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#there's literally so many other things about them that either mildly bother me or otherwise fully piss me off and im refraining from

generallynerdy · 3 years

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Uncalled they come to me, and told, they still won’t leave me (Din Djarin/Soulmate!Reader)

Spoilers for Chapter 9 (S2E1) of the Mandalorian

Summary: After the ambitious Toro Calican turns on you, his hired mechanic, in hopes of winning favour with the Guild, the mysterious Mandalorian saves your life. Now that you owe him a life debt, he’s stuck with you until you can save him back. It’s not so bad, having a free mechanic and babysitter for the kid, but things take a turn for the worse when both of you realise you might be catching feelings. For someone that might not even be your Soulmate.

Requested by Anon: Hello! How’re you doing? May I please request a Din x reader soulmate au? The one where you don’t see color until you touch your soulmate? It would be very difficult for Din to find his soulmate and I’ve always wanted to see how it played out. If not that’s ok! Thank you and have a wonderful day ❤️

Key: (Y/N) - your name, (h/c) - hair colour, (e/c) - eye colour Translations: vode - siblings, Ret’urcye mhi - goodbye (literally: may we meet again), mirshmure’cya - brain-kiss (Basic term, is Keldabe kiss. This is the soft one as opposed to the literal headbutt term) Asked to be tagged in this disaster: @pearlll09 Word Count: remember when i said this would be 4k? Yeah. It’s 6,478 words. What. The. Fuck.

Author’s Note: this is way longer than I intended it to be but I think u deserve it since u were the only one who saw my post begging for mando requests and actually sent one hksjlfdkj tysm!! I’m so happy I got to write a Soulmate AU for him tbh. Btw, I have it in my head that Yodito would’ve given him the ability to see green, as a familial Soulmate bond, but it wouldn’t work for this if your eyes are green so I just left it out. (Also wtf is up with the Cobb/Din shit, Cobb is clearly in a dedicated relationship with the bartender Weequay. I named them Sala :D) The title is from The Teller of Tales by Gabriela Mistral.

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“Do you wear those gloves all the time?”

The Mando gives you a look—one that you can’t read, obviously, but you get the idea that it’s drier than the desert you’re in.

Calican snorts, but you shoot him a glare and he shuts up. You’re only here because he’s paying well for your mechanical skills, enough that his request of an extra hand on his first bounty seemed reasonable. Finding out that he’s hunting Fennec Shand was...less than pleasing, but now that the Mando is onboard, you’re not quite so worried about the outcome. They’re supposed to be fearsome warriors, after all. And he was smart enough to figure out how to wait out Shand, which is what the three of you have been doing for hours.

“I’m just saying,” you continue, “between the armour and the gloves, it must be damn near impossible to find your Soulmate.”

He shrugs. Sort of. It’s kind of hard to tell, to be honest.

“Haven’t you heard the stories?” Calican asks, flopping back onto the sand. “Mandalorians don’t have Soulmates. They start seeing colour after their first battle; war is their only destiny.”

You roll your eyes. They’re folk tales, really, and ridiculous ones at that. Every sentient has at least one Soulmate, romantic, platonic, familial, or otherwise, and there’s no reason for Mandalorians to be any different. Still, the stories make their rounds. There are specific ones, too, like the one about the Mandalorian Jedi who made the Darksaber; he was said to see colour when he lit his weapon for the first time. Fett, too, was said to have seen a new colour with every clone that was decanted—which is mildly ridiculous.

“Maybe the Mandalorians of old,” Mando comments with a scoff. “Not many of us see battle these days.”

“Well, if you’re looking for it, I know a krayt dragon a few hundred klicks away,” you suggest lightly.

He snorts. “No thanks. I’ll take the assassin.”

“Speaking of,” you said, “you guys know I’m just a mechanic, right?”

There’s a pause. Calican nods, but the Mando is still.

“What?” he asks, displeasure in his voice.

“I mean, I’m pretty good with a blaster, but I’m gonna be useless against Fennec Shand.”

Mando whirls on Calican. “You paid a mechanic to be your back-up? Are you insane?”

He shrugs. “(Y/N) has a mean right hook.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Mando huffs. He looks over at you and you can almost feel him glaring through the visor. “Are you crazy?”

“I’m broke,” you scoff. “Same thing. Oh, hey, do you need repairs on that hunk of junk you pilot? I’ll be more thorough than that lady at the hangar.”

He hesitates. “We’ll see.”

You grin. That’s not a no.

“You’re a prick, did I mention that?” you hiss over your shoulder.

Calican shoves the blaster into your side. “Shut up and keep walking.”

The Mandalorian stands on the other side of the hangar, waiting for Calican to make his move. Seriously, this day could not be going any worse. After killing Shand, Toro Calican, certified dumbass, decided that kidnapping you and the Mandalorian’s—pet? Child?—passenger was the best way to go. Whatever the little weird thing that’s in your arms is, it’s pretty cute, and you’d rather he shoot you than the baby holding tightly onto your shirt. In fact, he probably will, because the kid is his ticket into the Guild—you’re just dead weight.

“Looks like I’m calling the shots now. Huh, partner?” Calican asks the Mando. “Drop your blaster and raise ‘em.”

The Mandalorian puts his hands behind his head. Next to you, Calican pushes Peli forward and instructs her to cuff him. With a huff, she moves behind the Mandalorian with the intent to follow orders.

“You’re a Guild traitor, Mando,” Calican begins. You consider sighing. This sounds like the start of a villain monologue. “And I’m willing to bet that this here is the target you helped escape. Fennec was right. Bringing you in won’t just make me a member of the Guild, it’ll make me legendary.”

In a burst of light, the Mandalorian sets off a flash grenade.

You yelp and tuck the little thing into your arms before tucking yourself over into a roll down the ramp of the ship. You fall into the sand just in front of the Mandalorian, who’s moved to fire a shot at Calican, sending him flying off the other side, smouldering.

Breathing heavily, you sit up, the child still in your arms.

“Are you okay? Is the child?”

You look up. The Mandalorian has his gloved hand held out, offering to help you up. Hesitantly, you take it and pull yourself off the ground.

“We’re both okay—I think,” you say hesitantly, holding the baby out to him. “Is he—?”

“Dead,” the Mando confirms, taking the child from you.

You frown. “Good riddance. Thank you,” you tell him hesitantly, though your tone is genuine.

“It’s nothing,” he murmurs.

He distracts himself by checking on the child, who coos up at him contentedly. You smile a little at the interaction, but put yourself back into focus.

“It’s not nothing,” you say firmly. “I owe you a life debt.”

He freezes. “What?”

“Where I come from, if someone saves your life, you owe it to them. Until I can save your life, I owe you,” you explain.

“That’s—you don’t need to do that,” he says quickly.

You cross your arms. “It’s like your Way. It’s my culture, my honour on the line. You’re stuck with me, Mando.”

“What? No. Can’t you...pay me, or something?”

“I’m broke, remember?”

“You saved the child’s life, doesn’t that count?”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “I rolled with him. You did the work, so, no, it doesn’t count, even though he’s your…” You hesitate, remembering the word. “...foundling.”

“You know, you’re kind of getting the better end of the deal here,” Peli pipes up, directing the thought at the Mandalorian. “A free mechanic, babysitter, and an extra blaster? That’s a bargain.”

“Uh...pre-warning, I don’t know much about child care,” you warn immediately.

He snorts. “Neither do I.” After a moment, he sighs deeply. “Fine. But we’re going to work on those blaster skills before you become a liability.”

“Fair enough.”

Sticking with the Mandalorian is probably the worst decision of your life.

Almost immediately after Tatooine, in need of more funds, he drags you into trouble with another group of bounty hunters and the New Republic, of all groups.

“Who is this?” someone asks, her voice sing-song as she enters the Mandalorian’s ship.

You don’t bother turning around, continuing your repairs on a hull panel. “The mechanic. Don’t touch anything.”

“You have a personal mechanic?”

A few people enter the ship, making you finally turn around. The first speaker is a Twi’lek woman and the second a Human, who squints disdainfully. From behind him, Mando pushes past their little crew—including a protocol droid and a massive Devaronian—to approach you, deciding to stand next to you rather than them, which brings you immense pleasure for some reason.

“No. (Y/N) owes me a life debt and, apparently, credits don’t cut it,” he explains shortly, sounding frustrated and exhausted.

You nudge him companionably—it’s an argument you’ve had a few times, the paying of your debt. He doesn’t want to be free of you, per se, but he doesn’t want you to be in his debt. Having that kind of power or hold over you makes him uncomfortable, you can tell, as every time it comes up he gets twitchy.

“Kinky,” the Twi’lek snickers.

You grimace. That would explain why Mando sounds like he wants to die. “Fun group. What’s the job?”

“One of theirs got caught. We’re getting him out,” he says. “And we’re using our ship.”

Our ship. Maybe it’s a slip of the tongue or maybe he’s making it clear that you’re with him, but either way, it brings a smirk to your face. The Twi’lek looks disgusted.

“Well, at least my hard work won’t be going to waste,” you huff.

“Mando,” the Twi’lek interrupts, “you haven’t introduced us.”

You can feel him rolling his eyes. “(Y/N), meet Mayfeld, Burg, Xi’an. Mayfeld is running point, the droid is flying, and the target is a New Republic transport ship.”

“Ugh. You guys better be good; I’m not getting arrested.”

“Mayfeld’s former Imperial,” Mando says before any of them can answer.

You scoff. “A stormtrooper? My shitty blaster skills would be better than his.”

“I wasn’t a stormtrooper,” Mayfeld spits, annoyed enough that he must’ve said it once already. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

All but the droid stay, scattered around the hull. Mando follows soon after the jump to hyperspace, having hovered over the droid while it set their course. He stops Burg from getting into the weapons cache right after he hops down the ladder and the two look like they want to kill each other.

“Someone tell me why we even need a Mandalorian,” the Devaronian grunts.

Mayfeld huffs. “Well, apparently, they’re the greatest warriors in the galaxy. So they say.”

“Then why are they all dead?”

They all laugh at that—Xi’an with a particularly nasal one, which is irritating beyond belief. You frown deeply, but try not to show how pissed their laughter makes you. That sort of shit isn’t to be made fun of; a dying race. It’s all too familiar these days, what with the death of Alderaan and the crater on Scarif.

When you come back into focus, Xi’an is talking in low tones.

“See, I know who you really are,” she says to the Mando.

You roll your eyes. Unlikely.

(Something in your brain goes: I do, which is stupid. You don’t know who he is, under that helmet, sure, but you’ve seen a lot of him through his actions. He’s reckless, terrifying, and a badass, but he’s also patient and...kind, in his own way. The way he treats the child is like nothing you’ve seen in another bounty hunter. It’s gentle, caring. The kid has really grown on him, you think. And the way he treats you is just straight up polite, even though you’re practically his servant in terms of a life debt. Still, he treats you like a person and doesn’t ask you to do unreasonable favours just because he saved your life. He doesn’t hold it over your head.)

And then they start goading him about the helmet.

Burg actually goes for it, which Mando beats him back for. You jump forward, but just as you do, the door to the sleeping cot flies open, revealing the child.

Instead, you rush to the child, pulling him into your arms.

“What is that?” Mayfeld asks, approaching.

“Back off,” you hiss.

He looks between you and Mando. “Wait, did you two make that?” When you scoff, he frowns. “What is it, like a pet or somethin’?”

“Yeah. Something like that,” Mando says quickly.

Xi’an frowns. “Didn’t take you for the type. Maybe that code of yours has made you soft.”

You snort. Soft. That isn’t a word you’d use to describe him, ever. You haven’t seen very much action since Tatooine, but you saw enough there.

Mayfeld reaches for the child and, without hesitation, you lift your blaster. The way he’s looking at the little guy makes you uneasy.

“Fuck off,” you warn instantly.

“Aw, c’mon, I just wanna hold him,” he teases.

Over the comms, the droid’s voice echoes. “Dropping out of hyperspace. Now.”

The entire ship shudders and shakes, sending everyone flying off their feet. You happen to ram into beskar, your face slamming into the metal, which makes you yelp. The baby wails in your arms as gravity makes to tug you away again. Before it can, Mando grabs your arms and holds you in place against him until the ship is steady once more.

“You okay?” he asks, helping you to your feet—again, you think miserably.

“Ugh, no,” you groan, putting a hand on the left side of your face. “That’s gonna bruise.”

Mando takes the child from you. “Sorry. We’ll deal with it after.”

You wave him off. “I’ve had worse. You worry about the job, I’ll watch the kid,” you say, taking the child back. You can’t help but smile when he coos happily.

“Right,” Mando mutters. For a moment, he watches you both, considering.

“Mando!” calls Mayfeld. “Let’s go!”

Before he goes, he puts a hand on your shoulder. “Be careful. I have a bad feeling about this.” You nod, which seems to appease him, and watch him leave.

Petting the child’s floppy ears, you wonder if he meant that to be as comforting as it was.

I should’ve known, Din thinks when Qin walks out of that cell.

I definitely should’ve known, he decides, returning to the Razor Crest to find a sparking droid corpse and a shaking child in your arms.

He tosses the cuffed Twi’lek to the side and rushes to yours, stepping over Zero’s limp form. You look relatively unfazed, for someone who’s just ripped a droid’s head off with their bare hands, but the child is rather distressed. The kid squeaks at the sight of Din and, much to his surprise, lifts your hand to show him.

It’s bleeding.

“What did you do?” Din questions, crossing the hull for his medical kit.

“I...may have tried to punch the droid,” you admit hesitantly. “It didn’t work.”

He scoffs, returning to kneel in front of you with bacta patches in his hands. “No karking shit.”

Your face falls as he reaches for your hand, pulling it toward him so he can patch it up. “It was gonna hurt the kid.”

“You did good,” he murmurs. “Stupid, but good.”

It never occurred to him that you might save the child again. You’re here out of necessity, after all, because you owe him, because your honour depends on paying that debt. The child is just another being in the vicinity, but you still saved him. Again. You’re either very stupid or very kind and he can’t decide which one is more concerning.

“Maybe you should teach me a bit of hand to hand, too,” you suggest warmly, wincing at the bacta’s sting.

Din makes a noise that’s sort of a laugh. “I’ll add it to the list.”

He moves to put bacta on the bruise his beskar gave you—He feels ridiculously guilty for that; here you are, paying off a life debt to him, and he still manages to hurt you—but with a hand, you stop him.

“Don’t waste it,” you say immediately. “I’ve had worse bruises, seriously.”

He frowns. “It’s not a waste.” Before you can protest, he puts the patch on top of the bruise.

You huff. “You’re a worrier, aren’t you, Mando?”

“Apparently,” he replies dryly. He hadn’t realised it, either.

“Will you stop flirting and get us out of here!?” Qin shouts from the other side of the hull. “The New Republic will be on our asses!”

You roll your eyes. “I hate to say it, but he has a point. Where are the others?”

“Dealt with,” he says simply. “It was a double-cross.”

“Well, I figured,” you shoot back with a knowing look. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The drop is easy enough, especially since Din knows that New Republic signal is beeping steadily from Qin’s pocket. He escapes quickly, dipping back into the Razor Crest, where you wait at the top of the ramp, the child hanging onto your boot.

“Let’s go,” he declares, the ramp shutting behind him as he enters.

“Already?” you question with a raised eyebrow. “There are a few repairs I could make out of hyperspace that might be useful.”

He waves you toward the cockpit. “Later. We need to leave.”

“Oookay.” You frown but do as he says, plucking the child from off your foot. “C’mon, little guy,” you mutter to him.

Din waves away all your questions as he starts the take-off. Finally, when the Razor Crest is a safe distance away from the space station and X-Wings appear out of hyperspace, he glances back at you.

“Holy shit!” you cry as they open fire. You look back at him with a slack jaw, which makes him smile underneath the helmet. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

He shrugs half-heartedly, but it’s enough of an answer.

“You’re a maniac, Mando,” you laugh, watching the scene through the transparisteel.

Din thinks over it, staring at you for a long moment. There’s light in your eyes—maybe it’s the reflection of the explosion, but it’s captivating.

“Din,” he says.

You look over. “Hm?”

He clears his throat, trying to shove aside nerves. “My name. It’s Din.”

“Oh. Oh,” you repeat, eyes wide. Then, you smile, more genuine than he’s ever seen from you, he thinks. “You’re crazy, Din. You know that, right?”

He laughs—and that’s the first time you’ve heard a proper one from him. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

When Din drops a pair of gloves in front of you, you laugh.

“You’re telling me the gloves are out of convenience?” you ask him disbelievingly.

“The more skin you cover, the less likely you are to get cut up by a vibroblade,” he replies dryly. “Put them on.”

You raise your hands in surrender and take them, slipping them over your fingers. “Surprisingly comfy.”

It occurs to you that this is...sort of a big deal. You’ve kept your hands bare for as long as you can remember, mostly because you’re a romantic and finding your Soulmate has been at the forefront of your mind for a long time. But now, you think, it’s not such a big deal. You have a debt to pay and, besides that, you’re pretty happy with how things are now.

Life isn’t exactly nice with Din and the kid, so to say, but you’re content. You love the child and he adores you. The Razor Crest feels more like home than any planet ever has. And Din is...well, he’s something. Being around him is mildly addicting and whenever he’s gone, something feels incomplete.

“Better?” you ask, lifting your gloved hands.

“Much,” he says. Then, he holds out his own hand. “C’mon, up.”

You take the hand without thought, but before you know it, he’s swinging you around and shoving you to the ground.

“Ow!” you cry. “What the hell, Din?”

He huffs. “Lesson 1: Never take anything for granted.”

“Rude.” You hit his arm meaningfully, but he just rolls his eyes; just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean you can’t tell it’s happening.

“You’ll thank me someday.”

“But not today.”

“Nope. Today, you’re gonna hate my guts.”

He’s dying.

It feels unreal, what with everything you’ve watched him survive so far. A newbie bounty hunter, a group of pissed off bounty hunters, lots of bounty hunters, and the New Republic but a group of stormtroopers is what gets him?

Moff Gideon is what really gets him, though. The bastard that helped destroy his people is going to destroy Din Djarin. Hearing him speak Din’s name makes you nauseous, furious, even. He gave you that name in confidence, trusted it to you, the only one of his handful of friends to even use it, and Gideon decides to declare it to Nevaroo in its entirety. It makes your blood boil, enough that you get out of the initial firefight mostly unscathed.

But Din doesn’t. And now he’s dying in your arms and you feel like you failed.

“Go with them,” he tells you, all croaky and half-assed.

“No. No, I’m not leaving you here,” you declare, carefully leaning him against the rubble.

Flames flicker all around the room and the child is crying. It’s not loud or consistent, but it’s enough to break your heart.

“You have to go,” Din says again. “You’ll die.”

You laugh ruefully. “That’s kind of the point. A life debt means I save your life or I die trying.”

A pause.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he hisses through the pain.

“Afraid not, dumbass. You’re stuck with me, remember?”

He grasps your arm, his hands still gloved. If you’re going to die here, maybe you should ask him to take off the gloves. A part of you has wondered…

“C’mon, tell me it’s transferable—some ‘dying wish’ shit like that.”

You nod, though the action sinks uncomfortably into your chest. Leaving him here...that doesn’t sit well with you. But if he asks, then you’ll do it. “Yeah, you name it, but it’d better be a big one, something equivalent.”

The breath he lets out is one of relief. “Take care of the kid. Go find his people and return him to them. Protect him.”

“With my dying breath,” you swear, the words holding an air of ceremony.

Din grasps your arm tighter and pulls you down, your forehead meeting his helmet. You’re not sure what it means, but it must mean something because he mutters words in his own language, which you’ve never heard him do before.

“Ret’urcye mhi.”

May we meet again.

Din does what little he can in saying goodbye to you, as deeply as that cuts. You’ve grown on him, a little too much maybe, and it kills him to think that you’ll be without him now. You still can’t hit a headshot, he realises, suddenly worried for how you’ll fare.

And so he gives you what he can: a Keldabe kiss and a goodbye, instead of the action he wants to take. He wants to take off his gloves and see if he can figure out the colour of your eyes. On the other hand, though, he doesn’t want to leave you with that, of all things, to leave you seeing the red of his blood and the blue-tinged orange of the flames before any other colours.

You take the child in your arms and, with one last glance at Din, leave the room for the covert’s tunnels underground.

The child whimpers up at you.

You look down, sniffling, and pet his ears gently. “I know, little one. I’m so sorry.” You place a gentle kiss to his forehead.

Cara appears, tugging on your wrist. “C’mon,” she says gently. “We need to get out of here.”

It occurs to you, as the three of you and Greef move on, that Cara might help you with the child. For Din, obviously. She’s a good person and, frankly, she and Din seem pretty friendly. The second she saw you, she’d offered her bare hand and bemoaned the fact that her vision was still black and white, much to your amusement. It was all in good fun, but Din had looked a little uncomfortable, for reasons you didn’t know.

“(Y/N),” Cara says quietly, calling your attention back.

You shake yourself from your thoughts. “Sorry.”

She smiles sadly. “It’s okay. Just keep up.”

The small group turns a few corners before footsteps sound from behind. You immediately place the child in the bag hanging from Cara’s shoulder and draw your blaster, watching her and Greef do the same.

From the distant hall, two figures approach: IG-11 and—

“Din!” you half-cry, half-breathe out. Holstering your blaster, you meet them halfway to take more of Din’s weight from IG. “How—?”

“No living thing can see me without my helmet. IG isn’t alive,” Din says dryly.

You laugh, a partly manic sound. “Thank kark. You’re not getting out of this that easy.”

The noise he makes is both amused and resigned. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Where’s the—?”

“He’s with Cara,” you say, finishing the thought before even he can, in his groggy state.

It’s safe to say that when the Armourer gives him his sigil, Din almost considers correcting the Clan of two to a Clan of three. He doesn’t, reminding himself that you’re here because of a debt and nothing else, but the thought is there.

The months after Nevarro are more peaceful than the first week of your time with Din.

You finally get to pull a proper sleeping space together for yourself. Well, it’s a hammock in the hull, but it’s better than the seats in the cockpit. The child gets his own hammock, too, though it’s in the cot space with Din. He loves it, so much so that he squeals when he sees it. That’s your proudest moment, for sure.

Most days, you tend to forget that you still owe a life debt. To be honest, it just feels like the three of you are normal. Din takes bounties, you take short mechanic jobs on different planets, and the two of you trade off on child-duty. It’s pretty regular, more than what your life used to be, anyway.

Din is still training you in hand-to-hand and blasters, of course. You’re getting better with the latter, but the first is difficult. On the way to Tatooine, where there’s supposedly another Mandalorian, he decides to have another training session.

“Fists higher, do it again.”

Huffing, you wipe your wrist across your sweaty forehead. It’s easy enough to obey the order—the first part, anyway. Getting into his guard is difficult, though.

One hit, two blocks—there. You slip under his guard and make an abrupt drop to the ground, sweeping his legs out under him with a fierce movement. He goes down in a tumble of beskar, joining you on the floor. As soon as he’s down, you flip over and straddle his hips, an arm over his neck in false threat.

He barks out a laugh. “Much better.”

“I’m not entirely hopeless!” you declare joyfully before bursting into snickers.

Leaning down, you thunk your forehead against his helmet. The gesture is fond, you’ve learned, something shared between close companions—or at least you think. Din told you that it’s called a mirshmure’cya in Mando’a, that it doesn’t have an equivalent word in Basic.

(Which is technically true. Literally, it means brain-kiss, but the outsider term for it is Keldabe kiss. It can be used for close companions—vode in arms, family—but it’s also used for romantic partners, so he’s mildly horrified at the idea of explaining its cultural significance to you and having to face his feelings for someone that may or may not be his Soulmate. He hasn’t gotten up the courage to ask if he can check. Or try to do it discreetly.)

A distant beeping starts up, coming from the cockpit. It’s the approach warning, which means the training session is over.

“I’ll get the kid,” you say, climbing off Din and offering a hand.

He takes it without hesitation, dragging himself up and making a beeline for the cockpit.

Tatooine is about what you remember. That is, it’s dry, sandy, and the worst planet you’ve ever been on. Stepping out of the ship and into the hangar makes you smile, though, at the not-so-distant memory of Din saving your life. It hasn’t been that long, but it feels like it’s been years.

“Oh, hey!” says Peli, after greeting the child—which is fair, he’s adorable. “You’re still with him! Haven’t repaid that debt yet, huh?”

Your face falls. “Uh, no, not really.”

On the way to Mos Pelgo, your thoughts linger on the life debt. One of these days, you’re going to save Din’s life—then where will you be? Will he want you to leave? What will you do if you have to leave? Your old life was nowhere near as interesting as this, nor did you have anyone close to what Din and the child are to you.

The dreary grey slopes of sand only make it easier to think of the worst possible outcomes. Now you remember why you hated Tatooine so much.

You don’t even realise the speeder is approaching the small town until Din taps your arm, which is wrapped around his waist. Jumping at the touch, you loosen your grip sheepishly and glance at the child, who looks like he’s enjoying himself immensely.

After the speeder comes to a stop, you take the kid while Din enters the cantina.

When you enter yourself, you find that he’s about to shoot someone, while the Weequay behind the bar looks rather distressed.

“Perfect timing, as always,” Din remarks without a glance.

You raise your free hand. “You’re the bad luck charm, I’m just here for the ride,” you retort teasingly.

“You brought a kid to a gunfight?” his opponent asks, raising an eyebrow.

Finally, you glance over at him and see why Din looks ready to kill him. He’s in Mandalorian armour but his helmet is off—clearly, he’s not Mandalorian. “You’re wearing beskar and you’re not a Mandalorian, buddy. I think you’re in more trouble than the kid is.”

“He is,” Din gets out, a twinge of viciousness in his voice.

Before they can even reach for their blasters, though, the ground starts to shake.

You grab onto the doorway for support, eyes wide as you grip the child. Din and the Mandalorian poser move toward the door, joining you and staring out at the street outside.

The entire planet feels like it rumbles and chaos reigns outside.

Something is moving the sand—coming toward the town.

“Holy fuck,” you whisper as it goes by, shifting the sand like it’s an ocean rather than earth. It flies out of the ground, sharp teeth the only thing you see as it consumes a bantha whole.

When it’s gone, the poser huffs. “Maybe we can work something out.” He turns to you, offering a hand, which is covered by fingerless gloves. “Cobb Vanth. I’m the Marshal here.”

You take it hesitantly, glad that things are still black and white when you make contact. “(Y/N).”

He notices your hesitation and chuckles. “The Weequay in there is Sala, my Soulmate. I’ll see if they can’t whip up something for the kid; I’m sure he’s starving.”

“Very,” you say, just before he goes to leave.

When it’s just you and Din, you look over at your companion. “Krayt dragon, huh?”

“Yep,” he sighs, already sounding tired.

You laugh. “I know I said I could bring you to one when we met, but I was totally kidding.”

He looks over at you and you can feel the low-level glare behind the visor, but it only makes you snicker. “I hate you.”

“You’re so full of shit,” you retort immediately.

You finally get to repay your debt.

It’s not what you’re thinking about when you shove Din out of the way of the krayt’s projectile venom, but it’s repaid nonetheless.

Din doesn’t think of it immediately, either, as he’s rather more concerned with the fact that you’re sent flying across the desert into a pile of debris and sharp rocks.

“(Y/N)!”

Before he can run to you, Cobb grabs his arm. “The dragon!”

To be honest, killing the dragon feels like a bonus when he pulls himself together and figures out a plan. When the great beast explodes, the Tuskens and the villagers cheer, but Din races back to the place he saw you last. He pushes aside the remains of one of those massive weapons they built to find you, laying on the ground. For a moment, panic clutches his heart, but then you groan.

“Am I dead?” you ask.

Din lets out a breath, hardly managing it, as he kneels next to you. “Dumbass.”

“Because it feels like I’m dead.”

“Dumbass,” he repeats, ripping your shirt away to find a deep cut in your side, just above your hip. “Of all the ways to pay your debt—”

You sit up, wincing. “Oh,” you say, as if you hadn’t realised it, “I guess I did that, too.”

Din’s heart is still beating a million klicks a second at how close you were to being dead, but for a second, it flips, realising that you hadn’t saved him just to pay the debt. And then, as he’s helping you off the ground and bringing you toward the others, who have bacta patches ready, his heart sinks.

Your debt is paid. You don’t have any reason to stay with him and the kid. As soon as you get back to the city, he’s going to have to watch you leave.

Shit. He didn’t think this through.

Meanwhile, you’re on the same train of thought. Does he really think you saved him for the debt? Does he want you gone that bad? It makes sense. You’re a pain in the ass, with all the training you need. But...well, you thought he might’ve—

“I’ve changed my mind,” you declare.

Din, terrified, attempts to sound neutral. “About?”

“The worst job we’ve ever taken. This is definitely it,” you huff as he helps you down onto a smoother boulder, taking patches from a Tusken.

He goes to use them, but you raise a hand.

“If you even think about getting near my wound with those nasty gloves, I’m going to skin you,” you threaten.

Frankly, Din is too shaken to even laugh. The silence lays there, stilted, as he removes his gloves and sits somewhat behind you, on another close stone. You’ve taken yours off, too, seeing as one is ripped all the way through.

He’s careful with the bacta patch and his bare hands, making sure not to touch your skin.

Now, of all moments, would be the worst time to find out that you really don’t have a reason to stay.

