#the bokeh is really pleasing here

[chevvy-ryder]

[NC_RES]-13062047-EUR-BU-NED de_wit_m_portraits_030_1_MM_DT_PCFA.file ///core:_thyjs_de_wit.file\\\

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⚠️ READ: Please do not repost/reupload any of my art here or to any other platform nor for ai, or I will be forced to do anything to get it annihilated.

"Een Militech Chimera is voor mij geen probleem." — Thyjs

I've been working on this approximately a month as I was uncertain how I want it to be in the end. The shots are from November 2023 when I was in my focused game play bringing Thyjs into Dogtown.

I loved the scenery after the Chimera is slayn already when I went through with Arki in my first playthrough but with Thyjs I wanted to take some special pics, thinking he's super good in exterminating a Militech Chimera. So I placed him onto it after the machine got slayn and thought why not make Thyjs pull the last remaining energy left of that big machine to load his cybernetic arm up with energy again when that big fight was over.

I love the tiny electricity effects and even spawned some more but it wasn't sadly enough so I was forced to add more later in post processing with lightning brushes. I've spend an immense time on getting the lightning to look good enough and probably worked on this set (and another I'll post later) over a month after work until I was finally satisfied.

The the idea stroke me to add more: bokeh, fire, dust, make all a bit blurry and well that's the result. This has been sitting in my drafts since more than a month as I always try to figure out when to post best, but there is no best time, so if you read and see this: I eventually managed to hit that button.

This is the first time I can actually really show what Thyjs is able to do. That electricity he can use is insane. I wish it was able to play like that ingame.

[stacywaters]

Just Pretend (BEOMGYU) CH8 - I Need You

(Y/N POV)

"Sara told you to stay away from him. It's your fault now for not honoring that"

"Sara can tell Beomgyu how she feels! I don't see why me avoiding him is going to help. You need to deal with that on your own" I defend.

Sara scoffs, "how am I supposed to talk to him when you're always lurking?"

Remembering the fact that, as far as they know, I am his girlfriend, I continue, "YOU'RE the one that needs to stay away from MY man"

"He won't be your man for long" Sara begins rolling up her sleeves.

"Woah, woah," I panic, "you aren't-like, actually going to fight me, are you?"

They just continue walking towards me. I step back, but they speed up. Before I know it, I'm running away at full speed. Who knew that they really weren't kidding when they confronted me before. "Stay away from Beomgyu! He's mine!" I remember them saying. Oh well.

I can hear their footsteps pounding against the pavement behind me, catching up. I run way past the school, shoving past people walking by with "sorry!"s. That is until I slam face-first into something.

I breath in the scent of the soft fabric, relieved that my marathon is over. Then, I realize that I ran into a person. Whoever it is seems awfully familiar.

"Are you okay?" He asks nervously.

I look up into his eyes. Those same warm eyes that I fell in love with. Beomgyu couldn't have come at a more perfect time.

He wraps his arms around me, slowing down the thump thump thump of my heart. Time seems to slow, the people passing around me fading into a bokeh blur. I can only see him, and his dark, sparkling eyes passing over my face. Like he's making sure I'm okay. Is he? His gaze is wide, eyebrows knitted. He seems panicked, and he's also out of breath. Did he run here?

Then, his eyes shift to the two girls chasing me.

"Are they... following you?" He asks.

I nod quickly, "We gotta go"

He grabs my hand. As we're running, he looks back at me and gives me a smile. We go past buildings and houses, into side streets and alleyways. Until they're long out of sight. I'm not sure where we are now, in some neighborhood I don't recognize. Finally, we slow down to a walk.

"Beomgyu, where are we?" I laugh.

He exhales, "well, I know it seems like the middle of nowhere, but I swear this leads to my street"

"Your street?"

"Well we still have to finish our project, don't we?" He joshed, "you didn't show up to our study session today"

"Yeah, 'cause some girls were harassing me about you! Don't blame this on me" I ranted.

"Okay, okay" he laughed, "wait, about me?"

"Yeah, those two girls. Minji from our English class, and her friend's name was... Sara? I think"

He faltered, "wait, why were they chasing you, anyways?"

"Well, I was just trying to walk home after school-"

"Walk home? What about our study session?"

I pursed my lips, "I forgot"

He groaned, "Okay, continue"

"So, I was walking home, and they stopped me and tore me away from the sidewalk into this weird alley. Then, they began telling me off for talking to you today because I was 'ruining Sara's chance', and I was like, 'what does that have to do with me?'" I told, "So, after that they began threatening me. So I began running. And I just so happened to run into you!"

He seems to take it much more seriously than I try to, "they threatened you?"

"Well, they just started telling me how 'he won't be my man for long' and stuff. Then they were rolling up their sleeves, and, I don't know! Why would they act like that? Weirdos..."

All of a sudden, he's pulling me closer. As I wrap my arms around the thick material of his sweater, I find myself tearing up in his embrace. The unwanted interaction did hurt me, I guess I've spent a long time trying to pretend nothing ever did. But... he sees me. Better than I even do.

"Please tell me when anything like this happens," he breathed, "I don't want anything happening to you"

I cry, burying my face into his sweater. He just keeps holding on.

"I'm worried, beomgyu. If they do that just from me talking to you, how far are they willing to go?"

He separates from me, holding me by the shoulders, "then you call me"

He looks at me, and if I didn't know better, if I didn't have years of experience telling myself that he would never love me, I would say that he did. In his eyes, he looks like he loves me.

He swore, "I'll always protect you. You're one of the most important people to me right now, I...

I need you, Y/N. I need you to stay safe"

[frenzyarts]

glowy anon here. i was looking at the naomi campbell drawing i love it! what did you do to get that effect there?

For that drawing I did a lot of things to add glow! In the background, I kept some things super dark to really make the highlights pop (also because I was referencing a photo of her and that’s how the background looked to me) I use procreate and it has a whole section for light brushes. I used the bokeh lights in the background and also the light brush for the really bright areas

On Naomi herself I mostly did a bunch of little highlights which is a very similar technique. For super bright areas you wanna make sure you have sections that aren’t pure white so the highlights have something to stand out against. The darker the background the more the lights stand out, hence why the strands on her left look super sparkly

I used the light brush to add a lot of highlights but when I needed a more specific brush I would pick either white or a color close to white, duplicate the layer, blur it, and then set it to “add” or “screen” or another brightening layer. From there I would play around with the opacities

I also have a brush that I made that makes a line of little stars, and that was very effective for making a sort of “beaded” highlight look. I did similar things with the glow and blur on that layer (also I plan to put some of the brushes I make on my ko-fi and the little stars will be one of them)

I hope this was helpful!! Please let me know if you have any other questions, I could talk about art all day ❤️

[leamy-world]

Reaction to The Devil Judge (spoilers for ep. 11-12)

Hello everyone! I hope you’re doing well this week!

Here we go! Again i’m really sorry for the english & my personal interpretations which might go a little bit overboard (❁´ω`❁)

THIS GOT VERYYYYYYYYYY LONG PLEASE BEAR WITH ME!!!!

tldr: i am in shambles haha

Have a nice week and take care! ♥

- Huckleberryfinn’s new OST, The Nights, was released this saturday and it’s truly a gem! The guitar/bass’s place in BOTH OSTs they composed is awesome. The lyrics destroyed me haha (i’ll shortly talk about it below!). The soundtrack during these two episodes was awesome btw ;;

- Sun-Ah’s visit to the mansion felt nostalgic and shattering at the same time, she sees she doesn’t belong in this house but still indulges a little in this illusion, « wanting to fall for his trick even just for a little while ». Her expression made me feel for her for a little while too ;; 

This shot above is funny because the bokeh effect (✨ the little sparkles ✨) is used in the background every time but this time it plays in front of Sun-Ah’s view: she sees in Yohan and his mansion a « shining » thing she desired for a long time. The bokeh here served also as a transition to the flashback right after.

Well, it could just be the streetlights’ reflections on the car and me reaching but there are so many symbolic visual shots in this show already i just couldn’t dismiss it in my brain haha

I liked Sun-Ah’s depiction of her choice to go against Yohan: she drops the necklace (symbolizing Yohan, this scene followed by Yohan’s cross-like scar) and not herself, like she did in the past for/because of Yohan when she was a maid + Yohan’s reflection disappears, Sun-Ah only focusing on herself: the ‘us’ she wanted for some time disappeared. And this event makes Sun-Ah’s rage on K more upsetting than it already is, but maybe i’m reaching haha

This scene also shows Yohan and Sun-Ah want two different directions to their relationship: to use her and to have him reach the top by her side respectively. They both look at the mirror, but their focus is different and they’re set in different plans on the shots.

In My Mister, (SPOILERS) the wife has a serious affair with her husband’s superior, but throughout the drama, they have divergent opinions on their affair’s developments: the wife wanted to leave her husband and settle with her lover, while the latter didn’t think any of it and, among other plot reasons, only wanted her because married women are the ‘safest choice (ending the relationship while she still loves him would be more troublesome) and always kept the affair secret’. 

This was particularly symbolized by their song preferences, but also by this shot in the beginning of the series: after the wife shared her hopes about their relationship (and her lover staying most of the time silent), they both look to the distance (their affair’s metaphorical future) but their eyes almost never look in the same direction.

- « I did it because i need you (by my side?) », Sun-Ah and Gaon’s parallels:

"[To Gaon on ep. 8] I wanted you to be by my side.”

“[To Gaon on ep. 5] I don’t need you to understand, but you need to make a decision. Will you stand in my way … or stand on my side?”

"[To Gaon] If i needed to, i would’ve done something even worse. Whether it was switching him or something else.”

- When Elijah and Gaon play jenga, Yohan might have let the door to his bedroom open (even after leaving them the first time) to continue hearing them have fun in the living room. It parallels to the scene in ep. 5 where he watches them play in the garden with Kkomi through the little gap of his curtains: what piques his curiosity first is the playful conversation he hears from his bed even from the closed windows. The flashback explains it all and i’m glad Gaon insisted to have him play with them despite the front he tried to put on, Elijah’s and Yohan’s expressions in this scene ended me ;;

Look how quick he turned his attention to Gaon, as if he waited for something to happen, to get to play with them!! His eyes lit up in an instant i can’t with this —

I loved how Yohan delayed his defeat to Elijah by asking Gaon questions about the game hahah

Elijah and Yohan’s relationship growth here reminds me of 2 parallels i didn’t catch the first time (but the desperation i felt when Gaon left because everything could grow cold again between Elijah and Yohan):

“That’s everything i think about”:

Elijah getting in & out of the car (ep. 6-9):

- And Gaon’s « Once everything is over, i’ll definitely … » — you’ll definitely what, please tell the audienceeeeeeee ;;;; this screams a death flag for Soohyun (or was it just foreshadowing their confrontation in ep. 12? idek anymore haha), but let’s hope it’s not!!

- After CKH’s suicide: we can’t expect people to make perfect choices every time they are challenged, and i think this story shows it well: Soohyun when she was with Elijah, and now Gaon carelessly touching the minister’s body for the files. As judges, they could have searched the body and the room using a fabric to hide their presence. But they’re both shocked: Yohan looks dumbfounded, standing and watching (even though he’s quicker to react when he sees Soohyun and he puts on a composure at the house saying it was ‘nothing’, he looked very sour when Sun-Ah called him to rejoice in her death) and Gaon panic-stricken. The fact he might have relived his parents’ suicide when he discovered the Minister’s body … And in the worst way possible (in a daze, searching her dead body for her files and realizing he didn’t give the body minimum respect) … oof

At least Yohan could have thought about it since the story shows how prepared he is in his plans, but this scene shows even him is at a loss at what to do. After all, the minister was the way he targeted to bring everyone linked to the foundation down. They were so close, i think he was too convinced her « self-pity » would mean her survival despite everything (« Do you have any other options? ») to see what was coming. After all, when they last met, he saw she was about to shoot him. 

Sun-Ah was the only one he thought was ‘unpredictable’. When Gaon talked to CKH, he let him speak and approved his speech, surely thinking everything went along his plans and the minister would surrender. And i think that’s also why he gives Gaon all this speech, to reassure himself and them, since they work now as a team. 

- Ep. 9 foreshadowing ep. 11 and 12 (Soohyun facing Yohan and Gaon). It’s interesting how the two shots from ep. 9 seem to put on the same plan the three characters, as if Yohan is literally standing between Soohyun and Gaon, as if he was the one protecting/separating him from Soohyun. This is very telling of the whole dynamic between those three.

- When the minister said she didn’t want to clear her name regarding her son in the live but still does so anyway, this is pure preterition haha! It’s also why she reminds the public opinion the first case Yohan handled!

- Cha Kyung Hee’s demise (ep. 11-4 parallels):

(+ a cinematographic reference to the 2000 movie Malèna, which was recently used in Hwasa’s MV for the song Maria)

- The scene right after where Soohyun wipes Gaon’s involvement to the suicide was moving in regards to her character, we get to see how torn she is by this situation + when she faces off Yohan in the parking (and the ‘let go’ could also have referred to Gaon) … i felt bad for her!

- About Soohyun & the professor: I find interesting the way the professor and Soohyun shelter Gaon’s existence was clearly shown with these two episodes and through their rage. At the beginning of the drama, their hold on his life’s values and choices was almost impalpable but not anymore, now that they’re facing Yohan’s threat.

In these shots, Soohyun looks like she is covering Gaon’s ear, turning him away and protecting him from outside (from the pain, Yohan, the rest of the world).

And on professor Min’s part, it’s almost infantilizing, de-responsibilizing Gaon to say the least (« What are you making Gaon do? That child has been through so much. He suffered and struggled through the worst to get there. »), given he’s the one who planted him on the court’s bench to find what’s happening behind the scene: he could have asked Gaon for explanations (as Yohan underlined, « Did you hear it from Gaon himself? ») but he just snaps at him. He should have foreseen that he could’ve taken Yohan’s side. 

For his defense, his family just got targeted but still, it’s the first time Gaon came back since then!

(By the way, that whole conversation with professor Min confirmed to Yohan Gaon didn’t admit to their plan to Soohyun nor the professor)

As for Soohyun, her deep concern for Gaon makes her antagonize Yohan and, in her POV, it’s pretty understandable: her friend got locked up in this judge’s house for days with no phone or permission to go out + said judge seems to not let her niece go out with her new friends, got violent against Gaon + he seems to be plotting something behind the trials he biased + Gaon’s description of the man in the first episodes wasn’t that nice but DESPITE IT ALL her friend still seems to be empathizing with him? 

She’s maybe thinking he got manipulated by Yohan given the evil picture he depicted her & must feel helpless in front of Gaon’s sudden change of heart. I think that’s what she wanted to ask him when she got cut by the professor’s arrival. The lack of honest conversation between them is what’s making it worse: on one hand, Gaon goes to her every time he feels sad or confused to get comfort & advice without telling what truly is going on (or eventually telling her when she insists), on the other hand, Soohyun always tells him to give up his investigation on Yohan and never asks him his point of view to understand the situation. 

And she discovered he lied about him not being involved with this man in the worst way possible, finding him by CKH’s body with Yohan. He was her reason to dedicate her life to protect people under the law (he does not owe her anything in no way, but it was her wish), and she ended up dirtying her hands for him. Her gut reaction to her moral principles being violated by both Gaon and her right now is stronger than wanting to hear the truth from Gaon. She continues to investigate Yohan on her own, to protect him. It was interesting to see this sententious side when she confronted Gaon after all this! The only time Soohyun saw him cry and didn’t support him, it hits hard ;;

But i believe the whole crisis that’s happening by the end of ep. 12 will make them team up again at least for a while. And on that note, will she meet Sun-Ah? It would be interesting!

I’m glad the professor raised as a concern on the live trials the due process & fair trial, which are essential for the rule of law to prosper.   

In fact, the live trials slowly become a place of majoritarianism/ochlocracy/mob rule as the cases progress (the two best examples being the actor and Juk Chang cases), the protests against professor Min are another example. Even if Yohan has the last word on the defendant’s sentence, this issue is still there. 

Maybe the viewers’ voice will turn against Yohan one day?

- The minister … Even though the story showed us how cruel her family could be, i can’t help but feel sympathy for her son with her suicide. And that is accentuated by the fact her family’s grief is not even showed, covered by the mediatic chaos. She could have fled the country as her son suggested, but she thought she was « nothing » without her accomplishments and her path to glory. As the former president of the foundation killed by Sun-Ah’s hands, she died in her office as the Minister of Justice, while her image wasn’t torn to shreds yet. The photograph she held showed her at the center and, ironically, it’s the only figure from the photo who is clear-cut, her husband and her son are out of focus (or it could just be the episode’s image quality misleading me haha). Even though she loved them (well, at least in her manner, which was kind of narcissistic tbh), she cared too much for her success and her death was her act of self-pity.   

- This isn’t the first time Gaon was warned about Yohan and i find it interesting it’s the people closest to him that say that, especially K despite (or precisely because?) his loyalty to him. Elijah also warned him before.

- The whole argument … It’s a progression of ep. 5 & 8 scenes (’will you stand in my way or stand on my side?’ & ‘i wanted you by my side and if i needed to, i would’ve done something worse’). You can tell how desperate Yohan was when he reached out to Gaon. His gaze faltered, showing his hesitation to do it, but as the realization he was going to lose him dawned on him, this touch became a necessity in front of the exigency, making up for everything he couldn’t say out loud. It was a sad & hurtful mess. Yohan truly looked short on ‘arguments’ after Gaon’s question (‘what kind of monster am i turning into?’), he seemed to not even know what to say to make him stay, making him pause before talking about Soohyun. 

The way his eyes lit up, almost smiling, full of hope, when he finished laying his ultimatum and how he regained a composed expression, thinking Gaon would take his side maybe?

I didn’t catch it on the first time, but Gaon’s sadness to end/put a hold on their collaboration (thus their whole relationship, stepping out of his life) transpired through him weakly rejecting Yohan’s hand with his own hand sliding down the latter's arm, as if he was unwilling to let this life with the Kangs go. You can see it’s hard on him to leave with the tears in his eyes. 

I think Gaon’s response outran his thoughts, as a quick riposte, it was to make Yohan stop this. The way things went (well, it escalated QUICKLY), hurting him like that was the only effective way, and he knows it will hurt him: before saying Soohyun is his world, he tears up because of that (in addition to everything Yohan said and it was A LOT), and didn’t even have the strength/will to get angry like all the previous times: 

the fact Yohan laid this very ultimatum and wanted to persuade/manipulate him into thinking this was the only choice. Even if he knew Yohan would be capable of doing this since ep. 7-8 (”To achieve his goal, would he not use another man’s pain? If the devil really did exist among us.”), he got a confirmation and it still hurts.

+ the fact he knows he has to hurt him with something as much as hurtful before he takes it too far.

+ the fact he knows he can’t live in this house any longer because of this argument when he made all these memories with them.

And (let’s hope for it) if Gaon wants to show Yohan there’s another way out of this ultimatum, Gaon’s « Soohyun is my world » might be a counter ultimatum (‘to stay by your side, you’ll have to deal with my world because there must be another way, there is no question, or else you’ll have to deal on your own’). He’s still not said anything to Soohyun (well, he didn’t have the opportunity to anyway but even during their confrontation, when she asked for details, he said nothing) nor the professor, so maybe that’s it?

- « Of course it doesn’t matter to me, but … » ELIJAH NOOOOOOOO ;;;;;;;;; After Yohan, Elijah tries in her way to hold Gaon back — and she makes a valid point tbh (look at what happened by the end of the episode!), but seeing her putting all her efforts and realizing it’s failing is heartbreaking … Given the preview for ep. 13, please let me hope this conversation won’t be their last one!! 

- Utter devastation when the next scenes show how Gaon still shines even in his absence: the « You never apologize » + the scene with the nanny & Gaon’s last prepared meal + Gaon’s portrait by Elijah … ugh 

- Elijah’s painting game is too strong, can’t relate haha! I wish they could show the BTS for this painting, respect for the artist behind!!

- On metaphorical images, Gaon took care of the Kangs like he tended to his plants at home. On a regular basis, he provided them attention and care, making them lively as his plants got lush. On ep. 8, we got a shot of Elijah smiling at Gaon’s plants, sort of a confirmation she loved how their house became warmer since Gaon’s stay, which led her to open up to his uncle.

- Now they’re only four! It looks like the mafia game haha, i look forward (am i though?) to the day Sun-Ah sits by herself haha 

AND THIS MAN

This is true pig behavior, especially considering Sun-Ah’s past … I felt her reaction when he said all this bs to demean her, she had all her struggles with men thrown back to her face, soiled by these « jokes ». 

- The monsters, the abyss and Nietzsche:

« He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee. », Nietzsche

- « I don’t care if humanity falls, as long as i have you two ». It was what he wouldn’t say to Gaon nor Elijah, and yet they’re his world! This sequence parallels Gaon’s inner wish when he leaves the Kang’s house + the flashbacks of his fond memories with the Kangs. Will Yohan give his vigilante ideals up for them? Will Gaon pursue this dream but in his own way that won’t threaten their « worlds »?

(Now we know what his whole world meant)

- The light from the chandelier (ie. their newfound family) is out of Yohan’s (metaphorical) reach, shown by its blurred silhouette, as if it’s gone from the room which regained its initial colder tones. But it’s not: once it’s made its way in the room, it remains and lingers, as a keepsake of the lost warmth. His fond memories with Gaon and Elijah flashed back through the window’s light.

On a similar note, Gaon’s room, albeit having warmer tones than the Kang’s ones since the beginning, looks dark too. The contrast with earlier episodes is clear. This reminds me of My Mister’s (SPOILERS) full shots of Lee Ji An’s room, getting warmer as she gets to know Park Dong Hoon, and losing all its fond colors when she has to leave for his sake. As if the room and inanimate objects were given life by their owner, imbuing them with their feelings. It becomes an outer expression of their feelings. Sorry for the rambling but i just love when they do that in fiction, and i think it sometimes leaves more impact to the viewers if emotions are conveyed through various angles (eg. through another character’s point of view, sounds, looks, the use of light i mentioned below, etc) ! 

- I wonder … since the flashbacks are giving us Gaon’s conscious point of view on this separation, was he awake when Yohan came back from his (forced) encounter with Sun-Ah? It’s a really minor point but it could be an interesting detail since this show always shows us there are some sides or spots to the stories we didn’t have yet! 

The jenga scene also flashed back but this time we see Gaon’s POV seeing Yohan’s smile & we got Gaon’s angle when Yohan had a nightmare in ep. 5: while from Yohan’s POV, Gaon’s irruption truly felt like an invasion of his intimacy (the quick succession of shots expressing his panic and defensive reaction), from Gaon’s POV only one angle showed the scene, the tension was conveyed only when Yohan slapped his hand away. 

We also got Yohan’s POV when he admitted to Gaon he needed him by his side (and a closer look at Gaon’s troubled expression)!  

- Ep. 5 and 11-12 parallels: 

Yohan’s tentative look at Gaon and Elijah playing outside, as if he wanted to join them like in ep. 11, the curtains mainly closed and only pushed by one of his hands. It let the daylight in his dark room through this sneak peek. 

But in ep. 12, the curtains are drawn, Yohan taking the (moon)light fully in. And this time, he doesn’t reach out to his late brother in the flames, but to the moonlight. He gets up, as in a trance, from his nightmare like the last time, but he goes to his window instead. And it reminds me of both Huckleberry Finn’s OST’s (in Tempest, « you said i’ll live in the sun / moonlight » and in The Nights, « my / your night shines on you / me »), the suffer is here. And see how the light reveals his tear? I nearly missed it!

The fact he could not find sleep anymore after this night + he slept on his sofa where the moonlight could be seen + has kept his phone right next to him (in case Gaon called him or to know if something happened to him) ➾ 🌝 pure devastation 🌝

- I really love the show’s use of light/dark tones to reveal and contrast its characters’ emotions! What you can’t see in the light gets revealed in the dark, and vice-versa. The OST The Nights touches on this subject as well. 

And it ties up very well to the plot so far: everyone has his or her own motivations and intentions, background, and makes choices, but depending on the perspective, their story changes and sparks off different reactions. Everybody’s story is interconnected. 

