#and i mean i know every man is somebody’s hometown boy but like. picking a man from your Own hometown after travelling the world

[fingertipsmp3]

Do you ever observe random people you went to high school with on your FB and you’re just like “you really went all around the world and still picked a boy from our hometown? Really?”

[twdsunshine]

Broken: Pt. 2

Summary:  Mechanic!Daryl AU.  Tabitha Dean has returned to her hometown for the first time in years, fleeing a life that isn’t quite what she thought it would be.  When her car breaks down, the mechanic who comes to her rescue is none other than Daryl Dixon, the shy, strange boy that she remembers from her school days.  But a lot has changed since then, and, when Tabby’s life catches up with her, she finds herself in need of someone to fix her broken parts.  Is Daryl up to the job?

Pairing:  Daryl Dixon x OFC

Warnings:  Language, mentions of alcohol abuse and drug use

Word Count:  3,104

Check out my bio for a link to my Masterlist!

*****

“Sorry to hear about yer mom.”

The ride to Tabby’s father’s cabin had been mostly spent in silence, Daryl’s concentration on the road as he navigated his truck through town.  The traffic had picked up a little in the past hour as people made their way home from work, and every so often he’d raise a hand in greeting to someone he recognised as they passed by.  It wasn’t until he turned off onto the quieter back roads that snaked beneath the dense canopies of the forest that he finally spoke.  

Tabby had been staring out of her window, lost for a moment in memories, and she started a little at the gruff rasp of his voice, her brows knitting together in a frown as she nodded, dropping her gaze to her hands, where they rested in her lap.  “Thank you.”

“That why yer here?”

“Part of the reason.  The house is in kind of a state.  Somebody’s gotta go through it all.”

“What’s the other part?”  He shot her a curious glance, his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip as if he wasn’t sure if it was okay for him to ask, but, in truth, Tabby found that she didn’t mind.  She huffed a sigh, letting her head fall back against the headrest as she contemplated just how detailed an answer to give.

“Honestly, I just… I needed a break from my life,” she told him eventually.  It didn’t seem to go far enough in summing up the multitude of reasons why she’d jumped at the chance to get away, but she figured that he really didn’t need to hear about her problems.  Knowing the Dixon family as they’d been when she was growing up, she was sure he had enough of his own.  “I was half tempted to just get a company in to clear out the house.  It’s all trash anyway.  But… I don’t know.  The timing of it…  It just made sense for me to get the hell out of dodge for a while.”

He scoffed, and she snapped her head round to glare at him.  “M’sorry.  Just weird to hear, s’all.  Usually this is the place people are tryn'a get away from.”  She couldn’t argue with that, and she found herself humming in agreement as he went on.  “I mean, ya got out.  S’not easy to do.  Why in the hell would ya come back?”

Tabby couldn’t help but wonder if he knew, somehow, just how long it had been since she’d paid her hometown a visit.  She tried to count back in her head over the years, calculating just when the last time was that she’d swung by, although her timeline was getting more muddled the harder she tried to think about it.  “I guess I feel a little guilty,” she admitted.  “I hadn’t seen Mom in… a long time.  Hadn’t spoken much either.”

“S’understandable.”

“Maybe, but it still doesn’t feel good, now that she’s gone.”  She ran a hand through her hair, disturbing the sunglasses that were still perched on top of her head and slipping them over her eyes as she felt herself starting to succumb to the emotions that she’d been successfully suppressing since she’d arrived.  

“She still drinkin’?”

“Oh yeah.  Never could get her to give it up.”

“Like my ol’ man.”

“Pretty much.”  She shook her head.  “Still, it caught up with her in the end.  I don’t know.  Do you ever wonder if you reach an age at some point where you can look at your parents and go, like, yeah, I get it?  I understand why you are the way you are.  I get why you’re so monumentally fucked up.  I always thought I would, and I still just… I don’t get her, y’know?  I never really got her, and now she’s gone, and I never will.”

A solitary tear escaped, unbidden, and trailed down Tabby’s cheek, and she swiped it away before Daryl could see, though, when she caught his eye in the rearview mirror, she knew that he’d noticed.  “They’re just human, s’all.  Not much else to get, s’far as I can tell.”

“That make you feel any better about your dad?”

“Mmm.”  He considered that for a moment, head cocked to one side as he took a sharp left turn onto a dirt track that cut off from the road.  “Not really.”  The track opened into a small clearing, at the back of which sat the ramshackle cabin that had been her dad’s favourite place in the world.  She had to admit, even after all this time, it still didn’t feel right being there without him.  Pulling up in front of the porch steps, Daryl put his truck in park, drumming his fingers against the wheel.  “My dad was a mean drunk, y'know that.  Hell, whole town knows that, right?  Ol’ man Dixon, people remember him as a good fer nothin’ redneck bastard.”  He hesitated, glancing over at Tabby to see that she had turned her whole body towards him as he spoke, her bottom lip trembling just the tiniest amount as she fought to hold it together.  “But yer mom, Tab…  I mean, she was a good person.  Right up ‘til she lost yer pop, an’ then… I guess no one could really blame her for takin’ it hard.  Whole town took it hard.”

He was right.  Tabby’s dad had been the town sheriff and was generally well-liked by the whole community.  Yes, he’d had to haul a few of them in to spend a night in the cells whenever they’d gotten a little too drunk and a little too rowdy, Daryl’s old man included, but most of them had watched him grow up or else had grown up with him.  He’d enjoyed a drink and a game of cards, liked hunting and muscle cars, and had time for pretty much everyone - a real people person, a trait which Tabby definitely hadn’t inherited.  When he’d been killed on duty by a drunk driver from the next town over, it seemed as if the whole place went into mourning.  Unfortunately for Tabby, her mom had never come out of it.  She’d lost herself in a maze of depression and drunkenness, and the then-teenage Tabitha had had to deal with her grief alone.  She supposed a part of her was still a little bitter about that.  

“Ya need a hand gettin’ yer bags inside?” Daryl asked now, breaking the sombre mood that had settled over them.

“No, I should be fine.”  She shot him a small smile, squaring her shoulders as she forced down the rest of the tears that had been threatening.  “Thanks, Daryl.  For the ride and for… listening, I guess.  It’s kinda nice to know that someone gets it.”

“Mmm.”  He cut the engine then, sliding from the truck at the same time as she did and jogging round to shift her seat forward and grab her supplies, despite her assurance that she could manage.  “Ya got everythin’ ya need?  Guess yer pretty stuck out here without yer car.”

“It’s not ideal,” she admitted, taking the bags from his hands and immediately feeling the flimsy plastic cutting into her fingers, “but it’s not like there’s anywhere I need to be, except clearing out the house.   I guess that can wait until I’m back on the road.”

“I can swing by an’ get ya in the mornin’ if ya wanna get started.”  The offer took her aback, unexpected as it was, and she immediately opened her mouth to turn him down, hating to put him out any more than she already had, but he was rubbing at the back of his neck, still talking, though he now seemed to be aiming his words at the toes of his boots.  “It’d have to be early ‘fore I start work.  An’ I could run ya back here when I’m done.  If ya want.”

“It’s kinda out of your way,” she pointed out, but he only shrugged.

“I don’t mind.”

She thought about it for a moment longer, contemplating the long hours trapped in the cabin alone as she waited for them to diagnose her car, order in the parts and get it fixed up and ready to go again.  It could be days, and her stomach churned with anxiety.  “I mean, if you’re sure…”

“I’ll stop by around seven,” he told her, tipping his chin at her as he rounded the truck and slid back behind the wheel.  He was pulling away before she had time to thank him again.

*****

After restocking her cupboards and refrigerator with the supplies she’d picked up in town, Tabby wandered into the living room and dropped herself down on the leather couch, sighing in contentment as the soft cushions swallowed her up.  There was a thick woollen throw folded over one of the arms, and she tugged it over her, nestling into its warmth.  It smelt of the log fire that she’d lit the previous night, and the chunky knit was satisfying to trace over with the pads of her fingers.  It was a small comfort in the turmoil that seemed to dominate her life.

The news of her mother’s death had come during a particularly bad week.  She had imagined that, by the time she got to her age, she would know where she was going, what she wanted out of life, and be somewhere on the path to achieving it and reaching her goals, but, as it was, she felt like everything was coming apart at the seams.  So, when she’d received the call from the hospital, she had barely hesitated before throwing some clothes in a holdall and hitting the road.  A small part of her had thought that perhaps she would find some direction in returning to the place where her life started out, but, as soon as she’d arrived, she’d sensed that was useless.  The town held no answers for her: just a quiet funeral, where she sat alone in the front pew and didn’t shed a single tear as the few townsfolk that attended patted her hand and told her how sorry they were for her loss; and her childhood home, bursting at the seams with clutter and empty bottles and the lingering scent of decay.

Honestly, she’d been close to doing what she’d said to Daryl - heading on out and letting a clearance firm go in and sort out the house.  It would be easier, for sure, in terms of the work and the emotional cost of sorting through the debris of her mother’s downward spiral.  But her car breaking down had put paid to that idea and, perhaps even more so, her conversation with the younger Dixon brother as he’d driven her home.  She really had been surprised that he seemed to remember so much about her, including the location of the cabin, which he’d seemed to know without any prompting on her part.  More than that though, he’d also seemed to know exactly what to say to quiet the voices in her head, the ones that had been plaguing her more and more since she’d watched her mother’s coffin being lowered into the earth.  Could she have been more patient?  Should she have tried harder with her?  Had she missed out on valuable time?  He hadn’t answered any of those questions, hadn’t really said much at all, but he’d made her feel less alone at a time when she really did have nothing left, and for that she was grateful.  For the first time, she felt like it might be worth her while to stick around.

*****

When seven A.M. rolled around, Tabby was perched on the front steps of the cabin, yawning as the early morning sun stung her eyes.  She’d slept badly, as usual, and her whole body felt heavy with lethargy, but she’d showered away the worst of it, tugging on a fraying pair of jean shorts and an old oversized tee in preparation for getting dusty and dirty as she worked to clear the house.  In truth, she was dreading the task, but she knew it had to be done, and a part of her hoped that it might bring her some sort of closure.  It would be the first time, she thought, that she’d achieved anything like it.

As the rumble of a vehicle approached, she pushed herself to her feet, shouldering her bag and thudding down the steps, arriving at the truck at the same time as Daryl rolled it to a stop.  He greeted her with a crooked smile as she climbed in.

“Mornin’.”  He was dressed in overalls once again, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but his hands were clean, no traces of the grease that had stained his skin the day before.  There was a faint scent of coffee mingling with the smell of the cigarette between his lips, and he took a long drag before reaching an arm out of his open window to stub it out on the side of the door.  “Y’alright?”

“Yeah.”  She could feel his gaze on her as she buckled her seat belt and made herself comfortable, and she wondered if he was taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the strain that she knew was evident on her face; if he knew that, really, she wasn’t alright at all.  “Thanks for coming out here to pick me up.  You really didn’t have to.”

“Ain’t no trouble,” he assured her, and they were moving as he swung the truck around.  “M’sorry it’s so damn early.”

“Oh, that’s okay.  I’m usually up anyway.”

“Yer not sleepin’?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Mmm.”  He had one elbow propped on the sill of the window, and he lifted his thumb to his mouth, gnawing at the nail.  It was a nervous habit that she still remembered from their school days.  “Ya look like shit.”

That punched a laugh from her, and she shook her head at his brutal honesty.  “Wow, see you’ve still got that ol’ Dixon charm working for you!”

“M’sorry.”  His cheeks were flushed pink, and she was still laughing, his embarrassment only increasing her amusement.  It felt good to laugh, easy in his company, and, when a low chuckle joined her giggles, she couldn’t help but sneak a glance at him, appreciating the smirk that twisted his lips.  He was attractive, she thought, when he wasn’t scowling and serious.  She wasn’t sure it was something she’d seen a lot of in the past.  

“It’s fine.  I appreciate the honesty.”

“I just meant… Y'alright stayin’ all the way out here on yer own?”

She shrugged.  “I like the quiet.”

“Ya don’t get scared?”

She considered that for a moment.  Sure, the forest looked a little spooky in the dark, the calls of the wildlife filling the air as they rustled through the undergrowth.  But was she scared by it?  “No, not really.”  She swallowed hard.  “The things I’m afraid of, they’re all back in the city.  I feel safe here.”

Daryl nodded as though he got it, and Tabby was sure that he did.  She knew that he’d spent many long hours in the woods, steering clear of his drunken father and his fierce temper and flying fists.  So, perhaps he found the same peace there that she did.  She wondered if he still escaped there when he felt life getting on top of him or if that compulsion had died along with his dad.  

“So,” she began as her thoughts turned to his family, a welcome distraction from her own, “is Merle still around?  What’s he doing these days?”  She hadn’t really known the older Dixon brother, though of course she’d known of him.  He’d been the town troublemaker for several years, ending up in and out of juvie more times than she could count.  Her dad had despaired of him, would spend too much time trying to figure out how to get through to the kid, how to straighten him out before he ended up in the gutter, but his efforts had never paid off.  The last she’d heard, he’d joined up and was causing havoc in the army, an odd choice for somebody with such an ingrained disdain for authority.

“Time, mostly,” he admitted, and Tabby felt her heart sink for the man beside her and for the boy that her dad had been so determined to help.  “S’been inside more than out.”

“The army didn’t work out for him?”

“Dishonourable discharge.”  At the arch of her eyebrow, he scoffed, though there was little humour in it.  “Punched his sergeant.  Got court-martialed an’ ended up doin’ sixteen months or so in lock-up.  Since then, s’mainly been drug offences, breakin’ an’ enterin’,” he went on.  “S’a fiend for crystal, my brother.  S’a bad crowd.”

“I’m sorry.”  She meant it.  Perhaps, she thought, that was how Daryl had managed to make her feel better the day before, about her entire situation.  It seemed like he was all alone too, and she knew the weight of that now, could feel it sitting like lead in her gut.  “You see him much?”

“I try an’ visit a few times a year.  S’a four hour drive each way, close enough, so I don’t get up there as much as I’d like.”

“That sucks.”

He hummed in response, and the cab fell quiet as he turned off of the main road into the maze of surrounding streets.  They weren’t far now from Tabby’s childhood home, and she could feel herself growing more tense the closer they got.  Her body was stiffening, her hands curling into fists in her lap, and she had to suck in a deep breath to try and force herself to relax.  It had had that effect on her for years now, was the reason why she hadn’t visited as often as she perhaps should, but the onslaught of memories was just too much.  She tried not to let it show as Daryl slowed to a stop at the curb.  “Place ain't changed.”

“Not from the outside,” she agreed, the words carrying a weight that she knew he sensed as she reluctantly pushed open her door.  “Thanks again for the ride.”

“Should be done around five.  That alright?”

“Yeah, thanks.”  She shot him a tight smile.  “I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”

He nodded, and she let the door swing shut, stepping up onto the sidewalk as he pulled away.  She stood and watched his truck disappear from view before she turned and picked her way up the path, ready for the thankless task that lay ahead.

*****

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[mihidecet]

SBi d&d AU: Tubbo

Aka: Tibi’s MCYT WritingTober, day 20!

From @the-only-gamer-gost ‘s list of prompts, another entry for “Fanmade AU” ahahah And as requested by a super cool anon: “ i'd love to see more of tommy's backstory in the d&d au! especially if we can meet tubbo?” :D

Ask and you shall receive! You can also find Tubbo’s reference sheet made by the wonderful @whatimevendoinhere here! Also, @rigatonipastaroni made a super sweet comic about the reunion, waaay before the chapter was even posted!!

