#and how its changed in several years - and keeps changing - they nailed it

[mejomonster]

Dreamstar889 made this on youtube (and a ton of other awesome Justice in the Dark videos), and I am restarting my hype for this show since we'll be hopefully seeing the rest of the 30 eps, all the eps, this yearrr

(And if anyone hasn't seen it, March when it returns would be a good time to check it out as its airing again. Its based on MoDu Silent Reading by priest)

[prentissmultiverse]

No Strings to Hold Us - part III

Walls crumble as you and Emily finally face the emotions you’ve both been avoiding, turning comfort into something deeper. Emily Prentiss x fem!reader tw: smut, age gap, angst part I and part II

(words: 9.8k)

The hospital room was dim, its silence broken only by the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the quiet hum of the heater working overtime to keep the space warm. Emily sat in a chair pulled close to your bedside, her body leaning forward as though her presence could will you to wake. Her dark eyes traced over every detail of your face—the ashen pallor of your skin, the faint flutter of your eyelashes, the way your chest rose and fell in a fragile rhythm beneath the heavy blankets.

You were alive.

She repeated that fact to herself like a mantra, though it did little to quell the storm inside her.

Emily’s fingers pressed into the armrests of her chair, her knuckles white from the tension she couldn’t seem to release. She had been trying to keep herself steady for hours, but the silence left too much room for her thoughts to intrude, for the weight of what had happened, and what she felt, to press down on her.

Guilt.

The image of you lying on the icy floor was burned into her mind. Your lips had been blue, trembling as you whispered her name with what little strength you had left. Even in that moment, when you should have been fighting to survive, you had looked at her like she was your lifeline.

And then, the light in your eyes had faded.

The memory made Emily’s chest tighten painfully. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the image away, but it was no use. Every time she blinked, she saw you there again, barely conscious in her arms, slipping further away.

Her hand twitched, hovering above yours as if drawn by some invisible force. She wanted to touch you, to feel the warmth slowly returning to your body, but she couldn’t bring herself to close the distance. The guilt was too sharp, too suffocating.

This was her fault.

Emily’s mind spiraled as she sat there. She’d pushed you away after that night, the night when everything between you had changed.

She’d crossed a line.

It had been reckless, unprofessional, selfish. She had let her guard down, let her feelings slip past the walls she’d spent years building. And then, when she realized how far she’d fallen, she had done the only thing she knew how to do, she’d put those walls back up, higher and thicker than before.

Her professionalism had been a shield, one she wielded with precision to keep you at arm’s length. She had ignored the warmth in your smile, the way her heart raced whenever you were near, the way you looked at her like she was someone worth breaking the rules for.

And now here you were, fighting for your life because she hadn’t been strong enough to admit the truth.

The truth was that she cared about you... more than she should, more than she was allowed to.

Emily blinked away the sting in her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. Her gaze snapped back to your still form, her jaw tightening as she studied your face. The doctors had told her you were stable, that they were monitoring your heart and keeping you warm to rebuild your core temperature. Severe hypothermia, they’d said, and she had nodded numbly, the words barely registering over the roar of panic in her mind.

You were alive. That was what mattered.

But even as she told herself that, her heart ached with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“Y/N…” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t stir.

Emily clenched her jaw, her nails still digging into the armrests of the chair. She didn’t know what to do with the storm of emotions crashing through her. It was like every wall she’d built to keep her feelings in check had come crumbling down in the moment she saw you collapse.

“I thought I lost you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible in the stillness.

The words hung in the air, raw and unguarded, before fading into the hum of the heater. Emily swallowed hard, her throat tight as she forced herself to keep speaking.

“I should have been there sooner,” she said, her voice trembling.

Her fingers finally moved, brushing against the edge of the blanket covering your hand. The small contact sent a jolt through her, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she let her hand rest lightly over yours, her thumb tracing small, absent circles against the fabric.

“I’ve been so distant…” she admitted, her voice breaking. “I should’ve told you,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I should’ve said something—after that night. I thought pushing you away would make it easier. That if I could keep things professional, I’d stop feeling… this.”

She laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and humorless. “Turns out I’m terrible at loving anything, especially the people I care about the most.”

Her eyes flicked back to your face, searching for any sign that you might hear her. But you remained still, your body too exhausted from the fight to respond.

Emily’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, and her voice softened. “I can’t lose you,” she whispered. “I… I can’t.”

The vulnerability in her tone startled even herself, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

“I don’t care how complicated this is. I don’t care what it means for us, or for me. You matter more than anything else. You always have.”

Her words fell into the quiet, and for a moment, Emily let herself feel the weight of them. She leaned forward, her forehead resting lightly against your hand, her eyes slipping shut.

Then the guilt surged up again, sharp and unrelenting, clawing at her chest. “God,” she choked out, her voice breaking as she pulled back just enough to see your face again. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have invited you over that night.” The words tumbled out in a rush, her tone tinged with both regret and bitterness.

“You were just supposed to be a distraction. That’s all it was ever supposed to be.” Her breath caught, and she shook her head, as if trying to shake free of the memories. “But I let you in. I told myself it was fine—just one night, no strings.”

Emily’s fingers brushed lightly over the back of your hand, her movements tender despite the sharp edge to her words. “And I let you get close. I shouldn’t have. Everyone I let close gets hurt. And now… now you’re here.”

The weight of her confession seemed to drag her shoulders down, her body folding in on itself as she pressed her forehead against her hand.

“You have to wake up,” she murmured. “Please.”

The steady beeping of the heart monitor was her only answer, its rhythm both reassuring and maddening. Each pulse felt like a tether, a thin thread keeping you tied to this world, but it offered no comfort to Emily. Not when you remained so still.

Her words fell into the silence like drops of water into an endless void, absorbed and unnoticed. She’d spoken to you for what felt like hours, pouring out every thought, every regret, every confession she’d buried deep inside. But there was no reaction, no flicker of acknowledgment, no sign that you had heard her at all.

Emily’s voice had cracked, raw with emotion as she pleaded with you to stay, begged you to come back to her. And still, nothing. Your pale face, your motionless form, the faint rise and fall of your chest—it was all that she had, and it wasn’t enough.

She stayed there, hunched forward in the chair, her elbows resting on the edge of the bed. One hand gripped yours, her thumb running over your knuckles in an absent, desperate rhythm. The other cradled her forehead as she closed her eyes, trying to block out the sting of tears she refused to let fall.

The silence pressed down on her, the kind that wasn’t truly silent—the hum of the heater, the muffled sounds of hospital staff moving in the hallway, the maddeningly steady beep of the monitor. Each sound reminded her that the world outside this room continued on as if nothing had happened. As if her world wasn’t crumbling right here.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured again, her voice barely audible, the words spilling out into the quiet. “I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t know what else to say. The things she’d already confessed—how she pushed you away, how she’d tried to protect you by keeping her distance, how badly she’d failed—they felt meaningless now. Words wouldn’t wake you.

Her grip on your hand tightened, as if holding onto you more firmly could bridge the gap between her desperation and the stubborn stillness of your body. But your hand didn’t move.

Her gaze dropped to where her fingers curled around yours, her thumb still tracing small circles over your icy skin. Emily had always been good in moments of crisis, sharp and steady in the face of chaos, but this wasn’t something she could control. There was no strategy, no plan, no way to fight against the weight of her own helplessness.

She let her head fall, her forehead brushing against the back of your hand. Her voice broke as she whispered, “You have to wake up. Please.”

The silence swallowed her words.

Emily stayed like that for some time, her body still but her mind churning, replaying every mistake she’d made, every moment she could have done something differently. Her guilt was a crushing weight, her heart breaking under the sheer enormity of it.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, unmoving. It could have been minutes, or hours. The sound of the monitor’s steady beeping blurred into the background, a cruel reminder that you were alive but not truly here.

And then—

A faint twitch beneath her fingers.

Emily froze, her breath catching in her throat as she stared at your hand. The movement was so subtle she almost thought she’d imagined it. But then it happened again, your fingers curling ever so slightly against hers.

“Y/N?” she said, her voice trembling with disbelief.

Her heart raced as she leaned forward, her free hand brushing against your cheek. Your skin was still too cold, but there was life in it now, a fragile flickering warmth that hadn’t been there before.

“Y/N, it’s me,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m here.”

Your lips parted, a faint sound escaping: a broken, fragile whisper. She leaned in closer, her dark eyes wide with hope as she caught the shape of the word forming on your lips.

Her name.

Emily’s breath hitched, tears springing to her eyes as she clutched your hand tighter. “I’m here,” she said again, her voice cracking. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Emily’s heart clenched, relief washing over her in a wave so overwhelming she thought it might drown her.

It took some time for you to fully register what’s happening around you. The sterile smell of the hospital, the distant hum of machinery, and the faint prickling of warmth trying to return to your limbs felt like fragments of a dream. Everything was muted, as if the world existed behind a pane of frosted glass.

But there’s something else.

Emily’s voice.

It’s steady and low, cutting through the haze like a lifeline. Her words blurred together, but her tone was unmistakably fierce and tender all at once, filled with a desperation that griped your chest tighter than the cold ever could.

And her hand.

Her hand is wrapped around yours, grounding you, its warmth a stark contrast to the icy stillness that had consumed you before. The sensation, though faint, is enough to anchor you, enough to pull you back from the abyss.

Your lips parted again, and this time, when her name falls from them, it’s quiet and raspy, barely more than a whisper.

But it’s real.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” she breathed, her voice trembling as she leans closer. Her hand moves to brush a strand of hair away from your face, the touch so gentle it nearly undoes you.

You forced your eyes to open, the effort monumental, and the world slowly came into focus. The first thing you saw was Emily—her hair slightly mussed, her face pale, and her eyes rimmed with red. Her hand is still clasped around yours, but the moment your gaze flickered to life, she jerked upright, hurriedly brushing her sleeve across her face to erase the evidence of her tears.

You blink sluggishly, trying to make sense of the sight in front of you.

“W-were you crying?” you rasped, your voice barely audible but carrying a teasing edge, faint as it is.

Emily’s breath caught audibly, and her eyes darted away for the briefest second before snapping back to yours. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, her voice breaking despite her attempt to sound lighthearted. “I don’t cry.”

You managed a faint, lopsided smile, though it’s more of a twitch of your lips than anything else. “Sure… you don’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking on the effort.

A soft, shaky laugh escaped Emily, but there’s no humor in it—only tension and fragility. She leaned forward slightly, her hand tightening around yours for a moment.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost reluctant, as though admitting it cost her something. “Don’t you ever do that again. Do you hear me?”

You blinked slowly, your gaze fixed on hers, and even in your disoriented state, you could see the raw emotion in her eyes—the fear, the guilt, the relief. It’s all there, laid bare in a way Emily rarely allows herself to be.

“I’ll… try not to,” you managed, your voice so faint it almost doesn’t carry.

“Good,” she murmured, leaning back just a little but not releasing your hand. Her other hand tugged lightly at her jacket sleeve, brushing it down as though to busy herself, though her attention never fully left you.

For a few moments, there was only the steady beeping of the heart monitor between you. Emily’s fingers remained wrapped around yours, her touch steady and grounding, but her expression grew unreadable, her gaze flickering down to where your hands were clasped, as though she was lost in thought.

“You look like hell,” she finally said, breaking the silence with a weak attempt at humor.

“Feel like it too,” you replied, though the faint tug of a smile on your lips took the sting out of the words.

Emily let out another soft laugh, her voice quieter now, as though the relief of seeing you awake had finally begun to sink in. Her thumb traced an idle, gentle circle against your skin, a motion so absent that it felt natural, like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

“You’re safe now,” she murmured after a pause, her tone soft and steady. Her gaze dropped to your hand, her fingers curling around it just a little tighter. “That’s what matters.”

There was something in the way she said it, a weight to the words that made you feel like they carried more than she was letting on. But you were too tired to press her, the pull of sleep tugging at the edges of your consciousness again.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” you murmured faintly, a flicker of warmth in your voice.

Emily’s lips curved into a small smile, but there was a shadow of something deeper in her expressions, something you couldn’t quite place. “Yeah, well,” she replied, her voice lighter now, “I didn’t sit here all night just for you to turn around and pull a stunt like this again.”

Her attempt at humor drew a faint chuckle from you, though it came out weak and strained. Your eyes drifted close despite your best effort to stay awake, the exhaustion overwhelming you once more.

The last thing you felt was the steady warmth of Emily’s hand in yours, her touch anchoring you to the moment. You didn’t see the way her smile faded once your breathing evened out, or the way her gaze lingered on your face, tinged with something unspoken.

And you didn’t hear the words she murmured, so soft they barely escaped her lips: “You’re safe now… but I wish I’d have the strength to keep you away from me...”

Two days passed in a blur of doctors, nurses, and restless sleep. The warmth had returned to your body, but there was something inside you that still felt cold, as if a shadow had taken root in your chest. The team had flown home after you woke up, their relief palpable as they each took turns squeezing your hand and promising to check in on you. But Emily had stayed. She hadn’t said why, and you hadn’t asked. Maybe you didn’t want to hear her reasoning.

She hovered constantly, asking if you needed anything, ensuring you ate, slept, and followed the doctors’ instructions. But she didn’t talk about what happened—neither the freezer nor anything from before that night. Her presence should have been reassuring, but the silence between you grew heavier with each passing hour.

You couldn’t help but wonder: Was she regretting staying? Regretting you? Yet you remembered the tears in her eyes when you first opened yours, the way her voice cracked as she said your name. That had to mean something… didn’t it?

The second morning, the doctor cleared you to leave. Your vitals were stable, and though your body still felt weak, you were deemed fit to travel. Emily drove you to the airfield in silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Every glance she sent your way only deepened the ache in your chest, the cold lingering like a stubborn phantom.

Now, you sat in the jet, a blanket draped over you and a warm cocoa in your hands—Emily’s doing. She sat across from you, her laptop open and fingers poised over the keys. The sight made your stomach twist. Emily Prentiss, always composed, always in control. You wondered if you’d imagined the rawness in her voice when she begged you to wake up.

You sighed, adjusting the blanket around you. “You don’t have to hover, you know,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the hum of the jet engines.

Emily’s eyes darted up, dark and unreadable. “I don’t hover,” she replied, her tone even.

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your cocoa. “You’re practically breathing down my neck.”

Her lips quirked into a faint smirk, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m just making sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you lied. The lingering cold in your chest begged to differ, but you weren’t about to admit that to her. Not when things between you already felt so fragile.

Emily didn’t respond, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before dropping back to her laptop. She looked like she wanted to say something but thought better of it. The silence stretched on, heavy and uncomfortable, and you found yourself gripping your cocoa tighter, desperate for some kind of warmth.

You wanted to ask her about the night she’d found you, about the words she’d whispered when she carried you out. But the vulnerability in her eyes then was nowhere to be found now. She was distant, as always, and you didn’t have the strength to bridge the gap.

Instead, you leaned back in your seat, closing your eyes and letting the steady hum of the jet lull you into a restless haze. But even as sleep tugged at you, Emily’s presence loomed large in your mind, her voice echoing in your memory.

“I can’t lose you.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. Or with her. But as the jet soared through the sky, you knew one thing for certain - the cold in your chest wasn’t just from the freezer.

The jet touched down softly, the familiar bump of the landing gear connecting with the runway signaling the end of the journey. Relief coursed through you at the thought of being home - of slipping into your bed, curling up under your own blankets, and finally letting the exhaustion that clung to you take over.

You stood, ready to grab your go-bag from the overhead compartment, but before your fingers could curl around the strap, Emily was already there.

“I’ve got it,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument as she slung the bag over her shoulder and motioned toward the door.

You opened your mouth to protest but caught the look in her eyes—a determined sharpness tempered by something softer, something vulnerable. Guilt. It flickered behind her carefully constructed facade, just out of reach but unmistakable. You swallowed your words and followed her out of the jet.

Outside, the crisp night air greeted you, wrapping around your still-recovering body. It felt heavier than it should, clinging to your skin like a second layer. All you wanted was to get to your car, drive home, and disappear into the sanctuary of your own space. But as you stepped toward the SUV waiting for you on the asphalt, Emily stepped into your path.

“I’ll drive you,” she said simply, her voice calm but firm.

“Emily, I’m fine,” you replied, though the thought of not having to focus on the road was tempting. “I can drive myself. It’s not a big deal.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and you could see the muscle in her jaw tighten as she set her bag down beside the SUV. “It’s not happening,” she said. “You’re not driving anywhere.”

Her tone brooked no argument, but you couldn’t help the flicker of annoyance that sparked within you. “I’ll be fine,” you insisted. “I’m not made of glass.”

Emily didn’t respond right away. She stood there, her dark eyes locked on yours, her expression unreadable. And then she said, softly but firmly, “You’re coming with me.”

The words hung between you, heavier than they should have been. You frowned, caught off guard. “To your place?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I don’t want you to be alone tonight.”

Her bluntness startled you. She wasn’t asking, she was telling you. But as much as the stubborn part of you wanted to resist, to dig in your heels and prove you were fine, you couldn’t ignore the way her voice wavered ever so slightly. It wasn’t just about you. You could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way her shoulders tensed beneath her coat.

This was about her, too.

You sighed, the fight draining out of you as you nodded. “Alright,” you said quietly, and her shoulders seemed to relax, just a fraction.

Emily didn’t say anything else, simply opening the passenger door for you. You slid in without a word, the SUV’s interior warm and comfortable. She rounded the front and climbed into the driver’s seat, her movements precise and measured. The engine roared to life, and she pulled onto the road, the silence between you settled in like an old friend.

As the city lights blurred past the windows, you stole a glance at her. Her hands gripped the wheel tightly, her knuckles pale against the black leather. Her jaw was set, her eyes fixed on the road, but the tension radiating off her was palpable. You wanted to say something, to break the silence, but the words stuck in your throat.

You didn’t know what to say.

So instead, you watched her, the weight of everything unsaid sitting heavy in the space between you.

The sight of her house came into view, and you felt your chest tighten. It was a beautiful place, sturdy and quiet. But to you, it was haunted. The last time you had stepped through that door, everything had changed. Everything had unraveled.

The memory of that night loomed like a ghost, stirring unbidden thoughts. You tried not to think about the way her hands had felt on your body, the way she had whispered your name. That night had been the first- and the last - time anything like that had happened between you.

The SUV rolled to a stop, and Emily cut the engine, her movements tense. She stepped out, and you followed suit, your body feeling heavier than it should. The cold air nipped at your skin as you followed her to the door, her keys jingling softly in her hand. She didn’t look at you as she unlocked it and stepped inside.

You hesitated for a moment before crossing the threshold. The warmth of her home enveloped you, but it did little to chase away the chill that had settled deep in your chest. The living room looked the same- perfectly curated, a mixture of sophistication and comfort. The memories came rushing back, uninvited, of Emily leading you down the hall that night, her touch setting fire to your skin. You pushed the thoughts away, but they lingered, leaving behind a sharp pang in your chest. You winced, the pain a fleeting but jarring reminder of how fragile you still felt.

“Let me get the guest room ready,” Emily said, her voice pulling you back to the present. She was already stepping away, her tone curt but not unkind, as if to say you know where everything is.

And you did. You knew this house well enough to find your way around without her. But you made no move to get comfortable. The weight in your chest and the cold that clung to you made it hard to care about anything but staying upright.

Emily disappeared down the hallway, her presence leaving the room even more still. You stood there, staring at the perfectly arranged furniture, the art on the walls, the bookshelves that hinted at her meticulous nature. It should have felt welcoming, comforting even. Instead, it felt distant, like stepping into someone else’s life—a life you had only glimpsed but never truly belonged to.

You sank onto the edge of the sofa, letting your body sink into the cushions but keeping your posture stiff. The cold in your chest refused to fade, clinging to you like a shadow, heavy and relentless. You stared at the floor, your mind drifting in and out of the memories of that night. The way she had touched you. The way she had looked at you. The way she had built a wall between you afterward, as if it had never happened.

A faint clatter from down the hall broke the stillness, followed by Emily’s soft footsteps as she returned to the living room. She paused when she saw you sitting there, her dark eyes flicking over you briefly before she spoke.

“The guest room’s ready,” she said, her voice steady but distant. Emily lingered for a moment, her eyes resting on you as if she were trying to decide whether to push further. Her arms crossed over her chest, but it didn’t feel defensive—it felt like she was holding herself together, her own form of armor.

“Are you hungry?” she asked softly, the question catching you off guard.

You shook your head almost reflexively, the idea of food feeling more like an obligation than a comfort. “Not really,” you murmured, your voice quiet.

Emily didn’t look surprised, but she frowned, a flicker of something crossing her face before she straightened. “You need to eat,” she said, her tone firm but lacking its usual sharpness. “Even if it’s something small. You’ve been through hell, and your body needs fuel to recover.”

“Emily—” you started, but she cut you off, stepping closer. Her voice dropped, soft but insistent.

“If not for you... do it for me, then.”

The words stopped you cold. You looked up at her, your eyes searching her face. There it was, a crack in her armor. Guilt seeped through her voice, and the way her eyes softened as she looked at you only confirmed it. She wasn’t just doing this for you. She was carrying something heavy, something that weighed on her more than she was willing to admit.

You nodded slowly, not commenting on it, not trusting yourself to. You didn’t know how to address this complicated mess between you, the night you had made love with Emily, the weeks of distance that followed, your near-death experience, and the way she’d held you as she carried you out, her words still echoing in your mind.

"I’m not losing you. Do you hear me? You don’t get to leave. Not after… not after everything.”

The closest she’d come to admitting whatever was between you. And then, at the hospital, waking to see the tears in her eyes, the rawness in her expression as if she was barely holding herself together, only to wipe away her tears.

But even after all of that, the two of you still hadn’t spoken about it. Emily’s hovering, her constant presence, her insistence on caring for you, it was all laced with guilt. And yet, she didn’t say a word about what truly lingered between you.

What you didn’t know - what you couldn’t know- was the way she had bared her heart to you when you were unconscious in that hospital bed. The things she’d said, the confessions that had spilled from her lips in the stillness of the room, words you hadn’t heard because you were too far gone to listen.

Emily let out a quiet breath as she turned and headed toward the kitchen, motioning for you to follow. You did, your legs feeling heavy as you shuffled behind her. The house was so quiet that every sound seemed to echo, the soft padding of your socks on the hardwood floor, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the clink of Emily opening a cabinet.

She moved with purpose, pulling out a loaf of bread and setting it on the counter. Her movements were efficient but almost too careful, as if the simple task of making a sandwich was grounding her. “Just a few bites,” she said, her back to you. “That’s all I’m asking.”

You nodded again, even though she couldn’t see it, and sank into one of the stools at the kitchen island. The cold in your chest felt heavier here, the stillness of the house only amplifying the weight of it. You watched Emily as she worked, the lines of her shoulders tense beneath the fabric of her sweater. She wasn’t saying anything, but her actions spoke volumes.

Minutes later, she set a plate in front of you, a simple sandwich, nothing fancy. She leaned against the counter across from you, her arms crossed again, watching you with a quiet intensity that made you feel like she was waiting for something.

You picked up the sandwich and took a small bite, the taste bland but manageable. Emily’s posture relaxed, just a fraction, and she nodded almost imperceptibly, as if to herself.

“Thank you,” she said softly, the words carrying more weight than they should have.

You didn’t respond, focusing on the sandwich instead, though your appetite was nonexistent. The silence stretched between you, but this time, it wasn’t as heavy. There was something in the way Emily stood there, her eyes never quite leaving you, that made it feel... less lonely.

When you set the sandwich down, only half-eaten, she didn’t push you to finish it. Instead, she walked over and picked up the plate, her movements deliberate but calm. “I’ll take care of this,” she said quietly.

You stayed where you were, your hands resting on the edge of the counter, your thoughts swirling. You wanted to say something, to break through the barrier that had grown between you. But every time you opened your mouth, the words felt too heavy, too complicated to let out.

And so, you stayed silent, the cold in your chest pressing against your ribs as you stared at the faint reflections in the polished countertop. Emily returned moments later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She hesitated at the edge of the counter, her eyes flicking to yours before she spoke.

“You should get some rest,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “The guest room’s ready for you. I put extra blankets on the bed... just in case.”

You nodded and stood, your body still feeling sluggish. As you walked past her toward the hallway, you paused, your hand gripping the edge of the doorframe. “Emily,” you said softly, your voice uncertain.

She looked at you, her expression carefully neutral. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words but finding none. Finally, you just shook your head. “Never mind,” you murmured, disappearing down the hallway before she could respond.

You didn’t see the way her shoulders slumped as you left, the guilt in her eyes deepening as she leaned heavily against the counter, the weight of her own unspoken words pressing down on her.

You lay in bed, the soft fabric of the sweatpants and shirt Emily had left for you doing little to chase away the cold that seemed to have taken permanent residence in your chest. You’d tried to sleep, tried to let exhaustion drag you under, but the icy weight pressing against your ribs made it impossible. You’d wrapped yourself in blankets, tucked them tightly around you as if you could lock out the chill, but it was futile. It wasn’t a physical cold. It was something deeper, something clawing at you from the inside out.

