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#in my defense i finished hers the fastest

theatlasrealm · 2 years

Note

can you do an analysis on how each ninja fights??

YES!!! btw this isnt just from my head, this is from a person who binged ninjago 50+ times and has been watching it since she was 3. i have watched it enough to come up with an analysis i promise

Cole:

Although he’s decently skilled at it , Cole does not like far ranged combat - its not his strongest suit. Mainly because he doesn't like far ranged weapons. However, when this type of combat is needed, he simply chucks boulders at whoever needs to be taught a lesson.

Cole is definitely the king when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. His strong body structure (awesome muscular build) enables him to throw harder punches, and on top of that he has his super strength that gives every hit he throws an added bonus (enemies really be flying all over the place when this kid fights). You can try to throw a punch at him but it would be like punching a brick wall. Cole is also a very powerful ‘kicker’, and has an excellent defense. Cole uses scythes/war hammers as his default weapons, and could use other weapons such as the ‘morning star'(yk, the big huge weapons with spikes on them, like the chain connected to a huge spiky ball. that would be so cool). Also, he could probably slay with gauntlets. Like cmon. Cole is able to use heavier weapons and hit harder because when it comes to physical strength, he surpasses all the ninja.

However, he is a tad little slow due to his size, but his skull breaking punches make up for it and more. He uses his elemental powers to his advantage, also throwing small but dangerous rocks at his enemies in between his punches, and sometimes finishing them off with a boulder punch ( a punch + a boulder. boulder punch. its super effective). Cole is normally extremely patient but on the battlefield he simply prefers facing enemies head on. He still observes them and make’s sure to know what he’s getting himself into. Not the most analytical in the team, but he certainly isn't lacking much in that department.

He works the best with all ninja, but especially well with Kai and Jay, since they compensate for his ‘slower’ attacks. Also, yk the small and tall fighting methods... (big uses hands and throws small in the air, small jumps of off big’s back, etc ) gotta love em. With jay, he’s more on defense to keep jay’s back covered. When cole is fighting with kai its like Cole trying to minimize a feral cats damage while also trying to maximize the feral cats damage ( hint: kai is the feral cat).

Nya:

Nya is the Queen when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. She also has a strong body structure, similar to Cole, and so she also throws some nasty punches. Although she doesn’t have super strength like Cole, to make up for it she fights in smooth yet harsh motions, using water to disrupt the enemies movements/slow them down so she can pinpoint their weak areas and break their noses. She is the queen after all.

Her default weapon is a spear, bc she likes to use pole-like weapons. Pole-like weapons such as spears and lances allow Nya to thrust forward with them, and have a long distance they can cover without having to actually stand far, unlike far-ranged weapons. This goes well with her water powers as water hits harder with increased pressure and is able to take any form. Nya could probably work well with whips too, or like form water whips. That would be cool.

She doesn’t like far ranged combat simply because its ‘boring’ for her.

Nya is a little faster than Cole, but she still isn't the fastest (more about that below). She tends to analyze enemies before attacking, or analyze them while attacking. Either works! She also tends to outsmart her enemies by appearing weaker than she looks, or looking at their fighting style and then adapting a counter-style (water is adaptable, after all).

Nya also works well with all the ninja. However she works best with Kai, Jay, and Zane. With Kai and Jay its also the small-tall method (Nya’s taller than both). With Jay and Zane she has elemental reactions, since water and lighting are more effective together (shock shock shock + more shocks) also they have chemistry + nya helps zane freeze at larger capacities, also both are super smart and are good at strategies. With kai, nya just works well . yk. reading eachother with simple glances. when together enemies being devoured within seconds. destroying whoever hurt the other. fun!

Jay:

Jay is not the best at hand to hand combat, but as a ninja he is obviously still not someone to be taken lightly. He cant throw hard punches, but he can throw fast punches. Lightning is not a slow force, after all! Jay may not be excelling in physical strength but he is arguably the fastest ninja.

His size also gives him an advantage, since he’s not heavy or tall, he’s able to double his speed and rapidly attack his enemies. He tends to tire out his enemies first, using speed and swiftly strikes them with lightning to take them down. You think he’s teleporting? Nah he’s just hella fast dude

Jay isn't very ‘analytical’ but does very well with limited materials; he can invent/create something that can get them out of any sticky situation, not quite perfect yet very effective! This is a skill that is unique to him, as he invents best with scarce materials.

Jays' default weapon is nun chucks. He doesn't really like any other weapons. He loves metal nun chucks because remember, metal conducts electricity. He can simply use them as a weapon, and then use his powers and so the whoever he hits the nun chuck weapon with ( or any metal weapon really) would get a hard electric shock. Ouch. He would also do really well with Chakrams (if ur too lazy to google it, they are circular weapons- kinda like circular boomerangs with sharp edges. ). Doesn't mind far range combat, and isn't bad at it either. He has no preference, as long as he gets to work with nya LOL

Jay works well with all ninja, especially with nya (reasons stated above) and works well with cole (also stated above).

Zane:

Zane is good in hand-to-hand combat, and his punches hurt quite a lot ( he has metal hands, after all). He would be ranked second when it comes to hard punches, very close after Cole and Nya. His body structure... is... well... metal.

His defense is the best out of all the ninja mainly because who would wanna punch a tin can (its certainly do able, but boy it hurts). Zane tends to do 100% analytical fighting, he estimates the enemies moves and studies how they fight. He is the most analytical fighter.

His moves are careful and calculated. He takes the next course of action based on statistics. However, this sometimes does not work when it comes to ambushes, or unexpected fights as there is no time to observe or estimate. That’s all right though, because Zane isn't entirely dependent on this, as he does have his powers to slow/freeze enemies down.

You wanna know how many enemies are left? Ask Zane, he can scan the area. You wanna know an enemies weak point? Dw, Zane can scan it for you. Thanks Zane!!!

Zane excels in mid/far ranged combat- he’s the best ninja for the job. His default weapons are shuriken's and bows, after all. He has the patience for it, and has excellent aim. If the ninja had guns, he would be a dangerous sniper.

Zane works well with every ninja, but has an advantage working with Nya (as stated before) and Pixal

Kai:

Kai is similar to Jay when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. He can throw punches, but cannot throw hard punches (he was trained to be a blacksmith though, so I’d say he’s a little behind zane). But he is extremely fast, closely second to only Jay. His biggest advantage in hand-to-hand combat is agility. Kai is the most agile ninja, and his immense flexibility (he is also most flexible) gives him an upper hand in many situations. He also has the best reflexes ; his nimble moves make him a hard target. You wont see a ninja ur gonna see a gymnast. A gym-ja.

Zane and Nya are the best logical planners, but logical plans need time and observation. Kai excels the most when faced with ambushes or fast-paced situations ; he’s always on his toes and his impulsivity becomes beneficial, since he takes quick action and takes advantage of chances that the other’s would never have noticed. He’s also as astute as Nya and Zane, just in a less logical, and in a more of a crafty way. He isn’t a patient fighter though, so he sometimes gets himself into... situations.

His default weapons are sword/katanas, and he uses them as an extension of himself; the best swordsman on the team. What’s that? You want kai to do far-ranged combat? Bestie, for kai, far ranged combat is just throwing fireballs from a distance. You might as well throw bombs at ur enemies. Kai doesn't do well with far-ranged weaponry. If Kai had short ranged-pistols, like one on each hand (like Jinx from Arcane or Kiana from Honkai Impact) he would also reign supreme.

Kai works well with all ninja, especially with Nya (stated above) , Cole (also stated above) , and Lloyd (lloyd works really well with every ninja, but he has patience and he helps kai think things through).

thats it for now! i’ll reblog and include lloyd in this after part two of s16 comes out, bc i wanna add his “oni-style”

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starlitangels · 1 year

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The Wolf and the Bear

A long time ago @darlin-collins suggested something where Micah ends up so injured she’s unconscious for a couple of days and Darlin’ goes feral and this is kinda that 3.2k words

—

“I’m going to Uncle Vincent’s!” Micah shouted, thundering down the stairs in her bare feet.

“Be careful,” her dad called from the kitchen.

“It’s just Uncle Vincent’s. I’ll be fine,” Micah replied as she shoved her keys in the pouch slung around her waist that had a tightly-folded extra set of clothes in it. “I’m just going to see Rose for a bit then I’ll be back.”

Tank appeared from the garage, a bit of grease smudged on one arm. “Uncle Vincent know you’re coming?” they asked.

Micah waved her phone vaguely before it joined her keys in the pouch. “Texted him two minutes ago,” she said, shaking her bright cyan hair out of her face. Tank sighed.

“Be safe. Text us when you get there.”

“Will do.” She smiled and pulled the door open. After peeking around to verify there was no one there, she shifted and bounded off through the woods.

—

I pursed my lips and shut the front door behind Micah as her tail disappeared between the trees. “That girl is my karma,” I said, glancing down at the grease stain on my arm and wiping at it with the rag in my hand.

“In which way are you thinkin’ this time, darlin’?” Sam asked, appearing from the kitchen.

I sighed. “I worry she’s gonna get herself in trouble constantly.”

That made my mate chuckle. “Now you know how I felt when we first got together,” he said. I smiled and leaned toward him as he stepped up to me and wrapped his arms around me. “I worry about her too. All the time. She’s strong, don’t get me wrong, but she overestimates her own abilities sometimes.”

“Yeah that sounds familiar,” I muttered.

Sam kissed my forehead softly. “Guess we just gotta have faith in her.”

“Guess so.” I kissed the side of Sam’s face. “I’m gonna go finish changing the oil on my bike.”

“Okay.” He let me go. “Can’t believe you still ride that thing.”

“What’s wrong with my motorcycle?” I asked defensively.

“We have a fifteen-year-old daughter and you’re still ridin’ around on a deathtrap.”

I smirked. “Makes me the hot parent at parent-teacher conferences.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, on second thought it’s probably a good thing you don’t see the looks I get from the other parents when I get off it. Some of the dads definitely aren’t admiring the bike.”

Sam snorted. “Too bad for them, you’re happily taken,” he said.

“Mmhmm. By the best cowboy,” I replied with a wink. He scoffed as I gave him a kiss and retreated back into the garage.

—

The door to the garage opened. “How long does it take you to run from here to Vincent’s?” Sam asked. I rolled out from under his truck, where I’d been inspecting the undercarriage after Sam had been complaining about it making a noise.

“If I run the whole time and don’t take breathers... probably... twenty-five... thirty minutes? Why?”

“It’s been an hour and Micah hasn’t texted us.”

I hopped off the roller and snatched my phone. Sure enough, there were no notifications on my home screen except for the pack Discord server’s usual updates.

“Did you call Vincent?” I asked.

Sam shook his head, raising his phone to his ear as he did so.

“Sam?” Vincent said. He sounded worried.

“Hey. Has Micah made it to yours yet?”

“No. I was just about to call you.”

I swore none too softly and bolted out the open garage door. “Darlin’!” Sam shouted. I kept going. He’d catch up. Turning toward Vincent’s house at a dead sprint, I leapt and shifted mid-air. My claws hit the hard-packed dirt and tore it up as I hurtled through the trees.

My daughter’s scent lingered, but was definitely an hour old. I could follow it and track her, assuming it hadn’t faded too much from the wind.

Still, as far as I was aware, she only knew one path—the shortest and therefore fastest—to get to Vincent’s house.

Micah! I shouted down the mental link, reaching out for that connection. Searching, waiting for her to come in range. My head swung side-to-side as I tried to spot her. Micah? Mikey? Where are you, cowgirl? Mikey?! I kept seeking her magic, our telepathic connection, following her scent.

I felt more than heard Sam approaching. Shifters were fast but we could never quite compare to a vampire’s speed, even with our longer stride and extra legs. He zipped up beside me and kept pace easily. “Anythin’?” he asked. I shook my head. “I got her scent. You too?” I nodded. He couldn’t easily connect to a wolf’s mental link, so we tended to stick to yes/no questions when running together.

My ears pricked forward as I thought I heard a whine. I lowered my head and poured on more speed. Sam fell behind for only a second before he caught up again.

A grey-and-black ball of fur appeared in the trees ahead.

Motionless on the ground.

Micah?! I asked.

The connection didn’t light up with her mind.

I swore again and dashed forward, shifting as I leapt toward her. I landed on my feet and immediately fell to my knees, hoisting her up into my lap. “Sam!” I cried.

He knelt on her other side, inspecting her. Her fur was matted with blood in several places. I followed his lead.

“Sam—Sam there’s five scratches at a time,” I said, swallowing thickly. “Not four.”

“I know.”

“A bear mauled our baby!”

“I know, darlin’,” Sam repeated. I could see him trying to stay calm and very close to failing. He looked up from our daughter’s unconscious form to meet my eyes. He took a deep breath and his expression steadied. “I can’t do anythin’ for her here. If I heal the wounds without cleanin’ ‘em, they’ll get infected. And I don’t dare do cleanin’ magic on the lacerations ‘cause I don’t wanna burn out my magic before I can even close one cut. I’d have to do it manually.”

I felt my fingers tense in Micah’s pelt. “What about Marie? She and Colm live right on the edge of the woods. We could—”

“That’s too far. I don’t think even I could get her there in time.” He took Micah’s huge wolf form from off my lap and heaved it up into his arms. “How in hell do y’all get even heavier when you shift?” he muttered.

“Magic,” I said as I pushed to my feet. “What about Milo’s mate and son? They know a lot of magic.”

Sam shook his head. “Still too far. I can do the initial bits on my own if someone can get home to back me up.” He turned back toward home. “Vincent took a couple semesters-a healin’ courses down at D.A.M.N. after his partner manifested as an Electro but before he had to turn ‘em. I think he took all the ones they offered after Rose was born. I’ll call him back when we get back. Have him meet me.”

“Milo’s mate has more to spare. If I call them now—”

“They still wouldn’t be able to make the drive fast enough,” Sam said. “We need speed, right now. Vincent and I should be able to handle it between us. Especially if his partner comes along. They know a decent amount of healin’ magic now too.”

Without another word, he took off through the trees. I shifted and chased him and our daughter home. The run back seemed so much longer than the run out. My breathing was growing ragged in my lungs. From exertion and anxiety. Not to mention I wasn’t as young and energetic as I used to be, no matter how much I acted otherwise.

I didn’t begrudge Sam for not bothering to let me keep up with him. He could blow the doors off every wolf in the pack at his top speed, even weighed down by Micah, and our priority was getting her home, not staying side-by-side.

By the time I reached the open garage door, he’d laid Micah out on the hearth rug in the living room and looked back at me. “Darlin’, is there some way to get her to shift back while she’s out?” he asked, pulling his phone out of his pocket and lifting it to his ear.

I didn’t bother to shift back to human form, just went over to my daughter and laid next to her, pressing my forehead to hers.

Mikey, I thought at her gently. C’mon cowgirl. You gotta shift back for me now, okay? Your dad needs you human so he can heal you better. Please, Micah. Come on, baby.

I nuzzled against her forehead, gently nudging at her magic with my own while Sam zipped upstairs and around our bathroom where the medical supplies were in our bathroom closet. I could hear him talking to Vincent. I tuned out his words and focused on Micah.

How is she maintaining this? I thought. Most of the time, shifters had to be conscious to stay in their shifted form. Had to consciously burn the magic to hold the alternate shape.

She had to be mildly awake. Holding onto her wolf.

Micah Skye. It’s me. Your parent. You’re safe, honey. You’re home. Come back to me. I need you to be my little girl again. You can let your wolf go. You’re safe, I promise. I nudged at her scruffy fur with my nose and the back of my forepaw.

With the familiar sound of shifting magic, her fur melted away and she was curled up on the rug as a human.

“Sam! She shifted back!” I called.

Sam reappeared with several bottles and boxes of supplies in his arms. “I’m gonna need your help, darlin’.”

“Tell me what to do,” I said.

We got to work, cleaning up Micah’s wounds. Vincent and his partner showed up carrying their daughter Rose before we even got the first set of five slashes cleaned out.

“Da—ang you two are fast,” I said quietly, watching my mouth with a glance at Rose’s wide brown eyes.

Vincent dropped down with us and met Sam’s gaze. “We’re here to help,” he said.

—

I paced back and forth in the upstairs hallway. Back and forth past the closed door to Micah’s room. It was dawn, and I was antsy. Wolves in the wild, real, honest-to-goodness wolves, were most active at dawn and dusk. Not particularly diurnal or nocturnal, and I often found myself at peak energy at those times too. Not all shifters did, but I’d always been a little more connected to my wolf than a lot of shifters. Happened, I supposed, when I spent my adolescence after manifesting my powers feeling more comfortable in my wolf body than my human one.

Vincent, his partner, and their daughter had taken off a half-hour ago after staying at our house for nearly twenty-four hours to help us out.

Micah was still unconscious. She hadn’t even opened her eyes the entire time Sam and Vincent cleaned her wounds and healed her. And she was still out without any hint of waking up soon.

“This is all my fault,” I muttered.

In half-a-heartbeat, Sam was standing at the other end of the hallway, arms folded over his chest and leaning against the wall. “How so?”

“I should have gone with her.”

“She’s fifteen. On any other day she’s plenty old enough to make the run on her own.”

“Sam, she fought a bear—alone.”

“Yeah. And, if you noticed, the bear was gone. She scared it off before passin’ out.”

“If I’d been there—”

“If you’d been there,” Sam interrupted, “you both woulda ended up bleedin’ on the damn ground, darlin’.”

“I could have protected her.”

Sam snorted. “She wouldn’t-a let you fight alone and you know it.” He pushed off the wall and wrapped me up in his arms. I closed my eyes with the side of my face pressed to the side of his chest. “She’s too much like you.” He cradled the back of my head.

“I know,” I muttered. “But—”

“There’s no use beatin’ yourself up over somethin’ that didn’t happen—or could have happened.” Sam’s fingers tightened on the back of my head.

“Why does that sound like something you’re trying to convince yourself of just as much as you’re trying to convince me?” I asked. A little cheeky, despite my frustration.

“Because I am,” Sam said. No hint of hesitation. “Trust me, darlin’, part-a me is just as furious as you that I didn’t go with her. I know we can trust her to take care-a herself on her own. She’s old enough to be responsible for herself. It’s just not her fault that she came across a bear.” He scratched his nails over the back of my scalp gently. “But she’s a helluva shifter. Just like you. She’s tough. She’ll recover.”

“I know...” I sighed.

“C’mon, darlin’. You’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours. Let’s get you some sleep.”

“I’ve stayed up longer before.”

“Sure—before we had Micah and we both were younger.”

“Are you calling me old, Mr. Collins?”

“No,” Sam said immediately. A tiny grin formed. “If anyone’s old in this house, it’s me.” He started tugging me toward our room. “C’mon. You’re gonna shower and then we’re gonna catch some sleep.”

—

Sam’s deep breathing beside me gave away that he was asleep when my eyelids fluttered open. I’d been having stress dreams again, and grogginess clung to my brain.

I slid out of bed as quietly as possible and tiptoed to Micah’s door, easing it open.

Her cyan pixie cut was splayed out over her pillow haphazardly. There was no peace on her face. Usually she looked so sweet and calm when she slept. There was none of that. She looked limp. When I crept in and felt her forehead, she was colder to the touch than she usually was when I checked on her. Shifters tended to run warm, and her skin was too cool.

I clenched my jaw and slid downstairs and out the front door.

Taking off across the forest floor, I shifted mid-stride without breaking my rhythm and surged deeper into the trees. Following the scent of Micah’s blood down the path we’d taken to the place where we’d found her unconscious. Once I reached it, I sniffed around for the scent of the bear.

And noticed, even in the half-light, another trail of blood leading in another direction.

Growling low in my throat, I chased the second trail. It didn’t smell like shifter. It smelled like bear.

And any bear this close to Dahlia that wasn’t afraid of a wolf as big as a shifter wolf needed to be put down.

Before it could hurt anyone else.

Part of me hoped it had succumbed to its injuries and I’d find a carcass. That Micah had fought back so hard it couldn’t recover.

Part of me hoped it was injured, but still alive. So I could tear it to shreds for daring to hurt my daughter.

The scent of blood started to get fresher the farther I ran. I slowed down and dropped into a hunter’s prowl, teeth bared and slowing my breathing from the pants of running to slow, quiet inhales and slow sighs. The pads of my paws made no noise on the forest floor.

Ahead, my ears picked up on huffing and grunting.

I lowered my body and crept closer.

The black bear was lumbering slowly through the undergrowth, breathing hard. Its fur was matted with blood just as bad as Micah’s had been, though was mostly dry now.

I couldn’t imagine it’d put up much of a fight if I attacked it now.

Shuffling my paws beneath me, I prepared to pounce.

The bear didn’t even notice me.

Bunching my muscles, I raised my ears and tail to attack—

And leapt.

Zip!

Sam caught me around the neck and dragged me away from the bear. “Darlin’,” he breathed. “Don’t.” I snarled as I dropped back to the ground, hackles raised. “Micah needs you to be home with her more than she needs you to hurt the bear.”

My teeth were still bared, but I didn’t growl.

“Look at that bear,” Sam tried again. “It’s not much longer for this world anyway. Look what our girl did to it.”

I peered past him toward the bear—now in the distance. It was heavily limping and stumbling.

I shifted back to human. “Then I’m going to put it out of its misery,” I said lowly.

“Darlin’—trust me—I’m tryin’ not to tear it apart myself,” Sam whispered. “Micah’s my baby too, and I’m just as angry that she’s hurt. But she needs us right now.”

“I know she does. But this thing hurt her and she hurt it back. So I’m going to put it out of its misery whether you like it or not. You can either help me—or you can go home.” I rolled my shoulders, stretching them out to prepare to shift again. “It won’t even take me long. One good bite to the back of the neck and it’s gone.”

Sam considered my words, still blocking my path to the bear. He glanced at it over his shoulder. His breathing was even and calm.

He inhaled deeply and released a long sigh. “Put it out of it’s misery. Don’t hurt it anymore than you have to,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”

I shifted, dodged around him, and ran at the bear, pouncing with a snarl before it could even turn around to follow the source of the noise.

To be fair to it, it tried to put up a fight, but was too injured to really do so. I tore into it in a blind fury until it was subdued, then dispatched it quickly. It barely got a single scratch on my foreleg.

Once it was down, I turned to see Sam with his phone held to his ear. “Hey there. This is Dahlia’s wildlife services, right? Hi. My name is Sam. I live out in the woods just beyond the city. My spouse and I were out for a mornin’ run and we found a bear carcass.” He paused, listening. “Well... looks like it was mauled by somethin’ big. Mountain lion, maybe. Maybe a pack-a wolves.” He listened again. “Yeah, yeah.” He looked at me. “Hey, darlin’, can you grab our coordinates from your phone? See if you’ve got reception?”

I shifted back, raising a brow. I hadn’t brought my phone. He was looking it up as he spoke though. He read out the coordinates to whoever he was talking to.

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Course we’ll steer clear. We’re just headin’ home as we speak. Thank you.”

—

Micah’s eyes slowly peeled open. Both of her parents were in her room, holding each other and quietly watching her.

“Micah,” Tank whispered.

“Hey kiddo,” Sam greeted.

Micah groaned. “How long was I out?”

“Three days.”

“But it’s okay, little darlin’. The bear that hurt you has been taken care of.” Sam brushed her cyan bangs off her forehead and kissed it. “We’re just glad you’re wakin’ up.”

“We saw what you did to the bear, too. We’re proud of you.”

Micah blinked sluggishly and tried to smile. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

—

Tag list: @zozo-01 @arialikestea @shellssstuff

#Redacted ASMR #Pups AU #fic #Micah Collins #Redacted Sam #Redacted Darlin'#Sam Collins #Darlin'#Sam #Redacted Audio #Starlit Fic

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fragmentofmemories · 2 months

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Haven't had much time to talk about it (in the sense that I just kept going and going).

But I did finish Dragon Quest III SFC and—

Oh my god you have no idea how much i've been missing out no wonder people skipped work for it it's just amazing in every way from the music to the amount of freedom it has in both exploration and character building is amazing and the ending Oh my god the ending somehow I didn't get spoiled on it and it was just o̷m̸g̵ ̸j̵u̸s̵t̷ ̶t̸h̷e̸ ̴b̴e̷s̷t̶ ̸k̷i̴n̷d̶ ̶o̶f̷ ̸b̴i̸t̷t̸e̸r̸s̵w̷e̶e̷t̵ ̶AND---

As I was saying, Dragon Quest III was a great experience. And one I'm probably going to replay more than once.

Starting party was Hero/Fighter/Dealer/Priest.

Monk archetypes are one of my favorites and DQ3 fighters are no exception — high crit chance and an extra "sidequest" if you want to give them a great weapon early on. The way agility affects defense, my fighter was also somewhat tanky too.

Priest. Obviously. I will have a bias toward healers no matter the game. And they remembered that priests can deal damage and have good equipment too, so extra points for that.

As for dealers, it was mostly out of curiosity at first. But giving mine an AOE boomerang and knowing they can appraise items made her very helpful for a while. Dealers being the class that levels up the fastest helped too.

After discovering reclassing was a thing, and that it functioned similarly to Wizardry (minus the stat requirements), I wanted to try the secret Sage class.

But then I got a cursed, +255 DEF helmet.

At which point I actually finished the rest of the game with just the hero (and my priest which I kept around whenever I needed to use items).

And the best part is the game still remained challenging despite me essentially cheesing it.

Magic ignores defense, and almost every enemy in the endgame uses spells instead. That includes bosses who, besides hitting hard (and more than once per turn), also required proper strategies to take down.

One boss in particular genuinely got me stuck thanks to it healing every turn. And I guess at that point I realized it would've been much easier to just bring in a full team.

But that's the beauty of it: I was committed (lol). Despite this not being something the devs probably planned for, I just knew I could do this.

After better planning, and around 20 or so minutes of fighting, I managed to take that boss out.

Then plot happened! And it was shocking! And then it was even more shocking!

And I could go on and on, seriously. But well, it isn't anything different from what others already said about this game: It's that good.

Really, this is the sort of stuff I love about RPGs: The ability to freely experiment with any strat - regardless of how outlandish it may seem - and somehow make it work by knowing how the game works.

It might have been cheesy, but the game was fun either way. Definitely going to try to attempt it again without the helmet later on (maybe the GBC version?).

#dragon quest #excuse my outburst it happens whenever i experience peak #i did have an irl friend help me get into the series (aka she gave me the games)#though now i'm wondering which version of dq4 i should try first...#dq3

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avaantares · 6 months

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📓

Oooh, so now comes the hard part: Deciding which story to share!

The truth is, I have a huge folder of story ideas and WIPs, some of which are just a document with a line or two of notes reminding me of the story's premise. A finite amount of writing time guarantees that most of these stories -- while fully developed in my head -- will never see the light of day. This means I have at least a dozen fics that could fall into the category of "haven't written but you've daydreamed about."

(Of course, this also means that if multiple people send me 📓, at least I won't run out of material... 😅)

Okay -- I've picked one on the basis of @iamtheshriekingguineapig bringing it up AGAIN a day or two ago. (That will teach me to tell her I have story ideas for fandoms she likes, LOL. Maybe if I post the treatment, she'll be happy with that?)

The fandom is Devil May Cry, and this is one of those stories that has the potential to be so big and sprawling that I haven't even bothered making notes for it, because unless we get hit with another pandemic (please no), I will never, ever have time to write it. (See also: Children of the Future Age, my 330K behemoth that was only, like, 60 or 80K until I was stuck in lockdown for a year and a half.) But despite the lack of written outline, this is one of those things that just lived in the back of my head long enough that I mentally scripted entire scenes and blocks of dialogue for it while doing the dishes or whatever.

Here goes:

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Lucia (who makes an appearance because I got SO MANY COMMENTS on CotFA asking me why she wasn't in the story >.<) gathers the DMC team and informs them that a new -- or possibly ancient, but recently awakened -- evil threatens the safety of the human realm. Lucia remains in the human realm to coordinate teams of devil hunters and deal with the rogue demons who have grown agitated due to the rising malice. Nico stays behind with her, outfitting the hunter teams and engineering defensive systems and weapons to protect human cities from the encroaching demons. The rest of Team DMC (a.k.a. our main cast, inclusive of Vergil) head for the underworld to deal with the malevolent energy at its source.

During their search, the hunters discover a massive star-shaped array stretching across miles of the underworld. The array is generating an impenetrable shield around something at its center, which is likely the source of the demonic energy. In order to gain access, they need to disable the seals at each corner of the array, which are the shield's anchor points. Only when all five are disabled will the shield fall, allowing them to confront the evil creature staging a comeback.

The team splits up for efficiency (and because I mentally structured this story in true video game format, with each area a "level" that characters proceed through, culminating in a boss fight). Dante, Vergil, Nero, Trish, and Lady each head for a different seal. Dante suggests making it a contest to see who can disable their seal the fastest. Never one to let a challenge go unescalated, Vergil makes a parting crack about finishing the final fight himself before the others have even returned to the center of the array.

Combat and stuff happens (I'm condensing for space!) as they make their way through their respective regions. Ultimately, as each hunter finishes off the area boss, they discover that at the center of each seal is another layer of shielding containing a power source. The objects generating the power for the greater array are arcane artifacts. Weapons. Amulets. Old, but not necessarily ancient, though they have clearly seen extensive use. And... oddly familiar, for some of the hunters.

Nero is the only one who doesn't find an artifact at the core of his seal. Instead, when he breaks through the inner shield, he finds an old man imprisoned in the array -- a human, possibly a former hunter by the looks of him. Like Dante and Vergil, his hair is white, though Nero isn't sure if that's because of his age or because he shares their unique heritage. The man's athletic build hints at his former strength, but he's been weakened and aged by the constant power drain. His memory, too, seems to have suffered -- that, or he's being deliberately cagey with his answers. It's hard to say. At any rate, he doesn't give Nero a name by which to call him. He thinks he's been trapped in the array for several years, but time moves strangely in the underworld, and he had no real frame of reference for its passage. What he wants now is to find his way back to the human realm, though he's not sure where the access points linking the two worlds have migrated to in the time he's been imprisoned.

Nero knows there's a major battle ahead and doesn't want to be slowed down, but his conscience won't allow him to leave a weak, helpless old man to fend for himself in the underworld, so he helps him stand and offers to escort him to some place that, if not entirely safe, is at least moderately deserted and well away from the energy-draining apparatus. His plan is to stash the old man somewhere and then pick him up on the way out of the underworld after they take out the Big Bad at the center.

