#I’m weirder than you could ever imagine Internet stranger!

[lichdolly]

This is the funniest hate message I have ever received for so many reasons

[watchmegetobsessed]

A STEP FURTHER

Sequel to SIT ON ME

a/n: as per requested, here is a part two to my recent sebastian fic! hope you guys will like it as much as you did the previous part! also, there’s not gonna be any more parts!

pairing: Sebastian Stan X Assistant!Reader

word count: 3k

masterlist

You were expecting it. You knew how the internet and most importantly, Sebastian’s fans work. Just hours after the event, dozens of videos got out of Sebastian saying that he wanted you to sit on him if he was a chair, an answer to a highly inappropriate question that shouldn’t have been asked in the first place, but your crazy ass boss thought otherwise.

It washed over the whole fandom and soon enough everyone was talking about the two of you. And because part of your job is to be up to date about Sebastian’s media presence, you had to face not just him but yourself all over the internet. Fans started to dig up every tiny interaction between the two of you caught on camera, they posted photo montages of you and him just out and about or going from one meeting to the other. They started to look for signs that you’re dating and half of the fandom became convinced that you’re in a secret relationship. Speculations and rumors spread faster than wildfire and there was no way to stop it, you just had to live with it.

In the meanwhile, Sebastian didn’t seem to be bothered by it at all. It’s like he didn’t even acknowledge the fuss about the two of you, like it was all so natural and normal to be seen as a couple by the whole world when you were just his employee.

“What? It’s not like I ever addressed anything about my dating life,” he shrugged one day when you asked him why he is not caring about the situation at all. And that was pretty much it.

The fans wouldn’t have been that big of a deal to you either. They are strangers, they always get fixated on something and soon enough you knew something new would come up and make them forget about your existence. The people close to you on the other hand are a whole different side of the story.

Following the event, Mackie wouldn’t shut up about Sebastian being hopelessly in love with you and he would nag you to go on a date already, getting on your nerves even more than he usually does with his nosiness. You love the man, you really do, but he needs to learn how to stay in his own lane.

And then, slowly but surely every friend you and Sebastian shared caught up on the story and they started asking you about it again and again and you had to tell them the same thing every damn time: you and Sebastian were working together, no romance was involved between the two of you.

No one believed you.

Now it’s been weeks and people still go crazy whenever you and Seb step out together, which happens quite often since he’s been having a busy month work-wise. Paparazzi are always following you around, catching every moment you spend out in the public, putting you on the tabloids nonstop. It’s become your usual.

Another day, another event. The day starts early for you before you pick Sebastian up and heading out to have breakfast before you are supposed to show up at the concert hall that’s going to be the venue of today’s interview and Q&A.

“Mackie has been blowing my phone up all morning,” you grumble upon seeing another text from said man before you just turn your phone screen facing down so you can finish your toast in peace.

“What does he want?” Sebastian hums.

“He is asking if I’m coming today, as if I missed any events these past weeks,” you huff shaking your head.

“He has been acting weird,” Sebastian grimaces, reaching for his coffee. “Weirder than his usual,” he adds.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, he just asks weird stuff,” he shrugs, not paying much attention to it and you decide to do the same.

Not much later, you’re finished with your food, only sipping on your coffee when you spot a group of girls near your table, their phones pointing in your direction and you have to stop yourself from growling, turning a little so you’re not facing the phones entirely. Sebastian notices your discomfort and looking around he spots the girls as well before turning back to face you. He doesn’t say a word, just gets up from his seat and strides over to the group as you watch him with wide eyes.

“Hi girls, can I ask you to delete the pictures you took, please? I’m happy to take selfies with you, just please don’t post the ones of us eating, okay?” you hear him ask them, leaving you completely speechless. Luckily, the girls are happy to obligate and he quickly poses for pictures with all of them before joining you back at the table.

“Why did you do that?” you ask him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You clearly didn’t like that they took pictures of us and I know you don’t like how we are being talked about recently, so I thought I would… try to help about that a little,” he shrugs, finishing the rest of his coffee.

“I just don’t like that everyone is in our business,” you sigh, folding your arms on your chest as you lean back in your seat.

“So we have business? Together?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at you over the table.

“That’s not how I… We talked about this, Seb,” you breathe out, your shoulders falling forward.

“Ages ago. Things might have changed since then,” he suggests shrugging his shoulder.

“I still work for you,” you point it out. “Things are better this way.”

“Sure, whatever you say,” he mumbles, clearly hurt by your words, but there’s not much you can do against it. “Let’s go, I don’t want Mackie to be up in my ass for being late,” he sighs, leaving the money on the table that most likely covers both your meals and a fat tip as well.

The car ride to the venue is silent, but not in the comfortable way it sometimes is. It’s awkward and you keep glancing at him, trying to find the right words but you’re not even sure what you want to tell him.

I’m sorry we work together so we can’t date? I’m sorry I keep rejecting you? I’m sorry I’m afraid if we go any further than this it will ruin our friendship?

You have absolutely no idea how to deal with it, so you just stay silent, right until you arrive to the venue. Before Seb could get out of the car you speak up.

“Are you mad at me now?” you ask, biting into your bottom lip.

“I’m not mad, Y/N. I don’t think I could ever be mad at you,” he truthfully answers, his eyes only falling on you after he has spoken.

“But there’s something, I can tell.”

“I’m just a little frustrated, is all.”

“Because of what people say about us?” you make a guess.

“Because there’s this unsaid situation between us and you just don’t let me address it. You don’t want to talk about it and whenever it’s brought up, you just shut the door right at my face,” he explains and with each spoken word, you feel worse and worse.

“It’s a complicated situation,” you breathe out.

“It’s not,” he retorts. “Do you not like me?”

“Of course I like you!”

“Okay, I like you too so why can’t we be more than just friends?”

“Because we are not just friends. I’m working for you, it’s a different situation!”

“Y/N, this is not an office job, there’s no HR, no policies, we can do whatever we want!” he chuckles bitterly as you keep your eyes down. You don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s not just because of work, but because you’re terribly afraid of being a disappointment to him if you eventually give it a try.

Your silence doesn’t amuses Sebastian and you don’t have time to rave any longer about the situation.

“Forget it, sorry I brought it up again. Let’s just… get over with this thing,” he mumbles before getting out of the car.

You move around each other like strangers, he is clearly avoiding to even look at you and you’re feeling guilty even though you don’t think you have a reason to. Still, you hate seeing him this upset, especially when it’s because of you.

The change in your act is not that evident, but Mackie immediately notices it. When you walk past him he grabs your wrist and pulls you aside.

“What the hell is going on?” he asks with wide, curious eyes.

“What are you talking about?” you retort, acting innocent, but there’s a reason why you didn’t become an actress, you suck at even lying.

“You and Seb are acting like a divorcing couple!” he whisper-yells. Pursing your lip you start chewing on the inside of your cheek as you nervously tap your foot on the ground.

“We just… had a little disagreement.”

“About what?”

“Us,” you breathe out, your head hanging low.

“Wait, so there is an ‘us’?” he asks, air-quoting the last word and you roll your eyes at him.

“No, that’s what the disagreement was about. He wants and I…”

“Don’t tell me you don’t, because I know that’s bullshit. Y/N, I see the way you look at that man, why are you making it so hard for the both of you?”

“It’s just—It might ruin everything and I can’t afford that right now.”

“Ruin everything?!” he grimaces. “What would it ruin?”

“I said fucking everything!” you snap at him, losing your patience that you’re the only one who has issues with the situation. “Our friendship, my job, everything! And I don’t want that. I can’t have that.”

“Dating someone wouldn’t ruin the friendship, Y/N. This is not middle school. Friendship is part of being with someone and you two have that. Just let it take a step further.”

“Thanks for the advice, but I’m good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have stuff to do,” you mumble under your breath before walking away from him before he could get another word out.

It’s not that you don’t want it, because you do, you really do. You’ve been in love with the man for a long time and knowing that he has feelings for you too makes you have a heart attack every time you think about it. But you are so afraid it might go south and then you’ll end up losing your job and one of your closest friends as well. Because above everything Sebastian grew to be your biggest confidant, the person you turn to whenever you are feeling down, when you need a shoulder to cry on, you can’t imagine your life without him anymore and it’s not just about the times when you’re working. Traveling around the world with him is a blessing, you love the little moments you share, the late night movie nights in hotel rooms or when you’re exploring a new city together. You love messing around in his trailer when he is filming, making silly videos on sets or playing around with props you shouldn’t even touch. You can share anything with him and vice versa. If you lose him for whatever reason, you would be left with a hole in your life that would just simply never disappear, because no one will ever be like him and that’s a fact. You’re terribly afraid to risk everything for something that might not even work. You might be a horrible item, romance can bring out things of people that haven’t shown before.

The guys finally get on stage and you watch them from the side as always. It goes as usual, they are joking around, making a show, entertaining the audience as they go over the interview before the question round starts. You don’t realize it at first, but you’re holding your breath as one question follows the other, you’re scared someone might ask Sebastian about you and the shit show would blow up again. You can only hope his answer wouldn’t be as stupid as it was before. But luckily, the audience keeps you out of their business, only focusing on what’s important, so you start to feel relieved. Right until the whole event is nearing its end and Mackie decides to take matters into his own hands.

“I think we have time for one more question,” the interviewer announces and dozens of hands shoot up into the air, desperate to get the chance to ask the men on stage, but before anyone could get the mic, Mackie speaks up.

“Actually, can I have that last question?” he chimes in holding up a finger.

“Uh, sure, go ahead!” the interviewer responds, clearly a little puzzled about his request. Mackie then turns to face Sebastian who is sitting on his right and just by the look on his face you already know what it’s gonna be about.

“Sebastian, my question is: What do you love most about Y/N?”

He can barely finish the question, the crowd erupts in cheers and whistles that he had the guts to ask him about you, but you’re feeling different about his ballsy move.

“Mackie! No!” you shout from the side, both men looking your way. Mackie tries to look innocent while Sebastian’s face is unreadable, his piercing blue eyes are just staring right back at you and you wish you could read his mind.

“Alright, I take back the ques—“ Mackie starts in a mumble, but Sebastian is quick to cut him off.

“Nah, I’ll answer,” he simply says, another round of cheering filling the place and you accept defeat.

Squatting down you hug your knees to your chest as you listen to the inevitable answer Sebastian is about to give.

“What I love the most about Y/N is that she is genuinely the best person anyone could ever have in their life. She is so selfless and caring towards others, always got her friends’ back no matter what. I love that we aren’t just simply working together but we are friends too, really good ones and that I know nothing can change that.”

