#I love that he’s very deadpan/inexpressive

[i-am-literally-deranged]

Y'know recent conversation has made it occur to me that looking like this 😐 instantly makes me like a character more.

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Can I please have a small oneshot on a topic "What does Simon Riley need"? Maybe it's a promotion, or a raise? An apology, maybe? Can be also not so serious, maybe 'steal Soaps practice chanter, so the base can live in peace and silence for at least one evening'. Love-love-love!

Ooooooh I like it! I set it before my fic, I'm sure people are absolutely fed up with finding Riot everywhere.

Also, I can't write short things it seems! Thanks for the ask, I had a lot of fun! <3

''What do you mean, there's nothing else to do?''

Captain Price sighed, looking up from his own paperwork to find Simon's glaring brown eyes fixed on him. The Lieutenant was standing right in front of his desk, arms crossed, his looming, imposing frame almost obscuring the entire view of the office's door.

''Simon, it's a bank holiday. More than half of the privates are on leave, and the training drills are on hold. There's no one to train, no new paperwork, no vehicle needs fixing''

''Give me some of your paperwork then''

Christ, he sounded almost desperate. For someone else, Ghost's voice was as deadpan and inexpressive as always, but for someone who had known him for more than a decade, from before he was Ghost, it was easy to distinguish the little details. The stiffness of his broad shoulders, the way his fingers dug in his own biceps while crossing arms, the way his eyes were almost pleading.

''I'm almost done and I'm leaving, I just have to sign it. And no, you can't forge my signature''

''Well, in fact I can''

Price chuckled, shaking his head and making a show of how he was signing the last paper. Ghost groaned, tempted to just throw his hands in the air, but he simply walked over to the window to look out. The base was eerily silent.

The Captain waited patiently, checking his papers, but in reality he was observing the Lieutenant. It wasn't unusual for them to spend hours in silence in that very office, doing paperwork and sharing a glass of whiskey, sometimes even a cigar. He knew how to deal with Simon, he had done so countless times in the past. He just had to wait.

Sometimes, he even knew how to deal with Ghost.

''I just need something to do'' The younger man muttered at last, his back still to his superior officer.

Price nodded knowingly, tossing the stack of papers on his desk and leaning back on his chair, looking at Ghost.

''Well, there might be something...''

''What is it?'' Simon turned to look at him, not even bothering to hide his anxiety. He needed something, anything to do, to quiet down his mind.

''Soap and Gaz are plotting something in the common room'' Price checked his watch, with a serious face. ''I heard them during breakfast. I didn't quite catch what it was''

''Knowing them, nothing good'' Simon was already thinking of the possibilities, each one grimmer than the last. They could be planning to make the microwave explode. Or maybe fill the room with post-its, one of them had done so to their office, so it wasn't beyond them. Or, God forbid, they could be planning to stuff the sofa's cushions with glitter. They had already done that as well.

''Exactly'' The Captain nodded, observing with satisfaction how Ghost's eyes were already distant, his brain trying to come up with a plan to discover the Sergeants' shenanigans. ''I trust you'll keep an eye on them to make them behave, Simon''

Ghost just grunted. He didn't want to appear thankful or anything, but Price took the sound for what it was, and waved him goodbye while the Lieutenant left the office, his heavy steps echoing in the hallway until they faded in the distance.

*

When Ghost was halfway down the corridor, with the common room's door in his sight already, he could hear it. The microwave. Popping sounds and giggling.

The fucking microwave.

He quickened his pace and threw the door open, ready to sternly tell off both MacTavish and Garrick, only to find them excitedly gathered around the microwave, with an empty bowl and another bowl full of... popcorn.

They were making popcorn.

''Lt!'' Soap's wide grin welcomed him. ''Do you want to join us? We're going to watch a film!''

Even Gaz looked glad to see him. Ghost's eyes narrowed beneath his balaclava.

''What are you plotting?''

''Right now, just to get all the kernel to pop'' Gaz shrugged, still smiling and then watching again the microwave. Both Sergeants were giggling with glee each time there was a loud pop sound coming from inside, and Ghost considered for a moment if they had hit their heads earlier in the day or something.

''Are you sure that's all you're doing?''

''Aye, Lt... There's nothing to do, and most people have left for the holiday. Oi, care to join us?''

The Lieutenant considered his options. He could leave, which was his usual choice, and then the two Sergeants would finally do whatever it was they were planning to really do. Or he could stay, and twart their plans.

''Hmph'' He grunted, nodding gruffly just once. Soap's grin widened, and put the bowl full of popcorn in his hands, and Ghost stood there, not really knowing what to do while the Scott grabbed another.

The microwave started beeping, and he almost stepped back, completely sure that it would explode and that it was all a ploy, but Gaz simply opened the door and opened the bag to drop the hot popcorn in the empty bowl, so that the three of them had a bowl each.

The two Sergeants sat down on the sofa, leaving the armchair for him. That's what Ghost preferred anyway, and the three of them were too big to share the sofa without being all over each other like a pile of rags.

''What are we supposed to be watching?'' The Lieutenant asked, a bit of scorn in his voice, obviously not really believing their story. But Gaz and Soap were just smiling like little, innocent kids while the Scot turned the smart TV on and inserted an USB.

''I downloaded one of the films I used to watch as a kid with my fam, and Gaz used to watch it too! So we thought we'd go down the memory road''

''Murder by Death'' Gaz laughed, his mouth already full of popcorn. ''Have you watched it, Lt?''

''Can't say that I have'' God, even the title was absurd. What did Price think these two idiots would...?

Crap

Price

The fucking old man (only older than him by a few years, but old nonetheless).

Ghost was tempted to stand up and go find Price so he could stuff his throat full of popcorn, but in that moment the film started and Soap and Gaz cheered like two idiots.

He would have smiled if it hadn't been so fucking stupid. But the smell of the popcorn, and the... nauseatingly, pleasantly domestic feeling that was creeping in while he observed the two younger men all giddy...

He'd stay for a bit. Just to make sure they would behave.

*

An hour later, Price was passing through when he heard laughter coming from the common room. Three voices.

One was Soap, laughing hysterically. Gaz's laugh was a bit quieter, but he seemed to be enjoying it just as much. And the third voice...

The Captain stopped in his tracks, just to listen to it a bit more. Simon's laugh, which he hadn't heard in years. He had heard chuckles, snorts, maybe a short barked laugh. But not that belly laugh that Price remembered so fondly and so sadly.

Smiling, he continued his way, satisfied. His own little plot had worked beautifully. He still got it.

[hyucks-archive]

love, my heart.

word count: 5,456

genre: angst

member(s): bestfriend!donghyuck & boyfriend!mark

warning(s): nothing much

author’s note: @haeloce has spoken once more - ask & you shall be given (again)! i really hope it manages to satisfy your craving for angst in someway

“Two?” the cashier asks. Donghyuck nods his head to confirm. The part-timer ushers the both of you to your designated karaoke room, shutting the door as he takes his leave. You immediately plonk yourself down on the couch, resting your head against the backrest. Donghyuck shifts to sit beside you.

“Give me the remote,” you say, reaching a hand out. Donghyuck does as told, placing the remote in your hand. At this point, he doesn’t even need to ask or guess, to know what song you were going to sing. It’s been six months, a whole half of a year, and nothing much has changed. You still spent at least five out of seven nights intoxicated, singing your lungs out at the karaoke room, and Donghyuck has been around every step of the way.

The familiar tune of the beginning of Kim Bum Soo’s I Miss You begins to play. You grab the microphone, tapping on it gently as you wait for the cue to sing.

Donghyuck wouldn’t have thought that you’d be like this back then.

Six months ago.

It’s the fifth week in a row now.

Usually, he’d visit every weekend. It was a routine that the both of you had become accustomed to ever since the beginning of university.

If it were a choice, the both of you would’ve opted to attend the same university. But you both have different interests and aims in life, and so you mutually agreed that you’d support each other, and embrace the distance, for the sake of a better future. Everything has been going well so far. The both of you had managed to survive the first year of university, without drifting apart; you were even able to introduce him into your new friend group. Everything was going so well.

“You’re thinking about Mark again?” Donghyuck asks, claiming the seat beside you. He places his bag down on the ground, before leaning his left cheek on the surface of the table, mirroring your position. You purse your lips, your right cheek numb from having been in this position for a good thirty minutes already.

“I haven’t seen him in five weeks,” you mumble, letting your eyes settle on the Carhartt logo on Donghyuck’s t-shirt.

“Didn’t he tell you that he’s busy?”

“He did. But the most we have gone without seeing each other, is two weeks, never five. And he’s hardly been answering my calls these days,” you sulk, knitting your brows. Donghyuck chuckles, reaching a hand out to ruffle your hair, “Are you trying to say you miss him?” he teases.

“Of course not,” you defend, finally lifting your head up. “I don’t ever miss anybody,” you declare, folding your arms.

“Considering that you’ve been with Mark for three years now, shouldn’t you be more expressive with your feelings?” Donghyuck lifts his head up too, turning his body towards you. You raise a brow, shrugging as you reply, “He’s never complained.”

“It doesn’t mean he’s okay with it,” Donghyuck retorts.

“Whatever,” you say, brushing him off. “I hope he comes by this weekend. Otherwise, it’d mark six weeks of not seeing each other.”

“Why don’t you just go down to his university instead?”

You deadpan, rolling your eyes at Donghyuck.

