#also went to a fabric store and it was crammed full of stuff and the yarn selection was actually really nice

[salamispots]

posting a gift wip since I know my siblings aren't on here haha

[ohmeohmayohmy]

With the Slightest Smile, Chapter 1

(or Prologue)

Brian May x Reader, maybe other pairings ;)

Hello all! I am new to the fic-writing game, this being my first one of any considerable length, so this is going to be learning process, and I’m a little nervous. Fair warning, I’m more accustomed to writing scripts and academic papers, but I appreciate any comment on my work. If you have any tips or feedback please feel free. Anyway, this little series I started on a whim, with nothing concrete but some ideas running around ;) {Also, please note that I am not entirely sure when Smile was formed exactly, other than the year, so if it is inaccurate to your knowledge, I apologize}

Summary: Reader (that’s you, babe!) and Brian are best friends and roommates, but someone wants to be more...slow burn baby. This starts in Smile era, but it’ll pick up once some ground work has been made. There will be angst, fluff, and perhaps some other stuff in the future, but this chapter is meant to establish some things before we really get going.

Warnings: For this chapter, just some sparing language here and there.

Words: 5.7k exactly :-))

_____________________________

February 2, 1968

“Hey now, why didn’t you tell me you were looking for a drummer?”

Brian looked up at you, shaken out of his nearly comatose state of study, and put his textbook face-open on his chest. “Hmm?”

You picked up the scrap of paper you had tossed onto the coffee table in the middle of what could only be called the living room with great generosity. “I saw some flyer posted in the hallway, you’re auditioning drummers for your new band with Tim?”

He shrugged and gave a half-smile. “Yeah, I would’ve told you but I don’t think Tim and that boyfriend of yours get along too well. Wouldn’t make for a very peaceful band experience,” he rearranged his face into a full faced and genuine, but slightly provoking, grin.

Brian knew Joshua was not really your boyfriend, just some thick-skulled puppy man who was constantly asking for your help in his entry level biology class. It wasn’t your fault he happened to be mildly attractive and liked to praise your intelligence every once in a while. It also wasn’t your fault that he happened to be a completely inept drummer with an ego problem.

You rolled your eyes at your roommate. “I wasn’t proposing you give Joshua the gig, he’s certainly no Ginger Baker.”

Brian chuckled at your annoyance, he had always appreciated the feisty side that you have carried with you throughout your life. It was one of the things he appreciated most about you. Aside from your eyes, and your smile, and your hair, and your laugh…

“Bri?” You softened a bit, noticing his slight daze. He snapped back to reality.

“Oh,” he laughed nervously and shook his head. “Pardon me, Y/N. I zoned out there, what were you saying?”

You gave him a warm smirk and playfully rolled your eyes again. Absent-minded professor. “It’s not important.”

You turned around and walked away to put your bag in your bedroom. The door creaked open, like it always did, and you winced, like you always did. Despite the hellhole of an apartment, you quite liked your own space. It had a nice window that overlooked the street and simple white curtains as a frame. The quilt on the bed was bright blue and contrasted the dull grey walls, while the grey rug on the light wood floor complemented it. It was a bit small, and the bookshelves you had crammed in it really enhanced that fact, but it was home, or at least reminded you of it. And with your best mate living with you, you hardly noticed the change in locale, domestically speaking. With a sigh, you threw the bag onto your bed and flopped down next to it. Only meaning to rest your eyes for a bit, you were startled awake by Brian calling from outside your door.

“Hey, Y/N, what do you want for dinner?”

Groaning, you looked hopefully at the alarm clock on your dresser. There’s no way it’s already dinnertime. Shit. You bolted up and practically bounced into the living room. Brian was still sitting in the same chair as he had been when you arrived. Upon seeing your state of mild frenzy, he placed his textbook on the floor and got up.

He looked concerned, if not frightened. “Didn’t mean to scare you, love, ’s only dinner.” Brian shot you a reassuring glance that calmed you instantly.

“Oh no, Bri, you didn’t startle me. I didn’t realize how late it had gotten, and I need to go to the art supply store before they close. ’M sorry I forgot about our dinner plans.” You must’ve looked very distraught with apology.

“It’s alright, Y/N.” Brian gently placed his hands on your shoulders as a means of comforting you. “I can drive you there, if you want,” he offered. “Where is ‘there’, exactly?”

“It’s over by Beat-Nick’s, it’s not that far. I can walk, just need to get going.” You lightly brushed Brian’s hands off of your arms and reached for your keys on the kitchen counter. He grabbed them but didn’t hand them to you.

“I could go for some tea,” he mused.

You tried to grab the keys from him, but he anticipated your attack and held them high above his head. With a small, indignant sigh, you crossed your arms, knowing you would never win in a game of height, especially against your titan of a roommate. Brian, acknowledging your acceptance of defeat, smiled and grabbed his car keys.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

The drive was much quicker than the walk you customarily took, and Brian made the shopping even more enjoyable. You talked passionately about embroidery floss and wool, and though he didn’t hold the same excitement, Brian loved the soft delight in your face when you touched the materials.

The supplies you needed were for the gifts you gave your friends annually for Valentine’s Day. Though you were busy studying to be a nurse, you never skipped out on making little homemade things for loved ones. This year you were determined to make them simple, especially since it was your last term in your program and the workload was extensive. The problem with that, however, was coming up with simple ideas. One of the things you were most known for was the extent to which you went overboard for the holidays, even the unimportant ones like Valentine’s. You truly couldn’t help it, you enjoyed making others feel showered in love at any given opportunity.

“What about this one?”

Looking over to your companion, you saw he was holding up a vivid marigold color. He was grinning with a simple fascination, the light from the ceiling making it glisten like a liquid gold, but you were more content gazing at the shine dancing across Brian’s delicately angular face. It was striking to you that he was so transfixed on the floss. He looked quietly pleased, so you nodded in agreement and took it from his grasp to place it in the small basket you held in the crook of your arm. It was full of knick knacks that you accumulated into a heap throughout the time you spent browsing, and you suddenly felt a pang of guilt.

“This trip is lasting a little longer than I expected Bri, ’m sorry to keep you waiting for dinner. You can go across the way to the cafe to get that tea you wanted while I finish up here, then we can go back to the apartment to start cooking,” you tenderly grabbed his forearm and squeezed it gently. His breath hitched at the contact, but to you it seemed as though he jumped at your touch, so you quickly removed it. He focused on disallowing the disappointment from breaking across his face, and swallowed heavily.

“Eh, I don’t really mind. We can go to check out, it’s not going to kill me.” Jokingly, Brian patted his stomach, acknowledging his slight frame. You stifled a giggle and nodded. He gestured for you to lead the way, so you passed him to move to the cashier. Much to your chagrin, Brian insisted on paying for it and refused for you to. Eventually a compromise was made, with each of you paying for half. Once the goods were bagged up, the pair of you left the shop and crossed the street to Beat-Nick’s, your favorite cafe.

* * *

Beat-Nick’s was a small building full of overstuffed loveseats, paisley couches, and tables accompanied by rustic benches. You loved the lighting fixtures that coated the patrons with warmth to contrast with the frostiness outside. The employees all knew you by name and order, but were surprised by the man you brought with you. He’d come in by himself occasionally to write papers, and was always polite, but mostly kept to himself. This contrasted with you, although you were a relatively reserved person, you were also a relatively friendly person and enjoyed some casual conversation on occasion.

You noticed some people looking at the two of you as you stood near the entrance and became self conscious. Turning to Brian, you motioned to an empty table in the corner, to which he nodded and you both walked over to sit down. As you walked, you began to peel your overcoat off, but Brian couldn’t, since he was holding the paper bag containing thread and random fragments of soft and beautiful fabrics you couldn’t afford full portions of. Setting the bag on the surface of the table, he shimmied out of his layers, then grabbed yours to drape on the coat rack nearby. You muttered a thank you and then started toward the counter, Brian shortly followed in suit.

The girl taking your order asked if you wanted the usual lavender chamomile, you happily confirmed then looked at Brian quizzically. He got the hint and leaned down toward the barista to request a standard Earl Grey with a spot of honey. Anticipating his move to pay, you quickly reached into your purse and handed her the money, then used the excess as a tip. She informed him that the beverages would be brought to the table as he was moving to the side to wait. You laughed softly and ushered him back to the table you shared.

You sat on the side with the better view of the entrance, as you always did. A little habit of yours, you liked being able to see whoever was coming in or out of a restaurant so you could situate yourself with the surroundings, and Brian never seemed to mind. Especially since he knew he could steal a glance at you while you were surveying a room. Once you completed your scan, you returned your attention to the lanky man sitting across from you. He quickly averted his eyes to the specials board above the bar behind you, hoping you didn’t suspect he was watching you. Of course you didn’t. You never did.

“So, tell me more about this new band you’ve cooked up with Tim.”

Brian smiled bashfully, he liked it when you shared interest in his endeavors, especially music. He would insist that you join in for a show once in a while, but you never felt as though your singing or piano skills were performance ready. It was more of a hobby than a passion.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “we are looking for a right skilled drummer that aligns with our vision. A synonymous rocker.”

Another employee came over and placed the tray down in the middle of the table with a shyness that only you seemed to notice, with Brian feeling timid himself.

He always felt a bit awkward talking about his rock and roll music around others, feeling as though he didn’t fit the type of the genre. He didn’t think curly hair and skinny arms were exactly what one might envision when thinking of a guitarist, but you always liked his natural look. It was intriguing and unique, but Brian never listened when you talked to him about his appearance, he would kind of shut it out. He couldn’t bring himself to think as a physical person around you, he just wanted to be invisible in that way since he didn’t think you would find him attractive. But that had never been the case. You thought he was quite easy on the eyes, but he would blush to a shade of vermilion if you were to say so.

The waitress walked back behind the counter and Brian let out a small sigh of relief.

“Tim looked at his school, but there didn’t seem to be anyone fitting the bill.”

You nodded and took a sip of your tea, the floral taste always a little shocking or unexpected, and you smiled into your cup as Brian lifted his own. The comfortable silence you shared was soothing and familiar. Calmly chatting and people-watching in each other’s company was a lovely way to spend an early Friday evening. Once your cups were drained, Brian got up and grabbed the coats while you smoothed out your skirt and blouse. After putting your outerwear on, you hoisted the crafts bag onto your hip and exited the cafe with Brian’s arm around your shoulders.

_______________

February 14

The keys were stuck in the door and the lock wasn’t turning so you had to pound on it, hoping Brian would promptly open up for you, the pizza in your arms was hot enough to be uncomfortable. Just as you managed to pull the keys from the lock’s clutches and dropped them to the floor, the door flew open. Laughing, Brian stooped down to grab them off the ground and moved out of the way for you to come into the space. You could tell he had been cleaning. Since he didn’t have class or rehearsal that day, he was a busy body with nothing to do.

Putting the box on the table, you let out a deep breath and fanned your face. Brian rolled his eyes but then configured his face into the heartwarming grin you had come to know and love. Not love. Well, love, but not like that. You had to remind yourself that you two weren’t some cliche, childhood friends being desperately and madly in love with each other. Not like everyone said you were. Living together doesn’t mean jack shit. And you were certain Brian did not think of you in that way.

Brian did indeed think of you in that way.

He had for seven years and counting.

“I got just cheese this time, can’t have a repeat of last year’s olive crisis,” you teased. Brian faked a groan and a grimace in remembrance of the fiasco. Turns out the carrot cake you had prepared for last year’s traditional Valentine’s Day dinner did not mix well with the topping of choice for him. You gave him a playful nudge and went on your merry way to toss the purse into your open room.

“How did Stella like the handkerchief you made her?”

“She thought your choice of yellow was stunning,” you remarked as you made your way back to the common area. This made Brian quite pleased with his aesthetic eye.

He grabbed plates from the cupboard with a small clunk and carefully set them down on your coffee table. You kicked your damp shoes off before flinging yourself onto the worn couch as Brian opened the pizza box and dropped down on the “study chair”.

Putting a slice on your plate, you noticed that you didn’t have anything to drink. Brian saw the look of realization on your face and instantly knew what you meant, hopping up and striding over to the kitchen to amend it. You smiled and put a slice onto his plate for when he came back.

“Couldn’t get any wine this year, ’s water good with you?” Brian called from the sink. You turned and nodded. You preferred water anyway.

Beaming, Brian hands you a glass and returned to his seat.

“Cheers, love.” He lifted his glass. You mirrored his action, and the improperly used wine glasses made a delicate clink as they met.

As Brian reached for his slice, he noticed something written on the side of the box.

“What’re you looking at there, Bri?”

He pointed to the short note and read it aloud, “It says ‘Next Saturday? Mark’ with a heart. And then a phone number.” You blushed.

“Oh, that’s one of the employees at Harry’s. He’s always been kind to me, I guess Valentine’s Day brings out something in people.”

Brian felt crestfallen as he observed your reaction to this Mark fellow, but managed to keep a neutral expression.

“Do you think you’re going to?”

“Call ’im?”

He nodded.

“I don’t know him very well, ’m not sure I’d be comfortable with that. Besides, he doesn’t matter right now. Tonight is only us.” You were aware of the strange phrasing, but you didn’t care, you just wanted the moment to be over. While Brian did not feel very reassured, he also didn’t want to start something. A bout of silence settled in as he continued eating, you didn’t look at him nor notice him looking at you sadly. He didn’t mean to, but the eyes couldn’t hide much.

While you sat without a word, you started to think about this tradition the two of you had formed years ago. You remembered it as the time of your first heartbreak. Must’ve been five years ago. Though you had been desperate then, you could only look at it fondly.

--February 14, 1963--

“I don’t want to go to dinner, Brian. I just want to stay at home,” you spoke into the phone, your voice slightly garbled with sadness.

Of course he understood every word you said, it was Brian. “C’mon, Y/N. It’s not all as bad as it seems,” your best friend calmly suggested, his voice completely devoid of patronization or mimicry.

“I know it’s silly. I’m only fifteen and he’s not the one, but I need to be sad right now. I’ll be okay soon.”

Brian’s heart broke for you as you said every word, he couldn’t muster up something to say without giving it all away. You couldn’t know. Not yet. Maybe when you were older, when he was over you. If he was over you.

“Bri?” You almost sobbed in the absence of his comfort. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. I can’t bring myself to be your date this time.” This caught his attention.

“What? Oh no, Y/N! Don’t worry about me, ’s just the usual family dinner.”

You loved his parents, and since yours were always celebrating a romantic Valentine evening away from home, you often tagged along with the Mays. Sometimes a grandparent or a family friend would come and every year the question “Are you two dating?”, or some variation of it, would arise. Normally it wouldn’t bother you, but this year it seemed a sore subject.

“Thanks for understanding, Bri. Maybe another time? I know your parents will miss out on the Me time,” you smiled at your own stupid joke.

“Haha, I’m sure they would.” He had an idea. “Gotta go, Y/N.”

Brian abruptly hang up before you could get a goodbye out.

You were alone. Even Brian left you. You knew rationally that he had an outing with his parents that was damn near impossible to get out of, but you still felt a twinge of abandonment. It’s not his fault.

Emerging from the mound of blankets piled on top of you, and getting off the couch you threw yourself on, you got up to make some tea.

It had been two weeks since the breakup with your first boyfriend happened. You were expecting him to ask you to be his date to the Valentine’s dance, but then you ran into him in the nearby park in which he was snogging some bleach-blonde girl you had never met or seen before. He didn’t notice you at first, but when you approached him he tore himself away from the stranger. With tears in your eyes, you told him you were through; you will never tolerate a cheater. The girl he was with was upset too and stormed off, making it clear to you that he hadn’t told her he was already dating someone. You hadn’t seen him since.

Not knowing how long you’d been entranced, the kettle’s whistle startled you out of your seemingly habitual reliving of that moment, and you quickly moved to turn it off before you realized you hadn’t gotten a tea bag out. The selection your mother had was quite extensive, and really rather impressive, but you always went with the Earl Grey anyway. While you began to steep your cup, a knock came at the door.

