to climb up without making a spectacle of himself. “Oh, nothing, nothing...” he dismissed. “Ah… how about you?”

“Good, good.” David nodded, leaning over the counter to flag down the bartender.

Rumford fidgeted into his seat, struggling to make himself as comfortable as was possible on a wooden bar stool. “That's… good.” he coughed.

The bartender wasted no time getting their orders, a small diversion for which Rumford was grateful.

“It's good to see you, buddy.” David said.

“Aye. …Good to see you too.” Rumford nodded.

Good.

Good, good, good.

Everything was good.

“We never really get to just hang out, you know?”

Rumford raised his brows, his mouth hanging open dumbly. “Ah… no. We don't, don't we?”

“Well, thanks for comin’ out.” David said.

Rumford's pulse thickened.

Coming out?

Did he know? Could he tell? Had everyone already known he was bisexual except him?

No, no, Rumford decided. He meant coming out literally. Coming out physically.

“...aye.” he said, relaxing a little. “Of course.”

The bartender, absolute godsend that she was, set their drinks in front of them then, and Rumford didn't hesitate to take a sip from his glass.

Well, two sips.

David took a hefty swig of his beer and let out a refreshed sigh. “We should do this more often, you know?”

Rumford huffed a little laugh through his nose.

Should they? Because it'd only been five minutes and he already wanted to go home.

He took another sip. “Aye. For sure.”

At this point, Jefferson would have remarked on how disappointing and uninspired the latest blockbuster films were, or how heartbroken he was to have just finished a novel he'd been enjoying so terribly much. He might have shared an amusing anecdote about one of his students, which would've reminded Rumford of a story about a particularly difficult customer they'd had at the shop.

Oh, he and Jefferson would have each other in stitches, wouldn't they? And then as they settled down and caught their breath, their eyes would meet, and...

Rumford cleared his throat and took another sip, ignoring the warm sensation in his chest.

“How ah… how was the game?” he asked. Because there was always a game.

“Good,” David nodded, “Blue Jays just secured themselves a spot in the World Series, so I'm happy about that.”

Rumford gave a tight-lipped smile. “That's… wonderful.”

He took another swig and frowned. “You sure you're alright, buddy? You seem…”

“No.” Rumford shook his head. “Just... thinking.” About how gay I am.

“Something on your mind?”

“Ah…” he floundered, trying to think of something. Anything but the conversation he wanted but didn't feel quite ready to have.

“Ye know, we got this chair in,” he settled with. “An old Chippendale. And the right back leg ? Completely snapped at the joint.”

“Oh.” David scowled. “Sounds like you got your work cut out for you.”

Work. Always a safe topic.

“Aye. Hell with the hide glue, I'm gonnae need to use some epoxy.” Rumford said, hiking his brows emphatically.

“Is it mahogany? Walnut?” David asked. “‘Cause I've got a bunch of scrap lying around, if you think you'll need to carve in and reinforce that.”

“Aye. Aye, for sure. That'd be great.”

“Yeah, whatever you need. And hey– if you think you'll need some power tools, you could just bring it over to the workshop. Mi casa es su casa , alright?”

Rumford frowned.

“...What?” David asked.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I haven't touched a power tool in years.”

“So? I'm sure you've still got it, man.” David said, giving his shoulder a shove– and what was with all the shoving!? And the smacking? His poor shoulder was going to dislocate if he kept on with that!

“I dunno. I… I think it might be time for me to start turning away jobs like this,” Rumford chuckled. “Jewelry, watch repair? Sure. But no more of this... carpentry.”

“Hey now– the work you did on that Sheraton side chair a few years back was a master class. ” David said, wagging his bottle at him. “Thing looked brand new.”

“Well, I-I appreciate that, but…”

“But what?”

Time for another sip. “...I dunno.”

“Well, I'm just saying.” David said. “Come by the workshop sometime, play with the jointer and the table saw, and tell me you don't miss it.”

"Eh…” Rumford hesitated. "I'll consider it.”

He didn't necessarily miss the work. It's just that that kind of work involved things like safety gear, and… wearing blue jeans.

David set his beer down with a heavy sigh. “Alright. So, I gotta be honest,” he said. “There's uh… there's a reason I called you out here.”

Rumford furrowed his brows. Swallowed hard.

I gotta be honest? There's a reason I called you out here?

Had more terrifying words ever been spoken?

“You see, I got this thing I was kinda hoping you could give me some advice, some perspective, on.”

Rumford pouted and started blankly ahead. What could David Nolan possibly need his advice on? Picking out anniversary gifts, hopefully. He was good at that. Customers at the shop were always looking for something a little off the beaten path there. Or perhaps planning an outfit. Or the best approach for appraising something. Or–

“It's about Emma.” David explained.

“Oh.” Rumford smiled and turned to face him a little better, because that was another matter entirely! “What is it?”

“Well…” he stared ahead for a moment and sighed. “She's going to be doing all these after school programs this year, and so Mary Margaret and I decided to get her a cell phone.”

“A cell phone?” Rumford scoffed. “She's nine years old! Neal didn't get one until he got his driver's license last year!”

“I know! It seems crazy,” David laughed. “But we talked about it, and we agreed we wanted to have a way for us to reach each other, no matter what. Because in this world, who knows what could happen, right?”

“Aye, I suppose…” Rumford said.

“But here's the thing: Phones these days, you know, they aren't just phones anymore.”

“Oh, tell me about it.” he agreed.

“I mean, it's crazy!” David said. “They can take pictures and send pictures and go online and talk to strangers and– it's scary.”

“It is.”

“So Mary Margaret found out about this software that lets you monitor everything they do on their phone. And I mean everything. And she seems really gung-ho about it, but it just…”

“Feels wrong.”

“Invasive. Yeah.” David said. “I mean, we do everything on our phones these days. But when I was a kid, we didn't have cell phones! It was like, you and your buddies rode your bikes and hung out at the baseball fields, and everything was fine as long as you were home before dark, you know?

Rumford hesitated.

Friends?

Bicycle rides with one's buddies?

Baseball?

“ ...Aye.”

“And look, there's plenty of stupid stuff my friends and I said and did in those days that my mom never knew about. That I still wouldn't want her to know about. But it was just harmless fun, you know? We all turned out fine and stayed out of trouble.”

“For sure, for sure.”

“So I mean… the fancy phones… are they not just… this generation's baseball field?” David said. “I mean, Emma's nine now, but in a few years… well, when does it stop? Where do we draw the line? What happens when she starts liking boys? Are we–”

“Or girls.” Rumford chimed in. “...Or both.”

David pinned him with an odd look. Not surprise or disgust, but something unreadable.

Rumford looked down at his glass and smacked his lips. “...You never know.”

“Right?” David said. “It just feels like something out of an Orwell novel, is what I'm saying.”

“I understand.”

“So… I don't know what to do. I want to protect our daughter from all the ugly in the world, but… she should still have the right to her privacy. And the right to just… be a kid and make her own mistakes and learn from them.” he sighed. “You did a good job with Neal. What would you do?”

“Ah…”

What would he do?

What would Barbara Rumford Gold do?

“I… ah… Well, it… The thing–” he cut himself off with a sigh.

David was listening so attentively, with eyes so wide, so gleaming, so earnest– and he really didn't want to botch this up!

He'd given good advice to Belle though, hadn't he? And her father?

That was different, though. Neither of them had asked for advice. They'd just said something that prompted him to speak from his own experience!

Rumford rubbed a hand over his mouth.

Oh.

Yes.

Life experience and all that.

“My ah… da always wanted to know everything.” he finally said, and David leaned in a little closer.

“He was always watching and demanding to know what I was doing, or reading. Who I talked to at school, if I had touched any of his things while I was gone, just… everything. He'd notice something wasn't quite right in the flat, and it was always my fault, and he'd get so angry and–”

Well, perhaps it wasn’t necessary to go into quite so much detail.

“I was walking on eggshells all the time,” he went with, “and I… I hated this feeling that nothing was just mine. And I don't just mean material things, but– well, the more he demanded to know, the more determined I was to keep things from him, you know? Not with any sort of malicious intent, but just so that I could have something.”

David pressed his lips together and nodded. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“So I knew I didn't want Neal to feel that way, not ever.” Rumford said. “The thing is, for me… being a parent… it's not my job to make Neal's choices for him. It's… teaching him how to make his own, you know? I mean, he really cocks things up from time to time, but we all do. That doesn't make him a bad kid. But the important thing, is that he should know that no matter what, he can come to me and expect me to help him through whatever's he got on.”

“Absolutely.”

He swirled his finger through the condensation on his glass and smiled. “Two, three years ago, I get a phone call. I answer, and it's Neal calling from a friend's phone, and he goes, ‘Pop. We fucked up.’ ”

David huffed out a laugh.

“Turns out he and his friends had stolen the keys to their parents car and taken it for a joyride. Big pickup truck, with the four wheel drive, and they decided to take it off-road. It had been raining though, and they lost control and swerved straight into a damn tree.”

“Ouch.”

“And I was… so disappointed, because I knew he knew better than that, you know?”

“We usually do, don't we?” David chuckled.

“...Aye.” Rumford agreed, hiking his brows. “So I hop in the car and drive out to them, and they're fine, thank God. Neal can hardly look me in the eyes of course– he knows what he's done. But then his friends are practically grovelling at my feet, ‘please don't make us call our parents!’ which... they'd mangled the fender on the bloody thing, there wasn't any other way about it– but I was glad to know that when my son found himself in that situation, he felt that he could call me. That he wasn’t afraid to call me. Because he didn't have to, you know? It wasn't my car, they swore up and down that he hadn't been the one driving, none of them had gotten hurt save for a few nasty bruises... He could've kept it from me. Easily. But as horrible as the circumstances were, I was glad to know that at some point, the three of them were pacing around, scared, not knowing what to do, and that my son went, 'I know: let me call my da. He'll know what to do.’”

David sat quietly with the corners of his mouth pinched. “...That had to be terrifying, though.” he finally said, his eyes fixed on the wall.

Rumford tapped a finger on his glass, thinking of what to say. It had been terrifying, and if there was any chance that he could go back and ensure it had never happened, he’d no doubt that he’d take it.

“I think… it's easy to be scared, to get angry in those situations.” he said. “But if there are children who respond well to that, I can tell you Neal was never one of them. I learned that I've got to bite my tongue where that's concerned. Try to be calm about it when I tell him he needs to be more careful, that what if they hadn't been so lucky and they'd gotten seriously hurt– or worse. Because all the times I panicked and lashed out at him, I could see it in his eyes, the same resentment I would have toward my da. That urge to pull further away.”

David rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Do you ever regret not knowing what they were up to though? Before it was too late, I mean.” he said. “Because like you said, what if they weren't so lucky?”

“Of course you do.” Rumford admitted. “But… the more they know you're watching, the better they get at hiding those things, you know? I know I did. And it took years after my da left for me to… unlearn that.” he said. “At the end of the day, you’ve got to trust them. And hear me when I say that they’ll violate that trust. Likely more than once. But if you can’t give them your trust to begin with, they’ll never understand the value of it, and they’ll never want to work to repair it.”

David released another slow, heavy breath and hiked his brows.

“It’s… not easy,” Rumford chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood.

“No, you’re right.” he agreed. He gently drummed his hands over the bartop, and looked at Rumford with a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, man. I’ll uh, think about that.”

Rumford smiled back and nodded. “Aye. Of course.”

“So, speaking of kids…” David grinned, leaning back in his seat. “You ready to be an empty nester?”

Rumford slouched his shoulders. “I'm… excited for him.”

“He's a good kid.” David offered. “I don't think you have anything to worry about.”

Rumford scoffed.

Worried about Neal? Ha! He wasn't worried about Neal! Neal was a smart boy! With a good head on his shoulders!

No, no! He was worried about himself!

Coming home to an empty house! Not having anyone to nag about leaving dishes in the sink or laundry in the dryer! Not having anyone's profanity to correct! Not having a messy bedroom that called his name every time he walked by, luring him to come in and tidy up– just a little bit!

Because when you took all of those things away, what was there left to be grumpy about!?

Dust bunnies?

There was a pathetic thought.

Rumford Gold. Home alone with nothing but his dusty trinkets to keep him company.

It made a heavy feeling settle in his stomach, and he frowned at his glass.

“Hey, man.” David said, putting a hand in his shoulder. “You’ll be alright. Now you get to… relax. Focus on you.”

Rumford nodded, but his frown stayed in place.

That's what they said, the other parents. How ‘done’ they were, and how now they would finally have the time to rekindle their marriages, or make that career change, or retire, or start that side business they'd always dreamt of.

But he didn't have a marriage to rekindle! He was happy with his work and he was proud of his shop! And above all else, he didn't feel ‘done’ with kids! He loved being a Papa and he couldn't shake this feeling that he had more of that in him!

And so he'd just nod along and smile, ignoring the hollow feeling in his heart. Pretending he didn't feel like something was missing.

“You know…” David said, setting a hand on his shoulder, “I really do consider you a friend, Rum.”

Rumford sighed and stared down at the bartop.

