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korra-the-red-lion · 3 years

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Unnatural Affairs. Chapter 15: Back To Work.

(Ally)

Though the holiday weekend had been short, it was really lovely to have gone back home for those few precious days. I should try to make a little more effort to go home. I missed my parents and Wallaby, which mom caught me trying to sneak him into the back of the car. She wouldn’t let me take him after all the effort I put into getting him into a disguise. It was too bad. However, mom did pack me a ton of food in Tupperware that I could keep in my mini freezer.

After that conversation with grandma went so horribly, I stayed in my room for the rest of the night. Eventually mom came up to check on me, letting me know that it was okay for me to not return. Maybe dad meant nothing by his words, but my grandma most certainly did. I think mom felt bad that there wasn’t anything she could do to make the situation feel better, so her way of doing so was giving me a ton of food and offering to drive me back without dad. I took her up on that offer, but the evening of leaving I gave my concession that dad could come along if he wanted to. He had to work, though, so it ended up being mom and I alone.

She pulled into an empty parking space that was only a short walk away from my residence. Mom turned the engine off before she looked over at me with a look of pride. I blinked in mild surprise, unsure of where this was coming from. I cocked my head questioningly, which made her chuckle.

“I’m really proud of you,” she said sweetly, smiling at me. “Maybe you don’t see it, but I can see how much you’ve grown already. I know how hard it is to hear those words from your grandmother…and your dad, but the look in your eye was strong. It was hurt but I know you bounced back from it quickly. I’m not sure what you’ve been getting up to while you were here, but it must be something good because your confidence is brighter than I’ve ever seen it.”

Tears swam in my eyes as I reached over to hug her. I sniffled loudly, causing us both to laugh. When I pulled back, there were tears in mom’s eyes as well. She handed me a tissue and we both wiped at our eyes and blew our noses.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to make it so emotional,” mom said wetly. “I just wanted to know that I love you regardless. I never cared about you seeing spirits, as long as you don’t get hurt.”

Hearing those words lit a fire in my chest. Mom never outwardly said anything about my knack, except that she was very overly cautious with me at times. Her saying this to me meant more than anything in the entire world.

“Thank you,” I said softly, wishing I could say more. My inner turmoil was too much for me to comprehend at the moment. I squeezed her hand tightly, hoping the action would help get across my intense feelings.

She smiled at me again, her eyes shining with love. “Call me about anything, okay, Alexandra?”

“I will,” I promised.

I got out of the car after that, taking my bag of food alongside my travel bag. I waved to mom as she pulled away, and she waved back, sending me air kisses as she did. I caught them and held to my chest.

Just before she left, however, she rolled her window down. I walked over in confusion to see what she wanted, and she smiled cheekily at me. “Make sure you tell that girl how you feel soon, okay?”

I blushed as I stammered out my objections, but mom was already driving away laughing. Was there no one on this planet who wouldn’t tease me about it? Shaking my head in enjoyment, I walked back to my residence with a goofy smile on my face.

Sarah wasted no time giving me a huge hug and telling me about her weekend. Apparently, her family went skiing for Thanksgiving weekend. I listened with rapt attention, never been skiing myself. It sounded dangerously like something I would never enjoy as Sarah explained how her younger brother nearly careened off the edge of the mountain. I mentally made a note to myself never to go skiing with Sarah, who was cackling as she told me about her brother’s near-death experience. Actually, I decided to never do anything with her that could involve me dying.

After that, she made me tell her about my weekend. I did with some reluctance, but as I got more into it, I found myself enjoying it. I left out the bad stuff, and I was in tears with laughter as I explained how I dressed up the dog to sneak him over. Sarah demanded to see pictures, which I showed her immediately. We both laughed so hard that we couldn’t breathe over the pictures of Wallaby wearing sunglasses and a fedora.

We headed to bed sometime later in the night. But before I attempted to get some sleep tonight, I checked my phone for any notifications. I had a few from Michael, Mags, and even dad. For whatever reason, there was an unsettling feeling in my stomach as I noticed there was nothing from Lyn. Was I getting too overprotective? I just couldn’t get that look of anxiety she had on her face out of my mind. Was it even any of my business? Sure, we were friends, and I most definitely had a thing for her, but did that I mean I could pry into her private life?

Unfortunately, there were no answers to these questions. I sent a good night text to her before putting my phone face down for the night. Hopefully I would see her tomorrow.

XXX

“…which is why Medea is such an interesting tale,” finished Professor Kinkly. I found myself being elbowed awake by Michael, who was wearing a look of amusement on his face. I didn’t even realize that I had dozed off.

“Someone’s sleepy,” he joked as he put his notebooks back in his bag.

“I shouldn’t have slept in so much this weekend,” I amended. “It threw off my whole schedule.”

Michael laughed with a shake of his head. We waved to the prof as we left the classroom, who barely gave as a glance as we did. I was glad this class was easy, because I was mostly over it at this point. The material, which should be interesting, was made incredibly droll by this man. I couldn’t wait until this course was over with.

We walked out the classroom. The air was biting today, as it cut through our jackets. I pulled my jacket as close as possible, while Michael snorted in disbelief.

“You’re cold, yet you refuse to wear pants,” he said solemnly. “I admire the dedication to your style.”

“I hate wearing them,” I said. “I don’t mind pajama pants, but regular ones? Yuck.”

We both laughed as walked into the library. I bought myself a tea while Michael got a coffee. We sat down at one of the tables, letting the drinks warm us.

“I’m going to speak with her tonight,” I said quietly, making sure no one overheard us.

Michael nodded slowly, his eyes taking in the surrounding crowd. “I figured.”

“Has she spoken to you since the other night?”

“Nah, nothing,” Michael looked thoughtful. “I don’t think she will again, if I’m being honest. I think she talked to me so you would go talk to her. Which, thinking about it now, is extremely concerning. Why are they so aware of you?”

I pursed my lips. “I’m not really sure. Jamieson didn’t know anything about me. Dahlia didn’t know me either, but she could tell right away that I could sense her. Maybe she told Amelia about me? Dahlia told me she could leave the area, but she had to return. I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s been around, spreading my name.”

“Huh, I don’t know anything about her, but do you think she would do something like that?”

“It’s possible,” I hummed. “She knows so much but refuses to tell me everything. I suspect that she might even know who is behind the string of murders.”

Michael’s jaw fell open in shock. “Are you for real? And she won’t tell you who did it? Jeez, what a huge jerk.” He rubbed his face anxiously.

“Yeah, it’s very frustrating,” I grumbled, crossing my arms. “It’s like she’s testing me, but I don’t actually know what the test is. Doesn’t she want me to find the person who killed her and the others?”

“I guess being dead for a long time creates a lot of boredom,” said Michael. He slumped against the table, staring at nothing. We stayed quiet for a bit longer, until he had to head to his next class. I bade him a goodbye as I pulled out my notes from the case.

It was frustrating having so many pieces, but I couldn’t see the full picture quite yet. Maybe once I spoke to Amelia Turner something else would click, but right now it felt like I only had the frame of this puzzle.

Plus, I hadn’t mentioned it yet, but this occurred to me the other night after our chat we needed to go back to the locker room. Or at least, I had to. I needed to talk to Fiona, like have an actual conversation with her. Maybe even try and break through to who I assumed to be her brother. I saw the humanity in those eyes last time. Perhaps if I went again, I could get to him. I need to broach the topic with Lyn and Michael first, because I was scared to go alone, but I would if I had to. It felt like if I was going to be missing something important if I didn’t.

Oh, and I needed to talk to Jackie, the woman who got attacked. Maybe she knew nothing, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. I saw her around on campus, I just haven’t had the opportunity to speak with her yet. I groaned as I wrote that down as well. There was so much to do, and I had a really bad gut feeling that I was slowly running out of time.

Annoyed with myself mostly, I gathered all my things up and tossed them back into my backpack. I was leaving the café when I happened to notice a familiar strawberry blonde standing at the water fountain, filling her water bottle. I glanced at my phone to check the time, and I had enough time to go over for a quick chat before I needed to head to my Sociology class.

“Hey, Lyn!” I chirped.

Lyn looked over her shoulder, her eyes lighting up in recognition. “Hey,” she said softly, turning back to the fountain for a minute. After her water bottle was filled, she screwed the lid on tightly before turning around fully.

“How are you?” I asked tentatively.

Her eyes searched my face before she settled with a shrug. I could see how worn out she looked, with dark circles under her eyes. While I was getting used to seeing her looking emotionally exhausted, I wasn’t used to this style of dress. I would say Lyn dresses for comfort most days, but today she was wearing skinny jeans with no distress, a button up boyfriend shirt that actually had the buttons done up, and even her ponytail seemed tighter. It was her normal look but…more put together?

“…Did you want to talk about it…?”

Lyn’s lip quirked slightly before she shook her head. “Nope, not really. How was your weekend?” she asked as she started walking. I followed after her.

“It was good, except for my grandma giving me grief again,” I said mildly.

“Grief?” Lyn questioned, eyes flickering to me for a fraction of a second before looking forward again. “What for?”

“Oh, the usual reasons. That I’m some unnatural freak of nature because of my special ability. She used to spray me with water.”

“That’s fucking stupid,” Lyn muttered darkly.

“Yeah, kinda,” I shrugged. “Okay, I shared. Now you have to.”

Lyn snorted, shaking her head. “I never agreed to that. Besides, it’s nothing.”

“Ah, I see,” I nodded. “Nothing. So, the exhausted look and new look have nothing to do with your weekend home?”

Something akin to anger flashed across Lyn’s face before she mechanically put on a smile. “Maybe it does. Let’s just say that my weekend roughly went as well as I thought it would. At least Olivia and I managed to get through it without killing each other.”

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” I offered.

Lyn said nothing for a few minutes as she looked far off. We walked towards her class building and once we got there, she kicked her foot against the concrete. God, she wasn’t even wearing those tattered Converse of hers.

“I’m fine. I’m just tired and processing some things,” she said quietly, her voice tight with emotion. “Honestly, even if I wanted to talk about things, I don’t even know where to start. Let’s just drop it for now, please?”

I nodded and a look of great relief crossed over her face. “Thanks, Ally,” she said, sounding a little more like herself.

“Just take care of yourself, okay?” I asked, reaching for her hand. “For me, please?”

Our hands curled around each other loosely. Lyn looked down at our hands, her face not showing anything, but there was a war playing out in her eyes. Something that I finally began to understand about Lyn was this: she was normally happy, but she didn’t let the negative emotions show often, instead opting to mask her feelings behind fake smiles and a bubbly tone. But there was only so much one person could take before they finally exploded. This next part was assumption, but I suspected that Lyn was nearing her breaking point, that her façade was cracking under the immense pressure she puts on herself. Whatever happened at home was pushing her to the limits of how much pain she was willing to take. I think I only understood the surface of how bad her home life was.

Finally, she nodded. Her face was still devoid of emotion, but there was a little twinkle in her eye. “I’ll try my best, you know?” she said, finally looking at me properly.

I could lose myself in those electric blue eyes, full of so much life and emotion normally. While it broke my heart to see her like this, I had a feeling that pushing her wasn’t the best move. I recalled how tightly she grasped my hand at the hospital when Olivia started pushing, how angry she got.

“As long as you try,” I whispered, my heart thudding rapidly against my ribs. Whether from my infatuation or the intensity of her stare, I was unsure. My eyes flickered to her lips.

Lyn’s eyes never once left mine before she finally let go of my hand. “I have to get to class,” she said quietly. I could see her mentally putting up her wall again, the light in her eye getting dimmer.

“Me too,” I replied. She looked like she was going to reach up but stopped herself. She settled for awkwardly waving before heading inside. I stood there for a couple of minutes before turning on my heel, heading to my class.

XXX

The wind was harsh tonight. I was wearing a sweater underneath my coat, and it was barely helping. I even had the hat Lyn gave me on, but my ears felt the biting cold. I walked across campus, heading towards Harper.

The amount of parties had died down some. There was barely anyone on campus right now, most of them either in their rooms or the library. Honestly, that was good for me. The less people around the better.

Suddenly I felt an intense pressure coming over me. The wind had stopped but the cold was still there. I looked around in confusion before sighing.

“Dahlia, is that you?”

Said ghost appeared beside me, looking rather interested in what I was doing. I was surprised to see her this far away from the tree.

“It’s been some time since we last spoke, Ally. I was curious as to what you were up to,” said Dahlia, clasping her hands behind her back as she walked beside me.

“I’m going over to talk to Amelia Turner,” I explained.

“Ah, intriguing. I do wonder what you are going to learn from her that you don’t already know,” Dahlia mused.

I said nothing in return, instead focusing on my mission. She wasn’t necessarily wrong in her judgement, but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that. I walked up to the doors, not surprised that they were locked. I chewed my upper lip as I attempted to work on the lock with a broken hair pin. They always made this look so easy on TV!

When I heard it click open, I suppressed an excited squeal. Good thing I did, because Dahlia drifted through the open door, where it was obvious that she was the one who unlocked it from the inside. I gave her a thankful nod, which she responded with a smirk. Together, we headed in.

The lights didn’t turn on automatically here like they do at the Athletic Centre. I pulled out an old school flashlight and turned it on. I could have easily used my phone, but I wanted it to available if I needed to take photos or make a call for help. It wasn’t that late, so Michael or Lyn hopefully would still be up.

I headed for classroom 223, the one Michael told me about. There she was, sitting at one of the desks looking forlorn. I slowly walked down to where she was, tapping the desk to get her attention.

“Hey, can I sit with you?” I asked, indicating the desk next to her.

Amelia looked a little surprised, tilting her head to the side. “Why are you even asking? I can’t stop you, even if I wanted to.”

“It’s only polite,” I said with a shrug.

Looking skeptical, she nodded. I sat down next to her, while Dahlia made herself at home in the seat behind us. She had a familiar look of determination in her eye, but I couldn’t quite place where I knew it from. Brushing that aside for now, I focused on Amelia. She was eyeing with me with suspicion, which I thought was curious. She was the one who wanted to talk to me, wasn’t she?

“I’m Ally,” I started with. “You’ve been talking to my friend, Mike, quite a bit, haven’t you?” I was careful to not use his full name.

“Only twice,” she clarified.

“Only twice,” I confirmed with a nod. “I wanted to ask you some questions, if that’s okay with you. I’m trying to solve all these murders on campus, and I have a feeling that you’re one of the victims from this unfortunate tragedy.”

Tears welled up in Amelia’s eyes as she nodded. “I am. I was in this very room when he came and killed me. I should have known something up when he invited me to speak with him so often.”

I reached over to her desk, placing my hand next to hers. “Amelia don’t blame yourself for the actions of the person who killed you. They’re a sick individual who hurt so many others. How could you have known?”

“He always was nice to me, making me feel special,” she said in quiet horror.

I took out my notebook, so I could quickly jot down the use of the male pronoun. The killer was male. It was a small thing, but in a case with very few leads, it was a big help.

“Would you mind showing me how it happened, Amelia?” I asked gently. I didn’t want to push her to tell me what happened if she didn’t want to. But I wanted to see it for myself, to see if I could pick up on anything. Unfortunately for me, seeing the death meant experiencing it through the lens of those who died, just like with Jamieson in the bookstore. I was fully prepared for it this time, however.

Amelia wrapped her arms around herself protectively. “It’s very gruesome, Ally. I’m not sure you should see it.”

I smiled encouragingly at her, despite my own nervousness pounding through my veins. “I’ll be okay. I want to help, honestly. Nothing you do will actually hurt me, okay?”

Finally, Amelia nodded. She reached over, placing her hand on my forehead. Although I was prepared for it, it was still shocking. I felt her confusion change into fear, fear into absolute panic. I felt the impact of my head smashing into the desk, momentarily dazing me. I felt the terror grip at my heart and lungs as I tried to get away from my attacker. I sobbed in terror as the knife slashed my wrists wide open. I hit the floor, blood pooling all around me. No one ever heard my screams. He stood over my, watching as the life drained out of my body without a single drop of emotion on his face. He looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place the face right now. He bent down, cupping my face with his face, filling me with dread one last time before I died.

“Thank you for keeping me alive, darling.”

Those sickening words were the last thing I heard as everything turned to black.

Amelia withdrew her hand, and I gasped loudly as I slumped against my desk for support. My whole body was shaking, and I felt sick to my stomach. I pressed my hands against my eyes, not caring how wet they were. I needed to focus on my breathing. My wrists throbbed in agony, as if they were responding to how viciously they were cut. What a horrible way to go.

“Are you okay? I told you it was awful,” said Amelia sorrowfully.

I nodded, even though I felt far from okay. I took several huge gulps of air, sitting up straight. I adjusted my glasses, trying to focus on the fact that I was alive and not currently lying on the floor of the back room.

“She’s a lot stronger than she looks,” said Dahlia from behind. “She just needs a minute to gather herself.”

“T-t-that was so horrible,” I said through chattering teeth. “I-I-I’m so sorry y-you went through th-that, Amelia.”

Amelia nodded, her eyes mournful. “Do you really think you’ll be able to stop him from killing again?”

I grabbed a hold of Lyn’s hat, drawing a small sense of comfort from it. “I-I’m trying my best to make s-s-sure that it doesn’t happen again. I can’t m-make that promise, but I’ll be damned if I d-d-don’t give it m-my best shot.”

Amelia looked at me with a strange mix of wonderment and disbelief. Slowly, she nodded, looking towards the whiteboard again. She said nothing more, staring at something that the rest of us couldn’t see. I got up from my seat and thanked her for showing me what she did. On shaky legs, I walked towards the back door that led to the room where she was murdered. The door wasn’t locked when I tested the handle, and I numbly walked into the room.

It was just a storage room. There was nothing special in here that would ever suggest that someone was brutally murdered in here just over 15 years ago. I took it all in, snapping some photos in the process. There was nothing left for me to see here, so I closed the door behind with a firm tug.

I managed to make it outside before I threw up in the bush. I hacked and coughed, trying to get the disgusting taste of bile out of my mouth. Dahlia watched this all with mild curiosity, saying nothing as she twirled her hair around her finger.

“If you have something to say, say it,” I spat out, rubbing the back of my hand against my mouth.

Dahlia stopped mid-twirl, raising an eyebrow. “Someone is feeling a little testy.”

I whirled on her, my temper flaring. “Maybe because you seemingly know who did all these horrible things but won’t fucking tell me who it is! That was such a horrible way to die, and for the fact of the matter, so was Jamieson’s! Yet here you are, not telling me a damn thing!”

Mild irritation crossed over her delicate features. “Ally, I already told there was a reason why I couldn’t tell you everything. If you continue to behave this way, I won’t help you anymore. If you must know, the man who took all these poor lives is still on campus,” she snapped at me. “But that’s all I can speak on. Otherwise, something terrible will happen to me.”

Something terrible? I felt myself calming down a little. The look she had was annoyed, but I could see a tiny amount of fear in her eyes. Maybe she was telling the truth, there was something that was keeping her from telling me everything.

“Okay,” I dropped my shoulders. I was tired and feeling vulnerable. I didn’t want to fight, so I let it go.

Dahlia took me in for a second before she huffed out, “Good.”

I don’t know what it was about her tonight, but she was really reminding me of someone I knew. It was a strange feeling. Deciding that was a puzzle for another day, I shook my head and ran my hands through my hair, hating how sticky it felt despite the biting cold of the night.

I said goodnight to Dahlia, before heading to my room for the night. My phone told me it was after 11, which meant I was there for a few hours. I guess time flies by when you’re being murdered.

At least I learned two things tonight. First, the murderer was a man. Second, he was still here on campus. That second one really filled me with dread and fear. I didn’t know the identity of the killer yet, but I was more determined than ever to figure it out. Not for my own safety, but the safety of everyone at this school.

#unnatural affairs #ua #ally holland #lyn hart #michael yamamoto #dahlia cressman #amelia turner #ghosts #murder mysteries #paranormal #romance #wlw romance #sapphic lead #tw blood mention #original story #original fiction #writing

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pronouncingitwang · 4 years

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pre-canon Jon/Georgie | 4.3K words | for @the-magnace-archives

“Laundry detergent is practically a self-contained emulsion—not that it has to be a mixture of anything, but it has a hydrophilic and a hydrophobic end,” says Jonathan-Sims-but-I-usually-go-by-Jon-oh-and-it’s-nice-to-meet-you-too, and Georgie grins. She hadn’t expected much when she dragged herself out tonight, prompted more by the vague feeling that she really ought to make some friends this year (apparently, her tutees don’t count, thanks Mum) than any real desire to do so. Then, she’d looked across Balliol Bar to see the student who’d interrupted their Modern-ish Lit prof in lecture yesterday, holding a briefcase in his lap and scowling at his beer as if it too wasn’t planning to analyze Jane Austen through a post-colonialist lens this year. Georgie had headed over as a gesture of BAME Literature student solidarity, and now it’s been an hour and she’s still here, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Jon doesn’t seem to be a fan of eye contact, which gives Georgie plenty of opportunity to observe. None of his initial red flags—being dressed like a professor on TV, for one—have proven to be signs of a deeper rottenness yet. There’s something in Jon’s gestures—abrupt, abortive, like he’s holding himself back—that assures Georgie that he’s not just doing this as an ego boost. This is all to say that the last three hours of banter and infodumping have been wholly pleasant. Probabilistically, it can’t last.

“Do- do you want to go back to mine?” Jon asks, and god does Georgie hates being proven right sometimes. It’s not that Jon’s unattractive, per se—Alex would have called him “hot in a murder victim kind of way” (and the memory of her voice hurts, but less than it would’ve a year ago)—but Georgie had hoped for a little more class. Plus, even if Jon seems harmless and even if Georgie's not scared, she'd rather not run the risk of being called a bitch tonight. She starts scanning for nearest exits.

Something about her silence must’ve clued Jon in because he quickly exclaims, “Not like that! God, sorry, not like that.”

Georgie pauses in her room surveyal. “Oh?”

“Sorry, sorry, I just meant that- that I’d like to keep talking to you, but it’s really loud here and I can’t think of anywhere quieter that’s open right now. I promise. But in retrospect, I can... I can see how that might’ve sounded.”

He looks earnest enough, and a little flushed as well. Georgie wants to—does—believe him. But she takes a second to size Jon up anyway. Between the eyebags, height (or lack thereof), and twig limbs, he looks like someone she could defend herself against if needs be. Also, she kind of does want to learn more about emulsifiers, or just watch him as he talks about them.

“Well, as long as you mean it—” “I do.” “Then, let’s go.”

(Georgie wakes up seven hours later with a crick in her neck and an Oxford sweatshirt she doesn’t own draped over her shoulders. Her hair’s a mess—she hadn’t pineappled it last night, and the back of this chair(? yeah, it’s a chair) is definitely not silk—and the time is… shit. Oh, and there’s Jon, perched on his bed and looking at her.

“You, ah, fell asleep during the ghosts debate? I didn’t know whether or not to wake you.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Georgie says, rolling her neck and wincing. “Sorry for stealing your chair.”

“Tea?” Jon asks, holding out a mug Georgie’s almost certain was just in the godforsaken microwave. Not that she hasn’t done the same thing on many an occasion.

“Sorry,” Georgie says, “I should probably be going; I’m gonna be late for a lecture. But before I leave—do you want to do this again tomorrow?”)

Georgie spends some time deliberating over when to pop the question. It’s not fear holding her back; it’s practicality. There’s only a small window of feeling—after “certain she wants this” but before “starting to think losing Jon’s company would require her to take another gap year”—where taking the risk is worth it, and the second stage is coming up much faster than anticipated. (She’s never thought of herself as someone who falls for people fast—she hadn’t even realized her feelings for Alex until it was far too late—but now this. Maybe it’s another side effect of getting a philosophy lesson from a corpse. Or maybe it’s just a Jon thing.) All in all, it’s only been three weeks after their first meeting before she asks.

“Are you seeing anyone else?”

“What?” Jon asks, eyes jolting from his book to scan his room for uninvited apparitions. They’d both been unusually absorbed in their readings for the past hour, only interrupting the silence with scoffs and huhs.

“No, like, are you seeing anyone else romantically?” Jon frowns, and a thread of doubt worms its way into Georgie’s throat. “That is what we’re doing, right?” Granted, lunch meet-ups in the dining hall that spill over into long and unproductive study sessions might not scream “date,” but there’d also been a fair amount of (well, okay, Georgie-initiated) arm-around-the-shoulder action a few times. Also, hand-holding, of the fingers-intertwined variety.

“Oh. Um, yes, we’re romantically involved, or I suppose I should say that I hoped we were and didn’t know how to ask for clarification”—note to self: communicate clearer in future, Georgie thinks—“and no, I’m not seeing anyone else.”

Georgie had thought as much, but the confirmation is nice. “Cool. Me neither. Want to keep doing that?”

“Seeing each other?”

“And not anyone else, yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe even start calling each other girlfriend and boyfriend?”

“Oh. Um.” Jon’s leg starts to bounce, which doesn’t seem like a good sign. Georgie waits.

“It’s not that-” Jon begins, then cuts himself off with a frustrated sigh. “It’s not that I don’t want to, believe me. I just—I have a… ground rule. That you may not be happy about.”

“Just one?”

“What?” Jon looks startled out of his worry for a second, which Georgie counts as a success.

“Well, I mean, if you’re talking about boundaries, I’ve got plenty. Routines that I’d need you to work around, stuff I don’t want to talk about, and if you’re ever even slightly sympathetic to the Tories…”

Jon doesn’t even laugh at the last one, and she knows he’s not a Cameron cocksucker. Something’s really bothering him.

“This one is… a pretty big deal.”

Georgie tries to keep her tone reassuring. “Let me be the judge of that, yeah?”

“Okay,” Jon says, “okay, yeah,” then nods decisively. “I’m… not going to have sex with you.”

What?

Jon continues, hands fluttering nervously as he explains. “I mean, I can’t say for certain that I’ll never change my mind, but if we’re doing this, it should be under the assumption that I won’t. And it’s not—it’s not a you thing, I swear, it’s just the thought of doing that with—with anyone is just…” he shudders slightly, and Georgie gives him a sympathetic wince. “And I know that’s a dealbreaker with a lot of people. I think I’m—well, it’s called asexuality, there’s some books I found if you don’t believe me, here, I’ll write the titles down—” Jon reaches for his briefcase, presumably to find paper and pen, but Georgie grabs his hand before he can.

“Jonathan,” she says. He tightens a little at the sound, and damn if that doesn’t near break her heart. “Jon. I believe you. And”—she squeezes his palm—“I still want to be with you.”

“Are you—are you sure?”

“Completely. Honestly, I’m kind of relieved?” Georgie says, realizing as she replies just how true the words are. “I’m not sure how I feel about sex yet either, really. I’d wondered, each time I’ve been over, if you’d try to… and then you never did, and I was always glad. I’m not like you, I don’t think—the thought doesn’t repulse me, it just… might not be something I’m ready for yet.”

“But you think you’ll want to later?”

Georgie shrugs. “Well, yes and no? People are hot, but even if I changed my mind about sex, I wouldn’t ask you for anything you don’t want to give me, and I doubt I’d be so horny that we’d need to renegotiate our relationship. I’ve been doing just fine dealing with everything single-handedly. Or,” she amends, “sometimes double-handedly.”

And there it is: Jon laughs, a rusty exhale that makes Georgie smile more than anything.

“So…” she whispers, bumping her nose against Jon’s, “Unless my boyfriend has any more objections…”

“Just to—just to clarify. That’s me?”

