#but im almost entirely sure none of the songs will make any sense because I am being absolutely delusional rn | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eligaxy · 3 years

Text

Wind

☆ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 : Venti x gn!Reader

☆𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 : near death experience, you’re confused asf about everything, bad writing cause i suck, spoilers for the we will be reunited quest!! And also for venti’s backstory, venti is serious for once (yes it’s a legitimate warning🤚)

☆𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 : Some angst, some fluff? Idk bye🤨

☆𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶 : "It's okay, it's over now" he kneeled to be at your level, his arms still wrapped around you, and you didn't have the energy to fight your urge of nuzzling into him. "I'll always be here for you, wherever there is wind, remember I'm here too. You only need to ask." (2.8k words)

♪𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰 : i’m an idiot simp, i did this in one sitting and half asleep, english isnt my first language BLA BLA IM SORRY FOR MY POOR WRITING BUT HAVE THIS

basically you don’t know if you can trust venti or not, head says no, heart screams yes

Also, I was listening to stormterror’s lair ost while writing it, just because its fucking amazing, you might wanna listen to it too

I’m nervous to post this?/&:! This is the second fic i’ve ever finished in my whole life

i love venti and he’s hot in his god outfit i don’t make the rules

KAY ENJOY <3

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

"Please, anybody... Just help me."

Saying you were exhausted would have been an understatement. After reuniting with your sibling, you had been frantically searching for clues about khaenri'ah and ways to Inazuma. With no luck, you couldn't find any traces of Dainsleif or of your twin. The ruins had been sealed and you had no idea what happened to the inverted statue or the corpse you had found there. Desperately, you clung into every little information you had, you would have turned every rock on this archon damned continent if you had to, which is what led you into those ruins near Guilli plains.

Walking along the destroyed buildings your eyes caught sight of a dandelion and you froze. You missed them so much, why couldn't they go back home with you? All you ever wanted was to be by their side why, why were they running away from you?

You remembered your travels, the moments you shared together, their protectiveness over you, the fondness in their eyes when you smiled at them. You remember the times you got hurt and healed one another with your now missing powers. You remember sleeping by their side and being grateful to the universe to let you keep your ray of sunshine everywhere with you. How ironic.

What had they meant 'once you reach the end of your journey' ? What does that even mean? Stupid twin, if they knew you were here the whole time, why hadn't they come to you? Why were they always leaving just when they were within your grasp? Why? Did they know how much you missed them and how much your heart broke when you finally saw them? Did they?

You only realized you were crying when a small gust of wind had your wet cheek react to the cold, breaking your train of thought. Wind.

The wind is everywhere, you think, free as a bird, always accompanying every citizen of this world, never truly alone. With this in mind, you resumed your exploring, slower this time.

A sigh escaped your mouth. You didn't want to admit it, but the wind did comfort you a little. Almost as if he was here. God of freedom and of the breeze, he was more a singer than a protector and you couldn't bear to think about him. Was it true? What Dain said... Did he destroy this nation? Was he the cause of the scenery that still haunted your nightmares up until 500 years later? Your brain simply couldn't accept that Venti, your Venti, you catch yourself thinking, could have made such an act of wrath. He was the epitome of freedom, why would he take the very thing he based all of his existence on from mere mortals? Barbatos simply couldn't be afraid of being overpowered, he didn't even care about power. All he wanted was freedom and happiness for his people. Surley this couldn't be right?

But then again, who were you to deny the wipe out of an entire nation? The gods did it. They were afraid that Celestia would be overthrown by the pride of humankind, the destruction of khaenri'ah by divine beings was a fact. There was no misunderstanding about this. That was the one thing you were sure of. So why did you feel like crying even more now?

The mere thought of a gentle soul such as Venti committing innocent people to an eternity of suffering didn't sit right with you. Even when his dearest friend Dvalin had turned against him, he didn't try to stop him, didn't even ask the dragon to save him. He healed and helped him, gave him a choice.

'What is freedom if demanded of you by a god?' was the same person that asked this question the same one who committed mass murder? Genocide?

Did the little wine-lover bard you had grown fond of destroy all hopes and light your kin had?

You remember that night when he freed Stanley from his burden, freed his and his friends' spirits. You had marveled at his action, in that instant he was a god, and he definitely hadn't struck you as a murderer. You remember that look of silent pain and grief in his eyes when he sang the tales of the nameless bard he had taken the appearance of. You knew he trusted you enough to share his story, something so personal, you could almost feel the war that took down the tyrant of Mond. Oh how much you cherished that evening, treating him to some well deserved dandelion wine afterwards, his favorite, and asking him to sing you more about the time where was nothing but the spirit of a breeze.

Your heart broke a little, remembering his rosy cheeks and drunk smile, you wish you could talk to him, ask him what happened. What did he do, was he really as dangerous as you had been told? If so, then why did you feel so good around him? Why did you feel like you could give hi-

You stopped walking upon seeing a ruin guard up ahead in the distance. You're so stupid, you think. Feeling this way is not gonna get you anywhere, especially with how the bard had been missing for a few weeks now. Ever since you had last seen your sibling.

Where was he, where was he wandering off to? You walk towards the disabled ruin guard, not really paying any mind to it, still thinking about the god you longed to meet with. If you could see him, what would you even say? Would he even answer your questions? Why did your stomach feel so light and funny when you thought about seeing him, why aren't you angrier?

You're almost at the killing machine's level now, so lost in your thought you don't notice the five other similar robots hidden behind a wall next to it. You notice them only when it's too late and you've already turned them on while thinking about examining them and collecting their serial numbers. When you hear the familiar tick of the mechanism turning on, you internally panic and think about running away only to calm down moments later and think to yourself that you can simply beat it and take what you came here for. Even if you are emotionally and physically tired, you can manage, you think.

That was before hearing five other consecutive ticks right after it, and all around you.

Turning around, your gaze falls upon the small army of field tillers. Fuck.

Paimon wasn't with you today, you had asked for some time alone which she hesitantly accepted, so you couldn't ask her to go fetch help. You would have been worried if you had all your capacities but with the state you were in, you were wondering how you were going to survive this fight. You were alone, none of your companions with you, and deeply weakened by the busy day you had and the few hours of sleep you had managed to steal away from the night. Was it today you would meet your doom, with all your questions and uncertainties unanswered?

You tried your best to fight with the strength you had left, but quickly grew desperate after what felt like hours of efforts to swing your blade and being able to only take one monster down out of the six. It didn't help that you got injured along the way, their blows becoming harder and harder to dodge. After being thrown on the grown for the third time, you understood you had at least two broken ribs and that your shaking legs would soon fail you as well.

Fear crept upon you, you would die here today, alone. Alone. You couldn't talk to your sibling after all, couldn't understand. You didn't even get to talk to him one last time. Him... You would die without the knowledge of the truth about your bard. You would die alone. You didn't want that, you couldn't look death straight in the eye.

"Please, anybody... Just help me."

In Mondstadt, there was a musician, a weird singer everyone had heard about at least once. He lived off of his songs and was mostly known for having a great story-telling and being an alcoholic.

The number of people who knew the true nature of his identity were few and he was perfectly content with that. He didn't wish to be a god anymore, his gnosis had been taken away anyway and it's not like he had any power over the city of wind nowadays. Even if his people still worshipped him as Barbatos, it didn't sit right with him to be called a god anymore. It actually never did, he thinks to himself with a smile, he never really took any responsibilities that came with the divine title which is why he was so weak today. But it didn't matter to him, his smile turns into a soft giggle.

Sitting on a mill that was once born from his steps he looks fondly over the city he founded. Even if they were godless, the citizens were still thriving and free. He cared oh so very deeply about the place even if he rarely, if not never, showed the affection within his heart. He remembers the day he grew strong enough to dispel the storms over his actual Mondstadt, and made the weather gentle enough so that there was no need for fireplaces. Nowadays, he loves watching birds nest into the chimney tops and seeing them found their own home. It gave him a sense of belonging like no other, not above his people, but walking among them and watching them nest into this cocoon he created. He was proud of what happened to his land and would do it all over again if he had to.

Especially since it led to him meeting you. This thought doesn't catch him off guard, you often roamed around in his mind after all, and it's not like he didn't write at least three songs about you and your feat, your smile, your courage...

Ah there he goes again, rambling about you in a whisper. He turns around to the statue of him his people erected in his honor, chuckling at how they never made the connection with his signature braids. His, but not really his, since he had stolen this form from someone who was much more deserving of this power than him. Seeing his friend being honored with the statues of the seven around the land made him happy, he hoped that it was a good enough thank you gift in return for everything that the bard whom he couldn't even remember the name of anymore did for him.

Upon gazing at the statue, he remembered telling you of his long gone friend. It was the first time he had talked about him to someone else, he didn't even mention it to Venessa, she who made him believe in himself again. He could ask himself why, but he simply knew that you had something different, more than meets the eye. Perhaps it was because you weren't from Teyvat, or perhaps it was just you being as simple as your natural self but he was simply and utterly captivated by your being. You inspired him to no end, at first he thought it was because he had never met someone like you and he loved new things! But as time grew and he got to know you, he understood quickly the meaning and depth of his passions. He thought of it with a light chuckle, content with your presence alone. He really did need and want you around.

So why did he purposely avoid you like the plague?

The wind had brought to his ears that you had met with Dainsleif.

And your twin.

His first reaction was to search for you, talk to you, he wanted to be here to know what happened! You had searched so long, he couldn't contain himself, still listening to what the wind told him, he started running with excitement but... But wait, Dainsleif was... He told you what?

Oh.

So you heard about Khaenri'ah. He had stopped dead in his tracks and turned back, only sending a warm current of wind your way, hugging you from afar.

He wasn't ready to talk about this yet, not ready to face you and absolutely not ready to answer your questions. He was a coward, he thought, running away like that but what else could he do, really. It was only natural for him to be as uncatchable as air.

A sorry excuse to avoid the fact that even if his past had marvelous story like the one of the nameless bard, it also had its share of darkness, something he wasn't ready to dive back into. Especially not now when your arrival has been shaking this world up like it hasn't been since at least 500 years.

But oh, how he longed to see your face or to hear your voice. So he asked a breeze to report to him what you were up to, and where you were. Just in case! he tells himself, what if you needed help ehe? But he knows you're competent and you won't need the help of a weakling coward like him anytime soon. Or so he thought.

Because when the breeze only gives him a few words back, his blood runs cold.

"Please, anybody... Just help me."

As you murmured these words in your desperate state, not really for anyone but yourself as a last resort, a prayer of some sort, you tried to stand by leaning yourself on your sword and failing miserably. You didn't dare look up as you heard the loud footsteps of the metal giants coming your way. It was over, and you barely managed to accept it.

As you rested your forehead against the cold handle of your sword, you closed your eyes, tears starting to make their ways out of your closed eyelids. All you could feel was remorse.

A soft breeze moved your hair slightly and your chest felt like a black hole had taken place where your heart used to be, regretting to not have been able to meet him under the tree at Windrise one last time.

The breeze quickly grew stronger, until it felt unnatural and you looked up from the ground, only to close your eyes again immediately when you realized the wind was too powerful for you to keep them open. If you had struggled to see though, you would have been blinded by the white light that soon illuminated the whole ruins. You didn't have enough time to register the situation when you felt a hand being laid atop your shoulder, snaking around your collarbones and pulling you back into... nothing? Another arm circled your weak form and a voice you immediately recognized said

"I've dealt with things worse than you, now crumble."

You realized that if you couldn't feel a chest behind you while still being embraced by his arms, it was because he was floating above you, and not standing behind you. A look in his direction confirmed your suspicions but what stunned you wasn't the fact that he was flying, but the attire he wore. Barely covering his body, a white set made of materials that seemed like clouds and liquid gold contrasted perfectly with his regular green clothes. His hair was glowing green and his eyes that were focused on the ruin guards up ahead had a marvelous shine that you had never seen before. He had that same aura he did the night he freed Stanley, but there was also something different about the way his hands gripped you a little too tightly or the way his voice sounded.

"Venti.." You muttered his name, relief and affection flooding you all at once, in his presence you felt as if nothing bad could happen to you. How foolish could you be, just a few hours ago you were speculating wether or not he had wiped out an entire civilisation and now here you were, being saved by him and feeling safer than you had in months.

"Close your eyes, I don't want give you a headache" he said, slowly floating legs first towards the ground. His unusually serious voice surprised you (and him) but you did as he told you. Letting go of your sword and leaning back into him, you let him deal with the monsters ahead of you.

"It's okay, it's over now" he kneeled to be at your level, his arms still wrapped around you, and you didn't have the energy to fight your urge of nuzzling into him. "I'll always be here for you, wherever there is wind, remember I'm here too. You only need to ask."

Being protected by a god really didn't feel that bad. Especially when you were in love with said god.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Thank you so much for reading whatever this is until the end :’)

Don’t hesitate to comment or reblog, tysm <3

Ps: venti loves u and so do i do pls take care of urself mwah

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact #genshin impact angst #genshin impact scenario #venti x reader #venti x traveler #venti x lumine #venti x aether #el writes♡

296 notes · View notes

thebeautyoffanfics · 3 years

Note

Im gonna just say first, you are LITERALLY carrying the tbhk fandom at this point n you seem so nice ily keep up the good work!!! Second, could I request headcanons of Aoi (female) and Yashiro with a fem!s/o whos secretly an idol/singer? If that makes sense. Ty ty!!

aoi akane x f!reader, yashiro nene x f!reader

a/n: OANFOINFSDN thank you so much;; <33 I’ve been obsessing over TBHK since the day I read the first chapter, and I honestly don’t think my love for it will die anytime soon, so! I’m glad to provide what I can <3 and thank you so much for the compliment, it genuinely means so much!! Ily ily ily, you’re so very welcome, and thank you so much for requesting!!

warnings: none <3

word count: 1,144

Aoi Akane <3

As if she didn’t think you were admirable before-

Aoi always found you gorgeous, almost too beautiful to be with her- how were you not deemed the princess of the school? Really, she didn’t deserve such a title. It should have gone to you.

Your voice? Angelic. She could listen to you 24/7 if life allowed it. No matter how casual she is on the outside, her heart is constantly skipping beats around you, and she’s mentally all over the place. You’re so talented… so beautiful…… she admires you so much….

So, when she goes to your house and sees a few notes, pictures, and cute outfits in your room, she’s instantly curious. Has her beautiful girlfriend’s talent been discovered? In what? What’s up?

��Oh, well- I’m a singer.”

“:)???”

That’s literally her expression- her cute smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes and eyebrows show nothing but… confusion-? No, she knew you were amazing- she was just… caught off guard? How had she not realized it?

You grabbed a picture of you dressed up, and offered it to Aoi. And, honestly? Her admiration went 📈📈📈 if even possible.

“Why didn’t I find out sooner? That’s incredible, (Y/N)! You look amazing, that’s really incredible!”

Hold this moment dear to your heart, because it won’t be often that you catch her off guard and get her to be this excited. She’s genuinely gawking at the photo, asking you a bunch of questions, and looking at every picture you have around-

A princess (of the school) and an idol… it almost sounds like that Barbie movie- except the two of you are in love-

If you have concerts, you’d better believe she’s attending every. Single. One. Who knows how many she missed before realizing you were an idol!! She’s going, no matter what! Standing there, cheering almost uncharacteristically, and looking at you with such genuine love and admiration.

Watching you sing, be it in your room with her, or on the stage, is one of her favorite things. Your love and passion towards it is so sweet to her, and she can practically feel herself falling harder and harder when you’re singing. Your angelic face and voice… your overall stage presence. She almost envied it, in the kindest way possible- in a way where she only looked up to you more because of it.

Aoi listens to your music constantly after finding out. Genuinely, the moment she got home afterwards, she was searching for your music, creating an entirely new playlist for it. I don’t see her as the kind to make many playlists, so consider it a big honor.

As a singer/idol, you certainly already know how to take care of yourself, and probably have others to help with it. Still, Aoi is making sure more than anyone that you’re staying healthy and happy, and not overworking yourself. She’ll make you tea if your throat gets sore, give you massages if you’re sore, and will be ready to fight anyone if they dare push you past your limit. You’re her beautiful, lovely, amazing girlfriend, and she’s going to make absolutely sure that everyone treats you the way you deserve (and that way is like a queen).

Yashiro Nene <3

To be honest, she’s slightly less composed than Aoi. But, similarly to her, Yashiro thought you hung the moon even before she knew you were an idol.

As a hopeless romantic, she thought your relationship was enough of a fairytale. She and her beautiful, talented girlfriend- it was like a dream, really.

“Hm, (Y/N). She kind of looks like you,” Yashiro would say, pointing at a picture you had from a concert.

“Pff- that is me.”

“H… HUH-?”

Sits there, looking at the picture, then at you, repeatedly for a few seconds. “That’s- that’s really believable.”

Give her a few seconds, just trust me. Once you explain a bit more, showing more pictures and such, she’s practically bubbling. If you look closely, you’ll see the sparkles in her eyes as she brags on you. Calling you cool, telling you how beautiful you are, how beautiful you look on a stage, how proud she is, how talented you are!! She’s so impressed!!! She’s so swooned!!

Yashiro is instantly a superfan. Buys your music, goes to every concert- rambles about you to yourself, since she knows it’s still a secret- she doesn’t want to risk anyone knowing that her girlfriend is an idol… BUT THAT’S STILL SO COOL AHHHH,,,

She compares it to all the romance novels she’s read! Not only does she have a girlfriend, her girlfriend is an idol! It’s like those where the girl falls in love with a famous person- or a secret identity story! Or, even somewhat secret lovers?! She’s openly dating (Y/N), but she’s not openly dating (Y/N) the singer-!