“Let’s go, I’m hungry,” you say, changing the topic. Donghyuck shakes his head as he picks up his bag, following after you. He takes brisk footsteps, finally catching with you. “You really need to learn to wai-”

Before he’s able to finish his sentence, he sees the way your eyes light up, practically sparkling as your folded arms come loose. “Mark!” you exclaim, running forward. Donghyuck’s eyes follows your movements, briefly making eye contact with your boyfriend. Donghyuck dips his head slightly, acknowledging Mark’s presence. Mark gives a small smile.

You reach a hand out as per usual – it’s just the way that you and Mark have always greeted each other. He’d pull you in for a side hug, press a kiss to your forehead, and rub gentle circles on the small of your back.

But today, all he does, is give a little wave, coupled with a faint smile. Your hand is left hanging in the air awkwardly; Mark doesn’t notice, but Donghyuck definitely notices. Donghyuck raises a brow, his eyes immediately shooting up towards Mark, wondering why he didn’t react to your obvious gesture for a hug. After all, it’s been five weeks. And Donghyuck knows how your relationship works; if anything, Mark has the most dedicated, undying, unconditional love for you. But it doesn’t seem to show through today.

You purse your lips, retracting your hand to prevent from any further embarrassment.

“I’m so glad you finally managed to find time to come,” you say excitedly, bouncing lightly on your feet. Mark’s faint smile doesn’t widen, nor does it disappear. It remains plastered, as though he’s forcing it to stay on his face. Your brows twitch in confusion for a mere millisecond, but you choose to ignore it. Maybe the stress from school has really gotten to him.

“Me too,” he replies, gesturing towards Donghyuck with his chin. “Does your friend want to join us?”

You turn around to take a look at Donghyuck, before turning back to face Mark. “We haven’t seen each other in five weeks,” you say, trusting that Donghyuck would understand. He’s sociable, so he’d definitely have other friends that he can have lunch with. “Let’s just eat together,” you suggest, taking Mark’s hand in yours.

Mark allows you to hold his hand, but it remains limp. He counts to two, then gently pushes your hand off with his thumb. It’s natural, so he hopes you don’t pick it up. But you do.

“Let’s go then,” he says, turning around to lead the way.

You turn back towards Donghyuck, “See you tonight?” you offer.

“See you,” Donghyuck replies, shooing you away. He watches as you scurry forward, linking your arm with Mark’s.

Donghyuck’s gut tells him that something isn’t right.

You’ve been sitting opposite Mark for ten minutes now, and all he’s done, is eat in silence. He hasn’t said a word, which is completely out of character for him. Usually, he’d excitedly ask about your day, your week, what you’ve been up to, etcetera. His eyes would glimmer with interest as you shared your little anecdotes, yet he hasn’t asked you a single question today. It’s been five weeks, you have so much to share. Why isn’t he asking you anything?

Deciding that it only makes sense to ask Mark upfront, you put your cutlery down, pulling your chair toward the table.

“Is something wrong?” you question.

Mark finally looks up at you, his chest visibly moving up and down. It’s his body’s way of telling you he has something to say.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” you affirm, reaching a hand out to hold his, but Mark pulls away too quickly. You feel a light sting in your heart. What exactly is going on?

He places his cutlery down on the table, straightening his back. You’re absolutely confused at this point – did you do something wrong? Why is Mark being so uncharacteristically cold towards you? It’s been five weeks with minimal contact; what could you have possibly done that would’ve upset him like this?

Mark’s eyes shift restlessly, as though he’s searching for the right words to use, and the right sentences that would communicate his thoughts and feelings accurately. He wants to minimise the damage as much as possible, but this conversation that he’s been putting off and avoiding for so long, it has to happen someday. He was already able to take the first step in coming to see you, now all he has to do, is complete the conversation he’s been rehearsing endlessly back in the dormitory.

“Did you miss me?” he starts off, avoiding eye contact. You’re taken aback by his question – Mark was never one to ask you something like this. You’ve always been on the inexpressive side of the spectrum, and Mark knows that very well.

“Why are you asking me that?” you probe, trying to look him in the eyes, but failing miserably.

Mark scoffs, causing you to frown in reaction.

“Have you realised every weekend that goes by, we see each other less and less?” is his next question. You think back upon what has been happening the past few months – from weekly weekends of visits from Mark, it slowly became a fortnightly affair, and then it’d be irregular visits that ranged from anywhere between one to three weeks, and most recently, five weeks between his visits. You have noticed it, definitely. How can you not?

Mark takes your silence as consent, so he goes on with his third question, “Have you ever wondered why that’s happening?”

You ponder for a moment. Have you?

“Babe, what are you talking about?” you let out a breathy, awkward smile. “You were busy, so we couldn’t meet.” At least, that’s what he always told you when the weekend came. He’d tell you that he’s busy for the week, that he has club meetings, or other social gatherings that he didn’t want to miss out on. Sometimes, it’d be because he had to study, or had assignments to do. So naturally, you took these reasons for what they were. Should you have not done that?

“Were you busy?” Mark asks, looking up to meet eyes with you. Your smile that’s telling of how awkward you feel, only widens. “What do you mean?”

With the coldest tone you’ve ever heard from Mark, he states, “Yeah, I was busy. Maybe you were busy for a weekend or two, but not every single weekend that we didn’t meet. On those weekends, you’d go hang out with your friends, or you’d laze around in your studio, watching Netflix.”

You furrow your brows, “What are you trying to say? Are you trying to blame me for the weeks that we didn’t manage to meet?”

Mark sighs, his brows furrowing in annoyance. It’s the first time you’ve ever witnessed such an expression from him.

“That’s the problem,” he says, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Don’t you get it? In those weeks, instead of just staying in bed, you could’ve travelled to my university to see me.”

“But you said you were busy, so I-”

“Don’t use that as an excuse,” he cuts you off, expression stoic. You feel a second squeeze to your heart. “Name me one time in the past year and a half where you came down to my university.”

You gulp. You’re trying to search your brain for some memory of having done that, but you’re not able to recall anything.

Mark doesn’t show any reaction to this. It’s as though he already expected you to tense up, to not be able to reply him. He continues with his next probe, “Name me one friend that I’ve made ever since I started university.”

You blink a few times, trying your best to recall the name that Mark has mentioned a few times in the passing. “Jacky?” your answer ending in a higher tone, signifying your hesitance and the fact you’re not even sure if it is the correct answer.

“You’re close friends with Lee Donghyuck, born in year 2000, has a birthday in June. He majors in Business Management, and you met him during one of your electives in your first semester.” You open your mouth to say something, but Mark continues with what he has to say. “And yet, you can’t even remember Johnny’s name,” he finishes, coupled with a scoff at the end.

“Do you get it now?” Mark asks.

You swallow, feeling the sting in your nose.

“I accepted things the way they were, even though half the time I wasn’t feeling loved,” Mark continues, successfully managing to pierce a few more needles into your heart. “But I’m not happy anymore, y/n. I don’t think I can ever be, if I remain in this relationship.” The rest were needles, but this time, it’s definitely a knife.

“You came here today to break up with me?” you manage to say, your voice relatively stable, your eyes just barely moist.

Mark smiles bitterly, hanging his head low. “You’re not even going to hold me back?” he asks.

“Why should I?” you respond, immediately regretting what you said. But that’s just who you are; your mouth likes to say the most rude and hurtful things, but your heart has other wants and needs. You always thought Mark understood that. Clearly, you were being idealistic on your own.

Mark scoffs, taking in a deep breath.

“Thank you for the past three years, y/n,” he says, looking you in the eyes one last time.

“Ditto,” you reply, getting up to take your leave.

You can hear the way your phone continues to furiously vibrate on the bedside table, but you don’t have the energy, nor the brain space, to tend to it.

You have your face stuffed into your pillow, the last conversation you had with Mark earlier, playing like a broken record in your head. To be honest, you thought that you’d be bawling your eyes out, or at the very least, you’d be struggling to keep yourself from calling him.

And yet, all you’ve done, is lie in bed, your face stuffed into the pillow, your brain continuously replaying the conversation, but your heart pretty much whole, and your tear ducts practically closed. You don’t understand why you’re reacting like this. This isn’t how break ups should go. You wonder if Mark is okay. He didn’t show any signs of a breakdown earlier.

“Open the door!” you hear the familiar voice of your best friend calling into your room. He begins to knock on the door, refusing to stop until you open up. You groan, dragging yourself off your bed, trudging towards the door. You open it, to be greeted by a panting Donghyuck. “What are you doing here?” you ask, turning to make your way back to your bed.

Donghyuck closes the door, following behind you.

“You said to meet tonight,” he states, eyeing you up and down. He can already tell something’s amiss, but you don’t keep him guessing. You get straight to the point.

“Mark and I broke up,” you say so nonchalantly, that Donghyuck almost doubts his ears. You can tell he wants to ask if you’re sure that the two of you broke up just from the way he has his brows furrowed, with one brow up. “Yes, we really broke up,” you reconfirm, waiting for his reaction.

“I’m sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t fully mean it. 90% of him is upset for you, because even though you didn’t hang it at the side of your lips all the time, he knows how much you love Mark, and vice versa. Still, 10% is happy you’re single again. It’s selfish of him, he knows. But he’s still human after all, and it’s the humanly response to feel this way. It was wrong of him to fall for someone who was attached to begin with, but he justifies it with the fact that he never made any advancements. He was satisfied just being able to be by your side, as a friend.

“Don’t be,” you state, shrugging. “Surprisingly, I’m okay with it. I guess it just worked out for the better.”

