#and i could never be a lawyer. real debates make me cry

[lvminae]

It's impossible for me to know how people perceive me because I've had people online tell me I'm intimidating, but I can't see it because I have Mental Illness so I just perceive myself as a tired and very strange but nonthreatening mess

[rileysramblings]

Epiphany [Part 1 // Chapter 3]

Billy Russo x Unnamed Female Character

Summary: She finds herself in a bar, lonely, sad, reflective on her life and her choices. 

CAUTION IS RECOMMENDED - Warnings: angst, anxiety, depression, mention of low self-worth, swearing (a lot).

Side Note: Alright guys, you are the best of the best. I cannot thank you enough for all your messages, your likes and your reblogs. You are all so nice and amazing. THANK YOU!! This one marks the end of Part 1. I already have Part 2 planned out, I just need to move my ass and write it! While that happens, enjoy Chapter 3 and as always please feel free to tell me what you think!

←Previous Chapter

Chapter 3 -- The Name.

Lies. Lies. Lies. Everybody lied. 

The bottle in her hands was half full, it wasn’t her first. Her fingers were caressing the glass, slowly toying with the condensation as she was stuck in a whirlwind of hideous thoughts she’d rather push further down but knew needed to get out. A conversation she procrastinated to have with herself for so long, she was now in such a predicament, her life started to look like the butt of a ridiculous joke. 

Was it attracted to her? Was she somehow a magnet to deceit and misrepresentation? The few relationships she’d had all ended badly. Whatever she did, whatever she changed, it all ended up the same way. Her crying over fast food because of some guy her friends would later describe as ‘that asshole who didn’t deserve her’. 

Then again, somehow it felt like a coward’s way to look at things. Was she supposed to believe she had never done anything wrong? This wasn’t a movie where you knew who was the good guy and who was the bad guy. This was real life where grey areas not only existed but reigned like fucking Kings. 

She wasn’t perfect. She’d had ill-advised responses to strained situations and had said ludicrous yet controlled words to people she had cared about. In other words: stupid shitty things said and done in stupid shitty situations. 

And those disappointing relationships? Half of those failures were hers to carry. After all, she had adjusted her words, her attitude and even sometimes had tried to tailor her beliefs for those ‘assholes who didn’t deserve her’. 

She sighed and took a sip. The beer was almost flat. Figures. 

It was a nice thought though, reassuring. But telling herself over and over again that it wasn’t her fault may be helpful short term when she was knee deep in burgers, bourbon and Netflix but long term? Long term it was just painfully harmful and idiotic. Yet, the contrary thought was so repugnant she almost felt bile coming up. 

Was she attracted to it? Dishonesty, infidelity. Did she want all of that? Was she looking for it?

Tricks, ruses, illusions. Did it make her feel more, desire more? Did it make her feel more alive?

Despite all those convictions and all those principles, was she one of those persons who needed drama in order to be happy? Maybe she was seeking these people, these inaccessible and damaged people doomed to hurt her. But then again, it always ended badly and it always made her feel terrible. 

Drama didn’t make her happy. It just made her pessimism harsher. 

She twirled the bottle in her hands as another thought came to mind, one that she hated more than all her previous weak theories.

Did she make it happen? 

That would explain why she was sitting in a debatably ill advised bar, drinking alcohol she arguably shouldn't be drinking and was stupidly self introspecting while she could be trying to bring back her relationship from the dead. This will be referred to, in the future, as the Matt debacle. She could already hear herself swear and argue internally on how pathetic she made that whole story end. 

He was a good lawyer and not in the sense that he was good at his job - although he obviously was - but in the sense that he cared for people. He wanted to do good, he wanted to make a difference and she made him a liar. She made him dirty. 

It had to be her. She was the common denominator. 

Maybe she expected too much. Maybe all those bruises and those long nights were none of her business, maybe she had asked too many questions. Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut and accepted what he had told her. He was blind, he bumped into things. He was a new lawyer in a new eponymous business, he was working long hours. 

She almost wanted to believe that. In a way, it made it easier. She was the bad guy, she needed too much, had pushed too far. She was to blame. He was the victim. Black and white. Easy. Comfortable. 

Bullshit. 

She knew he was lying to her face. He was too good a person to be a good liar. And even if he hadn’t been, it was all too clear on his friends’ faces.  

Lies. 

Everywhere. 

No. For once, she had been right. Shutting her mouth would have been modifying herself once more. Not asking questions to obvious unusual events was not a normal reaction for someone who cared. And she did care. 

Had cared? Still cared?

Yes. She still cared for Matt. Of course. But it wasn’t enough. Caring wasn’t enough. Not when a certain ex-military was still mentally winking at her whenever someone was mentioning anything salicious. Not when she could still hear a certain businessman laugh in the corner of her mind when a stupid joke was uttured near her. 

She sighed as she ordered a shot of Bourbon with her refill, her gaze never really leaving the bottle of beer nearly empty in her hands. 

“Sounds good, make that two. On me.” 

She heard the voice but it took her a few seconds to realise what was happening.

The smirk had appeared on his face the moment he'd seen her. Sitting at the counter, toying with her drink, just like the first time he had met her. And no Red in sight. His day was getting better and better.

This was his second chance. She was alone. Her feet were stable against the legs of the stool she was sitting on even though her body swayed unconsciously to the rhythm of the song. 

He had inhaled deeply. A few months ago he wouldn't even have had a second thought about his next steps. He would have already been sitting next to her giving her a look that said more than any bullshit he would have charmingly spatted out. 

Yet, here he'd stood, looking at her and hoping she was as unhappy as he was. Because, if anything, he had to be honest about that at least. 

He missed her. He didn't miss people. Ever. But he missed her. 

That was a first. He wasn’t sure what to do about it. He needed to run toward her like a dehydrated fool facing an oasis in the desert, grab her and never let go. He needed to run away like a rabbit having seen the trap a few seconds before his doom, his heart in his throat and his legs heavy like a block of cement. 

Uncharted territories. Unknown dangers.

He had been to war. He had tortured and killed countless people. He had manipulated and charmed his way in and out of dangerous situations. But this. This was different. 

He had already fucked up his first chance. This needed to be the one. This needed to work. It was a challenge in a way. That’s how he had needed to approach the situation otherwise he wouldn’t have moved from his spot. 

Ready. Set. Go.

So he had walked over, his shoulder twitching slightly, and he had ordered the drinks as if she had been waiting for him. Him, unusually late for their date. “Sounds good, make that two. On me.” 

He smirked as they stared at each other. She was looking at him like he had just come out of a dream and he loved every second of it. The number of times he had imagined this moment - he was actually quite ashamed of it. 

The reason for her absence still a mystery to him, his decision of moving on decisive and absolute, yet he’d been lying on his bed - thinking about her. The lines around her eyes when she smiled, the sound of her laugh, the feel of her naked skin against his hands, her tongue against her lips, against his lips, against him. Everything about her was still haunting him and although he tried to resent it or hate it, he couldn’t. 

“You look terrible. No offense.”

Fuck you! She chuckled and her eyebrows shot up in surprise and astonishment. Not only did Billy Russo had the nerve to show up, sit down next to her and assume it would be ok, but he had the audacity to play the charming game and look good doing it.

He was smiling, proud of the effect he had on her, no doubt. She refrained from another chuckle as she shook her head slightly. She wasn’t offended. Maybe that was what pissed her off more than anything else. She wasn’t fucking offended.  

“Don’t get me wrong, your terrible is still quite nice - I just know what you look like on a usual day” Billy continued. She couldn’t stop the next chuckle but she brought her fingers to her lips as if it could cancel the abrupt show of amusement. 

Fuck. You. 

His eyes went automatically to her lips and he inhaled deeply, his smirk unmovable. She felt his gaze and could sense the pink reaching her cheeks. He let his back lean on the chair while his eyes never left her and she bit her lower lip, trying to find somewhere else to focus her attention than the gorgeous specimen that was sitting next to her, making her blush with one look and her heart beat faster with a few words. 

Dammit. This man was dangerous. 

The bartender left the drinks in front of them and took off as soon as he arrived, leaving the two of them to their smirking contest. “Well cheers to that then!” She exclaimed, raising the shot of bourbon in the air before chugging it. Billy mirrored her actions and drank the alcohol before dropping it back on the counter, his eyes still glued to the complexe woman next to him. 

Her gaze left his and he could clearly see whatever troubling reflections she had been stuck with came rushing back. He could almost see the thoughts in her head go round and round, making her sad -  distressed - anxious. Her foot had started tapping the leg of the stool at a rapid rhythm and she scrunched her nose every few seconds as if she was trying to kill the few thoughts she didn’t particularly like along the way. 

“Seriously, how are you?” He asked as her hands had gone back almost automatically to the beer bottle in front of her, her gaze somehow lost in thoughts. When she looked up, she was slightly shocked to see his smirk had lost its spark and had been replaced by a soft and genuine smile. 

“I was just taking a mental inventory of my life,” she started with a not so genuine cheerful smile, “and I’m slowly but surely arriving at the conclusion that I do not make good and healthy choices!” She chuckled, her eyes back on the bottle in front of her. 

“You did stop answering my calls!”

A genuine laugh escaped her and she tilted her head to look at him once more, biting her lip  and smirking. “That would probably not make the list, no, I don’t think so.”

“Ow, mean.” Billy chuckled, bringing his hand to his heart feigning an injury. She shook her head, still smiling, yet dismissing his last comment. 

“What kind of unhealthy choices are we talking about here?”

“Oh you know the usual. Replacing my lack of confidence with putting the other person first even when it means changing myself in the hope the relationship will go on even though it is making me miserable.” She said in one breath not taking her eyes off the beer in her hands. 

Billy frowned and tilted his head as if to examine her. As if suddenly he wasn’t quite sure he was talking to the same girl who had danced to Creedence Clearwater Revival in her sexy mismatched underwear in front of him, before sitting on his lap, raising her eyebrow suggestively and quoting Billy the Kid vs Dracula to him ‘But he isn’t a man!’, a laugh threatening to burst before she could finish.

 “That doesn’t sound like you.”

She stayed silent for a second, thinking it over. It was true. It didn’t sound like her. Or at least, it didn’t sound like the girl she had been when with him. When she had met Billy Russo, since the first eye contact, he had been strikingly kind, expertly charming and so effortlessly welcoming that all stress and all overthinking had disappeared. No. Not disappear. It didn’t disappear because it never actually appeared in the first place. 

Billy had made her feel comfortable from the very first second they spent together. That had never happened before, or since. Now, to be fair, she hadn’t been uncomfortable with the others. Matt, for example, had never ever made her feel uncomfortable. Yet, there was always this thing that made it difficult. Extra work. A sort of uneasy-ness. 

She sighed and his shoulder twitched.

The longer she stayed silent, the harder he found it to stay still. He fought every cell in his body to keep his calm exterior when his brain was all but serene. How come a person could be everything she seemed to be at first glance and everything contrary to it as well? 

His understanding of her had collapsed more times that he was happy about. He was usually so good at having a good grasp of a person’s psyche after a few seconds of meeting them that it was as annoying as it was interesting not understanding her. 

Yet, that terrible thought leaving an unforgiving disgusting aftertaste in his mouth raged in his mind. Maybe he had her all wrong since the first moment. Maybe she had been replacing her lack of confidence by putting him first even when it meant changing herself in the hope the relationship will go on even though it was making her miserable. 

Maybe she had been miserable. 

All the smiles. All the laughs. They all came rushing back into his mind giving him whiplash. It wasn’t supposed to be this serious. She was supposed to be a distraction from all his work, from all the worries, from all the deaths. 

But then, she started talking and he would listen. And he would talk in return. Talking about his childhood and how it had changed him. How the trauma of his younger years had built him. All those difficult conversations that no one wanted to have. All those difficult feelings no one wanted to hear, even less feel. He had never even tried to speak about them. He knew better. 

But she had spoken about her childhood, about her fears and broken dreams and somehow, it didn’t feel as impossible to talk about his as well. And he did. And she kept on looking at him the same way she used to do before his ugly tales had escaped his lips. And it had felt better than anything in the world. 

The thought that she didn’t mean it. The thought she had actually lied to him. That she looked him in the eyes and faked understanding his feelings. That she stared at him and faked liking him despite his history. It felt as if he just got shot. The bullet hitting him from the side, piercing his lungs and slowly making its way to his heart every time he tried to breathe.

Was it what it felt like? Betrayal? Love? 

All the smiles. All the laughs.

Lies.

Everywhere.

As per fucking usual.

“That’s probably the worst part. I wasn’t like that with you.” She finally spoke and Billy released the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. It felt like he had been stuck underwater only to be rushed abruptly to the surface. His breath was rough although he tried to hide it and his eyes shot up as startled as he was perplexed. 

She hadn’t lied. Not this time. Not her. He had been right. She didn’t lie to him, to everyone else but not him. And he didn’t manipulate her, everyone else but not her. 

Both of them unknowingly making an exception of the other person. 

The sheer delight of the news was crushed as soon as it came to be when Billy finally heard her words as she spoke them and not as he hoped them. 

The worst part. Her, liking him for who he was. Her, not being afraid of acting like herself. Her, leaving without a word, a text, anything. 

He had been right thinking there was more to it than just a girl not wanting to continue the strange little relationship they had unofficially started. A strange little relationship that still kept him awake in the middle of the night, even after it ended. 

The worst part… The worst part was that she might have not lied when she was around but she still left without an explanation. They had talked about their fears and traumas but it didn’t even cross her mind that abandoning him would not hurt just as much as a lie. Maybe more. 

“Why did you leave?” He asked, the honesty mixed with anger and hurt dripping from every pore of his body and as she looked at him, she let herself feel bad.

It never occurred to her that she might have hurt him that day as she’d left his office, never looking back. But could she have? The question was legitimate. After all, he was the one chasing after other women when they were doing… whatever it was they were doing. It wasn’t like he was doing it in secret, he had made that call right in the middle of his office, his door practically wide open. Alright. Maybe not wide open. Still, he had to know why she left. Didn’t he?

As she looked into his eyes, sitting at the counter of a poorly lit bar, she couldn’t help but feel that he had no clue what had really transpired that day, what it had meant to her and what it had done to her sanity. So she would have to say it - out loud. Just the thought of it made her want to throw up. 

“I was falling in love with you and you weren’t.”

His back was leaning on the small backrest, his right hand holding the beer bottle, one of his feet resting on one of the legs of the stool and his lower lip between his teeth. He took a big inhale and crossed his arms, his eyes never leaving her. 

The lies, or absence of them, didn’t matter any longer. She disregarded everything they had gained - shared - felt and left him with a handful of pieces from a puzzle he didn’t know existed but had had to solve on his own. 

He was hurt. He was angry. “What makes you think I didn’t?”

His words surprised her, shocked her even. Her fingers that had been caressing the glass of the bottle in her hands had suddenly stopped any movement, her legs bouncing rapidly against the stool cessed all actions and without even acknowledging it, she held her breath as if her life depended on it. 

It was bizarre how much power that man held over her. Seeing him so still, visibly irritated or even angry at her. She felt bad as she started to doubt her past actions and thoughts. 

Had she been the one in the wrong? She could have been more open about why she left.  Maybe she should have answered one of his calls to explain and have what healthy people would call closure. Had she been the rude one, the insensitive one? 

No. She took a deep inhale and closed her eyes for a second. Her brain just needed to reset.  

He had no right to be this furious. As much as she would like to think that their relationship had been wonderfully amazing, she couldn’t escape the fact he had obviously been talking - flirting - fucking other girls. After all, putting her feelings aside, it was fair. They had never put down a specific line not to cross. They had never even hinted at a specific line not to cross. Didn’t want to talk about the line. Loved the fact he seemingly didn’t want to talk about the line either. 

And there they were now. Him, obviously upset about how she had ended things. And her, atrociously upset that a stupid incomplete name, not even spoken directly to her, would make her loose that much sleep. 

Maybe they both needed closure in the end. Maybe it wasn’t too late to talk about the line. Maybe they should? 

She sighed as she closed her eyes. She took a big inhale preparing herself to say the words she had tried to forget but had not ceased to haunt her. Two words. One name. The name. 

“Agent Madani.” 

Billy stilled for a moment. “That-”, he started but stopped himself. That day replayed in his mind and he closed his eyes, finally understanding what had happened. Suddenly everything made sense. The awkward half surprised half distraught look on her face when he had opened the door of his office. The clumsy conversation filled with holes that followed. The fact she stopped answering his phone calls and texts. 

He sighed, calculating the damages, weighing in his options and choosing his words carefully. His arms fell to his side and he put his drink back on the counter before speaking. “Nothing happened when we .. were seeing each other.”

She scoffed slightly and nodded as her eyes were focused on her hands holding the almost empty beer bottle. “That is so not good enough Billy. It’s just-” she said as her eyes started to burn and she smiled in a foolish attempt to avoid crying. “It’s just not enough.”

He had made a move on Madani because of Rawlins. The man needed intel. Intel that Madani had or that she was in a position to have. From the moment he had met her, he had seen right through her. As he usually did. And he wasn’t wrong. A personal, physical relationship with Madani would make her more helpful. And as his girl - who wasn’t his girl - had decided to stop answering his calls, he had no unspoken obligation anymore. Perfect timing. 

Or so he fucking thought. 

He had been angry and hurt and it was all his fault. He had hurt her. The suffering in her eyes would be carved in his brain forever. He could see the damage he had caused and the fresh stubborn wound that wouldn’t close. He had done that. And he had had the fucking arrogance to think he was the victim in that story. 

Billy got closer, he put his elbow on the counter trying to gently force her to make eye contact with him, trying to make her understand how much he meant the words he was about to speak.

“One word from you and I’m all yours.”

His whispered confession made her turn around and look him in the eyes. He looked like he meant it. She sniffled and half a chuckle escaped her as she looked away for a second. Her elbows were on the counter so close to his, they hadn’t been this physically close to one another since the morning before her visit to Anvil. She had almost forgotten how good he smelled, it was intoxicating. 

“See that’s way too much.” she said, almost whispering, not missing the way he was looking at her. So much fucking earnestness it could actually kill her. Her breathing was scattered and she forced herself to keep speaking. 

“I’m sure there are thousands of girls who would kill to hear someone say that to them. You-” she stopped and tried to compose herself. “It’s just words. I can just say a magic word and everything is fine again. It doesn’t work like that. That’s- That’s not real life.”

Billy was still staring at her, watching her every move. She was right. Of course, she was right. This was real life where your actions meant more than the words that were coming out of your mouth. 

He meant them. He meant every one of them. But it was too late for pretty words. She was right. He had fucked up. Now he needed to prove himself. And he would. For her. 

“One dinner.” 

Because he missed her. 

“I’ll work for it. I promise.”

And he never missed anyone. 

“Let me make it up to you.”

She looked at him. She looked into his eyes, his dark - intense - extraordinary emotive eyes, and she held her breath. She should say no. She should stand up, smile politely and go away. She should leave the bar and the man behind, never looking back, never reminiscing about the what ifs. She should stop. It was time for healthy choices. It was time to grow up. 

“Ok.”

-

End of Part 1

Part 2 // coming soon

-

@blackbirddaredevil23, @littlebobree, @profoundme444, @stories-you-wont-hear , @superawesomegeek , @foodnfics4evr18 , @soleilgrec

-

[tinyboxxtink]

“Helpless” *Part 7*

WHOOOOOO buddies, this might be my favorite chapter so far. You’ll see why.... 

Master List

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 8

Tag List

@wanniiieeee

@word-scribbless

@dumauier

@chasingeverybreakingwave

----

Olivia, Fin, Carisi and the other blonde detective, Rollins you thought-- came bursting into the kitchen at the noise, only to find you and Rafael standing there like kids with their hands in a cookie jar.

“We uh-- we thought…” Carisi stammered.

“Sorry, we’ll leave ya’ll to it. We’re gonna take off,” Amanda waved goodbye, shoving the rest of them out the door.

“Right...have a nice evening!” you called after them in a cheery voice, but slapped your hands over your face as soon as they were gone. 

“Christ...great, now they’ll be talking too,” you rolled your eyes.

“They’re not high school girls, they don’t gossip,” he scoffed.

“Uh huh...like we’re not high schoolers making out in the back room?”

“Two kisses hardly count as ‘making out’, carino,” He smiled, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Carino means…” 

“Sweetie or honey, I know. Arianna speaks spanish. She calls you abogado,” 

“...You know spanish? Then why did you look at me weird when I called you camarera?” 

“She didn’t teach me, like a Rosetta Stone or something. She just says things randomly in spanish and tells me what they mean,” you explained, suddenly wondering how you got into this conversation.

“I see…”

“Okay this conversation has veered off into some weird little tangent,” 

“I agree, enough talking,” Rafael grinned devilishly, wrapping his arms around you again.

“DOWN, counselor,” you pushed his arms back to his sides. 

“You see this?” you gestured to the mess in front of you. “I gotta remake all of this before I can leave, and it takes FOREVER,”

“Well not if I help,” 

“Yeah OKAY, a big fancy lawyer is gonna sit here and do prep work,” you rolled your eyes, grabbing the onions and tomatoes to slice. Rafael grabbed some knives on a nearby shelf and handed you one.

“I cook, you know,” he took an onion and started chopping.

“Do you? Then why are you in here all the time?”  you raised an eyebrow while grabbing a tomato. 

“It’s not fun cooking for one person,” he replied, not looking up from the board.

“You don’t live with anyone?” The question made Rafael stop chopping and look at you.

“If I had a significant other, do you really think I would be here kissing you? Even pursuing you?” He gave you a look.

“Pursuing me….” you gave him a tongued smile. “I like that,”

“Whatever…” he shook his head with a smile. “The answer is NO; I’m a thirty something something with a very nice job, I live alone,” 

“Mmmmm I’m willing to bet you’re more of a forty something something, but I get it,” You smirked. “That must be nice, I’ve never lived alone,” 

“It gets lonely,” he shrugged.

“Oh yeah I’m sure, in a big penthouse apartment and your many books of mahogany,” 

“...Really?” he raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know, I assume rich people have a lot of books, and I’m pretty sure mahogany is fancy…” You blushed, to which Rafael laughed. A real laugh; the crinkles of his eyes and his dimples as big as they were, you hadn’t seen him laugh like that up close before. It was intoxicating. 

“...What? Did I get an onion on my face?” Rafael knocked you from your daze; shit were you staring at him?!

“Wha-- no, nothing. I’m just tired,” you played it off, waving your hands dismissively. 

“Well I know you have the good stuff in here,” He walked away from the cutting board and over to your espresso machine, turning it on.

“Oh come on man, now I have to re-clean that!” You groaned. 

“It’ll be worth it, I promise,” Rafael kissed your cheek as he made cappuccinos for the two of you.

---

About an hour had passed, and you two were finally done re-prepping all the prep work. Rafael had even helped you reclean the espresso machine. You did last minute checks and went outside, where Rafael followed. You locked the front doors and picked up your phone to look at it.

“SHIT, 1:45?! God, Ari must be freaking out,” you frantically looked through your history to make sure she hadn’t tried to call or text. She hadn’t. 

“Well, good night counselor,” You nodded, starting to walk to the subway; Rafael grabbed your hand.

“Oh no no no, I’m not letting you walk home by yourself at 2 am in the middle of New York City,” 

“It’s 1:45, and I’m a big girl. Trust me, I could knife a guy if I had to,” you protested.

“ ….‘knife a guy’,” he rolled his eyes with a chuckle.

“I could! 

“Alright then humor me,” He pulled you around the corner where a town car was waiting.

“How did you--??”

“Uber never sleeps,” he opened the door for you and you slid in the backseat, Rafael slid in next to you.

“So do I just tell him my address or….?”

“I mean, unless you wanna go to mine,” he grinned devilishly again, that sparkle of arousal dancing in his eyes. It was very tempting.

“I….no I can’t, Ari will know,” you looked down, feeling stupid. It was as if Arianna was your mommy and you were out past curfew. Not like the two grown women equals you should be.

You gave the driver your address and he began driving. You felt Rafael put an arm around your shoulder, and for once you let yourself relax into him. You had literally never felt safer in your life, just being curled up next to him. So safe, so warm, so…

“...Y/N?” 

Rafael’s voice awakened you from the nap you apparently had just taken in his arms. 

“Oh...Oh my god! I’m so sorry, I must’ve fallen asleep,” You apologized, fixing his mussed dress shirt where you had been laying on it. There was even the tiniest bit of drool on it; god how embarrassing. 

“You most certainly did, you were even snoring a bit,” He chuckled at the horrified look on your face. “What? It was cute,” 

“God…” You leapt out of the car, trying to get your keys out as fast as you could to get away from this nightmare. 

“Hey, wait up!” Rafael got out of the car and followed you to the door of your building. 

“Okay, I made it home safe. You did your duty, counselor,” you saluted him, to which he took your “saluting” hand in his.

“That’s it? I spent hours chopping up things and cleaning, and all I get is  ‘job well done’?” 

“Well...what else do you want, a medal?” you teased him.

“How about…” He pulled you in for another kiss; and this time, you let him. 

The kiss lasted for what seemed like forever. The chilly New York air blew against your cheap plastic jacket and you shivered. Rafael took his huge pea coat and wrapped it around the two of you while you kissed, making it that more romantic.

Even after you broke apart, your arms were wrapped around his waist inside the jacket, your head pressed against his chest as he kissed your forehead and just held you. You didn’t want to leave him there, you knew for sure you had never felt this safe. With anyone. Not even Arianna. GOD, Arianna. Now you really didn’t want to leave him because you knew you couldn’t see him again; not like this.

Rafael felt something warm against his chest, and he pulled you back a bit from him, only to see you were crying.

“Ay carino...don’t cry, what’s wrong?”

“This is it,” you sniffled. “This is where this ends, and I don’t want it to,” 

Rafael sighed and put his hands on your shoulders, making you look at him. “Hey...this ends, when you say it ends. Not me, not Arianna, you,” 

“Rafael I told you I--” You started, but he put a finger to your lips.

“I told you, I’m not scared of Arianna. I lo--care about you, a lot,” He bit his lip when he stumbled over his words. A micro expression trying to hide the words he really wanted to say-- but you knew that already.

Even though it made zero sense of course, how could two people possibly be in love after a few days. Not even. Maybe your bullshit about a ‘connection’ wasn’t bullshit….not that it mattered anyway because this was never going to work out. Arianna would never let it happen. 

But for some bizarre reason, in that chilly doorway at 2 am, wrapped in Rafael’s coat-- you believed him. You believed that somehow, he was going to make this better. He was going to make it okay. And you were actually going to let him.

“...Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay? Really? Okay? Just like that? I thought I’d have to get on my knees and beg,”

“Do you want me to change my mind or do you wanna kiss me again?”

“Kiss please,” he smiled, pulling you even closer into his coat as he kissed you far deeper this time. He had to make this okay, he had to do something. He just had to. You never wanted to give this feeling up. 

“Give me your phone,” you ordered him this time, and he obliged. You programmed your number and handed it back to him.

“There. Now I can’t ‘ghost’ you,” 

“You can try, I’ll just blow up your phone with links of cute cat videos or something,” he grinned, kissing you one more time.

“Okay, seriously I gotta go upstairs. Arianna’s gonna wake up and see I’m not home,” 

“...Until we meet again then,” he kissed your hand and gave you the biggest smile you had ever seen on a human being. 

You walked inside your building and watched him until he got back into the town car and drove off into the night. Then you took the stairs up to your apartment, practically floating all the way there.

---

When you unlocked the front door to your apartment, you tried tiptoeing through your living room. However, as you reached the two doorways of your rooms, you noticed Arianna’s light was still on. You debated heavily whether or not to check on her, she was never up this late. 

Maybe something had happened? Maybe she was worried about you? 

You peeked open her door, only to see ALL of her stuff strewn about her room in boxes, while she was throwing clothes into a suitcase.

“Oh good! You’re home,” She pulled bras out of her top drawer.

“W-What is all this--” your eyes darted around the room.

“Did you have a nice time with the abogado?” her question made your blood freeze.

“What? Wha--Ari, I told you--” your voice quavered.

“Yeah I know what you told me, and I also know that look of yours,” she laughed and shook her head.

“What look?”

“The same look you had for Bobby DiMucci in 10th grade,” She smirked. “The ‘oh my god I wanna marry you and have all the babies’, look,” she batted her eyes.

“There’s...that’s not--” you scoffed with a laugh.

“But that’s cool! I hope you guys had a very nice time, you certainly seemed to have a very nice goodbye,” She gestured downstairs. FUCK you knew it, she would be watching. 

“Y-You do…?”

“I do! Because we’re leaving,” Arianna grabbed more boxes out of her closet and tossed them at you.

“Wha--we’re-- NO, we’re not,” Your mind started running a million miles a minute, your body began to panic.

“YES, we are,” she stopped packing and walked up to you.

“Whether or not you and the ADA keep playing kissy face, he knows about us. And if he doesn’t take you down, he’s gonna take me down. And I can’t have that,” She explained as she continued packing.

“And I know you don’t wanna choose between us, so I’m choosing for you,” She circled the room, pulling stuff out from under her bed.

“We’re leaving, and you’re never gonna see him again,” She grabbed some of the boxes on her bed and tossed them towards you.

Your blood was boiling, your whole body was shaking. She controlled EVERYTHING in your life, down to what kind of soda you drank, or what TV show you watched. She wasn’t going to control this, she wasn’t going to take him away from you.

“I...Ari, NO,” you softly spoke.

“....Excuse me?”

“I’m not going with you,” you said louder, glaring at her.

 “If--If you wanna run because you think that Rafael is gonna ‘take you down’, which he ISN’T,”  “Then fine. I won’t tell him or anyone where you went. But I’m not going,” 

“God….baby girl,” Arianna dropped the boxes and made a sad pouting face, as if she was feeling bad for you; But then she went for something behind her bed. All of a sudden she was pulling out a gun, and holding it on you.

“Don’t make me do this,” 

“What the FUCK, Arianna? Why do you have a GUN?” You were freaking out, you didn’t know if you should run or throw something or shit your pants.

“Oh for Fuck’s sake Y/N we lived in a CAR, in NEW YORK CITY. Why wouldn’t I have a gun?!” she scoffed, moving closer to you.

“Okay but--but put it down, okay? Please?” You were now crying, basically begging for your life. How did you go from SO safe to now begging for your life?!

“I can’t do that, sweetie. Not until you agree to leave with me. Tonight,” She had tears in her own eyes, you knew she didn’t want to hurt you. She was scared. You knew she would never hurt you. 

“....Please, Arianna. Please don’t do this…” You pleaded through tears, very slowly reaching for the gun.

“YOU’RE DOING IT! YOU are doing this to us!” she screamed, waving the gun in your face. 

“I guess it is sort of my fault, I told you his name. I pushed you towards him. I just didn’t think he’d actually like you back,” she continued in a normal voice.

“Wow, just...wow,” you huffed.

“Not that you’re not wonderful, baby girl. Just...you know, not in his league,” 

“See but you were wrong, Ari. He does like me. No no no, He LOVES me, and I love him,” You were getting bolder now, how dare she start shitting on you and Rafael. That’s all she had done from the start, was tear apart and tarnish what you had. 

“Pffftttt, okay. After what, a few conversations and a few tongues down your throat? Gimme a friggin BREAK,” she scoffed, the gun still pointed at you. 

“Fuck you, it’s real.” You spat, unable to take the bullshit from her anymore. Arianna stared at you in shock; you had NEVER spoken to her like that.

 “And-And And if you DON’T want him coming after us, then this is the stupidest move you could make. Because he’ll fight for me Arianna, he’ll fight for me and he will WIN,” Tears still in your voice, but anger powered over them.

“God, look at you! Look at what he’s DONE to you. To us. It’s always been US, Y/N. Me and you, Bert and Ernie! Thelma And Louise! Bonnie And Clyde!” She gestured between the two of you wildly.

“NO, it’s been you using me,” you scoffed.

“Is that what he said?” She turned the gun sideways.

“It’s the truth!” you argued.

“NO IT’S NOT, and once we get out of here, you’ll forget about him. I promise, and then we can be happy again. Okay?” She had a psychotic smile, pulling you in for a hug, the gun pressed against your back. You had to get out of here.

“...Okay, Ari,” you finally gave in, throwing your hands up in defeat. You looked up at her with the saddest eyes you could muster, trying to convince her she had you beaten down once again. She hugged you again, and let you go. But she held tight to the gun. 

“I’ll go pack,” you grabbed some boxes and took them into your room. As soon as you heard Arianna resume packing, you ducked beside your bed and dialed Rafael’s number.

“Please pick up, please please please….”

[marshmallowprotection]

Kait Reacts To The AE 13/13

Hi! These reactions are written out every time a Chatroom opens and it’s done over the course of the day. So, you’re watching me react in real time as it is for me. This is the final reaction post. 

Thank you for reading these if you have been here with me since the start as I let myself fall into this rabbit hole. You’ve watched me cry and react, and now we... have reached the end. But, it’s not the end of our story, it doesn’t just end when the camera fades to black. No. It won’t. It will continue in our hearts, and I will never forget what Mystic Messenger means to me. Not even when the game is over and I can’t reach it anymore to find my sense of comfort. It will always be in my heart. 

This isn’t the end of me talking about Mystic Messenger. I have so many thoughts and theories ahead of me to talk about that I learned from this ending and what I will learn from the Bad Endings. 