“I know Neal leaving for college is gonna be hard, or maybe just weird for you, but– well, if you ever wanna talk about it, I'm all ears.” he said. “‘Cause I know you'd do the same for me. Because, well, in a lot of ways, you're... kind of like the dad I never had.”

Rumford looked up at him and cocked his head to the side, at a loss for words.

David smiled. “I mean, I had a dad, but… you’re like… a second dad. Or a really close uncle, or–” he cut himself off and shook his head. “Point is, when I have stuff I can't talk to anyone else about– the kind of stuff I wish I could talk to my dad about– I know I can come to you.”

Rumford could feel the beginning of tears coming on, and blinked them away. “I– Thank you.” he whispered and nodded.. “That… thank you.”

David gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“You're… sort of like a son to me,” Rumford managed with an uncertain shrug. “Sometimes?”

Because while yes, he did have a special fondness for David, it just wasn't the same. Mentor and mentee, surely. But father and son? That felt a bit of a stretch.

David seemed to pick up on his uncertainty and looked away, taking a quick swig of his beer. “You don’t have to– it's alright, I understand.”

“I… appreciate that, though.” Rumford said. “Truly. Thank you.”

“Well, however you choose to look at it.” David chuckled, “I'm glad we're friends.”

Friends.

He and David were friends.

A certain feeling overcame him, and Rumford hesitated. But after a beat, he turned toward David– toward his friend – and clapped his hand on his shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Me too.”

His hand lingered there for a moment, and what was an appropriate length of time to be touching someone’s shoulder like this, anyway?

He released his grip and let his hand drop down, making a point to not snap it away too quickly nor drag it away too slowly.

“Anyway–” David coughed, “how uh… how are things with Belle? You guys still seeing each other?”

“Yeah.” Rumford nodded and cleared his throat, folding his arms over the bartop. “Yeah, we're still… seeing each other. As much as we can, at least.”

Time for another sip.

David motioned for the bartender. “And how's that working out?”

“Good…” he mumbled. “I think.”

“You think?” David chuckled. “Well, do you like spending time with her?”

Rumford rolled his eyes. “Of course I do!”

“The distance is pretty tough though, huh?”

Rumford bobbed his head from side to side for a moment. “It's… not ideal.” he admitted. “But… we still talk, exchange letters.”

David raised his brows. “Letters? As in– snail mail?”

“Why?” he shot back defensively. “What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing! Nothing.” he said. “Just–”

“We... like the personal touch.” Rumford said, his voice sounding far too high in pitch for his liking. “And having something physical–”

“No, I get it.” David assured. “It sounds really romantic.”

Rumford took a deep breath, easing his posture.

Damned right, he thought. He was an utterly romantic fool! He could admit that to himself! Just not out loud.

“I visited her, last weekend.” Rumford said. “It was… nice. We… we had a lovely time together.”

“You don't seem… too enthusiastic.” David observed.

“No, it's fine.” he shrugged.

“You sure?” David grinned. “Because a month ago, you were waxing poetic about this woman over the phone to me. Something about... the first day of spring?”

Rumford scowled. He'd almost successfully forgotten about that conversation.

“Like I said. If you got something on your mind, man, you can tell me.”

Rumford glanced around the bar for a moment, doing his best to stall until the bartender returned with their drinks.

“Can I– I know you said– and if I'm crossing a line, please.” Rumford stammered, and at last his glass was set down in front of him. “But I-I-I have a question.” he finished, and rushed to take a heavy swig.

David raised a brow. “Okay…”

“About, well, the…” Rumford shifted closer and lowered his voice to a whisper, ignoring the tightness in his chest. “The other other thing.” he said. “The bees.”

“Oh.” David's eyes went wide, despite how hard he was clearly trying not to let them. “What about the uh, bees?”

God, how did he ever think this was a good idea? For even a fraction of a second?

But it was too late now. He'd already said the word. Bees.

“Just– it– well, Belle and I.” Rumford said. “W-we had dinner at her place, and then we were on the couch and we were talking… and the talking turned into cuddling and the cuddling turned into kissing and– well, then she… made her intentions clear.” he whispered. “That she… wanted to… have her flower pollin–”

“Okay!” David interrupted, slamming his bottle down to cut him off. “You know, you don't have to use the euphemism, it's… just...”

“Oh.” he drew back and looked away. “I'm sorry, I–”

“Just, sex.” David said. “You can say sex. She wanted to have sex.”

“Yes.” Rumford exhaled and coughed. “Sex. Sexual… intercourse.”

Now that he said the word, it didn't seem so bad, did it? Sex, sex, sex. Sexy sex. Sexual sexiness. Just a bisexual man talking about his sex life with his sexy girlfriend.

“So… I take it you didn't want to?”

“Well– not exactly.” Rumford shrugged. “I mean, Belle's… stunning. With gorgeous, sexy eyes, and legs that go on for–”

“Rum–”

“–and she does this thing where she bites her lip that makes–”

“Alright.” David chuckled uncomfortably and held up his hand, signaling for him to stop. “Got it, got it. She's uh… she's hot.”

Rumford scoffed. “Now, there's an understatement. Everything about her just–”

David cleared his throat pointedly. “You said you had a question?”

“Right. Yes.” he coughed. Tossing a quick glance over his shoulder, he leaned in closely again. “Is it… normal? These days? To… well, to make love without… having said the words?”

David set his bottle down and leaned back in his seat, letting out a deep sigh.

That couldn't have been a good sign.

He blinked and raised his brows. “I mean, sure.” he shrugged, gesturing limply with his hand. “Plenty of people have sex without being in love first.”

“Because I… I wanted to, but– well, it felt wrong.”

David looked at him with furrowed brows. “Rum, she didn't… pressure you into any–”

“No! Heaven's no!” Rumford said. “I told her I wasn’t ready and we played Boggle instead!”

“Oh,” he relaxed. “Thank God.”

“God! What sort of woman do you think Belle is!?”

“Nothing! Nothing! I'm sure she's wonderful,” David said. “Just– looking out for you, man.”

“Oh. Well…” Rumford swallowed. “Thank you.”

David chugged his beer down to the label and set it down with a sigh. “So let me get this straight– she was ready to, and you were… interested . But you decided you'd rather wait?”

“Aye. But–” Rumford tilted his head from side to side in hesitation. “I don't know! It's just that the last woman I– the only person I was ever with was my ex-wife.” he confessed– and by God, did it sound embarrassing when he said it out loud like that.

David gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “And you're not sure if you're ready to share that with another person?”

“Eh… it's not quite that, I don't think.” Rumford dismissed, shaking his head. “It's just... I like Belle! A lot! I'd like to… be intimate with her. It's certainly been long enough for me that I think I'm ready to do that again. But isn't it too soon? For us? Or am I being too old-fashioned?” he asked. “Because I-I always felt… it should be about love, you know? Showing how you feel. And I know I have feelings for Belle. Good, strong feelings. But Milah and I knew each other for almost a year before we– I met Belle little more than a month ago.”

“Alright. Look, Rum.” David said, making a decisive gesture with his hand. “Whether you want to wait or not, or how long you wait, is up to you. Be it after x amount of dates or months, or until however long it takes to say you love each other, until you’re married, or whatever. There's no wrong choice there. But sex doesn't always have to be about… making love. It can just be about... having fun and making each other feel good. Or something in-between. The important thing is that you're both on the same page about it.”

Rumford let out a heavy sigh. “Ah suppose.”

“Just… honesty, man. Communication. Talk to her about it.”

“Talk to her.” Rumford muttered.

It seemed talking was David's solution for everything!

But talking was hard! At least, the kind of talking he was referring to– the kind that involved being vulnerable! It was so much easier to just flirt and make Belle smile and blush and giggle!

Because the more Belle knew about him, the more likely it was that she'd… realize how boring he was, and leave him for somebody more sexy and exciting. Like the roofer.

Rumford tapped a finger on his glass and sighed. “I don't think it's just that though. Th-the sex, I mean.”

David paused, his bottle hovering a inch from his lips. “No?”

“You know… what if it doesn't work out?”

He set his beer down and tilted his head at him.

“Being with Belle.” Rumford said. “I-it's made me realize how much I missed… having someone, you know? But I'm forty-five years old. I'm no’ getting any younger. If I'm gonnae… see somebody, I want to know that they're…”

Interested in getting married and having children?

Growing old and grey together?

Never going to leave me?

“...Looking for something serious?” David offered.

“Aye.”

Looking for something serious. That was good! That sounded far less pathetic!

Rumford cleared his throat. “We were talking on the phone Monday, and she mentioned that she loved kids and it hit me, you know? I know I want to have more kids but what about her? What if she doesn't?”

“I don't understand. You just said she told you she loves kids.”

“Aye, but liking kids and wanting to have your own are very different things. I-it just seems like we ought to talk about those things, doesn't it?”

“Eh…” David hesitated.

“Or is it too soon to talk about that? Because what we have so far is… it's nice. And I don't wannae scare her away by bringing those things up, but…”

“You're worried she just wants something casual and that you're heading towards a dead-end?”

Rumford nodded. “I can't do casual, David. I don't want casual. I don't even know what that means!” he said, looking around the bar helplessly. “It sounds sad!”

“Hey, now. Relax.” David said, setting a hand on his arm to ground him.

“I never should have gone on that first date with her,” Rumford sighed. “Then I wouldn't be in this mess with all these feelings, David.”

“No, don't say that.” he said. “The way I see it? If it's not too soon for you to be worrying about those things, it's not too soon for you to talk about them with her. It's a conversation every new relationship needs to have at some point, what the expectations are.”

Rumford looked at him with a pained expression.

Was it?

He and Milah had never really had that conversation. They’d studied together, fallen into bed a few times, and next thing he knew she was carrying his child and they were getting married.

How did one have that conversation, anyway? The thought of asking Belle if they were serious or not was nauseating! After all, what if she said no? It wasn't like there was a subtle, approachable way to say, I think I'm falling in love with you– but before you say anything, you should also know that I want to have more children someday and if you're not down with that, then we should just quit while we're ahead.

“Just be open about it.” David said. “It's uncomfortable and it'll be tempting to be as brief as possible, but take her through your thought process. All of it. From the… sex, to the… you know. Other, big picture stuff.”

“But what if she–”

“Look. I can't promise you how she'll react,” David said. “Maybe she'll decide she's not ready for all that and break things off. Or maybe she feels the same way and she'll be relieved. But if it's something you know you want, avoiding that conversation would just be torturing yourself.”

His mouth flopped open and closed. “I should at least wait though, right? I-I mean–”

“OK. Then wait how long?” David asked. He inched into his space, and Rumford couldn't help shrinking in his seat a little. “A month? Two months? Three? Let it fester for six? ...A year?”

Yes! Festering for a year sounded perfect!

“Trust me.” David said, giving him a pat on the back. “Best to just nip these things in the bud.”

Rumford grumbled and looked away. Damn David. Always being so… sensible about things.

“So, you'll tell her?”

He looked at his glass and let out a huff of resignation. “I'll… try.”

David shrugged. “You deserve to be happy, man, is all I'm saying. You know what you want– you shouldn't have to hide or apologize for it.”

Rumford rubbed a hand over his mouth.

Wanting things and not apologizing for the inevitable burden those foolish desires place on the people around you?

People did that?

But how?

It certainly made things seem so much more simple, he had to admit.

Why did you do that? Why are you telling me this?

Because I bloody well wanted to, that's why!

Rumford scoffed.

Of course! So simple!

He smiled and gave David's hand a few pats. “Thank you.” he finally said. “For… listening. To all of that.”

“Sure thing.” David winked. “Any time.”

“Well–” Rumford hopped out of his chair. “David. It's been lovely, we should most certainly do this again... but I think I'd like to take the rest of the evening to reflect privately on the matters discussed.”

“Oh.” David blinked. “O-okay.”

“Have a wonderful evening, and give Emma and Mary Margaret my regards.” he said, straightening his jacket and spinning on his heels toward the door.

“Gold, wait–”

Rumford froze and looked over his shoulder, brows raised expectantly.

David shook his head and laughed. “You gotta pay your bill, man.”

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #fic: the boston hour

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lonelypond · 6 years

Text

PhotoJazz, Chapter 5 (of 6)

Love Live, NicoMaki, 5.3K, 5/6

Summary: We have a gallery opening and a request.

THE VERY THOUGHT OF YOU (REDUX)

Maki had slept sometime. Since LA. Before LA and after, that was how she broke everything down now. Before Nico had escaped the chains and wrapped herself around Maki’s every nerve and thought process. Enflamed, that’s what Maki was...obsession, passion, desire...she had no real words for this, no way to cope, no way to hold her head above this tsunami of memory and hope that clung to her, making every fantasy, every wish transparent. Not even the first time the potential pleasures of a woman’s body had overtaken rational thought, in Tokyo, at the start, when she swore never again to make that leap, have that feeling that made her shudder, the horror of only existing, detached, on the physical plane, of a one sided lust.