Not knowing what to expect, you quickly move to the front of your house and realize the knocking must be coming from the back. That’s peculiar.

You made your way across the family room and through the sun room that led to the garden you started some springs prior. Carefully unlocking the door, you peer out into the heathery sky of dusk to see a skinny, puffy-haired, and slightly red from either the cold or a lack of oxygen caused by sprinting boy fretting over his shirt collar, holding one of those new-fangled pizza boxes on his arm. With a sigh of relief, you let out a hearty laugh at the sight. Brian looked up to see you with your tear-soaked face breaking into the sweetest expression he’d ever seen. It was enough to give him butterflies, and in return, he gave you the kind smile you’d always remember.

“Sorry I’m late, love.” He’s never called me that before. I like it.

“Please, come in Bri.” He happily obliged. You wiped your face dry as you spoke with joy in your voice, “I was just pouring myself a cup of tea, would you like some?”

“Uh, what kind are you having?”

“Earl Grey, it’s the best.”

Brian mocked gagging then shrugged in good cheer, “I’ve never been too fond of Earl Grey.”

You stuck your tongue out at him as you took the pizza away from him and into the kitchen. “You’ve never had it the way I make it,” you beamed.

He looked playfully suspicious. “If you insist.”

“Trust me, when you’re my age you’ll understand.” You went to reach for a second teacup.

“Alright, just because you were born on May 19 and I was born on July 19 does not make you wiser than me.” He rolled his eyes, repeating the same line he’d been using for years. You just loved the familiar banter.

“Mind your elders, boy,” you waggled a finger at him as you poured hot water into his cup. Brian laughed, happy to see that you’d perked up at his arrival.

He watched as you brushed a few rogue hairs out of your face and swept into the rest of your messy mane. He adored how utterly you you were in that moment he shared with you. You met his gaze with a similar admiration, but he didn’t think you were reciprocating the sentiment. You didn’t know why, but there was something different about Brian May on that brutal English winter’s day. It was nice.

Brian cleared his throat, “Shall we eat before the food gets cold?” You nodded as you handed him the tea.

Together, you walked to the box, set your teacups down, and Brian opened the top.

“I didn’t know what kind you would be in the mood for.” He sounded sheepish. “So I went with a simple cheese only option.”

You felt a wave of overwhelming affection for your best friend and wrapped your arms around him. He was surprised at first but melted into you, embracing your much shorter stature. The scene seemed to freeze into a tableau. You were the first to release, and Brian felt even more sheepish.

You turned to get plates from a cupboard, but he stopped you.

“They gave me some paper ones. We won’t have to clean up after ourselves.”

“God knows how much you hate cleaning,” you joked. He lifted his arms as if to protest, but instead nodded in agreement.

Brian helped himself to a cheesy piece, then placed one on your plate.

Time blurred as the pair of you talked about music and other things going on in life. It felt to you that no time had passed. But suddenly Brian stopped conversing and reached into his pocket. You didn’t know what he was up to.

“I know you think life is a little sad and disappointing right now, Y/N.”

He looked down as he spoke to you. You felt a pang of nervousness as he was talking and couldn’t place your finger on the reason. The sudden shift in atmosphere was not anticipated.

“And I just want you to know that it’s not all bad...you’ve got me.”

“Of course, Bri, I know. And you’ve got me.”

The words he’d been dying to hear from you for years. But he knew you didn’t mean it. Not quite the way he wanted.

“And I know I’m not exactly the one you’d want to be spending this evening with, but if it’s all the same to you, I’m glad I get to be the one.” Brian was selecting his word choice very carefully, but it went over your head.

“I’d choose you over Adam any day. You’re always gonna be my first choice, Bri.”

The sweet music of your sentence washed over him. Even if it wasn’t how he’d hoped, he felt invincible in your esteem.

“I got you a little something, Y/N,” Brian’s voice had a tremble to it that was undetectable to you. He pulled out a small box from his pocket and pushed his cupped hand toward you. You carefully picked up the dainty gift and opened it gingerly.

Heavenly Blue.

It was a small bottle of very fancy lavender perfume. Your eyes welled up at the thoughtfulness. Brian knew lavender was the first flower you had successfully grown. Bringing him into another embrace, a tear slipped down your cheek but you wiped it away before he could see and placed a peck on his forehead as you let go.

Rapidly, your face of pure content turned into one of embarrassment. Brian looked concerned at this sudden change.

“You alright, Y/N?”

This is embarrassing.

“Yes, Bri. God, yes. I just- I have a gift for you too, but now I’m too ashamed to give it to you.”

“Why?”

“It’s just, it’s not good enough for you-”

“Nonsense! I know it’s perfect-”

“Let me get you something better-”

The rapidfire sentences tripping over each other progressively got louder but stopped when Brian gave a quiet, “No.”

You reluctantly got up from your seat at the dining table and hurried to your bedroom. Grabbing a nicely wrapped present on your desk, you rushed to return to the awaiting boy sitting alone. You placed the box in front of him and blushed.

Brian tore the paper politely, if one could, and lifted the lid off. His face lit up as he removed a long white scarf from the box.

“It’s magnificent!”

“I,” you started, feeling self conscious, “made it myself.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours.

“God, Y/N. It’s perfect.”

--1968--

You smiled wistfully at the thought of your younger days. This man sitting with you never failed to make you happy, and you were extremely grateful for him.

Returning your attention to Brian, you reached over to pat his hand. “The place looks wonderful.”

“I know how hard you’ve been working yourself lately.”

Kind as ever.

“You ready for the Great Exchange?” You cocked your eyebrow melodramatically.

Without missing a beat, Brian said, “Indeed,” in a matching tone of superfluous haughtiness.

You gleefully hopped up and skipped over to your room, and Brian snuck off to his. You returned to the living room first and sat patiently on the couch as you heard various noises coming from down the hall. Eventually, Brian reemerged looking triumphant.

He flopped back into his seat and faced you, brimming with excitement. You radiated a similar energy. You gave each other your respective packages, arguing over who would go first. It was his turn to initiate.

With great care, Brian undid the ribbon tied around the slim shape, knowing full well that it was a record. Upon finishing his painstaking process of unfolding and unsticking, he finally got a good look at the object. It was a copy of the first Jimi Hendrix Experience album “Are You Experienced,” signed by Noel Redding. Brian was speechless.

“How…?”

You laughed. “I have my ways.”

He was dumbstruck with awe. You loved it when his face expressed such joy.

“Thank you,” he finally choked out, his mouth seeming to have gone dry. You got up halfway and kissed him on the forehead. This shook him out of his daze and he looked at you.

“Anything for my best mate. I know it’s not homemade like they usually are, but somehow this seemed better.”

Brian could not contain his adoration, but the use of “best mate” stung a little. He felt extremely guilty that he was only thinking about that when you had just given him something so wonderful, thoughtful, and awesome (in both its literal and colloquial senses).

Snapping out of his inner realm, he motioned for you to open yours.

The small silver box was not wrapped, simply done up with a messy bow that only Brian could make, despite his gorgeously skilled and dexterous fingers. You untied and opened the contained to find a small, dazzling jewel the light color of lavender on a silver bracelet chain. It was stunning.

“Thank you, Bri. I love it.”

He helped you with the clasping fixture to secure it around your wrist, fitting perfectly.

After a few moments, you began clearing the dishes and washing them in the sink while Brian sat on the counter drying freshly cleaned ones.

“I have another audition tomorrow, if you’d like to come check out the talent,” he piped up over the rushing sound of warm water showering from the faucet. Setting the last ware down, you peeled off your rubber gloves.

“I’d love to, but I'm afraid I won’t be able to stay long. I have another tutoring lesson with that Elaine girl tomorrow.”

“Ah. She’s quite the handful, isn’t she?”

You gave him a very dead-faced expression of regret.

“Well, on the bright side, you’re almost done with tutees forever,” Brian consoled. With that, you felt a great urge to give him some news you’d been keeping from him.

“Okay, Brian, I have something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a few days. The time just never came up, so it’s not that I meant to hide it from you, but…”

His breath hitched.

“...I’ve been offered a nursing position in Helsinki!”

His heart stopped.

“Once I finish my studies, of course.” You were ecstatic at the mere thought of it. It was your dream to move out of England to pursue what you loved, and here the opportunity presented itself.

Brian found himself speechless for the second time that evening, but this was an instance of sorrow rather than delight. He was finally losing you. Actually losing you.

“Helsinki?”

“Mmhmm! I mean, I’ve heard from that hospital in Cardiff too, but I think this is really what I want.”

What you wanted. Brian felt horrible for only thinking about how this would affect him, what he wanted.

“Well, I guess you’d better start working on your Finnish,” he quipped. You laughed and gave him a hug to the best of your ability, with him sitting on the counter still.

He yawned.

“You can go to bed, Bri. I can Finnish up in here.” You waited for a bounding reaction to your terribly funny joke, but Brian only gave you a half-hearted chuckle.

“Thank you,” he slid down from the countertop, “for a great evening, love.”

As he was slinking down the hallway, you called after him. “I’ll see you at the audition!”

Putting the last clean plate in the cupboard, you smiled to yourself. It’s all going to be okay. You went into the bathroom to brush your teeth and cleanse your face, feeling a little melancholy. You were going to apart from your family and friends. Including Brian. Oh God. You shook your head. Don’t be silly. He’s happy for you. He’ll be making a name for himself soon enough. With that, you felt satisfied enough to call it a night and crept to your room, closing the door.

It didn’t creak. You didn’t notice.

_______________

February 15

“He was good,” you said in a low volume.

“He was, yeah, but I don’t know, Y/N.” Brian had said the same thing about the last three drummers who had come into the audition room.

“What was wrong with ‘im? Too tall? Too brunet?”

“I just don’t picture him as the completing piece for Smile.”

Brian did not seem to be in a good mood that afternoon. Maybe it was because he hadn’t slept the night before thinking about you leaving. Maybe it was because he still felt guilty for how he had internally reacted to your wonderful news. Maybe it was because he was seriously considering giving up on the band so he could accompany you to Finland. He wasn’t sure, and it broke his heart that he felt torn between the two loves of his life.

“Well, maybe the next one will be satisfactory,” you encouraged. You weren’t oblivious to Brian’s downer disposition of the day, and you hated seeing him like that. You felt somewhat responsible, realizing you should’ve put more consideration into how you broke the news to him. He always took everything to heart, feeling too deeply. Sometimes you admired that about him, but in moments like this you wished you could free him from that burden.

“I’m going to get you something to drink down the street, I will be back briefly.” You rushed out of the room and paused at the door to flash Brian a grin. He wasn’t looking.

Brian sat alone in silence for what seemed an eternity, only brought out of his sulk by the sound of the door opening. A spritely blond man wearing ridiculous trousers strode into the space.

* * *

You returned shortly, and turned down the hallway to get back to Brian with his grapefruit juice as the blond man came out of the room with extreme confidence. You locked eyes with him as he approached, wowed by his beauty. You blushed as he gave you a once over and smiled. He vanished into the space beyond the hallway, and you were beside yourself with a girlish giddiness you were unaccustomed to.

Coming back into the audition room, you found Brian grinning, contrasting with your last image of him. He turned to you and laughed softly.

“We’ve got a drummer.”

[home-working]

The One Where I Become a Product Reviewer

Hey there, fellow kids! Jumping on the already-parked annual back-to-school bandwagon, I bring to you an AWESOME new blog post highlighting my FAVOURITE 15″ LAPTOP BACKPACK PICK! Get ready for at least 145 paragraphs of preamble before I reveal this NUMBER ONE TOP 100% BEST 15″ LAPTOP BACKPACK PICK and DIY BACKPACK HACK!!

I also realised I needed a post in my “lifestyle blog” repertoire that might convince people to send me free products? So this is that post. Search engine optimization.

Backstory

On February 19, 2019, esteemed letterer and all-around Creative Professional Jessica Hische tweeted out that she was looking for a new, fashionable laptop backpack and wanted suggestions. I happened to see this tweet that night and thought, “Maybe I, myself also a Creative Professional, need a new, fashionable laptop backpack as well?” I read through the mostly terrible (???) suggestions from her followers, saw one I liked, and then, with the quick late-night text approval of my probably-drunken sartorial consultant T, impulse-bought a $235 backpack.

The Arrival

A week later The Backpack arrives. It’s partially leather! It smells very new! It’s literally made by a Creative Professional for Creative Professionals! It’s so nice that I’m already worried about ruining it with thoughts of biking or commuting. But the straps are kind of stiff and uncomfortable on my delicate mammary glands. And did I say it’s pretty expensive?!

It’s the kind of backpack I’d be happy to keep if it were, say, $79. Maybe even $89. But $235?! For a backpack that’s not even some sexy upscale Creative Professional household brandname?? My lower middle-class upbringing prevents me from committing to such an expenditure on which I’m only lukewarm. What to do?

The Virgo/Libra Cusp Solution

Obviously I go out and buy two more backpacks.

All my children.

On Being a Virgo/Libra Cusp-er

I’m on the Virgo/Libra cusp which makes me the perfect person to review anything because I’m really picky and really indecisive. This means that if I’m forced to make a decision about anything, I generally change my mind multiple times and lose sleep in the process of over-thinking every minute detail, what fun! (For the record, I’m also strictly adhering to the deeply-scientific, back-of-your-local-free-weekly astrology column definitions of these signs. [Also, unnecessary childhood trauma story, I never really knew how to astrologically-identify growing up because as a cusper my sign categorization changed from paper to paper? The struggle was—and I cannot stress this enough—real.])

Laptop Backpacks: Necessary?

“Why does one need a special laptop backpack?” you might ask. Obviously, you don’t. No one needs anything. Why do we buy things, to feel a brief sense of happiness or accomplishment in our lives? Does it work for you the way it definitely and always 100% works for me? Leave your response in the comments!

But also I’ve never had a bag that was made for a laptop, so I figured I should probably get a backpack that's actually functional and isn’t painful to carry heavy shit around in all day?

Criteria

In order to be considered for this review, a potential backpack had to meet the following criteria:

Must hold a 15″ MacBook Pro

Enough padding to protect that laptop without a case

Must be comfortable to use while biking

Unisex design

Is black/screams “Creative Professional”

Bonus points: also screams “... who deserves a large salary”

In addition to my a laptop, I assembled a weight/capacity testing control group with the following everyday accessories:

Work essentials: mouse, laptop charger, Moleskine notebook, pencil

Life essentials: overnight kit, moisturizer, deodorant, underwear, sports bra, water bottle

Um, glasses and some other crap: eyeglasses & case, dirty socks, folded blanket, Le Creuset 18cm cast-iron pot

🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒 The Backpacks 🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒

Bag option #1: The ISM Backpack

The ISM retails for $235 USD; it’s only available online but comes with free shipping and returns in the USA. It ships in a pretty box with a pretty branded dust bag and a bunch of tissue that smells of “Instagram unboxing moment”.

I wore this bag out in public a few times: to the work lounge at the Public Hotel (a hotspot for “cool-looking people” working remotely), to pay a visit to my old MoMA office, and to a job interview. Did I feel like a Creative Professional? You bet I did! But then my former coworker commented that the bag made me look like a “techy person”, which ruined everything it had going for it. (There is a fine line between Creative Professional and Startup Chic that I refuse to cross. It involves hoodies.)

Left: fancy regal satin lining, to remind you that you’re the millennial queen you are. Right: full bag, with front pocket that is great for fitting flat stuff and maybe only flat stuff.

It fit everything in the “capacity” control group, albeit quite snugly, but its real downfall was the straps: although they were quite hearty, being both wide and well padded (which would be great for those with flat chests), their stiff sturdiness meant they were very inflexible, and basically cut into my breasts any time I raised my arms together, as one would if biking:

MEINE POOR BOOBS.

