#the salt sea of white calls me... the endless babies call me... thrown from the sea... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

trinity-mia · 1 year ago

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a story as endless as the ocean

the sea of monsters

0.9 out of sight, not out of mind

warnings : injury, cussing, monster attack, some tragic backstory reveal

word count : 3.6k

0.9 Finding A Powdered Donut Shop in the Middle of the Wilderness Run By Monsters? It's More Likely Than You'd Think

"Thermos!" I shrieked as we hurtled toward the water.

"What?" Luke must've thought that I had lost my mind. He was holding on to the boat straps for dear life, his hair flying all around and making him look like an evil scientist or something.

But, thank the gods, Tyson understood. He managed to open my duffel bag and take out Hermes's magical thermos without losing his grip on it or the boat.

Arrows and javelins whistled past us. An arrow stuck itself in my thigh, but I was a little too preoccupied to care.

I grabbed the thermos and hoped I was doing the right thing. "Hang on!"

"I am hanging on!" Luke yelled back.

"Tighter!"

I hooked my feet under the boat's inflatable bench, and as Tyson grabbed Luke and I by the backs of our shirts, I gave the thermos cap a quarter turn.

Instantly, a white sheet of wind jetted out of the thermos and propelled us sideways, turning our downward plummet into a forty-five-degree crash landing.

The wind seemed to laugh as it shot from the thermos, like it was glad to be free. As we hit the ocean, we bumped once, twice, skipping like a stone, then we were whizzing along like a speed boat, salt spray in our faces and nothing but sea ahead.

I heard a wail of outrage from the ship behind us, but we were already out of weapon range.

The Princess Andromeda faded to the size of a white toy boat in the distance, and then it was gone, out of sight, but certainly not out of mind.

Now that we were out of immediate danger, the pain in my thigh registered and Luke's eyes widened as he saw the two-and-a-half-foot-long arrow sticking out of me. Without any thought, I shoved the thermos into Luke's hands and I pulled the arrow out. Ignoring the blood now gushing from my leg, I simply stuck my leg into the water until the wound healed.

"Well, damn. That's one way to do it, Angel."

I just nodded.

As we raced over the sea, Luke and I tried to send an Iris-message to Chiron. We figured it was important we let somebody know what Annabeth and Cody were doing, and we didn't know who else to trust.

The wind from the thermos stirred up a nice sea spray that made a rainbow in the sunlight— perfect for an Iris-message— but our connection was still poor. When Luke threw a gold drachma into the mist and prayed for the rainbow goddess to show us Chiron, his face appeared all right, but there was some kind of weird strobe light flashing in the background and rock music blaring, like he was at a dance club. Impossible, of course. I mean, it's Chiron. He literally has four left feet.

We told him about sneaking away from camp, and the Traitors and the Princess Andromeda and the golden box for Kronos' 'remains', but between the noise on his end and the rushing wind and water on our end, I'm not sure how much he managed to hear.

"Allie," Chiron shouted, "you have to watch out for—"

His voice was drowned out by loud shouting behind him— a bunch of voices whooping it up like Comanche warriors.

"What?" I called back.

"Curse my relatives!" Chiron ducked as a plate flew over his head and shattered somewhere out of sight. "Luke, you shouldn't have let Allie leave camp! But if you do get the Fleece—"

"Yeah, baby!" somebody behind Chiron yelled. "Woo-hoooooo!"

The music got cranked up, subwoofers so loud it made our boat vibrate.

"—Miami," Chiron was yelling. "I'll try to keep watch—"

Our misty screen smashed apart like someone on the other side had thrown a bottle at it, and Chiron was gone.

An hour later we spotted land— a long stretch of beach lined with high-rise hotels. The water became crowded with fishing boats and tankers. A coast guard cruiser passed on our starboard side, then turned like it wanted a second look. I guess it isn't every day that they see a yellow lifeboat with no engine going a hundred knots an hour, manned by three kids.

Ah, the lives of mortals. Envious. I'm truly envious.

"That's Virginia Beach!" Luke exclaimed as we approached the shoreline. "How in Hermes' name did the Princess Andromeda travel so far overnight? That's like—"

"Five hundred and thirty nautical miles," I said without thinking.

He stared at me in shock. "How did you know that?"

"I— I'm not sure."

Luke frowned for a moment. "Angel, what's our position?"

"36 degrees, 44 minutes north, 76 degrees, 2 minutes west," I said immediately. Then I shook my head. "Whoa. How did I know that?"

"Because of your dad," Luke guessed. "Some of my older siblings that have left camp can do something similar, on land. It'll be damn handy in finding the island, at least."

Before I could say anything about my opinion on being used as a living GPS, Tyson tapped my shoulder. "Other boat is coming."

I looked over my shoulder, tensing up. The coast guard vessel was definitely on our tail now. Its lights were flashing and it was gaining speed.

"We can't let them catch us," I said. "They'll ask too many questions."