Despite her best efforts, a giggle escapes Georgie’s throat. “Yes.”

“Well. In that case. He does not.” Jon says. “Oh. Except. Can I kiss you?” he asks, which conveniently answers one of Georgie’s unvoiced questions.

“Absolutely.”

Their lips meet despite Jon’s grin, but only because Georgie’s smiling just as wide as he is.

That conversation, it seems, marks the beginning of Jon-initiated physical affection. Georgie had assumed before that his lack of cuddliness was fully a result of touch sensitivity, but it's clear now that although the sensory stuff was a factor, Jon had also been holding himself back, trying to avoid any touch which could be seen as either too clingy or a prelude to sexual activity. Now, on some days, there’s a head leaning against Georgie's shoulder in the dining hall, a leg swung over her lap as they sit on his bed, an arm around her waist when they walk to Modern-ish Lit together. It’s not all effortless—Jon still moves like he half-expects Georgie to bat his hand away, and sometimes Georgie forgets to ask before she touches Jon—but they’re getting there.

Currently, Georgie’s wheeling a shopping cart around Tesco with Jon draped over her back like a very determined lichen. It was Steve-from-down-the-hall’s birthday last night, so Jon and a few of Jon’s acquaintances-turning-friends from a budding local urban exploration group had come over to duck into the party and snag several bottles. Georgie’s more than a little hungover, and Jon is no better for wear—he doesn’t drink, but staying up all night has taken its toll.

Jon’s wearing a sleeveless top that, on second thought, may actually be an old skirt of Georgie’s. Either way, he looks great. Georgie’s in her pajamas, and also, for some reason, a top hat? Between the outfits and Jon’s posture, they’ve gotten a few looks, but being literally fearless does wonders for one’s ability to ignore that stuff. Plus, Georgie knows almost all the employees here. They’ll have her back if needs be. Georgie’s not bothered, not by the other shoppers and not by her barnacle boyfriend—Jon’s not heavy, and he matches her every step, only disentangling himself to add items to the cart. She’s just glad they’ve both stuck around long enough to see each other like this.

In fact, there are a plethora of behaviors Georgie can sort into pre-commitment and/or post-commitment Jon things. She’ll make a Venn diagram once she’s certain her observations are solid. Pre-commitment things that Jon has since dropped include making his bed in the morning and keeping his professorial garb on at home. Things that go into both categories are Jon’s love of debate, the posh accent (though sometimes, after Jon’s just finished up a stilted call to his grandmother, his “of”s sound more like “off”s), and the fact that every time Georgie comes over, he opens the door before she knocks, like he’s been listening for her the whole time. Post-commitment, there’s calling her “George” when he’s sleepy; launching into completely sincere dramatic readings of his assignments to help him think passages through; stimming without looking self-conscious about it; and luckily for Georgie, cooking.

“Pasta tonight?” she asks as Jon squints at two identical-looking tomatoes so hard Georgie thinks they might explode.

“Mm.”

“The one on the left is a bit bigger?”

Jon puts the other one down with a scowl. “Maybe.”

The kitchens in Jon’s building have a stovetop and just enough counter space for prep. Georgie insists on helping this time, so she chops vegetables as Jon gets the noodles going. As the water nears boiling, Jon begins to hum something that Georgie thinks is meant to keep time, tapping his foot to the rhythm.

“Whatcha singing?”

“Oh,” Jon says, foot no longer tapping. “I didn’t notice—that is—it’s just. Something my grandmother sings when she’s cleaning.”

Jon doesn’t talk about his grandmother much, but Georgie can fill in the blanks. Again, she's been in the room for some of their phone conversations, and though she doesn't understand Urdu, she does understand silence. So she doesn’t push, just says, “Well, it sounds nice” and keeps chopping. Jon doesn’t sing, or speak, for the rest of their time in the kitchen.

Georgie’s dad said something once about vulnerability being a mutual exchange, and it’s stuck with her ever since. (Seems even more relevant now, since the no-fear thing means vulnerability doesn’t cost her much anyway.) Five minutes into a very silent dinner, Georgie speaks.

“You know, during first term, on the weekends, I didn’t eat dinner at all. Or any meals, really.”

Jon doesn’t move, but she can tell he’s listening.

“It made sense to eat on weekdays, because I’d always come across a cafeteria on my way to class. But on weekends, it was way too much work to drag myself out of my room, sometimes even out of bed. There didn’t seem to be any reason to. And I always had some rolls on hand that I’d taken from the dining halls earlier that week, so it’s not like I was starving myself. But still. Wasn’t great.” Jon nods, which is enough encouragement for Georgie to finish. “So I guess what I mean is, thank you? For being a good enough reason.”

Georgie takes Jon’s hand, and he squeezes back.

(A few days later, when Georgie’s almost forgotten the incident, Jon pulls the blanket tighter around them and says, “I think I’m going to tell you about my grandmother now, if that’s okay,” and Georgie says, “okay.”)

Georgie hasn’t had a bad episode in a long time, but then her dad gets into a car wreck and he’s fine, he’ll be fine, but the bill’s gonna be hell to foot, and Georgie should be calling her English course freshers to see if they or their friends want any more tutoring hours, but instead she hasn’t brushed her teeth in four days and she’s missed her weekly scheduled room cleaning and she has that marked in her calendar for a reason, she has a routine for a reason, but every limb feels heavy and she’d rather stare at the ceiling and wait for it to collapse on her the way it one day will and therefore always has been. She misses Alex. She misses home. She misses being able to move without feeling like she’s dragging her body in a bag behind her.

Jon finds Georgie on what she thinks is a Saturday. He takes a second to scan the room before his eyes alight on the pile of blankets she’s under. “You haven’t been answering my messages,” he says.

The one time Jon had a meltdown in Georgie's presence, he shouted at her to leave, immediately. Georgie thinks she should extend Jon the same chance to escape, never mind that Jon's brain in crisis does better alone and Georgie's doesn't.

“Please go away.”

Jon does go away, but only to the other side of the room—where Georgie had accidentally knocked over her laundry hamper two(? three?) days ago and then stared at it until it felt like her insides had been hollowed out—and starts picking up each item of clothing on the ground, inspecting it, and shoving it back in the basket.

“Is this clean?” Jon asks, holding up a pair of knickers. Under most circumstances, the image would be funny, but as it is, it’s just surreal.

Georgie sighs. “I don’t think there’s a single clean thing in this room.”

“That’s good to know,” Jon says, and then, “Maybe you should get up.”

“Make me,” Georgie says. He does not.

As Jon continues to tidy up the floor, he asks her various bite-sized questions—trying to ground her, she assumes. Where did she get these jeans? What’s that poster on her wall of? Does she need the notes from Thursday? How is she doing? That last one, she elects not to answer.

When Jon’s done with the laundry pile, he asks for a hand to lift the hamper upright again. Georgie considers calling him out on the ruse, but finds that it’s easier to take Jon’s hand as he half-pulls her out of bed. Standing upright makes her a little dizzy, but he holds her still until her vision clears.

But then they go to lift the hamper, and Georgie drops it again and Jon doesn’t catch it fast enough and the clothes go spilling over the floor again, and she screams something at Jon that burns in her throat and Jon blinks and blinks and hardens and yells something back and Georgie wants to throw something or hide or fall asleep but instead she just tells Jon to get the fuck out out of her room.

“Fine,” Jon snaps, and wrenches the door open. He pauses before he takes his first step into the hall. “I’ll be back in an hour, if you want me here then.”

Georgie curls up on the ground and thinks about what Jon breaking up with her would look like and she isn’t scared, just sad, and then she counts prime numbers until she falls asleep again. And then Jon does come back, and Georgie is no less frustrated and Jon is no less hurt, but he’s holding a takeout bag. (Georgie tears through the wrap, and then, upon Jon’s prompting, all of his kebabs too, and he sits there until she’s finished. Once she’s full, she feels a little less heavy.)

Georgie practically runs up the stairs to Jon’s room, phone still clutched in hand. “URGENT,” the text had read, and Georgie had felt a sharp curiosity course through her.

When Jon opens the door, he’s practically vibrating. “I figured out a way to get into the Sheldonian after-hours,” he whispers.

“No fucking way,” Georgie whispers back. “Seriously, how? We have to tell the others right fucking now. But how?”

Georgie had recently dragged Jon into her latest obsession—Oxford history—though “dragged” implies that he hadn’t come extremely willingly. She’d wondered if the incident in the medical building would come up, but Jon had quickly turned to fixate on something else. For the last month, Oxford’s main theater has been the subject of most, if not all of their conversation. That's spilled over into their conversations with their urbex friends (read: all their friends), which has then spilled over into their collective ability to engage in academia. Each member of their friend group—going on different days to deflect suspicion—has been on a tour to scope out the surveillance cameras’ blind spots. Plus, they’ve pooled their money to buy a fancy lockpicking kit.

“Well,” Jon says, hands flapping wildly as he looks for his phone, “I was talking to one of the violinists who played there last year, and then there were some blueprints in the Balliol Library—here, I took pictures—and…”

There’s more planning to do, obviously, if the six of them want to achieve their ultimate goal of “don’t get caught, like, seriously.” They practice treading lightly, quiz each other on floor plans, and (at least try to) confine themselves to a strict sleep schedule to keep their reflexes sharp. It’s unbelievably overkill, but such is life.

Then, there’s scheduling, which is difficult because Marie has two big assignments coming up and Steph works night shifts five days a week, but eventually, the expedition is a go.

Two weeks later, Georgie finds herself standing on the wood floor of the Sheldonian Theater, looking up at the barely-moonlit ceiling.

“Wow,” Jon breathes over a chorus of April’s “holy shit!”s.

“Kind of stupid that Truth is white,” Georgie says, but her voice is tinged with as much awe as Jon’s is.

Jon lets out a huff of laughter. “Next time, we can break in and repaint.”

“By stacking like ten ladders on top of each other?”

“Obviously.”

Georgie’s seen the ceiling before on daytime tours, of course she has, but those times, it was always just a painting, no less shiny and solid than the rest of the theater. The fresco she sees now is smudged with shadow, but that only makes it look more real. It depicts a vortex of orange clouds surrounded by scholars and cherubim. The figures curl themselves around the perimeter, simultaneously drawn into and bracing themselves against the storm. In the center of the swirling mass, Truth raises itself up, holding out its glowing hand. Structural support beams run over the mural to hold the ceiling up, sectioning off various parts of the scene. Every figure is drawn in exquisite detail; the shadows of their robes, the strands of their hair. But from down where Georgie stands, the whole thing just looks like an ancient mouth straining against a golden net, ready to consume them both.

“It’s beautiful,” Georgie whispers, and then, because one time doesn’t seem enough, “It’s beautiful!”

“You’re beautiful,” Jon tells the ceiling, though his whisper doesn't carry very far.

“You’re beautiful!” Georgie whisper-shouts at Jon. (Georgie senses, more than hears, an exasperated groan from Nick behind her, but she pays him no mind. She’s earned the right to be this sappy, thank you very much.)

“So are you!” Jon whisper-shouts back.

“I am!”

Most of their friends begin wandering farther off, but Jon and Georgie stay put. The Sheldonian is a flat-floor building. There’s no raised platform that draws the line between stage and audience, just an area with chairs and one without. Whatever secrets the two of them whisper to Truth, it is both call and response.

“Sometimes, I feel so lonely I could scream!”—from Jon.

“I wish I remembered what fear felt like!”—from Georgie.

“I don’t understand poetry and I never will!”

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong because I don’t know what I’m doing!”

“I wish I’d chosen a different course! I have no idea what to do after graduation!”

“When professors call me Georgina, I feel physically ill!”

“I hate having short hair!”

“I hate having long hair!”

“I wish I’d actually taken my Urdu lessons seriously when I was younger!”

“I don’t feel guilty about quitting all my clubs in first year but I feel like I should!”

“We should be a little quieter!”

“I agree!”

A pause.

“I’m going to fail all my exams!”

“Funny, I’m gonna fail all of mine!”

“I’ll always feel like a disappointment! And I love my girlfriend!” It’s not the first time Jon’s said it, but the words send a thrill through Georgie anyway.

“I stubbed my toe yesterday and it still hurts! And I love my boyfriend!” It is the first time she’s said it. It feels right.

“I’m going to try to get to the balcony without being seen!”

“Good idea!”

“I really do love you,” Jon says again, and begins to move towards the nearest staircase, where Steph and April appear to be arm-wrestling. As Georgie watches his back, she’s suddenly struck by another memory—someone else Georgie loves standing in a building she’s not supposed to be in, taking one of her very last steps away from her. The feeling that rises in Georgie isn’t fear, but it must be the closest thing to it.

“Wait,” she says. (Jon turns around. He really is beautiful.) “I’m coming with you.”

It’s third year, which means fast-approaching papers and goodbyes and post-graduation uncertainties, but it also means Georgie and Jon (and Nick and Marie, but they aren’t arriving until tomorrow) are moving in together.

“You’re gonna have to try to hold still,” Georgie says as she attempts to apply a second coat of purple to Jon’s pinky nail.

“I am,” Jon says. “Can’t you tape around it?”

“I don’t know which box the tape’s in,” Georgie says. “And since someone insisted on having his nails done before we began unpacking…”

“New place, new hands,” Jon says. “It just makes sense.”

“It really… doesn’t… but… there! That’s all of them! Now, just- don’t touch anything for the next ten minutes. I’m gonna do mine now.”

“Yes ma’am.” Jon gives a mock salute, and of course, grazes his nails against his hair in the process. “Oh, shit.”

“You’re the worst. I’m stealing all the blankets tonight for revenge.”

“Which blankets did you pack?”

“I thought that was your job?”

“It definitely wasn’t…”

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no…”

“What did you say the last time I asked you to check the packing list…?”

“Shut up!"

“No, I don’t think ‘shut up’ was it. I’m pretty sure it was more along the lines of ‘I’m not an idiot, Jon,’ but if you’re sure…”

“We can check if they’re still there after our nails dry, okay?”

“Okay.”

A few minutes pass.

“I think we should get a cat,” Georgie says. “Do you want to get a cat?” and Jon breaks the holding-still rule again by shouting something incomprehensible and flinging his arms around her.

(Later, over takeout and scuffed nails:

“This year will be a good year,” Georgie tells Jon. “I can feel it. And if it’s not, I’ll make it good.”

“I’ll make it good, too,” Jon says, “Or I’ll try to, at least. I promise.”

And Georgie believes him, and Georgie is not afraid.)

#jongeorgie #the magnus archives #tma #georgie barker #jonathan sims #magnuspod #fic #not sure why it says anonymous i think it's bc i posted to a collection

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knovesstorytelling · 3 years

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Murray Mysteries Transcript - S1E12

Episode 12. The Long Night

Written by May Toudic

Mina: Welcome to Murray Mysteries.

[Theme music plays.]

Jane: Hello listeners.

[A chair creaks and papers rustle.]

Jane: Apologies I— Ow!

[The chair creaks more.]

Jane: It’s been a long night and I’m running late for, well, just about everything but I promised I’d keep this log up to date and I always, always keep my promises. Last night I was sitting in my office, catching up on paperwork so I could get on with my research. I kept my door open because I like to think an open door policy will help the staff and patients see me as a more accessible figure, and well, it, it doesn’t matter.

Jane: The point is the door was open and R came running in and it took me about a second to realize he was holding one of the knives from the kitchens but it was a second too late. I tried to use the desk as a barrier but he managed to reach forward enough to cut one of my wrists quite badly, but I managed to get a hit in, which bought me enough time for security to get here.

Jane: R didn’t look like he wanted to attack again though. He was just lying on the floor and… licking it. Where my blood had fallen. This isn’t something I’ve seen from him before. He kept saying “the blood is the life” over and over again as they took him back to his room.

Jane: I’d normally be very keen to start looking into a new symptom like this but my mind hasn’t been on work with everything that’s happened to Lucy and I did have a slightly bleeding wrist that needed attention. I got escorted to our medical office and the resident nurse patched me up. Which was very kind of her up to the point where she refused to discharge me until I had a nap. Can you believe it? Forcing my hand like that, it’s like I have no authority here. “Severely sleep-deprived.” It’s none of her business, I’m doing just fine.

Jane: I lost some precious hours to that little nap and now I’ve got no work done and I’ve got, God. 12 missed calls. That is not good. That is really, really, not good. Hold on.

[A phone rings.]

Voicemail: You have three new messages.

[A beep.]

Lucy: Hey Janey! I can’t believe you’re making me leave a message, an actual message. Answer your phone! Answer your texts! Nobody leaves voicemails anymore, this isn’t the 90’s. Anyway, I thought I’d tell you I’m doing fine. Since I know you’re always desperately worried about me, but it looks like…

Lucy (crying): you’re too busy to think about me much anyway.

[She fakes a sob.]

Lucy: You’d better be on a hot date, or a spontaneous quest for pizza or something, because if you’re ignoring me for work, I’m going to be real offended. Last night went well, since you’re asking. Like the night before and the night before that one. Prof isn’t quite as fun to tease as you are, but she’s surprisingly good at poker. She said she had to go to London overnight to check out some books, the old’s Kings College library won’t send them. So looks like you’re on Lucy duty today! Lucky you.

[A beep.]

Van Hellsing: Jane! Hello. Listen, I’m sorry for the last-minute call, but I have to London tonight. You know how those university librarians are. Could you watch over our patient tonight? She’s doing much better but this isn’t the time to relent. I’ll check in tomorrow as soon as I come back. See you then!

[A beep.]

Lucy: Guess your hot date went well. Either that or you’re eating all the pizza without me. Good for you. Don’t worry about me, alright. I can handle it one night on my own. Just me, Mum, and the garlic. I’ll make sure to keep the stinky shield up. Nighty night.

[A beep.]

Jane: Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I have to go.

[A beep. Silence, then a beep. Footsteps on gravel continue throughout.]

Van Hellsing: Let’s give this a shot. I was inspired by Dr. Seward’s habit of recording her notes orally. It does seem faster than writing them down and one isn’t tempted to cut out on things that seem insignificant first thought but might be important later on. A brilliant idea, really.

Van Hellsing: I’m currently walking from the station to Miss Westenra’s house. This has been a successful trip. Most of the books I tracked down to the King’s College library turned out to be irrelevant. But one of them did contain information that could change—

[Bushes rustle.]

Van Hellsing: Jane! Hello!

[Another set of footsteps.]

Van Hellsing: Out to get breakfast? What happened to your wrist?

[Jane pants.]

Jane: I’m not— I’m so sorry. A lot happened last night. And I only just got your message this morning, I was just about to check on Lucy.

Van Hellsing: You mean—

Jane: I didn’t spend the night there! I know, I know I’m sorry.

Van Hellsing: No need to apologize. I’m sure it couldn’t be helped. But we need to go in now. Anything could’ve happened in the past 12 hours.

[They walk to the house and knock on the door. They knock louder. The chain on it rattles as it creaks open. They go inside. Jane gasps.]

Jane: Oh God.

Van Hellsing: No.

Jane: Is she— Should I call the police? An ambulance? What do we do?

Van Hellsing: Ambulance. She’s still breathing. Barely.

Jane: Right.

[She leaves to call EMS.]

Van Hellsing: Come on. Stay with us. Just a little bit longer.

[Jane comes back.]

Van Hellsing: Is that—

Jane: It’s done, they’ll be here in 5 minutes. What’s this?

Van Hellsing: I believe this is a tape recorder.

Jane: And?

Van Hellsing: She must’ve left a message. Before…

Jane: Oh.

Van Hellsing: We should play it.

Jane: What? We need to make sure she holds on until the ambulance arrives.

Van Hellsing: There’s nothing more we can do except wait, Jane. Whatever’s on that tape, she wanted us to find it. She wanted us to know.

Jane: Fine then. You play it. I just… can’t.

[The tape recording whirls to life. It buzzes.]

Lucy: Hey, hey Janey. Listen I… I don’t want you to feel guilty, okay? Whatever happens next, none of this if your fault I just— I want you to know that. I went to bed at the usual time, but I woke up to that flapping sound at the window. You, you know the one. When you and Van Hellsing are there, I just ignore it but when I’m alone? I was kind of freaked out. I, I, I got up to look out the window, and I saw it was just a big bat so I went back to bed. Mum came in a couple of minutes later, she said she wanted to check on me.

[She sniffs.]

Lucy: I asked her to stay for a bit and we were almost asleep but it crashed in the window. It was a wolf Jane, an actual wolf. I didn’t even know we had wolves in England. Where the hell did it come from? Mum and I just ran as fast as we could, I tried to knock it away but the garlic, it fell off and Mum she—

[She sobs.]

Lucy: She—

[She sob and sniffs.]

Lucy: She stopped moving before we could get to the door. She made this weird, choking sound and then she fell. It was so slow. But I still couldn’t catch her, I tried to drag her by the ankle, to take her with me. But she wasn’t moving and I wasn’t strong enough and—

[She takes a shuddering breath.]

Lucy: I think it was too late anyway. I think her heart just gave out, or maybe… I’m just telling myself that if it didn’t, maybe she just fainted or something. It means, I left her there. And it’s my fault she’s dead. Of course, my phone was on the bedside table and it was too late to call for help now. I’m in the kitchen now, I found this old tape recorder in the drawer.

Lucy: I can’t believe she kept it, I always tell her she should Marie Kondo the place and throw out all my stuff and she says… said. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. I used to carry this thing around everywhere. I’d pretend to be a reporter and interview everyone in the neighbourhood and ask them about their dark past.

Lucy: Mrs. Andrews got really offended when I asked her what she was doing during the war. Said it was rude to assume a lady’s age.

Lucy: I can hear it pacing outside. I made sure the back door was locked, but I don’t know if it can hold, I don’t know. I don’t think I’m going to make it through tonight. So, Jane, this isn’t your fault, remember. Would, would you tell Art I love them? Don’t let them listen to this, it would just upset them more. I don’t, I want to make this any worse for them. So just, tell them I love them, okay? And it’s not their fault either, or Van Hellsing’s, and I just want them to be happy.

Lucy: You too Jane. You just have to be happy. Get out of your office once in a while, meet people, fall in love with someone who deserves you. If not for you, do it for me. You can’t say no to your dead ex, right? I should go. I want to keep talking. Talking helps. But I don’t know how long this old thing will hold and I can’t risk ruining this tape. Take care of yourself, Jane, take care of Art. I mean it, but. Please don’t forget yourself. You’re important too.

[The tape recorder clicks off.]

[Credits music beings.]

Credits: Murray Mysteries is a Knoves Storytelling production. This episode was written and produced by May Toudic and featured Bebhinn Tankard as Dr. Jane Seward, Rebecca Krause as Professor Van Hellsing, and Megan John as Lucy Westenra. If you like our work and would like to support us, you can find us on Patreon at Patreon.com/KnovesStorytelling or follow us on Twitter, Instagram, and Tumblr. Thank you for listening.

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punkscowardschampions · 3 years