Eli kept nagging about the gallery opening so Maki was working. Framed photos due in two days, 10 days since her return from LA, no time passing since Nico burst from the water, pure drive, the moment, the breath, the shaky way Nico’s chest...that kept replaying in Maki’s mind. In an effort to not picture herself licking every drop of water SLOWLY from Nico’s torso, which honestly would last three seconds before Maki exploded and who knew what would happen, or what Nico would do or...IN AN EFFORT TO DETOUR THAT TRAIN OF THOUGHT, derail it into a deep deep canyon, Maki had pulled up every other picture she’d taken of Nico, the eyes, the closeups, the candids snuck between poses, managed to track down the most exquisite red jewel, the Moussaieff Red Diamond, fortunately on display at the Smithsonian, have Eli talk her way into photographing the exhibit, an overnight trip to DC, a studio full of every red flower she could find on the Northshore, since the perfect pink was still eluding her, and seemed only to make an appearance in the presence of Nico’s lips.

The raw materials. Add Jazz, Nico hated jazz, she could play jazz and maybe it would keep the Nico fantasies at bay. “The Very Thought Of You” over and over again, every cover she could find. Umi had fled the repetitiveness one day after stopping in to check on her. Slices and slivers of diamond, and petals of roses and peonies and dahlias and daylilies and hyacinths and then those eyes, sparkling, sliding in between diamond facets and floral faces, Maki was creating a whirlwind, swirling to a too rapid, too panicked, too heartbeat like beat of “The Very Thought Of You” cover that she pounded out on her piano instead of breaths.

One near hologram quality animation. Eight frames. Nico the essence, the essential, but only if you could tell ruby diamond and ruby iris apart, and even Maki couldn’t. She was proud of her art, Nico had said not recognizable so Maki had grafted her non reproducible charms into a priceless treasure, made only richer by the deeper, human feeling behind it. Maki could sense that when she looked into Nico’s eyes, in frame 1, from the Houdini shoot, and frame 8, when Nico had opened her eyes in her apartment, makeup and pretense stripped, trusting Maki, Nico’s expression open and inviting, a warmth of bemused softness . And that was where Maki was lost....between the opening and closing frames of the rose diamond nico...could she call it rose diamond smile… would anyone know...would Nico care...could she ask her...no, more volume, some random song without words, only depths and feelings, shaking to the ceiling as Maki curled into a cave of ruby walls, mirror images misleading her, calling her deeper, in to drown.

AT LONG LAST LOVE

Eli was back. With Her. The cause of all this. Nozomi. At the opening. Maki had delivered, at dawn, leaving Levine barely enough time to hang things properly. And she had been less than thrilled when Maki informed her that the no version of the completed Diamond Rose was for sale. The lenticular prints Maki had made of the eight key frames were a huge hit, which made Levine a little happier, and now Maki was in a dark corner, watching as the projected animation rotated through its special light show, pleased at how Nico’s eyes melded into the facets of the Moussaif, adding a depth that made the gem almost seem animate.

Eli had tried introducing Nozomi, but Maki had nearly snarled, and even though Nozomi was more than willing to keep up the chatter, Eli had reluctantly pulled her away, to introduce her to Levine. It was an Eli, Maki’s manager, night and keeping the photographer in a calm place was paramount.

And that lasted until the moment Nico Yazawa walked through the door, followed by half a dozen chattering hangers on. Maki startled, as she felt the focus shift from her art; Levine froze; Nozomi trilled a high pitched “Nico-chi.” The miniature marauder in question waved at Nozomi, but Maki knew it was half hearted as Nico’s eyes were searching the room, stopping briefly here and there, to register a photo existed, but in targeting mode until she found Maki’s once sanctuary, now corner. Which Nico did, striding right up, blocking egress, hand out, Nozomi watching curiously, Eli open mouthed, Maki had a hand reaching up for her hair and a bottled water in the other so there was no defense when Nico stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss on Maki’s reddening cheek, and squeeze her shoulder. Finally Maki managed to shuffle around Nico, to escape the trapped feeling.

“The party can start now.” Did Nico always say that? Nico slid an arm through Maki’s and dragged her into the center of the room, where the animation rotated between bright and shadow, “Tell Nico how you did this. It’s amazing. And why isn’t it for sale?”

Maki coughed as she caught Levine Brook’s nod of agreement. She was going to be ganged up on. She threw a desperate look in Eli’s direction but her manager was completely distracted by whatever Nozomi was whispering in her ear.

“Ummmm...well, first there was...first I created…” Maki glanced down at Nico, uncertain if her audience actually wanted an answer, but the miniscule miscreant was actually paying attention, “I created medlies of several objects using photos I’d taken.” Of you, Maki swallowed instead of saying as Nico listened with genuine interest, “and then several days later, this happened…”

“Maki’s never really been good at describing her process, Miss Yazawa,” Levine slid herself smoothly into the conversation.

“No,” Nico smiled gaily at the new entry, “Put a camera in her hand and suddenly you feel like a peeping pervert outside a bedroom window.”

Maki had been wondering exactly how Nico was keeping her bangs to the side but then Nico’s statement registered, “Hey. It’s not like that.”

“Like what?” And now Eli was there.

“I am not in a sexual relationship with my camera.” And the room had, of course, gone quiet, the breath before Maki’s declaration and Eli’s wife, of course, let the echoes die down before she continued the torture.

“So would you AND the camera be in a sexual relationship with your subjects?” Nozomi giggled, “A sort of ménage a montage?”

Eli, traitor to the core, joined the giggle crowd.

Levine, reading the room and ignoring Maki’s aggrieved huffing, decided risky was worth it as neither the celebrity guest or the money people had committed to a mood yet, “Annie Liebovitz did say “A thing that you see in my pictures is that I was not afraid to fall in love with these people.”

Nico was the next to contribute, “Nico’s been reading up on Mapplethorpe,” she tossed off casually as she grinned at Maki, her voice altering as she quoted, ““When I have sex with someone I forget who I am. For a minute I even forget I’m human. It’s the same thing when I’m behind a camera. I forget I exist.” Nico winked at Maki, a smug, confident, audacious, invading-all-Maki’s-sanctuaries wink, as her voice made their exchange a private, sensual whisper. “Nico’s there but not. And the rest is left to the audience.”

Beauty and the Devil are the same, Maki thought. Mapplethorpe said that too. With possibly the same burning in his eyes and chest as she had right now, staring through Nico, wondering if Nico had meant in bed or on screen, Maki could see the smirk and horns and the smoldering and the hood tossed over to make sure there was enough shadowing to upset and unsettle the viewer. And the eyes would burn, fire, fire, flames ablaze in darkness, Nico’s glance lasering down through the skin to the soul, like the lancing touch of angel wings as their feathers ignited in the heavenly fall.

“Maki?” Levine touched her arm lightly, “Nico asked you a question.”

Maki blinked, her ‘what’ all abrupt, half accusation.

Nico was ice calm but that was no balm when she struck, “Could you do an animation of something like the pictures you took of me in LA?”

Oh gods. Cold and hot both burning, flood surge of memories and wants bursting through. Cursing her lack of ability to come up with any dry analogies, Maki spun around and headed for the door, Eli stepping in behind her with apologies, to give Maki a necessary moment to clear her head.

SOMETHING’S GOTTA GIVE

No, Maki had not spent the entire night sorting through the Houdini Estate pictures, plotting angles for the animated and lenticular display Nico had requested. Nope. That would be creepy. Not more than ten minutes. The rest of the night had been taken up by screaming into one of the pillows on her studio couch, reshuffling the pictures on her wall, and 3 hours boxing her arms off in Wii Sports, followed by too many runs in SSX Blur to count. Then exhaustion had hit and she was too tired to dream or think or plan or…

Knocking. Door. Did she have a doorbell? Umi. Maki sat up in a panic, looking for her phone. Too early for Umi. The London flight left in the afternoon. It was barely dawn. Well, Maki had been up til dawn so it wasn’t really much after. She still needed sleep.

Maki opened the door. Nico Yazawa stood there, behind crystal encrusted sunglasses, pink coat blowing open in the brisk wind, dark floral wrap dress underneath. She had a basket in her hand and pushed it into Maki’s abdomen as she strode into the studio, “Nozomi said that Eli said you slept here most nights. I guess she was right.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I brought you breakfast.” Nico smiled brightly, “A breakfast pie. Stick the fork right in. Nico knows that’s your style.”

“Ok.” Maki found herself clutching the basket, which smelled like bacon and fennel sausages closer when she expected to shove it right back at the invading force.

“And…” Nico spun around, whipping an oversized, glossy object at Maki, “Nico brought you an advance copy of Interview.” A dramatic pause, “Signed. Hot off the presses this morning.” Nico unfurled the magazine, the shot of her wet and bursting out of the water tank was splashed across the cover with the caption, ‘Yazawa Escapes Chains of Nico’s Past.’ “Nico signed it for you.”

“I have the negative.” Maki sat on her couch, pulling the pie out of the basket, pausing to inhale delicious, tempting smells.

“Want Nico to sign that?” Had Maki ever heard Nico’s voice without a lilting tease? She couldn’t remember.

“Please leave.” Maki shuffled through the basket but no silverware. She crawled to the end of the couch, precariously leaning over to her desk, pulling a fork out of the pen cup at the end.

“Have you washed that recently?”

Maki shrugged, breakfast pie on its way to her salivating mouth.

“Cotorou says hi.” Nico took her sunglasses off with a flair.

Maki waved the fork.

“He wants to come on another photoshoot.”

Maki nodded, in what she hoped was a non committal fashion.

“Nico needs you in Tokyo before New Year’s.” Nico was now looming both too close and too tall, how high were those boot heels Maki wondered.

Maki stopped chewing, staring up at Yazawa.

“Vogue is flying me out, I’m debuting a hot new designer team, it’s amazing...:” Nico somehow gleamed with enthusiasm, almost taking on a glow. Maki figured her own eyes weren’t used to daylight yet.

Maki swallowed, taking a moment to fortify her constitution as Nico slid into the couch next to her, some citrusy perfume wafting, stole Maki’s fork and ate a piece of pie, “Why do you need me? Nozomi’s back.”

Nico hesitated, then went for accusatory, “Your friend is DRAGGING her to Russia for the holidays, and Nico can’t cope. Everybody else sees child star Nico...you see…” Nico pointed to the magazine, then offered Maki a forkful of pie. The photographer bit, distracted by thinking about how often she saw Nico like that, in LA, in black and white, in color, in motion, in control, in her mind. Nico leaned in, “I know your first show was in Tokyo, after you spent a summer there, and you haven’t been back. I thought you might enjoy a chance to revisit your original inspiration.” Nico’s eyelashes were blinking at an impossibly slow rate, black shadows over the eyes that offered Maki too many things to read.

There were a few reasons Maki had never returned to Tokyo, all of them more whims than foundational beliefs. Another forkful, Nico just watching Maki for another moment and then bouncing up, wandering through the room, “Have you framed a picture of Nico for the wall yet?”

“No.” Maki sounded sullen, but only because she was tired of having that argument with herself.

“Isn’t Nico nude enough?”

Damn it, the midget monster enjoyed this, there was far to much mirth and mischief underlying her tone. Which, Maki conceded to HERSELF, was much better than if Nico had gone for any kind of sensual vocal coloration.

“I’ve been busy.” Maki punted and grabbed the fork from where Nico had stabbed it into the pie. Amazing flavor mix. Maki could eat this every morning.

Nico leaned over the back of the couch, her chin threatening to land on Maki’s shoulder, one arm keeping Maki from sliding away, “Nico is busy too. And I need help. And you love taking Nico’s picture.”

Maki spluttered as that whispered exaggeration slid into her ear, “I don’t...you can’t...it’s not…”

“It’s not what?”

Maki sighed, regaining equilibrium. It was easier when she wasn’t looking at Nico. “Once again, I’m not your personal photographer, Ms. Yazawa. I can recommend several.”

“First class to Tokyo, Nico will pose however YOU want her, such a high class hotel it would make the one in LA drool, and Nico left you an open ended return ticket if you’d like to visit old…” Nico leaned into Maki’s view and winked, “friends.”

“Nico…”

“Please.” Nico pointed to the pie, “Nico doesn’t bake for everyone, just geniuses who do her super special favors.”

It was the “geniuses” that got the nod out of her, Maki thought, or the honest admiration glowing in Nico’s eyes, but there she was, consenting to Nico invading her space, her time, her calendar. Maki’s world wasn’t pre LA or post LA, it was pre and post Nico.

