#and try to tell me they wouldn’t end up halfway across the world on a random Tuesday | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dulcesiabits · 4 months

Text

you arrive like a dream.

summary: you are fourteen years old when bachira breaks your heart, and you run halfway across the world to avoid him. so how are you supposed to react when the universe, against all your express wishes, brings the two of you back together again?

notes: 14k words, fic, author's notes, childhood friends, childhood heartbreak, messy relationships, really kind of a study of how people fall apart and then get back together

“I want to take a break from us.”

It’s the first thing your boyfriend says to you, barely waiting for the waitress to set down your order and clear away your laminated menus before speaking.

Instead of responding, you take a long sip of your milkshake, whipped cream sinking into a chocolate sea, your mouth flooding with sweetness. You regard the boy across from you thoughtfully, the one you’ve been dating for six months ever since he confessed to you during a school dance. He’s not the only boy you’ve ever dated in America, but he’s the one you’ve dated the longest.

Most American boys seem to regard you with a mixture of curiosity and fascination as an exchange student from Japan. The kinder ones try not to treat you any differently than they would from your other classmates, but the worse ones will make constant jokes about hentai and mock your faint accent.

By this point, though, you’ve learned to tune out the insults and the passive aggressive comments. You’ve always been good at dealing with other people, knowing how to read the mood and adjusting your behavior accordingly. Your teachers often praised you for being so well-behaved and conscientious.

The meaner boys treat you like a zoo animal precisely because they want to see your reaction, so it’s better not to give them the reaction that they want. Otherwise, the second they sense hurt, they’ll sink their teeth in and never let go. Of course, they don’t seem to realize that in the same way they observe you, you can observe them right back.

As for your boyfriend, Thomas? Well. He does his best. Or at least you think he does his best. No one mocks you to his face when he’s around, and he valiantly tells people to “knock it off” whenever he thinks you feel uncomfortable. He’s sweet, if a little obtuse, and you like him well enough. You wouldn’t date him if you didn’t. But his confession had been so out of the blue, and you had no real reason to accept him– just like you didn’t have any real reason to reject him.

In short, your relationship started on an ambivalent whim. He’s not the sort of person you can share your thoughts with, but it’s not as if you’re looking for a lifelong companionship. He’s mild, and nice to be around, which is just what you need after everything that happened to you in Japan. He’s just like the whipped cream slowly disappearing into your milkshake in that aspect.

Your boyfriend calls your name. “Hey, are you okay? Do you want me… to explain?” Thomas says softly.

You’ve been staring into space for too long, and your milkshake is half-empty. You smile at him. “No, it’s fine. A break, right? I understand.”

“I don’t want this to be permanent. It doesn’t have to be,” Thomas says, running a hand through his shorn blond hair. “It’s just soccer season is kicking up again, and I won’t have a lot of time to spend with you. I didn’t want you to feel abandoned, or anything. And I want to focus on practice. So…” He looks at you like a kicked puppy, as if you’re the one breaking up with him, and not the other way around. “We can date again once the season is over.”

“Okay,” you say, dragging your straw through your softening milkshake. “Let’s see what happens at the end of the season.”

Thomas perks up. “Great! Do you want anything else to eat? It’s my treat.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas says.

Milkshakes are no remedies for break-ups, but you bite your tongue. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Thomas flags down the waitress, a freckled and red-haired girl who lets her stare linger a little too long. Not that you can blame her; he is cute. But Thomas, good old oblivious Thomas, only smiles innocently in return.

Maybe you should get jealous. Pull some American teen movie line and say that “he’s your man” and put her in her place, or something equally dramatic like that. But he’s not really “your man” anymore, is he? Besides, staring is free, and, as you often hear, this is a free country.

By the time the two of you are out of the diner, Thomas is pulling you into a hug. You limply wrap one arm around his back. “See you later,” he whispers. “You can still call me if anything happens, okay?”

Should you remind him of the international fees that it would take for him to call you Japan? “Okay.”

You’re still standing outside the diner when Thomas waves at you through the windows of his car and pulls away from the curb. Maybe you should have asked for a ride, but getting a ride with your now-ex is a little weird. The weather is clear and the sunshine warm, so it’s a mild enough spring day for you to walk back. You’d prefer the walk, anyways, compared to the awkward silence in Thomas’s stifling truck.

Halfway down the pavement, your phone starts buzzing in your pocket. You pull it out: it’s your mom. There’s a seventeen hour time difference between California and Japan, and the international fees of a phone call are exorbitant, but your mom has never cared much about finances. “Money is there for you to spend it,” she always claims. Easy enough for her to say when she runs an investment firm that rakes in enough yen for her to send you abroad.

“Hello, Okaa-san,” you say when you open your phone.

“Hello,” she coos. “Good morning! Ah, wait. It’s afternoon for you, right?”

“It’s afternoon, and you’re a day ahead of me,” you confirm.

“Oho! I forgot! So you’re talking to a time traveler right now,” she says.

“Seems so. Have any news from the future?”

“You’re going on spring break next week, right?” She doesn’t wait for you to respond before barreling on. “Why don’t you fly home to Japan for the holidays?” your mom says. “I’m already booking the tickets.”

“Why’d you even ask if you were going to do it for me?”

“Just because you always tell me you hate it when I do things without telling you. So I’m alerting you in advance,” she chirps.

You sigh. “Okay. Send me the ticket details when you’re done.”

You can imagine your mom’s grin over the phone. “Perfect! By the way, I ran into Yu-san a little while ago. We talked about how much you used to love her art lessons! Do you remember how you used to beg to spend extra time at Yu-san’s studio?”

You stop in the middle of the sidewalk, the sunshine suddenly searing your neck. You fight to keep your voice steady. “Yeah. I do. Why?”

“Well, then we started talking about Meguru-kun. You always bugged me about when he could come over and play. You were such a mild-mannered child, but as soon as you saw Meguru-kun, you would just get so wild. I’d never seen you have so much fun. I swear, it was so cute.”

“Okaa-san,” you say faintly, but she continues on.

“Since it’s been so long since you were back in Japan, Yu-san and I thought it would be nice if the two of you could see each other again, so we arranged a little meeting for the four of us. Won’t it be nice to catch up with your childhood friend over dinner? There’s no need to thank me.”

There really isn’t. You gape like an open-mouthed fish after your mom’s triumphant little speech, thoughts scattering like bubbles on the surface of a pond.

“Does Meguru know that you’ve done this?” you say. It’s the only question that manages to escape. His first name feels like ash in your mouth. When did you last use it?

“Yu-san told him right away. I think she said he was excited to see you!”

“That’s… great,” you say. “I have to go now, Okaa-san. I have something to do. I’ll see you when I fly back.”

“Okay. Love you!”

With a cheerful blip, your mom ends the call and you sink to your knees, digging the palms of your hands into your eyes. Shit. This is going to be the worst possible way to spend your spring break. Thomas is one thing, but Bachira? No way. There is absolutely no way in hell you can face him again.

You might have gotten along back in Japan, running around Chiba together as children, but it’s been years since then. Maybe if you were two regular childhood friends, you would jump with joy at the opportunity to see him. If you didn’t have the particular history you did, this would have been a pleasant surprise. But you two don’t have that sort of relationship anymore, and the thought of Bachira makes old wounds flare to life.

You can’t blame your mom for not knowing, not really. You’ve mentioned your American boyfriends here and there, but you tend to keep a tight lid on your love life, as you’ve always been her pristine, studious child. You try not to make it a habit to keep secrets from your mom.

In fact, the only secret you’ve ever kept from her is that Bachira Meguru broke your heart when you were fourteen years old.

–

You have always wanted to be the perfect child for your mom.

Ever since you could remember, your afternoons and weekends were full of different lessons, from piano to dance, and English to math tutoring. Your mom cooed with excitement at all your new hobbies, demanding you show her every time you learned a new musical piece or math equation. You charged headfirst into whatever skill you could learn to mold yourself into a well-rounded adult, so no one could find a way to look down on your mom. All of her business associates patted you on the head and spoke indulgently at you. As if you couldn’t sense the way they viewed you as an extension of your mom, and a way to judge her.

Art lessons, however, were when your life took a sudden, unexpected turn.

You remembered this: you were eight, and it was a cool spring day during your very first lesson, and Bachira-san had given you free reign of the canvas, handing you a palette and a brush. Her lessons always took place in her studio, the door open to let in the breeze, sunlight sinking into stacks of piled canvas and painting supplies placed haphazardly on every free surface.

You stared up at Bachira-san with a frown, looking uncertainly in her smiling face. “What am I supposed to do with this?” you asked.

“Whatever you want,” she replied, ruffling the top of your head. You gave a squeak of protest.

“But what do you want?” you persisted.

“I want you to do whatever you want,” Bachira-san said with a grin. “Why don’t I give you some space to paint? I’ll come back in a little bit, ‘kay?”

And so Bachira-san had left you in front of a canvas, your frown growing as you dipped a brush into the green paint. Incomprehensible. The adults in your life always had such clear expectations for you, and Bachira-san’s instructions feel like she just handed you a blank map and told you to chart unexplored territory.

You dragged a tentative, watery streak of green on the bright white canvas, but it looked ugly and intrusive. You’d marred the pristine surface already.

Something brushed your foot. You looked down to see a football rolling across the wooden floor of the studio, and not a second later, the small head of a child peeking around the corner of the door.

“Kaa-san! I’m back– eh? Who are you?”

The boy approached you curiously. There was a bandage on his face, and streaks of dirt running down his legs and striping his cheeks.

“Who are you?” you demanded, brandishing your brush like a sword. “I’m having an art lesson right now.”

Undeterred, the boy tilted his head like a giant chipmunk. “Art lesson? This is where Kaa-san works.”

“Huh…” Your teacher must be his mom, and he must be her son, you deduced.

Seemingly losing interest, the boy ran after the football, which had lodged in the corner. With a few swift kicks, the boy skilfully bounced it up on his knee, his elbow, and his head. It was just like the seals you saw once at the aquarium, who could perform the same tricks for a few fish as incentive.

“Hey! Can you play football?” the boy said suddenly, turning back to you with the ball balanced precariously on his head.

“Football? I can’t play. I have to study art.”

“But that’s boring… Wait!” The boy brightened as he lurched towards you, wrestling the brush from your grasp. You watched in horror as the boy slashed the brush across the canvas, dipping randomly into the paint, creating an incomprehensible mess of lines and paint splatters. “Done! Now you can play with me.”

You shoved him, as hard as you could, and the boy toppled to the floor, his football bouncing sadly into a pile of canvas. “What are you doing? You– you ruined it!”

“I helped you,” the boy protested. He leaped up into the air, regarding you quizzically. “Kaa-san paints like that all the time.”

“Bachira-san– Bachira-san is a real artist! You can’t just– argh!” You stumbled at him, annoyed, tiny fists swinging, but the boy only dodged out of the way.

A grin splitted his face. “Are we playing now? Yay!”

You don’t know how long this chase lasted. All you knew was that you wanted to wipe that unbearably happy look from his face after he ruined your lesson, because how on earth could you explain this to Bachira-san? But the boy only danced around, laughing as you tried to lunge at him, always just one step away from you.

You weren’t unathletic, but the boy had stamina on another level, because while you sweated and panted, hands on your knees, he only skipped in circles around you. “Hey,” the boy said. “Are you done already? Come on. Let’s play some more.”

How annoying! How super, super annoying! You gave a great yell as you jumped at him, and, startled, the boy couldn’t move away fast in enough time. The two of you crashed onto the floor, rolling and tumbling. You pulled at his hair and the boy grabbed at your cheeks.

“I’m back! Are you done with– Meguru? Kiddo?”

The two of you froze as Bachira-san stepped into the studio, a plate of cookies in her hand. The two of you watched her with big silent eyes as she surveyed the room. And, for the first time, you realized that you had knocked over some of her paint tubes and canvas, and the two of you were covered in streaks of paint and dust from the floor.

You sprang up as Bachira-san moved closer to the canvas you were supposed to paint on– the one her son had ruined. Your hands were clammy as you lowered your head, like a criminal readying for their punishment.

“Hey, nice artwork, kiddo,” Bachira-san said, breaking into a smile. “Very avante-garde.”

“He… he was the one who did it,” you mumbled, face heating up with shame, pointing at the boy– Meuguru– who was still on the floor.

He stuck out his tongue. “I only helped!”

“Well, the both of you did a great job,” Bachira-san said.

“Really…?” you mumbled, looking down at your black shoes, now scraped and scuffed from your scuffle across the floor.

“Yes, really! Why don’t the two of you have some snacks?”

The three of you munched on cookies for the rest of the lesson as Bachira-san explained the color palette and different forms of art to you. Meguru gifted you the very last cookie with a beaming expression on his face as if you hadn’t tried to tear his hair out, and you thanked him quietly.

During your next lesson, Meguru was waiting by the entrance of the studio. When he saw you, a goofy smile stole across his face, and he bounded towards you like a puppy.

“Here!” He thrust some flowers into your face. They were small and white, with five different petals. You took them gingerly.

“What are these for?” you asked.

“For you! So we can be friends! I had a lot of fun with you last time, but you didn’t look really happy. Kaa-san said I have to be aware of other people’s feelings, so this is a ‘let’s be friends’ flower!”

“You want to be friends with me?” you mumbled.

“Yup! No take backs,” Meguru added. “We’re friends for life now, okay?”

“Are you sure?” you said. “Yesterday I was rude to you.”

“Were you?” Meguru tilted his head. “Does that matter?”

“I was. I’m sorry,” you said.

“We’re friends! So it’s okay. Hey, this time, you’ll play football with me, right?”

He grabbed your hand, and you carefully wrapped your fingers around his. For some reason, there was a strange fluttering in your chest. Why did holding Meguru’s hand feel a little different from holding your mom’s, or your friend’s hand at school?

But all you know is this: ever since you took Meguru’s hand that day, you don’t think you’ve ever really let go.

–

You haven’t stepped foot in Japan for three years.

There’s always been an excuse not to: you were busy with studying. You had clubs and other activities. It would be too much of a hassle, and really, you wanted to enjoy every minute abroad you could get.

Your mom bought your excuses easily, so you never had to tell her the real reason you stayed away, the same reason you even bothered to study abroad in the first place: you didn’t want to be in the same country as Bachira Meguru.

But when your plane descends and jolts to a stop, when you pass through customs and scramble to find your luggage at the baggage claim, when you take that first wobbly step into the spring sunshine, squinting into the sky as you raise your hand to shield your eyes, you have no more excuses left. It’s like the universe won’t let you run away, because why the hell does Golden Week fall during the same week during your American spring break? Bachira is on break, same as you, so you can’t even use the excuse that he’s in school to avoid him. It’s a coincidence, or the universe is laughing at you for thinking you could get away so easily.

You pause to scroll through your phone; there’s a few messages from your mom, and an email from Thomas. You hover over the message with your thumb, before swiping away. You told him to email you if he needed you, since it’s not like he had Line or Whatsapp, but you didn’t think he’d actually go through with it.

Everyone is speaking in rushed Japanese around you. It’s a sea of people with black hair and black eyes and luggage and appointments and harried expressions, hurrying in every direction. This is home. America has never felt more far away.

You wander to the edge of the curb, phone still held loosely to your ear as a car pulls up. Your mom rolls down the side window, scarf around her throat and a grin wide on her face. “Hello, hello. Look who’s decided to show up on our side of the globe again.”

“It’s not like I had much of a choice,” you acknowledge.

The driver steps out to put your luggage in the trunk, and your mom rests her arm against the window. “How was your flight?”

“It was fine,” you say. “It’s not that far from California to Japan.”

“Perfect! So I assume you’ll be ready for dinner in a few hours?”

“Dinner?”

“Well, there’s this wonderful seafood restaurant I wanted to take Yu-san to, and Meguru-kun is free, so we planned our little get-together for today.” Your mom winks, but you feel as if someone pushed you off the airplane without a parachute. Actually, you’d have preferred that to whatever torture this is.

“Okaa-san, I can’t,” you protest, taking a step back. “I just got back. I’m tired. I–”

“Nonsense! It’s just some dinner. Aren’t you excited to see Meguru-kun?”

You force a queasy smile. “But I need to get ready. I want to shower and–”

“Then we can stop by home before we go to dinner. It’s not as if we’re going right now. Come, come. Hop in the car. The sooner we get back, the more time you’ll have to freshen up.”

The next few hours pass by in a weightless blur. You turn the water as hot as it can go and stand under the thundering steam until your fingers turn pruny. You pick out a tasteful outfit, decide you’re trying too hard, and settle for something casual, but then it feels like you’re not trying hard enough. This goes back and forth for half an hour until you throw on the first thing you picked out of your closet.

It almost feels like you’re getting ready for a date, and the thought makes you want to laugh hysterically.

When you’re done, you flop onto your bed and stare up at the ceiling. You haven’t been in this room for years, and there’s no dust, but it feels like a graveyard, a testament to a different time. There are faded patches of discolored paint on the wall where you once hung up photos of you and Bachira, and empty spots on your shelves where the plastic toys he won for you at summer fairs had once stood. You forgot where you put those old trinkets. They’re either shoved in a box in the back of your closet, or buried in a garbage heap.

Your mom calls your name. “Time to go! Are you ready?”

You’re not. You never will be, but you descend down the stairs and get into the car. You still feel weightless. Dread is the only thing propelling you forward, and it grows heavier with each passing step, weighing you down with its leaden mass.

The restaurant is all polished glass and cool blue tones, so you feel like you’re standing underwater when you step inside. The tablecloths are pressed, the menus so new and shiny you think you could cut yourself on their edges. You’re scurried off to a corner table, next to a painting of the ocean, layered with many painful shades of blue, the frothy white waves so textured you could lick it off like cream.

You order something. You’re not sure what, but the waiter is smiling at your choice.

“Yu-san is running a bit late,” your mom says, with her bright red lipstick which always looks elegant on her and never tacky. You feel childish, all of a sudden, trying to play at being a composed adult, next to her and her genuine enthusiasm for old family friends.

You hope Bachira and his mom never get here. Because of a traffic jam, perhaps. Or a sudden freak accident that cuts off their path, so they have to stay home. Or maybe they’ll just forget, and you can call the whole thing a wash.

“Ah, there she is! Yu-san! Meguru-kun!” Your mom waves wildly, her arm springing back and forth.

Against your will, you turn, biting the inside of your cheek hard. They’re both in street clothes, which sends a dull jolt of surprise through you, but then again, your old teacher has never been one for formalities. You focus hard on her instead of the boy next to her, never taking your eyes off her once as they both settle at the table. Your mom hugs Bachira-san, and they both giggle like schoolgirls. There’s paint on Bachira-san’s sleeves, faint splatters of red and blue and purple. Her hair is in a bun, pulled low.

She reaches out for you, and you melt into her embrace. She smells like paint, like salt water, with an artificial floral scent from her shampoo. “It’s been so long! You’ve gotten so much bigger. Have you been keeping up with your art?”

“I still sketch sometimes,” you say. “But I’ve been busy.”

Bachira-san laughs, a charming sound like windchimes. “Ah, so my lessons weren’t totally wasted! I’d love to see what you’ve been sketching. America has been nice to you, I see.”

You’ve chewed your cheek for too long. The sharp copper of blood fills your mouth like new pennies, and you manage to work your lips into the shape of a smile. “It’s been fun studying abroad.”

And then Bachira calls your name, and you feel like you’re fourteen again, getting your heart broken for the first time. “Hey, hey!” he says cheerfully. “Long time no see!”

You fight to maintain your smile. You can’t look him directly in the eye, so you look somewhere over his shoulder. Has his hair gotten longer? It looks like his mom had tried to tame his bangs with clips. “Hi. It has been a long time.” There. You even sound like you’re happy to see him.

Bachira and his mom order. She and your mom are drinking glasses of red wine, absorbed in their own world, so it’s just you and Bachira. He’s tearing his napkin into little pieces, a miniature blizzard that only grows in intensity with each ticking second. You’re both silent. Is he feeling just as nervous as you? Or are you the only one idiotically aware of the tension? Maybe he doesn’t even notice at all.

“Meguru-kun is on his school’s soccer team?” your mom asks suddenly, forcing the two of you to look at her. “That’s amazing! I heard you want to go to nationals.”

“Yup yup!” Bachira says. “It’s fun to play with everyone.”

“That’s great!” Your mom nudges you with her elbow. “This one over here is juggling a ton of different clubs in America, too. A math team, and a science one, and an art club on top of it, I think.”

Bachira is looking at you now. You stare hard at your glass of water, avoiding his eyes. The silence grows, stretching between the two of you, taut as a wire. Your mom looks back and forth between the two of you, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows.

You stand. “Okaa-san, I think I need a bit of a break. I’m still dizzy from my flight,” you say politely, flawlessly. You smile at Bachira-san and your mom, and throw a fuzzy look in Bachira’s direction.

“Are you? I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. Do you–”

“I just need some air,” you say, still smiling as you back away from the table. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

You flee before anyone can respond, pushing through the doors and into the dizzying sunlight. It’s a coward’s move, but so what? You’ve never pretended to be strong. Your go-to is to put on a smile and smooth over any situation. It’s better not to rock the boat. It’s better to just keep everyone happy– but you can’t do that now. You can’t do this, not now, not in front of Bachira Meguru.

You look up and down the streets, disoriented as you stumble to a stop. Where are you? The restaurant is at the end of the block, and you’ve somehow paced down the entire length of the street in your desire to escape. This is a high-end area with exclusive fashion stores and exorbitant restaurants, and their polished facades only make you feel smaller and uglier.

You sigh. Maybe it would be better to go home, to leave now before you worry anyone further. You would just ascribe all blame to your plane flight, and no one would be any wiser.

Just as you make up your mind, you see a figure blurring down the street, dashing at an impossibly high speed– a blur of yellow, no, a boy, running straight towards you– alarmed, you try to move to the side, but then he screeches to a stop right in front of you.

It’s Bachira. Shit shit shit— But then he abruptly spins around until all you can see is his back and the way his hair sticks up at the ends, perpetually untamable.

“What are you doing?” you say, irritated. Is this another one of his childish pranks?

“You don’t want to see me, right?” he says, more quietly than you thought he was capable of.

“I–”

“This way, you won’t have to look at me. Is that okay?”

“So?” you say. “What you do has nothing to do with me.”

“Let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to,” you say petulantly. You flush; why does Bachira bring out your inner child? “There’s nothing for us to say,” you add more coldly.

“I miss you.” The world, in its perpetual motion, freezes for just an instant at his words. Planets stop their revolutions. The tectonic plates pause. Everything slows down, to this single moment in time and space.

You can only manage to faintly say, “So what?” The world resumes spinning again.

“I want to talk to you again,” he says.

“I don’t care,” you say again.

“I’ll bug you if you don’t come see me again,” he says. “I’ll blow up your phone. I’m gonna send you a ton of mail. I’ll even go to your house and–”

“Stop!” you snap. “You sound like a stalker. Bachira, you know things can’t move backwards, right? We can only go forward. And I don’t want to act buddy buddy with you again.”

“One chance. Pleaseeee. Come on. If you talk with me just once, I won’t bother you again! I promise! Otherwise I’m going to call you! Every! Single! Day!”

You sigh. With the way Bachira is, you have no doubt that he would make good on his threat, no matter how childish or ridiculous he sounds right now. Just once. You could talk to him just once. Besides, this way, you could get rid of all your lingering feelings, and it’d be the same relief of a loose, bothersome baby tooth finally falling out of your mouth.

“Fine. I’ll see you just once. But!” you add, raising your voice before he can throw his hands up in the air in joy. “I decide when and where we will meet.”

“Yay!” Bachira whoops, waving his arms. “Let’s go back, then!”

“Go back where?”

“To the restaurant, duh. The food arrived. I was supposed to tell you that, actually. Oops!”

It would be so easy to just go home right now. But… you glance at the back of Bachira’s hair again. He’s grown taller. And despite his antsy movements, shifting back and forth on his feet, he still hasn’t turned back to look at you once, keeping his ridiculous promise.

“Fine. Lead the way,” you say grudgingly. Your steps feel light as you stare at Bachira, following him all the while, but he still doesn’t look back at you.

At the table, your mom smiles at you. “Feeling better?”

“A little,” you respond. The next time you look at Bachira, you finally meet him in the eye, and his smile lights up his face, just like it did when you were little, the sun rising to sweep the world in light and color.

–

Art lessons with Bachira-san quickly became your favorite thing in the world.

Maybe it was because she never demanded unerring perfection from you, nor did she treat you like a little doll. She delighted in every advancement you made with art, no matter how messy or imperfect. She treated you like you already had things worth saying, and listened to you babble about anything on your mind.

But as much as you loved those things, what you most loved about art lessons with Bachira-san was her son, Meguru.

At some point in the afternoon, he would inadvertently drag you away from your canvas for an adventure through the neighborhood. Bachira-san never seemed to care, and would even encourage you to leave your pastels behind and pick up a stick to be a sword, as long as you had finished drawing at least one thing that you liked.

So, in those perfect sunny afternoons, you would poke at bugs, digging worms out of the dirt and following ants back to their nest and lifting up rocks to watch rollie pollies curl up. You would climb trees, always trying to outrace each other and get to the tallest branch. You would pretend to be pirates and adventurers, clamoring up and down the slides on the park, searching for treasure.

Mostly, though, Bachira wanted to play football.

“You gotta kick it like this! And that!” he cheered, dribbling the ball back and forth between his feet in lithe, swift steps.

“Huh?” you said, trying to keep up with his movements. You always did well during your elementary school’s sports meet, but Meguru was on another level.

“No, no! More like this!” Meguru said, and kicked the ball high in the air, only to catch it with his knee.

“I’ll try,” you said.

“Yay! Then let’s play a few games, okay?”

And you played, not because you particularly loved football, like Meguru did, but because you liked it when he smiled. You and Meguru. Meguru and you. Why would you need anything else? The boundaries of your world began and ended with his hand in yours.

Bachira-san would let him sit in on your lessons on slow days, too, even though he would invariably end up doodling on your canvas instead of his.

“Use your own paper, Meguru!” you retorted as Meguru scribbled a lumpy shadow onto the corner of your sketchpad. “This one is mine!”

“Eh? But we’re friends! So I can draw on yours!”

And then the two of you bickered playfully until you ended up doodling all over each other’s works, which Bachira-san then dubbed a “collaborative masterpiece,” and hung up the pictures side by side on a corkboard in her studio. It made your heart flutter to see the papers fluttering like friends.

Other times, Meguru would wander off in the middle of your lesson after drawing to his heart’s content, grabbing the football that was perpetually by his side.

“I’m done,” Meguru said, throwing down his colored pencil. There was a strange red creation on his page, some machine with a thousand different blue and green buttons and square windows. It had dragon wings and a boat’s rudder, and soared through scribbled stars and over choppy turquoise waves.

“What is that?” you asked him.

“A car that can fly across the ocean,” Meguru explained. “I’m gonna drive it up to pick up all my favorite football players, and there’s gonna be a stadium in it, and we’re all gonna play football together!”

“Can I come, too?”

“Duh! You can sit in the pilot seat with me. That’s why I made it so big,” he said, before dribbling his football out the studio door.

Even if he wandered off, Meguru would always rejoin the two of you on time for lunch. He had some sort of sixth sense for the moment Bachira-san started passing out snacks, peeking his head (sometimes with twigs or dirt scattered in his hair) around the studio door, cheerfully announcing, “I’m home!”

“Welcome back, Meguru! You’re just in time for a snack,” Bachira-san said, sweeping her hands at the row of pudding cups on the table. You were sitting quietly in a chair, posture straight, methodically scooping out every last bit of pudding with your spoon.

“Pudding! It’s pudding time,” Meguru exclaimed cheerfully at the sight of the snacks, running up to the table to snatch up several cups and a spoon in his chubby hands.

“Meguru! Leave some for your friend!” Bachira-san scolded lightly, and Meguru would come running right back to you.

“Here,” he said, dropping a cup in front of you.

Meguru could never sit still, so your eyes were inevitably drawn to him as he danced around the room, running from corner to corner and shoving pudding into his mouth so fast his cheeks puffed out like a small animal’s. Whenever he caught your eye he would stick out his tongue, and you would stick out your tongue in return. When there was only one pudding cup left on the table, you reached for it, before turning to Meguru.

“Have this,” you said, handing him the pudding cup, which Meguru had been eying with a wide open mouth and sparkling eyes.

“Yay! Thanks!” he said. “Let’s share it!”

“I saved it for you, though.”

Meguru shook his head as he unpeeled the cap, revealing inch by tantalizing inch of the shiny, golden treat. “Well, I want you to have some, too.”

There was no better pudding in the world than the spoonfuls you had that day, Meguru graciously proffering the very last bite for you to eat. The memory of that sweetness resounded through your dreams.