S,,, sing to her. Do it, I dare you,,

Hearing your singing through her earbuds is one thing. At a concert is another. In person, sitting with her in your room, conversation slowly died out as you both pondered what to do. Cuddling alone was nice, but the moment you suggested you sing a bit of a song you liked, she was 100000000% down.

As soon as your angelic voice starts singing the first few words, she’s… there’s no word to describe what she is- flustered? So very in love?? Feeling like she’s dreaming??? On cloud 9?? Yashiro’s sitting there, side pressed against yours, her face practically on fire as her heart does all sorts of flips. In that moment, all she can think of is how cool you are, and how much she loves and admires you.

If you keep any of the dresses from concerts, please please, do a little dress-up with her,,,, let her try on the dresses, and put some on yourself. Even hold little “concerts” that consist of instrumentals to songs you two like, holding hairbrushes and dancing around your room, pretty dresses swishing around.

When the two of you are dueting like that, spin her around a bit, then pull her in for a kiss when the song ends, should you be feeling bold. The look on her face will be worth it more than anything ever was- her red face, as she attempts to hide her expression in your shoulder. “You- You can’t just do that, (Y/NNNNN).... W-well, actually you can… I didn’t mind, b-b-but-”

Sometimes, she catches herself humming your music, and listening to it when she’s feeling down or can’t sleep. Being around you is ideal, but she knows you can’t see her any time she wants to see you- if that were the case, you’d be with her constantly. So, on sleepless nights, or when her mind gets a little too noisy, hearing your beautiful voice singing such catchy songs can usually calm her down plenty. Or at least provide a lovely distraction <3

46 notes · View notes

sobsicles · 3 years

Text

Opening Line Tag Game

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

I was tagged by @dont-offend-the-bees - thanks! ill just do my spn fics and not any ive co-written because i didn't start the first chapters for those, though they're very good (Season Z and The Bad Santa Clause, respectively, that are fics written by a group of many amazing authors!)

Dean starts falling in love with him on a slow Sunday morning under slanted sunlight that slips through the gaps in the trees. — six hundred sundays (and many more)

Why did the curtains have to be yellow? — i want to do with you (what spring does to cherry trees)

In a bar on a Tuesday morning, it's a few months out from the final shot at the world ending. But hey, Chuck's long gone, and everything has worked out for the best, and the world keeps right on turning. Funny how that goes, huh? — dumbassery, denial, doing (the three d's to the destination)

There are certain moments in one's life when things go exactly as planned. It's like the stars align and the skies open up to reveal rays of sunlight and, against all odds, everything seems to be in perfect harmony. This is a phenomenon that Dean is genuinely not accustomed to, as it doesn't really happen for him. — finding hope (and finding him)

The first time she meets him, he's nothing more than an almost-missed appointment. — break the skin (to break the barriers)

The first time Dean and Cas kiss, it's not even really a kiss at all. It is, in fact, mouth-to-mouth. — a kiss for every season (literally)

The brass chip slides back and forth in a small path across the leaning desk Bobby has had for years and still hasn't gotten around to fixing. The chip reads: To thine own self be true. Unity. Service. Recovery. — separate ways and sleeping dogs

Getting used to Heaven is something of a marvel. It ain't perfect, and Dean thinks he'd hate it if it was, which is probably why it isn't. There's just enough human-esque nuances to it that keep it feeling like life rather than death, and he's thankful for that because he's got the smallest inkling that he should have gotten to live a little longer than he did. — oh sooner or later it all comes down to faith

So, the first thing that happens is Castiel comes back. It's at a pretty inconvenient time, considering the amount of pain Dean is in and how close he is to being dead. — things happen (they do, and they do, and they do)

It's not the first time Claire has ever gone missing. It is, however, the first time Kaia panics about it. — what's missing is found (our souls can exhale now)

It's different now, no matter how much they're pretending it's not. Mostly out of self-preservation, because sometimes their sanity is hanging by a mere thread and it's so obvious that they simply have no choice but to fake it 'til they make it. They've done a lot of that through the years, practically crafted it into a fine art, but this is the best performance yet. — according to all known laws of life

Time is different here. — what they deserve (it's better this way)

The first realization he remembers having is that the stars are oddly bright from where he lies sprawled on his back. The second, of course, is that there are troubling sounds coming from some vague point to his left. He supposes that's fair—vision and auditory processes are usually the first thing people make sense of when they wake. He knows that much, at least. Not much else, though. — Memories Bring Back Memories (Bring Back You)

Dean would think that a failsafe like this wouldn't exist. It doesn't quite add up in his head when he sits down and thinks about it, but Sam assures him over and over that it's well within the realm of possibility for the Men of Letters--supposed smart people--to come up with something as stupid as this. — home is where the heart is (and you have mine)

The blackbirds start singing a dawn. — profoundly bonded (by law)

So. So, the thing about desperation, and want, and desire, and how it controls, is that it's all bullshit, and Dean wants absolutely no part in it. — staring at ceiling in the dark, same empty feeling in your heart (love comes slow and it goes so fast)

Cas wasn't a music fanatic of any kind, Dean knew this firsthand. Sure, he listened to whatever Dean was listening to, or whatever was playing in the car on long trips. But he never went out of his way to listen to music in his spare time. — listen to the song in my soul (only you can hear)

All things considered, Castiel found solace in the fact that his life couldn't get any worse than this. — Just A Touch

There were a few things that were known about Dean Winchester, undeniable things that hadn't wavered once in his entire life. — a helping hand (let's not be friends)

Dean was merely ten years old when he discovered that bridges didn't close the gap between two worlds. — The Bridges We Built

insane to me that none of these opened up on dialogue. i don't open up with dialogue that often, as it turns out. also, most of these fics are dean pov. only three of these out of twenty are cas pov (1, 12, 18). my personal five favorites out of these: 3, 5, 10, 14, 15.

im supposed to tag people, but like, i want anyone who wants to do it to do it! if you see this and want to do it, definitely do so! tag me if you do; i'd love to see your answers!

#sobs says things #sobs adventures in writing #this is a fun lil thing to do actually #just something to pass the time #plus it's informative about my own writing so that's interesting #destiel #destiel fic

68 notes · View notes

queerspacepunk · 3 years

Note

Welcome to DADWC!! How about “A lifetime of laughter, at the expense of the death of a bachelor” (Panic! at the Disco, Death of a Bachelor) for Bull/Dorian?

thank u for the patience friend! I hadn't heard this song before but now I have. (Second @dadrunkwriting fill in one day? :0)

“You’re really going through with this, aren’t you?” “I really am. Are you disappointed?” Felix sighs, “I think you’re an idiot, and that this is a terrible idea but I’m also... strangely proud of you.”

To Blackwall, Cassandra, Cole, and 10 others: I was wondering if you would be free to join me tomorrow evening for... a memorial of sorts, for someone quite close to me.

To Blackwall, Cassandra, Cole, and 9 others: Room booked at the Herald’s Rest, tomorrow, 7PM.

To Sera: Room booked at the Herald’s Rest, tomorrow, 6:30PM.

From Josephine: Oh Dorian, I’m so sorry to hear this, of course we will be there! Might I ask, is this a recent loss?

To Josephine: Your presence is much appreciated. It’s something of a complicated story, I’m sure you won’t mind if I wait to tell you all at once, tomorrow evening.

From Josephine: No, of course not, forgive me for prying. Much love.

“You’re sure you don’t want to call this off?” Felix says through the phone.

“A little late for that now,” Dorian points out, “they’ll all be here shortly. What else can I do? Call them all and say, ‘sorry lied about the whole memorial thing, never mind’?”

“Isn’t the whole point of this that you’re lying to them?”

“Not lying,” Dorian says, “Misleading. It’s different. And I do think they’ll be a little too preoccupied to be mad, afterwards.”

“You’re really going through with this, aren’t you?”

“I really am. Are you disappointed?”

Felix sighs, “I think you’re an idiot, and that this is a terrible idea but I’m also... strangely proud of you.”

“Now, now,” Dorian admonishes gently, “there’s going to be enough sappiness later on, keep it together for me.”

Felix laughs, and Dorian can just about see him shaking his head.

“You sure you don’t want me to video call you in?”

“I’ll give the game away, just send me the recordings after, and Dorian?”

“Yes Felix?”

“Good luck.”

His friends arrive, almost entirely on time for once, in ones and twos and threes. Dorian greets them at the door to the private room, face solemn, and directs them to the seats he’s set out. There’s no faux coffin in the room -- he hadn’t wanted to get quite that morbid, but there is an indulgent spray of funeral flowers set at the front of the room.

Sera tries to ask questions, and is summarily shushed by Josephine. Cole tries to give answers and is dragged aside, informed, and shushed by Dorian. He doesn’t quite get it, but he must have a good feeling about the results because he keeps his mouth shut. Leliana seems to know something’s up, but is entertained enough to not say anything, and Bull gives Dorian a hell of a look, laced with enough concern that Dorian actually feels a little... guilty.

“Thank you all for coming,” Dorian says, once everyone is seated, and pulls out the stack of memorial pamphlets he’s had printed, “I appreciate your presence with me tonight, and your patience with what is a... complicated situation.”

He begins stepping around the circle, handing the pamphlets out.

“Er, Dorian,” Blackwall says, “I think there’s been a mix-up. They’ve put your picture on these.”

“Oh,” Dorian says, turning to the flowers to give him a moment to suppress the grin creeping onto his face, “no, that’s quite correct.”

“You better not be a bloody ghost!” Sera yelps, flinging her pamphlet at him as if to test her hypothesis. It manages, despite being a flat piece of paper that has no business being able to be thrown with any accuracy, to smack Dorian right in the face, which is unpleasant, but does at least seem to reassure her that he isn’t, in fact, a ghost.

None of the others seem particularly concerned that he’s undead, but there is a lot of muttering, and worried looks being pointed his way.

“You need an intervention or something, Pavus?” Krem asks with a frown, “cause I know that cries for help are actually a good thing and shit, and you Magisters-”

“Altus, Soporatus, you know better.”

“-fine, you Altus love your drama, but even this is a bit much.”

“I assure you,” Dorian says to the group at large, “this is not a cry for help.”

“You did just hand us all a funeral pamphlet with your face on it, Sparkler,” Varric points out.

“It’s not a funeral pamphlet, it’s a memorial pamphlet, and-”

“The dates are wrong,” Leliana interrupts, “The death date is a question mark so I cannot comment on that, however this is not your birthdate. You must have been... eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Eighteen,” Dorian confirms, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath, “this has all gone rather off-track, hasn’t it. If you would all just hold your questions, and nonsense,” he throws a quick glare at both Sera and Krem, “and allow me to explain things, I think you’ll find it will benefit all of us.”

Bull, Dorian notes, is watching him very, very carefully. They haven’t seen each other since yesterday which isn’t entirely unusual, given Dorian insistence that they maintain their own homes up unto this point, even if he spends most nights in Bull’s bed or with Bull in his own, but he can tell that the fact he’s said nothing about any of this to Bull is concerning him.

Nothing to be done about it now. Nothing but going forward with the plan as intended.

“We are here, this evening,” Dorian says, “to consider, and honour the life of someone I believe we all care about. Someone who has, for many years been the life of our parties, a bringer of spectacular stories and an improver of our collective fashion sense.”

“What happened to ‘im?” Sera interjects. Dorian rolls his eyes but doesn’t grizzle.

“Nothing, as of yet,” Dorian reassures them, “but the bachelor of which we speak has, while not by anyone’s definition a selfless man, has decided that there are certain things worth sacrificing one’s life for.”

They look at him (with the exception of Cole of course, and Vivienne who’s grinning like she knows the answer is is utterly uninterested in giving hints to anyone else) like he’s spouting absolute gibberish. He’d hoped his friends would be a little more advanced in their thinking, but alas. If he has to help them along, so be it.

“How,” he says, “does one kill a bachelor?”

“Shoot ‘im!” Sera suggests.

“Blunt force trauma?” Krem asks, “to the head?”

Leliana hums quietly, “poison?”

“Blessed Maker,” Dorian says aghast, “what is wrong with you?”

“Hate to break it to you,” Herah points out, “but you did invite us all along to what is looking a lot like a fake memorial service for yourself. Your high horse is more of a rocking pony.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, “how long did it take you to think of that?”

Herah pouts, “a couple of minutes.”

“Well done, regardless,” Dorian admits, “now you’ve all had enough time to think. Varric, surely you’ll know. How does one kill a bachelor?

“Explosion?”

“Oh for-” Dorian throws his hands in the air and turns away from them all, trying to come up with a plan B for how he’s going to make this happen. He can tell them the answer, of course, but it won’t be at all the same and someone figuring it out themselves-

“Oh,” Cassandra says, “of course.”

Dorian spins back to look at her, as does everyone else in the room, and she flushes.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she insists, “to kill a bachelor, you marry him.”

They all stare at Cassandra a moment before turning, slowly, to Dorian, who has taken advantage of their distraction to sink to his knee, and pull the ring box from his pocket.

“The Iron Bull,” he says, and he’s not choking up dammit, of course he isn’t, he’s practiced this too many time for that to happen, “I have been a bachelor for over a decade now, and I have thought for some time that it was something I would never give up. That I could not ask for more than what I had.”

“Dorian-” Bull says and there must be something wrong with the acoustics in here, because now he sounds like his voice is cracking and there’s not way that can be the truth.

“Hush,” Dorian says, gently, “let me finish.”

Bull does, closes his mouth and leans back in his chair but not before taking Dorian’s hand in his own, and holding it.

“Right,” Dorian says, “as I was saying. Bull you have come along and swept everything out from under me. Shown me that there is in fact, a whole other life to be had. A life full of laughter, a life full of love, and safety, and honesty.”

And bugger it all he is crying now, and he can only thank the Maker for the fact that he’s a pretty crier.

“I have realised,” Dorian says, “that this is a life I want, even if it comes at the expense of the death of a bachelor.”

He opens the box. It wasn’t easy convincing someone to make an untinted dawnstone ring, or managing to get the measurements without Bull noticing, but he’s done it.

“The Iron Bull, will you marry me?”

#dadwc #i came up with this idea like an hour and a half ago and now it's WRITTE #N #how's that for turnaround huh #dragon age #dragonage #the iron bull #dorian pavus #adoribull #fix it in post #bing bong

25 notes · View notes

what-the--curtains · 3 years

Text

In A Week

Part 4/4 - This Feeling

(Frankie Morales x f!reader)

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

Summary: With the wedding day finally here will your true feeling be revealed or will you leave the way you started? As nothing more than strangers.

Authors Notes: THE FINALE (for now??), this story was so nice to write and all y’all r angels for just reading it let alone liking/sharing it (really i could cry💕🌻💕) so thank you🥺🥺

Song used in Story: This feeling - Alabama Shakes (highly rec u listen!!)

Tw: swearing, drinking, allusions to sex and past toxic relationships.

Tagged: @agingerindenial @icanbeyourjedi

Words: 2.0k

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

Day 5

A thunk followed by the unmistakable beeping of the snowplows working hard at clearing away the snow from the roads and parking lots wake you. You let out a disappointed sigh when you notice the distinct lack of Frankie beneath you. Almost as if on cue he walks in with a bottle of champagne, orange juice and two glasses.

“Are you ready to get wasted?” he says, as you shift up in bed.

“On one condition.” you offer smacking your lips mouth tasting like morning.

“Which is?” He asks, tilting his head.

“We get fully dressed up for this wedding. I didn't spend hours contemplating outfits to not put one on.” you barter, prepared to fight with him to get what you wanted.

“Absolutely,” he agrees, much to your surprise “that tux was not cheap, and it was supposed to be back two days ago, so not getting that deposit back. Should we call the brides to be before we start drinking?”

“Probably a good call,” After multiple phone calls and various congratulations you found out they were going to be live streaming the ceremony for all the people stranded by the storm. You and Frankie have a lazy morning before it's finally time to get ready, you stand up swaying slightly from the few drinks you'd already downed. Frankie takes the suit into the bathroom giving you the room to change and to do your hair and makeup. You go to pull out your dress and as you do the lingerie you’d packed falls out onto the floor. Your heart drops for a moment before deciding to put it on, not for Jonathan, or even Frankie, but for yourself. You pull on the light pink velvet mini dress you’d settled on, and sling on the black open toe heels. Walking into the kitchen you pour yourself a glass of wine. You hear him clear his throat and you turn around. You're taken aback by how well Frankie cleaned up, no hat, hair styled and a perfectly fitted suit.

When Frankie enters the room, he stops in his tracks, continuing to stare when you turn to face him. If this had been at the wedding, he’s sure he’d have picked you out of the crowd instantly. He’d probably have spent the whole night hoping you'd talk to him only getting upset when you didn't even give him a second glance.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks, breaking the silence first, beyond pleased at how he’d managed to impress you.

“Something like that” you offer, handing him a beer

“Well, we’re in luck because I was specifically told to provide drinking games for the reception, so” he says pulling out some red solo cups and ping pong balls from his bag.

“Who's bad with their hands now” he asks as he sinks another cup, winning 4 consecutive games.

“No fair! You’re cheating.” you say with a humph.

“I'm not, your technique’s just sloppy and lacking strategy” He mocks.

“I have a strategy” You state defensively, mouth open in faux anger.

“Flashing yourself in an attempt to distract me, isn't a strategy” he says licking his lips as his smile turns into a full blown smirk

“Excuse me.” you say, crossing your arms over your chest shifting your stance and arching an eyebrow, challenging him.

“Oh I'm sorry, is that not what you're doing?” he chides, smirk still prominent.

“Well it use to work” you mutter, embarrassed at having been called out

“Ya on idiots who can't control themselves come here, I'll show you to sink it everytime,” you walk over and he positions himself behind you, he's close enough that you can feel his chest heaving slowly behind you.