Listening to his soothing voice through the speakers, you feel your throat closing up, especially at the last part he just said. Chewing on your bottom lip you tilt your head to the side as he continues.

“Literally anything can happen, we could have the worst fight ever and I still know that we would make up no matter what. She is… just an amazing and exceptional person.”

There’s a heavy moment of silence and you’re staring at him from afar with teary eyes as his eyes are glued to his hands in his lap.

“Damn,” Mackie breathes out, making everyone laugh and Sebastian’s gaze rises to him with a small smile on his lips.

There’s no time to dwell on his answer, the event needs to end. The interviewer thanks for their time and as the crowd cheers to them they head off the stage, waving at them until they disappear.

You’ve moved to the corner of the room, not wanting to be in the way, but you’re still not over the speech Sebastian just gave about you. As he appears from the stage his eyes are clearly scanning the room, searching for someone and when he finally spots you, his face hardens as he heads in your way. You’re standing with your hand covering your lips, eyes still slightly watered and seeing you like this he knots his eyebrows together in worry.

“Hey, what’s—“

“Did you mean that?” you breathe out, your voice trembling. “Did you mean it that nothing can change that?”

“Of course,” he nods, finally seeing what this is all about. “We’ve always found our way back to each other, haven’t we?”

“But dating is so much different than what we do now!” you breathe out, still not entirely sure it’s what you should do.

“Why would it be?” he chuckles softly. “We are already spending the majority of our time together, we know each other better than some couples, it wouldn’t be that big of a change, Y/N. And just like how it could ruin things between us, not taking the step could do the same, because sooner or later it’s gonna be unbearable, one of us might end up dating someone else and that wouldn’t do good to us for sure. I would rather accept the end of it knowing that we gave us a try than not even trying.”

“What if I turn out to be a completely shitty girlfriend?” you ask in a whisper as he steps closer, his hands finding your wrists as he pulls them away from your face, holding them gently. “W-What if I—“

“Shut up,” he cuts you off chuckling. “There’s no chance you are shitty at anything,” he replies teasingly, making you smile the slightest. “But even if you do end up being one, we’ll work on it together.”

His hands guide your hands around his waist, you hold onto his shirt as he cups your face in his hands, his face inching closer until his nose is brushing against yours.

“I really hope you’re right,” you breathe out, giving up to resist it any longer. There’s no use.

“Was I ever not right?” he asks smugly.

“Oh remember when—“

You don’t get to finish, because he silences you the best way possible, his lips smashing onto yours. It’s been long due and it doesn’t disappoint, his lips feel soft and perfect against yours, you can’t help but let out a pleased hum as your hands slide up his toned chest and your arms curl around his neck while his hands find your waist strong arms circling your waist as he pulls you tight against him.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Mackie’s voice breaks the moment and as you both pull back and turn in his direction, you see him pump his fist into the air with a victorious smirk on his face.

“Mind your own business, Mackie!” Seb calls out to him as you bury your face in the crook of his neck giggling like a little school girl.

“It’s my business! I made it happen!” Mackie retorts and a laugh rumbles through Seb’s chest.

“I’ll send you a thank you gift card later!” he shouts back before turning to you again, kissing the side of your head.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed it!

[dvp95]

quiet on widow’s peak (6)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, mystery, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, trans character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 2.9k (this chapter), 19.7k (total) summary: Phil’s got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

Hope my friends and I didn't make things weird for you yesterday. We're heading to the city around noon if you're still up for helping us with the boring part.

noon?? fucking alright i guess i gotta put pants on

lmao yeah, sorry. My parents woke us up at EIGHT like that's a normal time to be awake????

desgostang

What?

ill send u the link later and also no i didnt feel weird yesterday you guys are nice

That's good! And hey I wanted to ask. You were kind of put on the spot with introducing yourself, would you rather we called you Dan or Winnie? I just wanna make sure we aren't making you uncomfortable at all lmao

no its all fine you can call me dan idc and actually its best if you do call me dan when youre in my work lmao

Are you totally sure?

why would i lie abt this. dont be an idiot it isnt a good look on you

haha okay. I’ll see you around noon.

--

“Christopher is a nice boy,” Phil’s mum is telling him as she helps him with their fancy new coffeemaker. There are so many buttons and Phil is so, so tired. “And Sophie is lovely, such a soft-spoken thing. Why haven’t we met them before, dear?”

“Dunno,” Phil says instead of the truth, which is that he’d had no idea how he was supposed to introduce them. “You have now, though.”

His mum laughs and reaches up to pat his cheek. “True enough. I’m so happy that you’ve got good people around you, Philip. I’ve gotten quite worried about you down there by yourself, you know.”

“I’m not by myself,” says Phil. “I live with, like, thirty people.”

“Bunch of strangers, I’ll bet,” she says, because she knows him. “Aside from those three.”

The thing is, she’s not wrong. Phil’s obviously exaggerating about the number of people under the roof of the creaky Brighton house, but the truth is that he can’t keep track half the time. A lot of the rooms get sublet out randomly, or a significant other will start spending so much time around the place that they might as well pay rent, and Phil really isn’t good with new people. He gets along fine with Holly and Dave, but they’ve been there as long as he has and the closest they’ve ever come to a heart-to-heart was comparing anxiety meds over burned pancakes.

Chris and Sophie were there when Phil moved in, and they’d taken one look at him and decided to just keep shoving into his space until he liked having them there, like they were on a mission to adopt PJ’s sad, ghost-obsessed friend from the internet.

“You might be right,” Phil says, feeling a smile tug at his lips for the first time all morning. He’s already had a coffee - and a half, when PJ declared that not even Kath could make coffee taste good and shoved the rest of his Phil’s way - but he still doesn’t feel fully awake. “I’m only really friends with Chris and Soph because of PJ.”

“PJ is a good friend to you, isn’t he?” his mum hums. That slightly pointed tone doesn’t get to Phil the way it usually does, because he knows that she’s just trying to understand him.

It doesn’t escape Phil’s notice that he’s looking into a mirror whenever he sees his parents watching him carefully, waiting for him to tell them something he hasn’t explicitly said, because he’s been doing the exact same thing to his housemates for nearly two years.

Maybe he’ll tell his parents when he’s got someone serious or even, like, semi-serious. Longer than two dates would be a record at this point. But right now he already feels like he’s been one misstep away from disappointing them, and he doesn’t want to take the gamble that his sexuality will be that misstep.

He’s not up for this conversation, though, isn’t sure he’ll ever be, so he just says, “Yeah, he is.”

--

Dan is late. They’re so late, actually, that Phil’s wheel of worst case scenarios has been spinning silently and getting faster and faster the more caffeine he chugs. They roll in with flushed cheeks and a jacket that looks too thin, apologies on their shiny lips that Phil doesn’t even hear for a couple of seconds because he’s too busy staring at them.

“No worries,” Sophie says, interrupting their rambling before they lose another half hour to it. “You want something? I’m getting a refill.”

“No, no, let me,” says Dan. They shrug off their jacket and hang it on one of the empty chairs. Phil and his friends have co-opted the largest table in the place so they can spread out with their laptops and notebooks, and it doesn’t escape Phil’s notice that Dan has decided to sit next to him when they’ve got a couple of options. “I get free drinks if Gabe’s in a good mood. Anyone else need a refill?”

“Me,” Chris says, not looking up from his screen. “Not Phil. He’s cut off.”

“Hey,” Phil protests weakly. His heart rate really has picked up since they sat down, so he knows Chris has a point.

Dan grins, their soft cheeks giving way to the dimples that Phil is very quickly growing obsessed with. He just wants to make Dan smile and laugh constantly, to hear them cackle and see all the lines in their round face deepen with happiness.

Right. Phil watched a horror movie with PJ instead of unpacking this fluttering start of a crush last night, and now he’s just got to deal with it for the rest of the day.

As if it’s a compulsion, Dan clears the empty mugs from their table before heading up to the counter. Phil focuses on the EMF readings so he doesn’t get caught up on Dan holding four mugs by the handles with total ease.

PJ has got headphones on and his eyes closed, so he might not even have noticed that Dan is there. He’s been going through Sophie’s footage and his own audio recordings to try and find some anomalies while Chris looks for the weird visual stuff - they’re a great team at that, and it makes Phil feel like he’s not doing enough. Sure, he could find those things on his own, but not as quickly as they can when it’s a team effort, and they’re on a bit of a tight schedule here. Well, his housemates are. They’ve got actual jobs to get back to once the weekend is over.

Allegedly, Sophie is doing research on sigils, but it looks to Phil like she’s just doodling. Not that he really blames her if she is. He’s barely been paying attention to the chart he’s making of spikes in electromagnetism because he’s been so busy watching the door for Dan.

And Dan looks… good. They’re wearing chunky boots and a shirt that falls to their thighs - a dress, maybe, but it looks like a regular black t-shirt that got extended at the hem - with tight white jeans. The only colour on them is the plaid shirt around their waist and the shiny red product on their lips to match it. Phil watches them lean against the counter and grin at the older barista, and he’s so distracted by looking at their profile that he startles when a foot connects with his under the table.

“Stop staring,” Sophie says, quiet and smiling. “He’s going to notice.”

Phil considers correcting her, but then he remembers that he probably doesn’t have to. Dan had said any pronouns, that they didn’t care how they were referred to, so it would definitely be weirder to act like he knows better than Sophie.

He knows he won’t be able to use masculine terms for Dan. Not because they aren’t true, because he’s pretty sure they’re no less accurate than neutral or feminine would be, but because thinking of Dan as a maculine person is only going to allow Phil’s brain to fall into the familiar traps of gender in ways he doesn’t want to allow.

Gay monkey brain doesn’t need any more leeway in finding Dan attractive, that’s for damn sure.

“So, what are we doing?” Dan asks, interrupting Phil’s thoughts, and, wow, four mugs is a lot more impressive when they’re full of hot liquid. Phil marvels at Dan’s ability not to trip and spill it all as they dole out the coffee and teas.

“I’m doing the boring part,” says Phil. He turns his screen so Dan can see the Excel spreadsheet and laughs at the face they make. “Yeah. It's not glamorous, but it's the easiest way to find patterns in the EMF readings. Honestly, most of my job is just staring at things and finding patterns in them. Like, uh, what's that guy? With the butterfly splotches?"

"Worcestershire," Chris suggests.

