#I picked the wrong copy of the book without my annotations so it took me ages to find the quote

[onaperduamedee]

For my part I have sought liberty more than power, and power only because it can lead to freedom. What interested me was not a philosophy of the free man (all who try that have proved tiresome), but a technique: I hoped to discover the hinge where our will meets and moves with destiny, and where discipline strengthens, instead of restraining, our nature.

— Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar, translated from the French by Grace Frick

[ragingbookdragon]

All I Wanna Be Is Somebody To You

A Jason Todd x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 2.6K Warnings: None

Author's Note: For the one anon who wanted a nervous reader! I hope I did this justice for you, darling! Enjoy! -Thorne

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She didn’t hate talking. Not really. But the idea of holding conversations with people she didn’t know sent her heart fluttering and her throat tightening until it was impossible to breathe. More often than not, she found herself apologizing a lot for the stuttering or the repeating of things she said. Most people gave her odd looks, told her to stop apologizing so much (like that ever helped anyone), or laughed and told her she was cute—which was nice until she realized they meant in a childish sort of way rather than an endearing one.

But it wasn’t always like that. According to her parents, there’d been a time when she couldn’t stop talking. Always had something to say and had somebody to tell. Something changed during her years, she knew when, even if she didn’t want to admit it to herself or her family when they asked what happened to their outgoing and talkative daughter. Too many times she’d heard, “You know no one cares about X, right?” or “Oh my God, will you shut up?” and every time she heard it from a friend it dug into her a little deeper, made her shut her mouth tighter, and tore her heart much harsher.

And because she chose to be the silent type instead of the outgoing one, people assumed her arrogant and cold, distant and rude, and she found herself spending most of middle school and high school by herself. She was glad when graduation came, and while she’d dreaded giving her valedictorian speech, she did manage to get through it without too much trouble. It did feel like her one triumph against everyone who ignored her throughout school.

College freed her. Allowed her to make a flexible schedule, take smaller classes, and be solitary when she wanted. She’d refused a dorm room on the campus, living only fifteen minutes from Gotham University, instead choosing to commute daily and she liked it a lot more than having roommates in a four-bedroom apartment on the school grounds.

When she wasn’t in class, she stayed home a lot. It came with being a homebody, but when she did go out into the great big city, she liked to shop. Little antique shops or bookstores. She went to bookstores more than she did school. There was something so wonderful about finding a book in the shop and sitting down at a café and reading quietly. Which is how she met him, and for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why he wanted anything to do with her. She was quiet and shy, and he was open and flirty. They obviously didn’t match in any way, shape, or form. At least, that’s what she thought.

***

She drew her gaze along the wall of books before her, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she searched for the novel. It’d been a long time since she’d read The Count of Monte Cristo, a copy of her father’s that he’d had when she was just a child. Something had reminded her of it the other day and all she could think about was getting her own so she could annotate in the margins.

As she came across it, she started reaching when someone got to it first, one finger pulling it out by its spine before taking it into their hand. She visibly deflated with a soft sigh as it was the last copy and hung her head in defeat.

“I’m sorry, were you wanting this too?” Her head cocked up and she gazed at the young man before her. He smiled and she felt like she’d been shot in the chest at how dazzling it was. “Here, you can have it.”

Swallowing thickly, she shook her head, “You got it first.” Nodding, she added, “It’s yours.”

He cocked a brow at that. “Well, from the devastated look on your face, doll, you want it to be yours.”

Her cheeks warmed at that, and she felt nervous where she stood, resisting the urge to fidget under his scrutiny. “N-no it’s okay.” She said. “You take it.”

“Oh no you don’t. That’s not how this works.” He chuckled and took her hands, pressing the book into them, then he winked at her. “The doll deserves to have her book.”

If there had ever been a time in which she wanted to explode from embarrassment, it was then, and before she knew it, she shoved the book back into his arms and so hard that it must’ve knocked the wind out of him because he gasped. She spun around and took off down the aisle and out the front doors as fast as she could, wanting nothing more than to disappear in the crowded streets. That or sink into the ground. Maybe next week she’d come back and get the book. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be there again.

***

Then again, her hopes were always wrong, and she picked up the copy of The Divine Comedy, flipping it open to read the first page.

“I see you’re a fan of the classics, aren’t you, doll?”

She snapped the book shut when she heard his voice and looked over at him. Something inside annoyed her at the cocky smirk he wore, much more was the arm he had resting on the top of the bookshelf as he gazed at her.

“You know, you left a nice bruise on me the other week.” He quipped, shifting his weight to cross his ankles. “You’re pretty strong.”

“Thank you,” she muttered, turning to look back at the book. “Sorry I hit you…it was an accident.”

“Well, I can accept your apology if you tell me your name.”

“Why?” she questioned quietly, wiggling her toes.

“Because I wanna put a name to such a cute face. Why else?” he flirted, and she scowled at the book cover. “Oh, that’s an even more adorable face.”

“Quit doing that!” she hissed. “It’s not funny!”

He chuckled. “Oh contraire, it’s actually hilarious.” He took a step towards her. “I’m Jason, by the way.”

Her eyes darted to the outstretched hand, and she stared at it for a split second before softly shaking it. “(Y/N).” she murmured.

Before she could pull her hand back, he raised it and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Enchanté ma chérie,” he professed, breath hot against her skin and just like before, she was so absolutely flustered she was yanking her hand back and poor Jason’s grip slipped, and he whacked himself in the face with his own hand.

“Nice to meet you!” (Y/N) yelped and scurried off down the aisle and to the register where she purchased her book in record time. Third time was the charm and she prayed that he wouldn’t be there again.

***

And whoever lived upstairs must’ve really had it out for her because she flipped the page in her One Thousand and One Arabian Nights and heard an exaggerated cough. Looking up through her eyelashes, she saw Jason standing there with a grin on his face. “Hello (Y/N),” he purred, and she immediately felt her cheeks become hot.

“Hi Jason,” she muttered, gazing at her book, listening to the chair screech as he sat down across from her.

“How are you doing today?” he asked, setting down his own copy of Arabian Nights.

(Y/N) cleared her throat, finding it harder to focus on the book over the smell of his woody and oriental cologne. She thought she smelled a twinge of tobacco with it. “I’m fine.” Her eyes found his teal ones for a moment. “And you?”

He smiled, making her heart pick up a beat. “Doing pretty good.” He winked. “I got to see you again. Though I’m hoping I don’t get hit again. Either by a book or my own fist.”

“Sorry…” she cringed, sinking down in her seat. “That was an accident.”

Jason shrugged and propped his elbows on the table, placing his chin on his fingers. “Don’t worry about it. Say, do you like coffee?”

“I do,” she murmured.

“Great, want anything from the café?” he asked, nodding at the board and she looked over at it.

“I guess I could order a latte,” she replied more to herself than him, starting to pull her wallet out.

“Nah, I got it.” Jason said, standing from his seat.

(Y/N) blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I said I got it.” He quipped and she jumped from her seat to stop him, but caught the leg of her chair, and she flailed, stumbling right into Jason. They went tumbling to the floor and she landed atop him. For a minute they were both stunned silent as the people in the store looked at them and he smirked at her. “Well, this saves me the trouble of asking you out to dinner.” He winked again. “Should’ve told me you had a bold streak, doll.”

She immediately scrambled up, placing one of her hands on his chest to shove off him when her leg slipped, and her knee went into his groin. He groaned and rolled over, holding his crotch and (Y/N) was so mortified all she could do was apologize profusely and at one point she was sure she was mixing up her words, but it didn’t matter. Grabbing her things, she started running off a third time.

Though she’d made it ten feet out of the door and down the street before someone grabbed her round the waist and hauled her to a stop. “Oh no! We’re not doing this pattern again! I am not getting hit a fourth time!”

(Y/N) spun in his arm and gaped at him. “I’m sorry!”

Jason sighed heavily and lowered his head. “Holy crap, I’ve never had such a hard time getting a girl to go out with me.”

“You wanna go out with me?” She pointed to herself despite her flustered state. “W-with me?” she gave him a dubious look. “Really? M-me?”

“Well, if you wanna hit me a fourth time to be sure, go ahead, but yeah,” he retorted then heaved another sigh. “Jeez, talk about getting hit on.”

(Y/N) spluttered at that. “I did not hit on you!”

“Right, you just hit me instead.”

“It was an accident! And I said I was sorry!”

Jason grinned at her and arm away. “Well, I’ll accept your sorry’s if you go on a date with me.”

She blinked at him. “A date? When?”

“Tonight.” He said. “There’s a bookstore down in the town square for insomniacs. Open until seven A.M. and serves a mean cup of hot cocoa.” Jason smiled and took her hand. “So? How ‘bout it, doll? Wanna go out with me tonight?”

All she could do was simply stare at this gorgeous man that obviously had a thing for her for some god forsaken reason. “Why?” she asked blankly, and he seemed to falter at that.

“Why what?” he repeated, confusion etching across his face.

“Why do you wanna go out with me?” (Y/N) gestured to herself. “I’m weird.”

“So am I.” he agreed.

“I stutter a lot.”

“So does my brother.”

“I don’t talk a lot. I don’t like talking a lot. People get mad at me when I talk a lot and I prefer to listen and you’re not going to like going out with me because I’m going to be super quiet because I get flustered easily and I—”

Jason put his hand over her mouth and stared at her. “Do you ever take a breath?” she nodded silently, and he sighed. “Look, (Y/N), it’s only taken getting shoved in the stomach with a book, getting punched with my own hand, and getting nut-shot to understand that you’re not exactly comfortable with the public.”

He removed his hand. “That’s why I invited you to the bookstore. Because even in the few weeks we’ve known each other, I know you like quiet places. But if you don’t feel comfortable going with me right now, that’s okay. We can take it slow.” Jason smiled at her. “Doll, all I wanna be is somebody to you.”

(Y/N) swallowed thickly and looked at her feet, whispering, “I…don’t wanna go out right now…but I’d like to give you my number…if you’re okay with that?” she shrugged. “We can text.” Feeling hopeful she reached out and placed her hang on his arm. “And get to know each other better? Maybe tell each other our favorite books? That’s…the best way in my opinion.”

His face lit up and he murmured, “I’d love that.” He pulled out his phone, tapping at it before he handed it over to her. “Here you go.”

She took it and looked at the contact name he’d already put in. My Flustered Doll. She glared at him. “You think you’re pretty cute, don’t you, Jason? You’re not. At all.”

