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221castiel · 3 years

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If You Love Me, Don’t Let Go

Read it on AO3 Here!

She was two years old when her "dad" Dean Winchester had been sentenced to twenty five years in prison.

Now, fifteen years later, he's being released early and Claire's only sure of one thing; she doesn't want him back.

Everything seemed to fall back into place the moment he’d stepped through the front door. His chair in the morning was used as if it had never been empty, his coats hung on the hangers alongside their own and his car soon found its place in their driveway as if it had always parked there. It was like he’d never left, or at least that’s how Claire should have felt, but sitting at the kitchen table watching as Dean made breakfast felt wrong. Not comforting and definitely not familiar.

Everything about the situation was wrong, stiff, awkward, forced. Yet no one else seemed to notice or maybe they just didn’t care, as Cas leant against the kitchen counter watching his boyfriend cook and Jack sat at the other end of the kitchen table flipping through a comic book like the dork he was.

Dean himself stood at their stove saying something to Cas as he made them pancakes. He wore a pair of grey sweat pants and nothing else, letting Claire stare at the burn that covers the majority of his upper back. The burnt skin continued along his right shoulder, and down his right arm just stopping above his elbow. It was an older burn, the skin wrinkled and brighter than the rest of his pale skin, keeping Claire’s attention no matter how many times she tried to look away.

She could ask about it.

Was it part of the reason he’d gone to jail? Did he get it at jail? Were there more? All bitchy questions, but it wasn’t like Claire was above being an occasional bitch.

She opened her mouth, though before she could get the words out Dean was turning her way and her gaze quickly dropped to the plate in front of her. The sounds of footsteps came then from the corner of her eye Claire watched as Dean set a tray of pancakes onto the table.

“Still like blueberry pancakes?” Dean asked as he took the seat on her right, and her dad took the one to her left. Which was incredibly wrong, Cas had always sat on her right, but it wasn’t like Dean cared about what they normally did.

She looked up, meeting his gaze. Dean had a smile across his face, one that wasn’t completely easy, more cautious as if he was trying to bargain for her trust.

“No,” Claire replied, hoping he could hear the annoyance in her tone. “Not since I was five.”

“Well I do!” Jack cut in. Dean’s features dropped for a second, in maybe even defeat before he was once again smiling and had turned his head to talk to jack.

Leave it to her brother to try to play peacekeeper, even though just last week they’d both agreed they weren’t happy about Dean returning.

Fucking traiter.

She gave her brother a quick glare before pushing her chair back with a more than satisfying screech, and walked across the kitchen to grab cereal. The conversations continued on behind her as she grabbed a bowl and filled it with milk and cereal, a blur of words that she didn’t really care about or want to hear.

It was too early for conversations, especially with a stranger that she was supposed to just pretend was part of her family. She preferred when it was just her and Jack in the morning, Cas working one of the hospitals morning shifts or still asleep after a late shift. When it was quiet, and more important when it was without Dean.

She grabbed a spoon and shoved a mouth full of cheerios into her mouth before she went back to her spot at the table.

“Claire,” Cas said as she sat down. She hummed in response. “Dean has offered to give you a ride to school today.”

She glanced to Dean before looking back to her dad. “I’m fine taking the bus,” Claire said, “I’m sure he’s busy.”

“He offered.”

“I like the bus.” She liked walking the forty minutes if it meant not sitting in a car with Dean.

“I can give you a ride,” Dean insisted. Clenching her teeth Claire glared at the other man, “it isn’t that big of a deal, I’ve gotta stop at the courthouse anyway,” he continued.

“Schools in the other direction,” Claire argued through clenched teeth. Dean’s gaze darted to Cas as if looking for some kind of helping and Claire couldn't help but be proud of herself. Causing Dean to be speechless, to lose his easy smile for not once but the second time that morning.

“I have a math test today!” Jack suddenly declared, causing everyone to look over. Claire rolled her eyes before looking back to her bowl of cereal and poking at the cheerios floating in the milk.

“Shit” Dean hummed through a mouthful of food, because apparently eating with your mouth closed was too hard of a concept “that sucks.”

“I like math.”

Dean raised an eyebrow looking to Cas, “what the hell did you do to him.”

Claire’s grip around her spoon tightened. Other than actually raise him, and work every hour the hospital offered him to pay the bills, and make sure they were both happy and nopt fukcing leave. The list of things her dad did was endless.

“Math’s interesting,” Jack insisted. “As long as you do it right the numbers just work!”

“And what about you?” Dean asked, Claire raising her eyebrow as he looked towards her, “got any weird interests?”

Claire pressed her lips together. How long would it take for him to realize that she didn’t want to talk, or that she didn’t even like him. A week? A month? She didn’t think she could handle another hour of his constant talking.

“We should get ready,” Claire said, looking back to Jack, “or we’ll miss the bus.”

Without waiting for an answer Claire stood grabbing her bowl and carrying it to the sink, the sound of Jack’s chair filling the silent kitchen. She then walked quickly to the kitchen door only stopping at the sound of Cas’ voice.

“Claire, are you sure you wouldn’t like a ride?”

Chewing at her lip Claire looked back meeting her dad's gaze. His expression sat emotionless, though Claire could hear in his tone how much he wanted her to take it. He wanted her to pretend as if the first fifteen years of her life didn’t happen, as if they were a family, as if Dean hadn’t left them.

Maybe Cas could forgive him, but she couldn’t.

“Yah,” Claire replied, biting her lip harder as Cas’s expression dropped just for a second. “Thanks though.”

She turned away not waiting for a response and instead walked into the hallway Jack on her heels. “I wanted a ride,” he mumbled as they turned up the staircases, and Claire rolled her eyes. Of course he wanted a ride, he also wanted them all to be happy and be a family and sing songs or some kind of buillshit like that.

“Stop whining,” Claire mumbled, “the bus won’t kill you.”

Dean must be deaf, or stupid, because despite every argument she’d made over breakfast he’s waiting for her at the end of the school today. The impala unmistakable in the row of other parents' cars with Dean sat in the drivers seat waving her over.

Maybe she could get hit on her way.

She isn’t so lucky and manages to walk to the passenger door without any fatal injuries. She pulled it open with as much force as she could muster before slamming it shut with a satisfying noise, hopefully causing some kind of damage. A small dent or even a scratch, anything to mess up the untouched paint.

“Coffee,” Dean offered as Claire turned to grab her seatbelt.

She glanced at the to go cup in his hand then to his face, that easy, incredibly punch smile still across his lips. Was giving up so hard, could he not just be thankful that Jack liked him (not like that was hard).

Pressing her lips together she looked down to the seatbelt and buckled it into place. “I don’t like coffee.”

Tuesday was the same. The impala was parked in the row of parents, as if he was their parent, and when Claire sat down into the passenger seat Dean offered her another to go cup. Hot chocolate, he said, and with the same clipped tone Claire mumbled an ‘I don’t like hot chocolate.’

Wednesday he offered tea, and on Thursday Claire knew he must have talked to Cas. When she took her spot in the passenger seat she immediately recognized the blue to go cup from her favourite coffee shop -a coffee shop twenty minutes past the school-

“Caffe Mocha with almond milk”, Dean said as he offered her the drink.

Claire clenched her jaw, twisting her body to look out the passenger window. There was nothing to look at there, only the school's parking lot but anything was better than Dean. “I’m fine.”

On Friday when Claire stepped out of the high school the impala was nowhere in sight.

No matter what her feelings were towards Dean it was impossible to ignore just how much Cas loved him. Long lasting looks that left Claire rolling her eyes, quick kisses, always touching in some way or another. He smiled constantly, and it was hard to even imagine that this Cas was the same dad she’d grown up with. Always optimistic, always loving but tired from work and raising kids. Worn down from life.

Why hadn’t Dean seen that Castiel?

Why couldn’t Dean have seen all the pain he’d caused?

Claire’s grip around her pencil tightened, jaw tense as she grinded her teeth together. It was all she seemed to do the past week, clench her jaw push down the bubbling frustration, hope that Dean would just fucking understand that he wasn’t fucking wanted.

She forced a breath through her nose glaring down to her math homework before she looked out their living room window. The neighborhood was quiet for a Saturday morning, not a person in sight other than Dean and Cas, who were out cleaning the impala. Both drenched head to toe, covered in bubbles, but smiling, laughing as in between spraying the car they’d spray one another.

Happy. Castiel was so incredibly happy, and it only made everything more frustrating.

After glaring at the two men Claire looked back to her homework, scratching her pencil across the page in dark lines that only partially satisfied her frustrations. It was better than nothing.

She worked slowly down the page, keeping her head down as she solved each equation until the sound of the front door opening broke the silence and she looked up.

“Having fun?” Claire asked as Cas, still dripping wet, stepped into the living room.

Cas smiled, “I am.”

Well that made one of them.

Claire looked back down to her homework, clenching her jaw as her gaze wandered across the page. None of it made sense, of course none of it made sense it was math, but it was still better than looking at her dad. At her genuinely happy dad, who was happy because of Dean.

The sound of Cas’s footsteps came, then paused. “Somethings wrong?” He said.

“No,” Claire mumbled.

“Did something happen at school?”

“No,” she insisted, “I’m fine.”

She shoved her pencils back into their case, then closed her binder before pushing the desk chair back in a loud screech that definitely scratched the wood floors. She’d apologize for that later, for now she needed to be away. Away from Cas, and away from fucking Dean. Away from the pretend.

They weren’t a family.

Families didn’t fucking leave each other.

“Claire,” Cas whispered as she walked past him, stopping her in her tracks. “You’re able to talk to me.”

“But I’m not,” she snapped, turning towards him. “You chose him, after everything that fucking happened, after everything that he fucking did, you still chose him,” the bubble of emotion burst through her chest as her words became more frantic, fists clenched at her sides. “Why aren’t you angry at him?”

Cas tilted his head, his gaze holding Claire’s, filled with so much concern it made her sick. “You want me to be angry at Dean?”

“You should be!” Claire cried. Was it that crazy of a concept? “He left you with two kids, he left you and you're just letting him back into our life!”

“Claire,” Cas said so gently it made Claire want to scream. He stepped closer and she stepped back, keeping the same space between them despite the pained look that crossed her dad's face. “Dean- he didn’t want to leave, I understand-“

“No you don’t understand shit,” Claire spat, “he knew he had a family, he knew that,” her voice shook, and she inhaled sharply, “and he still- you just let him come back, after everything.”

“It wasn’t his choice.”

“Yes it was!” Claire screamed, “you don’t just get arrested, you did shitty things and be a shitty person, and-“ She clenched her jaw, holding her dad’s gaze. “Why are you choosing his side?”

“There are no sides,” Cas replied slowly, “and Dean, he isn’t a bad person”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Claire mumbled.

Cas pressed his lips together, eyebrows furrowing as Claire stared back. They’re was more she wanted to say, a mix of insults and swears that she’d been holding back over the week yet they stayed stuck on her lips. Her voice was suddenly gone as Cas stared at her, not carrying to hide the hurt that was clear across his face, and yah Claire knew it was her who caused it. Her words. Her actions. Her feelings, but it was Dean who’d caused all that.

Why couldn’t her dad see that?

“I’m going to my room,” Claire finally mumbled.

She turned away, no longer able to hold her dad’s gaze and instead walked out of the living room, ignoring Cas as he called for her to wait. Her footsteps were heavy as she stomped up the staircase, and she made sure to slam her door before she fell across her bed and squeezed her eyes shut.

A knock came though she didn’t move instead choking down a breath as another soon followed.

“Claire?” Cas asked softly, voice muffled through the door. “Could we please talk?”

Claire buried her face into her pillow, forcing another breath. No, they couldn’t, not now, after all the anger had faded leaving a throbbing pain in her chest.

She knew how the conversation would go, exactly the same as every other time. Cas would swear Dean was a good person, Claire would try not roll her eyes and agree to make her dad happy, then they’d pretend they were a happy family until she couldn’t handle it again.

She couldn’t do it.

Not after years of being alone.

At the sound of Cas’s disappearing footsteps Claire opened her eyes staring quietly at the photo on her bedside table. It was of the four of them Cas holding Jack who was only a few months old while she herself at only two was sat on Dean's shoulders with a wide smile across her face.

She’d always hated that photo, yet had never had the heart to replace it.

Now she wished she had.

She isn’t sure whether Cas told Dean or not about their fight, and she wasn’t sure which she prefered, but when she finally leaves her room that night for dinner, nothing seems to change. Dean still attempts to coax conversation out of her while Jack plays moderatore, making sure nothing becomes too tense. Even at the end of the night when it’s only her and her dad left doing the dishes Cas doesn't mention anything.

Sunday is the same, and when Monday comes they fall back into the same annoying routine of Dean picking them up, trying to win Claire over with drinks and baking. He really seemed to think she was that easy, that she’d let things slide like the rest of her family.

By Thursday Claire had enough of the awkward car rides, and at the end of the day found Jack outside of his locker and dragged him out the back entrance, rather than the front.

“Claire!” Jack cried as she dragged him across the teachers parking lot by his wrist. His footsteps were uneven trying to keep up with her long strides and his backpack dangled from her one shoulder yet Claire didn’t stop. She needed to put as much distance as she could between her and that stupid impala, she couldn’t spend another second listening to blaring music or he rattling of the air conditioning.

“Claire!” Jack insisted. “Please! Stop!” He gave a harsh tug pulling his wrist from Claire’s grip and causing her to stop and turn around meeting her brother’s glare. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Claire snapped, clenching her jaw. “I- just- I thought we could see grandpa.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, and yah Claire knew it wasn’t the best lie but Jack was gullible and like hell she’d tell him the truth. He'd just be pissed that she was tearing their family apart, or some dramatic statement like that.

“You want to go see grandpa?” Jack repeated and Claire nodded. “Dean could drive us.”

“Why? Your legs don’t work?”

“They work!”

“Then you can walk”

Jack gave her a glare but followed her as they walked across the parking lot and onto the sidewalk. They walked shoulder to shoulder, a silence hanging around them as they made their way down the familiar neighborhood, past the houses Claire had long ago memorized and to Chuck’s.

“Claire?” Jack asked, as they turned off the street and into an alley. “Is everything okay?”

At the softness in his voice Claire glanced to her brother, meeting his gaze for a second before she’d looked forward again. “I’m fine,” she replied, clenching her jaw.

“Are you sure?”

Could Jack not take a hint? She didn’t want to talk about it. “Yes.”

“You don’t seem okay.”

He really couldn’t take a hint.

Claire forced a breath through her nose, glaring at the parked car ahead of them, as if it would solve her problems. It was either that or Jack. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” Jack replied, “you’ve just been kind of…”

“A bitch?”

“I was going to say a jerk,” Jack whispered, “but yah.”

She scrunched her nose looking down to her sneakers before looking back to the car ahead of them. “I don’t like Dean,” she finally said, the words sounding even harsher than they had in her head.

Jack frowned, looking to her, though she kept looking forward. “Why not?”

Claire shrugged. “He left us, he hurt dad, and I just-“ she took a slow breath. The words weren’t sassy to say, there were too many thoughts, too many reasons, and too many of them she wasn’t willing to say out loud.

He left Jack.

He left Cas

He left her.

And she was terrified he’d do it again.

“I don’t think he should just get to walk back into our lives as if nothing happened,” Claire finally said.

“I think you should give him a chance,” Jack replied softly, a comment Claire decided to ignore and instead look back to her feet, letting the silence once again fall between them. It thankfully stayed that way for the rest of the walk, until they reached Chuck’s house and made their way up the back porch.

They were greeted with a wide smile and a tight hug each that Claire may have held onto a bit longer than normal, before Chuck offered tea and they both accepted. They then made they’re way into the living where Jack took a seat on the one couch while Claire remained standing instead studying the photos that lined the fireplace.

Most were of their family, her aunts and uncles with her cousins though it’s the center one that she stared at. One at her aunt Anna’s wedding maybe twenty or so years ago. It was of all her aunt’s uncles at the beach, arms slung over one another’s shoulders with Anna and her husband standing in the center. At one end Dean and Cas stood together, younger but definitely them, Cas laughing at something someone had said, well Dean grinned at Cas.

Even in photos it was impossible to ignore how much he loved her dad.

“And how are my favourite grandkids?” Chuck hummed his footsteps filling the silent room followed but the sound of cups being placed onto the table. The sound of her grandfather sitting down came though Claire didn’t turn instead continuing to study the photo.

“I’m good,” Jack said as the sound of the teapot being poured came, “soccer starts next week, and I’m doing this really cool project in socials class where we get to plan a city.”

“And what about you Claire?”

She shrugged, “I’m fine.”

When no one continued speaking she turned around, just getting a glimpse of the questioning look her grandpa gave Jack. “Claire is uh-“ Jack began causing Claire to glare at him. God help her brother if he decided to keep speaking, “her and Dean aren’t getting along.” She was going to kill him.

Chuck stopped pouring the tea, his gaze immediately looking up. “Dean’s been released,” he said in a clipped tone, placing the teapot back down before he picked up his own cup. “I forgot that was happening.”

Claire pressed her lips together, her gaze darting over her grandfather's features which sat in an unreadable expression, though definitely not a pleased one. “You don’t like him?” She finally decided.

“I-“ Chuck looked down to his cup, seeming unable to decide whether he should tell the truth or not. God Claire hoped he would. “I’ve never been fond of him,” Chuck finally said.

“Why?”

“Growing up he had… problems, getting into fights, skipping school, stealing, he was always looking for attention,” Chuck said. He brought the cup to his lips, taking a small sip before continuing. “I didn’t want Castiel around that, he was a nice kid and too trusting for his own good, but your father is incredibly stubborn and wouldn’t listen to me. I don’t know how many times I’d found Dean climbing through his bedroom window.”

Claire pressed her lips together, waiting for Chuck to say more as he leant forward and grabbed the spoon from the sugar bowl. Each movement was far too slow, getting a small spoonful of sugar, pouring it into his cup, stirring it in, testing the drink, then adding more.

“I’d assumed,” Chuck finally continued leaning back into the couch, “after the most recent arrest Castiel would come to his senses but-“ he shrugged, “here we are.”

“Most recent arrest?” Claire asked.

Chuck hummed, “there are a handful of times when he was a teenager, and I believe three or four as an adult.”

Electricity seemed to buzz under her skin, the information blurring together. It was more than she’d ever heard about Dean from anyone. She’d learned from a young age not to talk to her father about him, it only ever made Cas sad, and even when he was willing to talk about a Dean it was rarely ever much more than how much Dean loved them. It was certainly never about his arrest, or apprenalty multiple arrests.

It was addicting. She wanted to know more, here everything her father had refused to tell her. Everything that confirmed her suspicions. Dean shouldn’t be released, he shouldn’t be in their house, and he definitely shouldn’t be pretending to be a part of their family.

Claire took a seat next to Jack, continuing to stare at her grandfather who sat on the couch across from them. “Do you know why he got arrested?”

“Claire,” Jack whispered, voice uncertain, though she only ignored him.

“Your father never told me the full story,” Chuck replied, “I believe a fight may have been part of it, though anything is possible.”

Claire pressed her lips together. She had more questions, endless questions though they’d all become a blur, unsure which ones were more important than others, or which ones Chuck would refuse to answer.

Her lips parted and Jack shifted, “please stop,” he whispered.

“What did dad say about it?”

Chuck lowered his cup though before he could reply Jack stood and without a word walked out of the room.

The walk home is quiet, Jack always a few steps ahead refusing to look at her, and maybe she should care but she didn’t. Hell she was thankful for the space for the silence that allowed her to replay everything Chuck had told her. She’d been right, or at least the unease she’d felt around Dean was right.

There was a reason she couldn’t trust him.

So why couldn’t her dad see that?

When they get home still without a word Jack goes to his room, leaving Claire to quietly walk through the house and into the kitchen. She opened the kitchen cupboard looking for something to eat until the sound of footsteps came causing her to to turn her head as Dean walked into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he greeted offering a smile that she didn’t return.

“Hey,” Claire replied. She didn’t move as Dean opened the fridge and took out a beer. “Do you know where dad is?”

“Hospital called,” he replied, “he’ll be working till seven.” Claire grit her teeth as Dean took a seat at the kitchen, propping his feet onto the other chair. Every action had been so casual, as if he’d been living in the house for years rather than two weeks.

“What about you?” Dean asked, twisting the cap off his bottle, Claire only raised an eyebrow. “Where were you and the kid at?”

“Our Grandpas,” she replied in a clipped tone.

Dean frowned, causing Claire to clench her fists. “Chucks?” He asked as if it was the craziest thing in the world.

“Yah,” Claire replied, “is there a problem with that?”

“No, just never pictured him as a number one grandpa,” Dean shrugged, “I always saw him as more of a grandpa joe type.”

Claire clenched her jaw, teeth grinding together as she looked back to the open cupboard. “Well at least he helped raise me,” she muttered.

“What.”

She turned around meeting Dean’s gaze, every inch of her skin alive with energy, emotion bubbling through her chest as she clenched her fists tighter. “I said,” she began voice harsh, and slow, “atleast he helped fucking raise me.”

Dean’s eyes widened and Claire didn’t look away, holding his gaze with her jaw clenched and chin tilted up. She hoped it hurt. She wanted it to hurt so bad.

Claire sucked in a harsh breath, and before Dean could reply she walked out of the kitchen with long strides. Her eyes burned as she wiped at them, the pain once again settling in her chest as she rushed up the staircase and into her room.

Much to her relief, Dean never followed

She doesn’t come out of her room for dinner, or when her dad comes home, or when her phone dies and the charger’s still in Jack’s room from when he’d stolen it the day before. She can’t see Dean, especially not with Cas around, and so it isn’t until eleven when she’s sure everyone will be at least in their rooms that she slides out of her own quietly walking the hallway she’s stopped by the sound of Dean and Cas’s voice.

“I just- there’s nothing I can do,” Dean said, his voice getting louder the closer Claire got to their bedroom. The door was just cracked open letting a sliver of light fall through and for Claire to see them, Dean sat on the edge of their bed while Cas stood between his legs still dressed in his nursing scrubs. “She doesn’t want me around.”

Cas tilted his head.. “Why would you think that?”

“Have you been paying attention?” For once Claire had to agree with him.

Cas sighed, “Claire is stubborn.” He raised a hand lacing his fingers through Dean’s, “But she will come around, she just needs time.”

“I don’t think time’s going to do shit.”

“Claire is hurt,” Cas replied, “things weren’t always always easy. we didn’t always have the money, and I didn’t always have the time to be there for them.”

Dean raised the hand he had laced with Cas’s and pressed a kiss to the top of Cas’s hand. “I’m so sorry angel,” Dean whispered the words filled with so much pain Claire sucked in a breath. “For everything.”

“Dean, it was never your fault, a systems failure isn’t your fault.”

Silence fell and suddenly her heart beat was too loud, her breathing was too loud, everything was too loud as she watched Dean and her Dad stare at one another. Not a word spoken yet Claire can’t help but feel as if she’s missed a million different conversations, words said that only they would understand.

Dean raised a hand resting it against the side of Cas’ face as he continued to stare at the other. Slowly Cas leant down pressing a kiss to Dean’s lips.

“I didn’t know Chuck was such a good grandpa,” Dean teased as they pulled away, “thought he’d be more of the grandpa joe type.”

Claire rolled her eyes, it wasn’t funny the first time, what would make it funny the second?

Cas tilted his head either not thinking it’s funny or maybe just not getting it. Claire was going with the first option, cause it wasn’t funny. “He looked after them often when they were children and I had worked, though I am amazed at how well he did with them,” Cas replied, “he’d even let them have candy.”

“Shit really?”

A smile tugged at Cas’s lips, “I believe it’s unfair, he believes it was good parenting.”

“It’s unfair,” Dean replied. He looked down to their joined hands, a smile still across his voice though his tone came out more distant. “What about my dad?”

Cas pressed his lips together, and Claire leant closer to the door. The tension that had settled in the room was clear, whatever playful atmosphere that he'd been there suddenly gone, replaced with something more serious, more personal.

She should leave. Get a phone charger like she’d meant to or just go back to her room. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“John has called twice,” Cas finally replied, voice steady, maybe even careful, “once when they were children, and a second time a year or two ago. He’d wanted to meet them but I said no.”

“Good,” Dean mumbled, “don’t let that son of a bitch near them.”

“Have you talked to him?”

Dean shook his head, and Claire leant in a little closer, holding her breath as she watched, trying to hear whatever would come next. Maybe some kind of explanation, something that would answer one of the million questions she had, or at least feed her growing curiosity, though it seemed neither of them wanted to continue the conversation as Cas stepped away from Dean and out of Claire’s view.

“You did a good job,” Dean said as the sound of a drawer being opened came. “Jack- the kids amazing, and Claire,” he paused, and Claire could almost hear every possibility racing through his mind. Annoying. Rude. How would he say it nicely in front of her dad? “She’s beautiful.”

The statement comes like a sucker punch.

“I know,” Cas replied, walking back to his spot in front of Dean, now in his pajamas. An old AC/DC shirt and his bee pajamas pants that Claire had bought him as a joke. “She reminds me of you.”

She scrunched her nose, that had to be a joke, a cruel joke.

“She’s much better than I ever was,” Dean replied, and yah Claire isn’t perfect she knew that but for a second time that night Dean was right. “Have you seen the painting she’s working on,” Dean continued, “She has Leonardo looking like some amateur, and her grades! She’s talented as hell and some kind of genius- her music tastes shit but we’ll work on that.”

Claire bit at her lip, her stomach uneasy from all the praise, as Cas pulled Dean into a hug. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to be there,” Cas whispered softly.

Dean’s expression was full of pain, his eyes staring up to the ceiling, looking exhausted if not completely dragged, despite that his voice came out steady. “Remember how much she’d draw?” Dean whispered, “I swear the moment she could grab a pen she never stopped. They were so shitty.”

“You hung everyone on the fridge.”

“And she’d sign them bear.”

“That's because you made her believe her name was bear.” Cas replied.

A small smile tugged at Dean’s lips, though it was still nothing like the smiles Claire normally saw across his face. “Claire Bear was a cute name.” He whispered

“It was alright.”

Dean rubbed a hand at his eyes as he continued to look to the ceiling. “I fucked up,” He whispered and Claire stepped back. She couldn’t watch anymore, not with the weight of emotion that crushed her chest.

Her feet moved forward, as she forced herself to take a breath. The conversation repeated in her head as she walked down the staircase, once then twice, making her more sick each time. The pain in Dean’s voice, the pain across his face, his kind words, the adoration.

Why couldn’t he just hate her.

It’d be so much easier if he’d just hate her

Claire hated feelings. She always had and in the days after Dean and Cas’s conversation she only hated them more.

Being angry at Dean had been simple, she knew her feelings, she knew why she had those feelings. They’d always burned from the inside out, an energy that tore through her very veins, but an understandable energy. Now there was something else, a small pain in her chest that left her awake at night. That left her gasping for breath and wishing she’d simply die.

Maybe it was fear.

A small part of her wanting to let Dean in but that was far too aware of the pain that had caused the first time.

Thh feelings, the blur of anger and fear, all laced with confusion. She hated it, and she hated Dean for causing it.

“I can’t believe you still have those,” Dean grumbled as they walked along the forest path, Claire’s gaze darting to her fathers swim shorts. They were a bright obnoxiously blue colour, covered in yellow rubber ducks, a pair he’d owned, and she’d hated for as long as she could remember.

“I like them,” Cas replied and Claire was pretty sure the rubber ducks would like to be put out of their misery.

“Doesn’t stop them from being ugly as hell,” Dean called over his shoulder.

As they stepped out of the forest the scenery opened up onto a cliff side, the sound of crashing water filling the silence.

It’d been just over a month since Dean had been released and between school, Cas’s work, and Dean dealing with the court house or whatever he did, other than having meals together they hadn’t done anything as a family. Claire hadn’t minded, hell she preferred it that way, though apparently no one else agreed.

Claire laid her towel next to Jack’s, a few feet away from the cliff's edge and sat down, watching as her brother walked to the edge and peered down to the water below. “Jump!” Claire called.

“Is it safe to?” He asked, looking back to Dean and Cas who were laying out their own towels next to Claire’s.

“Just do it!” Claire replied.

“It’s safe,” Dean reassured. Way to ruin the fun

Jack looked back down to the water, then to them, chewing at his bottom lip. “it’s really high,” he said and Claire couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

Bitch.

“There’s a ledge closer to the water,” Cas said, Ashe placed down the cooler they’d brought. “I’ll show you.”

Cas walked over to Jack amd lead him down the side of the cliff, leaving her and Dean alone.

Claire glanced to her right, Dean’s own gaze forward watching the cliffs. He’d taken his shirt off allowing her a glimpse of the burn that covered his right back, as well as another burn on his left shoulder. It was a perfect circle, barely bigger than a quarter, matching the one Claire had seen on the back of his left hand. It even had the same purple tone to it, faded but definitely there.

As gross as she found the scars and burns it was hard not to stare. To study each one anytime Dean wasn’t looking. She’d wanted to ask and maybe a few weeks ago she would have but now, she couldn’t get the words to come out.

From just under the hem of his swim shorts she could see a few more scars. Thin white strips, some no bigger than an inch while others traveled across his whole thigh. Not one overlapped, all parallel to one another and perfectly placed.

Dean turned and Claire immediately looked away, biting at her lip as the guilt tugged at her stomach. “How was Jack's Soccer game?” She asked, keeping her gaze forward despite Dean’ eyes still on her.

He definitely knew she was looking, he had to.

“Awesome,” Dean replied, “yah, Jack he’s- he’s uh.”

“Awful,” Claire offered. She’d been to a handful of his games and she was sure that in every single one Jack had been hit in the face with the ball at least once. He was hands down the worst player on their team, if not the league and yet he absolutely adored it. She’d never understand her brother.

“He’s crap,” Dean agreed. “I thought he’d been messin’ around but he’s just shitty.”

“Yah, I think he might have two left feet.”

“Or’s blind,” Dean said, causing Claire to bite at her lip, stopping the smile that tried to form. “Kinda lucky I’m not coachin’, woulda sucked to bench him.”

Claire raised her eyebrow, “you were going to coach”

“Yah,” Dean replied, “the kid asked me to but you can’t have a criminal record so…” Dean shrugged. His tone was casual as if that really didn’t bother him, though the way his jaw was set and his chin was tilted up, gave him away.

It bothered him. A lot.

“And you were going to bench him?” Claire asked.

“Hey,” Dean said, a smile once again across his lips, “I only coach winners.”

Claire bit her lip harder, stopping herself from laughing. She could picture it easily, Dean in the matching tracksuits that all the coaches wore, overall excited and more passionate than any of the players. He’d be Annoying as hell and Jack would’ve loved it.

She brought her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, as Cas climbed back onto the cliff's edge, completely dry.

“You didn’t jump in?” Dean yelled, causing Cas to look at them.

Cas tilted his head. “It’s very cold,” he replied.

“What a bitch,” Dean whispered, causing Claire to raise an eyebrow. He stood and walked over to Cas, saying something that Claire couldn’t make out before he wrapped his arms around the other’s waist. Slowly Dean leant down pressing his lips to Cas’s in a slow, incredibly gross kiss.

Claire scrunched her nose. Could they have not done that anywhere else?

Slowly they pulled away, noses still almost brushing as Dean said something else and then picked Cas up by his waist. “Dean!” Cas screamed struggling to get out the other’s grip as Dean carried him towards the cliff's edge.

“Any last words, angel?” Dean asked, a grin across his face.

Cas glared back. “I want a divorced.”

“We gotta get married first,” Dean replied. He took a step closer to the edge and Claire chewed at her lip, stopping the smile that came as Cas struggled in Dean’s arms. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Three,” Dean began counting down slowly, “two.”

“Dean, please I-“

“One!”

And with that Dean jumped off the edge, taking Cas with him.

Claire jumped to her feet, and ran to the edge. The water was far below, the small waves crashing against the cliff side as Dean tried to keep his head above the water while Cas attempted to shove him back under.

As much as Claire hated it, she couldn’t help but smile.

They spent the rest of the day at the cliffs, the sun warming her skin as she jumped in the water or sat at the edge laughing as Cas pushed Dean back in. It’s almost too easy, too soft, the feelings, the thoughts, the actions, and yet she couldn’t, the happiness was so refreshing she couldn't help but welcome it.

She’s even disappointed when Cas gets a call from the hospital asking him to come in for a night shift cutting their day short. Though that doesn’t stop her from humming to Dean’s music as everyone else sang along, or agreeing to ice cream when Dean offered, or for once letting herself enjoy the man’s company.

When they got home Claire made her way to her room. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the photo on her bedside table. They looked happy, like any other family out at the park. Dean holding her feet to keep her safe on his shoulder, Jack just a bundle of yellow blankets, his small hands reaching up to Cas.

Claire picked up the wooden frame, grip tight around it as she held the photo in her lap.

They’d taken a photo on the cliff's edge, the four of them smiling as if they’d done it a hundred times before and they could have.

They could have taken family photos together, had family dinners and breakfasts. Gone on vacations and to the movies, been a family, if Dean hadn’t left.

Claire clenched her jaw, the tip of her nose burning.

She could trust Dean, that’s what her dad would say, that’s what he’d always said and she wanted to. She wanted to be happy, she wanted to be a family, she wanted it more than anything else. She’d give anything for it, but with the pain settling in her chest and the tears blurring her vision, it was too late.

They weren’t a family.

And they never would be.

A knocking at her door came and Claire wiped the back of her hand across her eyes just as the door opened. “Hey,” Dean said. “Me and the kid were thinking of goin’ to the movies, would you wanna come?”

Claire gripped the frame tighter, biting her lip. She couldn’t look up, not with the way her nose burned or her hands shook. Not with Dean’s eyes on her, caring and still loving her after everything. Why did he still love her?

Couldn’t he give up?

She sucked in a breath and Dean’s footsteps followed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Claire whispered.

“Well that’s a shit lie.”

She looked up to Dean who stood in front of her, a worried expression across his face, causing a dull pain across her chest. Claire clenched her jaw as if that would somehow stop it, or at least numb it out with something else. Anger.

Anger she could handle, it was familiar, understandable. She knew how to live through it, what to expect from it, the pain though, that was unbearable.

“I said,” Claire replied through clenched teeth, “I’m fine.”

Dean glanced at the photo in her hand, before looking back to her, his expression so gentle she wanted to cry. “Look if you don't want to talk I'm not going to make you,” Dean began, the wood digging into the palms of Claire’s hands as she gripped the frame tighter. She wanted to snap it, hear the crack as the wood broke in half. The tear as the picture was ripped into two. Anything to release the bubbling emotion. “But I'm here if you change your mind.”

“I was fine.” Claire replied in a clipped tone. Dean raised an eyebrow, giving Claire a moment to turn back, to stop the fight she knew she was starting though she only tilted her chin and narrowed her eyes at the other. “Everything was fucking fine,” she snapped, “everyhting, until you came back!”

Dean’s expression didn’t change, staying emotionless as he stared at her and somehow that made everything worse.

“You’d left us!” She screamed, not carrying what she said, just anything to get rid of the pain, to hurt him as much as he’d hurt her. “You left dad alone, and you left me!” Claire continued, the tears brimming her vision. “You jackass.”

Dean stepped forward, and Claire could only shake her head between her stumbled words. “You- you can’t- you left.”

“Claire-“

“Don’t.” She whispered, the word barely parting her lips.

She stared at Dean, lips barely parted.

There was so much more she wanted to say, so many more feelings she wanted to explain, yet she couldn’t find the energy to form them. Her vision still blurry as she held Dean’s gaze, though her grip around the frame had loosened and she couldnt find it in her to stop it from falling. It hit the ground with a loud crash, the glass shattering across her floor.

It wasn’t as satisfying as she thought it would be.

“You left for fifteen years,” Claire finally whispered, the words barely coming out. “And now I’m supposed to pretend as if everything’s okay and I can’t.”

“You aren’t my dad,” Claire whispered, “I didn’t want you back.”

She looked down to her floor, the shards of glass covering the wood, as the photo stayed flipped upside down only letting her see the back of the frame. Still she kept looking. She refused to look up, she didn’t think she could. “Get out.” Claire finally said.

“Can we please-“

“I said, get out.” When Dean doesn’t make a move Claire squeezed her eyes shut. “Now.” She demanded.

This time Dean listened.

It’s when Dean and Jack leave to the movies that Claire finally forced herself to stand, her legs weak under her weight as she walked out of her bedroom and into Cas’s.

The room hadn’t changed much since Dean had arrived, though it was enough to be noticeable. His leather jacket hanging on the closet’s door knob, his robe tossed over the desk chair, his books lined alongside Cas’s. The room was cleaner, unlike how Cas usually kept it, with stacks of papers or piles of clothing filling up any space they could. He’d never cared about keeping things clean, or maybe just never had the time, either way Dean seemed to care.

Claire made her way to the bookshelf, shuffling through the stack of scrap books Cas had made before she took the bottom one and sat at the edge of the bed. Slowly she flipped through the scrapbook, hands shaking as she studied each page. The paper everything that had been glued to, the decorations that covered it, pictures all paired with small descriptions of where and when they’d been taking. Most were of her between birth and one years old though there were a handful that had someone else in it, Dean or Cas, occasionally Chuck or one of her aunts and uncles.

