#'here's water that dissolves normal humans'

[gravityglitch-blog]

My contribution to @beauty-beast-week, organized by @firawren, for Day 3.

The prompt was Lavender (relaxation, sleep, baths, summer, scents...)

I imagine this taking place in the movie's timeline, between the "Human Again" sequence and the famous waltz.

INK AND MOONLIGHT

Be careful what you wish for, Belle thought to herself as she idly drew patterns in the frost on the library window panes.

All her life, she had felt different. She'd never considered herself better or worse than anyone else. She was simply...apart.

While everyone around her was down to earth, she was an incurable dreamer. Her mother had been like that, according to her faded memory. Her father, too. She'd spent most of her life sighing over the pages of fairy tales and wishing something fantastical would happen in her own life.

It didn't get much more fantastical than life with a mythic beast in an enchanted castle filled with living, breathing housewares.

How long had she been here now? A few weeks? A few months? Magic had a way of playing with your sense of time.

She sat curled up in a corner of one of the massive library's many window seats. At her back, flames cheerfully crackled in the fireplace, keeping her warm this winter's night and providing a soft glow to read by. She took another sip of the lavender tea Mrs. Potts had been so kind to provide and tried again to focus on the book in her hands. Normally this was no trouble. But tonight, she was distracted by thoughts of the dreams she'd been having.

It was the same dream, every night since she'd been in the castle. She was lost in a beautiful, unfamiliar forest. It was silent as death, and equally endless. She'd start out walking, then running in search of a path, anything to lead her out of there.

And then the man would appear before her.

She could never make out much about him.

His figure was always blurred, like she were trying to see him through a veil of water. She could make out a few details. Tall. Copper hair. The only thing really clear about him were his eyes, the purest blue she'd ever seen.

Her dream self would always ask, "Who are you? Can you help me?"

"I would give anything to tell you who I am," the man would reply, his voice soft and sad. "But I can only help you back to the castle."

She would pull away. "I don't want to go back there. I want to go home."

"I know," the stranger would say. "And I know you have no reason to trust me. But please believe when I say, you have nothing to fear from the castle or anyone in it."

Then he would hold out his hand to her.

She always wanted to ask more questions.

But somehow, in that one heartbeat, her fears would calm. She would reach out...and she would wake up.

It wasn't even enough to call a nightmare, but it left her unsettled all the same.

She wrapped her hands around her teacup to better absorb its warmth. Belle giggled lightly as she felt the teacup snoring against her palms. At least someone was getting a good night's sleep.

A flicker of shadow caught the edge of her vision. She looked up and saw Beast in one of the archways leading to another book-filled chamber. Though her fear of him had mostly dissolved after that night he'd rescued her from the wolves, she still found him a paradox.

There was strength and power in every line of him, and he could move through this castle quick and noiseless as the shadows themselves. Right now, he looked like a child who had been caught staying up past his bedtime.

"You can't sleep, either?" she asked.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," his deep voice rumbled.

"You're not," Belle assured him. "It gets so quiet around here at night, I...I'd be glad of the company for awhile, if you don't mind."

He nodded, and she thought she glimpsed a shy smile, but his expressions were often difficult to read. He took up the other corner of the window seat, farthest from her. He gazed out the window at the gently falling snow, seeming hesitant to look at her. The silence was broken only by the quiet sound of his breath and her heartbeat. Belle studied his reflection in the glass, the only way she felt she could safely look at him for more than a few moments without being rude. She'd been terrified of him at first sight, she had to admit. The setting and circumstances hadn't helped, her father locked in a dungeon while she bargained for his freedom. Later, when she'd tried to escape and run right into the jaws of the wolf pack, she'd witnessed the sheer ferocity and wildness he kept contained. Looking at him now...there was a strange grace about him. She could imagine him as a creature of myth, an otherworldly guardian of some secret or forbidden world. Belle gave herself a mental shake. No wonder the people back home called her a funny girl.

"What are you reading?" Beast asked finally.

In answer, she held out the book to him. Carefully he took it from her and leafed through a few pages. One heavy eyebrow went up. "Vampires? Are you trying to give yourself nightmares?"

Belle shrugged, feeling slightly embarrassed. "What can I say? I've always found stories of the night fascinating."

He gave a rough snort, his version of a laugh. "No wonder you fit right in here."

She tilted her head. "How do you mean?"

"Can you really not feel it? The magic of this place embraces you like it's been waiting for you all its life."

Unsure what to say to that, she smoothed out non-existent wrinkles in her soft purple dress. Hoping to smooth out the awkward silence as well, she smiled gently at him. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

She gestured at the caverns of books around them. "You're in here nearly as often as I am. What are your favorite kind of stories?"

He turned to look at her then, and this time she was certain of the smile. "You were the one that reminded me how much I enjoy reading. After so long, I'd nearly forgotten how. I don't think I've even thanked you yet for helping me remember."

"You don't have to thank me. I was happy to do it."

He nodded once, then returned to her question. "When I was young, it was adventure stories. Pirates and treasure hunting."

Belle's smile grew wider, her mind conjuring the image of a miniature Beast embarking on imaginary quests across the high seas. "And what about now?"

He drew in a deep breath, as if gathering up his courage. "Would you like to hear it?"

"You want to read to me?"

"It's the least I can do, after you brought it back to me."

"I'd love to hear it!"

He glided over to a shelf nearby and pulled out a green leather-bound volume, more worn-looking than the others in the library. He rested the book on the windowsill, now kneeling on the seat so he could open the book for her. Belle gasped as the pages spread out to reveal a map of the sky, constellations lovingly drawn and named in delicate strokes of ink. Most stunning of all were the illustrations in the center, the sun and moon frozen in a celestial dance. She gently set her sleeping teacup back on his tray, tucking a napkin around him like a blanket, so she could give her full attention to Beast and his story. Taking only the very edge of the page between his claws, he turned to the beginning of the story. Here the ink spun into an icy landscape, not unlike the scene outside their window. The sky in this picture had been replaced by delicately scrawled words. In his low, soft baritone, he began to read.

"Once upon a time there was a poor husbandman who had many children and little to give them in the way either of food or clothing. They were all pretty, but the prettiest of all was the youngest daughter, who was so beautiful that there were no bounds to her beauty."

She thought he glanced at her here, but surely it was her imagination.

Stop being silly, she chided herself.

"So once", he continued, "it was late on a Thursday evening in autumn, and wild weather outside, terribly dark, and raining so heavily and blowing so hard that the walls of the cottage shook again--they were all sitting together by the fireside, when suddenly some one rapped three times against the window-pane."

So went the story of a girl swept away from her mundane world on the back of a white bear, who was truly a prince in disguise, her true love. They were parted by a mistake realized too late. But so strong was their love, that the girl was undaunted, riding the Four Winds until she could rescue her prince.

Belle wanted so desperately to hear the ending. But the lavender tea was working its' magic, and Beast's voice and presence was so warm, that she fell asleep upon her folded arms.

___

Beast heard her first snore before he could read out happily ever after. He suppressed a laugh with all his strength. She had an adorable snore. Moving quietly, he put the book back in its place. Now he faced a dilemma. He didn't want to wake Belle, but he couldn't exactly leave her here, either. Praying that this wouldn't be pushing their newborn friendship too far, he carefully gathered her into his arms until he was carrying her bridal-style. His heart almost stopped when she stirred, but she only pushed her face further into his broad shoulder. "Warm," she mumbled dreamily.

He would have given anything to live in that moment forever. But time never stops, not even within the walls of an enchanted castle.

Beast glided out of the library and up the stairs to Belle's room. He could already hear whispers from a few insomniac servants. There'd be gossip among them by morning. The door to Belle's room kindly (and silently) opened itself for them. He delicately laid her down on her bed. He thought that she clung to his shirt for a moment before settling onto her pillows, but of course that had to be his imagination.

Don't be stupid, he scolded himself.

He pulled the blankets over her, and allowed himself the indulgence of brushing a rogue lock of hair away from her eyes. He made it to her doorway before looking back at her once more. "Sweet dreams, my princess."

He knew he had no right to call her this.

She might never return his feelings. 

Even if she did, a free spirit like Belle would never be owned by anyone, and that was part of what he loved about her.

But he couldn't help it. To him, she was a princess, no matter what happened next.

He softly closed the door and left her to her dreaming.

And dream she did. But this time, instead of the endless ominous forest, Belle dreamt of ink and moonlight and a gentle thundercloud weaving stories at her shoulder.

[shamera]

..I'm sorry, Fontaine Archon Quest, it took me like half a year to get this far because I'm not... an Ace Attorney player.

And as much as I love the storyline, I can't throw down 4 hours at a time for each chapter that they do with the trials, because they won't let you go if you don't complete those cutscenes.

[petrichor-han]

the debt of existence; choi yeonjun

PAIRING | ghost!yeonjun x gn!human!reader

CAST | choi yeonjun, kang taehyun, seo changbin (mentioned)

WC | 18.2k

GENRE | angst, (slight) fluff, horror, ghost!au, non-idol!au

WARNINGS | mentions of death & dying, explicit language, mc had abusive parents, flashbacks to said abuse (physical and verbal), smoking, ghosts/spirits, childhood/unresolved trauma, mentions of hoarding, mentions of murder & suicide, descriptions of a crime/murder scene, gore/blood

SYNOPSIS | you remember your childhood home as a landmine, filled with metaphoric bombs just waiting to go off at any possible second—there was a reason you never came back home to visit after you moved out at the ripe age of eighteen. years later, your parents are dead and gone, and you realize that you have inherited that very same house—complete with the spirit that has haunted it since before you were born. 

A/N | hello everyone!! this is my addition to the monster beside me collab hosted by @decembermoonskz​!! super late, the collab was unofficially dissolved ages ago, and not my proudest work, but i wanted to finish this fic anyways since i was mostly done with it before my hiatus lol. slightly inspired by the webtoon my boo by jeongseo. please reblog and leave feedback/comments, it would be much appreciated!! 🫶

request to be added to current and future taglists HERE!

listen to the playlist HERE!

MASTERLIST | THE MONSTER BESIDE ME

JULY 

The end of July is always slightly uncomfortable, you think. It’s the midst of summer, but perhaps that contributes to its unease, to the realization that everything in life is fleeting and temporary, but it is not a sad thing to think of, as it just is. That is how it always is and how it always will be. July is a reminder that everything comes to an end, even things that seem everlasting, like the pesky mosquitos that suckle at your plush flesh in the warm muggy evenings and the flashing memories of childhood that you can’t seem to forget when you eat a cheap cherry flavored ice pop. 

Or, that’s what you think a relatively normal childhood would seem like. Not that you would really know. 

Your childhood summers were a dull thing to look back on, and most of what you could gather from your scattered memories, presumably locked away because of how much you hated it, was an image of you sitting in your one joy from your bleak youth: the large bay window that overlooked the front yard of your house. The yard could have been beautiful, you’d always thought as much. It was a large, pretty space with endless room for growth. You often daydreamed about the fresh vegetables, the pretty flowers, the vines and greenery of your dreams that could have flourished there if given the chance. Your parents didn’t seem to share the same daydream, instead doing the bare minimum to upkeep their lawn. The grass was not dead nor was it suffering, but it was nowhere close to being soft and supple like your neighbors’ lawns, that much you could tell though you were never allowed to tread upon it. This was another thing that your beloved bay window was good for: looking at the neighbors. 

It wasn’t a creepy thing. You were a child. Your neighbors had children too, and they seemed to have a much more colorful childhood than you did. During these endless summer hours when it seemed like the sun would never set, you watched them with one small hand pressed to your window, your breath fogging up the already condensated glass, small pearls of water forming from the mugginess, forlornly watching the other children play amongst themselves. Whether it was dress-up or tag, or simply rolling around in the soft green grass of their pretty lawns, you wished that just once you would be allowed to go there with them. It seemed like a separate world to you, as if your window panes were a television and you were watching a show about a happy childhood. You felt like a stranger looking in. You were a stranger looking in. 

Once, and just once, you were invited to come down and play with them. You remembered it. That summer was a particularly harsh one, in terms of temperature, and your parents’ creaky old house had no relief provided. The most that you could do was sit by your window and hope that a breeze would come through. This was the only time you were allowed to open your window. Unfortunately for you, though your window was cracked open, there wasn’t the slightest bit of wind. The blazing sun seemed to shrivel up everything in sight, heat waves visible in the air. It made you feel drowsy as you slumped against the wall, pushing your window open more and more even though you weren’t allowed to do so. You kept thinking that maybe if you pushed it open just a little more a small breeze would come through and tousle your sweaty hair… maybe it would send a nice breath of relief through your clothes. 

“Hey!” 

You jolted out of your daydreaming, your half-slumber. 

“Do you want to come play with us?” 

You look out of your window, heart catching in your throat. A few kids that you recognize from the neighborhood stand right outside your front gate, one of them even daring to lean against the old, chipping, white wood. The one that shouted at you is holding a soccer ball in her hands, the white patches more gray now than anything, a sign of a well-used, well-loved toy. She turns it over in her hands as she stares up at you, eyes twinkling with playfulness. You’re panicking now, just slightly; you’d never been asked to play with them before and you don’t want to mess it up. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she says doubtfully, the corners of her lips now slightly downturned in a frown, as if she were worried about hurting your feelings. “We like to invite new kids sometimes. But you don’t have to come.” 

“I want to!” you find yourself shouting back, though your heart pounds loudly in your ears with adrenaline. You swear you can feel your own blood coursing through your veins in your arms and legs, your ears burning with excitement. “Are you sure it’s okay if I come?” Even though they were the ones that invited you, you still find yourself worrying that they don’t want you there, and you play with your fingers as you lower your gaze, half-expecting them to laugh and say that they didn’t want you there after all. 

“Of course,” the same girl says matter-of-factly, and you like her right away with her no-nonsense aura. She seems to be the leader of this small group, and you want so badly for her to like you, for her to take you under her wing. You lick your chapped lips as she gives you a small smile, motioning for you to come down. “What’s your name?” she asks, and just as you part your lips to give her a response, your heart soaring through the thick, humid summer air, you find yourself being pulled backwards roughly, your sticky t-shirt pulled up against your throat as you choke and gag at the harshness. Your small fingers scrabble at the fabric that’s pulled up against your neck, and you are thrust aside onto the wooden floor. You can feel the skin of your left elbow dragging against the bare floor, skinning it effectively, and you cry out, cradling your sore joint. 

“They can’t come out to play,” your mother says roughly, before slamming the window shut and turning back to you, her eyes blazing. “What the hell were you doing? You know you’re not allowed to leave the house when we’re not home. Do you want to get kidnapped?” She’s still in her work uniform, beads of sweat appearing on her moist forehead; clearly, she had had a rough day at work. 

You feel yourself curling into a ball involuntarily, afraid of your mother’s rough tone. Your elbow stings and you just want her to leave so that you can look at the damage. “I’m sorry,” you say, your voice hardly above a whisper. “I was wrong.” 

“No shit,” she scoffs, and she runs a hand through her hair, eyes shut as she sighs, annoyance clear in her tone. “Don’t let me catch you doing that again. This is what’s best for you, and you’re making me look like the bad guy. It’s for your own safety.” 

“I won’t do it again,” you promise, guilt pooling in your stomach. You don’t dare to stand up, for you know that she could very well physically kick you down again. With the look on her face, it wouldn’t be far-fetched. And you do feel horrible–she’s right, after all, you think. They don’t give you many rules to follow, and you’ve read stories where people are hurt by their parents daily. They have never broken your bones or hurt you when you didn’t deserve it. Your skinned elbow was your fault. 

You think that your mother might give you a good spanking anyways, even though you were sorry, but instead she just looks at you with her upper lip curled in exasperation, eyes narrowed at you as if you were a bug that were squirming around on her floors, and leaves your room, slamming it shut behind her so hard that you can hear the hinges groan. The tell-tale click of a key slipping into your lock tells you that you won’t be allowed out for a while. You swallow hard and pick yourself up off the floor, tears burning the backs of your eyes as you try to hold them back. Your elbow is bleeding, and you don’t have any bandages so you press a piece of tissue to it even though it stings to have any contact. You sit yourself back on the edge of your bay window and stare at a new crack on the left side of the glass, something that would always remind you of that bleak July day when your mother once again dashed your hopes of having friends in the neighborhood—all in the name of your supposed “safety.”

You can see that same crack from the front gate, which is where you currently stand. You fumble with the old skeleton key in the pocket of your jacket, feeling the humidity make the material stick uncomfortably to your skin. Your fingers smell like old metal and rust when you retract them from your pocket, and it makes you feel slightly ill as you back away from the house. 

Not yet. 

Instead, you walk back to your car that’s parked on the side of the road, reach into your other pocket that holds your car keys, and unlock your door. You can still feel the cool air that had been blowing; you’d left the car running when you went for a quick look at your childhood home. You slide into your seat and close the door behind you, sighing as you grip the steering wheel tightly with both hands and press your sticky forehead against the top of it. You feel like you’re melting into the vinyl seats, like your skin is stuck to it like a pest to flypaper, and you shift uncomfortably as you look up, eyes darting between the empty road in front of you and the house that holds some of your most repressed memories. You thought that you had the confidence to waltz in there and clear it out as soon as you got the call from the bank, but seeing it now made your blood curdle. Clearly, there were some unresolved issues that you didn’t even know you were dealing with, and they were preventing you from going inside and just taking a look around the damn place. 

You shift the gear and back up out of your subpar parallel parking job on the uneven, cracked road. Your GPS says that the coffee shop you’re due to meet Taehyun at is fifteen minutes away. That’s fifteen minutes to clear your damn mind and convince him to give up his next few weekends to do you a huge favor. As you drive away from the old house, it feels like a weight has been lifted off your chest. 

You can do this. 

An old pop song from the past decade erupts from your speakers, and you reach over to turn it down even though the nostalgia rush gives you waves of calmness, in a way you hardly remembered. The singer’s voice—you don’t remember the name of the one hit wonder—is warbly and slightly out of tune, but it’s just because of your shitty old car and its apparent inability to play songs in the right key. You tap your fingers against the steering wheel as you slow to a stop in front of a light, the bright red glare stopping you dead in your tracks. 

The unfortunate thing is that you remember this road all too well. Years of driving down the same old street in your beat up family car with your parents spitting insults at each other had carved every crack, every pebble of this paved road deep into the grooves of your brain. You don’t think you could ever forget it; you could probably drive through it with your eyes closed. 

The light turns green, and the distant sounds of your mother’s sobs and your father’s cursing dissipates as your tires grind against the old asphalt, stalling for just a moment before advancing. 