“Relax your arms” he says, shaking them out for you. “Okay this arm, drop it, keep it relaxed, only use it for balance if needed. This arm..” he says grabbing your wrist “ this is where the action is, alright keep your elbow locked, none of that wobbly shit I saw earlier. It's all about the flick and the follow through, keep it strong.” He watches as you repeat the motions without his hand guiding you and it goes in. You turn around and lift your arms up victoriously, they quickly find their way around Frankies neck and he lifts you up off the ground, faces dangerously close when he puts you back down on the ground.

“We should order a pizza, I think some places are open” you say quickly turning to your phone and ordering something from wherever it was open.

After watching the ceremony, you're sitting on the counter laughing as Frankie proves to you he can in fact eat an entire piece of pizza in three bites.

“Told you” he says

“Well consider me out witted” your phone beeps, you turn it over assuming its Stella or Santi or Gen but it's not. It's John the second you see his name pop up on your phone your stomach drops. Frankie sees the change in your demeanour, everything about you suddenly appearing small. Frankie grabs the phone from your hands “I swore an oath to prevent shitty guys from ruining the party tonight”

“How did you…? Whose orders? Did Santi tell you?”

“Maybe. Holy ….” Frankie says eyes wide when he accidentally sees the message that has been sent to you.

“What?” you ask, afraid at what he’d just seen.

“Nothing!” he lies, shaking his head blinking hard to get the image out of his head.

“Now you have to tell me!” you say hopping off from the counter and making your way towards him. Reaching for the phone which he's holding over his head. Your place you hand on his shoulder trying to balance yourself as you make another grab for it, but you're not even close. You plant a kiss on his cheek causing his arm to drop immediately allowing you to grab the phone.

“Ha!” you say, failing to notice the dejected look on Frankie's face.

You’re walking towards the counter to reply when something comes over you, maybe it was the way Frankie had made you feel these last few days, maybe it was finally coming to your senses, but you turn back to face him. You stare up at Frankie whose eyes are on the ceiling.

“Can you delete him, from all my shit, and block the number” you ask, offering him your phone.

“Really?” Frankie says

“Ya I can't do it but I want it done,” you say, pushing the phone towards him, more vigorously this time.

“Well it'd be my pleasure, guy sounds like a dick,” he says, taking the phone from you and scrolling through wiping away any remnants of the dude.

“Thanks” you say as he hands the phone back to you.

“What did you see in him? Well actually based on the photo he sent maybe I understand,” he murmurs.

“Francisco Morales” you say, mouth agape.

“I'm not the one who sent it!” he says lifting his hands up in defense.

“You wanna dance?’ he asks “I got the playlist from Pope, may as well have some fun, really forget about Jackson.”

“Jo.. you know it doesn't matter and you’re right,” the both of you dance like idiots for a while, twirling around the room in an embarrassingly cliche way that would be better suited to a John Hughes movie than a makeshift wedding reception. As the next song begins, the slow pacing shifts the tone.

I just kept hoping, I just kept hoping

The way would become clear

You stop your dancing, as does Frankie and a dread akin to that of being at your first middle school dance wondering if you'll be asked to dance or not comes over you. You both stare at each other for a second before Frankie offers you his hand, if he was waiting for a moment, this was it.

I spent all this time

Tryna play nice and fight my way here

See, I've been having me a real hard time

But it feels so nice to know I'm gonna be alright

He pulls you into him and you sway in time to the music. One hand on your lower back, the other one holding your hand as you rest your head against his shoulder. His thumb gently rubs over yours. The sensation comforts you causing a wave of relief which causes your eyes to water.

So, I just kept dreaming, yeah, I just kept dreamin'

It wasn't very hard

I spent all this time

Tryna figure out why

Nobody on my side

“You okay?” he asks, hearing you sniffle, you nod looking up at him and he briefly untangles his hand from yours to wipe away the tear that had fallen

“I'm sorry, if I...” he starts softly, thumb tracing gently over your cheekbone.

“No, it's not you, well it is, but it's not bad” you offer, satisfied with the response he takes your hand in his again and continues swaying.

See, I've been having me a real good time

And it feels so nice to know I'm gonna be alright

So please, don't take my feelings

I have found at last

So please, don't take my feelings

I have found at last

Yeah, if I wanted to, I'd be alright

“why'd you decide to delete him” Frankie whispers, barely audible

“Moment of clarity I suppose” you say into his shoulder.

“Which was?” he presses, not looking down to you.

“Just realized how I could have been being treated in a relationship.”

“Should have been being treated,” Frankie corrects.

“I can't believe I let him do that to me for so long, im so stupid” you mutter

“Blames not on you, blames on him for not realizing what he had, seriously if I had you id….” he stops himself not wanting to take advantage of a vulnerable situation.

So I just kept going, I just kept going

And hoping I'm growing near

Well this good and fine, I spent all this time

Tryna find my way here

And I've been having me a real fun time

And it feels so nice to know I'm gonna be alright

“You’d what” you ask, having mustered up enough courage to finally find out if what you were feeling was reciprocated.

“Id never let you go, at least i'd do everything in my power to make sure you’d want to stay with me”

Please, don't take this feeling

I have found at last

You reach your hands up to his face and pull it down to meet yours, lips colliding for the first time, but the sensation washing over you felt familiar. It felt like you’d finally come home.

Please, don't take my feeling

I have found at last

He slowly moves the two of you back towards the bed never departing from your lips for more than a moment.

“You uh..you sure you want to do this,” he asks, as you run your hands up and down his back.

“Ya, you?” you question looking up at him through your lashes.

“Yes, absolutely.”

If I wanted to, I'd be alright

Yeah, if I wanted to, I'd be alright

The sun from the blinds that had been accidentally left open seeps into the room. The warmth hitting your naked shoulder. You smile when you look down to see Frankies arm wrapped loosely around your waist.

“Well my long con worked, I finally got the side of the bed I wanted,” you tease.

“Mmm” he says as you shift round to come face to face with him kissing his nose. His eyes flutter awake and he smiles, kissing you on the forehead as you snuggle into his chest for a moment before moving to get ready for the day. His arms tighten around you trapping you against him.

“Frankie, we have to get moving” you giggle.

“Nope, I was serious last night. I'm not planning on letting you go”

“So I’m trapped here forever?” you laugh

“Would that be so bad?” he wonders, and you settle back into him knowing that nothing would be better than spending the rest of your days here with him.

#in a week #part 4 #frankie x y/n #frankie x reader #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales #catfish x you #frankie morales x you #pedro pascal characters #triple frontier fic

62 notes · View notes

jocia92 · 3 years

Link

… So much of an actor’s craft is figuring out the “I want” of their character, but that’s got to be a little different with Tom since he states that he literally cannot want anything. What challenge or opportunity did that pose for you?

I think he wants to improve. I think he wants to calibrate according to Alma’s needs, wants, and desires. I think he’s very ready to learn and to understand. That was the kind of primary objective: listen, learn, calibrate, improve. That’s almost the track of each scenario. He just gets a little better each time, and the process gets a little faster. But certainly, in the beginning, he’s just delivering this sort of 20 classic chat-up lines that he’s been uploaded with and getting it all wrong. It’s fun to watch the machine learn and chart that progress.

On a practical or philosophical level, how did you approach the process of humanizing a character that’s an algorithm, or did you at all?

It was very much about charting with Maria exactly when we want to see the machine, when we want to see the human. Even playing with that ratio was really interesting and fun. It’s not so much about watching him play the machine, but watching a character try to play the human. Certainly, in the beginning, in some of the not quite so successful human moments, shall we say, we deconstructed what we regarded as the conventional human behavior in that. We looked at a lot of screwball comedies, like Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, Katharine Hepburn movies. [We were] taking a move or a gesture, breaking that down, and just doing two of the things. It just suddenly looks very odd and wrong, and you’re like, “Oh, this is what a human does in this moment!” But it’s just off. It was really as much about looking at the human.

You’ve mentioned things like The Philadelphia Story as shaping the film and its central relationship. Was that to ground it in reality or further ensconce it in the warped reality of cinema? Grant and Stewart are recognizable to us as people, but things like that mid-Atlantic lilt were entirely manufactured for the screen.

That was a very key point for Maria in referencing Cary Grant. The hair color that we chose for Tom was very much like Cary Grant’s hair color, being a shade darker than is possibly human. And the skin tone being slightly artificial for Tom. You’re right, Cary Grant is often very heightened and mannered sometimes, and it works in the situation in the style of the thing that he’s in. But we quite liked the idea that Tom has been uploaded with some outdated versions of what a romantic lead was supposed to behave like.

It’s striking just how thought-out things had to be down to how Tom responds to dead air space in a conversation. What was the process behind those small moments that can make or break the believability of a character?

It was very fun to play with, and probably quite frustrating for a lot of the human actors. Maren was giving a beautifully naturalistic performance, and the conventional responses that there should be from her scene partner weren’t there. We deliberately strip those away—sometimes without telling her, sometimes without needing to tell her. It’s just the way that Tom was, so it was about pushing those moments into a space that became a little uncomfortable: not jumping in on the lines where you might normally jump in, sometimes coming in hard, sometimes offering a delayed response, sometimes none at all. Playing with those, and watching how comfortable or uncomfortable that made them both, was really fun.

Did that frustration, built in by the process, bleed over for Maren into the character of Alma, do you think?

Maybe for Maren. Certainly, for me, it was frustrating in that I would have to remember not to respond in the way that I might normally and remove some of those things. [I had to] really break down exactly what Tom is thinking, what his programming is doing in that point, how he’s responding and calibrating, and whether we see that or not. Choosing moments to show the human, to show the machine. Along with Maria, that was one of the great joys of the role.

How did you settle on the physicality of the character? Was it at all helpful to have done something like Beauty and the Beast in a mo-cap suit to be hyper-aware of how your own movements translate to the screen?

Very much so. In fact, in pretty much every role I’ve done since Beauty and the Beast, I’ve incorporated not always a movement coach, but I’ve definitely looked at movement theory and physicality in a totally new way because of the challenges of that role. And, I have to say, dance plays a huge part in that. Whether it’s incorporated on the screen or if it’s something that just feels as if it helps the role, I often find that a dance studio is a very fruitful space to discover things about your character’s physicality. Learning the rumba for this role was incredibly helpful because it’s a very precise, technical, almost robotic dance in terms of the laser precision that’s needed to get it absolutely right. I had a fantastically exact teacher in Berlin who was teaching me the rumba the whole way through the shoot. We shot that [one scene] quite near the end of the shoot. Just to have those lessons, that kind of physicality, and that poise with me the whole way through the role was really useful.

How did the role being in a non-native tongue affect the characterization of Tom? Was it all easier to make him seem slightly unreal given that the words might not come quite as naturally as they would in English?

I think it was a deliberate choice on the part of Maria to look for a foreign actor who could speak German. She needed somebody who could both get their heads and their mouths around the very technical German that was required, which, even for a German is pretty complex, but also who had that sense of otherness. I’m sure they could have tailored the screenplay to any number of nationalities, but I was very happy they came to me and made him British. It definitely helped with, as I say, the fact that he’s listening, learning, focusing, trying to improve…that was literally all I was doing last summer, every day.

How do you lock onto the frequency of German comedy, which isn’t always something people associate with that country or people? How is it different than doing something like the more mannered British wit of Blithe Spirit or the broad studio comedy of Eurovision Song Contest?

It’s not a country known for it, but I think they should [be]. I find Germans very funny. They have a very interesting sense of humor. What’s particularly delightful is the way that they can tackle really kind of big, sometimes weighty, issues with a certain wit and lightness of touch, which is not common to all countries. Physical comedy, I think, is fairly universal. I think there’s something almost farcical about some of the physical stuff that we managed to get in this. It was really fun to make people laugh in a foreign language. It was surprisingly delightful. It felt very unifying, somehow, to be able to get a joke across in any language.

#ich bin dein mensch #i'm your man #dan stevens #slant magazine #interview #long post

18 notes · View notes

pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

crayons & caresses

summary: you know it’s wrong, that pining after your student’s father is wildly inappropriate, but gosh if john deacon isn’t the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

word count: 12k+

warnings: pining to the extreme!, slight angst, discussions of parental death, health scare + medical response, alcohol, language, innuendo, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful)

a/n: mechanic/singledad!john is everything i didn’t know i needed in my life. also: WOW this took me a long ass time because i find john the hardest to write, but i love him so. much. so hopefully it’s worth the wait.

(photo: originally from @davidgayhan i think?? ugh look at him. i drool. yes i did set this during the brief short-perm-montreal moment. sue me)

september, 1981.

you love all of your students equally. each one is like a fingerprint on your heart: unique in their own way, made up of patterns and histories you will never be able to appreciate in full before they are whisked away to their next year. it is safe to say you adore the collection of twenty-four seven year olds who walk into your classroom each morning. their bright faces, some still chubby with baby fat, fill the lonely parts of your soul, and you leave your flat each morning with a sense of purpose and duty. you are their teacher, their guide through some of the most crucial parts of learning. it is an honor and a privilege to teach them—each and every one. but there is one student who sticks out among the rest.

his name is beau deacon.

beau is remarkably quiet. he’s small for his age, both in height and in weight. at times, he appears frail, what with the way he sits by himself in the corner during reading hour, flipping through a picture book with glazed over eyes, never really concentrating on what’s before him. he walks slowly during recess, preferring to stay by himself and drag a stick along the blacktop than play a game of kickball with the other boys. he whispers when he speaks and avoids meeting the eyes of those who do try and pry a few words from him.

you try to engage him—really, you do—but nothing seems to stick. not the participation reward system you build just for him, but use for the entire class. not moving his desk closer to yours. not even coercing your best friend ami to bring in her therapy dogs one afternoon early in the year. despite your best efforts, beau remains decidedly uninterested and removed.

it bothers and worries you to the point of questioning your colleague on the matter. martha is sixty, but spry as ever. she’s been your confidant this last year. you’re new to teaching, green as ever, but she has welcomed you with open arms and a plethora of advice. you feel comfortable sidling up next to her in the car-line one friday afternoon. it’s hot outside, summer not yet allowing autumn to take root, so you hold a hand over your eyes to shade yourself from the sun.

“can i ask you something?” you say, keeping your eyes trained on the children who filter out of the school and into their parent’s waiting vehicles.

“as long as it’s not about sex,” martha mutters. “haven’t had a good romp in so long i don’t even know if it still works the same way.”

you swallow a laugh as a trio of students pass you by. their mother waves over her shoulder, shouting her thanks, before shoving the children in the backseat of a tan mini-van. you watch the van pull away, another car rolling forward to take its place, before asking your question.

“beau deacon,” you start, hoping that, if you simply say his name, martha will fill in the gaps herself.

blessedly, martha twists and nods with a knowing smile. “i know that tyke well. had him last year.”

you release a huff of air in relief. “oh thank goodness. i’m almost beside myself. i don’t know what to do with him.” you frown as you attempt to speak as diplomatically about your student as possible. “he’s awful quiet. he doesn’t play with any of the children and barely looks at me when i speak to him. how’d you manage?”

to your dismay, the older woman just shrugs. “i didn’t really. his mum died all sudden like about halfway through the year, and he clammed up. no matter what i did, what tricks i tried to pull, he stayed completely unmovable.”

“oh.” your shoulders drop in defeat. “i didn’t know.” truthfully, your heart tugs for the child. to lose one’s mother at such a tender age? you can’t imagine the world of hurt he lives in. it’s no wonder he sticks to himself.

“you didn’t speak with his father?”

“no. was i have supposed to?”

“no, not necessarily. mr. deacon was helpful on a few occasions last year. we were sort of a united front, i’d say, when things were particularly bad in the beginning. perhaps give him a call. at least to let him know you’re in his corner.” she smiles and squeezes your bicep. “and you can always come to me, love. i may not have all the answers but i do have some.”

“thank you, martha. i think giving mr. deacon a call might be smart—” you turn at the tell-tale sound of feet dragging against the ground. in the few weeks since classes have started, you’ve grown to know the sound of beau deacon’s footsteps better than your own. he’s always on your mind, the sullen little boy with glasses, so it’s hard not to pounce on him with love when you turn around to see him in the school doorway. “oh! beau! we were just talking about you.”

beau stops walking, and his grip tightens on the straps of his backpack. he doesn’t look up at you, doesn’t say anything. he simply stands there, as if he’s listening but doesn’t know how to respond, so you soldier forward.

“do you have any big plans for the weekend, beau?” you ask.

he shakes his head.

“none with your father?”

another shake of the head.

“well, perhaps you’ll do something fun and you can tell us about it on monday, yeah?”

to your surprise, he nods, which is more than he does most days. you can’t help the smile that claims your lips and the way your arm waves a little too hard to his retreating form. he walks to a faded old corvette and opens the passenger door with ease. you can hear a muffled voice—his father’s no doubt—and see the man stretch his arm out to take beau’s backpack.

but then the car door is shut, and the chevy pulls out of the parking lot with too much speed to be safe when a child is in the front.

you glance at martha. she rolls her eyes and mouths men. you can’t help but agree.

a week passes before you finally find the time to phone beau’s father. you find his name—john richard deacon—and a telephone number in beau’s emergency contact form, shoved amongst a stack of other hastily filled-out parent paperwork. there’s no secondary number listed—not even a distant relative or family friend—so if the call doesn’t work, you aren’t sure what your next move will be. even so, after all the children have left and the other teachers are beginning to close their classrooms for the day, you slouch at your desk and punch the numbers into the phone. it rings three times before someone picks up.

“taylor auto-repair. this is rog.”

the voice on the other end is high and scratchy. you’re taken aback, both by the man on the phone and the blaring rock n roll music in the background. you aren’t an expert, but it sounds like zeppelin. not what you’d expected.