When the last page came Claire could only stare. In the center was her with a birthday cake, on the top right her and Cas before her first birthday had started and on the bottom left was her and Dean after. Dean was sprawled across a couch fast asleep, while Claire slept on his chest, one of his arms wrapped tightly around her.

Her nose burned, vision blurry as she continued to stare at the photo. Even as the sound of the front door opening came, followed by the creaking of the stairs, she didn’t move.

Why couldn’t she have had that growing up.

Why couldn’t that have been her life.

What’d she do wrong?

“Claire?” She looked up to the bedroom doorway where Cas was stood still in his nurse scrubs, looking the way he always did after work, tired, though that expression quickly dropped into something more concerned as he stepped into the room. “What happened?”

She opened her mouth though nothing came, only a choked sob parting her lips as the tears fell and she finally broke.

Without a word Cas walked forward, gently taking the scrapbook from her hand before he sat on the bed and pulled her into a tight hug letting her sob into his shoulder. She gripped onto the material of his shirt, leaning further into his warmth, as she gasped for breaths. “I- I- I’m- I,” Claire choked through her tears, “I can’t!”

“You cannot what?” Cas asked gently.

She squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the steady breathing of her dad, his hand rubbing small circles on her back as the tears slipped down her cheeks, rolling slower than before. It would hurt him, her fight with Dean, he wanted everything okay and Claire was making it anything but that.

She was single handedly tearing whatever they were apart, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to stop.

“I can't- I can’t forgive him,” she finally whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Dean?”

She nodded, “I- he left. He didn’t care enough or I did something wrong or I don’t know-“ Claire clenched her jaw as more tears fell. There was nothing she could do to stop them, she had no energy left, no will, just the dull pain across her chest. “But he left, and he’s going to do it again,” she continued, “and I- I can’t.”

“Dean, he didn’t want to leave,” Cas replied.

“But you don’t just get arrested.”

“Bear,” Cas whispered. He slowly pulled away causing Claire to lift her head, meeting her dad's gaze. His eyes were rimmed red and he had his head tilted to the side as he looked at her with so much pain. Pain she’d caused. “Dean’s arrest- it was not his fault,” Cas began, slowly, “it was a failure of our system’s and a failure of his father’s. Dean only did what he had to and I apologize that you’re facing the consequences.”

Cas raised a hand gently wiping away the tear that rolled down her cheek. “You were his everything,” he continued, “being your dad was the best thing that had ever happened to him.”

The words crushed upon her as she sat motionless, crushed under the pain of things she couldn’t even describe.

“Babies are hard,” Cas said, “there are rules to raising them that know one tells you but expects you to know and I had a hard time with you but Dean,” he pressed his lips together and glanced across the bedroom. “He seemed to know everything. When you woke up at night he would spend hours holding and talking to you.”

He looked back to her, giving a sad smile. “He loved you more than anything,” Cas whispered.

She didn’t move, words, feelings she didn’t know how to explain on the tip of her tongue. Nothing could fix the pain, the damage and scars that had been caused, and part of her wasn’t sure that the future could be fixed either. The pain dug too deep. The doubt had dug too deep, the fear of being hurt again rested in her chest with every breath she took.

She couldn’t do it again, she couldn’t take anymore pain.

“What if he does it again,” Claire whispered, looking down to the blue blankets.

Cas doesn’t reply and Claire pressed her lips together, squeezing her eyes shut as she inhaled before she opened them again. Cas trusted Dean. He trusted Dean with everything he had, and he wanted her to trust him too. She wanted to trust him, but she couldn’t.

“We visited him when you were four,” Cas began, his voice rough. “I’d visited a few times before that, but this was your first time. It was almost a four hour drive and we were only able to stay for ten minutes because of how much you hated being in the visitor Center.” Cas said. “I didn’t blame you, it wasn’t a pleasant place.”

“You’d cried from the moment you arrived until we’d left,” Cas continued. “Me and Dean agreed it was best if only I came to visit, but that didn’t stop him from keeping in contact, he’d write at least once a week to you and it was only when you were twelve and had never written back that he stopped.”

Claire looked up, staring at her dad. Too exhausted to cry. Too in pain to say anything else. She just wanted it over, she didn’t want to have to fix anything, she just wanted it to work.

She leant forward and Cas without hesitation pulled her into a tight hug, letting her bury her face into his shoulder.

“You smell,” she mumbled, as she buried her nose into his clothing where the hospital smell clung.

“And you’re getting snot on my shirt,” Cas replied, causing a smile to tug at her lips. She closed her eyes and Cas brought his hand to her back once again rubbing small circles there.

“Claire,” He said and she squeezed her eyes tighter. Hadn’t they talked enough. “How you and Dean’s relationship continues is your choice, and I love you no matter,” but, “but I want you to know; leaving you was the last thing Dean ever wanted to do.”

A soft knocking came and Claire looked up from her homework and to her bedroom door where Dean stood. He looked unsure, glancing around her bedroom, and Claire didn’t blame him; it'd been two days since their fight and neither of them had talked since, not so much as a good morning. She hadn’t been sure if Dean even wanted to be around her after everything.

She wouldn’t have wanted to be around her.

“Hey,” Dean greated.

“Hey,” Claire replied.

His hand dropped and Claire bit at her lip, “do you mind if I- uh come in?”

Claire shook her head, and Dean walked to her bed, taking a seat on the pink blankets, looking just as unsure as he had in the doorframe. He glanced to her bedside table where the family photo now stood in a new frame Claire had bought the day before and Claire shifted in her desk chair, fiddling with her pencil.

Dean looked back to her and she held her breath.

Whatever he had to say, she knew she wasn’t ready to hear.

“I was hopin’,” Dean began, “if you weren’t busy, we could talk maybe?”

Claire pressed her lips together before giving a small nod of her. “Yah,” she whispered. “Yah, we can do that.”

Dean exhaled, and Claire brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, before chewing at her lip. She wasn’t ready. She wanted to, but she wasn’t ready.

“I’m sorry,” Dean finally said, “I should’ve talked to you about everything the moment I got home, but I just- I wanted to pretend like nothing had happened cause well-” Dean gave a half smile, and Claire gave a small one back. “I’m not good at talking about my feelings and shit, that’s more of Cas’s thing.”

At least they had that in common.

“I- '' Dean continued, shifting in his spot as he looked back to his hands. “I was sentenced under the three strike law,” Dean finally said, “which gets you locked away for a long time for doing jack shit.”

Dean rubbed a hand down his face and Claire swallowed, the ache in her chest rising into her throat. She almost wanted to tell him to stop, the pain across his face, in his voice, so raw she could feel it across every inch of her skin. His lips parted, and eyes never fully meeting hers, instead on her lips or to her right, or simply blank staring forward, as if it hurt too much to do so.

“Growing up my dad wasn’t around a lot,” Dean began, looking to the ground. “He’d leave me and my brother without enough money for the both of us, or sometimes no money at all.”

Claire’s grip around her pencil tightened, the wood digging into the palm of her hand.

“One day, I think I was twenty, my dad just didn’t come back.” Dean wiped the palms of his hands across his eyes and inhaled before he continued speaking. “I had a job but it wasn't enough, so I stole what I could. I got caught a handful of times, but I was lucky and they only recorded three of them, I eventually got my shit together but that didn't clean my record,”

Dean looked up, his gaze meeting hers. His eyes were rimmed red, though gentle as he gave her a soft smile that she forced herself to return. “You were two and Cas always had you wearing the ugliest things, I was embarrassed to be seen with you,” Dean teased in some attempt to ease the tension. “Jack was only a few months old and we’d left you guys with Chuck while we went out to some bar.”

Dean licked his lips, his gaze once again dropping to the floor. “Chuck ended up calling us early, you wouldn’t fall asleep and wanted us home, so Cas went out to the car to talk to you while I paid the bill.” Dean continued, “when I got out these douchebags were being dicks to Cas so I told them to go screw themselves and when they didn’t leave us alone I broke the one guy's nose. I think the second guy ended up with bad bruising and the third went to the hospital with a concussion and some other shit. I ended up with a cracked rib.”

He rubbed the palms of his hands against his jeans before running a hand through his hair. “For the three strike law you need some kind of violent crime, so with the assault and my thefts it was enough for me to get a twenty four years sentence.”

“Still” Dean said, his expression pained though voice somehow steady, “I was lucky, lots of people get a lot longer for a lot less.”

Claire took a shaken breath, unsure how to reply, unsure how to feel, everything around her just seemed to buzz. She licked her lips, gripping the pencil tighter as if it was the only thing keeping her seated, and it might have been.

“And what about…” she began unsure how to continue. Slowly she raised her hand pointing to her right shoulder, as her gaze darted to Dean’s.

He frowned before seeming to understand what she was asking. “My dad, Dean whispered, “we were uh- out camping, he got pissed off and when he came at me I stepped back and into the fire.” He tapped the burn on the top of his left hand, “these ones were from cigarettes and these ones,” Dean brought his hands to his thighs, hesitating for a moment. “Life was shit,” he finally whispered.

He didn’t need to say anything else.

Without a word Claire stood her legs shaking as she moved forward. Mind numb. Her mouth still dry. Her heart beating heavy in her chest. She couldn’t bring herself to speak or even begin to process everything that had been said and instead she sat next to Dean and pulled him into a tight hug.

“I love” Dean whispered, as he held her. There was a crack in his voice that had Claire squeezing her eyes shut, focusing on his warmth. On the way he held back just tight enough to know he wasn’t leaving.

“Im sorry for leaving, I’m sorry for hurting you,” Dean pressed a kiss to the top of her head before resting his forehead there, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Claire stopped at the entrance of the kitchen, the room lit by the afternoon sunlight. Dean was sat at the kitchen table, one hand around a beer and both feet propped up on another seat as he read whatever was on his laptop screen.

For a moment she stayed standing at the entrance unsure what to say. It’d been a few weeks since their fight and though things had gotten much better it was still awkward when both Cas and Jack were gone. Neither of them fully knew what to do around the other and though Claire would never admit it to anyone, especially not Dean, she was scared things would never come naturally, that the underlying tension between them would always be there.

“What’re you doing?” She finally asked, staying in her spot with her hands held behind her back.

“Writing my monthly report to my douchebag probation officer,” Dean mumbled, not looking up from the computer. “The jackass still won’t let me go to LA. He’s lucky I can’t own a gun.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “Want me to kick his ass?” Claire offered.

“No.” Dean looked up with a smile across his own lips as he mouthed ‘yes’. “Violence doesn’t get you shit,” he continued before mouthing ‘do it’.

Claire looked to the ground, her bare feet cold against the kitchen tiles as her fingers fiddled with the paper she held behind her back. The words were on the tip of her tongue yet she couldn’t bring herself to whisper them. Her mouth dry and a heat crawling up her neck.

It’d be fine.

She just had to do it.

“I,” she finally began looking back up to Dean who was already looking at her. “I- um, I made you something.”

Dean didn’t say anything and Claire took that as an invitation to step into the kitchen. Nothing was better than no, or at least she hoped so.

Slowly she brought the painting out from behind her back and offered it to Dean. He took the painting from her hand, his gaze wandering over the paper. She’d repainted a photo she’d taken when they’d gone cliff jumping, just as the forest has opened up to the cliff side, with the water peaking over the cliffs where it met the sky in the horizon.

It wasn’t her best work, by far, water colour was hard with some of the colours blurring in spots, and the sun rays had been difficult to paint, yet she hoped Dean would at least appreciate the gesture.

And maybe not laugh at her.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered and Claire chewed her lip as a smile spread across Dean’s face. “You made this?” He asked looking up as Claire nodded, “for me?” She nodded again.

Dean stared at her for a moment, before he looked back to the painting and quickly wiped a hand across his eyes. “Holy shit.”

“You like it?”

“Like it?” Dean asked, looking back to her. His eyes were glazed over and Claire chewed at her lip.“I love it, it’s awesome.”

Dean walked to their refrigerator and Claire couldn’t help but smile as Dean hung the painting with a few magnets before taking a step back to study it. “Shit,” Dean said, grinning back to her, “Michelangelo better which out.”

Claire laughed.

This was what she’d always wanted, and maybe she didn’t have it at first but like hell she was going to let it go.

She stepped forward, raising her arms for a hug and without hesitation Dean pulled her into one. His arms were tight around her waist, as she leant into his warmth, her arms around his neck and chin rested against his shoulder. “Thank you,” Dean whispered, the emotion clear in his voice.

Claire squeezed her eyes shut, her grip around the other tightening.

Things weren’t perfect but that didn’t matter, because they were going to be okay.

#Destiel #Destiel fanfic #destiel one shot #dean winchester #castiel #claire novak #parent!destiel #Jack Kline

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luminescencefics · 4 years

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you feel like home - part three

He’s smiling then, and Jackson takes that as his cue to continue snuggling Luna into his lap. Ryan’s eyes shift from her new small friend to his father leaning against his doorframe wearing slouchy grey joggers and a graphic t-shirt that shows off his decorated toned arms that she can’t seem to stop looking at.

“Is this our new thing? Meeting up in hallways?” Harry asks, and Ryan can feel the butterflies take flight in her stomach, stretching their wings along her ribcage and floating up through her body, leaving her feeling far too many things all at once.

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***

Luna’s Great Escape

It’s been two days since Ryan last saw Harry in her doorway, and she’s grateful for the rainstorm that’s been plaguing north central London ever since he left her heart racing that afternoon. The rain hasn’t stopped roaring, presumably ruining Jackson’s playtime in the park, allowing Ryan a short period of time to catch her breath.

She’s spent the past two days in a bit of a drunken stupor. After Harry uttered those words to her in the hallway before entering his own flat, Ryan ripped open the parcel and finished her work for the day, sending over her inspections and adjustments to her supervisor in a daze before the clock struck five. Afterward, she tore off her flannel pajama bottoms and shoved them into the depths of her drawer to hopefully never be seen again, traipsing into her bathroom to turn the tub on, a few bottles of Carlsberg nestled tightly under her armpit.

It’s not that Ryan was avoiding her feelings, because she truly didn’t understand them. After two beers, she came to the conclusion that the bubbling in her gut and the warmth on her cheeks, the fluttering of her heart and the pinch in her breath—was all due to the fact that she found Harry annoyingly attractive.

Ryan’s no stranger to attractive men. Her awkwardness practically disappears after a few shots of tequila have settled into her bloodstream, allowing her to hold a conversation with a handsome man without the overwhelming urge to stutter over her words or shift in her heeled boots from nervousness. Most times, in her debilitated state, she’s gotten lucky with a quick shag and a fumbling exit hidden under the darkness of the night. But now, as she sits in her bathtub nursing her fourth beer, a Kiehl’s face mask hardened over her skin, she’s not sure how much alcohol she would need to consume in order to appear seemingly normal in front of Harry.

That was last night. Now, as her hangover starts to settle in, Ryan’s decided that she needs advice. The brutally honest kind that usually fell unapologetically from the lips of her best mate Fiona.

“So let me get this straight, your new neighbor just so happens to be fit as all hell, and you’ve had a handful of conversations with him without making a complete fool of yourself, and you still haven’t shagged him? What am I missing here, Ry?” Fiona’s voice calls out from Ryan’s mobile that’s leaning against her porcelain fruit bowl, the camera angle allowing her to be able to see Fiona while attempting to cook some sort of pasta dish to cure the throbbing in her head.

“Fee, I got fucking rug burn on my knee from tripping over my own bloody feet the first time I met him!” Ryan recalls, the memory causing her head to shake aggressively, trying her hardest to expel it from her brain.

“Well, I did say complete fool,” Fiona retorts, causing Ryan to roll her eyes as she tries her hardest to follow the vodka sauce recipe she found on Pinterest. She’s eyeing the heavy cream she just added to the saucepan, wondering if the color should be pinker.

“I think it’s for the best if I just continue avoiding him for the rest of my life,” Ryan says, opening the box of ziti and throwing it into the boiling pot on the back left burner.

She can hear Fiona laugh over the hiss of the water. “Stop with the dramatics! You’re starting to sound like me.”

Ryan just ignores her friend, stirring the sauce that’s starting to smell. She instantly reaches for the parmesan cheese, adding more aimlessly to change the viscosity into something that doesn’t resemble broth.

“This could be great for you, Ry,” Fiona says through the screen once Ryan’s reappeared in front of her.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Ryan asks, a bit distracted with the way the saucepan on the hob begins to gurgle inconspicuously.

“Because he’s fit. And he literally lives right next door. This is fantastic news! You can get laid without even leaving your building! Especially during quarantine with the entire city on lockdown!” While Ryan loves her friend, she hates the way Fiona says certain words, her voice level rising with each stressed syllable. She’s speaking so loudly that Ryan thinks back to how Harry referred to hearing Mrs. Bingsley banging about in the kitchen when she used to live in this unit, and immediately Ryan lowers the volume on her mobile, grabbing it from its spot against the fruit bowl and turning into her living room to be as far away from the thin walls as possible.

“I’m not sleeping with him, Fiona. I literally just met him,” Ryan says, sitting on the arm rail of her couch, watching Luna in her periphery continue sleeping soundly against the throw pillows.

“But you want to.”

Ryan stays silent, wondering if that’s what the bubbling and fluttering and pinching of all her insides means. Wondering if all of these feelings can simply be associated to sexual attraction.

“Why don’t you knock on his door and ask for a plunger or something?” Fiona says, breaking the silence. Ryan instantly disagrees, her eyes widening in fear.

“No, that’s a terrible idea! I don’t want him to think I’ve clogged up my fucking toilet,” Ryan shrieks, knowing that move would definitely work on a girl like Fiona—confident, unrelenting, and fearless. But for a girl like Ryan, whose cheeks turn red whenever a boy like Harry even looks in her direction, she knows there’s no way she can handle that.

Fiona sighs. “You’re probably right.”

Before Ryan can respond, the blaring sound of the smoke detector going off from the kitchen interrupts her thoughts. “Shit!” she screeches, jumping up from her seated position and running into the kitchen, her mobile clutched in her fist as she approaches the stovetop. The saucepan with the once pinkish-red sauce has now turned black, the edges burnt to a crisp, smoke rising from the top because Ryan forgot to lower the heat to a simmer. The pot with the pasta has boiled over, water falling onto the burner with a loud fizzle. “Fuck!”

“Christ, Ryan! Only you can burn fucking pasta!” Fiona shouts through her mobile, and Ryan immediately discards the device on the countertop, flicking the burners off. She reaches for the dishtowel near the sink, waving it under the smoke detector to make the incessant noise cease.

“It won’t fucking stop!” Ryan bellows, switching the towel to her left arm. If Harry didn’t hear her before, he definitely heard her now, and the thought is enough to make her wave her arms frantically, praying for the smoke detector to shut off.

“Open the front door, get some airflow in the flat, you twit! Twenty-seven and still can’t cook a bloody meal, it’s a shock how you’ve survived this long on your own—”

Ryan doesn’t stay in the kitchen long enough to hear the rest of Fiona’s comment. Instead, she’s spinning on her heels towards her front door, opening it up partly in hope to get the smell of burnt food out of her flat.

Just as she walks back into the kitchen, the beeping finally stops, and Ryan feels as if she can finally breathe again. Her cheeks are stained red from the exertion of flailing her arms about, the stray hairs from her low ponytail sticking to the nape of her neck uncomfortably. She takes in the state of her kitchen, annoyed with herself that she got too preoccupied with Fiona’s ramblings instead of focusing on cooking her pathetic meal.

“Have you died?” The sound echoes from the countertop where Ryan left her mobile, and for a moment Ryan forgets that Fiona was waiting for her. She saunters over slowly, leaning her mobile on the toaster oven so that she can rest her bent elbows on the countertop, her hands falling over her cheeks in embarrassment.

“Knew I should’ve gone with the boxed mac and cheese,” Ryan mumbles, catching her breath.

Fiona laughs. “I appreciate the attempt, Jamie Oliver. You’ve probably scared Luna half to death, poor thing.”

At the mention of her kitten’s name, Ryan immediately swivels her head around to the living room, eyes falling to the spot on the couch her white British Shorthair was just occupying. But when she looks closer, she realizes that Luna is gone.

She quickly stands up straight, telling Fiona she’ll call her back before ending the FaceTime call, entering the living room to search every nook and cranny for her kitten. Luna’s small body is nowhere near the couch or armchairs, her cat tree is empty, and when Ryan takes a look in her bedroom and finds absolutely nothing, she’s suddenly filled with fear at the fact that her kitten has disappeared.

Before Ryan can have a full-blown meltdown at the loss of her meal and kitten in the span of ten minutes, she hears the faint echo of a meow from the other side of her front door. A tiny giggle follows after, and suddenly Ryan’s head is peering out into the hallway, falling on the sight of Luna laying on the carpet with her tummy up in the air, and Jackson’s small hands rubbing soothing circles in her fur.

“What would your dad say about you leaving the flat without him?” Ryan calls out from her doorframe, watching the way Jackson’s face lights up when he realizes it is her speaking to him.

“Daddy will probably be mad. But I heard the kitty outside when I was playing! I didn’t know you had one!” He’s smiling so wide it causes Ryan to immediately do the same, despite her borderline breakdown a few moments prior. She trots over towards the pair, crouching down in front of them and balancing on the heels of her socked-clad heels, watching the way Luna purrs at Jackson’s soft strokes.

“I do. This is Luna,” Ryan answers, grinning when Jackson begins cooing at the tiny animal.

“Hi Luna, I’m Jackson. You’re so soft.” He’s whispering to her and Ryan isn’t quite sure why, and when Luna suddenly flips over and sits on Jackson’s lap, Ryan feels her heart swell at the sight of two tiny things cuddling up to one another.

The silence is broken by a gruff, frustrated voice. “Jackson! You can’t keep runnin’ off—oh.”

Three pairs of different colored eyes look up at the intrusion, and suddenly Harry’s anger dissipates at the sight of his son holding a cute kitten in his lap. A cute kitten that just so happens to belong to his even cuter neighbor who he seemingly can’t stop thinking about.

Ryan just smiles shyly, swallowing harshly when Harry crosses his arms over his broad chest, his large palms cupping his bulging biceps under the thin material of his shirt. She coughs into her fist, realizing now that she probably should stand up from her crouched position so that she’s no longer staring up at him underneath the cover of her eyelashes.

“Daddy look! Ryan has a kitty!” Jackson squeals, his cheek squished against Luna’s tiny face as he pets behind her ears, causing her whole body to vibrate with a deep purr.

Harry looks between Luna and Ryan, that slow smirk grazing his lips that causes Ryan’s cheeks to burn with a deep blush. “I can see that, Bubs.” His voice is so deep Ryan can feel it settle into her bones, and suddenly she wishes her hair wasn’t tied behind her head in a ponytail so that she could hide her reddened cheeks under the deep brown tendrils.

Before she can speak, a loud whistle from Harry’s flat breaks the silence. His upper body shifts away from the doorframe so that he’s standing straight, arms falling back to his sides as he peers behind the entranceway to ensure that the steam is blowing from the spout of the kettle on the hob.

“Fancy some tea, Ryan?” Harry asks once he’s turned back in her direction.

Ryan quickly stumbles to stand upright, wiping her sweaty palms on her cotton biker shorts. An oversized band tee she stole from her ex-boyfriend swishes with her hasty movements, and she can feel her head shaking before her mouth can say no.

“Uh, I’m okay. Don’t want to impose or anything,” she stutters, the sound of her thick woolen mid-calf socks scuffling against the carpeting with her incessant shuffling due to the influx of nerves that begin creeping up her spine.

“Please, Ryan? I can play with Luna! I’m a great sitter,” Jackson proclaims loudly from his seated position behind her. Once again, Ryan finds herself struggling to say no to her new friend with just one look into his beady green eyes. With nothing but a small smile, Ryan’s nodding in Jackson’s direction, her grin growing larger when he scoops up Luna in his little arms, ducking past his father and entering the flat.

Harry chuckles, holding the door open a bit wider so that Ryan can follow him inside.

She’s watching as he ducks into the kitchen, shutting off the burner so that the whistling kettle can quiet down. Ryan watches Jackson plop Luna on the soft emerald rug, laying on his stomach so that he can observe her every move. After guaranteeing that her kitten is in good hands, Ryan enters the kitchen, settling on one of the dark leather barstools and watching Harry grab two tea mugs from the cabinet above the sink.

As his arm extends to reach the top shelf, Ryan can’t help but take note of the contrast between his right and left arm. His left arm was ornamented with various black etchings, flowing across his skin in a strange way that somehow looked beautiful. When Ryan watches his right arm reach out to grab the tea bags, the untouched skin practically blinding against the harsh overhead lights, she feels her throat suddenly dry up—and she’s left wondering if she should add this to her growing list of symptoms she feels whenever she’s around Harry.

“Sugar? Milk?” Harry asks, his back still to her as he rummages around the drawers to prepare their tea.

“Sure.” She’s distracted by the way his thin t-shirt practically hides nothing, the ebb and flow of his back muscles constricting with each gentle movement he makes as he grasps the sugar from the counter and grips the milk from the fridge.

When he turns to meet her at the kitchen island, he clutches both mugs in one hand, the other holding both the sugar jar and milk carton. Ryan’s forced to look away, her mind completely fogging over at the site.

The sound of the ceramic mugs clinking against the granite counter causes Ryan to look up, smiling softly when he pushes the tea in her direction. Just before her hands can clasp around the handle, she regards the black script tattoo above the crook of his elbow, the words Jackson in lowercase lettering make her breath hitch in her throat.

“How have you been, all right?” Harry asks from across the island, reaching for the milk and adding a generous amount to the murky tea. His eyes are busy focusing on the task at hand, and Ryan can finally feel herself calm down a bit.

“Yeah, been okay. You?” she responds, blowing a bit on her tea before bringing the mug to her lips, swallowing deeply and reveling in the taste of the brew. Harry’s eyebrows arch when he notices that she takes her tea black, but he doesn’t make a comment about it, choosing instead to rest his forearms on the counter, pushing his mug a bit closer towards Ryan’s as he leans against the island, infiltrating her personal space just the tiniest bit.

“Yeah, okay. Bit shit with the weather, though. Jackson’s been going crazy,” he comments, his mouth far too distracting when he licks the spilled over tea on his lower lip. Ryan flicks her head over in Jackson’s direction, thankful that she can look at something other than Harry’s stupidly good-looking face.

Ryan hums in agreement, bringing the tea back to her lips as she swivels back in her stool, her eyes back on Harry’s.

“That cat of yours will give him another reason to talk about you for hours,” Harry says with a grin.

“If it weren’t for his knack of sneaking out of your flat, Luna probably would have ended up on the seventh floor. Guess I owe him a proper thank you,” Ryan counters, smiling at the fact that she made Harry laugh.

“Little shit never listens to me,” Harry says lightly, and Ryan suddenly wonders if he has any help looking after Jackson.

She starts to look around the kitchen for any hints of a feminine touch. The state of his flat is disgustingly clean, and when she observes the fridge to see if there are any photographs of Jackson’s mum, she’s found that there’s nothing but artwork most likely done by the hands of a four-year-old.

When she shifts her head to the other side of the room, where the kitchen flows into the living room, she doesn’t really find anything new. The walls are still filled with records, the instruments are still lining the walls, the couch is still void of throw pillows. Ryan tries to visualize the entranceway, trying her hardest to remember if she noticed any heeled boots or women’s jackets on the coat rack.

She hasn’t known Harry long, barely a month at this point, and in that short period of time she’s never heard him speak about a woman before. Ryan’s not stupid—she knows that both sexes are needed to produce a child—but she’s truly never seen a woman enter or exit Harry’s flat.

Granted, it’s only been a month. And she isn’t really sure if she can call him her friend yet, therefore she feels a bit odd in asking. Ryan’s come to the conclusion that maybe Jackson’s mum is an essential worker, a nurse perhaps, a profession in which she has the luxury of leaving her home to go to work.

“Ryan?” Harry’s oaky voice breaks Ryan out of her headspace, and suddenly she’s blinking in Harry’s direction, embarrassed at the fact that she wasn’t listening to anything he had just said to her in the last few minutes.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” she responds lamely, bringing the mug to her lips with the goal of hiding the lower half of her flushed cheeks.

Harry just laughs, cocking his head to the side to observe her intently. “Doesn’t matter. Lost you for a minute in there.”

“Right. Sorry about that,” Ryan responds, wishing Harry would stop looking at her as if she were the most fascinating creature on the planet.

“Does that happen a lot?” Harry asks quietly, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to know every little thing about her.

Ryan’s eyes squint in confusion. “Does what happen?”

“That,” Harry starts, taking a sip of his tea without tearing his eyes away from Ryan’s. “You getting lost in your own head.”

Ryan quietly contemplates Harry’s comment, watching the way he watches her with intrigue. As a serial overthinker, Ryan knows that she retreats sometimes, mulling over her words intensely before speaking. Unlike Fiona who blurts every thought that runs through her head, Ryan’s always been more critical, obsessing over every detail before verbalizing. It’s the only thing that helps subdue her social anxiety.

But she’s found that whenever she’s around Harry, she can’t bring herself to think about anything, really. It’s as if her mind is blank, encouraging her to speak what she truly feels, without all the thinking that usually comes along with it.

She’s not quite sure what that all means.

So she just shrugs, sipping softly. “Sometimes, yeah.”

Harry nods before changing the subject, which makes Ryan feel relieved. “So, my quiet, reclusive neighbor is also a cat lady? It’s far too fitting, Ryan.” He’s teasing her a bit and it’s enough to make Ryan giggle, the sound practically causing Harry to splutter his tea over the rim of his mug.

“I’m all about clichés, clearly,” Ryan responds, her eyes zeroing in on the hollow dimples that appear around his mouth whenever he laughs. She finds herself enjoying the sight very much.

“She’s cute,” Harry says, his eyes shifting from Luna to the woman sitting across from him. Ryan assumes he’s talking about her kitten, and she smiles, swiveling around in her chair to watch Jackson giggle whenever Luna’s paws graze his arms. But when she feels Harry’s gaze on her cheek, she’s wondering if he’s talking about something else, too.

“He’s good with her,” Ryan acknowledges, impressed with how gentle Jackson was with Luna. Most toddlers his age were too handsy with her, scaring her off before she even got the chance to get used to them. But Jackson is proving to be a natural, allowing Luna to grow comfortable around him before he started playing with her.

Harry finally looks over to his son, smiling at the sight in the living room. “Yeah, he’s a good kid.”

Ryan turns round to face Harry again. “He really is. Guess he has you to thank for that. And his mum, I suppose.”

Harry’s face suddenly loses its grin, and Ryan’s wondering if she’s said too much. His eyes have lost their shine, and the granite countertop seems to be more interesting than Ryan’s face. Before she can say anything, an apology or some version of one, the computer in the corner of the living room begins to ring loudly, causing Harry to stand upright and peer at the clock on the microwave screen.

“Shit. Forgot I had a four o’clock meeting,” he says quickly, gathering his mug in one hand and crossing the threshold so that he’s entering the living room space. Ryan stands up, frowning down at her half-emptied cup of tea, wondering what blend Harry uses because it’s just that good, and she’s a bit sad to leave it unfinished.

Harry turns around, catching the frown on Ryan’s face. “You can finish it at yours if you’d like,” he offers with a small smile.

“Oh, no it’s okay, I wouldn’t want to—”

“—Ryan,” Harry says, cutting her off and walking towards her so that he’s fully in her line of vision, “It’s fine. ‘S not like I don’t know where you live.” The smirk is back on his face and the blush is back coating Ryan’s cheeks, and suddenly the balance has been restored in their small universe.

Ryan nods, clutching the mug tightly in her hands and side-stepping Harry in order to reach Jackson and Luna on the living room floor. “‘M sorry, champ, but Luna and I have got to go.”

“Really?” Jackson says, tearing his eyes away from Luna and onto the two adults standing in front of him. He’s frowning and Ryan instantly feels bad.

“Yeah, Bubs, daddy’s got work to do. I’m sure you can see Luna again very soon, if Ryan’s okay with it,” Harry says, causing two pairs of green eyes to fall onto her frame.

She nods quickly, crouching down in front of her small friend and grabbing Luna in her unoccupied hand. “Of course, champ. We’ll schedule a playdate.”

Jackson grins enthusiastically, wiggling on the floor with excitement. Before Ryan can respond, Harry appears in front of her, a small smile on his face.

“I’ll see you later, Ryan,” he mutters in a low timbre.

“Bye, Harry. Thanks again for the tea,” she responds, heading towards the doorway in her socks and leaving the confines of his flat, trying her hardest to catch her breath in the silence of the empty hallway.

It’s only once she’s back in her own flat, her sad attempt of dinner disposed of in the bin and in its place an oversized bowl of cereal in one hand, with Harry’s mug in the other, Ryan comes to a startling realization.

Harry’s tea mug was a far better alternative than the fucking plunger.

*** A/N: Hi guys, here’s part three of you feel like home! I hope you enjoyed it. Part four will be posted on Thursday November 19, so feel free to chat with me in the meantime! This was a submission for the 1DFF Quarantine Challenge, which has other amazing writers participating as well, so feel free to check out the page! x

taglist: @stylishmuser @vikki1220 @greatestview @verorax @cronias13 @adoremp3 @ilovegolden @taintedwonder @stepping-into-the-light @onlyphysicallypresent @dontwanttobealone @justsaying20 @elemayox @awomanindeniall @ihearthemcallingforyou @halloweenniall @live-at-the-forum @kakayam @harryinsweatersandbandanas @hopelessly-harry @ficnarry @morethanamelodyy @niallgolden @harryswinterberries @caramello-styles

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #hs #harry styles x ofc #harry styles x reader #harry x ofc #1dff #1dffupdates #fic: home #1dffquarantine

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heartofether · 3 years

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Episode 15 - Elderberries TRANSCRIPT

[You can listen to the show wherever you get your podcasts, or go to our “Listen” page if you’re on desktop.]

AUTOMATED VOICE

[LOWER-PITCHED AND SLOWER THAN NORMAL] Please state your message.

[THEME SONG PLAYS.]

VAL

Three-eyed Frog Presents: The Heart of Ether.

[THEME SONG FADES TO A STOP.]

[PHONE BEEP.]

[INT. THE POPPY GARDEN MOTEL, AGENT MAY AND JUNES’ ROOM, EARLY MORNING.]

AGENT JUNE

Oh, is it on? I dunno how this recording device works. Would have been, like, ten times easier to just record on our phones, but, eh.

Anyways, it’s just me right now, which means I get to do all the talking. Guess I should, I dunno, talk about the mission? Daughtler?

Oh! I know. There’s this candy store downtown that displays massive gummy bears in the window, only it’s so hot outside that the bears have started melting. It’s some mix of disturbing, but also hilarious? Seriously, those bears look so sad, I can’t help but laugh.

Let’s see. Say, what’s that stupid thing he always says? [DRAMATICALLY MOCKING AGENT MAY] This is Operation Saturn, phase 1.2. Conducted by Agents May and June. All recordings are property of the—

[AS AGENT JUNE TALKS, THE DOOR IS HEARD OPENING AND CLOSING. THERE ARE FOOTSTEPS AS AGENT MAY WALKS IN.]

AGENT MAY

Here’s your coffee.

AGENT JUNE

Much obliged! Oh, you got it with oat milk, right?

AGENT MAY

[SLIGHTLY BITTER] It cost extra, but yes.

AGENT JUNE

Aw, hell yeah.

[AGENT JUNE TAKES HIS DRINK.]

AGENT MAY

I’ve never understood the excitement behind alternative milks.

AGENT JUNE

Hey, I’m lactose intolerant. Not that that would stop me from consuming dairy in most scenarios, but oat milk hits, alright? You should give it a shot.

AGENT MAY

I don’t put milk in my coffee, just sugar.

AGENT JUNE

Mm. Gross.

AGENT MAY

[HE HUFFS A SIGH.] Well, I’ll stop judging your coffee order if you stop judging mine.

AGENT JUNE

I’ll agree to that, sure.

[HE TAKES A SIP, THEN] See anything of note in the coffeeshop?

AGENT MAY

[UNCOMFORTABLY] Maybe. There was this girl sitting at a table. She was wearing all-black, which is strange considering the weather.

AGENT JUNE

Uh, ever heard of fashion? Dude, you literally wear a suit every day! No wonder you overheat. I mean, why do you think I skip the blazer?

AGENT MAY

[IRRITATED] At least I wear my tie correctly.

AGENT JUNE

I leave it undone on purpose, alright? It’s a statement.

AGENT MAY

Do you know how to tie a tie?

AGENT JUNE

[DEFENSIVE] Yes!

[AN UNCOMFORTABLY LONG PAUSE.]

AGENT JUNE

So, there was this girl in the coffeeshop.

AGENT MAY

She seemed fairly young. Must have been in either high school or college. She was staring at me over her laptop the whole time. Like she was, I don’t know, stalking prey. It was like her eyes were knives, and she was trying to carve my flesh off.

AGENT JUNE

So, she defo wasn’t just idly looking or whatever. Like, you’re pretty sure she was thinking about killing you?