There is nothing quite as sad as a bard with a broken guitar. 

It happens during a fight, a sadly-not-that-unusual spar with a rogue elemental that had decided to mess with a village just because they had been bored. 

Absolutely unrelatable. Tommy's patron had commented, the absolute hypocrite.

Still, the overall business had been quite straightforward: get to the outskirts, find the bad guy, kick their ass, profit. 

Nothing they hadn't done before. 

And like everything they expected to go smoothly, things went wrong. 

Tommy would say that thankfully nobody had gotten hurt, and everyone was perfectly fine, and they'd gotten a particularly big reward for something that standard. 

Wilbur would say, instead, that his guitar had been irreparably damaged, its neck snapped in half and body ripped apart, shards laying on the ground like blood, a gruesome heart-wrenching sight that would haunt him until the end of times. 

Tommy's patron had warned him that his second-degree cousin was a bit dramatic, but maybe it was just standard bard behaviour.

To be fair, the guitar was mostly gone. 

Wilbur had picked up as many pieces as he could and stuffed them in its case, but no amount of mending cantrips had been able to fix it. Phil had tried, but he didn't know how guitars worked and it was hard to discriminate where each shard needed to be placed in order to mold it all back together, like a freakishly hard jigsaw puzzle. 

And Wilbur had been extremely proud of his guitar, as apparently it had been a gift and a memento of his grandiose adventures. Sentimental values and such. 

Not that Tommy could say anything about it, not after the friendship bracelet incident.

For about a week, every time they stopped by a town, they looked for a carpenter first, a musical expert second, and an arcane expert third. 

They never managed to fix it. The thing was, it happened to be a weirdly specific and skill-needing task, so nobody they found was either confident enough or prepared enough to do it. 

So they moved on, and the bard's lament continued.

It gets to the point where one night, the innkeeper approaches their table during one of Will's performances - the tiefling had insisted in keeping the tradition of offering his musical entertainment in each tavern they resided in, now with just his voice and sometimes his flute, but being unable to have music as he sang and vice versa was truly different. 

That night, Wilbur is singing a ballad so sad and tear-jerking that the innkeeper actually approaches them and asks if everything is alright. 

"Oh- oh, yes, my apologies, everything is alright. -" Phil instantly responds, looking quite awkward "- It's just that his guitar broke, and we haven't been able to find anyone to fix it. It was of great personal importance." 

The innkeeper nods understandingly, an expression of deep empathetic sadness on their face, before their eyes light up. 

"You know, I might just have what you need. You guys are lucky, the Fixer Upper just arrived a week ago! If he doesn't know how to fix it, nobody will." 

After obtaining a brief explanation of where to find this infamous "Fixer Upper", who apparently works for free and will probably ask for food, shelter or protection as he moves to the next town over, the innkeeper leaves them be, assuring them that it'll be the solution to all their problems. 

Phil finds himself, despite the overall skepticism, feeling a bit of hope. If nothing, at least he might be able to convince Wilbur to buy a new one - make new memories. 

Even Wilbur is less enthusiastic than usual when they tell him, but after all they've been redirected to plenty of miracle workers that turned out to be unable to do anything.

The only thing that feels a bit off, is how Tommy's patron keeps giggling in his head - the way he does when he knows something Tommy doesn't. It's a bother, but Tommy's too tired to try and investigate.

The "Fixer Upper" is staying in a farm just outside the village, apparently sleeping in the barn. 

He comes to the village every couple of months, apparently used to circling back around the same couple of dozen of places, constantly travelling from one to the other and helping out whoever needs something fixed. The innkeeper that recommended him apparently had him fix their son's prosthetic leg, which has been working better than ever. 

The fact that he never asks for compensation is what keeps them all on the defensive: nobody does anything for anyone without coin on the line, so Wilbur is already somewhat expecting to find yet another old relative making deals with young children. 

Yes, he is still a bit bothered by the fact that his second degree cousin spends half of his time inside Tommy's head. 

No, he's not going to bring it up. 

 Approaching the barn, an increasing cacophony of sounds greets them, and Wilbur starts looking less and less convinced and more and more like he wants to leave - not to blame him, the noises are definitely not reassuring. 

They enter the barn, where one side is perfectly fine and the other has a bunch of mechanical and metallic parts strewn on the ground. 

At this point, Techno has a hand on Wilbur's arm, either to instill some confidence in him or to keep him from running away with the shattered guitar.

Then all of them stop, frozen in their tracks, as something completely out of the ordinary appears from behind a wooden wall - that is quite an extraordinary feat, considering the peculiar array of people they are. 

There's a huge block of metal, vaguely rectangular shaped and painted black and yellow, floating towards them. It has what looks like the spinny part of a windmill rotating at embarrassingly high speed over it, and the noise it makes vaguely resembles that of a low hum, or maybe a buzz. 

Two large semi-transparent circles - its … eyes? - emit a soft light that shines against Phil's palm as it bumps against him, the elf cooing with an adoring expression. 

"Hello dear, you're not one of nature's children but you are alive, aren't you?" 

Even Tommy, who has no idea how magic or nature works - he made a pact with a demon for a reason, alright? - can see that it's an impressive display of craftsmanship. 

Wilbur is looking quite confused on Phil's right, but he's no longer needing Techno to keep him from bailing on the whole thing. And to be honest, if somebody's able to make … this, maybe they'll be able to fix his guitar. 

"AH- Visitors! Sorry, I hadn't heard you coming in-" a short figure stumbles in sight from behind a pile of apparently garbage.

The short man, who appears to be human, had wild brown hair, somewhat darker in certain spots where black oil seems to have gotten stuck. There seems to be oil and soot all over his clothes and hands, where bandages cover his fingers.

On his head reside a pair of goggles - multiple lenses of different thicknesses and colours appended to its sides - and he's holding a wrench as if they'd interrupted his work, which would explain the worrying noises. 

The mechanic has a bright welcoming smile on his face when he appears, which immediately falters the moment he sees the infamous mercenary group, expression turning to fear. Which is understandable, given their fame of being quick, efficient and rather costly, unless they're working for the good of all.

Then it turns to shock, when Tommy takes a tentative step forward from behind Phil's back. Which is less understandable.

"Tubbo?" Tommy's voice calls, almost breathless. The boy takes off his goggles and blinks. The wrench he was holding clutters to the ground.

"Holy shit, Toms."

The warlock lets out a strangled yelp, then blinks out of existence in a puff of bright red smoke, reappearing right in front of the other boy and picking him up in a bone crushing hug as he laughs - more joyous than Wilbur's ever heard him - and the two of them fall to the ground.

When Tubbo is still a teenager, he loses his best friend to the prejudice and scorn of their hometown. 

All they need to see are the buddying horns on his forehead, the flames licking at his fingertips, the reddening skin around his eyes, and they banish him. 

They come for him, in the middle of the night, and find nobody but his parents in his home, because Tommy has always been smarter than he let on. 

Half a day earlier, Tommy had said his goodbyes to the last few people that deserved to know where he was going; never once asking for his parents' forgiveness for something he always knew he was going to do - Tubbo had never seen his best friend more sure of anything, even at the worst moments, when the ritual was about to begin, or the few first weeks when he had to use all his coins to buy salve for burns.

And so Tubbo was left alone, left behind. 

It lasted for one day.

Tubbo had never been particularly gifted in the craft his parents had tried to teach him - glass blowing was definitely not his forte, his hands too strong, his grip too tight - and he'd never shown any latent arcane power. Books on the arcane were long, boring and complex, the glyphs all looking the same and mixing with each other on the page. 

But that didn't mean anything to him: he was going to do great things, with or without magic, and he was going to find his best friend again. 

Fate wanted to keep them apart? Tubbo was going to stare Fate in the face and laugh. 

If the glyphs and arcane chants of the mages weren't going to cooperate, he was going to force his hands into the fabric of the arcane plane and pull magic out by himself. 

And again, why stick to prayers and dealings with other entities when he could just make it himself?

To be fair, it does take him a lot more time than the couple of weeks of research and half-and-hour-deal that was Tommy's experience. But Tubbo's always been a quick learner.

The day he finishes his big project, he leaves his home, ready for adventure. 

He has a map of the coast, enough coin to pay for emergencies and a backpack full of the tools he needs to offer his assistance to whomever will need it. 

His marked path will bring him around the same towns. Tommy is bound to pass by at least one of them during his travels. 

Tubbo's going to be alright.

Tommy's eyes are absolutely not, under no circumstances, shining as he tries to squeeze the life out of his best friend. 

Tubbo is just laughing, which is quite rude in Tommy's personal opinion, he should be struggling to breathe due to his impressive strength.

"Look at you! You made it!" The mechanic cheers, squeezing tighter - which, ouch, when did he become strong, it must have been all the working with metal, this is the worst possible outcome. Tommy lets him go for a moment, leaning back to splutter and wave wildly at the mechanical bee still intent on bumping its head against Phil's hand. By the Nine Hells, Tubbo made a living bee with the attitude of a puppy out of metal. 

"I made it?! You made bees!" Tommy protests, feeling a swell of pride for how far his best friend has come. On a completely unrelated note, there must be light shining insistently in his eyes. 

"I know! Aren't they cute! Ah! Let me introduce you to them!" Tubbo exclaims, hurrying to stand up - nearly elbowing Tommy in the gut - and grabbing his hand so that he can drag Tommy towards the bee from earlier. 

Then he stops in his tracks - which makes Tommy slam into his back and get oil stains on his favourite shirt - as he realises there are three other people in the room, all staring at them with varying degrees of amusement. 

"So, what just happened?" Wilbur asks, looking quite shell shocked. 

[csykora]

Sergei, 1958

“When he was in a bad mood, he would lock himself in a shell. He had his own understanding of life and of hockey, which he held to firmly, and revealed rarely….”

[Sergei Makarov in his Red Army sweater, coming over the boards for a shift with a determined expression.]

Sergei Makarov was born in Chelyabinsk, Russia’s Detroit. His parents didn’t bother to send him to daycare, because they always knew where he would be, toddling around the apartment block, pushing a puck.

His favorite game was playing the “Makarov Championship” with his older brothers. Kneeling on the floor of their apartment to bat a puck around, they each pretended to be one of the three famous teams in Moscow. Nikolai, already a teenager, picked Dynamo, Yuri would be Spartak, and baby Sergei imagined himself as CSKA.

Outside the Makarov home, those teams had secret identities of their own. CSKA was naturally favored by the military brass. Dynamo’s biggest fans were intelligence officers—the KGB. (I don’t know if anyone liked Spartak.) 

Nikolai would soon be chosen by CSKA’s farm team. Tween Sergei visited whenever he could—not so much to see his brother, but his brother’s new teammate, a winger like Sergei wanted to be, named Valeri Kharlamov.

When Nikolai could come home, Sergei would beg him to teach him all of Kharlamov’s new moves. When he couldn’t copy them all to Sergei’s satisfaction, Nikolai pled ‘being a defenseman’, and invited Kharlamov home for dinner to meet his biggest fan. Nikolai was traded back to Chelyabinsk’s senior team, where he would have his own successful career, but the impression Kharlamov left on Sergei lingered.

[Two black and white pictures of Sergei and Nikolai Makarov on the ice. In the first, it’s extremely hard to tell which one is ten years older than the other. In the second, Nikolai is hanging off his brother while Sergei looks amused.]

With movie-star cool looks, he grew up confident and fiercely independent. By the time he was 17, Sergei’s two passions were ‘Kharlamov’ and ‘quitting hockey.’ When the team scraped together a win, Sergei was most of the reason. So when the team lost, his coaches would point to him for failing. Sergei would snap back about why they even needed him if he sucked so much, and so on.

It was only when it got up to the head coach of the senior team, who called him up to stop him walking, that Chelyabinsk started winning. When he made the junior national team, they won gold. 

Coach Tikhonov invited him to practice with the big boys. Then he added the rookie to the men’s national team roster for the ’78 Worlds. Then they won gold. It was the start of a long, strange pattern: for every major international tournament, Coach Tikhonov liked to bring a new rookie. 

CSKA decided they were interested in another Makarov brother after all. Sergei and another prospect from the junior national team, a left winger named Vladimir Krutov, joined a roster already stacked with famous players like Boris Mikhailov, young star Slava Fetisov, and, of course, Kharlamov. 

Vova, 1960

[A headshot of Vladimir Krutov in the famous green sweater that the National team's top line wore in practice. He has a round face, very blue round eyes, and a gentle expression.]

“Volodya was such a dependable and steadfast man that I would have gone anywhere with him — to war, to espionage, into peril.”

Playing in Moscow’s backstreets, the boys had a nickname for Vladimir Krutov—Пупсик (“Pupsik”) means “sweetie” or “babydoll”. As a young man he picked up another name that doesn’t need translation: “Tank.” 

With a cherubic, pink-cheeked face and easy smile, he inspired affection in very nearly everyone who met him, and kept it with a death-defying loyalty. He couldn’t stand, or understand, unfairness: if someone went after his friends, on or off the ice, he’d dive in to sort it out. 

But when authority figures treated him badly, his fairness and faithfulness butted heads. His best friend described a moment when, as a teenager, he took a puck to the face and fell down, then skated unsteadily to the team doctor. The coach screamed at him for coming off before a change. “Vladimir was crushed. Never before—or since—had anyone questioned his guts.” But he simply stood there and took it without talking back, as if he couldn’t imagine a coach could do wrong.

He wasn’t the enforcer you’d expect, though. In three World Juniors he always came out the top scorer, his speed and strength catching the attention of Canadian juniors who’d one day be his teammates.

In ’79 Vova was called up from CSKA’s junior team to join the men for a few games, and scored 4 goals in a game against arch-nemesis Dynamo. The next year Vova and Sergei both scrambled into the CSKA lineup full-time, and Coach Tikhonov decided Vova would be his rookie of the year. He was headed to the 1980 Olympics, without having even played a World Championship at the men’s level. 

“For American people, selective memory, it’s a national thing,” Slava says about 1980. “I admit, I own one of the most famous silver medals in sports history. Correct? Done?”

[An action shot of Vova sprawled in the crease beside the American goaltender]

The Miracle on Ice story looks up at the Soviet team from under the chin. But Kharlamov and goaltender Vladislav Tretiak were Coach Tarasov’s giants, not Coach Tikhonov’s. Slava and Sergei were only 21 years old. Lyosha, 20. Vova was 19. The player who would make him and Sergei world-famous was another teenager, not even on the team. I’m not saying the US’s win wasn’t wonderful, but it wasn’t a simple or satisfying end—just the beginning of an unraveling.

[Vova throwing his arms in the air as the American goaltender turns to see the puck bouncing out of the net behind him]

[Sergei carrying the puck through open ice. His stick is tangled with two American defenders’, but he’s still got the puck between his feet]

Vova scored the first goal in the game, and Sergei tied it back up before the end of the first. (In an underdog story, what does it say when we don’t name the 19 year old who’d never been here before, and stood up to the pressure at only 5 foot 9? Some college boys played a game against another boy called Baby. Any way we spin that is a choice.)

