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soobmint · 3 years

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paper hearts | choi soobin [f] ; [c] 80s! au, 9.6k words

s u m m a r y ; if there was one thing you wanted to avoid on valentine’s day, it was running into your ex best friend, choi soobin. but when a series of unfortunate events involving too much purple eyeshadow, drunken punches, and one stolen bicycle leads you right back to his side, you begin to realize that maybe you truly belonged with him all along.

c o n t e n t s ; soobin x fem!reader, 80s! au, valentine’s day, ex best friend! soobin, rich boy! soobin, but he’s a major dweeb and the biggest softie, yeonjun is a major prick (i’m so sorry junnie), reader is a part time worker, soobin is best friends with lee felix of stray kids, some themes of social classes, roughly inspired by the 80s movie “pretty in pink,” mentions drugs, alcohol, and single parent households, mostly just fluff, fluff, and more fluff, with a hint of crack/humor

n o t e ; hello friends! this was a very quickly planned, last minute valentine’s day idea, and it’s actually a collab with one of my dearest friends, @chanluster ! she posted her piece of the collab as well, you can check it out by going to the collab masterlist here! this was so much fun to write and i think that 80s! soobin was just too good of a concept to pass up! anyways, happy valentine’s day, i hope you enjoy this oneshot! do leave a like, reblog, or comment if you could, it really helps so much <3

[back to my masterlist] [oneshot playlist]

IF ONE MORE CUT-OUT, CRAFT-PAPER HEART HIT YOU IN THE FACE, YOU WERE GOING TO QUIT YOUR JOB.

Of course you would never actually quit. With your mother out of the picture and your father working nonstop overtime just to barely have enough cash to put food on the table for the both of you, you had come to rely on your minimum wage part-time hours more than you liked to admit. However, the handmade strings of paper hearts that hung from wall to wall throughout the entirety of the record shop you were employed at was enough to make you consider it; not to mention the Phil Collins record that had been spinning all day, filling your ears with melodies embodying the very air of romance, and the embarrassing pink sweater your boss had forced you to wear. You mumbled curses beneath your breath as you pulled at the collar, itching away at your neck.

When you made a step towards a crate full of records, ready to tidy it up after a customer had rummaged through it leaving it a mess, you were met with another face full of cheap red construction paper. With a large growl of exasperation, you swatted at the hearts and accidentally caused the entire string of them to fall to the ground. You cleared your throat, glad that no customers were present to see your little outburst.

Your boss, Jen, still saw it all.

“That’s not very festive of you, kid,” She said, taking a drag on her cigarette. “It’s Valentine’s Day! Lighten up.”

“Ah, my bad. I forgot that I was supposed to be overjoyed on the day honoring the execution of St. Valentine,” You said as you gave her a sarcastic smile. “I’ll make sure to smile at the next couple that walks in and ask them how they plan to contribute to the commercialization of a martyr’s death.”

“You must be real fun at parties,” Jen mumbled. She shook her cigarette at you from behind the counter. “You’re just bitter because you don’t have a valentine. I can’t blame anyone for giving you the cold shoulder with that attitude of yours.”

You scowled, picking up the string of hearts that you had sent crashing to the floor. “I’m not bitter, and I don’t want a date. Also, I told you to stop smoking inside! It smells awful.”

“Last I checked, this was my shop, not yours.” You rolled your eyes as you approached the counter, handing the discarded string to Jen so she could throw it in the trash. “Now you’re making me do chores for you too? You’ve got some nerve, I’ll give you that.”

“Jen, please, I’m really not in the mood for this today.”

Jen shrugged, bending towards the trash can to throw away the string of hearts when she paused and pulled something from the bin. You glanced over your shoulder and gasped when you saw what she held in her hand—a small red envelope with your name scrawled across the front and a pink heart-shaped sticker stuck on the back.

“What’s this?” Jen asked, opening the envelope and shaking out the contents. A single slip of paper fell out, landing atop the counter. You rushed to grab it, but Jen snatched it up just before your fingers reached the countertop.

“Give me that,” You insisted, face growing warm. “I threw it away for a reason!”

“It’s an invitation to a party?” She seemed beyond surprised, glancing back and forth between you and the paper several times. “You got invited to a Valentine’s Day party, and instead of going, you asked me to give you extra hours? Why?”

You looked down at your feet, digging the toe of your sneaker into the blue carpet. There were, in fact, many reasons why you did not want to go to that party. They were as follows:

One: Choi Yeonjun was the one who had invited you. After you had rejected his offer when he asked to take you to a basketball game a month before, you could barely make eye contact with him in the school hallway without feeling guilty. That and the fact that he was one of the richest preps in the school, you knew he had just been asking you out for some sort of prank or dare that you preferred to not potentially fall victim to.

Two: you needed to work as much as you could. Money, as always, was tight for you and your father. There was no way you would sacrifice precious hours to go to a party full of rich kids where nothing but humiliation was sure to await you.

Three: your old childhood friend and the one person you couldn’t bear to see was probably going to be there—Choi Soobin.

You had barely spoken to Soobin in the four years you had been in high school. Crossing paths with him in the cafeteria, turning down the same aisle of books as him in the library, all those tiny stolen glances and accidental encounters were the only bits of interaction you had kept throughout all that time. The worst part was, he hadn’t done anything wrong.

It was nothing but your own cowardice that had driven the two of you apart, and you were still too afraid to own up to it.

Instead of explaining all of this to Jen, you simply shrugged and said, “I dunno. It just sounds lame.”

Your boss sighed, holding the invitation out towards you. “Okay, I’m letting you off early. Go to the party.”

With wide eyes, you shook your head immediately. “Absolutely not. Why in the world would I go?”

“Well, first of all, it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity for you. Who knows when your next chance to go to a party will be.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at that.

“Second, it’s a holiday! The only reason I even opened today was because you were begging me for hours. I thought it was because you were bummed about having no plans, but clearly it’s because you wanted an excuse to be a recluse.”

“Hey, I’m not a recluse.”

“Clearly.” She shook the invitation at you once more, brows raised. “If you go, I’ll raise your pay by fifty cents for the next month.”

Your ears perked up at that.

“Well?” She asked, well aware that she had hit the jackpot. “What'd ya say?”

Weighing the risks against the benefits, you bit the inside of your cheek.

“Make it a dollar and you’ve got a deal.”

“HAPPY VALENTINE’S, CHOI.”

When Soobin heard the sarcastic remark coming from his best friend, Felix, he had to fight back the urge to burst into tears then and there. He still wasn’t quite sure how Felix had convinced him to come, but he was already regretting it. The last thing he wanted to do to celebrate the day dedicated to love was spend it at a house party—or, as Soobin preferred to call them, any outcast high school kid’s version of hell on earth.

With a quick peek between his fingers, which he had used to cover his eyes immediately upon arriving at the site of the Valentine’s party, Soobin caught another eye-full of couples getting all too familiar with one another out in the open. He gulped, letting his hands grip the handles of the bike as he averted his gaze, choosing to cast his best glare at Felix, who was busy adjusting his ever-present beanie.

“Shut up,” he murmured, slowly sliding off the seat of his bike. He dusted off the worn, tearing cushion, glancing around the area. “Now quick, we gotta put our stuff somewhere safe.”

Felix looked aghast, making no moves to help Soobin in his search for a hiding spot. “What are you doing?”

“Tryna find a safe place for my bike?” He thought the answer to be somewhat obvious, but clearly Felix wasn’t on the same track of thinking. “You don’t know today’s world! Anyone is willing to steal nowadays.”

“Soobin, your bike is coughing up oil from its chains. It should be in its own care home at this rate.”

“I don’t wanna hear your slander, skater boy,” Soobin retorted, eyeing Felix’s ebony skateboard that he refused to be seen without. As if on cue, when he pushed his bike forward, the chains squealed, drawing the attention of a pair of particularly passionate individuals who had been wrapped up with one another moments before. Soobin ignored their annoyed stares, feeling his ears burn from embarrassment. He glanced back to Felix. “Help me find a hiding spot.”

Felix was anything but enthusiastic, but he began to help Soobin search nonetheless.

“Slide it in here, Soobs,” Felix called a few moments later. He was pointed to an empty space between the home’s perfectly trimmed bushes. Soobin pursed his lips together, pushing his large glasses further up the bridge of his nose—a nervous tick of his. Felix groaned, rolling his eyes. “Or you can leave it out in the open so it’ll spit more oil on the passersby? Is that what you want?”

“Fine, fine!” Soobin huffed, wheeling his bike over to the shrubbery, chains squeaking all the way. He carefully laid it beneath the brush and moved a few branches to cover it up nicely. He stood up straight, dusting his hands on the front of his loose blue jeans. “What about your skateboard?”

Felix gave the board a pat, awarding his most prized possession a dazzling smile one would expect to see a proud father giving his beloved son. But in reality, it was the school’s stoner grinning ear to ear at his old, dusty skateboard. “Nightrider stays with me.”

Soobin scrunched his nose, cringing on instinct. He still calls that thing by that stupid name?

Felix clapped him on the shoulder before he could make a remark, catching him off guard when he said, “Right. Let’s go and get your girl.”

There was nothing Soobin could do to stop the flush that rushed to his cheeks right away. Images of you, his ex-best friend and the only reason he had even come to this party in the first place, flashed through his mind. Had he not overheard Yeonjun invite you earlier that morning and then casually mention the encounter to Felix, there was no way he would have even stepped foot out of his house that night. Part of him was peeved, wishing he had never uttered a single word about you to his overbearing friend. Yet, deep down, there was hope within him—the tiniest sliver.

If there was even the slightest chance that he could talk to you that night, he would do anything. Even if it meant dealing with a stupid party, and the never-ceasing teasing he was bound to continue receiving from Felix.

“Don’t even say that,” He said, emphasizing each word as they walked up the front steps. Soobin had to glance down at his much shorter friend to see the devious grin on his freckled face.

“Say what? That she’s your girl, your woman, your one and only?”

The blush must have been creeping to his neck by that point. He could feel it. “I. . .” There were many things Soobin wished to say; angry words that would hopefully shut the blonde skater boy up real quick. But he couldn’t bring himself to say a single harsh word, so he sighed in defeat. “I can’t even say it.”

“That you hate me?” Felix only grinned even bigger, and Soobin couldn’t help the tiny defeated smile that slipped over his features. “Oh, I know. It’s because I’m too good of a best friend.”

They stepped into the house then, instantly being overwhelmed by loud music, boisterous laughter, and drunken yells echoing throughout the halls. Soobin latched onto Felix right away, gripping his friend’s sleeve as someone stumbled into him, a bit of beer spilling from their cup. He pushed his glasses up, only for them to slide right back down as he began to sweat.

“Maybe we should go home, Lix!” Soobin shouted to be heard over the noise as they travelled further into the house. “We can always try next year!”

“Stop being a scaredy-cat!” Felix shouted back, and Soobin thought he might actually begin to cry as they squeezed their way into the living room. Soobin nearly gagged at the strong smell of alcohol as it burned in his nose. The scene was nothing short of a nightmare to Soobin—loud voices, smoke rising in the air, vodka assaulting his nose and sweat beading on the back of his neck. He had never been one to drink, and he didn’t plan on starting that night; but he was beginning to understand what Felix meant when he had once told him it was nearly impossible to get through one of these parties sober.

He was about to make another complaint and beg to leave when someone from the crowd hollered his name, causing him to wince when he recognized that voice as the one that belonged to none other than Choi Yeonjun.

“Soobin! Where you been?”

Soobin smiled nervously at the school’s heartthrob—and textbook snobby rich kid—before he turned back to Felix. He didn’t want to leave his friend, but he knew that he would never hear the end of it if he ignored Yeonjun’s persistent calls. “I’ll be right back,” He promised Felix, still holding onto his sleeve.

“No, no,” Felix assured. “You go. You’ll probably find her around that place anyway.”

Soobin wasn’t so sure of that. You were definitely not of the right social standing to be caught amongst the circle of the school’s rich boys—which was why it had surprised Soobin that Yeonjun had invited you to the party in the first place. Your high school had its own caste system, and you were near the bottom of it.

And, as much as it pained him to admit it, Soobin was stuck at the very top with all the other rich snobs who cared about nothing more than their daily allowances that came straight from their daddy’s bank account.

“What about you, buddy?” He asked Felix, desperate for any excuse to remain by his friend’s side. He would have tried to bring Felix with him, but his friend was in an even worse social standing than you were—he was poor, and he was most known for being the school’s pothead. There was no way Soobin would willingly drag him into a situation where nothing but slander and torment awaited him.

“Me?” Felix shrugged, gripping his board tighter. “I’ll just smoke away the night.”

Soobin pouted, glancing back at the group of preps as they called for him once again. He sighed, clapping Felix on the shoulder. “Just make sure you won’t smell too much of it when I come back.”

Submitting himself to his doom then, he turned on his heel and slowly made his way to where the group of boys sat near the sofa, giving them a half-hearted wave.

“Why were you hanging around that Felix guy?” Yeonjun asked once Soobin had reached their circle. “Did he blackmail you or something?”

Soobin frowned, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “He’s my friend.”

Yeonjun rolled his eyes, brushing a hand through his perfectly-straightened ebony locks. “Sure he is. Tell me, do you see every kid you find on the streets as some sort of personal charity project? Or is it just Felix and—what was her name—” He snapped his fingers then before he said, “Y/N, right?”

Soobin didn’t respond—well, it was more like he couldn’t respond. By nature he was a very passive being, but nothing drew him closer to bouts of anger than when the people he cared about were being insulted right before him.

Especially when it came to you.

Yet, as much as he wanted to tell Yeonjun off or give him a nice shove into the smoke-stained walls, words failed him. They always did. Perhaps this was why you had abandoned him all those years ago. Nobody knew him better than you did, so of course you were able to see what he truly was beneath all the expensive clothes and nervous laughter—a coward.

He figured that he’d probably have left himself too.

“Drink up, buttercup.” The chipper voice that belonged to the other Choi in the small gathering of socialites, Choi Beomgyu, thrust a plastic red cup towards Soobin’s chest.

He shook his head, throwing another wavering smile in his direction. “No thanks. I don’t drink.”

Yeonjun rolled his eyes. “Of course you don’t. Why are you even here then?”

Once again, Soobin chose silence as his only response. He swallowed, patting the front pocket of his denim jacket. As the group of boys began conversing once more, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander around the room, searching every drunken face for the features that belonged to you, trying to hear your name in every conversation, desperate for your voice to break through the blasting music and shouting voices.

“Who ya looking for there, Big Choi?” Soobin grimaced at the nickname. He was skinny, but incredibly tall, and nobody would let him forget that. “Big Choi” was one of his most common nicknames among the elitists. He despised it, but of course, he would never voice that aloud.

He glanced at Beomgyu and smiled nervously again, shaking his head. “Nobody.”

His eyes met Yeonjun’s and he gulped yet again as the latter eyed him with suspicion. It wasn’t as though he had anything to hide, but something about Yeonjun’s calculating gaze made his skin crawl.

He needed to escape. Just for a moment, at least.

“I’ll be right back. Going to find some water.”

He slipped out of the living room then, apologizing profusely to each couple he accidentally bumped into, bowing in remorse to each person’s toes his big feet happened to stumble over. He ached to be by Felix’s side—the stoned skateboarder had become somewhat of a security blanket to the taller of the duo—but his blonde friend was nowhere to be seen.

After snagging a bottle of water from the kitchen, Soobin managed to slip into an empty bathroom. He slammed the door shut and wasted no time in locking it. Letting out the biggest sigh of relief, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the door, taking a big gulp of the ice cold water.