He smirked. “Oh, is that so?” She nodded and he quipped, “We’ll just see about that then.”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes and typed in her number, handing him back his phone. “There you go.” He glanced at it, seemingly satisfied before he locked it and put it back in his pocket, then they met each other’s gazes and she awkwardly pointed over her shoulder. “I’m going home now.”

Jason caught her hand and kissed the back of it. “See you later, doll. Stay cute.”

She was hurrying off again, his laughter in her ears, unaware that their exchanging of numbers was going to evolve into so much more in the coming months.

***

“—And I’m pretty sure I can never show my face again at school, Jay. I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life.”

He hummed, fingers gently dipping into her spine. “Well, this is coming from the girl that nut-shotted be in the middle of a busy bookstore.”

“Why would you remind me about that?” (Y/N) scowled. “It was an accident.”

“And yet it can’t be more mortifying than telling a guy to shove his head up his ass.” He retorted, eyes still closed as they basked in the sunlight streaming through the window. “This is at least a five on the ten scale.”

“More like a hundred.” She muttered, tucking her head under his chin. “I can’t believe I said that to him. Oh, I was just so—just so mad at what he said about my poem! He was just being mean!” (Y/N) gripped his sweatshirt. “You understand right?”

Jason nodded, his other hand resting at her hip. “Mhm.”

“You don’t think I’m overreacting, do you?” she frowned. “Everyone else thinks I am.”

“Telling someone that their poetry isn’t good because it isn’t iambic pentameter isn’t following constructive criticism, doll. It’s called being a douche.” She giggled and he bent his neck, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Call me next time Lord Douche-Canoe starts on your poetry again and I’ll school him on face-time.”

(Y/N) giggled again and rolled over, pressing them chest to chest and she grinned when he whined at her moving. “Thank you, Jason.”

He smiled at her. “I only take my thanks in kisses. Sorry, doll.”

Rolling her eyes, she bent down and pressed her lips to his. “I love you,” she murmured against him, and he hummed, hands grasping her hips.

“I love you more.”

“Nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” he scoffed, pulling back to look at her. “I am willingly in a relationship with the girl who nut-shot me in—MMHPF!”

(Y/N) shoved a pillow into his face, face hot as she shouted, “Stop bringing that up! It was an accident!” All she got in return was his laughter.

[u-no-poo]

The Phoenix Ymbryne ||  Millard Nullings

Pairing: Millard Nullings x Fem!Reader

Devil’s Acre Era (includes events in TDODA)

Word Count: 2.3k words

Summary: You are a peculiar who can take the form of a Phoenix. Wights were a constant threat until an invisible boy takes you to your new home. Getting to know him made you realize your purpose and the worth of all you’ve been through.

A/n: this fic includes South-East Asian references and i wrote it in a way you’ll learn easily. so whatever your race is, step inside Y/n’s boots and enjoy this adventure fluff. 

︵‿︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・༺���༻・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ︵‿︵‿︵

1900, Manila

The gust of wind rustling the forest almost silenced your pounding heart, but not quite. You transformed into a blazing bird and shoot through the bright sky, searching the brown earthen hues below. Your bird form made you an easy target, knowing that the wights after you have hunting guns; but your bird form also allowed you to scan the forest with your peculiar intuition. You could detect souls and sense their objectives. As you fly towards the outskirts of the woods, you located the two wights running away.

Suddenly, you felt another soul wandering through the thickets. A lone, pure heart, a good aura that you wouldn’t expect right after getting chased by blank-eyed monsters. Driven by curiosity, you roamed above the trees where you felt the presence. It was a floating map. You perched on a branch and watched the huge map turn, as if being held by a person. You looked from another angle at it revealed a floating suit and trousers. Carefully eyeing the subject and its pavement shoes leaving a calculated trail, there was only one word you can fathom: peculiar.

It had been over half a century since you’ve seen another peculiar, and it fascinated you how you couldn’t actually see this one. You continued watching the invisible who seem to be looking for something; a landmark? a person? a girl who can turn into a two-feet-tall fiery bird? If it was the latter, you knew you couldn’t easily trust someone, even if your intuition screamed this person’s good intentions.

You flew towards your house by the river, and judging by the angle of the floating clothes below, you knew you’ve been spotted. The moment you reached your home, you transformed back to your sixteen year-old body and slipped in a floor length skirt, a white sleeved shirt made from pineapple fabrics, and a scarf around your neck. You prepared hot chocolate in case that invisible peculiar pays a visit.

It only took a few minutes until you heard a knock on your door. Reluctantly, you opened it to reveal the same floating clothes that seemed to belong to the western world.

"Who are you?"

"Millard Nullings, at your service." A voice of a teenage boy spoke up. You moved aside to allow him enter your home, saying your name as you lead him to the drawing room. At first, you thought it was going to be painfully awkward, but it immediately changed into a pleasant, curious atmosphere when his body headed straight towards the ancient maps on your walls, as if being pulled by a magnet.

"Thank you, this place is incredibly interesting. For the longest time I thought these maps were never to be found again," Millard said as he took the hot chocolate from your hand while staring at the walls.

"These are from my old ymbryne. She was a real treasure," you said, standing beside him. "It shows hundreds of ancient loops across Asia. I wouldn't have found my current home without these maps. Oh, and Millard... may I ask how did you get here?"

"The wights after you were caught a while ago. This loop is marked empty in A Map of Days, so catching two of Caul's followers in here is intriguing. It wasn't long until I found the entrance after leapfrogging through a parallel loop nearby."

Brushing off more questions in your head, you offered him a seat and took sips of hot chocolate.

"Perplexus wasn't wrong when he marked this loop empty," you said. Millard's head most likely whipped up at the mention of the famous cartographer.

You smiled at this and continued. "When my old loop was raided, my ymbryne suggested this small loop. It was an empty peculiar menagerie. I suspect a dozen peculiar animals used to live here with all the traces I've found. But for over fifty years, I haven't seen any peculiarity in this area." You turn your head towards the window. "Past those Cacao trees is the membrane of the loop. A small provincial village with normal people, normal chickens, and a normal carabao. So seeing you here feels more surreal than it sounds," you admitted.

"What about your bird?" he asked, "that tall phoenix flying around the woods?"

A twinge of realization came over you and you sigh, reluctant to admit your peculiarity.

"That was me," you say finally.

"What! You can turn into a phoenix? You're an ymbryne?" Millard's voice was a mix of astonishment and confusion.

"How else did you think I manage to revive this loop?" You smiled.

"I just thought ymbrynes' bird forms are supposed to be inconspicuous. But you were...incredibly remarkable."

Your cheeks heated up at the comment and you divert your gaze with a soft chuckle.

"That baffled me as well, that's why I only transform in important situations. Locals believed me to be a magical bird, thus driving many hunters' attention. My bird form is known as Adarna. Similar to a phoenix, but distinct in certain features."

"Adarna? I've never heard of that kind of bird before."

"It is a famous folklore bird in the Philippines. There are stories about it, even in the Tales of the Peculiar." You stood and picked up an old children's book on the bookshelf across the room. You handed it to Millard, which you assume, made him smile.

"This is an ancient version indeed. I annotate many of the Tales but I've never seen this before. Would you mind letting me borrow this?" You couldn't bring yourself to say no to him, so you insisted he could keep it. Stating that you didn't need a copy, having memorized it for the longest time.

After minutes of discussion, you noticed how he got so excited in the topic of maps, history and his friends. It felt like you were listening to a teacher who loved his work, and you weren't complaining as you found this adorable. You were both having good laughs with Millard's stories, until he finally said, "I trust you expect a reassurance that the wights wouldn't trouble you anymore, but we can't be certain."

Your eyebrows furrowed at this, "what are you planning?"

"To take you to Devil's Acre."

You were surprised and slightly taken aback. He must've seen the faraway look on your face so he continues, "Y/n, you don't have to go now. I can just leave you a detailed map to help you reach the panloopticon anytime."

You paced around the drawing room. "So you're letting me go there alone?"

“If that's what you like, yes. I don't want to rush you into leaving your home, but I’ll feel much better if you let me take you there myself." His British drawl made your throat dry, you could only nod.

"I'll take my time to think about it, but as soon as the wights come near this area, I'll head to your loop for safety." You decided it's only smart to stay home until real danger emerge, despite how much you'd like to go with Millard. "Why don't you stay here for a while?"

"That can be a problem. You see, my ymbryne left me with strict rules..."

"You weren't supposed to be here, aren't you?"

You both just laughed at this.

A while later, a loud commotion started in the other side of the loop membrane. Villagers were screaming and animals were flocking away.

"Was that a regular noise within your loop?"

"For fifty years of living this exact same day over and over again, I can assure you that was most unnatural." You got up and pocketed an old but sharp dagger as Millard packed the maps and the book you gave him.

"Those are certainly Wights looking for their other comrades. We ought to flee this place now," he said.

You both slipped through the backdoor towards the river, careful not to trip into the mud. When you reach the bamboo raft, he held your hand and made sure you wouldn't lose balance. This gesture, however, made you lose your composure instead.

"You seem nervous, is it the raft? Should I let you cross the river first?"

"No, no, it's safe," you said as you both stood on the either side of the raft, trying not to slip as you crossed the river holding tall pieces of bamboo to keep yourselves steady. "I guess I just feel sad that I'm leaving home for good," you say. It was true, but you couldn't bring yourself to admit that he made you flustered.

"I understand that this loop may close permanently as you leave," he said, "but in the Devil's Acre, you may train with other ymbrynes ang get the chance to create new loops, have wards of your own—"

"Train with other ymbrynes?" You exclaimed as the raft reached the other side of the river.

"Yes, they're rather lovely. Miss Avocet and all the other ymbrynes would love to guide you. I also believe my friends will celebrate your company. Horace will cook feast, Olive and Claire will surely entertain you, oh," he said, clearly excited, "the celebration will never be enough!"

"Are you kidding me?" You laughed soundlessly as you headed towards the forest. "Your presence alone is more than enough."

He did not reply anything for a moment and you bit your lip. Millard lead the way to another loop that was connected to the panloopticon. It was a silent but surprisingly comfortable walk. He told you to watch your steps in some parts of the forest and you give every useful information you had about your homeland.

"There it is, come here, y/n." He spotted the portal door propped amongst the old trenches of the place that was once bloodstained by war.

Shivers crawled down your spine as you paced forward. Millard noticed your uneasy expression and ran circles on your knuckles. "You can tell me if you don't want to come," he whispered gently, "we'll figure out another way if you're ever uncomfortable."