It was there for me when my life started to change. It was the lowest point in my life and the game saved me. I know it saved a lot of you, as well. So, this one is dedicated to Saeran. Thank you for being there for me when I needed you, and thank you for giving me the faith to believe in myself. Thank you to the RFA, all of you, for being there for me. Just as I was there for you. You’ll never know just how much you mean to me. 

I pray that our promise of happiness... that our four seasons... are spent together with all of us peaceful and joyful until the very end. 

[10:00] THE FINAL END. 

The final discussion before the end, huh? This is a chatroom with everyone where we’re talking about what’s to come. What’s to happen and the faith that we have in each other. Yoosung begins a discussion on the notion of Eternal Love without Pain or Eternal Love with Pain. It’s a fun little philosophical debate with the RFA as we go over the sweet and the sour. How things can be good but we in the end, nobody has to suffer to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Love will prevail in the end no matter what happens, whether you were hurt or not in the process. 

I agree with that. Love exists no matter what. You don’t have to be hurt to be loved and you don’t have go through pain to be deserving of love. You can find love at any point in your life and you should cherish that as close to your heart as you can when you feel it for the first time. I liked being able to talk to the RFA about this because it’s... much of a release as I take the time to catch my breath and breathe. 

Because... I know this is the end. I had to take some time to breathe and let this out before I played. I knew that it was going to affect me so I wanted to savor the moment as long as I possibly could. It was worth that. Although, I was already starting to cry but I laughed so when they let me break the fourth wall in this chat. 

They call this a game of choices and freedoms that we all make and what do we call this game?

You can life, or you can say Mystic Messenger. 

It won’t harm your choices once you’ve gotten to this point so you can say it and watch it play out. This is just a snippet of the conversation. I need you to get the rest of it for yourself because... it’s much different to experience then it is to hear about from me, you know? They wish me luck on my mission. I take it and I don’t look back. 

This is on me now. 

Now here comes the first visual novel mode that you have to pass before you can see the Good Ending. I know what the game wants me to do. It wants me to do as Saeran did. It wants me to have faith and to be kind, and it isn’t begging me to forgive anyone. It’s giving me the option to take that road if I want to take it and seeing what Saeran did, I’m willing to chance it. I’m willing to listen. I have given Rika and V one chance here to prove to me that they can acknowledge who they are and what they’ve done. It’s not shaming me like what happens in V’s After Ending, more or less. It’s letting me have that freedom. 

Rika owns up to everything in front of me and bears out her heart. She knows that she has done wrong and she admits it. She admits everything and says that she will no longer run away from this or lie to herself. See, this is what I wanted. This is not asking much. I want her to admit that she’s wrong and say it. Mean it. You can’t grow if you don’t admit that you fucked up or did things wrong. This is what she needs. 

I may not like her, and I may not forgive her. But, I’m willing to say that I took a chance to let her have that catharsis. She needed it more than I did. I may not like Rika but I don’t want her to be depressed and lost. In reality, I want her to be able to grow and find herself. I want her to face her crimes. I want her to live with that. But, I don’t want her to rot away in misery while serving her time. I want her to get better for herself. 

She can have that. 

But, only when admitting that she will pay for what she did. Only when she says that she will face reality. I don’t expect anyone to give her or V another chance or let them back into their lives, but at the end of the day, it feels like Rika will be able to work on herself while she repents for what she did in prison. 

She can have that. I’m not angry about that. I couldn’t be. I may not be like Saeran, I may not be able to forgive the people that hurt me in my life, but I can give a chance to someone that wants to admit they were horrible and that they want to change. 

Sometimes, it’s never too late for yourself. It may be too late to get back what you broke, but you can find yourself. At the end of the day, she needed that more than I did and I’m too nice of a person. Saeran decided to embrace and leave behind his hatred even though he still feels it. He won’t let it consume him anymore. I’m following after him because that makes me a better person. But, I know that Saeyoung and I have far more in common on the forgiveness front. 

But, it felt like the right thing to do. 

I don’t forgive her but I wish her emotional journey the best. Make something of your life as you face punishment, Rika. 

Once this is over, we start to go and look for Saeran. But, we jump back to Zen and Yoosung. Jumin is announcing his bid for politics. He also announced his own company, Queen Elizabeth, which he will be using to create an intelligence team that will be able to work for the people and stop dirty politicians. 

It’s a good idea, honestly. That’s very Jumin Han of them to go through with. Zen and Yoosung, however, are both surprised when they see that Jumin announces that Zen will be on their promotion team, Jaehee will be his chief organizer, and Yoosung is leader of the undergraduate unit. They did not know he was going to do that. 

Jumin simply says: The RFA is inseparable from my legacy. 

Saeran passed out during the night sometime during his emotional crisis when his phone died on us when we were talking to him. He thinks that he is okay, but when he raises his head, he realizes that he spoke too soon. Saejoong is here with his guards. Rika isn’t there, Saejoong is incredibly angry. 

He insults and degrades Saeran the entire time, calling him things that I really shouldn’t at all repeat but let me just say that it’s in line with what Mother Choi said to him when he was growing up. He taunts him, and tries to kick him around, “You know, I could at least relate to Saeyoung, he’s smart and crafty. But you... you’ve got your mother’s face. Did you ever think that Saeyoung took all the talent from you from the start? You’ve always been weak.” 

And this is the part of the story where I just lose my mind and I can’t just shaking from anger at Saejoong. He lashes out. He starts to hurt Saeran over and over again as if that’s going to solve all of his fucking problems. Saeran just lets him do it, too. He accepts it. He keeps his head raised high and he decides to the end, he will not let himself fall to his anger. If this is the end, he will not leave a mark of anger on this world. 

He thinks of... me. In that moment before his body hurts too much for him to take the pain and he slumps over when it just becomes too much for him. And, that is when I start crying. 

Visual novel ends. 

I’m fucking sobbing at this point because I don’t know if this is meant to happen or if I’ve triggered the last Bad Ending. Even here, he’s putting his heart into all that he has. He refuses to stop choosing to be free and happy. This is all that he wants and he will not let himself die without leaving a good memory for me. He can’t handle the thought but he whimpers and the screen goes black. 

The entire RFA calls after this and I sigh in relief because I must have done something right and this isn’t the end.  to say that to Rika. They both need to face it for their crimes. But, even at the end of the day, Jumin Han is a great man.

They all let me know that they believe in me and from this point, everything is my choice. They let me know they believe in me but everything from here on is in my hands. This is my freedom. This is my choice. This is my ending and I get to choose that. 

They make me smile through my tears as I’m playing because— The RFA will always be a family and a part of me. I let them know that I love them all, cause I do and then I hang up to start the final section of the game. I don’t know I’m ready but I have to be for Saeran. I’ll not forget that they have faith in me to do the right thing. 

Oh, and before I forget, Jumin said to tell V that he needs a good lawyer, but not 

He opens the scene. He admits the truth that I always knew. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay so badly but he saw no other choice for himself and he was never okay with it. I sense that he’s in the area as it jumps back to where I am. I’m with V, Rika, and Driver Kim. Saeran is where we left him the night prior by the water, and he’s on the ground about to be taken away by Saejoong Choi. 

Like a pawn to end. 

No.

Everyone tells me not to move. Not to go. But, I’m not going to let him get away and leave me. Leave the others. This is not his fate here. I won’t let him resign himself to that. So, I’m already risking everything and I’m not looking back, if we burn, we burn together, and if we live, we live together. There’s no other way for this to be. 

Me: I love you. 

Saeran: It’s no use. Now I can’t die. Because of you.

Me: Now should be happy with me, okay?

Saeran: ...

Saeran: ..... 

Me: No, no, no, wake up, Saeran, wake up!

I fear he’s gone for good for a minute there. I want to breathe, but Saejoong is the monster that he is. He immediately jumps to the blame game. He says that he can use this. He can blame me. He wants to use this against Saeyoung as it needs to be in his world, and then... he will use that man until he’s no longer got use. Then, he’ll let him die. It’s as simple as a transaction to him. I hate that. I really do. 

I’m just so angry at him. 

But, I know that Saeran wouldn’t want me to lose myself to that. More than anything, I pity this son of a bitch because does he really think this of himself to the point where nothing matters but his desires? His greed that deep? Is this all he wants? Saeran and Saeyoung never wanted this, and they never wanted to fight him. They just wanted to be able to live, that’s what I tell him, feeling that strength brewing. 

I’m just so done with hurting Saeran. 

He pauses, “Oh, that’s where he learned all of that nonsense.” 

“Your heart much be a dark and lonely place. Doesn’t it hurt to be that way? No matter what you do, no matter how much pain and victory you make for yourself, at the end of the day, you’ll never stop feeling lonely. Isn’t that sad?”

He pauses because he thinks I’m either an idiot or I’ve lost my mind. He decides to hear me out on this one. I tell him that he will pay for everything that he has done thus far here, that’s a given. He scoffs. He said that maybe if it was just the agency, they might have been able to live, but they’ve done nothing but ruin his life. “Why don’t you see it from my shoes instead of the weaklings?” 

“I’m sure something hurt you in your past. I can see that you locked away your heart and replaced it with a chain and cruelty.” 

“...I’ve never seen someone as helplessly innocent as you. I don’t get it. It’s not me. It’s the world. You can only get what you want when you’re cruel.” He is very quick to explain his thought process. He thinks that if he never started to be this person then he would have never stopped shining the shoes of the elite instead of this. He says that you only win when you destroy. And, I decide to tell him what I know that Suit Saeran learned. 

This isn’t forgiveness. This is me trying to understand why people are so cruel and why the hell they’re like this. I let him know that if he keeps being cruel that he is damning himself to isolation. He’s damned himself and he knows that he has done it. Even in that blackened heart, he knows the truth. I don’t think he cares to even think of it. Saejoong still enrages me and I can’t stand him, but I can see why he is the way he is. 

Cool motive, still murder, bro. 

He pauses again. He feels sick. He doesn’t believe that Saeran can be happier than him. He thinks that happiness can only come from destruction, and to be utterly honest, it’s the same thinking that Rika held in her hands and I hate that trait. If he survives all his battles, he says, then he is the victor no matter the details. The devil is in the details, don’t you know? I’ve struck a nerve because he starts to blame me.

“Don’t you know what their mother and those boys put ME through?”

Oh, I know what you went through, you fucking bastard. I don’t give a fuck about you. You’re a sad old man that has hurt others his entire life and you deserve to be put away for what you did to everyone. He starts to crack for real though, as he slowly realizes more and more that love isn’t something he can be capable of and it’s never something that he will get. It means nothing, which he knows is a lie. He is a monster, he knows, and his quest didn’t give him the time to look for something more. He says there is no changing things. 

He has to use the twins or he’ll be dead. 

I just look at him, tired. “You must be so lonely.” 

Saeran stirs awake for sure, he must have been blinking in and out of his state of alertness. He looks at me for a moment but then he forces himself to his feet as fast as he can. I want to get him help, but he says to wait. He does something that I don’t think I’ll ever be capable of. He embraces his father and says that he must have been so lonely. That nobody ever understood him in his life and that he came this far by himself... how awful that must have felt all this time. It says that it must have been... “So hard.”

Then he falls out again. 

I manage to catch him before he hurts himself and Saejoong remains in shock while Saeran thanks me. 

And he pan away once more. Jumin tells everyone what happened. He said that his announcement went well. He also breaks the news that I was able to get to the point in time, intercepting Saejoong and Saeran before it was too late. He is really injured and but we’re on our way to safety. However, Saejoong got away at the last second. 

Fade to black. 

We return once again, this time we’re in a hospital room and I have to wait for a long minute as I collect myself and my tears. There’s just so much happening in this room all at once that I’m overwhelmed with what’s happening. Saeyoung is here. Saeran is still asleep, and it’s been three days. The media and everyone is turning back to our side. People are starting to see the RFA as good again, and there is no doubt that we’ve got a good story ahead. Saejoong is on the run as far as know, and I’ll get to Rika and V in a moment. 

Saeyoung and I have another talk. I let him know that it’s okay. Saeyoung tells me that he finished with the agency. He says that the truth will be coming very soon, but he had to tell Jumin first before it went to the media. So, that is going to be happening. We no longer have to live in fear. The brothers no longer have to live in fear. 

Saeyoung will never forgive Saejoong. I won’t, either. But, I do have to tell him that Saeran did forgive him. But, he says that Saeran is kinder and better than him in that aspect. I won’t let this happen again, he says. He wants to make up for being a bad brother. His to-do list is getting pretty long. I know that it will be okay in due time. 

Vanderwood comes in and says that they hate to break the moment, but they need to go. Someone saw Saejoong nearby. He tells me to stay with Saeran as he.... he may not be safe. I do. I say I’ll tell him when he wakes up. He winds up leaving after that. I then tell Saeran it’s okay, and how longer does he want to play this sleep act? 

I sort of expected that. He’s still trying to get himself ready to face his brother and it’s going to take time again. He’s got all the time in the world now but I know that he will let me know when he’s ready. Saeran says that he’s out of time and I am confused. Then he drops the bombshell that Saejoong came to see him and that HE’S IN THE FUCKING ROOM. 

I’m like: WHAT?

Saeran grips my hand and shakes his head, “If I thought he would hurt you, I wouldn’t let you near him.”

Saejoong appears and says that he knows that Saeyoung won’t forgive him and that he will want to act out his revenge by putting him away. But, he is... okay with that? He says that almost losing all of his power and everything that he ever knew made him stop in his tracks, and he doesn’t understand why I told him what I told him, but—

“You two understood a part of myself that I abandoned. I felt something I didn’t know that I had anymore. That I forgot. I surely didn’t understand why you would say all that when you thought you were going to die, Saeran. I can’t stop thinking of the nonsense you all said.... sorry for the monologue. I need to catch up with Saeyoung. I won’t have to run anymore. I won’t have a beautiful life. I never found the way to that, but... maybe you two.... I must go. But, thank you. Thank you for saying what you did.”

 “So, you had a change of heart?”

He’s simply decided to turn himself in. Nothing more. I’m left with Saeran and he smiles. I smile back. He’s finally free. He’s finally free of everything that held him down and I’m so happy for him. You did this Saeran. You did it and you found yourself in the end. I’m proud of you for that. I have to say that I’m not upset that you choose forgiveness. That felt right for you and I wasn’t upset about the way that that was handled. You choose that for yourself. 

You’ve always had a kind heart. 

Forgiveness doesn’t mean that he’s going to let them into his life, but it will help him move on from what’s happened and I respect his choice. This is his freedom and it’s a beautiful thing to see. 

It fades to black. 

[6 MONTHS LATER.]

A chatroom opens. Jaehee, Yoosung, and Zen are there. They’re talking about what’s changed and what’s happening now. She’s still in charge of Jumin’s well, everything, but she’s steady in that job now. She’d rather be Zen’s manager, though, she jokes. 

Jumin was elected to office, by the way. He’s on his way to changing the world. Zen made countless deals and he is on his way to Broadway. He’s going to be leaving soon but he’ll be back before anyone knows it. Yoosung is going to study abroad in France, can you believe it? He wants to a pastry chef! That’s alot better than being a vet, which we know that he wasn’t entirely passionate about. 

I’m so proud of them! All of them!

Vanderwood went to their hometown. I wish them the best, too. Nobody knows a damn thing about them and we never will, haha. 

Something to note: V will be released when his trials are over. It’s a foot note but they just say it simply. Nobody seems to be in contact with Rika and V and that is how it should be. Everyone is living their own lives now and they have every chance to decide if they want to forgive Rika and V, but I know that that isn’t going to be likely. Which, of course, But, it’s everyone’s choice. Yoosung is kind and says that he hopes for he best for V, that he will find a better life. They all agree with that. 

But it’s obvious that nobody is going to interact with them again. I don’t blame them, I don’t want to, either. But, I do wish them whatever they can find that is good for them after they pay for the price of what they’ve done. I like how this was handled. This is how you play forgiveness and judgment. It’s not about how we handle this with rage, it’s about we handle our process personally. Freedom and choice are the theme of Saeran’s After Ending. 

I stand by that. 

I like this. I loved this while ride that we were on even though it hurt me on the way. It made me really happy. It made me really sad. It made me go through a whole cycle... and I needed that. I got a good chuckle out of this, though, and I can say that it made me smile. Fourth wall breaks are okay when they’re like this and they’re not like YOUR APRIL FOOLS DLC, HYUN RYU. 

And the chat concludes as they talk about what Saeyoung has been up to and what Saeran and I have been up to lately. It feels like the RFA is going to go for their own ways for a little while, but we’ll always be interconnected with one another and this messenger is our space to share that with each other all of our days. No matter what happens, no matter where we go, we’ll always have the Mystic Messenger (Don’t Tell Jumin we renamed it) to come to when we need to have un with our family. 

Because they are our family. 

We are a family. 

We will always be interconnected, just as Jumin Han said. 

Then chatroom fades to black and I pause, knowing that the real end is ahead of me when I tap my screen. I take a deep breath and let it wash over me. 

This isn’t the end of my love for this game, the characters, the people I’ve met because of the game, or the people that have changed my life. It’s been four years since I first opened the chatroom and I can say that I needed to know that it was going to be okay in the end. I feel like it will be okay in the end for me. I feel like it will be okay for Saeran, Saeyoung, and the rest of the RFA. I’m hitting the end here so forgive me, I’ve been crying since I finished this morning. I’ve been writing on this since I finished. 

They gave me that. They gave me so much light, hope, and warmth. I will never forget them. I will continue to keep them in my heart. I hope they know that in the universe that is separating us. I feel like they know that. I like to think that they do, anyway. It’s not the end of my love. Love always persists and wins, don’t you know that? 

It’s a lesson always lead your life with your heart first. Love hard, love fast, love stupid, love smart, love however you can and lavish yourself in that freedom and let it see where it takes you. Sure, there’s bound to be bumps in the road but it will be okay in the end, and at the end, that’s the message that I take away from Mystic Messenger today as I finish Saeran’s After Ending. 

That your heart is something that you should cherish and never let go of. Thank you for everything. 

[lyssismagical]

you were never mine

I’m a bad student somebody stop me

AKA I wrote this on my phone during a zoom call for class, so it’s not the best and it’s kinda messy but here we are anyway

TW: abusive parent, violence, blood

another piece of a shameless au i’ll write one day

There’s an ear-splitting noise that sounds a lot like glass shattering, and Abbie flinches, tucking herself closer against the wall, one arm wrapped around a sibling, more by her feet. 

Their mom showing up, out of the blue, was protocol for what started out as a decent weekend. Harley ushered them all off, passing Bentley off to Abbie, as soon as he’d smelled the alcohol and weed on her. 

From Harley’s bedroom, they could hear everything that was happening downstairs, words mostly muffled but emotions just as clear as day. 

Bentley’s on her lap, Jonah and Dayton on either side of her, Aspen sitting on the other end of the bed, and Sebastian is on Aspen’s other side. 

Harley’s room smells like him. Like gunpowder, leather, cheap soap, and strawberry milkshakes from the diner. It makes them all feel safe, knowing Harley’s out there protecting them, keeping them safe, always. 

Downstairs, muffled and distant, Harley’s shouting, “They’re not your kids, Macy. They were never your kids!”

And Macy sounds like she’s crying, and Abbie can picture exactly what she looks like in that moment. Desperate and scared and angry, hair wild and eyes tired, reaching out to try to comfort Harley like he was ever her son. 

She’s always been pretty, in that hardened Tennessee way. Auburn hair, long but always tied back, skin clear and tan, eyes a dark honey-brown, hands calloused and angles sharp. 

Most of the Keeners have a lot of those same features. Especially the oldest, the ones that were Dad’s and Mom’s, not just one or the other. The younger they get, the farther apart they look. 

Bentley, the youngest, is Dad’s, not Mom’s, and she barely looks like family. She’s lighter and softer than any of the other Keeners, blue-eyed and a blonde tuft of hair, porcelain skin with softer edges. 

“Why is he yelling at her?” Dayton asks. He’s so young, only eight-years-old and he’s facing all this pain and suffering at the hands of the people who were meant to love him unconditionally. He barely knows Mom, doesn’t know who his dad is. He doesn’t understand why things happened the way they did, doesn’t get why Harley’s so pissed at Mom, doesn’t understand why he can’t have clothes that aren’t hand-me-downs. 

And Abbie just shushes him because she can’t begin to explain why. 

“They’re my babies! You can’t keep them from me! I’m their mom!” Macy’s shouting downstairs. There’s more glass shattering and Abbie pulls Bentley closer when she hears the telltale sound of skin on skin. 

“What if I did let you see them?” Harley demands, voice trembling and an octave higher. “Would you hit Aspen too? Would you attack Dayton? Would you scream at Abbie? Would you make their lives hell?” 

She can’t make out what Macy says in response to that, but she can guess it’s nothing but lies and grasping for pity. 

“I wanna see her,” Jonah says, blinking up at Abbie. “Why can’t I see her?” 

“Macy isn’t a good person.” She’s pissed, shaking with the fiery anger that’s flooding through her, and she hates that this it what she’s forced to do. Hates that Harley has to take the brunt of everything. 

There’s a future for them, she thinks, as she looks around at her siblings. There’s a future there. 

Harley’s set it all up for them, made sure they’ll be ready to get out of Rose Hill one day. He’s going to get them all through school, going to send them off to live their lives, far and wide, doing anything they wish to do. 

Abbie’s going to go to New York. She’s going to get a full ride to Harvard, she’s going to be lawyer, she’s going to be successful and live on the coast. She’s going to be the first Keener to graduate high school, the first to go to college, the first to have a real job, the first to make it out of Rose Hill with a future, the first to be be above the poverty line, the first to make it to nineteen without an unplanned pregnancy. 

And the rest of them will follow. Aspen, Sebastian, Dayton, Jonah, Bentley, and whichever children will be dumped on them from Mom or Dad or a stranger claiming to have Dad’s child. 

All of them but Harley. 

Harley will be tied to them until the day the youngest Keener gets out of Rose Hill. Even if they’re lucky enough to be done with Bentley, Harley will be stuck here until he’s thirty-five, never have graduated high school. 

“I’ve given up everything for them!” Harley cries, loud enough for them to hear, clear and heartbreaking all the same. “You’ve done nothing but take and take and take, and I’ve had to fill in every gap. I’ve been their mom, their dad, their brother, their sole caretaker, their breadwinner, their chaperone, their everything. And you’ve been nothing. You’ve done nothing for them. The best thing you ever did to those kids was leave them.” 

And it hurts like Abbie’s been shot, clinging to her brothers, bleeding out on Harley’s bedspread, dying unable to make a sound. 

“I want a second chance. Just let me have the littlest one, Bentley, let me take her and have a second chance at being a mother!” 

“You can’t just show up and take your fucking pick!” Harley shouts, a sob caught in his throat. “You weren’t here, Macy! You weren’t here to change their diapers or help with math homework or go to their sports games. I was here! This is about what I did!” 

Macy goes to say something, but it goes unheard under Harley’s tearfully loud voice. 

“I was here! I was always here when you weren’t! And you know what? I did a fucking good job,” Harley says, shouting and crying and desperate. “Abbie’s captain of the volleyball team and junior class president! Aspen’s got a perfect GPA! Sebastian’s captain of the debate team, he volunteers at the animal shelter on the weekends! Dayton made a solar system for science and got an A plus! Jonah’s running now, he’s talking in full sentences, he’s fully potty trained, and he’s starting kindergarten next fall. Bentley, she’s an angel. Her first word was Harley. I was here! Where the fuck were you?” 

“I’m here now, Harley,” Macy says, almost too quiet for the kids to hear upstairs. “I deserve to see my children.” 

“They don’t even know who you are!” Harley shouts and there’s more glass breaking. 

Macy’s voice drops lower. “I’m their mother.” 

“You were my mother too!” 

“Please, Harley,” Macy begs. “I just want to see my children.” 

But Harley’s never given up that easily, he’s never let anything come between him and his family. “No. Just get out. I’m not letting you see them. I’m not going to let you brainwash them” 

It goes quiet after that, save for a few muffled noises every now and again. 

“Is he okay? Do you think she- Do you think she killed him?” 

Abbie hits Sebastian on the arm. “Don’t say something like that, you’ll scare the little ones.”

“I’m serious. Are you sure he’s going to be okay?” 

“When has Harley not been okay, Bas?” 

It’s not the truth, Harley’s been far from okay for a very long time. And normally, encounters with Macy ends pretty badly for him. 

But there’s nothing they can do. Harley’s strictest rule is that when he tells them to hide, they can’t come out until Harley comes to get them. If Abbie leaves, that leaves Aspen, fourteen years old, to protect them. 

Abbie’s job is to stay here, protect the littlest one if, for some reason, Macy comes after them. 

It only takes about an hour for Harley to get up to them, shouldering the door open. 

He’s bruised and bloody and limping, but he’s somehow got a wide smile on his face. “Macy has officially left the building.” 

“What the fuck did she do to you?” 

Abbie’s up and over in a second, passing Bentley off to Bas, and grabbing his chin to get a better look at him. It looks like he broke his nose, blood smeared on his upper lip, right eye swollen nearly shut, one arm cradled against his ribs, fingers splayed on his chest. His lip is split open, jaw bruised, glass still clinging to his shirt. 

“It’s fine. She’s gone, she’s not coming back for a while. We’re safe and sound. How do we feel about mac and cheese for dinner?” 

There’s not much they can say otherwise, watching Harley grin, teeth stained with blood, and nodding to the door. 

It’s not like Harley would listen to any of them anyway. He loves them too much to let them talk him out of keeping them safe. 

Taglist:  @littlemissagrafina  @fancyxparker  @romeoandjulietyouwish @c-artara @shadedrose01 @likeaphoenix13 @misskirkstark @you-get-killed-walk-it-off @kitkatwinchester  @emo-girl10  @hold-our-destiny @imalivebecauseirondad @spiderman-peterman @dykeragee @maryserrao @heeeyitskay @parknerandirondad @lilacsandlilies4 @loveliestdisappointment @joyful-soul-collector @genderfluid-and-confuzled @fallenstar07 @gyurolls @sdottkrames {Lemme know if you wanna be added or removed}

buy me a coffee 

[fanfalc-616]

The Rights Of A Nindroid

Chapter Eighteen

(Previous Chapter Here)

This is a little shorter than normal but,,,

Yeah I don’t have an excuse it’s a little shorter let me live-

Zane is mildly confused.

They have started replacing some of his sessions in the training room with a different activity. Rather than being forced to speak the demeaning words, he’s made to do simple tasks, such as moving a book from one side of the room to the other, or solving a puzzle meant for children.

Like with the training room, failure to comply results in punishment. But Zane is perplexed by the reasoning behind this.

Perhaps it is a bad idea to follow the instructions he’s given, but the punishments are agonizing, and such simple tasks don’t seem to be causing any harm.

In all honesty, Zane much prefers the activity room to the training.

But the new room is not the only thing that has changed. Cryptor has been acting unusually, complying with little to no resistance. On the few occasions that he does cause trouble, it takes only a minor threat to make him behave- Zane isn’t quite sure what the threat is, either… something about an… internship?

It doesn’t matter. What matters is how Cryptor barely ever replies to his attempts at conversation and how he gives in without even one blast of pain.

They have also started taking Cryptor to the activity room, though from what Zane can tell, he is being given more complex tasks.

Today, Zane is once again taken to the activity room. Perhaps if he is lucky, they will have him stay here all day rather than taking him to the training room.

It is not very likely, but he can at least hope.

He is led to a table and instructed to sit, and he quickly does so. There’s a shuffled rubik's cube on the table, and Zane reaches for it.

White hot pain lashes through him, and Zane draws back with a shout of pain. He cringes and looks to one of the guards for an explanation of what he did wrong.

“You weren’t told to solve it yet.” Martha explains. Zane hadn’t noticed her standing nearby, and he internally groans. She is usually the strictest when it comes to… everything.

But she has never scolded him for simply trying to do what he was expected to. Resisting the urge to snap back at her, Zane nods, waiting for instruction. The sooner they give orders, the sooner he can obey, and the sooner he can go back to his locker.

“Solve the puzzle.” Martha orders, authority in her tone.

Zane reaches for it and begins to do as instructed- yet less than five seconds later, he’s blasted with electricity.

Sputtering, he nearly drops the cube. He looks over at Martha, waiting for an explanation.

“Not fast enough,” she shrugs, seeming to be hiding mild amusement.

Annoyance seeps through him. “My apologies, could you do any better?” He snaps. “It is a Rubik’s cube, even the fastest person to solve one took a little longer that four seconds, and I, for one, do not spend my spare time teaching myself how to solve puzzles such as th-“

Pain flares through him again, and Zane grinds his teeth- and he really does drop the cube this time.

It lasts for longer this time- around a minute or so- and by the end, he’s a whimpering mess, trembling at shaking from the horrible dull throbs that encompasses his whole body.

When it fades, he glares at Martha, silently cursing his lack of a faceplate for the upteenth time. He has emotions he wishes to express! The lack of a way to nonverbally communicate is grating on his nerves.

“Solve the puzzle, Original.” She snaps, her voice firm.

Sighing internally, Zane picks up the puzzle. He had lost track of where in solving he was, so he will have to start over.

Once again, it is only a few seconds before he is blasted with pain, the feeling of razor sharp needles being jammed into his metallic outer coating.

A quiet cry of pain escapes him, though he tries to muffle it. He glares murder at the official, but she simply smiles.

“Not fast enough.” She repeats.

“I would be solving it much faster if you would stop harming me!” Zane retorts.

What in the name of the First Spinjitzu Master could they possibly be trying to accomplish here?! Solving a puzzle in a short period of time has no real purpose, so what could their goal be?! To torment him? They do that more than enough with logical reasoning!

He’s once again harmed for his rude response, and he feels white hot anger building up inside of him.

When it ends, he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Solve the puzzle, Original.” Martha’s voice is low and dangerous, but Zane looks her dead in the eyes as he speaks.

“No.”

Her gaze darkens more. “Pardon?” There’s a very clear threat in her voice, but Zane doesn’t back down.

“I said no.” He repeats the words in his best menacing tone, knowing full well that he will be hurt for his words.

And just as he is expecting, pain races through his body. But this time, Zane refuses to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. He stares her straight in the eyes as he clenches his jaw, withholding any real expression of misery. He does not whimper. He does not cry out.

He stares her down with as much malice as he can muster.

The pain increases, but he still ignores the pain, he will not allow himself to show her how much he is hurt.

After a few agonizing minutes, the pain lessens, and Martha wears a rather annoyed expression that matches her annoyed tone.

“Do we need to go back to the sensory room?”

Zane tenses at the threat. They had not taken him back to the sensory room since his first real escape attempt, but he remembers it all too well.

Shakily, he picks up the puzzle.

And under the threat, he begins to follow orders once again.

{ { { { { { { { { { ~ } } } } } } } } } }

Kai is throwing everything he has into his research.

They need to get Zane back as quickly as possible- who knows what he’s going through!

He knows that his house arrest has been broadcasted on every news channel, but everyone on the team has refused to answer any questions about it.

He’s tempted to go out onto the deck and while not leaving the ship, explain the situation, explain what the government had done.

But he can’t. If they explained to the public what was going on, the government would definitely make Zane pay for it.

So Kai’s going to have to be known as the crazy ninja who breaks laws. He cares about how people think of him, but he cares about Zane more.

He’d have to be crazy to be willing to let him get hurt for something as stupid as his public image.

Opening another file, Kai begins to read through more rules of the legal system. He needs to find a loophole, a possible way for them to get Zane back.

It’s been over six months now, and it’s frustrating that they haven’t figured anything out. Kai’s throwing everything he can into his research, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He-

“How’s it going?” A voice speaks up from his computer.

Kai’s not really phased by the way his device is randomly hacked anymore. “It’s going.” He sighs, pulling up a new window. “How about you?”

“Not much better.” Sentry admits. “I keep getting pulled away by work, so I haven’t been able to make much progress.”

Kai sighs. “There’s got to be a better way to do this.” He grumbles.

“I’ve debated getting a lawyer, but I’m worried about how the government would react.” Sentry sighs. “They might retaliate by hurting them more, or even going after the person we hire.”

Groaning, Kai concedes the point. “So we just keep going like this?”

“I don’t think there’s much else we can do.” Sentry admits.

Nodding, Kai goes back to his research, typing another idea into the search bar.

No matter how tedious, no matter how difficult.

They’ll get him back.

No. Matter. What.

[askintothevoids]

Late Nights Years Later

TW: Really brief mentions of mental health issues, knee scrapes, crying, insomnia, vomit ( I promise it’s not that bad, I’m just trying to tag possibly upsetting things)

It was nights like these when I appreciated life a little more than usual.

His breath lazily blew on the back of my neck. He wasn’t snoring as loudly as he usually did, not that it bothered me too much anymore. Our years of being together have truly made me have to deal with it.

My husband’s arms were wrapped around my chest as well. His heartbeat was powerful against my back, the blueblood that ran through his veins always made for strange occurrences. Of course, I don’t mind the comforting thump. Even then, it’s been a long time since all of that.

I could hear the kids outside. It was 3am, far too late for them to be out, but I figured it’d be okay this one time. It had been awhile since they were all in the same place. I could hear Harper and Buddy bickering and pleasant muttering of Jane and Daniel, it reminded me of Roman and Virgil’s--(the vampire ones)-- shenanigans.

I honestly didn’t think it would turn out this way. I never would have fathomed that thought, but I won’t lie that I feel guilt. It’s truly a horrible thing to experience as a young child, as I am no stranger to it, but I suppose it’s different when it's your parents. I have to remind myself that we did what we had to, of course, I wouldn’t break my promise. I feel Patton was able to sympathize with them on a more relative level, empathy if you will.