Even your mom had gotten used to your chattering about Meguru. He was your favorite topic, and nothing was ever quite as important or interesting as him. As soon as your mom’s car pulled up to the curb at the end of your lessons, you would clamber inside, your artwork for the day clutched tightly in your hands, and a new story about Meguru on your lips.

“Okaa-san, Okaa-san,” you said brightly. “Guess what Meguru did today?”

“Let me guess,” your mom said playfully as the driver pulled away from the curb. “The two of you played together?”

“Yup! This time, we pretended to be monkeys living in the trees! And then we got into a monkey war! And we threw a bunch of sticks at each other, and Bachira-san let us eat bananas for a snack! And we kept trying to peel them like monkeys, too.”

“How exciting! I didn’t realize I was taking a monkey home with me today,” your mom replied. “Are you having fun with your art lessons?”

“I’m having a lot of fun, Okaa-san. I’m learning a lot!” You squirmed in your seat. “Oh! But you have to hear about what Meguru did!”

You didn’t know if your mom ever got tired of you chattering on and on about Meguru. If she did, she never let it show, and she watched you with gentle eyes the whole time you talked.

“You act differently around Meguru-kun,” she said.

“Is that bad?” you asked anxiously, suddenly alert.

She smiled. “No, not at all. Everyone has different sides to them. But I’m glad you’re good friends with him. You talk about him all the time.”

You fiddled with your fingers, feeling strangely pleased and shy all at once. Meguru always stirred unknown emotions in you. “I just like him a lot!”

“Enough to marry him?” your mom teased.

Your face brightened at her words; you hadn’t even realized that was an option. But it was such a great idea. If you married Meguru, then the two of you could be together forever. It just made a lot of sense; who else in the world would you rather spend your entire life with? No one else could compare to your best friend. If you lived in the same house, then you could have sleepovers everyday, and never be separated. “I do!”

Your mom laughed. “Does he want to marry you, though? You can’t decide that on your own!”

“He will if I ask him,” you explained. “He doesn’t say no to me.”

Your mom laughed even harder at that, tears springing to the corner of her eyes. “So he’ll do whatever you say? That sounds very sweet of him.”

However, one memory from this period of time stood out to you, clearer than the rest. You would dream about it, taking it down from a shelf to blow off the dust and stare into its depths.

It was a hot spring day, about a year after you had started art lessons, and Meguru stumbled into the studio with bruises on his face and scrapes on his knees. He had been gone for most of the afternoon, which had disappointed you slightly, but you knew you would see him again. However, you never imagined it would be like this.

“Meguru!” You ran to him, watercolor brush dropping to the paint splattered floor, stopping to grab his shoulders in concern. “Are you okay? Do I need to get Bachira-san?”

Meguru shook his head, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “No.”

“What happened?” you asked urgently. “You’re hurt!”

Ushering him to a seat, you ran to the sink and grabbed a towel, running it under a gush of cold water, before returning and dabbing at Meguru’s wounds as gently as you could. Blood came away in thin streaks like paint.

“Hey…” Meguru began quietly, in a small voice. He didn’t sound like the cheerful boy you knew, the one who was never phased and bounced off from every mistake and accident with a bright smile. It reminded you a little of how, when you were driving home after lessons, you would peek back at Meguru. His figure looked a little lonely outlined against the sunset, as he bounced a soccer ball quietly to himself.

“What is it?” You ran back to the sink, where you opened the cabinet underneath it to fish out some bandaids.

“We’re friends, right?” Meguru asked.

“Huh? Where’s this coming from? Of course we are. What else would I be?”

Meguru looked down at his knees as you slapped a bandaid on his skinned knees without a complaint.

“So you don’t think I’m weird, right?” he said, and his lips quivered with each word. “You’re not gonna leave me?”

“You’re not weird,” you said firmly. It occurred to you, then, that Meguru never talked about anyone in his life outside of you and Bachira-san. You hadn’t seen him with any other kids your age, either. Maybe you were his whole world, in the same way he was yours. “You’re my best friend, and I would never leave you. If you’re worried about it, then we could get married.”

“Married?” Meguru peeked at you from under the fringe of his bangs.

“So we can be together forever,” you explained.

Meguru smiled, just a little, a wobbly uplifting of his mouth. “Okay! Pinky-promise me, then! We’re gonna get married.”

You lifted up your hand and, with all the clumsy reverence of a child, locked pinkies with Meguru. You shook once, twice, and then let go, as if this was a ceremony as solemn as a real wedding.

“What happened, though, Meguru? Are you sure it’s okay if I don’t get Bachira-san?”

Meguru shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Because we have each other, right?”

You beamed at him, sunshine spilling in your chest, a golden glow. “Right. We’ll always have each other!”

–

Over the next few days, Bachira’s promise hangs over you like a darkening cloud, slowly threatening rain.

It’s not like you forgot what you told him. You would contact him, eventually. But there was a time and place for everything, and this required more delicate care than anything you’ve undertaken so far. Besides, when you look at your phone screen, you feel a flush of embarrassment. You’ve never been able to bring yourself to block Bachira’s contact, and you still know his number by heart.

When you first moved to America, a small, foolish part of you thought that he would contact you eventually. He would come running back to you, unable to stand the distance any longer. In your most unbearable, romantic daydreams, he would fly over to California and beg you to go home to Japan with him. But the weeks passed, and you entertained desperate thoughts each time you saw the lack of notifications on your phone screen.

You should message him first. No, you should call him. Or call Bachira-san instead, and learn more about Bachira through her. Or you could show up at one of his football games, and Bachira would be overcome by emotion and throw his arms around you and everything would be repaired, as easy as that.

But your dreams were nothing compared to the overwhelming silence of reality. No, it was better to find a way to bury the memory of Bachira, and find someone else. There were so many people in the world, and maybe you had been too distracted to realize that, out there, there was someone more perfect and wonderful for you. That’s how you found yourself dating Thomas, accepting his confession without a second thought.

You’re reminded of that time as your fingers hover over Bachira’s icon now, sitting cross-legged on your bed. Keep it simple. A short message.

Are you free to meet up today? I think we should go to the park near your house.

Not even a few seconds later, your phone dings.

yes!!!!!!! heading over now :3

Now? You aren’t even ready! Is your outfit good? What about your appearance? Your hands flutter nervously. You could be over at the park in a matter of minutes if you took the car, but… Wait. Why are you worrying over this sort of thing again? Why do you still care so much about his opinion? Knowing Bachira, it’d all be the same to him whenever you showed up in a trash bag or a thousand dollar suit. He’s never been one to care much for appearances.

Your phone buzzes again, and you whip it up to your face. It’s not a message from Bachira, but an email from Thomas. Your heart lunches as you open it to read a simple message asking about your trip, and if you’ve been well.

You’ve forgotten entirely about him. Instead, you’ve been thinking only of Bachira. Sure, you’re technically not dating Thomas right now, but why does it still make you feel so guilty?

You made a note to yourself to message Thomas back later. You can only handle one thing at a time right now, and Bachira is the major agenda on your list. It only takes a few minutes for you to make your way to the park, agonizingly short and slow at the same time, as if time is warping around you.

Bachira is sitting on one of the swings, twisting the metal chains in spirals and letting go slowly, so he twists in dizzying loops. The air is soft, perfumed with the scent of newly flowering trees, white petals falling like pale rain.

You pause just outside the entrance. He hasn’t noticed you yet. When did Bachira grow taller? He’s always had a round face, but puberty has melted the last of his baby fat away. His hair, at least, is as messy as ever, strands curling in every direction away from his face, his wild bangs held in check by a few clips clinging to remain on.

The worst part is that you know him still, that you will always know him. That you would recognize him even under a different name or if you had been struck blind and deaf. You would know him by your touch alone, by scent, by taste. The very space Bachira occupies is left changed by his presence, and you could chase his lingering trails for the rest of your life.

“Bachira,” you greet, walking slowly to where he’s still twisting in circles. You grab the chains, jerking him to a sudden stop, and he tilts his head up to look at you as he sways back and forth on the swings, your shadow falling across his face.

“Hey, hey, hey! You’re here!”

You nod. Your voice has fled in Bachira’s presence, and all you can do is drink him in.

“I missed you,” Bachira says.

“We met a few days ago.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “I meant I missed you the whole time you were gone from Japan! I thought of you the whole time.”

You finally manage to unstick your voice. “Why didn’t you text me?”

“Because you told me not to. You were so mad at me. I didn’t want to make you madder.”

“Did you think I hated you?” you say.

“You didn’t?” he says quietly.

“I…” you begin, then clear your throat. “I could never hate you.”

Bachira kicks at the ground. “Then why didn’t you text me?” he says, echoing your question.

“I was mad, Bachira. I…”

“You said we were best friends.”

You blink. Once, twice. “I did. I didn’t lie to you.”

“Then are we still best friends?”

“I…” You duck your head so he can’t see your face. “It’s been so long. And…” You can’t forget what happened in middle school. You can’t return to the way your relationship used to be, when you were children, and the world was simple, and uncomplicated. Why did he look at you like the two of you could? “It’s different now.”

“I always thought you were my best friend,” he says plaintively. “That’s never changed.”

“Then in middle school, why did you…” You chew the tender flesh of your cheek.

When you were in America, you had fantasized about what you would say to him, how you would redo your argument and say the right words to strike home. You had thought about running into him again, and how the perfect speech would flow from your mouth, conveying all your feelings, mending whatever had broken all those years ago. In angrier times, you thought about hitting right where it hurt, your words like a sword, and you, the perfect, righteous victim. Now, though? Now your sentences come in bits and pieces, awkward and stilted, breaking under his gaze.

“Why did you do that to me, Bachira?” you continue quietly. “Do you think we can go back to the way we were before, just like that?”

A buzz emanates from your pocket. Grateful for the distraction, you drop your grip from the swings. There are imprints of the chain links on your palm as you swipe open your new notification.

“Is it your mom?” Bachira asks.

You squint at the bright email on your phone. “No. It’s from my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” There’s a strange quaver in Bachira’s voice.

“My boyfriend. In America,” you add. “He plays football, too, and he drives me to places.” You feel mean then, your heart shriveling into something small and petty. You hadn’t intended to lie about Thomas, who was just your ex, but the lie feels good as you drink in Bachira’s lost gaze, eyes wide and shimmering with unspoken emotions.

“I’m qualified to make nationals for football,” Bachira says, that odd tone still in his voice.

“So is my boyfriend,” you add. The football season in America had just started, but Bachira didn’t need to know that.

“Cars are overrated. I just walk everywhere. It helps me become a better player,” Bachira adds.

“I should probably go so I can respond to him,” you say, waving your phone, ambling slowly towards the park entrance. Bachira’s gaze never leaves your phone.

Bachira kicks hard at the ground, shoes digging into the angry dirt. “So you like him, then? You like him a lot?”

“Bachira.” Your gaze bores into him. A breeze, sweet with the scent of flowers, ruffles his hair. “The way we are now, I don’t think you have the right to question me.”

He flinches, spinning the swing into motion, as if he can fly far from your words. But he’s only going back and forth in one direction, legs kicking at the sky.

You watch him for a while longer. All the anger drains out of you then. What is it that you came back here for, anyways? What are you looking for? What do you want? If growing up is going to be so painful, then maybe Bachira is right. You should have remained the way you once were, just the two of you.

–

By pulling some strings and begging your mom, you were able to get into the same public middle school as Meguru. The plan initially had been to send you to a fancy prep school overseas for both middle and high school, but you rebelled and pleaded, threatening to run away and to ruin the family reputation.

“I’ve never seen you cry so hard,” your mom teased. “From the way you were acting, I might as well have been torturing you. I didn’t realize you hated the idea of studying abroad so much.”

Your face burned at her words. “I’m sorry, Okaa-san.”

“Don’t be. It was cute. You hardly ever act like that, so it was nice to see.” She slid a sly smile at you. “But I wonder… is there a particular reason you wanted to go to this middle school?”

You shook your head vehemently. “No! Not at all!”

“Really? Not even for a certain little cute friend of yours?” your mom continues.

“Okaa-san!” you protested, and she threw up her hands in surrender.

When you started middle school with Meguru in the spring, though, it hadn’t been like what you expected. For starters, there was always a sea of people around you, pushing Meguru away like he was a piece of kelp set adrift on the tide. You knew how to make friends; how to smile just so, or to reply in the right lulls in the conversation to keep it going. But Meguru was always in a corner by himself. Even when you invited him over, your classmates would smile awkwardly at his nonchalant comments, or find reasons to drift away.

“He’s weird,” one of your classmates confided in you, one hand cupped around her mouth. “He talks to himself sometimes, and he never pays attention in class. He’s not a bad guy, but… he should try to fit in more.”

She looked expectantly at you, as if offering you a gift. You backed away from her instead, your own smile strained. “I see. But I like Meguru the way he is. He’s not doing anything wrong, and I don’t see why he has to change.”

Regardless of how the other students treated Meguru, though, you were determined not to let it affect you.

You were the only one to greet him in the hallways, and to sit by him during lunch. In the warm weather, the two of you would sit side by side in a secluded corner of the classroom, or try to find a place to sit outside under the shade of some trees. You walked home with him (because he preferred to dribble his football on the way, instead of taking a ride in your car), and walked to school with him, asking the driver to drop you off in front of his house. You dragged Meguru to study with you, somehow pulling him through each exam by the skin of his teeth, because you refused to imagine a situation in which the two of you wouldn’t be in a class together. Your classmates started joking that if they wanted to find you, all they had to do was call Meguru’s name, and you would pop up expectantly.

It was shaping up to be a good three years of middle school. You would graduate on time at this rate, and go to high school together. The only issue, though, was something that took place during the start of your third year of middle school. A classmate of yours had asked you to meet him after school, surrounded by two of his friends who grinned and elbowed him as he rubbed his neck, refusing to look you in the eye.

You didn’t think much of it at the time. When you showed up at the classroom, he turned to you with a sudden desperation, face red, and bowed.

“Please go out with me!” he said. “I’ve had a crush on you for the past two years!”

“Huh?” You gripped the straps of your bag tighter. “You… you like me?”

He bowed even more deeply at your confused tone. “Is it no good? Do you not feel anything for me?”

“I’m flattered, but I don’t like you in that way. I’m sorry,” you said gently.

The boy groaned. “I knew it. It’s because of Bachira, right? The two of you are always together. I don’t stand a chance against him.”

“Because of Meguru?” you repeated.

The boy nodded. “You like each other, right? It’s obvious. Man, I shouldn’t have tried to get in between that.”

You couldn’t find the words to deny him or to fix the misunderstanding, even after the two of you parted. You and Meguru? Of course you liked him. He was your best friend.

But you couldn’t let go of that boy’s words. You mulled over them, again and again. Like clothes that no longer fit quite right, your relationship with Meguru had changed shape before you had noticed. Somehow, that boy was the first to notice.

You always waited for Meguru to finish soccer practice, no matter how late it ran. Sometimes you had student council duties, or you would just sit cross-legged and work on your homework as he ran around the field. You’d done this for all three years of middle school, and the entire team knew you by name. The coach would jokingly ask if you were okay if you ever missed a day of practice, calling you an honorary member of the team.

Today was no different, and you made your way to the soccer field to wait for him. Without fail, when Meguru finished, the first thing he did was whip his head around, looking for you. As soon as he did, he made a beeline straight to you, without a care in the world.

He threw his arms around you from behind, causing the two of you to tumble into the grass. You shrieked, and he laughed, and you were a tangled pile of clinging limbs and grass stains.

It’s what he did. It’s what he was like. So why did your heart burst like a thousand butterflies into flight, reacting to his touch? He’s always been touchy. Your classmate was getting in your head.

“There you are!” Meguru said, looping his arms around your neck, heedless of who was watching, even if the team was used to his antics. “Let’s go home now!”

When he nuzzled his head into your shoulder, you couldn’t move, skin hot wherever he touched you.

“Okay, let’s go home, Meguru,” you said softly.

As soon as you went home, you sprinted past your mom to leap onto your bed and hug your pillow. You liked Meguru. You liked him so much, and it was so obvious now. It was the most natural stage for your relationship to progress to. Maybe you had always liked him, and you just didn’t have the words for it until now. Meguru had always been the most special person in the world to you, and that idea had simply taken on a new shade of meaning.

He had promised to be with you forever, hadn’t he? And Meguru would never break a promise to you.

You were careful not to let Meguru know your feelings over the following months. It would be embarrassing if he discovered them so soon, especially when it had taken you so long to realize them. But everyday after you went home, you would list all the things he had done that day, like touching your hand and hugging you, and calling your name three different times during history class. Everything about him felt so much more special now.

You liked him. You liked him so much. And you had to do something about it before graduation. As the months dripped by like water falling from a melting icicle, you planned when to make your move: on the most romantic day of the year.

During Valentine’s Day, you splayed your bandaged fingers across your desk in anticipation, your gift wrapped neatly in your backpack.

It had taken you all week to make the chocolates, which you had painstakingly molded into chocolate hearts. Since it was the first Valentine’s in which you were giving someone chocolate, you had delicately filled each heart with different fruit flavored jams– strawberry, orange, and even pineapple, Meguru’s favorite. The chocolates were nestled in a bag of pink cellophane and white tissue paper, with a red ribbon neatly tied in a bow on top. You had refused help from everyone, even the chef and your mom, because it was more special if you did it by yourself.

You hadn’t been able to stop bouncing in your seat all morning, nervous energy thrumming through you as the teacher’s history lecture went in one ear and out the other. The chocolates burned like a secret in your school bag, and you couldn’t resist fiddling with the zipper, constantly sliding it down to make sure the gift was still there.

When lunch finally rolled around, like an anxious puppy, you jumped out of your seat and headed straight to Meguru, who was sleeping, his head buried in his arms and doodles scattered across his notebooks like stars.

“Meguru,” you said, shaking his shoulder. “Meguru, wake up. Class is over.”

“Uh?” Meguru blinked one slow, sleepy eye at you, before stretching. “It is?”

“Yes. I have something to show you,” you emphasized. “It’s a surprise.”

“What is it?” He sat up, staring at you expectantly.

You glanced around the classroom; only a few people were still in their seats, eating homemade lunches and chatting with their friends, heads bent over magazines or phones. Reaching in your bag, you fumbled for the chocolates, hands trembling as you presented them to Meguru.

“Chocolate? Wow, thanks!” His eyes lit up as he reached for the bag, untying it and shaking a few of the hearts into his hand. He popped them in his mouth, his lips curling up in bliss. “These are so good!”

“I made them myself,” you explained shyly. “It took a while, but… I wanted to do something special for you, Meguru.”

He stuffed another chocolate into his mouth. “Thanks! You’re the best friend ever!”

Your face twitched at his choice of words, but you still plowed on. “Well… These aren’t just any chocolates, you know? Do you remember what day it is?”

“Uh…”

“It’s Valentine’s,” you supplied impatiently. “So, um…”

“These are friendship chocolates?” Meguru asked, his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk.

“No.” Your hands were clammy now. It was just Meguru. Meguru, who you’ve known forever. Meguru, who promised to be by your side. Meguru, who understood you more than anyone else in the world. Why were you so afraid? He’d never hurt you.

“Can I share these with my mom?” Meguru continued innocently. “I think she’d love ‘em, too.”

“No!” Meguru stared at you, and your cheeks burned. “Sorry. I can make some for Bachira-san later. But these are special, Meguru. They’re… they’re not friendship chocolates.”

A sudden hush descended over the classroom. You were on a stage, a bright, hot spotlight beaming down on you and making your neck sweat. This wasn’t anything like what you read about how confessions went in shoujo manga. Meguru’s clueless eyes burned into you, and it was like he didn’t understand the script you were trying to read for him.

Meguru ate another heart, gnashing it beneath his teeth. “Eh? What other kind of chocolate can they be?”

You forced the words out. “They’re… they’re romantic. I’m confessing to you. I like you, Meguru.”

Your breathing was shallow, and your heart beat like a frightened animal. You couldn’t look at him anymore, and the heaviness of your words dropped like stones onto the floor.

“Oh. Um… I’m sorry.” The awkwardness in Meguru’s voice was too much. You backed away from his desk, tears burning at the corner of your eyes. When you looked up, you could see your classmates, feigning disinterest as they purposefully avoided your gaze.

You burst out of the classroom, ignoring the sound of Meguru’s chair screeching back as he yelled after you, “Wait!”

You were fast, but Meguru was faster. You skidded down the steps wildly, taking several at a time, and you were half down the landing when Meguru caught up to you. He called your name at the top of the stairs, but you refused to look back– and then, he landed in front of you, breathing heavily, shirt sleeves rolled up. He had jumped down an entire flight of stairs to catch up to you.

Meguru called your name. “Wait! Wait, wait.”

You turned your head away, but you could still sense Meguru in front of you. Your childhood friend. Your best friend. You had drawn hearts around his name in the back of your notebook this morning.

“What is it?” you said softly. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe Meguru had just been surprised, and now he would confess his feelings.

It was a joke, right?” he said uncertainly. “You were joking. It was a weird joke, but–”

“I wasn’t joking!” you yelled, shoving him backwards with a wild strength that surprised you. You haven’t been this mad at him since you first met.

Meguru stumbled back a few steps, watching you with wide eyes. It was an expression you hadn’t seen on him before: confused, lost, and afraid. Shouldn’t you be the one making that face?

“Okay. Um. It’s just weird if our relationship changes like that. You and me? That’s kinda weird,” he said again. “We’re friends! I don’t want to be anything else.”

You dug your nails into the meat of your palm until the pain was all you could think about. “I don’t want to be friends.”

“Huh?” Now Meguru looked even more afraid.

“I like you, Meguru,” you said, a broken sob in your voice. “I can’t just be friends with you. I…”

Meguru stepped closer to you. There was a starburst of hope in your chest, before it was dashed by Meguru dropping your Valentine’s Day chocolate in your hands. You curled your fingers over the hearts, crushing them in your palm.

“I don’t want to do this,” Meguru mumbled. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear anything, okay?”

“You’re a coward,” you said furiously, pushing all your hurt into your voice. You weren’t sad. You weren’t going to cry. Not especially in front of him. “I– I don’t want to see you again. Don’t talk to me. You liar! You said you would always be by my side!”

When you looked down the stairs, you could see a few of your fellow students, awkwardly hovering near the bottom of the landing. They averted their gazes when they met your eyes, but your whole body felt hot with rage and embarrassment. How many people had seen and heard the two of you? By tomorrow, everyone in school would probably be gossiping about how you were rejected by Meguru.

You ran. You ran, and this time, Meguru didn’t stop you as you jumped down the stairs. Somehow, you made your way home. You started listlessly at your phone, but there was no message from Meguru. You had been the one to tell him not to contact you, but… you threw your phone onto your bed.

Stupid Meguru. Stupid you. It had never occurred to you that Meguru might not feel the same way as you. You had been so arrogant, so certain that he liked you, and now you had embarrassed yourself in front of the whole school.

Did he forget? He promised to marry you. But that had been on a childish whim of his, no doubt, something he had long forgotten. You buried your head in your arms, and cried until you could drown the entirety of Chiba in your tears.

When your mom came home that night, a frown was brewing on her face, but the sight of your puffy eyes and hoarse voice stopped her lecture.

“What happened?” she asked you. “The school called me. You skipped classes.”

You shook your head. “I want to study abroad for high school.”

“What? Are you sure? You were so excited to go to school with Meguru-kun. The process would be–”

“I don’t care,” you said. His name stung your heart. “I want to go to America, Okaa-san. Please.”

She peered at you closely, then sighed. “Okay. Okay, let’s talk about this later. But if you really want to, then it’s not too late to make it happen.”

For the rest of your time until graduation, you avoided Meguru. You didn’t text him. When you saw him in the halls, you turned around and went a different way. You stuck closely to your other friends, and went home right away whenever you didn’t have any extracurriculars. You no longer visited the football field after school.

No one was cruel enough to talk about your confession to your face, but you could feel the glances, hear the whispers, until everyone lost interest and moved on to the next piece of gossip.

A part of you expected Meguru to come running to you, but he quietly kept out of your way. Maybe he was avoiding you, just as much as you were avoiding him. What an odd thought; Meguru had always been the first to whine when you had to leave to visit your grandparents for the summer. He was the one who always threw his arms around you. Maybe your relationship hadn’t meant that much to him after all.

When it came time for you to move to America, you and Meguru graduated middle school without talking to each other at all.

–

For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to talk to Thomas about Bachira.

In fact, you haven’t told any of your American friends about Bachira. You spent the first year in California trying to forget him, blindly agreeing to go on dates with any boys who showed interest in you. But their love for you was never greater than your own lack of it. Thomas is only the most recent one and you follow his lead, not out of loyalty, but convenience.

You keep your thoughts held tight to your chest, precious secrets that you refuse to let spill out of your grasp. With everyone in your life, sometimes even your mom, you have always put up a front. The only person you didn’t do that with was with Bachira.

Bachira is an open wound, one that grows bigger with every year, overwhelming you with its enormity and the way pressing on it still makes you ache. Your friends would laugh if you told them you were hanging on to a boy for so long, nursing this pain like your own child. They wouldn’t understand, and you would look pathetic in their eyes. There are no words in English or Japanese to describe what he means to you. His hold on you is as eternal as the way the flowers bloom during the spring, and the world revolves on its axis.

The rest of spring break passes in a flash. You hardly run into Bachira anymore, and your mom doesn’t force any more meetings. You email Thomas, who responds with boyish enthusiasm even at your dry answers.

The night before your morning flight, you rush up and down the stairs, sorting your various toiletries and stuffing clothes into your suitcase.

“All ready?” your mom asks you, nursing a mug of tea at the counter, watching you bustle.

“Yes, Okaa-san,” you say obediently. She holds open her arms, and you stop by for a hug, her arms enveloping you. She runs a hand in circles along your back, humming to herself.

“You’re such a good child,” she says affectionately. “Come visit me again soon. I’ll be lonely without you.”

“Okay.”

“And…” She pulls back to peer into your eyes. “You’re a little too good to me. You should try to be more wild. Rebel, so I can throw up my hands in exasperation at you and complain to all my friends.”

“I’ll try, so you have something to talk about with your coworkers,” you say, and she pinches your nose.

“Don’t try. Just do it,” she scolds. “I’ll always forgive you for any silly mistakes you make.”

“Okay, Okaa-san,” you say. “If I break a law, I’ll let you know in advance to prepare my bail.”

She smiles sadly. “You’re so old now. I wish you wouldn’t get hurt in life, but I can’t fix everything for you.”

“The world isn’t that nice,” you agree.

“You haven’t talked to Meguru-kun recently,” she says gently. “Did something happen?”

You stiffen, your face shuttering closed. “We’re okay. We’re just busy.”

She stirs the tea in her mug. “Okay. I won’t push you any further. Your life is yours to live. But I’ll always be here for you, if you need me.”

She leans in to kiss you on the forehead, and you want to cry. From the way she hesitates, you know she wants to say something else, but she simply lets you go.

How long has your mom suspected that your relationship with Bachira isn’t as pleasant as you pretend it is? You rub your forehead as you rush upstairs, dumping the last of your items into your suitcase. You sit on top of it to force it closed as you start zipping up the side, when your phone buzzes.

Bachira? No, it’s Thomas. The header of the email causes you to drop your phone in surprise.

About our relationship…

You pick up your phone, skimming the email.

Can we get back together? You read. I miss you.

How fickle. He was the one who broke up with you, and now he wants to get back together right away as soon as it’s convenient. That might not be a bad idea, though. A relationship where you knew what was expected from you, a simple transaction, would be easy.

Your phone buzzes again; it’s an incoming call. You stare at the caller ID for a few seconds, your surprised face reflected in the screen, before you answer, pressing the phone close to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Bachira says. “I’m outside.”

“What?”

“I’m outside your door,” he repeats. “Can you come outside? If not, I’ll come in.”

“Why are you here?” You stand, heart pounding.

“Kaa-san told me you were leaving tomorrow,” Bachira says. “So I wanted to stop by.”

“Bachira…”

“Just for a little bit,” he persists. “That’s all you need to do.”

You sigh. “All right, fine. But only for a few minutes, okay?”

You hang up, pulling on a light jacket before you’re flying down the stairs, trading your house slippers for flip flops, and burst into the cool night air. The sun is setting, painting the sky in vibrant swatches of peaches and reds. There’s a cool breeze, sweet with the scent of new growth.

Bachira is leaning outside your family gate, a football tucked under his arm.

“What is it?” you ask him tersely, shoving your hands in your jacket pockets.

“You’re going back to America?” he says.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

“When will you come back?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go to university there,” you reply. You had planned to come back for summer break to see your mom, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Okay.” Bachira looks at the ground. “What about your boyfriend?”

“Why do you want to know about him?”

“Do you like him?”