There’s a minute of silence between the both of you, so you tilt your head, directing a question at Donghyuck. “Aren’t you going to ask why we broke up?”

He shrugs, “You’d tell me if you want to.”

“He got tired of me,” you say with a smile. Donghyuck knows you’re just pushing yourself.

“Should we get a pizza?” you suggest, grabbing your phone.

“Sure,” Donghyuck replies.

Two weeks later.

Donghyuck frowns, running a hand through his hair as he shuts his eyes, trying to hold in his anger. He takes a second look at you – beer bottles sprawled all over the ground, bags of chips left opened, your tear-stained face, and your lifeless figure that rests in the midst of it all. He lets out a frustrated sigh, bending to grab the bottles and bags of chips to get them out of the way.

Once he’s done with cleaning up the mess, he grabs a wet tissue, kneeling beside you as he delicately cups your cheek. Gently, he wipes away the streams of tears that had dried from whenever you were letting out your emotions.

Donghyuck doesn’t understand why you didn’t just call him.

Swiftly, he lifts your body up bridal-style, setting you down on the bed. He pulls the comforter over your body, tucking you in. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand out to caress your face, only to leave it hanging mid-air, deciding against it.

He knows you’re suffering because of the break up. He knows there’s so much more to it that you’re not opening up to him about. He knows it’s just in your personality to bottle everything up, to put up a façade that you’re tougher than you really are. He just wishes you didn’t have to pretend around him.

Donghyuck knows the only thing he can do, is be patient, to wait until you’re ready to talk to him.

Five weeks later.

Coming by your room to clean up the mess and to tuck you into bed has become a routine to Donghyuck. As twisted as it might sound, you’re lucky it’s semester break, so whatever you were doing to ruin yourself, it wasn’t affecting your grades.

He takes a seat by your bed, staring at your resting face. You’re breathing calmly, making soft, whimpering noises in your slumber. Are you really hurting that much? The last time Donghyuck had checked up on Mark, he was doing fine. In fact, in Mark’s words, he’s “doing better than he was” when he was in a relationship with you. Donghyuck wanted to punch him when he heard that. But he wasn’t the one in the relationship. He wouldn’t know.

You begin to stir in your sleep, making a groaning noise as you shift in your bed. Donghyuck immediately leans forward.

“Hey,” he calls softly, resting a hand on your arm.

You lift an eyelid, managing to focus on Donghyuck’s face. “Hyuck?” you croak.

“You vomited three times tonight,” he says, “That’s a record.”

You let out a small smile, “Sorry that you have to deal with me in this state,” you say, voice still groggy from your sleep.

“What are friends for?” he replies, reaching for a glass of water. He waits for you to lift yourself up into a sitting position, before passing the glass to you. You take two big gulps.

“Why don’t you ever ask me anything?” you question, your voice soft, barely coming out as a squeak. Donghyuck still catches your question, though. He musters the most encouraging smile he can imagine, “Like I said, you’d tell me if you want to.”

You see the sincerity in Donghyuck’s eyes.

You’re thankful for having him around.

“I have a favour to ask of you,” you say. Donghyuck nods his head, a sign for you to go ahead.

“Bring me to the karaoke joint tomorrow.”

A look of confusion flashes across his face briefly, but he agrees to your request.

“Sure,” he says.

That marked the beginning of the almost-daily karaoke sessions you’d insist on having.

Two months later.

“How about I key in the song for you?” Donghyuck suggests, reaching for the remote. “No!” you insist, reaching both hands out to stop him. “Come on, don’t be stubborn,” you chime, struggling to get the remote out of Donghyuck’s hands. Eventually, he gives in, but not without a disapproving shake of the head.

It’s the tipsiest you’ve ever been in the past two months, and yet, you were still persistent on coming to the karaoke joint to sing your usual song. At least, that was what Donghyuck had thought.

He watches the screen as you key in a different set of numbers today. Instead of your favourite I Miss You, the melodic piano of Damsonegongbang’s Loving With All Your Heart begins to play. He frowns, turning towards you.

You had gotten up, and you are now standing in the middle of the room, swaying unstably from side to side, the microphone secure in the grip of your two hands. As the countdown begins, Donghyuck looks back at the screen, reading the lyrics as you begin to sing the song that you’ve chosen for the night.

“Loving someone with all your heart

How, and what kind of person is able to do that?

I’m so jealous

I’m too scared to get hurt

So I’m only stepping backwards”

Donghyuck looks back towards you. He can see the way your lips are quivering, and the way your eyes are welling with tears. As the melodic piano continues, you close your eyes, and for the first time, Donghyuck witnesses you crying.

He has seen the aftermath of the tear-stained cheeks countless of times, but never the actual process of the crying. Did you pick this song, because of its lyrics? Is this how you’re actually feeling inside?

Donghyuck feels his heart soften at your state.

“When meeting someone

I don’t like getting my heart hurt

So I’m always standing one step behind

Unfortunately

Giving someone your heart

Why is it so hard for me?

Someone like me is also able to be in love

It’s so strange

Loving someone with all your heart

How, and what kind of person is able to do that?

It’s really not easy for me

Just like you did back then

I want that kind of love”

Your voice was beginning to waver, to crack from the emotions. Donghyuck feels the squeeze in his heart – how is he so useless? You were feeling like this the whole time, and yet, he isn’t able to do anything for you, because the sad reality is, he’s not Mark. And he never will be.

You continue on with the last chorus, practically sobbing as you sing,

“Loving someone with all your heart

How, and what kind of person is able to do that?

It’s really not easy for me

Just like you did back then”

Your voice trails off, before you manage out between sobs, “I want that kind of love,” you end off, allowing the emotions to rush out.

Donghyuck gets up from his seat, moving towards you. He grabs your arm, and almost instinctively, you push yourself into his embrace, a tight grasp on the sleeve of his shirt. You allow yourself to sob, to let out all the bottled emotions you’ve been trying to supress. You tell yourself it’s okay, that Donghyuck wouldn’t judge you for being so weak.

Donghyuck runs a soothing hand down your back; feeling the way you’re literally shaking in his arms, and listening to the way you’re crying with so much pain and pent up emotions, he feels himself tearing up.

At the very least, he managed to learn something new about you tonight.

You regret not being able to love Mark with your entire heart, the way he loved you with all of his heart.

“I love you,” you mumble, crying out even harder than before.

Donghyuck wishes it was directed at him.

Three days later.

“No karaoke tonight?” Donghyuck questions, removing his baseball cap to put it on your head, sheltering you from the drizzle of the night sky.

It’s an insignificant gesture, but it’s becoming increasingly significant, as the days go by.

You wish you could remain oblivious to it all, but that’s just your wishful thinking. That can never be the case.

“I wanted to have some hot chocolate for a change,” you reply, stuffing your hands into your pockets. Donghyuck nods his head, “Where to?”

You lead Donghyuck to a quaint little coffee shop that you had discovered a week or two before, when you were roaming the streets aimlessly, revisiting the places that you’ve visited with Mark. That isn’t exactly the healthiest thing to do when you’re trying to get over somebody, but a part of you has come to accept that as much as you’d hate to admit it, Mark Lee was a lot more to you, than you thought he was.

You merely just took him for granted.

“I’m ready,” you say, as Donghyuck places the cup of hot chocolate in front of you. He sits in the lounge chair opposite you, picking up his glass of hot chocolate. “For what?” he asks, taking a sip.

“Mark didn’t break up with me because he got tired of me,” you begin. It’s five months due, but you feel the need to let Donghyuck know. Maybe he’ll understand the underlying intention behind this conversation by the end of it. Donghyuck doesn’t say anything, so you take it as the signal to continue with whatever you had to say.

“After thinking about the conversation we had leading up to the break up for the past few months, I’ve come to realise something,” you smile, genuinely, this time. “I made no effort to go to Mark’s university despite living on a different campus, and I made no effort to ask about his life, or to get to know his friends.”

“Every conversation we had, he was always asking me about my life, my friends, what I was doing, if I was happy. I was always the centre of our conversations. I always talked about myself, but I never realised, that I never asked about him, or let him do the talking.”

Donghyuck raises both brows, but allows you to continue.

“Mark made the effort to travel back and forth between our campuses, just to see me.” There’s an endearing smile tugging at your lips, and Donghyuck sees it, in all its clarity. He can see the amount of love you still have for Mark, just from the way you talk and reminisce about him.

“Now that I look back, and I see his stories on Instagram from time to time, I realise Johnny,” it’s so disgustingly sad that it took you so long just to remember his name, “Is like an actual big brother to Mark. That’s how important Johnny was, and is, to him. Yet, I couldn’t even be bothered to remember his name.”

Donghyuck takes another sip of his hot chocolate.

“If I had made the effort to care about him, to ask about his new life, to meet his friends,” you take a pause, vision dropping to the adidas logo on Donghyuck’s shirt. “Things would’ve probably turned out differently.”

“I took him for granted, and assumed he’d be here for me forever. But look where I am right now,” you laugh, looking back up to meet eyes with Donghyuck.

“Did you tell him that?” he asks.

“I did. I told him I loved him to death, and I still do, very much. He was loyal, and he was amazing. I only want the best for him.”

All Donghyuck picked up was ‘I still do, very much’. Your heart was, and is, still with Mark Lee.

Donghyuck never hoped for much.

But at the very least, he had hoped that he wouldn’t have to deal with heartbreak.

Present.

You put the microphone down on the table, heaving a sigh of relief.