"Rorschach," Dan corrects him, lips twitching like they aren't sure if they're allowed to laugh in Chris' face or not.

“That’s exactly what I said,” says Chris.

“You know EMF meters don’t have anything to do with ghosts, right?” Dan asks, ignoring Chris completely and leaning a bit closer to Phil to get a better look at his laptop. “I mean, none of this has anything to do with ghosts, really, but you’re more or less just measuring electricity.”

Phil is aware of that. He wonders if Dan thinks he just stumbles into haunted houses with equipment he hasn’t researched and waits to be spooked. He’s too distracted by how close Dan is and how good they smell to work up to proper offense, though. “Yeah,” he says simply. “But don’t you think it’s weird that the place still has electricity to begin with? Who’s paying for that?”

“A Wilkins, I’d imagine.”

“But why? If they’ve forgotten about the property or abandoned it on purpose, surely they wouldn’t still pay the bills.”

“Maybe they don’t handle their own finances,” Dan suggests. “How rich were these assholes?”

“I honestly don’t know,” says Phil. He taps his fingers in an erratic pattern on the edge of his laptop, trying to spark something in his mind.

It’s almost disappointing when Dan pulls away to dig out their own sleek Macbook out of their messenger bag, but Phil is also glad for it. He can think a lot easier when the warm scent of spice and mint isn’t clogging his brain.

Dan slots into the work as easily as if a space was left for them. They’ve got dozens of tabs open already and they start to go through them, cross-referencing magic things with Sophie in quiet tones and digging deeper into the Wilkins family than Phil ever would have thought to. Every so often they tap Phil on the arm and drag him into whatever rabbithole they’ve fallen down, chatting animatedly.

Phil knows, objectively, that Dan is a fan of his and that Dan is weird about research. It’s another thing entirely to watch it happen in real time, to see Dan pull up local census PDFs from the eighties and explain why chaos magic is bullshit in the same breath.

An hour or so goes by like that, all of them working on their own things with minimal words exchanged by everybody but Dan, and then Chris shouts loud enough to make the barista jump. Nobody else is in the coffee shop right now, which is lucky, because Dan’s got a hand over their chest and Sophie has slopped tea down her front. PJ, with his headphones on, simply cracks an eye open.

“What the fuck was that about?” Phil asks, putting his own palm against his chest to feel his heart race. Dan raises their eyebrows and looks at Phil, seemingly distracted from the startling, wordless exclamation.

They don’t get a chance to say whatever they’re thinking, though, because Chris is turning his laptop to the rest of the table and grinning wide like the Cheshire Cat. “I found something.”

Everybody gathers round, PJ getting up to lean over the back of Phil’s chair and Sophie getting so far into Dan’s personal space that Phil is certain they’re uncomfortable with it, and then Chris presses play upside down. It’s part of Sophie’s footage, Phil standing in the dim foyer and looking frustrated. Even without sound, Phil can tell that this is when he was arguing with Sophie about going upstairs. He squints, but he can’t see whatever it is that’s got Chris being so loud.

“What am I looking at?” PJ asks when the short clip ends, and Dan hums an agreement. Chris makes a frustrated noise like they’re being obtuse on purpose and rewinds to the beginning.

"There," Chris says, excited like he hasn't been since they got to Manchester. He taps his finger against the laptop screen. "D'you see it? D'you see the shadow?"

Now that Chris has pointed it out, Phil does see something. He moves his own laptop and notebook out of the way to pull Chris’ closer with a frown. Chris lets him do that, bouncing in his seat a little bit.

“That’s straight up a person,” Phil says slowly, tracing the outline of the shadow with the mouse. It’s behind him, in the entry to the kitchen, and it looks tall. Quite a bit taller than Phil, anyway, if he’s remembering that doorframe correctly. He decides to measure it next time they go so he isn’t going off memory. “I knew we weren’t alone in there. Like. I’m not crazy, that’s a human being.”

“That’s what I thought,” says Chris. “But press play.”

So Phil presses play. He watches the shadow stay perfectly still in the kitchen doorway until, suddenly, it’s not there anymore. He blinks, rewinds, and watches it disappear again.

Phil’s caffeinated brain is firing on all cylinders now. He grins and shoves his sleeves up to his elbows before he starts fiddling with the clip. The lighting gets played with until the shadow is more obvious and then he slows it down to 0.25 times speed to see if the shadow really just vanishes.

He presses play again. This time, with a very slow-motion Phil talking in the foreground, he sees the shadow move. It runs sideways, further into the house.

“What the fuck?” Dan breathes.

“We are not going back there without some serious protection,” PJ says, even firmer on the topic now.

“What, like sigils?” Dan asks, their pretty eyes wide even as they scoff. “You’d be better off with a fucking, like, baseball bat, mate. That doesn’t look like something that wants to be your friend.”

“I’ve got a crowbar in PJ’s trunk,” Phil says, absent-minded as he plays with the clip some more.

“Excuse me? When did you put that in my car?”

“Couple months ago.”

“Huh. How have I not noticed?”

“You’re not the most observant person I’ve ever met,” says Phil. He looks up at Chris, who’s got the same exhilarated look that Phil is sure he’s mirroring. They don’t get evidence like this very often, something so clearly there that it’s even got a skeptic’s mind racing. Phil exports the edited clip and then the original, putting them both into the Cloud and emailing them to himself. “Was this the only time you saw it?”

Chris nods, accepting his laptop back when Phil is done with it. “I’ll look through everything again, now that I know what I’m looking for and all, but I think that’s it.”

“Okay, cool.” Phil looks around at his friends and Dan, beaming. “Something weird is happening. I love it when something weird is happening.”

“I hate it when something weird is happening,” PJ says, which is a blatant lie.

“Well, we can’t go snooping around until it’s darker out, anyhow,” Sophie reminds them.

“Wait, we’re snooping?” Dan asks, their voice going up an entire octave in disbelief. “Like… you just saw that someone is there and probably not happy about people sneaking around, right? Don’t you have enough for a video already?”

“We’re spending the night,” says Phil. “It’s what we do.”

“It’s what you do,” PJ corrects him.

“Okay, yeah, you guys don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“No, I’m coming,” says PJ.

As if she can’t hear them bickering, Sophie turns to Dan with a sweet smile, her eyes twinkling with the same excitement in Chris’. They love this, just like Phil does. “What about you, Dan?” she asks. “Are you going to have a ghost sleepover with us?”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Dan says, their eyes still glued to the back of Chris’ laptop like they can see the shadow through it.

“Guess you don’t have anything to be afraid of, then,” says Chris.

“Uh, axe murderers, maybe?”

“We know what we’re doing, Dan,” Phil reassures them. He reaches a hand out to pat at their arm, feeling a bit awkward about it. “But you don’t have to come with us if you’re scared.”

That makes Dan’s gaze shift. Suddenly, those brown eyes are staring right into Phil’s soul, defiant and beautiful and impossible to look away from.

“Who said I was fucking scared?”

[honeychilialligator]

The Comfort of Strangers

Gabe's POV

The first time I saw her, it was a Saturday - most likely in the middle of September, nine months ago in a public library, four blocks away from the building that I once inhabited.

Of all things to note, the initial thing that would flash was the day - always the same day. She probably wore an average sweater, and dark skinny jeans - a style I eventually noticed. And even without the glasses, I always remembered her even back then as nerdy, introverted and of course, bookish.

It was a school research that motivated me to visit such a weary place that I couldn't imagine ever stopping-over - not because I was allergic to studying (if anything, I don't mind reading books) but because the place in itself was a bore to look at. The library was Egypt's pyramid. Historical. Old. Ancient. Pick your term. There's a helpful thesaurus inside to help you in such a predicament.

Then again, the same reason has urged me to step inside the old-fashioned site. Mr. Lanburton (not sure if I spelled his name accurately), our history teacher, had loaded us a big stack of dreadful tasks to fulfill at the end of the weekend. Surprisingly so, my memory has reclaimed the thoughts of my heavy homework, to which my class was asked to recollect important historical terms of a long list of nearby places in the vicinity of our humble locale.

It was also the first time my best friend, Google, has disappointed me terribly for failing to deliver an automatic answer to my difficulties (Apparently it was not one of those "God bless the internet" days). Unfortunately our locality and its small populace were a little unfit for specific and in-depth information about what Mr. Lanburton had required.

As tempting as it was to abandon the task at hand, my grades in that semester was not as cooperative. It took me a week to recover on an illness that got me hospitalized for days and the teachers were not very considerate. The only option left for me was to take the route to the oldest public library in town and start a customary way of active research.

The heavy creak brought from the antique wooden door entrance unsurprisingly attracted too much attention in an almost-deserted library. I met her stare as she lifted her gaze - our first contact. Yet at that moment it seemed so ordinary - so unappreciated. I couldn't recall clearly what book she was reading or how she looked at me, no matter how hard I try, but I guess that's just how I will always remember her: the girl who always has her face trained on books in the old library.

At the end of the day I was happy for having the task lifted off of my shoulders three days before the original submission, and I also recalled that my parents treated me and my four-year old little sister in an expensive restaurant outside town. My mother bought me a black jacket that I remembered wearing the next day. That specific Saturday was special in ways that I could only fully realize now.

Visits to the library were followed by more when our history teacher realized how effective it was (for him) to leave advanced schoolwork for a progressive study on our next topics. More items were given that I had to reserve extra time to the library to fulfill the task every week. The second and third time I stayed in the public library, I sat three chairs away from her and maintained the same position for the week because it was nearest to the air conditioner and I was rather comfortable. The quiet girl maintained hers just the same. Each time we were near each other I was more intrigued about the novels she was reading and how she seemed to be unfazed to her dusty surroundings with a different book each time I came. By my fifth visit, I was able to comprehend a clearer assessment on her features when I snuck in a slight glance.

Evergreen - like spring. That's how I remembered her full bright eyes. It seemed enchanting now the more I think about it, as only a few people could possess such unique detail. Her cheeks are always flushed - it must have something to do with the cold atmosphere (but later, I realized she was always like that). Her slightly-curly hazel brown hair, she always secured in a careless bun. It was curiosity that compelled me to her - a teenage girl my age who would just spend most of her time reading classic novels in the stinky dinosaur-age public library instead of going shopping or doing whatever sassy teenage girls do. Does she even go to school? Is she constantly alone if she doesn't have anyone to hang-out with? Where does she live anyway? What's in these books -these novels that got her hooked in this place? Why can't she just borrow them and bring them home to read? Why here where everything is so grubby and old, I have to stop myself from sneezing when I get too close on a dictionary?