CANDY

Maki hadn’t been back in Tokyo for several years. She’d spent a summer staying with cousins after her junior year of college, mostly following them around to parties and trying to flirt with women she’d never see again, which was, as always, Option A. Memories came back, quick kisses, her first, here, somewhere no one really knew her. And her first chances taken with photography, somehow both mixed together in her memory, candy colored video game trinkets, vibrant plastic trifles, girls, legs, neon against night, shadows of thousands of odd moments caught in the corners of creative minds, briefly, sharply lit future crashing against traditional Japanese formality. Her first nude model, fabric draping off curves Maki had only recently realized felt so different when they were other. Gay might not seem other, but it was, the most intense form. Curves, yes, but there were the details, the differences, the dents, the dips, the draws, the way her fingers, her eyes, her camera were drawn in, almost swallowed, tiny in the overwhelming awe each fraction of a minute of a degree of change inspired. Lost, she got lost, it was amazing, it was terrifying, it was crushing when she realized her emotions had leapt to attachment with so little encouragement. The model had been kind, but the disappointment in herself had tainted the rest of Maki’s visit and she’d thrown herself into her photography, trying to both distance and replicate the experience, with unyielding imperfect plastic facsimiles and flowing fabric. She’d had her first magazine credit, her first gallery show, a sold out success that she’d been too embarrassed to tell her uncle was happening. So many firsts and then she’d left Tokyo behind, bringing only the fire to kneel, to be humbled breathless by, to capture perfect moments, the beats that stopped her cold, the colors that caught her in their swirl like a mythical maelstrom.

Too much pink tonight. Why had Nico dragged her to Tokyo? The shoot in Akihabara had been too close to memories for Maki to be comfortable. But Nico had done her usual bright bulldozing through anyone in her way and she’d looked so damn good in the yukata and kanzashi and...Maki stared at the shot glass in front of her and nodded at the bartender, double it. Japanese whiskey. When in Nippon...someone slid in next to her. She glanced slightly. Not Nico. Her laugh was across the room. The hairstylist. And their translator on the other side, both smiling, both leaning into Maki. She smiled at the one, Yuu, and winked at the other, Neve.

“Hello, ladies.”

Giggles.

“So we heard you had your first…” another giggle. Maki sunk the whiskey in the pool of other whiskey that was working its way through her veins and blurring her vision, her judgement, her grasp “show here.”

Maki grinned, and tapped so the bartender poured her another. It was Nico’s tab, Nico could pay for this mood she’d flown Maki halfway across the world into, “Yep. Just down the block. Famous gallery. EVERYTHING sold.” Maki toasted herself, wondering if she sounded as loud as she thought. She dropped her head, pulling the two women in to whisper, “First everything here…”

The wide eyes told her her audience understood the implications, although Maki wouldn’t bother to explain that she might have been exaggerating her story a bit. She felt a touch on her hair, a breath near her ear, a hand sliding under hers and her hand shot forward, shaking, grabbing the shot glass as she stood, “Look me up later, ladies.” Wink. Stumble. Was it really a stumble, yes, Maki realized as she found herself mysteriously across the room, her arms finally catching her fall by jamming into table. Jarring. Maki shook her head, blowing her bangs out of her eyes, and there they were, the eyes that haunted her, the shimmering ruby depths that taunted her by being more unreadable than Lake Michigan under a new moon.

“Nico!” Maki slid into the booth. Nico seemed more amused than usual, but her smile was...Maki frowned, it was a complicated concept, not warm, not cold, something sandwich, wry…Maki pounded the table, proud of herself.

“Why do you always slide away from them?” Nico raised a bulbous glass full of some viscous red liquid in the direction of the bar.

Maki took her time, propping her elbows on the table, dropping her chin down, furrowing her brow, stretching out her mouth as Nico watched every single motion with the protective amusement of an adult in charge of a toddler learning to crawl. Maki purred “They’re not aesthetically pleasing” and Nico only twitched a little as Maki’s finger touched between Nico’s eyebrows, tracing down over her nose, barely tapping her top lip, “Not like you.” Maki grinned at Nico, looming, “Just joking; ‘m not that shallow.” She shook her head, leaning back, staring at the ceiling, “They want...cool.” Another sigh as today, Tokyo, Nico, blossoms, wishes, wants, wounds churned behind her closed eyelids, “I’m not that…” She stuck out her tongue, “And It’s all pink now. I just can’t see any…” Maki blew out a big breath, feeling relieved, maybe a little queasy, what were they talking about, was Nico still there? She let her head fall to the side, something warm, Nico’s perfume, Nico’s carefully trimmed nails tapping a rhythm Maki knew well but which….”HEY!” Maki sat up, her hands reaching out as if for a keyboard, trying to place the tune, Nico had jumped back, her drink spilling a little, Maki watched fascinated as the red liquid dripped down Nico’s wrist and she had the sudden thirsty urge to lean forward and lick it, to see if tasted salty at all, like skin did, like…

“Maki?” Nico’s other hand was under her chin, but Maki shook it off, the almost familiar rhythm still working its way into clarity. Then Maki stopped, eyes narrowed at a confused Nico. “But you hate jazz. There’s no words. You said so.”

Nico looked flummoxed for the first time Maki had ever seen her, “When did I say that?”

“At the party. The first time I saw you. All pink. Eli dragged me there. So she could meet Nozomi.”

Nico’s chin jutted forward, her eyes blinking, a slight flush on her cheeks, “You were there?”

“Obviously,” Maki snorted, “everybody was staring, and so rude but I couldn’t get you out of my m...” Nico was fumbling nervously with the tablecloth. Maki grabbed a napkin to hand to Nico but her hand knocked straight into Nico’s glass, more red spilling across the table, Maki reaching out, fascinated, “sticky.”

“You have had too much to drink.” Nico decided, her voice very close, very soft, Maki turned her head and Nico was right there...right there, she reached out a hand but ended up knocking Nico’s glass the other way so it rolled into her lap, “Time to get you to your room, Nishikino.” Nico’s tone was almost cold, Maki noticed. Maybe her pretty pink dress was ruined? Had Maki done that? That was sad...why did it feel like tears? There was a rough upward tug on her arm and Maki was suddenly on her feet, her arm over Nico’s shoulders.

“Hey!” Maki swayed, but Nico was surprisingly solid.

“Hey, yourself. Nico will do you a favor and tuck you in. But we have an early morning. You need to sleep.” Nico’s voice sounded far away as Maki’s head bobbed through yawns.

“Sleep.” Maki thought that sounded...less shaky.

“Sleep.” Nico’s tone warmed slightly and Maki hummed to herself, that song was almost there...what was it? She’d have to ask Nico in the morning.

I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU

Maki had been queasy on the flight to Hirosaki. She’d pulled her hoodie down over her head, pulled the blanket up to her nose and glared at the universe through the narrow gap between them. How many drinks had she had last night? She remembered sitting next to Nico, but after that, just some movement, sluggish movement and the relief when she’d achieved a stable horizontal position, no longer having to willpower through her every movement. And then there had been waking to realize she’d thrown up over the side of the bed. A quick clean up, then a shower, then the quietest, calmest breakfast she could think of...Now, the plane, and Maki just wanted to sleep and not feel every vibration as the plane found things to jar against in mid air. She felt a hand on her shoulder and grumbled only to hear Nico laughing, “Better get some juice to replace those fluids, Maki. Nico doesn’t want to have to drag your nearly unconscious body through the snow.”

Nico was wearing comfy clothes for the plane ride, leggings and an oversized sweater. Maki’s jeans were twisting. Next flight, she was just going to find slouchy, comfy pajama pants and wear them out. She missed first class and leg room. The thought of champagne brought a wince as orange juice dangled in front of her. She reached out.

“That’s a good girl,” Nico teased, her voice shrill and silly, “Listen to Nico.”

The blanket fell as Maki shifted to glare at Nico, who winked, deflating Maki’s sudden urge to strike her with a clever verbal retort. “My hangover hates you.”

“I’ll let my people know.” Nico continued down the aisle, chirping nonsensical travel truisms at random people, Maki could hear the “Nico Nico Ni” that punctuated her conversations with the ones who claimed to be fans.

Oh my gods, Maki thought, entranced, headache forgotten, cold too far away to touch her, watching Nico sweep up a ice white hill toward an ebony roofed castle, framed by frozen cherry blossom branches, her open black coat floating behind her, the black and white of her dress a shattered geometry that amazed, entangled from every angle. Maki had planned to shoot on black and white film but with the Fuji, the ruby red of Nico’s eyes thrilled like stars after a stormy night. Was she knee deep in snow? Maki didn’t care, and fell to her side, to shoot up the hill as Nico approached her, castle looming in the background. Nico sped by, turning sharply in a surprising pause to look right at Maki, winking and blowing a kiss as she shook the snow off a cherry branch. Maki barely felt the cold wet burying her as her shutter clicked madly and Nico threw back her head with a laugh that must have echoed to the sea.

“We’ll come back in the Spring.” Maki swore she heard whispered as her fingers went numb.

IT’S NOT FOR ME TO SAY

It had been a fairly painless interview. A photography podcast had tracked Maki down and was interested in her influences. Her latest book/album had been out long enough to hit a sales lull and Maki was almost recharged enough to impersonate an ambivert so she said yes. Also, there was her continual inability to say no to requests from the the smart, the sharp and the shapely, no matter how much Umi and Eli teased her about it. Maki always countered with “there are worse habits.”

“So Maki, you’ve been travelling a lot the past six months, with photoshoots for Nico Yazawa. Is it exciting?”

Maki chuckled, “I’m a bit of a homebody.”

“You don’t seem like the Netflix on the couch type, Maki. Your photos are so lively. And you incorporate different environments so well.”

“I have these short bursts of creativity, Aylen, everything gets blurry and time….well, it kind of skips, I guess. Or elongates.” Maki shuffled through prints, pushing one in the direction of her interviewer, “Like these shots of granite chess pieces. When I put the cameras down, nearly four hours had passed, I was freezing, and if Eli hadn’t decided to check on me, I probably would have just curled up on a dune.”

Aylen picked up the picture, her finger reaching out as if it had texture, “That’s her manager, Eli Ayase. And I’m looking at a picture from Maki’s Storm Chess series, an oversized, rosy hued queen tilted into an ebbing tide, a grayer knight half buried in sand behind her.” She smiled at Maki, “It’s so cool to see what your favorites are.”

“Well, there are some I always come back to,” Maki waved her hand, drawing her interviewer’s eye to the pictures framed around the office part of her loft.

“No pictures of Nico Yazawa have made the wall yet, I see.” Aylen commented casually.

Maki coughed uncomfortably, “That’s a bit new.”

“But it does make me wonder: how working with someone as well known as Nico Yazawa affects your process. Your previous celebrity models were one time shoots.”

So many Nico mentions, questions. Maki frowned, uncomfortable talking about Nico when the actress couldn’t join in the conversation. Sure, Nico seemed to live for media hits, but Maki was starting to feel exposed, as if she were about to spit a secret out that should have been completely buried in the sand by a wave surge.

“Uhhh...I’m not sure what I should say…” Maki fidgeted, the stool legs grinding across the floor as she shoved herself back from the counter, “I respect Nico, she’s got this laserscope targeting for her personal, artistic vision…” Maki, sighed, tilting the stool back, meeting a pair of friendly, patient hazel eyes, “It has cut into my time. The travel’s exciting and I’ve learned a lot about the entertainment business, but…” Maki stopped, reluctant.

“But?” Aylen’s question was a gentle echo, a well nuanced prod.

Maki shrugged, there was no denying the truth, “I haven’t had nearly enough time for my own projects. I’m still sorting through the Hirosaki pics. The magazine chose the ones they wanted, but Nico asked me to pick an alternate set she could post on her site.”

Aware that she’d just gotten an unexpected moment of honesty, Aylen changed topics before Maki could absorb what she’d just admitted. “Your own website is amazing, the way you’ve fluidly animated the photos to the music.”

Maki let the stool fall back solidly on the floor, leaning forward eagerly, “I know. The program I found is so much fun to play with. And my friend, Umi Sonoda, the poet, is writing haiku for me. We’re both waiting for the cherry blossoms. I’ve been so caught by pink, there’s so much romance encoded in it, such softness.”

Aylen laughed, “So is your next project a pink one?”

“If I could find the right flower....” Maki grumbled.

“What do you mean…”

Maki shook her head, “Nothing coherent. Sorry, I’m not the best interview.”

“You’re doing fine, Maki. And we appreciate your time.” Aylen glanced at her phone, “But we do need to wrap it up. So just a few final questions.”

“Sure.” Maki had been trying not to fidget, not to create extra noise and the stillness was making her sound as restless as she felt.

“I know you’re a Mapplethorpe fan. Do you have a favorite quote? Or photo?”

“Too many photos. I rotate them seasonally at home.” Maki linked her fingers, stretching out, “ A lot of Mapplethorpe resonates. I like that he didn’t really worship photography, it was a tool. He wanted the picture in his hand, the moment captured. "With photography, you zero in; you put a lot of energy into short moments, and then you go on to the next thing." Maki paused, “He really got the intensity of the experience and the relief of moving on.”

“So many metaphors there.” Aylen laughed.

“Ah, I’m actually very literal. I see it, I hear it, I read it, no subtext.” Maki hung her head, bangs falling forward, suddenly tired.

“So then,” Aylen leaned forward, “I guess the only question is what is your ‘next thing’?’”

And Maki knew she should have had an answer.

A/N: In a bit of a rush. Added another chapter; hope you don't mind the suspense. This is a very slow burn for me.