You glanced at the clock. 11:57 p.m. Nearly midnight. You sighed, running a hand over your face as your gaze swept over the guest room. It was neat and welcoming, yet it felt distant, like you didn’t belong here. The stillness of the room matched the hollow emptiness inside you, amplifying it. The air felt heavy, pressing down on you, and you couldn’t take it anymore.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you got up, your movements sluggish but purposeful. You needed a distraction, anything to keep your mind occupied. Tea, maybe. Or just pacing the kitchen. The act of doing something, no matter how small, might help push back the oppressive cold in your chest.

As you stepped into the hallway, the dim light from the kitchen faintly illuminated the space. You took a step toward it, but before you could round the corner, Emily emerged from the living room. She stopped mid-step when she saw you, her dark eyes immediately locking onto yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Her gaze flicked over you, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way your arms crossed as if trying to protect yourself from the cold that clung to you.

“You’re freezing,” she murmured, her voice low but filled with an urgency that you couldn’t quite match.

You opened your mouth to dismiss it, to tell her you were fine, but the words wouldn’t come. The biting chill in your chest crawled closer to the surface, making it hard to even think straight.

Emily stepped closer, her movements careful but deliberate. “Come with me,” she said softly, her tone firm but gentle. She didn’t wait for you to respond, her hand brushing your arm lightly as she turned and led you down the hallway.

The house was quiet, the faint hum of the heater the only sound as you followed her into her bedroom. As you stepped into Emily’s bedroom, a strange, heavy sensation settled in your chest, something different from the lingering cold that had clung to you all night. The room was warm, inviting even, but it held an undeniable weight.

It was the first time you had been in here since that night.

Your eyes flickered over the space, memories pressing in on you from every corner. The bed, perfectly made now, had once been tangled with sheets, bodies, and whispered breaths. The air, now still and quiet, had once been filled with Emily’s voice, her soft murmurs against your skin, the way she had said your name in the dark like she couldn’t get enough of it.

Your stomach twisted, your fingers curling at your sides. You had done everything in your power to bury that night, to pack it away, to mirror Emily’s distance so you wouldn’t break under the weight of it. But now, standing here again, the ghost of it wrapped around you, thick and suffocating.

You glanced at Emily, your breath hitching slightly when you found her watching you. Her expression was unreadable, but something flickered behind her dark eyes, recognition. She knew. She felt it too.

For a second, neither of you moved. The air between you crackled, heavy with the unspoken, with the things you had both run from for weeks. But then Emily inhaled sharply, shaking herself free of whatever thought had momentarily trapped her. She moved to the dresser, pulling out a thick sweatshirt, her hands steady even as something in her eyes betrayed the tension she was holding inside.

“Arms up,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost cautious.

You obeyed without a word, letting her slip the sweatshirt over your head. The fabric was warm, a stark contrast to the chill still settled deep in your bones. Emily’s hands lingered for just a second after the material fell into place, her fingers brushing against your arms before she stepped back, putting space between you.

Emily motioned toward the bed. “Sit,” she said gently.

You obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress, but the moment you did, a fresh wave of unease settled over you. This bed—it wasn’t just a bed. It was the place where everything had changed. Where she had unraveled you with her hands, her lips, her body. Where she had let you in for a fleeting moment before slamming the door shut just as quickly.

Your gaze dropped to the floor, your thoughts splintering into jagged pieces you couldn’t quite put back together. The cold in your chest ached, but it wasn’t just from the lingering effects of the freezer, it was from everything that had come after. The silence. The distance. The way you had mirrored her walls just to survive it.

Emily crouched in front of you, her presence grounding but unbearably heavy. She placed her hands on your knees, the warmth of her touch seeping through the fabric of your sweatpants. “You need to get warm,” she said softly, but there was something in her voice, something fragile.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the sweatshirt she had just pulled over your head. “I don’t think warmth is the problem,” you murmured, surprising even yourself with the quiet admission.

Emily’s hands tightened on your knees for a fraction of a second before she exhaled, steadying herself. Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “Come on,” she urged, her fingers brushing over your arm in a silent plea. “Into bed.”

You didn’t argue. You let her pull back the duvet, let her guide you beneath it, let the weight of the blankets press down on you. But even as you lay there, cocooned in the softness, the cold in your chest refused to ease. You curled slightly on your side, staring at the faint outline of the bedside lamp against the ceiling, exhaustion pulling at your limbs but refusing to grant you rest.

The mattress dipped beside you. You felt Emily hesitate, hovering at the edge of the bed as if unsure whether she was crossing another invisible line.

Then, something inside her broke.

She exhaled shakily and shifted closer, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you against her. The warmth of her skin enveloped you, her touch steady and grounding as she held you tight. And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t keep her distance. She didn’t hold herself back.

Her grip was hesitant at first, but when you didn’t pull away, she held you tighter. Her arms came around you fully, one hand resting against your stomach, fingers splayed as if to anchor herself to you. Her other arm curled beneath your head, drawing you closer, until her breath was warm against your neck.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence was thick, but not empty. Emily’s breathing was steady but not quite even, as if she was still trying to control something breaking inside of her.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve, gripping it like a lifeline.

Finally, her voice broke the stillness, soft and trembling. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her breath brushing against your hair.

You froze, your breath hitching slightly as the words hung between you. “For what?” you asked, though you already knew.

Emily tightened her hold on you, her tone thick with emotion as she spoke. “For everything,” she admitted. “For the walls I put up. For pushing you away when all I wanted to do was hold on. For not—” Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath. “For not telling you how I felt until it was too late.”

Emily shifted slightly, pressing her forehead lightly against the back of your head. “I shouldn’t have left you alone,” she whispered, and her voice was different now, unfiltered, fragile in a way you’d never heard before. “Not after that night. Not after what it meant.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the chest, the echoes of her voice cutting through your mind.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your throat tightening. It wasn’t just the cold you were fighting. It was everything else.

“I thought it would be easier,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was easier to tell you when you weren’t listening. When I didn’t have to see the way you’d look at me. But now…” Her voice trailed off, her hand on your stomach pulling you firmer against her front. “I hate myself for it. For not being braver. For not being better for you.”

Her guilt was palpable, threading through every word, every breath. You felt the tension in her body, the way her arms trembled slightly as she held you. It was the most vulnerable you’d ever seen her, and it cracked something open inside you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” she admitted, her voice breaking again. “But I can’t lose you. Not again.”

You swallowed hard, the cold in your chest shifting, cracking under the weight of her words. “I didn’t leave,” you whispered, your voice shaky but firm. “I’m still here.”

You shifted slightly in Emily’s embrace, the warmth of her arms doing what nothing else could—chasing away the cold that had gripped your chest. Her words echoed in your mind, soft and raw.

“And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here,” Emily said.

You turned your head slightly, to look over your shoulder at her. Emily’s dark eyes were already fixed on you, filled with something you couldn’t quite name: guilt, fear, hope, all wrapped into one. Her brows furrowed slightly when your eyes met, but she didn’t look away.

“What did you say to me?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “In the hospital. When I wasn’t listening?”

Her body tensed for a moment. She held your gaze, her eyes searching yours, as if trying to decide how much to say. You hesitated before adding, “I can… turn around. Or close my eyes, if that’s what you need to talk about it.”

Emily’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she shook her head slightly. “No,” she said firmly, though her voice trembled at the edges. “Don’t turn around. Don’t close your eyes. Stay with me.”

You nodded, waiting, your chest tightening with anticipation. She took a shaky breath as if grounding herself.

“I told you…” She paused, her words faltering for a second before she forced herself to continue. “I told you that I’m terrible at loving anything. Especially the people I care about the most.”

Your breath hitched, her confession striking something deep within you. Loving.

“I’ve been so distant,” she went on, her voice breaking slightly. “I thought if I pushed you away, it would make it easier. That if I kept things professional, I could stop feeling this... stop feeling you.” Her hands tightened their hold on you, like she was afraid you might slip away. “I wished I’d have the strength to keep you away from me. But it didn’t work. I couldn’t stop.”

You swallowed hard, your throat thick with emotion as you absorbed her words. Slowly, you turned in her arms until you faced her completely. Emily’s eyes searched yours, her expression open in a way you’d never seen before. Vulnerable. Raw.

“I thought I was protecting you,” she murmured, her voice breaking again. “But I was just running. And I don’t want to run anymore.”

You exhaled shakily, the weight of her confession sinking in. “Emily…” you began, your voice trembling. “I mirrored your distance. I thought if I acted like nothing happened, I wouldn’t break under the weight of it. But I did. That night—it wasn’t just sex for me. It was so much more.” You hesitated, your voice growing softer. “You were so much more.”

Her breath caught, her eyes widening slightly as your words sank in. The vulnerability in her gaze softened into something else, something deeper, something that made your chest tighten in a way that wasn’t cold, but warm.

“I thought I’d lost you too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “And it killed me, Emily. The thought of never having the chance to tell you… what you mean to me.”

Neither of you spoke after that, the silence stretching between you, heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions finally brought to light. Emily’s hand came up, her fingers brushing softly against your cheek, her touch tentative, almost unsure.

You leaned into her touch, closing the small space between you. Her eyes searched yours one last time before she moved closer, her breath warm against your lips. And then, finally, she kissed you.

It was soft at first, hesitant, as though she was afraid you might pull away. But when you didn’t -when you kissed her back, your hands curling into the fabric of her sweatshirt- she deepened it. Her lips moved against yours with a quiet urgency, weeks of restraint and unspoken words pouring into the kiss.

Emily’s tongue traced along your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You parted your lips with a soft and content sigh, inviting her in. Her tongue slid against yours in a slow, tantalizing dance, sending shivers down your spine. Emily’s fingers tangled in your hair, her grip firm but trembling slightly, as though she was afraid you might slip through her fingers again.

You pulled her closer, hands grasping at the fabric of her shirt, needing to feel her, to anchor yourself to the warmth of her. She responded in kind, pressing her body fully against yours, the heat between you erasing the last remnants of cold that had lingered in your chest for too long.

You exhaled a shaky breath against Emily’s lips, and when you spoke, your voice was raw. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t,” Emily whispered back, the words slipping out without hesitation. It was a promise, not just to you, but to herself.

Emily cupped your face, her thumb brushing over your cheekbone. You leaned into her touch, pressing soft kisses against the heel of her palm before meeting her lips again. This time, the kiss was deeper, longing woven into every movement.

Emily’s fingers trembled slightly as they traced the hem of the sweatshirt. You felt the hesitation in her touch, not because she didn’t want this, but because she did. So much. And this time, she wasn’t rushing. Neither of you were.

Your breath hitched as she slowly lifted the fabric, her knuckles grazing along your sides, her touch deliberate, careful. She was undressing you not just to remove a barrier, but to feel, to map the warmth of your skin beneath her fingertips, to remind herself that you were real, here, with her.

You lifted your arms, letting her pull the sweatshirt and the shirt you wore under it over your head. The air was cooler without it, but then Emily’s hands were back on you, smoothing down your arms, fingertips ghosting along your ribs and up, tracing the edge of your breasts like she was memorizing every inch of you. Her eyes flickered over your body, dark and searching, and you swore you could see something unraveling in her.

Your hands moved next, reaching for the hem of her shirt. You hesitated for a moment, fingers curling against the fabric as you glanced up at her. A silent question.

Emily nodded, her breath uneven, her arms lifting just enough for you to pull it over her head. The fabric slipped away, baring her to you in the dim light, her skin warm beneath your fingertips as you let your hands explore, brushing over her shoulders, down her arms, up the delicate slope of her neck.

A shudder ran through her as you leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips, while cupping her full breasts in your hands. Your thumbs gently traced over her nipples which immediately hardened under your touch. Emily exhaled against you, her hands found your waist, steadying herself.

There was no urgency in the way you undressed each other, only patience. Reverence. Emily’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your sweatpants and panties, her knuckles grazing your hips as she eased them down, her breath warm against your skin as she kissed a path up your stomach.

You mirrored her, fingers sliding beneath the waistband and her warm skin, pushing them down with careful hands. Emily let out a quiet breath, shifting to help you. The way she looked at you as the last of the barriers fell away made your stomach flip, heat pooling low in your belly, not just from desire, but from something deeper. Something that had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged.

Bare, vulnerable, and inches apart, neither of you moved for a long moment. There was no hesitation now. No fear. Just the two of you, here, now, choosing this.

You leaned in again and kissed her slowly, deeply, savoring the warmth of her mouth, the way she sighed against you as if letting go of something she had held onto for far too long. Your hands traced the length of her body, fingertips gliding over the soft curve of her waist and down her sides.

Your lips moved lower, pressing gentle kisses along the column of her throat, down to the delicate hollow between her collarbones. You felt her shiver beneath you, her fingers threading into your hair, her breathing unsteady as you continued lower. You kissed her breasts, lingering there, feeling the way her body responded to you, how her fingers curled against your scalp as if grounding herself. Your hand cupped one, kneading softly, while your mouth worshiped the other, tongue flicking over her nipple before you took it between your lips, sucking gently. Then you switched, giving the same devoted attention to the other, savoring the way she arched into your touch.

A shaky breath escaped her lips, her body pressing closer as a soft whimper filled the space between you. Her fingers tightened in your hair, nails grazing your scalp as she gasped your name, lost in the sensation.

You took your time, worshipping her with every touch, every kiss, trailing lower down the smooth plane of her stomach. Her thighs shifted, parting slightly beneath you, inviting you closer. You inched between them, your lips ghosting just above where she wanted you most.

But before you could go further, Emily’s fingers tightened in your hair, stopping you. Your breath caught as you glanced up, finding her already looking at you, her gaze dark and filled with something unshakable. She cupped your face, her thumb brushing along your jaw as she whispered, “I want to feel you.”

Her words sent a new kind of warmth flooding through you—one that settled deep in your chest, wrapping around your ribs, making it impossible to breathe anything but her.

Emily guided you up, her hands gentle but insistent, coaxing you forward and adjusting your position. She guided one of your legs over her thigh, shifting slightly beneath you until your bodies were aligned in a way that stole the breath from both of you.

Emily exhaled against your lips as she let herself sink into the mattress beneath you, dark eyes searching yours in the low light. ”Do you trust me?” she asked, her hands holding your waist steady as your pussy hovered just inches over hers.

“With my life”, you answered breathlessly, your fingers skimming over the sensitive skin of her parted thighs.

Emily’s eyes lit up, there was only one way to explain the look in her eyes. Love. A love that made your chest tighten, made your breath hitch as if you were standing at the edge of something deep and endless.

Her fingers twitched against your skin, ghosting along your waist before tugging you closer, pulling you into her. When your bodies met, your clits kissing in a warm, aching glide, it was nothing like the first time. That night had been driven by tension, urgency, the need to feel something without fully understanding what it was.

But this—this—was different.

Your first movement against her was barely more than a whisper, dragging rather than sliding over her clit. You swallowed thickly, watching the way Emily’s lips parted, her breath catching as your slick bodies found each other.

"God, you feel so good," she murmured, her voice low and reverent.

You moved again, slowly spreading both of your arousal over your skin, the friction between you growing warmer, slicker, more intoxicating. Emily let out a soft gasp, her warm hands on your hips gently guiding your movements, encouraging you to press yourself harder against her.

The first time had been raw, electric: a clash of need and restraint breaking all at once. But now, with each slow roll of your hips, you weren’t just seeking pleasure. You were giving. Giving yourselves to each other in a way you had been too afraid before.

Emily let out a trembling breath as she moved with you, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles. Her lips parted with a soft sigh, eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

The strokes became smoother, more fluid, each crossing of your clits sending waves of pleasure through both of you. The friction deepened, filling the silence with soft moans, whimpers, and gasps.

Her hands guided you as much as yours guided her, your movements perfectly in sync. Every shift, every shuddering breath, was a silent confession of everything you had held back for too long.

Emily’s hands framed your face, pulling you down, her lips seeking yours in something tender and desperate all at once. "This—" she gasped between kisses, "—you and me, I don’t ever want to stop feeling this."

"Then don’t," you murmured against her lips, pressing your forehead to hers as your bodies fit together in perfect harmony, slow and deep, the heat between you a steady flame, consuming but never out of control.

Emily gasped softly beneath you, her fingers pressing into your back as her body met yours without hesitation, without fear.

With love.

Something neither of you had dared to name before, but in this moment, with the way you moved together, the way you fit, it became undeniable. No walls. No distance. Just you and Emily, giving yourselves over completely.

Emily’s grip on your hips tightened, her fingers pressing into your skin as your rhythm grew more desperate. The slow, languid movements that had defined the beginning of this had dissolved into something needier, more urgent.

The wet, sinful sound of skin gliding over skin filled the room, the air thick with heat and longing. Each drag of your clits against each other sent another jolt of pleasure up your spine, making you gasp, making Emily shudder beneath you.

"Fuck—" Her voice was breathless, her nails digging into your back as her body arched, pressing impossibly closer.

Your name tumbled from her lips, wrecked and needy, and it sent a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your thighs. Your body trembled, your movements beginning to falter as you felt it—the inevitable crest of pleasure building, curling tight in your core, ready to snap.

"Emily—" You moaned her name, the sound breaking between labored breaths, between the frantic roll of your hips and the way her body answered yours.

You could feel her getting close, too—the way her walls fluttered against you, the way her breath hitched in tiny, desperate gasps, the way her dark eyes were hazy with pleasure, unfocused except for you.

Still, her hands remained steady. Guiding you. Grounding you. Holding you right there on the edge with her.

"I’ve got you," she whispered, her fingers pressing into your skin, coaxing you to keep going, to hold on just a little longer.

And then—bliss.

The pleasure crashed over you in waves, white-hot and all-consuming, pulling you both under. Your body jerked against hers, a strangled moan escaping your lips as you felt Emily fall with you, her body shuddering, her thighs clenching around yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved, just held onto each other, riding out the aftershocks, feeling the heat of her, the weight of her, the undeniable reality of this.

Then, slowly, you collapsed against her, your body trembling, your heart pounding in sync with hers. Emily’s arms wrapped around you, cradling you close as if you were something precious, something irreplaceable.

She pressed a soft kiss to your temple, then another, and another, her lips trailing warmth over your damp skin. Her fingers traced soothing patterns along your spine, grounding you, reminding you that you were here, that she was here, and that nothing else mattered.

Neither of you spoke.

But the words weren’t necessary.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, the cold that had clung to you, that had buried itself deep in your chest, was gone—melted away by the warmth of her, of this, of finally letting yourself be loved.

𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝒹.

[pencilofawesomeness]

what were the dragon's reactions to hearing acnalogias story?

(sorry this took so long for me to answer)

Man, that scene kicked my ass. I tried to write it from a few different perspectives but it felt too... repetitive? I guess? Couldn't nail the tone. But it's a good question to ask.

Sting was the newest to the fold, so knew Acnologia the least. However, he had been operating on the coping thought of "dragon slayers are meant to slay dragons" for a year at this point, because Weisslogia's implanted memory, so the full impact didn't really set in for him.

Wendy, sweet Wendy, really has a hard time imagining it all. Acno? Hurting their parents? Seemed fake. Except Acno doesn't lie and he's really upset over this, so maybe it did happen. Conflicting points of interest, for sure, because she loves them both. Still hard to imagine that Acno used to be bad though. It's like if your straight-laced parent, whom for all your life wore sweater vests and drove the speed limit and discouraged violence went "oh yeah when I was in high school I was in a gang and did drugs and killed people."

Rogue was admittedly a little cowed. Had to rethink everything and re-contextualize, for sure. Its the gut instinct of "oh no my dad" versus the fact that he had been observing Acno for months at that point and he seemed legit, but he's also six so his confidence in his profiling is not the best. (Except Rogue is very good at people watching.) Obviously the fact that Acno is visibly distraught and has never done anything to hurt them won out. After all, Gajeel had yelled at him and said nasty things too when they met and didn't quite remember each other, but they're brothers now, so things change. Kids this age roll with things very well.

Gajeel was pissed at first—he doesn't like being lied to, for one—but then it quickly switched to being more upset that Acno looked one word away from leaving forever. His unresolved abandonment issues didn't handle being left behind again, so he mostly yelled at Acno to get his shit together at this point. Teen angst at its finest. Later though, it pieces together everything he knew from Metalicana and the others and realized it tracks. But Acno has nothing to gain from telling them this if he was still like that, so clearly he's different now.

Happy is also a baby and doesn't really understand the severity of it at the time. It's the sort of simple moral formula: you did something bad, you said you're sorry, and it's better now.

Charle, despite being the same age, absolutely is on guard around him for the next few months and religiously watching over Wendy and all of the others because those boys have bad self-preservation. Charle, for magic reasons as we all know, comes pre-packed with trauma and trust issues. But. Acno gets its so he just lets her be vigilant around him and lets her have space and eventually she calms down and has an epiphany about dragon slayers and people in general. Her thing actually comes up a bit in this oneshot I want to do with her and Erik soon, when Erik first gets adopted.

Laxus doesn't have any emotional stake in this but it definitely re-contextualizes stuff. He keeps calm but has a momentary small crisis of "wait did this guy kill my dad because he was insane back then, or...?" and then quickly remembers he has loads of evidence that Ivan was insane and that Acnologia still, ya know, saved his life. He's got this moral gray stuff figured out, and clearly Acno isn't still Like That. Plus it makes sense to Laxus now why Acno bailed so hard and fast when Laxus was a kid, because he's watching it now in real time. It was the bone deep guilt.

Natsu, actually, understands Acno's whole ordeal the most, on a conceptual level. Because he's spent countless nights thinking about Zeref at this point, and how Zeref has caused soooo many problems and so much damage but Natsu still cares and still wants Zeref to get better and Not do those things. Acnologia is now proof that that can work. That someone can be awful and then choose to stop being awful. It definitely hurts him deeply that being separated from Igneel was, in part, *because* of Acnologia (and this dawns on all of them) but like... what's done is done. At this point, it's equally hard to imagine a life without Fairy Tail or without Acnologia. So. It's just life and how it is.

[rotyoursoul]

Can you write about Illumi's wife comforting their daughter after a brutal training session, and the daughter is questioning why her father and grandparents do what they do....with Illumi listening in

(I hope you like it!)

You hadn’t entirely adopted your husbands stoicism and your intuition nagged that your daughter would be the same.

In infancy she was her most finicky, Illumi placing her back in your arms then leaving the room.

Toddler years to early childhood proved the same, except now her father’s stare - devoid of emotion yet somehow disapproving - would set her straight.

As the years crept by she began to adjust accordingly, as did you.

She knew not to cry infront of him.

That was saved for later in the sacred space that you had created. It would only last for as long as it took you to tend to her wounds after training, but it was appreciated nonetheless.

As she sobbed in your arms after a particularly rough day, you could feel the remaining fragments of your heart shatter.

You wanted desperately to express to her that you felt her pain, but you couldn’t piece the sentences together even if you tried.

This lifestyle has taken its toll on you as well, gradually losing the ability to articulate emotion with each passing season.

She finally pulls away, her long black hair falling on either side of her face.

“Your father says that you’re excelling in your training.” You say at an attempt in reassurance

“I don’t care.” Her voice is calm as though she hadn’t just been in hysterics. You wipe the remaining tears from her cheeks. “Why do I have to train?”

“It’s very important to our entire family. We have to keep our line of work alive. ” She rolls her eyes upon hearing that automated response.

“Robotic just like father. I’m clearly not meant for the family business. I keep getting hurt.”

“That is apart of the process.” Illumi’s impassive voice interjects , causing you both to jump at the sudden annunciation of his presence. “You possess the potential to become one of our strongest assassins.”

“But I don’t want to be.” She expresses.

“I understand your hesitation.” He responds calmly before changing the subject. “I see your injury from earlier is dressed. Why don’t you visit grandfather and tell him how well you’ve done today? I would like to speak with your mother alone.”

Less of a request, more of an order your daughter leaves you both. You wait until you’re sure she’s far gone.

“How long were you there, Illumi?”

“Only a moment.” You open your mouth to speak, only to shut it again. “I’ve been aware of these private emotional outbursts for quite some time.”

“…. And what of them?” You say coming off more defensive than you would like.

He eyes you carefully before speaking again.

“I fear your coddling will interfere with her progress. It will have to end soon.”

Your body tenses at the thought of the wedge this would tear between you and your only girl, at the severe personality change this would bring out in her.

She’d already begun to pick up some of her fathers traits, voice becoming monotone and gaze becoming more distant.

The last thing you wanted to do was add to this deconstruction.

Illumi notices, his eyes trailing down to your hands where your nails now dug into the skin, then back up to your pained expression.

“Please, do not make this difficult.” He closes the distance between you two, bending down to place a half-hearted kiss atop your head before leaving you alone.

[melishade]

I'm curious as hell, but giving how dirty they made CliffJumper died in the very first episode of Transformers Prime i wonder after he died he somehow ends up in the aot world just before Optimus or Megatron appeared i wonder the reaction on either side on how the frag he's still alive and how he will be on aot would be similar to elita-1 situation or Hanji, Levi and Erwin found him just like they found out about Megatron just camping out alone.

Well....Episode 1 Cliffjumper was voiced by Dwayne the Rock. The shows not going to be able to afford him to keep him alive. Why do you think they swapped him with a different voice actor in Season 2 Episode 17.

That being said, I feel like I've answered something like this before, not really coming up with any ideas. That might have been a few months or a year or so ago. But I now, surprisingly, have a few ideas on how I could make this work.