Previously, you were never able to get through the song without ending off with a heavy heart. But now, you feel like you’ve gotten better at it. In fact, you might even be well on the road to getting over Mark. Maybe, just maybe.

You grab a glass of water, downing it in one shot.

Donghyuck notices how you haven’t said much to him today. You had skipped out on three nights of karaoke, and tonight, when you called him, it made him feel excited and fluttery on the inside. It’s silly, he knows. But he didn’t expect to be met with a semi-cold shoulder from you.

“Tonight’s the last night that I’ll be indulging in this lifestyle,” you declare, taking a seat on the other end of the couch.

“You’re no longer going to karaoke?” Donghyuck asks.

You nod your head. “I’m allowing you to reclaim your nightly freedom.”

Donghyuck wants to say something in response to that, but he doesn’t know what to say. It’s not as if he can just tell you that he’d miss being able to hang out with you every night, even though all he did was make sure you get home safe. Still, it allowed his feelings to manifest, and it’s been the best six months he’s ever had. Because he was able to spend every night with you.

“Thank you for the past six months, Donghyuck. I honestly have no idea how I would’ve survived if it weren’t for you,” you say, smiling for the first time tonight. Donghyuck doesn’t like what his brain is interpreting from the situation.

“It’s time for you to pursue other things, Hyuck,” you say, looking at him with the most serious expression.

“You know?” he asks.

You smile, “Well, I’m not stupid.”

Donghyuck doesn’t say anything, so you take it as the sign. It’s better now than never, right?

“I genuinely appreciate you, Hyuck,” you tell him as you pick up your bag, slinging it on your shoulder.

Donghyuck immediately gets up, grabbing your wrist. He doesn’t know what comes over him, but the slew of words just escape his mouth before he’s able to process anything. “I want to be next to you, whatever it takes. Please, know this,” he says, searching your eyes for some form of acknowledgement, or affirmation. He sees the way you look at him, and it’s different from how you’ve always, and still, look at Mark. He always knew he wasn’t a choice. He had just hoped, that maybe, just maybe, he’d have even the littlest bit of a chance.

“I’m always going to be here, ready to take all of your pain and scars,” he says, pulling you a little closer. “I’ll take them all, so you won’t be tired or sad,” he continues. “If you give me half the chance, if you let me be closer to you, I kn-”

“That’s sweet of you, and I know you’ll definitely live up to your words,” you cut in, placing an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “But it should just stay at that. You should just remain by my side, as a best friend.”

Donghyuck isn’t able to just accept this.

“Actually, I can wait. I can wait more than I’ve already waited, just as long as you’re willing to open up, and to come to me,” he tells you, his eyes oozing with sincerity.

You’re lucky. For someone like you, who has never learned what it means to love someone, and to give your heart to someone, you were granted the opportunity to meet two boys, who know exactly how to love with all of their heart. Unfortunately, as sad as it might sound, you’re not worthy of that kind of love. At least, not until you learn how to give, and not just receive.

For some reason, from your gaze, and from your lack of response, Donghyuck feels it in his gut.

It feels like this is the last time.

“You’ll always be my best friend,” you reassure.

Donghyuck is patient, he’s capable of waiting even more than he’s already waited.

But for some reason, it genuinely feels like it’s all coming to an end. That in the realest way possible, this is the last time.

Epilogue: Six years later.

You open up the newspaper, only to see the name ‘Lee Donghyuck’ printed as the headline. Once again, he has made a business move that managed to triple the profit for his company.

Every time you see him pop up on the news, you can’t help but think back to when the both of you were still in university. Why exactly were you so foolish? You really have no idea. Twenty-year old you not only lost the man you loved so much, because you were too young and stupid to realise it before you lost him; but you also lost the only man you loved platonically, because you thought that that was the only possible way you could feel less guilty about not being able to give him a chance.

You close the paper, settling it down on your lap. It’s nice to see that Donghyuck is living a life without any regrets.

You just wish you could say the same for yourself.

[ridiasfangirlings]

Hi hi! Hope you're having a lovely day. Basically I really like your K Project character analysis', especially in certain scenarios, so I'd love to hear your thoughts on an idea that's been in my head for a while ^^

So, while Fushimi was still living in the mansion, he notices that occasionally, another child around his age or maybe a little older would be wandering around the staircase as if waiting for someone. At first, he didn't pay it too much mind since that other kid never really bothered him and they both minded their own business. Then, he finds out that she's (or he but I imagine the child to be a girl for some reason) an intern at his mother's company - not only that, but one day I suppose he stumbles on the two of them talking, and the deadpan girl's face lights up when she's talking to Kisa, and in return, Kisa is acting very caring and supportive towards the girl.

In a nutshell, I wonder how Saruhiko would react or deal with the idea that his mother acts more like a "mother" with another child instead of him - I imagine that before that point he would have probably assumed that Kisa was incapable of showing parental love to anyone in the first place; but now, knowing that it's perhaps just *him* I'm really quite curious ^^ thank you!

I feel like Fushimi would try to act as if he doesn't care about Kisa in any respect but really I think it would hurt him a lot to see that it isn't that Kisa is incapable of love, she's just incapable of loving him. Imagine this happening when Fushimi's in middle school, maybe shortly before he meets Yata. One day he returns to the house assuming it's safe because this isn't the time of month when Niki's usually there and there's no sign of Kisa's giant fancy car. When he walks inside though there's this girl standing there, she looks to be about high school age and she's kinda serious and quiet looking. She glances at him when he walks in but doesn't say anything and Fushimi doesn't say anything to her, she doesn't look like a thief and he assumes she must have a reason to be here that doesn't involve him. After this he sees her a few times and eventually I imagine he figures out she's working for Kisa somehow, like Kisa normally shows up after the girl arrives and the girl leaves with her so Fushimi realizes she's probably an intern or something (and of course Kisa never bothers to, like, tell her son that there's going to be some girl waiting for her, and the door's always unlocked anyway so the girl can just let herself in whenever she wants. Kisa's maybe mentioned to the girl that she might see 'that child' occasionally but that's it, and the girl doesn't really bother to ask anything more about it).

One day Fushimi's playing video games in his room and he decides he's actually hungry for once so he figures he'll just run out and grab something at the convenience store. When he leaves his room he sees the intern girl is still there waiting and Fushimi clicks his tongue irritably because he doesn't really want to have to walk past her again, especially because there's a chance Kisa will be back by the time he returns. He considers just leaving and spending the night at an internet cafe but that's when the door opens and Kisa herself walks in. Fushimi scowls, like now he really has to wait until they leave, but he notices that the girl's normally inexpressive face just lights up when she sees Kisa. Even more surprising Kisa's face softens as she approaches the girl, looking at the girl with this kind expression that she's never once turned towards her son.

The intern girl's maybe being bullied at school or something and she's helping Kisa with a difficult deal that's been putting a lot of stress on her. As she tells Kisa all this Kisa's actually properly listening to her and she responds by praising the girl's work ethic and telling her how excellent she's been as an intern, and how proud Kisa is to mentor her. Kisa's just being super supportive and understanding and as he watches them Fushimi feels this twisting in the pit of his stomach like he's going to be sick and he doesn't really know why. It's not like he ever wanted that woman to praise him, or to smile at him or be kind to him, but seeing Kisa be like that with someone else – having proof right there in front of him all of a sudden that the way things are isn't because Kisa doesn't want to be a parent or can't handle children but specifically because she chooses not to act that way towards him makes his hands clench and his eyes burn. Suddenly he's not hungry at all and Fushimi goes back to his room, closing the door and just going back to mechanically playing games, trying not to think about what he just saw (and maybe it keeps replaying in his mind too, that time someone broke into the house and Kisa said it was fine to leave the door unlocked 'as long as we don't leave anything valuable out,' and he wonders if she thinks that way about this intern girl too or if he's the only one who doesn't have any value at all. From this point on if he sees the girl waiting Fushimi just goes to spend the night at an internet cafe, and doesn't let himself think any further about the reason why).

[melodiouswhite]

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde rewritten - Ch. 32

32. Sympathy and tenderness

(A/N: Excessive mention of rape. Sorry.)

Hyde had no bloody clue, how he'd managed to drag himself all the way home, being in the agony he was. But somehow he had.

When he finally entered Jekyll's house, he slammed the back door shut after himself and fell to his knees from exhaustion and pain.

“Jekyll?”, he called out hoarsely, “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you”, his creator’s voice answered.

His reflection in the mirror morphed into that of Jekyll, who stepped out of the mirror with a sombre expression.

Hyde smiled bitterly. “What's with that face, Doctor? You look as if you actually feel bad for me!”

“I do, Hyde”, the older whispered gently, “Believe it or not, I feel almost as horrible about it as you do.”

The brunette laughed: “It's kind of funny. I'm depraved to the core, but I've never felt so impure and defiled in my entire life.”

“Me neither”, Jekyll agreed sadly, “After all, we're in the same boat. I … I came out as a shadow, when I sensed that you weren't feeling well. I saw everything … oh, Edward, it was so awful!”

Hyde looked at him in surprise. “Why the hell are you crying?!”

“No, the real question is, why are you not?”

The smaller man ground his teeth. “Crying is for the weak.”

The blond shook his head. “Hyde, it's not like you to pretend. You don't have to be strong. Not now, not here, not in front of me. It's okay to hurt. It's okay to cry.”

Hyde tried not to, he really did.

But it was impossible.

He was hurting in every way, humiliated, angry, upset and just wanted it to stop.

He began to sob.

Jekyll took him in his arms and they both wept.