While he works, he thinks, briefly, that he should say something. “(Y/N),” he starts to say. “I—”

But that happens to be the moment he’s putting the bacta patch on. You suck in a sharp breath through your teeth, wincing. Your hand flies out, reaching for something to ground you. Of course, because something out there has it out for you, you grab his hand, forgetting that his gloves are, for once in his life, not there.

You realise, ridiculously, that his hand is warm.

And then the world around you explodes into colour.

The faded yellow of the surrounding desert is overwhelming with how it burns into your eyes alongside the brilliant blue of the sky. The surrounding Tuskens are in browns and greys, simple things, but so, so beautiful to your new sight. You breathe out, a shaky action.

Behind you, Din comes to see the same, but his gaze is stuck on the back of your head—the (h/c) of your hair and how the light catches in it, despite it being a complete mess.

You barely have the breath to gasp, but you do, whirling around to face him.

His beskar is beyond what you’d pictured: a shining, sparkling silver that could stand out on a star. No wonder rooms fall silent at the sight of him.

Din has the same thought about your eyes. On death’s door, all he’d wanted was to know what colour they are and now he knows, but it feels so useless now. He doesn’t even know what to call them. Sure, (e/c) would work, however weakly. You are...something else. You always have been, but now it’s like he can see it, the beauty of who you are so plainly painted into your features.

Din doesn’t even have the time to be afraid of your reaction before the words are slipping out. “I don’t want you to go.”

You just stare at him for a long moment, words processing.

It...kind of freaks him out.

He jumps when you fling yourself at him, arms wrapped around his shoulders in the tightest hug he’s ever gotten. Immediately, he responds, clutching the back of your shirt like it’ll save his life.

“Thank the Force,” you breathe out, just beside where his ear is under the helmet. “I don’t wanna leave.”

Din lets out a breath of relief and tugs you closer so you’re practically sitting on his lap. It can’t be comfortable, but you don’t seem to mind. When you do finally pull away, it’s to press your forehead against his helmet. It sends a swell of affection through him again, your constant Keldabe kisses. He taught you something important to his culture, to him, and here you are, using it without thought.

“Is it too late to tell you that this is the Mandalorian equivalent of a kiss?” he murmurs, more than a little embarrassed.

You laugh softly, arms reaching to rest around his neck. “And I thought you were so cool.”

“I just blew up a krayt dragon,” he argues.

“Oh, you’re plenty badass, Din,” you tease back, “just...not smooth.”

He huffs. “I’m gonna kick your ass next training session.”

A grin comes over your face and, for a second, he can’t comprehend why that would make you smile—until he realises that he just promised a next time. You’d genuinely believed he wanted you gone and Din thought you wanted to leave, but neither of you were right.

A whine from below catches both your attention.

The child reaches up from the ground, making grabby hands.

You laugh, a noise Din echoes quietly, and pluck him from the ground, holding him in your careful hands. “Hey, buddy. Feeling left out?”

He squeaks a confirmation, his little hands—green hands, you realise, deeply amused—reaching for Din’s helmet. Once he has a comfortable hand, he bashes his head against the helmet.

Din yelps, not out of pain, but concern, grabbing for the kid, who wobbles dizzily.

“Oh, shit—” Din says.

“Woah, woah,” you get out between wheezing laughs. “Don’t do that! His head is much harder than yours.”

The kid makes a weak huff and curls against Din’s chest stubbornly.

“I think that was an attempted kiss,” you suggest to Din.

Underneath his helmet, he grins. Petting the child’s head with a gentle finger, he looks back up at you. “It was cute.”

“Very,” you agree.

Without prompting, Din reaches for your hand again, a little hesitant. You take his gladly, running your thumb across his knuckles, which makes him shiver.

“Clan of three,” he whispers.

You lift your gaze. “Hm?”

“The Armourer, she said, ‘Clan of two’ when she gave me my sigil,” he explains. “I wanted to correct her then.”

The smile on your face is beyond words. “Clan of three has a ring to it. You’re stuck with me for good now, Din Djarin.”

He snorts and raises your hand to his helmet, touching it briefly to the metal in lieu of kissing it.

Tatooine might be the worst place in the universe, Din thinks that it doesn’t matter so much where he is. Sitting here, with you and the kid, he thinks that this might be home.

River’s Tags: @hahaboop & @mystoragehatesme

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nekolatte · 3 years

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Chapter 4: Pursuit

Preview: Dante noted the color of his hair, the curve of his nose and set of his jaw― Leon was pretty, and more so when he turned red with embarrassment. “What do you want?” Dante blinked, not realizing immediately that question was for him― instead captive to the show of snarling teeth and an eye color that looked more green than blue under the dingy bathroom light. “To help you”

Oh, Dante was in trouble.

Well, he was always in some form of trouble. Either with his landlord, his local government. Lady, Trish, the world in general. The demon world in generalー

Pausing his increasingly derailing train of thought, Dante picked up a discarded shirt and moved on, both literally and mentally.

Point was, he was having feelings. Soft, playful feelings like those first few weeks when Lady blushed and stuttered at every other innuendo out of Dante's mouth or when Trish would smirk and tease at his attempts to make her laugh. Flirting came second nature to Dante, but other than getting an amusing reaction from the other party, there wasn’t much else he gained from it. Contrary to his public persona, he wasn’t interested in getting laid with a revolving door of men, women and miscellaneous.

Dante enjoyed the attention, not the intimacy.

But with Leon, some stranger he scraped up off the sidewalk and stitched back together? There was something there that Dante wanted to tentatively pursue, and the only person he ever actively pursued in his life was a brother he couldn’t confidently confirm was dead or alive at the moment. This was new and strange and Dante didn't want to stop despite the alarm bells ringing.

He tried telling himself that it was all in good fun, that even if he did get stupidly attached, Leon certainly wouldn't reciprocate. Wariness and hostility wafted off the man like the demon guts he had bathed in prior, and seemed oblivious that he gave off either stench. Dante wouldn’t be entranced forever at chasing after someone that wasn’t interestedー he may have been foolhardy but he wasn’t masochistic. Not entirely. Enjoying Lady’s company made him doubt that part of himself sometimes, but no.

In any case, maybe Dante shouldn't have hinted at the threat during their first little talk, been more open and friendly to a human side-stepping into Hell’s door― it had just felt urgent that the man understand the circumstances he was suddenly in. Too late for it now.

Preferring to confront problems with a sword and gun, of which neither was good in this particular instance, Dante decided to just ignore everything and get Leon some pants.

He knocked on the bathroom door just to be polite and let himself in without bothering to wait for a response. Leon looked irritated, to put it mildly, but had nothing to say when Dante presented the clothing he found.

“What, no leather?” Leon quipped, though seemed to regret it immediately as he took a sudden and all-consuming focus in squeezing and flicking off every bit of water on his person. Probably would’ve kept on going if Dante didn’t toss a towel at him, even if it was amusing to watch a grown man sulk in a tub with a shower curtain wrapped around his waist.

“You can’t pull it off like I can.”

Leon grumbled something under his breath that even Dante couldn’t pick up, and yet Dante didn’t move from his comfortable lean against the vanity despite how obvious Leon was at dragging this whole ordeal out. He wasn’t going to ask for help, despite having it allowed it before, obviously waiting for Dante to take the hint and leave but Dante wasn’t going to take it. He really did want to help, plain and simple.

Humans were so damn soft, so damn fragile. Dante left Leon alone for all of ten minutes and the guy nearly cracked his skull on the bathroom tile. Both too stubborn to concede, the minutes dragged like hours― Dante watching Leon for every second of it. Head tilted like a curious cat, he noted the color of his hair: darker, when wet, though the tips and the wispy hair that made up his fringe were starting to lighten already. The curve of his nose and set of his jaw, light stubble pushing through. Severe eyebrows at contrast with bow lips― Leon was pretty, and more so when he turned red with embarrassment.

“What do you want?”

Dante blinked, not realizing immediately that question was for him― instead captive to the show of snarling teeth and an eye color that looked more green than blue under the dingy bathroom light. He recovered quickly, though.

“To help you, what I’ve been trying to do this whole time.”

Something in Leon seemed to break, maybe his pride, because he slumped in place, face gone dark and pinched, and looked about ready to accept his death rather than a helping hand up. Dante frowned, the victory leaving a confused, bitter taste in his mouth, and failed to come up with a comment to lighten the mood.

All he could do was step forward at Leon’s quietly raised hand, ignoring it entirely to lean down into the tub and scoop the stubborn man right up. Since he was already feeling guilty over the whole debacle, not realizing how far he pushed Leon past his comfort zone, Dante went right ahead and took more liberties than given.

Leon, worryingly, said nothing, though Dante found some quiet solace in the bright red of his ears that stuck out almost endearingly from flat hair. Clothes snagged on the way to Trish’s room proper, Dante cleared out a space for Leon on the bed before setting him down. The man in question did everything imaginable to avoid Dante’s line of sight, and Dante still felt too thrown off to do anything but respect the man’s privacy as best he could.

It involved a lot of looking to the side while going off muscle memory to bandage Leon up and help him into a shirt and sweats, a few pained hisses here and there, but the lack of communication was wearing. Dante wasn’t much for silence, especially when he was responsible for part of it. He still didn’t know what he did― the way he saw it, it was the same back and forth they had just a few minutes prior. Except, well, he was ogling a man that couldn’t get away from the unwanted attention, that was his implied prisoner. Offered to help when Leon obviously had issues with it.

That last part Dante didn’t understand.

Still, he didn’t want either of them to tiptoe around each other for however long Leon was forced to stay. Dante rubbed his forehead for just a few extra moments to collect himself before he got down to kneel between Leon’s parted legs, an attempt to be in his line of sight― feeling chastised despite Leon not having said a single word. He didn’t dare look up, didn’t want to know what face Leon was making because Dante knew his own was scrunched up with guilt and embarrassment. This was not a good look for him, and one he knew anyone in his immediate acquaintance would never let him live down.

“Listen, I know what this all seems like― I know you’re feeling cautious, and with good reason, but I really am just trying to help. You’re better off not knowing the things I know, and I just need you to trust me that I’ll tell you if that changes. This… It screws up people’s heads, makes day-to-day life just a little more harder to deal with. I don’t want to put you through that.” Dante dragged a hand through his hair and disrupted the slicked-back style so it fell back over his eyes.

Dante was forced to look through them when Leon made a noise that sounded like a question, catching a gaze that was focused on Dante and Dante alone. It felt different, something he could sink into, and a baser, more primal part of his mind wanted to nudge in those last few inches forward and rest his head on Leon’s knee. He reeled from it.

Leon rubbed at a shoulder, careful with the bruising under the borrowed t-shirt. “Why. That’s what I want to know. Providing first aid, giving me a place to recuperate, is one thing. Everything else is another. Making sure I’m not infected,” Leon flinched at the word, though didn’t seem to notice his own action, “doesn’t mean you have to… help me bathe.”

“Because I like you.” The answer came easily, far before his brain could catch up to his mouth after its earlier reprimand. He hadn’t meant to admit to it― they knew each other for three days, at best, and Leon was unconscious for most of it.

But all Dante could think about was how Leon fought for survival against something that was far beyond his capabilities, refusing to back down despite having the opportunity to turn tail and run. The grit of his teeth and the glare of his eyes when cornered, bloodied but not broken. How he sunk into Dante’s arms as if he was a safe haven, a comfort against the quick torment Leon had been subjected to. The many hours Dante spent watching the man sleep, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest― listening to the steady beat of his heart and losing precious moments of peace when it stuttered. Wanting nothing more than the ability to make Leon better instead of his arsenal of slaughter and destruction.

Maybe his pursuit wasn’t quite so tentative.

“What I mean is―” But he didn’t have to actively admit it. “―I can tell you’re a good person, Leon. I want all this to be easier for you. I know you don’t believe me, but it isn’t going to stop me from trying.”

Feeling all manner of wrong from admitting to so much emotion without a sarcastic or stupid comment, Dante got to his feet and moved around Leon to get to the bed. He grabbed at every scrap of loose clothing and tossed them into the pile by Trish’s closet, anything to make the area a little more inviting, and gestured to it.

“You should get some more sleep, probably on a bed this time. I’m gonna go and find some food for you.” Dante fled before Leon could get a word in otherwise.

#guns and roses #devil may cry #resident evil #dante x leon

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hqwritings · 4 years

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Kuroo, Bokuto, and Tsukkishima Hearing Their Roomate Dump Their Boyfriend

@venuslii requested: Kuroo, Bokuto and Tsukishima walking in on their roommate laughing on their phone and it turns out she broke up with her boyfriend and he posted about him being heartbroken and she says “that’s what you get you stupid b****” lmao headcanons or scenarios idrc

A/N: Eyy, thanks for requesting! I got a little stumped on some parts (*cough*Tsukki*cough*) but I hope you enjoy these! Requests are currently opened, no rules yet other than a maximum of only three characters please!

Kuroo Tetsurou:

-We all know this man loves his juicy gossip (re:when he immediately knew about Mikashou’s breakup) so when he heard you cackling in your room he knew he had to get you to spill the tea. It’s part of why you two get along so well and can stand living with each other: you two are nosey bitches that thrive off of spilling annoying/funny stories about the people in your life. He also gives killer advice that seems to always work for you, so that’s a bonus too.

-Since you two don’t really care about privacy near each other you left your door open and he takes the opportunity to dramatically poke his head in and pose at the doorway like the sexy bastard he is. “What’s so funny Y/N it’s not often that you keep secrets from me~”

-Needless to say he was a little baffled to see you cackling to the straight up breakdown your boyfriend was having over the phone. Kuroo feels an evil little grin coming onto his face. He never liked your boyfriend anyway. He was a bitch that was too easily angered and didn’t know how to keep his cool. Then again he never liked Kuroo either, always thinking he was gonna steal his girl (which Kuroo never bothered correcting him on because it was so fucking funny to him)

-He’s grinning at you and asks “Oh? What’d the bitch do now?” He’s leering over your shoulder as you show him your ex’s Snapchat, filled with sad Bart Simpson memes and edits with slowed rap music playing in the background. You even get him to read the terrible captions that say shit like “When the person who you thought was the one becomes a stranger again 😭😔” you’re laughing so hard at it you can’t even say anything

-Kuroo busts out the LOUDEST and most OBNOXIOUS hyena laugh ever and he’s grabbing your phone and going through all the other posts he’s missed so far and you’re just on your bed rolling in your sheets DYING and clutching your stomach because it’s hurting so bad

-“So you finally dumped him eh?? Good for you Y/N!” He shouts between laughs and then directs his attention to your crying ex, mocking him by saying “I have some sad Plankton memes if you need them! Unblock me first and I’ll send them to you! HAHAHA-“

Your ex hates him so fucking much and keeps trying to say something back but he keeps stumbling over his words and it just makes the two of you laugh even harder

-When you manage to get your laughter under control you lightly kick Kuroo (who’s now sitting on your bed) as a signal for him to give back your phone. When he hands it back to you, you go back to the call with your ex and shout “SEE THAT?! WHO’S LAUGHING NOW?! THAT’S WHAT YOU GET YOU STUPID BITCH!” With that final blow to his ego you’re satisfied, and hang up on him

-When Kuroo hears that click signaling the end of the call, he raises his hand for a high five and you give it to him. He’s sitting straight up now and immediately tackled you in a hug. You two kind of just lay there, and even though it’s mildly uncomfortable, he knows you need it. It’s warm, soft, and safe, showing you that he was always gonna be there for you no matter what

-“Good job Y/N, that guy was a major dickwad. He wasn’t nearly as hot as me anyway. Probably had a tiny dick too” “Trust me, he did” “Holy shit-“

-He rolls off of you from the hug but is still laying down next to you on your bed while holding your hand. You vent to him about how good and free you finally feel now that your ex is officially out of your life. During your conversation you two make a note to burn all the clothes your ex left in your room at your next house party/bonfire.

Bokuto Kotarou:

-He’s either A)chilling on the couch B)chilling on the couch talking to Akashi/Kuroo/Tsukki or C)chilling on the couch and playing video games. You two don’t have any particular system set up, because you two don’t care. What matters is that you’re bro’s and you both do your part to make (barely) make rent every month.

-You and Bokuto share plenty of funny stories to each other but he’s used to you just sitting in your room doing your own thing talking to whoever, but when he hears you literally CACKLING like a freaking maniac, he can’t stop himself from pausing whatever he’s doing and going to your room to make sure you’re still alive

-He gives a light knock on your door before realizing it’s unlocked and just coming in and he’s really surprised to see you doubled over on your floor laughing like there’s no tomorrow as he can hear your boyfriend on speaker phone, making the ugliest sobbing noises he’s ever heard

-“Whatcha doing Y/N? I can hear ya all the way from the living room, what’s up with you?” He asks, both curious and slightly concerned for you. You quickly get up, ignoring your (now ex-) boyfriend and pulling up his public Snapchat story that also has sad Bart Simpson memes and long ass sad emo paragraphs about how heart broken he is (it’s a little impressive how quickly he wrote it up though, given how you broke up w him like five minutes ago)

-“Bo, look at this shit- haHA I just dumped him!” Bokuto knows how much of a piece of shit your ex is, since you’ve spent so many nights crying to him about your fights and the hurtful things he’d say to you so he eagerly eats up the absolute bulls hit on his story and laugh with you while listening to his sobbing

-Your ex is fuming whilst crying over the phone “REALLY Y/N?! YOU'RE GONNA GET YOUR ROOMMATE IN ON THIS?! I KNEW YOU WERE CHEATING ON ME WITH HIM YOU SLU-“ but you were having none of it so you immediately shoot back “OH SHUT THE FUCK UP THAT’S WHAT YOU GET YOU STUPID BITCH” Bokuto is absolutely DYING by now, hyping you up as you shut your ex down

-He’s so happy to see that you know your worth now and aren’t going to let some dumbass boy make you think otherwise. So many times he’s wanted to just clock him in the jaw (he radiated really douchey vibes) but now he doesn’t have to (unless you want him to of course)

-Your ex angrily hangs up and you two are having a fit on the floor, Bokuto laying over your body as you read out the songs on the emo playlist he just posted. You even move to twitter to see him tweeting sad Pinterest quotes

-When the laughter dies down and he’s still laying over you and you’re just on the floor he turns over to look at you. “You know, I’m happy you broke up with that douche-face. He was ugly anyway, and a shit volleyball player. You deserve better” He lovingly pats your head “I’m proud of you Y/N, really” You almost want to cry at how sweet he’s being but you just smile and get up, walking to the doorway and turning to look at him

-“Thanks Bo, I appreciate that. All that laughing makes me tired though. Wanna order takeout and watch a movie? I’ll let you pick” He happily gets up from your floor and gives you a big high five and you two walk out of the room to go order your food. Your ex, completely pushed out of your mind.

Tsukkishima Kei:

-Doesn’t usually care about gossip (except for that one King of the Court thing w Kageyama) so your conversations don’t really go into “tea” abt people. You two are pretty close at this point and you both are hella nerds so your conversations will probably be about stuff like your sports/activities and maybe the occasional debate over which Jurassic Park Movie was the best (He will always go with the first one, he has a whole PowerPoint and everything). Otherwise you two don’t talk too too much, keeping to yourselves and being relatively peaceful.

-When he hears your loud laughter and straight howling, he’s… slightly annoyed. What could possibly so funny that you had to scream loud enough for him to be able to hear when he’s wearing headphones for fuck’s sakes. He begrudgingly takes off his headphones and makes his way to your room with the intention of telling you to stfu

-He doesn’t even bother knocking because he’s petty so when he sees you rolling over the floor AND hears your boyfriend’s loud hiccups and sobs turned on the highest volume on speaker phone he goes from annoyed to confused and annoyed.

-“Y/N you’re being so loud and it’s annoyi- what the hell are you doing” He’s not even trying to hide his mild disappointment in you and even makes a comment about your ex sobbing over the line “Why’s your annoying boyfriend crying too- he doesn’t sound like he’s laughing”

-You take a break from laughing to shout back at Tsukki “Make that Ex-Boyfriend Tsukkishima!! HAHA- come here, look at this- look-“ you’re getting up from your floor and grabbing him by the sleeve to sit him on your bed as you eagerly go through your ex’s Snapchat filled to the brim with emo poetry and paragraphs about heartbreak

-“I broke up with him 10 minutes ago and he’s still crying-“ Tsukki can’t help but laugh at this as he’s reading the absolute bullshit that your ex typed out. He can always tell when he’s going to be annoyed by someone and the moment your boyfriend stepped into your place, he knew that he would never get along with him. He avoided him like the plague and always denied the invite when you would go out together but would occasionally hear your fights through the walls or your crying when he came home late (in those moments he’s actually really nice and will sit and listen to you)

-“Wow… this is absolutely pathetic, how old are you, 12? This is bullshit!” Tsukki has no chill, verbally beating down your ex and only making him cry harder and now your stomach hurts as you clutch it with your free hand. At one point your ex decides he’s had enough and from the other end of the line he shouts “SHUT THE FUCK UP. YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING- YOU'RE A PIECE OF SHIT WHO CAN'T MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS-“ and Tsukki’s not having ANY of this so immediately goes “And you’re a sad loser who just got dumped by his girlfriend over the phone! What does that say about you?”

-You’re grinning ear to ear during this whole exchange and after Tsukki says that you bring the phone to your mouth (hoping to scream as loud as possible into your ex’s ears) and say “THAT’S WHAT YOU GET YOU STUPID BITCH-“ and hang up.

-It doesn’t stop there though- no no no- you two crack yourselves up even further by doing dramatic readings of all the messages (with stupid impressions of your ex to boot): “Oh baby if only I could hold you in my arms one last time!” “Heart been broke so many times-“ “Nobody cares about me, even the person who I thought I could trust the most-“ “Holy shit Tsukki you sound just like him-“

-When you can’t view his story/tweets anymore because he’s blocked you, you and Tsukki finish laughing. His long legs are draped over your bed and yours are placed on his lap. At this point he doesn’t even care because it’s been a good while since he ever found something THAT funny. He isn’t really the type for softly comforting his friends but you know that he definitely has a little soft spot for you (at least a tiny one) and you just sit there and gently kick him.

-“What” he asks and you just give him a soft smile and say “Thanks”. He has his own small smile on his face (that you can totally see but don’t mention because then it’ll go away) and just looks away from you and says “You’re annoying” (which by now you know translates to “You’re welcome”)

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu imagines #kuroo testuro #bokuto koutaro #tsukkishima kei #kuroo x reader #bokuto x reader #tsukki x reader

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stylishanachronism · 4 years

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So it is in fact Watcher Wednesday, I have a headache, the neighbors are still firing off fireworks and setting off all the car alarms on that side of the street, here’s a sliver of an essay about Pillars of Eternity and sheep.

So if you’ve been following along at all, you’ll know I have a dearly held headcanon that Edér, outside of seasonal agricultural work, supports himself by knitting elaborate ring lace shawls (no seriously what the fuck is he supposed to be doing all year Obsidian answer me who is making his socks), because canonically most of the Dyrwood’s production is tied up in fancy wool and fancy timber. More specifically, per the guidebook, “Wyr (“wire” - Aedyran) wool, gal glas (“green thorn” - Glanfathan) timber, Glanfathan deer hide, tin, lead, iron, copper.” (PGB1, pg 48), and it’s telling that the particular types of wool and timber are specified, as they aren’t for any other country(1). This is surprisingly well supported in game, between the set dressing in the Gift, the shipwreck scavengers beneath the bridge, and Dyrford’s main industry, namely tanning and dyework, as well as the lack of either crop industry on a wide scale, or food prepared for shipment in the Gift. (It does raise the question of ‘where are all the sheep’, but considering Obsidian knows nothing about textiles and the fact adding Yet Another model probably wasn’t the best use of their time, I’m cross about it but I’ll excuse it)

Fun fact: shipping roving is a waste of everybody’s time. Shipping thread on a scale that would enable somebody else to turn it into cloth is less so, but it’s significantly more expensive. Cloth takes up a lot less space than either option (especially roving), and is a lot harder to damage/a lot easier to protect during the process, especially since there’s a smidge more evidence(2) that wyr wool is a fine, light, long fiber wool, and therefore prone to matting in its base state.

This is not in the game at all, and barely barely barely in the guidebooks, but that set of facts means the Dyrwood is probably known for its weavers and knitters, and they probably import a lot more dye than even Aedyr, who are implicated to buy dyed in the wool textiles(3), which leads to the idea that the Dyrwood and Readceras have very strong economic reasons to get over their differences, (which is openly canon, but without explanation) and in the meantime Stalwart’s smuggling business? Almost entirely dye into the Dyrwood. The same economic pressure would explain why Aedyr was so eager to go back to trading with them, instead of being deeply pissy about dealing with a ‘failed’ colony, as they are with Readceras.(4)

On another tack, this takes everything about the Pearl Bluffs and makes it actually relevant to Defiance Bay as a city, because shelling out municipal funds on adventurers because one of your priestesses is having bad symbolic dreams is... a little sketchy, considering the state of the city, but if hiring those adventurers also gets rid of a major predator in the closest accessible good grazing land? Sheep are much more valuable than dreams, and that’s a reasonable expense. (It also explains why there’s absolutely nothing there, because local grazing land > mildly inaccessible but well placed military infastructure, because if I was worried about invasions by sea (which Defiance Bay canonically is), having some sort of lookout on the cliffs above the port would be a good idea, but not if it would hurt the city’s main industry.)(5)

Circling back around to the lack of crop industry, I know mechanically nobody wanted to animate Yet Another field of wheat (or what have you. There’s a lot of options there but they didn’t put it in so We Just Don’t Know(6)), and so it’s not that they don’t exist it’s that they aren’t pictured, just like the dozens and dozens of little towns that ought to be peppered across the place, which must exist but aren’t pictured (or named), but like... I desperately want to know what Obsidian thought everybody was doing all year, and where they were supposed to be living. (Let’s face it, I want a real map, with county lines and everything.) I am, obviously, proposing that in addition to the many many necessary industries (coopers! more blacksmiths! every single citizen from the age of being able to hold a pair of needles knits and spins so they don’t go naked! glaizers! lumberjacks! carpenters! butchers! I could go on!), that pretty much everybody is involved in some sort of fiber production, mostly wool but linen as well (preparing flax is No Joke), or otherwise dye preparation in some form or other, but like... what did Obsidian think. Where are the sheep?

Footnotes:

1: Per the guidebook: Readceras produces “Vorlas (purple dye), corn, corn flour, wool, cotton (minimal), lumber“ (pg 50), the Republics “Iron, copper, silver, glassworks, ships, spices, clocks, and astronomical equipment” (pg 52), Aedyr “Iron, fine steel, cotton, dyes, lumber (a major export of many varieties), spices” (pg 54), and Eir Glanfath “Gal glas (“green thorn” - Glanfathan) timber, Glanfathan deer hide, gold, adra shell (the odd shell material found in Engwithan ruins), rare fungi“ (pg 57) even though their exporting adra makes zero goddamned sense. No other countries/cultures have listed products, though Deadfire made a good effort at showing the exports of individual cities in the Deadfire. I’m not citing it because I’m too lazy to go copy all that shit down by hand, though.

2: The evidence on wyr wool is, very basically, it’s either a long fiber wool (wire like, able to be drawn very fine), or a short fiber wool (wiry, coarse). Long fiber wool is more desirable, and more likely to be specified out on a consumer level, versus a more ordinary short fiber wool, where knowing the provenance really wouldn’t change much. Long fiber is also a much lighter wool, the sheep more delicate (not by much, but still), and the Dyrwood’s climate as shown doesn’t particularly require a hardier sheep. Without actual sheep to look at, or somebody on staff with enough textile knowledge to incorporate said knowledge literally anywhere, there’s not a ton of evidence either way, but I have my biases, and finer wool suits them so that’s the argument I’m making.

3: “Aedyran clothing is known for being relatively simple in construction and often using large, colorful striped or checkered patterns for accents.” (pg 54) Trying to dye stripes is a misery. Trying to dye checks is worse. Weaving stripes or checks, on the other hand, is very, very easy, but requires you to dye the thread before it’s processed.

4: I would cite the guidebooks here, but since they never actually come out and say ‘there was five years of famine and it was not great’, I can’t, but uh, there was (at least) five years of famine and it was not great. A fraction of the population wandered off to make candles in sufficient quantities that they’re a minor Dyrwodian import (”Many a Dyrwoodan lord who illuminated their keep (and cursed all Readcerans) unknowingly did so by the light of Eothasian candles.” (PGB2, pg 81), in reference to The Bright Shephards, said fraction with the candles), and another went to the Deadfire, where they were delighted to finally be successful farmers (”To the delight of these wayward pilgrims, their crops took to Deadfire soil better than they had in Readceras,” (pg 80), in reference to the Children of the Dawnstars), even though they... don’t actually grow anything in common with Readceras, and meanwhile Aedyr continued to be dicks about the whole mess, even as Readceras proper finally got their feet under themselves, and managed to get the Vorlas properly established to the point where it’s their main export. (Look, Vorlas is fantasy indigo, and indigo takes a couple of years to like, not die at the first hint of literally anything going wrong. It’s more finicky than roses, especially since they’re not growing it in a region it’s built for, there’s a reason everything went to shit.)

5: It also explains some of the bounties, because ‘dangerous thing that only bothers *really* stupid travelers’ is a much smaller problem than ‘dangerous thing that bothers fairly defenseless essential livelihoods’. Also mechanically you’re paid for the Caed Nua bounties but like... Caed Nua is setting the bounty? so you aren’t being paid you’re just saving the house a lot of money to get somebody else to do it. You need to defend your sheep as well as your roads, I guess is what I’m saying?