But Tretiak had let in two as well, so Tikhonov pulled the best goalie in the world after twenty minutes. He put in Vladimir Myshkin, who will be remembered to history as “Not Tretiak” (or just as Tretiak: many people think Tretiak played the Miracle game). He seemed to lean on other defensemen than Slava and Lyosha, despite how they’d helped set up those goals: the other d-men were older, and they were from the contingent of the national team that didn’t play for CSKA most of the year, but for Dynamo.

Remember, the KGB’s favorites. And Tikhonov had been trained there, years before. Maybe Tikhonov wanted to please somebody, wanted a different position, coaching Dynamo during the season instead of CSKA, which was still packed with players who Tarasov, not Tikhonov, had chosen. If he had played Tretiak and Tretiak won, in their hearts people would still have given the win to Tarasov, not Tikhonov. That was only rumor, but hey, that’s Russia. What mattered was respect. 

“Tikhonov was quiet like a fucking rabbit after this game,” Slava says. “But he had no choice but to stick with us, and we took over the world, just like that.”

Tikhonov’s loss in February 1980 was followed by another he might eventually have regretted more. 

Vova had scored as many goals as Boris Mikhailov, a legend on the team. Sergei, just behind him, tied for points and squeaked passed Kharlamov in goals. But all the pieces around the two young stars had been Coach Tarasov’s—30, 32, 32, 35. Old, old, old. Coach Tikhonov scrambled the plans, put the rookies together, and went hunting for a center for them.

Igor, 1960

[A candid headshot of Igor Larionov in practice. He has blue eyes and an expression I can either describe as ‘wistful’ or ‘pouty.’]

If you like horror movies, spoiler: Igor Larionov will be Coach Tikhonov’s ‘final girl’.

Just down the river from Moscow, Igor was born in Voskresensk, a one-stoplight town that eventually grew to two. Voskresensk’s team, Khimik, is a bit of a spoiler too: they might not be very good, but they’re good at kicking the shit out of Moscow. 

His grandfather had been kicked out of Moscow for mocking the regime. His parents had been raised as laborers, who moved from peasant farming to the town as factories grew. Igor loved his parents and his hometown, but already from a little distance. Unlike the Makarovs, he never felt quite the same as his brother, who played hockey too but who Igor thought wasted every opportunity with some knucklehead move. No one else ever seemed to see the opportunities Igor did, waiting spaces for a perfect plan to slither through. He was always small, and he had a lot of thoughts about everything, and even more feelings. Most of those feelings ended with “f— you.” He liked people a lot, but he would never feel sure enough if they liked him.

Apparently he loved ‘80s glam rock music.

No one noticed when he started to play for Khimik. His second season, he put up 45 points in 43 games, and that was enough to draw attention. In the fall of 1980 CSKA played Khimik, and before the game Coach Tikhonov sent a note inviting the 19 year-old to meet outside the rink. He made him the usual offer: sign with CSKA instead, and maybe you’ll make the national team.

Igor said something like, “Uh, I have a game to play? (F— you),” and picked up five more points against CSKA that night.

Igor knew signing with Coach Tikhonov’s CSKA was bad news. He knew other players from Voskresensk who had passed through CSKA’s grinding system, and who intimated that the coaching was nothing like Khimik’s. He knew that once you travelled to Moscow’s training facility, there wouldn’t be any going home on weekends. Worst, once you signed as an officer of the Army, he knew that breaking those contracts counted as treason. He was the teenage geek being invited to a party in the woods by the lake where teenagers always get murdered by the lake monster.

But he was also a teenage geek getting invited to a party. 

He had gotten to go to World Juniors U-20 twice, both times with Vova. Like most people, Igor liked Vova rather helplessly, and he had loved traveling. He was proud of his English, proud of his reading and writing, and proud of his ability to understand people. Hotels full of visiting teams had been like feasts: he loved meeting other players and snatched up every opportunity to talk with them. He liked to sit in the stands to watch every game he didn’t have to play in, and cheered for his opponents. He refused to call them ‘rivals’, or 'enemies.' He thought that was how you talked about soldiers and war, not players of a game.

That year in U-20 Vova had been the top junior scorer as usual, but Igor had been voted the MVP. He’d been sure it meant something, that the two of them would be going places, together. Then almost as soon as they’d returned from World Juniors, Tikhonov had appeared in a whirlwind and whisked Vova away on an American adventure, off to the Olympics--alone. Igor watched the Miracle game on TV with his Khimik teammates, and realized he was running out of time. 

With 20 looming, the only way he’d ever travel again would be if he could make the men’s national team too. Igor was proud of his play, and he knew that he was good enough to make the national team while playing on any team he wanted—as long as it was Moscow’s. No one who cared would keep watching Khimik.

And at 20, like everyone else in Russia, he was already in debt—those two years of mandatory military service. Spartak was courting him that year too: their coach acted friendly, and bought Igor food, and offered to help his family. But Igor knew Spartak’s coach was out of favor with the Army officials, and Tikhonov was in. So even if he signed with Spartak and tried to fulfill his service through work assignments and trainings on their side of Moscow, he could be mysteriously called up to “active duty” on CSKA’s side at any moment.

At least, he thought, Tikhonov was honest. He knew something was wrong, or he maybe he just thinks he should have, looking back. But he was lonely. 

While Igor was overthinking everything, Coach Tikhonov played Sergei and Vova with a center named Viktor Zhluktov for the rest of the ’80-81 season. Viktor Zhluktov probably has a rich interior life like anyone else: for our purposes he is a transparent cut-out with “Mean Girl” stamped on his forehead. He even has an evil mustache. 

[An old Soviet graphic with a headshot of Viktor Zhluktov. He has a really bad mustache.]

Vova probably thought he was nice. 

Igor, who was still with Khimik and totally didn’t care, thought Viktor “did not shine as a player, but thanks to his faultless obedience to Tikhonov, he got onto the national team with no problem.”

By August 1981, Coach Tikhonov was ready to make the team a little more obediently his. He told Kharlamov not to bother joining the national team for that fall’s Canada Cup: he was getting too old. 

Kharlamov had been privately planning to retire before the winter, but he’d wanted to travel with the team and play one last time, a goodbye tour. While driving back to Moscow with his wife Irina, he was killed in a car crash on August 27. 

Overnight, it was official: Vova became the best left winger outside the NHL by default. He inherited CSKA’s top line spot, the top line on the national team too. Sergei, who had just lost his childhood friend, rose silently on the right. 

That summer Igor signed as a private in the Army. He was not going to be a good soldier, and he knew it. But he reported to Moscow’s training camp.

Main

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[blossomhcney]

( shantel vansanten. thirty two. cis female. she/her. ) in texas, anastasia barrett is more commonly known as ana. they’ve been living in newton for thirty two years and currently a firefighter. some say they are impulsive & emotional but i’m more inclined to believe those that say they’re curious & kind. if you walk by their house, you can sometimes hear that’s my girl by fifth harmony playing from their window. ( sadness etched into features, bruised and burnt skin, ripped jeans, messy buns on rainy mornings, the smell of vanilla surrounds her. ) 

PINTEREST BOARD !

NAME. anastasia francesca barrett née fletcher. NICKNAME. ana. AGE. thirty two. GENDER. cis female. PRONOUNS. she/her. SEXUAL ORIENTATION. bisexual. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION. biromantic. HOMETOWN. newton. OCCUPATION. former hairdresser at cut n curl / firefighter. AFFILIATION. none (reapers).

ZODIAC. scorpio. POSITIVE TRAITS. curious, kind, sympathetic. NEGATIVE TRAITS. impulsive, emotional, regretful. LANGUAGES SPOKEN. english, french, spanish.

HEIGHT. 5′5. EYE COLOR. green. HAIR COLOR. blonde. TATTOOS. can be found on the pinterest board !

QUICK INFO.

trigger warnings: death

anastasia fletcher was born to elouise and franklin fletcher. they were reapers, born and raised, and this was the life that they wished for their first born daughter. it was no secret that franklin had hoped and prayed for a son, but ana was the light of his life from the moment she was placed into his arms. it would only be two years later when her younger sister was born and a further three before her younger brother was brought into the world. true to his word, franklin had stopped the moment he had a boy, but it did not mean that he loved his daughters any less. hell, it made him appreciate them all the more, because they showed him how great their love and adoration was with each passing day. the fletchers were a normal, well functioning family, if you could get past the small armoury they kept in their basement and the blood stained clothes they would arrive home in.

ana was forced to grow up before she should have. when they moved homes at the age of six, she was thrown into an unlikely friendship with the boys next door. at her young, young age, she could see that their home life was not as happy as her own. it took no convincing for her parents to set extra places at the dinner table, because once ana popped out her puppy dog eyes, her father was like putty in her hands. she had had him wrapped around her little finger from day one and as she grew, their connection only grew stronger. 

her father fell ill fairly quickly, ana was only thirteen when she was tasked with taking care of her siblings whilst her mother spent time at the hospital with him. she had always been very maternal, but taking care of her brother and sister for three days straight with no break? that was the true test to whether she would be able to handle children. it was fucking exhausting, but having her best friends to help her was the only thing that got her through it. her mother was distraught over her father’s illness, barely registering the days as they passed or that she even had children to get home to. once her father came out of the worst of it, she headed home to profusely apologise and thank ana for her hard work and endurance. 

during high school, she picked up a couple of babysitting jobs, watching the children in town as they laughed and played and studied. she was too young to have a child, though she was only a few years shy of her mother’s age when she had fallen pregnant with her, so perhaps it ran in the family. all she knew was that becoming a mother was the one thing that she wanted in her life and nothing would feel right without that being a part of her. to add fuel to the fire, she had her first steady boyfriend and they were infatuated with one another. her mother was quick to send her off to the doctor for some form of birth control because she was not ready to become a grandmother just yet. 

straight out of high school, ana found herself a job at cut n curl as a receptionist. it was an easy job and she liked talking to people. she was friendly and well liked, so to have her as the face of cut n curl was hardly a bad thing. it took no time at all before she was putting herself through varying hairdressing courses until she was trained and able to have her own chair. her first steady boyfriend had become her fiance and they fell more in love as the days passed. the only thing she regretted about being with him was losing her best friend, his brother. not a day passed that she did not miss having him by her side or talking in her ear about something he was interested in. 

before long, they were married and they were the very definition of childhood sweethearts. they sometimes talked about leaving town, but their entire lives were there. he took a job as a firefighter where his brother joined him and ana was in love with her job at cut n curl. perhaps they could have had more if they left, but there was nothing that could improve their lives. except, of course, to grow their family. 

well, you see, life has a funny way of working out. ana wanted to grow her family, but life had other plans. silas fell ill and she was devastated and god, she thanked her lucky stars that they did not have children. she finally understood her mother all those years ago, neglecting her children for the love of her life. it was heartbreaking to watch him wither away, whether he was on chemo or not, he was dying and that was the most painful thing for ana to wrap her head around. but he wanted to live his life and die peacefully, not hooked up to hundreds of machines and she would respect those wishes. she was secretly glad when his brother wanted to step in to help out, because lord knew she was struggling enough as it was. their friendship grew stronger over those months, late night conversations built their foundations stronger than ever and ana felt closer to him than she ever had before. and then, when silas died, he ducked out after the funeral and she was heartbroken all over again. grieving the loss of her husband was bad enough, but to do it alone? she was just one woman, she could not handle that. 

after silas’ death, ana needed something to feel closer to him, because sitting in that empty house was doing her head in. when he had fallen ill, she had quit her job at cut n curl in a heartbeat to care for him full time. she put herself through training to become a firefighter and it is where she spends her time now. she feels closer to him than she ever had before, but she is also slowly trying to start the process of moving on, as hard as it was. her heart ached to consider ever loving anybody else, but the problem was, she already did love somebody else. perhaps that was the reason for her throwing herself into something that silas loved, to remember the man she was married to, the man that held her through every hard night and kissed her head when she cried after each negative pregnancy test. 

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

best friends / ride or die - ana definitely needs her best friend ! somebody who helped her get through everything with silas and supported her through every hard moment. somebody she would be a goner without !

childhood friends - she has lived in stratford all her life, so she very likely has friends that she may have drifted apart from over the years, but they can always reminisce over their childhoods together (0/?)

hook ups / one night stands - these would be very recent, over the past few months since silas died. she had only ever been with him and she needed to just.. forget about all the pain in her life for a few hours, so she sought the comfort in a (perhaps not so) stranger. (0/3)

i know there are likely more i want, but i genuinely cannot think of anything else right now ! my brain has gone to mush !

[waymorecake4me]

Won’t you take it back? (Roger Taylor x Reader

(a/n: So this is gonna be part one of, I think to a two part (MAYBE 3 if you guys like it) series. Please let me know how ya’ll feel about it, and I’m thinking about doing requests so if anyone would be interested in that, let me know about that as well. Love you guys <3 and shoutout to my homegirl @fluffyunicornofdanger for being an amazing friend and encouraging me to get out there.)

(also let me know if you wanna be on a tag list for the rest of this!)

Based off of “i love you” by Billie Eilish

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: you might cry? Fluff and angst.

The speakers were so loud and the crowd was swaying and dancing, they almost looked like fluid. Like water, maybe the ocean, considering the amount of people out there. Adrenaline could literally be felt throughout the air, something Y/n loved about watching her friend’s sets.

Their success seemed like it happened overnight but it had truly taken years to build up a fan base such as this. Album after album, recording sessions that she was always present for, and she traveled with them on tours as often as she could, if work permitted her to do so. People often mistook her for Queen’s personal assistant but she was nothing of that sort, just a friend who supported them more than anything or anyone.

Over the years, she became particularly close with the one, the only, Roger Taylor. Y/n was best friends with all the boys but when Roger was too drunk to drive home, she would pick him up and let him crash at her place for however long he needed. They shared stories about good lays, and of course the bad ones too. Drinking at either her place or his, it felt like home either way. Home was a concept to them that didn’t have anything to do with the place they were at, but that they were with each other.

Rumors would spread that they were together but it had only made them laugh, as they felt their best friendship was so much stronger than any relationship could ever come close to being.

Y/n’s hair was bouncing all around as she was watching the concert from backstage, her y/h/c’s locks blocking her face but it all seemed to find it’s way back to it’s original place. Probably from using a whole can of hairspray on it earlier that morning. She couldn’t help but dance like nobody was watching as they played ‘Tie Your Mother Down.’ The sheer rock ‘n roll vibe of the song had everybody losing control.

Every once in a while, Roger would glance over at her and make some stupid silly face that would send Y/n into a fit of laughter that could almost make her lose her footing. Why had she chosen heels? They’re really not that practical for watching a rock concert, especially when you stayed backstage the whole time with nobody to impress.

The whole set went on like this for over an hour, and seeing as it was the last concert of the ‘A Day at the Races tour’, in their hometown of London, the boys did an encore. The sweaty girl couldn’t feel her feet so she had since kicked those bloody heels off, feeling the cold stone under her feet was more than a relief. She sighed out, still trying to catch her breath from the dancing and prancing around backstage.

The thousands of people screamed and whistled when Freddie sat down at the piano and began to play the opening notes to ‘Somebody to Love.’ This song was one that had always been a bit embarrassing to Roger, only when Y/n was watching, because she would often joke with him about his background falsetto. But tonight, she spared him of the giggles from the sidelines, the poking her tongue out of her lips at him. No, tonight she simply closed her eyes and swayed slowly back and forth with a large grin on her face, enjoying the music.