“Mghhh..” Patton sleepily mumbled.

“Go back to sleep, love.” I hummed, stretching my arm back to pat his cheek.

“Mrggh. Ah, bah, sasjjffshh.” Patton mumbled, still three quarters asleep.

He leaned into the touch of my hand before yawning.

“Bove you…” he said, “Goodnigsshfftt..”

“Goodnight, dear.”

Parenthood was what we dreamed it was. It was hard work and sometimes grueling, but rewarding in the end. I still remember teaching Daniel how to ride a bike, that was nearly twenty years ago. He clambered on it, while I held it still. I took long strides to keep up with his little legs pedaling as hard as they could. As soon as I let go, he fell over.

He shed a few tears, but got back up again, lifted himself back on, and tried again. It was a long day. Daniel always hated it when I had to clean up his scrapes. He despised the sting of hydrogen peroxide. I got him ice cream afterwards, it truly stops a child from crying. When it came to Jane, she got the hang of it a bit easier than Daniel did, Harper did as well.

Buddy was a different story. He’d always seen everything a bit differently than the other three, that always fascinated me. In ways it reminded me of Roman’s fresh creativity, but still contained my logic and realism. He never learned to ride a bicycle, but did learn how to ride a unicycle. I never understood why he chose to do so, it was definitely a more difficult process to learn, nor was it an experience that I could help with. But I respected it.

That was one of the many moments that I found myself confused with his paths, but alas, as long as it didn’t harm him, I was fine with it. In that time, Patton had taken a liking to calling Buddy, Logan Jr.

I don’t think either of us found that funny. Especially when the other three joined in. But, I would agree we were similar. Sometimes we did get into tiffs, never anything too serious, often due to shared frustrations.

Harper and him were the most prone to arguing, it was rather reminiscent of Roman (Marino) and I’s relationship growing up. We yelled and screamed at each other for hours, never getting anywhere. I won’t lie that we still get rather too passionate in our arguments still, but that brotherly toleration was definitely present.

Harper was the most argumentative of our children, they always had something to say. I appreciate honesty, but often enough, the bluntness quality can truly build some fires. That kid could talk their way out of anything though, Harper had charisma. They’d make a good lawyer, I would enjoy debating against a person like them in a professional environment.

Jane and Daniel were more laidback than Harper and Buddy. Even then, Daniel did inherit the anxiety vomit quality from Patton, so laidback might've been stretching the truth. He enjoyed being by himself. Neither Patton, nor I, enjoyed his habit of working all day and night, the lack of sleep was awful for a developing brain.

Jane spent all day in the garden, and in the winter pouted from the porch at the snowy grasses. She had Patton’s spunk running through her veins. Jane had always kept the empty halls of the house lively, green sprouting from every corner of the house. I appreciated my daughter’s boundless energy, but even she had her harder moments. It was difficult watching my lively and enthusiastic little nerdlet suffer in the tangles of mental health. She’s stronger than I’ll ever be, and I know she will be okay. Even then, that can’t stop my parental worry.

Patton’s breath lifted me away from my thoughts. He always somehow knew when my mind was helplessly jumping from topic to topic in the night.

“Go to bed, Lo..”

“I’m trying, dear.”

“Closing your eyes definitely helps the process,” Patton teased, burying his face in my hair.

“Oh shush.”

“I love you, goodnight for real this time.” He sleepily giggled.

“I love you too.. Goodnight, Patton.”

[yamoksauceforsale]

Please tell me more abt all your aa fics I kinda forgot that you've also played the lawyer game (also miles to go is a brilliant title sdjfkljsdflksjdfl)

I am a CLOWN for the gay lawyers so please feel free to message me about them whenever especially on my main @ghoullian (happy disbarment day also ahah 🥲) More summaries/status/excerpts under the cut!

Since most of the fics on that WIP list were AA I’m gonna sort by whether they’re miles, franziska, or klav gav flavored

Miles flavored

1. On the Dichotomy of Colors in Neo Olde Tokyo and its Applications to Japanifornia, An Essay by Miles A. Edgeworth, Grade 4

Status: COMPLETE, Read here

A oneshot kid!fic set after the classroom trial but before DL-6. Miles confesses by way of steel samurai.

2. Cry for Absolution:

Status: This one is essentially done but I’m debating whether to publish it bc it’s personal. 

The miles goes to catholic school au i wrote about here! I added in some slight lang/edgeworth elements.

3. Miles to Go:

Status: Outlined, some chapters written. This is my only AA multi chapter fic. I haven’t worked on it in a bit bc i’ve been playing the games more (started outlining/writing mid game 3, and am now on the game 5 DLC), but I have a bunch of roadtrip stops planned!

Motivated by my desire to have more Miles & Trucy bonding moments, and to torture this poor stuffy man with a chaotic roadtrip. Miles is overworking himself so Phoenix & Trucy convince him to go on vacation with them. Most of his vacations (when he takes them) are spa days with Franziska, so he doesn’t realize until they’re pulling up to the bus terminal that Phoenix has booked a roadtrip across CA.

The parts I have written currently are: a narumitsu having to share a bed in a shitty motel that ran out of rooms chapter; trucy & miles making s’mores. I know I also want to write: supernatural themed roadside attraction chapter with Miles and Maya arguing about whether ghosts are real (possibly at the Mystery Spot or Winchester Mystery House); the opening of Larry’s art gallery as Laurice Deauxnim; supportive!Miles walking with Phoenix across the Golden Gate Bridge (Phoenix is scared shitless bc of Bridge to the Turnabout, but Trucy really wants to go); epilogue is Miles’ choice of vacation— the opening of steel samurai land at Gatewater Land

Excerpt from the s’mores scene:

Trucy looked up at him curiously. “Have you really never made a smore before Mr. Edgeworth?”

Miles shifted uncomfortably. “‘No, I... I haven’t ever been camping before either really.”Trucy’s mouth dropped open, “NEVER?” she said, awed that someone could miss out on something so fundamental to all her childhood vacations with her father.

“No. I mean,” Miles sighed, “My adopted father wasn’t much for camping.”

“Why?” said Trucy, chomping on another marshmallow straight from the bag.

“Well, for one, he dressed like... erm, me. Not me right now, of course,” he said, shifting awkwardly in the baggy matching pink Yellowstone T-shirt Trucy had picked out for them earlier.

“Who knows! maybe if he’d have been less of a stick in the mud, you could’ve had matching t-shirts with him too!” said Trucy, full of naive hopefulness. 

Miles knew she couldn’t possibly know the story behind von Karma’s atrocities and speak so lightly of it. Still, he found himself stifling a snicker at the thought of Manfried von Karma being caught in cargo shorts, sneakers, and a souvenir t shirt.

“Somehow I don’t think that would fly,” said Miles, in the understatement of the century.

“Eh, too bad for him I guess. 2 for 1 deals are just for us cool kids I guess,” she said, elbowing Miles on an affectionate joke.

Miles smiled, “Weren’t you just calling me elderly not 10 minutes ago? And now I’m a cool kid?”

“Objection!” yelled Trucy. “That was Auntie Maya!”

“Touché,” said Miles. “Your father was the one getting the most kick out of it though I think.”

“I think he just likes to see you so... flustered? Not that he wants to see you mad, but... you’re so much more fun when you’re not all geared up to use your pink suit like armor and be an ice man. It just makes us all happy to know you’re here having fun and wanting to spend time with us.”

Miles was glad for the darkness and the heat of the fire to cover up any possible embarrassment or other... frivolous emotions that might be flushing his cheeks from those remarks. He found himself oddly struck speechless.

Clearly noticing the awkward pause in the conversation, Trucy tried to redirect to safer subjects. “Anyway, I’m sorry your dad was a bummer. I love hearing everyone’s cool camping stories.”

4. Miles’ feather of truth nightmare:

Status: this is an outline for a scene I’ll probably stick into another fic at some point!

Egyptian mythology inspired. Miles has a nightmare where his heart is being weighed against the feather of truth, he looks up to find the judge to plead his case, but the judge’s stand has been replaced with a throne. Mvk sits on it, cackling madly before eating his heart

5. Miles Edgeworth & chess through the years:

Status: just an outline currently.

Canon compliant AU with chess as a metaphor to track Miles’ character arc and recovery from his abuse at the hands of MVK. Basically him going from the dehumanizing WIN WIN WIN attitude to love & using chess to bond with loved ones. I wanna have him as a kid learn to play from Gregory as a way to bond, but then suddenly change to being coached to be the best under von karma (who hides a piece in his sleeve to get a win). Picks up in aa1 with him playing against phoenix (phoenix wins by pure luck, not strategy or underhanded tactics), him commissioning That Gay Ass Chess Set in his office, faking his death. Two scenes at the end of him playing against Kay (who cheats and briefly reminds him of MVK, but then laughing bc he knows MVK would HATE that comparison), and then married narumitsu laughing when Pess and Trucy accidentally knock over the chess board

Franziska flavored

1. Franziska’s having a bREAkdOwn! bReaKdOwn! (hospital franmaya):

Status: Scenes partially written, excerpt below.

Franziska and her father share many things: a name, a legacy of success, a destiny of greatness, and matching bullet holes to remind them of their greatest failures. What happens when Franziska wants to see more of herself not in her father, but in Maya Fey?

Excerpt:

“Maya Fey, your family was disgraced by my own father. How can you even look at me?” “You’re not the sins of your father, Franziska. And... to be honest... I relate to you.”

Of all the things she’d said that night, that finally caught Franziska’s attention. She turned her head up in a wide eyed perplexed gaze.

Maya rubbed her head self consciously, looking away from Franziska. “I mean... not to the prosecuting parts, or to putting people behind bars but... I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel like destiny had laid out some grand path for me to follow, and I decided that, no thanks, that road isn’t for me, I’m just going to go tear up the map and make a pit stop at every burger joint in a hundred mile radius instead.”

She laughed, and Franziska let out a furious scowl. “How can you just JOKE about this, Maya Fey? About your future? About your family? About destiny?” Maya sighed. “Look, Fran, I get where you’re coming from. But we deserve more than that. The chance to set our own destinies. Maybe we’re the beginning of our own new family legacies.”

Klav Gav flavored

1. klav gav haircut fic:

Status: Scenes partially written, not outlined

Premise is Klavier visits Kristoph in his cell post aa4 and tries to get closure. Klav cuts off his braid, finds more of a sense of self, and klapollo hurt/comfort at the end

Excerpt:

“You are nothing without me Klavier. You never will be.” Klavier laughed coldly. “You think I don’t know that Kris? You’ve stained every part of my life. Every moment of joy and suffering somehow comes back to you. I can’t even look in the mirror without starting at myself, convinced that it’s the ghost of you and not myself looking back at me.”

“I should’ve thought the great rock star would fancy himself a narcissus. How touching this is not the case. Why, it almost seems you miss me.”

Klavier laughed ruefully. “Miss you?! Of course I miss you. I miss you teaching me how to braid my hair. I miss the person who held my hand at mother’s funeral and didn’t let me cry myself to sleep alone that night. I miss when I didn’t know what atroquinine was and I miss who I was when I could just blindly look past the way you’d just been grooming me this whole time to be a pawn in some sick revenge fantasy against phoenix wright. But I know that none of those memories—none of what i miss—were actually you. Or at least, not the you that you’ve chosen to become.”

Klavier paused and let out a long sigh. When he spoke next, his voice was small and strung out. “I’m tired Kris. I don’t want to see you in me anymore.”

That’s it for now! I genuinely am debating making an ace attorney side blog so I can talk about these more, but idk if there’s much engagement in the AA fandom compared to star trek. Anyway, thank you sm for your ask!!! <3 I’m down to ramble on more about these anytime!!

[cherrywoes]

003 | CONTROL

“AND SHE ATTACKED YOU first?” the police officer inquired, his notepad barely much of note except for scribbles of your name, age, number, and a lawyer to contact if, god forbid, the girl pressed charges against you—because it was highly likely given your celebrity status and the man had seen more than enough lawsuits against people like you go horribly wrong. “With a bowl of soup and by yanking your hair, you said?”

“Yes,” you affirmed, side eyeing Iwaizumi Hajime giving his version to another officer who had arrived with the one interviewing you. A further look around the room revealed Yuuji’s girlfriend sitting at a table, holding a napkin and an ice pack to her nose, with aforementioned boyfriend comforting and doting over her, attempting to soothe her anger over a potentially broken bone. You would be surprised if it wasn’t at least fractured. “I didn’t even do anything to her; you can ask anyone here what happened.”

The officer nodded and wrote something else down. “And what is your relationship with the victim’s boyfriend?”

Victim? Gag me, you thought, eyebrows contorting into a barely concealed sneer. If anyone was the victim, it was your hair; you’d spotted more than a few [color] strands wrapped around that girl’s knuckles when she collapsed to the tile floor. Props to Yuuji for being more loyal to her than he had you, but he really knew how to pick them, didn’t he?

“He’s my ex-boyfriend. She was the one he cheated on me with, to put a long story short.” You watched the officer’s eyebrows raise as he continued to write down the basics. The press would have a field day with this one. “There’s plenty of backstory about that in the papers if you want to read more about it.”

You deceptively left out the fact that you’d retaliated by sleeping with the captain of his volleyball team at the time, Shinsuke Kita. He’d been surprisingly easy to convince, citing that it was only logical for you to want to get back at Yuuji by sleeping with the one person he probably respected more than anyone else on their team. Everything had been no strings attached with him for a while, and when you both became too busy to hook up on weekends you’d agreed to break it off cleanly and remain friends—it wasn’t like Kita was ridiculously hard to communicate with, unlike Yuuji. You half mindedly wondered if he was in the city or not around this time of year; he was probably dealing with the rice harvest right around now.

“Is there anyone to represent you in case a lawsuit is filed against you for damages?”

“Semi Eita.” 

The cop gave you yet another look before writing down the name.

Semi was Akaashi’s lawyer and therefore your lawyer. However, you had only met him a handful of times, and even then it was on the terms of strangers. He was the best lawyer in Tokyo and everyone knew it. If Yuuji’s girl wanted to try and pull a lawsuit over on you, she would have a nasty surprise coming her way.

“Alright, we’ll call you if anything comes up.” He tucked away the notepad and bowed his head to you. Then he stepped outside to make a call, leaving you to stand alone near the window. With no other option but to sit and wait for them to let you go, you sat down and unlocked your phone.

Surprise flickered over your face when, lo and behold, Oikawa Tooru’s name popped up in your new messages. Somehow between getting your hair pulled out and soup thrown at the back of your head, he’d messaged you and you hadn’t heard the notification over it. You debated if you wanted to answer it—or at the very least read it. He hadn’t said a word to you in over a month after flaking out on you for that shoot, leaving you with Ushijima (you weren’t sure if you felt lucky or cursed after that) in the process.

Before you could let your finger press down on the screen, Iwaizumi Hajime, the reason for you being there in the first place, walked over. The cop was seemingly done with him and had gone outside to speak with his associate, the two standing close and debating over something with someone on the phone—their supervisor, perhaps?—which left everyone in the small onigiri shop to wait for them to come back.

“So, I guess you’re wondering about Shittykawa too.” You blinked at his blunt tone, surprised as he slid into the booth across from you. Your water and onigiri lay abandoned on the table, still clean but your appetite not allowing for food. “He told me about you a lot. [Name] [Surname], right?”

“Yes, and wherever he is I’m going to kick his ass,” you deadpanned.

“Get in line.” Iwaizumi scowled. “I haven’t heard a word from him in over a month and then he texts me that everything’s fine. I’m assuming you got one too?”

“A bit ago, but…” You shrugged and inclined your head in Yuuji’s direction. “I was a little busy at the time.”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “Ah. Well, supposedly he’s fine so he should be back in Japan in a bit. Though I wouldn’t bet on him participating in any shoots afterwards though.”

“And why not?” You asked, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. You didn’t think you could deal with Ushijima, not again—you’d beg Akaashi to do it with you, especially after those infuriatingly confusing texts he’d sent you on your flight back. He’d probably need some gentle coaxing but you could probably get him to do it. “It’s not like he can just quit, Akaashi would kill him.”

Iwaizumi shrugged, as if saying ‘I don’t know’ and left it at that.

Before you could further interrogate him, the cops entered the shop again and gestured for you, Yuuji, and his girlfriend to go over to them. You flashed a quick wave to Iwaizumi, who nodded, and approached the cop. You kept a healthy distance from Yuuji’s girlfriend, conscious of your hair and the strands you were likely lacking at her hands, and set your gaze on the cop expectantly. You half expected a lawsuit at best, arrest of both of you at worst; just because they could, not that they had any reason to take both of you to prison.

“No charges are being pressed on either side,” the cop began as a starter. You figured Yuuji had a hand in that, otherwise she would be slapping you with a lawsuit before you could blink. “Miss Fujimura, you’ll be required to attend weekly therapy sessions as a result of an unfounded outburst of anger and cleared by a licensed therapist. Miss [Name], you are free to do as you please and may sue if you wish.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t need to sue her. But thanks.”

A few more moments of the cops speaking to the girl, Fujimura-san, and you were able to leave, finally. Iwaizumi exchanged numbers with you before you left, citing that you could trash talk Oikawa behind his back whenever he got back which you found hilarious and slightly touching. But of course, as all things did, it had to come to an abrupt end.

You should have known something bad would happen with the way your day had been going. It was almost like foreshadowing; you’d managed to weasel your way out of that one, but this one?

You were lucky to get out alive.

The gun against the man’s head was astonishingly real and very much loaded, judging by the click when the hammer pulled back. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and he was sweating profusely, each droplet rolling down his face and landing on the expensive carpet. You swore if the man wouldn’t have been shot for crying, he would have been leaking giant alligator tears.

You weren’t the one holding the gun. It felt like you were.

You glanced at the back of Ushijima’s head, followed the silhouette of his arm and the hand that held the gun.

Where had it all gone wrong?

a/n: i struggled so much with this chapter it wasn’t even funny. that’s why it took so long for me to update it; i was never happy with it and this is how it turned out. i’m probably going to focus on waking up the devil mostly and then come back with fresh eyes. <3 check it out if you like oikawa!

                                                  MASTERLIST.

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                    taglist (open): @toaster-stick​ @katemocha​ @momowhoo​

[vanaera]

Daffodil Rings

Synopsis | In a world where the red-string-of-fate tale has been proven true by science, each scientific journal has been up to date with every new-found “soulmate system,” and everyone out there has been in their never-ending search for their soulmates, there stands one bug in the system: You. You don’t believe in the absoluteness of the soulmate phenomenon, nor the too-perfect-to-work-out soulmate systems, arguing each and every bit of them are for everyone but you. With 17 years of defiance against such natural occurrence, you did not expect you will be literally swept off your feet by your soulmate on some ordinary Thursday into the wildest night of your life. Everything only goes downhill when you learn that “soulmate” of yours happens to be Park Jimin, the singer from the worldwide famous boy group BTS, you have embarrassingly crushed on for six years.

Characters | idol!Jimin x law student, part-time florist!you (soulmate au proven by science; strangers to lovers trope)

Genres | Fluff, angst, implied smut

Wordcount | 22.3k (I’m sorry)

Playlist | I was Made for Loving You by Tori Kelly ft. Ed Sheeran

Cross posted on | AO3

A/N | Hi everyone! Friendly reminder that everything in this story is fictional and has no intended connection with actual individuals and groups involved in this story. I just felt the need to remind you all ;)  

                 You always loved arguing. Whether it be about politics, philosophy, human rights issues, science advances, or if pineapples really do belong in pizza (which you agree with) – the topic doesn’t matter because you found it always necessary to go against the current. For check and balance, you insist. You don’t want to admit that “hobby” of yours was almost pathological.

               You tell people it started from a time you were five and went around your neighborhood. Your mother told you to get outside your introverted shell and talk with the kids of your age. However, instead of striking friendships, you started arguments, arguing person after person on the littlest of things–from the notion that ocean sunfishes are the stupidest animals to exist, to the fallacy behind ‘blood is thicker than water’.  Unlike your mother’s expectations, you earned angry snarls and glares to the point she was almost bothered by the stinging stares of anyone who will pass by your house. “Almost” is the keyword, because as soon as local debates were announced in your community centers, you became the most sought-out consultant of every single contestant. Times now seemed short of instances people can prove what they’re ideas are worth. Anyway, your mother forbade you to enter the contest because you were too young to join at that time (“Goodness, you’re just five!”). And because Mrs. Thornbow, your third grade English teacher and adviser, was not impressed of your carefree negligence of school rules, especially regarding proper attires. You guessed your teacher warned your mother of letting you participate in debates in your notorious black slacks, the one you always wear in school instead of your red plaid skirt, in case you get too “out of hand” again in school.

               Unlike the story you told everyone, the real origin of your almost-sick hobby has to do with the red string of fate. The invisible, indestructible string created by fate which ties two people together, two soulmates, for the rest of their lives. Generations upon generations were expecting to be paired with a person made by the heavens just for them. Even more, most relationships, marriages, and families are the fruits of this system. Thus, it will be unnatural for anyone to go against such destiny.

                The soulmate phenomenon was an inexplicable truth and people explained such phenomenon through the myth of these red strings, until 1986 when Professor Vandikes and Doctor Weber discovered biological evidences of the soulmate phenomenon. The two found extraneous neural interconnections of two “soulmates” through neuroimaging. Vandikes and Weber discovered that thoughts can be transmitted back and forth between the soulmates because of their identically coordinated neural activities. Even more, the soulmates simultaneously produced similar accurate results even when they’re living in two different countries.

               As soon as Vandikes and Weber’s study hit the news, everyone was automatically convinced in this soulmate science. It even prompted researchers to investigate every single existing soulmate systems. No wonder everyone accepted the soulmate phenomenon as an unarguable truth, an unbreakable tradition, and even as absurd as a purpose in life. Of course, everyone except you.    

               You didn’t believe in fate dictating who you should love when you already have enough of the society telling you who you should be. Science has proven fate is capable of planning someone to be awfully compatible with you but, it does not ensure it will always work.  Your existence was enough of a proof.

               You do not have any existing soulmate system countl. There is no “soulname” on your wrist, a permanent, inborn tattoo of the name of your soulmate, the very soulmate system your mother and father has. You do not feel any kind of “soulbond,” the emotional transparency system between two soulmates, nor do you see any “soul-art” decorating your body, a system of identical, dull tattoos, which only turn vibrant at the touch of a soulmate. You already see the world in color since you were born, unlike your playmate Jung Seolhee. She said she has “soul-vision” as her soulmate system that’s why she sees the world in black and white until her soulmate comes and enters her field of vision. And, you most definitely do not have any thoughts, other than yours, rambling in your mind as you grow up unlike what Vandikes and Weber claim in the rare soulmate system, “soul connection”.

               In short, the soulmate phenomenon did not include you into their equation. Hence, at sixteen, you’re adamant about your disagreement with this red-string-of-fate bullshit–a sentiment you nurtured since you’re five–when everyone of your age has already set out to travel the world to find their soulmates. You decided you won’t base your life on what fate has dictated.  You will create your own path, your own life, and your own destiny. Cures for numerous illnesses have been discovered yet their effectivity for every single person are not identically applicable. The soulmate phenomenon excluded you and it most probably happened so because it’s not for you.

               You love arguing, most especially when it comes to the soulmate phenomenon. Your 17-year-defiance is enough of a solid proof and such experience warranted you enough skills not only to graduate college as the top of the class, but also to pursue law school. You just didn’t imagine your longest duration of arguing will not be against a competent lawyer inside the court, but against a stranger you met in a hole-in-the-wall bar, who unknowingly becomes your greatest misfortune of your night.

               It all started at ten o’clock, fifth of September 2019, in Marti’s Hub, a small bar you always frequent when you’re in need of intoxicating liquids. You never thought anything aberrant will happen as two hours prior, you were just mourning over the disappointing results of your Law 114 essay with some drinks with your bestfriend Lucy.

               “C’mon, Y/N, let’s dance! Stop being such a party pooper!” you feel Lucy’s insistent pull on the sleeve of your jacket and you glared at her before putting your drink down on the table.

               Actually, two hours prior to that dreadful ten o’clock, you were mulling over your Law 114 essay while Lucy is mulling about the probability of her soulmate appearing in the bar. And as much as you totally love arguing, there is only one exception to your uncontrollable hobby: you hate doing it with your bestfriend.

               Lucy Kim has been with you since you’re an intolerable ten-year-old in elementary and for the longest time your friendship lasted, it isn’t hard to tell the girl was a sensitive bunch. You remember her fat ugly tears in senior high when Peter Lee, the local asshole, told her her braids look dumb. Like every other friends, you’ve had fights here and there. Everytime you argued with her, you hated yourself a bit for making her feel bad and you feel much worse when you have to apologize and see her tear-streaked face. It’s ironic how you’re this soft for Lucy when you didn’t bat a damn eyelash at your mother whenever she complains you’re the frequent source of her headaches. In your defense, Lucy understood your anomalous hobby as your second nature far better than your mother could.

               However for tonight, you’re gonna cross the line and disregard the exception you reserved for your bestfriend.

               “Lucy, I told you I came here to drink. Not dance.” You picked the lime on the plate and took a bite.  Your fingers enclose firmly on your glass before your friend could attempt to take you away again. “Plus, I just agreed to tag you along because you told me you want to cry over your fruitless job hunt. I did not agree to accompany you to hunt for your soulmate tonight, which is what you’re doing right now.” You look pointedly at her.

               “Well,” Lucy drawls, rubbing her arm, “you can’t blame me. I’ve already searched our entire neighborhood, my hometown, and even my old university and still I can barely see any Michael Hudson coming my way.” Your eyes caught how she grazes her fingers on the soulname marked on her right wrist. You tried to sympathize with her but still-

               “That does not justify why you’re asking me to accompany you to the dance floor.”

               Your remark is returned with a scathing look from your friend. “Are you not listening to me? I told you I already searched the entire city! And you’ve always accompanied me in every single soulmate hunt! Plus, you didn’t have any qualms yesterday when you and I started to search in nightclubs. It won’t hurt for another try tonight.” You turn away, silent in the truth of what she said. Lucy huffs, “Also, a Michael Hudson sounds someone that usually goes to nightclubs.”

               “It does not,” you mutter, taking another swig from your drink.

               “Uh yeah?” Lucy’s frown deepens, eyes turning into slits as she glares at you like you’re an imbecile. Hypothetically, you are one based on your non-impressive streak in your law essays but that’s beside the incredulity of the things your bestfriend is spouting. Whether she understood the disinterest painted in your whole face or not, she continues on, “I already met lots of Michael’s yesterday and I just met two ‘bout 20 minutes ago. My Michael Hudson may actually be here.”

               You placed down your drink on the bar to stare at your friend. “Lucy, your argument is a false causation. Look,” you sigh, “a bar is not an ideal place to find true love. In this generation, it is more likely you’ll meet an asshole Michael in here instead of your prince charming Michael.” You grimace but you continue on, “Your Michael Hudson may be having some coffee right now in a sophisticated café while some ‘Michael’ here turns out to be a jerk who just wants to get into your pants. Why don’t we just go home, yeah? I’m already finished with my drink and I don’t want to drag your drunk ass back to your home again.”

               “Y/N, you don’t understand,” Lucy groans. “I feel he’s here right now. I can’t just go up and leave without trying. My guts are telling me to stay. It’s a soulmate thing!” You scrunch your face in a disgusted cringe. Lucy narrows her eyes. “See? You’re just saying these stuff because of your prejudice against the soulmate phenomenon.”

               “It’s not a prejudice. What I believe is true–”

               “Doesn’t matter. Look,” Lucy sighs, “If you want to go home, you can go. I’ll stay here and take my chances.” She doesn’t wait for your reply and turns around to head for the dance floor.

               A heavy rock settles on your chest. You don’t like arguing with your bestfriend especially when it comes to this soulmate thing where your views are in absolute disagreement with hers. You don’t like to come off as a bitter, unsupportive friend who ruins everyone’s mood with their cynicism. But sometimes, you can’t help but say a thing or two to wake Lucy up from her fantasies. After toxic relationships with already three Michael Hudsons in your university, you figured Lucy is annoyingly naïve for outright jumping in a relationship with anyone who has the same name as the words inked on her wrist.  You’ve already picked up broken piece after broken piece of herself from relationships after relationships, helping her stand on her feet again and again. You’ve always been by her side to not let her stay far too up in the clouds, balancing her happy-go-lucky spirit with your boring seriousness to help her grounded to reality. That’s why you can’t ignore the thorns pricking your chest when she dismisses your advice so easily as if she never learned anything from her hopeless romance just a week ago.

               You bite your lip and decide to have some soda. You’re not yet leaving but you most definitely won’t wait for her to go home with you. You just have to soften the heavy walls building on your chest so you won’t sleep tonight crying. You hate doing that.

               Another glass of soda and a plate of lime later, ten minutes have passed with just you indulging on a combo you know will be frowned upon by other bar patrons. Ten minutes of doing just that is also enough for you to notice the man in a navy button-down by your left was now a little too close to you. You saw him seated on the far left of the bar, about three feet from you prior to your argument with Lucy. He was ducked on the table, shoulders hunched, which guaranteed you no opportunity to assess his face before. Now, he’s by your side, elbow brushing against your jacket and back straightened enough to see a cringe-worthy smile he’s sending your way. You don’t manage to make out his whole face though because his disheveled brown locks were covering about half of his face. You take your focus back on your plate. Your grasp on your glass tightens. There’s no need to panic. Maybe the stranger transferred seats because your spot has closer proximity to the shelves where the bartender is situated. Maybe he’s sober and you’re just making this whole situation blow out of proportion in your head. Maybe–

               “Hi, doll. You seem tense. Wanna come over to my place to loosen up?” His breath against the shell of your ear makes the hair on your neck rise. Your shoulders stiffen and you gulp. You could feel a ghost of a hand looming on the exposed skin from your ripped jeans. Warning bells wail in your head.

               “I’m not interested,” you mutter between gritted teeth. You don’t look his way as you swat his hand away that was about to rest on your knee. You don’t want to make a scene when you’re about to finish your drink and leave this hole of a bar. You’ve had enough drama for the night already.

               However, the man seems to turn deaf because he smiles at you again. “Oh, don’t play hard to get now, doll. I know you want it. You’ve been staring at me earlier.” His alcohol-stained breath fans against your face and despite what you said earlier, he places his hand on your knee, grazes your clothed skin, and then gropes the swell of your thigh.

               Motherfucking hell–

               “Hey, man, can you please take your hands off my girl.”

               A voice from another stranger blares behind you and you freeze in your spot. What the fuck, now you have another gross man to deal with?! You grunt in annoyance and whipped your head to the side to finally yell the fuck out to these creeps. Social conventions be damned. You’re gonna make a scene.  However, the man behind you holds you on the curve of your shoulders, not too tight to hurt yet not loose enough for you to turn in your seat. You furrow your brows, bewildered. You lean away slightly to get a glimpse of this man’s face but it didn’t do much because his bleached blonde fringe is almost covering his eyes and a midnight black mask was pulled over the lower half of his face. Now you’re just terribly confused. Is he a wanted criminal to cover up almost majority of his face or is he severely ill with something much worse than the common cold? You don’t know whether to trust this man or be wary of him.

               “I don’t know man,” the drunk creep slurs, hand still poised too comfortably on your thigh. You wriggle in your seat but the man keeps his hold on you firm.  The stranger smirks at you, then to the stranger behind you. “From what I know, this girl is my chic. Go find your own, dickhead.”

               What the absolute fucking shit–You found your rage already growing the best of you and you swat his hand repeatedly but the man grips your thigh even tighter. You open your mouth to scream at the the drunk out of mixed pain, anger, and frustration–but the guy behind your back beats you to it again.

               “Look, man. Take your fucking hands off my girl before I call the cops. She’s my soulmate.”

               At the mention of ‘soulmate,’ the drunk man lets go of your thigh as if his hands were burned. He raises both arms to show he’s not touching any part of you anymore and before you could say something back at him–to redeem yourself and at least roast him into his next life–the guy behind you has already grabbed you by your shoulders, taking you in tow as he walks in fast, short steps towards the exit of the bar.

               The chilling wind of September slaps you in the face and even if you’re still shaken up from the whole deal earlier, you still have your brain on your head to make out the dark interior of the semi-vacant parking lot of the bar. Another set of warning bells blare inside your mind and you thrash your arms around, never caring who you’ll hit or if you’ll be hit, just to break free from the hold of the stranger. You’re not going to get kidnapped after being just indecently hitted on! The man instantly lets you go but it doesn’t put him in any good light for you not to turn around and raise an accusatory finger at him.

               “YOU! Just who do you think you are to hold and take me out here?! Who–”

               The man pulls down his black mask and immediately, words die in your throat.  It’s his drooped eyelids and warm brown eyes that hits you first, then it’s the small slope of his nose and the soft curves of his full, pink lips. Your eyes fleet toward the side of his face and goddamn, the long silver earrings dangling on his pierced ears were the same ones you were ogling at an online article you were reading yesterday.