ISM owner/designer Justin emailed me after I returned the bag, and explained they were working on a smaller version for 13″ laptops. I explained this doesn’t help people with mammary glands who own 15″ laptops. Per Justin:

I feel what you mean Christy, a bag that fits a 15" laptop and is unisex has been a tough design challenge given the size difference between males and females. We have been able to shorten the straps to accommodate though.

I get it. Designing for the fact that 50% of the population has boobs is hard! Did you know that basically everything is designed around men and their stupid bodies?? It's also subsequently a prime example of how e-comm genders backpack sizing: you’ll find that 15″ laptop bags are generally only found in the “Men’s” section of websites. I need a drink.

Pros

Looks and feels fancy

Separate laptop pocket from main compartment

Water and weather resistant

Good amount of padding everywhere

Real leathurrrr bottom

Bitches be loving gold zippers

I am weirdly very into the simple strap adjustment design (not pictured but trust me that it’s nicely done)

Cons

High price point for my feeble income

Cut into my boobs

Front pocket is pretty difficult to put stuff in due to being so flat

Makes me look like a tech bro

Did not get the job I interviewed for while using it

Rating

Comfort: ★★☆☆☆ Creative professional-ness: ★★★★★ Female compatibility: ★☆☆☆☆ (one star for gold zipper) Value for monies: ★★★★☆ (if you don’t bike or have boobs) Overall: ★★★☆☆

🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒 Bag option #2: MUJI Water Repellent Backpack

I bought this bag at the MUJI store for a very reasonable $49 USD. Like everything MUJI, it’s pretty decent quality both in materials and design, and feels like it’ll last a while.

Unfortunately, I didn’t end up testing this “in the real world” because, whoops, it only comfortably fits a 13″ laptop. But I did uncomfortably fit my 15″ laptop inside, really stretching the limits of the side panels, and then managed to cram the test “capacity” content on top (with room to spare!). I then did a “hunch test”, folding myself over as one would on a road bike, and found that there was barely any padding on the back panel, and my spine was knocking against the hard surface of my computer. Not cool! Plus the back did not have a mesh surface, literally making it not cool on a sweaty back.

Yes I get it, I have a big stupid computer.

Pros

Nice quality

Large capacity

Water repellent

Has a secret little back pocket you’ll probably never use

Has those tacky side pockets for water bottles which are surprisingly handy for sunglasses or pocket chargers

Cons

Made for a 13″ laptop

Non-meshed back

Not enough back padding

Rating

Comfort: ★★★☆☆ Creative professional-ness: ★★★★☆ Female compatibility: ★★★★★ Value for monies: ★★★★★ Overall: ★★★★☆+

🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒 Bag option #3: UNIQLO Water Repellent Backpack

Right after purchasing the MUJI bag I walked across the street and picked this up for $29.90. YOLO!

Realising that is was yet another bag made for 13″ laptops, I could immediately tell that the quality was much lesser than MUJI’s: it was much lighter in weight, and the fabric thinner. Look at those ugly shoulder straps where the fabric is bunching. The front pocket’s structure is so weak that it sags. Sad!

But: pretty good akshully?!

I again force-fit my behemoth laptop and belongings into the small frame, yet, contrary to expectation, this thing was comfortable AF?! And even had room to spare. The straps were super soft and cushy and malleable around my boobs, and the “hunch test” revealed amazingly thick layers of padding on two sides of the back panel, with a thinner center panel that relieves any pressure on your spine. What kind of ugly genius is this?

Pros

Stupidly comfortable

Large capacity

Water repellent

Again, tacky side pockets, this time with an angled top hem

Cons

Made for a 13″ laptop

Pretty cheap and ugly looking

Pretty cheap and ugly feeling

Rating

Comfort: ★★★★★ Creative professional-ness: ★★☆☆☆ Female compatibility: ★★★★★ Value for monies: ★★★★☆ Overall: ★★★★☆

🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒🎒 Other opshuns, you ask?

There’s a few other mid-range “nice” bag brands I was looking into online, such as the one which esteemed Creative Professional Jessica Hische ended up going with, but let’s just assume I left them out because they lack the quality needed for this rigorous assessment and not because the bag designer whom I went on a date with decided to ghost me after I sprained my ankle while in Canada. Ahem.

Final Verdict... and a Backpack Hack (!!) (...Backhack™?!)

Although I was quite impressed with the comfort the UNIQLO model provided (both to my body and my wallet), I was actually going to declare this experiment a failure and return all the backpacks. Until, that is, I took a closer look at the interior construction of the UNIQLO and MUJI bags: they measured as though they should be tall enough for my latop, and yet the MacBook corners stubbornly stuck out. Time to play detective! 🔍

Turning the bags inside-out, I noticed they both included a superfluous, space-reducing seam at the bottom of the main pocket. WTF.

UNIQLO bag before & after: the difference a simple seam (and lack of colour temperature matching) makes!

By removing this seam on the UNIQLO model, I gained a full inch of vertical room, ALLOWING THE 15″ LAPTOP TO ACTUALLY FIT IN THE DAMN BAG. Yes, it fits snugly, and some may argue that the superfluous seam protects the edge of the computer from hitting the ground, but the very bottom edge seam is actually pretty bulky and does a decent job of protecting as is.

Verdict: With the inclusion of this super deviant hack (and ONLY with this inclusion), UNIQLO wins!!!!!!!!

Epilogue

I’ve been using this bag for 7 months now. It looks kinda cheap and it tends to collect lint, but my shoulders are miraculously like never sore. And, even on a grocery run after stuffing a myriad of pokey-shaped food items in the thing until I can barely close it, it’s always very comfortable on my tender back when biking home (I did this very thing 2 weeks ago at the Farmer’s Market after buying Celine Dion tickets, because I am a white woman in her late 30s). 

Oh, also: it’s black, so yes I am a Creative Professional, thank you for noticing! 

TL;DR: UNIQLO; cheap; comfortable. Send me your products to review! 🔚

Colophon backpacks: ISM, UNIQLO, MUJI; socks: UNIQLO; t-shirt: from a Women Who Code meetup hosted by One Month; sweatpants: Alternative Apparel; laptop: Shmapple; glasses: Steven Alan clearance; stool: Target; plants: IKEA & Home Depot; blankets: Hudson’s Bay, E. Stocking; mirror & couch: IKEA; drawing above mirror: K. Freeman & P. Lyle; posters: Bruce Nauman and a Finnish Design Annual fold-out; calendar: Massimo Vignelli; bike: Miele; weight/capacity control group: thrifting, Peru, Amazon, HAY, more places; suddenly questioning the consistency of whether I’m listing where objects were bought or the brand name of the object itself: something I am going to pretend to resolve at a later date in time; brevity rating for this blog post: ★☆☆☆☆; fan appreciation: I am so sorry if you read this far

[prevdustinhendrsn]

chroma

jonathan byers/steve harrington 2.5k - read on ao3 new spring - part i. part ii. part iii.

a/n: it’s been almost an entire year since blue jay!! i never planned on expanding it into something more until several months ago so here is part two of a three-part stonathan series. this whole trilogy is dedicated to Lucy, who originally requested blue jay <3

Seeing Steve Harrington is not on Jonathan’s agenda today. In fact, it isn’t anywhere remotely near his agenda until his older-than-Rome, sorry excuse for a car stubbornly refuses to start in the school parking lot. He’s the last one there, having lingered to develop some photos he took the afternoon before. Two-thirds of them came out slightly blurry thanks to the minor tremble in his hands, but he’s not surprised. He doesn’t know if he even has the capacity to be surprised anymore.

A glance at the dash tells him all he needs to know. He slumps back into his seat with a heavy sigh, the fabric creaking under his weight as he presses his palms against his eyes. I filled up the tank two days ago. Just two days. Didn’t I? His hands drop to his lap. Out in the lot, a plastic sack blows across the concrete like tumbleweed, drifting and flying and finally getting snagged in the bushes. Didn’t I?

All his receipts are kept in the glove compartment, but he can’t find the courage to lean over and see if there’s a recent one from the gas station in there. He doesn’t really want to know the answer.

He shakes his head. He’s fine. He’s just not getting enough sleep because he’s cramming for finals, so things slip sometimes. It isn’t a big deal; this stuff happens to everyone. Tell that to the shaking, his brain snaps back to his half-assed self-reassurances. He glances at his hands, resting on the wheel. They’re not shaking. They’re just…

Whatever. He’s got bigger things to worry about than himself right now; namely, gas. He has to get home so he can shower, do some homework, get to his shift later. He mulls it over, watching the orange tree-shaped car freshener swing from the mirror. He could walk. There’s a spare gas can in the trunk, and the station isn’t far. On a day like this, with spring blooming in its full chromatic glory all across town, it would probably be a peaceful bit of solitude.

Or…he drums his fingers on the wheel, considering. For once, there’s no imminent obligations he’s got to deal with. His mom has her car and Will already rode home from school with Dustin so nobody is expecting him, and he doesn’t work until tonight. He could get some sleep right now, take a quicker shower than usual, get to work on time, and do the homework later.

His eyelids are already drooping now that he’s entertaining the idea. It’s a great idea, he thinks lazily.

His exhaustion doesn’t need to be told twice. He rolls down the windows and adjusts to a more comfortable position in his seat, letting his eyes drift shut. With the gentle spring breeze floating through the car and across his face, carrying the smell of a new season, he falls asleep in no time.

It doesn’t feel like long before he’s startled awake by the loud slam of a door. He glances around, surprised mostly just because he wasn’t expecting it. He doesn’t sleep deep enough to be disoriented upon waking.

There’s someone in his passenger seat, someone who evidently just arrived going by the sound of the door. But…it can’t be. Really? Jonathan squints at the person next to him. Messy hair that was definitely worked at, familiar sunglasses from the expensive store in the mall, that shit-eating grin that flip-flops his stomach even now.

Steve tosses his sunglasses onto the dash and beams at him. “What’s up, Byers? Get your eight hours?”

Jonathan sits back with a sigh, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “What the hell are you doing in my car?”

Steve frowns, feigning confusion. “The doors were unlocked.”

Jonathan decides that if he were an emotion incarnate, he’d be exasperation. Steve just evokes that response a hundred percent of the time. It’s a fond sort of exasperation though, since things haven’t been hostile between them in a long while. “Steve -“

Steve’s expression drops immediately back into a grin, not a care in the world in his eyes. “Dude, you can’t just leave your car unlocked with the windows down and not expect people to jump in.”

“I can, actually, it’s called human decency.”

Steve shrugs, already moving on as he digs through a white paper sack he brought with him. Jonathan vaguely recognizes the bright yellow logo on the side. “Hope you’re hungry,” he says, tossing a warm foil-wrapped burger into Jonathan’s lap. Belatedly, Jonathan realizes there’s two Styrofoam cups in the car’s cupholders as well.

He slowly picks up the burger, glancing over at Steve, who’s already peeling the foil off his own. “You...brought me food?”

“Well, yeah. Good shit, too. You ever been to Meg’s? By the park?”

“Um, which park?”

“The one with the metal slide that crisps your ass in July.”

He snorts. “Yeah, once, I think. With Nancy.”

A delayed moment after he says it, he realizes he’s not sure why he mentioned her. Maybe it’s just his conscience reminding them both that this is the second time they’ve been together without her, their buffer. Either way, Steve doesn’t seem to have noticed.

The burger is way better than Jonathan was expecting. He’s not sure when the last time he ate was. Did he have lunch at school today? He can’t remember.

After a minute, Steve hands him a packet of fries from the bag, nodding when he says thanks. Though Steve keeps his eyes fixed out on the parking lot as he works through his food, Jonathan can’t help staring at him. Spring really is a good look on him. It pinks his cheeks and softens his sharp edges, makes his laugh fuller and his eyes brighter.

I really am losing it, Jonathan thinks, forcing his mind past it. He picks up the Styrofoam cup closest to him and looking questioningly to Steve.

“Lemonade,” Steve answers after finishing the bite in his mouth. “Not poisoned.”

Jonathan sips at it. “How’d you know I was here?”

Steve shrugs. “Didn’t see your car at work when I drove by so I thought you might be doing pictures or something.”

Jonathan idly taps a finger on the steering wheel. Why were you looking for me? “How’d you know I don’t like tomatoes on my burger?”

Steve glances over, lips quirking. “Lucky guess.” A beat, then, “Your hands still giving you grief?”

Jonathan looks down. Why is it always Steve that seems to notice this, of all people? The only other person who’s mentioned it is Will, and like hell Jonathan is about to unload his minor issues on his little brother. He grips the cup a little tighter. “Yeah. But I don’t know why. I’m not actively scared; it’s not like I’m afraid of the dark or something.” That’s been a lie since eighty-three, but Steve doesn’t need to know that. “It’s just…anxiety, I guess.”

“Shouldn’t you do something about it?”

A dry laugh escapes him. “Like what? See a therapist? I’m fine, Steve. It’s just my hands not listening to my head.”

It feels like the truth, since it’s what he’s been telling himself for months now, and Steve mercifully decides to let it go.

It’s unexpectedly nice, having him here. He pretty much radiates self-confidence and relaxation, and Jonathan doesn’t have to keep up a conversation for it to be comfortable, so that’s two points to something good. But there’s also Jonathan’s recently developed crush that he has to deal with. It’s annoying, to say the least, because it just won’t leave him alone. It keeps him up at night, which is ridiculous, and it trickles into his thoughts during the day, in History and Economics and at work when he has nothing else to focus on, which is even more ridiculous. He’ll look down the locker hall to see Steve smiling at him, for absolutely no reason, and he’ll have to smile back because it’s contagious and fuzzes his brain. Honestly. Since when did Steve start smiling at him, anyways?

He forces his eyes back to the parking lot, thinking back to last week when Steve came by his house and they went for a walk. A walk. Never would he have expected that yet there they were, walking, talking, even laughing together, just because he had said yes when Steve asked.

He remembers the way Steve had set his hand on top of Jonathan’s to steady him so he could take a picture. Jonathan hates that he still isn’t over it. It probably wasn’t even a big deal to Steve. He feels like a goddamn middle schooler.

“What are you still doing here, anyways?” Steve asks, snapping Jonathan back to the present. “School got out, like, two hours ago.”

“I was sleeping,” he says exasperatedly, squishing his burger foil into a ball and flinging it at Steve’s head.

“Rude,” Steve quips, smiling anyways. “Don’t people normally sleep in their beds, y’know, at home?”

Jonathan glances at the dash just to make sure he wasn’t imagining things earlier. Still on E. “I’m out of gas.”

“So you were gonna dream some up?”

“God, you’re such a project sometimes, you know that?”

Steve grins. “Hey, I don’t judge. Dream logic is solid logic. I like it. What I am judging you on is the fact that you slept in the front seat instead of the back. Seriously, look at this,” he says, craning around in his seat. “There’s tons of space back here, weirdo. And honestly –“

He stops short, reaching out to something in the backseat. Jonathan frowns, turning. “What?”

Oh. Messily spread across the upholstery are the two dozen photos he just developed; he hasn’t gotten around to putting them away. Steve’s hand stops midair and he glances back at Jonathan.

“Can I look at these?”

“Um, yeah, if you want.”

Steve nods and grabs them all, resettling in his seat to go through them one by one. Jonathan watches his face as he does so, slightly unnerved. They’re mostly just nature photos and some candid shots of his family, but it’s still odd to have someone scrutinize them. He absently realizes that he actually cares what Steve thinks about them, about him. Of course he does.

Steve looks up at him halfway through the stack, disbelief painted on his features. “Jonathan, these are insane.”

Jonathan glances at the topmost photo. “It’s a creek in a forest.”

“It’s an amazing creek in an amazing forest because this picture that you took is so amazing.”

“It’s blurry.”

“Barely. Why don’t you sell these or something?”