Roger had sent countless glances her way, expecting fully to, at some point get ridiculed for his ‘balls in his chest’ voice, but he was only met with a beautiful girl, feeling the music in her body from her head to her toes. He couldn’t help but make a few extra looks over since he knew she wouldn’t see him, certain thoughts pushing their way into his brain.

Once the set had completely finished, the boys thanked the crowd and blew kisses to everyone, raising their instruments in the air, followed by the four running off stage, Freddie blowing a few extra kisses in the process.

“You guys did absolutely spectacular!” Y/n ran up to her friends, hugging all of them at once with her arms spread wide.

“You think so?” Brian smiled, retreating from the hug and placing old red back into her case for a well deserved good night’s slumber.

“Oh I know so, did you see them out there?” Freddie eyed Brian and pointed with his thumb, back towards the stage. He placed a quick peck on Y/n’s cheek, “Thank you, darling.”

“Thanks a lot, Y/n.” John uttered, a bit shy, or maybe just tired. They were all covered in sweat from the strenuous activity.

Normally Roger would have been the first to pounce on Y/n for a hug, and they would hang off of each other like Siamese twins, but he was being standoffish. And that was nothing like Roger, even his bandmates were looking at the blond, silently contemplating why the loud mouthed drummer hadn’t said a single word since their thanks to their fans.

Nobody was saying anything and the air around the five was starting to become way too awkward for comfort so Y/n spoke up as the others began packing their stuff up, “What? I don’t get a hug back?” She looked at the man, puzzled, “You alright, Rog? Need some water? You rocked it out there, y’know-”

“I’m fine.” Two words. Two words that Roger had never dared to say ever. He always had something on his mind and was always the first to speak up in ANY situation. But now he’s just… fine?

Roger placed his drum sticks in his back pocket and started the trek back to the band’s shared changing room, in which Y/n had never stepped foot in. She liked to give them at least a little privacy, not that they cared, but she did.

This left the woman standing alone, contemplating what the fuck she had just experienced. Had she said or done something? She knew her best friend and he never acted like that. There had to be something on his mind that he came up within the time span of him making silly faces at her, to the last song of the set.

Y/n sat down on what could hardly be called a bench that was sat right outside of their changing room, waiting, thinking, worrying. She was startled by the door swinging open, seeing the boys and hearing them talk about which bar or club they should celebrate at, but it was only the three. Freddie, Brian, and Deacy, “Are you coming with, Y/n?” Freddie called to her as they made their way down the hall, stopping at the exit.

She stayed seated on the bench and looked at them, then back at the changing room door, with the most confused expression on her face. Y/n didn’t need to say anything, her puzzled look that she gave the men was enough of an answer for them.

“If you change your mind, we’ll be just down the street. Probably the usual spot,” Brian chimed, “we won’t be far.” In which, she nodded in reply, and that sent the 3/4ths of the band out the door.

Roger had turned up an after party? The end of the tour celebration was basically what he looked forward to most when it came to touring. Something had to be wrong and if the boys didn’t even know after being in that room with him, then what the hell?

Y/n could easily give him his space to work out whatever it was in his pretty little head, but that’s not how they were with each other. That wasn’t the type of person she was with anyone, especially her best friend. She stood up, a bit shakily from the aching in her feet, and tapped a gentle pattern on the wooden door with her knuckles. Hearing a faint grunt in response, she opened the door to see Roger sitting on a couch, staring off into space.

“Rog… are you alright? No partying?” She giggled a little, “Are you sick?” She closed the door behind her.

Roger hummed lowly, “Not sick,” not even looking up at Y/n, “just not in the mood.”

Y/n skipped over to the couch and hopped on next to him, hoping that her playfulness would shake him out of whatever mental dilemma he was stuck in, “I think you are sick, have you got a fever?” She placed the back of her hand to his forehead but he was quick to swat it away, completely taking the girl by surprise, her playful concern now turning into real concern.

“I said I’m not sick, I just wanna be alone,” He gritted his teeth.

“Well that’s unfortunate because I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong,” She quipped back. Concern could be easily heard in Y/n’s voice, and yet, Roger still hadn’t even turned his head in her direction.

Roger had his hands tightly balled into fists on his knees. His eyes were stinging, as if the room had been filled with onions. Invisible onions had to be everywhere because Roger Meddows Taylor doesn’t cry, “You didn’t make fun of my voice,” he uttered smally, as if he were a child in trouble.

“I didn’t make fun of you? That’s why you’re in here?” She grabbed his face and forced him to look at her, “I can make fun of you all you want if you’d like-” But Y/n stopped when she noticed a tear rolling down his cheek. Was that sweat? It had to be sweat. “Rog…”

“The last song, Y/n. I was expecting you to mess with me,” The blond tried to avoid her eyes, “but instead all I saw was a gorgeous girl dancing.” A tear fell straight from his left eye so that ruled out the sweat theory in Y/n’s mind. “You looked beautiful. I mean- You look beautiful.”

This wasn’t something that came as a surprise to Y/n. They complimented each other all the time. What she couldn’t figure out was why he was crying about it, trying to keep himself prisoner in this god awful smelling back room while the others went partying.

“Well thanks, Roger, but I’m not sure I understand.”

Roger huffed out a breath and covered his face with his hands, elbows resting on his knees. He mumbled something quietly but his hands kept the sound waves from reaching Y/n’s ears.

“Huh? Roger, you’ve gotta talk to me if you want me to help-”

“I love you.” He uncovered his face and met his ocean blue eyes to her set of y/e/c orbs.

It fell silent. Deadly silent. Roger’s tears had stopped flowing and they were in a never ending eye lock.

But she couldn’t help it. Y/n let out a chuckle, a harsh one, a sound that made Roger’s heart drop. Once she settled down from laughing at his obvious joke, she looked at him once more, “I’m serious, Roger, I’m trying to help here.”

“I’m serious too, Y/n. I love you.”

It appeared as if a ten ton weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, but that weight had just moved and slammed down on Y/n’s shoulders instead.

“I get that you’re trying to make me laugh so I’ll leave you alone but-” The girl had been cut off by him, once again.

“This isn’t a joke. Is it THAT hard to believe that maybe I do love you?” His tone started to get higher with frustration, “And maybe you love me too?” He tried to read her face but he got nothing. “We’ve seen each other at our best and worst. We know everything about each other. I know you hate broccoli. I know you lost your virginity to a douchebag named Michael in Secondary School,” He stood from the couch, going into full rant mode, pacing back and forth in front of her, “Hell, I even know your mum’s favorite movie! I love you, dammit, Y/n.”

There was nothing that could’ve prepared Y/n for this. Her best friend confessing his love to her. Of course she loved him back but all of this would change everything forever. Things could never go back to normal after this. If they were to date, they could break up one day and then she could lose him forever. Their friendship was so strong. She couldn’t risk losing that.

Y/n could feel her heart beating out of her chest, her body getting hot, but still no expression on her face. Her mind was racing in a thousand different directions and the only thing she could manage to say, through all of her thoughts was, “No.”

“No? What is that supposed to mean?” Roger crouched down in front of her. She hadn’t moved from her seat on the couch. “If you don’t love me, look me in the eyes and say it.” No response again. “Say it!” His yelling could’ve made the walls shake, but it was Y/n who was shaking.

“You don’t mean it.”

Roger scoffed at that, “Oh yeah. Sorry, didn’t mean it. You’ve got to be joking right now, honestly.” He forced her to look at him, just as she had done to him just minutes before, “I’ll say it a million times if I have to, Y/n, I lov-”

“Stop, stop, stop, stop!” She extended her hand and placed it on Roger’s chest. She could feel his heart beating and it made her breath hitch a bit in the back of her throat, “Please. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to say it.”

Roger didn’t say another word, but he lifted his own hand and placed it over top of her own, squeezing it lightly. She didn’t resist the touch, but she had began crying. Roger hadn’t noticed until she was a shaking and sniffling mess.

“Hey, hey. No, no, Y/n. Why? Why are you…” Roger didn’t know how to complete his sentence. His eyes searched her face frantically, hands moving up to wipe away the steady stream of tears, although they kept getting replaced with new ones. “Don’t… please don’t cry.”

He couldn’t even take his own advice that he had left for her, as his eyes started to well up a bit. Neither knew why they were crying, but at the same time, they did.

“Take it back. Can’t you take it back?” Y/n asked him, through sobs. “Y-your words… Those three words.” She finally met his frantic blue eyes, “Can’t we pretend it didn’t happen?”

Love had been an unspoken joy for the two, since the very beginning. She loved him and he loved her, but once you put the words out there, it makes things harder. It makes it real. And those words? Coming from Roger? The man who never loved, couldn’t love, only made love, if you could even call it that. It meant more than just ‘I enjoy your company.’ In fact, he couldn’t recall a time where he ever felt the need to say those cursed words to anyone. Except for with Y/n.

“You’re telling me… that you want to make believe that everything in this room never happened?” Roger began to get defensive again, sparking a bit of panic in Y/n’s entire state of being.

“No- I mean, yes, just not in the way you think I mean.” Panic, panic, panic.

Roger couldn’t even begin to understand her thought process, “Why? Can you at least explain to me why?”

“I don’t want to lose you. You can’t love me and I can’t love you,” She had to look away from him. Looking at his soft features was far too painful.

“You’ll never lose me, Y/n. You have me. I’m right here. And you’re bloody well stuck with me.”

“Not like that, Roger,” She rolled her eyes and wiped away some of her tears, almost letting out a laugh. Just almost, at his ignorance to the situation, “I’ll lose my best friend.”

“But you’ll gain a boyfriend.”

“Rog, please,” She stood up and faced him, “It can’t be like this.” As quickly as those words left her mouth, her body left with them.

She was gone, and he was alone.

(Part two)

[iamwhelmed]

Win One, Have Two: Chapter 13

Okay, it has been 9 long months and I haven’t updated. For that, oh my god I am so, so sorry. I knew I was feeling uninspired but that’s really no excuse! It’s okay, it’s summer now, so I can focus a little more on writing. Hopefully you guys still have interest ^^’ Anyway,

Here it is on AO3

It'd taken them the better half of thirty minutes to collect what they'd need for what Miss Rose was referring to, for the moment, as a "field trip"- no parental release forms necessary because, as she'd made abundantly clear, "I am the only adult you need to be worried about". Except for Crawford, who spent the fifteen minutes it took everyone else to get ready standing outside smoking a cigar with an unbothered look on his face. Clara was the first of the three students done, and waited next to Crawford with her messenger bag full of supplies slung over her shoulders. She looked to him, and he lazily glanced at her from the side.

"You know smoking is horrible for your lungs, right?"

"If anything's gonna take me out 'for my livin' does, I'm gonna die a happy man knowin' it was my vice."

Clara's lips pursed into a straight line.

The front door creaked open; Hardy stepped out first, unzipping his backpack to slip the dagger through its army green folds. Isaac was right behind him, arching an eyebrow at the very functioning door that he, quite frankly, was surprised was still on its hinges after last night. He frowned and grabbed Hardy's wrist, twisting it around to look at his watch. Hardy remained unbothered, trapping his bag between his legs as he used his other hand to close the zipper the rest of the way, concealing the dagger safe and sound in a multitude of pockets. Isaac huffed through his nose- 5am. Correction, then; the attack happened *earlier this morning. Adrenaline and the primal need to not get his head torn clean off of his shoulders had kept his sleep-addled brain at bay, but now that it had time to process that the world had settled again, it was urging him to rest.

There was a hand at his shoulder. Isaac jumped, but he saw the streak of purple in raven hair and found the nerves of his brain settling. It was just Miss Rose. She caught his gaze and gave him a small smile, soft, though he could tell she was strung a little higher than usual. She brushed by him and turned only to lock the door behind her. "Is everyone ready to go?"

"Yeah," Isaac watched as Hardy slipped his bag onto his shoulders. "So, how exactly are we planning on finding our friendly neighborhood home invaders?"

Rose smiled, this time more like she usually did, bright and reassuring. "Same way I look for spectral artifacts! I let Magnus lead the way!"

Isaac raised an eyebrow, and god help him, he swore the top half of his face was going to get stuck that way someday. "Magnus?"

Crawford took another puff, rounding his lips so that the smoke took on a circular shape. Miss Rose waved it away and gave him a look- the kind wives give their husbands over shoes left at the front door- and he grimaced, but dropped the cigar and put it out with his heel anyway. "Well, don't keep 'em waitin', Rose." Clara moved closer to Isaac and Hardy, eager to get a look. Isaac glanced at her and Hardy, and the looks of curiosity so plainly painting their crinkled noses and furrowed brows. Must be new to them, too.

Rose rolled her shoulders in a semi-committal, but ultimately nonchalant shrug. "Yeah, yeah. I'm just not looking forward to the lecture I'm gonna get." She reached into her back pocket and procured what appeared to be a compass. Small, silver, sat perfectly in the palm of her hand, like it was sculpted especially for her. Her eyes fluttered shut, and Isaac could tell from the small rim of purple aflame under her eyelashes that she'd connected with her spirit.

"What is it this time, Mari?"

Rose opened her eyes, finding beady black staring into the abyss that was her soul- or, rather… maybe staring into the abyss that was her curious nature. It made her good at artifact hunting, maybe not the best spectral partner, though. "Okay, okay. I deserve that. But it's important this time!"

Magnus turned and flew a few feet away, back of his body (a long eel-like tail covered in fur) brushing vaguely against her nose. He looked a lot like a basset hound, one that a particularly squealing-prone Sherlock Holmes fan had dressed in a deerstalker and matching coat for a cute scrapbook. She remembered meeting him the first time, back when she was still greener to the spectral world.

Before she knew that spirits were typically averse to hugs and scritches, no matter how much they looked like a good boy.

Magnus huffed from his throat, gave her a look that only an elderly butler with far too much experience and Magnus himself could level her with. The expectant kind. The kind that dared her to make her case. "So you're admitting you were using me for fun before?"

She abided. "Well no, that stuff was important too, but this is…"

Magnus sighed, the sign he gave her, every single time, to signal he was acquiesce. "What do you need?"

Right, down to business, then. She sobered and stripped her hand of her black glove, holding it out for Magnus to sniff. "There should be a saliva sample on this glove. Can you track it for me?"

He hovered closer, inching his wet nose toward the glove. He sniffed once, then twice, and nodded. He registered the smell, compared it to the large database of scents and stenches he'd picked up on in his near-infinite lifetime. She watched him in silence, but took the moment to slip her glove back on. If she knew Magnus, which she did, then he'd give her a destination, maybe a word for warning. He took a few moments, then did something she hadn't seen him do before. He paused. "This could lead you into Consortium territory, you know…"

"What?" She would have hid the trepidation in her voice, but Magnus had known her too many years for her to play anything cool ever, not that she ever got it by him before. She had a feeling he was a little more a detective than he'd like to admit. Magnus glanced at her with droopy eyes, big ears flopping as he floated in place, like there was an undercurrent breeze that blew from below. "Why?"

"The scent you're handing me matches somebody long lost to the Consortium, I'm afraid. One Catriona Barrett." Rose glanced down at her hand, squeezed her fist around the glove that still had traces of saliva on it. "Disappeared after the Consortium eliminated her lover, which I'm sure you know was a spirit by the name of Emmerich."

"That doesn't make sense. The dagger is perfectly capable of killing humans, but it's just as capable of killing spirits. What would she want with it?"