6: Look, someday I will dig through every recipe I can get my hands on, in game or in the cookbook, and come up with a list of things the Dyrwood probably grows for food, but today is not that day, so right now your guess is as good as mine, as long as your guess is ‘not corn’.

#pillars of eternity #hey look it's time for another Terrible Essay #I'm going to be honest this is mostly not about sheep #some of the quotations were lightly edited for punctuation because whoever did the actual editing did a bad job at that part #there is more to this about why Aedyr's dye-focused colonies failed but like that gets into growing regions and shit #the map *still* confuses the shit out of me Obsidian show me your goddamned atlas #we are trying Yet Another method of footnotes let me know if it's working #one of the things I am most cross about in deadfire is that how economic relations shaped up between the dyrwood and readceras #is literally never once mentioned much less expanded on #like tell me about how that developed you spent so much time talking about it in pillars #let me tell you I have never been more vindicated than the fact I looked at the Dyrwood's fashion in Pillars and said NO THANKS #and then Deadfire turned around and went the same general direction I did when they retconned it #gal glas lumber is either some sort of citrus wood or Literally Green #I haven't decided which one I think is more likely/funnier #further agricultural thoughts include: are they raising chickens or doves or both #and where are the orchards and can I reasonably argue about citrus being a thing (the answer is probably no)#WAIT HOLD ON I JUST THOUGHT OF A THING #do you think people in the know refer to ethosians as beekeepers #like the bright shephards are all about bees because candles #so like do you think 'oh don't bother him he keeps bees'#or like 'go tell the bees those fuckers are coming'#is a way of keeping your neighbors safe from the dozens or particularly militant magranites or what have you #it's a good thing I never post fiction because I will call eder a beekeeper and I will confuse everyone including myself later #I'm sorry I have a headache I don't think I'm making much sense #also i think the neighbors are currently playing streetfighter on the giant projector screen right now and I Want to Die it is Very Loud

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on-fic-writing-spree · 3 years

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I’m gonna write?? A shit load of things I do down and uh can anyone tell me if these are normal things or not cause god I fucking hate not knowing and it tears me apart sometimes cause I really think there’s something wrong with me but I can’t say WHATS wrong with me and I hate not knowing but

Shit I do that honestly leads me to believe I have OCD or something at least:

I get into these weird moods where anytime I do something to one part of my body, I feel a need to do it to an opposite corresponding part. Even sometimes when it’s painful (mildly painful, I luckily haven’t gotten into these moods and seriously injure myself). If I don’t do it right I have to do it again. For example, if I tap my left first finger on something, I either have to tap all my fingers on my left hand, or my right finger. If my foot hits a wire, I have to hit my other foot on it. If I feel something under my nail and scrape my thumb under that nail, I have to repeatedly do it to each of my nails until it feels “right.”

If something doesn’t shut “right” I have to reshut it.

I can’t drink out of a cup anymore without rinsing it out. I standardly do this three times.

This one is kinda about something more personal but at one point we had bed bugs more recently (within the past two years I’ll give vaguely) and they were a huge pain to get rid of. When I was younger, the houses we lived in were real shit and they were far from clean (meaning yes there were bugs, this was when I was super young) and when I was a really little kid??? It never bothered me. But then when I had found out we had bed bugs and it was just such a pain in the ass to get rid of them, I couldn’t sleep, I straight up sat on my dresser all night and waited until morning. Then I’d tear apart my room, excessively vacuum, sweep, pour rubbing alcohol down all before I told my mom they were still there (my mom actually caught me tearing apart my bed frame to try and pour rubbing alcohol on it) and I just?? Broke the fuck down. Really badly. My mom bought heaters and we’ve rid ourselves of that problem luckily, but it absolutely?? Tore me the fuck apart, and that’s something I’ve developed rather than always felt.

Dirt under my nails (or anything) drives me nuts

Certain sounds or feelings make me grit and grind my teeth they feel awful

Textures in food fuck me up. Like any sort of seasoning that doesn’t dissolve besides pepper fucks me the fuck up when I’m trying to eat. I can’t swallow it. It isn’t like it doesn’t taste good, I can’t swallow it if the texture isn’t right.

Textures also fuck me up in terms of weird ass shit like my tomatoes have to be an exact firmness that’s consistent for the whole tomato or I won’t fucking touch it.

Intrusive thoughts and nightmares. They’re fucking bad. They’re really fucking bad and I can spend so long obsessing over them. Other times I have nightmares that I’m just so desensitized to that I don’t even react. Some of them I genuinely don’t think I could even say out loud because they were that terrifying and sickening.

If I touch raw meat, I wash my hands so many times. I actually once tried to keep count, and I washed my hands 7 times in the span of 10 minutes (and that’s what I could keep track of).

If anything touches anything that may have touched raw meat, it has to be cleaned twice, and I have to wash my hands. For example, if spill a little flour on the counter while making fried chicken, I have to wipe down the counter once to get off the flour, a second time with an anti bacterial cleaner (usually I do this more than once though). If a knife might have touched the bag that held a marinade (despite not getting the marinade on it) it has to be washed twice. I wash all dishes that involved raw meat twice.

Usually I don’t freak out about things that aren’t cleaned until I really notice them. My anxiety spikes while I clean, so while I’m wiping down the stovetop, I notice some grime on the handle bars, then I notice it at the edges of the oven, then I realize the whole front hasn’t been cleaned, and next thing I know I’ve been cleaning the stove for two hours and I can’t stop cleaning other things in the kitchen, constantly telling myself “it’s just this and this... and this... and that... and this...” and it drives me nuts if I get sent to bed before I can finish.

I’ve literally?? Started crying because my sister put something in some spot in the fridge and I was like “why would you put that there” and she was like “idk if you don’t like it do it yourself” and really I didn’t so I just started recognizing the fridge.

Yesterday: I drank out of a water bottle, not sure if it was mine or not, I glanced it and honestly I have no clue if it was air bubbles or backwash, but I immediately start gagging. So I go brush my teeth (with way too much toothpaste, and way too rough) and then rinse my mouth out 5 times, then go back out, get a new water bottle and rinse out my mouth until I am certain (you know how saliva is like more slimy than water??) that I only have water in my mouth. As if ANY OF THIS affects that I already drank the damn water.

Another weird thing I did recently: my cousin was doing my makeup, and she was using this homemade (as in like one of those DIY makeup kits) lipstick except she mentioned she had put the coloring from a nail polish in it and she got a little on my teeth. I couldn’t swallow my spit for about an hour, constantly spitting into the trash, and she had suggested maybe I just get a cup to spit into (the kid is a genius). It was a kid’s makeup kit!!! There’s nothing harmful in that shit!!! Anyway I ended up brushing my teeth several times and then forcing myself to swallow after rinsing out my mouth several times.

Sometimes people’s existence??? Just bothers the fuck out of me. Like my brother will be standing in the kitchen when I’m doing dishes, a few feet away and doing nothing, and his mere existence is just enough to piss me off. I just don’t think that’s normal???

After I wash the dishes, I have to wash my hands. Like my hands were just in soapy water?? Is there a point??

Despite all of this, I can’t keep my room clean for shit, but I know my makeup has to be organized in a specific way.

I get paranoid as shit that I’m going to hurt people, or that people will hurt themselves around me. Like there will be a knife somewhere near by and my brain will deadass think it’s going to drop and cut someone, so I MUST shove it back even though it wasn’t on the edge.

I once cried?? Because someone sent me a picture of a cup teetering on the edge of a table and god fuck??? I couldn’t stop?? It was so ridiculous???

I can’t write using pencils without a perfectly flat surface. I mean like textbook top kind of thing. Or if I’m drawing, I can use a mechanical one. But otherwise?? If I’m writing on top of wood?? Or desks that are made of that granite shit with the littlest texture differences?? No I can’t I have to write in pen and I’ve gotten in trouble from teachers for this

I don’t know. There’s more I’m sure. But like?? Can anyone with OCD or who shows a lot of these symptoms actually tell me if this is normal or if this is smth that’s actually not okay up with me? Cause idk it really fucks me up not knowing because I feel like there HAS to be an explanation???

#ocd #tw bugs #tw intrusive thoughts #mental illness

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spacechild-glitchypix · 6 years

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There Are Voices In My Head (Not The Normal Kind Either) - A Sanders Sides fic

Note: Yes, that title is supposed to be a BMC reference. I also wrote this a while back as a sequel to Cookie Crumbs and Tears. Fun fact, that was supposed to be a oneshot fic but then a comment on the original story from someone named ‘Septiplier_Lover’ kinda inspired me to write a follow-up and now it’s a series

Summary: “I-I heard a voice,”

“A voice?”

After the incident from yesterday, Logan goes to Patton to apologise for what happened. However, Logan finds Patton staring blankly at a wall for seemingly no reason and becomes mildly concerned. It seems that poor Patton really can't catch a break with these things, huh

Pairings: Logicality

Warnings: Patton has what is assumed to be a panic attack (it is treated as such), ANGST

Read on AO3 here

Prequel fic (Cookie Crumbs and Tears) here

Sequel fic (The Healing Heart Fixes the Cracked Crown) here

Logan wasn’t exactly well-known for being a very social side. He wasn’t nervous or shy or anything of the like, he just found conversations to be hard to transcribe when he couldn’t fully understand how emotions work. And usually, if a problem was that he wasn’t knowledgeable on a subject, he would just become knowledgeable on that subject by researching and extensive interaction and experience on the subject until he knew it like the back of his hand. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried to understand how emotions work either, Logan had done a considerable amount of research on the topic of emotions, finding out about many chemical reactions that occur in the brain through said research but none of what he did really help him become more social. He was still left puzzled when trying to interact with the side he was arguably closest to despite what his treatment of said side may have said.

Speaking of the side he was closest with, Logan was currently sitting next to him. Now, usually, this side would be colouring or playing around with a various assortment of objects. If nothing else, Patton would at least be more attentive to the other side in the room with him but not this time. Nope, Patton was fixated on a wall, a weak smile left on his face and Logan was currently considering the idea that maybe the usually optimistic side was possibly daydreaming. That idea was quickly tossed out once Logan noticed the change in Patton’s smile. It had somehow diminished, faltering a little with the faint catch of a corner even quivering. Logan was concerned, he’d come to apologise for his abhorrent behaviour the day before but he was genuinely worried about whatever was going through his colleague’s head. Patton seemed to try and shake off whatever was bothering him (literally, he shook his head gently) before focusing back on reality.

It was then Patton noticed him.

“GYAH- L-Logan! Hi! What’re ya doin’ here?” Patton looked visibly shaken but he at least tried to pretend he was fine. Logan wanted to push on that topic a bit but he figured that he was here for a reason, he needed to actually apologise to him.

“I was looking for you and here was where I found you. I just wanted to give my sincerest apology for my actions yesterday. What I did wasn’t necessary or warranted and I realise that I must’ve hurt you horribly. That was noisome-”

“Noi-what now?”

“That was despicable of me. So, I humbly ask for your forgiveness and I will promise myself a favour to you and to improve with my behaviour so something similar to my outburst doesn’t happen again,” Logan wasn’t great at apologies, he never knew exactly what to say and never really knew if his tone or wording came off as too brash or abrasive for the apology to be accepted. That’s why he typically avoided confrontation, no need to apologise if you don’t find a situation where you’d need to. Again, an odd sentiment for him considering his love of learning but that love of learning had a limit and Logan’s was emotions and anything tied to them.

Patton beamed at the more logical side, utter joy filling his eyes at Logan's apology. It wasn't too surprising to Logan that the fatherly side immediately decided to bring him into a hug, squeezing him tightly. Logan had been trying to become a little more touchy with the elder side, the sudden hug hadn’t been too uncomfortable as such but the squeeze he was subjected to after they had been hugging for a few seconds did present a decent amount of pain and Logan attempted to rub circles in the other’s back to, hopefully, lessen to force put into the hug. It didn’t and Logan was left curious to why Patton had decided to tighten his grip. When pulling the elder side back slightly, he was left unsuccessful in lessening his grip and it was at that point where Logan knew something was deathly wrong. This either wasn’t Patton or Patton was going through something bad and Logan suspected it was the latter if their usual interactions were any indication. Patton only refused to let go of a hug if he was feeling particularly bad or if he was completely out of it and that was what Logan was worried about. Turning his head, the logical side made an attempt to get a look at Patton’s face.

Patton looked horrified.

Immediately, Logan attempted to shake Patton out of it, lightly rocking the side back and forth to try and wake him up from whatever daze he was in. It didn’t work. Next, the logical side tried to call out to his friend, calling his name at a moderate volume. It didn’t work. Logan was quickly running out of options and decided to try both shaking and calling out to the elder side. His volume was rising; Logan realised this was most likely the result of panic- of concern about what was happening to the side that was held in his arms at this very moment. Logan tried shaking Patton a little more violently in return.

It didn’t work

Patton was hyperventilating, Logan could feel his quickening breath becoming weaker with terror and he, out of sheer adrenaline, managed to pry the older side off of him. Logan quickly but gently cupped the other’s face in his hands, taking note of the mix of tears and snot flowing down his face. Not a pretty sight but a sympathetic one nonetheless. Logan got Patton to look at him dead in the eye before offering the other side a soft, gentle look. It wasn’t often Logan would lessen his hardened expression for anyone except maybe Thomas and occasionally Virgil but he felt that a soft gaze was necessary as to prevent the fatherly side from going further into whatever trance that had fallen upon him. Patton was slowly but surely calming down.

“Patton, take deep breaths. Try and focus on your breathing for a moment,” Logan recited the same mantra he’d done with Virgil when the anxious side was having his own panic attacks. Ever the analytical side, Logan had made sure to look up ways to help someone through a panic attack for Virgil’s sake and, while he wasn’t sure if what Patton was experiencing was a panic attack, he would at least treat it like one. After a few minutes of Patton focusing on levelling out his breathing, Logan decided to speak up again.

“Ok, do you think you can tell me what just happened? If not then try focus on the environment, name five things you can see,” Logan’s voice, usually direct and harsh, had gained a gentle lilt and a softened tone. His hands had let go of Patton’s face but he kept a steady gaze on the other side. Patton took in a deep breath before letting out before looking back at the side that was currently talking him through a vague episode.

“I-I heard a voice,”

Logan barely made out the sentence, Patton’s voice was oddly quiet and almost weak. Logan did hear what Patton had said, confusion taking over his mind at said statement.

“A voice?”

“Uh-huh. It was deep and kinda scary. It was also echo-ey like it was coming from my head,” Patton held a look of concern, of fear. Logan was left lost, there weren’t any conceivable reason Patton would be hearing voices. Thomas didn’t have any notable mental health problems that would lead to Patton (or any of the other sides for that matter) having any sort of auditory hallucinations. And isn’t like it wasn’t coming from Patton’s own head, Logan would’ve heard it otherwise.

“And what did it say?” Logan was becoming more concerned by the moment, not helped by the fact that Patton had gone silent at the question. Patton was hearing voices, why wouldn’t he be worried. It wasn’t even just the fact that Patton was hearing voices, it was the fact that there was no reason for him to be hearing voices in the first place and that fact made Logan worried for what the voices had said. Finally, Patton spoke.

”It told me that you hated me,”

Logan stopped, frozen. Did Patton honestly believe he hated him? A sudden wave of pure guilt flooded over Logan and the usually contact-avoidant side quickly wrapped his arms around the elder side, pulling him into another embrace, this one more gentle than the one Patton had given him earlier. One of Logan’s hands stroked through Patton’s hair while the other traced circles into his back with a finger. Patton returned the gentle hug, snuggling his face into Logan’s shoulder.

“Patton, I’m so sorry. I never meant to make you believe I hated you, I honestly don’t. In fact, it’s quite the contrary if I’m to be honest with you,” Logan has always known that he’d held a strong affection for the emotional side, however, he’d never known what to call the absurd affection before. He never wanted to assume it was anything more than just platonic but reducing his emotions at the moment seemed completely counterproductive and unhelpful.

“How come you’re so mean to me during the videos then?”

Logan paused, trying to find a way to word his statement without revealing too much but while also not coming off as too cold. This whole incident with the voices probably only became so bad because Logan legitimately did come off as aloof and mean to most people, especially people such as the emotion-based Patton. The logical side always considered the interaction he’d had with Patton harmless banter, something the other side could just brush off akin to Virgil and Roman’s banter. Apparently, that wasn’t clear to Patton himself. Guilt filled Logan’s system further at the thought that he’d caused Patton further grief that may have possibly trailed back to before the voice had appeared.

“I never meant for it to come off as rude, I have clear problems understanding social cues. I didn’t quite realise how my words may have hurt you but they did and I apologise. I apologise for every awful thing I’ve said to you, I apologise for shoving you yesterday, I apologise for underestimating you; I apologise for everything I’ve done that would ever make you think that I hate you,”

Patton was silent and Logan was curious about how the older side was feeling. The two hadn’t separated from their position and Logan didn’t really want to pull the cuddly side off of him, not after what he’s been through. He wasn’t letting go unless Patton wanted him to. Said side decided to snuggle further into Logan’s shoulder, still remaining quiet and Logan deduced that blue-clad side was probably tired and using Logan as a headrest again. The logical side decided to let his friend drift off to sleep, keeping the room quiet and noiseless.

It was silent.

“Logan?”

“Yes, Patton?”

“The voice is still there,”

“Is it still trying to tell you that I hate you?”

“No but it’s still lying, it’s just lying about other things. I think it’s getting desperate,”

“It probably is,”

It was silent again.

“Logan?”

“Yes, Patton?”

“Thank you,”

Logan smiled.

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #logicality #patton in a bad place series #there are voices in my head (not the normal kind either)#sequel to cookie crumbs and tears #prequel to the healing heart fixes the cracked crown #angst #patton has a panic attack #the next fic is a little nicer to poor Patton

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paragonrobits · 6 years

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Lady Adaar and her stabby elf friend Mahaenon have a talk about how weird it is that Solas actually goes by the elven word for Pride.

Also on Ao3 and FFnet!

Haven was a nice enough place to call home. Perhaps not for long, as had mused the inner circle of the fledgling Inquisition's agents; the eight of them, forming the very core of the reborn organization's most powerful and skilled agents, all clustering around the Herald of Andraste. When you were a qunari surrounded by, mostly, humans and ones that might have a ax to grind against anyone with horns and metallic-colored skin, you were grateful for company that was going to protect you from them.

Particularly when you were an apostate. The word meant little but, somehow, Herah Adaar suspected, the so-called authorities of the Chantry would find some way to accuse her of horrible crimes because she was qunari and a mage at the same time.

She quite liked the situation here. She enjoyed the company; the Trevelyan twins were good-natured company, much more down to earth than human nobility could honestly be expected to be, and they were from the Free Marches, same as her. Her husband was along for the ride - if 'husband' was really the same for a long-term breeding pair arranged by them, just for the sake of expanding their families, but they got along well enough and considered the other a great friend - and Kaaras was always a sucker for the notion of protecting the weak, and the small. The dwarven Cadash cousins were reckless rouges, but good ones; she liked them, and she trusted them with her life... if not her sovereigns. And the elves...

Dammit she was pretty sure she was mostly in love there. At least, she didn't want to see them or their clan hurt worse than they already had been.

Guess I'm a sucker for being a hero, too, Adaar thought, as she peacefully drank in the bar Sister Leliana had set up in Haven.

Sitting beside her, and somehow managing to make simple posture do the job of daring the world to try something just because he was Dalish surrounded by humans, Mahanon slugged his drink back, and if the extremely strong rum did more than make his throat tickle, there wasn't the slightest sign of it. A few dwarves - possibly ex-Carta, the Inquisition had been courting their ranks and a lot of them thought that honorary clan status granted by some very tricky political maneuvering through the Inquisition with Orzammar was worth the risk - muttered in astonishment, as did the humans in the tavern and even a couple of the Vashoth that were trickling into the ranks.

Adaar contemplated trying to best him in a drinking contest. She thought better of it; she was big for a qunari, the horned giants of Par Vollen, and elves were small and frailer than humans. He was nearly half her size, but he could just drink and drink without the slightest hint of inebriation. She wondered where he was putting it all. Thinking of how Sera could eat so much without gaining an ounce, Herah supposed that elves had to have a truly wicked metabolism.

Adaar glanced around hopefully. "Damn. Doesn't look like the others are coming around."

Mahanon shook his head, his facial tattoos so pale that they nearly shone against his dark skin. The tree design of Mythal and her chosen role wasn't too different from the vibrant vitaar war paint she wore, even now. "Nah. Doesn't look like it." He shrugged mildly. "Still. I suppose I wasn't really expecting them to."

"Where'd they get of too, then?"

He gave her a vaguely smug, knowing look. "And how do you know that I know, eh?"

Adaar chuckled. "Because you know where everyone is, all the time. Come on." She laid a heavy hand on the table; not her good hand either. She did her best to keep the hand that had been... marked, hidden from view. It still tingled, almost hurt now, and the flashes of green and raw magical energy tended to upset people. And the Mark was on her good hand. It was a bother.

He noticed her doing that, and his face fell as he saw her grunt with the effort of not showing the pain.

Mahanon liked messing with people, and he had a body count higher than the entire Valo-Kas company ('shems that deserved it', he reassured them with a wild grin, and since there were so many humans that deserved swords in the face, his new friends had nodded... including the Trevelyans, who had something of an inside view of the nastiness of human evil), but he didn't like seeing anyone get hurt, either. The two were probably connected; see a shem making someone miserable, kill the shem, end of hurting. He did not have a particularly fraught internal view.

So for once, he dropped the games and came straight out about it. "Okay, okay. Sorry. Should have told you the others couldn't show." He spoke at length, then. "The Cadash cousins are off some kind of reunion with the golem that helped stop the last Blight."

"Wait. The golem that was with the Hero of Ferelden!?"

"Yep. Same one!"

"The self-aware talking golem? The one that's kind of a jerk?"

"Yep, that one. Seems that this... Shale... is an ancestor of theirs. An old-time Cadash warrior, back when she was a dwarf." Mahanon proposed a theory. "My guess would be that... uh, might be trying to figure out how to make other golems self-aware too."

"Huh. That would be interesting. Imagine all the stuff they've have to talk about."

"I figure it'd mostly be dead boring. Golems mostly just toil and smash darkspawn. Might get repetitive." Mahanon changed the subject. "Now, the humans... honestly I'm not totally sure what they're doing. Not specifics. Way I understand it, Josie thought they'd make dab hands at talking with a delegation of Templars that used to serve at the Ostwick Circle. Something like that. Diplomatic garbage." He refrained from saying shem bullshit but you could, as it wear, hear what he wasn't saying. He had too much grudge with humans to just let go of it - too much pain, too much bad blood, too much suffering and things just getting worse and worse by human hands for thousands of years - but he liked the Trevelyans to be cruel.

"What about your sister?" Adaar asked. "I think I saw her earlier today."

"...Oh yeah. I bet you did." Mahanon growled. "Bet my clan-sister is off chatting with Solas," He gave a dismissive snort.

Adaar rumbled. "And Kaaras is off teaching Sera how to do proper stitching. He's found himself a good one to mother." She took a long drink. Something about Mahanon's tone was bothering her. "Solas... huh. You don't like him?"

"Mm. Complicated, Vashoth." Mahanon stared into his drink, like he was trying to see some kind of portent. "I want to like him. He makes it real easy to like him.. unless you get him talking shit about the Dalish." He sneered, but genteelly. "If I wanted to hear someone be a snob about my people, I'd waste my time with... well, honestly, anyone except you and the others. But its worse, coming from an elf."

Adaar nodded gloomily. "Like when a 'real' qunari says anything about Vashoth like me."

"Yeah. You get it." Mahanon shook his head.

"Listen," Adaar said. "I like Solas, but sometimes it's like listening to my grouchy grandpa complaining about the good old days. It's kind of depressing."

Mahanon grinned. He looked thoughtful. "Thought your family was too young generation to have grandparents."

"Okay, fine, fair enough, but there's an old dwarf that hangs out at the farm and complains to mama and papa and all my dozen littler siblings about how much he liked it when he still lived in Orzammar. He's like a grandpa. I guess." Adaar raised a hand. "One of these days I want to introduce Varric to him. Just for the snark."

"Please let me be there, I want to hear all the sarcasm." Mahanon chuckled. "...Solas. Solas. Even the name is weird. Who takes a name like that when you're trying not to creep out the shems?"

Adaar gave him a look. "Come again?"

"Solas." Mahanon grunted. "Come on, friend. I know you've been trying to learn my people's languages. His name doesn't sound weird to you?"

"No? Should it?"

"Huh. Must not have seen it, I suppose. Look." Mahanon gestured vaguely, a sign that he wasn't as together as he liked to pretend. "Solas, it... ah, it translates somewhat into a few words in the common tongue. Hard to convey it. Arrogance, overwhelming ambition... ah." He snapped his fingers, happy at working it out. "Pride is a good analogue. Solas basically means pride."

"Wait. Our elvish apostate - besides your sister, I mean - is literally named pride?"

"Yup." Mahanon gulped down another mugful of rum. "That doesn't seem strange to you?"

"I dunno. It's only a name." Adaar waved a hand with the slightly fussy, extremely precise movements of a mage still knew to the particulars of being a Knight-Enchanter. "Look at my folks. Named ourselves Adaar. I know Bull probably translated it to you as 'weapon', but it specifically refers to those giant things the followers of the Qun use. Big, loud, make a lot of fire? Those things." She grunted. "Doesn't mean much, does it now?"

"You're named after big things that shoot fire," Mahanon said slowly, giving her a wry grin. Adaar sniffed, aware that she was so big, even among the Qunari, that sitting down Mahanon did not even come up completely to her elbow. Standing upright, he wouldn't be much higher than her gut. "You're big. And you like the magic that makes things burny and explodey."

"I'm the exception that proves the rule?"

He laughed at that. "I'm just saying that, if that is his real name, that's very unusual for him to claim so." Mahanon looked thoughtful. "Granted. Shems don't speak my language well too often - Josie does her best, bless her - so he'd be justified in figuring no one would notice. But he still uses it around elves. Dalish and otherwise. You'd think if he was trying to be harmless, what with being an apostate surrounded by grumpy ex-templars with big shiny swords, he'd be trying to present himself less ominously."

Adaar sighed. "In my experience, a lot of humans refuse to take elves seriously at all. Sorry. They're little shitheads that way."

Mahanon nodded sagely. "I find that a couple swords in the face usually sets them straight. I mean. Typically they're dead but it gets the point across." he wiggled a finger. "So, if my sister wants to get her hands all over him, good for her. I like seeing her not get all gloomy and vengeful against the shems for once. But I'm just real suspicious of anyone that goes around calling themselves pride incarnate. It's weird."

Adaar took a drink. A Vashoth who cheerfully followed the religion of Andraste, even if her overall opinion of the Chantry was 'watch it burn with a big smile', she was hardly one to criticize being unusual by local standards. "I don't think anyone here is really normal. This Inquisition thing is weird."

"On that, my big horny friend, we are agreed."

"Please don't call me that in mixed company. It gives the wrong impression."

"Well. Now I feel obligated to do so in really mixed company, for maximum effect. You've gone and challenged me, falon!"

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #the inquisitor #qunari inquisitor #in which all inquisitors are canon #though lady adaar is the one with the Mark #i love these guys and want to spin them off into their own AU #side note I actually LIKE Solas but #come on everything about him would be unsettling at BEST just by that name alone #random dude called Pride or Ambition would just ????!!!!!#my writing #fics

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tenderdnp · 6 years

Text

we’re already each other’s, yet you aren’t mine

beta: @star-crossed-phan

artist: @just-another-phanfic + a pt. ii of her art is here!

word count: 26.2k

rating: PG-13; genres are romance, fluff, and angst

warnings: mild language, homophobia (internal and external), mild homophobic slurs, alcohol, hints at sexual intimacy

summary: in a time where tattoos bloom upon the skin out of nowhere - dan is a boy who paints watercolor roses in his backyard and has a single hidden marigold behind his ear, all while phil, who has tattoos of daisies around his ankles + shoulders, writes poetry on the front porch next door. (a high school, art student au)

author’s note: aaaa my first pbb fic!! :’)) thank you so much to kayla for betaing this! you are so sweet, and we talked more than just about editing which was so lovely. bless you for sticking with me even though the word count went from what was supposed to be 5k straight to 25k; you’re a real one! and thank you to kat for being a great pinch hitter artist, your moodboards make my heart go !!!!!

and a p.s. — this fic was inspired by @demonphannie’s post and @audaw’s art. ty for existing

moodboard by @just-another-phanfic

. . .

For centuries, humanity has held art to the highest of esteems. Early neanderthals began it all with their coarse hands, withdrawing the dirt from the earth below their feet to leave marks upon rugged stone walls, the ones that would convey the beginnings of history. In the millenniums that followed, an elitism has formed around the most talented ones who have managed to make a name for themselves. The names of these creators are commonplace in many households amongst the nations; buildings are erected with the mere purpose of showcasing such artistic creation.

Perhaps it is for that reason that the phenomenon in which ink would envelop one’s skin was thus regarded as a wonder, rather than as an alarming fright.

Despite seeming harmless, precaution took place of course: scientists all over the globe have dedicated themselves to research the peculiar tattoos. Theories ranging from genetic mutations related to the brain’s creative processes to shifts in the earth’s overall physical environment resulting in a strange seismic change have arisen, but nothing about their origins have been confirmed as of yet. For that matter, nothing has been confirmed as to how exactly they appear either.