“I… Sure,” you say, but it sounds weak, even to your own ears. “We’re on break right now because he’s busy with football season, but we’re thinking about getting back together,” you add more strongly, and Bachira kicks at the ground.

“He sounds like a jerk. Why’d he break up with you if he just wants to get back together whenever he wants?”

“At least he’s clear with his intentions,” you say sharply. “And he doesn’t run away.”

Bachira flinches, but it doesn’t make you feel as good as it should have. “... Shouldn’t…” he mumbles.

“What?” You tilt your head to catch his words.

“You shouldn’t get with him again,” Bachira says, still kicking at the ground like he would dribble his football.

“Why not?” You laugh, short and bitter. “How is that your business, Bachira? It’s not like you’re my boyfriend. We’re not even— we’re not even friends anymore.”

No response. What did you expect?

“I’m tired of this, okay?” you say softly. “All this stupid back and forth. We keep going in circles. If all we’re going to do is hurt each other, then let’s just end this here.”

Bachirs looks up at you finally, his gaze full of so much desperation and uncertainty. His chin trembles as he says, “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, more serious than you’ve ever heard him. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I rejected your confession. I’m sorry I didn’t call you.”

Bachira might as well have stabbed you. “Do you think that’s going to fix things? You’re sorry? Now? After all this time? What’s that going to fucking fix?” you say, your voice rising with each word you spit out.

“You didn’t call me, either,” Bachira says quietly. You flinch at the raw hurt in his voice, his overwhelming sadness. “You’re the one who just left without a word. You’re the one who ignored me. You were my only friend. You were my best friend.”

You chew your lip hard. Were. Not are. “I couldn’t face you anymore,” you say.

“I thought our friendship was stronger than that,” he says.

“I guess it wasn’t.”

“Do you really not want to be friends anymore?”

“What do you think? You want us to go back to how we were before and pretend nothing happened? It’s too late. Everything has changed. There’s no going back,” you spit. “You broke my heart. I… I loved you.”

“Then why did you just leave so easily? If you loved me?” Bachira asks. “You ran away and didn’t even try.”

“I could ask you the same,” you snap. “Just tell me it’s over. Okay? Reject me for good.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? It was so easy for you before.”

“Because I love you,” Bachira says desperately.

It’s the world’s cruelest joke. Bachira reaches an uncertain hand towards you, and you jerk back, tears rolling down your face and blurring your vision. He can’t touch you. If he does, you’ll break apart. “Don’t lie,” you say. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m not lying. I didn’t want to admit it before,” he says. “When you told me you liked me, I was scared by how I felt.”

“Stop it.”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he says. “Things were changing so fast. You were my only friend, and if you liked me, then we couldn’t ever go back to being just friends.”

“So you’re doing this to me now?” you say. The tears are still falling, and you hug yourself. You feel so weak and so young, all your surety stripped away. “You think you can do this to me?”

I’m sorry,” he says.

“You lost me either way,” you snap, “when you broke my heart like that.”

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt, and I’m sorry I pushed you away.”

You give a strangled laugh. “Really?”

“You don’t have to like me,” he says. “You can be as mad as you want. If you gotta go to America, that’s fine. If you– wanna be with someone else, too, if you don’t love me, that’s okay. We don’t even have to be friends, if you hate me. Just– can I please– can I love you? Is that okay? I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You’re so mean, Meguru,” you whisper. You can’t go forward until you confront him. You can’t go back because it’s impossible. Your fate has always been twisted by the boy in front of you.

You grab the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric in your hands savagely, as you press your lips against his. It’s a short kiss, salty with the taste of your tears, and Bachira is too surprised to kiss you back.

“Eh?” Bachira asks dazedly.

“You piss me off,” you say.

“Uh?”

You take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Meguru. I’m sorry I left you alone and that I ran away from you and that I gave up so easily. I was scared, okay? But… I never hated you. Ever.”

“You called me Meguru,” Meguru breathes. And then he throws his arms around your neck.

“You’re so clingy,” you complain, hesitantly wrapping your arms around his back. You’ve missed his warmth, familiar and pleasant and gentle. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“Sort of!”

“Pay attention!”

“Okay. Well, let’s start over from the beginning, then,” he says. “We can do it again this time, and do it better.” He pulls back from you, clearing his throat. “Hi, I’m Bachira Meguru! It’s nice to meet you,” he says goofily, sticking out his hand.

“Hi.” You take his hand, giving it one shake, introducing your name. “Let’s… let’s be friends.”

“We can’t date?” Meguru asks, pouting, and you frown at him.

“No. Not now,” you acknowledge. “I have to talk to Thomas properly about how I feel. And I’m going back to America tomorrow. And there’s so much that I have to sort through—”

Meguru leans in and kisses you mid-sentence, a quick, butterfly of a kiss that steals all the words from you. “We’ll be friends for now. And if you want, then we can try dating. And even marriage.”

“Married?” you sputter. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“You did,” he says nonchalantly.

“From when we were kids,” you point out.

“Eh? Does that matter? We promised, so we have to follow through on it.”

“Don’t tell me you were going to propose to me.”

“In the future,” he says. “We can’t get married before we’re adults.”

“Meguru,” you say slowly. “Were you seriously planning on proposing to me? Before even asking my opinion?”

“What’s wrong with that? I thought you liked romantic stuff. Isn’t that romantic?”

You grit your teeth. You move to grab his shoulders, but Meguru dodges your grasp and slides backwards. You lunge at him again, but he dances out of your way.

“Come back here, Bachira Meguru,” you yell. “Do you have any common sense?”

“Who needs that?” he says cheerfully.

It feels like your first meeting as kids, so long ago. No one else in the world can quite make you feel this way, for better or for worse. Frustrated, you chase after Meguru as he weaves out of your grasp and hops down the length of the sidewalk. This goes on for a little bit, and just when you’ve run out of steam, Meguru spins around. Before you can move, he leaps at you and gathers you into a hug, his arms around your waist.

“Meguru, cut it out,” you say, annoyed, but you don’t move out of his grasp.

“Hmm…” he says. “I’ve decided! I’ll come visit you in America!”

“What?”

Meguru nods to himself, satisfied. “It’ll be fun! I’ve never been out of the country before! Hey, do you think I could fit in your suitcase?”

“Obviously not!”

You take a deep gulp of the spring air, sweet in your mouth, the flowering trees sending a blessing of pink petals over you. You and Meguru. Meguru and you. It’s just like when the two of you were little, only you’re starting over this time. Nothing would ever be the same again, but what new things could you build instead? What sort of people would you be now?

You hold out your hand to Meguru. He takes it easily, interlacing your fingers like he’s always belonged there. With his touch, an endless world of possibilities unfolds before you. This time, the two of you will explore it together.

#liya writes #blue lock #bachira meguru #bachira meguru x reader #blue lock x reader #blue lock imagines #bllk #blue lock bachira #bllk x reader #bllk bachira #bachira x reader #meguru bachira #meguru bachira x reader

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donottouchredbutton · 9 months

Text

Endlessly Falling

joaquin torres x sunshine!reader/ofc

3k words

she was falling, and there was only one person she trusted to catch her.

set in the same universe as this fic

warnings: angst, fear, canon-typical violence but i think it's pretty vague, reader/ofc has a fear of heights, idk let me know if i'm missing anything

note: idk if this is any good, i wrote it in like four hours unedited while i was trying to distract myself from burnout from work. feedback is always welcome :) also let me know if you notice anything familiar about sunshine's backstory... idk maybe there's something there, maybe there's not. let me know what you think!

She was running for her life. Again. She was really getting tired of this shit.

She remembered a few weeks ago when the worst thing she had to worry about was getting her essays turned in on time, emailing her professors, and working on her thesis, back when she was just a grad student. Since meeting Joaquin, she found herself in trouble a lot more than she ever expected to be.

That wasn’t to say this was the first time she’s ever had to run for her life, or that meeting Joaquin was the start of her getting into trouble. Or that meeting Joaquin was her first time helping a superhero. No, she had plenty of experience with this sort of thing. She remembered when she was a teenager the few (multiple) times when her dad’s work followed him home (literally) and having to hide or having to flee her own home just so he could take care of it. Terrifying as it was, she had learned to be good at finding the best hiding spots on the fly. And she still remembered when she was nineteen being trapped in a cage with a monster (who, to be fair, was her dad, but we won’t go into the specifics this time), with the intention of being mauled to death alongside a woman she barely knew. And just a year later, having to travel halfway across the world to help a superhero with identity issues to stop a cult and rescue her dad from said cult (her dad had a bad habit of getting himself into trouble, but he would always tell her that her uncle was even worse).

Yeah. This wasn’t her first rodeo. And she was positive it wouldn’t be her last, either.

But she sure as hell didn’t miss having to do this.

Sam and Joaquin had both understood and agreed initially that they needed her help if they were going to stop this underground terrorist group. Bucky had been on the fence about it at first, thinking her too nice and innocent to get involved, but once she had proved herself in a fight the first time he had realized he had jumped the gun on judging her. She was a formidable opponent while still being able to maintain her happy nature and her positive, love-for-life attitude.

Which was why she found herself in this position for the first time in years. She hadn’t meant to cause a distraction, she had just been sent by the men on a reconnaissance mission to one of their underground meetings while the three of them tried to take out their base of operations nearby. Even to her, the meeting was much bigger than she had been expecting, and the sound of the men updating her on their progress through her earpiece was only confirmation: they were a much bigger threat than they had initially believed. She had been listening to one of the leaders of the group as he slowly but surely began riling everyone up, his voice raising as he spoke to them about forcing order to the world and subjecting the people who had no care for them. He was nearly shouting at that point, and it was honestly beginning to frighten her. She was so ensnared by his words that the sound of Sam yelling through the earpiece completely threw her off her guard.

“GET DOWN! IT’S A TRAP!”

The sound of gunshots on the other end of her earpiece caused her to gasp in fear, which caused her to slap her hand over her mouth in dread. She was scared for her friends, but she was also terrified at the sudden silence that happened in the room next to her after she did so. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as what was surely only a few seconds felt like years as she awaited what would happen. She didn’t dare breathe as she waited, her back pressed against the wall to make herself as small as possible.

“Someone’s here with us. Take care of it.”

The leader’s words were just loud enough for her to hear, but it was more than enough to set her off at a sprint to get out of there.

She had been running for what had felt like forever when she finally thought to check in with the others to make sure they were okay, and to find out what the hell happened.

“What the hell happened?” she shouted through the earpiece.

“They knew we were coming! It was a setup!” Sam shouted back. He and Bucky were fighting off terrorists left and right as they themselves tried to get out of the base. Their initial plan had been to find the leaders at the base and to either a) reason with them and get them to come willingly (Sam’s idea) or b) stop them by any means necessary (Bucky’s idea), but the three men had been met with nearly an entire army once they got there like they knew they were coming. The place had been booby trapped of all things, tipping the group off so that they opened fire seconds later. They all knew that if they were in trouble, she would be too. “Get outta there, now!”

“I’m trying!”

And she was. Unfortunately for her, the place was a maze, and with about ten angry men chasing after her, it was hard for her to focus on where all of the hallways led to rather than just trying to get away from them. Her fear was making it hard to think, and luckily it was making it hard to think about the fear itself. She just needed to get away.

The sound of Joaquin’s voice in her ear immediately began to uncloud her mind. “Find a way to go up! Stairs, ladder, window, anything! I’ll come find you!”

She wasn’t able to think about how he would be able to do so, but she listened to him anyway. She trusted him enough to believe he was telling the truth.

Truthfully, Joaquin didn’t know if he was. He had split from Sam and Bucky once they had opened fire, Sam telling him to fly out of there to find their superior and tell them all they had learned about the group. He often thought about what it would be like to jump out as Falcon, but he wasn’t exactly able to reflect on those expectations when he was in the middle of a life or death situation. He thought once he did so that he was in the clear, but there had been a couple of helicopters right outside waiting for him. So, they had air support. Of fucking course they did.

Joaquin was sure that their superior would get an earful from Sam once they were finally on the clear (if they ever got to that point). He was doing his best to take out the people shooting at him from the helicopters, making sure they stayed focused on him so they wouldn’t start shooting elsewhere, but the entire time his focus was elsewhere. He couldn’t keep his mind off of her, and he was riddled with guilt.

Joaquin was the one who had fought so hard to convince Sam and Bucky that she could help them on this mission. While they had both known she could handle herself, they were hesitant to let her go into the field with them, especially on a mission like this. She would have to get about as close as she physically could to this terrorist group without them finding out she was there, and they weren’t willing to risk her getting hurt or worse if something went wrong. It was the last thing Joaquin ever wanted, but he saw how hard she fought to convince them. He saw her conviction and determination, and more than anything, he saw that she truly cared. She just wanted to help, and Joaquin knew that. She was running for her life right now because he was the one to convince them to let her help.

She was in danger because of him.

He was right about her needing to find a way up. She had found a door that led her to a staircase all the way up to the roof. She took a quick glance over her shoulder to see how close the men were, finding them far away enough for her to be able to lock the door behind her. If she wasn’t running for her life, she would’ve thought about how it definitely seemed like a safety issue for the door to even have a lock, but she was more concerned about buying herself at least a minute or two to get to the top. She didn’t look back again after she locked the door and began to race up the stairs, not until she heard the sound of a gunshot blowing the door open. The information that they did have guns with them scared her more than she thought it would. They liked the chase, and they didn’t want the end to be quick if they did catch her. The thought made her blood run cold, and a new wave of adrenaline filled her as she continued to run.

Once she reached the roof, once again locking the door behind her to buy herself some time, she looked out to try to find Joaquin anywhere nearby, but he was nowhere to be found. She braced herself as she looked over the edge of the building she was on, and the realization of just how far up she was was quick to set in. She hadn’t realized how long the staircase was nor how far up she had run, but the sight of the city what looked like miles beneath her caused her heart to beat faster for a completely different reason. She could handle most things—monsters, cults, running for her life. Heights weren’t one of those things.

“Joaquin,” she said. She tried to steady the tremble in her voice, trying to control her breathing.

“I’m on my way!” he shouted back, trying to dodge the helicopter that was currently shooting at him. He was not on his way, but he needed to be soon if he wanted any chance of getting to her in time.

The sound of the men chasing her banging on the door to the roof made her jolt, dread filling her veins like venom. They were throwing themselves against the door to get it open. Unsuccessfully, sure, but the knowledge that they had the means to get the door open with their weapons made her believe that this was just a sadistic scare tactic. The thought made her sick.

“Joaquin,” she warned. She was unable to hide the fear she felt from her voice. Even she could hear her voice shake.

So could Joaquin, and he knew they were both running out of time. Taking out the pilot in the final helicopter, he set the thrusters of his wings to full power before jetting off to where she was.

“I’m on my way!” he shouted once again, but he knew that he wouldn’t be there in enough time. Thinking fast, he added, “You’re gonna have to jump!”

Her stomach dropped at the thought. “I can’t,” she whispered. But she knew she was running out of options. The men chasing her would get tired of playing with her, and in seconds they would be out there with her. She’d have nowhere else to go. Her hands were already shaking as the reality of what she had to do was setting in.

And she was right. The sound of the door to the roof being blown open made her jump, and the sight of the men closing in on her filled her with a fear she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“JOAQUIN!”

“JUMP!”

She didn’t think. She ran to the edge of the building and jumped, right before they could grab her.

She’s fallen before. She’s fallen out of tall trees when she was little, her dad constantly scolding her for climbing trees when she knew she might fall, but that’s why she always did it—to get better at climbing without falling. She’s jumped off of high platforms, trying to get down from where she was to try to help someone who needed it. She’s been thrown off of the side of a building before, but even then that was done when she was unconscious. This was something different. Being in free fall for so long, that sinking feeling in her gut never leaving but slowly getting worse as she seemed to fall closer to the ground in slow motion. The air whipped at her as if punishing her for jumping, her fear only growing as it felt like she would be endlessly falling.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think to breathe. She couldn’t think, her mind somewhere up in the clouds that she seemed to remember falling through when she jumped. Her eyes were dripping with tears she couldn’t stop as the cool air burned them as she went. Another punishment, she thought. The air was thin, too, choking her up even more. She couldn’t find her voice, though if she did, she wouldn’t have been able to think about calling for Joaquin again. She couldn’t think about whether he would catch her in time. She just had to continue falling.

Joaquin’s heart raced as he did, his sights set on her as he flew to catch her. He could hear the fear in her voice when she said she couldn’t jump, it had been clear as day to him that she was afraid to. He hadn’t wanted to make her do it, but he knew she had to. And he knew he would rather die than let her hit the ground. He wouldn’t let her get hurt again. He would make sure of it.

When he was finally close enough, his arms reaching for her, Joaquin felt time stop. He couldn’t think. The only thing he could focus on as he reached for her was her eyes. Those eyes he had seen could hold such light and happiness as he had come to know her, those same eyes that were squeezed shut from fear and wet with tears he knew she couldn’t stop. Once he was close enough, he wrapped his arms around her tightly, never daring to let go.

Once she felt him surrounding her, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, aware enough to not choke him but clutching onto him like her life depended on it, because it did. There was nothing that would get her to let go. And now that he was holding her, she could finally feel herself breathe again.

They were both silent as he flew them away from the building, away from all of the bad men who wished them harm, away from where she felt for a moment she was falling to her death. The pit in her stomach from falling was gone, replaced with something else she couldn’t place. She still felt sick feeling her insides shaken so much, but it wasn’t just that. She felt a pull inside her, not in her stomach but maybe in her chest. She couldn’t know for sure, still barely able to think or process what was going on. The only thing she knew for sure at that moment was that she felt well and truly safe wrapped up in Joaquin’s arms.

Joaquin finally landed them on the roof of another building, much much shorter than the one she had jumped from and miles away. With the way she was clutching onto his back, he knew she could use a moment to stand on her own two legs and catch her breath. Once his feet touched the ground, he slowly eased her down as well, taking care to handle her gently for fear of causing her any more grief. His arms didn’t leave her even as she got her footing, nor did they when she leaned heavily against him once she was standing. She was still gripping him for dear life, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. He was sure he was holding her in a similar way.

“Are you okay?” he asked after a few minutes. He always made sure that she was, and if she wasn’t, he always did what he could to help.

“…Yeah,” she answered slowly, barely audible if it weren’t for her mouth being so close to his ear. “Just… need a minute.”

Joaquin knew that they didn’t have a minute. He should’ve already been with his superior by now, finishing up with the debrief as they waited for Sam and Bucky to return as well. But he wasn’t concerned with any of that right now. The only thing he cared about was the woman in his arms, shaking like a leaf as she tried to calm down. For her, he would make the time.

He readjusted his arms around her so that he was hugging her instead, one arm around her waist while the other came up to her shoulders, his hand holding her head against him and stroking her hair. He tried to steady his breathing in a way that she could follow, willing his own heart rate to slow down as he tried to help her calm down.

She wasn’t the only one who had felt like they were endlessly falling. The only difference was, his had been slow and steady, hardly noticing it was happening until it hit him all at once. And he knew he would fall again and again if it meant getting to hold her like this.

#joaquin torres #joaquín torres #joaquin torres imagine #joaquin torres x reader #joaquín torres x reader #joaquín torres imagine #joaquín torres x ofc #joaquin torres x ofc #danny ramirez #tfatws #tfatws fic #the falcon and the winter soldier #marvel fanfic #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #marvel oc #marvel reader insert #tfatws fanfic

71 notes · View notes

love-kurdt · 5 months

Text

This is Me Trying (byler): 1

word count: 6,469

warnings for this chapter: lots of sexual content!! underage drinking, mentions of drug use, roofie mention bc college, internalized homophobia, maaaajooorrrr depression. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

If someone were to ask Mike Wheeler what time it was, he wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, he would look down at his watch and realize that said watch was not on his wrist. He would then ask himself why his watch was not on his wrist, then he would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and he was dead to Will, so he didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, he’d probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” He was drunk, though, so he was allowed.

Mike was at some frat party, spending what was his last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. He was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between his legs and a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He’d given up some time ago on trying to pace himself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and Mike could feel the bass reverberating in his bones, which would normally make him want to get up and dance, but he wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; he was only halfway through his sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen this coming. Mike had been spiraling for a long time. It all started over summer break between his senior year of high school and his freshman year of college. Mike never even wanted to go to college in the first place. What was the point of spending tens of thousands of dollars on a creative writing degree when he could just freelance and eventually get published? But Ted insisted on Mike at least attending a state school with cheaper tuition, claiming, “You can’t run on ink and espresso, son. You have to put in the work and have the credentials to show for it.” On the bright side, it was a miracle that Ted had enough confidence in his son to allow Mike to pursue writing at all. But he was on thin ice with his father, had been for years, so he agreed to at least think about college.

Mike’s friends chose their respective schools fairly quickly; Dustin had gotten in with a full ride scholarship to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Max and Lucas went to UCLA as sports science and physical therapy double majors, El went to Vanderbilt University in Nashville to pursue a degree in therapy, and Will… Will went to Chicago. Which school he went to, or if he went to college at all, Mike didn’t know. To study what, he had no clue. Where he lived within the city, he hadn’t the slightest idea. That’s what happens when your ex-best friend up and leaves without so much as a “goodbye.” Mike considered the day Will left to be the day his world stopped turning and time froze. So he took off his watch and hid it in a shoebox under his bed with the rest of his mini-shrine.

Dr. Owens and his team had arranged government-mandated counseling for all of those involved in the Vecnapocalypse. A year in, though, Mike didn’t see a point in going anymore. He was healed. He was fine. He was ready to move on with his life. Well, everyone else in the Party was ready to move on. Why wouldn’t he be? It probably hadn’t been the best decision on Mike’s part to stop going to therapy, but without Will in his life, Mike didn’t have much of a reason to stay in Hawkins at all, and he really didn’t feel like dredging up his past once a week to pick apart as if he were in an anatomy lab practical. Besides, he didn’t feel like arguing anymore with his dad. So, he begrudgingly packed his bags and headed to Indianapolis, killing two birds with one stone.

When he got to campus, he was assigned to dorm with this guy named Elvis (yes, as in Presley). Aside from his stupid ass name, Elvis Kuiken was a good roommate. He was a senior who kept to himself most days, when he wasn’t working. He was clean, by Mike’s standards (which were on the floor, literally and figuratively speaking), and he was also part of a fraternity. He’d always bring Mike along to parties, all in the name of the formative freshman experience. What this “experience” primarily entailed, Mike came to find out, was alcohol. Weed, too, no doubt… but extra emphasis on alcohol.

Mike didn’t want to admit it, at least not to others, but he became a lot more withdrawn since his falling out with Will. He wasn’t as outgoing, as daring, or as extroverted as he used to be. He was used to being an outcast of sorts, so not much changed there. Except now, where he used to have the confidence to at least approach people and introduce himself– “Hi, I’m Michael! Do you want to be my friend?” “Yes.”– he couldn’t do that anymore. It was like his communicational skills had completely disappeared. But during his first party, he took a shot of tequila and must’ve made at least ten acquaintances within the three hours he was there. If only Troy could see how popular he was now. He’d piss his pants… again. It was like a light flickered on in his head; the more he drank, the more sociable he’d become. Mike took this epiphany and ran with it.

One time back in— September?— or something, Mike had been at a party for a few hours, and came up with the idea to try every single type of liquor to ever exist. He picked up a shot glass and stood at the counter for a good fifteen minutes, downing shot after shot. He woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache, unsure of how he even got back to his dorm room. But then he looked to his right and saw Elvis’s head resting on his very shirtless, hickey-covered chest. Oh. That’s how he got home. Mike wasn’t able to wear any shirts with collars below his clavicle for days. He didn’t hate it, though. In fact, that wasn’t the last time Mike and his roommate hooked up. Stumbling through the door, making out in the dark, and whispering each other’s names into otherwise complete silence until the sun came up became a regular occurrence.

Christmas break arrived, and most of Mike’s time back in Hawkins was spent trying to avoid Will. And from the way Mike saw it, Will was everywhere. He was the art on his bedroom wall. He was the yellow sweater that hung in Mike’s closet, probably the only colorful item in his entire wardrobe that Mike hadn’t thrown out, because it was Will’s sweater. He was the shea butter soap on the bathroom counter. He was the hot cocoa mix in the kitchen cabinet. He was the D&D box buried underneath his bed that Mike neglected since Eddie’s death in 1986. He was the Party. So Mike didn’t leave his basement for the entirety of mid-December to the beginning of January, with the exceptions of family dinners and sleep. He wouldn’t lie, he was a little bit ashamed of how he’d handled things with the Party. He definitely shouldn’t have iced everyone out. His friends made various attempts to get the Party back together, and always invited Mike, but he’d always have some kind of excuse as to why he couldn’t hang out with them. They eventually stopped calling.

One Saturday afternoon, he was sprawled out on the couch watching Star Wars: Episode VI– Return of the Jedi, and Nancy and Jonathan came barrelling in through the basement entrance, practically swallowing each other whole. Mike missed the feeling of being in love. He’d cleared his throat when it started to get a bit too steamy, causing the couple to jump apart in shock. Nancy smoothed her skirt while Jonathan lifted a hand into the air to greet Mike. He nodded back in acknowledgement. This silent interaction had Mike wanting to crawl out of his skin. All he wanted to do was ask Jonathan about Will; how Will was, what Will was doing, if Will had met anyone, if Will remembered him. It was like Jonathan could read his mind, because he said, completely unprompted, “He still thinks about you, Mike. He hasn’t forgotten you.” Mike actively committed those words to memory.

Mike ran into Joyce during a last minute school supplies shopping trip to Melvald’s on his way out of town. It was bound to happen at some point, what with Joyce owning Melvald’s now. He’d expected it to be awkward, but was proven wrong when Joyce practically jumped the counter to engulf her honorary third son in a hug. She’d pulled him all the way down to her level, so he was bent at almost a 90 degree angle, but he didn’t care.

“How’ve you been, sweetheart? How’s Indy treating you?” she asked. That was a loaded question. It would be spectacular if your son hadn’t left, but whatever.

“It’s treating me well, I’m mostly taking my gen eds right now, but I’m always writing my own material when I’m not in class,” he grinned, trying his best to not let it look fake or forced. Joyce seemed to buy it.

“I’m so glad to hear that. You know, I always knew you were going to become a writer,” Joyce smiled, and Mike nodded, staying as neutral as possible. He knew where she was going with this. “I remember it as if it were yesterday,” bingo, “that in the mornings after your sleepovers, you and Will would sit at the dining room table with your eggs and maple syrup and work on your comics for hours. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” Mike replied wistfully, “I do.” He glanced down at his shoes, trying not to let any tears escape. The amount of crying over Will that he’d done just within the time he was back home was pathetic. But Joyce didn’t seem to mind in the least, because she reached up and ran her thumbs over his cheeks, where a few stray tears had traveled down against his will.

“Oh, honey,” Joyce held Mike’s face in her hands, eyes filled with compassion, and pulled him into another hug, holding him close. Mike had always loved Joyce, but this mutual understanding led Mike to reserve a special place in his heart for her.

They engaged in a little more small talk before she personally walked (dragged) him through the store with his shopping list to retrieve the items he needed. When she checked out his items at the counter, she grabbed a pen and post-it note, wrote something on it, and handed it to Mike. He held it up to eye level with a shaky hand.

“That’s Will’s phone number, he’s at the American Academy of Art,” she whispered. Mike’s eyes widened, and he breathed, “Thank you, Ms. Byers. So much,” before heading out the door to his car. He sat in the parking lot for a solid fifteen minutes, causing himself to fall behind schedule, but he had Will’s phone number. That was a good enough reason to be late, in his book.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, Mike was finally able to return to campus. He’d set his suitcase down next to his bed, and took a minute to collect his thoughts prior to unpacking. All of a sudden, Elvis clumsily tripped over his own feet through the door, sheepishly grinning at a startled Mike. Mike felt a blush rise to his cheeks, followed by a quiet, “hi.” Seconds later, they were all over each other.

It was around this time that Mike finally came to terms with the undeniable fact that he was exclusively attracted to men. He’d always believed his sexual preferences existed as a strict ratio of 70:30, with 70% being women and 30% being men. He’d always been aware of his attraction to guys (Will); he’d been sure of that for as long as he could remember. The confusing part about it all was when El came into the picture, and everyone and their mother expected them to start dating. Mike was, like, twelve at the time, so of course he went along with what everyone else wanted. That backfired majorly when El confronted Mike with tears in her eyes, asking, “But… you don’t love me anymore?” and his impulse response was, “I don’t even think I loved you romantically to begin with.” It took a long time for Mike and El to repair their friendship following that conversation, and to help him bullshit his parents into falling for some half-baked reason as to why he and his “sweetie pie” broke up so suddenly.