He set the bottle on the counter and carefully reached into the front pocket of his jacket, his fingers finding the piece of paper he had been storing there all evening. He pulled it out and let his eyes wander over his middle school creation. It was a big heart, cut out from a scrap piece of red construction paper. Scrawled across it in his eight-grade handwriting were the words, Be mine this Valentine’s! His name was etched at the bottom, and at the very top, delicately printed in hot pink glitter glue, your name was written as well.

He had planned to give this to you four years ago on Valentine’s day. Everything had been planned out perfectly; he was to pick you up on his old, trusty bike. It wasn’t really made for two people, but the two of you had fashioned a makeshift extra seat for you to sit upon whenever you went places together.

He wanted to take you to the Dairy Shack, which was the local ice cream shop where the two of you spent the most time together. You always got a large chocolate shake to share, playing a quick game of rock, paper, scissors to decide who got to eat the cherry on top. He was going to order a shake and specially ask for two cherries that time, and planned to give both of them to you before he would bravely present you with the handmade card he had spent all day working on.

However, when he waited for you outside your house that day, the red dusk turned to pitch black night, and you never stepped foot out your door.

He had even gone up to your door a few times and knocked, but there was no answer. Eventually he pedalled off into the night, back to his house. He was disappointed, of course, but more worried than anything else. He had hoped you weren’t sick.

But when he saw you at school the next day, he knew that hadn’t been the case.

And when you ignored him calling your name as you passed by him in the hallways, he knew that something had drastically changed.

For weeks, Soobin was in great turmoil as he replayed your last few encounters together before you had stood him up. Perhaps you were angry that he had won the last few games of rock, paper, scissors? If he had known, he would have given you all the cherries for the rest of time if it meant you would still talk to him. He didn’t care about them—he cared about you.

He missed you.

And as weeks turned to months, and months turned to years, you still barely spoke to him, and he missed you more and more. The best friend he had wanted to take a step closer to had taken a thousand steps back from him, and he still had no idea why.

But that night, he was determined to find out.

Well, if he could muster up the courage to get a single word out, of course.

He folded the heart back up and stuck it back in his pocket, taking a deep breath as he observed himself in the fogged-up mirror. He fixed his bright blue hair that Felix had helped him bleach and dye, making sure the pieces fell over the corners of his eyes just right. He straightened his white turtleneck and cuffed the sleeves of his denim jacket until he was at least somewhat content with his appearance.

“You can do this, Soobs,” He told himself, adjusting his big round glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “That’s what Felix would say.”

“Hey, rich boy!” A loud scream came from outside the bathroom door, accompanied by harsh knocking that sent Soobin stumbling backwards until he fell in the shower, pulling the curtains down with him.

“Hurry up in there! I’m about to piss myself!”

Soobin let out a shaky sigh, scrambling to his feet as he rushed to fix the curtain he had torn down with his clumsiness. “Sorry,” he mumbled, though he doubted the person on the other side of the door could hear him.

He realized then with an ever growing dread that it would be a miracle if he survived the night long enough to even find you, but it would take the work of God himself for him to actually speak to you.

He figured it was time for him to start praying.

YOU KNEW IT WAS A MISTAKE TO LET JEN DO YOUR MAKEUP.

When she had stopped you on your way out the door with a compact of bright purple eyeshadow, you had turned her down right away. No way in all of creation were you walking in a party with such an atrocious color caked up to your brow bone.

“How can you say it’s gonna look bad if you haven’t even let me try?” Jen had asked.

You had given her a once-over, your lips pressed into a thin line. “If it’s gonna look anything like the way you do your own makeup, I’m gonna have to pass.”

After that snide remark, she had threatened to fire you if you didn’t let her apply the makeup. And so you obliged, though you didn’t have much of a choice.

The booming sounds of the party hit your ears before you had even reached the lawn. Screaming teens—well, there were probably some adults thrown in there as well—and the sound of music spilled through the open windows of the home. Couples and singles alike were scattered throughout the perfectly kept lawn that was now littered with empty cups and other assortments of garbage.

You looked down at your patchwork jeans and pink sweater, certain that you would be underdressed compared to the rest of the partygoers. But from the looks of things, as you carefully squeezed your way through the front door and into the home, everyone was probably too wasted to even notice your arrival, let alone care about your looks.

You caught a glimpse of your face in the hallway mirror, cringing at the sight of your eyeshadow. You had tried to wipe some of it away before arriving, but it simply smudged, giving you quite the shocking smoky, purple eye look. For someone who didn’t even know the difference between a paintbrush and a makeup brush, it was a bold look, to say the least.

If Soobin saw you looking like this, he’d probably have a heart attack.

Soobin.

In the midst of all your frantic preparation, you had nearly forgotten about the main reason why you had planned to avoid this party at all costs. With a quick glance around the room, you realized that he was nowhere to be seen. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t shown up at all. He was never a fan of parties, anyway.

You crossed your arms over your chest and slowly slipped past the couples crowding the hallway with their limbs intertwined, mouths practically swallowing one another whole, until you reached the living room. Surprisingly, it was less crowded in here than you thought it might be. A few minglers were scattered about the room’s perimeter, but they all kept away from the center of the room, which was occupied by none other than Choi Yeonjun and all his brainless, rich-boy worshippers. You quickly scanned the group, not able to make out Soobin among them. When you realized he wasn’t there, you were partly relieved and partly disappointed. If was to be anywhere at this party, it would probably be with these guys.

With a quick turn on your heel, you planned to make your way out of the living room before Yeonjun could see you. The last thing you wanted was for the boy with a bruised ego to see you, regardless of whether or not he had been the one to invite you.

“Y/N? You came?”

Too late.

Plastering a forced grin to your face, you slowly turned to face Yeonjun, who had just called your name. He was eyeing you with slight surprise, but soon, a smirk slipped across his lips as he motioned for you to come over. You had to hold back your sigh, wishing there was some way for you to get out of this situation. It was all Jen’s fault that you had to show up in the first place. You decided you were going to demand an extra ten cents be added to your raise the next time you saw your pushy boss.

“Hey Yeonjun,” you said once you had walked over to him. “I figured I’d stop by for a minute or two, since you were kind enough to invite me.”

He smirked, glancing at a few of his friends. They shared a knowing laugh with one another, but the meaning of it was lost to you. You wanted nothing more than to get away from them, but that wasn’t an option.

“You’re too busy to go out with me to a basketball game but free enough to come to a party, huh?” He asked.

You blinked, digging your nails into your arms. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s fine, really,” He drawled, swirling his plastic cup of beer in his hand. “You didn’t think I’d be upset or anything did you? I only asked you out because I was dared to shack up with you. But I’m guessing you already knew that, since you’re so smart and all.”

Your eyes went wide, but you managed to control the rest of your expression. It was just like you had guessed—Yeonjun had invited you to the party with the sole purpose of making a scene.

If you survived the night, Jen was never going to hear the end of it.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” He asked, pushing himself to his feet. You could tell by the slight stumble in his step and his hooded eyes that he had quite a bit to drink. He took a step towards you, causing you to back up immediately. Your back hit the wall, and you placed your palms against it as Yeonjun towered over you.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I know why you’re here anyways.” He leaned forward, his lips hovering near your ear. “You’re here to see Soobin, aren’t you? Since he’s the only one here willing to waste his time on filth like you.”

Your blood boiled, and you had to clench your fists at your sides to control your anger.

“Don’t,” You seethed, “Call me that.”

“Call you what? Filth? Or sweetheart? Why, is that something good old Binnie used to call you—”

He never got to finish that sentence, because with one big burst of anger, you stomped on his toe as hard as you could with your worn-out platform sneaker.

“What the hell!” He screeched, drawing the attention of several others in the room. His outburst even caused a few of the couples to pull away from each other’s faces long enough to eavesdrop.

Before you could even say anything back, lukewarm liquid was splashed up in your face, burning your eyes and nose. You gasped, running your hands over your eyes to see Yeonjun with his now empty cup of beer pointed towards you.

“Think twice before you act out against me next time, sweetheart. Never forget your place.”

Tears of anger burned in your eyes, and you scanned the room to see several people exchanging whispers and giggles as they glanced in your direction. You pushed past Yeonjun and quickly made your way out the back door of the house, unable to stand the humiliation for a moment longer.

Soobin arrived in the living room just in time to see you leave.

He wasted no time in rushing towards Yeonjun, grabbing hold of his arm. “Yeonjun, was that Y/N?” He asked, eyes quickly taking in the puddle of alcohol on the floor and the empty cup in Yeonjun’s hand. “What happened?”

“Nothing you need to worry your pretty blue head about, Big Choi. I just put her in her place is all.”

Soobin’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean you ‘put her in her place?’”

Yeonjun laughed, giving Soobin a nonchalant pat on the back. “Just drop it, would you? It has nothing to do with you.”

“What did you say, Yeonjun?”

Yeonjun was growing irritated now. He huffed out a breath, crossing his arms over his chest. “I said it has nothing to do with you, Soobin. I know you like to hang around people like that pothead Felix, but the rest of us live in the real world, where we’d rather not waste our time with those who have no future anyways. I bet he’s the one that got you to dye your hair that god awful blue, isn’t he?”

Soobin bit the inside of his cheek. He so badly wished to rip Yeonjun to shreds then and there. If he had Felix’s courage, the cocky bastard would have been knocked to the ground ages ago. But if there was one thing Soobin was sure he could never be, it was brave. And so, despite his rage, he remained silent, his eyes practically burning a hole through Yeonjun’s chest from how intently he was glaring.

It seemed as though Yeonjun was about to say something, but his eyes landed on the bit of red that peeked through the front pocket of Soobin’s denim jacket. Before Soobin had time to defend himself, Yeonjun had reached forward and snatched it from his pocket, revealing the large paper heart—his valentine for you.

“So this is why you care so much,” Yeonjun said, laughing as his eyes scanned the glittery words that decorated the page. “You want her to be your valentine.”

“Give that back,” Soobin said quietly, his hands beginning to shake.

Yeonjun instead lifted his eyes to Soobin, gave him a sickly sweet grin, and ripped the heart straight down the middle. He let the two pieces fall from his hands to the ground, and with them Soobin’s heart went also.

“You’re really willing to try and go against me, and for what? For the sake of a girl who can’t even afford a new pair of jeans and a boy that smokes his life away in the bathroom stalls?” Yeonjun took a slow step towards Soobin, his eyes glinting with a sinister determination. “You may be rich, Soobin, but if you choose to lower yourself to their standards, you may as well be dirt poor just like they are.”

With his hands clenched into tight fists, his glasses sliding down his nose, and his heart quite literally in two pieces on the floor below him, Soobin decided that he had had enough.

“I’d much rather be associated with people who are kind and have actual depth to their character than be lumped together with a bunch of pricks like you with no real personality—because that’s something you can’t buy with daddy’s paycheck.”

He had to physically restrain himself from slapping his hand across his own mouth in shock. It was as if the spirit of Felix himself had possessed him to say such harsh things. He wondered where Felix was then, wishing more than ever before to have his best friend by his side as he began to tremble from either the rush of adrenaline that coursed through his veins, or from fear. Or perhaps it was both.

He didn’t have time to ponder it any longer before Yeonjun’s fist collided with his nose, resulting in a sickening crack as pain echoed throughout his face in tidal waves.

He stumbled backward as people began to shout, raising his hand to his nose and gasping when he saw that his palm was covered in blood.

Beomgyu had his arms wrapped around Yeonjun, who was desperately trying to lunge towards Soobin once again.

“Knock it off, Yeonjun!” Beomgyu shouted, pushing the elder back. “His dad is on the school board! Are you trying to get expelled?”

Beomgyu looked over his shoulder at the still stunned Soobin, who was gaping at the blood that now stained his once white turtleneck.

“Get lost, Soobin,” Beomgyu said, to which Soobin only blinked in reply, his ears ringing.

“Now!”

Head spinning, Soobin picked up the two halves of his paper heart, stuffed them into his jeans, and stumbled out the same door he had seen you go through just minutes before. After checking to make sure his glasses were still intact—they were, thankfully—he shook his head in an effort to clear his mind of the static, eyes scanning the front lawn looking for any trace of you.

It didn’t take long for his eyes to spot you among the now dwindling crowd of partygoers. Your bright pink sweater stood out against the darkness, so he was able to recognize you even with your back towards him. He sniffed, wiping the back of his hand against his dripping nose as he slowly made his way to where you sat on the curb, your feet planted on the asphalt street. He wished that he looked a bit more presentable—when he played this scene out in his head over the years in which he would finally reunite with you, he never imagined himself dazed and covered in blood.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, he supposed.

When he reached you, he simply stood beside you in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say. He could tell that you sensed his presence, but you refused to look up at him as you kept your face buried in your hands. He could have sworn he heard a few muffled sobs slip through your fingers, but of course, he wasn’t going to bring that up.

Eventually he decided to slip his jacket off of his shoulders, leaning down to drape it over you. You still kept your head down as he sat beside you on the curb, but he watched you grip the jacket and pull it tighter around your body. He smiled a bit, holding the collar of his turtleneck against his throbbing nose.

“Thank you,” you muttered, wiping your hand across your eyes. You finally looked over at him, and when you did, you couldn’t hold back your gasp. “My God Soobin, what happened to your face?”

“Oh, well, I might have gotten punched,” He said quickly, trying to wave off your concern. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Punched? By who?”

He looked down at the ground, sniffing as a drop of blood hit the pavement. “Yeonjun,” he muttered under his breath.

“I’m sorry, did you just say Yeonjun? Are you insane? Why on earth would you butt heads with the Choi Yeonjun?”

Soobin didn’t say anything in response, he simply stared at you, eyes wide with beer dripping off the ends of your hair, makeup smeared across your face, your sweater stained down the front. It didn’t seem to take long for you to put the pieces together, as the shock left your face and was replaced with something akin to guilt.

“Oh,” You said, looking back down at your shoes.

“So she knows that I did it all for her,” Soobin thought.

For some reason, the idea of that both terrified and excited him.

A second later, he glanced over to see you ripping one of the hand-sewed patches of fabric off your jeans, leaving a square of your skin exposed to the chilly night air. You leaned towards him, pushing his hand away from his nose so you could use the patch to clean up some of the blood on and around his puffy red nose.

“Y/N, your pants!” He exclaimed, trying to push your hand away. “They’re ruined!”

“I’m not worried about my pants, you idiot,” You said, swatting his hand away as you continued to press the cloth against his skin. “You got punched in the face because of me, this is the least I could do.”

“That was my choice though,” He muttered, although he stopped trying to resist your touch. He ignored the way his heart thrummed harder in his chest, hoping that you couldn’t hear.

“Well, this is my choice too.” Your eyes flicked to his for a brief moment, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. “Why did you do it, by the way?”

“Do what?”

“Stand up to Yeonjun for me and get a nasty nosebleed as a result.”

“Oh.” He blinked slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on yours. “Just ‘cause.”

“Because . . . ?”

“Because of you.” He blurted, causing your hand to go still against him. He swallowed his fear, braving the best smile that he could. “Just you. That was my only reason.”

You didn’t say anything as your hand fell from his face, the cloth clutched between your fingers. The anxiety he had tried his best to suppress came rushing up all at once, and he was surprised that his ears didn’t begin to squeal like a tea kettle from all the pressure.

“Y/N,” He said, gently placing his hand over yours despite how his fingers trembled. “Why did you pull away from me?”

“What?”