The stranger keeps up with Nero fairly well for someone in his condition, and the longer he's out of the array, the healthier he looks. Nero decides the man is not quite as old as he originally guessed, though he doesn't stop calling him things like "gramps" in place of his missing name. For his part, the man seems very interested in Nero himself, asking questions about the devil hunting business, and then about Fortuna and Red Grave City when he learns Nero is familiar with both. Nero is cautious with his answers, but he can't fault the other man for feeling him out -- or for wanting to speak to another person after being imprisoned for so long -- so he makes polite conversation. It's not like there's anything else to do while they're slogging through the underworld.

Upon learning that Red Grave was nearly destroyed, the stranger falls silent for a while. It's not until they meet up with Lady, returning from her own seal-breaking mission, that he rouses. Lady has retrieved a Devil Arm from her seal, a pair of gauntlets that, while undeniably powerful, is of little use to herself (a dex-based ranger human) or Nero (who already has his own devil power-augmented arm). The stranger asks if he might use them, since he currently has no weapons. This confirms to Nero that the man isn't entirely human -- Devil Arms won't allow just anyone to utilize them -- but he can't think of any reason not to let the guy have some means of protecting himself. At minimum, it will make him feel less guilty about ditching the man while the rest of them go off to fight the Evil Thing.

The stranger expresses the same kind of polite curiosity about Lady that he did with Nero, though he seems more particularly interested in her heritage than her present circumstances. Lady gets a little tetchy when he prods her about her lineage one too many times. In an effort to keep the peace, Nero interrupts to suggest they pick up the pace, or Vergil really will take on the final boss before they've caught up.

The stranger definitely reacts to that name. When he recovers, he feigns polite curiosity and asks who this Vergil is. "My old man," Nero replies, with a hint of vinegar because their relationship is still (understandably) fraught. "He's a hunter, too. He and his brother are down here with us."

The stranger controls his outward reaction to this statement a little better, but he's obviously very interested. Before he can ask more, Lady, still agitated from the probing about her parents, adds a sarcastic remark about Vergil only being a hunter when it suits him -- in between laying waste to entire cities.

The man stops dead and asks her to explain that, which she does: "Vergil's the one who destroyed Red Grave City. Again. Though to be fair, Dante and I managed to stop him, the first time around. He only wiped out one borough back then. But let me tell you, the wholesale district was never the same after Temen-ni-gru punched a hole in Market Square." She sobers. "But even that was nothing compared to what the Qliphoth did. He killed thousands of innocent people when he released that thing."

The man's reaction to this information is difficult to read, but decidedly not happy. He insists that they take him to meet Vergil. Nero balks and suggests that it would be better for him to wait someplace out of harm's way; there will be time for him to meet everyone after they've dealt with the main event. The man says no, he will see Vergil now, and for the first time Nero gets the sense that he may have really, really underestimated this "helpless old man." Because this is clearly somebody who is used to being obeyed, and he does not like repeating himself -- and probably has more than enough power to back it up, when he hasn't been used as a human (or not) battery for who knows how many years.

Lady clearly gets the same vibe, and Nero sees her shift into a defensive stance. But before things can escalate further, they're hailed by Trish, who has finished her own seal mission and detoured to join them when she saw the group coming across the demonic wasteland.

The stranger sees Trish.

And that's when things get... interesting.

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So, yeah, that's my fic about where Sparda has been for all these years and why there's been no trace of him, and the whole setup is just a petri dish for more angst (Sparda learning of Eva's death and having to deal with Trish's presence, which is probably even more jarring to him than it would have been to Dante; Vergil having to face his father after he Done Messed Up Big Time), comedy (Nero having a cognitive meltdown after realizing he's been calling the OG Savior "gramps," and then having another one when he realizes the OG Savior actually is his grandfather), and family feels (Sparda finding out he has a grandson! Who is the goodest boi! Even if he is the son of Elder Son Who Done Messed Up Big Time). Which is why it promises to be another CotFA if I let it, and why I really, really, really don't have time to write it. 😅

(I am also fully aware that with the right treatment, this could potentially work as a sequel to CotFA, which I fielded a question about last week... but it all comes back to time and energy. Sigh.)

#devil may cry #dmc #fanfiction #writing #my writing #children of the future age & friends #ask game

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writeforfandoms · 2 years

Text

Merry Go Round of Life 26

Find my masterlist and series masterlist

We're getting close to the end, and as such, stuff is happening. But we also get the answer to a question here.

Warnings: Swearing, anxiety.

Word count: 1k

In which there is a door

You stood there for a few moments after Din had left, until a burble from Grogu drew your attention. You scooped him up, holding him close and rubbing his back.

“He’ll be back,” you murmured to the child. “He’s tough. He will be fine.” You pushed every ounce of sincerity you could into your voice, banishing your worry to a corner of your mind.

"What happened to you?" Peli asked, somewhere between concern and disgust. "You're covered in sand!"

You blinked and looked down at yourself. Your dress was certainly a bit the worse for wear, and you did indeed have sand clinging to you. Now that you were paying attention, you could feel the granules shifting around in your boots.

So you sat down to tell Peli what had happened, from freeing the other wizard ("You found Viszla?! Djarin is never going to hear the end of that!" Peli crowed in amusement.) all the way through the heroic rescue. You poured sand out of your boots as you spoke, brushing it out of your clothes as best you could. But you desperately needed to bathe.

Peli was silent as you finished speaking, her flames low and burning almost green. "He… flew you?"

"He did." You couldn't stop the dreamy smile if you tried, ducking your head down to speak to your knees. "He made it so easy."

Peli was quiet again for a few long moments, long enough that you flicked your gaze back to her. She looked… pensive. Her flames throbbed just slightly around the edges, the motion different from the normal flickering.

"He's never done that before," she finally said. "Never." She stared at you, clearly trying to communicate something more to you, something important. You could see it, feel it, that meaning flickering with her flames just out of reach. Your lips parted, tongue flicking out to wet them, readying yourself to ask–

Two hard thumps on the door made all three of you jump.

"Wait!" Peli hissed, flames flickering wildly. "I don't know who it is, I can keep you safe if you stay in here and don't open the door! Djarin wants you to stay here!"

You couldn't refute that logic. He had asked. He had been so gentle…

Another thump jerked you back out of your own mind. "Djarin!" A voice bellowed from the other side. A voice you knew.

"It's Viszla," you told Peli hurriedly, getting to your feet and hurrying to the door. You hesitated for a moment before you grabbed your walking stick.

Just in case.

You opened the door a little, walking stick held at the ready. But you didn't need it.

The hulking blue-armored man in front of you tipped his head to the side, just a little. "Where is Djarin?" He asked, voice a little rough.

"He's gone to help the King," you responded after a moment, fingers tightening on the door knob as you were reminded of the hard ball of worry in your chest.

Viszla huffed an aggravated sound. "Fool," he muttered, starting to turn away.

"Wait!" You opened the door more, eyes wide. "Why? What's going on?"

"I have information on what the Witch is planning," Viszla told you. "I need to go inform them."

You shook your head, swallowing. This was the castle door, nowhere near Mandalore. It would take him too long to get there. "Come through this way," you offered, stepping out of the doorway. "It will be faster."

Viszla stepped inside, helmet turning as he looked around. He looked down at the child, then at Peli, who was pretending very hard to be a normal fire. He huffed. "He left you here without defenses?" He grumbled.

"This place is not without defenses," you muttered, shutting the door. Your hand hovered over the knob and you swallowed.

You needed to turn it black-side down. You knew you needed to. That's where Din had gone, that would undoubtedly be the fastest way. And while he'd never expressly told you not to go that way… there was a lingering feeling of breaking a rule. Of breaking a confidence.

You hoped that he would understand, that he'd forgive you when all of this was done.

Time was ticking. You'd just have to hope for the best.

One deep breath in, and you turned the knob black-side down. There was no sudden sound or change, everything remained the same. Your fingers shook, just a little, as you slowly opened the door.

It was dark on the other side of the door. You couldn't see much of anything, just a vague impression of slightly less dark spaces.

"This is where Djarin went?" Viszla asked.

"Yes."

Viszla strode past you, stepping through the doorway… and vanishing.

You swallowed hard at that. You were sure nothing bad had happened to him, because Din had gone through that door. Multiple times, even. And Din was fine.

But your nerves were not so steely as his, apparently.

"Just remember that I can't open that door," Peli told you. You jerked around to look at her, surprised, and she met your gaze head-on. "You'll need to find another way back in, or come back with Djarin."

Your heart warmed at her concern, and you smiled. "I will," you agreed. "C'mon, Grogu. Let's go find Din." You took a moment to pick up the child and get him settled.

And then you took one last deep breath and stepped through the door.

Taglist: @rain-and-a-nice-nap @saradika @zinzinina @miraclesabound @quica-quica-quica @queridopascal @littlemisspascal @fandom-blackhole @shoopidly @beskarprincessjenny @sarahjkl82-blog @cannedsoupsucks @liviiii98 @adriiibell @seasonschange-butpeopledont @princessxkenobi @thirddeadlysin @pbeatriz @oonajaeadira @kiizhikehn-cedar @withakindheartx @linkpk88 @evyiione @janebby @anditsmywholeheart @amneris21 @recklessworry @the-feckless-wonder @snarwor @pedrostories @grogusmum @eri16 @idreamofboobear @pintsizemama @stevie75 @luxmundee @kirsteng42 @reader-without-a-story @5pectre @alexxavicry @elegantduckturtle @litakino @pjkimrn @jaime1110 @trash-dino-5000 @mandalwhorean @dessinemoiunehistoire-blog @mswarriorbabe80 @lowlights @magikfanatic @bruxasolta @hb8301 @chaoticgeminate @eri @eaudecrow @fan-of-encouragement @jaguarthecat @mindidjarin @bearcina @heyitsmeghann @hoodedbirdie @practicalghost @beecastle @phandoz @tintinn16 @avatarkanemi @ezras-channel-rat @tanzthompson @the-fic-baker @churchill356 @tentacruels @fabilei @the-chaotic-cow @trickstersp8 @ruhro7 @tinkywinky27 @karlawithacapitalk @thesmutslut @harriedandharassed @kurlyfrasier @hp-hogwartsexpress

#merry go round of life #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #f!reader #din is a drama queen

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shuttershocky · 2 years

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Any tips for IW-9? Sui-Xiang is kicking my ass

Alright I just finished my speedrun comp for Sui-Xiang so here's what i've learned trying stuff out.

Take him head on - Sui-Xiang gains a massive damage reduction to enemies attacking him from above or below, 50% on his first phase and an even greater 80% during his last stand. You're never going to beat him unless you go head to head. Place your operators on the right side (the ranged units can stand on the melee tiles for this stage) and leave the top and bottom only for heals or debuffs/buffs.

Ethan is king - As you might have seen, damage over time and other poison effects are extremely good in this event, as the little spawn take damage per hit rather than have real HP bars. Ethan delivers them with his skill 1 with a large AOE attack, and Ambusher Specialists like him have a 60% evasion to both physical and arts damage, making him tougher than you'd think against Sui-Xiang's myriad of AOE attacks. Other operators to consider are Rosmontis with S2, Shirayuki with S2, Thorns, Bluepoison, if they have poison or multihit attacks, they'll be great in this stage.

Sui-Xiang mixes physical and arts damage - Although his attack stat is massive (1400), Sui-Xiang actually only unleashes his full might on his tail swipe, which always targets the operator closest to him. Bait this out with Gravel to save your other operators from getting oneshot, as this attack does a 1400 damage physical hit, then inflicts an arts poison debuff that ramps up in damage over time.

The lightning he calls down is annoying, but actually only deals 13% of his ATK as arts damage overtime, so it's nothing AOE healers can't shrug off.

As for his Phase 3 laser breath, the unit at the very front takes the brunt of the damage, a mix of both Physical and Arts damage equal to 35% of his ATK or 490 physical and arts damage per second, while those in the back get a greatly reduced 15% of his ATK. he'll use this 10 seconds into starting phase 3, so if you can't outDPS him in time, make sure you're prepared. Have units that mix both high DEF and RES at the very forefront to tank the laser (Arts Protectors, Guardians, and Phalanx Casters are great), use Gravel and other Fast Redeploys to block, or use summons such as Beeswax's totem. Once you survive the first barrage, Sui-Xiang has about 60 seconds before he can do it again, so you have one full minute to burst him down before you get roasted again. This also goes without saying, but you'll want to activate all medic skills at the same time as the laser.

Sui-Xiang has poor defensive stats - With 550 DEF and 30 RES, Sui-Xiang is vulnerable to simply getting DPS-raced, especially by operators with extremely high ATK speed that can kill him before he can fight back. Those with multihit attacks like Greythroat or Tachanka , when buffed by Bards + Warfarin can easily make short work of him, but the fastest Sui-Xiang slayer is Exusiai, whose S3 deals 5x hit per attack and who only needs only a couple buffs to raise her own ATK beyond 550. With the likes of Sora/Skadi the Corrupting Heart and Warfarin buffing her, Exusiai can speedrun this bossfight. Don't use Ash, as Sui-Xiang is immune to all crowd control effects.

If you do not have the right operators to cheese him, follow the other tips above to survive a longer battle. A strong DPS carry can beat him down before the second laser, given enough support.

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hyliandude · 5 months

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I had a dream last night.

There was a middle eastern guru that seemed homeless and dirty in the streets. He asked me to follow him to help save the people i care about. He seemed solemn and genuine so i went with him in the streets without care of calling off from work.

He took me into street markets in between a temple with devout followers of another religion, but there were people of all ethnicities.

I tried catching up to him but he was so fast, and everyone knew and bowed to him. There was this column everyone was huddled around at one point, and before proceeding he chanted something around it, seemingly “blessing” the column and gently told people to respect the area. Everyone got away from it (he later told me the column was unstable and needed repairs, so this was the fastest way to get people to clear the area and be careful with the column).

We entered this kitchen area and he changed attire. Food safety prep attire? I didn’t question it, but it seemed like we were going into some sort of food kitchen or prep kitchen to prepare meals for the homeless. Ok. I didn’t mind at all, and i remember thinking about how small the operation was. We were only probably going to feed like 80-100 people, but i also realized how MUCH more of an impact this was than me sitting at a desk pretending to do work for companies i know nothing about. (The attire they gave me was some sort of bib, and event shirt. It was a memorial shirt, for someone named Carla Mae, but i knew it wasn’t you b/c you were alive in my dream and the picture of the person was someone else. But it still made me think about the event. Before i could speak to anyone about the coincidence, my shift was over and the guru was having me haul leftover stalks of some of the food we prepared out back. All waste, and super heavy).

There was a lady out back, either washing clothes or collecting trash to place it in a giant pile of a courtyard. There weren’t many people there because of the horrid smell, and i think even residences above were no longer there because of the stench. It was only the one lady. She was peeling something with a knife, and then i realized she was mincing the trash to make it easier for herself to toss it. She took pride in her mundane task, but no one seemed to appreciate her efforts. The guru greeted her like a long time friend, but she was blunt and almost rude with him the entire time (in hindsight, im sure people were rude to her all the time because of the stinky area she was patrolling so she developed this personality as a defense mechanism). The guru conversed with her and eventually convinced her to hand use each a knife. I took it gladly. With the leftover stalks of food waste we had, we started peeling them to better expose the insides. The lady asked us why we were “taking her job” and the guru replied that we were just here to help. To which she relaxed and continued to quietly converse with us. The guru would peel a few stalks from the pile we had, and tossed them into her pile. He then gestured to me to do the same. After a few hours, we were finished with our pile, and finished sprinkling the chunks across her pile. She thanked us, and so did others before we left (i didn’t know, but it turned out that the leftover food stalks were a natural deodorizer. The guru had killed 2 birds with 1 stone in his efforts). It took a while, it smelled, i was sweaty and gross. But i felt so fulfilled and impactful, I can’t even explain.

(Throughout this entire time there’s been music playing from the temple area. Id had it stuck in my head since i woke up, but it’s now 6:55 AM and i dont remember how it goes anymore).

Later in the day we are in the temple, for some service i suppose, and i swear people are huddling around the guru as we walk like paparrazzis, but with more decorum and respect. He’s not mad at any of them, and he addresses those he can without losing sight of his path through them.

The only one i remember was a man asking for the presence of “god” in his village. He was wondering what it would “cost” him to have god come and be at his village. This question stood out to me, and it mustve stood out to the guru too, because he stopped and turned to the man:

“This is a common question, but an easy one”

I assumed he’d be asking for a donation of sometime, which was a concept that disillusioned me to the entire establishment.

The guru then proceeded to talk to the man. His village was going through a rough time. This man was the only one of strong enough mind and body to come out into the temple from afar to seek help. The guru said it would cost him the salary of multiple builders, cooks, fisherman, etc. The man said that he was strong and well versed in many skills, but that he had no funds to pay more people to come and help in the village with those things.

The guru then whispered something to the man, which must’ve shocked him immensely as i saw the wave of revelation come over him, and he left the crowd!

The guru turned to me and quickly said

“Why pay for god if he’s already there?”

There was another scene where i was at a private rooftop dinner with the guru and a family overlooking the city. We were clearly there for the father, a strong and clearly wealthy man who had evidently been religious in the past. He wanted the guru’s influence and advice on military and commercial conquest, and i dont remember what else was said, but we just left. Something about how the man had lost sight of “all his past lessons”.

In the end, i didn’t quite understand why i was playing “hooky” all day. I didn’t know how to “save those that i love”. He told me people just want to be heard and understood. Not a surface level thing, but truly HEARD and UNDERSTOOD. It seemed so cliché, but he also mentioned how the time we spend with our loved ones is 1. An investment and extension of ourselves that they’ll remember and learn from. A piece of ourselves inevitably makes it to them, and he wanted to make sure it was the BEST piece of ourself. And 2. The time is something we’ll both cherish. At the end of the day, we’ll all be gone without thoughts or memories. In our final moments we’ll regret spending time on a computer or pointless meeting instead of with the people we love. To save them, means saving ourselves of course, but it means spending as much time with them. They aren’t with us if we’re not spending time with them, just like they won’t be with us when we’re all gone - so spend as much time with them to save them. Take that time back with them. And cherish it.

I still had the jaunty music stuck in my head. I vividly remember what i was wearing, what he was wearing, and what others were wearing.

Just wanted to jot all this before i forgot.

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nerdythebard · 2 years

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#52: Sayaka Miki [Madoka Magica]

(Art Credit: Mangaka Quarter & Studio Shaft) ---

So, my friends... what is your wish?

Mine would be to finally finish my assignments on this blog, but I'm not gonna sold my soul to a marshmallow cat thing. I'll leave that to some Japanese schoolgirls. Like this here Sayaka Miki, our super-speedy indestructible witch hunter, courtesy of @will0whisper. And I'll say this upfront, this will be just Sayaka, I will not make her witch form here.

Next Time: Boy...

Let's start with the terms of our contract:

Fast and Blue... Sonic will sue: In combat, Sayaka reliest on her speed and agility. She can even react to magic that stops time, and at her fastest she looks like a flash of light.

Indestructible and Relentless: Although all magical girls have the ability to heal, Sayaka's is the strongest. To a point that she can regenerate missing limbs.

Sword Specialist: Sayaka uses a single cutlass. She can also summon multiple swords at once, and they always return to her like boomerangs.

---

Now, Sayaka is a human, that much is clear. We are making her a Variant Human to reflect her transformation into a magical girl. We're gonna put a +1 to our Dexterity and Constitution, get proficiency in Acrobatics, and pick up the Mobile feat right away. This increases our speed by 10 feet, our Dash action isn't impaired by difficult terrain, and if we make a melee weapon attack (doesn't matter if we hit or not), we do not provoke opportunity attacks until the end of the turn.

Hunting witches sounds like a good excuse to make Sayaka an Urban Bounty Hunter. We get to choose two proficiencies (here: Insight and Stealth), and choose two tool proficiencies from musical instrument, gaming set, or thieves tools. Finally, thanks to Ear to the Ground feature, we can form a large network of contacts with people ranging from highest and lowest classes. Work with your DM to establish which circles you operate in.

ABILITY SCORES

Dexterity is obviously going to be our highest score, and we're going to work on it pretty early on. For the sake of future multiclassing, we will put the next number in Wisdom and another in Constitution.

Charisma will be on the lower end. We do not parley with witches but we do care about our friends. Strength will be on the lower end, our strikes are quick and many. Finally, we're dumping Intelligence because we need other abilities more.

CLASS

Level 1 - Fighter: We start with big damage early on. Fighters get the d10 as their Hit Dice, [10 + Constitution modifier] initial Hit Points, proficiencies with light armour, medium armour, heavy armour, shields, simple weapons, and martial weapons. Sayaka doesn't wear any armour, so we have to survive with AC 13 for now, and a cutlass is a shortsword so that's what we're choosing for her. Our saving throws are Strength and Constitution, and we get to pick two class skills from the list (Athletics and Perception).

Fighters get to pick their Fighting Style. For Sayaka, we'll grab the Superior Technique style, which lets us select one manoeuvre from the Battle Master subclass and gives us one d6 Superiority Die to fuel the ability. We're gonna pick Lunging Attack, which lets us spend the Superiority Die to extend our weapon's reach by 5 feet. If our attack hits, we add the SD result to our damage die.

Thanks to Second Wind, we can use our bonus action to regain [1d10 + our Fighter level] Hit Points once per short or long rest.

Level 2 - Fighter: With Action Surge, we can take an additional Action on our turn once per a short or long rest.

Level 3 - Fighter: At this point, we will pick our subclass: our Martial Archetype. To give Sayaka the appearance of a magical girl, we need spells, so it's time for the Eldritch Knight. They use mostly defensive and damage-dealing spells, so we don't need to worry about Sayaka becoming a full caster. Speaking of, we get Spellcasting: Intelligence is our casting ability, and we know catrips and a fixed amount of regular spells. We start with two cantrips (Blade Ward and Sword Burst) and three 1st-level spells (Expeditious Retreat, Shield, and Mage Armour).

We also gain Weapon Bond. Unless we're incapacitated, we cannot be disarmed. As a bonus action, we can summon the weapon to our hand from any distance as long as the weapon and us are both on the same plane of existence. We can bond up to two weapons in this way.

Level 4 - Fighter: Time for our first Ability Score Improvement. We're gonna double down and raise our Dexterity by two points. We can also pick up another spell (Longstrider).

Level 5 - Monk: More agility! More weapons! Multiclassing into Monk doesn't give us proficiencies in anything new, but we do get Unarmoured Defense: when wearing no armour, our AC is [10 + our Dexterity modifier + our Wisdom modifier]. We also learn Martial Arts, which gives us several benefits:

We can use Dexterity instead of Strength for attack and damage rolls of our unarmed strikes.

We can use a d4 instead of our Strength modifier for damage rolls of our unarmed strikes.

When we use the Attack action on our turn to make an unarmed strike (or a monk weapon attack), we can use our bonus action to make one unarmed strike.

Level 6 - Monk: We learn Unarmoured Movement. When not wearing armour or a shield, our speed increases by 10 feet.

We also unlock the Monk's secret magic - the Ki. We gain a pool of Ki Points (starting with 2), which we can spend to fuel various Monk abilities. We unlock three such abilities at this level:

Flurry of Blows: Spending 1 Ki Point immediately after using the Attack action lets us make two unarmed strikes as a bonus action.

Step of the Wind: Spending 1 Ki Point lets us take the Dodge action as a bonus action on our turn.

Patient Defense: Spending 1 Ki Point lets us take the Dash or Disengage action as a bonus action on our turn. Our jumping distance doubles for that turn.

Level 7 - Monk: We are now able to Deflect Missiles. As a reaction, we can reduce the damage taken from a projectile attack by [1d10 + our Dexterity modifier + our Monk level]. If the damage result in 0, we catch the projectile and can use the same reaction to make a ranged attack with that projectile.

We also pick our second subclass, our Monastic Tradition. To become even better at swordplay, we're gonna pick the Kensei tradition. This tradition gives us several benefits in both melee and ranged weapons (as well as proficiency with calligrapher's supplies), but since we're using the former, I'm gonna focus on just one benefit - Agile Parry. After we make an unarmed strike, we can use our weapon to defend ourselves; we gain a +2 to our AC until the start of our next turn.

Level 8 - Monk: Thanks to Slow Fall, we can use our reaction to reduce the falling damage by [our Monk level x5].

It's also time for another ASI. We're gonna raise our Dexterity by one point, but we also gonna need one point in Charisma moving forward, because it's time for...

Level 9 - Warlock: Don't get too excited there, floof butt, we only need one level here. Now, Warlocks also get Spellcasting, but theirs work in a different way: Charisma is their casting ability, and while they also know cantrips and regular spells, their spells always fire at the highest possible level. We start with three cantrips (Friends, Green-Flame Blade, and True Strike), and we get two 1st-level spells: we're gonna grab Protection from Evil and Good, and we'll wait with the second one for our subclass.

Which we're gonna choose right now! Time to choose our Otherworldly Patron. Now, Kyubey grants wishes and that could make a case for the Genie Patron, but his reason for all of this is to prevent the Heat Death of the Universe. In his own twisted way, he protects order. We're making him a Celestial Patron. This gives us access to an Expanded Spell List, from which we'll grab Cure Wounds. We also get some bonus cantrips (Sacred Flame and Light) and we can wield Healing Light: we have a pool of Healing Dice (d6) equal to [1 + our Warlock level]. As a bonus action, we can spend a number of Healing Dice (equal to our Charisma modifier) to restore Hit Points of a creature within 60 feet of us. Our pool replenishes after we finish a long rest. We can finally grant Sayaka's wish and heal Kyousuke's hands.

Alright, back to more slashing!

Level 10 - Fighter: For more slashing we need Extra Attack. During a single Attack action, we can now make two strikes instead of one.

Level 11 - Fighter: Another ASI, and we can finally cap our Dexterity. The remaining point we can put into Charisma for a nice even number.

Level 12 - Fighter: We gain a new subclass feature. With War Magic, whenever we use our Action to cast a cantrip, we can use our Bonus Action to make one weapon attack.

We also unlock 2nd-level spells here. Let's grab Blur to get even more defense.

Level 13 - Fighter: Another ASI. This time, let's actually boost our invulnerability by getting our trusted Tough feat. Our Hit Points increase by [our overall level x2] and at each level-up henceforth we get +2 Hit Points. For this level's spell, let's get Darkvision.

Level 14 - Fighter: We become Indomitable. Once per long rest, when we fail a saving throw, we can re-roll the dice. We have to use the new roll, though, even if it's worse than the original one.

Level 15 - Monk: Our Martial Arts Die changes to 1d6. At this level, we would've gotten an Extra Attack. Personally, I would've allowed here an upgrade that let's us attack three times during a single Attack action, but discuss it with your DM.

What we do get is Stunning Strike. After making a successful melee weapon attack, we can spend 1 Ki Point to attempt to stun the target. The enemy has to make a Constitution saving throw or be Stunned until the end of our next turn.

Level 16 - Monk: Our Unarmoured Movement bonus increases to a total of +15 feet. We also gain Ki-Empowered Strikes. Our unarmed strikes now count as magical for the purpose of overcoming immunities and resistances.

We also get another subclass upgrade: One with the Blade. Our weapon attacks also count as magical for the purpose of overcoming non-magical resistances and immunities. Additionally, once per turn, when we successfully hit the target with a weapon attack, we can spend 1 Ki Point to add extra damage equal to our Martial Arts Die.

Level 17 - Monk: We gain probably one of the best ability in the game: Evasion. When we're forced to make a Dexterity saving throw that would make us take half damage when successful, we instead take no damage. A failed saving throw results in half damage.

We also gain some mental fortitude with Stillness of Mind. We can use our Action to end one Charmed or Frightened effect.

Level 18 - Monk: This is our final ASI of the build. We're gonna grab some more Constitution and put two points there.

Level 19 - Monk: Our Unarmoured Movement improves significantly. While moving, we can now move across liquid and vertical surfaces without losing the grip.

Level 20 - Monk: Our capstone is Monk 10. This improves our Unarmoured Movement bonus to a total of +20 feet. We also reach Purity of Body, which makes us immune to all poisons and disease. No witch tricks can harm us now.

---

And that's Sayaka Miki. Let's see if we fulfilled the provisions of our contract:

First of all, we're super nimble and speedy. With the ground speed of 60 feet, ability to move across liquids and up the walls, the Mobile feat and Dexterity-based fighting style, we are very difficult to pin down and we can position ourselves pretty much everywhere.

Our base AC is 17 but can reach up to 25. We have a +5 to our Initiative and the average of 195 Hit Points.

Unfortunately, triple multiclassing means we have a lot of resources to keep track of (two different kinds of spellcasting, Ki Points, Healing Dice). We also have a negative Intelligence modifier and a rather paltry Strength score.

---

Phew, this one was interesting. I think we've managed to make a solid Dexterity combatant. Have fun zipping around the battlefield, my loves. I'll see you next time for... well, Sayaka's polar opporite.

-Nerdy out!

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galvus · 2 years

Photo

prompt: cutting corners • words: 1,075 • era: childhood • [ masterpost ] to do something in the easiest, cheapest, or fastest way.

“Annette.”

The girl did not hear the harsh whisper of her name. It became lost somewhere among the short stacks of tomes positioned between the two of them, likely tucked into some beveled edge or unable to climb the gold embossed spine of the thickest volume. Either way, the Annette in question did not lift her head from the pages of parchment in front of her.

Ink dried slowly in the Noumenon, as if time itself crawled to a near-halt to benefit the students with impending deadlines, but that also gave dread time enough to sink through her skin.

Professor Lenkeini was bound to hate her scribblings.

He always did, and he had the worst ways of showing it. Her fellow students still made fun of her for writing a sentence so singularly terrible that his tail fluffed up twice its usual size. Teachers should not make such a show of their displeasure. No teenager could come back from having their paper regarded with a snarl or defensively flicked ears.

“Your academic writing is not usually so verbose.”

Finally stirred from her anxious fervor, Annette clutched the pen in her hand. Its casing squeaked in fear of snapping.

“What?”

Olivier leaned over in his chair. He’d finished his paper two nights prior, as he was wont to do. Now, he read for pleasure from a stack of books taller than her own, each of them brimming with both intrigue and academic merit.

Annette couldn’t have been more envious.

He pressed a tapered fingertip to the margin beside the wettest ink on the page.

Aloud, he read, “What had once been a perfect cycle of Aether regeneration inside of the subject had changed seemingly overnight.”

Her soft face scrunched into a displeased pucker. When Olivier opened his mouth to continue reading from the passage, she smacked her hand down against his forearm and held up her forefinger.