When he started his… situationship with Elvis, though, he began to question his 70:30 ratio. Elvis, to put it simply, was hot. He was taller than Mike, just by an inch, but it didn’t stop him from calling Mike “short.” Mike found that hilarious, as he himself stood at a staggering six foot three. Elvis had tanned skin, blonde hair which he kept in a preppy side part, and bright eyes that captured the essence of the bluest sky. He had full lips, a chiseled jawline, and a lean yet muscular build with the likeness of a Greek statue. Elvis had the most gorgeous hands. Mike particularly liked when those hands pinned his wrists above his head. He also liked when those blue eyes bore into his soul in the way that only one other pair of eyes had ever been able to do within his mere eighteen years of life. And he loved when that chiseled jawline, rough from lack of shaving, rubbed abrasively against his neck.

Elvis was adamant on there being no strings attached. He made sure to remind Mike every time they did anything remotely sexual, but over time, those words began to lose their potency, like watering down vodka to make it go down smoother. Mike’s wide eyes and “yes, of course, I understand”s were slowly replaced with absentminded “mmhmm”s. He figured that as long as Elvis never picked up on Mike’s social cues (or lack thereof), and as long as he never knew about Mike secretly developing more-than-fuck-buddies feelings for him, Mike would be in the clear. But eventually, something in Elvis had melted away, and he started calling Mike “my boy,” “love,” and “sweetheart,” amongst other gross (sweet) pet names. Mike assumed that Elvis had caved and given up on whatever rules he’d set for himself.

Regardless of the apparent stability in his situationship, Mike’s mind dwelled in a constant state of disarray. He knew he was not straight. He wasn’t even sure if he was bisexual. He became more conscious of who caught his eye in public, and what he wanted out of the people he interacted with. He discovered he didn’t feel the same way about curves, boobs, or soft lips as he felt when he saw a pair of broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, or a tapered waist. He felt different.

Part of Mike resented himself for being different. He hated the idea of being a target, whether it be for his family, the government, or society as a whole. He’d tried to change. He hooked up with a few girls over the course of a week, “just to see something,” but he’d spent the entire time wondering when it would be over so he could go home. All of those girls either got bored, weren’t satisfied, or got mad that Mike couldn’t get it up— if not a combination of all three— and left. Mike scared himself a little when he didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

When his encounter with the last girl fell through, he decided he didn’t want to live his life in sexuality limbo anymore. He ran all the way back to his dorm hall, hauled ass up the stairwell, and let himself into his room. Elvis spun around from where he sat at his desk, and could barely get out a “Hey, man,” before Mike was ripping Elvis from his chair and pulling him in, kissing him with all his might. It didn’t take long for Elvis to reciprocate Mike’s advances, kissing back with equal intensity and pushing Mike back until they hit the side of Elvis’s raised bed frame. Mike huffed a laugh against Elvis’s lips before hoisting himself up backwards and onto the mattress, watching as Elvis chased after him. He pushed his knee between Mike’s legs, and Mike took the hint, wrapping his ankles around Elvis’s hips. “I want to be with you, baby. With strings, all the strings,” Mike had told Elvis before pulling him down for another searing kiss, and… that was when his memory cut out for the evening.

Mike woke up the next morning, hangover hitting him like a truck, to see Elvis already awake and dressed, lifting boxes onto a trolley that was stationed in the middle of the room. Through squinted eyes, he noticed Elvis’s side of the room was essentially bare, save for the dorm furniture, which belonged to the school.

“What’s happening?” he croaked out, and Elvis dropped the box he was holding onto the pile with a loud thump. “Too loud. Headache,” he whispered sharply through gritted teeth.

“It always is too loud, isn’t it?” his roommate laughed wryly to himself, not making any effort to be any quieter. Mike sat up, rubbing his eyes and ignoring the fact that he was naked and in Elvis’s bed, the only thing that hadn’t been packed up yet.

“What the fuck, Elvis? What are you doing?”

“I’m moving out today, remember?” The two young men finally gained eye contact, and Mike felt his stomach drop like he was on a roller coaster. “I’m graduating in a few days and need my stuff out by this afternoon.”

Move out was today? Vecna must have been back with a vengeance, because how else would time move so quickly on its own? Sure, Elvis mentioned in passing, like, a few weeks ago, at most, that he was leaving soon. But it still didn’t make sense, because it was only… What, March? No, The Phone Call™ was a while ago. Was it April? Mike’s mom called him at least a few weeks prior to wish him a happy nineteenth birthday. Plus, weren’t commencement ceremonies scheduled for the weekend of– “What’s today’s date?”

Mike watched the blonde in front of him unsubtly scoff with impatience. “It’s May 1st, Mike.” He could only blink back at Elvis in response for a few seconds while he tried to process the fact that his brain was capable of skipping over whole months of his life. There was no way it was May 1st already.

“No,” was the only word Mike was capable of saying.

“Yet here we are, baby,” Elvis sneered as he whipped his comforter off of Mike, leaving him exposed and humiliated. “Time flies when you’re blackout drunk. I suggest you try and get your drinking under control, before you end up having to drop out.”

It was like Elvis was a completely different person, completely different from the man who had fucked him senseless the night before. What did Mike do to deserve this? He didn’t do or… say anything? Oh no. Now Mike knew what was going on. He drank too much, opened up, and blurted out loud that he wanted to be in a relationship with Elvis, who didn’t feel the same. Mike’s face was on fire with embarrassment.

Mike scrambled off the bed and ran to get dressed while Elvis pulled the last of his sheets off the cheap university mattress. He didn’t fold them, and instead balled them up and shoved them in the trash. Mike could barely breathe. He merely stood there and watched as his gorgeous Greek (actually Dutch) god of a roommate left their shared room for the last time. Well, Mike seemingly dodged a bullet. What an asshole.

Mike was sad that Elvis was gone, but it didn’t completely destroy him the way Will leaving did. What it most likely came down to, in Elvis’s instance, was a horrible case of internalized homophobia. Mike was very familiar with this mindset; he’d fought a gory, gruesome battle with his own mind for his entire adolescence, at war with himself to prevent acting upon his ever-growing romantic love for Will. But one day, his feelings finally retaliated, and his life immediately went to shit.

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

Comparing the two inevitably led to some old memories resurfacing to haunt him, but Mike felt strangely lucky. He’d been let off easily. Despite the way he stood completely stupefied in his dorm room, he knew this was temporary, and had full confidence that he’d be able to recover from this pretty quickly. Said confidence was probably the only thing that saved Mike from losing his mind. Well, that, and the pressure to pass his classes distracted him for a few days. Without having done much studying at all, Mike army crawled through his finals and barely made it out alive.

About a week later, Mike moved out of his dorm hall and into an apartment about two miles away from campus. It was a pretty nice place, considering the rent he (his father) paid for it. He got a job at the local coffee shop… which he lost before the month was up, because he never showed up to his shifts. He’d been shocked when Ted insisted upon co-signing the lease, because he didn’t think his dad would be willing to help Mike stay away from Hawkins. On the other hand, though, it made sense when Ted told him flat out that he wanted Mike out of the house. Mike didn’t blame him; he’d been referred to by his father as a “leech” on multiple occasions during his stay over Christmas break, which pretty much tracked. He felt a little guilty about that one.

Mike appreciated the independence, he truly did. It was a great feeling to have his own room again, to have a more comfortable desk chair to sit at while he drew up plans for a new fantasy novel starring a gay protagonist, to have a bathroom to himself, and most importantly, to have a full-sized refrigerator to fill with all the alcohol he could ever want. But sometimes, late at night, he would catch himself getting a bit too sad.

The entire summer was an endless cycle. Mike would wake up and make a pot of coffee. He’d sit down and write a chapter or two of his book, and stick to doing that for a few hours. He would check the time (on his wall clock, of course) and take a lunch break, which was usually a box of Annie’s shells and white cheddar. After he’d haphazardly tossed his singular bowl and fork into the sink to be washed later, he’d go back to writing. This wouldn’t last long, because he’d get distracted after smoking a joint, and probably end up staring at that one photo of himself and Will from senior year (Jonathan captured the moment: Mike had, by some miracle, perched himself up on Will’s handlebars, and Will struggled to hold his bike steady because he was laughing too hard) that sat framed on his desk. He’d snap out of his trance ten minutes later and mentally kick himself for staring for so long, which led to grabbing some form of alcohol and getting wasted, like all his potential. He would make one last attempt at writing and fail miserably. He’d stumble into the shower, and drag himself through his apartment until he found his bed. Most nights, he would end up crying himself to sleep, staring at The Painting™, which he’d tacked up on his bedroom ceiling as a form of self-punishment. It was a sad way to live, really. So Mike vowed that when the school year started up again, things would be different.

That was how Mike ended up at the library in late July, browsing the mythology section, squinting at titles printed on spines while his lips formed a straight, thin line. He knew he was officially a hermit when even the library gave him social anxiety. He’d just pulled a rather old looking book off the shelf when a tenor voice behind him caught him off guard.

“Never thought I’d see the day that book would leave the shelf. You must’ve had to brush off, like, a hundred years’ worth of dust just to get to the cover.” Mike twisted around to put a face to a voice, and was pleasantly surprised when he met eyes with a short guy (well, to Mike he was short; he was probably, like, 5’9”) with dyed, firetruck red hair that fell over his forehead in a sweeping motion. Mike liked how he wasn’t afraid to be bold.

“You’re definitely right about that,” Mike smirked, setting the book down and watching as the growing pile teetered from side to side on the table’s surface. He couldn’t decide where he wanted his story to go next, let alone if he wanted to continue with his current plot at all, so he’d planned on taking a bit of inspiration from… well, everything.

“So you’re into mythology?” the guy asked, and Mike shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning against the bookshelf as he focused his gaze down. He had pretty eyes. They were hazel, but not too green, not like–

“Yeah, I’m a creative writing major, and I’m trying to expand my horizons a little,” Mike replied, sitting down at the table. “Like, not to discount the genius of Tolkein, because he literally founded my childhood, but sometimes it’s good to go back to the basics and draw inspiration from there.”

The guy shrugged, and sat across the table from Mike. “Nothing wrong with that. I think it’s really smart, actually. Or else stories end up getting repetitive and dull.”

“Exactly!” Mike pointed both index fingers in the guy’s direction, as if to say, “Finally, someone who understands!” Mike struggled with this concept lately; the uniqueness factor. It turned out that having a male protagonist who just so happened to be romantically attracted to other males wasn’t enough reason to get a book to sell. He needed something else, something of substance, and something that wouldn’t remind readers of other books they’d previously read. “Are you into writing as well?”

“No,” the guy shyly smiled, “I’m just into guys who write about mythology.” Pardon? Was this masculine male-dude-man hitting on him? In public? Mike wasn’t complaining, but he hadn’t necessarily picked up on any hints. Although, the dyed hair should’ve been a dead giveaway.

“Oh. Um, I– wow, okay,” Mike stuttered, diverting his eyes to his books for a few seconds to process what was being said before returning to an expectant pair of hazel eyes still looking right at him. “I’m Mike, Mike Wheeler.”

“Wyatt Bowman.”

Mike cleared his throat. “Are you free in an hour, Wyatt?”

“Yeah, why?” Wyatt raised an eyebrow, causing Mike to huff a nervous laugh, tapping his Ticonderoga pencil against his spiral-bound notebook at the same speed his knee bounced up and down underneath the table.

“I just gotta take some notes from here, then I was thinking we could… hang out, or something?” Mike glanced up hopefully at Wyatt.

The corners of Wyatt’s mouth curved upwards as he repeated, “Or something?”

Mike nodded, confirming their silent sub-conversation.

“Cool. That sounds like a good plan,” Wyatt said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as he rose out of the seat and headed for the exit.

“Cool,” Mike whispered back, reminiscent of a certain afternoon in a certain town in California in a certain room with a certain boy that made him feel a certain way. But that was the past, and Mike believed he was ready for the future.

When Mike started seeing Wyatt Bowman, they established that their relationship would not be serious. They were, in a small amount of words, friends with benefits. And they were actually friends. They could hang out without getting all hot and heavy. And Mike didn’t have any objections; he actually preferred the idea of friends who sometimes had sex over the label-less, no strings arrangement that he and Elvis had. It left less room for loopholes of chronic insecurity and self sabotage. It also, in turn, left more room for exploration.

Mike met Wes Butler in August at his first ever visit to an actual bar. He’d been sitting at the counter with a few of his female friends (Ruby, Alexis, and Julia), and had just received one of the fruitiest cocktails he’d ever tasted when a piece of eye candy, who might as well have been dressed in nothing, lightly tapped his shoulder and asked him to dance. Of course the girls encouraged him, not really giving him an option in the matter, but hey, good dick was good dick. It didn’t really turn into much else; once they’d had a few rounds of unnecessarily loud sex in a supply closet (ironic, but typical), Mike bid goodbye to his friends, tossing his condom wrappers in the trash on the way out.

He met another guy, Walker Brooks, in September at an off-campus nerd rave. He looked a lot like Eddie Munson, which may or may not have been coincidental. They left the party not even an hour after it began to go to Walker’s dorm. They fucked in between Lord of the Rings themed bedsheets, and Mike had to endure an excruciating hour and a half of Walker speaking Elvish rather than English. Afterwards, he invited Mike to join the University of Indy D&D Club, of which he was, of course, the Dungeon Master. Mike politely declined.

On a particularly difficult October night following being roofied followed by some unwanted advances, Mike slapped himself awake with one hand as he unsteadily held his handlebars with the other, biking back to his apartment. His grip slipped, and the front wheel hit the curb, which sent the bike to come to a screeching halt and throw Mike over the handlebars, tumbling onto the concrete. Warren Blakely, one of his classmates in English 101, watched Mike fall, stopped him from biking again before he hurt himself even more, and asked him what exactly had happened. Once he told Warren what had gone down, he wouldn’t let Mike out of his sight. Over the next two months or so, Warren kept Mike safe and let him take control back over his own life. Mike and Warren had a special bond. If Mike didn’t still love Will, and if he didn’t have such extreme trust issues, he would have absolutely dated Warren if provided the chance. But he couldn’t, not until he got over Will, so he ended things with Warren. This specific relationship put things into perspective for him. In the end, none of these men he slept with would ever be Will Byers. So he’d either have to get over Will, or find someone better.

On the nights he wasn’t at parties, he was at his desk, writing letters to Will. It was kind of cathartic, honestly. He’d rip a piece of college ruled paper out of his notebook, just like old times, and write letter after letter saying things along the lines of:

Dear Will, I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry that I love you. I’m sorry I did what I did to you. And I’m sorry I can’t take it back. I wish we could be best friends again. I wish we could have late night walkie conversations like we used to. I want nothing more than to play D&D in the basement with you for the rest of our lives. Love, Mike

These occasional letters became a part of his nightly routine… whenever he wasn’t too fucked up to focus his eyes on his own handwriting. And recently, it was more often than not that he couldn’t actually fall asleep without drinking. Mike wasn’t even of legal age yet, and wouldn’t be for another two years.

Mike stopped attending his classes halfway through the semester, so it wasn’t a surprise when his grades plummeted. His mailbox became inundated with letters from the registrar’s office, advising him to withdraw from the classes he was failing before the pass/fail deadline, but Mike couldn’t care less; so, not only did he fail out of his classes, but he couldn’t even retake the classes even if he wanted to, because his record forced him into the red zone. And the entire time, he couldn’t feel a thing.

“Hey, by any chance do you know the time?” a deep voice asked, and Mike lifted his gaze up from his lap to a muscular brunette. He blinked a few times in an attempt to form a coherent sentence.

“I, uh– I don’t—” Mike stuttered, lifting his bare, watch-less wrist up to show to the guy, who merely lifted an unserious eyebrow and chuckled. He took Mike’s hand in his and let it down gently before sitting next to him on the couch.

“It’s all good, man. I was just using that as a reason to talk to you.”

Mike was surprised someone clocked him that quickly. But then again, he was wearing insanely tight jeans that he’d cut right above the knee paired with a floral print shirt. He wasn’t exactly being subtle. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” the guy laughed, extending a rough, calloused hand. Did he lift weights? Or play guitar? Or both? “I’m Carter, by the way.” At least his name didn’t begin with a W. Or maybe it did, but the W was silent. Wcarter. Ouah-carter. Wah-carter. Double-you-carter. Dub-yuh-Carter. Cart… Chart… Astrological chart. Mike made a mental note to check his horoscope. What was he thinking about originally? He couldn’t remember.

Jesus. Mike was hammered.

“I’m Mike,” he replied, taking the guy’s— Carter’s— hand, but Carter didn’t shake it. He instead let their fingers intertwine, anticipatorily slow. Okay. Mike could be good with this.

“Do you maybe want to get out of here, Mike?” Carter asked, and Mike felt a blush rising to his face.

“Sure, yeah,” he breathed, and let Carter pull him up out of his sunken spot on the couch, down some hallway, and into an empty bedroom. Mike scoped out the place and noticed a photo of Carter with a dog framed on the desk; this was his room. Mike exhaled in relief. He didn’t want to have sex in someone else’s bed. Never again.

Carter pulled the door closed and locked it, turning around to face Mike before looking him up and down. Mike gulped. He hadn’t realized before, because it was so dark, but in the lamplight, Carter’s resemblance to Will was uncanny. He was a few inches shorter than Mike, and had a muscular build– that much he knew already. Thank god he didn’t have a bowl cut. He had a strong jawline but a subtle softness to his features. His lips were a light pink, the upper one a bit thinner than the lower one. The most similar feature they shared, though, was their bright green eyes, full of life, and something else Mike couldn’t name… intention? Vulnerability? Yearning?

In his inebriated state, Mike didn’t notice how close Carter had gotten until he felt two hands snaking their way up his shoulders and joining behind his neck, pulling him down until their lips met. He couldn’t move fast enough, lifting his shaking hands to rest on Carter’s waist, pulling him into his chest and deepening the kiss immediately. Carter was more languid in his movements, while Mike was more firm and calculated; this felt strangely antithetical. It probably had to do something with his increased tolerance. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but if there was one person who knew how to repress his feelings with a series of bad decisions, it was Mike Wheeler. His life was already on fire, what more could possibly happen to exacerbate the flame?

The two young men made their way over to Carter’s bed, where they quickly undressed. Carter kissed down Mike’s body, and Mike ran his hands through Carter’s hair. Then he went down on Mike without warning.

“Ah!” Mike yelped in surprise, his exclamation becoming a moan almost instantaneously. This was good. This felt nice. This is exactly what he’d imagine–

“Will…”

“Excuse me?”

And with that, the night was over. Carter stopped what he was doing, got up, muttered a “fuck you,” and left without another word. Mike felt the world zeroing in on him. He could just picture what he’d write in his next letter:

Dear Will, I said your name while another guy had my dick in his mouth. Do you believe me now? Love, Mike

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#byler #byler fanfic #byler fic #byler tumblr #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things 4 #stranger things 5 #will byers #mike wheeler #will x mike #mike wheeler x oc #thisismetrying1

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vodika-vibes · 7 months

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Neverland

Summary: When you were a child, you and your twin went missing for six months. You escaped, but your twin didn't. And now that you're an adult you realize that Captain Howzer is hunting the person who took you.

Pairing: Kight Captain Howzer x Reader

Word Count: 4351

Warnings: Mention of child death

A/N: So, I developed a migraine halfway through writing this, so I'm not sure if I'm happy with it or not. But I'm posting it anyway. Also, I've never written Howzer before.

Divider by saradika

“-we’d really appreciate it if you came down to the memorial. Your mother would appreciate it.” Your dad smiles at you across the mirror, “I know it’s a hard thing for you angel, but-”

“Mother blamed me, dad.” You reply with a sigh, “We both know she doesn’t want me there.”

“She loves you, baby girl.” Your dad says quietly, “She just…forgets that sometimes. It’d be great if you came to the memorial anyway.”

“I’m sorry dad, but I’m not going.” You lean back in your desk chair, “I know you all want me there, but dad, you’re the only one who doesn’t blame me. Besides, I have so much work to do…”

Your dad sighs, “They were grieving, baby.”

“So was I. I lost my other half, and somehow their grief is more than mine?” You shake your head, “I’m sorry dad, I’m not going to the memorial.”

Your dad sighs again, “Will I see you this weekend?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It depends on my workload.”

“Alright. Love you baby girl.”

“Yeah, love you too, dad.” You end the call with a quiet sigh, and promptly toss the mirror into your desk. The last thing you want is for your mother to call you and ream you out for not attending her golden baby’s memorial.

Ironically, you probably could make it to the memorial. Captain Howzer wouldn’t deny you that, and it’s the end of the work day anyway…but the idea of coming face to face with the people who accused you of being the reason your own twin died…

Well, you have good reason to not have anything to do with them.

You sort through the paperwork on your desk, organizing them into piles for later while you try to forget everything that happened to you all those years ago. Everything that had led to your twin brother’s death.

It was just after your seventh birthday, your parents had surprised you and your brother with your own rooms, and while you both loved having your own space, sleeping apart was still weird. More so for your brother, than you.

He snuck into your room and curled up into your bed, and the pair of you stayed awake until midnight, just talking and giggling with each other. And that was when He appeared.

He was a boy, only about ten years old, and he flew in your bedroom window. He regaled you and your brother with stories about adventures and wonder, and then asked your brother to come with him, promising him the adventure of a lifetime.

He refused to go with the boy unless you could go with him.

And the boy agreed.

And He took you and your brother to a wondrous place. A place where the sky was always blue and the water was always clean, and He took the pair of you, and the other children, on adventures like from a storybook-

But, unlike your brother and the other boys, Neverland, as He called it, never felt safe to you. You always felt like someone was watching you, you never could relax enough to sleep for longer than a few hours at most.

Your brother told you that you were just feeling guilty for running off without telling mom and dad. He said it would pass, because it did for him, but you weren’t quite sure.

So you wandered. You started spending more and more time on your own, and He didn’t mind because He didn’t want you there to begin with. And the more you wandered, the more unsettled you became.

The further you strayed from Him, the less bright the world became. Trees twisted and curled, grass wilted, the sky turned brown and then gray, and the water became dull and murky-

And then you met her. She was a mermaid, though unlike the mermaids in the crystal clear lagoons nearer to His home, this one was older and tired looking. She was naught but skin and bones, and her hair was a tangled mat. And she watched you with sightless eyes.

The mermaid, who refused to give her name, and spoke in a raspy whisper, led you down the filthy river that she called home, until she came to a lake. And there, the mermaid pointed into the water.

Littering the bottom of the lake were skeletons. Hundreds of them. Maybe more. All of them the size of the average child.

The mermaid whispered what He did. How He traveled from Neverland to the Mortal Realm and he coaxed children into leaving their home, and families, to go on an adventure with him. She whispered that he killed all of the children he took, with no exceptions.

And then she told you to run. She said that your brother was lost, had become one of His Lost Boys, and wouldn’t follow you even if he wanted, and she whispered a path out. An opening that He didn’t know about.

And, though it broke your heart, you knew she was right. Your brother wasn’t yours anymore. He had taken him.

The path back to the mortal realm was fraught with perils, you nearly died several times (from falling, drowning, and animal attacks) until you were finally able to stumble through the portal back to where you were supposed to be.

And as soon as you were back in the mortal realm, you collapsed.

What had felt like a week for you, had been six months in the mortal realm.

It took six months for you to physically recover, though some of the scars remain still, and you needed therapy for years to help you heal mentally. But eventually you did.

And now, every year, your mother wants to drag you to the memorial and force you to relive the trauma. Oh, she never makes you talk about it, but she does make you relive it. Over and over and over-

You exhale slowly and pinch the bridge of your nose to try and stem the headache you feel forming, and then you grab a stack of folders and push to your feet. You’re done with them, which means they need to go on the Captain’s desk.

You glance at the clock and make a face. It’s late enough that the Captain probably already left for the day. Which means you’ll have to leave a note about the files for him to see when he comes in in the morning.

You leave your office, and walk down the hall to where Captain Howzer works. You’re surprised to notice that his office lights are still on. Which means he’s working late…or he forgot to turn off the light.

You lightly knock on the door, and wait a moment. You’re only a little surprised when you hear him tell you the door is unlocked. You push open the door and flash the smallest smile at Howzer, “Burning the midnight oil, Captain?”

“It’s not that late, mesh’la,” Captain Howzer leans back in his chair, a smile crossing his handsome face, “Besides, you’re still here.”

“Yes, but I’m intentionally being an unfilial daughter by staying here and giving myself more work. What’s your excuse?” You ask as you set the stack of folders in his inbox.

He glances at the folders, “I have a blind date that I’m skipping.” Howzer replies.

“That’s so rude.” You say as you fold your arms.

“Yeah, well…I have my eye on someone, and going on a blind date isn’t going to make her view me positively.” Howzer replies, “I sent someone else to go in my place. Identical faces and all.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re not identical, Captain.”

“Howzer.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s just us here, mesh’la. You can just call me by my name.”

You shake your head, “Fine. You’re not all identical, Howzer.” You repeat, emphasizing his name.

“You’ll find that most of the world doesn’t agree with you,” Howzer replies with a grin, his gaze locked on your face, “Have a seat, mesh’la. I’m not going to kick you out of my office.”

You sink into the chair across from him, “Did you have something you needed to talk about?” You ask.

“I like hearing you talk,” Howzer replies bluntly, grinning when a pale blush crosses your face, “So, mesh’la, what family event are you skipping?”

“Uh…a memorial.” You say quietly, “For my twin brother. Who died 14 years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” Howzer says quietly.

“No it…” you sigh, “It was a long time ago, and I’ve mostly made my peace with it.”

“Mostly?”

“My family blames me.” You explain, “Because I escaped and he didn’t.”

“Wait, wait. What do you mean escaped?” Howzer asks with a frown.

“Is this not in my file?” You counter, surprised.

“No, not at all.”

“Uh, right. Well…we were seven, and someone kidnapped us. I was missing for six months.” You shrug awkwardly, “It took me over a year to physically recover…and even longer to recover mentally.”

“And the man who took you?”

“Ah…never captured.”

“I’m sorry. That’s awful.” Howzer says quietly.

“Yeah, well…I survived. I’m the lucky one.” You shrug again, and absently fiddle with the hem of your shirt, “Anyway, todays the anniversary of the day I was found, and I prefer to spend the day working, rather than wallowing.”

“I can understand that,” Howzer agrees, “You want something to drink?”

“If you’re offering me the toxic caf from the break room-”

He laughs, “No. I have my own machine here. You want some?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He gets up to start the caf, and you turn to watch him, sitting in comfortable silence (you’ve always been comfortable around Howzer, which is weird since most people make you a little anxious), and then something catches your eye.

Howzer keeps a corkboard in his office, for when he has to plan campaigns. And you’ve just noticed that there’s something on the back of the board. “What’s this?” You ask as you get to your feet, “Are you planning a campaign, Howzer?”

He turns and winces when he sees you flipping the cork board, “It’s a case. I’ve been studying.”

You stare at the board, your fingers lightly trailing from posters of missing children, going back centuries, to case notes with interviews from the parents.

“All of the case files say the same thing,” Howzer says as he walks over and hands you a mug of caf, “The parents put their son to bed, and then, when they woke up, their son was gone.” He explains, “A lot of parents were arrested for the murder of their child. I don’t think the parents ever did it though.”

The pictures are layered on the board, due to how many there are, and you lift one of the pictures, and your breath catches. One of the pictures was of a little boy, with bright red hair, and missing his front two teeth. You knew that boy. He used to cry every night in Neverland…and he vanished on your second day in Neverland.

“It would be easier to solve if there were any witnesses,” Howzer says with a sigh, “Kids…kids don’t deserve this.”

You carefully lift more of the pictures, picking out faces of boys that you know, and recognize. “No one deserves this,” You say quietly, “What He does to those boys is…monstrous.”

Howzer hums, and then freezes, and turns to look at you, “He?”

“Yeah.” You fold your arms over your stomach, anxiety coiling though you, “Peter. His name is Peter.”

“How can you possibly-” Howzer turns to face you completely, and something like horror crosses his face, “You were taken by the man who did this?”

“Boy. Peter’s a boy. Or at least looks like a boy,” You correct absently, “And…yeah. I was.”

“I’ve looked into every missing child case in the last 100 years, and your name never crossed my desk,” Howzer mumbled.

“My parents reported us as runaways. It was only after I was found that people realized that we were kidnapped.” You rub your arms quickly, “And by that point it wasn’t a missing persons case anymore…it became a murder investigation. But no one ever asked me what happened.”

“No one?”

You shrug, “The police tried, but I was malnourished, badly injured, and severely traumatized. Everyone thought that the boy I was talking about was my brother.”

“This Peter…he hurt you?”

“No. He didn’t care about me. But when I was escaping I was attacked by a wild wolf,” You hesitate for a moment, and then take a step back and peel off your jacket, and then your shirt, leaving you in the thin tank-top you always wear under your clothes. You lift the tank top slightly, revealing the nasty scar on your abdomen.