It started as a thought, which intrigued me, and then it changed into a deep curiosity that later became a sudden interest. She was not from my university, that's for sure. I would have known. I never bothered to ask because I was uncertain on her response. It was not my forte, conversing with the opposite gender. Back then I had a mental overview on how my conversation with her would be like. I just couldn't gather enough courage to start even a casual conversation.

Scanning through old textbooks, I'd sneak in a little look at her - I don't know why I did - I always felt like even through her solemn focus on the material she was reading, I've always imagined her noticing every slight glance I pass on to her. Having her around three chairs away from me every Saturday afternoon in the library eventually turned into something natural - like a schoolmate a table away from me in our usual place in the cafeteria. Without even speaking, I guess our positions were a mutual contract. Without even knowing it, my visits and these weekly tasks no longer bothered me as much as it did at first.

Finally, I devised a plan to get her attention (it didn't sound as creepy when I thought about it before). This peculiar bookworm returns the books to its shelf and leaves the place fifteen minutes less before I could finish my research homework. On a particular Saturday in October, I took notice of the exact bookshelf location she left her novel before she stepped out of the library. Coincidentally Mr. Lanburton was kind enough to lessen our burden with simple common terms to hunt and I was able to finish the task earlier than most. I took the book out of the bookshelf five minutes after she left. I tried considering asking the elderly librarian about the name of the girl (surely she knew about her only customer in ghost town's library) but for some reason I didn't pursue it.

The moment I glanced at the cover of the book I remembered thinking: "Nicholas Sparks. Well what do you know? I guess she is a romantic at heart."

"The Choice" by Nicholas Sparks.

Reading the synopsis was my last pull to borrowing the book and bringing it home. Alas, I have also read some of his passionate collections but it was my first to encounter this specific book. I started reading that night - continued and finished it the next day. It was compelling and I was hooked. I thought about how she could be feeling the same emotions that I was sensing as I read through Spark's masterpiece, and when I am overcome with extreme emotions in the climax of the plot, I remembered how I caught her wrinkle her nose as she read through all those literary pieces as if she was dismayed by the outcome, or how a trace of a smile would form on her delicate lips for a moment at the remaining pages of her novels; all the emotions rushing out of her when she reads - I realize how she understood all kinds of sentiments organized by the author or how she paints the characters out of her beautiful imagination.

For a regular guy who sees life as a featureless routine, she was remarkable.

The next Saturday, there were no tasks to accomplish, but I returned the book to the library. When I arrived, the girl was already sitting with a different (probably about another romance) book on our usual table as I had expected. I felt her eyes follow me when I returned the book that she read. After doing so, I returned to my usual chair, took a random book on her usual bookshelf and pretended to read it - hoping she would notice me again.

The bookworm cleared her throat. Twice (in the first, I was a little too overwhelmed to hear her). "Excuse me."

"Yes?" I must have smiled like a fool back then.

"Hi," she started nervously. "I just couldn't help wondering: what genre do you usually prefer? I mean if you don't mind." Wait, British accent?

The question initially confused me, but it made me more than glad to hear her talk. I answered her in way that might have ineffectually and failingly conceal my tense and awkward self. "I-I guess I'm more into Action, Sci-Fi. Those kinds of stuff." (Not really). "And probably a little romance would do." (A guy reading a romance novel? Can't you get any weirder? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid).

"I see," she spoke out the words slowly. "Action, huh? Specifically of Sylvia Day's?"

Her tone had demanded to alert me, as I saw her look curiously on the book on my hand. I quickly turned to the cover.

"Bared to You" by Sylvia Day.

Oh.

I slammed the book shut, not daring to behold a scene of its twisted plot. Funny, how I must have looked like to her: A perverted little maniac.

That's when I heard her laugh. I was unprepared for my reaction to the most potent weapon this girl had in her arsenal - a real genuine laugh that reverberated from inside her. It was too infectious for me to resist, and on an unguarded instant, I joined in.

Of course, the librarian shushed us out of it.

"I'm sorry," she blushed - adding more color to her flushed face, and apologized to the wrinkly old librarian.

"Look, I wasn't really reading it, I mean - "(What am I getting myself into?) "I was just scan- " The girl stifled a laugh. "I didn't mean it like that, I was just...just..."(Seriously dude, stop embarrassing yourself!)

"I'm Eveline," she offered, a bright and foreign (but genuine) smile on her face and an extended hand. "You are?"

A for being attentive. I just couldn't stop embarrassing myself, could I?

"Gabriel, 'Gabe' for short" I shook her soft, dainty hand. "Nice to (finally) meet you."

"Sorry if I disturbed you." Another short laugh.

"It's fine. I wasn't really reading it," I shrugged.

"I can tell," Eveline smiled - a sparkle on her emerald eyes. "I mean I noticed you were so out of it. I didn't mean to appear so despicable."

"It's okay, really. I don't usually read novels - especially this kind."

"You're usually on research and textbooks," she added gently, and I couldn't help but grin at the thought of her noticing me.

"Schoolwork," I supplied. "My history teacher keeps giving us a big load of homework every weekend."

"Ah, I see," she nodded in understanding. I waited for her to elaborate about her high school life or at least relate to me how her history teacher could be the same terror professor, but she didn't and our conversation fell short.

"Are you always hanging around here?" I probed further.

"Only on Saturdays and sometimes on Sundays," Eve caught a stray hair and pushed it on her ear.

"Always on the same schedule?"

She nodded cheekily, "Yeah."

Her enigmatic stance put me in place and I decided not to push my luck on her privacy. "Cool."

I looked at my wristwatch and realized that I was late for my sister's little rehearsal, knowing I had to pick her up after. "It was really great to see you, but I'm done with my work here and I need to fetch my sister out of ballet class." As much as I still want to hang around...

"I understand."

"So, next Saturday then?" I said a little too hopefully.

"Of course," she smiled her gentle smile.

That night I lay on my cozy bed thinking about our hilarious - though a little ungainly, dialogue. Eveline. Witty, cute, and bashful Eveline. Even when I decided to shut my eyes, I could see a picture of her perky face in her natural glow and hear the sound of her symphonic laugh. Since that day, thoughts of her became a frequent visitor and Saturday wasn't just any ordinary Saturday. Like a refreshing holiday, I was looking forward to it.

On our next meeting, I wore a navy sweatshirt and khaki shorts - turning my charm on like a light switch untouched for decades. I smiled brightly even before I could enter the library, wanting to match hers and hoping she'd return it. Eveline would be inside, reading a romantic novel, and I hope my smile would greet her. She was still selecting a book when I came in; her face lit up as she mouthed "Hello."

Instead of going my way to proceed on my research, I watched her pick a book or two in the shelf before taking my own set of textbooks to copy information. As I derived coherent notes on my notebook, I clucked my tongue twice in a playful way of getting her attention. From the corner of my eye, I saw her glance to my direction but I pretended to be so focused on my homework. I repeated it again, louder this time to also get the old librarian's awareness. The withered old woman looked around and turned on our table, confused at my mock innocence. She shrugged a little and went back on arranging the filthy pile of old archives. From the corner of my eye, I saw Eveline smile in amusement even without her looking at me.

I purposely sped up taking down notes for research in order to catch up on Eveline on her way home. I asked permission to accompany her and I was happy that she was fine with it. She owned an average bike for transportation and her street was 2 miles away from mine. I offered to guide her bike as a friendly gesture while we talk a little until we reached my apartment building.

"You're not as behaved as I thought you are," she teased lightly.

"You mean what I did to that librarian? Well at least she has someone to watch over. A little hobby might get her rusty old brain working a little," I winked and she laughed.

We shared jokes even though they were mostly mine. I enjoyed making her laugh and smile. I began talking about myself when we started sobering up; about my family, high school, my hunky best friend named Kevin, and my favorite sport, tennis. I casually asked her about her own share of the bargain and I was more than pleased to hear her describe a little more about herself. Financial problems had caused a temporary break for her education when her father was dropped out on his business firm. She didn't talk about her plans for the future which seemed odd when I think about how much I disclosed my desired career as an architect, but I still marveled at the way she talks about her present and how she sees her life like a ready canvass. She loved her parents dearly even if they couldn't give her siblings to take care of. Eveline had a little pet dog named Sponge, and he was her only best friend.

Little facts added to my little biography of her, and each Saturday I was determined to get closer to her as I know she was a keeper for a friend. It turned into a fantastic innocent habit. When Saturday comes, I'd still stay on my usual distance and she'd read books peacefully. I'd cluck my tongue like a little check-up call and she'd smile. We'd pretend we didn't hear anything when the librarian gets irritated, and we'd squeeze ourselves to hide a laugh. But still I was afraid of annoying her on her reading with my behavior so I'd stop and sneak glances at her instead. Overtime she started whistling, a sign that she wasn't bothered about my tongue-clucking at all. The first time she tried her 'notorious' act and the librarian glared at me accusingly, I bit my tongue so bad to conceal a hideous laughter and my stomach was aching, it was so hard to breath. On our journey home, I was able to make her play "20 questions" where we take turns in interrogations about ourselves. Each new detail was a new color to add to cluster of feathers she blooms each day.

By the time we agreed to meet up on days besides Saturday, I had nicknamed her "Eve" even when her mother calls her "Lynn". On our first "friendly" date, I took her to a little café and treated her with chocolate cake that she told me was her favorite. I bought her "Papertowns", a novel written by John Green, and she was so happy and giddy that Eve kissed me tenderly on the cheek; I wasn't able to hold a blush.

Even though I was afraid to admit it, when I was with her, it seemed it was worth doing all those normal things that normal people do.

She was amazing in ways that I couldn't describe. Eve could make simple seem complex. Everything about her had a deeper sense of sentimental value. There are certain ways only she can do that could make me immeasurably happy.

Eve had suggested I meet up with her on a night of meteor showers last December. It had been my dream rendezvous. As we sat there stargazing, I had took the book that we both loved from my sling bag, "The Choice" and read a little excerpt of Nicholas Sparks, one that I intended with meaning.

"It was inevitable for people to try to create a sense of normalcy in a place where nothing was normal. It helped one get through the day, to add predictability to a life that was inherently unpredictable."

She had listened with her eyes closed, lying on the evergreen grass that sent a neon glow to her emerald eyes.

"You've been quoting my books," Eve grinned, after a long moment of observing the distant, twinkling stars.

"Sadly, you've miraculously turned me into a bookworm like you," I sighed melodramatically.

"Well I never forced you to read them," she smiled.