The rest of the drive is more relaxing, less familiar. When you were a kid your parents didn’t ever stop by these coffeehouses, telling you that all they did was guzzle money that could be used on better things, and the teenagers that both worked and frequented there were bad influences anyways. You, being a naive child, agreed even though you didn’t really know what the hell they were saying. And you had to pretend that you didn’t want to go inside those cozy looking cafe’s, with fires blooming inside that fogged up the windows in the most delicious way possible. Instead, you followed your mother’s lead as she tugged on your arm, leaving behind the physical warmth that you so craved in place of emotional warmth from her. 

You think of this as you mutter curses to yourself under your breath just like your father used to, trying to find a parking spot. Some jackass in an old silver car has parked over the line, and you roll your eyes as you realize it’s your jackass; as Taehyun steps out of the car and winces as he looks at the crooked parking job. He spots you and waves before climbing back inside and backing out sharply, nearly hitting you in the process, and re-parks—not nearly a perfect job, but much better than before. This also allows you to take up the second spot that Taehyun had taken over before, and you rub your eyes tiredly as you finally unbuckle your seatbelt. 

Cicadas chirp loudly at you, and a distant hoot echoes in your ears as you stare into the thicket of trees on the other side of the coffeehouse. “Rough morning?” Taehyun asks as you step out of your car. 

“Sort of. Kind of. Maybe. Not really?” You lean against the trunk of your car after walking around, pursing your lips as the sun-warmed surface bites at your exposed legs. Your shorts ride up your ass and you can’t help but think about how annoying summers in your hometown can be, sensory wise. 

“I mean, you look tired. That’s all.” Taehyun shrugs as you shake off your denim jacket and toss it in the backseat of your car, the mugginess finally getting to you. 

“What a nice thing to say to a friend,” you say sarcastically, locking your doors. “You look like shit too.” 

“I actually was up all night, so you’re not wrong,” Taehyun admits, jerking his head towards the coffeehouse, and the two of you start walking towards it. It’s much different than your distant memory of the cozy atmosphere during a childhood winter. In the summer it looks like a cool solace, shielded by old trees with decades of memories and gentle indie guitar music that can be heard from the outside as you get closer to the entrance. It’s charming, you think, as you run your fingers along the raw wood railing, the old stairs creaking as the combined weight of you and Taehyun makes it groan. “I always think I’m gonna break these damn things,” Taehyun says, as you successfully make it to the front entrance. 

“They’re always that creaky?” 

“Always. But they’ve never failed anyone yet, so I guess we have to trust them.” He opens the door for you, and a small golden bell above the door is triggered and it jingles as you walk inside. A rush of cool air seems to quench your thirst as it washes over your uncomfortably warm body, and you sigh with relief as the scent of iced coffee and fruity mixtures pleasantly enters your senses. You realize that it seems to double as a bookstore, as multiple shelves are crammed with both old and new books, lining the walls of the shop. 

“I’ve never been here before. What’re you getting?” you ask, squinting at the menu while you fan yourself with your wallet. 

“I always just get an iced Americano. You know me,” Taehyun says. The young couple in front of you finishes ordering and moves out of the way, and you let Taehyun go first so that you can scan the menu at least one more time before you’re put on the spot. 

The teenager behind the counter has two big buns twisted messily atop her head, and a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose bridge make her look younger than she probably is. A pen on each side secures her buns, and she takes one out, making the left bun flop down. “What can I do for you today?” she asks, and even though she isn’t annoyed her voice carries a tone that makes you squirm uncomfortably, as if you’d interrupted her. Her hair-accessory-slash-pen is twirled between her fingers as she looks at you. 

You blink at her stupidly before saying the first thing on the menu, and she asks if you want it iced or plain, and you wonder if having a plain drink was always an option before blurting out iced. She writes it down, smacks her gum loudly, and you move aside to let the elderly person behind you order next. 

“What did you get?” Taehyun asks, as his name is called and his iced americano is slid across the counter. He picks it up and takes a sip. 

“Something with iced tea, I don’t even know.” You glumly stare at the other teenager that’s busy making drinks, and your name is called just a few moments later. You pick up something with iced tea and honey and sparkling water (you think) and sit down with Taehyun at a slightly sticky table full of pastry crumbs. He sweeps them away with a brown napkin made of eco-friendly materials, and you sip at your drink, which surprisingly isn’t that bad, as he sits down across from you. 

“So why are you back in town? Didn’t you just get a job offer from that city a few hours away?” Taehyun asks nonchalantly. 

You grit your teeth; you didn’t expect him to get to the topic right away. But then again, it’s Taehyun. He’s always been more straightforward and blunt than most people, and you couldn’t say that you didn’t appreciate that about him. In fact, it was something that you did like about him. You use your paper straw to push around at the ice cubes in your drink, looking down at the shocked wood that your table was made up of. “It’s kind of a long story.” 

“I have time.” 

“Well my parents died, and they left their old house to me. So now I have to clean it out and either sell it or keep it.” 

“That wasn’t a very long story.” 

You manage a laugh, but you don’t really mean it or find any of this funny. “I know. It was just hard to say.” 

Taehyun sips at his coffee. “Well, that must be rough. I’m sorry.” 

“No need to be sorry. But if you really want to make me feel better, help me clean it out. They had so much shit crammed in that house that we never needed.” You smile at Taehyun’s eye-roll. 

“And that’s why you asked me to hang out.” 

“‘Course it is. You know me and my ulterior motives.” You use air quotes around this, and Taehyun has known you long enough to understand that this was something your late father insinuated about you a lot. He laughs, a pity laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. You pretend not to notice that your joke made him uncomfortable, and pull out a book on the shelf closest to you. If you still had time to read, you think you might have taken it home, but you don’t, so you put it back and play with your paper straw some more before looking back at Taehyun. “You don’t have to, by the way. I can do it myself.” 

“No, I’ll help. Besides, I think you need my help if it’s as bad as you always said it was.” He finishes his coffee and stands up. “What are we waiting for? Let’s just go now and get some of it over with.” 

Again, you feel slight unease at his eagerness to get on with the tasks at hand, but you push your drink aside and shrug. “Okay, why not?” you ask, though something in your brain is nagging at you to leave it to another day. You stand up, taking your half-finished drink in hand and tossing it in the garbage, feeling only a little guilty about it, and follow Taehyun out to the parking lot. “Want me to send you the address?” you ask, pulling out your phone, but he shakes his head. 

“Nah. I know it already.” It’s a nod back to the day he helped you move out while both your parents were at work, the day you turned eighteen. It’s a bittersweet memory, and you push it back into the void of your mind as you manage a smile towards your dear childhood friend, and then walk back around to your own car, sandals smacking against the uneven asphalt. 

You sidle back into your car seat, adjusting the air conditioning so that it blasts your sweaty face and neck, and exhale loudly as you start pulling out of the parking lot, spotting the old, beat-up, silver car that he got from his dad back in high school. You follow his lead even though you recognize the way back as soon as you get back onto the main road, away from the forbidden coffeehouse of your childhood, and you want to pretend like you’re completely oblivious to the familiarity. But instead, you let your thoughts guide you, and the weight of resurfacing memories rests heavily on your chest, tempting you to reach up with one hand and place it over your heart, squeezing gently at the fabric of your shirt as if that would relieve the tension. 

Taehyun has taken the parking spot that you had earlier, in the street in front of the old house rather than the driveway, which you reluctantly pull into. The sloping pavement makes your old car groan as you park it and step out, keys jingling in your hands as you switch it out for the singular rusty key you’d received in the mail a few days before; the only way to get into the old house. Your parents hadn’t bothered with modernizing it any, and since it had been built well over a century ago, its age was definitely showing, especially now that your parents were gone and the minimal upkeep that they did had diminished completely. You stared at the bland front lawn with distaste, the complete lack of any landscaping still leaving a bitter flavor on your tongue as you remembered the vibrant gardens of your neighbors in your youth. Though plain, it was now completely overgrown with weeds, the grass growing dark green and lush from the frequent rain, which only added to the muggy climate. You felt your skin crawl, already imagining all of the insects that probably called that jungle of a lawn their home, and you reached down to slap a pesky mosquito off of your ankle as Taehyun’s footsteps approached, crunching the loose gravel scattered across the driveway. “How long has it been?” he asked carefully, though you wouldn’t have really cared if he’d been blunt about this as well. 

“I got the key a month ago. I don’t know how long it's been since they actually died. Or if they’d lived like this even before they passed. All I know is that my mom died first and my dad died a little bit after.” You frown before brushing past Taehyun and using the key to open the separate garage, where your parents never kept any cars but rather an assortment of gardening and outdoor supplies that they never used, a hoard of untouched second-hand objects that you could use to tackle the mess outside. You puttered around until you found an old lawnmower, small enough that you were fairly confident you’d be able to use it even though you had little to no experience using one, and a few other gardening tools that you handed to Taehyun, which he immediately sighed at but ultimately knelt down and started pulling weeds using said tools. 

You trudged through the grass, feeling the long blades tickle your shins, as you pushed the lawnmower across it. It had turned on after a few tries, and was now eating up grass faster than a herd of hungry goats, though you had to continuously empty the bag inside to keep it from clogging. The scent of freshly cut grass reached your nostrils and it was gratifying in a way, to know that after all these years the front yard would finally look decent. It might not be fancy, but decently kept was good enough for you. 

Taehyun stared up at the sky after he finished pulling the last weed from his side of the lawn and squinted at the bright sun that was beating down on the two of you. “Any chance your folks left refreshments inside the house?” he asked jokingly, and you laughed aloud, haughtily. 

“It’ll be lucky if there’s no rotting food still left in there,” you said, turning off the lawnmower and stepping back to admire your work. It wasn’t the prettiest job ever, but the lawn was mowed, and the difference was clear. Already, the house looked better, even with the chipping paint and anciently styled structure. “But it wouldn’t hurt to check.” 

Taehyun trailed behind you as you approached the front door, a queer feeling passing through your body as you felt an old familiarity drape over you like a blanket. You slipped the key into the hole and unlocked the heavy front door, the chipping white paint flaking off as it swung open, creaking all the way. You made a mental note to repaint the door when you could. 

Pocketing the key, you stepped up into the house that housed your sadness for so many years, and immediately you felt guilt pooling in your stomach. It was clear that in your parents’ later years they hadn’t been able to clean very well, and a thick layer of dust covered nearly everything in the first few rooms you walked through, apart from frequently used items and the floor, which looked grimy and in need of a deep scrubbing session. There were piles of trash that had never been taken out, and boxes and boxes of more useless items that they seemingly never used. You wouldn’t call them hoarders, but rather collectors—they never gave up something once they got their hands on it, thinking it’d come in handy one day. 

Now that you thought about it, maybe they were hoarders. You ignore that thought and immediately think to just clear out everything cluttered and clean the furniture as much as possible to stage it for possible buyers. You have no qualms or doubts about selling the house; you had no good memories associated with it, no positive nostalgia. And you had your own place and made enough money that you could get your own house if you so pleased—which you didn’t want to do just yet—without the bad memories. 

“Wow,” Taehyun says, whistling at the mess. “We really have our work cut out for us, don’t we?” 

“Just thinking about it is making my head hurt,” you grumble. “I’m checking out the basement for a second, do you mind scoping out the kitchen?” 

Taehyun salutes you, a cheesy smile on his face as he turns to walk back to the kitchen, which is much closer to the front door, and you take it upon yourself to undo the chain on the door down to the basement and clomp down the old wooden stairs. It’s not a scary basement, especially in the daylight. It was mostly another place for your parents to stash old knickknacks and such, a storage room if anything. Windows lined the very tops of the walls, letting in just enough sunlight to warm the room and light it up so that it didn’t feel like something out of a horror movie. Though, you had to admit that it was creepy being down there alone—but you had that odd feeling upstairs, too. 

You exhale loudly, plumes of dust flying up from the nearest box, and you sneeze as you pick up a box that looks to be full of books. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, rubbing your teary eyes, “I need some god damn air.” 

“So do I,” a nasally voice proclaimed, and you nearly jump out of your skin as you look around and spot a figure of a man in the corner. 

“Taehyun!” you shout, throat straining, dropping the box. The corners split open and books spill out onto the floor as you rush for the stairs, collapsing against Taehyun as the two of you collide. 

“Is everything okay?” he asks, concerned, gripping you tightly. His gaze falls upon the split box. “Did you hurt yourself when you dropped the box?” He examines your hands, your arms. 

“Don’t you see him?” you whisper, and Taehyun’s big eyes seem to widen even more, if that’s even possible. 

“See who?” he whispers back. 

“There. In the corner.” Your voice is cracking, eyes welling up with tears both from the dust and the fear. “You don’t see him?” 

“There’s no one there…” Taehyun says. His lips suddenly feel extremely dry, and his tongue darts out to wet them. “Maybe—maybe this was too much all at once. I think we should go.” 

You wipe your eyes with your bare arm and nod, letting him lead you up the stairs. 

“Wait! Don’t go!” the voice says again, and you look behind you, terrified, to see the man coming after you both. He moves oddly, his limbs jerking in unnatural ways as if he were not used to walking. You shriek, rush in front of Taehyun and drag him up the stairs, out of the basement, past the kitchen, out the front door and through the front yard. You don’t stop until you’re both hunched over in the driveway, sides aching and chests heaving. 

The front door had slammed behind you both even though neither of you touched it, and you make eye contact with Taehyun. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to use words to let you know that he’s saying he’s never coming back to the house. 

You wish that you could say the same, but instead your eyes say that you have to come back—just not any time soon. 

The sun is setting when you and Taehyun leave the old house, and every time you blink you think you see the tall man out of the corner of your eye. It’s like he’s following you, and you can’t shake him off your trail. The only time you feel safe is when you’re out in the daytime, when his supposed presence is suppressed by crowds of other people. 

But you can’t always stay safe. And so your last few July nights are filled with nightmares, the kinds that leave you sweating buckets into your sheets, the kinds that make you wake up with tears in your eyes. 

There is nothing you can do about it—except go back and see him again. 

AUGUST

Taehyun had taken up a summer job on the opposite side of town, and though he promised to keep in touch, you hadn’t really heard from him much. When he did message you, it was about mundane things, more often than not he talked about said summer job, in which he did nothing but keep the landscape of an old retirement home in shape. This reminded you of the work that the two of you had done on your own house, but the one time that you tried to bring it up to him he hung up on you and didn’t call you back until the next day. “It just freaked me out, okay?” he said exasperatedly, “just hire someone to clean out the house.” 

You scoffed at that for two reasons: one, you didn’t have nearly enough money for that, and two, you had a terrible nagging feeling that these nightmares wouldn’t subside unless you got to the root of the problem. Which of course, was the house and whatever it was that resided in it. 

You never really considered yourself particularly gutsy or brave, but the lack of sleep was starting to get to you, and though that job offer that Taehyun had mentioned offered to let you work remotely until the end of the year, you knew that the sooner you got this shit over with, the sooner you could move on with your damn life. So you hauled your ass to the hardware store and picked up a bucket of white paint that you were almost sure matched the shade of the front door, though it was almost impossible to tell for sure with how weathered and damaged it was, and the cheapest cleaning supplies that would still get the job done. 

But as soon as you approached the gates once more, you felt the familiar drop in your stomach. It was not the biggest house, as your parents were not wealthy, but the aura that it emanated made it seem equivalent to a castle with unscalable walls. The house had two stories, with a triangular roof that came to a main point right in the middle. You recognized the window at the left as your old bedroom window, and swallowed past the lump in your throat. All of the windows were dirty and fogged up with grime, especially the ones on the bottom floor, which were covered in handprints from the outside, presumably from people trying to look in now that it was vacant. 

The late summer sun was already beating down on you as you walked the short distance from the driveway to the front porch, weighed down by the cleaning supplies and paint. Though the weather was not the most agreeable, you could not call the experience unpleasant as you swept the floor of the porch and scrubbed at the windows, finally finishing with a fresh coat of paint on the door. You sat down on the slightly damp wood of the first step down, hugging your knees to your chest and picking at the drying paint on your skin. The lawnmower was still out on the lawn, and the grass was already growing back, though it was not remotely close to the length it had been when you first arrived. You reached down to pick at a few weeds that were growing taller than the grass, rolling over the rough stalks in your fingers as you breathed in the damp summer air. The day has been almost too peaceful, and you know that this will change as soon as you open the front door and step back inside. You know that the reason you saw him was because of what happened inside the house, not outside. 

“I don’t know what the fuck to do!” you shout at your phone. Your hands are pulling at your hair, scraping at your scalp frantically as you breathe heavily, your lungs feeling like they’ve shrunk and are unable to take in as much air as you need. As the last syllable rings in your ears, the silence from the other end of your call seems to be louder than your screams. You stare at the small screen laying atop the desk of your hotel room, shaking uncontrollably. 

“We know what this is coming from,” your therapist says gently. They ignore your outburst, which you are sure you’ll get complaints about. 

“What?” you ask, voice quieter now. 

“It’s because of the house. It’s because of your parents. It was just like what your friend said. It was too much all at once.” 

“What, so just because I couldn’t deal with being in a fucking house for ten minutes I imagined a ghost?” you snap, unfurling yourself from your previous position. Your bare feet brushed against the wooden floor, sending chills through your whole body as you thought about it. A ghost. 

“You’re still blaming yourself. It isn’t your fault that your trauma is resurfacing, you know,” your therapist says matter-of-factly. “Maybe this is a good thing. Next time you go back, why don’t you try talking to the ‘ghost’? They might have some perspective on what’s going on.” 

“So your solution is for me to accept that I’m fucking crazy. And now I have to talk to this ghost, that you don’t even believe is really a ghost, because again, I’m fucking crazy and this is all in my head. You’re saying that I’m a psycho and this is all a culmination of trauma, and my parents, and a bunch of other bullshit.” You rub at your aching temples. You’re mad now, you’ve forgotten about your fear. Anger has replaced it wholly, a misdirection, a distraction from the truth that you don’t want to accept. 

“You’re not crazy. But I do think that this ‘ghost’ is what you just said: a culmination of all of those things. It’s a ‘physical’ picture of your trauma.” 

“So what, now I’m a schizophrenic?” 

Your therapist laughs a little, drily. “No, you’re not. Schizophrenia isn’t something to joke about or be taken lightly. This is a trauma response. It’s very different.” 

You don’t reply, mostly because you’re pissed off at your therapist for insinuating that this is all in your head, because you know what you saw. And now that you’d had a few days to really think about it, you knew that it was real, even though Taehyun couldn’t see it, and your therapist is insisting that it’s some bullshit trauma response. 

The ghost in your house is real. You knew him all those years ago, and he still knows you now. 