Jonathan shrugs and Steve shakes his head, looking back to the photos. There’s a glittering hummingbird on a bright pink flower, a game trail worn into the brush-filled forest floor, a view from the edge of the quarry cliffs at sunrise.

“Man. You’re talented,” he finally says, handing the stack over. That fuzzy feeling fills up Jonathan’s head again as he takes the photos, their fingers brushing just so.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, replacing the photos in the backseat. Accepting compliments was never his strong suit.

A few quiet moments pass, the faint rustle of leaves making its way through the open windows, and then Steve says, quite out of nowhere, “I’m sorry.”

Jonathan blinks, looking over. Incredibly, he’s not surprised that Steve has just said those words. It takes him a second to sort out exactly what he’s feeling, but then he realizes: he’s surprised that he’s not surprised. Three years ago, sure, he would laugh at the idea of an apology coming from Steve Harrington’s mouth, but now…

He doesn’t know what to say. Steve turns away from the windshield to look at him, some unrecognizable emotion on his face. Longing, maybe. For what? Forgiveness? Him?

You’re losing it.

Steve holds his gaze, slightly desperate for Jonathan to hear him. “I really am sorry. I know that doesn’t cover it, but…I haven’t really said it to you yet, and you deserve to hear it, so. I’m sorry, Jonathan. And I get it if you’re not ready to be friends with me or anything. That’s not why I’m saying this. But I want you to know that I’m trying to be better now. I’m going to be a better person. And I’m not mad about Nancy, if you, y’know, thought that. If she’s happy with you and you’re happy with her, that’s awesome. Seriously, I want that for you two. So I’m just…I’m sorry. For everything.”

Jonathan can’t do much more than stare at him. He should hate Steve. He used to, and he has every right to still. But when he thinks about it, any anger he can muster is halfhearted at best. He knows it was Steve who cleaned up the graffitied movie theater sign three years ago without ever asking for any credit; a theater employee told him. It was a shitty thing to do in the first place and he should’ve cleaned it up regardless, but God, Jonathan is tired of holding grudges. How can people grow if there’s no forgiveness? The love Steve had for Nancy was true, even though they may not have been the best match. He and Jonathan haven’t talked about it, but when shit started hitting the fan for the first time, Steve had been there at Jonathan’s house to apologize to him. He didn’t even know Nancy was there. And he came back in to fight. Later on he helped the kids when he could have just skipped town and saved his own ass. He’s long since left his old friends behind, even though he knew doing so would leave him friendless.

He has me.

“It’s okay,” Jonathan says quietly. “I don’t – it’s okay.”

Steve eyes him hesitantly. “You don’t have to say that just because –“

“I’m serious. I don’t hate you. Nancy doesn’t hate you. You’re a good person, Steve, you just…made some mistakes, like we all do. But it’s okay.”

Steve blows out a long breath, his relief palpable in the way his shoulders relax. “Okay. Great. You don’t want me to leave?”

Jonathan shakes his head. Kind of the opposite, actually. “You brought me food,” he says, allowing himself a smile. “You get a pass.”

Steve’s expression turns a happy sort of incredulous, like he never expected it to be that easy. “I didn’t do it just to get into your good graces, you know.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. “I know.” He hesitates, weary of the answer to his next question, but he decides to ask it anyways. “Why did you do it?”

Steve falters, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “Just ‘cause, I guess. I thought you might appreciate it. I know you’re always busy and stuff.” He looks up with a wry smile. “And believe it or not, I like hanging out with you, Byers.”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. “Me too.”

Steve grins. “You like hanging out with yourself too?”

“Fuck off,” he groans, punching Steve’s shoulder. Steve laughs, full and light, and he pushes open the car door.

“Come on. You got a spare gas can? You can ride with me.”

Jonathan takes the few seconds he has alone to stare at himself in the rearview mirror. There’s a ridiculously happy smile on his face, a rarity his whole life. You really are losing it, he thinks.

It’s not so terrible.

let me know if you’d like to be added/removed from my taglist!!

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[toumakibangs]

°*TouMaki - Advent Calendar 2018*° DAY 06 - “LIGHTS” by @grimelius

Mod’s Note: …remember what I said about ActualChristmasTree!Makishima being universally accepted as canon? Good. Please enjoy this winter trip to Toudou-an - the season really becomes the place and its inhabitants! Thanks, @grimelius, for sharing!**

Author’s Note: Merry Christmas everyone! I hope your year ends well!

Makishima stepped off the train platform at the Hakone station and took a deep breath as he tried to force himself to relax. There was nothing strange about spending time with a friend over the winter break and since he was going to spend New Years with his family, that meant that the most convenient time to go visit just so happened to be Christmas. One of the more romantic holidays, spent with Toudou Jinpachi and the rest of his family.

Makishima figured it would either be a complete wreck or extremely entertaining and he was hoping for the latter. The real issue that worried Makishima was between him and Toudou. After all they were… what exactly? Makishima sighed and hitched his bag up and headed towards the exit, following the stream of busy people.

Neither he nor Toudou had actually talked about what was happening between them. They were now far beyond friends but neither had said that word and it was looming over both of them, creeping into the silent spaces whenever Toudou or Makishima couldn’t find something to say.

It had almost been enough to make Makishima decline the invitation when Toudou had called him up a few weeks earlier and told him that winter break was a perfect time to come down and spend time relaxing at an onsen and no one in their right mind would pass up a free stay at a spectacular historical inn and wasn’t Maki-chan lucky that he could go for free and so on and so on.

But he did want to go, nerves aside and well, if he was being practical, the two of them really should talk. And he wanted to do it in person, not over the phone and-

“Maki-chan!”

Makishima almost jumped out of his shoes. He looked around surprised since he’d expected to be tackled but where was Toudou? The exit was full of people rushing in every direction and Makishima didn’t see Toudou anywhere.

“Over here! Quick!”

Makishima swiveled to follow the voice and finally saw it, a small white pickup truck and looking out from the drivers’ side; two nearly identical people were waving at him enthusiastically. Jinpachi and his older sister Nana. It was unnerving how similar they looked even though they were siblings, though Nana didn’t share her brother’s obsession for headbands.

“Toss your stuff in the back and hop in” Nana called out and Makishima obeyed before cramming himself in next to them and they took off down the road.

“How was the train down?” Toudou asked.

“Quiet. Nothing really happened,” Makishima replied. “Which is how I like it.”

“Well prepare yourself for chaos because we’ve got a Christmas on a weekend this year so the inn is extra busy. Not that you need to worry about that, but I have to work a little,” Toudou admitted.

“Heh, I don’t mind helping out if you need me too. As long as it’s not guest relations,” Makishima offered.

Both Jinpachi and Nana laughed at the suggestion. “Don’t worry, Makishima-san. We’ll save that for the fifth time you come to visit,” Nana teased him and Makishima grinned a little. Next to him, Toudou slipped his hand into his and squeezed.

Between the two over-talkative siblings, it was almost impossible for Makishima to get much of a word in but he didn’t really mind. Hakone was as beautiful as ever and Jinpachi and Nana took the opportunity to point out every interesting or historical thing they drove through town. It didn’t take long for them to reach the inn and as soon as they got up to Toudou’s room, he pulled Makishima’s bag away and slipped into his arms, and kissed him. Makishima wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him closer until they broke apart and Toudou nestled in closer, resting his head against his shoulder.

“Finally some privacy. I missed you! I don’t get to see you enough now that the season is over,” Toudou complained.

“Mmmm. The season hasn’t been over that long,” Makishima replied but he would be lying if he said that he didn’t miss seeing Toudou constantly at races. Finding the time and energy to get to Hakone or Chiba was always easier said than done.

“Long enough, plus you were supposed to come down sooner than this,” Toudou replied as he stepped back. “Let’s get you settled in for now” and he grabbed Makishima’s bag and set it out of the way by his bed. “I’ll grab a futon and bedding for you later.

“Thanks.” Makishima looked around at Toudou’s room. It looked like Toudou had put a little tree on his desk but otherwise it was as Makishima remembered, a small bed against the wall, a mirror next to his closet, dresser drawers, a desk and a ridiculous amount of biking and mountain posters. It was small and cozy, so different from Makishima’s own large and fancy house.

“Maki-chan, are you listening?”

“Hmm?” Makishima turned his attention back to Toudou who looked a little annoyed.

“I was saying texts and phone calls aren’t the same and that we need to work harder if we want to see each other during the off season,” Toudou pointed out.

“Oh, yeah. Okay,” Makishima agreed.

“Well, make yourself at home,” Toudou offered. “Are you hungry? Do you want a drink or anything?”

Makishima shook his head and sat down on the bed and Toudou regarded him carefully before sitting next to him on the bed.

“Are you okay with spending Christmas with us?”

Makishima thought about it. “It’s fine. We usually just have cake and junk food and stuff. My sister likes to decorate a little but that’s about it. Sometimes our parents get us presents. It’s not a big thing for us,” Makishima explained. “I just don’t want to get in the way.”

“Don’t worry,” Toudou reassured him, “You’re a guest. And my parents only put their own children to work so you’re safe.”

“You don’t want me scaring away your guests?” Makishima teased him.

“There is proper way to treat guests at Toudou-Ann and if you want to work with them, you’ll have to go through training, Toudou said primly. “We have a high reputation to maintain. Now it’s my turn. Did you get me a Christmas present?”

Makishima was surprised by the sudden topic change but he nodded yes.

Toudou looked absolutely delighted and Makishima said quickly, “It’s nothing too fancy or anything. Just so you know.”

“I’ll love anything you give me Maki-chan,” Toudou promised him. “I got you one too.”

“I hope you like neon,” and he smiled a little when Toudou rolled his eyes and elbowed him in the ribs.

“You ju-st got here, don’t make me kick you out so soon.”

Makishima laughed and let his head fall onto Toudou’s shoulder and he felt his chest swell when Toudou leaned his head against his and wrapped an arm around his waist.

 ———-

Makishima spent the remainder of the day visiting with Toudou’s family, getting introduced to some of the staff, helping out around the inn and hoping they would get to into the baths that evening. Toudou insisted that Makishima could sit and relax while he finished up his chores but Makishima liked having something to do and after all he was there to spend time with Toudou even if that meant folding his own weight in pillowcases.

“Usually we’re not this busy at Christmas time but as soon as it’s a weekend, everyone decides to turn it into a trip,” Toudou complained, glaring at the vast piles of folded sheets and bedding all over the huge laundry room. Makishima kept folding what felt like endless piles of pillowcases, the static in the air making his hair frizz up.

“It should be quiet for New Year’s right? You guys aren’t as busy then?” Makishima asked, pushing his hair behind his ears for what felt like the thousandth time.

“Well we technically shut down for the 1st through the 3rd so we’re not busy, we’re just closed. Some places stay open but for us, it’s one of the only times we close during the year. Maybe we’ll get snow this New Year? he wondered.

“Do you get snow for Christmas?” Makishima asked.

“I think it’s happened once or twice in my life before but not usually,” Toudou replied thoughtfully.  “We usually get snow further into winter.”

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“Hmmm, well you can sleep in if you want; I have to help with breakfast prep. Then we can go into town and or do whatever we want, Toudou suggested. “We can hang out here if you want. Maybe go hiking? I’m sure we’ll need to go to the store for some reason. We’re doing presents for sure though!”

The next day, Christmas day turned out almost exactly as Toudou had predicted. Makishima woke up to busy inn, staff members busy at work and members of the Toudou family scattered all over the premises. Makishima took the time to eat, read and then soak in the baths, enjoying himself but also trying not to add more work to the already busy family.

Finally in the late afternoon, Toudou and Makishima managed to sneak off to Toudou’s room to exchange gifts.

“Me first! I want to open mine first, the suspense is killing me. After what you said, I need to know the color!” Toudou demanded impatiently.

Makishima laughed but went and pulled a vividly wrapped present from his bag and tossed it to Toudou. “Merry Christmas Jinpachi. I uh, I hope it fits?” he said hopefully. “We’re the same height so…”

Toudou didn’t bother with finesse; he tore into the present scattering paper everywhere and yanked the box open as quickly as he could.

“Oh my god, look at this!” Toudou gushed and held up the shirt so he could see it better. 

Makishima had bought Toudou a long sleeved shirt with different traditional Japanese patterns crisscrossing each other. The fabric was light grey and the patterns were printed in dark red, orange and black.

“I love it! I would never have bought this myself but I love it! It’s a weird mix of traditional and crazy.”

“That’s what I was going for, said Makishima, happy that Toudou liked his gift. “It’s traditional but also not.”

Toudou’s gift on the other hand was very practical; a book about long distance cyclying, with a special section focusing on the Tour de France. Makishima had never read this one so he was very happy with his gift.

“I got you one more thing to celebrate Christmas with but you have to wear it today okay? Otherwise it doesn’t make sense,” Toudou added, dragging Makishima’s attention away from his new book.

“Okay?” Makishima said hesitantly. He acknowledged that Toudou’s typical fashion sense was all right, but not his holiday one which could be a little more ahem exuberant than usual. And Makishima knew exuberant for crying out loud.

“Close your eyes,” Toudou ordered and Makishima sighed but obeyed.

“Aaaand open! Tadah!” Toudou crowed. “Christmas lights for your hair!”

Makishima grimaced as he looked at the headband in Toudou’s hands. It was white with a little present on it but dangling from the side was what looked like 30 white lights on a copper wire. Apparently the present was a battery pack that let you turn on the lights. At least they weren’t shaped like Christmas tree lights. Makishima shuddered, that would be even worse.

“You do know that you’re like the 10th person who’s told me to decorate my hair like a Christmas tree right? And that I’ve said no to every person who suggested it?” said Makishima, a little annoyed. 

“Let me French braid your hair! Please?” Toudou pleaded. “It’ll be awesome. And not like a tree at all.”

“Why do you know how to braid anyways?” Makishima asked.

“My sister.”

And that was the only explanation that Makishima needed, but he kept protesting.

“I’m going to look ridiculous. My hair is barely long enough to braid anyways.”

“Excuse you! This summer your hair was just a little further than your shoulders and now it’s way past that. It’s going to be by your waist by the summer interhigh if you don’t cut it soon. You’re the hairiest guy I know!”

Makishima glared at Toudou who shrugged and added sheepishly, “You know what I mean. It’ll be beautiful.”

“Nothing can make me beautiful, let alone a weird braid,” Makishima thought dryly but it was Christmas and only Toudou would see him and he’d already taken it out of the packaging so…

“Fine,” he agreed. “You can braid my hair but don’t even think of hanging ornaments off me. Or anything like that.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that; that’s a wonderful idea Maki-chan,” Toudou said cheerfully.

Makishima groaned but sat down on the floor in front of the bed so Toudou could scoot behind him and still reach his hair. It didn’t take long for him to relax under the feeling of Toudou’s hands as he brushed his hair out and then began to braid, carefully weaving the lights into the long strands until Makishima’s hair was tied into an elegant braid, with the copper wire making his hair look even more iridescent than usual. Toudou tied the braid off with a hair tie and sat back so he could admire his work. Makishima reached up and tried to feel his hair but Toudou swatted his hands away.

“Hold still! Let me turn on the lights then you can look, okay?”

“Hurry up then,” Makishima complained and he twisted and turned around trying to see his back.

Toudou clicked the switch on the headband and Makishima tried to crane his neck to see but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t see but he heard Toudou gasp and he reached out to grab his shoulders to pull him around.

“You look amazing. It’s gorgeous! Here, go look in the mirror.”

Makishima went over to the full-length mirror that hung next to the door and tried to get a better look as Toudou hounded his steps.

Well it was certainly… something. His braided hair did look attractive and the lights scattered throughout it made him think of a Christmas tree but it also made him look almost ethereal, like a forest creature. Well, as ethereal as one could look wearing grey plaid lounge pants and a white t-shirt that said ‘Climb High!’ in neon blue letters. It wasn’t the worse thing that he’d done with his hair, Makishima decided.