So the beginning of episode 1, Cliffjumper gets ambushed by the Decepticons and gets caught up in the explosion. But his injuries this time around, are not as severe as they are in the show. So Cliffjumper is able to play victim long enough for Cliffjumper to get the jump on Starscream and the two vehicons before escaping. He jumps into an escape pod and tries to head back for Earth from space. However, Soundwave opens up the spacebridge and Starscream fires on the pod personally, sending it spiraling through the spacebridge. So Arcee still finds Cliffjumper's horn and Ratchet sees Cliffjumper signal going offline, not knowing he went through a spacebridge. And Starscream can still have bragging rights over killing Cliffjumper.

Yes, I know that the Nemesis wasn't even close to the ship when Cliffjumper was killed but I'm ignoring geographical locations to make this work.

There would be changes no doubt to the TFP timeline, but not enough to affect the integrity of the story as a whole. The Autobots still find out about the dark energon and Megatron's plan, Arcee still feels guilt regarding Cliffjumper, Starscream takes credit for killing him.

Meanwhile, the spacebridge sends Cliffjumper crashlanding on Paradis, specifically near the location of the Survey Corps' military base, scaring everyone and putting them on high alert. They all surround the pod, wondering what it is, and grow terrified when Cliffjumper punches his way out of the pod because it refuses to open from damage.

Erwin can't really give an order because he doesn't know what he's supposed to do. A metal titan just kicked it's way out of a metal ball that fell from the sky. The metal titan looks at all of them with its blue bloodied face and broken horn. Erwin can tell that the titan looks bewildered at the sight of them before its eyes flicker and its body begins to sway. Everyone's mouth drops when they hear the titan speak a word: Scrap, before falling out of the pod and hitting the ground face first.

Everyone is shouting in agreement that they need to kill Cliffjumper, but Hanji quickly interjects, saying that the titan needs to be captured and studied. The titan spoke. It's made of metal. And it's not regenerating. They needed to investigate this further to figure out of there were more like him.

Everyone is protesting, saying no, but Erwin decides to take a gamble and orders Cliffjumper to be transported back to the base. The only way they can really do that is by tying ropes onto Cliffjumper and using the horses to drag him, and have other humans drag him via ropes.

Hanji, with help from Mobilt, make a huge effort to repair Cliffjumper as best as they could. They didn't know anything about his biology and had to make it up as they went. They cleaned his wounds with Levi's help, they used heat to graft the metal and cover the wounds to stop the leaking. They took out shrapnel and other forms of debris that wasn't nailed down to his body or causing damage to his body. It takes hours to fix Cliffjumper and even when they finish, he doesn't wake up. Some are telling Erwin to just kill the titan and be done with it, but Erwin isn't sure how to kill it. Cliffjumper was different from all the others, and it was possible he had intelligence. He needed to be awake for questioning.

Cliffjumper wakes up days later, examining the rather poor treatment he received. He was grateful to be alive, but Ratchet was never this sloppy. Cliffjumper stands up an tries to leave the storage unit to find out where he was, but stops when Hanji and Mobilt enter the room. The two stare at each other for a brief moment before Hanji screams for Erwin, saying that the titan was awake. Cliffjumper can't help but feel embarrassed. He broke Prime's rules about interacting with humans. He didn't mean to! He was trying to escape the Decepticons! He activates his comm. to try and get to the Autobots, to Arcee, but...it was static. There was no one on the other end of the line.

That's when Cliffjumper started to notice a few things. He's lived on Earth for three years and has seen how the humans act. These humans wore different clothes, the place he was in was made out of wood, and finally, all the humans that flooded into the room stared at him in fear.

Erwin demands to know if Cliffjumper can speak. Cliffjumper debates his options for a moment before replying, saying that he could talk, startling everyone. Erwin then demands to know if he's associated with the titans outside the Wall. Cliffjumper gets confused and states he's with the Autobots. Those are the only titans he knows about. And what wall? The Great Wall of China? Levi crassly demands to know what China is and that gets a nervous laugh out of Cliffjumper.

Cliffjumper: Wait...are you guys serious?

Levi: Does it look like we're kidding?

Cliffjumper: Well what continent am I on? Asia? Europe?

Hanji: Oh! What's a continent?!

Cliffjumper then remembers what happened and demands to know where the pod that he came in was. Erwin decides to guide Cliffjumper to it with heavy supervision. Cliffjumper bolts to it once he spots it and scrambles in the cramped space. He tries in vain to turn on the machine. He tries to determine where he landed, could he send an S.O.S., did Optimus and the others know he was alive? What about Arcee?! He couldn't put her through the thought of losing another partner!

Hanji peers inside and asks Cliffjumper if the pod still works. Cliffjumper scrambles out and demands to know if they had reception! If they had a phone or a comm. link system! Any form of communication! But their all confused at what Cliffjumper is talking about. Cliffjumper realizes one horrible thing: he got stranded on another world trying to escape, and now he had no means of getting back to Earth and was now stuck.

The Survey Corps see Cliffjumper's panic and despair and feel empathy for the titan, taking a good portion of them off guard. Empathy for a titan? But Erwin was seeing more than a titan. He was seeing a soldier trying his hardest to get back home. Erwin uses the moment to strike up an alliance with Cliffjumper. If Cliffjumper could help humanity thrive on this world, then the Survey Corps would do everything in their power to get him back to his. Cliffjumper, out of options and desperate, accepts the deal, wanting to go back home to help his comrades. To Arcee.

A few notes:

-Cliffjumper doesn't have his horn. Arcee is the one who has it.

-Cliffjumper does his best to get acquainted with the Survey Corps. And a good portion of them don't really like how much he tends to talk. Cliffjumper will talk. A lot. To start conversation. To tell stories. Levi is getting really annoyed and wishes he would shut up.

-Hanji is ecstatic. They're learning about a new titan with different abilities and skill sets. They've asked Erwin if they could take him out into Wall Maria to see what he could do against the titans, especially since Cliffjumper mentioned that he's a veteran. He should know how to fight. But Erwin states that they need a little more time to observe his actions and behaviors. Not to mention, he's no to keen about revealing to the public that they have a titan under their noses.

-Cliffjumper tells stories about Earth, about the Autobots, about his partner Arcee. It does fill him with some sorrow, knowing he can't go back now, but he was still going to try.

-Cliffjumper will ultimately prove himself on the battlefield. Erwin just needs the right moment to reveal Cliffjumper's identity.

-Levi tries his best to clean him up once he trust's Cliffjumper enough, but is upset when nothing's working.

That's all I have for now.

[shardminds]

unrequited (terrifying!)

pairing: elain archeron x lucien vanserra rating: t (for too bad they don't kiss in this one) wc: 2.5k almost primary tag: love realisation, laufey - from the start, love is driving me a bit insane

read on ao3 or proceed under the cut

There’s a thin line between infatuation and obsession. A thin thin line. 

Elain isn’t sure on which side of it she stands when it comes to Lucien Vanserra. 

“There’s our foxling!” Cassian calls, after Feyre and a toddling Nyx open the River House doors to the courtier. He’s wearing green again. Emerald, not sage like last time. Elain adds it to the mental list she maintains, of colours she can’t ever look at without thinking of him. The velvet couch beneath her feels hot, or maybe that’s just her. 

There’s half a smile caught at the edge of his mouth, hinting at teeth as he steps into Feyre’s arms. Elain isn’t envious of the way her sister’s arms circle his broad shoulders, or how Lucien leans into them, his own arms wrapping around her back. It was too easy to forget how much Feyre cared for him, of the bond they forged in darkness and the weight of mountains on their shoulders. Elain could see it, like ivy coiled and climbing around a them both. If he held her like that, touched her like that, she might break. Or do something stupid. Like sigh, or melt.

“Lovely as always, Feyre.” He says, pulling back to place a kiss on her sister’s cheek. 

“Speak for yourself! Your hair’s longer.” Feyre picks an auburn braid twisted over his shoulder. It is longer, unbound strands almost reaching his waist. There are smaller braids trailed through it, each one sealed with a golden cuff, catching in the faelight, or the setting sun, or the hearth fire. Had he styled them himself? An image springs to mind of Lucien sat before a polished mirror, candle flickering in the reflection. There’s an unmade bed behind him, sheets soft in the memory, as his fingers twist sections around each other, securing with thin leather and gold clasps. In her mind, he’s topless, for some reason. Perhaps he hadn’t been alone. Elain shakes it off, nails biting into the fabric of her skirts. 

“Things tend to grow over time,” He steps back, reaching down to ruffle Nyx’s hair, fingers carding through dark silk. Elain knows just how soft it is. She’d bathed him this morning. “Just like this one.”

Nyx babbles at the attention, speaking nonsense noises that not even she can understand. He reaches up for Lucien’s hand and grips his finger between chubby palms. Lucien lets himself be pulled, dragged down until he’s kneeling, still taller than Nyx’s toddling height. Feyre’s smile could’ve lit the entire court. 

Things grow over time. Oh, she could write essays on that particular subject. Or several particularly revealing diary entries, at least.

“Just wait until you see him fly.”

Elain had felt Rhysand’s arrival long before the other’s, apparently. Even Cassian started at his interruption from the top of the stairs. He takes the steps a mite quicker than usual, and offers Lucien his own greeting — raising him from the floor before pulling him in for a swift embrace. Rhysand’s warming to Lucien had been inevitable. Each and every one of his inner circle had taken to treating him with something akin to kindness in the years since Hyburn’s defeat and Koschei’s fall. Not surprising. That’s just how he is.

“I dare say I’ll get to witness that treat later,” He muses as Nyx runs back to his mother, gripping at Feyre’s skirts, demanding her attention as he does when he feels he’s been too long without it. “And how are you fairing, Rhysand? Fatherhood still keeping you occupied?”

“In ways I could’ve never anticipated. Is Eris still—” 

“A cunt?” His laugh is whiskey and molasses. Poison and its balm. It doesn’t hurt but Elain steels for it, as always. The weight in her chest begging to be felt. “Of course. I doubt he’ll surprise us by changing anytime soon.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.” Azriel calls from the chaise, furthest away from the fire, strategically placed to view the whole room from his seat. The circlet on his wrist is new, a wreath of golden flame atop his scars. 

“I’ve no doubt you will.” Rhys rolls his eyes. “Can I get you a drink, friend?”

“Or three.”

Elain hates that she wants him so badly. That the mere sight of him curls through her like warm oil and smoke, shrouding rational thought in delirium. Desire is not something so unfamiliar. And yet, if he knows of how she dreams of thicker fingers when touching herself, he does not let on. 

No. He barely even looks her way. Conversation flows without her, thankfully.

In another time, it would’ve been a blessing: To be free of his attention, his expectation. The absence of his gaze is a weightless feeling, similar only to the first crack of thunder after hours of rain, a crack through the silence, a secret finally told. Relief, if anything. That, in itself, should be a comfort. Her mate cannot give her the comfort she needs, but he allows her this. 

But somehow it’s worse. Freefall, instead of freedom. Nightmares wake her most nights, the breath stolen from her lungs seconds before screams think of forming. The craving for gravity roots in her gut like convolvulus coiling around the golden tether of their souls. It calls to her, the bond, so she lets the weeds thrive until it’s nothing but a rope of green, glowing from the inside out, begging it to silence. The phantom tugs between her ribs a memory.

It always burns through by morning. Rich and vibrant and gold. 

“Elain,” 

She whips around, standing, skirts still bunched in her fists. A curl falls free from the updo Nesta had arranged it in before she departed with the Valkyries, all plaits and pins and far too elaborate for something as informal as this. Too delicate. Azriel casts her a look from his perch. Ever the spectator, rarely the participant. A shadow curls around his forearm, tapping patterns against his forearm in a code she doesn’t recognise. “Honey wine?”

He doesn’t say are you okay? or lost again? like when they used to disappear in each others company instead of playing house with the others; talking for hours in the gardens, sat in the rafters of the house of wind, in the library at the river house. Becoming fey had been an isolating experience — nothing made sense then, little more makes sense now — but Azriel had helped in a way. He was her choice, her first friend. 

The tilt to his head, the knife at his belt. He’ll carve the side he wants to pick.

Elain shakes away the wispy threads of a vision. A golden thread, wrapped in soft vines, hums in her chest. There’s no shifting that one, unfortunately. What’s most unfortunate is she’s not 100% sure if that’s a problem anymore. 

“Please.” It comes as a croak. She clears her throat, as if that will help. “Please, that sounds—”

“I’ve actually had some spiced cider imported from our personal cellars back in Autumn,” Lucien starts, seemingly to Rhysand and not her, and yet saving her from the spotlight nonetheless. Cassian, Rhysand, Feyre — hells, even Azriel all look towards the emissary. “Courtesy of Eris, I’ll admit. Although, it is a childhood favourite of mine. Best served hot, if you’re able.” 

Childhood to the fey is clearly much different to that of the human realms. 

“It would be rude to refuse,” Rhys, a smirking Feyre at his side, flicks his hand at the table. A magic trick so practiced, the clink of the glasses on the table is no longer a surprise. 

Cinnamon, cloves, ginger, anise steaming in heavy plumes of steam — It’s him. It smells like him.

A warm glass is placed in her hand and—oh, how stupid she must look staring off into the place settings, attempting to distract herself from draining the whole thing. Bronzed leaves twined with ears of corn and barley, curls of pumpkin vines threaded between goblet and plate and candlestick. Brown and red and yellow and orange and gold. Always gold. Always in her periphery. Always watching. 

Her eyes slip shut, brows furrowing slightly, intentionally underplayed. Best to fake a migraine than to admit the truth. Best to fake anything else than to admit she was wrong all this time.

She’s not been able to look at the colors of change since Eris’ coronation to High Lord of Autumn. On the last night of fall’s end, atop the decorated tombs of their ancestors, only one left noticeably bare. The High Lord wore a crown of oak, thorns and nightshade, set aflame at the last touch of sunset. He looked resplendent, born for the throne, but Lucien— he’d braided strands of spun gold into his hair, then. As usual, she ached to touch them. It’s worse now. Seeing him each time. It’s worse. 

It’s too late. A voice whispers. Her voice. Viscous poison in her head. You’ve made your intent clear. You have been too cold, too distant. You can’t love him. You can’t love him, you barely know him. You owe each other nothing. 

A smaller voice whispers back. You owe it to each other to try.

“A toast,” Rhys starts, never one to let silence poison his home. “To old friends—”

Elain can see him behind her eyes. You’re my mate he says, as the world crashes around them. A bronze skinned fae with dark coiled hair and warmed amber eyes stands over his shoulder, eclipsed in an aura of gold. She is not real, Elain can tell. But at the time— You’re my mate. The fae female presses a kiss to his shoulder and Lucien doesn’t even flinch. She drifts away, but no one says a thing. Not even him, eyes full of an emotion she can’t quite face. Revelation is the closest she’s ever come to deciphering it. She’s seen it since. Too many times. 

Somewhere in the recesses of her closet is the cloak he shrouded her in. 

It no longer smells like him, like woodsmoke and leafmould. 

She wonders if he thinks about it like she does. If he notices its absence in his wardrobe, or misses its gilded collar, brass buttons and plush embroidered lining — now frayed from how often her fingers passed over it. If she returned it after all this time, would he spend the same nights memorising the changes? Evidence that she thought of him, or that she cared at all.

“—and new ones—” Feyre adds, a babbling Nyx muttering over her. There’s a touch of concern to her tone but Elain ignores it. Has to. 

She’s still trapped to the visions behind her eyelids. He sent her music, bird song, poetry, sunlight. From summer coasts to winter peaks, vicious overgrowth of untapped spring to autumn’s ever falling leaves. If he meant to, she’d never asked. Never even thought to query it. Too focused on avoiding the pull in her gut to be near him. Feeding the hesitation that set in whenever it was clear he would be visiting. He was not entitled to her attention because some divine power bound them. She was not entitled to the grip of his hands on her thighs the gift of his private smiles, the press of his palm against her lower stomach— 

Even if she wants it. 

The decision isn’t one of impulse, not really. 

Not often did she give their bond the benefit of the doubt. Not often did she feel along its coiled threads, each one another tie — it was not just one single entity, but thousands. Thousands of minuscule strands, thin as spiderweb. They drip and reform and writhe at her attention, signing as if praised, as if a disciple and she a god. Not often did she thank its weight. But she held it now, inside her mind. Squeezed just a little. Just enough.

She opens her eyes, still only half focused on the table decorations. 

“—and whatever they—”

“New beginnings.” 

Rhysand is interrupted which, surprisingly, is a rare occurrence. Even Nesta had settled into a kind of quiet distaste for his theatrics come family dinner rather than outward ones, but Nesta is somewhere high on the Illyrian steppes, sword in her hand, sweat on her brow. A promise curled behind silver. War fresh queen come reap the soul, and once razed earth combine them whole.

It’s not until she takes a breath that Elain even registers it was her. She was the one interrupting. Mind half curled around memories and prophecy, too preoccupied to stop the thought from slipping past. Rhysand looks her way but she can’t quite meet the question in his eyes. To answer would be her end. Her destruction.

There’s a bundle of ash samaras behind a young pumpkin, tucked into the elaborate table setting. It’s the first time she’s seen them since crossing the wall and, absurdly enough, something inside her clicks. Of simpler times. When life passed by in hazy slow motion. They used to play with them as children, throwing clutches into the air and watching as they spiraled to the ground, like autumn snowfall. She can’t even touch them now. Not without pain. 

But sometimes, it’s worth it. It’s all worth it. 

Elain clears her throat.

“To new beginnings.” It comes more alert— assertive, even. Although, still rough as ash bark in her throat.

The bond in her chest, the one she’d ignored all this time, tugs in response. 

“New beginnings.” Lucien says, in the first words he’d said to her in months— years, perhaps. An echo. A prayer.

“New beginnings!” Cassian raises his glass, then Azriel, Feyre and Rhys, then him. Her throat aches when she looks to him, unready to meet his eyes just yet just in case she can’t tear away this time. Instead, Elain focuses on a broach on his lapel. Hyacinth blooms inlaid with gold and pearl, catching in the fey lights, shimmering. It’s beautiful. 

He’s smiling. This much she knows.

The hot spiced apple tastes like a kiss.

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

Just struck me that I still don’t know whether the Veil should be taken down or not.

For ten years, I’ve read Solavellan stories of Lavellan fighting tooth and nail to prevent the Veil from coming down. These stories were from the very reasonable perspective that “What’s done is done. Modern Thedas has problems just as the Pre-Veil world did. You need to let go of your regrets and live with the consequences. You can make change here and now in the present.” In pretty much every Solavellan story that tackles this topic of Past v. Present, Lavellan is using her political influence to secure serious change for elves and greater protections for the Dalish especially. These stories are not in favor of preserving the abusive status quo. Rather, Lavellan convinces Solas that his place is at her side teaching the elves the truth of the gods and the past and using his Wisdom to change hearts and minds as he always wished.

There’s also the obvious “Why are you risking the mass deaths of all these people? Is there really no way to take down the Veil safely? Safely-er???”

But for people who want the Veil to be taken down, the arguments can be summarized as the Veil being the status quo, and its continued existence is perpetuating it. The world was meant to be magical; the Veil must be undone to bring the world back to what it normally was. The elves deserve their power and magic back, etc. etc. One could argue that Solas keeping the veil up is him still bound to his past decisions, and worse, folding to the pressure of the status quo and betraying his role of rebeller.

The biggest point of contention for me is that it is not made clear in the slightest what exactly will happen if the Veil is taken down, and while I’m all for the destruction of oppressive systems, when it comes to something like literal MAGIC, I feel like I’m well within my right to be skeptical and apprehensive since Solas is pointedly vague about the specifics. In Trespasser, he says, to paraphrase “..even if this world must die”. The word die is not expounded upon. Die, how? Are we talking the abstract, metaphorical meaning of the word “die” (i.e. the French monarchy ‘died’ and a republic government was born from it), or do we mean a more visceral “die” (i.e. it’s gonna be like a nuclear reactor meltdown and people are going to keel over like they stepped into the Elephant Foot room in Chernobyl because of the sudden tsunami of magic re-entering the world), or do we mean both?

Solavellan fics have taken this to mean what is essentially a global genocide that will destroy most people, and thus the arguments with Solas over the years have been, to sum up a few examples, “You killed a world. You would kill a second world to bring back the first?” and ‘We *are* just as real as the ancient elves were. You need to accept that we are, and accept that the Elvhen empire is gone.” and “We are (elves) are not lesser than our ancestors, we are different. This world is no more broken than the one before. You had all the magic in the world and the elves used it to enslave and kill one another and tranquil the Titans. In this world we have far less access to magic and similar issues with slavery and the Chantry and Tevinter mageocracy. The suffering is just as widespread, but the magnitude is lesser by several degrees (the difference between the devastation and suffering incurred from medieval warfare v. modern warfare).”

The contention of not wanting Solas to tear down the Veil hinges on this ambiguity, and of Solas not seeing the modern elves as real or his people.

Now we can argue: “Solas is lost in the sauce of regret and more than a little blinded from culture shock and nostalgia in his motivation to tear down the veil since half of it stems from his wish to bring back the eminence and power of the ancient elves.’ —-From this we can only surmise what his intentions are here, even. Does he mean elevation and equality (elves will be more powerful but not necessarily treated as superior to the other races—separate but equal), or does he mean ‘the elves were far more powerful and superior to other races in their own way, and we are restoring that’, with the implication that, like elves in other fantasies, they’ll have powers and eminence that could overshadow the other races, and that is simply how nature intended it to be (read: sneaking in some soft social darwinist essentialism))—-‘but yes, the Veil does need to come down because the byproduct will be that elves and mages get more power’.

And beyond that resides a semi magical ecological reason: his wish to see magic and spirits meld with the world once again since that’s how it originally was. The Veil, he states, is unnatural.

What is also confusing is between Trespasser and Veilguard, Solas remains inconsistent on who “the people” are. In a memory he says “the people need me”. Veilguard makes it out like he’s somewhat quietly accepted the modern elves as his people. Probably lesser or somewhat rendered inferior by their supreme distance from the elvhen empire and their lack of magic, but still his responsibility, the living legacy of his mistakes.

I suppose the thorn in my brain is that

The ironic thing is that I’m all for the destruction of the status quo and oppressive systems so long as there’s a clear, cohesive game plan. Fucking go nuts. But when it comes to change in fictional worlds, I get really nervous, probably because most people don’t know how to write or plot out massive societal change in a way that’s believable or well-thought out since fiction can’t ever competently account for the infinite fractals of perspective and experience under such tumultuous events. There is always going to be some glaring oversight since fiction authors are forced to cram a thousand different affected elements into a single narrative, and you will always end up with a story that either leans pro-revolution or anti-revolution, even if it’s a 51%/49% split. Someone is going to be unhappy with the argument made by the text in question. Someone is going to argue that it doesn’t account for X, Y, Z…

Where am I going with this.. Yeah I’m conflicted about the “to tear down the veil or not” because it is so wrapped up in one man’s personal emotional journey. Liberals like to inexplicably twist and weave individual stories into revolution narratives in order to 1) humanize a large abstract political movement but also 2) Use the character as a personification of the movement, with their personality and morality a direct reflection of the morality, and thus validity, of the movement.

It’s an ouroboros of logos and pathos ethos. We can sympathize with Solas because of the cause he champions. By way of literary device, our view of the cause is (deliberately or unconsciously) meant to be influenced by Solas’s personality: the face of the Rebellion and of elf emancipation, a thoughtful, somber, conflicted man with many huge blunders and misjudgments under his belt. He means well, but will his plan work? Perhaps it’s best that everything be left alone. He’s the one with the power to pull it off, but how many of his plans have backfired? This along with the aforementioned ambiguity of what will happen to the world when it’s torn down leaves us with a discordant uncertainty. We want elves to have rights, we want mages to be more free, we want spirits to not be so easily corrupted.

The writers clearly want the Veil to be kept up. It’s “the right thing to do” because tearing down the Veil will mean the “death” of modern Thedas. The fact there isn’t an outright statement of “yeah this is what will happen during this ‘death’” is used as a discouragement, but I feel like that sticking point was written in a day and age when people had fucks left to give about the system, when there was still a healthy fear of unknown risk and a preference for a theoretical scenario where change is slow, regimented, monitor-able, with casualties all but 0.

The game peddling this same fear of change in 2024 is being given to a world that is now more and more commonly scoffing at reluctance to implement systemic change for fear of the unknown. “Who cares, elves deserve rights.”

But is the world Solas is promising actually possible? He has done so many things that have resulted in disastrous, world-changing, life-ruining, unintended consequences. We simply don’t know how modern bodies will react to a sudden global influx of magic to the atmosphere, how many benign spirits will become corrupted when they’re suddenly in direct contact with mortals who are just stewing in their negative emotions that will be undoubtedly heightened by the apocalypse. There are bubbles of the Veil that act all funky and get Veil jumpers killed all the time. Those are simply bubbles.

Varric: People are dying

Solas: That’s what people do

All art is political. It all has a message. Unintended, intended, subliminal, explicit, personal, popular interpretation, weird tinfoil hattery.