“hello?”

you shake yourself free of surprise, and the wheels beneath your chair scrape against the linoleum floor as you sit forward. “oh, sorry. i thought i was calling the deacon residence?”

“deacon? like john deacon?”

“yes, i’m beau’s schoolteacher. i thought—well, this was the number on the contact form.”

there’s a sigh, and the phone brushes against something rough before rog says anything more. “hold on.” when he speaks next, his voice is distant yet poorly muffled. “deaky! there’s some bird on the phone for you! what have i told ya about putting the shop’s number down instead of the house’s? fuckin’ hell, mate.”

you frown, pressing your fingers to your lips as you wait for... deaky... to take the phone from his co-worker. when a new voice does appear on the line, you again find yourself surprised.

“hello? this is john deacon.” john’s voice is almost lilting, like a song. it’s soft, comforting—though how you determine this from four simple words is beyond your understanding.

“mr. deacon, hi! my name is [y/n] [y/l/n]. i’m beau’s teacher. i thought we might have an over-due chat, if you have the time?”

“oh, hello.” there’s a pause on the other end, as if he’s considering whether or not he’ll entertain your out-of-the-blue phone call. “has beau done something wrong?”

you laugh despite the worried edge to his tone. “no, absolutely not! beau is a delight. he’s practically a model student. however, i do have a few concerns... do you have a moment?”

“yes, i can have. just give me a second.” the line goes muffled again, the only sound a fading rolling stone’s song before all goes quiet. you hear a door shut and the squeak of a chair before john speaks again. “i suppose this is about beau’s shyness?”

you choose your next words carefully, uncertain if john simply cannot accept his son’s retreat into himself or if he does not see it. you’d rather not jump to conclusions and alienate him on your first phone call, but you must admit your unease at hearing the word shyness. beau is far more than shy. despite the frown puckering your brow, you hold your concerns close to your chest for the moment.

“shyness is a word one could use, yes.”

“he’s been that way since his mum died last year.”

rolling your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. “i heard. i’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

john makes a noise somewhere between a huff and a grunt and does not acknowledge your paltry offer of condolence. “if you’re calling to ask how you can fix ‘im, i don’t have any answers for you.”

“i don’t want to fix him, mr. deacon,” you say. “i simply want to help.”

“i’m sure you’ve spoken with mrs. cooper then.” he sighs, and the sound seems to rattle the receiver pressed against your ear. “look, i appreciate what you both are trying to do for beau. but he’s young, and the pain of losing his mum— i just don’t want him to rush into moving on.”

“oh, mr. deacon, that’s not my intention at all!” you wince at the high-pitch of your voice and clear your throat. good lord, this was not going as you’d planned. “i just want him to feel comfortable in the classroom, that’s all.”

“that’s kind of you, but i think it might be easier if you just let beau work it out for himself.”

you fall silent and glance down at the hem of your blouse. there’s a blue thread dangling from the article of clothing, and you pull on it, watching the thread unravel until it falls free from the shirt itself.

in all honesty, you’re puzzled by john’s hesitance to so much as entertain your concern. anyone—student, teacher, classroom parent—who comes across beau knows he’s more than shy. it’s written in his face, in the way he holds himself, in the way he shuffles aimlessly to and fro. god, he breaks your heart. you want to wrap him in a blanket and protect him from the cruel world.

but you’re not his mother. you’re merely his teacher, and you must respect john’s wishes despite how wrong you think they are. perhaps, in time, he will come around, see the need for a little concerted effort in helping beau work through his obvious grief-stricken state.

“is there anything more i can do for you, ms. [y/l/n]?”

clearing your throat again, you sit straighter in your chair and fiddle with a pen on your desk. you click the depressor up and down, up and down. “no, there’s not. i’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“you didn’t,” john says—and his voice has that indescribable soft quality you noted the moment he first spoke. “really, it does mean something to me that you even thought to call.”

“i care for my students a great deal.” you aren’t sure what brings the words to your lips, but the second they fall past your tongue, a flush crawls up the back of your neck. you’re sure you sound like a petulant child, whining at the mere inconvenience of a rejected idea.

“i can tell.” his tone is anything but salty. in fact, the truth dripping from each word leaves you decidedly flustered. you click the pen faster, your leg bouncing beneath the desk.

“yes—well—i’ll leave you to it.” though you add, “if ever there’s something i can do for beau, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“i’ll be sure to.”

after a rushed goodbye, you drop the phone to its base. the hard-plastic clatters, the coiled wire dropping in a pile on the desk. you press your fingers to your eyelids and groan. both deacon boys, it seems, have the power to infuriate and melt you at the precisely the same moment.

this, you think, does not bode well for the rest of the year.

if you’re being honest, you have to admit that you think of john deacon often as the school year falls into a comfortable rhythm. no matter how hard you try to forget the phone call, forget the way his voice lulled you into a strange sense of serenity, he’s like a specter in the back of your mind: always there and definitely uninvited.

still...

when the children work silently at their desks, you sit behind yours and struggle to keep your mind from wandering to either of the deacon boys. when you greet beau as he walks through the door each morning, you resist the urge to drop a question about his father’s well-being. when the faded red corvette pulls to the curb each afternoon, you bite your tongue and fist your hands at your sides to keep from introducing yourself properly through the open window.

it’s embarrassing, really, how much the phone call with john deacon has affected you. it’s embarrassing how... interested you are in his life. you’re a schoolgirl with a crush—a crush on a man you’ve never even seen! if you were to admit your undue fascination with the deacon household to your best friend ami she would laugh in your face and remind you how desperately you need to get out more. you keep your wonderings and your daydreams to yourself to save her the trouble of telling you what you already know.

come mid-november, when the students are well-adjusted to their daily routine and you’ve learned how to juggle so many personalities at once, you finally pause to take a breath. the breath comes at the end of a school-day. it’s drizzling outside—not raining, but not dry either. the sky is a wash of gray and a deep purple. there’s a storm coming, a bad one too from the looks of it. humming to yourself and contemplating whether or not you should stop by the grocery on your way home, you tug on your jacket and step outside the school into the chilled autumn air.

you’re about to cross the parking lot to your car when you hear a harsh sniffle come from your left. you pause, keys in hand, and twist to see a huddled form on the curb. it’s clearly a student and a young one at that. knees drawn to their chest, backpack large over their back, fingers interlaced on their knees, they are the picture of a frightened schoolchild. the hood of their blue raincoat obscures any defining features, so you hustle to their side and kneel down, but not before glancing at your watch.

nearly four. someone’s been forgotten.

“hey?” you tilt your head to try and catch a glimpse of the face beneath the shade of the jacket hood. “did mum not come through the car line?”

you barely stifle your gasp when the slick raincoat crinkles as the student turns to meet your gaze.

it’s beau deacon.

his eyes are puffy, tears still clinging to his blotchy cheeks. beneath the wide frames of his glasses, fear swims across his gaze. he draws in his lower lip and rubs his hand under his nose. his eyes flicker to the ground, his toes tilting inward.

you press a hand to his shoulder. he feels so small beneath your palm, like a fragile piece of clay, molded by tragedy and loss in such a short span of time. “where’s your father, beau?”

he shrugs. “dunno.”

“i guess he’s running late.” you look at your watch. very late. “should we give him a call?”

beau nods, and you stretch to your full height, offering your hand to help him from the curb. beau does not take it as he stands. he pushes his glasses up his nose and follows you inside the school office where he hesitates in the doorway as you borrow the receptionist’s phone to call the auto-shop.

no one answers.

lowering the phone to its base, you look over your shoulder. through the venetian blinds you can see the sky darkening as you hem-and-haw. in the distance there’s a flash of lightening, and fat raindrops dot the tan sidewalk.

you could leave beau with the receptionist. it’s not uncommon for parents to run late or completely forget about their child. normally, betty calls the child’s guardian and gives the waiting student a granola bar and coloring page or picture book to flip through as they wait for the mortified adult to speed to school. there’s nothing obligating you to stay.

just as there’s nothing obligating you to offer to drive beau home.

you look at betty and calculate the words of your offer. “would it be wrong of me to drive beau home? he lives on my way ‘s all.” boldfaced lie—at least, you think—but what betty doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

betty doesn’t stop clacking on her electronic typewriter. “i don’t think so.” she peers over her glasses at the clock hanging over the door, still typing. “i’ve got a dentist appointment in half an hour, so i don’t have time to wait around today. you’d be doing me a favor, love.”

“alright, it’s settled then.” you slip the thin strap of your purse over your shoulder and turn to beau with a toothy grin. “i’ll drive you home. maybe your father just isn’t feeling well today and overslept?”

beau frowns, and inwardly, you cringe, your smile faltering. beau’s mother died of an illness, so it likely disconcerts him to think of his father in a similar state. in a piss poor attempt at an apology, you grab a piece of chocolate from the bowl near betty’s desk and slip it in beau’s hand as you make your way to the parking lot. the faintest flicker of a grin crosses his face as he methodically unwraps the candy. you take that as a sign of forgiveness.

once beau is snug in the backseat of your station wagon, you pull into traffic with a bubble of giddiness in your stomach. what you’re doing is ridiculous. though you feel horrid beau was left behind, there’s a sick park of you that is glad for it. it’s unlikely you’ll ever meet john deacon unless fate throws you together. he did not attend back to school night, and as a single father, you doubt he has time for any of the other parent-student events on schedule for the rest of the year. in all honesty, you’re taking this opportunity to put a face to the man behind the phone call that’s plagued you with daydreams since it occurred.

if you can just see his face, just learn what he looks like, perhaps the fascination with fade. unless, of course, he turns out to be as attractive as your mind has made him out to be and then you’ll be in even hotter water than you are now.

adjusting yourself in your seat, you glance in the rearview mirror. beau has his head pressed against the foggy glass of the window, his eyes scanning back and forth as he takes in the surrounding scenery. rain droplets create dark shadows over his face, and you wonder if that’s what he feels like on the inside: foggy and rainy and shadowy. you shake the thought free; you read too many melodramatic novels.

“so, beau, what’s your address?” you ask, your tone obnoxiously chipper. he tells you, and you shrug as you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. “gotta give me more than that, hun. do you remember how to get home? do you think you could tell me?”

beau nods and scoots away from the window, leaning nearer the space between the driver and passenger seats. there a gleam in his eye. you catch sight of it as you turn right at his instruction and see him hovering near your shoulder. it seems that with each turn you make his voice inches a decibel louder until you can hear every word with a clarity previously unknown. he’s confident when he’s instructing you, when he knows what he’s supposed to do.

he’s confident when he’s helping.

you tuck the bit of knowledge away for later as you pull into the cracked driveway of a red-brick bungalow. the house is small and unadorned, the homes on opposite sides just as plain and simple. a single spruce tree, like something out of a holiday catalog, is the only foliage in the yard. gauzy curtains are drawn to block the sunlight coming through the two bay windows framing the white front door.

you turn the car off as beau slides across the bench to open the car door. grabbing your handbag, you all but tumble after him, hastening up the sidewalk.

“wait a minute! beau!” you punctuate your call with a breathy laugh and smooth the sides of your hair back as you approach the front door. the bubble of giddiness from moments before has turned to a bubble of nerves, and once again, you realize this moment is entirely ridiculous. still, you adjust your blouse and straighten the crooked edge of your collar.

beau’s left the front door open, his shoes and backpack already tossed on the living room floor. you hesitate at the threshold. you haven’t been properly invited in, but the open door might just be beau’s way of telling you it’s alright to invade his home. at least, that’s the message you decide to take.

crossing the threshold, you hold tight to the strap of your purse and glance around the cramped front living area. beau’s nowhere to be seen, and the home is silent as the grave. you bite the tip of your tongue when your gaze falls over a photograph of a woman holding a baby. it’s beau and his mother; has to be.

maybe... maybe you’ve overstepped your—

“beau, is that you?” the sound of heavy footfalls on stairs snaps your attention away from the photograph. before you can slip away and forget you ever had the silly notion of meeting your student’s father with the intent of something other than a professional hello, a man rounds the corner.

your eyebrows shoot up your forehead. it’s not the john deacon you’d imagined.

he’s shorter than you pictured, only several inches taller than yourself. his jaw is sharp, peppered with a five o’clock shadow, and a thick mustache almost covers his upper lip. a white wife-beater tucked into green trousers completes the ensemble, and his bare feet pad across the floor as he sticks his hand out in greeting.

“you must be the teacher!” he pumps your hand up and down, his grip crushing but his smile wide. his voice is friendly and welcoming, though you can’t be sure it was the voice you heard over the phone. so many days have passed since then, perhaps you just forgot, though it’s highly unlikely.

“i’ve been trying to call deaky ever since i got here, but the damn fool just won’t pick up. i don’t even know where beau’s school is so i couldn’t come and get him myself. the ship we run here isn’t very tight.” he rolls his eyes with a grin. “thanks for bringing him home, darling.”

your head swims as you struggle to keep up with the man’s fast pace. so, he isn’t john deacon? and john deacon isn’t here? you open your mouth to ask the first of several questions but he beats you to it.

“hell, you look positively confused. shut the door, won’t you? the rain’s getting in, and molly was always worried about the the hardwood. i’ll put on the kettle.”

“oh, i don’t—”

he bumps your hip toward the door. “nonsense! deaky will want to thank you for driving beau home.” he’s around the corner before you can refuse, so you shut the front door against the steady rain and slip off your shoes, leaving them beside the two pairs already against the baseboard.

you’re quick to follow him to the kitchen. the walls are a muted yellow, the countertops clear but the sink full of unwashed dishes. the refrigerator in the corner is bare save for the back to school letter you gave to each student to bring home to their parents. that—and a photograph of four men in a basement. it appears to be a homegrown band of sorts, and the man behind the drumkit is shouting at the man who looks like an overgrown string bean. you’re not sure which one is john, so you turn away, feeling rather out of place when the man at the stovetop says:

“beau’s probably in his room. he always holes himself away as soon as he gets back. doesn’t come out until supper. that’s when deaky gets home.” a pair of mugs clatter against each other as he pulls them from a cupboard. “brian says it’s just a phase, that he’ll grow out of it once he processes molly’s death, but i’m not certain.” the man’s eyes flicker to you, and he laughs, loud and short. “oh dear, i’ve done it again! i forgot you’re not in the loop. i’m freddie,” he explains. “part-time nanny, full-time diva.”

you accept the mug of tea as freddie passes it to you, a smile lifting your tight mouth. “[y/n] [y/l/n]. so you’re beau’s... nanny?”

freddie drops to the round kitchen table shoved in the space between the kitchen counter and the wall. you follow suit and stir a drop of sugar in your tea. “you could call it that. i just watch him in the afternoons, between school and deaky getting home.” he sighs. “since molly... well, things have been hard to juggle.”

“i thought mr. deacon picked beau up from school? unless that was you in the car i saw?”

“heavens no! i don’t drive!” freddie laughs again. “that was deaky you saw. he takes his break at the garage long enough to pick beau up and bring him here. i guess he and rog were overrun today. bet beau was terrified. poor dear...”

you glance over your shoulder, down the dim hallway leading to, you assume, beau’s bedroom. there’s a half-full laundry basket deposited outside another open door, perhaps the bathroom. a few mislaid toys litter the carpet. it’s reassuring, knowing that beau has a few good men in his life, willing and ready to raise him. still, there’s a pervading sense of loneliness throughout the bungalow. you saw it in the photos on the living room wall, but it’s here too: in the dead roses, brittle to the touch, in the table vase; in the index-card note tucked on a notch in the cupboard, the feminine handwriting unreadable from your spot at the table.

freddie’s voice is somber when its breaks through the thick air. “complications of pneumonia,” he says, following your gaze to a wedding photo on the hallway wall. “it came on quick but didn’t last long, thank heaven.”

unbidden, tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’ve never felt more like an intruder—and you know why.

your crush on john deacon is misplaced. you see that now. realizing what you’ve done in coming here—twist a child’s terrified moment of abandonment for your gain—makes you sick to your stomach. what kind of person are you? assuming a recently widowed father would be at all interested in his son’s pesky teacher? the thought brings a flush to your cheeks, and you rise from the table all too fast. the mugs of tea wobble when your knee connects with the underside of the table.

freddie frowns at you. “you okay, love?”

“i—” how to explain yourself without sounding a total fool or heartless woman? “i think i’ve overstayed my welcome” is all that comes to mind, and you aren’t surprised when freddie uses his foot to push your chair back out from under the table.

“sit down. john will be home soon. let him thank you then you can go.”

from where you stand, you look to your right. the front door practically screams for you to politely decline freddie’s insistence and high-tail it to your car, to get out while you still have the chance. but he’s making it too easy to stay for what you’ve come for: a peek at the illusive john deacon. you know you should go, that you should leave well enough alone, but despite your best intentions, you find yourself sitting down again and allowing freddie to bombard you with questions about teaching life.

half an hour later, when your sides hurt from laughing while freddie regales you with the dramatic story of beau’s birth, the door to the garage opens and closes with a loud click. you twist in your seat, arm draped over the back, and bite your lip hard to keep from drawing in a sharp breath.

by god, he’s a stone-cold looker. better than you could have imagined.

john deacon stands in front of the garage door, his head of tight curls wet from the rain. he’s tall but not towering, his shoulders made broad by the leather jacket across his back. he hasn’t noticed you or freddie as he’s too preoccupied with wiping the grease on his fingers across a piece of soiled cloth. he turns, not towards you, but towards the hallway when beau tumbles out of his room with a shout of joy. beau races down the hall, his arms extended, and jumps into his father’s waiting embrace. john mumbles something in his son’s ear, ruffling his hair, before dropping him back to the ground. the sullen little boy jumps around his father’s feet, chattering in great detail about his day at school, though he forgoes mentioning his father’s absence in the car-line.

you exhale, a wash of new tears covering your eyes as you stare at beau. he can be happy. you’d thought it impossible.

you must have exhaled louder than you thought because john looks over at the sound. his brow tightens in a frown of confusion, his eyes flicking back and forth between yourself and freddie, but freddie is quick to explain. he stands from the table and takes your hand, pulling you to your feet.