<<>>

It’s the sound of lips on skin and lips on lips that makes his shoulders tense and his hair stand on end. He can’t ignore them, they’re only three lockers down after all, and his peripheral vision just happens to be especially keen. Dan Howell has the new girl -new as in she had literally transferred into their art school several days ago- pinned against the locker’s cold metal, his lips pressing against hers again and again. It isn't a shock, really. She is likely his latest rendezvous, i.e. the new girl in both the real and alternative sense.

The probable truth of that fact makes his gut twist.

His thoughts are confirmed by gossipers in the hallway, their ringing giggles unintentionally piquing his interest. Their conversation automatically separating from the bustle of bodies and hallway sound, he listens in on their eager chatter.

“Did you hear who it was this time?”

Her friend squeals —was that necessary?— in response. “No I haven't! Who?!”

“It was Erin—”

“Erin? The new girl who came in and started here last week?”

“Yes! Well, she came in a totally different way last night,” he could hear a smirk and a wink in her voice. The if you know what i mean was a little more than heavily implied, making him internally cringe. “Everybody’s saying that they just locked eyes across Chris’ living room and like, totally fell in love. Or lust. You know how it is.”

“Of course,” the friend laughs knowingly, “Not a single girl has ever lasted too long.”

From there, as the conversation topic shifted, his attention followed. Suddenly irritated, he shuts his locker with a slam, not loud enough to gain the passerbys’ attention, but enough to snap Dan and Erin (she has a name now) out of it. By the time he turns around, Erin shoots a mildly peeved glance his way. Familiar words of it's always cloudy except for, when you look into the past, one night… flow from his worn earbuds to hit his eardrums as he makes his way to class, clearing his mind and relaxing his annoyance.

He shakes his head to himself, and puts a little smile on his face. It happens all the time, so he shouldn’t be bothered. Today is gonna be a good day.

He can feel it.

<<>>

As per usual, he is the first one in the classroom. It is a basic english class, because despite being at the art school for written work and thus having several writing and literary classes under his belt, he is still required to take a “basic” class for the english language.

His efforts to convince the principal to change his situation (that other students have voiced to have as well) otherwise was, needless to say, futile.

The class bores him a bit, but it’s not like he can do anything about it. More often than not, he keeps to himself and simply chooses to not actively participate in class. Besides, being one of the teacher’s favorites due to having a particularly advanced grasp of the material is not necessarily the worst thing in the world (plus it gives him time to write rather than pay attention).

Several minutes pass before Dan enters the classroom. As per usual he is the last to enter, with Erin in tow. Her blonde curls are even more all over the place than they usually are and his typically perfectly straightened hair is a little less than perfect; to add even more to that, their clothes are crinkled, leaving little to nothing to the imagination as to what their shenanigans were. The teacher makes no comment but a slight disappointed exhale and a passing gesture of the hand for them to take their seats before he opens up the class for the lesson.

“Now for the past two weeks we have been talking about poetry…” Mr. Lamansi begins, clapping his hands together. “And for today in particular, we will be focusing on Walt Whitman’s Song of the Open Road.”

The class proceeds by his calling on various students in a random fashion to take turns with reading stanzas, his choice sometimes falling on the ones with their hands raised and other times upon those who were purposefully remaining quiet and avoiding eye contact. Phil allows himself to take advantage of this time to freewrite, allowing his pen and mind to wander.

brown is all sorts of golden in the sense it gives...

“Phil? Could you read these few lines for us?”

At the teacher’s interruption, Phil looks up and nods, proceeding to put down his pen and stand up from his seat as every other student had. His hands hold his textbook as he prepares himself to speak, but the moment he opens his mouth, Mr. Lamansi stops him.

“Actually Phil,” Mr. Lamansi begins, “Can you come up and read in front of the class? This is one of my favorite parts.”

Phil bites his lip. “Y-yeah. That's fine.”

Everyone’s focus is on him as he strides towards where the teacher directed him to go. He’s not a fan of this kind of thing you know, being the center of unwanted attention that is, and each stare only seems to be encouraging the swirls that are slowly appearing on his lower back. Once he reaches his spot in the front, each set of seemingly judgemental eyes causes buttercups to rapidly pop up on a concentrated spot on the inside of his wrists, mapping the places where he feels anxiety and unease.

An awkward cough to clear his throat and break the stillness of the room comes first. Then, he begins.

And it's captivating.

“The earth expanding right hand and left hand, The picture alive, every part in its best light, The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted, The cheerful voice of the public road—the gay fresh sentiment of the road. O highway I travel! O public road! do you say to me, Do not leave me? Do you say, Venture not? If you leave me, you are lost? Do you say, I am already prepared—I am well-beaten and undenied—adhere to me? O public road! I say back, I am not afraid to leave you—yet I love you; You express me better than I can express myself; You shall be more to me than my poem.”

His voice pulls at the heartstrings of everyone watching him, or at the very least, grabs their gaze so that they don't look away. Other students were bored and monotone in vocal delivery, but his take on it is deep and rich. It's lovely, and all the students (okay, except maybe a select few, but you can't win them all) are listening. Breathtaking is definitely the right word to describe it, for the full classroom of rowdy adolescents are nearly completely silent.

Unbeknownst to him, when he's finished, Dan’s lips are parted oh so slightly in a sort of soft awe.

As Phil sits back in his seat, his face burns red, a murmur of applause going through the room. His teacher praises and thanks him, but he pays it no mind. His eyes shift down at his desk as he brainstorms and works on a poem for the rest of the period, until the bell eventually rings.

Now mind you, Philip Lester was usually very observant. His eyes were open, all the time— as a poet he had to take inspiration from every facet of the world around him. However, perhaps if his mind didn't force itself to replay the most anxious of moments, and he wasn't so distracted by his writing, Phil would have caught how peculiar it was for a certain Dan Howell to throw a fleeting gaze at him just before leaving the room.

<<>>

philip michael lester. flashback; age four.

Life was pretty nice when one’s age was still a single digit number.

While his mother was cooking, Phil was sat in the chair at the dining table. Legs swinging in the air because he was far too short to reach the floor, with a face of curiosity he pointed a small finger at what was on her bicep.

“Mum, why does your skin have different colors there?”

She briefly stopped her stirring upon the stove, her eyebrows scrunching in confusion a little before she saw what he was pointing at and laughed in understanding. “This?” she clarified while she smiled, pointing at the tattoo of a concert ticket that lay on her upper arm.

“Yeah!” young Phil exclaimed, nodding eagerly. “And Daddy has one too!”

His mother hummed in agreement and continued to make supper. “Indeed he does,” she laughed, “And that's on purpose you know. The first time I met him was at a concert.” Her voice became wistful as she continued, “I was sold a counterfeit ticket and because of that was absolutely devastated, with tears in my eyes and all, and was on the way to being sent home. On my way out, I had bumped shoulders with your father. We were completely knocked down to the floor! And then…” Her hand stopped once more as her words trailed off.

“And then he noticed my eyes and asked me what's wrong. Once he heard about what had happened, he told me that his friend became sick and that he had a free ticket. Only if I wanted it of course. I accepted it, we ended up having a great time, kept contact, and eventually started dating. I got one half of a concert ticket on my left arm, and your father had a concert ticket on his right.”

“Wow! Now you two are matching, right mum?”

“Yep! They say that nothing’s been proven but if anything,” she turned towards her son and made a pointing gesture to emphasize her words. “This appeared out of love, I’ll tell you that.”

“Love?”

“Yeah, love.”

Phil’s cheeks beam with a smile. “Love sounds so nice.”

As she sets a bowl of Phil’s favorite soup in front of him, an easy reply comes as a response. “Oh it is, dear. It really is.”

<<>>

“Just milk and a bag of crisps? Again?”

Phil places his tray down with a playful eyeroll. “Peej, you know it's because I’m not hungry.” He sits down next to his best friend, unzipping his backpack to take out his phone and aimlessly scroll while they’re chatting.

With his mouth still full, PJ says pointedly, “Yeah sure.” He swallows his food. “I’m just worried sometimes, you know.”

“I know,” Phil laughs, “And I appreciate it.”

PJ does a cheeky little grin and wave with a jokingly bashful, “Aw you’re making blush and all Philip, but let’s cut the sap.” He takes another bite of his lunch. “So how are you? How’s your day been so far?”

“Ugh,” Phil groans. He stuffs his face with practically six crisps at once, annoyed. He had nearly forgotten about how his day started, and now PJ had reminded him. He chews rapidly before he swallows so that he may continue talking.

“Dan was making out with some girl this morning at the lockers… It was obnoxious. Annoying as hell.”

PJ just smirks. His body leans in closely, accompanied by a wiggle of his eyebrows and reply in a teasing tone, “Are you sure annoyed is how you’re really feelin’ Philly? No jealousy because of ‘ol pretty boy—”

“How are things going with that film project?” Phil quickly interjects PJ’s sentence with his cheeks suddenly red, making PJ immediately drop both his smirk and the topic. Ooo ouch, how touchy.

“It’s good! It’s going. I hope to actually start the filming part soon.”

Pride for his friend swells in Phil’s chest. “That’s great!”

“Yeah I guess, but I’m stuck with the script. I’m really lacking inspiration,” PJ mutters, his eyes looking back down to his food.

“Oh, I totally get that,” Phil nods with a wave of his hand. “It’ll pass, don’t worry.”

The other laughs, immediately dismissing the comment. “Pff, yeah right! Coming from the guy who never stops writing ever.”

“Peeeej! Trust me, I’m serious! Okay listen—” Phil’s voice softening, almost as if he was revealing a big secret. “Sometimes you just need a break, you know? Or to look for inspiration in unlikely places. You have to have a muse.”

“Aw Philly, are you saying that you have a muse?” PJ smiles.

Before he can answer, Phil catches a glimpse of Dan walking to join his group of friends, and in doing so, Dan passes by he and PJ’s lunch table. Phil only lets his eyes linger for a moment more before he turns to look back at PJ, and gives him his response, letting out a low hum first. A cheeky hint of something is playing at the edges of his lips.

“I guess you could say that.”

<<>>

brown is all sorts of golden in the sense it gives as much warmth as a gentle sun when it touches every bit of soil and soul of the earth a sign that even angels admire from afar, a bronzy glow of the ages - p.l.

<<>>

“Now creative writing has a key word: creative. And what does creative mean?” implores freshly graduated teacher Miss Caroline (who, at the beginning of the year, refused to be called Miss Alabang due to it apparently being “too formal”). A resounding lack of feedback comes from the class. Rolling her eyes in response, she shoots them all a you guys are useless look, accompanied by the typical seriously you could do better eyebrow raise.

Not many people are in this particular class, so theoretically, there should be more student engagement. But oh, on the contrary, it was not working out that way.

Throwing her hands up in the air with a passion, she exclaims, “It means to think outside of the box of course! Which is why there will be an interesting new project for the midterm. Never before done, never before seen by this institution.”

She begins to pace around the room, her voice rising and falling in a way that seems to soar over students’ heads and then capture their attention, while her gaze creates eye contact with each and every person to guarantee their engagement. “This project,” she says with a pause for dramatic effect, “will be a collaboration with the art students.”

“Exactly right.”

Art teacher Miss Land enters the scene. Her chin is raised with a sort of delicate poise and her hands are held behind her back, a contrasting yet pleasing juxtaposition that is a great complement to Miss Caroline’s own casual stance and posture. While Miss Caroline has a voice that projects itself as much as her eccentric presence, Miss Land’s is a bit more subdued in the sense that listeners had to concentrate more to hear her.

“The idea is to bridge together visual art and written art…”

“...essentially taking words and bringing them to life.”

“Both pieces must be able to both stand on their own, yet inspire one another. A mix of two mediums that are strong individually, yet when put together, fabricate something that reaches beyond what one could achieve as a solo piece,” Miss Land elaborates.

“Any questions?” asks Miss Caroline. The students helpfully provide her the deafening silence that fills the room in response.

Miss Land nods. “Good. My students, please don’t crowd around the door. Line up against the front, please.” She gestures to the front board, each art student awkwardly shuffling to their own spot, standing expectedly as the creative writing students sat and looked upon them with neutral expressions. Most are calm and collected except for a select few, who shift in their seats at the thought of working with unfamiliar people and a medium they didn't know. Among the art students is new girl Erin who couldn’t care less, and she has a hand on Dan’s arm while she whispers into his ear. He chuckles, and makes playful a face back at her as if saying, “Shh, we’ve got to listen now.”

Miss Land then glances at Miss Caroline, sharing an exchange of the eyes before coming to a silent understanding. From there, Miss Caroline addresses the group as a whole.

“So I’m going to randomly choose a student from my creative writing class, while she,” placing emphasis on the last word and looking pointedly at Miss Land, “will randomly choose an art student of her own. Okay? Sounds good. So first off: Eli Romano.”

“...Louise Pentland,” completes Miss Land.

“Andee Steiner with…”

“Erin Romer.”

“PJ Liguori.”

“Chris Kendall, you’re up.”

“Philip Lester…”

“...Dan Howell.”

As partnerships are created one by one, it is so interesting to see the reactions of each couple (couple used for the lack of a better term here, of course). For example, Eli, Andee, Louise, and many others seemed like the type to not mind whomever they were to be assigned to. Erin on the other hand? No one missed the huff she let out and the scrunch of her nose when she heard that she was not assigned to Dan. Chris Kendall stuck his tongue in his cheek with a smirk then let out a big grin when he sauntered over the PJ’s desk, while PJ himself held a soft smile.

In regards to Phil, he kept it together. If together meant his leg started bouncing at a great speed, that is. As long as no one looked below the desk, no one would notice. His fingers start picking at the ends of his sleeves. Buttercups were starting to appear.

And Dan was just an enigma. Nothing in the eyes, nothing in his stance, only a polite smile.

Once the partner assignments are completed, papers are handed out, and a direction is given for everyone to go with their respective other half of their duo, the art students disperse and fill the empty seats. Immediately, chatter begins to diffuse throughout the previously quiet room.

Squeaks come from the moving of chairs and desks, along with slight oomphs of backpacks being tossed down to the linoleum floor and pushed to the side in order to be out of the way. Phil bites his lip as Dan sits in the desk next to his own, and with every ounce of effort in his body he tries to make sure his voice is steady when he breaks the ice between them.

“So, I guess we have to exchange info right?”

“I guess,” Dan replies simply, scratching his neck awkwardly. “I don’t really know, but I guess there’s not really any other option. I mean, what else can we do.”

Not too far from them is PJ, who leans back in his chair and sends a questioning glance over to Phil, who then does a small shrug in reply. Turning back to Dan, he purses his lips a little before continuing. “Okay, so uh, my number is…” Phil lists the memorized numbers with ease, then repeats it once more. “You got that?”

Before Dan can even nod, the bell rings, and out of nowhere Erin grabs Dan’s hand right for the two of them to immediately bolt out the door.

<<>>

Dan is reading over the paper that the art teacher gave them earlier. He wants to start brainstorming, the concept of combining two different art forms seems really interesting… It would probably be best to discuss it with his partner, though.

His partner: Phil Lester. Dan knows him, he lives next door to him so how could he not, and they have gone to school together for a while now. Yet despite having known him all these years, he only knows of him. Dan has never spoken a word to Phil, to his knowledge.

Although he never paid mind to him before, when Phil read Song of the Open Road in his english class today, Dan admits that he was surprised. He never expected something like to come from him.

Dan takes out his cellphone, tapping the screen to reach the number that he put in earlier. Because Erin pulled him out before he could tell Phil his own digits, he is forced to be the one to text first. He types a quick message, and hits send. Better now than later.

from dan, to phil:

hey it’s dan. meeting in the library after school tmrw sound good?

He doesn’t expect a reply, but for some reason it’s like he’s waiting for one. When he thinks about it, Phil seems like someone he would want to get to know better. He seems interesting.

This project may actually be kinda fun.

A reply comes a minute or two later, and it’s like Dan has something caught in his throat when he rushes to see the message.

from phil, to dan:

Okkie dokes! :D

Aw. Dan can’t help but smile to himself. Heh, how cute.

<<>>

Phil ends up arriving first. In his defense, he spends most of the time in the library anyway, and extra time gives him the chance to pick the perfect spot: one with a lot of sunlight, and where not a lot of people are studying. And besides, there’s nothing wrong with wanting for today to go well, right?

Dan arrives about ten minutes following the school’s ending bell, and Phil doesn’t even notice him walking through the door. He’s got his head in his notebook, as usual.

“Bye, see you later,” bids Dan, giving Erin a quick kiss on the cheek. Although he begins to head off, he remains facing her, walking backwards, giving a little farewell salute and a quick wink to match.

Erin calls after him. “Goodbye baby, have fun with the project!” She accompanies it with a chippery wave back, and blows him a kiss right before orients his body forward so that he could see where he is going.

Phil looks up from his work, disturbed by the noise. Dan has spotted him, eyes lighting up in recognition, and he is starting to make his way to the table. When he gets there, it is a moment when first impressions are made.

For Phil, it’s like an up close confirmation of everything he has admired from afar. Everything is so lovely, and the way the sun hits Dan is so nice. His eyes aren’t just brown, they fit every descriptor that Phil has wrote with— caramel, golden, earthy, warm. Choosing this spot was the right choice.

As for Dan, he is taken aback by the scribbles of sentence fragments and various adjectives and lines that cover the pages of Phil’s notebook and Phil’s hands. They’re like stories that others want to read, but won’t understand, because Phil is the only one that can tell them.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he is one of the few willing to listen.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Dan grimaces, feeling guilty that he was the second to show despite being the one to set up the meeting in the first place. When he grabs the seat next to Phil to sit down, he misses the edge of the chair and the sound of his bum hitting the hardwood floor echoes through the library, making Phil laugh and Phil’s heart swell.

Embarrassing. Still grinning, Phil holds a hand out, helping him up. Dan lets out a laugh as well, Phil’s attitude spreading to him.

“Don’t worry about it Dan, I was willing to wait for you.”

<<>>

His car purrs as it rolls into the driveway upon his arrival home, having just come from hanging out with friends after school. Dan loves going out with them, but to be frank, it gets exhausting sometimes.

Right now, he kinda wants to take a nap.

A chirp comes from the car as he hits the buttons on his keys to lock up the thing, and the moment he unintentionally shoots a glance at the house next door happens to be the same moment that Phil looks up from his spot on the porch.

Phil looks down at his feet right when their gazes meet, before choosing to raise his head once more and give Dan a little wave. “Hey,” he mouths.

A moment of hesitance, then Dan smiles and takes a step forward. As if it’s an invitation, Dan walks over and sits next to Phil, joining him. The last time they had talked had been over text a day or two ago, and they have only met up once more since their initial meeting at the library. The steps creak a bit at their weight and their legs nearly touch, but not quite.

Slowly but surely, they are warming up to one another.

“So what are you working on? Are you working on our project?” Dan leans a little into Phil’s side to get a better look at Phil’s notebook, while remaining careful as to not be too invasive of his space. A writer’s notebook is like an artist’s sketchbook: a secluded place for the expression of thought. The cover is worn and the pages are messy, Phil’s writing ranging from neat print to rushed scrawls. Anyone could tell that that little notebook was the receiver of a lot of love. Dan’s heart skips a little at that thought; it always makes him happy when a creator is passionate about their own work.

“Yeah actually,” Phil replies, not looking up. He keeps writing as he completes his thought. “Just brainstorming about various ideas.”

“Is it okay if I stay here?”

Phil nods. “Yeah, I don’t mind.”

A few minutes pass of comfortable silence, and Dan even took out his own sketchbook from his backpack. He keeps making a few strokes then erasing, feeling the urge to do something as Phil is sitting beside him seemingly within an endless river of creative flow. He breaks the silence as he wonders in a whisper out loud, “You know, people always see you writing in that thing.” Dan then pauses, attempting to formulate his question before he voices it. “How do you… How do you constantly have something to write about?”

Phil is quiet, thinking before he comes up with a response. “It’s about being honest I think.”

“Honest?”

“Yep, honest.” Phil affirms. His pen stops writing for a second, and he makes a motion towards his body, looking forward rather than directly addressing Dan. “Let whatever is in you tell the story you know? They don’t have to be complete ideas, you just need to let them exist. Like how our tattoos appear on their own, but still tell our story to others, in a way.”

As Phil rambles on, without realising, Dan is sketching Phil’s profile. Glancing up to look at him while he speaks to give an occasional sign that he’s still listening, his wrists make little flicks and strokes across the page, while his hands are especially careful with shading. Dan spends quite a bit of time on Phil’s cheekbones, for he can’t seem to get it right.

He grins softly. Phil seems to be all angles and sharp edges, and it’s kind of enticing.

“...And most of all, with honesty, you know what is real.”

<<>>

“You know Phil, this is a bit clingy.”

“Clingy? May I remind that you were the one calling me at two in the morning for the past week and a half.”

“Pbbbt, but you said you didn’t mind!”

“Yeah, you’re right—”

“Damn straight I am.”

“But anyways, you didn’t call me tonight, and I was still awake, and now here we are.”

“I don’t need your excuses, Lester. So what do you wanna talk about? Because we’ve got all night.”

<<>>

According to Dan, working at a Starbucks coffee shop is ‘too corporate,’ and that is why they are at a local cafe now.

Chris and PJ are here as well. They’re doing a cute little “study group” thing, but instead of studying they are discussing their projects. It’s always good to have someone to bounce ideas off of, and brainstorming is better when one is able to hear feedback from other people.

They’re all casually chatting, as friends of friends all together.

What’s strange though, is this: Chris is being particularly touchy towards PJ. It was playful touches at first, to his arms and to his sides, but then all of a sudden he put his arm around PJ’s shoulders. PJ didn’t acknowledge it at all, but the expression on his face was one of someone who was definitely flustered.

Dan raises an eyebrow at Chris upon seeing this, the other only responding with an eyebrow raise back as if in a challenge of, what? Something wrong?

And as for Phil, his tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth as he has a shit-eating grin, simply amused.

It becomes a source of small unacknowledged tension, but no one brings it up and they all continue their relaxed chatter. Each of them grab several pastries and a coffee each, scones and croissants and the like, “brain food” being the excuse for all of the sugar in their purchases. They then head towards a table by one of the cafe’s huge windows that overlook the London street.

PJ speaks up about their projects first. “So, what’s your guys’ idea?”

“We’re going for a kinda… like… nature-y? Is that the right word?” Phil looks at Dan, who just kinda shrugs. “Theme. Something with the forest, or the ocean… We don’t know for sure yet.”

Chris nods, and looks at Dan. “Colors?”

“Earth tones, I would guess,” Dan replies, taking a bite from his scone.

Chris hums in approval. “Some cooler undertones would work nicely with that, I think.”

“How about you guys?” asks Dan.

“Something with a whole lot of bold color. That’s kinda all we got.” PJ shrugs.

“We’re just rolling with it,” Chris barely manages to add, mouth full.

Phil points his question towards PJ. “And how’s the writing?”

“Well I haven't had too much time to really develop it, I've been working on stuff for the poetry slam…” PJ says sheepishly, momentarily preferring to watch himself stir his coffee over looking up.

“Spontaneity is the best kind of creativity!” Chris exclaims defensively, yet mostly excitedly, He lists descriptors as he counts them off on his fingers, voice all sass and eagerness, making everyone laugh. “It's gonna have a lot of color, it's gonna be bright, and it's gonna be cool as heck!”

“Poetry slam?” Dan inquires. “Our school has that, PJ?”

“Yep! It's open to all the students but mostly english students enter, I’ve been bothering Phil to join for ages—” When PJ moves his hand to point at Phil, the porcelain of his coffee mug hits the table and his drink becomes a brown puddle of a mess out of nowhere. It had narrowly missed his crotch, and thank goodness, not a drop fell upon the notes of his that were scattered on the table in front of him.

Chris’ eyes widen, and he reacts quicker than all of them. “I’ve got this,” he assures PJ, immediately rushing off to grab napkins, but not before leaving PJ with a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine!”

When Chris is out of earshot, Phil immediately gives PJ a look.

PJ’s face only gets redder, and he folds his hands in his lap. “Shut up he didn't mean anything by it…”

But Phil is relentless, and he’s not buying PJ’s denial at all. He doesn’t stop giving his old friend that look that is all smiles and muffled laughs. Eventually, PJ breaks and bursts out with, “Okay, I admit it, he might’ve maybe asked me out yesterday…!” Phil smirks, and finally lets out the laugh he was holding in. “But to be honest I haven’t given him an answer yet.”

Throughout the past few moments of Phil and PJ’s exchange, Dan had remained silent, gaze bouncing between Phil’s knowing grin and PJ’s not-at-all-subtle blush. It is for that reason that when he makes a comment it catches them both off guard, even though it was more of an observation to himself, if anything. With his chin in his palm and his elbow resting on the table edge, Dan murmurs, “Huh, that's why Chris looks so happy. He's probably the happiest I've ever seen him.”

“Yeah,” says PJ after hesitating a little, addressing Dan’s words. He bites his lip, the corners of his mouth hinting at turning up as he admits the truth. “He makes me really happy too.”

“Happy enough to write about?” asks Phil with a smile, referring to their conversation from way back when. Dan sits, listening still.

PJ doesn’t look at Phil directly, but his hand unconsciously reaches up to his face to briefly touch where Chris has left a quick kiss earlier. If you looked closely, a little tattoo of a planet was beginning to fade into view.

“We’ll see.”

Chris finally returns, a wad of napkins in his grasp. Carefully he begins dabbing at the mess, nudging PJ’s papers aside so that they would be out of the way, all while PJ has a look that is entirely of affection all over him, as Chris pays no mind.

Very casually, PJ throws a question into the air. “So, what time and place?”

Chris crumples up the napkins, the coffee mess finally cleaned up, and heads towards the nearest bin. “For what?” he calls, throwing the trash away.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about our date already.”

Standing in place a couple feet away, Chris is frozen and his jaw goes slack, and PJ can’t help but giggle. Chris is simply beaming now. He rushes to the table to directly talk to Dan and Phil, words rushed and excited. “Sorry to cut it short lads, but we’ve got a date to plan,” Chris says matter-of-factly, adorned with an adorable little salute. After that his hands move to help PJ pack up his things, and in a matter of seconds everything is put away.

When they head towards the cafe door, PJ flashes a sheepish expression to Dan and Phil and mouths a “Sorry about this,” followed by a sincere, “Thank you.” Before they disappear, Chris then grabs PJ’s hand in his— holding it up to his lips to place a quick kiss on the back of PJ’s hand.

Cute.

As for the left-behind-two, an hour and a half more passes before they make any real effort to go. The company is lovely even if they aren’t talking. They are simply working in silence, both lost in their own creative worlds, and it is only when a worker comes up to them and asks if they would like to order anything more (to which they politely declined) do they begin to clean up their space.

“They’re cute together,” says Phil, a comment that breaks the stillness between them.

“Yeah,” Dan replies nonchalantly. He closes his bag after putting away his sketchbook and pencils bag, and slides the strap on his shoulder as they both head towards the door. To no one in particular he adds, “They’re really happy together, aren’t they?”

The edges of words seemed to be tinged with a bit of longing, if you listened hard enough.

When they step out of the cafe, Phil immediately rubs his arms, his breath forming a small cloud with each exhale from the oxygen in his lungs and the brisk air. “Heh, I didn’t expect it to be this cold today…”

Almost hesitantly, Dan places his own jacket upon Phil’s shoulders. The gesture isn’t acknowledged at all, and he just keeps walking, ignoring the fact that the chill was now getting to him. He refrains from rubbing his own arms, and just shoves his hands into his pockets. He only did as any friend would do.

In the meantime, Phil just stands there, not knowing how to react.

Steps ahead now, Dan merely waves his hand before quickly putting it back into the pocket of his jeans, beckoning Phil to walk a little faster. “C’mon Phil, let’s go home.”

<<>>

phil: <IMG_0981 is attached. View image?> phil: LOOK AT THESE DOGS!!!!! phil: IT’S A DOG WHO HAS A GUIDE DOG

dan: asagAFGAAJHLHFW dan: THAT’S THE CUTEST THING I’VE EVER S E E N

<<>>

philip michael lester. flashback; age eleven.

He stood outside, garden hose in hand. His mother had told him to water the plants around the front porch, and that is exactly what he did. Although the job required focus, it did nothing to prevent him from becoming lost in thought.

The age of him and his peers was one where crushes were all too common. Girls were talking about cute boys; boys were talking about cute girls. However, no one really made Phil feel the way that other people claimed they felt— Samantha from maths lent him a pencil once? That was kind of her. But he would only want to become friends with her and nothing more, he was sure.

A yelp of surprise escaped from him when he suddenly realised that the water had begun to pool around his feet amidst his musings, which formed a damp patch of grass that was well on its way to becoming a muddy puddle. Quickly, he ran to the side of the house to turn off the hose, and started to make his way back inside.

Before he crossed his driveway to head towards the small path that led to his front door, out of the corner of his eye he noticed something roll across the road.

It was a piece of white chalk. The neighbor’s, to be more precise, who appeared to be outside as well. A rare occurrence it was: Phil had only seen them a handful of times before.

Tentatively, he took the chalk piece into his hand. Heading towards who was kneeled in the driveway next to his own, in front of a house with freshly trimmed grass and no garden, but did have a single weeping willow. As his steps drew him closer, more details about his neighbor, a somebody about his age, came into view.

And honestly? Phil couldn't help but be left dumbfounded.

The pretty boy in front of him had equally pretty hands. With those hands of slightly tanned skin he was creating art out of seemingly nowhere; slender fingers fabricated gentle strokes, images of flowers and stars, along with daisies and planets and angels amongst them stole Phil’s breath to allow for only awe to remain.