AGENT MAY

Well, there’s no way I can know for certain, now, is there?

[A BEAT.] She was wearing a black fabric surgical mask, though.

[A TENSE PAUSE.]

AGENT JUNE

Do you think she was—?

AGENT MAY

I can’t say for sure.

AGENT JUNE

I mean, it might have been an accessory, but we’re in Daughtler, Washington—

AGENT MAY

I’m not going back there to check. Okay? If we see her again, maybe we can consider interviewing her, but I don’t feel comfortable going back to see her.

AGENT JUNE

[UNDERSTANDING] Alright.

[AGENT MAY SIGHS.]

AGENT JUNE

[CONT.] Alright. I won’t force you.

AGENT MAY

I—I appreciate that.

[THERE'S A PAUSE.]

AGENT JUNE

Uh, how’d you sleep?

AGENT MAY

About as well as I could in a car seat.

AGENT JUNE

Okay, I can’t just keep letting you sleep in the car. It was kind of funny at first, but now I just— [HIS SENTENCE TRAILS OFF IN VAGUE STUTTERS.]

AGENT MAY

[BEAT.] Well?

AGENT JUNE

I feel bad! Alright? I mean, look at me, I have this whole room to myself, and meanwhile, my partner is sleeping in a company vehicle that may or may not have bloodstains in the backseat.

[BEAT, THEN] Actually, I’d love to talk about those weird dark stains later, because uh, what, but I’ll let it slide for now. It’s still gotta be super uncomfortable, though.

AGENT MAY

We could always take turns.

AGENT JUNE

No, what I’m saying is I don’t think either of us have to sleep in the car! There has got to be a better solution.

AGENT MAY

The Foundation already declined giving us a second room, or trying to transfer us to a larger one. Trust me, I tried.

AGENT JUNE

Dammit.

[A LONG PAUSE.]

AGENT JUNE

It's king-sized, you know.

[ANOTHER LONG PAUSE.]

AGENT MAY

Do you think the motel has spare blankets? I think I could try sleeping on the floor.

[THOUGH UNSEEN, AGENT JUNE LOOKS INTO THE CAMERA LIKE HE’S IN THE OFFICE.]

AGENT MAY

…I’ll go down and ask later.

AGENT JUNE

Good idea.

[A BEAT. THERE'S SUIT RUSTLING AS AGENT MAY CHECKS HIS WATCH.]

AGENT MAY

We should head out soon.

AGENT JUNE

You’re really glued to that watch of yours, huh?

AGENT MAY

Excuse me?

AGENT JUNE

Not that it’s bad, you just check it a lot. I don’t really know what watch etiquette is, but I think you look at it more than most people do. I’ve also noticed you tend to look at it more around specific times? Is there a reason, or—?

AGENT MAY

[MORE SERIOUS THAN THE CONVERSATION WARRANTS] It’s none of your business. Perhaps I simply prefer to keep on schedule. Let’s go.

AGENT JUNE

[SLIGHTLY CONFUSED] Oh, um, okay. Sorry. [UNDER HIS BREATH] Jeez. Let me just—

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

[ANOTHER BEEP.]

[INT. THE OPEN EYES BOOKSTORE BACKROOM, EARLY, EARLY MORNING.]

HOLLY

Are you recording?

PHOEBE

Yes, yes, I am.

HOLLY

Kind of weird to be doing this so early in the morning.

PHOEBE

I’m sorry, I know it’s super early. Night just felt…well, it felt more dangerous, I guess? Even Grandma Doe recommended not doing it too late. I wanted to get it done before the shop opened, though.

HOLLY

Oh no, I don’t mind. I guess people usually just consider night to be “the witching hour.”

PHOEBE

This isn’t really witchcraft, though, is it?

HOLLY

Guess not. Most modern witchcraft is a lot more…chill, I guess?

PHOEBE

Right. [A BEAT.] Do you think it’s really a good idea to be doing this in the back room?

HOLLY

Well, it’s not like we have anywhere else. It’d be super shady if we did it right outside, and your forestry friend would be pissed if we went out into the woods to do it.

PHOEBE

[NERVOUS] There’s so much paper, though. I mean, we could easily set the whole thing alight. My apartment’s really small, I know, but maybe we could—?

HOLLY

Don’t worry about it. We did a pretty good job clearing stuff out to make space, I think. It should be fine, I mean, a lot of the most flammable stuff either got moved out or shoved against the wall.

Besides, didn’t she say that it might be good to do it here for like, symbolic purposes?

PHOEBE

Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right. [SHE CHUCKLES.] Maybe this will finally give me incentive to organize everything.

HOLLY

[SHE LAUGHS, SOMEWHAT NERVOUSLY.] If this works, then hopefully you’ll be able to do that anyways.

PHOEBE

That’s true, yes. I, um, guess we should get started. Can you read the directions?

HOLLY

Of course.

[HOLLY IS HEARD UNFOLDING A PIECE OF PAPER.]

HOLLY

[READING] The purpose of all of this is energy. You are lighting fire to produce energy. You are grinding berries and eating them to produce it as well. Ether functions under this key desire for vitality. If you can understand this simple principle, this keen need it has, it will treat you much more kindly.

By designing this ritual for you, my hope is that it will spell out as clear as day to Ether what you are trying to achieve. It rarely gives people what they want, rather it gives what it sees fit for them. You must steer it in the correct direction, or else it will choose a different fate for you.

These instructions are similar to what Valencia and I did, as well as symbolic for what you hope to achieve. However, nobody has ever developed an exact science for how these rituals function. We may only rely on guesswork and hope. While I would like to develop more specific procedures and instructions, I do not know if I ever will. Perhaps that could be your task.

[BREAKING READING] Could I skip her whole monologue? We already read it, and I don’t think it’s important in-the-moment.

PHOEBE

Sure.

HOLLY

Cool.

[SHE FLIPS THE PAPER.]

HOLLY

Materials needed: Yarn or string to create a casting circle. Some people use salt, but it produces an awful mess. Several circles of yarn around you and your workspace will work just fine.

PHOEBE

We did that already.

HOLLY

Yup. [READING AGAIN] Three white candles with words carved into them. It does not matter what the words are, they simply have to be legible and completely cover the candle. No numbers. I just wrote out song lyrics on that one.

PHOEBE

Oh, that’s neat! I, um, did poems I like.

HOLLY

Cute. [A BEAT.] A lighter or match of some kind. Someplace to safely burn paper—we got a metal bin, so we’re good. Did you turn off the smoke alarm?

PHOEBE

I did, yeah.

HOLLY

Let’s hope the place doesn’t burn down, then. [CHUCKLE, THEN] I’m joking, I promise. It should be fine. [SHE CLEARS HER THROAT.]

A book—you will be tearing out each individual page, so to save time, I suggest a children’s book. A bowl or container of some kind. Elderberries, I recommend you cook them beforehand, but make sure none of them are pre-mashed. Something to mash the elderberries with. Finally, a few drops of your blood, or something to draw blood with. That’s what the sewing needle is for, right? You sure you don’t want a blade? I have a pocket knife.

PHOEBE

[UNCOMFORTABLE] I get nervous around knives, but thank you for the offer.

Oh—actually, I wanted to ask, um, where did you find elderberries? I couldn’t find them anywhere.

HOLLY

I asked the bartender down the street.

PHOEBE

Huh.

HOLLY

Yeah, they make all sorts of weird cocktails. Are you ready? Once we start, we can’t stop until it’s complete.

PHOEBE

[WITH WEIGHT, NERVOUS, BUT DETERMINED] I’m ready.

HOLLY

Okay.

[HOLLY FLIPS THE PAPER AGAIN. THERE’S A PAUSE.]

HOLLY

Phoebe?

PHOEBE

Yeah?

HOLLY

Whatever happens, I—we’ll be okay, alright? No matter what. I’ll make sure of it, I swear.

PHOEBE

[TENDERLY] Thank you.

[THERE’S A PAUSE AS THEY ARE HEARD KISSING. HOLLY TAKES A DEEP BREATH.]

HOLLY

Create a circle around— Okay, we already did that. Um, Start by lighting the candles.

[PHOEBE IS HEARD LIGHTING A MATCH AND LIGHTING ALL THREE CANDLES.]

HOLLY

Tear each individual piece of paper out of the book. One by one, burn each piece of paper using fire from the candles. Once you have burned each page, burn the cover. Do not attempt to put any of the fires out. This tedious process shows care and dedication. The blood in later steps is there for a similar purpose.

[PHOEBE IS HEARD TEARING PAGES OUT OF A CHILDREN’S BOOK AND LIGHTING THEM ON FIRE. THERE’S A LONG PAUSE AS SHE DOES SO.]

PHOEBE

Good thing this book only has twenty pages. [A BEAT.] What’s next?

[PHOEBE IS STILL TEARING PAPER IN THE BACKGROUND, AND THE BURNING SFX GOES ON FOR SOME TIME.]

HOLLY

Uh—place your elderberries in the bowl and begin mashing them in a clockwise motion. As you do this, speak out loud and ask Ether to grant you knowledge and the ability to see what others do not. There should be no misunderstanding in what you are trying to achieve, and if you have garnered Ether’s attention, it should have already decided what it shall do with you. [MUTTERS] Fuckin’ weird.

[PHOEBE CEASES HER PAGE-TEARING.]

PHOEBE

The book is done. Pass me the spice grinder with the berries?

[HOLLY PASSES PHOEBE THE SPICE GRINDER.]

PHOEBE

Thank you.

[PHOEBE IS HEARD GRINDING THE ELDERBERRIES.]

PHOEBE

[WHISPERING TO HERSELF] Ether, um, whoever or whatever you are, if you are listening to me, please grant me knowledge. Grant me the power to see what others do not. Let me see and know everything.

[THERE IS A RINGING HEARD IN THE BACKGROUND AS HOLLY SPEAKS.]

HOLLY

If this works, the words on the candle should begin to—holy—God!

[HOLLY STUMBLES BACK.]

PHOEBE

Glow?

HOLLY

[FREAKING OUT] Yup? Uh—they’re actually glowing, what the—

PHOEBE

[OVERLAPPING] What’s next?

HOLLY

Sorry, sorry. [SHE RUFFLES THE PAPER IN HER HAND.] Mix a few drops of your blood into the elderberries.

PHOEBE

Pass me the sewing needle.

[HOLLY PASSES PHOEBE THE NEEDLE. SHE PRICKS HER FINGER.]

PHOEBE

[UNDER HER BREATH] Ow.

[SHE LETS A FEW DROPS COME OUT, SUCKS ON HER FINGER BRIEFLY, THEN MIXES HER BLOOD IN.]

HOLLY

Drink the elderberry mash. You must consume every bit of it, or at least as much as you can.

PHOEBE

[GROWING IN A MIX OF PANIC AND EXCITEMENT] This is it—I mean—wait, I’m about to consume my blood, that’s weird, but—this is really it.

HOLLY

[ENCOURAGING] You can do it.

[PHOEBE IS HEARD DRINKING THE ELDERBERRY MASH. THERE IS A PAUSE.]

HOLLY

If successful, the candles will—

[THE CANDLES ARE HEARD EXTINGUISHING.]

HOLLY

…blow out.

PHOEBE

[SLIGHTLY SICK] I think I got it all.

HOLLY

How do you feel? Is—has anything changed?

PHOEBE

I feel…I feel like there’s a part of me that was never there before. Like, my internal self expands farther out than my physical self, like I’m floating, it��s—I need to go lie down.

HOLLY

I’ll take you upstairs. It worked, though?

PHOEBE

I think it did. I mean, Grandma Doe said I would feel some sort of immediate change, but the rest of it would trickle in slowly. I feel different, though.

HOLLY

[SLOWLY, CAUTIOUS] Does this mean you’re not human anymore?

PHOEBE

[A BEAT.] I haven’t thought about that. I mean, I think I might just kind of be human plus? I’m not sure. Grandma Doe was still mortal, after all—she felt pain, she got ill—her mind was just super advanced. Does that make me inhuman?

HOLLY

I…I don’t think so. I think you just have mind powers or whatever.

PHOEBE

I’ll think about it later. I’m just going to try to get some sleep before the shop opens.

HOLLY

You don’t even have to open today, you know. People will understand if you just say you’re ill. Or I could run it for today, since there’s usually less traction on weekdays.

PHOEBE

[SINCERE] Thank you.

HOLLY

Of course.

PHOEBE

[SHE SIGHS.] Okay, time to—

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

[ANOTHER PHONE BEEP.]

[INT. IRENE’S HOUSE, MIDDAY.]

IRENE

I just got home from work. Apparently, Phoebe did that ritual early this morning. It went well, from what Holly told me, though Phoebe’s been taking the day off to rest.

Oh, and they also posted that advert on the bulletin board yesterday. You know, for someone to develop Valencia’s film.

That’s not important right now. You know what is important?

This morning, at work, I opened up a folder on my computer and guess what was in it? A new audio recording where there shouldn’t be one. Guess the technological gods have decided to be generous today.

I decided to wait until I got off to listen to it. It’s dated shortly after the incident, so I think it might be important.

Besides, work has been…well, different, since the Spread. I haven’t told Carol or Aden that’s what it’s called, though. The whole incident brought us closer together, but I think that’s a double-edged sword. They know me well enough, now, I think they can tell I’m hiding something. Aden definitely knows I am—I mean, what I told him was pretty cryptic, but Carol I think just…knows. She’s just like that. [SCOFF] Maybe that’s part of her motherly instincts.

Right, that’s beside the point. Back to the recording.

Here goes nothing.

[IRENE CLICKS ON THE FILE.]

[PHONE BEEP.]

[INT. DRIVING, LATE AT NIGHT.]

[THERE IS THE AMBIANCE OF DRIVING DOWN A DESOLATE FOREST ROAD AS THEY TALK.]

UNKNOWN GIRL

Does it work?

ROSE

I believe so.

UNKNOWN GIRL

[SHE SNORTS.] About as well as a cheap cell phone from Walmart could, I imagine?

ROSE

It just has to be able to record and make emergency calls. I’m not too worried about it. Thank you, again. Really, I owe you.

UNKNOWN GIRL

Hey, I didn’t buy it. I just walked into the store and handed your money to the guy behind the counter. It’s not a big deal.

[DULLY SKEPTICAL] You’re trying pretty hard to cover up your tracks, you know. Destroying your phone, not wanting to be seen in public to go get a new one, only paying in cash. Almost makes it sound like you’re a criminal or something.

ROSE

[FRANTIC] I’m not! I swear, I’m not.

UNKNOWN GIRL

No need to get defensive. Look, I get it. We all have reasons to want to disappear. I’m surely in no position to judge.

You know, I know we haven’t known each other for long, but I feel like we might actually have a lot in common.

ROSE

Why is that?

UNKNOWN GIRL

We both don’t know where we’re going, or why.

ROSE

[UNDER HER BREATH] Oh, I know why.

UNKNOWN GIRL

So you do have a reason?

ROSE

It’s not a big deal.

UNKNOWN GIRL

Your secret’s safe with me, you know.

ROSE

It’s nothing. Really. Just…do you have to know or—?

UNKNOWN GIRL

Well, do I have any reason to?

ROSE

No, but do you even have a reason to be helping me?

UNKNOWN GIRL

[DEADPAN] What can I say? I’m a generous soul.

[A BEAT.] Say, why did you want something to record with, anyways?

ROSE

I, um—it’s stupid.

UNKNOWN GIRL

Try me.

ROSE

It’s—well. I guess I don’t want to be forgotten? I want some way for people to find out what happened to me when…if…you know. There’s…if something does happen to me, there’s at least one person who deserves to know.

UNKNOWN GIRL

You think you’re going to get yourself killed?

ROSE

I don’t know. I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry?

UNKNOWN GIRL

But you have someone you know will want to listen. [CONNECTING THE DOTS] You weren’t a loner before you left, were you? You left someone important behind, and now you feel bad. You owe them an explanation.

ROSE

[UNCOMFORTABLY] Yes. Right. I guess.

[A BEAT.] I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

UNKNOWN GIRL

Who did you abandon?

ROSE

[RAISING HER VOICE SLIGHTLY] I said I’m done.

UNKNOWN GIRL

Alright, alright.

[A BEAT.] If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you prod at me a bit.

ROSE

[HESITANT] Where did you get your name? Wednesday is such a unique name, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it outside of stories.

WEDNESDAY [UNKNOWN GIRL]

It’s certainly no ‘Mary,’ is it?

ROSE

I mean, obviously. My name’s pretty basic.

WEDNESDAY

I actually chose it after I left home. Not like that, just never liked the name my parents gave me. Kept the last name ‘White,’ though. It has a ring to it.

ROSE

Was there a reason for it, or did it just sound nice?

WEDNESDAY

When people meet someone with a weird name, that tends to be the thing that most grabs their attention. “I met a girl named after a day of the week today, isn’t that bizarre?” I didn’t want to be remembered for anything I didn’t want people to see. If one thing was going to stick with them, it would be my name, but not quite the face that goes with it. Just the girl with an odd name.

ROSE

So you want to be forgotten?

WEDNESDAY

Not forgotten, but I want control over the memory of me. I want to fade away into obscurity, but not obscure enough that it’s suspicious.

ROSE

[KIND OF UNCOMFORTABLE] You’ve thought about this a lot.

WEDNESDAY

When you’re like me, you have to.

ROSE

Wh—what does that—

WEDNESDAY

[OVERLAPPING] Do you need me to stop at the gas station up ahead?

[THERE’S A SLIGHTLY TOO LONG PAUSE.]

ROSE

Um, yeah, I have to—

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

[INT. IRENE’S HOUSE, EARLY EVENING, THE SAME DAY.]

[THERE’S A LONG PAUSE.]

IRENE

[STILL PROCESSING IT AS SHE SPEAKS.] Okay. Okay! This is definitely a start. A great start, actually!

Okay, let’s see, uh—after you ran away, you destroyed your phone—no wonder the police couldn’t track it—and then you went with some person named Wednesday.

That’s definitely a start. If I can figure out where Wednesday—White, was it?—yeah, Wednesday White. I know Wednesday probably isn’t her legal name, but I might still be able to find her somewhere. If I can find Wednesday White, I might have a good shot at finding you. That’s great news!

[A SLIGHTLY TOO LONG PAUSE.]

IRENE

[HER ENTHUSIASM DYING] I don’t trust Wednesday, though.

[A BEAT.] Okay, maybe I shouldn’t be so skeptical. I mean, you’re not an idiot, Rose. You wouldn’t hitch hike with just any random stranger. Would you? Doesn’t even seem like you gave her your real name, she called you ‘Mary.’

[SHE HUFFS A SIGH.] Maybe I’m just being defensive. Still, she seemed off, didn’t she? That whole thing she said about her name just kind of rubbed me the wrong way. She prodded a lot, too. Almost as if she wanted to make you uncomfortable.

I could be reading into it too much. I guess I won’t know until I find her. Hopefully, she didn’t fade into obscurity too much. There’s gotta be some record of her existence online. If I’m lucky, she might be on social media or something. Who knows? Lots of time has passed.

[A PAUSE, THEN, SOFTLY] That person, you—were you recording for me? You wanted me to know you hadn’t abandoned me on purpose. [HURT] And here I was, thinking you would just leave without reason. That you had betrayed me in some way. I’m—Rose, I’m so sorry—

[JUST AS SHE SAYS “SORRY,” HER PHONE BEGINS VIBRATING. SHE PICKS IT UP.]

IRENE

[SKEPTICAL] There’s an unknown number calling me.

[SHE ANSWERS.]

IRENE

Hello?

CALLER

Hello? Is this the person who posted an ad outside of Open Eyes Bookstore?

IRENE

Oh! Um, yeah, that’s me. Wow, I didn’t expect to hear from someone so fast.

CALLER

I’m an observant person. I like to make my rounds throughout the town. You’ll never know what you’ll find, after all. Or who.

Anyways, you have some film that needs to be developed, right? Well, it just so happens to be your lucky day, because I have a dark room.

IRENE

That’s fantastic. I can pay you however much you want, just—

CALLER

[OVERLAPPING] Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’m studying photography, so the experience is payment enough. No worries!

IRENE

That’s very kind of you, thank you.

CALLER

Of course!

Oh, where are my manners? My name is Sadie. Sadie Creed. And you are…?

IRENE

Irene.

SADIE

Irene! How cute. Where do you want me to pick up your film?

IRENE

Um, I’m sorry if this sounds rude, but I would prefer to meet out in the open? Is that a problem?

SADIE

Not at all. How about Lemongrass Park?

IRENE

That’s actually perfect, yeah.

SADIE

Great! I’m happy to meet you tomorrow night at 8:00, if that time works for you? I know that’s a bit late, but I work at the candy shop until then.

IRENE

That should be fine, yeah.

SADIE

Looking forward to it! Pleasure doing business with you, Irene. Bye-bye!

[SADIE HANGS UP.]

IRENE

Huh. Well, I guess that solves that.

Time to go find Wednesday White.

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

AUTOMATED VOICE

Today's quote is: A wave of grass engraves upon the stone: ‘There is more than one good way to drown.’

Sylvia Plath in "Epitaph in Three Parts," 1955.

[OUTRO MUSIC AND CREDITS PLAY.]

MICRO-COSMOS PROMOTIONAL AD [written by Jesse Smith]

[THERE ARE STATIC NOISES.]

ATHENA

This is Communications Athena Romero of OEC #0137-F recording from a… still, unknown location on the infant planet Ophiuchus-22. Though I have my… well, rational, doubts, something in me feels as though this transmission might actually be reaching someone. Might just be desperation, though. Most likely just desperation. Regardless. We would appreciate any and all OC representatives or employees, or individuals otherwise receiving this transmission, to please send a response. We have been recording mandatory and otherwise necessary emergency chronicling logs for days now. Please.

[WE HEAR MILES'S FOOTSTEPS APPROACH.]

MILES

(distant) Athena, are you sending out another transmission? They’re not going to-

[C41 APPEARS WITH THEIR USUAL PING.]

C41

Shhh, let her do her thing, Miles. She needs to set her character up correctly for the new listeners that are hearing this promotional advertisement.

MILES

The new— what?

C41

What?

MILES

What are you talking about?

FELIX

I believe what Cal is doing is called “breaking the fourth wall,” my friend.

MILES

Breaking the what now?

C41

Oh, just forget about it.

[MILES GROANS; WE HEAR ALEX APPROACH.]

ALEX

What about a promotional advertisement?

ATHENA

Guys, could you… [SIGHS] I am trying to finish this log, so could you please give me a moment?

ALEX

Sorry, Starshine, I just got a little caught up in the whole “self-aware and breaking the fourth wall” thing.

ATHENA

It’s… fine.

C41

If I were you, Athena, I would close your log out by telling the listener to tune in to Micro-Cosmos: A Science Fiction Podcast, wherever you get your podcasts! The show is created by a crew of LGBTQ+ people, and features strange infant planets, brief romantic scenes before epic tragedy, cool sci-fi terminology, and adorably talented AI units, like myself!

ATHENA

Micro-?

C41

More information on the show can be found on its website: “microcospod.space”, OR its Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, or TikTok, which all have the handle “@microcospod.”

MILES

… uh huh.

[THE CREW SITS IN SILENCE FOR A SECOND.]

C41

That’s just what I would say, though.

MILES

… Cal, we really need to figure out what is going on with this new phase of yours.

#heart of ether transcripts

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rjhpandapaws · 4 years

Note

Holidays, valentine date? for Hank and connor, for Gavin and Nines, and Silas and Allen

//3 parter this will be fun

(Prompt from this list)

- Cup of Something Better

Hank hadn’t done anything for Valentines Day in years and he would be the first to admit that he was nervous. This wasn’t even his idea, Connor had texted him an address a few days ago and asked him to be there by seven-thirty at the latest. He had called Jeff in his panic and like the good friend he was, Jeff just laughed and told him to relax. Which was no help.

Deeming himself dressed nice enough, in a navy blue button down with dark purple vertical stripes and black jeans, he headed out. He pulled the address up on his GPS and messaged Connor that he was on his way and received a heart in return. He played Jazz on the way to what turned out to be a pretty fancy restaurant, to try and calm his nerves. When he pulled up Connor was waiting outside. He was in a crimson long sleeve button down and black skinny jeans. He waved Hank over once he had gotten out of his car.

“Seven-thirty on the dot, I think this is the first time you’ve ever been on time since I met you.” He said with a pleasant smile, having only gotten cheekier since they started dating.

“Listen here you little shit.” Hank said with a teasing smile of his own, he pulled Connor in for a quick kiss that was only quick because Connor had the sense to pull away.

“Let’s head inside so we don’t miss our reservation.” He winked as he pulled away and lead Hank into a dimly lit restaurant. Hank’s wallet hurt thinking about how much this was going to cost, but it seemed Connor had put a lot of thought into this. He walked up to the podium with confidence to spare, “Reservation under Connor Arkait?”

“Right this way.” Their host said with a kind smile, leading them back toward a corner booth, they would be tucked away to themselves in the busy restaurant. Something that Hank appreciated.

As soon as they were seated Hank reached across the table for Connor’s hand, it had been a long time since he’d been on a date, let alone one that had as much effort put into it as this one did, “You set the bar kind of high Con. How am I supposed to top this?” He was half teasing, and half genuinely nervous. He had promised Connor a romantic night in after a date, thinking it would be a movie or something, not this.

“You’re not. This isn’t a competition for one, and secondly I wanted to take you on a proper date that didn’t involve us drinking questionable amounts of caffeine.” He smiled and squeezed Hank’s hand, “just enjoy yourself. Okay?”

“Alright,” and he was certain he would, as he always did when it came to Connor.

- Secure the Stage

Allen wasn’t gonna lie, his Valentines Day was a little more tame than he thought it was going to be. He didn’t mind one bit, he had never been big on celebrating the holiday, so he was glad for a romantic night in. Cooking with Silas was honestly a lot more fun than he thought it would be. Well watching Silas dance around the kitchen as he cooked was fun, Allen wasn’t actually allowed near the food since the last time he had tried cooking for Silas they had to call the fire department. So he was sitting on the counter watching his boyfriend do an impromptu dance number through the kitchen.

“I love you so fucking much, you know that?” It slipped past Allen’s lips barely above a whisper and without his permission. Both he and Silas froze, they had been both avoiding the ‘l’ word for comfort sake. They could fool themselves into believing this was all still casual if they avoided it, and Allen had just popped that safety bubble without thinking. All because he’d been so overwhelmed by the feeling while watching Silas bounce around his kitchen like he belonged there. Because the sight of Silas feeling that comfortable in Allen’s space moved him to open his goddamned mouth.

“I...” Silas took an unsteady breath. He finished what he was doing before he turned to face Allen, “I love you too. So I guess the jig is up then.”

Allen couldn’t help the smile that curled at his lips, the fear chased out of his system by the combined force of euphoria and relief, “I guess it is.”

“Happy Valentines Day babe,” Silas said with a smile as he approached Allen.

“Happy Valentines Day Chameleon.” Allen said before he leaned in for a kiss. They only pulled apart when the smell of burning food reached them, quickly followed by the shrieking of the smoke detector. Allen pulled away with a laugh, “Take out?”

“Only if its from the Chinese place.”

He smiled as he stood on the counter to turn off the smoke alarm, “Alright, I’ll call while you clean up.”

- A Hand in the Matter

Gavin’s apartment was almost ready, he just had to put a few more things away. He had invited Richard over for the night, the plan was to watch movies and hang out because Gavin was not in love and this was not a date. So what if it happened to fall on Valentines Day? That wasn’t important, and Gavin definitely hadn’t planned it. Or hopefully Richard saw it as a coincidence. Gavin didn’t usually plan this far ahead so he was praying to whoever was listening that Richard would be none the wiser. He didn’t want to make Richard uncomfortable. He finished cleaning and did a once over to make sure everything was alright. He had just gotten comfortable on the couch when Richard tapped his usual knock on the door before coming inside.

Gavin’s hopes of not having been found out were dashed the moment he saw the medium sized teddy bear holding a heart that Richard was holding. Richard looked almost distressed which worried Gavin. Richard took his shoes off and walked to the living room without setting down his bag, something else that was unusual, and handed the teddy bear and an envelope to Gavin before retreating back to the entry way to set down his things.

Gavin set the bear aside, it could wait, and looked at the envelope. It had his name printed on it in Richard’s pretty handwriting. After a moment’s hesitation he opened it and took out a cluster of about five pages. The first one was a drawing, an accurate pencil sketch of Gavin at the cafe talking animatedly about something. The next was similar, but this time the back drop was Gavin’s own living room and he was yelling at the tv while playing a video game. He remembered both of those days and now he had them in almost picture perfect quality from Ricard. The next drawing was of him in the library, drawn from a couple tables away when he had been practicing his signs. The last drawing was a comic strip of Richard signing ‘Read Me.’ Behind that page was a letter.

Gavin,

I know you were probably hoping to just hang out tonight despite it being a holiday, but if I don’t say this now I’m afraid I won’t ever be able to. From what I understand, I believe I have developed feelings for you of the romantic sort. I’ve never felt anything like this before, but being around you makes me feel content and relaxed, and when I’m not with you I worry for you and I miss you. I don’t have the courage to say this to you directly and I’m sorry if I’ve ruined the evening, but I wanted to tell you.

-Richard

Gavin looked up from the letter to find Richard in the kitchen making coffee and glancing worriedly toward Gavin. He was making goodbye coffee. Gavin stood and all but ran to the kitchen.

“Hey, hey, relax. No one is going to ask you to leave.” Gavin out his hands on Richard’s shoulders to keep him still, “I kinda invited you over to do something similar.”

Richard eyed him skeptically and lifted his hands to sign but Gavin cut him off, “I’ve liked you for a while now and i didn’t know if you felt the same, so I thought I could coincidentally have invited you over on valentines day for a movie night and that we could just hang out. I could get to be close to you and you wouldn’t have to be uncomfortable.”

Richard smiled fondly and shook his head, ‘We Have Same Thought.’

“I suppose we did.” Gavin said with a giddy smile letting go of Richard’s shoulders and coming to lean against the counter beside him, “in that case, Richard would you like to go out with me.”

The taller brunette nodded and pulled Gavin into a hug. Despite it only being the start of the evening he decided this was the best Valentines Day he’d ever had.

#AHM short #CSB short #StS short #<333 #panda has all the answers!#ask panda #ask event #70 follower ask event

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goddessdoeswitchery · 4 years

Text

Hellenic Polytheism 101: Pillars of Hellenic Polytheism

What follow is a transcript of all 7 episodes of my podcast Hellenic Polytheism 101, where I discussed the pillars of Hellenic Polytheism. There are more episodes to follow, but I figured it would be nice to have a place where all 7 of the episodes discussing the pillars were together. The series started on August 23rd and ended on Nov 1st, released on a bi-weekly basis at 8 am every Sunday. In total, it’s 12 pages long, so I’m placing it under a Read More because it is very, very long. In each episode, there is a list of resources, and each one is linked for you in the original post (just click the tag transcripts under this post, and it’ll take you to the transcripts for every podcast episode) to do your own follow up research. I hope that people will find this useful.

Pillars of Hellenic Polytheism: Technically, the pillars were never actually a “thing”. Unlike then 10 commandments, the pillars were never taught as a set of rules that everyone knew by the name “Pillars of Hellenic Polytheism”, or any variation thereof. What modern day practitioners of Hellenic Polytheism call “The Pillars” were essentially religious and cultural practices that were taught by family and friends via every day practices. The pillars were an essential part of the culture of Ancient Greece, taught to them the same way customs like tipping, saying “bless you” at sneezing, and the now-common practice of wearing a mask everywhere are taught to us today. In recreating Hellenic Polytheism for the modern age, the Pillars grew out of a need for a set of guidelines to help us recreate a very old religion.

KHARIS

Welcome to today’s episode of Hellenic Polytheism 101, where we will be discussing the Pillar of Hellenic Polytheism, Kharis. Kharis is the reciprocity inherent in Hellenic Polytheism, a devotional act for the Theoi with hope a return favor in kind. It is also so much more than a transactional behavior. Its not bribery, its not a quid pro quo. At the same time, it is not the Christian act of praise worship.

One of the most common actions as a Hellenic polytheist is devotional acts. Whether it be offerings, prayers, hymns, or the increasingly common Devotional Actions (like beauty routines for Aphrodite, studying for Athena, singing for Apollo, housecleaning for Hestia, etc); we worship by engaging in acts of devotion. Oftentimes, that act of devotion is also accompanied by a request. This act of devotion is not a bribe. This is an offering, and a plea. The deity in question can respond or not, it won’t change the fact that we made the offering and it shouldn’t affect how we give in the future. We give without the expectation of getting something in return, as an act of worship and of thanks for everyday blessings. We give to just give, and a lot of the times, the deity or deities in question will respond. We then give in thanks, and then they give to us. We give in thanks, they give to us and so continues the circle of praise and of blessing. This circle of reciprocity is Kharis.

And yeah, I completely understand how confusing that would be, so let’s try using some more relatable examples. I know not everyone will be able to relate to these examples, so there will be a few of them, and hopefully one of them will resonate enough that the concept of Kharis will become less confusing.

The first example I will use is of a couple. Let’s call them Kate and Ashley. They are very much in love. Kate is out grocery shopping and next to the checkout line is a display of flower bouquets. One of them has roses and lilies, Ashley’s two favorite flowers. So Kate grabs that bouquet and places it in a vase on the table for Ashley to see when she gets home. Kate isn’t getting the flowers for a birthday, or anniversary, or holiday. These aren’t apology flowers. These aren’t get well soon flowers. They’re the best kind of flowers. These are “Just Because I Love You” flowers. That night at dinner, Kate asks Ashley to take the trash can to the curb before bed and Ashley does so. The flowers weren’t payment for the favor of taking the trash to the curb. The flowers and the request may have come at the same time, but one wasn’t required for the other. The next morning, Kate makes Ashley breakfast in bed and Ashley starts Kate’s car so it’s warmed up and defrosted before Kate goes to work. Both are acts of love that aren’t reliant on each other. Now, say this cycle continues constantly. They do each other favors, they get each other small tokens, for the rest of their relationship. No one but the most cynical would say that they have a transactional relationship. Their tokens aren’t required for favors, and their favors aren’t required for tokens. Their actions are out of devotion to each other. That’s an example of how Kharis works.

Another example, this time between family members. My sister, my mom, and I have lived together for a lot of our lives. As adults, we have lived together for the last 5 years. My mom has a tendency to not eat, and there have been times when I’ve sent her a pizza while she’s at work, because I know then that she will eat. The food is an act of love, a way to show I care. When she responds in kind by cooking dinner for the house the next day, it is not a payment for the pizza. It’s a continuation of the circle. When I was off work for 3 weeks, I cleaned the whole house, reorganized their closets to be easier to navigate, and cleaned out the cabinets and cupboards. Its another way I show I care. My sister usually watches the kids all summer long, and my mom and I will get her flowers, as a way to say thank you. Every day of our lives as a family, we show love by doing favors for each other and getting things for each other. The favors are not a payment for the things and the things are not a payment for the favors.

Hopefully that explains what Kharis is a little better, so we can go a little deeper into what it means as a worshipper, as someone who calls themselves a Hellenic Polytheist.

Now, remember how I said that the pillars weren’t exactly a thing, and instead were a modern invention to assist those who weren’t raised in Ancient Greece with learning the customs and cultural behaviors that were common knowledge in Ancient Greece? Let’s keep that in mind. On a historical note, Kharis required something real. Having faith and good thoughts was not a part of the reciprocal circle that is Kharis. It required something real, and in Ancient Greece that did not mean devotional acts like making playlists. It meant something solid, offerings, like libations, food, incense, coins, seashells, and other solid, real items. If you have an altar, think about what you leave on it. On mine, I’ve got an incense holder, coins left at the foot of the statue of Hermes, corn from the field next to us, a nature ball with acorns and leaves and flowers in it, devotional drawings, fortunes from fortune cookies also at the foot of Hermes’ statue, dried roses and lilies in an empty wine bottle, seashells, pins, a book of myths, and a plate and cup where bread, oil, seeds, fruit, wine, and other food offerings can be left. Some of these are permanent, some of them get removed as they go bad. When I light incense and pray, when I leave food, when I leave seashells or coins or fortunes, I’m engaging in my part of the reciprocal circle that is Kharis. That means, historically, offering something real that goes above and beyond simple faith.

Now, not everyone can do that. Not everyone has the ability to have an altar, and not everyone can afford to burn incense everyday, and not everyone has the time to bake bread everyday. Now, that doesn’t mean that someone who lacks those abilities, or doesn’t have that time can’t engage in the reciprocal relationship that is Kharis. Remember, a huge part of practicing Hellenic Polytheism is bringing ancient worship into the modern world. Devotional acts are something real. You can offer a devotional act to the Theoi as your part of the Kharis. I’ve seen some stunning works of art created in devotion to the Theoi. I’ve heard songs wrote in devotion. I’ve read some deeply moving poetry. And I’ve seen prayers, prayers written with such devotion and love that they could bring you tears. Those actions are fully capable of being classified as part of the circle that is Kharis.