"Thank you, but I really want to go with you. I want to meet your family and read your books." A smile painted its way on your face just thinking about it.

Without another question, he lead you through the door while gripping your hand. You held your breath and let him guide your steps. His fingers traced your forehead and you opened your eyes.

═ ∘◦ ❉ ◦∘ ═

1886, London

"Where are we?" You stare at the plain, unfamiliar bedroom infront of you.

"The third floor of panloopticon," Millard said with a relieved sigh. "We just crossed half the world in a matter of seconds, I trust the kitchen will have something to ease our loop-lag."

Without even thinking about it, you pulled him in a hug. He caught his breath and wrapped his arms around you as you feel tears streaming down your face. You missed your country but don't regret being with this boy at all. "Thank you," you managed to whisper.

It had been less than a week since you first arrived. Millard's friends were the kindest people you have ever met. The first time you saw Miss Peregrine, she was furious at Millard for running off without permission, but her mood changed when she met you and realized you were an ymbryne too. You were immediately recruited in Miss Avocet's academy and made friends with many other people in the Acre. You get along very well with Miss Wren who was interested in your peculiarity and the fact that you lived in a menagerie loop in Asia.

Desolations came and you stayed in the Ditch House with Millard reading books for you. While it was raining blood, bones and ashes outside, you were having the time of your life with your new family.

You stayed in the Academy while the rest of Miss Peregrine's wards take on their adventure to France, giving all your best wishes for Millard.

You fought in the battle of the Devil's Acre and tended to the injured with the other ymbrynes-in-training. When you heard the news that Caul was defeated, you were elated and incredibly happy.

You were one of the ninety-five peculiars who broke loop-bound in Jacob's house. You could finally go anywhere you like without the fear of aging forward rapidly, and Millard promised many trips with you, you could only shut him up with a peck on the cheek.

═ ∘◦ ❉ ◦∘ ═

1940, Cairnholm

So many good things happened to you that week, but nothing could beat the joy you felt when you found out that the ymbrynes-in-training are to live with Miss Cuckoo, and Miss Peregrine and her wards in Cairnholm.

You stare at the dog roses in Fiona's garden, you were filled with mixed emotions and wanted a quiet time. All of them are celebrating inside the house; all except Millard, who was wearing a velvet smoking jacket for the occasion.

"It's beautiful here," you said while watching his clothes head your way, "you must be happy that you're home."

"You are my home," he said sincerely, now standing in front of you.

You couldn't grab any witty reply, in fact, you couldn't find any words at all. You knew you were blushing ferociously by now.    

"Mind if I talk to you about something that's been bothering me for a while?" He broke the silence and you nod at him.

"With everything we went through these past weeks, I found myself hoping to stay alive."

You stifled a laugh. "Isn't that a good thing? Wishing you'd survive?"

"That's the point, I wanted to stay alive, not just because we ought to take surviving as a priority, but because I can't get you out of my mind."

Your face went blank. "What do you mean, Millard?"

"I wish it was a choice, but it wasn't. I fell in love with you, Y/n. I'd love you for as long as time."

"And we have time," you reassured him, "I love you too," and with that, he kissed you.

Both smiling into the kiss, you leaned against each other, swaying in the breeze of the garden and basking in each other's presence forevermore.

[timexistsnow]

my baby (oh my pup)

Chapter 7: remembering (the good)

Techno takes care of Tasha's nail wound and tells her a story.

It was late, Techno could imagine without opening his eyes. The moon was high in the sky, maybe full, maybe close. If it were either, the snow would be glowing and the wind would be howling and sweeping the snow around like glitter.

Perhaps, Techno chuckled into his arms, he was in a poetic mood. A literary mood. Or, just maybe, the fact that he had been tossing ideas around in his head for the past couple of hours about the next part of his story would allude to his apparent mood.

It felt wrong to leave the story he had written for Tasha at only one part, unfinished and abandoned. Techno didn’t do things halfway. He did, on the other hand, not feel like moving from Tasha’s side and out into the cold and lonely expanse that was across the room to get his notebook.

So he’d have to remember all of this for later when he was ready to move. His memory was pretty good.

Right now, though, Techno kept his eyes softly closed. His back would be sore in the morning, all of the hunching he was doing almost made him want to move- almost.

Tasha had remained burrowed in the blankets, small on the mattress meant for one- or two. She deserved her rest, from getting stabbed to throwing up all in one afternoon. When tomorrow came, they’d have to work on her condition: clean her, rebandage her wound, and figure out the potion… situation. The hole in Tasha’s hand wasn’t gapping or anything, but it would still be a comfort to get some assistance from a potion.

Techno tossed that aside for the time being and drifted back to his writing.

The beast- Techno was unsure if he liked that metaphor or not- would need motivation for kidnapping the piglet-

Tasha stirred, a grumbled slipping through her lips. Techno lifted his head enough to peer at her over his forearm. She was tucked in to the bottom of her snout, just a pale rosy face in a blue bed. Now, however, the face was screwed up, milky eyes glowing in the moonlight through bleary blinks.

Techno brushed a hand over her forehead, fuzz catching on his calluses, “Go back to sleep, get some rest.” He hummed a melody he had heard Wilbur once sing, and Tasha’s eyes closed. He sighed, cutting himself off.

When the breath left his snout, Tasha jolted, face catching the moonlight. “Not. Want. To.” She studied Techno for a moment, “Should… Not?”

It was an obvious question, but Techno didn’t get why it was asked, “Who told you that, kiddo?”

The studious look again, “You,” Tasha whispered.

Techno drew back and tilted his head. Had he? No, “Well, if I did say something, I’m sure I didn’t mean it like that. I want you to get better as fast as you can.”

Tasha’s mouth opened in an oh, “Back. To. Fun?”

“Exactly.”

With the confusion dissipated, Tasha dropped herself back into the nest of wool, the arm she used to prop herself up snaking back out of the covers. Techno took it, and settled back down onto his forearm.

Or, until Tasha slithered her hand away and tossed and turned, making discomfort noises after each switch. Techno sluggishly raised his head again, squared his shoulders, and gruffed out: “Kiddo, sleep.”

She flopped to her side, facing Techno, “Take. To. Long.”

Techno embraced the darkness and grabbed his notebook from where it was leaning against the wall. He padded not too gently to his library chair, gathered up his ink, and once back to his seat on the floor, dipped his quill in the ink. “If you don’t sleep… then just sit quietly or something,” Techno did not have the social energy to talk baby to her.

Sit quietly she did, crisscross and hovering above the book, watching him scratch away at the paper, ink blotting and splashing when he jumped to a different line to annotate his writing. It was deep in the night, the beast, just as the piglet had hoped, was slumbering-

“What…” Tasha broke the silence, gesturing at… everything. Ah, she couldn’t read. Maybe it was time to fix that.

“This is the written form of English. It’s- It’s a little complicated, but I can show you the basics.” Techno flipped to a new page, but Tasha squealed and turned it back, running her finger along the first sentence. “That’s for the story I wrote for you.”

“Again… Make? Copy?” She struggled to find meaningful words. Techno frowned, as good at English she was, the language would still have to be taught.

“Do you mean rewrite, like write the same thing again?” he tried.

“Why. Rewrite? Not. Good?”

Firstly, “No, I’m writing the next part.” And after a pause and thought, “I suppose I could always make it better, but… with this I don’t need to, you know? It doesn’t matter that much.”

Tasha hummed at that, stared at what was a line or scribbles for her, and murmured, “Make. Me. Better.” She brushed her three fingers across the bandages on her left hand.

Taking her hand in his, Techno smoothed the bandages she had rustled and said back oh so softly, “Of course, anything for you.” He stilled, entranced by her stubby fingers and her wrapped palm.

Without slipping her hand out of his, Tasha crawled over the book and slid down into his lap. Techno smiled, yeah, anything for her.

A pup in his lap and an idea in his mind, Techno picked back up where he had left off, handwriting nearly illegible with how the page was sliding around. But Techno did nothing to fix it, his hand occupied with Tasha’s.

The night passed, the moon falling and the sun rising. Techno only knew this once he unstuck his face to the page, drool sliding down his cheek.

He had fallen asleep on the book, Tasha still curled up and a heater in his lap.

His hand was sweaty after letting go of hers, and he carried her to the dining room. Techno gnawed at his lip, wondering if it was a good idea for her to be so close to him with her mild fever. It wasn’t quite to a temperature of concern, so Techno, with Tasha pressing her snout into his chest, figured she’d be fine.

The creak of the chest didn’t awaken Tasha, but the smell of gold did. She snorted and twisted around to grabby hand at the carrots. Down in the Pig Throne she was lowered, two carrots slid across the table to her frantic hand. “Relax, kiddo,” he chuckled, observing as the piglin in her cronched down on one carrot and admired the other. “We really need to harvest the potatoes before you eat everything in the pantry.”

Speaking of the potatoes, there were nails hidden in the snow, waiting like a bear trap. It was inevitable that someone would hurt themselves. Or hurt themselves more, Techno thought, taking Tasha’s hand from across the table and unwrapping it.

The wound hadn't quite scabbed over yet, he sighed. Throwing up the last potion must have nullified any of its effects, only stopping the bleeding instead of sealing the wound.

“Bad?” Tasha asked, wiping her mouth off with the back of her hand.

“No,” Techno shrugged, “Just not preferable, I guess.” He left her hand unwrapped at the table and dug through his potion chests. Instant Health was… a bad idea, but there were other, while less preferable, options. Regeneration was slower, but: “I think we’ve got a solution, kiddo.”

She was apprehensive, eyeing the bottle with obvious distrust. When Techno reassured her it wasn’t the nasty potion, her hand was dunked. A second of contemplation, “Not. Nasty,” Tasha decided. The dunking continued and Techno took Tasha’s hand in his.

It was slow and a little nauseating to watch, but the puncture was scabbing over, her skin starting to weave itself back together. The healing was nowhere near done, of course, but that didn’t stop Techno from leaning over the table and ruffling Tasha’s fur.

New gauze was wrapped and Tasha was looking… not great, still a little pale, but not crying or dying, so that was an improvement.

The nails had to be gathered up, though, so outside time it was. They got dressed and Tasha banished herself to the ever-burning fire pit, watching from afar.

As Techno picked his way through the snow, nails started to poke their way through the crunchy snow. One made its way known by being under Techno’s foot, but his tough hoof stopped another incident from occurring.