It was late afternoon, when their crying subsided and Hyde sat on the floor alone, desperate for shelter and comfort.

By this time Jekyll was no longer corporeal. He had kept that form up as long as he could, but it had taken too much energy and he'd been forced to return into Hyde's head.

“He-Henry”, he croaked, “E-everything hurts … what do I do?”

“You need medical attention”, Jekyll answered tiredly, “I can't help you. So you have only one option.”

Hyde's eyes widened in horror. “Are you serious?!”

“Yes.”

“But … Lanyon … he will …”

“He won't judge. Not you. It wasn't your fault.”

Jekyll sounded so confident, that he gave in.

Lanyon had just seen off the last patient, when his butler informed him, that a visitor was waiting in the parlour.

The hoary doctor frowned. “A visitor without notice?”

“The young man probably has a good reason for that”, the butler replied, “He looks absolutely awful.”

That got his attention. He went to the parlour hoping, that it wasn't who he feared it was.

Alas, he was disappointed, when he came in and found Edward Hyde waiting.

He wanted to make a snarky remark, but then he saw the brunette's state:

Hyde was even more pallid than usual, his eyes more sunken in, the rims around them darker, as if he hadn't slept in days. There was a nasty bruise on his forehead (probably at least a day old and provisionally nursed). His eyes were red and puffy, he must have been crying. He was supporting himself on his walking cane, but had visible trouble to keep himself upright.

He looked up, saw him and rasped: “I need medical attention.”

It sounded pathetic. Broken.

And Lanyon hated it.

If Hyde was suffering, Jekyll had to be as well.

But he didn't show what he was thinking.

“Very well”, he said calmly, “But perhaps you should sit down-”

“I can't”, Hyde interrupted him quietly. “I can't. It hurts way too much to sit.”

A sense of foreboding crept into the doctor's heart.

“… That answers the question of where the problem is, I suppose. Can you lay on your stomach?”, he asked, pointing to the cot in the corner. The younger one nodded.

“You're obviously tired”, Lanyon continued, “Perhaps you want to rest first. And you look dehydrated. Do you want some tea?”

The brunette smiled gratefully and nodded.

Lanyon helped him over, covered him with a blanket and went to give the orders and fetch his medical equipment. But first, he placed a bucket next to Hyde's head – he did look quite sick.

When he came back, the poor boy was hurling. Within a second, he was by his side with a pot of water and gently rubbing his back.

“Oh dear”, he mumbled, “Mr. Hyde, what's the matter? What happened to you?”

Hyde laughed hoarsely: “I can't answer that question without making it sound like a horror tale.”

Alright, now the sense of foreboding was festering.

Oh my god, please don't let it be what I think it is, please, please, please, he prayed desperately.

He handed the younger man the pot of water. “Some water, for your throat”, he told him and added uncomfortably, “Perhaps we should wait until your stomach has settled down-”

“No”, Hyde choked, “I want to get it over with as soon as possible.”

Lanyon sighed sadly. “As you wish. But you'll have to strip of your inexpressibles, I'm afraid.”

The brunette nodded hesitantly. Lanyon helped him to stand up and offered to help, but Hyde refused vehemently.

The white-haired doctor looked away out of decency and tried not to show his pity, as the other obviously struggled to do as asked of him.

Finally Hyde spoke up: “I'm ready. But Dr. Lanyon, before we get to it: I must ask, that you will remain professional and do your work and nothing more.”

Lanyon turned back to him and nodded solemnly. “Of course, Mr. Hyde. Now, lie back down and spread your legs, please*. I know it's a compromising position, but-”

“I know, I know!”, the brunette snapped. “Just get it over with!”

He spread his legs like a female patient. The young man was shaking like a leaf and his eyes were wide with fear. As if he was trying his best to have faith in the other, but was too frightened and upset to do so.

He only allows me to look at it, because Jekyll trusts me, Lanyon realised.

The doctor began to examine the other's lower body, but his mismatched eyes widened in horror, when he saw the injuries that caused the brunette so much pain.

“Oh my God …”, he breathed. “Jesus Christ!”

“Jesus Christ doesn't care”, Hyde commented coldly.

Lanyon ignored the blaspheme remark.

He had to focus on swallowing his rage.

Hyde wasn't Jekyll, but he was a part of him. Hurting him meant hurting Jekyll too.

And that made the hoary man's blood boil.

Someone had dared to lay hand on his best friend! Had touched and defiled him in the worst possible way! He would fucking kill him! He would find the bastard, who had done this and do the most gruesome things to him that he could think of!

Hyde's voice tore him back to the moment. “You're not going to make me explain what happened, are you?”

It was an anxious question, a plea.

Lanyon shook his head. “You don't need to, Mr. Hyde. It's obvious.”

He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.

“You don't happen to know the guy who did this, do you?”

The patient shook his head. “No. The one I suspect is a complete stranger. I don't know who it was.”

“Dammit”, Lanyon grumbled. “Because I really want to kill him. Shove the barrel of my gun up his arse and pull the trigger.”

“I'd love to see that”, Hyde chuckled weakly, “And hear his screams of agony, as he dies a slow and painful death.”

Lanyon nodded grimly and took another deep breath.

“I'm going to tend to your injuries now”, he told the smaller man. “Sadly I've run out of chloroform, so this will hurt a lot.”

The other nodded. “I know. You'll have to fix me to the cot. I don't think I'll be able to hold still the entire time.”

Lanyon heeded the advice and then went to work.

The procedure was painful for both of them.

For Hyde obviously, for Lanyon, because he couldn't bear to see the other in so much pain.

Not only because this was Jekyll suffering (well, specifically his darker half, but it counted!), but also because Edward Hyde was young, slender and very small. The culprit probably had thought that the brunette was an underage Mary Ann**, which made this whole thing even sicker.

Finally the doctor was finished with his work, leaving the patient drained, but relieved. Lanyon untied him and handed him his pants.

“I'm afraid, this is all I can do”, Lanyon told him apologetically, “Also, you shouldn't eat any solid food for the next days. This needs to heal.”

“Great”, Hyde grumbled, “More soup.”

The older man continued: “Good news is, once the wounds have healed sufficiently, you will be fine. No permanent physical damage.”

“Lucky me”, the younger deadpanned.

“I know it's no comfort.”

“It's not.”

Lanyon hated how helpless he was in this situation.

He had been able to patch up the physical injuries, but never would he be able to mend the wounds left on Jekyll's and Hyde's soul. Even if the wounds healed, the scars would never fade.

Knowing that was unbearable.

“Don't make that face, Doctor”, Hyde said, “You've done all you could. And that was more than enough. I will be fine.”

“Will you?”, queried Lanyon. “Mr. Hyde, stop pretending that you're not hurting on the inside – the other inside”, he added poignantly, when the brunette lifted an eyebrow.

“You're forgetting, that I have known you – that is, Jekyll – for forty years. Your act doesn't fool me.”

He opened his arms. “Need a hug?”

Hyde bit his lip. His acid green eyes lost a bit of their brightness and specks of brown appeared. Jekyll was breaking through his defences, Lanyon realised.

Then the younger nodded silently.

Hyde didn't know how long they had been sitting in this weird position, but eventually he calmed down. Somehow he was able to think clearly now and his emotions were becoming less overwhelming.

For someone who was so easy to unnerve, Lanyon sure had a stabilising aura of reliability to himself.

But then again, this is why Jekyll clung to him for fifteen years, isn't it? Why he loved and needed him so much? Because he made him feel sane?

“Thank you, Lanyon”, he whispered finally.

The hoary doctor smiled. “You're welcome.”

“What time is it?”, he inquired.

Lanyon checked his watch. “It's half past nine.”

Huh. Was it really that late?

The older man handed him his walking cane. “Honestly, I think my work is done so far. Right now, you don't need me any longer.”

Hyde blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Lanyon looked at him seriously. “I gave you medical attention, but you also need someone to help you get the justice you deserve. Mr. Hyde, what you need now is a lawyer.”

Oh.

Right.

A lawyer.

“Shall I call you a cab to Utterson's place?”

Hyde shook his head.

The other frowned. “It's pouring outside and you're still in pain. You shouldn't-”

“I know”, the brunette muttered, “But I walked all the way here from Jekyll's home. I'll manage.”

Lanyon shook his head and gave up. “Well, suit yourself. You two are goddamn stubborn, trying to dissuade you would be pointless.”

“Exactly”, Hyde agreed. “I'll be on my way, then. Thank you for the medical attention. Oh, and Dr. Lanyon?”

“Hm?”

Hyde regarded him with genuine gratitude and said: “You're a good fellow and a wonderful friend. Jekyll is lucky to have you.”

At first, Lanyon looked shocked. Then he smiled lopsidedly.

“You are lucky to have me.”

He laughed throatily. “Yes, I guess I am.”

Then he left.

Utterson was stacking away the last of his paper work, when he heard a knock from the door.

Looking through the spy hole, he couldn't see anything, so he opened the door to check.

To his surprise, it was none other than Edward Hyde standing in front of him. He was completely drenched, shaking like a leaf and supporting himself on his walking stick.

“H-hey”, the wet man stammered.

“Edward! My god, you're soaked! What were you doing outside in this weather?! Get out of these wet clothes, I'll find you a towel and something dry.”

The lawyer pushed him into the living room, near the fireplace and brought him some tea.

When he came back with a nightgown, morning coat and three towels in his arms, Hyde had peeled out of most of his clothes and was hiding behind the armchair like a frightened animal.