“Four years ago. Why did you stop talking to me?”

You were quiet for a moment, digging into the ground with the toe of your sneaker. Soobin held his breath until you finally replied with, “I was afraid.”

“Afraid? Of what?”

“We were getting older, Binnie,” You said, and his heart skipped at the use of your old nickname for him. “You and I, we’re from very different walks of life. You get to hang out with people like Yeonjun, whereas I get a cup of beer poured all over my face just for existing, and you get a fist to the nose for trying to stand up for me. We’re from different sides of the track, one might say.”

“So?” Soobin asked, his hand tightening around yours. “Did you really think that would affect us that much, Y/N?”

You frowned, glancing down at his hand over yours.

“I thought you’d be embarrassed of me,” You said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Embarrassed?” Soobin’s eyes went wide as he gripped your hand tighter still, pulling it into his lap. “Y/N, I would never, ever be embarrassed of you. Besides, have you seen my best friend? He’s on a first name basis with the principal because of how often he gets written up for smoking behind the school. If I’m not embarrassed of him, why would I ever be embarrassed of you?”

You laughed, wiping the back of your hand across your eyes once more. “I guess I was worried about nothing, huh?” You sniffed, giving his hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Soobin.”

He shook his head, squeezing your hand right back. “Don’t apologize. You’re here now, that’s what matters. Do think we could—you know—”

“Pick up where we left off?” You smiled, nodding vigorously. “I’d like that very much, Binnie.”

He beamed then, almost pinching himself to be sure that he was not dreaming, but the pain in his nose was real enough to remind him of that on its own. He jumped to his feet, pulling you right up with him.

“In that case, how about we finally go on that Valentine’s date I had planned all the way back then?”

“Date?” You asked, a brow raised. “Is it really considered a date if two friends are just hanging out?”

He didn’t respond as he pulled you along behind him towards the bushes where he and Felix had hidden his bike. He crouched down and moved the branches aside, feeling his heart drop to his stomach when he realized that his bike was, in fact, no longer there.

He shot up, turning to face you with eyes wide. “Felix—that bastard took my bike!”

You were quiet for a moment, but then, you burst into boisterous laughter, leaving Soobin utterly confused.

“It’s not funny, Y/N!” He whined, shoving your shoulder lightly. “I was supposed to take you to the Dairy Shack on my bike!”

“It is funny,” You said between bursts of laughter. “Only you would get such a rusty old piece of metal stolen from you.”

He pushed his lips out in a pout, sliding his glasses up his sore nose. “It’s a good bike, don’t make fun of it.”

You grinned, interlocking his fingers with yours, which was enough to instantly wipe the pout right off his face.

“Let’s just walk, Binnie. The Dairy Shack isn’t that far anyways.”

You were right; the walk to your favorite milkshake place was very close to the house where the party had occurred. Although Felix stealing his bike had thrown an obvious wrench in his plans, it was a minor hiccup, and one he could most definitely handle. Besides, he wouldn’t have to see Felix until the next day anyways. He could deal with his frustration then.

At least, that’s what he thought anyways, until the two of you spotted Felix at the skatepark on your way to the dairy shack.

Soobin’s eyes took in the deplorable sight before him—from where he stood on the dimly lit sidewalk, he could see Felix and a girl he had never seen before, their faces nearly pressed together, and most importantly, with his bike discarded a few yards away from them.

“Soobin,” You said, tugging on his arm. “They look like they’re busy, let’s just go—”

But Soobin, who had little patience when it came to Felix messing up his plans, didn’t let you finish before he screamed, “Give me back my freaking bike!”

You had to hold back your snort of laughter at his choice of words. Even when he was trying to sound angry, he was undeniably adorable.

Soobin watched as Felix startled, clutching his spliff between his fingers as he glared daggers back at his friend. Soobin gulped, trying not to let his fear show on his face. What did he have to be afraid of, anyways? He was the victim of thievery, and his best friend was the offender.

Felix took a big step towards him, but he paused, his eyes landing on your interlocked hands. Soobin glanced down as well, his face growing furiously warm as he realized the situation he had gotten himself into.

He decided to divert the subject before it could even be brought up by saying, “I can’t believe you stole my bike! All this time I was trying to hide it from strangers, but you, my best friend! I should’ve been hiding it from you!”

Soobin noticed Felix’s female companion step off the skateboard and walk over in his direction, and for a second he felt bad for possibly ruining her night with his best friend. However, his frustration was more prominent in the moment as he fixed his gaze back on his best friend, who had fixed a mischievous smirk upon his face that made warning sirens blare in Soobin’s head right away.

“Now, now, buddy,” Felix said, his voice calm and carefree as ever. It probably had something to do with what he had just smoked, but Soobin didn’t care all that much. “You’re just gonna have to let me borrow it for a little longer.”

Soobin nearly laughed at the audacity of such a statement. “You are gonna give me the bike, or—”

“How about this, Soobs?” Soobin’s lips clamped shut at his friend’s interruption, as the thief in question gestured with his joint to where Soobin’s fingers were locked with yours. “You let me keep your bike for the night, and I don’t tell your dad about you hanging out with the opposite gender.”

Unable to control yourself, you let out a big laugh. Soobin would have felt betrayed, but he was more terrified than anything else at the idea of his father finding out that he was taking a girl out without his permission. He would be grounded for weeks—no, months.

“You wouldn’t.”

Felix’s lips curled up even more into a twisted grin that Soobin wished he had the guts to slap off his face. “God, just imagine the look on Mr. Choi’s face. Imagine him finding out about your premarital hand holding.”

No. Not the hand holding.

Soobin almost felt faint, but he steeled himself to the best of his abilities as he cleared his throat. “One night, Lix,” he warned. “If I don’t see it on my porch in the morning, you’ll be sorry!”

“Oh, I’m so scared,” Felix teased. His expression changed a moment later though, when he finally noticed Soobin’s swollen nose and blood-stained turtleneck. “Wait, Soobs, the hell happened to you?”

Soobin, however, had already taken his first steps away from the skatepark, pulling you along behind him. “I’ll tell you later, bud. Enjoy your spliff with that kind girl who you probably don’t deserve!”

“Hey!”

Soobin couldn’t help but laugh as he swung your interlocked hands together, grinning as you let out a laugh as well. The anger that had seeped through him seemed to melt away in an instant as the two of you continued your journey to the Dairy Shack.

“Would your dad really be that upset if he found out about this?” You asked.

Soobin grimaced. “We should probably wait til next year to tell him about this outing. Or maybe the year after that.”

When the two of you had finally reached the Dairy Shack, you waited outside for him while he went in to order your drink. A large chocolate milkshake, with two straws, just like you used to get every time before.

When he had the drink in hand, he walked back outside and sat down beside you on the curb, smiling as you wrapped his jacket tighter around your shoulders. You smiled back up at him, your eyes creasing from the expression. Your smile had always struck him right to his core; he had missed seeing it every day.

He hoped he could see it every morning and every night from that day onward. There was no way he would let you go this time.

He just had to muster up the courage to grab hold of you first.

“You know what, Binnie, you turned out to be a lot taller than I thought you ever would be,” you said as you took one of the straws from his hands. “You’re actually enormous. It’s shocking.”

“Should I find that offensive? It sounds kinda like an insult.”

“Take it however you will,” You teased, leaning over as he popped the plastic lid off the milkshake. He grabbed the cherry by the stem and held it towards you.

“What are you doing?” You asked, holding out your fist. “We have to rock, paper, scissors for it. Remember?”

Soobin laughed as he shook his head. “I’m giving it to you this time. It’s what I planned to do all those years ago, when I asked you to hang out on Valentine’s.”

You seemed to be taken aback, but you simply shrugged as you plucked the cherry from his hand and pulled it from the stem with your teeth, glancing back over at him. It was silent for a moment, but then your eyes landed on the pocket of his jeans, where you could see a bit of red paper poking out. You leaned over even further, reaching your hand out to snatch the paper.

“What are you—hey! Give that back!”

Soobin desperately tried to take his Valentine back from you, but it was too late. You held both halves of what used to be a whole in your hands, your eyes scanning the words as you pieced them together.

“Soobin . . .”

He held his breath. Had his act of young love left you completely speechless? Were you so touched that you would burst into tears?

“This looks like a middle schooler made it.”

He let out the breath in the form of a long, long sigh.

“That’s because it was made by a middle schooler,” He said as he set the milkshake down beside him. “I made it back in the eighth grade. I planned to give it to you that Valentine’s.”

“Oh.” You ran your finger along the card’s surface, the smallest smile creeping across your lips. “Well in that case, it’s not half bad. Why’s it ripped though?”

“Ah—well, Yeonjun . . .”

You nodded, taking another glance at his swollen nose. “No need to elaborate. It seems you had a lot planned for our Valentine’s Day back then. Is there anything else you wanted to do?”

His mouth went dry at that, and he wished that you couldn’t see his face because he was sure that his expression was quite comical. All the way back then, four years prior, he had in fact planned the perfect, ideal day in his head. Picking you up on his bike, giving you the cherry from his milkshake, and presenting you with his hand made card.

There was only one thing left on his list.

He didn’t move at first, willing himself to have enough courage to even look back in your direction. But when he finally did allow his eyes to meet yours, he felt his shoulders relax and his heart rate became more manageable.

He took a deep breath, leaned forward, and pressed his lips against your cheek.

He lingered there for only a moment before he pulled back, daring to pry one of his eyes open to take in the look on your face.

The disappointment was palpable—from the way your brows furrowed together and the way you pursed your lips. His stomach dropped, and he scooted the tiniest bit away from you.

“I’m sorry,” He blurt out, his face growing warmer by the second. “I shouldn’t have done that, I just—”

“Is that all?”

Your question stopped him mid-ramble, his eyes growing wide. “Huh?”

“Is that all?” You repeated, closing the distance between you that he had created. “It’s Valentine’s Day, Soobin. I think we can do better than a peck on the cheek.”

The implications of what you were saying didn’t register with him right away, but when it finally did, he could have sworn his heart began to beat loud enough for the entire town to hear. His hand curled into a fist as he gripped the denim of his jeans. He leaned forward, keeping his eyes open just enough to watch you as he brought his lips closer to yours. He could feel your eyes on him all the while, causing his heart to pound fiercer still within him.

When he was just a breath away, he whispered, “Can you close your eyes?”

“Hm?”

He lifted his hand, gently placing it over your eyes. He leaned closer then, filling the space between you both as his lips met yours. You tasted vaguely of cherry and strawberry slice soda, and he found it quite nice the way his lips seemed to fit perfectly against your own. As the seconds drew on, your hands slipped around his neck, pulling him closer. He slowly let his hand fall from your eyes, tracing lines with the tips of his fingers down your cheek before he cradled your jaw, letting his lips part just enough to taste the sweet sugar on your lips once more.

He thought in a haze that it was a good thing he didn’t drink anything at the party, as kissing you was proving to be intoxicating enough on its own.

When you finally pulled away, leaving your forehead resting against his, he let his eyes flutter open enough to see the euphoric smile that adorned your features. He grinned as well, gently running his thumb against your cheek.

“I think that back then, I had planned to ask you this before kissing you,” He whispered, “But Y/N, will you be my Valentine?”

Instead of a spoken answer, you laughed, leaning forward to capture his lips with yours once again, and that was the only answer Choi Soobin would ever need.

WHEN SOOBIN ARRIVED HOME THAT NIGHT, HE WENT STRAIGHT FOR THE TELEPHONE.

It was kept upstairs at night right outside his parent’s door, to keep himself and his brother from using it in the late hours. Of course, this never stopped Soobin from sneaking it downstairs to his room in the basement to make late night calls to Felix.

And that particular evening, he really needed to give Felix an update.

He grabbed the phone from the small table in the hallway, carefully tiptoeing towards the basement stairs. Before he had even taken the first step down, the bathroom door creaked open. Soobin whipped his head around to see his brother Kai standing there, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he raised a brow at his older brother.

Soobin froze, blinking slowly as he realized the incriminating situation he found himself in.

“Please don’t tell mom,” He whispered, his eyes pleading with his younger brother.

Kai nodded, although Soobin wasn’t quite convinced that the boy was even coherent enough to understand what was going on. Soobin offered a rushed thank you, and ventured his first step down the stairs.

Well, he tried, anyways, and ended up missing the first step. He tumbled down the rest of the stairs, landing on his butt at the very end.

He winced in pain, glad to see that the phone was still intact in his hands. He glanced over his shoulders to see Kai staring down the stairway with wide eyes, his lips parted in shock. Soobin quickly put a finger to his lips, begging his brother for silence.

Kai simply shook his head and walked away, allowing Soobin the freedom to breathe out a sigh of relief.

He quickly ran to his bedroom and shut the door, collapsing onto his bed with the phone as his breaths came in ragged gasps as an aftereffect from his tumble down the stairs. He figured he should have dialed Felix’s number right away, but he couldn’t help but brush his fingers against his lips, remembering the feeling and taste of having yours pressed against them.

He was so caught up in his daze that he didn’t notice Felix calling until the third ring.

He picked it up, breathing heavily into the speaker as he rubbed a sore spot on his lower back.

“Please tell me that panting is from running a marathon, and not what I think you’ve successfully tried.”

Soobin nearly gagged, holding the phone away from his face as he coughed, flustered by his friend's crude words. He brought the phone back to his face and said, “No, you sicko, I just fell down the stairs.”

“How the hell did you manage that with those long legs?”

“That’s not important, Lix!” He laid back onto his pillows then, twirling the phone cord in his hands as he stared up at his ceiling, the memories of his adventure with you that night flooding his mind once more. He couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear as he said, “Look, I need to tell you something important.”

If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought that he could hear the smile in Felix’s voice too as his friend replied.

“Well buddy, I got something to tell you too.”

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johannstutt413 · 4 years

Text

(requested by anonymous)

The Doctor was in his office, ostensibly working but in reality doing anything but. Something had been weighing on him for almost two weeks now, something so potent he seriously had contemplated taking a day off to give himself the time he needed to process it better: he’d fallen in love with Kal’tsit. It certainly hadn’t happened overnight, but it was a rather difficult pill to swallow, as he was certain she wanted nothing to do with him. Well, romantically, at least; they did a lot of work together, ate a meal a week together, had long work-unrelated conversations whenever one visited the other’s office, but that was completely unrelated. After all, who’d want to date someone like him? It was simply impossible.

And yet, his desire was too great to sit idly by while she had no idea about his feelings, so today, he was taxing his brain for some way to tell her that had better than even odds of success...but ultimately, there was only one way to go about his confession. They were going to lunch today; that gave him about half an hour to figure out what he was going to say.

Meanwhile, in her office, Kal’tsit was staring at her screen, refusing to give up trying to do work but, ultimately, completely unable to manage it. This wasn’t the first time this had happened - after all, she’d fallen for the Doctor with just about the same quickness once before - but...was it possible to be in love with the same person despite the fact that, personality-wise, they were now two completely different individuals? She’d accounted for having a residual emotional attachment from the first time, but even considering that, the Doctor as he was now was equally as attractive to her as he was before his amnesia struck, if not more so because...Well, put plainly, the old Doctor was much more of a jerk. Maybe time had made her a different person, too, just with her memory of the old still intact…

Today was the day, Kal’tsit had decided. She was scheduled to have lunch with the Doctor, like usual, and this time for sure she’d tell him. After all the other times she’d come within seconds of confessing she loved him but didn’t, she’d had enough of her own cowardice. She only had to tell him once like this...every other time would be much easier here after. ‘You can do this, Kal, you can do this.’