The cognitive dissonance, or discomfort I feel is that Solas’s story exemplifies two simultaneous arguments: One, that you need to move on past your regret. You need to live here, now. Life is making mistakes. You may make the largest mistakes, you may work every day to atone for them, but at a certain point you need to accept that this is what life is. You can mourn, you can grieve, you can even still feel pangs of guilt and shame, but you have to be more than that, more than a martyr. Some people are not meant to be the hero. You should focus on putting good into the world now, changing it for the future, not to seek out the past.

That is a beautiful tragic sentiment, especially when the sorrow and guilt are magnified a thousand-fold by the knowledge that your actions have led to the death and suffering of so many in your sincere pursuit of protecting people. When does the sense of responsibility and duty become a spiral of self-destruction? When is the time to stop when all of your efforts make things worse and worse? Solas was a man who took action when action is clearly not in his wheelhouse because the grass is always greener for him. He cannot live with making huge pyrrhic choices because he empathizes so keenly with all sapient life and the tragedy of “what could’ve been”…

But then the second underlying argument posed by the upkeep of the Veil, if you’re Epler: Revolution is bad. Change even for a good cause is bad. Live with the shit rules you have.

idk I’m just getting my thoughts down. I guess I’m still pro- preserve the Veil solely because my personality forbids me from committing to such a choice without knowing the full list of side effects, which Solas (or maybe the writers themselves) haven’t thought out. And again it’s really weird because I don’t have these same reservations about real world social justice and progress. 😶

[joybivision]

I wouldn’t say my backstory for him is 100% fleshed out and it’s subject to a lot of changes depending on how I’m feeling. 

I see him and Devin as coming from a coastal town that’s in close enough proximity to the Lands Between to do some trade with travelling merchants and some of the larger settlements. His father was a fisherman who went missing at sea only a year after their birth, and his mother was a fish merchant who was a devout follower of the Golden Order, having been born in the Lands Between but long since left. They were very loosely tolerated because their mother was beloved by most for having a particularly kind and generous nature, but they almost never left the area immediately around their home due to the potential of retaliation, especially when times were difficult. Being a mama’s boy, Darian inherited her adoration for the Order, wanting something higher than himself to believe in. He saw much of himself and Devin in Malenia and Miquella as well; if they could exist and be born to divinity, then perhaps they had a chance to survive after all. 

Due to its closeness to Caelid, it wasn’t uncommon for occasional outbreaks of illness to occur in town due to contaminated water and fish, and his mother died of a lesser form of rotting sickness when he was ~9. Without anyone to protest their innocence, they were hounded from the village days later, and Darian decided that he was going to sail himself and Devin to Leyndell in the hopes of witnessing the Erdtree and seeking refuge in the most sacred of places. He made as far as the shores of Caelid before dying of illness and exhaustion at the doorstep of a camp net to the Bestial Sanctum. Devin was close behind him despite soldiers’ efforts to keep him alive. It is easily the memory that gives Darian the most shame and motivates him to work as fervently he does. A part of him worries that he chose to die and leave his brother like a coward, and he promises never to let this happen again. The twins reawakened as Tarnished, but it’s not completely clear what to do at first. Their curse should make them a threat and something that violates the tenets of life, but some interpret their miraculous pilgrimage as a clear sign of divine favor. Judgment was finally given over to Gurranq, given that they died practically right next to him, and he is a holy man with considerable authority. He gave them mercy and interpreted their single soul as akin to that of Marika and Radagon and their cursed nature to many of her own twinned progeny. They serve as caretakers of the Sanctum (and Gurranq, as his mind begins to crumble) for several years until they are old enough to begin training under the Order. Darian seeks to become a Hunter of the Dead, both having witnessed them regularly entering the temple to give Gurranq the spoils of their work and having developed a special hatred for Those Who Live in Death as they so cavalierly reject the Order that he had to fight tooth and nail to become part of. Though deathroot itself painfully makes him recall memories of home, he regards it as a form of penance for his curse (and for allowing Devin to die) and embraces the discomfort willingly. He gets along well with most other Hunters although their interactions tend to be rare, but he often struggles to connect with other Tarnished due to his nature, the dissatisfaction many take with the Golden Order, and his generally sharp demeanor.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Imagine this: It’s exactly one year from today, Memorial Day weekend, 2025. It’s 94 degrees in the shade, but the fact that the world keeps shattering monthly temperature records isn’t even making the news — and that’s not what has Philadelphians so hot and bothered. It’s been about two months since Donald Trump, the 47th president of the United States, announced Operation Purify America in an Oval Office address, and about a week since a stunned Philadelphia watched an endless convoy of militarized vehicles and federalized troops from the Texas and South Dakota National Guards roll up I-95. After a week of setting up a base camp at the Air National Guard base in Horsham, the actual operation began at midnight the day before, as a parade of Humvees and armored personal carriers cornered off a wide area in Philadelphia’s Hunting Park section and supported federal immigration agents who went door-to-door in the predawn chaos, bursting into homes and asking Latino residents for their papers. Journalists who’d been kept blocks away by the troops now search for anyone who could confirm the rumors of screaming, scuffling, and dozens of arrests. As the hot sun rises, Mayor Cherelle L. Parker, Gov. Josh Shapiro, and several hundred angry protesters gather outside the Horsham gate to denounce the raids. A phalanx of helmeted troops pushes the throng back, firing tear gas to clear the road for the first busload of detained migrants. They are bound for the hastily erected Camp Liberty, an already overcrowded and decrepit holding center on the Texas-Mexico border that Amnesty International calls “a concentration camp.” This might sound like a page from the script of Alex Garland’s next near-future dystopian movie, but it’s actually a realistic preview of the America Trump himself, his cartoonishly sinister immigration guru Stephen Miller, and the right-wing functionaries crafting the 900-page blueprint for a Trump 47 presidency called Project 2025 are fervently wishing for. As polls show Trump in a dead heat nationally with President Joe Biden, and poised to win at least some of the battleground states where Biden was victorious in 2020, the presumptive GOP nominee is making no secret of his scheme for what he calls “the Largest Domestic Deportation Operation in History.” The audacious goal of tracking down and deporting all 11 million or so undocumented immigrants living and working within the United States is, experts agree, all but impossible. But even the forced removal of hundreds of thousands, or one million, would require a massive internal military operation on a scale not seen since the Civil War and Reconstruction. [...] What’s changed in 2024? Everything. Despite the Hannibal Lecter-ized outward chaos of Trump’s rallies, behind the scenes, Team Trump is focused and determined not only to name the most rabid Trump loyalists to key political posts but also todramatically strip civil service protections andremove recalcitrant midlevel government employees. And this time around, Republicans in Congress are going to be on board with whatever Trump wants. [...] It was somewhat amazing to watch the furious debate online and on cable news this week over the weird incident in which small text about a “unified Reich” found its way into a Trump promo video the ex-and-wannabe president posted on Truth Social. The perplexing part, for me, is that this was discussed as some kind of Sherlock-Holmes-magnifying-glass a-ha moment, revealing Trump’s secret plan for Nazi-style rule. Folks, he is screaming his plan out loud at his rallies! The Trump deportation scheme is really Trump’s blueprint for dictatorship.

Will Bunch at The Philadelphia Inquirer on how Donald Trump's proposed deportation plan is a pretext for a fascist MAGA dictatorship (05.23.2024).

Will Bunch nails it in this Philly Inquirer column on how Donald Trump's fascistic plan for mass deportations is a speed-run for a MAGA dictatorship.

[sciencelings-writes]

Happy Narumitsu Day and WIP Wednesday, here's a gay little (877 wc) snippet from my Fem!Phoenix fic

“Wright… Are you sure you’re well enough to be doing this?” Edgeworth hesitated to return her attorney's badge as its owner rolled her eyes. 

“Actually, my fever has gone down quite a bit. I’m only at a hundred and two now.” Phoenix pulled out a convincing grin, which was interrupted by a coughing fit that lasted long enough to dismiss her point of being well enough to get back to her job. 

“Always the stubbornest of women…” Edgeworth teased with a barely-there smile. 

“You’re the last person I want to hear that from,” She huffed breathlessly, taking a moment to allow her oxygen levels to normalize. She glared at the change of clothes that she had brought to Hazakura Temple that Laury brought up to the hospital. 

Her shoulders ached just thinking about the struggle it was going to be to thread her arms through the sleeves and button it up with only the use of one arm. She had tried to reach her free hand behind her head enough to anxiously scratch her neck and had decided quite quickly that she wasn’t going to do that until her bruises healed up. 

Damn, she hadn’t been able to even brush through her hair since she had taken the plunge into the killer rapids, she could not appear in court without her thick mane of black hair tamed. Typically she liked to weave it into a tight french braid, using a little gel to make all the edges look extra sharp. The look was professional but also unique. She had seen it post-eagle river in the bathroom mirror and nearly winced at the mess it had become. Just another thing she would have to deal with before she left the hospital. 

“Do you… need help?” Miles’ voice shot through her train of thought, her cheeks noticeably tinted pink.

“Yeah,” Phoenix sighed, clearly defeated, “Yeah, I think I do.” 

Which was how Phoenix found herself having a bit of a crisis, and not even of the kind she was used to. No, this crisis was about 18 years in the making, starting as babies first crush into the beast it was after all this time. Because even after everything Edgeworth has put her through, she was still completely hopeless when it came to her. 

It started with a brush running through her hair, interrupted by a firm hand that kept the tugging from reaching her tender scalp, extra sensitive due to her illness. The slight graze of manicured nails made her shiver just as much as her fever had. Oh dear, she was not going to survive this. 

“You’re fortunate that ‘falling through a bridge into a raging river’ is a good excuse for this travesty,” Edgeworth’s snide words being softened by how gentle her hands were.

“What do you mean? It looks like this every time I wake up,” Phoenix almost succeeded in keeping her voice even as Miles’ fingertips combed through the hair at her temple. She was pretty sure that wasn’t necessary and at this point, the prosecutor was just doing it to torture her. At least she could blame the flush of her face on her fever. 

“Good lord…” The other woman audibly rolled her eyes. 

Phoenix’s only distraction was the transcript of the day's court proceedings that she unfortunately had to miss. She would’ve loved witnessing Miles attempting to cross-examine Laury. That was all she envied though, everything else about the trial seemed extremely nervewracking.

“I seem to recall your preference for tying your hair up, is that something you want?” Miles’ voice interupted her mental creation of a to-do list of things to investigate. 

“Normally I would, but I don’t think it’ll help my headache,” just the slight pulling of the brush had made her wince several times, regardless of the care Miles took. “Though I kind of want to cash in on that offer later, I bet with Franziska as a sister you were forced to learn a decent variety of complicated hairstyles.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong, though Franziska took her title of older sister very seriously so it was mostly me on the receiving end of her hair experiments. Culturally it is popular for German women to be adorned in braids, at least in traditional settings, so I did end up learning my fair share. Perhaps if you are ever in need of something elaborate I could be of some use.” Miles threaded her fingers through Phoenix’s hair one last time, checking for any final snags, though it made the defense attorney's mind go blank for a moment. 

“Hmmm, now I’m wishing I got invited to more fancy parties…” Phoenix spoke after a moment too long of silence. 

“Nevertheless, your hair looks nice down,” Miles stated like it was a fact, clearly ignoring how her scalp was sweaty from the fever and how it had last been washed with river water. The way it had naturally dried pressed up against a pillow gave it a curl wilder than the curl made by the memory of a full day bound in a tight braid. 

“Let’s get you dressed,” The woman lightly patted Phoenix’s back as she turned to the bag of clothes Laury brought up.

Oh... Phoenix had forgotten about that part.

[hopeforkitten]

There's no time to explain, Tav eats marshmallows from Raphael's claws and then kisses him.

"Did you study the art of chess so hard to ask me for this?"

Their game with Tav finally ended with her victory and they announced their sweet little wish.

"That's exactly how it is."

Tav giggled as she walked away from the bed where Raphael was left alone with a chessboard.

"Princess, it seems to me that for the Raphael family this is something comparable to blasphemy."

Now Haarlep materialized behind him, lazily sinking onto the sheets and not opening his eyes.

"Then he'll have to commit this sin,"

Tav was already heading back to them, taking a small basket out of the closet.

"She keeps it in my house again."

Raphael wailed, stroking his forehead heavily with his hand. But he didn't have time for a full gesture. Tav approached and abruptly lowered the basket into the place of the board, which barely managed to disappear by the will of the now irritated Raphael.

"An unreasonable creature,"

He snorts.

"Hellfire has been available to devils and a bunch of other creatures for thousands of years, surely any blasphemy has been performed with it during this time"

Tav lets go of the basket handle and jumps back onto the bed, so that one leg is tucked under her and the other hangs to the floor.

The girl looks into the basket without even wasting time enjoying the devil's displeasure. The aroma of fresh food reaches the sensitive noses of everyone present. Tav frowns a little, finally considering his actions.

"We'll need wine for something, but so that you don't have time to change your mind, there's a faster option."

Inside the basket, she unwraps a parchment bag and a new smell, sweetness, escapes from it. Tav takes out a small white piece, somewhat checking its elasticity by looking at Raphael.

"A hand, please,"

Raphael reluctantly holds out his hand, not expressing any interest in his observation. Tav impales a white piece on two claws and shapes the hand so that the heat from the center of the palm rises to the unexpected guest on the nails. (it looks like a half-heart gesture)

"Come on, give me a flame"

Tav pulls away, it seems that stars sparkle in her eyes while she hypnotizes his hand. Raphael sighs and a greenish light flashes on his hand. The white cloud quickly darkens and no sooner does it stop than it turns black.

"Well, it's burned out,"

he said, turning his half-closed eyes back to Tav.

"Shh, that's how it should be."

Tav says and approaches the hand with his face, biting off half of the burnt sweetness, the white and soft contents do not last long after it. The girl closed her eyes for a second, tasting and mumbling with pleasure. Such a gesture finally makes Haarlep look with one eye and turn to them. Tav repeats the movement and carefully takes the rest of the sweetness from Raphael's claws.

The  girl puts another white piece in its place.

"Please repeat"

is followed by the command Tav.

"Should I try it?"

Haarlep finally purrs, getting up on his elbow.

"You'll have to work on the flame yourself"

Raphael roars, as if he is not sitting between his lovers, but as if a dozen naughty children have been hung on him and his ability to be nervous has left him.

The flame goes out, freeing the way. Raphael suddenly finds a plus, the image of his little mouse licking his fingers is quite pleasant.... Tav meets his gaze and accidentally touches the skin of his fingers with his mouth, not limited to claws alone. The devil's gaze softens.

This is repeated several more times until Tav offers to try it. The devil is already ready to fulfill her request and slowly pulls his hand to his own mouth. When Tav orders him to stop, he jumps up, balancing on her knees to be level with his face.

"Not like that."

The girl sighs briefly before snatching the treat from the claws into her mouth and clinging to the lips of the devil in a kiss. Haarlep's chuckle can be heard in the background. Tav does not open from Raphael, passing him the contents of his mouth and following him with the movements of his tongue over sharp teeth and sweet lips. And she sits down on the bed again, looking at Raphael's expression with interest. How he tastes and swallows with barely noticeable movement of his mouth.

"I didn't think that you, little mouse, would be the first to bring such games to our bed,"

says Raphael, hiding any of his impressions.

"Can I bring some creativity?"

Haarlep says, looking at them both alternately.

"It is necessary, Haarlep,"

Tav replies, not taking his satisfied, cunning eyes off Raphael.

[some-pers0n]

YOU WATCHED GODZILLA MINUS ONE LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

shaking you to talk about it

I need to just..sit and think for a minute. Give me a second..

Okay on my laptop. Now I can think. Spoilers for the movie of course (PLEASE WATCH IT PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASEEEE)

So the movie is about a war vet, Koichi Shikishima. Shikishima was originally supposed to be a kamikaze jet fighter, but had fled his position last minute by lying about having a malfunction so he could live another day. He was afraid. He loved his family and his life. He wanted to live.

That is the main framing of the movie and the thing I kept coming back to. Shikishima felt nothing but guilt for everything he had done. The movie is more namely about WWII and its effects on Japan. On its people, both physically and mentally. Shikishima was meant to die. He was conscripted, trained, and prepared specifically to go into battle and die serving his country. This came at the end of the war however, when it became abundantly clear that a US invasion was coming. Shikishima did not want to die. He held value with his life. He saw the pointlessness of dying for a crumbling empire and lied.

Godzilla in this is a manifestation of war to me. It represents the might of the atomic bomb obviously, but also the sheer destruction and chaos of it all. It represents oblivion and the firey death that comes with war. It represents trauma. It represents Shikishima's trauma. It is why Shikishima's war still rages on. That thing is still around.

Shikishima blames himself for the event at Odo Island. He sees it as the final nail in the coffin for why he shouldn't exist anymore. He was scared. Like when he ran from his duties, he too could not fire at Godzilla as it attacked innocent people who had families to go home to. Over two dozen good men died that night because Shikishima could not act. Because of Godzilla.

Godzilla is that trauma to me. Shikishima thinks himself as a man who, by all accounts, should be dead. Why was I spared? he thinks. He believes himself as a coward. It's hammered home once he returns and sees his neighbourhood turned to rubble and dying fires. His neighbour, Sumiko, berates him for his inability to fulfill his role, blaming him for the massacre that took place. She repeats back the thoughts he already held: he is a coward. He should not be alive. What more does he have to live for? His family is dead. His inaction killed several people. He is a traitor to his country.

Suicide ideation and an inability to see a point in going on was such a noticeable part of Shikishima's character to me. His trauma and PTSD haunted him for years. He felt so much shame and guilt for what happened on that island.

Yet...he finds a reason to keep going, even if he doesn't realize just how much it means. A girl taking care of a child that is not her own, orphaned by the bomb raids, falls into his care. Soon enough, he makes a life around this girl, Noriko, and the child, Akiko. He gets odd jobs for them. He brings home money and, eventually, secures a nice government job.

I know I'm recapping thus far but also like...holy shit I gotta just lay it out. The movie just is so dense with stuff. Everything connects back to the central themes of trauma, war, and hope in the face of destruction. Everything relating to Shikishima feels so real in the sense that, for a moment, everything seems okay. It's alright. He meets and befriends his crew of people (including Dr. Noda!!! my favourite character, surprising absolutely nobody!) and it looks like things are looking up.

But it resurfaces. This beast. Awakened by the continuing nuclear bomb tests by the US. It shifts and changes, growing stronger. It is fueled by the weapons that were used to destroy and kill. It is war manifest. It is Gojira.

The boat scene was probably my favourite part in the whole movie. Seeing the main cast all work together so hard to try and outrun and wade off this unstoppable force. The CGI is also just wonderful. I still adore how it tries to emulate the flaws of practical effects in this scene in particular. The looming fear of Godzilla as it rapidly approaches them is just...so good. Then, it caps off with a sliver of hope in the form of a battleship from Singapore coming to save them, only for Godzilla to instantly body it via its atomic breath.

It resurfaces and brings back memories of that awful night. Nightmares have haunted Shikishima ever since, but they're only strengthened with Godzilla had returned. He has panic attacks. The once stoic and distant Shikishima crumbles and sobs, panicking and considering more abstract ideas. He does not see himself as alive. He's convinced he died. That none of this is real. That he isn't happy. He isn't alive. He is nothing more than a dead man who, despite anything, lives on for no real purpose.

It further hammers into him that there's no real reason to keep going like that when Noriko is swept away by the blast when Godzilla attacks Tokyo. That scene with him watching as Godzilla marvels in its destruction, screaming and yelling over the death of the person he loves. Death, trauma, war. It towers over him, shrouded in a cloud of ash and smoke and glowing a radioactive blue.

He agrees to Dr. Noda's plan to stop Godzilla, but mainly as a way for him to finally do what he always thought he was meant to do. Akiko, what is virtually his daughter in the eyes of everyone but himself, constantly broke my heart man. She loves him. She calls him daddy. She calls Noriko mommy. They're family. They're something for him to live for.

The night before Shikishima leaves to go and fulfill the role of a kamikaze, taking Godzilla down with himself, Akiko draws him a picture of their family. She cries. She wants her mother back. Why isn't she back? Where is she? Why can't daddy bring her back? It's not fair.

That scene just...hurt me so much. I can't describe it honestly. A lot of scenes with Shikishima grieving and processing his trauma cut deep, but seeing Akiko cry and Shikishima, a man who will be all but alive the next day, try and console her while still thinking about how he's gonna die... Jesus fuck man. The movie is evil.

The climax is fun, yet incredibly tense. I was on the edge of my seat the entire time. I knew that they would all be fine in the end and that Shikishima obviously must have had an eject seat installed, but I couldn't help but be engrossed into it. I think what mainly got me was seeing the citizens work together. It was emblematic of what I think is the overall message of the movie: hope. Hope to keep living. You cannot take on trauma by yourself and need a whole slew of people to support you.

Shikishima, in that fighter plane that was meant to a battle that never was, soars into the mouth of Godzilla mere seconds before it fires upon the ships. Right before the ship reaches, he pulls the eject button and survives. He...found his reason to keep going. Even if Noriko is gone, he wants to live. Even if the trauma may not fully be defeated, he wants to live. He needs to live, not just for Akiko, but for his friends. For himself. To let it known that Godzilla itself cannot take him down. He will persist in the face of oblivion manifest.

It's such an amazing movie okay? I'm just left in absolute awe at it. This and Shin Godzilla are so great. I loved Shin's portrayal of the incapability of the Japanese government in the face of disaster, namely taking inspiration from the ever-evolving disaster of the earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear meltdown. Minus One however shows the toll of trauma and war on the population. It effects the people. While Shin Godzilla is a satire of the government, Minus One Godzilla shows the horrors of being an ordinary person during it all.

Minus One Godzilla is horrifying. Every time it pops up I feel nothing but dread. I read somewhere that it's one of the smaller Godzilla designs, but honestly I don't think that took away from it whatsoever. Its staying presence is so strong that I can't honestly see it as being weak or tiny for it.

The movie's constant themes and message of moving past trauma and living in spite of everything is just so powerful too. There is so much good in life. You cannot let war and hopelessness consume you. You need to keep moving forward. The final confrontation of Godzilla is emblematic of it all. It's so good man. I love this movie so so so very much...

[amethystina]

If you had to put Yohan and Gaon in a parallel universe, what would it be? Bcs I've been thinking about how would they be in a zombie apocalypse scenario (it's definitely very angst)

I can think of several and my brain tends to let the ideas percolate at the back of my mind whether I want them to or not x'D So, at random, it'll present me with fully formed stories complete with a complex plot and everything that's been slowly pieced together while I wasn't looking.

Admittedly, I haven't thought of a Zombie AU, though, probably because I don't like the doom and gloom of it (she says while having written a 100k Zombie AU for another fandom where one of the main characters is a literal zombie x'D ).

ANYWAY. Here are some ideas that have been living in my brain rent-free for a while:

Soulmate AU:

While everybody believes in soulmates, not everyone is lucky enough to dream of their fated other half. Yo Han does, however. They start during his teenage years, as is customary, and he can't say he's surprised when it's Isaac's familiar face he sees. He's quite relieved, in all honesty, since he'd much rather have a platonic soulmate than a romantic one. It's less messy that way.

Fate proves him wrong the day Isaac dies in that godforsaken fire and Yo Han devotes the rest of his life to avenging his soulmate's death. That seems to be the only way to fill the void inside of him.

But then, just as Yo Han is getting ready to set his ten-year plan in motion, everything gets thrown on its head.

He meets Kim Ga On.

Suddenly, Yo Han isn't sure who he's seeing in his dreams. Is it Isaac or this young, idealistic judge — who Yo Han soon realises has been sent to spy on him? And, even if it is Kim Ga On he's dreaming about, does that truly change anything? Everything has already been set in motion and, soulmate or not, Yo Han wants revenge for what happened to his brother.

And what's to say that Kim Ga On — so brilliant and righteous — would even want Yo Han as his soulmate? His despise for Yo Han is evident so, clearly, fate must have made a mistake this time.

Someone that pure could never love a monster like him.

(Ga On dreams, too, and they're always the same. He never sees his soulmate's face, only roaring flames and a crumbling building. Ga On assumes that means his soulmate is dead. Why else would he find himself trapped inside that burning inferno every time he dreams? Surely he would have seen something else by then if the person was still alive?

Not once does it cross his mind that, maybe, his soulmate just needs to find a reason to start living again...)

___

Black Knight AU:

Joining a group of rebel refugees wasn't so much a choice for Ga On as a necessity. He hates to see the suffering around him, people dying from lack of oxygen and food, their numbers dwindling by the day.

Ga On wants a better future for all of them and he'll fight tooth and nail to get it — even if that means tearing down the old world order and demanding a new one.

Fortunately for the rebels, they have someone on the inside helping them. Ga On has never met this person — known only as the Benefactor — but it's clear that he must be from the core district. Only someone at the very top would have the kind of power and influence that the Benefactor does, providing the rebels with information and supplies through the network of deliverymen and military personnel at his disposal. Ga On doesn't know why someone at the core district would want to bring down the very system that keeps him rich, but Ga On will take whatever help he can get.

And then — as if Ga On doesn't already have enough to deal with — things get complicated the day the rebels intercept what they think is a supply delivery but turns out to be a travel convoy. And the man at its centre is clearly from the core district judging by his pristine suit and flawless appearance. Usually, that would make him a valuable hostage, but there's something different about this man.