This was so very wrong … he felt his heart twist painfully.

But Utterson saved the questions for later and helped the young man dry up and put on the dry clothes. The poor man was still shivering, so he shooed him into his own bed.

“Good grief, out there in this weather at this hour! What happened? You're a mess!”

“Yes”, Hyde replied softly and lay down carefully. “A mess …”

His lip was quivering.

His voice was hoarse and shaking.

His eyes were slightly damp.

He was on the verge of tears, Utterson realised and his heart twisted even further.

“Wait a bit”, he told the brunette gently, “I'll get you some more tea-”

“No!”, the smaller cried suddenly, startling him. “Don't … don't go … I … I …”

The lawyer sat at the edge of the bed. “I'm not going anywhere. But Edward, please tell me what happened.”

“Don't worry”, Hyde muttered, “That's what I came for.”

Then he slowly sat back up. “Oh! I can sit again!”, he remarked, “I must thank Lanyon tomorrow, he did a good job.”

Utterson began to fret. Couldn't the other just tell him already what the matter was?!

But then Hyde began to do exactly that: “It won't be pretty, Gabriel, so brace yourself.

It was last Friday night, I was at the pub to get up the knocker – you know, the usual. Something was different this time, though. But this time there was this stranger, who asked to sit with me. That in itself was weird – no one ever wants to sit with me – so I got suspicious, but I didn't say anything about it. Then my first shot came and I must have been distracted for a moment, I don't remember. Anyway, I was already dizzy after half a glass, so it must have been spiked. So I didn't drink the rest, paid for it and left. But it was pretty difficult to get forward in the darkness and the rain – I don't even know, if I was walking into the right direction. At some point I had to lean against a wall, I think. Then, suddenly I heard a voice behind me and someone threw me against the wall several times. Of course that and the drug made me pass out.

The next thing I remember is waking up today morning, in the flat of one of the girls I frequent. My entire body was hurting like hell, especially my arse and back. She told me what had happened, but it wouldn't have been hard to guess anyway.

Jekyll said that he saw what happened, because he was out in his shadow form. He tried to keep the memories from me, but he isn't as good at it as I am. They came to me on the way here. Fun times. Seeing pictures in my head, of how that bastard defiled my entire body. Then he left me to die, unconscious and covered in blood and filth.”

He hugged himself and looked away, while the lawyer stared at him in horror and disbelief.

When it all sank in, Utterson felt his heart shatter into a million pieces.

“You don't believe me, do you?”, Hyde asked in a hushed, broken voice. “Or if you do … you're disgusted with us, aren't you? With me and Jekyll? Because we allowed someone to do this to-?”

“Shhhh”, the lawyer whispered. “Edward … please look at me.”

When the young man turned his head to look at him, his eyes were brimming with tears.

“Of course I believe you. Why would I not? And I'm not disgusted – not with you two anyway. Just the piece of filth, who did this to you.”

The thought was sickening.

Someone touching Hyde – and therefore Jekyll – like that.

And why the hell was Hyde chuckling?!

“I deserved it. It's not like I was any better. And at least something good came out of it”, he remarked.

The older man frowned. “What good could possibly come out of such a thing?!”

“It taught me to respect women and that a no is a no. Don't give me that look, Mr. Utterson”, he added coolly, when the lawyer frowned. “Did you really believe that I was respectful or even kind to the whores I screwed? Or that I cared, whether they wanted to serve me or not?”

The black-haired man sighed: “No. I'm just disappointed, that Henry Jekyll is a rapist.”

Hyde lifted an eyebrow. “You're surprisingly calm about it. We expected you to freak out.”

“There is nothing I can do about it now. Anything else I should know?”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, neither of us ever touched anyone younger than eighteen. That's the minimum age for Jekyll. My partners must be older than twenty.”

Utterson tilted his head. “To be honest, that does make me feel better. But back to the matter at hand; the culprit. Did you know him, or if not, do you remember what he looked like?”

“I didn't know him, but I do remember his appearance. A bit taller and bulkier than you. Two, three inches, maybe. Broad shoulders, wild red hair and freckles. Irish accent, a very deep voice-”

Suddenly Hyde broke off. His green eyes widened, as if in revelation.

“Edward?”, the lawyer asked carefully.

“That man”, the younger whispered. “It was the same as the one who shot me!”

His face twisted with anger and he jumped up.

“It was him! I knew he was familiar! How did I not recognise him?! That bastard! I should have killed him right on the-!”

Utterson pressed his hands onto the other's shoulders and pushed him back into a sitting position.

“Edward, I know that you're angry, but you need to calm down. Don't play into his hands by becoming his murderer. He will face justice, I give you my word. But you have to keep it together.”

“Keep it together!”, Hyde gasped out angrily, “I let him fucking drug and violate me and now I'm-”

“You didn't let him do anything”, Utterson grimly cut him off. “This wasn't your fault, Edward. It was his fault for being such a perverse individual. I bet he thought you were an underage rent boy or a Mary Ann. You do look a bit like it at first glance.”

“Gee, thanks a lot!”, the younger retorted sarcastically. “That totally wouldn't hurt my pride, if I had any to begin with!”

The lawyer cringed. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to add insult to injury.”

He stood up. “Lie back down, alright? I will get you more tea and something to eat.”

Hyde smiled lopsidedly. “Well, I haven't eaten in two days, so that would be appreciated.”

Utterson couldn't help but smile. “I'll see what I have. Oh, and one more question!”

“Hm?”

“The woman, who saved you. Did you repay her somehow?”

The brunette nodded. “Yes, actually. With 200 £ and a promise to never hurt her again. After all, she did save my life and patched me up as best as she could.”

Utterson nodded in approval.

Two hundred Pounds were a lot of money, but considering what had happened, Jekyll would surely forgive his other half.

He went down to the kitchen, cut a few pomegranates (Lady Summers had given him some from her own greenhouse) and went back up.

Hyde's mood brightened immediately, when he saw the bowl full of pomegranate seeds. His face looked adorable like that, but this was not a good time to think further on it.

“I'm afraid that's all I have right now, since it's Sunday night. Personally, I'm not a fan of them”, Utterson said and gave him the bowl. “But I thought just in case you come here, I might as well get something you like. My favourite food always cheers me u– aaand you inhaled them”, he ended lamely, when the brunette devoured the seeds within less than ten seconds.

“What? I told you I was hungry”, Hyde stated.

Well, at least he didn't get anything onto my nightgown, the lawyer thought drily and handed him a handkerchief.

“Obviously. How are you feeling now?”

Hyde's face fell again and he shook his head.

“It's ironic, really. I feel so tainted and worthless”, he croaked. “I, Edward Hyde, who is but the embodiment of everything that taints Henry Jekyll. I'm not even a real-”

Utterson shook his head and put his hands on the other's shoulders again.

“Hush”, he whispered. “Don't speak that way. None of this is true. Being Jekyll's darker half doesn't make you tainted. Neither does what that scum did to you. Was this the first time you were penetrated like that?”

The brunette lowered his head and nodded.

“Edward. It doesn't count.”

Hyde's head whipped back up, disbelief edged into his face. “What's that supposed to mean?!”

The black-haired man gently kneaded his shoulders and explained: “Your virginity is something you have to give willingly. Something taken without consent and by hurting someone is worth nothing. Your body may be wounded and bruised, but it won't become impure or dirty, because of something that wasn't your fault or even your choice. You haven't chosen to give yourself, Edward, and that's why what he did to you doesn't count. The only things that can tarnish you, are the choices you make and the things you do.”

Throughout his talk, the boy's eyes had filled with tears and now they were running down his face like torrents.

“That's … the biggest balderdash I ever heard! It makes … no sense whatsoever!”, he choked. “Goddammit, Gabriel! Quit making me so bloody sentimental all the time!”

“Sorry”, Utterson apologised, “I'll try. No guarantees, though.”

“I hate being like this!”, Hyde sobbed, “I hate being so fucking pathetic!”

“Edward …”

“I want to forget it! I want to forget, that this ever happened! I want to stop feeling these things and go back to being the unfeeling, cold-hearted creature that I was!”

“Edward …”

The brunette dug his fingernails so deeply into his arms that blood started to seep through the sleeves of the nightgown.

“I want it to stop!”, he cried in anguish. “I want it to stop, damn it! Make it stop! Help me forget it all! Make me forget who I am and not think about anything but that I'm here with you! You're so good at that, Gabriel. Calm my nerves and my mind! Make me feel like I'm more than just the personified sins and vices of someone else! Make me feel like I'm human!”

“Edward!”

The black-haired man pried the other's hands away from his arms, embraced him and let him cry into his chest. The smaller man clung to him like a lifeline, while Utterson stroked his back and his long, dark brown hair with the other.

“Edward. Look at me”, he pleaded.

Oh so hesitantly, the younger looked into his eyes. The older took a napkin out of his waistcoat and wiped the blood off Hyde's arms.

“You're not pathetic. You're hurt, angry and upset and there is nothing pathetic about that. I've told you many times before and I will tell you again. You're far more than just the personified darker half of Henry's soul. You're human. You're a man. Always were and always will be. You're not the lesser being you think you are.”

Hyde's acid green eyes were full of doubt.

“Prove it!”, he rasped, “Prove to me that I'm a person and not the monster everyone things I am!”

The lawyer acted out of instinct.

Hyde blinked in confusion, as the taller man cupped his face and bent down slightly.

“Gabriel …?”

He didn't get to finish the question.