The once-cold drink in your hand is now warming quickly from the sunlight reflecting off of the glass bottle. It’s only half-drunk, but you already don’t really want it any more, mostly because of the unease in your stomach at the thought of having to clean out the inside of the house now. You only started on the outside to procrastinate; they had let you know that repainting and such was not on your end of the deal. That would be taken care of by professionals. And now that you stare at your subpar paint job on the front door, you completely understand why. It looks cheap and messy, even though you did everything right. 

You’re staring at the door, trying to work up the courage to open it, when your phone begins to vibrate in your pocket, the sudden movement making you jolt. Plucking the device from said pocket, you immediately pick up the call, seeing Taehyun’s name flash across the screen. 

“Hello?” you ask drily, thumping the bottom of your warming drink against the stair you’re sitting on, the mindless clanks mimicking an old song you used to like. 

“Where are you?” he asks, “I’m at your hotel.” 

Uncomfortably, you gnaw at your bottom lip as you quickly scan the area. A slight breeze whips through your sticky clothes, and you clear your throat awkwardly before replying. “Uh… went out for lunch,” you said dully, “remember that Thai place we liked back in high school?” 

“Christ, you’re really bad at lying. Don’t you remember when it closed down four years ago?” You can hear Taehyun shuffle around and sigh deeply. “You’re back at the house again, aren’t you?” 

“Fine, I am,” you snap. “What else was I supposed to do?” 

“I don’t know, maybe hire someone like I said? I bet there’s a bunch of idiots here that peaked in high school that would love to do it. It’s not like people like Seo Changbin have much to do after their football career crashed and died before they even got to college.” 

“Why the hell are you so bitter all of a sudden? And Changbin was one of the nice ones, you ass. You know he’s happy now, fuck football for destroying his shoulder.” 

“It’s not good for you to be back there!” he says, exasperated. “Forget Changbin, that’s not the point.” 

You sigh loudly. “I… I know. But there’s something about this place that makes me feel like I have to figure some shit out—like, here. In the house.” 

“Have you talked to your therapist lately? It’s your unresolved trauma on the phone.” 

“And that’s why I have to resolve it now!” you exclaim, “Look, I’m going to be careful, okay? I’ll take it slow and if some more freaky shit happens I’ll leave. But you have to help me pay for a professional then, you owe me after I helped you score that date last year.” 

“First of all, they ended up fucking me over, big time. Second of all, I feel like a date isn’t equivalent to money. But thirdly—fine. Just… let me know if you need anything, okay?” You feel a lump in your throat arise at the sudden empathy in his voice, and how it softened at the end of his statement. As much as you were annoyed with him, you knew that Taehyun only wanted you to be safe, and he out of all people knew just how much of a toll this process would take on you. 

“I will. Now get back to work, your lunch break ended twenty minutes ago,” you tease. 

“Ha ha,” he says drily, over pronouncing the words with a bitter tongue. “Call me when you get back to the hotel.” 

You roll your eyes to yourself and hang up after confirming that you would, in fact, make sure to call him when you get back, and then you turn your attention back to the project standing in front of you. You know that it’s time to go back inside, and you have a new burst of energy thanks to Taehyun doubting you. Maybe that burst of energy is mostly from pettiness, but it’s there nonetheless, and you plan to make use of it. 

You take out the key—that nasty old key—and slip it into the lock. The door opens much quicker than it did last time; there wasn’t enough time for it to stiffen as it did when it had been left alone for some time, and the door opens. It’s a little underwhelming, surprisingly. You weren’t quite sure what you were expecting—something big and dramatic? Something straight out of a horror film? But instead, it looks almost welcoming. You think that if you hadn’t had such horrible memories associated with that same front hall, you would find it warm and inviting. The air inside is stuffy and musty, but the sunlight that streams in through the open front door illuminates the dust rising from the ground in a way that makes it look like the air is full of glitter, and it takes your breath away as you stare at the golden flecks dancing in the slight breeze. 

Looking around, you realize that your work might be easier than you previously thought. Though the entire house was grimy, and there were definitely boxes all over the place, most of their salvageable furniture and belongings had already been cleared out and donated—you having told the people in charge that you didn’t give a fuck what happened to any of it. It wasn’t like you wanted a floral patterned couch with an indent from where your father used to sit his lazy ass while he screamed his head off at you. 

You decided that starting with the boxes of miscellaneous stuff would be your best bet—once you cleared those out, it would be much easier to clean the floors, without the hassle of moving dirty cardboard around all over the clean floors. For a moment you hesitate, but then realize that your clothes are already covered in paint and sweat—and honestly, more than a few stains from your lunch too—so you sit down on the floor, trying to pretend like you didn’t hear the sticky sound that it made as it stuck to your pants. You reach for the nearest box, and find that it’s full of nothing but old magazines, which you scoff at and immediately push into an empty corner, dubbing it the “trash” pile. You were already quite certain that most of if not all the boxes would be making their way to that very same corner from the looks of it. 

It’s almost nice once you get into a routine. You rifle through a box, pulling out perhaps one or two trinkets you could donate, an old shirt here and there that isn’t in bad shape, and you even find a pristine lamp in one box, still covered in the plastic that it came in. 

You aren’t even halfway through the boxes when you grunt to yourself as you drag a particularly large and heavy box out from underneath what used to be your dinner table, falling flat on your ass as you lose your grip and fly backwards. “Ow,” you mutter to yourself, as you relent and open the box right there, giving up on trying to get it completely out from under the table. Much to your surprise—it’s a box full of old records, and a majority of the weight seemed to come from the record player that was right on top of all the stacked vinyls. You cringe a little, hoping that none of them are damaged, and you exhale loudly as you set the record player on top of the table and fumble with the cord for a moment before plugging it in and watching it start to spin, without any music playing. You wipe the sweat from your forehead with a dust-covered forearm before wiping your hands on your filthy pants and starting to flip through the plentiful choices you have in front of you on the floor. You can see lots of your parents’ old favorites—when they weren’t being absolute shit parents to you, they would let you look through the box, and then list their favorites. You would always pick one of their favorites, just to make them happy. And most of the time it would, for a little while. 

This time, you can’t help but select one of your mom’s favorites, and you silently slide the old vinyl out of its protective paper cover before carefully setting it down on the player, the needle silently spinning for just a moment before the song starts to play. It’s warped now—from so many uses or carelessness, you don’t know—but it’s that same song, and you can’t help but sink into a chair and just watch that black record go round and round in a circle as the lyrics you know by heart start to weave their way into your ears. 

“That was her favorite one.” 

No. You can feel it—that very same presence that was there on the day that you and Taehyun first explored the house—it’s cold, and it makes your throat dry up, and you feel stuck to the chair you’re sitting in. 

“You used to play it all the time.” 

“Who are you?” you whisper, shielding your face from said presence, even though its voice is coming from behind you. 

“You really don’t remember me then, do you?” The voice is mournful now—or maybe mournful isn’t the right word. It’s almost whiny. 

“Obviously not,” you hiss, starting to get annoyed for some reason. 

“Can you look at me then?” his energy matches yours, exasperation clear in his nasally tone. 

The fear has all but dissolved from your body now that you have braved an attempt at a conversation with this thing, so you turn your upper body around to face it straight-on, and there’s no hiding the shock that spreads across your face as you stare down the presence—no, the ghost—that you know all too well. 

“I knew you’d remember me if you saw me,” he said, “I haven’t forgotten you, though.” 

You hold a grimy hand to your forehead, breathing heavily as you think about it some more. Of course you knew this idiot—he was one of the only solaces in your entire childhood, apart from Taehyun, though he came into it at a much later time. Now that you think about it, this ghost was the only thing that came to mind when you tried to come up with any sort of happy memory before the age of fourteen or so. 

“Yeonjun, I…” you trail off. Saying his name alone was too foreign on your lips; the way it rolled off your tongue left a bitter taste in your mouth. You couldn’t finish what you wanted to say, because to be quite honest, you weren’t sure at all what you were going to say. Sorry I forgot about you for like a decade, even though you were the only friend I had for forever. How’ve you been? How was it hanging with my parents as they withered away and died? 

There was probably a way you could have sugar coated all of that, but you didn’t think about it too much as he just shrugged and looked off to the side. “Time passes differently for me, remember? I know it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you—even more so since we last talked, but I’m used to being alone, so it’s okay.” 

You feel even worse after he says that, and he only makes it worse as he corrects himself. “Oh, wait. You don’t remember, right. Well you see, I’m pretty sure that ghosts, especially ones that have been dead for a while, process time differently than humans—” 

“How did they die?” you blurt out, interrupting his rambling. 

Yeonjun freezes, hands stopping their visual explanation along with the vocal part. You watch his fingers twitch before he lowers them, and he kicks at the floor and sighs, loudly. “Come on. It’s been like ten years, and that’s the first thing you say to me?” 

“What am I supposed to say?” you ask, feeling guilty but defensive all at once. “What the fuck am I supposed to say to a ghost? A real, literal fucking ghost.” 

“I don’t know, man! I’m not like—stupid. You could ask me how I’ve been, what the hell I’ve been up to all this time, literally anything about me instead of your fucking parents!” He’s yelling now, his voice bouncing off the dirty walls, and you crumple up, limbs folding in, head tucked close to your chest, as he shouts. But he lowers his voice after that, and runs a hand through his hair, which looks no different than it did all those years ago. “I mean, fuck, dude. You were the only thing I had. And then you left. And now you’re back and—and you don’t even remember me. You don’t remember shit.” 

“I’m sorry.” It’s a shit apology, but Yeonjun seems to accept it as he chuckles bitterly. 

“I am too. But… I know it’s not your fault and—and I’m really happy that you got out of here when you did. I’m even glad that you had that guy with you when you first came back, I know that he was important to you back then.” 

“You mean Taehyun?” 

“Yeah. I remember the day you met him, and you were so excited that you had a real, live human friend for once.” Yeonjun shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans and sighs. “I think that was when we slowly stopped… talking.” 

Of course, you don’t remember that much yet. You hardly remember Yeonjun himself—you just know that he’s important. For whatever reason. But you slowly nod as if you remember, but it doesn’t fool him and one side of his lips twist up in a bitter sort of smirk. 

“You don’t have to pretend like you remember, okay? Maybe it’ll come back to you. Or maybe it won’t, but either way, it’s fine. I’m just glad you didn’t yell at me and run this time.” 

“Sorry,” you say again. “I was really scared last time.” 

“You’re not scared now?” 

“No, I remember you now. Not—not a lot—but I know that you were important to me, so… I guess you can’t be too bad.” 

Yeonjun finally cracks a smile. “Damn straight,” he says, and the subtle twitch of his pursed upper lip sends a line of fire down your spine as you remember something so distant yet so tangible—and you can’t help but sigh with nostalgia. 

“Really? Iris again?” 

Your fingers fumble with the paper slip that your mother’s favorite record hides within as you jump at the sound of Yeonjun’s voice. “Yeonjun!” you scold, “I almost dropped it!” 

Yeonjun chuckles and floats down to the floor, so close to touching the beige carpet that his semi-translucent shirt nearly drags across it. If it wasn’t for his inability to collide with solid objects, he would have been laying belly-down on the floor across from you to maintain eye contact, seeing as how short you were when you knelt down to rifle through the box of records beneath the coffee table. “Come on, sugar,” he drawls, “it’s your sixth birthday. You should be able to choose what song you wanna hear.” 

Your little fingers tighten around the record, now half-slipped out of the case. “I don’t know…” you say doubtfully, hesitancy laced throughout your voice. “I’m never allowed to choose the music, you know that.” 

“It’s your special day!” he exclaims, floating upwards and spreading his arms out, as if he were taking in the sunshine on a lovely summer afternoon. “If not now, then when?” 

There’s something about Yeonjun that makes you want to listen to him. Not in the way that you feel with your parents—no, they’re demanding in a way that makes your stomach hurt when you’re around them, even if you’ve done everything right—but in an entirely new way. You know that he doesn’t have any malicious intent. Yeonjun just likes having fun with you, and there’s so little fun to be found around the house. And after all, he’s right. 

It is your birthday. 

So you set your mother’s favorite record aside, placing it carefully on top of the coffee table so that no one steps on it accidentally, and your stubby little kid fingers gingerly flip through the rest of the records before you settle on your favorite. 

It’s one of the newest ones in the box, with undented corners that are still sharp enough to cut you if you aren’t too careful, and no fingerprints all over the shiny cover. Your aunt bought it for you and told you to only listen to it when your parents weren’t around, so that you didn’t get on their nerves. It’s loud and punk-y and it makes you feel like a real big kid. It’s the music that you hear all of the older kids in your neighborhood talk about when they walk down your street and their loud voices carry in the wind up to your open window. 

There’s a rush in your head, and you swear you can hear the blood gushing through your veins with anticipation as your hands shake when you place the record carefully onto the machine. It starts spinning, and you drop the needle in just the correct place. 

Funky instrumentals and the loud, clear voice of one of your favorite singers travels through your ears as you clap in delight, and Yeonjun starts dancing in a silly sort of way to make you laugh. “See?” he said over the music, “isn’t this nice?” 

But before you could reply, you felt all of the happiness melt out of your body and disappear into the ground beneath you as you felt a large hand on your shoulder. Yeonjun’s eyes travel from where they met with yours, to the intimidatingly large figure that’s behind you. 

“Why don’t we take that out now,” says your father, in a voice that is terrifyingly calm. 

You don’t want to even look back at him for a second, so you quickly turn off the machine and pick up the record, trying to quickly put it back so that your mother’s favorite music can be put back on and it’ll be like nothing ever happened—but your father snatches the record from your hands before you can finish putting it back in the case, and you watch with shock as he snaps it in half with his hands. Little black plastic flecks fly through the air as he drops the halves onto the floor and uses his foot to crush them even further beyond fixing. 

“That’ll be you next time,” he says quietly, before walking away and disappearing down the dark hall to his room. 

You sit there in silence with Yeonjun as the first verse of Iris starts playing yet again. 

Well, maybe you didn’t sigh with nostalgia. Maybe it was something more like rumination—something that left a bitter taste on your tongue. Either way, you remembered something about Yeonjun, and that alone made you crack a weak smile as Iris continued to warble in the background of your reunion. 

— 

It’s mid-August before you try to ask Yeonjun about your parents again. You don’t really know why you want to know so bad—it’s a bit morbid, really—but you feel a pull in your chest that won’t go away. It’s similar to the pull that brought you back to the house and back to Yeonjun in the first place, and that is why you decide to ask him just once more as you’re scrubbing the kitchen floor. 

You’re on your hands and knees, working away at the sticky, dusty floor, and you already know that the knees of your jeans are completely soaked through from the way the denim is sticking to your skin. You’re using a sponge—one that was once a bright yellow, and is now an odd gray—to rinse away the sticky residue that clings to the linoleum. “You missed a spot there,” Yeonjun says, pointing to an uncleaned spot next to the refrigerator, and you roll your eyes and huff as you sit back on your ankles, wiping away the sweat from your brow with one soapy arm. 

“I know you can’t technically help, but you’re really getting on my nerves,” you say, tossing the grimy sponge into the bucket of soapy water. 

“I’m keeping you company!” he exclaims, “would you rather be alone?” 

“No,” you say, sulking. 

There’s a silence that settles between the two of you then, just for a moment. The only sound is the faint popping of bubbles in your bucket that sits beside you, until you take a deep breath and decide to just go for it. “Yeonjun,” you start, “if it’s okay… could you tell me what happened to my parents?” 

Yeonjun stills. You watch his eyes lower and his mouth twitch before he sighs aloud. “Are you sure you want to know?” he asks, “I thought you didn’t care about what happened to them.” 

“I don’t care about them,” you say quickly, “but… I just want to know.” 

Yeonjun settles right above the counter, floating just an inch or so above the grimy granite, and crosses his legs, leaning back as if he could use the cabinets as a backrest. “Well,” he says, “I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty sure it was the smoking that was the final straw.” 

The small white and blue box of cigarettes sits in front of you on the coffee table. It’s about half-empty, half of the cancer sticks inside smoked away and settled in your parents’ lungs. You know that smoking is bad for you—you’d known ever since the second grade when there was a whole presentation about it at school, and a few of the kids had figured out that that bitter smell of tobacco was, in fact, coming from you. Thus, you endured a year and a half of kids teasing you about smoking, and when you protested and said that it was your parents that smoked and not you, it really only got worse—because for some reason, the kids found it comedic that you came from somewhat of a broken home. And worse, for some reason, even though this was completely, one hundred percent your parents’ fault, you still felt an urge to defend them. You lost count of how many times you pretended that your mom packed you your lunches, just like all the other kids’ moms did, when you were the one that had woken up before the sun had risen just to put together a sandwich and write a little note. “Have a great day, I love you!” the little pink post-it said, signed “Mom” with a flourish. You tried to mimic the way your mother’s handwriting looped and curved, how there were two little loops inside the ‘o’ because she always half-assed her cursive, and it ended up somewhere between print and script. Or, how you pretended that your father was to take you to the zoo the weekend after Shin Ryujin bragged that her whole family went on a trip to the aquarium. 

None of it was ever true. And as you stared at that little box, all dented from being carried around in your mother’s purse, in your father’s pocket, you felt a rush of hatred towards it, more hate and negativity than your little self had ever felt before. 

You snatched up the box, almost crushing—no, for sure crushing the cigarettes left inside—and you shoved it underneath the couch, huffing as you balled your hands into fists. 

“What are you doing?” Yeonjun hissed, “they’re gonna go crazy looking for those!” 

“Let them!” you whisper-shout, “I hate cigarettes! I hate how they smell, I hate how people think I use them, and I hate how my parents like them more than they like me!” You run past Yeonjun and towards the staircase, bare feet thumping against the stairs softly as your mother briskly walks past those same stairs, wondering aloud where her cigarettes were. 

“Where the hell are they?” you hear her shout, and you feel guilt tug at your heart as you squeeze your pillow to your chest. Her footsteps approach, less than a minute after you closed the door behind you, and you side-eye Yeonjun as he stares back at you helplessly. “Did you touch my cigarettes?” she asks as soon as she swings open the door, with such force that the doorknob slams into the wall and leaves a mark in the white paint. 

You’ve always been bad at lying, and this is why your mother grabs you by the hair and tosses you across the room, screaming that she just needed one to get through the rest of the day, and now she was fucked, absolutely fucked, all because of you. 

And all that Yeonjun did was watch, unable to help you fight back. 

It wasn’t like you wanted to anyways. You lay there on the floor where you landed once you were thrown, with silent tears trickling down your cheeks as your mother screamed at you, flecks of saliva spilling from her angry lips. 

“So… when did you start smoking?” 

“Shut up. I know you’re judging me.” You breathe out a cloud of smoke and rub at your tired eyes with your fingers that still smell like cleaning supplies. 

“It’s literally what killed your mom,” he said defensively, “I just told you that.” 