Phil was almost nervous to disturb him. If he did, it would be like catching a doe in a forest clearing— one moment peaceful, until a slight sound frightens them away. So because of that, he made sure to be careful.

His voice of “Um, this yours?” was a whisper full of gentleness that seemed mindful of the delicate flowers that the boy in front of him seemed to be growing out of the pavement.

Immediately, the boy looked up, revealing brown eyes that perfectly matched his brown curls. “Yes, thank you,” the boy replied quietly, carefully taking the chalk piece from his extended reach. His fingertips lightly grazed against Phil’s, which left Phil’s hands tingling.

In the three days that followed, Phil had fireworks tattooed upon his fingertips (and more often than not, from then on, one could catch him writing poetry on the front porch in an effort to catch a glimpse of the boy again).

<<>>

Dan throws a bag of McDonald’s on the library table, the sound of its impact resounding through the quiet studying of students. And if that’s not enough, he follows up with a loud, “Eat up babes, let's get to work!”

Laughing, Phil does an exaggerated fake gasp. “Dan! Watch your volume!” Reaching over the the table, he grabs the bag off the table, still noticeably hot. When he opens it, a little whiff of steam comes up, caressing his face. “Besides, why'd you buy this anyway?”

Dan shrugs, taking a chicken nugget and shoving it into his mouth. While he’s chewing he responds, “I’ve been noticing that you never have food when we work on school days, and we usually work during lunch. It's always just a drink and like, a bag of chips.”

Phil shrugs back, head tilting as his words trail off. “I just find eating to be a waste of time…”

Dan holds up his hand, cutting his words short as his voice trails off. “Don’t even give me that bullshit Phil, it’s because you’re always writing and you think you have no time for eating, so just eat a little bit or so help me.” He nudges the bag closer to Phil so that it hits Phil’s chest. Dan’s eyes shift to the side a little, and his voice becomes a bit demure. “Just… Take a break from that carpal tunnel catalyst, and dig in, alright?”

Phil opens the bag reluctantly and sighs, taking a bite of a french fry. His lips are pursed into a pout, for what Dan said was pretty much on the nose. He doesn’t mean to avoid eating, honest, it just… happens that way.

He smiles. The fact that Dan noticed and bought him food is such a sweet gesture, and the more Phil chews, the more Dan looks satisfied. Dan claps his hands together right as Phil swallows.

“Cool, now let’s get started.”

Today is final drafts day.

In order to proceed with the final production of their project they have to refine their drafts, and that is what today is dedicated to. For their work to not go to waste, everything has to be absolutely perfect (but to be fair, a poor outcome resulting from the two of them is actually quite doubtful).

“I’ve got these so far,” indicates Phil, pulling out various disheveled papers. They’ve got red ink that make it look like his writing went through a bloodbath, with elegantly chaotic black scrawls to match. He holds them out to Dan and is a bit sheepish about it, kinda embarrassed by how messy it is. “You can look through them right now if you want, but they’re not that great…”

Dan shakes his head, automatically dismissing Phil’s putdown of himself. “I doubt that, Phil. I absolutely doubt that.” He accepts Phil’s writing from Phil’s outstretched hand, and exchanges it with a few ripped out sheets of his own from his sketchbook, graphite smeared and all. “And here’s mine, they’re really sketchy and not as refined as they could be, but you should get the idea.”

When they’re looking over each other’s rough pieces, Phil’s fingers linger over the calculated strokes of Dan’s drawings, all while Dan is floored by Phil’s words.

Dan has never gotten the opportunity to see Phil’s work like this before. He’s taking in everything, soaking every word and descriptor in, and he makes sure he does not miss a single stanza. He never was someone with a way with words, that’s why he stuck with visual arts. But he is thankful that he was given the opportunity to read rawness such as this.

Then suddenly he notices a little something. A little bit that doesn’t seem to quite fit in with the rest catches his eye, a little snippet of a thing that was barely legible and had the last word cut off.

‘n ‘ol brunette has got that teasing grin skipping class and hands that have likely committed sin that ugly little shit messing with my h

When he reads it he snickers, and when he points to it and holds it up to Phil, he can’t keep his laughter in and he justs bursts into a giggling fit. “Aw, Phil,” his tone entirely both sing-songy and teasing, “Guess now I know that you think that I’m an ‘ugly little shit.’” Dan does a little pout. “Do you not think I’m cute?”

“Pfff! Please,” Phil sputters, realising what exactly Dan was pointing to. “Who says that’s about you?”

“I mean we could just address the ‘hands that have likely committed sin’ part…”

At the sound of that, Phil interjects quickly. “Fine, you’re adorable!” Barely processing the thought, Dan thinks, “Pbbt, so are you,” and Phil suddenly puts his index finger in front of Dan’s lips in a shhhing motion.

“What’s going on—”

“No no no, shush!” Phil holds a finger up, as if motioning “Hold on,” and Dan takes the hint and complies. Phil’s eyebrows are scrunched, clearly thinking.

“What?” Dan asks, after a few moments pass.

Phil takes both sets of their work from their respective spots and lays it upon the space in front of them, spread out but distinctly separate. He purses his lip, unsure at first then proceeding to rearranging a few. “Why don’t we… write about...” Phil picks up a sketch from Dan’s side and a page or two from his own. He hands the chosen ones to Dan, who takes it with a raised eyebrow. “This?”

Dan slowly nods, shifting through the papers and ultimately agreeing with the choices. He turns his body, his eyes looking up to meet Phil’s. “So that’s it? That’s our theme?”

Phil answers his question with an affirming hum, and when he starts explaining it just to clarify they find that they were on the same page all along. “It’ll be about humanity in its rawest form—”

“With earthy elements and other aspects of nature—”

“How we all have stories—”

“...and what makes a human human is emotion.”

Phil’s grin reaches from ear to ear. “Perfect.”

“Fuck yeah!” yells Dan, pounding a fist on the table. He holds up his palm for a high five, which Phil happily reciprocates.

When he hears a loud SHHH! come from behind him, Phil’s eyes widen, for it is most likely the librarian telling them to politely shut the hell up. He looks at Dan and silently scolds him, mouthing “Language!” to which Dan merely giggles, his laughs muffled as he tries to keep quiet.

“Fuck you,” Dan mouths back.

Phil rolls his eyes and smirks. His reply comes with a chuckle: “You wish.”

<<>>

Forget about Monopoly being end-all be-all relationship ruiner. With the way the game was currently going, Mario Kart should be the holder of that title.

“EAT MY ASS,” yells Dan. With every turn, he turns as well, because he insists it ‘helps me play better!’. His body rams into Phil’s side as he mimics the motion of the kart on the screen.

A breath leaves Phil’s lungs with an oof as Dan nearly knocks him to the floor. He automatically bursts into a laughing fit, pressing into the buttons of his controller even harder. “NEVER!!”

At this point they’re practically sitting on top of each other, and seem to have ignored the whole concept of sitting on the bed rather than the floor. Legs crossed, his knee touching his knee, the room is filled with giggles and playful banter as they keep jabbing each other in the side as they play.

When one shouts, and the other pouts— the game is officially over.

Dan crosses his arms, and presses his lips into a thin line. He withholds himself from bitterly throwing the control to the ground, but he does cross his arms. “Good game,” he mutters.

Shaking his head, Phil rolls his eyes at Dan’s dramatics. He gives Dan a pitiful pat on the back, and gives his reply all-too-knowingly. “Oh just let it out, we both know you’re a sore loser.”

A sharp inhale through the nose, and a slow exhale through the mouth.

Followed by a swift headbutt by Dan to Phil’s shoulder.

“OW!”

Dan jokingly starts to lightly punch Phil in the back, sides, and shoulders, shouting, “YOU WERE THE ONE THAT HIT ME WITH A FUCKING SHELL AT THE END I THOUGHT WE WERE PLAYING RELATIVELY NICE!!” He pushes him down, Phil chuckling at Dan’s sad attempt to push him over (noodle arms are not that effective, Dan has learned). “I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS!”

They land on the ground, the punching turning into tickling. Phil rolls around in an effort to avoid Dan’s attacks, but each attempt is futile, and instead his stomach hurts from the laughter and his face aches from the grin on his face that reaches from ear to ear. “See,” Phil laughs in between breaths, “What an incredibly sore loser you are.”

Dan finally sits back up, smug at Phil’s ‘defeat.’ “Yeah, no shit Sherlock.” He holds a hand out to Phil, and they pull each other up so that they are both standing. “I still totally should have won though.”

At a suggestion to take a snack break, the two head downstairs towards Phil’s kitchen. They continue to chat, and as Phil moves towards the pantry, he makes a gesture for Dan to take a seat at the dining table.

When Phil turns around, he not only has various food in his hand, he has a smile on his face. He walks over to the table and sets a plate of cookies in front of Dan, making Dan look up from his phone and eagerly move to grab a cookie of his own.

“You know, where you're sitting right now, is where my mum told me about what tattoos were.”

With a mouth full, Dan manages a, “Really?” Phil nods, and Dan swallows the last bits down his throat. “Was it like, a serious talk?”

Phil is at the counter now, he has decidedly chosen to make hot chocolate for the both of them. He mulls over Dan’s question as he gets the hot chocolate mix out. “Hm, no? Not really. I was like five or something. How about you? When did your parents tell you?”

“Oh, uh…” Dan grimaces, suddenly feeling awkward. “They— they never really told me? I kind of just found out on my own. From classmates, and the internet, and stuff. They never brought it up, and I never really asked…”

“Oh.” For a moment, Phil stops moving. “So they didn’t even tell you where they come from?”

“What do you mean? No one knows where they come from. Isn’t there still no confirmation from scientists about their origins or whatever?”

“Yeah, but my mum told me.”

Phil hesitates a little, the tiniest bit embarrassed.

“She told me they came from love.”

Dan sputters, laughing, nearly choking on his food. Phil doesn’t say a word and continues to prepare the drinks. “No offense Phil,” Dan chuckles. “But really?”

“I know, I know. But at the same time, there’s no harm in believing in things like that, don’t you think?” Phil hands a mug to Dan, who takes it gratefully. They clink their mugs together and drink a bit at the same time. Phil laughs when Dan makes a face at how hot it is, and Dan rapidly starts blowing on the drink to decrease its intense heat.

“Love though? Quite doubtful.”

“Are you not a believer in love? How about you and Erin?” Phil takes another sip from his hot chocolate. When a little residue is left on his upper lip, his tongue easily leaves and licks it away in a moment. “How are you guys doing?”

Dan’s eyes don’t quite meet his, sounding distracted. “Oh we’re great.” When he looks back up at Phil, Phil’s expression is expectant, waiting. Dan quickly rushes to elaborate on his previous sentiment. “She’s lovely, and so sweet! Every date I’ve been on with her has been amazing. She’s incredible. I like her a lot.”

Phil nods. “I’m glad.”

After that, he says nothing more.

He takes Dan’s now-empty mug from his hand, and washes it after his own. Dan’s eyebrows are scrunched in thought, he’s staring at his phone again, but he’s not really processing what’s on the screen at all.

Phil finishes up rinsing their cups in the sink, and puts their mugs into the dishwasher. He dries off his hands with a hand towel. Once he’s all done, he asks Dan, “You wanna go back upstairs and keep playing?”

Dan’s phone vibrates.

from erin, to dan:

Hey babe! I’ll be finishing up work soon, you wanna come over?

Rather than unlocking his phone, he reads the message as it is on his lockscreen. He ignores it, and shoves the phone back into his pocket.

Dan smiles up at Phil. “Yeah. Let's go.”

Phil grins back, and as he leads them back to his bedroom, he has his hand on Dan’s back. The atmosphere is nice and easy. Uncomplicated.

He makes a comment about how Dan is ‘totally going down’ again, but to be honest, Dan isn’t really listening.

Later at night, in his own room, Dan takes off his shirt before he goes to bed. He always sleeps shirtless (that is nothing new), but it’s different this time: for if he had looked in the reflection in the mirror behind him, he would have noticed that there were dandelions on his back exactly where Phil had touched before.

By the morning though, they are gone.

<<>>

phil: I remember you saying you had a test today, good luck! phil: The universe may test ya like this but I believe in ya

dan: oh shush go pay attention in class dan: but ty that’s v nice dan: u’re too good for me

<<>>

“Aw, they’re so cute together!”

These are the words that seem to be just about everywhere: in the comment section of various social media, in the giggles of the hallways, in the not-so-subtle gestures and points of the cafeteria crowd. They can't seem to go anywhere without encountering what seems to be a fan club around the two of them.

But don't get him wrong. Because there is nothing wrong in the first place.

Erin is a lovely girl, and they have been together for a while, three weeks almost four weeks now. And that is far longer than any previous girl of Dan’s. With a wild head of curls and an even wilder personality, she is a whole lot of fun, and he loves to admire the beautiful ink upon her arms. She has these beautiful gradients of rising suns around her arms along with clouds that often change in hue.

Each and every time she goes on her tiptoes and she wraps her arms around his neck to place a kiss on his lips, he can’t help but be reminded of the idea of them, both in regards to the tattoos themselves and of him and Erin as a couple. Of all things though, he is reminded of Chris’ party especially.

Additionally, as if that isn’t enough, there are whispers of new ink starting to bud on her hands. Rumors that the new ink matches his own spread like wildflowers, even though so few have seen the hidden marigold to the extent that there are doubts of its existence. The possibility of Erin’s budding flowers being identical to his still makes his own blossom burn at the thought.

Because even though he did say that there was nothing wrong, there is an issue. And that issue is that nothing has happened to his own skin.

Besides the common flare ups of ink that happens to most people including himself, the only thing constant that he has is the single flower on the spot behind his ear, and that has been been on his skin for years.

Maybe he could— No. He couldn’t.

Could he?

It wouldn’t hurt —it couldn’t hurt— if nobody found out.

Besides, it couldn’t hurt to fake tattoos for a while, right?

He ignores the prickling of stars appearing on his ribcage, and takes some skin-safe ink to his own arms to mimic what Erin has on her own body. When the prickling starts going around his abdomen and begins to reach his shoulder blades, he still pays no heed to it.

He just continues on.

With each mark and movement of his nimble fingers, his stomach turns once more, even more so as he recalls the words that Phil mentioned before. What he said about honesty, about truth. This thing, what Dan is doing right now, he knows is the exact opposite of that.

He shakes his head in an attempt to shake the words off his mind. Phil has nothing to do with this. Phil has nothing to do with the state of Dan’s feelings for Erin. Why is he thinking of him at a time like this? For that matter, why is Dan doing it in the first place?

To be brief, he does not want to be rude. It’s not like Erin isn’t a nice girl anyway, so it’ll be fine. It will only be for a little while until those typical boy-girl feelings become stronger, because that’s how it works. That’s how it should work. And it will. There’s no reason to not reciprocate what Erin evidently feels for him. Naturally, it will all work out.

Yet if he were to take Phil’s words to heart right now and be honest, in reality, Dan was actually pushing certain feelings away.

Dan touches up the final details of clouds on his forearm, and presses his lips into a straight line, shoving the spiraling feelings that were welling up in his chest far deep into the ground below his feet.

If he were to be honest, he was actually just pushing certain feelings away… And with regards to other things, he was simply burying them further.

And covering them up.

<<>>

daniel james howell. flashback; age thirteen.

“...NOW AS A RESULT THE ENGLISH GOVERNMENT IS CURRENTLY HOLDING DISCUSSIONS IN REGARDS TO THE POSSIBLE LEGALIZATION OF HOMOSEXUAL MARRIAGE. THERE IS NO FURTHER INFORMATION AT THE MOMENT, BUT RADICAL ADVOCATES FOR THE LGBT COMMUNITY ARE CURRENTLY LINED UP IN FRONT OF THE GOVERNMENT HALL—”

A harsh, snarky tch came from Dan’s father, his blatant irritation had jarringly interrupted the newscast that came from kitchen radio. In his hands the steak knife threatened to start shaking with his tight grip, his knuckles whitening to nearly match the teeth he was gritting in anger. “Those homosexuals,” he spat, while he slammed the table with his fist at the same time, “Those homosexuals need to get the fuck out of our country, or better yet off our planet, or I will BEAT THEIR ASSES!!”

His mother simply took a napkin to her lips and daintily dabbed at her mouth, taking a breath before she added input of her own. “Now honey, some of them may be nice,” her tone calm and even. With a voice tinged with what seemed like genuine concern she continued, “I just don’t understand, they can’t have children, so why even bother if they can simply choose a lovely lady or a strong man?” She reached across the table to squeeze her husband’s tense fist. “If anything dear, I think it’s just a trend.”

The entire “discussion” only progressed from there, all while Dan remained silent. His shoulders hunched in as if he was going to fall into himself, he ate his food with minimal noise whether it be chewing or cutting into it for a bite, merely taking everything, every comment— “It’ll blow over, for this it just sounds ridiculous”, retort— “Ridiculousness has wrongfully made it’s way to the law of the land!”, and remark— “To put it simply, the gays need to know their place”, in.

Eventually he asked if he could be excused (he was given permission by a grunt of acknowledgement from his father and a nod from his mother).

Dan’s room was his sanctuary. Constantly he would go there for escape, or to remain in solitude with his thoughts, and this was one of those times. From the back of his closet he revealed his unfinished painting, taking it from its resting spot and placing it upon the floor so that he could resume his work. The canvas was one that he left alone but kept coming back to—maybe he would finish it one day. A year or two had passed since his work on it began.

His paints were in his lower bedside drawer, and he took those out as well. Every movement was routine, a relaxing habit, and essentially his mind was a step ahead of his actions. But perhaps the ease of not thinking only gave way for other, bad thoughts to come.

The harsh tongue of his father as he spat out the words “those homosexuals” could not leave his ears and only further buried itself in his mind. The comment made his hair stand on end, even though he didn’t know precisely why. Dan knew that he couldn’t like boys. Liking boys was wrong. Boys like girls, and girls like boys. Nothing else. And why would Dan care about liking boys anyway? Dan liked girls.

why would he care why would he care why would he care—

His chest was heaving. He only snapped out of his train of thought when he realised his breathing had become erratic, his chest heaved and his hands were shaking and his heartbeat was far too rapid for it to be normal. At an attempt to relax he tried to breathe, he inhaled and exhaled in time as he closed his eyes.

Darkness came.

Darkness came, and colors followed. Shades of blue, green, and yellow. His painting was actually composed of only that particular color palette, a set of hues that seemed to be set in not only his subconscious but also within the motions of his brush. They reminded him of someone’s eyes, but no one he knew. They reminded him of the ocean, of waves he wasn’t used to.

They were always comforting. Those colors never failed to ease him.

Through his open window, he heard the neighbors’ garage open, and he opened his eyes. The sounds of their laughs made their way into his room, which made him smile a little. Those laughs eased him too. The family next door must have arrived home.

Within his own house, dinner had presumably ended. He could hear his parents’ footsteps in the hallway outside his bedroom door, their bickering anything but quiet. “I don’t want him drawing, I don’t want any of that sissy shit.”

That was his father.

“He is super talented and we should be supporting our son!”

And that was his mother.

He put on headphones to drown out it all, and dipped his brush into his paints. This time, he focused on blue. As his strokes hit the paper, shivers went up his spine as a tattoo of tree branches spread out across his back, and as its roots went down to his hips; the only signs of life that the tree’s branches held was the idea that it used to be budding once.

<<>>

In basic english, the poetry unit is coming to a close. For the past couple of days, the students have been presenting their favorite poetry pieces to the class, an assignment that the teacher thought would be a fit way to wrap up the unit.

“Dan, you’re up,” calls Mr. Lamansi.

Finally, now he can get this done. He is the last student that needs to present.

Although he isn’t nervous, his heart is pounding incessantly in his chest. He definitely has jitters, a finite flow of energy that is coursing through his veins and he can’t seem to calm it down, and everyone can definitely tell. Who couldn’t? His hands are trembling so much.

The amount of anxiousness in his body makes this whole ordeal feel like confessional.

Before he actually starts, he awkwardly coughs to clear his throat. “Um, I picked a part from that poem we read a long time ago? Walt Whitman’s Song of the Open Road?” Mr. Lamansi then nods and jots the title down, and makes a motion for Dan to begin.

When he makes an attempt at a taking a deep breath, he hears a whisper. Turning his head slightly he sees Erin, who makes a silly face at him, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing a little. Instead, he opts for a simple smile.

And then he (he couldn’t help himself) casts a glance at Phil, who's beaming at him, all warmth and encouragement and support. Dan’s small smile widens just the littlest bit more. What did Dan ever do to deserve a friend like him?

With that, his shoulders relax, and he breathes.

Swallowing his worry, Dan feels ready now.

“I will recruit for myself and you as I go; I will scatter myself among men and women as I go; I will toss the new gladness and roughness among them; Whoever denies me, it shall not trouble me; Whoever accepts me, he or she shall be blessed, and shall bless me.

Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear, it would not amaze me; Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d, it would not astonish me. Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons, It is to grow in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth.”

When he finishes, he does everything in his power to not completely rush back to his seat. He tries to keep it cool, but he can feel his face burning, and if anyone looked hard enough they could see little leaves and thorns popping up along his collarbone.

A couple seats away, Phil’s heart is swelling. For some reason he feels like this poem has an underlying importance to Dan, and if he were to reread the lines to himself perhaps he would even realise what its significance even was. For now though, that was something that Dan could keep all to himself. Phil is proud of him for standing in front of the whole class like that (Lord knows that Phil’s confidence in his own public speaking is quite mediocre at best).

Small moments like these only fuel Phil’s admiration for this boy, and this time he can't help but feel pride and a sense of wonder all at once.

In Dan’s pocket, Dan’s phone vibrates. Before sliding it out, Dan quickly glances at the teacher to check whether the coast is clear, and upon ensuring so, he reads the notification under his desk.

to dan, from phil:

You did so great!

The small gesture is so sweet, and although it isn't much, it makes Dan undeniably happy. He has this expression of light, a grin reaching from ear to ear. While he can't see it himself, he swears the marigold behind his ear is tingling for the bud of another golden flower.

As they are leaving class, Dan comes up to Phil’s side and puts a hand on his shoulder to catch Phil’s attention before Phil has the chance to head off in the other direction.

“So, see you later?”

Cheeks red, Phil replies shyly, “Yeah, see you.”

<<>>

Soft taps are hitting metal, and Phil knows that Dan doesn’t even need to look to see who it is. He already knows it’s Phil. When Dan shuts his locker and he pokes his head out, saying “Heyy!” with a huge grin and the cutest dimple, Phil can’t help but to match with a smile that’s equally as big.

If someone told Phil that he and Dan would be friends one day, he would doubt them. But right now, he’s chatting with his crush, they’re face to face, laughing and shining with ease and happiness. Phil is on top of the world.

But Dan reaching up to close his locker door placed Dan’s arm at Phil’s eye level, and for a moment, Phil saw Dan’s tattoos up close. When his hand eventually falls back to his side, Phil’s eyes linger over them for a moment more. He has forgotten something important, something more prominent than the dimple in Dan’s soft cheek that Phil adores. The tattoos are a reminder: Dan isn’t his.

The wings on any of the butterflies Phil has in his stomach rapidly frumple, suddenly shy and abashed, and his smile can’t help but falter a little.

<<>>

Even though they don’t have an audience or anything because everyone has already headed to class, when Erin is kissing him, he’s not really kissing back. At all. The hallways are pretty much empty and the only sounds that remain are her lips on him. But even then, he can’t focus on her. If anything he is much more interested in absentmindedly playing with her hair.

Erin pulls away from him, noticing his lack of enthusiasm. She places a kiss on the marigold behind his ear, a tender thing, but to him it just burns. “Love, what’s wrong?”

Dan only brushes the question off, the ringing of the first tardy warning bell easily makes it so he doesn’t have to answer much. “Nothing, I promise.”

The expression in Erin’s face shows that she doesn’t buy it. “Oh Dan,” her voice sympathetic, one hand rubbing the space on his back between his shoulder blades.“Let’s just ditch class and go to my house? I can make you feel better and get you out of this funk.” She ends that last sentence with a wink.

As gently as he can, he pushes Erin off of him, politely giving her a cordial smile. “Uh, maybe next time?” His eyes not-so-subtly look away from her, and he just scratches the back of his neck, with his shoulders hunched stiffly. He starts to open his mouth to say something, but abruptly, the second late bell rings this time. “Let’s just head to class, alright? We’re gonna be late.” From there, he attempts to make his leave.

Erin hastily grabs his arm before he can make it too far. Her grip is firm.

“What has been with you lately?”

Despite sounding tender, she definitely comes off as confrontational. All the little things she has been noticing about him for the past few weeks begins to spill out of her one by one, in the form of pent up evidence supporting a suppressed argument.

“We’ve barely hung out, you rarely approach me first, and don’t think that I haven’t noticed that you hardly ever text me back anymore,” her voice cracks, just the slightest bit, but it is not vulnerability, it is only irritation. When she looks at him, she makes perfect, dead on eye contact, as if daring him to look away.

She starts getting louder. Her face is getting more red and more frustrated, the emotion further emphasised in her tone. “I thought I had it. I really did! I thought I was in one of the most important relationships of my life— here I thought I was different, and that I changed the ‘unattainable Dan Howell’…!” In a flash, it all shifts and she suddenly becomes a bit reserved. A bit meeker, wishful. Regretting and inhibited. Her voice is quieter. “…And that I found a really, really sweet guy.” She smiles the smallest bit, but her eyes are dull.

Her fingers start fiddling with the ends of her hair, and she looks down at her feet. “Instead, you just seem disinterested.”

“Look Erin, it’s not you it’s me—”

At that, her glare rises up once more, red lines suddenly appearing in wings at the ends of her eyes, further emphasizing her vexation. “Stop.” Her index finger threateningly pokes his chest with nearly every word that she says. “Don’t you even dare give me that load of bull. shit. I had to have done something.”

“You didn’t do anything, I promise,” Dan tries to reassure her, but he can tell that in the same way she didn’t believe him when he said was fine earlier, she absolutely does not believe him right now.

“Dan, don’t lie to me,” Erin huffs. She then furrows her eyebrows and kinda tilts her head and frowns, but it’s not directed at him, not really, and Dan knows that it means she’s thinking. When the corners of her mouth turn up a little and she shakes her head and laughs to herself, that is when he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to react. And he certainly does not anticipate the words that would then exit from her lips.

“I bet it’s that boy. It’s that boy, isn’t it?”

Dan bites his lip, his words are caught in his throat, and for some reason he can’t make himself reply.

A moment passes. One that lasts a beat too long for it to be salvaged.

“Oh.” Her voice and face suddenly falls and softens. It’s evident that she did not expect her ‘revelation’ to actually ring true. “Oh, Dan. I’m right aren’t I?”

Dan’s brows raise and his eyes widen, his hands waving frantically in an effort to convince her of the truth. “No!! No no, no way. We’re just friends, plus, I think that you’ve forgotten that I’m straight.”

Erin sighs. “But straight boys don’t look at other boys —well, just a single boy in your case— like you have, Dan. It makes sense now that I think about it, and honestly why didn’t I see it before, and I don’t care about the whole ‘gay thing’ if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She turns away and opens her locker, packing a few things into her bag, then slides one strap on her shoulder. “Love is love, and who am I to deny that?” Instead of then moving her body to face him, she bites her cheek. Her head tilts to the side a bit as she looks down. “I just hate that I had to find out like this.”

“Erin, I’m telling you!! We’re just friends!!”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,” she waves, brushing him off. She doesn’t move, hand still on the locker door. She only turns her head so that he can look at her when she makes her point. “But baby, it’s obvious. And if you still can’t see it, then maybe you should stop and take a good look at what you’re missing.”

“You’ve got it all wrong—”

“Look…” Erin lets out a low exhale and lets her eyelids fall over her eyes, slamming the locker hard enough to both make the sound echo off the walls of the now empty halls. To her relief, it also effectively shuts Dan up. She sounds tired. “I’m gonna head home alright? I don’t really feel like being here anymore. You can go back to class.”

After beginning to walk off, she stops after only taking a few steps.

Her back remains as the only thing facing towards him.

“Dan?”

He hesitates before responding. “Yeah?”

Before she speaks, she takes a second to articulate what exactly she wants to say. Even though it’s not a goodbye, it sure as hell feels like one.

It’s like a final admission.

“You… You were a good time. Even if you ignore me after this, since we’ll just be classmates, say hi once in awhile, yeah? And consider who’s important to you. Really, really consider it,” she then angles her body a bit to look over her shoulder, so that their eyes may meet one last time. Her lips tilt upwards a little bit at the corners, but even that is twinged with a hint of sadness. “That Phil boy… He really does make you smile.”

<<>>

They’re walking home, and the warm tones of the sky perfectly complement the warmth of the caramel macchiatos in their hands. Phil had treated them to the delicious drinks once school was over, despite Dan’s protests, and the late afternoon sun showed that they definitely ended up spending a little bit more time at the coffee shop than originally expected.

Oh well. Becoming lost in a sea of conversation of topics they could no longer remember gave them a much needed break from thinking about anything —or anyone— at all.

When they reach Dan’s house, Dan fumbles for the key and unlocks the door. Noticing that is Phil hesitating at the welcome mat still, Dan laughs. “C’mon,” he invites Phil in warmly, as he starts removing his shoes and places it next to the front door after closing it. Dan motions for Phil to do the same. “Let’s get started.”

Tonight is the night they finish their project. With only visuals remaining, and their use of a different type of surface for their piece, they only have the next several hours to complete it.