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Savannah & Jac

Savannah: Are you on your way here? Jac: I hadn't started to get ready yet Jac: got caught up doing some prep for our next lecture, haven't looked at the clock in a minute 🤯 whoops Savannah: well thank god, I was hoping to catch you before having to dramatically tell you to turn around, especially if you had happened to be half way to me Jac: Oh? Jac: What's going on in UH tonight? 😄 Savannah: Nothing, which is perhaps why we're the centre of attention Jac: 😬 Don't love the sound of that Jac: what's been said? Savannah: I'm not even sure because the way she was saying it gave me the most INTENSE Catholic school flashbacks Savannah: & I've overanalysed every syllable to the point that it's been twisted beyond recognition so I can't be trusted to reliably relay any of it Jac: Okay, pause Jac: who's being mean to you, and why on earth Jac: Is it that one girl in the next room along from you, because I did think she was someone's little sister so I can believe the immaturity Savannah: I think she was trying to be complimentary about us but I didn't take it like that, I can't, not after everything Jac: Baby Jac: just try to explain it best you can Jac: take your time, and I'll forgive any personal interjection Jac: because I care more about how it's made you feel, than how it was said or meant, really Savannah: she's made me feel like I'm doing this all wrong, exactly how I said I wouldn't, holding you back and being too much Jac: But you aren't at all Jac: what would she even know about it, she doesn't know either of us, even a little bit Savannah: maybe that unbiased outside perspective is what I needed to make me realise the mistakes I'm making Savannah: because it isn't just her, they're all talking about how you're ALWAYS here, how inseparable we are Jac: Do you feel like we're taking things too fast, being too much? Savannah: No Savannah: but I didn't last time either Jac: okay Jac: because you know you can tell me, if you are Jac: I mean, I don't know what to do with this information Jac: we don't judge them for their relationships Savannah: I was fine, but I'm scared now, obviously Jac: that we're like you and Tyler, or you and Milo Jac: or that we're repeating our past and it'll end badly again Savannah: that I can't have a relationship that isn't ridiculously co-dependent, except it's not even, because that implies that they were as extra as I was Savannah: & that I shouldn't have entered into this one if I haven't changed enough to avoid repeating things Jac: They balanced you out Jac: and I don't Savannah: they let me do whatever I wanted, that isn't what I want from you Jac: but if it's what we both want Jac: it's hard for me to think we should listen more to these girls, who are probably speaking at least from a bit of jealousy, than that Savannah: No, because it isn't what we both want, a healthy relationship is what we both want Jac: Yeah Jac: you're right, of course Jac: but, I don't like the implication that they know what works for us Jac: if we need to reevaluate, it can still be on our terms Jac: I bet lots of them have never had a serious relationship, or only the same level of unhealthy as we have before, they're not qualified Savannah: They don't know us or have any qualifications & I believe you're right about the jealousy factor but I am still willing to see & use this as the wake up call that I need to do better Jac: We can do that Jac: I trust you Jac: I'm not going to see this as you pulling away or something I've done Savannah: please don't, because it isn't Jac: It was my initial fear Jac: but you never leave me to worry Jac: and the fact that I immediately went there is just something I need to address too Savannah: you have reason to go there, it's okay Savannah: how I handled things back then is precisely what I'm trying to avoid Jac: I completely see that, I honestly do Jac: I'm sorry if I got defensive right there Savannah: & I can see that I've slightly overreacted now that I've slightly calmed down Jac: It made me feel the same Jac: like you said, the school flashbacks are no joke Savannah: I'm so sorry I told you not to come, I'd hate for you to think that's what I want, ever Jac: It's okay, we can take a night off Jac: but I'm also not gonna tell you you can't come to mine instead, once they've all gone back to their rooms or whatever Savannah: are you going to tell me what prep you were doing which I should've been instead of freaking out? Savannah: because I need to know Jac: Of course Jac: we haven't competed like that for a LONG time now Jac: it's not like we were asked but I asked [your fave prof bff 'cos lord knows I'm using the photos] on the way out last week if there was anything we could study up on ready for next term Savannah: once I've done everything he has suggested & fixed my 😢 face I'll come over Jac: My poor boo, I hate that they upset you so much Jac: also that we only have showers Jac: or I'd recommend a bubble bath as first order of business Savannah: honestly the lack of 🛀🏾🥂 upsets me more than anything Savannah: but in all seriousness, it wasn't even those girls at fault, I got myself worked up Jac: it is a travesty Jac: we need a place with an en-suite next year Jac: because the idea of sharing a bath with god knows who is no more appealing than NOT having one 😰 Jac: it's okay, I won't insist on being that stereotype and 'having a word' with them, they can live, for now Savannah: if checking into a hotel wouldn't be viewed as the ULTIMATE overreaction, I definitely would use the 💳 my dad insisted upon giving me Jac: I can only imagine the flashbacks that would give him 🙄 Jac: not worth the stress nor satisfaction Jac: though I was thinking we could do something, go somewhere, before the Christmas hols, as we will both be obligated to go all in with the family during Savannah: there would be SO MUCH satisfaction but I promise, I'll resist and be good, for now Savannah: no such promises of 👼🏾 for a family Christmas though, so I love that idea Jac: We can make that happen with just a shower, I promise you Jac: even if we just see a bit more of Edinburgh, get that hotel, I wanna treat you Jac: and no one can stop me spending as much time as we're able lavishing attention on you before we have to go back Jac: because it's going to be stressful, we both know that much already Savannah: if you're feeling left out because your entire dorm isn't talking about us, I can make that happen once we're 🚿 Savannah: you're the most thoughtful girlfriend in the entire world, but if that's something we're about to start competing over in place of academics, that's more than fine with me Jac: I might regret saying I can handle that but Jac: I don't Jac: 😳😳 Savannah: you won't have any, I promise Jac: I love you Savannah: I'm utterly in love with you Jac: I'll never get over hearing that Savannah: you don't have to because I love your 😳 too Jac: It's so different Jac: even though we used to say it like all the time Savannah: you know I meant it every time, it just had to be different Jac: and it is Jac: third time's a charm Jac: we'll make it work this time, no matter how much work that might be Jac: because it's so worth it Savannah: yes, it is and we will Jac: I'm gonna order all your faves when you get here Savannah: 🥰 Savannah: hopefully the lecture prep won't take me too long Jac: you can always read through mine Jac: it's not like it's cheating, just a better way to do a study sesh Savannah: if you're going to send it to me, absolutely, but if you're expecting me to concentrate on reading through it when I get there, I'm sorry but there's no way Jac: I'm not that 😈 Jac: at least not at the sake of your education Savannah: & thank goodness as my parents are both already doing the most to interfere with my education right now with their constant communication Jac: yet imagine your dad in particular if you did any less than perfect Jac: I don't know how he fails to see how counterproductive the constant checking in is Savannah: or the pressure that he's been putting on me to spend Christmas with him from literally November 1st, I swear Savannah: it hasn't slipped his mind that I had no choice but to do that for the last two, even if the unfairness to my mother is something he refuses to think about Jac: Yes, I was about to say Jac: he'll have to think about how he's going to timeshare more efficiently with your mum now, just because it was his way or nothing for two whole years Jac: clearly, that didn't work so well for anyone BUT him Savannah: he thinks he can dictate to me as if I'm no older than I was when he forced me to leave & as though nothing has changed since then Savannah: I'm not going to jeopardise my mum's recovery by not spending time with her in the holidays Jac: To even suggest, let alone expect that from you Jac: even if he's not thinking about your mother, why would he want that guilt for you Jac: at least he cannot literally force you onto a plane to Sligo instead of Dublin Jac: it's getting Sienna, that needs to be planned Savannah: I'm at my wits end with her, it's like she doesn't see the problem Savannah: of course I'd understand her reluctance to spend it with mum but it's all about him, every single of her reasonings, because they aren't even really hers Savannah: she just fully believes whatever dad says Jac: 😕 That's hard Jac: because it automatically puts you in the bad guy camp Jac: because obviously it's nicer to believe that he only wants what's best etc Jac: but when she realizes that's not totally true, that'll be shattering Savannah: she's going to get hurt by him again, as if I wasn't there when he walked out teaching her to question everything that comes out of a man's mouth, that man in particular Savannah: I hate it Jac: I know 😞 Jac: all you're trying to do is protect her Jac: is she interested at coming like, at all? Jac: even if not the actual day of Savannah: It's not like I want her to spend her time and energy until her leavers cert hating him as much as I do, I know it'll be different for her now that I'm gone Savannah: but we get nowhere whenever I try to talk to her about mum, irrespective of the actual subject Savannah: I'm not giving up, of course, but I won't pretend to you that it isn't exhausting Jac: Of course you don't, you'd never tell her what to think Jac: but if you can see things differently, or remember how it was last time, it doesn't make you a bad sister, it's the opposite Jac: you never do ❤ Jac: I was just wondering, though this would be a bit morally dubious Jac: if we could trick her into spending some time with your mum Jac: I could make my sister invite her to something legit, like a family party Jac: your dad MIGHT say yes? I don't know Savannah: at this point I'm so close to walking away from everyone for the sake of my own mental health to spend the holidays alone & obviously that's not a real option I have available to me so I'm more than ready to do it & take the bad karma if it backfires Jac: I understand, last Christmas, I would've given anything to do just that Jac: I think it could work, your dad being the only potential block Jac: we could go for the second half, do New Years with her, maybe Savannah: 😞 I'm going to make sure you have the best Christmas this year, baby, whether or not this works Jac: I've got you, that's all I need for it to be perfect Jac: and we will work this out Jac: but as you said, it isn't even time yet, so you don't have to figure it all out tonight Jac: but when we do, you will have a peaceful and joyful Christmas, if it's the last thing I do Savannah: You're perfect & you're getting my undivided attention tonight, I truly do not care what opinion any or every American girl in this town has or decides to share Jac: A no-phone policy does not even need to be implemented when you're so beautiful Jac: it'd practically be a sin to not use every sense on you Jac: but seriously, whilst they may have a point, we're also further along than they might assume Jac: like I said, if they've never had a proper relationship, they're used to not getting texts back and having to be cool about it 🤷 Jac: we don't have to tone ourselves down or lessen what we have, if it doesn't serve us to do so, only in the ways it might Savannah: I will implement one though, some kind of a genuine family emergency happening again notwithstanding Savannah: I learnt a LOT about sin in Catholic school & you're totally right Savannah: you're the only person who I'd tone anything down for & since you haven't asked me, I really don't think it's necessary Jac: I appreciate it, a lot, you know that, right? Jac: the cliche isn't totally baseless then Jac: you can tell me all about it but we better keep that on the down-low 🤫 Savannah: okay, you don't want that specific dialogue broadcast to your entire dorm, just our mutual appreciation Savannah: I can do that Jac: I can only imagine how enthusiastic the boys would be Jac: and I only care about your enthusiasm Savannah: ugh, true Savannah: I forget too easily that we're not totally on our own once the door is closed, which I'm sure is what lead to that conversation taking place earlier Jac: We aren't the only ones who do that Jac: I swear to God I've heard at least four different girls going next door 🙄 Savannah: 🙄 not to mention I'm still getting woken up by a certain person we don't like just being loud while she undergoes her morning routine, which has literally been happening since I first moved in Jac: I can't deal with how loud she is Jac: the accent makes it so grating Jac: is she trying to be an influencer? make friends? either or 😬 honey no Savannah: ^^^ Savannah: I'm going to have to start going to bed earlier to compensate once lectures start Jac: She a THOUSAND percent has booked herself all afternoon/evening lectures and won't get why everyone is making such a big deal ??? Jac: so that girl Jac: I do my best work in the AM, that's just facts, not all of us plan to party through the entire experience, come on Savannah: So do I, as you know, so if she doesn't take the numerous hints once they are coming from more than just me, I'll have to move in with you & be that girl Savannah: which would entirely negate all the rational points I made earlier Jac: God, there needs to be a way to complain about her without it being dead obvious Jac: an amnesty box of sorts Jac: I'm still looking for doubles but no one is moving yet Savannah: If I have to befriend her to initiate the behaviour change that way, I guess I'll get used to the accent Savannah: you've said my 🥺 is like a superpower Jac: it would be very on-brand Jac: basically work experience for us Jac: and they are but she might fall for you and then she'd be around even more Savannah: oh no, imagine how vocal she would be if she did Savannah: it would be beyond difficult to cope with Jac: I would not cope Jac: at all Jac: so I shan't imagine it Savannah: 😄 Jac: 😥 Savannah: Baby, don't 😥 Jac: I'll have to go back to being a TOTAL bitch from hell if she dares Savannah: 🥺 no Savannah: you're an angel Savannah: & she isn't worth your time or energy, I am Jac: You Jac: x2 Jac: I don't care about anyone else here Jac: in the nicest way possible, of course Savannah: except [whatever your professor bff's name is] that's evident in the notes you've sent me Jac: Okay, he's pretty cool Jac: and definitely gonna help us get perfect marks Savannah: you definitely don't need his help Savannah: I'd almost forgotten just how intelligent you are Jac: I'll try not to be offended Jac: even though I was still totally convinced you'd be going to Bath before I saw you Savannah: I mean, actually, not in a romanticised way because of how much I was in awe of you Savannah: & I did go there, before I made up my mind which offer to accept & it didn't feel right Jac: I'm only teasing, I know that Jac: 🌌💫 Savannah: we were supposed to be here together, like we always talked about Savannah: I shouldn't have ever tried to fight that Jac: I couldn't even bring myself to check your socials before Jac: I don't know what I didn't want to see more, you know Jac: confirmation either way was just, no Savannah: I understand Jac: If I'd have seen gap year plans with Milo, that would not have been it Savannah: most of the time that we were intending to plan was spent arguing anyway, I'm not sure he really wanted to go at any stage of it Savannah: with me, I mean Jac: You weren't right for each other Jac: he's lost a lot more from that deal than you have Savannah: He'll be having a lovely time in hostels, undoubtedly Savannah: it won't be a culture shock at all Jac: Checks out Jac: authentic experience Jac: inserting himself with all the other foreigners Savannah: 🙄 Savannah: if I thought he had a posh accent, lord knows what they'll think Jac: he'll be stimulating the economy, they'll pretend he's not unbearable Savannah: at least he'll be stimulating something, I suppose Jac: 😂 Jac: you said it, not me Savannah: it speaks to my experience Jac: how anyone has the nerve to 🥱 you when you're so interesting is so offensive to me Savannah: it's not his fault that nobody else could ever be as interesting to me as you are, but he is responsible for the effort, or lack of that he put in Jac: no, it'd take someone really special to fight the 🌌💫 and it's plans for us Jac: and I can imply he wasn't that person, without being petty about it Savannah: it's honesty, he wasn't that person & he'd be the first to say so Jac: you're already happier, aren't you? Jac: on this path, this direction Savannah: yes, the happiest Jac: 😊🥰 Savannah: excuse me while I have one of those moments where I can't believe any of this is really happening & fully expect to wake up in Sligo for the summer to the realisation it was the most incredible dream Jac: It's actually such a fear Jac: I never want to go to sleep when I'm with you Jac: for that reason, and the obvious being I can't look at you with my eyes closed Savannah: but if you don't your subconscious can't talk to me & you know how much I love that Jac: so far Jac: what if I say something totally stupid and betray myself 😱 Savannah: you could never say anything stupid & I know you aren't going to betray yourself or me Jac: You trust me, I trust you Savannah: exactly Jac: if I ever say anything really cringe, you can just not tell me, yeah 😅 Savannah: 😄 like what? Jac: anything our favourite American might say, for example Savannah: she isn't actually going to attempt to flirt with me, boo Jac: I know, she's the definition of straight Jac: bless her Savannah: ^^ she's the only person I would apply the word definition to, literally anyone else has the ability to change & grow but she's CLEARLY set in her loud ways Jac: ^ That's totally the vibe Jac: she made her mind up aged 10 she was right and hasn't moved an inch since, whatever the subject Savannah: you're so right Savannah: What were you like when you were 10? Jac: Oh God Jac: let me think Jac: so, fourth class, absolutely LIVID over the fact we had 2 more years of first school after that Jac: thought I was way too grown-up for EVERYTHING Jac: there was probably some boyband I was into but if there was, I don't remember but Isabelle probably still has the merch and posters on her wall Jac: hopefully I was less insufferable when we properly met those years later Jac: how about you? Savannah: I can totally relate, except of course I thought I was too grown up for boybands too Jac: Totally Jac: it was like a secret shame but she had none, Amelia neither Jac: so I kinda had to go with it Savannah: 😄 Savannah: I had a very overprotective father who wouldn't have let me go to those concerts even if I had wanted to so Jac: it made sense to be anti then Jac: it was a lot of screaming and pre-teen hormones, it might've felt like it at the time, but you didn't miss out on a whole lot Savannah: if there'd been a girl band of that era I'd have been much more likely to have supported them, as a fierce little feminist Jac: Adorable Jac: you were cute, I remember that much Savannah: you've always been cute, I've seen the photos Jac: at least my hair had grown back in a decent amount by then Jac: I was so jealous of yours Savannah: really? I didn't even know how to properly style it back then Savannah: but I still insisted, obviously, instead of letting my mum help me Jac: I liked that Jac: you didn't just let your mum braid it and put a bow in Jac: I have to assume that was my logic when I cut mine Jac: independence, making my own choice Savannah: I thought I could do ANYTHING, it's embarrassing how big my aspirations were Savannah: & that there was no limit on the choices I had, there was total belief in that too Jac: it's nice Jac: I wish we stayed like that Savannah: imagine my 🥺 when I discovered inequality & where I was supposed to fit into it as a black girl, except don't because I was utterly devastated Savannah: we still have big dreams though & more choices than 10 year old me did Jac: I don't wanna cry Jac: you're still going to get everything you want Jac: and you've had to work twice as hard for it, no one can take that away from you Savannah: no 😢 we're both going to have a beautiful life Jac: ✨🌼🌷❤☀️❤🌹🌻✨ Savannah: I'll help you & you'll help me Savannah: now that I'm more willing to accept it than I was as a child Jac: and your hair is undeniably flawless Jac: we can do anything Savannah: Oh my god, it's my turn to be jealous of yours & I always am Jac: the fact you can be jealous of anyone blows my mind Jac: you are perfection Jac: but you can play with my hair all you want now Savannah: but not literally right now 🥺 Jac: life is so unfair Jac: I'm so proud of you though, working so hard Savannah: well I'm even prouder of you, these notes are flawless Jac: I've got my uses, yeah Savannah: [a picture of her own aesthetic af notes so far because we are both those bitches] Jac: [truly, could rinse the studyblr tag with these two] Jac: 😍😍😍 you've picked such pretty colours Savannah: [I have saved some cute psychology ones off pinterest for when they start their studies] Savannah: they do match my outfit but if I start sending pictures of myself I'll never finish Jac: if you start sending pictures of yourself, I'll find it harder to be supportive of your studies Savannah: I miss you too Jac: as long as we're in that together too Jac: I'll survive Jac: my room does need tidying before you get here Savannah: you're adorable, you don't have to tidy up for me Jac: for my notes to look perfect, my room has to get a little messy Jac: oh, and my hair, probably Savannah: I can fix your hair for you after we 🚿 Jac: as long as you don't think I look terrible when you show and run straight back Savannah: I've been 😢 so I don't have any room to judge but even if I did, you could never look terrible & there is no conceivable reason that I'd ever run away from you Savannah: but if you need to shown all of that when I get there, it's okay, I'm happy to Jac: I'm so needy, I'm sorry Savannah: you're allowed to want me & not be sorry Savannah: I definitely don't see it as a negative Jac: Good Jac: I haven't done this before Jac: I don't ever wanna be too much Savannah: well, you aren't doing it alone & I trust us more than the opinion of a random American girl I'm currently stuck living with Savannah: any amount of reassurance you need for any reason, it's fine, I promise Jac: 😌 I'm cool Jac: but thank you Jac: there's no one else I would want to or could do this with Savannah: there's no need to thank me, I'll do anything to make sure you feel happy & secure Jac: and I intend to return the favour, always Jac: in every way available to me Savannah: 😊 I know, I meant what I said earlier, you're very good at this, first time girlfriend or not Jac: I've got to be a worthy competitor and you're 👼🏾 Savannah: Catholic school taught me a lot about 👼🏾 too Jac: I'm so relieved they still had to give you an actual education as well Jac: I can only imagine how hard Science could've fallen by the wayside Savannah: still, I will not be enrolling my 👶🏾👶🏾👶🏾👶🏾 when they're old enough Jac: at least you don't have to make that decision for a while yet Savannah: which is just as well because my immediate response was 'thank god', how blasphemous Savannah: 🙏🏾 hasn't guided this decision but there is a LOT of 🙌🏾 involved Jac: he'd approve if that was the only precaution you took, like Savannah: his approval would have to eclipse my actual father's disapproval, which is BEYOND unlikely Jac: 🙏🏾 is less vocal Jac: it's more signs than 🔊 Savannah: I think that's ⛪️ dependent, some 🙏🏾🙌🏾 is very vocal Jac: actual GOD himself though Savannah: hmm, well he is a man Savannah: it makes communication more challenging Jac: I'm sure little Savannah would've said herself Savannah: child me would've believed that god is a woman, another dream shattered for sure Jac: a woman wouldn't have done so poorly Jac: it's a compliment, really Savannah: exactly, with the zero communication, it'd be like excuse me honey, why are you so angry at me that you've blocked me? Jac: that kind of drama is reserved for me Savannah: not even, I know what I did to you Jac: you didn't do anything to me, not on purpose, I always knew that Savannah: it wasn't on purpose but that doesn't mean it's okay Savannah: I hurt you anyway Jac: We were both hurt and hurting Jac: it was a lot Savannah: yes, but it's important that you don't make excuses for me simply because of how much you want to forgive me Jac: I won't Jac: I can just recognize my role in everything too Jac: as well as the other factors that neither of us could control Savannah: ^^ we're not going to get hung up on it to the extent that it ruins everything, but we can & will acknowledge it all so that doesn't either Savannah: I do love a balancing act 😄🙄 Jac: You do it flawlessly Jac: but we don't have to examine our past and our current behaviour constantly Jac: night's off are self-care Jac: tonight can be one of them, we'll just be Savannah: okay Savannah: I don't know why it feels like I haven't seen you in a really long time, I swear I didn't fully disassociate during my freak out earlier Jac: I feel it too Jac: judge away, everyone Jac: we're making up for lost time Savannah: they'd understand if I actually let them spend time with you instead of stealing you away on sight Jac: I can't pretend to be devastated Jac: you're the most interesting to me Savannah: I can't pretend I regret it either Jac: 🥰 Jac: we have plenty of time to socialize Jac: and we do, with people who are relevant, like people on our course and the psych society Savannah: ^^^ Savannah: It's not my fault she isn't looking over my shoulder when I'm super active in both of those group chats Savannah: I was literally setting up a study group before she cornered me, excuse her Jac: 🙄🙄🙄 I don't care for her at all, even if she's brought a potential problem to our attention before it was Jac: like thanks but still, bye though Jac: maybe the rest of her art history course does NOT love her either 😬 like if YOU'RE lonely, just say Savannah: mhmm Savannah: if anybody understands loneliness, we do Jac: right, if the ego was taken out of it, we'd try to spend time with her, and loads of other people in your dorm etc would too Jac: she's not helping herself rn Savannah: I also totally understand overconfidence as a front for insecurity, like hello??! She could have an ally in me if she'd approach things differently Jac: 🤞 she gets there before the year is out Jac: I don't want anyone struggling, seriously Jac: but I know forcing friendships when they aren't happening naturally isn't healthy Jac: never mind accepting people's toxic behaviour when we're actively trying not to do or be that Savannah: I couldn't agree more Savannah: though, despite what I said before about her not flirting with me, there is a very high possibility she'll fall in love with you if you keep being so perfect Savannah: everyone will Savannah: it's not as if she has to like girls to appreciate your intelligence, empathy or compassion, even if understanding your resilience & determination is clearly a harder task for her right now Savannah: a beautiful soul is a beautiful soul Jac: 🥺 Jac: Baby Jac: beautiful recognizes beautiful, that's all I have to say Jac: you make me feel so much better than I've ever thought I am Savannah: I can't say if I achieve nothing else while I'm here I'll be satisfied, because you know me better than that, but I am proud to be able to list that as an ongoing one because I've never met a better person than you Savannah: you deserve to feel it Savannah: & if you are what you love, what a good person you are shamelessly works in my favour too Jac: you're the most incredible person I've ever known Jac: it just sounds like a baseless compliment, there's no way to adequately put it, at least not without some serious time and work to try Savannah: not from you, there's no such thing Jac: I'm not the one that can write songs, sadly Savannah: but you could write a song I'd like more Jac: 😅 Savannah: I know he's your brother but no Jac: Don't worry, not a weird clause that to date me you have to think his music is amazing Jac: I'd actually hate that, to be honest Savannah: I'm beyond relieved Jac: I'm relieved no one here knows who he is, or who I am in relation Jac: that was getting annoying, towards the end Savannah: poor boo, I can't even imagine Jac: oh well Jac: this fresh start is going better than I could have even dreamed on my craziest day Savannah: me too & you're really keeping me sane Jac: God knows we've got to get through this experience and THRIVE Savannah: ^^ 👏🏾 Savannah: We will, failure to do so is literally not an option Jac: Exactly Jac: I refuse Jac: to let either of us Savannah: speaking of, these notes are done Savannah: so I'll be there soon Jac: I'll come out with the blasphemy too Jac: because I need to see you so bad now Savannah: It's mutual Jac: Hurry Jac: but don't forget your coat, it's cold Savannah: 🥰 I totally would have for the same reason I don't think either of us can be held responsible for what we're about to say, so thank you Jac: I can't let you freeze Jac: even though warming you up is beyond a welcome responsibility Savannah: & I can't lie, my coat is more fashionable than practical, I'll still need you Jac: You've got me Jac: shower, tea and all the bed cuddles you could want Savannah: you're going to make me cry again Jac: sweetie Jac: you can cry but wait 'til you're inside and with me so we don't have to thaw out the icicle teardrops Savannah: [a picture of her with that glitter tears filter than samantha loves so much because sadly I don't actually have one] Jac: Wow Jac: that's my girlfriend Savannah: I can't get over hearing that from you Jac: I can't get over saying it Jac: even just to myself Savannah: It sounds so different when a boy says it Jac: Yeah? Savannah: I don't even know how to explain it, it's like it stripped me of something instead of giving me something Savannah: it felt like, oh, I'm just your girlfriend now, okay Jac: like a kind of diminishment of who you are Jac: not the pride to be with you and know you and love you Jac: I see that Jac: I was never anyone's girlfriend, but that's the feeling I got from them Jac: a title for THEM not YOU Savannah: of course you understand, you always do Jac: not that I was bothered what they thought Jac: but it would have been upsetting if I was, definitely Savannah: I hate that Jac: it's okay, that's all over Savannah: I'm going to make you so happy Jac: I know you will

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almondharry · 5 years

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you look so good : three

you look so good [10.8k]

“Don’t do it, M.”

“Do what?” Her voice was all too innocent.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Part three: Neumann’s Game Theory

Neumann’s Game Theory

July 5, 2003

Genevieve’s forearms were gripped in an iron tight hold. Her mother’s long and bony fingers wrapped around like medieval vine; they curled and held Genevieve in place. With lips set in a thin line, her mother’s perfectly plucked brows were drawn in a scolding glare. The strength behind it could cut diamond.

“How did this happen?”

“I… I don’t know,” Genevieve mumbled. “I was playing and running really fast and I didn’t see the rock.” Her chin met the center of her collarbone. Loose pieces of gravel rolled under her shoe, the crunch calmed her. It was her favoured alternative over maintaining the heavy eye contact that glared from above. A drop of red splattered onto the pavement.

“Oh, Genevieve.” The defeated sigh that slipped from her mother’s lips had less to do with mourning the dress, but more to do with the innocence that framed her rose tinted glasses. “Darling, there is only one thing I ask of you.”

Genevieve was no foreigner to her tone. It was laced with a classic sweetness, one that teachers liked to lay on thick when explaining instructions to kindergarteners.

Genevieve waited. She poked a finger in the horizontal slit of fabric that hovered above her knee. The broken threads were an easy fix; she had seen her mother tackle far worse from her work. She hypothesized it would take her six minutes at her sewing machine to restore the misalignment. It wasn’t those fancy new electric ones that had ten different settings. It was fashioned mechanically and had a joint foot pedal that Genevieve pretended was its best friend. It was humble and did all the required stitching.

“Yes, Mama?” Thin red streaks slid down the sides of her leg, tiny rivers went their separate ways. They darkened the navy blue of her dress.

Her mother’s eyes skimmed over Genevieve’s features in desperation. They took in her sweaty hairline, scratched cheek, and pouty lips.

Her tone dropped to a hush. It was a secret meant to be sealed between only them. “Never chase a boy, Genevieve. Don’t do it.”

***

October 31, 2019

Genevieve wasn’t used to the stop and go. It was something she never thought twice about when she was younger and needed to get across town, but now it was painfully obvious. A middle aged man in a green tie and second hand suit sat across the aisle from her. His ankle crossed over his knee and a newspaper open in his lap. At the front, three seats folded up and made room for a teenage girl in a wheelchair. She untangled the cord of her white headphones. A mother attempted to calm down her shrieking toddler. The boy, red faced and wet with tears, stomped his feet and waved his arms impatiently.

Genevieve didn’t mind the ruckus. Between being trapped in a self-imposed exile at a still library or the solitude of her apartment, the hustle of the city gave her much needed normalcy. Her head pressed against the window, she regretted her decision when the driver hit the brakes suddenly. The potholes on the concrete made her bang her forehead several times, but she kept it there because she liked to see her breath fog up the glass with each little puff. The cloudiness stained the window for a second before it disappeared. She enjoyed counting her exhales to pass time.

She was at a prime number, sixty-one, when the buzzing of her phone interrupted her recording.

Incoming Call. Meena.

Her thumb slid across the screen and she brought the receiver closer to her head. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

“Where are you?”

“Right now? Just by King Street. Shouldn’t be any much longer. Maybe twenty minutes tops.”

“Well, hit the gas, you’ve been requested.”

Genevieve mentally went over the list of people who beckoned her. She had already texted Liam and informed him that she was running slightly behind schedule. That only left Niall.

“Niall?” She laughed. ”Tell him I can’t give him a ride tonight, my car is at the shop.”

“No, not Niall— wait, how are you getting here?”

“The bus.”

“Ooh,” she hummed in realization. The toddler was now invested in a juicebox, his nose sniffled and palm wiped at his eyes for dried tears. There was still honking on the street and Genevieve nodded along to the soft music from the car radio beside them. “Those things are never on time, no wonder you’re so far away.”

“Sixteen minutes now.”

“I could’ve given you a ride if I had known.”

“It’s alright, I’ll be there soon anyway.” Green Tie flipped the page, Genevieve briefly glanced at the stock market numbers. “What’s going on there? Have they got on yet?”

“Nope it’s some poetry thing right now, they won’t be up until later. Liza said something about two more people on the set list.”

The invitation for Liam and Genevieve had stretched out to a few more familiar faces. It was Halloween night, that meant The Cabinet had colourful drinks, orange and yellow streamers on the walls, and faux cobwebs lining the bar tops. Usually Ted wouldn’t have put much thought to it, but when he noticed the direct correlation in risen sales, he made it a full blown out theme. There was a popular promotion; if you came in with a costume you get a small percentage off your drinks.

“Liam just popped into the loo to fix his face paint. There’s a guy here with a very detailed Ironman getup. Niall has taken a liking to a brunette in a lingerie set. I think she’s supposed to be a bunny, or a hamster. My drink is making my lips blue.”

“Riveting.”

“I think so too. It makes me a more believable zombie while getting me buzzed. Talk about a two for one special—” There was shuffling, ice cubes clinking against glass—“oh shit, I think… I think I see Professor Biggins.”