"Keep going into Chesapeake Bay," Luke ordered. "I know a place where we can lay low for a while."

I didn't ask what he meant, or how he knew the area so well. I risked loosening the thermos cap a little more, and a fresh burst of wind sent us rocketing around the northern tip of Virginia Beach into Chesapeake Bay. The coast guard boat fell farther and farther behind. We didn't slow down until the shores of the bay narrowed on either side, and I realized we'd entered the mouth of a river.

I could feel the change from saltwater to freshwater. It didn't affect me very much, but I could tell I wasn't in the ocean anymore and my body didn't really know what to do about it, so it just stayed (mostly) how it did in saltwater. Although, I suddenly didn't know where we were. It was a good thing Luke was directing me, otherwise, we'd have gotten so lost.

"There," he pointed. "It's just a little past that sandbar."

We veered into a swampy area choked with marsh grass. I beached the lifeboat at the foot of a giant cypress.

Vine-covered trees loomed above us. Insects chirred in the woods. The air was muggy and hot, and steam curled off the river. Basically, I didn't like it.

"Come on," Luke swung himself out of the boat. "It's just down the bank."

"What is?" I asked grumpily. I wished that we'd had a chance to shower before having to run for our lives. That's the worst thing about quests— not being clean, which I just adore.

"Just follow me." He grabbed a duffel bag. I could see a certain look had come into his eyes, and I knew that this had something to do with Thalia. "And we'd better cover the boat. We don't want to draw attention."

After burying the lifeboat with branches, Tyson and I followed Luke along the shore, our feet sinking in red mud. A spider crawled past my shoe and disappeared into the grass.

"Not a good place," Tyson said. He swatted the mosquitoes that were forming a buffet line on his arm.

After another few minutes, Luke stopped and said, "Here."

All I saw was a patch of brambles. Then, Luke moved aside a woven circle of branches, like a door, and I realized I was looking into a camouflaged shelter.

The inside was big enough for three, even with Tyson being the third. The walls were woven from plant material, like a Native American hut, but they looked pretty waterproof. Stacked in the corner was everything you could want for a campout— sleeping bags, blankets, an ice chest, and a kerosene lamp. There were demigod provisions, too— bronze javelin tips, a quiver full of arrows, an extra sword, and a box of ambrosia. The place smelled musty, like it had been vacant for a long time.

"A half-blood hideout." I looked at Luke in awe. "You made this place?"

"Thalia and I," he replied quietly, a pained look in his eyes. "And Annabeth."

I bit my lip. I never knew what to say, when the topic of Thalia or Annabeth came up. In Luke's eyes, Thalia seemed to be this perfect person, who could do anything. And, well, her name said enough about Annabeth.

"So..." I said. "You don't think that she'll look for us here?" There was no need to elaborate on who 'she' was.

He shook his head. "We made a dozen safe houses like this, and she was pretty young. I doubt Annabeth even remembers where they are. Or cares."

He threw himself down on the blankets and started to rifle through his duffel bag. His body language made it pretty clear that he didn't want to talk, but I knew him on a deeper level than that. He needed to vent.

"Um, Tyson?" I said, glancing at him. "Would you mind scouting around outside? Like, look for a wilderness convenience store or something?"

"Convenience store?"

"Yeah, for snacks. Powdered donuts or something. Just don't go too far."

"Powdered donuts," Tyson said earnestly. "I will look for powdered donuts in the wilderness." He headed outside and started calling, "Here, donuts!"

Once he was gone, I sat down beside Luke, and rested a hand on his knee delicately. "Hey, I'm sorry about, you know, seeing Annabeth."

"It's not your fault." He unsheathed his sword and started to clean the blade with a dirty rag.

"Well if I hadn't followed Hermes' suggestion of boarding the Murder Cruise of Doom," I tried to joke.

Luke gave a bitter smile. "Yeah, well, neither our fathers are ever gonna get 'Parent of the Millennia Award'," he scoffed. I nodded in silent agreement, surprised when the sky didn't boom angrily. I supposed the gods just weren't listening. Or maybe they knew that it was true.

No, they just weren't listening.

"They let us go too easily," I said, deciding to switch the subject.

Luke nodded in agreement, switching from cleaning to sharpening his blade. "I was thinking the same thing. What we overheard them say about a gamble, and 'they'll take the bait'... I think that they were talking about us."

"The Fleece is the bait? Or Grover?" I pulled on one of my braids in frustration.

He studied the edge of his sword. "I don't know, Allie. Maybe they want the Fleece for themselves. Maybe they're hoping that we'll do the hard work and then they can steal it from us."

"Do you think," I began tentatively, a horrifying thought dawning, "that they could use the Fleece to help speed up..."

I trailed off, and Luke set down his sword. His expression was dark and grim. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe. I just can't believe that Annabeth would poison the tree."

"What did she mean," I asked. "Thalia would've been on her side?"

"She's wrong."