"A conundrum not meant for me to solve, I'm afraid." Magnus hummed floated away from her, cracking only an eye open to glance at her. He must have seen her frown, because he sighed and momentarily moved closer to her, moved around her in a circle so that his tail could brush up against her cheek and make her nose wiggle. "We were lucky that the dagger was within Cousinhood territory, but you know I'll be leading you-"

"- All over god's creation. Yeah, I know." She smiled his way, gave him a scratch under his chin either to calm herself down or to annoy Magnus. She had no plans to ponder which it was. He glared at her, unamused as always, as he faded from her sight. "I'm afraid that's a risk we're going to have to take."

The compass hovered in mid-air, faintly radiating with the same purple that surrounded herself and Magnus. As the last of Magnus's spirit world faded from view, the compass itself pulsed, like a heartbeat. She held out her hand and waited for it to fall into her palm, cold detailed silver against the fabric of her glove. The pulsing became faster, a more constant stream of vibration until it was buzzing in her hand, meaning Magnus had decided precisely what direction to go in. She nodded south and said "Let's go."

Clara, Hardy, and Isaac glanced to Crawford, who only tipped his hat as confirmation before following closely behind Rose. Hardy exhaled, shoulders slouching as air deflated him like an old balloon. "This should be fun…"

He trudged after Rose and Crawford, Isaac and Clara close behind.

She walked beside Isaac, but he felt her eyes watching him as though they were on his back. He tensed up. "You know, if we pass your hometown…"

He grimaced. "I wouldn't say a word."

He hurried hurried to catch up with Hardy, ignoring the set of eyes that were now definitely watching his retreating frame.

Sewing, as any 18th century woman would tell you, is the cornerstone of femininity. Women practiced the art often, and with the persistence of anybody who had to live their entire life without video games or sports. Sewing also, as any of these 18th century woman would tell you, is a real pain.

Isabel pricked herself for the third- or fourth- time, tried once more to stitch the two pieces of cloth together, and instead decided she'd had quite enough of whatever purgatory she'd found herself stuck in. Sleeping Beauty only had to get pricked ONCE to fall asleep, she'd say that she more than earned a nap. "This is so-!" She flicked her tired wrist around, trying to find the right word. How to best describe the ludicrousness of her current task without lowballing her grievances or insulting her teacher. Ah, yes. That's the right word. "Stupid! This is so stupid! How is sitting here sewing going to save anyone?"

Dimitri glanced up from his sewing job, cool eyebrow raised. Zarei, too, glanced up from her task, reading a book which, comparatively, was a favorable task to whatever this nonsense was. Zarei herself looked bored, but not surprised. She'd most likely been anticipating Isabel's outburst, as was customary once every class. Not every period, no, every class that Isabel had to be subjected to some of the most boring, menial tasks she'd ever had to do for a grade. Zarei's class. "Isabel," Zarei started, and she could already hear the routine disinterest. "In a life or death situation, you may have to temporarily sew and dress or cauterize a wound." She adjusted her glasses and mumbled, in equal irritation, "they wouldn't let me have fire in the classroom, so this will have to do."

"This is a waste of our time!"

Dimitri, as chill as always, lifted one hand, a motion he seemed to carry out every time she had these routine outbursts, as though she was a wild spirit and needed to be tamed and reined in. "Isabel-"

"No! I'm sick of this! The traitor who released those monsters is still out there and we have no idea who they are or what they want!"

Zarei seemed unperturbed, though she shut her book with one snap and set it off to the side of her desk. "Isabel-"

"What are we sitting here sewing for? We're just wasting time-!"

"Isabel!"

She choked, instinctually stepping back as Zarei's hands slammed upon the instructor's desk. This… this was not part of the routine, but she supposed her outburst had been more emotionally-charged than her others had been. Zarei usually took her complaints in stride, even snarked about setting up a suggestions box for Isabel to leave comments in (that way she could dispose of them easier). This time, though, Zarei looked her dead in the eye, unblinking, unmoving. Isabel looked to her left where Dimitri sat at his desk, found his hand still raised cautiously, though it'd moved some to avoid her flaring aura.

Fine.

She growled to herself, sliding back down into her seat, but unwilling to continue stitching. Instead she glared at the two bits of cloth and used the needle to take small jabs at her desk. Zarei wouldn't say anything, would probably just be happy she wasn't complaining. She'd just have to deal with her restlessly squirming in her seat until class was over in another handful of minutes. God, she hoped Max was having a better time.

The gym was larger than the auditorium their Training 101 class typically monopolized. Once the bell had rung and all the class had been seated, when Spender announced that they'd all be transferring to the gym for the day, Max had almost felt the collective sigh of relief that hung like the usual unease in the atmosphere. He glanced at Collin, who had taken to walking the very thin line between the waking world and the unconscious one with his chin rested in his hand, eyes slowly inching shut before they popped open again after a restless three seconds of shut-eye. Johnny sat at his other side, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. Probably the least claustrophobic the psychopath has felt in weeks.

Spender stood at the bottom of the bleachers, raising his hands in a sad attempt to get his large, voluble class to more of a hushed whisper. Because Spender was a quiet man naturally, and passive normally, his voice was lost in the sea of early-morning chit-chat, the kind that was kept in-check by smaller class periods. Max watched with varying degrees of amusement as Spender circulated through every trick in the book to get a bunch of confused, aggravated, loquacious middle-schoolers to shut their overused traps. He first tried to clear his throat. When that didn't work, he tried to drop his teacher's guidebook on the gym floor- when that was stifled and dulled in the vastness of the gym walls, he resorted to yelling at the top of his lungs. That still didn't work, and Max could see the man struggling to figure out how else to reign in a hundred or so students. His calloused hands were clawing at his face, eyes visibly heavy with exhaustion, even behind his shades. When all hope seemed to be lost, Coach Oop set one heavy hand on Spender's shoulder, gave him a pitying look, and got the attention of every student the way only a gym coach knew how- screaming and just being louder than the normal teacher.

Chatter seemed to fade almost instantly, and Spender shot Coach Oop a grateful look.

He cleared his throat as Oop retreated to his office. "Class, today we are going to begin working the physical aspects of your new abilities, rather than your minds." Max could practically feel Johnny vibrating in the seat next to him. He shot the red-head an eye that he ignored entirely. "Now, I've always been more focused on the intellectual end of training-"

"Couldn't tell!"

Spender picked Max out in the crowd immediately, glared at him, and received nothing but a grin in response. "... So I've asked an old master of mine to stand in for me." An elderly man stepped forward, huge and terrifying for being gray in the face. "This is Master Guerra. Say hello, class."

"Hello, Master Guerra…." Roughly a quarter of the class even bothered, and those that did were unenthusiastic at best and downright resentful at worst, clearly not knowing what was ahead of them. Max swallowed hard; he'd heard stories from Ed about Isabel's grandfather, stories that Isabel had commented "didn't even graze the bottom" of just how tough Master Guerra could be. And that was on his granddaughter… what would he be like with kids he had no attachment to? Max felt his spine shiver preemptively at the possibilities. Collin leaned over, now much more awake than he had been two minutes prior, and whispered.

"Hey, is that Isabel's dad or something?"

Max cupped a hand over one side of his mouth so Collin could hear him better. "Grandpa, actually. And probably the embodiment of abuse of power…"

Master Guerra's eyes roamed the crowd, but there was something about his gaze that felt like he was simultaneously singling out every single child in the bleachers. Max had the crazy theory that it was because he was, in actuality, seeing every one of them, judging them, assessing them, what they could do. He clearly didn't like what he was seeing, because he took a step forward and his eyes were no less calculating. "Spineless, each and every one of you. Hardly spectrals, hardly able at all. If you want to be worth anything, you will do as I say, and you will do it the first time!"

The class, silent before, fell deathly mute.

Spender stepped forward, chuckling with a nervous edge as he set one unsure hand on Guerra's shoulder- er, tried to. He decided against it last moment. "Master, these children still hardly understand the concept of tools, perhaps you should tone it down just a little-?"

"You asked for my help. This is what you receive."

"Ah."

Isaac cringed. The little cabin he'd taken shelter in was just as creepy and run-down as when he'd last seen it. Creepier, in fact, now that he'd bled all over its floors.

Crawford stopped at the front door and puffed on the last bit of his cigar. Rose passed him by and reached for the handle, eyes on the compass in her hand. "Should I do it?"

Rose shook her head. "Don't waste the energy yet, Crawford. We know the story here pretty well already." She pressed the door open with a sickeningly loud creak, a sound that made Isaac shudder. "Catriona left this place in a hurry in the dead of night. If we want Magnus to keep her scent, we've gotta find something that will lead us to where she went next."

The group pushed on. Crawford went first, one arm protectively extended in front of Rose, other hand cocked with one of his guns. Rose glanced around, looking for anything that may emit a trace of Catriona's aura, careful to let Crawford open doors. The place should have been abandoned, but the odds of Consortium pawns and antagonistic spirits were a possibility she was unwilling to overlook. Clara clung to one of Hardy's sleeves. They were switching off who was looking out in which direction, leaving Isaac to keep his eyes straight ahead. More of a challenge than it may seem, with the cabin's darkness spanning well past Rose and Crawford. He tried to keep in pace with them, but his legs were shaking and he wasn't sure if it was because he was three different kinds of dead the last time he was here, or if the draft of the run-down walls was getting to him.

Clara edged closer to Isaac, willing herself to feel calmer with somebody on either side of her. "There's so much blood, everywhere…" Her breath hitched and trembled with every word, hot breath running down his neck. Miss Rose looked back and found his eyes. He frowned and glanced away. They made it to the end of the hallway, what Isaac remembered as the bedroom he'd taken residence of that night. He was right; Rose raised the compass and the light of her aura illuminated the very edge of the bedpost, rotting and covered in, what Isaac assumed was probably, more of his dried-up blood.

Hardy's foot made contact with something at his feet, and he leaned forward to pick it up. "Oh hey, a diary!" He said one second. "Ah!" He said the next.

Clara glanced over Hardy's shoulder to see the page he'd opened up to by chance, and stifled the scream she instinctually reacted with behind her interwoven fingers. The page was yellow with age and slick with dust from infrequent use, though it had clearly been handled somewhat recently, the way fingerprints edged the pages. The page Hardy had opened up to, the one Isaac now glanced over Clara's shoulder to see, was covered in nothing but pen- and a lot of it. Frantic. Some unlegible. Dark and as black as a widow drenched in the blackest of inks. Words scribbled next to sketches of spirits, of auras and eyes that seemed to watch from behind the safety of the page.

Why can't he see them

I'm not crazy

Help

Hardy screamed and accidentally tossed the book a foot in the air, only to start juggling it with unsteady hands the moment it came back down, whimpering the whole time. Isaac snorted and held out his hand so Hardy could pass it to him- and he did, by using one juggling hand to smack the book mid-air in Isaac's general direction. Isaac caught the diary by the spine in his open palm, flipping it back open with relative ease. "This is her's?"

Just as soon as he opened it, a gloved hand snatched it from him. Miss Rose grinned and raised to compass to the diary, humming at the confirming buzz of her tool. "This is the next piece in Catriona's puzzle, kiddies!"

Kid after kid lined up in parallel with the bullseyes across the gymnasium floor, each new frontrunner as confused as the last. Guerra and Spender stood to the side, eyeing individual auras as they hit or missed the targets- and they rarely hit. Guerra was grimacing, looking every bit terrifying as Spender felt. He kept switching from watching the students to watching his master, frequent enough to keep an eye on his reactions, but not frequent enough for Guerra (hopefully) to notice.

Max was third in one of the first lines. All the better, in his opinion, for getting this over with as fast as possible. He aimed at the target a few feet away, concentrated. He'd had so much on his mind lately. Isabel, Spender, Ed…. His eyes narrowed as blue crossed his vague vision- the kid next to him, but it was enough. He took one quick breath and took his shot. Black gas, perfectly rounded, perfectly paced, hit the bullseye head-on, nearly knocking it over in a clash of red and white against a crawling web of black that descended over it.

Spender's eyes widened, a small smile inching across his face. He'd been worried that all of the attention he'd had to put into training these classes had denied his original students somehow of the attention he felt was vital to truly learning to hone their new powers, but if Max's spectral shot was any indication-!

"Don't get so excited." Guerra was watching the children still, but Spender could feel the disappointment in him radiating from his drilled eyes. He pretended not to notice. "Spectral shots are child's play. That your student is capable of such a feat places him on par with Isabel at five years of age."

The next group of students stepped up. Max met Collin's eyes on his way back to the bleachers.

Collin looked panicked, gesturing to the targets, then gesturing back to the hands Max was well aware would be unable to conjure up any aura at all, let alone get a spectral shot off. Max winced and shrugged at him. Can't help ya there, man.

Collin got up to the bat and mimed for dear life, found other kids doing the same thing. Each pointed and breathed and stood there waiting for auras that never built and shots that never burned through the distance. They turned to each other, confused, some agitated, some lackadaisical about the whole thing.

Guerra turned to Spender with a glare in his eye, and all he could do was smile nervously and swallow the fear gnawing at his throat like acid.

Nature walks were run-of-the-mill for Master Hashimoto's dojo. Ed never quite got the importance of them, and when he asked for clarification the answer was always "something-something peace" or "something-something tranquility".

Aka, "Something-something Ed isn't interested."

But alas, they were required. Every student in the dojo would wake up at roughly 5am, clothe themselves, then walk a mile-long hike through the woods before they could all return home to feast upon the breakfast Hashimoto no doubt would have laid out for them when they got back. As beautiful as the scenery was this time of year, Ed was far more interested in getting back so he could settle the uncomfortable tugging and gurgling of his stomach.

The start of the day was always the hardest. He knew this. And like always, he'd get through it. That didn't mean he felt like trekking up a mountain of flowers today, though.

He sighed and carried onward, barley giving the beautiful red roses he passed a sidelong glance. Well, he almost didn't. The vibrant red caught his eye, and he fell a few steps behind admiring the way the morning dew dripped from the soft petals.

Red was supposed to be the color of aggression, of hunger and anger and danger, but it was also adventure, passion…

Love.

A laugh he knew better than his own crossed his mind's ear, and he almost hated the way he instantly drew the connections to tan skin and red, so much red. Ed shook his head clear and turned away, transitioning into a light jog to catch up to the rest of his peers. This was crazy, he was being crazy. What that girl said meant nothing. What Dimitri said meant nothing, just people being people and misunderstanding his relationship with Isabel. They were like siblings! She was his best friend! He shook his head clear with finality.

He caught up with the rest of the group with ease, not that it was difficult. It seemed like he was the only one eager to get back to food, because his peers had taken a decidedly slower pace. He'd lightly jogged like an old man who'd just watched his small weiner dog steal his slipper, and still, he'd managed to catch up in about thirty seconds. Ed huffed, shoulders slumping in the way that usually got him a fist upside the head from Guerra and a small scolding from Spender.

"Guys, look! He's letting me feed him!"

One of the other students had paused to bend down a few feet in front of him. A quick side-step confirmed that she'd palmed a nut from the ground, and that a small squirrel had taken interest in it. A few other students coo'ed and some bemoaned not having their phone to take a picture. Ed felt himself smiling despite his grouchy mood. The squirrel was, after all, pushing the boundaries of cute. Big beady eyes, tail twitching, head tilting as it tried to communicate with his fellow student in a language it didn't know she didn't understand. Part of his heart, which he found had somewhat frozen over the last few weeks, melted on the spot. She opened up her palm, and the squirrel readily sprinted for it, pausing on her fingers to test the nut and see that it was real. Chestnut brown fur, spots of darker hair that looked black in the early morning sunrise-

-- brown eyes under long lashes, squinting with mirth as he made her laugh, his favorite sound in this world and the next.