“Then let it kill me too.” 

Yeonjun doesn’t reply, and you can feel his eyes on you as you sit on the stairs that lead up to the hell-house that you know you have to finish cleaning, puffing away at the one thing that’s never let you down before. 

When you look back to ask Yeonjun why no one bothered to check on your dad after your mom passed, you drop the half-smoked cigarette. 

He’s gone. 

SEPTEMBER

September brings a slight chill in the air, an ever-so subtle reminder that summer is now over—technically, not officially. You thought that by finishing the ground floor before summer ended, you’d be off the hook for the colder months, but once you managed to break down the door to the basement again and find the hidden handle that led to the attic you realized you were kinda-sorta fucked. There was no way you’d finish this any time soon. 

After the day that Yeonjun disappeared on you, he’d only appeared every now and then, his voice weaker and more mature now, losing that childish Peter Pan-esque edge that you now realize he’d always harbored. It was like he’d sobered up, realized the weight of what was happening, almost. But he was still Yeonjun after all—which you now understood was a good thing, after recalling more and more fond memories with him. 

He’d guided you around and into all of the boxes that were stuffed against the wall in your living room and the kitchen, pushed up against the sides of the hallway, hidden away underneath both the kitchen and bathroom sinks, and you realized that even though you’d said you wished he would stop annoying you, the company was actually quite nice. When Yeonjun wasn’t making fun of you or berating you for smoking, he was good at holding a conversation. It was almost like you hadn’t been apart for over ten years, almost like he was a real, live person—your friend, that wasn’t a dead guy that inhabited your childhood home. Multiple times you caught yourself thinking that you should introduce him to Taehyun, that the two of them would get along quite well, before remembering what happened when they actually “met” that first and last time. It was bittersweet, remembering that Yeonjun couldn’t be seen by most other people, and even if they could, in fact, see him, there was a very limited number of things you could do with him, seeing as how he couldn’t leave the house or make physical contact with anyone or anything. 

And once the ground floor was cleared out, sparkling like it was almost new, he was the one who showed you which kitchen drawer the key to the basement was kept in, almost identical to the key to the front door. You finally got around to getting a key ring for the two, even putting two charms on the ring alongside the old keys—one, a shitty little beaded trinket that you remembered making back in elementary school, and two, a little plastic ghost that you found at the dollar store. The day that you got it you showed it to Yeonjun, shaking it in front of his face as he glared at you. “It reminds me of you!” you said playfully as he sulked. 

“I don’t look like that,” he insisted, “they’ve got it all wrong! What lame ass ghost looks like that?” 

But you named it Yeonjun anyways, much to his distaste, and he eventually, begrudgingly, accepted it. 

It’s a warmer day when you finally return to begin clearing out the basement, and you aren’t quite sure what to expect. Yeonjun had told you that it was pretty much the same situation as the ground floor, but a lot of them were opened and just filled with junk that was all garbage-worthy, so it wouldn’t be too difficult to get through even though there were plenty of them. You show up to the house whistling a tune that you can’t quite place, swinging your keys in one hand and carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies in the other. 

“I was wondering when you’d show up.” 

“Stop trying to scare me.” You glare at Yeonjun’s head that’s poking through the front door—now repainted once again, properly this time. 

“Just trying to have a little fun,” he says, lips curling up into a smile. You can’t help but smile too as you roll your eyes—you’d missed his silly side. It had disappeared a little after he saw you smoking. “Are you starting the basement today?” he asks, floating beside you as you shut the door behind you and walk down the hall to the basement door. 

“Yep,” you sigh, “and according to you… I have a lot to get through.” 

“I’ll be keeping you company, don’t worry doll,” he says, saluting at you. 

“If only you could help clean too,” you say drily, inserting the key into the large, golden lock and twisting. The door creaks open on its own once you take out the key, and you fumble around for the lightswitch, which you remember is right outside the door so that you can’t control the lights once you’re down there. 

The lights switch on, yellow and flickering, and a faint buzzing fills your ears, the effort of working apparently a bit much for the old wiring. “Ready?” he asks, following your gaze, looking down the long, steep staircase. 

“I guess so,” you reply, unease creeping into your mind. 

To be quite fair—you didn’t know anyone that would enjoy a creepy basement, especially one in an old house like yours—even during the day. The bare wooden stairs are slippery with dust, and you make sure to hold on tightly to the railing for safety even though that too is filthy. Cobwebs and little piles of dirt and miscellaneous crumbs gather in the corners of each individual stair, and you keep an eye out for spiders or other little creatures that might be roaming the area, thinking that it was abandoned by humans and therefore the perfect home for them. The old wood creaks loudly, and you worry that it might actually give underneath your weight, but each stair holds, and you finally make it down to the nightmare-inducing basement. If not nightmare-inducing for all of the horrible memories that were starting to come back to you, then simply because of the sheer filth. Yeonjun had failed to warn you of just how thick the layers of dust and grime were. 

“When was the last time anyone was down here?” you ask, coughing as you stir up particles by simply walking over to the nearest pile of boxes. You wave your hand in front of you, desperately trying to fan away anything that was threatening to invade your lungs. 

“I was here just yesterday!” he protested, before wrinkling his nose and backtracking. “Oh, you mean someone living…” You nod awkwardly, placing the bucket of cleaning supplies on the floor as you start to open up the closest box, which you realize quickly is just full of old shopping receipts. “Man… it’s been years, then. They stopped coming down here once they realized there was no more room to hoard shit. Everything here is at least a few years old, so beware of food.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you at the last part, and you chuckle, taking it as a joke until you find a box of canned goods so old that several of the containers have exploded, leaking rancid juice all over the box and even onto the floor. It’s long since dried up, but it’s still sticky to the touch, and you gagged at the stench. 

“I don’t even know what this originally was,” you complain, tossing the entire box into a large, heavy-duty garbage bag, “those idiots ripped off all the labels.” 

“Maybe… beans?” Yeonjun guesses, though it’s unclear. 

“Whatever, I’d prefer to live in ignorant bliss,” you declared, moving to the next box. This one, unlike most of the others, is taped shut, and you have to use the basement key to rip it open, having forgotten a pocket knife or any other tool that you could use to cut through something, especially something as tough as old duct tape. “Oh, Christ…” you mutter under your breath, as you pull out the trinket inside and hold it to the flickering ceiling light, “Jun, come here. Do you remember this?” 

“How could I forget? You talked to it like it was real even though I was right here,” he grouched, after floating over curiously and realizing what you were holding. 

“It has a name,” you sing, waving the little doll around. 

Yeonjun stays silent, floating beside another wall of boxes. His expression looks almost pained. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, lowering the doll. 

“You do remember why you named it what you did, right?” he asks. His voice is strained. 

You sit down on the floor, ignoring the filth, and stare at the doll in your hands. It’s threadbare, grayed, and smelly now. It was all of those things back then too, but once you say its name you understand why Yeonjun is so upset. 

“That isn’t even a clever insult.” You wipe your eyes and stare up at Yeonjun, whose arms are crossed as he stares down at you. You’re sitting on your bedroom floor, crying to yourself about the assholes at school that just won’t shut the fuck up about the way you smell—hence your new nickname, Smoky. “It’s actually laughable how stupid it is,” he scoffs, and a particularly loud sniffle from you prompts him to settle down closer to the floor so that he can look you in the eye. “Come on, it’s not that bad.” 

“It could be anything,” you exclaim, “it’s just the fact that they use a name at all to call me out and stuff—it makes me feel singled out. It makes me feel like shit.” 

“Don’t—don’t say that word,” Yeonjun says softly, “come on—want to play some music? Or we could—” 

“No,” you interrupt, standing up and turning away from him. “I just want to be alone.” 

You hear Yeonjun sigh. It’s deep, and long, and you can tell you’ve hurt his feelings. You feel guilt pooling in your stomach as he tells you he’d be around if you changed your mind—he was only trying to help, after all. But you can’t help it. You really just want to be alone. You climb into your bed and curl up into a little ball on top of your covers, staring at your old gray stuffed cat sitting next to your pillow. 

His name is Smoky, too. 

You slowly reach out to pick him up, and then you’re holding him close to your chest and sobbing. It’s stupid, and you feel like a goddamn idiot. It’s just a word, it’s just something that people are using to get under your skin, and you’re letting them. It sounded silly when you explained it to Yeonjun, and it sounds silly when you repeat it in your head. But it doesn’t sound silly when it counts—when someone yells it out at you when you’re walking down the hallway, or when you have to work with someone in class. And that is something that you can’t make sense of, and you know Yeonjun will never understand. 

You’re shaken from your pity party when your door slams open—the door knob hits the wall in the same place it always does, further chipping away at the paint. “Are you really in bed right now?” your mother asks sharply, and you sit up immediately, wiping away your tears. She stands there in the dark hallway, one hand curled around the door knob and the other resting on her hip in a judgemental stance. “I asked you to clean the kitchen this morning.” Just like it always is when it comes to her anger, it’s quiet at first. 

“I forgot,” you say drily, not in the mood to do any sort of cleaning—or be screamed at by your mother. But you instantly regret your tone when you see a fire alight in her eyes at this opportunity to punish you. “I’m sorry,” you blurt out, “I’ll do it now.” 

“No,” she says, “you’re going to clear out the basement instead, and you can stay there tonight while you think about what sort of idiot would sass their mother. You really think that’s something we’re gonna allow? Do you like being punished or something?” 

“No,” you say meekly. You start to stand up, but it’s too slow for your mother, and she grabs you roughly by your shirt and starts pulling you down the hall. All you can hear is the sound of her heels clicking against the floor and your blood pumping in your ears. You almost trip over your own feet as you’re pulled down the stairs, and your ankle rolls as your mother sharply turns a corner. You grit your teeth instead of crying out. 

Your mother is breathing heavily as she fumbles with the lock for a moment before pulling open the door roughly, and she jerks her head, motioning towards it. “Go.” 

For some reason, that’s worse than if she were the one to push you. 

You step forward shakily, but with your bad ankle, you can’t catch yourself, and you tumble down the first half of the stairs, landing with a thud. You’re facing the wall, but you watch the light leave the room as your mother slams the door. 

“Are you okay?” Yeonjun’s alarmed voice asks, and you suck in a deep, shaky breath as you push yourself up into a sitting position, shaking. 

“What do you think?” you ask. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, but you just shake your head. 

“It’s not your fault.” 

The door opens once more, and you look up to the light, seeing your mother. Since the light is coming from behind her, her entire front is in the shadows, and you can’t read her facial expression. She’s holding something in her hand. You watch silently as she holds it up, looking at it for a moment before throwing it down at you. It lands in front of you, and she slams the door again. This time, you hear the lock click before she walks away. 

You can’t see anything, but you grope around for whatever it was she threw down. Your fingers brush against something soft and fuzzy, and you know what it is as soon as you pull it to your chest. Little Smoky, still damp from your tears. 

Smoky never sees the light of day again. 

“Poor guy,” is all you say as you stare at the limp cat in your hands. He smells like everything else in the basement now, reeking of mildew and rot. You wonder how you forgot about him, but then you feel guilty as you remember how you somehow forgot about a whole person—a whole ghost—and you slowly set him down. 

“So you remember,” Yeonjun confirms. 

“I’m remembering a lot these days,” you say honestly. “It’s—it’s shit that I haven’t thought about in years. A bunch of repressed memories.” 

“Is it hard?” he asks, “remembering, I mean.” 

“Most of it… yeah, I guess you could say it’s hard. It just reminds me of how miserable I was before I had my own life.” You smile, a little sadly. “But… that also makes me much more grateful for my happiness now, you know? I never thought I could be happy, and I proved myself wrong. It’s a good feeling.” 

“Yeah?” Yeonjun asks, looking up at the horizontal windows that line the tops of your basement walls. “Can you tell me what it’s like out there now?” His voice sounds a little distant, foggy. “What’s changed?” 

“That Thai place I told you about closed down,” you said, “and now that old store that used to sell handmade baby clothes is a Starbucks. There’s a new shopping mall, but everything there sucks and is way too overpriced.” 

But that doesn’t satisfy Yeonjun, and you know it. 

“The people—the people are still the same, Jun. Really. That’s partially why it was so hard to come back here and see everyone. It’s like I went back in time ten years. It’s like I’m still stuck here.” You swallow hard. “But really. I promise that nothing has really changed since you last saw it. Towns like these never do.” 

Yeonjun seems to shake off whatever far-away thought had overtaken him and clears his throat. “Right, yeah. Thanks.” He hides his face from you as he turns to examine another stack of boxes. “There’s a shit ton of coupons in here.” 

Your heart thumps painfully as you watch your friend try to hide his grief from you, and you feel bad for not thinking about what you said more. While working through your own feelings, you forgot to consider how Yeonjun felt, after all these years alone. 

“Really?” you ask, your voice wobbling as you start to cry for him. “Let me come see.” 

— 

Unlike the basement, you were never allowed in the attic. 

The attic was not a place you were forced into as a punishment. 

Because the attic is gorgeous, you realize. 

It’s by far the cleanest room in the house, though still covered in a thick layer of dust. However, it’s easy to sweep away and collect in a dustpan since there’s no sticky residue that it clings to, unlike the multiple layers of grease and other substances that had accumulated on the basement floor after years of neglect. 

Cleaning the windows first was a smart choice, allowing natural sunlight to peek through the panes of bubbled glass, casting wavy shadows on the hardwood floor. Indeed, it’s especially beautiful in the late afternoon sunset, when the rays are bright and warm and golden, the entire room looking like it was doused in honey and maple syrup and everything sweet and thick. It’s then that you don’t mind spending long hours there at the house, forgetting all of the bad that went on behind closed doors. For in the attic, in that sweet sugary autumn light, it’s almost like you can imagine a different childhood in that house, one that was happy and sweet—one that you wanted to savor on your tongue, instead of swallow past as soon as possible. 

Yeonjun flutters in and out of the room, making passive snarky remarks as you pull out vintage photo albums and memories that you hardly recognize. Really, you hardly even recognize them as something that your parents would want to keep around, not finding it to match the personalities that you knew so unfortunately well. They never wanted to make memories with you, not good ones anyways.

As you dig through old photo frames and trinkets, you realize there’s a surprising amount that you find intriguing, that you want to keep for your own. Naturally, you throw out all of the actual belongings, not caring about your mother’s high school yearbook or your dad’s old collection of Kangol hats. 

“What’s that?” Yeonjun asks, appearing next to you as you use your thumb to rub dust off of an old vase, revealing intricate hand-painted patterns beneath the layers of dust. 

“Something that belonged to my mom, I think,” you say, admiring it before setting it aside in a box, which is growing quite full of things that you want to keep. Yeonjun’s gaze falls on the box, and his expression hardens a little. “What?” you ask, frowning. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“I wish I could come with you,” he says, finally, after a few moments of awkward, expectant silence. You feel a lump form in your throat as Yeonjun stares down at the box of things, his expression conflicted. “I—I know I can’t, but… I’m really going to miss you, when you’re done here,” he whispers, a crestfallen look on his face. 

Your voice feels thick with emotion as you speak, but it comes out sounding almost monotonous. “I wish you could come with me too,” you say, even though you’re not sure how you would fare in life with a ghost tagging around constantly. Even if it’s Yeonjun. 

He smiles, a little bitterly—you can tell that he’s jealous of your life, of the fact that you get to live and breathe and walk around. “No, you don’t,” he replies, sighing. “And I get it. Really, it wouldn’t be right… to hold you back like that.” 

“You wouldn’t be holding me back,” you say, immediately, even though you know it’s not true—it was your initial thought. 

“Be honest, okay? I’m not going to be offended. And even if I was, it’s not like I can do anything about it,” he says, chuckling now, his good-natured attitude returning. 

“You’re already haunting my house,” you say, managing a small chuckle. 

“Hey, it wasn’t always your house!” he retorts, laughing, but then both of your smiles fade, slowly. You’d assumed, of course, that Yeonjun had lived here before you and your parents moved in, but you never really thought about how or why he died here. You’d never asked either, thinking it was probably rude to ask a ghost how they died. 

“But, uh… it’s yours now, of course. And it was yours for much longer than it was mine.” 

“Was it?” you ask, furrowing your brow at him. 

Yeonjun shifts uncomfortably, looking away. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” you say quickly, feeling guilty, “but… I guess, I do wonder.” You bite your tongue, hoping that wasn’t the wrong thing to say. But Yeonjun just sighs, and then looks up at you with a small, understanding smile. 

“Remember what I said about not needing to hold back?” he asks, smiling crookedly. You again manage a small smile. 

He bites his lower lip, running his tongue over it as he thinks. “I don’t know much,” he begins, slowly, “so I hope you’re not expecting details… but I do remember living here with my dad, long before you and your family moved in. I don’t remember how or when I died, but I remember a few things about what I was like as a person. That’s mostly it.” 

“What were you like?” you ask, leaning back against a stack of boxes and looking at him, a soft smile on your face. You can’t help it—he does look pretty in this light, translucent and almost silvery in the waning sunlight. 

“Like this,” he says, grinning, “just as handsome and perfect.” 

You roll your eyes, and for a moment you fully believe that he’s a solid, real person and you can reach over and playfully shove him to make him stop being annoying. Your muscles twitch as you almost move to do it. “Really,” you say, smiling, “what were you like?” 

His smile fades slightly, and he clears his throat. “Well… actually, I wasn’t as great. I was kind of a jerk, in school and everything. I had a lot of friends that were just as horrible as me, and we would go around and act like we owned the world.” He wrinkles his nose at the memory, displeased. “It’s really embarrassing to admit now…” 

“So you were one of those people,” you say, unable to hold back your smug smile. “I knew it. You gave off that energy.” 

Yeonjun groans. “Take that back. Please. I swear, I’ve changed.” 

You again resist the urge to nudge him playfully. “I’m just messing with you. You’re nothing like that now,” you say, chuckling. 

A cool breeze drifts over your bare arms, and you shiver, looking over at the open window. Night has fallen by now, and the warm syrupy light is completely gone. The room is only lit by a small lamp in the corner of the attic, with darkness creeping in every corner and crevice. Yeonjun looks truly silvery and translucent now in the moonlight, his features beautiful and sharp in the cool air. 

“I should probably go,” you say, after a little while. 

Yeonjun’s face doesn’t change for a moment, like he’s frozen in time, but then he just nods, so slightly that it barely looks like he moved. 

Without any further acknowledgement, you stand up, dusting off the seat of your pants, and leave Yeonjun amongst the last few boxes in the attic that you couldn’t fit into your car. As you lock your doors and sigh, feeling the weariness settling in your bones from the long day of work, you pull out your phone as a queer feeling overcomes you. Though you’ve never felt the urge to before, you’re suddenly incredibly curious about Yeonjun’s past. 