“deaky, this is [y/n] [y/l/n], beau’s teacher. remember you spoke to her on the phone?”

your cheeks heat at the thought of him mentioning the phone call beyond the walls of the auto-shop. warmth spreads over your face even further when he gives you a tight-lipped smile and extends his hand. you slip your fingers over his palm, and he shakes your hand.

for a moment, your hands linger as john glances at beau, who is tucked behind his leg. he cringes, groaning. “please tell me you didn’t go out of your way to bring beau home today?”

you drop your hand from his and clasp your fingers before your waist. scrunching your nose, you tilt your head to the side. “well...”

“bloody hell,” john murmurs. he screws his eyes shut and runs a palm down his face. “i’m sorry,” he says. “you shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“it was no trouble, really. in fact, you live on my way home.” the comment isn’t a falsehood. you’d realized as beau pointed his way home that your flat lie only a minutes down the road. just as it had then, the realization sends a nervous clench to your stomach now. the thought of the deacons so close...

“you must think me a horrible father.” as he says this, john reaches around to smooth his hand across beau’s back. the gesture, done mindlessly, almost makes you laugh. how could anyone find him a horrible father?

“absolutely not, mr. deacon.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward in something close to a smile. “john, please.”

you roll your lips together and blink rapidly to keep your eyes from going wide. john. “lots of people miss the car-line. it happens more often than you think.”

“well, let me give you something for your trouble.” he slides past you, the scent of cologne and car oil in his wake. his movements are stiff, hampered by beau who insists on clinging to his father’s leg, his ankles crossed over john’s foot.

“i don’t want anything, john.” you almost trip over his name. it tastes good, strong and steady. god, you’ve got it bad. “it wasn’t a hassle.”

john ignores you as he slides open a kitchen drawer. unsatisfied with its contents, he reaches for another before meeting your eyes with a wry smile. “all we’ve got is take-out menus anyway.” he shuffles nearer, beau still heavy on his leg. “thank you, ms. [y/l/n], for bringing him home. i got sidetracked at the shop and—” he sighs. “anyway, just... thanks.”

“again, you’re welcome—and call me [y/n].”

there’s a moment where you’re simply staring at one another, the room around you lulled to a comfortable silence. john is handsome, of this there is no doubt. perhaps he’s not striking in a classical way but you’re sure someone would have killed to chisel a bust of his face during the sixteenth century. it’s regal and sure in all the right places, but soft where it counts: around the eyes. when he chuckles at something freddie says, his eyes fold around the edges, and your heart all but gives out.

“what do you say, [y/n]?”

“sorry?” hopeful no one caught you ogling, you bring your attention front and center, turning to freddie. his proposal dawns on you a second too late to be anything but obvious. “stay for dinner? no, i can’t do that.”

“why not?” freddie reaches out to pinch your forearm. “it’s our way of saying thanks, and neither of us will try to poison you with our cooking. we’ll just have brian bring something ‘round.”

you shake your head and scoot around freddie to lift the handbag hanging from a kitchen chair. “i’d like to, but i’ve stayed too long already. perhaps another time.”

prying beau from his leg, john trails behind freddie as you make your way to the front door. freddie wishes you well, reminding you to drop by any time, and john simply lifts his hand in a motionless wave. on the front stoop, hair tangled around your face by a sharp wind, you lean your torso across the threshold.

“mr. deacon—i mean, john,” you say quickly, willing your voice to sound stronger than you feel. “if you’d like, i can drive beau home in the afternoons. i live not five minutes from here, and it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

john hesitates. beau stands in the kitchen, his head poked around the corner. john looks over at his son then back at you. “that’s a kind offer, but i like coming to the school.”

your eyes flick to beau, to his round, soft face and intelligent eyes. yes, if you were his mother you’d enjoy coming to pick him up too.

with a nod, you retreat into the wind. “well, the offer still stands.”

as you slide into your car and pull out of the driveway, waving to beau who now stands in the doorway, you hope against hope that john will accept the offer one day—just so long as it means you get to see him again.

he calls during the middle of show-and-tell. you nearly forgo the call as abby sinclair insists on lifting her pet toad for all to see and you’re worried she’ll drop it, but you’re waiting for a message from the front desk—missing package again—so you pick up on the last ring.

“hello?”

“hi, ms. [y/l/n]. it’s john deacon. is this a bad time?”

“oh, mr. deacon!” you wince at the delight coloring your voice and tear your eyes away from abby, who has handed her toad off to max. “i was expecting a call from the front office.”

he snorts out a rushed laugh. “sorry to disappoint.”

you brush a lock of hair behind your ear. “no, not at all.” out of the corner of your eye you catch max squeezing abby’s toad between his palms, and you push the phone away from your ear. “oy! max, knock it off! abby, please put the toad back, dear?”

john is chuckling on the other end of the line when you return to the call. “sorry,” you say. “show-and-tell.”

“i know. beau was excited this morning.”

with a smile, you glance at the boy in question. “he did very well. everyone was impressed with what he brought.”

“brian made that for him as a birthday gift, so he can’t take any of the credit.”

“he didn’t! he explained who made the planets, but he did want to be clear about who painted the stars.” you hesitate, the sound of laughter over your shoulder reminding you not to get too entangled by the sound of john’s voice. “is there something i can do for you, mr. deacon?”

“right, yes. well, it’s a bit awkward... do you remember a few weeks ago when you drove beau home?”

you nod, the memory lifting from your heart with ease. how could you forget? you only replay the evening like a film every night before you fall asleep. “of course”

“do you remember offering to drive him home again?”

“yes.”

“i’m in a jam at the shop and can’t leave this afternoon. would you mind? taking him home, that is.”

you answer without hesitation. “i can do that. it’s not a problem.”

“you’re a life-saver. it’s just with freddie not driving... i guess what i mean to say is thanks. it helps me out a lot.”

“i’m happy to do it, john.”

“i promise i’ll make it worth your while this time. proper take-out and all.”

“you really don’t have to do that,” you say, hoping he does anyway.

“no, freddie will insist. i’ll let you get back to class for now. thanks, [y/n].”

“don’t mention it. good luck with your jam at the shop. i hope it’s cleared up soon.”

“me too. all the sooner to get back to beau—and you.”

he hangs up before you can respond, and you’re left with your jaw scraping the floor and your heart in your throat.

all the sooner to get back to you.

the words circle your head like a drug for the remainder of the day. you can barely focus as you teach, stumbling over your words and through math equations and spelling tests.

surely he didn’t mean it like that. he probably just tacked you on at the end of the sentence in his haste to get back to work. he probably wasn’t thinking when he spoke.

but, by god, you were listening.

you’ve never been so head-over-heels for a man in your life. each day when you wake up with john at the forefront of your mind, you wish for a morning where you can stay in bed and dream of him all day—his voice, his smile, his gentle way with beau. it all makes you crazy. ami calls your fascination puppy love and claims it will fade with time, but you wonder if it’s gone deeper. you’re interested in more than john deacon’s looks. you’re interested in what makes him tick and whether or not he’s in a band with the three other men who constantly appear in every conversation you share and whether or not he misses his wife and what his hair looks like when he wakes up in the morning. you what to know him and be known by him.

all the sooner to get back to you.

perhaps it’s wishful thinking—a dreamy idea on the part of a lovesick woman—but part of you wonders if he feels the same way about you.

driving beau home becomes part of an unspoken routine. after sharing dinner at the deacon household that second evening, john admits when walking you to your car how overwhelmed he can feel between his job at the auto-shop and his responsibilities with beau. with a tentative hand on his forearm, you promise you’ll help lighten the load. he thanks you by squeezing your fingers with his, and then he’s gone.

it begins by driving beau home every monday, wednesday, and friday. you enjoy your time with him. as soon as he settles in the back seat of your station wagon, he comes alive. the protective shell he wears in the classroom is replaced by the bright and earnest eyes of a seven year old boy, curious about the world and all it has to hold. he asks you questions and tells you stories, and you laugh as you watch the light dance in his eyes. he’s a sweet child, and you truly treasure the afternoons you spend with him.

one friday, you drop him off and find the cozy bungalow empty. beau has stopped retreating to his room once returning from school—at least, this is what freddie tells you—so you’re not completely surprised when beau invites you in for an afternoon snack. you are surprised by the empty house, however. freddie is nowhere to be seen and neither is john. what concerns you even further is when beau opens the refrigerator and slams it shut with a huff.

“nothin’,” he mutters, slumping to the table with a groan.

“what?”

“there’s nothing in the fridge.”

“what do you mean by that?” you cross the floor and open the fridge, hoping beau’s comment is nothing more than a hungry child displeased with the array of choice and nothing to his liking, but you find his statement to be true. the fridge is woefully stocked—naught but a half-filled carton of orange juice, three apples, and a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. you glance over your shoulder. “is it always like this?”

“no.” beau circles about on his chair. “but it’s happened a few times since dad and uncle rog got more busy at the shop.”

“well, that won’t do. grab your shoes, beau, we’re going to the market.”

once returned from your grocery run, you teach beau how to make spaghetti. he stands beside you on a stool, pushed up on his toes as he watches you prepare the boiling water and pasta. as you wait for the pasta to soften, you set about crafting a homemade pasta sauce. it’s your mother’s recipe, and it’s easy to make. easy enough that you allow beau to carefully slice the tomatoes under your supervision and dice the onions and sprinkle the spices.

the kitchen smells like your childhood: fragrant yet simple, sweet and comforting. somewhere in the waiting for the sauce to simmer, beau turns on a radio and draws you to the center of the kitchen. he holds your hand tight and kicks his feet to the music. you laugh and mirror his movements. he grabs your other hand and steps on his stool, forcing you to bend in an awkward twirl around his finger. you struggle but complete the movement, though he attaches himself to your shoulders like a barnacle. you whirl around on your socked feet in attempt to toss him off, but he holds tight, his fingernails digging into the skin of your collarbone. he squeals in your ear, a mixture of laughter and gasping breath and shrieks.

“mama, mama, stop!”

he says it without thinking, his head lolling against your shoulder as you stop short at the sound of his breathless voice. he giggles against your back then releases himself and slides to the floor. you stare at him, feel his words in the back of your throat like an uncomfortable burn, and then you hear the garage door shut.

you swallow hard and force your eyes from the yellow-and-white linoleum floor. beau hops from his stool, sauce-covered spoon in hand, and rushes to his father’s side.

“daddy, look, we made dinner! miss [y/l/n] and me!” he tugs on john’s shirtsleeve, but john’s just staring at you, his face unreadable. beau turns to one of the other three men crowding the hall behind john. “uncle roggie, taste it!” he forces the spoon in the face of a mulleted blond.

eager to break the thick tension, you motion to the spaghetti. “i—there wasn’t anyone home so...” your sentence trails off, and you bite the inside of your cheek.

so many eyes on you. you feel exposed against them all, caught in a domestic moment with a child that’s not your own in a home that’s not your own.

john looks over his shoulder, eyes flashing in anger. “fred?”

freddie winces. “about that, deak.” he rubs the back of his neck and glances at beau. “i can explain later.”

“you’d better,” john mutters.

“i should go,” you say at once, hastily grabbing your things from the table. your keys jingle in your hand with the force of your anxiety, and you stub your toe against the floor in your hurry to put your shoes back on.

john’s hand on your arm stops you. you look up, stooped as you try to slip the back of your sandal over your heel. he looks down at you, face still remarkably unreadable. “no, please stay,” he says. “you made supper.”

you shake your head and rise to your full height. “i’ve intruded enough already.”

you’re embarrassed, too. the gaggle of men heard beau’s slip up; they heard him mistake you for his mother—and certainly they saw the immediate flush of happiness rise over your cheeks at the sound.

mama. you’d always hoped, always wished, someone would call you that one day. you just didn’t think you’d hear it from a student with a deceased mother and a father you pined after first.

“[y/n], stay.” john’s voice is soft, breathy, and his eyes flit back and forth between yours with a startling amount of intensity.

how can you say no?

once the dinner has been divided, you sit beside john on the couch in the living room. the kitchen table is too small to host the gathering, so the living room was deemed appropriate just this once, to beau’s great delight. he sits on the floor at the coffee table, a tall glass of milk beside his plate of pasta, his eyes bouncing over everyone in the room with unrestrained joy.

“beau, why don’t you introduce everyone for miss [y/l/n]? she doesn’t know all your uncles.” john nods to his son in encouragement, and beau is only happy to take the job.

standing, beau crosses first to the impressively tall and curly-haired man sat beside him on the floor. “this is uncle brian. he likes space and teaches all the big kids at uni.”

he moves to freddie, who sits on a plush armchair. “this is uncle freddie, but you already know him.”

the last man leans against the foyer table, his ankles crossed and sunglasses still perched on his nose. beau pats his arm. “this is uncle roger and he works with daddy.” in a stage whisper, he adds, “he thinks he’s a lot cooler than he really is.”

roger guffaws and lightly pushes beau’s head to the side. “oy, you twerp, take that back!”

glancing about the room, you nod in greeting. “it’s nice to meet you all. i’ve heard quite a bit.”

brian smiles at you from the floor. his legs are bent awkwardly beneath the coffee table, and you’ve noticed the way he helps beau cut his side salad and keep sauce from dripping to the area rug. “all good things i hope?”

“oh yes, of course.”

“[y/n], dear, you really must tell brian what that student of yours did last week,” freddie pipes up. “it had me laughing well into the night. i’m sure some of his twenty-year olds are much the same.”

“i shouldn’t, fred.” you look at beau, who is watching you in interest.

freddie nods in understanding and tugs on his earlobe. “little ears, yes. maybe another time.” he pushes brian’s shoulder with his foot. “really is a riot of a story.”

as supper progresses, conversation twists and turns down different avenues. you explain how you came to teach in the area and find you used to work with one of brian’s newer colleagues. freddie tells the group about his recent run-in with an angry bird watcher in the park. his gestures are so grandiose he whacks roger in the chest, who has come to sit on the arm of fred’s chair. there’s more laughter than there is silence, and you settle back in the couch. at one point, john drapes his arm over the back of the couch—not around your shoulders, but close enough to send your heart into overdrive. it’s all you can focus on—the proximity of his muscular arm behind your head—as brian explains to beau the difference between the big and little dippers. even as roger describes the ramshackle band they four participate in on the weekends, you barely register the words because you swear to the high heavens you feel john’s pointer finger purposefully brush against your shoulder.

beau begins to yawn sometime near the eight o’clock hour, and you jump from the couch when you realize you’ve stayed so late.

“good lord, i’ve got to go!” you shuffle about the room, gathering your belongings, as john rises behind you. “i didn’t know it was so late!”

his hands are in his pockets, and he studies you as you put your shoes on. “got a big date tomorrow?”

you frown. “no,” you say on a laugh. “i’ve actually got breakfast with my mum.”

he looks away for a moment, but you can’t help but note the edge of a smile.

he grabs his jacket from the coat-stand when you’re ready. “i’ll walk you out.”

at the door you wave to the others. “good night, all! it was nice to meet you.”

roger tips an imaginary hat. “i’m sure we’ll meet again, [y/n], if deaky has anything to say about it.”

freddie kicks the back of roger’s leg, and the injured man doubles over in a yelp of pain. “you fucker!” freddie mutters. “you know that—”

john ushers you out the door before you can see or hear any more.

the night air is chilly, and you warm your arms around yourself. you reach for your keys in the depths of your purse and slide them into the lock on the driver’s side of your car. it’s dark out. you can barely make out john’s features beneath the light of the moon, but when he shuffles to the side, an automatic flood light turns on above the garage. you blink against the sudden light and smile, chuckling beneath your breath as your vision adjusts. you’re not eager to leave quite yet, and he doesn’t seem eager to send you away, so you both stand, looking at one another in the darkness of the drive.

“your friends are nice,” you say.

he hums in agreement. “m’yes, they are. we just started as a screw-around band a few years back, but when molly got sick...” he pauses, clasps his hand on the back of his neck, and shrugs. “they’ve been my lifeline, y’know?”

“i can’t imagine what that was like, losing her. i’m glad you had them around.” you suck in a deep breath. “about earlier... i didn’t know beau was going to say that, and i’m sorry it happened. i realize that my... involvement might appear to be me wheedling my way into your family, but that’s not it, really! i mean, i like you and beau—as friends—but i’m not trying to...” you sigh, shaking your head. “i’m sorry it happened ‘s all. i don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

before you know what’s happening, john’s reaching out to cup your cheek. his smile is soft in the glow of the moon and the floodlight, and your heart stops in your chest.

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “i haven’t seen beau that happy in a long time. you’ve brought a lot of joy back into the house, [y/n].”

you’re sure you’re sweating despite the chill of night. you shake your head, but his hand holds fast against your face. “no,” you whisper. your voice sounds heady, even to your own ears. “beau’s just a good kid.”

“yes, and you’re a good teacher.”

is his face inching closer? you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

“a good teacher and a good person.”

if it weren’t for your firm hold on the car door handle, you think you might slip to the ground in a puddle of goo.

his lips are on yours, then, and you fall into his arms as he holds you against himself. you have dreamt of this moment far too many times to count, but you never thought it would happen. really, you thought you would finish the year without ever knowing the taste of john’s deacons lips.

but there he is, and there you are, and he tastes like the wine he drank during supper. he is more eager than you thought he would be, and soon he has your back pressed against the door of your car. you huff into his mouth and feel your eyes roll back into your head when he drags his lips across your jaw, inching closer to that spot behind your ear. your arms practically quiver around his shoulders, and you open your eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of a particularly bright star winking down at you.

he catches your lips again, and you feel hot and delicious all over.