"You don't sound sure," I pointed out bluntly.

Luke glared at me, but I kept my gaze steady. He huffed and looked away first, starting to sharpen his sword again. "Allie, you know who you remind me of most? Thalia. You guys are so alike it's actually scary. I mean, either you would've been best friends or you would've strangled each other."

"If our father's are any indication to go by, I'd say Option B."

"Thalia got angry with her dad sometimes. So do you. Would you turn against Olympus because of that?"

"No, those half-bloods are idiots," I snorted. "Demigods can't exist without gods to conceive us, traumatizing as that thought is. I can't believe they don't realize that. It's so obvious."

Luke blinked, shook his head, and gave a dry laugh. "Jeez, Angel. Your mind works in mysterious ways. I hadn't even thought of that, but yeah, you're right. Anyway, Annabeth was wrong. Thalia would never have supported any of this."

"So what did Annabeth mean about Cyclopses?" I asked. "She said that you of all people—"

"I know what she said. She... she was talking about the real reason Thalia died."

I waited, not sure what to say.

Luke drew in a shaky breath. "You can never trust a Cyclops, Allie. Remember what I told you last year, six years ago, when Grover was leading us to Half-Blood Hill—"

He was interrupted when the door of the hut creaked open. Tyson crawled in.

"Powdered donuts!" he said proudly, holding up a pastry box.

Luke and I stared at him in bewilderment. "Where did you get that?" Luke demanded. "We're in the middle of the wilderness. There's nothing around for—"

"Fifty feet," Tyson cut in. "Monster Donut shop— just over the hill!"

"This is bad," Luke muttered.

We were crouching behind a tree, staring at the donut shop in the middle of the woods. It looked brand new, with brightly lit windows, a parking area, and a little road leading off into the forest, but there was nothing else around, and no cars parked in the lot. We could see one employee reading a magazine behind the cash register. That was it. On the store's marquis, in huge black letters that even I could read, it said:

MONSTER DONUT

A cartoon ogre was taking a bite out of the O in MONSTER. The place smelled good, like fresh-baked chocolate donuts. I'd seen a few of them around New York, but had never actually gone to one.

"Damn, what are the chances?"

Luke shot me one of those fondly exasperated looks that he always gave me when he thought I was being ditzy. "This shouldn't be here," he whispered. "It's wrong."

"What?" I asked doubtfully. "It's a donut shop."

Though, this was the Greek world. Maybe the secret ingredient was Gorgon poison, or something.

"Shhh!"

"Why are we whispering? Tyson went in and bought a dozen. Nothing happened to him."

"He's a monster."

"Aw, c'mon, Luke. Monster Donut doesn't mean monsters! It's a chain. We've got them in New York."

"A chain," he agreed. "And don't you think it's strange that one appeared immediately after you told Tyson to get donuts? Right here in the middle of the woods?"

I bit my lip. "Possibly," I grudgingly admitted. "But no one said anything to me about chain restaurants being run by monsters! Is that, like, an all-chain-restaurants thing, or...?"

He snorted and shook his head. "Nah, most of them are safe. But some of the chains multiply so fast because all their locations are magically linked to the life force of a monster. Some of my half-siblings figured out how to do it back in the 1950s. They breed—"

He froze, staring over my shoulder.

I tensed. "What?" I demanded quietly.

"No— sudden— moves," Luke warned, like his life depended on it. "Very slowly, turn around."

Then I heard it: a scraping noise, like something large dragging its belly through the leaves. Which, of course, is exactly what was happening.

I turned and saw a rhino-size thing moving through the shadows of the trees. It was hissing, its front half writhing in all different directions. I couldn't understand what I was seeing at first.

Then I realized the thing had multiple necks— at least seven, each topped with a hissing reptilian head. Its skin was leathery, and under each neck, it wore a plastic bib that read: I'M A MONSTER DONUT KID!

I began to slowly reach for Riptide, but Luke locked eyes with me, sending a silent warning. Not yet.

I understood. A lot of monsters have terrible eyesight. It was possible the Hydra might pass us by. But if I pulled out my sword now, the bronze glow would certainly get its attention.

We waited.

The Hydra was only a few feet away. It seemed to be sniffing the ground and the trees like it was hunting for something.

My heart pounded. I'd seen a stuffed Hydra-head trophy at camp before, as well as in books, but those did nothing to prepare me for the real thing. Each head was diamond-shaped, like a rattlesnake's, but the mouths were lined with jagged rows of shark-like teeth.

Tyson was trembling. He stepped back and accidentally snapped a twig. Immediately, all seven heads turned toward us and hissed.

"Scatter!" Luke yelled. He dove to the right.

I rolled to the left. One of the Hydra heads spat an arc of green liquid that shot past my shoulder and splashed against an elm. The trunk smoked and began to disintegrate. The whole tree toppled straight toward Tyson, who still hadn't moved, petrified by the monster that was now right in front of him.