Is it an invasion of privacy? Perhaps. But like he said—he was already dead. 

Quickly typing out a search of his name and the general area, you’re surprised when dozens of articles flood in, all dating back to the early 2000s. And then, you see it. The words flash before your eyes in stark contrast, the images only adding to the disturbances, with flashes of red in a dilapidated, neglected house. 

FATHER KILLS SON. MURDER-SUICIDE. DEVASTATING LOSS TO THE COMMUNITY. WE MOURN THE LOSS OF CHOI YEONJUN, 18-YEAR OLD STAR FOOTBALL PLAYER WITH A FULL-RIDE TO AN IVY LEAGUE.

Your phone clatters to the floor of your car, slipping between the seats and leaving you in complete darkness. For a moment, you sit there in stunned silence before cursing under your breath and shoving your hand between the seats, feeling for the smooth screen of your phone. 

You find it quickly, and see a flash of an image before exiting out of your search. An incredibly dirty and dingy room, which you now recognize to be your bedroom, with a blood stained mattress and other dark questionable stains on the once-white sheets and on the floors below. 

OCTOBER 

Eight. Eight times. 

That’s how many times you’ve returned to the house since you found out how Yeonjun died, each time riddled with anxiety about having to face him and pretending like you don’t know the truth. Like you don’t have the answer that he’s been searching for all of these years. 

But each time, he failed to appear. You finished cleaning the attic with no company, and it ended up being a much lengthier process than you originally assumed—mostly because you found your father’s birth certificate shoved into a random folder with pages and pages of expired coupons, and you nearly threw the entire thing away without realizing, which resulted in you feeling the need to go through all of the trash again, just to make sure. 

Naturally, there were no other important documents in the trash that you’d already collected—and it ended up being a massive waste of your time. But it sent a wave of relief through your tired body, letting you know that nothing important had gotten tossed by accident. 

After clearing out the attic, you thought that Yeonjun might come back—if not to talk to you and be your friend, then perhaps to see the progress on the house he inhabits? Yet, nothing happened. Nothing as you finished sweeping the floors, nothing as you moved the last few boxes out of the attic and either into your car or the garbage, and nothing when you stand by the front door for a moment, your hand hesitating before opening it and leaving—hoping that he would come to say goodbye. 

It wasn’t the end—you still had your own bedroom to clean out. It was what you’d been dreading; both because it was a cesspool of bad memories in your own life, and also because of what you found out about Yeonjun’s past, and what had happened to him in that room specifically. It still sent a chill down your spine to think about the room, which was painted with dark red and other dark stains—a horrifying reminder of the crime that was committed there. You try your hardest to recall if you ever saw any stains or any signs of the disturbing event, but your mind comes up blank. 

You know that the only solution, the only way to ease your mind, is to go back to the house and finally finish what you started. Just as it were so back in July, after you were plagued with nightmares upon your first visit back home, after so many years. 

On a crisp autumn day in mid October, you return to the house, knowing that this would be one of, if not the last time. Just before you drove over, you’d been chewing your nails nervously as you spoke to Taehyun over the phone—you needed some last minute encouragement. 

“Summer’s over, you know. What about that job offer again?” Taehyun asks, his voice muffled over the phone—he was driving to work, and on the way he passed under a tunnel which always made his service choppy. 

“I got an extension, until the end of the year. They actually came to me about it, because they’re having a fresh start at the company come the new year,” you explain, as you pack up your cleaning supplies, preparing to head over to the house. “They said a lot of applicants dropped because of the sudden change in timeframe, but it worked out perfectly for me. Now I have until November to wrap everything up.” 

“Not December?” 

“Well, my lease for my new apartment in the city starts in December…” you trail off, realizing this leaves you with the rest of October and November, to finish cleaning, take photos, and actually put the house up for sale. The cleaning was just the first step—and you were lagging. 

“… Right.” 

You could hear the doubt in Taehyun’s voice, so clear that it made you squirm with shame. He was probably thinking that you should have hired someone—probably someone like god damn Seo Changbin—to just do the dirty work for you, instead of making yourself suffer through it. 

“I only have one room left to clear out before I can officially put the house up for sale,” you say defensively, picking up on Taehyun’s attitude. 

“I believe in you. You know that, right?” he asks gently, his tone different now—more pity, you think. 

“I know,” you say, trying not to be awkward. 

“It’s not easy. You’re doing a great job,” he says, softly. His voice crackles towards the end of the sentence, his service beginning to cut out more. “Hey, I’ll call you after my shift, alright? Let me know how cleaning the last room goes.” Through his spotty service and choppy voice, you can sense hesitation. You know he remembers Yeonjun too, but you haven’t mentioned him since the first day. Like your therapist, he probably assumed it was some sort of trauma response after all. 

“Alright. Have fun with the elderly,” you say, cracking a smile. 

“You know I won’t. That one old man keeps yelling at me because of the length of the individual blades of grass. He should just be happy I didn’t accidentally run anyone over,” he scoffs, before chuckling softly. 

“They really should have hired someone more qualified. And more empathetic,” you tease, hanging up as you hear Taehyun start to protest. Smiling as you pack up the last few things you need, you head out to your car, the cool autumn breeze whistling through the crisp branches, loosening colorful leaves that fall down like raindrops around you. You shove the box of cleaning supplies into your trunk and slam it shut, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting your car. Loud, grungy music plays over the radio, one of your old favorites that makes your heart almost ache with nostalgia, despite the less-than-depressing lyrics and tune. 

Which leaves you here—picking up the box of cleaning supplies and balancing it on your hip as you use one hand to grapple for the trunk, slamming it shut securely as you set the box down, breathing a heavy sigh. Luckily, it’s cooled down since July, and you no longer find yourself soaked in your own sweat from completing the smallest tasks—something that was purely impossible during the heat waves that torture your area during the summer months. 

Picking up the box again, you readjust your grip to make it easier to carry as you make your way down the small path. The lawn is freshly trimmed, thanks to Taehyun, who was willing to do the lawn work all summer as long as it meant he didn’t have to actually step foot inside the house, and as long as he could speed home afterwards—this was what told you he hadn’t forgotten about the incident with Yeonjun, upon their first and presumably last meeting. 

You're able to slot the big skeleton key into the brand new lock on the door and let yourself in, closing the door behind you with your foot. You trudge up the stairs step by step, making sure not to trip over your own feet and go tumbling back down. 

Finally, you reach your bedroom. You know that if you hesitate any longer you’ll never bring yourself to do it, so you just reach out and turn the doorknob, opening the time capsule of a room and entering, just as you did every day in your youth. 

Putting down the box of cleaning supplies, which had been getting steadily heavier in your arms the longer you held it, you take a deep breath, smelling the dust—there was hardly a hint of your old perfume, or your old laundry detergent—it was like a ghost inhabited this room. 

Perhaps it did—you think of Yeonjun again. 

“Yeonjun?” you speak softly, though you haven’t seen him since late September. For some reason it feels different this time as you call out for him—it feels like he really might appear. 

“You’re back. I thought you were done.” 

Yeonjun slowly passes through the door of your bedroom. He looks faint—or maybe that’s just the terrible lighting in the room from the singular flickering lightbulb, paired with the crappy natural lighting due to the setting sun. 

“You thought I’d leave without finishing the job? Am I someone that abandons things that are half-done?” you ask, trying to make your tone light and playful. Yeonjun looks up at you wearily, not returning the favor. 

“No… But it’s been so long. I thought it might be another ten years before I see you again,” he says softly. He drifts closer to you, slowly, as if it pained him to go any faster. 

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” you say, your brow furrowing. “I wouldn’t leave… not without saying goodbye.” 

“Is that what you’re here to do?” His expression darkens slightly, and he turns away, crossing his arms. “Are you done here?” 

You hesitate, your hand twitching as you almost reach out to him to try and comfort him—almost. “After I clean out this room…” you begin, but trail off, not wanting to finish the sentence. 

“You don’t have to sugarcoat things. I always knew this was coming, that you’d leave again—it was the plan from the start,” he says, harshly. “I’m not a baby either. I can take it. I know more than you think.” He flinches a little, as if he’s said something he regrets. 

More than you think? You walk around him so that you’re standing in front of him, facing him. “You’re not just talking about me cleaning the house,” you say, softly, knowingly. “How did you find out? When did you find out?” 

Yeonjun looks away, sighing. His eyes are dark and mournful when he looks back at you, his brow furrowing and his puffy lips turning down into a frown. “In one of the old newspapers in the attic… I was purposely looking through them after you laid them out that one day and left without throwing them away. I made the headline—and the front page, naturally,” he says, almost bitterly. “I didn’t want you to find out that I found out.” 

“Why? Did you think I’d be mad or something?” you ask, confused. “Is that why you disappeared?” Anger starts bubbling up in your stomach—you’re not mad that he found out about his own death, you’re mad that he disappeared on you when you have so little time left together in the first place. Didn’t he know that you were both running on limited time? Did he not say that himself? 

“I’m not ready to say goodbye to you!” he shouts, finally. This is the loudest you’ve heard him speak in a while, and it seems to take a toll on him as he folds over, breathing heavily. He looks back up at you after a moment, his eyes narrowed but sad in a way too. “You’re the only friend I’ve had since I’ve died. So you’re the only friend that I really remember, as the person—as the ghost that I am now.” His voice breaks. “It’s time for me to go, anyways. It’s not like we could have spent much more time together anyways.” 

“What do you mean, it’s time for you to go?” you ask, your lips tightening into a thin line as you feel your heart drop into your stomach. “You said—you said you didn’t know how all that moving on bullshit worked.” 

“I didn’t before, but now… I just feel it. I’m not supposed to be here any more,” he says, pleading with you. “Please don’t be mad at me.” 

“I’m not mad,” you say quickly, your voice harder than you intended it to be. Recollecting yourself, you clear your throat, only for it to be clogged again with tears and mucus as you thickly say, “I’m just not ready to say goodbye to you either.” 

Yeonjun manages a watery smile, and you lean forward to hug him, your arms simply cutting through his ghostly appearance. He smiles sadly down at you again, his fingers ghosting over the top of your head as he mimics stroking your hair soothingly. 

“I’ve never wished for anything more,” you say, fighting to keep your tears back. You don’t want to cry in front of Yeonjun, not when he’s already crying hard enough that you can see shiny trails of tears down his pale, translucent face. 

“What are you wishing for?” he asks in a choked voice. 

“You know,” you say, laughing bitterly as you fail to hold back your tears, warm salty droplets pouring down your cheeks. “Don’t be an idiot.” 

Yeonjun scoffs, looking away and crossing his arms before he looks back at you to smile through his tears once again. “And you know me. An idiot, through and through,” he says, roughly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. 

For a brief moment, the two of you stand there and stare at each other in silence—Yeonjun as he remembers watching you grow up, and you as you recall all of the bearable memories with your best and only friend from your youth. There’s plenty of parallels between the two of you, as much as you hate to think about it—in a way, you almost represent what Yeonjun could have had, if he’d escaped his father like you’d escaped your parents. In the same vein, he almost represents the worst thing that could have happened to you, had you not gotten out when you did. As you two look into each other’s eyes, your lips still and unmoving as you communicate through language that’s deeper than speech, more intimate and knowing than any other form of communication known to man, you feel a sudden warmth. Your heart thumps in your chest, and you feel like this is it—the end of this torture, this fucking nightmare of a life. It’s like a weight is lifted off your shoulders as Yeonjun gazes softly into your eyes, fueling that warm and fuzzy feeling in your stomach. 

It’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay. 

“I’ve always wanted to leave this house. I remember now,” he says softly. “But now, for the first time… I almost don’t want to.” 

Wiping your tears, you choke out a laugh. Yeonjun looks down at you with a tender expression, one that radiates pure adoration, as he leans down to press his lips to your forehead. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as more tears pour down your cheeks, not wanting to see the picture before you while being unable to feel it, but for a moment it feels real. You can feel the slight chapped skin brush against your forehead, the weight and warmth of his hand on the top of your head, before it all disappears. 

And when you open your eyes again, Yeonjun is gone, and you’re standing alone in the bedroom you two unknowingly shared for as long as either of you could remember. 

For the first time, you are completely alone in the house you were supposed to call home, and all you can do is sit down on the hardwood floor (ignoring the faint red stains by your bed that you’d never noticed before) and breathe in deeply, finally feeling at peace. 

NOVEMBER

Clenching your jaw, you try to reach further, your arm burning as you try to sweep the last few inches of snow off of your windshield. 

The first snow had surprised the town in the middle of the night. It had been unusually warm this year, the heat wave carrying on well past summer. Though it was nearly tradition at this point for the children of your hometown to trick-or-treat the day before or after Halloween due to the expectant snowstorm the week of the holiday, this year the children had been able to run free, without even the need for a thick winter jacket on top of their costumes. 

November had proven to be quite warm as well, but then the weather switched up on you like it was the plan all along, and now you were brushing snow off of your car with a dead tree branch, struggling to reach the top few inches of your windshield because the stick you chose was just a little too short. 

Giving up after a few more minutes of bending and stretching and cramping up your arm, you toss the stick aside and massage your aching muscles before getting into your car, grumbling to yourself. At least you hadn’t left your windows open overnight, like Taehyun had reportedly done—especially because your car is stuffed to the brim with all of your belongings. Finally, you’re heading off to the city to settle into your new place before you start your new job. 

But first, you’re meeting Taehyun for coffee. 

Driving down the same familiar roads, you feel new memories playing in the place of your old ones. Instead of remembering the way your parents would argue in the car and give you a headache, you remember the times you and Taehyun drove down this road together, loudly singing your favorite songs and not caring who heard. You can’t help but smile at the memory—you’ll have to remember to ask if he ever wanted to take a road trip together, when the weather is warm again and summer comes back around. 

The creaky stairs groan under your weight as you hop up the old wood, but they still don’t collapse, even with their loud protesting. 

There, Taehyun sits at a window seat with his iced Americano, scrolling aimlessly on his phone as he waits for you. He doesn’t see you until you stop in front of the table, smiling down at him as you unwrap your scarf from around your face. Your cheeks and nose are still a little flushed and raw from the cold, despite this. 

“How’s the car?” you ask, sitting down as you remove your gloves and place them atop your folded scarf, on the table beside you. 

“She’s fine, but a bit damp. And so’s the seat of my pants,” he grimaces, reaching down to feel the slightly wet seat of his jeans. “How’s the house?” 

“Sold,” you say, crossing your arms and grinning proudly. “There were a surprising amount of offers. I guess horror fanatics don’t mind the possibility of ghostly roommates.” 

Taehyun laughs, but then he rests his face in his palm as he props his elbow up on the table, looking into your eyes. “If anyone’s into it, horror fanatics would be… but was there really a ghost? I thought it stopped appearing after that first day.” 

Outside, snow starts to fall again, the beginning of winter making itself known. The already thick blanket of white covering the landscape starts to grow even more opaque and blinding as thick snowflakes swirl down from the ash-gray sky and join the millions before them, transforming the landscape that was a healthy green field of flowers just a few months before. 

“It’s a long story,” you say, your eyes twinkling. 

“I have time,” Taehyun replies, smiling. 

The little plastic ghost on your keychain rattles softly as you put the rest of your things down to settle in, and you smile softly at the namesake of your other best friend. 

“His name was Yeonjun,” you begin. 

DIVIDER CREDIT | @firefly-graphics

© petrichor-han 2024, all rights reserved  ​

[666writingcafe]

Checking In

Lucifer

Once my brothers are settled in for the evening, I quietly leave the House and begin walking back to the castle. I need to apologize to Diavolo for what happened a few hours ago, but more importantly, I need to see Zephyr. I haven't quite decided whether to yell at them or comfort them.

The exhausted look in their eyes as they answer the door to one of the spare bedrooms tells me that they're not in the mood for a lecture.

Normally, that doesn't stop me from giving one, but for some reason, I can't find it in me to berate Zephyr for their actions. Not even a little bit.

They walk over to the desk they have set up and start looking through various papers. I make my way over to the bed and sit on the side facing them.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" I ask.

"Can't," Zephyr answers, more focused on their work than on me.

"Can't, or won't?" They glare at me briefly. "Simply a question, Zephyr. Nothing more."

"I have to distract myself. If I don't keep myself busy, I'm going to kill Solomon."

"For calling you 'MC'?" That got their attention. They look like they're moments away from biting my head off.

"Listen, I understand why you're upset."

"Do you?" they bark angrily.

"You trusted him to keep your old identity a secret, yes?" Zephyr blinks awkwardly before closing their eyes and taking a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Lucifer. I didn't mean to snap at you like that. It's just..." Another deep breath as their eyes begin watering.

"It's okay. Take your time."

"I'll be fine." Sighing, they leave their desk and sit beside me on the bed.

"Do you want to know why I answered Diavolo's ad in the paper?" they ask me. I shrug.

"I assumed it was for the money." Zephyr shakes their head.

"I had to make the transition alone. I didn't want you guys to have the same experience I did, because it was rough."

"You weren't always a demon?" Another sigh.

"I was born human, Lucifer."

Oh. That explains a few things.

"I come from a long line of powerful and notorious sorcerers," they continue. "Everyone in my family wants to cause as much chaos as possible simply because they find it hilarious to watch people suffer. I didn't participate in any of their illegal and shady activities, obviously, but I still had a target on my back. No matter where I went in the human world, people were on the hunt for me. I was more or less a fugitive, and all because I was related to a whole bunch of criminals.

"Then one day, I met a group of demons. They were part of an organization that granted humans asylum in the Devildom. I told them my story, and they not only encouraged me to seek it out, but they also made sure that my application was approved as quickly as possible. However, that meant shedding all my ties to the human world and becoming a full-fledged demon. Shortly after I arrived here, the organization was forced to dissolve, and any evidence of its existence disappeared without a trace."

I'm not surprised something like that happened. If Diavolo is telling me the truth about his father, then I have no doubt that he had a heavy hand in annihilating that organization.

"So where does Solomon come in all this?"

"He's worked with my family over the course of my childhood. I was told he was a friend, but I learned at a very young age to not trust anyone that they liked."

"And yet you have his mark on you."

"That's because when we reconnected several years later, I learned that he was trying to become a more reputable sorcerer. Of course, I didn't believe him at first, but then I started hearing good things about him from people I did trust. Eventually, I wanted to help him with his goal, and so I agreed to enter a pact with him."

"I see."

Well, no wonder Zephyr's able to remain calm around us. We probably seem like a fucking cake walk compared to what they've been through. And having to do it all by themselves on top of it?

I feel a strange mix of emotions: sadness, anger, and...

Pride.

Which makes very little sense. How can I be proud of someone that I barely know? They're just our attendant, after all.