Ed froze mid-thought, eyes widening so much he thought they would fall out of the sockets. He'd done it again, the same thing he'd been doing the past- how long had it been? Too long! Too long for this to still be a problem! Ed took several deep breaths, one hand pressed to his chest as he hyper-ventilated, or something close to it. He was just tired, that's all. He was busy a lot of the day training to become a man worthy...of… his mind trailed off again, and Ed felt his hands tearing his hair straight off of his head before he even registered the deep-seeded hand that felt like it was tugging twenty different chords of his heart.

I do not like Isabel! I do not like Isabel! I do not like Isabel!

"Get out of my head!"

There was a silence around him, and he couldn't help but think that it was a little odd, considering all the cute-animal-fawning that'd been happening a few seconds ago. He opened his eyes, which had been screwed shut in his agony, to find his entire class staring at him. Even the squirrel, which had been so content with its nut before, had turned its curious eyes on him as if waiting for an explanation. Ed blinked. "I yearn for the sweet embracing heat of my gaming console."

His peers seemed to shrug it off, nod, mumble "yeah, yeah that sounds about right".

[msterofnone-blog]

jack rider ; intro, stats, verses & connections

JACK RIDER looks an awful lot like ALEX TURNER. HE/HIM are/is TWENTY NINE and while they’re FRIENDLY, they have a tendency to get pretty UNMOTIVATED. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to HAND IN GLOVE by THE SMITHS.

- first of all; no matter who you are or what you want, jack rider doesn’t give a shit

- he will act friendly to everybody around him & is well known, but not well liked, more feared; everybody knows that he talks shit about them behind their backs as soon as they walk away

- he was born in manchester, england & his family moved to kola when he was 10; his mother had dreams (delusions) of making it big in hollywood, and was always distant from him, and when her plans didn’t work out, she grew more and more detached from the family. they had to stay as his dad, the realist, had set up his own repair shop to sustain them - his parents stayed together but his dad worked himself to the point of exhaustion whilst his mother would sit by the window every day, unspeaking; they passed away with a month of one another when jack was 18

- he’s a mechanic in kola & fixes cars just as his dad did (i had the greaser thing planned before the greaser anon & now i feel bad) so again he comes into contact with a lot of people - this business progressed into something more as he got older

- working with cars, his first foray into the criminal world was as a getaway driver (baby driver anyone?) but he was about 18 and still pretty new, but he wanted to be something more than his dad had been so he stuck with it and made his way up through the ranks

- he now works with the gang he was first involved with in dealing through his repair shop, but its more of an open secret

- at 29, he should be getting a little restless about his future but he’s never looked to settle down, and will loudly (obnoxiously) pronounce that love does not exist - at least not for men like him

FULL NAME: jack rider PRONUNCIATION: ja-c rye-der MEANING: any man REASONING: not the type of parents to think too deeply about his name rly NICKNAME(S): ponyboy (ANYONE) PREFERRED NAME(S): jack BIRTH DATE: november 2nd 1989 AGE: 29 ZODIAC: scorpio  GENDER: male PRONOUNS: he/him ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: panromantic SEXUAL ORIENTATION: pansexual NATIONALITY: british ETHNICITY: white british CURRENT LOCATION: kola, california LIVING CONDITIONS: lives above his repair shop in an outdated flat; really only uses it to sleep in & takes no pride in looking after it

BACKGROUND

BIRTH PLACE: manchester royal infirmary, manchester, england  HOMETOWN: machester, england  SOCIAL CLASS: lower EDUCATION LEVEL: finished high school FATHER: paul rider MOTHER: flora rider SIBLING(S): n/a CHILDREN: n/a PET(S): n/a  OTHER IMPORTANT RELATIVES: n/a PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS: never ever one to commit so has never had anything serious  ARRESTS?: countless  PRISON TIME?: 6 months

OCCUPATION & INCOME

PRIMARY SOURCE OF INCOME: fixing cars  SECONDARY SOURCE OF INCOME: dealing  APPROXIMATE AMOUNT PER YEAR: $30k CONTENT WITH THEIR JOB (OR LACK THERE OF)?: he’s convinced himself he is & has become somewhat of a self fulfilling prophecy - he used to dream of being a writer when he was much much younger & breaking out of the cycle of the men in his family; it didn’t happen PAST JOB(S): always been an apprentice to his father, who also fixed cars SPENDING HABITS: too much on cigarettes, not on the essentials  MOST VALUABLE POSSESSION: his chevrolet 

SKILLS & ABILITIES

PHYSICAL STRENGTH: fairly strong INTELLIGENCE: used to read a lot but hasn’t in over 10 years, a mediocre writer who never got the chance to improve  TALENTS: very good mechanic   SHORTCOMINGS: anything with numbers - he always works things out by eye  LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: english DRIVE?: yes JUMP-STAR A CAR?: yes CHANGE A FLAT TIRE?: yes RIDE A BICYCLE?: no SWIM?: yes PLAY AN INSTRUMENT?: barely plays guitar  PLAY CHESS?: no BRAID HAIR?: yes - used to braid his mothers hair  TIE A TIE?: yes PICK A LOCK?: yes

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS

FACE CLAIM: alex turner  EYE COLOR: brown HAIR COLOR: brown HAIR TYPE/STYLE: greased back always  GLASSES/CONTACTS?: nope  DOMINANT HAND: right  HEIGHT: 5′8″ WEIGHT: 156 lbs EXERCISE HABITS: lifting heavy weights when he works on cars but that’s about it SKIN TONE: on the paler side TATTOOS: 3 PEIRCINGS: one ear MARKS/SCARS: a scar on his shoulder from an ‘accident at work’ NOTABLE FEATURES: he use looks a bit mean most of the time really USUAL EXPRESSION: looking mean CLOTHING STYLE: old style greaser - the same as his father JEWELRY: rings when he’s not working & a watch ALLERGIES: n/a DIET: baD PHYSICAL AILMENTS: n/a

PSYCHOLOGY

JUNG TYPE: entj MORAL ALIGNMENT: chaotic neutral TEMPERAMENT: sanguine ELEMENT: fire APPROXIMATE IQ: 95 MENTAL CONDITIONS/DISORDERS: n/a OBSESSION(S): appearing unbothered by everything COMPULSION(S): checking his hair PHOBIA(S): relationships??? honestly  ADDICTION(S): smoking DRUG USE: he deals but won’t do anything he deals ALCOHOL USE: too much PRONE TO VIOLENCE?: too much 

MANNERISMS

SPEECH STYLE: a bit too loud and cocky  ACCENT: manchester  HOBBIES: trying in his very little spare time to play guitar but not telling anybody HABITS: smoking NERVOUS TICKS: his foot starts tapping DRIVES/MOTIVATIONS: not many at all; lives day to day FEARS: being alone with himself  POSITIVE TRAITS:  funny, friendly & loyal NEGATIVE TRAITS: violent, closed-off emotionally & judgemental  SENSE OF HUMOR: he’s funny ngl DO THEY CURSE OFTEN?: yeah CATCHPHRASE(S): ‘jack of all trades’

FAVORITES

ACTIVITY: working on cars ANIMAL: dogs BEVERAGE: whiskey  BOOK: to kill a mockingbird - harper lee CELEBRITY: mick jagger COLOR: black DESIGNER: he ain’t got a clue FOOD: bacon sandwiches  FLOWER: orchids GEM: ruby HOLIDAY:  he gets the most business (wink wink) around new year MODE OF TRANSPORTATION: ...cars MOVIE: the outsiders  MUSICAL ARTIST: the clash QUOTE/SAYING: ‘stay gold’  SCENERY: countryside SCENT: cinnamon  SPORT: football SPORTS TEAM: manchester united  TELEVISION SHOW: black mirror  WEATHER: rain VACATION DESTINATION: back home to britain

ATTITUDES

GREATEST DREAM: he has none )-: it was to write & escape what seemed to be laid out for him... it didn’t happen GREATEST FEAR: being forgotten about MOST AT EASE WHEN: working in his shop LEAST AT EASE WHEN: by himself WORST POSSIBLE THING THAT COULD HAPPEN: he lost his shop BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT: fixing up a car on his own for his dad BIGGEST REGRET: not getting his mother to engage with him - not trying harder to MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT: throwing a screwdriver at who he thought was his friend... it wasn’t... hospital happened BIGGEST SECRET: that he used to want to write  TOP PRIORITIES: making money 

&. VERSES

none yet!! working on it

&. WANTED CONNECTIONS

ROMANTIC.

i wanna be yours - jack fiercely disbelieves in love, and this person makes him question this long held belief (partners in crime)

leave before the lights come on - somebody jack’s being seeing for months, unwittingly (or perhaps wittingly) leading them on without seeing it as anything near serious

bigger boys & stolen sweethearts - the two used to play make believe together when they were young before one of them moved away - they’d made a pact to marry one another at 6 years old & now jack ( the love non-believer remember ) has been invited to their wedding

PLATONIC.

red light indicates doors are secure - somebody else in the same gang as jack; they’re close & watch each others backs

only ones who know - somebody who often visits his repair shop & their company & conversation lets him escape to normalcy for a few hours a week ( could become romantic!! )

fake tales of san francisco - jack finished high school but only just & has forgotten his love for words - somebody smart stumbles into his life and helps him reignite his interest ( in private, of course ) 

ENEMIES.

dangerous animals - member/s of rival gang/s cos we been knew my boy likes to fight

do me a favour - an ex from a very turbulent relationship whom jack probably hurt very badly & left without much of a thought 

&. FILLED CONNECTIONS

ROMANTIC.

none!!

PLATONIC.

none!!

ENEMIES.

none!!

[ifishouldvanish]

Home Again (3/?)

Belle left Storybrooke to travel the world- leaving her childhood friend, Adam Gold, behind. Years later, she returns to her hometown to see him again.

Prompts: only a rose; closing up shop; tomorrow Rating: T (for implied past abuse and implied sexy times) Words: 1,745 A/N: This work was previously posted as part of the 2018 Rumbelle Showdown event, under the pseudonym Your Favorite Cryptid. To everyone who voted for my work- thank you so much! It was my first time participating, and I was thrilled to make it as far as the third round! <3 A/N 2: I really struggled with the word count on this round, so I figured I’d post the ~extended cut~ if you will, before I started trimming everything down. It's a healthy 250 words or so over the 1500 limit :x

[Part One] [Part Two] [Read on AO3]

Belle was no stranger to being served breakfast. It had become somewhat of a routine after spending her nights in one hostel after another. But this was so wonderfully different.

She slept a lot– late into the mornings, long after Adam had gotten up. Some nights she clung to him, others he clung to her. But every morning without fail, she came downstairs to a full breakfast with a warm cup of tea, a quick peck on the lips, and a hug that never seemed to last long enough.

This morning however, there was the addition of a single red rose on the table. Belle smiled and watched as Adam flit about, pulling ingredients and measuring cups from the cupboards. He was already dressed, his jacket and overcoat hanging on the hook in the hall, and a crumpled bag from the grocery store sat on the counter beside a fresh carton of eggs. Her observation was cut short however, when she gave herself away with a big yawn.

“Good morning.” Adam smiled over his shoulder. “Ten-thirty's early for you, no?” he teased, throwing a pointed glance at the clock.

He seemed more chipper this morning, and she was fairly certain the fact that he was picking his son up tomorrow had something to do with it.

“That's right. I'll be a functioning member of society again before you know it.” Belle chuckled, stepping over to him and pecking him on the cheek. "But then you won't have an excuse to close up the shop anymore.”

“Ah, yes. The people of Storybrooke have been without someplace to get cash for gold for six whole days.” he deadpanned. “What chaos.”

Belle narrowed her eyes at him.

He smiled back and wet his lips. “What?”

“You sell yourself short, is all,” she shrugged, taking his hand and studying his fingers. “You have plenty of nice things in there.”

“Perhaps. But I think I'll keep my day job as everyone’s tyrannical landlord.” he scoffed, and Belle didn't miss the bitterness in his voice.

Growing up, she'd heard many a cathartic rant about how he wanted nothing to do with his father, to be nothing like him. And now here he was, managing all of Malcolm's properties, running his shop, living in his house. She couldn't fault him for it, though. He had a child to support, and she'd always maintained that it wasn't what his father did that mattered, but how. In that regard, he and Malcolm were nothing alike.

“You're no tyrant.” Belle told him.

He didn't respond, instead only watching the way she studied his hand in silence.

She hesitated and nibbled her lip. “The other day, at the shop–” she said. “I um... noticed the uh, tea set?”

A smile bloomed across his face then, and he nodded. “Aye.”

Belle sighed, leaning against the counter beside him. “God, I can remember that day so well…” she said. “We were so terrified of what your father would do when he found out… how old were we, then?  Eleven? Twelve? I can't believe it's still there.”

“Twelve. And that's because it's not for sale.” he winked.

“No…” she giggled and shook her head. “Come on.”

“Well, who would want to buy a tea set that's missing a cup, hm?” he said.

“What… whatever happened to that cup, anyway? You said you'd take care of it, and–”

“I took care of it.” he said, measuring out some flour into the mixing bowl.

“Adam, I mean it,” she pressed. “I… I was worried for you. What he might do to–”

“I hid it.” he said, finally looking back at her. “Drunk bastard never even noticed it was missing.”

Belle tilted her head, not sure if he was telling the truth or not. Malcolm had struck him for far milder offenses than breaking things in the shop, and she'd carried the guilt that Adam had very likely been punished for her own carelessness ever since.

Adam wet his lips and snapped a finger at her. “Wait right here.” he said, brushing past her and disappearing down the hall. He returned a moment later, holding up her chipped cup with a triumphant little grin on his face.

Belle huffed out a laugh and rolled her eyes. “You really kept it?” she asked. “After all these years?”

“Of course I did.” he said. He gently placed the cup in her hands and brushed the corner of his eye with his sleeve. “You always stood up for and protected me, Belle. I... wanted to remember the one time it was me who was brave for you.”

Belle rubbed her thumb along the chipped rim for a moment. Regardless of the circumstances, she couldn’t help smiling at it.

“You were always brave.” she said, finally setting it down on the table. Her eyes crept back to the rose again, in its slender, fluted vase. “So um... what's that?” she asked.

Adam glanced over his shoulder and smiled at it. “That, ” he said, taking her hands, “is for you.”

“Adam…” she smiled and shook her head. “You didn't have to...”

“What?” he furrowed his brows and gave a crooked little smirk that made her heartbeat thicken. “It's only a rose.”

Belle nibbled her lip and stepped closer, draping her arms over his shoulders. “Well, it’s a very lovely rose. So thank you.”

He settled his hands on her waist and smiled back down at her. “You're welcome.”

It was nice, being like this. Tactile, affectionate. The way they could have been over a decade ago. As she took in his features– eyes, lips, cheekbones, nose, and all– she could remember the first time she began to notice him and the man he was becoming. How the kids at school would sing, Belle and Adam sitting in a tree– and how one day, she could only manage a blush in response instead of a denial.

She hesitated for a moment,, then reached up on her toes to kiss him again– slowly this time, letting her hands wrap behind his neck and her fingers slip through his hair. His hands slid around her waist to pull her close as they deepened the kiss, and nothing else in life had ever felt like this.