"Tyson!" I tackled him with all my might, somehow managing to defy the laws of physics and knock him aside with my whole 115-pound body, just as the Hydra lunged and the tree crashed on top of two of its heads.

The Hydra stumbled backward, yanking its heads free then wailing in outrage at the fallen tree. All seven heads shot acid, and the elm melted into a steaming pool of muck.

"Move!" I told Tyson. I ran to one side and grabbed my swords, hoping to draw the monster's attention.

It worked.

The sight of celestial bronze is hateful to monsters and I don't think they like steel much better. As soon as my glowing blades were in my hands, the Hydra whipped toward me with all its heads, hissing and baring its teeth.

The good news: Tyson was momentarily out of danger. The bad news: I was about to be melted into a puddle of goo. And my braids were a complete wreck. Goddamnit, I hate my life. What'd I ever do to the Fates?

One of the heads snapped at me experimentally. Forgetting my lessons on Hydras, I automatically swung my sword. I tried to pull my arm back, or at least lessen the blow, but I already had too much momentum.

"No!" Luke cried.

Too late. I sliced the Hydra's head clean off. It rolled away into the grass, leaving a flailing stump, which immediately stopped bleeding and began to swell like a balloon.

In a matter of seconds the wounded neck split into two necks, each of which grew a full-size head. Now I was looking at an eight-headed Hydra.

"Shit!" I snapped, jumping back.

"Angel, you okay?" Luke called.

"Fine! How the hell do we kill this thing? I can't remember!"

"Fire!" Luke answered. "We have to have fire!"

As soon as he said that, I remembered the story. The Hydra's heads would only stop multiplying if we burned the stumps before they regrew. That's what Heracles had done, anyway.

But we had no fire, and I was a water half-blood. I avoided fires as much as I could, as a matter of principle. I could totally see myself being extra vulnerable to being burned alive. It'd be just my luck.

I went with my instincts and began to back up toward the river. The Hydra followed.

Luke moved in on my left and tried to distract one of the heads, parrying its teeth with his sword, but another head swung sideways like a club and knocked him, swearing, into the muck.

"No hitting my friends!" Tyson charged in, putting himself between the Hydra and Luke's prone body.

As Luke scrambled to his feet, Tyson started smashing at the monster heads with his fists so fast it reminded me of the whack-a-mole game at the arcade. But not even Tyson could fend off the Hydra forever.

We kept inching backward, dodging acid splashes and deflecting snapping heads without cutting them off, but I knew that we were only postponing our deaths. Eventually, we would make a mistake and the thing would kill us. And Grover and Clarisse would die, before Camp too, fell under an onslaught of monsters.

Then I heard a strange sound— a chug-chug-chug that at first I thought was my heartbeat. It was so powerful that it made the riverbank shake.

"What's that noise?" Luke shouted, keeping his eyes fixed on the Hydra.

"Steam engine," I replied and assumed it was my wacky powers that were allowing me that knowledge.

Then from the river behind us, a familiar female voice shouted: "There! Prepare the thirty-two-pounder!"

I didn't dare look away from the Hydra, but if that was who I thought it was behind us, I figured we now had a 60% to 40% chance of survival, depending on how pissed she was.

A gravelly male voice said, "They're too close, m'lady!"

"Damn it!" Clarisse snapped. "Full steam ahead!"

60% then.

"Aye, m'lady."

"Fire at will, Captain!"

Luke understood what was happening a split second before I did.

"Hit the dirt!" he warned, and tackled me to the ground, covering my body with his, just as an earth-shattering BOOM echoed from the river. There was a flash of light, a column of smoke, and the Hydra exploded right in front of us, showering us with nasty green slime that vaporized as soon as it hit, the way monster guts tended to do.

"Gross!" I screamed. I almost wished it was still alive, just to pay it back for my hair. Do you have any clue how hard it is to get monster guts out of curls?

"Steamship!" yelled Tyson.

I let Luke help me up, coughing from the cloud of gunpowder smoke that was rolling across the banks.

Chugging toward us down the river was the strangest ship I'd ever seen. It rode low in the water like a submarine, its deck plated with iron. In the middle was a trapezoid-shaped casemate with slats on each side for cannons. A flag waved from the top— a wild boar and spear on a bloodred field. Lining the deck were zombies in gray uniforms— dead soldiers with shimmering faces that only partially covered their skulls, like the ghouls I'd seen in the Underworld guarding Hades' palace.

The ship was an ironclad. A Civil War battle cruiser. I could just make out the name along the prow in moss-covered letters: CSS Birmingham.

And standing next to the smoking cannon that had almost killed us, wearing full Greek battle armor, was Clarisse.

"Damn it Castellan!" She snapped, glaring at Luke, even though I was fairly sure she knew that it was more my fault than his. They didn't get along. "Come aboard, you godsdamned morons."