“Stop that.”

Olivier arched both of his brows before settling back into his chair.

“I know that Proffesor Lenkeini requires that our papers be upwards of fifteen hundred words, but is such padding really necessary?”

Her friend never meant to be hurtful when criticizing anyone’s work. Annette knew that well. But sometimes, sharp things were just sharp without the intention of cutting; that didn’t mean they didn’t draw blood.

“N-no, I suppose not, but—”

“Is this because you waited to do this at the exact last moment?”

He was right.

When was Olivier ever wrong?

“And now you’re cutting corners on your research in order to finish before we are expected to turn them in.”

The soles of Annette’s shoes swished nervously over the polished tiles beneath them. A motion that would have comforted her the day before only felt like stalling now. Fear made everything feel miserable.

“I have no interest in this course,” she barely managed to get out, her throat gone tight to stifle the rise of bile from her stomach. Skipping breakfast in order to spend as much time in the Noumenon as possible had been a mistake. Skipping lunch had been a grave error. “I am doing the best I can with what little passion I have for the subject.”

That seemed to satiate him.

Or, at least, he was quiet for a long moment as he flipped another page in the book he’d been reading. A great serpent crawled across the spread, the detailed drawing winding around neatly printed paragraphs. He looked to be going right for her and her paper.

Annette wondered if that could be taken as an excuse.

“I apologize, Professor Lenkeini, but an ancient serpent ate my research paper. And all of the books about Aether regeneration in the Noumenon. And at least a dozen mammets. It was a great tragedy.”

Olivier glanced at her from over the shiny golden frame of his glasses.

“Why do you find the regeneration of Aether so boring?”

Staring down at the careful tilt of her handwriting and all of the blank parchment she had yet to utilize, she didn’t quite know how to respond. Annette knew that she hated Lenkeini’s lectures. He said in twenty words what he could say with five. Maybe an overly verbose report was precisely what he deserved. Also, he had a penchant for calling on students who were clearly not paying attention rather than engaging them on even ground.

She couldn’t count the number of times he’d humiliated her during the past half-year, and there were still many months to go.

“I don’t see why the subject should be required learning,” Annette murmured. The last thing she wanted Olivier to know was that she just didn’t like the professor. Reminding him of how mean Lenkeini could be felt so childish coming out of the mouth of a fifteen-year-old. “I want to learn about history, about art and war, about people. Not about… this!”

Annette flipped one of the books in front of her shut with a huff, her shoulders sagging.

“I have no interest in becoming a healer!” She could have chewed through her pen in that moment, leaving her mouth splattered in ink. She could have torn one of the leather-backed tomes in half, right down the spine. A nearby mammet reminded her to speak quietly, and what might have been a shout became a hurried, harsh whisper. “The re-accumulation of Aether into the internal reservoirs that feed into my magic means absolutely nothing to me.”

The look Olivier gave her was one of a boy exhausted. A measured silence followed, and in that silence, there was preparation. It made the waiting even more painful.

“Come on. Stop stalling and call me an idiot already.”

Surprise shone on the boy’s face rather than acknowledgment. Hurt, rather than amusement.

“I… would never say such a thing to you,” he murmured. “You’re one of the most intelligent people in any of our classes. I know that Professor Lenkeini tests your patience. He has hurt your feelings in the past, too, hasn’t he?”

Annette gave a nod, sullen as she both looked and felt.

“Then he deserves verbose.”

A growing smile curled at Olivier’s mouth once Annette looked up at him again.

“There are a few changes I would make, however, since this paper needs be finished in an hour,” he continued, reaching for her pen and dipping it into the inkwell beside it. “In order to get you requisite word count.”

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2022 #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #ffxiv fic #type: ffxivwrite #oc: annette #oc: olivier #mine: writing

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wil-is-done · 2 years

Text

When You’re A Mystery Kid - Chapter 31: Musician Incomparable

Summary: The Mystery Kids encounter a mysterious musician.

Word Count: 8.569

IMPORTANT NOTE: This is a repost.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters featured here.

“What do you mean, we’re not going back to Cheesebridge?!”

Yep. Raz had a feeling Dipper’s reaction would be the fastest and the loudest. He wasn’t there to see what Dipper’s first meeting with the Boxtrolls was like, but judging from what he heard, this kind of outburst wasn’t surprising.

Raz put up his hands defensively. “Look, I’m not finished. Calm down, dude.”

Mabel tugged the back of Dipper’s shirt, and when he whipped his head around to look, she offered him a smile and a raised eyebrow. Dipper huffed, sitting down and settling back into his seat next to her. Of course, he crossed his arms and stared at Raz with a frown, just to make it clear to Raz that he was still upset. Raz successfully resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Next, he turned his attention to the rest of the Mystery Kids, all seated and staring at him expectantly. “Right. Like I said, we’re not going back to Cheesebridge, because we got some new intel from Psychonauts HQ literally a minute ago.” He casted a very brief glance towards Dipper, who seemed to notice it anyway, judging by how he visibly exhaled and averted his gaze.

“What’s this new intel that got us changing our course mid-flight?” Coraline asked, leaning forward in her seat.

If one were to squint, one could spot black swelling just to the right Coraline’s eye. Raz didn’t have a chance spend a lot of time with that Winnie girl, but she really must be something to give Coraline that nasty bruise. “So, remember that massive surge of unknown energy that happened while Cheesebridge got tossed through time and space? Apparently that wasn’t the first time we’ve detected this kind of energy.”

Everyone immediately shifted in their seat, leaning forward in one way or another. Even Dipper seemed fully invested now.

“Earlier this week, HQ picked up the same energy signature, but in a much, much smaller scale. It was so small, and nobody knew what it was, so they didn’t assign us to it. But, now that we know that that energy signature meant that some sort of temporal shenanigans has been going on, HQ thought we should go check it out.”

Wybie cocked his head. “So that means something or someone got chucked to our time ever since… when did this happen?”

“Wednesday, local time. About four days ago.” Raz took out and unlocked his phone. “I’ll forward the files to you guys. All the details are on there.”

The Mystery Kids all took out their phones from their pockets, and the next minute or so was spent in silence, filled only with the sound of fingers tapping on screens. As usual, Dipper was the first to finish, him signifying it with a sigh.

“Okay, I guess this is pretty important too,” he conceded.

Raz gave Dipper a smile, trying to appear as friendly as possible. “If we manage to wrap this up early, we can swing by Cheesebridge on the way back. Sound good?”

“Come on, Dipper!” Mabel clasped her brother’s shoulder, grinning. “Look on the bright side! You’ve always wanted to go to Japan! I mean, it’s for work, but still!”

That managed to draw a smile from Dipper, so Raz, satisfied, was able to return to his seat next to Lili with a smile himself. Plopping down onto his seat, he looked over at Lili, who seemed to be still busy studying the files.

After a moment to consider, Raz asked her, “You’ve been to Japan before, right?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I have.” Lili looked up for only a glance, her attention still fixed on her phone. “Dad already took me to Italy so many times, so he thought it’d be good for me to connect with the other half of my heritage.”

Raz rested his chin on his hand and leaned closer. “What’s it like there?”

“Um, it’s pretty nice, I guess. But, I mean, I’ve only been there for a few days, so.” Lili shrugged.

“So… guess you’re gonna be our landscape and terrain expert for this one, huh?” Raz suggested with a smirk.

“Eh, don’t count on it.” Lili finally finished studying the files, placing her phone on her lap. “Like I said, I was only there for a few days. Plus, the part of Japan where I went to is mostly Osaka, which is nowhere near the part of Japan that we’re going to.”

“Well, maybe someday we can go to the part of Japan that you went to. Then you can show me around! See all the cool hotspots.”

Lili giggled, though Raz noticed it sounded… hollow. “It’s a date.”

There’s something behind that. Raz kept up a smile, but he still noticed that there’s something deeper behind that hollow laugh. Unfortunately, he also realized that this wasn’t exactly the best time to get Lili to unload her emotional baggage, so with a heavy heart, he decided to put that in the backburner for now.

“So, what do you think got time-traveled here?” Raz asked instead. Something to distract both him and Lili.

Lili hummed, mulling over the question for a moment. “Best case scenario? Just some random schmuck who’s unlucky enough to stumble into it. Probably scared to hell right now.” She then sighed. “Worst case scenario…”

“Some kind of nasty beastie,” Raz finished.

“Yep. That.”

Raz looked at her with a glint of mischief. “Which one do you prefer?”

Lili smirked. “I wouldn’t mind having an ass or two to kick today.” She twirled her fingers, psychic energy dancing between her fingertips.

Raz grinned. “And that’s why I love you.”

The jet touched down on a clearing in the forest - Raz started to see a theme here - and Raz was the first to rush out of the jet. The trees around them were mostly dead and leafless and the ground was covered by a layer of snow, a clear sign that the winter season has officially begun. The frosty air wrapped around Raz like a vice, and within seconds his teeth was chattering, and he could see his breath puffing out in front of him. He swiftly scurried back inside the jet, to be greeted by amused looks and giggles from the others.

The Mystery Kids bundled themselves up with extra jackets and scarves and gloves and general winter gear. Which the jet somehow came stocked with enough for all eight of them for some reason, but Raz wasn’t the type to look a gift horse in the mouth. This time around, Raz was the last on the jet, and was in the middle of putting on a pair of winter gloves when he received a new message on his phone.

Raz stepped out of the jet, announcing, “Gather up, guys! Some new intel just came in!”

The others, who were in the middle getting an early look of their surroundings, quickly gathered in a loose circle. “Lay it on us,” Coraline urged.

“HQ thinks they just spotted our time-traveler.” Raz forwarded the files to the others as he spoke. “This is surveillance footage from an ATM in a town close to here.”

The others were quick to whip out their phones to give the new files a look. The footage was set at nighttime, showing a dark and empty street on a hillside. As the seconds ticked by, a figure suddenly entered the frame, landing from the sky at the far end of the street, too far from the camera for Raz to make out any details. The figure seemed to observe their surroundings for a few seconds, and just as suddenly as they appeared, they took off back to the sky, and the footage ends.

“That’s a person,” Norman remarked, wide-eyed.

“It’s humanoid.” Dipper rubbed his chin, his eyes still focused on his phone. “Whether or not it’s a person, let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet.”

Neil squinted hard, bringing his phone very close to his face. “You guys can see anything in that?”

“Yeah, it’s kinda hard.” Wybie scratched his head. “I think I see… robes? Like, they’re wearing robes? And it sorta looks red to me.” He brought his phone closer. “And it looks there’s something on their back. What’s that, a… banjo?”

“It’s a shamisen.” There was a silent beat and a half, as Raz and the others turned to look at Lili, who had stated that so casually, without even looking up from her phone. “It’s a traditional Japanese instrument. Stringed, like guitars and, yes, banjos, but it only has three strings. It first originated from China, before coming to Japan through Osaka. Now it’s kind of a national thing.”

The silence lasted for a few more seconds before Lili sensed something was amiss, looking up to see everyone staring at her. “What?”

“Lili!” Raz couldn’t help but grin. He had never seen this side of Lili before. “I didn’t know you know so much about Japanese culture!”

Raz guessed the shade of red appearing on Lili’s cheeks was solely because of the cold, and she looked away only because she spotted something interesting in the forest. “It’s… nothing,” she mumbled. “Nothing you can’t find on Wikipedia.”

“But, I mean, still!” Raz managed to bring his grin down to a regular smile. “That’s so cool, Lili!”

Coraline snickered. “Never took you for a weeb, Lili. So full of surprises.”

Lili went rigid. Her embarrassment disappeared in an instant. She fixed Coraline with a glare, and Coraline suddenly yelped as her feet was swept away from under her, landing on her back with a dull thud. “Strike one, Caroline,” Lili hissed.

Raz frowned as Coraline rose to her feet and brushed herself off; all while wearing a dark scowl directed at Lili. Lili simply crossed her arms and did a damn good job ignoring Coraline. In the meantime, Dipper had mostly ignored the two and had unfurled a map of the area and set it on the ground.

He kneeled next to it and pointed to a specific location. “I’m guessing this is the town where that footage was taken, so… we have to extend our search area all the way to that town.” Dipper stood up again and sighed. “Great. As if our search area before wasn’t big enough.”

Raz studied the map for a bit. It definitely was a large swath of land to cover for just the eight of them. It would take nearly the entire day just to cover about half of it if they moved as a single group. Calling in backup from the Psychonauts crossed Raz’s mind, but that might take some time to arrive, and that was if the Psychonauts had any agents to spare at all. Frankly, one other idea came to him, and he wasn’t happy with it.

“Hey, here’s a terrible idea,” Raz started. “We all split up.” He could feel the wave of unease that washed over them all at the mention of splitting up. All throughout their adventures so far, despite everything, they’d always tried to stick together. Besides, Raz would like to think they all had enough common sense and had seen enough movies to know that striking out on your own was always going to be a bad idea. “It’s not great, I know, but that’s the only way we’ll be able to cover all this ground without staying here overnight. Even if we split up in twos, it’d still take too long.”

The Mystery Kids glanced at each other, quickly reaching a wordless agreement about what to do, despite their doubts. “Splitting up it is,” Dipper conceded. “Now, who goes where?”

Raz’s lips thinned into a line. “Dipper… you should head to the town.”

Predictably, Dipper groaned and rolled his eyes. “Raz, I told you, my legs are fine now! It’s just a sprain, it’s not broken!”

Raz replied with an even stare. “You do remember that I can read minds, right?”

“Dipper, you go to the town, or you be the guy in the chair again,” Coraline added, sternly. “Your choice.”

Dipper clicked his tongue, averted his gaze, and sighed. “Fine.”

“Hey, I’ll have a piece of that town action,” Mabel said, raising her hand.

“Me too,” Norman chimed in.

“Me three!” Neil exclaimed.

“And that leaves the rest of us to do some trekking through the woods,” Coraline finished.

“Alright.” Raz rubbed his hands together and casted his gaze around at the others, wearing a confident smile. “Mystery Kids, you know where you’re going, you know who you’re looking for. Coraline, if you’ll do the honors.”

Coraline rolled her eyes, but a grin still worked its way to her lips.

“The hunt is on.”

The crunch of the snow beneath his boots was the only sound that accompanied Raz for over an hour as he trekked through the cold forest. The monotony of it nearly drew him into a lull a few times, but he managed to keep his mind sharp, his attention focused. Every other minute or so, he would send out a low-frequency psychic pulse in every direction, just in case the feedback yielded anything interesting. So far, all he detected were the low hum of the trees and the gentle breathing of hibernating critters, with the occasional chitter of a bird flying overhead. All of which did not help in his effort to stay focused. He’d imagine Lili would have a much more stimulating experience around all these trees, but he guessed an image of a sleeping critter being all cute and cuddly and warm flashing through his mind once in a while was a reward in its own right.

Raz sighed, plopping down on top of a fallen tree trunk. He stretched out his legs, working out the dull ache that had started to settle. As he did so, he pulled out his phone from his pocket to check the map. Before they all separated, Dipper had given the forest team a version of the map that had been divided into sectors to help with the search. Some appreciated it more than others, and Raz was among those who appreciated it more. Raz had been searching in just one sector for the last hour, and he guessed he’d done a thorough enough job to start a search in another. That next sector would be along the coast of a small lake, which should be frozen over by now, thankfully.

Quickly dropping a quick message in their group chat that he’s moving on to a new sector, Raz jumped to his feet and set off towards the lake.

Arriving in the area took a good fifteen minutes on its own. Raz decided he’d start from the southern end of the lake, before making his way around the lake clockwise. The lake had indeed frozen over, which meant one less thing for Raz to worry about. Death by drowning soon became the last of his worries, however, as he settled back to the monotonous routine of walking, looking around, and occasionally letting out a psychic pulse. Half an hour passed in a crawl, with the only notable thing being Lili and Coraline notifying the others that they had moved to a different sector. Keeping his mind sharp and focused became a struggle again. The steady beat of his own footsteps breaking the silence was strangely soothing, creating something almost like a melody.

Raz suddenly stopped dead in his step. His body stilled, while his mind kicked into overdrive.

Speaking of melodies, he could have sworn he had just heard the tail end of one.

Raz swiftly sent a psychic pulse in the direction where he thought he heard the melody. Seconds passed as he forced the pulse to reach as far as it could. The feedback flowed back to him, and brought a smile to his face. Beyond the trees, and the critters, and the birds, was a single, lone person.

Raz immediately took off in a sprint. Which lasted for all of ten steps as he remembered that this person could still be hostile, after which he began to move in a more cautious, but still eager way.

The melody started up again as Raz got closer, becoming clearer and clearer with every step he took. It was… beautiful. A slow, haunting piece, but it still conveyed a sense of hope, like a light at the end of a dark tunnel. Raz found himself damn near enthralled by the music. So enthralled that he didn’t realize the wind was beginning to pick up. He didn’t care that this person could be hostile, or if this person was even his target. He just needed to meet the musician responsible for creating this melody.

Raz peeked through some snow-covered shrubbery, and only a few feet away from him, was the musician.

A boy, sitting cross-legged by the edge of the lake, garbed in flowing, red robes, his hair held in a short ponytail. A symbol, Raz realized through his enthralled haze, was emblazoned on the back of his robe, one that looked like a beetle. A shamisen sat on his lap, its three strings plucked by delicate fingers to produce a beautiful melody. He continued playing, unaware that he now had an audience, as far as Raz knew. The wind picked up even more, and Raz swore it was like the wind was swirling in tune with music, as the boy brought the melody to a gentle finish.

Raz very nearly broke out into applause right then and there. Thankfully, common sense caught up to him just in time, and instead he retreated further into his hiding spot, grinning.

This was definitely the person they were looking for.

Raz pulled out his phone and typed in, “Found our guy. Gather on my location, east side of the lake.”

Everyone quickly responded with a series of cheers and congratulations. “Keep an eye on him, but don’t make contact on your own,” Coraline sent in. “Wait for everyone to get there.”

Raz nodded to himself. That sounded reasonable enough.

A resounding strum of the shamisen caught Raz’s attention. He peeked through the shrub just as the boy plucked the strings a few times to create the beginnings of a melody. Raz smiled, realizing that the boy was about to play another song. It’ll still be a while before the others would arrive, so Raz supposed he could settle in for another show.

This melody quickly made itself distinct from the last one. It was much faster and upbeat, conveying a sense of thrill and excitement of an adventure; a far cry than the somber sense of hope that the previous song carried. While the last song moved Raz’s heart, this one got his blood pumping. He found himself nodding his head along to the rhythm, his smile turning into a grin. So enthralled by the music Raz was, he barely noticed the wind was now practically whirling around the boy, all in tune to the beat of the music. Finally, the boy ended his performance with a grand, ringing strum of his shamisen, the winds whirling around him suddenly switching directions to instead rush towards Raz, and only then that Raz’s sense returned to him.

“Crap.”

Before he could react, the wind was upon him. Raz flinched, and then he yelped as he realized the wind was so strong that it was beginning to lift him off of the ground. It began to spin him around, and just as suddenly as it lifted him up, the wind dumped him back face first on the snow. He coughed, his breath knocked out of him, then realized with a start that the wind had essentially dragged him out of his hiding spot.

Raz looked up. The boy had already risen to his feet. He turned on his heels; a single, copper-colored eye stared at Raz, while the other was covered by a well-worn eye patch.

“Anatahadare?” the boy spoke.

Raz blinked. “W-what?”

“Anatahadare?” the boy repeated, louder this time, his single eye narrowing.

Raz stared dumbly for a moment. “I-is that… Japanese?”

The boy reeled back slightly, and then cocked his head to the side. He appeared to be confused. “Nani?”

“Okay, yeah, that is definitely Japanese.” Raz sucked in a breath through his teeth. He began to mutter, “We’re in Japan, and you’re from the past, so of course you’d be using Japanese.”

“Nani o itte iru?” At least now the boy looked about as confused as Raz was, which Raz would take over the boy being threatening.

Raz flashed him a nervous smile. “So… long shot, but do you know English at all?”

The boy didn’t say anything in response. He simply stared with that same confused look.

“Is anything I’m saying makes sense to you at all?” Raz tried again.

The boy remained silent. If anything, he seemed to have taken a step back.

Raz sighed. “Yep. Dunno what I expected.” With a grunt, he began to rise to his feet.

“Shita ni tomaru!” the boy suddenly barked, just as Raz was halfway up to his feet. Raz immediately flinched, instinctively raising his hands above his head.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m a friendly. I’m not threatening you, see?” Raz put on his friendliest smile, while still rising to his full height, this time with a much slower pace. However, the boy was unfazed; his one eye sending Raz a glare and his grip on his shamisen tightening. It became clear to Raz that the only way to even start gaining the boy’s trust was to actually talk to him. He wracked his brain for a moment and, rather unfortunately, only one phrase comes to mind.

“Ohayōgozaimasu?”

The boy’s only response was to glance up towards the sun for a moment.

At this point, Raz’s smile fell. “God, this is what I get for choosing dubs over subs,” he mumbled.

The boy’s stance began to tense up as Raz’s smile disappeared, so Raz hastily quirked his lips into a smile again. In return, the boy relaxed his posture, though his eye remains trained on Raz, filled with suspicion. Raz exhaled, relieved, but he’s still stuck with the same dilemma as before. Thanks to his basically non-existent knowledge of the Japanese language, verbal communication was out of the question. His choice was to either mime what he’s saying for the entire conversation, or…

Another terrible idea came to mind.

“Hey,” Raz began, and the boy flinched, so Raz paused for a moment to make sure his smile was prominent, front and center, before he continued, “I’m gonna do a thing so we can actually talk to each other, but don’t freak out, okay?”

Raz doubted the boy understood any of that, but he thought he’d do it anyway, if only for his own sake. He’d always felt weird doing this to people who weren’t aware of it. Slowly, Raz lowered one of his raised hands, instead extending it towards the boy. The boy silently watched him a sense of cautious curiosity, which was a good sign. Raz breathed deep, prepared his mind, and extended his reach.

The first thing Raz noticed the second his mind met with the boy’s was how… odd it felt. The boy’s mind was unmistakably that of a human, but aspects of it was… not. It was like sensing the Boxtrolls for the first time all over again, only milder. Still, the mixture was something Raz had never sensed before. The sensation nearly made him jump, but he recovered quickly, and decided to start with something simple.

Hello.

If the boy had been the picture of stoic suspicion before, that simple message immediately sent him into a panic. He jumped back, his head whipping left and right, no doubt looking for the source of the ‘sound’. “Dare ga sore o shita?!” the boy shouted, which Raz now knew meant that the boy was demanding to know who did that.

Hey, it’s okay, don’t panic. I’m the one doing it. The kid in front of you.

The boy’s gaze focused on Raz, his eye wide with shock.

Hi! My name is Raz, and I’m here to-

The boy’s shocked gaze quickly turned into a glare. His stance changed in its entirety; putting his right foot behind his left, pointing the neck of his shamisen towards Raz. He brought a hand up, then swiftly swung it down across the strings. A wave of wind and snow blasted out of the instrument, headed straight at Raz. Raz rolled to the side, the wave sailing past him, striking the bush where he once hid, obliterating it completely. Raz’s eyes widened. Frankly, he wasn’t expecting the boy to possess that kind of power.

He turned his attention back to the boy, who still wore a glare. Thankfully, Raz was able to maintain a connection between their minds. For now.

Okay, no need for that. I swear, I won’t hurt-

The boy played a short tune with his shamisen. Raz’s eyes narrowed, preparing himself. Wind swirled around the boy, and so did his robes, twisting all around him, until it formed a pair of wings like that of a beetle’s that sprouted from the boy’s back. It flapped once, launching the boy high into the air. Raz found himself staring, his mouth hanging open. In all his years as a Psychonaut agent, he had never seen anything quite like that. The boy stared back for a few moments, his brows knit close together, before his gaze softened, and his wings shifted to turn him around to face the frozen lake.

Only when the boy flapped his wings again and he began to speed away did Raz broke out of his stupor, scrambling forward into a dash. “No, no, wait!”

The boy, obviously enough, didn’t pay Raz’s words any mind. Trying to communicate telepathically again briefly crossed Raz’s mind, but he quickly discarded the idea once he realized how much distance the boy had covered already. Even if a telepathic talk could work, it wouldn’t matter if the boy got too far for Raz to maintain a connection, which was already hard enough to do to the boy’s strange psyche.

Still in the middle of his dash, Raz leapt, quickly conjuring a ball of psychic energy under his feet. He landed right at the edge where the land met the frozen lake, stomping down hard, the psi-ball bouncing him high into the air. It wasn’t enough, Raz realized, and he hissed a curse under his breath. Thinking quickly, Raz turned the ball under his feet into a formless mass, compressed it into a single point, counted half a second, and let the energy loose. The blast launched him towards the boy like a bullet, and Raz nearly whooped from sheer excitement alone. He extended a hand out, and just when he was about to enter a downward arc, barely managed to grab onto the boy’s left leg.

The boy whipped his head down, his gaze meeting Raz’s, and glared.

Okay, can you please, for one second, just-

The boy tightened his grip on his shamisen with one hand, and raised the other hand.

Dude, come on, don’t-!

The boy swung his hand down.

A wave of pure force blasted out from the boy in all directions. What little grip Raz had on the boy’s foot was lost in an instant, the blast sending him plummeting towards the lake’s frozen surface. Though slightly dazed, he still had enough wits about him, conjuring his psychic fists to stop his fall. The fists were about halfway made, but the surface was a lot closer than Raz thought.

Raz landed flat on his back on the ice, harshly. A groan of pain escaped his lips, his breath knocked out of his lungs. He heard something crack, and he hoped that didn’t come from him. His vision became a blur, though he could still make out the boy floating high above, if only barely. His back and head was in severe pain. However, through it all, he forced himself to sit up, hissing all the while. His sight fully returned after too long of a moment, and, to his surprise, he found the boy still there, hovering above him, watching. A moment later, his thoughts clearing and the pain somewhat subsiding, Raz realized that, while the boy was looking at his direction, he was not the focus of the boy’s attention.

The ice under Raz shook. He heard resounding cracks from all around him.

Raz slowly turned his head towards the lake’s frozen surface. Nearby, there was a clear patch of ice. He could see what lies beneath; nothing but cold and darkness.

A hand slammed from underwater against the clear patch of ice. The ice shook again. More cracks could be heard.

Raz shakily scrambled to his feet. He heard something shatter behind him, and he felt the splash of freezing water on his back. The ice beneath his feet was slippery, and he stumbled, crying out obscenities. Something cold and wet clamped around his legs and pulled. Raz landed on his chest, the breath knocked out of him again, and he suddenly felt himself being dragged across the ice. He clawed, desperately, but there was no hold to be had on the ice. Fear gripped his heart, his focus broken, his powers not coming forth when he called for them.

Raz looked up, and for a split second, his gaze met the boy’s; his was one of panic and fear, and the boy’s was one of surprise and bewilderment, before Raz was pulled underwater.

The sudden feeling of cold, freezing water enveloping his body nearly sent Raz into a shock. Gritting his teeth, he somehow held on to wakefulness, but he knew he couldn’t manage it for long. Some kind of force was still locked around his legs, pulling him deeper and deeper into the darkness. Fear and panic had fully settled in. He flailed his arms wildly, trying to fight the pull of the Hand, but the surface only grew further and further away. His lungs were starting to burn. His fingers were starting go numb. He didn’t know when exactly despair took shape in his heart, but he’s almost ready to move on to acceptance.

Raz’s eyes lit up when he heard the telltale sound of something breaking the water’s surface.

He looked up. The boy was there, diving towards him at an incredible speed, a hand outstretched. Raz fought his slowly numbing limbs, extending a hand towards the boy. When their hands met, Raz gripped the boy’s hand with every ounce of strength he had left. The boy pulled, the wings on his back flapping once, then twice, bringing the two closer towards the surface, but Raz felt the Hand doubling its efforts, pulling them deeper into the darkness again. The boy added a second hand gripping Raz’s arm, and Raz spotted how the boy’s brow knitted together, eyes filled with determination. The wings on his back curled, then straightened, before performing a mighty flap that sent both the boy and Raz speeding towards the surface.

They broke through the water’s surface. The cold pressure that was clamped around Raz’s legs disappeared. Raz greedily swallowed a lungful of air as he was carried, sailing through the air. They touched down on solid ground at the edge of the lake. The boy settled Raz down gently, but Raz still collapsed to his knees, still gasping desperately for air. He wrapped his arms around himself out of pure instinct, realizing that his teeth were chattering wildly. As the need for air subsided, he was suddenly overwhelmed with the need for warmth. His clothes were absolutely soaked by the freezing water, and he found himself shaking and shivering in place. He craned his neck to look around, spotting the boy standing nearby, watching him. His red robes were absolutely soaked as well, but unlike Raz, somehow he was not reduced to a shaking, shivering mess.

Through the intense cold, Raz managed to stammer out, “A-Arigatozaimas.”

The boy raised his eyebrows. For a short moment, he looked surprised. His expression softened, and he even cracked a smile. “Dōitashimashite.”

“Raz!”

Raz jumped at the sound of his name. He was pretty sure the boy did the same. Looking over, he spotted Lili, her eyes wide in panic. Her gaze focused on Raz, shivering on his knees, then moved towards the boy, who regarded the new arrival with a cautious stare. Lili rushed to Raz’s side, taking off her jacket and wrapping it around him, which brought Raz a small bit of reprieve from the cold. Lili turned her attention towards the boy. Her eyes narrowed dangerously at him, her hands pulsing with energy.

“Step away from him, or else,” she threatened, rising to her feet. The boy immediately took several steps back. There was genuine fear in his eyes that were plainly visible to everyone.

“N-no, Lili, wait!” Raz cut in, raising his voice as loud as he could. He would’ve risen to his feet too if he weren’t shaking so uncontrollably. Thankfully, Lili paused to look at him. Raz weakly gestured at the boy, forcing himself to wear a smile. “H-He saved my life.”

The energy that pulsed in her hand dissipated. “He-?” She slowly turned to look at the boy, almost sheepishly so. “I… thank you. Thank you for saving his life.”

“A-and… he’s the guy we’ve been looking for,” Raz added. Might as well dump everything now, he supposed. “He’s our time traveler.”

Lili nearly did a double-take. “He- seriously?!”

“And, also, uh,” Raz faltered sheepishly, “he only speaks Japanese.”

“Oh. Oh!” Lili turned to fully face the boy. Her posture changed, becoming straighter, more rigid. She bowed deeply. “Kare no jinsei o hozon shite kurete arigatō.”