Dan grabs blankets for them to sit on and he tells Phil where to find the paints they need, and together they make their way towards the backyard. With perfect weather accompanied by a lovely sky, it is no wonder as to why it is their work space of choice this evening.

Outside, the air is quiet. The only noises come from the soft hum of suburbia and the chirping of crickets. “I work here often,” Dan says, his voice casual and not as loud as it normally would be.

Phil nods. “I understand why. It’s peaceful out here.”

They start setting up, picking a clear spot in the grass. Dan tosses the blankets to the ground and they both slide their backpacks off their shoulders, and Dan leans down to take the supplies they need out of his bag. As he is getting situated, Phil asks if he should get ready now. Although Dan just passively gives him a “Yeah, yeah,” he can’t seem to resist looking up when Phil turns around to slip off his shirt.

Phil isn’t the most fit person in the world, but he is certainly a bit toned, and the movement of his shoulder blades and back do something to the heart beating in Dan’s chest. The first thing he notices even before that though, are the daisies that seem to go all across Phil’s shoulders. They are admittedly quite hard to miss. That too, gives Dan this tingling feeling that starts in his chest and spreads through his arms. He can’t put a name to it, but it’s just that the flowers seem so endearing. Because oh, how lovely is that?

When Phil turns and faces Dan again, he catches Dan looking at him. Quickly, Dan looks away, but by then it’s too late, and Phil is standing there flustered, hints of pink coming off like paint splatters and freckles on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose.

Suddenly self-conscious, Phil shifts the moment’s attention to something else when he quickly moves to pick up one of the many blankets that Dan brought outside. When he hands one end of the blanket to Dan, Dan takes it with a sheepish smile.

For a split second, their fingers graze each other’s, before parting so that they may set the blanket down upon the grass together. After they put the blanket on the ground, Phil rubs his fingers together. A reaction, he can’t help it: last time there were fireworks, after all.

And even though his hands show no ink this time when he checks, by God does it feel like the moment was electrically charged.

“So, where do you want me?” asks Phil, the question effectively gently breaking the comfortable silence.

Dan laugh cuts through the thick air between them. “Pff, Phil,” He teases, “You know that anywhere is fine as long as we’re together.”

Phil shoves him playfully in response, making Dan grin, and the pink in Phil’s cheeks becomes just the tiniest bit redder. “Oh, shut up!”

“Lie down on your stomach here,” Dan gestures to a certain spot right by Phil’s feet, “Just relax okay?”

Phil follows Dan’s orders, and underneath him, he can feel the rustling of the grass. He rests his head on his arms, closing his eyes, his voice muffled by his mouth being covered. “Don't worry about me. I trust you.”

Dan chuckles. “I would hope so.”

The scenery around them seems unreal. The setting sun’s light gently lays a golden cast upon everything in the backyard, as if graced by Midas’ touch. Flowers and plants of every color grow here: a personal rainbow, a trove of jewels. Even the grass is a true to life representation of ‘the grass is greener on the side,’ for Phil knows that the grass on his side of the fence is wild and unkempt.

The atmosphere of it all is airy and seraphic.

Dan awkwardly squats down while muttering an apology, for in order to begin the actual painting process, he doesn’t really have any other option besides straddling Phil’s back. Of course he could just sit down next to Phil… But then he would have to work sideways, and that would simply not be optimal.

He shifts in an attempt to make himself as comfortable as he can, and he makes sure that Phil is okay too.

Next to Dan lies the sketches of what he wants to achieve for the piece. Their idea is to demonstrate and illustrate what the definition of humanity, with an emphasis on the relationship between man and earth. The execution of Dan’s vision involves painting upon Phil’s back, sort of as a way to mimic the concept of tattoos and tell the story of man.

It is now time to work.

Underneath him, Phil’s skin is clear, pale, and soft. Like a blank canvas would, it invites him to have his way with it, a call to let his hands take over his mind. When Dan does any kind of art, he doesn’t like thinking at all due to its hinderance on creative flow. He takes a deep inhale, counting the seconds that pass as oxygen comes in, and lets a deep exhale pass his lips.

His fingers lightly trace the flowers upon Phil’s back, taking in the detail of each and every one of them. The intricacy of it all is so pretty, and almost delicate.

Finally, Dan starts.

The coldness of the paint makes Phil shiver.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Phil laughs awkwardly, “It’s cold, that’s all.”

Dan can’t help but laugh a little too. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. I’m gonna need a steady surface though so…”

“What should I do?”

“Hmm…” Dan starts, trying to think. He makes a long, broad stroke with his brush. “Maybe you can like, I don’t know. This might sound dumb. But maybe you could recite some poetry to me?” Dan dips his brush into the water, cleaning it off so that he could change colors. “It’ll distract you from the cold. It can be from the project, your own stuff, whatever. Tell me anything on your mind.”

Phil thinks it over, taking about a minute to contemplate over what he wants to share.

While he thinks, the sun finally finishes setting, and the moon eagerly moves to replace it. No longer is the sky burning ablaze with oranges, vermillions, and magentas; instead it’s all dark. Only a star or two glimmers. Everything is void except for the light of the moon that only seems to shine on them two alone.

“Yeah okay,” he agrees. “Alright.”

Another breath. “This is one of mine,” Phil adds.

Then a beginning.

“in a field of forget-me-nots, he’d try to forget them a lot the one who made his heart bloom from freckles that were like seeds, and smiles like sunshowers: pulling handfuls of grass out of the ground beneath him and picking petals of any flower he touched, choruses of ‘like me’ and ‘like me not’ in a golden air

there was something about them, who with hands made soul out of oxygen of every color and texture and medium who made his knees shake and his cheeks redder

Dan’s breath hitches. Phil continues, seemingly not noticing, and Dan shakes his head to shake the ridiculous thoughts out of his mind.

So what if the story seems to tell of a boy in love with an artist? It doesn’t mean anything.

“for although they was a mere windowpane away, their red threads seemed to be nothing more than fishing lines leading them to a separate sea and him to an empty shore

The brush in Dan’s hand has completely stopped moving. His arms have goosebumps, and although he can see that Phil has goosebumps across his skin too, Dan is sure that his own are not from the brisk air.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he’s reading too much into it. Maybe it’s not even about him.

But is it too strange to say that Dan doesn’t seem to mind at all?

Before, Dan wished that Phil could see what he’s making while he was making it, but he is very thankful that Phil can’t see him right now. His free hand reaches to cup the side of his face, and under his palm he can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Although he can’t see it on himself, his suspicions are basically confirmed, and he has a good guess as to what is there.

Because at this moment, only visible by the moonlight, Dan has a fierce blush— a coalescence of roses and carnations on his neck that reach and bloom upon the apples of his cheeks (along with a few freckled stars).

More stars that could be seen in the night sky, to be precise. Side-by-side a whole garden that rivals the one that is blossoming around them.

“so from the coastline, he would admire them —this caramel boy— and he would watch the boy pull in the many fish of the sea as for he, he would merely sit writing words in the stand with a tidal wave heart that consumed him and stole the air from his lungs”

The chill of the night is starting to set in, but he feels like he’s on fire.

<<>>

They finish incredibly late. The idea of time is lost to them, and honestly they can’t tell the difference between the the evening’s final hours and the earliest hours of the next day.

Phil fell asleep towards the end, and Dan finds it endearing. The rise and fall of Phil’s back, along with the faint sounds of his breathing, are the only things keeping Dan company in this standstill of a night.

“Wake up,” Dan murmurs. He nudges Phil gently. “Get up, Phil.”

Begrudgingly, Phil sits up. He yawns and ruffles his hair, and as Dan begins packing up the supplies, Dan makes sure to keep a watchful eye on Phil to make sure that he doesn’t ruin the painting. Ultimately, he tells Phil to sit on his hands to ensure that no excessive movement leads to crackling in the piece.

Once Dan has returned everything inside, he comes back out to see that Phil is still sitting there, and the sight makes Dan chuckle a little. Phil has his eyes closed, clearly he dozed off despite sitting up; how he managed to do it, Dan doesn’t know.

He first lifts up Phil’s right thigh, then Phil’s left, sliding his hands out from under his legs. He keeps his hold on Phil’s palms and pulls Phil up so that he can stand, then picks up the last blanket that is left on the ground so that he can sling it over his shoulder.

With Phil’s hand in his, Dan carefully guides him inside, to a seat right beside a window.

“Dan…” Phil is still incredibly sleepy, his voice groggy. “Dan, what… What are we doing…?”

“It’s okay, I’ll handle it. You’re alright,” He assures him. “I’ve got you.”

Dan proceeds to sit Phil up in a chair. He makes sure to be gentle. Phil’s eyes keep going back and forth between either being open or closed, his eyelids eventually settling for the middle ground of being drowsily half-open; his body is simply too sluggish for him to stay completely awake. He is doing his best, though.

While Dan does have a soft yellow light lit up so that he can properly operate the camera, he had picked this spot next to the window so that the light of the moon could hit the piece just right.

What a good choice that is.

He snaps a couple photos. He takes some shots that are up close, in addition to others that showcase the big picture. The ones that are closer show all the detail; they show every single one of the strokes and the way the colors seamlessly blend into one another. Those are his favorite, for they caught what the eye wouldn’t normally catch.

The paint doesn’t completely hide the imperfections of the skin and Dan loves it. Humans aren’t perfect, and it only further emphasizes their project’s theme, but it also makes the piece uniquely Phil as much as it is uniquely Dan’s.

Click. And that one’s nice too.

This photo frames everything perfectly, it is one of the far-away shots: showing how Dan’s depiction of a skeleton matches exactly where Phil’s own bones would be. Amongst the rungs of Phil’s ribcage, Dan weaved an entire garden of flowers, blossoms come in azure, olive, and honey, and all of the other related shades.

Where the veins would run through, instead of being where the blood would run its course, it is red thread intertwined with vines, and it even leads all the way through Phil’s arms and hands. Where there is empty space, Dan filled it with a mix of daisies and stars, along with the colors of a midnight sky, the sky’s colors are a contrast almost as striking as Phil’s hair to his pale skin.

It isn’t a physical manifestation of the poem Phil recited to him, no. But if Dan said that he didn’t think about doing that, he would be lying. Dan ended up completely disregarding his original drafts and ended up giving into what his hands and mind seemed to want to do, and this was it, a portrayal that was a likeness to the relationship between nature and man, with a subtle hint at man’s idea of a red thread fate (perhaps Phil’s poem had more of an impact than he originally thought). And it turned into something lovely, he thinks. He hopes.

It almost resembles how Phil makes him feel inside.

How Phil seems to make everything bloom in color.

Softly, he taps Phil on the shoulder. “C’mon, wake up, Philly,” Dan whispers. “You did great.”

Phil rubs his eyes. They’re fully open now. “Oh hi Dan…” he replies, “I know I’ve been awake, but I think I can actually think… Coherently now.”

Dan smiles. “Don’t worry about it.” He holds a hand out to Phil, to which Phil accepts, and he pulls Phil up so he can stand. “I handled it. It all turned out fantastically.”

Phil stretches, and yawns. Then his eyes widen, face suddenly full of worry. “Wait, what time is it?? I never told my mom what time we’d finish—”

“Why don’t you just stay here?” Dan suggests. Phil looks at him and tilts his head, thinking it over. “It’s so late anyway, and my parents won’t mind, they’re out on a business trip anyway.”

Phil nods, “Okay. Alright, I’ll just let my mom know.”

Then they go to the bathroom upstairs, and Phil follows. While they are walking, Phil sends a quick message to his mom: I’m still at Dan’s, just right next door. Staying the night. I would’ve told you sooner but I fell asleep. Love you ❤❤

Upon reaching the bathroom, Dan gets a hand towel from the closet, and runs the towel under the sink. Out of nowhere, Phil laughs, and Dan turns to look at him, eyebrow raised, perplexed and wanting an explanation.

When all Phil says is, “Heh, Howell with a towel,” Dan smacks Phil in the shoulder playfully and can’t help but laugh too.

Dan then adds a bit of soap so that it will wash better. Before he starts to clean the painting off, Phil sees the piece in the mirror and loves it. “You’re so talented,” he whispers, and Dan’s ears flush with pink, he’s positively bashful. “It really is a shame that we have to wash it off.”

“Yeah,” is all Dan can reply. “It is.”

He finally starts washing Phil’s back, watching the colors smear together into something incomprehensible. Abruptly, Dan hesitates, really taking in the situation. “This isn’t weird, right?” he asks.

Phil doesn’t miss a beat. “No, you’re just helping me. I wouldn’t be able to do it properly myself.”

Dan can’t seem to argue with that, and so he finishes. When he’s done, he tells Phil to wait a moment. About a minute or two passes by, and Phil is humming to pass the time, and when Dan returns, he tosses Phil the clothes of his that he grabbed. Then he shows Phil how to use the shower.

“So those clothes are just some of mine that you can borrow,” Dan finishes. “My room is just across the hall when you’re done.”

Dan’s hand is on the door handle already when Phil stops him. “Oh wait, hold on! Before you go…” Phil pulls him back to the counter, and takes a new towel from where he saw Dan take one from earlier.

He does just as Dan did, and runs the towelette under water with a bit of soap, and he cups Dan’s cheek with his hand. He dabs at Dan’s cheek gently, cleaning up paint that had somehow made it’s way to Dan’s chin and other miscellaneous parts of his face.

“I didn’t know you had freckles,” Phil whispers, continuing to tenderly clean Dan up. “I love them.”

The comment automatically makes Dan flustered. His cheeks threaten to flare up, as they usually do at words like that, but he wills every atom to his body to refrain from doing so in that moment. He can only hope that it works out like that, though.

He barely manages to utter the two words. “Th-thank you.”

Eventually Phil finishes, and Dan subsequently leaves and retreats to his room. He uploads the photos from the camera to his laptop while he waits for Phil to shower. Once they are uploaded, he is pleased to see that they did indeed turn out as great as he thought. He starts editing, retouching them a bit here and there, just overall playing with the exposure and sharpness of them.

Fifteen minutes go by, and he’s still editing. That’s when Phil comes in, having lightly knocked on the door before entering, with his hair damp and Dan’s t-shirt and pajama pants on. In response to the opening of the door, Dan spins in his chair to watch as Phil comes in.

And there is just something about Phil in Dan’s clothes that makes him look so incredibly cute, that Dan has no other option but to smile.

Phil walks over to look at the photos that Dan has pulled up on his laptop. He asks if he can see the others, and Dan turns back to the screen to watch Phil scroll through the rest of them.

“Oh, Dan…” Stunned by the photographs, Phil is breathless. The lighting is spectacular, and the attention to detail is amazing, and none of it goes unnoticed. “These are beautiful.”

He says some more things, but to be honest, Dan stopped listening. He’s just looking at Phil instead. That is, until Phil turns his face too.

Their faces are so near.

And their lips are so, so close.

Phil pulls away though, and Dan feels strangely empty. But why does he feel like that? he asks himself. He instantly shakes off the thought, getting up from his seat and heading to the closet to grab some pajamas. “You can just sleep on the bed Phil,” he states simply, “I’ll just take a quick shower.”

In the shower however, the thought of Phil can’t seem to escape him. Yet again, he pushes it away.

Nothing happened, and besides, it’s just Phil, he thinks, but it’s like he’s reassuring himself.

Nothing more.

When Dan is done, he heads back to the room, in far comfier clothes. As he opens the bedroom door, Phil cracks an eye half-open at the sound. Dan walks over to the bed, leaning down so he is looking at Phil at eye level.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Phil yawns, and pulls the covers up a little. His eyebrows scrunch up, and his eyes squint a little, questioning. “You have curly hair?”

Dan grimaces, a bit embarrassed. “Mmm, yeah. I always straighten it though.”

Phil reaches over, taking a curl in between his two fingers. “It’s like a little pig tail,” he giggles, “Why do you keep getting more and more damn adorable, whenever I learn more about you?”

This time, Dan doesn’t even acknowledge the comment, except for the playful hint of the corners of his lips turning up. He then stands up straight, and heads towards his desk. “I’m gonna edit a little more before I hit the sack. Good night you little shit.”

“Goodnight,” Phil calls.

Dan is editing for another twenty minutes more before he decides that it is time for him to finally sleep. He makes his way over to the bed, and he would lie down, but Phil is in the middle, looking cozily wrapped up in the black-and-white duvet.

Dan smiles softly. As he adjusts the covers so that it covers Phil’s feet, followed by tucking him in a little more, he mutters and laughs under his breath, “And I am the one that looks more and more adorable? Has he even seen himself?”

When he’s all done, he takes one of the extra pillows on the bed and tosses it to the ground. He then goes out and grabs one of the last clean blankets, and tosses that to the ground as well.

He doesn’t mind sleeping on the floor tonight.

<<>>

phil: We definitely did great on that project! :D

dan: hECK yeah i hope they grade us soon

phil: alhfdlhls What if I told you that they did already??

dan: W H A T dan: but they usually take ages??

phil: It’s been a couple days materino phil: Plus like, my teacher told me that she graded ours first sooo,, phil: In THEORy it should be up by now! ;P

dan: omgomgomg i just checked and it’s uP

phil: And??

dan: WE GOT AN A

phil: YAY!! All thanks to your amazing art!!

dan: pbbbt your writing is the loveliest thing ever don’t even come for me dan: like shakespeare who?? i don’t know her

phil: Oh shush asdfgjjhg phil: That’s so sweet I hate you

dan: nooooo don’t hate me

phil: Don’t worry Danny boy phil: I don’t think I ever could.

<<>>

The rain outside is dreadfully heavy, and Dan is late. Usually, that wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary, but he had been doing so well with being on time these past few weeks. Since there is no point to alarms if they don’t even work as they should, alarm clocks are dead to Dan now.

When he runs in, he looks so scattered. Sleeves are three-fourths rolled up, creating a look that lies somewhere between rushed and on purpose, and to add to that his hair is frizzy, he has mismatching socks (well, one is black and the other is dark grey, but still). A white umbrella that has baby pink ribbons all over it completes the whole ensemble.

Honestly? A fashion icon.

Phil sees him on the way to his second period class, and he has to cover his mouth to keep from giggling at the sight of Dan looking completely frazzled from the rain. One little laugh does escape him though, but he can’t help it: what is likely Dan’s little sister’s umbrella makes Dan look cute as heck.

Yet when Phil begins to lightly run towards him to give a quick hi, something doesn’t seem right.

Dan’s tattoos seem… Blurry?

At first glance, the ink seems to be what Phil expects it to be. That being, what Phil knows to be on Erin’s own arms: grey, stormy clouds. Yet at the same time— it seems to have changed?

Phil is just standing in place now, stopped in his tracks, a fair distance away from him still. He isn’t looking up close, the exposed skin on Dan’s forearms show it all. The texture is off and that the colors are melding together in an unnatural way, and overall it is just wrong.

Phil continues to stand by and watch.

Dan rolls up his sleeves more, revealing his whole arm. When he reaches into his locker, he takes out a variety of art supplies, of various mediums and hues and purposes, and begins to mess around a bit with the tattoos. As if he’s touching up.

Why would he need to…? Oh.

They’re fake. The tattoos are fake. And scratch what Phil said earlier— they are not blurry. They are smeared.

Dan finishes his work relatively quickly, and by that time, Phil has already begun heading to class, asking himself whether or not the scene he just watched unfold in front of him was real. Whether the sight of Dan amending the ink on his skin was true, or if it was a sleep-deprived induced dream. Yet no matter what he tells himself, he can’t deny what he saw.

Eventually Dan looks up and sees Phil’s distant figure. When he lets out an, “Oh hey! Phil!”, a moment passes that seems like a reluctance to greet Dan back. But Phil turns around, because that’s the kind of person he is, and he waves. Dan swears that it seems a bit stiff, though.

After that, Phil doesn’t acknowledge anything else.

He simply bites his bottom lip and keeps walking.

<<>>

(2) missed calls from Danny Boy.

<<>>

“Hey Phil! Let’s head to the library for lunch?”

Phil forces a smile. “Maybe another time, Dan? I have to… uh, go to a teacher.”

<<>>

You missed (5) Skype Video Calls from Daniel Howell.

<<>>

dan: hey why rnt you replying to me? dan: phil, did i do something? ✓ read 9:22 PM

<<>>

Rumors are spreading all across campus. The hallways are littered with whispers and gossip of the school’s proclaimed ‘It Couple,’ and even teachers are chatting about it in the teachers’ lounge. Everyone seems to be aware that Dan and Erin had a falling out, but to be fair, it wasn’t necessarily hard to guess. No one needed to hear it from the source.

It is evident from how they no longer walk together, sit together, or talk to one another. Even more apparent, Erin’s arms no longer displayed the sunrises that everyone believed (she, included) to represent new beginnings and the birth of something new. Instead, it is now rain. It is stormy clouds on a setting horizon, the sunset for the sunrise, to match the end to the beginning.

Even the flowers she had, the precious flowers that convinced even the doubters of her and Dan’s love (if you could call it that), are wilting.

There are claims being made; there are those who are attesting to seeing Dan leave parties early with people on his arm while he has his hand on their waist, as he leads them out the door and to his car. Some said it was Dan whose neck and chest was splattered with purple from what the night had entailed, others said it was his company who adorned the marks. People told of the moans that would come from bathrooms, bedrooms, and even in one instance, a closet, where sounds of ecstasy made passerbys envious and left his partner of the night a pleasured mess.

Amongst all of Dan’s hookups, there is one thing they all have in common: they are all boys.

And that common fact makes Phil’s heart go from skipping a beat at even the mention of Dan’s name to sinking six feet below the floor.

Girls? That he can handle. He can handle it because he is used to it, he has been used to it for years. But Dan being with boys puts Phil on an even playing field— Phil isn't different from any of those boys. He has gone from watching on the sidelines to being an average player on the losing team.

When it comes down to it, these are the truths: he is in love with someone who, until the project, hadn't spared him a glance for years. He is in love with someone who —he was sure of it— had tattoos that were ingenuine and painted on. He is in love with someone who is known for playing the game, for having issues with commitment, for being someone who picked up people then dropped them like flies.

He is in love with someone who lies.

And so now Phil sits on his front porch, writing, restraining himself from going beyond the brink of tears. For someone who treasures honesty, the truth hurts. No matter how much he tries to hold himself back, two or three droplets still manage to escape, smudging some of the words that were written out of a mix of anger, disappointment, and emptiness.

They were words written by a heart who lost the game, a game rigged by a player of the most gut-wrenching emotion.

<<>>

skin of freckled honey and a body of clouds, sweet and soft— in the same way that only thoughts could fabricate the idea of how your lips taste. fabrication does not compare to the reality of it all though and no one ever warned me, for although tattoos of roses don't have thorns blood pours from the prick in my fingertips because i picked you - p.l.

<<>>

Everything is white noise. His surroundings are a blur and his head is pulsing intensely from the conglomeration of far too much alcohol and far too loud music. He can barely feel himself existing within his own body. The bustle of people dancing around him, the sounds of the DJ and the people singing and screaming at the top of their lungs, and the scent of sweat and booze: it’s all much more than he wants in that moment.

But to be fair, he does not really know exactly what it is he wants.

Whoever he is kissing is much more into it than he is, for he isn’t into it at all. He’s barely there, just a shell of a kiss upon the person’s lips. A disappointment for anyone sober to be honest.

Yet the other one couldn’t care less.

“S-so do you wanna, like,” the boy, probably two years younger than him, stammers as they separate for a breath, “Take this somewhere else?”

Numbly, Dan nods. No harm in going along with it, right? “Y-yeah. Yeah, okay.”

On the drive to Dan’s house, the boy (Justin? Jake? Josh? Oh forget it, just calling him J will be easier) is texting rapidly. The entire drive is silent except for those keyboard clicks and the nervous tapping of J’s foot, and from the light of J’s phone screen, Dan can see that J is sporting a huge grin on his face. Dan doesn’t even have to see the texts to know what they are about.

If he were to guess, it would be J bragging to his friends about how he is getting to sleep with The Great Dan Howell™ and how “OMG HE CAN’T BELIEVE IT.” Or you know, another statement that is equally as dumb.

It makes Dan feel sick.

When they actually arrive, things escalate from Dan leading J into his home with his hand on the small of J’s back, to rapidly making out on the couch. The way J kisses him is incredibly zealous. Dan tries his best to match his passion, but his efforts fall short. It’s just different, for Dan’s kisses are intense in a different manner; his lips press against J’s lips and skin in a way that is almost forceful, as if trying to forget about something.

But regardless of how fervent they both currently are, it all stops the moment the boy reaches to unbutton Dan’s jeans.

Immediately, Dan breaks away.

The boy, Jared, Jace, whatever his name is, looks confused. He leans in in an attempt to just restart where they left off, but Dan only shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says quietly, pushing him off. “I can’t do this. I’m so sorry.”

He gets up, and the younger one awkwardly follows, the way the boy carries himself shows that he is definitely disappointed. When they reach the front door, the boy takes a second to send a quick message, letting his friend know that he needs a ride, knowing what Dan will say next.

“Go home,” Dan tells him, his voice gentle as he opens the door. “You’re sweet, but go home. Please.” A nod from the other passes as a silent “Alright then, goodbye,” and Dan knows that he’ll never see the boy again. When Dan shuts the door and locks it, he runs his hand through his fringe, letting out a groan that comes from deep within his chest.

He makes his way upstairs eventually. When he gets there, he sits upon the edge of the foot of his bed, elbows resting on his knees and his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. His knuckles are white when he forms a fist, fiercely punching the bed once. And that’s the point where he just yells.

Dan yells so loud that it genuinely scratches his throat, it is of such volume that it bounces off the walls of the empty house.

Next, he just allows himself to fall onto the bed. His body sprawls out in the center, amongst all of his sheets that should seem familiar, yet somehow don’t smell like home at all. His eyes are squeezed shut. One hand reaches up to rub his one eye, the other arm rests in place and remains outstretched.

After some time, breaking the quiet, a soft gravelly whisper finally leaves his lips. “Dang, she might’ve been right all along…”

<<>>

chris: i heard from pj that u + phil aren’t on the best of terms right now chris: you okay mate?

<<>>

daniel james howell. flashback; age sixteen.

from chris, to dan (and 63 others):

party tonight. my house (u should know the address, lmk if you need it tho) until whenever u wanna leave ! gon be lit be there or be square lads

He only had a little bit of time before Vanessa —well, because she insists he actually calls her Van— arrived. Chris Kendall was having the party of the summer to celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of vacation because his parents were out of town, and he and Van agreed that they would go together.

As a casual thing of course, nothing serious.

The party started in about half an hour. Black skinny jeans that were ripped at the knees and a shirt he knew he looked good in was the look of choice for the night. He nearly chose to leave his hair in waves, but after he ran his fingers through his fringe he ultimately decided against it. His hair looked stupid if it was anything but straight.

Right when he was straightening the last curl, the doorbell rang. How perfectly timed, and even their arrival at the party was perfect too: not too early and not too late. As soon as they got there, they were greeted by the mob of people who were bumping along to the music. While they gave quick greetings to their friends, they quickly made their way into the center, amongst all those who were dancing like it was the night of their lives.

Van had her hands on his chest, her moves sensual and easy. She’s dancing with him, and Dan doesn’t hate it, because any onlooker could tell that she was very attractive. She’s pretty, and admittedly they have had fun together before, but Dan had realised for a while that he hadn’t been actively interested in her for quite some time.

But who was he to decline her company when they should be having fun?

“Let’s go grab some drinks,” Van commented, as she took his hand to drag them both out of the cluster of partying bodies. Even before she reached the drinks table, people started to hand her drinks as if they knew exactly what she wanted. She grabbed two, nudged Dan with her elbow, then held out the one cup out to him. “Drink some, Dan!”

Dan made a face, unsure. “I dunno, I don’t usually drink much…”

She gave an ‘ol pbbbt and a playful eyeroll that clearly meant that she didn’t want no for an answer. Van gestured towards the cup in her hand once more, and with her eyebrows raised up at him, she follows up with a plead. “C’mon! Take a fuckin’ sip babe.”

Giving in, he took the drink from her, downing it all in a matter of gulps. Van laughs, and they went right back into partying.

However, whether he realised it or not, one sip had quickly turned into multiple sips. And sips turned into finishing the cup, and one finished cup turned until multiple finished cups, and then he completely lost count. He’s completely, he thought as he hiccuped, he’s completely —as his friends would say— tabled.

If he’s honest, he had no idea how much time had passed. He just knew that he was currently all over the place, dancing one moment, chatting the next, then suddenly beer pong or something after that. When the music got softer, that’s when his drunk high started to diminish too, and that’s when he started to get tired.

He terribly needed a bed.

It was at this time that he started to head towards the stairs (anything after that however, he couldn’t recall for the life of him).

<<>>

Why is Phil doing this?

Dan knows he’s not imagining it. Dan can feel Phil distancing himself away from him more and more with each passing day, and he just wants to know why. It’s not just ignored texts, Phil won’t even glance at him. And that’s what really hurts about it all.

At lunch, he goes to “their” spot in the library, but Phil isn’t there. He brings food and everything, but even if he waits, Phil never shows. As a matter of fact, he isn’t in the library at all. To add more salt to the wound, when Dan goes to the cafeteria to check out the lunch table where PJ, Chris, and Louise sit at, Phil isn’t with them either.

Even when it is time for class, Dan is determined. He shows up first rather than last in an effort to try and sit by him. Dan will get him this time he’s sure, because he knows that Phil likes having time to himself in the beginning of class. Dan knows Phil. Dan is positive that he is right in this notion —there is no way he wouldn’t be— and when Phil walks in through that door, Dan will just talk to him and everything will be normal again.