Kharis is not just actions, its a relationship. Much like how Xenia was a way of life ingrained into the culture of Ancient Greece, so too was Kharis. All the rites and rituals, sacrifices, prayers, hymns, offerings, everything that was offered to the Theoi; it came from the understanding that a relationship had to be built and maintained. You couldn’t just say your prayers and call it a day, you lived with the Theoi, and dealt with them every single day. Everyday, you had the opportunity to build the relationship, and the expectation that you would was built into society. Indeed, the concept of Kharis was so built into society that offerings and sacrifices were a part of their stories. Examples can be seen in many myths, plays, and epic poems from them. The reciprocal nature of Kharis is shown in the Illiad, the Odyssey, and the writings of Aristotle.

I’ve learned that Kharis can be hard to understand, especially when you’ve grown up in a society where the love of a deity is just…..constantly there. Kharis is the idea that the love of our deities is not unconditional, and our love for them need not be unconditional as well. We don’t have that relationship with our gods that is bondless. We build a relationship with them, and they build one back. That, to me, is one of the appeals of Hellenic Polytheism. The relationship is a reciprocal one built up over time, using something that is definable, real, an offering that you can hold and see. So, we give, they give, we give, they give, until you’ve built a solid foundation for a solid relationship. That relationship, built out of Kharis, is what makes the worship we engage in so beautiful.

Thanks for listening to today’s discussion of Kharis. For today’s episode, I relied on the Illiad, the Odyssey, Kharis: Hellenic Polytheism Explored by Sarah Kate Istra Winter, The emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature by David Konstan, and the Center for Hellenic Studies. You can always find a transcript of this and other episodes on my tumblr blog at goddessdoeswitchery.tumblr.com, as well as a link to the sources I used. Feel free to ask any questions, and don’t forget to tune in on September 6th, when we will be discussing Arete.

ARETE

Welcome to today’s episode of Hellenic Polytheism 101, where I will be discussing the pillar of Hellenic polytheism, Arete. For first time listeners, I want to mention that technically, the pillars were never actually a “thing”. Unlike then 10 commandments, the pillars were never taught as a set of rules that everyone knew by the name “Pillars of Hellenic Polytheism”, or any variation thereof. What modern day practitioners of Hellenic Polytheism call “The Pillars” were essentially religious and cultural practices that were taught by family and friends via every day life. The pillars were an essential part of the culture of Ancient Greece, taught to them the same way customs like tipping, saying “bless you” at sneezing, and the now-common practice of wearing a mask everywhere are taught to us today. In recreating Hellenic Polytheism for the modern age, the Pillars grew out of a need for a set of guidelines to help us recreate a very old religion. Now, on to Arete.

Arete is excellence. It’s living up to your fullest potential. It’s being the best you. Arete means doing your best to become your best and to live your best life. Arete’s end goal is a life fulfilled, and happy. Arete in Homer’s works is usually associated with the person who uses everything at their disposal to do the best work, the person who is most effective at achieving what they set out to achieve. Homer applies arete to Penelope as she fulfills her role as wife. Odysseus has arete when he uses his intelligence. In the Illiad, Achilles has arete by being the best warrior. In the Tenets of Solon, Arete is achieved by being honorable, honest, intelligent, and humble. He advised the following: Consider your honor, as a gentleman, of more weight than an oath; never speak falsely; pay attention to matters of importance; be not hasty in making friends and do not cast off those whom you have made; rule, after you have first learnt to submit to rule; advise not what is most agreeable, but what is best; make reason your guide; do not associate with the wicked; honor the gods; and respect your parents.

Arete is simply being the best version of you. One of the hardest things about Hellenic polytheism is taking those ancient concepts and applying them to the world we have now, one that doesn’t call for heroes like Achilles, and one where we can’t always take the time to better ourselves because work and life can get in the way. It is important to understand that arete doesn’t always mean being number one and winning whatever contest is at hand. One thing that should be understood is that a person can be their best, give it everything they’ve got, and still lose. There will be people who are objectively better at doing what you do than you are. Someone will get a higher grade. Someone else will get the role or solo or part you’re trying out for sometimes. Someone else can have a better idea than you. Someone else will write better, or draw better, or be better than you in whatever you are trying to achieve.

The first step of applying the concept of arete to our everyday lives is to accept that your best and the best of someone else are very different things. You are you and you can only do your own best. Now that does mean that you have to apply yourself. Doing the barest minimum to get by is not a way to achieve arete. Arete means taking control of, and responsibility for, your own life. It means challenging yourself everyday to become better than you are.

Take a moment and think about things you’ve always wanted to do. A language you wanted to learn. A hobby you wanted to pick up. A project that you’ve put to the side. Something you’ve always wanted to learn about. Arete means taking the time to do that. If you have a goal, arete means doing the work to reach it. Then it means creating another goal. Plato said that arete is the ideal form of a thing, something that you are always trying to achieve. You achieve arete by always trying to reach for it, always trying to be better. This means that you won’t always be at the top of your game. You will stumble. You will fail. You will make mistakes. Arete doesn’t mean you will never be wrong, you will never fail, and you will always be perfect. It is not expected of us to be perfect all the time. What is expected is that we will try. When we fail, we learn from that failure and try again.

Now, if you’re anything like me, you’ve probably got a busy life. Between work and taking care of a household, I rarely get time to do anything for me. It is hard to take that time that I want to use to watch Netflix, or pop on a movie, or scroll online doing nothing of any real substance and put it towards something that is actual work. But I try. I read, every day. I do research for this podcast and my own growth. I do the laundry. I clean the house. I spend time with my kids, as a parent, teaching them and guiding them and playing with them. I write. I exercise. I plan and cook meals that are good for us and aren’t the easiest options. I pray. I always strive to be better at work. I’ve given my boss ideas that we’ve implemented nationwide that have made our division look good. I reach for arete every day, by understanding that it is something that I must always strive for. By always striving for it, I hope to achieve it.

One of the things that made this episode a little bit more difficult to write than the previous ones is that arete is subjective. Xenia is a set of rules. Kharis is a reciprocal circle. But arete isn’t something that can simply be memorized and put into practice as we come across situations that could use it, like xenia is. Arete is not something built into our everyday worship, the way Kharis is. Arete is something that has to be strived for every day. It is something that is work. It takes focus. It takes energy. It takes commitment. Only you can know if you’re doing your best and so no one else can come up to you and say “You haven’t achieved arete, you’ve broken the rules, you need to do better next time.” It is up to you and you alone to strive for arete. No one can coach you one it. No one can teach it to you. So, this episode will be a lot shorter than the others, because I can’t teach you arete. I can only explain what it is, explain how it has been seen historically, and let you do he work from there. Now it’s time for you to do the work. Good luck.

Thank you for listening to today’s episode of Hellenic Polytheism 101, where we discussed Arete, one of the pillars of Hellenic polytheism. Today, I relied on the Odyssey, the Illiad, the Center for Hellenic Studies, Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, Baring the Aegis, wikipedia’s page on Arete, and The Greek Way by Edith Hamilton. A transcript of this episode and all others can be found on my tumblr, goddessdoeswitchery.tumblr.com under the tag “transcripts”. There you will also find links to the sources used today to more research on your own. You can always ask me any questions there as well. Tune in on September 20th for the next episode, which will be about the next pillar of Hellenic polytheism, Sophia.

SOPHIA

Hello, and welcome to today’s episode of Hellenic Polytheism 101, where we will be discussing one of the pillars of Hellenic Polytheism: Sophia. Sophia is wisdom, cleverness, and skill. The concept has changed and has grown over time to be more applied to wisdom and the pursuit of wisdom, especially by Plato. It might be easier to recognize Sophia in the way it was applied to Socrates and Plato and Pythagoras, as part of the term “philosophia” or, philosophy, the love of wisdom. Now, remember how I’ve said in my other podcasts about the Pillars of Hellenic polytheism being more of a way of life than a literal set of rules? Here’s another part where that really comes through. In Greek culture, wisdom and the pursuit of it were incredibly important, so much so that it was the Ancient Greeks that were considered to be the founders of philosophy; and since Greek culture and Greek religion were so intertwined with each other, we are left asking, how can we, as modern day Hellenic polytheists, apply the concept of Sophia to our everyday lives?

One thing we can be sure of is that a person doesn’t need to be a world class philosopher like Plato to be a Hellenic polytheist. What we should be aiming for is the ever-present pursuit of wisdom. We should always be trying to learn, everyday. It doesn’t have to be a huge undertaking. Read a book. Watch a documentary. Read a scholarly article. Listen to a podcast. And if you come across something you don’t quite understand, research it. One of the best ways to pursue wisdom is to fight ignorance. There will be many times in your life when you are faced with something you don’t have any experience with, something you know nothing about. Living with the pillar Sophia means taking the time to learn and battling your own ignorance. In today’s world, I know how hard that can be. You can’t do a google search without their predictive algorithm doing some serious confirmation bias. Living with Sophia means taking the time, in pursuit of wisdom, to do it right.

Now, I love learning. I’m one of those people who, if given an unlimited supply of money and an eternity, I would be a student forever. But Sophia doesn’t necessarily mean learning in a classroom environment. Think about your last week. Did you come across new information? Did you read an online article that broadened your world view? Did you learn something new? Did you gain a deeper understanding of something you thought you already understood? Did you discover something that mostly everyone you knew was aware of, even something as simple as the fact that if you roll up the deodorant, you can take the plastic cover off without having to struggle with it? If so, outstanding! You battled ignorance in some small way this week.

Battling ignorance and pursuing wisdom also means battling the ignorance of others. If you’re hearing and listening to this, or reading the transcript, then it means that you’ve entered the online world in some way. That means you’ve also come across ignorant people, who seemed perfectly gleeful to remain that way. It also means you’ve come across people who were ignorant, simply because they didn’t know any better, and they needed someone to point the way. Anecdotal story break time: I’ve got a cousin who is a senior in high school. She plays a lot of different instruments and she’s very, very good. She has practiced, a lot, and has put some serious work into it. I’ve also got an uncle who is on his 4th or 5th black belt. He has put some serious effort and a couple decades worth of time into varying forms of Martial Arts. My sister’s friend is an artist, and an incredible one. She has more followers on her Instagram and tumblr and devian art pages than I care to count, and she’s graduating college as a graphic designer with job offers from some very big names. All 3 of these people are outstanding in their field. Now, to get to the why I brought them up: All 3 of them have told me, in some way, that once they reached a certain point in their skill level, the best way to get better was to start teaching. As they taught others, their own skill increased. I believe the same applies to everyone. So, one of the ways you can apply Sophia to your life is to teach those who don’t know any better. You will come across people who are resistant to fixing their ignorance but more often than not, people are willing to learn. That means you can take the time to teach them.

Sophia also means cleverness and skill. In fact Homer applies to the term with the meaning “skillful in handicraft and in arts” towards both Athena and Hephaestus. Now, I would never suggest that we, as Hellenic polytheists, can be as skillful the Theoi in any way. We should all know why that’s a bad idea. However, we can become skilled in our own handicrafts and arts. That is another way to practice Sophia. Now, I know not all of us have something we can reasonably point to and say “That’s an art”. There are artists and musicians and weavers and seamstresses and poets among us, to be sure. But we also have writers. We have readers. We have spellcrafters. We have engineers. We have software coders. We have jewelers. We have homemakers. Sophia means cleverness and skill. That means there are many, many ways you can apply it to your daily life. Everyone has something they can do with skill. Sophia means practicing that skill and utilizing it.

To me, Sophia is one of the easiest pillars of Hellenic polytheism to bring into my every day life. Pursuing wisdom, battling ignorance, practicing a skill, these are all things that we are doing every day. And Sophia is as simple as that. Thank you for listening to today’s episode of Hellenic Polytheism, where we discussed the pillar Sophia. Today, I relied on the notes from one of my college courses, Intro to Philosophy, and the Homeric Hymns. As always, you can find links to the, well, one source that is linkable this time around, on my tumblr page at goddessdoeswitchery.tumblr.com, where I am also always free for discussions and questions. Coming on October 4th, the next pillar Sophrosune. I look forward to seeing you all then.

SOPHROSUNE

Hello and welcome to today’s episode of Hellenic Polytheism 101, where we will be moving onto to the next pillar of Hellenic Polytheism: Sophrosyne, which is, essentially, moderation, prudence, self-control, self-discipline, or temperance based upon thorough self-examination. Since we are coming up on a holiday season in the US, this seems like the perfect time to focus on Sophrosyne, and to remember it’s opposite, hubris, and how to avoid it. It is also important to remember that even in Ancient Greece, it was well understood that Sophrosyne could be taken too far, something we also understand still today.

“Earth shaker, you would not consider me sophrosyne if I were to fight with you for the sake of wretched mortals” Apollo says this to Poseidon in the Illiad, as Homer brings us a look at what Sophrosyne would mean to the same deity who brings us the Delphic Maxims, such as know know thyself, know by learning, exercise prudence, praise virtue, nothing in excess, know who is the judge, keep secret what should be kept secret, take sensible risks, be well behaved, be self disciplined, be sensible. This is not the only example in Homer’s work of Sophrosyne. In fact, there are a really a lot of them. I would definitely suggest you read both of them and look closely for examples of sophrosyne. Homer was very sensitive to the need for Sophrosyne in society and in an individual. On an individual level, sophrosyne prevented people form getting into serious trouble, both with themselves and on a religious level. After all, someone exercising sophrosyne would be very unlikely to become a spider after being cursed by Athena, right? On a modern level, someone exercising sophrosyne is less likely to face personal problems as well. You won’t wind up drinking to excess and getting into a car accident. You won’t find yourself challenging someone better than you to a fight. You won’t find yourself taking on more tasks than you can manage. You won’t find yourself spending more money than you can spare on things you don’t need. By exercising sophrosyne you can avoid a lot of trouble. On a societal level, we should try to exercise that same self control and temperance. After all, there is no reason for any country to spend more than 56 countries combined on defense spending. There is no reason for a city to cut taxes and not invest in repairing roads or assisting those who need it the most. There is no reason for a group of friends to go out in the middle of a pandemic to a bar just to have a good time. We can bring the ideals of sophrosyne to our own lives and encourage others to do the same, through voting and talking to others and being an example.

When we do not practice sophrosyne, we tend to fall victim to hubris. For someone who has spent any sort of time practicing Hellenic polytheism, we should all know exactly how bad hubris is. We’ve all probably seen it or heard it online. Recently, there was a lot of talk of witches online cursing the moon, specifically aimed at making Artemis or Apollo angry. Now, in the end, it was revealed to be some big hoax, a lie they told to make other witches start saying things about how they could tell someone had hexed the moon because their own spells weren’t as effective. Then the original hexers could say “Ha! We told you witch craft and the gods weren’t real, see? These guys said they noticed a change but we didn’t do anything, so clearly they must be faking!” The whole ordeal was a perfect example of what could happen if people fell victim to hubris, and many more sensible folks online pointed out that it was hubris, believing anyone could have an affect on a deity by cursing the moon. We’ve all seen other examples of hubris. Hellenic polytheists who say that Artemis would never let a man worship her, or a straight woman, or a woman who has had sex with a man. People who gatekeep, projecting their personal bigotry onto the Theoi. We’ve all come across. Hopefully, most have us have rolled our eyes and ignored it.

Even in mythology, hubris is painted to be among the worst things a person can be. Niobe lost her sons and daughters to Artemis and Apollo after she bragged to Leto that she was better than Leto for having more children. Arachne, turned into a spider for daring to compare herself to Athena. Antigone’s father, who lost his son and his wife for believing that his life was higher than the law of the gods. Oedipus refuses to accept his own fate and wound up falling victim to it because of his hubris. Ajax, believing he was entitled to the armor of Achilles and being driven mad and eventually killing himself. Icarus, flying to close to the sun, too prideful to listen to his father’s warnings. Orestes taking it upon himself to avenge his father by killing his mother and being driven mad. Greek stories are teeming with examples of people who have fallen victim to hubris. In many of these stories, sophrosyne is pointed to as a virtue to aspire to strictly to avoid it’s opposite, hubris.

And yet, we can also take sophrosyne too far. For example, in the Bacchae, Pentheus holds himself as a champion of sophrosyne, as fails to understand that by being overly self-controlled and self-discplined and holding himself up as the model of sophrosyne, he ignores the moderation and temperance part. He tried to force everyone listen to him, to oppose the Bacchic rites, and, in the end, his obsession with only a part of sophrosyne causes his own death. The Ancient Greeks understood that there was such a thing as being too controlled. There was such a thing as a fatal exaggeration of one side of the many-sided virtue of sophrosyne. Thus one of the biggest keys to sophrosyne is moderation. Nothing in excess says one of the Delphic Maxims, not even self-control and self-discipline.

As we go through this holiday there a lot of ways you can apply sophrosyne to your life. One of the dangers of the holidays is becoming over-extended. For example, I have a large family. Like…..over 100 people kind of large. So large that we could probably fill a high school basketball stadium kind of large. It’s also got a lot of different branches. Mom’s side, which has dad and mom in separate houses. My ex-stepdad, whose family we still see. My dad and his family. My dad’s ex wife and her daughter and her kids, who I’m also close to. My girlfriend. My kids’ dad and his family. I always joke that we’ve got our own little 12 days of Christmas skit between grandpa jones, grandpa long, Uncle Cody, Uncle Andrew, my dad, his ex wife’s house, my girlfriend, the kids’ dad, his family, and we’ve still got to squeeze out time for our own holiday celebration too. Factor in the fact that, like most customer service based companies in the US, my job doesn’t allow us to take more than half of Christmas Eve and all of Christmas day off. Sure, we’ve got the Sunday before and after when I’m off as well, but that’s barely 3 days for 4 states and 10 places to visit. Factor in the budget for all those places and all those gifts, not to mention the drama that comes around when we decide where we’re having Thanksgiving at and you can understand why I bring up being overextended as a danger of the holiday season. Now, maybe that isn’t a problem for you. Maybe you become over extended by volunteering to work too many hours to help your more Christian friends have time off. Maybe you offer to do too much during Thanksgiving and wind up having to wake up at 5 am to get started on a meal that you can’t believe you promised to cook. Maybe during Halloween, you spend too much time focused on parties or trick-or-treating and realize that you would have had a much better time sitting at home, watching Halloweentown with a bowl of candy and some friends. Either way, we all tend to push ourselves too hard, especially once the holidays roll around and we start wanting to do everything so we can get every experience. We need to remember sophrosyne during this time. Exercise self-control and stay home when it’s something you want to do. Exercise self-discipline and avoid getting gifts when you can’t afford it, there is no shame in saying “Look, finances are strapped and I can’t manage more than X”. Exercise moderation and remember that you can’t actually do everything. Be prudent and accept the reality of whatever situation you are facing. Practice sophrosyne.

Thank you for listening to today’s episode of Hellenic Polytheism 101 where we discussed another one of the Pillars of Hellenic polytheism, Sophrosyne. Today, I relied on the Odyssey, The Illiad, Sophrosyne: Self Knowledge and Self-Restraint in Greek Literature by Helen North, A Period of Opposition to Sophrosyne In Greek Thought also by Helen North, Mythology of the Greeks by George Grote, and the Wikipedia entry for Sophrosyne. Remember, all links to the resources I used can be found on my tumblr at goddessdoeswitchery.tumblr.com, along with a transcript of today’s episode under the tag “Transcripts”. I look forward to speaking with you all again on October 18th, where we will be discussing Eusebia.

EUSEBIA

Hello and welcome to today’s episode of Hellenic Polytheism 101, where we will be discussing, Eusebia, or reverence and duty towards the gods. Now, keep in mind that Eusebia was so revered, so vital to the worship and religion of the ancient greeks that she became a personified spirit, who was married to Nomos, the Law, and had a child, Dike. This already sets aside this particular pillar from the others. As a being, Eusebia was the personified spirit of piety, loyalty, duty and filial respect. However, we are not yet at the point for deities or personifications, so mostly all of today will be focused on talking about what Eusebia is as a concept and how we can practice it as a modern worshipper. Now, so far we’ve talked a lot about our relationships with the many deities we worship. We’ve talked about offerings and Kharis, we’ve talked about the humility we should approach them with, and we’ve talked about the respect we should bring with us whenever we approach them. All of that goes into Eusebia.

Eusebia is about reverence towards the Theoi. That reverence is where, I’ve noticed, a lot of modern worshippers tend to falter. There is nothing wrong with making a joke about some of the Theoi. I don’t know if all of you have heard the one about Hermes being the only god to pay his worshippers for their worship. It’s fun to joke about that. I always like using Hermes as an example of a deity that a lot of worshippers are fairly causal with. He is, in my experience, one of the most easy going deities. He’s the type of god that puts a train on every track between your home and work on the only morning you’re running late for the last 6 months, just to get a message to you. He’s a prankster, a jokester….and still deserves the same degree of reverence as every other deity. Just because you can laugh with him doesn’t mean he is not revered by you. After all, he is also the shepherd of the dead, the one who guides their souls. He is the god of travel, of languages, of luck, of communication, and like 1000 other things.

It is not reverent to attempt to speak for the Theoi. It is not reverent to make up bullshit facts about a specific goddess to say that she would be on your side of an online discourse. It is not reverent to leave a deity out of your worship because you don’t like how one interpretation of one of the myths portray the deity. It is not reverent to drag the Theoi down to the level of an online personality. They are gods and goddesses and they deserve to revered as such. By virtue of what they are, they deserve the worship, offerings, and the rituals that we engage in. Impiety was frowned upon by the ancient greeks and should continue to be frowned upon today. It has never been acceptable to treat the Theoi like accessories, to be tried on and discarded whenever you don’t have enough time to engage with them. You find time, you make time, in whatever you can. And it doesn’t have to be a big thing. A prayer. A lit candle. Some incense. A quick offering. The Theoi deserve worship.

But, just like with some of the other pillars, the people of ancient Greece knew that there was such a thing as being too pious. There were people who spent too much time praying, too much time fearing the Theoi, and were constantly sure they had something to offend the Theoi and so spent even more time praying and offering and attending to the temples. This excessive fear, or deisidaimonia, was a sign of taking Eusebia too far. It was understood that a person should be mindful of the Theoi, and take an appropriate amount of time and give the appropriate offerings. This also included attending and participating in the appropriate rituals and festivals.

Eusebia also means understanding why we do the things we do. Why do we give these particular offerings? Why are offerings for Chthonic and Ouranic deities different? What are the reasons behind certain rituals? What are the reasons behind traditional offerings? Eusebia means understanding these things, having the answers to these questions and not just blindly following a traditional path. It’s important to understand the reason why. And so, Eusebia means taking the time to research your beliefs. If you have questions, put in the work to answer them. This can also definitely include asking others. We are a community. So, if you have questions, reach out. Ask people, “Why are coins such a common offering to Hermes?” Find a book in the library about the life of people of ancient Greece. Put in the effort to research and create your own calendar with your own rituals and holidays. Take the time to understand why, to research your deities and understand what they might ask of you, and why they would ask it. All too often, I’ve seen popular bloggers and popular authors in the community asked the same question a 100 times because the idea of taking the time to do your own research is apparently distasteful to some people.

It is important to remember, as a part of Eusebia, that the Theoi are not room mates or friends or accessories. They are deities. They are gods and goddesses and titans and by virtue of what they are, they deserve our devotion. I’ve always seen Hellenic polytheism as a simpler path than Christianity. We do not have a single, omniscient, all powerful god that offers a set of rules that must be followed or else we will suffer for all eternity. That’s not how Hellenic polytheism works. We worship our gods in our own way, at our own pace. Hellenic polytheism is a very personable religion. Everything about it, from hymns to holidays to rituals to altars to offerings, everything is unique to each individual practitioner. But, on the flip side, that means that we don’t have a holy book to draw from. That means that we don’t have a set of authority figures we have to listen to. We are responsible for our own piety. We are responsible for our own worship. We are responsible for our own research. We are responsible for our own devoutness. We are responsible for ourselves.

And that’s what Eusebia is, that’s why it is gets set up as a pillar of Hellenic polytheism. It is a vital component of our religious practice, to take the time to not only worship, but to know how and why we worship the way we do. It is necessary to show the Theoi the respect they are due, by virtue of their very being. It is necessary to speak about them with reverence, to be loyal, to not use them as talking points or spell ingredients. It is necessary to take the time, to do the research, to understand the whys, to understand the rituals we take part in when we light incense and offer up a prayer and use an epithet and recite a Homeric hymn. This isn’t a religion where we can just go through the motions. We have to put the proper amount of reverence into our actions. We have to be devout, and loyal, and have a healthy amount of respect and fear towards these beings who we worship and who take the time to guide us on our way. It is necessary to be humble, to understand that what we are doing is worshipping the Theoi. I don’t know about anyone else, but when I pray, when I let incense or a candle or wrap my hands around a set of prayer beads, when I take that time…..I’ve never felt so at peace. That feeling, that love and devotion and serenity…..that’s the feeling of Eusebia. Next time you get to that point, when you feel that, take the time to focus on that feeling and harness it. Meditate on it. That’s what you should draw on when you think of Eusebia and how to interact with the Theoi, those beings that we worship as Hellenic polytheists.

Thank you for listening to today’s episode of Hellenic Polytheism 101, where we discussed Eusebia. For my sources today, I used the book Greek Religion by Walter Burkett, found on the Internet Archive. I also used The Greek Way by Edith Hamilton. I used Baring the Aegis’ and Elanion’s posting on Eusebia as well. Remember, you can find links to the sources, as well as a transcript of today’s episode, on my tumblr at goddessdoeswitchery.tumblr.com. You can also always reach me there as well with any questions. Don’t forget to tune in to the next episode, on November 1st, which will be the last one discussing the pillars the Hellenic polytheism. I will be discussing the final pillar, hagneia. I look forward to seeing you all then!

HAGNEIA

Hello and welcome to today’s episode of Hellenic polytheism 101 where we will be discussing the final pillar, Hangeia. Now, anyone who is able to look at this word might note it bears a striking similarity to the word “hygienic” and then, you would be on to something. Hagneia is more of a ritual purity, an avoidance of miasma and cleansing oneself before you go before the Theoi, before you engage in rituals. Now, does this mean you can’t shoot off a quick prayer before you wash your hands while gardening? No, of course not, thus the “ritual” part of the “ritual purity”. Now, there is actually a lot of disagreement regarding miasma and cleansing in the Hellenic polytheism community. There are those that claim that for the most part, the average person won’t be contaminated with miasma throughout the course of an average life. There are those that believe that we collect miasma throughout the course of our everyday life. There are those that believe that we must fully cleanse ourselves before an offering. There are those that believe that a simple washing of the hands will suffice. There are those that believe the cleansing must be done with khernips, or lustral water. There are those that believe the cleansing can be done with any clean water. And there are those believe any variation of those beliefs combined. Remember one of the best part of Hellenic polytheism is that it is so personable. Therefore, most of this is going to be looking at it from how I work. As always, I urge you to do your own research on the matter.

Now, the first thing to keep in mind is that Hagneia was used to mostly mean ritually pure, spiritually pure, and was understood to mean whether or not someone was fit to approach the gods. There were things you could come into contact with that would create a buildup of miasma and it was best to avoid those things when you could. However, you can’t always do so. Some of those things are death in the family, giving birth, illness (not chronic illness, but like the flu), are all examples of something that can be considered miasmic. The real question we face today is how to cleanse that miasma? Most of the time, the biggest cure for miasma was time. There was a period of time you had to wait to no longer be considered miasmic after having given birth, or after losing a loved one. You were supposed to wait until after an illness has passed. And, you were supposed to cleanse yourself. Mostly that meant washing up, getting physically clean. For today, that means wash your hands, wash your face, take a shower or a bath (especially if you’d been sick, take a shower and change into clean clothes). So that part is really simple.

Now, historically, there was also another thing that rendered you miasmic. It very likely won’t apply to anyone hearing this or reading the transcript, but it is an issue that is covered in pretty much every source I read regarding miasma and Hagneia so I am going to mention it as well. Murdering someone was very much a cause of miasma. There were very special midnight rituals one was supposed to engage in in order to cleanse oneself of the miasma caused by murder. I would say that in today’s society that if you commit murder, you’re likely to get caught and so won’t have much use of said ritual, but that’s statistically unlikely so I’m just gonna say, don’t commit murder and you won’t have to worry about what that midnight ritual is. Mostly I just figured the fact that it’s mentioned so often is an interesting historical side note.

Time to move on the things that are more likely to affect you, such as how to practice Hagneia as a modern worshipper. While I would love it if the average Hellenic polytheist could go to a temple and worship with others on a regular basis, the fact is that most of us worship and prayer and do rituals on our own, or with a very tight knit group in a personal, private space. I myself am mostly a solitary practitioner. Sure, I have my mom and my sister and my kids, and I have a community of people online; but in my daily practice, it’s me, by myself doing the offering and praying and general worshipping. That’s probably true of most of you all as well. So how does a mostly solitary practitioner who isn’t going attending a ritual hosted by or attended by a large amount of people deal with the community based concepts like miasma and Hagneia? Well, in my case it means that I tend to put holiday rituals and offerings on hold when I would be considered miasmic. It means that when a close family member died, I prayed at the funeral for her safe passage and otherwise avoided rituals for a month. It means that when I gave birth to my kids, rituals and offerings were on hold for 10 days, which was about how long it took for me to even be in the mindset to get back to daily worship and prayers. It means that when I am sick, I wait until I am recovered to engage in practice and worship. When I got the flu a few years back, (three times that year, which is what I get for not getting the flu shot, I’m telling you, I’ll never miss it again and if you haven’t yet gotten your flu shot this year, please do) I stayed in bed and rested until I was better. I may have said a few informal prayers, like something along the lines of “please let this stop, I feel like I’m dying here”, but I waited until I was well. I then cleaned my bed and my room and myself and my clothes and changed my toothbrush and brushed my teeth with the clean toothbrush and got clean again before I went back to a regular worship schedule. So, for about 5 weeks that winter, I didn’t do very much in the way or practicing. And that’s okay. That’s what practicing Hagneia and avoiding bringing miasma to the Theoi is.

So, as a modern worshipper, the best way to practice Hagneia is to stay clean. Cleanse yourself of miasma as you come across it, make sure that you are fit to approach the Theoi before you do so. It’s a very simple pillar to follow because for the most, most of us already do. The next time you feel guilty about not being able to worship because you’re sick, or have a death in the family, or a newborn at home, remember that the break you’re taking is required, and important. It’ll be okay. The Theoi will understand.

Thank you for listening to today’s episode of Hellenic Polytheism 101. This is the last one that will be spent discussing the Pillars of Hellenic Polytheism. Remember, you can always find a transcript of the podcast on my blog at goddessdoeswitchery.tumblr.com, as well as a link to the sources I used today, which were: Inner Purity and Pollution by Andrej Petrov; Shame and Purity in Euripides' Hippolytus by Charles Segal; Shame in Ancient Greece by David Konstan, The Pillars of Hellenismos and What is and Is Not Miasmic by BaringTheAegis; and finally, A Beginner’s Guide to Hellenismos by Timothy Jay Alexander. You can also always ask me any questions at any time there as well. Finally, I will also have on there a complete transcript of all 7 episodes about the Pillars in a single post as well. Right now, we’re looking at 12 pages, and 8637 words, so it’ll be a very long post, set under a read more. The post will contain links to all the sources used for these last 7 episodes as well, so please fell free to check it out and continue your own research. For the next episode, I’m going to be discussing the Delphic maxims. There are 147 of them, so don’t worry, I’m not about to go fully in depth with each one the way I did the pillars. It’ll be just a simple discussion on the maxims themselves. I look forward to seeing you all then on Nov 15th!

#transcripts #transcript #hellenic polytheism 101 #pillars of hellenic polytheism #sophia #hagneia #kharis #arete #sophrosyne #eusebia #xenia

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five-hxrgreeves · 4 years

Text

I Won’t Back Down - Five Hargreeves x OC

Word Count: 3,244

You can stand me up at the gates of hell But I won't back down I'm gonna stand my ground Won't be turned around And I'll keep this world from dragging me down

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Pt. 4- Waking up to Ash and Dust

Lola didn’t know what woke her but she groaned and opened her eyes, lifting her head from where her cheek stuck to the page she’d been writing on before she’d fallen asleep. The basement was pitch-black, her candles having been burned out while she’d been resting. Unbothered, the brunette stood, stretched, and made her way to the wall where she knew the light switch was. After patting the guessed area, her hand hit on the dimmer and flicked it up. Nothing happened.

She moved it up and down several more times and the room remained completely dark. Frowning in confusion, Lola guessed that they’d lost power during the night for some reason. With no windows in the basement, it was impossible to tell what time it was or if a weather event had happened. Shrugging, she stepped twice to the right and placed her hand on the banister to guide her steps up the stairs. Only- she hit her head even halfway up.

”Ouch!” the girl yelped, rubbing the sore spot on her head. What the hell? The ceiling was never this low before! There were fifteen steps from the door to the bottom of the basement. Lola had only gone up ten.

She pushed on the supposed ceiling tentatively. No movement, “hey, guys? Mom? Dad?” she called, hoping someone would hear.

There was no way the ceiling was caved in, right? How would that even be possible? Maybe her uncle was pulling a prank on her and had stuffed obstacles down the stairs so she couldn’t come up.

“Uncle Ed? You’re really very funny! Haha!” she tried, hoping it would convince him to help move the stuff.

Then, something shifted and movement by her feet made her jump, causing her to yelp. There’s no mice down here, idiot. Her mother would never allow that, so what had fallen by her foot?

Still in pitch-blackness, Lola made her way back down the stairs until the was on the last one. Gripping the banister carefully, she moved her foot into the empty space below the final step until she hit what had fallen. Bending over, she was surprised by the weight of the item.

Lola moved the object between her hands, feeling the roughness and shape of it. It wasn’t any sort of object used for a prank, she determined. It felt like a part of her house. But how could that be right?

Stay calm, Lola, she told herself, there’s a reasonable explanation for this. Maybe mom decided to renovate the upstairs, started this morning, and forgot you were down here? That seemed a little far-fetched. What about school? Her mother always checked the basement if Lola wasn’t in her room and it had to be around the time she had to get ready.

Dropping the loose object, the girl made her way back up until her head brushed the blockage again, “MOM? DAD?” she yelled again, straining her ears for an answer.

What the hell happened last night? Or early this morning, she supposed. She called for her parents several more times, all of which went without response. Turning, she sat down on the seventh step and buried her face in her hands, the sudden coverage of her eyes making no difference with the black of the room.

Okay, she thought, you know the basement. What could you use to help you?

There were drills and electrical cords so she could drill herself out but she’d never used the tools before, her mom would go nuts and there seemed to be no power. She had candles, so she could burn her way through but if it was mostly cement on top of her that wouldn’t help. Paint was useless and so were light bulbs. She doubted there was something useful in the holiday section. Did they have a pick axe? Those couldn’t be so hard to use. Or maybe an anvil and a hammer.

That would take longer but didn’t require electricity and her mom might be more okay with that.

What if it caves in on you, though? she considered, biting her lip as she tried to puzzle around it, what did people use to prevent cave-ins? Some type of support, she supposed. Did they store plywood in the basement? Was that even strong enough?

Stay calm, Lola, you can do this. And besides, she was jumping ahead of herself. Surely her parents would notice and dig her out? Maybe there wasn’t even that much blockage and it just seemed like a lot. It probably just was a rotten prank her Uncle Ed had cooked up but she couldn’t see her mother being okay with her being late for school because of it. Still, she didn’t want to jump to conclusions so she stood and made her way back up the stairs, calling as loudly as she could, “MOM? DAD? UNCLE ED?”

There was no telling how much time had passed but no answer came as Lola’s voice tired out. After her 839th call, she gave a final cough, turned, and sat down, bending her head slightly to accommodate the small space. What now?

Surely it was past school’s starting time. Her uncle and father would be at the store and her mother would be at the library starting her shift. Lola sighed and strained her eyes into the blackness, hoping it would reveal an answer of what happened. It didn’t, of course, but she wasn’t sure what else to do. Maybe her voice wasn’t loud enough? The thought suddenly occurred to her and part of her favorite, well-memorized story came back to her: Liesel hit the lid of a paint can. Maybe her paint cans weren’t as useless as she thought.

After sliding down the stairs feet first and lowering herself carefully by her hands, she stood and made her first step to the left. Suddenly, she was very glad she was a counter. There were exactly twenty-seven and a half steps to the paint section of the shelves from the bottom of the stairs. Carefully counting them out, she arrived in the correct place and took the top paint can after feeling around for the handle. Then, with another fifteen steps, she made her way to the hand-held tools and felt along the second shelf for a hammer, pleased when her hand grasped the worn, wooden handle.

Turning, Lola counted the total forty-two and a half steps back to the stairs and went up again to the blockage. Placing the paint can on the last available step, she swung the hammer down, hard, on the lid. It let out a resounding clang which was loud in the dark stillness and made her flinch in surprise. Shaking off her prickle of fear, she repeated the action several more times.

The girl jumped when something slightly wet splashed on her and she gingerly felt the spot where it landed on her shirt. Oops.