Genevieve groaned. He had become a common topic of conversation with Meena. She would mostly drag his name through dirt for giving her a mark that she strongly argued she didn’t deserve. He was the type of professor that had a God complex. To do above and beyond in his class—the only thing that Meena allowed herself to do—you had to fight through the trenches with your own bare hands. “Don’t do it, M.”

“Do what?” Her voice was all too innocent.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“It’s a perfectly casual setting. I’ll just buy him a drink and ask him to give me his thoughts on my rough draft,” she said. “I have a copy on my phone.”

“Really? Are you serious?”

“Okay, well it isn’t a rough draft.” She let out a disgruntled huff. “It’s actually my final that I worked my arse off for the past week. But I’m not gonna let him know that, of course. Knowing him, he will rip it to shreds and make it seem like a mess of jot notes instead of well developed arguments.” Genevieve heard a gulp over the line when Meena threw back her drink. “You know I saw Lucy Wallace leaving his office hours in tears. Lucy Wallace! Can you believe it? I’ve never seen that girl with less than a four point oh, and he broke her, Gen.”

“Oh my God, leave him alone, he’s probably there to relax and not be bothered by students.”

She scoffed. “Relax? If I can’t sleep because of this bloody essay then neither should he. It’s only fair.” Genevieve could picture Meena squirming off her bar stool. “And if he really didn’t want to run into his students, he should’ve thought of that before choosing a pub on campus.”

“You’re walking towards him, aren’t you?”

“Yup, ten steps away,” she said, without an ounce of shame. “I hope he recognizes me behind this makeup. For being such a young prof, you’d expect him to be somewhat lenient and not have a stick up his arse. I swear to you Gen, this man hasn’t a clue what mercy means.”

“I’m sure you’ll give him a proper schooling on it then. With the whole definition and everything.”

“And nothing less,” Meena agreed. “Text me when you get in, yeah?”

“Take it easy on him.”

“Not a chance, see you soon.”

***

Genevieve spotted Liam instantly. His Captain America shield, leaned against the wooden peg of the table, really gave him away. A simple light fixture dangled above them and spilled a dull orange hue. Across from him, Angie sipped a pink drink and Liza was in the middle of telling a story with expressive hand gestures. A witch hat contained her curls and matched the long black maxi dress that she had on. Genevieve grimaced at the dried beer on the floor; the soles of her shoes grew tacky with every step towards the table.

“—She was a complete psycho! Had too many screws loose!” Liza exclaimed with brows at her hairline. “I had a feeling from the start, Liam! But it seems like anything I say falls on deaf ears!”

Angie rolled her eyes with a bored expression. The jewelled bracelets that covered her wrist hit against the neck of her glass as she brought the rim to her lips. “She wasn’t that bad.”

“She wouldn’t let you come out with us.”

“That was a... misunderstanding.”

“She refused to get along with any of us for more than twenty minutes.”

“Some people like to keep to themselves. Introversion and all.”

“She threw your clothes off the balcony and almost started a fire.”

Angie hissed at the painful memory, her face crumpled as she swallowed her drink. It was easy to mistake her reaction as a liquor burn. “Okay, yeah, maybe that bit was a little too much.”

“Wait a second, she threw your clothes? From the balcony? Don’t you live on the twenty second floor?” Liam’s eyes could drop out of their sockets and roll on the table like a pair of dice.

“Lived. And it was the whole suitcase, unzipped, the whole shabang. Quite the show.” Genevieve’s eyes wrinkled with amusement when Angie waved her hands in a jazz like theatre fashion, a sarcastic smile pulled at her painted black lips. “I was just happy that my clothes broke the fall for my laptop. But she did manage to crack my camera lens.”

“She sounds delightful,” Genevieve said at last when she approached close enough to the group. Her teeth caged her bottom lip to bite a smile. Liam’s head whipped around and he stood up to grab an empty stool to join the table.

“Gen, don’t get her started, please,” Liza scoffed. She leaned forward and wrapped an arm around Genevieve’s neck to pull her in for a quick hug. Despite being taken aback by the immediate friendliness, Genevieve relaxed into her embrace. “We prefer not to have a reenactment of her many grieving nights. Thank you for making it.”

“Of course! Liam wouldn’t let me miss it. When do you guys go on?” Genevieve balanced herself on the stool after her jacket was shrugged off on a nearby hook. She shot Liam a nod in thanks.

He raised his glass of beer. The foam rested well below the halfway level. He pointed his index finger at it and his brows curled in question. Genevieve’s lips mouthed ‘sure’. He threw back what was remaining of his drink down his throat before he headed towards the bar. He slid at the empty spot beside Niall, who didn’t pay any attention, too engrossed in the brunette in front of him. He was given a twisted pinch on his side, he jumped and yelped in his seat and Liam snickered as the brunette walked away.

Liza’s eyes snapped to the inside of her wrist, they doubled in size when she analyzed the hour and minute hand. “Shit, in about fifteen. I should get going.”

The Cabinet was far from a fancy establishment. Genevieve recognized a few people from her course littered around the space, everyone had a drink in hand. There was a modest platform that served as a makeshift stage. Amps, mics, and a keyboard was plugged in and the thick black wires resembled withering snakes.

Liza’s block heels sounded against the floor as she hurried towards the side of the stage where a crouched down Zayn fiddled with a specific setting on the amp, dressed in all black. His neck arched towards her when she was close enough. He had a guitar pick between his teeth like a toothpick, it made his smile crooked. He plucked it out and gave it to her in exchange for the microphone in her hand. Beside him, another girl turned the knobs on a bass, probably giving it some last minute tuning.

“If I remember correctly, you must be Gen. Liam and Liza mentioned you a bit.”

“I am. All good things, I hope?” She laughed.

Genevieve was impressed by Angie’s outfit. Her shirt’s bell sleeves were wide and the length of her skirt stopped at two inches below the knee. Layered necklaces and rings glinted under the light. A scarf tied across her forehead held back her hair, but it peeked out slightly. It was the crystals on the table and a deck of cards that founded her hypothesis. “Let me take a guess… you’re a fortune teller?”

“Close, try again.”

“A gypsy?” Her voice squeaked in a higher pitch.

“I’m Angie, the tarot reader.”

“I’m gonna be honest, I don’t know the difference at all.” All the trinkets that laid on the table overwhelmed her. There were crystals in all shapes and sizes and charms that sat in a green bowl.

“Don’t worry, most people don’t. Here, do you want to give it a try? My great aunt swears by this deck.” Angie raised a brow. “She said something about how she had it spelled by a Sufi in India. Just between us, I think she’s ripping off the storyline of The Monkey’s Paw. But with her, who knows? Or maybe it’s the retirement home rotting her brain.”

“What is this exactly? How does is work?” It piqued an interest. Genevieve watched closely as Angie scooped the deck of cards to shuffle with expertise.

People tended to be a bit wary about myths, legends, and the ‘other world’. Genevieve understood the fascination that came along with it, but her belief regarding the supernatural was as weak as a packed public library’s wifi signal. Her belief stayed with something she could see and understand. For her, this was the existence of concrete numbers. If anything, a deck of cards was just another application of game theory. It was all permutations and combinations that were behind seeing the past or forecasting the future, not magic.

“There are two types of reading. You can do a question based or more of an open reading,” Angie said. “We’re gonna do an open one because that was the only one my aunt was willing to teach an eight-year-old on a snow day.”

“Sounds good, how do I start?”

“After the deck is shuffled, I’m going to lay out four piles of three cards each. All you have to do is tell me which pile you gravitate towards and we can go ahead with your reading.”

Genevieve nodded.

Angie’s fingers tapped the edges to align the corners; soon, the pile was neatly ordered. She gripped the two ends of the deck and bent them in a concave curve. One of her thumbs let go and the tension released, the cards slapped against one another in a harmonic way. After the shuffling, she distributed the cards on the table, her fingers looked like they were snapping at a poetry show except no sound came out, the card between her thumb and index prevented it. The cards were faced upside down, the intricate swirly blue pattern was identical on each card.

“You know what to do,” Angie hummed after she finished with the deck. She took a generous sip of her drink while waiting for Genevieve’s response.

She rapped her fingers on the table. There wasn’t a specific reason as to why her fingers drifted to tap the second pile to her right. Maybe because Genevieve’s hand was already propped on the table and it was the nearest deck her fingers could reach. Or maybe it was the Indian Sufi controlling her actions. Whatever it was, Genevieve hoped for the best.

Angie flipped the three cards over to reveal their faces. The blue pattern was replaced with three distinct images.

“Wow,” Angie said sharply under her breath. A whistle blew from her lips as she scanned the cards to interpret their meaning. On the first card, three women stood over flowers and fruit, all holding identical cups in the air. The second card had a skeleton in black armor riding atop the back of a horse. In his hand was a black flag. The last card had a royal figure behind a veil, a well-built pillar at each of her sides. “Three of cups, death, and the high priestess. Now that’s a complicated combination.”

“How so?”

“Well the three of cups means friendship which goes against the death card. And not to mention the high priestess means new knowledge. Which is a bit off. I think this has more to do with—”

Genevieve smelled his cologne before she saw him.

She felt heat lift off his skin from his close proximity. The space was packed, leaving him no option but to step into her bubble. His presence made Genevieve’s spine solid as a metal rod. The little hairs on the back of her neck bristled. Threatening scavengers wheeled hungrily above their table.

A glass full to the top was slid in front of her, the frothy foam almost dribbled over the rim.

“Don’t listen to her, this is all rubbish,” a voice to her left sounded, his breath hitting the shell of her ear. Genevieve wiggled on her stool at the jet of warmth that shot down her arm.

“Harry, you twat! Not on the cards! You know I have to give them back!” Angie lurched forward to swipe the cards nearest the drink. She began to collect all the spread out cards into her deck with a scowl. Genevieve could’ve sworn she felt a shy lingering palm hover over the small of her back, but Harry wasn’t brave enough to actually do it.

“It’s best you put them away before you give away another false reading. Wouldn’t be the first time, right Ang?” His voice was light and airy. It gave Genvieve the impression that Angie was the easiest to pick on in their group. From jokes about scorned exes to innocent jabs here and there, she took the brunt of it all.

As if it was even possible, Harry leaned further towards Genevieve, she was half a centimeter away from falling off her stool. He tapped the wood beside the glass with his pointer finger. “Liam sent this over by the way.” Genevieve nodded, without turning in her seat. Her throat was too dry to give a response, she gulped down her drink like it was water.

“Oh piss off,” Angie brushed off. Her eyes scanned Harry’s outfit and her mouth dropped open in offence. “What happened to the pirate get up? Wait, hold on a minute, do you guys know each other?” Her curious eyes bounced back between the two. Was the Indian Sufi working overtime?

Genevieve downed a large gulp to refrain from spitting her drink out. “What? No! Why do you ask that?” Genevieve coughed before Harry could answer.

Angie shrugged. “Looks like you coordinated outfits.”

Genevieve’s eyes snapped to green ones before they flickered down to his chest. The print was a carbon copy of the fabric that hung off her shoulders except for the number in the dead centre of the shirt. Thing 1. Thing 2.

Genevieve rolled her lips as she tried to think fast on her feet. Harry saw it in her eyes, the acute sense of panic. The answer being a simple yes prompted too many questions. Genevieve didn’t want to get into the how’s and the why's. It would be like untangling knotted necklaces that had very thin chains.

Sure, they did know each other at a different time. Now, years apart, the answer failed to uphold any truth. It was the same as admitting they didn’t know the other at all. Something passed between the two of them—a mutual understanding, a silent conversation.

Harry cleared his throat, his attention gravitated back to an expectant Angie. “By coordination, you mean picking the most common shirt as an excuse for an outfit, then yes, of course, we coordinated. Along with whoever is wearing a size small in this halfway across the world.”

“Forget it, I need another drink.” Angie’s curiosity went as quickly as it came. She slid off her stool and marched towards the bar. Her necklaces and rings jingled together like windchimes with every step.

And then there were two.

Harry pretended not to notice Genevieve wrap a broken fray of her jeans around her pointer finger. It was one of her many ticks. She picked at her clothing before an important presentation, a tricky exam, confrontation. She gave the thread a hard tug and it ripped off. She had one leg crossed over the other tightly on her stool. Her thumb caged the first knuckle of her ring finger.

Harry attempted to make eye contact, and she met his gaze for the length of a heartbeat.

Harry watched as Genevieve released a relieved breath. Her tongue ran over her lips. “Thank you,” she sighed.

Neither of them knew if it was for bringing her drink over or keeping the veil on their past.

Before Harry could respond, there were two taps into a microphone. The electric shrill came to a stop; heads turned towards the stage.

“Having a good night everyone?” The small crowd gathered near the stage grew slowly as Liza adjusted her mic stand. It was like the beginnings of the holy mecca. An incoherent response was given in a cheer. “We’re The Red Day, thank you for having us! Our first song is one I’m sure will sound somewhat familiar. Here is Nine Hearts!”

Niall and Liam whooped and hollered from their new position closer to the stage. Encouraging claps and cheers were shouted. Angie raised her drink in support. Meena abandoned her professor for their set.

At the first few chords of Liza’s guitar and Zayn’s keys, Harry’s head turned to catch a glimpse of Genevieve’s reaction. He didn’t know if her music taste differed from what it was. Was she still into the same bands? Did she still hate karaoke? Somehow he thought his questions will be answered with a hopeful glance. Then his chin met his shoulder, a frown pulled at his lips. The stool beside him was vacant. She left a wet ring of water on the table, the only proof of her presence.

Genevieve was no longer there.

***

Sweat coated the back of Genevieve’s neck and the high points of her face. Drinks sloshed over rims and a couple drops misted her skin. The small space began to feel like a furnace, the dial set at the highest setting. Energy vibrated with ease through the huddle of strangers she found herself among. Her lack of height and the dim lighting did little to aide her view of the stage. Genevieve elbowed towards the flash of blond that caught her eye.

The song switched when Genevieve stumbled beside her friends.

“There you are!” Niall screamed, but his voice was muffled. He trapped her neck in the crook of his elbow, pressing a messy kiss to her matted hairline. “Haven’t seen you all night!”

“You have me now!” Genevieve knocked elbows with a boy who rushed to the bar. Her index finger and thumb squished Niall’s cheek. Even with the facepaint, his skin was flushed a certain shade of red he only got when was buzzed or severely sunburnt. “What’s this?”

“I’m a mime!” His costume only registered to Genevieve when her eyes landed on the black and white striped shirt. Her mouth parted in a drawn out Oh.

He pushed his drink into her hands before his raised to spread in front of him, an invisible glass barrier became apparent.

“You’re the loudest person I know, whose brilliant idea was this?” She snorted when his face contorted into extreme expressions. “Could’ve mistaken you for a clown. It’s more fitting.”

That prompted a deep chuckle from Liam. He was an arms length away. A blue drink in hand. With closed eyes, he nodded his head to the mellow beat of the music. A few lighters were in the air.

“Two costumes in one, I am going above and beyond! For the people, you know?”

“So generous.” Genevieve helped herself to his drink. It would be something that Niall would snatch from her if he was sober. Instead he swayed with the rhythm and mouthed the lyrics obnoxiously all while he clutching his heart.

Genevieve could only imagine the heat of the potted stage lights aimed at Zayn, Liza, and the unnamed girl. Sweat beaded their temples. She hadn’t been lucky enough to familiarize herself with their sound. As Genevieve concentrated on the music, a stubborn knot in her shoulder dissolved.

Liza was the frontwomen, a guitar strap slung around her neck and red lips kissed the mic. Zayn was a natural behind black and white keys, practiced fingers knew their placements as if he was recalling the alphabet. No-name controlled the bass with expertise, the sound traveled through floorboards and made toes curl. They were skilled at holding down a beat. The tempo and chord arrangements went together effortlessly. It testified to the hours spent at their craft.

Liza’s voice was deep and rough and settled in your bones. Zayn occasionally leaned forward into his mic to add light harmonies that complimented her voice. The contrast between them made for a balanced sound. The amps thundered as they progressed into the pre-chorus. The crowd became rowdy with anticipation. It was an electric, needy, callous disorder.

“I need to pee,” Liam winced, his eyes pinched in pain. He was in the middle of a funny dance. He adjusted his bulge and shoved his unfinished drink into Genevieve’s hand.

Genevieve’s protest didn’t make it out in time because Liam was gone in a flash. Her mouth hung open. His figure drowned in a sea of people.

The song neared an end. A roar flooded the bar, the praise and claps were deafening. It was obvious as daylight, they were pocketing hearts away with every strum of a guitar. Liza’s chest heaved to catch her breath. Her hair bounced as she crouched down, the mouth of a plastic bottle met her lips. While she hydrated, to keep the momentum up Zayn pressed closer to his mic.

“Evening everyone—”

Niall cupped his palms around his mouth in a makeshift megaphone. “Yeah, Baby!”

Zayn closed his eyes and exhaled a shaky breath before he gave an acknowledging nod. “And Niall.”

“Woo!” Niall—an embarrassing soccer mom on the sidelines—didn’t quite know when to stop with the positive reinforcement. A couple heads turned towards Niall and by association, Genevieve. Zayn began to thank the crowd and plugged the student radio that he had started with Liza as another place to find their music.

Genevieve’s elbow dug in the soft pillow of Niall’s side. “You know him?” She raised a brow and pointed her chin towards the stage.

“Who? Zayn?” Genevieve nodded in confirmation. “Top lad. I smoke with him at the back after every gig. You should come. He has the best stuff.”

Genevieve’s jaw hung open in mock offence. “He’s your pot buddy now?”

“That’s what you get for abandoning me.” Niall shrugged. “I move on fast, you know?”

Genevieve recalled the last time Niall had reached out to give his invite. It was one of those weeks where too many things piled right after the other. Where days blurred into one because professors couldn’t grasp the concept of strategically placing due dates, despite having fancy doctorate degrees. “It was finals week!”

“More the reason to do it, if you ask me.” He wiggled his brows. He sighed when she pouted. “Don’t be jealous, there’s still enough of me to go around.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes freely and took a swig of the amber liquid, it slid down her throat with ease. The chords of the last song floated into the air and Genevieve didn’t bother to fix the strands of hair that stuck to her face. Her feet swayed with Niall’s, featherlight and carefree. Their arms pretzeled each other’s shoulders as they lost themselves in the music. It was a mix of knocking knees and withholding the other’s weight. Their drunken stumbles didn’t hinder their experience, if anything, it amplified it.

Liam and Meena nursed their drinks on the other side of the bar. Attempts at reclaiming their spots proved futile as the crowd grew more relentless and chaotic. All hopes of a good view died at once, like an annoying house fly under a swatter.

Meena caught Genevieve’s glazed eyes. They held eye contact, it was something they did at parties or pubs. Touching base to make sure all things are in order. Are you okay? Do you want to leave?

Genevieve shot her a thumbs up with a bubbling smile to dismiss Meena’s worries.

Meena narrowed her eyes on Genevieve’s shoulder. Her own fingers came to pinch at her top. Don’t you sleep in that?

And?

It’s wrinkled.

Genevieve spotted Meena’s professor over her shoulder. He laid some bills down on the table and folded his wallet. He then made his way slowly approaching Meena. Of course, he wasn’t in her peripheral so she had no idea. Genevieve raised her pointer finger and pointed behind her. After half a second of confusion, she turned around and plastered on the fakest smile for Professor Biggins; a perfect enactment of a comedy and tragedy masks. And so the conversation of her shirt was dropped.

Liza and Zayn wrapped up the last song, coming to a graceful end. They said their goodbyes and were off the stage in no time. Zayn proficiently folded the stand of his keyboard. Liza made sure her guitar was snug as a bug in its case.

It was a blur. Niall shoved around the group of people which were taking too long to dissipate. Genevieve squeaked when a harsh tug trapped her wrist. Niall lead her towards the door of the back exit where Zayn and Liza helped themselves to a few water bottles. Their equipment leaned against the wall.

Niall threw his arms around Zayn instantly, the sudden force caused him to stumble back. Zayn recovered easily from his falter, then beamed at Niall with a wide smile.

“You lot killed it! Insane! Absolutely smashed it!”

Genevieve nodded at Niall’s words. “It was amazing to watch, I’ll be sure to catch the next set.”

“We will definitely let you know when we get it lined up.” Liza glowed with post stage euphoria. You could reach out and practically touch the energy still buzzing around her. “Oh, Zayn! This is Gen!”

The quick introduction was met with a kind smile and nod.

“Ah, yes! Liam mentioned you.” Zayn’s thumb struck towards the iron gate. A red exit sign was fixated on hinges above. “We’re going out for a quick smoke. You’re welcome to join.”

It was a common theme, Genevieved noted. There was no awkwardness or tough exterior that needed to be cracked to befriend Zayn, Liza, and Angie. No deadbolts or fastened chains, instead a welcome mat situated boldly outside their door. Genevieve found herself taking a step in.

“Liz, you coming?” Zayn inquired when he spotted Liza shuffling towards the opposite direction.

“Gonna grab some drinks first. Rum and Coke good for you?”

“Yeah, hurry back.” Zayn pushed open the door and they stumbled outside one by one.

The cool breeze made it seem like they just exited a sauna, the heavenly contrast stretched a wide dopey smile on Genevieve’s lips. It was a narrow alley of two red brick walls. Flies circled the lined dumpsters, but they were far enough that the smell wasn’t unbearable. She had been here on many occasions. She once held back Meena’s hair as she vomited in the corner, then again when Niall needed a place to quietly cry after his first breakup, and once more when Liam became insanely paranoid after a happy pill.

Zayn and Genevieve bounced back the typical introduction. He studied life sciences, had three younger brothers, and was doing research with a professor Genevieve once had. Alongside his work at the radio, he proctored exams and did part-time hours at a record store down the block. He smiled with his tongue flattened behind the row of his top teeth. He had buzzed his hair to purposefully display the tattoo behind his ear.

Niall and Zayn got talking about the upcoming game. They made light conversation until the door flung open, abruptly. It slammed against the wall with great force.

“Fuck.”

The ugly screech of metal against brick didn’t falter Genevieve. The sight the door revealed did. Zayn grabbed the swinging door just before it had the opportunity to collide again.

“Jesus, H, you’re gonna have to pay a fortune if that falls off its hinges,” Zayn warned.

“All I have is ten quid.” The self deprecation was laid on thick, a nonchalant shrug tacked on the end of his sentence. In his hands were tall glasses, the pad of his fingers turned slightly white from their hold. “—And your drink.”

“Where’s Liz?” Zayn asked holding his drink to his lip as he looked over the rim.

“She popped into the loo for a bit,” said Harry. She is thankful for the few drinks circling her veins because it helped lessen the intensity of his gaze when he noticed her standing there. “She’ll be out with Angie in a minute.”

It feels like she’s in elementary school and in trouble. Her previous departure was still fresh in his head, it flared an insecurity in him that he thought was long put to bed.

Lately, Genevieve made him feel one prominent emotion. Her quick dismissals made him invisible, like a little boy in red shorts at a gym class line up that everyone knew would be picked last. He was a blackened steel pot pushed to the backburner. However, the difference between that boy and Harry was the years that separated them. He has learned the art of confrontation. He won’t hide in bathroom stalls during lunch, he will not cower from her rejection. He is here, whether she likes it or not.

Genevieve avoided him by taking an interest in the sky above with her fingers braided behind her back. She expected him to hand the drink and turn around, but like always—she is proven wrong about him.

Genevieve doesn’t realize how tight the ally was until Harry’s shoulders brushed the crest of her collarbone to take the vacant spot beside Zayn. She had instinctively pressed her back to the rough brick wall to create as much distance as possible. The back of her sneakers squished old cigarette butts lodged in the cracks of the pavement. She held her breath for a moment and deflated when the only thing left of him was a gust of wind.

“Perfect.” Zayn dipped his fingers to the back pocket of his jeans.

They were pre-rolled. The white of the paper is less transparent at one end and more opaque on the opposite. The two joints are rolled into a twist in a way that doesn’t make the length lopsided and uneven.

Genevieve wasn’t an habitual or chain smoker. In fact, she hated the smell of reminiscent smoke. She indulged herself every once in a while. Especially when the pace of everything increased to uncontrollable speed, when deadlines weighed down on certain pressure points and occasionally, when Niall begged her to. It was effective to take the heaviness off her, the feeling of carrying extra body weight would evaporate.

Zayn and Niall picked up their conversation, Harry adding his two cents here and there.

You can hear stumbling drunks coming out from the front doors of The Cabinet. A pair of heels dangled from a girl’s grip as she made a run to cross the street with a friend. It was nearing the time where tabs were closed out and cab rides would be split.

“Fuck,” Zayn groaned with one spliff trapped between his lips and the other one behind his ear. He patted his front and back pockets like he was looking for his car keys or wallet. His brows frowned as he repeats it again. “I think I dropped my lighter.”

“Oh, that’s no problem.” Niall waved. “Gen, you always keep one on you, yeah?”

It’s humiliating.

The simple question among different company wouldn’t be much of a concern. It was innocent and didn’t hold much significance in a stranger’s eye. But Harry’s ears perked up and brows jumped at the little piece of information. The way his eyes fixated on her added a double meaning, it was enough to make something crawl under her skin.

Tiny centipede legs stomped all over her. The scales of a snake slithered itself around her neck, gradually suffocating her airways. Her mouth filled with live cockroaches.

Genevieve’s stomach churned.

“Gen?” Niall elbowed her side, breaking her out of her trance.

“Yeah?”

“Lighter?”

“‘Course.”

It was a weak fumble, her fingers trembled as she plucked it out from her back pocket. It was the most mundane looking thing on the planet. The white colour was chipped at the sides. The sparkwheel was dulled, but worked just fine. The flint spring was probably a bit beaten down.

With the back of her nail, Genevieve flicked the guard off. Her thumb pushed down and her free hand cupped around the igniting spark. It took two tries before the fork gave away and released the gas from the valve. A candle light heat absorbed into her skin. She brought the flame towards Zayn. His face was a soft yellow, and the tip of the spliff glowed a burnt orange. The flame died when it was no longer needed. His hollow cheeks inhaled a drag. Lips curled and he hummed in content. When he exhaled, a pungent smell of cannabis floated through the air.

Zayn handed it to Niall before swapping it out with the unlit blunt. Genevieve repeated her motions once more.

“Shit,” Niall sighed in bliss. “This one’s a good one.”

He handed the joint to Genevieve. Her thumb and index finger pressed the rolled paper to her lips. The smoke was smooth and Genevieve held it in her lungs for a moment. White smoke puffed out and Genevieve wishes it was thick enough to block Harry’s intentive peering. Zayn offers him a hit, but he declined by raising his drink to his mouth.

Genevieve takes another drag and taps off the ashes before passing it back to Niall.

It goes on like that for a bit. A calming silence fluttered between them. It took about twenty minutes for the high to settle in. There is an upward buoyancy in oil which is greater than the downward force of its gravity. That is why oil floats when mixed with water. Genevieve’s insides feel like someone stirred a spoon in the mixture; uneven bubbles of separated oil danced towards the surface freely.

She noticed her reactions weren’t as sharp when she laughed a beat after Zayn’s joke. It was easier to smile; two invisible strings pulled at the corners of her lips like she was a puppet in a grand show.

One side of her face was warmer than the other. The alcohol and weed blurred the edges of her view, but she felt his eyes on her. She stamped her eyes shut and threw her head back, soft giggles broke through. Everything was funnier when you were stoned. Her knuckle collected an escaped tear from her glassy eyes.