As @skylessnights pointed out, one of the books found during the series (when Yohan revealed his past to Gaon if i’m correct), The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy, depicts this angle well in its plot and epigraph: « Never again shall a single story be told as though it were the only one. » - John Berger. 

When Gaon and Yohan go back to the mansion after CKH’s death, the route lights flash Gaon’s hands red, caught (literally) red-handed by Soohyun. He begins to recollect his recent memories of what just happened, and panics, short-winded, until Yohan touched his arm. He’s startled but calmed himself down, and we don’t hear him out of breath anymore. It’s interesting how the light’s focus was on Gaon’s hands, the core of his panic, until Yohan’s arm came into the light, as if our and Gaon’s attention went back to Yohan’s touch, his anchor in his panic, and begins to think clear-headed of what they had done. (btw, getting Phoenix Wright desperate vibes from Gaon’s pose haha)

Gaon’s emotions show when his phone lights up, trying to reach Soohyun again. 

When Yohan’s inner wish brings him back to their happy times, the end of the flashback shows a shot of his eyes dazzled by the light of these memories and back to the present, the light now gone out from his eyes.

Yohan’s reaction to Gaon’s cry in the prison yard in ep. 7: what i loved to see was how his restraint told more about the emotions he held back. The light shifting on his face revealed his jaw clenching & frowned brows, his glassy eyes and him averting his gaze, which he often does when he’s in front of sensitive topics and it’s too much.

+ other instances he looked away:

When Jinjoo decides to accept the foundation’s offer, she steps into the dark side of the room where the two chairmen are. Up till now, she stood where the light could reach her, away from them. It symbolically seals her involvement with the foundation, and by the end of ep. 12, it is confirmed by her message on behalf of the foundation (about the plague) displayed on the screens. By the way, i love the fact so much things unfold while we focus on Yohan and Gaon’s story!

On the subject of ‘subjective’ truths, examples, besides the flashback with the priest about Yohan in ep. 11, could be the truth behind the cancellation of the donation by Yohan or Sun-Ah’s fall from the window when she was a maid. We got Sun-Ah, Elijah, and then later Yohan’s point of view.

- I think Gaon tried to call Soohyun and not Yohan (though the subs say otherwise) because the contact above has the ‘thug’ nickname with the fist emoji! It made more sense, Yohan would’ve answered right away! But i believe he will have regrets/worries in the next episodes (Yohan and Elijah seem to be getting in real danger so maybe he’ll come back to save them).

- Metatextuality in The Devil Judge — Beauty and the Beast (written by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont & Disney’s 1991 animation movie)

I’ve always loved transtextual relationships between fictions, my french teacher in middle school gave us this passion haha! Ever since i read this interview translated by @deviljudge​, it’s true i’m getting more and more Beauty and the Beast vibes, especially from ep. 12’s argument (and the whole premise Belle got locked up in the mansion in the beginning)! The original fairy tale and Disney’s adaptation are both relevant, some plot points differ from one another (Belle’s sisters vs Gaston, the mansion personnel turned into living paraphernalia) even though the core of the fairy tale is left untouched but for the sake of this bit, i’ll use the 1991 movie because its inevitably longer format delves more into the fairy tale moral lesson.

(Cheesy time incoming haha) The beast lets Belle go see her father he knew she deeply cared about, and let her go because he realized he loved her. He thought she would never come back, but despite it all, she came back and saved him from Gaston. Belle (Gaon) broke the spell that was casted on the mansion (the Kangs and their loneliness, especially when Yohan said he’s tired of this house). Yohan fails at not hurting the people he cares about but learns step by step, by Gaon and Elijah's side, how to live again and reconnect with his ‘human’ side.

Even the secretary looks like the modern version of the whole cast in the Beast’s mansion (Cogsworth, Lumière, …) haha

The movie intro is self-explanatory: 

« Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was spoiled, selfish and unkind. But then, one winter’s night, an old beggar woman came to the castle and offered him a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold. Repulsed by her haggard appearance, the prince sneered at the gift and turned the old woman away. But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within. And when he dismissed her again, the old woman’s ugliness melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress. The prince tried to apologize, but it was too late, for she had seen that there was no love in his heart. And as punishment, she transformed him into a hideous beast and placed a powerful spell on the castle and all who lived there. Ashamed of his monstrous form, the Beast concealed himself inside his castle with a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world. The rose she had offered was truly an enchanted rose, which would bloom until his 21st year. If he could learn to love another, and earn her love in return by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time. As the years passed, he fell into despair and lost all hope, for who could ever learn to love a beast? »

Belle’s characterization in the movie is also interesting:

« With a dreamy, far-off look and her nose stuck in her book what a puzzle to the rest of us is Belle ». 

« There must be more than this provincial life (…) I want adventure in the great wide somewhere — I want it more than i can tell — And for once it might be grand to have someone understand — I want so much more than they’ve got planned » 

& when Belle got locked up in the mansion: « I’ve lost my father, my dreams, everything. » (similar to “Soohyun is my world”).

Gaon, since his parents’ death, lived his life believing in the illusion of justice the system gave him, along with Soohyun and professor Min, his two pillars who kept him steady this whole time. Once he was showed it was an illusion, he wanted to fight this world.

Before the movie’s climax, this conversation reminded me of ep. 12’s argument:

« - Belle? Are you happy here with me?

- Yes. [looks to the distance]

- What is it?

- If only i could see my father again just for a moment. I miss him so much.

- There is a way. This mirror will show you anything. Anything you wish to see.

- I’d like to see my father, please. [The mirror projects the image of his father in danger and sick] Papa. Oh no. He’s sick. He may be dying and he’s all alone.

- [Glances at the wilting rose] Then you must go to him. 

- What did you say?

- I release you. You’re no longer my prisoner.

- You mean i’m free?

- Yes.

- Oh, thank you. Hold on Papa, i’m on my way.

- Take [the mirror] with you, so you’ll always have a way to look back and remember me.

- Thank you for understanding how much he needs me.

(…)

- I let her go. 

- [Cogsworth] Yes, splen … You what? How could you do that?

- I had to.

- Yes but … Why?

- Because i love her. »

Yohan did nothing to hold Gaon back even if he needs him (as shown when he clutches his hands together after he left) because he was forced by Gaon to understand how precious Soohyun is to him, this point was already made multiple times in the series (when Gaon thought he was the one who pushed Soohyun in the stairs and already threatened him about it, when Gaon told him he couldn’t live as a conman in front of Soohyun and his parents). Since his ‘to have you by my side, i would have done worse if it was necessary’ + ‘this is a life or death situation, sacrifices are also necessary’, he seemed to think Soohyun was expendable in his own world, which he shared with Gaon. With this argument, his world looks definitely incompatible with the one Gaon described (« Soohyun is my world »), and even though they already went this far in their plan, he lets him go and respects his choice. Will it make him change for the better or for the worse? Will the whole ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ apply to him?

Other moments i found interesting to note:

« Come into the light »:

When Belle goes to save the Beast from the village:

« - Please, i know he looks vicious, but he’s really kind and gentle. He’s my friend. - - [Gaston] If i didn’t know better, I’d think you had feelings for this monster. - - He’s no monster, Gaston. You are! - - If you’re not with us, you’re against us. » (pretty similar to the professor’s rage in the hospital)

When Belle’s father goes to save her: « I don’t care what it takes. I’ll find that castle and somehow, i … I’ll get her out of there. » (when Soohyun talks about and to Yohan)

The Beast possessive behavior in the beginning of the story: « [To her father] She’s no longer your concern, take him to the village. » (similar to Yohan’s behavior towards Soohyun) & « [To Belle] The castle is your home now » (and towards Gaon)

A monster:

When the Beast observes Belle playing from afar:

- And i saw some Jane Eyre vibes (SPOILERS) from the whole fire haha + Wuthering Heights on Sun-Ah’s & Yohan’s mixed parts!

- And well … Sun-Ah’s character loosely reminds me of Simone in Nier Automata (which in itself is a reference to Simone de Beauvoir’s life and works), with the whole « I must become more beautiful / But he still won’t look my way », to whoever knows this game! 

- These thigh boots holy hell Sun-Ah!!!! i loved this outfit!

- As soon as he said he didn’t feel anything from his revenge, K got the biggest death flag in this episode, i can’t believe they did this to the poor boy … When i asked for more scenes THIS isn’t what i meant aaaaaaaaaa

- A very random and weird note: Yohan’s almost silent and held back pain by the end of the ep. 12 fits his character so far, as well as his ‘calm’ tears. Given his past, it’s as if he’s always kept his pain bottled up and quietly bears it all and almost never got the space to properly let it all out (he had his brother, but with their father, i think they didn’t have this ‘chance’).

- My sick mind thought Sun-Ah was going to bring Gaon to the scene just in time for him to witness Yohan getting shot, but i guess it will be when she will get in the Kang’s mansion again according to the preview (since she asked Juk Chang for a « favor », i think they’ll knock Gaon out  after beating him up for his own fun to leave him to Sun-Ah). Sun-Ah looked surprised when Jae-Hee shot him, so i guess only hurting K was part of the plan.

- The ‘I know i’m fucked’ look hahaha

+ the softer version:

- I now have BIG trust issues since these last episodes’ previews, and the cliffhangers kill me haha 

- On another note, i find it amazing how Ji Sung and Kim Min Jung keep that upsetting atmosphere whenever there’s a scene between them that involves them and skinship, but it still conveys Sun-Ah’s complex feelings for Yohan and Yohan’s interest in her! The soundtrack really does a good job to convey that mood as well!

- In conclusion: How Dramatic do you want these two episodes to be? The devil judge: Yes

[happylittledrabbles]

When Tomorrow Starts Without Me

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: Koutarou Bokuto x Keiji Akaashi

Rating: M (non-graphic smut, cursing)

Warning(s): Major character death

Genre: Angst

AO3

—

"When tomorrow starts without me, and I’m not here to see; if the sun should rise and find your eyes; all filled with tears for me."

He first noticed it when they were on vacation. And there's no changing the diagnosis.

He first noticed it while they were on vacation.

Bokuto’s hands are cold as they slide up his husband’s torso; spending all day out in the frigid, Icelandic air clearly left its footprint on their skin. That is how they ended up in this position in the first place: Bokuto had not-so-subtly suggested they should do this to “warm up,” and Akaashi didn’t have the courage to deny him. Losing his calm demeanor, Akaashi gave into the neediness in his body and the puppy-dog look his husband had mastered whenever he wanted something.

“They’re still cold,” Akaashi mumbles, tilting his neck to the side to give Bokuto’s lips more room to roam. He flinches as they go further and further down into more sensitive territory until the cold is too much to bear. “Ugh—stop, I’ll do it. I’m warmer.”

He pushes the bigger man off him, his eyebrows furrowing as he uses more force than usual. Has Bokuto been putting on weight? He looks the same…

He rolls on top of his husband, seating himself comfortably in his lap. Akaashi’s thighs frame Bokuto’s hips in a way that makes Bokuto shiver, and it brings a satisfied smile onto the dark-haired man’s face.

“Whatever will get those pants off,” Bokuto comments with a smirk, lifting an arm and bringing Akaashi in for a kiss by the back of the neck. Their lips pull away with a smack as Akaashi busies himself with removing both their shirts. Bokuto’s eyelids are heavy, his breath coming out as puffs as he gazes at the beautiful Greek god of a man on top of him. “You’re right, you are warmer.”

They are just beginning to move together when Akaashi’s arms, holding him up as his hands fisted the bedsheets, suddenly give out, his muscles feeling like Jell-O.

“Feels that good?” Bokuto asks with that dastardly grin of his, but Akaashi isn’t having it. He tries to push himself back up, his arms trembling with the immense effort he is putting in until they give out once again, leaving him frustrated. He would roll his eyes affectionately at Bokuto’s insinuations, but he is genuinely perplexed. He isn’t even close to finishing—they had only started two minutes ago, for Pete’s sake. He has yet to start feeling good, so…?

“I’ll take over from here,” Bokuto eventually says after watching Akaashi struggle for a few moments. He finds the sight of his husband huffing and blowing the locks of hair out of his face exasperatingly as he adjusts himself incredibly amusing, but it’s hindering their time together. He rolls Akaashi gently onto his back effortlessly; meanwhile, Akaashi’s arms are still trembling mysteriously. What the hell? Thoughts of frustration overtake the thoughts of lust in Akaashi’s mind, wondering when his husband got so much stronger than him. Had it been because he hasn’t gone to the gym in a while? It must be that.

Bokuto gladly continues their lovemaking session despite Akaashi’s difficulties, and Akaashi finally gets to that ‘eyes rolling from pleasure and not annoyance at his imprudent husband’ point. But that moment of sudden weakness stays in the back of his mind, only resurfacing in that post-sex clarity.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, scratching his lower back as he ambles over to the bathroom to clean himself up and pee. He’s washing his hands when he smells smoke.

“I thought I told you to stop smoking,” Akaashi admonishes as he stomps back into the room. He swipes his boxers from the floor and slips them back on to protect some of his modesty. He’s at Bokuto’s bedside before the other can even open his mouth to retort, grabbing the cigarette and putting it out on the decorative ashtray on the nightstand, tossing the cigarette and tipping the ashes from the tray into the trash. While Akaashi’s constantly worrying about his cholesterol and blood pressure levels, taking vitamins and supplements galore, Bokuto freely does whatever he wants. As long as he’s performing at his best for volleyball, that’s all that matters in his eyes. And it’s working out for him: he’s completely and utterly healthy. Akaashi’s thankful if not envious of such healthy genes.

“Blame it on Coach Ukai,” Bokuto replies, grinning widely at his fussy partner. “It’s his fault for putting me onto cancer sticks.”

“At least try not to do it in an Airbnb, please. We could get fined.” He flicks Bokuto on the forehead as he climbs back into bed and cuddles up to his side. Iceland is gorgeous but damn, is it freezing.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to fuck in an Airbnb, but we did that anyway,” Bokuto teases, causing Akaashi to immediately turn over and give him the cold shoulder—no pun intended. He barks out a laugh and rolls over, rubbing Akaashi’s arm and placing butterfly kisses on the soft skin of his back. He feels that it’s stopped trembling, but he notices how limp it is by his side. He’s never seen this reaction in Akaashi before. Did he do something different this time…? “Aw, c’mon, babe, don’t be like that. You very clearly liked it.”

He pauses, stroking Akaashi’s arm absentmindedly as his mind hops on the train of thought.

“What was that about, anyway? Does fucking in an Airbnb excite you that much? I’ve never seen you like that.” He grins and pulls Akaashi closer to his chest, his breath leaving the shell of Akaashi’s ear pink. “It was sexy as hell.”

However, Bokuto’s horniness is not reciprocated. All Akaashi can think about is the heavy pit that buried itself in his stomach in that moment, and he reaches forward to grab a pillow. He doesn’t exactly need it—he could just turn over and use Bokuto as his body pillow. But it’s almost as if he wants to test his muscles, see if they had come out of their Jell-O state. He hates Jell-O.

Perhaps it really did feel that good. But…his stomach hadn’t been flipping or filled with butterflies then as it usually did when they had sex—it had sunk.

…

Bright and early, the two men are back to their worldly adventures. They tour local villages, eat local food, and chat with the local people until the sky is an ombre of purple and navy blue.

“There’s supposed to be an aurora tonight, according to the locals,” Akaashi says as he figures out a map he got from a gift shop, trying to find their next stop.

“Oh, it was the bakery guy who said that, right?” Bokuto asks, peering over Akaashi’s shoulder to try and help with the navigation. However, he knows he would only make Akaashi more frustrated since Akaashi likes figuring everything out by himself. “He said we have to go to this point.”

He takes a chance at helping and saddles up next to Akaashi, pointing to a particularly tall lookout point. “Think you can climb that?”

“Just because you work out every day doesn’t make me a weakling in comparison,” Akaashi counters. He bites the cap off the marker and circles the lookout point’s name, the paper crinkling underneath his hand. As if to prove how strong and capable he is, his bicep bulges as he marks the lookout point, and Bokuto very obviously stares. He’s always loved Akaashi’s body, how muscular yet lean it is. He has curves in all the right places and strong where it matters. His body is nothing short of beautiful, a marble sculpture made by Michelangelo.

Akaashi places the cap back on and tosses a smug look over his shoulder, saying, “Remember how I constantly had to pick you up whenever you’d get depressed over a missed hit? Carrying a hundred-kilo man isn’t an easy feat.”

“Seventy-eight kilos, thank you very much!” Bokuto corrects instantly, grabbing Akaashi by the wrist and dragging him to their rental car. “Fine, then let’s see your skills. We have to be there in two hours.”

The drive is full of punk and hard rock songs, all at Akaashi’s request. Bokuto tries to compromise with just one pop song in the queue of AC/DC and Green Day, but because of his sly comments throughout the trip, this is his punishment.

“Turn here,” Akaashi says over the blaring of “Readymade” by Ado, pointing to the upcoming sign. The tires squeal as they try to compensate for the horrible Fast and Furious move Bokuto does as he turns, righting as they reach the fairly full parking lot for the lookout point. Akaashi would have cussed Bokuto out if not for a steady mix of yellow and green lights highlighting both their faces and all the cars in the parking lot, the metal reflecting the light and causing everywhere to be flooded in a mock bokeh.

He cannot get out of the car fast enough, slamming the door closed and getting a head start on the hike. He trips a few times since his eyes are transfixed on the lights, his hand reaching out for Bokuto, who had since caught up to him and helps him steady himself. He’s panting by the time they reach the tallest point, revealing a crowd of people and, most beautiful of all, a lake that looked as if it was made out of glass. The sky and the water join into one, doubling the number of lights and showcasing a waterfall of colors.

He jogs over to where everybody is seated, their chins craned up in unison as they watch with awe the lights dancing in the sky. It’s like watching a ballet, each part of the sky following its own storyline and choreography. Akaashi stumbles from the vertigo of looking up too fast, Bokuto hot on his heels and ready to catch him until he rights himself.

“Be careful,” he warns as he unfolds their blanket and sets it on the knee-high grass, wading into it and sitting down. He pats the fabric, trying to get Akaashi’s attention. “Come here.”

Akaashi blinks as if he has snapped out of a trance, stumbling forward and into Bokuto’s arms. His head is foggy, the lights flashing in his vision every time he closes his eyes.

“They’re so beautiful,” he whispers, craning his neck up again now that he is on solid ground.

“Yeah,” Bokuto replies as he leans his head on his husband’s shoulder. “Beautiful.”

But Bokuto isn’t looking at the lights.

Their rings glimmer underneath the aurora, the gold morphing into all different shades thanks to the rippling of the colors above them. It really is like looking at the ocean, the sound of the waves being replaced with soft murmurs in Icelandic and the ambient breeze twisting through the tree branches. Akaashi almost stops breathing since his breaths come out an opaque white, obscuring the lights from his vision.

…

When tomorrow starts without me And I’m not here to see If the sun should rise and find your eyes All filled with tears for me.

…

Bokuto is nearly asleep once the lights finally fade out. They had gotten lucky—this aurora lasted nearly an hour. And Akaashi didn’t break eye contact for that entire hour. He was in love, his lips upturned into the faintest smile.

When the lights melt into the black night, he pats Bokuto on the cheek to wake him up and stands up, beginning to fold the blanket with the other still on it.

“Hey, hey, what’s the rush?” Bokuto exclaims, followed by a deep yawn as he rolls off the blanket and into the grass.

“I want to leave before both of us fall asleep.” One hour of keeping his eyes wide open with barely any blinking leaves Akaashi’s eyelids fatigued, and they are hanging low as he neatly folds the blanket in his lap and starts toward the car.

“Babe, I’m fine,” Bokuto replies, followed yet again by a yawn. They share a look, and he gives in. “Okay, okay, I’m getting in the car.”

They’re driving down the slope, both their eyelids heavy, drunk on sleep.

“Turn here?” Bokuto asks, beginning to slow down as he turns to his husband, who is fast asleep. “Hey, wake up, navigator.” He shakes Akaashi’s thigh before moving up to his shoulder. “Akaashi, hey—”

He’s paralyzed by the red lights that flood his vision, and his foot flies to the brake too slowly.

…

“We see accidents like that all the time on that slope,” the doctor says disapprovingly, shaking her head as she flips through the paperwork on the clipboard. “They should start putting streetlights there.”

“But then the lights wouldn’t be as pretty,” Bokuto protests, his arm shaking in its sling.

The doctor gives him a stern once-over before going back to her paperwork. “Tell that to the claim you’ll have to settle with the rental car agency. I’ll release you both in a couple of hours. For now, please rest.” She turns to Akaashi, who is sitting in the chair next to Bokuto’s bed with a pack of ice to the bump on his forehead. “Can you start filling these out, please?”

Akaashi nods and takes the offered pen, but as he puts it to the paper, his hand begins trembling uncontrollably. It isn’t violent, but it’s noticeable enough to make him stop trying to write and stare at his hand for a second. He looks up at the doctor, who is also staring at his hand.

“Hm.” She meets Akaashi’s puzzled gaze with a sympathetic smile. “Must be an after-effect of the accident. Don’t worry too much.”

She begins to walk out of the room but stops in the doorway, looking over her shoulder at Akaashi. “If that persists, I would check with your physician back home.”

She nods a goodbye before leaving the room, escaping just in time for Bokuto to wail about having to contact the rental car company and pay for the damages. But Akaashi isn’t listening. He usually ignores Bokuto when he gets like this, but now it’s for a different reason. He’s back to staring at his hand, willing the trembling to go away. It eventually does, and he proceeds to sign the papers, but that pit in his stomach never leaves. It only expands.

…

It’s Akaashi’s 36th birthday three days after the accident, and he’s celebrating it by helping Bokuto wrap his arm in plastic wrap in order to go to The Blue Lagoon. It has been thirty minutes, and Bokuto is yet to be satisfied by the amount of wrapping.

“What if it gets wet?” he whines. “I don’t want to interrupt the healing process. I have a game to play in two weeks!”

“Have you told your coach yet?” Akaashi asks pointedly, to which Bokuto grumbles something in response. “That’s what I thought. You’re not going to play for a while. Probably eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks?!” Bokuto shouts, causing everybody within a twenty-foot radius to turn their heads to the Japanese man so clearly in despair.

“You should’ve just stopped the car on the side of the road,” Akaashi replies, immediately regretting his words. This would only start a fight. And it does.

“If you could’ve just woken up,” Bokuto retorts heatedly, snatching his wrist back to do the wrapping job himself. “There wasn’t anywhere to pull over, anyway. We would’ve been the ones rear-ended if I stopped.”

“Okay, well—” Akaashi stops himself, his hands dropping to his lap as he turns his head to gaze out into the picturesque lagoon. He knew this argument would happen eventually. He swings his eyes back to Bokuto, who has put his finishing touches on the wrapping. “Can we not fight on my birthday?”

Bokuto huffs. “We aren’t fighting,” he explains but pauses, realizing he’s only furthering the argument. He purses his lips and nods, standing up from the beach chair and adjusting his swim trunks. They can’t go naked like in the bathhouses at home, so the rough fabric feels strange on his skin, especially when he submerges himself in the warm, milky blue water. He sighs, keeping his wrist elevated as he uses his other hands to splash the water in his face, running his fingers through his hair. He looks over his shoulder, watching as Akaashi busies himself with taking off his shirt, revealing his toned body that still had healing hickeys from a few nights ago. His muscles flex as he spreads sunscreen on his skin, causing Bokuto to roll his eyes and grin affectionately. Akaashi, forever concerned about skin cancer.

“Come on, babe. I’m waiting for you.”

Akaashi’s heart hurt a little from the fight, but it warms at the expectant look on his partner’s face. He nods and puts the sunscreen down, dipping his toes in the water before stepping into the pool and involuntarily letting out a long sigh of relief. All his muscles relax, and not in the strange way they did before, as if they were Jell-O. No, now they relax as if they’re softened butter, melting into his body. He rests his arms up on the edge, letting his head hang back like a ragdoll.

“Better?” Bokuto asks.

“Better.”