"But there was no other way of getting your attention," I pouted, playfully.

"There was, you're just too dumb to try it," Eve laughed.

"Name one."

"I don't know, how about just a casual 'hi!'" she muttered sarcastically and I rolled my eyes. "You could also have tried asking me what I was reading. Did I appear that stiff to you?"

"To be honest, yeah" I said teasingly.

"Dud!"

"Nerd!"

Tickle fights are the usual aftermath of our casual bullying. How we managed to get that close so fast? I have no idea.

So yeah, we rolled off our butts in the prickly grass like it was no one's business. And after we finished laughing like hyenas and sobered up, we just lied there peacefully under the stars.

"Well I'm glad you did it," she suddenly brought up.

"Did what?"

"Read the book I mean," Eve chuckled.

"How come?" I arched an eyebrow.

"I guess there was no better way to get me to trust you." (She was serious, by the way.)

"Yeah, right" I smiled. "Starting a book club, eh?"

"You're my first member," she joked and we both laughed.

"You've put me in a lot of effort for just a simple conversation," I whispered.

"Nothing that's worthwhile is ever easy, remember that," she quoted a memorized sentence from the book that started it all.

It was her own happiness that did the trick: in her brilliant smile, in her adorable pout, or in the way she smudges ice cream all over her mouth, or how she falls asleep with her lips slightly apart, or how she seems so vulnerable and honest and kind that it would be a difficulty to stop the urge to wrap her in your arms and protect her. She was heavenly, but earthly in that amazingly complicated way.

Yes, indeed. I, Gabriel Felix, a plain average teenage boy who couldn't appear normal and comfortable with teenage girls, was falling in love with a bookworm. At that time when I came to terms with my little crush, I surrendered and didn't fight back. I didn't have anything to lose except for our strong bond and resilient friendship (that I couldn't imagine ever giving up). But knowing Eve, I knew it wouldn't take long for her to figure out about what I really felt. Being in love, I comprehended, was not about being concerned if she could ever accept your feelings and affections. It's more engrossed on ensuring the happiness of your loved one above yours, even if that took you out of the equation.

Every time I have these insecurities in my mind when I think about confessing, I replay all the moments we spend together inside or outside the library. The way she smiled made me feel like it was mutual, and I know I had to try; Eve was worth it.

So I decided to express my intense emotions towards her on our next meeting next Saturday, in the place where it all began - our sanctuary.

That morning I put on my favorite black jacket, and styled my raven black hair with gel. In the bathroom while having my shower, there was nothing else in my mind but on what to say and how to express it without her running out the door. I was nervous even though I've made up my mind.

I read through my lines and my cheesy quotes (obviously it's from the same book), knowing she'd appreciate it. I slipped further into my own fantasies, understanding that there was a big chance of rejection, but all I cared about was being close to her, keeping her. I wanted so badly to keep her.

By then I knew, the moment I stepped inside the public library - as I saw her empty chair, that a love like this was too good to be true.

When I arrived at her address, I asked around for her and she wasn't home - none of her family was. None of her neighbors knew where they went. I went to random places - anywhere where hope could blossom. I tried the café, Borders (her favorite bookstore), the central park, but I was chasing fiction.

I never felt more drained in my entire life the moment I reached home. I attempted to call her number but only voice message replied.

Days passed, and Eveline still remained as a haunting mystery. I didn't break my visits to the library even though it was already summer vacation - hoping she'd show up with her dazzling smile on a sweater shirt and black jeans and explain how she disappeared and I'd forgive her, then she'd reassure me that she'd stay.

I've had my heart broken by love songs and I've had my own share of repetitive and agonizing travels to memory lane. Theories crossed my mind but it was worthless when there is no evidence to support them. Five times - I think - did I visit her house, only to find it empty once again.

"Do you ever do this, you think back on all the times you've had with someone and you just replay it in your head over and over again and you look for those first signs of trouble?"

Why, Nicholas, are you a psychic?

Months passed; each day was a struggle on moving on - on filling this void in my chest whenever I see her empty chair on lonely Saturdays.

My own copy of "The Choice" had been repeatedly thrown off the wall but I still had no perfect reason to hate her - even more in forgetting her. And in doing so, I've shunned myself in taking chances in romance. The harder I wanted to forget the more I kept remembering.

"But things change. People change. Change was one of the inevitable laws of nature, exacting its toll on people's lives. Mistakes are made, regrets form, and all that was left were repercussions that made something as simple as rising from the bed seem almost laborious."

I was able to memorize this stupid passage from that stupid book the day I had given up in waiting for Eve to come back. It seemed pitiful, but there were things you couldn't prevent from spilling. But then maybe I deserved this much for being too attached and for trusting too much on our "mutual" contract.

Unfortunately again for me, I didn't also deserve a "goodbye".

Time did its magic - no matter how slow. I've tried smiling again, and I went back on track with my priorities. On my next semester, I did better and passed every subject. I've tried playing sports like football and I was busier every day.

But still life has a way of proving you wrong. Three days ago, another research came up that needed public library help. The thought brought back unwanted memories that I've tried so hard to ignore but it can't be helped. At the same time, I dared myself to go through this like a test - to prove myself that I've really moved on.

So yesterday I took a step inside the ancient place, purposely in the same time that I practiced my past routine. The librarian regarded me with a look, as she bent down her spectacles to observe me. I tossed her a smile as if we were old acquaintances and I wasn't sure if she could still remember me in the way she returned my friendly greeting.

I took the same old World History textbook, and sat on my old place. Turning the pages, I was suddenly aware of the seat three chairs away from mine. I felt a familiar ache in my heart as I took down notes.

This was too much, I shouldn't have done this.

The price of going back through everything was not worth the pain. I closed the textbook wearily and decided to leave at once, when I heard it.

A whistle.

As if it was a sound of a bullet piercing through my ear, I turned around, perplexed and slightly hopeful.

The librarian was looking at me, her hand on her mouth and a smile on her pale and bony face.

"Made you turn," and she laughed (although it sounded more like a witch's cackle) "I knew that would do the trick." She motioned me towards her, and as the confused bloke as I was, I complied (It's not like she's harmful anyway).

"Your girlfriend," the librarian muttered. "She came here a week ago."

"She's not my girl - Say what?" I think my heart just did a somersault.

"Between you and me, who do you think is supposed to be deaf?" the old woman laughed, betraying her age. "She left something - inserted it on this book," she took "The Choice" (the book that I borrowed) out from the drawer. "You teenagers seriously need to remember that a library is not meant for -"

"Did she say anything?" I cut her off impatiently, taking the book from her wrinkled hand.

The now-annoyed librarian shook her head no.

I removed the little piece of paper from the pages of the book and read the note.

You probably didn't expect an apology from me after I left you alone without any explanation. You didn't deserve it and there is nothing I could say worthy of your forgiveness. You can crumple this paper or forget me - I'd accept all of it. But even after everything that I did to you, it would be such a shame to say that I did it all intentionally.

But here is my explanation: I was dying. My cancer was spreading and an operation could only result to a fast demise or a little chance of survival. From the start I meant to keep this from you - after all, who would have thought that a stranger like you would mean so much to me.

Everyday I wither in the pity of those around me, when all I really want is to do more than just breathe - I want to live. That's why I read lives that have happy endings, something I thought I was never granted to have. It was a torture I designed for myself. At that time all I really thought about was that since this cancer started controlling my life, all I am allowed to feel was pain.

I noticed you long before you borrowed the book. In all honesty, I was just as nervous to talk to you as you mentioned to me. I thought it was a game, really, on who can approach who first. And I lost when you did the irresistible: taking an erotic novel and pretending to read it with an expressionless innocent face. That little encounter started all the hilarious jokes and the little dates. There was nothing wrong about your questions and little interviews but forgive me if I am so reserved (Yes, the reason why I didn't choose to finish school was because of my condition). You'd never think of me as the same bookworm in the library if I told you all of my secrets - specifically about Leukemia.

But we started to hang-out and I let it all happen. There was nothing more refreshing than taking your guard off and having fun. I don't know what made me trust you- maybe it was because you don't look at me with pity, or the way you made me feel safe or that you built up some hope in me. You were a constant reminder of who I can't and never have. But you were there, three chairs away from me, so close yet so far. Ever since I started getting to know you, all I wanted was to close the distance.

So I made a gamble with myself, to give this one last chance, if that meant I'd have an opportunity to have a future with you, even if all we will ever end up is friends. And I accepted the operation, provided with the risks. I couldn't explain everything to you before I'd undergo operation. What's the point of worrying you over something you can't control especially if I'd just end up dead?

God answered my prayers, and I was saved. I got my second chance and all I want to do is spend it with you. But that's your choice. I'll be right here waiting where the heaven's cried.

Love,

E.

Nothing that's worthwhile is ever easy. I know Eve.

I know.

[softtofustew]

or maybe that’s how it has to be // notes & ending ment

pairing: kang younghyun / park jaehyung

genre: angst ; fluff 

summary: death calls childhood friends jae and brian on christmas eve. willing to make the most of their next twelve hours, they find their ways with each other — and perhaps learn how to really, truly live life on the day they’re going to die.