Not only does he not seem the least bit afraid to find himself in the midst of a group of armed refugee rebels, but he also fixates on Ga On in a way that's downright unsettling. Ga On doesn't understand why.

Nor does he understand why he keeps feeling an inexplicable and wholly inappropriate pull towards the man. Ga On knows absolutely nothing about him aside from the fact that he's clearly very rich, unnervingly intelligent and, as it soon turns out, incredibly dangerous. How can Ga On be attracted to someone so ruthless and selfish?

The only core district dweller Ga On feels even the slightest bit of respect for is the Benefactor and this Kang Yo Han is the polar opposite. Ga On shouldn't feel drawn to him.

And yet, against better knowledge, he does.

And it feels more like a question of when he'll succumb, rather than if.

(This story has everything! Rebels! Eating of the rich! Delicious identity porn! Explosions! Elijah calling Ga On literal trash that Yo Han dragged in from the gutter!

... it would probably also be pretty long so let's hope I don't succumb to the urge to write it)

___

Historical Vampire AU:

After Ga On's parents die, he fully expects to end up on the streets and starve to death. Fortunately for him, a local scholar takes him on as an apprentice instead, teaching him how to read and write.

He feels incredibly indebted to Scholar Min and so, many years later, when Ga On is asked to accept a position as assistant to a rich but mysterious lord just outside the city, he of course does so. The position is a mere cover, however. In actuality, Ga On will be spying on Kang Yo Han in hopes of finding out if he's secretly supporting the uprising that's brewing in their region.

More than once, Scholar Min tells Ga On that he must be careful — that the mission is incredibly dangerous. But it's not until he actually arrives at Lord Kang's estate that Ga On understands why Scholar Min kept repeating all those dire warnings.

Not only is Kang Yo Han aloof and deeply unsettling — his gaze filled with something that could only be described as hunger whenever he looks at Ga On — but he doesn't seem to eat, rarely sleeps, and never ventures outside during the day. Only once darkness falls does he leave the estate and, sometimes, he doesn't return until just before dawn.

Before long, Ga On begins to wonder if Kang Yo Han isn't just involved in the uprising, but might also be the cause for the dead bodies that have been found strewn around the city the past couple of months.

And, somehow, Ga On has to find proof to support his theory — preferably without becoming a target himself.

(A.k.a. if you thought Ga On's neck kink in Who Holds the Devil was bad? Think again, bitches)

___

Aside from these, there are also the two parallel universe stories I have already started: Gravitational Pull which is basically meant to be a series of one-shots that divert from the original canon by changing one small detail in each installment. And then The Devil's Due which is a Different First Meeting AU where they meet when Ga On is still a teenager and that throws everything out of order (because Yo Han accidentally kickstarts Ga On's gay awakening a lot sooner than usual and, after that, all bets are off)

So yeah. I could probably think of several more but let's stop here for now xD

(And don't ask me why I chose to write these ideas as if they're fanfic summaries because they definitely aren't fanfics yet)

[johnlennonofficial]

Happy 2024 let’s talk about “Now and Then”

I’m not here to argue about quality or production or that chilling music video. I need you to really, truly, fully look at this from an open, honest viewpoint.

“Now and Then”, from the perspective of John Lennon, is absolutely, completely, mortifyingly embarrassing.

I think it’s fairly straightforward to deduce that the topic of this material is most likely Paul. Many of John Lennon’s post-Beatles songs mention this concept of rewinding time and starting again, often accompanying references to Beatles songs. Along with “Now and Then”, I think of “(Just Like) Starting Over”, “Real Love”, and “I’m Losing You”. There’s this misconception that in the ‘house husband’ period, John was happy as a dad and baked bread and took care of his kids. In actuality, according to Julian in Cynthia Lennon’s book John, John was deeply depressed and hardly left his bed most days. His plea to return back to a time before appears to be pre-house husband, and the wording seems similar to the language he shared with Paul.

With this context, “Now and Then” comes across as an attempt to have Paul in his life again. The language goes beyond platonic to this strange other realm. The fact of the matter is, his word choice is strange to share between friends, and truly comes off more as romantic.

Then, we get to Paul’s response. Paul doesn’t see this language as ‘romantic’, because it’s the language he and John have always used with one another. Paul has never, ever been good at picking up on social cues and is stuck in this zone of John was not gay because he “…never made a pass at me, darlin’.” Bless his heart, but he’s reading these lyrics and he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know it’s about him.

Because if Paul McCartney received such a personal confession of love from a man who was his closest friends for YEARS, he would NEVER have released it. This song is a coming out, and more blatant than any John released before. But Paul doesn’t know that because he cannot fathom the fact that John may be interested in him, no matter how many times it’s been clearly stated.

Paul saw a song by John, thought it was good, produced it, and released it. He released something akin to John’s diary to be forever memorialized as the last Beatles song, and he did so naively.

If you truly, truly believe for one second that John Lennon, a man who hit someone for insinuating he might be gay, a man whose heartbreak lead him to a stubborn feud with his muse, a man who wills rather drag nails in flesh than share more than innuendos to the public eye, would appreciate this being shared, you are either wildly out of touch or are in complete denial.

This song is not cute. It’s not romantic.

“Now and Then” is John Lennon’s waking nightmare. He’s alligator rolling in his grave. He’s ashes are so heated they’re 99% of the cause of climate change.

I propose that if you hate John Lennon or feel he deserves the humiliation of having a confession of love stripped bare before billions of people, go right ahead and continue talking about it. Keep listening. But pushing the piece forward with no regard of its obvious meaning, as a Beatles fan, is doing a severe injustice to the man you claim to love.

[cicidarkarts]

Joonam - Chapters 1-5

Summary: Idrees grapples with his past identity and the war he's witnessed. Fettered by fear and anxiety, he isolates himself and ruminates on all of his mistakes. But when he meets a tourist and falls in love with her, he's forced to confront everything that keeps him suffocated. cw: trauma, child abuse, violence against women, religion, ocd rituals, blood, violence, sex, abusive/toxic relationships: 18+

Chapter 1: Stock Duty

He had the cleanest hands of all the employees. Mostly because he obsessed over washing them with a gusto that would leave even the most ardent germophobes wincing. Idrees got a reminder of this whenever his boss sent him to restock shelves, where he had at least an hour to stare at his dried skin and gleaming fingernails. He kept them short so he wouldn't have to think about how they looked with dirt and blood caked under them. He refused offers of lotion from some of the women he worked with because, though it would alleviate the dryness, the sliminess of war-tainted mud made his skin crawl.

He lived in a big tourism area in India now. His workplace was just off the beaten path that they mostly saw locals. Sometimes, he saw a couple of the men he knew from his days in the Taliban; he always conveniently had to check the back whenever he noticed them. If the memories weren't enough to scare him off, their scowls toward him and shitty attitudes toward his female coworkers ensured his retreat. At least the back was quiet and the crappy lights were dim. He didn't have to stare at his hands that never seemed clean enough.

Cleaning duty was the easiest for him, because he had to wear threadbare gloves. The peace and quiet of the back shelves allowed the menial chores to take over the noise of his mind. Just wipe down the shelves and move the cans along, then go to the next shelf. Cans clinked together as he moved, sounds that ensured he could stay present, all while focusing fully on the steps of his task.

“Hey, Idrees,” said the shopkeep as she joined him. “Anush,” he greeted. “How are you doing after the rush?” He looked at her, focusing on that deep scar along her cheek, mustering up as much conviction as he could. “Fine.” “If you need to use my office again—” “I’m fine,” he said, a little snippier than he’d intended.

She went quiet. The perpetual scowl on her face hid a look of sympathy in her eyes Idrees had come to know unfortunately well. He gripped his mop handle and wiped the floors.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I wasn’t trying to—” “It’s okay, you’re gonna be mad at me anyway.” He gave her a defeated look, watching as she pushed down her hijab to slick back her hair once again. She said, “‘Cuz I’m about to put you on stock duty.”

A tension inflated in his chest—pushing against his lungs and sitting on his stomach. He released the building sigh.

“Wish I didn’t have to,” she continued. “But the girls have their hands full after that rush. And there’s a pretty big shipment that just came in, so I need someone on stock duty.”  “Yes, ma’am,” he capitulated.

Lead-legged and hands firmly by his sides, he trudged to the back and through its refrigerated chill. He needed to keep this job. It was just enough to afford the necessities and he couldn’t lose all of that now. Anush had been accommodating for many years and he owed her some amount of loyalty. She once let him bunker down in her office to sit in front of the fan, during a particularly busy shift no less. All the noise had made him think far too much…

As he ripped off his cleaning gloves, exposing his sweaty hands to frigid air, he thought too much once again; about how only the cool breeze and sounds of Anush’s office fan had stopped the racket from overtaking his mind. He grasped the faucet of the utility sink so hard that the skin beneath his nails changed color. He turned the faucet onto a warm setting and got to work scrubbing his hands.

Lathering up, he kept thinking about Anush’s office. She’d offered it to him several times, after once having witnessed him tear his nails across his palms as he cleansed them. The water had been steaming for so long that a thin layer of sweat had dotted his forehead. His stomach clenched when he remembered the look of horror on her stoic face upon seeing his raw, bleeding hands.

So he kept the sink low today, ensuring that Anush wouldn’t panic even if she saw him now. He didn’t want her wasting her sympathy on him anymore. She’d already done so much. Perhaps, though, that was because she didn't know the full story—just that he was forced to fight in a war. If she knew he'd once been a member of a totalitarian, misogynistic regime, he wondered if she'd treat him with less respect and sympathy.

His hand slammed against the faucet to turn it off; he needed to get it over with in as fast a motion as possible. If he didn’t, he feared he wouldn’t know when to stop. The cheap, rough paper towels felt like pumice on his dry skin.

He continued on to the warm air of the warehouse. The smell of fuel from the truck kept his mind off stock duty. Men called to each other, trying to coordinate stacking the dollies and sorting the boxes. A man in a thick, heavy turban dragged a few supplies in on a creaking three-legged dolly. He greeted Idrees with a smile and a wave.

“Anush got you working as stock boy again?” the man teased, scratching at his greyish beard. “Sadly.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead and sat heavily upon a box, which bent and deformed underneath him. “You'll have the back of a seventy year old before you retire.” “So will you.” “Ah, but you're too smart for all of this, eh, Idrees? This was the best I could do.” “That's not true, Nikan. You're not stupid.” “Hey!” called Nikan’s supervisor. “Less talking, more unloading!” “Right,” Nikan said to Idrees. “I'm so smart I'm slacking on the job while Mayur the Dictator is my supervisor.”

Idrees continued about his work as Nikan went to fetch more stock. He strained to transfer the crates onto the stocking cart, then wheeled them out into the store. He could've stayed to chat with Nikan all afternoon if it meant avoiding restock duty. But he did his rounds anyway. It kept him afloat in this city, as far away from his past as he could go.

Though he was content for the most part, he knew it wouldn’t last long. Not with stock duty. It made his mind wander far too much again—about his past and his present. The city offered cars that didn't plume smoke every time they sputtered to life, pristine buildings without graffiti or crumbling foundations, and people living free lives not confined to extremist dogma and laws. It had taken a while getting used to women uncovered, speaking and laughing loudly with their friends, and reading for leisure on dinner dates with themselves. The more he saw their happiness, the more his stomach churned when he remembered the women under Taliban rule.

He never wanted to go back to seeing a woman beaten all because she dared speak in the presence of one of his own. He never wanted to feel like he had to keep his mouth shut or suffer the same fate of the woman being whipped, child in her protective arms, because a Talib caught her in public without a mahram. He never—

His heart was pounding. He focused on a packet of food and read bits of the label. Microwaveable—both in Hindi and bold English letters. “Authentic”. Right. What kind of person who wanted to microwave their dinner cared about authenticity anyway? A tourist, most likely. At least it got him out of his thoughts.

“Excuse me?” someone asked.

He looked over to see a white woman. Not that it was a shock. Her accent gave it away.

“Can you help?” she asked, struggling a bit and overly-enunciating everything. “I speak English,” he said. Her tense posture relaxed instantly. “Oh, thank god. I was seriously gonna make a fool of myself if I kept trying. My Hindi is not up to par.”

Her cheeks turned pink and she readjusted her wire frame glasses. He noticed immediately that the entirety of her being screamed homebody. Tourists that came in often had their hair done and makeup applied (to varying degrees of success), and many had sun-kissed skin. But her unruly hair looked like it only ever saw a brush. Her strawberry blonde roots poked through the black dye, and a blemish here and slightly pocked cheek there showed she didn't spend time primping herself.

“Um, I have a list here.” She lifted up her half-empty hand basket. “Most of the things I’ve found. Could you show me where a few other things are?” “Yes, what do you need?”

She read off the first item on her list which was, funnily enough, the authentic tourist packet in his hand. He gave it to her. She cocked a brow at him until she read the packet. When the realization dawned on her and she giggled, the sound released several days worth of tension from his shoulders. They’d been up against his neck for so long, he’d only just remembered what it felt like to unclench his spine. After she quieted down, his muscles crept back up.

She put the packet in her cart, as well as another style of curry. Her next item was a little more complicated. The spices could be difficult to tell apart without knowing how to read Hindi so he took her to the spice aisle and helped her pick out the proper bottles.

“You trying to make curry?” he asked, putting some turmeric and garam masala in her basket. “Yeah, I am. Figured I'd try something authentic while I'm here.” “And that's why you bought a microwaveable alternative.” “That's for laziness.”

His lips twitched as he picked out a couple of items not on her list but would make her curry better—fenugreek, coriander.

She grinned. “Thank you, I'll give them a try!”

Her brown eyes lit up alongside her smile. She looked and dressed so young it was almost a shock to see her without her mama or baba. He supposed never seeing sunlight could do that to a person.

“Last thing,” she said, reading over her list. “I think I'm just dumb or blind but I can't find your jams.” “They are a bit hidden.”

He took her into the next aisle where an entire floor to top shelf selection of jams awaited her. She fiddled with her glasses, face turning red. 

“I thought you said it was hidden,” she said. “This is staring me right in the face. Look, this one is eye level and it says marmalade on it in English.”

She picked up a jar of orange marmalade just to glare at it. His lips twitched again, pulling back into a smile that felt so alien on his face. Another strange feeling crept up on him, too. Like a little bubble in his chest wanting so badly to break through. He cleared his throat and his lungs relaxed, banishing the oncoming laughter.

“Were you looking for a specific flavor?” he asked.  “Well, I like grape and cherry the most but I want to go outside my comfort zone. Is there something locals prefer?” “Ah, yes, so you can make authentic toast.” “Exactly!” “Can't go wrong with strawberry or apricot.” “Apricot sounds dope.” He paused and gave her a look. “And that's… good?” “Oh! Um, yeah. Sorry. Your English is really good so I just— am gonna shut up.” She looked away and ran a hand down her hair. “Apricot, please.”

He put an inexpensive but good jar of apricot marmalade in her basket. When their eyes met again, a little tickle of butterflies in his stomach hit him. She was cute, and the fact that she nearly made him break employee character several times was nothing short of a miracle. He wanted to ask her out to dinner, but… He frowned when he thought of how her pretty smile could be marred and dirtied by his filthy, disgusting hands.

“Thank you for the help,” she said. “My pleasure.” “Maybe I'll see you next week!” This made his heavy face lighten. “I hope so.”

They waved their goodbyes and she headed off to one of the cashiers. The cashier, a most annoyingly perceptive woman called Kanta, glanced to Idrees, back to the American, then to him again. She smirked and gave him a wink and a thumbs-up while the American unloaded her basket.

The American noticed Kanta’s gesture and turned back to look at him. Idrees’ face grew hot; hotter as he whipped around the corner and heard the faint sound of them giggling. Was that her flirting? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a pity giggle. 

He tried to continue his restocking duty as normal, which meant more thinking and overthinking. Particularly his interaction with that tourist. Despite her friendly attitude, Idrees knew that she was just being polite. He'd seen his fair share of attempted small talk. The weird part to him was how much he contributed. Typically—he pondered as he unloaded more of his cart—he would find nothing interesting to say back. Holding a conversation with that woman came out effortlessly, like he felt a strong need to keep up with her pace.

“Idrees!” called Anush from across the store. “Yeah?” he called back. “Got some baskets in the parking lot from the rush!” “On it.”

Anush had a way of doing that. She would put him on stock duty, then feel bad about putting him on stock duty and give him a different, menial job. Usually one that involved fresh air. Given the way his palms itched and crept, he welcomed the break.

Idrees headed to the sink and gave his hands another rough washing. His nails dug into his palms to relieve that horrible skittering across his flesh. The harder he pushed, the more he thought about that tourist. She smiled at him, thinking he was a kind and decent man. He couldn't bear the thought of having that smile warp into horror if she ever found out who he really was.

He slammed the faucet off once the steam spread a film of sweat across his upper lip. Then came those damn scratchy towels. Fresh air would indeed do him some good.

Outside in the hot Indian air, Idrees collected several of the store's black handcarts. Where all too many people left their cart out on the asphalt, that American tourist had put hers in the collection bin. He thought about her laugh again. How it made her pretty face light up. He could almost hear her voice. 

“No, really, it's just not a good time for me.”

He perked up his position hunched over a discarded basket. Okay, he really did hear her voice. 

“Ah, is just one night.” That sounded like a man. 

Idrees whirled around to see the tourist at the bus stop near the store. An older man loomed over her, looking at least twice her size. She gave him a grin he recognized instantly. That “I really wish you weren't talking to me but I'm being polite” grin his coworkers had used on many creepy men. The tourist took a step away but the man kept close. 

“I really don't think my boyfriend would like that much,” she said. “He doesn't have to know.” Idrees dropped the baskets and speed walked up to them. When he drew close enough, he demanded, “What's going on here?”

The American whipped around so fast it was a miracle she didn't drop her grocery bags. Her pleading eyes met his, twinkling as though she just found her salvation.

“Babe, you made it!” she said, hurrying up to him with an arm outstretched.

She tossed it around his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. He took her other bag and returned the one-armed embrace.

“I was so worried you wouldn’t get off work on time,” she said. “Sorry,” he apologized, trying to sound strong and confident. “I had to stay a little late. You know my boss is a hard-ass. Who’s your friend?” She stayed close to him as she faced the older man. “He was just talking with me, I don't really know him.”

The old man looked between her and Idrees. There were a few grey streaks in his beard but he was large and intimidating. Idrees stood his ground, staring him down, familiar muscles tensing and aching from sedentary use. The rush of memories that hit him made his palms creep and he dug his nails into them.

“Well,” said the man, taking a step back, “you guys have a good one.” “You, too,” said Idrees.

The man scurried off. Idrees kept his arm around her shoulders and he leaned closer to speak privately. 

“You okay?” “Yeah, thank you. That guy was so persistent, he was freaking me out. I told him I had a boyfriend and he just didn't care. Lucky you came along when you did.” “Need me to stay for a while?” She frowned. “I wouldn't want you to get in trouble at work.” He smiled to ease her sour face. “No, my boss is a very nice woman. She'll understand.”

They sat together on the bench. Idrees kept looking over to ensure the man wouldn’t return. 

“So” he said, trying to keep the subject off her encounter, “you're on vacation?” “It's my cousin's wedding. Her fiancée wanted to go back to his home country so I'm here for a few weeks helping to get everything ready. Can't really blame her for wanting to move here. My aunt is a bitch.” “And your boyfriend, is he back home or—?” “Oh, I don't have a boyfriend. I just said that to get that guy off my back. Didn't even work. To be fair, sometimes it doesn't work back home, either.” “Yes, it doesn’t work for my coworkers, either.” “Maybe if these guys tried a different method, women wouldn’t find them as creepy. I mean, that dude wasn’t even worth a date of microwavable curry.”

That finally broke him enough to let out a little chuckle with her. Maybe it was from the odd relief in his muscles, knowing that she didn’t have a boyfriend. Or maybe this liberation came from being out in the open air with no worries of coworkers teasing him. He could almost hear Kanta: “Idrees, I’ve never heard you laugh before!”. His laughter, so foreign in his ears, gave his heart a little jump.

As their mirth faded, she gazed down the street. “And there's my bus. Thanks again for having my back.” “It was no problem.”

He watched her gather her bags. He'd already failed at making a move before. But her earlier embrace still held onto him, warm and relaxing. Seeing her in the bright sun, how it illuminated her face and made her smile glow, loosened up his tongue.

“I'd like to see you again,” he said.

She paused. Her eyes scanned him and he became horribly aware all of his flaws: patchy mustache that he still couldn't grow out, rather long in the face, hair always a messy mop, unibrow that refused to go away even after plucking and shaving, and that chip in his tooth that made him want to hide his smile from her…

He might as well have been naked. He wanted to hide away and put his words back in his mouth. But then she smiled and bit her lip, and all of that withered away under the sun. Her cheeks turned that wonderful, cute shade of pink and she twirled a lock of her hair.

“Do you have a pen?” she asked.   He retrieved it from his vest pocket and she tore off a bit of her paper bag. She wrote something down on it then handed it to him. 

“Here's the number to my hotel room. You should call me sometime.”

She stood up and hailed the bus. When she turned to grab her bags, he wanted to say goodbye, but realized he didn't know her name.

“I'm Idrees,” he blurted out, feeling kind of stupid after he realized it was on his nametag (then stupider still when he remembered she couldn't read Hindi). “I'm Cece. It was nice meeting you, Idrees.”

She collected her bags and boarded the bus. A few others went in behind, none of them being the old man. She took a window seat near him and waved goodbye, her face bright and smiling, washing away his insecurities and leaving his mind hazy with bliss. He waved back—too stunned to do anything else—and watched as the bus took her away.

Chapter 2: Noon Chai

He picked up the phone and held the receiver in his slick hand. The dial tone bleated at him. Part of him wanted to take it as a warning, telling him not to call, telling him not to drag her down into his mess. But she'd only be around for a couple of months. Anything that he dragged her into would be left in India after she was gone. At least, he hoped that would be the case as his quivering fingers input her hotel number.

He sat at his dining table, trying to keep his breathing steady as he waited through those shrill rings.

“Hello?”

It was her. His heart felt like it stopped working. His lungs stiffened like they were being crushed. He took a breath and everything worked once more. But now he'd waited too long to answer, hadn't he? His tongue flopped uselessly. He tried to force his words by first clearing his throat. 

“Hey,” he said, heart jumping at how high pitched he sounded. So he opened up his throat and lowered his voice until he found his normal cadence. “Hey. It's Idrees.” “Oh, hey! My hero! Finished helping old ladies cross the street and rescuing kittens from trees just in time to check up on me.” He wanted so badly to match her energy, have a conversation light and playful, but his unpracticed voice was weak and made his stomach lurch. “I have a very busy schedule.”

Her responding giggle made his nerves relax yet again. That laugh. He would have to hear it more. It was like getting a relaxing massage, or eating those first few bites of a delicious meal, and the aftermath kept him floaty and light.

“I called because, uh,” he started, hoping and praying that he'd keep up with her. “I actually cleared my, er, good Samaritan schedule and was thinking, um…” The steam was running out and fast. His nerves out lasted his vocal chords and he trailed off.  “You wanna go out sometime?” she asked.  He shot up straight and bashed his knee into the table. He bit down the pain to avoid it coming through in his voice. “Yes. I'd really like that. Was hoping soon since you won't be here for too long.” “Yeah! Tomorrow?” Somehow, his knee didn't hurt at all. “That would be great. I get off at four. There's this really small tea shop I like to go to called Noon Chai. It's, um, authentic.” “Ooh, now you're talking. I'd love to go, Idrees.”

With the shock of getting her number gone, he took in how she pronounced his name. She didn’t have a roll to her R, the I was much gentler—her pronunciation was clumsy and cute. He wanted to hear it from her lips and accent again and again. And hopefully he would very soon. He gave her the location and they agreed to meet up at 4:30.

“Great,” he said, his nerves betraying him with an anxiety-laden chuckle. “I can't wait.” Oh, he was coming on too strong, wasn't he? “Sounds like fun! I'll see you tomorrow. Bye, Idrees!” That smile in her voice as she said his name had his hands soaked with sweat. He pushed through his constricted throat. “Bye, Cece.”

She hung up and he tossed himself back against his chair. His landline fell to the floor as he gazed at the ceiling in disbelief that their conversation truly happened. Not even that throbbing pain in his knee would bring him down. 

Idrees sat outside the tea shop on their crappy patio. Two chairs and what was basically a crate—“Al fresco” some tourist had called it. And when he found out what that meant, one of the employees, his friend Manu found it so hilarious that the nickname stuck.

But his memories and the warm breeze could only keep him occupied for so long. It was already almost 5:00 and they were supposed to meet at 3:30. Why hadn't she shown up yet? Had she forgotten? Even though they'd just spoken about it less than 24 hours ago…

His hands prickled. He couldn't blame her. Not just his unruly hair or unmanageable unibrow—his entire being radiated remnants of his past. He'd come to learn that women could sense that sort of thing. Cece was no different, surely. She felt his sins and decided it was best to never show back up in his life again.