As per their usual, they met in the hall, each on their way to the other’s office, and turned at their exact point of intersection to the nearest restaurant - their usual place, an out-of-the-way cafe that had amazing desserts. It was a short walk, but enough for the pair to sense the mutual awkwardness without any explanation for it. This wasn’t going to be nearly as simple as they’d hoped.

“Good afternoon!” Their usual server was at the front, as if expecting them to arrive any minute (fair). “The usual place?”

“Yes, please,” the Doctor confirmed, already feeling the sweat on his back.

Once they’d sat down and placed their orders, Kal’tsit gave him a worried look. “Are you okay, Doctor? You seem tense.”

“Oh, it’s...it’s...” It wasn’t nothing, and he didn’t want to lie. “I need to tell you something, but the words are stuck in my throat.”

“Oh. I need to tell you something, too.”

Ah, good, something to segway out of later. “You can go first, then.”

“I’m not sure I can...I’m having trouble, too.” She sighed. “It used to be so easy.”

“Oh...Something the other me would know, then?”

Kal gave him a non-committal wobble of her head. “Not exactly? I didn’t have to say it to him like this...Here’s an idea.”

“Thank God,” the Doctor sighed. “I have absolutely none ideas on how to get out of this.”

“We’ll ask each other at the same time; don’t worry about if we hear each other, let’s just say the words first, and then it should be easier, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense...Should we do a count-off?”

“Let’s.” She took a breath. “1.”

“2.”

“3.”

Simultaneously, their eyes closed, both said aloud, “I love you!”

“Wait...” Kal’tsit opened her eyes to look at him, somewhat shocked. “You do?”

“That’s exactly what I was going to ask.”

She crossed her arms. “I said it first.”

“Fair.” The Doctor sighed, albeit with a smile. “It’s much easier to say when you know it’s reciprocated, but yeah. I love you, and I have for a while, but I just...I didn’t think it was possible you’d love me back.”

“I had to be sure it was you I’d fallen in love with again, not the thought of the old Doctor being back. Honestly, though, you’re the better of the two, in several ways...Wait, have we really-”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s exactly what happened.”

“Son of a bitch.” Kal’tsit sighed, shaking her head. “At least we finally cleared that up. Do you want to move back in with me?”

“It’s kind of early for that, isn’t it?”

She sank a little in her seat. “It might be, I guess.”

“Oh, right, move ‘back’ in.” He leaned forward, sliding his glass out of the way. “Are you cold at night, Kally?”

“...Yeah.”

The Doctor held out his hand. “Do you want me to keep you warm?”

“You have no idea.” She took it. “I’ve turned off the AC, I’ve bought extra blankets, I had Closure make a pillow that heats up like an electric blanket, and none of it makes up for the empty space next to me.”

“I think my body remembers the feeling even if my mind doesn’t. Do you remember the holiday party about a month ago, when I gave you a hug that lasted too long?”

Kal’tsit shook her head. “Even if you thought it was too long, I probably didn’t...But honestly, I don’t remember anything about that evening.”

“Oh.” That explained a conversation or two. “Never mind, then.”

“Was it too long because you didn’t want to let go, or because I was clinging to you?”

He shrugged. “We only broke it off because Provence bowled through us running from Red after she’d gotten one too many cups of punch.”

“It was the punch? No wonder I don’t remember that night.” She smiled to herself. “I had no idea it was spiked.”

“Someone swapped the labels on some of the bottles in the drink cabinet, so I accidentally used vodka instead of ginger ale. I realized it after my first cup, but...well, it was a bit late to fix it, and honestly, most of our Operators seemed to like it better that way. Maybe something to do intentionally next time?”

She thought for a moment before nodding. “I’ll know ahead of time, so I won’t drink as much...after all, I can’t afford to miss any more time with you.”

#arknights #dr. kal'tsit (arknights)#more of the kally-co #heh i like that one #submit cute nicknames for Operators at [radio static]#arknights fic

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palmerasenfuego · 4 years

Text

An Open Letter to His Cop Father

My hope is to make clear, maybe for the first time, my perspective on a variety of points of contention between you and me, not so that we can reconcile them necessarily, but so that I won't feel the need to tiptoe around you any more. Addressing this problem I have with codependency and self-censorship has been my task ever since I left my ex, and I think you yourself would agree that in the last year and a half, I have become much more vibrant and present than I ever was as the kowtowed ghost who let his controlling girlfriend dictate the terms of his existence. In the following letter I strove to be unsparing, but only for the sake of clarity. I don't hold any resentment towards you. I want to take ownership of my own role in our dynamic so that we can move into the future, unencumbered.

A few months ago, you and I argued over my career with regard to the classes I plan on taking for my Masters in library science. After we'd each calmed down, you said that you were only suggesting I keep my options open, as we'd both noted that the future of public libraries, and indeed social services generally, is uncertain at best and possibly doomed. You merely meant to suggest that I look into classes that would prepare me for information career opportunities in the private sector, in the probable case that public libraries no longer exist in the future.

At the time I didn't want to argue any more, and I agreed that you had made good points. I would keep my options open. What you didn't understand, however, was that I only grew "defensive" about my plans after I thought I presented them as exactly what you claimed to be suggesting—that is, I would look into a variety of library and information science related fields while keeping my focus, somewhat idealistically, on public libraries. But then you interjected, as you so often do, with all the reasons why my plan might not be such a great idea. Had I considered the uncertain future of public libraries? (Of course I had.) Wouldn't a librarianship at a prestigious museum be a more stable and lucrative career? (Maybe, but nothing's a safe bet.)

Because I stood my ground, because I intend to fight for what I believe in while I still can, you accused me of being 'defensive.' There's always an underlying tension between us, you said, which is something I don't deny. Why do I always seem resentful? you asked. You accused me of only viewing you as a resource to draw on without any care for you as my father, a totally unfair and manipulative thing to say of your son who followed you and your other son for a decade, watching you coach his brother’s baseball team, without him; your son who desperately wished his father understood his art and literature recommendations, but knows they'll usually go unheeded; your son who, despite knowing what his father did to his mother, and resenting that his father won't speak with his mother at all, still loves his father.

You can't seem to recognize sometimes that your mistakes could have had any effect on the way you and I relate, and I think you think any antagonism between us is me blindly rebelling, an absurd image to have of me, the most docile black sheep any flock has ever had. To be clear, what causes the tension between us is a feeling in me that I won't even be heard if you've previously decided you're in the right. So rather than speak up, I generally keep my mouth shut, which is not healthy for me, nor is it productive of the kind of relationship I'd hope to have as an adult with my father.

You would prefer that I not stake my future on public librarianship, because you would not do that. Therefore, I shouldn't do that. I don't care whether you disagree with me. Ultimately, none of this letter is about convincing you of anything. What I want to address is that I have never felt like my voice would be heard, by you or anyone, really, which is in part a result of having my perspective so often subjected to critical (over)analysis from you, as in our argument over public libraries. Or, it’s a result of having my enthusiasm mocked anytime you and my brother didn't appreciate something I did. 2001: A Space Odyssey is a masterpiece of American art, and you Philistines didn't watch more than 15 minutes of it, but to this day you make fun of me for wanting to watch it with you.

When we had disagreements over any supposed transgression on my part, you quickly dropped the pretense towards being a concerned parent to assume your interrogation persona, with me the guilty-until-proven-innocent suspect. One of the oldest tricks to get someone to fess up is asking the same question several times, forcing the suspect to repeat their story. Any time you seemed suspicious I wasn't answering your questions straight, it would be "You sure? Positive? Nothing else?" The only thing missing was the aluminum chairs and the spotlight in my face. All disagreements were structured this way, with you above, already having the answers, and me below, forced to acquiesce to the judgement presumed. Attempts to defend myself when I felt I was unfairly accused were met with the reprimand to not "talk back," something I've internalized deeply, corrosively, finding myself drawn, in friendships and in love, to those who shout me down or laugh me out. As a result, my natural cowardice and timidity have festered for years.

You have long urged me, since childhood, to be more assertive, less passive, to stop "playing the victim," and these were not unfair or inaccurate criticisms. Like Kafka with his father, none of this is to say I blame you for the effect you've had on me and my inability to speak up. I was a timid child, easily influenced by social pressure and a need for approval, most especially from you. From my child's view I was enamored of what you seemed to represent, which I suppose is unremarkable, as sons and fathers go. Perhaps also unremarkable of fathers and sons is how elusive your approval seemed to be. There was never outright disapproval of me from you, and I always knew you "supported" me. But let's not pretend like we at times did not and do not appear alien to one another. Which is normal, healthy, so long as it's accepted, because we’re separate people, but the trouble fathers and sons get into is they each seek validation from the other—the father struggles to impose his own standards on the son and see his progeny flourish as so judged by the standards imposed, and the son seeks to establish himself as his own person, separate but unable to escape the looming shadow of his father, the son's primary model for what a person is.

One instance where I probably tried to voice an objection to your discipline, an instance where I knew the gravity of the issue you wanted to convey but disagreed that what I'd done deserved such a strong reprimand from you, was when I drew a Klansman in my notebook, being the bored and doodling 8th grade boy that I was, watching a documentary about the Klan in history class. I wasn't approving of the Klan by drawing a man in a pointed hood, but to your credit, you saw an opportunity to make clear the need to take seriously the violence and oppression that African-Americans have faced in this country, and to never trivialize symbols of that violence and hatred. (Fatefully, I was similarly firmly scolded by my mom when she saw a swastika in one of my notebooks, which is when I learned my Polish grandmother escaped the Nazis as a small child in the belly of a freight ship, traumatized by the sight of dead stowaways floating past her, and this after the death of her brother at the hands of fascist thugs.)

When the black community today raises the cry "Black Lives Matter," what they want is a reckoning from American society for the way that black life has historically been deemed disposable. Africans were ripped from their mother country, brutalized on a treacherous trans-Atlantic voyage, and sold off in a land where the climate and environment were entirely alien, their various languages as unintelligible to one another as to their masters. They were subjected to centuries of horrific slavery, whippings, rape, and familial rupture. Any who managed to escaped their bondage risked dogged, murderous pursuit by slave patrols. The de facto opponents of slavery won a civil war and slavery was abolished, and for another century black people were terrorized with lynchings by whites (who were never prosecuted), all while being denied economic opportunity and treated as less-than-second-class citizens in public spaces, not to mention suffering a complete lack of political representation. It wasn't until 1968 that the political rights of African-Americans were codified into federal law, but the mere granting of rights does nothing to address the long term devastation wrought on the black community, which built this country for free, this country that so long denied them not only equal rights and opportunity, but denied them their humanity. And to this day, black people go murdered, in broad daylight, in their cars, or while they sleep, both by the police and by others, without justice. "Black Lives Matter" needs to be said because American society does not seem to acknowledge that black life matters, despite America's lofty ideals for itself as a place of equal protection under the law. If black lives matter, then all lives matter, but not all lives matter until black lives matter.

Saying "Blue Lives Matter" is to be presented with that history, turn it around and say "Yeah, well what about us cops?" No one chooses to be black; all cops choose to be cops. If you want the profession of policing to have the respect you demand people give it, then cops should be aware what they're signing up for: a thankless, demoralizing job that answers to the public, and not the other way around. To say "My job is hard so we matter too!" when, after centuries of oppression, the black community says, "Our lives matter!" is a gross exercise in bad faith. This is why "Blue Lives Matter" is offensive, utterly bankrupt beyond the expression of resentment towards an imagined enemy. American society has no doubts about the value of the lives of police officers. What easier way is there to bring the full force of the American justice system, with a swift investigation and aggressive prosecution, than to murder a cop? The justice system has time and again demonstrated the societal value of police officers' lives. The same can not be said of black lives, which is why "Blue Lives Matter" is far more trivializing of the racism still faced by black people in America than some 13-year-old kid's drawing of a Klansman.

Part of me worries that writing this is futile, that you'll see this as another instance of me "talking back," i.e. saying what challenges your airtight prosecutor's argument. Another part of me thinks what I’m saying resonates with your bedrock American and Catholic values. After all, I had to get my principles from somewhere. But if this doesn't move you, I will rest well knowing that at the very least I'm not shutting myself up any more, and that I'll finally be coming to you as a man and not as your child, facing you squarely, head no longer bowed.

I love you.

#blm #letter

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caecicreator-blog · 5 years

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Utopia

TRIGGER WARNINGS!!!!! GUNS, VIOLENCE, STARVATION, ACID, GORE, CONTROL, MANIPULATION

I remember the old days. The old days where a person could walk out of their own home and see grass and beautiful clouds. Now, when said person walks out of their house, they need to be fully armed and cautious. Houses aren’t these big, beautiful masterpieces that are all different and amazing in their own unique ways. They’re all broken down and there are some that don’t even completely cover the heads over our shoulders.

How did the world come to be this way? War. Violence. Hatred. Racism. If I could go back in time and prevent it, I would. But unfortunately, this device that put me here in the year 5028 cannot return me to my original time. As soon as I landed here, it seemed as though everyone was against each other. It was all for one, or none for all. Every single day was a fight to the death, as if sharing would kill people now.

I walked outside of my house, my rifle slung over my shoulders. I looked around and saw nothing. Like in the old Western movies, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a tumbleweed come rolling down the abandoned, ramshackled streets. Cars didn’t exist anymore because everyone salvaged the vehicles that had been left. I wished I could find a way to bring the world back to its prior glory.

“Hello! Citizens of Utopia!” came the voice over the main intercom of this ramshackled city. Whoever decided to name this city Utopia had to have been a joke, “Today is October 31st, 5028! There will be rations handed out as is customary at the end of the month at the Theater of Shame. Only take what you need. Any more taken and you will be shot down. Thank you! And have a utopian day!” the voice sounded so chipper and happy.

But why wouldn’t it? That voice was in the top 1% of people in the world that had the little money and the little food left. They were in the top 1% of people who had actual houses and transportation. These people had no intentions of letting any of it go. The only thing in life that was free anymore were guns and very small amounts of food. And the food we did get was enough to feed a family from 2018 for a day. And we were supposed to ration it out to last us two weeks.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and began the long trek to the Theater of Shame. I glanced to my right to see my neighbor coming over to me, “You’d think, by now, they’d at least try to give us a little more,” he muttered. I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. It was useless to think that they’d ever give us more. As we walked, we passed dying people in the streets. Sometimes, if I felt merciful, I’d take my gun and shoot them in the head to put them out of their misery. Sometimes, I like to let them suffer. One less person to take my food.

As we arrived at the Theater of Shame, my neighbor and I stood in line, each of us with a gun slung on our backs, “I have an idea,” he whispered behind me. I glanced back at him and he continued, “Let’s start a riot. We can riot against the owners of Utopia. We can take it back.” I laughed. How foolish. Like we could ever get more than just the two of us to even attempt to rally against them. But he continued, “I’ve talked to a few of our neighbors, and they want to try.” Wait, so he’d already attempted to put it in motion? I hesitated and turned toward him.

“If they find out, we’re as good as dead.”

“Then they won’t. We’ll give it a code-name,” he ran a hand through his greasy blonde hair, “They don’t have to know. We have to gear up. We have to fight fire with fire.”

I pursed my lips and turned back around, trying not to give it too much thought. If it became obvious anyone had been thinking too much, it was suspicious and they’d be shot without a second thought. So I cleared my mind as I got closer to the beginning of the line. I took my rations, and left.