The lid had dented after so many hits and now it had finally given, the most recent contact had splashed the sent the wet paint flying. She swallowed nervously. How many paint cans did they have? How long would she be stuck here? Clearly, no one was coming to help. Lola supposed she should have waited until her parents would actually be home but the thought hadn’t occurred to her until now. Besides, who knew how long it had been?

The thought made her shudder slightly, the idea of days passing without being released not sitting well with her. She loved the basement but even she didn’t want to live out the rest of her days here. I need light, Lola thought, slightly frantically.

She shook herself and took a deep breath. As well as she knew the space, losing count of the steps wouldn’t help her. She descended the stairs again and stepped left, this time counting out eleven steps. Her hands found the candles and matches blindly, relieved when she felt that there were twenty-five in all. She would still conserve the light, though. Just in case.

Lola repeated her path in reverse and sat on the third step, carefully holding one slim, long candle between her legs as she prepared the lighter. There was a spark and the match caught, causing her to quickly set it to the wick and shake it out, relieved to keep some of the darkness at bay. Holding the light aloft, the brunette stood from the stairs and in twenty-one steps she reached the far wall where a wine cellar of sorts stood embedded into the cement. The space was tiny and hand-dug, extremely cold in the winter and less so in the summer but was an additional food storage area for long-term items. They didn’t usually keep it very full but there were several packages of canned drinks, two tubs of ice cream, some frozen dinners and a case of water.

The girl now took stock of the items, checking that each one she thought was in there actually was and was reassured that she would be able to survive down here for some time, if it came to that. She hoped not. Lola had zero practiced survival skills and what she knew only came from books like Hatchet which wouldn’t truly help her here.

She wasn’t an idiot; rationing her food should start immediately and she needed to go as long as possible without eating or drinking to make it last longer. Going to the bathroom would be a challenge, but she’d dedicate a spot and hope for the best.

Stop it, idiot, Lola thought suddenly, you’re acting like you’re stuck down here. You probably aren’t.

Still, she couldn’t help but think what if she was? At least the couch could act as her bed and the rest of the time would be spent trying to free herself.

She sighed and exited the food storeroom, at least you don’t have to worry about homework right now. Your teachers will understand if you miss because you’re trapped in a basement. Hopefully.

Okay, she thought, if worst comes to worst, you’re pretty well off. There’s definitely no need to panic. Nope, none at all. Think: what would Liesel do? WWLD? She wouldn’t panic- well, she did at the sight of her dead-

STOP. Don’t think like that. The point is, she didn’t panic when she was trapped in her basement. People came to help. The same will happen for you. You’ve always wanted to be like her, remember? Now’s your chance.

“At least this will make for an interesting section in my autobiography,” Lola commented aloud and instantly shook her head, stop it, talking to yourself is a sure sign of insanity. It had only been a few hours at most, probably eight.

The uncertainty of exactly how many made her shudder slightly.

The next day- or what she assumed was the next day- she tried the same routine, calling her parents’ and uncle’s names for as long as she could before her voice gave and then resorting to banging on a paint can until it, too, gave. Lola used some of her light to count exactly how many paint cans she had, which were fifteen. A little over two weeks and she’d used two already.

They could help her keep track of the estimated days. To keep herself busy, she also partitioned out her food into servings so she wouldn’t eat a lot at once, even if she was really hungry. Her stomach was already starting to growl but she pushed through knowing it could get worse.

Another obstacle she realized she had was that there was no running water, not that the basement had a sink. There was no way to keep her hands clean or wash herself and she cringed at the thought of becoming disgustingly dirty.

The next guessed day came and Lola was entertaining the idea that something had gone very, very wrong outside. She’d sat for several hours next to the cave-in and heard nothing. She allowed that the pile on top of her was too thick to let sound through but it seemed that she’d hear police sirens or something as they swarmed over the collapsed house.

The thought made her heart twist in her chest. What about her parents? Were they hurt? The only explanation that there could be was the house collapsed, but surely they hadn’t been inside when it happened? They were probably worried out of their minds right now about her. Lola wished she could send them a message that she was okay.

An idea had crossed her mind that she could tap out an SOS out on her paint can lid but she didn’t know Morse code and had tossed the idea aside. The brunette was glad that she had rather weak olfactory senses and couldn’t easily smell herself but she was sure that after three days of not showering, she must stink.

You stink to high heaven! her mother would say. Lola had never missed her as much as she did right now and she wished she could have been more understanding about her mother’s reasoning for things. The next time she gives me chores or scolds me, I won’t ever complain again.

Two more days passed without much change. Lola still lived in darkness most of the time, worried about running out of light. It was surprisingly easy to stick to food rations. She’d never been a big eater but she wasn’t a small eater either. She chalked it up to the fact that she could count each serving.

Her first time going to the bathroom without a toilet had been awkward and messy but luckily they did store toilet paper and trash bags on the lower part of one of the shelves so at least she could clean up. The couch was a fine sleeping place and only creaked a little when she shifted around.

After spending her obligatory hours trying to get help, Lola would then shuffle, shuffle, shuffle her cards, over and over again to keep the panic at bay, the action familiar and comforting. In the dark, she would try magic tricks which proved to be difficult as she couldn’t see the result. Then, she returned to counting all fifty-two of the cards, reassuring herself that they were all there. Her writing fell by the wayside as she focused on keeping herself calm and definitely not panicking.

After approximately one week, Lola was starting to feel the affects of being stuck in the dark for so long. Sleep had become more difficult and she instead lay awake for hours, staring into nothing as she lay on her side on the couch, the cushions pressed against her back. It was easier to operate without light now, too. She still counted her steps whenever she moved around but her ears seemed sharper- the ringing of the paint can lid proved that- her touch seemed more sensitive and it seemed like her smell had improved, too, because she was definitely stinking.

Lola wished she had a change of clothes at least, but she was out of luck. The only possibility of new cloth was Christmas tree skirts and that wouldn’t help her since she didn’t have needle and thread- not that she was even a fashion designer, but she could have figured something out.

Sometimes, when she stared at nothing for long periods of time, bright spots would enter her vision or strange, geometric shapes would pop up. Then, she would blink and they would disappear. The thought of seeing things terrified her and Lola made an effort to keep her eyes physically closed instead of just peering into the darkness.

By the beginning of the second week, sleep had suddenly come back. Lola thought she was just closing her eyes in short spurts but in reality, they were closed for many hours. The paint cans helped keep her from misjudging how many days she’d spent in isolation and the food rations did too, slightly.

The panic that had threatened to overwhelm her had ebbed, only poking at the back of her mind every so often. Lola could feel that her body had become weaker, too, even though she spent many hours pacing the edge of the space, counting out all 900 steps. It was clear that no one was coming to help her but she couldn’t bring herself to stop hoping. Even as she lost everything else, something told her to press forward and keep believing someone would come.

She’d been speaking to herself more and more too, to cover up the awful silence that persisted in the darkness. She’d often just recite parts of her autobiography, sang song lyrics she'd memorized or she’d spend several hours reciting The Book Thief as a way to help calm her as her panic increased. One time, in her rotations, she’d turned on the third corner and had stopped for a moment, eyes wide, as what looked like a monkey on a unicycle juggled in front of her, complete with flashing circus lights and music.

Lola’s mouth had dropped open and she’d let out a crazy, slightly maniacal laugh before she rubbed at her eyes furiously in disbelief. The darkness had promptly returned, leaving her to shiver fearfully on the spot.

On the twelfth day, according to her paint cans- not that she actually knew for sure anymore- something changed. Lola hadn’t been expecting it, of course, and had gone on with her usual routine. Then, in one of her circuits of the basement, she heard something, out of the ordinary from the sounds she was used to- not that there were many. Her pulse picked up. Was someone trying to kill her?

“No, stupid,” she said aloud, her voice raw and hoarse from the hours she spent yelling, “you’re dumb. There’s no one alive. I think we’re alone now.”

The words didn’t make sense but then nothing much did these days. When had she started speaking in plural? Still, the shifting continued.

Creeping slowly up the staircase, the brunette paused next to her already set-up paint can. It certainly sounded like someone was out there. The girl looked down the dark staircase, thinking about her remaining food and liquid supply which was now rapidly dwindling, her shrinking amount of candles, paint cans and matches, her wrinkled, used deck of cards and came to a decision.

At first, her banging went unnoticed on the surface until the shifting stilled above her.

“Hello?” the sound was faint and muffled, clearly she was hearing things.

Lola continued her banging, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t.

The shifting resumed but it seemed more purposeful now. The sound came again, “hello? Is anyone there?”

Bang, bang, bang came the answer, the brunette continuously hitting the lid. A chink of brilliant light appeared above her head, making her shut her eyes in pain.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” it was definitely a voice, a young one, too.

Then, the hole opened wider, wider, and wider until bright light came pouring into the dark space. Turning up her face but closing her eyes, Lola tried to look up at who had come for her. Maybe she was dead and the light was from heaven.

The answer was the exact opposite as the voice spoke again, this time disbelief clear in the tone, “what the hell?”

#The Umbrella Academy #Umbrella Academy #five #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x dolores #5 #five hargreeves x oc #five hargreeves x reader #Five x oc #five x reader #five x dolores #human dolores #dolores isn't a mannequin #dolores #pre-tua #apocalypse #hargreeves #tua five

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ubernoxa · 4 years

Text

The Sip: A GNR Modern Day AU

Chapter 6: Just Friends

Previous Chapters: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

Chapter Summary: Alanah gets a call from her manager and Duff surprises her with some help.

Warning: Fluff

I sat on the couch in Sandy’s and my apartment wishing I was anywhere else.

Declan had surprised Sandy for dinner and they were currently out eating at some fancy restaurant.

A couple hours earlier, Declan showed up at our door with a dozen roses dresses in a full suit. Apparently it was their six month anniversary, but you wouldn’t know that if you saw Sandy at the party last night. There are times I wonder if she knows what the definition of committed relationship is. I can’t judge though, my last relationships was borderline fake.

Originally we were supposed to record, but they both looked so excited to go. Before Sandy could break the news to him on how she couldn’t go, I told her we could reschedule. We had some prerecorded stuff, so we could just post that instead. She was still hesitant, so I added on that I could livestream cooking. Eventually she caved and left for her dinner with Declan. I hope she didn’t cheat on him, but the way that stranger’s arm was wrapped around her led me to believe the worst. She was supposed to be the smart one out of the two of us. She didn’t leave without making a comment on how I should invite Duff over for the stream. I swear she just wanted me to get in a relationship again, so we could go on double dates and couples vacations.

I continued to stare in the mirror as I finished applying my foundation. My heart skipped a beat as the sound of my phone ringing echoed through my apartment. Duff?

To my disappointment, it was only my media manager..well both Sandy’s and my media manager. We hired her a while back to help us with the legal side of YouTube and to help with our social presence.

“Hey Alanah, hows it going?”

“Good, Good...preparing to do the livestream I just texted you about,” I began to begin working on my eyes as I spoke.

“Okay well...you know how I hate getting into your personal life Alanah, but...” God I wish she would just spit it out. I knew she was going to ask about if I was dating Duff or not. I know we’re not, but I....I don’t know. After this morning’s bathroom event, I needed to know what that meant to him. No way that was just two friends hanging out, or maybe that’s how a rockstar hangs out with girls? Fuck.

“Are you dating Duff,” I let a fake laugh escape me once she finally got around to asking the question.

“No, just friends.” Yup, just friends would had sex multiple times in the past 24 hours and then relaxed in a jacuzzi together. Just casual friend things.

My manager went silent for a couple seconds. Was she expecting me to say yes?

“Things just ended with Mark, and I just want to enjoy being single. I won’t lie, I shed a couple tears when I heard he said Alanah who....but I’ve heard worst things. Why are you asking?” I stopped applying my makeup and focused on my manager. She went silent again, and that wasn’t ever a good sign.

“Well, you were tagged in some social media posts.....” she once again paused causing my patience to go extinct. SPIT IT OUT.

“There was a video from the paparazzi, Ill send it your way. I know Mark is a celebrity, but he wasn’t a household name like Duff. If you two do start dating you are aware that you are going to lose your sense of privacy right? You’ll be added to his list of ex’s. That’s what you will be known for,” I let out a sigh as she finished talking. Jesus Christ, we aren’t even dating and I was already getting this talk.

“Just friends,” I faked the confidence in my voice before I heard her mumble something.

“Well I’m glad you’re doing well, I’ll send you a link to the video I was referencing. If you and Duff are JUST FRIENDS you should ask him to help cook for your stream tonight,”

“Really?” I sounded like a nervous middle schooler as I spoke. Why was I nervous?

“Yeah, could be fun. Have a good one Alanah,” she hung up before I could even say goodbye...typical.

I opened up Instagram and was immediately met with a bunch of notifications. Whoever ran the Gun’s Instagram page had tagged me in a couple of photos. Most of them consisted of photos from earlier in the night of us around the BBQ. I was surprised to see that I looked decent in most of them, and in a couple...only a couple of the photos...Duff and I did look like we were dating. He had is arm wrapped around my waist or I was sitting on his lap. We aren’t dating though just friends.

I went over to his page to message him, and that’s when I froze. I immediately clicked on the most recent post and scrolled through the photos. There was one photo that caught my attention. It was from when we were eating dinner last night. It must have been cropped because it was just the two of us, but I remembered this moment. He had just made a joke that was so stupid I couldn’t help, but laugh. Yesterday I didn’t notice it, but he was smiling down at me as I giggled in the photo and he had his hand wrapped around my waist. I couldn’t read into that much more. We are just friends. We are nothing more than friends. FRIENDS.

I logged into the Instagram account specifically for Sandy’s and my YouTube channel and began to record a video.

“Hey guy! Hope you’re haveing a great Tuesday. Sandy is out celebrating an anniversary so you’re stuck with me tonight!”

“Tonight I will be live-streaming me attempting to cook something you guys comment below! So comment your ideas and hopefully I won’t burn them!”

I then when to share the video on twitter and Tumblr to try to gain traction.

I put some music on and began to scroll through the comments trying to find an idea of what to cook. The comments started out as helpful but after some scrolling a lot of the comment were about Duff....I placed my phone out and let out a sigh.

“Are you and Duff dating?”

“Wow, talk about a rebound”

“Duff + Alanah... #upgrade”

Why did I have to deal with this bull shit? Not that I wouldn’t mind being his girlfriend....but he was a rockstar and we were JUST FRIENDS.

I was pulled from my thoughts as my phone began to ring. Speaking of the devil, it was Duff.

“Hey, what’s up?” I smiled as I looked at my screen. His hair was all over the place and he looked exhausted. It must had been a long practice.

“I’m about 30 seconds away from killing my bandmates, you?”

“Well I’m currently trying to chose what to cook for my livestream,” I quickly checked what I looked like on the screen. I was thankful that I put makeup on and did my hair, I looked pretty good..not to toot my own horn or anything.

“How about Thai Salmon?” I was caught off guard by his recommendation.

“Ohhh uhhh I don’t know how to bake that.....and umm...I don’t want to look like a fool on livestream,” I was tripping over my words, unable to cease talking.

“Well if you need help, I’m actually a decent cook. I could even show you some stuff if you want,” he wanted to help me cook?

“Yeah sure!” I could feel a smile growing on my cheek from ear to ear as I spoke. I watched a smile flash on his face as I answered.

“Great! So I’ll bring the ingredients we need and we also have to soak the salmon for two hours before it’s cooked!”

My stomach was performing backflips as Duff talked. He was excited. He was excited to hang out with me. Holy shit.

Time flew by as I began to setup the two cameras. The first was on a rather large tripod allowing you to see the entire kitchen, which wasn’t much, and the second was a small camera that would be used for more close up shots.

***Buzz***

I practically jumped out of my skin when I heard my apartment’s doorbell ring. I bolted towards my intercom to the lobby, “Hello?”

“Hey Alanah, it’s Duff I got the stuff, wanna let me in or we can try to cook in the lobby?” I chuckled as I hit a button on my intercom and buzzed in. What if he thinks less of me because of my small apartment? What if he thinks I’m below him? Is my apartment too dirty? Is it too clean?

A knock at the door pulled me out of my chaotic merry-go-round of thoughts.

I took a deep breath and opened my door.

“So this is what your apartment looks like,” he had a small smile on his face as he walked around looking at the photos that hung on the wall.

“It’s not much, but it’s home,” I shrugged leaning against the table for support.

“Its cozy! I got the food, shall we begin?”

“Umm...yeah..uhhh..yeah..so since the salmon needs to marinate I’m doing a little prerecording for the video to post later in the week if that’s fine,” I wanted to kick myself repeatedly for stumbling over my words. God! I felt like such a baffoon.

“How can I help?” I watched as he looked at my camera positioned to look at the entire room.

“You can do whatever you want! If you wanna help with the cameras it’s up to you. If you want to sit on the couch and be on your phone that’s fine too,” I shrugged watching his body language as I spoke. He actually wanted to help....the rockstar was looking to help..weird okay.

“So that camera there is for overall shots while this one is for like close up,” I held up the second camera showing him how to properly hold it.

“So this first part isn’t live?”

“Yeah, I don’t want to make everyone wait two hours. I usually take live-streams and create highlight videos,” I began to pull the items out of Duff’s cloth bag.

I looked over to see Duff fiddling with the second camera and eventually turning it on. Out of the corner of my eye I then watched as he turned on the second one. Maybe he wasn’t as unfamiliar with cameras as I expected him to be.

I then felt him wrap his arms around my waist.

“Hey...Duff,” I could feel my heart rate about to explode through my chest. I’ve had sex with him before, why was I nervous around him? Why the hell was him being so close to me making my stomach become an Olympic gymnast?

“Don’t mind me, I’m just turning on your mic,” and with that I hear a faint click from a small switch that turned my mic on. He then clapped once and went to pick up the second camera.

“I’m ready when you are,” I could feel my cheeks turning red as he spoke. His damn smirk never leaving his stupid face. He knew what he was doing.

“Alright, welcome to another cooking with Alanah and Sandy, but this time there is no Sandy so we will see what happens! My current goal is to not burn the food,” before I could continue Duff’s laughter echoed through my apartment.

“What? Also cameramen should be quiet!” I teased back pointing at the camera, only making his laugh harder.

“Alanah, babe, I’ve seen your previous cooking videos and I think your goal should be to not burn down your apartment,” I froze as I tried to make out what he said between laughing.

Babe?

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t get rid of the smile that had grown on my face.

“Alright so tonight we are making teriyaki salmon! The first step is to create the marinate!” I pulled out the cooking instructions I had made Duff write before he came over.

“Alright so for the sweet chili sauce we will combine water, white vinegar, cornstach, garlic clove, and.......maple syrup,” I looked over at Duff as I read the last ingredient.

“Are you messing with me Duff?” His laughter filled the room once again and I couldn’t help but join him. His laugh was contagious.

“If I was messing with you I would have either been more subtle or more outlandish,” I watched as he placed the camera on my mini tripod infornt of the bowls I had setup for mixing.

We spent the next thirty minutes preparing the sauce together, and I loved every second of it.

“And now we wait for two hours while the salmon soaks,” Duff said into the camera before smirking at me. He was good in front of a camera and he knew it.

“So now we have two hours,” I finished turning off the cameras and my mic as he spoke.

“Do you have anything in mind in how to spend the time?” This time I couldn’t help but let a smirk wander into my face.

Without hesitation, Duff pulled me in and we began to kiss as he dragged me to my bedroom.

#gnr imagine #gnr fanfic #guns n’ roses fanfic #guns n’ roses imagine #duff mckagan imagine #duff mckagan fanfiction #duff fanfic

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legendarysharpshooter · 4 years

Text

Lost Prince Ch. 1

First, Last, Next

A03

******

Each shot hits the target dead on, one after another, unrelenting until he’s out of bullets. The shooting range falls silent. He lowers the weapon to his side and stares at his targets with a frown.

It’s still not enough…

“How do you ever expect to be a leader if you can’t even lead a successful mission?”

Iverson’s words burn deep in his mind after another failed flight simulation. It’s not his fault Pidge can’t reach… or that Hunk gets sick. Well…. Okay, maybe he could have tried to fly like a sane person, but still… there’s medicine for motion sickness. All that aside though, he can’t even say it wasn’t his fault, because it was. Because he took his eyes off their flight path. He stopped paying attention to their surroundings to berate his crew...

It’s his fault they crashed.

At this rate, he’s never going to make it into space again. Not as an actual pilot that’s for sure. He can’t even fly a fake ship…. Because he’s not good enough.

Not as a pilot. Not as a leader. Not as Akiva’s descendent…. Not worthy of being a ‘prince’... Not worthy of the Black Lion….

Because at the end of the day, he will never be enough…

A touch. A gentle caress on his neck has his hair raising. He touches the back of his neck, confused as he glances over his shoulder. Empty space greets him. He sighs, shaking the feeling off and turns back to the task at hand. Targets aren’t going to shoot themselves after all.

He hears it as he begins setting up the next round of shots. Whispered words on a soft breeze.

Lance.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Something dances at the edge of his vision.

He looks around again, only confirming what he already knew. He’s the only one in the shooting range right now.

“Great... “ he mutters to himself. “Now they can add crazy to the list of why I shouldn’t lead….” He looks around the area again with a frown before rubbing at his eyes. “Maybe I just need to sl-”

The door swooshes open behind him. He jumps, spinning around and aiming his gun at the intruder. There’s a yelp and then brownies spilling to the floor as his friend uses the plate to shield himself.

Hunk, his best friend and current roommate. A big, burly teddy bear of a guy, cowers behind an empty plate of brownies. Next to him and a couple feet shorter, stands Pidge; their crewmate. Pidge looks eerily similar to Matt, in Lance’s humble opinion, though he insists there’s no relation. Lance isn’t too sure but doesn’t have much to prove his theory.

For all he knows, they could be cousins and Pidge just doesn’t want special treatment from the Garrison.

Pidge looks up at Hunk unimpressed before grinning.

“I told you he’d be here,” he says, smugly. Lance lowers his gun with a frown.

“What are you two doing here?” he asks. Lance huffs looking at Hunk’s cowering form. “Put the plate down, Hunk. I’m not going to shoot you.” Slowly the boy lowers his plate, un-scrunching his face into a relaxed stance.

“Sorry….” Hunk says. “I wasn’t expecting to have a gun pointed at me today… or ever.”

“Sorry, you startled me,” Lance replies, setting his weapon down on the counter behind him. “Now… what are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Pidge asks. He sighs at Lance’s blank stare. “Well…. Hunk wanted to cheer you up with brownies but that obviously isn’t happening now.”

Lance looks down at the floors with a grimace. Of course he’d ruin a present from his friends. They’re only trying to make him feel better and now he’s ruined it.

“How’d you even find me?” he asks before his thoughts can get any more negative.

“Everyone knows you come here when you need space,” Hunk says as he stoops down to pick up the fallen treats. His face drops. “I didn’t think you’d be here though… especially after Iverson chewed you out like that.” The trio falls silent; Lance thinking over Hunk’s words; Hunk too busy picking up brownies, and Pidge thoughtfully watching the young prince.

“Don’t let him get to you, Lance,” Pidge says. “Iverson’s a jerk and you’ll make a great leader someday.” Lance smiles half heartedly, appreciating the words of encouragement. It falls off his face just as soon as it arrives.

He can’t even connect with the Black Lion. How is he supposed to lead his people?

“Yeah,” Hunk agrees, standing back up again, full plate in hand. “Iverson’s just hard on you because he can see your potential.” Lance huffs, smile playing on his face.

“I bet you say that to everyone,” he says. Hunk sputters, nearly dropping his plate again.

“No!”

“Well… either way, we have a project to finish,” Pidge chimes in, adjusting his glasses. “And we can’t do that without Prince Charming. So maybe stop shooting for a bit and help us?”

“Oh yeah…” Hunk says. “That’s the other reason we came. We need your help putting together the slides for our presentation tomorrow.”

Lance stares at them, mind drawing a blank. What project are they talking about? He doesn’t have any presentations coming up. What classes do they even have tomorrow? A class that has a presentation…. Are they even in a class like that?

“Well this is embarrassing. He completely forgot,” Pidge mutters. He sighs, leveling the young Altean with an unimpressed look. Lance stares at him, lost on what they’re even talking about. He doesn’t have anything due tomorrow. Not that he can remember at least.

“Can I tell him?” Hunk asks, shifting anxiously. “We’re wasting time waiting for him to remember.” Pidge rubs his chin thoughtfully before shaking his head.

“A hint,” Pidge offers. “There’s a lot of historical events to remember after all.” Lance sucks in a breath, eyes going wide.

Crap.

He forgot about their History project…. The very one he promised them he was working on.

“You did do your half, right?” Hunk asks.

“What?” he squeaks. “Yeah! Of course I did! Why wouldn’t I do it?” His nervous laugh has the hope falling right off Hunk’s face. It’s not his fault he put it off until the last minute… okay, maybe it is, but a report on Altean history is a walk in the park. He knows their history like the back of his hand.

“Lance….”

“It’s fiiiine, Hunk,” Lance says, walking over to his friends. He turns them towards the doors, slinging and arm over Hunk’s shoulders. “We’ll just go back to our room and work on it there. I’m like… a walking Altean Historian, you know. We’ll have this done in no time.”

Pidge and Hunk look unconvinced but follow him out of the shooting range anyways. At least they have all night to work on the final project.

Besides, how hard can it be?

It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get in. Find the Red Lion. Remove it from the Galra…. Somehow. The Galra are keeping it under pretty tight surveillance, though, so even if he could get to it, he’s not too sure how to get it off the ship. It’s a simple notion, really, if it weren’t also for the fact that this was meant to be a covert mission. He can’t exactly draw any unwanted attention to himself.

As it stands, the Red Lion’s holding bay is guarded by sentries and he doesn’t have the authorization to enter on his own.

He has no idea what Kolivan was thinking sending him here….

“Yorak.” He jumps to attention as one of his commanding officers moves from behind to face him. “You know you’re not authorized to be in this sector.”

“Sorry, sir,” he mutters. “I got lost again…” The Galra officer regards him with a look of disdain. Of course someone like him would get lost on such a big ship. Especially considering he’s only been here for a few days. The officer waves it off with a sigh.

“Just try to not to get lost again,” he says.

“Of course, sir.”

“It’s good that I found you, though,” he replies. “Commander Sendak has requested your presence on the bridge.” His eyes go wide, hand slowly dropping back to his side. What could Sendak possibly want? “Best not keep him waiting.”

Yorak quickly salutes and turns away, darting off down the halls. He can only hope Sendak hasn’t caught wind of him snooping around the lion. That could only spell trouble for everyone involved. Hopefully, it’s just something else unrelated.

Lance wakes with a start, chest tight from not breathing as his heart races. He stares up at the ceiling as images from his dream refuse to fade. They flash through his mind incessantly. He can hear the faintest rumble as he finally takes a breath and sits up. Across the room, Hunk snores softly, cuddling his teddy.

It’d be cute if Lance could actually take a moment to focus on the scene.

As it stands, the young prince is climbing out of bed and stumbling over to his desk. He knocks papers and notebooks off in his frantic search for a sheet of paper.

The images won’t stop coming.

Shiro with a scar across his face and a shocking spot of white in his hair.

The shadow in his vision has grown more defined.

He sees Pidge with a small, flying robot made of Galra tech. Hunk cooking some type of alien cuisine in what can only be described as a space mall food court.

He does his best to ignore it as he furiously scribbles on the blank page.

A quick sketch of Keith with long hair and a mark on his cheek; by his side, a large wolf.

He draws space mice performing tricks for a young, female Altean.

He scribbles five more before a large hand reaches out to stop him.

“Dude,” Hunk mumbles. “What are you doing?” Lance blinks, and sits back in his seat. What is he doing? He stares at the pages before him. The images finally fade from his mind, lost to the depths of his consciousness.

He rubs his eye with a frown and blinks. The shadow has taken the shape of a person, but still eludes his direct gaze.

“I just…” he mutters. Something was pushing him to remember. To not forget whatever it was showing him. He needed to not forget. “I had to get it on paper….”

Why does this seem so familiar?

“I don’t….”

What was he doing before this?

A small gust of wind tickles at the back of his neck, stronger than it’s ever been. He shivers, brushing a hand against his neck. He looks up at Hunk.

“Did you feel that?” Hunk yawns, shaking his head as he moves back to his bed. It takes the boy a moment to process Lance’s words.

“Did I feel what?” So… he didn’t then. Hunk would know what he was talking about if he did. It’s impossible to feel the air from the vents at their desk. There’s no way he’d feel something like that. Especially not on his neck.

“Nothing… sorry I woke you.” So if it’s not the wind then it has to be something else… Lance sighs, rising from his seat and returning to bed. He rubs his eyes again, frowning at the shadow in his vision.

As the young Altean, falls back to sleep, he’s hears the faintest roar and the quiet whisper of his name.

Sendak, like most Galra, is large and intimidating. His ears give Keith the impression of bats, and his red, prosthetic eye always makes him feel like he’s being targeted.

Even so, he enters the bridge and steps up to the Commander, standing straight with an arm across his chest. Sendak grins at him, sharp teeth on display. It’d be scary but Keith knows he can take him.

“You asked to see me, sir?”

“Yorak,” Sendak replies, grin falling off his face as he looks Keith up and down. “I had expected to you to look…. Less scrawny.” Keith does his best not to grimace, but he’s unable to stop his ears from twitching. It’s no secret that he’s smaller than the average male Galra. He’s heard the whispers… that others thing he’s a half-breed.

His mom is on the smaller side though, so that definitely helps curb those rumors. It would do no good for them to learn the truth…. That his father was human. He’d be cast out of the ranks much like others before him. He would be useless for undercover missions.

He’s worked too hard to get this far for that to happen.

“Despite that,” Sendak continues. “You come to my ship with high recommendations.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sendak sneers.

“It is not a compliment, welp. Words mean nothing on this ship. It would do you good to remember that.,” he snaps before composing himself. “I have an assignment for you.”

“What are your orders, Commander?” Keith asks.

“We have a special… package being delivered into our possession. You are to escort the vessel to our coordinates and ensure nothing happens to it.”

“Of course, Commander.”

“Now go, before I change my mind about sending you.”

“Vrepit Sa!” Keith says, saluting him once more before departing. Whatever he’s transporting must be important if they need an escort.

Lance.

He startles, hands violently jerking the controls in his grasp. The ship rattles around them, veering wildly off course.

“Lance!” Pidge snaps, glare at him from his spot in the back. “Try keeping the ship on course, maybe?”

“Sorry,” he grumbles, taking a moment to steady his mind. Now really isn’t the time to be hearing things. It’s bad enough that stupid shadow won’t go away. He doesn’t need to be distracted with talking.

Off to his left, Hunk heaves, face going pale. Lance huffs, turning his attention back to getting on course. They’ve wandered into a new area of this planet but he can just follow Pidge’s new trajectory. It looks like they’ll actually arrive early anyways.

He’s totally got this.

The ship appears as a small dot in the distance. Keith squints at it, wondering why such a small ship carrying important cargo is all alone out in space. Are they really that confident nobody is going to attack it?

With a frown, he opens a transmission to the small vessel.

“Attention, cargo carrier,” he says. “This is Yorak of Commander Sendak’s ship. I am here to escort you back to his location.” A screen pops up moments later along with a familiar face. He blinks, taking in the light blue skin, large white stripes and pointy ears of none other than a fellow Blade.

“Ulaz?”

“Yorak,” Ulaz replies with the smallest of smiles. “It’s so nice to see a familiar face! How kind of Sendak to put us in such capable hands.”

“What….” Why is Ulaz out here? Isn’t he a medic or something? Shouldn’t he be healing Galra somewhere? And what is he transporting that’s so important?

“I have been tasked with transporting a very special piece of cargo,” Ulaz replies. “Perhaps you should come aboard so we can discuss in further detail.”

Lance definitely doesn’t have this. He frowns, watching the screen from their simulation go black. Failure flashes before him in bright red letters. Pidge groans, climbing back into his seat from the floor.

“Nice job, tailor,” Pidge grumbles, as the door to the simulator swings open. Lance unbuckles himself, sinking into his seat with a groan, trying in vain to ignore the heavy footsteps approaching him.

“Need I remind you, cadets,” their teacher, Iverson growls. “That the purpose of these simulations is to complete them.”

Lance huffs and gets out of his seat to be greeted with Iverson’s unimpressed scowl. He’s convinced it’s the man’s default expression. None of them have so much as seen Iverson show a different emotion.

The young prince slinks over to join his friends in front of their teacher, frowning at the ground.

“Why is it, then, that you three are the only ones incapable of completing even the simplest of tasks?” None of them have an answer to that…. At least, none that will be considered acceptable. It’s not that they can’t do these simulations…. Lance just has a hard time taking them seriously because he knows it’s not real. Simulations and real life are completely different.

Still… another failed mission doesn’t look good for any of them. Lance can only imagine what his mom must be thinking. She’s going to be so disappointed in him.

No wonder he can’t connect with the Black Lion….

Lance sighs, sparing a look at his friends. Hunk’s face is still pale and he looks like he’s trying in vain not to puke again. Pidge just looks frustrated.

“You three will be pulled off simulations,” Iverson says. Lance’s attention jerks instantly to their teacher. Pulled off simulations? What is he talking about? “At least until we can reassess you all and decide the best course of action.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Pidge snaps.

“It means, cadet,” Iverson replies. “That we have to determine whether you are truly a good fit for the program since your record seems to say otherwise.”

“You’re kicking us out?!” Hunk squeaks. “Oh man…. I’m gonna be in so much trouble….”

“You can’t be serious!” Pidge protests.

“Well maybe if your pilot was able to watch his surroundings you wouldn’t be crashing so much,” Iverson snaps. Lance swallows the lump forming in his throat, eyes burning with unshed tears. Of course the blame would be put on him. Iverson isn’t finished though as he zeros in on the smallest of the trio.

Pidge meets his gaze unflinchingly; the two entering into a staring contest. Iverson sneers at him.

“Or perhaps, Gunderson,” he says. “The navigator should have been watching the monitors more carefully.”

“Perhaps, sir,” Pidge responds. “Blame shouldn’t be placed on one specific individual when we are a team and failed as a whole. Singling one person out doesn’t constitute camaraderie and instead perpetuates an environment of everyone for themselves.”

Iverson’s lip curls back as he rises to his full height. Lance uses the moment to push Pidge aside.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” he says, quickly. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have gotten distracted. This was my fault and I’ll be sure to do better next time.” Iverson’s face returns to its usual scowl as he watches the Altean for a long moment. Eventually, he sighs and looks away from the trio.

“Get out of here, all of you,” he grumbles. The trio scramble to exit the space, Iverson calling after them as they go.

“And don’t come back until you’ve learned to work as a team!”

The transport ships ends up being larger up close than Keith was really expecting. Thankfully, that means he’s able to land his ship in the holding bay. Ulaz is waiting for him when he steps off his ship. Sentries wander about the bay, but otherwise keep a respectable distance from the pair.

“Keith,” Ulaz greets. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

“Why are you here?” Keith asks, eyeing the sentries. It’s a little weird hearing his real name after being undercover for so long… yet refreshing at the same time. Ulaz stares at him for a long moment.

“Perhaps we should talk somewhere more…. Private.” Confused, Keith follows him out of the holding bay and through the halls to the bridge. Thankfully, the journey is short considering the ship is much smaller than Sendak’s.

Ulaz turns to him the moment the doors slide shut.

“It’s most fortunate that you were the one tasked with escorting me to Sendak,” Ulaz says. “I am transport a very important person for the Empire.” Keith watches him, trying to decipher what the Galra is talking about. Who could possibly be so important they need to be escorted in a cargo ship? Someone secret maybe….

“Who…” Ulaz sighs.

“Something happened about a phoeb ago,” he replies, looking away from the young boy. His face falls with sorrow. “We were told not to tell you for fear of how you may react… but I feel now there is no choice.”

“What happened, Ulaz,” Keith growls anxiously. What was so awful that they couldn’t tell him? Did something bad happen to someone? His mind reels with the possibility. Who could have possibly been hurt?

Ulaz takes a deep breath before continuing.

“You must understand,” he says. “We chose not to tell you for the safety of everyone involved. You would have been compromised. Made rash decisions. Our mission can’t afford that.” He gazes at Keith, eyes searching his face for something Keith can’t quite identify. He’s not really sure how he’s meant to be reacting right now. If something happened that they chose not to tell him about….

That can only mean one thing.

“Was it Lance?” he asks, dread washing over him.

“No,” Ulaz answers much to Keith relief. “Shiro managed to get him away in time.”

“Shi-” Keith’s eyes go wide, heart skipping a beat. He looks away from his fellow Blade, moving over to the wall for support. They got Shiro? Is that what Ulaz is telling him? How? He gets it now, why they didn’t want to say anything. He definitely would have dropped everything to save his former mentor.

“He goes by the title Champion within the Galra ranks,” Ulaz says. Keith looks at him in disbelief. Shiro’s the Champion? He’s literally one of the most valuable prisoners in the Galra Empire…. And they’re delivering him right into Sendak’s hands.

“We have to free him,” Keith says. “He needs to go back to Earth.”

“Your mission is to remove the Red Lion from the possession of the Galra. Freeing Shiro is not part of that plan.”