If Genevieve was sober, Harry would’ve looked away when she caught him. There was something charged in the air. He hadn’t seen her like this much before. She anticipated him to blink away when Genevieve locked her eyes on his. But he was shameless, and as usual, she held his stare for a moment too long.

Her fingers swiped the blunt from Niall. She took another hit in hopes of deluding herself into thinking that the tension between them was imaginary.

She inhaled too quickly. The smoke trapped in her windpipe and she spluttered a few coughs. Her eyes stung and fresh tears surfaced. Genevieve passed the spliff back to Niall and tipped her head back. The wall behind her propped her weight as she took a minute to calm her breathing.

In her compromised state, she could only think one thing clearly. She had to get out of here.

“I’m gonna grab some water.”

She didn’t wait to hear their response. She pushed herself off the wall. The door pulled open under her grip and Zayn and Niall said something she couldn’t make out. Her eyes squinted to focus under the soft yellow lighting. She made a beeline towards her jacket. It was easier to navigate the premises since a large amount of people had filtered out. Genevieve took out her phone and typed away.

Going hooome. -Gen

A bing sounded from her phone. The name of the group chat lit up as she wrestled an arm into her jacket.

If you wait half an hour, I’ll take you. Need to sober up first. -Meena

Gen whyyyy, stay for a bit longer! -Liam

I’m so stoned. I’m gonna go home and stuff my face with food. Or sleep. -Gen

Don’t worry, M! I’m already out! Where are you btw, didn’t see you? -Gen

Washrooms! There is a huge line :( -Meena

A girl is wearing a nice skirt, should I ask her where she got it from? -Meena

Munchies? -Niall

You know it -Gen

Eat a bag of chips for me -Niall

Maybe two -Niall

Ask her about the skirt. I have my money on H&M -Niall

Text when you get home safe -Liam

Genevieve walked for five minutes. The door of The Cabinet was far enough to be a miniature entrance of a dollhouse. She had missed the last departure time of the bus and decided the crisp night air would make for a sobering walk. Her reflexes were still a bit delayed. The traffic lights glowed on the sidewalk pavement until she harshly blinked to steady the blurred image. Everything was sluggish, her vision muddled and a few green and red circles floated about.

She recalled the corner shop from her childhood house, it sold cheap DVDs. The sleazy man at the counter never denied burning them illegally. The image quality was broken and poor. Her hands were a clump of squared pixels that took a minute to buffer.

The last button of her jacket was secured when loud footsteps mirrored hers from behind. She gripped the metal chain link of the bag sat on her shoulder tightly.

It was dark. Especially now that she passed the strip of convenience shops, no open signs lit up the streets.

She inhaled a shaky breath through her nose and a jagged puff came from her parted lips. The sweat from her palms caused her grip on the bag to slide down.

It could be nothing. Maybe she was hearing things. She didn’t want to assume the risk of turning around. Instead, she counted her steps from each lamp post to the next. They weren’t consistent. The range was from ten to sixteen. The mean would lie around twelve. The mode was eleven.

Before she began to compute the median, she choked on a sharp intake of air as the footsteps neared closer than ever.

Her neck stretched and examined her surroundings. You were intentionally supposed to put yourself in a very visible place or somewhere where a witness could be found, something she once read in an article online. Genevieve made note of the houses that still had their lights on.

“Are you avoiding me?” An exhausted voice huffed out. Impatient with a hint of naked hurt. “You are, aren’t you?”

Fear clenched her jaw. Her brain waved tiny red flags, the ones that topped cupcakes. The familiarity of the voice shot a clear fishing line and sank its hook in the flesh of her shoulder. The reel was being taken in and slowly she turned around. The crunch of gravel distracted her from the erratic thump thump thump of her pulse.

“Harry?” She wheezed. She expected his name to roll off easily, but she stuttered and added another syllable. His name sat on her tongue with the weight of a rounded pellet.

“‘Course, who else would it be?”

“Holy fuck.” Stress alleviated only when he stood under the light of a lamp post. Her shoulders eased as the impending horror diluted. “Don’t you know not to creep up on someone who is walking the street alone? I thought you were a murderer!”

“Oh–shit, I didn’t think of that,” he confessed with a sheepish smile. A wave of humility flooded his features and he glanced towards the sky. With his fists deep in his jean pockets and head thrown back, he never looked more youthful. “Well if it’s any reassurance, I’m not.”

“Lovely.”

He spluttered a laugh at her impassive tone. “Is that a new thing of yours? Not answering questions?”

“What gives you the impression I’m avoiding you?”

“You ran out of there like a bat straight out of hell.”

“I have an 8 a.m tomorrow.” She didn’t. “Nothing personal, don’t be so sensitive.”

Harry uttered a string of words under his breath so incoherent they never made it to Genevieve’s ears. His boot kicked a pebble off the sidewalk to the empty street. Genevieve and Harry watched it skip twice before it laid in an anticipated still.

His boots resumed their trek towards the direction she had previously set her path to. It was a line of residential houses. Each one had identical roofs, a sharp triangular hat. He passed four houses before it dawned on him. He didn’t feel another presence trail after his shadow. Long legs halted in an abrupt stop. He peered to his left before he turned around fully, arms raised in question. “Well, come on then! What are you waiting for?”

“What are you doing?”

“Walking you home.”

Genevieve snorted. “That is the last thing I need”

“Oh, come off it. You’re out of your mind, literally. And you yourself said that there are actual murderers on the street.”

The prolonged silence didn’t falter for a moment. Crickets chirped and a frog groaned from the nearby pond. Genevieve held his stare without remorse. He needed to offer a compelling reason as to why walking her home was his concern. It hadn’t been for the past three years. She was far from a little girl who needed her hand held to cross the street.

It took a moment, but he finally caved.

“I’m headed in that direction anyway.”

Genevieve didn’t throw him a bone right away. His proposition molded into a clay-like fixture and took shape in Genevieve’s mind. The newfound tangibility allowed her to rotate it on an xyz plane to analyze from every which way.

Her weak inhibitions, admittedly the reason behind her decision, coupled with a lack of energy to put up a fight contributed to possible human error. She dragged her feet towards him, a ball and chain clasped snug around her ankle. Her mother’s words vanished into thin air.

The moon, a clipped toenail, played a game of hide and seek with surrounding clouds. It would peek out every other second—a shy toddler that clung to their mother’s calf. Thin overgrown grass blades swayed with the wind and became italicized, upright, then italicized again. A steady and delicate whoosh sounded between them rhythmically, their own personal metronome.

It was alien to walk side by side him. Short legs worked twice as hard for every step he took. To her memory, it was never this demanding. Her breaths, once even, began to puff out in quick jabs after a few steps. It blemished the silence and perked Harry’s ears. In an instant, his pace was adjusted and Genevieve was no longer the victim to his strides.

Harry’s index fingernail scratched above his top lip. It was his attempt to hide a budding smile. “You smell like maple.”

Harry had a tendency to short circuit, there were times he blurted out a phrase or thought meant to be kept in the space between his ears. He had explained it to her as an involuntary muscle spasm, he could control the twitch at times but he would slip up once in a while. His statement was full of surety, an irrefutable fact. For a second, she ignored it.

He turned to her with a boyish grin, it coined a painfully deep dimple to his left cheek. It conveyed that this was no slip up, it was deliberate.

“What?” Her laugh was dry and perplexed under his observation.

“And weed, but mostly maple—like the syrup. Is it a new perfume?”

Genevieve pressed the neck of her shirt to her nose and sniffed the cotton. She only smelled the weed. “I think you’ve finally lost it. Haven’t you?” Harry grinned to the floor, bashful and content. His hair flopped on his face. “Along with a couple of inches. Finally figured out where the barber is located?”

“You don’t like it?” He feigned offence.

“Doesn’t matter what I like, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your ears. It’s different, that’s for sure.”

“Good different? Bad different?” He prodded. “You gotta give me something to work with here.”

“Neither… I guess? It’s just changed, is all.” The pathway curved into a right turn. They passed by a low shrill of a heater attached below a window. “People change, it’s expected.”

“Not as much as we like to think, no,” he countered, his fingers threaded his hair back. “You are a prime example, haven’t changed a bit.”

Genevieve was unaware if he had taken to being the devil’s advocate as a part time hobby, but regardless she took his bait. They still had quite the trek to cover. “What makes you think that?”

“Well for starters, you still run a bit late.” A snicker fell from his lips, adolescent yet collected. A thumb jutted out from his closed fist.

“Well, it is better than not coming at all.”

“You only drink Stellas.” His index finger appeared. She felt like he put her smack dab in the middle of a boxing ring. He was red gloved offence which left her to fulfill the defence vacancy.

“—A classic. Can never go wrong with it.”

“Can’t smoke without coughing.”

“Hey. Happens to everyone. Mild error.”

“And carry that lighter.” The slow ringing in her ear ascended in volume like a train arriving at a platform. Tight sheets of saran wrap roped around her face. “One that’s not yours.”

Ah, there it was.

Her lungs were empty, winded as though he had delivered a suckerpunch to her gut rather of a small observation. Out of the four fingers, his middle one had a metal band. An ornate rose— bloomed, its petals laid vulnerably wide open. Would it leave a scar? Her bottom lip cushioned the front row of her teeth as she sorted her brain for something, anything.

“It’s a very useful tool. Comes in handy multiple times, more than you can imagine.”

He had a good eye, perfect vision, and an even better insight to see right through her.

Harry pursed his lips. “I’m sure it has.”

The shift in the atmosphere right before it begins to pour mesmerized Genevieve. The air would be stale and thick. It held a suffocating weight and the unbearable humidity made it harder to draw a breath; each inhale came through the narrow valley of a plastic straw. That’s how it felt standing beside Harry. She had forgotten about it for years, but now it mocked her head on.

“But these—” the pad of his index finger tapped his temple twice—“These are new, right?” He expertly switched topics when her head bowed down and an ashamed stare fixed on the pavement for a moment too long.

The reply wasn’t immediate and Harry kicked himself for bringing it up in the first place. He disrupted the natural current of the conversation and it was achingly obvious. He should’ve kept his mouth shut, probably even locked it and tossed the key down the gutter. They don’t talk about it, it’s something they don’t do.

A punishing silence dragged on for an eternity. She forgot how to string together a sentence. Time was needed to collect the pieces of her scattered brain.

Eventually, she gave out a long defeated hum. “They are, how do they look?”

The glasses sat on the bridge of her nose were wide framed. If you looked closely they had a tortoise pattern, the colour of toffee. When she smiled, the apples of her cheeks pressed to the underside of the plastic.

“So good.” He didn’t miss a beat.

She smiled, halfheartedly.

Good. Nothing had felt good for a long time. Genevieve didn’t realize it for a while. Denial was a wicked witch that masked what lay in front with a dozen spells. The days continued to come one after the other. Consecutive and strict. Then Mondays got confused with Thursdays. Months came and went. And suddenly it was years later. Everything was gone. He was gone, until he wasn’t.

“Enough about me.” She cleared her throat before it knotted in on itself. “How’s Esther?”

“Annoying as ever.” He rolled his eyes, words dipped in fond admiration. It was love, gentle and timid. “She doing great. We’re talking more now.”

“That’s good,” she sighed. That was the bitterest pill of them all. Harry was good. So good.

“She wanted to meet you.”

Her head shot up, she brought her hand to her chest. “Me?”

“Yeah, she asks about you a lot.” Genevieve gulped at the piece of information. She assumed Harry would have avoided bringing her up to others. The only way Genevieve could see herself in his current life is as an abandoned cardboard box, shoved in the back of his closet. Only opened to reminisce about what was. “Didn’t know how to tell her you won’t pick up my calls.”

“I got a new number. Dropped my phone in the toilet.”

“‘Course you did.” Her building came into view and Harry feels like someone flipped an hourglass. Each grain fell too quickly. Harry’s vision darts around his surroundings as if he is in search for a lost valuable. He doesn’t look for an item in particular, but he hopes to find another topic of conversation to prolong the definite departure. His hands tremble. No matter how tight his fist clenched, the grains slipped.

He began his sentence without knowing how it will end. “You should… you should come over for dinner.”

The helplessness in his plea made Genevieve question his invite. “Dinner?”

Shaky fingers combed his hair back. He gripped the crown of his head in tepid frustration. “Yeah, or I don’t know, lunch? Breakfast? Brunch?—”

Genevieve saw the anxiousness grow in his eyes, a beast slowly rising from its slumber. If he had all the time in the world, he would spend it on completing his list. They would be there all night.

She knew better than to make promises she couldn’t keep. Committing to dinner with a non-existing appetite wasn’t at the top of her list, priority wise.

“—This is me,” Genevieve stated to put him out of his misery. A yawn escaped her. She wanted nothing more for her pillow to bear the weight of her head, which felt like a million pounds and more.

“I know.”

She coughed in her fist, a flush crept up her neck. Of course he knew. She busied herself with plucking the bundle of keys from her bag. “How far off are you?”

“Oh not by much.” His unclear answer made Gen tilt her head. A question mark hung in the air. “Just that way,” he added. A thumb pushed towards the street on the left. It didn’t even have a name plate on it.

It was one of the things about him that made Genevieve red in the face on multiple occasions. It was never a linear answer with him. He danced around to an nth degree. What do you want to eat? Anything. What time can you come around by? I don’t know, maybe seven. Where will you be at Tuesday? Can’t tell. Can you do this for me? I’ll try. At times, Genevieve wanted to dump a can of grey paint on him because that is the only colour he knew.

“Where do you live, Harry?”

“Are you inviting yourself over?” He was all cheek and wit. A tactic Genevieve saw him pick up from the master himself.

“Just answer the question.”

Genevieve doesn’t know why his living accommodation takes an interest. She conditioned herself to stop caring for his well-being and whereabouts ages ago. That’s something they don’t tell you about broken friendships. You can never resort to a hundred percent erasure of someone. There is no backspace or delete button.

Maybe a part of her wanted to know if he was actually safe, secure and stable, or if it was a front. She wanted a person to compare herself with. Sometimes Genevieve pictured them as two athletes on a track field sprinting towards the finish line. The white line signified growth, healing, and closure. Genevieve was always behind him.

“Edison and Fourth, apartment nine,” he clarified. His weight shifted from his heels to his toes. “It’s decent, but has a slight mice problem. Zayn has set up traps.”

Genevieve blinked robotically when she mapped the intersection in her brain. She frowned when the red pin dropped on the map. “That’s like a thirty minute walk in the opposite direction.”

“I’ll manage, I think I saw a bus stop not far away.”

It would’ve been a much shorter and efficient route straight from The Cabinet. Instead, his insisted pit stop tacked many more steps than needed.

“You really didn’t have to go out of your way to walk me.”

“Yes I did,” his firm tone didn’t waver. The next words flowed like ripples do in a river. “I always will.”

Genevieve slipped her fingers into her back pocket and retrieved her phone. It was warm from her body heat. Her thumb hovered over the screen until it lit her home screen, the bottom half of her face illuminated with a fluorescent light. Her thumb tapped over an application before she typed in the address previously given as the desired destination. A bubble popped up with a potential driver and route. “I’m calling you an uber.”

“No you aren’t. It’s a waste of money.”

She looked up with a bewildered expression. “Don’t be crazy.”

“Cancel it.”

She hadn’t confirmed it, her credit card information covered the screen, but she wasn’t going to let him be privy to that. “No.”

It was unexpected, to say the least.

He jolted towards her in a way that blinded her eyesight to only the colour of his shirt. Red. Red. Red. Her nose brushed against cotton over his shoulder, lint rubbed against her nostrils. His smell reminded her of the grocery store aisle with all the detergents and softeners.

The lack of distance distracted her for a moment. “What are you—hey give that back.”

His fingers brushed against hers were like hot coal. The device was swiped away as if he had the hands of a practiced kleptomaniac.

“I said I am fine as is.”

Maybe it was the effects of alcohol and weed that set something off in Genevieve. It flicked a switch that she had no idea existed, his fingers crawled deep in her chest and pushed the lever up. Anger bubbled and frustration swelled in her. The simmering volcano rose.

“Can you just stop! All of it!” The pads of her fingers dug into his shoulder as she gave a hard push. He staggered back two steps from her force. When space was created between them, Genevieve exited a narrow tunnel, seeing the whole picture and not just some biased misrepresentation. “Showing up everywhere, giving me drinks, walking me home.”

Harry’s face crumpled like a ball of paper being thrown in the nearest trash can. His posture slumped, shoulders caved in on themselves.

“That’s a bit harsh, no?” When Genevieve didn’t reply to him he bit his lower lip. His unsure steps neared her, his voice dropped to a different modulation. Tender and watchful. “Genny...”

“—No, no.” Her words broke by a parched laughter that bordered hysteria. She backed away cautiously when his eyes glimmered with something. He was doing it again. The signature pleading glaze enticed its prey. It got him many things in life: assignment extensions, a bed, with a blonde if he was lucky. “I’m not doing this with you, not again.”

“Can you just hear me out?”

Genevieve’s expression was frozen in a revengeful scowl. She compressed her lips together, an attempt to not spew out nasty words. The skin around her lips turned a shade of white from the lack of blood flow to the vessels. There was only so much self control one could contain. She reserved her ration for a particularly complex problem or when Jonah was getting on her last nerve. Genevieve hadn’t penciled in a portion to give to Harry in such a long time.

“What’s there left to hear, Harry?” She exploded and his shoulders dropped immediately. A yellow light turned on behind a window pane in the building above her from the sudden raise in volume. She inhaled a slow breath in order to contain herself. Her fingers knotted in her hair and she inadvertently felt her throbbing pulse. Her hands motioned in the space that divided them. “This, us? Whatever you’re trying to find again, is not there. You’ve got an amazing life, even better friends. Hell, they’re probably a thousand times better than I ever was.”

“Not true, don’t do that—”

“You don't get it, do you?” Her voice croaked. Genevieve trained herself to not break composure near Harry. She memorized the floorboard to such a detail that she could navigate the house blindly, but now her weight gave away on a loose piece of hardwood and it creaked. “You’re making me think about it all again and it won’t be long until I go weeks without sleeping. I need you to...” Her nostrils flared to inhale a breath, she held it in her lungs as if it delayed the inevitable. But the silence spoke.

I need you to leave me alone. I need you to go away.

He shook his head rapidly. Stern determination fixed in his every word, “I’m not doing that. Not again.”

“Why the hell not?” She spat. Her nails pressed stinging half moons into her palm. Her words, rather vindictive and eroded, were rightfully just. “You were so quick to do it before.”

She looked into his eyes, they were level headed and cool; a complete juxtaposition when compared to hers. Harry wondered when her face became gaunt and the darkness of eyebags took up a permanent living.

“Genny.”

She wasn’t five years old anymore, but a horizontal sting settled above her knee. Her skin ripped open, red splattered all over the floor. He wore red. She saw red. She spilled red.

“I’m tired, Harry.” Admitting this made Genevieve feel small. She closed her eyes and waved her white flag.

Being around Harry was gruesome. Genevieve could only compare it to a drained battery. She didn’t have enough fuel to do this with him. The cogs were rusted from not being used in ages. He brought the rim of a metal container to her lips. His fingers clamped on the back of her neck to keep her in place as he tilted the container up. He poured battery acid down her throat. Concentrated sulfuric acid blackened her insides and poisoned her with every sip.

“I’m so tired.”

***

“On Hallowe'en the old ghosts come about us, and they speak to some; to others they are dumb.” - Hallowe'en by Eleanor Farjeon

---

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cycat4077 · 4 years

Text

Changes: Chapter 2

Chapter 2 is out and Chapter 1 got a few edits :)

Title: Changes Ship: Sonny x Reader (OC female character)

Chapter 1: Summer Hire - You’ve been hired by SVU for the summer to manage their backlog of paperwork...but this Carisi guy never ceases to make your eyes roll or your blood boil.

Chapter 2: Tomorrow’s A New Day - Carisi walks you home.

Link: AO3 (will be updated most frequently for minor changes) or below the cut

Chapter List

A wall of humid heat hits you as you step outside the main entrance of the NYPD. The night is pitch-black, save for the yellow glow of streetlamps illuminating patches along the sidewalks. You can still hear cars honking despite the late hour and sirens blaring somewhere off in the distance.

You tell Carisi where you live and the two of you set off in that general direction. Not long later, you pass by a dark alleyway from which a scraggly looking man wonders out into the middle of the sidewalk. He’s talking to no one in particular and he’s gesturing around wildly.

Immediately, Carisi guides you around the confused man by placing his hand gently on the small of your back. Through the thin fabric of your blouse, you can feel the warmth from his fingertips. It sends a shiver up your spine in spite of the stifling summer heat. Though startling at first, his touch doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable or like he’s overstepping boundaries. Instead, it feels instinctual; protective, almost.

You return to reality as he falls back in step beside you. He looks over his shoulder at the man a final time before sending a glance your way. You realize he’s checking to see if you’re alright. You gaze up at him, offering a smile of thanks. Has be always been this tall? you wonder before shaking the thought away.

You walk a little ways further before Sonny breaks the silence. “Been in New York long, then?”

“Um, not really. It'll be a year at the end of the summer. Moved for the college job at the start of the fall semester. Manhattan is a whole lot different than upstate,” you answer, as your eyes trace the skyscrapers upwards until their tops blur into the night. “You?” you question turning back to Sonny.

“All my life,” he grins. “Staten Island born and raised! But I suppose the accent woulda been a dead giveaway.”

You chuckle in agreement. “How’d you decide to be a detective at SVU?” From what you’ve seen in your short time there, it’s an emotionally demanding job that you can only assume isn’t for the faint of heart. Some of the case files you’ve sorted through make you well aware of that.

“Well, I bounced around a lot from department to department around the city. I like the detective work; taking the bad guys off the street, and I like being able to bring some closure to the vics that come through here. But most of my bosses wouldn’t give me a chance. Sergeant Benson was different though. She’s really allowed me to spread my wings,” explains Carisi. You suppose that a lot of people in Carisi’s past had taken him for face value…just as you had.

“Sergeant Benson is one of the most amazing women I’ve ever met. She seems really considerate. I’m glad she gave you a chance.”

“Yeah, me too,” agrees Carisi. “She’s even cool with me taking night classes, which is a total God-send.”

“Night classes?” you question, surprised. That’s not something you expected at all. Is that why he's always acting like a legal dictionary? If so, you can't really blame him. After all, real-world exemplification only acts to enhance cognition.

“Fordham law, baby!” he confirms your suspicions. “I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer, so now I’m working real hard on it.” There’s audible excitement in his voice and a certain spring in his step.

“That’s really impressive!” you reply, smiling. Because it is. You were fortunate enough to never have to work fulltime during your degrees and can’t imagine how exhausting and stressful it would be to work as a full-time detective and take law classes simultaneously. Carisi is incredibly driven and you wholeheartedly respect him for that.

“Thanks,” he responds to your compliment, going a bit shy. “You’re pretty impressive yourself, though. What, with degrees in all the hard stuff.” He looks over to you to watch the grin spread across your face.

“Bio isn’t all that bad if you find a topic you like,” you say. “I’m into anatomy and phys. You get to do the fun stuff, like dissections, and if you teach it, you get to watch your students have just as much fun as you did when you learnt it.” It’s now your turn for the excitement to shine through.

“We had to dissect an eyeball once in high school,” he makes a grossed-out face at the recollection. “Nearly half the class almost barfed. I’m sure that’s secretly amusing for the teachers though, no?”

“Only if you don’t have to clean anything up because of it,” you wink.

“Fair enough,” he laughs. For the first time you see dimples form on his cheeks and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. It’s a good look on him.

“Y’know,” he begins, “teachers are so underappreciated. Without ‘em, students don’t learn.”

You cock your head quizzically at his redundant statement.

“You know what I mean,” he sighs, emphasizing with a wave of his hands. “I have a prof right now who makes us learn. He’s really smart but he’s not one of them phonies who just wants you to memorize stuff. He gets us all involved and we act out legal situations. It’s great!”

You smile proudly. Those are the types of teachers you like to hear about. “That’s great!” you exclaim. “I know exactly what you mean and I’m happy to hear stories like that.”

“It must be a lot more work for the prof though? You teach like that?”

“I try to. Structuring a course that way can take more effort and thought, but if your heart’s in it and you truly care about your students, then it’s well worth it.”

Carisi’s face lights up as if he was hoping you’d answer that way. “Well, teachers like you and my law prof truly make a world of difference.”

You feel your face get warm as a rush of heat washes up from your stomach. You immediately look down at the ground hoping he doesn’t notice. It feels great to be respected for something you value so much.

But before you know it, you’re standing in front of your building entrance. How did the walk feel so short this time?

“Well, this is me. Thanks for walking me home,” you say, shoving your hands in your pockets and rocking on your heels. Maybe Sonny wasn’t such bad company after all.

“Anytime,” he replies.

As he stands there in front of you, you silently wish that you lived further away. Somehow, talking with Sonny had come natural tonight and you feel the urge to keep chatting. But, you’re overtired and it’s probably making you semimetal. Still, that first step towards your door is a reluctant one.

“Hey, wait,” he calls. “Sorry for being such a jerk around the office for the past month.” He glances down at his shoes, blue eyes then turning back up to meet yours apologetically.

“I’m sorry too. I haven’t exactly been friendly towards you either,” you offer.

“You think we can have a fresh start? Whaddya say, tomorrow’s a new day?”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” you agree with a nod of your head.

He flashes you a warm smile; those creases at the corners of his eyes returning as he does.

“’Night, Sonny,” you say before retreating into your apartment.

Chapter 3 here

#I'm just thirsty for Carisi #Convince me that he's not the perfect human being or the perfect man #That's right you can't #Changes #law and order svu #sonny carisi #sonny x reader #Sonnyshine of my life #my fanfic #If you have any feedback please send it my way #because my brain farts and I write it down and I don't know if any of this is good #sonny carisi x reader

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sometimeinjoon · 5 years

Text

Smiles

3.5k

Min Yoongi. Perpetual frowner. Scoffer.

Also the guy you’ve tried your sunny advances on, to no avail.

“Now, _____,” the instructor points at you from across the room. He’s half seated his butt on the teacher’s desk. “Tell us what you would say to the man that needed an ark in the story?”

Against better judgment, you answer without delay. “I Noah guy.”

And the Min Yoongi. The perpetual frowner. The scoffer.

Laughs.

He cracks a smile for a split second before he bursts out into a fit. An entire fit! Soon he’s got his eyes closed, leaning back on his chair, hands on his stomach like some major comedian just gave him the literal best he’s got.

And instead of getting angry and/or annoyed at the scene in front of him, the instructor starts laughing too. Giggling, mostly. But he’s also apparently surprised that the entire class is cricket silent spare the only guy that never laughs at his jokes despite his immediate need for recitation grades, let alone anyone else’s.

Yoongi recovers and you prepared to count the seconds before his face goes back to blank, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t! Yoongi looks at you with a thin lipped smile the entire time you spoke out your actual answer to the literary prof’s question. It made your heart soar, yes, but it was also unnerving. You’ve tried everything for him to notice you, to acknowledge you, and he’s never. What makes this time so special? It couldn’t be the pun, even though it obviously had to be. It was terrible!