But as if he’s aware of Dan’s plan, Phil ends up arriving last. Every time.

<<>>

“Please Chris!” his tone is embarrassingly pleading, but Dan doesn’t care. Anyone could be listening in on their conversation as they’re strolling the halls, but Dan doesn’t care about that either, he just grabs Chris’ arm and begins shaking it violently as he keeps begging (these are clearly some great persuasive tactics he’s using, perhaps he should consider becoming a lawyer).

“Pleaaaseee!! Talk to your cute boyfriend for me!”

Chris stops in his tracks, nearly making Dan stumble. He stares at Dan dead in the eyes. “Okay first of all, only I can call him cute, back off. And second,” he says the last parts slowly as he takes a couple tentative steps forward. “I don’t think it would be smart. If anything, you can talk to my cute boyfriend yourself.”

Dan lets go of Chris’ arm, letting out a small reluctant exhale. “Okay. Fine.”

It takes a while. Dan has to wait until the afternoon finally comes to an end in order to talk to PJ, and even then, it takes a good chunk of time to convince him. Dan’s proposition is for PJ to somehow provide Dan with an opportunity to talk to Phil.

At first, PJ declines. Right away.

But then he manages to go from “Oh, I don’t know Dan…” to “Alright, okay,” after a little over an hour of persuading. After Dan explained the circumstances, and with a bit of begging, PJ changed his mind. He makes it clear that he’s not the most supportive of Dan right now due to Phil’s current state, but that he is appreciative of the fact that he did make Phil so happy before.

And above all, there is one thing that PJ can’t deny, and that is that Phil deserves closure. If anything.

PJ looks away from Dan, not able to directly meet his eyes. He scratches the back of his neck, before turning to face him once more, voice firm. “He’ll meet you in room 109, alright? Tomorrow, fifteen minutes after school ends. I’ll tell them there’s a meeting for a club he’s in or something. But if you miss it… That’s on you. This is the only chance you’re getting.”

<<>>

The clock on the classroom wall shows that seven minutes have passed since their supposed meet-up time. Not that he was counting or anything. Understandably, Dan can’t help but to feel on edge, for what if PJ changed his mind?

What if Phil never comes?

Out of nowhere, words start coming from the other side of the door. “Yeah, this is the room. Text me when you’re done, and I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Thanks for letting me know about this meeting Peej.” That one is Phil. That’s definitely him. “You’re a great friend.”

The door then opens with a flourish. Phil closes it behind him.

Dan coughs, making Phil turn around. He does a small wave and says meekly, “Hey, Phil.”

Phil’s eyes widen and the color drains from his face. “Oh no. Oh no no no…”

“Phil, please listen to me—”

“But I don’t even want to talk to you…” Phil’s firmly points out. He is looking all around the classroom, at every place and every thing except for Dan. Annoyed, he mutters, “I knew that something was up when PJ said there was a meeting for a new writing program. It just seemed sudden, and I never heard anyone talking about it or anything…”

“Phil, please talk to me?”

“And why should I?”

“Please.”

Instead of responding right away, Phil walks over to Dan, and gets all up his face. He nearly spits at him, and to be honest, he kind of wants to. Inked images of flames are flickering from his bottom of his neck, threatening to reach his chin. He entire demeanor is radiating with bitterness. “Don’t you get it? Can’t you take a hint?” He crosses his arms. “You’re with her, and I’m a total idiot, and you can just live your happy lie. Ignorance is bliss, right?”

“What are you even saying, I don’t understand…” Dan’s voice trails off, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Brashly, Phil grabs Dan’s arm, hastily rolling up the sleeves. His lips are pressed into a straight line as he takes out his water bottle from in his backpack. Proceeding to pour a bit of water onto Dan’s forearm, he then takes his hand and rubs across Dan’s skin.

The ink smears, as Phil expected.

A sharp intake of breath comes from Dan. His eyes widen, and suddenly it’s like something has lodged itself in his lungs. Frantically, he waves his hands, crying, “Phil, whatever you’re thinking right now, don’t believe it! There’s more to the story, I promise you…” Phil doesn’t respond, he simply twists the bottle cap closed and slips the water bottle back into his bag. “Can we just talk? We need to talk, Phil!”

Phil’s voice is hard and stilted. He doesn’t acknowledge what Dan is saying, not really, but his words speak directly to him. “Dan, if anything, you have to understand this: the project is done, so there is no logical reason for us to talk anymore—”

This is where Dan attempts to shut Phil up. Hurriedly, he had leaned in to close the space between them, with the aim for a chaste kiss on the lips. Just so Phil would stop talking and calm down. That kind of thing works in the movies, right?

But Dan misses.

He misses because Phil turned his face, so that instead of his lips, Dan would hit his cheek instead. A futile attempt overall. When they return to simple eye contact, Phil is anything but pleased. Dan grimaces. He’s worried now.

“Art students,” begins Phil bitterly, “are the worst.” He moves his head so his fringe is out of his face, and all of his focus is on Dan. He shakes his head, a forced chuckle almost escaping his lips.

“Just so you know,” Phil’s eyes are like steel. Unbearing, unyielding, a disclosure with resolve. His words are steady. “I was pretty damn close to falling in love with you.”

Dan’s expression has become a mess of emotion, his voice laced with a desperate want for Phil to stay. Yet Phil is already for the door. “Well I’m pretty damn sure—”

Phil cuts him off one last time, his fingers lingering on the door handle. His face turns so that Dan can see his profile, but can’t see his expression. To be fair, he doesn’t need to, for the impenetrable accusing, disappointed tone of his voice is undeniable.

“Do you tell that to everyone you sleep with?”

<<>>

philip michael lester. flashback; age fifteen.

Apparently this party was supposed to be a big one. More so than usual anyway, and that was why James had forced him to go— and that was why he was here. People seemed to be filling up the house to its brim, and the scent of sweat and alcohol blended into what Phil guessed to be whatever Nirvana imagined teen spirit would smell like. When Phil and James arrived, they were greeted with the same chorus of “heyyy!”s that all the other houseguests probably had to endure.

They had only stepped through the entrance moments ago when James had nudged him in the side with his elbow. “I’m just gonna go and mingle, yeah?”

Phil just passively nodded him off in reply, and turned around to head towards the living room. Before he makes his leave, James patted him on the back with a brief, “‘Kay mate, I’ll be back in a minute.” Phil rolls his eyes, because he highly doubts that. Yeah, yeah. That’s what he said every time.

An hour and a half passed on by. To elaborate, an hour and a half was how long it took for Phil to finally look up from his phone, get up from his spot on the couch, and go to the kitchen for a change of pace, and maybe a drink perhaps. His journey to the kitchen was mildly ruined however, when he realised James had been preoccupied —and was still preoccupied— with making out with someone in the hallway.

Phil simply pursed his lips, blatantly ignored it, and headed towards the drinks. Despite being close, the two were never actually close. As evidenced, that guy was never really a good friend anyway.

Life sucks sometimes, you know? Phil grabbed the nearest drinkable-looking liquid. but before he could pour himself anything, he was stopped. Someone else was offering a red solo cup to him.

“Are you looking for something harsh, or you just want to let loose?” The person says.

“Let loose,” Phil affirmed, with a shrug. “I just want to have less of a crappy time to be honest.”

“Well then here you go mate,” he replied, as he handed him the drink. “I’m PJ by the way.”

The conversation took off from there. Introductions were made, and so were jokes and banter; overall they were having fun getting to know one another. PJ was a film-video major, and was studying directing, writing, and special effects. It turned out that they both attended the nearby arts academy, and that they were in the same lunch period. Numbers were exchanged, and agreements to hang out were arranged.

It seemed like a friendship was to start. One already far better than the one with James.

“It’s been great talking to you Phil,” PJ grinned as the conversation came to a close, patting Phil on the shoulder. “I gotta make my way out though! The party host is a past friend of mine, and I just wanna see if I can give a cheeky hello.” With that, he turned and headed off with a little salute.

“See you!”

And with that, the night went on. The party dwindled down, and as early morning approached, people transitioned from either quietly chatting or leaving, to being completely knocked out or sleeping. The sleeping ones included Phil amongst them, who had succumbed to that heavy-eyed feeling on the stairs. It was one of the only places left that was free: his peers littered the couches, the floors, and the hallways. Along with all of these people, there were cups, half-eaten pizzas, and a whole lot of other trash that were haphazardly left upon every surface and within every possible nook and cranny of the house.

The music that had previously been blasting loud enough to vibrate the whole block had now been turned down to a lower volume, presumably by someone who did so out of the courtesy of others. A simple light pulse could be felt through the floor, and it stood as the only sound left to resonate through the house.

Well, except for the footsteps of one person. A person who, in their completely hammered state, had decided that he wanted to sleep in the comfort of a bed, and was thus attempting to trudge their way to a bedroom. That was before they tripped on Phil.

Who was on the stairs.

Blocking his way.

Phil’s eyes kinda squinted and fluttered open, eyebrows furrowed as he half-woke up from the sound of whoever fell near him. Once he realised that someone was helplessly lying face down upon the steps, he made the effort to help them up. Even though he himself did stumble a couple of times.

He placed an arm around the person’s shoulder, and the other did the same back at him. In their matching hazy, sleepy states, they made their way to the bedroom together, nearly tripping on more than one occasion as they attempted to hold each other up on the way up the staircase.

A couple fumbles, and they were finally at the top.

“Are we nearly there?” The guy asked, sounding out of breath.

“Yeah,” Phil replied quietly, as he pushed open the first door he came across. “Yeah, nearly.”

When he opened the door, it was easy to tell that it was probably the master bedroom, for it had a bed fit for kings. The duvet looked silky to the touch, and the pillows looked fluffed to homey perfection. It just seemed so, so inviting.

The music from downstairs could still be fairly heard from where they were. The boy Phil was holding onto sorta hummed along and tried to spin them around the room in a dazed dance.

A laughably graceful spin, an uncoordinated dip. “Mmmm, mmm mm mmm…”

It all quickly went downhill though. Expectedly, rather than dancing, they instead clumsily fell onto the bed, the covers being as soft as they looked. Phil giggled as they fell down.

One person on one side, and the other person next to them. They laid down together, back to back, not touching and ready to fall asleep. Phil’s eyes began to close once more. Both of their breathing patterns were becoming slow and even.

Rustling all of a sudden came from the other side of the bed, the shifting of sheets were followed by a genuine, dazed slur of question. The guy spoke at a volume that hardly goes above a hummingbird’s whisper. “Hey, doyouthinkit’sstrangethat… I don’t know. That society is simply made, made up of concepts that are in… inherently real and. And not real?”

Reluctantly, Phil turned on his side to face him so he could reply. He yawned, and shrugged. His voice is gravelly. “I don’t know. Maybe. Some people see marriage as just being a piece of paper.”

The stranger nodded, seemingly accepting his answer. “That’s, that’s true...” He paused for a moment, taking a second to think before he voiced his next thought. “Hmmmm, next question: why are we here?” His voice was more stable now, despite all the alcohol in his system. Probably because he was more awake due to holding a conversation.

“If this is an existential question, that’s too much thinking.” Phil’s face scrunched up as he attempted once more at a better response, but inevitably gave up. A mostly-tired tipsy brain is only capable of so much at two am. “It’s too early for that, mate. Sorry. But if you’re asking for why I’m at this party? Then it’s because,” Phil moved his body so he could be more comfortable, resting his head on his arm. “Well, my friend forced me to come.”

The other one’s body mirrored Phil’s, moving in the bed as he did in order to better situate himself. He replied with a nonchalant shake of his head. “I did mean it as existentia-whatever, but eh, you’re right. Too much thinking. I’m here because of a friend too.”

Somehow, they began to talk about everything. And by everything, it meant just that: worries, fears, existential thoughts, random animal facts. They became so relaxed yet so awake, because if they closed their eyes they would miss these fleeting moments of an almost trance-like unreality. There were no holds barred. Everything left was raw.

After a while, there was a lull. It’s either that or they have fallen into a comfortable silence, Phil truly didn’t know. They were both still lying face to face —but also not really looking at each other— in an absentminded stupor. The stillness was broken when the guy reached over, almost as if he wanted to play with Phil’s hair. He hummed and muttered, “You kinda look like my neighbor, you know?” Phil’s eyebrows only raise slightly in response, like a silent question of “Oh really?”

Dan pursed his lips with an mmhm, decidedly rubbing the black locks in between his fingers and brushing Phil’s fringe out of his face. “You are the prettiest boy I have ever seen, you know...”

After hearing those words, Phil took the other’s hand into his, away from playing with his hair. He brought their hands down to rest in between the both of them, fingers interlocked. Chrysanthemums quickly bloomed on the boy’s face in a blush, which then faded as fast as they appeared. “And that is you, to I,” said Phil.

The boy laughed, the flowers reappeared on his cheeks for several moments fiercer and brighter than before, right before they faded again once more, slowly this time. A soft rosy patch of red on the apples of his cheeks was all that was left behind upon his flushed face. “What are you, a poet?” he jokes.

“Maybe,” Phil smiled.

Whoever made the first move after that moment wasn’t relevant. It was just that at one point they were no longer at an arms’ length away from each other, but yet they somehow had moved closer to one another. Close enough for Phil to see that this pretty boy had the prettiest eyelashes and the softest brunette hair, and for the other to see his three favorite colors within Phil’s eyes. They were simply lying down amongst shared bedsheets face-to-face, alcohol on their breath; two boys with no care in the world.

Phil moved forward just the slightest bit more, letting go of the guy’s hand to move and kiss him behind the ear first, where a tattoo of a marigold immediately began to bloom. Then Phil continued and left soft kisses down the male’s neck.

In response the boy sighed with the quietest ah, nearly moaning from the slightest touch. With the utmost tenderness, he ran his hands across Phil’s shoulders and down Phil’s arms, letting one hand rest on Phil’s waist before he leaned in and gave him a peck of a kiss, making the both of them smile.

“Your touch is so gentle,” Phil says to him. Echoing the other’s words from earlier, Phil continued in a teasing tone, “What are you, an artist?”

The boy only winked, with a hint of a knowing smirk. “Maybe.”

That portion of humanity’s daily twenty-four hours in which the ongoing evening merged with the early day, and when the stars met the morning sunrise, was not only comprised of only the physical world that night, but also of the whispers of yes between strangers and the unspoken confessions between two people who had somehow already met. Perhaps through a past life, or unknowingly, a connection even closer than that.

Because even acquaintances can be something more.

In the morning, it’s skin against skin, amid silken bedsheets and marks from the night before. Their legs were entangled with one another— leaving daisies around Phil’s ankles, while the boy’s arms around him left daisies upon Phil’s shoulders.

When Phil awoke, sunlight had only begun to trickle in. Reluctantly he moved to break away from the guy’s hold, careful to not wake him up, and groggily, Phil grabbed for his phone that was on top of the nightstand.

Four missed calls. Seven texts. His mother must be worried sick.

from mom, to phil:

Where are you Philip???!!!! I’ve called you so many times!! I trust you to be alright, but please contact me to ease your old mother’s heart. Come home as soon as you can, dear. Call me.

Phil sat up on the edge of the bed. Cellphone in hand, he immediately dialed for his mother. As it rang, he began to shuffle around the room to pick up his clothes off of the floor. Pants here, shirt there. Boxers somewhere. The phone rang five times, to which afterwards it then went to voicemail, accompanied by the traditional “Please leave your name after the beep!”. While he struggled to put his jeans on, Phil pinned the phone in the nook between his shoulder and ear.

“Yeah, mom? Sorry I didn’t answer or come home right away, I fell asleep at the party from last night. I’ll be heading there now. Don’t worry, I’ll take a taxi or uber or something.” A quick message and then he hung up, it was just a sign to let her know he was okay. Finally, he slipped his shirt on over his head.

Before he left, he took one last glance at the boy in the bed. It was only at this point does he realise exactly what happened last night. He wasn’t a stranger at all, in fact Phil knew him, he knew him much more than he would like to admit.

The boy was Dan. Dan, the one Phil admired from afar, the one he wrote about in secret.

Phil bit his lip, feeling a twinge of something twist his insides. It’s a mix of guilt and some other emotion. His stomach did not contain butterflies, oh no; right now his ribcage swelled with bumblebees. Stabbing the inside of his chest, filling his lungs so he couldn’t breathe.

But perhaps that was only fitting. Because that couldn’t stop him from confessing the fact that this sight of Dan left Phil a bit breathless.

A state that left Dan looking so vulnerable, while at the same time, looking so damn gorgeous.

Leaning down, Phil’s fingers grazed Dan’s forehead so that he may push those adorable curls aside, and his lips left a light kiss on Dan’s forehead, just above the space between his eyebrows. A farewell that would have to suffice, for after that Phil went back home.

When Dan awoke, he woke up to strewn sheets and duvet, and a slight tingling of where someone had left their mark— literally. There was a small red heart where Phil unknowingly kissed him, along with even smaller ones splattered along his hairline. When he touched them, they gave him a pleasant feeling, but at the same time he was just confused.

On Monday, when he went back for the last day of school, he hid the hearts under his fringe. If anyone were to catch a glance at them, he’d say they were freckles.

The matching redness of his cheeks and his glance towards the floor alluded to otherwise, though. And the way he picked at his shirt collar that hid a hickey or two showed that he was a bit unsure as to where exactly they came from.

<<>>

It has been almost three weeks since he first started avoiding Dan. At first it wasn’t on purpose at all, it was simply a reaction. He felt like he couldn’t help it— he just didn’t want to be around Dan for a while. Being around Dan felt like a confrontation.

But now, Phil is well aware that he has been purposefully distancing himself from him. From ignoring Dan’s texts and calls, taking a different route to classes, and turning the other cheek when Dan attempts to catch his attention. He has been doing it all.

And each and every time he does it, it hurts him. The feeling of contrition makes his insides wrench.

A new tattoo appeared on his thigh a while ago. It’s a clock. Every time he avoids Dan’s persistence, another crack appears on the clockface.

Needless to say, the clock is very close to being completely shattered.

People say that time heals all wounds, and at this point, Phil is praying that the saying rings true. The very idea of disingenuity tears him apart, because if something is built on falsehoods, does it even have any true worth? The answer is no, it doesn’t.

If he were to consider the amount of time he has spent on Dan, Phil has worn his heart on his sleeves for years. Dan was never his, but yet Phil feels like he lost him.

So much of himself, more than he’ll ever want to admit, has gone into this boy. It’s too much. Putting more of himself into someone who does not seem to value him to nearly the same extent is exhausting, and ultimately emotionally draining. Letting it continue on isn’t right.

This is the right choice. Phil is making the right decision, for he is considering every element of the bigger picture. So what if he didn’t hear Dan out back then? That he didn’t listen to what Dan had to say? He’s sure that Dan will just try to cover up his tracks, and move on. He’s sure that Dan’s just that kind of guy, the one who sees everything as temporary, ultimately forgetting about Phil in a matter of months. Dan will just be dishonest because it benefits him somehow. Phil is positive about that.

Because more than anything, Phil doesn’t want to be in love with a liar. And that’s what Dan is.

He needs to put everything behind him.

Phil needs to end it all tonight.

<<>>

pj: Are u sure

phil: I’m sure.

pj: Alright. I let her know. She says you can be the last performer so you should be ready by then

At the last moment, Phil took into consideration what PJ told him about the slam poetry night, and he asked PJ to let the teacher know that he wanted to participate in the school-run event taking place at the local cafe.

Phil decides to do it because such a great number of his poems are about this boy. PJ was right about Dan being his muse; Phil would write stanzas upon stanzas based on him in messy scrawls in the margins of his school notes and frantic jots on his hand.

If he mentioned eyes, the color would always be brown. If he wanted to create a particular atmosphere, it would almost always be one of warmth. And if they were about love… Phil wrote from experience, because that was an emotion he was all too familiar with.

That is why this performance tonight needs to happen. He needs to get all of this pent up emotion out of his heart and into the world, rather than keeping his feelings restrained to the confines of himself, wishful thinking, and paper.

Phil glances at where the current poet is standing. Whoever is at the microphone right now is doing great, and it is only making him more anxious. The audience is clearly affixed to their words, eating it all up, and clearly enjoying the show.

Remember, tonight is not about the actual performance, Phil whispers to himself.

His palms are laying flat against the table in front of him; an abundance of the poems he has written are scattered all over the surface. There are scribbles in various pen colors and the worn papers are even ripped in some places. Any onlooker could see that these pieces were nothing but the tangible forms of pure amour.

After tonight, the burn he feels in his chest at the thought of him will stop, and the ashes of discarded literature will be its only remains.

Itwillstopitwillstopitwillallstop.

A vibration sends a tremor through the table when his phone screen lights up.

from dan, to phil:

where are you?

Phil picks up his device and shuts it off. Although it could be said that this night was about Dan, it is mostly about Phil, it is about Phil’s feelings, it is about Phil putting it all behind himself. He needs this.

Because it’s justified, right?

Two taps are hitting on his shoulder. It’s PJ, who actually ended up becoming a spur-of-the-moment volunteer to manage the behind-the-scenes for tonight. He leans in to whisper to Phil. “You’re on in a minute or two.” And almost as if he could sense Phil’s worrying, he continues and reassures him with, “You’ve got this, you’ll be great. I believe in you.” PJ clasps his hand on Phil’s shoulder, and gives it a squeeze. At that, he corners of Phil’s lips turn up slightly. He really is grateful for having a friend like him.

“Thank you.”

The supposed minute or two passes by quickly, and soon enough they are introducing Phil’s name. “The final poet of the night,” is what they say. Phil takes a deep breath and goes under the spotlight, the cool metal of the microphone in his hand is doing its best to calm him. He holds onto it tightly. With the spotlight in his eyes, and the cafe lights dimmed, he can’t see the audience at all.

Perhaps that’s for the best. For more reasons than one.

Because right when Phil opens his mouth to begin, someone quietly enters into the cafe. Despite the fact that the slight little twinkling of bells signaled his entrance, no one pays any heed to him.

He chooses to sit in the back.

And Phil notices nothing at all.

“brown is all sorts of golden, in the sense it gives as much warmth as a gentle sun…”

After a few poems, some cafe patrons swear that they see a shadow move from the back of the cafe to the front, as if to listen to the poet better.

“...for although tattoos of roses don't have thorns, blood pours from the prick in my fingertips because i picked you”

With every line, with every poem, with every eloquent sentence having their origins rooted in enclosed secrets, each word that leaves his lungs also lifts a small weight off of his shoulders and manages to carry it over to listening ears. Everything is on the line tonight. Every emotion is on Phil’s sleeve, not just his heart, and every person in the room is hanging on to each otherworldly wordy confession that falls from his lips. And speaking of confessions, Phil’s biggest one is coming up. He wrote it last night, so it’s fairly new.

His final poem. About everything.

Including the night from two years ago.

“young days are of bubbles and bubble gum little girls are so kind, they are so soft that little boys can’t help but fall for them with their small smiles and neat handwriting from tentative hands for a crush and descend

however, i never took the plunge for i saw a boy who was softer: with a subtle cotton candy blush who grew daisies from concrete and carnations on flushed cheeks

a mirage, admiration from afar became inkstained fingertips and etched scrawls on every surface imaginable

(he had freckles that were far more than just constellations, they were made of stardust)

adolescent times; time stopped for one drunken night when only the moonlight was sober, an evening full of whispers and kisses and care that faded when faced with the sun

artists are known to create somethings out of nothings with elements derived from the earth, they turn strokes into paintings clay into sculptures a-and unspoken promises—”

He coughs, his voice caught up in his throat.

“and unspoken promises into h-hope”

Phil’s voice is wavering. His eyes aren’t on the audience anymore. Instead, he’s staring at the floor.

Hands shaking.

“poets are known to write about tragedies and this is no exception there is red on those hands: is it from the words of my pen, your paint on my skin? or perhaps from the thorns from the flowers that bloomed, with your smile that could make the heart grow fonder

perhaps he truly loved her but his smile could tempt a lover

and my dear, even the lawfully good fall into temptation.”

He’s out of breath now. By the end, he was just rushing to get the last few words out, and he was straining his throat. His eyelashes are wet, he can feel them, and he knows that he’s probably on the brink of crying.

Phil bites the inside of his cheek. If he doesn’t, he doesn’t know what will come next. He stays standing there for a moment more, doing a small nod and awkward bow. Barely registering the trickling of applause, his shoulders curl in and he crosses his arms, one hand reaching to rub the place where the all too familiar daisies bloomed.

Would they still be there?

When Phil steps out of the light, it is an unexpected sight. Dan is there, right in front of him: one of Dan’s hands is all tremors while the other is reaching up to his face, desperately wiping away his salty tears. Dan’s hair, in those beautiful curls Phil loves, are in disarray; Dan’s lip trembles; Dan’s eyes are red and looking up at him through wet eyelashes that match his own. It is a state of vulnerability that only God should see. And seeing that? That is the breaking point.

A truth revealed. Barely louder than a bumblebee’s hum, that Phil almost misses it, but good thing that he happened to be great at reading lips.

“I love you,” Dan whispers.

Now that is true the breaking point. At that moment, Phil breaks into sobs, and they both reach out to one another to each other into a bone-crushing hug. “A conversation between us is long overdue,” one of them mumbles into the other’s neck, and the other one just nods, unable to respond with words.

They’re in tears.

<<>>

“I wrote poems about you, you know. Mostly on my front porch. I would never see you, but I always hoped that I would catch a glimpse of you.”

“I would paint in my backyard, among all the plants. I loved painting roses in watercolor, they were my favorite, but so many paintings of mine were made with three particular hues: blue, green, and yellow. My favorite colors. And they just so happen to be the colors of your eyes.”

<<>>

Out on a sidewalk curb, two boys sit with a cup of local coffee. “It’s good to support local businesses,” one says, “and Starbucks is overrated.”

“Yeah I know, you’ve told me,” the other replies. “I remember everything you tell me.”

He puts his head on the other boy’s shoulder. The other boy lifts his hand to gently wipe away the tear stains on the boy’s cheek with his thumb, while the boy softly places a kiss on the other one’s neck.

<<>>

You have (1) voice mail from Philly-delphia.

“I’m sorry for distancing myself from you. Call me back? Let’s meetup and talk. Bye bye.”

<<>>

“I’m sorry for not telling you the whole truth. But please know that I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t even being honest to myself. I don’t think I have been honest to myself for a long time now.”

“Dan, it was immature for me to assume. To be frank? Out of line. It was stupid for me to be upset over what you were doing with your own life. What you do isn’t my choice, and I shouldn’t have been so personally affected by it.”

“We’re our own people, of course. I know you know that. And besides, I get where you were coming from.”

“What do you mea—”

“If I lost you, I probably wouldn’t be thinking rationally either.”

A pause.

“...I shouldn’t have acted like you were mine, when you weren’t mine to own.”

“A fair point. And you’re completely right. But I think you’ve had me since the beginning, Phil Lester. I feel like I’ve finally found something that I’ve been looking for my whole life.”

<<>>

dan: let’s take it slow?

phil: That sounds perfect.

<<>>

For centuries, humanity has held art to the highest of esteems. Early neanderthals began it all with their coarse hands, withdrawing dirt from the earth below their feet to leave marks upon rugged stone walls that conveyed the beginnings of history. In the millenniums that followed, a sort of elitism has formed around the most talented ones who have managed to make a name for themselves. The names of these creators are commonplace in many households amongst the nations; buildings are erected with the mere purpose of showcasing such artistic creation.

Perhaps it is for that reason that the phenomenon in which ink would envelop one’s skin was thus regarded as a wonder, rather than as an alarming fright.

There are two people though, who have it all figured out. No matter how many times you ask them, they will always give the same answer: if anything, they appear out of love, they’ll tell you that.

They have graduated now. They are at a graduation party right now actually, and their time at their high school art academy has finally come to an end. Blood, sweat, and tears have been spilled all over the canvases and films and publications and music at that institution, and now every student can only rely on hope that their work does not go to waste as they move on to pursue the rest of their future.

But for now, that kind of worrying does not exist.

There are no drinks this time around. Okay, maybe one or two, and perhaps they are a little tipsy as well, but they are definitely not drunk. They are, however, definitely on a bed again.

Dan and Phil are lying together on a bed again.

Phil throws a question into the air between them. “You know, this is how we met?” Although the words come out in a way that sounds like a rhetorical question, Dan nods.

“I wish I remembered more,” admits Dan. Phil squeezes his hand, and this time, it’s Dan’s turn to ask a question. “Do you regret it?”

Phil thinks for a moment. “I regret how it happened. So in that way, I do, a bit. Maybe even a little more than a bit. Even though I remember that night, the details of it all are hazy, and we weren’t really in the best state of mind.” Dan curls into Phil’s chest, looking up at him as he listens to him speak. Phil affectionately looks back at him. “But then again? I don’t regret that it took place. In some ways, I feel like that night was our starting point.”

With Phil’s arm wrapped around his waist, they are only a breath apart from one another. “And now we’re here,” whispers Dan. His lips pepper a few soft kisses upon Phil’s skin.

Phil echoes Dan’s words with a fond smile, placing a kiss on top of Dan’s head. He absentmindedly runs a hand through the brunette’s waves, Dan finally confident enough to adorn the curls after all those years.

“Yeah, and now we’re here.”

When Dan then comments on how far they’ve come and Phil marvels at how much they’ve grown, it is to be noted that their growth is not just a growth of spirit, or of themselves as people. It’s also evidenced, it’s also proven that is, by their skin.