“I don’t care,” Keith snaps. “We can’t let Sendak have him…. I’ll just say you were shot down by rebels or something.”

“Sendak would kill you for your failure,” Ulaz points out. “And if he doesn’t then Zarkon certainly will for losing his precious Champion.”

Keith huffs, ears twitching in irritation. He knows, deep down, that he can’t compromise his position. Still… Shiro being here can’t be good. It means the Galra know of Earth. Do they know about the Alteans? Has Earth tried coming after them? Or perhaps they asked the Blade for help returning Shiro…. Who else was taken? More importantly…. How has Lance been doing without his bodyguard?

“I have to get him back to Earth,” Keith says. “I don’t care if I can never return to the Galra. I’m getting Shiro out of here and taking him home.”

“How?” Ulaz asks. “You know they’ll just track you back to Earth… and then what? All you efforts will be for nothing and Earth will be in the Galra’s line of sight.”

“Well then maybe we need to take him home in something that isn’t Galra….” Keith replies. Something that he’s been tasked with retrieving. It’s a big risk and assumes the Red Lion will open for him but… it does solve the problem of removing it from the Galra. He’ll have to give him his position for awhile, but it’ll be worth it if it means Shiro can be home again. “Call Kolivan. There’s been a slight change in plans.”

Kolivan is just going to have to be on board with it.

“Alteans are typically a peaceful race. They tend to lean more towards diplomacy rather than turning to war. It has certainly helped the people of Earth over the centuries and assisted with maintaining overall peace,” Lance recites in a voice that is far peppier than he’s currently feeling. He’s just been having a shitty day and doing this stupid presentation isn’t helping. The constant breeze that only he can feel doesn’t help either. It’s practically full blown wind at this point and he’s about to jump out a window.

He barely pays attention as Pidge recites his part, prattling off facts about Earth and what it might have been like if Alteans never showed up. His gaze wanders to the window, mind straying elsewhere as Pidge’s voice becomes nothing more than a distant hum.

He blinks.

The shadow in the corner of his vision moves.

Confused he blinks again, and suddenly Shiro’s standing in front of him. He’s changed since the Galra took him. His right arm is made of metal and there’s a scar running across the bridge of his nose. His hair has a shock of white in it. Shiro looks at him and steps closer, reaching out to him.

Lance.

Shiro touches his forehead.

Lance gasps, eyes going wide as he’s suddenly transported out of the classroom and light years away from Earth.

Wind roars around the pair, thunder rumbling in the distance as they stand together for the first time in a year. He blinks and Shiro disappears, leaving him in the hurricane force winds.

“Shiro?” Lance shouts, looking around frantically for his friend. The wind carries his voice away and grows stronger. Thunder rumbles closer to him now. He continues to look around, shouting for his lost companion, voice steadily growing hoarse.

Lance sucks in a breath, frustration mounting. How is he supposed to find Shiro in this chaos? He can barely hear himself think! Tears prick at the corner of his eyes as he squeezes them shut. He crumbles into the ball on the ground hands clutching at his hair.

The wind grows stronger, pushing him onto his knees. He just needs one moment of peace. Of quiet to just…. Just think!

The ground shakes with a loud clap of thunder. It sounds vaguely like a lion’s roar.

Lance’s eyes fly open and he looks up.

“Quiet,” he mutters, and the wind dies down. It parts around him as he stands. A sense of calm rushes over him and suddenly the gale is circling around him. He’s in the eyes of the storm now.

Lance looks around, listens for the thunder. It rumbles in the distance and he follows the direction of the sound.

“Black,” he whispers. Everything stops. The Black Lion lands in front of his, eyes glowing as it meets his unwavering gaze. Lance holds a hand up to the large robot. “Show me.”

The pair disappears in a flash of white.

Getting Shiro onto Sendak’s ship was the easy part. With Ulaz’s help they take his sleeping body to a prison cell and leave him there. It’s weird seeing a friend out in space…. Especially one from Earth. The scar, Keith knows, he got from a fight in the Coliseum. The arm, Ulaz informed him, was a present from Zarkon’s witch.

Haggar’s been experimenting on the human and Keith shudders to think of what’s been done to him. Everyone’s heard the rumors of her Druids and their experimentations. It’s a fate nobody wants to face.

Keith sees Ulaz off before reporting to Sendak. He seems please that Keith managed to return Shiro but quickly shoos him off, instructing him to make himself scarce.

Keith finds himself wandering down to the prison block before veering off towards the Red Lion’s holding bay. They can’t know he’s interested in Shiro. I would only raise suspicion and the would compromise his goals. At least walking past the Red Lion is part of his usual routine. Nobody tends to question that.

Still though, he eventually returns to his room to figure out how to release Shiro and get him to the Red Lion without raising the alarm.

He paces the length of the room, mulling his options over. Kolivan didn’t seem too pleased by his decision but ultimately relented under the condition he doesn’t get caught. He’s not even sure how to pull that off. One way or another though, he’s getting Shiro back to Earth.

Keith huffs. The Blade of Marmora operates under secrecy. They don’t do things that could possibly expose him.

“I don’t exactly have many options here,” Keith mutters to himself. How did Kolivan even expect him to take the Red Lion without being caught? Frowning, he sits on his bed and pulls out his knife. The dark blade gleams in the light, a small crystal tied around the hilt.

Even after all these years, he’s kept Lance’s gift…. Not that he ever uses it anymore. He’s long come to terms with his heritage and grown to be proud of his Galra half.

His Galra half because nobody in the Empire know of his human half…. And maybe it’s time to reclaim that human half.

“Hold on, Shiro,” Keith says with a grin as he removes the crystal and resheathes his knife. He stands up, plan forming in his mind. “I’m coming for you.”

Lance stumbles back with a gasp, knocking everything off the teacher’s desk. The whole room stares at him in stunned silence. He looks around wildly, gaze landing on Hunk and Pidge.

“Come with me,” he snaps, grabbing their wrists and dragging them out of the room. They stumble after him as he picks up the pace. Soon the trio is running through the halls.

“Lance!” Pidge shouts. “What are we doing?”

“Yeah…” Hunk replies, huffing. “As much… as I like skipping class…. Why?”

“Something’s coming,” Lance replies, gaze focused straight ahead. “And I need both of you with me.” Hunk and Pidge share a confused look behind their friend’s back but they fall silent.

Lance leads them right to Iverson’s office. He barges in without bothering to knock.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Iverson shouts, standing from his seat. “You can’t be in here!”

“I come to you as Prince of New Altea,” Lance says confidently, standing tall. “By orders of Queen Ourania herself, I am declaring galactic emergency. All off planet communication and travel is officially on lockdown.” Iverson calms himself, staring at Lance for a long moment. Pidge and Hunk watch, confused and curious from outside the room. Whatever’s going on, it’s important and Lance needs them.

“What is this about, my Prince?”

“The Galra are coming,” Lance replies. “And I need you to take me to the Black Lion.”

Sirens blare around him as he ducks into corners and dodges the sentries running about. Behind him, Shiro groans, clutching at his head. He’s only been awake for a few minutes but there was no way Keith could discreetly carry him to the Red Lion’s location. As it stands, his cover has been completely blown.

The Red Lion is their only chance to get out of here alive.

Keith watches and waits for the coast to clear before grabbing Shiro’s hand and sprinting down the hall. He halts, pushing Shiro into an alcove and he peers around the corner. Just down the way, one of Sendak’s flunkies guards the door to the Red Lion.

He can probably take them…. Especially if Shiro gets his act together long enough to help. Keith glances back at his friend, still delirious from sleep.

“Shiro,” he whispers. “I’m going to need your help for this next part, okay?” Shiro flashes him a thumbs up though Keith’s not too sure he actually heard. Either way, they manage to tag team the Galra and take him down in moments. Fate must be smiling on them too because Keith’s able to use the Galra’s hand to open to doors.

The Red Lion looms inside its shield, quiet and unwavering. Shiro takes a seat next to it with a sigh, head dropping between his legs with a groan. Whatever they knocked him out with is going to take a while to work through his system. They don’t have time to wait though…

“Hey,” Keith calls up to the lion. “Open up! We need your help!” The shield remains standing. He huffs and knocks on the surface. The Red Lion ignores him. Keith growls, kicking the shield and stomping away from the stubborn creature.

Is creature even the right word? They’re supposedly sentient…. Does that count as them being creatures? Sentient machines are a thing…. Right?

He doesn’t know…. Nor does he care. This stupid thing needs to let them in before they’re all caught.

“Freeze!”

Keith jumps, spinning around to come face to face with a group of sentries. They level their blasters at him and Shiro.

Quiznack. This is not how he wanted things to go… he eyes the bay door and the console that opens it. An idea quickly forms in his head.

He draws his sword and charges towards Shiro just as the sentries begin shooting. Shiro jumps to his feet with a shout, alarmed to see a Galra running towards him. Keith grabs him and sprints to the console, slamming his sword into the ground just as he hits the button.

The doors swing open, sucking the sentries into space. His sword holds for a moment but the suction and weight of him and Shiro drag them out into space.

Keith holds his breath, eyes shifting wildly as he tries to figure out how to return to the lion. Shiro slips out of his grasp, distracting him for a split second.

Next thing he knows, the giant maws of the Red Lion are closing around him and Shiro, and flying away from Sendak’s ship.

Shiro gasps next to Keith, rolling off his back sluggishly. Next to him, Keith rests on his hands and knees trying to regulate his breathing. They sit in the Red Lion’s mouth, collecting their breaths before Keith attempts to stand. He wobbles to his feet and stumbles over to his companion.

“Shiro,” he mutters, holding a hand out to help him up. Shiro take his, allowing Keith to pull him to his feet. They stare at each other for a long moment before Keith’s pulled into a crushing hug. Keith hugs him back, resting a hand on Shiro’s shoulder.

His hair becomes wet where Shiro’s face is buried in it. His shoulder shake with sobs. Keith doesn’t realize he’s also crying until a drop lands on his hand.

“I’m so sorry…” Keith mumbles, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry…. I… I didn’t know… I would’ve come for you… I….”

“It’s okay,” Shiro replies, brushing a hand through his hair. He pulls away a moment later, face tear-stained but no longer crying. “You came when it mattered and that’s enough.” Keith smiles, rubbing the tears off his face.

He may have just blown his cover. He can’t return to the Galra or the Blade…. But he got Shiro back. They’re going back to Earth where they can be protected and find help. The Galra may come after them, but Earth will be prepared. That’s a worry for another day though. For now…. There’s only one task at hand.

“Let’s go home.”

His mom is waiting for them by the time they arrive at the Black Lion’s den. Iverson stops his buggy and lets the trio climb out and gather their things before driving off again. Lance watches him go before turning to his mom. A bag of this things hangs by her side.

“I see you’ve brought some friends,” she says, glancing briefly at Hunk and Pidge. “And you’ve declared an emergency. Mind telling me why?”

“The Galra are coming….” Lance replies. “The Black Lion showed me.” Surprise flits across her face, mouth falling open slightly. She looks back at his friends and then to him.

“And your friends?”

“They have to come with me.” She raises a brow at that, but Lance remains firm. He knows what he saw. He won’t back down from this. Behind him, Hunk and Pidge share a confused look. Hunk is the one to step forward.

“Um… excuse me, your grace,” he says, giving a little bow. “Not that Pidge and I mind much but… what’s happening?

“And for that matter,” Pidge chimes in. “Where are we going?” Ourania laughs a little, eyes lighting up in delight. She looks back at her son, proud that he’s made friends at the Garrison.

“It seems my son failed to mention some details on the ride over,” she comments. “So much like his father.” She steps behind Hunk and Pidge, waving her hands at them as she ushers the trio inside.

“Lance?” Hunk says, hesitantly steps through the doors to the den. His eyes roam up and down the cave walls. Carvings lines the inside of Alteans and lions alike. Gemstones gleam in the light, adding splashes of reds, blues, greens, and yellows to the portraits. “What’s going on?”

“The Black Lion, it seems,” Ourania answers. “Is finally ready to accept Lance as its Paladin and you two will be joining him.”

“Whu-”

“We have to go fight the Galra,” Lance says, gaze focused straight ahead. Their footstep echo down the hall as they draw closer to the lion’s resting place. “And find your lions.”

“Wait!” Hunk protests as they step into the Black Lion’s gaze. It’s shield is finally dropped, eyes lit up as it awaits the prince. “I’m not a pilot! I can’t fly a giant cat robot!”

“Well… you better learn!” Ourania replies teasingly, shoving Hunk and Pidge towards the lion. She straightens and steps over to her son. She hands him the bag. “Extra clothes and some things for you and your friends.”

“Thanks, mom,” Lance say with a smile, taking the offered bag.

“There’s a communicator in there too, so you better keep in touch.”

“We will.” Her eyes shine with unshed tears as she gazes lovingly at her son. She pulls him into a hug.

“You’re going to do great things,” she murmurs. “Akiva would be proud of you.” Lance sucks in a breath, eyes suddenly burning.

“I’m going to miss you,” he murmurs back. She pulls back, placing a hand on his cheek.

“We will all miss you,” she says. “Now go get your lions.” She places a kiss on his cheek and steps away. Lance gives her a final, sad smile before turning to his friends.

“I know I’m dragging you into this,” he says to them. “But… this is your chance, you can turn back now. Nobody’s forced to do this.” Pidge scoffs, giving his arm a punch.

“Are you kidding? This is our chance to go into space and prove Iverson wrong,” he says. “You aren’t the only one who has business out there.”

“Yeah,” Hunk adds before Lance can reply. “I mean… the fighting part sounds kind of scary but we’re in this together. If you… erm…. Well, I guess the Black Lion, rather, thinks we’re meant to be Paladins then who am I to argue with it? Besides… we’d be helping others, right?”

“Thanks, guys,” Lance says, grateful to have such loyal companions.

“And don’t worry about your parents,” Ourania calls to them. “I’ll be sure they are informed of where you’re at!”

“I guess this is it then.” Lance heft the bag onto his shoulder and looks up at the Black Lion.

The moment of truth. He takes a deep breath and steps up to the lion. There a beat, a moment, where nothing happens, and then the Black Lion crouches down, opening up for the trio. Relief floods through Lance. He’s finally being accepted.

He takes a moment to give one final wave goodbye before entering the lion’s waiting mouth.

The journey has finally begun.

#voltron #vld #shance #fanfic #lost prince

6 notes · View notes

laruna · 5 years

Text

— interloper.

characters. lim yuri, min yoongi, kim namjoon.

word count. 21.1k

genre. angst, fluff, friendship, romance, slow burn

warnings. underage drinking, hospitals, car accidents, mentions of family issues

summary. when yoongi feels like an interloper, yuri reminds him that he belongs.

November 7, 2011. Big Hit Entertainment Building, Seoul.

While Namjoon signed his contract until earlier that year, he still had to wait until the dorms were built to move in. Yuri gave Hitman Bang an earful when she found out he had signed him as a trainee when the company didn’t even have fucking dorms yet, but Namjoon fully assured her that it was okay and quelled her rage long enough to stop her from biting the poor old man’s head off.

But it all worked out eventually. Namjoon moved in when the dorms were built back in August, and without the awkwardness that parental presence at his house entailed, Yuri invited herself over as often as possible, practically making the dorms her second home.

It’s almost a kind of domestic bliss, the way her and Namjoon lived before, cooking for each other and cleaning up the shitty company building until they get so tired they fall asleep on the floor. Sometimes, if she’s really lucky, he’ll offer to let her share his bed. You know, since all the empty beds are going to be occupied by other trainees eventually, and it’d be rude to give someone a used bed, right? Of course.

It’s a Monday when they go to the dorm and actually find the bed across from Namjoon’s occupied.

“...hi.”

The new trainee’s name is Min Yoongi. He’s only a year Namjoon’s senior, but despite the closeness in age, he doesn’t seem willing to bond with them at all. If anything, he barely talks to either of them. According to Hitman Bang, Yoongi is from Daegu, and the only speaks so little because he’s still trying to get used to Seoul’s dialect and is embarrassed that his satoori keeps slipping out.

Yoongi only talks when necessary, like a coworker. They spend the first week or so not talking about anything but work—music, in their case—but even that they can’t be friendly about. Despite their similar interest in hip-hop, Yoongi and Namjoon have very different approaches to rap music. To music in general, really.

Yuri can’t help but feel as if Yoongi has kind of an edge over them. On top of being a year older, he’s also both a producer and a rapper. Yuri is only the former and Namjoon is only the latter, so it’s like he’s got the force of them both combined. She can’t help but feel a little bit small, next to him.

When they argue about something in the studio, he tends to use this as leverage, telling them to just listen to him because he knows better about this kind of thing. That escalates into arguing, which usually consists of Namjoon and Yoongi yelling at each other while Yuri desperately tries to mediate the situation. The current tally she’s been keeping in her journal shows that Namjoon having won two arguments, Yoongi having won six, and Yuri having successfully distracted them from finishing eleven. She likes to believe that means she’s winning.

Hitman Bang begs to disagree.

He finds out about it one day when he comes to visit her when she’s alone in the studio. The old man never knocks before entering, Yuri notes the invasion of privacy with annoyance. Even so, he kicks it up a notch by glancing over at the journal she’s left open on the corner of her desk. He laughs when he sees the page headed argument wins, pointing to the to the tallies by her name.

“I’m not surprised you’re in the lead,” he laughs. “You’re a menace.” She cringes when she remembers his first impression of her. She wasn’t exactly… tactful about it, but it got the point across well enough. Now that he’s her boss, though, she worries it’ll give him more reason to check up on her, and she would rather selfishly indulge in having some alone time with Namjoon.

“I’m not!” she defends herself, flustered. “I just know better than to waste my time arguing with boys. My points are for when I stop them from arguing, okay? Not having to hear them try to bite each other’s heads off is a win for me.”

“Hm.” He purses his lips at that, regarding her with a look she can’t quite read. She hates how unreadable he is. Her instincts have rarely failed her, but the old man is one of the few people whose energy has yet to come to her.

“Don’t be afraid of fighting,” he tells her after a bout of silence. “They should be able to fight if they’re angry. You should let them fight, let them yell if they’re angry. Even fist fights are fine. It’s okay to fight. Fearing fights only makes conflicts grow bigger.” Yuri shifts uneasily in her seat.

“I don’t like fighting. I don’t like yelling. I don’t like fists,” she says. “I get enough of that at home.” She doesn’t mean for it to slip out, doesn’t even realize that it does until the old man makes that face.

“Oh, Yuri.” He says it more sincerely than she’s ever heard from anyone at the dad age.

“Oh my God, no,” her voice cracks as she speaks. “We’re not doing that. We’re not having, like, a moment. I’m not emotionally prepared for that. I’ll cry and I’ll hate you.” He just nods at that, before awkwardly clapping a hand down onto her shoulder.

“Just remember that you can’t solve everything between them,” he says. “Let them resolve some of that on their own. You won’t be around to resolve things forever.” It feels like a jinx, the way he says it, but she still nods along.

“Okay,” she says. Sounds like simple enough advice to follow.

“And try to befriend Yoongi, okay?” he adds. She wrinkles her nose. That one seems a little harder.

“Okay,” she says anyways. She’ll definitely try.

Namjoon wrinkles his nose when Yuri proposes inviting Yoongi to the Lim household.

“He doesn’t really know anyone else,” Namjoon rationalizes. “Wouldn’t it be a bit awkward for him?”

“That’s the point, dummy,” she says, “I think it’d help him learn to get along with everyone, is all. Including us, hopefully. I don’t know.” Namjoon sighs, if only because she’s been getting harder and harder to say no to these days. He’s not sure why.

“Alright,” he agrees.

Unexpectedly, it’s significantly harder to get Yoongi to agree.

“I barely know you guys,” he deadpans, and Yuri winces. The I told you so look that Namjoon shoots her doesn’t help, and only reminds her of how much she’s always struggled with making friends.

Hoping to spare her pride, she persists. This is the only opportunity she has to have everybody over in a while—she doesn’t know the next time her father’s going to be working overtime and they’ll have the house to themselves. Knowing him, the old man would probably bite her and Kyunghee’s head off if he came home from work and saw everybody over on a daily basis.

“You can,” she offers softly. “Get to know us, I mean. Please?”

Yoongi only raises a brow, seemingly unconvinced.

“We have alcohol?” she offers, but the inflection makes it sound more like a question. Namjoon smacks her arm at that, only for her to shoot him a look that says, What? It’s true! Awkwardly, she adds, “Also, um, free food.”

And that’s enough to convince him, apparently.

Yoongi looks starstruck when he first enters the Lim household, suddenly feeling very small. Or at the very least, smaller than usual. He was easily the shortest of the company’s trainees, second-shortest of everybody in the building, towering over only the perpetually tiny Lim Yuri. He almost has a heart attack when said tiny girl takes his shoes from him to put in the garage. It’s her big-ass house, after all. Shit, just being here makes him feel like he should be the one serving her.

Yuri and Kyunghee explain that their father is out working overtime and... doesn’t really say anything about their mom, but the others know better than to bring something like that up unprompted, so they don’t.

The alcohol is present as promised, provided by none other than resident adult, Ikje. Was it illegal? Yes. Was that going to stop any of them? In the words of Donghyuk, ‘hell nah!’

What terrible, terrible influences, Yuri thinks.

She’s never had alcohol before, nor does she plan to have it anytime soon. Not for any legal or moral reasons, mind you—with the amount of alcohol so freely available in her household, she could probably sneak as much as she wanted whenever she wanted. Personally, she just thinks it smells weird and makes her dad act like a crazy person.

She’s only fifteen, but they make it seem fun. They take the thin metal tail of the soju bottle’s metal cap and tighten it into a straight, brittle line. Everyone takes turns flicking it until Kyunghee’s fingers finally break it off. He makes a face when Ikje fills the shot glass in front of him with soju as punishment.

Yuri doesn’t miss the way he side-eyes Donghyuk before downing it, like he’s trying to make sure that he’s watching. Like he’s looking for approval. She wonders if that’s how she looks at Namjoon. She wonders if that’s how Namjoon looks at her. He’s on her brain too often, these days. Namjoon, Namjoon, Namjoon.

They’ve gotten even closer since they made up, and she’s learned a lot more about him since then. He’s still the stickler that refuses to drink in public where he could get in trouble, but he still still laughs and encourages the others’ antics in private, maybe even allowing himself a shot or two. He is also more than the sexless smart dude that she stereotyped him as when they first met, as she has come to learn through his awful, nasty jokes.

She really was right when she said that he had a whole solar system in his head. Whenever he seems like he could fit into some mold, he immediately proves her wrong. Kim Namjoon is everything.

In contrast, Min Yoongi isn’t much to her at the moment.

When she turns over to look at him, she immediately feels bad for not really paying attention to him the whole night, especially when she was the one to have invited him. The only reason she’s even paying him any mind right now is because he’s just situated himself next to her at the table, as a now drunken Ikje has thoughtlessly occupied his previously-claimed spot.

Yuri isn’t sure if it’s because he’s not comfortable enough to drink around them yet, but she finds the way he innocently refuses to drink is a little endearing in the same way she found endearing when Namjoon refused to do so back in Hongdae. Instead, Yoongi opts to eat his entire body weight in meat, and is on what she believes is his third plate of fried chicken wings. Respect.

It’s a nice environment, and Yuri really is still adjusting to the fact that this is actually her life. She has a solid friend group that eats and drinks and laughs and plays stupid games together in her house. It’s relaxing. It’s safe. It feels like home. They feel like home.

It’s when they hear her dad’s car pull into the driveway a couple hours earlier than anticipated that makes Yuri remember, oh yeah, home kind of sucks.

In the next few minutes, their living room descends into absolute chaos. Kyunghee moves to swipe all the food and shot glasses off the table and into the sink, Yuri helps load them all into the dishwasher, Ikje is scooping all the soju bottles up into his arms, and everyone else is drunkenly scrambling out the back door. Once they’re all collected, Ikje climbs out the back window, for whatever reason. She blames it on his batshit drunkenness.

Everything is in the clear by the time their dad steps in. The entire scene is inconspicuous enough, Kyunghee passing Yuri plates from the sink to load into the dishwasher like they just ate a nice dinner. They even go so far as to force awkward smiles for their father, but he simply nods at them in acknowledgement before rubbing at his temples and makes his way upstairs, clearly still stressed from work. Kyunghee breathes a sigh of relief when he hears his father’s bedroom door click shut.

“We’re good,” he says, clasping a comforting hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Go lock the back. I’ll finish up the dishes.” Yuri nods, before making her merry way off to follow her brother’s orders. She nearly jumps out of her skin when she’s about to lock the back door and sees a male figure standing ominously in the shadows instead.

She turns on the back light, and lo and behold, there stands Min Yoongi, eating a fucking chicken wing on her back porch. And he has the audacity to look surprised, like she’s the one who shouldn’t be there on her own porch. Heaving a sigh, she steps outside, closing the door behind her as quietly as possible.

“What are you doing here?!” she whisper-yells. “Why didn’t you go with the others?!” It comes off as more aggressive than she intended, but the last thing she wants is for him to get caught and in trouble when she’s the one that invited him over in the first place.

“Namjoon went to sleep over at Donghyuk’s place,” he explains awkwardly. “Ikje went to sleep over at Hunchul’s place and, uh. I wasn’t invited to either. Ikje dropped me off here from the dorms, so… I don’t really know how to get back to the dorms from here.”

Yuri heaves a sigh. She’s going to have to give everyone a stern talk about the importance of camaraderie and the no-man-left-behind policy. After shooting a quick text to her brother, she uses the house key hanging off of her lanyard to lock the back door.

“I know Seoul like the back of my hand,” she says. “C’mon. I’ll walk you back.”

“I don’t know how I feel about you walking back home alone so late at night,” he says. “It doesn’t sound very safe for you.” His genuine worry makes her heart warm. Those unexpected moments of sweetness he has always throw her off. Not in a bad way, though. It’s nice.

Unfortunately, the rest of the walk is significantly less nice. They spend the first ten minutes arguing over whether or not it really is safe for her to be walking back home alone so late. He feels bad that she’s out because of him, but she insists that it’s fine as she’s done so many times before.

“Taking the subway home and walking home are two very different things,” he admonishes her. She resists the urge to roll her eyes at his patronizing tone.

“Relaaaax. I’ve got pepper spray,” she justifies herself. “Also, I hold my keys between my fingers.” She even holds up her hands for emphasis.

“I’m sure you could give a good stabbing if you wanted to,” he snarks. He doubts the tiny girl before him is capable of causing any physical damage, even with a deadly weapon in hand.

“Are you making fun of me?” she whines, and he snorts, because it really should be obvious. “I’m just trying to make sure you get home safely, and this is the thanks I get?”

Yoongi stops in his tracks to think about it for a moment, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he does so. She obviously means well, as annoying as she may be. She’s also his junior, and when he thinks about it, he’s just being mean to her for no good reason.

“Fine. I’m sorry for being an ass,” he relents with flushed cheeks, more for his conscience than anything else. “It’s just that—I just like being alone with my thoughts when I walk, that’s all. You’re not annoying.”

Or at least, not that annoying, he doesn’t say.

“I know I can be annoying,” she says so matter-of-factly that it makes him feel even worse. “And my brother can be the same way. He likes just thinking, too, so I can just be quiet if that’s what you want. I just want you to get home alive, that’s all.” His eyes soften.

“I’ll be fine,” he assures her. “I can defend myself if I really need to. I was on my school basketball team, you know. Boxing, too.”

“With these noodles?” she says bluntly, reaching over and taking hold of his arm. “And how did you get into the basketball team? Aren’t basketball players supposed to be tall?”

“You don’t have any right to talk about height,” he says, staring down all 150 centimeters of her frame as he snatches his arm back from her. “And my arms are not noodles just because I’m not built like The Hulk.”

“We can’t all be Kim Namjoons, I guess. He’s got biceps for days.” Yoongi gives her an amused look at that, and she flushes uncharacteristically. “Sorry. That was weird. Just don’t—nevermind. I’ll stop talking now.”

“No, by all means, keep going,” he teases. “As long as you don’t mind me telling him about it later.” She gasps at that, smacking him in the arm.

“Oh, so now you want me to talk!” she huffs, smacking his arm. “You will be telling him no such thing, Min Yoongi! You don’t even talk to him about that kinda stuff, anyway!” He laughs as he jumps ahead to get away from her playful smacking, smiling so wide that Yuri can see his gums showing. They’re cute. She decides that she likes them.

“You really like him, don’t you? Namjoon?” he chuckles, far too blunt for her liking. It’s a special kind of adorable the way that she so visibly shrinks at his words, he thinks.

“We’re not dating, I, um—” she sputters. “Is it obvious? That I like him, I mean.”

“Relax,” he says. “It’s not. Really, I don’t think he knows. I don’t think anyone knows except Kyunghee, and I only know because of him.”

“My brother knows?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck that guy.”

Yoongi laughs at her sudden vulgarity. She really got really blunt and fiery when she wasn’t thinking, even with her seniors like him. It makes things feel a little bit more comfortable.

“Relax,” he repeats. “I think he just knows you? Because he’s your brother, I mean. He was like, ‘I just have to tell someone and nobody talks to you so it’s okay.’ So I doubt he’s told anyone else.”

Yuri nods, inclined to agree. She’d never tell Namjoon about Kyunghee’s crush on Donghyuk, and she has enough trust in her brother to know that trust goes both ways. Still, she feels bad that the exclusion Yoongi goes through on the daily is so obvious, even to her socially-awkward brother. But she has her own relationships to worry about.

“Just don’t, like. I don’t know. Interfere in whatever is happening, okay?” she huffs. “You’re the only one who knows, as far as I know. I just… don’t try to plant any thoughts in his head, okay? I want whatever happens to happen naturally. Because he likes me for me, or something.”

“Spoken like a true romantic,” he says sarcastically.

“Oh, stop it,” she whines. Yoongi laughs.

“I won’t,” he assures her.

He doesn’t know when they started walking again, but it feels just a bit less awkward and stilted now. Yuri’s just a couple steps ahead of him, guiding the way. Wrinkling his brows, he stops dead in his tracks.

“This isn’t the right way,” he says. “You take a left here.”

“No?” she says. “The subway pickup is right here.”

“I’m not taking the subway, I’m walking, remember?” he says.

“What?!” she says. She didn’t mind the fifteen minute walk to the subway, but this was too much. “The whole way? The whole walk back to the dorms is like, an hour, Yoongi! Jesus, if I knew we were gonna be walking the whole way, I wouldn’t have come.”

“Well, you don’t have to walk me home if you didn’t want to,” he says. “You’re the one who offered.”

“I didn’t think you were a crazy person!” she huffs. “Why don’t you just take the subway?”

“I spent all my money on chipping in for dinner, how the hell am I gonna afford a subway ticket?” he snorts. “Look, I can walk however long it takes, but I can’t spawn food out of thin air like you guys can.” He tries to say it as casually as he can possibly manage, but the venom still leaks through. Her face visibly drops when he says it.

“Oh,” she says, her voice tiny. “I didn’t… sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Stop that. You’re being weird,” Yoongi says.

He hates this part. He hates the pity looks he gets from rich people like the Lims who have year-long subway passes their father bought—who, by the way, probably gets to sit pretty in a big office telling other people what to do while overworked laborers like his parents carry the South Korean economy on their backs.

But he digresses. He doubts she’s the kind of person who’d want to listen to his long-winded spiels on the economy or the government or the Gwangju democratization movement, anyway. Really, he doubts she’s type to need or think about funds at all.

Much to his surprise, she does.

“Okay, but like—just to make sure—money for that kinda stuff isn’t an issue for you guys, right?” she asks. “Like, Hitman Bang is feeding you guys?” There’s a level of threat to her voice that reminds him of the story Bang PD told him when he first joined the company, of her marching into his office to make demands for her friend’s safety. Loathe as he is to admit it, the image of it is equal parts genuine and endearing of her.

And maybe that’s why he feels the urge to spill his guts to her so suddenly, then. Maybe it’s also the warm, almost disarming energy in the way she talks to him now that they’re finally speaking one-on-one, despite his previous assumptions. Maybe it’s how innocent her eyes look when they shine under the Seoul streetlights.

“You know, I… I used to make beats out of a studio in Daegu,” he confesses. “Most of the time, I’d get scammed out of them, though. The guys who went in and out of the building would rip my shit off or use them but never pay me back, so like… I didn’t make much. But I stayed there because I still wanted to make music and using the studio was cheaper than buying equipment on my own.”

“Oh,” is all she says, pressing her lips together in a thin line. It’s definitely not the kind of thing Yuri and her brother ever had to worry about, seeing as they were so well-off. Hell, they were giving away the shit that Yoongi was slaving his life away over for free.

“So I couldn’t really pay for food or transport that easy, you know?” he continues, against his better judgement. It’s the first time he’s ever talked to anyone about this, and fuck, it feels so good. He can’t stop himself. “In front of the studio, there was this Chinese restaurant that sold jajangmyeon for 2000 won, and down the street, there was this place that sold janchi guksu for 1000 won, and like… I don’t know. It sounds stupid, but I had to worry about that shit everyday. If I ate the janchi guksu, I’d be able to get the bus and if I ate the jajangmyeon, I’d have to walk 2 hours to get home. So. I don’t know. I’m just stuck thinking like that, I guess. I know it’s not like… a thing anymore, but I feel using public transport still makes me feel guilty.”

“Mm.”

“Sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”

“It doesn’t,” she reassures him. “I’ve just, um, never had to think about stuff like that. I’m sorry you had to, though. It sounds shitty.”

“Not your fault. Don’t apologize for something like that.”

“Okay,” she says, smiling up at him. “Thank you for telling me, Yoongi.”

“Uh. Yeah. No prob,” he says, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. His flush only darkens when she shoves a couple of won in his hand, and he realizes she’s been slowly guiding him in the direction of the subway station this whole time. “Wait, h-hey—”

“No, no, I don’t need it,” she says when he shoves the money back into her hands.

“But—”

“It’s fine,” she assures him, soft smile still gracing her features. “I’d rather not walk all the way back to the dorms. Just take it, you’ll be doing me a favor. You don’t have to pay me back or anything, either. It’s not that much, anyway.”

Yoongi frowns. As much as he wants to argue with her, he’s tired enough as it is, and he has no doubt she’d stay up all night just to stay here and debate this with him.

“Okay,” he relents. She grins in what he believes to be triumph before gently taking hold of his hand in one of hers and placing the money back into his grasp with the other. She waits outside for the subway take off, like she’s afraid he won’t do as she says unless she sees it happen. When the train lurches to a start, he watches her figure retreat through the glass windows.

There’s a stark contrast to her soft hands and the fussy way she thrust her money at him, he thinks.

Lim Yuri is a strange, strange girl.

Namjoon jumps in his seat, startled when Yuri suddenly marches in, plops in to the studio chair next to him, and looks up at him with crossed arms and a very non-threatening scowl on her face.

“I have a bone to pick,” she says, and his brain immediately kicks it into panic mode as he rakes through his mind for anything that he could have possibly done to upset her within the past week.

Namjoon likes to consider himself a considerate person who wouldn’t want to upset anyone, but for some reason this feels different from pure consideration. At the beginning, Yuri was just Kyunghee’s kid sister who happened to help make good music. These days, though, she feels more like a peer than a junior, more like a friend than a dongsaeng.

For whatever reason he can’t quite pinpoint, her opinion of him has become quite important to him as of late. The idea that he’s done something she disapproves of makes his hands sweat. Even so, he manages to keep his composure, nodding as calmly as he can manage.

“What’s up?” he asks, cringing at the way his voice cracks. The way she sighs as she scoots her chair closer to his amps his anxiety up to eleven.

“You guys need to be nicer to Yoongi,” she says sternly, “You all really excluded him last week. He said you guys all went to each other’s houses after bouncing out last week and he just had nowhere to go. Why didn’t you guys plan for that or something?” Namjoon droops inward, like a kicked dog.

“Sorry,” he says, face hot with embarrassment despite immediately trying to justify himself. “It’s just—it was just kind of weird because nobody is really close to him or anything. The only person he really talks to is Ikje, and they’re not really even friends. We didn’t know how to broach the subject with him, or if he already had plans or anything, you know?”

“You could’ve asked,” she huffs, “I mean, I walked him to the subway station so he could ride back to the dorms, so everything turned out okay in the end. But—”

“By yourself?” Namjoon cuts her off. “That’s dangerous. Did you walk back by yourself, too? That late at night? Something could’ve happened. Why didn’t you ask Kyunghee to do it?” Yuri shakes her head fondly at his worrywart antics, and he sighs in relief when she smiles. It’s a warm reminder that she’s really not that mad at him.

“You sound like my dad,” she giggles, gently shoving at his arm. “Stop that. I’m trying to be mad at you.” He can’t resist cracking a smile back at her.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound apologetic.

“Anyway,” she continues, her tone considerably lighter, “Yoongi and I talked a bit when we were walking to the station, and like… I don’t know. It just made me realize how excluded he really was from everyone else. So can you just talk to him more, or something? And please try to get the other guys to talk to him more, too?”