Thinking back to the early morning, Techno mused, “What’s got you so interested in writing, Tasha?”

“You… Make. Up. Story.” It was a statement, but Techno could tell she wanted to say more. He took a guess:

“Thinking about writing your own? Being an author?” He joked. Turning back around after picking out another nail, he watched Tasha glare into the fire, hands groping at the warmth.

“Maybe…” gears clearly turning, but she trailed off, switching subjects, “What. About. Not. Made. Up?”

Techno shook his head, “Boring, too personal, and I don’t think you’d exactly find it… amusing or entertaining.”

Tasha blinked at the voice, picking the conversation back up. “Techno. Boring?” she gasped comically.

Snorting, Techno scoffed, “What! Never, everyone else is just lame.”

“Who. Everyone?”

Techno hummed absently shrugging and continuing to pick up nails. When the last one was found- at least as far as Techno could tell, he put a torch down just in case- he meandered to Tasha and the fire, snow turning to slush turning to grass. Tasha repeated the question, then hesitated, whispering “Bad?”

Flopping himself down to the grass next to Tasha, their backs to the house, Techno groped for an answer, “No- They are- were just-” he breathed in and tried again, “Yes and no, Tasha. My time with them was… mixed… good and bad and worse.”

“Tell. Good.”

Huh. That was… a solution, perhaps. And Tasha was rather convincing, but it’s not like he had any good stories to tell-

“Please.”

In and out, Techno breathed, and picked out a moment that he cherished? missed? regretted because of later situations that unfolded? Either way: “This guy- called himself a Big Man- who I used to… work for- well, no really, but he hired me- was kinda, no, really stupid. And annoying to the ends of the world, Tasha, believe me. So one day, he and this other guy named Wilbur- uhh, he’s dead now. Not by my fault!,” Techno rushed, gauging Tasha’s reaction as captivated but not accusing, “get in a fight, something silly, I was sure.

“It goes on for a while- all unimportant, don’t worry the comedy is coming soon- and the idiot, in his rage, builds himself a tiny room and decorates it with the blocks he stole from Wil.”

Techno leaning in close to Tasha like he was conspiring. Tasha oinked in glee. “The blocks, though, they were pistons and red stone blocks, smooshed him right to the floor.” He used his hands to mimic the arm coming down and pressing his hand flap into the grass, Tasha gasping. “He wasn’t harmed, physically at least, but he was stuck! Right in a trap of his own making! And he couldn’t get out!

“There was this other kid, an absolute gremlin, named Tubbo, you might’ve liked him.” Tasha nodded, mouthing the name. “Tubbo was the sweetest and best friends with the Big Man himself. Instead of helping him out though, he tried to drown him! Right in front of us: put down a water bucket and cackled, ‘Now he can’t breathe!’” He did his best impression of the absolute masterpiece that Tubbo said. Tasha giggled, holding a hand over her mouth to contain her snorts.

Techno wheezed alongside her at the memory, he could still hear Tommy’s astonished screeches.

Through snorts, Tasha asked, “Meet. Them?”

Techno tossed the idea around for only a second, “Probably never, if I can help it. Like I said: good and bad and worse.”

The mood sombered.

Tasha mumbled, “Take. Techno? From. Me?”

“No, Tasha,” Techno sputtered, “They couldn’t take me from you. I’m not in their good graces anymore, so they wouldn’t even try to talk to me.” They were really not in his good graces. And Tommy was exiled, as far as Techno knew, so he might not even be heard from again.

When Tasha stayed mute, Techno stuck out his pinky. Tasha lit up at that whispering, “Promise?”

“That’s what the pinky means. You can’t break those.”

They linked fingers and Techno pulled Tasha in for a hug. She sniffled into his shirt, white ruffles brushing the top of her head.

Techno used one of his hands to snuggle her closer. The other reached to left for a snowball and dumped it ceremoniously onto Tasha’s head. She squealed but ended it with a smile, reaching for her own snowball. Her injured hand stayed tucked against her coat, slowing her down, but she made up for it by scrambling away from another one of Techno’s snowballs.

Her small stature was an advantage, the warrior in him grumbled, but Techno had fought foes of all sizes. Grabbing a handful of snow, Techno didn’t pack this one, instead throwing it like sand. When it made Tasha stumble and drop her snowball, Techno let out his war cry and lightly pelted her with snowballs. “That’s the tactic that won me my crown!” he ended his volley with a cackle.

From the pile of loose snow, Tasha squealed “Pig! In! Crown!” with an audible smile.

“I’m the best pig in a crown there is!”

Tasha brushed herself off and glared up at him, “Only. One?”

Techno scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder in response. A little fist banged at his back and hoofs got dangerously close to his snout. The oinking ruined whatever fight she was trying to pull, Techno smiled.

As Techno carried her back inside, her endless energy left, replaced by a floppy noodle of a pup. It was a perfect time to get a bath in.

Techno helped maneuver her so she was sitting on his shoulders, using his head as a support for her wobbly body. With his hands free, Techno warmed up water over the fire and brought the buckets up the ladder. It was tedious, but Tasha on his shoulders kept his mind occupied and entertained.

“Don’t fall asleep on me, it’ll be quite the tumble,” he warned. He set a bucket down to poke at her leg, jolting her to awareness.

Tasha yawned and leaned over his crown to get a look at his face, “Catch. Me.”

“Fair point,” but he continued to poke her leg whenever she wavered in her grasp of him.

Soon the bath was full enough for Tasha to bathe in. Techno helped her out of her pants and sweater, new but not the one Tasha had been knitting, that one still sitting unfinished on a shelf. He set her in the water and let her play with the bubbles.

“What do you find so interesting about the bubbles?”

Tasha popped one with a soft clap and showed a hand full to Techno, “Water. But. Float.”

Sighing, Techno nodded, “Yup, they definitely do that.”

“Nether. Bubbled. But. Hot.” she screwed up her face, “Burned.” Her arm was shoved into Techno’s personal space, and Techno lurched back in surprise-

Her arm was littered with burns. Techno ran a delicate finger along the expanse of the burns, ones from years to months old marring her otherwise smooth pink skin. Techno had always figured she would have old wounds and scars, but this was the first time he had really been shown them, the first time he had really looked. “Tasha-”

“No! Me… Silly. Made. Mistake,” she pulled her arm back and clapped more bubbles, “Have. Worse.”

Techno hesitated, she was just a pup, a child, a baby, but, “You’ll just have to stay away from burning things from now on.”

“Fire?”

“Oh,” Techno stuttered, “apart from that one. But my point still stands! No lava.”

Tasha nodded and blew bubbles into Techno’s face, he held in a sneeze at the tickling and grabbed the sponge. The water would grow cold soon.

Scolding himself for being negligent, Techno scrubbed away at the blood that stained Tasha’s skin. He should have bathed her earlier. An infection could have seeped into Tasha and Techno almost gave it the chance.

The scrubbing ceased once the dirt and blood had been scrubbed into grimy suds, the water now just barely turning a translucent brown.

Out came Tasha from the bath and a towel wrapped around her before the frigid air could hit. The bathroom was the furthest away from the central hearth in the kitchen, and Techno was beginning to regret his design of the cabin.

Techno would have to wash the clothes soon, he realized once Tasha was dressed in his last sleep shirt and shorts. He would also have to finish the growing project of sewing clothes for both of them. Techno’s batch hadn't even been started, he sighed at himself.

Tucking Tasha into the bed even though it was only mid-afternoon, Techno worried for a moment. Were pups her age supposed to have naps?

Or, more importantly, what was Tasha’s age?

The question was asked and Tasha blinked at him, “What. Year?” There weren’t seasons in the Nether, he grasped. No years. No ages. Just pups and adults. That ended his quest for knowledge just as suddenly as it had started.

Oh well.

Techno kissed her to sleep and drew the curtain closed. Tasha patted his face before he had the chance to draw away to the library, and Techno ruffled her fluff.

Oink-snores soon filled the room alongside the scratch of quill on notebook paper. Techno had a story to get through.

[tanadrin]

Reordberend

(Part 8 of ?; start; previous; next)

It was two or three days before Katherine felt strong enough to stand. A few people seemed to come and go from the hall as she drifted in and out of sleep, and she would occasionally open her eyes to find others sitting around the fire at the far end of the room. Every time it seemed to be a different set of faces. The faces seemed mostly uninterested in her, though; they did not approach or try to speak to her. There were no windows in the high stone walls, and she had no idea whether it was early or late each time she woke. Whoever had prepared her bed had taken her coat, gloves, and boots, and bandaged her hands and feet. Both still hurt, probably from frostbite. In theory her cybernetics could fix that pretty easily, but there was still no response when she pressed the standby switch. At some point, she woke to find the hall empty. There was one of those densely embroidered overcoats the others wore, draped over the end of the bed, but no boots. Presumably, she wasn’t meant to go wandering about outside.

So she decided to have a look around. She shuffled slowly around the hall. It was twenty meters long, maybe, its metal roof supported occasionally by stone pillars made out of the same rough blocks as the walls. There were side rooms at odd intervals along both walls, their doorways protected from drafts by heavy draped cloth. It was the same material as the coats and the tapestries, some kind of soft, dense synthetic fiber. Some of the rooms looked like they were for sleeping, with beds slightly less improvisational than the one Katherine had slept in. One was a pantry, stocked with dried meats. The last one, to her surprise, contained books. Hundreds of them. They looked immense, and the shelves that lined all four walls were full.

Katherine had seen only a few print books in her life, outside the archives of Trinity College. They had all been small, slim volumes with paper covers, the kind of thing you could slip into a large pocket. These books were enormous. There was a stand in the middle of the room, next to a heavy table, about right to read at if you stood. So presumably they weren’t just for show. She selected a few volumes at random, then carefully slid them off their shelves. She piled them on the table, then opened one on the stand.

She didn’t know the language of the Dry Valleys People, and their script made matters even more difficult. It was a Latin script of some kind, she supposed. The letters were approximately familiar. She could pick out the difference between Russian and Arabic and Chinese and the like on the signs in Port Alexander, and these didn’t look anything like that. But the forms were strange, with curls here and long stems there that made it hard to work out what was supposed to be what. There were two different kinds of r, for one. And accent marks she didn’t understand. But what was stranger than that was the books themselves. They weren’t printed books at all. They were all clearly handwritten, every letter and every word just a little bit different, painstakingly copied out on pages made of animal skin, bound in wooden covers. Mostly the text was dense, without any kind of obvious punctuation, and few line breaks, but occasionally she would turn a page and find spread out across a whole page, or sometimes two facing pages, ornate illustrations of people and animals and abstract forms, stained with dark mineral colors. They were like the tapestries in the hall: here and there was an obvious figure, or something that suggested the head or haunch of a beast, but they were surrounded by sinuous shapes, flourishes that looked like detached pieces of architecture, united together with a strange sense of perspective and a compositional logic she couldn’t follow.