“Pictures! Come back over here so I can get some shots.” Toudou waved him back over to the bed with his phone in his hand. Makishima knew better than to protest and he went where Toudou directed him and obeyed as Toudou pushed him into different poses and took pictures from every angle possible.

“I’m tempted to put you in some of my clothes but I don’t think that would really capture you. Besides, you look beautiful like this.”

“What?” Makishima said incredulously. “I’m in lounge pants and an oversized t-shirt. There’s nothing beautiful about me.”

“I disagree,” Toudou said. “I think you look beautiful. And I know plenty about beauty since I’m at the top of the scale. Why? You don’t believe me?”

Makishima shrugged him off. “I believe what you say, not what you see. That’s all.”

Toudou sighed and set his phone down. “Fine, let me show you then.”

“What are you talking about?” Makishima mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

“Let me show you,” he repeated and he went over to the door to turn off the lights, plunging the room into darkness except for Makshima’s hair. The tiny lights illuminated everything and yet nothing. Toudou came back to sit next to him and he reached out to cup Makishima’s face with his hand. Makishima had barely a moment see his face and all the tiny lights reflecting in his eyes when Toudou kissed him, gently at first but putting some pressure behind it until Makishima began to kiss him back. Then Toudou reached out and wrapped his arm around Makishima’s waist but unlike every other time, he slipped it under his t-shirt and across the small of Makishima’s back, running his hand down his side.

Makishima felt his brain short circuit as he suddenly realized what Toudou meant by ‘show you’ and his stomach clenched from nerves. He froze up, not sure if he wanted Toudou to keep going or if he wanted to push him away. Fortunately, Toudou noticed his reaction immediately and pulled back.

“Don’t worry. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I promise. You set the pace,” Toudou reassured him gently.

“I want- I’m not sure what- do whatever you like I guess…” Makishima mumbled, his tongue thick in his mouth, making it even harder to speak than usual. Ever since they’d started getting closer, he’d thought about them doing things, very specific things but it had always been hypothetical, not really something that he ever expected to happen and now he was sittin in the dark, on Jinpachi’s bed with his hands under his clothes and his hair providing otherworldly light it as moved and unraveled around them both.

This was not how he expected to be spending his Christmas but he was not complaining either.

“Do you know what you’re doing at all?” Makishima asked, half shy, half embarrassed by his own lack of experience.

“Not really,” Toudou admitted cheerfully. “I just like touching you. It’s nice.”

Makishima blushed so hard it felt like his entire chest on up was on fire. He didn’t know how to react. A small part of him wanted to curl up and pull away but a far larger part of him desperately wanted Jinpachi to touch him more, to cover his entire body with his hands and mouth and the heat of his body.

It was terrifying. And wonderful.

So Makishima decided to be bold. He scooted backwards until he had a enough space so that he could lie down on his side and Toudou moved with him, lying next to him so they were pressed together or as closely as they could be as they awkwardly jostled each other trying to figure out how they could fit their bodies together but not accidentally elbow one of them in the face or gut. They almost cracked heads at one point and Toudou had to get off Makishima’s hair so it wasn’t crushed underneath them.

But then they were together, face to face, chest to chest, their legs intertwining and hands carefully reaching out to touch, trace and creep under clothing. Toudou kept kissing Makishima on his lips, his face, his neck, his hair and it made it hard for him to him to focus on anything. He was certain that he had a hand wrapped around Toudou’s back, clutching at his shirt but where was his other one? Maybe he could pull Toudou even closer? The sudden need to get even closer consumed Makishima. He ground his hips against Toudou and he heard the groan slip from his mouth and there had to be some other position that would let them get closer and-

All the warning they had was a loud bam against the closed door but it was enough. Toudou flung himself so far away from Makishima that he fell over the side of the bed with a loud crash. Makishima managed to push himself into a sitting position and pull his shirt back down as Hana swung the door open, stopped in apparent confusion then flicked the lights back on.

“Come on you two! It’s snowing and it’s is starting to stick. We need you two to help sweep it up before it gets really bad. Also salt. Everyone else is already outside! ”

Then she noticed her brother laying on the floor, clutching his head and swearing loudly.

“What are you two doing up here?” she demanded, looking suspiciously between them.

“We were exchanging gifts before you decided to interrupt!” Toudou snapped at his sister. Makishima tried to avoid Hana’s gaze, certain that his bright red face would give both of them away. What if she figured it out? This was not how Makishima wanted anyone to find out about their relationship.

“Well, wrap it up! And stop spreading your ridiculous headbands around. The poor guy looks like a walking Christmas tree. ”

“My headbands are not ridiculous. You’ve told us what’s up now go away!” Toudou yelled. 

“Both of you get downstairs then!” she snapped back. “You look very cute Makishima, but don’t let my brother corrupt you too much” and she winked.

“I’ll try not to,” Makishima muttered under his breath.

“Let’s get shoveling then its dinnertime and cake,” and she headed back out the door leaving them both to fully recover from the shock.

Toudou sighed and hauled himself to his feet. “I know what I want for Christmas this year, a lock for my door,” he grumbled and slammed his door shut.

“I’m surprised you don’t have one already,” Makishima said weakly flopping back onto the bed and trying to calm his racing heart. He was so relieved that they hadn’t been caught that he didn’t care in the slightest that the mood had been completely ruined.

“Our house is really old and I’m at the dorms most of the time now. But I think it’s time to ask for one.” Toudou turned and offered a hand to Makishima. “Shall we? Before the rest of my family comes in?”

Makishima reached out and Toudou pulled him to his feet but kept holding his hand.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move that fast outside of a race,” Makishima teased him lightly.

Toudou snorted. “Careful. I’ve got ornaments somewhere. We can still deck you out for Christmas.”

“How about we switch?” Makishima suggested instead.

“Hmmm?”

“Later tonight, you can wear this ridiculous hairband and I’ll kiss you.”

Toudou’s entire face lit up and he pulled Makishima in for a hug. “Well I do tend to look better in headbands than you, so I guess that’s fine with me. You have to take some picture though. Oh! And I can try on my new shirt for a few and…”

Makishima grabbed Toudou and yanked him in for a kiss to shut him up. “We can figure it out later,” Makishima promised. Okay? Before you sister drags us out?”

“Okay,” Toudou agreed happily. “Let’s go. Merry Christmas Maki-chan.”

“Merry Christmas, Jinpachi.”

[welllpthisishappening]

Tripping Over the Blue Line (7/45)

It’s a transition. That’s what Emma’s calling it. She’s transitioning from one team to another, from one coast to another and she’s definitely not worried. Nope. She’s fine. Really. She’s promised Mary Margaret ten times already. So she got fired. Whatever. She’s fine, ready to settle into life with the New York Rangers. She’s got a job to do. And she doesn’t care about Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers. At all.

He’s done. One more season and he’s a free agent and he’s out. It’s win or nothing for Killian. He’s going to win a Stanley Cup and then he’s going to stop being the face of the franchise and he’s going to go play for some other garbage team where his name won’t be used as puns in New York Post headlines. That’s the plan. And Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations isn’t going to change that. At all.

They are both horrible liars.

Rating: Mature Content Warnings: Swearing, eventual hockey-type violence AN: I have never once bought a program at the Garden, nor have I taken a picture with the photos on the side of the Garden, but I promise those are both things people do. My eternal gratitude to @laurnorder, @beautiful-swan & @distant-rose just for, y’know, being fantastic.  Also on Ao3, FF.net and tag’ed up on Tumblr if you’d rather hang out there.

“What about this one?”

Emma turned on the spot and made a face before she could stop herself, clicking her tongue in disapproval. Mary Margaret huffed slightly, but Emma had the sneaky suspicion she’d mostly done it for the reaction – a taffeta-covered disaster with three-quarter sleeves and, somehow, a high neck and ruffles that didn’t even remotely fit into the color scheme they’d decided on a few days before.

“I thought we’d decided on blue,” Emma said, grabbing the dress out of Mary Margaret’s hand and depositing it back on a completely different rack.

“That’s not where that goes.” “I don’t care.” Mary Margaret rolled her eyes and the dress had definitely been for the reaction and Emma would have almost appreciated the effort if she wasn’t so busy being completely distracted by, approximately, eighteen other things.

Well, one other thing.

For the last four days.

Ninety-six hours.

Seventy-two of them actually awake.

She didn’t really sleep much.

And her first community relations event had been such a hit – Emma knew the bags and autographed pictures and team-branded merchandise were going to be perfect – that she’d actually been called into Zelena’s office the next day to talk about her plans for the rest of the season.

She had plans.

A charity game and bringing more kids to another practice next week and Garden of Dreams stuff, not to mention the annual event they held on 34th Street just before the home opener and then there was in-season stuff and Casino Night and playoff stuff and she needed to come up with a barebones plans on the off chance that this stupid team did actually go to the Cup Finals.

Zelena loved them all, told her so the day after the practice facility event and she wanted to take this to the next level . She’d used those words.

The next level.

Whatever that meant.

Emma needed to make a list. Or make another list. She’d made so many lists – of the same things, all of the same thoughts and ideas and plans pooling in the back of her head like they’d taken up residency there – she was half certain Mary Margaret was going to go insane if she found another sheet of paper crammed into the corner of her couch.

Oh, she needed to do that too.

Emma was still sleeping on Mary Margaret’s couch – and for as generous as Mary Margaret had been with her couch, Emma had a crick in her spine that she was positive wouldn’t go away until she stopped sleeping on the couch and found her own apartment.

She was distracted. By all of those things. And, maybe, that one other thing. Definitely that one other thing.

It didn’t matter. There were rules. She’d come up with rules and regulations and she wasn’t going to break either one of them.

Again.

She wasn’t going to break them again, since, well, she’d already done it once.

And that was enough.

Of course it was. Absolutely. She hadn’t spent the seventy-two hours she was actually awake considering how nice breaking the rules had been and that wasn’t even really a good enough word for it.

It was better than nice.

It was...overwhelming.

That was probably the best word for it. He was overwhelming and his eyes were too blue and he was too goddamn good looking with that stupid jersey and a family that wouldn’t stop texting him and he’d volunteered to talk about all of that even when she hadn’t known about Liam or how guilty he still felt.

Fuck.

God fucking damnit.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret asked, hand falling on her wrist and she actually jumped from the word and the contact, breath catching in her throat as she stumbled over her own feet. “Did you hear anything I just said?” “Sure.” “Emma.” She sighed, crossing her arms lightly and eyeing the dress in Mary Margaret’s hands. “That one’s not bad,” Emma said, nodding towards the fabric and it fit the color scheme and didn’t actually have any ruffles.

“You’re not exactly a gown person.” “You want me to wear a gown?” “No,” Mary Margaret promised, holding the dress up against Emma and humming in approval when it, apparently, didn’t look horrible in front of the clothes she was still wearing. “And we’re getting married outside, you can’t really wear a gown.” “What?”

Mary Margaret hummed again, smile dancing on the corners of her lips. Emma didn’t know that. Or maybe they’d told her that. God, she was a horrible friend. A horrible, distracted friend who should probably get more than six hours of sleep a night.

And stop thinking about Killian Jones’ lips.

Definitely the second.

“Did you know you can actually get married in Central Park for, like, twenty dollars?” Mary Margaret asked, but there was something in the corner of her eye that made Emma certain they were steamrolling towards a conversation she didn’t really want to have.

“That so?” “Yup. You print out a permit and you sign the permit and you give the city twenty bucks and, boom, you’re married.” “Boom?” “Well, I mean you sign more papers and you need someone to actually marry you, but you get where I’m going with this.” “And that’s what you want?” Emma asked speculatively, eyeing Mary Margaret like she was waiting for the camera crew to come out and shout that this had all been some sort of massive joke and she actually did have to wear a gown.

Not that she wouldn’t have done it – if that’s what Mary Margaret wanted. She probably would have done anything Mary Margaret asked her to at this point, even if she hadn’t overstayed her welcome on her couch and David hadn't actually started buying her Pop-Tarts whenever he went to the store, like she was a permanent fixture in their apartment.  

Mary Margaret shrugged, as if she hadn’t been considering her wedding since before she met Emma. And that was enough to draw her attention back in full – momentarily forgetting community events and meeting with front office bigwigs and the way Killian Jones’s hands felt in her hair.

“Come here,” Emma said, tugging the dress out of Mary Margaret’s vice-like grip and draping over her arm. She pulled her towards a wall in this very expensive bridal boutique and sank down onto the ground, ignoring Mary Margaret’s vaguely scandalized expression when Emma stretched her legs out and the bottom of the dress brushed along the carpet. “Sit down. Talk to me.” “At least get the dress off the floor.” Emma held the hanger up in front of her and Mary Margaret grabbed it quickly, eyes darting around like they were going to be arrested for improper bridal boutique behavior by whoever might be in charge of monitoring something like that. She hooked the dress on another rack and eyed Emma again before sinking down onto the ground as well, cross-legged, like one of her fourth-graders.

“What’s really going on?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Reese’s, come on. Central Park? For real?” Another shrug. Emma widened her eyes and she'd absolutely been the worst friend in the world because she hadn’t noticed any of this and there were bags under Mary Margaret’s eyes and a tiny crease in between her eyebrows that looked like it had been there for the last four days.

“Ruth has some ideas,” Mary Margaret finally said, whispering out the words like David’s mother was lurking in between several dozen bridesmaids dresses.

“About?” “The wedding. And the reception. And the color scheme. And probably where we should go on our honeymoon, but we haven’t gotten that far in the conversations yet.” “Where are you guys going to go on your honeymoon?” “Emma!”

She grinned, reaching out and squeezing Mary Margaret’s knee. “So, Ruth’s being a stereotype. She’s always kind of been like that.” It wasn’t a lie – Ruth Nolan was fiercely protective of her son, her only son, and it didn’t really surprise Emma that she’d have more than her fair share of opinions on the way that only son got married. It did, however, surprise her that Mary Margaret was listening to any of them.

If there was one thing Emma had always loved about Mary Margaret, aside from her willingness to share her couch, it was her determination. Mary Margaret wanted what she wanted and she was going to get what she wanted and she’d probably help two dozen other people get what they wanted along the way.

She was nice in a way Emma was certain people weren’t ever nice, a perpetual ray of sunshine and belief and if anyone was going to get the wedding of her dreams it was going to be Mary Margaret Blanchard, soon-to-be Nolan.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Mary Margaret mumbled, words falling mostly into the very expensive carpet they were still sitting on. “This is different though. You know she wants me to come to Carlisle to try on dresses, something about how she wants to be there when I pick and I just…ugh.” Emma tried not to laugh. She really did. But that might have been the first time Mary Margaret had said the word ugh in the last ten years and she couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard. “Carlisle?” Emma repeated. “Do they have stores there?” “It’s Pennsylvania,” Mary Margaret shrugged, still trying to rationalize. “I’m sure there are stores somewhere even if it’s not actually in Carlisle.” “Why can’t she come here?” “Hmmm?” “Well, I mean, you’re here and David’s here and when’s the last time Ruth was actually in New York? Have her come here and try on dresses and she can even help pick a venue and maybe taste-test some cake or something. Do they do that in real life or is that only in movie montages?” “No, that happens in real life too.” “Well then have her do that. And sign me up for the cake testing thing too. I’m down for that.” Mary Margaret let out a shaky laugh, tugging her lips behind her teeth and she was blinking quicker than normal. “What?” Emma asked, realizing she hadn’t actually moved her hand. God, they were still sitting on the floor.

“You know I didn’t even think of that? I was just going to go to Carlisle.” “See, that’s because you’re nice. Tell Ruth to come up here. I’ll even give up my couch so she can stay with you.” “No, no, no,” Mary Margaret said quickly and, that time, Emma had mostly done it for the reaction. “There are hotels. And you’re some kind of wedding-planning lifesaver.” Emma rolled her eyes, bumping her head on the wall when moved backwards. “I’m serious. I just...I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad you’re in New York and the kids haven’t stopped talking about the practice facility. They were even more psyched about the Q&A thing than getting out on the ice. That kind of surprised me.”