“They couldn’t heal it?” Howzer asks as his fingers lightly brush the scar.

You shiver, “They tried, but…well, it didn’t want to heal at all. So they gave up on not it not scarring and settled for me not bleeding to death.”

He slowly pulls his hand away, though he remains closer to you than would normally be proper, “How did you escape?”

“A native. She pointed me in the right direction, and told me how to get out.” You reply as you look up at his face. You hesitate and nervously lick your lips, “The portal is still there, Howzer. And it’s big enough for a man to pass through.”

His gaze snaps to your face, “You’re sure?”

“I bought the land around the portal. I check on it weekly. I…I keep hoping that maybe another kid will fall out, but-”

“Why haven’t you gone back?” Howzer asks.

“I…by myself? I can’t. I…maybe that makes me a coward-”

“What if I go with you?” He places his hands on your shoulders, “What if I go with you to this Neverland. We can rescue what kids are there, and catch this Peter.”

“Peter’s dangerous, Howzer.”

He smiles at you, there’s a glimmer of something dangerous in his gaze, though it’s not directed at you. “So am I.”

You stare up at him, silent, “...okay. If you come with me, then…yeah. Just…make yourself look less soldier-y?”

“I can do that,” He says with a grin, as his thumbs rub soothing circles on your shoulders.

You hesitate for a moment, and then stand on your toes to brush your lips against his cheek, “Thank you, Howzer.”

His answering smile is small, and lazy, and his hands move just a little so he’s able to rub circles on the side of your neck, “Would you like to go get dinner?” He asks.

“Like…as friends?”

“Like, as a date.” He corrects with a sly grin.

Your jaw drops, “Oh. Um…yeah. Okay. I’d like that.” You manage to squeak out as your face flames red.

“Excellent. And then, tomorrow, we can get started on solving this case.”

You smile up at him, “That sounds like a plan to me.”

**************

The following morning, after a wonderful date that you didn’t want to end, you led Howzer to your small strip of property far outside the city. You’ve tended to the land as best you can, dedicating it to wildflowers and other wild plants, but even so, there’s no animals in the area.

It’s just dead silence.

“So this place is pretty,” Howzer notes as he follows you down a path that you made, “Creepy, somehow, but still pretty.”

“Mm. I think it’s the portal that makes it feel like that,” You reply over your shoulder, “The closer we get the less healthy the plants will become. You’ll see.”

“If you say so, mesh’la.” He replies, speeding up slightly and taking your hand in his. “Are you okay? You’re trembling.”

You thread your fingers with his, and squeeze his hand lightly, “Just nervous, Howzer.”

“Hey, I’m not going to let you get hurt.” He says.

“You might not have a choice.” You squeeze his hand again, and then lead him down a winding path that he wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t shown him.

True to what you said, the further away from the road you walked, the less healthy the plants became. Until you led him to a cave. Death seemed to snake out of the cave, leeching the life from the plants in the area around the cave.

“In there?” Howzer asked as he moved closer to the cave.

You wrap your hands around his forearm, and press yourself against his arm, “Yeah.” You whisper.

“What can I expect on the other side?”

“Um. It’ll look similar to this,” You say, “Lots of dead plants, and the sky will either be gray or brown. We’ll want to follow the river to get to the lake.”

“What are the odds that Peter will be there waiting for us?”

“None at all. He doesn’t…he’s unaware of this opening, or else he would have destroyed it.”

“Good to know,” Howzer murmurs, and then he turns to look at you properly, “You don’t have to come with me, mesh’la.” He very gently cups your face and tilts your head back so you’re looking up at him.

“I do though,” You reply as you finally release his arm and press your hands over his, “Let me come with you, please Howzer?”

His thumbs rub soothing circles on your cheeks, “How could I ever say no to you when you ask me so nicely?” His smile is slightly teasing, though he becomes serious after a moment, “I want you to stay close, mesh’la. No running off and playing the hero. And you’ll listen if I tell you to do something.”

You nod once.

His grip tightens, just a little, “I need to hear you say it, mesh’la.”

“I’ll listen and stay close,” You promise.

“Okay, good.” He quickly leans in and ghosts a kiss against your temple, before he releases you and takes your hand instead, and he tugs you towards the cave.

You walk through the dark cave, until the scent changes from musty cave, to rotten meat, and then there’s dim sunlight ahead of you and then you and Howzer step into Neverland.

It looks…exactly like you remember it. Dreary and bleak, and smelling of death and rot.

“...kids like this place?” Howzer asks, as he looks around. His gaze lingers on fallen, dead, trees, and then his gaze darts over to the water, which is so murky it almost looks black.

“The closer they are to Peter the better it looks. As I understand it, this is far outside of Peter’s power.” You reply.

Howzer walks over to a fallen log and kicks it with one foot, and the log crumbles almost immediately, “And you navigated this at seven years old?”

“I was motivated.” You joke weakly. “The path should be easier now, though. I think it was always designed for adults.”

“Are there any adults here? Other than us?”

“I never saw any, but I’m not the best to ask.” You point at the water, “We should follow that back to the lake.”

“Yeah, alright.” He holds his hand out to you, and you immediately take it, and then he takes a good look at the water, and starts walking in the opposite direction it’s flowing.

It still takes several hours to make it to the lake, the path a lot easier with the longer legs of an adult…plus there being two of you. And without the animal attack that nearly killed you the first time, which had slowed you down a lot when you were originally trying to escape.

“This is the lake?” Howzer asks.

“Yeah,” You lean lightly against him and motion to the center of the lake, “Look. There.”

In the center of the lake, sitting on a massive rock, is the same mermaid who helped you escape all those years ago. Still just as skeletal, her hair just as matted. Though, when she hears you, a grin crosses her ancient face.

She swims across the lake, and settles on a rock much closer to shore, “I knew you would return.” She says in her raspy voice, “And I knew that you would bring a friend.”

“I…this is Captain Howzer-” You start to explain, only for her to let out a delighted cackle, so suddenly that Howzer jerks you sharply behind him.

“A Military man,” She cackles, “How long has it been…?” She pins Howzer in place with a sharp look, “You are a soldier?”

“Yes ma’am,”

“Good, good.” Her tail flicks sharply, “Then hear me well. Peter has six boys with him right now. Of those six, only half will survive leaving Neverland.”

“What about the other three?” Howzer asks.

“It’s too late for them. By the time you reach them, Peter will have already claimed them.” The mermaid says, “But you can claim the other three.”

“Do you know where they are?” You ask.

“They are at the tree,” She replies, “You remember the one?”

You nod once.

“Good. You know the route from here. Neverland isn’t that big when you walk it as an adult.” Her smile is cruel, “As for stopping Peter…well, there’s no stopping him, not really. But you can trap him here in Neverland.” Her sightless eyes gleam.

“How do we do that?” Howzer asks.

“That’s not something you can do. No need to worry, you go and get those children, and I’ll handle everything else.” Her smile is sharp, and dangerous.

You nervously tug on Howzer’s arm, “We should…we should hurry.”

“Yeah. Yeah we should.” Howzer lightly motions for you to start walking, and he only turns to follow you when the mermaid retreats to the center of the lake.

All things considered, the task you and Howzer were given is simple. It is easy to find the tree, since you already know where it is, and it’s even easier to convince the children to come with you. They want to go home to their parents, and Howzer has a familiar face, a face that they know even if they don’t know him.

And even making the trip back to the exit is quick. The children are eager to follow you so they can go home, and they’re more than happy to accept help.

You pass by the lake, and the mermaid is gone.

You walk the long trail between the lake and the exit in several hours, and then you enter the cave, with the children in front of you, and Howzer in the very back.

As soon as you step foot back in the mortal realm, the three children collapse from exhaustion and hunger. You carefully carry one of the children up to the road, while Howzer carries the other two.

And then you gently tend to them in the shade of a massive tree while Howzer calls for aid. And after the authorities showed up, and Howzer answered questions while you helped the medics get the children into their transport, you settled yourself under a tree and let your head thump against the bark.

You watched as Howzer finished speaking to the authorities, including some of his younger brothers, and you watched as slowly, everyone who came at Howzer’s call slowly left, until it’s just you and Howzer.

And he turns and favors you with a warm smile, and he walks over and sits on the ground next to you. “So, that was fun.” Howzer says lightly as he turns his head to watch you.

“You have a weird definition of fun, Captain.” You reply as you turn your head to smile at him.

“Maybe.” He agrees, “Do you think Neverland is cut off?”

“I dunno. I doubt we ever will.” You reply honestly, “Some things aren’t for people to know.”

“Yeah. I suppose that’s true.” Howzer replies. He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he flashes you a slightly sly smile, “You want to go get something to eat?”

“...are you asking me on another date, Howzer?”

“Absolutely.” His grin grows, “Eventually I’ll wear you down and I can ask you to be my girlfriend.”

You shake your head with a laugh, “Why don’t you just ask?”

“I think wooing you will be fun,” Howzer replies cheerfully, “So there’s going to be flowers, and dinner dates, and breakfast dates-”

“Oh, stars,” You break down laughing, feeling lighter than you have in years, “Howzer! I’ll be your girlfriend! Please don’t try to bring me on any breakfast dates.”

“But it’ll be fun! We can get up early and watch the sunrise. Of course this only works if you spend the night at my place-” He adds slyly.

“Oh, so this is you trying to get me to spend the night,” You reply with a grin.

“Eh, 50-50. I definitely want to be able to hug and kiss you whenever I want. But I also really want you in my bed. Or to be in your bed, I’m really not picky, mesh’la.” Howzer grins at you.

And you blush, “You’re awful.”

“And yet, you already agreed to be my girlfriend. So there’s clearly something about me you like.”

You glance at him, a teasing smile crossing your lips, “It’s your hair. You have fancy hair and it caught my attention.”

He tugs you against his side, and drapes his arm over your shoulder, “Hey, I’ll take it.” He ducks his head and brushes his lips against the corner of your lips, and you release a frustrated noise in the back of your throat. “Problem, mesh’la?” he asks, his lips curling into a grin against your skin.

“You should kiss me properly,” You reply.

“Mm. Should I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if that’s what ner mesh’la wants,” He murmurs as he shifts ever so slightly and kisses you properly, deepening the kiss until he’s taken over everything that you are. And your arms come up to wrap around his neck as he pulls you closer, until you’re almost sitting on him. And then he breaks the kiss, “Like that?”

“Mm…I’m not sure. You should show me again.” You tease, slightly breathlessly.

“Greedy,” He teases right back, and then he seals his lips over yours again.

#star wars #tcw #star wars au #captain howzer x reader #howzer x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction

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not-a-robot-i-swear-really · 1 year

Text

Waiting for the Right Time

Bucky Barnes x GN!Black!Reader

Summary: Imagine that Bucky Barnes has a huge little crush on you. Now imagine that he’s not the only one who thinks that way.

Word Count: About 1150 words

Chapter Warnings: None, just Bucky getting jealous and slightly possessive, mostly fluff. Reader attracts attention from all across the gender spectrum, and is stated to have powers. No Y/N, we don’t do that here. Ambiguous ending ahead!

Bucky’s got a problem, and for once it has nothing to do with his past.

It’s you and the way the sunlight bounces off your brown skin to make it shine. It’s you and the way your smile makes his heart do backflips. It’s you and the way your deep brown eyes look at him with nothing but admiration and care.

Bucky loves you, and he is not ready to do anything about it.

He knows, logically, that you wouldn’t do anything to hurt him if he were to confess. You damn near killed yourself trying to save him during a mission in Beirut, when a mercenary lobbed a bomb his way. You plucked it from the air and flew off with it, wrapping yourself in a blue shield just as it went off – you got a nasty scar, and it make his chest hurt every time he thinks about it. You smile to reassure him when he stares and tell him that it gives you a cool story to tell at family reunions. Worst case scenario, you would let him down gently and ask to remain friends. Even still, the worst-case scenario was apocalyptic to Bucky.

If he were going to confess, he needed to be absolutely sure that you would love him back. That was how things were, and that’s how it was going to stay until Bucky finally found the right time to confess.

Too bad the rest of the world didn’t get the memo to play along with his pining.

You got flowers the morning of June 26; Bucky remembered the exact day because his world came to a screeching halt when he read the note attached to them.

“Roses are red, violets are blue,

Know what’s on the menu? Me ‘n’ U~<3

From, Your Secret Admirer”

Bucky should’ve thrown the flowers away as soon as he saw them, should have stomped on them, thrown them in an incinerator, anything to make sure you didn’t see them. People sent you flowers all the time, and you never cared what anyone did to them – you like to joke that you had the opposite of a green thumb.

But he didn’t. He froze, and you came trudging out of your bedroom, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, wondering why Bucky spent so long outside your door without knocking.

“Aww, corny but sweet,” you cooed sleepily when you read the note. Bucky’s heart squeezed when you said that, and not in a good way. “Any chance these are from you?”

“No. No, they’re not.” Bucky grits out. If he sent you flowers with a note, he would be pouring his heart and soul into the card, not leaving a shitty pickup line.

“Wonder who it is then,” you yawned as you breezed by him.

Bucky spent the day tracking down the secret admirer. It was a random SHIELD agent, lower in the hierarchy, and too cocky for his own good. It only took a single visit from the former Winter Solider to get the agent to back off. Unfortunately, that agent wasn’t the last to pursue you.

When you went for your morning runs, a woman would join you every morning at exactly the halfway mark. She asked you if you wanted to go to the botanical gardens with her; Bucky showed up and pretended that there was a mission at the same time that would have happened. Thank god there actually was a mission to back him up.

When you thwarted a bioterrorist’s attempts to clear out the “undesirables,” you rescued a civilian from falling rubble with a well-timed shield. They offered to make lunch or dinner to repay you for saving them; Bucky waited till your back was turned to tell them that the Avengers didn’t accept food from strangers. Standard procedure and all that. There technically was no such procedure, but it was just common sense not to eat anything made by a stranger, right.

When Tony threw another one of his notorious parties, you were approached by a random well-to-do bachelor. He fancied himself an art aficionado and invited you to a personal showing of a rare Basquiat painting. When you left to get more champagne, Bucky got Sam to distract the man before you could give him an answer. Sam was sworn to secrecy, of course, Bucky would rather you didn’t see this side of him.

“How long are you gonna keep this up, man?” Sam groaned when he came back to the table.

“Keep what up?” Bucky kept his eyes trained on you, your enchanting laugh reaching his ears even through all the blaring music and cacophony of voices.

"This!” Sam gestured at you and Bucky. “It would just be easier to confess at this point. You can’t scare off everyone that goes near them forever.”

He gave Sam a deadpan glare. “I can and I will.”

“You would have to keep an eye on them all the time, you’d basically be stalking them at that point.”

“Actually, that’s not such a bad idea.”

“Wait-“

“There’s cafe across the street from their apartment, could probably stake out there.”

“Bucky-“

“You think I could get those little spy cameras from Tony’s lab without him noticing?”

“No! You need to say something to them before someone else asks them out and they say yes.”

“’S not the right time.”

“Man, someone else is gonna snatch them up while you’re busy waiting for the right time!” Bucky left before Sam could finish talking; another woman had sidled up your table.

As much as he hated to say it Sam was right.

Bucky hated this; the constant vigilance of chasing away would-be suitors, the way his heart squeezed every time he saw you smile at someone that wasn’t him, the fear that you would pick someone else before he could show you how much he loved you.

So on a cold November 12th, Bucky woke up earlier than everyone else in the tower to finally enact his plan. He went to the only shop open in Brooklyn for a fruit bouquet – filled with all the fruit he knew you liked and drizzled with chocolate. He dressed in the outfit Steve had helped him with – something casual, but made to impress. He put on your favorite playlist – Etta James, and Al Green, and Aretha Franklin.

With everything in place and his nerves at an all-time high, Bucky took a deep breath and knocked on your door.

A/N: Little something I thought up that I had to get out before I forgot or something, hope y'all enjoy! It was inspired by another post that I haven't been able to find, but it takes place in the 40s right before Bucky is shipped out to the warfront. If anyone can find it please let me know!

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#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x black!reader #bucky barnes x black reader #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x gn!reader #oneshot #bucky barnes x poc!reader #bucky barnes x poc reader #bucky barnes fluff #my writing #black!reader #black reader #poc!reader #poc reader #black writers #poc writer

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fiannalover · 3 months

Text

To/be seen

John gasped for breath, having caught up to his companion at last.

His guide for Floor 51 had left him by now, having argued his presence would probably only put the boy further on edge. It was fine. He should do this by himself.

His savior had ran away from him. He would not allow that. Chasing and searching across great perils, he would get his voice across.

“Lancelot! Wait for me!”

The adventurer in question froze, turning around to look at the other eye-to-eye. John had seen a fair variety of expressions on Lancelot’s face, most of which carried a smile, even if insincere.

This one was unmasked. Fear and panic. A primal urge to escape to somewhere, somehow. “No. No no no no! Just go away! You don’t wanna come with me!” He cried out.

“I do! Since we first met, I have wanted to travel with you.” He shouted, the wind carrying his words. “I still want that. Please, listen to me!”

The chase over a land functionally untouched by civilization neared its end, everything on the Floor tinted dark green by the unending woods and the dead of the night. The only colours that stood out were the bright yellow of one’s hair and the clear blue of the brunette’s eyes.

The ground was unstable on the floor. It wasn’t uncommon for the people of the hill to move it all over during the season. Ravines and deep pits had covered the landscape John traversed through to get here, one of the former standing right behind Lancelot

“You saw me! You saw I’m a monster and dangerous and you saw what ‘those like me’ are meant to be! Get away! STOP REMINDING ME OF THAT!”

Slashing his sword forward, currents of water, transparently dark under the color of the night, streamed towards John, who managed to plant his staff on the ground at the last moment, manifesting a glowing, ethereal curtain of light to protect himself.

He knew what the man was capable of. This attack was nothing. If the adventurer truly wanted to harm him, the farmer wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop him, and that was why-

“I don’t care about that! You’re Lancelot! You saved me and taught me so much of the world, with such attention and care. You changed me for the better and you’re my friend! That is all that matters to me!”

The blue eyes went empty. “You do not… mean th-”

His foot stepped back into thin air. John dashed forwards.

Throwing himself to the ground, he managed to grab both wrists of the falling man. Lancelot didn’t fall very far, thankfully. Getting back up would be easy, as long as he helped himself get back up.

“Don’t lie! You’re not my friend, no one is! No one could be a friend of a freak like me! Ever since I was born, people have only looked for me to make fun of me or make use of me! You’ll discard me, like everyone else has!” He shouted, trying to squirm out of the hold.

“I won’t! I promise I won’t! And I promise there are other people who care for you. But right now, let me do so. Please.”

“Why should I believe you!? Tell me!”

Both of them pleaded, though one of them didn’t know he was doing so.

“I love you.” John confessed. “That’s why.”

Lancelot froze again. He looked at John with equal amounts of disbelief and pure want - a desire for a joy not meant for him. “No… please, stop taunting me. Stop saying all that just to reveal it is not true.”

“It is. You don’t have to feel the same, but you have to accept it. So-” Threatening their precarious situation, John impulsively, pushed himself a couple inches forward, while pulling his savior towards him.

Meeting halfway, the adventurer went limp.

Then, accepting the aid presented to him, he let himself find a foothold and pushed himself up.

—----------

Floor 51 during Mayday was rumored to be dangerous. Fortunately, none of the spirits and fairies floating around seeked to harm them. And so, John set up camp, preparing a small fire and their tent.

“Sorry. For making you do all this.” Lancelot said, speaking with a softer, lower tone than ever before, clear exhaustion behind his words.

“No no. It’s fine. You have to rest right now. Well, both of us do, but, you know.” He replied, making them chuckle a bit. “Sorry. For kissing you like that. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s ok! It’s ok! I… I probably wouldn’t have stopped if you hadn’t shocked me into listening to you.” He admitted. After a moment of silence, he asked. “Did you mean… everything?”

“I did. I see you as a great friend. There are people besides me who care for you. I want to keep traveling with you.” John recapped, blushing as he did so. “And I love you. It is not something you have to reciprocate, though.”

Lancelot hugged his own knees, seeming to want to make himself smaller, another new emotion seen on him. He muttered something under his breath, making his companion raise his eyebrow. “You were my first kiss.”

The farmer let out a small ‘ah’ of understanding before starting to internally panic. He was what? Oh no. Oh no no no no no no-

Luckily, a small giggle snapped the farmer back to reality. “Now that's more my John.”

Blinking and recognizing his own ridiculousness, he began laughing as well, the atmosphere lightening just a bit. “Can we talk tomorrow, after we return to Curupira and the others? I think I want to rest before deciding anything else.” Lancelot requested.

“Sure. No problem.”

The two entered their sleeping spot, laying down on the floor. It was quiet, cool and serene. The perfect chill after a storm.

“John? Can I request one more thing from you?”

“Of course. What is it?”

“Hold on to me. Please. I feel like this will fade away into seafoam.”

The man agreed, carefully enveloping Lancelot in his arms. As the spiky-haired adventurer got closer, resting his head on the other’s chest, John closed his embrace.

One could feel the other’s breath on their body. Quietly, together, they fell asleep, salt water melting away.

—-----------

“I’m sorry. I caused a lot of trouble for you.” Lancelot said, bowing to the guardian of 50’s forests.

The fae looked at him with as neutral an expression as possible before bluntly replying. “What are you apologizing for?”

The human blinked. “Erm… environmental damage?”

“You mean your little water spouts? Hah! I mend more dangerous floods all the time. It was nothing.” Curupira boasted.

“T-then… the fact I bailed on helping you and the others keep the spirits and rogue beings at bay?” He pointed out.

“Me and the kids deal with them by ourselves every year. It was a bit of a shame that the extra help quit halfway through, but the end result wasn’t particularly out of the ordinary.” He explained.

“I-I see. But…”

Sighing, the protector decided to speak a little more. “You know, a forest is never the same as they were a couple seconds ago. Trees fall, animals die, new seeds sprout. Everyday, it decays and sprouts anew. At times, you have to burn away some of it to open space for new stuff.” He explained, playfully punching Lancelot’s shoulder. “I think I’m gonna add some more guava trees this time. You figure out what you want to add to yours.”

As the backward-footed man left, the black-haired man thought that over. What he wanted…

… What did he want?

—---------

The sun was high up in the sky.

“So this is-”

“My father’s grave, yes.” Lancelot replied. The ‘ua Duibhne’ carving on the stone faded at some spots, but remained legible. “He considered himself a man with no homeland, always on the move. Because of that, he asked to be buried at the place he died. This spot is rather stable in comparison to the rest of the floor, so it was just about the only place it could be put.”

The orange-haired man nodded. He remembered Diarmuid’s weapons proudly displayed on the orphanage, and Maria mentioning they rested there in place of someone else.

If they hadn’t ran into yesterday’s troubles, they would have returned to the road by now. As it was, though…

“John. Yesterday, you saved my life. Also, it was the first time someone said they loved me since my father died… at least, the first time since I believed in that as truth. I don’t know what ‘love’ means to me.” Lancelot admitted, the supportive gaze of his travel companion upon him.

The wind blew by, ruffling their hair and the humble blades of grass. The sunlight kissed John’s skin, making Lancelot feel like he was glowing on his entirety.

John believed in him. A true light through the darkness.

“You said traveling with me taught you many things you didn’t know. So, right now, would you help me learn and rebuild myself as we keep traveling?”

The farmer smiled. “I think I'm still gonna rely on you more than the other way around. But you can count on me, no matter what.”

Yesterday was nice, they thought.

This journey began so they could see the world in its entirety.

“Come on! We're heading off to Floor 52!” Lancelot said, grabbing John’s hand and breaking out on a run like he did many times before.

Now, to figure out how one was seen by it.

#ockiss24 #fian's OCs #fian writes #john arc #lancelot ua duibhne

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baxteravenue · 2 years

Text

Sometimes these walls seem to cave in on me…

i wrote this while listening to this song, it’s not the best because i wrote it in like fifteen minutes trying to get my brain to start working again… i don’t think it worked. anyways here’s dad!jack but like sad lmao

2022 was halfway through and Jack was at the top of his game, selling out shows, breaking records, and charting number one. The last thing on his mind was a baby. So when you took notice of your lack of period, and the nausea in the morning you took a pregnancy test and when it came out positive you grew worried about how this would affect everything in your life.

You loved Jack, you were so in love with him it hurt. You knew he wouldn’t force anything on you, but you also knew he didn’t want this.

“Please say something Jack.” You whispered.

Jack was stuck, staring at the three positive pregnancy tests laid out in front of him. He didn’t know what to think, especially since the two of you were always so careful and safe. “I don’t get how this happened Y/N? We are always so careful and you, you’re on birth control? How the fuck could this even be possible?”

Those were not the words you wanted to hear, “I don’t know.”

“F*ck.” Jack leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know what you want me to do Y/N, you know I’m not ready for a baby, you know I got so much shit going on and coming up. Where is a baby supposed to fit into all that?”

You knew Jack didn’t mean for his words to come out harsh but they did and he had no sympathy for you, who was in the same situation as him. You frowned, “I’m not expecting you to say anything Jack. I’m just telling you, I’m not…” You paused, trying your best to hold back your tears, “I’m not going to force you to do anything, but I’m gonna have this baby.”

Jack, selfishly, felt like his world was ending. As if the tiny spec of DNA inside your stomach had any control over anything, and as much as he wanted to opt out he couldn’t. He loved you, and he wanted you, and if he wanted to keep you in his life he’d have to want the growing thing in your stomach.

He promised you he’d be there for you when he could, for you he’d try. He loved you, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t quite feel the same way for the baby.

It was hard for you, growing a child inside of you, alone. Going to doctor’s appointments, alone. Finding out you were having a baby girl, alone. Decorating a nursery, alone. And worst of all, the one that hurt you the most, going into labor and bringing life into the world, alone.

Jack had shown up an hour after your baby girl, you couldn’t quite hold a grudge against him especially not as he showed up with dozens of roses and balloons for you. He had not stopped saying sorry to you, followed by I love yous.

“Do you want to hold your baby girl?” The nurse who had been looking after you and the baby asked Jack, smiling.

“Oh, uhm… No, not right now.” Jack shook his head.

You had just given birth, alone and he had shown up late, and he didn’t even want to hold the baby that looked just like him. You shook your head, “You can leave now Jack.”

Five months into motherhood and you were doing the damn thing, alone. The sadness had disappeared, because now you weren’t really alone. You had your baby girl with you, now and forever.

“I love you, yes I do. Mommy loves you.” You cooed as a lazy smile spread across your baby’s face as you rocked her back and forth, “Your Daddy loves you too, he’s just clouded.”

Jack had been absent, touring, and doing appearances. Since the day you took home Lila he had seen her about fifteen times. It broke your heart but you were not going to force him to love his daughter.

The soft hums coming from the nursery led Jack as he walked quietly into the house, not wanting to wake the two of you up if you were asleep.

“When I look into your eyes, I feel alive.” You sang to Lila, watching as she slowly fell asleep.

Jack watched from the doorway, and for the first time since finding out you were pregnant he felt a tug at his heart and the sudden urge to cry and then all at once every bit of emotion he had been holding back came bursting out like a broken dam.

“Some days we say words that don’t mean a thing.”

This was his baby girl, his Lila. This tiny human with blue eyes and curly hair and who would no doubt have his freckles had been on this earth for five months and he hadn't even told her he loved her.

Jack slowly walked up to you, wiping away the tears dripping down his face, bending down.

Your eyes widened as Jack came into your view, “Jack? When did you? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Jack never cried, and to see him in such a state even after all he had put you through, hurt you.

He shook his head, a small smile on his lips as he looked at the sleeping baby in your arms. “Can I hold her?”

You nodded, excited and on the verge of tears too as he asked that question, “Yes of course.”

Jack gently slid his arm under Lila, trying to replicate how you held her. He looked at Lila, how peaceful she looked. “Hi Lila baby, hi baby.” Jack cooed, “I’m your Daddy, yes I am.”

You smiled as you watched the two of them, a tear sliding down your cheek.

“I love you my pretty girl, Daddy loves you and he’s so sorry that he hasn’t been here for you. I love you baby girl. I promise I’ll always be here for you, forever.” Jack placed a small kiss on her forehead, “I’m gonna try to be the best Daddy for you and Mommy.”

You stood up, hugging Jack from the side. “I know you will be.”

Jack looked over at you, “I’m so sorry baby, I was selfish.”

You shook your head, “All that matters is that you know now, that you’re here.”

#jack harlow #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow x you #jack harlow blurb #jack harlow x y/n #come home the kids miss you #dad!jack #Spotify

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mdzs-is-rotting-my-brain · 1 year

Text

Wangxian mermay 2023

Day VI: Courtship. (And crows)

🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦

The bell went off halfway through shufu’s lecture.