His hand wandered downwards to her hip, tucking itself beneath the hem of her shirt, and the sensation of his touch could have burned her. They hadn't made love since that first night. Instead they'd agreed to take things a little slowly. Particularly, to keep their distance around Neal so as not to confuse or overwhelm him. But they wouldn't have to worry about that until tomorrow, and oh, how she wanted him again. Surely, that's what the rose was for, wasn't it? A sign that he wanted her again too?

She tugged on his lip with her teeth and a deep sound came from him as he gripped her more tightly. Heat flared in her belly, but instead of spurring her on, she had a sudden change of heart. They would have time for this, later.

“I'm sorry.” she shook her head. “I– we shouldn't.”

Adam swallowed and cleared his throat. “No. You're right. I'll just ah… finish up breakfast.” he coughed. “Please. Sit down.”

Belle took her seat at the table again, her focus darting back and forth between the cup and the rose. There was the sound of Adam cracking an egg, and it pulled her attention away, over to the fridge. The door was covered with endearingly disproportionate drawings of the house, the shop, father and son holding hands while a bright yellow sun hung overhead. Another of them with big smiles on their faces that read, a dad is somebody who makes you fell better when your sad.

Belle smiled. He was nothing like his father. Not even close.

Soon Adam was sliding food onto her plate, and she startled.

“Are you sure it's alright?” Belle asked.

He followed her gaze to the drawings on the fridge with a smile. “...I'm sure he'll be ecstatic to make a new friend.”

“I know, but–”

“If he seems uncomfortable... I've got an apartment on Third we can get you set up in.” he said, sitting across from her. “But… Belle, I-I'd really like to have you here.”

“I don't know…”

The smile on his face crumbled away. “What?”

She looked out the window and into the cold, at the falling snow. “I just wouldn't want to intrude, or... be a kept woman, is all.” she explained, her gaze landing on the rose again.

“You wouldn't be.” He sounded so hurt, and his eyes focused on her plate instead of her face. “It could be… home, here. Just–” He took a deep breath to get a handle on his emotions, but his chin trembled with incoming tears nonetheless. “Please. I– I've missed you.”

“Hey.” Belle reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I’m not going to leave you, Adam. Not again.”

He nodded and sniffled, still looking down at the table.

“But if we’re going to try to take things slow, then maybe… maybe we really ought to take things slow.”

Adam rubbed a hand over his mouth and shook his head. “It's just… twelve years, Belle.” he choked out. “Twelve years, and I've loved you for all of them. Every single one.”

“I know.” she whispered.

The words, me too, reached the tip of her tongue, but they seemed selfish. After all, she'd had an entire world to distract herself from the Adam-shaped hole in her heart. He only had reminders.

“...I know.” she said again, brushing her thumb over his knuckles.

“You're here now, a-and I don't want to waste another moment.” he said. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” she told him. “I came back– for you.”

He looked up and nodded, a fragile little smile on his face. “You did.” he whispered shakily.

“And listen–” she pulled his hand closer and put on a smile. “Tomorrow you're going to bring your boy home, and I can't wait to meet him, and to see what a great papa you are.”

Adam blushed and looked away, trying to hide the precious smile that was rounding his cheeks at the mention of his son. “H-he's a good boy, Belle.”

“Of course he is.” she said, rubbing his arm. “His papa's a good man.”

Adam took a deep breath and nodded. “Tomorrow. He’s going to adore you, Belle. I know it.”

[theundergroundarchives]

Rising Prodigy: Unraveling the artistry of Bearboi

Bearboi talks about how he first digged in deep into the music production through self-learning. For him, the willingness to learn should be put as first on top of everything else.

Words by Shafadzlin A. Shaharir

Having started becoming active with music since 2017 from a rented house in the Shah Alam city, Bearboi is an all-rounder who does not only rap and write, but also composes and produces his own music. Born Qamarul Arifin, the multi-talented 24-year-old sets his mission in succeeding inside the music industry like every and each aspiring artiste.

He released his very first solo material back in 2017; the track which was given the name “Kamu” features an up-and-coming artiste Afif Sola, who at the time, has just made his name by participating in a television reality program, Mentor, as singer Black’s protege. Leaving a personal touch of his experience, Bearboi reveals that the first song which has ever been released by him was a result stemming from the heartbreak phase of a short-lived relationship. Consequently, his other early bodies of work would follow up which included the remix covers of pop songs; Sufian Suhaimi’s “Di Matamu” and Ismail Izzani’s “Luar Biasa” uploaded on SoundCloud.

Having named his early inspirations such as the international, long-standing acts 50 Cent and The Black Eyed Peas, Bearboi confides that, growing up, he’s also greatly inspired by the Malaysian’s legendary hip hop duo, Too Phat. “My elder brother was the one who influenced me to listen to these artistes when I were still a kid. Back then, I remember that we used to have a speaker at our house that we’d play all the songs by these artistes with, and of course, with the volume up. At the time, I was only interested in listening to the songs as a fan, I didn’t think of becoming a rapper at all. However, everything changed when I got myself involved with the b-boy community in Muar.”

Prior to receiving a formal education of Diploma in Music (Performance) at the Faculty of Music in Universiti Teknologi Mara (UiTM) Shah Alam, the then 18-year-old male was totally clueless when it came to playing any instruments except the acoustic guitar. “Honestly, the first instrument that I’ve ever held and the first instrument that I’ve ever known to play was the guitar,” shares him, elaborating: “When I first held the guitar, I remember instantly having the feeling of wanting to make music. Amusingly, the guitar was actually bought by my father as a birthday present for my younger brother. But my younger brother didn’t even play it and I ended up being the one who played it all the time,”

“When I’ve already known all the chords, I had a sudden desire of wanting to explore more of this. So I started playing around with the chords since then and I even tried to melodize the sound with my voice. Most of the time, I’d do freestyles with the guitar strings and strum the jazz-inspired tunes.”

In spite of having rap as his main genre that’s pursued by him now, Bearboi admits that he’s deeply attached to the jazz genre. According to him, he feels that the mentioned genre is inclusive and that whenever he listens to jazz songs, he’d find his soul being immersed within the music. “Jazz for me, is a genre that allows you to get into its space only to let yourself become immersed within it. I realized, whenever I play any jazz songs using the guitar, I’d always find myself getting absorbed into the soulful melodies.”

Adding him, “When I got into the university, I started learning the piano because I wanted to explore another instrument. This was when I realized that when you can play piano, it’ll get easier for you to excel at other instruments as well simply because piano teaches you to master all the necessary theories that you’ll ever need to know in music; and thanks to Google too, I was able to pick up many and many things about the music theories and production.” The efforts spoke as slowly he started to master at playing not only the guitar, but also the piano, keyboard, synthesizer as well as the traditional instruments including that of gamelan and kompang.

Reminiscing his early times of having his interest developed in making music, Bearboi shares, “I started making music when I first moved to Shah Alam. It all started with experimenting with my laptop at my house back then in 2014,”

“At the time, I was only playing around with the music production software, without having known the exact and proper ways at all to produce music. I was arranging the music absurdly because I had no idea at all about the right steps to work out the software. But I remember the first ever sound I’ve ever created was a hip hop-inspired tune.”

As time passed by, and as he started figuring out the inside and outs of music production, Bearboi started to produce for other musicians other than for himself. “One day, I got a text. Somebody was offering a project to make music for a local clothing brand. I was made known that the brand used to sponsor other established rappers including that of B-Heart, Kmy Kmo, K-Main and Luka Sickta,”

“To be honest, this was the turning point for me where I started producing for other people as well. Since then, I’ve been conducting recording sessions. There’d always be people who come to my place just to record their tracks and sometimes, they’d even bring their own beats. This was also when I eventually realized the power of word of mouth marketing.”

Recalling the moment when he first went to a hip hop gig, Bearboi says, “My first hip hop gig that I’ve ever went to was the one that was organised by the Hear Me Out movement at Atas by Bijan. At the time, I got to see live a few talents which are already shining in the music scene today performing like Quai from tastas classofpoets, Hullera, Deus Tigaratus and B-Heart. I remember thinking to myself, I want to be on the stage like them, it doesn’t matter whether it’s a big stage or even a small stage. I’d like the people to listen to my music because that’s my satisfaction.”

The Lady Luck heard his desire. In November 2018, Bearboi eventually joined the local hip hop movement, Hear Me Out as part of the producer line-up. “When I first stepped into the Hear Me Out studio, everything almost felt surreal to me. Hear Me Out is one of established hip hop movements in Malaysia and having the opportunity of working alongside with other experienced producers such as Aidy’Ad made me realized what I lucky man I was.”

Having performed at a number of live stages in and around Kuala Lumpur and Johor Bahru, Bearboi shares, “It doesn’t matter how the big or small the crowd is, for me, every single stage that I get to step onto, matters, and means so much to me,” elaborating: “I want to be a rapper and producer who uplifts the audience with his music. I don’t mind walking my move independently, as long as I know that there are people out there vibing to my music, it already makes me a content man.”

In July 2019, Bearboi left Hear Me Out to pursue a better opportunity at the newly formed Silent Set Entertainment where he acted as a producer. During August of the same year, he released his first self-titled, five-track extended play, Bearboi. By the end of the year, he left Silent Set Entertainment in order to go back to hometown and bring forward the hip hop scene in the historical town. “No matter how far I tried to run away, at the end of the day, I could never deny that I’m deeply attached to the place where I was born, Muar. I aspire to bring up the rap scene in the town and make relatable music that makes everyone in the town feels as if they’re connected to one another.”

In February, Bearboi released his first 2020’s single, “BLKNG” featuring Aidy’Ad of SA4TK and LQ Music’s YAPH; meanwhile his sophomore extended play is scheduled to be released this April including that of the pre-release singles “Usha Cermin” and “Baller” featuring Adyb, Fahmi Anuar and FK Blunt.

The original article was first published in The Underground Articles (Print Edition) Volume 1.

[falleyes]

Somewhere Else pt.1 - The Airport

[Summary: All of the what ifs of Drake & Riley meeting somewhere else, in any other way.]

This scene drove me insane, so naturally, I wrote something.

“If we’d met somewhere else…anywhere else. At a club in New York or in an airport, or at a party…If you hadn’t been our waitress that night, and I hadn’t been sitting next to Liam…Do you think all of this…do you think it could’ve been different…between us?”

“Last call for boarding Flight 847 to Detroit, last call for boarding.”

Riley could just make out the flight attendant’s calm and professional voice over the usual hubub of the airport as she shifted her carry-on bag and set off towards the baggage claim.

JFK airport was almost always loud, a melting pot of sounds and people that reflected the city it was surrounded by. And Riley loved it. New York City, dubbed the “City That Never Sleeps,” was a cultural hub that Riley hoped would provide her with the adventure and excitement her hometown lacked to satisfy her travel bug for the time being.

Already, in her short trip from Gate 14 to baggage claim, she’d heard at least ten different languages, and just as many distinct accents from countries all across the globe. She’d jump at the chance to see them all, if her bank account could afford it. Riley had been saving up for years to travel the world, but her dead end job waitressing could only get her so far. For now, New York was her closest bet.

Just the very thought of how much this emergency trip back to her hometown cost her had Riley anxiously working her lip and her fingers itching to pull out her phone and text her coworkers for any shifts to pick up.

A sigh escaped Riley’s lips as she slumped against a pillar adjacent to her baggage carousel and watched suitcases go by with bored eyes and folded arms.

Before long, her eyes strayed to observe her surroundings. All around her, people moved about, some moving sluggishly, others rushing like their lives depended on it. To her right was a fierce looking woman in a pinstriped pantsuit, tersely talking on the phone while making agitated movements. To her left knelt a weary man before a crying young boy of his likeness, desperately searching through his duffle bag for something to console his son. All the while, he spoke quickly and despairingly in what Riley assumed was Italian until, at long last, he triumphantly pulled out a rather sad looking blanket out of the bag and held it up to the young boy like an offering.

Amidst the cacophony, Riley tuned into a clipped and frustrated voice, a blend of harsh staccatos with a faint and rather unrecognizable accent underneath. She turned her head as her eyes scanned the crowd for the owner of that voice, her interest now piqued. There was something familiar about that voice, although Riley was certain she’d never heard it before. It was as if her fingers were dancing across the worn ivory keys of a poorly-tuned piano to play a long-forgotten song, and she was trying to figure out the key.

Not far from where she stood by her baggage carousel, at the check-in counter of some airline she’d never heard of, Riley found him.

He had messy brown hair that curled over his shirt collar just below the nape of his neck and was dressed in jeans and a denim shirt that was haphazardly buttoned over a white T-shirt. Although she couldn’t see his face from her angle, the employee’s stressed expression and the way his back muscles strained against his shirt made it quite obvious he wasn’t happy.

Without thinking, Riley drew closer to get within earshot. She didn’t know what it was that compelled her to do so, maybe it was innocent curiosity or the fact that conflict is always interesting to watch. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way this stranger was so oddly familiar. The way she knew that voice, in every tone it came in, without ever having heard it before.

“Listen, lady, I need to be on the next flight back to Cordonia,” the man said as he placed his hands on the counter and leaned forward, pleading with the airline employee. “I’m not supposed to be here, I -”

“But you bought a plane ticket to New York?”

“Well, yeah,” he grumbled, pushing his hands through his dark hair. “I came here for someone, but they aren’t…they aren’t here and I’ve got someone back home who needs me now. I’ve got the money -”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but if you bought your ticket here to New York City on your own, we aren’t responsible for your being here and cannot prioritize you over other customers,” the employee shook her head as she looked down at her computer screen. “If you want to be on the next flight to Cordonia, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning. I’d be more than happy to assist you in purchasing your ticket for that flight, but otherwise -”

“But tomorrow morning isn’t good enough!” the man groaned, hands fisting in his hair before falling to his side. “It says right there that there’s a flight leaving in forty-five minutes!” he said, pointing at the screen on the wall behind her that displayed the flight schedules.

“A flight we no longer sell tickets for,” the employee stated wearily, as if they’d already gone over this before. “Plane tickets are no longer sold two hours prior to departure, and we ask that all guests check in at least an hour before take off. The soonest we can get you in the air is tomorrow morning at eight.”

“Well, then what the hell am I supposed to do until tomorrow morning?” he snapped before slamming his hand down on the counter in frustration, capturing the attention of quite a few people nearby.

“Sir,” the woman said, stern and slightly startled by his sudden action. Her eyes scanned the area around them, worried that he would start to draw too much attention.

As if only just realizing he was in public, the man stepped back and turned in a half circle to see the small audience he had begun to draw in. For the first time, Riley was finally able to get a good view of the man’s face. He had a strong jaw, a nose that looked as if it had been chiseled out of marble for the bust of Julius Caesar, dark eyes, and a brooding expression to match.

Before she could even think to look away, his eyes swiftly swept over the mass of people before landing directly on hers.

Riley sucked in a breath between her teeth, a jolt going through her body and awakening every nerve as she felt the full force of his stare. Glare? Oh, if he wasn’t before, he was definitely glaring now. His lips twisted into a scowl and Riley quickly turned, busying herself with the search for her suitcase once again as she felt her face flush.