#nicomaki #PhotoJazz #yazawa nico #nishikino maki #music #jazz #photography #Love Live #fanfic #slow burn

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aswithasunbeam · 6 years

Text

The Three Ten to NYC, A Modern Hamliza Fic

[Read on AO3]

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: Eliza and Alexander are stuck at Union Station in the middle of the night. Despite long coffee lines, angry tweets, and general sleep deprivation, Eliza is head over heels in love and feels like the luckiest girl in the world.

A fluffy modern hamliza AU

The dull drone of an announcement crackled over the speakers. Eliza listened just long enough to hear something about a delayed southbound train, then tuned it out once again. The line for coffee, which snaked back and forth through several loops of sleep deprived passengers, inched forward a little more, only for the woman who’d finally stepped up to counter to hesitate over her order. Apparently, the fifteen minutes she’d been standing in line wasn’t quite enough time for her to work out what she wanted, Eliza thought with an internal huff.

Trying to block out her frustration, Eliza swiped at the screen of her phone and opened the photo gallery. Alexander’s handsome face grinned at her from the latest picture. It was a photo she’d snapped just hours ago in their cramped hotel room. He’d already removed his jacket and loosened his tie, and he was trying to entice her to join him in the shower.

“I sat through a two hour meeting about climate change and the importance of water conservation today. I’m feeling very motivated.”

“We’re supposed to be washing up and taking a nap,” she’d reminded him, lying atop the covers on their bed scrolling through her phone. “Our train leaves at three in the morning.”

“Yeah, of course,” he’d agreed innocently, slowly removing his tie and backing up towards the bathroom. “This is just about being responsible with precious natural resources.”

“Uh huh.” A dimple had appeared in his cheeks as she’d hummed with disbelief. She’d snapped the picture just before she pushed off the bed to follow him, unable to resist. They’d never quite gotten around to properly washing up or napping. But a little sleep deprivation wasn’t such a high price to pay when he’d looked so damn cute, she granted herself.

Usually when Alexander traveled to D.C. with the Senator, she remained behind in New York. This time, though, the dates of his trip happened to line up with a child welfare conference that she’d been wanting to attend anyway. Not being away from her new fiancée for a full week had only been an added benefit.

When Senator Washington heard she had accompanied Alexander to D.C., he invited them both to his second home on the Potomac for a quiet dinner. In Mrs. Washington’s kind and capable hands, that quiet dinner had turned into a surprise blowout engagement party, complete with many of Alexander’s oldest friends, a live band, and thousands of white lights strung up from the house all the way down to the river. Eliza wouldn’t have traded that magical night of laughter and dancing for anything in the world.

She was playing with the filter on a picture of the two of them down by the water when she finally found herself at the front of the line. Thrusting her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, she stepped up the counter to order two black coffees and, impulsively, a buttery croissant from the bake case. The two coffees were passed to her over the counter as she paid, allowing her to bypass the huddled mass of customers waiting on lattes and macchiatos. She placed her brown pastry bag on the coffee station to add a half and half to her cup, then headed back towards the benches with her purchases in hand.

Alexander had long since traded his suit jacket and tie for his ratty Columbia sweatshirt before they left the hotel, and thick framed glasses were sliding down his nose. The light from his laptop screen reflected in the lenses pounded at the keyboard. His eyes always carried a slightly bruised quality, but the circles seemed darker in the harsh unnatural lighting, and his face and shoulders looked tense.

“Hello, handsome. Is this seat taken?” Her voice was heavy with exaggerated flirtation and she batted her eyes ridiculously as she sat beside him, hoping to make him laugh.

He smiled weakly and accepted the coffee from her. The drink was still piping hot, but he gulped it down like it was room temperature. Putting the cup down on the bench on his other side, he jabbed his finger at his laptop and said, “Look at this.”

She scooted closer so their shoulders were pressed together while she looked at the screen. Twitter was open, and he was gesturing at a tweet from a senator’s aide in the opposition party. Why he insisted on reading that garbage and getting all riled up over it, she still didn’t understand.

Pressing a kiss to his cheek, she answered vaguely, without really taking in the content of the tweet, “How awful.”

“This kind of blatantly racist bullshit is why we can’t have intelligent, rational conversations about immigration in this country,” he fumed, and switched tabs to a google doc to resume his furious typing. He’d already filled a page and half with text, she noticed. A smile crept over her face as she tried to figure out whether he was writing some kind of op-ed or just an extremely long thread of tweets.

“Any updates on the train?” she asked, interrupting the rant she heard gathering steam under his breath.

“I guess it was delayed coming out of Richmond,” he answered, still focused on his computer. “They’re estimating another thirty minutes.”

She sighed and pulled the croissant from the paper bag. Splitting the pastry down the middle, she offered Alexander half. He gave it a sidelong glance and shook his head. “I’m not that hungry.”

“You’re sure? You didn’t eat much before we left.”

“Yeah.” He slid his left hand under his glasses to rub his eyes. “My head is killing me.”

“That’s what you get for using up our nap time.”

He smirked and readjusted his glasses. “Nah, it was worth it.”

Leaning over, she placed a kiss against his lips and pushed his laptop closed. He chuckled warmly, although the tension in his brow remained. She ran her fingers through the hair at his temple tenderly. “I think I have Tylenol in my purse. Do you want some?”

He nodded. She bent down to rifle through her bag until she felt the travel sized bottle on the bottom. Dry swallowing the two pills she handed him, he chased them with another gulp of coffee.

“Want to look at some pictures from the party?” she offered, a transparent ploy to keep him away from twitter. “People have been sharing them with me all day.”

Thankfully, he gave in easily despite the obvious tactic. Twisting on the bench to face her, he invited “Let’s see ‘em.”

She shifted closer so they could both see her phone. He laughed at the first picture of him, Gilbert, and Mulligan with their arms around each other, though she thought she heard a hint of melancholy in the sound. She’d seen dozens of similar photos of the group from over the years, but always with a fourth member: the legendary and beloved Jack, who’d been killed on his third overseas deployment a few years earlier. She didn’t linger or press, and his laugh turned lighter when she showed him the next picture of him looking at the buffet table. “Oh, God, please get rid that one. What is that face I’m making? I look like I have three chins.”

“You do not,” she laughed.

“No?” he asked as he made a goofy face and pulled his chin back towards his neck.

She snorted and broke out into giggles. “So sexy.”

“Wow, I need to borrow those love goggles of yours.” He reached out and slid his finger over the screen to look at the next photo: a selfie she’d meant to delete already because her eyes were half shut. “See, now, that’s better.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think you need to borrow anything.”

They spent the next several minutes sipping at their coffees and scrolling through the rest of the photos.

“I want to print this one,” she told him, stopping again on the photo of them by the river, the same one she’d been fussing with in the coffee line. Mrs. Washington had snapped it early in the evening, so they both looked fresh faced and happy. Eliza was smiling for the camera, but Alexander was looking at her with the sweetest, softest expression she’d ever seen him wear. The pure love she saw shining in his eyes made her heartbeat quicken and her stomach fill with the wonderful kind of butterflies.

He nodded seriously. “We should. That came out nice.”

She cuddled closer and leaned her head on his shoulder. “It was a beautiful party.”

“It was,” he agreed, twirling a finger through the loose hair on her shoulders.

“I’m just glad I didn’t embarrass you.”

The words had tumbled out of her mouth before she’d really thought them through. He stilled beside her and then straightened. She could feel him trying to catch her eye.

“What are you talking about?”

She winced. Exhausted as she was, she’d let slip the insecure thoughts that usually floated, safe and unspoken, around in the back of her mind. She had a healthy amount of self-confidence, really. She knew she was kind, moral, beautiful, and far from stupid. But ever since she’d started dating Alexander, she’d had a deep, dark fear that one day she’d say something in a group of Alexander’s genius friends that would make him realize how much she didn’t fit in with them. It was something she worried about secretly, late at night, when she watched him sleep beside her and wondered what sort of miraculous, world-changing ideas were brewing in his mind.

“It’s just…everyone there was so accomplished. So brilliant.”

“You’re brilliant.”

She scoffed. “Not like they are. Not like you.”

“Eliza, you are the most beautiful, compassionate, loving, amazing person I’ve ever met.”

Her gaze fell to her lap, not able to look at him as she tried to explain. “I barely made it through college. I’m never going to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or a scientist. I only have the chance to do so much volunteer work because my family has money. I just, I worry that someday you’re going to look at me, and….”

“Hey.” He tilted her chin up. “You go to work every day and help dozens upon dozens of kids in awful circumstances. I see the kind of hours and the commitment you put in. You fight for those kids, you raise money for them, and you care about each and every one of them. You are smart, and capable, and driven. And I am so proud of you.”

Her throat went tight with emotion, and her vision turned a little blurry. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” he assured her. He gave her a sweet, soft kiss. “We all sit around and talk about policy language, and rant at each other on social media, but you’re the one doing the real work. It’s one of the first things that drew me to you. If everyone took the privileges they were given and used them for good the way you have, the world would be a beautiful place.”

A strange, but wonderful realization dawned on her.

As she’d gotten to know him, she would from time to time pick up on his insecurities, and she’d always find herself puzzled. It seemed to her that the things he felt the most self-conscious about were, in reality, his greatest strengths. He worried about his past, about his job, about his lack of money, but all she saw was someone who’d overcome long odds, who did great and important work, even at the cost of personal glory and fortune.

Now, seeing all that love in his eyes again, she realized for the first time that he felt the same about her. All those things she worried about late at night in the dark, the parts of her she’d tried to hide from him, he’d seen in her all along. He’d seen her, and he loved her, not in spite of those parts, but because of them. Never before in her life had she felt so wholly and completely loved.

“I love you so much,” she whispered.

He smiled. “I love you, too.”

The grainy voice announced their train would be arriving at platform ten, intruding on the tender moment. They shared a quick kiss before they stood and collected their baggage, Alexander shoving his laptop back into his bag while she popped up the handle on her carry-on. They fell easily into step as they made their way to the platform.

They didn’t speak as they stood under the orange lights on the platform to wait for the arriving train. Eliza turned to face him, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close in the cool spring night air. Hardly anyone was around for the late night train to the city.

She felt the powerful whoosh of air as the train approached, and she reluctantly released him so they could board. Thankfully, the cars weren’t particularly full. They found seats towards the back of the car and settled in next each other. She’d expected him to pull out his laptop again when they settled in for the three and a half hour ride home, but instead he rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

“How’s your head?” she asked softly.

“Better. I’m just really tired.”

She tugged him towards her, so that his head rested against her shoulder. He removed his glasses off, shoving them into the pocket of his sweatshirt, and adjusted to rest against her chest, his arm stretched out to embrace her. Her hand traced patterns over his back as the train pulled away from the station towards home.

In the quiet of the train, as Alexander began to snuffle softly, she gazed down at the diamond ring on her left hand and smiled. She was engaged to the love of her life. All the little frustrations and worries from the past hours had melted away. Delayed trains and long lines, angry politicians and sleep deprivation—none of those things mattered in the slightest. Not when Alexander was in her arms.

#hamilton fanfic #alexander hamilton #eliza schuyler #hamliza #fluff #insecurity #modern au

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everlarkrealornot · 7 years

Text

The PANEM Initiative, Chapter Nineteen

Chapter 19

“You seemed a little board.” Peeta smirked as they sat down for lunch after work the next day.

“Five people in the bakery are a little much…plus, I could have been more help, but the customers seem to love the Mellark Boys.” Katniss grabbed some of the bread he was slicing and started piling on the leftover turkey from the day before.

“Boys?” Peeta asked with a raised eye brow.

“Did you hear the three of you fighting yesterday?” She stood up and got the chips out of the corner cabinet.

“You’ve got a point.” Peeta sat down and started eating. “Thank you,” he said around a mouth full as Katniss handed him a bag of chips.

“You’re welcome.” They sat and ate in silence for a while. “Can I ask you something?” She asked when he took her empty plate. He nodded his head as he dumped the trash in the garbage can. “How did last night go?”

“Uh…better than expected.” Peeta sat back down. “It was interesting.” Peeta explained that Ryen had been looking at online programs for business and found one he really liked that would be starting the first of the year. He knew that his dad did his best to run the bakery but it had never been as successful as Ryen knew it could be. With Brandon, well when he graduated he had been living off of his college fund and chasing girls around. Six months ago he landed a job with a new company that was booming but he hated it. He had been relieved when they fired him but he had no other plan and his bank account was now almost empty, so he was coming home to get a fresh start.

“And what about you?” Katniss asked when he had been quiet for a moment.

“What about me?” She gave him a knowing look. “Kat, I just…” He inhaled deeply and sighed. “You know how teachers would ask you to picture yourself ten years down the road so you could get a better idea of what you wanted to do?”

“Yeah.”

“Whenever I picture our life, I’m at the bakery.” He motioned out the kitchen window. “I’m not in some fancy art studio nor do I own a gallery…I’m just…me and I’m happy.” He smiled at her. “I’m not going to give up painting but I don’t want to give up the bakery either.”

“Wow,” Katniss said in relief. She couldn’t deny that she had been worried that she was the reason he was coming home.