               Your eyes widen and your jaw falls open in shock. “You-you-you’re–”

               Some random stranger was grabbing you by the shoulders earlier and now in front of you is fucking Park Jimin. Park Jimin, vocalist and dancer of BTS, the biggest boy band in the world who sang tracks upon tracks that earned the greatest number of music show awards in history. Park Jimin, member of BTS who performs in sold-out concerts in countless stadiums around the world. Park Jimin, the famed contemporary dancer from Busan, the beautiful man whose full lips and gentle eyes you’ve continuously written about in countless fanfictions since you started stanning BTS. Park Jimin, the person who may or maybe not have been your ultimate celebrity crush and the object of your both innocent and not-so-innocent fantasies for six years now. Goddamn, is he Park Jimin, the boy you straightaway took a liking to ever since you saw him in his cringe-worthy snapback and No More Dream black jersey ensemble in BTS’ 2013 debut music video.

               Your jaw twitches. “Oh my–Oh my God. You-you–”

               “Wait, don’t panic!” Jimin reaches for your trembling fingers and then you feel it–the explosion. Blinding silvery fireworks seem to go off behind your eyes as hot white combustions fill your chest  for a millisecond before their aftereffects register in a series of numbing kaleidoscope of feelings running hot and wild. Your body is tingling, your chest is burning, and searing pain is engraving its way down your arm from where the man touched you. You immediately pull up the sleeves of your jacket and there you see it–tens, no, hundreds of vibrant, yellow daffodils growing an inked garden in astounding speed from a bloom that has looped around your left ring finger. The blooms spread towards your elbow, creeping even further up to your chest where you can see a bud already peeking out on the skin exposed from your low-cut white tee. Your mouth remains open in shock. You clasp your right hand on your newly-tattooed left arm only for you to mumble a faint “oh my god” when you see your right hand–and right arm–also inked with the same yellow flowers.

               Still hunched over, your eyes fleet towards the stranger–towards Park Jimin, and it was only then you manage to let out audible words again. “You’re-you’re–”

               “–your soulmate.”

               “–Park, Jimin.”

               Jimin smiles, “Oh, you know me already. This wasn’t so hard as I thought.”

               You don’t register what he said, still caught up on the instant sleeves you are now sporting and the outlandish word the man in front of you spouted. “My soulmate,” you trail off, voice softening into a little above a whisper, “my–my soulmate. Oh my god.”

               Unaware of the war going on in your mind, Jimin chuckles. “Yeah, I’m your soulmate. I already know. You don’t have to repeat it again and again. It’s true–”

               “Out of all people, why you?!”

               Jimin’s face falls. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”

               “I–you–ugh!” you throw your hands up and cover your face in hopeless dismay.

               Jimin is more confused than he has ever been in his whole life. “Hey, what do you mean? What’s wrong with me?”

               Your eyes peek out from your hands and you see the distance Jimin has closed between the two of you as now his beautiful, perfect face is practically shoved in front of you. A gunfire inside your head resounds and you blow up. “You! What’s wrong is that you’re Park Jimin! Manggae of BTS who sing in sold out concerts in every goddamn country and the youngest recipients of the Order of the Cultural Merit from South Korea and are now the biggest boyvband in the world!” You huff out, breathless. And then you pale. Oh my god, did you just word-vomited–

               “I didn’t know you know me that well,” Jimin giggles. “That’s great! We’re off to a good start!”

               Confusion flickers in your eyes for only a second before it turns into aggravation. “Why is this not bothering you?! You’re an idol!”

               Jimin nods, “Yeah, I’m an idol. And I’m also your soulmate.” He takes a step toward you and you take one back. Seeing the apprehension in your tensed form, he doesn’t push further and instead opts to place his hands in the pockets of his ink black leather jacket. “Don’t you know why I came just in time before that drunk jerk even tried to further push his sick plan?”

               You don’t answer him, still shaken up from everything that’s suddenly happening.

               Jimin just smiles. “I felt you’re near and you’re distressed and anxious. Soulbond, as people say. I went with my gut feeling and I proved it true when I saw you at the bar with that man. It’s a soulmate thing. And oh, I also have this.” Jimin pulls up his sleeve and raises his left hand, flashing you his ring finger inked with a daffodil looped around it just as yours. His tattoo didn’t spread into a sleeve, hinted by the clear skin peeking from the seams of his leather jacket toward the rest of his hand. But still, his inked ring is undeniably a daffodil bloom just like yours. Jimin smirks, “I told you, I’m your soulmate.

               You could hear your heart pulsing loud against your ears and you could still feel your veins thrumming with the aftershocks of the explosions of stuff you don’t want to label anything that is already connected to the grinning boy in front of you. You open your mouth only for you to close it again. You cannot deny his statement when two full sleeves of tattooed flowers bloomed right in front both of your eyes. He’s your soulmate and that’s undeniable. However, a different chaos brews in your mind again when you remember that this man in front of you was very much the celebrity you have fawned over for the entire latter six years of your life. You must have weirded him out already when you blurted out the achievements of his group earlier. You cannot let yourself further creep him out by telling him you’ve always raved about him, dare even adored him way, way back then before this very night. Sure, you’ve never believed in this soulmate thing for 17 years of your life but it doesn’t mean you didn’t know about love nor experienced it. Your three ex-crushes under your belt and your six-long stable years of intense crushing on this boy in front of you (that even prompted you to write cheesy romance and dirty filth about him in your still-very-alive tumblr writing account) are enough to color your single-as-fuck-since-you-were-born life with enough joy and pain. But anyway, you can’t let him know everything about this. It’s too embarrassing. It will definitely make him run for the hills just like your three ex-crushes.

                You wouldn’t have to do all of this hassle in the first fucking place if Park Jimin is not your fucking soulmate. Goddamn it, you didn’t even imagine in your whole life you will actually fucking say that ridiculous “s” word.

               Frowning again, you storm off.

               Jimin laughs and joins you in your furious steps outside the parking lot.  

***

                Unlike your initial plan of running away, you didn’t know you will actually stay with Jimin into the night as he rambles about future date plans.

               Half past ten, the two of you are seated in Aunt Marie’s, a 24/7 retro-themed diner you frequent every finals week for late night dinners. Massive cheeseburgers are on your plates and Jimin is seated across you, sporting the mask you have seen on him earlier.

               You drop your utensils and sigh. “See? This won’t work. How the hell will we date if your face is always covered with that?”

               “I didn’t know you’re already thinking about dating me.” Jimin’s eyes sparkle as he sets his elbow on the table, cupping his face. “I’m liking this fast pace so far.”

               You didn’t know this man can easily evade your question by getting sidetracked like a pesky toddler. You purse your lips, unamused. “I’m not thinking about dating you. I’m just laying out a general probability for anyone who will date you. Don’t get ahead so fast, you don’t even know me.”

               “You know me.” Jimin shrugs. “At least that’s a headstart.” You glare at him and he laughs. Jimin continues, “We have lots of time to know each other. That’s why we’re here.”

               “Correction, we’re here because you told me you’re starving and this is the only near place I know that serves good food this late in the night.”

               “Which means we get to know each other,” Jimin repeats, smile turning into a grin. “I could have brought us to a place I know but you insisted going here, hence I learn tonight that you like eating at Aunt Marie’s.          Therefore, we are here to eat and also learn about each other. It is inevitable.” You sigh in defeat and Jimin smirks at his victory. “Also, I can eat, look.” He slices his burger, pulls down his mask and shoves a piece in his mouth, and then pulls up his mask on again. You can’t see his teasing smile but you could tell he’s already giggling because his cheeks grow rounder, making his eyes turn into crescent moons. Slicing another piece, Jimin says, “So, can I know more about you, Y/N?”

               Your mouth opens again like a blubbering fish. “Wait, how did you know my name? I haven’t told you my name yet.”

               For a second, you see his eyes widen but it passes like a blur when you find yourself starting to like the mischievous glint shining in his warm eyes. Jimin shrugs and answers, “It’s a soulmate thing.”

               You cringe and Jimin chortles. Okay, you take it back. You don’t like the mischievous glint if he does that while saying that ridiculous “s” word.  When his snickers die down, Jimin repeats his question, “So, can I now know more about you, Y/N?”

               You  dab your napkin on your lips and sigh for the nth time. “Well, everything about me is as plain as plain Jane can be. Name’s Y/N L/N, only child from a middle-class family. I had a quite nice childhood, playing here and there, making many…friends.” You can’t help but cringe at the word, quite unsure if you could ever tell your neighbors who consulted you during community debates were your friends. You want to make a good impression even if you weren’t still sold into this soulmate phenomenon. Unlike back then, you weren’t too fond of people seeing you less of what you are now. You pushed on, “Until middle school came and I learned how friendships work only if everyone gets to free-ride on projects and you carry the whole group.”

               Jimin snorts, “Who hurt you, Y/N?”

               “That asshole’s name is Kim Yeonjun. I still remember the cookie he stole from my lunchbox. Never gonna forgive him.” Your serious front breaks out into snickers and Jimin follows suit. “Anyway, I didn’t know my life will get more boring until high school came and our teachers taught us in detail about Vandikes and Weber’s soulmate science–”

               “Wait, this soulmate thing has a science behind it?” Jimin looks at you, eyes round.

               “Well, yeah,” you reply, brows scrunched. “Your teachers didn’t tell you about them? It was like the only thing any kid will actually remember from studying next to reading and writing.”

               “I don’t remember anything about such science. I studied in a performing arts school in Busan.”

               You look at him incredulous, “Impossible! It’s more likely you’ll know about the soulmate science before you even learn how to read. Parents already start the red string of fate bullshit as soon as their kid starts to speak gibberish. It’s impossible to leave out anyone from the soulmate science since everyone was raving about it–teens, adults, and even kids.”

               “Do you rave about it?”

               The furrows on your forehead deepen. “What? No!”

               “Well, that’s not everyone,” Jimin leans on his seat. “So, people like me who’ve never heard of such science are justified.”

               “Touché” you agree, “but that doesn’t mean you’ll get away without learning at least a two or thing about it because teachers start to teach soulmate science in basic sciences at the end of middle school.” You lean forward, eyes challenging his. “And everyone studies basic sciences in middle school. Heck, you even mentioned soulbond earlier. You’re just probably asleep when your teacher taught it in class.”

               “Okay, I surrender my fight,” Jimin mutters and you laugh.

               “So long story short, Vandikes and Weber first discovered  the biological proof of the soulmate phenomenon. They show how neural interconnections of two soulmates transmit info to each other at the same time even when they’re in two different countries. Which then means the soul connection and all other soulmate systems are scientifically accepted as a truth now than just some folklore.”

               “Wait, what’s the soul connection?”

               “It’s the soulmate system where two soulmates get to read or hear each other’s thoughts. It’s the phenomenon Vandikes and Weber witnessed while formulating their biological proof. Also, it’s rare. Only five couples were recorded to have that system. One of them was the participants of Vandikes and Weber’s study.”

               Jimin hums and you continue with your story, “Anyway, I was surrounded by screaming teenagers desperately looking for their soulmates and all that cringey stuff while I busy myself with studies because that’s the only thing I’m good at.”

               “And you’re busy loving pre-debut BTS.”

               You choke on your burger, eyes wide before you glare at him. How did he know? The guilt on your face must be evident because Jimin starts breaks into a laughing fit that other people (a couple of nightowl teens and couples) look at your way. In your defense, 2013 you didn’t know any better and just spent hours googling BTS and buying posters with each members’ faces on them (with always an extra poster of Jimin’s solo picture everytime you buy a bundle) instead of getting a social life. At least 2013 you were smart enough to realize you’re broke and you can’t afford to buy albums yet when you’re already struggling just to get your hands on required textbooks your teachers assign. You maintain your pointed look at him, refusing to admit to his very much true statement. You don’t want him to know even when the proof is right in your home–the posters you collected for three years, rolled up and still tucked in the corner of your closet. You never found it in yourself to dispose them even after every annual promise to throw them away.

               Jimin sniggers before he cues for you to continue on. “Sorry, it wasn’t funny.”

               “Anyway,” you stuff your face with the last piece of your burger and swallowed it, “I got high honors and got into my dream college. I realized next to studying, I was good at arguing–

               “–so true–”

               “–so I decided to go into law school.” You send Jimin another glare for his (very true) remark and he smiles. “So here I am now into my first year in law school, flunking every essay, and currently worth minimum wage.”

                 Jimin nods in interest, “Where do you work?”

               “Oh gee, I didn’t know you’re into asking occupations of your date like every other cliche dates.”

               You see Jimin’s eyes spark in interest and you regret what you just blurted out. “Oh, so you do see this as a date.”

               “Nooo,” you groan, heat already creeping up on your cheeks, almost like a wildfire. What the hell is happening to you? You always know how to control your word vomit; you’re never impulsive when it comes to speaking out. You’re a law student for Christ’s sake!

               “Don’t worry, I also see this as a date.” You could feel Jimin’s stare linger on your warm cheeks. You snug deeper into your jacket, wishing for the ground to break open and eat you up. Instead of further teasing you, Jimin repeats his question. “So, where do you work?”

               “At Petal Hill,” you mumble.  “It’s a flowershop two blocks away from my flat.”

               “Oh, a flowershop. Then, you must probably be knowledgeable of a lot of flowers.”

               “Yeah” you answer, a smile instantly tugging on your lips. “I get to recommend the best bouquets and sets to my customers, not to mention I have great grasp on the flower language to help them pick flowers they want to convey their messages through.”

               “Really?”

               “Yeah! I mean, I get to understand your confusing I Need You and Run music videos just with the two flowers used alone,” you blurt, thinking fondly of your Tumblr text-post, the only one that got you over 300 notes, where you wrote flower theories about BTS’ music videos. However, the moment you see Jimin gawking at what you said, it’s too late to undo what’s already let out in the open air.

               “Really? Oh my god, I never even knew the meaning behind those flowers. The directors just tell us to sit here, hold this or that, and do sad-emo-boi hours.”

               You stifle a giggle but it comes out unsuccessful when you break out into a huge grin, “You– what?”

               “Don’t get me wrong,” Jimin laughs, “We actually knew the plot of the music videos and internalized the characters assigned to us. But really, I never knew the flowers alone are a huge hint to the whole story.”

               “Well, my time to shine has finally arrived,” you grin, finding the need to stretch out your arms comically like how Tom does when he’s smug about catching Jerry. “The most iconic flower you guys used again and again is the white lily. Although the flower means rebirth, royalty, and purity with its delicate yet grand petals, they are often associated with funerals. White lilies symbolize the restored innocence the departed soul receives after death. That’s why the moment the music video flashes Seokjin’s character spreading six lily petals on the floor, I already knew either all your six characters or Seokjin’s, will die, before the video even reached to your guys’…sad-emo-boi hours.” Jimin nods in interest and you continue, “The Japanese version of the music video for I Need You was a large give-away since the large masses of flowers surrounding Seokjin, Taehyung, and Jungkook’s characters resemble like the clump of flowers thrown at a coffin being buried.” You gulp, “Anyway, going to the lighter side because I don’t want to dwell on such grim topics, the second flower you guys used that caught my eye was the blue rose.”

               “Oh yeah, that one!” Jimin eyes glimmer in recognition. “It was the only flower we used in the Run music video. What’s its meaning?”

               “Impossible love.” You said, lips forming a thin line. “Blue roses don’t occur in nature because roses do not have the specific gene to produce such color. Instead, they are made by placing blue dye into the bark of the roses’ roots. Since it’s impossible to produce blue roses naturally without artificial means, these roses mean impossible love. So when the video flashes the blue rose in the background of Yoongi and Jungkook’s characters fighting, it can be said their familial love for each other, as they were depicted like brothers in the videos, will be unable to mend the wreckage of their characters.”                

               “Wow, I didn’t know it’s possible to reach to such accurate perception with the flowers alone.”

               “Then are my theories true?” You lean forward.

               “Yeah, on Jungkook and Yoongi’s characters being brothers and their strained familial bond. Also with the connotation of the lilies, although,” Jimin leans forward, too, smirking, “I wouldn’t reveal to you who really died or didn’t in the music videos.”

               You scoff. “Wow, such torture. You’ve been keeping the fans in the shadows about the story far too long.”

               “Not my choice, blame Big Hit. The concept team just tells us anyway the plot when we have to shoot them so you can say I’m also in the dark” Jimin shrugs. “Also, I want to keep you on your toes, making theories and analyses. They interest me.  How did you easily connect the dots?”

               “I’m a part-time florist. And, I took English literature as my undergraduate study. The plot analyses and the story critiques we did really grew in me.”

               “Oh wow,” Jimin gasps, leaning back. “My god, I didn’t know you were so out of my league!”

               “What?” Out of his league? Is he fucking crazy? He’s the one across you who’s got millions of followers, followed everywhere by the media, known and loved in every country, not to mention, worth of millions of dollars. And you’re here, who’s got millions of bills to pay, followed by countless work and university deadlines, barely spared a glance from the people in your university and work, and you hate to mention again, worth minimum wage. Hell, you could tell Jimin’s face is glowingly beautiful even with his mask pulled on while you’re here, probably sporting a full oily face look. By all blatant circumstances, he’s the one who’s out of your league.

               At the sight of your frown, Jimin’s hands wave in front of you, trying to dismiss any misunderstanding. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, I just–I didn’t know you’re such an intellectual. You read lots of books and do analyses and you’re so damn good in arguing. You always get me convinced. I haven’t done anything yet in our date but gawk and say ‘wow’ like a kid. I don’t…want to look stupid in front of you.”

               “You’re not.”

               “Huh?”

               You clear your throat. “You’re not stupid. And no, you didn’t just ‘gawk and say wow’ at me. You did a good job arguing with me earlier…about the ‘date.’ And that takes a lot because it looks like you’re having fun doing this friendly debate with me when people curse me for being so adamant in arguments.”

               “Why would they curse you? There’s nothing wrong in fighting for what you think is right.”

               You shrug, “They got nothing substantial to say so they resort to shaming you for what you know. Sick way of lifting yourself above others.  Anyway, why don’t you fire me some flower questions you have in mind? I’m in the mood to go all out in my flower-nerdiness today.”

               “Okay, so…what do you think is the best flower to give for your friends?”

               “Pink tulips are automatic to-gos. They mean ‘I care for you’ and also ‘good wishes’ so they’re also perfect for joyful gatherings. Pear blossoms also do the trick as they mean lasting friendship.” You glance upwards and hum before you return your eyes to Jimin, excitement thrumming in your nerves, “Oh, and Arborvitaes may not be popular but they’re the perfect flowers to give to a friend if you want to have ‘everlasting friendship.’”

               “Hmm, then what about the best one to give to your parents?”

               “Flowers of gratefulness are the top candidates. Campanulas, azaleas, and dark pink roses all mean gratitude and thankfulness.”

               “I’ll make sure to remember that next time I buy flowers for my mom,” Jimin smiles. “I always go for red roses every damn single time.”

               “It’s the classic. Can’t blame you though, it has the most generic message applicable to many kinds of relationships.”

               “Yeah, really?”

               “Yeah, they mean true love–True love for your friend, true love for your parent, or true love for your significant other. People usually use the connotation of “true love” for romantic relations when it’s actually applicable to familial bonds and friendships. After all, all of these relationships require truthfulness and love at the same time.”

               Jimin’s  mouth forms an o-shape. “Oh, I never really thought of that.”

               “Well now you know,” you grin.

               “Inked and stamped now, ma’am,” Jimin slaps his palm on his head and you giggle. At your laugh, Jimin smile grows bigger. “Okay, here’s another one: what flower is the best one to give to your mortal enemy?”

               “Are you insane? Who gives flowers to their mortal enemy?”

               Jimin shrugs. “Why not?”

               “Disregarding the money and time you’re wasting picking these flowers for such person,” you squint your eyes at him and Jimin laughs, “you should definitely go for foxgloves and orange lilies. They literally mean ‘Fuck you’ to the hardest core.”

               “‘Fuck you’ in what sense?” Jimin teases.

               You easily go along with it, mischief easily brewing inside your head. “They mean ‘fuck you’ as a curse, but if you mean the suggestive ‘fuck you’ then go for balsams. Though they may not be that arousing because they have these large, curving petals that look worn and limp, and you DON’T want to imply you’re like that flower.”

               Jimin guffaws, “Then why do they mean ‘fuck you’ if they’re not the least bit attractive?”

               “I don’t know, blame the Victorians who invented this floriography. Preferences change over time anyway so we can’t blame them for thinking balsams back then are ahhhsm.”

               You’re co-workers always found that joke dry and lame and yet in front of you, Jimin laughs as he holds his stomach, even finding the need for his other hand to slap the table again and again.  At this rate, he’s toning his abs from how hard he tries to keep his laughter not loud enough to disturb other customers. Despite the forming grin on your face, you found the need to say, “Okay, sorry that came out really, really suggestive.”

               “No, it’s okay,” Jimin assures. “I was the one who insinuated the suggestive themes anyway. I don’t mind at all.”

               “Me too,” you gulp. “It’s cool that we get to sit and chat like this without worrying about anything sexual.”

               “…Yeah, I agree,” Jimin tugs his shirt and clears his throat. “Anyway, what flower is the best one to give to your significant other? The most romantic one, the one that will instantly make your heart flutter?”

               “Well,” your fidget in your seat, “that depends on what the significant other likes. Flowers may hold different meanings but the preference for them still largely relies on the recipient.”

               “What do you like to receive?”

               You look at him, gaze questioning any ulterior intentions, any flirtatious comebacks he wants to blurt after possibly faking interest about such important topic. But when he tilts his head, waiting for your answer, you can’t help but blindly disregard your doubts and just answer his question. “I think pansies would be enough for me.”

               “Pansies?”

               “Yeah… They have these delicate, round petals and they’re resilient whether the sun beats too harsh on them or the winter almost freezes them to their roots. Whatever weather, whatever place they live in, they’ll always, always live. I guess that’s why they mean ‘You’re always in my mind.’ There’s nothing more infectious, more resilient, than any disease but a constant thought. That’s why I think being always in someone’s mind is a lot. To have a significant other that gets to see you, feel you, hear you, smell you, even taste you without them being aware of it is already akin to…love. You can’t control what passes through your mind, much less on what or who stays in it. But it doesn’t matter,” you laugh awkwardly, throat hurting in the process. “I’m not into receiving flowers. They’re over-the-top and they wilt and I just have to throw them away when they served all their worth.”

               “But what would you do if someone is willing to give you those pansies everyday, help you clean them away when they wilt, and assure you a new batch will make its way to you again?”

               “Then…I will accept it. Gifts are free and my labor will be lessened.”

               Jimin leans back, eyes shining. “I will make sure then to drop by in your shop and buy you a bouquet of those to make up for my lack of gifts for our date today.”

               You scoff at him. “You’re buying flowers right from my workplace to give to me? That’s not romantic.”

               “Wanna see me come over with a suit and tie, then?”

               “Oh my god, why are you like this?” you wail, palms covering your face. You’ve always adored Jimin’s unwavering determination in their reality shows, however, having him here in front of you showing you this stubbornness is something else. You don’t know whether to hit him or kiss him. Wait, what–

               “How about this then?” you feel Jimin’s fingers part your hands away from your face and a breath gets stuck in your throat. He has leant forward, mask pulled down to his jaw, and his eyes trained straight towards yours. You find yourself unable to tear your gaze away, too absorbed in Jimin’s intense stare. The thought that his vision is probably just filled with you and nothing else just like how your eyes only frame his entire face makes you queasy in your seat. You’ve never had someone look at you this, sincere and so open before that your long-time indignation to real-life romance and the whole soulmate thing has rendered you incapable of thinking what you should do–or if you should actually do anything than just get lost in another person’s eyes. You see Jimin’s lips pull into a soft curve of a smile. “Is this romantic enough?”

               Before you could choke on your own spit and indulge in awkward silence you know you’ll probably won’t get out of, a foreign voice by your side breaks your little bubble with Jimin. You glance to your left and a tall waiter bows. “Sorry to interrupt you, ma’am, sir, but would you like to order some dessert?”

               You look down at your plates to find everything in miniscule bits and crumbs, your meals completely finished. You sneak a peek at your wristwatch. It’s only 10:51, just mere twenty minutes have passed since you stepped onto the diner’s black and white tiles. You never imagined time could run so fast with another person invading your space than just your comfort zone.

               You see Jimin turn to the waiter. “Oh, no we’re finished. Can we ask for the bill?”

               Wait, you’re already finished? So soon? Your scrunched forehead must have gave out everything you’re thinking because Jimin turns to you and says, “I want to show you to some place. My turn to let you learn more about me.”

               Indifferent to the exchange between you two, the waiter hands Jimin the receipt. “Here it is, sir.”

               “Okay,” Jimin hands the payment on the waiter’s awaiting hands and you gape as you flounder for your own wallet. Jimin dismisses you. “I got this. You can pay me later.” He turns back to the waiter, “Thank you for the service.”

               “Thank you, too, sir.” The waiter returns and when you see him smile at Jimin again, his voice trails off and his eyes squint at the man across you. “Say, sir…you really look like Park Jimin from BTS.”

               “No.” Jimin’s smile drops into a frown and he quickly pulls up his mask.

               “No, really! I’ve been staring at you earlier and I can’t deny the similarities!” the waiter insists and you see his eyes spark in recognition. “You have the similar droopy eyes and familiar voice. Oh yeah, Jimin’s blonde hair on yesterday’s Music Bank is the same as yours–wait, don’t tell me,” The waiter pauses and raises his index finger to Jimin, “you’re the Park Jimin himself?” Jimin glances at you in panic and the waiter catches the small movement of denial. “Oh my god, you are Park Jimin! Damn, man, can I get an autograph? My sister loves you so much!”

               Neither you nor Jimin were able to say a thing after that, nor did you get a chance. The customers that didn’t care about your presence twenty minutes ago are now looking at your way with full, intent stares.

                “Jimin? Park Jimin? That singer from BTS?”

               “Jimin is here?!”

               “Oh my god, it is him! It’s Jimin! It’s the same hair color and jacket and earrings he wore in tonight’s V Live!”

               In the next second, everyone is screaming and rushing out of their tables to approach you.

               You’re frozen in your seat, chills rising in succession in your feet, arms, and spine. Crowds of faces were shoved right against your face, bunches of arms reaching and grabbing and thrashing around, and the screams and hollers were so loud they turn into garbled white noise. It’s like the zombie apocalypse except the creatures grabbing at you are still real, living people.

               “Jimin! Jimin!”

               “Oh my god, Jimin’s with a girl!”

               “Hey, Jimin, look here!”

               “Jimin, please sign this!”              

               “Wait, is that Jimin’s girlfriend?”

               “Jimin, can I take a picture with you?”

               “Jimin, who’s that girl?!”

               “Jimin, I love you!”

               The next moments are a blur. A second ago, jumpy teens and young adults were crowding your table, screaming and thrashing around. In the next second, Jimin has his hand clasped around yours, pulling you fast out of your table and out of the door. And now you’re here, running on the city street, your steps pounding on the cold pavement in heavy beats as a thunderous stampede follows close behind your tail.

               You’re finding it hard to take in all that is happening that the sudden pull on your arm toward your right has you dizzy and almost nauseous.

               “What’s ha-happening?”

               Jimin sneaks a glance at you and then back on the street. “Our fans are chasing us. Keep running. We don’t want them to ruin our date.”

               You purse your lips and will your legs to keep up with his pace. You’re about to chide him for what he said but you decide against it and just kept your mouth shut. You can’t bite back a witty comeback when you’re running out of breath.

               Huffing, he pulls down his mask to take a breath. “C’mon, let’s run faster!”

                The city whizzes by you, multicolored houses meshing into straight lines and warped shapes in a fast-forwarded reel. The streetlights overhead promise another corner to turn to and the pavement below your feet remains constant in its grayness and never-ending stretch. You and Jimin run and turn to corner after corner and it wasn’t until you’re stepping on the fifth street from your run do you realize your hand is still clasped in his.

                It feels weird to have another hand next to yours, much less a hand with fingers that oddly perfectly fill each gap between yours. What’s more odd is that you are comfortable, running to god knows where, hand in hand with a stranger. Well, Jimin’s not technically a stranger, given that you’ve known about him onscreen for six years, but still, everything feels too new and strange especially when he’s your…soulmate.

               The sleeve of your jacket has ridden upward your arm and your eyes immediately caught your inked daffodils. You’ve let your eyes miss their beauty in your shock earlier. But now, you can’t help but stare at awe when the flowers’ yellow petals rival the golden daylight as if the moonlight above has reflected every bit of the sun’s shine onto the art inked on your arms. You’ve never heard of this kind of soulmate system before, nor its strange incongruity with Jimin’s soulmate system. What is truly strange, is you’re already finding yourself dismissing any doubts about them. It’s horrifying that you can’t seem to care about anything anymore because all you could feel is…joy. Everything feels too perfect like a dream. Maybe it is true that you’re actually dreaming because as far as you’re concerned, the soulmate systems have ousted you since you were born. Everything about this daffodil sleeves and Jimin are probably just conjured by your unconscious, trying to make you feel better to ease the guilt of ruining Lucy’s night. You’ll wake up to your alarm to another shitty day in law school and then –

               “JIMIIIIIIN!”

               Unlike your expectations, it is a blaring scream that wakes you up to your senses.            

               “Where’s Jimin?!”

               “There, there! I can see his blonde hair AHHH!!!!”

               “Jimin! Don’t run away from us!”

               And then, you’re running fast again, lungs squeezing in short breaths as Jimin pulls you to corner after corner, maneuvering you in and out of street after street. Your legs are starting to numb from exhaustion but before you could start to whine at Jimin for a short break to rest, he has already pulled you into a dark, narrow alleyway crammed between two clothing retail stores. Only a few seconds later, a mass of shouting teens runs past the street.  You turned your face away, holding your breath in until the last one behind them misses your hiding spot, only finding it permissible to breathe again when the fans’ loud voices dissipate in the next corner.

               When you turn your head back to your front, you’re met with Jimin’s own flustered face. Only mere inches separate your lips from brushing against each other. Words are caught in your throat as you let your eyes take in his flushed state: his fringes matted on his forehead, his pink lips parted as he huffs, his ears reddened from the cold, and his warm brown eyes that reflect your own blushing face. If everything that has happened tonight really turns out to be a dream, you hope your sleep could be long enough to let you drag this night for as long as you could.

               “What are you staring at?”

               You’re suddenly brought back to where you are, pressed uncomfortably against the cold walls of the alley. Your eyes instantly moved down to your feet and with the motion, you caught a glowing thing sitting right atop on your left ring finger. It takes you a second to realize that the yellow glow is coming from the inked daffodil on your ring finger. Your daffodil ring is glowing like a fucking firefly. Your eyes widen and they fleet upward to meet Jimin’s eyes, your mouth gaping. “I–uh-uh–um–”

               Jimin raises his eyebrows, lips curving upwards. “Can’t get enough of my beautiful face?”

               “What? No!” You turn away and scowl, hoping the night could cool down the heat forming on your cheeks. You frantically pull the sleeves of your oversized jacket to hide your glowing tattoo.

               “Don’t need to be defensive. You can stare as long as you want, Y/N. After all,” Jimin raises his index finger and gestures to his face and down to his body, “you own all of these.”

               Your eyes twitch and your lips form an unamused frown. Jimin laughs.

               Jimin was the first one to squeeze out from the narrow space and you follow next. Despite your reaction earlier, you find it necessary to keep the frown on your face. You try to not let it show how much his words are making your heart pound loud and proud against your ears.

               You clear your throat. “You’ve got some serious fans out there.”

               Sighing, Jimin takes off the mask pulled under his jaw and stuffs it in his jacket pocket. “Ah, yeah. We always get that occasional…warm greeting whenever we land at airports. I guess we’re already used to that.”

               “Warm?! It’s borderline harassment!”

               “They’re just…excited to see me, that’s all. I can’t complain because I signed up for this when I decided to pursue this career.”

               “But still! That doesn’t mean they get to shove their faces to you and scream and demand you to take pictures with them or sign this or that. You still have your personal space and people should respect that. You’re still a human being, Chim.”

               Jimin stares at you before he breaks into a chuckling fit. “I didn’t know we’re on the stage to be making petnames for each other now, Y/Nie.”

               You gulp as you feel your cheeks heat up again. “I’m serious!”

               “Yeah, I know. I’m just joking to laugh off the heartbeats I hear pounding loud in my chest. You look at him, brows furrowed. Jimin shrugs. “I can’t help it. You make me feel like this.”

               You clear your throat again, diverting the conversation to where you are before he got sidetracked. “Anyway, can’t you get like a restraining order on them or something?”

               “You know that’s impossible.”

               “Yeah, you’re right. I’m just pissed off.” He looks at you smirking, and before he can come up with another cheesy line, you spoke out, “For you! Pissed off for you, yeah. Any person shouldn’t go through such trauma.” Jimin nods and you ramble on, “I only saw you guys’ airport fiascos on fancams. I never knew a toned down version of those like this will be already this bad. Heck, I’m already trembling with just a couple of fans hot on our toes, what more for you guys who get pushed and shoved and grabbed here and there by a flock of them. It’s goddamn scary and infuriating. If I were in your shoes I would have dropped down and screamed and cried. I’m glad I didn’t push my stupid 17-year-old dream of becoming an idol. I can’t do that stuff.”

               “I’m glad too you didn’t pursue that dream. I don’t want other men freely ogling my girl with no lawful repercussions.”

               “’…Ew. Don’t say that again.”

               “What?”

               You blanch despite the heat gathering on your cheeks. “The ‘my girl.’ It’s cringey.”

               “Oh hell no am I never gonna say that again if you’re blushing and being cute like this because of it. Oh my, Y/N, you can just say you like it! I can say it again if you want to–”

               “Oh please, no–”

               “My girl.”