For the next several days, I kept thinking about what he had said. Fight fire with fire. Was it possible? I put together several things in my head, trying to think of ways that this could work. I came up with several ideas and decided to go find my neighbor. We came back to his house and I started to speak in low voices about the ideas I had. He seemed receptive, like he thought this would work.

We’d put together an army. We’d arm everyone. It would be at least 30 against five. This could work. This would work. Each day came and went, and with each day came more progress. By the time the first week passed, we had well over thirty people. We had sixty. And our ideas seemed to be working as planned.

A whole month had passed and our attempts to gather and figure things out were going smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that we were afraid at any moment that someone would find us before we had the chance to even begin our riot. At the front of the entire frontier were my neighbor and myself. We were proud of all the work we put into this. We had turned a city of killers and hatred into companions and people who would work as a team to survive. To win.

Then came the day. The day we were going to go straight down to the capital, over the ramshackled streets and through the broken trees. We would make a stand. We would make our names known. We would throw ourselves into the fire with fire, and hope against all that is still good in this world, that we would survive.

I had hope. So did everyone else. We would make it out of this. For the better. As our group of, now, seventy people marched, we gained confidence. As we got to the building, I took out the megaphone and began to speak, “COME OUT, MAYOR OF UTOPIA. COME OUT OF HIDING AND SHOW US YOUR TRUE COWARDICE.”

After a few moments, the front doors opened and out came a big, fat smiling man. He had clean black hair, a clean suit on, and shiny leather shoes. He laughed, a big hearty chortle, “Ah, the cavalry has arrived. Did you really think I didn’t see what you were doing?” he asked with a grin that could only be constituted as malicious across his face, “I’m not dumb. I let you all live for my own reasons. It’s like the old game from, ah, three thousand years ago… Sims, was it? I kept you all alive for my own entertainment. And now, well,” he turned, raised his hands and walked back inside.

And it was like the world was ending. Down came a rain of green acid. I could hear the screams. I could smell the rancid odor as it fell down around us. I felt the first drop hit me and I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I would not lose this fight. I went up to the gates and shook them as hard as I could. More acid fell on me. But I wouldn’t let it get the best of me, not even as it began to peel my skin from my muscles.

“GET OUT HERE, YOU BASTARD!” I yelled through the pain, “FIGHT US LIKE A REAL MAN!” and that’s when smoke bombs were thrown out and everyone started to cough and they were all falling to the ground. It was a giant cloud of green smoke. People were dying and all I could think about was getting my revenge on this man, this man who created a dystopian land and called it Utopia. This man who thought it funny to treat us like lab rats for his own amusement.

Through the pain, through the agony, through the despair, I pulled my rifle out from behind me and shot the lock on the gate. I somehow managed to push through it and went to the door. I banged on it as hard as I can, even though I could see the skin melting off my hands. The door wouldn’t open, but I didn’t care. I shot the lock until the door was able to open.

I kicked it open and I felt myself gasping for air. I had a mission. I wasn’t going to give up. I didn’t care how much pain I was in, how much my body just wanted to collapse, how much I wanted the pain to stop. There was no giving up in this scenario. I kept walking until I found him. I found him in the back of the capital, in a control room, “Our lives may be over…” I gasped for breath, “But… so… is… yours,” I raised my gun and aimed it right at his head and, with the very last strength I had, I shot him in the head.

As he fell to the ground, so too did I. I heard screaming and people rushing around to help the dead man across from me. But I didn’t care. I succeeded. Maybe… Even if I wasn’t alive anymore, maybe the world could get better… Maybe Utopia could really become… a utopia.

#writing #short story #shortstory #author #writer #tw dystopia #tw #triggerwarning #tw acid #tw controlling #tw manipulation #tw poverty #tw guns

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frangipanidownunder · 7 years

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Common Ground

This is for @txf-prompt-box challenge An American Civil War Au. I wasn’t going to enter it but then I read @baronessblixen‘s entry and was inspired to have a crack. Tagging @today-in-fic too. Warning: I know nothing about the Civil War and I had to google as I was writing but here it is and no doubt full of inaccuracies, all of which are my own.

His horse was all but lame and he dismounted as the sun sunk below the hills. The stream gurgled and it was a shock to hear nothing but the rhythms of nature. He was sure he’d lost the hearing in his right ear. It throbbed from the wound and he touched it tentatively, the congealed blood sticky. He walked the horse to the water and it drank. He crouched next to it and brought a handful of cool liquid to his ear, dabbing it with the handkerchief he had in his pocket. It stung but feeling something, anything was better than the numbness that had been his constant companion on the ride out. The horse snuffled and lapped. He patted its side and walked around it, looking at its sore hoof but knowing there was nothing he could do. The wound, where the shoe had come off, was festering. Mulder looked around and, not for the first time, cursed himself for his cowardice. His brother would kill him. If the government troops didn’t get him first.

He found shelter between several large boulders and lay his gray jacket on the ground for bedding. Exhaustion overcame him, the pain from the bullet graze making him nauseous. He fell into a fitful, feverish sleep and it was no real surprise to wake up facing the barrel of a shotgun.

What was a surprise was the fact that it was being wielded by a small, red-headed woman, pregnant and angry.

“Get up.”

He shielded his face from the morning sun and tried to move, but his limbs were heavy and his chest tight.

She nudged him with the rifle and repeated her command.

“I’m trying,” he said, barking out a series of hacking coughs. He rolled onto his side and tried to breathe.

“You talk funny,” she said.

“So do you,” he replied.

“Your horse is lame. You can’t run.”

He managed to get onto all fours. “Madam, if I could stand up, it would take all my strength.”

The point of the gun wavered and he chanced a look up at her. Her eyes were fixed on him, but she was chewing her lip. There was a slight tremble in her hands. She was flushed from the exertion of holding the gun.

“What are you doing here?”

He was trying to place her accent, Irish or Scottish? He could never tell. And he had no idea what he was doing here. The right side of his head was hot with pain and his jaw locked when he tried to speak.

“I believe I am trying to die. But there are many people who are stopping me.”

With that she flipped the gun tip up and dropped it down so the butt hit the ground. “Well, Mr Confederate, don’t let me get in your way. A few hours in this sun and you’ll be a feast for the flies, birds, dogs and anything else that wanders these hills.”

He flopped down on to his rear and watched her turn to the horse.

“And you won’t be needing this fellow, so I’m going to take him and mend him and use him for something better than you and your soldier-men have been.” She gathered the reins and led the horse up the bank. It whined in pain and she stopped, rubbing its nose and whispering in that lilting voice.

“Madam. I would be most happy if you would take the horse and give it a better life. He has been a fine servant and has many years left in him, away from the bloody fields of war.”

She tutted and looked at him. “Are you a deserter? Are you running from those bloody fields?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Her face softened. “That’s probably the best and the worst decision you’ve made Mr Confederate.”

“Mulder. My name is Mulder.”

“That’s the strangest name I’ve heard.”

He chuffed. “Then you don’t know my given name, Madam.”

“And what would that be?”

“Fox,” he said.

She burst into a peel of laughter. And he laughed then. He hadn’t laughed in months. Not since he’d met his brother Samuel at the port and let himself be convinced that fighting in this war was the right thing to do. Samuel’s employer was a wealthy businessman who stood to lose his living, his standing in the community if the Unionists won. Samuel, young and impressionable, wrote to Fox and requested that he sail to America and fight with him. Fox thought he would be able to convince Samuel to return to Holland with him but he was spirited and tenacious and wouldn’t leave. Fox had no choice but to sign up and look out for his brother. But in the end, Samuel had disappeared in a battle, just vanished during the bitterest of fighting, gun smoke thick in the air, cannon-fire booming, horses terrified and charging through the men. Gone.

Fox looked for days, in the makeshift hospitals, folding back the sheets from the faces of the dead, scouring the encampments. After months with no sign, his unit marched into another battle and he rode with through the Unionists, not even bothering to shoot or defend himself. He had no desire to fight, he didn’t even understand the war. He wanted to return home but his father would blame him for the loss of Samuel. And so it was easier just to die.

But somehow, he survived with just the wound to his ear and he just kept riding and riding.

The horse whinnied and she looked beyond him to the black hills.

“Looks like your men might be coming. Good luck, Mr Fox Mulder.”

He turned onto his stomach and laid his head to the ground, listening to the thundering of hooves. Dust flew into his mouth and he spat it out. He didn’t want to die with the bitter taste of America on his tongue.

“When is your baby coming, Madam?” he asked, pushing himself back round. If he was going to die, he wanted to see something beautiful before he did. This redheaded woman, her rounded belly filled with life and hope. Sometimes life is beautiful. He hoped in his next life he would be blessed with children.

“Any day.”

“Your husband is a very lucky man,” he said.

She stopped and looked at him, a single tear trickling down her face. “My husband is dead. Fighting you people.”

“I’m sorry, Madam. No good comes from war. This I have learned.”

She rubbed away the tear and dropped her hand to her stomach, resting it on the bump. “Our child will know he was fighting for the right side, at least. What will your children think of your choices?”

The horses were closing in and he shook his head. “That I have no children to let down is perhaps my best achievement, Madam.”

She nodded and small smile brightened her face. “You are as strange as your name, Mr Fox Mulder. Perhaps you are even a kind man. In another life, it is possible that we would have found some common ground.”

He smiled at her. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

She laughed. “I am a Catholic, Mr Mulder. What do you think?”

“Then perhaps we will meet again, Madam…?”

“Minette. Dana Minette.”

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #txf-prompt-box #civil war au #no msr #yet

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the7thshepard · 4 years

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Life update and some introspection. It is long, and it is super personal. You’ve been warned.

(Sorry to my mobile user followers, you might get lambasted with a long post anyway)

If you’re curious enough to snoop through here, sweet. It means that amidst all of my followers who like and reblog the stuff I like and reblog, you probably give a damn? Or you’re just nosy. Either way, thanks for coming. You’ll need to pull up a chair, I’d imagine. It’s gonna get long.

As of right now, I’m spending Thanksgiving day alone. I’m writing this from the dining table of my apartment in California as it rains outside. I’ve received several invites to do things with friends, but so far have accepted none of them. Part of me knows that I will be sad today because of that, but the other part of me just doesn’t have the energy or wherewithal to deal with other people today. Yet, I’m leaving myself open for any opportunity, should it present itself.

This decade has been kind of a wild ride for me. I’ve spent almost all of it in school. I began high school, graduated high school, started college, switched majors around twice, fell in love, came out, got my heart broken, graduated college, worked for seven months, then started graduate school in August. How did a Kansas boy like me end up all the way in California? It’s actually quite the story.

I had decided my second senior year of my undergrad, way back in Spring 2018, that I was just going to finish with a performance degree and just go home and work for the rest of my life. Whatever job I could find, as long as I could keep it and it could bring me stable income, I was going to go home and give up playing the horn. I been so burnt out on school and everything that had happened around me over the course of my undergrad that I had decided it just wasn’t worth it to continue pursuing. I had wrestled with this idea for the longest time and eventually settled on everyone thinking I’m a coward for getting a degree and just disappearing off of the face of the earth. It was the easiest solution.

But something quite unusual and rather miraculous happened.

October 2018, my undergrad horn teacher, one other horn player from my studio, and I all went to Wichita for the MidSouth Horn Workshop. This was nothing terribly huge - I had been to two before - but what became of it was. I ran into my current horn professor, though, at the time he was not teaching me, nor did I have any inclination that he taught private lessons. My undergrad horn prof. and I ran into him earlier in the spring during the same event in Conway, Arkansas (it was hard not to - he was one of the featured artists of the event). He and I spent about 30 minutes talking about horn playing in the exhibition hall, and I was beyond inspired at that point to continue getting better at horn (obviously something changed in the span of 6 months that changed that mentality, but I digress).

I didn’t think I would ever meet him again, if I’m being 100% honest. But we did. We had run into each other in the student union on the Wichita State University campus. He and my then-current horn teacher had struck up a conversation (I think it was something about what he was up to and if he’d like to play with ESU’s jazz band, since he was on his way through that area in the spring semester). Somehow, someway, the conversation got turned onto me.

“What do you think about grad school?” was the question.

Now, you have to understand, this shook me. My plan was to graduate, go home, and give up. I had no further intention of carrying on playing horn or doing music or any of it. Cowardice.

“Uhhhh,” I stammered. I didn’t honestly think I was cut out for grad school. Sure, I eventually wanted to get my doctorate in something, but that was kind of a pipe dream; something so exceptionally unachievable, that I was better off not thinking about it. “I hadn’t.”

Thus, initiated a 20 minute conversation about grad school and how my now-current horn professor wanted to hear me play and, better yet, attend his school. I’m pretty sure I spent the next like 3 hours waffling about it.

The other horn player that was with us (let’s call him B) slapped some sense into me.

“You should do it, it sounds like an incredible opportunity.” B had said something along the lines of this.

“My main concern is money, etc. etc.” I tried to make excuses back.

“Grad school would be perfect for you. All you really have to do is focus on your playing.” My horn professor told me.

“You didn’t come this far, just to come this far.” B said.

(Slight divergence in the story, my mom just called me as I’m typing this and now I’m having to fight back tears. She sounded so concerned that I’m spending Thanksgiving alone right now. Anyway.)

That struck me hard. I didn’t learn horn just to give up after graduating college. I didn’t play horn for close to 13 years only to run away when the opportunity presented itself. I didn’t quit at any point along the way, no matter how stressful or draining, and I shouldn’t quit now. My mind was made up.

I talked to my now-current horn teacher about how I was interested in studying with him, and about his program and what was offered, etc. He wanted to hear me play but was busy that weekend, so I would need to send him some recordings of my playing. I sent him my senior recital that I played later that semester. Over the course of the next 3 to 4 months, I would graduate from college and then spend the rest of my time working while I finished up the graduate studies application to my school. I was accepted into the program, and got some assistanceship money to help out.

The next 7 months were really nothing to note, as far as this journey is concerned. I worked part time at a gas station, played in a terrible non-paying gig, ended up dropping one of my best friends - a story for another time, but overall, I ended up taking a massive break from my horn. My dad thought that I wasn’t practicing enough and that grad school was gonna kick my ass, but so far, that hasn’t completely happened yet.

The day finally comes. I move to California with my dad’s help. As you can imagine, it’s a whirlwind of a day. Flying 5 hours out, getting my stuff moved in, buying groceries, etc. By the end of the day, its time to say goodbye. Dad can’t stay, because he’s got a flight in the morning for some stuff he’s got going on back home. He tried to fight back his tears, as I am almost about to cry myself. The door closed and now I’m bawling. wow that was a lot of mixed tenses, no im not fixing it, and no i do not take criticism, send tweet

At this point, I felt isolated. I’m in a new place where I know no one and I’m by myself. The first person I bump into is the other horn grad student. He stops by to say hi, I apologize for my terrible playing because I haven’t been playing consistently for the past seven months and oh god I’m rambling. It goes how you expect awkward first meetings to go. The next evening, I meet the two seniors in from the horn studio and a senior clarinet player. I never felt so blind sided by questions, and they were all really chatty. Me, being the awkward human being I am stood there, giving minimal answers, and being overwhelmed by questions about literally everything. Holy shit.

I end up bumping into my now-current horn professor on Monday (let’s call him Prof. A) in the bathroom of the music building, again really fucking awkward. Prof. A told me to go to his office while they finish up the faculty meeting downstairs, and that the other grad horn was in there organizing music. Round 2 is not nearly as awkward, thank god. Around 30 minutes later, Prof. A shows back up and treats us both to Chipotle and a lengthy talk about how we have to be the “heavyweight boxers” of the studio (there was an anecdote in there that makes it all make sense, trust me). Again, holy shit.