NOTES & ENDING MENT (2018)

hello, this is chien // on writing this christmas x death soulmates!au work, this is one of the biggest challenges i think i’ve faced in terms of writing. whilst i’m still young and brooding (i believe i am much younger than the average age of fanfiction writers… or at least the majority that i am familiar with), writing has always been here for me. i started writing fanfiction back in february of 2018, and thinking back to it, i never thought i would put out thirty (30!) works out in a span of a couple of months.

this work is particularly special to me, mostly because i’m pouring a lot of time into this baby, and because it’s posted on brian’s birthday, or as an early merry christmas.

i would just like to share some thoughts and words on ‘or maybe that’s how it has to be’, and some insight on its ideas and perimeters. if you haven’t read it, it’s here.

one; setting & perimeters

dealing with this has always been a bit of a wonder. where am i placing them? where are they going? if you notice, i’ve left this city ambiguous, though the names of the characters (minjoon, byungho, jaejoon etc) mentioned imply that it is, in fact, korea. 

as for the perimeters of the story, they are not mine to boast. they are, in fact, a work of adam silvera’s. if you follow me on twitter, i have mentioned him countless times as i wrote this work. his work is called they both die at the end (review). i shall talk a bit more on the book, and how i adapted its ideas.

the story is of two boys, two strangers, who receive individual calls about their imminent deaths in twenty-four (24) hours, the caller being ‘Death-Cast’. they meet through an app called ‘Last Friend’ (think tinder but for people about to die and try to make friends). they meet, and they spend their last day together.

once i’ve laid out these perimeters, you can see how i integrated them into my work, but tweaked a lot of the details. firstly, they die in twelve hours. why? because i don’t think i would’ve written out a whole twenty-four hours. for silvera’s work it was possible because he intertwined plenty of different points of views of different people. 

also, jae and brian are childhood best friends. i feel like them as strangers would’ve taken a lot for them to develop in such a short span of time. seeing someone from your past and reuniting with them (especially if you’ve loved the other before) i feel is more of a sentimental kind of bond over strangers!jaebri. this, of course, does away with the ‘Last Friend’ app entirely.

i never expanded on Death-Cast, but that’s because the book itself never expanded on it. also, i wanted to focus mainly on the events of the whole work. if i had had more time, i think i would’ve expanded on the background of the work, but all’s well that ends well.

two; characters

of course, it’s jae and brian! throughout this year, i’ve loved writing jaehyungparkian. there are certainly lots of reasons behind this, of course. the main one is because these two truly have a lot of chemistry irl - their backstories, their conversations, their meaningless banters on vlive etc. writing fanfiction of them never gets boring, honestly.

though it’s not obvious, i depict jae as the introvert (which is, anyway, his personality, INTP) and brian as the extrovert (who is also extroverted irl). as in the second-last scene, wherein brian asks jae what they would’ve done on their last day if they hadn’t met each other, it’s true: jae would’ve holed up by himself, brian would’ve hung out with wonpil but would never really give that true goodbye, because goodbyes are always the hardest. 

although i know there was that one christmas brian spent alone, i can’t imagine jae willingly putting up a physical fight with someone haha. 

meeting each other and catching up and everything in between works for the both of them. i love them in this work, and i hope you love them, too.

three; events

it goes without saying, doesn’t it? two childhood friends meet, spend half a day together, kiss and fall in love. cliche, i know. 

i’ve always been fond of soulmates! AUs. when i reread adam silvera’s work, i felt compelled to write a soulmates trope, but with a twist - death soulmates. clearly, it’s not a real term inculcated into my work - it’s just what jae and brian label it as. there are countless reflections in the work, wherein either or both of them think about what a miracle it is to coincidentally see each other on the day they die.

for such events to occur, you hafta make it realistic: brian gets into a fight with minjoon, in a city far from his own home, so it’s not considered ‘unrealistic’ of the both of them meeting in the same city where they both live in. it gives the sense of a coincidink to the audience, without making it too… faked? yeah.

minjoon and his gang (all made-up characters) are the cherry on the top. in adam silvera’s work, the two boys faced one of their ex’s current boyfriend and his gang. there were guns involved, but i like to keep things simple and legal (considering that this is, in fact, set in south korea.) so, on top of going to places they want to go before they die, they’ve got to square off minjoon and the gang.

as for the events, as for where they went, there’s nothing coherently ‘special’ about them, other than the sentiment behind visiting these places. i feel the plot was more of a long, drawn out build-up to the ending scenes, wherein they both knew that they loved each other and such. 

four; process

so how did i write this? this is the first time i skipped out a portion of the work to write the last few scenes first, then returning to the middle portion, and also the first time i had an alternative work.

starting it off, my first draft was a sketchy 7K-word baby before i took the first few paragraphs and rewrote it. i felt it was waayyy too forced (and way too much to handle and so i rewrote it. this baby is my second draft, and x1000 wayyyy angstier than the first child. to know more about her, scroll down to five)

as for the second (and final draft, the version that i posted) i’d finished until the coffeehouse scene when i went ice-skating with my family. of course, i’ve never gone ice-skating, and so i shuffled along the railing for three hours. during the only time i fell down, this dude helped me up (read: semi-cute dude with skating skills to die for). being me, i struggled to my feet - and slammed into the railing, skates sliding apart from each other. thus, i pulled off a nothing-less-of-gorgeous crashing stance while holding onto the railing for dear life. (which is why i never engaged in small talk with semi-cute dude. read: he skated off.)

i incorporated that into my work (except, brian doesn’t skate off after jae crashes into the railing), and i started off there, all the way until the last scene. 

and then i went back to the middle of the work and started writing. again. lol.

five; the alternate version

the first draft was… complicated. there were many different elements used in my first baby before i scrapped it. the first two scenes are exactly the same, word-for-word, but beyond that was completely and utterly different.

alternate version: jae and brian didn’t meet at the convenience store. they met at a bus stop, prior to brian’s fight with minjoon. they only went to the convenience store after a few more scenes, where they bumped into sungjin. in this version, brian and sungjin made up - they buried the hatchet between them.

also, jae’s parents did die too, in this first draft - but he wasn’t legally an adult in this version. instead, he had foster parents living on the outskirts of seoul. after meeting at the bus stop, him and brian took the bus to visit them so jae could leave their gift in the mailbox. 

also, if i had continued with the first draft, you’d be reading about sungjin realising that brian had cheated on him when they were still together! and then that’s the reason why minjoon hunts him down for a second fight. yeah. that was… unexpected. thank goodness i didn’t bulldoze through that; that would’ve been one hell of a world for me to handle, phew.

from this, you can see that my… ideas weren’t planned. i was literally going with the flow. this alternate version is even weirder than 5sos’ alternate version of she’s kinda hot, which is kinda saying something, isn’t it?

six; did they die, or did they die?

most of you would believe that they died. the last line clearly states “the last thing jae sees before his eyes is brian, brian, brian, before his world is consumed.”

but the thing is, i never said ‘and they died in the end.’ before his world is consumed. consumed by darkness? or purely just him shutting his eyes? maybe his heart stops, but beats again? maybe brian gets him out of there? truly, i’ve left the ending  ambiguous. in other words: whether they died or not on christmas day is unknown, and i’ve left it up for you to decide. 

this was one of the things i thought over the most. logically, they can’t escape from the fire, but then again, who knows? with something like Death-Cast in their alternate universe, perhaps there’s some otherworldly force? ;)

seven; quotes & inspiration

i couldn’t resist adding several quotes from they both die at the end! jae’s ment to brian, several lines in the works, some of which can be found here. if you recognise which i quoted, that means you reeaaally read thoroughly heh.

as for writing itself, there were times when i was stuck on words, which is alarming because i hardly ever get writer’s block (weeps aggressively). so i would like to thank errie, my fav internet moot, for always being there halfway across the globe to listen (read?) to my rants about the work, and for always encouraging me with her eagerness to read the work itself. and also, teenie has been a great inspiration, indirectly inspiring me every time i reread one of her works (senpai, if you ever see this, i love you). 

last note

i would like to end this by thanking everyone who has made me writing fanfiction (regularly!) an actual hobby i enjoy this year. when i first started off, i never expected to even get a handful of kudos on my first fic. admittedly, there are some works i’m not particularly satisfied of, and sometimes i wonder whether i thought of quantity over quality of the works.

everyone has their own writing style, as i do too. my kind of writing style is descriptive, long sentences. i think sometimes my long sentences are a tad too long and break away the impact of the words, which is something i feel i should work on. but writing fanfiction, truly, has improved my writing so, so much, and i’m immensely thankful for all of your comments and feedback on my writing. 

i have a couple of goals in 2019: to write a couple more jaehyungparkian ideas that i have out (pretty sure i needa start on this that i’ve been hinting since god knows when), to finish the parkbros au and to improve the impact of my writing style, and to broaden my genres of writing. throughout this year i’ve mainly been writing fluff, angst, humour. i plan on writing wayyy more action and thriller, because those genres need looooots of brushing up on (this one, i feel, was very amateur but a lot of y’all liked it hahaha so i don’t know). OH! and to plan out my works before i write them kekekeke.

in conclusion, thank you, thank you, thank you. i love you all so, so much. i will be back in 2019 with new and improved ideas to write

[laidbackmarco]

Trinkets of a Different Time

As a kid I remember rifling through my dad’s nightstand to find small pocket knives, trinkets, and various other personal articles. As a romantic and philosopher I believe the inanimate objects we interact with everyday tell us a lot about ourselves, and have deep vast stories hidden with them. One could argue that they are as much a part of this living breathing universe as we are. The imagination of a child allowed me to daydream of a life lived before I came into the world.

  How much do I know of being a minority in the 60s, 70s, 80s? What Tacoma was like, the stories of Kansas and Virginia which always seem to not be long enough for me to know anything. Or on my mom’s end how could I know what it was like to lose my father at an early age. To grow up in a third world country miles away over the pacific ocean. I hear short snippets of each of their lives through oral stories passed down from one generation to the next. But it’s often strange to think about how little we know about the people who raised us, and often weirder thinking that they have as little of an idea of what they are doing as you do.

Strangers With The Same DNA

My mom being a party animal, my dad being some sort of geek. . . If I met them on the street would I recognize them? What I would give to be Marty McFly and meet and observe my parents in their youth. My knowledge is so limited I have troubling remember what happens in a day if I don’t journal. The images I have of my parents are constructs in my mind that change and shift with every passing moment. Remember the image you held of your dad when you were five, its probably the way my elementary school students think of me now as a 23 year old adult. Up till seven I thought my dad was some sort of flawless super hero. Of course that image has since changed, but as I grow into adulthood and discover how hard it really is, I can once again say that I am amazed by the things my dad has accomplished on his time on this earth. The flaws my dad has only make him more relatable, and overcoming some of them is a testament to how much he cares.

Parents lie to their kids all the time, I think my parents lied about their past as much as they tell the truth. Of course they could be lying on accident due to the lackluster perception of self present all humans. (including me the author)

Most of my parents lives I was not a part of . . .the time I spent with them is less than half of their lives. I know mostly nothing about the people that live under my roof with me and have guided me through the world that they too had to figure out and find meaning in.

The Same Name

Maurice Vincent Harris

My dad and I share practically the same name, but I have never once called him Marc or Maurice, to do so would just feel wrong. Even calling him dad for the sake of my “audience”(thanks for reading really. . .and most of you are English speakers I’m assuming?) feels so unsettling. Because to me he has always been Tatay. Hearing that word in my head makes years of memories fly through my mind. Recently he’s picked up the name Beefo, a name my little sister has knighted him with. During my time in high school my friends had come up with a name for my Tatay that is the most fon for me to use Black Mario.

Black Mario felt just as right as Tatay and is less intimate so for the sake of this chapter let’s call him Black Mario.