She could make neither heads nor tails of the first two books. One was filled with illustrations of plants and animals and shapes that might have been landforms, or icebergs. The last twenty pages, maybe, were nothing but diagrams of the stars. She noted with interest that the Milky Way and the two Magellanic Clouds were all annotated with the same word. Clearly the Dry Valleys People weren’t entirely ignorant of astronomy. And where the first book looked to have been written all by the same hand, the second seemed to have been compiled by dozens of authors; the shapes of the letters seemed to change every few pages.

The third book surprised her. Its cover was more ornate than the others. It wasn’t just plain wood that had been painted; it was a frame in which carefully carved pieces of ivory had been set, depicting four great winged creatures. What looked like a lion, maybe, and some sort of bird, and a person, and some kind of cow, maybe. She wasn’t sure anybody around here had ever seen a cow or a lion in their lives, but it was a good attempt. She opened the book, and a thrill of surprise ran through her. The text was in two closely-written columns, divided by large initial capitals; but each section was further broken up with little numerals just above the line. It looked for all the world like a Bible.

Part of one, anyway. And in no language she recognized. Katherine hadn’t read much Scripture as a kid, and none at all as an adult. Her mother liked to read her stories out of the Bible before bed sometimes, but they were paraphrases as often as not, and what Katherine could remember of the Bible was mostly a lot of conjunctions, and really awkward syntax. But there were four verses she did know by heart. The book she had in front of her was in four parts; just the gospels, if she had to guess. She went to the beginning of the first one, then counted down six chapters, and from the beginning, nine verses. She began to sound them out to herself as best she could. 

“Fader ure, du? Du de eyart on heyofon… heyofonu, si din nama gehalgod…” She was sure she was getting some of the sounds wrong. There was this d with a stroke through the top, and a little line over the u at the end of heofonu. But even if she was butchering it, she knew what she was saying. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. And the words in front of her weren’t so different from that.

“To becume din rikke…”

“Rice,” someone said behind her. Two syllables, sharp and clear. Reach a. Katherine turned around. It was the woman who had shown her the map. She was leaning against the door, staring at Katherine with sharp, dark eyes that made her feel intensely self-conscious. Her face was framed by the hood of her cloak, on which scraps of frost still clung. She looked… puzzled? Amused?

She pointed at the book. “Rice,” she said again. “To becume ðin rice.“ Toe bekoom a theen reach a.

She straightened up and walked over to Katherine. She pointed at the beginning of the prayer.

“Canst ðu hit?” she asked.

“I’m--I’m sorry? I don’t understand,” Katherine said.

The woman took Katherine’s hand, and put her finger under the first word. Then she pointed at Katherine. “Sprec hit. Fram onginnung.”

Katherine looked down at the text, and tried sounding out the words again.

“Fader ure… du de--” 

“Ne.” The woman put a hand over Katherine’s lips, then pointed at her again. “Ne ræd. Ðu. Ðine geðeode.”

“My what? You want me to say it in my language?”

If the woman understood, she didn’t show it. She just stared at Katherine.

“Our father? Who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name.” She started nodding as Katherine recited the words. When Katherine finished, she walked out of the room. Katherine stood there for a minute, feeling rather silly, wondering if she’d done something wrong.

When the woman returned, she held up her hand. She was holding Katherine’s cross necklace. She’d been wearing when she went overboard. She thought she’d lost it in the sea.

“Ðu eart Cristne?” the woman asked.

“Christian? Are you asking if I’m a Christian?”

The woman nodded. Katherine shook her head. “No. Not Christian.”

“Ne? Soðlice?” She held out the necklace and dropped it into Katherine’s hand.

“Ðu fricgest, ond ðu birst seo rod. Ac ðu eart ne Cristne?” She seemed to shrug.

She beckoned for Katherine to follow her, and they went back out into the main hall. There was a pair of heavy leather boots beside Katherine’s bed. The woman pointed to them and the coat, and Katherine put them on. She pointed to the fur-lined hood on the back, reminding Katherine to pull it up. Then she led her to the end of the hall, on the opposite side of the fire pit; there was a large doorway draped with layers of cloth and skins, which they pushed through. The woman fumbled with the heavy latch of a door, and they stepped out into dim half-light.

Katherine couldn’t be sure if it was very late at night, or very early in the morning. The sun was low against the ragged ridges that rose on either side of a long, low valley. Dark gray-brown slopes curved gently downward, to a floor littered with stones and debris. A sharp, bitter wind seemed to blow continuously, which Katherine’s coat only partly protected her against.

The hall was a large, long stone building that stood on one side of a little village square. Smaller houses stood around the square on the other sides, their doors facing toward the middle, all made of stone and roofed with metal, all windowless against the freezing wind. Katherine could see smaller outbuildings beyond, and paths leading down the valley, and up into the hills on either side. There couldn’t be more than a few dozen people in a settlement this size; she wondered how many villages like this there were in the Dry Valleys. She had imagined something rather cruder, to be entirely honest; the reports she had read had talked about makeshift shelters, barely adequate against the extremes of Antarctic weather.

Her companion led her across the square, to one of the small houses directly facing the hall. She opened the door, and they pushed their way through another heavy curtain, and Katherine found herself suddenly standing the middle of a small crowd of people.

There was a firepit against one wall of the house, with some small benches beside it, on which a few elderly-looking men and women sat. Their hair was gray to white, and the men all had thick, long beards. There were others sitting, on chairs, or on the floor, which was hard-packed sand and grit, covered with rugs, and maybe a half-dozen more leaning against the walls. The house had only one room, with a high ceiling, and as Katherine glanced up, she could even see, peering down from a wooden loft on one wall, more small faces. It appeared she was an object of some curiosity among the Dry Valleys People.

She felt a hand at her back. Her companion was pushing her forward, to the middle of the room. Every eye in the house suddenly seemed to be on her at once, and she looked around from face to face nervously. Some were old, some were young. All had an intensity of expression she had never seen before. It was like she’d shown up to a party conspicuously underdressed, times a million. Or she was surrounded by everyone she’d ever offended in her entire life. Come to think of it, she probably had offended them, just by being here. There was a terrible sinking feeling in her stomach.

One of the old women sitting near the fire looked at Katherine and said something.

“Come again?” Katherine said lamely.

“Nama. Ðin nama,” her companion said in her ear.

“Nama?” What? “Oh, my name.” She pointed to herself. “Katherine Alice Green,” she said slowly.

There was a little muttering, and the people by the fire seemed to be conversing among themselves. Finally, the old woman who had asked her name stood and took a couple steps toward Katherine. She had something in her hand, and Katherine realized it was Christopher’s letter of introduction. She said something else, rapid-fire, and looked at Katherine expecting an answer.

“I really don’t understand,” Katherine said. “I don’t speak your language. No module.” She pointed to her head. “No modules at all. My cybernetics are dead.”

This didn’t seem to help. The woman seemed to be getting annoyed with Katherine. She looked at her companion, and said something in an acid tone of voice, to which Katherine’s companion responded with a sharp, almost sarcastic-sounding retort. There was general muttering.

Things only seemed to get worse from there. Katherine’s companion and the old woman argued for a bit; then the people by the fire argued, loudly, among themselves. After a little while, some people from the sides of the room chimed in, and just when it seemed tempers were running a little too high, one of the men by the fire, who hadn’t spoken yet, stood slowly, said a single loud word, and everyone fell silent. He pointed at Katherine, and Katherine’s companion, and said something slowly, like he was intoning some ritual, then sat back down. This seemed to end the discussion. People began filing out of the house, the faces in the loft withdrew, and someone put a pot of something on the fire to cook. Katherine’s companion tugged on her sleeve, and led her out.

They went back to the hall. Katherine’s bed in the main room had been cleared away; instead, her companion led her to one of the side rooms, and pointed to a bed.

“Thanks,” Katherine said. She was suddenly very, very tired again; even mild exertion seemed to be draining for her. “What was that all about?”

Her companion left the room, then came back a few moments later carrying the book of Gospels. She handed it to Katherine.

“Ræd, ond leorn. Ðu sceal ure geðeode leornan, ond arolice.”

Katherine sank down onto the bed. It was exhausting, not understanding anything anyone said to you. To try to patch together meaning from the one word in ten that sounded vaguely familiar. Stupid as it was, she wanted to grab the woman and yell at her to just say something she could understand.

“I don’t understand,” she said angrily. “I don’t fucking understand.”

The woman seemed to understand her frustration, anyway. She squatted down next to the bed, and put her hand on Katherine’s knee. She closed her eyes, and seem to think very hard for a moment.

“Learn. Our tongue. Learn. From book. Swiftly.”

“Why?” asked Katherine. “What happens if I don’t?”

“Out.” The woman gestured, in the vague direction of the hills. “You, out.”

Katherine felt her stomach sinking. “If I go out there alone, I will die. Die? Like, to death. You know that, right?”

The woman nodded.

“And if I learn your tongue, I can stay?” Katherine asked.

The woman shrugged.

“They deem. Learn not, go out. You learn, they choose fate. Go or stay. I know not.”

So that was that. She would have to learn their language, and maybe, just maybe, they would let her stay if she did. Otherwise, they would send her out of the valleys, into the Antarctic wastes, where she would die. Alone.

Just fucking great job, Katherine, she thought to herself.

[cooperjones2020]

Second City, chp. 1

Summary: Sometimes she worries she's settling — for a smaller job, a smaller city, a smaller life than she'd promised herself — but that was before she found out Jughead Jones lives in Chicago. That was before she found out the final secret of Jason Blossom’s murder.

slow-burn, eventual smut, eventual references to violence.

(ao3-->http://archiveofourown.org/works/11409360/chapters/25556550)

There are some weeks you eat lots of kale salads and açai bowls and only drink green tea. Then there are weeks where you eat grilled cheese for four meals in a row and main-line stale coffee. This week is one of the latter. Which is why she is so glad Mary has invited her to dinner.

Her move had not gone smoothly. A truck full of her boxes had somehow wound up in Kentucky, an unlikely outcome she refused to think too hard about because, really, that meant at some point the truck driver had to turn left and south instead of right and north but whatever. It’s fine.