Raz blinked. Did Lili just say a complete sentence in Japanese?

Earlier, the boy had reverted to a guarded stance thanks to Lili. As the conversation went on, and especially when Lili stopped visibly threatening him, he relaxed more and more. When Lili bowed and said that sentence, the boy’s demeanor changed completely. He nodded with a smile, saying something in reply of what Lili said. Lili shook her head, then replied again. That somehow drew a chuckle from the boy, who then began to say something, emphasizing a point by pointing a finger at Raz. Lili glanced at Raz, before sighing and rolling her eyes, stating a reply with an edge to her tone.

Meanwhile, Raz simply stared. He had absolutely no idea what either of them was saying.

“Hey, wait a sec, wait, wait, wait.” The two paused their conversation at Raz’s request, turning their attention towards him. Raz had a very important question in mind. “Lili, you know how to speak Japanese?”

“I know enough to get by,” Lili so casually replied.

“Wha- how come I don’t know this?!”

Lili shrugged. “I guess it just never came up.”

“You guess? Lili, this is kinda important!” Raz pouted. As Lili simply shrugged off his words again, a thought suddenly struck Raz. It was completely unrelated to the mission, but he still had to know. “Wait… is this why you choose subs over dubs?”

Lili pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Raz, for the last time, the conversation flows better when it uses the language it was meant for.”

“It’s distracting!” Raz barked. Slowly but surely, he felt his strength returning to him. “If I wanna read text, I’d get a novel!”

Lili turned to glare. “And ruin the quality of the dialogue?!”

“At least I can actually focus on the animation! Which is, you know, the point of the whole thing?!”

“The animation won’t mean a thing when the story has been damaged!”

“Sumimasen?”

Raz and Lili’s eyes, previously locked with each other in a glare, shifted their attention to the boy. He fidgeted in place, looking back and forth between Raz and Lili, wearing an expression of confusion. Raz winced, more to himself than anything else, realizing that the boy was silently listening in to the spat between him and Lili. Lili surely realized it too, and judging from how wide her eyes went, she’s taking it a lot worse than Raz.

“O-Oh, r-right. That was… completely unprofessional.” Lili looked down at the snow around her feet, her cheeks taking on a slight red tint.

Raz rose to his full height, enough of his strength finally returning to him to do at least that, but he still clutched Lili’s jacket around him tightly. Lili took a moment to cough and recompose herself. She spoke to the boy again, using Japanese just like before, the boy seemingly simply nodding along. Once Lili finished, there was a beat of silence as the boy seemed to be considering what Lili said. He then said something short and simple, putting on a guarded smile. Whatever it was he said, Lili seemed to be quite satisfied with it.

“I told him we’re here to help him, and that we’ve got more people on the way,” Lili explained, unprompted. “He’s… alright with it. For now.”

Raz nodded. After quite the first impression earlier, this was the least they could hope for. Hopefully, things get better as they move along. Hopefully.

Raz gave Lili a small nudge. “Hey, can I at least get the name of my hero?”

Lili shot Raz a smirk, but she passed the message along nonetheless. However it was Lili phrased that request managed to draw a small chuckle from the boy. He turned his gaze upon Raz, his smile becoming something genuine, placing a hand on his chest.

“Kubo.”

Introducing Kubo to the rest of the Mystery Kids was a surprisingly smooth process. Raz sent a quick message to the group summarizing the circumstances, especially about the language barrier, so they were mindful of themselves as they arrived one by one. Obviously, Lili had to act as translator between the Mystery Kids and Kubo, as no one else in the team were as fluent in Japanese as Lili was. Raz would like to think she tolerated the task pretty well. Kubo regarded everyone with a warm smile and an easygoing attitude, but Raz didn’t miss how his eyes kept a close watch on everyone, how occasionally there would be a nervous edge in his voice when he spoke. Still, this was better than the open hostility in the disaster that was Raz’s first meeting with Kubo. All in all, introductions went off without a hitch, and Raz was caught off guard by how well-accustomed Kubo was at being the center of attention.

Kubo then led them to a campsite not very far from the lake. It was a very modest and traditional camp; Raz guessed this must be where Kubo’s been living this whole time. In the meanwhile, Norman and Neil offered up their jackets for Raz, which he gladly accepted. Mabel offered her jacket to Kubo, but he politely declined. She then offered to at least dry up his robes, which Kubo refused, a little more strongly this time. He seemed to be quite attached to his robes, Raz noted.

Kubo moved to start a fire, but Raz beat him to it, igniting the fire pit with pyrokinesis. Kubo paused midway through his motion, his attention shifting towards Raz. A curious smile appeared on his features. Raz reciprocated the smile with one of his own.

The Mystery Kids and Kubo sat in a circle around the campfire. Lili prompted Kubo to tell his story.

“He said, he was out collecting herbs in a field near where he lived,” Lili began once Kubo had finished, “His grandpa wasn’t feeling well, so he thought he’d help him get better. That’s when he saw some sort of small triangle made of green light, just floating in the air. He got curious and touched it, suddenly there was this bright light, and now he’s here. That was a few days ago.”

Dipper swiftly wrote it all down on his journal. “So it’s not dissimilar to what happened to Cheesebridge,” he mumbled. “Just on a much smaller scale.”

“He’s been out exploring the area since then,” Lili continued. “It’s been a very confusing time for him, to say the least.”

“Can you ask him if he remembered the exact spot where he first got here?” Coraline asked.

Lili did as she was asked. Kubo answered easily, which Lili proceeded to translate. “This campsite is that spot. He’s been hanging around in case that triangle shows up again.”

“Pretty smart move,” Dipper remarked. “We should do that too. Put up surveillance around the area.”

“Do you think that’s possible, Dipper?” Norman chimed in. “If these time warps are side-effects of Weirdmageddon, what are the odds of lightning striking twice?”

Dipper hummed. “It’s… not improbable.”

“Then should we do that in Cheesebridge too?” Wybie pointed out. “Put up a watch, I mean.”

“We already got agents stationed in Cheesebridge… right?” Raz glanced at Lili, who nodded in confirmation. “Right, so we got that covered.”

“Um… Lili?” All eyes immediately turned towards Kubo. With everyone’s attention on him, he began to say something. Raz thought it sounded like a question.

Lili’s mouth twisted and she let out a long sigh. “He’s… asking if we know what happened to him.”

An air of unease settled upon the Mystery Kids. Raz found himself fidgeting nervously in his seat. “Well… you are the one that’s been doing the talking so far, Lil, so…” Raz trailed off as Lili’s glare fell upon him. “Sorry,” he meekly managed.

Lili rolled her eyes, but as she turned to face Kubo, her demeanor changed into something much more serious, something somber even. She drew in a deep breath before she began her explanation, taking care to keep her tone low. Raz watched Kubo closely as Lili talked in length. At first, Kubo mostly nodded along, until a point when Lili emphasized something, upon which Kubo raised an eyebrow. After that, Lili showed an increasingly apparent hesitance as she talked, while Kubo wasn’t faring any better. His eye steadily grew wider, his breaths becoming heavier, and Raz was certain he’d be sweating bullets if they weren’t out in the snow.

Eventually, Lili finished her explanation, opting to stare at the campfire instead of looking at Kubo. Kubo leaned back, raising a hand to clutch his forehead, his eye dazed and unfocused. Silence settled upon the campsite, and it quickly stretched for an uncomfortably long time. Raz felt like he needed to say something to get rid of the silence, but even he was at a loss for what to say.

Kubo slowly rose to his feet, muttering something under his breath, and wandered over to the edge of the campsite.

Coraline nearly sprung up to her feet right then and there. “What’s he doing? Where’s he going?”

“Relax,” Lili chided. She kept her low tone from before. “This is a lot for him. He needs some time to think. Alone.”

Indeed, Kubo didn’t go very far. He stopped maybe about a good twenty feet from the camp, still within eyesight of the group. All he did was stand there, without a sound, completely unmoving. Without too much effort, Raz could already feel the stomach-churning mix of fear and anxiety and uncertainty emanating from Kubo.

“Yikes,” Neil whispered, and Raz couldn’t have put it better himself. “So, what do we do now? We can’t just leave him here, right?”

“We’re not. We won’t.” Coraline spent a moment to watch Kubo, before she sighed. “I guess we have to take him back with us.”

Mabel hummed twice in disagreement. “You sure that’s a good idea, Coraline?” she asked. “I mean, a different time period is already pretty bad, and you want to pile on a different country too? With a different language?”

Coraline huffed, conceding. “Anyone got any suggestions?” she asked.

“There is… I remember there was an old Psychonauts outpost right here in Japan,” Lili spoke up. She still hasn’t looked away from the campfire. “We could take him there, and I could probably talk to Sasha and my dad. Convince them to send a couple of agents to man that outpost again. So that it’ll be easier for Kubo to… adapt to modern times. Maybe even teach him English.” Lili finally tore her gaze away from the fire, glaring at the others. “That way I won’t have to handle all the talking.”

Raz’s face twisted guiltily. “We said we’re sorry, Lil.”

“No, you said you’re sorry.” Lili pouted, her attention returning to the fire. “Didn’t hear anything from anyone else.”

Norman awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Well… first things first, I feel like we should actually ask Kubo about all of this. Before we make any decisions.”

“True.” Coraline nodded. Her attention shifted to center on Kubo once more. He had remained in the exact same spot and in the exact same position, almost like a statue. “D’you think he’s coming back here anytime soon?”

Raz turned to look at Kubo again. A current of negative emotions still emanated strongly from him. It was like seeing a dark storm cloud on the horizon, except instead of seeing you could literally feel it in your mind, the darkness creeping and near overwhelming.

“No,” Raz and Lili replied at the same time.

A solid twenty minutes passed before Kubo rejoined the group, slowly hobbling his way back, plopping down almost lifelessly around the campfire. Once again, Lili had to be the one to ask the question. She took great care as she did so; speaking in what was possibly the gentlest voice Raz has ever heard her use. Kubo’s eyes slowly found their focus on her. Once Lili finished, there was a moment of silence as Kubo’s gaze swept across each member of the Mystery Kids. What he was looking for in them, Raz had no idea, but when Kubo frowned and stared at the ground, Raz feared the worst. However, Kubo eventually revealed his decision by way of an uncertain nod. Raz smiled in relief, as did the rest of the Mystery Kids.

They helped Kubo clean up the campsite and gather what little belongings he had brought with him. Dipper marked the spot, both in his map and in real life, for when they could get around to investigating the phenomenon further. The whole process took about less than ten minutes. With all his stuff tucked inside a cloth bag and his shamisen slung across his back, Kubo nodded to the others, ready to leave. Still, even as they departed, Kubo hung around at the back of the group, and Raz noticed him looking over his shoulder more than once.

The sight of the jet slowed Kubo’s step, but it didn’t stop him. A look of awe and curiosity crossed his features as he approached. Raz would have expected him to at least have a slight freak out, but Kubo kept his composure even as he boarded the jet. Lili gave him permission to sit wherever he’d like, so he chose to sit at the very back of the jet. He set his shamisen down beside him, leaned back in his seat, and stared out of the window. Lili gave Agent Danvers the location of their next destination, and they were off.

Kubo visibly tensed when the jet first took off, but he quickly grew accustomed to the sensation of flight, instead busying himself with observing the view outside the window as it flew by. Meanwhile, Raz found himself busy observing Kubo, while Lili was in the middle of a call with Sasha to arrange everything they needed.

“Sasha said they’d work something out,” Lili said as she took the seat next to Raz. “If anyone gives us any trouble, I’ll just remind them this request is coming from a Zanotto.”

Raz snickered. “You’re pure evil.”

Lili smirked at that, but it didn’t last long, replaced with an expression that’s almost melancholic. She glanced back, towards Kubo. “I… honestly feel bad for him.” The tone in her voice was almost like the one she used in the woods. “This is weird to say, but at least Eggs and Winnie got thrown into this time period with their friends and family. Mostly.” She sighed. “But this kid… he’s all alone. Away from his friends. Away from his family. What would his parents be thinking about right now?”

Raz’s lips twisted for a moment, but he forced a smile to appear. “That why we’re helping him, right? To adapt and stuff, so he won’t be all alone. And maybe one day, we could even send him back to his parents.”

Lili didn’t smile, not quite, but Raz could tell when her mood had improved. “I guess,” she simply replied.

Raz glanced back at Kubo, who was still staring solemnly out the window, and when Raz turned back to Lili, he had a grin on his face and an idea in mind. “Hey, quick question, what’s Japanese for ‘friend’?

“Uh, yūjin.” Lili quirked an eyebrow. “Why?”

Raz’s reply was to jump out of his seat, still wearing his grin. He made his way down the aisle towards the back of the jet, all eyes turning to watch him as he did so. All eyes, except for Kubo’s, who remain fixed at the view outside the window.

“Uh, hey, Kubo?” Raz called. For the first time, Kubo tore his gaze away from the window, looking at Raz.

Raz gestured to himself with a friendly smile. “Yūjin.”

Raz gestured to the others, who were watching the two with interest. “Yūjin.”

Finally, Raz gestured towards Kubo. “Yūjin?”

At first, Kubo simply stared, and Raz was worried for a moment he might’ve weirded him out. However, to Raz’s relief, Kubo finally cracked a smile. “Yūjin,” he stated, nodding.

Raz grinned.

What’s Japanese for ‘hug’?

Lili had to stifle a giggle.

Hōyō.

Raz spread his arms open. “Hōyō?”

Raz wasn’t really expecting Kubo to take him up upon his offer, so he was infinitely happy when the musician rose from his seat and wrapped his arms around Raz.

This just in: the Mystery Kids member counter has ticked over to 17! And it’s going to stay there for a while.

First things first, I would like to deeply apologize to anyone out there reading this that can speak Japanese, because that is a thing that I cannot do. All the Japanese used in this chapter are google-translate-brand Japanese, so there is a high possibility that it is all kinds of wonky and weird. Hopefully, if I ever use foreign languages again in the future, I would take a little bit of time to properly learn it first.

Anyway. Another very unorthodox addition to the Mystery Kids; this time being music-extraordinaire, Kubo! So glad folks seem to be on board with the weirder additions these last few chapters. Ideally, I would have wanted to get this chapter out before the start of October, but such is life.

Another important thing: the next batch of chapters are gonna be a little different than usual, as was alluded to in the previous chapter. Hope y’all are excited to see it!

#mystery kids #psychonauts #kubo and the two strings #gravity falls #paranorman #coraline #razputin aquato #kubo #lili zanotto #dipper pines #mabel pines #norman babcock #neil downe #coraline jones #wybie lovat #When You're A Mystery Kid

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a-pale-azure-moon · 7 months

Text

Random TotK Thoughts #5

Sheesh, it's been forever since I made mention of my progress. I'm bumping against the 200 hour mark and I am somehow still not bored. At all. I'm not done with the main story either, though I've found all the Dragon's Tears and done the four regional phenomena. I'm at 143 shrines completed, 83 lightroots found (finally making some progress in mapping the Depths), and 402 Koroks collected (no I am not aiming to find all of those, just what I need to get all the inventory upgrades).

I'll cover my thoughts on the Dragon's Tears in a different post, so this will be primarily about the Gerudo section and what happens when you complete the four regions.

-The Gerudo section started off a bit disappointing with the main obstacle being a sandstorm again, only worse than before. I did get pleasantly startled encountering Gibdos though, given that it's been awhile since their last appearance. Glad that I had a ton of fire fruits on hand!

-I'm relieved that Link no longer has to change clothes to enter Gerudo town, because that got annoying in a hurry when it was still required even after clearing the Divine Beast in BotW. I do miss having the disguise itself though, since he looked very cute in it, plus it was free heat protection even if its defensive stats sucked.

-Seeing the Gerudo hub as a ghost town was great for establishing the creepy atmosphere. And then finding the underground shelter was neat, if a bit predictable. I'm not saying I want the Gerudo to come to harm, but finding out everyone's fine chilling underground does undercut some of the spookiness of the zombie village above.

-Riju got a lot taller. Everyone in this game is taller than Link except for small children (and I think Robbie and Josha?), which is hilarious to me. Her ability is pretty cool, though really none of the other three come close to matching Tulin's utility.

-I really enjoyed the segments where you protect Kara Kara and then Gerudo Town from the Gibdo hoards. They fun and frantic but not in a way that felt overwhelming. I wish there was a way to repeat the town siege to see if choosing different groups to protect different gates made things easier or more challenging.

-I also liked finding and networking the various mirrors in the desert. It felt more in the vein of a classic Zelda puzzle, and then that shot of the Lightning Temple rising out of the sands was appropriately epic. I also liked that you confront the boss outside before she retreats to the temple. That was more interesting than the lame minibosses in the Goron and Zora sections, or hunting down random mooks in the Rito section.

-I'd heard stories that the Lightning Temple was the one most like a classic Zelda dungeon. I can see where people said that, but...eh, it's still definitely a BotW/TotK dungeon. Networking mirrors/manipulating light beams was a nice nostalgic callback, but I thought it was done better in previous games. (particularly the Ikana Canyon/Stone Tower area in Majora) The Temple certainly had a grand scale that I appreciated, but it seemed very empty, and once again it was just a matter of figuring out how to reach certain points so you could use the Sage's ability to activate a device. I finished this dungeon the fastest of the four.

-Queen Gibdo was a chaotic boss that was satisfying to beat but also very annoying, especially since I spent a good part of the fight chasing Riju down. It wasn't nearly as annoying as Mucktorok (thank god), but Colgera definitely sits as the best boss of the four regions, and the competition isn't even close.

-Why did we have to watch the same post-dungeon cutscene four times? There had to be a way to modify this part dependent on whether or not you've completed another region already. I've been craving some new insights or information about the Imprisoning War but each time I got bupkis.

-Overall, I give the whole Gerudo scenario a B+. I can't definitively say that I liked it better than the Zora section, but I liked it just as much.

-Naturally, I had to spend several hours running around hunting for shrines and farming for materials before I returned to Lookout Landing. The whole "evil Zelda" thing is the weakest part of this game's story; even if I hadn't already found all the Dragon's Tears at this point, I was never fooled into thinking this was the real Zelda. I suspect that no one else was either. I wish they'd cut out this thread entirely, or at least re-worked it so it was far less contrived.

-I like that they removed "Zelda" from the blood moon cutscene after this event. That's a nice detail.

-The best part of chasing fake Zelda was that I got to collect a bunch of monster parts quickly. I also found some great weapons scattered throughout the castle that I missed on the cursory pass I did much earlier on (I'm still carrying around the first Dusk Bow I found sometime after I finished the Wind Temple).

-I enjoyed the Phantom Ganon fight. It might've been more of a surprise if I hadn't already encountered him from the Grabby Hands, but at least this wasn't just a bland repeat of those encounters. Liked having all the Sages show up for a Power of Friendship moment too.

-I'm obsessed with the demonic horse Ganon was riding in the following cutscene. I desperately want to be able to tame and catch that beast because it looks amazing. I'd give it an ill-fitting name like Sugarcube and parade it all around Hyrule.

-I've just barely started the fifth Sage quest, in that I found the special clothes and cleared the storm from the sky islands. Since I'm invested in trying to clean up the remaining shrines and lightroots, it'll probably be awhile before I finish this quest. Even with Mario Wonder and the Mario RPG remake looming, I'm still enjoying TotK too much to want to rush to the end. Yes, even after 200 hours. It's going to easily overtake my BotW playtime at this rate, and that's assuming there really won't be any DLC.

#legend of zelda #totk #totk spoilers #my ramblings

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ptergwen · 3 years

Note

I think your requests are open (I didn’t see anything that said otherwise but I suck at this app lol) but I was wondering if you could write a peter x reader (likely college-age) where they have an academic rivalry and just tease each other a lot and lots of fluff and shit? It can be an established relationship or like a friends/rivals to lovers or really whatever you want. Sorry if this is super specific! Anyways, I love your writing, it always cheers me up :)

friends close, enemies closer

ik this is cherry BUT i had to

w/c: 1.6k

warnings: swearing and hints of suggestiveness

a/n: thank you my love ! i’m actually obsessed with this concept so i’m super super happy with how it came out n i hope you are too :,)

you wipe sweat from your upper lip, peeking at peter’s laptop screen. he’s more than halfway through the paper your english professor tasked your class to write. he looks to have not a worry in the world as he continues to type away. growling at this, you dive right back into work.

you’ve been at each other’s throats since the beginning of classes when you both wanted the same spot. first row, middle seat. peter had officially claimed it in the end. you’d flopped down next to him and his irritating smirk.

the dude is smart, you’ll give him that. his knowledge of literature is almost as impressive as yours. almost. he raises his hand any chance he gets, effectively stealing your thunder if you dare to participate.

peter is also a bit of a people pleaser. he’ll chat up your professor at office hours, fascinate her with his hot takes on things or stupid anecdotes. you often get so annoyed that you bail before you even attempt to woo her yourself. the sight of you storming off is something peter thoroughly enjoys.

bottom line is, golden boy peter parker never loses. underneath the sweet, innocent persona he hides behind is a ruthless fighter. you’re determined to end his winning streak, thus sparking your ongoing competition to be better than the other in every way possible.

this time, your goal is to meet your ten page paper requirements the fastest. they aren’t due for weeks, but you and peter are banging them out in one sitting.

you’re hauled up in the campus library, sat side by side despite your wishes for peter to get his own table. he’d insisted on sharing with you. why, you haven’t a clue. you can’t stand him, and he isn’t the fondest of you either.

that’s what you tell yourselves, at least.

“progress report?” peter requests from you. “page three. you?” you grunt back. he props his feet up on the table, arms flexed behind his head. “finishing up page seven. you already knew that, though... creeper.”

god, you can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice.

you glance over at peter, doing your best to ignore how his biceps bulge under his hoodie. nerdy little parker is ripped.

“worry about yours, i’ll worry about mine. thanks.” you reread the sentence you wrote prior to peter’s chiseled body distracting you. “oh, the irony,” he sighs and nudges the edge of your laptop with his sneaker. scowling, you shift the screen away from him.

about a minute of silence goes by until it’s unfortunately filled by peter. he stretches his arms out, finally removing his dirty shoes from the table.

“i’m gonna take five. maybe, you could use it as an opportunity to catch up to me,” peter cockily suggests. “spare me your charity, peter. i’m doing just fine without it,” you retort, letting out a scoff. peter raises his hands in defense. “if you say so, princess.”

here you were, naively thinking peter couldn’t become any more insufferable than he already is.

you slam your laptop shut and jab a finger at his chest. “jesus christ, how many times do i have to ask you not to call me that?” a patronizing pout adorns peter’s lips. “aw, i love it when you get all bossy on me. so cute.”

he grabs your hand still on his chest, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. you’re quick to wipe it off on his hoodie. nevertheless, there’s an undeniable heat rushing to your cheeks.

“well, i hate it when you call me princess,” you deadpan. peter tilts his head to the side. “do you?”

of course not. deep down, you live for the fuzzy feeling you get whenever the nickname slips from his tongue. oh, his tongue and the things it can do. poking out as he focuses hard on a question, running across his pink lips…

you have to reel it in. this is peter parker you’re fantasizing about, your mortal enemy.

“yes. i hate it, and i hate you,” you unsuccessfully convince the both of you. “no, you don’t,” peter rasps, darkened eyes scanning over your features. his stare is intense and intimidating. he grasps your chin between his thumb and index finger, slowly leaning in closer.

he’s not going to stop until you make him. you don’t want to, but you will.

you shove his shoulder, dragging your laptop towards you again. “on second thought, i could use that catch up. you’re not gonna throw me off my game, parker.”

your rejection seems to disappoint peter. his expression matches that of a kicked puppy, brows furrowed and arms crossed over his chest.

“we’ll see,” he murmurs and swings a leg over his chair. “alright, i’m gonna run to the caf. you want anything?”

he’s offering to buy you food now? what’s his angle here?

“i’d say yes, but i’m afraid you’ll poison it somehow,” you half joke. peter hops to his feet. “don’t give me any ideas,” he warns, snatching his backpack off the floor. “i’ll just surprise you.”

although you’re curious what his mystery snack choice for you would be, you can’t accept. you’d be going against your entire dynamic.

would that be so terrible?

absolutely.

you wave him off towards the double doors. “i’m good, peter. really. i’m not that hungry, anyway.” shaking his head, peter throws a backpack strap onto one shoulder. “y/n, your stomach’s been grumbling for the last hour. you gotta eat.”

he’s not wrong. you’re starving, but you’ve been too preoccupied by your essay to break for dinner.

“fine, surprise me,” you concede. peter flashes you a smile, this one void of its usual condescendence. “i’ll be back. try not to miss me too much,” he calls as he walks backwards to the library doors. “i won’t. shoo already,” you dismiss him, a laugh falling from your lips.

peter winks at you, then disappears into the night. you’re left with a serious case of butterflies and a certain freckle faced know-it-all on your mind.

that’s a problem.

you’ve managed to get another page done when peter reappears. he sits back down and slides a bag across the table, you closing your laptop. you dig into it to figure out what he picked for you. you’re not too pleased with his selection, however.

“oh, yummy. vomit in a cup,” you announce as you hold a green smoothie in your hand. peter reaches over and pats your thigh. “it’s good for you. drink up, princess.” you slap him away. “hard pass. i’d rather you have gotten me nothing.”

narrowing his eyes, peter pulls two cookies wrapped in a napkin from his pocket. “i’m guessing you don’t want these either? more for me, then.”

they’re chocolate chip and m&m, your favorite in the cafeteria. they just came out of the oven, so they’re still warm.

“how… how did you know i…” you trail off, peter setting the cookies in front of you. he offers you a lopsided grin. “i know a lot about you, believe it or not. i pay attention.” you surprise yourself by returning his smile. “thank you, peter. how much do i owe you?”

“nah, it’s on me,” peter assures you. “enjoy.” pushing aside your unappealing drink, you seize the cookies instead. “you have to eat, too. let me at least split these with you.” there’s a beat before peter nods. “fair enough.”

that results in you two munching on your cookies while pretending to write your papers. you’re sneaking glances at each other whenever the other isn’t looking, in reality.

once it’s about time for the library to close, you’re on the verge of passing out. peter is concluding his essay until he hears a thump from your side of the table.

he finds you with your cheek smushed against your keyboard and hitting random letters, snores escaping you.

chuckling to himself, peter places a hand on your shoulder. “hey, y/n?” he speaks in a hushed tone. you awake with a gasp, drool pooling at the corners of your mouth. “easy there, princess. it’s only me.” he rubs circles on your back, and it’s oddly comforting.

“keep doing that,” you purr, momentarily forgetting how much you’re supposed to despise peter. he lets his fingers dance across the exposed skin of your lower back. “we should probably head out. it’s kinda late,” peter decides.

you sit up, bones aching and eyes forced open. “not yet. have to beat you first.” you start to delete the gibberish you accidentally typed. peter cups your cheek to turn your head towards him, your movements halting. “this one’s a tie. you did good, y/n/n,” he coos. “finish the rest another day.”

“why’re you being so nice to me?” you nearly whisper. peter uses his thumb to swipe the drool from your lips. “‘cuz i care about you. i might not show it, but i do,” he admits with the hint of a smile. “besides, i need you… for the, uh, the healthy competition.”

laughing softly, you twist his hoodie strings around your fingers and tug. “your intentions are pure as always. sure that’s all you need me for?” peter’s gaze darts to your lips, then your eyes. “we’ll see,” he repeats.

rivalry be damned.

“mm. i care about you too, parker. thanks again for tonight,” you hum. a blush coats peter’s cheeks, even in the dim library lighting. his sweet and innocent side might truly exist. “no problem.” peter links your pinkie with his, the gesture giving you that fuzzy feeling. “i’ll walk you back to your dorm?”

you lean over and kiss his pinkie intertwined in yours.

“lead the way.”

#peter parker #peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #peter parker au #peter parker smut #tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland smut #tom holland imagine #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfiction

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therealvinelle · 3 years

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Hi, I was reading a post here in Tumblr about how Edward has two gifts, he can hear thoughts and is super fast, so I wonder what is your opinion about this topic?.

Furthermore, what others power might the Volturi's leaders and guards might have?

Edward has one gift, and it’s telepathy. Being fast isn’t a gift.

Strength, speed and even senses is varied among vampires. Some, like Emmett, are on the extreme end, but that doesn’t make Emmett gifted, nor does it mean that the rest are at an equal level. The Cullens have clear variations between them.

Physique appears to play a dominant role in how these variations play out: Alice, who was malnourished and never made it past 4′10″, is the physically weakest of the coven, while Emmett at 6′5″ and a mountain of muscles is the strongest. This is made very clear during the baseball game:

“Emmett was hovering close to third (base), knowing that Alice didn’t have the muscle to outstrip Rosalie’s fielding." (Midnight Sun, chapter The Game)

There’s also the fact that it’s taken for granted that Emmett would be intimidating to other vampires, and he is dismayed when James is more worried about Jasper, who is lean.

I suspect this disparity exists simply because a large frame means more tissue to have blood in. Newborns, animal, and human-eating vampires all having a difference in terms of strength is proof that blood has the final say in a vampire’s prowess, so Emmett being able to contain more of it than Alice and therefore being stronger makes sense to me.

This isn’t the meta for me to get into that, but I don’t think vampires have muscles in the sense we do. Or rather, we can’t know that they do. Renesmée is proof that Edward retains his human DNA, or she would be a clone of Bella. Nahuel is proof that Joham retains a Y-chromosome. Does this mean that vampires have different cell types? Does a vampire’s stone-like skin still contain human DNA? One would think yes - except, if you rip a vampire apart, you get rubble. The parts are all solid. There’s also Carlisle theorizing that vampires digest blood by absorbing it through porous tissue, which makes me wonder why he dismissed his digestive system (my guess: vivisection fun times with Aro in Volterra. Carlisle couldn’t have done it on his own, and Aro is the only one mad and curious enough to be down for that). I’m getting off-topic - what I’m saying is, we don’t know how vampires work, meaning I can’t build this meta off of the assumption that they have muscles. I simply can’t know for sure that they do.

The important thing is that a vampire’s physique is a deciding factor in how strong they are.

There’s also Laurent’s warning about James, that he has “unparalleled senses”, meaning some vampires are better at sight, hearing, and smell than others. I can believe that, because we have canon examples of vampires being bad at tracking.