“What?” Peeta wrinkled his nose.

“Nothing…” the look he was giving her made her think twice. If they were going to be honest with each other, they needed to be honest about everything. “I thought part of you coming home had something to do with me.” He sat thinking for a moment before responding.

“Kat. This decision…,” he traced big circles on the table, “this decision was hard for me because for a long time I thought I was doing this because of my feelings for you, but I’m not.” He leaned back in his chair. “I did think I needed to come home after what Gale said but then I thought I needed to stay at school so that you wouldn’t be a factor in my decision. Then I realized both of those choices were a direct result of you…and this is about me.” She nodded in understanding.

“I am glad you know what you want,” she said.

“What about what you want?” He asked with a smile.

“What I want?” Katniss furrowed her brow at him.

“You can’t work at the bakery forever…you hate it,” he added.

“I don’t hate it!” She protested.

“You certainly don’t love it.” Peeta laughed. “Plus, with Bran and me home, you shouldn’t feel like your abandoning the bakery.”

He was right. Even if Ryen decided to quit working while he was back in school, the bakery no longer needed her – it was in the very capable (and probably safer) hands of the Mellark Boys.

She grabbed her phone and flipped through the screens trying to find the screen shot she had taken a couple of days before.

“Here,” she handed him the phone, “I found this a couple weeks ago.”

Peeta took it and read through the ad.

“Kat, this would be perfect – you have to set up an interview.”

“Hold up a minute…the ad says I need to bring five family recipes, come with one already prepared dish, and then show my cooking skills by completing one of their recipes.”

“Alright then,” he said as dragged her to her feet, “You better find your five recipes quickly.”

–

Three days later Katniss found herself standing before an extremely large house that she could only describe as a Victorian Plantation Home. She clutched an insulated carrier in one hand, a small cooler in the other, and was cursing Peeta as she nervously walked up the steps to the porch. She stopped in front of the door and took a couple of deep breaths before ringing the bell. She heard footsteps approaching the door and thought about running for her car, but the door opened before she could make up her mind.

“Hi, you must be Katniss, come in.” He waved her in and closed the door behind her. “I’m Cinna.” He smiled warmly.

“Nice to meet you,” she said and returned his smile.

“Well, then, the kitchen’s this way.” He lead her through the foyer (which had an impossibly tall ceiling), into the dining room (which Cinna said was the smaller of the two – Katniss was sure at least 20 people could eat there), and finally into the kitchen. “You can set your stuff down where ever you like.”

“Wow.” The word was a whisper as she sat her things on the counter. Katniss had never been in such a beautiful and well stocked kitchen in her life.

“I know.” Cinna laughed a little. “It’s a shame that it hardly ever gets used.”

“This is high end, restaurant quality stuff.” She ran a hand over one of the stoves. “You’re going to let me use theses?”

“If you pass the first stage of the interview.” Cinna pulled out one of the bar stools and sat down.

“Right.” Katniss nodded and grabbed the stuff she had brought with her.

“So, what’s for lunch?”

–

“How did it go?” Peeta immediately asked when he picked up the phone.

“I got it!” Katniss practically shouted. She had just barely gotten into the car and started pulling away before she dialed Peeta.

“Yes!” Peeta cheered. “I’m so happy for you, Kat.”

“Thank you!”

When she got home her mom was waiting anxiously at the kitchen table. She had been just as ecstatic as Peeta had been when he heard the news and demanded that Katniss sit down right then and tell her everything.

Katniss had learned that Cinna was a clothing designer who had just broken out on his own. His designs had exploded on the market and his clothes were in high demand. He wasn’t a very good cook but didn’t have the time for it anyway. His mother had been a wonderful cook and those were the recipes that he had been hoping (and was delighted to find out) that Katniss could recreate.

Katniss had been surprised when they started talking about work hours. First thing, Cinna hated breakfast food and didn’t care if she ever fried an egg for him. Second thing, Cinna had a lot of dinner parties. He was hoping that she could work three full days and one dinner party each week. She would be doing the shopping and clean up along with prepping meals for him on the days she wouldn’t be there.

“Sounds like we need to figure out how to get you a car.” Helen had said with a tight smile.

–

Katniss was starting to cut down her hours at the bakery so that by Christmas she would no longer be there. She was excited to spend Prim’s Christmas break with her…plus the thought of no longer having to try and replicate Peeta’s cheese buns was nice. What was not nice was that what little time she did spend at the bakery these days was spent working with Brandon. And he was annoying. And full of himself. And needed to be punched in the face.

And was still friends with Gale. Katniss knew they had been on the football team together and graduated the same year, but she didn’t think they had stayed in contact after high school, which they apparently had.

“Hawthorne! Hey! What’s up man?!” Brandon shouted.

Katniss had been in the middle of organizing the display case when Brandon said his name and she hit her head on the top shelf, leaving a splitting feeling at the back of her skull. She stood up, rubbing her scalp, and glared at the two boys who were oblivious to her presence.

“Katniss!” Posy yelled as she finally wondered around her brother. Katniss’s cheeks flamed as Gale’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. “I miss you!”

“Hi, Posy.” Katniss smiled and walked around the counter to kneel down to give the little girl a hug. “Are you enjoying kindergarten?”

“Yes!” She rocked on her tiny feet, beaming at Katniss. “Are you coming for dinner soon?”

“I don’t know honey…I’ve been pretty busy lately.” Which hadn’t been a complete lie…she might not have been working as much, but she was very close to finishing the wedding packet that Effie had sent her.

“Aww, okay.” Posy pouted.

“I better get back to work, okay?” Katniss hugged her one more time and stood up. She did her best to ignore Gale’s watchful eyes as she went back to the display case.

The boys continued to talk but the phone rang and Brandon grabbed it up before Katniss could even extract herself from the case.

“Gale, can I get a cupcake?” Posy pulled on her brother’s coat.

“Come on, Posy, we need to get going.”

“Please, Gale?” She wined. He looked between Brandon, who was still on the phone taking an order, and Katniss, who was trying to pretend that she couldn’t hear them as she closed the case up. “Please?” She asked again.

“Fine.” His shoulders slumped forward.

“Yay!” Posy ran up to the counter. “Katniss, Gale says I can get a cupcake…which one did you make?” Posy asked, wide eyed. Katniss smiled at the girl.

“I didn’t make these, but Peeta did and he makes the best cupcakes!” Katniss grabbed one and handed it to Posy. “There you go.”

“Thank you!” Posy skipped away from the counter in delight.

“Bran said you were leaving the bakery.” Gale handed her a five out of his wallet.

“I’m done after Christmas.” She handed him back his changed and slammed the cash drawer closed. “Then you can come in whenever you want and not have to see me.”

“Katniss, that’s not what I meant.”

“You might want to help her with that.” Katniss pointed to Posy who now had frosting all over her face.

“Posy!” Gale walked over and picked his sister up, sighing. “Let’s go.”

“See ya, Hawthorne!” Brandon called as he sat the call in order on the counter. “They should be here in about 15,” he said to Katniss. She just nodded. “You two seemed a little…cold for best friends.”

“Shove off, Bran!” Katniss snapped at him.

“Gesh!” Brandon threw up his hands. “Rye makes a snarky comment and you play along, but I make one little observation and I get my head cut off.”

“ONE?!” She yelled. “Since when do you ever just make one comment about anything? You are always taking digs at Rye and you rag on Peeta constantly!”

“Sorry that I’m not as perfect as the golden sons!” He stormed into the back with Katniss on his heels.

“Get off it Brandon! No one feels bad for you – you’re the reason you’re always a mess.”

“That’s right, when Peeta and Ryen’s life are off course, it’s totally fine, but when my life is a mess, it’s my fault!” He started collecting the dirty dishes and clanging them together.

“You’re the one who got yourself fired!” She slammed her hand down next to her on the counter, sending up a cloud of flour.

“I didn't get fired, I quit!” He dropped the bowls into the sink, sending a huge splash of water to the floor, and a loud clanking sound rang in the air.

“But, why would you – ”

“Hey!” The back door slammed shut as Ryen’s voice rang out. “How’s the morning going?”

“I’m done for the day.” Brandon yanked his apron off and threw it to the floor before stomping out.

Buy me a coffee?

#everlark #thg #au #arranged marriage #the hunger games #tpi #kate writes

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cafezimmermann · 5 years

Text

The Image

(Moscow, 1995 – me (right) in front of the dormitory of the Moscow Conservatory)

“We might say now that chewing gum is the television of the mouth. There is no danger so long as we do not think that by chewing gum we are getting nourishment. But the Graphic Revolution has offered us the means of making all experience a form of mental chewing gum, which can be continually sweetened to give us the illusion that we are being nourished.”

Daniel J. Boorstin, The Image

Last Tuesday, after a meeting in Berlin with the director of a PR agency, I found myself standing on a train platform next to two American men who were probably in their mid-30s. Americans seem to pop up everywhere these days in Berlin, and it was impossible for me not to listen to their conversation. "Hey Dave," said the one to the other, "Did you see Comedy Central last night?" He then took out his iPhone, pulled up the video from YouTube, and held his phone under Dave's face so that Dave (and everyone else in their vicinity) could hear what turned out to be the opening monologue of Trevor Noah. The two chuckled along, happy to be in their world and oblivious to the dour faces of the Berliners looking at them for being so obnoxiously loud.

It was a fairly innocuous moment, one that you will encounter anywhere these days, but for some reason it made me stop in my tracks. The irony of turning 50 this past year is not only the realization that I have been on this planet longer than I wish to admit but the memory that there was a time in my not-too-distant past where such a moment would have been impossible.

Not that I wouldn't have done the same as Dave and his friend. As an expat living in Europe for nearly three decades, I too have embraced digital technology over the past years to reconnect with America – downloading ebooks, signing up for a digital subscription to the New York Times, enrolling in online writing programs, Skyping with my parents, signing up to a VPN provider to watch YouTube without the proprietary restrictions, and maintaining the entire experience with a high-speed Internet provider so that this “nonstop virtuality” doesn't come to a crashing halt.

I have been grateful for this digital lifeline. Nowadays, one doesn’t need to be home to “be home.” And yet, I often find myself thinking back to my stone-age past, wondering how I survived back then and wondering if Dave and his friend would have fared so well had they not had their iPhones at their side all of the time. Not to say that "things were better back then" for me, far from it. When I was a student in Basel, pretty much all I had access to (apart from a limited supply of books, which were expensive) was the BBC on shortwave radio and the occasional copy of The Herald Tribune from the newsstand (again, too expensive). But I do wonder if this lack of virtual access to America 24/7 allowed me to experience life differently, and perhaps more intensively. Would I have taken so many evening walks along the Rhine? Would I have spent so much time in the art gallery, standing hours on end riveted in front of Hans Holbein's Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb while thinking about how Dostoyevsky used it in his novel The Idiot? Would I have written so many entries into my diary with a leaky copperplate fountain pen, lost in my thoughts, happy of the smudges of ink on my fingertips? Would I have made an effort to copy out Stephan Zweig’s Schachnovelle by hand to improve my German? And whenever I think about that, I am taken aback at how much of a limb I was going out on when I came over to Europe in 1990. Communication, in the modern sense, was practically non-existent back then. I had no laptop, obviously. The Internet meant nothing to me and placing a call to the States was horrendously expensive. I was effectively cut off from the world as I knew it, living as a self-imposed castaway in a Loony Tunes land of Swiss German.

But somehow, I did survive. And I had memorable experiences – experiences which I think made me the person I am today. A case in point: back in 1995, I was invited by a Russian recorder player to perform at the Moscow Conservatory together with a trio I had formed with two fellow students of mine at the Schola in Basel. Without getting into the specific (and sometimes embarrassing) details of the trip, it was one of those moments in life where I found myself at the mercy of my keepers – specifically the interpreter, who in turn was nothing more than the mediator of a half-baked, badly-organized project that stumbled from one mishap to another in a country teetering on the verge of anarchy. Sadly, her English was all but useless, but she was pretty and seemed more than willing to take us everywhere (we visited the Lenin Mausoleum, the inside of the Kremlin, and several bars) and answer all of our questions before she passed out on a couch at a party the night before we were supposed to fly back to Switzerland. How we got back to the dormitory remains a mystery – somehow, at 2:30 in the morning, we managed to hitch a ride back in a car that had driven by the apartment where we left the party.

Rachmaninov Hall - Moscow Conservatory

Fast forward to 2014, when I returned to Moscow for 48 hours with Akamus. Rather than a pretty interpreter at our disposal, we had a young, well-educated man who had attended high school in Alabama for a year and was fluent in English. When I asked him how far it was to the conservatory from the hotel, he located it on my smartphone and dropped a pin before I set off in the direction he told me to go. I walked to the conservatory with ease, navigating my way through the side streets using the ubiquitous blue dot found on Google Maps, trying to find my past self in a transformed society.