Or worse, she was battered and broken on the ground, somehow, someway. His palms crept and his hands quivered. Some man hurt her; some man saw her—vulnerable and weak—and did horrible things, and he wasn’t there to stop it. He thought back to that creep at the bus stop. If he hadn’t been there— 

His hand shot into his pocket and snatched his bottle of sanitizer. His palms tingled like bugs crawled through his flesh. He doused them in the sanitizer and scrubbed, getting all over his dry palms and between the stiff webs of his fingers. The strong odor of alcohol wafted about him, familiar, safe, furthering the ease of his mind. His skin calmed. He glanced through the window to the clock again. 5:00.

Idrees sighed. No, she had to be okay. He'd just set his sights too high, that was all. If he'd just kept his head down and his mouth shut, he wouldn't have had to face her rejection. But he’d forced her hand, and now… He shifted forward in his seat, preparing to stand—

“Idrees!” called Cece.

His gaze shot up. She jogged toward him from the street, waving and smiling. And bouncing. If only time slowed down like on television. Yet he was still able to take in so many of her features in those short moments. Her thick locks flying behind her, her eyes shining bright beyond her glasses, and a poorly fastened shawl that slipped down her shoulder.

“I'm so sorry I'm late!” she said, reaching him and trying to fix her shawl. “The bus broke down and they said they were sending a new one and ten minutes passed and— Anyway, I walked here, so sorry if I look like a mess.” “It's fine. I'm just glad you're okay.”

She beamed and absently readjusted her scarf. Her unruly hair was a bit wild from her run but she fixed it after a couple of passes with her fingers. Thank goodness she hadn't stood him up or—he tried not to even think about it—gotten hurt. The date could've easily been him admiring her here in the street as she giggled and talked and ran her hands through her hair, but he figured that'd be a pretty lame date for her. So he motioned toward the cafe and followed her inside. 

The small building wasn't the most remarkable, as the stone floors were a bit dusty and the monotone bronze furniture a little cramped, but it was as local and authentic as she could get. The smile never left her face so he hoped she was enjoying it and not just being nice.

“Hey, Idrees!” The cafe owner, Kalidasa, called to him in Hindi.

Idrees greeted him back as he pulled out a chair for Cece to take. He sat across from her. There were menus on the wooden table in a little cubby and he took it out to read the options to her. Just a few minutes later, Manu approached their table.

“Hey, Idrees,” Manu greeted in Hindi. “Getting the usual today?” “Yes, and my friend will be ordering, too.”

He motioned toward Cece. Manu gave him a funny look and glanced over as if this was a joke, only to do a double take when he saw her. He smirked at Idrees, then gave a little bow to Cece.

“Ah, sorry, my English… not very good,” said Manu. “I didn't realize Idrees has… friends.” “Yes, yes,” said Idrees in English, too. “I get it.”

Cece gave Idrees a most sympathetic sort of smile—the same kind of smile he’d gotten far too often at work. He avoided her eye and stuck his nose instead into the menu, despite knowing exactly what he was going to get. When Cece tried to give her order in supremely botched Hindi, Manu struggled to keep it together. Her face was red halfway through. 

“I'm sorry,” she said in English. “I'm trying my best, I had to learn Hindi in less than a month.” “No, no,” said Manu. “Is not bad. Better than some tourists. You should hear some of the crazy—”

Kalidasa yelled at Manu to get back to work so Manu ensured their order was right and left to wait on another customer.

“Wow,” said Cece. “They all know you here.” “I come here now and again.” “It's been five years!” Manu called in English.  Kalidasa snapped at him again.  “Five years, huh?” asked Cece. “The tea here must be delicious.” “Well, when you don't have time to make your own tea, you end up coming to holes-in-the-wall. But I figured it's as authentic as it gets.” “Yeah, this is really cool! Going to a place that you know well is way more interesting than going to some shitty tourist trap.”

Their tea came out first and Manu teased Idrees in Hindi about his “unending smile”. Cece giggled behind her hand. Idrees gave him a dirty look and lightly kicked his shin, wanting to remind Manu that Cece did know some Hindi. But Manu already had an awkward expression and was scratching at his nose. He clearly got the uncomfortable message before heading back out to work. Occasionally 

“Not very smiley?” she asked.  He stirred a sugar packet into his Assam tea. “What makes you say that?” “Well, your coworker for one. She told me you rarely smile for anyone.” His face grew hot and his heart leapt. “Did she now…” “Oops, did I get her in trouble?”

Though he knew it was a simple joke, there was still a part of his brain that couldn't stand the notion of it. He tried to laugh it off, but he guessed his chuckle sounded forced or uncomfortable given the way her grin fell. They thankfully had no chance to discuss it as Manu returned with their food.

Cece looked too adorable with her overflowing excitement. He hadn't found much joy in the food and tea here lately, but his apathy slowly dissipated in the wake of her enthusiasm. That zest for trying new things would rub off on him, he feared. The way her eyes sparkled as she devoured her raj kachori—a far cry from his classic and rather boring dal chawal—wasn’t helping.

“This is so good!” she gushed, a cheek still stuffed. “So much better than takeout where I’m from. I’m so jealous; India seems way cooler than America.” “I wouldn’t know since I don’t know anything about America.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie. He hardly thought warring troops taught him anything substantial about American life. “Do you like living in India?” she asked between crunching bites of food.  “Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “It's fine. Peaceful enough where I live. Is it peaceful where you live?” “Oh, it's gorgeous. Forest all around, off the main road, so I'm surrounded by nature. It's the only place I can stand living.”

It was so strange to him seeing someone revel in solitude. He couldn't think of anyone else who would willingly isolate themselves. Whenever he trapped himself alone in his apartment, his mind wandered far too much. Having someone beside him, to distract or even console him, sounded like too much of a blessing to throw away. Though even he had to admit the constant chattering and bike engines humming grated in his ears on some of his worst days. 

“Besides,” she continued, “it’s best for me to live alone. No one wants to hear my terrible singing.” “I do!” called Manu as he passed. “Are you any good?” Idrees asked. Because if you're not—” “Hey, woah, woah, I'll have you know that I'm incredible. Here, listen to this, you nonbeliever.”

She proceeded to sing the worst rendition of a kid's song he'd heard, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Luckily, just the first few lines. Even though it sounded terrible and grated in his ears—and a customer that walked in during it walked right back out—and it made Manu slow clap in the silence that followed—there was something endearing about it. Idrees couldn't imagine singing so poorly and off-key on purpose without some mastery over his voice that he didn't possess. Still, he joined in Manu's mocking slow clap.

She bowed her head. “Thank you, thank you, you're a wonderful audience.” “You're scarin’ my customer off!” called Kalidasa in Hindi. “Sorry,” she apologized, holding down a giggle with her cheeks turning red.

But the customer peeked his head back in.

“That was… great,” said Idrees.  “Thanks! Been honing my skills for a long time.” “What, like five minutes?” She laughed, and it gave his stomach butterflies to be the funny one for a change. “No, try twenty-some years. I've always loved to sing. Bet that made my mom real happy, given she named me Cecelia after the patron saint of music or some shit. Wanted me to sing in our church choir. She's lucky I love a captive audience.”

Maybe it was the way she cussed a lot, or that she was dressed in all-black despite the scorching weather, but Idrees couldn't imagine Cece at a church. The very thought of it made his palms creep and tingle.

“So you're religious?” He must've been on fire today because she laughed again. “No way, and it drives my mom insane. Nah, I've always been ambivalent to that sort of thing. That said, I can sing a mean Noel.” She rolled her eyes and grabbed hold of her straw. “It's a curse.”

There was a lull in the conversation as she drank. He didn't really know what ambivalent meant, but her not being religious sounded about right. She didn't seem the type to care. Weight that had crept up on his chest disappeared then, letting him breathe a bit easier, but that tingling was still there. He tried to will it away, tried to ignore it, but then…

“What about you?” she asked. “Figure we already went there. Are you religious?” “I…” His palms crept and the tingling traveled up his arms. He couldn't ignore it. It would overtake him if he tried. His hand dove into his pocket and he grabbed the hand sanitizer. He squeezed about half a palmful out. “I don't know.”

Her playful face fell to a frown and her eyes wandered as she took another sip off her straw. He couldn't blame her. Who would want to watch his shame? Who would want to observe that his only salvation, the only thing that kept his body and mind calm, was the sanitizer—its fumes, its feeling. But before he had a chance to put it away, Cece came back to him with a gentle smile.

“I completely get it. It's touchy, right? We can talk about something else. Something more interesting, like…” She assumed a cute thinking pose—finger under her chin, eyes gazing toward the ceiling, slightly squinted as though in deep thought. Only to then bust out, “What's your favorite animal?” “Oh. Umm…” Such a simple question caught him off guard. He'd never really thought about it. The longer he hesitated, the more his mind shriveled up, barren of all thoughts except how silly this must've looked. “Dogs, I guess.” “Dogs? Really?” “Hey, what's wrong with dogs?” “Nothing!” she said, giggling. “I love dogs but that's such a basic answer! Cats and dogs; so boring!” He side-eyed her, trying hard not to smile (and probably failing). “Okay, if you're so unique, then what's your favorite animal?” “Oh, that's easy. Hyenas!” “You know what, somehow that makes a lot of sense.” “And what's that supposed to mean?” “Hyenas are weird. You're weird.” He shrugged as though the logic was so obvious. “Of course you'd like them.” She leaned across the table with a playful smirk upon her now even cuter pink lips. “Oh, so you think you know me?” “I think I could make some educated guesses.” “What kind of music do I like?” Fuck, another hard question. “Uhhh… What's that one, where they all sing in those nasally voices…” “Emo!?” “Yes, that!”

She cackled so hard that she briefly was a hyena.

“I can't believe you!” she said, hand over her chest as though highly offended. “First of all, the answer is ‘all of it’, and second of all, I've never been emo in my entire life! Teenage me preferred metal.” “The screamy stuff?” “Yes, the screamy stuff.” “How can you sing to screamy stuff?” “Observe.” She took a deep breath. “No!” He put his hand up to shush her. “I believe you, please don't demonstrate!”

He'd never laughed like this in… Ever! His inexperienced ribs were sore, inexperienced lungs short of breath, and his inexperienced cheeks hurt. He hadn't realized how loud they had gotten until Manu—his brow upturned and his lips pursed into a smirk—cleared his throat at them as he passed. That's when Idrees noticed the two other customers had been looking at them: two lone men he'd seen frequent the shop before. One smiled, amused at least, but the other scowled as he held his book closer to his nose.

Cece and Idrees shushed each other, lowering their jubilance to soft giggles instead. Their conversation continued from there, much less loud but no less enjoyable. Idrees was sure his face would be hurting tomorrow but his entire body felt so light, like he was practically floating off his seat. It wasn't until there was a lull in the conversation and Cece glanced around the room did she suddenly say,

“Shit, what time is it?”

Idrees noticed then, too, that the sun no longer streamed through the windows. He checked the clock above the kitchen.

“It's after eight already,” he said. “I'm sorry, Cece, I didn't mean to keep you out so late.” “It's no big deal, just that I have to get up at the ass crack of dawn to go to a wedding rehearsal. So I need to get to sleep soon or I'm going to be cranky.” “Not a morning person?” he asked, motioning for Manu to come over with the check. “Not a people person, really.” “You've been nice to me, what are you saying? Am I not people?” She smiled. “You're one of the only tolerable people I've met.”

Manu set the check down and Idrees really didn't want to see the numbers. They hadn't ordered much but still, his budget wasn't very big, she’d ordered something a bit more expensive, and double the usual bill made his bank account ache. 

Cece pulled out her wallet. “I’ll pay for my half.” “No, I was the one to ask you out, so…” “I can pay for my own portion, Idrees, really. I was planning on it anyway.” “I would rather pay.” She eyed him up, face soured. “Are you sure?” “I’m very sure.” “Okay… I really don't mind splitting the bill, though.”

He could've let her help. He should've let her help (especially given that incredible eye roll she gave him). But the man always paid for dates. The man always provided. So, without looking too closely at the bill, Idrees let Manu swipe his card. He was going to be sorry later when he saw the dwindling numbers of his savings.

As they exited the restaurant, Idrees noticed how dark the sky had become. Knowing Cece was going to be alone on the bus, alone walking back to her hotel, made his stomach uneasy with acid.

“You want me to drive you?” he asked.  “No, I'm going to take the bus. 

The bus? His hand went in his pocket. Did he give off a weird feeling? He grasped his hand sanitizer. No, maybe she was just cautious… He squirted out a palmful of it, the bottle nearly empty from today. Maybe she thought he was a creep or something. He rubbed the sanitizer in and focused on the scent and the way it burned his dry skin.

“I don't mean to be pushy,” he said as the bus stop came into view. “Not at all,” she said. “It was generous of you to offer. Maybe next time I'll take it.”

His stomach fluttered. He'd never heard words as reassuring as “next time”.

“Want me to stay with you until the bus comes?” he asked when they reached the stop. “That would be great, actually. It's pretty dark out.”

There weren't others around, and businesses along the road had their lights on, but he didn't want to risk it. Even if nothing happened, his unrelenting thoughts would consume him. He didn't want their date to be over anyway. If she could spend several more hours talking to him, he would let her.

“You seem like you've got good friends,” she said. “Manu, Kanta. Even your boss, you said she was nice.” “Oh. I guess I do. I never really thought about it. I've only spent time with Manu. We go to the Temple together sometimes.” Her eyes lit up like he said something incredible. “That sounds so cool. I've never been inside a Temple before.” His invitation slipped out before he could hold it back. “Maybe that could be one of our dates, then.”

Once he said it, he got a jolt of embarrassment that made his heart jump. Presuming they would have not only one more next time, but multiple next times, had him looking ahead to avoid her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe it could! I was thinking I really wanted to go to the popular bazaar first, though. That one in the middle of the city.”

He tried to suppress his grin so he didn't look like an absolute simpleton. She already had plans for another date. His voice was completely gone. Luckily, he wasn't made to talk again as the headlights of the bus came up the road. Cece hailed it before turning to him. 

“Thanks for such a great night. I had a lot of fun.” “Me, too. I don't want to overstep, but could you call me when you get back? I want to make sure you're okay.” “Yeah, I still have your number from last night. I'll give you a call.”

She opened her arms up and stepped a bit closer. He swallowed the lump that formed at the back of his throat. She just wanted a hug. Right? She didn’t want him to do anything more. Even though a desire to kiss her invitingly moonlit lips burned hot in his core… 

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and she leaned against him. He embraced her soft body. Time stood still in that moment. The bus never drew closer, the moon never moved from its position high above them; all that he noticed was her rhythmic breathing and the gentle smell of her hair up close. He wanted to hold onto her warmth for the rest of the night. That tingling on his palms had gone, banished by her presence and the promise they would see one another again.

It was this reassurance that allowed him to release her. They said their goodbyes as she boarded the bus. He watched it drive down the road, taking all the light away with it. It felt like the darkness crept around him like little paranoid tendrils that whispered in his ear. How he didn’t deserve someone to care for him. How he was going to be all alone. How, one day, his shitty life would tear Cece down.

Chapter 3: The Bazaar

Once home, he finally assuaged his prickling and uncomfortable skin. He stood over his kitchen sink and lathered up his flesh, up to his elbow to cut the feeling off before it got worse. The steamy water, just hot enough to gnaw away at the first layer of skin, let tension slip off his shoulders.

He took time to reflect on his first date in… he didn't want to remember how long. Should he have kissed her at the end? Now she was going to think he was stupid or uninterested. He briefly imagined their goodnight phone conversation involving him shouting “I'm both intelligent and really into you!”, just to set the record straight. But embarrassment made him recoil at the thought. No, he would show his interest by trying to set up another date. Simple.

When the phone rang, he rushed across the room to snatch the receiver, then tried to sound calm.

“Hello?” he answered. “Idrees? It's me. I made it back okay.”

The sink still spewed water behind him, the ill-gotten suds disappearing down the drain, flushed away never to be thought about again, so long as he could hear her voice and know she was safe. His arms itched from the drying soap still sitting upon them but that felt much better than the roach-skittering of his nerves.

“I'm glad to hear that,” he said. “I hope I wasn't too pushy…” “Not at all, I thought it was so sweet. I don't know if I've ever gone on a first date where he wanted to make sure I got home okay. It was very thoughtful.” He gripped the receiver tight, his mind floating along her serene voice. “It just seemed right.” “I really need to get to bed early, though.” “Yes, your rehearsal is eight tomorrow morning.” “Damn, man, did you have to listen so closely? Don't remind me!”

He shared another laugh with her, like she'd gifted it to him wrapped in a beautiful box. He held onto that present as they said goodnight, and carried it with him through his evening routine. He opened the box one more time as he lay in bed, thinking about her, and how she made him feel… Normal. He held his extra pillow in one arm, keeping it against his chest and trying to pretend it was Cece laying beside him.

Manu was very good at keeping secrets. None of Idrees’ co-workers seemed to know a thing about Cece. Or, if they did, they were charitably quiet about it. As he went about his duties cleaning the store, he kept his mind light with thoughts of Cece and how their conversation that evening might go. He looked to the clock to count down the time until he got off work. His stomach flipped when he saw he was halfway through his day and he'd not scrubbed his hands at all.

“You seem peppy,” said Kanta as she passed by with a large box in her arms. “I am,” he agreed. She stopped and faced him, her brow cocked, half-lidded eyes looking him up and down. “Mm, you got a girlfriend, didn't you?” “Well, I dunno about that…” “Oh, please, it's all over your face! Ooh, don't tell me it's that cute American from the other day! Idrees, you sly bastard.” He fidgeted, eyes falling to the shelf beside him. He wanted to deny it, but he knew he must've looked guilty—his face was so hot that he was sweating a bit, and his lips were pulled up into that unfamiliar smile. “Well… Yeah. We went out last night.” “Aw, that's so romantic,” she teased. “Way to go.”

Mercifully, Kanta left without another word. Now the whole shop would know but… He supposed that wouldn't be so bad.

He’d never been so giddy to get off work—there was a bounce to his step all the way home, rather than dragging himself back with the weight of the world crushing him down. Despite the rumbling in his stomach, his first instinct when he got home and put his keys and wallet on the side table was to grab his landline. He dialed Cece’s number without missing a beat and held the phone up to his ear while he searched his fridge for something quick.

“Hello?” she answered after a couple rings. “Hi, Cece, it's me. Just wanted to see how the rehearsal went today.” “Hey, Idrees! Went all right. Donna can be a bit of a Bridezilla. Er, meaning she's a little overbearing. Her sister wore some flashy eye shadow today and Donna flipped out saying she better not wear that kind of makeup on her wedding day. Then she got on my ass about wearing no makeup. Like, what the hell do you even want, Donna?” “I'm not really seeing the part where it went all right.” “Free food.” “There it is.”

She laughed again, a sound he'd been dying to hear all day. He joined her, letting that familiar unfamiliar smile bust out from ear to ear. A little bit of leftover rice went down the hatch. He didn't care that it was cold and clumpy as long as he got to chat with Cece.

It seemed only natural that they conversation veered into their next date—that bazaar she’d mentioned. It was such an overcrowded, overstimulating experience that he never wanted to go there. But with Cece? He would risk it just to be with her.

The next morning, Idrees pulled up to the bazaar parking lot about ten minutes early. He waited for her near the bus stop. The first bus that showed didn't have her on it, but he reminded himself that he was still early. Even that reassurance didn't stop his intrusive thoughts from proclaiming she'd gotten hurt somewhere, which in turn made his palms creep, which then made him slather sanitizer on his hands. Someone walking past gave him a wide berth. Between the smell and him possibly looking insane pacing near the bus stop, he figured anyone in their right mind would give him more than ample personal space.

The second bus that showed did have Cece, however. She beamed and waved to him, still struggling with that golden shawl she wore but didn’t seem to know how to use from their first date. When she got close enough, she held her arms out for a hug. He tossed his arms around her and pulled her warm, soft body into his chest. He’d been waiting for this for so long. The willpower it took to let her go and not hold her all day…

“I missed you yesterday,” she said, giving him another round of butterflies. Those big genuine eyes and pink cheeks assured him she meant it. “I tried to tell my family about you but I think most of them think you're a figment of my imagination or something.” “How can you be sure I'm not?” “Don’t give me an existential crisis today, dude.” She held onto his hand as they headed toward the bazaar. “You ever been here?” “Once. Kinda. It was a bit much so I left after a few minutes.” “Well, we can be brave together.”

And brave the bazaar they did. It was large, full of people (and several bands of macaques), with beige buildings, and stone under their feet. The colors of the stands that stood out. Though most of them had the same white canopies, their wares of clothes and food and spices were an array of colors that had Idrees firmly holding Cece’s hand.

Was holding her the only reason his palms didn’t itch? Or maybe her sharing in his anxiety made him feel less outcast than he would’ve if he’d tried to come alone. Still, Idrees kept himself present and sane just by holding Cece's hand. She had him gripped pretty tight at first, but as they kept walking and looking through the various stands, her fingers loosened. It was bittersweet to have her release him, leaving his hand so cold without her… But her confidence was infectious.

Somehow, Cece found more things of worth upon the ground than she seemed to at the stands. It seemed like every time he turned around, Cece was scouring the ground for something else. At first, he thought maybe she'd found loose change, until he saw that she had a rock in her hand instead. Why she then stashed it in her pocket, he had no idea.

They explored an art stand where the owner had painted many dogs and cats in various human activities and Arabesque attire, yet all the colors and sights didn't keep Cece as invested as a feather she'd found nearby.

“Look, Idrees!” she said, proudly showing off the blueish-grey hued feather. “Ooh, it's such a pretty color. I wonder if a swamphen dropped this!” “I would have no idea,” he said.

She reached into the front of her shirt and pulled a plastic bag out of her bra. As she bagged it and stuffed it back into her shirt, he couldn't help but finally break and laugh.

“What?” she asked. “You just— You're very you. It's kind of impressive.” “What is that supposed to mean?” “You literally have two rocks in your pocket and a feather in your bra.” She pouted at him as though highly offended. “So?” “Nothing,” he said, unable to stop himself from chuckling. “I just think it's cute.”

Her sour face turned into an adorable smile alongside radiant pink cheeks. It was impossible not to be blown away by her expression and tone. There was something amazing about that. Maybe because he hadn't laughed and smiled in such a long time, every crack stuck out to him. She had a way about her—strange, endearing, vibrant. If they spent the whole afternoon picking up pebbles and feathers and who-knows-what else, it would be the best date he'd ever had.

The bustle of the bazaar didn't pierce his ears and assault his eyes this time, and he found himself perusing stands under the shade of their canopies. Sometimes Cece would be right behind him when he looked at someone's wares, only to then be at a totally different stand when he turned back around. How she moved so fast in what felt like a second or two, without even tripping over the brazen monkeys that liked to dart out onto the footpath, he didn't understand. Yet her enthusiasm was nothing short of energizing and exciting.

One such time happened while she was looking at spices, breathing them in, crinkling her nose in the cutest way. He may have gotten too close, as the spices tickled his nose and threatened a sneeze. He turned away to rub his tingling nose on his sleeve, then turned back to find she'd yet again wandered to the next stand over. This one was a shawl shop. As he headed her way, he noticed the darzi eyeing her.

“You'd look so lovely in this!” the darzi said, holding up a blue shawl that would bring out her dark brown eyes. “You think so?” asked Cece. “Oh yes, but then any of my shawls would look good on such a pretty young lady.”

Cece took the shawl and held it up to her face to examine it. When Idrees walked up beside her, she beamed at him and showed him the shawl.

“What do you think?” she asked. “It would look great on you,” he agreed, tossing a glance to the owner. The darzi's eyes lost their gleam.

From there, he was a bit more hands-off. This let Cece find her own way and search through the shawls herself. She ended up picking a different buta-filled green, jewel-toned that fit well with her black clothes and dyed hair. The darzi smiled brightly at her as she walked away, but that smile faltered into uneasiness when Idrees passed by.

Oddly enough, Idrees wasn't jealous or upset like he imagined he might have been. Maybe because Cece seemed oblivious. Yet, with him, she picked up on his interest without issue. He looked down at her as they walked, watching her pull her previous shawl off and struggle with putting the new one on properly.

“Here,” he said, “let me help.”

He stood behind her and tied the shawl around her small shoulders. Her long hair got caught under the fabric. Before he could talk himself out of it, he scooped her hair in his hand, feeling the silky locks run across his palm as he freed them, incredible and soft, tickling his skin and giving him a small rush down his spine. His fingers gingerly detangled her hair and the scent of her shampoo dispersed—a slight herbal, flowery scent, and an even slighter smell of fruit. He let her hair fall and watched it bounce and sway and gleam in the light through its multiple wavy layers.

She turned to face him and grinned. “Thank you! People usually wear these up to protect from the sun, right?”

She flipped the loose bit of shawl over her head and his heart dropped. He saw her covered, oppressed, underfoot, gazing up at him with big, terrified eyes—

“Idrees?”

His mind bolted back to reality. The whiplash stole his voice and he skittered along his tingling palms. He tried to take in her confusion and true features. Not like the women of his home. Not like the little girls he almost killed. No. Not like that…

“Are you okay?” she asked. “I-I… Yes, I'm okay.”