There’s Edward in Port Angeles, who couldn’t track Bella’s, his singer, scent to her location, and (I admit this one is conjecture but it’s so probable that I say it goes) Carlisle’s creator, who after taking care of the mob must have realized he’d bitten one of the humans, meaning a newborn would soon be loose in London. This is punishable by death by the Volturi. The fact that he didn’t return to finish Carlisle off means that he was unable to find him. I remind the audience that Carlisle was bleeding and suffering the effects by a venom intended to paralyze the victim. To put it this way, Carlisle wouldn’t have survived James, or anybody with a trace of tracking competence. By comparison, Carlisle was able to locate a dying Rosalie by the smell of her blood, even though there wouldn’t have been a trail for him to follow, as her body had not been moved.

When it comes to these disparities in strength and speed among the Volturi, I imagine Jane and Alec are the physically weakest members of the guard, and among the slowest. They’re prepubescent, meaning no muscle for them, and their height (a humble 4′8″ and 4′10″) implies very short legs. They’re simply not going to get as far as an adult would, not in the same number of steps. Renata at 5′0″ is another tiny vampire lady who likely isn’t very strong or fast.

That’s not to say I think these physically weaker members of the Volturi guard are necessarily useless in hand-to-hand combat, Alec at least is a boy stuck in a playful age, and the males around him are trained warriors. He’s probably picked up a few things over the years.

As for the others, Aro is described as frail-looking, which hints at him being quite thin. I don’t think he’s weak, if he couldn’t win a fight he wouldn’t be around, but I do think he’s probably below average in terms of strength. Caius I picture as a Harrison Ford type, so of course I’m gonna think he’s a bit burly, but this is me headcanoning and not actually hinted at in canon. Marcus is 19, so I imagine he can only be so strong.

Back to Edward’s speed.

He’s a 6′2″ teen, that’s code for “very long legs”, though I’m actually going to go ahead and posit that he’s not actually that fast. Strap in for this next part:

The guy was a teenager who lay dying for an undisclosed amount of time. The fact that Carlisle had the time to get to know his mother points to a few weeks, at least. And Edward was very ill:

Elizabeth worried obsessively over her son. She hurt her own chances of survival trying to nurse him from her sickbed. I expected that he would go first, he was so much worse off than she was. (New Moon, page 21)

Muscles atrophy quickly, never more so than when you’re a teen ravaged by fever, on your deathbed. And as I’ve explained above, I think your physique in life ties directly into your vampiric prowess.

I think Edward is certainly the physically weakest of the male Cullens, quite likely weaker than Rosalie as well, maybe even Esme.

Now, speed is not the same as strength. However, for humans, the two are connected. It’s the muscle fibers in our legs that determine our speed. Basically, type I fibers make an enduring runner, type II fibers make a speed runner. So, assuming that vampires retain their human musculature, one could argue that Edward had a lot of type II in life. However, Carlisle when he was human was able to outrun the mob he was with:

He ran through the streets, and Carlisle — he was twenty-three and very fast — was in the lead of the pursuit. (Twilight, page 158)

Carlisle clearly had a lot of type II fibers, and unlike Edward he was in peak physical condition when he died. He was also an adult who’d had more time to develop musculature, while Edward was a seventeen-year-old. If musculature was a deciding factor, one would think they would at the very least be of equal speed, though realistically Edward should be slower.

So, if it’s not muscles, what is it that makes Edward faster than the others?

It could be a matter of technique. Except, the way Bella describes movement when she wakes up as a vampire, it’s all very automated. Her body knows exactly how to do everything, and executes it without much input from her:

After that first frozen second of shock, my body responded to the unfamiliar touch in a way that shocked me even more.

Air hissed up my throat, spitting through my clenched teeth with a low, menacing sound like a swarm of bees. Before the sound was out, my muscles bunched and arched, twisting away from the unknown. I flipped off my back in a spin so fast it should have turned the room into an incomprehensible blur—but it did not. I saw every dust mote, every splinter in the wood-paneled walls, every loose thread in microscopic detail as my eyes whirled past them.

So by the time I found myself crouched against the wall defensively—about a sixteenth of a second later—I already understood what had startled me, and that I had overreacted. (Breaking Dawn, page 251-252)

Growling, crouching - those are all distinctly vampiric, non-human ways to act. Bella didn’t learn this, her body knew it of its own accord. When she later runs, she explains it as happening the same way - she just does it.

The way Bella experiences it, vampiric movement is like a package she downloaded, and that executes her instinctual commands with no need for her to actually know how to do any of this. Her grace is another example of this - Bella Swan may be in charge of her own consciousness, but the venom is entirely in control of her body.

Given these facts, I don’t think it’s technique that makes Edward a better runner than others. His technique is likely similar to everyone else’s. If it isn’t, if technique is what makes the difference, then who is and isn’t fast is an arbitrary process.

With that, we get to my controversial theory about why Edward is the fastest Cullen: he’s not.

Running and being fast is the only thing about vampirism that Edward enjoys. This is for another meta, but Edward is extremely depressed about every single other bit of it. Every aspect of being a vampire torments him.

Except the running. He enjoys all of it, especially being the fastest, so much. And as a newborn, he would have been faster than Carlisle.

But after that, when his newborn strength faded…

I honestly think that Carlisle decided to just slow down a bit when running with him, let Edward have this. It’s no skin of his back, and it makes Edward happy, so why not.

Esme joins the family, and of course she would be down for this. Nothing is more parental, more maternal, than losing at checkers to make your child happy, after all. Could also be she’s not very fast herself, but even if she were then she would downplay it to make Edward feel like Jesse Owens.

Enter Rosalie, who would think it’s completely ridiculous, yes, but she would also recognize this excellent opportunity to call in a big favor from Carlisle later on. There’s also the fact that I think Carlisle has a gift (yes, yes, meta is coming, people) that makes him very persuasive people. And also that for all that Rose gets a lot of bad rep, she is very generous and loves her family, if being fast makes Edward happy then alright.

Emmett is an easy-going guy, he goes along with things. Alice adores Edward and would go along with it. She also has tiny matchstick legs and couldn’t outrun him if she tried. Jasper could not care less.

Bella does get outrun by Edward after waking up, but she also did zero exercise in life (listing this in case musculature matter), had Renesmée devour her from within rendering her emaciated, and then died like a slasher movie murder victim. There’s not a lot of blood in her, and what little blood there is doesn’t have a lot to work with. She does defeat Emmett at arm wrestling, so I’ll concede that. However, there are enough extenuating circumstances surrounding Bella that I think my “Edward isn’t that fast” theory survives his ability to outrun her.

So, I believe Edward is the fast Cullen because Carlisle told a white lie in 1919, no one ever corrected that, and now it’s too late.

#tumblr ate this ask and i had to spend twice as long writing it #i'm dying #edward cullen #carlisle cullen #volturi #alec #twilight vampires #twilight meta #twilight renaissance #twilight #long post #Anonymous #ask #edward speed debacle

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clubatsumu · 2 years

Text

first love, late spring

oikawa tooru x reader

21.6k

Oikawa Tooru’s eyes are still the same shade of honey brown, and you still fall in love the way you used to: hard, plummeting, like a burning comet making its way across the night sky.

ao3 | playlist

You fell in love in the late spring of 2011.

There was a festival, you remember faintly, in Mikamine Park. You remember taking the train along the Namboku Line to see it. There was a skittish feeling in your bones you desperately tried to quell as you clutched the straps of your backpack with sweaty hands. You remember your hands vividly. Cold fingertips, clammy palms, knuckles wrought at the pressure of being clenched. Ears hot and heart racing, a smile tugging at your lips and refusing to stop.

You fell in love that day. You fell in love with petals that were soft to touch, fickle as they landed on your nose; you fell in love with the season, how it never lingered; and you fell in love with a boy who you wished would.

“I see something, dear. Tell me, is your heart open for love?”

You blink. The uranaishi is a middle-aged woman who holds her hair back in a scarf, keeping from the chill of her street-side stall with a leather jacket with fur trimmed linings. She takes the dice in her wrinkled hands. A cold breeze whips by. The woman moves her maneki-neko with hostility, holding down cards that are threatening to fly away. She goes back to flipping the dice and lining them up in front of you like nothing happened.

You pout, “Am I not supposed to be the one asking you that, obaa-san?”

“Insolent,” she whispers. You’ve learned that she is incapable of speaking without venom, but she is kind nonetheless. She wipes the mirth off her mouth. “Yes, it’s open. If you want it to be.”

The hanging trimmings rattle around her stall as the air whips relentlessly. You shiver closer to the table, digging a faded gold button from the pocket of your bag. “Funny. I found this under my bed this morning.”

She raises brow. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“A second button,” you announce defensively, touching its edges with a light finger, “from my first love. Fate must be working in my favor.”

“Are you insulting me?”

Fate works in no one’s favor. You stifle a laugh, tucking it back in your pocket. “Sorry. But I did find it on the floor this morning. It must have rolled out of the boxes. I haven’t seen it in about ten years.”

“The boy must have given you his button because you’re the only one who asked for it.”

“I’d have you know fifteen other girls asked for his button. This” –you lift it for emphasis– “is the war of love won.”

The old woman is going to go on a spiel, you guess. You guess right.

“I’ve told you this before. You can never place an accurate chronology on things that are as fickle as love and happiness.” She harps on, “Is your first love truly your first, or were you simply a foal exhilarated by its first run, thinking that was the fastest the world could ever spin?”

It’s her job to sound wizened, the same way it’s your job to resist with childish petulance. “I wasn’t a – it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t a sham.”

He wasn’t. He wasn’t at that time, and he still isn’t now, thinking about it. He was wishing on fallen eyelashes, doodling under desks, passing paper messages around the seating arrangement. If you try to remember him, the first thing that comes to mind is the way your neck craned back in class – the way you couldn’t stop it from craning back just to see him smile and mouth pay attention. The afternoon sun when summer was ready to begin but school wasn’t quite finished yet. He was your crevices given, not taken, offered freely like a bird would give itself to gravity for the first time – how does it feel like to fall?

Like this, he said before he pressed his lips on yours, chapped and smelling faintly of vanilla. Yours must have tasted like strawberry. He had told you once, weeks before your first kiss, that he liked them. You bought strawberry chapstick that very same afternoon.

First love is almost never love, but you’re too fond of yours that you refuse to think about it differently.

“I saw him on television last year. He seems to be doing well, making a name for himself and everything. I’m proud of him.”

“But the question is,” she presses on, “if your heart is open for love. Not about whether your high school crush appeared on television.”

You shrug. “You said it was if I wanted it to be. And he was not my crush, he was my boyfriend.”

She ignores you like she always does. Old eyes peer at you, grey irises that fail to hide how her vision is getting cloudy. “You have to be open. Open to receive. Now go. I have other clients and you’re hogging my time.”

“A sports team is coming in from Argentina.”

“Oh?” you hum, looking up from your desk, paper upon paper full of highlights and footnotes written in the margins. “Do you want me to take it?”

An indie film is playing on your desktop, heroine drowning in the repercussions of deluded fantasies. Her monologue is tough to crack, full of metaphors that must have been hard for her to communicate, even harder for you to translate. This is the fifth full replay and your deadline is nearing. You take off an earbud.

“No one else can, really.”

Miwa hands you the file. Your eyes scan it quickly, flipping through the pages. It’s been a while since you interpreted for someone from Argentina. The specialization would have been better suited in Tokyo where gigs never ran out, foreigners streaming in abundance, but you like it here in Sendai. All gigs like this go directly to you, even if they only appear once in a blue moon.

You place the file atop the mess. You’ll read it later. After you finish this troublesome monologue.

Ito-san has several regulars, but you’re the one who visits her the most. Every week, bringing with you two orders of takoyaki and sitting in the plastic chair while she rolls her dice and reads your cards. After, you head back to the office, finishing up translations until the wee hours of the morning.

“Can you do it?” Miwa asks. “The hours are gnarly.”

Open your heart. Seize good things by the throat. You’d have to ask Ito-san the next time you visit what the heart has to do with a gig.

“The pay’s good though.” Miwa backtracks quickly, realizing if you back out, no one would be able to do it.

You smile at her reassuringly. “I can do it. It’s nice to have a break from” –you gesture to the pile in front of you, the paused indie film– “this.”

She sighs in relief.

You don’t know why you were incredibly sentimental about Tooru when your cards were being read. It’s not like you’ve been following him over the years, obsessively listing down all the steps he’s been taking. You knew he was meant to be great, meant to go far. You hear about exactly how far every now and then when your high school friends gossip.

Oikawa won an award.

Followed by, No, his volleyball team won an award. It’s not the same thing.

Ending with, Congratulations, Oikawa. Someone tell him congratulations.

And no one does.

You saw exactly how far when you saw him on television last year playing in the Olympics and refusing to give interviews after his game. You watched it at a friend’s house with drinks, blue and white striped flags painted on your cheeks courtesy of the face paint Hanamaki bought.

But that was last year, and you haven’t heard about him in that long, haven’t heard from him in a decade. Now, Matsukawa is looking at you from across the cabbage aisle. The steady rattle of your grocery cart halts.

“Okonomiyaki?” he asks.

“Yes,” you reply.

He stalks towards you. Sendai is a big place, but people always gravitate towards the same spots, the same habits. You see him around a lot. All six feet of him towers over other people in the store, a curly mop of hair standing out.

Matsukawa digs through the pile. “Didn’t you have a cat back in school?”

“Her name was Touma.”

“What did you do if she didn’t eat?”

Hands at your back and observing him, your brows furrow. “That’s an odd question.”

“Ah,” Issei says, finding the perfect cabbage and handing it to you. He digs his phone from his pocket. “Look.”

He opens his gallery to reveal a picture of a little ginger cat so small it can fit in his hand. Granted, his hand is larger than average. The cat isn’t so small that it can’t eat yet. He explains, “I adopted her. Her brother’s with Makki in Tokyo.”

You hum as he scrolls through the album. Ginger and white, the former spread on her body like paint splotches. Touma had grey fur and was as large and as fat as any spoiled cat could possibly be. “It must be nice to live in Tokyo.”

He laughs. “The asshole’s thinking about moving back.”

You shuffle the cabbage in your hands. It is a good cabbage. You want to come across Matsukawa more often. “Touma refused to go anywhere near me when I first got her, but she came around sooner or later. They like eating what you eat.”

“Like… rice?”

“Yes, try that. They think they’re human.”

“That’s – I’ve never thought of that.”

You wave the cabbage, a green ball in your hand. “Tell me if it works. Thank you for the cabbage, Matsukawa-san.”

As it turns out, Miwa was right about the sports team, like she is right about almost everything in the world. Gnarly hours, a 20-page NDA, and hefty pay.

The coach is called Blanco – a name that’s painfully familiar, you just can’t pin where. It’s at the end of your tongue, where you know him. You go through all the other names, feeling faintly like you’re riding a shuttle to the answer. It’s at the tip of your tongue. For some odd reason, you think the Argentinian coach is related to Matsukawa.

It’s 1:34 A.M. when you finally land on it, written out in clear, printed letters. Ah.

Tooru Oikawa. 28. Setter.

Your mother used to tell you, back in the old house with the leaky roof and the warm walls, about the cards. She stayed sitting, one foot folded in half a lotus and her knee close to her chest. You knew what all of it meant, growing up around the deck, your mother’s hands shuffling, laying them down on the table. Lady justice is for righteousness, the flower of temperance is for patience, the joker is for misfortune.

She told you the cards are vessels. Your mother’s face had lines that made a smile without needing a smile, tricks of new wrinkles that pulled her lips upward. Fate does not hand you the cards, she said. This is what people get wrong. The cards are the forecast, not the fate.

“Strings,” she told you. “Are carefully crafted. When they separate, when they meet, when they are cut. This doesn’t change, the cards can’t change them, and no amount of will can either.”

“Resistance is futile?” you guessed.

She laughed, warm and twinkling. Sometimes, her laugh is what you missed the most. “Resistance is futile, dear.”

Strings that are cut before others.

Strings that pull apart, strings that meet again, strings that twine together.

You wear a nice skirt. Coach Blanco shakes your hand firmly. You have to crane your neck up just so you can look at his face while you talk.

Miwa texts you a little while after the meeting begins. How is it going?

They’re very tall, you text back. They speak with a clinical sort of detachment, one that comes with handling highly paid athletes. You’ve done this before. Actors and actresses, usually C-lists, but an occasional B-lister every two years appears. They tell you what they want from you, what they need, what they expect. In turn, you tell them you can be counted on. Blanco and the manager seemed eased after that.

Miwa, 6:32 PM: Goodluck ^_^

“You should meet the players,” the team manager says. You know you should. You’re supposed to. Twenty strangers above six feet, you’re not afraid of meeting, but you know one of them from ten years ago, and that makes everything… it makes you wear a nicer skirt.

For all your talk about love and second buttons with Ito-san, Tooru is still very much a stranger. You don’t know why you feel like falling into the pit in your stomach. He wasn’t your friend, not enough for you to maintain contact when your lives moved on. He was special, but he held a different place in your heart, one that throbbed powerfully in quick bursts. It’s not healthy to keep that around.

The manager pulls open a sliding door to a living room suite big enough to fit a whole team. You glance around the room. You see men, all very tall, some standing up, some sitting down. They’re in sleepwear, looking like they’re having a meeting to cap the day. Some of them smile at you, the one who whistled especially, the pull of his lip to the right bigger than the pull of his lip to the left.

He’s not here.

The manager prattles on, “I’m sure you know everyone here. That’s Bruno at the back, he’ll help you out in case you need anything – Tooru, I was wondering where you were.”

Your mouth goes dry. It’s different that he’s this close, that if you decide to reach and touch him you won’t feel a static jolt on your fingertips or the mist-addled sight of a daydream.

“I took a piss,” he starts, before halting in his tracks once he sees you standing in the doorway. He’s wearing a complimentary bathrobe, his phone clutched in his right hand. He looks good, healthy. Older, since the last time you saw him. His eyes are blown wide. Unmistakable.

“Hello.” You decide to smile. “I’m your interpreter.”

The manager continues, oblivious, “Tooru was born in Japan – where was it again?”

“Sendai, actually,” Tooru replies, eyes never leaving your face. It flickers to the manager for a second, before landing back. “Here.”

“Fantastic,” the manager booms. “Just like you’re going home.”

You hear the dregs of a conversation somewhere underwater. The last one, or the first one in a series of lasts.

Tooru, will you come back?

Maybe. I don’t know.

A rustle of a textbook being shoved in a bag. Footsteps trying to catch up.

For me then?

We’ll see.

A lifetime ago, plaid skirts and white blazers. Seijoh was always warm even in the winter.

“Home.” He flips the word in his mouth. It is the same. Everything is the same. His lashes are long, looping down the corner of his eyes and curling back up in a curve so familiar, so isolated to an age, that you get transported back to being seventeen and hopelessly, helplessly in love. “Yeah, it’s… good to be home.”

The rest of the meeting isn’t that long. You get shuffled with the other managers, the tour staff, the people in charge of food, the people at the hotel in charge of accommodations. You check your phone as you head home to see a text from Miwa again. How is it going?

She can be such an old woman sometimes.

You, 7:43 PM: Is this a double send?

Miwa, 7:43 PM: No. Update?

You, 7:44 PM: Just finished. It went well. I think.

You’re in the middle of typing out a cheery quip to alleviate her anxiety when you see a shadow beside you at the hotel entrance. Your fingers stop, hover, then you close your phone.

“Have you had dinner?”

Your mouth is halfway between some expression and the other, but your mind doesn’t catch up so the sound gets stuttered. “Hi. Yes. I have.”

“Earlier?” Oikawa Tooru asks, standing beside you, watching the valets go to and fro, guests arriving and guests leaving.

“Yes.” You clear your throat, and with a light tone you tease, “I thought you wouldn’t remember me, Tooru.”

He makes a sound, somewhere between choking in disbelief and huffing in defiance. “Do you still live in Natori?”

“I share an apartment with a friend in Wakabayashi.”

“I heard there’s a good ramen joint there.”

You look at him, a bit aghast at his proclivity to flirt. He really doesn’t pick. He’s still shameless.

You realize too late that you’re taking inventory. His eyes are darker outside with only the busy street to light them. They’re still the same color, you’re sure. You saw as much during the meeting. His nose is still tall, lips are still curved like he knows he’s better than everyone else in the room. His hair is cropped shorter, shoulders broader under the rumpled hoodie he’s wearing. Tooru, Tooru, Tooru. There was a time when everything started and ended with him, but now he’s no one but a familiar stranger.

You realize even later that he’s taking inventory too, the way his eyes move. Your lips first, then your hair, the earrings peeking from below your ear. You smile wryly, shaking your head. You wave a hand in goodbye before going down the steps and making your way home.

“Have I ever told you about Tooru?”

Miwa looks up from her spot on the kitchen counter, typing away on her laptop. You take off your shoes after shutting the door behind you, leaving your keys on the table and emptying the contents of your bag. “The one who disappeared to the other side of the world?”

She’s not wrong. She’s also not right. He didn’t disappear, he just… moved. “…Yes?”

“You mentioned him once or twice. Why?”

You take a deep breath. Miwa’s a friend you met back in university when all the high school stories were behind you. Same course, same grade bracket, same apartment building. You’ve told her everything, from zits to definitions you can’t seem to find. She helped you plan your mother’s funeral. You’ve only mentioned Tooru once or twice in the last ten years. Seventeen year-old you would’ve mentioned Tooru five times a day.

“He’s back.”

The sound of keyboard keys stop. “Back? What do you mean, back?”

“I mean,” you say as the gold button falls from your bag pocket. “He’s my client. In the sports team. He’s on the team.”

“The national team?” She’s interested now, standing up and stalking towards you.

“Yes,” you reply. “The national team. Not this national team but… you get it… their national team.”

Miwa raises a brow. You avert the topic, asking her about what she’s doing, tucking the button back in your bag.

Matsukawa messages you – you don’t remember why he has your number – that night. His little profile pops up, along with an attached picture of a cat sleeping peacefully on dark blue sheets.

Matsukawa Issei, 9:01 PM: She’s eating. Thank youuuu.

You, 9:07 PM: Anytime :)

You start typing.

You: Hey… Did you know about –

You don’t send it. You delete it.

You: I saw someone today –

You don’t send it. You delete it again. You give up and close your phone after that.

The role of a middle blocker is to attack, block, and defend. Middle blockers are usually the tallest ones on the team, the ones with hands as impenetrable as walls, judgement quick and decisive. Lopez is a middle blocker, the youngest on the team. He’s not a usual starter, but his confidence is impeccable. He’s the one who winked at you last night, and right now, the one who won’t stop lapping at your heels like a dog in heat.

You know the rules of volleyball, a strange mix between internet crash courses, the given materials by the team, and stored knowledge from dating a team captain way back.

“Where did you learn to speak the language?”

You almost jump in surprise, pen halting in the middle of writing down instructions for the hotel staff. He is the tallest one on the team, standing at two or so meters. His head is placed high enough that it covers the glare of the chandelier light in the lobby. You thought he wouldn’t follow you down after the team dinner.

“I started in high school to help a friend. I liked it enough to continue.”

“You’re kind, then,” he decides, and you wonder if things are supposed to be that easy. “To help your friend like that. You’re very beautiful too. Will you go on a date with me?”

You cough in surprise. Middle blockers are quick and decisive, but when he decided to have a crush on you this morning – stealing glances throughout the day, pulling out a chair for you, asking you about yourself – you thought he wouldn’t make a move the very same night.

You laugh. You feel bad for laughing, but it’s good he isn’t the type to be easily offended. “I’m a bit too old for you.”

“Seven years isn’t that bad,” he defends, sounding like a kid.

“No.” You crumple your nose. “Only slightly bad. Now please, go before you get in trouble.”

“Tell me more about yourself first.”

He’s incessant, and his grim determination is met with your placating answers while you continue to write down the long list of requests from every member of the team. Have you ever travelled? Yes, a few countries when you were younger, not so much now. Why not? Work is too busy. Why did you become an interpreter? You like languages. Do you have a husband? No. A boyfriend? No. Is it alright if he got your number? If he needs anything, he’s welcome to ask for it from the team manager. What do you think about men from Argentina?

You backtrack at the last one. It’s funny enough that you furrow your brows at the absurdity of his question.

“I’ll make you say yes before we leave,” he vows. That’s in six days. “I promise.”

You hand off the list to the receptionist, telling her it’s from the team checked in on the tenth floor. He stares at you while you do it. You laugh good naturedly. “It’s against my contract.”

“I can –” he starts.

“Is he bothering you?” Tooru asks, bounding out of nowhere, making sure his teammate can’t understand him. He claps Mateo at the back, drapes an arm across his shoulders, and smiles. Classic Tooru, with the cheek dimple and the end of his canines touching his lower lips. Mateo looks like his soul left his body.

“No, no,” you quickly promise. “We were just talking.”

“Good!” He claps his hands. “It’s getting late. Look at the time. Look at the sky.” He gestures to the ceiling. There is no sky. “Chico, our translator needs to rest.”

Mateo looks at Tooru. “Yes, sir.”

You bid them goodbye and slide out. You cross the lobby, about to leave, fully expecting both of them will stay inside. Tooru follows you out the doors of the hotel.

“You don’t have a coat,” you point out. It’s far too cold for what he has on. “Go back inside.”

“You know I run hot. I’ll be fine.”

You know lots of things about him. You know how conversations like this one go. Really, no one but Iwaizumi-san can make him do anything. Still, you try. “Will no one look for you?”

“Stop worrying.” He watches you wrap a scarf around your neck, an imperious look on his face. His adam’s apple bobs whenever he tries to be menacing. “Start walking before your suitor snaps out of his daze.”

“He idolizes you,” you observe lightly.

He snorts, “Who doesn’t?”

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t work on your hubris while you were away?”

“You weren’t there to keep me in check.”

You walk down the steps the same way you used to last night, but now he follows behind you. Three minutes later, he wraps his arms around himself. Five minutes later, he makes several failed attempts to hide that he’s shivering. Six minutes later, you decide enough is enough.

You buy him a boiled egg from a food stand. He offers his palms up to you. You place the hot egg in the middle to lessen his suffering. You cast him an unimpressed look, and he has the grace to look sheepish.

You arrive at your crossing. The same residential houses and apartments, the small street and small gardens. You’ve never realized how quaint everything is. You’re suddenly self-conscious with Tooru standing beside you. Tooru who is larger than life, Tooru with insatiable ambition, Tooru who aims higher and higher, walking the small, winding street you walk everyday.

“Oh,” he exclaims out of nowhere. “The ramen joint I was talking about.”

You fix your gaze to where he’s looking. “Ah. They do sell good ramen.”

“Is what you said true? Back at the hotel?”

Your brows furrow, and you tuck your hands into the pocket of your coat. It’s cold enough that his breath creates a mist whenever he talks. “What did I say?”

“That your contract doesn’t let you go out with your clients.”

You cringe, admitting, “I made that up.”

“Okay.” He nods once. You see a glint in his eye. It’s like reading an old favorite book, forgetting most of the words, but still knowing how the sentences end. You aren’t caught by surprise when he loops his arm around yours, body squeezing closer, his faint shivering making you move closer too. “Great,” he says through chattering teeth. “Let’s go. My treat.”

He rubs his hands together as you move to sit. He points to the table far back. You shoot him a look, but you follow anyway.

“You know,” he starts, smiling faintly as both of you settle into the booth. “I asked Iwa-chan if he still had your number.”

“Are you reconnecting with all of your exes – thank you,” you tell the girl who brings your bowls.

Oikawa smiles at her the same way, then he hands you your chopsticks. He steers the conversation back, then he starts peeling the boiled egg from earlier.

“Not all.”

“Just fifty percent?” you tease. It’s still fun, teasing him. “Itadakimasu.”

“Just you.”

You choke on your first spoon of the broth. You warn, “Oikawa-san.”

“Itadakimasu,” he says jovially. He must still find it fun too, the teasing. Then he schools a confused look on his face. “Who’s Oikawa-san?”

“Tooru,” you correct yourself. It’s always been Tooru. Tooru, the 28 strokes that make up his name. Tooru, the way you would write it at the back of your chemistry notebook beside little bubbling hearts. Tooru, the cheeky grin when he found out about your crush. Tooru, night and day and the corners behind school premises.

He finishes peeling the egg and drops it in his bowl. Just when you thought he’ll start eating, he slaps your hands away from your food. “There’s egg in this. You can’t eat eggs.”

“Hey,” you protest as he transfers it from your bowl to his own. You don’t know why he remembers your allergies. He’s just that way, you think. It’s what draws other people in, the way he makes everyone feel a different kind of special. There you are, egg-less, while he has three. It’s for the best.

“It’s been a while since I had proper food,” he grunts. “Thanks for the treat.”

You can’t help it when you let out a disbelieving noise. A laugh. He smiles in response, his head bent over the bowl, hair obstructing his face from your view.

“It’s six in the morning. I’m closed.” The uranaishi turns away from you.

“No, wait! Please!” you plead. “Just five minutes. I need to go to work in five minutes. Just a card.”

The cards are a comfort to you, if nothing else. You don’t care about what you get. You’re not nervous about what might come. What will come will come, whether you have your cards read or not. You just need this. To confirm. To breathe. Ito-san glares at you, but she shuffles the deck anyway, standing at her table. “Pick one.”

Your fingers hover.

You think about Tooru last night. He’s the one who paid for the meal, in the end, after a particularly nasty glare you sent his way. Then you pointed out your building from the front door of the ramen house and told him to head back, unfastening your scarf and wrapping it around his neck, straining to reach. One twine, then two, until his mouth was covered and all that was visible under his eyeline was his scrunched up nose. You whispered, awfully close, “Return this to me. Don’t freeze on your way back.”

You pick. She flips it.

The King, red and white, holding his sword.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Shit.”

There’s a very specific schedule the team follows. Their game is on the evening of day three. On day three, you go through everything with the managers, ask the players some questions, and get ready for the interviews post-game.

Your lunch break consists of sitting at a 7/11 nearby, nibbling on salmon onigiri, with the endless dinging of your phone.

The high school group chat with you and your friends consists of floating baby pictures; life updates; promotion celebrations; plans to meet up; the usual messages of I’m here, where are you; pictures of sake and beer; and sometimes, like today, game tickets.

Sakura, 12:22 PM: I got three. I heard Oikawa’s playing.

Ren, 12:25 PM: Oikawa? Seijoh Oikawa?

Sakura, 12:25 PM: The very same.

You close it and eat your food. You’ve been awake for more than seven hours already. It would be fine if your body clock weren’t so broken, if you were used to waking up at four in the morning instead of sleeping at four in the morning, but it is. It dings again, loudly. You have been mentioned in a message!