“Yeah, of course. But for future reference, you could’ve called for a group discussion for this,” he chides, playfully adding, “I thought you were just mad at me for something. I really thought I did something wrong and didn’t know about it. You gave me a heart attack for no reason.”

“Sorry.” She laughs shyly now that it’s her turn to apologize. “It’s just—you’re the only one who really listens to me, you know? I feel like the rest of the guys kinda just see me as a little kid. I mean, I get it, because Kyunghee is my brother and Donghyuk is his best friend and Ikje is old, but like. I don’t know. I don’t feel like they respect me like you do, sometimes.”

Everything she says comes out in that nervous, rambly tone that she uses when she wants to keep things light, no matter how serious it actually is to her. Namjoon frowns.

“Sorry,” he says again. She shrugs.

“Not your fault,” she says, “I think things are gonna get better with Yoongi around, anyway.” Namjoon raises a curious brow at that.

“Oh?” is all he says. Yuri nods, like that’s an answer.

“He’s cool,” she says. “He was a little rude at first, but he got really shy and apologized when I pointed it out. Can you believe it? A man! Apologizing! Men never apologize, Namjoon!”

“I resent that statement.”

“Shut up, man,” she teases. They both chuckle at that. “Anyway. I think that you should try to talk to him, if anyone. I can’t tell you everything he said ‘cause that’s his business, but I will say that you’re both really passionate about music, so I think you’d get along really well.” Namjoon wrinkles his nose at her idealism, not quite sure about that one.

He supposes she’s sort of right, seeing as music is probably the only thing he and Yoongi can agree on. Even saying that is a stretch, because their very different methods of music-making lent cause to many studio debates. It’d probably be more accurate to say that music was the one field in which they respected each other enough to discuss things amicably. If the conversation wasn’t about music, they spent more time throwing passive-aggressive one-liners at one another than talking about anything else.

“I don’t know about that,” is all he decides to say.

“It can’t be that hard,” she says, pouting. “Yoongi is a nice person. And even if there are things you don’t agree on, you can’t deny that he works really hard. So at least try? For me?”

“That walk to the subway really changed you, huh?” he jokes. He’s expecting her to laugh or roll her eyes or smack him or something, but she nods sheepishly instead.

“He gives me good vibes,” she says like it’s an explanation.

“There you go with your vibes again,” he says. It comes out a bit more passive-aggressive than he’d have liked.

The atmosphere is a bit too fragile for him to start another debate, but it bothered him that she could dislike people like Hunchul because of the bad vibes she got from him, yet expect everyone to drop everything and befriend Yoongi because he gave her good vibes. She says that it’s just her intuition, but he thinks it’s just an excuse. Even without him saying all this, though, she rolls her eyes when she picks up on his implications.

“Yoongi really is a good guy, okay? I can feel it,” she tries convincing him. “I actually saw him smile, Namjoon. And he never smiles! And it was all cute and gummy! I know he comes off as kinda cold, but he just seems soft underneath it all. I just think he’s a person who’s been through a lot.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a crush on him,” he teases. For whatever, the prospect of that makes him more uneasy than it should.

“I’m being serious!” she whines, smacking his arm. “I’m not asking you to stop fighting or arguing with him or whatever if that’s what you want. Just… try to make up after you fight.”

“It’s just weird,” Namjoon admits sheepishly. “It’s not like I want to fight, so I don’t. Especially if it’s over something stupid. I just try to ignore the little things. But then all those little things pile up into one big pile of resentment until I get mad at him for something stupid and he thinks I’m crazy and I’m still mad at him and it’s weird.”

It sounds stupid when he says it out loud, but the way that Yuri purses her lips and nods in understanding as he speaks makes him feel a little less crazy about it all. She’s always been someone that people just feel comfortable around, and Namjoon himself is no exception.

“It’s not weird,” she reassures him. “Fighting isn’t bad, I don’t think. I don’t love it, obviously, but Hitman Bang said the other week that being afraid of fights is only gonna let stuff like that and make the conflict big and worse. All I’m asking is that you at least talk to Yoongi.”

She looks up at him with those doe eyes when she says it, big and hopeful and pleading, and he can’t possibly bring himself to say no.

“Alright.”

Ever since his talk with Yuri last week, Yoongi has been finding instant ramyeon cups in his desk.

At first, he thinks it’s a one-off thing, maybe Yuri’s apology for saying something she thought was insensitive because he made her feel bad and she needs to soothe her conscience. But once he’s run out, they quickly get restocked when he’s not looking, and he has to admit that it warms his heart. He didn’t expect his words to affect her nearly as much as they currently seem to.

He appreciates that she doesn’t give him the noodles directly or even say anything about it. It lessens the guilt he already feels from receiving free food from his junior. Yuri doesn’t ask for any thanks or even any acknowledgement, not breaching the topic beyond asking if he’s eaten yet.

Lim Yuri, he’s come to find, is not as bad as he thought. A little naive, to be sure, but nothing like the selfish, spoiled little girl he’d conjured up in his head when he first met her. He feels bad for the image he’d once conjured up of her in his head, the little brat surrounded by shiny, foreign production equipment who was no doubt born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

Lim Yuri is kind and generous and even thoughtful when she wants to be. She feels too hard, so sentimental that she cries when a beat she’d been working on for the past six hours fails to save before her computer shuts off. He tells her she can just remake it, but she sniffles and shakes her head, saying that it just won’t be the same as the last one.

“That beat was, like, my baby, Yoongi,” she explained to him that day. “I can’t just replace it, you know?” He doesn’t quite get what she’s getting at, but nods anyways. Over time, he comes to find those weird antics of hers he once found annoying to be kind of… cute? Even if he doesn’t get them. Even now, as she whines cutely, all he can offer is a couple of comforting pats atop her head. He wishes he had more to give.

Maybe that’s the worst part of being the poor kid, he decides. Everyone is impossibly kind here, and he’s probably making an ass of himself by meeting that kindness with a cold distrust. So he brushes off their niceties knowing that he has nothing to give back in return, and thus is seen in a doubly awful light. He tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that at the very least, that prickly demeanor means that nobody is expecting anything of him.

After all, Yoongi doesn’t do well with expectations. He’s not the son his parents expected him to be, who’d get good grades and go to university in pursuit of a business degree or something before slaving away at a desk from nine-to-five everyday for the rest of his life, nor does he want to be.

But he has to be something.

Hence why he’s in need of a job. Not one of the office jobs that his parents suggested, mind you, but a simple part-time job to hold him over on top of being a trainee so that he doesn’t feel like a useless moocher. Thankfully, he’s already got it in the bag. As expected, they can’t just hire anyone, so they’ve just got one little test for him before they can officially put him on the employee roster.

What he doesn’t expect is to run into Lim Yuri, numerous plastic bags in hand.

“Yoongi!” she shouts when they make eye contact, running up to him excitedly. He’s never seen anybody that excited to see him, even back home in Daegu. It makes his heart feel a little funny.

“Hey,” he says, “I didn’t expect to run into you. What are you doing? Are you alone?” As annoyed as she wants to be, she can’t help but be endeared by the concern she shows her, the same kind that he showed her back when she walked him to the subway.

“Well… yes. But it’s fine. I’m not a kid, you know? Don’t worry about me so much! Really, you just sound like a grandpa when you talk like that,” she teases, “I bet one of these days I’ll come into your studio and you’ll be sprawled over the floor because your back gave out or something.”

“Hey, Hitman Bang says I’m an old soul,” he jokes, a wry grin on his face. She rolls her eyes.

“That’s just a polite way of saying he’s surprised that you’re this young and already depressed,” she snorts, but he can tell that there’s no malice to it. Still, it’s so unexpected of her that he has to do a double-take before bursting out laughing.

He doesn’t even notice the pedestrian light flash on until she links her pinky with his and walks him across the street. Surprising even himself, he can’t bring himself to really mind that much. In due time, he’s found himself growing adjusted to her touchiness. It’s kind of nice, when he thinks about it. It makes him feel a little less like an interloper. Makes him feel like he belongs where he is.

“It’s fine!” she assures him. He doesn’t look very convinced. “We’re in broad daylight, Yoongi. I just finished grocery shopping.” She lifts her bag-lined arms up for emphasis. “It was my turn this week. Kyunghee and I take turns with groceries since our mom isn’t around.”

“Makes sense,” Yoongi says. Now that she mentions it, they’d only ever mentioned having to avoid their father whenever everyone came over to the Lim household. He’d always just assumed their mom was out or at work or upstairs—never that she wasn’t around at all. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about it, but it seems too heavy of a topic to pry about right now, especially when he already has somewhere to be.

“What about you?” she asks. “Where’d you come from? Or are you headed somewhere?”

“Work,” he explains. “Sort of. It’s just a part-time job. I haven’t technically started yet, but I’m going to. It’s a delivery thing, so I’m just going to test the delivery bike so that they can see that I actually know how to drive and won’t ride around like a crazy person.”

“Like a motorcycle?” she asks enthusiastically. “A real one? You know how to ride a motorcycle?”

“Yeah,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage, secretly revelling in how much it impresses her. It’s cute of her, he thinks, the way she’s so wowed by the little things. It’s like every conversation with her is an ego boost.

“Can I come watch?” she asks hopefully, eyes glittering with excitement.

And how could he possibly say no to that?

It’s a little silly, how bouncing-off-the-walls excited she is when they get there. Even the old couple who own the restaurant he’s supposed to be delivering for are enamored with her, wrapped up in conversation about meat buns or something. She really is genuinely sweet with them, so much so that they barely take notice when Yoongi mounts the bike they’ve prepared for him to test-ride.

It’s an older Yamaha model, the ‘YD250’ on the scratched up by what he assumes can only be years of wear and tear. He thinks nothing of it as he revs the bike up to life, but before he can take off and begin driving, he’s cut off by Yuri’s voice.

“Hey, hey, hey!” she calls out. “You should be wearing a helmet!”

“It’s in the box,” the old man explains.

“I’ve ridden without one before,” Yoongi mutters, resisting to roll his eyes at their safety concerns. And Yuri calls him the old person. Even so, he opens the delivery bike box mounted on the back of and reaches in to grab hold of the big black helmet so that he can put it on. “Happy?”

“Very,” Yuri says, sounding far too pleased for his liking. The old woman chuckles at their banter.

Yoongi takes off in a flash after that, quickly riding around the busiest blocks and most bustling streets a couple times, the image of Yuri’s enthusiastic eyes as he rode away on the motorcycle burned into his mind. It’s nice to be admired so deeply. It’s the only reason he’s still on board with the whole idol thing, after all. He doesn’t want to rely on his parents and their money for everything, though, so right now he just needs this job to help support his training.

He’s officially got the job, they inform him when he gets back. They also tell him that Yuri has been vouching for him in the mere minutes that he was gone. She ducks her head to hide her blush at that, and he finds her shyness in the moment impossibly cute. It only intensifies when she pipes up.

“Can I join you? On the back, I mean?” she asks bashfully. “I’ve, um, never ridden one before. I just think it’d be neat. You can just take me home, if you want. It’s not super far from here, I think.” In any other circumstance, he’d say yes in a heartbeat, but she’s asking him this question in front of his employers. Thankfully, the two nod when he looks to them for permission.

He can’t but feel kind of mortified by the way the old couple coos at him when he takes off his helmet off and places it atop her head, taking extra care to fasten the buckle tight.

“Cute,” she says. “But what about you?” It’s the little things like these that remind her how thoughtful and softhearted he is, even if he doesn’t really care to show it.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve ridden without one before,” he echoes his earlier sentiment. She doesn’t look convinced, but the old man speaks up before she can get a word in.

“Get your girlfriend home safe, alright?” he says, clapping his hand down onto Yoongi’s shoulder a little too forcefully. Both him and Yuri send each other an embarrassed glance at his assumption, but neither can find it in them to correct the old man.

“Yes, sir,” is all Yoongi says.

The ride back home is a lot less nerve-wracking than he had expected. Yuri’s soft from head to toe, he notes, like a little human pillow. Against his expectations, the feeling of her form pressed against his back throughout their ride in the city feels more comforting than restricting. So much so that he actually feels a little bit disappointed when they get to her house and she has to let go.

He helps her unload her groceries from the delivery bike box, watching as she takes every bag but one. He reaches in to grab it until he sees what’s inside—ramyeon. The exact kind that spawns in his desk every week. At that moment, he realizes that she left that specific bag inside on purpose.

“This is for me,” he says. It's a statement, not a question.

“Mmhm,” she replies. “It’s my favorite brand. It’s got that little egg brick in there, you know the one? These things are mostly carbs, so I think it’s a good source of protein. Good for building muscles.” He frowns, baffled as to how she can be so nonchalant about all this.

“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” he says. “I have a job now, so I can buy my own food if I’m ever craving anything beyond those cardboard chicken breasts Hitman Bang gives us.” Yuri giggles at that. “I’m serious. I’ve already gotta pay you back for the last couple of weeks. I’m not sure if my salary is gonna be able to keep up.”

“Hey,” she says gently, staring him down a bit more earnestly now. “You don’t have to pay me back for anything, okay? The ones I get for you are only, like, 1200 won per little cup.”

“Isn’t 1200 won kind of a lot?”

“It’s not,” she assures him. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s fine. It’s really fine. It doesn’t hurt me at all. If it did, I wouldn’t keep doing it.” Yoongi pulls a face, not entirely convinced.

“You may not feel bad, but like—I feel bad.”

“Well you shouldn’t.”

“But I do,” he says. Yuri sighs.

“Yoongi—”

“It’s not just the ramyeon, you know?” he says, staring mindlessly at some spot on the ground. Anywhere but her face. It’s a daunting task when he speaks so earnestly. “It’s just—you do so much for everyone all the time. And I’m just—I don’t even talk to anybody.”

“Hey.” Yuri speaks softly, taking one of his hands between both of hers in what he thinks is an attempt to comfort him. Her hands are just as soft as they were that night by the subway, he muses. “You can’t blame all that on yourself, you know? I know the other guys aren’t the best at being friendly and inclusive and all that, but that’s not your fault. It’s more of a time thing.”

“A time thing?” he asks.

“We’ve all known each other for, like, two or three years before you came here,” she explains. “ So I think they’re just trying to get used to you? But they don’t dislike you! If anything, I’m sure they’ll like you soon. I mean, I already like you, so it shouldn’t be too hard for them to follow suit.”

“Okay,” he says, thinking nothing of the flush that spreads up to the tips of his ears.

Namjoon supposes that now is as good a time as any when Yoongi steps into his studio.

He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. After all, Yuri points out, Yoongi is the one alone in Seoul with nobody to talk to. When she puts it like that, it makes them all sound like assholes. Maybe they are. But it’s fine, because Namjoon is finally going to be nice and converse with him about something not music-related. The bar is on the floor. All he needs to do is open his mouth and say something.

“We need to talk,” Namjoon says. He immediately knows he’s said the wrong thing when Yoongi’s eyes widen like saucers, anxiously backing up until his back hits the door like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be. “Oh God, no, not like that. You’re okay. You’re not in trouble.”

“Oh. Alright,” Yoongi says, visibly relaxing.

“I just, um. I wanted to talk,” he repeats. “I feel like I’ve been… mean? But I’m not trying to be. It’s just that I’m supposed to be the leader, but you’re the hyung. “And you also produce a lot of our songs—which I’m really, really grateful for, of course. I just don’t know how to talk about things as a leader without seeming disrespectful. I try to keep my mouth shut about it, but I guess that’s how things like that build up, you know?”

“My mom gave birth to me,” Yoongi says, seemingly out of the blue, and Namjoon laughs. It’s that loud, booming laugh of his that always fills up the whole room.

“What—?!” he laughs incredulously.

“Let me finish,” Yoongi says, hopelessly fighting to the smile off of his face. “My mom gave birth to me. My mom is older to me, obviously, and she’s done a lot for me, too. And of course I’m grateful for that, but that doesn’t mean I won’t fight her on some things. Doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything she says, because I haven’t. Neither have you—if we did, neither of us would be here right now. We’d be like, I don’t know, doing cram school or preparing for university shit or something like that. I think I’d resent her if that’s what I was doing right now just because I wanted to please her. That’s why it’s okay to fight. If we don’t, then all that resentment just grows.” Namjoon smiles fondly at him.

“You really are an old man,” he chuckles, prompting Yoongi to raise a brow at him. “Hitman Bang said the same thing, you know? About fighting being good, since conflicts just get bigger if you don’t fight.”

“Well… he’s right.”

“Wiser words were never spoken,” Namjoon replies.

“So no more not-fighting?” Yoongi asks. It’s so ridiculous, the way he has to phrase it—but Namjoon nods, so he supposes that it gets the point across well enough. “We’ll try to resolve problems instead of avoiding them completely.”

“No more not-fighting,” he agrees. “Resolving things. Not avoiding them.” He holds out a pinky.

It’s a ridiculously silly sight, Yoongi thinks, the way Namjoon’s large hand offers out a pinky for what he thinks must be a pinky promise. Seeing someone as big as Namjoon do something so childish is unfairly endearing. He must’ve picked up from Yuri, he muses. Yoongi can’t help but laugh.

“Did you just giggle?”

“Huh?”

“That was kind of cute, hyung.” Yoongi flushes a dusky pink.

“…shut up.”

Yuri doesn’t come in late on Sundays anymore, Yoongi muses.

She always used to come in late on Sundays, which was a stark contrast to her appearances right after school on weekdays and her early morning entrances on Saturdays. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before, but he supposes it’s a good thing that he does now. It means that at the very least, they’re taking note of each other’s presence.

Yoongi does think it’s weird, but for as curious as he is, he is not nosy enough to ask about it. Normally, it wouldn’t even cross his mind to do so, but with the talk he had with Hitman Bang last week about getting along better with everyone, he’s having second thoughts.

Yuri may not be a fellow trainee, but she’s still a member of their team. He only just started talking easily to Namjoon, so Yuri is easily the most comfortable person to talk to. After a rather heated internal battle, he gives in and brings it up to her.

“I’m glad you come in on Sundays, now,” he says, as nonchalantly as he can manage. “What cleared your schedule up?”

“Oh!” she says, pleasantly surprised that Yoongi is taking the first step in making conversation. “My mama worked as a vocal teacher before she divorced my dad and moved away, so my little brother Daniel and I would go over there to help her, especially with translating stuff since her Korean wasn’t very good. I used to go over to help the other lady who works there on Sundays since she’s nice and I liked singing! But Daniel handles all that now, so I’m free to work here with you guys.”

That’s certainly a can of worms. He’s learned more about her and her home life from this single conversation than he did from the night he was over at her house, but he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable by pressing further about the deep shit, so he keeps his digging as shallow as he can.

“You sing?” he says, and she flushes.

“Yes,” she admits. “But like. Not in front of other people. That’s scary.”

“Like stage fright?”

“Sort of,” she says. “It’s different. More like, scary in the sense that you have to share your art that you’ve poured all your heart and soul into for so long. Because then when people reject it or don’t like it, you feel like they don’t like you. On top of that, people also care about visuals and dancing and aegyo, and like… how am I supposed to fulfill all those categories?”

“I get that,” he says. He always knew that music would be a big part of his life, but he never imagined he’d be performing for other people. The thought of scrutiny had always made his stomach churn, but that’s basically all that idol life was. He’s not sure how he’ll handle it. “You don’t think you’ll ever be singing on a stage one day?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. Maybe one day,” she says. “Maybe if I was more… you know.” She grimaces as she makes a vague gesture with her hand.

“Mm-hm.” Really, he doesn’t know, but it seems like a touchy subject.

He deems it better not to pry.

Big Hit and Source Music are due to debut a girl group soon, Hitman Bang says.

Unlike the boys, they’ve even got a name—GLAM. Yoongi, however, has yet to know the group’s trainees beyond seeing them in passing. After all, Source is the one handling all the management and promotion and all that fancy stuff.

(Hitman Bang says he’d never be able to manage a girl group because he doesn’t understand women. It takes all of Yoongi’s willpower to stifle a laugh when Yuri says she’s not surprised.)

Meanwhile, all Big Hit has to do is help make their music.

Yoongi feels a bit of pressure when faced with the prospect of making music for somebody else. Music has always been a very personal process for him. The thought of someone else interpreting his work was both exciting and overwhelming. While the prospect of someone interpreting his work or liking his work enough to perform it piqued his interest, the idea of someone either fucking up something he made or pitching his work to someone who’d only reject it was anxiety-inducing.

To his relief, that is not what he is currently doing.

At the moment, he’s currently mixing a demo for one of GLAM’s future songs, touching up the vocals so that they stand out above the instrumental’s bouncy synths. It has a nice vibe to it, he muses. It’s in English, but he understands enough of it to make out that it’s about getting ‘too close’ to somebody who’s supposed to be a friend. Hitman Bang must’ve purchased it from some overseas songwriter. He’s not sure why. It seems like it’d be an expensive process, and even after buying it they’ll have to translate it back into Korean. What was the point of all that hassle?

At least it sounds nice, Yoongi supposes. It’s a cute, pop-based little R&B track with airy vocals. The high notes are clear and smooth, with a distinct little squeak at the end of the high notes. It’s almost familiar, he muses, but he’s listened to a lot of music in his lifetime, so—wait a minute.

Yuri. That’s Yuri’s voice.

He recognizes those little squeaks anywhere, reminiscent of the whiny tones she makes whenever she’s being stubborn about something. It’s harder to pick up on when she speaks in English, which he supposes he should’ve assumed she’d know how to speak. He recalls Namjoon offhandedly mentioning that she was his English tutor a couple of times, as well as Yuri mentioning translating for her mom. Still, he’s never actually heard it come out of her mouth. It’s kind of jarring.

Against his better judgement, he asks her about it.

“Oh! Um, yeah, that’s me,” she admits, laughing sheepishly. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“It’s good,” he assures her. “Your voice is pretty. The lyrics you wrote are catchy. I bet you could be an idol, if you wanted to.”

“Uh-uh. I don’t think so,” she says just a bit too forcefully, “I’m perfectly content just producing for you guys. Seriously.”

“That’s selfless of you,” he says. She shakes her head.

“It’s actually a little selfish, when I think about it,” she laughs nervously. “To be honest, I think a big part of my support comes from living vicariously through you guys. Saying it out loud makes it sound kind of awful, but you guys are doing things I could only ever dream of doing. I’m just here to make sure you guys are as successful as possible at all the things you’re doing, you know? Even though I’m not actually, like, putting in all the work and being on stage and all that.”

“You could, if you really wanted to,” he says encouragingly. She shakes her head.

“I mean, I don’t think I look very idol-like,” Yoongi muses.

“You do!” she argues. Poking at his pale cheek to emphasize her next point, she says, “White as sugar, just like old man Bang said. You’ve got that glass skin, you know?”

“That’s because I don’t go outside,” he says, self-deprecating as ever as he swats her hand away.

“Oppa,” she whines in a way he thinks is unfairly cute of her. “Just accept the compliment, okay?” He rolls his eyes, but relents to her wishes anyway.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re very welcome,” she says, sounding far too pleased with herself. “Don’t be like that, okay?”

“Like what?” he says, wrinkling his nose.

“Well… you know. Mean to yourself about how you look,” she explains. “Namjoon is the same, which is sad. And also just not great for an idol, you know? You have to be at least a little confident in your looks, or you’re gonna be miserable every time the stylists dress you. It takes them longer than you’d think. Or so I’ve heard.”

“There’s not much to be proud of,” he deflects, not missing the way that Yuri rolls her eyes like that.

When she raises her hand, he thinks she’s gonna flick his forehead or prod at his face again or something, but instead she places a finger on the tip of his nose. He furrows his brows together.

“What—”

“Your nose is cute,” she says matter-of-factly. He can’t help the strangled noise of surprise that escapes him at that, face growing hot as he flusters. “And your pale skin makes it easier to see when you blush, too. That’s a strong charm point as well, I think. You’ve got lots of charms.” He turns away, shaking his head in disbelief.

Still, it’s nice to know that somebody thinks so.

Yoongi presses the end call button on his phone just a little too forcefully.

Another phone call, another argument with his parents. It was instances like these that made him not want to call them at all. He’s always in this limbo of guilt, grateful that they paid for his trainee contract while also being angry at the way they constantly voice their disapproval. He slams his phone down onto his desk in frustration.

Apparently, it was louder than he thought. His studio door opens up a sliver, just enough for Yuri to peek her head in.

“Hey,” she calls softly. “Everything alright in there?” Yoongi pulls a face that makes it obvious that no, he is not alright. “Can I come in, then?”

Upon his nod of approval, she files into the room, gently closing the door shut behind her. She walks over and settles into the seat across from his, sliding it over next to his so she can lay her head on his shoulder. Her touch is comforting, he thinks.

“Talk to me,” she says. “What’s wrong?”

“Sometimes, I think I should just… I don’t know. Anything to stop shit like that from happening,” he sighs. “My parents nagging me, I guess. Just go back home. Go to college. Get a nine-to-five. Have a nice family, or something.” And Yuri frowns, because she gets it.

It’s something she’s spent many days and nights comforting Namjoon over when he’s just had another argument with his parents over the same exact thing. She wishes she could relate or understand, or anything to comfort him—but she can’t.

She’s glad the two can talk to each other about it now, but she can’t help but feel a little jealous that she can’t be a part of the conversation and can help them. She almost scoffs at herself for envying them being able to bond over their unsupportive parents. How fucked up was that?

Heaving a sigh, she hops up and takes a seat on the edge of his desk, careful to mind his production equipment. She swings her feet up into his lap, in that very casually touchy Yuri-esque way of hers. Impulsively, he brings a hand up to gently tap at her shin. She tries not to giggle at the ticklish sensation.

“Yoongi,” she starts, as seriously as she can manage. “Not to be, like. A downer or anything. But when your parents are gone, where would that put you? Stuck in a job you hate for no reason?”

“Six feet under,” he snorts, and she gasps.

“Not funny!” she whines, kicking at his hand. Her assault on his poor palm only gets worse when he bursts out laughing. “So not funny!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, but he’s still laughing.

“I really am trying to be supportive,” she huffs, a bit less childishly, now. “But I can’t like. Get it, get it, you know? The only reason I have any idea what to say here is ‘cause I’ve had this talk before. You know, if you two tried talking to each other more about personal stuff, I think you’d see that you and Namjoon are more alike than you might think. I’m not going to spill his business, but. I’ll just say that I think if anyone were to get it, it’d be him. It took some coaxing from my dad, but both my parents are okay with me pursuing music, now. As long as I took the producer route and not the idol route, at least. But still. It’s a good start. I’m lucky. I’ve got it better than a lot of people do, I think.”

“Would you?”

“Hm?”

“Take the idol route,” he clarifies, looking down at her shoes. “If you were given the choice.”

Sometimes, Yoongi feels like he’s never been given a choice. It feels like he’s been given every setback in the world. He’s never had the support or the funds or the hunger for fame that so often accompanied those pursuing music. He can barely remember why or when or what began his relationship with music, but he so vividly remembers feeling it, feeling like music chose him rather than the other way around. He can’t help but wonder what someone who seems to have been given almost all the choice in the world has to say about the only restrictions she’s been given.

Not much, it seems.

“Oh, um, nah. I don’t think so,” she laughs nervously. “I’m just—I’m not really pretty enough?”

“You are pretty,” he says, too quickly and too naturally to be insincere. He doesn’t miss the way that she ducks her head to hide the flush flooding into her cheeks.

This must be the vague ‘you know’ thing she was always talking about, Yoongi muses. He really should’ve picked up on it from the moment she said she didn’t look very idol-like. He’s never been the type to kiss up, so he hopes she knows that he means it.

“You’re so—stop that,” she whines, embarrassed. She half-heartedly attempts to kick at his hand again, but makes no move to try again when she misses. “You’re too much.”

“I’m serious,” he says.

“I know,” she squeaks, hands flying up to cover her flushed cheeks up in embarrassment. “That’s the embarrassing part. Get some taste or something.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Yuri,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You always tell Namjoon and I not to be insecure about appearances, but you act the same when it comes to yours.”

“That’s different,” she whines, “You and Namjoon are gonna be in front of the cameras. I’m gonna be behind them. I don’t need to muster up any kind of confidence for that. Which is good. Because I don’t have it.”

“Looks don’t matter to me,” he says flatly. “But confidence does. I’m not gonna hold your hand and tell you that you’re pretty all day, even if I think it’s true, ‘cause you’re not gonna believe it no matter how many times I say it.”

“Ouch.”

“Let me finish,” he continues, “Even if it isn’t your looks, you deserve to at least be confident in something. Your music, your grades, your music, whatever. You’re generous and thoughtful. Don’t let society make you miserable just because all they care about is appearances.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything, her face still buried in her hands. More than a little bit concerned at this point, Yoongi flicks her forehead through her bangs.

“Hey, you good in there?” he asks. She doesn’t reply. Just sniffles. Oh, fuck. “Uh, sorry, I—” Yuri shakes her head, finally lowering her hands.

“Don’t be,” she laughs nervously, still teary-eyed. “That was one of the nicest things a boy ever said to me. You should be, like, a motivational speaker or something.” He snorts.

“I can’t give advice to like. People I don’t care about,” he says, grinning awkwardly, “I’d just tell them to get their shit together and I’d get fired.” Yuri can’t fight the smile off of her cheeks at that.

She’s sure she’d know that he cares through his Yoongi-isms alone, but it’s nice to hear it from the man himself. He wouldn’t be giving this advice if he didn’t care.

Min Yoongi cares about her, and it makes her heart feel warm.

Lim Yuri has become an unexpected addition to Yoongi’s delivery sprees.

Yuri’s arms, small and gentle, have become a comforting presence as they wrap around his waist. The old couple doesn’t seem to mind the extra person joining him on his trips, content with her politeness and the fact that she isn’t demanding any money despite providing help. They coo about the highs and lows of young love whenever Yuri arrives to join him on his trips, and Yoongi can’t find the energy within himself to correct them.

Things go on like this for a long time, hours, days, weeks, of this halcyon. Her arms keep him warm in the winter and her cold hands keep him refreshed in the late months of spring. The old husband hands them a bag of leftover food for them to eat together, an wistful smile on his face.

They eat in the midst of impromptu therapy sessions, which usually consist of Yuri comforting Yoongi as he complains about his problems. It’s okay, though, because she likes to give advice and she likes how deep his voice is when he talks and she doesn’t have many problems of her own to complain about, anyway. When she does talk, it’s always lighthearted, talking about a song she wrote or something dumb Kyunghee and Daniel did or how cute Namjoon’s dimples were on that particular day.

One day, curiosity kills the cat, and Yoongi asks a question that’s been killing him from the start.

“Why do you like Namjoon so much, anyway?” It’s something Yoongi asks out of the blue, so much so that he doesn’t even realize he’s asking it until it slips out. He’s not sure what he’s expecting until she answers, and when he does, he realizes that his expectation was literally anything but what she says next.

“No reason,” she says, and he’s so thrown for a loop by the words that leave her that he practically stumbles over his feet when he hears them.

“Wait, seriously?” he says. “I’ve read your lyrics, you know. You’re good with words.”

“I am?” she says, sounding far too surprised for his liking.

“Yeah. Which is why I thought you’d have a way better answer than that,” he says. “I expected you to talk about…” He pauses as he sifts through his brain for all the things that he personally finds attractive about Namjoon. “…I don’t know, his dimples or his height or his good grades or something.” All things that he lacks, Yoongi muses with insecurity.

“Oh my God. Those are all, like, great and all, but they’re not like… why I like him,” Yuri giggles. “He’s just—I don’t know. There’s a lot of things about him that make me like him, but I can’t, like, come up with an itemized list. It’s not like one day he reached a quota in traits I liked and suddenly I liked him. I just realized I did. I just… felt it. It felt right. He felt right.”

“Oh.” Yoongi feels a pang of jealousy at that, like an itch he can’t scratch. Maybe it’s because a tender part of him can only dream of being loved so dearly.

He silently wonders what it would be like to be loved by a person like Lim Yuri.

Namjoon has been feeling himself growing fonder and fonder of Yoongi in these past months.

Finally learning to talk to him without being all weird has helped with that. Without the formalities, they’re both able to speak a lot more freely. In the time that they’ve done so, the two have been able to talk about and bond over their rocky family situations and their choice to pursue music.

What’s fueled his fondness more than anything, though, is Yoongi’s little habits—the way he runs a hand through his jet black hair as he shyly recommends jazz and art study because they seem like the type of thing you’d like, Namjoonie, the way he always wears those grey jacket and sweats because they’re warm and winter is starting to trickle in, the way he smiles with his gums just like Yuri said he would.

Those two have gotten impossibly close lately, Namjoon notes. Now, he doesn’t think he’s the most perceptive person in the world, but it’s hard to miss the tenderness in their actions. Every time he steals a glance in their direction, they’re exchanging knowing glances or whispering softly to each other or linking pinkies in the way that Yuri loves to do so much.

It’s only natural to conclude that Min Yoongi and Lim Yuri are involved.

He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. It has no reason to, right? But it does. He combs through his mind for any possible reason that it should. Maybe it’s because Yoongi, who’s agreed to be more honest with him, hasn’t told him about it. Maybe it’s because Yuri, ever perceptive, has been one of his closest friends for years and yet seems to have no intentions in telling him about it despite how painfully obvious their interactions make things.

The familiar sting of loneliness rises sharply in his chest when he sees them interact, like they’re in their own little world, with seemingly no room for him. He feels like he’s spying on their relationship when he shouldn’t be. He feels like a voyeur. He feels like an interloper.

Maybe this is how Yoongi felt when he first came to Big Hit, he muses. If this is how he feels just watching him and Yuri, he can’t imagine having to watch everyone who’s known each other for years talk and laugh together from the outside. The more he thinks about it, the more he feels selfish and ridiculous for being so bothered by it. After all, who was he to meddle in their affairs?

Maybe it’s high time he finds one of his own.

Yuri’s sheets are soft, Yoongi thinks.

They’re at her house today, Yuri not feeling very keen on having this conversation in the Big Hit building for fear that Namjoon might walk in on them while they’re talking about him. Right now, she’s half-heartedly producing something on her bedroom computer and venting to Yoongi as he lies on her bed.

She rants about how Namjoon has been talking a lot about girls lately, clearly bothered. She especially seems bothered by the fact that Namjoon won’t let her be as touchy with him as she used to be. Normally, Yoongi wouldn’t give a damn about other people’s affairs, but things are different, this time. While he’s not personally bothered by it, he doesn’t like the fact that it bothers her so much, for whatever reason he can’t quite pinpoint.

Dear Lord, she even goes into detail, describing each and every pretty girl in a way that is far less flowery than he believes Namjoon would speak about a girl.

“And then there’s Jieun, who they all say is a good kisser. What does that even mean? Like, what the hell makes someone a good kisser? You just jam your lips together, right?”

“You’ve never been kissed,” he says, more a statement than a question.

“Yes?”

“Kinda late, don’t you think?” he says. Yuri gasps as she smacks at his arm, clearly mortified.

“No it’s not! Shut up!” she says indignantly. He’s trying to take her seriously, but her squeaky little whines make that hard.

“Sorry—” he tries apologizing through his laughter.

“You don’t sound sorry at all!” she whines. “It’s not funny, okay? It’s fine! I’m still young!”

“You’re sixteen already!”

“I’m only sixteen!” she huffs, crossing her arms and turning away from him. “I-I have time, okay? We can’t all be heartbreakers, Min Yoongi.”

“Heartbreaker?” he repeats. “I haven’t had a girlfriend since middle school.”

“I never said you were one,” she defends herself.

“You implied it.”

“I—whatever!” she huffs. “I’m saving my first kiss for someone special. And it’s gonna be somewhere magical, like under the cherry blossoms at the Goyang Flower Festival or on a picnic blanket under the stars on New Year’s or something.”

Oh my God. He’s trying so hard to stop his laughter.

“Did you swallow a fucking romance novel?” he laughs. “My first kiss took place in the hallway after gym class, so like. Don’t be surprised if it sucks and you mess up and slobber all over them or something like that.”

When he turns to look at Yuri, she looks incredibly nervous. She’s come to a still in her spinny chair, nervously pulling her hair over her face as she ponders his words with utmost seriousness.

“Do you think that?” she asks, voice small.

“What?” he asks. Wordlessly, she sighs, wheeling her chair backwards over to where he’s lying on her bed. She cranes her neck back onto her bed, coming face-to-face with him.

“Do you think I’ll mess up my first kiss?” she says softly. Not that she needs to speak anything but—she’s so close he can feel her breath against his nose. He pulls away, face aflush.

“You’ll be fine,” he mutters, voice cracking.

Yuri gives a huff, seemingly dissatisfied with his answer. She hops down from her chair—there’s an inherent cuteness in the fact that her feet don’t touch the ground when she sits on it, Yoongi muses—and up onto the bed, right next to him. He rolls his eyes when she settles onto her knees and urges him to sit up, too. He obliges, in spite of his annoyance.

“What was your first kiss like? Aside from the whole being in the hallway thing?” she whispers, like they’re telling secrets. There’s nobody else in the house but Daniel (who’s probably got his headphones cranked up to a hundred percent), so Yoongi can’t help but find her antics endearing.