The rest of the week goes about how you would expect. It is the week before school after all. I spend most of my time practicing. My roommate shows up. I don’t really run into anyone else in the studio for a few days. Though at the end of the week, we have a horn hang, where most of the studio is in attendance. Super awkward at first, but then it opens up. Then, school kicks off, and its all good from there.

But why am I telling you all of this? Well, first of all, kudos for sitting through my life story up to this point. Second, I think this story is key to a lot of introspection that I need to do. And third, I just need to put this all out there, get it off my chest, you know?

Since coming out to California, I have been unimaginably blessed with perhaps the best family of people I could ever want. I have a great teacher who is helping me be better at doing what I love. I’m surrounded by great, fun loving musicians who want to see others succeed and it’s been such a positive experience being out here. I literally cannot imagine what my life would be like had I not seized this opportunity.

I’ll be the first to admit that grad school so far hasn’t totally met my expectations. I thought that I would immediately get better, that I would excel, have a bunch of friends, get better at playing horn, and maybe (selfishly) find a guy. It wasn’t immediate, and looking back, I don’t think it ever could have been. Because the path I’m on takes work and courage to keep going even when the results don’t seem obvious at all. Also, let’s be 100% real, there was no way in hell I was gonna find a guy within like 2-3 weeks of being here. That’s just not realistic lmfao

Since coming here, I’ve grappled with the feelings of inadequacy and sense of not belonging that come with the territory. Initially, I thought that I was never making progress and that I was never gonna be as good as the other grad horn. I wasn’t a good enough horn player. Why was I here? What made me think that I could make it out here? Thoughts like that. They’ve only intensified as the semester went along.

But my friends have proved me wrong.

The only thing that everyone could and would expect of me is to be myself. Whatever that means, whatever that sounds or looks like. I can’t be anyone else other than me, no matter how tempting it is to compare myself to others. I just gotta follow my own path. This was and still is a hard lesson for me to learn. I don’t think I will ever totally understand it, until I can realize that I am good enough as I am now. I am making progress to get better, but I have to be comfortable with where I’m at now for it to be worth it.

The thought of running away from all of this terrifies me, but it’s a real and almost ever present thought I have. I don’t want to lose the progress I’ve made. I don’t want to turn my back on my friends. I don’t want to give up crazy socks at concerts, ice cream afterwards, playing in horn choir, horn hangs, or just the general screwing around. My horn people are my family, and I won’t turn my back on them because I’m afraid of not being good enough. They have never had reason to think less of me, so I shouldn’t. Even when I do, I’m thankful that they’re there to help me out of my emotional ruts. As long as I am here surrounded by these fantastic people, I will always be good enough and I will always belong.

I didn’t come this far just to get this far. And I will take it all the way. No matter what it takes, because the people closest to me have given me the courage to make it happen.

So, even though I may end up spending my Thanksgiving alone, I’m not alone. I never have been nor will I ever be. My friends, my family, everyone who’s cheering me on from the sidelines, watching and waiting for me to succeed, they’re all with me, no matter how far away they might be. This is what I’m thankful for.

#personal #life update #this post is really long im so sorry

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obscurused-blog · 7 years

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directorgraves submitted:

In the parcel that he had given Lysander to deliver were two things: seven hundred dollars in cash and a letter, carefully addressed and magically sealed, so only the hand of Credence Barebone could open it. A valuable package, but the most valuable part of it by Percy’s estimation was the letter itself, which began:

My dear Credence,

This is not the easiest letter to write. At last count, I have ruined three pen nibs and more paper than I dare mention trying to write it properly, and still I am unsure if it is right this time around. I suppose it is right enough, it is at the very least satisfactory, but I am stalling, and that is unacceptable in this situation. Let me establish one thing, one solid fact from which I work from when trying to make sense of the past several months: the last time that I saw you (I, not someone else wearing my face, my life, my everything), was at the prayer meeting in early September. I asked you what you thought about the possibility of redemption in this life of the next, and you told me that you weren’t sure, but that all things were possible with enough faith. I am not a man of faith, Credence. My mother tried to instill some of hers in me, but it never quite took root. You must deal in sureties alone in my line of work, not hopes, but my dear boy, if there is anything that I hope for in this life it is that one day I will be able to speak to you again, to try to explain where I ended and Grindelwald began. I hope, but I realize that you do not owe me that kindness, not after what has been done in my name, with my face.

I would like to repeat that, for it bears repetition after what has been done to you, Credence: you do not owe me anything, not kindness, not anything at all. You don’t even owe me the effort of reading this letter, but I will write it all the same. Here is what I remember, once I left the church that night: he stepped out of the shadows, while my back was turned, while I was mulling over our conversation in my head. You do not know much of the wizarding world and I do not wish to seem prideful, but I am good at what I do, and even so, I hit the ground before I could even think to raise a hand against him. To call him a man makes too much of his humanity, this Grindelwald. At the core he is more of an animal, primal and greedy like the most dangerous of predators, and like them he seeks the means to cause as much destruction towards his own gain as possible. You were the tool that he chose, Credence, and I am sorry for that, more than you may ever know. What I should have done that night was push my plans several steps ahead, I should have offered you sanctuary from your damnable mother as I had planned, and your youngest sister as well. It wasn’t cowardice that stayed my hand, but the foolish thought that I was safe enough to put my plan into action at my own pace.

That is the folly of the confident, you see. I assumed that I would have time to get to know you, that I could convince you to step away from your mother and her violence and into the world that you belonged to, and I was so very wrong. You will read in the papers that when they found me I was beaten, that I was ‘clinging to life’, as the Ghost so politely put it, but my dear boy, I would have willingly suffered that pain ten times over to prevent what happened to you in December. That sounds wrong coming from a man that you do not truly know, and believe me, I realize that even as I write this letter. I don’t know you, Credence. Not like I wish I could have known you by now, and perhaps I never will. But I do know that you do not deserve the pain that Grindelwald caused you, that your mother inflicted upon you, that anyone has thrown your way for being ‘different’ over the years. I do not know the full extent of what he did to you wearing my face, nor do I know for sure what your mother used to do to you, but I wish like hell that I could have prevented it, as meaningless as those words sound coming from me.

How do you make amends for something that you did not actually do, Credence? That is what I want to know, after all of this. I do not discount the pain that he inflicted upon you, but I do not know how to ease those hurts, and I wish with all of my heart that I could. Perhaps if I had fought him harder, if I had let him kill me as he threatened to do a thousand times over, none of this would have transpired. That is a thought that I still cannot banish, and yet I know that if I had, he would have done something far worse to you, to the city, and to the world. I do not fancy myself a hero, Credence. I am nothing of the sort, no more noble than any other man, but I wonder sometimes if I did enough, chained to that cellar wall. My boy, you may wish to throw this letter away, to burn it and never hear another word from me so long as you live. You have that right in spades, and I will not judge you for it. I hope that life is as long and happy as you truly deserve, and towards that end, I have enclosed some money to help you get a start upon doing so. But if you do wish to grant me the inestimably great honor of allowing me to speak to you again, there is an address written at the bottom of this letter where you may find me. I wish you all the best, Credence, and nothing less than that. Nothing less.

Your fondest well-wisher, Percival Aurelius Graves

Lysander was a bit of a strange sort. He had never met someone like that before, someone that seemed so carefree and just genuinely happy to assist someone else. Credence had not meant to go back to the shop after he got caught that first time, and yet he always found himself there when things were getting decidedly desperate. He wasn't keen on accepting the other man's charity, but when you haven't eaten for two days, you accept all sorts of offers. There had been a difference to him though, when he had visited Lysander today. There was a subdued atmosphere about him, almost some kind of restraint. His words weren't as rambling and nonchalant, they had been careful.

And now here he was with a parcel in his possession, handed on to him by the apprentice.

He still hadn't dared to open it. 'It’s from a good friend of mine, kid. A good guy, he wanted me to pass this on to you.’ It had been an instant refusal, naturally. But Lysander had insisted, promises of explanations inside, of assistance. 'We just want to help you out, that's all. Please. It's alright, I promise.’ Something about him was earnest and honest and that was the only reason that he had agreed to take the package, practically ran off with it. It sat in front of him, still wrapped, paper and string in tact. Had he always been this apprehensive? A stupid question, he knew very well that he had.

Credence sighed.

He was going to get nowhere at all if he simply left it as it was. With trepidation, he loosened the string and carefully peeled back the paper. What fell into his lap was almost enough to give him a heart attack. He'd never seen so much money in his life! His first, immediate thought, was perhaps it had been stolen and passed onto him as a way of getting rid of it. Panic was on the verge of setting in before he remembered who gave it to him. Lysander was maybe many things he didn't know, but he couldn't imagine the man to be a thief. Something had fallen to the side of him, a few bills that had escaped the clip? He spotted it in the gloom of the abandoned cellar and picked it up. A letter.

An explanation.

Or so he hoped. He had been promised. Wrapping the money back up in the paper, he tucked it under a nearby box for safety. Then carefully opened up the letter to read it. Then he read it through once more. And a third time. He lowered it after that, resting hands in his lap. He had come to know of the existence of the true Mr. Graves back in New York, and he had learnt through various collected articles what had happened to him. He was certain he had even seen him, at least once or twice. But he had never thought he would have received any word from the man. This was the identity of Lysander's ‘good friend’, as it were? What were the chances? Such a small world for such a big city.

Lifting a quivering hand, he touched fingertips to the name at the top of the first page. My dear Credence. He had never before seen his name spelt in such a fine script, nor written with such finesse. The handwriting curled elegantly, letters decorated with loops and flicks and trailing tails. It was different from the handwriting that had belonged to the Mr. Graves that he had become accustomed with. That had been smaller, scratchier, written without care on whatever scrap had been closest. And he had cared about them all the same. He shook his head - he wasn't supposed to be sparing that man any more of his thoughts.

This read less like an explanation and more of an apology. It was forward and direct, yet sincere and… Emotional? Could he say such a thing? There was structure to it, he was certain, but at points… It seemed to give way to streams of consciousness, words that were written before they had been considered, perhaps. Or maybe he was simply reading too many things into it. He had never received such a thing before, what would he know? Assumptions were terrible things, he shouldn't make them, he knew that. Though was that not what a gut feeling was, at the end of the day? Instinct?

Though what would he know of that, either.

The gift though. What was he supposed to do about that? It was so much money, could the man afford such a thing? It was too much, far too much. A small gesture would have been more than enough, maybe even something he could accept but… Did Mr. Graves really wish to help him? Or was it more of an attempt to assuage his guilt? Though that was perhaps what confused him the most in this letter… The man had no reason to feel guilt. He proposed so himself; how indeed does a man make amends for something that he didn't do? Surely, such a man should be free of blame. There was only one man at fault, and it wasn't this one.

Throw away the letter, burn it… As if he could.

Folding the letter in half, Credence tucked it into a pocket, making sure it was held securely. He would have to go and see the man. He had thought about it before, crossing the road, approaching him. But what would he have said? More so, how did he know they weren't really looking for him? This could easily be a ruse, a trap. Lure him out… But it didn't feel that way. An expert in thought and feeling he was not, but all the same… This was, for the moment, all he had. And if he was to be caught and punished, then it was deserved. The things he had done… He couldn't run forever. Resolved, he nodded.

Next week. He'd visit him next week.

#[throws this and scarpers]#[fun fact; the letter was 1009 words & the reply was 1010]#[did I find that satisfying? incredibly]#[I have no tags ready for this yet RIP]#Percy G #[not that Credence ever would call him that but it stops it appearing in any kind of search tag right? orz]#[im fretting I am not good at sharing I'M GONE OKAY i'll reply to the other thing after dinner alright]#submission

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lodelss · 4 years

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Dear Reader,

I’ve been trying to think of what books this corona moment reminds me of. I don’t know why — uh, I guess I instinctively try to relate most things that happen in my real life to my reading life? What’s unsettling though is that — and this is something I’ve seen others saying already — this moment doesn’t really remind me of anything I’ve ever read. I started reading David K. Randall’s Black Death at the Golden Gate — a book about how a bubonic plague epidemic threatened to sweep through America in 1900 — a few months ago, but I didn’t get very far into it, and then I put my copy in a holiday gift box for my mom in Ohio. She read it last week while she was sick in bed with pneumonia. I don’t know what kind of pneumonia. (She didn’t get tested for flu; too expensive.) I don’t know if it was corona. I don’t even know how to know. There are, as you have heard, no tests.

And that’s what makes this coronavirus moment different from the little bit of Black Death at the Golden Gate that I read, and from the portions my mom described over the phone while she coughed and coughed and coughed. In that book, some American government officials and scientists heroically stop the plague from spreading. Which means the story being told in that book is more like the one in Singapore or South Korea today: the triumph of science.

So what’s the story here? What does the failure of science feel like? I listened to the latest TrueAnon podcast while I made dinner last night, and, as I recall, Liz Franczak described a sort of sensation she’s been having (out there in San Francisco) that there are visible particles of fear floating in the air. My boyfriend has reported something similar every time he’s come home from work for the past three days, after his 45 minute trek across Brooklyn — there’s something wrong out there, it looks weird. There’s something wrong with the air. (He works retail. There has been something wrong with his air.)

I have not been outside in over a week. I don’t know what it is he’s describing. (But whatever it is, there is a very good chance he has brought it in here with him. In his air.)

I thought of and dismissed a few other books that this moment might be like. For awhile — a few days ago? — coronavirus was a looming, impending crisis that I knew would lead to ruin and death, but which many people around me seemed oblivious to. That brought to mind books written in Germany in the 1930s, like Hans Fallada’s Little Man, What Now? or Christopher Isherwood’s Goodbye to Berlin — books in which many people seem oblivious of society’s imminent doom, even the authors themselves, no matter how canny they try to be. I also thought of Anna Kavan’s Ice — a book I’d previously associated with climate change — in which a natural or perhaps supernatural force, a malignant and almost sentient ice, is engulfing the world, and no one is able to stop it.

But the thing is, someone could have stopped coronavirus. A lot of someones, up and down the various chains of command and control. They just … didn’t. And no one is oblivious to it anymore. We all know about it now. We’re all just sitting around, waiting to find out if we have it.

Honestly, the book I’ve been dwelling on the most these days is Mario Bellatin’s The Beauty Salon. It is a book about AIDS. It is a slight and brutal novella about a beauty salon in which gay men are dying of AIDS because hospitals will not take them in. It is a very grim book. I think it comes to mind so much mostly because I am cowardly, and I fear the overcrowded sick room: I fear being one among many stranded in beds lining hospital hallways or neglected in quickly converted conference halls or gymnasiums. I am childishly afraid of dying in the Javits Center.

But perhaps there is also a thread of connection here beyond my overwhelming cowardice. Covid-19 could very well be one of the few emergent diseases of the 20th or 21st centuries to become endemic, like HIV. People in cities across the country are sheltering in place, waiting to see if they are infected, because our country, unique among countries, does not have the tests to ease our minds. Failures of science like this are more frightening than just the diseases they fail to cure. Like with the malicious mishandling of the HIV epidemic, we know it is people, not gods, who have caused this thing. We look out our windows and we can see there’s something wrong in the air, something wrong in the world, besides the virus.

1. “Lawrence Wright’s New Pandemic Novel Wasn’t Supposed To Be Prophetic” by Lawrence Wright, The New York Times

This is the second time Lawrence Wright has done this.