You sigh and open it.

Sakura, 12:27 PM: Are you going? One ticket is reserved for you, ex-girlfriend rights.

Shiori, 12:27 PM: NO FAIR?

You, 12:28 PM: I have a ticket already. Sorryyyy.

Shiori, 12:28 PM: Can I have yours then?

Sakura, 12:28 PM: Where’s your seat?

You, 12:29 PM: @Shiori buy me dinner first.

You, 12:29 PM: @Sakura I’m sitting with the rest of the team staff. Got a translator gig.

Shiori, 12:30 PM: So you’ve seen him already? Bring Oikawa!! Please and thank you!!

Shiori, 12:30 PM: Have Oikawa buy you dinner.

Shiori, 12:30 PM: @Sakura please bring Kaori. I miss her.

Sakura, 12:30 PM: No. You’ll pump her full of chocolate like you did last time.

You mostly follow the head manager for the rest of the day, making sure the interview goes smoothly, the chairs are all set up, the court is still where they said it would be. It’s an exhibition match, and in the spirit of exhibition matches, the players are paraded around more than usual.

“I’ve been convincing him to do an interview,” Garcia, the head manager, mutters, tapping away on his phone as the elevator lifts you both up to the tenth floor of the hotel that the team is occupying.

“Bruno?” you clarify, ready to jot it down in the schedule. Bruno and Tooru seem to be close. Their ages are near, and the younger ones look at them in some sort of cult-idolization, hanging onto their every word, their every action.

Third floor. “Tooru. It would be a nice headline.” He raises his arms up in his vision. “Sort of like, the prodigal son goes home. This is his hometown, and we could arrange a proper homecoming, all the media coverage, but he won’t do it.”

“Why won’t he?”

“In Argentina,” Garcia says, voice raspy, like his chest is made up of a million rough stones. “The volleyball players there are stars. Bruno Conte has a mansion and is constantly booked for television interviews, guestings. It’s very different from here.”

You laugh a bit at that.

Garcia continues. He likes going on tangents, you’ve learned, but he takes care of his team well. “Coach Blanco is known wherever he goes. Tooru too. Who would think, at first, but his face is made for pictures, and he has a way of speaking that makes the ladies go mad. Have you spoken to him yet? I’m sure you have, you know what I mean. His house is a wonderful mediterranean with a large swimming pool at the back. Don’t tell the others, but I like his house the most. San Juan signed that boy when he was nineteen, and the national team signed him when he was twenty-five. He’s never played for other countries, no matter how big the offer.”

“And there were? Offers, I mean?”

“Of course, yes. A player like him is rare. He makes his members shine, but he doesn’t have to dim down his own light to do it. Good for the game, and also good for publicity.” He leans closer to you. The elevator reaches the seventh floor. “I’ll tell you this in secret. Teams in Japan have offered him deals – so many, more than I can count already. He could be the highest paid volleyball athlete here, if he wanted to be.”

Last night: Tooru in the dim glow of the ramen shop, green onion on his cheek, the planes of his face softened by the dim light, making some bad joke about the guy two tables over, giggling uncontrollably. The reality is this: Oikawa Tooru, all the expletives imaginable. You are insanely, immensely proud, and your lack of wanting him to slow down or be more at reach bothers you. You nod. “But he won’t do it.”

Garcia shakes his head. “No. I’m guessing that’s why he doesn’t want to do interviews here either. Ah, but do you want him to play here? If you were a fan of the sport.”

The manager has thick eyebrows, thinning hair. He wears an impeccable suit everyday since they’ve arrived. You shrug. “You can’t force a man to play for a team he doesn’t want to play for.”

He laughs, big and booming. The elevator doors open. “Good answer.”

People are starting to mill out of the venue. The win was satisfying, especially because the last point was a dump shot made by the setter wearing thirteen on his back. Or maybe it’s first-love bias that lets you say that.

You watch them as they wipe their sweat by the benches. People are lining up for autographs, as is custom in an exhibition match. You can’t help but feel proud as Tooru signs a slip of paper held by a little boy with bright eyes. He says something to the boy that makes him beam. It’s nice, watching him like this. He played against Ushijima Wakatoshi today, along with Kageyama Tobio. The names that pulled him away are the same ones who are anchoring him straight back.

You head in first to prepare, and surprisingly, you see a familiar face. She waves, recognizing you as you recognize her, a young girl at her right pant leg, a boy at her left. “Have you seen my brother?”

“He’s still out there, Tamaki-san. Door to the left.”

You remember Tamaki. She always put too much salt in everything. Whenever she tried being a good sister to Tooru, she packed him a lunch box. He carried the thing around like it was about to explode.

“It’s been so long,” she says. You were always scared to run into her whenever Tooru brought you over to his house. She was older, endlessly sophisticated, and you were a high school girl madly in love with her brother. It didn’t help that she had a sharp mouth, and you can’t exactly talk back. “Takeru, say hello.”

Your eyes grow wide. “Takeru, you’re all grown up!”

“Onee-san,” he greets, voice deep. He must be eighteen now. “Are you and uncle back together?”

“Tooru-oji has a girlfriend?” the younger kid asks.

Tamaki has never been known to pick her words. Her brother has always been more gracious than she was, in that regard. That lucky trait must have passed on to her kids as well. You know for a fact that Takeru’s eight year old mouth was as sharp as a whip. She looks apologetic as you smile at the little girl. “I’m his interpreter.”

“Ah,” Tamaki says before her kids can interrogate any further. “We should leave you, then. We saw lots of reporters go inside. Door to the left, correct?”

“Yes, it’ll lead to a hallway, then their locker rooms. They should let you in easily enough.”

“Ba-bye,” the little girl says as her mother ushers her to go see her uncle. Her hair is in the smallest set of pigtails you have ever seen.

Garcia opens the door, pulling you inside for the press conference.

Shiori, 9:23 PM: You look sexy on television. We saw the interview from the gym center. Like boys over flowers.

Ren, 9:23 PM: One flower and fifty boys. I’m so jealous. Oikawa couldn’t stop looking, did you notice?

Sakura, 9:24 PM: The other guy too. The tall one.

Ren, 9:25 PM: All of them are tall.

Sakura, 9:25 PM: The tallest one. With spiky hair.

Shiori, 9:27 PM: Hahaha, true.

Live translations are a pain. Translating for one is already hard. Twenty people at the same conference, at the same time is plain torture. An hour and a half going back and forth about what they thought about a line call back in set two.

You tried to trample down a spark of irritation in your gut too, when a reporter asked Tooru why he wasn’t speaking his native tongue. Tooru just laughed it off, but you wanted to throw a stone at that reporter’s head. You massage your neck, reading the older ones from Miwa.

Miwa, 8:41 PM: You’re on!

Miwa, 8:51 PM: Uwah, I know you’re good, but you’re really good.

Miwa, 8:52 PM: Oh, please get seaweed from the store on your way home. I’ll buy you drinks after this gig.

Miwa, 9:03 PM: Going to the office tonight. I’ve printed out your face from the interview. It’s on the dining table. DON’T THROW. WILL FRAME.

You’re the last one to leave the press room, the team and their staff having been shuffled away for more pictures right after. You make sure all the microphones are off, then you unclip the temporary ID they gave you from your blouse.

“Leaving already?”

You look up from your bag, shoving in your notebooks. “Tooru, I’ll get fired if you keep this up. Garcia will blame me for his setter wandering around.”

“Garcia has a soft spot for me.” He lounges spread eagled in one of the reporter chairs. “I told the bus to leave first. I’m visiting family tonight, see.”

You pick up a forgotten water bottle. “Is Tamaki-san still here?”

“Nah, I told her to go home.”

You stop. “Then?”

He smiles innocently. “Lie of omission?”

“No?” you whine. “Lie of fabrication? You’re making my neck hurt.”

He stands up, cackling at your outburst. Argentina colors are awfully close to Seijoh colors. You point it out, “It looks the same. Like in school.”

He glances down at his windbreaker. There are knockoffs of the uniform he’s wearing outside. In a sudden dawning, you realize he got bigger. You’ve been looking at his face – you know how his face changed, how his hair changed – but his body, his whole frame, is just now hitting you. Broader shoulders, bigger arms under the sleeves of his Federation jacket, still looking like it could pass for his old one at Seijoh. The muscles on his thighs stretch as he rocks forward, then upward.

You avert your eyes quickly, neck now both strained and hot. His eyebrows shoot up, catching you fumble with the water bottle. “Like what you see?”

You throw it at his head. He’s asking for it, at this point. He still picks it off the floor where you missed, empty plastic crumpling in his palm. You make your way out of the room and into the hallway. He follows, skipping to catch up.

“That reporter was rude earlier,” you say once he falls in step.

“Yeah,” he hums, fiddling with the zipper of his bag. “‘S alright.”

A spark of irritation passes again. “You always do this.”

“Do what?” The sound of a closing zipper.

“You act passive. You don’t like what’s happening but you still act like it’s okay.”

He treads, his tone gentle, the tone of a person who always gets what he wants, “Would you like it if I punched her in the eye?”

“Well, no.” You wince at why you can’t properly reason with him. “But you could have done something.”

“You always do this,” he retaliates. You don’t appreciate how amused he sounds.

“Do what?”

“Let your temper run.”

You pause midstep. You purse your lips, avoiding his eyes. It wasn’t nice what the reporter did, asking him if he forgot all about Japan. He shot it down quickly enough. A chuckle and a sweet sparkle in his eye he can summon on command, then some corny joke about getting hit in the head with a ball. He handled it well, but sometimes you want to tell him to stop pleasing other people so much. It’s hard, and it’s tiring, and it’s taxing. But then again, he’s Tooru. Under the ease he wears on his skin, there is a monster of ambition who knows what it is he has to do. It’s none of your business. The double doors of the gym open.

“Good job today.” He bumps your shoulder with his. You settle comfortably in the heart of things, a sweet spot: immune to his charisma, unfazed by how ugly things are inside. He’s neither of the two. You didn’t realize it before, in Seijoh. You thought he was both of those things combined, personality big and incomprehensible and magnetic. Maybe it’s age that has taught you that Tooru is none of those things at all, that he’s still lacking and still trying.

Another set of steps. Your neck is still aching, and you’re sure a migraine is about to come. Everything melts away. You bump him right back. “Congratulations, Tooru.”

You’re riding the Tozai Line, waiting for your stop, sitting beside Oikawa Tooru. He doesn’t have his own card. It hit you that he doesn’t live here anymore when you paid for his fare. His hands are shivering, held in front of his mouth.

“Do you ever feel,” he whispers slowly. “Constantly cold?”

“It’s not even winter yet,” you reply. Still, you move a bit closer to him on the off chance it might help. He didn’t change into warmer clothes, just went along with you, nothing but his gym bag and his thin jacket. You have no clue why he keeps going about like this. “Maybe you have tourist skin.”

Tooru shudders, “Foul.”

You place your bag on his lap. He blinks, confused. He looks at you in question. You peek around the train. When you see people minding their own business, sitting and staring into space, you drop your hand on his lap, the back of it landing on the fabric of his shorts, the hard muscle underneath it. He blinks again. You wiggle your fingers. “I’m warm.”

He places his hands on top of yours, tentatively at first, and once you don’t show any signs of changing your mind, he sandwiches it between two of his very cold ones. You hiss. He looks down and giggles – Tooru used to giggle, Tooru still giggles.

Your hands, clasped together behind the cover of your brown leather Diu.

Minutes pass, maybe hours. Your hands don’t get clammy around him anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says out of nowhere.

“Why?”

“Because I – maybe you thought I’d be back in a year, maybe four after university, but it ended up being…”

“Nine years?”

“Ten.”

Indulgently, “That long?” You stop to look at him, the face he has on. An old favorite book, eyebrows creased, the single line between them that spells worry. “It was… such an old thing, Tooru. We were so young. No one had a clue what they were doing when they were seventeen.”

“I could have handled it better–”

“No one handles things at that age. Guilt doesn’t look good on you. It makes you ugly.”

“I know you still find me handsome, don’t lie. And it – it’s not guilt,” he says. He leans back on the seat, staring up at the lights. “It’s, I don’t know, regret.”

“Regret for what?”

“You were… the kindest person in my life at that time. And I was… you know what I was. I regret that.”

“Kindest,” you repeat, mouth going over the sound. You weren’t kind for the sake of being kind. You were kind because… you loved him, whatever type of love it might have been in your mind.

“I knew why there were always power outages in the gym, why the teachers never got mad when I skipped school to talk to Blanco in the last few weeks.”

“Huh,” you whisper, surprised. You didn’t know that he knew. You forgot you did those things, even. “It was… it wasn’t a big deal–”

You pulled the plug on the lights when you heard Iwaizumi complain about no one able to get Tooru to stop after that last spring tournament match. He used to fold himself inwards, swimming in his shortcomings. It was his curse. A star that burns so bright also burns itself. The only way to get him to go home was to pull the power plug of the school gym. He couldn’t exactly practice in the dark. He might have practiced elsewhere, but at least he took a walk with himself before he reached another court. You gave the maintenance men gifts at the end of third year.

Then, before graduation, you went around lying to the teachers, covering his ass in attendance because he was off in places even Issei and the others didn’t know about, alternating between a list of easily cured illnesses and easily contracted viruses.

“It was,” he contends, “it is.”

“I didn’t resent you, Tooru,” you say honestly. “For leaving– for leaving that way. I knew what you were supposed to do, what you planned on doing. Why would I resent you for your ambition? That’s stupid. And it was so long ago. We were kids. You’ve changed. I’ve changed. I didn’t hate you. I still don’t hate you.”

Easy dismissal. A heart crushed under his shoe. He wasn’t at fault for that. You were the other half of the equation. You can’t offer something up and expect it not to get taken. Teenagers are so fond of dramatizations of romance, martyrdom for the sake of martyrdom, it’s almost funny. You thought that if you loved Tooru hard enough, he’d learn to take it easy. Anchoring someone like him to simple happiness is like asking the tide to flow upstream. Both equally tempting, both equally impossible.

Tooru looks at you now. “Even if I make your hand cold?”

You sigh. You place another hand on his lap. “Good thing I have two.” He clutches it with less hesitance. You swallow. “I heard you’re already a citizen… over there.”

He nods. “It’s nice there, you know. Warm during the summer.”

There. Where he has a card for the metro, if they have one; new friends; restaurants that know him; a garden that’s waiting to be watered; a refrigerator with yogurt that needs to be eaten before it expires; a life. His thumb doesn’t need to rub circles on your skin, but it does. Another station, another stop. Closer and closer to yours. Garcia said something about his house. A house at twenty-eight. Tooru really is a special kind of freak.

You snort. “Oh, evidently.”

“Foul.” He huffs in indignation. “I won the game point tonight, so I think that demands a bit of respect.”

“I’ve heard all about that game point.”

“Who knew that leaning into a microphone and saying ‘la bola de línea’ could be so sexy.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“No, really,” he laughs. “You did it so quickly.”

“It’s my job. You asked Iwaizumi-san for my number?” You look at your intertwined hands. The scar on his ring finger that’s been there since forever. He has pretty nails. Capable hands, cold because he refuses to wear a coat. “Is it because of guilt? Or regret?”

The lady sitting next to him stands up to leave. He stares at her back. “It’s because I missed you.”

He’s still a good liar. He’s an even better actor. You’ve seen him at it a million times. A hand scratching the back of his head, a bashful glance. All perfectly timed and perfectly executed, with just enough fumbling to give the impression he’s being honest.

You believe him, not because you want to, but because you know he’s telling the truth. Tooru smiles when he lies. He can’t look you in the eye now, and is instead glaring holes into the poor woman’s back.

You breathe deeply. “Boo, Tooru, you have so many lines. What did Iwaizumi-san say?”

“He hung up the phone on me.”

The doors open at Oroshimachi.

This is the farthest he’s gone. They make poems for moments like this: two people standing outside an apartment building, facing each other; the flicker of the streetlight; the sound of the television of the house five steps away.

What the poems forget to include is Tooru, jumping around restlessly to feel warm; you feeling embarrassed to be seen out with him; the threat of the 11 PM flashing on your watch coupled with the 6 AM calltime you have tomorrow.

“This is me. I’d let you in, but my roommate…”

“Let me in?” he gasps. “That’s forward of you.”

“I said I couldn’t!”

He wiggles his brows. You look around the street to make sure no one is here to see him make a fool of himself. He leans closer conspiratorially, “But you want to?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. More than he knows. More than the quiver of his smile can comprehend. “No.”

“If you say so.”

“I’ll–” You gesture to the door. He nods, motioning his head for you to go in, hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders bunching in the cold. You say, stern, “Run to the hotel before you turn into an icicle.”

He nods impatiently. You nod too, Okay. You turn away and open the door. Looking back at him one last time, just to check, “Good night.”

He’s walking away now, pedaling in reverse, still watching you, waiting for you to get inside the building. He mouths, jerking his head to the right, Go inside.

You wave. Once, twice. Then you go inside. It’s the usual steps. The usual sound of the door opening. The usual motion of taking off your shoes. Left first, then right.

“Miwa-chan, I’m home.”

No one answers. You check your phone. A million messages from Sakura and the others. A few from the hotel staff you already settled earlier.

Miwa, 9:03 PM: Going to the office tonight. I’ve printed out your face from the interview. It’s on the dining table. DON’T THROW. WILL FRAME.

Then you hear it. Rain splatters. Gentle for a few seconds, then suddenly violent. A downpour.

He couldn’t have gone far yet. You take your umbrella from your bag and run.

You find him under the roof of an empty garage. You squint. Your shoes are wet, and it’s digging close to your socks, but he looks worse for wear. His hair is damp and sticking to his forehead, rain stains on the stupid fucking jacket. You come closer. People write poems about this, you think again. Two poems in one night seem a bit excessive.

“You’re making my heart flutter,” he calls. Tooru runs to huddle under your pink umbrella. “Fuck, it’s cold.”

He puts his freezing hands on your cheeks. You jump away at the sudden jolt. He moves closer like nothing happened. You consider leaving him then and there.

It leads to this. Whatever this is.

“You could have warned me,” you groan, slumping on the same chair you saw four days ago. “You could have warned me.”

“I did,” Ito-san purses her lips. “I can’t give a warning to someone who knows what’s happening anyway. You’re an odd girl. You receive your fate properly, without fumbling hands.”

“And here I am, no better than if I fumbled.”

“What’s troubling you?”

You notice she doesn’t take out her dice, or her cards. She doesn’t ask you to give your palm either. She knows you don’t need it anyway. She knows, she must have seen it. She could have warned you. In hindsight, she’s right. She did.

Is your heart open for love?

You don’t know what you expected. Maybe a nice office worker you’ll meet at the grocery store. Maybe one of Miwa’s brothers. Maybe you’ll drop Sakura’s kid off at daycare and find a nice man bringing a kid there too. You didn’t expect second buttons, or suns, or the droplet of rain on Tooru’s cheek.

“Love,” you breathe bitterly, “is such a hateful thing. Like a leech. Vehement.”

She takes your takoyaki and opens the box without shame. “It is cruel to you, then?”

“Tooru’s here.”

“Who’s – Ah.” Understanding dawns on the uranaishi’s eyes. You don’t have to see the future to see this.

“But he’ll leave again in three days.”

“Will he come back?” She takes a ball and chews it with precise movements, sharp and quick like she always is. “After this nonsensical timeline the two of you have set?”

Will he come back?

Yes, your heart says. A heart that believes in him, believes love given is love reciprocated. But you know him too well for that, know yourself too well for that. You know he makes allowances now: for mistakes, for forgiveness, for other people. You know you weren’t as rash as you used to be, you don’t give as freely as you used to. Love given might be love reciprocated, but it doesn’t always mean love is all encompassing. His life is over there, across the ocean, miles away.

“I don’t know,” you start. But you do know. “You can’t clip a bird’s wings. It’ll resent you if you do.”

Strings that diverge. Strings that meet again. Strings that are not meant to stay together.

You don’t tell Sakura and the others. In the end, you don’t breathe a word of it to anyone, not even to Miwa. They have enough going on in their lives already.

You will approach this with even judgement, you promise yourself. Shiori would tell you to do something rash, Ren would shake her head, Sakura would nod her head, and Miwa would ask if she could meet him right away. You’re better off with your own advice.

You go through your contract, back and forth the hotel and a few locations the team wanted to see. After the game, there’s nothing much to do but stick around in case anyone needs anything. You interpret a solo interview with Bruno hosted by a volleyball magazine. You drink coffee with Garcia. You forward a file of the game with a transcript to Blanco.

In the middle of it all, funnily, you run across Iwaizumi Hajime in the tenth floor hallway of the hotel. He comes short of mowing you down and sending you toppling backwards on the fancy carpet. You only stumble a bit, thankfully. He apologizes profusely.

“Iwaizumi-san,” you begin. You think he doesn’t recognize you. You and Iwaizumi had lived in the same neighborhood since the first grade. “It’s me.”

A second passes, then realization lights up his face.

“I feel like a dick,” he laughs. “How are you? Issei told me you’re the one who made his cat eat.”

“I’m doing well. I heard Hanamaki-san has one too. Are you the only one without one?”

“Oikawa doesn’t have one. I don’t think he can scoop the shit up on his own.”

“He’ll cry a bit before,” you agree. You’ve always liked Iwaizumi. His mother used to make the best curry, and he always gave you the strawberry popsicles that came with the pack because he didn’t like how they tasted. “Are you here for him? I think he passed by earlier. He said he was going to wait for you downstairs.”

“He still can’t read. I saw you on television,” he says.

You shrug. He’s not the first person who has told you that. “I might become a bigger celebrity than Tooru at this point.”

They rent a bus to go around the sites. It’s good. A good cap to a good win to a good trip. They’re good too, generally. Most of them aren’t rude, and the ones who don’t have anything to say to you just don’t say anything at all. They’re one of the better types of clients, even if their hours are dreadful.

You settle comfortably on the bus seat, the itinerary tucked in your lap. A weight pounces on the seat beside you, and you look up in time to see Mateo Lopez greet you a good morning. He looks younger now that he’s not wearing the usual workout clothes or team uniform. A black hoodie that, though you know it’s not possible, makes the spikes of his hair stand more erect. He’s endearing, like a pet, or like Sakura’s kid. You haven’t seen Kaori in a while, come to think of it. Still, you move a bit closer to the window, just in case Garcia thinks you’re coming onto one of his players.

Which you are, but just… a different one.

You talk to him a bit, and you realize he has a little lisp. He’ll find some nice person back in Argentina, you’re sure, and you’ll be a memory he’ll soon forget. He’s in the middle of telling you about the places back home that he thinks you would like when someone calls his name and starts talking to him. You take it as a window to check your phone, rearrange the notes for the team.

Unknown number, 7:16 AM: What’s he talking to you about?

Unknown number, 7:17 AM: Did you know we’re going to Aobajo later?

Unknown number, 7:17 AM: Don’t ignore me TT_TT

You, 7:28 AM: Argentina. Yes. Okay. How did you get my number?

Unknown number, 7:28 AM: I tortured Iwa-chan.

Matsushima is a thirty minute ride from the city, and soon all of you are filtering out of the bus. Tooru emerges last, exchanging a few words with one of the assistant coaches, dressed like a veritable tourist. A complete get-up with the shades and the product on his hair. Thankfully, he’s wearing a coat. Thanklessly, your green scarf is wrapped around his neck. You shoot him a questioning glance, which he replies to with a texting motion. He points to your pocket, where your phone is.

Unknown number, 7:45 AM: You know this tour is a scam?

Unknown number, 7:45 AM: I don’t need to climb Toyama to see reikan.

You, 7:52 AM: You only need to look in the mirror? Ha ha ha

Unknown number, 7:52 AM: I only need to look at you.

Unknown number, 7:53 AM: PSSSSST don’t be mean.

Unknown number, 7:53 AM: Heyyy stop leaving me on read TT_TT

You roll your eyes and close your phone.

You double as a tour guide here, translating for the lady who introduced herself as Hayami as she leads your party across the coastline. When you reach an observation tower, she points at the islands, naming them all with proficiency. The men all stand and watch, forming a little clump, as they gaze out into the sea, the seagulls cawing overhead.

“There are 260 tiny islands,” she says. “Here, we are in Toyama, and what you are seeing is reikan.”

“It means ‘beautiful view’,” you explain. Tooru is smiling like a satisfied cat at the back of their cluster.

Hayami continues, “Next we will see sokan – magnificent view – over there in Otakamori. If you will follow me.”

When you reach another observation tower, the chilly whip of the air makes you tighten your coat around your body. You tell them to pose for a complete picture of the team, blue gray clouds at their back, smiles on their faces. You snap it from Gracia’s phone.

“Should I get you all lunch?” you ask Garcia as you make your way down and the hours are starting to pass. “I know a store nearby.”

“That’s alright, it’s…” he stops. He’s still wearing his suit. You wonder if his feet hurt in his shoes. “They do seem hungry, don’t they? Should I come with you?”

“No need.” You shake your head. “I know my way back. I’ll be quick.”

You walk the offshore coast, the cement sidewalks and the grass growing where the rocks crack. You used to go here with your friends during the weekends, but you forgot what for. A whole lot of nothing, if you had to guess. Going for the sake of going, laughing the whole train ride, then eating instant ramen in a convenience store with the most handsome cashier. You had to rush back before evening for cram school. Once, Shiori stole her older brother’s motorcycle. You, being reckless and endlessly stupid, rode passenger as she drove here, clutching her back and screaming in her ear.

“Issei and I fell asleep on a curb there.”

Oikawa falls into step beside you.

If you had a particular liking for metaphors: Oikawa from before always walked ahead, barrelled ahead. Sometimes he looked back, but most of the time, you pumped your legs to run and catch up. Oikawa now, falling into step beside you.

But you don’t like metaphors. “Shiori and I smoked our first cigarettes on the way here. An old woman caught us and asked us if our parents knew they raised – what was it… ah, thugs who will never be able to marry a nice man.”

Tooru’s laugh twinkles like a million stars, a million suns. “Are you? Married to a nice man, I mean?”

“Your teammate asked me the same thing. I’ll inform you both once I have the answer. Did you know Shiori’s getting married soon?”

“Really? Is it anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so. She met him at work. I’ve only met him once.” “And?”

“He’s okay.” He raises his brows, the tip of his chin. You cave. “Well, she could do better. But maybe I’m only saying that because she’s my friend.”

He places a finger to his lips, a secret between you two. “I always thought Shiori would end up with an asshole. She had… a thing. Self-sacrificing. Not as bad as you, of course. But a self-sacrificing streak.”

You shudder at the thought. Self-sacrificing indeed. You grew out of that, but he isn’t wrong. “I’m surprised you thought about us at all.”

“I only thought about volleyball eighty percent of the time. The twenty percent was allotted for gossip. Besides, it was hard to ignore them when they were constantly threatening me with knives.”

“You were a terrible gossip,” you admit. “I don’t know how you knew everything about everyone.”

“I don’t know why they kept telling me, hell,” he laughs. “I didn’t care about what was happening in their lives, but you always seemed happy enough whenever I reported to you about it.”

“Hmm,” you hum. You tilt your head. There is the littlest jingle in the air made by the two beads of your earrings catching each other. “We had fun back then, didn’t we?”

“It feels… weird here. Familiar.” He tests the word on his tongue, as if making fun of himself for thinking it. “Nostalgic.”

“You are home.” You stop at the word home. Is he home? Or is home a different place for him now?

He doesn’t seem perturbed. He kicks a misplaced pebble. “Tadaima,” he murmurs absently.

“Okaeri, Tooru-kun.”

Sometime after this, you’ll look back and remember three words, and they are not about love, they are about home.

But not yet. Not while the sound of waves lapping at rocks fill your ears, the rustle of wind numbs your fingers, the unforgiving edges of the cliffside threaten to swallow you, the spiraling seagulls fly overhead. Not yet.

“Wah, I’m Tooru-kun now?” he teases, opening the door of the old convenience store that still has a poster from 2010 at its front door. “Are we time travelling? You should cut your bangs again–”

“You yap so much.”

You start piling packs of donburi oyakodon into a red basket you’re sure hasn’t been cleaned since 2010 either. Tooru goes to get bottles of juice for the others. You don’t want to get reminded about your bangs – the bangs Sakura talked you into when she thought she had a calling as a beautician. You’ve always trusted people easily.

“You don’t like listening to my voice?” He takes the basket from your hands. You don’t notice until you put an onigiri inside midair. “This is the voice that won–”

“The Sendai Middle School Singing Competition, I know.”

“Wrong,” he sighs, placing the basket at the checkout. “It was The Sendai Middle School Singing Competition for Gifted Artists.”

You look at him, really look, hoping to see an ounce of shame in his body. You don’t.

When you’re nearing the tourist spot, he heads on first. It’s unspoken, and you’re thankful that it is. You don’t want the others to think you’re doing anything unseemly with the players. At least if he goes first, he can make up some story about getting lost and watching the flowers, and you were never together.

Bruno helps you with the paper bags, and you hand out lunch once you get into the bus, heading back to the city.

The trees vanish, and soon they are replaced with buildings gradually getting taller and taller. It stops when the bus starts going up a hill of the scattered ruins. The walls loom upwards, menacing as ever. Soon enough, everyone scatters into little groups walking around the site, and, as expected, Mateo follows at your heels. You follow at the heels of the team manager.

You’ve seen Aobajo before, so the magic is diluted, but it’s nice to walk familiar footpaths. Aoba Johsai has always raised its students with a strong sense of school pride, so trips here are frequent and often. There are too few competitive private schools in Miyagi. Shiratorizawa is an older institution, but Aoba Johsai was named after a stronghold. The colors are better too. You’ve never known anyone to genuinely like purple.

You cross the east bailey, taking in the details of the gates. Garcia huffs a breath, “I should have worn different shoes.”

“There’s a bench a bit further down,” you suggest. You cross another bridge, the fish rippling the lake below. You point at where the hill curves. “There’s a school right around that hill.”

The bench comes into view, the oak tree blowing gently up above. The manager leans back and lets out a grateful breath once he sits down. “Did Tooru go to the school in this city?”

“That school, actually,” you tell him, nodding at the roof of Building C peeking from the hillcrest. “Aoba Johsai.”

He looks surprised. “Like where we are?”

“Yes, named after where we are.”

“Did he tell you?” he questions.

“We were classmates,” you admit.

It’s Mateo’s turn to look surprised. He perks up from something or the other on his phone, looking at you. “Were you close with him?”

“Um, not really,” you lie.