Utterson had no idea, what prompted him to lay his lips upon Hyde's.

Or why he had thought that he could just give the other a gentle peck on the lips.

Because that had been his intention: a harmless, quick and chaste peck.

Stupid him.

As if Hyde ever wouldn't be Hyde enough to crave more than just that fleeting touch.

Next thing he knew was that the young man was kissing him back with passion and entangling his spidery fingers in his greying hair.

Utterson felt his face flush. He felt his heart beat higher and a strange fuzziness in his stomach.

Yet at the same time, he felt a sting in his heart.

What am I doing? My first kiss was supposed to be with Henry, yet here I am …

The thought was quickly banished, however. Hyde gently pushed him down onto the bed and crawled on top of him, not breaking the kiss for a split of a second.

Never would the black-haired man have imagined, that this would feel so … right. That he would ever willingly make out with Edward Hyde and like it.

But Hyde was so skilled and good at it, and his lips tasted like the pomegranate seeds he had eaten earlier.

It was wonderful. Addictive. It took his breath away.

It made him feel … desire. He had never felt desire before. It was so unfamiliar, yet it felt so good.

He moaned softly and clasped the other's thin waist.

But after a while, the need for air became too great and they parted, both wheezing for breath.

“Whoa …”, Utterson gasped. “Edward …”

With hooded eyes, he gazed at the smaller man, who was currently panting on top of him.

His eyes were glowing with emotion and a rosy blush had painted his pale cheeks.

In that moment, he looked stunningly beautiful.

“That was … unexpected”, he remarked breathlessly.

Then he giggled: “That really was your first kiss.”

It wasn't a question.

Utterson blushed harder and asked sheepishly: “Was it that obvious?”

Hyde nodded. “Quite so. Your lips quivered. And you were so awkward, clumsy and timid, there is no way you could've had any experience.”

The black-haired man was peeved by the smug grin on the brunette's face. But any snappy retort he could have made died in his throat, when he saw the softness in those green eyes.

“No one has ever given me their first kiss before”, Hyde confessed. Then, more seriously: “You saved your first kiss for Jekyll, didn't you? Why did you kiss me instead?”

That was a good question.

Why had he kissed him?

Because he had felt like he had to do it? Because the younger had needed it? Because he had wanted to? Because he'd had something to prove?

None of those … but he had no idea what the truth was.

“I … I do not know”, he finally admitted.

“Do you regret it?”

Utterson considered.

Eventually he smiled and said: “No. I don't regret kissing you.”

Hyde relaxed and smiled back.

And then, suddenly – a lion yawn.

Seemed like exhaustion was finally catching up to a certain someone.

The lawyer chuckled and pulled the covers over them.

“Sleep, Edward. I'll stay with you.”

Hyde snuggled into him and fell asleep soon after.

Utterson wrapped his arms around him and closed his eyes.

Never mind, that he was still fully dressed.

---

* I don’t know how anal injuries were treated back then (if at all), so I improvised.

** Mary Ann - Victorian slang for an effeminate man, sometimes (but not necessarily) a male prostitute.

In summer 1885 (before my story begins), the age of consent was raised from 13 to 16 years old (by the same Act that criminalised homosexuality).

My Hyde looks younger than 16 years old at first glance (being so small and slight), so a stranger would mistake him for a 12/13-year-old, just by looking at his face.

[ppumeonae-bigvibe]

“i don’t say it often, but it doesn’t mean i’ve stopped loving you any less.”

↖ navigation: nct masterlist || main masterlist

pairing: bf! jungwoo x gn! reader ↬ tags: hoobae/ sunbae (junior/ senior) dynamic, self doubting jungwoo (i love this snoopy boi), mentions of interns! mark & haechan and co-worker! lucas, inexpressive reader 

summary: jungwoo knows you aren’t expressive in showing love, but it is the simple “i love you” from you that keeps him going    word count: 507 words  

“sunbae.” jungwoo leaned over the top of the partition separating his workspace from yours. you glanced up, giving your attention to jungwoo, “yes?” he shot back a grin.

“i love you!” he absolutely adored the way your eyes widened at the declaration. “shut up!” you didn’t hesitate to swing the closest thing to you (a pillow, thank goodness) at him. jungwoo dodged, hiding behind his very amused co-worker lucas, as laughter bubbled up from within him.

crisis averted.

—

“i’d like...a caramel frappuccino. and you?” jungwoo felt you nudge him gently. he decided on his typical ice americano. “i’ll pay for it. take it as a treat for finishing up those grueling documents.” he felt the corner of his lips tilting up. the cashier returned your credit card and you hustled him over to the waiting area.

“am i the only hoobae you treat this nicely?” 

he teased and you swatted at him, “you’re not the only one. i’ve brought the interns mark and haechan out for jajangmyeon after we finished a particularly hard project. why, are you...jealous?” you raised one eyebrow, lips quirked up. 

“nope, because i know i love you!” 

silence followed and jungwoo couldn’t help but stifle his giggles at your deadpan expression. he repeated it a few more times and you pushed a finger against his lips, huffing, “i shouldn’t have gotten you a drink.”

“but sunbae! you can’t take back what you said!”

—

jungwoo couldn’t help the sense of unease sliding through him. the comments about...you not loving him the same. 

you were simply inexpressive by nature, but really...did you not love him anymore? jungwoo felt immature: for goodness sake the two of you were adults! he should talk it out with you.

he snapped out of his thoughts as soon as he heard the tell-tale signs of your arrival: the keys jingling, the distinct shuffling of feet.

“i’m home.” you greeted and jungwoo did not hesitate to jump into your open arms. 

“seems like someone misses me a little too much.” you sighed into his embrace and he reciprocated the hug. jungwoo hoped you couldn’t hear the erratic beating of his heart

“you...okay?” you moved back, eyes gazing right straight into his. 

one weakness he had was being too obvious, but he attempted to lie anyway, “yes. yeah, i’m okay.” you reached up to brush the hair away from his face and he unconsciously leaned into your touch.

“there’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

jungwoo chose not to reply, willing all those negative emotions away— “—i love you. i don’t say it often, but it doesn’t mean i’ve stopped loving you any less.” jungwoo’s face was most definitely flushed.

“for someone as expressive as you, this is a nice change of pace.” 

you smiled at him and if possible, he blushed even more. “i’ve got you your favorite crepe cake. have this while i go take a shower.” you lightly stroked his cheeks before padding away in the direction of the bathroom.

right, jungwoo loves you and you love him too.

@ppumeonae-bigvibe​ ‘s work ; likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

[hyperallergic]

“Waldemar Januszczak, the Sadist Print Media Troll, Likes To Make Creative People Feel Bad For Money” 2016. Acrylic on wood panel, 12 x 16"

Last night Charles Thomson, quiet painter from north London, posted a link to a review in The Sunday Times, in part about a painting exhibition at a millionaire’s mansion of speculative art stuff. You can read it for yourself. Imagine you are a creative humanoid being reviewed by this narcissistic, crafty misanthrope. Or, you can feel the pain empathetically, like I did, for other painters a world away, and cringe at the flippant arrogance aimed at pleasing his equally arrogant, non-creative betters over their morning pastries and tea.

I refuse to sully my good taste and break down his article into counter argument. He is just another art critic who does not make art. A well-oiled bearing in the propaganda machine, to help the sickly skepticism of bloated westerners continue to run smoothly.

However, I will spend an hour this morning relegating his kind to the most loathsome and disgusting monster lair in any creative person’s make-believe world.

What does Waldemar do for a career? He writes about other people’s creativity and path to self-realization. In his most recent content rant for a newspaper seeking print ads from any prostituting organization that pays, he mocked the career choice of some painters because they did not live up to his highly subjective world view of art. Strike one. He searched for the latter confirmation at Saatchi Gallery, sent by a board room of non-painting millionaires to be critical of the aesthetic choices of a non-painting art collecting millionaire. Strike two. And finally (although I wish several more strikes were allowed in this game), Waldemar’s mum and dad raised him to be a sadist. Strike three.

A few rhetorical questions to follow, all with the answer of “no”…

Can a non-painting person ever catch even a chance glimpse into the creative impulses and results of a stranger who paints? Does the latter work a lifetime waiting for the opinion of people whom he or she does not like or love? Can posers like Waldemar reach the freedom of self liberation that all sensitive human beings on earth strive for? And finally, can an unhappy critic love a work of art enough to discontinue a professional life spent in mockery of those who seek freedom through art?

Waldemar is an adult man of the six-year-old child who bullied me in the schoolyard. Every day, Brad Davies would find me before the bell rang, to tell me it was time for my morning punch. Brad was big and scary. I don’t think he had any boxing training—just another nasty, unloved child set up against a kid who appeared weaker because he knew how to be kind. I just wanted to get it over with. And, every time, after keeling over, I felt freed to finish the day any way I liked. Brad was just a nuisance, like a bath or bowel movement, to whatever private adventures my 6 year old day would envelope.

That’s how I feel today about a person who attempts to criticize any effort I make to express my humanity as a 49 year old man. I also should mention that probably because of Brad, and the many other bullies to follow, I became a staunch protector and champion of the underdog. Reading Waldemar’s frightened distrust of painters  and especially his wrong knowledge of their painting processes, just turned my visceral anger nodules up to high and hot red.

How about those painters finally getting their chance at dishwasher salary success, eh Waldemar? Would the Times’ subscribers have been better served if  instead you championed the lucky painter’s wonderful breakthroughs? As an art critic, surely you must understand the humiliation, both public and private, that is daily suffered by human beings who “put themselves out there”? Waldemar, you of all people would understand this, correct? I mean, with extensive training in art history, you at least got a B in Private Struggle 101, yes?