2. “I’m Not Feeling Good at All” by Jess Bergman, The Baffler

Jess Bergman notices an emergent new genre and criticizes its implications. “With this literature of relentless detachment, we seem to have arrived at the inverse of what James Wood famously called ‘hysterical realism’ … Rather than an excess of intimacy, there is a lack; rather than overly ornamental character sketches, there are half-finished ones. Personality languishes, and desire has been almost completely erased…”

3. “Escaping Blackness” by Darryl Pinckney, The New York Review of Books

In a review of Thomas Chatterton Williams’ latest memoir, Darryl Pinckney surveys the history and literature of resisting and ‘transcending’ race. “Even when you’re done with being black and blackness, it seems that you cannot cease explaining why.”

4. “I called out American Dirt’s racism. I won’t be silenced.” by Myriam Gurba, Vox

Less than a month after Myriam Gurba wrote the essay that triggered a wave of well-deserved backlash against American Dirt, she was put on administrative leave at the high school where she teaches.

5. “Frequently Asked Questions About Your Craniotomy” by Mary South, The White Review

Mary South’s short story collection You Will Never Be Forgotten published this past week. One story from the collection, excerpted in The White Review earlier this year, is told in the style of a brain surgeon’s FAQ for patients.

6. “Heroic Work in a Very Important Field” by David Gelber, The Literary Review

A book review of a book about book reviews. “Uncertain why you are reading this? Good, because I’m not any more certain why I’m writing it.”

7. “How Shakespeare Shaped America’s Culture Wars” Sarah Churchwell, The New Statesman

A review of Shakespeare in a Divided America, James Shapiro’s account of the uses and abuses of Shakespeare in American political history.

8. “‘Minor Feelings’ and the Possibilities of Asian-American Identity” by Jia Tolentino, The New Yorker

Jia Tolentino on Cathy Park Hong’s essay collection Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning. “Hong is writing in agonized pursuit of a liberation that doesn’t look white—a new sound, a new affect, a new consciousness—and the result feels like what she was waiting for.”

9. “What Happened to Jordan Peterson?” by Lindsay Beyerstein, The New Republic

The self-important self-help guru seems to have suffered a severe health episode and his daughter has made some very peculiar statements about what happened.

10. “Pigs in Shit” by Hunter Braithwaite, Guernica

Hunter Braithwaite reviews Jean-Baptiste Del Amo’s Animalia, a disturbing multi-generational pig-farming novel. “Animalia will come as no surprise. It does not speculate. It doesn’t offer warnings. Which is fine, because if climate change has taught us anything, it’s that warning signs don’t mean shit.”

11. “Woody Allen’s Book Could Signal a New Era in the Publishing Industry” by Maris Kreizman, The Outline

Hachette employees staged a walk-out to protest the house publishing Woody Allen’s memoir. Surprisingly, it worked.

12. “What’s So Funny About the End of the World?” by Rumaan Alam, The New Republic

Rumaan Alam writes about Deb Olin Unferth’s Barn 8, another recent novel that revels in its disgust for industrial farming (this time chickens, not pigs) and views its violent practitioners as a doomed species. As Alam notes, “We might be sad about the end of humanity, but the chickens are probably relieved.”

Happy reading! Stay inside if you can!

Dana Snitzky Books Editor @danasnitzky Sign up here

#IFTTT #Blogger

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thatweirdmod · 4 years

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Windowless Moviemaker Chapter 3: Division

Windowless Moviemaker

Chapter 3: Division

I yawn deeply as I try to keep from slouching over my desk. The afternoon sun beams in the window next to me.

I'm in such a state of laze and lethargy that its warmth is comforting rather than stifling or draining. I feel like a green plant, soaking in the sun's energy to fill myself with soft, floating life.

I've touched the zen sweet spot that allows me to be at peace with even the noise of the teacher's yapping. I look through the glass and past the rays, and I smile.

Down on the soccer field, I watch Krin do PE with some other kids in her year. The sandy brown hair she shares with Kidney is tied in a ponytail, with her bangs and some from the sides out.

I'm admiring her in her red shorts and black knee-high socks, when I hear an irritating and startling throat clear beside me.

My head whips around to see Mrs. Wronger standing over my desk, peering down at me through her glasses.

"Mr. Fuma," she enunciates severely. "Focus on your own class. We are learning about ancient Egyptian culture, not how to kick synthetic leather balls."

I barely resist clicking my tongue at her. She speaks in this presiding way, putting a condescending drawl on every word like I'm deaf and dumbass and need to glean her lips for every syllable.

"Yes maam," I say with minimal bitterness.

"Hmph," she says, and clips back up to the front, unimpressed.

For this, I don't blame her. This happens all the time, and every time, the class gets a kick out of it. Kids chuckle around me.

I make an act of paying attention, but steal glances back down at Krin when the teacher's back is turned. I have to be careful doing this for a second reason, though.

Boners aren't fun or cool to have in class anymore, because the girls aren't as curious now as they were before. In middle school, the girls I ended up next to would sneak quiet, surreptitious peaks at my erections.

Now, I'd just be laughed by front of everyone for being hard in class. Even if you cover up with a long strap bag, tuck it into your waistband, or wear a baggy, un-tucked shirt like a delinquent, you know people can tell what you're doing.

The bell rings, snapping my wandering mind back into my body. Finally. I walk up to the roof, PBnJ sandwich in my bag. When I get there, I'm a little surprised to see Kidney and Mitchol. They pause when they notice me.

"Yo, Jeeto!" Mitchol greets me, waving.

I approach and ask, "What's up?"

"Kidney here was just asking me for money."

"That's right," Kidney agrees with a tinge of aggression. "But," he says turning to me, "He's claiming that he doesn't make any profits from the site."

"As I've already explained," Mitchol says, "The first guys I gave the password to were my own personal friends and online acquaintances. Then, they started wanting to let friends of their own in, and I figured, 'What the hell?'

I just asked the original guys not to tell anyone about who was running the site, gave the okay for the mutual contacts, and the numbers kinda blew up."

"How do you pay to keep the site online, then?" I ask Mitchol.

"Some of it comes out of my own pocket, but the rest is donations from my friends."

"You've never asked us for donations," Kidney states.

"Well come on," Mitchol replies in a light, defusing tone. "You're guys are already giving donations- the most important kind. Hell, if anything, I should be donating to you."

Kidney scoffs out a small laugh, and slips off his bag.

Mitchol continues anyway, "And, if I was getting all this money like you think, I'd pay you your due cut. Definitely."

Kidney digs around in his school backpack for a bit, then pulls out a few pieces of paper. He shoves them in Mitchol's face.

"What's this then?" He asks bruskly.

"Huh?" Mitchol says curiously, taking the paper. His eyes widen as he looks over the sheets.

I feel lost, like a third wheel on a bicycle. "What are those, Kidney?"

"Copies of his e-mails and messages."

"What?" I say, shocked. "How and why did you get something like that?" I look back over at Mitchol and see that his expression is dark.

Kidney snatches the papers out of his hands and passes them to me. "See for yourself."

Mitchol is silent as I squint down and skim over the e-mails sent by him:

"Thank you for completing the password step to becoming a member of adesireisfulfilled. You have won a free video link! ↓↓↓ To gain access to all of our content, please pay the 50 buckaroo entrance fee."

"Hello, yellowcabbie1978. Your 2-month subscription to adesireisfulfilled has run out. To regain access to your account and the site's content, please pay a membership fee."

I pause after reading through the pages. "What's going on?" I ask Mitchol. "'The password step'? I thought all you needed to access the site was the password?"

He sighs. "There have been a few changes since you guys joined all that time ago.

Back then, you remember, all you had to do was enter the site's password, sign up with an e-mail and username, and then boom, you'd be a full-fledged member.

Well, I didn't like how so many people knew the website password, and they could just pass it around for any random to join as they pleased.

So, I made it so all accounts had to be manually approved before the new users could see anything.

Before approving anyone, I'd check with my circle of friends, like, 'Do you know who's coming in under this username?' I had to make sure all these people were cool."

"And then," Kidney interjects, "You figured you'd might as well start making people pay you to get their accounts approved."

"Well, yeah," Mitchol admits. "But I'm not the only one who approves accounts. Redhand Heriolt is the other high level moderator."

"What the hell does that have to do with the fact that you lied to us?" Kidney demands, his umbrage rising.

Mitchol just asks, "How did you get into my e-mails anyway? Did you break into my house? Hack my computer?"

"I did what I had to do to get to the truth of the situation," Kidney defends. "And you know what that truth is?"

"What?" Mitchol asks cavalierly.

"That you're a liar, a cheat, and a traitor." The words are soaked with venom.

"Seriously?" Mitchol scoffs.

"Seriously!" Kidney affirms.

"I don't know if you remember," Mitchol says. "But we never made any agreement about you getting paid for uploading. I never had to tell you a damn thing about the site's profits."

"Sure, you may not have been obligated to tell me anything before today, but after I asked, and you lied, my mind was made up. I'll be damned if I post one more video to your website."

Mitchol just leans back on the fence and chuckles. "You're so dramatic, man." Then he looks over at me. "Jeeto, where do you stand on this? I hope you're not a loser who'd bail over something this silly."

"Erm..." I glance between the dismissive Mitchol, and Kidney, who's glaring at him with fuming eyes.

"Money never factored into the movie making for me, so technically, this doesn't really matter," I say. "But," I qualify, "We're not friends anymore, I mean, if we ever were."

"Fair enough," Mitchol says, then starts walking away. But before he opens the roof door, he turns around and says, "I'll let you stay for free, Jeeto, as long as you keep uploading. But Kidney, you're out for good."

When Mitchol leaves I turn to Kidney. "Don't worry about that. I'll just give you the password to my account."

"Thanks, but no thanks," he says. "Even thinking about going to his website turns me off now. I don't want anything to do with that piece of shit."

"Okay, whatever. But... does this mean you're going straight now?"

"Yeah, I think so. Truth be told, part of me was getting tired of doing it anyway. I'm sick of the stress, always having to wonder if this is going to be the time I get caught."

Kidney's cowardice irritates me, and now procuring women will be even more work for me. I choose to respect his decision, but I find myself saying anyway,

"I guess it would be over with you and Krin if that happened, right? You told me before how important that relationship is to you."

"Right..." Kidney says quietly.

"I guess we missed lunch," I say, heading for the exit. "It's about time for our next class."

It sucks that Krin and I are a year apart. Different lunch times. No classes together. We barely see each other in school. That only makes it harder for me to do this the nice way. No... what am I going on about? That's not for me.

Then, I remember something that makes me go, "Tch," both from annoyance and amusement. Kidney was talking the other day about doing things with Rilla the nice way too.

But while he was trying to get involved with her, he was in a romantic relationship with his sister? You've gotta be kidding me.

I guess it makes no difference to me what Kidney does with Rilla, because after I get to her, she probably won't want anything to do with men for a long time.

On the walk home from school, I find myself thinking of moving on in my own way. When I stop in the convenience store, instead of going to the chips or to the fridges in the back to shoplift beer, I go straight up to the counter.

"Evening, Roodle."

"Oh, hey Jeeto. How's it kickin'?" Roodle asks me, smiling with that little worn face.

"I'm doing alright," I say. "I actually came in today to ask you if there's a job opening here."

"There sure is," Roodle replies. "Always somethin' that needs doing. Stockin' shelves, unloading the truck, sweepin' up... we'll just call you 'part-time associate.' How 'bout that?"

I laugh lightly. "That sounds perfect. When can I start?"

"Well you can start tomorrow if you'd like. You're a student, so I guess I'll have to set you up with mostly evening-night shifts huh?

"Yes maam."

Roodle coos out a little chuckle. "Okay then, Jeeto. Welcome to the grind."

And with that, I am enveloped by a blanket of security. I walk leisurely around the neighborhood, feeling warm.

But approaching Kidney's house, I decide I shouldn't be seen there by him. I don't know how much he suspects me in regards to Krin.

The fact that he knows what I am and that I have an interest in her might be enough to have him on guard.

We're no longer partners. And as far as being friends goes, our greatest common denominator has disappeared. We shouldn't be on bad terms, but I feel that I'm standing on unsure, thin ground now.

I'm about to fall through. Though I seal her lips with record tape, Kidney will be able to see the subtle things in her that we've observed in the many victims under our watch.

I turn back to my house to prepare.

#ex-friend #drama #lying #crime

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keywestlou · 5 years

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OBSTRUCTION ROTTING THE FOUNDATION OF OUR COUNTRY

Obstruction everywhere in government. Trump obstructs. Has Congressional witnesses obstruct. No one answers anything. Congressional investigations have become exercises in futility. Obstruction has replaced legislating.

Without question, obstruction is rotting the foundation of our country.

Democrats play the game, also. Nowhere however as much as the Republicans. Grim Reaper Mitch McConnell the worse of all.

What bothers me also is that those who support Trump basically continue to do so. I refer to “people.” I find it difficult to understand. I am coming to the conclusion that many are unhappy, possess get even attitudes. Many I suspect failed to get something out of life they wanted and feel deprived. Trump makes them feel he is going to fill that void in their lives.

Today’s obstruct is aimed at Biden and his son Hunter. Sick! Where does Trump get the authority to tell the leader of another country if he does not cooperate in a U.S. political investigation he will not get the $250 million promised?

A major contributor to the problem are the courts. The system is antiquated. Needs to be brought into the 21st century.

The court system moves too slowly. Especially the federal system. It takes 2-3 years to get a matter litigated. How can Congressional applications to the courts to enforce the rules get them any relief if the relief comes years later?

At the very least, a special system should be established whereby federal issues at the highest level affecting our government are heard on a fast track basis. Most of the issues could then find their way to the Supreme Court in 6 months or less.

Law schools teach that justice delayed is justice denied. No question about it. Let’s correct this procedural problem and get government moving on an expedited basis.

I was not able to get all of the blog I lost into yesterday’s blog. Left out local items. I add them today. They have to do with thursday evening.

I was out on the town. Had been in for several evenings.

My first stop was Aqua’s Side Bar. Looking for my friend David. Enjoy his company. Rarely see him anymore. For whatever reason, he has substituted the Side Bar for the Chart Room many evenings.

No David at the Side Bar. Noticed a new tiny bar next door to the Side Bar. Part of the Aqua building. Called Tutu.

A gay bar. Unquestionably. No one inside. I stopped in anyhow for a drink.

The barmaid lovely. Her name Yasmin. Twenty six years old. Born in Brazil. Raised in Boston. In Key West, 3 years.

Yasmin just coming off heavy back surgery. She had a disc replaced.

I mentioned Tutu is a gay bar. It looks like one! The only gay bar in town that looks like a gay bar.

The bar stools are lined with different colored tutus. The colors throughout the bar bright and cheerful.

The place is very small. The size of 2 good sized closets.

David’s birthday is today. Happy birthday David! Meet me for a drink Monday around 6 at either the Side Bar or Tutu’s.

I was hungry. Walked past Antonia’s. Nicolle alone at the bar. Too dead for me. Continued to La Trattoria. No one at the bar. My search ended however. I sat at the bar alone.

Barbara Grob is one of the loveliest and nicest people in Key West. We have known each other 20 years. Our paths rarely cross, however. We have probably run into each other 5 times over the years. Strange for a small town.

Barbara and her husband Tom had just returned from 8 days in Hawaii.

Barbara and Tom presently own and operate The Local Luxe in Key West. The store is located at 615 Fleming. Just off Duval in the heart of Old Town.

Barbara has been in the same type business her 20 years in Key West. Always has sold unique jewelry, art and special items of clothing that appeal to women.