…

They stay nearly the entire day at the lagoon, switching between being inside the lagoon and the various spas and restaurants around the pool. Bokuto treats Akaashi to a couple’s massage until he gets kicked out of the room by his husband for groaning too loud and for making too many weird comments. He stays in the bar until Akaashi sits next to him, looking completely refreshed, his skin practically glowing in the soft haze of the sunset provided by the large bay windows.

“You look relaxed,” he comments. He hesitates to touch Akaashi, feeling as if he needs to wash his hands beforehand, but finally rests his hand on his bare shoulder. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were pregnant.”

“Yet again, mood ruined,” Akaashi replies, except it comes out as a joke rather than an admonishment. He leans on the bar and asks for a beer. “I don’t want to go back home.”

“Why not?” Bokuto asks, cocking his head. “We have to get back to Emiko. She’s waiting for us.”

It’s hard to believe that Bokuto isn’t related to their dog, Emiko, because he looks exactly like a dog at that moment, his still-drying hair flopping over like ears and his bushy eyebrows raising up his forehead quizzically.

Akaashi chuckles and sips at the foam, licking it off his top lip. “This place brings me some kind of…peace. I want to live here one day. Or at least come back.”

“We’re definitely coming back,” Bokuto replies with an emphatic nod. “I couldn’t get enough of looking at your face as you watched the aurora. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“The aurora?”

Bokuto turns his head to see Akaashi staring back at him with a thin white foam mustache on his top lip after taking another sip, clearly unaware of how endearing he looks.

He smiles softly. “Yeah. The aurora.”

…

“So, you say you’re having tremors?”

Akaashi never thought he would muster up the courage to go to the doctor. But he finally does after about a month, and as he’s sitting in the uncomfortable chair, his hands gripping the arms, he regrets he ever came.

“Y…es,” he replies haltingly. “It’s probably nothing, but the doctor in Iceland said I should get it checked out, and it’s just been so strange. I have probably just been overworking myself at the gym. I’m not twenty anymore, ha. Actually, I think I should just go—”

“Keiji, please sit down.” Akaashi does as he is told and watches his doctor pull out a forearm exerciser and sets it on the table. “If you can.”

Akaashi raises a brow but shrugs and reaches forward. He grabs the forearm exerciser and uses it as usual before putting it back on the table.

The doctor watches on silently, a finger on his top lip as his eyebrows furrow together. He puts the forearm exerciser back in his desk drawer and clasps his hands together. “You seem fine. I’ll just take some urine and blood samples from you to rule some things out. If you notice anything else, please give me a call.”

After peeing in a cup and giving up some of his blood, he practically glides out of the office. It seems as if there’s nothing wrong with him, which is exactly the diagnosis he was expecting. He had been over-exaggerating, and the doctor back in Iceland was definitely correct: his trembling hand had been a result of the near concussion he received. He drives back home and greets Bokuto with a grand smooch on the lips and musses up Emiko’s floppy ears before going into the kitchen and cooking them a beautiful three-course meal. He’s happily eating, but Bokuto finds it harder to eat. Not because of the cast on his wrist, but because of something else.

Akaashi is being a lot messier than usual. Dropping food back into the bowl, getting sauce on his face. He’s probably still excited, Bokuto thinks, but the ramen going down his esophagus turns into a pit that buries itself in his stomach, and he can’t shake the feeling. No matter how much Akaashi kisses him or hugs him or cuddles up by his side as they watch a movie, he still can’t smile to his full potential.

…

I wish so much you wouldn’t cry The way you did today While thinking of the many things We did not get to say.

…

It’s a few days later when Akaashi’s joyous mood crumbles. Doctors only call after tests when something is wrong. And sure enough, while in the middle of working on his computer, Akaashi’s phone rumbles on the desk with his doctor’s name lit up on the screen.

He’s once again sitting in the uncomfortable chair, his hands gripping the arms much tighter than before. He’s doing the breathing technique his therapist taught him for his anxiety, but it only makes him want to pass out.

“Your blood tests came back alright. No HIV, hepatitis, your vitamin B12 levels are good, and no cancer from what I can—.”

“Oh, my God.” Akaashi exhales out all the anxiety in his chest, nearly doubling over from the weight taken off his chest. He looks back up at his doctor and grins. “That means I can go, right? I’ll get going—"

The doctor holds up a hand to get Akaashi to be quiet. “These blood and urine tests are only to rule out diseases. But I wouldn’t have called you into the office if I hadn’t found something.” His doctor takes a sharp breath as he shuffles his papers around as if he got a paper cut. “Your CK levels are abnormally high.”

Something in Akaashi drops. His stomach? His heart? All he knows is that he’s heavy like a bag of rocks, and he feels strapped to the chair.

“What…is that?” he asks, his chest so tight, he’s afraid he’s going to have a heart attack. No better place to have it than in front of a doctor, though.

“Creatine kinase. It’s an enzyme that’s released into the blood when there’s some muscle damage. It’s released when you’re either having or had a heart attack—”

“Dr. Hirose, I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“No, you’re not, Keiji,” his doctor says with a look of pity on his face. It makes Akaashi’s panic heighten. Pity? “Or when you do a lot of strenuous exercises—”

“That’s what I said! It’s because I’ve been exercising—”

“Keiji,” his doctor breathes forcefully, giving the dark-haired man a stern look. “Or it’s a sign of a degenerative muscle disease. I’m going to schedule you for an MRI in two weeks. If it really is because of strenuous exercise, then nothing will show up. I just want to make sure there aren’t any tumors or pressure on your spinal cord.” His doctor scribbles something down on the notepad in front of him and crosses something out on his clipboard. “In the meantime, lay off the weights and rest at home.”

“O…kay.” Akaashi leaves, hope still bright in his chest. He goes through all the workouts he’s been doing over the past few months, and he nods his head to himself as he confirms that he has overexerted himself a few times. Now he has permission to just laze around at home instead of pushing himself to go to the gym. Doctor’s orders.

A week passes with nothing of note. Bokuto finally gets his cast taken off, brandishing his newly healed wrist like a trophy. Akaashi claps, unamused, but can’t help the smile that forms when Bokuto kisses him until his breath is taken away, using that wrist to grip the small of his back and press their fronts together.

“You still need to do physical therapy,” Akaashi reminds him, but Bokuto rolls his eyes and thanks the doctor before pulling his husband out of the clinic and into the car.

“That can wait,” Bokuto says, pulling Akaashi in by his tie and almost knocking his glasses off by the sheer force of his kiss. “Now let’s celebrate.”

Ever since that vacation, Akaashi hadn’t tried to go on top. He’s been scared that the same thing would happen, and it’d be on his mind the entire week. He had just gotten cleared by his doctor—the last thing he needs is for his arms to go weak.

After scolding Bokuto for smoking and after cleaning himself up, he walks to the kitchen and opens the fridge. He flinches at a pain in his ass, evidence left behind of Bokuto taking ‘celebrating’ to a whole new level. It isn’t as if he hadn’t enjoyed it, but damn, the aftermath was painful.

He grabs the filter pitcher and lifts it up, and the second he does, his right arm gives out. He watches helplessly as the pitcher cracks on the edge of the fridge and freefalls onto the floor, the top coming off and spilling four liters’ worth of water all over the kitchen. Not to mention the giant crack in the plastic. If they tried to fill the pitcher to full capacity next time, it’d surely split open.

Akaashi doesn’t even notice when Bokuto skids into the kitchen or when he yells at Emiko to stop drinking the water. He doesn’t notice when Bokuto grabs the roll of paper towels and begins to mop up the water or his husband’s arms around him, whispering explanations or jokes or whatever nonsense he says to cheer him up. He only snaps out of it when he feels Bokuto’s finger on his cheek, lifting a tear from his skin.

He turns around in Bokuto’s arms, looking up at him, his bottom lip quivering. “I’m not okay, Koutarou.”

Bokuto wishes he could deny it. He so desperately wishes he could say ‘no, babe, you’re overreacting.’ To see that relieved smile on his face like he had on when he came home from the clinic. But he can’t. Because he knows that Akaashi isn’t okay.

“Let’s go back to bed, babe. I’ll get you some water. Go rest,” he says softly, ushering Akaashi away from the distressing scene and bending back over to dry the rest of the floorboards. But he can’t help it when he wets the hardwood further with his own tears.

…

Bokuto skips physical therapy to go with Akaashi to the hospital despite the latter’s many attempts to go alone. Akaashi had managed to convince Bokuto the previous times that he was just going in for a routine checkup, but now Bokuto’s not falling for it.

“The MRI is painless,” the doctor explains, beginning to help Akaashi sit down, but he waves away any help.

“I can walk, thank you.” Ever since the incident in the kitchen, Akaashi has grown more defensive of everything he does. If Bokuto asks if he needs any help, Akaashi fires back with ‘do I look like I need help?’ or ‘I’m not helpless.’ He has always been snarky, but his current demeanor is callous, uncaring. There’s no love in his sarcastic remarks, just hurt.

He lays down on the bed, shifting around until the doctor tells him to stop. It’s quick, and, like his doctor said, painless, and he’s out in less than five minutes.

“The results will be out in two days,” his doctor warns after coming out of the small glass room adjacent to the machine. “If you get a call from me, that doesn’t automatically mean bad news.”

“Okay.” Akaashi hasn’t mentioned the pitcher incident to his doctor. He knows it’s the stupidest thing he can do. But if he doesn’t mention it, treats it as yet another injury sustained from overworking himself, then maybe it doesn’t exist. And it doesn’t, not on paper.

The next few days pass by like molasses. Akaashi doesn’t get any work done, and each time his phone rings, he nearly passes out. When he finally does get the call, he actually does pass out, and Bokuto has to pick up the phone for him while trying to wake him up.

“Doc? Hey, it’s Koutarou.”

“Oh, Koutarou. If you could pass along to Akaashi that the MRI is all clear, that would be great.”

As if on cue, Akaashi wakes up and snatches the phone out of Bokuto’s hand, holding it up to his ear. “What, Dr. Hirose?”

“I said that your MRI is all clear. No tumor, nothing messing up your discs. There’s nothing wrong with your brain or spinal cord.”

Akaashi is out again like a light.

When he comes to, he’s in bed, the covers up to his chin. He sits up groggily and wipes his eyes, turning to see a bowl of mochi on the nightstand, nearly melted.

“Bokuto?” he calls, his voice hoarse. He reaches over and brings the bowl into his lap, nibbling on a mochi. Despite the mochi being cold, he’s warm. He can only picture Bokuto picking him up and tucking him in before making his famous mochi. It’s one of the only things he knows how to make, and he knows exactly when to make it.

Bokuto pads into the room, followed closely behind by Emiko. The two are twins, Akaashi swears. Emiko hops up onto the bed and nuzzles Akaashi’s arm before collapsing onto his thighs, laying her head down with a grunt.

"Hey, you feeling better?” Bokuto asks, walking over and sitting down cautiously at the foot of the bed as if Akaashi’s made out of glass. “I made you mochi to celebrate the clean bill of health.”

Akaashi smiles and nods, scarfing down another piece of mochi. “Thank you,” he says, his voice muffled by the sticky rice dough. The sight is enough to make Bokuto laugh and scoot closer, wiping a bit of ice cream from the corner of Akaashi’s lips and lick it off his finger.

“I’m going back to practice tomorrow,” he continues. “My physical therapist says I’m good to go. So we’re both doing awesome.”

Akaashi grins and leans forward, pulling Bokuto in for a kiss, burying his fingers in the white-gray hair. They continue to eat mochi together, making small talk and eventually watching a movie together, but Akaashi still isn’t fully happy. When Bokuto falls asleep, he gets up to put the bowl in the sink. Before he can finish the trip, he drops the bowl onto the carpet. The thud is muffled, Bokuto too deep in sleep to wake up. But Akaashi, who was drowsy before, is now fully awake. He looks to his right arm, his hand trembling and his forearm cramping up. He simply bends down and picks up the bowl with his left arm, puts it in the sink, and silently slips underneath the covers. He snuggles up next to Bokuto, much closer than usual, resting his head on his chest.

“Mm, Keiji,” Bokuto mumbles, more asleep than awake. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replies a little too quickly. He grips Bokuto’s tank top in a fist, savoring the warmth of his husband’s skin against his cheek. “Just want to be close to you.”

“Mm,” is all that Bokuto replies before draping an arm lazily over Akaashi’s waist, burying his nose in the other’s dark hair.

Akaashi closes his eyes, but he doesn’t think he sleeps at all.

…

It’s a pretty normal month, but Akaashi’s knees are roughed up with all the tripping and tumbles he’s taken. He doesn’t tell Bokuto or his doctor, and he thanks God it’s nearing autumn so that he has an excuse to wear long pants. They bought a new pitcher, but Bokuto can’t help but notice Akaashi never gets near it. It’s particularly difficult to keep a straight face and not notice when Akaashi’s spoon trembles as he spoons sugar into his coffee or when food has made its home on his face whenever they eat. He needs to receive an Oscar for his acting abilities because every time he’s left alone, he can’t help but bury his face in his hands and pray.

It’s another month before Bokuto sits Akaashi down and stares hardheartedly at him.

“You need to go to the doctor.”

Akaashi, who already knew what the conversation would be about due to Bokuto’s seriousness when he sat him down, crosses his arms and shakes his head. “No. Why? There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Really, Keiji?” Bokuto using his actual name means serious business. “You think I don’t realize you dropping everything? All the stains on your shirt? How you can’t even fucking talk sometimes?”

“Hey. Don’t…curse,” Akaashi says, and, as if his body wants to prove a point, his words slur together.

Bokuto slams the table, sending both Akaashi and Emiko’s heads snapping upwards at the loud bang.

“It hurts me, too. You think you’re the only one suffering, but you’re being so goddamn selfish. Because it hurts seeing you like this and not do anything about it. Listen, I’ve been trying to ignore it, too, hoping it’ll just go away. But it’s getting worse, Keiji, whatever this is. And I’m not going to stand by while you kill yourself.”

Bokuto’s eyes well with tears, and it only takes his husband getting emotional—which only happens in a sports-related context—to get Akaashi to pick up the phone and call his doctor.

“Muscle weakness and slurring speech?” his doctor asks, pausing to ponder something. “Come in tomorrow. I’ll get an EMG appointment set up for you.”

The two men look at each other, and Akaashi stands up and walks to the bedroom with Emiko, slamming the door closed. Bokuto takes that as a sign that he’s sleeping on the couch.

…

“This will cause a bit of discomfort,” the neurologist says gently before conducting the test. Akaashi shifts in his chair each time the instrument sends small electrical shocks in his wrist and frowns when the needle is inserted in his arm.

“Move this way…and that way…perfect.” The neurologist is studying the screen, and Akaashi is studying the neurologist. He’s studying her facial expressions, the way she moves, anything that will give him an indication of the meaning behind the squiggles onscreen. Bokuto squeezes his shoulder even though the neurologist told him not to touch him, planting a butterfly kiss on the shell of his ear. Finally, after over half of an hour of uncomfortable tests, Akaashi is instructed to go to his doctor’s office.

“I’ll send the results over to your doctor now,” the neurologist says. Yet again, there’s that look of pity. The pit in Akaashi’s stomach expands until he feels bloated and barely able to walk to his doctor’s office. He uses Bokuto’s hand for balance, but he finds that his right arm can barely sustain his weight anymore.

“Your EMG test is abnormal,” his doctor says lightly, but just the word ‘abnormal’ is a shot to the face.

“What does that mean, doc?” Bokuto asks, seeing that all of Akaashi’s mental strength was zapped out from the tests.

“It means that the EMG showed electrical activity even when your muscles were in a resting position,” the doctor replies, setting down the paperwork on the desk and resting his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes flicking between the two men. “You have a degenerative muscle disease. This is consistent with your CK levels, which show muscle damage. I want to do a few more tests, but from what I can see, you might have amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.”

“What the fuck is that?” Bokuto shouts, practically jumping out of the chair and snapping his fingers in front of the doctor’s face. “Japanese, please!”

“Koutarou, stop,” Akaashi pleads, tugging on Bokuto’s sleeve, and even if he didn’t have degenerating muscles, he wouldn’t have been able to stop Bokuto in the state he’s in now.

“ALS,” the doctor clarifies, and both men freeze into place like statues. “Motor neuron disease, Lou Gehrig’s disease—there are many names. I’m not saying you have it for certain, but all the evidence points to it. Your accident back in Iceland certainly didn’t help. Now, I want to discuss treatment—”

Akaashi grabs the nearest trashcan and vomits into it, and no matter how much he throws up, the pit in his stomach stays, growing ever bigger.

…

I know how much you love me As much as I love you Each time that you think of me I know you will miss me, too.

…

It seems coincidental, but the second Akaashi receives the diagnosis from both his primary doctor and a second opinion from a neurologist, his symptoms worsen tenfold. He can’t drink coffee anymore, having burned himself too many times from spilling hot coffee all over himself. He’s going to physical therapy every day, taking a handful of pills every day, going to an ALS clinic every day. He works whenever he can. He tries to go to every one of Bokuto’s games. Climbing up the bleachers is rough, and he tries to arrive before the teams come out of the locker rooms so Bokuto doesn’t see him like this. He attempts to write posters—keyword: attempts. His handwriting comes out more like a scrawl, his fingers failing him and letting the pen slip through multiple times. They said this would happen back at the clinic. Loss of fine motor control. It’s one thing to hear it, it’s another thing to experience it.

If somebody didn’t know better, they’d think a child wrote the poster board. But instead of a child holding the poster and cheering on their father, it’s Akaashi, pointing at Bokuto when he jogs onto the court with as much of a fist as he can hold. Bokuto grins when he sees his husband, but his face visibly falls when his eyes drop to the poster. He misses the first shot, saved just in time by their outside hitter. He turns back to the game, but his mind is elsewhere. His mind is on his husband, who had just been given a death sentence, and he’s watching it all unfold.

Because that’s what it is: a death sentence. Stephen Hawking gave hope to everybody with ALS, as they say every day at the clinic and physical therapy, but he knows the statistics. He studied them until he fell asleep at the kitchen table: only about 20% of people live five or ten years after diagnosis, a far cry from Hawking’s 55 years. Hawking’s survival rate is as much of an enigma as the black holes he studied.

Akaashi knows all the statistics by heart. Memorization and Stephen Hawking won’t change the fact that he will die far too young.

He cries and laughs all the time. It’s not even because he’s sad or seeing something particularly funny; it just happens. In the rare moments where he’s particularly entrenched in his work or watching a titillating movie with Bokuto and can forget about his life, he’s interrupted by a bout of laughter or gobs of tears, and he has to excuse himself to go to the bathroom, dragging his now-limp foot along with him.

Bokuto accused Akaashi of being selfish for not seeking out a diagnosis, but now the guilt has fallen onto him. He’s more selfish than Akaashi is, pitying himself for having a sick spouse. He feels guilt every single time he cries because he needs to be strong for Akaashi. He needs to be the one supporting his husband. He needs to try and get his mind off the stress. He needs put on a brave smile when he’s faced with Akaashi’s worsening symptoms. But he can’t help but suffer for Akaashi, absorb all the pain he’s feeling every time he can’t speak or struggles to lift a fork. Sure, it doesn’t hurt physically, but it tortures the mind. It must be torture to count down the days until your muscles lose all functionality and you’re left limp in a wheelchair, on oxygen until your diaphragm or heart give out because they, too, are muscles. Bokuto has a list of all of Akaashi’s symptoms, and his Internet history is full of experimental treatments, made up of both Western and Eastern medicine. They try acupuncture, chiropractic, essential oils, anything.

“Hey, I found this tea that might boost your CK levels—”

“Koutarou,” Akaashi breathes. His chest must be acting up again. “Enough. No more of that.”

When Akaashi doesn’t feel the symptoms as intensely, he tries to initiate sex with Bokuto every chance he gets. If I don’t do it now, when’s the next time I’ll have the strength to? he reasons to himself every time. Bokuto accepts, of course—not necessarily because he’s constantly horny (he used to be, not so much now), but because he has the same reasoning as Akaashi. He doesn’t mind being ravished at nearly every moment of the day if it means he’ll still have the hickeys to remind him of their intimacy together on the days Akaashi is too weak.

“I want to try being on top again,” Akaashi purrs in Bokuto ear one day, feeling particularly invigorated after a good physical therapy session. Perhaps all those pills he’s been taking are kicking in. Perhaps he’s getting better.

“Are you sure?” Bokuto asks, breathless. He’s never had to work this hard during sex before, and even though missing practice may have something to do with his lost endurance, he doubts it.

Akaashi nods, watching Bokuto flop onto his back before sitting up and tossing a leg over and beside Bokuto’s hip. Even though he had just been laying there and having Bokuto do all the work, he’s already breathless from that one move, his arms cramping up as he leans them on Bokuto’s chest. Flashbacks of their time in Iceland spot his vision. If only he had known back then that he had this disgusting disease…

He shakes that out of his head. He needs to focus on the now. And now, Bokuto was staring up at him with worry, his hands lifting up to Akaashi’s hips to provide him stability. He needs to wipe that worry off his face, and the only way to do that—

“Shit.” And he’s crying uncontrollably again. His arms give out, and he face-plants onto Bokuto’s chest, his left leg useless by Bokuto’s side while the other cramps up. “I can’t—”

He tries to push himself up, shifting his hips backward to try and continue, but the mood was gone. “Just give me a second—”

“Keiji.”

“Hold on, let me just—”

“Keiji.”

“One second! God, y-you act like I can’t do—ugh, did you go soft?”

“KEIJI.”

Akaashi’s head snaps up, his hand stopping its stroking to see Bokuto sitting upright, staring him down. “…What?”

“Stop.” Bokuto’s crying. “Just stop.”

“What, why? If you had just given me a second—”

“It’s not exactly sexy watching you struggle to hold yourself up because your muscles are degenerating.” Bokuto gasps at what he just said, his hand flying up to his mouth much too late. Akaashi just stares at him, his mouth in a small ‘o’. All Akaashi does is slowly sit up straight—as straight as he can—and stare directly into Bokuto’s eyes.

“If you hadn’t gotten into that fucking accident,” Akaashi grumbles, wrestling one of the sheets and wrapping it around himself as he uses all the spite in his body to get off Bokuto without falling over. Luckily, his muscles participate, and he’s off the bed, stumbling to the bathroom.

“Oh, you’re bringing that shit up again?” Bokuto exclaims, lifting his hand up in a show of exasperation. “Don’t tell me you’re blaming your stupid disease on me because I couldn’t wake you up.”

Akaashi whips around and stares daggers into his husband, his lips pulled into a scowl. “You heard Dr. Hirose. It certainly didn’t help.”

“I didn’t help? You know what isn’t helpful? Seeing my husband slowly die in front of me, knowing that the person I love more than anything in this goddamned unfair world is leaving me alone, and there’s nothing I can do about it except watch. To think that I contributed—to have you tell me I made this worse as if I’m the one who’s killing you—to know that no matter what fucking home remedy we try or expert we see, we can’t change anything!” He sniffs. “So it doesn’t matter how it fucking happened, it happened.”

SLAM!

The sound of the bathroom door echoes throughout the apartment, and Emiko scuttles out of the room in fear. Bokuto follows not long after because he knows he’s not welcome there, but also because he can’t stand the sound of Akaashi crying anymore. His sobs are quiet and muffled, no doubt trying to hide them, but he’s doing a terrible job. Bokuto doesn’t do that good of a job either.

He’s sleeping on the couch again. This time, Emiko sleeps with him, snoring away on the loveseat next to the couch.

He tries to sleep, but it’s as if something is blocking his ability to. He sits up with a prophetic realization.

This is so fucking stupid. We don’t have time for this.

They don’t have time for arguments. They don’t have time for pettiness. They don’t have time for anything, really, least of all this.

He tosses the thin blanket off his body, standing up and striding over to the door. His hand is almost on the knob before it turns and the door opens, revealing a disheveled Akaashi with a bright red nose and bloodshot eyes.

“I’m—”

“I’m—”

“Sorry.”

Akaashi moves first, diving into Bokuto’s arms and hiding his face in the crook of his neck. Bokuto moves cautiously before giving in and wrapping his arms tightly around Akaashi’s frail form. He really does feel like porcelain compared to the built and fit man he was before. He loved Akaashi’s muscles. He’d have to learn to love his bones eventually as well.