It just means she is wearing rain boots and jeans instead of sandals and a flowy skirt. It is barely May but it is already summer in Chicago and the rubber is making her feet sweat.

But. but. Mary lives in a bungalow in Rogers Park, which is far north enough that people actually get to have yards and there are so many trees and everything is colourful and glorious and smells like flowers and barbecues and new beginnings.

She lingers a little, walking more and more slowly as she gets closer to the house, wanting to preserve this twilight in amber — the colors and the textures and the quiet and the utter peace she feels. Because, no matter how much of a disaster this week has been, no matter that she might have to wear ratty jeans to her first day of her new job tomorrow, this is the first decision she’s made in a long time that feels like it is really and truly hers. And that is something to celebrate.

Eventually the humidity gets to her though, and she doesn’t want to be late, doesn’t want Mary to worry she’s gotten on the red line the wrong way, so she knocks on the door while pulling a bottle of Syrah out of her tote bag.

Mary answers and immediately pulls her in for a hug. She clutches her own hands behind Mary’s back and lets out a sigh. After all these years, hugging Mary Andrews still feels more like home than hugging her own mother.

Mary had already been treated to the ongoing saga of Betty’s moving crisis — in fact, had calmed her down when she called crying because her dishes were in Kentucky so she couldn’t bring the casserole she’d promised for tonight. Mary made her promise to take a nap, and she had tried. She now knew she had 292 ceiling tiles in her bedroom.

So tonight is all about gossip and catch up and making plans for a new life.

“Did you get a chance to see my son before you left?”

Betty grins. “We had coffee last week. Did he tell you he has a date with Veronica?”

“Of course not. He doesn’t tell me about the girls he dates. I didn’t know you two had broken up until parent’s weekend of your freshman year when he introduced me to some girl named Lilah.”

Oh Arch, never change. “Well they ran into each other at fashion week and have been talking since — she’s a buyer for Bloomingdale’s now — she asked him out right before I left.”

Conversation continues in the same vein, punctuated by trips to the kitchen for more wine and plates of cheese and grapes and other little hors d’oeuvres the likes of which Betty normally only sees on Pinterest.

Around 9, a knock sounds at the back door and startles them. Mary walks through the kitchen to answer it, and Betty can just see her between the walls of the hallway and the doorjamb. When she opens the door, all Betty can see is that the visitor is tall with dark hair.

Then he opens his mouth.

“Hey Mar, is Mike home yet? I didn’t see his bike.”

Mary steps back and it’s Jughead.

She hunches forward, even though there’s no way he could have seen her. And—more than that—no way Mary would let her get away without saying hi. A million thoughts spin through Betty’s mind like tilt-a-whirl but they all telescope down to the refrains “is my lipstick smudged?” and “Jughead.”

“No. Jug, I wasn’t expecting you. Mike had to go to London last minute this afternoon, he must have forgotten to text you.”

“Oh that’s okay, we were just gonna work on the desk for a while. Do you mind if I still do—” She could hear him walking into the house, the sounds of a helmet being set down, a jacket shrugged off. She processes these details from a distance, as if staring at the sun underwater.

“Of course not.” Mary finally closes the door. “Here, come into the living room, I’m having dinner with Betty.”

He stops in the hallway, a sudden interruption to the quiet thump thump pattern of his feet on the wood. Her head is still hidden by the door. “Betty. Betty Cooper?”

But Mary is already pushing the door open. Betty tries to paste a nonchalant smile on her face.

“Of course Betty Cooper. Didn’t I tell you she was moving here?”

“No actually, I don’t think you did.” Is she imagining it or does his voice sound smaller?

And then he’s there. Taller than she remembers, maybe bigger too. Or maybe it’s just that she’s sitting down. She stands up, brushing her hands down her pants, trying to convince her stomach to stay where it belongs.

“Hi Jug.” She reaches a hand out for him to shake. That’s a thing people do, right?

“Betty Cooper.” He takes it but doesn’t shake. Maybe it’s not. Her stomach vaults back up into her throat.

Everything about him is so very strange and yet exactly the same. He is bigger. His hair is shorter. There is the slightest bit of scruff on his cheeks and down his neck. But he is still wearing a black t shirt and he still has a flannel shirt tied around his waist and she can see the beanie sticking out of his pocket. His eyes, all the colours of the ocean during a thunderstorm, still seem to cut right through her. She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath.

“Can I get you some food, Jug?”

His eyes widen and he drops her hand. “Always, Mary. Do you even have to ask?”

When Mary turns back to the kitchen, Betty takes the moment to sit down, tucking her hands beneath her thighs. He follows suit in the chair across from her.

They stare at each other. This is going to get awkward fast.

“Did you say something about a desk?”

“A—? Oh yeah. Mike and I are restoring this turn-of-the-century roll-top desk Mary found at an estate stale. It was a gift when The Final Fissure hit the bestseller list.”

Her eyes stray to her purse, and the book just peaking out of the top. He must have seen her because when she turns back, he is staring at her purse and one corner of his mouth has quirked up. She blushes. Then she blushes more because she can feel herself blushing.

“If you ask me if I want an autograph, I’ll clock you.” He laughs.

“I would never.” But before she can stop him, he is up and pulling the book out.

“Why, Betty Cooper, no annotations? I’m shocked.” Could her face get any redder?

“Actually—that might be my second copy. I got to the airport way too early and, in a whirlwind of productivity, I’d already shipped all my books here—well not here, cause they’re in Lexington at the moment—but I didn’t have anything to read and I’d already finished the newspaper and it was on display in Hudson’s. I picked it up just to look at but before I knew it you’d sucked me back in. So I bought it so I’d have something to do on the plane.” God, Betty, stop talking.

“Hey you don’t have to justify buying my book to me.”

She wants to say I love it, Jug. I’m so proud of you, Jug. How did you get here from there, Jug? What happened to you when you left me? Do you know how long it took to put me back together? But the words get stuck in her mouth, repeating.

Mary comes back in with a plate piled comically high with food and the moment is broken.

“Here you go, Jug. Let me know if you need anything else.” He drops the book back into her purse, gives her a quick wave with the chicken leg already en route to his mouth, and disappears into the basement, and, presumably, into his furniture restoration.

She blinks and tries to mentally re-settle herself.

“So,” she begins. “Jughead?”

A tender look crosses Mary’s face. She is—apparently—oblivious to the current of electricity that seems to run from Betty to her purse and down the stairs to the flannel-clad man.

“That boy. You know it took me a year of inviting him over after he moved here to finally get him to come? I had to show up outside the library at Northwestern and ambush him. He was afraid I was just being polite because he and Archie hadn’t talked in a while.”

“A while” may have been an understatement but Betty doesn’t think this is the best time to correct her. To Mary, it’s just college that drove them all apart. Old friends on different paths. After all, that is what happened to Betty and Archie, and, as she learns when Mary continues, the end of college did bring Jughead and Archie back together.

But Mary, safely ensconced in her new life in Chicago, hadn’t seen the fall out of the Jughead-and-Betty break-up, hadn’t seen the broken pieces that sometimes still cause Betty to wonder if she’ll ever be able to sand them down far enough.

They can’t get back to the place they were before Jughead arrived, joking about Archie’s dating mishaps and all the new men to be surveyed in Chicago.

After an hour of stilted chatter and awkward silences, “I know you’re way too big for this now, but would you mind letting me braid your hair?”

Betty smiles. When she was little her mother had volunteered her and Polly as models when Mary wanted to learn to French braid. Polly could never sit still. But when it was her turn, Archie would bring her legos to play with and snacks. She had spent many afternoons on a bar stool at the Andrews’ kitchen island, constructing castles while her blonde locks were tugged and twisted.

“Of course.” She sets her glass of wine down and rolls off the couch to sit in front of Mary.

She cut it off before she left New York, into an angled bob that brushes the tops of her shoulders when straight, but skims her chin when she lets it air dry into waves and curls—a style she’s been trying to embrace lately — a more laid back version of herself she’s consciously trying to cultivate. A more laid-back city, a more laid-back Betty.

The activity makes the silence feel less awkward. And the soothing feeling of Mary’s nails scratching her scalp soon lulls Betty to sleep.

She comes to slowly. Her mouth feels fuzzy and there are voices above her.

“I was going to just let her sleep on the couch but I’d forgotten you were here. Maybe you could carry her upstairs.” You. You? Jughead?

“I’m awake!” She sits up and peels her eyelids open.

He smirks at her and her traitorous heart gives a single, loud thump. “Hey Pippi Longstocking.”

She’s confused for a minute but then remembers the braids, raising a hand to her head to confirm.

“No, Betty, you’re not riding the red line home by yourself this late at night.”

She tries to protest. It’s not like she has to switch trains, it’s not that late, it’s not that many stops. But Mary chimes in and she is outvoted and before she knows it, she is pushed out into the now-cold night and is strapped into one of Mike’s spare helmets.

Mary kisses her helmet, then Jughead’s, and then it’s just the two of them.

“So where to, Miss Daisy?”

She names the address.

“Of course you live in River North.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ask me again in a month if you haven’t figured it out.” She rolls her eyes but secretly gloms onto “in a month” like he still expects to be talking to her in a month?

“And where do you live?”

“In Logan Square. And before you say anything, I lived there before the hipsters moved in.”

She gapes at him. “Really? Before the hipsters moved in? Well okay then. By all means, continue to proselytize on the ills of gentrification.”

He glares at her through his visor and for a moment, just for a moment, it feels light and easy. It feels like Sunday night milkshakes at Pop’s and swapping English homework in the Blue and Gold office. The thought makes her chest ache, and her self-consciousness descends like a blanket.

It is cold on the back of the motorcycle, colder, even, than she had imagined it would be. That is why she snuggles more deeply into the back of his leather jacket—brown not black. No embroidery. She’d double checked. He smells like coffee and cigarettes and petrichor. And that fucking kills her. How does a person get to smell like the morning after a thunderstorm?

She’s had that thought before.

When they pull up outside her building and she returns the helmet and finds her land legs, she reaches out. “Thanks, Juggie.”

Then she realizes what she’s done and presses her lips into a tight, white line.

He puts a hand on her shoulder and runs it down her arm until he reaches her hand on her own. He lifts it off and squeezes. “Night Betts.”

“Night.” Then she disappears into her building and turns back to watch him through the tempered glass. A moment later, the motorcycle slings its way around the corner and is gone.