* * *

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#asaeato #a story as endless as the ocean #alliejackson #female percy jackson #lukecastellan #lullie #trinitymia

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aitarose · 4 years ago

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OUR LAST SUMMER (A.MIYA) —❥ pairing: miya atsumu x fem!reader

synopsis: one summer was all the time you had together—all the time you had to bask in the sun-kissed rays and sand-filled beaches, share soft butterfly kisses and feel the comfort of being wrapped in his arms—until his boat sailed off into the sea, forever.

word count: 3.0k

genre: mamma mia inspired, summer fling, somewhat stuck together, angst, fluff, casual/formal writing, second person

warnings: commitment issues, mentions of suggestive content, minor cursing, heartbreak?

notes: this was an impulse blurb because i haven’t posted any actual fics in nearly a month so here you go lol asdfjl IT’S A LITTLE ROUGH BUT I HOPE IT’S LEGIBLE LMAO AND ITS SHORT AS HELL SORRY JALSD MY BRAIN D!ED

—❥ DIRECTORY

You remembered the first time you’d seen him.

He was a stranger, a man that you’d never once met before—standing smack-dab in the middle of your dock, the place you’d always come to clear your thoughts after hours upon hours of work, though you didn’t technically own it. It was just tradition, an accustom that you’d grown so used to that it seemed like everyone’s daily—well, everyone but his.

There were few people you didn’t know on the island, having been a member of the local family business of hotels and inns. Your little paradise, the chains of suites and saunas that you liked to think were a hidden wonder of the world—hidden to only you and the reoccurring tourists that would stay on your infamous Greek Elysium.

The usual familiarity was scarce at the sight of his bright blonde hair and sun-kissed skin, light freckles peppered across the swells of his cheeks—no doubt caused by countless hours at sea as he stood beside a large sailboat. He appeared to be a free spirit, much different to all of the others that would find stay on the shores.

It was a common getaway, an escape from the reality of life and the troubles that came with emotional attachments and labor. Every personality was alike, each one masking the pain of all that tied them down—wishing that they’d ever have to board that boat back to the mainland, and just stay in a world without worries and never-ending surf.

But the way he was standing with his body language in reaction to the sea, made you think that perhaps he wasn’t like all of the other’s who came and went. That perhaps he was a free spirit entirely on his own, one that didn’t force the necessities of comfort and relaxation on his mind—it just came naturally.

“You lost?” Your voice called out, the sound ringing with the wind chimes against his sails—diverting his attention from the white peaked waves to your melodious sound. He gave you his full attention, immediately focusing on your approaching frame—a look of relief arising on his face.

He reached behind his neck, scratching the roots of his hair whilst a sheepish smile gleamed in the light. “Thank god, you found me!” He chuckled, the browns in his eyes sparkled with golds and copper, complimenting his overall look perfectly—in all honesty, you didn’t think you’d ever seen such a handsome man. “I docked around a half-an-hour ago, just didn’t know where I was supposed to head next.”

“Would a beautiful girl like yourself happen to have the time to help a poor sailor out?”

Shaking your head, you grinned, scoffing slightly at the obvious flirtation, before walking towards him. Your feet moved in small steps, thoughts dancing around the idea of a summer fling—after all, it wouldn’t be the first time something like this had happened. You, an eccentric woman, one with the island, always seeming to attract men of all natures with not a care in the world.

Maybe he would be your new conquest, your newest mark in the endless journey of love that you never wanted to conclude. Another man who’s mood would turn from complete adoration to disgust when you’d reject his love and send him off to sea—never to be met again. Simply a memory you’d look back on when your past ran wild and smile in nostalgia.

You plopped down on the end of the dock, head thrown back as your feet touched the water—a refreshing feeling taking over your entire body. The man watched in amusement at your obvious compatibility with the ocean currents and approached you as you patted the place beside you—an open seat reserved for him.

“So, sailor.” You mocked, swinging your jaw to face him with a sing-song tone. “Tell, me. What brings you to my island?”

He raised his eyebrows, creases appearing near his forehead with youthful wrinkles at their wits—not hiding how enamored he was at your playful tone. “Your island?” There was a matched mood in the both of your speech, potential feelings rising in the pits of your stomachs. “I’m sorry, gorgeous. Last I checked, you didn’t own all of Greece.”

You scoffed, kicking your feet up to splash his ankles—cold sprays of salt water hitting the skin of your shins up to your thighs. “Well, last I checked lonely sailors didn’t talk back to pretty women—or are you just an enigma Mr...”

“Miya.” He replied, concluding the sentence that you hadn’t been able to finish with ease—identity revealed to the girl he’d already festered a crush on, despite it only having been a mere twenty minutes since you’d first begun to speak. “Miya Atsumu.”

‘Y/N L/N.” You held out a hand with a shit-eating grin as he gripped it firmly, shaking your palm enthusiastically whilst your eyes held his—a silent stare down in the midst, the morning sunrise changing to one of noon, reminding you of the ticking time. “And how long did you say you’ll be staying here?”