Emma blinked and her hand moved towards her hair out of instinct – a tell she’d had for as long as she could remember, a nervous habit that Mary Margaret had picked up on approximately two hours after they met each other at freshman orientation and her eyes widened slightly when it happened on the floor of this boutique.

“What?” Mary Margaret asked, confusion settling into her gaze and Emma couldn’t actually take a deep breath. Everything felt too tight and too anxious and for as distracted as she had been thinking about everything that had happened in the film room – and maybe everything that hadn’thappened in the film room because she’d walked away,  God – she still couldn’t quite believe how easy it had been.

That was the problem, she thought, the realization hitting her like a wave or an earthquake or some other form of natural disaster. He’d been charming and funny and he’d been good with the kids and he’d made her smile – genuinely smile.

Maybe she should text him.

But even just the concept of a phone suddenly felt very heavy and it wasn’t even in her pocket because it was a work phone and she didn’t really need it because today was technically her day off and she was supposed to be focused on wedding plans and actually being a competent maid of honor.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret said and it didn’t sound like the first time she’d repeated her name.

“Yeah?” “What aren’t you telling me?” “Nothing.” Mary Margaret lowered her eyebrows and Emma knew if they hadn’t been sitting on the floor she probably would have settled into teacher pose – feet just a bit wider apart than usual and hands on her hips and eyes narrowed just enough to be bordering on menacing. And Emma totally would have caved because, all things considered, she felt a bit like a nine-year-old with a crush.

“Really,” Emma said, waving her hands through the air like that somehow helped proved her point. “Nothing.” “You know, you never actually got any pizza.” “Is that code for something?” “It means you didn’t come back from the film room for awhile after I left with the kids. And I might have seen Robin send someone wearing Rangers-branded merchandise in that direction at some point.” “That was his kid,” Emma said quickly and her jaw hung open when she realized what she done. Mary Margaret actually gasped.

“What?” “You didn’t know that already?” “I told you, we’re not like part of this team. I know Ariel. I’ve met Killian a couple of times. That’s really all there is to it. Why was Robin sending his kid after you?” Emma widened her eyes and she really didn’t want to have this conversation, didn’t want to commandeer the conversation, but Mary Margaret had somehow figured out a way to teacher pose while still sitting down and her shoulders slumped in defeat before she’d even tried to come up with any kind of argument.

“Alright,” Emma said pointedly and Mary Margaret snapped to attention. “I’m going to tell you something and I need you not to freak out because we’re still in this very expensive store and we’ve still got to try on dresses, but I also need to tell someone and it might explain why I’ve been the worst friend in the world for the last four days.” “You haven’t been the worst friend in anything in the last four days.” “I’m serious, Reese’s, no freaking out. Or gloating. Especially gloating.” Mary Margaret’s eyebrows somehow got even lower and she tilted her head in confusion. “Gloating?” Emma nodded and tried to take a deep breath – it still didn’t work. “I kissed Killian,” she said, rushing over the words and staring at her shoes and Mary Margaret’s gasp probably could have been heard in every single corner of the entire city.

“What?” she whispered, hissing out the word and her eyes were so wide Emma was concerned they’d actually fall out on the very expensive carpet.

“I said not to freak out.” “I’m not.” Emma sighed and pressed her fingers into her temples, certain the headache was on its way. “Ok, ok,” Mary Margaret continued and her voice sounded just a bit more even now. “Before Robin sent his kid?”

Emma nodded. “Like right before. Like in the action when the kid showed up in the film room.” “Did he see?” “I don’t think so.” Mary Margaret hummed in the back her throat, lips twisted like she was thinking something and for one vaguely terrifying moment Emma was half convinced they were back on the Swan-Jones wedding train. “Why?" she asked and that wasn’t the question Emma had been expecting at all.

“What?” “Why’d you do it? I mean you said you kissed him, right?”

Emma waved her hands again and made some sort of contradictory noise that wasn’t really an answer. “I mean, yeah, at first.” “At first?” “Oh my God, Reese’s if you don’t stop repeating everything I’m saying I will actually walk out of this store.”

“I’m just confused.” “That should be my tagline at this point,” Emma mumbled.

“I thought you didn’t like him.” “I never said that.” “You said you were playing along with the set-up.”

The headache had arrived in full-force, with cymbals and a marching band and possibly several mac trucks, all of them intent on making Emma feel as if her skull was about to crack in half. Mary Margaret looked at her apprehensively.

“Excuse me,” a voice said and Emma snapped her head up to find a store clerk staring at them as if they’d been loitering there for the last twenty minutes. “You can’t sit here.” “Relax,” Mary Margaret muttered and Emma’s jaw fell back open. “We’ve got an appointment. We’re just kind of busy right now.” The woman stuttered over something that sounded like words, but Mary Margaret glanced at her over her shoulder and there must have been something in her gaze because they were alone again half a moment later, surrounded by dresses who didn’t seem too concerned that they were now ten minutes late for that appointment.

“Jeez, Reese’s,” Emma mumbled and Mary Margaret shot her a smile.

“Do you really like him?”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t know.” “But you kissed him.” “I was there.” “So you must…” “Be vaguely attracted to him? Because that was all that was.” Mary Margaret twisted her lips and stared at Emma like the liar she absolutely was, but she didn’t actually say anything and that was probably worse than actually having an opinion. Emma groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and grimacing slightly when she hit her head again.

“He’s nice,” Emma whispered after what felt like an eternity of silence in between overpriced dresses. “But I’ve...I’m not doing this again.” “Doing what again?” Emma’s eyes snapped open and Mary Margaret sighed and neither one of them actually needed an answer to that question.

If there was one thing Emma Swan was good at, it was finding a way to not believe in something – and after a lifetime of coming up short and almosts,  the walls around Emma were so high she almost couldn’t see over them.

She had Mary Margaret and David and even sometimes Ruth, who felt like she needed to be some sort of surrogate mother to everyone and, now, she had Ruby and a job that didn’t make her want to pull her hair out every day at five o’clock.

She was good.

This was good.

She didn’t even feel like she was transitioning anymore.

The last thing she needed was to feel something about the captain of the New York Rangers.

So she was attracted to him.

So what.

She was attracted to Leonardo DiCaprio when she was nine years old and she’d never felt some sort of deep need to do anything about that.

The same held true for Killian Jones.

Of course she’d never actually kissed Leonardo DiCaprio, had never felt his hands on her hips or his lips on hers and she was fairly positive she’d never made Leonardo DiCaprio actually groan against her mouth and, God, what would have happened if Roland Locksley hadn’t shown up?

They’d probably still be kissing in the film room upstate.

Killian Jones was very good at kissing.

There were other people who were good at kissing. Leonardo DiCaprio was probably good at kissing. She didn’t want to kiss Leonardo DiCaprio. She wanted to kiss Killian Jones. Again. And it was all she’d really thought about for the last four days.

Emma was a mess.

“How was it?” Mary Margaret asked, snapping Emma out of her thoughts and making her actually choke on the air in her lungs.

“For real, Reese’s? What is this sixth grade?” Mary Margaret shrugged. “He’s not a bad looking guy. It was probably good, right?” “Do those two things go together?” “You tell me.”

Emma sighed, but her silence was as much an answer as actually saying the words – good, great, best she’d had since….ever – and Mary Margaret actually had the audacity to grin at her. “What happened after Roland Locksley showed up?” Emma groaned and hissed in her breath through clenched teeth, which only seemed to make the headache worse. “I, uh, told him that it was a one-time thing and then I...walked away.” Mary Margaret just looked sad. “Patented Emma Swan.” “Come on, that’s almost not fair.” “Almost.” “It’s not like it mattered to him. It was just one kiss.” One kiss that she couldn’t stop thinking about. One kiss that had seemed to shake the entire world on its metaphorical axis and made his eyes look even bluer and she’d left his hair sticking up in half a dozen different directions after.

Had she used his jersey as leverage? She might have. She remembered tugging on it, the feel of that stupid ‘C’ patch slightly rougher in her hands than the rest of the fabric and she couldn’t really remember the rest of it, had been far too focused on getting him to make that one particular sound again.

“Did you know he was a foster kid too?” Emma asked suddenly and Mary Margaret’s head snapped up when she shook it. “Yeah,” she continued, tugging on her lower lip and that might have been more important than the kiss or how nice it had been to actually have someone very obviously want to kiss her.

“He told you that?” Mary Margaret asked, letting out a low whistle when Emma nodded.

“He’s got a whole family too. The brother, Liam, his name is Liam, and two sisters and there were twins involved somewhere and even Robin’s kid seemed to know him on some sort of always around level. He practically launched himself at Killian when he ran into the film room.” “It’s a different kind of team than LA.” “Yeah,” Emma mumbled. “I’m getting that.”

The store clerk was back and had added toe-tapping to the glaring and the waiting and Emma made a significant face at Mary Margaret who just rolled her eyes. “I guess we better try on some dresses,” she said.

“No gowns.”

“That won’t work for Central Park.” “That was for real?” “There’s a castle in Central Park, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, pushing herself up off the ground and holding her hand out. Emma took it, grin spreading across her face and it was so perfect she couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t thought of it herself.

“You’re going to get married at a castle?” “And you don’t have to wear a gown.” “Perfect.”

She bought a dress.

That hadn’t really been the plan – they were supposed to be getting ideas and sticking to some sort of early-summer blue color scheme, whatever that meant – but Emma had tried on the dress and the clerk had actually gasped and Mary Margaret had tears in her eyes and it had been as perfect as the idea of holding a Blanchard-Nolan wedding at a castle in Central Park. She probably wouldn’t even need to get alterations.

That felt like some sort of dress-related sign and at this point Emma was willing to accept just about anything from the universe.

It was blue.

Of course it was blue.

But it wasn’t Rangers blue and Emma kind of hated herself for even considering that phrase, but it was lighter than the blue seats in the Garden and it hit just below her knees and cinched around her waist and, well, it fit.

It fit really well.

Mary Margaret was totally crying.

“Stop it, Reese’s,” Emma laughed, glancing up at her tearful reflection in the mirrors she’d been paraded in front of. “It’s just a dress.” “I know, I know, it just looks really good.” “Not half bad, huh?”

“Not by a long shot.”

So she bought the dress and only cringed slightly when they swiped her credit card, still not entirely used to the new job or the paycheck that had showed up in her bank account two days before.

No more transitioning.

Emma Swan was going to put down some goddamn roots. And she was going to wear this very well-fitting dress at a castle in Central Park and smile for pictures and she totally wasn’t jealous. At all.

It was going to be fine. Great. It was going to be great.

And Emma was half certain Mary Margaret was ready to drop the conversation about Killian Jones and how good he was at kissing, walking towards the subway with a dress bag clutched in her hands. It was the other half that, apparently, was the problem.

“You know he’s not like the other two,” Mary Margaret said suddenly, catching Emma’s wrist and staring at her meaningfully.

“Who?” “Killian.” “Reese’s.” “I know, I know no planning and setting up and I’m not, really, I’m just saying. He’s a good guy and he’s always been good to Ariel and he’s always kind of been odd man out on the team.” “Just because he’s the only person on this team who doesn’t want to date within Madison Square Garden doesn’t make him particularly odd.”

“I’m not saying that,” Mary Margaret argued and Emma rolled her eyes. “I’m not. I’m just saying…” “What?” “He told you about Liam.” “David told me about Liam.” “He told you about his family. The foster parents and the sisters.” Emma scrunched her nose and Mary Margaret looked triumphant on the corner of Delancey Street. “He was being friendly.” “You tell him anything like that?” Of course not.

Emma had barely even told Mary Margaret that and it had taken four years of shared dorm room and several drunken nights before she’d even felt remotely comfortable entertaining the idea of bringing up her past.

The past was messy and disappointing and if there was one thing Emma didn’t do it was wallow. She usually ran away from the wallowing.

And everything else.

“Yeah, I figured,” Mary Margaret muttered. “I’m not saying you have to or even that you should, but he’s not like the other two and, well, maybe you should text him. It’s not bad to have another friend, at least.” It wasn’t – friends were good and necessary and far too few in Emma’s life if she were being completely and depressingly honest. Except some tiny voice in the back of her mind didn’t really want to kiss any of her friends the way she wanted to kiss Killian Jones.

A lot.

She wanted to kiss him a lot.

Emma groaned and her hand was halfway in her bag, ready to grab her phone and text him and say something if only to get Mary Margaret off her back, when she realized, rather suddenly, that she didn’t have her phone.

She had her phone, but she didn’t have her work phone, the one people from the Garden were supposed to contact her on. The one with Killian’s number in it.

“Fucking fuck,” Emma mumbled under her breath, earning a quiet gasp from Mary Margaret. “I left my phone at the Garden.”

“You had your phone two seconds ago in the store.” “Nah, my work phone.” “Why do you need your work phone?” Emma eyed her meaningfully and this time the gasp was from understanding instead of a slightly antiquated reaction to swearing on the middle of the sidewalk. “So…you need it then?” “You have all the tact of blunt force trauma.” “Adorable.”

“I’m not agreeing to this, you know,” Emma said and she wasn’t sure why she was putting up such a fight. Old habits. They die hard. Or never die. Or come back from the dead. Zombie habits. She had zombie habits.

“Of course not.”

“I just, you know, need my phone.” “Sure.” “I’ve got that Garden of Dreams thing coming up.” “Of course.” “And that’s the only number Zelena has for me.”

“Makes sense.” “So...I should probably go get my phone.” “Probably.”

Emma nodded once, trying to swallow down the metaphorical butterflies that were trying to work their way out of her stomach and up her throat and, well, that was a disgusting thought. And somewhere in between butterflies and zombie habits and that knowing look on Mary Margaret’s face, she’d found some sort of determination to prove something and that might have just been her mile-wide stubborn streak, but Emma didn’t care.

She needed her phone.

And if she happened to see anyone else at the Garden, well, fine. They could talk about it. Like adults. Mature adults.

One mature adult.

Emma had run away.

“You know you could probably get uptown quicker if you hailed a cab,” Mary Margaret muttered and she was very clearly trying not to smile. “Come on, give me the dress and go get your phone and I’ll, uh, meet you at home. Ok?” “It’s your home, Reese’s. I’m just commandeering your couch.” “You know that’s not true. You are welcome to that couch for the rest of your life if you want.” “I will be off the couch before you and David get married. At least. If only for the sake of my own neck.” Mary Margaret laughed, pulling the dress bag out of Emma’s hands and resting it on her shoulder. “Take a cab and then come home and..share.” “It’s just a phone.” “Yup,” Mary Margaret agreed, throwing out her arm towards the street and a cab stopped almost immediately.

��That was impressive,” Emma muttered, sliding into the backseat and Mary Margaret just shrugged.

“Have fun or something.” She was blushing – Emma wasn’t certain she’d blushed since she was fourteen, but she was blushing and Mary Margaret still had that knowing smile on her face and the cab driver was waiting for instructions. “Uh, the Garden, thanks,” Emma sputtered as Mary Margaret slammed the door shut and the cab cut someone else off on its way back into uptown traffic.

It took fifteen minutes to skid to a stop in front of the Garden and the cab driver actually felt the need to turn around and inform her that they were there,  like Emma couldn’t see the entire stupid arena and fifty-story building in front of her.

“Thanks,” she said quickly, pushing the only cash in her wallet towards the driver and, maybe, running out of the cab and it was a weird sensation, running towards something instead of away from it and this wasn't just about the phone.

It should have been just about the phone.

She did have a Garden of Dreams thing coming up, that hadn’t been a lie, and Zelena did have her actual number, but she’d never texted on that and Emma was being almost responsible on her one day off that week, but it also wasn’t entirely about the phone and she couldn’t even lie to herself.