…

I promise no tomorrow For today will always last And since each day’s the exact same way There is no longing for the past.

…

Akaashi’s parents come to stay with their dying son, and it’s morbidly silent. Usually, it’d be a joyous time, full of large meals, traveling, and laughing. But Akaashi’s mother can’t stop fussing over her son’s crutches, telling him he should get a walker, and Akaashi says he’d rather die earlier than he already is than use a walker that’s made for old people.

Finally, Akaashi’s father suggests they all take a walk in the park to brighten their spirits. Bokuto, who has taken the season off to stay with Akaashi—against his wishes, but a dead man’s wishes don’t mean much—agrees wholeheartedly. He puts on a wide smile, and even though it’s mostly false, it gets the rest of the family smiling and hopeful as well.

The cobblestones are a little rough to walk with crutches, but Akaashi manages. His forearms are still relatively strong compared to his legs, which degenerated far faster than his arms, even though the latter started to go first. The forearm holders in the crutches are uncomfortable, but Bokuto ordered padding, which should be coming in a few days.

Something to look forward to.

He doesn’t notice Bokuto giving the evil eye to anybody whose eyes linger on the strange man with crutches for too long, puffing up his chest intimidatingly until nobody has the courage to look in Akaashi’s direction.

“It’s a nice day,” Akaashi remarks as he stops in front of the pond. He smiles and giggles softly at the ducks waddling along the bank, hopping into the green water and fluffing up their feathers. A duck followed by an orderly line of yellow ducklings waddles past, stopping by to pick at the grass. “Hey, look, Mom, a mama duck.”

He lifts his arm to point, but the crutch goes along with his arm, leaving him destabilized. Luckily, his father is on his other side, and he holds him up without making too much of a big deal, keeping his face front.

“Oh, will you look at that,” Akaashi’s mother coos, getting out a bag of seeds from her purse along with her phone. “Koutarou, be a dear and take a picture of us with the mama duck, please.”

Akaashi’s smile fades. He knows his mother only used the mother duck as an excuse to take as many pictures as she can with her dying son before he’s six feet under or ashes. He’s yet to figure out which route to take. She had been taking pictures the entire trip. He has to remember to go through her phone and delete all the ugly pictures of himself before she prints them out to use at his funeral.

“For sure, Mama Akaashi,” Bokuto says, taking the offered phone and holding up the phone, waiting for Akaashi to turn around. “C’mon, Keiji, lemme see that pretty smile.”

Akaashi smiles, tries to think of the mama duck to get his smile to look halfway real, but when Bokuto shows them the photo, it looks horribly forced. He looks awful, anyway. A smile can’t save the way his body’s contorted with the crutches, how skinny he’s gotten, how sunken his face has grown. Eating has become more and more difficult. The movement of eating used to be the only problem, but now it’s swallowing. He’s mainly eating soups now, and he didn’t even have to tell Bokuto because Bokuto always knows before he does what he’s feeling. The perks of being together for nineteen years.

He turns back to the pond in search of the mama duck, but she had disappeared in the time they took the photo. Akaashi’s face falls, his hand clutching the plastic bag of seeds. A bit of pollen tickles his nose, and he sneezes into his elbow.

“Oh, Keiji!”

His head snaps to his mother, whose hand had flown up to her mouth to suppress her gasp. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

He follows her line of sight down to the crotch of his pants, which had darkened and become wet.

He had peed himself. Slightly, but enough to make him never want to step outside ever again.

The warmth on his legs hadn’t been the sun after all—it had been his bladder leaking from the force of the sneeze, with its host none the wiser.

He had read about the loss of bladder control as a symptom since the bladder is surrounded by muscles, and the bitch of the disease targets those. But he never expected that to happen to him. Bladder incontinence only happens to older victims. Urge incontinence, however, doesn’t have as small of an age range when it comes to ALS.

Only now, standing in wet underwear, does he realize how these diseases are sanitized. The movies he watched of HIV, ALS, cancer…none of them show how disgusting they actually are.

“Get me home,” Akaashi whispers, his eyes welling with hot tears of humiliation. Sweat prickles on his hairline and the back of his neck, a panic attack in the works. Every single pair of eyes is on him. Everybody’s staring, laughing, pointing. Everybody’s full of pity. Oh, poor thing, he can’t help it. He’s never been more embarrassed.

Humiliated, humiliated, humiliated…

“Come, Keiji,” his mother murmurs, leading him to the public bathroom. “Let’s go to the bathroom while your father and Koutarou pull up the car.”

Nobody questions the old woman as she enters the men’s bathroom, mostly because of the man in crutches who reeks of urine next to her. She takes him into the biggest stall and sits him on the toilet, beginning to undo his belt until he stops her weakly.

“Please,” he says, his breathing heavy. “Let me have a little dignity left.”

He has a few months left until he needs a 24/7 nurse to transfer him to the toilet and wipe his ass. He will postpone that until the last minute.

She waits outside while Akaashi cleans himself up. She listens for any sign of struggle and nearly jumps with surprise when the door opens, revealing her son, who smells a little better. The pee is already beginning to dry down.

“Let’s get you in the shower,” she says when they get home. Bokuto places a hand on her forearm, signaling for him to take over, and attempts to wrap an arm around Akaashi’s waist, only to be rejected when Akaashi dodges and nearly trips over his crutches.

Bokuto frowns but proposes, “Come on, let’s take a shower together.”

“Don’t get near me,” Akaashi says as he ambles over to the bathroom. “I’m disgusting.”

Bokuto laughs and shakes his head. “Akaashi, babe, I’ve had to clean up your vomit three days in a row before, both from food poisoning and booze. You literally brush your teeth while I’m shitting in the same bathroom. A little pee doesn’t hurt. Don’t act like a princess—”

“Please, leave me alone,” Akaashi begs, throwing his crutches on the floor of their bedroom and using the doorknob as support as he steps inside and closes the door. Bokuto knocks on the door and tries the doorknob, but it’s locked.

“Keiji,” he mumbles, hoping his quiet voice carries through the door. “Open the door.”

“No.”

“Keiji,” he repeats.

“I’m not letting you bathe me or wipe my ass. I’d rather slip and crack my head open in the shower before letting you do that.”

“Keiji,” he repeats for the third and last time. “You remember what Kuroo said? He was a terrible officiant, but he said some good things.”

The other side is silent.

“In sickness and in health. ‘Til death do us part. I’m here for the long game. I’m not leaving you.”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Remember what I said in my vows?”

Again, silence.

He clears his throat. “Keiji Akaashi, I will love you until we’re two wrinkly old and ugly grandpas. I will love you, even if we both lose our hair and all our teeth. I will love you, even if we forget each other. Because I will remember you the next day, and I’ll fall in love with you all over again.”

Bokuto feels the light spring breeze on his face, almost as if he’s back at their wedding venue. He feels the ancient cobblestones underneath his feet, smells the cherry blossoms surrounding them, tastes the red velvet cake on his tongue when Akaashi smashed it in his face. Nothing has changed. Except they’re not going to be wrinkly old men.

“Really puts everything into perspective, huh? A little piss and shit won’t ever change my vows,” he ends, rapping the door yet again with the back of his knuckles. “Come on, Keiji. Open up and lemme see you naked. That always makes me feel better, at least.”

The lock tumbles and the door slowly creaks open to reveal Akaashi in his boxers. He clearly wasted no time taking off the soiled clothing.

“I needed to take a shower anyway,” Bokuto says with a shrug, stepping inside and closing the door. He strips down to his boxers before walking over and turning on the shower, but as he’s walking back, he feels just how healthy his muscles are. He used to never think about his muscles, except maybe when they were sore from the gym or how to make them bigger to impress Akaashi. Now he feels horrible every time he exists next to Akaashi, almost as if he was mocking his disease or bragging about how healthy he is.

“You know what will cheer you up?” Bokuto asks, ignoring the guilt blooming in his chest. He drops his hand to pinch Akaashi’s rear, causing the man to explode into a red blush.

“Koutarou! My parents are here!” Akaashi whispers harshly, swatting Bokuto’s hand away. “Besides…I won’t be able to…s-support myself.”

“I’ll do all that, baby,” Bokuto drawls flirtatiously, wrapping his arm around Akaashi’s lower back for support and using his other hand to push down both their boxers.

“Koutarou, stop,” Akaashi pleads, the corners of his eyes leaking tears. “I’m…I feel so ugly. I smell.”

“That’s what the shower is for.” Bokuto grins before leading his husband over to the shower, carefully helping him in, shielding Akaashi from the water with his back as he checks to see if the temperature’s good. Once he approves, he moves to let the water drizzle over Akaashi’s pale frame. Akaashi uses the support bar Bokuto installed a couple of days ago for balance as he steps forward into the water, closing his eyes as he feels the stickiness between his legs wash away. He lets out a sigh at Bokuto’s hands on his skin, the smell of fresh cucumber drifting from the lather on his shoulders.

“Turn around,” Bokuto commands, and Akaashi obeys, his eyes still closed. However, they fly open when he feels his body lifting up and the cold wall of the shower pressed against his back. His hand shoots out to grip the support bar, glaring at Bokuto.

“Could’ve warned me,” he grumbles, letting out a gasp when Bokuto ignores his complaint and dives straight into his neck to leave marks. “Not there! My parents will see them!”

“It’s turtleneck weather,” Bokuto replies easily.

Akaashi nearly succumbs to Bokuto’s seducing until he remembers something. “What if I shit on your dick?”

Bokuto tosses his head back and laughs, causing Akaashi to laugh along nervously.

“That’s what the shower is for,” he repeats without a second thought, going back to his seducing. His hand overlaps Akaashi’s on the support bar, squeezing it as both of them forget the trauma of today and melt into each other’s bodies. The sex is a form of amnesia because as Bokuto sets down a thoroughly fatigued Akaashi on the counter to get them both towels, Akaashi can’t for the life of him place why he was sad earlier that day.

He, thankfully, didn’t shit on Bokuto’s dick. And—Bokuto’s right—it’s chilly that night. It gives Akaashi the perfect excuse to cuddle up on the couch in a turtleneck, concealing the evidence of their spontaneous lust in the shower. The night is full of hot chocolate with marshmallows and caramel drizzle, just like Akaashi likes it, cheesy rom-coms he and his mother adore, and playing around with Emiko that he forgets that he’ll die in a few months or years. He talks and talks and talks until his vocal cords are sore the next day. Tonight, he isn’t Keiji Akaashi with ALS. He isn’t Keiji Akaashi who can barely form a sentence anymore. He isn’t Keiji Akaashi who will die before he reaches middle age. He’s just Keiji Akaashi.

…

The sense of normalcy continues for the rest of the year. His symptoms seem to have plateaued, and thankfully, he doesn’t have any more run-ins with urge incontinence. Bokuto attributes the slowing progression to his daily physical therapy sessions, and he finally feels comfortable enough to go to practices again and leave Akaashi to his work. Typing is difficult, and it takes him three times as long to edit a page of a manga, but it feels nice to be of use. To not be completely inept and earn his own keep. He always hated being doted on, but he’d have to get used to the idea soon enough.

Akaashi’s parents go home a month after their arrival once they see their son’s condition stabilizing, making him promise to call them every day and tell them updates. He struggles to muster up the courage to call their closest friends to break the news because he knows that the second he says the words ‘I have ALS,’ they’d be knocking down the door. And that’s exactly what happens.

“Why the actual hell didn’t you tell us the second you got the diagnosis?!” Kuroo shouts, causing Kenma to smack the back of his head and apologize for his partner.

“The man’s sick, Tetsurou. Don’t scream.”

Akaashi appreciates the gesture since Kuroo’s voice is much too loud for their little apartment, but he also doesn’t want to be labeled as ‘sick.’ He’s already had enough of being treated like porcelain from Bokuto; he doesn’t want his friends to do the same.

“Kuroo, calm down,” Bokuto warns, but he was in the same position Kuroo not too long ago. When Akaashi refused to go to the doctor and admit he had a problem. He can’t blame the frustration. “He’s doing fine. The crutches are working out well, and his motor skills are good enough to type and write. He’s improving.”

The initial shock of the diagnosis undoubtedly made every single symptom seem worse and did nothing to slow the progression. It racked Akaashi’s body like cancer, and he wishes he did have cancer because then he might have a shot of surviving and living a normal life. Cancer seems like a blessing compared to the curse his body harbors.

“Well,” Kenma starts with a sympathetic smile. He picks up a controller from the coffee table and sits down next to Akaashi, handing it to him and picking up a controller for himself. “Ready for me to kick your ass in Mario Kart?”

Akaashi laughs. Genuinely. Not caused by those random bursts of laughter or crying he gets. He was so worried about getting treated as if he’s breakable that the comment caught him off-guard—of course Kenma would beat him. Not only because he’s a savant at anything video game-related, but because Akaashi literally has almost zero motor skills left. And Kenma knows this very well. They ate together. Kenma watched Bokuto help wipe Akaashi’s mouth and cut up a bit of the tougher side of the steak. He winced every time Akaashi dropped his fork, the clatter causing the conversation to come to an abrupt stop. And yet, he still proposes to beat him in a game that is all about motor control. Because Keiji is still Keiji. And he deserves to play a game of Mario Kart.

Kenma, of course, wins. Bokuto promises to avenge Akaashi’s honor, but he, too, loses his honor when he’s defeated horribly by the video game developer. Kuroo is the only one who puts up a good fight before ultimately losing as well from all the practice the two do on a daily basis. Kuroo and Bokuto busy themselves playing another round while Kenma helps Akaashi stand up, and the two walk over to the small patio in the kitchen.

“Have you been smoking?” Kenma asks, motioning to the ashtray populated by a few cigarettes as he sits down. Akaashi sits down across from him, his hand absentmindedly stroking Emiko.

“No, that’s Bokuto’s,” he replies with a disappointed shake of the head. “I’m trying to get him to stop. But even if they…were mine, it wouldn’t matter. I’m going to die anyway.”

Kenma stiffens. He can sense the distaste dripping from Akaashi’s tone like acid. He knows Akaashi would never wish sickness on Bokuto, least of all lung cancer. But Kenma can tell how frustratingly ironic it is that Bokuto, whose diet consisted of the most sugary and fatty foods before Akaashi stepped in, who smokes nearly every day, is the perfectly healthy one. He’s healthy, not the one who meditates and does yoga and cooks homemade, healthy meals every day. Even Kenma has a frown of consternation, irritated at how unfair the world can be.

He needs to ask. He needs to be able to brace himself for when the time comes. “How long do you think you have?”

Something Akaashi always appreciated from Kenma is that he never beats around the bush.

“The way I’m going, Dr. Hirose says three years. I’ll hopefully make it to my 40th birthday,” he explains, staring down at his hands. “I’ll probably n-need…a wheelchair in a year. And a 24/7 nurse a few months after that.”

He’s planned out the whole timeline in his head. He finds that expecting changes in his body is a lot less shock-inducing than just waiting for them to happen.

“I won’t be able to talk soon. Sometimes I d…on’t want to talk anymore. My vo…voice is starting to sound so ugly.” He thought he didn’t have any more tears to shed, but he finds himself choking back tears, his eyes red-rimmed.

He was trying to speak as much as possible before his voice eventually gives out, but he was never talkative to begin with, so it all comes off as fake. As a desperate attempt to redeem himself, say all the things he never got to say his entire life. He compliments Bokuto every day. Tells him how amazing of a job he’s doing. Bokuto is, of course, pleased to receive the compliments, but they’re soured when he realizes why he’s receiving them in the first place.

He baby talks Emiko, even though he only ever spoke to her like an adult human. Baby talking allows him to showcase more of his vocal range, which is getting smaller and smaller each month. But after a while, he goes days without uttering more than ten sentences. What’s the point if he’s going to lose his voice anyway?

Kenma reaches forward and grips Akaashi’s hand in his before letting go, gazing into the sunset splashing rays across the horizon. “You should make a bucket list.”

Akaashi lets out a sigh. Finally, somebody who doesn’t bring up Stephen fucking Hawking. Somebody who’s realistic, who offers solutions instead of false hope. He’s going to die whether he likes it or not—he needs to stop pitying himself.

“A bucket list isn’t a half-bad idea,” Akaashi says, stroking his chin pensively. He needs to shave, but last time he tried, he nicked himself so many times that he looked like he had a beard of toilet paper. “I don’t even know where I’d go. It’d be so expensive, too.”

“Are you going to use that money when you’re dead?” Kenma asks. “You have a savings account, right?”

Akaashi nods.

“Problem solved.” Kenma smiles and gets out a small leather-bound notebook, handing it to his friend. “I brought this for you. For your bucket list.”

Akaashi’s looking down at the notebook, but when he looks back up, Kenma’s crying. He’s never seen Kenma cry before.

“Go live life, Akaashi. Live the life people who live eighty years will never have.”

…

First, it’s the Alps in Switzerland for New Year’s. Akaashi’s strapped to Bokuto’s chest as they ski down a hill made for children, but Akaashi can’t wipe the smile off his face even if he tries. He’s laughing, begging Bokuto to go again. Bokuto agrees, but he’s wary of anything and everything now with Akaashi’s declining health. His bones have started to rise underneath his skin, and the dark circles under his eyes are growing ever darker. The common flu could have him bedridden for a week.

Bokuto still has hope that Akaashi will live for years and years. His stabilizing condition only further cements that hope, and if he doesn’t pay too much close attention, he completely forgets about Akaashi’s condition. They say that people who get it early in life live longer…

Akaashi can’t drink with his medications—and even though his motto is now “I’ll die anyway,” he’d much rather complete his Switzerland trip before offing himself. So he’s left to take care of Bokuto, who gets much too drunk off eggnog, and Akaashi loves it. He loves being the one fussing over somebody else. He loves being the stronger one, the caretaker. And now, he finally has a reason to take care of Bokuto and drag him to the bed.

“Keiiijii!” Bokuto sings at the top of his lungs, reaching his arms up as the bedroom spins around him. “Keiji Akaashi, I loooove youuu!”

“I love you, too,” Akaashi murmurs with a chuckle, balancing his crutches against the wall and flopping onto the bed.

“Please don’t leave me.”

Well, that’s quite a change in mood. Akaashi laughs and quirks a brow at Bokuto, whose arms had since dropped to his chest and his eyes closed.

“I’m not leaving—”

“I don’t want you to leave me,” Bokuto slurs. His hands fly up to cover his eyes. “Why…why couldn’t it have been me? God, it’s all my fault. If we hadn’t gotten into…that crash. Of all people…why you? Live forever and forever for me. Please don’t leave me, Keiji, please…”

He continues blabbering until snores overtake his sobs, but Akaashi stays silent. Bokuto says it hurts him to see his husband’s decline, but it also hurts him to see Bokuto suffering so much. Perhaps if he died earlier rather than later, Bokuto wouldn’t be hurting as much. He’d have more time to get over him and fall in love again, preferably with somebody without a terminal disease.

He crosses off “go skiing” and “go to Switzerland” in his notebook and smiles as he goes to sleep.

…

Second, it’s Brazil. They coincidentally run into Hinata playing volleyball with his Brazilian friends on Copacabana Beach, but his expression doesn’t change when his eyes drop to Akaashi’s crutches. He just grins even wider and holds up the volleyball in his arms for Akaashi.

“Wanna play a set?”

He gets on Bokuto’s shoulders and misses nearly all the blocks and hits. It’s less about his condition and more so the fact that he was a setter and hadn’t played professionally in nearly fifteen years, but that doesn’t discourage him. He accepts Hinata’s ‘another game?’ proposition until Bokuto puts a stop to it, afraid he’s overworking himself.

Bokuto gets drunk, yet again, off too many caipirinhas, and Akaashi, yet again, has to take care of him. But he doesn’t complain once. As Bokuto sleeps, he gets out his leather-bound notebook as crosses both “meet up with Hinata one more time” and “go to Brazil” off his list. Slowly and surely, his list is being whittled down. It’s bittersweet: he feels accomplished whenever he crosses something off the list, but that just means he’s growing ever closer to his expiration date.

…

Third, it’s Italy. It’s been nearly a year since he was first diagnosed and add on two months for when he first started noticing symptoms. They’re celebrating Akaashi’s 37th birthday in a fancy seaside restaurant, the salty breeze making both their faces glow. They’re in their own little world, ignoring the other customers who either stare at them or ask to be moved to another table.

Bokuto now has to feed him nearly everything, spooning minestrone soup and twirling pasta onto a fork before putting it into his husband’s mouth. He fixes Akaashi’s bib, which has “what’s cookin,’ good lookin’” embellished across it, per Bokuto’s suggestion.

“This…is goo…d-d,” Akaashi says with a giggle, accidentally spitting out a bit of soup that dribbles down his chin.

“I know, right?” Bokuto’s heart aches at the sight, but he forces his acting skills to their maximum as he lifts a napkin up to clean Akaashi up. “We’re coming to Italy every…er, we should come back.”

He keeps catching himself saying presumptuous things that only make Akaashi draw back inside himself. Things like “I can’t wait to do this every day with you,” or “we need to come back here in three years” because, frankly, three years is a stretch.

“I wan…t the c-calamari,” Akaashi continues, seemingly not noticing Bokuto’s slip-up.

“Okay, we’ll have the calamari next. But save me some, okay? Your eye is bigger than your stomach,” Bokuto recites in a motherly voice, making Akaashi laugh again.

“Okay,” Akaashi replies, his eyes sparkling.

Bokuto hesitates to leave to go to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner, but Akaashi practically pushes him out the door with the little strength he still had. They’d have to switch to a wheelchair soon.

“I’ll be fine,” Akaashi promises in his now-unnaturally low voice. “I’ll be…on the couch.”

Bokuto bites the inside of his cheek before relenting, bidding goodbye and practically sprinting to the grocery store. When he comes back, his arms carrying a bag full of fruit and pasta, he shouts Akaashi’s name. No response.

“Akaashi?”

He hears a groan, and he can’t drop the groceries fast enough before running in the direction of the sound, coming across Akaashi on the floor in the bathroom, his pants halfway hiked up his legs.

“I h-had to p…ee,” Akaashi sobs into the terracotta tile, and Bokuto bunches him up in his arms, and he finds that his husband’s body feels much too similar to the bag of groceries. Dead weight. He weeps in Bokuto’s arms for a few more moments, and Bokuto’s about to get up before Akaashi lets out a choked wail.

“I don’t want to die!” he shrieks, almost intelligibly with how fast he gets it out in order to not slur his words together. He hits Bokuto’s forearms as hard as he can, which Bokuto barely notices with how light the taps are. He shakes his head, gobs of ugly fat tears and snot trailing down his face. He’s unraveling; all the fear and dread in his body bubbling to the surface like boiling water. The water runs down the sides of the pot, stoking the fire even more until everything eventually burns down into embers. That’s what’s left of Akaashi now. Embers.

“I d…on’t want to die. I’m s-sca…red. I don’t wan…t-t to die…I don’t…”

Akaashi thought dying was what he wanted. But the second he was alone in the dark bathroom, hopelessly and utterly alone and lying on the cold floor, he realizes that death is the furthest thing he wants. He’s scared. He’s been putting off his true emotions for too long. He’s always been terrified.

He dissolves back into quiet tears, hanging his head low over Bokuto’s forearm. For a while, all Bokuto can do is stare, biting his bottom lip until it bleeds in order to keep a stoic face for his husband. But he’s crumbling, too.

“Oh, Keiji,” Bokuto coaxes into Akaashi’s hair, stroking the locks and cradling him like a newborn baby. For every smile Akaashi gives, he weeps five times. The ratio used to be backwards. He wonders how much bigger the disparity in the ratio will grow.

Bokuto doesn’t leave him alone for longer than five minutes after that.

…

They can only do one more trip before Akaashi needs to be transferred to a wheelchair, according to Dr. Hirose.

“There are many comfortable and intelligent varieties,” he says, but nothing makes Akaashi want to die more than the thought of no longer being able to move on his own.

They end up in England, where they meet up with Oikawa and Iwaizumi.