“Well, I’m here for my brother’s wedding.” Atsumu shrugged, nudging your shoulder with his and gazing out to the countless other sailboats in the bay. “Technically, I’m only meant to be here for a few weeks...”

“...but I’m sure I’ll find something here to keep me longer.”

And that he did.

He’d managed to find a countless number of reasons to keep himself busy. Infinite excuses not to set his sail at sea—excuses that had nothing to do with the start of Osamu’s wedding festivities, or with the waning fear of his workplace calling him back to play, or even the worry of his heavy pockets running dry of cash.

Perhaps it had something to do with how his heart pounded whenever you were around. The artery nearly jumping out of his chest in the times you’d grab his hand and pull him along the stone-studded paths throughout the tropical trees, giving him tours of your favorite spots—laying picnic blankets under the shade and sharing piña coladas with pink straws.

Or the constant days at the beach. How you’d share an umbrella only for it to fly away in the wind—leaving the two of you out in the open rays of the sun, vulnerable to burns that Atsumu always managed to obtain. You later having to help him wash off in a cool shower—concern furrowing at your brows with every wince and whine he’d muster.

Treating him as your own personal island dweller, you’d become attached at the hip. Neither one of you wanting to be without the other for longer than a day—knowing that your time was limited, but ignoring it all the same. The summer was one of new opportunities and experiences, things that you had already set your mind to—only now having his name next to those goals.

Your first impressions had been correct, he was undoubtedly different from all of the other flings you’d had in the past—and you’d come to realize this on the day he’d asked you to be his date to his brother’s wedding. The brother that had no idea you existed, whom you hadn’t ever planned on meeting was inevitably getting an unexpected guest.

That unexpected guest being you, of course, arriving with Atsumu on your arm and wearing a beautiful shade of baby blue. Osamu and his bride had welcomed you with open arms, no suspicions at all when they’d noticed the genuine look of happiness in the blonde’s eyes—a look that they hadn’t seen come out of him in a very very long time.

“Was it everything you dreamed it would be?” He whispered, lips pressed against your hair—arms holding you close as the gentle orchestrals echoed in the night night breeze. The shadows of candle lit jars and paper lanterns covering your face in defined shades of grey—making you look all the more gorgeous.

You sighed into his chest, taking in his sweet scent, that of fresh oranges and salt—the smell of the ocean never truly washing away from his aura. “I loved it, actually.” An earnest tone spoke out from your mouth, sincere admissions flowing like waves, reaching his ears and giving him little dreams of the future—your future.

“It was one of the most beautiful ceremonies we’ve hosted, and I truly mean that.” Your voice was soft, quiet as to not disturb the calm mood in the moonlight—the stars shining down on every pair on the dance floor, even the young children blowing kisses in each other’s direction, not knowing the true feelings of love, yet wishing for them in their hearts.

Atsumu took a step back, holding your hand in his and spinning you beneath the stringed bulbs—smiling warmly as you let out an uncontrollable giggle—complaining how he was making you dizzy with glee. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so utterly full of admiration for a single person in the entirety of his life.

With a smirk at the corners of his cheeks he pulled you in, twirling you back around and into the safety of his tanned arms—the physical contact was nothing new to you, yet there was something in the way his palms held yours that made you feel like there were ulterior motives to his antics.

“Steady there, sailor.” You whispered, slightly out of breath—not only from the tireless dancing you’d endured all evening, but from the minimized distance between your bodies. His lips were a mere centimeters away from yours, so close and also so far. “Wouldn’t want you doing something you might regret.”

He shook his head, leaning in to commit to the thing he wanted most in the world—his fingers reaching up to guide your chin to his, the calloused skin of his thumbs tickling your sensitive nerves and setting free all of the festering butterflies in your chest.

“Trust me, gorgeous, when I say that I don’t have regrets.”

His words were quickly muffled as you pressed your lips against his, smothering any quips that could possibly arise and drowning them in an ocean of pure desire and infatuation. It felt like you were on ecstasy, the uncontrollable yearning for his intimacy finally being yours to have and to hold—all coming together in one innocent kiss in the middle of an almost empty wedding reception.

Your palms held his jawline, pulling him as close as possible whilst doing your best to convey your display of passion as small and intimate—not wanting to steal the celebrations of the day from the bride and groom—who’d in all honesty, disappeared themselves hours before, no one having seen them since then.

A quiet gasp rose from your throat as he bit your bottom lip, wanting more even though he knew that it wasn’t the time you could grant his wish—anticipation for the night to come, when you’d leave the party hand-in-hand, rushing from the back of his brain to the frontal lobe as he pulled away.

“’Tsumu.” You breathed out, eyes locked on his with giddiness underlying the tiredness in your voice. His expression matched yours, one of completion and success—patting himself on the back in imagination with the knowledge that he’d won your attention. “What was that?”