               “Shut up!”

               “Ahh, you’re blushing more!”

***

               The skyline has long deepened in an inky indigo blanket yet you can’t feel your eyes fluttering close any minute now. It’s true because about eleven thirty, you’re still busy chirping away flower meanings to Jimin who was attentive to every word down to every flower color, to notice you two have already reached the business area of the city. There were no more residential areas or any run-down bars. Skyscrapers stood tall and brooding on strict two sides of the road while cut-straight gravel streets measure a meter or two to separate establishments. Unlike the streets from the bar to the diner, which were colored in various hues of maroon, beige, blue, and occasional flickers of yellow, the buildings in front of you followed a narrow color palette of light gray to black. However, the gloomy vicinity did nothing to dim the colorful trivia-dump you’re doing with Jimin.

               “Did you know, most yellow flowers usually have the most offensive meanings?”

               “Really?”

               “Yeah, like the marigold. Despite being a vibrant flower, it actually means envy and jealousy. And oh, don’t get me started with carnations. I always find myself inquiring young men who came into the shop picking yellow carnations if the flowers were for a first date.”

               “Why is that?” Jimin raises his brows.

               “It’s a horrible choice for a first date! Yellow carnations mean disdain and you DON’T want to jinx a starting relationship with such a negative connotation.”

               “What flower should I pick then for a first date?”

               “Roses are safe. Red, pink, or white are definitely the charmers. White carnations also do the trick for you as they mean sweet love. Although I mentioned yellow flowers usually have the most offensive meanings, there’s one flower I know that stands out, the most perfect one I think for a first date.”

               “What is it?”

               “Sunflowers,” you grin. “Despite all their beauty and all that mechanism where they turn towards the sun’s direction, they are quite tedious to grow. They’re needy of nutrients. They drain the soil from its nutrients, hogging them that no other kind of plant should be placed near them as they will easily die. That’s why they carry the meaning of draining love. But you know what? Even if they’re draining, they hold one of the most delicate and romantic message”

               “What is it?”

               “Everlasting love,” you smile. “They may be quite draining but their beauty is worth every effort. See? Wouldn’t be that the perfect flower for a first date?”

               Jimin nods. “Yeah, they are.” He looks at you, smiling and you bite your lip to prevent yourself from smiling too wide.

               When you turned to another street, Jimin asks, “Do you know another flower that holds such a…bittersweet message?”

               “Yeah, spiderlilies. But you know, I think that flower has the saddest story to tell.”

               “Why is that?”

               “It’s the flower of parting. It–” You suddenly trail off and Jimin stops in his step the minute you pull his arm into a stop. “Wait, where are we? Why are we in the business part of the town?”

               Jimin tilts his head, “I told you I’m gonna show you a place.”

               “A place? In here?”

               “Just trust me,” Jimin chuckles and he grabs your hand before you can utter another word.

               After a couple of minutes weaving down two streets and turning two corners to the left, the two of you stand in front of a humongous gravel gray tower. It would have looked uptight and intimidating if it weren’t for its darkening edges, from the soot or age, you couldn’t tell. All you know is that Jimin is already pushing through the large glass double doors with you in tow.

               “W-wait, what are you doing? This is trespassing and if you don’t know what it is, it’s illegal!”

               “We’re not trespassing. Trust me.”

               The furrows on your forehead deepen, anxiety grappling at the edges of your nerves, but you couldn’t do anything but follow him. You don’t want to admit your feet were walking on their own so you’re gonna blame Jimin for holding your hand too firmly.

               The ground floor of the tower wasn’t that much. All it has was clean white walls and cream-tiled floors. Its reception desk wasn’t too grand with just a gold bell, a couple of stacked news articles cased to the side, and a fake Picasso painting hung behind it. You can tell it’s Picasso because it was the same painting you always stare at in the guidance counselor’s room, with a small black label printed “Picasso” underneath it. And you know it’s fake because the guidance counselor told you the original piece of that painting now resides in the residence of an old Italian antique collector. The two of you wound a corridor and passed two hallways before you stop in front of metal double-doors, the ones used for fire exits in hospitals. It has a built-in lock and by the way Jimin pushes the door without any advances, you know it’s locked. Jimin fumbles for the back pocket of his jeans and produces his wallet, taking a silver key tucked in its small flaps.

               You gawk. “You have a key for this?”

               Jimin doesn’t answer but smiles, inserting the key. When you hear the doors unlock, he pushes one open and gestures for you to come inside. You didn’t have any qualms and just followed him. You figured that if Jimin has the key, then what you’re doing is not trespassing, and you find yourself relaxing eventhough you’re boggled as to why Jimin possesses such key when his entertainment company is in another twenty-six storey building on the opposite side of town.

               Jimin leads you down a wide hallway past the metal double-doors, now colored in gray walls and darker gray tiles instead of the standard white and cream of the rest of the ground floor. There were a couple of doors lining on the sides, each designated with a position of an authority you didn’t catch to read. At the end of the hallway, a set of stairs lead downwards and you find yourself yet again, waiting in front of another set of metal double doors as Jimin inserts another silver key into the built-in lock. He pushes the doors open and as you stepped inside, you feel your jaw drop to the floor.

               In front of you was a skating rink, surrounded by glass partitions that measure about a meter. Black benches surround the rink like the ones you see in the hockey games inserted in films. However, unlike the ones you watched, the benches weren’t many enough to hold spectators of a game, and the rink was too small to hold a proper hockey game. It’s probably ideal only for recreational skating like the ones you went to with your mother whenever she feels like taking you out in winter.    

               You turn to Jimin. “What is this skating rink? I thought we were inside a business building.”

               Jimin leans on one of the benches. “Me and my group always go here to let out stress. When we were stressing for our debut, when we need a breather for comebacks or, when the cameras and media were too much–we always go here. It’s a secret hangout place, tucked underneath this large corporate building.About 50 years ago, this building was like a winter sports complex. It has this large skating rink where monthly local competitions for hockey and curling are held. Sometimes, it’s lucky enough to hold regional competitions as this part of town was far from the business center back then. Aside from contests and trainings being held, anyone–kids, teens, adults–gets to arrange who uses the spare time from the fixed schedule of the complex for recreational hockey, curling, or just…skating round and round.” Jimin laughs. “Sometimes, the complex frees it schedule to invite anyone to come and skate for a downgraded price. You know, like how your local authorities turn the frozen lakes into a public skating area when winter comes.”

               Jimin’s lips form a straight line, “However, business turned sour in the long run because another sports complex was built near the area, equipped with more supplies and employees. So the owner of the complex and the land had to sell their whole business because of that, and also because her family is going to migrate to the States. This skating rink was supposed to be taken down but the first owner of the land run back to this town and made an agreement with the buyer. Pleaded nothing will change from the negotiation except she’ll pay anything just for the buyer to keep the rink. She went all out with her money then. Even sold her house and her ancestor’s villa in Taiwan.”

               “She…spent all her money for this?”

               “Well, yeah. She did go almost bankrupt but at least she got to keep her skating rink before she died.” Jimin glances at you, waiting for a reply but when you just return a stare, he tilts his head in inquiry.

               You pull on your sleeves. “I didn’t say she did bad choices…it’s just that–it’s a lot of risk. I don’t think anyone could do that but her.”

               “Anyone can do that, it just depends what they’re willing to risk. Because–well, some things are just worth risking everything for.”

               You stay silent, staring at him. Jimin chuckles and grabs your hand to lead you towards the locker room. He proceeds with his story, “The buyer built a commercial building but fulfilled his end of the agreement by keeping the rink. And when the buyer eventually handed over the building to his son, the skating rink was then cut into half as the 3rd owner got the building renovated and sold half of the land to another millionaire. The other section of the rink was turned into another building but this one remained because the owner’s son loved to skate whenever his dad brings him for bring-your-child-to-work day. Now the son, the current owner, kept this skating rink and even opened it to the public because unlike the previous owner, his dad, he’s fun and wants to let kids come into this concrete jungle just to play and hang out.”

               “How do you know all of these?”

               “I’m friends with the current owner. His name is Henry Kim, a friend from preschool, and I swear I never knew how filthy rich he was back then. We became friends because I got enticed by his story of the first land owner meeting her soulmate, her husband, in a local skating rink which inspired her to build the sports complex and even had the succeeding owners keep the rink. Henry even got me some articles about it to read. So now, I and the boys get to have alone time in here whenever we want, away from all the cameras and the media and the pizzaz. It’s a privilege, I know, given our…status, but I’d like to think it more as out of our friendship.” He turns back to smile at you. “It makes me warm.”

               You didn’t know how to reply to his last statement so you just returned his smile and let his hand guide you to the locker rooms where you can strap on your skating shoes. It didn’t take you too long to lace up your skating shoes and waddle onto the rink because within just a couple of minutes, you’re already giggling, waltzing on the ice. It’s been a while since you let yourself enjoy like a child like this–free from societal pressure, success strife stress, and family expectations; to laugh aloud and feel nothing akin but being on top of the world just because of simple things like this–skating round and round.

               “So you told me, it’s your turn to let me learn more about you,” you skid in front of Jimin, grinning. “When is that gonna happen? You’ve been rambling about on and on about a lot of other people.”

               “Well, there isn’t much,” Jimin skates in time with you towards the east end of the rink. “I practically showed and revealed everything already on TVs and magazines.”

               “Not true. You’re more than what the cameras show what you seem to be.”

               “You’re a fan though. You practically already know everything about me.”

               “Also not true. No one is capable of fully knowing everything about everyone. All you have is your perception of others and others’ perception of you, but they will never be enough to be everything about you nor others. People are like mirrors, you know. They see each other based on the images they envision them in so, they’re just staring at what their thoughts collectively created about another person. In the end, the only one who truly knows themselves are no one but themselves.” You sigh, turning to him and taking his hand as you let centripetal force control your balance and skate you backward. “How about this: you tell me things you’ve never told anyone before.”

               “Okay,” Jimin agrees and he pulls you back to his side, hands still connected. “Do you know I used to dream of becoming a fisherman?”

               “A fisherman? Do you even know how to fish?”

               “Well…no. But you know how preschool assigns you this homework where you have to draw your dream?” You nod. “Well,” Jimin continues, “I don’t really have a dream for me back then and I can’t draw for the life of me. And then, I figured a fisherman is easy to draw because you just have to get the trapezoidal boat, the swirling waves, the stickman, and the two lines of a fishing rod right. You can add puffy clouds and the ‘m’ birds for background. After that, I convinced myself all I ever wanted is to be a fisherman and when I told that to my mother, she almost fainted.”

               “Oh my god,” you giggle, “you just made up a dream for yourself out of a drawing?”

               “Yeah, and it wasn’t the only scenario,” Jimin laughs. “By 3rd grade, I learned how to draw a motorcycle from sticks and circles so when the draw-your-dream assignment came up again, I upgraded my drawing skills and changed my dream: I now want to be a pizza delivery guy. Of course, I told my mom about it again and this time, she also upgraded: she chased me around with a slipper.”

               “I understand your mom though,” you manage to chortle in between snickers. “Being a fisherman and a pizza delivery guy are honorable but they weren’t the greatest permanent jobs in this down-slope economy.”

                “True,” Jimin agrees and this time, he lets himself skate backward, keeping his hold on your hand, firm. “Anyway, the rest is history. The media already wrote about how I got into a contemporary arts school and from there I learned to love dance and eventually dreamed of becoming a performer.”

               “What did I tell you about not being only what the people see you to be?”

               “Okay, okay. Umm,” Jimin trails off, eyes wandering as if the things he wanted to say can be easily picked up in the skating rink. But just a second later, he’s suddenly looking straight into your eyes, his own ones glimmering. “Oh, I got one! I was a hell of a headache when I was a kid. I was always so jumpy, running around, loudy as hell–the type of kids you cannot contain in one place?”

               You nod, smiling. “A lot of kids were like that.”

               “Well,” he chuckles, “the difference is that I cannot still be contained in one place even I’m way past a kid. Anyway, the me back then was a whole different level. I like going to town after town, wandering around, always hoping for some adventure. I once got on top of a delivery van, parked near my neighbor’s house, so near that it was easy for me to jump on it from their balcony. Their balcony wasn’t that tall anyway because their house was some kind of a Spanish-inspired bungalow. We were playing hide and seek at that time. I was so competitive I thought if I got on top of the van and lied down very flat, I will be unnoticed. It turned out to be a good idea because ten minutes later, the kids are now calling out for my name, yelling for me to show up so we can start another game. When the van suddenly rumbled, I quickly realized what I did was a terrible idea. The van picked up its pace and now we’re really moving from the front of my neighbor’s house. You know what I did?”

               You shook your head, giggling.

               “I cried. Real loud. Snot, sweat, and tears mixing, I look like a dumb, reckless kid who always gets complaints from the neighbors.” Jimin laughed. “So after crying for like good two minutes, that I thought was an hour back then, I started choking on my own spit. With the wailing turned down, I heard my father running behind and screaming for the van to stop. I was lucky that the driver immediately stopped after hearing my father’s cries. But after that, I wasn’t lucky anymore. My mom felt the need to keep me away from vans and my neighbor’s balcony. God, it was so embarrassing.”

               “At least your ‘hobby’ got corrected,” you quip.

               “You think jumping on vans was my hobby?” Jimin scoffs then smirks. “Don’t underestimate me. I can do much more than jumping on vans. I even did bungee jumping. Remember that episode on Run BTS!, our TV show?”

               “Of course I remember. You screamed like a screeching pterodactyl.”

               “No, I did not. That was Taehyung.”

               “Okay, okay, touché. I was just trying to make you laugh.”

               Jimin grins. “You don’t have to try though. You can always effortlessly do that.”

               You tilt your head. “Are you telling me my existence is funny?”

               Jimin pulls you towards him and you almost tumble forward but his firm grip on your hand keeps you balanced on your skates. However, you could feel every bit of warmth coming from his body as his arms are now wound around yours, keeping you as close to him as possible. Close enough for you to feel his breath fan against yours, close enough for you to trace every constellation marking up his face, and close enough for you to see the reflection of your face in his eyes…again. Jimin breaks into a grin. “I’m trying to tell you that you can easily make me happy without even trying.”

               You feel scorching heat immediately spread on your chest and to the rest of your body. You lightly push Jimin away, scoffing. Jimin puts his hands into his pockets. You sputter out,“W-what? As if I can do that. I’m really really intolerable and insufferable, you know?”

               Jimin chuckles, “It’s okay. I can handle that.”

               Before you can mumble out another disagreement, Jimin grabs your hand again, leading the two of you to the other side of the rink, this time, skating side by side.

               “Continuing from what I left on, you know what good came out from my reckless days?”

               You don’t answer him but glance his way.

               Jimin continues on, “I managed to get lots of friends. I got a bunch of them in preschool, then in elementary. When I got into high school, my group of friends got so large that almost everyone in the school, not just our batch but the lower grade levels as well, practically knew me before I even knew their name. Man, it was crazy. I get to hang out with different people per week and I get to learn their stories. It’s so fun.”

                “You must be quite of a people-person even back then.”

               “Ah, yeah,” Jimin nods. “People said I thrive off people surrounding me. Said I like being complimented and that I grow more when I’m surrounded by them. Something about collective growth.”

               “But, who wouldn’t like compliments?”

               “True. Everyone likes them. It’s just…I think they are right, but sometimes…I beg to differ.”

               “What do you mean?”

               “I feel like it’s the people who thrive on me, not the other way around.”

               You look at him, curious. “How come?”

               Jimin breathes out, tugging the collar of his leather jacket closer to his neck with his free hand. “I thought why people liked me back then was because I was fun. You know that type of kid, who gets the crowd’s attention easily and entices everyone to join them in in whatever they do? That type of kid who’s easy-going and can effortlessly make boring things look cool? The people around me told me I was like that and at times, I do feel it’s the reason why I got so many friends. But as I grow up, I feel people liked me because I really love listening to their stories. I love it too much that it was even quite…abnormal.”

               “Abnormal?”

               “Yeah…abnormal. You see, back on the days, I used to latch on to person after person telling them, no, begging them to tell me their stories–the place they were born in, where they grew up in, their secrets and interests, anything. I learned how to clean vinyl records from an old unmarried man in our neighborhood. I got to travel to Geneva from a rich girl who told me her summer vacation at the playground. I even unknowingly caught up with the local gossip of a married man and his mistress three blocks from our neighborhood. I don’t know why exactly I did it. It just felt nice. It seems our generation’s now short of anyone willing to listen to what they have to say. So when people heard of my abnormal…hobby, they searched for me and spilled everything. They get someone to listen to them, and I get myself new stories. It’s a win-win situation.”

               Jimin steps to the side, creating a wider gap between your bodies as you skate but still kept your hands interlocked. “They treated me like a pond they could throw rocks into, entertaining them with my fascination and curiosity and assuring them I will not tell another soul about what they said. Just repeating what they said, nodding when they ask questions, and taking everything they told me inside when they bid their temporary farewells. They always come back for another listening session and everything will repeat. Some people I listened to talked too excitedly as if a day will never be enough to tell their story. A few talked in spurts that it’s hard to determine the beginning and the end of their stories. There were the factual lessons, rambles of nonsense, litanies of achievements, and some tear-jerkers.” Jimin sighs. “But the most amazing one I ever got to listen to was how my mom and dad met.”

               You purse your lips. “U-uh, who told you that story?”

               “My mom,” Jimin grins. “She told me the story of how they met as soon as I can understand anything. Of course, they told me the red string of fate story, but what interested me the most was their soulbond. Their soulmate system lets them know what each other is feeling even without talking about it. It’s amazing.”

               “How did they meet then?”

               “Well, my dad had a crush on my mom before he even knew she was his soulmate. My mom is my dad’s childhood friend. She became his friend in his very first day in school after she defended him from a group of kids bullying him for being too short. After that, all he ever did was admire her. He wasn’t too adamant about the soulmate system before then because all he could ever feel from his system was annoyance and irritation.  My mom lived next to dad’s house and belonged to the same group of friends he has so it was easy for him to always see her. However, talking to her was a difficult feat because my dad is one hell of an introvert and he always gets frozen feet just at the sight of her. So when my mom finally had enough of my father’s tiptoeing around her, she demanded for him to just tell her whatever issue he has with her so she can stop feeling awkward with his coldness.” Jimin giggles, “Of course my father is bad at confrontations so he just hiccupped and ran away in embarrassment. However, my mother’s words sunk in so he pulled out a recorded track he made about a month ago–a song he made just about my mother, and edited it, ending with a shy ‘I-I know you probably have many suitors by now…but can you please, please, please take a chance on me? Okay, that was too forward, shit, I’m sorry, how do I turn this off?’”

               Your jaw hangs open in disbelief. “You memorized it word per word?”

               “Of course,” Jimin chortles. “It’s too funny to let go!”

               “So after my mom heard about the record my dad left on her doorstep, she immediately asked him to dinner that night. And during their date, that’s when dad felt his soulbond feeling at peace and in love. It didn’t take them to put two-on-two together to tell they were each other’s soulmate. I swear, their soulmate system is wonderful. Dad can easily tell when mom is upset and he easily convinces her to talk it out with him. I always think communication is a strong foundation of every relationship, and to have such a soulmate system to let you feel easily what the other is feeling, it must be heaven! Imagine not having to guess or tiptoe around one another when conflicts arise. Feelings assure you the truth because no one can control what they want to feel, not to mention that soulmate system betters you to become a more empathic person.” Jimin turns and locks his eyes with yours. “Don’t you think it’s amazing to have such phenomenon? To have a significant other crafted by the universe just for you?

               You glance away. “…Yeah.”

               Jimin diverts his eyes back on the ice. “Unlike the me back then, I wasn’t that much into stories now.”

               “Why?”

               “These days, it’s hard for me to reach out and listen to people who have anything but hate or illusioned righteousness fueling their systems. The only things people tell me now were how great I was, how much I make from this job, how handsome I got. Sometimes I get to listen to bitter people who feel the need to question my career choices, making me feel bad to uplift themselves. And then majority of the time, I get people who idolize me so much, put me on the pedestal, and make me out as someone that wasn’t really me. I know some of them mean well, but sometimes…you’re just not comfortable anymore.”

               You look up at him, “Because you know you’re more than that?”

               “Well, yeah,” Jimin glances at you. “You put it really well into words. I’m impressed.”

               A question was on the tip of your tongue and you purse your lips, debating whether to ask him or not. But then, this might be your only chance you could ask him this, so you made up your mind and tugged his jacket. “Tell me, sometimes…do you ever wish you didn’t get this humongous fame at all?”

               Jimin stares at you and a couple of seconds passed before he decided to answer. “Yes, sometimes. I hate how people follow me everywhere, invade my privacy, and treat me more as a commodity than a human being. I hate how I have to hide my family and childhood friends from the limelight just so they don’t get dragged in any scandals people are so obsessed in making up. I hate having to wake up and unconsciously worry about my looks, my angles, and my weight more than anything else because I know more important matters in the society are more worth thinking and talking about–but I–I don’t know, I just can’t help it. I can’t help how the media changed me. Of course, there’re good and bad changes it brought to my life but I hated the bad ones to the very core.  But you know, when I look back and trace my steps to where I was before, I realize that fame made me happy before,” he looks at you, “and how it still does now. With this fame I was able to bring joy to lots of people and give them love they were unable to receive from those around them. With this fame I was able to give my parents a home they used to only dream about. With this fame, I was able to meet my bandmates who loved me like a family…and, I wouldn’t have met you if I didn’t become the Jimin now.”

               “H-how so?”

               “You wouldn’t have taken a chance on this date, on this soulmate thing for one whole night with me, if I wasn’t who I was today.”

               Your forehead furrows, your chest constricting in pain. “N-not true. Why are you telling me that –okay, maybe I gave you that impression of an obsessive fangirl because I blurted everything on my tongue when I first saw you, but honestly I wanted to know you more as a person and not as–”

               “No, no,” Jimin waves his hand, chuckling. “I’m sorry I implied it that way. What I mean is: You wouldn’t have trusted me enough to stay with me tonight and try this soulmate thing if I wasn’t able to love myself first before I met you.  I didn’t know what love was back then. I just imagine myself being unconditionally admired and taken care of my soulmate. And, I guess I wasn’t my best during that time. I complain a lot, demand too much, and bottle my feelings inside until they suffocate me. When things go wrong, I find it easy to blame someone else. I regarded too highly of myself that I’ve become selfish and insensitive to the people around me. So when I slowly started  to outgrow my horrible past-self, I then learned it’s impossible to trust someone about love and relationships if they are still unable to love themselves. Sure, people will argue that they can figure that out together. But still, I think it’s better if we learn how to be comfortable in our own skins before we demand others to love us. It’s not fair for them to tolerate their significant others who can’t love them right. How can we love others when we don’t know even know how love is supposed to be and feel like? That’s why…I’m glad I met you now, because I think I’m ready to love–” Jimin bites his lip, “Okay sorry, I got too sidetracked and went off the loop again , but do you get what I mean?”

               “Yeah, it’s just,” you close your eyes, shaking your head, “everything about this soulmate thing still shocks me and I’m still trying to get a hang of it so sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

               You keep your glance down, apologetic, waiting for Jimin’s reply. But all you got is, “Why do you like flowers so much?”

               You look up and Jimin looks at you, eyes warm, smile wide. You didn’t have to stare for long to know he’s trying to change the topic. Trying to make you comfortable again. Actually, he never failed to make you comfortable throughout the whole night. He has never pushed you to tell everything about yourself–never demanded for you to tell him about your family like how he openly talked about his, never forced you to reveal your weaknesses and insecurities when he let you in on his vulnerability.  And even though you’re starting to think whether to talk about each one of them or not now, he still gives you the choice to come back to your safe zone whenever you want. All of these are enough of a reason to grip his hand tighter in yours and pull him to the center of the rink, facing each other.

               “Wait, whoa!”

               “Okay, why don’t we dance?”

               Jimin’s eyes almost bulge out “Dance?”

               “Yeah, dance! You know what, I’ll take the lead.” You pulled him closer to you, looping your arms around his frame in a gentle hug. Jimin’s shocked and tensed for a bit, but it wasn’t long before you can feel him giggling behind your ear and returning the hug.

               “I didn’t know you were this…aggressive.”

               “Shut up,” you laugh. “Can you just indulge in my free offer and not say another cheesy pick-up line?”

               Jimin chuckles. “Okay, will do.”

               You didn’t move much. Just, swaying and turning in small motions with your arms wound around each other. You can’t exactly point out why you’re suddenly doing this when an hour ago, you’re too adamant showing him you’re not affected by him at all. All you know is you can no longer disagree that everything with him felt right. Even if you’re still afraid and unsure, everything you did with him made you feel good. Everything you did with him made you feel something akin to happiness.

               And this time, you feel the urge to take the risk and dive in. Just for this night, you’re going to do yourself a favor. Only for one night.

               “I… like flowers so much because words can sometimes be never be enough. Flowers are the only ones that can materialize them. They’re ephemeral and they wilt, like how words evaporate into thin air once you let them out in the open. But, you know that they once lived to fill a moment because you saw their beauty and their ugliness in such a short period of time. They did exist and you know it. And I guess,” you murmur, snuggling deeper into Jimin’s hug, “it’s only through those flowers I get to be true to myself.”

               “What do you mean?”

               “Out of all the things I said tonight, the truest of them all are only the flowers. I’m not a great…arguer at all. I’m a pathological liar. I lied to myself about my distrust in this soulmate system. My cynicism to it was never solely because I wanted to make my own destiny. It was because I saw my mother and father’s relationship go down the drain even when they’re already made for each other. They knew each other so well that it’s easy for them where to hurt each other each time one of them fucks up. They divorced and I have to live in a broken family, torn between the two of them, afloat and in limbo as to where I should stand when they’ve easily marked my days as to what kind of daughter I should portray whenever I have to visit them.  And for me to live without any soulmate system at all, it felt I was further kicked down to the curb by life. Because as much as important love is, sometimes what only matter the most is the assurance that somehow, someone will love me. Because that thought is enough of an emergency kit for my mind whenever I feel too cut off from the world. And having no soulmate system as any kind of assurance….I pitied myself, thinking I can never find out what love truly feels.”

               You hiccup. “I lied to myself for years that my mother’s disappointment in me didn’t bother me. I always knew I’m difficult and for her to see me grow as a woman that she did not expect me to be is hard. I was never into law. I’m into gardening. My mom knows that because I was the one who always tended to our plants and made our garden grow as much as it could even if we’re just in a single bedroom condo unit. I just decided to take law because I know I can’t make a living out of gardening yet. It’s sad, I know, but I have to push through so when the time comes I get to save enough, I can open my own garden shop. And,” you trail off, grasping Jimin tighter in your arms, “I lied to myself I hated every bit of this night with you when tonight’s probably the happiest I’ve ever been in my whole life.”

               Jimin didn’t say anything. He just hugged you tighter when your shoulders quiver, stroked your back when he felt stray tears wet the skin of his neck. He didn’t push you to say more. He lulled you back to comfort in his swaying, singing you a tender melody by your ear to help you feel at ease again. He is just there, unobtrusive, just patiently waiting for you to do anything.

                When he felt you loosen a bit in his hold, he lets out his voice. “Would you mind to continue the story of the spider lily? You left me quite hanging there.”

               You don’t know why he’s diverting the topic again, but you didn’t mind, having the chance to relieve yourself from years-worth of heaviness you just have mindlessly let out in the empty ice rink. After all, he’s a stranger and telling him everything in your mind wouldn’t hurt because they all leave unobtrusive marks in your life which they easily erase once it’s time for them to go. However, it pains you to type in Jimin as just a stranger in your life.

               You clear your throat. “The-the spider lily is the flower of parting. Their flowers only bloom when the leaves die. They were believed to be lovers who aren’t destined to be together at all.”

               “That’s…terrible.”

               You nod. “…Yeah.”

               “I’ll make sure our story does not go like that.”

               You draw back to look at his face. “What?”

               Jimin smiles. “I’ll make sure our story does not turn out like the spiderlily’s. I know you’re still probably against this soulmate phenomenon. But…I want you to know that you don’t have to feel alone and unloved anymore. I’m already here. And I’m serious about you. Soulmate or not, what we have now isn’t just a one-night thing.”

               “What do you mean?”

               “I love you.”

               Jimin stares at you and it only takes a second before he suddenly rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “I-I know it’s too soon and you don’t have to say it back but I can’t control what I feel and–”

               You lean forward and shut him up with a kiss. Jimin freezes in your hold for a second, and then he instantly melts in your arms and returns your kiss. You don’t know why you’re doing these–embracing him tighter, angling your head, deepening the kiss to taste more of him, letting him pull you closer so that you can now compare the matching rhythm of your heartbeats. You don’t know why you’re exactly doing these things with a man you just met, no, your soulmate you just found tonight, when hours ago you’re expressing your disdain on the existence of the soulmate phenomenon. The only thought unwaveringly running in your mind now is you don’t want this to stop.

               You don’t want to stop staring at Jimin, even when you struggled getting in the cab he hailed, too busy getting lost in his eyes. You don’t want to stop enjoying the warmth from the small kisses he places against your nape, even if you had difficulty pulling your house keys from your tight jeans pocket as you giggle and moan in his warmth. You don’t want to stop feeling hot and high, even when the coldness of your home starts to seep into your toes as Jimin sheds the clothes on your body, piece by slow aching piece. You don’t want to stop holding his hand, even when you had to strain one arm pulling off his black shirt as he laughs against your neck. But most of all, you don’t want to stop kissing his lips, even when you have to part from him for a second as you lose your breath when his hips bucked into you when he laid you down on your bed.

               Jimin hovers above you, kissing you with such passion as if it will be the last time he would be able to hold you. And, you tried to return the same intensity, to balance the heat he radiates on your burning skin, to pave every expanse of his skin you could reach as he ventures every curve and ridge he could touch. With your bodies bared and stripped naked to each other, you can no longer hide the plethora of feelings that has welled on your chest just from such dream-like night you had shared with him. When Jimin parts away to cup your face in his hands, thumbs slowly caressing your cheeks, you see nothing in his eyes but the image of you–breathless, flustered, happy. You almost wanted to cry.

               “Can you be my first and last, Y/N?” Jimin asks, voice almost quivering.

               You can only manage a whisper through parted lips. “I can, Jimin. A-and I want you to be mine too.”

               After that, you were a goner. No words are further exchanged as Jimin starts to leave a trail of kisses from the sunken juncture of your jaw, to the ridge of your collarbones and onto the valleys of your tender breasts. He travels the gentle swells of your stomach, onto the curve of your hips until he’s down to the banks of your hot core, aching and willing and waiting for him. No words are slipped past each other as he dives in and savors every inch of you, nipping, and licking, and kissing your sopping heat until you’re a moaning mess on your sheets. And when he finally brings you to your high, no words are enough for you to express the euphoria thrumming in your nerves, settling on your chest, filling your head. No words are needed when your eyes and his convey them for you as you plead for more, more, and more and Jimin willingly gives all of him to you.

               Every touch of his hand on your quivering hips has you groaning and pleading. Every caress on your waist and shoulders has you sighing and moaning. Every brush of his hard chest against the soft buds of your breasts has you moaning and wailing. And every graze of his lips against yours, you can’t help but melt and let your body speak your thoughts for you. You pull him desperately, cupping his face as you roll your hips against his that has him choking out a moan.

               “Jimin,” you breathe into him and he smiles.

               “W-What?”

               “Please.”

               You don’t need to say anything in words for your dazed and glimmering eyes are enough to convey them all. Jimin smiles and gives in. He captures your lips into another kiss, murmuring your name between interlocked mouths. You feel him shift in his position above you and when he deepens the kiss again, you finally feel him burying himself deep in you. Jimin gives himself to you in slow and deep strokes that have your back arching off the bed, fingernails digging into his skin. You sputter his name again and again and despite how far gone he is losing in your heat, his gaze on your eyes never wavers, nor loses trace of every bit of him he has exposed to you, making you lose yourself into him even more.

               Everything compounds into each other in such miniscule timeframe–from the moment Jimin intertwines his tongue with yours, to the second you clutch his head closer underneath your chin to continue his featherlight kisses on your jaw. When he angles his cock deeper into you, you can only think about nothing but him, him, and only him. As he holds your hand tight in his hold, with his lips on yours as he mutters “I love you, I love you, I love you,” in between every thrust, you finally feel what it’s like to be on top of the world.

               Like the explosion you felt when he first touched your hand, it only takes one second for Jimin to let you fall apart in his arms. Euphoria living alive in every inch of your nerves, you clutch desperately on his arms and Jimin draws you closer to him as your walls clamp onto him and coaxes him to also let go in your arms. The fullness and torrid heat of him spreads inside you and Jimin kisses you once more with everything he’s got–sloppy but passionate, messy but powerful–a beautiful mosaic of the feelings you had in the most wonderful night of your entire life.

               You’re dazed and shaken, wondering if it is possible for everything to be a dream. But when Jimin collapses next to you and pulls the blanket over your bodies, all thoughts cease in a staggering halt as he whispers, “I’m happy I get to know you.”

               You smile in his embrace, “Me too.” Sensations always hit first before thought and without thinking twice, you find yourself breathing out, “Promise me you’ll be by my side ‘til tomorrow morning.”

               Jimin kisses your left hand, the one with the daffodil ring, and as he says “I promise,” you fall into a peaceful slumber. His words are enough of an assurance for you.