“But he played volleyball? Was he already a setter?”

You’ve seen this before. Kids who worship Tooru often ask about the how, but never the why. The how is easier to lie about. ‘How did Oikawa Tooru become that good?’ can be met with, ‘He practiced a lot’ because the alternative is, ‘He practiced too much than what can be considered sane.’ The why’s answer – although no one ever asks – is Oikawa knew what he wanted, and, as a rule of the universe and also perhaps a reward for his own unbendable will, he always got what he wanted.

Like he has a telepathic tie to all those who utter his name, Tooru appears at the bridge and calls out to your group.

“Talking about me, old man?” He flops himself beside the manager. “Behind my back too?”

“‘Not really’?” he whispers to you much later, when the sun is setting and some of his teammates have already settled back in the van to get some rest. “Shall I tell them?”

“Tell them what?” You raise your brows in question. You walk to admire the stacked stones of the walls, the flutter of tourists that hide you from plain sight.

“That we were close.” He points at the repurposed hall. “That I kissed you in there.”

You scrunch your nose, remembering. His tone is light and teasing, not like his tone at the train. “Not our classiest act, making out in a public restroom in a tourist spot.”

“We weren’t exactly classy kids.”

You divert the topic. You don’t like thinking about what you gave Tooru and what he gave you and the whole fumbling mess of giving and taking at the wrong places. You nod at his neck. “You should return my scarf soon.”

Mateo appears as you turn a corner. To you, with the earnestness of a marriage proposal, he says, “We should take a picture here.”

“You should!” Tooru agrees, looking endlessly amused. He takes Mateo’s phone. “Go on, both of you. I’ll take it.”

At least the kid has the sense to not put his arms around you. Tooru looks personally tickled. He snaps an unnecessary amount of photos, all with varying angles, going as far as to crouch to take it, and just when you think it would never end, “Kid, I think they’re calling you back on the bus.”

“He has a name,” you grumble. “You should learn it.”

“I do know his name,” he defends. “I know everyone’s names because I know everything. I know position switches don’t happen in volleyball, but he’s smart enough to play setter – in the game, game smart”–you snort, and he gives you a look–“he’s trained differently though, so it’s a shame.”

“He’s a good kid,” you say, looking at Mateo’s retreating back. “I feel bad.”

“Don’t be. He has a new girlfriend every two weeks or so. He’ll forget about you soon enough.”

You shove Tooru, hard. You glare. He sobers and catches himself.

“Wait, wait, stay there.” He takes out his phone, raising the camera up. A stripe of the sunset catches his cheek. It’s gone as quickly as it came. He makes a peace sign and bends his knees so his face is level with yours. You’ve taken a million pictures of other people today. He poses beside you, moving his head closer to yours. Oikawa opens his mouth and pulls his tongue out.

You move with a start, cupping his chin and his jaw, closing it. “Smile properly,” you snap.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be boring.”

He closes his mouth anyway. Your hands quickly fly off his face. You’ve held it before – you have, you have, you have – but, somehow, someway, cupping his face when you were seventeen is a world different from cupping his face when you are twenty-eight. If you were weaker, your hands would have stayed. Chalk it up to some law of magnets and magnetism and orbits and gravity that’s pulling, tugging at you, and they are impossible to resist. You sorely wish you were weaker.

“I don’t want to take a picture with a lunatic and the fly in his mouth,” you grumble, fixing your hair, stepping back.

He bares his teeth. “Smile, then, see? Come closer– now you’re the one who isn’t smiling–”

“I’m smiling!”

“Smile like you actually enjoy–”

You know only of one picture. He shows it to you, fingers pinching it closer to zoom. “Ah, look. So cute.” You peek. He’s zooming in on his face. You pinch his side and he yelps. He pockets his phone as the two of you make your way back to the bus.

You don’t know about the other one. The other one is you with your hand cupping his jaw, the other one at the back of his neck, a crease between your eyebrows and in the middle of a reprimand. He’s looking at you there. If you saw it, you could have guessed it for what it is: fondness, softening the corners of his eyes and the edges of his lips. Fondness tipping carelessly close to deeper waters, the familiar lull of the waves. He knows what the clouds look like, from down there.

Back at the sea.

He doesn’t show you that one. That one, he keeps to himself.

Matsukawa Issei, 11:32 PM: Iwa told me not to

Matsukawa Issei, 11:32 PM: Iwa told HIM not to*

Matsukawa Issei, 11:32 PM: Iwa told me not to tell you**

Matsukawa Issei, 11:33 PM: GAH

You, 11:45 PM: Are you fine?

“Do you want to come with me?”

You cock your head to the side. “My neighbors might call the police because of noise disturbance.”

Oikawa stands in the middle of the empty street, clothes a bit rumpled and hair sticking up more than what he must intend. Matsukawa did try to warn you. You had an inkling this would happen. You saw his head from outside your kitchen window, pacing back and forth. A text came a minute later, asking you to come down.

“Do you want to come with me?” he tries again. This time it’s a whisper. You try not to laugh.

“To the hotel?”

“Bah, I’m not that tacky.” He waves a dismissive hand. You want to argue that he is that tacky. “To Seijoh.”

You cross your hands in front of your chest. You cast him an even look. “Are you drunk?”

He looks sheepish, the little wrinkle by the side of his nose betraying him. “A bit. Come with me?”

You look around the sleeping street. Uphill where the road forks. Downhill where the insects are flying around the lamplight. You can’t say no to him. You don’t want to say no to him. You remember Mikamine Park, the hanami in bloom, how he asked the very same question, and how you answered the very same thing. “Okay.”

A smile blooms on his lips.

Seijoh isn’t far from your apartment. The two of you stand in front of the back gate. It’s been there since before you graduated, and it’s nice to know they haven’t changed it since then. You shake your head, looking at the spiraling metal. It must be at least nine feet high. “I’m not going to climb that.”

“I won’t let you fall.”

“You can’t even stand straight.”

He stands straight, as if to disprove your point. “I have reflexes.”

“Everyone has reflexes, dumbass.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but what comes out is a stutter of a laugh. He snorts, loudly. You jump closer to cover his mouth with your hand. “Someone might hear you.”

“The school ghost?” he says, muffled through the skin of your palm. “D’you still believe in that?”

“School security.”

“School security doesn’t check the back gate.” He taps your wrist to make you loosen your grip. He walks to the gate and opens it by squeezing his arm in the space between the bars, then turning the lock from the inside. It clicks, then he pushes it back. “Told you I won’t let you fall.”

You plod along at his heels. The main building is now painted utilitarian white instead of cool blue, and there are benches that weren’t there before. You make your way across the trimmed lawn, gazing at the large windows of the third floor staircase. You used to sit there with Ren and the others, sipping on the free juice the History teacher gave out to students who won his quizbees, sun beating down on your faces and the chatter of the students below filling your ears.

“I miss this,” you say softly as you sit down on the bench beside the gym. The one with the faucets where he always left his bag for afternoon practice. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I miss the milk buns they used to sell.”

The milk buns were good. A Seijoh delicacy. You’re not sure if it’s legal to be here. You’re convinced this is breaking and entering, but Tooru being beside you makes you feel like you won’t get into trouble. He can talk his way out of anything. You’ve seen it enough times.

You used to wait for him to finish practice in the afternoons here, and he’d walk you to cram school after. You lost an earring here, a little pink heart you kept in your pocket so the teachers won’t see, only for it to fall out and into a sewer.

Both of you are silent, basking in the glow of nostalgia surging like a large wave. Last week he was a memory from another lifetime you locked in your heart but never touched. Now he’s here, so painfully close.

“You were my first love, you know.” Your voice treads quietly, and you almost think he doesn’t hear you.

He does. “You were mine too.”

He says it like there was never any doubt. Love given is love reciprocated.

“I found your second button. The one you gave me.”

“Huh,” he echoes. “I could’ve sworn I gave it to somebody else.”

“I killed them and stole it.”

He looks at you. People say that Tooru is made for the sun. His skin takes to it like gasoline to flame. When morning makes a halo around his head, it makes the brown of his hair even lighter than it is, shadows playing around his eyes, framing his long lashes. But Tooru and the moon are friends. Tooru and the moon are like a soothing balm for the aching heart. It almost hurts when you see only half of his cheek illuminated, the smile lines like threads of silver.

“Is this unwelcome, what I’m doing?” he asks, so softly it’s a whisper. You’ve never known him to be uncertain.

“What are you doing, Tooru?”

You know, but you want him to say it anyway. You like it when his mouth forms the words, when his statements become questions, when you catch him unguarded enough that he stutters. It spells out that this is for you, for you alone. The Tooru without the charm he puts on as armor, the Tooru that no one else knows.

You don’t want to fight for affection, let alone his. You’ve done plenty of things for it back in school, back in university. Now your pride has thickened over time, twining around the ends of your tongue and how freely you allow yourself to ask for things.

You wonder if the years have twined around his tongue too, creating a string that allows him to say what he’s truly feeling.

“I’m seducing you.”

You let out a surprised giggle. “Seducing?”

He winces. “That sounded better in my head.”

“Is the beer still buzzing around? Did you have fun with Matsukawa and the others?”

“No,” he grunts out. “Did you know Iwa-chan’s training the national team? No.”

“Okay,” you reply. You don’t ask. He looks like he had fun. He looks like they all made him the guest of honor, which, in his group of friends, doesn’t always mean good things. “Why?”

“Are you asking me why I didn’t have fun with them? Or why I’m seducing you?”

You don’t dignify him with an answer. You stare at Building A instead.

Your shoulders are touching. Close, but not close enough. No collision, no tangling, just the hum magnets make when they find each other’s orbits. He licks his lips. “Because when I saw you back at the hotel, I thought, wow, some things never change. You’re still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh in his face, sudden and forceful, hiding how shy you suddenly feel. He blushes tomato red, like the moon at a lunar eclipse.

“Because you laugh like that. You laugh like you used to. You still laugh the same way, did you know? It sounds like flowers opening.”

You remind him, “Flowers opening don’t have a sound.”

“Because you’re still so fucking mean – I sound like a sap.”

You nod. “You do. But go on.” You tuck your head on your hand by the back of the bench, staring at him. “I like hearing you talk about me.”

He perks at the encouragement. He’s considerably flustered. Oikawa, still wanting to please, though and through. “You’ve changed since I last saw you. You’re the version of yourself you hoped you’d be, back when we were kids.”

It’s not a matter of conciliation between what he knows about you a decade ago and what is presented in front of him now. You understand that much. You understand because it’s the same for you. It’s not a simple then and now, a side by side comparison of frames. It’s finding a familiar comfort in a stranger. Beneath all the new layers, there exists one you’ve come across before.

He’s still Tooru. You’ll see your reflection if you look into his eyes. You’ll see how he sees you: mouth not as sharp as it used to be, but still cutting when you’re with him, still keeping him in line in all ways possible. Tooru wasn’t your friend back then, but you knew him like the back of your hand.

Tooru is your friend now. Tooru does not bring an avalanche of emotions anymore. Just one. Pure and simple and gentle like the way the moon curves beside his ear. Comfort.

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“You told me back then,” he replies. He ticks it off with his fingers. “‘I want to live honestly. I want to do something I love. I want to try to be a good person – but not too good, because that would be boring. I want to have a million cats.’ – I still remember what you said.”

You asked him his question right back, that day. His ambitions have always been more high-reaching. You asked him, but how about being happy, and he looked at you like you grew two heads.

“Impressive,” you admit. “But I don’t have a million cats now.”

“That’s easily treated, so it doesn’t count. Besides, Makki brought home his cat.” He shows you a scratch on his hand. You can see it if you squint, otherwise, it’s too small to properly locate. “It injured me.”

“Poor you.”

“You can kiss it better.”

You grin at him, shaking your head no. “I won’t.”

He rearranges himself on the seat in an act of displeasure.

“I’m scared,” you start, lashes fluttering down. “That what this is might just be us riding a wave of have-beens and could-bes. I know you well, and you know me well, and we have a lot to talk about, so it’s – maybe it’s…”

He hums, “You still worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough.”

“Exactly why I’m seducing you. One cannot quarrel without an opponent.”

“I’m your opponent?”

“And my crush,” he laughs. He’s still no better than he was. Maybe time does not progress the way it should. Maybe progression leads to regression when the strings shape themselves into a circle. “What do you say?”

No matter how many loves Tooru has had, you were the first. You always will be. Your place is insurmountable. You might not be his longest, or the one who made him weak, or the one who swept him off his feet, but you were the first. Anyone can come along and show him how best to be loved, anyone can come along and be his new last, but you will remain his first.

Still, you want to be the one who’s loved him best. You want to be the one he’s loved the most.

The mirth in his eyes melts into something hopeful when you inch your face closer to his. You close the space. His lips are soft and moist and moving against yours without question. There are butterflies in your stomach, heat in your ears, numbness in your fingertips. It’s not difficult to see the boy that you fell in love with a decade ago for the man he is now. He’s changed – his tongue is more experienced, lips more considerate – but he’s still the same. He’s still Tooru, your first love.

Looking at him now, you don’t think he’s loved anyone this way either. Loved this fumblingly, pure and unpolished in the way that makes him lose his affinity for appropriate words.

There is no rush of strawberry mixing with vanilla anymore. There is no pounding, no throbbing, no nervous palms, no jittery apologies. He tastes like sake and you taste like your evening coffee. Just him, the slow spread of happiness from your gut, and how being with Tooru on the bench outside the gymnasium feels a lot like coming home.

Miwa emerges from a two-day stupor of deadlines. You know the feeling well. It’s a setback that comes with the job. You have your own time, so you’re sure to have a broken body clock. You haven’t heard from Miwa in two days, schedules not catching each other, but she did frame your face, and it’s now hung on the wall like you’re some sort of deity that watches over meals.

“Is the team home yet?” she asks, seeing you upside down on the sofa, head dangling off the edge and feet propped up.

You halt writing the email to the television station about the copy of Conte’s interview. “Two more days.”

You try not to think about it. Two days is too short. After the two days are up, you’re sure he’ll leave. You don’t want him to leave. You haven’t had dinner with him yet, haven’t asked him about his teammates, haven’t shown him pictures of Shiori’s fiancé. You want to have coffee with him, maybe buy him a hideous coat he’ll never be caught wearing. In the New Year, maybe you can come with him to Washikura and say your prayers together, and if time permits, stay long enough to get him to buy the two of you omikuji. You want lots of things. You want too many things, and if Ito-san could hear your list, she would call you an ungrateful brat.

“Did you get the seaweed?”

“It’s in the pantry.”

“Thank you,” she calls from the pantry, making the syllables long and appreciative. “I’m going to bed.”

It’s five in the morning, and she’ll probably sleep through the night too. You call out, “I’m thinking about getting my master’s.”

Miwa, who’s in the middle of getting hers, calls back, “Don’t do it.”

Her bedroom door slams closed.

You dream about him that night.

An old memory skewed by the faded, vague sides of the subconscious. A fifteen year old girl shyly confesses to a fifteen year old boy under the light of the afternoon sun, tendrils of dust of the empty hallway swirling around them. The boy is blushing, stammering. His eyes are brown. A shout. The boy gets called by someone out of view, but he glances back one last time as he makes his way out of the frame.

A beat, and the world is pink. Falling cherry blossoms and a backpack. He’s taller than you. He catches one, and he blows it to your face. You sputter in surprise and pinch the lobe of his ear in retaliation. The white blazer of Seijoh, the gray and blue plaid skirt, the pink of Tooru’s cheeks.

A boy standing outside the gate of your house. Your mother catches him, having just arrived home herself. You’re preoccupied with dinner. They exchange a few words, and you are none the wiser. You only catch on when two people enter the house, one of who you expected, the other you thought you would see tomorrow morning at first period, both of them chirping happily as you look at them in horror. Your mother shrugs and tells you Tooru-kun is cute.

A beat again. A conversation. “The world is going to end tomorrow.”

He looks at something far. “I heard.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Of course not. Are you scared?”

You shrug. “There’s a Math quiz tomorrow. I wish it was true.”

“Want me to teach you?” And it cuts just like that.

Tooru leaves, and he doesn’t say goodbye. You haven’t been talking in the days that led up to it. He leaves, and he is gone for a long time.

“Hiiiiiiii!”

Your hand comes up to cover the glare of the morning sun. You don’t have much on the schedule today, so the call time got moved to a more considerate hour. You wonder how athletes all do this. Wake up before dawn only to go on runs or to nourish their body, or whatever it is they do.

“What’s that?” You motion to the thing Tooru has in his hand. The people in the neighborhood must know him already as the incessant man who won’t stop visiting. You’re sure the older women gossip about how inappropriate everything is. Visiting at late hours of the night, visiting at early hours of the morning.

“Flowers.” He offers them to you. “For the prettiest girl in Sendai.”

A bouquet of pink camellias, hugged by brown paper and a simple twine.

You take it gingerly. “Just Sendai? And it isn’t spring, how’d you get this?”

You squint to look at him. Still, you can’t help but bring the flower to your nose, glowing like a sunflower with her sun. It’s a nice day.

“The prettiest girl in the world,” he declares confidently. You nod in agreement, offering him a thumbs up. You walk down the road together.

“Tell me where you got this.”

“I think you already know.”

“Know what?”

“I’m loaded,” he declares. “I can get you as many camellias you want, even in the winter.”

You gape at his arrogance. You stop in your tracks just to process what he said, and how he has no shame in saying it. Your jaw slackens without your permission. “You can’t just–!”

He laughs at you and moves your hand up, successfully shoving the bouquet up your nose. “Appreciate the flowers, now.”

“You–”

“So, I was thinking,” he continues. “Are you still terrified of Tamaki?”

“Yes,” you tell him without explanation. His sister talks like a speeding truck on the highway. She doesn’t have any of Tooru’s talent for conversation, but that doesn’t stop her from talking. Seeing her once at the exhibition match is already enough. Your eyes widen in realization. “Oh! So this is what the flowers are for. Don’t even start–”

Tooru puts his hands together and pouts. He can be such a pain. Manipulative and sly and cunning, knowing that nice flowers can make you bend easily. “Please? Dinner?”

“No,” you say firmly, walking away from him. “Isn’t it too early? Aren’t you presumptuous?”

A kid on a bicycle whips by, his school bag flopping behind him. The shop doors are starting to open, and ahead it smells like the ginger of okayu, its scent spreading down the street and into noses.

“They already know you. I’ve brought you over a hundred times.”

“Exactly why you shouldn’t bring me over again,” you tell him, eyebrows drawn and voice whiny.

Tooru laughs at you, voice echoing in the waking street.

He still persuades you to go because he’s Oikawa, and he can talk a plant into becoming an antelope.

Tooru’s mother teaches Economics at the Tohoku university, his father teaches Molecular Physics. Both of them look surprised to see you standing in front of him, at the door of their house, holding a box of Wagashi you hurried to the store to buy earlier.

It surprises you even more when his mother claps her hands in glee.

You hand her the box. “It’s nothing special but –”

“Nonsense!” she says quickly, taking it and retreating back into the hall. “When Tooru said he was bringing someone over I thought the worst.”

“What’s the worst?” you mouth to him as the two of you are left alone at the genkan. His father trails along his mother’s back as they disappear into the living room.

Tamaki’s head pops up from the corner. “We all thought he knocked someone up in Argentina and he’s bringing home his ten year old son. It’s nice to see you again,” Tamaki says, motioning for you to take your coat off. She looks at Tooru and sees his face contorted in discomfort. She quickly cleans her tracks, “He didn’t. He doesn’t have a son. Don’t worry. It was just a bad guess. Someone doesn’t come home for ten years, what else would you think? It’s his fault mother is this bothersome now. Are you hungry?”

You nod and let yourself get dragged into some other place, shooting him one last look.

“I think it’s nice,” his mother says. You look up from the plates you’re drying to see that she’s looking at you, bubbling dishes momentarily forgotten. “That you and Tooru found each other again.”

“We should have told you earlier,” you reply. You’ve only talked about it the other night. It’s a little white lie so she can feel that you don’t disregard her blessing. His mother has always been nice and kind, terrifyingly smart. He gets his way with people from her.

“No, no, your business is yours. It’s just – he’s been lonely over there. He doesn’t tell us, but I know my son. It’s nice that he has someone to… well, someone like you.”

You always don’t know what to say whenever you talk to his mother. Maybe it’s because she always knows what to say when she talks to you. Once you’ve finished drying the plates, you excuse yourself to the restroom, and she nods and tells you that you already know where it is.

You bound up the steps and bump into Tooru’s chest once you reach the top flight of the stairs. Immediately, you pull the washcloth from your shoulder and whack him with it. He ducks like he’s expecting it. “How bad?”

“Better than I expected,” you admit. You don’t know why you expected hellfire and pires. You were seventeen the last time you saw them, and you don’t trust your seventeen year old self to not embarrass herself. “Your niece is cute.”

“Right?” he agrees. The little girl looks just like him. The same full smile and cheek dimple. She has a habit of sucking her bottom lip. “Tamaki’s ex is a piece of shit.”

“Where’s he now?”

You can’t believe you’re gossiping with him when his family is one floor down.

He shrugs. “No clue. Where all the pieces of shit go, probably.” He leads you to the door of the bathroom. “Tamaki won’t tell me.”

You move past his frame to get inside to start washing your hands. You don’t need to, but you had to get away for a while. “But do the kids see him?”

He doesn’t go when he sees you don’t plan on doing anything but stretching your legs. “No. She says they’re better off without him.”

The steady hiss of the faucet streams into the sink.

“Your mother misses you.” You swallow. “It’s not my place but –”

He cocks his head, looking at you like he shouldn’t be explaining it already. “You know why I can’t come home.”

Even if he didn’t tell you, you know why. You can read him like an open book, know what he’s about to do before he even does it. But he did tell you, all those years ago. He can’t come home until he’s proven himself, he said. He can’t come home until he’s sure he can beat anyone who’s ever beaten him. It’s the reason why he continues to refuse offers from the leagues here. It’s the reason why he doesn’t entertain Garcia’s pleas for press releases. For a country that did nothing but show him how lackluster he was, he’ll do the same right back.

Tooru has always put his pride first.

“I do,” you say. “But at some point, you have to realize the reason why you can’t come home isn’t because of some penal code that’s binding. The only reason you can’t come home at this point, Tooru, is because you don’t want to. Accept it for what it is, at least.”

You see the look in his face. You might have gone too far. You look away. “Sorry, Tooru. I know I –”

He kisses you. You pause mid sentence, a stammer forming and heat creeping to your cheeks.

He pushes you against the doorframe of the bathroom hard enough that it rattles the lone potted plant on the floor. You part your lips, and his teeth catch the bottom one, trapping you in both his arms.

“Tooru!” comes a call from downstairs.

You break away, breathing heavily. You move, ducking under his arm and into the hall. You’re kissing him in his mother’s house like some sort of hormone-addled teenager, you think to yourself in embarrassment.

“Stomach ache or headache?” he asks you.

“Stomach ache always works better.”

“Walk me home?” you float the request, wondering if he’ll take it. Tamaki closes the gate after you, her little girl waving bye and Takeru already back in his room, fiddling with the new videogame Tooru got him.

He snorts, taking it. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Hey, it wasn’t so bad.” Your stomach is full, and you feel particularly warmed after his father showed you his paper, then an email, asking you to proofread his correspondence. “I’d do it again next week.”

You would do it every week, because that would mean that he stayed.

He keeps quiet. The disbelieving look he sends you is response enough. He settles instead on whistling something that sounds like donguri korokoro. You turn left to the same winding street. You hear the sounds of the ramen restaurant, the hard orange glare of the light. He knows the way out of sheer repetition, and is the first to walk into the smaller road that leads to the clump of houses in your neighborhood.

“I feel like he knows you already.” You look at the man who is tinkering away in his clock repair shop. He nods his head in greeting, and you do the same.

Tooru notes, “As the fool smitten by the lady at 305.”

“My personal court jester,” you declare.

You reach your building.

“Come up?” you float the request again, wondering if he’ll take it.

He does.

“I’m starting to think you made Miwa up,” he says as you unlock your apartment door with the same combination code. It rings in the silent hallway.

“She’s a gremlin that pays half the rent and only shows up for feeding time.” You turn on the lights. “No, it’s because she works in the office at night. I usually go with her, depending on my gig.”

Tooru helps you out of your coat. He stands at your back as you shrug it off. “You’re used to staying up all night?”

“Mhmm, I am,” you smile, twisting to face him. This is the time to act coy, to flirt. You’ve learned as much through college boyfriends, trysts you started but never continued, people that you’ve been introduced to by mutual friends. But you don’t do it.

Tooru doesn’t either. He grins back. Both of you know, and maybe it’s why you can’t stop smiling.

Like this:

At some point, you stopped smiling. Your breath hitched when he kissed your neck, going down to the valley between your breasts. Clothes shedding. Kisses deepening. The pads of his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs. Slow rocking that has you clenching too fast, too early.

Like this, the second time:

Some of your hair gets into his mouth. You giggle in his ear. He sputters it out then he brushes it away from your face.

“Shit — the hotel, did you tell them —”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” he pants, and between his words he says is what he doesn’t say: Is this really your topic of conversation now?

“Still —”

“Shh, later.” He changes the pace. You shut up appreciatively. “Like that?”

You nod and close your eyes. “Like that.”

It’s starting to rain, a slow ringing outside the window – pat pat pat pat pat. You pull yourself to your feet to walk to close the glass.

“Come back,” he murmurs.

“Wait,” you mumble, locking the latch. “There.”

You stumble back to the bed, half asleep and comforted by the sound of the rain. He moves towards you like a worm and lays his head on your stomach. He presses a kiss there, arms winding around your body.

It’s three in the morning according to your bedside clock. Not too late. “You got better.”

He stirs. You count the seconds in your head, staring at the ceiling, tracing circles around his scalp.

One. Pat pat pat pat. Two. Pat pat pat pat. Three. Pat pat pat pat. Four. Pat pat pat pat.

He stirs again. “What do you mean ‘I got better’? Didn’t you like it the first time?”

The first time being ten years ago, in your childhood bedroom back at the house that’s now someone else’s. He never asked you to, but you wanted to give it to him anyway. You wanted him, plain and simple. You still remember how his adam’s apple bobbed when you asked if he’d like to try it with you. He was eager, and fumbling, and in that moment in time, he was yours.

Five seconds. You continue staring at the ceiling, a smirk pulling one side of your mouth up. You keep your voice light. “No, no.”

He’s sitting up now. “What do you mean, No, no — No, no I was good or no, no I wasn’t good?”

“You were a high school boy.” You continue, just for fun, “A virgin.”

“Oi,” he half-shouts. You swallow a laugh. He pulls you up to sit on the rumpled sheets. You start to protest that you want to lie down, but he keeps you sitting up. It’s only the light of the street casting in from the window that’s making you see in the dark. Dim as everything is, the distress painting his face can still be seen clearly. “Be serious.”

You laugh hard enough that tears spring from your eyes.

“Oi,” he whines again. You wind your arms around his neck and pull his head to your chest. You finally lie back down. His voice rumbles against your ribcage in a dejected mutter. “Stop it.”

You rub his back. “Hmm.”

He makes a noise — some crossbreed between a groan and a whine. He’s awake now, and you’re amused. He pulls himself up by his elbows to look at you. “Really?”

“No,” you laugh at him. “I’m messing with you. I liked it. I liked that you were my first. I liked it when you said sorry because you didn’t know how to use the condom.”

He buries his face in the curve of your neck. “Now you’re being mean.”

He apologized a lot, but it’s not like you knew what you were doing either. When it finally happened, it wasn’t the fireworks that Sakura’s novels promised, but it wasn’t the horror story Shiori’s older sister said it was either. It was uncomfortable, and painful, but it was also special, and gentle, and nice. You liked it.

You decide to let him rest. You’ve had your fill. You run a palm at his nape. “I liked it, don’t worry. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Pat pat pat pat pat pat–

He starts kissing your skin suddenly. You look at him in question, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What’s —?”

“Like,” he mutters, like it’s some sort of insult. His mouth, wet and hot and open, stopping on your hip bone, tantalizingly close to your core. “Just like? You sure?”

“Tooru—”

4:01. You might as well wait for sunrise.

He breaks the quiet. The rain stopped a while ago. “Can I tell you something honest?”

You nod. “Go on.”

“There’s a space in my house. Back in Argentina. I thought about building you a sunroom. If you’d like to visit.”

The house. You wonder if it’s as impressive as Garcia says it is. Knowing Tooru, it probably is. You muse, “A sunroom for a visit?”

“You could stay… for a while. If you want to. Enough time to sit in the sunroom.”

He traces the dips of your hand, the curves and the corners. The pads of his fingers press on your nails. You raise a brow, though he can’t see. “Plane tickets are expensive, you know that?”

“Not if it’s a one-way trip,” he tells you.

You stop. Cold rushes through your body, jolting your hand out of his. Wow.

“You want me to uproot my whole life here?” You add unnecessarily, harshly: “For you?”

He bristles. “Well when you put it like that –”

“I put it the way I see it, Tooru. I won’t ask you to stay, so don’t ask me to leave.”

You’re pissed off now. He’s still selfish, quick to ask. He’s smart, so you don’t understand why he doesn’t understand that while the you a decade ago would have considered it, the you now wouldn’t. Your life is here. Miwa, and Sakura, and Ito-san, your job, your friends. You’ve never asked him to leave his life there, so you don’t get why he’s asking you to leave yours.

“What do you want us to do? What do you want me to do?” he amends quickly. “Say it. I’ll do it.”

Some things change. Some things, no matter how much they change, will remain the same.

I want you to stay.

You don’t tell him that. You don’t think you ever will.

Like this, the third time:

Knowing it might be the last. His flight is in six hours.

You don’t cry. Not when he grips your waist. Not when he murmurs promises into your cheek. Not when your orgasm rips through you suddenly and you hold onto him like he is the only thing on earth. Not when it’s over.

Not even when the first rays of sun start to peek from the jagged horizon of Sendai.

You’ve already said your goodbyes to Garcia and the managerial staff yesterday, before the whole thing that was Tooru dragging you to his house.

“Lopez will miss you,” he said teasingly, brows still thick and suit still immaculate. You’d hoped he wouldn’t notice, but the kid was about as subtle as an elephant.

“Hah,” you quipped. “It would be better if I didn’t say my goodbyes to him, then.”

He waved, then quickly went back to his phone, and you went out of the hotel to find something to give Tooru’s mother. It was the end of another job.