He stepped aside, still holding your hand in his, leading you off of the stone platform and into the gallery of cloth-lined tables with scattered guests—drunk in happiness and alcohol, blind to any real-world worries. The moment felt like a fever dream, an event that only occurred in film and television—nothing that you’d ever expected to experience yourself.

But with Atsumu, anything seemed to be possible. The slim probabilities becoming a zero percent error whenever he set his mind to a goal, bringing you along with him every step of the way. His calls out to you raspy from ahead, scratchy from the amount of hollering and applause he’d performed for his twin during speeches and vows.

“That,” he began, glancing back at you as you ran together towards his little villa, “that was only the beginning of the rest of our endless summer.”

And he was right, it certainly was the beginning of something. Something special and real—something that you’d never once felt in your life, right in your arms, right in front of you. He was your perfect match, you were tired of denying it—but there was one thing that the two of you had forgotten in the blissful montage of stolen kisses and sleepless nights.

Every beginning has an end.

All stories have a final chapter, one that no reader wanted to page through—but couldn’t resist knowing the final outcome of their two favorite characters, what could possibly happen to their relationship, their future, their unspoken and unequivocal love for one another that had manifested on the ink blotched pages.

Some had happy endings, epilogues in which the main love interests proceeded to get married, have a few kids that’d run around their fenced backyard with the sprinkler system running on overdrive. That was the dream, the dream that seemed so idealistic to most, the ideal life to live—to grow old holding hands against the oak wood of your rocking chairs as the sun set over the horizon.

But that wasn’t your ideal life, and neither was it Atsumu’s.

So, your story wasn’t one of those lucky fairy tales that had a happily ever after. It wasn’t a bedtime story that you’d read to your grandchildren or younger relatives, nor was it a time you’d try to forget as it ended right where it had initially begun—on the public docks of your inn house, in front of his weary sailboat.

The only differences being the setting sun rather than the rising dawn and the twinkling stars appearing in the dark sky in contrast to their disappearance in relation to the morning clouds. Perhaps it was the universe telling you that it was all coming to an end, shooting off into the darkness with the explosions of nebulas and constellations.

“So, this is it.” Atsumu spoke aloud, possibly to you or the emptiness of the sea. The usual warmth in his tone sounding robotic and unkept, unfamiliar to your heart, unfamiliar from the man you’d come to hold such strong feelings for in a mere three months. “This is our last night, our last minutes.”

He turned to face you, hands holding the limp ropes whilst pulling them tight and wrapping them in their holsters, billowing the sails in the strong night breezes—there was said to be a storm brewing, and it was ever so timely to have happened the same night a hurricane was forming in your blackened and broken heart.

You’d never seen such a sorrowful expression on his face, used to the typical dumbstruck happiness and easygoing nature that was void and lost, that absence setting in the reality of your relationship’s oblivion. He let go of his secured ties, elbows leaning against the railing and towards you as you stood at the edge of the doc.

“It doesn’t have to end here, you know.” He suggested, his voice shaky and unsure—not knowing what your response would be—not knowing that you loved him, too. “You could come with me, see a world that isn’t an isolated island—we could travel together, see all the other wonders—we could be happy, forever.”

Your breath hitched, chest airtight, all of the oxygen in your lungs at max capacity—catching in your lungs with no chance of getting out. His words had somehow managed to itch the hidden and sensitive regions of your heart—the ones that had always been guarded from others, the places that he’d been able to weasel his way into.

At the look on your face, he already knew your answer. An unspoken rejection standing stale in the humid air between you, the still distance growing further and further despite your motionless stances. Two broken hearts longing for one another with no resolution to be met.

He bit his lip, holding back tears in the nightly shadows and nodding his head—believing that he’d been right all along. That his presumptions about you had actually been correct, that he hadn’t been different, that he hadn’t been your person amidst the countless other personalities you’d fallen for over the summers—that he’d simply been another paradisiac fling that you’d thrown away.

But he’d never been so wrong.

You did love him, you loved him with your entire soul—your entire existence. There was no dream you wanted more than to be with him forever, to spend every single moment in his company of laughter and contagious smiles. To pepper him in kisses and take morning dips in the ocean as the sun rose over the horizon.

He was your soulmate, the other half that you never thought you would find—an egocentric and boastful man unlike any other you’d met before. Atsumu was your salvation, but with the fear of commitment and settled life at the back of your brain, you had no choice but to watch as his love faded into remorse. As his undying love was pulled beneath your currents of self-doubt.

“Thank you.” He spoke, words dull yet also meaningful—full of every last confessional emotion he had to make, full of all the lost ‘I love you’s’ and goodnight wishes in the past seventy-two days of being in each other’s arms. “Thank you for letting me love you.”

And with those words, your heart sailed into the vast horizon—through the swift currents and past the submerged rocks, peaking in the rising and falling black waves. The bright white sail of his stern shading into grey as he became nothing but a speck in the night—lost to the endless sea and unknown future, a future without you.