His voice came out weak. It only seemed to concern her more, her brow creasing, her eyes examining him. She pulled the shawl down, letting it rest along her shoulders and back once more, and flicked her hair into place. He rubbed his palms on his sides, trying to get the creeping itch to leave him alone. The last thing he wanted was to have Cece worry over him again.

So he tried to smile and play it off as the overwhelming nature of the bazaar getting to him. She offered to sit together near the outskirts, still very much in the crowd but more off to the side. The bench wasn't comfortable—metal dug into his ass—but he was with Cece and his hand stopped creeping toward the sanitizer in his pocket.

“It is kind of a lot,” Cece agreed. “Right. But you're having fun?” “Yeah!” She grinned. “I'm having a great time. Are you?” “Yes, a very great time. Did you want to get some food? I've been hearing your stomach growl for the past five minutes.” “I guess we probably should eat.”

The food trucks weren't far off the main area, and a ton of locals and tourists alike were already lined up. They tried to pick out a truck to visit after Cece rejected the idea of curry because she was “sick of eating curry”.

Once they ordered food, they squeezed in beside some strangers at one of the picnic tables. Not that Idrees minded her needing to almost sit in his lap just to fit. She was squished between him and the older lady beside them. Cece tried to have a conversation with the woman, but she only spoke Hindi and Cece struggled to keep up.

“She says you have good taste,” Idrees helped, gently tugging at her shawl.

That really sent her over the moon. She blushed even more than when the flirty darzi complimented her.

Cece took one bite of that street samosa and her eyes lit up like twinkling stars. She stared at the crispy pastry as if it granted all of her wishes, enthralled, enraptured, and completely cutely dramatic. It only took a moment of observation before she devoured her food. Idrees watched as she stuffed so much in her mouth that her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's.

Though he wanted to keep talking to her, he couldn't fathom interrupting what was possibly the cutest thing he'd ever seen. Potato smeared across her lips and when she went to wipe it off, it traveled along her cheek. She didn't break stride. Her fingers flew with a desperation unmatched, like she was trying to beat her personal samosa eating record.

When most of her container was empty, she took a moment to sip their lassi. Idrees leaned closer to her, napkin in hand, and wiped the bit of potato off her face. The way her eye flinched closed and that tiny indignant grunt made his heart flutter. So cute. She was so cute.

“You got samosa on your face,” he said.

She responded with a grunt without removing her straw. So he mocked that grunt in turn. She giggled and nudged his shoulder, a touch that radiated warmth all through his arm and along his body. He would do anything to feel her touch. Even something as simple as a joking shove had his heart light and fluttery.

The day ended with his feet so sore and his cheeks even worse as they headed toward the parking lot. His heart jumped a little when her fingertips caressed his hand again; this time, though, he laced their fingers together. Her hand was much less clammy than his… Her confidence rubbed off on him.

“Want me to drive you to your hotel?” he asked.

He wanted to bite down on his tongue when he saw the way her eyes turned to worry. They scanned the ground at her feet and she chewed on her bottom lip.

He continued, “If you don't want to—” “It's not that. I mean…” “I shouldn't have offered, that was pushy.” “No, it's not,” she said, gripping his hand tight. A smile spread along her lips—not quite hugging her eyes like it had been all afternoon. “I'd really like it if you took me to my hotel. Those busses are torture.” “Are you sure?” he asked, avoiding her gaze. “I don't want to make you.” She bumped his arm with her shoulder. “Oh, honey, you can't make me do anything.”

He couldn't laugh like she did. She'd given pause to his offer, worse than she had after their first date, like he had suggested something obscene. But she kept walking toward the parking lot, tugging him along. He glanced back at the bus stop and the huge group of people waiting for it, before keeping stride with her.

There was his next dilemma: the state of his car. It was a relatively newer model, tan, undecorated but unscratched like the day he bought it. Though a little more expensive than the older used cars, he couldn't pass up the allure of air conditioning. While the outside was unassuming but it was the inside he worried about. And the door locks were a little funny.

“Sorry, hold on…”

He went to his side and unlocked it with his remote. He opened his door, as it was the only one of the four-seater that unlocked with the remote. The other doors clicked open when he pressed the unlock button on his door.

“There we go,” he said. “Hit a pothole last year. Not sure how it messed up the locks, but… yeah.”

They slid into the car and Idrees held his breath while waiting for her response. Which seemed silly now. The car wasn't nearly as full as his mind had remembered. A few to-go cups from the tea shop on the floor, and one in the cup holder. Several strewn about napkins gleamed white against the backdrop of browns and tans. Two clamshell containers from take out still sat on his backseat like passengers that overstayed their welcome.

“Need my gps?” she asked as she used the buttons on the side of her chair to adjust it. “Maybe,” he said, worry melting off of him the longer she didn’t pay the mess any mind. “What's your hotel?”

He recognized the name of it and it wasn't very far from his usual routes.

“That's only, what?” he asked. “Ten minutes from my work?” “Yeah, I saw your store on my maps and just had to try it. Lucky I did.”

Lucky? Idrees bit his lip to avoid grinning like an idiot. She thought she was lucky to have gone to his store? And then to have met him? No, that was insane—he was the lucky one. With everything she did, he felt luckier and luckier.

During the trip, Cece took the baggie out of her bra again and admired the contents. She muttered something about reaffirming the identity of the swamphen feather as though saying it both to him and to herself. Before she put it away, her head popped up and her gaze shot to a small caravan of cows passing by.

“Aww! Oh, I love cows, we rarely get to see them where I live! You're so lucky to live in a place with so many cows.” He shrugged. “I guess so.” “Look at their little tails, so cute,” she gushed, hands pressed up against the car window as she peered out. “I know they're supposed to be sacred here but what's the story behind that?” “I, uh… I dunno.” “You don't?” She turned back to him. “Ohh, are you Buddhist or something? I know that's a popular religion among Indians, too, isn't it?”

A layer of cold sweat tingled his flesh. That's right, Cece would of course assume he's Indian and not realize the truth. Not that he wanted her to know. If any of those truths left his mouth, she would disappear from his life and take her light with her, leaving him in darkness once again. Lucky… Certainly not her.

To think that she would pursue him in blissful ignorance, holding onto him and his lies as they embraced and held hands and… kissed. That was sick. It was so sick that the words nearly clawed out of him anyway, all in a desperate plea to have her know every marred inch of his past, and maybe… maybe she could still like him. Maybe she’d still think she was lucky.

“So religion is a no-go,” she said after a stretch of silence. “Got it. I’ll stop trying to guess.” She pulled a fake zipper around her lips. He cleared his throat. “It's okay. Just touchy.” “Yeah, I get you. Either way, India seems really cool so far. At least in the city. Must be nice to have grown up in a place like India.” “Yeah. India has been nice.”

She truly couldn't grasp the scope of what he said but her wonder and excitement made such awkward, nerve-wracking moments worth it. The rocks on the ground were vibrant. The sky such a deep blue. Clouds like classical paintings. And even the cows had such cute faces and little tails.

She spent the car ride pointing out things he'd never noticed—the architecture of dusty buildings, and the way the trees were still in bloom (”and it’s autumn where I live!”). She grinned brighter and warmer than the sun she gushed over. Its beams rushed ethereally through the sparse trees and their tiny green canopies. And although she'd been hesitant to get in his car, and his mind wanted so badly to return to its familiar guilt and beat him down for forcing her to come along, it was all cast aside for the joy within him at the perfect end to his perfect day.

At her hotel parking lot, he pulled into a space as close to the front doors as he could.

“Thanks for the ride, Idrees,” she said, unbuckling herself.

Though… she didn't leave straight away. She watched him as though waiting for something. A… a kiss? He didn't want to assume such a thing. His skin crawled when he thought of going in for a kiss only for her to feel threatened, coerced, and vulnerable. Several scenarios hit him at once—“What are you doing!?” she could shout while pushing him away. Or maybe she would freeze up, her face frowning and fearful eyes wide as she let him take her. Or maybe he would grab her and rip her into him, kicking and screaming— His stomach lurched. No. He could never let those things happen.

He faced his steering wheel and ran his fingers along it, strumming tunelessly. “I had a great time, Cece. A really great time.” “So did I. Thanks for coming with me. Can't imagine I would've had so much fun on my own.” “Yeah,” he said, still unable to meet her eyes. “Going with you was a lot of fun. And we'll see each other again soon, right? I mean, if you want—”

Her lips brushed against his cheek. His brain stopped working mid-sentence. Though it had lasted a fraction of a second, Idrees felt that kiss warm and tender, and it sat there even after, leaving him in reverie as the memory tickled his flesh. The courage to meet her eyes returned to him, and those pink cheeks were immaculate to behold.

She didn't press it further and instead opened the car door. And perhaps next time he would be ready. Until then, they said their goodbyes, and he watched her beautiful form enter the hotel.

Chapter 4: This Whole Tourist Thing

Idrees headed for work the next day, taking in all of the things he never noticed before. Lush, green trees, a deep blue sky, warm beautiful sunlight, and strong, weathered, hardy pieces of architecture rather than crumbling useless messes.

He needed more. More of Cece. More of the euphoria he felt after every date. He wasn’t sure how to set up another date to top the last one. It had to be special. Something special and grand and romantic. Something completely out of his element. Maybe one of his coworkers could give him some guidance: should he bring flowers or treats or both or none or—

No way he could go to Anush with that. Kanta, maybe. He was pretty sure Kanta knew quite well what women liked—if he had enough balls to ask. She could get him as close to perfection as possible, and just imagining Cece's blissful face gave him courage. He internally rehearsed the questions he wanted to ask as he strode along the sidewalk at a brisk pace. He hardly noticed that horny old man flirting with a very uncomfortable tourist, but he didn't have to get out of his thoughts. When the old man saw him, he darted into the alleyways of the neighborhood. The rush of pride as the tourist thanked him, combined with his already joyous mood, had him ready to take on anything.

His good mood was to the point that even Anush's shop looked nice, although their sign now said Mom' Mark instead of Mom's Market after some of the letters fell off. Anush ended up having to pay for her car and parking lot damages, leaving no room in the budget to replace the letters.

He took a moment to look out across the rest of the parking lot, just relieved that everyone else had parked so far away and Anush never went to her car for anything. His steps slowed when he spotted a car he recognized. Black, boxy, with trash overtaking the backseat. That… wasn't what he wanted to see today.

He hurried inside and scanned his surroundings. Anush's office door was shut—she was probably in there. Kanta stood at the checkout counter bagging an elderly man's groceries, her eyes focused. Maybe a little too focused. Idrees headed over there and stood next to the counter.

“Have a nice morning,” said Kanta as the old man smiled and gathered his bags.

They waited in silence for the old man to leave. The look Kanta gave him told him everything he needed to know.

“I'll stay right here,” he said.  “Thank you,” she whispered. “That guy gives me the creeps. Something's wrong with him, and it isn't just his sexist bullshit.” “I think so, too.” “I just can't wait until he leaves, he's—”

Kanta stopped short as the owner of the boxy black car rounded the corner out of the chutney aisle. Her hand squeezed Idrees’ tight. The man was Nasir—once was a Talib before being displaced a few years after Idrees deserted his post. Normally, Idrees hid away from him, letting him wreak havoc on his female coworkers. But he was done being a coward.

Despite Nasir's grey beard and layered face, he was a large, imposing man, like an elephant seal ready to throw his weight around. Nasir plodded his way to the checkout counter, a horrible sneer across his cracked lips. Idrees kept a straight face as he stood by in case this went sour.

“Good morning, sir,” Kanta gave her usual greeting.

Nasir didn't speak. Just unceremoniously dumped his groceries onto the counter. Kanta tried to keep up with her typical pleasantries, but Nasir only grunted and occasionally shot a glower Idrees’ way. 

“Find everything okay?” Kanta asked. Nasir stared directly into Idrees’ eyes. “Decided to come out today? Instead of being a coward.” Idrees’ heart raced but he tried to keep his expression resolute and unperturbed. “Just doing my job.” He dropped the money he owed onto the counter. “Working under females. How low can one sink?” “Is that all you need?” Idrees asked, copying the cashier pleasantries verbatim (without the ‘sir’). Nasir huffed out of his nose, like a raging bull about to trample him, the shop, and Kanta. “You and this little girl have a lot of nerve treating me like some criminal you're trying to cast out. Why bother defending her? She looks hardly worth a night in bed.” “I think you should leave,” Idrees spat, staring cold into Nasir's dark eyes. “Here's your change, sir,” said Kanta, sliding the coins across the counter beside his filled paper bags. He swiped the money and sent it clanging to the floor. “Keep your dirty change.”

He snagged the bags and marched out. Idrees bent down to collect the money that had fallen, trying to steady himself. Each tempered word he’d spoken had caused bile to ride up his throat. He went over the steps to collect the change in an effort to keep himself clung to the present. Pick this up, add it to the pile in his hand. 26. Pick up another and clink it into his palm. 28. Kanta knelt beside him and helped collect the change. 

“Thanks, Idrees. He's usually even worse than that, if you can believe it.” Oh, he could. “I'm happy to do it. I'm just sorry I haven't done it sooner.” Kanta shrugged. “Don't be. I know Anush keeps you busy. Lucky that guy only comes in like once a month for some specialty items. Damn amazing chutney, I swear we should stop selling it.”

Much as Anush loved to overhype her chutneys, Idrees knew that Nasir would never ‘lower himself’ to a business women owned and operated. No, his semi-regular patronage was due to a desire to harass and intimidate Idrees for being an apostate.

Idrees would put the event behind him. He looked forward instead to calling Cece that evening and hopefully setting up another date soon, preferably without mentioning Nasir. After all, how else was he to describe his fear and anxiety? Because Nasir was big? So was that old man he’d chased away from Cece the first day they met. She'd know that was a flimsy lie, at best. At worst: she'd interrogate out of him answers that he didn't want to give. 

“When you're done clocking in, you gotta tell me how things have been going with that tourist,” Kanta said, collecting the change from him.  “You care about that?” She cupped her cheek and her expression dropped dramatically. “Oh no, I care about a person I've known for almost five years, isn’t that just weird?” “Okay, okay, you made your point.”

So he did just that. By Anush's office door was the punch-in sheets and he punched his arrival. His brain replayed practice questions and answers in his head. Keep it simple: her name is Cece and she is great. We've had two dates together and I've totally never considered what our lives would be like if we got married tomorrow. It's been two dates and zero kisses which surprisingly added up to infinite euphoria.

“So? What's she like?”

His hands were on the checkout counter. He had hardly registered getting there already, but okay. Just stay together. 

“Cece is…” Amazing. The best thing that's ever happened to me. Gorgeous. Comforting. I die laughing with her. I think I love her. “Great. She's really great.”

His heart thrashed as though he'd said all of those things out loud anyway. The warm wind from the open doors blew against a layer of sweat that built up on his face. 

“Aww, you’re all flustered! That's so sweet, Idrees. She's really pretty and seems nice, too. You guys going anywhere soon?” He ran a hand through his hair. “No, nothing planned yet. But I'm calling her tonight and want to set something up for the weekend. Both days, hopefully. I don't want to waste a day off just sitting around the house, but it depends on if she needs to do anything with her cousin.” “Man, her cousin? She can wait! Cece can see her cousin any time.” “Well, her cousin is getting married, and moved to India, so I don't think that's true.” “Ohh, I see.” “But, uhh…” He tried to stay on track. “I wanted to ask where you’d recommend Cece and I go for our next date.” Her eyes sparkled like he’d asked her to help him plan a proposal. “Oh my god! This is the day! I’ve dreamt of this day.” “You’ve what?”

“You two gossiping on company time?” Anush asked. “Sorry, Anush,” said Kanta. “That's my fault. I asked him about his new girlfriend and all.”

There was the slightest twitch on Anush's features that Idrees had seen before when dealing with annoying customers who needed ‘to speak to the manager’: sharp and sour like biting into a lemon. All well-contained behind her professional facade. But Idrees saw it. Kanta did, too, he was sure. The air hung thick as he stood upright and stiff.

“Hm,” grunted Anush. “Well, don't keep gossiping when a customer walks in. And Kanta, I'm glad to see you're all right after that awful man came by. I hope he keels over from old age soon.” “Me, too,” synced Kanta and Idrees.

Despite them sharing a laugh, Anush kept a straight face. A sort of sorrowful look his way made his laughter slow and cease. She went back to her office. 

“Man,” said Kanta softly, “she's really upset about this whole tourist thing, isn't she?” “Yes, I've noticed that, too.” “It’s you laughing. It’s really uncanny.” “Thanks.”

Despite the awkwardness, Kanta gave him some great ideas for future dates. All luckily before a sudden influx of customers kept them busy for the better part of three hours. That was normal for Fridays, though—people would storm the store like it was a hostile takeover to get their groceries before enjoying the weekend.

Through all the bustle and noise, Idrees kept his mind on what his next dates might be like. He was jostled and spoken to and someone even accidentally ran into him with their annoying new (and oddly silent) handcarts, but none of it made his skin crawl, none of it had his mind screaming for quiet. It was too entangled in thoughts of Cece like a shield that kept his peace.

After all was said and done, he ended up trodding on a tiny pebble someone had tracked in. So he took it upon himself to clean. He swept the floors into small heaps down each aisle. When he found himself inspecting them for any ‘cool rocks’, he let a little amused breath out of his nose. She must be rubbing off on him.

“Idrees?” Anush called from down the aisle. “Priya, can I talk to you?” “Coming.” 

Was she going to talk to him about that rush? He hoped it wouldn't be more overly sympathetic sentiments. Not because he didn't appreciate it when he needed it, but… he didn't feel he needed it. Hoping this impromptu meeting was for something else, he set aside his broom and dusted his hands on his apron as he followed Anush to her office. 

She sat behind her desk and he shut the door behind him. He took a seat under the dim overhead light. The tiny room was darkened from the blinds. A fan in the corner blew cool air over her desk; its white noise the only sound. Normally, this respite away from chattering voices, clanging groceries, crinkling bags, and clinking money would be a blessing. But not today.

Maybe it was Anush’s silence as she put on her reading glasses and looked through her papers. It felt like time had slowed, when all he wanted was for it to speed up so he could get on the phone for the evening. He tried to occupy himself while he waited, glancing at the papers with which Anush fiddled. They were files he didn't keep track of. They could've been bills or employee reviews and he wouldn't have been able to tell. So what she brought him in for, he had no idea. 

“Anush?” he asked, urging her to speak.  “You seem like you're doing okay after that rush,” she said. “Yes, I'm fine.” And this time, there wasn't a pit in his stomach or a twinge of guilt at his voice sounding too snippy. His words came out effortlessly and calm as the gentle beating of his heart. “I've also noticed that we've not needed to replace the paper towels three times this week.” She looked down her glasses at him. “You are still washing your hands, right?” “Of course.” Though they were admittedly a little dusty now.

Anush's eyes fell toward her desk. She went quiet as if searching for something to say. He sat upright, taking up such little space on his chair, just… Waiting.

“It's her, isn't it?” she asked. “I… I'm sorry? I don't know what you—” “That tourist.” Her eyes met his again. “You've been doing really well since you met her.”

He squirmed, trying to decipher what her eyes were saying to him. Inside of them, did he see anger? Sorrow? All he found was that same closed-off person he'd known for years, her walls built so high that he couldn't see her true emotions over the top. 

“Yes,” he answered honestly. “Cece has been one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. She's an amazing person.” “I see… Where do I stand, Idrees?” His heart skipped a beat. “Excuse—?” “You said Cece is one of the best things that's ever happened to you. I just want to know… Where I stand.” “Anush, without you I wouldn't be where I am today. I might've been homeless for the rest of my life. You giving me this job means the world to me, you know.” “But you don't love me?” “No.”

Anush clamped her eyes shut and her lips quivered. There was that twinge of guilt. He'd been direct and maybe a little snippy, and that twinge signed off when he saw Anush's pain. She quickly hid it and returned to her typical stern face. 

“I see. I'm happy for you, Idrees. All I wanted for you since the day we met was for you to feel content.”

Idrees thought back to that day. He'd been lugging his backpack around with its dwindling supplies, sweating to death under the Indian summer sun. He’d trudged down this very street in search of shade when he spotted the sign that said Mom's Market. The awning overhang was a godsend and he made a beeline for sweet, cool shade.

He sat outside for a moment, getting his strength back and hoping no one would kick him out—not back into the oven that was the sun. His ratty thobe stuck to him, yellowed and torn and stained in dirt. He tried to air it out, so caught up in his discomfort that he barely remembered seeing a man walk into the store through his blurry, exhausted eyes. Another customer exited the store to drive one of the few cars away. It was a slow day, he had come to learn. All except for…

“Where is she?” demanded a man. “I'm not sure who you're talking about, sir,” said a woman.  “Don't play dumb, you slut! Where is she!?”

Idrees’ alarm bells tolled deafeningly loud. He shot to his feet and his light head caused him to stumble. Mustering up some saliva in his dry mouth, he rounded the corner through the open doors. At the counter was a young girl, maybe 17-years-old, staring wide-eyed at the bulky man in front of her. A short woman in a mute-colored hijab with a deep scar across her cheek darted into the main room. The man pointed his dirt-encrusted finger at her, the woman Idrees had come to learn was Anush.

“There you are!” the man screamed. “Thought you could just run away from me?” “Get out of here, Viraj!” she shouted desperately. “Leave or I'll call the cops!” “The cops!?” He spat as though the idea was stupid to him. “Fine, call the cops! But they'll take several minutes to get here, won't they?”

He lunged at Anush and snatched her by the arm. Anush and the cashier screamed, heralding flashes of battered, crying women to assault Idrees’ mind. He would never just stand by and let that happen ever again.

Idrees snagged the guy's shoulder and forced Viraj to face him. Viraj's green eyes observed him, obscured by large black pupils and his heavily furrowed brow, teeth clenched behind a thick scraggly beard. 

“Don't you put your hands on her!” Idrees yelled in Viraj's face. “And who the hell are you?” Viraj demanded, tearing away from him. “You her little boyfriend or something!? I’ll kill the both of you!”

Idrees’ heart stayed calm. He watched Viraj rear back a fist. His body took over for him; muscle memory kicked in. He determined where the punch would land and thrust his arm up to block it. He retaliated with a swift punch to Viraj’s jaw. Viraj stumbled back with unfocused eyes. Idrees seized the opportunity to slam his fist into Viraj’s chin in a vicious uppercut. He followed through with his opposite hand and bashed Viraj’s exposed gut.

Viraj collapsed in a heap upon the ground. He groaned in pain as Idrees shook his aching hands out. Time returned to normal, opening his ears to the cashier describing the scene to the police. Viraj quivered to his feet, stumbling and falling, gripping his stomach. He staggered out the door, making his very slow getaway.

Anush grabbed hold of Idrees’ arm. “Thank you, young man! Thank you!”

Hot adrenaline flooded his veins and his bleary, starving, dehydrated mind dizzied. The store spun around him. He collapsed to his knees and gripped his pounding head.

“Daksha!” called Anush. “Get him some water!” “Yes, ma’am!”

The cashier rushed off to the back as Anush tried to keep him steady. As soon as that cold bottle of water hit his palm, he tore the cap off and downed half of it in just a gulp or two. It froze his desiccated throat on the way down. He splashed some into his palm and wiped it on his sweating, overheated face. The shock of it made him breathe heavier—or maybe that was his finally racing heart.

Idrees was the reason Anush was finally able to seek legal action against her abusive ex. She gave him a job and helped get him on his feet. And it was no secret that Anush had pursued a… more than professional relationship with him. But Anush had a frigid air about her that chilled every date and interaction. She was kind, but closed off, more interested in coddling Idrees than talking about herself and her interests. After several dates, Idrees knew next to nothing about her and constantly clammed up. She was, after all, his boss.

His relationship never felt different from that. Even when a couple of those dates ended up in the bedroom, he felt no warmth or connection, just awkward self-gratification. Only on one occasion did he actually get off. The first time, he was too nervous and lasted so long she had him stop because he was hurting her. The second time, his orgasm came with a hefty dose of guilt and creeping palms that haunted him for several days.

After that, he rejected her offer for another date, and another, and another, until she broke down in tears and demanded an explanation. One he could hardly articulate. He didn't want to feel like she only liked him for certain aspects of himself—his youth, his body, his ‘sympathetic circumstances’ as she once said, his melancholy, his veteran status. He felt she only wanted him because he was broken.

Still, Anush was the reason Idrees was able to afford food and an apartment. It had been so for nearly five years. It was no wonder then that, even though Idrees had no doubt in his mind that he didn't love her, he still didn't want to see her upset or in pain. If it hadn't been for her, he could've died as another homeless man baking in the Indian sun.

Idrees breathed in the cool air from the office fan, waiting for Anush to continue, if she had more to say. Anush rubbed her face, fingertips digging into her temples. She gazed up at Idrees with stern, unwavering eyes. Until she smiled. But not a professional, muted smile like he was used to seeing. No, this was different. And he wanted to believe it was genuine.

“I'm just happy that you're happy, priya,” she said. “You deserve it, you know. You're a wonderful man.”

His heart sank. There it was again. He’d heard these things from his coworkers before. You're a good man. A wonderful man. I’m glad you’re here. I trust you.

He wanted to disappear—crawl back into his hovel and not let anyone in. Maybe then they would stop seeing him for what he isn't.