No. Waldemar is an uncreative bully, a sadist, like little Brad Davies. He probably spent most of his college time in the fraternity practically hazing to death hopeful initiates. I see him snickering to his dumb buddies during the lesson on van Gogh. I suspect, had he the same job in 1880, (as every painter who just finished reading his article now knows), Waldemar himself would have offered a loaded pistol to van Gogh to end his “career” early on, and avoid all that unnecessary suffering.

My wife and I discussed Waldemar’s article earlier this morning. She didn’t want me to be too hard on him. She’s a very pretty woman, and as a young girl most likely did not suffer a daily Brad Davies’ abdominal pain. So, at times like these, over problems she rarely suffers in a workaday world of mutual politeness, I have to educate her on the subjects of art, man-made creation, and of those cowards especially, who seek to undo all that expression has to offer. I do this for her benefit, as well as mine. I have very strong opinions, but unlike Waldemar, I am not a public twit. And, I can admit to all and sundry that I am an artist who doesn’t even like art very much. And as an artist I can promise you, and I’ll stake my “career” success on it, that Waldemar, not only does not like art, but he is determined to punch it in the gut until it dies. His betters, who sell everything from recycled toenail clippers, to highly absorbent paper towels, would not have it any other way. They have an agenda. A world of artists would make for absolutely rotten consumers of the trite and inane. Millionaires of no creativity, and their huge army of inexpressive, deadpan soldiers like Waldemar, subsist to make creative people question their own powers of creation. They keep good people guessing while the sad people buy more useless crap to make the dumb millionaires even richer.

It will end someday when masses of humanity cease to put faith into the print media trolls of planet earth. Fortunately, there are few as insidious as the likes of a Waldemar Januszczak, that it shouldn’t take too much more time.

Finally, the last word, because this is my blog, and I don’t get paid for it.

In that same conversation with my wife this morning, she agreed that even if made to exist in this world as a dishwasher sharing the rent with other dishwashers for a flat on skid row, then I would continue to paint with pigments of hope and desire. Every day. Day after day. To know if Waldemar can be a valuable tool to criticize other people’s private and public joys we must ask ourselves if we think he would continue his craft if he wasn’t getting paid to do so?

Ha! The sadist without encouragement. Brad Davies crying in his pillow.

The art world knows very well that Waldemar is a coward. He would know it too if he dared some day to make his own painting. But he stopped learning a long, long time ago. I am going to take my wife’s advice, and be nice. May the art critic live a long, satisfied, myopic life, and die alone and soon forgotten even by his grandchildren. To the Saatchi painters he criticized for pay on a late autumn day, I give you the following advice and encouragement:

Just keep painting. Because even if you’re a total ass like Waldemar Januszczak, at least the progeny of your line must remember you for as long as it takes plastic or oil to disintegrate.

¡Viva la Stuckism!

[junker-town]

Rickie Fowler's simple approach may not be the top draw at the PGA Championship. But it's working again.

Playing alongside the favorite and four-time major winner Rory McIlroy, Rickie wasn't the top draw in his group at the PGA. But he's back in contention again at a major, and done it almost quietly so far.

Sandwiched between the unanimous favorite and the "next big thing" in golf, Rickie Fowler spent the spent much of his first two days at the PGA Championship in the unusual position of riding in the sidecar. Fowler was in a supporting role in one of the power groupings the PGA put together this week, playing with Rory McIlroy and Jon Rahm for 36 holes. Most came to see Rory try and bomb away on a course he's owned in his career — that was the show that headlined the week and one we eagerly anticipated at Quail Hollow again. And they were drawn to the gurgling Mt. Rahm, the big hitting phenom on what always feels like a razor's edge of an emotional eruption. Rickie, often taking much less club off the tee and showing almost no emotion good or bad, played better than both and has subtly navigated his way into the top five on the leaderboard at yet another major.

In a prior era of Rickie's career, fellow pros, media, and fans would ding (even mock sometimes) him for what they felt was overexposure and an off-the-course profile not commensurate with his on-course resume. It's true that Rickie is a big brand, a go-to for so many many companies trying to hawk their wares, from cars to insurance to mortgages to energy drinks. Rickie is everywhere, and while he's won several times to dissipate all those overexposure critiques, he's still without a major. There have been repeated close calls, top 5s, and runners-up, but no major.

McIlroy is Rickie's contemporary — they're both 28, have known each other and played against each other since their amateur days. Rory, of course, has four majors on the resume already and was picked by most this week to add a fifth. Rahm was a trendier but still popular pick, the up-and-comer the entire golf world has fallen in love with after an outrageous first year as a pro. And there was Rickie, walking between his more accomplished contemporary and the Spanish bull that's charging next.

Rory and Rickie in the 07' Walker Cup: http://pic.twitter.com/NFLNu6KiYl

— Jon Birdsong (@JonnyBird) July 20, 2014

This is not to say Rickie is some Shaun Micheel coming from the shadows and into contention. He draws a crowd and cheers of his own and may have shown up on your TV during every commercial break of the broadcast. It was just odd to seen him in a supporting role while playing his way near the top of the leaderboard.

Fowler is trying to become the first player since Keegan Bradley in 2011 to win a PGA Championship with a triple bogey on one of his scorecards. He made that mess in the middle of a hot opening nine that included four birdies on Thursday. Without the triple, he'd be pushing for another weekend final pairing instead of just a top 5 at the 36-hole mark.

There's a perception of Rickie as this edgy motocross-loving millennial god, and there's certainly a bit of that in his fashion choices and on his Snapchat account. But a lot of those edges have been rounded down in the building of Brand Rick — he knows, maybe better than anyone since Tiger, how to say a lot of words without saying very much. He can be as unemotional as anyone in the game. His game, however, is typically aggressive — he goes after pins, he pulls driver, and while not the longest hitter in golf, can still boom it at just 5'9 and 150 pounds.

Through two days, however, he's taken one of the most conservative approaches out at Quail Hollow. While Rory and Rahm repeatedly pull the big stick, Rickie goes for less — sometimes much less, like a mid-iron off the tee. He's 86th in driving distance this week, falling in the back half of the field so far. There will be graphics and screengrabs and stats about how much farther Rory, and no one mashes it like him, is hitting it. Rickie can't keep up with that, almost no one in the game can, but those graphics don't often tell the full story of Rick taking something less than driver.

"I'm not as long as Jon or Rory," he said after the round. "The biggest thing is not giving shots back. So there are probably a couple of holes where they can turn the ball right to left better than I can with driver. I play the shorter driver which I predominantly hit a cut with. So with that there's some holes that I may play back with 3-wood. The biggest thing for me, I'm trying to get the ball in the fairway and take kind of trouble out of play and minimize the mistakes."

Aside from that ugly triple on his first nine, it's working right now for Rickie. There's been no flurry of darts into pins, or some hole out from the fairway, or a string of hot putting. It's been just kinda ... quiet? He's making birdies when those chances appear and happily staying put with quality pars.

#PGAChamp coverage is now LIVE on TNT... and Rickie Fowler is in the mix! http://pic.twitter.com/kXfBksEqbo

— PGA of America (@PGA) August 11, 2017

On Friday, he came into the house with nine straight pars on Quail Hollow's front nine (his second nine of the day). McIlroy made an adventurous four bogeys and two birdies in the same stretch.

The demeanor matches the kind of simple but successful golf we've witnessed so far. Rickie, again for all that rep as this edgy energetic millennial, is your traditional deadpan golfer. I saw him shake his head once on Friday in disappointment. It was this mild in real life smh that came on the 4th tee. But it almost certainly had more to do with the questionable architecture of the hole (more on that here) than as a reaction to the shot, which looked like a towering beauty dropping on top of the pin that instead bounced like it hit concrete and scurried off to the back of the green.

In contrast was Rahm, the temperamental Spaniard emoting on almost every shot, good and bad. He's one of those cases where you track the player, not the ball, through the shot. You can figure out where the ball is up ahead in a minute. The more interesting show is watching him watch the shot. He threw his hands up in disgust, slammed his club in anger, threw his head down in pain, and stumbled around the green in disbelief when a good putt would not go in the hole (I should note this is not a plea or scold for Rahm to change a damn thing and this also came on a day where he largely kept his emotions in check).

I'm going to keep it mellow and relaxed like it's been the first two days.

Rickie cited his inexpressive demeanor as a strategic choice. "I mean, with it being hot, tough course, it's going to take a lot out of you mentally," he said. "There is no reason to take anything else. No reason to waste any extra energy. It's a long week. It's a major and like I said it's a tough venue. Plenty more stuff out there to drain you. There is no reason -- I'm going to keep it mellow and relaxed like it's been the first two days."

But he's almost always that way — on the hot days and the cold days and at the majors or the Quicken Loans National. "For me, I will get upset and hold it in a little bit and in a way, you kind of find your own thing," he said when asked about his approach compared to Rahm.

So while Rory was bombing away as the favorite at a place where he holds the course record, and the spastic Rahm was engrossing the largest crowds on the course, there was Rickie in an oddly quiet and supporting role. He might not have been the top draw to get the crowds out there and he may not have played the most entertaining round once they were there. But he's five and six shots better than his high-powered playing partners and at the midpoint of the PGA, he's back again in major championship contention. Whether he can close one now or not, don't expect his game or staid expression to change much over the next two days.