A future that you’d never know anything of, communication gone, forgotten between you and stripped away by the receding tides. The tides that had come just as fast as they’d gone—a physical representation of the whirlwind love story that you’d lived during the most memorable summer of your life. As you’d never be able to forget him.

You’d never be able to forget the first man you’d ever loved.

taglist of bestie boos <3:

@bokoutoebutmain @boba-duckie @ryuomen @sexy-bee-juice @nekomabvc @cambodianprincess6

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workhardlyinprogress · 5 years ago

Text

disposable algarve

TAVIRA, PORTUGAL. 2013.

Jerome.

disposable [ dih-spoh-zuh-buh l ]

designed for or capable of being thrown away after being used or used up

Grace.

Colette & Abigail.

Taking stock. Wasting. Frittering away. Time well spent ...

Now, right now, in this yawning, emotive historical moment, a lot of us have more time “on our hands” than ever.

We see it in monetary terms ... putting pressure on ourselves to “use it well”, “grow”, “be productive�� as if time is a currency with a means to an end product, instead of just something that is, whether we are or not. Like the stars, like the wind. This is not a new feeling.

One endless afternoon in quarantine, I am using my time to produce more space on my laptop in order to feel like I am using it wisely, when I stumble across an old folder called disposable.

Assuming it is what it says on the tin, I take one quick look before moving it to trash. It turns out to be a forgotten phase in which I used only disposable cameras, thinking I was edgy and restrained and ahead of the curve. It was around the time Instagram was really taking off, with its first nostalgic filters.

Mum.

We crammed into my uncle’s blindingly white property in Tavira, a little medieval city in the Portuguese Algarve a few hours’ drive from Faro. We were all quite young. The uncarpeted tiles were smooth and smelled of alcohol from the insect-lethal cleaning products. On the upper floors, the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean was a gleam over the downslope of the terracotta-mottled hill.

We spent most evenings in the city’s tiny centre, a long concrete lick of harbour astride the mouth of the Gilão River, bustling with seafood restaurants next to a sleepy tourist-centric market. The thick summer heat zipped around in the night air like electricity, and we exalted in ourselves, large table of beloved in languid evenings stretching out forever. The mosquitoes loved us, too, the waiters not so much; a sprawl of little cousins with the red-raw eyes of British kids after too much sun and sea, overexcited and overtired.

We ordered king prawns that came dangling on upright rusted skewer-towers, tart with lemon and their own salt-molten flesh.

We ordered wild boar hot pot (it was 2013 ... ) and Mum, a vegetarian over half her life, couldn’t resist trying it. She was sick for 3 days.

Clementine.

There were a lot of us. We waited. A lot. And the town relaxed into the crawling pace - or rather, we relaxed into its own, our perception of place slowing and changing like a bend in a river.

Time became the weather, it receded. Ever-present but gentle, inevitable but acceptable in all its forms.

On the local beaches, situated on sandbank islands accessible only by ferry or, adorably, an old steam train along a thin, raised bar (rolling, romantic names - Praia do Barril, Ihla de Tavira), men strolled the white sand with huge wicker baskets of fresh-baked doughnuts.

“Bolinhas! Bolinhas!”

Little balls. Com creme. Sem creme. They are each the size of a baby’s head, the best ones stuffed to the brim with fresh custard. Always, still hot from the oven, the sugar granulated but half-crystallised. Wiping chubby cheeks and small hands from stickiness in the sea.

Isobel.

I remember the tacky blue plastic camera glued to my hand over the course of the holiday. And the tentativeness that came with pressing the shutter. Looking, really looking, at everything around before putting the tiny, distorted viewfinder between me and the world. 27 photos, that’s all.

No throwing shit at the wall and hoping something sticks.

Looking at these photos now, the blanket settings, the subsequent shoddy scan, they have the charm of real memory - or, the act of remembering. Blurred, blemished. The darks too dark, the lights too light, as if already aged. Timeless is an apt word.

Abigail.

Thinking about it in retrospect, this was an exercise that really taught me to wait. It taught me not to reach for my camera every time I saw something remotely interesting, but to look with my eyes instead and experience it in the moment.

And the subsequent wonder, when successful, of capturing something unexpected. Something that barely existed in the world, caught forever in the single frame that it actually was, as it was, in time. All the more precious for having been chosen as a moment in the first place.

Maybe I forgot about this phase because it’s not, strictly speaking, educated photography. Not high brow enough for my pretentious/precocious teenage artiste ambitions. Our expectations of ourselves are often the thing that stultifies us most, they curb our ability to notice or appreciate any single good thing.

We’re living through a time when being able to notice or appreciate any single good thing is more important than ever. Like loving your loved, like a touch, like slowing down.

I’d do as well to remind myself as anyone, as I hurry my laptop archive to the trash and dispose of my free time, that instead of trying to take and make a million things from this moment, it might be worth trying to take one really decent thing.

Like precious memories of a better time.

Like surviving.

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