You are woken by unrhythmic thudding. You didn’t even notice you fell asleep. You raise your head from the pillow to come face to face with Tooru, fresh from the shower and buttoning the same clothes he had on yesterday. He sits beside you on your bed.

You wake with a start. “Your flight –?”

“It’s in three hours. I still need to go back to the hotel.”

“Oh,” you say, sitting up, squinting at how the room is too full of sun. You hoped he had missed it and it flew back without him.

“I cooked you breakfast. Will you talk to me?”

“We are talking,” you yawn.

“You have sleep in your eyes.”

You blink, wiping it off. “Oh.”

“I’ll wait for you outside.” Then he closes the door.

Maybe you can stall. Keep him here. Keep him distracted long enough that he misses his plane. It’s a selfish thought you entertain. You’re not selfish enough to follow through in action. You roll off the bed and find it in you to stand up.

You wear an old shirt and an old pair of shorts and trod out after him. You see him standing by the genkan looking as collected as he usually is. His jaw is still relaxed and his frame is still carefree. He looks like he got a full eight hours of sleep. You stand in front of him, a mess that was fucked good last night.

You walk towards him. You see the eyes of the you from the interview Miwa framed look at the scene. Or maybe she’s looking at him. He is nice to look at.

Tooru doesn’t need to ask you because he already knows the answer, but he does. You catch a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, there for a moment, then gone. “If I told you I wanted us to try, what would you say?”

“That it will be a disaster,” you reply, cutting straight to the heart. There’s no use in candying words for this. “Long distance from Tokyo and Kyoto is bad enough for some people, and they end up hating each other. I don’t want to hate you.”

He nods. “If I begged–”

“No,” you plead, cupping his jaw. It’s nice to know that he wants this as much as you do, but you won’t let him do that to himself. “Don’t, Tooru. There’s nothing to do. It’s just wrong timing, wrong place. There’s nothing to do.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That I can’t give you what you want.”

Tooru’s always taken more than he can give, and you’ve always given more than you can take. Fundamental differences get murky over time when two people learn to be together. He’s taught you how to take, and you’ve taught him how to give, and now both of you stand in the middle, not really a single person but a mix of odd pieces of each other. An impasse.

“It’s fine. I can’t give you what you want either, so we’re even.”

“Huh,” he huffs. He snorts, “Seduction.”

Two days. It was wishful thinking that was hoping for more. Still, still, still – is it better than nothing? Was it worth it? With him, you think naively, like a little girl in love for the first time all over again, it is. “Short-lived, but well-lived. Take care of yourself over there.”

“Don’t stay up all night,” he reminds you. “Eat well. Don’t–”

You nod, rolling your eyes. “Eat eggs, I know.”

He’s saying goodbye, you realize. When he leaves the second time, he won’t come back again. “You’ll keep scratching yourself, and your skin will be irritated. One egg isn’t worth all the blister marks.”

“Bye, Tooru.” You slap a smile on your face, but your voice wavers. You want to scream, and to cry, and to beg him to stay, and to tell him you’re willing to try. You don’t do it, in the end. Neither does he. If you two could joke about it, you’d tell each other you are the paragon of maturity.

“Bye.”

He walks down the hall, turns right, and then he’s gone.

You said goodbye to him too, ten years ago. You didn’t ask him to stay back then either, but you did ask him to come back. You were seventeen and in love with a boy that was already out of reach. You didn’t ask him to come back this time. You wonder if it’s better or worse that you didn’t. It doesn’t matter either way. You still had your heart broken, and he is still gone.

How stupid, that after the span of a decade and an ocean and a second try at the same set of crossroads, the outcome is still the same.

You close the door. Breakfast is laid out on the table: miso, mackerel, Miwa’s seaweed, and rice. You expected him to cook you pancakes, or whatever it is they ate, over there.

You sleep through it, their departure, catching up on all the hours that you lost and made up with through very strong coffee. You sleep a good 12 hours, dreamless and at peace.

He goes away and life comes back to its usual swing. You go to Sakura’s house, complete with her flowers, her husband, her dog, and her baby Kaori. Kaori isn’t a baby anymore though, as she takes quick, wobbly steps towards you and tells you to Up! Up!

“She doesn’t walk, she runs,” Sakura complains. “I swear, she fell on her face ten times this week.”

“Oh? Really?” you babble to the kid more than to her. You make a face and she laughs. “Maybe you’ll be a runner. An athlete. Mhmm? A trackstar. My little trackstar.”

She gurgles in glee. You tell Ren to come over, because Ren works at law and has her own time too. You send Shiori some pictures to make her jealous. She texts back a minute later.

Shiori, 11:33 AM: How was I supposed to know 8 month old babies can’t eat chocolate! And she was fine! She was happy! Let me come overrrr.

The days bleed into each other, and as slowly as they passed while Tooru was here, life picks up pace again. You’re back to translating American movies, television shows, staying up with Miwa at the office. She buys you red wine that neither of you have the guts to open, so it stays untouched at the bottom of the refrigerator. It’s an impending headache disguised as celebration you’re not yet ready to go through.

Mateo Lopez requests to follow you on Instagram out of the blue. You accept it after three days of careful deliberation, and three days hoping he’ll retract it. He doesn’t, and it’s becoming rude to keep him waiting, so you click the little blue button that says accept and follow him back.

It’s mostly pictures of movies, the flowers at the local coffee shop, you and Miwa at the beach, and occasionally your face. If he’s diligent enough to scroll back to 2012, he’ll see one picture of you and Tooru taken with a rickety first generation phone. You’re wearing your old yukata with the dahlias, and he is wearing his with the white stripes. Your head is on his shoulder and his arm is around you, both of you grinning like fools under the stars of tanabata.

You receive your paycheck that night. It’s big enough that it buys you a pair of new shoes to replace the one that got wet because of the rain. You make your way to the uranaishi’s stall, hand coming up to your neck to tie your scarf. It’s pink tonight. He hasn’t returned your favorite one.

“How’s it looking?” you ask her.

She stares at you in surprise, “Hopeful, actually.”

You pout and she laughs, and winter creeps up on the trees. You see Issei at the grocery store again.

He waves a hand in hello from across the aisle with fresh fish. You wave back, and just as quickly, move your cart so you can pay for your things and leave. You don’t want to talk to Matsukawa Issei yet, or any of the people that remind you of Tooru, but it’s Hanamaki Takahiro’s face that greets you as you whip left.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he says without preamble. “But the milk you got is expiring tomorrow.”

You blink. You read the lid. “Oh, thanks.”

“Oikawa’s been extra whiny lately,” he tells you conversationally. “Have you been talking?”

You remind yourself to put the milk back. “We haven’t been talking.”

“Maybe that’s why.” Hanamaki places his words in a carefully nonchalant tone, but you know they know, and whatever Tooru’s been telling them, it’s enough to cause worry on their part. You’re about to make some excuse about needing to head back quickly, but someone stops you.

Shiori sees you and walks closer, holding a can of mushrooms. “Oi! Pinky!”

“Still not letting that go?” he whines, and Shiori teases him again.

This is home. It’s like he wasn’t even here at all.

But that’s a lie. The walls of the city remind you of Tooru more and more. If you close your eyes, you could almost imagine he’s with you right now, pushing the cart and asking if he could put in a million unnecessary things. If you turn, he’ll slide his hand around your waist and show you a can of peanut butter only to ask if it’s too expensive, then Matsukawa will pull him over to where the fishes are and tell him the ugliest one looks like him. He’ll bring up how Hanamaki’s kitten scratched him, and Hanamaki wouldn’t listen, and they’d call Iwaizumi who’s at Tokyo, and you and Shiori would laugh while they do an unplanned skit like a bag of fools.

This is home, and if the edges of his smile are here, you wonder what he’s left with over there.

“Couldn’t you try long distance?” Shiori asks as you walk her to her in laws, cicadas chirping. There are still a few people on the street, and the two of you make way for an older lady.

“No, that’s tiring. Do you even know anyone who can make that work?”

She sounds apologetic, “No, they all broke up.”

Your hands, interlocked, swing back and forth. You shrug noncommittally. “Besides, long distance is… short term. When one of you will follow. No one’s following, and no one’s coming home.”

“I wish you told us,” she sighs.

“It’s not that important.”

Shiori’s getting married, and her mother in law’s a monster if the monster were ten times worse. Ren has work and is getting shuttled from one high profile case to another. Sakura can’t conceive again. She told you in that afternoon with Kaori. They’ve been trying, but they can’t. The doctors said there was something that went wrong after the first pregnancy, something jumbled up inside her and it’s been making her think that she somehow failed. She cried to you that afternoon, and you held her hand and stroked her hair because there’s nothing you could say that could make it better.

Your high school crush coming back and breaking your heart all over again seems to be the least important thing of all things in the universe.

She sighs like she’s read your mind. “But Oikawa Tooru is the most important boy in the world.”

“You’re about to have a husband,” you remind her. You point at the scary-looking gate.

Shiori’s living with her in-laws, and their house is larger than most. You squint at the orchard that obstructs the front lawn from view. It looks like a house for snobs, and Shiori knows it.

“He’s inside.”

“So?”

You snort. Oikawa Tooru is the most important boy in the world. Sakura said that back in first year after seeing him for the first time. He was something else. Smart, handsome, good at sports. It was like the heavens crafted the perfect boy and gave him to Seijoh as a gift. He was already charming back then, and soon enough a fanbase emerged, and girls wouldn’t stop sending him gifts, and the rest was history.

You scrunch your nose in tentative agreement. “He is, isn’t he? Oikawa Tooru is the most important boy in the world.”

Oikawa Tooru came back again and brought a hurricane with him. Oikawa Tooru is the most important boy in the world, but he is still just a boy. You want him to come home, to stay, but not because of you.

You want him to stay because his friends are here. You want him to stay because he finally realizes he’s all alone over there. You want him to stay because he can be closer to his parents here, to his niece and nephew, spoil them as much as he wants. You want him to stay because he finally forgives himself for whatever he lacked in the past. You want him to stay because he finally realizes that it’s possible to not forsake happiness for dreams. You want him to stay because he finally admits that he misses home.

You can’t be the one to make him see that.

“Will Miwa be there when you get back?” she asks, footfalls stopping once you reach the gate. She’s been stalling. You give her a look that says if you want to run away, I’ll cover your tracks.

You nod. “Mhmm.”

She nods. “Tell her to take care of you.”

Shiori hugs you goodbye.

The years have colluded your sense of romance. There used to be a time when you thought it was romantic to be serenaded, or to be proposed to in public. Now, rose petals and intricate acts and public confessions seem watered down to you, a last ditch attempt to hide a failing relationship. Who cleans up the rose petals? Who has that much time to think about how to make a confession unique? What if the person being proposed to refuses?

You’ve seen a thousand films, and most of them are about love. You get surprised at how love can be written and rewritten and still come to the same ending, at how many forms it can take, how many stories it can tell.

In films, there are surprises. In winter, there is the never ending cold of the street. In the end, it’s about give and take, and pulling weight.

There is a singular message that pops up on your phone. Your back is slumped on the chair and the glare of your computer screen is starting to hurt your eyes. The office is quiet. Miwa headed home an hour ago. There’s a crumpled bottle of Monster energy on your desk. Another love story, and you can’t help but enjoy it better than the last.

Unknown number, 3:02 AM: Are you still awake?

Unknown number, 3:02 AM: If I asked you out to dinner next week, would you accept?

You, 3:02 AM: Who’s this?

Unknown number, 3:03 AM: Ouch. Ouchhhh. It’s the best you’ve ever had.

You, 3:03 AM: I blocked my college boyfriend on my cell.

Unknown number, 3:03 AM: GAHHHHH

Unknown number, 3:03 AM: Can I call?

“Hello,” says the voice on the other line.

“Aren’t international calls expensive?” you say, but what you want to say, really is, I miss you, I love you, we can try, come home… come back to me. You look at the caller ID quickly, but it’s him, you know. Unmistakable.

“No, not if I get to talk to you,” he replies smoothly. You trample down a smile like some lovesick idiot. “Have you heard of Tachibana Red Falcons?”

You leave your pen and start twirling in the office chair. “Um, I guess. Not really.”

You hear him laugh a bit, then you hear him grunt like he’s flopped down a bed. “Yeah, so they offered me a contract a while back, and I’m thinking about taking it.”

“That’s… here?”

“That’s there,” he agrees. “I’ll play, maybe, four months a year? With conditioning and training time and everything. I don’t think they let players play for leagues in other countries but…”

“You’re special?” you suggest. Your heart is at your throat.

“My bargaining skills are fantastic. Then I’ll play the rest with San Juan and the Federation.”

“Oh,” you reply, not yet trusting yourself to form the right words.

“Maybe four months a year is better than nothing.”

Hesitance coats his voice, and the question goes unspoken. Is four months better than nothing? If I asked you out to dinner, would you accept? If I tried, would you let me?

“Oh,” you say again. You understand. You understand completely.

“Is this fine?” he asks from the other end of the call, from the other end of the world.

“Tooru, it’s –” you stammer. “If you don’t want to–”

“I miss you,” he admits. Like he did back at the train, and like you did back at the train, you believe him. “I miss home. I’ve been away for too long. I – I miss you.”

Your heart soars, you blink and a smile breaks from your lips, leaning back on the swivelling chair, nothing else but Tooru’s voice keeping you company in the empty office room. “Then hurry back.”

“Mama,” you start softly. “Remember when you told me to keep Tooru close? You were right.”

Your mother’s grave stares at you. Cracks are beginning to hug the stone, cracks that remind you an awful lot of her smile, the wrinkles on her face. Mama taught you about the strings, and the cards, and how fate deals people hands. Maybe she knew about him all along. You’ve never had her gift for it, but you like where it ends nonetheless.

Tooru appears from the corner of the old sakura tree, coat on and a sprinkle of white of snow sitting atop his head. He’s dressing warmly now. He doesn’t have the luxury of being not wrapped enough now that it’s winter. He lays down a small clump of white peonies and a box of zunda mochi in front of her, then he lights the incense candles without a word.

You look at him fondly. “Here he is now, at my beck and call.”

“Psh,” he huffs, but he doesn’t argue further. The string of smoke is starting to dance up.

You squat down beside him. “She always liked you, you know. Whenever we fought, she told me, ‘Go apologize to that poor boy. I’m sure it’s your fault because you have a sharp mouth and a bad temper.’”

“You did have a sharp mouth and a bad temper.”

“How ‘bout now?” you pout.

Tooru kisses your lips. Then he puts the back of his palm on your forehead. You blink. All around, Sendai is like a snow globe, a world suspended in cold. A snowflake lands on the tip of his nose. “Soft mouth, good temper.”

You smile, standing up. You wipe it away quickly with your thumb. “Let’s go?”

“Go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

You look at him, the way he’s crouched by the headstone. “Don’t make my mother love you more than she loves me.”

He shoots you a grin. “I can’t help it.”

You walk the cemetery, the familiar curve of the pathway, the familiar beat of the graves. Some tombs are cleaned, while others are swallowed by a mix of snow and fallen leaves. You wrap your hands around yourself, hearing footfalls, then the crunch of grass under a shoe.

“Cold?” Tooru asks.

“A bit,” you admit, moving closer. He opens his arms so you can nuzzle the fuzz of his coat by the side. The irony of it isn’t lost on you. He was the one who was shivering and trembling not a year ago. He’s a fast learner, or maybe all that was a ploy so you’d let him hold your hand.

“Wait,” he mutters, pulling out your green scarf out of nowhere. Maybe a pocket. How big are his pockets? He wraps it around your neck. One twine, then two, then three. He pinches your nose. “There. Better?”

“All better.” You start hesitantly, “So I was thinking…”

“Dangerous.”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes and move closer. “I was thinking, since you’re going back tomorrow, and I did buy a ticket…”

He looks at you, chin down and eyes wide in surprise. He keeps his cool. He didn’t know you bought a ticket. “Mhmm?”

You suggest, Tooru’s arm around you, “You could show me my sunroom?”

At seventeen: You’ve given more than you could take, and he’d taken more than he could give. At twenty-eight: He taught you how to demand, and you taught him how to offer. At twenty-nine: love, at the heart of things, is the stupid exchange gift he insists on doing every Christmas. It’s mostly composed of useless coupons and fast food chain toys, but he laughs like an idiot and wears red like he’s some sort of town mascot.

You love him terribly, your first love, walking with you now on the snow.

fin

#oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader

46 notes · View notes

thecousinsdangereux · 3 years

Text

the land of race car ya yas

A short little ficlet for @corvophobia who has drawn a bunch of art for the bees racer au of my dreams. This is ALL based on her drawings, so make sure you check out her stuff. Happy birthday, Amber! You are one of my two favorite British children. <3

(Please note that I know nothing about street racing. I've only watched the Fast and the Furious movies. Forgive me....)

“How’d you do that?”

Blake’s used to the question or some version of it, and maybe that’s why she takes in the words before she notices the tone, imagines a scowl (a lowered brow, hands curled into fists, the flash of teeth as the scowl turns into a snarl) with the same instinct that has her shoulders tensing. It’s only mid-turn that she realizes the question is laced with wonder rather than anger, but even this awareness doesn’t prepare her for the sight that meets her. It’s a woman, her smile wide and unrestrained by pesky things like self-consciousness or insecurity, and her eyes are nearly glowing in the low light, purple and bright and full of open admiration. Her black leather jacket, classic in cut, has the sleeves rolled up mid-forearm, revealing a prosthetic of black and yellow, and her grey jeans are tight, showing off a body that Blake has to work to avoid following the curves of. Her hair is long, blonde, curling around her shoulders and down her back, artful in its disorder, down to the single, stubborn cowlick at the top of her head.

In short, she’s beautiful, and Blake stares for longer than she should, feeling heat in her veins.

“Do what?”

She manages a response, but it’s absent minded. She’s just noticed the light dusting of pink on the woman’s cheeks, coloring the spaces in between her freckles, and it has her re-evaluating, pulling her thoughts to the effort she’s put into her own outfit that evening: a cropped and sleeveless hoodie with blocked colors of white and purple, tight leather shorts, and clunky boots that hit just under the knee. Blake looks good and this woman knows it, which makes them even on this particular front, and that's a settling sort of feeling.

“Win,” the woman says simply, her smile growing. “And don’t just say NOS.”

“NOS,” Blake drawls, just because she can, and she’s rewarded by the woman’s laugh, rewarded even more when she steps closer.

“No, but what’s your delivery method? Direct port, obviously, but you had to have used a custom kit, right? I’ve been telling you, Yang, I need to recalibrate yours. Can I look at your car? Would you mind if I just took a tiny peak just to see what you’ve done with your injection site? We really need to upgrade, Yang. A nozzle with less back pressure will give you a better squeeze. I’ve been telling you!”

She hadn’t noticed the other woman, but blinks at her now, a red blur waving her arms about, hoping from one foot to the other, firing out words faster than Blake — an aficionado of all things fast — can keep up with. The woman (Yang?) seems to find the act familiar and reacts with affection tinged with a false exasperation (put upon for Blake’s benefit or maybe as a means of gentle chiding), sighing and placing a hand on the smaller girl’s shoulder.

“And I’ve been telling you, you can’t just ask people to look at their shit!” She turns to Blake now, and this time her eye roll is definitely for Blake. “Sorry about that, I swear we’re not trying to steal any of your trade secrets. Ruby just… really likes cars.”

“It’s so pretty too,” Ruby coos, batting away Yang’s hand and taking a step towards the vehicle Blake had used to push past Yang at the last moment, a fact neither of these women seem to hold against her. “The purple stripes. But I bet the engine is prettier.”

It’s unprecedented, really. Blake’s been on the scene for a while — longer than she would admit to anyone here — first as a tagalong and now as a driver, but she’s never had an encounter quite like this. The unexpectedness of it all has her feeling off-balance, has her reacting without any of her customary cool anger as Ruby stares at her hood (as though if she focuses hard enough, she’ll be able to see through the metal to the parts underneath). Maybe that’s why Blake responds in a way that’s decidedly unwise, without any further thought at all.

“You can take a look. I don’t mind.”

“Really?” Ruby squeals, but doesn’t wait for Blake to confirm, darting around her and flipping open the hood in the span of three seconds.

“Really?” Yang asks, and the word sounds wildly different coming from her, sliding out from behind her crooked lips like thanks or maybe a challenge (or maybe both). “Not worried about my mechanic figuring you out before the next race?”

Blake should be, of course. But.

“Can’t say I am.”

“Maybe not the smartest move.” Yang crosses her arms; the chrome of her right glints under one of the flickering street lights. For the first time, she looks away from Blake’s gaze, eyes darting over to check on Ruby (who’s leaning so far into the front of Blake’s car that her feet nearly lift off the ground) and then to another group of drivers, a good distance behind them, but clearly watching in curiosity. It’s never wise to gather after a race, but everyone always does when it goes well, and for the first time, Blake’s glad for it. “She’s pretty vicious about giving me an edge. I wish I could say it was familial loyalty, but really, she just wants to make the fastest car in the city.” Yang pauses, tilting her head in thought. “Or country. Or world. Not sure when she’ll be satisfied, to be honest.”

“Sisters?” Blake asks. She can’t really see the resemblance, but then again, she hasn’t spent as much time looking at the younger of the pair, even though she should probably be less focused on the elder (the one not pouring over her engine. Sun and Ilia were going to kill her).

“Yeah.” Yang probably doesn’t realize how much her smile grows in the confirmation, saturated with pride and love. “Scary brilliant too. Give her five minutes with a car and she’ll take it apart, put it back together, and it’ll run better than it ever has. But all that means she always thinks it’s the car that puts a driver ahead.”

Blake arches a brow. “And you think she’s… wrong?”

“Well, yeah.” Yang’s closer than Blake remembers her being, maybe because her legs are long, her strides somehow longer, and it only takes a step before she’s close enough for Blake to feel the heat radiating off her body. “I know it’s only the driver that puts a driver ahead. That’s why I’m here talking to you instead of looking at your car.” Her lips twitch and she amends her statement quickly. “Part of the reason, at least.”

The other part of her reasoning is made pretty obvious when Yang’s eyes trace up Blake’s form once more. It should probably bother Blake, but it doesn’t, maybe because she’s done the same to Yang during this conversation (more than once). Still, there are things better avoided, and Blake knows this better than anyone. She does her best to get back on track.

“It wasn’t me,” she says (almost blurts), and then feels her neck warm when Yang looks at her quizzically. “Before, you asked how I won. But it wasn’t me, not really. You could have had it if you hadn’t fired your nitrous early. You were impatient.”

It’s too blunt, Blake knows this as soon as the words leave her lips. She’s backtracked too much, retreated into aloofness as she was wont to do, but Yang only laughs, and the sound cracks through Blake’s go-to defense, a corner of her lips curling before she can stop it.

“You’re right. I used to be way worse, back when I started out, but I’m a lot better now. Usually.”

“So what happened today?” It’s the question Yang wants her to ask, of this Blake is sure, but it hardly feels like a chore.

“Ah, bad luck, I guess. I took one look at the driver next to me and all that impatience came rushing back. All I wanted to do was finish the race and meet her properly.” She winks. Combined with the cheesy line, it shouldn’t work as well as it does (but it does). “I’m Yang.”

“Blake.”

They don’t shake hands, and Blake’s glad for it. There’s something buzzing between them, a tingling sensation at the tips of her fingers, the build up right before a lightning strike, and Blake’s not entirely sure what the contact — however brief and friendly — might do to her.

“Next time, maybe I’ll be a little more prepared.” Yang’s eyes roam across her face, settling once more on gold. “But probably not.”

“Immersion therapy,” Blake quips. “Give it time.”

Yang whistles sharply, and it takes Blake a moment to realize that she’s called her sister back over. (Blake had forgotten about her entirely, though the grease on her hands and face leads her to believe that Ruby had done a thorough dive under her hood, the sort Blake ought to be worried about.)

“Time is exactly what I plan on giving it. A lot of time, if you’ll let me.” Yang nudges her sister back in the direction they’d come from. Ruby waves, offers a wide grin of thanks, but Blake’s stuck on purple.

“Well. Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she murmurs.

“Looking forward to it.”

And Blake, who started racing to get away, who started racing to run, who started racing so she never had to stay in one place for long, finds that she is too.

—

“What the hell is your problem?”

Blake’s used to this question too, or some form of it, and this time, the tone is exactly what she expects. The small, white-haired woman in a vest and tie, however, is not.

“Listen, I’m sorry I hurt your boyfriend’s feelings by being a better driver than him, but you’re only embarrassing yourself now.” Blake takes another look at the woman’s attire; her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and — despite the country club hairstyle and the heels — the hint of a tattoo on her pale skin, just under the fabric makes up Blake’s mind for her. “Or… Girlfriend?”

“Not quite,” says a familiar voice.

Today, Yang has decided to show off her abs (and she most certainly does have abs) with a cropped jacket of black and gold checks, and Blake can’t quite bring herself to look beyond that for too long, though she catches the black driving gloves, the oversized and gold sunglasses, the oversized cargo pants. In the seconds it takes for Blake to wind her brain back up, Yang grins, cocksure, and continues.

“Though you were right about the gay thing. I mean, look at her.”

“Look at you,” the other woman sniffs, actually physically turning up her nose. “Could you be any gayer?”

“Yeah, I could be wearing a vest and tie,” Yang fires back, but it’s clear the banter is familiar, it’s obvious these two know each other well enough for their back and forth to not contain any real barbs.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Blake drawls, before she’s able to stop herself, and Yang turns back to her with an arched brow. “Good to see you again, Yang.”

“Oh, is it? Could have fooled me!” The other woman’s ire has been refocused, and it’s seemingly stronger than before, the pitch of her words higher, more dire. “Given you nearly killed her just now.”

“Weiss,” Yang sighs, but Blake winces, feeling the sting of the words despite Yang’s quick glance of reassurance sent her way.

“I didn’t realize you’d pull off when I drifted. I thought you’d… lean in.”

It’s not an excuse. They’d been neck and neck towards the end of the race (again), and when she’d nudged the side of Yang’s car — far gentler than she would against anyone else — she’d assumed the woman would give as good as she got, like most every other racer she’d gone against. But Yang hadn’t taken any chances, and it’d cost her the race.

“We don’t do that here,” the woman — Weiss — says, lips pursed to the point of contortion, but Yang only laughs.

“We do that here all the time. I did way worse to Mercury last week.”

“Yes, but Mercury is a creep.” Weiss pauses, considering. “We only do that to creeps here.”

Blake’s hands lift, a show of peace. “Hey, no one handed me the Beacon Street Racing Etiquette Guide when I joined up the other week. Maybe you could loan me your copy.”

This doesn’t exactly smooth things over with the woman, especially not when Yang snickers, but Weiss can clearly see the writing on the wall, and tosses her hair over her shoulder with a huff.

“Whatever. I’m telling Ruby about this,” she warns Yang (or maybe Blake, or maybe both of them), before stalking away, her last words called over her shoulder. “She’s not going to be happy.”

There’s no concern on Yang’s face as she watches her go, if anything she looks amused. “Sorry about that. She’s… protective.”

“I can see that. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been friends with someone for a while.” It’s a guess (and a probe), but Yang doesn’t correct any of her phrasing, so it must be close enough to the truth.

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean protective of me.” Yang’s grin shows a flash of white teeth. “Weiss bet on me tonight. You lost her money. And that’s the real sin.”

Blake’s surprised at how easily her laugh comes (more surprised how easily the fondness slips through the cracks in her chest). “Oh, I see. So I can kick your ass up and down the streets as long as I convince her to bet on me in the future? Good to know.”

“I’m not sure that’s the message I want you to be taking from this,” Yang drawls, but still smiles, flicking her glasses up to her forehead. “Besides, like she said, Ruby’s the one to look out for. She seemed all sweet and innocent yesterday, but gods help the person she turns her disapproving stare on. I’ve seen people break into tears on the spot.”

From what Blake had seen yesterday, Ruby isn’t the sort that loses her chipper bounce very easily, so despite Yang’s teasing tone, she files the information away as useful. If she were being a little more self-searching, she might question the action, given her tendency to not stick around in any one place for long. (Surely Beacon isn’t any different. Surely she couldn’t know now if it were.)

“Lucky she missed the race today, then.” Her lips curve, a sharp corner that would require a drift. “What, she couldn’t bear to see you lose again?”

“Oh, ha ha. No, she had class. And she knows there’s no skipping for racing; that’s the only hard and fast rule for our household.” It’s not what she expects, the straight answer backed with genuinity, but it strikes Blake as endearing, somehow, especially when Yang continues. “I started racing here so we could pay for those classes, so I think it’s only fair.”

“That’s — ” Kind. Authentic. Surprising. Blake’s not sure which word to use so she disgards them all. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type who was racing for the money. Not that… there’s anything wrong with that. Especially in your case.”

Yang laughs. “Hey, don’t mistake me. I started racing here for the money, but it’s not why I race in general.”

“So why do you?” Blake asks, even though she suspects she knows the answer. (It’s not wise to take your eyes off the road, but she’s done it in both of her races with Yang, eyes darting to the side to find the woman speeding alongside her: eyes wild, grin wide, the fervor of the moment all over her face. There’s freedom there, more than there is anywhere else, and Blake thinks she sees that in Yang as much as she does in herself.)

“Same as you, I think,” Yang murmurs, closer now, sliding in when Blake’s distracted once again.

“I’m not sure you know me well enough to say that.”

A bluff, of course, but it gets the intended result.

“Not yet.” From this close, Yang looks taller, and Blake has to tilt her chin to look into her eyes. “But I’m still looking to fix that.”

Blake wets her lips. It’s too much, and she’s not sure she can tack on ‘too soon’ to quantify the thought, make it less tame. If she had to guess, Yang will always be too much, like sunlight after coming out of a room. Blake’s not sure she’ll ever adjust to the rays, or if she wants to.

“Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she says again, and Yang laughs again, totally unabashed.

“Okay, I’m sensing a trend here. What, you’re not going to let me take you out unless I win a race again you?”

“If I say ‘yes’, what are you going to do?”

It’s not cockiness that overtakes Yang’s face then, not exactly. It’s confidence or want or determination or maybe just the flush that comes from the thrill of a challenge. Blake’s setting herself up for something here, she knows, failure or disappointment or something like it, but right then, she doesn’t care. There’s a freedom in this sort of race too, and that she’s come to love.

��Oh, that’s easy, Blake.” Yang leans in a little more, and Blake knows it’s audible, the way her breath is cut short. “I’m going to win.”

#bumbleby #writing #rwby #bees racer au #for #corvophobia #<33333 #just a little something for a birthday treat

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