Or are they?

Tears threaten to spill out of Zephyr's eyes again.

I shouldn't stay here. Maybe I can flag down one of Diavolo's servants and have them get tissues or something for them.

But I have to remain professional. Who knows what would happen if I give in?

My heart beats my brain. Soon, I'm holding Zephyr in my arms as they quietly cry into my chest.

Memories of me comforting my siblings like this begin playing in my head. Is Zephyr family? They've certainly integrated quite well into ours, but that's only so that they can better assist us, right?

And yet the way they're grabbing onto me...

Eventually, they pull back, and as I let go of them, our eyes meet. For one brief yet scary moment, they look exactly like Lilith.

I lean in and kiss their forehead, for old time's sake.

But then my brain takes over again, and I'm suddenly questioning everything I just did.

"Sorry," I mumble, scrambling to get out of that room before I do something stupid again. I shouldn't be feeling this way about them. Even if they weren't born a demon, that doesn't change the fact that they've been one for much longer than me and my brothers have. I still have to lead by example, and I can't do that if I'm too busy fawning over them.

Who cares what they think? You deserve to be happy.

I'm going to need some time alone to think.

~~~

A Few Days Later

A Text Conversation

Lucifer: Are you doing okay?

Zephyr (MC): That's funny. I was about to text you the very same question.

Lucifer: Of course you were.

Zephyr: To answer your question, I'm doing better. Might even head back to the cottage soon.

Lucifer: That's good.

Lucifer: Listen, I want to properly apologize to you for what happened.

Zephyr: Which part?

Lucifer: Me running away.

Zephyr: *wide-eyed emoji*

Lucifer: What did you expect me to say, that I regretted comforting you when you needed it?

Zephyr: Kind of, yeah.

Lucifer: I know it seemed that way at the time, but I can assure you, that wasn't it at all.

Lucifer: It's taken me a bit for me to admit this, but I was scared.

Zephyr: Of?

Lucifer: My feelings.

Lucifer: The positive ones, I mean.

Zephyr: *confused sticker*

Lucifer: If it's alright with you, I'd like to get to know you more.

Zephyr: In a friendly way?

Lucifer: Something like that.

Zephyr: Lucifer...

Lucifer: Yes?

Zephyr: Why the indirect answer?

Lucifer: I'm still getting used to the idea of seeing you as more than simply an attendant. Please be patient with me.

Zephyr: Of course.

Zephyr: Are you wanting to do something low key, or do I need to find a fancy outfit?

Lucifer: *confused sticker*

Zephyr: Just trying to gauge where you're at, whether you're simply wanting to become friends or wishing for something more than that.

Lucifer: *several wide-eyed emojis*

Zephyr: Alright then. Low key it is. How about a nice stroll through one of the parks? Wear whatever makes you feel comfortable. No pressure to do anything beyond walking and talking, and you can leave whenever for whatever reason, even if it's because you're simply sick of hearing the sound of my voice droning on and on.

Lucifer: *a few laughing emojis*

Lucifer: Sounds good. Just let me know when and where.

Taglist: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @fuzztacular, @dianedancer18, @sweetbrier2908, @flare-love, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf, @thunderlightning351, @l3v1chan, @anxious-chick, @5mary5, @expressionless-fr, @tenkobitch

[morsartis]

Kiss The Girl

Marvus x fem!Reader

.

Fish darted through the tanks in brilliant colors, the cooler lighting highlighting the brilliance of their scales. All around you were families and couples enjoying their own outings. Despite this, the aquarium was remarkably slow today. What little crowds that managed to form always dispersed as if to mimic the schools of aquatic life you’d all come to see. Leaving you and Marvus in your own personal bubble. You had wandered into a more secluded indoor section of the aquarium to escape the hot sun, this one boasting small Alternian fish with iridescent white scales and vivid violet eyes. You knew it must have cost the aquarium a fortune to get them- or maybe a violetblood had been taken with the fanciful notion of the aquarium and donated the fish for their own amusement. It was always hard to tell. Either way you watched as the fish swam lazily through the water with their spiny barbs and fancy flared fins. Like a mix between a betta fish and a catfish. Beside you Marvus chuckled. 

“That one looks like that lil’ violet that you been bringin’ ‘round.” He pointed to a fish near the bottom corner that was much smaller than the rest- and seemed to be sulking grumpily as it watched the others swim around. You stifled a laugh. It did look like Eridan oddly enough. 

“That’s rude Marvus.” You couldn’t keep the humor out of your voice despite trying to scold your matesprite. 

“Am I wrong?” He asked sardonically as he glanced down at you lazily. This time you couldn’t help the snort that left you. 

“Eridan’s a wriggler, play nice.” 

“Sure. Soon as he stops eyein’ you like a piece a fresh grubloaf.” 

“Oh please. He’s just happy to have a friend. May I remind you how Zebruh gets?” 

“I could still cull him if you want lil mama. Ain’t no big thing.” 

“You know I don’t want you killing people on my behalf.” 

“Worth a shot.” He teased leaning down to steal a quick kiss. Leaning into the kiss you rolled your eyes at his antics. Even so, you couldn’t help but smile at him when the two of you pulled away. 

“Culling is illegal here on Earth, Dear.” You reminded him. Marvus gave you an exaggerated pout. 

“I still say we should do it anyway.” 

“No.” You replied bluntly, already walking away. Marvus snickered in amusement, his long legs catching up to you instantly as he placed a chilled hand on your shoulder and gently guided you more firmly to his side. The two of you made an odd pair, you’d admit. Especially to the people in the mostly empty aquarium. One human girl in her pale sundress and her juggalo troll companion in the most form fitting t-shirt he could get his hands on and an absolutely gaudy pair of skinny jeans. Still, it was nice to have a normal date. It’d been so long since either of you had had the time to spend together outside of stolen moments after Marvus’ concerts. Having this day just to be normal and in love was something you’d be riding the high of for weeks. Months even. 

“Is that a cafe?” Marvus asked in confusion pointing at a cluster of tacky straw roofed “hut” shaped tables tucked near a tropical themed alcove. 

“Looks like it.” You snorted in amusement. 

“That is the tackiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Marvus told you as the two of you drew closer. 

“Oh its horrible.” You agreed, entertainment thick in your tone. 

“Who told them this was okay?”

“Not a clue.” “Even the menu items are tacky.”

“They are.”

“I want pictures.” 

The two of you shared a look before dissolving into laughter. At least this way you’d both have something to eat. Not a bad way to end a date really.

[hamliet]

The Tree Is Not Death; It's Alchemy

I've written before about the philosophical tree in RWBY, and the recent episodes kind of confirm that it is indeed intended to represent the process of alchemy.

Curious Cat: (clears throat) Now that Herb’s properly returned, he’ll be fixed up nice, and made into the Herb he wanted to be when he was still “Herb”. Then he’ll come back and find his purpose. Could be the same as before, or maybe not.

Ruby: When Herb comes back, will he remember anything?

Curious Cat: (laughs) What would be the point of that? (stretches) Just like Alyx, you lot. I know, I know, where you're from, things… (shudders) …die… but we’re just not like you at all. We… ascend. Herb will have a purpose again.

Jaune: That Tree is death. It absorbs you, takes your memories and turns you into something else. If you go there, it's going to erase you. They call it ascension...

The thing about alchemy is that it's fundamentally about the union of opposites, including life and death. It sees life and death as feeding into one another rather than opposing one another, as symbolized in the classic ouroboros. An ouroboros is a snake eating its own tail; it kills itself and gives birth to itself.

You might notice the six pointed "star of antimony," aka another alchemical symbol, in the middle of the orobouros, which is a shape that appears not just in the starfish at the shores of the Ever After, but the flowers from this episode.

The six pointed star in alchemy has each of its triangles representing heaven and earth, and weds them together. Hence, the Ever After and Remnant, life and death, mind and heart, spirit, soul, and body. It's where "man is made perfect," according to Lyndy Abraham, and where the substances being transformed (in this case, our characters) "breaketh into water like Gold... this is the Starr of the Wise."

Currently, RWBYJ are approaching the concept of "ascension" as something like death, when it's not quite accurate. The reality, however, is that it is perfectly normal for them to see it this way, since humans are by nature limited in our experiences. Empathy is a tool to reach outside of ourselves, but there is no way to truly be another person or to have another purpose.

Lyndy Abraham notes that "the tree symbolizes growth and fruition, in both a physical and spiritual sense. It represents the development of the arcane substance from the prima materia (the original stuff of creation) to the ultimata materia, the all-transforming philosopher's stone."

Clearly, it will be at the tree where the volume climaxes, and also at the tree where they are restored to their world (physical and spiritual). But none of them will ever get home until they come to understand that there is no life without death, of solve et coagula (dissolve and coagulate, rinse away the impurities to continually refine the "stone," which are characters here).

Our quintet needs to come to an alchemical perception of death feeding life, which is not the same as "ra, ra, sacrifice is the highest purpose!" (Which I suspect we'll explore through Ruby and Jaune at the climax.) I would bet a lot that the tree completes Jaune's transformation into gold, and also Weiss becomes the "Starr of the Wise," given her associations with being "wise" according to the Cat already (and also her frequent associations with it throughout the story).

Curious Cat: Looking at you, wise huntress.

But that's not all! No, the tree is also associated with roses. See the below image, which yes, has the tree blooming from the ouroboros itself. (These are apparently supposed to be roses.) The fruit of the tree is usually gold and silver.

Rather than fearing the tree, Jaune and Ruby will both be restored by it (which doesn't mean they will be remade--Jaune might be remade, because somehow he's returning to his previous self, but how, we'll see). Ruby will not solve all her problems here, but I would bet she'll come to a better place and a better understanding of her identity as Ruby Rose, a Huntress with silver eyes, at the tree, even if that understanding is more a desire to find who she is than an answer.

The Star of the Wise shows up several other times in alchemical symbolism, too, most notably as Sophia, or personified wisdom. See here, in Splendor Solis, where Sophia (crowned with the six pointed star) robes a resurrected being. Yes, the being is being resurrected; the name of this image is "Resurrection from the Swamp."

Sophia here has white angel wings as well. Who's been associated with that in Volume 9?

I bring this up to assert that I do think @aspoonofsugar is correct when she predicts that Weiss will have something to do with saving both Ruby and Jaune.

Mythcrafts notes that the very same Splendor Solis image alludes to Aristotle's quote "The Destruction of one thing is the birth of another.” Of course, that just references the ouroboros, which I've already talked about, but I do find it interesting that "destruction" is the "gift" of the gods to humanity that will be explored in Vacuo (since the relic of destruction is there). So, it would indeed be quite fitting for the characters to learn the value of destruction this volume--that death isn't the end of life, but a part of it.

[cirilla-fiona-riannon]

Keith Howell (JP)

Dramatic & Romantic Spoilers

Emma showed no sign of getting up even though I carefully folded her clothes that had fallen to the floor and placed them beside her.

(Maybe it's because I got carried away last night and did something reckless.)

(If I'm not careful, I'll end up asking for even more.)

I stared at her, took her hand, and lightly kissed her fingertips as she continued to sleep.

I didn't have any deep intention, but my hand naturally reached out to Emma as I watched her.

(How did she manage to accept me with such a small body?)

(If she didn't fall in love with me, I'd probably be alone right now.)

Keith: "Thanks. For saving me from that guy."

I wasn't sure if the words reached the sleeping Emma.

I didn't want someone to pick up my pent-up feelings that were spilling out, but I wanted to dissolve the feelings that I couldn't hold on to.

Keith: "I'm always attracted to you. I wonder what you'd look like if you knew I fell for you first."

I was already attracted to her from the moment she found out who I was.

In a way, I am probably simpler than "that guy."

Keith: "But I ain't gonna tell you."

I put a little force into my fingertips as I clasp her hand.

Keith: "You liked me, I liked you, and you acknowledged my existence."

Keith: "I'm still here, even though I'm no longer in that role."

(Honestly, I thought I was supposed to disappear when that guy stopped being a piece of work.)

It's because of her and "him" that we have a future.

(It's not just him. I'm allowed to like you, too, right?)

Keith: "But that wasn't enough."

Keith: "I thought just looking at you was enough."

(When you are in love, next comes greed.)

(You taught me that I have a normal, human side to me.)

I kissed her again on her fingertips.

Keith: "It's your fault. You made me fall in love with you, so take responsibility, okay?"

Romantic End

Keith: "Will you dance with me?"

In the rain of dancing flowers, I pulled Emma's hand and put my other hand on her waist.

Emma: "You're too kind."

Keith: "No. I just wanted to dance with you."

Keith: "Look, you've danced with 'him' before, so it's not fair."

Emma: "Hehe. Well, Let’s do it."

(I'm good at dancing because I'm uselessly unathletic.)

(I always thought I was good at it, but I never thought it would come in handy here.)

I stared at the blushing Emma as we danced, and I could see my reflection in her clear eyes一it was an irresistible feeling.

Keith: "I want to stare at you until the dance is over. Is that selfish?"

Emma: "That's what mean Keith said too."

Keith: "I didn't realize that."

(So he's me, too, after all.)

Keith: "Then I want to stare at you even after the dance."

Emma: "You've become greedier than before."

Keith: "When it comes to you, I just can't help it."

Emma smiled and cupped my cheek with her slender hand.

The place where she touched me as if she was saying I love you, felt a little hot.

(Even if she can't touch me, just being around her makes me happy.)

(Maybe not just me, but her too.)

My heart beats wildly as I shared this moment with her.

Keith: "I love you, and "he" loves you too."

Keith: "I can't give you normal love, but I don't want to let go of your hand.”

Keith: “I only want to love you."

(There will be many unusual things that will annoy her in the future.)

(I might even annoy her.)

I'm not sure if I've blown it completely out of the water, but what matters is not how I feel but how Emma feels.

Emma: "Then, please love me more."

Emma: "I will love both Keiths with all my heart!"

(It's truly a miracle that I met a woman who could say that.)

(Maybe I've used up all the luck in my life.)

-

[thegalievthought]

The Palestinian War Issue 3: White Phosphorus

Israel's use of White Phosphorus has been well documented over the past 4 days of fighting with video and photographic evidence being shown of Israel dropping WP on Gaza a highly populated city which is a war crime under international law as you do not target or use within a certain distance to settlements so that civilians do not stumble upon unignited compounds and get injured like a 2000 degree time bomb. White phosphorus can go unreacted for hours or days after it is dropped and is highly toxic if dropped in water white phosphorus is soluble in water which is extremely toxic to drink. So white phosphorus when dropped in a highly dense place like Gaza the potential for contact burns with white phosphorus which I will spare you from looking at. You also have the risk of secondary burns as the fire caused by WP spreads and the destruction of homes and other necessary infrastructure due to fire. A fire that is incredibly difficult to put out as WP when reacted with air needs to either burn out or be submerged in a liquid it can be dissolved or generally deprived of oxygen which when responding to Israeli airstrikes multiple times hours will and has left Gaza medical and fire staff unprepared to deal with the massive destruction caused when WP is dropped on Gaza. Moreover, this still doesn't account for the possibility of WP poisoning the water supplies of parts of Gaza. 

White phosphorus use on civilians is a war crime but it's also banned by the majority of the world. In 1972 the UN entered a vote to ban White phosphorus citing its inhumanity and propensity for collateral damage. Key however Israel and the United States voted no on the resolution while most of the countries of the world voted yes. Israel's vote in 1972 was proven right when in 1973 Israel was accused of using White phosphorus in the Ramadan War. Then in 2006 during the invasion of Lebanon Israel was accused of using white phosphorus again and near civilians. Which it later in 2006 admitted to. The Haaretz reported “Israel has acknowledged for the first time that it attacked Hezbollah targets during the second Lebanon war with phosphorus shells.” - Haaretz Oct 22, 2006 Then again in 2009 Israel was accused by multiple major news sources like Al Jazeera accusing Israel of using white phosphorus against Gaza. Israel's history of using white phosphorus especially near and against civilians is well documented. As well as Israel admitting to war crimes multiple times. Its use by Israel over the decades of war and occupation has been well documented by both Palestinians and foreign journalists and by Israel itself. With zionist media like Haaretz which we cited earlier covering them. Israel is not new to accusations of war crime; it targets civilians regularly and the accusations against Israel pile so high you could make a house for Israel to bomb out of all the paper used to document their crimes. But white phosphorus is especially egregious in the ways Israel chooses to care out its crimes as white phosphorus is max damage, max collateral and max I think worse of all max trauma for the victims. So I'm not here to argue that this is especially cruel of the zionist state, it's not, I'm not here to argue that this is out of the norm for Israel again it's not. I'm here to argue this cruelty and flagrant disregard for human life is the norm for Israel the use of white phosphorus is not the exception to the rule, but rather that the use of white phosphorus and the war crimes Israel uses it to commit is the IDF running as normal that Israel is once again a genocidal state with a total disregard to the lives of civilians, especially arab civilians. So my overall point in writing this small piece is to show Israel's disregard for human life and why you should remember that disregard when you see the media talk about Israel's right to self-defence because as of October 10th 2023 in the past 4 days, Israel has dropped white phosphorus on Gaza three of the four days. 

Moreover, Israel is a terrorist genocidal state.

The Leninist Review 

[buttsnorkeler69420]

the biology of slime rancher

my friend @chickennuggetonastick and i are extremely, super duper normal about the slime rancher video games and we have developed a lot of speculative headcanons about the universe!! here are just some of them so far: SLIME BASICS

Slimes are a taxon of alien lifeforms native to the Far, Far Range. They are generated from the strange slimy substance of the Slime Sea, and new slimes either emerge from the ground via Slime Sea liquid deposits, or they emerge from the sea itself. They're made of a mineral-and-water based sludge and don't yet have a confirmed method of reproduction, though they're very numerous and many species seem to be specialized for specific diets and environments. Speaking of diets, slimes do seek out and metabolize food, but not for the same reasons that Earth animals do—all slimes are actually slowly crystallizing over time, and in order to maintain their goopy state, they have to eat. Metabolizing food items provides the slime energy and the building blocks for their bodies to continue making slime material, but most importantly, the chemical process releases heat, keeping the slime warm and reducing the rate of crystallization.

The crystallization never actually stops, though, so slimes need to eat regularly or they will "petrify" into a solid, dormant state.

Dousing a petrified slime with water will briefly return it to its goopy state and give it a chance to get a bite to eat. (This also can explain why spraying hungry largos in-game delays the time it takes for them to go feral.)

Slimes' bodies also compartmentalize the crystallizing parts of their bodies into large chunks and occasionally expel them; these are plorts, and as all ranchers know, they're useful for humans and can be sold for lots of money.

HOW DO SLIMES EAT?

All slimes need to do to get food into their systems is engulf it (kind of like an amoeba). Many slimes have evolved mouthparts or teeth, but these don't actually aid in the processing of the food; in carnivorous slimes, they're used to keep moving prey like chickens in place for digestion, and many fruit-eating slimes use their mouthparts to remove fruit from trees for ease of engulfing.

Feral slimes are very hungry slimes that have already begun to partially crystallize (this is why all feral slimes have "teeth", even if they did not have them before going feral. The teeth are sharp deposits of crystal). They attack anything in sight even if they're not carnivorous because they're super desperate to keep themselves from going dormant. 