Lan Wangji struggled to keep still, his frequent fidiging didn’t go unnoticed. Xiongzhang glanced at him several times. He never drew attention to Lan Wangji’s distraction and didn’t ask any follow up questions, though Lan Wangji was sure he had many, as he did himself. Mostly the ones around ‘procreation’ but when the hour concluded he could barely control himself enough to depart orderly let alone stay and ask Shufu questions about children.

Once he was clear of the lecture hall, he discarded any notions of ‘orderly’ or ‘controlled’ and swam faster than was permitted towards the surface.

The floating dock had been constructed two short months after their meeting. Though it could hardly be called a dock. It was more a section of dock that had been anchored so it wouldn’t drift during the tides.

The sun was hot, hardly any wind to break the stagnant heat rising from the limp waves of the afternoon tide.

The crow was asleep on the floating dock, the bell bolted to the wood silent beside it.

Lan Wangji swam up to the dock, knocking twice on the wood.

The crow jumped awake, hopping over to him, rubbing its beak and head against his.

Affectionate, just like her creator.

"All right." Lan Wangji kissed the top of her head, "What do you have for me?"

The crow nipped at his finger. Unfolding her wing a small box covered in soft light blue fabric, wrapped in a darker blue silk ribbon.

He thanked the crow with a tiny herring and a shiny stone, as well as a return gift.

The crow nipped his finger one more time before flying away, vanishing beyond where he could see into the clouds above him.

Lan Wangji opened the gift carefully.

Resting inside on white silk was a ribbon.

Not his.

This one was red and black. The main body of it was red, the clouds were black, and the phoenix motif in center was a mix of reds, black, and gold's. But this one had been made with soft golden eyes.

The note under the ribbon read: jiejie says I should tell you to try not to defile this one as I've most certainly done to yours. (though I will deny it to anyone but you.) How is Lan-laoshi? Still lecturing you on 'proper' sex? Jiejie has supplied me with several books, enough oils to last us a lifetime, (or a few months depending on how determined we are to see if one of us can have kids) and strict instructions to come to her if I have questions. (I have so many. My delayed education takes up a good portion of her day now.)

I miss you.

Yanli-jie made her courtship look so easy. How has it only been six weeks since we last spoke? I miss your voice, the feel of your lips, the way you hold me so tight, like I'm your world.

I love you. I cannot wait to see you again.

It's only ten more months.

(The gods must hate us.)

I am yours, as you are mine

-Wei Ying.

His ears were burning, as was his face, by the end of the letter. His mind (unhelpfully) conjuring images of how Wei Ying's 'defiled' his sacred ribbon.

Bringing the red one to his nose, he breathed in the smell of ion, thunder, and phoenix ash before looping it around his wrist and tying it off.

Wei Ying was not wrong. The waiting was intolerable. It had been too long since their engagement had been announced, the Lan and Wen's jumping ahead to ensure a proper union of their Sect Heirs was made in the face of everything that had upended their world in the last few years.

They were frequently told their union would be good for the Jianghu. A celebration after so many decades in stalemating war.

Lan Wangji took several stabilizing breaths, inhaling the humid summer air, his heart racing so face he felt it could be seen through his skin.

He stared at the sky.

So brazenly blue, clouds drifting across the endless expanse.

Somewhere up there was his lover. Attending to his own education for their marriage, and thinking of him too.

Lan Wangji let his decorum enough to sigh.

How would they wait ten months indeed?

🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦🐦

Wei Wuxian<adopted into the Phoniex Wen Sect, Wen Qing is Sect Leader.

Lan Wangji< Jiaoren Gusu Lan Sect.

So I wanted to do the first half of mermay from WWX's POV, and the last half from LWJ's, but this prompt gave me so much hassle. I tried everything for this one before the this one. It's shorter than the others, so hopefully still just as good.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wangxian #wei wuxian #lan wangji #the untamed #wei ying #lan zhan #mdzs fanfiction #mdzs fics #mirmb wangxian mermay 2023 #mirmb writes

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gripefroot · 10 months

Text

Crooked Ways [5/22]

Vegeta was starting to believe he was cursed.

If this is what I get for trying to be courteous, I’m never doing it again! The biting rage filled his mind while he hopped on foot, clutching his throbbing toes with one hand and holding a breakfast tray aloof with the other, hissing and praying it wouldn’t spill on his head.

With his luck, it just might be inevitable.

“I cleaned this up last night!” he exploded, ignoring all politeness he might owe the occupant, now stirring beneath a pile of covers on the bed across the room. “Did you put this here on purpose to trip me?”

“Put what where?” Bulma’s bleary voice emerged from the covers a moment before her head did, teal hair standing on end and giant eyes blinking back sleep as they tried to focus on him. Vegeta gave her a snarl for the trouble, dropping the tray none too gently on her dresser. Then he kicked the box that had attacked his toes for good measure. “What’s that?” Bulma asked, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand.

“How am I supposed to know!”

“Read the label,” she suggested. “Because I don’t know what it is. I didn’t do any more organizing last night after you forbade me from it.” Her tone was testy. Good to know he wasn’t the only one in a foul mood.

Vegeta leaned over the box, frowning at the gold letters scrawled on top. Too flourished to be properly legible, but he made them out. “Canton’s Creations,” he read aloud. “There’s a note attached.”

“Well, what does it say?”

He bit back a nasty remark and read from the handwritten note. “For Miss Briefs. We look forward to seeing you in our latest creation tomorrow night. Love from Canton and team.”

A full-hearted groan filled the room, diverting Vegeta’s attention from the box. Bulma had flopped back in her bed, covering her eyes with her hands and looking utterly defeated. Minus the necessary wounds, of course.

“I can’t believe I forgot,” she moaned, as if she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone. “Stupid Past Me for agreeing to that!”

“What is it?” Vegeta asked warily, unsure if he truly wanted to know.

Bulma sighed, sliding her hands down her face. Then winced, cradling her cast to her chest. “It’s for a biannual scientific research award gala,” she said. “Dad asked me to go in his place. That was back when…” Her voice drifted off into another sigh. “Yamcha and I were going to go together.”

Ah. Vegeta inched towards the door, disinterested in female romantic hysterics. Lest he be tempted to fly halfway across the world and strangle Yamcha for being the cause of Vegeta having to listen to it.

“I can’t stay another day in here!” Bulma cried out suddenly, blasting off the blankets as if suddenly able to control her ki. Vegeta opened his mouth to order her back to bed, and then closed it in a rare moment of wisdom. “And don’t tell me I should go back to bed,” she pointed a finger at Vegeta’s nose, approaching in a flurry of silken pajamas. He was glad he had said anything.

“As if it’s worth the effort,” he retorted, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You never listen, even when it’s good for you.”

She pulled a face, sticking out her tongue.

“You can get your own meals from now on,” Vegeta said. “But do not go anywhere alone.”

“I’m going to a gala alone tomorrow night,” Bulma pointed out. She ran her fingers through her hair, standing the tufts of bangs on end. “What are you going to do about that?”

“Nothing. It’s hardly the same as a dark alley at midnight.”

“As if I’ve ever - ” She stomped a foot, hands clenched in fists at her side while her eyes sparked with anger. Well, one hand clenched. The other sort of…clasped around the cast.

No wonder she needed a mountain of blankets at night. Her pajamas couldn’t possibly provide anything in the way of warmth. The silk shorts barely covered her backside and the top was only half-buttoned, showing off slips of pale shoulder and her long, slender arms.

“Don’t even try to ask me to accompany you to the gala,” Vegeta said, turning away. “I’d rather get eaten by an Scaled Amphrotic Slug than go to such a thing.”

“I’d rather eat a - a Scaley Amprotic Slug than ask,” Bulma shot back. He glanced over his shoulder to take one final admiring look at how irritation made her eyes bright and alive. He grinned without thinking, giving a tch! of appropriate derision just so she knew how disgusted he was by the prospect.

The only problem was that he wasn’t as disgusted as he should be.

Vegeta buried it beneath hours of training that day. The new bots Bulma had installed - just as violent and tricky and painful as he’d hoped - kept him on his toes and in the air and single-mindedly focused on avoiding the burning blasts that singed through his training clothes when he got unlucky. The blisters were reminders of how Bulma was besting him with her technology, how he needed to get stronger, faster, and better. He kept his teeth gritted and didn’t bother to wipe the sweat pouring down his face, the temperature of the pod rising uncomfortably by the hour.

A blast of cool air caught the back of his neck, and he whipped around to dodge another blast, blinking at the sudden sunlight streaming in from the open door of the pod.

“Relax, it’s just me,” Bulma said, striding right in as if she owned the place. Though technically she did. She was back in her jumpsuit, a hat holding her hair up and out of her face.

“What do you want?” Vegeta panted, watching her approach with caution.

She smiled, holding out a thin strip of fabric, one end falling to the floor. “I want to take measurements.”

“Measurements? Of what?”

“Just hold out your arms like a good boy and this’ll be over before you know it.”

As if the bots knew their creator was in the room, all firing had ceased with Bulma’s appearance. Had she controlled them from outside the pod? She must. Vegeta tried not to flinch with each touch of Bulma’s cool fingers with the tape around his wrists, his biceps, down his arm. Each number she scribbled with a pen on the palm of her hand.

“Like the bots?” she asked, muffled by the pen in her mouth as she measured from the nape of his neck to the end of his shoulder. Vegeta cursed the hairs rising on his skin.

“They’re adequate,” he said.

“More than adequate, I think.” Bulma fingered a singed bit of fabric from his back with a laugh. “I’ll upgrade them when you stop getting hit.”

“What are you doing, anyway?” Vegeta snapped when she ducked beneath his outstretched arm to grab him around the waist. “This is humiliating!”

“This is me doing something nice for you,” she said. The tape went around his waist, and she wrote that number on her palm as well. “Stop fidgeting, why don’t you? You’re acting like a toddler. Haven’t you been measured for clothes before?”

“Huh?”

Bulma hummed. “I take that as a no.” The tape went around his hips next. Vegeta fastened his eyes on the wall opposite him, taking short breaths through his nose.

“Suits in the Frieza Force come in standard sizes,” he muttered. “And the undergarments are made of special fabrics that can be indefinitely stretched to any size. They are made standard across the universe.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I don’t have any of that special space fabric, so you’re just going to have to suffer.” Her knuckles brushed against his backside. Vegeta whirled around, glowering down at her kneeling behind him to measure from his buttocks to the ground.

“The indignity!” he growled.

“Hush. I’m almost done.”

He believed her until the next several minutes were spent on the circumference of his thighs and calves, even the length of his feet, which he had to take off his boots for.

“I’ll have to do some durability testing on different fabrics before I know the best blend of fibers to protect and move with you the best,” Bulma said, finally winding up the tape that Vegeta fervently hoped to never see again. “If you’re willing to test them out by fighting in them, it would be helpful for me.”

“Fine.”

“Until then…” Her eyes swept up and down his body, somehow bristling him more than the light feel of the tape brushing over his skin. “Wait right there.”

Vegeta crossed his arms, tapping his fingers on his biceps with his suspicious gaze narrowed on Bulma’s retreating figure. She left the pod to disappear in the brilliant sunshine, but returned a few minutes later with a pile of clothing.

“These at least aren’t torn, and they’re more suited for activity than the stuff you wear around the house,” Bulma explained. “Hope you don’t mind the Capsule Corp logo.”

Vegeta was indifferent to logos. He lifted a specimen from the top of the pile, letting it fall open to reveal a sleeveless black top. “I could make holes in this with one finger,” he declared, studying the flimsy weave.

“Well, don’t,” Bulma said. “It’s getting embarrassing, how you wander around with that suit falling apart. Someone’s going to see something they don’t want to, someday, and they’re going to complain to me or Dad or Mom and then we’ll all be uncomfortable.”

“If your race is bothered by such a thing - ” Vegeta began, but with a loud sigh Bulma held up a hand to shut him up.

Unfortunately, it worked.

“Another fact of the matter is that you live with us now, in our house,” she said. “You represent us. Do us a favor and put yourself together a little more.”

“There are more important things than appearance.” He lifted up the next article of clothing, a pair of tight black shorts. “Like destroying the Androids.”

“Sure. Just make sure you destroy them without your nipples hanging out.” Bulma shoved the rest of the pile into Vegeta’s arms. Wadded socks fell out in a cascade, dropping to the floor. “See you later.”

He mused, after stripping off his blackened and unraveling suit to don the new clothes, that Bulma had been surprisingly cordial, all things considered. She hadn’t strangled him with the tape, even when she’d wrapped it around his neck to measure. It would have been a clever assassination attempt, even if she'd have no chance of success. Crouching over to tie the sneakers, he supposed it had been thoughtful of her to supply him with more appropriate clothes for training.

He bounced on his feet a few times, testing the spring of the soles. Then threw some punches, calculating the strain in the sleeveless shirt. As long as he wasn’t fighting anything with poisonous spores for skin or that sweat lava or spat acid, it would suffice for training.

A whirring noise above him caught his attention. Vegeta didn’t turn, grinning to himself as he heard the telltale sign of an incoming blast.

Break time was over. He leapt forward, handspringing out of the trajectory of the deadly fire, and found that human clothes weren’t the worst he’d worn.

He wolfed down the cold remains of the family dinner over the kitchen sink that night, gut ravaged by hunger from the especially good training that day. Usually he tried to exude more dignity but it was late enough that most of the lights in Capsule Corp were off and all was quiet. Not all, Vegeta allowed, dropping another bone into the plastic sack in the sink that he was using to dispose of the chicken carcass. The tinny drone of one of the shows Bulma favored tickled his ears while he ate. It didn’t bother him enough to shout at her to turn down the volume, but it was enough to remind him that he wasn’t the only one awake.

Blue and white light flashed on the walls of the hallway when Vegeta made his way out of the kitchen. He paused in the archway leading into the living room where Bulma’s face was lit up by the screen of the television, a thoughtful purse to her lips that suggested that though she was nested on the couch in a pile of blankets (what was it with this Earth woman and coverings?) her mind was far away.

“How’s your wrist?” Vegeta asked, because he could think of nothing else to say.

Bulma jolted, blinking in his direction with a shade of red rising in her cheeks. “Oh. Hi, Vegeta. I didn’t see you there.”

“I’m exceptionally quiet,” he said.

“And humble.” She laughed at her own joke, which he didn’t appreciate. Then, “Those clothes fit you really well. How was training in them?”

“Fine.”

“And the bots? No misfires today?”

“No.”

“And your conversational skills? Any improvement there?”

A beat of silence. “What?”

Bulma shook her head, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Are you going to bed?”

“Maybe,” Vegeta said. “Why?”

“I was thinking of putting on a new movie I haven’t seen before. I don’t want to watch it alone and you’d be the perfect companion.”

“Why not alone?”

“It’s scary.” She wriggled her fingers at him, as if trying to spook him. A full-blooded Saiyan and a prince to boot! What a joke.

“I don’t understand the appeal of the television,” Vegeta intoned, waving a dismissive hand at the screen. “But if you need a companion, I will stay untilI resume my training.”

“You’re not sleeping tonight?” Bulma asked, but her eyes were on the television as she used the remote to change channels.

“I’ll sleep later.”

“Sit,” she said without looking, using her casted hand to pat the couch next to her. “May as well rest while you can, since you seem so determined to run your body into the ground.”

“A Saiyan’s body adapts and improves only under intense pressure,” he said loudly, perching on the edge of the couch. The furthest he could get from her.

“Yes, that’s also how bodies die,” Bulma said in a sleek voice. The television screen went black before lighting up with the movie title.

“Horror in the Night?” he read aloud over the buildup of creepy music. “What’s this about?”

“Killer clowns.”

“I thought Kakarot wasn’t on Earth right now.”

“Ha, ha,” she said. “Shut up and watch.”

Vegeta’s interest in the movie was negligible through the first bit, until people started getting hacked to bloody, dramatic deaths by clowns with axes. The clever way the clowns sprung traps on unsuspecting victims had him nodding along.

“We did something similar on Planet Kioba,” he commented. “Afterwards we had to drain the natives because their bodies decomposed in a way that - ” Glancing over at Bulma, he saw her fingers covering her eyes as she shuddered. “What?” he boomed, aghast at her sensitivity. “It was only a beheading!”

“Yes, well, pardon me for not reveling in bloodshed!” she shot back. Between her fingers he saw the peep of blue eyes.

“For a woman that has followed Kakarot around for much of her life, your stamina is pathetic!” Vegeta turned back to the television, just in time to watch an arm get hacked off.

“Goku wasn’t killing people!” Bulma said.

“You wanted to watch this movie, didn’t you?” He reached over with a grunt, tugging her hand away from her face. “Steel yourself, woman! You’ll see worse one day if you are so insistent on being involved in our fights.”

“Oh, shove it.” For added measure Bulma smacked his hand away.

“Why did you insist on this?” Vegeta asked with a frown.

“Horror movies are just…distracting.” With an ashen face she waved a hand at the screen, then winced at a clown’s smile of jagged, bloodstained teeth.

“Distracting? From what?”

“Oh, gosh.” She closed her eyes while the clown tore into the severed arm.

“The clown is an idiot,” Vegeta declared. “Does he not know the human is behind him?”

“Obviously not,” Bulma said. “You know we can’t sense energy, right?”

“Pathetic excuse.” His words were drowned out by screams from the dying clown. The human had bested it, and in a particularly glorious, gorey way. Unfortunately the scene didn’t save his armless, dying friend, and Vegeta scoffed while the hero cried over the corpse. “Now what?” he asked. “The enemy is dead. Though if you ask me, the clown was a worthy hero in his own right.”

“He’s going to take revenge on all clowns,” Bulma explained. Her eyes were open again at the lull in violence, twisting the frayed edges of a blanket between her fingers. “The climax will be him versus the final, most dangerous clown of all and…one of them will kill the other.”

“If you know all that, why watch the movie?”

“For the experience,” she said with a savage look.

“Oh, right,” Vegeta nodded. “The distraction. Have you ever considered that you’d be better served distracting yourself by training?”

“Says the man who has no other hobbies,” she muttered.

“Hobbies are for pasty low-lifes who live in decrepit states of subjugation or false peace! We Saiyans have a mightier cause to fight for! And we have many hobbies,” he added, more interested in the precise shape of Bulma’s pursed lips than the movie. “For your information, Saiyans aren’t just known for being the universe’s best fighters. We’ve cultivated reputations for our other skills as well.”

“Being annoying?” she asked with an arched brow.

Vegeta had shifted his position on the couch without thinking, resting an arm over the top cushion and staring beadily at the woman across from him. “It’s easiest to remember as the three F’s,” he informed her, holding up one finger. “Fighting.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

He held up a second finger to join the first. “Feasting.”

“The grocery bill is proof of that.”

“And the one is fu - ” The word didn’t come out of his mouth. Vegeta snapped his lips shut, teeth rattling through his skull with heat that could rival the Omni-Centuri Supergiant.

What had gotten him here, precisely? Not just on a couch in the company of a frail human, but speaking openly. Of his heritage, of his people. And of…

Well, he wasn’t about to utter the word.

“And what?” Bulma asked, but a sly tilt to her sudden smile made him believe that she already knew.

“Never mind,” he muttered, and twisted back to face the television.

“I already know you’re good at fighting,” she said in a contemplative sort of way. So she wasn’t about to let that one go. Vegeta ground his teeth together. “And I’ve seen you eat. So the only question is…”

Don’t ask it, don’t ask it…

“Are you as good at the…well, you know, as you are the other two?”

She couldn’t know how shriveled up he felt on the inside. How embarrassing. Thankfully the only light was from the television screen and so she wasn't likely to see the red in his cheeks. And neck. The twinkle in her eye made him feel as though he were floundering, caught up in currents he couldn’t fight against, couldn’t defeat. He would rather die than admit any of this, naturally, and so Vegeta did the first thing that came to his harried mind in that tense moment.

He took the offense.

“Why do you ask?” He narrowed a look her way. “Do you want to find out?”

It was hard to tell which of her tics gave her away first. The parting of her lips, the lift of her eyebrows, the pink suffusing the pale skin of her face. The clenching of her fingers on the blanket, frayed ends forgotten.

“You,” Bulma blustered. So she was going with angry. Vegeta could sigh in relief - he could handle angry. “You - salacious - predatory - ”

“Watch the movie, woman,” he barked. Anything to put the conversation to bed. Er, rest. She huffed, crossed her arms much like he did, and stuck her nose up in the air. Holding back a smile at the clear victory for him (and when he’d felt so outmaneuvered by her interest!) Vegeta was scarcely paying attention to the movie until a clown leapt out of shadows on the screen with the screech of voices and music that clanged through his ears.

Adrenaline surged through his veins, bringing up an instinctual “Ah!” that billowed from his mouth to echo through the room. His arms had flown up in defense to shield himself, energy pulsing into a strong build in his palm before he realized that Bulma was laughing.

Laughing.

“Serves you right,” she wheezed, clutching her chest. “If you’d been watching instead of coming onto me you would’ve seen him stalking the guy!”

“It’s not my fault!” Vegeta snapped, suppressing his energy in one swift breath and lowering his arms to his sides. Yet his fingers clenched on the armrest of the couch, the frame creaking under his strength. “I’m not so easily startled in real life. I simply cannot sense energy on television. That tactic of sneaking up behind would never work on me.”

“Of course not,” Bulma shook her head, but her smile wasn’t cruel.

“Movies are stupid,” he declared.

“I love movies.”

“Says the woman keeping her eyes closed.”

“I want to be distracted, but I don’t want nightmares,” she said reasonably.

“Ha!”

He could think of nothing else to say. But his mind didn’t remain on Bulma and her curiosity or her ‘distractions,’ instead calculating the positions of the characters on screen. Their battle plans were pathetic - if those impulsive choices they made could be counted as such. A small amount of preparation might have saved the hero’s life, in the end, and Vegeta was sure of the alternative plan he cooked up in his own mind.

“Well.” Bulma broke the silence when the movie ended with a final shot of the clown with its crimson-stained ax, turning slowly to stare at the audience. It wouldn’t last five seconds against Vegeta, he was sure. “Thank you for staying. I guess.”

Her earlier blush was long gone, as was most of the color in her face.

“They could have tracked the clowns by their footprints alone,” Vegeta stated. “Then they would have known the enemies position, their number, even the sizes of the clowns based on how deep their weight imprinted in the dirt. A counterattack could have easily been launched from the upper levels of that house, giving the humans leverage.”

“I’m sure that’ll help me sleep tonight,” Bulma said.

“As it should.” He couldn’t help puffing out his chest a little. “Especially knowing a master tactician lives under your roof.”

“And eats all my snacks. By the way, you ate the last of the potato chips.”

“So?” Vegeta demanded. Her bottom lip stuck out in response.

“I wanted them.”

”Buy more!”

Bulma threw off her blankets, jolting him with the sight of her pajamas. Again. The ones that didn’t cover her smooth, shapely legs. The billowing air scent a sweet, deliciously-Bulma scent his way, and without thinking Vegeta craned his neck back, breathing deep. His eyes didn’t quite roll back in his skull, but some muscles twitched and fluttered as if responding to something out of his control.

“You’re impossible,” she said. Flounced right in front of him, her rear about twelve inches from his face until she’d left the living room.

He remained where he was until he heard a door shut far away. She was in her bedroom, then. He exhaled slowly, muscles intensing and fingers unwinding from the fists he’d made.

He shouldn’t have brought it up. The three F’s. He shouldn’t have even considered it. Shouldn’t have put that third one anywhere near his consciousness. Not when it could so easily distract him from his true calling, his true destiny. Saiyans weren’t known for multi-tasking. He knew the danger of entertaining thoughts that might steer him away from his ascension.

Irritably - because he should’ve gone the moment the movie ended - Vegeta stalked out of the dome for the training pod.

Bulma had been right about the distraction. And now he needed his own.

#bulma x vegeta #vegebul #dbz fanfiction

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itsclydebitches · 2 years

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OFMD Party Drabble #5

Prompt: AUs

Warnings: Izzy's use of reclaimed slurs, allusions to the AIDS crisis

A/N: I had so much fun writing this AU yesterday, I simply had to continue it :D

Some young poof had been staring at him since he got on the tube.

Izzy grit his teeth and bore it, well used to people tracing him with their eyes like he’d fucking begged them to. Sometimes it was due to his style: leather, piercings, tattoos, a sharp undercut that had been getting shorter as the years went by, his hair no longer keeping its shape even with the fuck-ton of product he put in it. There were all types in London, but not as many who exuded his level of ‘Fuck You’ into their fifties. Sometimes though it was the burn scars on his right arm. The prominent ‘X’ on his cheek. The way he scowled out at the entire world, apparently tempting others to catch his eye and offer an insincere smile, like humoring him was their good deed for the day.

Or maybe it was the SILENCE = DEATH patch on his jacket.

The boy wasn’t shy about his own identity and no, it wasn’t just because of his god-awful outfit that Izzy knew he would have once worn the same earrings. He would have pegged the boy for a fellow queer based on the crop top, neon shorts, and—fucking hell, were those light-up sneakers?—alone, but Fang had drilled it into his admittedly thick skull that this was a new world they were living in, one where anyone could wear anything without it having a whole fucking code built into it. On the days when Izzy wasn’t seething over the terrible passage of time he was internally, privately rejoicing that none of these kids had to go through the shit he had. Or at least, they had their own, slightly less deadly brand of shit to deal with, but what was progress if it wasn’t some guy showing off enough skin for the strip club, all but sitting in another guy’s lap, on an otherwise average Tuesday morning with no one batting an eye? The staring was as cathartic as it was annoying, though Izzy was inclined to let it pass just this once. Provided the fucking kid didn’t try to tell him off for a pink triangle, or the massive QUEER stitched into his collar. It was too early to deal with babies telling him his identity was ‘problematic’ after four fucking decades of fighting for the confidence to claim it.

You’re being pessimistic again, Fang’s voice whispered and Izzy grumbled into his phone.

He’d just resigned himself to the unwanted, but ultimately harmless attention when the boy stood. He kissed his partner, all but sauntered down the car... and ended up leaning on the pole above Izzy, twiddling his fingers in a ‘hello.’

No, no, no, absolutely fucking not.

“Whatever you’re selling,” he growled, “or preaching, or offering—” Izzy looked up then, making contact with a lazy smirk and glossed lips. “—or think you want to say to me: don’t.”

Impossibly, that smirk got wider. Izzy really was losing his touch if he couldn’t even intimidate the youngins anymore.

“My, my, aren’t we feisty.” The boy jutted out his hip, fiddling with a small scarf like someone had paid him for it, and Izzy prayed that they would crash, freeing him of whatever the hell this morning had become. What the fuck was up with him meeting weirdos lately?

The reminder of Stede brought a pang of disappointment. Izzy ruthlessly shoved it aside.

“You know,” the boy continued, entirely undaunted by Izzy’s glare, “I am tempted to offer you something now. I know Pete wouldn’t mind,” and he jerked his head towards the bald man in a ripped jean vest, smiling at them and—fucking shit—taking a picture. Izzy was halfway out of his seat to confront him when a manicured hand nudged his shoulder. “Easy, easy. You’re Izzy Hands, right?”

Izzy blinked.

These tube rides were getting too fucking surreal.

“...How the hell do you know my name?”

The boy just grinned. “Bingo! Hell yeah, I win the prize. Ah, sorry. I guess that did come across a bit stalker-ish, huh? I’m Lucius, intern at the V&A.” He said that as if it cleared up a goddamn thing. At Izzy’s blank look he said, “The Victoria and Albert Museum?”

“I know what ‘V&A’ stands for, you absolute twat.”

“Okay, jeez, cool your jets. It’s just... that’s where Stede works?” Lucius glanced back at Pete who shrugged, looking lost. “You’re... friends?”

Izzy’s brain had ground to a halt. It was too early. Too little coffee. Too many confusing fuckers with bright clothes and enticing smiles. He was friends with Stede Bonnet? The nosy guy who’d given him a disconnected number?

Yet Lucius was still talking. About how much Stede had gushed about Not A Sailor Izzy during their work hours, to the annoyance of everyone within earshot, to the point where his leather-clad, goatee, “Leave her, Johnny” appearance was pretty distinctive to anyone who’d suffered through Stede’s need to fill the silence. Such an interesting man! So confident! I do hope he’ll call! Except Izzy hadn’t called and now here Lucius was, sharing the same car and considering whether he needed to exact vengeance for his boss.

“Except,” Lucius said slowly, eyeing him up and down, “you don’t look like a guy who flirted and ditched.”