You take it though. You take whatever sliver of attention thrown your way, like a deranged dog turning around and chasing after a stick his owner pretended to throw. You engrave this moment into your brain, planning to cherish it forever. Despite your huge crush on him, all the times you’ve tried to approach him had been shut down. Your mind was made that Yoongi just was not the one for you, but you’re young and you’re in no rush. Little moments that make you feel giddy, like when he accidentally brushes your shoulder and when he looks in your general direction are enough for you. So instead of moving on to liking someone that you actually had a shot with, you pine after Yoongi like a maniac.

An extremely tingly maniac, since you can feel Yoongi’s eyes at the back of your head. He’s a row behind you but a couple of seats away, so he doesn’t escape your peripheral when you angle your head to the right, slightly, pretending to be listening to the instructor. Maybe it was only your delusion and that he’s not actually looking at you, but you’re more than satisfied with yourself like that.

Next after literature came gym, and you curse whatever commission mandated sports to be part of your general education subjects in university. Though, there’s a really cute guy that spikes really well during volleyball and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he liked you. What was his name, Jungkook? He keeps looking at you after he scores, as if looking for affirmation. Like he’s saying “did you see that? Yes. I did that. I’m good at volleyball.”

You’re starting to actively wait for him to glance at you every once in a while. He’s actually looking past you, but he’s too absorbed at whoever he was actually looking at to notice you returning his looks. With you in the sidelines and him in the court and all the unintentional, weird eye flirting going on, you’re extremely surprised to find Yoongi’s chest suddenly coming in between your lines of vision. He’s just trotted on in front of you, hands in his pockets.

“I didn’t think you were a fan of volleyball?” he asks, hunched down towards you so you could hear him over the noise.

“I’m not. Just spectating.”

“Ah, I see,” he says, sitting down beside you. Your cheeks burn almost instantly, your hands building up a sweat.

“So what are you a fan of?” he asks, setting his elbows on his knees, hands together looking out onto the players on the court. He’s facing you a bit with his body and you’re sure you’re about to faint.

“Basketball, I guess, since I know how play works,” you lie. You only said that cause you knew Yoongi was into it.

Yoongi grins at your answer, dropping his eyes to his hands. “Funny, I’ve never seen you during games?”

You want to protest at what he’s said, but you realize you couldn’t without sounding like a complete idiot. What were you going to say? That you watched every single one this season except you’ve tried to hide yourself from Yoongi, because instead of the games, you’re looking at him? Of course not.

“Hey, I’m just joking,” he consoles you when you take a little too long to answer. He bumps his shoulder into yours and ohmygod I’m literally about to piss myself.

That was the beginning of something. You weren’t sure what to call it, but it was definitely something. He’s still cold and smug, but he’s also indirectly nicer. To only you, you’ve noted. He’s switched seats with the guy behind you in literature and now you’re not sure of how you’re supposed to move when in class. He walks out the room with you on the way to your next class and you talk. He gives you his spare snack bars before any activities begin. He also picks you on his team during gym. Sure, you’re never first pick, but you’re a good third. That’s good enough.

Good enough is what you keep telling yourself. That you don’t need any more than whatever this was. Random hellos in the halls and small smiles. It was enough. That you and Yoongi will never be together, but this, being his friend, was enough.

“Was my pun really that funny?” you ask him the first time you have lunch together on a whim.

“What?”

“We became friends after you laughed at me in class.”

“Oh, you kept track?”

You wanted to take what you’ve said back before Yoongi wipes away any embarrassment that was about to build in your system. He tells you he’s just kidding and that he’s just always wanted to be friends with you. That he’s not sure about how to initiate things, so he took that as gateway interaction.

You think to yourself that he’s literally an idiot. That you’ve tried to initiate at least a friendship about 70 times, and each and every single time, he seems unhappy to be around you.

But that’s okay. All those times he’s turned you down have led up to this glorious moment of actually having him in your contacts list, having him as an option to call on random food trips at night even though you would never. Of actually having him smile at you when your eyes meet. Of actually having him here, in this McDonald’s in campus eating a burger as you wait out the rain.

The pun, though, the ”gateway interaction”, it wasn’t funny. In fact, it took everything in Yoongi to laugh as much as he did. He was at such a high risk for sounding phony that he just tried the hardest he could to fake it until he made it. He swore he almost popped a vein that day, but it was worth it. He was unsure of how to approach you, given that when he realized he wanted to, you’ve stopped trying to get around him which made things about ten times more difficult.

He was ecstatic about your unofficial date today, when he’s caught you waiting in a shed for the rain to stop before asking you if you wanted to make a run for it to McDonald’s. He’s trying to keep his composure around you, trying not to fidget too much, not trying to chew too loud. But you kept coaxing him to talk and to talk and to talk that he’s now just caught himself talking with his mouth fucking full for the third time so far.

God, when your lips are a little bitten by the cold like that as you eat your McFlurry, he wants to kiss you. He’s not listening to what you’re saying anymore, just nodding and smiling with his teeth out. That’s how whipped he is.

But the rain stops, and so does his train of thought when “get going” leaves your lips.

“I’m sorry I—“ he tries to apologize for zoning out.

“Need to get going, yes. Namjoon’s going to skin you!” You say, already pushing yourself out of your seat. The literary reading, how could Yoongi forget. He volunteered at the theater so he could stare at you dreamily while you yelled at idiotic freshmen that made out under the stage. He’s also promised Namjoon he’ll critic his acting for the play.

Right now, Yoongi’s not sure why, but he’s sweating. Profusely. He’s already mapped it out in his head, take something that’s yours, and then run after you to return it so he could ask you if you want to go to dinner randomly tonight. Like a passive-aggressive way to ask someone out on a date.

He’s already got a pen and a hair tie in his pocket, but he’s all over the place. He can’t use these? What would make a pen so important that he’d have to go to you at eight o’clock at night just to return it? He sets the pen back down on the table. The hair tie, he’s decided to keep it for himself. You had about fifty, and he wants a remembrance.

Now he’s freaking because you’re about to go back into the locker room to get your things and leave, and he’s still scavenging around your belongings you’ve left messy on the table looking for that one thing. He already hears you laughing outside. He has to decide right now, this instant, what does he— oh, that’ll do.

It will definitely do. In fact, it’s so important to you it’s going to have him change 90% of his plans he’s so carefully pieced together tonight. He slaps his hand onto the screen of your phone to try and hide it from view as you swing the door open, and it works. You completely overlook it as you gathered the litter of things on the table, bid him goodbye and left. Now he’s in a real shit of a situation, because, how will he run your phone after you tonight?

The sensible answer would have been to run it after you right now, but he’s in a panic and his mind was set to this evening, where he was supposed to text you that you forgot something and if you could meet up by the fountain to get it from him. With his plans being thwarted too early, he’s still fixed on tonight, on 8 PM tonight. How was he supposed to text you now that he had your phone?

How was he supposed to text at all now that he doesn’t have his phone?

It’s gone! It’s not in his bag where the thought he’d left it, where could it have gone?

Oh, silly, it’s probably with you. You probably took it instead of yours by accident.

Now Yoongi really starts to sweat. You’re going to see that you’re his lockscreen. And that’s not so bad, except he’s also edited little emoji hearts on it. He thinks about just texting his number and say that you’re going to have to meet because you switched phones, but you’re going to see that he’s saved your contact under ”Wifey” with a ring emoji and three hearts.

Little did he know you’re in a panic too, wondering where your phone went and which stage member accidentally took it. If a stage member took it, actually, or if it had been stolen somewhere else.

You run into Jungkook at KFC on your way to your dorm and he notices you’re distraught.

“Everything alright?” he smiles.

You try to smile back. “Yeah, I guess.”

Jungkook hesitates for a second before asking you if you were going to head home alone. You nod your head yes and before you really notice what’s going on, you’ve already agreed to him walking you home. He also mentions his boyfriend’s apartment being a floor up, so it was really a practical thing to just walk together.

Yoongi unknowingly walks by your apartment while he was strolling around the building to calm his nerves and at the far end of the hallway, he sees Jungkook drop you off. He waits for him to kiss you, to absolutely obliterate him, but he doesn’t. He sees you close the door to your apartment and then Jungkook just leaves.

Yoongi’s stuck in his spot for a good while before he comes back to his senses. He debates on doing what he was thinking of doing, but he does it anyway. He’s sure he’s not supposed to and he’s going to seem extremely entitled to you after this but he’s so overcome with anger—jealousy, really, and trudges on to your apartment door.

Knock knock knock.

Who could that be? It’s like, 8 at night.

You swing the door open. “Oh, Yoongi, what brings you—“

In one swift motion he holds your cheek and pulls you in for a kiss. A soft kiss. It takes you both a second before you fully start kissing, moving your lips in sync. His other hand makes it around your waist and pulls you closer, kissing you a little harder, a little faster.

You shove at his chest lightly to tell him to pull away. You didn’t intend to break the kiss, but Yoongi’s taken a much deeper breath before the kiss compared to you and you were going to suffocate if you don’t get a breather.

Then Yoongi leaves. Leaves. His eyes widen and before you could smile at him and he mouths a quick sorry before running off. Literally running off. Into the hallway, disappearing at a turn. He’s so shocked at what he’s done and he didn’t know how he was supposed to recollect himself and actually explain what the fuck he’s just done, so he just left. He’s worried that he might have got in between something between you and Jungkook and he’s angry at himself now, angry at his impulsiveness. Angry that he thought that you could have been something. Angry that he wants you to be something, but he has no idea how to approach this whole thing. He decides he wouldn’t. That he won’t bother talking to you again after the sheer embarrassment he’s just drowned himself in. It was good while whatever you had lasted anyway.

Three days later, at theater, Yoongi finally shows up. He’s moved his seat to the back end of the room during literature and he doesn’t even show up during gym. You were seeking him out but wasn’t sure where to look, and without your old phone, you wouldn’t really have a shot at finding him since you didn’t have his number. You’ve borrowed your best friend’s old Samsung and it was tying you over well, but that meant not having half of the people you had on your contacts. Jungkook regularly walks you home now and Yoongi’s been creeping around waiting for him to do so every day. He’s still waiting for a hug, or a kiss, just to rub in his emotions.

You see him talking to Namjoon at the side of the stage and as soon as you said your lines, you ran to them.

“_____, hi,” Namjoon smiles. You see Yoongi turn away from you.

“Hey Joon, sorry, can I just—,” you squeeze yourself in between them, “give this fucker what he deserves thanks,” and then you yank Yoongi by his jacket and kiss him. His eyes grow wide and then they flutter shut eventually, kissing you back. You intended on a one-kiss thing, not a full make out, but Yoongi apparently had something else in mind.

“Ah, so things worked out,” Namjoon steps back and puts both his hands up. After a second of you two still not parting, Namjoon jingles his keys by your ears, face full of disgust.

“Take my office, but for the love of god don’t nut on my desk. You’ll ruin the wood stain.”

Yoongi smirks and takes the keys. Leading you inside, he yells “no promises” to the man that graciously gave you his office as fuck space. What a dipshit, you love him already.

“Listen,” Yoongi starts, leaning against the door as you settled yourself on the edge of the aforementioned desk Namjoon did not want any jizz on. “I’m not in here to fuck, alright?”

“Wasn’t hoping on it, really,” you cross your arms over your chest. “All I’m interested in is knowing why you just ran away that one night and have been trying to actively avoid me, asshole.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” he scratches the back of his head.

“I like you, maybe? Or you don’t and just needed something to do?”

“Fuck no, I fucking like you. Like like like you. I was so jealous of Jungkook and—“

“Oh, of course you were.”

“I fucking was! I still fucking am! I had this whole thing fucking planned, took your phone, would give it back to you and maybe have some dinner, may have even kissed you before I left, but who do I see taking you home? Shit, I know I fucked up cause you ended up with my phone, but sheesh,”

He tries to mentally prepare himself for you breaking it to him, that you and Jungkook are getting along well and are on your way into else things past friendship, but he knows it’s a crapshoot and whatever prep he does, it won’t prepare him for his heart officially tearing into two. He hasn’t liked anyone as much as he likes you.

“You fucktard,” you smile and walk over to him, reaching for his hands that were fidgeting with each other. “You fucking idiot, you took my fucking phone? So the one I have, with me as the wallpaper, was yours?” you smile wider and give him a peck. “And Jungkook, baby, he has a boyfriend.”

“He does?”

“No I’m just kidding. We’re together.”

Yoongi’s heart snaps, but you pick the pieces right back up and laugh.

“Would I really be locked in this room with you if I had someone else?” You ask. He shakes his head. Without his worried expression changing, Yoongi pulls you in and kisses you again, slower than the last time he did. His hands were placed firmly on the lower part of your hips and he’s almost moaning as you pull at his shirt. You place both of your hands on his cheeks and lick at his lips, asking for permission and he gives it to you. Your tongues meet and at first it was shy, subtle, small licks in between kisses. Yoongi’s flushed, cheeks pink and he’s starting to sweat a little bit, but he loves it, he loves the adrenaline that’s building in his stomach. He grabs your ass after he begins to lose control but he doesn’t intend on taking things any further. Not yet. Not here. He wants a bed for that. Maybe some candles and some roses. Maybe after some dinner he’s going to cook. He’s not sure.

“Settle down,” you whisper against his lips when he starts to heavily massage your cheek.

“Sorry, I’m— they were right there, you know? Big and ready for the taking.”

“You didn’t even ask permission,” you frown. He immediately lets go of your butt and his mouth gapes open but you just kiss him again, smiling.

“_____, may I please grab your ass as we make out?” he asks, smiling, staring at your lips that he’s already turned so red.

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Be my guest.” His hand finds your ass immediately. Both cheeks this time.

“Oh, and,” he says before your lips could touch again. “Will you be my girlfriend too? Is that appropriate to ask in this situation? I swear it’s not just cause we’re making out and I’m getting infatuated, I’ve been sure I liked you for a while now. I promise, I’ll take you out and shit and—“

You kiss him, softly, on the cheek to cut him off. “Yes.”

And at that moment, Min Yoongi. Perpetual frowner. Scoffer.

Smiles.

#tsundere! yoongi #yoongi x reader #suga imagine #suga drabble #yoongi drabble #yoongi imagine #yoongi x you #i dont know how to tag this #bts imagine #bts drabble

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mentalmimosa · 5 years

Text

not my problem

Now with part II under the jump! The guy down the hall has a problem. Keith’s never met him, only seen him a handful of times, but his nose knows: whatever’s bothering the guy is making him smell hella gray. Gray like storm clouds, gray like the world’s faded, gray like doors shut and all the bolts shot, locking the guy and his unhappiness up on their own. Even Hunk can smell it, the scent is so strong, and Hunk can’t tell a beta from a burnt strudel on a good day.

“Geez,” he says that night over dinner--pizza straight from the box at the kitchen counter--“what do you think’s wrong with him?”

“Honestly?” Keith says after a mouthful of pepperoni. “No freaking clue.”

Hunk’s eyebrows hit his bangs and he nearly knocks over his beer. “Dude, you have like the strongest nose in the quadrant. How in the heck can you not know?”

Keith shrugs. “Well, I’ve never met the guy. That’s probably not helping. I’ve got nothing to compare it against.”

“But, ok, but--aren’t you worried? I mean, whatever it is that’s going on with him can’t be good.”

“What do you want me to do, knock on his door and say, hey neighbor! We’ve actually never met but dude, you stink. Wanna tell me your problems?”

Hunk spreads his hands, sends cheese and grease everywhere. “Uh, duh. Yeah.”

“Ha ha. No. That’s not happening.”

“Maybe we should call somebody, then. A doctor or an ambulance or something.”

“Hunk, come on.” Keith’s face heats, annoyance flickering at his heels. “We should stay out of this. The guy isn’t dying.”

“Oh, is that your bar for helping somebody, dude? Nice.” Hunk grabs his beer and another two slices, gives Keith a look like dry ice. “And by nice I mean dickish. And heartless. You're being a dickish, heartless guy right now, Keith.”

“Heartless?” Keith calls at Hunk’s back, at the shoulders squared in defeat. “Since when is not prying into other people’s business heartless, man, huh?”

The only answer he gets is a one-finger salute and the slamming of Hunk’s bedroom door.

It’ll be better in the morning, Keith tells himself as he cleans up the kitchen, hits the lights and locks the front door. He probably had a bad day at work, this guy. Ok, a bad few days. Maybe more like a week. But he’s older than they are, this guy; has a good job, according to the sweet ride in his parking space. He has people over every now and again, friends or whatever. He’s fine. And if he isn’t right then, he will be. Just gotta give the whole thing some time.

*****

In the morning, the scent’s 10 times stronger, which is great, and Hunk won’t talk to him, just stares at him so hard every time his back is turned that it feels like scorch, which is worse. Then the train’s late and he has to run the last three blocks to school without stopping for coffee. It is not awesome. And then it gets even less so.

“What the fuck!” his lab partner Lance snaps when he slides in seconds before their 8:30 lab. “You murder a sad clown on your way in or something?”

“Huh?”

Lance waves his hands at him, makes a truly epic face. “Dude, you freaking reek .”

“Do I?

“Pfaw! Can you not tell? Ok, that’s worse.”

There’s a wave of heat on Keith’s neck, another that bites at his ears. “It’s not me.”

“Um, yeah it is. I’m standing right--”

“No! No, I mean, it is me but it’s not coming from me. There’s a guy down the hall from us, an alpha, and he’s--”

“A seriously sad clown?”

“Depressed or something, yeah. I guess.”

“Wait, or something? He smells like Eau du Black Dog, this guy, and you didn’t, like, stop by to make sure he’s still breathing?”

Keith scrubs a hand over his face, fights the instinct to bang his head on the lab bench. What the hell, universe, he thinks. What the hell. “It’s not my problem, Lance.”

“Sure it is,” Lance says. He pokes at the air with his pencil. “You alphas like all for one and one for all or some shit, aren’t you?”

“No,” Keith says through gritted teeth. “It’s an outdated cultural construct. Bullshit nostalgia."

“Aw, yeah you are. That’s like the plot of every chick flick ever: two proud alphas bashing heads, trying to take down the other, then realizing their feelings and--”

“Those are movies, asshat. Not real life.”

Lance yawns, somehow manages to laugh through a bone-cracking stretch. “Yeah, well, there was some truth in it once, right? So maybe give the guy a courtesy knock tonight for old times’ sake.”

“Excuse me?"

Suddenly the door bangs open and their physics prof stumbles in, his arms full of books, his face full of mustache. “Ah!” he says brightly, squinting, like he’s surprised to see the room full. “Morning. It is morning, isn’t it? Must be, because there’s the sun!”

“Hoo boy,” Lance mutters. “Wonder if he remembers which class this is. Maybe we can convince him it’s Chem 101 again. That was fun.”

“Good lord,” their prof says cheerfully. “What is that god-awful stench? You there, lads in the back, open the windows a crack, eh?”

Having the windows open helps, as does a full day of classes; it pulls Keith’s mind away from the whole situation, from everything except taking notes and keeping Lance away from his cigarettes--“Hey, I only wanted one!”--and speaking up just enough to keep the class participation part of his grade in good shape. It’s nice, actually, to lose himself in his Monday/Wednesday routine, to keep pace of the hours by which room he’s in, which building, which prof is wandering around at the front of the class. As the day passes, he can feel himself mellow, feel the twist of annoyance in his spine slowly, slowly unwind.

So he’s an alpha. So their neighbor’s an alpha. Big freaking deal. Most people these days don’t give a damn about anybody else’s biology, do they, don’t order their lives around what parts, what instincts they do or don’t have. Sure, it’s still a thing in media, alphas being bros, but hey, betas as eunuchs is a trope too even though that hasn’t been true in like almost a century. So he has no special responsibility for the sad mystery man. Zero. Zilch. None.

He hangs onto that, gets real comfortable with it, up and until the time he walks back through his building’s door.

Because the smell is overpowering--definitely sad now, bordered by something aching and sweet--and the closer he gets to his apartment, the more it claws at his throat, that smell, the more it makes him want to weep. It’s deeply fucking unsettling, as is his realization that he’s walking past his apartment--wait, what?--and dropping his backpack and putting his fist into the other alpha’s front door.

It opens.

“Can I help you?” the guy says.

He’s taller than Keith grokked before, dressed in soft-looking jeans and a gray henley the same color as a big shock of his hair. His eyes are dark, narrowed, like the light in the hallway’s a shock. And he's also unspeakably pretty, the kind of handsome that makes people stop in the street. Damn. How the hell had Keith missed that?

“I--” Keith gets out. “I was gonna ask you that.”

“Me? Why?”

“Um, you, ah”--god, does he really not know? What’s a nice way to say the whole building stinks of your sadness?--“you smell like something’s not right.”

Neighbor guy blinks. Not once, but twice. Manages to look genuinely confused. “I do?”

“Yeah. Big time. Everybody’s noticed.”

Ok, maybe not the best thing to say to the guy, if the blanch and sharp gasp are any indication. “Everybody’s--what?”

“Can I come in?” Keith blurts out. “I mean, I’m not trying to be weird, but it would be easier to like talk about this someplace other than the middle of the hall, you know?”

Another blink and the guy steps aside, gestures, and Keith steps inside.

“You’re an alpha,” neighbor guy says. It’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

The corners of the guy’s mouth turn up. “I thought I was the only one in the building.”

“What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. It’s something I’m always curious about, that’s all. About how many of us there are left.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Shiro.”

“Keith.”

Their palms touch, then their fingers; Shiro’s grip is warm and strong. “Nice to meet you, Keith.”

“What’s wrong?” The words shoot out before Keith can stop them, before Shiro can let go of his hand. “Why are you so upset?”

Shiro lets go of his hand. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

“It’s not, except that you’ve made it impossible for everyone in the building to ignore.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Not bad, exactly. Just strong. You don’t have to be an alpha to smell it.”

Shiro’s face flushes, a tinge of pink that highlights the horizoned scar on the bridge of his nose. “Well. That’s humiliating.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”

“No, no. Of course you weren’t. It’s just--” A rueful smile. “I’m not one to broadcast my problems. Guess my body had other ideas.”

“Is there anything I can do?” God, Keith thinks, startled by the sound of his own voice, where the fuck is this coming from? “Ah, somebody I can call for you, maybe? A friend, or--?”

“No.” There’s an unmistakable well of grief in that no, in the shake of Shiro’s head. It makes Keith want to grab his hand again, clutch it tight between his fingers. “Which is maybe the problem, I guess.”

“Huh?”

Shiro studies him. “Are you sure you want to hear this, guy I met five minutes ago?”

“If you need to say it then yes, I do.”

A beat, full and quiet. Then: “Let’s go sit down.”

“I’m fine here."

Shiro laughs, wan and shaky. “Yes, but I’m not. Come on. The living room's through here."

Shiro’s place is quiet and tasteful, with white, open walls and lots of light. The furniture is simple, almost streamlined, and if it weren’t for the orange cat asleep in the armchair and a blanket bundled onto the couch, it’d be hard to believe that anyone actually lives here. It’s the antithesis of how he and Hunk live; not like slobs, exactly, but like busy people whose stuff is everywhere, whose books and dinner plates and empty glasses end up tangled on the coffee table with Xbox controllers and extra pens and the junk mail that Hunk isn’t ready to throw away. Keith doesn’t think their apartment has ever looked this clean, this austere--even on the day they moved in.

“You’re, ah,” he says, trying not to making his goggling obvious. “This is a nice place.”

“Thank you. Here, please. Sit.”

The couch is khaki-colored and freaking immaculate. He sits gingerly, watches Shiro fold himself on the other end and curl up in the blanket.

“Sorry,” Shiro says, a little pink in his cheeks. “I’m always cold.”

“No, it’s--it’s your house. You don’t have to apologize. I mean, you should see what Hunk does.”

“Hunk?”

“He’s my roommate,” Keith says. “Nice guy, great cook. Prone to bunny slippers and this big, fluffy robe like the second he gets home from class. He likes to be comfortable, he says. I think he’s worn pajamas to school more than once this week. Has this pair of Doctor Who sweatpants that he--” He stops, stumbles over his own tongue. “Shit, I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry.”

Shiro’s smile is small and kind. “No, you’re not. He sounds like an interesting guy.”

“We’ve been best friends since high school. He’s, ah, he’s one of few people I’ve ever met who can see through my bullshit, you know? Who’s not afraid to call me on it. Who's really good at calling me on it, actually."

“And you appreciate that, I’m guessing?”

Keith laughs, a nervous exhale of breath. “God, yes. It’s easy for me to get tangled up inside my own head and Hunk, he never lets me stay there too long.”

“That’s good,” Shiro says. “Everybody needs someone like that.”

Something about the way that he says it kicks Keith back to reality, back to the reason he knocked on Shiro’s door in the first place, the reason he’s sitting on the guy’s couch at all. “But what about you? You said there’s nobody you can call to, um--to help?”

“No. There isn’t.” Shiro sighs. “There used to be. He used to live here, actually.”

“Oh,” Keith says. “Did you guys break up?”

“No. He died.”

“He--?”

“Died, a little less than a year ago. Got hit by a car on the way home from work. Crushed him and his bike. There wasn’t anything they could do. Died before the ambulance got there.”

“Fuck, Shiro.”

Shiro’s eyes are soft and sad. “Yeah. We’d been together five years, all through grad school, and it was--it took me a long time to really understand that he was gone.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t--I can’t even imagine what that must be like.”

Shiro pulls the blanket tighter and looks away, sends his eyes towards the windows. “You know what the funny thing is, Keith? Most days, I can't either."

“But--” Keith chews on the words, tries to find some diplomacy. “But if that happened a while ago, why are you--? I mean, how come you’re only, uh, experiencing this now?”

“You mean, why do I smell so goddamn sad?”

“Um. Yeah.”

Shiro’s face is still turned away but Keith can see the color in them, the blush becoming a blaze. “Because it’s my time. The first one since Adam died.”

“You’re in heat?”

“Yes.”

Keith nearly falls off the couch. “But you--you can’t be! You don’t smell at all like you’re--”

“I know!” Shiro barks, so loud the cat startles. He turns to Keith with wide, frightened eyes. “I know I don’t smell right! I don’t feel right, either. That’s what I’m trying to tell you: something’s wrong with me.”

“What?”

“It feels like--it feels like everything in me’s been dampened, you know? Like I’m being smothered from the inside out, like my heat is--” He stops, his mouth working around words that won’t quite form. “I don’t know how it is for you, but my heat’s always made me feel like I’ve swallowed a forest fire. As if there are flames inside me trying to eat their way out. Does that make sense?”

Keith nods. For him, it’s always felt like lava, like his body is doing all it can to pull him into a volcano bit by burning bit. “It does.”

“Well, now I feel like I’m trapped in a room full of smoke. I know there’s a fire somewhere off in the distance, I can feel it, but all I can do is choke on these great, awful gray clouds of smoke and dead ash. It’s been almost a week, Keith, and I can’t find the goddamn flames.”

“Did you see a doctor?”

Shiro shakes his head, gray waves tumbling over his eyes. “No,” he says, adamant, “no way. A doctor can’t fix this. Nobody can.”

“What? Come on, Shiro. That’s crap. You said yourself you don’t know what this is, why you’re feeling this way. Why you’ve felt this way for a whole fucking week.” There’s a blur of fury in his head, a strong desire to grab this guy by the shoulders and shake him. “You’ve gotta let somebody help you, or at least see if they can.”

“Adam’s dead.” Shiro’s voice is a dull knife. “Nobody can change that.”

The words pound out before Keith can stop them. “You’re not the first person ever who’s lost their mate. You get that, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said. Other people have been through this, they must have. Somebody’s gotta know what to do.”