This loss of rational thinking is what may lead feral slimes to ingest plorts of different types, which transforms them into tarrs.

TARRS

The tarr transformation in a slime completely transforms and mutates the original slime's anatomy. The slime's membrane will no longer be tolerant to water, and dousing a tarr in water or throwing it into the slime sea will dissolve its membrane entirely, leaving behind the slime material of the original slime. This material will, over time, eventually emerge from the ground or the slime sea as a new slime that does not retain any of the memories, experiences, or personality it had before becoming a tarr.

the slime sea is a whole other can of worms that I'll probably get into later but yeah!! i like slimes

[stackslip]

no reblogs on purpose

haven't been to shul in a while, in large part due to how normalized racism and zionist justifications of palestinian oppression were there. talking about palestinians like they were vermin and encouraging the settlements. it came to a breaking point and i haven't been back since. since there aren't any other non-orthodox synagogues around here, i haven't been to synagogue at all for a few months now. been struggling to practice or do much on my own. but i'm still subscribed to my old shul's newsletter and oh boy! am i glad to have left! the language used towards palestinians is flat out genocidal and dehumanizing. suddenly all the rivalries and conflicts with the local orthodox synagogues have been dissolved as "we stand as jews together against this wave of savagery".

seeing all the posts from people who had literally nothing to say on palestinian oppression except now, when it's to be "yeah it's bad BUT israel isn't the same as jews and zionism isn't inherently evil and really the people suffering most here are us" makes me feel so deeply cynical. ok. are you saying anything against anti-palestinian racism in your shul and jewish spaces at all, as vocally as you are about *any* pushback on zionism online?? do you think bds is inherently evil and antisemitic while saying jack shit when your local leader talks about palestinians as being vermin and inherent dangers to jews. do you push back against the idea that any antisemitism among palestinian supporters is proof that all western governments should ban palestinian flags and criminalize very identity. no you don't. you fucking don't. maybe you are in one of the very very few anti-zionist synagogues or jewish spaces. but the reality of the matter is, zionism and the belief that palestinians are parasites, dangers, annoyances, threats--are endemic to jewish spaces in the west. there has been very little vocal pushback against any of it, no matter how much you cry on tumblr or twitter. look at how major jewish orgs are responding right now. how many are demanding deescalation or even calling for israel to not fucking cut water and electricity to gaza? a basic plead for humanity? very fucking few. as long as you are blind to this reality, shit ain't gonna be fixed.

it fucking hurts, man. it hurts me more than words can say. it fucking tears at my soul, seeing so few jews stand up for justice when it's one of the reasons i sought conversion in the first place. justice you shall pursue. it hurts, seeing both the violence and the complete refusal to even acknowledge the violence's existence except to say "but hamas attacked first". in the next few months and years things are going to get so much worse for palestinians, in the name of jews and judaism, and how many are going to do shit? how many of the people who posted tepid posts about how it's antisemitic to condemn the idf and how Both Sides Are At Fault are gonna say shit when israel murders a thousand times more? if and when palestinians resist more, how many will justify the horrors of zionism?? i couldn't go to shul on yom kippur. i'm glad i didn't. i think of standing next to these people at shul i cared about and bearing my soul as we share collective repentance, and how merely two weeks later they are calling for genocide. it makes me sick to my soul. i'm glad i left shul. i want to participate in jewish life again, someday. i don't think i will be able to for a while. not as long as i enter a synagogue and find donation boxes for settlements in the west bank and for an army that has been holding two million people hostage for almost two decades.

[luimagines]

Hey Pinky, the one with the Lynel farm is back and I got an idea, which I find hilarious.

If you know Genshin Impact and are already done with Fontaine then that's easier to explain but if not I do a little headcanon for "this" Reader so nobody is confused. Well, it's a Furina!Reader! So here are some Spoilers for the Archon quest, you are warned.

Reader's full name is Reader de Fontaine.

Reader is about 500 years old.

They got cursed with immortality.

But they look very young, they look like they are 19 at the very least.

They had to play god for 500 years because Focalors wanted to fight Celestia.

Focalors is basically the godhood part of Reader.

Focalors prepared all this.

They love sweets.

They are traumatized.

Imagine yourself, a human being, living for 500 years and acting like someone you aren't.

They had to act as the people back then and wouldn't take Reader seriously.

They were actually a very soft-spoken and kind person until they had to act like the Archon of Hydro and Justice.

They act dramatic and confident, but not Ravio dramatic.

Actress dramatic

After pretending to be another person for hundreds of years, it's hard for them to act like their normal self.

Which destroyed their self-esteem and confidence.

As they have to keep it as a secret for 500 years, it is hard for them to talk about it to others, even if they trust that person.

And let's not forget about the prophecy of Fontaine "The people will all be dissolved into the waters. And only the Hydro Archon will remain, weeping on their throne."

They tried to find a solution, which they couldn't as they were not the Hydro Archon but a human.

A eating, sleeping, drinking and breathing human being!

At the end of the day the Traveller (Lumine/Aether) saved the day.

Their native language is french, Fontaine's language in Teyvat.

Their singing is beautiful especially in their native language. If you want to know how beautiful, listen to La Vaguelette from Cécilia Cara. She did the singing for Furina at that part.

They can change their looks depending on the alignment they use.

When they use Ousia their outfit is black and blue with multiple water drop ornaments with their vision on their side fixed on with a ribbon. With short hair which barely reached their shoulders.

With Pneuma their outfit is white and blue with the same multiple water drop ornaments and their vision is still on their side fixed on with a ribbon. Their hair is still barely reached their shoulders but their hackles were very long and barely covered their butt.

They are also the only person of Fontaine that can use Ousia and Pneuma but not at the same time.

With Ousia they can summon three animals of Fontaine made out of water, which aid them in battle

With Pneuma they can summon a pillar looking like a Oceanid which can heal themself and people in a certain area of radius.

They can do the Jesus Christ and walk on water!

They can bake but not cook.

Well, they can make macaroni and cheese.

So now to the boys, since Reader looks so young nobody would guess their age and since the Chain don't ask, as they think they know Reader's age. So when they finally learned hylian. The Chain are in for quite the surprise, when they learned that they are about 500 years old! THEY ARE OLDER THAN WILD!! Wind will love to hear stories from them because Fontaine is the land of Hydro and has many things you can see underwater from ruins to different sea creatures. But he and Wild would lose it when they see Reader stepping on water and walking like nothing unusual is happening. Well, it's normal for them. They even fight on water! And they can catch the fish like that as they can control the water! Wild will ask about recipes, we all know that!

Time would be the one who immediately notices that Reader is kinda acting off, like they aren't themself. But like mentioned they can't talk about it! First they are still learning the language! Second, how do you explain to someone why you did act like that when they don't know how it is back in their home? And lastly, he would think they are crazy! Acting like a deity!! So they don't say anything about that.

Warriors is with them for the clothes and especially as they have the etiquette of a royal! They can even dance the Waltzer. But they can see the difference between real and fake jewels so they would call any merchant out they see that try to scam someone or one of them. They are pretty hot-headed.

I think when they sing then Legend would keep distance as the song La Vaguelette, for example, is a love song. At first, he eventually gets around and can see them playing around with their water animals and Wind. Finally someone got that gremlin away from his stuff! But he is curious about their magic as they didn't seem to get tired even if they healed the whole group and themself! But also that it seems like the water animals hurt them when they use them (They do damage them). I don't know why but I can imagine him as the very shy guy who gives them flowers before looking away beet red and running away while tripping almost a few times. But also as the one who would be jealous when one of the others or another person gets attention from them.

Twilight is confused as they smell like water, not sea water, lake water or swamp water, just water. It's confusing but they were an Oceanid once. But if he would ask about that they would look at him strangely as like. You smell me? Do I stink?

Hyrule is so glad to have someone who can heal as well! And their singing! He is a Fae so it's hard for him not to listen! But when he asks about the background of the song and the meaning. They just say it's for a musical and a love song. So he asks more about musicals as do they even have these in Hyrule? Do they even know what a theatre is? Honest question right now.

Four is in love with their sword as it's very thin and light! But also it looks like there is a water swirl around the hilt. He found it hard to wield it as the swords they use are heavier and wider. But theirs is so thin and light so he asks how they wield it and they do. But it looked like a dance, but when you look at it more closely than you see that they can do it endlessly, like it's a neverending dance, like their role as the Archon was neverending for them. But also wants to know more about the machines back in their home.

Sky is just confused. As they can control water and walk on it! Are they a deity!? Did they know Hylia? But as they stumbled upon their words and say that they are just a human being like them, elves are part human in Teyvat after all. He is confused as he is Hylian not human and only Twilight had humans in his world but they have Hylians? They always correct him and say that they are elves, there is a difference! Hylians have Hylia's blessing, elves do not!

But still many would want to know more as Teyvat is very different from Hyrule. But Reader would kiss the Chain's cheeks as a greeting and a goodbye. So Legend and Hyrule are rip. Good luck catching their souls. They are older than Wild and Time but they give good advice, they read so many reports of crimes and research results, they are more intelligent as people give them credit for. But I think they would also listen to them as is, when it's not Wild, Hyrule listens to the elderly and they are VERY OLD. They go shopping with Warriors and whenever there is a party. They are a person that immediately fits in with the "high society" and gets information out of them without them realising! But they are scared of rain or more like what it can cause, rising of the water surface and floods. So I think that would kick in some protective instincts of the Chain and Twilight. So now they have cherry red Legend beside them as they cling on him and shiver while he tries to calm them down, which is hard. They have a trauma from that! So they mumble under their breath "Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon please don't cry." A chant that children say in Fontaine as it's said that when it rains then the Hydro Dragon is sad.

I have never played Genshin Impact and I don't plan to start! However, I know that there are many followers that do play Genshin and I'm willing to bet that they would be more than willing to run with this idea. XD

(Maybe. I don't get a lot of reblogs so we'll see)

I think would be really fun to just shove the Chain in the world of Genshin anyway since they're visibly similar but also not at all alike.

They could probably walk though and not be seen as the outlier, that is up until one of them opens their mouth. XD

[moa-broke-me]

Survivor's Guilt: a very long percico drabble

Percy graduates from college, after four years of hard work. He celebrates with his friends, his mom, his stepdad and baby sister, his girlfriend... Then he goes home and cries.

And cries,

and cries,

and cries until he runs out of tears. Then he downs a bottle of water and starts crying again.

How could he do this to them? Live a normal life, a happy life, accomplish things and go to parties and eat cake, when some of his closest friends would never be able to do any of those things?

There's a landline in his dorm, which he was allowed one last night's stay in to pack before he was off to the races. They installed landlines in CHB too, but who could he possibly call?

...

A phone rings in cabin thirteen. Thanks to the time difference, it's nearly midnight in New York, and this is one of the precious few nights that he's able to get himself to sleep.

But whoever's calling him... He gets the feeling, down in his gut, that it's important.

So he, begrudgingly, answers. "Hey..." He croaks out, still rubbing the sleep out of his eye. "... Are you good?" Whoever it was on the other side sounded... Distressed. Like they'd been crying.

"Hey, Neeks." Percy? "Um... I don't know why I'm calling you, I just... I don't know. I feel like shit right now, and you've got a lot of experience with feeling like shit. So I thought... I'm sorry, I'll just hang up-"

"No, no, don't... Don't hang up." He didn't want Percy to feel guilty or ashamed for reaching out for help. Even if it was midnight, he still wanted to be there for his friend. Because that's what he was to him now, a friend. A very dear friend, who he used to have feelings for, but that's all in the past now. Obviously, he's got Will now. "What's wrong?"

"I... I don't know. I guess I just... You know the whole graduation ceremony, right?"

"Yeah. I wish I could've been there, but Will was sick, and he needed taking care of. And since he's too proud to get officially checked out by his siblings... Sorry, this isn't supposed to be about me. But is that what you're upset about?"

"No... No, it... It isn't that. It's just... I just couldn't stop thinking about... About everyone. About Silena, and Charlie, and Zoe, and..." ... And Bianca.

He pushed aside the clench in his own heart. "... Survivor's guilt?"

"What?"

"Y'know, when you... Feel bad for... For making it out alive, when other people didn't."

...

He was silent for a moment as something clicked in his head. "Is... Is that what it's called?"

"Yeah..."

He sniffled, he must've sounded pathetic. "... Yeah. Gods, I feel so whiny..."

"Hey, hey, don't do that. Don't start feeling bad for feeling bad. It's ok." His voice was gentle and soothing, and made his heart rate go down immediately. "It's ok, you don't need to feel guilty. You're only human, after all. Well... Figuratively speaking, anyway."

He let out a laugh. "Yeah, I know." Gods, all he wanted was to hear his voice go all soft like that again, to tell him everything was ok, that he was safe, and he didn't need to feel guilty. To feel his bony fingers carding through his hair, his arms cradling his torso. He wanted to be held. By him specifically. He didn't understand why, but something about him was... Special. "... I wish you were here."

...

Something fluttered in his chest. No, no, he's just a friend. "Yeah... Me too. Maybe... Maybe I could shadow-travel?"

"No, I-I don't want you to get all tired." He almost wanted to coo at how concerned he was.

He settled for a silent smile, and a pink blush that would be undetectable under the phone. "I'll be fine, I'm sure of it. I've gone a lot farther, with a lot more to carry. Besides, you..." You sound like you need to be held. Of course, he couldn't say that, it would sound too romantic. "... You seem upset. And I know a phone call isn't the same as being there in person. So... See you there." And with that, he dissolved into the shadows.

...

Seeing Nico appear, sitting cross-legged on his bed, he almost wanted to laugh. He was wearing very expensive-looking satin pajamas, black with white pinstripes and a patch of an anatomically correct heart overlayed right on top of where his actual heart would be. But that wasn't the funny part, the funny part was that the pajamas were about two sizes too big for him, and that his hair was sticking up every which way, almost looking like devil horns.

But his warm, sincere smile was nothing short of angelic. "Hey." He took Percy's hand. "Is there... Anything you need? Anything to eat or drink?"

"Um, I'm good on that thanks. I just... I just need you." He stopped. "Sorry, sorry, that sounded clingy."

"No, it's... Fine." He hesitated. "What do you need me to do?"

He chewed his lip. "Um... Just... Stay with me, please?"

"Ok... Do you... Wanna cuddle?"

"How could you tell?"

He shrugged. "You were holding yourself." He hadn't even noticed that. "Come here." He held his arms out.

Percy hesitated for just a moment. Normally, Nico hates physical contact. Why is he offering it so freely now?

But shortly, that moment disappeared, and he gladly welcomed Nico's embrace. It was a bit awkward with the height difference, but Percy eventually laid down and let Nico lay on top of him. Very suggestive position, he noted detachedly, but they didn't like each other that way, so what did it matter?

He stroked his back and hummed a little. "It's ok. You're ok. You haven't done anything wrong. You... You deserve to move on, to live your life and... And be happy."

Percy could feel his throat getting knotted up again. "They deserved that too."

"I know. And it's not fair that they didn't get to. But they're ok, y'know? They're in elysium, or the stars, or they've been reincarnated and they're somewhere out there as a totally new person, making the best of whatever life they're born into. They're gonna be ok."

"It's not... Just... That they're dead. It's that they died, in so much pain and anguish, some of them hadn't even had their first kiss yet. Some of them died unclaimed. Some of them... Some of them didn't even get a proper funeral."

"They did. Well... Not a proper one, but they got headstones at least. I made sure to that." Nico sighed. "I know, it's still... Bittersweet. But that's the best I can offer. And... And Percy?"

"Yeah?" He croaked out.

"... Look, life might be painful sometimes, but... It can be beautiful too." His fingers ran through his hair as he sat up, tenderly cradling Percy's head in his lap. "You need to treasure it, ok? I know you're going down a bit of a spiral right now, and that's ok. It's ok to feel like shit. But once you're done feeling like shit, you've gotta go back out there and live." He leaned down, cupping his face in his cold, cold hands. "There, now have I made you feel any better? Even just by a tiny bit?"

"Mhm." His face broke into a smile as his arms slung around Nico's waist. "Thank you, I..." I love you. Where was that about to come from? "... Thank you so much, for being such a good friend."

"Anything for you, Jackson." The phrase made blood rush to his face. What was that supposed to mean? Could it be that he... No. No, absolutely not. Not his type, remember? "Is there anything you need? Anything at all. I... I want you to be ok. And I know I won't be able to magically make that happen, but... If there's anything I can do that could help you along with that, I wanna do it."

He sighed in contentment, looking up admiringly at Nico, so sweet, so loving. "Like I said, just... Stay with me. Actually... Do you wanna spend the night?"

...

"I... I don't know. Will may have been fully recovered, or at least insisted he was, earlier today, but I still don't wanna leave him alone in case anything bad happens to him. He... He still needs me."

Percy pouted. He was so cute when he pouted. Wait, what? "I need you too."

"I know... But he wouldn't see it that way. He... Tends to be the jealous type. And although Happy Will is a dream come true, Jealous Will is a nightmare to deal with."

He sat up next to him now. "... Really?"

"Yeah. Even talking with another guy a little too long was enough to set him off. If he found out that I'd gone so far as to shadow-travel all the way here to hang out with you, when he knows I used to have feelings for you, and that I spent the night in your dorm room, all because you called me late at night... He'd be livid."

Percy looked at him skeptically, almost seeming... Concerned. "What does he do when he's set off?"

He shrugs. "He just gets childish and snarky, gives me the cold shoulder. The worst part is that I can't talk him out of it, and if I try, he just doubles down. But... I can't blame him. He's been cheated on before."

"He has?"

He nodded. "Well, maybe cheated is the wrong word. Nothing actually came of it, but she tried to make it happen. You know about Drew, right?"

"Yeah, she uh... Jason told me about her."

He chewed his lip. "... That was his girlfriend."

Percy's jaw dropped. "What? No. I thought he was gay!"

"Bisexual, actually."

"Huh..."

"... Yeah. Anyway... So I get why he has trust issues. I do too. Maybe not the same kind, but trust issues nonetheless. And he's working on them. He's been getting better... And this is gonna really set him back if he finds out about it. So I need to go, right now." He stood up, but his knees were like jelly, and he almost immediately ended up with a mouthful of dirty college dorm carpet. "... Ow..." How did he not realize how weak he was? Maybe because he'd been sitting the entire time.