Things Only I Know

What can I tell you about my dad that no one else knows? He’s afraid of dying just like everyone else, he hates his job although he appreciates all that it’s provided for us, his favorite cigarettes are menthol lights, he worries all the time about all his kids. Karina, Cristina, me. . . But he worries about Karina the most. . . Because they are scarily alike. He is very old fashion and rarely cooks, cleans, or does the laundry, but he does like to do yardwork and keep all the vehicles in working order. Some of his bad habits are gambling, smoking, and road rage. It’s hard to sleep around him because he snores very loudly, and once he’s out it’s hard to get him back up(yay for sneaking in xbox time). He’s not afraid to express what he feels at restaurants, but for some reason can’t get in touch with his sensitive side. He misses the days when I was little. His mind is always on the future, but is sometimes impulsive. He doesn’t sleep much, but he can sleep for a while when he finally retires to the bed. He’s not as fast up and down the stairs as he used to be even just ten years ago when the regular pace of the slight jog going up the stairs has turned into a labored and offset slower paced climb up them. He expresses his emotions in weird ways like some sort of anime tsundere.

That’s my image of him now, but I know with all things this wasn’t how he always was.

I remember growing up I used to tell people I was black and they wouldn’t believe me until they saw my father. Trying to describe my father to someone who had never seen him went as follows. Well he’s a tall black guy with a mustache, who always wears a hat, and blue Boeing coveralls. He is a plumber/maintenance worker. A description closely matched by one of the world’s most famous Italian plumbers in the world. Mario. . .

Slice of Life

Although Black Mario is my father, the knowledge I have on this specimen is, only a slice of his life. Most of his existence remains shrouded in mystery.(If I ever have kids they can literally search through my teens and twenties, and even further back if I get around to scanning and uploading our photo collection) They need to hurry up with that assassins creed machine Animus please. I know his birthdate by heart thanks to all those damn how old are you things on the internet for mature games not porn I swear. I always put in my dad’s date of birth for some reason so my Xbox live account says I’m in my sixties. I always think about Alan Watt’s description about how we describe a beginning, did my father’s life start when he was born, when he was conceived, or when he was an evil gleam in his father’s eyes?

Baby Boomer

Black Mario is a baby boomer born on December 31st 1954, being part of a military family he was born on the other side of the country in Virginia. Dave and Patricia Harris. Like many, my grandfather had served in Second World War another young man thrown into a battle that shed much blood, but also brought the world together. When the war was over he was in his late teens and met a young girl from the Philippines who returned with him to the states. In the Philippines due to the lack of documentation it was possible for my grandma, who was actually 14, to lie about her age. Perhaps America was the land of opportunity  and a chance for her to seek adventure out of her small province. Due to the different cultural values of both the time and the region, it wasn’t strange for people to be settling down and having families at a young age. I mean the concept of “adulthood” is a construct created by culture. Using an arbitrary number such as one’s age to determine responsibility is pretentious, preposterous, and absurd. There was a time when people settled down much younger in life due to the short life expectancy. In other cultures the marriage ages vary to some degree as well, and for all you Christians out there, Mary was like fourteen so . . . Yeah.

Two teenagers went about raising a family . .  What could possibly go wrong?

My Grandpa was a short tempered, sharp tonged, sometimes violent man. . . God. . . He’s starting to sound like the stereo typical African American T.V. Dad. Although I imagine being in the military during war time will change you, being African American his role was limited to a cook. He was damn good at his job too often getting requests from generals and officers to have him be the one to prepare their meals. I can’t really speak much about Grandpa Dave as I know almost nothing about him.

Mark In The Middle

My dad is a younger middle child of a large family. . . 12 kids I believe, Lola tells stories of never ending cooking, cleaning, and laundry. . . My worst nightmare. . . Laundry. The values at the time consisted of a breadwinner and the stay at home mom. With limited education and the high cost of daycare what choice was there for Lola. Did she have any bigger dreams than that? For someone like me with delusions of grandeur I often forget that some people’s dreams is to provide and care for a family.

  My dad’s journey began in Virginia, where there are a lot of other Harris family groups, but I have never been to the big Harris Family reunion so they might as well be aliens with similar D.N.A. My dad himself doesn’t seem to remember much about Virginia as the earliest stories he had was the drive to Kansas itself. With no freeways, it must have been a traumatizingly long journey for a kid to remember it. When I was a kid when I thought of Kansas I thought of the Wizard of Oz and little house on the Prairie. But included in my dad’s memories are a packed station wagon full of stuff and kids. The American Road trip has some what of romanticized image.  With no smartphones the entertainment you had was the people with you and watching the world fly by you.

Kids tend to complain when enduring such things as their perspective on time is much different from a fully grown adult, since time is a relative function 1 year to a five year old is 8 times longer than it is for a forty year old. They would have complained but I imagine grandpa would probably say this when he was at the end of his nerves. “Stop complaining before I give you something to complain about”

The thought of a Parent striking a child is something that I’ve been protected and shielded from for the most part. Sometimes black Mario would spank us or give us a light tap on the head.  . . But never beat or strike us with full force. . . Apparently his dad would “beat the shit of of him” and his siblings sometimes. . .I don’t know if this extended to my grandma as well. The terrifying thought and reality of a child being abused in any way isn’t something we like to keep in our minds, but it happens  I can only wonder what kind of feelings Black Mario must be harboring about that, he never talks about anything, so that’s not how he expressed it. Perhaps in some journals in the garage somewhere I can find an answer. (Although I’m one of the people that thinks kids are too soft now a days, I mean I got spanked and I turned out somewhat fine. . . Right?)

I doubt that Black Mario has many memories before he was ten, because I’m a third of his age and I have barely anything up there, but from what I can gather about Kansas is that its flat, cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and there are tornadoes. Being stuck in the basement of a house sounds like as much fun as a being millennial in a power outage without cell service.

The Place Where I’m From

When Black Mario was in the third or fourth grade he moved to the City at the Center of my heart. The 253, T-Town, the city with the famous aroma. . . The city of Tacoma. And his family lived in the one place they could afford a home, Hilltop. Which if you’re not a local has a bad rep with being a not so good area to be in, Tacompton. Although neighborhoods were not segregated by color in essence with the way housing prices were in certain areas they might as well have been. Speaking of Black Mario experiencing racism in his youth. It’s not a matter if he did, the question is how much and when he met these challenges and from whom. Being a mixed raced Filipino sometimes it’s hard to fit in with either group and you end up in this limbo between races. Thankfully being in the pacific northwest the harsh treatment was padded to a certain extent, but not eliminated.

  I find it extremely odd that events I’ve read about in history books like the moon landing, JFK, Nixon, and all the fantastic things that were happening with the red scare and the cold war were experienced by the teenage version of Back Mario. I ought to pester him and ask him about that one day over a beer. .  . Or a joint I mean I’m in Washington let me pick my poison XD. I get these stories but, there are certain things that don’t come to the surface when hearing these stories. It’s so hard to interpret another’s worldview and the personal experiences they have that shape the way they see things. What kind of ten year old was he? A shy quiet one, or the ever rambunctious loud type. Being the younger of the boys of his family, I can speculate that he was given a lot of hand me downs, having the nickname buck(for bucktoothed) probably means he was the one getting teased by his older siblings. Being that my dad is like me and has trouble communicating and keeping friends he and my uncle Cisco or Coach were probably really close.

  One thing I know about my dad from his stories is that he is a hustla. He used to shine shoes or sell things to the businessmen of Tacoma downtown, he had a paper route, and he worked in the school cafeteria. Which has a number of benefits, extra food, free lunch, and cash. But it was probably hard for him to make friends if he was working while most kids bond over things like meals. He went to Jason Lee middle school where he played in the drum line and was a bench warmer in sports. To be honest being a black kid  in America you’re expected to come out of the womb dribbling a basketball, but luckily for black Mario he enjoyed basketball, but where he actually played the sport I have no Idea.

East Side

Sometime during the teenage years the family moved from hilltop to the East side of Tacoma. The house they lived in was very small for the amount of people that were housed there, but you have to make do with what you have.

This house is very close to the original home in east Tacoma, shown here is my uncles place

When Black Mario hit high school age he went to Stadium High school where he once again played the drums and remained on that shiny bench keeping them nice and warm for the starters. Black Mario didn’t actually graduate from stadium, although he did get his GED. During this time I have stories of him getting caught underage drinking with his stadium friends in northeast Tacoma, when apprehended by the police, he was met with the terrible consequence of pouring the beer out “I had to pour out a whole 30 rack once it was the saddest thing as the cop made us pour them out one at a time”.

When he joined the Military in 1972 as a young Kid. Often hearing his disdain of the government it’s really surprising that he would ever join the military, but I guess you can’t argue with a job with decent wages that provides meals and housing for its soldiers. Not to mention that being in the military teaches values such as work ethic, the importance of time, and some other valuable skills. Other than the whole training you to kill other human beings thing, it’s a pretty good deal. With the military he was able to go to Germany and Korea. Those memories unforgettable as he still talks about the days abroad.

My favorite story is after a night of drinking his best friend Rodney began to put his uniform on.

Black Mario: Nigga why you putting your uniform on Rodney: They serve midnight chow and you gotta be in this here uniform to get some chow. Black Mario: Hey wait for me I’ll put my uniform on too.

While he was in the military Black Mario did some real evaluating and thinking. He calculated the amount of money he got paid per hour to be a solider and compared it to what they were making at Boeing. In 1977 he was honorably discharged from the military achieving the rank of Sergeant. His stint with the military gave him priority for getting a job at Boeing. The company he’s still working for into his sixties. Unfortunately his first relationship didn’t last as long as his job, and neither did his second, but he did have kids and I got extended family members out of the relationship.(well more like they got me because I was to come later) What is a mystery to me is what he was like through the 70s and 80s.

The Big Mystery is What was he like?

His vocabulary and humor makes me feel like he experimented with drugs, I mean that 70s show and Cheech and Chong are funny for most people, but the green guys n gals find it more funny. He and his friend Bobby used to Deejay, but what kind of records did he spin house, hip hop, disco, techno? We get snippets of the music he liked, Funk, Disco, Old school Rap, disco. Did he like dancing and stuff going to the discos?

Having owned a Harley, a Firebird, and some other cars like an RX7, he must have enjoyed motorsports as much as I did.

I think he was a geek, because I remember he had a NES, a Nintendo entertainment system, and so many nerdy toys from the late 80s that he has to be a nerd. Not to mention he beat the Mario Arcade Game, he knew the Pacman Pattern at one point, and he is insanely good at Bullet Hell games. I felt like he went to the bar and played the arcade games and pool, more than socializing or drinking. His memorabilia includes Transformers, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, so like me he was a grown man who watched cartoons did he read comic books as well?