“Yikes, you look horrible, Akaashi,” Oikawa says with a grimace, motioning to Akaashi’s outfit and bib. “Just because Bokuto has to dress you now doesn’t mean he should get to pick out your outfits. Cargo shorts, really?”

Akaashi laughs and turns to Bokuto, shaking his head. “You h-hear…d the man. I…ge-t-t to choose.”

Bokuto rolls his eyes and glares daggers into Oikawa’s soul as he takes out a tissue to clean up the drool in the corner of Akaashi’s mouth. “I picked out this outfit with a lot of love. I think it shows off his model legs. Doesn’t it, Iwa?”

But Iwaizumi isn’t taking the news as easily as Oikawa. He’s still visibly processing how quickly his friend’s health went downhill, and his hands are fisting the sides of his jeans.

“Um, yeah,” Iwaizumi replies after nearly choking on the lump in his throat. “Maybe a vest would be tasteful.”

Akaashi taps Bokuto on the chest, which would have been a slap back in the old days. He raises his eyebrows in a ‘you hear that?’ motion, finding body language is a lot easier and less awkward for the other person in the conversation than attempting to speak. He ignores Iwaizumi’s reaction—he understands it. He’s gotten enough of those reactions to just laugh it off. But the lingering stares and pitiful glances still hurt.

When they get back to their hotel, Akaashi crosses off “go to England” and “see Oikawa and Iwa one last time” in his journal. Bokuto helps him brush his teeth, holding up a cup of water for him to rinse and spit into and wipes the toothpaste foam off his face.

“Look at those pearly whites,” Bokuto says, grinning in a way that bares all his teeth, and Akaashi copies as much as he can with his limited range of facial muscles. They dissolve into laughter, and Bokuto sits his husband on the foot of the bed and places a pajama set on the bed. “Alright, now because of stupid Oikawa, I have to get your approval on everything you wear because I have ‘horrible fashion taste’ or whatever. So, what do you think?”

Akaashi is silent, and Bokuto meets his gaze and sees his cheeks are dusted with pink.

“Koutarou…” Even with his slurred and irregular voice, his name still sounds like pure gold on his tongue. Akaashi blinks slowly, tipping his chin back and lifting his arms up haltingly until his hands find support by clinging to Bokuto’s face. “Ma…ke love to…to me.”

Bokuto’s eyes widen, and he fights the urge to step back in surprise and tear Akaashi’s hands off his face. He closes his eyes and covers Akaashi’s hands with his own, detaching them from his cheeks and bringing them back down to his lap.

“I can’t do that, Keiji,” Bokuto whispers.

“Why not?” Akaashi asks, his lips pulling into a frown. “Am I…too ugly?”

His face is so skinny. His eyes bulge out of their sockets, his eyelashes even longer than they were before. His lips are chapped, and there’s a growing sore in the corner of his mouth. Bokuto can see the blue-green veins running underneath his skin, feel the spots he missed when he helped him shave this morning.

But he couldn’t be more beautiful.

“Never,” Bokuto breathes, squatting down to be eye-level with his Greek god. “I’m just scared I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Akaashi continues. “I can take it.” When he still sees hesitation in Bokuto’s eyes, he practically begs, “One last time…pl…ease. Hawking still…fu-ucked while in…h-his wheel…wheelchair.”

Bokuto laughs, and Akaashi can see the last glint of reluctance turn into amusement.

“You’re not even in a wheelchair yet,” Bokuto says, and Akaashi nods eagerly. He sighs, the phrase ‘one last time’ echoing in his head. It really will be the last time they make love. Because even though Stephen Hawking was still a womanizer in his wheelchair, Bokuto doesn’t think he’ll have it in him.

He undresses Akaashi slowly, unbuttoning his Hawaiian shirt, letting Akaashi fumble with the last few buttons. He tries to take back as much of his autonomy whenever he can, and Bokuto gladly allows him.

Akaashi watches as Bokuto stands back up and pulls his shirt over his head, letting it drop onto the floor, and leans over to press kisses onto his abs. He runs his fingertips over the muscles, both in admiration and in jealousy. He remembers when he used to have ab muscles like these, how much Bokuto loved touching them. He looks down at his own torso, wincing at the sight of his ribs slicing his skin.

He smiles as Bokuto carries him up the bed, laying him down delicately like a baby. He whimpers at the warmth on the crook of his neck, his shoulders hiking up and his body racking with pleasure. He hasn’t felt so beautiful, so worthy of love, in so long, and it’s all thanks to Bokuto’s soft caresses.

“Are you okay?” Bokuto asks, and Akaashi has a feeling that question will be recurring throughout this session.

He gazes down at his husband, who has reached his happy trail, and nods. He gathers up all his energy to say, “I’ve never felt…better.”

It’s slow and tender, both because Bokuto is afraid he’ll break Akaashi and because it’s their last time together. He wants it to last forever. He wants to imprint every touch, every sound, every taste into his brain. He wants Akaashi tattooed on his body, wants any evidence that he was here, that he was loved, that he was strong until the very end.

He guides Akaashi’s arms to cling onto his back, holding up his bony legs as he locks lips with a particularly noisy Akaashi.

“The whole hotel can probably hear you,” he jokes, and Akaashi needs to catch his breath before responding.

“Good,” he finally replies, using the last of his strength to push Bokuto down into a deep kiss.

Akaashi’s tattooed on his body alright. After Akaashi falls sound asleep directly after finishing, Bokuto cleans him up and dresses him in the pajamas in case it gets chilly during the night. He pulls the covers up to his chin and kisses his forehead, brushing a few locks of sweaty hair out of his face. He smiles and heads to the bathroom, immediately spotting the hickeys Akaashi must have left on him while he was fumbling around with the pillows to make sure he was completely comfortable. He turns around to see scratch marks all over his upper back. He needs to stifle his laughter in fear of waking Akaashi, but it’s more than endearing to see how his husband marked him up. He needs to stop himself from going to the nearest tattoo artist and getting the scratches tattooed immediately.

He slips back into bed, and Akaashi responds by turning over and flopping his limbs over Bokuto’s torso. He smiles and wraps his arms around the love of his life and dreams of him with gray hair, wrinkles, and sunspots. All of which are considered to be the worst things to happen while aging, but what he wouldn’t give to see all three on Akaashi. That would mean he lived long enough to gain them.

…

Akaashi hates the wheelchair. It gets him places faster, yeah, and it’s very high-tech, but at what cost? He can barely move around the apartment without bumping into something and knocking it onto the floor. Bokuto rarely ever leaves the apartment anymore, so he’s always there to help, but Akaashi is still stubborn about doing everything himself. He asks Bokuto to buy him a grabber tool, but when his forearm strength eventually dies out, he has to swallow his pride and call Bokuto into the room to pick up the fallen bowl of cereal.

He celebrates his 38th birthday in their apartment, Emiko on his lap and in the process of trying to steal a slice of cake. She, unlike her owner, loves the wheelchair. It means a seat plus access to human food when he’s in a good mood.

“Mom, Mom, you’re…miss…ssing it,” Akaashi drawls, waving sloppily at the phone Bokuto’s holding up to FaceTime his parents. “I’m gon…na blow it-t out.”

“Go and blow it out, honey!” his mother encourages over the speaker. “Koutarou, did you use sparklers? You better not have, or so help me I’m flying over there—”

“You wound me, mother-in-law,” Bokuto exclaims dramatically, his hand flying up to his chest as if he has just been shot. “Hath you no trust in me?”

“Not after you did that on my birthday,” Akaashi’s mother retorts, giving him the evil eye. “Now flip the camera back to my baby boy!”

“He’s always had a pair of lungs on him, haven’t you, my boy?” his father shouts, and Akaashi laughs weakly.

Almost as if to disprove his father’s words, his lungs fail him in the middle of blowing out the candles. The flames pop right back up mockingly, stronger than ever. Akaashi attempts again but only manages to blow out a few.

“I bought the strong kind, I think,” Bokuto mumbles, trying desperately to make the situation better and to cover up the sound of Akaashi’s painful wheezing. He leans over to prepare to blow the rest out. “Let me just—”

“I want to do it!” It’s rare when Akaashi gets out a full sentence nowadays, which makes his faint shout even more potent. “I want…to do-o it.”

Bokuto steps back slowly, nodding encouragingly and lifting his hand up. “Okay. Go ahead, Keiji.”

Akaashi straightens himself as much as he can in his chair, leaning close to the cake and inhaling for a good few seconds before exhaling it all, leaving himself lightheaded, and with one candle still dancing tauntingly in his face. He slumps back in his chair, thoroughly exhausted, and feebly lifts a hand up to signal Bokuto to go ahead and blow the last one out. Bokuto obeys, and they both say quick goodbyes to his parents before cutting the cake silently.

“I’m…sorry,” Akaashi speaks up after a while, his mouth full of red velvet cake.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bokuto instructs, wiping up the creamy mess around Akaashi’s mouth. He pauses, letting out a sigh. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re frustrated.”

Akaashi stays silent, slowly and methodically chewing his food ever since he had a choking scare a week ago. He swallows, but he doesn’t open his mouth for more. Bokuto raises a forkful of cake, but when he sees Akaashi’s mouth closed, he sets it down and slips his hands into his husband’s, his thumb running over the bony joints.

“Have you thought about joining a support group?” he asks. Akaashi scoffs, and he can see that he’s thinking all sorts of nasty things that he’d yell at Bokuto, but he doesn’t have the energy to bicker anymore. Fighting with each other is now a privilege since by the time Akaashi gets out a comeback, they’ve both had enough time to cool down and think about their actions.

“I know you don’t like the idea,” Bokuto says, speaking Akaashi’s thoughts to life. “I know you think it’s stupid, that it’s only for pussies.”

“I…would…n’t put it-t li…ke that.”

Bokuto chuckles and shrugs. “Something like that, then. But maybe if you vent to them, you’ll feel better. You won’t have to bottle everything up inside.”

Akaashi ponders it for a moment before opening his mouth again for more cake, and he thinks about it for the better part of the night while he watches Bokuto perform magic card tricks that he learned on YouTube in lieu of going to volleyball. In the morning, he gives Bokuto the go-ahead to find a group. He doesn’t really have any other reason to get out of the house. He can’t travel, and their small neighborhood barely has any wheelchair accessibility. When Bokuto finds one and signs him up for the following afternoon, he can’t deny that he’s excited to go.

“Hello, Mr. Akaashi, I’m Fumi Sugita,” the woman greets, and he lets out a sigh of relief that she doesn’t put her hands on her knees to talk to him like a child. But he supposes it’s because she’s literally the leader of an ALS group—she most likely knows how to talk to people in wheelchairs.

“Call him Keiji,” Bokuto says for him, and Akaashi confirms with a nod. He’d have to switch to communicating with the computer installed on his wheelchair, and even though the voice isn’t as robotic as the older models have it, it still isn’t his voice. Who is he kidding, his own voice isn’t even his own voice anymore. But he still hasn’t set it up yet.

“Alright, Keiji, let’s get started. Mr. Bokuto—”

“Koutarou.”

“Koutarou, please wait in the living room or come back by 3:15.”

Bokuto nods and places a kiss on the corner of Akaashi’s lips. Kisses are rare now since Bokuto’s so busy keeping house and taking care of Akaashi’s needs. Plus, there’s always something smeared across his lips or a painful sore from too much accumulating drool that it’s flat-out unpleasant to kiss him. But Bokuto got him pristine for the group session, and he didn’t even nick him while shaving. He’s getting better at it.

“Be nice,” Bokuto whispers, and Akaashi rolls his eyes and waves him off.

“Everybody, this is Keiji,” Fumi introduces to a room filled with people in varying stages of ALS. A chorus of slurred and robotic greetings follow her introduction, and Akaashi awkwardly waves as he maneuvers his chair with the joystick into the circle.

“We were just talking about fun things you can do in a wheelchair,” Fumi continues, motioning to a woman in a similar model wheelchair to him. “Do you want to show your trick off, Haruko?”

The woman nods eagerly and sticks her tongue out for concentration as she fiddles with her joystick, the chair moving backward, then forwards, then spins in the blink of an eye. Another woman shows off her trick: typing 80085 into her computer, which proceeds to read it out as “boobies.”

That earns a chuckle from Akaashi. Perhaps this isn’t too bad.

After the third session, Akaashi has grown quite close to Haruko, especially after she gladly showed him how to do her spinning wheelchair trick.

“My…hus…band thought-t it wa…s cool,” he says, and Haruko laughs. Akaashi had to tell Bokuto to stop making him do the trick over and over, but it was reluctant since he hadn’t seen that look of pride and excitement on the man’s face in a long while. Bokuto makes him promise to learn more tricks to show him, and he goes so far as to take videos to send to their friends and family. Kuroo replies with That’s dope, Akaashi! Parkour! and that makes both men crack up laughing.

Kuroko looks at her computer, waiting for the eye-tracking technology to start up, and flicks her eyes around the screen.

“I’m glad he liked it,” the robotic female voice replies. “How long do you have left?”

It’s a common question among the group. It’s never a sure answer since everybody still prays they have Hawking’s luck, but there’s usually an empty space when it gets near the time a person says they have left.

“A…year,” Akaashi says, and he suddenly has the urge to just use the computer to have a semi-normal conversation again. He’ll ask Bokuto to set it up tonight. “But…I wan…t to m-make it to-o my 40th…birthd-day.”

“That’s a short time,” Haruko says, her previous smile down turning into a frown. “I mean, I have shorter, but it’s more real hearing it out loud. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

Akaashi nods, and that’s the end of the conversation until he can get the computer booted up and figures out how to use it.

After the fourth session, Akaashi approaches Haruko with a brand-new set of communication, and he proves it by picking up on their conversation left from yesterday. “I have decided what I’m going to do.” The voice is, of course, robotic, and Bokuto tried to call Kenma for help on how to fix it, but Kenma’s advice only made it sound creepier. But it’s worth it to carry a conversation and not hear how awful his voice sounds. He tried to use his voice until it gave out, but it became impossible. He had to swallow his pride, and it worked out. He can now hold a regular-ish conversation.

“And what’s that?” she asks, a look of intrigue on her face.

“I want to be cremated and buried under a cherry blossom tree I loved as a kid,” Akaashi replies, a sense of tranquility washing over him. The thought of dying always used to scare him before he was diagnosed, as it does to everybody. But now, he can’t think of anything more peaceful. “I used to read books underneath it, and I fell in love under it for the first time.”

His mind wanders to that one picnic in the humid spring weather. How reluctant their touches were because they were both in love but were too scared to admit it. How the sun lit up Bokuto’s face just in time for him to confess, highlighting the deep blush on his face as he picked up a cherry blossom from the blanket, tucking it behind Akaashi’s ear. How Bokuto smiled and laughed out of pure relief once Akaashi confirmed his feelings as well. How they cuddled, savoring each other’s touches before they had to leave for university. How the light filtered in between the branches of the cherry blossom tree until the horizon swallowed it. How he wishes he could go back to that memory one last time.

“I want to be cremated, too,” Haruko says, breaking Akaashi out of his thoughts. “But tossed in the ocean to be fish food.”

They both laugh, but Haruko interrupts the moment by asking, “Have you told your husband yet?”

Akaashi shakes his head, letting it droop forward in a show of embarrassment. “He still thinks I’m going to be the next Stephen Hawking. Sometimes I get mad at him because he gave us all false hope.”

“I wouldn’t want to live that long like this anyway,” Haruko retorts. “I’m tired. I’ve made my peace. My family has made their peace. I just want to close my eyes and open them in Heaven. Or Hell. I’m not jinxing anything.”

Akaashi stays silent, and the two cease their conversation when Fumi comes by to feed them a few pieces of fruit while both their caretakers come to pick them up. When she leaves to tend to the other people, Haruko turns back to Akaashi.

“’When tomorrow starts without me, and I’m not here to see; if the sun should rise and find your eyes; all filled with tears for me’,” she recites, and Akaashi cocks his head in confusion. “It’s my favorite poem now. I’ve always loved poetry, but this one resonates with me. You should look the rest up.” A man walks into their peripheral vision, a grand smile on his face when he spots Haruko.

“Come on, babe, I made soba! Let’s go before it gets cold,” he says, and Haruko grins and starts her wheelchair toward him. She spins around and lifts her eyebrows in a sign of goodbye, and Akaashi tips his chin in acknowledgment.

Bokuto isn’t too far behind Haruko’s boyfriend, nearly doubling over with how out-of-breath he is. “Sorry, honey, there was a ragin’ line at the grocery store. I had to elbow a middle-aged woman out of the way for a box of crackers.”

Akaashi laughs, and Bokuto laughs with him. He tells him all about his day at the grocery store, the never-ending tale lasting all the way back home. And while Akaashi usually loves listening to Bokuto’s intriguing tales, he finds his mind wandering to the poem Haruko quoted. When Bokuto is washing the dishes, he tries to look up the first lines of the poem as quickly as he can, and when he finds it, he reads it over and over until he can recite it by heart.

When Bokuto lifts him out of his wheelchair and into bed, draping the blanket over him, Akaashi clears his throat. Bokuto slips into bed and listens attentively, brushing the hair out of Akaashi’s eyes.

“I w-want…to be crem…cremated,” Akaashi says. He pushes on, even though he feels Bokuto stiffen next to him, the mattress sagging under the added weight. “Un…der the cher…ry bloss…som tree.”

Bokuto wants to argue. He wants to scream and yell and repeat over and over that Akaashi’s not dying, he’s not going to die anytime soon until it becomes true. But he knows better. He’s been to group sessions of his own—partners of those with ALS—and knows that denial is the first stage of the grieving process. But all this knowledge doesn’t make the air in the room any less heavy whenever the morbid subject is brought up.

He’s about to reply to Akaashi when he continues. “’When…tomo-rrow start…s…without me…’” He recites the lines Haruko told him today, slowly but surely, until he’s panting with exertion. Usually, he’d be crying whenever the subject of dying is brought up, but just like Haruko, he’s made his peace with the idea. He used to be terrified of the idea of death, but now, he’s expecting it like a visit from an old friend. It’s comforting to know that their suffering will be over soon. He wants Bokuto to be happy. He can see how stressed he is, how he’s been losing weight alongside the actually diseased person. He’s grown paler, and his smile carries the weight of an eighty-year-old man’s. He’s tired. They’re both tired.

Bokuto, however, doesn’t take it as well. He hates seeing how accepting Akaashi has grown over the idea of death. Fight a little harder, he wants to shout. Fight like you mean it. Fight like you want to live.

But Akaashi has no more fight in him left to give. He can no longer make fists with his hands. He can’t move his legs at all. He’s lost almost all his facial muscles. ALS is the grand champion of this fight, and Akaashi isn’t getting up from the floor.

“What’s the rest?” Bokuto asks, but by the time he’s finished wiping away his own tears, Akaashi is asleep.

…

Sleeping next to Akaashi is nearly impossible now. His wheezing is loud and sharp, the sound a constant sheer whistle in Bokuto’s ear. When they get him an oxygen machine, it isn’t much different. The tank makes clicking noises every time he inhales like a clock, ticking down the time until it goes silent, meaning Akaashi took his last breath.

Akaashi snores up a storm, which he supposes is payback for all the times he complained about Bokuto’s snoring. But Bokuto can’t risk moving to the couch and missing Akaashi’s last breath. Akaashi had chosen to have Do Not Attempt Resuscitation status, even though every single bone in Bokuto’s body screamed at him to stop the notary from signing off on the papers. He wanted to claim that Akaashi wasn’t mentally fit enough to have given permission, but he knew that Akaashi would never forgive him if he did that. The official paper framed above Akaashi’s nightstand mocks him every day, jeering at him, saying, “The love of your life will die, and you legally can’t do anything about it.”

Dr. Hirose tells Akaashi he should finish putting all his final touches on his will, but Akaashi hasn’t even started it. Yes, he’s accepted that he’s going to die—it’s another thing to put it on paper.

Akaashi spends his 39th birthday in a musty office, trying to think of everything he owns that will eventually go to Bokuto. Bokuto waits outside the office as he speaks with the drafter about his will. He covers his ears since he can still hear the muffled robotic voice from Akaashi’s wheelchair. If he hums a song loud enough and squeezes his eyes tight, he almost forgets where he is.

Each week, Akaashi recites one more stanza from the poem. Bokuto has to suppress the urge to just look it up and read until the end, wanting to hear it from Akaashi’s mouth. Each week, Akaashi gets sicker and sicker, his mouth nearly freezing up multiple times through his recitations. He chokes on a noodle during lunch one day, and the near-death experience knocks him out for a few weeks, having to skip multiple group sessions. When he shows up again, people nearly drop their food out of pure shock. Akaashi had left an empty space in the group, and nobody questions an empty space. They just move closer together, as if covering up that the space was ever there.

But Akaashi notices Haruko isn’t at the group session. When he asks Fumi, she just purses her lips and shakes her head: the universal sign of ‘they passed away.’ He wonders if she’s in Heaven or Hell. He wonders if he’ll meet her wherever she is and hear her real voice.

Akaashi isn’t too far away from dying either. He’s filled out the paperwork. He’s made funeral arrangements. He’s contacted the cremation place. He’s said all that he needs to all his friends and family. All there is to do now…is wait.

“Koutarou,” Akaashi says one day as Bokuto’s giving him a sponge bath. He remembers a time where he said he’d rather slip and die in the shower than let Bokuto bathe him, hire a nurse, fight tooth and nail to the very end. He never expected he’d be so tired by the end. He thought he’d go out with a bang. But it’s quicksand instead: slow, inescapable, and exhausting.

“Yes, Keiji?” Bokuto asks, his breath hitching in his throat. He tries not to cry around Akaashi anymore. When Akaashi’s absentmindedly watching a game show on TV, he feigns needing to go to the bathroom and instead locks himself inside and sobs into the sleeve of his shirt. He wishes he could one day wake up and be the one with ALS, for Akaashi is the last person on Earth deserving of such hell. He feels so helpless—none of his kisses or hugs or feeble attempts at jokes are enough to save Akaashi. He’s going to die, and there’s nothing Bokuto can do about it except watch his soulmate slip through his fingers like watching Akaashi lobbing a perfect set his way, and no matter what he does, Bokuto’s hand goes straight through the ball. The ball falls pitifully on their side of the net—match set point. The point is irreversible. There’s no way to get it back. There’s no way to win the game. They can reflect on the things they did wrong in hindsight all they want—“we should’ve done this,” “we could’ve done this better”—but there’s nothing they can do to change the game. They lost. Both of them.

“I want to go to Iceland again,” Akaashi says. “That’s my final wish.”

The words ‘final wish’ is a gut punch, and Bokuto has to take a few seconds to reel from nausea swirling in his stomach. He squeezes the sponge in his hands until all moisture dissipates from it, his nails digging into the foam. He tries not to splash the computer as he wets the sponge again.

“Dr. Hirose won’t let that happen,” Bokuto replies, returning to lightly wiping Akaashi’s skin.

“He can’t deny a dying man a final wish,” Akaashi defends. “You can’t deny me my final wish.”

Bam. Straight to the heart. Akaashi always knew exactly what would get Bokuto’s blood pressure through the roof. Because that’s exactly what Bokuto is trying to do. If they do go to Iceland, Akaashi will either die onboard the plane, in Iceland, or on the plane back. He’s not surviving the trip. He will die there. And Bokuto will be left cold and alone.

“Okay,” Bokuto relents, bowing his head so Akaashi can’t see the tears pricking his eyes. “I’ll book it tomorrow.”

…

The arrangements with the airline take longer than Bokuto ever thought since the subject matter is a dying man. He shouts one too many times into the receiver that Akaashi doesn’t have that many days left, and even after repeating and emphasizing that point, it’s as if his brain blocks that fact. It substitutes it instead for the idea that they’re simply going on another vacation, and the two of them are coming back together, not with one in a body bag.

He doesn’t let any of the flight attendants touch Akaashi or his wheelchair. He’s the one who folds up the wheelchair. He’s the one who lifts Akaashi into the first-class seat. He’s the one who touches him because any touch could be his last before his husband turns cold.

“Comfortable?” Bokuto asks, buckling both their seatbelts. “I’ve never been in first class before.”