***

               When tomorrow comes, you wake up on a cold bed. Jimin is nowhere to be found. You didn’t need to feel more of his side of the bed to know his clothes and shoes and every trace of him in your home is now gone. But still, he promised.

               You slip into your shirt discarded on the floor and drag your worn body to the living room. Your couch and your coffee table stood untouched. When you turn to your right, you find your kitchen and dining table empty. No smell of cooked food lingered in the air. You dashed to your shower even when you hear no sound of water splashing on the tiles. The door swings open and your shower stands empty, polished tiles dry, no trace of use on the faucet. With pounding steps, you run back to the living room, straight down to your door. Fingers skimming down on your bolts, your hand trembles when you find the knob and grasp it. When you twist it, your door clicks open as it unlocks.

               You refuse to acknowledge the obvious possibility looming on your head since you woke up. But now, it only takes one more second of you standing by your unlocked door before your thoughts crash down, choking out a broken sob from you. Jimin left the minute after what happened last night. He didn’t go outside to just buy something before coming back to your home. He didn’t even stay long enough to wash up and clean himself. He just got up, locked your door close, and went out, leaving you behind.

               You hunch over your doorstep, grunting, pain hammering on your chest as your body falls to the ground. Uneasiness, frustration, and desperation muddles into a heavy iron ball that sinks on your chest, sinking deeper and deeper until its heaviness constricts your lungs of any air.

               Jimin left and he didn’t even bother to leave a note. He doesn’t have your keys, nor your number. He isn’t planning to come back.

               You stiffle a broken scream on your clenched hands.

***

               Three taps on your desk grow louder by the second, each one nipping on your nerves.

               “Hey, Miss, my roses?”

               “O-oh, right,” you stir, eyes fluttering wide, taking in the bouquet of roses you were wrapping. The flower shop is brightly illuminated by the overhead lights and the morning daylight, yet everything looks so hazy, the frantic movements of your hands sticking out so aberrant from your perspective.

               “Here’s your bouquet, sir. Thank you for coming to Petal Hill.” The man waves off and your smile falls the second the glass door swings close in his exit.

               Everything went back to normal. You went to university in the morning, started your shift in the flower shop in the afternoon. You didn’t miss a day and you eat and sleep the same way. Routines are done the same way they are until they blur day after day, just how you live your days with sleep marking the end and beginning of every tomorrow. But, they are still not enough to fill the gaping hole in your chest. Whatever you do, they’re not enough to let you forget of that night. Even if you tried to convince yourself that you felt okay after Lucy made up with you, your false defense just crumbles whenever you so much glance at the inked flowers on your arms, the ones Jimin ignited to bloom that night. More so when now the flowers have dulled in their yellowness after he left.

               Even if you know it’s futile, you still did everything you can. You changed your sheets and cleaned your home. You refused to look into any online article pertaining to him. You busied yourself until you break down tired. You screamed and have already cried for so many nights. And you did something you abhorred: wait–wait for someone to come back without any assurance they have actually plans of coming back.

                You wait for Jimin to show up at your door, explain and apologize and fulfill his end of the promise. Because even if you abhorred the sight of your mother endlessly waiting for your father to come back and how you did the same for the both of them, Jimin is different. He is your soulmate and that night you met him, he convinced you it won’t hurt to give this soulmate phenomenon a chance. So each day after that dream-like night, you waited and waited until all seconds, hours, and days add into an excruciating week.

               For one week, Jimin didn’t show up and when a gray Sunday afternoon comes, eight days past the night, you’re starting to wonder if you should still keep your unrealistic hope alive.

               The glass door swings, ten footsteps echo in the silent shop, five pansies are laid down on your table–and then you stop. Your thoughts halt in a frozen limbo, your body stills in staggering shock.

               It’s the same bleached blonde hair, the same black leather jacket, the same silver earrings, the same drooped eyelids and warm, brown eyes – it’s Jimin, Park Jimin, who stands in front of you, waiting for you to wrap the pansies on your desk. It’s him, the soulmate you’ve been waiting to come back to you for so many days and nights and all you can do is–

               Your eyes immediately dart down to your desk as your fingers scramble to wrap the flowers. “If you just came here to make sure I won’t tell anybody what happened, don’t worry, I already plan not to. Your reputation will remain clean and you’ll still have millions of fans. You can leave after I wrap this.”

              “W-what? No, I’m not gonna do that, Y/N. Never...I came here to talk.”

              “Oh, so now you wanna talk. After a week of silence, you now decided you want to talk.”

              “Y/N–”

             “So now that you wanna talk, what are we gonna talk about? How everything that happened was a mistake?” you spit out. You’ve already thought about this but hearing them loud from your own lips starts to make your eyes sting with tears. You immediately look down again at the flowers you’re wrapping. You can’t cry in front of him again, let him see you this weak again. You can’t have him to kick you down to the curb again.

            “No, Y/N. I’m sorry. Please–please look at me.” Jimin says, a sob escaping his lips. Receiving no response, he places his palms on your desk and pulls down his mask as he leans forward to meet your downcasted eyes. “Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he repeats, voice cracking. “I’m sorry for leaving you. I’m sorry I wasn’t by your side that morning. But believe me, I didn’t want to break my promise, I just have to do something–”

              “What do you have to do?” you cut him as you raise your hand to wipe away the tear that has made its way down your cheeks. “What do you have to do that is so fucking important for you to just leave me as if nothing happened between us? Why do you have to disappear for a week without any word? Why do you have to just show up now? Why, Jimin, why?”

              You face Jimin, letting your eyes meet his for the first time and really look at him. His lips are chapped, his complexion pale, the bags under his eyes dark. He looks just as bad as you but you don’t want to dwell on it, afraid your resolve will crumble down when you should be keeping a strong front.

              “Y/N, I–I'm sorry,” Jimin says again as a tear escapes down his cheek. “What I did is unforgivable and I know you have every right to hate me right now. But I-I have actually planned to stay and make you breakfast and tell you–”

              “I don’t need to hear what you could have done because it did not happen,” you look at him and Jimin freezes. “You didn’t stay like you promised, Jimin.”

             “Y/N, please–” 

             “Just tell me why you left me. Why do you have to appear now?”

              “I,” Jimin starts and he sighs. “Namjoon called me around four, demanded where the hell I am. Apparently...the media has already published pictures of us getting in a cab together that night. Namjoon asked me to come back to the dorm right that instant before the media can do a massive stakeout in front of your building and barrage us with their cameras. So I didn’t come back the morning after to not raise any more suspicion. I waited a week to pass for the paparazzi to calm down and drive away their cars before I can go back to you.” He raises his hand to wipe a stray tear on his cheek but it’s not enough to prevent the small wet drop from landing on the pansies. “I-I can’t let the media invade your privacy and create horrendous articles about you. They can do that to me, but not to you. Never to you. You don’t deserve that.”

                You’ve imagined this confrontation scene again and again in your head for the last couple of days. You’ve planned what you’re going to say and how you would end this goddamn connection with Jimin once and for all. And yet...you couldn’t remember the words you’ve planned for so long to say right now. They just died immediately at the tip of your tongue as if they were never there in the first place. And you hate it. For once, you thought you could finally have some control over the effect of this man has on you. You feel ashamed. You feel as if you’ve betrayed yourself.

                Biting your lip, you bring your eyes back to the pansies. “I guess that’s better than having you figure out I’m just a simple nobody you can fuck over for one night of fun and throw away when you’re done and satisfied. Because that’s what I thought when you left me.”

               “No, Y/N, I’ll never do that to you–”  Jimin scrambles to reach for your hands but you take a step back away from him. You could see pain brim in his eyes and hurt pangs in your chest. You thought if you could deliver the same pain he brought to you, you would feel better. But no, you only felt worse. Worse for thinking hurting back the person you love is the right thing to do. Just like what your mom and dad did to each other. Tears sting your eyes at the thought. You swore never to become like them and you’re doing the very mistake they did. You hate this. You hate feeling so weak. You hate how you’re even thinking about Jimin and what he must be feeling when your own chest feels so heavy with the pain he caused.

               You tear your eyes away from him and dart them to your clenched hands. “I already heard your apology, Jimin. You don’t have to repeat it again to convince me. I’ll just finish these pansies so you can go.”

              “No, Y/N, you don’t understand. Can you please–please just look at me?”

             “What for, Jimin? I already heard you out, what more do you want?” You wipe away the tears that have streamed down your face, “Do you want me to hear now how sorry you are because you didn’t mean everything you said? Because if you do–”

              “I meant every single thing I said,” Jimin breathes out. “I love you, Y/N. So much that I want to do everything I can just for you to be happy. I waited for so long to finally meet you and I’m so, so, so sorry I broke my promise and fucked everything up. But I swear, Y/N, I want nothing but you and I meant everything I said especially when I told you I love you.”

              You raise your head to finally look at him and you almost wanted to regret your decision. Jimin stands in front of you, sobbing, eyes wrecked. He looks so vulnerable, cut wide open for you to see. You know he must be saying the truth but you still can’t ignore the doubt clouding in your head. You’ve already believed him once. You don’t want to repeat your mistake again.  “I would be lying if I told you I don’t want to believe what you said,” you choke out a sob, “But Jimin, I can’t just take you back and pretend what happened did not hurt me.”

               Jimin freezes. “N-no, Y/N, please–”

               “Jimin, I want you to prove you mean everything you said. I’m sorry, but I...I just can’t forgive someone so easily with mere words. I’ve seen hundreds of relationships go down because of that.” Your voice cracks, “Hell, I’ve seen my own mother and father destroy each other with repetitive apologies and forgiveness. I need to respect myself, Jimin, I–” you let out a shaky breath and hand over the wrapped pansies, “I’m sorry I can’t accept your apology now.”

               Jimin looks down and nods, “I understand, Y/N.” He doesn’t take the flowers and turns away, walking to the door. Each step he takes is synonymous to another crack making its way down your heart but you know you have to do this for yourself–for you to have enough reasons not to regret the decision you already made up in your mind about his and your future. You have to do this for yourself so you can finally deal with your fears and doubts about the soulmate phenomenon. So if Jimin can’t do what you request for, then you’ll let him go. You can’t let him and yourself experience the inevitable tragedy brought forth by the intense intimacy and transparency the soulmate phenomenon brings. You can’t take it if the both of you will face the same horrible ending your parents had.  

               Jimin stops by the door and you look up to see his retreating frame.

               “Keep the pansies. They’re for you. I-It was nice seeing you again, Y/N.”

               After that, he’s gone.

***

                You didn’t expect anything from him after your meeting in the flower shop. However, you know better than to anticipate nothing from Jimin but an effective counter-argument. You know your judgment is right when you found the proof first on your doorstep in the morning after of your talk, September 15. Five pansies stood in a small vase placed on the right of your door, next to your umbrella stand. Underneath it was a pink note, which said, “I’m sorry.”

               That evening, you stayed up late into the night. Your clock ticks ten thirty and then you hear it: a click of a button, a faint clink of glass, and Jimin’s soft voice.

               “Hi Y/N. I…I’m sorry for what I did. And I hope you know I won’t give up making it up to you for you to know I’m really serious about you. I–I’ve brought you pansies. I remember every single thing we talked about that night and after that night, the only thought that always comes to my mind ever since is you.”

               The morning after, you see the same vase and a fresh set of flowers, the wilted blooms probably cleaned up and taken out. However, instead of the note, a record lies next to the vase. When you slid it into your beat-up player, a relic you kept from your mother’s home, it plays his short message last night.  

               The routine falls into place the following days.

               “Hi Y/N. Our schedule today wasn’t full so I had the time to go to a library and read about flo-flo-floriography? My tongue always gets twisted when I say that so please don’t judge me. I’ll pronounce it better soon. So back to the book–I read that sweet peas mean ‘Thank you for the lovely time’ and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to give you that right after our date. After all, it was the happiest night of my life. Anyway, I got you some sweet peas now with the pansies. I hope you like them.”

               “Hi Y/N. I’m sorry I’m late.  We got dance practice until ten and I rushed here right after our choreographer called it a night. I wish I can show our dance to you now, but yeah…I guess you wouldn’t want to. You’ll probably throw the flowers I have now to my face. Okay, I’m kidding. I know you wouldn’t do that. I just want to make you laugh. I miss hearing you laugh.”

               “Hi Y/N. I stopped by Petal Hill this afternoon but I didn’t see you there. Someone filling in for you told me you skipped your shift to study for your tests. I wish I could help you like how guys in cheesy romance movies do but I guess I won’t be able to do that because I’m not that smart. I’ll leave early today so you can study. Eventhough I know you’ll slay it, I’ll still wish you good luck. I hope these gardenias with the pansies will give you additional good fortune.”

               “Hi Y/N. We did songwriting today and I wrote my first solo song. Guess who’s my ispiration. Surprise, Surprise, it’s you! Namjoon told us to just write out anything we’ve been thinking a lot lately and all I could think about is you. I can’t show it to you yet because it’s still messy but I promise, as soon as I made it perfect as it should be, you’ll be the first one to hear it!”

               “Hi Y/N. I read a book about flowers again! This time, I got curious about azaleas, the small, pretty pink blooms on the front shelf of Petal Hill? The flower book I read says they look like azaleas. Anyway, I learned that they require quite an effort to grow because they prefer a little sun and a little shade. I guess that’s why they mean ‘fragile’ in the older books of floriography. However, I read that even if they’re fragile, they can last for several weeks. Thus, they also mean ‘take care’ in modern floriography books. Isn’t that amazing? I brought azaleas today so they can last long and remind you to always take care of yourself.”

               Every morning you collect the records he leaves and every night you can’t help but forgive him bit by bit. His flowers and records make your mornings worthwhile; his soft voice and songs, a lullaby that you start to anticipate in the night. Jimin does his routine religiously night after night and it wasn’t long before you find your heart softening to him again, opening up for him so easily even when you didn’t want to.  There’s no use to deny the fluttering of your heart anymore because as nights go by, you already find yourself gathering up your courage to open the door and finally let him back in.

               For twelve nights, Jimin’s routine doesn’t fail. In the latter six nights, you’re by the door, practicing what to say. You plan to just throw open the door once you finally sorted out everything you want to say. However, that plan immediately goes down the drain because of one Monday night, the 14th night of Jimin’s supposed routine.

               “Hi Y/N. I know it’s late but….I have to say something important. I…I won’t be able to stop by for the next few days. We’re having our comeback tomorrow and soon after, promotions will require us to go overseas. I just came because I hope you’ll open the door by now and at least show me your face. Doesn’t matter if you throw the door close to my face the second after you show your  face. I just want to see you real bad. It would be long before I can see you again and I…I miss you. I miss you so much, Y/N. So can you please open the door? Because…I know you’ve already forgiven me.”

               Your body freezes and before you know it, your feet are pounding hard on your floor towards your door. The millisecond you tear open your door, you barely whisper, “Ho-How did you know that?!”

               Jimin stands in front of you, eyes wide. His hair is still bleached blonde like the last time you saw him, his gentle eyes still the same. He looked better than the last time you saw him, healthier. But unlike your expectations, there’s no vase and record this time. It’s just him and his flowers–a bouquet of pansies and sunflowers in his hands. Tears well up in your eyes and your lips tremble. But before you can say anything, he answers your question. “I–I can hear your thoughts.”

                “W-what?” Your jaw falls open. Oh my God.

               Jimin opens his mouth. “Oh my God.”

               Your forehead furrows. What the fuck, is he copying me?

               Jimin shrugs. “What the fuck, is he copying me?”              

               What the hell –“H-how did you know what I’m thinking? Wha-what–”

               “It’s my soulmate system,” Jimin looks into your eyes and your body goes rigid in shock. Jimin bites his lip. “I lied about soulbond being my soulmate system because…I don’t want to scare you that night that I practically already knew everything about you before I even met you. That I purposely went to Marti’s Hub just to get a glimpse of you when I knew you’re going to that bar to cry over your Law 114 essay and I just happened to be near that area. And that how I came to your rescue was not perfectly a coincidence, but intentional because I heard your…mental cries of help.”

               “The-then what about the-the daffodil ring?” You point to his left hand and Jimin breathes shakily.

               “This ring wasn’t because of your soulmate system…or mine,” he admits. “Remember that time when you’re fifteen and you thought about how romantic it will be to have a daffodil bloom inked around your ring finger instead of a wedding ring? I thought about that a lot until I can’t think about anything else. All I knew is that I have to own a permanent mark of you on my body because it felt wrong not to be tied to you in some way when you already own every part of me. I have a daffodil inked on my ring finger because,” he trails off and looks into your eyes. “What’s the meaning of the yellow daffodils?”

               You’re the only one.

               “You’re the only one,” Jimin breathes out. You felt your tears trailing down your cheeks and Jimin’s thumb wipes them away. He keeps his hand on your cheek and you look up into his eyes, into his eyes that reflect nothing but you. One second is all it takes for your defense to crumble down and fall. Fall into Jimin’s arms, fall into him again, letting him hold everything that you are–your strengths, burdens, weaknesses–everything.

               “B-but what about y-your parents?” you choke, “The-the soulbond–”

               “They’re true,” Jimin says, firm. “Excluding my soulbond soulmate system, everything I told you that night is true. My parents, my stories, my wishes, my intentions, my ‘I love you’–they’re true. All of them.”

               You tremble in his arms and Jimin holds you tighter. It is right then you decide to finally deal with your fears. “H-how can you be so sure, Jimin? How can we make this work? I-I’ve only known about you in one night.”

               “That’s not quite true,” Jimin chuckles. “You’ve known about me since 2013. I know I caught your eye the instant I showed up in the screen with the cringey snapback, trying hard to swag with cheap gold chains on my neck.”

               “But what about me? You only knew me i-in one night…”

               “Not true too.” Jimin cups your face in his hands. “I told you, I can hear your thoughts. I’ve been hearing them since you were born–all that you did, all the things you liked, all the people you disliked–I’ve already known you since I started hearing you. Hearing the minutest details of your thoughts for over so many years is enough for me to know about you.” He breathes out, smiling. “Enough for me to know my soulmate already loved me before she even meet me. And I want her to know I already felt the same before I even saw her.”

               Before you can say anything else, Jimin leans over and presses his soft lips against yours. It’s gentle, intimate–a delicate touch that conveys nothing but love. You make a noise of surprise but you already know you’ll be melting in his touch within mere seconds. You know because your cheeks feel warm and your chest flutters in joy. You know because everything about the night suddenly feels right. You know because even if you haven’t said it aloud, Jimin knows what he said is true.

               When you part, you’re greeted with his soft smile and gentle eyes that you love so much. And right then, you know that even if it scares you, you’ll have to say everything in your heart aloud. What’s let out in the open air cannot be undone anymore and you have no plans of taking back the words you will utter.

               “I love you, Jimin.”

               Jimin smiles and beams back, warm and bright. “And I won’t get tired telling you I love you, too, Y/N.”

               Standing there on your doorstep, as the world slowly turns around you, you think it’s finally time that you accept the tale of the red string of fate is more than just a fairytale for everyone else but you. Because right in front of you, is your own happy ending. And, you’re sure, even in another universe, you will relive that night you met Jimin again and again if it will grant you what you have now in your arms: love.

               You don’t need to glance at your glowing daffodil ring to prove that you’re right.

Epilogue

                As you touch your red-stained lips with one final dab, your voicemail beeps. Your free hand presses your telephone to hear the call you missed since you’ve been out of your house the whole day.

               “Hi Y/N. It’s mom. I…I wanted to tell you this in person but it would be a while before my bus reaches your place. I just…I just want to say that your father met up with me two weeks ago and…yesterday, we decided to give us another chance. I’m sorry I’m only telling you this when I always felt I should have said this way back before: the soulmate phenomenon works and I’m so sorry we caused you to distrust it and lose hope in love. I know we’re not the best parents out there, but Y/N, I want you to know that you are loved and someone out there made by the heavens and destined by fate will love you more and make you happier than we ever could. This soulmate thing–it works as long as you give it a chance and work hard too to make it work. We will be there at your place tomorrow with your father…We missed a lot about you these recent two weeks…especially your father, and I hope we can catch up. Always take care, Y/N. Mom and dad loves you.”

                   “You ready, Y/N?”

                  You turn to your boyfriend, smiling. “Yeah, Jimin, I’m done.” You grab your purse and take Jimin’s open hand, giggling when he presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your lips.

                   Smirking, you said, “You really know now how to kiss me without smearing my lipstick.”

                   Jimin looks at you, grinning, “Of course, I won’t ruin your perfect makeup. You made yourself pretty for our date tonight.” He leans to the crook of your ear and whispers, “Unless…you want me to do now what I have in mind for us later in the night.”

                  You cringe at him but Jimin probably already knows his words have affected you because you already feel your cheeks starting to heat up. “Ah, you’re so cute. I love teasing you,” Jimin chuckles as he interlocks your hand with his. When you step out of your home, you glance back to your telephone and then to your daffodil ring, glowing faintly. Smiling, you close your door.

A/N pt. 2 | Hi hons! Thank you for reading this 2nd long-ass oneshot I made after Translucent Fireworks! The inspiration from this fic came from one of the requests in my Songs to Read Playlist:

3 minutes of listening to I was Made for Loving You and one eureka moment are all it took for me to plot this story in detail from start to finish.Thus, I decided then to make this a full oneshot, and now, I am drained and tired after finishing this. This has sucked the lifeblood out of me as this kept me busy for one whole f*cking month and next week is all I have left of my summer break before uni starts hell again. But hey, at least I made up my lack of activity to you hons with lots of wordcount! Thank you for appreciating my works and I hope you all stick with me longer as I have a lot of upcoming works in store for you!

All Rights Reserved © Vanaera. Reposts, modifications, and translations of content are not allowed without direct permission.i

[slash-em-up]

Marry Your Monsters Pt. 5

A step back. A first meeting.

---------------------------------------------------------

17 Years Prior

This tray of cupcakes was definitely going to fall if Miranda didn’t get over to that table fast enough.

The tall blonde student tried her best to juggle the dozen brightly frosted confections along with her book-bag and was failing miserably.

This had not been a good week.

The semester was nearing its end and for some that meant that all you needed to worry about was your final tests – celebratory parties were already beginning to pop up during all hours of the day in several dorms – but sadly Miranda didn’t have that luxury.

As a pre-law student, Miranda still had her LSATs to worry about, and with the semester winding down for most, the sorority Miranda was treasurer for had decided that one more end-of-year bake-sale would be just the ticket to cement their funding for next fall.  

To Miranda’s annoyance, what brought her to the quad today was neither of those things.

Her elective class in American Sign Language had a final project that was due in a week and she hadn’t even completed the interview she was assigned.  

This was partly because the class wasn’t exactly high on her priority list, and partly because she was truly dreading meeting up with her interviewee.

Several of the deaf and mute students on campus had volunteered to be interviewed by the class to give their introspective on living life with a communication disability. Unfortunately, Miranda had been late to class the day they were assigning partners and had been saddled with Jesse Cromeans.

To say Jesse had a bad reputation on campus would have been an extreme understatement.

He was well known for being a lazy, vain, brutish, man-whore and that was being kind.

Privately, Miranda was pretty sure the only reason he hadn’t been kicked out of university entirely was because his grandfather's name was on every other building and at least one member of his family was on the board of trustees at any given time.

Privileged asshole.

Probably 3\4ths of the way to some pretty painful STDs and dying in a drunken yachting accident.

Arriving at the table, Miranda quickly settled the cupcakes on the surface, adjusting the ones that had shifted around on the tray with a slight jostle. At least that was one less thing for her to worry about.  

Now if only Jesse would get here so she could get this over with.

The meeting time approached.

And passed.

Five minutes late.

Ten minutes late.

Fifteen minutes late.

Miranda sighed in disgust and began to pack up her bag when a large hand entered her peripheral vision and snatched up a green-frosted cupcake.

Another defining characteristic of Jesse Cromeans was that he was tall. Like, really tall. So how he’d managed to move his giant ass all the way across the quad and sneak in close enough to steal a cupcake without Miranda noticing was beyond her understanding.

‘For me? You shouldn’t have.’

Miranda gaped in dumbstruck indignation as the arrogant bastard smirked and took a large bite of the confection while swinging one long leg over the side of his chair.

Her lips pursed.

“You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago...”

Jesse continued to chew as he glanced down at his watch. He shrugged.

‘I got tied up.’

That was the last straw. All the stress and anger that had been building for the last week was finally coming to a head.  

And she was about to take it out on Jesse Cromeans ass.

“Jesse, I set up this appointment with you a week ago – if you had something else come up you should have told me earlier! I just wasted most of my morning trying to get here!”

The tall man smirked up at her, signing a quick, insincere ‘Sorry’.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Now it was Jesse’s turn to gape at her; but Miranda was far from done.

“You... arrogant, selfish prick! Just because you have grand-daddy's money to fall back on doesn’t mean you can waltz all over the rest of us! Some of us are here because we actually want to be – not because it’s the closest source of pussy and coke. I could have spent this morning doing actual work! I was so fucking angry when I got stuck with you as a partner because I KNEW you’d pull something like this! Because you. Don’t. Care. If it doesn't benefit you it doesn’t even make it onto your radar. You’re an asshole, and you’re going to die alone.”

Jesse was giving her his full attention; brown eyes serious and locked on her face.

‘Finished?’

Miranda was breathing heavily as she digested the words that had just come out of her own mouth.  

Oh god.

“Jesse, I’m so sorry... I -”

Jesse waved a hand, cutting her off.

‘You’re going to make one hell of a lawyer...’

The comment could have been playful; but the tensing of his shoulders and the flash of hurt in his eyes said it was anything but.

Not knowing what else to do, Miranda murmured another quiet “sorry” at Jesse, not meeting his eyes as she gathered up her bag and retreated back across the quad, not stopping until she was safely back inside her sorority house behind her locked door.

She’d forgotten the cupcakes and several books at the table; but they were the least of her concerns right now.

Feeling lower than low, Miranda slipped into an uneasy slumber.

---------------------------

The nap did not help.  

Miranda went through the remainder of her day with a cloud over her head. It wasn’t like her to be unnecessarily cruel – which she absolutely had been. The punishment she’d dished out in no way fit the crime he’d committed.

Even the passive-aggressive comments she’d received from the sorority president about ‘losing’ the cupcakes simply bounced off her shell of melancholy.

How do you apologize to someone when your first real interaction included you telling them they were going to die alone?

Miranda was moping on her bed, looking at but not really absorbing her study material when one of her friends popped her head into the room.

“Hey Randi, this was outside your room. Did you lose a book?”

Standing from the bed, Miranda walked over and took the book from the other girl, eyebrows raising when she saw it was the ASL textbook she’d left on the quad.

“Who brought this back?”

The girl shrugged.

“I don’t know – it was just sitting outside. Maybe Krista saw...”

Miranda flipped open the cover and saw a plain white envelope with her name written on it in neat text.

“Uh, thanks, no worries, I’ll figure it out later...”

She closed the door and sat back on her bed, fingering the paper with a sense of dread.

Well, better to rip it off like a band-aid.

She opened the envelope, eyes widening when a hundred-dollar bill fell out with a small bundle of papers.

The first on the stack was a note from Jesse.

‘Miranda,

I’m sorry I was late for our meeting the other day.  I’ll admit to being a selfish asshole, and you were fully within your rights to call me out on it.  

I found your interview questions in your book and wrote out my answers for them as best I could – I hope you don’t mind, I added a few jokes and quips – no one would believe we actually ‘talked’ if we didn’t add SOME color to my responses.

Also, I ate your cupcakes. Sorry about that. I’m not really sure what the going rate is for charity bake-sale goodies, so I hope the enclosed money will cover it.

I was being serious when I said you’ll be a great lawyer. I hope I never have to see you in court.

Jesse

p.s. I don’t do coke. I haven’t got the fingers to carry off a coke-nail.’

Re-folding the paper, Miranda wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh, cry, or get angry at Jesse all over again.

The rest of the packet was the answers to her interview questions that Jesse had promised; but even giving them a cursory read-through, she could already tell she was going to have to edit them heavily. As it turns out, Jesse wasn’t a short-winded guy when you got him going on a topic –and he’d really gone off about what life was like without the ability to speak.  

Miranda was surprised that so many of his answers seemed to be given in complete honesty rather than the infantile jokes and self-aggrandizing she’d expected.

Sure, those were there too – she saw the bit about him being a ‘master debater’ and a ‘cunning linguist’ and rolled her eyes hard enough to give herself a headache – but the parts where he was being forthright were very telling about the person Jesse was behind all the smoke and mirrors.

That was a completely different guy. She thought she might even be able to like him.

Maybe someday they’d run into each other and she could take back her comments in-person.

Only time would tell.

[ladyreggiewright]

Practice Challenge Part 1

Turns out I’m an impatient idiot. I don’t know how many parts i’ll do, I think 2? either way, here it issss. Ehm...hope you enjoy? Please enjoy. I beg you 

Higher Ambitions

It’s an obvious choice to apply. It would be a great opportunity. A national tradition. A historical event happening once every generation- if we’re lucky. In my opinion it couldn’t possibly be cancelled again, even if the Prince was in love. It would simply be unwise from a political point of view.  They must have agreed with me, since the engagement was cancelled and applications arrived this morning. In a perfectly pressed envelope, the Royal emblem on top of the page with that thick structured paper I favour. Regina Carla Wright, neatly typed in a regal, cursive font. It can’t be said the Royal family doesn’t know how to present themselves, even on paper. Of course I won’t accept if my courses have to suffer from it, but some arrangement can easily be made. Hansport University usually promotes outside experiences. Moreover, I’m sure it would look good on my resume, might I get in.  Do Royals write recommendation letters?

"You should sleep." I hear behind me.  I look over my shoulder to see my uncle Aran sitting in roughly the same position as I am, hunched over some papers. There's a fort of binders build around him, the soft desk-light enhancing the circles under his eyes. He’s a lawyer and working on a case. Has been for the last couple of weeks, and has gotten slowly more buried in work, his fort growing in size every day. My own fort is located at the dinner table at the moment. Some discarded coffee-cups form the front, followed by an impenetrable wall of books and notebooks. The wounded soldiers can be counted by the amount of ink spots I keep managing to end up on my hands. It's three in the morning.  "Hypocrite," I mumble, loud enough for him to hear. "Nerd," he fires back, not looking up from his work either. "Actually, I will have you know that I'm not doing any schoolwork right now." I smile a little smug, seeing how he starts to frown.  "Job?" I shake my head. "Extracurriculars?" "Wrong again." I tap the papers against the table to straighten them. "It's a Selection application." "What!"  He jumps from his chair, an excited smile on his face as he approaches me. A stack of his papers fall on the floor but he ignores it. He must really be excited. I should have known, and not just from his reaction when they announced it. At least once a year, he forces me to watch the previous ones, calling it quality time. I don’t know if becoming gradually more disappointed in the previous state of our country can be considered quality. Neither can the whole procedure. The candidates’ debate skills are mediocre at best, no matter how much they bat their lashes. Not that it matters.  But it should.  At least, if I get the chance to have any say in it.  “You never said anything about applying,” he says, pleasantly surprised.  “I wanted to research the procedure first,” I reply, filling in my whole name and age. "They're asking for the colour of my eyes and hair, but no essay whatsoever,” I comment, checking the front and back of the form twice to be sure. Uncle Aran looks with me from over my shoulder. “It's already ridiculous," I add. "Of course, how else can Prince Arin romantically compare your political viewpoints to a summer's day." He makes a twinkling movement in the air with his hand, as if he's coating me with glitter as my fairy godmother.  I grab a blank piece of paper anyway and write my name and date at the top. "Appearances shouldn't matter as much for the future freaking Queen of the country." "Says the pretty girl. Besides, if this were a democracy, people would be voting for whoever is most entertaining to watch, you know that." He shrugs. Considering how he roots for the same sassy mean girl every rewatch, I’m not surprised he’s indifferent to the Selection being what it is. Or was. It’s some time ago now. "Maybe that's why we're not a democracy," I state, starting my first sentence. He does not look amused and even somewhat disappointed. In me or the country, I'm not sure. I'd say the latter is more justified.  Sighing, he starts to walk to the stairs, picking up the cat along the way.  "I'm going to sleep, and so are you," he says. "I'm coming in a second," I reply as I continue writing on why I should be admitted to the Selection. Why I would be a great addition even. Why I- "You're putting that pen down right now or I’ll burn that essay of yours first thing in the morning." I begrudgingly comply. “Usually my second draft is better anyway,” I argue, though putting my pen down.  He shakes his head, mumbling something about craziness to the cat. She seems to agree. Of course she would.  Traitor. 