Chapter 5: Rafi

Idrees hurried through his morning routine. He wasn't late or anything, just too excited to slow down. Whirring thoughts, trying to perfect scenarios in his head, topics of conversation, and rushes of glee at the idea of holding Cece's hand or embracing her had kept him awake for an unfortunate chunk of the night. Yet that didn't stop him from bounding out of bed and speed brushing his teeth. It almost stopped him from eating, though, as his knotted stomach worried over things that could go wrong. What if he said something stupid? What if he tried to hug her when she didn't want it? What if he tripped over his own two feet?

Still, he threw together a microwaveable packet of rice and added some shredded chicken on top for an okay breakfast. Maybe the coffee was a bit much, though, as his heart raced in anticipation for the time he said he would leave. Cece wanted to sleep in (“Donna's been working me like a dog,” she'd said), and naturally that made Idrees’ thoughts spiral. She clearly didn't like him. She was only going on a pity date. Why would she want to spend all day with him when he had nothing to offer anyway?

He couldn’t banish these thoughts. They weren't worth dissecting and ruining his wonderful weekend plans, so he took some advice from Manu. Close your eyes. Breathe. Relax. Let the thoughts come and don't give them any credence. A bunch of hoo-ha, if you ask Idrees. Yet it was hoo-ha that worked. His heart slowed down, even when thoughts jolted it to life.

She hates you. Okay. She doesn't want to be around you. Okay. She kissed your cheek and it felt amazing. True. She’s smiling and happy every time you call. It feels so good. But if she finds out who you truly are…

He shook it off with a roll of his shoulders. For now, he didn't want to think about that.

Once the clock read quarter to noon, he ensured his clothes looked okay—a silky blue kurta and matching pants—ran his fingers through his hair, freshened his breath so it didn't smell like stale coffee, and gathered his things to head out. He also grabbed a piece of leftover chicken. Before leaving, he paused at his side table next to the door. Yes, he needed his wallet and all, but…

He stared at the hand sanitizer. Should he take that? He hadn't felt the need to obsessively wash his hands at work. Getting caught in the middle of a panic attack with his pants proverbially around his ankles made a horrified shudder dart up his back. He pocketed it and headed outside.

The warm air rushed past him as he strode toward the parking lot. He passed by a few of his neighbors loitering around in the shade of the old complex. Some of them were talking rather loud with each other, and some sat quietly on crumbling stoops with earbuds in or magazines in hand. On one stoop, he spotted the local dog, lazing about looking plump from donations.

“Habibi,” he called. “Here, Ali.”

Ali bounded to his feet and trotted over, sniffing at the air. He shook off, expelling dust from his tan fur. His curled tail wagged when Idrees held out the chicken. 

“Easy, Ali. Easy.”

Ali snatched the chicken and luckily not Idrees’ fingers that time. Idrees pat the dog between his ears and watched as he trotted back toward that stoop with his head held high in triumph.

Wiping his hand on his pants, Idrees continued toward the parking lot. There, he noticed that horny old man lingering around someone's car. He keyed in to what was said, intent and ensuring he wasn't harassing someone else. It seemed to be his son, though, arguing over money. So Idrees minded his own and got into his car. As long as that man stayed as far away from Cece as possible, Idrees wouldn't have to beat the shit out of him.

Once at the hotel parking lot, Idrees gave himself an internal pep talk. Don't mention Nasir. Don't worry so much. And wallah, try not to say anything stupid. He took a deep breath to steady himself and stepped out of the car. 

He had to park a ways away as cars packed the lot but, even from halfway down, he noticed Cece standing in the shade of the large beige awning. She spotted him and her face lit up like the full moon. He was glued to the spot watching her head his way, only able to step forward a few times before the glowing euphoria stopped his mind from working. She wore that gorgeous blue shawl from the bazaar, and she had it wrapped properly around herself. He'd shown her how to do that. He'd been helpful to her and he could've floated off into the clouds if his feet weren’t stuck to the asphalt. 

Even better was her leaping into his arms to the point he stumbled back a bit, giving her a surprised little, “oh!” in turn. She giggled and nuzzled into his shoulder.

“Sorry we're meeting up so late,” she said.  “It's no big deal. Did you sleep well?” “Yeah, I slept pretty good. What about you?” He didn't sleep at all. “I slept pretty good, too.” “I am so excited to see that old Temple, Idrees. There's supposed to be a beautiful waterfall there, right?” “Let's go find out.”

She got in the passenger’s seat and used her shawl to air herself off and let some of the air conditioning blow on her. Within just a minute of driving, she broke their silence.

“You don't listen to the radio?” “Not really. I've never been a big music person.” “What?” she asked as if he'd just admitted to being a serial killer. “I've heard about people like you but I didn't think you actually existed!” “Funny, your family doesn't, either.” “Does your car have Bluetooth?” “Blue— what?”

She fiddled with the radio a bit, pressing buttons that he, in the three years he'd had this car, had no idea existed. But he never cared for fiddling with the radio much, and mostly got this car because air conditioning was such a luxury.

Whatever she wanted to find, she must've found, as she pumped her fist and whispered, “yes!”. If she got any more adorable… 

“Now the hard part is deciding what song I want,” she said. “So I finally get to hear your actual singing?” Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened in delight. “Oh my god, you’re so right! Oh man, now that’s putting a lot of pressure on me. Hoo boy… What song, what song…?”

She searched on her phone and he couldn’t deny: he was more than a little intrigued. A woman like her—what sort of music would she enjoy? Would the lyrics be profound? Would it be trashy pop about sex and drugs? Bold and unique? Or banal and uninspired? When she gave the quietest little “ah ha” and put her music on the radio, his entire body tensed in anticipation.

The song came on, plucky and upbeat, and—unexpectedly—with banjos. Was it country? It didn't sound like country, not quite. When the singer spun her lyrics, he tuned in to Cece's rendition as much as he could.

“You can't bind me in the state you've kept me for so long,” they harmonized.

Another woman sang the end of the stanzas as well. The overlapping instrumentals were eclectic and different from anything he’d heard, and Cece's singing, while perhaps not nearly as perfected as the lead's, added such charm.

“All my love you tried to take but you can't have it all,” she sang.

The way the lead vocalist played with her voice, and thus made Cece follow along, was pleasing to his ears. Cece had clearly heard this song many times as she didn't miss a beat or mess up a note. Her hands absently tapped the dash or her legs alongside the drumbeat or changed to follow the strumming banjo. And her voice—he almost couldn't hear the lead over top of Cece with how well she harmonized.

“I won't bargain, I won't break. My mind's made up though my head still aches, and all my love you tried to take but you can't have it all…”

He shifted in his seat. It almost seemed directed at him. He had been so greedily asking for her time, constantly wanting more of her, and the other day… When he'd asked to drive her to her hotel, she’d hesitated. Was he asking too much? Demanding too much? Trying to take from her more than she could give? She wasn't an overflowing cup. Though he longed to keep taking and receiving her affection, the song she chose had his mind thinking overtime. Was he simply consuming the dregs from her? Muddled and lukewarm. Or perhaps the band's poetic lyrics had him waxing catastrophic.

He listened, enjoying Cece's practiced voice. The song seemed to be wrapping up, and Cece bounced between the main vocals and the back-up. The instruments quieted, leaving room for rhythmic clapping that reminded him almost of a heartbeat, which Cece matched with precision.

“You won't find me where you left me, no I'm long gone.”

Once the song was over, she breathed a quick sigh. 

“God, I love that band.” she said. “Might be too early to tell, since this was their first album, but The Crane Wives might be my favorite band of all time. At least one of them, for sure. What did you think?”

She looked at him with her eyes bright and large, as if hopeful he would validate her love of the band.

“It was certainly unique,” he said. “Felt like a song that you would enjoy.” “Aw, thank you,” she said.  “Why that song?” To satiate his own curiosity—rather, his own rattled nerves. “I'm just obsessed with his album right now. Every song is amazing, but I thought that one exemplified this band the most. And it means a lot to me, so I wanted to share it.”

He took a steadying, hopefully subtle, breath. So it wasn't directed at him. He wondered who, then, made her pour all her might and heart into every line.

“It was really good,” he said. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

She played even more of that album to much the same passion and energy. They had about half an hour to listen, and got through most of the album in that time. There was no shortage of banjos and ethereal wordless vocals. No shortage of deep lyrics that touched him in ways he never thought music could. With lines like:

Water rushes in. I will welcome it. I am not afraid to give you everything. And the devil won't know all the love I just couldn't let go And my poor heart is an open wound. It’s ancient history that’s bleeding out of me.

Who could have her singing like that? Who could’ve made such lyrics speak to her? They spoke to him, too, in their own right. But he could never tell her that. Then she may pry him open and find the answers within his shell.

If there was one thing that guaranteed a Cece Distraction, it was reaching their tourist destination. The parking lot was packed full, but up on the mountains and turrets sat the mossy paths and faint rock walls of the old Temple. Cece had her face up against the passenger window as he parked, and hardly waited for him to fully turn the car off before hopping out.

The old Temple was crawling with people and greedy macaques. Plenty of people stayed by the food stands lining the entrance, either recovering from their walk or mentally preparing themselves. The strong scent of Indian spices had the macaques queued up for any unattended food, watching from picnic benches and mossy stone walls.

She grabbed hold of his hand and tugged him down the pathway, bypassing all of the food stands as though blinders kept her honed in. They left the dirty, litter–encrusted stones behind for beautiful dirt paths. The noise faded to people's gentle chattering and the sounds of wild birds chirping nearby. They traded the spiced foods for earthy soil and lush green leaves from the trees lining the path.

At first, it was easy to keep pace with her, his arm wrapped snuggly around her waist. But soon she found a “cool rock” on the ground, and that awakened a primal hoarding instinct within her. She managed to look completely unruffled despite zigzagging up the trail. Meanwhile, sweat dribbled down the back of his neck and he had to try to keep his breathing steady. All those years of stacking cans and sweeping floors really didn't do anything for his physique, but Cece, though a little overweight, didn't seem to have any issues at all.

“How are you running back and forth like that?” he asked. “I'm just used to it, I guess,” she said, coming back from her side-of-the-road venture empty handed. “I've hiked a lot.” “Really?” “Oh, what? You think cuz I'm twenty pounds overweight I can't also have hiked a lot? Though, I was a little skinnier back then, to be fair. You ever hiked?”

Sand dunes, crumbling staircases attached to derelict buildings, running with his heavy uniform and backpack— He very quickly shook those images off. She didn't need her entire sunny afternoon ruined because of his darkness. 

“No,” he said. “Just never happened, you know? Grew up poor, had a lot of other things to do instead.” “That's fair. White people just love to hike, is what it is.” He chuckled, letting her joke instead of his nerves settle on him. “Was it a family affair, then?” She avoided his eyes. “Uh… Kinda, I guess.”

That was… odd. She offered a smile, showing off her pretty white teeth, but it only put him more on edge. Forced, and not natural like the ones he'd seen before.

“What's wrong?” he asked.  “Nothing. I just don't think it's an appropriate date topic.” “Hiking?” he questioned. “Or family? I mean, we went further with religion the other day.” “No, no, not that stuff,” she said, now fidgeting with a lock of hair. “You're confusing me, Cece.” “Well, all of my hiking stories involve my ex. Well, not really my ex.” Okay, now he was more confused. “I thought you said you don't have a boyfriend.” “I don't. He died. He was my fiancé, and we traveled around America together as a last hoorah before cancer took his life. That's what it is—I just figured you didn't want to hear me blabbing about my late fiancé.”

The way she spoke about it, she might as well have just punched him to get the same amount of shock in less time. He couldn't find the words on his flapping lips so he sealed them shut instead.

“See?” she said. “Now things are gonna be weird.” “No, I— I just didn't realize that happened. Sorry for bringing it up.” “You didn't.” “I brought up the family thing and then wouldn't stop asking you about it. I shouldn't have—” She caressed his back. “Look, don't even worry about it. I just didn't want to upset you. I mean: talking about past relationships on a date? Weird.” “It's not weird.” It kinda was. “I don't want to upset you.” “I'm not upset. I went through grief counseling and had a lot of therapy. It's what Rafi wanted me to do. Oh, that was his name: Rafi. He asked me to seek help if I was struggling after he died. And I'm glad I did because now I can look back on our time together without feeling guilty or upset—it was one of the best things I did for him.” “Wow,” he replied, rubbing the shock out of his temple. “That's… Aaila, I wasn't expecting that. I'm sorry, Cece.” “I’m okay. Really.” “You said you traveled around America?” “Yeah, I have a ton of pictures from it, too. A few I carry around with me. Wanna see?” A little tingle on his palm made covertly scratch it under the veil of his sleeve. “Sure.”

She smiled again, a little less exuberant. There was a different sort of sparkle in her eyes. Like nostalgia and longing. She reached into her bra and pulled out her wallet. An insert unfurled with several pictures on it. She showed him the top picture, of her beaming with a man beside her. The man's arms wrapped around her waist, and he was mid-kiss on her forehead. Light stubble pressed against her face, bringing light to her smile. They stood in front of a huge tree, the ends of which he couldn't see, as the dappled light covered them.

“This was Rafi and me in the redwood forests of California. Those trees were enormous, I swear this picture doesn’t do it justice. And this one here is us at a waterfall in Washington State. After we took this picture, we jumped into the water and made a mad dash for the car to get out of our freezing cold clothes. Mistakes were made.”

The second picture had them both giving peace signs to the camera, Rafi's arm still clutching her waist. Their bright smiles overshadowed the rushing blue waters behind them. They dressed a bit warmer than their tanks and slacks in the California picture, with light scarves and gloves instead.

She pointed to the last on that side. “We went to the beaches in Miami and Rafi had his ice cream stolen by a seagull.”

She laughed at her memory. The picture caught the seagull swooping out of frame with the ice cream in its beak, and Rafi's shocked face as he ducked under the fleeing thief. Cece's face was hardly visible behind the seagull, but what he could see was dying of laughter. He wanted to laugh, too, if it hadn't been so depressing. 

“I'm sorry,” she said, voice falling as she put her wallet away. “I don't want to ruin our date by talking about my fiancé or anything…”

He kept up with her as they continued their hike, trying to ignore the grip on his heart. Seeing her happy with another man, one who had held her at night, who had kissed her enticing lips, and had probably done… More intimate things— No. That man was dead. And clearly meant a lot to her. Yet, seeing her gaze lovingly at the pictures of her fiancé, dead or not, made his guts squirm.

He would sacrifice his own comfort for Cece's sake. To be that jealous man, ready to whip his wife the moment she stepped out of line, sent his skin skittering. He scratched at his palm.

“No, it's fine,” he said, trying to sound strong and sure. “I want to hear more about Rafi and your travels.” “Are you sure? Third date and you wanna talk about my dead fiancé?”

He was a little taken aback by the blunt way she spoke, yet it only served to strengthen his resolve. If she could do this, so could he.

“Yes, please. I want to see the other pictures.”

She grinned so wide, so utterly cute—how could he resist any chance to see her face light up? She tugged her wallet out to show the back of the insert, and he had to lead her to the side to avoid running into another couple. They apologized to the couple, who smiled and waved.

Cece returned to the top picture. “This was Rafi and me at the Grand Canyon. He was terrified of heights but he posed this picture for us anyway.”

Rafi must've gotten the same sort of strength from Cece as Idrees; he stood tall and proud, both arms holding onto her as she leaned into his chest. Cece's hand peeked around the back of his head to fiddle with a poorly done undercut beneath his mop-top hair. She was smirking and hiding a peace sign under Rafi’s arm.

“Don't mind his cut,” she said. “He hated it so much, it was hilarious. I thought it was so dorky and cute and I took every chance to touch it. He got sick of me but that was too bad because we were stuck together.”

She stuck out her tongue at the picture. This was enough to coax a little laugh out of Idrees. Oh, to be stuck with Cece on a road trip, having her hands in his hair, her waist within his arms. Even if he had a shitty haircut, Idrees couldn't imagine anything that would bring him more joy. No wonder Rafi looked on top of the world in every photo, except that seagull one.

“Ooh,” she said at the middle photo, “we went to Louisiana in this one and took a ferry ride. Raf saw an alligator and just had to get a picture. It was taken by him so it's a really awkward angle. We look like we have two chins.”

Two double chins, and an insanely close shot of a huge alligator behind their moldy wooden boat. Cece had a wide-eyed face filled full of primal terror (to be fair, Idrees would be making the same face). Rafi looked bursting with glee, his bright white teeth showing through a grin sizable enough to rival the alligator.

“Raf loved reptiles. He really wanted to be a herpetologist and have all sorts of snakes and lizards. It was his idea to go to Louisiana to see gators. And Florida, too, but mostly we just got attacked by the gulls.”

She laughed again, somehow so casual and calm as she spoke about it all. He longed for that kind of resilience, though any confidence he thought he possessed slipped through the creeping flesh of his fingers.

“It's okay,” she said, “you can laugh.” He gazed at her, dumbfounded. “I'm giving you some good stuff here, you can laugh about it. Raf would've wanted me recounting his life to be pleasant. He found humor in pretty much everything. Just look at this last picture.”

He did, though he couldn't see what was so funny about that one, either. It was of Rafi, down on one knee, proposing to Cece. Orange and pink painted the background and an enormous lake behind them reflected droplets of the sunset. The glow highlighted Rafi's smile and Cece's surprise. Idrees wasn't exactly sure, but the ring box itself appeared empty. He didn't want to force a laugh, especially when he wasn't in on the joke. 

“This is a recreation of how he would've proposed to me if he—and I quote—‘didn’t just blurt it out over tacos’. Even though we both knew he would die before we could get married. He said, ‘Having me be your dead fiancé sounds so much more tragic than just your dead boyfriend’.” She laughed again. “I thought it was so sweet, but he said he'd always dreamed of doing it better. So while we were at Lake Superior, we did a mock proposal. I'm utterly terrified of rings getting stuck on my fingers so he couldn't really get me one, but this gesture—it was too cheesy not to laugh! If you look hard enough, you'll see that Raf almost broke character here.”

Idrees put his arm around Cece's waist and held her close. “I’m sorry, Cece. Rafi seemed like a really great man. It must’ve been really hard for you to lose him.” “It was. And sometimes, it still is. But I wouldn’t trade our adventures for anything in the world.” “You both seem so happy in those pictures. And I’m impressed with how you can talk about all of this.” “Years of therapy and grief counseling. I'm basically an expert. Wanna know the proper breathing techniques for the most efficient cry of your life? I'm your gal.”

That chipped away at his wall a bit, chuckling at the dark humor she seemed to enjoy so much. Those sessions must've worked. Most of her time spent recounting Rafi was spent in smiles and laughter, jokes and fondness. Just as she said Rafi would've wanted.

They reached their main destination: the mossy, rocky, layered waterfall of the old Temple. Bright green foliage lined the rocky face. There was rushing water, chanting and music, and chattering people. They found a spot to get closer among the crowd. Idrees held onto a banister that prevented people from falling in, but close enough that droplets of the water sometimes hit his face. He gripped the railing tight.

Idrees looked out over the water, trying to take in everything she'd said. Rafi meant a great deal to her, there was no doubt. He felt stupid for being so jealous, wondering if she would hold him like she held Rafi, too—-if she ever could love him like she loved Rafi. Or if he even deserved such a thing in the first place. 

Those pictures in her wallet brought her so much joy that he could never bring, but… There, with that gorgeous waterfall, with Cece’s bright, exuberant face beside him admiring those same falls, he thought maybe… He could try.

“Do you think we could do that?” he asked.  She gave him an inquisitive look with an upturned brow. “Hm?” “Take pictures, I mean.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted saying them. He imagined himself standing beside her in a picture. Her: angelic, breathtaking, her thick wavy locks all around her outlining her gorgeous curves, compared to… him: awkward, doofy unibrow, crappy mustache that taunted him by never growing out, all scrawny with no sense of fashion. His pictures could never compare to the dynamic and ecstatic poses of Cece and Rafi, holding onto one another with a love Idrees could only dream up. A love he certainly hadn't earned or deserved from Cece. 

Yet she grinned at him, her cheeks flushed as though he'd suggested something quite intimate. “That would be great. Then we'd have pictures to keep and look back on. I love that idea!”

Cece asked one of the other women nearby to help them take pictures. The woman took her phone and waited for them to get into position. He stood close to Cece, arms around her waist, eyes avoiding the camera. Cece's beaming smile overshadowed him. The rushing waters and banister behind him kept him in place, standing beside her like a shadow devoid of warmth and light.

Then her lips met his cheek. The second time, her fingers held his chin, drowning him in a gush of warmth. He kept leaning toward her as she pulled away, stopping only when she retrieved her phone. So badly did he want to lament that she was no longer kissing him that he felt the words rising up in his throat like saboteurs. He swallowed them back down to die out in his gut. 

“Thank you so much!” Cece called in her strained Hindi to the woman, who went back to chatting with her friends.

She brought the phone closer to Idrees and swiped through the pictures. There he was, just as in the background as he'd felt. Cece's presence and beauty were unmatched, especially by him. The more he looked at them side by side, the more he observed just how out of his league she was. Why would she want to be with him, someone unremarkable and broken, when her radiance could've attracted anyone she wanted?

Then the last picture made him suck his lips into his teeth. Her kiss pressed into his cheek in that picture, and Idrees was brought to the forefront, alongside his stupidly surprised smile. One that revealed his broken tooth.

“This one is so cute!” Cece gushed. “You looked so gloomy in the other ones, but you've got such a handsome smile, Idrees.” “Me?” he squeaked. She dramatically looked around, a hand over top her brow as if to block out the light. Then she nodded at him, resolute and serious. “Yep, definitely, on account a’ there are no other Idreeses here.”

He couldn't see it but he tried not to focus on any perceived flaws. His racing heart only heard those words over and over: “you’ve got such a handsome smile”.

“You're beautiful,” he said. His heart flipped. “I-in this picture. I mean, yes, all the time, but I was referring to—”

He cleared his throat and avoided her eye. His cheeks were on fire. Cece's face showed him what that must've looked like if his skin was lighter, given her cheeks were so red they could've been hot to the touch. They were perked up like cute little apples on the ends of her bright smile.

“You're so sweet, Idrees.”

Those four words crashed down on him. All he saw were flashes of his old life: gunpowder and smoke, innocent people crying, screaming, begging for mercy, women and children pleading for any ounce of humanity or shred of decency he had. He gave them pain and suffering. He tried to blink the visions away.

Cece's big, brown eyes begged for some kind of reaction aside from a fallen jaw that made his mouth so dry. He couldn't offer her anything. If he smiled or tried to make light of it, then he would be lying right to her face. Yet… he already was. She knew nothing of his past and he continued letting her believe all of these things about him that weren't true. Sweet? No. This front was a mask hiding a monster beyond the facade.

[wizisbored]

Saw you say you were still going insane about Running Iron. Is there anything else you’d like to share about it since it’s on your mind so much? 👀

yes.

a significant point about the running iron is that im going to be writing it in american english. theres a number of reasons i usually write fic for american media in british english that i wont get into right now but since im chosing to make this one about the american old west i thought it would just be too at-ods with the genre. like, usually in my fics the character/setting being american isnt really that significant but in this one it is. the authors notes, tumblr ramblings, and my lore document will all still be in my usual dialect (tho this might change for the lore doc). this also means that for the first time in several years, im going to have a beta reader, purely to check my dialect - im sure theres differences i have no idea of.

anyway, that quick note ended up longer than planned. in other news, ive been building up a lore doc to flesh out the 'western but with centaurs' setting, so im going to grab an entry and then explain how it applies to the story.

lore doc entry: brush boxes

For the purposes of grooming, almost every centaur owns a personal brush box, and they are considered important cultural items. The box itself is most often made of wood or leather, and the contents will vary slightly based upon the preferences of its owner. However, they are not intended for use by the owner. Due to the shape of a centaur and their inability to comfortably reach all areas of their body, they rely on their herd to groom them, and so will use the grooming partner’s box for them. It is a reciprocal task, often with both centaurs grooming one another simultaneously. Usually this will be family members, but for those on the move it is not uncommon for two centaurs who met that evening in the saloon to groom one another.

The most common contents of a brush box include:

Hoof pick, sometimes having a secondary smaller point for the fingernails

Nail clippers

Curry comb

Dandy (hard) brush

Body (soft) brush

Wide bristle brush for mane and tail

Comb (more common for those with feathers)

Scissors (for those who like to keep mane, tail, feathers or beard trimmed)

Razor (for stallions who prefer to be clean shaven or feathered taurs who shave)

Soap and washcloth and/or sponge

Small water basin, usually only slightly smaller than the box with other items placed inside

Ties or wraps for hair, tail and feathers

so, in the running iron, lydia of course packed her brush box when she left the maitlands. shes never done grooming with someone other than her parents or foster parents before and is still a bit unsure of living with beetlejuice so she doesnt ask him, but he sees her struggling to pick her hooves and offers because hes kina desperate to interact. lydia accepts but does the polite thing and asks for his box to reciprocate. he doesnt have one. he lost it a while back, and has trouble finding people to groom with. explains why whats left of his tail after it was trimmed is so fucked up. so, they share Lydia's, on the condition that he cleans everything. and that's the arrangement they keep.