Akaashi nods, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the headrest. However, his eyes flutter open when Bokuto snaps his fingers in front of him, shaking his head.

“No, we’re watching Despicable Me 2. No sleeping on my watch.” Partly because he wants to watch their comfort movie together one last time, and partly because the mere sight of Akaashi’s eyes being closed gives him indescribable amounts of anxiety.

Akaashi rolls his eyes, which is one of the few things from his past he can still do now, and leans his head against Bokuto’s shoulders as they start the movie. Akaashi wheezes for a laugh since they couldn’t bring his oxygen tanks on board (it isn’t as if he’s going to need them for much longer, anyhow), and Bokuto senses the other passengers shifting uncomfortably in their seats. He couldn’t care less. He’s embarrassed for the other passengers, shifting away from a dying man. Pathetic.

He’s evidently fallen into the anger stage of the grieving process.

When they get to the hotel, the first thing Bokuto asks is when the northern lights will appear. The woman says possibly in two days. He bites his lip and looks down at Akaashi, who blinks slowly to reassure him that everything is alright. He’ll hang on for a little while longer.

They lay in bed those two days, Bokuto listening to Akaashi’s breaths and Akaashi savoring the warmth and fullness of Bokuto’s torso in his arms.

“Are you scared?” Bokuto asks, his voice cracking in the middle.

Akaashi holds up two fingers, meaning ‘no.’

“Will you miss me?”

He holds up one finger, meaning ‘yes.’

“Are you happy?”

One finger.

“Do you regret anything?”

One finger.

Bokuto reaches for his phone and opens the notes app for Akaashi to type. He does it so slowly, Bokuto nearly forgets what question he asked.

“Making you sad. Making you worry.”

“Oh, Keiji,” Bokuto whispers, setting down his phone and hugging Akaashi close, resting his chin on his oily hair. “You’ve only ever made me happy. And annoyed when you’d steal my secret stash of Oreos.”

A sharp breath comes from Akaashi, signaling a laugh.

“It’s the thought of you being gone that makes me sad. You never made me sad. I’m just worried about myself.” Bokuto chokes back a sob. “I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone.”

They fall into silence again, until Bokuto asks one last question.

“What’s the end to the poem?”

He looks down, and Akaashi’s sound asleep on his chest. He slowly and steadily picks up his phone and takes a picture. Akaashi looks…normal in the photo. He looks peaceful. He doesn’t look tired at all. He looks ready.

They arrive at the same lookout point where they had that transformative crash. It seems only natural to end where everything started. Bokuto sets out a blanket and sits down on it and next to Akaashi’s wheelchair, leaning his head against Akaashi’s forearm.

“Are you excited?”

One finger.

“Me, too.”

Before long, the light show starts. Akaashi gasps, but it isn’t one of those ‘searching for breath’ gasps. It’s one of amazement, his eyes widening as the colors dance across the sky, resuming the previous ballet dance they saw three years ago. His eyes, which had since gone dull many years ago, shine like he’s a child. They shine like mirrors, reflecting the aurora in their blue irises. He wants to tell Bokuto to look.

But Bokuto, once again, isn’t looking at the lights.

“Keiji,” he starts, the lights illuminating the wet film over his eyes. “What’s the end of the poem?”

Akaashi’s head lolls to the side to meet Bokuto’s gaze, the corner of his lip twitching into a smile.

Flashes of their life together, all culminating to this moment, streak across the sky in the form of the aurora. White for Fukuroudani’s volleyball uniform, where they first met and became the closest of friends. Green for the pistachio mochi Bokuto always made when Akaashi was sick. Purple for the color of the petunias at their wedding reception. Yellow for Emiko’s collar. Pink for the cherry blossom tree where they confessed their feelings for each other, where he realized his setter was the love of his life. Blue for Akaashi’s eyes. Black for the ink used to sign Akaashi’s will.

Instead of saying the end, the computer recites the poem from the beginning.

When tomorrow starts without me And I’m not here to see If the sun should rise and find your eyes All filled with tears for me.

Akaashi wheezes painfully.

I wish so much you wouldn’t cry The way you did today While thinking of the many things We did not get to say.

Akaashi’s eyes close. I know how much you love me As much as I love you Each time that you think of me I know you will miss me, too.

Akaashi’s hand on the joystick goes limp.

I promise no tomorrow For today will always last And since each day’s the exact same way There is no longing for the past.

Akaashi’s head drops.

So when tomorrow starts without me Do not think we’re apart For every time you think of me Remember I’m right here in your heart.

Akaashi dies before the computer finishes the poem.

He dies 301 days before his 40th birthday. He dies under the northern lights that he first fell in love with more than three years ago. And a part of Bokuto dies with him.

…

Akaashi’s father digs the hole underneath the tree and watches as his mother tips her son into the earth. The ashes land in a neat pile. Fitting. Everything Akaashi ever did was neat and tidy.

His mother breaks down before she can fill the hole. Emiko rushes to her side, their whimpers resonating together.

His father helps his wife out of the way, and Bokuto takes over. He takes one last look at what remains of Akaashi before scooping the earth into his hands and tipping it over, scooping and patting until the hole is filled. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the dirt underneath him darkens. He nearly collapses on top of the hole before Kuroo catches him by the shoulders. But even Kuroo can’t stop the tears. The two men sob into each other’s shoulders until they have no more tears left to cry.

“Petunias were his favorite,” his mother says. She hands Bokuto a bouquet to lay down. He complies, his body on autopilot.

He sits next to the pile of dirt, even when everybody else has left. They all bid him goodbye, kissing him on the cheek, giving him hugs. But he doesn’t register any of it. He just keeps his hand on top of the pile of dirt, hoping that Akaashi is sitting right next to him, his hand on top of his.

Akaashi gives him everything he owns, minus his money. His money is reserved for his parents—to provide them medical care for when they get old because they’re afforded that luxury—for his favorite nonprofits, and the biggest sum is split among various ALS foundations. Bokuto is left with his wheelchair, his crutches, his medications, his too-smart computer, his photos, and most bittersweetly of all, his memory. His body shape etched into their mattress. His scent—eucalyptus and black tea—that bursts out whenever he opens his closet. He’s everywhere and anywhere Bokuto goes. But he can’t bring himself to leave the apartment.

He buries Emiko next to Akaashi underneath the old cherry blossom tree. It’s bare-bones by now, having shed all its leaves and flowers in the autumn. They say Emiko’s death was from grief, but she was growing old as well. It seems as if everybody’s leaving him. What did he do to deserve this? To see all his loved ones turn into ash?

He enters the depressed state of his grieving process. He’s often too tired to eat the food his neighbors and friends bring him. He stopped smoking, which is what Akaashi would’ve wanted, but it’s less so about making Akaashi happy as it is he can’t even lift an arm up to grab the carton and put a cigarette up to his mouth. He just stares at the other side of the bed, his hand resting on the indent left by Akaashi’s body, wishing for his love to fill it once more.

When he finally gains the courage to get up and clean out Akaashi’s closet, a note falls out of one of his jackets when Bokuto tosses them into a pile on the bed. He picks it up and opens it. Inside is a horrible scrawl, barely decipherable. But Bokuto knows the poem all too well to need to decipher it.

When tomorrow starts without me…

The poem has haunted his every waking moment. He never really listened to Akaashi tell the poem. Mostly because it was too difficult to follow along with how little he could speak by the end, but also because he was too focused on savoring every little moment with him, ingraining it into his head. But as he sits down on the floor and stares at the poem, he now has the time—all the time in the world; wretched, wretched time—to read it in its entirety.

Each day is difficult. But with each day, he gets out of bed quicker and quicker. He eats bigger portions and more frequently. He brushes his teeth. He goes to the volleyball courts to say hello to his former teammates. When he spikes a ball, he instinctively turns his head next to him to seek out his setter. But with each day, he eventually stops looking. But Akaashi isn’t gone. He’s in his husband’s heart, just like the poem says. Akaashi’s body is no more, the ashes gone to feed the nature around him. But his spirit is more than alive. It thrives.

Every time he passes by the tree, he swears the tree grows a few more flowers. And every time he visits the aurora on his annual trip to Iceland, he swears there’s one more flash of light than usual in the sky.

[enochianribs]

until it no longer hurts. (cabin/wing fic). read it here, or under the cut.

(accompanying playlist / aesthetic board (thanks @disableddean)

CHAPTER 3. (formatting is lost via tumblr text post fyi)

ch.1 / ch.2

As he lays there, unconscious to the world, and all those things that go bump in the night, his life sorts itself cleanly into two: before and after—   not for the first time.

In fact, there were several times before this. There was before the fire, before the loss of his mother, before John started hunting, before Jess died, before Sammy went to rehab, before Dean picked up that knife. 

Before before before.  

The question has hung in front of him for quite some time now.

What happens after? 

What happens to him, when all is said and done?

The bed is warm and soft and he sinks into it. A hand presses against his chest, pins him down and muscle memory tells him to go for the knife, fingers flexing outward and then curling in, his nails catching on the sheet. 

This is safe. 

Here in this moment, no one can touch him. The tiny flowers on the sheets molt before his eyes, little petals rising out of the fabric and blooming. They're feather light against his bare skin, and the weight of his body is crushing them. He makes a noise of upset, and a hand comes down to press a finger to his mouth, hushing him gently. 

<It's okay.> 

Slowly, he wakes. The warmth from the finger still lingers against his lips, but the bed is hard where his face presses against it, eyelashes fluttering, his eyes open just a crack. The wood of the table greets him, and the sunlight is just now poking through the blinds once again, casting the same lines across the pine knots, along the curves of his outstretched forearm and across where his head faces towards the sun. 

"It's okay." He murmurs, and for an incredibly brief moment he is perplexed by why the words slip from between his lips, until one of his knuckles grazes bare skin. 

His evening comes back. 

Before. 

Before Wings. 

Slowly, Dean sits upright, suddenly entirely aware of the being lying on his table, and his heart beats in his mouth and his fingers catch on something, pulling him even further from the comfort and haze of his dream. He ducks his head in, looking down at where his hand is stuck. His fingers are still woven between Wings', his own a shade lighter.

Dean sits very still.  

He’s afraid to make a sound and wake him up, so he stays there for a moment, assessing the situation he’s willingly walked himself into.

The stranger’s chest rises and lowers every few seconds, almost imperceptibly so.  The gauze is brown from oxidized blood, but it doesn't appear to have been soaked through in the night, proving Dean's improvised medic work satisfactory. The stitches held. 

Huh, Dean thinks. He should be thankful for the live or die experiences thrust upon him by his father's recklessness. 

Half the time, Dean's afraid he took pages out of John's book.

And that would be okay. Well, it wouldn’t—  but he—  he could cope with that. He could work through it. He’s beginning to understand that even as the world ended, it would still spin, and day would come and the night would consume and he’d be okay. 

It’s unspeakably comforting, the feeling of fingers tucked between his own, the way Dean’s calloused palm presses against another, like a bond is forming quietly between a man waking from his dream and another still ensnared. 

“It’s okay.” Dean says one more time, the words an impulse.

Wings stirs, his upper lip twitching a hairsbreadth, and Dean braces for the cry of pain that always comes with waking, even if it’s not aloud. Anticipating the event horizon of his world ending with Wings consciousness, Dean grabs a glass of water, and the bottle of alcohol, and a rag before coming to stand next to his head, his thighs pressed against the edge of the table. 

He stares down at him, and his head feels clearer than it did last night. The stranger’s hair is unruly, unkempt, and Dean can’t tell how long it’s been like that—  how long this winged man has been living in the forest. The locks are nearly as dark as his wings, but the sunlight exposes their truthful deep brown color. It’s tangled here and there, and Dean has to try and restrain himself from carding his fingers through it to work out the knots. A residual caretaking instinct he has had yet no luck fighting.

When they were kids, Sammy always refused to brush his hair, and it was never really a problem when it was just him and Sam. But school begged a shred of presentability from the two, lest child services were called, so he kept up Sam’s appearance for him. Dean kept them fed, schooled, he took care of them both, though Sam always came first. 

Should have always come first. 

Now Dean’s here with someone else’s blood under his fingernails, and there’s a hunter on the loose who probably has it out for them both. And he’s not even a real hunter. He's just some guy with a gun and a penchant for killing things.

    Dean’s officially in over his head. 

Dark smudges look like they’ve been pressed underneath his eyes with two uncaring thumbs, and a distinct line of his cheekbones drags in a swoop across either side of his face. His lips are full but chapped and Dean wonders why he cares, but the urge to dab a spot of lotion against them nearly overpowers him. 

He’s trying hard to ignore the wings. 

There’s finding a human man and then there is finding a man with wings, real wings, with muscle and tendons and quivering feathers, and yep there it is, that edge of panic. 

The word hangs over his head but Dean refuses to use it. His mother’s bedtime stories aren’t real.

Demons are. He knows that now, though they are few and far between. But the a-- no. 

Dean shakes his head.

There's never been any proof. 

He rocks his weight from foot to foot, debating his best course of action. Minutes pass, but the man doesn’t stir again, so finally Dean sucks it up and takes his hand and pats it against his cheek, gently. His skin feels rough against the surprising softness, even the barest hint of stubble is nearly feather soft.  

He comes to sit on the edge of the table.

“Hey.” He murmurs, uselessly.  “Wake up?”

Please wake up.

Wings’ head moves, only slightly, pressing against his hand. Dean freezes like a deer in headlights, caught touching when he should have only been looking. Heat crawls up his cheeks and his stomach flips. 

“Fucking hell, Dean.” He mutters, pulling his hand away and he cocks his head, unsure if he really heard a quiet, sad noise leave the man still lying seemingly unconscious on his table. 

A warm, steady hand snakes out and grabs his wrist. Dean swallows his own quiet noise. It takes everything to look up again, scared of what he’s going to see.

When they lock eyes that fear melts.  

Wings flexing underneath his back, extending as far as they can go until the longest feathers graze the floor and the farthest tip brushes the wall near the dining table, the stranger looks up at him with clear eyes. His lips move rapidly, as he soundlessly repeats something over and over. One side of his face clenches up in pain as he tries to sit up.

Dust particles drift from the rafters like nothing is amiss, little bokehs proving that what Dean sees is real. He still doesn’t believe it.  

“Hey, hey, hey,” he keeps his voice low, holding his breath and extending his hands, palms out, as a friendly act. “I’m not—  I’m not gonna hurt you, just, you gotta let me get—” 

    Before Dean’s fingers even lift the bandaging to inspect the damage, there’s a forearm against his throat, and he’s pinned against the table by strong arms and they form an iron cage to hold him there. Two strong legs straddle him. Whatever he was going to say dies in his throat. 

    “Wings—” 

    The stranger barks something out, the syllables harsh and completely foreign, staring down at Dean with a combustion-prone concoction of fear, confusion and leftover adrenaline mixing behind the blue. 

    “Please I—” 

The arm presses against his windpipe even harder, and Dean meets the icy stare. Wings tilts his head, and his eyes narrow, his lips hanging open slightly, like he wants to say something. 

“I’m trying to help you.” 

    The pressure lessens a fraction, and Dean takes the opportunity to whip his arm up, hand sliding between him and Wings’ own, and he pushes him away and back a short inch, but it’s enough to throw the smaller man. Finally free, his throat drags in a breath but he doesn’t plan on giving wings another opening, so he brings his knee up from under the other man, using it as a brace to prevent him from overpowering him again. 

    He says the first thing that flies through his pea-brain. “Who are you?” Lord help him, he may just be the stupidest man alive. “What do I call you?” Asking him to introduce himself seems like the dumbest possible direction for the scene playing out. 

    With the quilt long gone, the stranger is fully indecent again, and Dean’s trying very hard to ignore it, because it’s the icing on the unreal cake. Fire creeps up his cheeks regardless and Dean squirms. 

A black arm brings itself up and around Wing’s body curling as though it was a protective stance. It reminds him of a knight with a shield. Everything else about his posture screams prey animal, and Dean can tell when the ghost of a fight is reverberating through someone’s muscle memory.

What the fuck did Campbell do to him? 

To top it all off, Dean realizes he did a terrible job of cleaning the blood away from his mouth. The blue takes over his eyes as his pupil’s become pinpricks of something primal and it doubles with the dried blood smeared down the hollow of his throat. 

“Hey,” Dean’s voice is low and shaking and he feels just like he did when he spent all those years helpless, just a child yanked around. “Stay with me. C’mon.” 

The wing lowers, and as it does so it catches the light, and the entire wing is made up of feathers that look just like the ones sitting on his mantle, an oil slick in sunshine. Without thinking, Dean brings his hand to his thigh and squeezes it, thumb digging into the meat of it. The touch is meant to be grounding, though he’s not sure who for.

“You know me.” He hums, in a futile effort to comfort him. 

A flip must switch in the stranger’s mind, because he nods suddenly, pulling his weight off of Dean and settling down on his own legs, his wings larger than life, spread out in the room.

“Dean.” He says, and it sounds reverent, his voice rough, the syllable catching in his throat. He doesn’t seem to notice, but fresh scarlet blooms across the bandage. “Dean.”

Dean stays as still as a statue and he can’t recall ever saying his name, though that’s usually how it goes for most anything. Words pour out of his mouth ceaselessly, and he’s always embarrassing himself, dumping his scattered thoughts on poor unsuspecting souls: hey, did you know that Led Zeppelin were tolkien fans? Simply because he’d seen someone had walked past wearing a Tree of Gondor shirt. 

But Dean doesn’t remember saying his own name. His fathers harsh words rattle around inside his mind: kill first, figure out what it is later.

This thought has to wait, though, because the bullet wound seems to have caught up to him, and Wings slumps forward, his entire body going limp in Dean’s arms, his wings thumping down against the table. Dean drags his hands up his back, until his fingers are buried in the downy feathers that molt into his shoulder blades. Dean can’t be certain, but he feels warmer than last night, like he’d been sleeping next to a fire. 

Fuck, fuck fuck.

Dean has no idea how to treat an infection, not really. He can try and prevent one from happening, sure—  he’s done that what feels like hundreds of times. But if the infection takes hold it’s out of his hands and he’s going to be left with a dead winged man on his table, or a possibly alive winged man forced into the spotlight. 

Dean presses his fist to his mouth, and his body feels like a bow-string pulled too taut, threatening to snap. There’s no one who can help, and there’s no one he trusts.

    Dean sits there for nearly thirty minutes, ignoring where his friend’s blood has stained his shirt. The cabin smells like iron, and like feathers, which he hadn’t realized was a distinct scent until it filled up the room. His phone sits in his hands. 

    The texture of the rug on the floor blurs with the sound of the ragged breathing next to him. 

    His phone rings.

    His fingertips burn where they touched his warm, soon to be cold thigh.

    It rings again.

    “Hey.” Dean expects Sam’s voice on the other end, and blinks, confused when he’s greeted with a familiar short drawl that he can’t immediately place.  

    “Missouri says he’s gonna be fine, kid.”

    The voice belongs to Pamela. 

    “Who?” Dean stands up abruptly. Is she outside?

    “Your birdman.”

    Dean doesn’t acknowledge the remark. “Who?”

    Once again, Dean is privy to a conversation happening away from the phone. It sounds like another woman talking, and she sounds annoyed. 

    “Oh. Missouri. The ol’ wife.”

    “Wife?” He runs a quick calculation in his head and then raises his eyebrows. That tracks. 

    “Dean Winchester, are you listening to me.”

    Uh, no? 

“Yeah, yeah okay. I heard you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

    Whatever she thinks she knows, she better not.

    Something that sounds, in a honey sweet and dainty voice, like ‘Give it here’ comes from the other end and then she’s speaking to him directly. 

    “Dean Winchester?” She asks.

    “Speaking.”

    “Mmkay, good. You better listen up, sweetheart because he’s gonna be fine, but I’m still sending Pam your way. She was a nurse before she retired early, so whatever is wrong with the wound, she should be able to help.”

    For once, Dean is rendered speechless, and utterly, utterly confused. 

    “You still there?”

    “Yeah.” Dean croaks. “Yeah, I’m still here.” He looks over at where Wings is laying. His skin should look sunkissed, but instead beads of sweat form along his tendons, and they’re pulled tight, his body tense even if he’s out cold. “How do you know about him?”

    “Pamela and I… we share some unique gifts. But that shouldn’t concern you right now. You’ve got a fallen angel dying in your living room. She’ll be there in about fifteen minutes, alright?” She doesn’t wait for his response. “Go dig up some of Rufus’ old stash. The good stuff.”

    “Why?” He feels deeply out of the loop. 

    “To calm your nerves. I can feel them from here. Alright now, I’m gonna hang up. Sit tight until she gets there.” 

▵▿▵

Knuckles rap against the door, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. From the time it took him to hang up to Pamela showing up at his door it had started to rain again. This time the storm was black, and he had a feeling there would be no sunset, just the dimming of the sky until the charcoal was pitch. He flips the porchlight on as he opens the door. 

Pamela’s black hair is caught under the strap of an army green duffel bag, and the rain drips down her forehead and off her chin, smearing her smokey eye shadow slightly. Standing next to her is a woman Dean hasn’t met yet. She stands tall, and if there is a height difference between her and Pamela, he can’t tell. Her ringlets are just as soaked as her wife's and her dark eyes catch the yellow of the porch light. Inexplicably, they're warm, and Dean lends himself to trusting them. 

“The psychic forgot her umbrella, huh?” Dean asks, stepping aside to let them in. 

Missouri makes  a face. 

“I was gonna say you’re the prettiest thing in these hills but…” Whatever she was going to say, dies as she takes in the sight strewn across the dining table. 

Pamela sets her duffle bag down in one of the seats pulled away from the table and then her arm goes limp as she stands there. Missouri stops by her side, the fingers of her hand trailing her arm until it rests stationary by Pamela’s, their pinkies intertwining. 

“Seeing and believing are truly two different things.” Missouri sounds almost reverent.

“Yeah.” Dean breathes, and, actually, he gets that. “Earlier, on the phone you called him a…” 

“An angel.”

There are a million questions he could ask but he settles on one. “How do you know?”

Pamela tears her gaze away for just a moment, to look over her shoulder at Dean. “That’s a long story for another night. Right now, we have an angel to save. You look terrible, by the way.”

“Mmhm. Dead on your feet. There’s nothing you can do to help right now. We’ll take care of your angel.”

“Have you eaten anything since you found him?” Pam asks. The duffle bag zipper slices through the ambient silence between words, and she rifles through it for a solid minute before she finally produces a pair of tweezers and what looks to be military grade cotton balls with a pleased grin.

His stomach makes a pathetic noise in response, however instead of making a move to eat something, he's standing there staring validly, wondering why these two women who live in the middle of nowhere are completely calm about Mr. Comatose being heaven sent.

It’s fairly obvious from the way their backs are turned to him now, heads leaning in close until they're almost touching so they can whisper in confidence, that he isn’t going to get any answers tonight. 

The exhaustion hits him like a tidal wave, breezing through his muscles, seeping straight into his bones and burrowing in his marrow. Pamela seems to have some left over hospital grade drugs in her nursing kit, and his new friend is completely subdued under the quiet blanket of sleep. 

“Dean.” He tears his gaze away from the middle distance, where it had gotten comfortable to see Pamela watching him, her eyes narrow with concern. “I don’t want to have to take care of you next. Eat something and get some rest. You’ve done enough. We’ll be out of your hair once we’re done.”

Dean shouldn’t trust them. But he does. He doesn’t have any other choice. Shuffling around, he shows Missouri the outlets, where Rufus’s first aid-kit (nearly an end-of-days cold war quantity) stash is shoved into the top three shelves of one of the three storage closets. Missouri promises to lock up and leave the key under the worn-through doormat, and Dean nods sleepily. 

Missouri pats his cheek, and for the briefest of moments, Dean misses home. He misses Sammy. His life had never been simple or easy or even nice, but at least it had been predictable. 

“He’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. I promise.”

▵▿▵

When he wakes, he’s in his bed and sleep-drunk, and there’s an empty space to his side, a starless void that he’d never been able to fill. In his living room lies the moon, and the stars, and the hopeful sliver of himself wonders if even the sun can be found there as well. The cabin is peaceful, a comforting fog of quiet wrapping him up. Sleep drags him under again, and he goes willingly. 