The nerves in the pit of her stomach made that difficult.

She swiped her ID over the security marker just inside the doors and the elevator ride to her office on the 25th floor might have been the longest of her entire life, complete with arms crossed over her chest and toe tapping and she tugged her keys out of her bag while she was walking down the hall just to make sure she didn’t waste any time.

And she didn’t.

Her phone was sitting on her desk where she’d left it the night before and it hadn’t actually died, which seemed to fit into the theme of signsshe kept finding and, well, that was that. She’d gotten her phone.

Emma’s fingers hovered over the screen for half a moment, thumb shifting back and forth until her knuckle actually cracked. She ran her tongue over her lips and this was stupid – it was a text message. She could send a text message.

She ran an entire department for an NHL team.

She could send a text message.

“Come on, Emma,” she mumbled and now she was talking to herself and she’d lost all control of this day, seeing signs where there weren’t any and she never took a cab anywhere, least of all to go get a work phone she didn’t actually need to text the captain of that same NHL team she worked for.

“Swan?” Well, fuck.

Emma rolled her head to the side to find him leaning against the open doorway to her office, feet crossed at the ankles and he was wearing sneakers, but he had his full uniform on, pads and all, and a stick in his hand.

She bit her lip and nearly dropped her phone. “Hey,” Emma said, tugging her hair back over her shoulder and Killian’s eyes fell to her fingers when the smile started to inch across her face. She put her phone down on the desk before she could actually drop it. “What are you doing here?” “I work here.” Emma rolled her eyes, but she was smiling and this would be easier if he wasn’t so goddamn charming. And he knew he was charming. He totally knew.

“Yeah, but you don’t exactly look like you just came off the ice,” Emma pointed out. “Maybe I just always look this good, even after practice.”

“You’re wearing sneakers.” “Ah, nothing gets past you, does it, Swan?” Emma shrugged, but it was mostly so she didn’t do something ridiculous like giggle and she’d lost control of the situation before the situation had really even started. “You’re right, by the way, although not completely. I did just come off the ice, but not practice ice.” “I don’t get it.” “You know those programs they sell for like $50 to fans?” She nodded. “Today was school picture day.”

She laughed anyway and it wasn’t quite a giggle, but she couldn’t get the smile off her face and he hesitated for half a beat before walking into her office. And somewhere in the back of her mind Emma dimly recalled Ruby mentioning that, organizing the day and complaining about players not being particularly gung-ho about posing for $50 program-photos in full uniform and she probably should have remembered that.

“I kind of thought you’d be there,” Killian said and Emma didn’t think she imagined the note of hope in his voice or the way his eyes ducked down towards the floor when he took another step towards her, moving in slow motion and making her pulse thud in her veins. He’d left the stick propped up against the door, one hand in his hair and the other trained at his side, pressed against his shorts like he was trying not to rest it on her waist again.

“That’s more media and PR than community relations,” Emma mumbled, sinking onto the edge of her desk. “I just get to use those photos to promo things later.”

“Are there things? For you to promo later?” “Enough to make my head spin,” she laughed. “We’re doing some stuff next week when you guys practice here, actually. GD stuff, so plan to be on your best behavior. Why? Are you volunteering again?” She tried to keep her voice light, to keep that breezy sense of confidence in the question and make it seem like it didn’t matter or she didn’t care if he did volunteer, but it didn’t really work. “Are you asking?” Killian countered and this all felt a bit like déjà vu. He was very close to her knees again.

“Maybe.” He blinked once and the smile, somehow, got more pronounced when he rocked closer to her. He didn’t move his hands though, didn’t even look at her lips, just met her gaze straight on and nodded thoughtfully like he was considering his choice of words carefully.

“I could do that,” he said and the words seemed to settle into Emma’s very center or match up with her heartbeat or something equally absurd that sounded like something Mary Margaret would have said while sitting on the floor of a Lower East Side bridal boutique. She’d never thought that before. “Yeah?”

“I don’t see why not,” Killian said. “Face of the franchise or something like that.” Emma scoffed and there hadn’t really been any tension to break, but everything felt a bit easier and her shoulders weren’t as straight when she moved towards him, hand falling on his without a word. “That ego,” she mumbled.

“I am on the cover of the program.”

“And the side of the Garden.”

“That’s more for the tourists.” “You mean to tell me you don’t actually charge $50 to take a selfie with your lifesize photo on 33rd Street?”

Killian rolled his eyes, but there was a smirk tugging on the ends of his lips and he rocked towards Emma when he looked at her, or maybe she just wanted him to. She hadn’t quite decided. She should probably decide.

“What is it you’re suggesting, love?” He really shouldn’t be able to smile like that, she thought – all wide and easy and like he actually enjoyed talking to her, the same person who’d ignored him for a week and then jumped him in the film room and then ignored him for another four days.

Emma shrugged and he bristled a bit at that, smile faltering for half a moment and eyes going just a bit more narrow than they should have been. She couldn’t quite see the blue when he did that and then she kind of hated herself for even thinking something that ridiculous.

“Why are you here, Swan?” Killian asked. “If you didn’t have to organize overpriced photo shoots?” “Did they make you actually pose?” “Yes and that didn’t answer my question.”

She scrunched her nose, teeth sinking into her bottom lip so she didn’t laugh again and her cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling so much. “It’s technically my day off.” “Still didn’t answer my question.”

“I was with Reese’s downtown, dress shopping, and I forgot my phone.” “Dress shopping?” “That’s what you got out of that?” “That’s what I’m taking out of it.” Emma tried to take a deep breath – in through her nose, out through her mouth – but it kind of stuttered a bit and the heel of her boot skidded against the floor when she moved, shoulders shaking just a bit with laughter.

Jeez. He was charming.

And he was going to think she was insane if she kept laughing this much, but he kept looking at her like she was the most interesting thing he’d seen all day and, possibly longer than that, and neither one of them had mentioned the film room and maybe they didn’t have to. Maybe they could actually just be friends.

“It’s very blue,” Emma said. “But it’s not bad. As far as maid of honor dresses go.” “I’m sure you’d look good in any dress Mary Margaret forced you in.” Emma’s mouth dropped open a fraction of an inch and she didn’t laugh, kind of just exhaled, breath rushing out of her in one vaguely loud huff. Killian’s eyes went wide, hand back in his hair and gaze back on his sneakers as he took a step away from her like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d said.

That whole friends idea was going great.

Her lip was bleeding. She had actually bitten her lip and she was moving before she’d even thought about it, one hand on his jersey and the other wrapped around his neck and he blinked twice before she kissed him again.

It took approximately two seconds for him to respond, hands back on her waist and fingers ghosting along the edge of her shirt and Emma didn’t have heels on this time, pressed up on tiptoes to reach him and push her hands into his hair.

And he made that noise again – that mix between a sigh and a groan and something that might have been classified as want and Emma wanted him too, maybe a bit more desperately than she’d allowed herself to believe in the last ninety-six hours.

The door was still open.

There was a hockey stick propped up against her office door and this hadn’t really been the plan, but he kept smiling at her and making her laugh and he thought she’d look good in whatever and Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually believed a compliment.

She believed Killian Jones.

Easily.

As easily as, it appeared, it was to fall back into kissing him.

His tongue did something wholly unfair against her bottom lip and Emma’s breath caught in her throat and everything seemed to shift again and all her talk had been just that, complete talk, because she was absolutely breaking the rules.

She would probably keep doing it.

Eventually she had to breathe and Emma pulled herself away, ignoring the quiet sigh Killian let out when she did, but he didn’t actually let her move too far, hands tightening just a bit on her hips and she could feel fingers on skin when her shirt moved a very particular way.

It made her gasp.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, not sure what else to say and not expecting him to laugh at the word. “What?” “Did you just honestly apologize for kissing me, love?” Killian asked, eyebrows low when he leaned back to stare at her skeptically. Emma shrugged, mouth twisted into a grimace. “You don’t need to do that,” he added, voice soft and the sound settled into the pit of her stomach, smothering out the inexplicable nerves that had been there a few minutes before.

“I mean I did say one-time thing.” “Don’t forget the never calling either,” Killian said, muttering the words against her ear when he dragged his lips across her jaw. She gasped again. “A guy could get a complex.” “It’s just...this,” Emma waved her hand next to them, still pressed up against the front of her desk and the door was still wide open. “There are supposed to be rules.”

“A fact I’m aware of.” “And?” “And I told you not to apologize for kissing me.” Emma shifted and he groaned slightly when she moved her hips to try and actually sit on the desk again, eyeing her meaningfully and it was all blue and emotional and he didn’t blink when he looked at her. He looked confident.

“So…” Emma mumbled, trailing off on the word. Killian’s hand was was still on her hip, fingers finding skin just above the top of her jeans and they tightened slightly when he smiled at her. Smirked at her.

He kept smirking at her.

“So,” Killian repeated and somewhere in between the kissing and the being vaguely charmed, Emma was also slightly annoyed because he appeared to enjoy making her sigh dramatically as much he kept trying to get her to laugh.

“The rules.” “Personal or?” Emma lowered her eyebrows, confusion shooting through her and maybe something that also might have been fear because there were only three people in the entire city of New York who knew exactly what had happened with Neal. And one of them just happened to work at Madison Square Garden and everyone on this team seemed to know everything about each other.

“I mean,” Emma muttered, “I don’t think it’s really covered in the employee handbook, but HR could probably figure it out. You don’t happen to know anyone in that department do you? Someone who’s also married to an assistant coach or knows Ariel and eats at that restaurant too?” Killian eyed her meaningfully and she’d jumped so quickly from making out in her office to the deep end of sarcasm that Emma was certain she actually had whiplash. “I don’t know anyone in HR, actually,” he said lightly and she could practically feel the sarcasm evaporate and she was firmly back back in square of being charmed.

“Which leaves us?” He moved before she was ready for it, hand gripping her waist just a bit tighter than normal, thumb brushing along the bottom of her spine and he kissed her.

And Emma might have gasped or tried to take another deep breath and, well, if that was where it left them, then she wasn’t going to argue with it. She shifted against him, body fitting against his hips and Killian’s hand was back in her hair and Emma’s arm had found its way back around his waist and she could feel him everywhere – in the middle of her office, two weeks after she’d started a brand-new job and the door was still open.

She’d, officially, lost control of her life.

It wasn’t quite as... as as it had been before, softer and more cautious and she could feel the nerves and the distinct lack of definition. Neither one of them moved once they’d stopped doing...whatever this was – making out,  her mind supplied, the clinical definition of this was making out – and they were wholly within each other’s space when the heels came down the hallway and stopped in the still-open doorway.

“Em?” Ruby asked and Killian took a shaky step away from her, eyes boring a hole in the floor. Ruby’s eyes scanned across the office and if she had any suspicions as to what had been going on five seconds before she didn’t actually voice them. Emma thanked several different religious figures for that. “What are you doing here?” “I forgot my phone.” Ruby pursed her lips, gaze darting back towards Killian, who hadn’t actually said anything in what felt like several hours. “Did you get a dress?”

“Yup. It’s very blue.”

“Ugh, I tried to get her off that scheme and no luck.” “Mary Margaret can be very determined,” Emma muttered, eyes flashing back towards the professional hockey player just a few feet away from her. God, she needed Ruby to get out of her office. And then maybe Emma needed to get out of her office. It was very warm in there. What a fucking cliché .

“Right, right,” Ruby continued, lower lip sticking out slightly. She absolutely knew what she’d almost walked into. God. “Anyway, I came up here because Killian tried to blow off team shoots and Mulan’s having a conniption downstairs.” “You tried to blow off team shoots?” Emma repeated and Killian’s eyes flashed towards her, smile back on his face and her stomach flipped in a way it hadn’t since she was a teenager.

He shrugged, tugging on the bottom of his jersey. “It’s just been a lot of photos.” “It’s the same every year, Killian,” Ruby said. “I”m not sure why you thought this year would be different.” Another shrug. Ruby groaned, rolling her eyes as she stalked back towards the hallway. “Three minutes or I’ll get Mulan up here and she’ll beat you up.” “She probably could,” Killian agreed as Ruby’s heels turned faint and he rocked back his heels.

“Seems wrong to tempt fate again, then,” Emma said. “Were we tempting fate before?” “Twice now.” “I’d be willing to go for a third.” Her stomach was doing somersaults and could probably win Olympic gold in the all-around at this point, but Emma just pressed her lips together and tried to not laugh like some sort of vaguely romantic lunatic.

“Go take your team photo, Jones. I want it for my GD event later this week, anyway.” He cocked one eyebrow and nodded slowly, taking a step away from her to grab his stick behind his back. “Ah, well, of course then. I’m glad you got your phone, Swan.” She’d moved with him almost unconsciously, following him back towards the doorway and apparently, fuck the rules,  because she pressed up on her toes and appreciated the way Killian’s eyes widened slightly before she brushed her lips across his. “I’ll see you later,” she said and he nodded once again.

She sank into the corner of Mary Margaret’s couch, hair piled on her head and mug of hot chocolate in her hand and two different cell phones sitting on the coffee table in front of her. Emma pulled her feet up underneath her, staring at both phones like they held the secrets to the entire universe.

She wasn’t normally this dramatic.

She sighed, trying to make sure it wasn’t too loud with Mary Margaret and David asleep just around the corner, and grabbed the work phone in front of her, hitting two buttons and typing before she could really think about it.

That appeared to be a trend for the day.

How’d it go?

It took twenty-two seconds for him to respond and she could hear the smirk in his text.

I’m going to assume this 212 number is you Swan and not some crazed stalker.

Do you get a lot of stalkers?

Do you always ask frustratingly vague questions without actually saying who you are?

You knew it was me.

Ask a more specific question.

Did Mulan kill you? Mulan loves me.

When you don’t blow off team photo shoots.

I went back. That seems to fly in the face of your argument. And it was fine. I’ll steal you a program.

I could probably steal one myself. Or get one. I’d probably get one, right? Probably.

It went on like that for what felt like half the night, texting back and forth like they were teenagers and she fell asleep somewhere in the realm of two in the morning, hot chocolate long gone and phone clutched in her hand.

And when her alarm went off the next morning – far too early and far too loudly – Emma had another message on her work phone.

I’m glad you got your phone, Swan.

[argotmagazine-blog]

The Extraordinary Longevity of Ordinary Objects

A couple of months ago, I moved for the first time in five years. What surprised me the most, other than high rent prices in the Bay Area and the extent to which the landscape had changed compared to my childhood memories, was the amount of stuff I had accumulated. I kept a lot of crap, no longer discarding my unnecessary belongings by moving to a new apartment every year, or moving back to my parents' for the summer in between school years. Stuff that I honestly forgot I had. Old lipsticks and eye shadows that had dried out, bed sheets from my dorm life, batteries of all types, so numerous I couldn't tell the difference between the charged one or the dead ones. Old IKEA boxes we had latched onto "for moving" and how we were loathe to get rid of such things, because "We might need it later." It felt expensive and wasteful throwing things away when you can't afford to replace them and might need them "later."

Dust collected in the corners of our towers of belongings, trapping us in a cathedral of forgotten goods. There would be one path in and out, so my wife and I would have to scoot out of one place if another wanted to walk by. Rarely would guests come over, simply because there wasn’t much space for a comfortable visit. When your bed becomes the center of meaning in your apartment, the place where your meals are consumed, words are written, as well as the majority of your time at home, it was not unlike living in a dorm room, with the  feeling that I was in this purgatory of an undergraduate lifestyle.