Yeah, because he hadn’t. He wasn’t. Izzy had called that number for a solid two weeks, despite the dead beeping on the other end, because Stede’s stupid, genuine smile had haunted him and Edward was up in arms over meeting the ‘fancy man’ Izzy had found. They’d come closest to being the stalkers, scouring the web for any mention of a Stede Bonnet, but if the man had a social media life, it was too damn deep for them to find. Edward had demanded that they keep trying though, sure that anyone who caught Izzy’s attention, even for a moment, was well worth the effort.

Which was why Izzy still had that stupid strip of paper in his wallet, now creased and sweat-stained. He tore it out and shoved it under Lucius’ nose.

“This Stede Bonnet?” he hissed.

Lucius stared.

“...oh for fuck’s sake. Pete!”

And he was running off, pawing at his boyfriend, eventually coming up with a pen and laboriously writing on the back of the paper, using Pete’s shoulder for leverage. When Lucius returned he looked as if he’d swallowed a spike-laden lemon.

“Did you know,” he grit out, “that Stede’s handwriting makes the clumsiest doctor’s look like perfect print?”

The paper reappeared in Izzy’s hand, Lucius’ looping script now under Stede’s—yes—horrendous chicken scratch. That number, apparently, was a four. And that was a six?

“Fuck off,” Izzy whispered.

“I know.”

“Fuck him.”

“I know!”

They pulled into the next station and with a sudden curse Lucius was scrambling, Pete grabbing their bags and tugging him towards the door. He waved and called out as he was leaving,

“Please fuck him. Or don’t. Just call and put us all out of our misery. And if you decide to go with the not fucking option, feel free to call us instead!”

“Call—?” Izzy stared at Lucius blowing him a kiss, Pete grinning ear-to-ear. “Lucius, I don’t have your fucking number!”

But the doors had already closed.

Half the car was looking at them now. Izzy flipped off the majority before pulling out his phone and taking a picture of the now legible number—just in case. He considered calling Stede now... but no. Best wait until he wasn’t fit to bite the fool’s head off.

Instead, Izzy brought Ed’s messages back up, thumb tracing all those stupid heart emojis.

Good news, Boss—your ‘Project Fancy Man’ is back on track.

#OFMD #Our Flag Means Death #GentleHands #SteddyHands #Izzy Hands #Stede Bonnet #OFMD Party #OFMDfic #might do a whole series #of poor Izzy meeting people on the tube #slowly trying to make the SteddyHands work lol

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argerich · 4 months

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merry. my second confirmed case of covid hit just as hard as the first and i have been quite sick. i wrote a short story while cognizant. it's called "Await Further Instruction"

beneath the read more >>>

When I appear, you laminate your back into the many craggled, graffitied cobblestones that make up the Peter Maynock Memorial Bridge and do your best to scream. We’re two miles east of your parents’ gas station, notable only for being the last stop before Route 80 guides the faithful out of Chesapeake Bay. You are fourteen years old and have been this frightened only once before in your life, a moment I remember and you do not. Your right hand, through no instruction of its owner, has lodged itself firmly across your thin, trembling lips and stays there even as muffled squeaks of terror sound damped through the flesh. After several minutes, the futility of your cries becomes too obvious to push through and the screams slow to a ragged pulse, then stop entirely. When I’m sure you won’t try again, I allow the hand to fall away, lip bloodied.

“You’re not in any danger.”

I practiced this moment often since the first botched visitation and found this phrasing to be quite effective – sure, it strays from precedence but I’d take responsibility for that if anyone above cared to complain. After all, being afraid wasn’t something you or I or any entity at all has much control over. I find what you feel outpaces information as light to sound.

My workshopped comfort has little effect. You unfold warily, blinking at me. I stay silent, allowing you a minute or two to study the form I’ve chosen, adjust to its many eccentricities. You wipe sweat from your forehead and look from the droplets on your hand back to me, badly concealing shock. It’s near dusk at the end of a bitter March and any other day you’d be shivering fiercely, even in your windbreaker. Your voice sputters to life.

“W- what are you?”

“A friend,” I pause, silently chastising myself for the presumption, “or at least I’d like to be.”

“I don’t have friends,” you say without thinking, “I mean, I d- don’t have any friends like you.”

That this is precisely why you were chosen - one with little to leave behind or look forward to - will be of no use to you. Better to emphasize the good, HE reminds me, better to tell them it won’t hurt a bit. I shrug.

“You will want friends like me with all there is to come.”

You mean to scoff but it sputters halfway through. The brook beside us gurgles in the silence.

“My grandpa send you?”

My head tilts.

“Dad says grandpa’s been calling about me again,” and as your breath steadies your voice drops deep into your chest, “Says it was only a matter of time before he found out I never went back to that school and he’d call the state police on them before he spent another cent on me.” Your eyebrows pinch. “You state police?”

“No.”

Night has fully fallen now but you wouldn’t notice it from where we stand. The warm light emanating from my faces creates a soft circle of amber around us. You take a small step toward me, scowling.

“Then what do you want?”

I close my eyes only for a second to return to my last successful simulation. The real work begins. “You may have noticed that your world is unwell.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “My world?”

I ignore you. “It became obvious that some action should be taken – as it was in previous catastrophes – but we struggled with what the right intercedence could be. Our past attempts have had… mixed results.”

“Who’s we?”

“So the priority became clear: How could we receive the greatest return with the smallest possible mortal input,” your eyebrows are furrowed now in what I can only hope is concentration. “It took decades but we have worked out a plan wherein with a mere twenty human lives we could save millions – billions even, and that’s not to mention the unborn millennia before us.”

You say nothing so I continue: “You have been given a special part to play in this plan. I’m here to prepare you, so you’ll know what to do once it starts.”

Silence at first. Then you laugh like you’ve already guessed the punchline.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

You twist the zipper of your jacket tightly with your small fingers until the skin goes white from the pressure.

“What kind of part do I play?”

This is the moment I have lost you in every simulation but one. I pray that HE will guide my words and mold your vision to our own.

“For our plan, we need an unusual assistant. Someone who can do things like I can while feeling things like you can. Someone who can walk on Earth as a human without forgetting where they come from.”

“And that’s supposed to be me?”

This surprises me. Never once in the hundreds of conversations we’ve had did you ever assume this of yourself. “No, for someone like that to exist, the one who gives us our shape and form must cultivate them within one of you.”

I hope beyond hope that this will suffice. But you stand there saying nothing that would assure me of your understanding. Still I let the brook accompany us in silence until I’m convinced by your frozen features that I must specify further. Where is my keeper to reset this simulation? How could HE have convinced me I was ready to try again?

“Mary, you will bear the child who will assist in our plan.”

And I lose you as I always have.

“I don’t want to do that,” you say, numbly, “it’s not fair.”

And I can offer nothing but this. “I know.”

And you rush at me, catching my robes in your small wet hands before I can start my ascension. They burn iron hot and you scream demands unintelligible to me as I take my first step up. As the vortex of carbon, nitrogen, and oxygen around me shimmers, I hold your chin in my hand and you still.

“We’ll speak again soon.”

I let go. You hit stone and lie there dazed as I fold up out of sight, gasping from the unconditional extravagance of air.

#my writing

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love-too · 1 year

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I don’t think I have ever talked about this with someone. Or rather, I tried at first, but people were set on misunderstanding me at the time. It literally keeps me up at night because of the shame I still feel thinking back on it.

Anyways, I was still in elementary school and here we have this tradition of organizing a big dinner with parents and kids for the end of the school year. I remember me and my family were getting ready and my mum started asking me and my siblings who we’d like to seat next to. My siblings answered and then, when it came my turn, I answered with the name of a boy who I found really smart and mature and emotionally kind. All of this platonically. But, as soon as I said that, my siblings and my mum started teasing me (now I use the word teasing, but at the time it felt just like they were making fun of me) and telling me that I had a crush on him and I wanted to kiss him and blah blah blah

I remember yelling - YELLING - because of this. I was a fierce, but quiet kid so it wasn’t exactly like me to do so. And I tried to reason with them, but they wouldn’t budge. I felt so much shame at that moment and tears filled up my eyes. My god, the memory of the frustration I felt still makes my skin crawl. I felt like I wasn’t being heard. Why was the truth getting ignored? I wanted to straighten things out, I wanted to make sure that they knew I didn’t have a crush on the boy. I wanted to make sure that their thoughts matched my view, but how could I have done that, when they were so unwilling to listen?

So I just stopped talking about boys in front of basically anyone. I watched my words and measured my reactions regarding them. And then it wasn’t enough, because, after puberty, I had to start doing the same things about girls. And that was even scarier because that meant they were suspecting I could be queer, and that’s not the best in a christian family worried about sin.

Now, looking back at it, I think this is one of the reasons why it took me so much to come to terms with being aroace. Because at first I thought I actually wasn’t, I was just trying to disguise my feelings. I thought I had *made myself* unemotional and unavailable and that it was just a matter of time and retrying.

So I went down to the beach and kissed a boy and I let him touch me in ways that I didn’t dislike, but that I wasn’t exaclty seeking. And then I tried to heal and getting out of my shell and make queer friends, because I’m 23, I’m away from home and I’m old and time is running out. And the moment I do and I get comfortable and I let a boy card his hands through my hair in public while we seat across from this girl that’s just making fun of his restless hands and not teasing about the situation - because there’s nothing to tease about, because we’re just friends and we’re all queer and I might still not have said the words out loud, but I feel like they would accept it without a second guess - and I tell my mum in my excitement of finally having new friends, the first thing she asks is: and is he handsome?

And I once again feel seven again, trying to yell at my mum that I don’t have a crush on the boy, that I just feel we’re akin and we get along well. But this time I’m halfway across the world, so I just clutch my phone till my knuckles get white and I lie and I out him as something that he’s not. And the shame is still there and my skull itches in the spot where he braided my hair in the same way that my throath does under the power of my tears needling at my lungs. And this is all so stupid, and I’ll never be able to be myself, not even 15 years apart, not even halfway across the globe. I just want to rip my hair off.

#personal #sorry for posting this on a sunday #but i feel like if i don't let it out i'll just go insane #aromantic #aroace #asexual #asexuality #am i asexual #am i aromantic?#sexuality crisis #roba mia #13.11.2022

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love-kurdt · 2 months

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This is Me Trying (Mike's Version) (byler): 1

word count: 6,469

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

If someone were to ask me what time it was, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, I would look down at my watch and realize that said watch was not on my wrist. I would then ask myself why my watch was not on my wrist, then I would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and I was dead to Will, so I didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, I’d probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” I was drunk, though, so I was allowed.

I was at some frat party, spending what was my last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. I was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between my legs and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. I’d given up some time ago on trying to pace myself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and I could feel the bass reverberating in my bones, which would normally make me want to get up and dance, but I wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; I was only halfway through my sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen this coming. I had been spiraling for a long time. It all started over summer break between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. I never even wanted to go to college in the first place. What was the point of spending tens of thousands of dollars on a creative writing degree when I could just freelance and eventually get published? But my father insisted that I at least attend a state school with cheaper tuition, claiming, “You can’t run on ink and espresso, son. You have to put in the work and have the credentials to show for it.” On the bright side, it was a miracle that Dad had enough confidence in me to allow me to pursue writing at all. But I was on thin ice with my father, had been for years, so I agreed to at least think about college.

My friends chose their respective schools fairly quickly; Dustin had gotten in with a full ride scholarship to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Max and Lucas went to UCLA as sports science and physical therapy double majors, El went to Vanderbilt University in Nashville to pursue a degree in therapy, and Will… Will went to Chicago. Which school he went to, or if he went to college at all, I didn’t know. To study what, I had no clue. Where he lived within the city, I hadn’t the slightest idea. That’s what happens when your ex-best friend up and leaves without so much as a “goodbye.” I considered the day Will left to be the day my world stopped turning and time froze. So I took off my watch and hid it in a shoebox under my bed with the rest of my mini-shrine.

Dr. Owens and his team had arranged government-mandated counseling for all of those involved in the Vecnapocalypse. A year in, though, I didn’t see a point in going anymore. I was healed. I was fine. I was ready to move on with my life. Well, everyone else in the Party was ready to move on. Why wouldn’t I be? It probably hadn’t been the best decision on my part to stop going to therapy, but without Will in my life, I didn’t have much of a reason to stay in Hawkins at all, and I really didn’t feel like dredging up my past once a week to pick apart as if I were in an anatomy lab practical. Besides, I didn’t feel like arguing anymore with my dad. So, I begrudgingly packed my bags and headed to Indianapolis, killing two birds with one stone.

When I got to campus, I was assigned to dorm with this guy named Elvis (yes, as in Presley). Aside from his stupid ass name, Elvis Kuiken was a good roommate. He was a senior who kept to himself most days, when he wasn’t working. He was clean, at least by my standards (which were on the floor, literally and figuratively speaking), and he was also part of a fraternity. He’d always bring me along to parties, all in the name of the formative freshman experience. What this “experience” primarily entailed, I came to find out, was alcohol. Weed, too, no doubt… but extra emphasis on alcohol.

I didn’t want to admit it, at least not to others, but I became a lot more withdrawn since my falling out with Will. I wasn’t as outgoing, as daring, or as extroverted as I used to be. I was used to being an outcast of sorts, so not much changed there. Except now, where I used to have the confidence to at least approach people and introduce myself– “Hi, I’m Michael! Do you want to be my friend?” “Yes.”– I couldn’t do that anymore. It was like my communicational skills had completely disappeared. But during my first party, I took a shot of tequila and must’ve made at least ten acquaintances within the three hours I was there. If only Troy could see how popular I was now. He’d piss his pants… again. It was like a light flickered on in my head; the more I drank, the more sociable I’d become. I took this epiphany and ran with it.

One time back in— September?— or something, I had been at a party for a few hours, and came up with the idea to try every single type of liquor to ever exist. I picked up a shot glass and stood at the counter for a good fifteen minutes, downing shot after shot. I woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache, unsure of how I even got back to my dorm room. But then I looked to my right and saw Elvis’s head resting on my very shirtless, hickey-covered chest. Oh. That’s how I got home. I wasn’t able to wear any shirts with collars below my clavicle for days. I didn’t hate it, though. In fact, that wasn’t the last time my roommate and I hooked up. Stumbling through the door, making out in the dark, and whispering each other’s names into otherwise complete silence until the sun came up became a regular occurrence.

Christmas break arrived, and most of my time back in Hawkins was spent trying to avoid Will. And from the way I saw it, Will was everywhere. He was the art on my bedroom wall. He was the yellow sweater that hung in my closet, probably the only colorful item in my entire wardrobe that I hadn’t thrown out, because it was Will’s sweater. He was the shea butter soap on the bathroom counter. He was the hot cocoa mix in the kitchen cabinet. He was the D&D box buried underneath my bed that I neglected since Eddie’s death in 1986. He was the Party. So I didn’t leave my basement for the entirety of mid-December to the beginning of January, with the exceptions of family dinners and sleep. I won’t lie, I was a little bit ashamed of how I’d handled things with the Party. I definitely shouldn’t have iced everyone out. My friends made various attempts to get the Party back together, and always invited me, but I’d always have some kind of excuse as to why I couldn’t hang out with them. They eventually stopped calling.

One Saturday afternoon, I was sprawled out on the couch watching Star Wars: Episode VI– Return of the Jedi, and Nancy and Jonathan came barrelling in through the basement entrance, practically swallowing each other whole. I missed the feeling of being in love. I’d cleared my throat when it started to get a bit too steamy, causing the lovebirds to jump apart in shock. Nancy smoothed her skirt while Jonathan lifted a hand into the air to greet me. I nodded back in acknowledgement. This silent interaction had me wanting to crawl out of my skin. All I wanted to do was ask Jonathan about Will; how Will was, what Will was doing, if Will had met anyone, if Will remembered me. It was like Jonathan could read my mind, because he said, completely unprompted, “He still thinks about you, Mike. He hasn’t forgotten you.” I actively committed those words to memory.

I ran into Joyce during a last minute school supplies shopping trip to Melvald’s on my way out of town. It was bound to happen at some point, what with Joyce owning Melvald’s now. I’d expected it to be awkward, but was proven wrong when Joyce practically jumped the counter to engulf me, her honorary third son, in a hug. She’d pulled me all the way down to her level, so I was bent at almost a 90 degree angle, but I didn’t care.

“How’ve you been, sweetheart? How’s Indy treating you?” she asked. That was a loaded question. It would be spectacular if your son hadn’t left, but whatever.

“It’s treating me well, I’m mostly taking my gen eds right now, but I’m always writing my own material when I’m not in class,” I grinned, trying my best to not let it look fake or forced. Joyce seemed to buy it.

“I’m so glad to hear that. You know, I always knew you were going to become a writer,” Joyce smiled, and I nodded, staying as neutral as possible. I knew where she was going with this. “I remember it as if it were yesterday,” bingo, “that in the mornings after your sleepovers, you and Will would sit at the dining room table with your eggs and maple syrup and work on your comics for hours. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” I replied wistfully, “I do.” I glanced down at my shoes, trying not to let any tears escape. The amount of crying over Will that I’d done just within the time I was back home was pathetic. But Joyce didn’t seem to mind in the least, because she reached up and ran her thumbs over my cheeks, where a few stray tears had traveled down against my will.

“Oh, honey,” Joyce held my face in her hands, eyes filled with compassion, and pulled me into another hug, holding me close. I had always loved Joyce, but this mutual understanding led me to reserve a special place in my heart for her.

We engaged in a little more small talk before she personally walked (dragged) me through the store with my shopping list to retrieve the items I needed. When she checked out my items at the counter, she grabbed a pen and post-it note, wrote something on it, and handed it to me. I held it up to eye level with a shaky hand.

“That’s Will’s phone number, he’s at the American Academy of Art,” she whispered. My eyes widened, and I breathed, “Thank you, Ms. Byers. So much,” before heading out the door to my car. I sat in the parking lot for a solid fifteen minutes, causing myself to fall behind schedule, but I had Will’s phone number. That was a good enough reason to be late, in my book.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, I was finally able to return to campus. I’d set my suitcase down next to my bed, and took a minute to collect my thoughts prior to unpacking. All of a sudden, Elvis clumsily tripped over his own feet through the door, sheepishly grinning at me, having just been startled. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, followed by a quiet, “hi.” Seconds later, we were all over each other.

It was around this time that I finally came to terms with the undeniable fact that I was exclusively attracted to men. I’d always believed my sexual preferences existed as a strict ratio of 70:30, with 70% being women and 30% being men. I’d always been aware of my attraction to guys (Will); I’d been sure of that for as long as I could remember. The confusing part about it all was when El came into the picture, and everyone and their mother expected us to start dating. I was, like, twelve at the time, so of course I went along with what everyone else wanted. That backfired majorly when El confronted me with tears in her eyes, asking, “But… you don’t love me anymore?” and my impulse response was, “I don’t even think I loved you romantically to begin with.” It took a long time for me and El to repair our friendship following that conversation, and to help me bullshit my parents into falling for some half-baked reason as to why my “sweetie pie” and I broke up so suddenly.

When I started my… situationship with Elvis, though, I began to question my 70:30 ratio. Elvis, to put it simply, was hot. He was taller than me, just by an inch, but it didn’t stop him from calling me “short.” I found that hilarious, as I stood at a staggering six foot three. Elvis had tanned skin, blonde hair which he kept in a preppy side part, and bright eyes that captured the essence of the bluest sky. He had full lips, a chiseled jawline, and a lean yet muscular build with the likeness of a Greek statue. Elvis had the most gorgeous hands. I particularly liked when those hands pinned my wrists above my head. I also liked when those blue eyes bore into my soul in the way that only one other pair of eyes had ever been able to do within my mere eighteen years of life. And I loved when that chiseled jawline, rough from lack of shaving, rubbed abrasively against my neck.

Elvis was adamant on there being no strings attached. He made sure to remind me every time we did anything remotely sexual, but over time, those words began to lose their potency, like watering down vodka to make it go down smoother. My wide eyes and “yes, of course, I understand”s were slowly replaced with absentminded “mmhmm”s. I figured that as long as Elvis never picked up on my social cues (or lack thereof), and as long as he never knew about me secretly developing more-than-fuck-buddies feelings for him, I would be in the clear. But eventually, something in Elvis had melted away, and he started calling me “my boy,” “love,” and “sweetheart,” amongst other gross (sweet) pet names. I assumed that Elvis had caved and given up on whatever rules he’d set for himself.

Regardless of the apparent stability in our situationship, my mind dwelled in a constant state of disarray. I knew I was not straight. I wasn’t even sure if I was bisexual. I became more conscious of who caught my eye in public, and what I wanted out of the people I interacted with. I discovered I didn’t feel the same way about curves, boobs, or soft lips as I felt when I saw a pair of broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, or a tapered waistI felt different.

Part of me resented myself for being different. I hated the idea of being a target, whether it be for my family, the government, or society as a whole. I'd tried to change. I hooked up with a few girls over the course of a week, “just to see something,” but I'd spent the entire time wondering when it would be over so I could go home. All of those girls either got bored, weren’t satisfied, or got mad that I couldn’t get it up— if not a combination of all three— and left. I scared myself a little when I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

When my encounter with the last girl fell through, I decided I didn’t want to live my life in sexuality limbo anymore. I ran all the way back to my dorm hall, hauled ass up the stairwell, and let myself into my room. Elvis spun around from where he sat at his desk, and could barely get out a “Hey, man,” before I was ripping Elvis from his chair and pulling him in, kissing him with all my might. It didn’t take long for Elvis to reciprocate my advances, kissing back with equal intensity and pushing me back until we hit the side of Elvis’s raised bed frame. I huffed a laugh against Elvis’s lips before hoisting myself up backwards and onto the mattress, watching as Elvis chased after me. He pushed his knee between my legs, and I took the hint, wrapping my ankles around Elvis’s hips. “I want to be with you, baby. With strings, all the strings,” I had told Elvis before pulling him down for another searing kiss, and… that was when my memory cut out for the evening.

I woke up the next morning, hangover hitting me like a truck, to see Elvis already awake and dressed, lifting boxes onto a trolley that was stationed in the middle of the room. Through squinted eyes, I noticed Elvis’s side of the room was essentially bare, save for the dorm furniture, which belonged to the school.

“What’s happening?” I croaked out, and Elvis dropped the box he was holding onto the pile with a loud thump. “Too loud. Headache,” I whispered sharply through gritted teeth.

“It always is too loud, isn’t it?” my roommate laughed wryly to himself, not making any effort to be any quieter. I sat up, rubbing my eyes and ignoring the fact that I was naked and in Elvis’s bed, the only thing that hadn’t been packed up yet.

“What the fuck, Elvis? What are you doing?”

“I’m moving out today, remember?” The two young men finally gained eye contact, and I felt my stomach drop like I was on a roller coaster. “I’m graduating in a few days and need my stuff out by this afternoon.”

Move out was today? Vecna must have been back with a vengeance, because how else would time move so quickly on its own? Sure, Elvis mentioned in passing, like, a few weeks ago, at most, that he was leaving soon. But it still didn’t make sense, because it was only… What, March? No, The Phone Call™ was a while ago. Was it April? My mom called me at least a few weeks prior to wish me a happy nineteenth birthday. Plus, weren’t commencement ceremonies scheduled for the weekend of– “What’s today’s date?”

I watched the blonde in front of me unsubtly scoff with impatience. “It’s May 1st, Mike.” I could only blink back at Elvis in response for a few seconds while I tried to process the fact that my brain was capable of skipping over whole months of my life. There was no way it was May 1st already.

“No,” was the only word I was capable of saying.

“Yet here we are, baby,” Elvis sneered as he whipped his comforter off of me, leaving me exposed and humiliated. “Time flies when you’re blackout drunk. I suggest you try and get your drinking under control, before you end up having to drop out.”

It was like Elvis was a completely different person, completely different from the man who had fucked me senseless the night before. What did I do to deserve this? I didn’t do or… say anything? Oh no. Now I knew what was going on. I drank too much, opened up, and blurted out loud that I wanted to be in a relationship with Elvis, who didn’t feel the same. my face was on fire with embarrassment.

I scrambled off the bed and ran to get dressed while Elvis pulled the last of his sheets off the cheap university mattress. He didn’t fold them, and instead balled them up and shoved them in the trash. I could barely breathe. I merely stood there and watched as my gorgeous Greek (actually Dutch) god of a roommate left our shared room for the last time. Well, I seemingly dodged a bullet. What an asshole.

I was sad that Elvis was gone, but it didn’t completely destroy me the way Will leaving did. What it most likely came down to, in Elvis’s instance, was a horrible case of internalized homophobia. I was very familiar with this mindset; I'd fought a gory, gruesome battle with my own mind for my entire adolescence, at war with myself to prevent acting upon my ever-growing romantic love for Will. But one day, my feelings finally retaliated, and my life immediately went to shit.

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

Comparing the two inevitably led to some old memories resurfacing to haunt me, but I felt strangely lucky. I'd been let off easily. Despite the way I stood completely stupefied in my dorm room, I knew this was temporary, and had full confidence that I'd be able to recover from this pretty quickly. Said confidence was probably the only thing that saved me from losing my mind. Well, that, and the pressure to pass my classes distracted me for a few days. Without having done much studying at all, I army crawled through my finals and barely made it out alive.

About a week later, I moved out of my dorm hall and into an apartment about two miles away from campus. It was a pretty nice place, considering the rent he (my father) paid for it. I got a job at the local coffee shop… which I lost before the month was up, because he never showed up to my shifts. I'd been shocked when Ted insisted upon co-signing the lease, because I didn’t think my dad would be willing to help me stay away from Hawkins. On the other hand, though, it made sense when Ted told me flat out that he wanted me out of the house. I didn’t blame him; I'd been referred to by my father as a “leech” on multiple occasions during my stay over Christmas break, which pretty much tracked. I felt a little guilty about that one.

I appreciated the independence, I truly did. It was a great feeling to have my own room again, to have a more comfortable desk chair to sit at while I drew up plans for a new fantasy novel starring a gay protagonist, to have a bathroom to myself, and most importantly, to have a full-sized refrigerator to fill with all the alcohol I could ever want. But sometimes, late at night, I would catch myself getting a bit too sad.

The entire summer was an endless cycle. I would wake up and make a pot of coffee. I'd sit down and write a chapter or two of my book, and stick to doing that for a few hours. I would check the time (on my wall clock, of course) and take a lunch break, which was usually a box of Annie’s shells and white cheddar. After I'd haphazardly tossed my singular bowl and fork into the sink to be washed later, I'd go back to writing. This wouldn’t last long, because I'd get distracted after smoking a joint, and probably end up staring at that one photo of myself and Will from senior year (Jonathan captured the moment: I had, by some miracle, perched myself up on Will’s handlebars, and Will struggled to hold his bike steady because I was laughing too hard) that sat framed on my desk. I'd snap out of my trance ten minutes later and mentally kick myself for staring for so long, which led to grabbing some form of alcohol and getting wasted, like all my potential. I would make one last attempt at writing and fail miserably. I'd stumble into the shower, and drag myself through my apartment until I found my bed. Most nights, I would end up crying myself to sleep, staring at The Painting™, which I'd tacked up on my bedroom ceiling as a form of self-punishment. It was a sad way to live, really. So I vowed that when the school year started up again, things would be different.

That was how I ended up at the library in late July, browsing the mythology section, squinting at titles printed on spines while my lips formed a straight, thin line. I knew I was officially a hermit when even the library gave me social anxiety. I'd just pulled a rather old looking book off the shelf when a tenor voice behind me caught me off guard.

“Never thought I’d see the day that book would leave the shelf. You must’ve had to brush off, like, a hundred years’ worth of dust just to get to the cover.” I twisted around to put a face to a voice, and was pleasantly surprised when I met eyes with a short guy (well, to me he was short; he was probably, like, 5’9”) with dyed, firetruck red hair that fell over his forehead in a sweeping motion. I liked how he wasn’t afraid to be bold.

“You’re definitely right about that,” I smirked, setting the book down and watching as the growing pile teetered from side to side on the table’s surface. I couldn’t decide where I wanted my story to go next, let alone if I wanted to continue with my current plot at all, so I'd planned on taking a bit of inspiration from… well, everything.

“So you’re into mythology?” the guy asked, and I shoved my hands in my pockets, leaning against the bookshelf as I focused my gaze down. He had pretty eyes. They were hazel, but not too green, not like–

“Yeah, I’m a creative writing major, and I’m trying to expand my horizons a little,” I replied, sitting down at the table. “Like, not to discount the genius of Tolkein, because he literally founded my childhood, but sometimes it’s good to go back to the basics and draw inspiration from there.”

The guy shrugged, and sat across the table from me. “Nothing wrong with that. I think it’s really smart, actually. Or else stories end up getting repetitive and dull.”

“Exactly!” I pointed both index fingers in the guy’s direction, as if to say, “Finally, someone who understands!” I struggled with this concept lately; the uniqueness factor. It turned out that having a male protagonist who just so happened to be romantically attracted to other males wasn’t enough reason to get a book to sell. I needed something else, something of substance, and something that wouldn’t remind readers of other books they’d previously read. “Are you into writing as well?”