[satorisa]

Lift the Veil - Chapter 7

Lift the Veil - Chapter 7: Take Me

Rating: T

Summary: After living in Tokyo for the past six years, she decides to head back to Azumano to escape the big city. However, she now has to face everything that she tried to flee from all those years ago. How exactly will she fare when the pages of a long forgotten book start turning once more?

Read On: FanFiction.Net, Archive of Our Own

...I said I would upload this on Thursday or Friday, but I was apparently fooling myself. Would’ve uploaded this earlier today, but I am tired from canoeing (it’s terrifying when the boat capsizes) and decided to practice some voice acting today. (TBH I REALLY SHOULD BE STUDYING FOR MY MIDTERMS RN.)

The song used for this chapter doesn’t really add much to the story, but since I did listen to it while writing most of this chapter, and since it is a good song, you can listen to it here. For now, enjoy (or suffer) reading about our two leads being hella awkward in this chapter.

Chapter 7 – Take Me

We need some time to mend this broken trust…

I woke up to the scent of miso soup and steamed rice accompanied by whatever was beautifully sizzling. Sitting up, I turned to see Ritsuko in the kitchen, back towards me, dutifully manning the stove with her hair up in a messy bun. She spun around to put something in the sink, and I laughed at the pink, frilly apron she wore.

“Good morning to you, too, Risa!” she called.

“Sorry! It’s just…” I couldn’t finish my thought and burst into a fit of giggles.

“Don’t judge me! It was the only thing left at the store when I went!”

I shook my head at her blatant lie before getting up and folding my blanket. Sauntering over to the kitchen, I asked Ritsuko if she needed any help. She raised her eyebrow in skepticism and told me to set the table instead, pointing at the cabinet where she kept the dinnerware with her spatula.

“So, um…” she started as I took out some matching plates and bowls. “Are you okay? Did you sleep well?”

“Why ask?”

“Well, I woke up in the middle of the night to hear you rambling on about Dark, light, and that blond guy with the spiky hair from those video games,” she explained, and I had to stifle a laugh at how she got “Cloud” from “Krad.” “I thought you were awake, so I went to check on you, but you were fast asleep, squirming around like crazy. Did you have a terrible nightmare or something?”

“I don’t remember dreaming about anything last night,” I told her while setting the table, arranging everything as neatly as I could. “But it sounds like I had my recurring nightmare again.”

“About video game characters?” I nodded with a straight face, imagining her puzzled expression and finding amusement from this hilarious misunderstanding. “Well…um…alright?” She paused for a bit. “Have you had that checked out?”

“I’ve never had a reason to go to anyone about them.”

“Well, if you say so…”

When I finished setting the table, I returned to the kitchen to convince Ritsuko that I wasn’t incompetent in the kitchen, but she only brushed me off and laughed, calling me names relating to the weird content of my dreams. When she finished cooking, we sat down at the table before digging into the meal. We weaved through moments of silence and chatter, talking about everything but anything related to last night and my nightmare. (She did, however, keep pestering me about why I was dreaming about video games when I wasn’t an avid gamer, so I gave in and told her that she had misheard the name I spoke before she finally let the topic go.)

“Hey, were you planning on heading home soon?” she asked after finishing her food.

“Nope. Why ask?”

“I have to head to the store soon, and I don’t want to keep you here any longer than you want to. I’ll be back before dinner though, so do you think you can be alone until then?”

“I’m not a kid, you know.”

“I know, but I can’t help but worry about you.”

“I’ll be fine.” Getting up with the dirty dishes, I placed them in the sink to soak for a bit. I appreciated Ritsuko’s concern, but damn, it was suffocating.

“Alrighty.”

She went into her bedroom, and I wiped down the table before floating over to her bookshelf. When I finally found the book I gifted her once upon a time, wedged in between a worn fashion catalogue and a thick textbook, she came out with her hair styled, a face full of makeup, and a well-coordinated outfit that I was wishing I had.

“Stay safe and enjoy yourself!” She closed the front door behind her, leaving me alone to read a book I haven’t touched in years and would probably regret picking up again.

In high school, during one of the many afternoons I spent holed up in the school’s library, I stumbled upon an out-of-place book sandwiched in between thick tomes detailing what seemed like the finer points of sociology. Its cursive English title on the spine stood out to me, so I took the book off the shelf to read its synopsis and checked it out the moment I realized it was a romance, immediately ditching my afternoon study plans to read it.

After I found myself thoroughly enjoying the book, I messaged Ritsuko saying that she had to read this whenever she found some free time before messaging Hiwatari, wondering if he could meet up with me that evening. Whenever he was swamped with work, I studied at the library since the Niwa household was too distracting for me if I was by myself. To make up for his absence, Hiwatari would always call me once he returned from work, guiding me through assignments and topics beyond me or keeping me company through time-consuming projects and last minute crunches because of my terrible habit of procrastinating.

After getting a message from him saying that he could grab dinner with me, I headed over to the family restaurant close to the police station and reserved a table. Mostly undisturbed, save for the waiter intermittently asking if I needed anything, I plowed through the book, miraculously finishing it despite having just started it earlier that day.

Unfortunately, Hiwatari arrived shortly after I read its ending, and he rushed over in concern when he saw me trying to discreetly cry into my hands, asking me what was wrong until I shoved the book into his face. Sighing, he slipped into seat across from me before resignedly questioning what the “accursed” novel was about. Through my blubbering, I somehow coherently explained its plot, pausing twice through my summary to order and thank the waiter when the food came out.

“Risa, please, your food’s getting cold,” he interrupted when he realized that I wasn’t even close to the halfway point of the story. “Just lend me the book, and I’ll finish it later.”

“Thank you for…ordering the food…and listening.” I sniffled before digging into my omelet rice.

“You’re welcome, but please don’t worry me like that again. Coming here and seeing you cry after you asked me to meet up with you stressed me out more than my work itself. And then I come to find out that all this fuss was over a book…” He jokingly glared at me, and I laughed.

I eventually cheered up from my food and company, and I left the restaurant with Hiwatari accompanying me back home. He called me later that night, nestled in an ottoman while I was somehow comfortable on the kitchen floor as we whispered the night away.

The next day, Hiwatari picked me up right after school and bought me two copies of the book: one for my personal use and the other for me to give to Ritsuko. (He personally didn’t like the book, but that’s because we didn’t share the same tastes in genres. He did acknowledge my books when he found them well-written, and he told me this one was much better than the usual drivel I read. [I smacked him because I knew he was only saying that to avoid getting hit, but he laughed at how little faith I had in the veracity of his opinions.])

In the span of a week, after my annotations and bookmarks marred every page, the book looked like it had years of constant wear and tear. Despite being my favorite book, it had become too difficult for me to ever read through again after graduating high school. I couldn’t bring myself to destroy it or give it away either, so I kept it perched on my desk as a reminder and a silent promise to myself.

After completely reading through Ritsuko’s copy, I heard the door ring. Without thinking, especially since I was emotionally compromised on several different levels, I opened it to see Ritsuko and Hiwatari slightly panting with concern on their faces. Ritsuko’s expression fell, and Hiwatari looked about ready to hightail out of there.

“Risa…are you okay?” Ritsuko asked as I let them in.

“Yeah…um…” I pointed to the book on the sofa while wiping away my uncontrollable tears. Both Ritsuko and Hiwatari nodded, sharing a brief look with each other before looking back at me. Ristuko patted my back before heading into the kitchen while Hiwatari followed me to the sofa, settling down as far away from me as possible.

“I sent you a text saying that Hiwatari was going to take you home tonight,” Ritsuko told me. “But you didn’t reply, so we rushed over here only to have a heart attack because you were crying…over a book.”

“To think that you would worry people again over the tears you shed over that accursed book. If I may be so bold, Harada-san, I believe you should reconsider your tastes in literature.”

I only pouted at Hiwatari’s comment, still too preoccupied with trying to calm myself down to wonder why Hiwatari, of all people, was accompanying me home. Ritsuko returned, placing two cups filled with tea and coffee respectively and a bowl of snacks on her coffee table, telling me to let her know when I’m heading out before disappearing into her room. When her door shut, I became painfully aware that she had just left me alone with Hiwatari. My tears immediately dried up, and the muggy haze that usually clouded my mind during (and after) a good cry gave way to an alertness characteristic of Hiwatari himself.

“Why…are you here?” I cautiously asked him.

“Riku and Daisuke had evening dinner plans, so they asked me to bring you back home.”

I groaned and whatever composure I wanted to retain in front of Hiwatari vanished. “Am I really that unreliable that I need people around me constantly?”

“Yes, you are,” Hiwatari scolded. My eyes widened at the sudden sharpness in his tone. “You’ve been practically drinking yourself into stupor every night since you’ve gotten here, worrying everyone with such immature recklessness that is, frankly, scaring us. If you want to be treated like an adult, you should start acting like one.”

I let out a dry laugh. “I…can’t believe I’m being scolded by you right now.” Picking up my cup of tea, I took a sip before letting it rest on my lap, staring at my rippling reflection as if it had the answers to my unanswered questions.

Silence settled between us before Hiwatari cleared his throat. Glancing up at him, he looked annoyed. Or was that distress? I really couldn’t tell anymore. “Sorry if I came across as harsh.”

“No, it’s okay,” I told him softly, absent-mindedly tracing my cup as I returned to my reflection. “Even as adults, we sometimes still need a stern talking-to.”

He nodded, opening his mouth as if he had something to say before immediately shutting it, knotting his eyebrows as if deep in thought. He sat there thinking as I helped myself to Ritsuko’s snacks in a vain attempt to focus my attention on anything but the awkwardness of these interactions. Our current relationship (if you could even call this mess one) stood on unstable ground; one wrong step out of the many that could easily occur, and this odd reconciliation we finally reached would crumble instantly.

“We should probably head out,” he finally settled on saying, getting up from the sofa. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

Going our separate ways, I knocked lightly on Ritsuko’s door, patiently waiting for her to open it. She finally appeared, makeup stripped off her face and hair messily gathered into a bun, smiling as she strutted to the door in an oversized shirt and equally baggy shorts. She gave me a hug, wishing me well before letting me out. When I heard the door shut, I came face to face with Hiwatari leaning against the wall by the doorframe with his eyes glued onto me as I stood there staring back at him. Somewhat straightening up, he got off the wall and lead me through the complex until we finally found its entrance.