All this stuff didn't make me happy. It bothered me. I felt like I was kept hostage by all my stuff and couldn't move freely throughout my living space. I would trip and inevitably cause a tower of carefully placed mail, magazines, and promotional keychains cascading to the floor, another mess to tiptoe around and later, pick up. My elbows would brush against another precarious stack invariably five minutes later. No, we weren't hoarders. Just living in a rent-controlled basement studio apartment in San Francisco. The golden handcuffs, where you couldn't move without paying exorbitantly more in monthly rent and having the requisite six roommates to make that said monthly rent. When we found our one bedroom, one bathroom in Berkeley, it felt like an opening for a new beginning. We could finally get our cat, couch, and a coat rack, a mantra my wife and I said to each other while lying in our full size bed. It may not sound like much, but it's the little things that make a difference when you have little space.

I learned where I got it from once my father helped us move. He brought my old space heater that kept me warm when I was child in the early 90s. I couldn't believe my eyes that this rickety radiator adjacent appliance had outlasted our years in my childhood home, kept among the debris of old soccer trophies, swim team ribbons, and sheets of piano music. When I went back to my parents apartment to gather my books that had been patiently waiting for me to have enough room for them five years later, I sorted through the artifacts of their own dreams too expensive to discard; sheets wrapped in plastic envelopes, sustainably sourced bamboo wooden spoons still in their mesh packaging, a Nutribullet in mint condition, and other various "as seen on TV" kitchen gadgets. So many new things just waiting to be used when the older version "wore out."

Clearly this is not limited to my wife and I. As soon as we moved to Berkeley, we noticed new phenomena that people just…left stuff in front of other houses; old cribs, couches, a nonfunctional microwave. Buildings had signs emblazoned with "No Dumping" which finally made sense as we walked along hand in hand amongst the flotsam and jetsam of our street. Why would people just leave things for someone else to deal with, rather than throw them out themselves? I didn’t understand how people could offload their responsibility of stuff on others. However, getting rid of stuff is expensive. Junk removal costs money, city infrastructure for recycling costs tax dollars in short supply. It's easier to throw it away in landfill for those who are not fortunate enough to live in a wealthy city with new and developing recycling programs like San Francisco (for example, you can now recycle coffee cups in SF, plastic lid, sleeve and all).

But first, we needed to get rid of a lot of shit that wouldn't fit in the new apartment. We had old clothes, shoes, appliances, electronics, and tons of promotional items to get rid of (don't ever accept a free tote bag, y'all!). And we wanted to do it sustainably, instead of throwing away everything into landfill. For one, there wasn't enough room as we were moving because our landlord died. Her children were dealing with a lifetime's worth of belongings by cramming everything into the garbage bin week by week. 81 years of living cannot be discarded in any meaningful way with this method. Ultimately, they hired junk removers but when we left; her children still weren't finished. They had just excavated the garage, jaws dropping at the sight of old Elizabeth Arden face cream from 1985, vintage furs moulding in the San Francisco fog, and so many rusted cans of paint. The story of stuff is nothing new. We only take ourselves to the grave, leaving behind our lives in belongings for our descendents to manage.

You've found these formerly owned possessions before in your local thrift store, on the sidewalk, and in your home. We define ourselves by material, what we wear, and how they are signifiers of our identities,, rather than by our actions and what we say. I recall reading "If you're holding onto something out of guilt, get rid of it." There was so much guilt in all the possessions I held onto. The potential of what I could be, who I would be held in the promise of smaller sized clothing, clothes I made for myself that ended up being unwearable, and the things my mother purchased for me, forming me into her ideal image of a daughter. I tried to purge myself of these as I moved to Berkeley, to shed an old skin, so I could grow a new one, tender under the sun.

Textiles, the new frontier for recycling in San Francisco, became easier than ever to rid ourselves of, no longer beholden to the gatekeepers at Crossroads or Buffalo exchange to give us paltry dollars in exchange for our outdated threads. We could just put our clean fabric and unwanted clothes in a clear plastic bag, and it could go in the blue recycling bin. Before 2018, we had to go to retail clothing stores that had a bin for recycled textiles, but the bins would always be full to bursting. After all, fast fashion is a booming and toxic industry, with most synthetic petroleum based fibers taking decades to decompose. The average American throws away 68 pounds of textiles per year. Inundated with messages about our dwindling resources, San Francisco citizens wanted to do their part. But the infrastructure couldn't meet the demand.

With 45 in the White House, the EPA loosening restrictions for air pollution, and Jakarta sinking due the rising waters of climate change, as citizens of the human species we can no longer grant an all access pass to the stuff that comes into our lives. Ideally, everyone's carbon footprint would be zero, there would be no single use plastics, and we would bring our own reusable coffee cups to every café. But that is not the reality. Consumer capitalism encourages us to participate effectively by marketing everything to us. Flyers that withstand the rain have a special plastic coating are now unrecyclable. The advent of online shopping and Amazon have increased the amount of cardboard our local recycling facilities intake every day. As I write this on top of Grizzly Peak overlooking the entire Bay Area, there are rusted bottle caps, cigarette butts, bits of broken glass littering the ground next to my feet. Human brought these with them. And they left them behind.

What do you do with your shoelaces, once you are done with them? The plastic ends of the shoelaces doesn't allow for it to be textile recycled, you can't recycle the plastic coating bits in your home recycling bin. So you throw them away. Teabags with staples cannot be composted, or recycled, so into the trash it goes. What about all those plastic eyeliner pencils you don't have to sharpen but just twist up? So convenient! Yet into the trash bin it goes, because we haven't figure out a way to recycle those either. It goes back to the manufacturer, the research and design process, with items being invented to collect your dollars, short-term profits, and your customer loyalty over the next organization marketing a lifestyle, a way of looking, or even just eating. The brands that are trying, such as Lush Cosmetics, are incredibly popular thanks to their green-washing marketing. Environmentalism is also feminist issue, as the majority of women produce, grow, and feed the world as well as fulfill the roles as nurturers of their families. We will all be subject to rising tides, volatile weather that will harm crop production, affect where humans can live, and what we can eat. But ultimately, stakeholder profits are on the line and sustainability is simply, too expensive and seen as repressing innovation. Just ask Trump.

Every single item of human origin needs to have a method of disposal for it to be considered "sustainable." Despite this fact, during product research and design, the main factor is often marketability, user-friendliness, and built-in obsolescence for when the company wants you to upgrade; not whether the packaging will decompose in a short amount of time or a made from durable materials. Other countries, such as India, are already considering this in their industrial processes. Yet America is heading in the opposite direction and has pulled out of the Paris Agreement regarding climate change. What can we do?

You can start in your very own community. Find the person in your apartment complex who keeps throwing away their plastic bottles in the trash can…or the compost. Strike up a conversation, teach them about recycling or be the person who volunteers at your recycling center. It will change the way you view our mass consumption habits. Clean up your neighborhood by picking up litter with your friends. I promise you, it’s there if you take a second look. Humans did this to the Earth, but we can fix it. Repair items, instead of throwing away and replacing them. Stop impulse-purchasing stuff that will go out of fashion in a season. Do you really need that polyester unicorn headband that you're only using for one outfit? It's not the amount of objects and possessions you surround yourself with that matter, but whether it improves your quality of life. My wife and I were trapped by our belongings in our old home. In some ways, we still are in our new one. Stacks of DVDs, sewing supplies, and other abandoned hobbies when we had time for them have followed us into the new apartment. Yet we still haven't unpacked them because, well, there's no place for them to go.

There is something awe-inspiring that despite our best intentions, our human bodies don't remain on this earth nearly as long as the plastic items that we used. Awe-inspiring and awful in its longevity.

Dust collected in the corners of our towers of belongings, trapping us in a cathedral of forgotten goods, not unlike the Room of Requirement where Draco practiced his vanishing cabinets in The Half-Blood Prince. There would be one path in and out, so my wife and I would have to scoot out of one place if another wanted to walk by. Rarely would guests come over, simply because there was not much space for a comfortable visit. When your bed becomes the center of meaning in your apartment, the place where your meals are consumed, words are written, as well as the majority of your time at home, it was not unlike living in a dorm room, still feeling like I was in this purgatory of an undergraduate lifestyle. 

All this stuff didn't make me happy. It bothered me. I felt like I was kept hostage by all my stuff and couldn't move freely throughout my living space. I would trip and inevitably cause a tower of carefully placed mail, magazines, and promotional key chains cascading to the floor, another mess to tiptoe around and later, pick up. My elbows would brush against another precarious stack invariably five minutes later. No, we weren't hoarders. Just living in a rent-controlled basement studio apartment in San Francisco. The golden handcuffs, where you couldn't move without paying exorbitantly more in monthly rent and having the requisite six roommates to make that said monthly rent. When we found our 1 bedroom, 1 bathroom in Berkeley, it felt like an opening for a new beginning. We could finally get our cat, couch, and a coat rack, a mantra my wife and I said to each other while lying in our full-size bed. It may not sound like much, but it's the little things that make a difference when you have little space. 

I learned where I got it from once my father helped us move. He brought the old space heater that kept me warm when I was a child in the early 90s. I couldn't believe my eyes that this rickety radiator adjacent appliance had outlasted our years in my childhood home, kept among the debris of old soccer trophies, swim team ribbons, and sheets of piano music. When I went back to my parents apartment to gather my books that had been patiently waiting for me to have enough room for them five years later, I sorted through the artifacts of their own dreams too expensive to discard; sheets wrapped in plastic envelopes, sustainably sourced bamboo wooden spoons still in their mesh packaging, a Nutribullet in mint condition, and other various "as seen on TV" kitchen gadgets. So many new things just waiting to be used when the older version "wore out."

Clearly this is not limited to only my wife and I. As soon as we moved to Berkeley, we noticed new phenomena that people just…left stuff in front of other houses; old cribs, couches, a nonfunctional microwave. Buildings had signs emblazoned with "No Dumping" which finally made sense as we walked along hand in hand amongst the flotsam and jetsam of our street. Why would people just leave things for someone else to deal with, rather than throw them out themselves? I didn’t understand how people could offload their responsibility of stuff on others. However, getting rid of stuff is expensive. Junk removal costs money, city infrastructure for recycling costs tax dollars in short supply. It's easier to throw it away in landfill for those who are not fortunate enough to live in a wealthy city with new and developing recycling programs like San Francisco (for example, you can now recycle coffee cups in SF, plastic lid, sleeve and all).

But first, we needed to get rid of a lot of shit that wouldn't fit in the new apartment. We had old clothes, shoes, appliances, electronics, and tons of promotional items to get rid of (don't ever accept a free tote bag, y'all!). And we wanted to do it sustainably, instead of throwing away everything into the landfill bin. For one, there wasn't enough room as we were moving because our landlord died. Her children were dealing with a lifetime's worth of belongings by cramming everything into the garbage bin week by week. 81 years of living cannot be discarded in any meaningful way with this method. Ultimately, they hired junk removers but when we left; her children still weren't finished. They had just excavated the garage, jaws dropped at the sight of old Elizabeth Arden face cream from 1985, vintage furs molding in the San Francisco fog, and so many rusted cans of paint. The story of stuff is nothing new. We only take ourselves to the grave, leaving behind our lives in possessions for our descendants to manage. 

You've found these formerly owned possessions before in your local thrift store, on the sidewalk, and in your home. We define ourselves by our possessions, what we wear, and how they are signifiers of our identities, rather than by our actions and what we say. I recall reading "If you're holding onto something out of guilt, get rid of it." There was so much guilt in all the possessions I held onto. The potential of what I could be, who I would be held in the promise of smaller sized clothing, clothes I made for myself that ended up being unwearable, and the things my mother purchased for me, forming me into her ideal image of a daughter. Yet I tried to purge myself of these as I moved to Berkeley, to shed an old skin, so I could grow a new one, tender under the sun.

Textiles, the new frontier for recycling in San Francisco, became easier than ever to rid ourselves of, no longer beholden to the gatekeepers at Crossroads or Buffalo exchange to give us paltry dollars in exchange for our outdated threads. We could just put our clean fabric and unwanted clothes in a clear plastic bag, and it could go in the blue recycling bin. Before 2018, we had to go to retail clothing stores that had a bin for recycled textiles, but the bins would always be full to bursting. After all, fast fashion is a booming toxic industry, with most synthetic petroleum-based fibers taking decades to decompose. The average American throws away 68 pounds of textiles per year. Inundated with messages about our dwindling resources, San Francisco citizens wanted to do their part. But the infrastructure couldn't meet the demand.

With 45 in the White House, the EPA loosening restrictions for air pollution, and Jakarta sinking due to the rising waters of climate change, as citizens of the human species we can no longer grant an all-access pass to the stuff that comes into our lives. Ideally, everyone's carbon footprint would be zero, there would be no single-use plastics, and we would bring our own reusable coffee cups to every café. But that is not the reality. Consumer capitalism encourages us to participate effectively by marketing everything to us. Flyers that withstand the rain have a special plastic coating are now unrecyclable. The advent of Google Express and Amazon have increased the amount of cardboard our local recycling facilities intake every day. As I write this on top of Grizzly Peak overlooking the entire Bay Area, there are rusted bottle caps, cigarette butts, bits of broken glass littering the ground next to my feet. Human brought these with them. And they left them behind.

What do you do with your shoelaces, once you are done with them? The plastic ends of the shoelaces don't allow for it to be textile recycled, you can't recycle the plastic coating bits in your home recycling bin. So you throw them away. Teabags with staples cannot be composted, or recycled, so into the trash it goes. What about all those plastic eyeliner pencils you don't have to sharpen but just twist up? So convenient! Yet into the trash bin it goes, because we haven't figure out a way to recycle those either. It goes back to the manufacturer, the research, and design process, with items being invented to collect your dollars, short-term profits, and your customer loyalty over the next organization marketing a lifestyle, a way of looking, or even just eating. The brands that are trying, such as Lush Cosmetics, are incredibly popular thanks to their green-washing marketing. Environmentalism is also a feminist issue, as the majorities of women produce, grow, and feed the world as well as fulfill the roles as nurturers of their families. We will all be subject to rising tides, volatile weather that will harm crop production, affect where humans can live, and what we can eat. But ultimately, stakeholder profits are on the line and sustainability is simply, too expensive and seen as repressing innovation. Just ask Trump.

Every single item of human origin needs to have a method of disposal for it to be considered "sustainable." Despite this fact, during product research and design, the main factor is often marketability, user-friendliness, and built-in obsolescence for when the company wants you to upgrade; not whether the packaging will decompose in a short amount of time or a made from durable materials. Other countries, such as India, are already considering this in their industrial processes. Yet America is heading in the opposite direction and has pulled out of the Paris Agreement regarding climate change. What can we do?

First, you can start in your very own community. Find out whom the person in your apartment complex who keeps throwing away their plastic bottles in the trash can…or the compost. Strike up a conversation, teach them about recycling or be the person who volunteers are your recycling center. It will change the way you view our mass consumption habits. Clean up your neighborhood by picking up litter with your friends. I promise you, its there if you take a second look. Humans did this to the Earth, but we can fix it. Repair items, instead of throwing away and replacing them. Stop impulse-purchasing stuff that will go out of fashion in a season. Do you really need that polyester unicorn headband that you're only using for one outfit? It's not the amount of objects and possessions you surround yourself with that matter, but whether it improves your quality of life. My wife and I were trapped by our possession in our old home. In some ways, we still are in our new one. Stacks of DVDs, sewing supplies, and other abandoned hobbies when we had time for them followed us into the new apartment. Yet we still haven't unpacked them because, well, there's no place for them to go.

There is something awe-inspiring that despite our best intentions, our human vessels don't remain on this earth nearly as long as the plastic items that we used. Awe-inspiring and awful in its longevity.

Dena Rod is an Iranian American writer, editor, and poet. They're a graduate of San Francisco State University, where they received a Master’s Degree in English Literature. You can find more of their work in CCSF’s Forum Literary Magazine, Endangered Species, Enduring Values: An Anthology of San Francisco Area Writers and Artists of Color, and the upcoming anthology Iran Musings: Stories and Memories from the Iranian Diaspora (Release Date: 2019).