My hair drips a little on the table from my swim, wetting the morning paper. I catch up on the Globe’s articles- skipping the endless pictures of celebrities handing in their application forms- and drink my coffee. “Any news?” Aran grumbles, pouring his own coffee in a huge mug. He’s not a morning person.  “MRTFLR is doing good in the stock market, and they voted against-” “I meant about the Selection you’re applying for.” “Oh,” I answer, “Only about who is and who isn’t going to apply. So no.” He quickly throws back his coffee, already late for work, motioning for me to tell him anyway as he does.  “Alright, some Two named Angela is applying, she even broke up with her boyfriend for it,” I read, disinterest coating my voice. Who reads this stuff? My question is answered by uncle Aran’s genuine interest on his face. “She did?!” he brings out, knotting his tie around his neck quickly. Apparently she’s known for something. “Uh, yeah. Oh, and your favourite actress Tianna isn’t.” "Objection!" "You're a lawyer, you know that's not how it works. It should be used-" "I know, honey, but sometimes people try to be funny." He shakes his head like I’m a lost cause and kisses the top of my head, before he grabs his briefcase to go to work. I hate when he does that. Like I don’t know the joke I’m a part of.  One would expect I’ve caught on by now through trial and error. Yet somehow I fail to notice people make intentional mistakes to be amusing. My therapist said it was coming from my compulsive desire to be right.  I replied she was wrong. The sessions stopped shortly afterwards.  Besides, there was nothing left to discuss. My parents’ death had been talked about in excessive detail. I had told her about it enough times. I wasn’t going to cry about it anymore, let myself be miserable and useless. It wouldn’t make sense to let myself dwell on that any longer.  I mean, the whole thing is almost 10 years ago now. There is nothing to say other than that they were successful, hard working people. Going on what should have been a short political trip to Swendway. Dad was Hansport’s Mayor, mom started as his assistant and became his spokeswoman. They made the perfect team. They’ve raised me till the age of twelve to be just as hard working, just as ambitious and successful.  And I will be.  That’s the least I can do in their memory. Try to be even an ounce of what they had hoped for me. They named me Regina, after all. Though I prefer Reggie, the Latin meaning of it still stands.  Queen.  I suppose subtlety wasn’t their forté.  Uncle always says mom focussed way more on the second meaning: female ruler. Usually he adds that above all she wanted me to be happy. I don’t know what my dad meant by my name. I suppose fathers tend to call their daughters their little princesses anyway. However I don’t remember either of them focussing on me becoming anything other than successful. The most royal part about that were dad’s own ambitions to become an advisor in the Palace.  An ambition I follow.  Uncle never really talks about my dad much. A lingering resentment is usually audible in his words. What for, I don’t know. I know Mom wouldn’t have gone on that plane if she didn’t want to. He seems to think she was simply too loving for her own good.  But I’ve seen clips of her as my father’s spokeswoman. She could be ruthless. Uncle has different memories with her of course, being her brother. That’s why I’ve never understood why he has gotten rid of all their work, everything through the shredder or in the fireplace. I would have clinged to every piece of paper of them if I had the choice. Their handwriting, their way with words. Reading interviews in old newspaper just isn’t the same. Imagining the words as you look at pictures isn’t either. Aran just said it was better that way, and me being twelve and grieving, I nodded.  Now I find myself compulsively reading in archives or watching them make speeches at festivities. Trying to find advice in their political statements, their decisions for our Province.  It never works of course. 

The halls are surprisingly quiet. Or well, I’m not surprised really. It’s the second week of the new semester and people are still sleeping off their hangovers as usual. Already slacking. I don’t mind. I like it better like this. The ancient buildings, the statues and the dusty library just don’t feel the same when there’s people walking around bragging about their keg stand of the night before. How someone can walk among the same places that some of the most accomplished people of our country have walked and think only about their next sexual conquest is beyond me. Since a marble statue has some problem wrinkling their nose at those people, I take the liberty to do it for them.  So I don’t mind the thinner crowd. Besides, at least halls like these permit me to read and walk at the same time.   I finished my essay in between my Political Science classes and I go over it again now. I admit I am unsure about the quality, since there’s no clear assignment. Of course, there’s no real assignment at all. But that’s where they’re wrong. Therefore the extra effort could only work out in my favour.  Just before I can fully reread it, Ethan rips it out my hands.  “What’s this?” he asks, apparently too incompetent to read, “You’re applying? I didn’t know you had the hots for the Prince.” He looks surprised and amused, checking out my essay. Ethan Brookes.  One of the most promising students at Hansport University, on his way to graduating with honors and possibly at the top of his class. If it weren't for me, of course. It’s been this way since the very first lecture I attended. Whatever position one of us takes on a subject in class, the other will oppose it. Sure, it keeps me on my toes. But he’s also annoying enough to keep standing on my toes.  “You’re applying with an essay?” he lets out with a chuckle, “You know that’s not how it works right, it’s not college.” “If college did work like that,” I say, grabbing my papers back, “You wouldn't have gotten in here.” He rolls his eyes.  “Whatever.” Weak argument. “I just don’t think they make crowns big enough for a head like yours.” Never mind. Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I don’t think Royal Advisors wear those anyway,” I counter, lifting my chin somewhat. “Ha!” he lets out, snapping his fingers at me, “Of course. I knew your heart couldn’t have magically thawed out for the Prince.” I scowl at back at him, much to his amusement.  “I’d argue having a heart of ice beats not having one,” I add coldly, sweeping my braid off my shoulder before I turn away, leaving him annoyed or entertained. Or both. Either way, I don’t have time for his antics.  I am on a mission.  It takes another couple walks in the area close to his office, but then I spot Professor Matthews. He is at the end of the hallway with a thick stack of papers under his arm, glasses on top off his head waiting to get tangled in his messy hair. Or what’s left of it. I power walk to catch up with him.  “Good morning Professor.” He jumps.  “Fucking hell,” he mumbles. Not very professional. “Morning Miss Wright.” “I wanted to talk to you about the-” “I really don’t have the time, Miss Wright,” he says quickly, turning to the hallway on his right and advancing his pace. I follow. “Of course, but I just wanted to ask-” “No, Miss Wright,” he sighs loudly, “I can’t give you extra bonus points because you’ve given me two papers on the topic. Yes, they were both sufficient.” “Sufficient?” “Good, they were good. Now leave-...I have to go,” he replies, swiftly going into his office to hide. Perhaps I should add persistent to my application, under qualities, I joke to myself, feeling accomplished.   I realise that that makes me unlikeable in the eyes of some. Nevertheless I tend to follow the thoughts of Niccolo Machiavelli. It’s almost impossible to be a good politician and also a good person. This proposes the age old question whether to be feared or loved. Both can be argued for, but in my opinion feared has the upper hand. A leader of any degree is not someone to love, it’s someone to look up to. Someone to respect, to trust and to make decisions for you. Someone who looks at a problem as a whole and can conclude what’s best when the people can’t do that for themselves. It’s impossible to be good at all things, yet a politician should be good at those things most of all. And in that sense it’s also impossible to be both loving and kind, as well as a good politician. So I won’t apologise for who I am.  I have higher ambitions than being loved anyway. 

[obsidianarchives]

The Decision

Gregory and Caroline Granger were married thirteen years before finally welcoming their daughter Hermione into the family. They brought home their beautiful brown baby with curls that were already overtaking her face and noticed very quickly that she wasn’t like other children. While most of their friends with children complained of sleepless nights and constantly crying babies, Hermione was always quite content, sleeping through the night. Many days, she woke before her parents, and they would find her playing in her pram, babbling incessantly, the lights in her room on though neither knew how. As she got older, she began reading books from the highest shelf, those wildly out of reach. When asked how she was able to retrieve the book, her answers would border on flippant.

The many strange occurrences happened all throughout her youth until one cool summer’s morning they received a knock at their door. A stern-looking woman wearing robes of deep crimson had stood before them, introducing herself as Professor McGonagall. 

Hermione, she explained, was a witch and had been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. If they agreed, Hermione would be expected to arrive at King’s Cross Station on September 1st where she would take the Hogwarts Express for her first of seven years of schooling there. McGonagall spent hours with the Grangers, explaining to them about the book that had her name written down since birth, about Professor Dumbledore, the school’s headmaster, and about the Statute of Secrecy forbidding them from telling a soul the truth about their daughter’s abilities. The professor left that afternoon with a promise that she would be back the next day hoping for an answer. 

Needless to say Gregory and Caroline were shocked. They were dentists. They had never heard of this place called Hogwarts, had never believed that witches or wizards existed. Yet, Hermione was ecstatic and eager to learn all she could, not only about this school that she was destined to attend, but this new world of magic. Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon begging her parents to allow her to go. The family spent many hours debating the pros and cons of such a turn of events, eventually agreeing that this would be best for Hermione. Professor McGonagall returned the next day and was pleased with the news. 

“If you have any questions,” she said, handing over the envelope with her list of school books and materials, “just send a letter addressed to me at Hogwarts. It will get there.” She then went on to explain how to get to Diagon Alley and to Platform 9 ¾. 

“I’ll see you on September 1st,” she said kindly to Hermione. 

And so her schooling began. Hermione left in September, returning during Christmas break loaded with her school books and stories of her days within the castle. She had been writing consistently up until that point, but there was so little Gregory and Caroline could understand. They listened to her stories of watching Quidditch games while her best friend played Seeker, of learning how to brew potions and Transfigure ordinary objects, and were completely bewildered. Children flying fifty feet in the air on broomsticks! Potions to cure boils? Changing a match into a candlestick! How could any of this be real? 

It got harder and harder to hide their confusion as the years went on. After her second year, Hermione had changed. She wouldn’t talk as much about the events going on at school; even though she kept them abreast of her grades, there was very little else they knew about their only daughter. And now even in summer she was spending less and less time with them. They had met the Weasleys on more than one occasion and thought they were very nice people but were hoping Hermione would like to spend more than just part of a summer vacation at home with them. 

It became evident during Hermione’s visit during Christmas of her sixth year at Hogwarts just how much distance had grown between them. They had made a point to have meals together and Gregory and Caroline had even taken a few days off work to spend time with her. But oddly enough, while they were trying to learn more about Hermione’s schooling, she seemed more interested in asking them questions about themselves.

“How are the Roberts doing?”

“Do the Nolans still stop by for tea often?”

“How long have you owned the practice?”

“How many patients do you both see regularly?” 

“You can’t be dentists for the rest of your lives,” Hermione said one evening. “If you could go anywhere, where would it be?”

“Why so many questions all of a sudden?” Gregory asked, while straightening his glasses at the dinner table. 

“Just curious,” she had responded. 

In that moment Hermione wondered if she should have answered truthfully. But could she have told her parents she was afraid? That soon she may need to leave and they might not see her again. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to get them to understand, that now she was of age (at least in the wizarding world) she had to make decisions she knew would be best for all of them, no matter how painful they were. 

“Is everything okay?” Caroline asked, eyeing her daughter from across the table.  

“Everything is fine,” Hermione said. That couldn’t have been further from the truth. 

It didn’t settle in for her until months later, when she divulged her plan to Dean as they sat under the large beech tree by the lake. There was no way she could make plans to upend her parents entire lives and have hopes of them coming back to the life they had known. Not with patients and friends who would notice if they disappeared for who knows how long without any explanation. 

“You know this isn’t something you have to do?” Dean said. He was lying on his back in the grass, his arms folded behind his head. His face was turned to look at  Hermione as she leaned against the tree, watching the lake. It was the day after Dumbledore’s death. Wizards from all over the country were making their way to Hogwarts for his funeral. It was a beautiful summer day and yet the entire castle was somber. 

“It is,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. 

“Why?” he asked. 

“I thought you would understand,” she said, trying to stop the tears from falling. “You plan on running too.”

“But I’m not going to move my family away from everything they know when I go,” he said. “They’ll still be there. I’ll cast the charms we’ve been researching on the house. They’ll be fine.”

“It’s different,” she said. “We both have Muggle parents, but Voldemort doesn’t know who you are. His Death Eaters don’t know what you look like, or even your name. If my parents stay they’ll try and find them. They’ll be tortured. They could be killed, even though I’ve told them nothing about what’s been going on.” Her voice was shaking, her nerves thin. Tears still slowly sliding down her face. She was overwhelmed. This was too much and yet it was just the beginning. 

“You’re scared,” Dean said, reaching out to her and grabbing her hand. 

“Of course I’m scared. We should all be scared. Dumbledore is dead. We were attacked here. No place is safe. He has to be stopped. None of this will end until Voldemort is dead.”

“Is that what you’re going to do?” Dean asked, sitting himself up so she couldn’t look away from him. “Stop Voldemort?”

“I’m going with Harry,” she said, filling herself with resolve. “And that means leaving my parents.”

“And when you come back?” he asked quietly. Hermione could see the concern lining his face. There was no trace of the smile that had become a place of comfort. His dark brown eyes studied hers. She was the one to look away, eyes gazing towards the lake with the realization that her days at Hogwarts were numbered. 

She dried her face with the sleeve of her robe, and turned back to Dean with as much emotion removed from her face as possible. “I’ll have to come back first won’t I?”

...

Days after her conversation with Dean, Hermione began the process of changing her parents’ lives from that of Gregory and Caroline Granger to Wendell and Monica Wilkins. She had very little time to execute all that needed to be done before heading to the Burrow. Her parents’ transformation would require new birth certificates and passports, all which would need to be forged before she could depart. New bank accounts would need to be opened while the ones linked to her parents’ real identities were closed. Their dental practice would need to be sold. Too many questions would be raised around their disappearance. Better to make it seem like they had suddenly chosen to retire early and sell the business. She would need to meet with their lawyer to arrange the selling of both the business and, though it pained Hermione to dwell on it, the house as well. She had debated whether she should become Secret Keeper for their family’s home instead, but unaware of what would happen to the home if she were to die, decided against it. 

It unsettled Hermione that she hadn’t had second thoughts about her plan since leaving Hogwarts. Both she and Ron had told Harry after the funeral that they would be going with him. She assured herself that the only way to protect her family upon her departure was to hide them somewhere Voldemort and his Death Eaters would never think to look. To erase herself from their memory and allow them to live without ever knowing their child was in danger. 

The morning of July 23rd she watched as her parents, now known as Monica and Wendell Wilkins, took a taxi to the airport to begin their new lives. The traces of the life they knew would soon be removed from the house. Hermione had walked through the halls, looking at the family pictures. Many pictures of her in primary school were throughout the house, but there were few of her as a teenager. She could only find one from her time while at Hogwarts, the time they spent camping in the Forest of Dean. She had been standing in between her parents, all of them smiling at the camera. Hermione noticed for the first time that she was already close to her mother’s height in this photo, though her father towered over them both. They were all smiles in that moment. It was the happiest she had remembered being. Hermione stood there for quite some time, lost in the memory of that moment before finally placing the picture back on the mantle—it would be too dangerous if she was caught to bring it with her—and headed to the Burrow.

...  

It wasn’t until after the Battle of Hogwarts that Hermione began to struggle with her decision. She had spent the last year trying to survive and destroy Horcruxes. She was assured that her parents were safely hidden away and had not allowed herself time to dwell on them. But now the danger had passed, Voldemort was dead. She had seen his lifeless body in a chamber off the hall. 

She knew it would take time for the wizarding world to get back on its feet, knew that Hogwarts would one day reopen and that she would be there when it did. What she couldn’t seem to figure out was when she would ever get to Australia to find her parents and lift the enchantment she had placed on them almost a year ago. She couldn’t imagine doing it now. Not in the state she was currently in. The past year had left her exhausted and nightmares were a common occurrence. No not now, but soon, she promised herself. 

She thought of her parents again after taking her N.E.W.T.’s and relaxing near the lake outside of the repaired castle. The last letter she had received from Dean had asked about when she planning on going, and if she wanted him to come along with her for support. She hadn’t responded. She was about to be a fully qualified wizard, about to fully immerse herself in the wizarding world. Now would be a horrible time to go. She wouldn’t be able to dedicate the time necessary to build a relationship again. And how would she be able to explain the amount of time that had passed, where they were, the fact that they no longer had jobs or a home to call their own? 

“Soon,” she promised herself again. “Once I’ve figured this all out, I’ll go.” 

Another year would pass before Hermione found herself in Melbourne, Australia in a car outside of the home she’d arranged for her parents to move into. She had come alone after battling with herself for weeks. It was time. If she would ever have the strength to go and visit her parents it was now. The therapy had been working. Her nightmares, though they hadn’t ceased, had lessened over the last two years, and she was working through the trauma she had experienced. Now she needed to see them, to take this final step, to let them go. 

Hermione was curious to see how much they might have changed. Plants sat outside on their small porch, along with two chairs and a small table. She imagined them sitting outside in the mornings drinking coffee, or having a glass of wine outside after dinner, something she had never seen her parents do before. Different scenarios were playing her head when, minutes later, she saw her mother exit the house. Caroline’s hair, which she would usually wear straightened and pulled back in a bun, was now loose and curly, free flowing down her back. Her mother was holding a bulldog on a leash in her arms. Gregory came out to join her. The two began walking down the street together and Hermione, after waiting a few moments, followed. Her parents walked hand in hand, immersed in a conversation that Hermione was too far back to overhear. She watched the dog, lost in thought. Crookshanks had been the only pet the family had ever owned, and since he spent as much time at the house that she did, her parents had hardly had to bother with him. Now they had a pet of their own.

She continued to follow her parents from a distance as they walked down the street, until they finally turned off a little ways into a small cafe. Her father took the bulldog, referring to him as Frankie, and sat down in the outside seating area. She followed her mother inside. 

“Hello Joy,” Caroline said to the server as she stepped up to the counter. “We’ll have our usual.”

“Morning Monica,” Joy responded as she began placing their order. “I see you guys brought Frankie out with you today. It’s nice enough. We haven’t had a day this nice all winter.” 

“Oh, it’s great. We’re going to head out to the NGV later on today,” Caroline said. “Just to get out of the house for a little bit.”

“Well, that’ll be nice. You guys enjoy and have a good one,” Joy said, handing over the two drinks.

“Thanks Joy,” Caroline said, taking the food. 

Hermione moved to the side to let her mother pass. Caroline looked at her briefly and said good morning, which Hermione returned in kind. She watched as her mother walked outside and sat with her father, then turned to the server and placed her order. After receiving her coffee, she plucked up her courage and walked outside. She could see her parents were engaged in conversation, but it was now or never and she had come all this way to see them. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “I couldn’t help but hear you saying that you were planning to head to the National Gallery. It’s my first time visiting Melbourne and I was just curious what you would recommend.”

“How much time do you have?” Gregory said laughing. “It’s a beautiful museum, and they’ve got a few exhibits right now, the Rover and Queenie for example, that are worth visiting.”

“We’ve gone quite a few times since moving here,” Caroline said. “The Australian and Asian art collections are very beautiful.” 

“We’ve been here for a few years and it’s definitely one of our favorites,” Gregory said. “You sound like you’re from our old parts. Berkshire?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered, amused that her father could so easily pick up on her accent and not the resemblance between her and her mother.

“On holiday?” Gregory asked. 

“In a way. Visiting some family I haven’t seen in a few years. Do you enjoy it here?”

“We do,” Caroline said. “We were both working so much before, it’s been a nice change of pace really.”

“We’ve made some great friends out here. Got little Frankie about a year ago.” 

“It’s still very nice meeting people from back home. We’re Monica and Wendell by the way,” Caroline said extending her hand. 

“Very nice to meet you both,” she said shaking Monica’s hand, then Wendell’s. “I’m Hermione.” 

“I love that name. I remember reading it years ago in a play, The Winter’s Tale it was, I think,” Monica said. 

“That’s where my mother got it,” Hermione said. She stood up and prepared to walk away. “You two have a great day.”

“You too Hermione,” Wendell called behind her. “Enjoy your time here visiting family.”

Instead of answering she turned around and waved goodbye, taking one last look at her mum and dad and the new life they created. She was going to head to the National Gallery like they had suggested, to see the world through their new eyes before heading back to the life she was creating for herself. She was surprised she hadn’t cried, though emotions were swirling inside her. As much she had loved them, they had drifted apart years ago and she was glad to remember them as they were now, enjoying their lives, happy in the new home and life she had given them. 

[maddiemccarthy]

WHO: Madison and her mother, with mentions of Ben & Lexi ( @benpucker​ )

WHAT: A confrontation roughly 27 years in the making

WHEN: Sunday, 1/12, late morning

WHERE: Madison’s apartment

WARNINGS: none, just angst from bad parenting

Eleven days. In the past eleven days Madison’s entire world had been rearranged. Bringing a new life into the world, Ben saying he loved her, and saying it back to him, learning how to care for him best, Ben going back to work, Lexi spending the night, Puck “breaking up” with her, Ben bringing up living together - like actually living together - on more than one occasion, an influx of the entire town seemingly always at her front door. It was arguably the most stressful week and a half of her life. But, minus the Puck of it all, also probably one of the happiest. 

Now late on Sunday morning, breakfast had, and Disney movie in place, Lexi was settled on the couch holding Gabe and more focused on him than the movie, Madison and Ben sitting down from her. Madison had her eyes half open, more than happy to relax with the peace that was falling over the apartment. It could last five minutes. It could last an hour. She wasn’t questioning it.

But a knock on the door soon disturbed the stillness. Despite the ever presence of guests, they’d all been good about asking permission before showing up. She glanced at her phone for missed messages, none. Glanced at Ben to see if he’d forgotten to mention someone, he shrugged and shook his head. The knock came again, louder this time and enough to make Gabe stir and whine in his sister’s hold. “Help her with him and I’ll get it?” she asked Ben, pushing off the couch and making her way to the door. A third knock had her exasperated. “I’m coming,” she called, “can you just be pati--”

Madison’s words were unfinished as she saw who was on the other side of the door. Mouth agape and probably not breathing she stared at her mother on her doormat, looking more fit for a country club tea than the still in PJs lounging that was going on there. “Don’t even have a hello for your mom?” she asked, “though I suppose you’ve forgotten how to say a lot of things to me in the past few months.”

“Hi, Mom,” Madison finally managed out, glancing back at Ben who looked as confused as she felt. “What are you doing here? You haven’t made it to Doveport since parents’ weekend freshman year.”

“Well it seemed my invite to the baby shower and birth of my grandson got lost in the mail, so I figured I’d come see him before I miss the first birthday party invite and his high school graduation,” Elizabeth’s face was overall emotionless, stating everything matter-of-factly. She looked past Madison into the apartment, seeing Ben and Lexi, and then met her daughter’s eyes again. “Though it seems there may have been other announcements I missed as well.”

Madison’s eyes closed, and she took a deep breath before stepping aside and inviting the woman in, directing her to the kitchen table before requesting that she wait there. Once the door was closed behind them, she met Ben’s eyes with a face that could only say what the fuck?? and hurried over to him. There was a litany of questions between them. “What is she doing here? Who told her about Gabe? What do we do? How long is she gonna be here? Is she mad? Does she seem mad?” She tried to keep her voice hushed, Ben’s voice hushed. The space was small, there was no keeping secrets from a woman who’s eyes she could feel in the back of her neck. “Can you just take Lexi out? It’s warmer today. You can take Pepper and go for a walk to the playground?” she suggested. She looked at her son for a moment, debating whether to ask Ben to take him as well. But then there was dressing and prepping and making sure the diaper bag was ready and the stoller and… two kids plus the dog was a lot to spring on him at once. So she took Gabe into her arms, resting a calming hand on him as he seemed unsettled in the commotion, and kissed Ben’s cheek. “Please?”

Once he’d agreed and set on getting Lexi ready to go, even to the quiet complaints of “but I wanna stay with Gabe!” on her part, Madison took the baby and sat at the table, opposite her mother and asked again. “What are you doing here, mom?”

“You already asked that, Maddie,” Elizabeth pointed out, her focus clearly on the infant instead of her daughter. “You told me I have a grandson via what I can only imagine was a mass text, which, judging by your reaction of me knowing, I wasn’t even meant to be on the receiving list. If I would have called, you would have told me not to come. If I’d have invited you up you would have said you were too busy, because you’re always too busy.” 

Madison shook her head. A baby in her arms meant she had to stay calm. Hysteric crying sounded like a much better idea. Telling her mom off for all she could remember of eighteen years of her never showing up. Of her being too busy. She heard Ben shuffling towards the door and gave him a wave. “I’ll text you okay?” she said in his direction, and watched them until the door was closed once more.

“And a granddaughter too?” Elizabeth started up again. “That little girl is, what? Four? Five years old? In five years you didn’t think I should know that?”

“Lexi isn’t mine, mom,” Madison corrected quickly. “She’s Ben’s daughter with another woman, he has her every other weekend so she’s here now. Ben… that’s my boyfriend. Gabe, Gabriel’s dad.”

“That’s a lot of development since ‘nothing much going on here’ that you told me on your birthday. Or the ‘just a low-key morning here, Mason and I are watching movies in our PJs’ on Christmas morning.

“In fairness, that is what I did on Christmas. Alex was here, too,” she retorted.

“Madison, look, I’m not naive. I know you and I aren’t the mother-daughter best friend type. I’m not your confidant. You haven’t come to me for help since… I couldn’t even remember the last time. Probably to remind me of one of the bills due when you were living on campus. But you just had a child,” her mother rambled on, gesturing to the bundle in her daughter’s arms. “You had a beautiful baby boy with man you’ve never so much as mentioned to me, and you don’t think that warranted a phone call?”

“I can’t be let down by you anymore,” Madison finally told her. “You came to one. ONE school function in four years I was in college. And you stayed for half of it, because you were busy and needed to get home. You had a lawyer’s retreat the weekend of my college graduation. How many games did you come to when I was cheering in high school? How many competitions? Did you come to plays? Awards Days? And it was the same for Mason too. It wasn’t that you favored him to me, though maybe you do, who knows? It was that you favored basically anything in the entire world to both of us. I had to look out in every crowd and not find you. And every time it stung, but stung a little less. Until finally I stopped looking. And then I stopped telling you. Because you weren’t going to be there anyway. Maybe the birth of your grandson would have warranted attention my high school production of Shrek the musical didn’t, but I couldn’t fathom,” she took a breath, sniffing back tears that pricked the corners of her eyes. “I couldn’t stand the idea of the literal most important thing I’ve ever done in my whole life not being not enough for you to spare your time.”

Elizabeth had sat stunned into silence as her daughter calmly lit into her. She may have known she was never in the running for mother of the year, but the level of hurt in her daughter’s voice and written all over her face was something she’d not been aware of. “I thought you understood with your dad and I’s workload that--”

“Work comes first. Work always comes first,” Madison stated, not letting her make up excuses anymore. The hurt wouldn’t just be explained away this time. “You know, it made a little sense when I started working full time, that sometimes you can’t get out of things. And maybe my little flower shop isn’t as demanding as being a big city attorney, but when something matters enough to you, you can make it work. Maybe it’s not perfect, and maybe you have to compromise, but you can make it work. But that takes an amount of trying that you never did.”

Madison paused, waiting for an argument, for a but I…, but it wasn’t coming. “You can meet your grandson. And you can send him presents and I’ll send you pictures and whatever else you want. But you don’t get to just show up again. Not unless you’re also gonna show up when it matters, when he needs you. I’m not going to let you disappoint another McCarthy child.” She raised an eyebrow at the woman, waiting for an acknowledgement of understanding. When the other woman nodded, Madison’s face changed, night and day to rainbows and sunshine as she focused on Gabe, cooing at him and asking if he wanted to meet Grandma Elizabeth all while standing to place the baby in her arms. When he settled in, no real fussing, just quiet squirming to find his comfy spot again, Madison excused herself.

The click of the bedroom door closing echoed loudly in her ear. She finally noticed the feeling of her heart pounding in her chest as the tears fell down her cheeks. She’d never dreamt of laying out every letdown her mother had caused, never once thought the opportunity would be had. Closing off that portion of her life had been easier. So Madison sat on the edge of her bed, pillow clutched to her, and cried as the hurt washed over her anew.

It couldn’t have been more than a couple minutes, but it felt like forever when she finally heard the distinct sound of Gabriel’s crying, followed quiet shushings from her mom. Madison took a few calming breaths, wiped her face off and sniffed back the last of her tears. She glanced in her mirror before heading out, there would be no hiding her state. So instead she went out with her head held high and greeted her baby with a smile and bloodshot eyes. Her mom started to speak and she quieted her with a shake of her head, taking her son and trying to quiet him herself. “I think somebody’s hungry, yes I do,” she sing-songed to him. “I think you can go,” was all she said to her mom. “You can call me if you figure out how to be a grandparent, or maybe just a parent, that can be counted on.” 

Madison made her way to the door then, pulling it open and looking pointedly between it and the woman at her table. After a long moment of awkward silence, broken only by the sound of Gabe’s fussing, Elizabeth stood, tucked her purse over her shoulder and headed out. “I love you, little boy,” she said, stopping briefly in the doorway to say goodbye, then looked Madison in the eye. “And I love you too, no matter what you might think of me.” With that, she offered a weak smile and passed by, heading for the building’s exit.

[hillaryisaboss]

Right now Trump is using the microphone and power of the American Presidency (which is exactly what Putin wanted) to endorse a xenophobic, right-wing, nationalist, racist, fascist, anti-Democratic global takeover. Donald is declaring the Europeans are “losing their culture” due to immigrants. Isn’t the scapegoating of immigrants red flag #1 in high school history classes? Fascism 101? I guess those who don’t know history truly are doomed to repeat it.

Sadly, NATO just got a taste of the Trump propaganda reality-show. It goes something like this:

Trump lies about a non-existent problem (ie: the United States is getting ripped off by Europe/immigrants are “infesting” our country), accuse the other side of which you are guilty (“Germany is owned by Russia”), claim he is finally putting “America First” (white nationalist rallying cry to motivate his racist base), pulls a publicity stunt by throwing decency and decorum out the window, gets his con-man approved photo-opt to give the illusion of success, dominates the news cycle, declares victory by saying he fixed a problem that never existed in the first place, and then Fox News finishes it up by brainwashing his cult followers into thinking Trump is the greatest President of all-time and is producing results for the American people (“Promises Made. Promises Kept.”)

This is the never-ending Trump propaganda reality-show that is the American Presidency.

A Presidency that --may I remind you-- did not receive the majority of votes from the American people. Trump lost by 3 million votes. Never forget this fundamental fact. Hillary voters are the 66-million-majority. And we should start acting like it.

We should stop being afraid to say what we know is true: 2016 was stolen by Donald J. Trump, Russia, and James Comey. This is the biggest scam Trump has pulled off yet... so why on Earth would he stop now? Maybe he can now start convincing the rest of the world that immigrants are the root of all our problems, just like he began his 2016 Presidential campaign by declaring Mexicans are “rapists.” Trump is taking his charlatan act on the road. Watch out, world! You won’t know what hit you if you aren’t careful. Meanwhile, Putin is laughing from Moscow. He has unleashed a buffoon on the world.

Trump is trying to see just how far Hitler’s anti-immigrant, anti-journalist, nationalistic propaganda takes him. So far… the sky's the limit! We have already violated the human rights of immigrant children and their parents. Because according to Trump they are just “animals.” Mind you, Trump later clarified he was talking about the immigrant gang MS-13. But his original statement was that immigrants are “animals.” Never forget Trump’s original statement. Don’t fall for his manipulation. Trump is dehumanizing immigrants. Who is next?

Unfortunately, Don-the-Con pulled off becoming President of the United States by using Russia to manipulate voters in swing states (“Stein is not a wasted vote!” Russian-bots said all over social media). Over 150 million Americans were subjected to this sort of anti-Hillary Russian propaganda on Facebook, with millions more subjected to it on Twitter and YouTube. Ever wonder why there was so many videos of Hillary being against gay marriage floating around? The answer: Russian agents trying to undermine Hillary with progressive, young voters. Nevermind the fact that Obama, Biden, and Bernie all had to evolve on gay marriage, too. But lets vilify the woman for doing the exact same thing her male counterparts did! See how easy it is to fall for Russian manipulation?

This is the first time in our nation's history that an adversary has successfully interfered in our Presidential election and gotten away with it. (And yes, Russia is an adversary contrary to the topsy-turvy world the Trump Administration would have you believe -- “Alternative Facts” such as Trump having the largest inauguration crowd size of all-time). One of the reasons Trump hates when people bring up the popular vote is because he is obsessed with numbers and crowd sizes (he’s a narcissist). Ironically, Donald lost the biggest numbers game of all-time: the actual vote of the American people. By a staggering 3 million votes. Ouch!

Trump wants to give the impression that he won some great big victory against the Clintons (two people that left us a surplus in the 1990s). But his victory wouldn’t have happened without unprecedented inference by Russia and the FBI. Putin and Trump stole the election from the 66-million-majority. Trump is an illegitimate President. He didn’t win it outright. He won it by committing treason with Russia to undermine our election. The first time a Presidential candidate has worked with an adversary to influence the outcome of our election.

Hillary receiving 3 million more votes despite all of these outside forces is actually pretty remarkable if you ask me. Without the last-minute interference by the FBI, Hillary would have defeated both Donald Trump and Russia (remember: Hillary destroyed Donald in all 3 debates and everyone thought she was going to win). This assumption that she would win resulted in lots of people staying home on Election Day.

The 2016 election was a perfect-storm and combination of factors that led to Hillary’s defeat in the Electoral College but victory in the popular vote (one of which it is that it’s historically hard for one party to stay in power for more than two-terms at a time -- every vote counted, Bernie fans!)

Currently, Republicans refuse to stand up to Don-the-Con. In the not so distant past, Republicans used to put country above party. But now they have been bullied into submission by the #1 bully of all-time -- Donald J. Trump. Anyone supporting Trump’s current agenda will be on the wrong side in the history books and complicit in the downfall of American greatness. Republicans are helping Russia become the new global superpower, which was Putin’s main goal for installing Trump as our President. Putin (who hated Hillary due to her time as Secretary of State) realized Trump would do far more damage to the United States than he could ever dream of doing himself. Destroying the NATO alliance is Putin’s wet-dream. Do Republicans have no patriotism left? Are they all traitors to Russia?

Trump is the trojan horse sent by Russia to destroy the United States.

I guess in America, the GOP believes that if you dominate the TV like Trump does (even negatively), you can “win” because of our obsession with minute-by-minute entertainment. Has Trump, through his own cable news obsession, figured out more about Americans than we realize? Who in 2020 will be capable of competing with the Trump show? At least the Clintons have name-power. And it was glorious to watch Trump sip his water nervously as Hillary eviscerated him on stage. She is, after-all, a trained lawyer from Yale Law.