[system-architect]

hey all, it’s been a Hot Second since i used this blog but for archival and general use purposes, i made a gameplay preset for using gshade with gw2 and i wanna share it here because absolutely Nothing turns up on The Google when looking for gw2 gshade presets

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1OxnNBTfPjH3QD1vke2YuMGZqrxFzSxLX/view?usp=sharing

all it does is do a pretty simple vibrance boost and sharpen everything a lot, there’s also a toggleable depth of field option that’ll create a nice bokeh effect on some light sources

vanilla gw2:

my gameplay preset:

gameplay preset with DoF on (i don’t recommend playing with this enabled):

it’s meant to be pretty subtle so that colors look ‘true’ to their originals, just boosted a bit, and doesn’t get too jarring when playing. it’s a copy of my very very old sweetfx gameplay preset. as a heads up, if you don’t currently use gshade, give it some time to load when first launching the game or swapping between shaders because gw2′s engine doesn’t always mix super well with gshade so it’ll lock up for a second before applying the shader

also if you’re looking for fancier gshade presets for photog i recommend the neneko colors ones. ‘neneko coffee’ in particular plays really well with all the brown tones in this game

that should be all! please do not message me with questions because i don’t know anything about the technical ends of how gshade works!! thank you!!

[selestial-skies]

Can you make a tutorial on how you do your iconic hexagon landscape drawings? They’re just so beautiful!!

Thank you and I really hope this lives up to your expectations. I’m kind of bad at explaining how I do stuff and my thought process but I’ll do my best. 

I draw my landscapes first and the add the hexagons after.

It’s based on a photography effect called Bokeh combined with a sort of anime magic glitter effect. You’ve probably seen it without knowing what it is called here are some examples of what Bokeh looks like.

Image Source

Image Source

So the hexagons are actually a pressure-sensitive stamp brush I made in Procreate (the hexagon shape comes free with their brush creation engine) on a Linear Dodge or “Add” blending mode layer. Each different size of hexagons has its own layer plus a blurred version to give it a glowing effect.

Some basic tips for making the effect look good:

Keep the layer opacity on bigger hexagons below 50% to avoid washing out your details.

Pastels don’t work well with this effect, unfortunately. You can have them but if you aren’t careful your piece will look like an overexposed photo keep your colors intense and saturated. (You can switch from add to color dodge to help a bit though)

Try to line up your edges of the hexagons with your sightlines and composition (it will definitely look like you just slapped on an Instagram filter if you don’t think about placement, trust me my first few attempts at replicating the bokeh effect look like that).

Try alternating between having the effect behind and in front of your subject (will help it blend into the piece rather than a filter)

Try to make sure that some of the hexagons are halfway off the screen 

Here are some helpful video tutorials that explain all the technical stuff that goes into it. I just use Procreate which will mean you will want to seek out resources for your personal programs if you use something else.

A Blending Mode Overview and a more in-depth version specifically for photoshop

Creating a Stamp Brush in Procreate

How to Gaussian Blur in Procreate

Composition (will help with placement of the hexagons) also check out Andrew Loomis’s Illustration books. I believe you can find scans and pdfs of the books easily.

Bokeh Photography Effect (this is a tutorial/explanation for the photography effect my hexagons are based on this may help with placement and ideas)

I also recommend if you can, taking a digital photography class. Even if it’s not your thing it helped me with composition and  understanding editing tools

I’m really bad at explaining things so please let me know if there is anything I can clarify for you.

[lucidpantone]

modified anon: I never visited your blog before, I kinda have been told you were disrespectful, no with those words and not directly but yeah and recently that happened again so I decided to come an make my own opinion so I'm new here!, honestly I don't see any disrespect and it's pure entertainment so far 🤣 anyway I'm so bad with clues or looking for things so half stuff written here I don't know what it means also I don't know if this is helpful or not for people trying to find stuff or even if this is meant to be found but I saw your anon response about the meaning of something that is used as a camera effect and I think I got it (I do know a little about cameras) so I think what you found is a name, I also think where to look [redacted], now if it's a name then of course doesn't mean this camera effect at all but thinking just based on the camera stuff I think is [right guess anon 😉]...I kinda figured it out because I read the comments and people is looking for Bokeh but that is an unfocused effect of a image focusing other one so things look blurry but because they aren't on focus and your anon says specifically a blurry on the edges effect now that could be confused with Dudea but that's a blurry image not a blurry effect.........and if I remember correctly you tag that name on a past anon before 🧐🤞 anyways I could be all wrong and look like a crazy person but that was fun....I don't know about you but for me your blog is a cool one 😉

Winner, winner chicken dinner!

Looks like we may have us a new looney tunes fbi agent in the making. Very good anon.  See isn’t the hunt fun. Like you said it’s all right there in front of you to figure out. It’s all just a bit of fun. Also I am not sure how or what I did to offend your friend/mutual but my apologies please feel free to give me a nudge if something bothers you. If you guys dont tell me I cant really address it. Anyways me and the looney tunes are here to entertain. Just bring booze and fun drinks for the youngins and sober tribe. Feel free to stop by and say hi whenever you’re back in the area.

[lonelypond]

Protect All Idols, Ch. 2

NicoMaki, NozoEli, Love Live, 2.3K, 2/2

Solutions are decided on.

Next Steps

Nozomi couldn't not stare. Eli, in her sharpest tailored suit, the light blue collar of her shirt accenting her eye color, brought out all Nozomi's interupting urges. But this wasn't high school. Young women's health and reputations were endangered and Eli was in full on protect mode. Nozomi wondered what she'd be like with their own children.

"So you will be messengering a copy of this agreement to Yazawa-san immediately, correct?" Eli's stern look matched her professional tone.

"Of course, Ayase-san."

"She will be handling the details of arranging the volunteer shifts so please assist her with the same courtesy and competence you have shown me."

"It will be our pleasure, Ayase-san."

"Thank you. We look forward to working with you in the future." "We would be grateful for the opportunity." The video conference was wrapping up. Nozomi sat up. She saw a slight shift in Eli's posture and giggled silently. Eli was bracing for what would happen next.

"Please give my thanks to your board of directors and staff, Adachi-san."

"I hope we can meet when you are next in Tokyo."

"I will certainly be in touch to schedule that. I appreciate your personal effort to help us resolve this."

After a few more formalities, Eli closed her laptop, and turned her chair to face Nozomi, eyebrow quirked, "So..."

Nozomi raised her own eyebrow, "So..."

"I bet I can guess what you're thinking." "Really..." Nozomi slid into Eli's lap, "Have you named our children yet?" "What?" A startled Eli nearly jumped. Unfazed, Nozomi had one armed wrapped around her shoulders, and undid Eli's tie with her other hand.

"You're just so cute when you're in hyper protective parent mode."

Eli blushed. "We're still in college." Undone buttons, "Then it's good that there's things we don't need to worry about."

Eli would be missing that evening's discussion session.

###

Aki couldn’t decide on a lipstick color.

“Nico-chan said natural was cuter.” Kawano Aki announced.

Harada Mai sneered. “Unless you want a contract as a makeup influencer.”

“Some makeup companies are pushing the natural look.” Ryuen Shizu glanced up from her phone.

Mai leaned over Aki, picking through the makeup. “You went undercut and blonde so skip cutesy and go with vivid red. I like this one.” She handed Aki a lip paint. “Uncensored.”

“Oh you can’t beat Fenty...but Uncuffed will go better at an elementary school.” Shizu glared at Mai, “We’re going out to bring lunches to school children, not clubbing.”

“Whatever.” Mai flopped on her bed, “I say if you’ve got an image, push it. I’m tired of daylight events.”

Aki frowned. No one was saying out loud what the discussion was really about, which was their current schedule of events doing community service, concerts for seniors, tech help for orphans, school lunches to help boost Aki’s popularity.

“So stay here.” Aki snapped, “No one’s ripping into you for having feelings.’

Shizu snorted but when Aki turned to her, she smiled benevolently and shrugged.

“Look, I have rehearsals with the Bokeh Blossoms right after every one of these; it’s exhausting." Mai frowned, "Nico doesn’t go.”

“I don’t mind.” Shizu spoke up.

“You’re too nice.” Mai threw a pillow at the ceiling.

“Nice is always a good look.” Shizu countered.

“Amateurs.” Mai let the pillow fall on her face.

Aki frowned, confronting the array of lip color choices before her. She grabbed a dusty pink GlossBomb and confidently applied it.

Mai sat up, “Compromise. Smart. I like the way it glitters.”

“FU$$Y”

“$uits you.” Shizu giggled; Aki stuck out her tongue. Mai grinned thinking, this conversation would probably make it to the final broadcast edit. It was cute.

###

Tsubasa leaned forward, fingers splayed out over the table as she TwigTimed Anju and Erena. “Nico and Muse have been really clever, setting up this whole Idol House gig. It’s time to get involved.”

“So you want us to set up a mini A-Rise house?” Erena spoke slowly.

“No, too much like copying. We just fix their PR problem for them.”

“How?”

“Find a couple of other girls, maybe 3 actually, so they’re not a trio once we add Kawano-san. We want to avoid direct comparisons.”

“That might be cute.” Anju giggled, “an A-Rise Jr.”

“She’s not a strong singer or rapper.” Erena pointed out.

“No, but she’s a talented dancer. And she’s very vocal.”

“Isn’t that the problem?” Erena countered.

Tsubasa shook her head, “Nico and Muse are idealists. This happened because they leave too many things to chance. We give her the best PR training in the business. She’s sharp and wants to be noticed.” Tsubasa thought about Kawano-san moving from Nico to Maki once she figured out Maki was the better catch. “And she’s got an instinct for glamor.”

“Sounds like a fun project. It’d be fun to costume a different group. There’s looks I’ve wanted to try that won’t work for us.” Anju was already sketching.

“A couple of our back up dancers from the last video caught my eye.” Erena admitted.

“Which just leaves one more girl to find.” Tsubasa smiled, “We can do our management company a favor and take a trick from K-pop and find a Chinese Idol wannabe looking for a group. Raise our profile in that market.”

“Ooohh, I like that.” Anju added a mandarin style hat to her design.

“Very solid strategizing.” Erena nodded.

“As always. I’ll call the management team, Erena, you reach out to the dancers, and Anju…”

Anju glanced up from her sketch.

“Galaxy level cute.”

Anju winked and tapped her nose with the pencil. “Of course.”

###

“B-HOLD!!!!!!!” Nico was shouting and stomping. A pillow that had fallen to the floor got kicked across the room. Maki, an amused gleam in her eye, was curled up like a cat on Nico’s bed in Nico’s former room at the Yazawa apartment, watching Nico rant and storm.

“Tsubasa wants revenge.”

Maki raspberries, “What? For all the flowers.”

“Hey, that was before Nico met you. And Tsubasa tried to steal you. And then you wrote a WHOLE album for her. And now she’s not happy stealing Nico’s girl, she’s gotta steal Nico’s ideas too…”

Nico rushed by, Maki reached out an arm, and pulled Nico in, dragging the grump into a hug, “She never stole me, Nico-chan.”

“An entire album.”

“Nico-chan.”

Nico sighed, “I know. You needed music.” Nico flopped back on the bed, “I’m sorry I didn’t pay enough attention. I just wanted to keep you out of messes.” Nico punched the mattress, “And now we’re in the middle of messy.”

Maki rolled over Nico’s arm, curling up next to Nico, “ “s my fault. I should have talked to you. And I should have stayed out of Idol House. But when Kawano said that…”

Nico heard a growl coming from her fiancee. She pulled Maki closer, dropping her head to rest on Maki’s hair, smelling the soothing coconut lavender shampoo, “Nobody’s stealing Nico either. Ever.”

“I know.” Maki moved even closer, “I love you, Nico-chan." A pause, "It’s so weird being back here.”

Nico glanced around the room. Cocoro had taken it over, kept the pink color scheme, and put up even more posters of Nico than Nico ever had. Maki shouldn’t mind that. “What’s so weird about it?”

Maki muttered something into Nico’s shoulder.

“What was that?” Nico’s fingers slid through the softness of Maki’s hair. Was that a shiver? Nico suddenly felt more alert.

“Your mom’s in the next room. And we’re…”

“Currently very child friendly.” Nico chuckled, “Except for the language Nico is going to use about Tsubasa.” Nico wondered if Maki was blushing. Or thinking about all the times in this room they’d ALMOST...Nico needed to stop that train of thought. Now that they’d...well, Nico had a lot more trouble focusing, especially when Maki was so near and felt so warm...and suddenly Maki’s eyes were...and so luminous and…

###

Tsubasa Kira spoke right to the cameras, winking, seizing the room, flopping down on the couch next to a glammed up Harada Mai and throwing an arm around her, “We would have stolen you from Nico to, but the Bokeh Blossoms will have a really nice set up here while they record their next album.”

Mai bounced, torn between giving Super idol Kira Tsubasa her full attention and following Kira-san’s example and working the cameras. She finally just deciding on grabbing Tsubasa’s arm and squealing, “And Nico has set up meetings with the best makeup and fashion brands. It’s so cool. We’re getting total makeovers.”

“Nico understands better than anyone the value of GOOD publicity…”

The Nishikino media room exploded as Nico flew off the couch, Maki reaching out to pull her back before she attacked this week’s episode of Idol House, filmed two weeks ago, this conversation happening after Nico moved out.

“She didn’t say anything negative, Nico-chan, it’s a compliment.”

“It’s the tone...Tsubasa has it in for me.”

“Tsubasa has been very helpful, Nico.” Umi stated calmly from where she was wedged between Honoka and Kotori.

“Yeah, they set up a whole group to put Aki-san in the middle of.” Honoka added.

"And that press conference," Kotori swooned again, she'd been texting Nico about A-Rise's new look for a week. Nico A-Rise tolerance was currently non existent but Umi had mentioned to Nico the improvement in Kotori's mood so Nico just sent back (*•̀ᴗ•́*)و ̑̑ when Kotori sketched new A-RIse inspired ideas.

“Which got them impressive amounts of positive mentions. Trending topic for 3 days.” Hanayo glanced up from her phone, “Idol House is trending now.”

“Nico Ni needs to trend.”

“Just wait’ll you move in with the” Rin made a huge sweep with her arms, almost knocking Hanayo’s phone out of her hand, “hottie heiress you stole from her tower. Everyone’ll go wild.” Rin stuck her tongue out at Maki.

“Well, Nico did do that.” Nico’s smug look made Maki pause her throwing a pillow at Rin action to smash Nico with it, “Hey, what was that for?”

“I proposed to you.”

“But only because Nico…”

Maki didn’t want to hear whatever Nico’s brag was going to be and just leaned in, kissing the Super Idol silent. Umi paled. Kotori giggled as Honoka cheered. Rin rolled away and Hanayo quietly put her phone down after capturing the image for Nico’s TWIG feed.

A quiet chuckle pulled everyone not kissing’s attention away from the screen and to their non Muse guest, Ryuen Shizu. “Are you always this...insane when you get together?

“Yes,” Umi’s tone carried the weight of years.

“You need to be here when Nozomi’s here, that’s the real crazy.” Rin flipped over, hanging off the couch upside down to watch Shizu packing boxes onscreen, “Hey, you’re in two places.”

Shizu glanced at Nico, but Nico was still making out with Maki, so then she turned to Honoka as the only other person she’d really ever talked to, “Is she serious?”

“Rin? Seriously silly.”

“You betcha.” Rin did an ab crunch, pillow poised to launch and knocked Maki out of her embrace with Nico. “Ha! Gotcha.”

Maki took the pillow and without breaking eye contact with Nico, tossed it back toward Rin, actually hitting Hanayo, who squealed and dropped her phone. This launched Rin at Maki, pulling the taller girl into a wrestling hold

“Nico?” Shizu asked quietly, now that Nico was laughing at Maki, not kissing her.

“Huh?” Nico took a minute to get acclimated back to the watch party, “Oh, Shizu-chan? What’s wrong?”

Shizu scooted closer, almost whispering, “Is the tour going to be like this?”

Nico shook her head, “No. Nico is a total pro. You and Maki will record and livestream, Nico will rehearse with the dancers, and you’ll open each show. There’s a lot of travel time.”

“And halfway through, Kayo-chin and I will visit and there will be fireworks and pillow fights every night.”

Maki had Rin in a chokehold, “Not if I don’t reserve you a hotel room.”

“Nico.” Rin whined, “You won’t let her leave us out. Kayo-chin’s your biggest fan.”

“No, she’s not. Take that back.” Maki growled.

“Rin.” Hanayo turned away from both screens, “Don’t make Maki mad.”

“Don’t care. She can’t keep me away.”

Umi was now standing over Maki, a steady hand on her shoulder, “Let Rin go.”

Kotori was whispering something distracting in Honoka’s ear or Nico thought there surely would have been a third in the WrestleMania portion of the evening.

With a grumble, Maki released Rin and flumped next to Nico.

“I pressed pause. Do you want me to start up again?” Hanayo asked.

“Nico’s tired.” Nico exaggerated a yawn. Maki got a hopeful gleam.

Kotori stood up, sliding her arm through Umi’s, “Let’s go back to Honoka’s, Umi-chan. I want a snack.”

“C’mon, Kayo-chin, we can walk with them and finish it at our place.” Rin pulled Hanayo off the couch.

“All right.” Hanayo agreed reluctantly, looking back at the screen.

“See you soon, Maki.” Rin waved cheerfully.

“Sure.” Maki was back to staring at Nico.

Shizu waited for someone to say something, but then realized no one was going to pay attention to her. She stood.

“I’m going to go up to my room. Thank you for your hospitality, Nishikino-san.”

“Maki.” Maki waved in a random direction.

Nico had a hand sliding around Maki’s shoulder to get tangled in her hair, “Remember, we have a breakfast meeting.”

“Of course. Good night.”

“Good night.”

The kiss started before the door closed, and in one of the pauses, Nico whispered, “You’re going to miss them.”

Maki shook her head, curls bouncing as she drew Nico back on the couch, “Not for a month.”

Nico laughed. Being an Idol House producer had more perqs than being an Idol House resident, hands on time with Maki being the best.

Maki pulled away, blushing, “What’s funny, Nico-chan?”

“How everything works out.”

“As long as I’m right here, with you, I don’t care.”

Nico, as much as her head was full of future plans and successes and pitfalls, let herself get lost in the intimacy of having Maki so near and was surprised to find herself in full agreement, “Me neither.”

“Good.” And then somehow, Maki’s lips made the gentlest touch against Nico’s, an invitation igniting an inferno.

A/N: Thanksgiving here. Having a quiet day building a Christmas playlist to write to. Drop a song or favorite holiday trope in the comments, please and thank you.

[tinklingjade]

The Water Was Never Afraid - Chapter 14: Grind

(AO3)

“You’ll be fine, kid,” Plagg whispered from Adrien’s collar as he strode down the hall to the photography studio, all made up and ready to go. “Remember to breathe, and don’t do anything stupid.”

Adrien heeded Plagg’s advice and took a deep breath before pushing open the door.

“Adrien! Good morning!”

The effervescent voice made Adrien’s heart quicken. He took in Marinette’s appearance—her hair was loose, one side hooked behind her ear, and she wore a loose, silk crepe button-down blouse in red, tucked into form-fitting black pants and red ballet flats. She looked good in red. “Good morning,” he said, trying not to blush or think about last night.

Not that last night had been anything remarkable for her. They’d just hung out and talked over banana bread.

But for him, it was the earth-shattering night that he had realized he had fallen in love for the second time in his life.

“Violette should be here soon, too,” Marinette remarked, beckoning Adrien toward the changing booths.

Violette was a model from a partner agency, and Adrien had worked with her on multiple occasions while he was still modeling, so they were on friendly terms.

Étienne, the photographer, waved as he approached. “‘Morning, boss.”

Adrien greeted him back, as Marinette held open the curtain for him. Four outfits were hanging in garment bags on hooks inside the booth.

As Adrien was changing, he heard the door open and a feminine, Italian-accented voice enter the room.

“Marinette, love! You look gorgeous as usual, my dear. Are you sure you don’t want to take my place?”

Adrien couldn’t help but agree with her appraisal, though it was probably for the better that he wouldn’t be posing with Marinette.

“Oh, hush, Violette,” Marinette laughed. “I’m a disaster in photos. I’d rather be on the other side of the camera.”

Footsteps came closer as Marinette ushered Violette to the other changing booth. “Adrien’s already changing, so we’ll start soon.”

The color scheme was neutrals with a pop of color. For the first look, Adrien wore a cream coat with black buttons, a grey turtleneck, and ochre yellow pants. The inner lining of the coat, which showed with certain poses, was white with centimeter-sized polka dots the same color as the pants. Violette, wearing a light grey overcoat draped over her shoulders, a white chiffon blouse with ruffled collar, and white straight-leg pants with black stiletto ankle-boots, donned a bright orange scarf.

“Good to see you, love,” Violette pulled Adrien in for a hug, throwing air kisses at his cheeks, careful not to disturb their hair and makeup.

Marinette handed Adrien a black umbrella.

“Did I tell you anything about the collection?”

Adrien shook his head. “Sorry, I should know by now.”

“It’s okay, this was all last minute,” Marinette reassured him. Addressing both him and Violette, she explained, “The theme centers around the pop of color in a greyscale palette, and since rain kind of symbolizes a drab or greyscale environment, I decided to use an umbrella as a prop, and even do some shots that look like they were taken in the rain. We’ll do a round of ‘dry shots,’ where you’ll pose with the umbrella, then move on to the ‘wet shots.’ Don’t worry, you won’t actually get wet, Étienne’s just going to use props to simulate rain.”

They shot a series of photos against a neutral grey backdrop with just the umbrella. Adrien settled into the familiar routine, his mind going into autopilot. He couldn’t help but watch Marinette as she moved around the studio, checking different angles, giving Étienne directions.

“Great expression, Adrien, but I need you to look left,” Étienne instructed. Marinette adjusted his arm, and he swooned internally at her soft touch and the subtle whiff of her perfume.

It had been eight long years since he had last fallen in love. The way he felt about Ladybug had scarred over into something calm, mature, and occasionally painful. He had forgotten what it was like to feel giddy from the mere proximity of the object of his affections.

Why had he ever agreed to date Kagami without feeling this way about her?

“Open the umbrella and hold it—yes, just like that.” Étienne continued to give instructions, Marinette leaning into him to whisper something inaudible to the models. She motioned with her hand. “Violette, over here.”

Bodies shifted. Adrien peeked under the umbrella’s canopy at Marinette—she met his eyes and raised an eyebrow. Feeling burned, he reverted his gaze to where Étienne wanted him to look.

Sure, he had rationalized that he couldn’t have Ladybug, and he didn’t think he was capable of loving anyone else the same way. He cared for Kagami deeply, of course. Their friendship was irreplaceable. She was important to him, and he wanted her to be happy.

Yet, Marinette had blindsided him. Since last night, he had been drowning in reminiscence of all the moments they had shared over the past eight years. She had caused him a fair amount of grief throughout collège and the beginning of lycée, when he wasn’t sure where their friendship stood and whether she really considered him a good friend or thought of him as highly as he thought of her.

“Try a little smile. Like you have a secret.”

Adrien shifted his weight, adjusting his pose. He had a secret, all right, but it didn’t make him want to smile. Nonetheless, shooting a longing glance at Marinette, he pretended there was hope for them and smiled. Why was love always out of his reach?

“Marinette deserves nothing less than fabulous, don’t you think?” Violette remarked to him, shifting her pose. “Spice it up, darling.”

That drove the last of the clouds out of his expression.

He recalled how precious those small victories with Marinette were, like the time they’d sat next to each other on the bus for three hours on a school trip and rather than it being awkward, they had lost themselves in chatting the whole way.

Since then, they had shared inside jokes and movie recommendations, and his heart swelled every time he reminded himself that they were really and truly friends.

Could that have been love, after all? A form of love? Maybe he had loved her all along.

Maybe he was so smitten with Ladybug he hadn’t recognized the potential that was there.

“… to Romeo. Earth to Romeo.”