“john,” you mumble against his mouth. “john.”

loathe as you are to stop the moment, you do, pushing his shoulders until he pulls himself away. his hand still cradles your hip, and he looks flushed in the moonlight. you’re sure you look equally as rumpled.

you grin. “well.”

he matches your smile, though it’s fleeting. “call you, yeah?”

unlocking your car door, you nod. “please do, mr. deacon.”

he shakes his head on a chuckle and shuts the door, waving gently as you pull out of the drive. when you’re several homes away, out of eyesight, you drift to the side of the road and blast the air conditioner. then you pound your fists against the steering wheel and let out a muffled squeal of delight.

he doesn’t call you.

when you sit down to think about it, it’s not that great of a surprise. you’ve been around him only a handful of times, and though you’ve both been comfortable in those moments, you don’t blame him for resisting whatever it is he feels for you. there’s beau to think about. you’re his teacher; surely there’s some line you shouldn’t be crossing? there’s molly too, and her memory and the years they spent together and the child they had together.

if anything, you figure he’s using you to test the waters of romance again. those stolen touches and deep stares and that kiss in the drive—it’s all just experimentation. the conclusion drawn from those experiments? he’s not ready.

you sigh, take another sip of wine. maybe you should stop driving beau. you like john; you like him a lot. and after that kiss, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. you thought about him before, but never this much. he threatens to consume your every waking moment, and it scares you because he’s not interested. desperately pining after a disinterested man means one thing: ruin. if you stop driving beau home, put some distance between yourself and the deacons, the puppy love and infatuation will fade over time.

it has to or you’ll go crazy.

it’s early evening, and your stomach grumbles. your flat is quiet as you putter around the kitchen in search of a suitable supper. there’s not much in the cupboards and even less in the fridge. you desperately need to go to the grocery store. take-out it is. withdrawing a handful of menus, you spread them out on the counter and flip through them mindlessly.

your thoughts are elsewhere. always on john.

you wonder what compelled him to kiss you. he’s an enigma, john deacon. you’ve seen him in moments of great levity—when he’s around beau or his friends or recounting a story from his youth. he has an infectious laugh, delightful crinkles around his eyes, and a quick wit. but he can be hard, too, like an immovable stone. he’s quick to toss a glare at anyone in his way in those moments of weakness, and his biting wit can turn sour at the drop of a hat. you chalk it up to weariness, those moments. weariness, loneliness, frustration. it doesn’t phase you, though perhaps it should.

with a groan, you drop your forehead to the cool counter and shut your eyes. the kiss lingers on your lips; it has the entire week since. you want him badly—in more ways than one.

the telephone rings, and you startle, clutching a paper menu to your chest. “fuck,” you whisper. you need to get a hobby other than daydreaming. pressing the phone to your ear, you barely get out a word of greeting before someone’s shouting at you on the other end.

“[y/n]? it’s fred! we’ve got a fuckin’ problem over here.”

you frown. “freddie? what’s going on? why are you are john’s? it’s a saturday.”

“no time for that! how fast can you get here?”

“well, i don’t know. i’ve got to—”

“beau’s sick! he’s on the bathroom floor, moaning and groaning and—shit!—[y/n], i don’t know what to do!”

“i’m sure it’s just a tummy ache, fred,” you say. “i see it all the time in my class. give him some pepto and he’ll be fighting fit in the morning.”

“no, [y/n]!” something in fred’s tone—a raw, animal fear—has you standing straight, your heart stuttering in your chest. “he said he feels like he’s gonna die just like molly did!”

“okay, okay.” you begin to move toward your bedroom, but are yanked back by the phone chord attached to the wall. you stumble backwards with a grunt. “okay, i’m coming, fred. just hold tight.”

“fucking hurry!”

you slam the phone down, rush to your bedroom to change from your nightclothes, and jump in the car without a pair of shoes. as quickly as you can you race to the deacon household. the sun dips low, casting an orange glow over the suburban streets lined with family cars. you grip the steering wheel tight, your heart thumping a prayer of protection for beau.

the driveway of the bungalow is empty, the garage door thrown open. the old convertible john toys with in the evenings is parked inside, but his everyday vehicle is gone. cutting the engine of your car, you run through the garage and into the house. fred stands in the hallway, pressed against the bathroom door. he looks ridiculous, clad in a bright yellow bathroom and bunny slippers, but he pounds his fist against the door, pleading for beau to unlock it and let him in. he turns at the sound of your bag dropping on the carpet.

“oh, thank god,” he breathes. he grabs your arm and wrenches you to his side. “beau, miss [y/l/n] is here. why do you talk with her, huh?”

before you say anything to beau, you frown at freddie. “where’s john?” your whisper sound harsh in the dim lighting of the hallway.

“at the shop. overtime. i can’t reach him.”

you jerk your head to the phone sitting on a side-table in the living room. “go try again and i’ll stick with beau here.” when he’s gone, you slide to a sitting position on the floor and press your ear to the thin wood of the door. “beau? beau, honey, it’s me.”

beau only groans in response.

“beau, can you please open the door? i want to help you. that’s it; just help.”

there’s a pause then you hear: “no. go away.”

“it’s okay if you’re embarrassed, beau. we all get sick sometimes. fred and i just want to help you feel better.”

there’s the sound of water sloshing and then a hard sniff. “i want my mommy.”

“oh, baby, i know.” you clear your throat to work past the lump rising to the surface. “come on, just let me in. i promise it’ll be okay.”

“but... what if i die like her too?”

“that’s not gonna happen, beau. i promise.” he doesn’t respond, so you plead once more. “please let me in.”

he shuffles to the door, unclicks the lock, and cracks it open. through the opening, you can see his pale face gleaming with sweat. gently, you push the door open further.

beau’s curled on the floor, his head bent toward his knees. his arms tighten around his stomach, and a spasm ripples through his body. he’s dripping with sweat, his star wars pajamas soaked through. hot air clogs the room, and you switch on the overhead fan. pressing your fingers to his forehead, you cringe and draw back. he’s burning up.

“beau, baby, what hurts?” you finger some of the sweat-matted hair away from his forehead.

“my tummy.”

“what’s your tummy feel like?”

beau shakes his head into the floor. “bad.”

“do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?”

“already did. on my floor.” he opens his eyes long enough to stare at you through thick lashes. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t apologize about that. we’ll get it cleaned up later. i’m just gonna go get you some water, okay?”

he groans, shifting against another spasm of pain. “okay.”

stepping back into the hall, you grab freddie’s arm before he can slip into the bathroom. you tug him to the safety of the kitchen. his eyes dance between yours, expectant.

“well?”

“did you get ahold of john?”

“no, the fucker.”

“we’ll have to go pick him up then.”

fred’s brow twitches. “what? why? what’s wrong with him?”

you throw a glance down the hall when beau whines. “i think it might be his appendix. my dad’s burst last summer and he looked a lot like beau does now.”

“fuckin’ hell.” freddie runs a hand across his mouth. “just what deaky needs.”

you nod in agreement. “i know. we’ve got to take beau to a hospital, though, before it gets any worse.”

“yeah, yeah, i know. go get the car started and i’ll meet you in a minute.”

several minutes later, you’re en route to the auto-shop, freddie cradling beau in the backseat of your station wagon. the drive is tense, your bare foot hard on the gas pedal. beau wrestles and whines against freddie’s hold, continuously asking for his parents and where you’re taking him.

no one wants to say the word hospital, so his cries go unanswered.

freddie directs you to the auto-shop, his phrases terse, and you pull into the drive with a sharp squeal of tires on gravel. with the car still running, you hurry across the parking lot, loose pebbles catching on your feet. music blasts from a stereo within the garage. it’s loud and obnoxious and keeps you from locating john fast enough.

“can i help ya, miss?” a lithe man steps out of a side office, his hairline receding and face near gaunt.

“yes—i’m looking for john deacon.”

the man continuously wipes his hands on a dirty rag. none of the oil and grease on his fingers budges. “he’s down there.”

dirt and grime covers the bottoms of your feet as you race down the shop. cars of all varieties line the wall to your left, some stationary on the ground, others lifted towards the vaulted ceiling. there’s a handful of men at work, but you don’t recognize any of them as john. you’re prepared to start shouting his name when a familiar voice stops you.

“[y/n]?” it’s roger. “can’t get enough of our deaky, can you?” he’s chuckling as he steps out from behind a truck. “what are you doing here?”

“it’s beau,” you say, and his face falls.

“over here.” roger wastes no time in finding john beneath a volkswagon beetle. only john’s legs are visible, his knees bent and leather boots firm on the floor. he curses when roger hooks the toes of his shoes around a curve in the sliding plate on the floor and drags john out from under the car.

“what the fuck, rog? i—” john stills when his eyes land on you. his muscle tee is loose over his chest, and a line of grease mars his forehead. he swallows. “[y/n]... i...” he sits up. “i’ve been meaning to—”

though you’re curious about the end of his sentence, you cut him off. “beau’s sick. we’ve got to take him to hospital.”

the blood drains from john’s face in an instant. the wrench in his hand clatters to the cement ground, and he’s grabbing your elbow, pulling you toward the exit, before you can say anything more.

“crystal, i’m gone!” he shouts, practically shoving you in the direction of the car.

there’s either no reply or you don’t hear it because john shouts for freddie to move the fuck over and give him beau. you slide behind the wheel and pause, twisting to catch a look at the scene in the back.

beau looks like a newborn swaddled in his father’s arms. his face is wet with tears and sweat, and he sobs in his father’s grasp. john feels beau’s forehead and frowns, muttering an oath under his breath. then his eyes flick to yours.

“what are you waiting for? go!”

you don’t need to be told twice.

it’s another fifteen minutes before you reach the hospital. your head throbs under the stress of it all: beau’s pitiful moans for help, john urging you to go faster, freddie barking directions as he slaps the headrest behind you. before you’ve pulled to a complete stop, john is out, beau in his arms. you shoo freddie after him.

“go! i’ll park the car.”

by the time you’ve found a parking space and picked your way across the parking lot, beau’s been admitted for emergency surgery. his appendix, as you suspected. it’s a routine procedure, and he’ll be fine within the next hour. relief floods your system at the news, and you find john and freddie sitting beneath a large fish tank in the waiting room. you take the open spot beside john and cross your ankles.

“your feet are disgusting,” fred says. he points to the bottoms of your feet, dark with dust, dirt, and grime.

you shrug. “forgot shoes.”

the quiet of the waiting room is both a comfort and annoyance. a clock on the wall ticks loudly, and the fish tank bubbles at an uneven rate. every breath you take feels too loud, and the antiseptic smells cling to the inside of your nose.

still, the quiet gives you a moment of rest. you catch your breath. you let the knowledge of skilled and capable doctors working on beau ease your heart-rate. it will all be okay; he’s going to be okay.

you glance at john. his fist is pressed against his mouth, his eyes shut. his leg bounces, and you dare to reach over and lay your hand against his knee. he stills, his eyes flashing to you.

“he’s going to be okay, john.”

on the other side of john, freddie jumps to his feet. “i’m going bananas just sitting here.” he rubs the side of his head. “might burst. i’m gonna give brian a call.” he stalks away, his bunny slippers slapping against the linoleum floor.

you shake your head, biting back the urge to smile.

but then john’s fingers curl around yours, and you can’t help but give into the grin.

you look up, meet his eyes.

“i didn’t call you,” he says.

“no, you didn’t.”

he shifts in seat and looks to the floor. “you should be wearing shoes.”

at the turn of conversation, you frown then follow his gaze. “yes, i suppose.”

“take mine.” he releases your hand to bend down and undo his laces.

“no, john, don’t be silly. i’m fine.”

“please, [y/n], take the shoes.” he slides the boots toward you, and you begrudgingly slip your feet into the warmth of his shoes.

you look silly, the pair of you—your ill-fit mtv t-shirt, loose jeans, and oversized leather boots; his muscle tee with the aptly faded word muscle scrawled across the chest, his faded jeans, and socked feet. one of his toes pokes through the end of his sock, and his exposed arms look cold in the frigid air of the waiting room. you laugh.

“we look like a pair of bikers or something.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “not much of a biker. that’s crystal’s territory.” he doesn’t look at you when he continues speaking. “i’m sorry i didn’t call.”

on a sigh, you drag the boots across the carpet. though it pains you to do so, you let him off the hook. “it’s not a big deal, john. it was just a kiss. no promises.”

“i know.” his head tilts to the side. “but i wanted to call you. nearly did twice, but i chickened out.” he turns, then, and meets your eye. “i like you, [y/n].”

you smile, but know it doesn’t reach your eyes. still, you reach for his hand again. “i like you too, john. i’ve enjoyed getting to know you and your family.”

he shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is firm. “no, i like you. that’s why i kissed you and that’s why i didn’t call. because you make me so bloody nervous.”

your shoulders drop, as does your jaw.

“ever since you dropped beau off that first time, i’ve been thinking about you and about you and him together and then he called you mum and i saw the way you acted with him and—” he pauses for a breath. “molly was different with beau. i mean, she loved him, but she was always so fragile and worried and—and that’s not the point! the point is that you make beau happy and you make me happy. and i want to be happy again.”

“john...”

his grip on your hand tightens as he leans closer. “make me happy, yeah? i’m stubborn as a mule and shy, too, but i want you—badly.”

the fire in your heart spreads at his words. it spreads throughout your body until you feel like you could burst and shine a light into even the darkest corners of the earth. a laugh bubbles forth from between your lips. you lift a hand to stifle it.

“you want to know something?” you ask.

“what?”

“i’ve been pining after you, john deacon, ever since i heard your voice over the phone. i was content to just wallow in my daydreams, but this seems better.” you lift your fingers to brush his chin. “a lot better.”

“i can’t promise i’ll make a good boyfriend. i’m pretty rusty.”

“me too. we can be rusty together.”

he grins, leans forward further, his nose brushing yours. “can’t promise there won’t be hiccups. i’ve got baggage.”

“i can carry it.”

he kisses you, his hand on the back of your head, keeping you firm against his mouth. you grin, your teeth knocking his as you laugh. his curls are soft against your fingertips, and you hold on for dear life when he chuckles into your smile.

“mr. deacon?”

john kisses you once, twice more, before pulling away to look at the doctor. “yeah?” he doesn’t sound the least bit embarrassed to be caught in such a position in the middle of a hospital waiting room, but you hide your face against his neck. your cheeks hurt your smile is so wide.

“beau’s ready to see you now.”

john stands and extends at hand. “comin’, dove?”

your footfalls are hard against the ground, the boots heavy around your ankles, as you walk with him hand-in-hand to beau’s hospital room. you lean against his side, breathe the comfort of him in, and smile.

yes, this is much better than your daydreams—baggage, boots, beau, and all.

#john deacon #john deacon x reader #john deacon fic #queen #queen fic #j writes

201 notes · View notes

aleatoryalarmalligator · 3 years

Text

Being heartbroken really sucks. Like, I’m not letting myself fall to pieces. I’m doing everything right, working on myself, setting goals and moving towards them, taking care of myself, trying to be open with people and to new ideas, but deep deep down I’m enjoying almost none of it really. Im just doing it because I can’t financially or physically afford to fold in on myself. I remember dying inside about boys I liked in high school, and I look back at those times as a sad fuzzy dream. I’m trying to believe that the last two years I spent with this person will be similar to me someday.

I have intrusive thoughts at almost every turn, wondering foolishly if he ever thinks about me or misses me or if there is some way that if things just went a little different I wouldn’t be living in this situation. I jolt a little at all the songs we used to listen to or when someone gets a to-go food order for someone else with his name. I wake up crying, the world seems heavy and rigid and impersonal. Sometimes I feel physically dizzy and nauseated. I know that if I let myself give in I will desperately reach out for some little morsel of attention from him with some cheap text that won’t do anything but completely discredit myself and my resolve to move on. I haven’t given up that he will reach out to me yet, even though I know he never will.

The way it ended was so, abrupt. Like cruel and absurd. It just was like a decision he made in four minutes online because I posed a problem I was having that he didn’t want to face. He said he hated talking about stuff like that and he didn’t want to hang out or talk to me ever again. Two years of talking and hanging out everyday and in four minutes I was disposable. I can’t really wrap my head around it. I am still in shock. But I knew he had done this to other people. I always expected it on some level, though it didn’t seem to be a thing till it was. I also realize that I pushed it. On some level it wasn’t working for me and I wanted this to happen, which given how I feel doesn’t make any sense. I was even preparing for it emotionally for months. I guess when I began expecting it to happen i started bracing myself.

I’ve had worse times in my life for sure. I remember the year I was raped and nobody cared and I made seven hundred dollars a month working full time, I was told I was too ugly to work a job that paid better and my hands were in agony because of carpal tunnel. I had to quit making art for years. Nobody hung out with me, to the extent that I spoke maybe twice a day with a store cashier or an impersonal confirmation of a direction about my job, and I felt ridiculously abandoned. And I had to spend two years in near isolation, when I finally took the factory job my father offered me, where I made enough money to move to Portland. I damaged my lungs and had chemical burns all over. And then I came here and had a lot of interesting experiences and great times, until around covid. I mean, I had some really horrible experiences too. Which I’ve gotten through okay.

I just feel like I’m on my own again sorta like I was before. It’s a really frightening feeling to have someone so close and then they aren’t there. I’m not even mad at him most of the time. In a way it feels like he died. Like something outside of him or I forcibly tore us apart, and he’s too apathetic or whatever due to his alcoholism and repressed feelings to really even get it. It feels like I’m scrambling in the dark, and there isn’t anything I can say or do to fix it. I’m aware of what’s happened and nobody else cares or knows and it’s something I have to deal with entirely by myself.