Shiro makes a low noise in his throat. “Don’t. It’s not that simple.”

“Maybe it is! Maybe if you stopped moping around here, stopped wallowing in your self-appointed martyrdom or whatever, and asked somebody for help, you might be able to feel better!”

“I asked you to come in, didn’t I?!”

The air in the whole place goes still, still like it’s frozen, still like the room’s turned to stone. They stare at each other. Stare, until the hair on Keith’s neck is up and standing, until Shiro’s face falls out of fierce and into embarrassment.

“Oh my god,” Shiro says, strained. He's as white as the walls. “I didn’t mean that. Not like that sounded.”

“It’s ok.”

“No, please don’t do that. It’s not. It’s the opposite of ok, it’s--”

There’s a storm in Keith’s head, a roar of rain and uncomfortable thunder, and it’s only when he stands up, stumbles, that he realizes how close they’d gotten, how far across the couch he’d somehow slid without even knowing; his knees are brushing Shiro’s blanket. “It’s fine,” he spits out. “I mean, I’m fine. I know you didn’t mean, ah, but I need to--I’ve gotta go.”

“Of course,” Shiro says. Keith watches him swallow, watches him try in vain to look calm again, cool. “Of course. Are you ok to--?”

“I can find the door,” Keith says, far too loud, his voice ringing in his own burning ears. “No problem.”

He ducks out in a rush, pretends he doesn’t hear Shiro calling Nice to meet you. Pretends he doesn’t want to turn back and call: You, too .

What the hell, his brain says as he books it back across the hall, grabs his bag and keys in as fast he fucking can. What the hell was that?

It stays in a loop all afternoon and long into the night: What the hell. What the hell .

“Dude,” Hunk says during a rerun of Chopped: omelets without eggs. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m good.”

“Really? Because that’s the second beer you’ve knocked over in ten minutes and we’re not made of money here, bub.”

“Sorry,” Keith says, scrambling, tipping his can back towards the vertical. “My bad.”

He can feel Hunk’s side eye. “Mmmhmm. You wanna talk about it?”

“What?”

“Whatever it is that’s not wrong.”

“Seriously, man. I’m fine. Just tired or something.”

“Or something.”

“Hunk.”

Hunk holds up his hands. “Hey, man,” he says. “Sure. You’re fine. Of course you are. Look at you over there, being so ok.”

He gets the can to his lips and manages a long, bitter gulp. “Right.”

He begs off after the third episode and goes to bed early, lies in the dark begging his head to turn off. It doesn’t.

Shiro’s face drifts behind his eyelids, drawn and pale and sad until suddenly it wasn’t, until his head had snapped around and he’d said:

I asked you to come in, didn’t I?!

But he hadn’t meant it, had he. That’d been the sadness talking, the frustration, the grief. Shiro had painted himself into some sort of weird corner and Keith--someone he didn’t know, had never said two words to before--had been the first to call him on it, that’s all. Keith had been the first to offer any help (or the first that Shiro had listened to? Who knew) and that was all it was, what Shiro had said: an acknowledgement of how hard it’d been to take that first step, to make that first small gesture towards hope.

He hadn’t meant--he didn’t want Keith. He didn’t know Keith and Keith sure as hell didn’t know him. Didn’t want him. Wasn’t lying in bed thinking about him, this incredibly attractive man who lived across the hall; his neighbor, practically a stranger, who moved with a careful sort of grace, who was always cold, who was probably in his own bed right now under a whole stack of blankets, shivering, shivering, swimming in smoke and dying for the fire to break.

Keith can't imagine what that would feel like, having his heat right there, seemingly at the ready, but always just out of his reach. He doesn't crave his heats, like some, didn’t spend a whole year dreaming of the day he’d wake up and know nothing but hunger, want nothing more than the hands of another alpha, a long, soothing tongue, big hands to hold him down or hold him up and give to him willingly, take. No, he doesn't crave heat but he can't imagine what it would be like to feel only its edges, to have the worst of the flames dance and flicker out of his hold. He thinks of Shiro’s face; imagines it contorted by the fear that his grief would never end, that he would pass each and every day stuck body and soul in the past, all that he was waiting for a key in the lock, the sound of a footstep, a scent that had passed from this world never to be seen again.

He tucks his face deep into his pillow and lets the tears fall from his face. All he’d done, he realizes, shivering under thin, cold sheets, was to make everything that much worse.

Oh, Shiro, he thought. You poor, sad bastard. Are you sorry that you let me in?

He dreams of not breathing, he dreams of Shiro’s eyes, he dreams of a weight that settles on his chest, an anvil; when he touches it, tries his best to push it away, it feeds him handfuls of petals, white and gray and cool, that smooth their way over his body, drift down to touch every inch of his flesh.

They’re so heavy, he says.

Yes, someone says in his ear. A burden. But they’re beautiful, too, aren't they?

Yes, he echoes, turning his face towards the voice as petals drift blind over his eyes. Yes.

*****

When he wakes up, it’s too early, six fucking thirty, and his bed is a mess. The sheets are twisted around his legs and both pillows are on the other side of the room. He’s sweating. His head hurts like a motherfucker. He feels sick.

He stumbles to the bathroom and tugs off his boxers and it’s only when he’s in the shower, standing under scalding water that’s colder than his skin that his addled head gets its shit together and tells him what he should already know, what his body can already feel:

“Oh, fuck,” he says to the soap, to Hunk’s rubber duck. “I’m in heat.”

“But you can’t be!” Hunk says, his eyes wide with alarm. “You just were, like, three months ago!”

Keith nods and pulls open the fridge. It feels like he’s moving in slow motion. “I know, dude. I know.”

Hunk reaches past him and snags a Gatorade, pushes it into Keith’s hands. “Is that--is that a thing that can happen? I feel like you would’ve told me if it was. I mean, I’m sure Pidge’ll let me stay at her place, that’s cool, I don’t mind a last-minute relocation, but come on, Keith: an extra bonus heat you had no idea was coming? That seems bad.”

“It’s not good.”

“Right. Exactly. Right.” Hunk’s hands fly around, nervous energy with no place to go. “So what do we do?”

Keith laughs, a high sound that’s more like a howl, and it must be freaky because Hunk legit takes two big steps away. “Honestly? I have no fucking clue.”

#sheith #a/b/o dynamics #college au #hurt/comfort

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wiggly-blue-shite · 5 years

Text

Chapter 26 From the Top!

(Prof H X Ted)

Ted hasn't left his bed in 24 hours. Paul came by earlier and threw food at him. Why did Ted give him an apartment key?

He's glad he ate though. He hadn't realized how hungry he was.

Henry would be disgusted by Ted right now. Ted got out of bed to shower. He looked at himself in the mirror. Yikes.

Ted just sat under the water for most of the shower. He got out of the shower and put some clothes on. He felt better. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked at least presentable.

He really missed Henry. It's boring without him. He missed the way Henry talked, and looked, and sang, and smiled.

Ted put on his playlist. The first notes of the song started playing. Ted nearly broke out into tears.

"How 'bout a dance

What do you say

I've got some moves

That I'd love to show ya" Ted wanted to sing but he couldn't. He didn't want to change the song either. He really loved Henry. God.

"How 'bout a dance

It's always fun

Come over here

Let me get to know ya

Can't beat a band

To lift your spirits high

You look so handsome," he wanted to kiss Henry again. Not even that just to see him again. To talk to him again. He's not going to cry though. Henry wouldn't want him to cry.

"How 'bout a dance

Let's make a start

Music like this

Can really throw ya

You'll lose the blues

And you may lose your heart," Ted wanted to call him. He shouldn't do that. That's a bad idea. But god did he miss Henry.

"Tonight is the night I've been waiting for

Even the moon looks just right

I'm sure the crowd will make room on the floor

When they see you

Look like you do." Ted's glad that he started to listen to show tunes. It just makes him happy.

"So...

How 'bou-" Ted's phone started ringing, cutting off the song that was playing.

It's Henry. Henry's calling him. Ted thought Henry would not call him. Ted didn't know what to expect. Ted almost didn't pick up, but he wanted to hear Henry's voice.

"Ted, I am afraid something might be wrong." Something wrong? What does that mean? Is Henry in trouble? Oh god.

"What?" Ted didn't know what to say. If Henry was in trouble what could Ted do to help him?

"I think there are still infected in hatchetfield and I fear the implications." Infected? What? No the infected are all killed off.

"Ok." Ted just went along with what Henry was saying. He's so much smarter than Ted. He must know something Ted doesn't.

"Can I come over to talk about it? I need to talk to someone. The phone is very limiting." Henry was not wrong. It's really hard to understand what he was saying. But Ted's apartment is a fucking mess.

"Yeah of course." Ted knew that this was going to be a very very serious conversation but just to see Henry.

"I'm on my way over now." Henry hung up. The song came back on.

"-out a dance

Let's make a start

Music like this

Can really throw ya

You'll lose the blues

And you may lose your heart

You'll lose the blues

And you may lose...

Your heart..." the song ended and Ted turned off the playlist.

How long did Ted have before Henry got here? Maybe 30 minutes if the trains are backed up. Ok he needed to clean this fucking place quickly.

Ted looked at himself in he mirror. This might be presentable for the supermarket but Ted can't look like this when Henry arrives. Ted scrambled for hair gel and deodorant.

Ted waited patiently at the door. His apartment was as clean as it was going to get and Ted looked as good as he could. Henry would get here any minute.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Ahhhh ok. Ted opened the door. Henry was standing awkwardly on the other side of the door frame.

He looked as good as ever. Except he also looked really worried which made Ted worried.

"Hi." Ted smiled to make him feel better

"Hello Ted." Henry smiled back. Ted's heart skipped a beat. He loved looking at Henry's smile. He could stare at it for forever.

Wait the infected.

"You were saying something about the infected." Ted was super happy to see Henry even after what happened, but he there's something going on. Henry came here to tell Ted something extremely important. Henry walked into the apartment.

"I was watching the news this morning and they mentioned the hatchetfield catastrophe." Henry stayed standing. Ted expected him to sit down next to him but he did not.

Ted stopped watching the news because of all the reports on "the hatchetfield incident". It's all utter bullshit.

"They mentioned that people have seen movement on the island from the beach. That's of course to be expected if PEIP is doing there job." Henry started pacing. Ted really fucking hated PEIP for making them stay quiet and lying to the families of the fucking DEAD PEOPLE.

"They also mentioned that they could hear music coming from the island." Henry kept talking. WAIT FUCKING MUSIC. Does that mean there are still infected people. WHAT THE FUCK IS PEIP FUCKING DOING.

"Fuck." Ted looked off. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

"Precisely! Now it's not impossible that PEIP has not eliminated the remaining infected. Now that brings up the question of how could anyone hear their singing from miles off on a boat." Henry was a little difficult to follow but Ted understood what he was saying.

"So there's got to be a bunch of them." Ted felt a little stupid trying to keep up with Henry.

"To be loud enough to hear from such a distance." Henry nodded. It didn't feel like Henry was patronizing Ted, that's nice.

"But PEIP's been There for four months how are there still that many infected?" Ted couldn't understand how fucking incompetent PEIP would have to be. Like those dumb fucks.

"My thoughts exactly!" Henry stopped pacing. Ted knew it was a bad time to think like this but he really loved how smart Henry was.

"What does that mean?" Ted knew understood there were still infected alive but he just understand why or how.

"I don't quite know yet. I fear that perhaps the infected have gotten to PEIP officials. If this is true, there is no telling what the hive mind could do with that power. I have failed to fully understand the infected on my first encounter. I do not wish to encounter them again." Fuck. If the infected got a hold in PEIP they could get off the island. Holy shit. Ted's not ready for that.

"We need to tell Paul and Emma. We can think of somewhere to go from there." Ted could not fucking do that shit again. With Emma and paul maybe they could think of something they can do.

"Emma's shift ends in around an hour." Henry nodded.

"Paul doesn't have work today." Ted only knew that paul wanted Ted to spend the day with paul. Just to get him out of the house.

"Paul and Emma are going to be less logical about this." Henry was right Paul's going to freak out. Ted's pretty sure that paul was hit the hardest by the incident.

"Yeah. They need to know though." Ted's not going to be able to get through whatever is happening without support from Paul.

Henry put his has on Ted's shoulder. Henry kissed him so quickly he wasn't able to kiss back. God he loved Henry.

"I'm in love with you, Theodore." Ted almost started crying at that, "I just need you to know that in case what I am fearing is a reality."

Ted pulled Henry into a hug. The world can't end with someone like Henry living on earth.

"I'm scared too. But we might be wrong." Ted wanted to stay optimistic. He was so scared. The world can't end. It can't.

Ted kissed Henry. He just wanted to spend time with Henry in a world that's not ending. He's so fucking in love with Henry. Ted knew if he cried Henry would be worried so he sucked it up.

Ted and Henry left the apartment to tell paul and Emma.

#starkid #tgwdlm #tedgens #from the top!#fanfic

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wordsandshawn · 6 years

Text

Before Now - chapter 6

All Previous Chapters

March 2018

“Skylar. Skylar. SKYLAR.”

“What?” I finally snap out of it enough to realize my roommate Kristen is trying to get my attention.

“How did you do on the Bio exam?”

“Huh?”

“The Bio exam. We got our grades back today.” She gives me a skeptical look, “You did go to class, right?”

We have the same professor and we’re taking the same bio class, but we’re in different sections. We weren’t able to fit the same class time into both of our schedules, so the second-best thing is having the same prof because then at least we’re learning the same things and we can study together, we just go to different lectures.

I fight back a yawn. “I skipped today.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t feel like going.” I respond, and she raises her eyebrows at me. She’s known me for almost two years now, and she’s lived with me that same amount of time. I’ve never been a bad student. I’m too much of an overachiever and honestly just a nerd who likes learning too much. “Have you gone to any of your classes this week?” She questions now, and I feel like she’s judging me.

“It’s only Tuesday.” I retort feeling defensive, and already wanting to back out of this conversation.

She seems to notice, and the judgement falls from her face. “I’m worried about you.” She says quietly.

“It’s not a big deal.” I brush her off, “I’m an art major.”

“That’s what you said two weeks ago when you skipped like three days of classes.”

“They were mostly GE. Just like Bio today. I want to be a photographer. I don’t need biology.”

“You do if you want to graduate.” She retorts.

I just shrug because she’s right, but I don’t want to admit it. I don’t understand why I’m being forced to take classes that I’m never going to need in my actual career. I thought the whole point of university is to help me in my future career. Biology and history aren’t going to help me become a better photographer.

I roll my eyes. Because I don’t have a better response, I simply say, “Kris, you’re not my mom.”

“You won’t even talk to your mom.” She fires back.

“Seriously, this is why I’m never here anymore. I don’t need to be interrogated.”

That seems to get her to realize what she’s doing, and she falls silent for a second before saying, “Okay, I’ll stop.” She pauses, then her voice drops to barely above a whisper, “Just stay here tonight, okay?”

“Why?” I’ve been spending most of my nights with Greg lately.

“I just miss having you around.” She responds, and I give her a funny look, but let it go.

I stay the night at the apartment.

As much as I don’t want to say it, it is nice being away from Greg for a little bit. Lately, I’ve been spending all of my free time with him, and I hate to say it, but sometimes being with him leaves me feeling worse instead of better.

I forgot how nice it was to just be with my roommates, to just be a University student for a little while.

The next morning, I walk out to the living room to see all three of my roommates there. They’re all staring at each other, but no one is talking. I notice some music coming from someone’s phone on the floor and realize that is what they’re all focused on. It only takes a few seconds for me to recognize that voice although I don’t think I’ve heard the song before.

“What’s going on?” I question cautiously emerging from the doorway.

“Shawn freakin’ Mendes dropped a song out of nowhere.” My roommate Becca says. “No warning, nothing!” She’s motioning with her hands in some sort of frantic way that lets me know this morning has been very emotional for all of them, and I should proceed with caution.

I must look confused because Kristen cuts in, obviously feeling the need to educate me on Shawn. “He’s working on his new album, and he hasn’t even given a release date for it. But this morning, he just released this out of the blue and everyone is freaking out.”

“Why is everyone freaking out?” I ask, still thoroughly confused as to how Shawn can have such an influence. For a second, I wonder if he knows what he does to these girls.

“Because of the tweet he tweeted when he released it. Everyone thinks that there’s a real story behind it and they want to know who the girl he wrote this about is.”

I know I told Shawn to leave me alone and stay out of my life and this is probably just him moving on, but my interest is still peaked. I open up my phone to go on twitter, quickly searching Shawn’s name. When his twitter comes up, his pinned tweet says:

Just had to release this song because I couldn’t wait any longer. You deserve the very best, and I hope you realize it soon. This one’s for you. shawnmendes.lnk.to/TreatYouBetter.

“What’s the song about?” I ask, glancing at my roommates before typing in the title to find out for myself.

“Everyone’s saying it’s a fuckboy song, but I think it’s kinda sweet.” Becca says, although that doesn’t really answer my question at all.

“It’s a fuckboy song,” Alex responds confidently.

“He tweeted a domestic abuse hotline literally right after the tweet about the song. I think that makes it not a fuckboy song.” Kristen, always the logical one, replies.

I’m only half listening to their conversation because now I’m reading the lyrics for myself, deciding for myself whether or not this is a fuckboy song.

“It’s sweet, he’s basically saying she deserves the best and her boyfriend isn’t treating her right.” Becca defends her point.

I stare at the lyrics and listen to Shawn’s voice since the song is still playing on repeat. I don’t mean to be self-centered, but I can’t help but feel like the songs for me.

My mind immediately flashes back to the last time I saw Shawn, in the bar. I can’t forget the look on his face, and now with this song, the way that he told me I didn’t have to leave with Greg. Almost like he was begging me not to leave. Maybe this song is for someone else. Maybe Shawn makes it a habit to find girls in bars with drunk boyfriends. I don’t know. He stepped in for me when he didn’t know it was me. He’d do that for anyone is guess. His mom raised him right, I always knew I loved Karen.

“Earth to Skylar!” I’m immediately brought back to real life because Becca is practically shaking me, a hand on each of my shoulders. “Are you okay?” She questions when I make eye contact with her.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I respond, shaking my head a little trying to refocus on real life.

“The song is just that good.” Alex jokingly says. “Are you finally going to admit that you love him too?” She questions, and I only wonder how I ended up living with three girls who love Shawn so much. It’s honestly some cruel twist of fate after everything that’s happened.

“I’m going back to bed,” I say, regretting ever getting out of bed in the first place.

When I’m alone in the room, I can’t resist pulling out my headphones and plugging them in before opening up my Spotify app and searching Shawn’s new song. I listen to it through three times before I find myself scrolling through my contacts and hovering my finger over the contact, Peter (Bio151).

I remember when we were little kids Karen would always call him Shawn Peter! whenever Shawn would get into trouble, never Shawn Mendes or both his middle names. And I always would make fun of him for it, sometimes I’d call him the same thing when he teased me too much or made me angry. I added the Bio151 just in case Greg asked any questions, just to be safe.

I want to call him, but I don’t let myself. I don’t know what I’d tell him if I did. Whatever we were, whatever we had, it’s over. This last year has changed me. I’m not the same kid I was growing up, and I’m not even the same girl I was when Shawn and I dated. Judging from his success even just over this past year, there’s no way he’s the same person either. I literally think myself to sleep again.

It’s been a month now since Shawn released Treat You Better and I keep hearing it on the radio. I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of me. I wonder if he thinks I’m weak, or dumb for staying with Greg, but Shawn hasn’t been here over the last year and some months. He didn’t see how Greg was there for me when I needed him most. He doesn’t know how sweet he can be, how much he loves me. Shawn only saw a tiny snippet of our relationship, a moment where Greg was drunk, and I was already irritated.

My relationship with Greg is complicated and hard to understand. I know that Greg is not making the best choices right now, and sometimes he doesn’t treat me right. I know that, and I see that. But I still cling to the ideas of the love he used to give me. The love he still gives me, even though it’s becoming less frequent. Other people just don’t know him like I do, but he also has an effect on me that I can’t quite describe.

Sleep comes so much easier than being awake lately. I want to cry all the time. I can only take so much of listening to him tell me horrible things in the name of love. I want to leave, but I’m scared. I want to tell someone, but I’m scared. I never used to be this way, this weak. I feel trapped.

Greg used to be my safety. He loved me when I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. He showed me love when I missed home and missed my family and felt like my heart had been broken by the one person I finally let my guard down enough to care about. He loved me when Shawn couldn’t and I needed someone to.

But he’s not safe anymore, and I’m not sure what safety feels like. Is safety Greg looking through my messages? Is safety biting my lip to not say something that will make him angry? Is safety doing what he wants even when it’s not what I want because it’s easier for me to be unhappy than it is to deal with him not getting his way?

I want to talk to someone. I need to talk to someone, but I don’t think anyone will understand. Kristen never liked Greg, and I haven’t talked to my family in over a month. I remember Shawn’s song, and I remember the last text he sent me. I don’t let myself think enough to convince myself out of calling.

“Hello?” He answers. There’s a steady chatter of background noise, and I almost hang up the phone because he sounds busy, but he says, “Skylar? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” I respond in a small voice.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” It’s almost strange to me that that’s his first response, but in a way, it is also comforting. He cares. And maybe he knows more than I gave him credit for, maybe he understands more than I predicted.

“No,” I respond, “Well not really. I’m fine. I don’t know why I called actually it's stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Woah wait, hold on.” He says in a rush, sounding like he’s afraid I’ll hang up and disappear again. “I’m glad you called. You don’t have to apologize.” The background noise immediately disappears, and all I hear is his voice on the other end of the phone. “I told you that you could call me anytime, and I meant it. I still mean it.” He says, and somehow his voice soothes me. I don’t know how to feel about it. It’s been so long since anyone had a calming effect like this on me.

“I don’t know what to do.” It comes out as more of a whisper than I anticipated, and I’m surprised he heard it.

“Talk to me.” He says in that smooth confident voice of his.

“I can’t, you won’t understand,” I say, remembering the way that his life and mine turned out so differently. It doesn’t matter that we came from the same place. It wasn’t enough last time, it won’t be enough this time.

A beat of silence passes. “Have you heard my new song?” He questions, and it would have sounded cocky if I didn’t know the message behind it. Did you get the message I sent? is what he really meant.

“I’ve heard it.”

“I wrote it for you, Ky.” He says, using that old nickname and making me wonder what he thinks. Somewhere in my heart, I know that he’s probably right, but I can’t help but defend Greg.

“I love him, Shawn.” I practically whisper.

There’s a silence on the other end, and finally, he says, “I know you do.” Almost with a sigh. And I don’t know what to say next or what to do. I had always wondered if the song was for me, or if it was for an imaginary girl or someone else he’d met. But he clarified that for me just now. He doesn’t tell me what he thinks, and I don’t ask.

The conversation is over and we both know it. I don’t know what I wanted from him, and he doesn’t know where to go next. “Maybe in another world, we could have been together.” I remark, more to myself than to him. “I’m sorry I called.”

He starts to say something, but I’m only half listening. We talk for a bit, but only long enough for me to end the conversation properly.

I carry the comfort of Shawn’s concern with me. It helps me through the next week, but then Greg’s mad again, and I want to feel safe. This starts a series of phone calls to Shawn, all of which follow somewhat the same pattern, neither of us knowing the point of them, really. Shawn tries to convince me to leave. He wants to know if Greg hurts me. He wants to save me, but I don’t need saving. I just need someone on the other end of the phone to tell me my world is not ending on the nights where it feels like it is.

I call him when I need to hear his voice to remind me I’m okay, even when I’m not. I’m not cheating on Greg even though I’m almost certain he’s cheating on me. I’m still here for the scraps of love he’s willing to throw my way because I’m not ready to walk away.

I love him. I can’t control who I love. Greg has his bad moments, but he can also be really sweet. He cares about me. I know he does. Sometimes he just doesn’t show it the way others do, but I understand. I’m the only one who understands him, and no one else understands me like he does.

chapter 7

#Shawn Mendes #Shawn Mendes fanfic #Shawn Peter Raul Mendes #Shawn Mendes imagine #Shawn Mendes series #Before Now

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ezra-blue · 5 years

Text

Worst Version - Moonrise over Suburbia

I started writing a fic for Saiyuki AU August, and then I started hating it. So I gave up and wrote a 393 instead. Here’s the first twelve pages of a 353 fake dating AU, unedited.

Moonrise Over Suburbia

It was too damn early. That was what Gojyo hated most about the long hauls; crossing time zones there and back fucked him up something fierce. It was ass-o'fucking-clock, a little past four AM, but his brain said it was seven and time for the morning piss and the first cigarette of the day before he was supposed to be getting back into the cab of his eighteen-wheeler and setting off towards the rising sun. Still, being willing to make the drive from Maine to Oregon, Portland to Portland, kept money in his pockets, kept the lights on and kept the landlord off his ass. Steady pay, not bored during the day, the occasional pretty young thing from the bars that dotted the highway to keep him busy at nights? Pretty ideal, really. He and his best friend-slash-hetero-life-mate had managed on his UPS job and his friend's adjunct professor's salary for this long, so he had nothing to complain about that way.

Really, the only thing he had to worry about tonight was where his next meal was coming from, since Hakkai wasn't home and Gojyo was the kind of chef who could burn stove-top ramen. He didn't even want to think about how terrible he'd be at cooking on two hours of sleep.

Even so, as much as it sucked to be up way earlier than he had to be on his day off, there was something kinda surreal and dreamy about being out on his balcony and watching the pre-dawn August sky, those pale blues and pinks and that hint of orange. It was quiet, damn quiet, not a car on the road and only the rare jogger or dog-walker breaking the abandoned streets of the suburbs at the foot of his apartment building; the neighborhood felt unreal without anyone in it, but it wasn't a bad kind of unreal. The moon was setting in the distance, in the space between the houses and mid-rises across the street, her swollen face, waxing, pale against the misty sky and half-faded, as if she'd never been there at all. Gojyo lit his cigarette against the mirage of the moon and sucked down the first rush of nicotine, easing the crave and relaxing into the way-too-damn-early serenity of a world that hadn't woken up yet.

Life was good.

Then, the door to the neighboring balcony slid open, and Gojyo felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, readying himself like a referee at the edge of a boxing ring had picked up the hammer next to the bell. Gojyo's neighbor stepped outside with a sigh already on his lips, languid eyes and heavy gaze running over Gojyo in his singlet and boxer shorts as he, already dressed for the day, took his Marlboros from his back pocket.

“You're up early.” He held his smoke out. “Give me a light.”

“What, your lighter out again?” Gojyo held out his Zippo and flicked the wheel. “You think you'd've remembered to keep spares on hand by now, old man.”

He sneered, and if he didn't do that so much, Gojyo thought, he might've been good-looking, but instead Gojyo just found himself having a lot of trouble liking him. “Fuck off, I've been buried under work for the past week while you were fuck-knows-where, running through every damn disposable I had.”

Sanzo was kind of weird like that. He smoked like a car factory, but he insisted on disposable lighters. He claimed to be a Buddhist and meditated in the laundry room (though Gojyo was this side of sure he was just napping), but he was anything but peaceful, swearing at anyone who got on his nerves and cussing out his roommate through the walls. He kept weirder hours than Gojyo, because Gojyo couldn't name a single hour he hadn't heard the guy awake through the walls, though Gojyo, with his broken sleep schedule, had no room to criticize. He was also basically kind of an asshole to everyone for no obvious reason. Gojyo couldn't hate him – even had a grudging respect for someone who lived the way he wanted and unapologetically gave zero fucks – but he made himself hard to like.