Adrien blinked and looked at Violette, realizing he’d zoned out. “What?”

“How was your trip to outer space? We’re done with this round—time to change.” She snaked an arm around his and pulled him toward the booths, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “So, lover boy, sweet on our little designer, aren’t you?”

“W-what?” Adrien blushed. “Why do you say that?”

“Darling, you keep looking at her as if she holds all the secrets of the universe.”

“It’s not like that,” Adrien insisted, fighting a blush. His brain caught up to what Violette had been calling him—Romeo—and he gasped in horror. “Violette, you’ve got it all wrong! I’m in a committed relationship. With… someone else. Not Marinette. Please don’t insinuate anything.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Violette held up her hands. “I didn’t mean to offend you, my love. I didn’t know, otherwise I would not have said anything, okay? Forgive me.”

They went into their separate booths, the word ‘committed’ rubbing Adrien like a grain of sand under his skin.

For the next look, Adrien wore a primary blue coat over a grey-pinstriped white button down shirt and slate grey slacks, while Violette wore an emerald fitted blouse with a gathered collar and sleeves, tucked into beige wide-leg pants cinched with a forest green fabric sash.

Marinette pulled an inflatable pool from the other end of the studio, while Étienne clamped a pane of glass to an upright stand and misted it with water droplets from a spray bottle. He set up a portable shower head behind the glass, over the pool, and adjusted the lighting.

“Are you sure we’re not going to get wet?” Adrien asked dubiously, not quite sure how this was going to work.

Marinette laughed. “Of course! Watch and learn. First, you, Adrien… stand right here.” She guided Adrien into place while Violette settled into a chair on the side to wait her turn.

Marinette switched on the shower and held the umbrella under it until the top was decorated with water droplets and trails of water, then handed it to Adrien. Their fingers brushed, and she gave him a warm smile.

A sense of déjà vu dredged up an ancient memory. “Marinette, remember the day we became friends?” he asked breathlessly before she could step away.

The smile faltered and she blushed. “Of course I remember,” she murmured. “I’m surprised you do.”

“Why wouldn’t I? That was one of the most important days of my life.”

Marinette’s lips curled up subtly, as if she were lost in thought, then she looked Adrien over, choosing not to respond. Several seconds passed achingly as she adjusted his jacket, smoothed his shirt, and shifted a few strands of hair. Though she did it with all the innocent attentiveness of an artist examining the composition of her piece of work, Adrien couldn’t help but imagine tenderness in her touch.

When she stepped away, the atmosphere reverted to all business.

Étienne took his position behind the pane of glass, snapping a few shots as Adrien improvised poses.

“Violette,” Marinette called, and she switched places with Adrien.

Adrien hovered over Étienne’s shoulder as he photographed Violette.

“Let me work in peace, boss,” Étienne said with gruff affection, elbowing Adrien lightly without taking his hands off the camera.

“I just want to see how the ‘rain’ is turning out.”

Étienne humored him with a sneak peek. The droplet-covered pane of glass created a glittering bokeh effect in the foreground, and combined with the streaks of falling water droplets in the background and the water-covered umbrella, the shots looked convincingly to have been taken in the rain. “They’ll look even better after post processing,” Étienne added.

“Very impressive.”

“I’ll confess, the idea was Marinette’s.”

“Ah, she’s brilliant,” Adrien sighed.

The look Étienne gave him went over his head.

Violette snagged Adrien on the way to the dressing booths for the third outfit change. “You made her blush, Casanova. What ever did you say, love?”

“Violette, I’m serious,” Adrien pleaded, looking her firmly in the eyes. He lowered his voice and gave in to the fact that she could see right through him. “I’m not supposed to feel this way about her. If anything gets out about it, it’s not going to look good for either of us, so please stop.”

She looked at him pityingly and squeezed his arm. “If she’s the one you want, there’s always a chance. I don’t see a ring on your finger, after all.” She winked, a sly expression flitting across her face.

“Maybe,” Adrien sighed.

“I won’t breathe a word, my love, don’t worry.” She patted his shoulder, and they split into their respective booths.

“She’s right, you know,” Plagg whispered very quietly in his ear once the curtain was secured. “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble if you keep this up. You don’t have to be with Kagami if you don’t love her that way.”

“I can’t do that to Kagami,” Adrien returned quietly. “And I do love her.” Just not that way, maybe.

“Did you say something, love?” Violette called from the neighboring booth.

“No, nothing,” Adrien called back.

—

Adrien cut into his steak and, spearing an asparagus tip along with it, put a small piece in his mouth.

The low-lit restaurant was hushed, the sound of subdued chatter and silverware against ceramic filling the room.

“How did the photoshoot go?” Kagami asked, nudging his foot with hers under the table.

“I thought it went well.” Adrien took a deep breath to quell the sense of anxiety that was rising in his chest. “The photographer used this cool effect to make the shots look like they were taken in the rain. I can’t wait to see them published.”

“I’m really happy for Marinette.” Kagami’s smile didn’t show that she had any reservations about this sentiment.

Adrien nodded, then changed the topic because he couldn’t bear to talk about Marinette with Kagami. “I heard this dinner was your doing?” He looked around at the table, where some of Gabriel’s biggest backers were seated, enjoying the food and conversation. Best of all, Gabriel himself was present, with Nathalie at his side.

Kagami shook her head modestly. “I had lunch with your father, and we talked, that’s all. It was his idea.”

Adrien knew better. Kagami had a way of inspiring people to action. “Thank you,” he whispered, sliding his hand across the table to brush her fingers.

“I know you’ve been encouraging him to go out lately. I just wanted to help… I thought it would make you happy.”

“I am happy.” With a rueful smile, he retracted his hand to cut another piece of steak.

[dark-and-kawaii]

May I request some comfort fluff for Shigaraki, Dabi, and Toshinori (him or Toga honestly) where they accidentally walk in on their crush silently crying please? I haven't been well mentally & even tho I'm basically a recluse I'm feeling lonely....I think it'd be nice to imagine my favs scooping me into their lap, rubbing my back or stroking my hair until I fall asleep in their arms. I'm in the mood for soft love I guess 😔

Awh, yes you may! I reallllly like fluff, and i think you picked a good group to comfort you, honestly. 

Oh, and *pats your head* if you ever need a friend, or need to talk, Kiwi is always here too ^-^ I understand what it feels like, believe me.

Also, I really enjoyed writing this request, thank you for sending it in ♡

♡ Toshinori Yagi ♡

Toshinori knew you were going through a rough time, and he cared about you deeply so he offered for you to stay with him for a while. Needless to say, he spit up blood when you accepted his invite.

What he didn’t expect though is to come home finding you silently crying alone, his everyday smile turned upside down immediately. He didn’t know exactly what to do, he was used to saving people everyday, but he wasn’t used to seeing you cry… It’s the last thing he wanted to see… He wanted to pull you into his lap and comfort you, but… That would be out of the question. You wouldn’t allow such behavior. So he figured being a shoulder for you to cry on was good enough.

Entering the room, Toshinori gave you a warm smile. You tried to collect yourself but it was futile. He already saw your puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks.

“____… What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, “Nothing Toshi, it’s fine.”

“Toshi huh? Has a nice ring to it. I kind of lik-”

You began to cry again,.

“Uh- He-Hey! Don’t cry!” Using his quirk, he transformed into All Might, “Don’t cry! For i am here!” With a big thumbs up, he smiled down at you, Toshinori knew you couldn’t resist this, it always made you smile.

Releasing a soft giggle, you smiled through the tears. He always knew how to make you smile, even when life got dark, but the tears kept coming.

“I’m sorry, i just can’t help it, Toshi… I just…” Gathering your knees to your chest, you hid your face in your knees so he couldn’t witness you cry further.

Turning back into his regular old self, Toshinori finally let his true feelings free, allowing his limbs to do as they please. “Hey, ____. You don’t need to be sorry, okay? Let it all out.” He caressed your back delicately till finally your head lifted back up, you looked so lonely… Toshinori’s eyes were struck with sorrow, he didn’t want you to feel alone. Finally, he pulled you into his lap, “Come here, ___.” His voice was so soft and loving… and even though his arms are small, his arms felt like a heavy blanket. You felt at home in his arms and as if nothing could harm you if you stayed embraced in his arms.

“Shhh…” Adjusting himself and you on the couch so he could lay down with you on his chest, he stroked your hair comfortingly. The tears have finally come to a halt, Toshinori was able to put you in a tranquil state.

“____, i’ll always be more than a hero for you… I’ll be your rock and your shield, remember that.”

Snuggling into Toshinori’s chest, you closed your somnolent eyes so you could drift off to sleep with your lips holding the warmest of smiles. 

Toshinori kept you close, using his arms as your shield, he kept you safe as you slept. With his cheeks displaying a red blush, Toshinori placed the tiniest kiss atop your head. 

“Maybe one day, you’ll even let me be more than your shield and rock, ____.”

♡ Shigaraki Tomura ♡

Shigaraki could hear your cries all the way down the hall… he had snuck in your apartment building so he could play some video games with you. He was feeling lonely, and it appeared that you were feeling the same. 

Shigaraki didn’t know exactly what to do when he entered your room to find you on the floor weeping… The truth was, Shigaraki hated seeing you upset, but what annoyed him was that he had no clue what to do… He’s never dealt with this before… with human emotions… 

Hanging his head low, and placing Father on the night stand, Shigaraki strode over to you. With a gentle tap on the back of your head, he let you know that he was there.

Yet, you continued to weep. Shigaraki felt defeated… Here, the one person who’s welcomed him in with open arms, and the one person he wishes to hold… was full of sorrow and lonesomeness… Just as he was… Yet, he knew if he were to touch you, he would only cause more pain…

‘Bad guys don’t save the princesses… They only hurt them…’

Lifting his hoodie back over his head, Shigaraki began to exit your room heading for the balcony. 

Your head poked up just in time to see Shigaraki leaving your room, “Tomura! Wait!” 

Rushing after him, you ran out to the rest of your apartment but he was no longer there…

‘Maybe some fresh air will do me some good…’ Wiping your face, you opened your balcony doors only to find it was snowing out. Stepping out onto the balcony, you saw how the lights lit up the streets, and with the snow gracefully falling it gave the city a bokeh look.

It was cold though and your body shivered the moment the wind nipped at your skin. Turning to head back into your apartment you witnessed Shigaraki sitting on the ground with his back pressed against the wall of the building…

“Tomura!” You went to reach for him as he sat up, but he smacked your hand away.

“I’m leaving, ____.”

“I thought you left already though!” You sobbed, your tears were lining the brim of your eyes… You didn’t want him to go, you felt so lonely, “Please…”

With his back turned towards you, you clutched the back of his hoodie pressing your head into it…

He could feel your hand shake, your head how it moved as your cried… Shigaraki kept his head hung low… Listening to you vent about how you’ve felt the past few weeks… He should’ve noticed…

“I wanted to stay in your room…” His voice shook, “I wanted to help you…” 

He didn’t know what he was doing, but it felt like the right thing to do… Twirling around, he embraced you, his hands in fists so he did no harm to you. So this is what if felt like to do the right thing…

Tears struck the ground, both yours and his… For the very first time, you were seeing the human side of Shigaraki… He was lonely like you, and he came to you seeking comfort…

It was very clear, you both needed one another. Now more than ever. 

Unceasing, the snow continued to fall around you both. 

Shigaraki moved one of his hands to the back of your head, one finger lifted up as he stroked your hair until he could feel your heavy breathing. You had fallen asleep in his arms standing upright. Leaning against the wall, Shigaraki slid down once more, but this time with you in his arms. With the snow never ceasing, he held on to you tightly, keeping you warm as you slept in his arms outside.

♡ Dabi ♡

Dark red rivulets of blood dribbled down Dabi’s forehead as he wondered towards where you lived. He was in the area and figured he’d dropped by after his little fight.

Without a knock, Dabi entered your home, “Hey, _____, where are you?”

Walking around there was no trace of you in the living area or kitchen… His heartbeat started to increase… Where were you? He’s known you for as long as he can remember, you aren’t one to wonder off without a trace…

Sprinting up the stairs, Dabi wasted no time to search your bedroom. Slamming open the door, Dabi stopped dead in his tracks. You were on your bed sobbing, with your head buried in the mattress, he saw your shoulders tremble as you sobbed. 

You were his best friend, his crush, the person who always held him up so he wouldn’t fall… Never has he seen you so vulnerable… So… alone… Was this his fault?

Slowly making his way to you, his hand reaching out for you as the blood on his forehead trickles down his cheek… 

“____…” Sitting on the edge of your bed, Dabi rested his hand on the small of your back, “What’s wrong?” He couldn’t help but feel like this was his fault… ever since he stopped going by his real name he had become distant… Leaving you to deal with your emotions alone.

Your tears were like an endless waterfall, this wasn’t his fault, was it? You had just been feeling lonely the past few weeks… 

“D-Touya…” You wept, “Why do i feel so alone? I shouldn’t, but i do…” 

Dabi’s eyes softened, hearing his given name again brought back so many memories of you… and so much suffering... “It’s Dab-”

“No it’s not! You wailed, “It’s Touya! Touya Touya Touya! Dabi is just some persona you hide behind!” You covered your mouth with your hand, caughing for air, you choked out what left you had to say, “Da-Dabi… Leaves people without warning… Dabi leaves the people he once cared about to deal with their feelings alone… You aren’t Dabi, you’re Touya… A sweet caring guy who would never leave me… or his mother behind, right?” 

Turning your head to look Dabi in the eyes, you saw the hurt expression on his face… But what struck you the most was how the blood seeping down his face made it look as if he were crying… 

“To-… Dabi… I’m sorry i shouldn’t have lashed out at you like tha-”

“Go ahead… Let it all out, ____…” Dabi could feel the blood on one of his eyelashes fall… “I’m here now… So let it out.” Scooping you into his arms, Dabi had a firm hold on you. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t want you to feel alone anymore. Dabi wanted to reassure you that you weren’t anymore. 

“Touya…” Weeping into his jacket, you set your emotions free. 

With his chin on your shoulder, Dabi rubbed your back, his crimson tears dripping on to your shirt in the process…

He kept you like this until you were finally at peace and fell asleep in his arms. 

Dabi looked around the room as you slept in his arms, he saw there were old photo’s of the two of you… One caught his eyes more so then the rest. It was a framed photo of the two of you as children… You were kissing his cheek as his mother sat behind the both of you giving you both bunny ears… 

As a single clear tear rolled down his blood stained cheek, Dabi picked you up and situated you in bed, but this time he wasn’t going to leave without a word. This time, he was going to stay with you and keep you company… This time, he was going to make sure you never felt alone again.

[discountalien-pancake]

Old series, but what do you think of the Selection (Keira Cass) covers and the Matched (Ally Condie) covers? Also, I absolutely love your cover redesigns. They're so beautiful and aesthetically-pleasing!

Have I done more than one redesign? I only remember doing ARORB. But thank you, anon!

I addressed the Selection covers here!

Ah yes, another set of “girl whose face we can’t see for reasons.” Cool. 

They’re fine. Colorwise, I prefer the second set. The titles in the first version are inconsistent in how pale they are compared to the color gradient, especially the middle one which looks very grey. I couldn’t find a nicer photo where the grey backgrounds are all line up, but there’s enough of them showing for you to get the idea. 

The editing on these is wack, though.

Please tell me why there’s that blue fill behind her arm and leg, or why she’s barefoot, or why her toes are pointed like that? Also I think they edited the free leg onto her. It’s at such an awkward angle.

And if you look really closely, you’ll see that they didn’t completely erase the glass...or rather, the blue overlay. 

And with the third book: 

There’s this weird bokeh effect on the glass, and while the orb is in super high resolution, the girl is blurry. Like, you’re telling me you couldn’t find a single brunette in a red dress that wasn’t blurry?

6/10 for photoshop crimes. 

[aspiringpolymath]

I was tagged by @pinehutch in half these questions, but I mashed one set into another and answered all the questions!  Since I broke the rules, I’m not tagging anyone, but please believe, if you want to answer these, I want to read your answers, so tag me if you feel inclined to give it a go!

* Name/Nickname: Shawna. My mom actually specifically picked my name and my brother’s name so they wouldn’t be easy to nickname-ify. I’ve picked up a few along the way, anyhow, but they’re inside jokes, so . . .  Zodiac: Cancer on the cusp of Leo (right ON the cusp) If you don’t believe in cusps, you might after you meet me. Height: 5′ 10″ (roughly)   Last Movie I Saw: In the theater? Holy crap, it might have been Mamma Mia 2 . . . On the small screen? I rewatched Pretty in Pink the other night. Netflix: Dumplin’? (I used to be SUCH a film person . . . ) Last thing googled: ‘2018 films’ for the above question. Favourite musician: Yeah, this is pretty tough. Also, it changes all the time! Previous faves: Rufus Wainwright, They Might Be Giants, Jethro Tull, Paul Simon, Elvis Costello. (Hmm, lotta dudes . . . yikes about that.) Song stuck in my head: Rainbow by Kacey Musgraves, Juice by Lizzo, The Fall by half alive Other blogs: @endemictoearth​ where I continue to fangirl over My Mad Fat Diary, @mmfdfanfic​ where I gather the fandom’s offerings, @mmfd1930au-blog​, which . . . we’ll see. @180t0180​ which I’ve neglected, but was sort of clearing the clutter project blog. Should really get back to it! Do I get asks: Almost never on this one, but I used to get tons over at @endemictoearth​.  How many followers: Just shy of 1000 here.  I’ll probably never make it over the hump, because I keep blocking the p0rn bots.  Amount of sleep: Not enough, unfortch. I probably average about 6 or 6-1/2 hours a night. Seven is better; eight is a unicorn. Lucky number: I have a favorite number: 47. But I don’t attach any luck to it. What I’m wearing: Pink sweatshirt, black leggings, house shoes. This is my post work look. Earlier, I wore a black patterned sweater dress, royal blue tights, and moto boots. Dream job: I’m working in a dream place, but not necessarily doing my dream job. I’m good at what I do, but it can be discouraging. I would like to earn part of a crust from writing books at some point. (Not imagining I’ll get a full crust, but maybe enough to keep me in stockings and fans.) Dream trip: Round the world? After seeing some amazing National Parks in November, I want to see more of those. Yosemite and Yellowstone and Arches and Glacier and and and. All the old buildings and cathedrals and museums of Europe. Scotland and it’s Hebrides and Orkneys. Mayan temples. Maybe go back to Japan? I don’t know, all the places! Favourite food: A wide variety! Or, maybe I’ll go for the Andy Dwyer answer: Butter. Play an instrument: Nope, not since the recorder in 4th grade. I was a choir nerd in high school, tho. Languages: English. Took German in high school, but that’s all but gone.  Random Fact: About me? I can do that cloverleaf thing with my tongue. Describe yourself as aesthetic things: Hexagons/honeycombs; a blinking cursor; bookshelves filled to the brim; a steaming mug of coffee and/or tea (I drink both, depending on time of day); fuzzy socks; fuzzy moths; fairy lights with bokeh effect; startled owls; boxes full of jumbled micellany; rummage sales and second-hand shops; deep blue contrasted with old gold

Gender: pronouns are she/her. I have cis-privilege.

Sexuality: Demisexual, tragically heterosexual. I’m probably like a Kinsey 1.5. But women are freakin’ beautiful.

Where do you see yourself in 10 years: Man, I’ll be FIFTY in ten years . . . Maybe I’ll have written a novel nearly as good as Persuasion (a gem of a line from Cold Comfort Farm). Writing, reading, maybe gardening? Cooking and baking more, just generally doing the little things that make life worthwhile.

If you could go anywhere right now, where?: To a place where the beach is warm but the water is too cold. Just like, sweaters and jeans and a fire on the beach, watching the waves, but no thought of getting in the water.

Favorite 90’s show: After some consideration, I have to break this down. NewsRadio is probably my favorite American 90′s show both produced in and SET in the 90′s. It is SOOOO 90′s. And I love it. The UK gave us Spaced, which technically straddled the Millennium, and dinnerladies, which covered the Minnellium. 

Your last kiss: Last night, unless my husband kissed me goodbye while I was still asleep this morning. That happens. (I checked with him. He did kiss me, but said I didn’t acknowledge him.)

Have you ever been stood up?: Not sure . . . I think any time someone hasn’t shown up, they’ve let me know and haven’t kept me hanging. So, sort of?

Ever been to Vegas?: Finally went for one night last November. I stayed in Henderson; we didn’t actually do any major Vegas things, just had a too expensive dinner next to a casino.

Favorite fruit: I like most fruits. In the winter, I dig Cara Cara oranges, but like, they’re all good fruits.

Favorite book: Why would anyone ask this? It’s mean. If you want to know what I’m reading, just check my goodreads account.

Stupidest thing you’ve ever done: Must we? 

Favorite gif: I probably use this one of Miranda Hart asking for a group hug the most:

Lockscreen: A picture I took of the Library last year.

[pninastar]

Thanks for the tag, @howtowritethings!

 rules: answer these questions and tag 10 blogs you’d like to know better.

nickname: Pni (sounds like “penny”).

zodiac: no idea.

height: tall, very tall.

time: 4:26.

favourite band(s)/artist(s): Aquilo, Sleeping At Last, Dean Lewis, Imagine Dragons, Noah Kahan, Louane, NF, Tom Walker, for KING & COUNTRY...there’s a lot, haha.

song stuck in my head: “Please” by Noah Kahan and “Maman” by Louane.

last movie i saw: Solo: A Star Wars Story...my Star Wars-obsessed friend somehow convinced me to watch every film in the franchise, so...yeah.

last thing i googled: ‘what is vss365?’

other blogs: I only have my main, @pninastar.

do i get asks?: no, but I’m super new to tumblr, so I don’t expect any, haha.

why this username?: Pnina is my Hebrew name (it means pearl), and I really like stargazing so I just combined the two and came up with a pen name for my Wattpad account. Super simple.

following: 86.

average amount of sleep: 4-6 hours.

lucky number: no idea.

what am i wearing?: ripped jeans and a rose-pink shirt that says “buy me succulents and tell me I’m pretty.”

dream job: interpreting! I love to learn languages, so being able to put them to use and meet/assist people who use these languages would be incredible!

dream trip: a two-week getaway to Ireland.

favourite food: steak burrito with jalapeño ranch. Or homemade cheesecake.

instruments i play: piano, ukulele and the tiniest bit of guitar.

eye colour: grey.

hair colour: blonde with pink tips.

aesthetic: small streams in deep, dark forests of moss-covered trees, mountain waterfalls, hands covered in henna, vinyl records playing softly, succulents in little clay jars and polaroids of bokeh street lights lined up on window sills, laying on the grass or on a rooftop watching the night sky and pointing out constellations until the sun starts to rise.

languages i speak: oof, okay. Here we go: English (native language), Spanish, French, American Sign Language, Japanese Sign Language, Chinese, Korean, German, Russian, Portuguese, and a small amount of Arabic! I’m not fluent in all of these, but I am conversational in many of them.

most iconic song: “Country Roads” by John Denver or “Hurt” by Johnny Cash.

random fact: my MBTI is INFJ, the rarest personality type.

TAGS: @ren-c-leyn, @quilloftheclouds, @books-of-lunacy, @scribbling-salmon, @thehyperius, @sweetwhumpandhellacomf, @pen-and-sword-writing (hope you all don’t mind being tagged ♥)

[rhys1812]

"It's in the singing of a street corner choir It's going home and getting warm by the fire It's true wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas."-The Ghost of Christmas Present, The Muppets Christmas Carol My most recent shoot and another with a brand new model, @jadeaslamx. This was a lovely shoot and Jade was fantastic, looking amazing here amongst the lights. I'm really pleased that this got the love it deserves and coming in at number 8. I'd meant to try and do these one a day but the last few days got hectic with family time. I hope you're having a lovely holiday period! #photography #portraitphotographer #portraitphotography #photographer #glasgowphotographer #christmas #modelphotography #universityofglasgow #christmaslights #bokeh #theportraitobjective #boundlessphotography (at University of Glasgow) https://www.instagram.com/p/CmthXcqNubf/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=