On the streets, we joined the many heading towards their plans for the night. Six years later and the streets were alive and bustling, almost reminiscent of those in Tokyo. They weren’t the same in scale, of course, but I found this change comforting. After living in the city for so long, the constant busyness became my norm, and I appreciated that I wasn’t fully alone with Hiwatari. While I relished his lone company as he walked me back then on these once practically empty streets, it would’ve driven me crazy now if I had to deal with that.  

Hiwatari walked ahead of me, and I couldn’t help but examine him under the meager lighting of the street lamps and storefronts. Outside of work, he didn’t carry the air of the Police Commissioner. He disguised his slim and toned body under his dull, ill-fitting clothes and hid his face behind those awful wire-rim glasses from last millennia that he apparently never needed; if it weren’t for his eye-catching hair color, he would easily fade into the background. And no confident man would stuff his hands into his pockets as he slouched: only a ruffian would do that.

He didn’t have to hide anymore with Krad finally gone for good, and he had actually gotten better with maintaining his outward appearance while living in the Niwa household, probably under Ms. Emiko and Towa’s tutelage. His casual clothes finally coordinated to some degree, and he walked around with his back fully straight. If anything, he should’ve continued down that path, especially as a young bachelor with the world at his fingertips. He could attract any woman if he tried and, if they bothered to uncover his actual personality hidden under that prickly shell of his, he’d be set for life.

Odd for me to even bother going down this train of thought, especially considering that I couldn’t even stand Hiwatari’s presence mere days ago, but I couldn’t help but notice that idiosyncrasy. When Hiwatari and I were good friends, he would always walk beside me, and I was too preoccupied with his face to bother paying attention to anything else.

Grumble.

Hearing my stomach growl, I slowed my pace down to distance myself from Hiwatari. I wanted to get home as soon as possible so I could shorten the time that I spent in his presence, but my stomach, hellbent on ruining my perfectly reasonable plan, decided to growl louder. Hiwatari turned around, looking somewhat startled, and I felt my face burn up from his attention.

“Harada-san, are you—“

“I’m fine.” My stomach decided to rumble yet again, and I hung my head down in embarrassment.

“We can stop by somewhere to grab food if you’d like.”

I nodded, lifting my head up to find a place to eat nearby. There were several fast food restaurants and convenience stores, many of them having popped up during my six-year absence, but I really wasn’t in the mood for unhealthy food. Not that I should be picky if I wanted to head home quickly, but I wanted something that I wouldn’t regret eating the next morning. I walked past Hiwatari, trying to see if there were any other places, but they all had a queue of people huddled close to their entrances.  

“Royal Host is close by,” Hiwatari spoke up behind me, as if he knew that nothing interested me here.

I turned to face him. “The one by the station?”

He nodded before brushing past me, leading the way to our destination without bothering to confirm whether I wanted to go or not. We used to meet up at this family restaurant for dinner whenever I wanted to personally see Hiwatari whenever he was busy. I wished he had recommended another place since I really didn’t want to revisit memory lane, but I wasn’t going to complain about it, especially if I could get some omelet rice…

I bumped into Hiwatari, who had stopped walking while I was preoccupied with my thoughts. “Sorry,” he apologized for what seemed like the umpteenth time. “I didn’t realize that I didn’t ask you if you wanted to eat there.”

“It’s fine.”

I pursed my lips, hating how forced everything felt. We stood there, stagnant and unmoving in the sea of people, and I looked at our new surroundings to see if I could avoid going to Royal Host. Luckily, I spotted a Starbucks nestled at a street corner.

“Um…why don’t we go there?” I suggested, pointing to the café.

Bobbing his head once more, he turned around and lead the way. He opened the door, letting me in before it shut behind us. The overwhelming aroma of coffee washed over me, and a brief memory of the many late night study sessions and early morning caffeine runs (for tea) at coffee shops flashed through my mind. Hiwatari headed for the counter first, ordering an americano and pausing a beat before turning towards me.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll pay for myself.”

He faced the cashier again and paid before passing by me, choosing to sit at a table close to the entrance. I watched him take out his phone, opening what seemed like LINE before looking at a wall of text, before I turned back around to the menu, deciding on an iced tea, a bakery item, and a wrap. After I paid, I joined him at the table and pulled out my own phone.

Checking through my messages, I briefly replied to the ones Riku and Daisuke sent, hoping that some word from me could stave off their unnecessary worrying. I smiled looking at Ritsuko’s barrage of texts that started off relatively calm before devolving into a mess of typos and all caps. I also had a message from Saehara asking if I wanted to come over to Akane’s apartment for dinner to which I replied that it was about damn time before busying myself with anything, everything, to avoid conversing with Hiwatari.

He shuffled out of his seat to grab his drink but didn’t return, so I assumed he went to the restroom. When I heard my name, I was about to get up and grab my order, but I settled back down when I saw him returning with our food. I hesitantly mumbled thanks, uncomfortable with this chivalry, before digging into my food.

“Sorry,” he said again in the middle of my bite. What the hell was he apologizing for now? “I didn’t realize it would be this difficult to talk to you.”

“The feelings are mutual.”

Hopefully, that would end any possibility of Hiwatari speaking up again so I could eat my food and put this night past us. We stayed quiet for a while, me enjoying my food while Hiwatari absent-mindedly scrolled through whatever he was reading on his phone while periodically sipping his drink. Well, until something compelled him to open his mouth yet again.

“I…want to make this up to you.”

“Why?”

“Our…relationship isn’t going to get better if we run away and refuse to communicate. I want to make things right with you, if only to make this easier to bear…for both of us.”

“Hiwatari-san, keeping this cordial and impersonal is the best way for both of us. Going any further than that is…”

“Dangerous? Difficult? Nigh-impossible?”

“Exactly, so why are you insisting on this?”

He didn’t answer, resorting instead to look out the window. I followed his actions, wondering what was so interesting outside. There were just passersby and the fluorescent lights of signs and cars: nothing particularly interesting but somehow hypnotic in a way. The rhythm of the mellow jazz song softly playing in the background followed the beat of everything outside, lulling me into a brief trance.

“Because seeing you act this way because of me hurts too damn much to bear.”

I spun around with my eyes widened in shock, gasping when I found him already facing me. Instead of hiding it behind his blank expression, behind those glasses that helped to disconnect him from the world, his bared it all for anyone to obviously see. His furrowed eyebrows cast a slight shadow onto his face from the lighting above, contrasting the light colors of his eyes that crinkled in pain. And his mouth, always shaped into a slight frown, slanted in discomfort.

The cruel joke that had bubbled inside of me to break the tension around us disappeared. I managed a small smile to get my mind off the swirling emotions inside, but I could already feel my voice bubbling up in my throat, threatening the truth I could no longer keep inside.

“Satoshi, you know that I’m only like this because you hurt me…right?” I croaked, struggling to speak while my throat closed itself in on my voice.

“…I know.”

I inhaled, trying to keep a hold of the composure that I knew would break soon. “Then please,” I begged, painfully aware of my cracking voice, “leave this be. I shouldn’t have you in my life anymore; I shouldn’t even care about you, but seeing you like this…it’s…”

I couldn’t finish. The tears broke out, and I brought my hands to my face to hide and suppress the screams threatening to escape. And Hiwatari, knowing full well of his place in my life, could only sit across from me, facing the consequences of his actions and knowing, with every fiber of his being, that he shouldn’t be comforting me.

After I finally calmed down, I quickly finished my food, and we resumed our trek back to my house. The walk was silent between us, and I expected Hiwatari to leave once we arrived, but he let himself in, lying down on one of the sofas. I went into the kitchen, guzzling down a bottle of water to hydrate myself from all my crying before I joined him in the living room, settling down on a chair close to him.

“Why are you still here?” I asked, resting my head on the armrest.

“Tired,” he mumbled placing his glasses on the nearby table before rolling around to hide his face.

I watched him for a while until my parents appeared, wondering if Riku and I were back yet. Apparently, my sister was still out with Daisuke, so they just stayed in the living room for a bit, asking if I was okay in hushed tones to not disturb Hiwatari. I told them I was fine even though I was sure that I looked terrible, but they didn’t push me for answers and returned to their room without a fuss.

I grabbed the nearby remote, turning on the television and browsing through the channels before settling on one that was showing an American rom-com. Even though it was rife with clichés, I reveled in its predictability and the character’s stupid antics, trying to keep my laughter down so I wouldn’t disturb Hiwatari. When the movie finished, the front door opened, and I heard Riku and Daisuke. They said their goodbyes before the door closed, and a lone pair of footsteps echoed through the house.

Turning around, I saw Riku in a dress that hugged her torso, flowing down a little past her knees. She complemented it with matching accessories and well-done face of makeup, and I was impressed. To think that she was hopeless with fashion years ago.

She approached me, and I braced myself for a slap or a long tirade or well…something, but she pulled me into an embrace instead.

“What perfume are you using so I could steal it?” I asked, mostly joking.

She let go with a huge smile on her face. “You must be fine if you’re able to joke around like that.”

“Mostly, yeah. I was kind of scared you’d be upset or something.”

“I was worried, not upset. Especially after your dinner at Daisuke’s house.” Riku turned towards Hiwatari’s resting figure on the sofa, and she looked at him in confusion “Why is Hiwatari still here?” I shrugged. “You should wake him up since I’m back. And make sure you drop by my room when you come up.”

“So that you can scold me and probe into the depressing recesses of my mind?”

“No!” she responded, upset that I even suggested it. “I just wanted to talk about anything: the perfume, your life…you know, to catch up with my sister since we’ve been so busy. And if you’re comfortable with me poking my nose where it doesn’t belong, that too.”

“Fat chance of that happening,” I told her. “But I’ll take you up on talking about everything else. Maybe with a couple of beers?”

She laughed, shaking her head at me before walking up the stairs with a womanly grace she probably also picked up during my absence. I went to Hiwatari, gingerly shaking him awake while whispering his name until he moved. He slightly rolled over but was clearly still asleep.

“Risa, please forgive me.”

I blinked, wondering if the external stimulus of me calling his name triggered it before deciding to play along just for the hell of it. “I’ll forgive you if you wake up.”

And he did, as if those words worked. I backed away, startled at the impeccable timing. Luckily, he didn’t notice having just woken up, and he slowly sat up and put his glasses back on.

“Is Riku back?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

Standing up, he headed to the entrance and said his farewell before disappearing into the crowds of the night. Closing the door behind me, I headed to the kitchen, grabbing two beers and some snacks before heading up to Riku’s room to forget about the day’s events by chatting the night away.