“Get a fucking Zippo and a jumbo bottle of lighter fluid, you'll damn near never run out.” Gojyo waited for Sanzo to touch his cigarette to the flame and catch, then tucked it away and returned his attention to his own cigarette as the embers smoldered against his fingers. Sanzo grunted noncommittally.

“Whatever. It'd be less of a pain than talking to you every time I run out, anyway.” Sanzo leaned over the railing of his balcony as he took a drag, looking tired and a little tragic as his focus turned to the sky and the setting moon. “Hell of a time to be up.”

“I just got done with a gig driving all the way East along the Canadian border and back. Five days out of the right time zone kinda fucks a guy up, y'know?”

“You do it to yourself.” Sanzo sneered a bit. “Just turn your alarm off and roll over.”

“Can't do that, princess.” Gojyo wagged his cigarette between his fingers. “Even if the old alarm didn't ring, the internal 'cig time' clock runs smoother than a fake titty in a compression tank top.”

Sanzo gave him a sickly glower. “Every time you make a metaphor like that, I doubt further you've ever seen a breast, let alone touched one.” He snorted and dragged deep on his cigarette, pulling the flame down to the filter fast. Gojyo admired that lung capacity for a second, until Sanzo coughed deep and hard.

“Jeez, you're in a mood this morning. That time of the month already?” Gojyo stubbed the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray Hakkai had put out next to his potted plants (in an effort to keep Gojyo from flicking his butts into the plants, of course), as Sanzo scoffed again, then rubbed at the deep bags under his eyes.

“Fuck you.” He groaned and shook his head, rubbing his fingers against his temples. “Just... I fucking hate summer.”

“The heat get you down?” Gojyo leaned his back against the railing, watching as Sanzo seemed to slump further. He definitely seemed a little more worn-out than usual. “Work a bitch this time of year?” Gojyo wasn't sure what Sanzo did – his roommate, a friendly college student that Gojyo palled around with when he wasn't buried under homework, had mentioned something about stock trading – but he seemed to hate it. Then again, Sanzo seemed to hate damn near everything.

“The fuck do you care for?” The smoke billowing off Sanzo's teeth seemed to come a little fiercer. Gojyo just shrugged.

“I dunno, I can usually hear you bitching through the walls when you're in a shit mood, so maybe I don't need your bleep-box nightmare mouth waking me up when I'm trying to catch up on my Z's. So, spill, maybe wise ol' Gojyo can help.” He turned, wagging an eyebrow at Sanzo with just a little bit of a lascivious grin. Sanzo scoffed again, but then he was quiet, that kind of quiet that said he was thinking. Then, he muttered:

“Is your roommate home? I haven't seen him.”

Gojyo rolled his eyes. “Check your calendar, dipshit. It's the end of August, Professor Hakkai's in the pre-semester crunch doing syllabuses and making up assignments. He left a note to apologize for the empty fridge, so he's probably been living in the teacher's lounge at the university since after I left.”

“Shit.” Sanzo threw his cigarette down and scrubbed his hand down his face. Gojyo raised an eyebrow and tucked his cigarette between his lips as he crossed his arms.

“Okay, what the fuck is up?”

Sanzo grimaced, then slid his fingers open to make a gap over his face and eye contact with Gojyo. “I need a date.”

Gojyo damn near swallowed his cigarette. “What?”

“I. Need. A. Date. You heard me.” Sanzo made a face as he pivoted to face Gojyo. “It's... look, do you have any family?”

Gojyo pulled a face at this. “None worth talking about.”

“Most of the time, me neither. My old man travels the damn world most of the year, but he comes back home for a little bit in the summer, and he always wants to see me when he's home.” Sanzo huffed in disgust. “Even when he's globetrotting, he calls me from wherever the fuck he is, forgetting that time zones are a fucking thing--” Gojyo snorted at the irony, but Sanzo missed it-- “And pisses me off whining about wondering how I'm doing. I decided to get him off my ass by telling him I'd gotten a boyfriend.” Sanzo didn't even give Gojyo a chance to question him, ranting right on, “That way, I could mute my phone and if he asked why I didn't pick up, I could tell him I'd been busy with my boyfriend and he'd be happy for me and maybe fucking call less.”

Gojyo managed to push his jaw shut. “Wait, you're gay?”

“No.” Sanzo glared at Gojyo. “And even if I were, why do you care?”

“Curious, dude. I mean, it's not my thing, but I say live and let live. So, you're not gay but you told your old man--

“If I had to date someone,” Sanzo interrupted, emphasizing the 'if' like it had a two ton weight swinging behind it, “I'd prefer a man. Women annoy me more.”

“Got it.” Gojyo shrugged again. “So, I'm guessing that lie's made its way back around the world to bite you in the ass.”

Sanzo grunted and pinched his temples again. “My dad has invited me to a dinner party. He wants me to introduce him to my boyfriend. The one who doesn't exist.”

Gojyo whistled. “Your mouth wrote you a check your ass can't cash, huh?” He smirked at Sanzo. “Took a withdrawal from the bank of lies and found that interest a little steep?”

“Fuck you, I didn't think you'd be much help anyway.” Sanzo sneered and turned for the door, but Gojyo whistled again to get his attention.

“Hold up, prissy-britches, wait a second. What is it you need?” He paused, putting the pieces together as his brain woke up enough to puzzle out what Sanzo had said. “Wait, were you gonna ask the Prof to be your boyfriend or something?”

Sanzo grumbled something indistinct, but in the pink dawn light, Gojyo realized his ears had gone bright red. “Oh-ho. Oh, Sanzo. That wouldn't'a worked anyway. Prof Hakkai's got this long distance girl – her name's Yaone, she's this medical researcher working in N'Orleans right now, something about frogs – and he Skypes with her every night for like an hour. He wouldn't be caught dead with someone else, since he's got big plans for her when she's done with her assignment.” Sanzo swore softly. “What about Goku?”

“What about Goku? My dad knows him, he'd never believe he and I had gotten together. Plus, I would've just said, 'Goku and I are an item' instead of being as vague as I have.”

“Any reason you couldn't'a just faked it with the kid?” Gojyo wagged his cigarette a little. “Hell, I hear about folks our age just getting married to our buddies for the tax benefits and getting a no-fault divorce when the real deal comes along.” Sanzo huffed with annoyance, shoulders sinking, but he waved his cigarette hand around as if to wipe away the very notion.

“It's complicated. I'm not getting into that with him. Either way, my dad wouldn't buy it.”

“Fine.” Gojyo knew how loaded a word like 'complicated' was when it came to love stuff, family stuff, stuff he usually tried not to fuck with. “And I'm guessing, given your glowing personality and natural charm, you've got plenty of friends who'd be willing to play the role for a night.”

“Fuck you.”

Sanzo blinked a few times as if someone had snapped a flash photo and he had to clear away the fuzz. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, you need a fake boyfriend, I got spare time and a dick, I could play the part."

"Not a chance." Sanzo sneered, lip curling. "I'm not your type."

"You sure about that?" Gojyo grinned coyly and swaggered up to the railing, keeping the bars between him and Sanzo but leaning over them to smirk at him. "That might even work better for ya. Your old man'll be able to tell we're not a good couple, so if you do find someone you actually wanna hook up with, he'll totally understand when you break up with me."

The fact that Sanzo just raised an eyebrow rather than throwing back a nasty retort told Gojyo that he might have just said the magic words. "And what do you get out of it?"

"Dinner, duh." Gojyo thumbed over his shoulder. "Told ya, the Prof's out, and I probably won't see him 'til the crunch is over and the semester starts. You said this was a dinner, that means free food and you can filch me some leftovers, and I don't have to live on Mickey D's for however the fuck long Hakkai's out of the house." Gojyo paused. "Alright, and if I gotta sweeten my own deal, you gotta bring me some breakfast or something."

Sanzo scowled his irritation, but he put his face close to Gojyo's. "Can you pretend to enjoy kissing me?"

"Only if you can." As if to test it, Gojyo tilted his head to kiss Sanzo on the mouth, but Sanzo evaded.

"No dress rehearsals. Fuck. Fine." Sanzo pivoted around, shoving his sliding door open. "Be ready to go at five, we gotta drive there. Wear a tie, if you own one." He slammed the door shut behind him (as hard as one could slam a glass sliding door), and Gojyo blew a smoke ring at his back.

“Well, whatever.” He had dinner set for the night, anyway, and it was something different to do on his day off.

Life was strange, but alright. Gojyo watched the moon sink a little lower as he finished his smoke, and resolved to try to get a little more sleep. He wanted to be awake enough to watch Sanzo squirm tonight.

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

Sanzo at first seemed surprised when Gojyo pushed open the front door of their apartment building, eyes a little wide as he strolled down the sidewalk towards the curb and Sanzo's stark white Equus (nice car, Gojyo thought, for someone who never leaves the house). "Hey," he hailed Sanzo with a wave and a wink, and Sanzo just scoffed and flapped a hand back, but Gojyo didn't miss the way Sanzo's gaze swiped his body. Gojyo had dug out the black silk shirt and a white straight tie, the stuff he saved for nights at swanky clubs near the college, and now Sanzo was staring at him with what sure smelled like jealousy. Gojyo made sure to pass him just close enough that he could smell his cologne and the cigarettes on his collar; after all, even if he was just playing at being Sanzo's boyfriend, Sanzo's dad might as well think he was a catch, or at least sexy, and it'd be nice if Sanzo would acknowledge that he was making an effort. Sanzo sniffed the air a little, though Gojyo couldn't be sure if it was attraction or derision. Gojyo walked a short circle around the car so Sanzo could see just how damn good his ass looked in dark wash jeans, but also so he could check out the ride – it was an older car, but it looked damn sharp, so either Sanzo took good care of it or never drove it. "She's nice."

"She?"

"Cars are ladies, doncha know?" Gojyo winked, then leaned against the hood. "So, you ready to roll?"

Sanzo pulled a face, brow quirking, mouth twitching back with annoyance. "Yeah, fine." He took a cigarette out of his sport coat's inner pocket and lit up as he circled to the driver's side. His focus glanced off of Gojyo again as Gojyo cracked open the passenger side door. "You look presentable."

That was the closest thing Gojyo'd ever heard to a compliment coming out of Sanzo. He just chuckled and slicked his fingers back through his hair. "Well, when I'm not bound for sixteen hours in my cab by my lonesome, I make a little more effort. Thanks."

"Hm." Sanzo's focus flitted away, eyes dodging down, and Gojyo realized Sanzo actually, seriously thought he looked good. He smirked to himself, cocksure and proud, as he settled into the cushy seat of Sanzo's little luxury sedan and threw his safety belt on.

Sanzo drove like he was daring the cops to pull him over, using his turn signals like insults rather than indicators. Gojyo found himself gripping the “oh-shit” handle for most of the ride and watching the streets fly past the window as they veered from the outskirts of Portland, circumvented the city, and sped towards Five Corners. Gojyo was familiar with the area, he'd driven local deliveries through here. He recognized the exits and turns towards a particularly nice slice of the suburbs north and east of West Hill, the kind of place where he ended up dropping off a lot of luxury brand packages in December.

Not surprising. If Sanzo's dad had the assets to travel the world, it made sense he had it in him to own a house in a nice area. Sanzo seemed like he came from a good place, though Gojyo got the sense that something had happened that had made him turn out rotten. Kids who came from good homes seemed to have the biggest problems. Gojyo had found that folks with money too often substituted cash for decent morals and common sense. Not that broke kids didn't have their problems too, but everyone knew about those already, so they were hardly worth whining about.

The sun was just starting to sink behind the mountain when they pulled up to a mid-sized Victorian-style house in the middle of a winding, tree-lined road, but instead of the manicured lawn and designer garden he expected, the grass was long and wild, the roses were growing up the brick and stone columns like trellises, and most of the windows were draped with ivy, bedecked with living greenery like Christmas tinsel. The lights were on, glowing gold onto the other cars parked out front, and Sanzo groaned as he pushed the clasp on his seat belt loose. “Fuck, he invited the whole crew.”

“The whole crew?” Gojyo repeated, fumbling off the last of his terror at the last abrupt, screeching turn onto the driveway, fingers shaking just a little, but he got out and shook himself off. The yard was quiet, with only a faint hum of noise and music from the house proper. Sanzo shook his head with disgust.

“He invited all of his friends from work, from before he retired.” He slapped the cars as he strolled past them. “Glasses guy, Fey guy, the Colonel, Big guy, Shouty guy, Quiet guy, Baldy One and Baldy Two...”

Gojyo frowned and followed a step behind. “They, uh, got names?”

“Sure, but I don't bother remembering them. I see them once a year, less if I had any say in it.” Sanzo scoffed, shaking his head as he went, but Gojyo caught him shoot a truly venomous look at a black sports car parked in front of the driveway. “And of course, that prick is here. I'd hoped the old man would've pushed him off a boat by now.”

Gojyo raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't ask. He had a feeling he'd find out who 'that prick' was soon enough.

Sanzo loped to the front door, shaking his shoulders out like he was limbering up for a boxing match, then rang the bell and rapped his fist on the door twice. Gojyo felt Sanzo's tension around him like static electricity as the chime reverberated into silence, until the door opened to a mild-looking man in a colorful knee-length jacket, his long hair in a braid cast over his shoulder and a pipe between his fingers. He threw his arms open, beaming. “Kouryuu, there you are!”

Sanzo reluctantly trudged forward and let the man fold his arms around him. Gojyo even caught a glimpse of a begrudging smile. “Father. I've asked you to call me Genjo instead of that babyish nickname.”

“It's not babyish, it's what I've always called you!” Sanzo's father patted his back a few times before releasing him, only to hold him at arm's length. “And you'll always be my baby, you know.” He turned to Gojyo, and spoke to him with the familiarity as if he'd known him for years. “Has he told you about how I adopted him? All my old friends were stunned, they didn't think a man like me could be a parent, but this one falls into my lap and--”

“Father, you should really introduce yourself before you start telling embarrassing old stories about me.” Sanzo was visibly tense now, and Gojyo couldn't help but chuckle to himself.

“Hey, he told me it'd been a while since you've seen each other, I can't blame ya for being eager.” Gojyo loosened to a casual slouch and swaggered a half step in. “Name's Gojyo. I''m the guy who's been taking care of your boy these last – how many months, babe?”

The look of pure relief on Sanzo's face was immensely satisfying. “Ten.”

“Ten months, but who's counting, right?” Gojyo extended a hand. “It's nice to meet you, sir.”

“Oh, he calls me 'sir,'” Sanzo's father laughed, but he clasped both hands around Gojyo's and shook it vigorously. “I'm Koumyou Sanzo, his father. So tell me, is his butt as cute as it was when he was little?”

Gojyo nearly choked on his own tongue trying not to laugh right there, as Sanzo turned a shade of crimson Gojyo could only compare to steakhouse ketchup. “Father!”

“He hasn't showed me baby pictures,” Gojyo demurred, winking at Sanzo again. “But let's see what the night brings, you know?”

Koumyou chortled, obviously delighted, but waved the pair of them past. “Oh, Genjo, he's funny. I like him!”

“He's unique.” Sanzo eyed Gojyo with just a hint of malice, and Gojyo put on a sheepish grin. “He's never boring, anyway.”

“I'm just glad I can make you laugh, babe.” Gojyo motioned for Sanzo to go first, as Sanzo shot him one quick glare and moved past him.

So far, so good.

Koumyou led them into a room near the entrance, but before Gojyo could even get a look around, a cheer rose through the room.

“There he is!”

“The prodigal son!”

“The famous son,” someone else laughed back, and Gojyo finally got a look around. Koumyou kept it colorful, the walls beige but decorated with ornate, colorful paintings – Klimt, van Gogh, Degas, and framed posters from art galleries advertising exhibitions from around the world – and his table was just as colorful. The centerpiece of the room, the dinner spread over the long low table, was of covered dishes in purples and crimsons and greens over a tablecloth with a technicolor geometric pattern. All the guests were seated on silk patterned cushions on their knees similar in pattern to Koumyou's jacket, and all of them were waving to Genjo as he slouched in the aperture between the foyer and dining room.

“It's...” Gojyo could feel Sanzo's tension in the hum of his hesitation and patted his back, and Sanzo seemed to remember that he should finish his sentence. “Nice to see you all again.”

“Liar,” one man near the head of the table, a man closer to Sanzo's age than to Koumyou's with shaggy dark hair, chuckled, and Sanzo's gaze snapped to him. “Imagine,” he went on, dark eyes gleaming in the yellow light of the chandelier, “Koumyou putting the poor antisocial boy through his paces again.”

Sanzo bristled, and jerked his shoulder to shake Gojyo's hand off. “It's been too long, Jianyi.”

“He lies again.” The dark-haired man, Jianyi apparently, laughed, and elbowed at the man next to him, who actually gave him a rather irritated look back.

“Will you be nice to your boyfriend's son?” He was an odd-looking fellow, with a classic Mandarin hairstyle, all the hair shaved but for a braid, and a mustache, and when he stood, Gojyo realized he was a little person. He circled the table and came to stand in front of Sanzo, then bowed. “You're looking well, Genjo.”

“Genkai.” Sanzo actually bowed back. “It's good to see you again.”

“Now he means it,” a man with hair dyed purple giggled (Fey guy, though his voice was rougher than his rather feminine features suggested), and Baldy One and Baldy Two on either side of him both smiled, One reluctantly and Two wryly, before Fey guy cupped a hand. “Genjo, introduce the beefcake!”

All eyes were on him now. Gojyo keenly felt Jianyi's stare, as Sanzo motioned to him. “Everyone, Gojyo. We've been seeing each other ten months.”

“Nice find!” A guy wearing a canvas military cap, who was a little younger and a little thicker than the others (Gojyo was guessing that was the Big guy), hooted, and the Colonel (the white beard and mustache were a dead giveaway) chuckled into his hand.

“Gojyo, Genjo, please, sit, make yourself comfortable! Where did that Father of yours get to?”

“He can't have gone far.” Genkai eased back and motioned to the two empty cushions near the center of the table. “We were all just catching up. All boring old man stuff, of course. What have you been up to?”

With that, Genkai ushered Sanzo to sit, and Gojyo sat beside him on his knees, and Sanzo was dragged into the typical inane conversation of catching up with someone one hadn't seen in a while. Gojyo found out a little about Sanzo, at least: he was a straight-up New York City stock trader, working (remotely) on Eastern Standard Time from the nine A.M. opening bell (six A.M., Gojyo did the math in his head with a quick wince) until closing. Explained why he was always awake when Gojyo's schedule was fucked, anyway. It also explained why he seemed to be such a recluse, or at least how he could stay in the apartment all day and still make a decent living. Gojyo couldn't help but figure the why from Sanzo's terse reactions every time he got a question from another direction, eyes briefly widening a little bit every time someone asked about the next big trend, stock advice, buy or sell on this or that, and turning faintly scarlet whenever Fey guy or Big guy made some wink and nod joke about him being “kept busy” and winking at Gojyo.

Koumyou rejoined the party just as Baldy Two was pushing Sanzo about Apple stock, bearing a covered dish. “My, my, you've all started the festivities without me!”

“We couldn't help ourselves,” Jianyi chuckled, edging over to widen the gap beside him. Gojyo immediately felt his attention snap to the guy, because for some reason, Gojyo had gotten a bad vibe off of him, and not just from Sanzo's reaction to his prodding, or that of the other ten men in the room every time he'd made some mutter Gojyo couldn't hear or make out. It was that 'not-safe' feeling he got when he pulled into truck stops that told him his shit would get stolen out of the cab if he so much as stopped for a piss break there, or when he passed over lot lizards that he just knew would give him syphilis if he so much as looked at her twice without a condom on. He had sort of a sense for trouble like that, it came with living like he did. Jianyi seemed either blissfully unaware of everyone else's disdain or wholly unperturbed by it, but that was just as off-putting as the initial sense Gojyo got, and just as eerie as the smile Jianyi put on when Koumyou sat down beside him and put the dish in the rest of the spread. "Can we serve now?"

"Oh, yes, yes, please!" Koumyou motioned up with both hands, indicating for everyone to lift the covers, before turning his smile towards Gojyo. "And if you don't know what something is, please ask!"

Gojyo suddenly felt eyes on him, and plastered on a self-conscious smile. "Food's food, right? I'm sure I can figure it out."

There was a round of soft chuckling and stifled laughter around the table, as Sanzo muttered, "You happen to be at a table with eleven world-travelers, each of whom brought a dish from a part of the world they have been to over the last year. I guarantee you I'll only be guessing at half of what's on this table, but I have no food allergies or sensitivities and I'm not picky. Just ask if you're not sure."

"I'm not picky either," Gojyo countered quickly, choosing not to volunteer that he'd eaten maggots before just so nobody could press him about the context. "Uh, but excluding us, I counted twelve, so--"

"I can't cook," Koumyou volunteered sheepishly. "However, I got a friend in town to dress a lamb leg in the Turkish style, and while I wouldn't know what to do with it myself, I can set an oven and carve meat off the bone."

"With some help." Nii winked at him, and Gojyo heard Fey guy make a disgusted noise.

"Can we just eat already?" He lowered his voice to a mutter and added, "Before I lose my appetite."

The plates were lifted, to an outcry of excitement from all sides but Sanzo and Jianyi, and though Gojyo didn't say a word, he didn't recognize half of what was on the table. Instead, Gojyo took the first thing he could identify (a hearty slice of that lamb leg Koumyou had brought in) and sniffed every plate as it came past him. He began to pick up on what was what – those funny green egg rolls were grape leaves stuffed with mushrooms and onions, the white pasta with big meatballs was a Vietnamese pork meatball over rice noodles, that wasn't ham wrapped around melon but prosciutto and it was popular in Spain, those crispy things were deep-fried lotus root – and luckily, it all smelled amazing.

“Man, this is better than going to a buffet,” he remarked as he passed a platter of black eggs that smelled of oranges and spice to Baldy Two on his left, to a few chuckles from nearby.

“It's fun,” Genkai said from his place, smiling peaceably. “We all get together to share where we've been, and bring a little of it with us.”

“A fine meal is a fleeting pleasure, but one best enjoyed in good company.” Koumyou lifted a teacup, and many of the others followed suit with water or wine glasses. "Cheers. I'm glad to see you all again."

There were answers of "Cheers," and murmurs of agreement, before Koumyou turned to Genkai. "You said you brought dolmas, old friend? How did Greece treat you?"

"Better than its citizens, sadly." Genkai smiled wryly. "Even despite its current troubles, Athens is still beautiful. I admit I spent longer in Germany this year, but, well... I suppose I was thinking of Goudai."

Jianyi pulled a face behind his wine glass, as Koumyou sighed. "It's still fresh for me, too. He would have loved them, you did a fantastic job."

"Goudai," Sanzo said, in a voice meant for Gojyo, "was an old friend of my father's who passed a few years ago."

"I think we all miss my old mentor." All eyes shot to Jianyi with irritation when he spoke over his folded hands and tented fingers. "Even so, I imagine he'd be loathe to think of us all moping about him now, wouldn't you agree, Genjo?" His dark eyes glimmered with mischief, and he failed to disguise a smirk. Sanzo snorted and turned his attention to his plate, but Gojyo felt compelled to say something:

"He'd probably be glad you all thought of him, anyway. It's nice to remember folks who're gone, not for them, but for you, y'know? Those good memories are still good." He picked up one of the fried lotus root chips with his fingers, imitating Baldy One across the table, as Genkai cracked a little smile.

"You speak like someone who's lost someone dear to you, but with the strength to remember them fondly. Admirable, in a boy your age."

“Well, we can't all be worldly little monks, can we?” Jianyi tossed his head back and laughed. Genkai flushed, but Gojyo brushed it off as if he hadn't spoken.

“Oh, you're a monk, are you? Like, what kind?”

“Holy Land Buddhist,” Koumyou and Sanzo both answered.

“It's how we met.” Koumyou nudged Genkai with his hand. “All of us were students of Buddhism under a wise teacher, and we became a social group outside of meditation sessions and sutra readings.”

“With one notable exception.” Fey guy was glaring daggers at Jianyi again, who was much more interested in the bottom of his wine glass.

“Guilty as charged.” Jianyi put his glass down and put it towards the center of the table, and Koumyou took up the canter and refilled it. “I was actually an apprentice under dear deceased Goudai, and got pulled in by him.”

“I think he thought we would be good influences.” Baldy One smirked a bit, then tucked a whole shumai into his mouth. “Mmh, Excellent, Jyoan.”

“Thank you.” Fey guy smirked like a satisfied cat, then glanced sideways to Gojyo. “So, aside from our odd man out, we all came up together.”

"We're all relatively faithful, though I admit Koumyou's, er, non-traditional." The Colonel chuckled, as Koumyou flapped a hand.

"I live my own way, and I don't think I've hurt anyone so far." He winked at Sanzo. "I'm not so bad, am I?"

"Yeah, yeah. Do as you please, as long as you don't hurt anyone," Sanzo muttered, stabbing at the dolmas piled on his plate.

"That's the Hippocratic oath, Genjo." Jianyi wagged a finger. "And really, Seiran knows more about that." Baldy Two snorted, and Gojyo could have sworn he muttered something like:

"Keep my name off your lips."

"You're a doctor?" Gojyo asked, before Jianyi could engage a second further. Baldy Two raised a brow, then nodded.

"Myself and Soujin both." He motioned to the Colonel. "I've been researching methods for recovering from brain damage post-trauma and seizures."

"Pediatrics, with Médecins Sans Frontières. It seemed a natural progression after being in the Marines, to me, anyway!" The Colonel chuckled again, stroking his beard (or maybe wiping a little of that white yogurt sauce out of it, there was a reason Gojyo didn't like beards much). "Perhaps our new guest deserves a bit more explanation."

“Oh, right. Genjo likely didn't tell him about all of his uncles.” Fey guy sneered a bit, but smirked at Gojyo. “I'm an anthropologist and writer. I've been examining some non-conforming villages in China. Do you know there are subcultures wherein marriage isn't practiced? At all?”

“We can talk studies later.” Glasses guy adjusted his spectacles, but Gojyo could feel him examining him under the wire rims. “I'm a reporter. My forte is in covering disasters, though I admit I don't care for it nearly as much as covering the recovery.”

With that, everyone around the table gave his profession. Big Guy was a food writer who traveled the world writing about unique cuisines for a major food magazine Gojyo had never heard of, Baldy One taught English in underprivileged remote Japanese villages, Shouty guy paused briefly in devouring from some Thai-fried rice to explain that he was a soccer coach. Every one of these men touched ground in multiple countries a year, and the hosts were no exception, just like Sanzo had said.

“I'm a curator for the International Foundation for Art research.” Koumyou beamed and gestured to some of the posters. “They trust my instincts enough to let me choose where to search, and I find pieces and build exhibitions for museums around the world.”

“His taste is world-renowned.” Jianyi gave Koumyou a rather heated look and a smirk that wasn't entirely sarcastic, which only put the needles a little deeper under Gojyo's skin. “Even I can admit some of his collections are unique in ways hard to put into words.”

“Which says something, though I'm not certain what.” Koumyou giggled softly, and Gojyo saw Sanzo wince as he stroked his fingers down his arm.

#blue-chan confessional night #worst version #my writing #fanfiction

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