“No,” the guy shyly smiled, “I’m just into guys who write about mythology.” Pardon? Was this masculine male-dude-man hitting on me? In public? I wasn’t complaining, but I hadn’t necessarily picked up on any hints. Although, the dyed hair should’ve been a dead giveaway.

“Oh. Um, I– wow, okay,” I stuttered, diverting my eyes to my books for a few seconds to process what was being said before returning to an expectant pair of hazel eyes still looking right at me. “I’m Mike, Mike Wheeler.”

“Wyatt Bowman.”

I cleared my throat. “Are you free in an hour, Wyatt?”

“Yeah, why?” Wyatt raised an eyebrow, causing me to huff a nervous laugh, tapping my Ticonderoga pencil against my spiral-bound notebook at the same speed my knee bounced up and down underneath the table.

“I just gotta take some notes from here, then I was thinking we could… hang out, or something?” I glanced up hopefully at Wyatt.

The corners of Wyatt’s mouth curved upwards as he repeated, “Or something?”

I nodded, confirming our silent sub-conversation.

“Cool. That sounds like a good plan,” Wyatt said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as he rose out of the seat and headed for the exit.

“Cool,” I whispered back, reminiscent of a certain afternoon in a certain town in California in a certain room with a certain boy that made me feel a certain way. But that was the past, and I believed I was ready for the future.

When I started seeing Wyatt Bowman, we’d established that our relationship would not be serious. We were, in a small amount of words, friends with benefits. And we were actually friends. We could hang out without getting all hot and heavy. And I didn’t have any objections; I actually preferred the idea of friends who sometimes had sex over the label-less, no strings arrangement that Elvis and I had. It left less room for loopholes of chronic insecurity and self sabotage. It also, in turn, left more room for exploration.

I met Wes Butler in August at my first ever visit to an actual bar. I'd been sitting at the counter with a few of my female friends (Ruby, Alexis, and Julia), and had just received one of the fruitiest cocktails I'd ever tasted when a piece of eye candy, who might as well have been dressed in nothing, lightly tapped my shoulder and asked me to dance. Of course the girls encouraged me, not really giving me an option in the matter, but hey, good dick was good dick. It didn’t really turn into much else; once we’d had a few rounds of unnecessarily loud sex in a supply closet (ironic, but typical), I bid goodbye to my friends, tossing my condom wrappers in the trash on the way out.

I met another guy, Walker Brooks, in September at an off-campus nerd rave. He looked a lot like Eddie Munson, which may or may not have been coincidental. We left the party not even an hour after it began to go to Walker’s dorm. We fucked in between Lord of the Rings themed bedsheets, and I had to endure an excruciating hour and a half of Walker speaking Elvish rather than English. Afterwards, he invited me to join the University of Indy D&D Club, of which he was, of course, the Dungeon Master. I politely declined.

On a particularly difficult October night following being roofied followed by some unwanted advances, I slapped myself awake with one hand as I unsteadily held my handlebars with the other, biking back to my apartment. My grip slipped, and the front wheel hit the curb, which sent the bike to come to a screeching halt and throw me over the handlebars, tumbling onto the concrete. Warren Blakely, one of my classmates in English 101, watched me fall, stopped me from biking again before I hurt myself even more, and asked me what exactly had happened. Once I told Warren what had gone down, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Over the next two months or so, Warren kept me safe and let me take control back over my own life. Warren and I had a special bond. If I didn’t still love Will, and if I didn’t have such extreme trust issues, I would have absolutely dated Warren if provided the chance. But I couldn’t, not until I got over Will, so I ended things with Warren. This specific relationship put things into perspective for me. In the end, none of these men I slept with would ever be Will Byers. So I'd either have to get over Will, or find someone better.

On the nights I wasn’t at parties, I was at my desk, writing letters to Will. It was kind of cathartic, honestly. I'd rip a piece of college ruled paper out of my notebook, just like old times, and write letter after letter saying things along the lines of:

These occasional letters became a part of my nightly routine… whenever I wasn’t too fucked up to focus my eyes on my own handwriting. And recently, it was more often than not that I couldn’t actually fall asleep without drinking. I wasn’t even of legal age yet, and wouldn’t be for another two years.

I stopped attending my classes halfway through the semester, so it wasn’t a surprise when my grades plummeted. My mailbox became inundated with letters from the registrar’s office, advising me to withdraw from the classes I was failing before the pass/fail deadline, but I couldn’t care less; so, not only did I fail out of my classes, but I couldn’t even retake the classes even if I wanted to, because my record forced me into the red zone. And the entire time, I couldn’t feel a thing.

If someone were to ask me what time it was, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, I would look down at my watch and realize that said watch was not on my wrist. I would then ask myself why my watch was not on my wrist, then I would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and I was dead to Will, so I didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, I'd probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” I was drunk, though, so I was allowed.

I was at some frat party, spending what was my last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. I was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between my legs and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. I'd given up some time ago on trying to pace myself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and I could feel the bass reverberating in my bones, which would normally make me want to get up and dance, but I wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; I was only halfway through my sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

“Hey, by any chance do you know the time?” a deep voice asked, and I lifted my gaze up from my lap to a muscular brunette. I blinked a few times in an attempt to form a coherent sentence.

“I, uh– I don’t—” I stuttered, lifting my bare, watch-less wrist up to show to the guy, who merely lifted an unserious eyebrow and chuckled. He took my hand in his and let it down gently before sitting next to me on the couch.

“It’s all good, man. I was just using that as a reason to talk to you.”

I was surprised someone clocked me that quickly. But then again, I was wearing insanely tight jeans that I'd cut right above the knee paired with a floral print shirt. I wasn’t exactly being subtle. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” the guy laughed, extending a rough, calloused hand. Did he lift weights? Or play guitar? Or both? “I’m Carter, by the way.” At least his name didn’t begin with a W. Or maybe it did, but the W was silent. Wcarter. Ouah-carter. Wah-carter. Double-you-carter. Dub-yuh-Carter. Cart… Chart… Astrological chart. I made a mental note to check my horoscope. What was I thinking about originally? I couldn’t remember.

Jesus. I was hammered.

“I’m Mike,” I replied, taking the guy’s— Carter’s— hand, but Carter didn’t shake it. He instead let our fingers intertwine, anticipatorily slow. Okay. I could be good with this.

“Do you maybe want to get out of here, Mike?” Carter asked, and I felt a blush rising to my face.

“Sure, yeah,” I breathed, and let Carter pull me up out of my sunken spot on the couch, down some hallway, and into an empty bedroom. I scoped out the place and noticed a photo of Carter with a dog framed on the desk; this was his room. I exhaled in relief. I didn’t want to have sex in someone else’s bed. Never again.

Carter pulled the door closed and locked it, turning around to face me before looking me up and down. I gulped. I hadn’t realized before, because it was so dark, but in the lamplight, Carter’s resemblance to Will was uncanny. He was a few inches shorter than me, and had a muscular build– that much I knew already. Thank god he didn’t have a bowl cut. He had a strong jawline but a subtle softness to his features. His lips were a light pink, the upper one a bit thinner than the lower one. The most similar feature they shared, though, was their bright green eyes, full of life, and something else I couldn’t name… intention? Vulnerability? Yearning?

In my inebriated state, I didn’t notice how close Carter had gotten until I felt two hands snaking their way up my shoulders and joining behind my neck, pulling me down until our lips met. I couldn’t move fast enough, lifting my shaking hands to rest on Carter’s waist, pulling him into my chest and deepening the kiss immediately. Carter was more languid in his movements, while I was more firm and calculated; this felt strangely antithetical. It probably had to do something with my increased tolerance. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, but if there was one person who knew how to repress their feelings with a series of bad decisions, it was me. Mike Wheeler. My life was already on fire, what more could possibly happen to exacerbate the flame?

The two of us made our way over to Carter’s bed, where we quickly undressed. Carter kissed down my body, and I ran my hands through Carter’s hair. Then he went down on me without warning.

“Ah!” I yelped in surprise, my exclamation becoming a moan almost instantaneously. This was good. This felt nice. This is exactly what I’d imagine–

“Will…”

“Excuse me?”

And with that, the night was over. Carter stopped what he was doing, got up, muttered a “fuck you,” and left without another word. I felt the world zeroing in on me. I could just picture what I’d write in my next letter:

Dear Will,

I said your name while another guy had my dick in his mouth. Do you believe me now?

Love, Mike

next part

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sixpossumsinatrenchcoat · 6 months

Text

Auditions — ch 2 (of 5) — lockout

Hajime is just wandering down the beach, thinking about how to track down Komaeda without Chiaki and Sonia finding out and getting all stupid about it, when he trips over a lump in the sand and falls flat on his face. “Oh!” the lump greets him giddily. “Hajime! What a nice surprise.” ...Just his luck. “Hey, Komaeda-kun.” “Are you ever going to drop the formalities?” Komaeda laughs. “You could call me anything you want, you know. I wouldn’t mind.” “Uh huh.” “Even if it was really mean.” Hajime had got that impression, yeah.

[Danganronpa 2 spoilers thru the 3rd trial. You can start from ch 1 here: https://ao3.org/works/51548557/chapters/130285615]

Hajime doesn’t have a crush on Komaeda. It’s just that, now that the girls already brought it up, he can’t stop thinking about how bad it would suck if he did.

It’s Sonia’s fault, really. As the Ultimate Princess, it's her job to decide what’s true. To impose her will on the world around her and expect it to bend to her. Sonia got it in her head that there was a problem to solve, and now suddenly there’s a problem. And the problem is that, all of a sudden, Hajime can’t just be fucking normal around Komaeda.

“Hajime!” a scratchy voice greets him, and Hajime spits his coffee halfway across the table.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Komaeda says sunnily. “I didn’t mean to ruin your appetite. I should really know better, haha! Looking at me would make anyone sick.”

“N-No,” Hajime rasps. He’s still trying to wring the coffee out of his alveoli. “That’s n—”

But he can’t force the words past all the coughing. Which is annoying, because for once, Komaeda doesn’t seem to be in one of his moods. His eyes shine clear and bright: serpentine, not jade.

“Haha! Sorry, Hajime. That’s luck for you. But hey, I’ll see you around!”

Hajime can’t swallow around the lump in his throat. So he chokes on it.

###

“You’re being really annoying,” Chiaki tells him later.

“I’m what?”

“Being really annoying.”

Okay, so he obviously heard her. “How so.”

“All this stuff about Komaeda,” she says calmly, without looking up from her game. “I mean. If you want to know what he’s thinking, shouldn’t you just ask?”

Hah. Wow. Right. Shows how much she knows. Komaeda would never just answer a question. That’s why Hajime has to stay two steps ahead by never asking one.

Chiaki looks dubious. “Are you sure you’re not just scared?”

“S-Scared??” Hajime sputters. “How—or, I mean—of what?”

"I dunno." Chiaki’s eyes stay locked on her screen. "Being wrong. Being embarrassed. Not being on the same page."

“Wh— I’m scared of dying!”

Chiaki's game lets out the crunchy little blip-blp-bl000p of Game Over. When she finally looks up, she looks distinctly unimpressed. “You and everyone else.”

###

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

The girls just got in his head a little. That doesn’t mean they’re right. Sonia gets fired up about all kinds of stuff that isn’t real. J-dramas, mostly. Sometimes she’ll get so wrapped up in a series, it's like she can't even remember where fiction ends and reality begins. She’ll start prodding Hajime to trade his tie for an ascot, or begging Chiaki to let her put her hair in pigtails ‘please, Chi-chan, just for tonight; I just know you’ll look -just- like Ai-sama!’

This is probably the same thing. Probably Sonia has been binging some ridiculous BL office drama and got it in her head that Hajime and Komaeda are star-crossed lovers, and not just two normal kids having an insanely traumatic semester. (Well. One normal kid and one total wild card. But the point stands.)

Hajime just has to remind himself of what’s real. By hanging out with the actual Komaeda. And then he’ll remember that, in real life, Komaeda is fucking terrifying.

Besides. To have a crush on someone, you probably need to know literally anything about them. Any tiny, insignificant little detail that feels true. And Hajime knows full well that he’s never gonna get that from Komaeda. Komaeda is a mystery wearing another mystery as a hat. He’s a ludicrous fucking layer-cake of facades. Masks on masks on even weirder, more unsettling masks until you finally accept that you’re never going to reach the bottom, because it’s masks all the way down.

…Like he said. Fucking terrifying.

###

“Oh!” the lump greets him giddily. “Hajime! What a nice surprise.”

…Just his luck. “Hey, Komaeda-kun.”

Komaeda laughs. “Are you ever going to drop the formalities? You could call me anything you want, you know. I wouldn’t mind.”

“Uh huh.”

“Even if it was really mean.”

Hajime had got that impression, yeah. “Is there something you want me to call you?”

“Huh? What I want doesn’t come into it! A worthless animal like me shouldn’t get any say in the matter.”

Ugh. Komaeda always looks so cheerful when he’s degrading himself. It’s honestly really disorienting. “Komaeda-kun, then.”

“Haha! You’re so stalwart, Hajime. So unyielding. The hope that might be born of such resolve… Just thinking about it gives me goosebumps!”

“Komaeda-kun,” Hajime says abruptly. He almost loses his nerve when Komaeda aims that double-barreled mirrored stare straight at him. Then he remembers that he definitely doesn’t have a crush. “Do you—uh. Do you ever think about anything other than hope?”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“Like… I dunno. Stuff that catches your eye, or… stuff you want. For you, I mean. Not for ‘humanity’s future,’ or whatever.”

“Haha! Oh, Hajime. Even if I did want something, what would it matter?”

“But if it did.”

Komaeda frowns. (Hajime can never tell if Komaeda is making fun of him or listening with deadly seriousness. Or if maybe it’s both things at once? You can never really tell, with Komaeda.)

“‘But if it did,’” Komaeda muses. “Hm. I guess I must have desires, like anyone else. But I’ve never seen any correlation between wanting something and getting it. So maybe I’ve inoculated myself against… I don’t know. Expectation? Since it doesn’t seem very useful.”

Hajime lets out his breath. As usual, Komaeda’s given him a lot to think about. And as usual, Hajime has no idea what to do with it. “...Komaeda.”

“Yes, Hajime?”

“Do you ever just… not talk?”

“Haha! What an interesting question. But of course I do! Even a worthless animal like me can appreciate a comfortable silence, just like any other man. In fact, some of the most meaningful moments in my life passed me by without a single word. Just the simple understanding shared by two people who have no need for speech. Why do you ask?”

“Huh? Oh. No reason.”

###

“Hajime-kun,” Sonia tells him that night. “Your behavior of late has been… untoward.”

Huh? “Huh?”

“Or, rather—not untoward, but, perhaps… unseemly?”

“...Uh.”

Sonia sighs. “You are distracted, Hajime-kun. Which is wholly understandable, in the circumstance! I am not displeased so much as I am… concerned. Do not fear, Hajime! Such a trifling concern could not threaten our bond! If someone were to invoke the blood-rite of disrespect, I would not hesitate to take up arms in your name!”

“Oh. Or, I mean. Thanks?”

“Of course!! You are my comrade, and I yours! Should the need arise, I would defend you to my dying breath! ...But I would, of course, prefer to avoid such an outcome altogether.”

Hajime is lost. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you're getting at.”

“Oh my god, Hajime,” Chiaki huffs, startling them both. Hajime thought she’d been asleep for hours. “She’s obviously talking about Komaeda.”

“In what world was that obvious??”

“Chiaki-chan speaks the truth,” Sonia admits. “I have the utmost admiration for you, but… I fear that this fixation may compromise your focus.”

“This what?”

“No, Sonia’s right,” Chiaki cuts in. “You’re all over the place, Hajime. No offense.”

“Wh– Of course I’m offended!”

“Unresolved tension poisons the mind,” Sonia agrees, nodding. “Left unchecked, it is as insidious as any neurotoxin. And your wits have been our salvation three times over. I wish to believe that no more of our beloved friends will come to harm, but…” She bites her lip and then shakes her head fiercely. “No. I will not allow it. I will not lose anyone else. Which means that I cannot allow you to succumb to distraction.”

“Okay? I… won’t?”

“Then you’ll speak to Komaeda,” Sonia tells him. It doesn’t sound like a question. “And seize the answers that you so desire. By any means necessary.”

Hajime runs out of patience. “What answers!! What’s even the question? …And I do talk to Komaeda, by the way. I just talked to him this morning. It’s just that trying to get a straight answer out of him is pointless. So I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“I see,” Sonia sighs. “You refuse to make your feelings known.”

“My—??? I don’t have any—”

She shakes her head sadly. “The hard way, then.”

###

So that’s how Hajime winds up locked out of his own cottage, in his pajamas, on murder island. Barefoot. In the middle of the fucking night.

###

“You guys,” Hajime says. Endlessly, excruciatingly reasonable. “This is crazy. You know this is crazy, right?”

“It is for your own good!!” Sonia wails through the door. “We only want you to be happy!!!!”

“Oh, I’m happy,” he says darkly. “I’ve never been so happy. The only way I could get any happier is if I was in bed. In my room.”

He can just barely hear Chiaki’s breathy monotone. “You can come back whenever you want. You just have to talk to Komaeda first.”

“And say what!!”

“Only you can answer that, Hajime-kun.” That would be Sonia, of course, sounding just as self-assured as she is totally off-base.

“And if I refuse?”

There’s no answer.

Hajime rolls his eyes. He’s not sure how Sonia managed to talk Chiaki into this ridiculous little game—or if maybe it was the other way around? Frankly, it’s a little out of character for either of them. But he can sort of see how, together, they might talk each other into it.

Not that it really matters. Hajime isn’t planning to stoop to their level. Even if he wanted to play along, what would he even say? Hey, Komaeda-kun. Sorry to stop by so late! It’s just that my girlfriends think I have a crush on you, and they’re worried it’s going to make me worse at investigating murders.

…Yeah, no. Hajime will pass, thanks.

He kills a few minutes on the boardwalk, kicking his feet over the edge of the bridge and looking at the stars. Once he decides that it’s been long enough to lend a little credence to his story, he hops up and raps on the door.

“Sorry, guys. He didn’t answer. He’s probably asleep.”

“You didn’t even knock!!” Sonia shrills.

Chiaki’s voice comes through a little quieter. “You know we can see you, right?”

Hajime thunks the butt of his palm against his forehead. No, he did not know that. Obviously. “You’re seriously not going to let me in?”

More silence.

“You guys are being crazy,” Hajime mutters. “This is, like… mutiny, or something.”

“It’s only mutiny if you’re in charge,” Chiaki points out. “This is just coercion.”

“…You’re gonna feel really bad if I get murdered.”

“W-We have faith in our classmates!” Sonia squeaks.

“Shh,” Chiaki hisses. “You’re encouraging him.”

###

What else can he do? Grudgingly, reluctantly, very much under duress, Hajime makes his way to Komaeda’s cottage.

The lights are on, but he can’t hear any signs of life. There’s no huff of breath, no scuff of human motion.

Hajime squeezes his eyes shut. This is a nightmare. He’s not even properly dressed. He was already half-asleep when the girls asked him to “investigate” the “weird noise” that they definitely didn’t actually hear. So instead of his uniform, he’s stuck in a pair of ratty sweats and a sleep-shirt worn so thin that it’s more hole than cotton. It would almost be less embarrassing to lose the shirt entirely. But only almost.

Whatever. The girls just need to think that he tried, right? Then he can set all this exhausting crap aside and go to the fuck to bed.

He raises one hand and taps at the door with just the tip of one fingernail. If he’s lucky, Komaeda won’t even notice.

“It’s unlocked!” Komaeda calls cheerfully, because of course he does. Because Hajime has never been lucky in his entire stupid life.

Well. No turning back now.

Hajime takes a breath and shoves the door open.

###

Komaeda wasn’t lying. The door is totally unlocked. Hajime peers through the crack with all the grim trepidation of a man called to identify the body of his only son. "Uh. You, uh. Don't lock your door."

“Are you suggesting that I distrust our beloved classmates?” Komaeda asks mildly. He's lying on the floor, for some reason, even though his bed is literally right next to him. “That’s not very hopeful of you, Hajime. Besides. To be a stepping stone for such powerful hope would be my life’s greatest honor. If one of you Ultimates deigned to dirty your hands with my blood, I could die truly happy.”

Huh. It’s weird… Komaeda is saying the same weird shit as ever, but. It’s like his heart isn’t in it, or something? For the first time that Hajime can remember, Komaeda looks tired. Chewed down to the bone. Even when he was chained up in the old hotel, uncomfortable and underfed and utterly alone, he never looked like this.

And why is he wearing his normal clothes? It's, like, one in the morning. Hajime might not remember how he got to this island, but he still found a neatly-packed suitcase waiting for him in his cottage. The dresser was stuffed with t-shirts and blazers and crisp white button-downs, a wardrobe that some fundamental corner of his brain recognized implicitly. But Komaeda’s room looks barren. Untouched. Like there’s no one living here at all.

Now that he thinks of it, this is probably his first time seeing inside Komaeda’s room. He’s not sure what he expected. Sculptures made from fingernails and human hair? A shrine in worship to some vague, unspecified future hope? But Komaeda’s room looks the same as anyone else’s. Wide glass windows. White wood walls. Unvarnished floors. Except that Komaeda has a fridge, for some reason. Why didn’t Hajime get a fridge?

“Um.” Hajime shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He can’t stop thinking about the pajama thing. Surely Komaeda doesn’t sleep in skinny jeans. “Uh. Do you… really mean that?”

Komaeda finally looks up. When he sees Hajime’s sleepwear—the frayed sweats; the overstretched shirt—his eyebrows go up. “Trying out a new look? It suits you.”

“Fuck off,” Hajime says tiredly.

“I mean it.” Komaeda’s eyes linger on Hajime’s collarbone and then drift slowly, almost languid, down his chest. “Haha!! You’ve been holding out on us, Hajime-kun.”

Hajime rolls his eyes. “You don’t always have to make fun of me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I can’t figure out why everyone always seems to think otherwise. But putting that aside… What brings you here, Hajime? Unless…” Komaeda leans forward, suddenly eager. “Have you finally come to kill me?”

“Uh. No. Sorry.”

“I expected as much,” he sighs, leaning back on his palms. “Ah, well. Then why are you here?”

Right. That is the obvious question. “I'm. Locked out.”

“How strange! I thought our rooms only locked from the inside.”

Of course he wouldn’t just let it go. Hajime bites the bullet. “…Chiaki locked me out.”

Komaeda lets out a startled laugh. Hajime is at least 30% sure that this one is genuine. “But why was— Oh, Hajime, really? You and Nanami-san? Not that I can't see it, of course; two such inspiring minds, trapped in such… compromising circumstances. Still, Nanami-san is hardly worldly. However did you manage it?” Before Hajime can say a word, Komaeda is already answering his own question. “No… You would never make the first move, would you, Hajime? I’ll bet you let her seduce you.”

“Wh. What makes you say that.”

For the briefest instant, Komaeda’s eyes flash with something like annoyance. “Haha! You’re an exceptional specimen, Hajime, but—if I can be honest? You’re unusually dense.” His smirk, when it arrives, comes with too many teeth. “I’ll bet you didn’t notice what she wanted till she reached out and took it.”

“It’s not like that,” Hajime says loudly. It is actually a little bit like that, but not in the way Komaeda means. “Or. Um. She just—sleeps over sometimes.” No, that still sounds way too suggestive. “Because of. All the murder?”

“I see. Because of the murder.”

“S-Sonia sleeps over too,” Hajime blurts out. Shit, is that better or worse? Why does it feel so important that Komaeda not get the wrong idea about Hajime being off the market? “Uhh. Chiaki wants to invite Kuzuryu. To sleep over. Also. As well.” What the fuck, what the fuck are you saying, why are you STILL talking????

“I see,” Komaeda says again, this time with a glimmer of amusement. “Well! That certainly sounds lively.”

“Y-Yeah.”

“You must have quite a lot of energy, for all that… hospitality.” Komaeda brightens. “Perhaps that’s your talent!”

God, Hajime hopes not.

“You seem very flushed, Hajime-kun,” Komaeda says innocently. “Are you, perhaps, afraid?”

“Huh? No. Or—of what?”

“To be alone with scum like me, of course! All alone at night, with someone so disreputable… Aren’t you just a little bit scared of what I might do?”

“What? No.” He’s surprised to find that he means it. Hajime really doesn’t see Komaeda killing him. Or anyone else here, actually. “You’re not gonna kill me, Komaeda. We’re both walking out of here alive.”

Komaeda looks impressed. “Do you know already how you’re going to die, Hajime?”

Ugh. “That’s obviously not what I meant.”

“Would you like to?”

Hajime freezes.

“I could tell you, probably,” Komaeda says. Still with that same friendly smile. “If you wanted.”

“Are you… threatening me?”

“That is a romantic thought,” Komaeda says thoughtfully. “But—no. I’m afraid that I could only take a guess. But I'm a very good guesser.” His eyes glitter. “Do you want to find out?”

“Uh,” Hajime chokes out. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry. “But. Um. If you guessed right, and then it happened, then… isn’t it sort of like you did it?”

“Is that what you think?”

“I asked first.”

Komaeda chuckles. “This isn’t a class trial, Hajime. I’m under no obligation to answer. But if you’re really that curious, then… yes. I suppose I do.”

“Oh.”

“Your turn.”.

“—Uh?”

“To answer something for me.”

Hajime stares like a deer in headlights. Tracking the coming impact but helpless to stop it. The thump of meat against the hood. The broken crunch of bone.

Komaeda smiles like a fox. “Why did Nanami-san lock you out?”

“Uhh,” Hajime says. “I—She thinks—or. I mean. Her and Sonia, they both… I guess they think I need to…” God, it sounds so fucking stupid. “I don’t know. ‘Understand you.’ Or something.”

“H-Haha!! Aw, come on, Hajime. Buy me dinner first, at least. I’m joking!” Komaeda laughs, while Hajime sputters. “After all, you’re our best and brightest hope. If you wanted to, you could take anything you wanted.”

Hajime chokes.

Komaeda’s eyes narrow. “...Oh. That is what you want.” His mouth curves into a thin smile. It’s not a nice smile. “You’re easier than I thought, Hajime-kun.”

“I have to,” Hajime says, too loud. “Go. And. Break into my room?”

“The lock on the window sticks,” Komaeda says absently. “It never latches properly. So it’s easy to force it open.”

Great. That is really cool to hear from the scariest person on this island. “Uh. Thanks.”

With one foot out the door, Hajime hesitates. “Komaeda?”

“Yes, Hajime?”

“Do you know how you’re going to die?”

For a second, Komaeda looks very, very tired. “Haha. Yes. I suppose I could take a guess.”

###

The instant his front door opens, Hajime is already hurtling through it. “I think Komaeda’s trying to seduce me.”

Sonia brightens. “Oh, good for you!”

“Yeah, congrats, Hajime.”

“No, I mean—”

“If this is about my prior concerns,” Sonia says bravely, “you needn’t worry! I've already come to terms. The chemistry was undeniable.”

Chiaki nods in agreement. “He’s grown on me a little. He hasn’t tried to kill anyone for ages.”

“He never—!!” Hajime takes a breath. “I just… really think he did that stuff because he knew we’d get through it.” I’m a very good guesser, Komaeda’s memory whispers, and another piece of the puzzle slides into focus. “He was… betting on us, I think. And. Trusting his luck.”

“Hah!” a new voice laughs. “Man, you sure know how to pick ‘em. You got a thing for blondes or somethin’?”

Hajime whips around. “K-Kuzuryu?????”

Against all odds, Ultimate Gangster Kuzuryu Fuyuhiko is sitting on Hajime’s desk, looking utterly at ease. When Hajime turns to stare, he shrugs. “Hey, I’m not here to judge.”

“No, I mean— What are you doing in my room???”

Kuzuryu bristles. “That’s a lotta judgment from a guy who’s shacked up with half the class, apparently.”

“I’m not—”

“Kuzuryu-san came looking for you!” Sonia says brightly. “He hoped to discuss something of grave importance! He was taken aback to find us instead, but it would have been horribly rude to leave him out in the cold.”

It is 86 degrees outside.

Kuzuryu’s hand finds the back of his neck. “Look, you don’t gotta dance around it, alright? I got it. I'll get out of your hair.”

“N-No, no, it’s not that,” Hajime rushes to explain. “It’s just. Uh. I… think we’re gonna need a bigger bed.”

If you wanna find out when I update next, you can always find the latest on ao3!

#komahina #danganronpa 2 #polyshipping #supportive partners #exhausting crushes #hinanami #soniahinanami? is that a thing? wow i am really only writing this for me huh

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