Barbara has specialized in certain objects over the years. Hers is the ART SLUT brand. Also, geckos.

She has had 4-5 stores. Works hard. A success!

I hope we do not have to wait 5 years to run into each other again.

La Trattoria was enough for me. I was home and in bed by 8:30 watching television.

My last 2 nights have been spent home. Working a couple of hours each evening on Growing Up Italian. The book I probably will never finish. It is in its fourth revision.

Sometimes we have to wait forever for something.

It has been announced that as of today, the 5 new HAWK crosswalk signals on Northern Roosevelt Boulevard will be in operation. About time. It has only been 5 years since local government convinced the State of the need. In those 5 years, accidents involving fatalities and injuries have occurred.

The State makes me laugh. The Florida State Department of Transportation announced yesterday that it had completed the job ahead of schedule. Five years?

Florida is strange. First it take a couple of years to convince the State of a need. Then at least a year or 2 to draw plans. At that point money is ought. The job put into the State budget. Another waiting period of 1-2 years.

I may have been wrong when I said it took 5 years. Probably more like 7.

Anyhow, it’s done. Let’s hope it does the job intended properly.

This morning’s KONK E-Blast contains a 1948 photo of Bertha Street facing towards the Atlantic. At least 4 blocks from the water.

It was hurricane time. A category 3 had hit Boca Chica. Barely missed landfall in Key West. Sort of like the Irma situation.

The photo amazed me. There was nothing on Bertha Street. Not because of the hurricane. Because nothing had been built yet. All that could be seen were 2 homes on one side of the street and 2 small 2 story apartment houses on the other.

No 1800, Las Brisa, the hockey court, etc.

Two more hurricanes added onto the 10 mentioned yesterday.

Lorena is #11. A Pacific problem. Heading for Mexico’s resort studded Baja California peninsula. The eye is reaching for the southern end of the peninsula.

Now comes Mario. Love the names!

Mario coming out of the Pacific, also. Not expected to make landfall anywhere.

Two interesting observations/quotes to share.

The first by a person who frequently comments to this blog. JustSaying. An astute observation. I had complained about hitting the wrong button and losing my blog. Just Saying wrote: “Better you hitting the wrong button than Trump hitting the right one.”

The other a part of this morning’s editorial Cheers and Jeers in the Key West Citizen. A quote by the philosopher Pego: “We’ve met the enemy and he is us.”

Trump’s wife’s first name escapes me. However she wrote at one time that Trump kept a book authored by Hitler on his night stand and used to read a few pages each evening. It was not Mein Kampf. Another.

I want to share some Hitler quotes. Who do they remind you of?

“If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.”

“Think a Thousand times before making a decision But – After making decisions never turn back even if you get a thousand difficulties.”

“When diplomacy ends, war begins.”

“The man who has no sense of history, is like a man who has no ears or eyes.”

“I use emotion for the many and reserve reason for the few.”

“The victor will never be asked if he told the truth.”

“Kill, Destroy, Sack, Tell lies…..after victory nobody asks why.”

“The greatest strength of the totalitarian state is that it forces those who fear it to imitate it.”

“Humanitarianism is the expression of stupidity and cowardice.”

Enjoy your day!

OBSTRUCTION ROTTING THE FOUNDATION OF OUR COUNTRY was originally published on Key West Lou

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wellmeaningshutin · 7 years

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Short Story #50: Cruise.

Written: 2/23/2017

Entry #34:

I’m getting fucking tired of this job. Day in day out, I have to sing the same old songs that I could give less of a shit about, just so these couples can dance and feel special while they’re out on the ocean. If they knew how much I was tired of my job, I bet my melodies wouldn’t seem very romantic to them. Also, I wonder how many of these wives are aware that their husbands will sometimes lurk in the bar, waiting for me to get my usual post-performance drink, spouting pick up line after pick up line, none of them charming, none of them clever. At least they will cover the cost of my drinks, which I get for free, but they don’t know that. The on duty bartender just splits the money with me when the night is over, and sometimes I can get several guys to pay for the same drink. So its not all bad I guess. At least I get payed well to be hit on, and all I have to do is sit there.

And I get payed well to sing on this tacky cruise, too. I get free drinks, an alright room, the food is nothing to complain about, and I can relax in the sun whenever I’m not working. So I guess none of it is bad, but why am I so unhappy with all of this? Why is everything inside of me telling me to get off at the next stop, which is some poor, South American town that only makes money from tourists who mainly stop by on these cruises. Why do I hate all of this when this should be the easy life, this should be a great deal.

And I love singing too, so why is it so bad when I have to do it for money? Was my aunt right? She always warned that I should never turn a hobby into a career, because then it will just be work. Maybe I should have listened, but then again this job is hardly even work. How come the things that should make me happy, that sound good on paper, always leave me feeling like this? Am I just incapable of feeling positive emotions?

Maybe I just need to start over, maybe I should just leave this job behind.

Entry #35:

I saw a seagull die, mid air, and it landed in the middle of the pool.

Manuel, who is starting to become my favorite bartender, gave me good advice today. He told me that I should order tonic, and pretend that its an alcoholic drink, so that I can drink more and get more tips, without having to stop from getting too tipsy. It seems like I may run into a problem, since I kind of have to drink after every show, but I guess I can get different drinks. Its not a problem unless I make it one.

What’s with all of these people talking about the war going on? Is there a war happening? I guess there will always be a war, but its just weird to feel out of the loop with these sorts of world events. Its like I travel all over with this job, but for some reason I know nothing about the world. Soldiers go on a tour of duty, I go on a tour of ignorance.

Entry #38:

I was supposed to abandon the ship and start up a new life on today’s stop, but I hesitated at the last moment. Well, I guess it isn’t hesitation if it lasted for several hours. Maybe it was cowardice. I hope I wasn’t making a mistake, but if my mood persists then I can get off at the next town, or the one after that. There’s really limitless options for escape, but that may lead me to never pick any of them. Sometimes it seems like I can only go through with things when I’m cornered, when I have to make a decision.

I was talking to an older woman, who always is out in the sun, wearing a one piece that is much too small for her, so her excess fat spills out around the edges, but she always has her hair up in a scarf, and wears these stunning sunglasses. Its like she was some great beauty from the 1950’s that decided to say “Fuck it” and picked up a life of leisure, staying true to herself the whole time. When I get older, when I get to her age, I want to have that sort of confidence, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to pull it off. I’m not sure if I have enough natural beauty to dampen the effects of that life style.

Anyways, I was talking to her, and she asked a question that was very odd. She wanted to know why nobody ever saw the captain of the ship. It was a strange question, because I realized that I’ve never seen them either. I don’t even know their name. I’ve been working here for over a month and I don’t even know who’s running the show.

I asked Manuel about it, but then he told me to call him Harrison. Apparently he pretends his name is Manuel just to seem more exotic than he actually is, and it tends to bring him in more tips. Apparently he was born into a wealthy family, who was basically an all American bunch. For some reason, when people saw him they never thought of him as an American, which is weird because what is an American supposed to look like. Apparently Harrison was a pretty great tennis player, who competed against a lot of prestigious, private school kids, but he shattered his wrist in a car accident and he lost his ability to play.

I got so side tracked talking about all of that and completely forgot to gen an answer about the captain.

Entry #40:

There are dark clouds in the sky, all the guests are worried about a storm, but the crew keeps telling us its nothing. Then they bring up that our captain is incredibly skilled, and any storm will be meaningless under his command. So which is it? Is it not going to storm, or are we going to be able to effortlessly get through it?

This was the first time, since my first week, that I actually had fun during my routine. There was something magical about being able to make everyone’s worries melt away, to create an environment that protected them from the threats of the outside world, the ominous clouds looming overhead that usually serve as a lazy metaphor for incoming danger. It was like, for a moment, I understood what it was like to be an entertainer during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and it was like I saved

Oh god, I’m really drunk right now. Forget most of what I just said.

Entry #41:

Well, they were right about the storm, or half-right I guess since they had two contradicting statements about it. We passed through it without it coming down on us, it kind of made everyone feel stupid about being so afraid of it beforehand. It also made everyone celebrate even more, and tonight I had a great time during my job. We jazzed it up. Does that sound dumb? “Jazzed it up”. That sounds like something my mother would say to my friends to try to seem like she knew what the “kids” were into. I guess now even I don’t know what the kids are into, so maybe I am becoming more like my mother, but that just might be a universal truth for when people get older in general. People of certain ages act certain ways and don’t act how other ages can act the way they act, and blah blah blah. Maybe there aren’t any universal truths.

There’s this lovely little Jewish couple, and when I say little I mean old and shrunken, who always slow dances whenever I sing, no matter the song. They spend the whole routine doing their slow box step, and then they wonder off to god knows where. Tonight, when I decided to not drink after the act, since the bar was crowded and I had enough fun to not have to drink away any worries, I found out what the couple got up to. Apparently they always give it to each other in one of the stairwells. I know that it happens a lot, because when I told one of my co-workers, they responded with, “Again? Every night we get a report about them. We’d reprimand them, but honestly its mostly just impressive.” When I caught them in the act they didn’t bother to stop, but they just looked over at me.

Maybe I should get off at the next port, maybe I should end on a high note instead of risking more boredom.

Entry #43:

Well, I had my luggage packed any everything, but I guess I can’t go through with it for quite some time. Its a shame, because this time I was actually ready. This time I don’t think I would’ve skulked around on the ship until the boat left and I would just put it off until we arrived at the next spot.

Apparently there’s something wrong with some part of the boat, maybe the engine, I’m not fully sure. All I know is that we’re not moving, but we’ll probably get going any day now, and if we were really stuck we could probably get help from somewhere. I expect that they have something in place to help with these kinds of situations.

If we were rescued and everyone was taken back to the states, I think I would hate that more than being stuck on the ship. I took up this job to leave my old life behind. Hm. Maybe when I leave this cruise, maybe it will become my old life, and the states will become my new life?

Entry #45:

I’ve been skipping days, in this diary, because there’s really nothing new happening. We’re still stuck, everyone’s still nervous as hell, and my songs aren’t really doing much to ease the worry. I feel like I’m letting everyone down by being unable to calm them, like I did when they worried about the storm, but what can I do?

Today is significant because the captain finally made his appearance. I don’t think anyone expected him too look the way he did, which is handsome. Extremely handsome. He seems less like some cruise ship captain, and more like if Denzel Washington and Idris Elba had a child together. Now it seems like you can’t stop seeing him, so maybe he will be able to calm everyone in the manner that I cannot.

I’m still not fully sure about what’s wrong with the ship, but any day now and we should be heading to our next destination. If the problem was tremendous, wouldn’t the captain be dealing with it, instead of socializing with everyone?

Entry #48:

There’s something about that man, I just don’t know what it is but it feels like a red flag. He’s too nice, you know? Like there’s no way that anyone can be like that. Its inhuman. Yet, I seem to be the only person that doesn’t trust him, the only one who isn’t won over by his good looks and his aura of charm.

I tried to express my opinions to Harrison, who has become my closest friend on the ship, and he got a little angry with me. He got very defensive when I expressed my distrust of the captain. I was almost a little afraid because of how angry he got, but maybe he’s just anxious about the ship not moving.

Although, it seems like people are getting less and less worried about being stuck in the middle of the ocean. The captain is starting to dominate every conversation.

When we get moving again, I’m definitely getting off at the next town. I’m sick of the fucking ocean.

Entry #51:

It seems like the captain is trying hard to win me over, and people are starting to openly criticize me for not being fully acceptive of him. It also seems like when people talk, now, they either only talk about him, quote him, and sometimes mention normal things like relaxing, dancing, dining, cruise stuff. Yet, I don’t see people enjoying themselves as much, there is usually one or two people who are actually at the pool, the game room, the shuffle board area, etc. And it seems like the only people I can find participating in these activities are the others who are also looked down on, like me, but we are few in number.

Maybe I should get all of the outcasts together and we could kill time together so it wont be as lonely. How long has it been? A week? Two weeks? Its felt like forever since I’ve been here, and with Manuel ignoring me, and refusing to let me call him by his real name, I’m dying for some social time.

A weird thing is, it doesn’t feel like the ship is drifting in the ocean, it feels like we just aren’t moving at all. Maybe I don’t know enough about boats.

Entry #54:

I don’t have a job anymore, nobody wants to hear me sing. Now that time slot has been taken up the captain, who keeps giving his creepy, motivational speeches that everyone seems to just eat up. I’ve only heard one so far, but I don’t like where this is heading. After he gave his speech, and I was hanging out with the other outcasts by the pool, he offered to give me a nicer room, to make up for my unemployment. I politely refused. I feel like if I accepted that from him, I’d eventually become obsessed with him, just like everyone else.

He offered the same deal to Norma, and she jumped at the opportunity, then walked away with him. We were all kind of surprised, but she might have been an accidental outcast. The pressures of not fitting in were probably too much for her.

Thomas, one of the other outcasts, a guy who used to work in the navigation room, told us that food supplies are supposedly getting worryingly low. That makes sense. How long has it been? A month now?

Entry #56:

I just figured out why everyone is saying all of this weird shit, apparently its stuff that the captain spouts out during his speeches. Thomas insisted that we go check one out, and he ended up joining the captain on the stage, crying about all of the awful things that happened in his childhood, repenting, and then he was engulfed by the crowd. The captain claimed that he was reborn, that he was now one of the chosen. It was like being in a fever dream.

Earlier today I asked somebody how long we’d been stuck out here, since I’m terrible at keeping track of the dates, and he told me, “We’ve always been out at sea.”

I saw Norma and she started spouting the same nonsense, and I’m starting to get worried. Everyone is treating me like I’m crazy, and I would agree with them if I didn’t have this diary. If I didn’t have proof of what it was like before we stopped.

I spend most of my time hoping for a ship to come and rescue us.

Entry #58:

There’s only me and one other outcast left, the rest have either joined the reborn, the children of the sea, or have disappeared. On the floor above me, last night, I heard Wendell get scream, and scream, and scream. There was some dragging. Now he’s gone. I have to do something, but I don’t know what. All I know is I can’t stay here.

People have started to say, “There is no outside world, this is the world.”

I’ve been stared at more.

Somebody drew a small X on the door of my room, and it was so small that I almost didn’t notice it.

Help isn’t coming.

That was the last entry, and Manuel was frustrated. Where’d she go? There was no hint of it in any of the entries, and he didn’t want to displease the captain. If he failed his duty, then he could have to take up her role in penance. It wouldn’t be very bad, and it was honorable because then you gave life to the rest of the children. What upset him about the process was that it meant that he would never see their father again, but maybe he could at least become a part of the father.

Thinking about it, he realized it would be pretty nice. And he did volunteer, and fail, didn’t he? So why be afraid, what was there to be afraid of. Blank faced, he marched himself over to the captains quarters, knocked three times, then dropped to his knees, waiting for the door to open. He could hear the captain open the door, and stare down at him, but he waited for the father to allow him to speak.

A minute passed before the father asked, “How did your task go? Have you done what your father has asked of you?”

“I was unable to find her father, it seems like she has escaped. I have her diary, but it didn’t give me anything to go on.”

“It is no problem, she cannot hide forever. There is no escape from the truth.”

“No, father. And if I may, I would like to ask something.”

“Ask away, my child.”

“I would like to take up her duties, since I have failed my own. I would like to give my body, during our congregation, so that I can appease my failure by giving life to the rest of our family. By giving yet another day so they must not go hungry.”

#Well Meaning Shut In #Free Write #Short Story #Writers on Tumblr #Vacation #February

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