That blue dot, apart from being an indicator that we are being tracked all of the time, seems paradoxically symbolic of what our lives have turned into over the past twenty years. It allows us to orient ourselves without the necessity of taking in our surroundings in full, which in turn effectively pulls us away from the possibility of "getting lost" and experiencing auratic moments. Not that I minded when I was in Moscow five years ago – I didn't have the time or the muse for a repeat performance of what I had gone through in 1995. But the juxtaposition in my mind of past and present – not only to see just how much Moscow had changed over the past two decades but also to see how I was seeing the city now against how I had experienced it back then – struck me as odd. Granted, I was seeing more on my own and risking more than I probably would have had I been left to my own devices twenty years earlier. But I noticed that I was experiencing less, that what I saw was something that was being filtered through “the screen.”

This idea of "more but less," which the American historian Daniel Boorstin refers to in his book The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America, is a point that keeps on popping up in my mind. And to be honest I don't know which is better – experiencing less, but with greater intensity, or getting a taste of everything without the memorable experience. For example, I have pictures of the 2014 trip stored on an external hard drive, which – like the hundreds of other digital pictures stored safely away in the 1TB plastic box, I look at now and then. But they don't evoke half the memories I get whenever I see the few pictures that my colleague took of us with her camera.

Boorstin, who was responsible for coining the term “pseudo-event,” was far ahead of his time when he wrote the book in 1962. He writes about how the propagation of images in media has succeeded at altering our sense of reality, creating an alternative world that not only do we compare ourselves against, but use for “reshaping our concept of truth”:

“More and more accustomed to testing reality by the image, we will find it hard to retain ourselves so we may once again test the image by reality. It becomes ever harder to moderate our expectations, to shape expectations after experience, and not vice versa. For too long already we have had the specious power to shape “reality.” How can we rediscover the world of the uncontrived?”

It is a disturbing thought, particularly if one thinks to how much modern society has grown used to buying into the world of illusion on a daily basis to achieve a sense of belonging. Boorstin, who died in 2004, was able to foresee what was coming, but I think even he would have been aghast to see how quickly the epidemic has spread in the last decade, and how readily we have given up our privacy for the privilege of taking part in that illusion.

We know full well that companies such as Google, Facebook, Instagram, and Spotify are tracking us, taking the information gained from our online activities and targeting it to manipulate everything from our purchasing habits to our political opinions. And we know the consequences of this – not merely through the erosion of democracy in the past several years, but, perhaps even more frighteningly, the erosion of a certain “quality of life” – the mere ability to think for ourselves, be creative, read, and engage in deep and meaningful conversations with each other. Instead, we (like the information we provide to such companies) have become nothing more than a “disposable commodity.” And if you really want to carry that thought one step further, could not one argue that the ultimate aim of “deepfake” technology, which is being used these days to get the better of our core values as a society by blurring the line between fact and fiction, isn’t all that much different from the approach taken by the Tyrell Corporation in Ridley Schott’s 1982 science fiction film Blade Runner? In the film’s futuristic world of 2019, "replicants" - the slaves of the film's dystopian society – were implanted by the corporation with false memories to create "a cushion or pillow for their emotions." Indeed, we may not be replicants at birth, and our memories may be ours – but could it that the barrage of information, misinformation, and desire is now weaning a generation who, in the future, will be even less resistant to the difference between fact and fiction?

“There is no cure for illusions. There is only the opportunity for discovery.”

If there were a credo for finding our way through the 21st century, it should be this. Maybe it is time for us to think about the second half of Boorstin's sentence and consider what we are missing by not taking the chance to discover life on our terms. The New York Times recently published an article titled "In Search of Lost Screen Time": "More than three-quarters of all Americans own a smartphone. In 2018 those 253 million Americans spent $1,380 and 1,460 hours on their smartphone and other mobile devices. That’s 91 walking days; that adds up to 370 billing waking American hours and $349 billion." The alternatives presented in the op-ed article offer food for thought, so much so, that when I read the article I considered my own dependency for a moment and thought about all of the other things that I would like to do with the remaining years of my life – listen to music with the intensity I did as a teenager, read more, go to museums again, go for long walks. At any rate, what I don't want is to be hooked. And yet, the paradox of my own life is the realization that the laptop in my hand is my means of communication to the outside world. But still, I cannot let it get the better of me.

At this point, I see that it's 5:30 in the morning. The first light of the morning has cast the garden on the other side of my window in soft, pale greys, blues and yellows while the birds engage in their morning ritual of welcoming the day. And yet, I have been so wrapped up in writing this essay that I didn’t notice it. It’s time for me to close the laptop and start the day.

“We must awake before we can walk in the right direction. We must discover our illusions before we can even realize that we have been sleepwalking. The least and the most we can hope for is that each of us may penetrate the unknown jungle of images in which we live our daily lives. That we may discover anew where dreams end and where illusions begin. This is enough. Then we may know where we are, and each of us may decide for himself where he wants to go.”

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nct-thedreamchaser · 7 years

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The Brightest Night to Remember

Words: 2767

Genre: Fluff, very slight angst

Pairing: Mark x Reader

A/N: Nope, I did not have a request whatsoever but I was just inspired by a picture from a particular lantern festival that I found in my gallery! I had trouble figuring out which member from NCT to use, but it felt like Mark would fit the genre, theme and setting a little more than the rest. I really enjoyed writing this, especially when I have not written in a while. :) If you guys have any ideas or prompts you want me to try my hand in, do let me know via my ask box or submission! ^^ Enjoy!!! :>

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“C’mon Y/N!! Hurry up or we’ll be at the end of the queue for the lanterns!” Mark exclaimed, finally resorting to grabbing my hand as we whizzed through the crowd, pushing past the people and finding ourselves apologising every so often to every person that we bumped into.

Trust me, if the booth was any further, I would have lost my voice at our destination. Unfortunately, to our dismay, there was a long, snaking queue just to purchase a lantern and Mark pouted almost immediately at the queue. His expression could match that of a sad puppy that didn’t get what it wanted. For an innocent being like him, it was a little heart wrenching to see him in this state.

Sure, call me dramatic all you want, but it was as if watching a child with his favourite toy snatched away from him. He glanced at his watch and stared at it for a long while, mumbling about how long it would take for us to queue, set the lanterns, write our wishes and perhaps have some pocket time for hot chocolate and a walk at the Hangang River after. I smiled, especially when he seemed to ignore everything around him; too absorbed in his own thoughts and trying his best to accommodate my curfew, which was at 12am that very night.

He was about to turn around and apologise for wasting my time, but I shook my head immediately and silently pushed him to join the queue with a wide smile on my face. Of course, I joined him by his side, linking our arms together and waited patiently for the queue to move with a smile of assurance on my face.

“Aren’t you gonna be late at this rate? I mean… Based on my calculations, we might not be able to make it for our quality time if we queue for this. I r-really w-want it, but I don’t know about you—”

“Oh shush,” I said, giving him no chance to finish his sentence, or what was known as a ramble, “I swear, the more you idle and wonder, the less time you would have, so what’s a better way than to join the queue now right? And besides, it’s only 7.30pm. Just chill, will ya?”

Hearing me at first, he was a little taken aback, but it did put his signature smile back on his face. It was going to take a while, but we were pretty sure that it was going to be worth it; considering how pretty it was and how much we had wanted to do this for the longest time, it was probably only right to do it for his sake too, especially with how much he had done for me.

We went way back; going to the same elementary school, middle school and now, here we were, in the first year of high school. In total, we had probably known each other for close to 13 years and that was a pretty huge number if you ask me. Back then, I was probably the girl that nobody wanted to hang out with. Elementary school wasn’t so bad, and neither was the first two years of middle school, but it only got exponentially worse as time went by.

I was the “nerd” of the school and was probably the least popular. Furthermore, it did not help that I had gotten black rimmed glasses for my short sighted vision and braces due to my extremely crooked teeth. It was all biological, but it was definitely not well received by the community. There were constant snark remarks, shoving into lockers and getting all sorts of liquids and foods on my uniform “by accident”. That was until Mark stood up for me, and honestly, I had no clue who he was back then. His name was always mentioned and unlike me, he was loved by the student body. Girls would swoon hearing his name and the boys would talk about him with admiration.

Apparently, he was one of the most talented students; guitar prodigy, lyricist, singer (somewhat) and of course, he was well known for his English language and iconic raps. Indeed, he was always winning the #1 in talent competitions and without a doubt, he would be the winner. It was not just sheer popularity because even the teachers loved him and enjoyed all the shows that he put up annually.

Ever since he had stood up for me after the fact that I was viciously picked on, we soon became quick friends because of our similar interests. Contrary to what people perceived him to be, he was an even bigger nerd, or should I say, geek? He took immense interest in Star Wars, Big Bang Theory and seemed to love cars. Bashfully, he had admitted to watching Top Gear, a pretty famous reality show from the UK, courtesy of his classmate, Jeno.

Hence, from then on, we soon became pretty close friends and hung out almost all the time, whether it was to study together, have dinner or just going to chill when the examination periods became a little too much for us to handle. It was good that we lived a street away from each other and he was always inviting himself over to my place just to talk about all things under the sun. My parents did not mind at all, simply because he was a very lovable boy; helping my mum to cook and clean, as well as having intelligent conversations with my father, there was no reason at all for them to despise him.

We were a pretty happy family to begin with, but when Mark stepped in, the whole house seemed to light up with his mere presence and especially his smile and very iconic laughter. When we played hide-and-seek, he gave it away with the inability to hold his unique laughter in, and is always found within seconds, if not minutes.

We grew up of course, and we made even more friends together whenever he brought me around for the many events he attended. I got to know other boys over time and the same went for him, except that he was with the girls. Sure, we were only 16 then, but it was a painful feeling when he had gotten a girlfriend. They were adorable together, but I could not help but feel a tinge of jealousy and pain in my chest. Surprisingly, I found a boyfriend in no time and of course, it was all thanks to Mark. It was his best friend, Lee Jeno, the boy who had sparked his interest in cars.

Unfortunately, all good things had to come to an end due to the high school entrance examinations. Call it a coincidence, but I had broken it off first, before Mark called a few hours later on the exact same day, and said that things were just not working as well as he hoped that it would. Hence, we became each other’s pillars of support; going out for coffee, bingsoo, going to the arcade to relieve the pain, you name it, we probably did it.

It worked and that only brought us closer. At this point, it was obvious that I had the feelings of falling in love all over again and I know that it was absolutely crazy to do so, but I had wanted to confess when I confirmed his feelings with Jaemin, Mark’s other best friend from the neighbouring school. He was an honest boy, and the sweetest little thing, and he was probably not supposed to spill the beans but did anyway; Mark liked me too.

Sadly, he had gotten a street casting from SM Entertainment and went for the auditions without a second thought. I was happy for him achieving his lifelong dream, I really was, but the thought of not being able to see him and talk to him was a little too much to take and I knew that our feelings would go nowhere at this point. It was uncertain whether he was accepted or not, but knowing how talented he was, it was pretty obvious where the answer laid.

Now here we were, finally getting a lantern after bickering for a straight 15 minutes about who was going to pay for it. Initially, I did not want to go, especially after how saddened I was at the thought of possibly losing all contact with him, but my mother encouraged me, saying that even if it was the final opportunity I get to see him, I should at least make it worth it. Therefore, I masked a smile, and went to meet Mark at the festival with a heavy heart, but seeing him beaming at the sight of me made me forget those thoughts for a moment and soon, I was being dragged around the festival before I even had the time to process my true thoughts and feelings.

We had lit the flame in the lantern (after much difficulty) and held both ends of it, ready to let go but a voice stopped me and it said, “Hey… Y/N, why don’t we make a wish first? It will make it more worthwhile eh?”

I looked over at him and despite the small smile, I could tell that there was a hint of sadness that he hid behind that bittersweet smile. There were no tears, but it was probably going to cascade his cheeks down anytime soon. Mark was an innocent boy, despite his seemingly tough image that he liked to put up with. Deep down, he was the ordinary, sensitive and curious teenager; explaining why he always topped the classes and was the teacher's’ favourite classmate in every single class that he attended.

Nodding, we closed our eyes together and made a wish. I opened my eyes first and noticed that his head was still down as he held onto the lantern tightly. The candlelight only accentuated his features more, and I smiled at the sight of how he looked like a child wishing upon a shooting star. It could not be helped; noticing that he was so unlike his image, and that was what I liked about him.

He did not try to be what everybody else expected him to be. He believed in being genuine and true to oneself, and was able to express himself however he wanted. When he was happy that he topped the class, he would show it with the brightest smile ever, calling his mother shortly afterwards to spread the good news. There were times those acts caused the loss of his popularity, especially among the female student body when they had no idea he was the “mummy’s boy”. However, that did not stop him from being who he truly was as a person, no matter how “childish” it was perceived to be.

“Y/N… Y/N!!” He said in a sing-song voice, snapping me out of my reverie, “Hey, you ready? You’ve been staring for quite a while, you know?”

“A-ah… I’m s-sorry,” I answered, with my cheeks and ears soon feeling the heat. No, it was not the fact that it was the mid-summer months or the heat emitting from that relatively tiny candle, but I was blessed anyway with the surrounding darkness, and could not have thanked the Almighty more for that. I did not know really, but I would prefer to think that he did not notice my blushing cheeks.