Family Guy

My dad has fond memories involving my three cousins Ja’nielle, Jarod, and Jon Jon, where he was that cool, weird uncle who lived next door. There was probably a part of him that longed for that family life after his relationships didn’t work out as he had hoped.

Life changed for Black Mario when he went to either a party or a bar one night, he would encounter the most dangerous thing known to man. . . A pretty Woman.

If anyone wants to learn about where I come from this is an article that's about a millenial kid thinking about his boomer dad #babyboomer #millenial #family #kids #dad #father #black #mario #autobiography #tacoma Trinkets of a Different Time As a kid I remember rifling through my dad's nightstand to find small pocket knives, trinkets, and various other personal articles.

[fakesurprise]

Bends in the Road

3.

I cross the road as Wilbur waves us toward the house and stands at the end of the ramp as though studying the home for a shot. Noah follows me in silence; I leave him to the silence. I knock on the front door once. Twice. After the fourth knock, it’s opened by a man in jeans and a golf shirt. He’s in his early sixties, with a faux military-cut to his hair, sharp eyes and an impatient glare. He wears the clothing uncomfortably; that jumps out. Some people just seem to belong in suits and ties.

“Who are you and why are you here?” he barks.

“We’re students from Rivercomb doing a movie. We’d like to use shots of your house for exterior bits?”

“Oh. You’re not –.” He pauses. Looks past me. “Doing a horror movie with this kid?”

“No,” I say, not looking back at Noah. “He’s the cameraman. Wilbur is the director,” I add.

“Jesus Christ. Well, you tell him he’s not coming up my stairs or on this ramp. I’m not having it broken because someone ate too many big macs.”

The word are flat, without hate, delivered like facts.

“I don’t care what you do about the exterior of this house, but you’re not taking pictures of the ramp, you’re not mentioning me and if you do I am suing you so hard you won’t believe it.”

“Okay.” I turn and walk back toward Wilbur. No thank you, no asking of the man’s name. Noah slips aside to let me pass, follows me down the ramp after.

“So?” Wilbur says.

“Any luck with the ghost?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “It barely existed. I know her name, and that it was hard for her to get to the Grey Lands and back here. No idea why. I would like to know about the funny look you had on your face coming back down the ramp though.”

“You aren’t allowed to go up the ramp, or on the front steps. In case you break them. He thinks we’re using Noah to film a horror movie but, on the plus side, we can take photos of the exterior of the home. So long as they don’t include the wheelchair ramp and if we do that or mention his name, he’s suing us.”

“We’re going to be sued if we film a wheelchair ramp.” Wilbur rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m starting to wonder about this town. If the Outsider active around here has infected them somehow, or if it even needs to.”

“It’s not that bad,” Noah offers softly. We both look over. “They probably all have guns here, and no one has tried to kill us yet?”

“Yet,” I repeat.

“The woman who saw my talent was terrified. The man who opened the door to his home was waiting for someone, angry and scared at the same time.” Noah shrugs. “There might be weirdness going on here that’s just a small town of twenty people?”

“That is about the size of a classroom. And they are pretty weird.” No one has come out of the largest house yet, so I nod to the oldest house in Oscar’s Bend. “Now to door number three. It can’t be any worse than the last two.”

“Do the two of you want to tempt fate?” Wilbur demands. I think he’s joking, but I’m not certain.

The other side of the road is like a different town. Both homes are neater, despite one being a frankenhome affair. There are no fences in Oscars Bend but there are empty lots between the homes that used to have houses. Past the frankenhome is the one local store that, from here, looks to be in decent shape as well. There are tracks in Rivercomb, even if our town hasn’t seen a train in years, and even now you can divide the town up by them in certain ways.

That you can do the same for a town with four homes in it is almost depressing. I lead the way to the oldest house in the town: like the newest, it’s a single-storey affair but the lawn is freshly mowed even if it’s almost past the season where you neat to. The window sills and front porch need painting, but someone has chipped off old pain in preparation for that and the smell of baking comes out between the cracks in the front door.

There is no welcome mat, but I imagine that’s only because it’s in the wash.

I knock. An older woman calls out, “It’s open, dear,” presumably expecting someone local. I knock again and it’s a good twenty seconds before the door is opened by a grandmotherly woman. Late seventies at least, her hair as white as her apron.

“Oh,” she says.”I thought it would be one of the McTavishes! I’m Edith Truman. My husband Gerry is getting various supples in Appleford today, if you wished to speak with him?”

“I’m not sure? I’m Anya. This is Noah and Wilbur. We’re from Rivercomb and hoping to do a short video using the town as a backdrop?”

“Well, Peter McTavish can help with anything YouTube, though Scott and Mark are involved as well. It takes them forever to get their videos out as I understand it but I’ve never watched them. Can’t be bothered with all that internet nonsense myself. Hmm.” Edith peers at Noah and Wilbur without batting an eye. “Well, I have some scones I was going to take next door, but you’re welcome to come inside and have them if you like?”

I look back at the others. Noah nods. Wilbur – who is a good cook but not about to turn down food others makes – hesitates a moment before nodding as well. “If it’s not an imposition?”

“Of course not. We don’t get many visitors here. The last ones were looking for bigfoot or some such, naturally. I do have family in Rivercomb of course,” she adds as she props the door open and heads down a hallway. “And there are lots of houses there as well one could film, but I suppose Oscars Bend is exotic for the area.”

The hallway is wide, lacking even a dresser in it, leading to a spacious kitchen. Everything in it is old but well cared for, rustic without being antique. Edith offers tea, pouring some into cups and brings over homemade biscuits that had been cooling on the counter. “Well,” she says once we’re eating them. “I admit to being quite nosey about my town. I have no desire to be unduly rude about it, but even as your cameraman I’m sure this boy would not be coming to a small town like this on his own?” she asks, nodding to Noah.

“Maybe they dared me,” Noah says softly.

“I imagine you can’t be too picky about who is friends with you, but one must have some standards.”

Noah just stares in shock, saying nothing.

“Have you ever made friends with someone out of guilt?” Wilbur asks into the silence.

Edith barely hesitates. “There was this one black girl when I was younger. I imagine you would understand.”

“I can’t say I do,” Wilbur says after a pregnant pause.  Sometimes Wilbur can be so calm it’s almost scary. “What I can say is that you seemed nice mere minutes ago. I’d like to know if that was a lie before making any further replies.”

Edith sips her tea carefully. “I told you I have relatives in Rivercomb. I have heard stories from my niece about a boy looking like Noah does. I scarcely imagine there are two. The stories suggest that problems follow you. You’ll forgive me if that makes me worried and, frankly, willing to see if I could anger you into departing.”

“Oh.” I finish my tea slowly, consider the cup. “Noah. Catch.”

I throw it toward the ceiling. The cup stops a foot from old wood to gently float down to the table, landing beside Edith. “We have talents.” I say calmly. “They help us deal with things other people can’t. I didn’t think we’d achieved the level of fame to be noticed. Frankly, we have no desire to do that. We know something weird is going down here. We want to stop it from getting weirder. Please.”

Edith Truman picks up the tea cup gently, sets it back down. “And these talents, they have costs?”

“Not in the way you mean, no. Everything has costs, if one has to think in those terms.” I shrug.

“I’ve had some of my talents for a long time,” Wilbur says. “I didn’t always know what they were, or what I could do. but I’ve had them regardless of anything else.” He moves his chair back from the table, rests his hands on his belly. “How much I weigh doesn’t affect than. How Noah looks has nothing to do with his. The same is true for Anya: our talents aren’t some kind of compensation, nor a curse. It might help other people to think that, but that doesn’t make it true.”

“I see. It does, however, make it harder for you to not be noticed. You will have to forgive me for thinking that trouble might follow you rather than you finding it.”

Four months ago, I would have said: ‘We will?’ without thinking. I’m getting better at balancing where my talent ends and I begin. Not so much where I end, and the part of me that isn’t human begins. But I’m working on that. “Our problem in not being from here is that we can’t tell if people are being influenced by something Other or not yet. Knowing the players would help.”

“I’d like to think I’m still me, but I’ve never tried to drive anyone away from Oscars Bend so cruelly before,” Edith admits. “I’ve never said a single rude word to Paul McTavish. I should not have tried to hurt you with them, Noah.”

“Oh!” Noah takes refuge in drinking more of his tea.

“We haven’t met the McTavishes yet. We met someone with unique style choices – and they were definitely freaking out a little over Noah’s talent.”

“Jennifer Smith is – well, she’s been in town for four years, our newest arrival. I know far less about Jennifer than I’d like to know a neighbour, but one must respect privacy. I’ve been told she had a business that ebay ruined it somehow, so Jennifer moved here.”

“And the man who insisted he’s sue us if we took video of a wheelchair ramp?”

“I’m amazed Bob didn’t think you were a trap,” Edith murmurs.

“A trap.”

“His son Alvin is confined to a wheelchair, and has – very limited responses. He can do very little on his own.”

“Okay? And random strangers knocking on the front door is a trap because –?” I press.

Edith Truman pours herself more tea. “I should not tell you this, but I doubt you will leave town without learning some things. Alvin Plint does not go to school.”

“Homeschooling isn’t a crime,” Noah says, almost sharply His birth parents might have been human monsters, but they at least made sure he was relatively educated.

“Alvin isn’t home schooled. Bob is aware of the limitations of his son. Perhaps too aware. Alvin cannot walk, talk, sit up or feed himself. His father has no desire for Alvin to burden the school system or society. That a child is a burden to a parent is a fact; that his son should not burden others is another.”

“A fact,” I repeat.

“Their are social workers who have disagreed with Bob. I believe it is one reason they moved on Oscars Bend but I am not privy to any others.”

“The hallway.” Wilbur looks back to the front door. “It is wide enough for a wheelchair.”

“Alvin and Bob visit every so often. I think you misunderstand: Bob looks after his son, makes sure he is taken care of and healthy. The rest is between him and God, I think.”

I take a breath, let it out. We don’t know the whole story here. We never will. “You will have to forgive me,” I say, dropping Edith’s words back at her, “if I cannot refrain from judgement.”

“Of course, dear, We often judge. We seldom realize that we are only called upon to witness.” She stands. “The McTavishes make up over half of own town: if you seek answers to why you came here, I imagine they know it.”