The real question is: will the media continue to cover Trump’s hate rallies (giving him free airtime), and yet again start saying the Democratic candidate is “just as bad as Trump,” leading to the “false equivalence” narrative that helped sink Hillary’s popular-vote winning campaign.

We must never normalize Trump. Nor become numb to his outrageous behavior that is making a mockery of the American Presidency. We can’t allow ourselves to become overwhelmed and give up. That is exactly what Trump wants and is the ultimate goal of his behavior. Abusers are great at wearing down their victims. A constant barrage of mental gymnastics and manipulation. So take time to watch a Disney movie but keep getting back in the fight. Hillary hasn’t quit and we shouldn’t, either.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: An Internal Affair - Chapter 17 (Ao3 link)

Fandom: The Flash Pairing: Leonard Snart/Barry Allen

Summary: Leonard Snart, the CCPD Captain of Internal Affairs, is known as Captain Cold for a very good reason: He hates corrupt cops with a merciless vengeance, and once you’re on his list, you’re in serious trouble.

His next target?

A CCPD lab tech named Barry Allen who’s developed a suspicious habit of disappearing at random intervals.

—————————————————————————————————

Len is hovering by the door again, wondering if he should go in or not.

On one hand: it's Mick.

This is all so characteristic of him, really. Just when Len is losing hope, just when the doctors are starting to give up, Mick decides it’s time to defy expectations yet again and struggle his way back to consciousness in dramatic fashion. And not the momentary, illusory consciousness that Len's become accustomed to, moments where Mick's eyes would flicker open and his mouth would move in empty, meaningless syllables.

Real consciousness.

Mick's back.

He's alive, he's - not intact, no, but he's been acing all of the doctors' cognitive tests and he remembers all the facts and dates and events that he should.

He's grumpy and irritable over the food quality and friendly with the nurses while being a jackass to the surgeons and all in all is just so very Mick Rory that it makes Len want to cry just from sheer relief and having missed him so damn much.

(He may or may not have taken a few hours in a convenient hospital storage closet to do just that, father-imposed inability to shed proper tears aside; the world will never know for sure.)

So obviously Len should go in and talk to him.

On the other hand...this is Mick.

The man Len betrayed for years, being a cop without ever telling him. The man who rescued Len anyway. The man who paid the price for it.

And oh, what a price - two-thirds of his body covered in burns, now twisted into scars despite the best efforts of the medical establishment. Serious deterioration and atrophy of his muscles from being in a coma. Bed sores, a swollen throat from routine intubation, scars on his lungs, urinary tract infections...

His strong body, which he was always so proud of, decaying away around him like a living corpse - and all Len's fault.

Len was always willing to accept that bargain: that he’d take Mick's anger or hatred, whatever, anything, anything at all, as long as Mick woke up as himself. But sitting there with an unconscious man and wishing for that to happen is pretty different from actually having to walk inside the hospital room and face the music.

And so he hovers, wondering, debating, searching for some sort of sign of what he should do -

"Snart. Stop skulking around out there and get in here."

Well. That's certainly clear enough.

Len creeps into the room.

Mick is -

Mick is beautifully, wonderfully alive, and honest to God, everything else is so much less important that Len can't remember why he was so reluctant to come in.

Of course, then he tries to open his mouth and say something, realizes he has no idea what to say because months of rehearsing apologies is apparently rendered totally useless after a month of total panicked despair followed by frenzied overwhelming delight and relief, and he abruptly remembers what was stopping him.

What does he even say? How does he even start?

"Where are you showering?" Mick asks.

...on Len's list of ways this conversation could go, that wasn't really one of them.

"Showering?" Len asks incredulously.

"Showering," Mick confirms. "You like to shower in the mornings, it’s morning now, and your very friendly piece of skirt tells me you haven't left the hospital in days. So you gotta be showering somewhere here."

"There's a shower in the nurse's wing," Len says blankly. "Why - wait, what piece of skirt? Do you mean Danvers?"

"Yeah, her," Mick says. "Skirt. She was wearing one – red skirt, with mesh leggings underneath, and also a cute but very concealing sweater with the puppy holding the ice cream cone. She says you know the one...?"

Len is, in fact, familiar with that outfit; it's Danvers' go-to security blanket outfit, the one she wears when she's stressing over something. Usually over Len being dumb, if he's being honest.

Hmm. He really has been living at the hospital the past few days, hasn't he?

"Yeah," Len says. "Definitely Danvers. When'd you see her, anyway?"

His accent slips deeper whenever he's around Mick, he notices; a little less nasal overall, but affecting more words, adding more shortenings and dropping more words. A silent sign of how instinctively comfortable he is in Mick's presence, no matter how stressed he is.

"You were apparently unconscious in a chair in the hallway at the time," Mick says with shrug he aborts with a wince halfway through. "She wanted to introduce herself, set me up with a new phone and group-chat and some shit like that, have me sign some papers -"

"Papers?" Len asks sharply. He'll - deal with Mick actually having a chance to read Danvers' long-threatened group-chat logs later. As far later as possible. "What papers?"

"Apparently I've been suing the police department for being dickheads while I've been out cold and now that I'm awake she needs me to agree to keep it going," Mick says.

Len barely manages to keep from laughing. Of course Danvers would remember that lawsuit Len had some lawyer file in a fit of agonized grief right after it all happened, even though Len himself has long forgotten all about it. How had he ever managed without a personal assistant before now?

"Didn't really ask much past that," Mick continues. "You know I never miss a chance to stick it to the pigs."

Len flinches.

Right.

Trust Mick to bring up the elephant in the room right away.

Mick hates cops.

Len’s been one for years.

Mick just looks at Len steadily. "You never told me," he says quietly. "Why?"

"It wasn't true when we first met in juvie," Len says miserably, hovering by the familiar chair next to Mick's bed but not actually sitting down. "And when we hooked back up later on, started working together on jobs just once in a while, I was brand new and just absolute shit at it, paranoid as fuck. Barely even spoke to the one or two guys that did know, my handlers with the CCPD and the Feds; didn't feel safe enough. And by the time I pulled my head outta my ass, it'd been years and we were partners and I knew you hated pigs and I didn't want you to hate me and -"

Mick starts laughing.

Not in a scornful or miserable way, the way Len might have feared it would be, but actual real deep laughter of the sort he hasn't heard from Mick in far, far too long.

"What?" Len asks, suspicious. "What'd I say?"

"I thought it was 'cause you didn't trust me," Mick chokes out between belly laughs that are probably hurting him. "I shoulda known it was because you're just an idiot. Same as always."

"Hey!" Len protests automatically.

Not that he takes any offense - he knows Mick calls him an idiot because that's how Mick demonstrates affection, with friendly insults and ribbing and casual death threats.

But he's not an idiot!

At the very least he doesn't think he's done anything that qualifies him to be called an idiot at this exact moment, anyway.

"Fine, then," Mick says, getting better control over himself - probably better for his health and well-being - though he still has a giant shit-eating grin on his face. "Not an idiot. A goober that can't do social situations for shit, that better?"

"Not really."

"S'true though."

"It ain't! I can do social shit! I do social shit just fine!"

"Even when you're not conning someone?"

"Even when I'm not conning someone!"

After all, Len assures himself, Barry totally continued to want to date him even after he'd stopped trying to con him...

Maybe that's not the best example.

"Uh-huh," Mick says, looking amused. There are little wrinkles of laughter by his eyes; Len hadn't noticed those, before. Amazing what months of memorizing a person's slack unconscious face will reveal. "Lemme guess. That'd be this Barry Allen guy Danvers' chats keep mentioning."

"...you've read them."

That emotion he's feeling right now - is it horror, extra horror, or extreme horror?

Mix of all of the above, clearly.

"Oh yeah. I've definitely read them," Mick says gleefully. "But I wanna hear about it from you directly."

"Mick."

"Don't you 'Mick' me. I've got no other entertainment right now, and you know I like romance shit."

"You like pulp sci-fi and ninja romance stuff, not just romance," Len objects. "This story..."

He trails off, considering for a moment.

"Well, it ain't got ninjas," he finally says. "As far as I know, anyway, though there was a weird mention once or twice of something fucked up happening Starling, I dunno. And it might've been a bit romantic, but right now it's mostly just tragic."

"Tell me about it anyway."

"Tell you about what?" Len complains, finally taking a seat next to Mick on his bed. There's a chair, too, but chairs are for losers who don't get to sit on comfy beds with their best friends who, amazingly, appear to be forgiving them for - well, everything. How Mick can do that sort of thing, Len has no idea. "There's nothing to it. I got bored in between investigating the million and one corrupt assholes in the CCPD and find out this one guy who's been acting suspicious apparently disappeared for nine months, supposedly in a coma, but then reappeared with no damage and these amazing abs -"

"No kidding, I've seen the pics."

"Goddamnit, I’m gonna gut Danvers; those are technically evidence and she shouldn't be sharing them. Anyway, turns out he ain't corrupt, he's just a fucking superhero. Who'd have thought, you know?"

"Not really anyone's first guess," Mick agrees.

"And first I think he's okay, you know," Len continues. He's ranting. He's aware that he's ranting. He can't seem to stop himself from ranting. "Because he's kind and friendly and optimistic and he's got this stupid smile that lights up the room, but I'm thinking no way anyone's this perfect, he's gotta be up to something, but I get this idea in my head that it must be that he's investigating the superhero - this is all happening before I figure out he is the superhero, that is - so I start dating him anyway -"

"Dates go well?"

"Amazingly. He legitimately thinks my puns are funny."

"Clearly a match made in some level of punster hell," Mick says.

"Shut up, puns are funny."

"Lowest form of wit."

"Lowest circle of hell's supposed to be cold, so I guess it fits," Len says, rolling his eyes. "Did I tell you yet that he thought for a while that I was a supervillain named Captain Cold? That's my new nickname at the precinct."

"No, but that's hilarious. You always did like your cold puns. Actually, you probably didn't know it, but people – criminals, that is – sometimes called you Ice-heart Snart."

"That's...awful. I'm glad I didn't know about that."

"No kidding. Captain Cold's much better. So he thought all of that about you and dated you anyway?"

"No, he didn't realize I was the Internal Affairs guy at first; I didn't tell him ‘cause I was investigating him. Anyway - wait, where was I?"

"Amazing dates," Mick prompts.

"Well, they were," Len says. "Absolutely amazing. Best I've ever had - just talking and laughing and just being happy hanging out and all that stuff that comes right out of that romance stuff you're always on about - and then, of course, just as I start thinking that I finally got lucky, it all blows up in my face. Turns out he's just as bad as I thought when I first started looking into him, and I should be happy to be proven right except for some reason I'm not, and now I can't stop thinking about how awfully he's gonna do in prison when he finally gets sent there like he deserves. I feel like shit about it and I don't know why -"

"Of course you don't," Mick says, sounding amused. "You wouldn't."

Len eyes him suspiciously. "You say that like you do know."

No way. Mick's been in a freaking coma; how could he have figured out what the hell's going on with Len's emotional state before Len did?

"Lenny," Mick says, sounding just a bit patronizing. "I might be a blockhead, but I've been interpreting your emotions for you since juvie. 'course I know."

"You're not a blockhead," Len protests automatically, always on guard against anyone - even Mick - putting down Mick's intelligence. He hates it when people do that; Mick's one of the smartest guys he knows, even if he doesn't talk all that pretty. "You just don't got as much education as some, s'all."

Though Mick's got a point about Len's emotions.

Not that Len's going to ask him to explain.

It doesn't matter, after all, what's done is done. Who cares how he feels about it?

Who cares about understanding why Len feels like he got a shiv to the gut every time he even thinks about Barry - about Allen, damnit - and a feeling like he swallowed crushed glass but also a weird kind of happiness left over from when every thought of Barry brought him joy?

Who cares -

Len. Len cares. Len cares a lot.

"Okay, I'll bite," he says, giving in. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"You're in love with him," Mick says. "Obviously."

...what?

No.

Impossible.

In love? Len doesn't do love.

Len's never done love, or at least not love like that - love for Lisa, love for Mick, yes, but not the stupid sort of Valentine's Day love, the type you read about in novels that you don't admit to reading, the type that makes the world turn around you and leaves you breathless and chokes in your throat, ripping your heart out of your chest because it belongs to someone else who doesn't care as much as you care, and leaves you with an awful gaping hole in your belly whenever you think about the fact they're going to go away for good somewhere where you won't see that optimistic smile or hear that laugh or -

Shit.

Shit.

"...I really am an idiot that can't do social situations for shit," Len says aloud, realizing.

"You really are," Mick says, but he sounds fond. "Don't worry; I came to terms with that years ago."

"But I can't be in love with him," Len says, trying so desperately to shove that knowledge back under the river of denial where it came from that he doesn't even make a de-Nile pun like he usually does. "I can't! He - he's - he's done unforgivable things – kidnapping, imprisonment, solitary – literal war crimes – and he should've known better, he's corrupt -"

"Sounds to me like he made some mistakes -"

"Mistakes?!" Len yowls.

Mick holds up a hand. "Okay, fine, yeah, some of those mistakes are crimes, some might even be war crimes, but seriously, Snart, if you stopped liking someone just because they committed a couple of horrific crimes, you and me, we wouldn't be friends."

"It's not the same thing!" Len protests.

"I'm an arsonist, Lenny; I literally murder people sometimes."

"Usually as an unintended side effect," Len says dismissively. Intent matters, when it comes to criminal stuff; most of the time Mick could be blamed for nothing worse than negligent manslaughter and that's only technically murder. Len checked. "He's corrupt, Mick. He put himself out as being a hero, as someone doing the right thing, as someone upholding the law, and all the while he's doing stuff like that in the shadows...I can't be in love with someone like that, Mick. I can't. Look what corruption did to you! Look what it did to me and Lisa, when it was my dad! Look what -"

Mick catches Len's hands, which Len has been waving angrily in the air.

"Don't move like that!" Len exclaims, losing his prior train of thought immediately. "Your muscles aren't used to sudden movement; you'll hurt yourself!"

"It hurt," Mick says. "It was still worth it. Boss, you're spiraling."

"I'm - what?"

"Spiraling. My shrink told me about it; you get stuck in a mental rut and you can't get out of it, so you just go in circles, on and on, torturing yourself with all your bad thoughts. In this case, it's me." Mick squeezes Len's hands. "You've been torturing yourself with what happened to me. Except instead of thinking about it and dealing with it and getting over it, you've poured everything you feel into your war on corruption, focused so much on it that you're seeing unforgivable corruption and betrayal every way you look. But you don't gotta keep doing that. I'm here. I'm okay. I'm alive."

Len stares at Mick.

His hands, still enclosed in Mick's, start shaking. His shoulders, too, and he can't seem to make them stop.

"You're alive," Len croaks, suddenly finding it hard to talk. He’d known Mick was alive and mostly well for a while now, couple of days, but it suddenly feels like he’s learning it all over again. "You're alive. You're alive and you're talking and you're you and - fuck, Mick, I nearly lost you."

"I know."

"I can't do this shit without you," Len says, desperate now. "Any of it. Life, the universe, everything; it doesn't matter. I need you by my side, Mick. I need my partner - I need my best friend. It all turns to ash without you."

"I'm here," Mick says, strong and solid and dependable as ever. "You've got me."

"I don't -" Deserve you, Len is about to say, only he chokes on it; he never knew he felt that way. "I lied to you. For years. By omission, by commission...I put my job above our partnership. I shouldn't have. I really shouldn't have. You're more important - you're the most important. I ain't never gonna put anything above you ever again. Not work, not romance, not anything nor anyone. Not anything. I'm so goddamn sorry, Mick. Not just for what I did to you, for what happened, but for the lying. For all of it."

"You're an idiot," Mick says, and he squeezes Len's hands again. "Total idiot. Boss, it's fine. Really. I get it. I get why you made that choice - especially now that I know it was all about your issues, not about me and what you thought of me. Even before that, though, I got it. I knew you were a pig and I came to get you anyway, remember? Through gunfire and furious Families, and that's saying something."

Len nods mutely.

"I did it because we're partners," Mick tells him. "And we're always gonna be partners. Always gonna be friends, even if you do something dumb like lie to me or fall in love with a target of your investigation before you finish investigating him -"

"Hey," Len protests, but weakly. Mick has a point. A very good point.

"No matter what, it doesn't matter," Mick concludes. "You and me against the world, remember? That ain't changed."

Len nods, and turns his hands to squeeze Mick's hands back.

"Now for the love of fuck can we please stop talking about feelings?" Mick asks, almost begging. "You really don't pay me enough to be your shrink. You couldn't. You could offer me all of Fort Knox and I wouldn't be your shrink."

Len snorts, maybe a little wetly but not from tears because he doesn't do tears, and pulls back his hands. "Yeah, sure, we can stop. I think I hit my yearly quota of feelings there."

"No kidding," Mick says fervently. "You hit yours, and mine, and then mine again a few time. I'll let you off the hook this one time, just 'cause I know you've been saving it up the whole time I was out, but still, for someone who likes to say he don't got a heart, you sure got a hell of a lot to say. Oh, and don't think I didn't notice you slipping that 'ash' pun in there."

"Ash is the right word!" Len protests. "Just because it's fire-related don't mean it's always a pun!"

"With you, it's always a pun," Mick says firmly.

Len laughs. If it's a little more hysterical and sounds a bit more like sobs than it normally does, they'll both be more than willing to overlook that.

As they like to remind each other, they don’t have hearts – or at least they know to keep them well hidden.

(God, Mick is Len's best friend - how did he last so long without him? No wonder everything's been screwing up left and right while he's gone.)

"Hey, wait a minute," Mick says thoughtfully, "while we're talking about this shit, before we shove it all down the memory hole, tell me - how come you never had to turn me in? I did plenty of crimes while we were running as thieves."

"Were running?" Len echoes, alarmed, and he looks down at Mick's legs to see if something's happened to them in the last few minutes. The doctors told him Mick would get his mobility back, or at least most of it, and his legs aren't as affected as his back and shoulders. There should be no impact on his ability to run, or at least to walk quickly. Or does Mick know something he doesn't...?

"Yeah, I hear through the grapevine that you got yourself a new job," Mick says dryly. "Not much thieving to be done there. Plus I figure it might be time to retire from the whole thief thing myself, too, all things considered."

"Ah. Right. I forgot."

Metaphorically running, right, that's an option.

"Don't go forgetting you quitting crime, boss; it's a kinda big deal. You really got a business card like Skirt says?"

"Yeah, it's awful," Len says. "Stamped, embossed proof that I'm legit now."

"Embossed," Mick marvels. "Now I know I gotta retire, if you've shifted over to doing the hunting."

"I'm Internal Affairs, actually," Len says. "I only hunt corrupt cops, district attorneys, and other government employees, not criminals."

"Really? Huh. Shoulda known you'd find a loophole – crime-fighting without actual crime-fighting."

"What can I say? I'm very good at what I do," Len sniffs, smiling when Mick laughs - finally getting the double meaning that's always been there. "And, uh, about your crimes -"

"Yeah?"

"So, I might've registered you as a CI couple of years ago," Len confesses, deciding that exactly how many years constituted a couple was an open question up for debate. Couple could totally mean a decade plus. "Proper legal confidential informant for both the CCPD and the Feds. Then after a few years of that, I got you swapped over to being classified as full undercover -"

"Wait," Mick says, alarmed. "You telling me the reason all of my prison sentences were so short was 'cause the judges all thought I was a pig?!"

"You didn't care about the reason back then!"

"I'm a pig?!"

"No, you never went to police academy, you ain't a pig," Len says, rolling his eyes. "I told 'em you were working for me as a non-officer agent, and it ain't like they really care about a few arsons when they've got the whole set of Families to take down. You're a snitch at best."

Mick considers this.

"I'm okay with being a rat," he finally decides. "I like rats. They're cute. Remember Axl?"

Len does remember Mick's pet rat Axl. Mick doted on him, and even Len got pretty fond. They ended up having to find him a new owner - a woman with a gigantic rat cage that took up half the living room, which both she and Mick agreed was the right balance of pet-to-owner space (Len thought they were both nuts) - and he lived to a ripe old age with god-knows-how-many descendants.

"But seriously," Mick continues, "they actually all bought that? Didn't they ever ask you why I was willing to do all that work without being paid?"

"Well. Actually..."

"Boss. Boss, no. I know that tone of voice. You telling me I got paid? Is there some savings account somewhere with my name forged on it that you conveniently never told me about?"

"Maybe."

Mick rolls his eyes, grinning; he knows that's as good as a yes. "Anything else you'd like to tell me while we're at it?"

Len considers this. "...did Danvers' group-chat mention my cold gun?" he finally asks, reaching down and patting the piece in question. He'd been carrying it with him in case Barry tried to come confront him or something, though luckily Barry hasn't.

Barry wouldn't. He knows that, now that he's thinking a bit more calmly. Not at a hospital, certainly, but not ever. He wouldn't force his presence on Len like that, thinking he was unwanted.

"At length, yeah," Mick says dryly. "Your new baby."

"Well," Len says, ignoring that. So what if his gun is the best, sweetest girl he's ever seen, once you exclude Lisa from the calculations? "What Danvers doesn't know is that it came as part of a set - one cold gun, one heat gun."

"Heat gun? Like a flamethrower?"

"Better - it manipulates the intensity of infrared waves. You can light anything on fire."

"Boss," Mick says. "I've already forgiven you for the whole pig thing. You don't need to heap on the presents."

"You saying you don't want it?"

"You bet your ass I want it!" Mick exclaims, laughing. "Man, I'm gonna need to thank this Allen guy when I meet him; you never used to give out such good gifts."

Len flinches. Just a little, but Mick notices, of course.

"Boss?"

"You won't, uh, you won't exactly be meeting him," Len says. "Anytime...ever."

"Why not?"

"Because after I found out about the secret prison thing, I had his foster dad arrested for corruption, got warrants to search the homes of his two best friends, and got Barry suspended from his job without pay pending investigation. So I don't think he's really in the mood to talk to me."

"...shit, boss," Mick says after a long few minutes. "You sure love to put the 'over' in 'over-reaction', don't you?"

"They committed crimes," Len says defensively. "Very bad crimes. And they should've known better!"

"Boss! Ain't you the one always telling me about how intent matters? Ain't they being manipulated by some mastermind creep asshole who's good enough to be playing the Families? Even criminal courts don't consider stuff done under duress and deception to be as bad!"

Len winces. That's...not actually wrong. Sure, they committed some fairly horrific crimes and they totally should've known better, but there were some extenuating circumstances he probably ought've thought a bit more about. Any man who could play not just one but multiple Families clearly had an edge when it came to mind games - and don't think Len hasn't noticed the way Barry'd described the toxic atmosphere and emotional jibes and the almost parental relationship the guy set up in his office, which is the sort of environment that can convince even otherwise intelligent people to do seriously shady things.

It's not an excuse, not at all. But it is something of an explanation. Probably not enough to knock down the charge from primary to accessory, but a judge could definitely look at that and find lots there to help mitigate -

"Boss..."

"I know, I know! You don't understand, I was just really angry -"

"Boss!" someone that is definitely not Mick exclaims, bursting through the door. "We've found something!"

Len is off the bed, one crutch in the air wielded as a club, before they even finish the sentence, and then he realizes it's just Detective Thawne and Iris.

"Oh, it's you," he says blankly. "How'd you even know to find me here?"

"Uh," Thawne says, eying the raised crutch warily. "Ms. Danvers told us. Pretty reluctantly. You - wanna put that crutch down? You're looking a bit unsteady."

Len rolls his eyes and does, sitting back down.

"Does that work?" Iris asks. "As an improvised weapon, I mean?"

"Better than you'd think," Len says dryly.

"How come he's still got crutches, anyway?" Mick asks from his bed. "Ain't it been months since he got fucked up?"

"Apparently he keeps tearing his injuries back open," Iris says.

"Damnit, boss..."

"That's not the reason," Len says, even though he kind of does do that more than he should. "It's because the second gunshot nicked my spine and it takes lots longer to heal from that."

"And you keep tearing your injuries back open," Iris says wisely.

"...and that," Len concedes grumpily.

"I'm Iris," she adds, waving at Mick. "Iris West. This is my fiancé, Eddie Thawne. We're helping Captain Snart here investigate the disappearances -"

"Heard of you," Mick says, waving in the general direction of his phone. "Skirt – uh, Danvers – she’s got a group-chat with running commentary up -"

"I want in," Iris says at once. “That sounds amazing.”

"- but you said West, right? Didn't the boss here just..? Why you still working with him after that?"

"Because my dad deserves to get into trouble over this shit," Iris says, an angry glint in her eyes. "Between the lying and the deception and the blatant aiding and abetting of human trafficking, I'm starting to wonder if I ever really knew him at all -"

"Hold up," Len says. "Fiancé? That's new. Congrats, both of you."

That works splendidly to derail Iris, who spends the next few moments showing them both her ring while Thawne blushes and smiles and is entirely unable to look away from Iris, stars in his eyes the whole time.

"Nice," Len says. "Tasteful - pretty, but with some class."

"I'd definitely steal it," Mick agrees.

"Definitely," Len agrees. “I could fence that in minutes.”

"You're both very sweet," Iris says. "And if it ever goes missing, I'll be sure to check with you two first. Anyway, not the point! We came here to tell you that we've figured it out!"

"The Families' 'big day'?" Len asks, immediately interested. "Or Wells' connection to it?"

"Both, actually," Thawne says, brightening. "It's complicated and - well, a little frightening, but we think we have an idea of where the rabbit hole leads, at least, although I wouldn't go as far as Iris and say we actually figured it out."

"We got a good start," Iris says, with dignity. "That's further than most people've gotten."

"And you managed to do it without being 'disappeared', well done you," Len drawls.

"He means that as a compliment," Mick remarks.

"Yes, we gathered," Iris says, grinning at him. "Listen to the tone, not the words, right?"

"Sometimes the tone'll mislead you, but yeah, generally. I usually use body posture - the more lounging, the better his mood."

Len pointedly straightens back up, causing Iris to snigger, Thawne to smile, and Mick to chuckle.

"What's this about Families, though?" Mick asks. "Thought Snart was focused on corrupt cops and government people now."

"I'm sure I can find a police corruption hook somewhere," Len says airily. "You know what they say, you can take the boy out of org crime work..."

"Not a real saying, Snart," Mick says, long-suffering. "Never was."

"Actually, you might have more of a hook than we originally thought," Thawne says. "You see, the Families -"

"Plural?"

"That's right, Mr. Rory -"

"Mick."

"Mick," Iris says with relish. She's going to use this to try to get permission to call Len by his name, he just knows she is. Pity she's doomed to disappointment. "Yes, Families, plural; we've confirmed that all the Families in Central have agreed to work together on this."

"All of 'em? Shit."

"Agreed," Len says.

"Shoulda stayed in the coma..."

"Don't say shit like that or I'll smack you with a crutch," Len tells him, then transfers his attention back to the other two. "So what is it? What's the big day? And, perhaps equally important, when?"

"We can answer your last question best," Thawne says. "We're still not sure exactly what the Families are planning - we know it involves a lot of movement, a lot of manpower, though probably a lot of that is just security - but we've identified what the major Central-wide event they're going to use to conceal their mobilization."

"You're not going to like it," Iris interjects.

"I never liked any part of this," Len points out. "Hit me."

"The Families' big day goes down on Election Day," Thawne says.

"...Election Day," Len says. "Election Day. Election Day?!"

He's pretty sure he's not adequately conveying the sheer horror he's feeling right now.

Election Day.

Not the one held in November, which is all well and good, but the important one for Central City purposes: the primary election that happens each year in May.

The day where the real candidate selection takes place.

Only one of the wildest days of the entire Central City social calendar.

Most of the country has faded into widespread apathy, not bothering with votes that they feel rarely matter, and all the more so when it's "only" a primary – but not Central City.

Oh, no, not Central City, with its still-functioning political machine with its armies of thugs available to help 'encourage' voting. Central City's government might be rife with corruption, yes, and one-party control is practically a given, but at some point some genius decided to deal with the fact that there are competing sources of corruption by allowing a total free-for-all when it came to who got the nod for what position.

Corporate candidates battle it out with nationalists and progressives and reformers and who-the-hell-knows-what-else. In Central, even the communists abandon their flag in favor of competing in the bloodbath of Election Day, knowing that the political machine would force the city - and with it, the state - to fall into line come the federal election day, a far less important date.

Election Day.

And the Families are moving.

Not a good combination.

Especially since –

“Election Day is tomorrow!” he exclaims.

"Yeah," Iris says grimly. "Not good at all. Like Eddie says, we haven't figured out exactly what they're up to, but if it's on Election Day, dollars to donuts is that it involves the election itself."

"And with the Commissioner hoping to run for mayor while the mayor runs for governor, getting anyone's attention to doing anything to stop them will be a trick and a half," Len says, equally grim. "What'd you find out about Wells?"

"We think he's being used as a liaison between the Families and more legitimate entities," Thawne says. "Although why -"

He cuts off in the middle of his sentence.

Quite reasonably, in Len's view, given that they are no longer alone in the room.

The Man in Yellow is here.

The name Barry gave him is apt, Len thinks; far more than the Reverse Flash. Beyond the monstrous speed, there's nothing of Barry here at all, not even a reflection.

Standing in the middle of the room with his entire body vibrating at a consistent blur that Barry hasn't mastered, utterly human but for his demonically bright red eyes, the Man in Yellow smiles.

"Don't let me interrupt you, gentlemen," he says, his voice as blurred as his face. He's being obnoxiously courteous, in a sort of arrogant narcissist way that suggests he's entertaining himself in the moments before he plans to kill them all. "You were saying -"

"And lady," Len interrupts, rising to his feet.

"...what?"

"Gentlemen, and lady," Len says. "I believe Iris identifies as a lady."

"I do," Iris says, looking somewhat perturbed by Len's sudden interest in grammar. "‘Gentlemen and lady’ is in fact correct."

The Man in Yellow - Wells himself, or someone in his employ - blinks those shining red eyes, clearly taken aback.

Len assumes he had some sort of introductory speech planned out. Too bad for him that Len isn’t the type to willingly subject himself to evil monologues.

"Would you like to move on to the part where you threaten to kill us all?" Len inquires. "Or do you generally just go straight to the actual murder?"

The Man in Yellow laughs, the sound ringing through the room. "I usually like to make a point of it," he says, raising a vibrating hand. It's moving as fast as a sawblade - if he touches any of them with that, they're done for. "But I think you're right that I should just move on to the main event -"

Len shoots him with the cold gun he'd wrestled into position while the Man in Yellow was distracted by Len’s grammatical non-sequitur.

The Man in Yellow screams.

"Iris, Thawne, run!" Len shouts, keeping the cold blast aimed dead center at the Man in Yellow's face and torso. He'd theorized, based on what happened when it hit Barry, that a hit straight to the head would be disabling to a speedster as long as the beam was maintained; with such key areas targeted, the speedster's body would prioritize healing the damage over anything else, robbing them of the presence of mind they would need to either run away or attack.

"Come with us!" Iris shouts back.

Len centers his legs, which have started shaking, and exhales through his nose. He needs both hands to aim the gun properly - two hands, which leaves none for his crutches; that's why he's been using the braces whenever he's gone out as Captain Cold. Still, all that PT is finally coming in handy: even without crutches, he can stand.

But not for long.

The second he falls back to sit on the bed, his hands will slip, and the beam will drift off target - only by a little, only for a second, but that's all the Man in Yellow will need to escape.

If he tries to leave, he might be able to keep the beam on him until he reaches the door -

But there's one person in the room who can't leave.

"I ain't leaving Mick," he shouts back. "Get out of here! Find a place to hide!"

Even at superspeed, hiding would force the Man in Yellow to look for them - they certainly can't hope to outrun him.

"You get out too!" Mick snaps even as Iris nods jerkily and hurries out, urged on by Thawne. "Boss -"

"I ain't picking something over you again and that's final!"

"Damnit, Len -"

Len's legs give out.

The Man in Yellow darts out of the beam, snarling in rage, his face - and it does look like Wells under what little is left of that mask, or the pictures Len's seen of him - still covered in ice and burned by swiftly healing frostbite.

And then there's a swift wind.

Len closes his eyes, expecting to die so quickly that he doesn't have time to question it - or perhaps to be taken to be tortured, if that's more Wells' speed -

Heh, speed.

Wait a second.

He hasn't been moved - his side would've been protesting if he had - and he's not dead, because he feels moderately sure he wouldn't be around to continue sniggering at puns if he was.

He opens his eyes.

The room is empty.

Wells is gone -

- but so is Mick.

"Mick!" Len cries out, even though he knows it's futile. The Man in Yellow has him.

Wells has his Mick.

"Snart!" Iris cries out, bursting into the room. There are tears of terror and rage streaming down her cheeks. "Snart - he took Eddie! I saw him - the red lightning! He took Eddie!"

"He took Mick, too," Len says, barely able to process it. He just got Mick back - he just fucking got Mick back after nearly losing him to people who hurt Mick because of Len, and here it is, happening all over again.

Mick wouldn't have been a target to the Families if it wasn't for Len, and what he did and who he was.

Mick wouldn't have been a target to the Man in Yellow, if it wasn't for Len's investigation.

Mick -

Mick, who is still bedridden, who is still hospital-bound, who will die if he didn't have the treatment he needed -

Mick is gone.