And at the count of three, we let go of the lantern together, looking up into the sky with fascination written all over our faces. It was a beautiful sight as we looked at all the lanterns floating their way up. It was not long before our lantern had joined the myriad of everybody else that released theirs before ours. However, we still continued to scan the sky and I furrowed my brows just to concentrate and find our lantern, intent on looking at it until it went out of sight.

Little did I know of the boy whom I had known for a long 13 years looking at me with a small smile on his face until my eyes met his. He was startled (and I was too) but he only chuckled and shook his head, before continuing to look up at the night sky, which was now dotted with the many lanterns of Seoul’s very first lantern festival.

We hung out at the festival after a while, giving our hand at the arcade games and trying all the foods which they sold at the festival. Sure, you could find the usual rice cakes, fish cakes but there were others which I had never seen before, but it did not hurt to give them a shot anyway. It did not take very long though, because Mark was insistent that we go to the Hangang Park to take a nice quiet walk on our own.

Not without his cup of a cold Chocolate Oreo shake and my cup of Matcha with Azuki Beans to beat the summer heat, of course. Trust me, nobody in the right mind would go walking without a cold drink in hand.

The park was surprisingly quiet for a weekend, and I figured that the crowd had probably moved to the lantern festival to join the festivities and experience the hype together with their loved ones. I was not complaining, it was indeed better to have a more peaceful evening with Mark by my side without the usual chatterings and gossips that we tended to hear on this particular route.

For some strange reason, we walked in comfortable silence, occasionally pointing out certain spots where we shared our childhood memories together. From picnics to embarrassing falls to list of firsts, it gave a sense of nostalgia within our hearts and minds. I was not sure about Mark, but it gave me a sense of peace and comfort, loosening the tension in my shoulders.

However, we were disturbed by a loud sound and Mark only grinned sheepishly while taking out his phone and checking what someone had sent to him. As he scrolled through his phone, the smile on his face fell and he sighed, before silently taking his leave and choosing to take a seat at a nearby bench facing the night cityscape and the calm river.

“What’s wrong?” I asked curiously, though I had an inkling to what it was going to be about.

“I…” He hesitated, but took a deep breath and continued anyway, “I got accepted into SM Entertainment. They have given me the address of my dormitory and I would have to move in in a week.”

“Congratulations!” I replied, mustering as much pride in him as I could, despite the fact that it felt as if my heart had shattered into pieces.

“Thanks,” Mark responded with a small smile, before his lips fell again, replacing the happy-go-lucky Mark with a Mark of sadness, which was so unlike him, “But that means… I might lose the girl I love.”

“And who is that?” I asked, “I mean, we’ve been friends since forever so I definitely deserve a right to know.”

And without batting an eyelid, he replied with a resounding “You”.

My mind froze for a while and suddenly, all the thoughts that I had initially disappeared from my mind in an instant. My jaw was hanging and my eyes were probably as huge as golf balls right now, but that did not mean I was instantly happy and over the moon that my feelings had not been in vain. It just meant that it was simply going to hurt more, especially for Mark, who seemed small and vulnerable at this very moment.

“M-me…? I mean… I like you too but you know… You’ll meet so many other girls out there—”

Unfortunately, I did not have the chance to complete my sentence before I felt a pair of soft lips come into contact with mine. At first, I was a little taken aback, but I began to kiss him gently too, until we had to separate due to the lack of air.

“You’ve never changed really,” Mark said, “You were always that same Y/N I knew, who talks a little too much. Just remember:”

“I will love you till I die

And I will love you all the time.

So, please put your sweet hand in mine

And float in space

And drift in time.

All my time until I die,

We’ll float in space, just you and I.”

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digitalmark18-blog · 6 years

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10 Free Tools You Need to Make Your Website More Effective

New Post has been published on https://britishdigitalmarketingnews.com/10-free-tools-you-need-to-make-your-website-more-effective/

10 Free Tools You Need to Make Your Website More Effective

There are two types of websites out on the internet. The first ones are revenue-generating-visitor-luring machines. While others are — just out on the internet.

If you have clicked on this blog, it’s probably because your website comes under the second category or maybe you are interested in unleashing the full potential of your website.

Whatever your motive is, this blog will provide you with the 10 FREE tools that your business website need to be among the elite class and unlock its full efficiency. So let’s get started.

1. Lead Form

A business website without a lead form is just like an unsharpened pencil – no point. Whether you are a wedding planner, a food caterer, an artist, a web development company or an online retail store selling baby products, a lead form is imperative for your website as it allows the visitor to get in touch with you or send you a quick inquiry.

“But hey! I have already added my contact information on the page. Isn’t that enough?”

Providing the contact information is, of course, is a good idea but adding a lead form on the page is something you don’t want to neglect. Why? Because with a lead form you are proactively asking the visitor to drop the inquiry right away rather than just providing the contact information which opens up the possibility of, “Maybe I’ll call in the evening. Or tomorrow. Or at the time of doomsday!”

But your job doesn’t end there, as you must take utmost care while deciding the fields of the form. Any unnecessary details asked in the form can act as a friction while converting the visitors into leads. Take the example of Expedia. The global travel giant spiked its annual profit by $12 million just by removing an unnecessary field from the form. So, make sure you have a lead form on your website with proper fields that will convert the visitors into leads.

(Expedia’s lead form before and after)

2. Google Analytics

The digital world is made of data and the one who can analyze it, definitely, has an edge over others. And one of the tools that bestow you with the valuable data and insights about your website is Google Analytics.

This tool is packed with fascinating features that allows you to understand your visitors and website performance in a better way. The best part is one can get started with Google Analytics in just a few steps and it’s absolutely free!

Google Analytics provides you with data such as total traffic, the number of visitors, bounce rate, average time spend on your site by the visitor, the demographic and region of the visitors and more. Let’s understand its benefits in detail.

Know your audience

Google Analytics gives you the supernatural psychic powers like Professor-X. (Alright, not literally!) But yes, it does allows you to know and understand your users, their behaviour, demography and their interests. This data is a gold mine when it comes to crafting the content of your website. You can create content targeting your audience and get better results!

Reduce website bounce rate

Bounce rate shows that the visitors are dissatisfied with your website. It can be due to irrelevant content, possibly your website was not appealing enough to grab their attention or the content doesn’t carry substance and quality. And this hits hard on the conversion! With Google Analytics one can analyze the pages with higher bounce rate and the pages where the users spend more time. Thus, helping you to understand the flaws and make necessary changes.

Conversion and high performing pages

Google Analytics provides data about your pages that are most popular or frequently visited and the pages that visitors found relevant so that you can improve the other pages accordingly.

3. Google Webmaster (Search Console)

If you are awe-inspired with Google Analytics, let me say that the best is yet to come: Google Webmaster.

Google webmaster is a free service by Google, helping website owners diagnose issues and optimize their website. It not only provides you with the valuable insights but also allows you to resolve them and take actions such as:

Identifying the issues with your website and providing solutions to fix it.

Get insights and reports about the external and internal links.

Your targeted keywords and the impressions on the search engine.

Notifies if your website is infected by any kind of malware or spams.

Helps to crawl and index your content on the web and even fixes the crawl errors.

Provides you with the valuable search statistics on Google.

youtube

4. Blog

Blogs are the most common strategy for any business to boost their online presence. And in the era where people consume blogs and articles more than ever, it can be a great tool to achieve the growth you are looking for.

Blogs are one of the most efficient and cost-effective ways to spread your company’s philosophy, share your industry knowledge, get recognition as an expert and connect with your audience. In fact, software products like HubSpot and Coschedule have created their empire with blogging and sharing quality content as their foundation. The following are some of the major benefits you can enjoy by starting a blog on your website.

Boost traffic

A well-written blog often ranks higher on the search engine that drives traffic to the website. And when you have a bunch of such blogs that are on the top of SERP, your website is definitely going to be flooded with visitors. Thus increasing the organic traffic on your website.

Build authority

Blogs allow you to share your expertise and industry knowledge with the readers. No matter what industry it is, whether it be fitness, fashion, home decor or logistics, when you share useful insights and tips of your niche, people consuming the content will perceive you as an expert that builds your authority.

Generate inbound links

Generating links is one of the prime factors that boost the SEO performance of the website. And when you provide quality content through your blogs, it works as a resource for others and naturally backlinks are generated to your website.

5. Newsletters

Blogs are a great way to communicate with your audience but, they are not an active mode of communication. You may write the best blogs providing deep insight knowledge but if the reader doesn’t come across it, they are of no use. You can work on sharing the blogs and boosting it on SERP but one of the easiest methods to make the content reach to your audience is the newsletter.

The prime benefit of the newsletter is that you stay connected with your customers even when they don’t visit your website. You can provide them with the blogs and useful insights or share the news and updates about your business directly into their inbox.

Sending newsletters at regular interval also helps in keeping your brand name on the top of the mind. And when something is on top of the mind it will be on the tip of the tongue, boosting the referrals through word-of-mouth.

6. Captcha on forms

Captcha has been an annoying part of the internet for a while now but we can not deny it’s significant role as a saviour against spammers. It has been used to differentiate between the humans and bots ensuring that your website doesn’t get spammed. So if you have a form on your website, a captcha goes without saying.

Recently, Google has introduced a new tool to avoid spamming known as reCAPTCH. It is a similar tool like captcha that allows the website to distinguish between a robot and a human. But instead of hurting the human eyes with irritating jumbled words, now the users can just click on a checkbox or sometimes identify some pictures to prove that they are humans. Simple yet effective!

7. Whatsapp Business

On its official blog, Whatsapp announced that the number of its daily active users crossed the 1 billion mark. That’s a huge number! And to leverage this enormous user base for the benefit of small and medium business, Whatsapp has launched their new mobile app called Whatsapp Business.

It allows the user to create a business profile making it easy to stay connected with the customers and integrating it to the website will help you to stay connected even more efficiently. It has some amazing features that could elevate the customer experience compared to the traditional phone numbers.

Create your business profile

One can create a business profile providing information such as contact numbers, email address, website, business store address, etc. The profile can also be verified just like Facebook’s blue tick.

Instant messaging tool

Whatsapp business works as an instant messaging tool that makes it easier for the business and the customer to connect. The business can also set ‘quick replies’ and ‘automated responses’ for any frequently asked questions or when you are away.

Get more than just messages

The archive of messages works as a source of data that can be used in the business. Also, the statistics of the messages like the messages sent, delivered, received and read can be quite handy.

8. Embedding Instagram Feeds

Who doesn’t love amazing pictures and stories with beautiful filters! You know what I’m talking about, right?

Instagram is one of the most widely used social media mobile platforms. And now it can be used outside its own app by embedding the feeds to the website. But why one would integrate Instagram into their website?

Instagram feeds have a significant impact on users. Stats show that 5% of the user take decisions being inspired by a post. Thus, an Instagram news feed can be a great tool for marketing and driving sales on your website. Integrating Instagram gallery to the company’s website works as an attraction to the visitors who can know more about the brand, company’s culture and employees life. It also works great as your company’s portfolio that can provide images of the products and services.

In fact, when you use faces and user generated photos on the website, visitors are more likely to connect with the brand that results in improving the conversion rate.

DMCA stands for Digital Millennium Copyright Act that protects your creative works such as blogs, articles, photos and videos on the internet against plagiarism.

The DMCA.com provides you with a badge on your website that prevents the thieves from copying or stealing your content. And in case if they do, DMCA.com will take down the content for you. Some of its features are:

DMCA badge

You get a DMCA batch on the website that depicts that your content is protected and if plagiarized legal actions could be taken.

Watermarked images

The images on the website are watermarked with the copyright info and the brand, thus protecting it against any illegal use.

Scans plagiarized content

DMCA.com scans the internet to find the duplicate content and takes it down on the user’s behalf.

10. All In One WordPress Security plugin

While now your website is safe from the prying eyes looking to copy the content, you need to look out for another mighty threat – hackers!

With the ever-increasing number of website and our dependence on the online world, the evil of cybercrime has worsened. In fact, according to a report by Cybercrime Ventures, the cybercrime damage will cost $6 trillion annually by 2021.

That annual loss is more than the GDP of Canada, Saudi Arabia, Switzerland and Russia combined!

So, it is imperative to take extra precautions when it comes to your website’s security.

Thanks to the All In One WordPress Security plugin that provides extra security against any kind of malicious intruders on your website. It takes cares of all your security needs and the best part is absolutely free!

All In One WordPress Security plugin provides security features such as user login security, user registration security, database security, file system security, blacklist functionality, firewall functionality and more. You may check their official blog for in-depth features.

Having a business website in today’s world is imperative. But it’s even more necessary to make sure it serves the purpose of helping your business grow rather than just being a domain on the internet.

Many times we believe we need some high-end tools to get the best results but, even the free tools, when used with a little wit, can give dramatic results! Now you have the best free tools at your disposal. So go ahead and utilize them to get the maximum results you were looking for from your website.

Source: https://sociable.co/web/10-free-tools-you-need-to-make-your-website-more-effective/

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