The single marigold behind Dan’s ear is now a small gathering of flowers. Its stem winds down his neck, its petals and leaves falling to meet the leaves of the tree that grows on his back. The tree on his back is grand, absolutely lovely and absolutely bountiful. Its signs of life are held within every branch, and where the roots end on his hips, are a freckling of small hearts. According to Phil, it is because it thrives off love (“that’s so cheesy,” dan always says. laughing, phil always replies, “it’s supposed to be cheesy!”).

In the meantime, Phil has a whole garden on his shoulders, with flowers of every hue and type. If he ever took the time to search up the meanings, they would not only mean love, but forever, and admiration, and warmth, and together. Upon his ankles are the cutest little succulents and cacti, pretty little plants that are hard to kill. They remind him to remain grounded, and who it is that helps him do so, a representation of how hard it would be to forget the one who is such a big part of his life.

They are kissing slowly now, every touch between them is an embodiment of care and devotion that would put the bond between the moon and tides to shame. Nothing else exists around them. The future is unknown, but as said before, worries don’t exist here.

Because if they are being honest, they are ready for anything.

<<>>

“Mon enfant! I give you my hand! I give you my love, more precious than money, I give you myself, before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?” - Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road

(and also, those would happen to be the same lines that dan would propose to phil with a couple of years later.)

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drawn-to-space · 7 years

Text

Mildly edited RP (because some dialogue are with other people and context would be needed) at the fall ball with Quill on disc.cord. Basically, Swap and the other hosts fake their deaths at the party and Yumi didn’t take it very well… among other things that happened. ((This is only part 1 because Tumblr has a 100 paragraphs limit, apparently.))

Yumi glared at Swap, even though she was very clearly angry, tears almost instantly started flowing out of eyes. She started walking towards him, quickly, running. I’m her head, she was going for a slap, but she was so angry that she made a fist-

Wait- YuMI NO YOUKNOWKARATE! YOU'REGOINGTO-

JBAF!

A second before the plushies hit him, Yumi did. Directly in the face. There might have been a very slight crack sound. It’s a wonder he didn’t get knocked out. He had no idea she could pack such a punch. A literal punch. He didn’t have time to think on it as a second later he was pelted by plushies and pillows, being buried alive. A soft demise.

Yumi almost regretted what she did, but anger was still present. But she didn’t actually want him to die for real this time. She grabbed whatever she could under the pillows who were suffocating him and lift him back up. She was still mad and crying, get ready for a scolding.

“S-Swap, what the fuck!? WHY would you do something like that!? Do you know… hic… how much I WAS FUCKING UPSET!?”

Luckily he couldn’t actually suffocate but it was pretty claustrophobic. He was kinda dizzy from that punch and clung to Yumi when she grabbed him. He managed to focus on her and felt so much guilt. “i-i meant to t-tell you!” He clung tighter. “i-i’m s-so sorry! i-i couldn’t f-find the time a-and i had a plan b-but it might spoil things a-and we worked so hard a-and- h-holy SHIT you punch hard.” His eyelights were shifting a bit in size and slipping out of focus from how dazed he was. He shook his head hoping to make the ringing sound stop.

She could not see him, too many tears, if she did she would be waited for later to scold him.

“That doesn’t matter! And you could’ve told me BEFORE! YOU KNEW I was coming! But that doesn’t mean you can still make believe people ACTUALLY FUCKING DIED!!”

“And I’m not just upset at you I’m upset at ALL the hosts! Doing something like that is- IT’S NOT FUNNY!!”

She was done now, clinging at Swap. Wait, nevermind she had one more thing to say. But, she kissed him where his lips would be, first.

“Don’t fucking do that to me again… okay?”

He sunk into himself more and more at her words. He was about to speak when he was surprised by a kiss. His whole face turning blue. He blinked in surprise, his eyelights were focused now and heart shaped. He nodded. Shouldn’t he worry about the room filling with plushies and pillows? He was too focused on Yumi to care.

Yumi had calmed down, all that yelling and crying had made her exhausted, not to mention she felt a little hot on her face, for blushing.

“I-I’m sorry for yelling so much… I just… just don’t do that again.”

“A-Are you okay, though? I punched you way harder than I wanted to… s-sorry.”

He had a very small crack on the side of his face. Nothing too bad though. “i-i’m fine. y-you’re really r-really strong!” He sighed in a lovestuck way. Seemed he was still a bit out of it.

It may not have been a bad wound but she knows how hard she punched and he doesn’t seem too much in reality right now. The crack and that worried her.

“Don’t be stubborn Swap. I’m not amazing at healing but you should get patched up and check if you don’t have a concussion.”

Although, she questioned if that was even possible, she grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the room a little.

“Can you walk?”

He stumbled a bit but could stand fine. Probably walk. He just kept staring at her with shifting heart eyelights. Even he didn’t know if he could get a concussion. But he sure was dazed. “i-i’m fine. l-little dizzy”

“O-okay.”

She finally arrived at the office. She was worried Swap might’ve fallen while they were walking there.

“Sit down while I get some stuff. Do you know where bandages are?”

Swap stumbled in holding his head. Great. Headache. He managed to flop into a seat. “n-no? i…don’t remember. top drawer?” Yeah he was very dizzy. He pressed his hand to the spot that stung the most and tried to focus enough to use healing magic. It only sparked a bit, slightly lessening it for a split second. He groaned in annoyance. A small illusion on his right hand vanished when he tried to heal his face. It was just a small one making his hand look whole. Without it a hole in his palm was visible. Looked like an old wound though. And strangely clean cut. It would be easily hidden below the gloves he normally wore.

She did see it, his hand. It was similar, no… exactly the same as G’s. She wondered how it happened, to him. However she wasn’t too worried about it. Maybe she’ll ask later, for now there are more pressing issues.

“Hey, don’t! I can do it myself. You already look like you’re in pain. I’ll get the bandages, please be patient.”

She sounded more like a mother than his girlfriend right now. But she did found the health kit and took small-ish bandages to cover his wound and heal him as best she could.

“H-hey, I’m gonna try something, o-okay?”

She knew that her magic was a atunned to her emotions, so why not test it out. She kissed him without warning and hovered her hand over his wound.

Huh, her healing was a little faster but, God, why was it still so slow!? It’s just a small crack dammit. She is also unsure and too embarrassed to kiss him again.

He pouted a bit at having to wait. He hated waiting. At least it was sweet she was fussing so much. He loved seeing her care. It made the small voice that told him otherwise shut up for a while. Gosh he loved her. He again was surprised by a kiss. Dangit! Totally flustered again. She always got him while his guard was down. He decided to get a little revenge. He cupped her face and pulled her into another kiss, backing up after a second and smirking in a dazed fashion. He felt so proud of himself.

She basically fell because of how sudden and really an off position to be in to be suddenly kissed by your s/o. However, she didn’t stumble too much, grabbing the back of the chair for stability.

She was even more flustered, yes, but she wanted to kiss him again. She did, a longer one, this time, clumsily keeping herself from falling.

Her heart was beating a lot, she felt like their magic was giving small harmless electric surges to each other. She was blushing a little purple, like the first time they kissed. They should probably stop before some embarrassing stuff happens. She pulled away, clearing her throat.

“U-Um… I should probably continue healing you.”

And flustered again. He leaned into the kiss a bit. A few sparks popping. It ended so soon. He felt so light that he almost didn’t even feel the crack. He wanted to hug her and never let go. Be close and listen to her heartbeat. Hold her hand. He was soooooo smitten. He nodded a bit and giggled like a child who just got a treat. Heart eyelights sparkling. He was still dizzy but that didn’t bother him at the moment. He could only think about how pretty she was.

She placed her hand over his wound again and quickly finished healing him. It left a small scar but it was way quicker to heal him than before, probably because of the kiss she gave him. It did make her feel like her magic was sparking a lot more.

After putting a small bandage on his mostly healed crack she backed away a little and yawned.

“W-Well I’m all done. Do you feel better?”

His head cleared more when it was patched up. He pain had gone away but a headache remained. Which was annoying him. “y-yeah.” He was a little worried about the world spinning. Normally it calmed down by now. Oh wait- He pressed his hand to the back of his neck, taking a breath before a big spark of magic popped which made his eyelights vanish. It took a good thirty seconds for them to show up again but it evened out the dizziness. Something must have gotten set off with his magic levels. It was surprisingly easy to do. He squinted. Oh great. He forgot it made things more blurry for a time. He could hardly see like this. “m-much better! fixed the dizziness too. just…uh….” He looked embarrassed. “d-don’t laugh okay?” And with that he got a pair of glasses out of his inventory. They were large and round and when put on with tape they took up quite a bit of his face. At least he could see with them. Worth it to be able to see her. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever worn them around her before or just told her about them. But he still felt embarrassed for how nerdy they made him look.

“Why would I-?”

Oh my god, those glasses looked so big on him. He looked like a huge nerd, a cute nerd. Holy shit, she couldn’t help but shyly smile. She couldn’t help but say it ou y loud either.

“You look so cute. Why would I laugh?”

He wrung his hands sheepishly. “b-because i look l-like a dork…a-and not as cool as i normally do…?” Girls liked cool guys right?…She seemed to like this too though. Maybe she just liked him. Aaaaand there was that light happy feeling again.

She giggled.

“You are a dork, Swap.”

“You dont need to look cool for me. I like you because you’re you, a huge dork.”

She chuckled shyly. What is she even saying? Stop talking, Yumi, you’re embarrassing yourself.

He beamed brightly. She liked him for him? Well of course she did! Duh what was he even thinking? Worrying about that stuff. He was still a little embarrassed but it was okay. He hopped up and hugged her tightly. “you’re the best!” He paused and put a hand over where the crack had been. “a-and you can really pack a punch.” His eyelights turned into little stars and he looked up at her. “you’re cute and badass!” The best combination. He’d be sure not to get on her bad side.

She jolted a little by the sudden hug, but she did hug him back, giving him a warm smile. However, it turned into a much more embarrassed expression, as he continued complimenting her.

“U-Um… t-thanks.”

“B-But, sorry about that… a-again… I should’ve hold off, since I know karate and all…”

He seemed far too excited about getting punched. “it was super cool! i didn’t see it coming! probably deserved it honestly.” He just seemed to get more excited. “you know karate?! oh my gosh! that’s amazing!” He stood up straighter. “i’m actually pretty tough myself! training for the royal guard and all. so you don’t have to worry!”

Despite still feeling bad for punching him so hard, she couldn’t help but blush even more. He was complimenting her way more than she thought she deserved.

“T-Thanks… and I’ve heard of them, in my world but… I think they disbanded. Or… maybe they serve for something else?”

“But, it’s pretty cool that you’re training in it. S-Still… I shouldn’t have punched you so hard.”

Disbanded? Odd. “it’s fine! i’m use to taking hits.” He sunk a bit into himself. “i made you cry. probably would have punched myself for that.” He bounced back. “really it’s no problem! i get cracks all the time! don’t guilt yourself about it!”

“O-Okay…”

She lowered herself a little, hugging him tightly.

“I-I’m just… I’m glad you’re okay.”

“i’m glad you’re okay too!” He clung tightly for a moment before remembering something. “oh! do you need anything? been eating well? it’s been a little hectic.”

She paused. She hasn’t slept or eaten much, him reminding her of this made her suddenly feel exhausted, but also hungry. She yawned, as her stomach loudly growled.

“W-Well… not really…”

“But, I don’t want to sleep yet! We haven’t spent much time together… but… I should eat something.”

He nodded worriedly. “wanna go to the kitchen? elly made sure we’d have a wide selection of things. what you in the mood for?”

Her stomach growled again as she thought of what to eat.

“Maybe it’s not a good idea because it’s so late but… I could really go for anything that’s meaty.”

“we have lots of things like that! one of my favorites of course would be tacos. but we have other things too if you want! it’s pretty easy to gather things when you have portals. you can get anything from around the world! and everything that is made here by elly’s weird shadow chefs.”

“Nice.” she chuckles.

“But… yeah, tacos sounds nice. Why not?”

He grinned and took her hand. “tacos it is then! this way!” He led her off to the kitchen seeming to have fully recovered.

“U-Um, by the way, are you gonna eat too? You’ve eaten while you were ‘gone’ right?”

“i’m fine! got a stash of stuff in the secret passages. i’ve been taking care of myself.” He totally ignored the other two in the room and skipped over to find where the tacos were. There seemed to be a lot of stuff to pick from. Even more in the fridges.

It took a moment but he found what he was looking for. A plate with freshly made tacos. He picked it up and spun around to face Yumi. “here we are! take what you like!”

She hesitated a little, but decided to take two at random and leave it at that. She was hungry after all, why would she even hesitate? Well, there also was a lot of choices. She takes a bite.

“Mh! This is really good!”

She starts eating almost like a beast, making herself get a cramp for eating too fast. She pats her chest a lot.

He was glad she enjoyed it but worried about her eating so quickly. He did that all the time but he couldn’t choke. “c-careful! don’t eat too fast! you really haven’t eaten in a while have you?”

After a few more pats she was finally okay. However she shook her apologetically at his question, continuing on eating, but actually taking her time.

“S-Sorry… I was too worried and focused on finding clues to even think about it…”

However, she won’t tell him the last time she ate was YESTERDAY AFTERNOON.

“i’m sorry for worrying you so much. i didn’t think you would react that badly…” He pushed aside the negative thoughts that tried to surface. “but no more of that! just a relaxing party! oh! and i wanted to show you something. whenever you’re done eating we can check it out. plenty of dessert here too if you want any of that.” He sighed. “sadly most of it isn’t sugar free so i haven’t tried it.” He was tempted. Soooo tempted.

“It’s fine Swap, really. I forgive you.”

She gave him a reassuring smile. She was curious about what was the place he wanted to show her, though. She took a few more bites before talking again.*

“Nah, I’m good, I’m not much of a sweets person, anyway.”

“really? i love sweets! even though i shouldn’t have them. just tell me when you’re ready!” He stared at the tacos for a moment before taking one and eating the whole thing in one bite. It was weird how far he could open his mouth actually. How’d he fit it all in?? And it looked like didn’t even chew! Then again how do skeletons even digest things without a stomach. All the questions.

She was surprised but, then again she knew monster food didn’t need to be digested. She finished her food.

“Alright, I’m good.”

“you sure? that enough for you? can’t let my girlfriend starve!” He seemed excited for whatever it was he wanted to show her. Like he could dash off any second. But he also wanted to make sure she was okay. Didn’t want to rush her.

She shook her head and smiled reassuringly.

“No, don’t worry, I’m fine. Besides, I don’t want to eat too much before going to bed.”

“okay!” His excitement got the better of him and he grabbed her hand to lead her off to…the closet?

#fallball17 #dis.cord rp #thepositivescientist #~photon reading positive~ (yumi x swap)

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2slowgoers · 4 years

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10.31.2019 - a not so spooky update

Hey W,

Long time no talk ;) (lol, JK of course!). I’m glad I get to see you soon. Never been in NYC with you before, I’m glad we get to spend a bit of it together, and explore together again. We don’t get a lot of chances to do that these days. On the topic of Halloween... you dressed up a ton this week! They were creative and solid costumes. IF you became a mom, I think you would have excellent + creative halloween costumes for the family. I never felt the presence fo Halloween as much as I did this year, maybe because I work for a bigger company, and I have established my social media spaces and am familiar with the people I follow, I quite admire the arts and craft that can go into costumes. Okay, that aside -

We did text a bit after your last post, and I feel like we touched on the important parts I wanted to ask about. TBH I just hope this to be a space we can vent and let it all out, no pressure to follow up or give each other advice. But rather a space just to listen to each other, I appreciate that. All I can say from reading a bit about your doubts around yourself and your long term relationship, I am just here by your side, waiting to see how things will or will not change in the next couple of years. This is that time of age where things will grow and change a lot! I called briefly with my friend J (in FL) and they are going through a bit of quarter life crisis, and a lot of the call was me reassuring them that it’s okay and that it’s okay to choose what it is that your heart wants. Like you said about your mom, we have all spent too much of our life following what others expect us to do, or shaping other people’s wants into our own. Since we’re still growing up and maturing, what we even “wanted” in high school and college, may not be what grown up and mature versions of ourselves want. I think this IS the time of our life we start learning to listen to ourselves, our inner voice that is maturing and growing up, and truly understanding what it is that we want. So I say, trust your gut. You know what you need, and you’ll know it when the time comes.

One quick thing before I dive into the topic of today - I have to say work is going better now that I have gone on vacation, and have had the time to get to know the new hires (people joined post-June). Most of them are around my age and we all get along really well. KBBQ last night was quite fun, and for once I found myself being able to be myself, and exhibit my sense of humor (something that not a lot of people get), and the people around me laughed and appreciated me for being who I am. That felt really nice. It’s a feeling I have dearly missed from not being around people who know me well. I liked being able to goof around (because that’s really who I am! It just takes a long time to show that side), and seeing other people goof off. I can say that even if I don’t want to be in tech and the industry can be draining, being around good people is so important, and especially with a lot of them in the same age range and many who are recent transplants, has created a team that is larger than just Berkeley grads lol.

Topic I wanted to discuss today... When I was texting you earlier about my rooming situation and saying my ultimate fear is to be kicked out. Then I realized I have all these, you could say irrational fears, that I will 1) get fired 2) get kicked out 3) lose my job 4) lose all my savings/money 5) my friends hate me and will abandon me and just in general imagine the worst that could happen. I catch myself more often when I think these things and increasingly acknowledge it’s an irrational fear. I guess I wonder where all of this comes from - the fact that I get very “omg end of the world” and catastrophize easily. It’s definitely improved over the years, but I think it’s also from growing up with my mom. I see these traits in myself and in my brother too. We always imagine the worst, get anxious about it, then let the world know our anxious thoughts, and it spirals. I need to remind myself that no I am not going to be kicked out and no I am not going to be fired, my coworkers and team like me a lot and I do my job. I’m better at it now, so that’s cool.

This train of thought led me to something else though... you mentioned that I can take this opportunity to grow THICK SKIN. and you’re SO right. I have caught myself taking things too personally and being too sensitive to a lot of things, that are out of my control and have nothing to do with me. Like if a friend doesn’t reply fast, or they reply with a period at the end of the sentence, to what coworkers do or don’t do - I let it get to me, and when people joke, I respond seriously. Because I’m just so used to taking things seriously on the surface, even though deep down i love to joke, goof off, and not take things seriously.

For example, last night we were playing this game called “image game” where someone says image game and “who’s most likely to...” and then they count down and everyone in the group must point to the person they think are most likely to... and i don’t know exactly when but someone has to drink. Well, G (girl I sit next to work who I like a lot!) said “who’s most likely to quit their job and travel the world” - the people who know my plans pointed at me, but otherwise, the rest of the table was pointing at everyone else. Including G, who is someone i feel closer to now, pointed to someone else. G pointed to this other girl, and said “you because you moved to the bay area for absolutely no reason but just to come here”. deep down, i was like “but that’s me too! that’s me!” And for some reason, I took this whole thing so personally, and I was mildly bothered and thinking about it for the rest of the night. Why did not everyone point at me? How can this dream of mine that I’ve been thinking about since I was 20 years old, not be obvious? How can the world not know?! I do everything I do to follow this dream WHY DONT PEOPLE KNOW! <-- the question and capitalization is for dramatic effect, I wasn’t actually freaking out. But obviously I was thinking, like duh people won’t know what my dreams are because i NEVER talk about it. And duh, people probably think i’m super responsible and love my job because of the way i act at work and expect i am there to stay. SO, these thoughts just continued to stick around til this morning.

I decided to ask G to go to a room and talk personally because I wanted to follow up on this question. I provided context and asked her my main curiousity is “how do you perceive me?” “this is my lifelong dream and i am just curious how i come off as, that it wasn’t assumed to me” - she’s very nice and open and told me how she thought i was responsible, loved this job, and was here to stay. she just saw me as this super responsible type and not the kind to just leave like that. I also framed it in a way to be like “Ah yeah I want to blend in, I don’t want people to think I am on my way out” and she agrees that i am doing that fine, and she never expected that. Anyways... the GOOD part of this conversation was.. I told her “I’m literally here just to make money, pay off loans and save”. Then I asked “do you have any dreams you’d like to achieve?” And she was like “well I never told anyone at work this...” and then I quickly learned that she is here for the same reason I am, with a different goal in mind. she wants to go to nursing school - and she is here to save $ to pay off loans and save up to go. Even her bf, who is a dev, is also working a job and negotiated to anticipate to pay for her schooling. Then we were able to bond about how we both don’t want to be in tech in the long term, and how we don’t want to be in this job for the long term either, and we both kinda have to hold it in and cannot talk about what it is that we truly want to do. we could relate about our interview experiences and not being able to answer honestly the question to “where do you see yourself in 5 years”. And wow, that was a really nice conversation to have. To know that i am not alone in wanting to do something so badly, and to have to do something else in the interim, and we are desk neighbors! It’s funny actually, she’s by far been the best performing new hire IMO and i see a lot of similarities in myself and her. we do our jobs super well, and yet this is not where we want to be.

So that again, brings me to appreciate people who do work in the corporate world, at whatever point they need to for however long they need to. people are so much deeper than their work self. I especially appreciate the non-workaholics/people who don’t work all the time, because I see the life and dreams they get to live outside of work, and that’s just like a wholesome realization lol.

Alrighty, that’s me for today - see you soon!

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nigelwenttofrance-blog · 7 years

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That Time I Almost Peed Myself on the Bus

Greetings!

So, last we talked (er, you read? I guess?), we were having our first Tartiflette Tuesday (#funfacts: we haven’t had one since), and throwing probably very cherished childhood toys of my landlords children into the pool because they stare into your soul and scare the absolute crap out of you! What a time we had 😄

Well as promised at the end of the last post, there was indeed yet another trip to the Netherlands with, guess who!, Sarah to visit one of her high school friends who’s studying in a town called Leiden. This trip was especially fun because after buying my train and bus tickets to get there, we were informed that, contrary to what had been said before, there wouldn’t be room enough for me to stay at her friends house, unless I wanted to sleep on the couch... that was in the kitchen.

Activate: panic mode.

It was entirely out of budget to rent an Airbnb or find a hostel (and there surprisingly weren’t any in Leiden anyway), so I decided to tryout Couchsurfing after hearing success stories from a few friends here and there. For those who don’t know what that is, it’s basically free Airbnb, except you could literally be sleeping on someones couch and people usually only stay for a few days—I definitely didn’t know that last part. After many denials—most likely because I was staying for an entire week, and the week before Christmas—someone said they’d let me stay with them. I tried my best to find one that offered a room or at least a pull out couch, but alas alack, I was unsuccessful in this endeavor. That being said, my host, Christiaan, was incredibly sweet and we got along really well!

The town of Leiden is small and mostly a college town, and, like most European towns/cities/everything, was adorable. Sarah, her friend and I walked around the town and absorbed the Dutch culture and were also very abruptly and rudely reminded that we had become incredibly accustomed to the warm weather that graces the south of France, and consequently almost froze to death in the Netherlands.

I have to say, of all my trips to the Netherlands, this was definitely the chillest one I’ve had. Sarah and I were counting our pennies and only went to Amsterdam twice to avoid having to pay the train fare. Looking back, I guess I’m surprised I didn’t try to go more often, but at the same time, it was entirely too cold to be meandering around somewhere that’s also just FULL of tourists. #pass. We of course enjoyed ourselves when we did go, though. She took me to a place called the Foodhallen, which was basically like a food court you find at the mall, except the only shopping to be done was for food of literally any cuisine. French, Italian, tapas, Chinese, Japanese, you name it, they had it. And let me tell y’all, trying to pinch pennies at this place just SO DIFFICULT. Sarah and I wandered around for a while trying to decide what to eat before we realized we would literally eat at any of the places there, and when we did finally get food and sit down to eat it, it was just...so so so so so good. Painfully good, even. But anyway, when we weren’t stuffing our faces full of food in Amsterdam, we spent most of the time either wandering around Leiden, sleeping or just sitting and doing nothing. All things that make up an ideal vacation if I do say so myself.

To shake things up, though, I made a trip to Rotterdam to visit some friends I had made over the summer while I was working with the Experiment Abroad. It was absolutely amazing to see my friends again, and even better, I was asked to be apart of their gay youth center’s—The Hangout010—drag show. It was, of course, a blast! Beyond making Christiaan think some random woman had broken into his apartment and making heads turn left and right as I walked to and from the train stations in full drag face, it was so much fun to be in such a welcoming and accepting community. Not that Nîmes is homophobic or anything of the sort, but to be somewhere where I knew the things I loved were loved by everyone around me was so comforting. For the drag show, I did my own rendition Aretha Franklin’s rendition of “Don’t Play That Song,” and I think it went pretty well! Fingers crossed for more Aevyn appearances in the future!

So after a week or so, I headed back to Nîmes while Sarah stayed with her friend for another week or so. Overall, I’d say it was a fun trip! The only potential downfall was that Christiaan, being Dutch, was much more acclimated to the cold weather, and therefore left his apartment just a little...frigid. But then again, I guess it made it much easier to deal with the cold weather when I went outside. #giveandtake

Also worth noting about this trip to the Netherlands, in true Nigel fashion, I quite literally nearly peed myself on the bus from Paris to Amsterdam as I was daydreaming while looking out the window. Somehow, I was so lost in my thoughts that I failed to notice we had been driving along side the TGV line for about 20 minutes. So, when the TGV went flying by, I just had not mentally prepared at all and very audibly gasped, much to the surprise of the person sitting in front of me... oops. But of course that memory will be forever burned into my memory 😍 #triphighlights

Anyway, after spending about 10 hours at home, I got on another train to meet the family in Nice! I was really excited for this trip because it was the first time a lot of my family had ever been to France, and for a couple, their first time to Europe! What I hadn’t thought of, however, was the fact that not one of them speaks French (not including you, Mom, you’re a francophone in training), so my translation services were constantly being called upon. While mildly irritating, it did feel nice to show my family a part of my life that they’ve never really seen before and to show them a new culture!

When I got there on Christmas day, I was met by my brother, his fiancée, my sister and her husband, and all SEVEN of their bags. Yes, they literally had 7 bags between the 4 of them. 3 of which belonged to my sister and brother-in-law alone, and took up all the space in the trunk. As well as being hilarious, it was also very comforting to see that my sister and I are still very much alike even as we get older 😂 .

Anyway, the first day of my family’s arrival was of course burden by jet lag, so Justin and Jess—the “Js” who had been living in Ireland—and I went into to town and ended up having an absolutely perfect day. There was not a cloud in the sky and the French Riviera blessed us with almost 70º weather. I was not mad about it, y’all. We walked around Vieux Nice (Old Nice) and saw the gorgeous views and parks on top of Castle Hill, sat on the rocky beach and soaked up the sunshine and perfectness, sat on a balcony at a restaurant along the Promenade des Anglais and had tapas for lunch and then rode bikes along the promenade to see the sunset, which, lemme tell ya, the French Riviera is just killing the game in terms of sunsets. Does that just not sound like the most absolutely perfect day?! It was just so ideal.

Otherwise, day trips included going to Monaco for my sisters bday which was a lot of fun and then Toulon for my bday the next day, which was kind of a bust because there’s nothing to do in Toulon, specially during the off season! But upon reflection, I decided I’d count my day with the Js (cute nickname, right?!) as my actual birthday for 2016 😂 . We ended up having a chill New Years since we couldn’t really find anywhere/be bothered to leave. We made a scrumptious dinner, drank heartily and brought in the new year with lots of love, happiness and wine! Overall, it was a very successful trip!

Fun things worth noting about Nice: my family is apparently not the best at determining how much food we need for a week, and so when it was time to leave, the fridge in the Airbnb was literally packed with food. It seemed like a problem, but it actually ended up being great for me because it meant I wouldn’t have to go grocery shopping when I got back! Woo! And even better, my parents had to drive me back to Nîmes so I didn’t look like an absolute fool trying to take all this food on the train, and they got to see my place and the town. That was surprisingly especially nice because my dad loved to see a French town that wasn’t infiltrated with tourists and tourist traps, but rather just French culture.

Also worth noting about the Nice trip (ha, see what I did there? 🙃 ) was its roads, and how the cars we rented were just entirely too big for the extremely narrow, two-way French streets. It may not seem like too big of a deal, but put it to you this way: my dad taught all three of his kids to drive (including others peoples kids, apparently!) and he learned to drive in Jamaica, on a stick shift, where they drive on the right side of the road. So like, he’s a pro, and even he was freaking out about it, with hands firmly planted at ten and two at all times. Even funnier was when both of our GPSs took us to a road that was supposed to take us into town, but instead took us to a dirt road that went off a cliff, multiple times.😂

Well that’s it for this years Christmas and bday vacation! All in all, I’d call it a very successful two weeks! Life has already gotten back to the usual flow here in Nîmes with teaching, tutoring and, of course, the everlasting search for post-TAPIF employment 🙄 . This past weekend, my housemates and I celebrated my and our friend Alec’s birthdays! That ended up being, aside from some *drama*, very successful! A lot of people ended up coming and we danced and drank the night away! #happybdaytome

As always, I love sharing these stories with y’all and am so thankful to those who make it to the end! Next up is a trip to Berlin and Hamburg (TO SEE THE WORLDS LARGEST MODEL RAILROAD *hyperventilates*) on my first solo travel trip, and probably some other fun stuff if I can afford it! Woo!

Until next time, and thanks for reading! :)

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