Anything I say or do in his direction at this point will only make it that much harder. I’m doing the best I can. But I get these miniature panic attacks when I am reminded of what happened. Because I will sometimes totally forget that he discarded me. Sometimes I want to say hi or ask how he is and then I will remember and am pushed into this despairing feeling. And then I will remember and be sick about it. It happens every day. I can’t imagine a day in which it will stop,

I have a grasp that this wasn’t at all fair, and there is no promise of compensation or reward for my suffering at the end of any of this. I am probably always going to be pretty sad about it, but I will have to live with it because I can’t control what other people do.

On the flip side, I am doing well at work which I hate my job but I’m finally making decent money. I’m moving out of this really unstable kinda toxic environment (story for another day) into a really cool room with my own bathroom and stuff with some really chill normal people. Like, it’s almost ironic that all the things I struggled with for the years I was with him are now almost suddenly none issues, I have some stability and potential to take care of myself and be okay in that way, but once I got to this place I lost him. Like some sadistic trade off.

Anyways, that’s my midnight rant. I was having a mini panic attack again and it just seemed appropriate to put it on tumblr.

28 notes · View notes

dapandapod · 3 years

Text

Dead I live pt 3

I realize I never posted the next chapter here! Ao3

Warnings: This chapter have a panic attack, and the entire story is rated M because Im making it gory and angsty. Stay safe out there and take care of yourself. Also, Geralt is turning into a Good Friend TM because we deserve it.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

As summer passes, he start to feel more like himself again. The healer keeps a close eye on him, but the Path calls to Geralt and Jaskier refuses to be left behind. They buy him a horse from one of the farmers. One secure calm thing and he names it Wilk. The gelding had a name, but it was such a boring and unfitting name. And who would Jaskier be if he accepted boring. No, that’s not who he was. Is. It is a strange thing to come to terms with, being dead but also not dead. And now that he has taken his first step, now that his voice is returned, he feels better about it. More like himself. Stradling Wilks wide back they set out on the Path again. With every sturdy step taken back out he feels it. The songs, the melodies and harmonies. He smiles, and Geralt watches him from Roach. It feels like home.

Jaskier sings under the stars. He plucks imaginary strings and he sings to the tugging of his heart and the crackling from the fire. Leaning against a tree, cracking nuts open with the butt of his knife, Geralt watches him. He watches Jaskier a lot these days, but it’s understandable. After that fucking mountain, after Jaskier being taken, almost dying. Well. He did die. But Geralt doesn’t know that. He thinks he dragged Jaskier from death's gaping maws. In a sense, he did. “We should find you a new lute.” Geralt comments suddenly. Jaskier had been thinking the same thing, but it still takes him by surprise. “Are you saying you miss my playing?” Jaskier meant it to tease, but he finds he is curious. “I do.” Is all Geralt offers, cracking another nut open and collecting the shells in a neat little pile. ”I'm not sure if I can” Jaskier admits silently. He looks at his hands. They look almost like normal except for his little finger on the right hand. But they are too smooth. ”Geralt. They broke my fingers. They cut away my calluses. And that might not sound like a lot but…” Jaskier trails off, letting his fingers search his hands. ”It will feel different. Sound different.” They sit in silence for a few moments, each Lost in their own world. It’s Easy to fall back into that dark hole, to sink deeper and deeper until the present is out of sight, out of reach. Jaskier blinks hard, shakes his head, lets go of his too smooth hands. He looks at Geralt, an anchor in the whirlpool of his mind trying to pull him under. That happened a lot in the beginning. He is better at it now. ”The next town is only a few days ride away. If you want to we can look for a lute. Or any instrument.” Jaskier thinks about the offer. Geralt values his peace and his coin. For Jaskier not to have an instrument means that Geralt will have peace but none of them will have coin. Unless Jaskier leaves. Or get left behind… Or gets taken again.

The next thing he knows is Geralt's face in front of him, his hands on his shoulders. There is a strange blackness around the edges, and he blinks. The ringing in his ears is so loud. “Breath, Jaskier. Easy. Stay with me, alright? You are safe.” Geralt takes one of Jaskiers hands and places them on his chest. Slowly he takes a deep breath, Jaskier can feel it under his hand. He realizes he is panting, or probably hyperventilating. Oh. He tries to regain control, tries to focus. He stares at Geralt, afraid to even blink in case he will be gone and that fucking cracked ceiling will be there again. Geralt's hand is warm over his, and as if he knows he pulls it upwards, so that Jaskiers cold, smooth fingertips can reach the soft, vulnerable skin of his throat. It helped before, when panic took him. To feel the warmth and a real heartbeat. To convince himself that it is real. “Breathe with me Jaskier. That’s it.” Geralt is so good to him, so patient. Jaskier tries to match his breathing, tries to calm that frantic pulling on his heartstring. He wonders if his sorceress can feel it. If it makes her smile. “No. Focus on me.” Jaskiers eyes snap back to Geralt. Purposefully he breathes in deep, slow. And he breathes out, the air hitting Jaskiers face and neck. It helps.

For a long while they sit there. Geralt pulls him out of the darkness, and when he feels the tight grip of fear eases up, he tilts his head back and watches the stars. “I hate this.” He whispers hoarsely. Geralt rearranges them so that Jaskier leans back against his chest. The warmth, the breathing, the smell of him. It’s soothing. “It will get better.” Geralt promises. “Maybe not tomorrow or even next year. But it will.” Jaskier trusts him. It took them a long time to get here. Another night like this, another fight with the dark and cold, and Geralt finally started talking. He told him about the trials of the grass, the cost of becoming who he is. The years he and his brothers spent fighting not only beasts, but themselves. So yes, Jaskier believes him. His head rests at Geralt's shoulder, gazing up at the night sky. “I was never any good at flute.” Jaskier murmurs and he smirks when he can feel Geralt chuckle behind him. “Ever considered bagpipes?” Geralt asks. “I like to live, thank you very much.” Jaskier retorts and pinches Geralt's thigh. Which is something he is getting to terms with. Not being alive but to live. “Fine. How about a harmonica. That will keep you from talking all the time at least.” “Oii!” Jaskier elbows Geralt in the ribs.

5 notes · View notes

chikkou · 3 years

Note

I'd ask this on your Lisa sideblog but you don't have anon on and I'm shy lol, but do you have any headcanons relating to Lisa the First? Like Lisa's views on religion, her relationship with her mother, if any of the various worlds we see mean anything?

hoh man i didnt even know anon wasnt on LMAO... ill turn it on after i post this!

also fuck YEAH i do holy shit i fucking LOVE lisa the first!! i know its sort of the black sheep of the lisa series, since it is a completely different type of game and was clearly austins first game, but i fucking ADORE it dude. the music - which he made ENTIRELY IN THE FREE TRIAL OF FL STUDIO BY THE WAY - is FANTASTIC, the art direction is actually pretty fucking incredible for an rpgmaker game that uses a good deal of basic assets, and the gameplay.... ok yeah that part is a bit lacking but its a yume nikki-style game be nice it was his first time LMAO

ANYWAY back to ur question. first and foremost, i think this is not even a headcanon so much as straight up canon, but lisa DESPISES christianity. marty is christian, probably catholic given the golden crosses everywhere, and he is a fucking scumbag hypocrite. lisa likely associates all of christianity with this line of thinking, as there is one room in the bile area where the melted martys (although i suppose we can just call them joy mutants now LMAO) simply stand in a circle surrounding one big cross. the role of the melted martys is up for interpretation of course, as is everything, but after playing the painful and seeing them described as “mindless sheep,” i think this is how lisa viewed them. so they likely represent other people that, to lisa, are probably just as sick and disgusting as marty

lisas relationship with her mother... i go back and forth on this one a lot. i can never decide if i prefer the headcanon that lisas mom died in childbirth, and so lisa never met her, or if i prefer that lisas mom was around for a very short time and then either left or died. the fact that she says “i didnt want to leave” at the end of the first leads me to believe that she most likely died. in either case, the memory of her mother was clearly important to lisa, as she wears her pendant through the entire game and its explicitly noted as being a gift from her. in either case, i think that the death/absence of the mother is heavily implied to be the primary cause behind martys descent into alcoholism and lisas abuse, since the white room strongly implies that marty did at one time sincerely love and care for her as a father properly should

as for the meaning of each of the rooms, i think most of them are fairly self explanatory, but some of them are a bit more vague, so ill break it down in terms of how i see it (and ill put them under the cut because its long as hell):

martys house - this is the most literal one. pretty self-explanatory. the dark, yet vibrant colors and the ear-bleedingly loud tv are pure sensory overload, something lisa probably deals with on a regular basis. when lisa goes outside and it turns into a sky of marty faces, i think this is the transition into the psychological part of the game

the lobby - this is honestly just pure yume nikki ripoff LMAO... but if i had to ascribe a symbolic meaning to it, i think its probably a quiet and safe area for lisa to retreat to in her mind when she needs it, but even that eventually gets sullied as tricky rick makes his way there, too (and tells her hes “just waiting” when she talks to him). the majority of gameplay is lisa searching for items with which to kill tricky rick, who always abuses and disparages her whenever she talks to him, telling her she’ll never forget. as for the reason why... well, take one look at him and its pretty clear whats going on there. (the name is also a reference to richard nixon, whose nickname was... well, you can figure it out!)

the town - the bar area is 100% my favorite from this world; lisa clearly hates alcohol and anyone who drinks it, associating them all with marty, and that music... all i can say is YUCK. the entire section also consists of lisa having to give up something in exchange for what she needs to move on, and usually getting the raw end of the deal out of it (she gives one marty a banana, he gives her a banana peel in return). she does all that while avoiding a marty following her outside who repeatedly tells her “you cant escape,” and upon reaching tricky rick (who is atop a narrow, columnar, PINK mountain), it becomes pretty clear whats happening to her.

the sea room - fucking marty spiders man. im assuming they represent the sickly feeling of crawling skin she gets when she looks at him or is anywhere near him, but holy GOD they are annoying to deal with. she kills tricky rick with pills here - we dont know what kind of pills these are, but i interpret them as sleeping pills, and given the rumbling music and the rapid cycling marty background, i wonder if he forced her to take these. marty is everywhere here, but the only one she can speak to is seen chilling on a raft of some kind. marty likely spent much of his time recreationally, i.e. drinking, so it makes sense why this would be here

the rope room - theres no symbolism here this is just pure comedy (LMAO). if i HAD to assign some meaning to this area, it would be that lisa likely is so despondent at this point that putting in effort to do anything feels utterly pointless, much like climbing this long-ass rope was

the white room - as i mentioned earlier, i personally believe that this area depicts the previous relationship between marty and lisa (and also has one of my favorite songs in the game). he is shown doing traditional fatherly things - he is no longer wearing sunglasses and is wearing a suit, meaning he was likely employed, and is actually smiling. he also spends time with her in a completely platonic, familial way. when she interacts with him, there is a little heart over his head. after lisa walks through the golden statues (which will reappear later), the entire world becomes filled with bile, and martys appearance returns to that of the other martys, but with an extremely warped, grotesque face. the item she needs in this area to kill tricky rick is found between two golden crosses.

notice that all of the items she kills tricky rick with - a razor, pills, and now a plastic bag - are things that a child could plausibly get their hands on; none of them are explicitly weapons. i think this shows both her age and how often she must have considered using those things against him.

the bile room - probably my favorite area in the game, and also features what i consider the quintessential lisa song. this area really drives home lisas disgust with marty and with christianity as a whole - it almost certainly has the highest concentration of crosses, and it is also quite literally covered in wall-to-wall bile, dirty water, and disgusting houses. a lot of the most graphic sights, like the melting martys and the pond martys (no idea what to call them LMAO) are here, so i think this is pretty much the lowest circle of hell for lisa. marty gives lisa a freshly cut finger in exchange for a napkin here; im not necessarily sure what that represents, but i think the napkin was used by marty to masturbate (as he says “i needed that” after he takes it), so perhaps the finger is martys?

lisa kills tricky rick here in a cave that is not-so-subtly shaped like a penis, and gets a vhs tape in which he pretty explicitly states what is going on in the game; he even pretends like he doesnt know who lisa is at first, which somehow makes it even more disgusting. the fact that vhs tapes play a role here sort of makes me wonder if marty really WAS filming some of what he was doing, and given that lisa the joyful confirms that brad was forced to somehow participate in lisas abuse, that is.... horrific to think about, honestly

the marty tape - this tape just has the player (as marty) walk up to lisa and suited marty, who are having a tea party with a plastic tea set. they both get hearts over their heads if you talk to them. i think this drives home that he and lisa did once have a normal relationship, and perhaps theres some part of marty who misses that? theres a LOT of ways you can interpret this; having the player become marty really calls a lot into question.

the mansion - the room leading here has a marty staring directly at the player who informs lisa that she needs a sword to progress. unsubtly, the sword must be placed into the crotch of a womans statue. the mansion inside is beautiful and ornate, and easily the most gorgeous area in the game - and it all leads to what appears to be a proto-joy mutant marty, sort of looking like jabba the hutt. i dont doubt that this is intentional, given that jabba the hutt is associated with slave leia, and its not at all a far leap to call lisa martys slave. the golden statues of women, as well as many golden crosses, are everywhere in this area. its actually quite a large space with a lot of thought put into it, so im really upset that i cant figure out more of what it represents LMAO

the final area - lisa seems to go back to her actual house, but upon leaving her room and entering whether the living room would be, the whole area changes. she encounters herself in a blood red room, but when she talks to the other lisa, she turns into marty. i think this represents a clear question - who is lisa without him? IS she anyone? or is she just a vessel for him to do with what he pleases? she encounters a naked marty telling her to give up shortly after, and flees from him, but is followed by voices repeatedly telling her that she must accept her fate. i think this clearly show the mental state of lisas last days. she was tormented, eternally. she truly felt there was no escape from marty. even the background becomes nothing but martys face, over and over again, as the end screen flashes.

at the end text, she finds a video tape, and in the tape sees someone who is ostensibly her mother from behind. she apologizes for not being there for her, but when that figure turns out, its martys face that she sees. the sky turns into marty. the music becomes corrupted and overrun with pretty fucked up laughter. she tries to run, but marty is already everywhere. theres nowhere for her to run. and then the game is over.

note that the video tape comes AFTER the games end screen, which stops not long after the appearance of the naked marty. so i personally believe that the “game over” represents her deciding to take her own life, rather than just give up and accept her fate. by running from him into the blackness, she got away from marty the only way she could have. it is sad and horrible, but that is honestly the best ending that she could have gotten in this game.

the first is definitely not as good as the painful in terms of gameplay, that much i can agree on, but i really think people miss out on a lot by not playing it. i think its really crucial to see lisas life from her own perspective before you can see it from brads - after all, brad may have known more than anyone else about what was going on, but he did not experience it like lisa did. for brad, lisa is a symbol of his own regrets and failures, but lisa was a PERSON (well, in-universe anyway LMAO). she suffered on her own, with pretty much no one to help her, and then she suffered so much that she couldnt take another second of it.

#anya's anons #long post #lisa the first #ok NOW im gonna open my anons on my sideblog LMAO #i got wayyyy too into this #and i had to put it under the cut bc its really hard to not be graphic about the first given the subject matter #rape mention #abuse mention #lisa

11 notes · View notes

taexual · 5 years

Text

HOLIC - 32 | jb x reader

pairing: Im Jaebum x Reader

genre: enemies to lovers au | roommate au

warnings: fluff

words: 4.3k

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

prev / next

Needless to say, you’ve permanently moved to live on cloud nine ever since last night. Granted, you’d wasted some of your ecstatic mood by sleeping, even though you couldn’t quite remember how you and Jaebum had gotten home from the bar and then passed out in his bed – or, rather, halfway out of it. If you thought back, you could recall – in bits and pieces – how the two of you stuck by each other for the rest of the night and no one found that weird in the slightest. It was almost as if you two behaved exactly the way everyone had expected you to.

You’d tried to sneak away from the rest of Jaebum’s friends multiple times, but it turned out that more people had come to congratulate him than any of you had anticipated, and your very last memory from Mark’s bar included you and Jaebum surrounded by at least ten different people, five of which you’ve never even seen before.

You woke up smiling, however, even though the alarm clock rang almost immediately after you’d closed your eyes, even though your neck hurt from having slept with your head hanging out of the side of Jaebum’s bed, your eyes felt heavy after only getting a few hours of sleep, and your throat was dryer than any desert on the planet. You and Jaebum may not have gotten to share another private – well, as far as private went in a crowded bar – moment last night, but the one that you did get to share was more than enough for your heart that seemed to leap in joy each time you remembered his kiss. That was all that mattered, or so it seemed; your body was simply incapable of focusing on any physical discomfort you were feeling.

Jaebum wasn’t in bed with you but you could hear the water running in the kitchen. He had no business being up this early – he didn’t have to work until the afternoon, after all – but he was probably fighting his hangover. Getting up wasn’t something you particularly wanted, either, but seeing Jaebum was, so with a heavy grunt, you forced yourself to your feet.

Surprisingly, your head only felt slightly heavy and the room didn’t seem to spin in a way that was too fast for you to keep up. You didn’t feel drunk anymore but you didn’t feel too hungover, either – which was a first. It must have been the amount of adrenaline you’d experienced last night with Jaebum, including the sort-of-confirmation of what you and him now were; it had saved you from a very painful morning.

Quietly tip-toeing towards the door of his bedroom, you took a deep breath – your neglected lungs welcomed it and started to sting in complaint; clearly, you were too busy focusing on Jaebum last night and had not allowed yourself to breathe properly – and then walked out into the hallway.

Jaebum was in the kitchen, just like you’d expected. He was just finishing his glass of water when your eyes met. You saw him smile through the transparent liquid and felt your heart explode into a million pieces of blissful confetti that scattered around your stomach, taking the shape of butterflies.