He heard Percy's deep chuckle behind him. "Ok, that settles it. You're staying with me." He picked him up off the floor, carrying me bridal style. "Hey, maybe we can go get breakfast with Hazel tomorrow morning before we leave for New York."

"Wait... You're driving back to New York for me?"

He shrugged. "I'm already going back. Why not drive you home too? You could definitely use a break from shadow-travel."

He laid Nico in the bed, and he smiled up at him. "Thank you... Why are you going back?"

"Eh, I wanna be with my mom."

"... Huh. I guess I always just assumed that you and Annabeth would get an apartment here right after college."

"Me too." He laid next to him. "But y'know... You're not the only on having relationship issues."

"Oh?"

"Yeah... It's fine. She's fine. She's great, actually. It's just... I don't know. The spark is just... Gone, somehow. And it sucks, and it scares me, because I... I wanna keep loving her. I've got a good thing going, I know I do. I know I'm lucky to have a girl like her. But... Here lately, I just don't really... Feel anything. I'm hoping a little distance will make my heart grow fonder." He sighed and pulled him closer. "... Goodnight, Nico."

And just like that, Nico was out like a light.

[uptoolateart]

I keep thinking about the theme of transformation. Butterflies are well-chosen as the akumas because they induce transformation from your average person into a temporary villain...but also because they force Marinette and Adrien (and friends) to transform into superheroes - not to mention Gabriel’s transformation into whatever villain persona he’s chosen for himself this week.

So, bear with me here, but - when caterpillars turn into butterflies or moths, they digest themselves one cell at a time, even the brain cells. There are only three cells remaining at the end of the process, which mutate and spawn the growth of the creature’s winged form.

A few years ago, I looked into whether or not we know if the final insect remembers its time as a caterpillar. In other words...did the caterpillar die? Naturally, people have done some very cruel experiments involving electric shocks and determined that such bugs do, in fact, retain some memories from their previous form, despite their old brains completely dissolving. There’s a lot we could say on that, but the point is....

The journey from caterpillar to butterfly parallels the human coming-of-age process (minus the self-digestion and wing sprouting) - and transformation sequences in any show symbolise this, too.

It takes time to grow. We never really stop. So what we see in shows like Miraculous is our heroes gradually increasing in self-confidence and assimilating their superpowers into their daily lives. At the same time, villains start letting their evil slip through their carefully molded facades. In other words, each character’s dual nature starts to blend into one persona.

This process of transformation mirrors alchemy - and if you bear with me again, I really do think the writers are aware of this, particularly because of how many times we hear / read about the need to ‘purify’ the akuma (which I’ll get to in a bit). 

When we hear about alchemy, we usually think of the magical practice of turning lead into gold. However, this is largely metaphor for self-actualisation / personal transformation. Beyond physical chemistry, alchemy was (and still is) a sort of philosophy expressed in code.

There are 7 stages of alchemy, which are noted below. For our purposes, I’m going to explore how they each relate to Miraculous and the general subject of personal growth. When thinking about story / character arcs, bear in mind that these 7 stages occur over a long period of time, rather than overnight / in a single episode.

1. Calcination - Burning the ‘prima materia’ (your starting material) into ash. In other words, relinquishing our attachments to the physical world, e.g. desires for fame, glory, money, etc.

Marinette is forced to let go of her dreams of being a ‘normal’ teenage girl, instead having to take up responsibilities she never asked for.

Adrien lost his mother and started school for the first time. At the end of Glaciator 2.0, he understood that he needed to drop the act he’d slipped into and simply be himself...whatever that might mean. He’ll have another big calcination moment when he finds out his father is his enemy and he has to make the choice to let his mother go.

For akuma victims, I believe calcination is the moment when they first get taken over by Monarch.

Monarch’s calcination moment could be when he lost Emilie. It changed the course of events forever.

2. Dissolution - Taking the ashes left from the calcination process and dissolving them in water.

Water is traditionally a symbol for the unconscious, i.e. dreams, hidden desires, our shadow side - everything we don’t want to admit about ourselves, for one reason or another. Dissolution is therefore when we delve deep into the parts of ourselves we have previously ignored.

Adrien spent a lot of Season 4 stuck in this stage, dealing with his attachment to Ladybug and his spot in the team, not to mention issues with his father. In Kuro Neko, he actively broke out of the Cat Noir persona, trying on new skins, as it were.

For Marinette, I think the key moment was her breakdown at the end of Strike Back, when she was forced to admit that she couldn’t do it all on her own. Dissolution can be wonderful, because it clears the way for something better. We also saw a breakthrough at the end of Perfection, when she finally understood what was holding her back from speaking normally around Adrien.

For akuma victims, it’s worth noting that when they transform their old form appears to dissolve before our eyes, before being replaced by what I always see as their shadow form. They don’t become ‘evil’ - they simply give in to their worst selves, rather than keeping all of that in balance. Think of Cat Blanc - he’s tragic rather than evil, the embodiment of all the anger, sorrow and doubt Adrien carries inside, without any of Adrien’s optimism to keep it in check.

I think Gabriel has been stuck in this dissolution phase throughout the series. He’s so entrenched in his own misery and lust for power that he’s allowing it to consume him.

3. Separation - Separating and filtering the products of dissolution. Symbolically, this is sifting through the qualities we have uncovered within ourselves, to determine what we should focus on and what we should let go of.

Adrien went through this in a big way in Kuro Neko, as he actively tried to work out who he truly was. This took shape at the end of Strike Back, and it came to a fore in season 5 when he finally told his father he doesn’t want to be a model. He has literally been separating from his father and, in a way, from Ladybug. He stopped letting others dictate what he should be and started focusing on what he wants.

Marinette is still working through all of this, but after her revelation at the end of Perfection, she’s primed to move forward.

Regarding the akumas, we could see this as the moment when the akuma is removed and the victim is freed. They have separated from Monarch / their controller.

Gabriel seems to have decided he wants to keep the darker aspects of himself and relinquish any good he may have previously had. In season 5, when he tells Nathalie he has to succeed because he has nothing left to lose, this is him declaring that he’s leaving his former self behind.

4. Conjunction - Combining the elements we decided to keep at the separation stage and mixing them into a new substance. This is the process of reintegration within ourselves, when we become something more than we were before. We have dropped the masks we once wore and are now more honest and whole.

In Season 5 especially, we have seen both Adrien and Marinette act more like their alter egos, even without the masks. Similarly, we have also seen Cat Noir and Ladybug behave more like Adrien and Marinette - because ‘Adrien’ and ‘Marinette’ are a kind of costume, too. When they fully integrate both aspects of themselves, they will be more complete individuals.

Similarly, Gabriel has begun behaving more like Monarch. For example, I noted in a previous post that we saw him do his evil villain laugh as Gabriel, for the first time. He’s letting his darkness show, and that means people will begin to see through him, at last.

For akuma victims, this is the stage we never get to see because we don’t see most of them after they’re freed. But we see some, like Alya, Nino and other friends. Based on this, I like to think every victim learns something from the experience and take steps to integrate their shadow side and outer persona to become a more whole person.

This whole subject is a Jungian idea, which I’m really into. I wrote a whole thing about Adrien accepting his Cat Blanc ‘shadow’ side in my fic Breaking Free. I’m a big believer in the need for this, to maintain mental health.

5. Fermentation - Adding bacteria, etc. to the substance to aid the breakdown process. Symbolically, this means new experiences and trials we go through as this new, more complete self, each one adding to who we are and shaping us further.

6. Distillation - The substance is boiled and condensed for purification. Similarly, we self-reflect and ‘purify’ ourselves as we evolve.

As I mentioned earlier, in season 1 we learn that it’s not enough just to free a victim from an akuma. The akuma will fly around and spread the negativity it previously brought. Left unchecked, it multiplies. In life, this is seen when we haven’t truly dealt with a problem but only put a temporary salve on it - a plaster on a broken leg.

Purifying the akuma - visually shown as the butterfly turning white again - symbolises that moment when we let go of all the things that bring us down and hold us back in life, even if it means letting go of aspects of ourselves. It’s a moment of self-cleansing and refreshment.

7. Coagulation - The substance is crystallised into a solid state once more.

In other words, we’ve come full circle and can begin the whole process anew - because we never stop growing. Even when we reach the end of Miraculous, if these characters were real they would continue to grow over and over and over.... Likewise, each and every one of us will go through the transformative process again and again, taking memories from each previous form and carrying them with us into our next metamorphosis.

[gaybananabread]

For AugTickleTober: perhaps 25, with Luz as the lee and Amity as the ler?

I got into a huge Lee mood writing this, so I'm gonna go die now. Enjoy!

I'M DONE WITH TICKLETOBER LET'S GOOOOOO

Lee: Luz

Ler: Amity

Summary: Luz has been pushing Amity's buttons, so she presses buttons of her own.

Warnings: none! This is a tickle fic, so if you don't like that, scroll away!

"Heeeey Amity~" Luz had been messing with Amity all morning. Normally, she wouldn't have a problem with it, but Titan, today was bad. She "borrowed" an abomination and tried to make it into a suit for "ultimate hugs". She just got abonimation goo everywhere.

She stole a few books to make a training course, but a misplaced fire glyf ended with a lot of water and smoke. She apologized, but started to sing-song her name every ten minutes.

Amity was up to here with her.

"Aaaaaamityy~" She snapped her book shut, summoning an abomination about as big as Luz. Getting the message, Luz tried tried run, but the abomination grabbed her and held her still.

"You have been bugging me all day. I've tried asking, but you won't tell me. I've tried reasoning, ignoring, bargaining, everything! Now, it's time for me to push your buttons." She poked Luz in the belly, and the human understood.

"W-wait! Amity! I'm sorry, won't do it again, promise!" If Amity didn't know better, she might've let her go. But she did. She knew she liked it, and she knew Luz wouldn't stop. "Yeah, no."

Ten wiggly fingers descended on her torso, and she burst out laughing, not even trying to hold back. Luz tried to squirm, but the purple goo held her firmly in place. "AHAHAHAMITY!" She decided she was gonna be mean. "Luuuuuuz!"

She moved to Luz's sides, poking the left one with just one finger. "Hey Luz, is this side ticklish?" She giggled, nodding. The. She went to the right side. "What about this one?" Luz kept giggling, hiding her face. "They're both ticklish? Well, guess I gotta tickle them both! Don't want one to feel left out."

She started squeasing along both sides, drawing more happy laughter from Luz. She had given up on escaping, just sitting there and taking it. Honestly, she had been trying to get her girlfriend to do this all day. Might as well enjoy it to the fullest.

"You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you enjoy this. Do you, Luz?" She squeaked, dissolving into more happy laughter as she went back to squeasing her sides. "Come on, I need you to speak clearly."

Luz shook her head wildly. "IHIHI CAHAHAN'T! YOU'RE TIHIHICKLING MEHEHE!" Amity tsk-ed. "Excuses. If you don't answer me, I'm going going your ribs." Luz's face went bright red. Her ribs were her death spot, and knew that Amity would 100% keep her word.

"YEHEHES!" Amity sent her a smirk. "Yes what?" Luz groaned. "IHIHI- BAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAMITY!" Two hands were clawing at her ribs, vibrating between every bone, sending ticklish shocks throughout Luz's entire body. "You took too long. I got bored."

The constant change in feeling on her ribs was torturous. She couldn't decide if she loved or hated it. Tugging and thrashing, she tried again to escape her goopy prison. She failed miserably.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOHOHOHO!" Amity shrugged. "I guess incould stop. But only if you say 'I'm adorable and love being tickled'." It was extremely unrealistic, but would be fun to watch her try.

"IHIHI'M ADOHOHORABLE AHAND- GAH! AHAHAHA!" Amity had sent some of the abomination goo up to her armpits, willing it to wiggle around and tickle her. If they didn't do this so often, she wouldn't have done that much. But they had, and it took a lot to properly tire Luz out.

"NOHOHO FAHAIR! CHEHEHEATER!" She let out a  drama-tized gasp. "A cheater! If I'm a cheater, than I might NEVER stop tickling you! No matter how many times you say it!" Luz could barely think straight, and talking with her brain was almost impossible.

"NOHOHO! NOHOHO MOHORE TIHICKLES!" She could see that Luz was reaching her limit. She went back down to her belly, only using one hand. Luz was still giggling up a storm, but it was enough to let her speak.

"Ihihi'm ahahadorable and lohohove- ahaha! Lohove beheheing tihihickled!" Amity stopped as soon as she finished the phrase, releasing her from the goo. She was slowly lowered to the ground, giggling the whole way down. Amity went over and hugged her, rubbing at her torso, trying to numb the ghost tickles.

"Next time, just ask. I wouldn't have been so mean if you would've asked me for tickles." She nodded, snuggling into her girlfriend's warmth. Amity summoned over some pillows and a blanket, setting them up on the floor into a makeshift nest.

They got comfortable, cuddling up with eachother. Falling asleep in eachother's arms wasn't a bad way to end the day.

[starlightcataclysm]

tell me about the soap if its so damn fun!!! infodump rite here rn!!! you wont! i triple dog dare you! or youre STRAIGHT!!!!

So, water is a polar molecule. the long and short explanation of what this means is that despite it overall having a neutral electrical charge, parts of the water molecule have slightly different electrical charges, slightly positive and slightly negative. Because of reasons, water is great at dissolving *other polar* molecules, but bad at dissolving nonpolar molecules: theres just no point of attachment between them. Oil and grease are nonpolar. This is why oil will always separate out of water instead of getting mixed in, they are polar and nonpolar, so water doesnt really do water things to grease.

Enter soap. Soap has an end which is polar, and thus can grab water, and an end which is nonpolar, so it can *also* grab oils. So even though water and oil wont interact directly, soap can interact with both at the same time and act as like, a bridge. So it allows water to wash away grease, which is awesome because water is so good at washing things normally but is much less useful on oils and fats. and then in steps soap. its so iconic. its like, she has two hands. lol

And we just kinda. figured it out ages ago by fucking around with animal fats and ash and shit. I think thats so awesome and speaks to human curiosity so beautifully. soap is so important.

im a little high

[entropy-mephit]

Reposting because Tumblr decided to be funny

Hob was sure this dream was supposed to be a nightmare about Robyn's death. He could feel it on an instinctual level, even if it was also all wrong. The tavern was there, the same old building with worn wooden beams and formerly white walls darkened by years building has stood there. There were lights inside and noise, a vague suggestion of people inside, drinking and arguing.

But the unreality intensified in waves as he approached the building enough to see inside. Rather than people gathered inside to drink and play like he is certain there should be there were just vague blobs of shapes instead of people, pretending to sit around and a large one standing in the middle of space. The sound was still just distant incoherent noise that fails to form any words, getting louder but not any clearer. Only the smells of alcohol and sweat and general human unpleasantness are still the same. Then the shape of the middle blob shifts a bit and... oh, there is a splatter of blood, strangely stark and clear on the aged wood but with how unreal everything else looks it doesn't have the emotional impact it should. Hob knew what it represented, and it was hard not to, but he is also aware it was just a dream and not a realistic one. It wasn’t even a nightmare anymore.

Hob looked around, again wondering why there are no people in the dream that by all means should be full of them. Then he looked at his own hand, first just glancing down, then as there was something missing he lifted both his hands, trying to take a closer look, just to realize that he didn’t have hands at all.

Actually, his body felt like he isn't even human anymore. The edges of the dream frayed and dissolved while he was still there and watched it go.

And then he woke up. It was still somewhere in the middle of the night, but he could hear the neighbors' dog barking... since when they had a dog?

shapeless shadows clinging to the edges of the room seemingly deeper, with swaying movement for no discernable reason. Everything seems off, wrong in subtle ways, but enough to drive Hob to check his hands, just to see, to make sure he really has hands and it's not just another layer of that strange dream, but it was just a hand, normal. No need to think too hard about it. He drank some water and turned his pillow, determined to just go back to sleep. Hob rubbed the remains of sleep from his eyes, just as a desperate scream sounded out from the house on another side of the street.

Hob sat up on his bed with a groan, wondering what kind of insane night was it going to be. Clearly, something must be going on and he didn't want to have anything to do with it.

If anything important is happening he would hear about it in the morning, but probably it was nothing, he tried to convince himself. And yet, it felt like something behind him was watching him. But he knew it was just a wall there.

With the effect it had, Hob decided to put the dream he had just had firmly back into the nightmare category.

He grumbled to himself, burying himself into the warm sheets, determined to ignore the feeling and people who decided to be noisy in the middle of the night.

Barking continued.

Dream of the Endless swayed on his feet, corporeal form dissolving at the edges, flashes of clothes weaving in and out of existence as he followed the faint thread of power back home. He gave all he had in that one desperate effort and not much was left of his personification, just enough for the gravity of his greater self in the dreaming to pull rather than recreate.

And then his next approximation of step across the unreal space got pulled off course.

“Here in the darkness!” Whispers of voices were more suggestions than actual words at first.

“Here in the darkness!” Demanded attention, yanking another step.

“Here in the darkness!” Pulled Dream down, stumbling into corporeality.

“Here in the Darkness!” His cloak was material, the air was cold and bones ached with the pain of wear.

The chants stopped and Dream couldn’t feel his self, just the faux blood rushing and thumping in his ears, the feeling of skin covering muscles, internal organs materializing and shifting inside. Disgustingly fleshy and painfully limited, human senses ringing and clawing at his self demanding attention in absence of eternal song of the minds. Wrong. Something so small and contained simply couldn’t be Dream of the Endless. And yet Dream was there, personified. It ached like a fresh wound, being cut away from himself. It was making him sick. It hurt.

He couldn’t get the incorporated vessel to move. There were muscles and he never before had needed to figure out how those functioned. There was skin and it was tight and uncomfortable. It felt like he was tied down in it. Flesh resisted.

The figures were gathered around, empty mindless dolls walking around. They were just lifeless existences, shifting as they moved away. The cloaks obscured features, but the faces didn’t matter either way. They were just dull things without dreams, without souls that Dream could sense.

Not worth any attention, even as one shaped as a child was pushed forward.

The thing took his dreamstone of anchoring and pulled the bag filled with grains of creation out of his fingers that refused to cooperate. The corporeality should be less stable without it, and yet the bones stayed aching underneath the mess of biological parts he rarely would bother to pay any mind to.

Even those things didn’t help lifeless things to fix their lacking souls, but it hurt even more for Dream to be separated with even those bits of self, like the things had some malicious intelligence guiding them to tear away even more bits of what Dream was.

He tried to abandon the corporation, to drift into the diffused self.

The void welcomed him instead.