“My first kiss was just a kiss. Nothing bad. Nothing mind-blowing,” he says with a shrug.

Even that’s a bit of a stretch. They were both gross and sweaty and their teeth clacked together. But he already feels kinda bad for making her doubt herself so much, and he doesn’t want to aggravate her worries.

“So how did… did you just…” she gestures awkwardly with her friends as she trails off, unable to articulate whatever she wants to say. He gets it, though. He always does.

“You just go for it,” he says, “It’s the kinda thing you just feel your way through. Just don’t think too hard about it. You’re good at doing things without thinking, so it should go well for you.”

“Gee, thanks,” she says, rolling her eyes at the back-handed compliment. “It’s just—I don’t wanna mess up in the future if I ever… you know.”

“Just say kiss,” he teases. “It’s not as sacred as you’re making it out to be. It’s just lips-on-lips. If humans never decided it was a thing to kiss people you liked, it wouldn’t be important at all. It’d just be an exchange of germs.”

“It’s important to me!” she bristles, so aggressively that it throws him for a loop. She takes note of her overreaction, coughing awkwardly before returning to her normal volume. She repeats, “I-It’s important to me. I just want it to be nice. I don’t wanna be disappointed. And I don’t wanna be someone else’s disappointment. That’s why I’m asking you this.”

“What are you asking?” he says, raising a brow.

“Augh!” She buries her face into her hands, miserably failing an attempt to hide her flushed cheeks. Peeking through her fingertips, she gently continues, “Just… hypothetically… purely for practice reasons… it wouldn’t count as my first kiss if you could, um. Help me. Try. Practice. I don’t know.”

The room goes impossibly quiet. She can’t say a word after that, the pair just staring at each other in awkward silence, him impossibly floored at the suggestion. Their faces go blank as Yuri processes what the hell she just did and Yoongi processes what the hell just happened.

When it all finally clicks, Min Yoongi has the audacity to fucking smirk, gums showing and all.

“Practice,” he repeats, no lilt to it, no bite. His attempts to remain straight-faced are to no avail, because her pouting up at him is all it takes for him to burst out laughing.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” she yells, pushing him back down onto the bed. “Just forget it! Forget I said anything!” She hooks a leg over his waist, pinning him down before grabbing a pillow and smacking him as hard as she can with it. The pain does little to quell his laughter.

“Get off!” he laughs in-between smacks. “You’re too much!”

“Are you calling me heavy?!” she asks, more fake-offended than anything.

“What—no! What the fuck made you think that?!” he tries to sound indignant, but he’s still laughing, and before he knows it, she’s laughing too. When the laughter subsides and the room goes quiet, they both realize what kind of situation they’re in. Yuri’s still got him pinned down, having just talked about first kisses. Kisses in general. Having just proposed that they kiss. The air goes tense.

“So,” Yoongi says, cutting through the silence.

“So.”

“I didn’t. Uh. I didn’t say no.” He has the decency to look embarrassed, now, cheeks flushed and eyes blown wide. “Unless you don’t want to.”

The two stare at each other for a moment after that, like they’re waiting for the other to back down. A Clint Eastwood-style duel of the eyes, so to speak.

“I won’t start something I can’t finish,” she says decidedly.

She leans in as promised,

presses her nose against his—

“I’m sorry!”

—and promptly places both hands over his mouth.

The motion isn’t harsh enough to hurt too bad—only a light sting—but it is very sudden. Yoongi blinks up at her a couple of times in surprise just to reassure himself that whatever that was actually just happened.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “For um—yeah. I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do this? Because, um, you know. If someone asks me when my first kiss was, I’ll have to say, ‘Oh, it was on my bed at like, 11PM when I was in high school. A-And that already makes me sound terrible! And then when they ask with who, I’ll have to say, ‘Oh, just with my friend that I work with so I could practice kissing for the future since I was in love with our friend!’ And that’ll be my stupid goddamn answer! And that’s… that’s, um… that’s kind of not very romantic…”

Her voice tapers off towards the end, quieting in what Yoongi thinks is embarrassment as she takes his hands off of his mouth. It really does sound kind of ridiculous when she says it out loud. Maybe Yoongi was onto something when he laughed at her for sounding like she ‘swallowed a romance novel.’ To her relief, his next response is anything but patronizing.

“Hey,” he says, “Relax. Don’t apologize for changing your mind, that’s just—that’s just weird. Don’t force yourself to do shit you don’t want to. That’s weird.”

She’s so close. They’re still nose-to-nose, breath tickling each other’s lips every time the other speaks. He awkwardly pats the back of her thigh a couple of times, which she reads as a signal to roll off of him. She obliges. Even though she knows he doesn’t mean much by that little touch, the intimacy of it still makes her blush. Thankfully, he can’t see it with the both of them laying back down onto the bed and staring awkwardly at the ceiling above them. Yoongi pretends to find interest in the faded glow-in-the-dark stars on her bedroom ceiling.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he repeats.

“Sorry,” she says again.

“It’s fine,” he reassures her, because as mortifying as the situation is for them both, it really is fine.

She blindly reaches her hand out to find his, feeling around until their fingers meet. When he fondly links his pinky in hers, the way she always does with him, she decides that a kiss isn’t the kind of thing she should be rushing into, anyways.

Yoongi just assumes it isn’t weird.

After all, Yuri settles against him so naturally, her face buried into his neck and her studio chair sidled next to his as he sits at his desk and works on mixing what he hopes will end up being a song on their first album, whenever that comes out. Were it not for the way that her breath hit the sensitive skin of his neck, he would barely even register that she was there.

Well. Maybe not barely.

She’s so warm, the way she presses against him. She’s always warm, except in her hands, but it’s fine because his hands are always colder. Her cold fingers thread through his hair, and it reminds him of how accustomed he’s become to her touchiness. It’s just a habit of hers, he’s since learned. She has a lot of little habits he once found weird, but now only sees those habits as things that make her Yuri.

Yuri who hides behind her hair when she’s shy or nervous. Yuri who only wears half her jacket and leaves the other half hanging off for no reason. Yuri who wordlessly leaves ramen cups on his desk. Yuri who has to link her pinky with someone else’s when she’s nervous. Yuri who awkwardly bends her hands to link both of hers together when she doesn’t want to be a bother.

But it’s come to the point where she’s never a bother anymore. If she were, he wouldn’t have situated himself in her life as the outlier, the one person who coaxes her to talk about all of her problems because she’s the one resolving everyone else’s. Yuri taking always feels like giving, because he takes in her little habits and private thoughts that she shares with him and nobody else. It makes him feel more important than it makes him feel annoyed.

She has a special bond with everyone at Big Hit, and even with the Source Music and JYP trainees they practice with—she wouldn’t be going out of her way to force them all to resolve their conflicts, otherwise, even if they see her as nosy and meddling because of it.

In everyone being special, he supposes, he has gone full circle in no longer being special. Maybe he is, but he’s not as important to her as say, Kyunghee, her own damn brother, or Namjoon, who she stares at like he holds all the world’s answers. With that, Yoongi takes his place in her heart at a solid bronze (at the very most), which stings a little more than he’d like to admit.

He hasn’t had much opportunity to grow as close to anyone at Big Hit—hell, anyone in Seoul—yet. Maybe that’s why he’s grown so attached to her like this. As sad as it is, she is quite literally the one person in the whole city that he’s close to. Listening to all her problems like this makes him feel like he’s just as important to her, so he can feel a little bit less pathetic about holding her so close to his heart. Even if the problems that she tells him reveal anything but.

“I’m so stupid,” she whines against his neck. Her warm breath gives him goosebumps.

“Jeez, you’re not. How many times do we have to go over this?” He’s been comforting her over this for the past half-hour now.

Namjoon has a girlfriend now. A tall girl from his advanced algebra class with great math skills and pale skin and sharp eyes—everything that Yuri does not have. He knows she’s insecure about it from the way she wrinkles her nose when she sees her reflection in the mirrors of the practice rooms. It makes him want to throttle Namjoon, despite him probably not having a clue.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice small, “For dumping all this on you, you know? I don’t wanna be that friend who only ever talks to you when I have problems. I kinda feel like I’m using you.”

“Hey, hey. It’s fine. Relax,” he says, feeling her nod softly into his neck as he continues, “It doesn’t bother me.” In fact, he prefers it, is what he doesn’t tell her. Humiliating as it is, he revels in feeling like he’s giving something, when he always feels like he’s taking from her. Like everyone is taking from her.

He knows what it’s like to be a producer, always behind the scenes of it all. She says she’s perfectly content with it, but he once said the same thing back in Daegu. But even when he chose to do things and make things for other people like this, there was always that underlying feeling of feeling like something has been taken from you. Sometimes it was just wanting the same amount of recognition as the people singing the songs you made.

Being young in society meant a desire for acceptance, and what bigger acceptance was there than fame? He recognizes the stars in her eyes whenever they practice with the other trainees in JYP’s big, shiny entertainment building because his own eyes held them once, too.

He’s still a trainee, so maybe they still do.

But for now, he’s letting himself dream small, living in the studio whenever he doesn’t have to practice those stupid dances Hitman Bang has them do. For now, music comes first, especially with his current job as one of the company’s main producers.

Producing is a lot harder with one hand, he muses, noting that she has at some point monopolized his left one when he wasn’t paying attention. He interlocks their fingers in spite of it all. With his ability to perform keyboard shortcuts impaired, he delegates the task of manually clicking things to his free hand. It’s annoying, but the feeling of her hand fit so snugly in his makes the inconvenience feel worth it. They sit like that for a while, quiet as one of her hands threads through his hair and the other softly strokes at his hand with her thumb.

“I like your hands,” she says. “They’re nice to hold.” Yoongi swallows. She’s so close to him that he’s scared she’ll hear how fast his heart is beating. To his relief, she says nothing of it.

“They’re just hands,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage. “Cold hands.”

“Usually when you hold someone’s hand they get all hot and sweaty and clammy and gross, which is why I do the pinky-linking thing,” she muses, “Yours don’t do that, so they’re nice to hold. And they’re honestly not even that cold.”

“They are,” he argues.

“I don’t think your hands are ever that cold,” she says, her voice a teasing lilt. “I think you just keep saying that so you have an excuse to have your hands held. I bet you secretly love skinship.” He rolls his eyes, tightening an arm around her tiny frame.

“Watch it. Your life is in my hands,” he says, as flatly as he can manage for maximum ominosity.

With a squeak, she flies off of him like he’s on fire. He can’t help but smile, wide and gummy, at her Yuri-esque antics. Even when she turns away, shaking her head fondly, he can feel his heart swell in his chest as he looks at her. It reminds him why she’s the first one at Big Hit he was able to really talk to. Everything feels easy and comfortable with her, the way he felt back in Daegu.

His reverie is interrupted by Namjoon’s voice booming from the studio next to his.

“Yuri!” he calls. “Can you look at this for me?”

Hearing this, she does a little happy dance with her feet. It’s a habit he usually finds endearing, but right now it just makes his stomach twist. She waves him off, dropping everything—she even forgets her water bottle on his desk—to run off and attend to whatever Namjoon needs her for.

“I’ll be back,” she says in a sing-song voice as she’s out the door.

He knows she will. She always comes back to him whenever Namjoon isn’t available.

Yoongi runs a frustrated hand through his hair, not sure why it bothers him so much. The fact that he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much bothers him more than anything else.

Yuri is awake at the Big Hit dorms at two in the morning.

This is nothing out of the ordinary, though. Whenever their dad was out of the country on a business trip, she always took the opportunity to stay out past curfew as a chance to spend her nights at the Big Hit studio while Kyunghee played video games with Donghyuk in the dorms. She always had to hide in the studio until early dawn so as to not get caught by Hitman Bang, who made it clear that he detested the idea of someone so young being out late just to work for him.

Today is different, though. Today, she’s in the dorms, taking a well-deserved break from work as she lays on her stomach next to Yoongi and watches a movie with him. She brought the DVD over from her house, thinking nothing of the way her father’s old American movies lined the TV stand until the day Yoongi bashfully mentioned wanting to watch it.

So here they are, watching a Korean-subbed version of Scarface on the tiny screen of his laptop. Yuri can’t enjoy the movie very much, finding it a bit too bleak and violent for her liking. And it just never gets better. It’s just hit after hit, one bad thing happening after another. She’s sure that if she squinted hard enough, she would be able to appreciate the cinematography and whatever deeper meaning the film holds, but that sounds like too much brainpower to be using at two in the morning.

Yoongi seems to find it interesting, though. He’s enraptured by every word that leaves the main character’s mouth, so much so that Yuri would be surprised if he forgot she was there. It really seems like he’s in his own little world. Instead, she finds her entertainment in his little gasps of delight, the innocent widening of his eyes, the way his grins of anticipation look as they’re illuminated by the dim light of his laptop screen.

It’s unfair, she thinks, how pretty Yoongi is. Perfect skin and catlike eyes and gummy smiles and he’s not even trying—hell, he doesn’t even have a skincare routine! God really does pick favorites. Yuri absentmindedly brushes a strand of hair out of his eyes, one he’s probably too entranced by the movie to notice. She hums softly at the way he leans into her touch without thinking.

She wonders if anyone is ever going to look at her this way.

There’s no time for her musings to continue when she hears what sounds like someone throwing their guts up in the bathroom. It stops for a moment before continuing, and Jesus, that sounds pretty brutal. She nudges Yoongi with her arm.

“Sounds like someone’s dying in there,” she says. He furrows his brows together in concern.

“Huh?”

“Someone’s not having a good time in the bathroom,” she says. “Did Namjoon undercook the chicken breasts again or what?” As if on cue, the poor guy is retching again, and Yoongi shakes his head.

“Jihoon,” he says, pausing the movie before he stands up and dusts himself off. “He hasn’t been feeling well for a while, now.” Yuri gets up and follows Yoongi when he makes his way towards said bathroom, cringing at the distinct sound of dry heaving as they draw closer. Yoongi knocks on the door before entering, his frown deep-set when he sees Jihoon hunched over the toilet.

“Hey,” Yuri says softly, stepping forward and placing a comforting hand on the small of his back. “Are you okay, buddy?” Yuri and Jihoon aren’t exactly the closest—of all the Big Hit trainees, Namjoon and Yoongi nabbed that spot—but he’s still nice to talk to, always offering to walk her home when it got too late like a good oppa. Seeing him like this breaks her heart.

“‘M fine,” he rasps, despite the pain in his voice telling them all that he is anything but. “Probably just food poisoning. No big deal.”

“Food poisoning for three days?” Yoongi says, obviously in disbelief. “It could be a stomach bug. Or God forbid, appendicitis. You really need to get yourself checked out.”

“It’s fine, hyung. I—” he begins, but the need to heave again cuts him off. Yuri rubs comforting circles into his back some more, unsure of what else to do. She sends a questioning glance Yoongi’s way, who looks just as concerned as she does.

“We’re taking you to the hospital,” he says. Jihoon groans, but doesn’t have the energy to resist.

The drive to the hospital is tense, Yuri filing in the back before Jihoon so he can lay his head against her shoulder and she can make sure he doesn’t throw up anymore. Meanwhile, Yoongi pushing is the edge of the speed limit, eyes darting back and forth between the road and the rear view mirror to make sure that they’re holding up okay in the back. Yuri sends him a reluctant thumbs up.

Yoongi insists that they take Jihoon to the emergency room, where they take Jihoon to the back. As soon as he’s out of eyeshot, Yuri watches with wide eyes as Yoongi takes out his wallet and puts down a hefty payment for the walk-in fee.

“I can pay for it,” she says, shaking her head as she fishes for her wallet in her own jacket pocket. Yoongi smiles, a bittersweet thing, at the unspoken words—she knows how much he’s struggled with money in the past. Even so, he shakes his head, reaching out to tenderly fit his hand into hers.

“There are worse things to spend my money on,” he says. “You can’t really put a price on anyone.”

Something in the way that she sees Yoongi snaps, then, but she has no clue as to what it is. She’s not sure if it’s the lack of sleep or the lateness of the night that makes her think this, but something about him reminds her of the moon, at that moment.

They stay like that the rest of the night, side-by-side in the seats of the hospital waiting room. Yoongi’s lashes flutter dreamily at the way a sleep-deprived Yuri noses against him, softly muttering sweet things against the sensitive skin of his neck and meaning every word.

“Your heart is warm, Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi can’t help but notice the way that Yuri’s wrap around him a little bit tighter during their deliveries, these days. More than that, he can’t help but notice how much he likes it.

He’s slowly accepting the fact that this might be a thing that he will have to address in both himself and with the rest of the Big Hit team later. Yuri being her normal touchy self was one thing, but him finding himself enjoying her touch rather than just allowing it was… new. It’s scary and exciting all at once, but mostly the former. For now, while it isn’t a problem, he chooses to ignore it.

He still puts the helmet on her head himself, pulling the buckles tight and making sure it’s fully secure before anything else. He takes extra care with it these days, tender in the way he always does it for her like it’s the first time. He feels like a little kid all over again, the way he cares like this.

It’s easy for him to psyche himself out of things, convincing himself that she’s just being all touchy because that’s how she is, but then she does little things that make him think it isn’t all in his head. Just last month, she gifted him with a black Yamaha helmet, covered with stickers of Kumamon and logos of brands he likes and Scarface, even though he remembers her having a pointed disinterest in the film while they watched it on his bedroom floor.

He never anticipated that he’d actually need it one day.

He doesn’t know how it happens, who went too fast or too slow or turned when they weren’t supposed to. All he remembers is tightening his arms around Yuri as they tumbled off the bike and onto the ground, hoping that she’d be okay.

She always kicked in his protective instinct, being so small and so delicate. The thought of her getting hurt because she wanted to help him out makes him feel impossibly guilty.

Yoongi’s fading in and out of consciousness, vaguely registering Yuri’s voice sobbing into her phone on what seems to be a 1339 call.

“He’s—he’s unconscious,” he hears her sniffle, “Oh my God, he—um, no, no, he has a helmet on. His head is under the car. His body’s sticking out from under it. I just—I don’t wanna move him, ‘cause, oh my God, what if I hurt him? Oh God, what do I do? I don’t know what to—no, ma’am, the street is—um...”

When he wakes up, he’s lying in a hospital bed, groggy and miserable and aching to the joints. He’s in the emergency room, he realizes, the same one he drove Jihoon to only weeks ago. His heart sinks when the doctor informs him that he’s got an incredibly bad shoulder injury—no more boxing, no more basketball, he tells him. It was nearly dislocated, he says, so don’t move too much. Don’t put too much pressure on it. Just relax for a month or so.

This sends him into a full-blown panic. He doesn’t have a month. He’s never been much of a dancer—of everyone, she should probably be practicing the most. This sets him back far behind the others. How is he gonna catch up? How is he gonna make up for that?

As soon as the doctor leaves, the weight of the whole world hits him all at once. He can even feel himself hyperventilating, but is halted by the shock of a gentle hand reaching out to grasp his. When he turns, he sees Yuri sitting on the hospital chair next to him. Lord, he was so out of it he didn’t even realize she was there. She’s got bandages on her legs, but other than that, no major injuries. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” he says, slowly blinking up at her.

“Why did you do that?” she says, voice cracking.

“Huh?”

“You, um, kind of,” she begins, “…broke my fall? You held me. I don’t know. I crushed your shoulder. That’s why it’s all fucked up. Why would you do that?”

“I—I don’t know,” he admits. “I wasn’t thinking. I just felt like it was the thing to do at that moment.” She whines pitifully at his answer, squeezing his hand as tight as she can.

“I just feel like I owe you one,” she says. “Something. Anything. I don’t know.”

The tender part of him tells him to assure her that she has no need to do any such thing. After all, nothing was more important than other people—especially Lim Yuri—but the scared part of him takes over.

“Make me a promise,” he says softly. She leans in to hear him better, nodding as she does so.

“Anything,” she says.

“Promise me you won’t tell the others about this injury. Please.” Yuri furrows her brows and widens her eyes upon hearing this, obviously not expecting that answer. She practically rips her hand from his at that, pulling back from him as if appalled.

“What?!” she says. “Yoongi, no! They have to know about this!”

“They’ll worry. They’ll bench me. They’ll pull me out,” he says. “I promise you, it’s better if they don’t know.”

“What, so they can make you dance and exercise and all that shit with your injured shoulder? If it was sprained, that’d be one thing, but this is a serious problem! You’re only gonna hurt yourself further by not telling them.”

“I don’t care. It’s fine.” Yuri shakes her head.

“I just don’t get it,” she says, sniffling. “How you can care so little about yourself when I—when everyone—cares about you so much.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assures her. “It’ll heal. Everything will, alright? I just need you not to tell anyone about it.”

“Of course,” she says, as flatly as she can manage. “I owe you one, after all.” Yoongi knows her well enough to sense the bite in her tone. He rolls his eyes.

“C’mon,” he clicks his tongue. “Don’t be like that.”

“Don’t be like that, then,” she says, pressing her back to the opposite wall of his little hospital room. “It’s just—it’s just so stupid, Yoongi.” She slides down against the wall and onto the floor, looking impossibly small and hopeless in a way that only makes him feel guiltier. “You don’t have to pay anyone back for any of the nice things we do. You think we do all that just to kiss ass, or what?”

“What—no! Of course not.”

“Then why am I keeping this a secret, huh? Tell me that,” she says.

Yoongi pauses for a moment, deep in thought. Every single thought falls upon him, all at once. He thinks of the evaluations next weekend and he thinks about his family back home. He thinks about the money they spent on his trainee contract and he thinks about the amount they’ll have to pay off, regardless of whether or not he debuts. His heart beats wildly in his chest. His head pounds away. His lips press together into a thin line.

“There’s so much at stake,” is all he can offer as an explanation. What else can he say?

“All the more reason to trust us, then, isn’t it?” she says desperately. “Come on. No way anyone would let the company drop you. I’d fight for you, you know that! We’d fight for you. No one else can rap and produce like you. Don’t you remember what Namjoon said? You can debut before him, or he can debut before you, but it’s important that everyone supports each other, always. He’d be here for you, if he knew. He wants to be there for you. We all want to be there for you. You’re so loved. You just have to trust us. You just have to let us in.”

“Sorry I don’t remember every little thing Namjoon says,” he scoffs. “I’m not you.”

“Are you really talking about that right now?!” she bristles. “This is serious, Yoongi!”

“I’m being serious,” he says firmly. “You’re the one bringing up Namjoon while I’m lying in a hospital bed. He’s the leader. He’s the one I’m worried most about. The whole group is built around him. I don’t know if I can trust him not to tell any of the staff about this. If he does—, if anyone does—they have a reason to drop me as a trainee. I can’t let that happen, Yuri.”

He doesn’t know why he’s saying these things. He’s talking out of his ass right now. After all, he trusts Namjoon. He likes Namjoon. But the pain in his shoulder and the claustrophobia of the tight little hospital room makes him feel anxious, restless, paranoid. He wants to get up and move and run or do something. But he can’t, so all he can do is project every negative feeling bogging down on him onto other people.

“If you can’t trust Namjoon,” she says softly. “Can’t you at least trust me?”

A beat of silence is her only answer, Yoongi’s lips pressed together into a thin line as he looks away.

“I can’t believe you,” she says, voice cracking. When he hears her begin to sniffle and sob, he has to force himself not to look back at her, guilt and shame bubbling up in his stomach.

He doesn’t even get to see her as she storms out, slamming the door shut behind her.

Yoongi feels incredibly alone.

He really shouldn’t, though—after all, his family comes all the way down from Daegu just to visit him while he’s in the hospital. They bring him all sorts of different foods, agreeing with his complaints that hospital food really, really sucks. After repeated assurances that he’ll heal just fine, they ask him about trainee life, about his food, about his friends. On the third day, they ask why nobody else has visited him. He lies and says that they’re all too busy training, when in reality they don’t even know that he’s here.

The insecure, self-loathing part of himself wonders if they’re even worried.

Rationally, he knows they are, because he misses them, too. They’ve been in such close proximity that it’d be impossible for them not to grow as close as they have in these past months. He chuckles softly whenever he thinks about the way they were so rarely separated, bonding and laughing over situations where Hoseok was using the shower while Donghyuk used the toilet and Namjoon brushed his teeth, all at the same time.

It only makes Yoongi feel worse about the last conversation he had with Yuri, making an ass out of himself over Namjoon of all people. Namjoon who he’s lived with the longest. Namjoon who he gives his shirts to when they come in two sizes too big. Namjoon who he holds so dearly.

He wishes he didn’t have to be apart from everyone for so long to realize what an ass he was being.

It hits him the worst on the sixth day his family visits him and they bring him a cup of a very familiar brand of ₩1200 ramyeon. He saves the little egg brick for last. It tastes bitter in his mouth.

As he reluctantly finishes his water, listening to his brother, Geumjae, and his parents chatter about their dog and their work and the weather in Daegu. Usually, catching up with them felt like a much-needed break, but right now he just feels restless.

He’s been lying in this hospital bed for too long. Listening to nothing but their idle chat for too long. He’s been drifting in and out of sleep so much that he probably wouldn’t even know how many days he’d been in the hospital if his phone didn’t tell him. The repetition of it all ends one day when the nurse informs him that somebody’s coming up to visit, even though his family is already there in the room with him.

After a set of gentle knocks, Lim Yuri appears from behind the hospital door like an angel.

She introduces herself to his family a bit too formally, bowing more than she needs to, like she’s trying to impress them. It’s cute of her. What’s even cuter is the way she blushes and flusters in surprise when they ask if she’s a Big Hit trainee and she waves her arms around as she explains that she’s a producer. She looks nothing like an idol, she says. Geumjae jokes that Yoongi doesn’t look anything like one either. He glares at his brother from the hospital bed.

Yuri looks shy as she tells them something too softly for him to hear, but they nod in understanding and send Yoongi a knowing look as they file out of the door with promises to visit tomorrow. His cheeks flush in embarrassment as he realizes he’s going to have a lot to clarify for them then.

His flush deepens when she sets the plastic bag in her hands on his side table, clambering up the bedside to take a seat beside him. He moves to make space for her, revelling in the way the warm skin of her thigh presses against his arm.

“Did you eat?” she says softly. “I brought you food.”

“Yeah, I ate,” he says. “Thanks, though.”

A beat of silence. She reaches down to grasp his hand, which fits so perfectly into hers. When he squeezes it, she squeezes back. Everything feels like it’s falling back into place where it belongs.

“I didn’t tell anyone, like you said. I told them all that you went back to see your family in Daegu. Said it was a family emergency that you didn’t really wanna talk about,” she says softly. “Told Hitman Bang, too. I think you should be okay if you want to stay here for the next week or so.” He shakes his head.

“It’s okay. I’ll be discharged soon,” he assures her. “Next two days, maybe. It won’t be completely healed, but I’ll just tell them that I fell down the stairs back home or something. I don’t know. Gonna try to play it off as nothing major.”

She hums in reply, squeezing his hand again. He can tell she still disapproves of his secrets, but is willing to keep them if that’s what makes him comfortable. She slides down so she’s laying next to him, legs slotted nicely next to his. He feels a wave of comfort wash over him as she gets touchy with him, like nothing has changed.

Seeing as Yoongi has never been the touchy-feely type, one would think that this would annoy him. To his own surprise, it doesn’t. If anything, he finds himself reveling in her affections. It’s weird even to him, the way he likes her touch so much.

Wordlessly, she starts playing with his hair. She’s always liked his hair, she’s said before, all sleek and smooth—she doesn’t like her own hair and the way they curl at the ends. And he’d frown every time she talked about herself like that because he thinks she’s one of the cutest people he knows.

Not that he could ever tell her that without shrivelling up and dying of embarrassment.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by her wandering fingers, which have moved on from playing with his hair to prod at his ears. The sensitivity makes him cringe, but it isn’t an entirely unpleasant thing. He gasps sharply when her fingernails nip at the shell of his ear in a way that feels like the sensitive skin is being bitten. Mortifying as it is to admit, the goosebumps that rise on his skin stem from a sensation more pleasurable than it is uncomfortable. It feels good. Suddenly, the touches that he once found curious and innocent—childish, even—make his face go hot.

“You have something you’re not saying,” she chides. “You can tell me, you know, if it’ll make you feel better.” He turns in closer to her, close enough that her breath tickles him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For saying stupid shit that I didn’t mean. I was jealous and stupid and angry.”

“Apology accepted,” she says immediately, trailing her finger back down from his ear to prod at his bready cheeks. “I’d forgive you even if you didn’t apologize, you know. I missed you too much.”

“I missed you, too.”

She freezes, then. They both do. Yoongi doesn’t even realize what he says until it’s slipped out—it’s probably the most intimate thing he’s said out loud. The closest thing he’s ever said to I love you.

“Can I kiss you?” she asks suddenly. “I just—I know it’s not super romantic to ask, but I don’t just wanna do it without your permission, so—” Yoongi’s face burns a dark crimson as he cuts her off.

“Yeah,” he chokes out. “Go ahead. Please.” He can’t trust his voice to say much else. His hands are shaking.

When she presses her lips against his, everything feels different.

It’s like every shitty romance movie he’s ever watched has come to life in his bones. Every cheesy metaphor—the sparks flying, the angels singing, the flowers blooming. It’s the way he finally understands why wars have been waged and empires have fallen for a single heart. It’s the way Yuri smells like cherry blossoms and whatever else is in her girly lotions. It’s the way he’s never felt like this before.

It’s different from his first kiss. It feels exactly like Yuri said it should feel. Maybe because it’s her.

And Min Yoongi finally understands why Lim Yuri put so much importance into a single kiss.

Yoongi doesn’t know how long he’s been avoiding her.

It’s not like he immediately iced her out after the kiss. It was a gradual thing, each interaction slowly becoming more and more unbearable. The first time he can recall feeling things start to fall apart was when he made some rude joke that he can’t even remember now. All he can remember is the way she laughed afterwards, so naturally and so easily that he couldn’t help but to think about how everything with her was just easy. Easy to tease, easy to joke with, easy to share secrets with.

That’s how things should be, right?

And then it spirals. Makes him think about his girlfriend from middle school, a smart girl with pretty hair that sat in front of him in class, who began going out with him when he shyly asked her out via letter. He could talk to her normally before, could ask her for pencils and for homework help, but once they began dating he couldn’t even do that much.

It’s weird, the way he acted so differently once romantic expectations were set up. There’d always been this tense aura of awkwardness around them, and he could vaguely tell that it annoyed her, but he was too chicken to do anything about it. He never thought it could happen with Yuri, who he always felt so comfortable, but here he was now.

He feels pathetic, agonizing over this when she’s probably thinking about Namjoon. Even if she does like him back, there’s a clawning fear in his gut that tells him that he’s never going to compare. He wonders how long she’d do that, seesaw herself over to him whenever Namjoon was unavailable. Moreover, he wonders how long he’d let her.

Everytime her little hands found themselves laced in his, the rate at which his thoughts dissipated and his heart melted became laughable. If she asked, he’d probably let her do whatever she wanted with him forever.

The tiny, selfish little devil on his shoulder whispers to Yoongi that he would possibly-maybe-kind-of be more compatible with her than Namjoon. Even without thinking too hard about it, he knows it’s a terrible thought just from the way it makes his stomach churn with guilt.

Namjoon and Yuri have known each other for several years longer than he’s known either of them. He’s nothing more than an interloper in this relationship, and it’s conceited of him to even think he has any kind of chance when he probably isn’t even in the running. The possibility of being in the running scares him more than it excites him, at this point.

So he ices her out.

With how frigid he’s gotten, it should come as no surprise that she wants to hang out more with the trainees at JYP and Source. These days, she’s been over in their dorms more often than she’s been in theirs. He only ever sees her in the studio. Even then, he only speaks to her indifferently, replying to her when it has to do with music and brushing off her attempts at small talk. It reminds him of his interactions with Namjoon back when they first met, tense and awkward and professional.

And speak of the devil.

“Hey,” he hears Namjoon say, his voice deep and distant at his studio door. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” he says thoughtlessly, not even bothering to look up from the song he’s producing on his computer. That changes when Namjoon seats himself on the seat next to his and he can practically feel the air go tense, forcing him to turn and give Namjoon his full attention. The way that his leader, who was a year younger than he was, could command so much authority with his presence alone was both admirable and terrifying.

“You’ve been avoiding Yuri,” Namjoon says. He immediately knows there’s no beating around the bush with this one. Regardless, he pushes his luck.

“I haven’t,” he lies through his teeth. Yoongi has never liked lying about matters of the heart. If it were anybody but Namjoon, he wouldn’t have, but he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. Namjoon sighs, obviously in disbelief of the lie. Yoongi doesn’t blame him.

“Look,” he says. “I’m not asking you to tell me what’s wrong, or what happened between you two or whatever. If it was between two members of this group, then I would have to. It’s my job as leader to be responsible for you guys. But whatever is going on between you and Yuri? That’s your business. It’s not my job to keep up with our producers, no matter how much I might want to.”

“But you do want to,” Yoongi clarifies.

“Of course,” he says. “I mean, she’s not just a producer to me. She’s my friend. And so are you. So I’m asking you this as a friend, and not a leader.” Yoongi raises a brow.

“What are you asking?” he says.

“I don’t know. Just don’t be mad at each other anymore. Please.” Namjoon sounds impossibly desperate, hopeless in a way that feels incredibly out of character for him. “I don’t like seeing you guys mad at each other. Remember what Hitman Bang said? It’s okay if you wanna fight or yell or whatever. Just sort it out. I don’t know what she did, or what happened between you, but everyone seems pretty miserable without her around, including you. So please make up soon. Please don’t be mad at her anymore.”

“I’m not mad at her,” he says, and it’s the truth. If anything, he’s mad at himself—but not at her. Never at her. “It’s just… weird. I don’t know. But I’m not mad at her.”

“You think she knows that?” he says, and Yoongi’s heart immediately sinks.

“Probably not,” he admits, suddenly feeling a large wave of guilt wash over him. Now that he thinks about it, she’s probably been blaming herself this whole time. Yoongi’s face burns hot with shame.

“Then you should let her know.”

“Hey, can we talk?”

Yuri practically jumps in her seat, eyes widening like saucers as she whips around upon hearing the voice of Yoongi of all people at the studio door. She hesitates for a moment, but it’s not long before she gets up to let him in. Over the months, he’d gotten harder and harder for her to refuse.

“Okay,” she says as she unlocks the door, letting him into the studio. They’re face to face now, so much so that his incredible closeness reminds her just how much he towers over her. He always said that he was short, but he’s pretty tall to her. It only makes her all the more nervous.

She hasn’t had the opportunity to talk to Yoongi alone like this about something non-music related in months. She can’t beat around the bush with this one—she doesn’t know the next chance she’s going to get to say what she wants, so she has no choice but to say it outright.

“Let’s not fight anymore,” she says, gently dropping her head against his chest. It comes out soft and sad and a thousand times more pathetic-sounding than she’d originally intended. “I won’t kiss you anymore. We can pretend it never happened. Just talk to me again. I miss you.” The way her voice cracks breaks his heart into little pieces.

“We’re not—we’re not fighting, Yuri,” he assures her, stern and gentle all at once. Hesitantly, he brings an arm up around her to rub gentle circles into the small of her back. “We’re… disagreeing.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” he says. “And even if I was, it wouldn’t be because you kissed me. Why would I be avoiding you because of that? I said that you could, didn’t I?”

“But you are mad,” she says.

“At me,” he clarifies. “Not at you.”

“Why?” she asks. “Yoongi, tell me.” He flushes, feeling incredibly trapped by the way her doe eyes look up at him. Refusing her wishes feels impossible, these days, so he supposes that honesty is the best policy in this case.

“Because I wanted you to kiss me again,” he admits, cheeks burning hot with shame. “Even though everything was fine as it already was.” Yuri blinks slowly at him upon his admission.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I get it,” she says, and despite being forgiven, he can’t help but frown at how understanding she’s being—it’s more than he deserves at this point, if he’s being honest.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s scary.” Words are hard right now.

“I think it’s why I could never say anything,” she continues. “It’s so easy to love someone without them knowing, because you get to live off these happy little fantasies of being together and everything being perfect in your head. I think that’s why being loved back is scary. Because then anything is a possibility. It’s kind of like—it’s kind of like finishing a really good webtoon.” He chuckles softly at the comparison, fondly bumping his nose against hers. “It is! Because then you have nothing left and you’re hit with that post-webtoon depression, because the fun and the fantasies and the excitement are over and then you’re left to deal with the real world. And sometimes the real world means that everything changes, or that even if the person you want loves you back right now, they might change their mind later on. And that’s scary.”

“I still want to be able to talk to you like we used to,” he says. “But I also still want to kiss you. I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“Kiss me, then,” she says. “We don’t—we don’t have to think about it or talk about it or decide anything. Just kiss me. Please.”

And so he does.

It makes him shiver, the way she seems to shrink when her back presses against the wall, the way she feels so small when he cages her between his arms, the way her tiny hands find purchase against his chest before travelling up to wind behind his neck.

Yoongi can’t find it in himself to be afraid at that moment. He’d kiss Lim Yuri forever, if she let him.

#era.glass #fic.interloper #laruna.conn #laruna.dev #ship. yoonri #writings

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