“Hey,” he called out for you after having placed the glass back down, his smile now on full display for you to see and drool over – hopefully not literally.

“Hey,” you echoed and then noticed the box of medicine in his hand. You nodded your head towards it. “Headache?”

“Oh,” Jaebum looked down instinctively, putting the aspirin down on the counter. “Yeah. I’ve finished quite a few bottles last night and my head is throbbing. I couldn’t sleep. Do you need some?”

“No,” you replied, crossing the empty living room and giving him a teasing smirk. “I’m not a lightweight.”

Jaebum responded with a dry laugh. “I had a lot to drink while I was waiting for you to come. Really took you a while.”

“Well, I told you. A kid got loose with crayons. What could be more important than that?”

Jaebum walked around the counter when you reached it and, for a moment, the two of you stood there, barely a meter in between you, your cheerful expressions mirroring each other.

“I’d have thought I’d be more important than that,” he replied.

“That being my job, right?” you countered playfully. “Or are you saying that, since you’re one step away from becoming a worldwide star, you’re going to start paying for everything I need?”

He laughed at this, making you chuckle as well. The sounds merged together just like your heartbeats had last night.

“I’m glad that didn’t change about us,” Jaebum said, taking a step closer to you and removing the distance between you by leisurely wrapping his arms around your waist.

It was an unexpected gesture – although, you did wonder if he’d initiate any form of PDA now that he was no longer drunk – but your heart continued to shed itself into a thousand more pieces of pure excitement as your hands found their way around his neck.

“What changed, then?” you dared to ask.

“Well, for instance, now I can do this,” he spoke before supplying you with an example of pressing his lips to yours in a brief but soft kiss, “and then I don’t have to watch you question your entire existence, wondering what this means.”

You were almost offended. “I did not question—”

“It’s okay,” he cut you off with a smile. “I did, too.”

The sense of shame simmered down as soon as you saw him smile, but you still shook your head, leaning it against his shoulder as he exhaled deeply. The two of you were standing there, holding each other in your arms at six in the morning, both of your minds full of memories of last night as your seemingly never-changing apartment attempted to engulf you in the good old routine. By all means, this was a somewhat usual beginning of your day, and yet, at the same time, it felt as if your souls had entered a different realm where nothing was the same anymore, while your bodies remained right where they used to be.

Having breakfast together – even if you’ve already done it countless times before – felt different. Bantering over your bowls of cereal – like you’ve done each time you ate together – felt different, too. Even arguing about who was going to take the shower first – cue a whole bunch of suggestive comments from Jaebum – wasn’t the same, either. But it was a good sort of different. The sort of different that most people didn’t realize they were seeking. The sort of different that, once found—once felt—would never allow you to return back to what was once normal.

And, although this subtle change was frightening, you welcomed it with open arms because it was time. Because you were finally ready for it. You were so sick of the same old routine, painting every single day of your life in the same old black and white. You knew you’d never be satisfied if you had to return to the monochrome world because your soul – that seemed to have been sleeping for what felt like years – had awoken to introduce you to a whole new palette of colors. And, as you unconsciously realized, the most beautiful shade of all was sitting across from you in your shared kitchen.

“What are you thinking about?” Jaebum asked after he noticed your lips stretch into a smile.

“Hmm?” you shook your thoughts off to focus on his words. “Nothing.”

“Yeah?” he knew you weren’t being honest. “You were smiling.”

“I’m always smiling,” you retorted.

“No, you’re not. You’re not a morning person.”

You raised your head from your bowl of cereal and tried to shrug your shoulders in a nonchalant way. “Maybe I am now.”

Jaebum liked to hear this but he still couldn’t help but push you further, “what brought this change upon?”

The shameless flirting was nothing new to either of you and yet all that had happened last night seemed to change the meaning of this, too.

“Not sure,” you teased. “There might be this guy I’m into. He might have a very annoying ability to completely control my mood.”

“Powerful guy,” Jaebum was beaming. “Do I know him?”

“Probably,” you nodded. “He’s a musician. You must have heard his song on the radio the other night.”

“The other night, you say? Sorry,” he shook his head, playing along. “There are only a few things I remember from last night and none of them involve listening to the radio.”

“Oh, yeah?” you couldn’t resist the silly grin on your face now. “What things do you remember, then?”

“Not many but, funnily enough, you’re a part of all of them.”

“That is funny.”

“Hmm.”

Your mouths had stopped talking, allowing your gazes to convey the words instead as the two of you battled each other in an unexpected stare-off, your eyes full of fondness.

Just as Jaebum was standing up to do something – and your heart had leaped to your throat – you heard a scratching sound on the front door of the apartment. Confused, you both frowned and turned in the direction of your hallway.

“What was that?” you asked.

It was possible that you’ve simply imagined the noise – an auditory hallucination wasn’t something that would have surprised you, knowing how Jaebum managed to make the rest of the world disappear for you each time his eyes landed on yours – but then the doorbell rang. Someone was definitely at your door.

However, when a moment later, Jaebum moved to actually open it, there was no one there. No one, but a lonely gray envelope, laying on your doormat.

“This looks like a letter,” he called out to you, closing the door and bringing the envelope inside as you waited in the kitchen, the same confused expression on your face.

“A letter?” you raised your eyebrows. “They hand-deliver advertisements now?”

“It’s—I don’t think it’s an advertisement,” Jaebum said, his eyes widening as he read the writing on the envelope. “It’s addressed to you.”

He didn’t mention whom it was from but the look on his face alarmed you as you grabbed the letter from him and took a look at it yourself. It had your name on it indeed but that wasn’t what made your stomach clench. It was the outgoing address – it belonged to one of the out-of-town galleries that you’d had submitted your portfolio to.

“They sent me a letter,” you said pointlessly as it was obvious that Jaebum had already reached the same conclusion. “W-why would they send me a letter?”

“Maybe it’s kind of like college admissions?” he suggested.

“Don’t they send those through e-mail now, too?”

“I don’t know,” he waved his hand dismissively, then. “Open it.”

To say you were anxious would have been an understatement of massive proportions. Somehow, you managed to locate a butterknife and rip the sealing of the envelope off with shaky hands. Jaebum was this close to doing it for you before you managed to cut it open yourself but he stood back, knowing that this might have been a monumental moment in your life and it was best if you did everything yourself while he cheered you on from the sidelines just like you’d done for him before.

“There’s one sheet of paper inside,” you stated, lifting your scared eyes to look at him. “There’s no way they’re expressing their wish to work with me on that thin sheet of—”

“You won’t know unless you check,” Jaebum pointed out. “And, besides, I don’t think they’d go through this much trouble of sending a rejection letter.”

That was true. More often than not, when it came to jobs, internships, and exhibitions, the managers didn’t even bother with replying if they weren’t interested in you. It was always upsetting and disappointing not to hear back from them but you thought you’ve already gotten used to that. Now, however, you were sure the wave of disappointment was going to swallow you whole if the contents of the letter indeed proved to be unfavorable.

Taking a deep breath, you finally pulled the letter out of the envelope and, after another few more moments spared to calm yourself down as much as you could, you unfolded the sheet of paper and quickly scanned through the words.

They’ve misspelled your last name – that was the first thing you noticed. Or, perhaps, it was you who’d misspelled that in your hurry to get the portfolios out as quickly as possible.

But even in spite of that harrowing mistake written in bold letters at the top of the page, the following sentences clenched your heart. It was the words, “we would love to meet you,” however, that squeezed it so hard, you gasped.

“What?” Jaebum was by your side in a millisecond. “What does it say?”

He didn’t dare to read it over your shoulder and he didn’t have to because as soon as he finished the question, you were suddenly leaping into the air, your features decorated by an expression that could only be described as completely euphoric.

“They said they’d like to meet me,” you squealed out, the letter getting crunched up in your tight grip. “Shit, they said they’d like to meet me!”

“T-they—that’s good!” Jaebum followed your excited eyes with his as you re-read the letter. “Isn’t it? That’s a start!”

“It is,” you confirmed, already having seen this play out at your own gallery. If a photographer was personally invited to meet – and in a letter, no less! – then, chances were, unless he was an absolute scumbag, he was going to get his work exhibited there. “T-they want me to call them to arrange a meeting.”

“Well, do that!” he encouraged, nearly handing you his own phone. “Go! Do it right now!”

“I-I—yes,” you blinked, suddenly glad you had Jaebum in the room with you because his orders helped you get yourself together and pull away from the letter long enough to look around the kitchen for your phone. You picked it up once you found it on the island and then glanced back at the piece of paper in your hands. “Okay. I’ll do it. Am I shaking?”

“Yeah, a little,” Jaebum said, not resisting a smile. You looked painstakingly beautiful in that moment as you were gripping the edges of the letter—of your future—so tightly, he had a feeling the paper was going to rip. But the look in your eyes – the utter excitement, the hope, and the undeniable joy – was making him wish he’d been the photographer so he could have captured this moment and kept it in his heart forever. “Maybe take some time to breathe first, okay? Just a quick minute.”

“Right,” you nodded, inhaling sharply and then exhaling through your mouth. “Okay. Breathing.”

You were obviously having a hard time doing this mundane task so he extended his arms. “Come here.”

You were so far lost in the excitement and the anxiety of this that you merely glanced at him before allowing him to drown you in the smell of his cologne as he embraced you for the second time this morning.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispered, gently pressing his lips to your temple in a gesture so intimate, you thought your lungs were truly going to give up on you this time.

“I haven’t done anything yet,” you replied, your voice as shaky as your heart. “Maybe they won’t like me after they meet me.”

“That’s not possible,” Jaebum countered, his arms – wrapped tightly around you – the only thing stopping you from exploding. “They will love you. And if they won’t, then they’re getting their asses kicked.”

You chuckled softly against his chest, working hard on your breathing but still struggling. “Your damsel in distress plan, right? Am I it for this week, too?”

He laughed, surprised that you’d remembered the joke he’d made in his studio a few days ago.

“You’re it for every week,” he said, completely serious.

You shook your head against his shoulder. “You’re not helping me calm down at all.”

Jaebum was laughing again as he asked, “what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know,” you replied and then, as an afterthought, added in a quiet voice, “just hold me.”

“Okay,” he whispered back, his own heart picking up speed at your request, as he pressed your body against his own harder, leaving no space for anxiety or worry between you. “I’m here.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’ve already accomplished quite a few tasks – you’ve managed to calm your breathing down, even if that had seemed impossible, and you’ve also found a way to leave Jaebum’s embrace and retreat to your room where you spent the next ten minutes, staring at the phone number on the letter before finally daring to dial it.

A pleasant female voice picked up, asking how could she be of assistance. Once you introduced yourself, she asked you to hold, and another minute later, her voice sounded even more pleasant. She made it seem like you were the most important person that had ever called and you wondered if she actually enjoyed this job – customer service was never easy and yet she made you feel genuinely welcome as she told you about how the owner of the gallery and the team of managers were excited to meet you -- or if that was very realistic acting.

“Oh, to be honest, I’d say it’s me who’s most excited,” you said with a soft chuckle. “I’m very grateful for your offer.”

“It’s our pleasure!” she replied. “Would you prefer for the meeting to take place on a work day, or would Saturday work better?”

You glanced back at the envelope. The address of the gallery didn’t seem familiar to you and, with a nervous pang in your chest, you realized that this could have been the gallery that wasn’t just out of town, but was actually across the whole country from you. You’d chosen it because they promised a helpful and welcoming environment for young artists – and so far they haven’t disappointed – but you didn’t really think this gallery was going to be the first one – and, maybe, the only one – who would contact you.

“Uh, Saturday would be ideal,” you said, knowing that you’d have less trouble if you didn’t have to skip work. Then, however, you realized that your car was still at the car service. “Oh, actually, if it’s not too much trouble, could it be next week? I’m—”

“Ah, I’m very sorry, we’re all booked for next week,” she cut you off, sounding still as sweet as ever. “There’s an exhibition by the graduating class of a university nearby. You’re welcome to attend it – the opening night is on Wednesday – but the only available Saturday is this week, I’m sorry. Does that work for you? Or should I look into—ah, well, there’s a spot three weeks from now.”

Three weeks from now was a long time away, you could feel it in the change of her voice. You didn’t think you could wait that long and it was likely that the gallery would change its mind in that time, too. Maybe someone else – someone more eager to meet them and get their exhibition there – would impress them before you even got a chance to see them.

“No, it’s fine,” you decided. “This Saturday will work great. I’ll find a way to come.”

“Very well,” the receptionist replied and you heard her click away at her computer. “Is noon, okay?”

“Yes,” you said. “Twelve o’clock. Works for me.”

Just as pleasantly as she’d spoken before, the receptionist explained how to find the gallery and you realized with horror that you’d have to spend at least a quarter of a day just driving there, not to mention the trip back.

You thanked her again and then, even before you hung up, collapsed on your bed with a loud groan. This was good – you had an interview about your exhibition. It was more than good – it seemed like you were walking step-by-step with Jaebum, both of you slowly approaching your dreams – and yet you couldn’t help but feel like something was bound to go wrong.

Aside from the gallery being a six-hour drive away from you, you were probably going to have to take a bus to get there – or you could beg the guys at the car service to give your car back to you faster but you decided to leave that as a plan B – which meant you’d have to either leave the night before and rent a room in a dingy motel – and hopefully not die there – or you’d have to leave early morning on Saturday.

All of that seemed worth it, you knew it. And yet, the sudden surge of worries overwhelmed you.

“Hey,” you heard a knock on your door and Jaebum poked his head inside. After noticing that you weren’t on the phone anymore, he dared to step into your room. “What did they say?”

You straightened up and sat down properly. “They want to see me on Saturday.”

“That’s great!” he exclaimed, his face breaking into a grin. He was about to cross the room to reach you but then he paused mid-step. “Wait—this Saturday?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed.

“That’s in two days,” Jaebum pointed out.

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” he considered this, finally reaching your bed and sitting down next to you. He was having a hard time reading your facial expression, which hadn’t happened that many times before. “That’s great, though, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course,” you nodded, sighing. Maybe you were just ungrateful for the opportunity suddenly tossed your way – you were feeling far too burdened by the number of things you had to do in order to make this opportunity appear more realistic -- but you couldn’t help it. “Except I have a problem.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“This gallery, it—it’s six hours away from here,” you started, “my car’s at the service. I can’t pick it up until Monday. And now I have two days to find a way to get to the interview that my entire future depends on. But, you know, no pressur—”

“I can take you.”

You stopped, his interruption taking you off guard. “What?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged as he always did whenever he offered something that included him going out of his way for you. “I’m not doing anything, anyway.”

“Jaebum, it’s a six-hour drive in one direction,” you reminded him. “Six more hours to come ba—”

“I know how math works,” he deadpanned. “And you’re lucky, my weekend’s free. I’m all yours.”

You haven’t even considered asking him to do this but now that he’d volunteered his help, your heart was bursting with gratitude. “You’d really do this?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “A road-trip. Why not?”

“A road-trip,” you repeated, biting your lip. You appreciated his offer more than you were letting on but you were still doubtful. “It’s six hours, though. I could fly over there but it’s so last minute—”

“Okay, now you’re starting to make it seem like you don’t want me to take you there,” Jaebum said in a laid-back voice.

“No. No, not at all,” you shook your head. “I just don’t want to make you do something like this because t-this is big. This isn’t like you making my lunch so I wouldn’t starve at work - which I’m also very grateful for, by the way - this is... this is on a whole different level. But, honestly, I appreciate you offering so much I could kiss you.”

“Oh,” he straightened. “Well, that sounds interesting. Should we discuss forms of payment, then?”

You laughed in surprise. “I thought you were going to do this as a favor.”

“I was but then you mentioned kissing,” Jaebum replied, “and now I feel like I can’t pass up on an offer like that.”

Encouraged by the excited glint in his eyes, you leaned into him to press a gentle kiss to his lips before pulling away.

“Thank you,” you told him, your voice genuine.

Jaebum’s face, however, was skeptical. “That was the promised kiss?”

“Uh—”

“That’ll take you one and a half kilometers.”

Raising your eyebrows, you watched the challenging look on his face with surprise evident on yours. He was really going to milk this.

Sighing – purely for dramatic effect – you leaned back into him and kissed him again, harder this time, your lips lingering on his for a second longer. You felt him smile into the kiss as soon as you began to pull away.

“Not bad,” he commented. “Three more kilometers.”

You shook your head, laughing. “How long are we going to do this?”

“Ah, well, let’s see. Six hours, that’s about, what – five hundred or so kilometers?” he replied, an excited glint in his eye. “You’ve got four and a half down already.”

“That’s a long way to go,” you said, your heart speeding as it always did whenever he was close.

“Yeah, but we’ve got a lot of time,” he replied after glancing at the watch on his wrist.

“I have to get to work eventually,” you reminded him, watching his smile turn into a pout.

“I’m never a priority for you, am I?”

The needy tone in his voice made your smile widen before you pecked his lips one more time, earning a soft, “one more kilometer” from him.

“You have to work, too, Mr. Pop Star,” you said, standing up from your bed so you could actually finish getting ready now.

“Oh God,” Jaebum groaned, the nickname not sitting right. “Please don’t call me that again.”

You laughed, nodding. “Yeah, that’s fair. I made myself cringe with that one, too.”

You’ve taken one step in the direction of the door of your room – actually hoping to get ready on time – but Jaebum grabbed your wrist, stopping you and pulling you into him for one last kiss before he let you leave. The number of random kisses that had increased from two to over twenty was starting to make you dizzy, but you kissed him back nevertheless, understanding that you were probably going to be late for work, but not finding enough strength to stay away from him.

“See you later tonight?” Jaebum asked after you finally managed to pull away.

“Yeah,” you nodded, trying to catch your breath. “Always.”