The second she found the old, beat up, black suitcase she’d taken on nearly every trip since middle school, Riley peeled out of there as fast as possible, the rickety wheels wobbling with every step she took. Even as she approached the automatic sliding doors, she could still feel his eyes on her, burning into the back of her skull. When she stepped outside, Riley hesitated, filled with the odd and nonsensical need to turn around.

She kept going.

“Right, Kismet at eight,” Riley repeated, her phone wedged between her cheek and her shoulder as she hastily scribbled the words down on a coffee-stained napkin she found in her bag. “Damn pen,” she muttered under her breath as ink bled into her fingers and smudged onto the napkin. Shifting everything around again, she wedged the clean end of the pen between her teeth, shoved the napkin into her back pocket, switched her phone to her other hand, and checked her watch. Six thirty. She took the pen out of her mouth and tapped it against her hip. “I can do that.”

An hour and a half. That was just enough time for Riley catch the bus home, unload her stuff, take a quick shower, and head over to Kismet, the hottest club in town to potentially pick up a friend of a friend’s shift, assuming they still needed the help.

“Uh huh,” she nodded, pacing around the shelter next to the bus stop as she spoke on the phone. “Of course, it’s no problem…No, not at all…Money is money after all…Alright, cool, thanks…Yeah, you too…Okay, bye.”

Satisfied, Riley hung up with a relieved smile. Due to a series of calls, she was able to find someone through a mutual friend who needed somebody to cover for her at a popular club while she went on a date. It was only for one night and the pay wasn’t nearly enough to make up for her last trip, but it was good enough.

Riley dropped her phone into her bag and plopped down on the bench, leaning back and rubbing her tired eyes. She wondered how many cups of coffee it’d take to get through the night.

“Does this mean you’re done pacing now? It was really starting to get on my nerves.”

Riley shot up in her seat, eyes fluttering open. To her left sat the same man from earlier in the airport, with the cool expression and the brooding eyes. A duffle bag sat at his feet.

“I didn’t realize…” Riley shook her head and scooted backwards, putting some space between her and the stranger. She’d been so wrapped up in her phone call, she must not have noticed when he arrived. As her eyes took in his impassive expression and she remembered his irritated tone, her brows furrowed and she pursed her lips. Any timorous feelings she had under his gaze before had completely disappeared. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” he shrugged, folding his arms across his chest and letting his legs stretch out. “What’s Kismet?”

“It’s a club,” she answered curtly. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to listen into other people’s conversations?” And then, wilting slightly under his inquisitive but intense eyes, she added, “And to stare?”

The man raised an eyebrow and the corner of his lip just barely quirked up. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you?”

Riley felt her face go hot again and she quickly looked away, mumbling under her breath. “That was different.”

“Oh really? How?” he scoffed. “Pray tell.”

Riley scowled and sent him a scalding look as she crossed her arms as well. “Maybe if you hadn’t made such a big scene, I wouldn’t have paid any attention.”

“And I’m just supposed to ignore you pacing all around the bus station in front of me?”

“That’d be much appreciated.” Riley quipped, turning slightly away from him so she didn’t have to see his irritating smirk and longer than she had to.

“Is everyone in this town so hypocritical?” he muttered bitterly.

“City.” Riley corrected him.

“What?”

She glanced over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow before looking away again. “This a city. You know, New York City…The City That Never Sleeps…”

”Fine, fine. Is everyone in the city this annoying?” the man groaned, covering his face with his hands before pushing them back through his hair.  Then, he dropped his hands to rest his arms on his knees and looked up at Riley, his expression growing smug. “Or is it just you?”

Heat flared up in Riley’s stomach and in her cheeks. She whipped her head in his direction, eyes narrowed into a glare. “Don’t get pissy with me just because you bought a ticket to a city you don’t even want to be in. I mean, who does that? And it’s not my fault that you can’t go home today, so leave me out of your little mope fest.”

For a split, incredibly satisfying, second, the man’s expression fell and his brows raised in surprise at her sudden outburst. But just as quickly as it came, his shock melted away. His brows pulled together, a deep crease forming in the middle, and his lips twisted into a scowl very similar to the one he gave her earlier, but with so much more intensity.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to come here.”

Riley studied him for a few moments, pensive. He didn’t look the business type. He had only a duffle bag at his feet - no briefcase - so his venture out here couldn’t have been work related. He wasn’t a tourist, he made that much clear. And he clearly wasn’t from around here - any of the states, probably -  given how out of place he looked here. There was also the fact that whatever place he was talking about earlier with the airline employee certainly didn’t sound like any place in America. What was it again? Cordonia?

“Why are you here?” she questioned, her tone no longer harsh but simply curious.

The man’s expression slightly softened as well. “I…” he trailed off, looking crestfallen. His dark eyes took on a hazy appearance and as if he was suddenly miles away. A few moments passed before he abruptly shook his head, coming out of whatever trance he seemed to have been in. He met Riley’s gaze once more, expression guarded yet again. “Forget it,” he mumbled under his breath and looked away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Not sure how to reply to that, Riley stayed quiet and let the cars around them fill the awkward silence between them.

When her bus finally came, Riley was surprised to see the man stand as well and walk over to the curb for boarding. She wondered if he even knew where he was going. Or what he was doing.

Her questions answered themselves as she stood on the step behind him, waiting as he searched his pockets fruitlessly for any spare change to pay the bus driver. In the end, the best he could procure were a few foreign-looking coins and his wallet.

“I don’t suppose you take credit cards, do you?” he asked, no hope in his voice as he flipped open his wallet.

The bus driver shook her head.

Shoulders sagging, he turned to get off of the bus. His arm brushed against Riley’s as he passed.

She turned to watch him go, so defeated, and before she could think twice about it…

“Wait.”

Riley pulled a few extra dollars from her bag and held them out to the driver along with her own bus fare as the man halted in his tracks and turned to look at her, brows furrowed.

“I’ve got him covered.”

She could feel his eyes on her as the driver took the cash and she took off down the aisle without waiting to see if he got on or not. Riley made her way towards the back of the bus and tried to sort out her reasoning for helping the gruff stranger out. By the time she had rationalized that she simply felt bad for him and she was a good person, she heard him mumble a low thank you to the driver and the doors slid shut.

As the bus lurched forward, Riley sat down in an empty row by the window with her suitcase at her feet and immediately pulled out her phone to text her family that she arrived safely and her friends that she was back home.

Someone sat down beside her, and without having to even look, Riley knew it was the stranger from the airport again.

Minutes passed in silence, Riley scrolling through her feed as the man sat there, occasionally glancing over at her and opening his mouth to say something, but ultimately deciding against it.

Finally, he spoke up.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he said softly. “Pay for me, I mean.”

Riley didn’t say anything for a while and the man looked away, accepting her lack of response as a response.

“I know.”

At the sound of her voice, he turned his head towards her again. She still hadn’t looked up from scrolling on her phone.

“So…why’d you do it?”

His simple question caused her thumb to stall over the phone screen. He watched as she bit the inside of her cheek and shrugged. “I don’t know. I felt bad, I guess.”

“But,” he shook his head, dumbfounded. “I was a jerk to you.”

Riley let out a small laugh and locked her phone before letting it drop into her lap. “Yeah. You were,” she said, looking out the window. “But you seemed to be having a rough day. And being alone in a big city…I guess I can see why it’d suck.”

He studied her, thoughtfully and with a slight twinge of guilt about the way he’d acted towards her earlier. He’d have to apologize for that later, make it up if he could. He wondered vaguely if she liked whiskey.

“What’s your name?” he asked. The question was innocent enough.

It got her to finally turn towards him brows raised. “Riley,” she said. “Riley Cole.”

“Drake.” He held out his hand to her, feeling obliged to introduce himself to this stranger after she’d helped and put up with him. Riley examined his hand briefly before grasping it, her smaller hand easily fitting into his.

Letting go of his hand, she faced forward in her seat again. “So, Drake… Do you even know what you’re doing on this bus?”

He startled her with a short laugh, a low rumble in his throat. “Not a clue,” Drake admitted. “I figured that if I rode around long enough, I’d find a bar or something.”

Riley looked at him incredulously. “Seriously?”

“What?“

“You come all the way to New York City, and you just want to spend the night in a bar?” Riley couldn’t imagine choosing a bar over the New York night life. Sure, she could appreciate a good drink with good company, but was he actually serious? She worked in a bar and there was nothing glorious about it.

Drake shrugged. “You got a better plan, Cole?”

“Only about a million…” she muttered, shaking her head.

Suddenly, an idea began to form. A ridiculous, stupid, and not-thought-out-at-all idea at that. But when Riley looked up at him, she couldn’t imagine just leaving him to spend the night in some bar. And as the familiar street signs and buildings came into view around her, she realized her stop was coming up. It was now or never.

“Look,” Riley said, standing up and adjusting her jacket before grabbing her suitcase. “Why don’t you let me show you around?”

“Wait, what?” Drake’s eyebrows shot up, mouth slightly agape as he swung his legs out into the aisle to let her through. “Really? Why?”

“Apparently, I’m not done pitying you,” she muttered, not quite able to believe she was doing this either. “I might be picking up a shift tonight, but afterwards… Well, it’d be a damn shame if you came all this way and never got to see the good parts of the city.”

“I couldn’t ask…Cole, are you sure about this?” Drake asked as the bus came to a halt. Suddenly, many of the other passengers came to life, standing and pushing their way towards the front or rear bus exits.

“As sure as I can be,” she told him over her shoulder as she fell in step with the crowd. “Just meet me after I’m done and I promise, you won’t hate the city as much as you do now.”

“I – wait!” Drake abruptly stood up and called after her as she stepped off the last stair and onto the curb. “How am I supposed to…?”

His voice got lost in the city sounds, people talking, dogs barking, and cars honking. Desperately, he tried to push his way closer to a window she could hear him out of, but it was no use.

It wasn’t until the doors sealed shut and the bus’s engine sputtered off that she realized.

He had no idea where to find her, no way to contact her.

Riley whirled around, lips calling after the bus to wait but it was already lumbering down the block. She groaned, slapping her palm against her forehead and cursing her own stupidity. After checking her watch and weighing her options, Riley’s shoulders slumped and she turned away to go up the stairs to her apartment building. Even if she went after him and, by some miracle, actually found him, she’d probably never make it to Kismet on time.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, even though he was long gone. Guilt gnawed away at the insides of her stomach and she could have sworn her feet felt just a little heavier than they had before.

Back on the bus, Drake ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the ends as he stared through the window where he’d last seen Cole. Despite his yelling, she hadn’t heard him. And he was pretty sure the universe was just playing one big joke on him as she stopped and turned, the realization dawning on her face, after the bus pulled away.

“Of course,” he muttered, shaking his head as he went back to his seat. Of course, this happened to him. It was just his luck that he’d wind up alone in one of the busiest cities in the world and the only person who finally started to help him just slipped away.

As Drake sat back, he sighed out heavily and glanced over at the seat Riley had occupied less than a minute ago. He let his hands drop into his lap and was about to face forward again when something else caught his eye.

A scribbled-on napkin with an inky thumbprint smudged on the corner.

Kismet. 8 PM.

Drake read it and reread it a few times, his thumb brushing over the hasty scrawl and then settling his larger thumb over the smaller print. A faint smile just barely etched its way onto his face as he pocketed the napkin and pulled out his phone, looking up directions.

(so how about that for a first story? tagging @thedrakeside )

[sehunpeachy]

cardiac arrest (m) | pt. 2

gif by @chimchams

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 (coming soon)

⇒pairing: taehyung x reader (ft. hoseok)

⇒genre: doctor! au | angst, fluff, descriptive smut

⇒length: 9k

⇒summary: you’ve always thought the only thing you’ve ever wanted was to become a doctor, but then you meet him.

a/n: yeesh this took a while, but the second chapter is finally out! i’ll most likely start a new project before i start the final chapter, so pls look forward to both! also, a forcep is one of those grabby thingys, in case you didn’t know ;)

“How’s the patient doing?”

“Breathing,” you respond, not looking up as the nurse closed the doors behind her. Your eyes scanned the array of instruments on the tray and you pick up the second smallest forcep.

“Something more, doctor?” The nurse asks, giving you a side eye.

“Alive,” you snap, walking up to to the patient, forcep in hand.

“Doctor,” the nurse mutters, following you. “Don’t get nervous now.”

“The damaged valve was removed,” you respond, sighing in the process. “Sorry,” and you mean it.

She gives you a reassuring smile before pulling up her mask and readjusting the patient’s head on the rest. “Let’s do this.”

You nod, pulling at your gloves as a nervous habit. The patient’s sternum is exposed already, heart momentarily ceasing to beat in the hollow space of the body and skin held apart with metal contraptions.

None of it grossed you out, you already have two decades of experience with blood and gore and guts up close. What scared you was the God complex that was thrust upon you every time you were in front of these bright lights and in this uniform. No amount of dissected frogs and years of university can ever fully prepare you for that.

You fidget with your mask before approaching the patient. Their face was covered before you walked in, just as you always request of your nurses. The less of a human connection, the better.

You lean in, nudging the hole in the heart with your gloved finger.

“Everything good?” The nurse asks opposite you. She had been with you long enough to know you had the habit of probing body parts, but not long enough to stop being freaked out by it.

“Perfect,” you say, maybe more to yourself than her. “Valve.”

You hold your hand out, feeling the small and circular piece of metal make contact with your rubber gloves, the cool surface of the material spreading throughout your palm.

You grip the valve with the instrument a little too tightly. “What’s the pressure?”

“Regular,” she answers, her glance catching the machine still plugged into the patient.

You don’t say anything, almost like your breath hitches, as you slowly lower the valve down.

The doors behind you open and only her head snaps towards the direction of sound. You watch her shoulders relax with familiarity out of the corner of your eye because only he could walk into the middle of an life-threatening operation and not get told off.

“Dr. Kim,” she acknowledges, almost a little too giddy for your liking.

“How’s the operation going?” Taehyung asks, his voice and footsteps nearing you. You swallow nervously, momentarily placing your hands away from the body to turn your head to him.

“Almost done,” the nurse answers, but Taehyung’s looking at you.

His head is cocked to the side, allowing his light hair to effortlessly sweep to the side, hands in pocket and shoulders hunched up. He slips on a pair of gloves, sending you a small smile to relax you and you hope he notices you return it through your mask.

His mere presence creates the burn of your cheeks and the fluttering inside your stomach, sparking something within you.

You turn back to the body, placing the mechanical valve into the heart with the ease that could have only been dug up with Taehyung in the room.

“Nicely done, Dr. Y/N,” Taehyung says, his voice sending timid shivers up your spine.

“Thank you, Dr. Kim,” you reply with a light tone, hooking your mask down to reveal your beam directed only towards him.

You’re both gazing at each other before the clearing of a throat brings you back.

“We’re not quite done just yet,” the nurse comments, eyes switching between you and Taehyung erratically.

“Right,” you agree. Taehyung brings you a sense of comfort, but it also takes you away from reality, making the situation so much less serious than it always has been to you, and you’re still not sure if that’s better or worse for your patient. “Stapler?”

“Here,” Taehyung says, arm outstretched with the stapler in hand before the nurse could move.

You realise he had grabbed it before you had even requested it, and you take it from him with a sheepish smile. His fingers brush against yours, just like they always do, making you bounce around to shake the butterflies blooming in your chest because nothing changed with him. He’s still the same boy you fell for five years ago.

Your focus shifts back to the patient, reaching over so you can staple the heart back together. This part’s always easy. No risk.

“Look at those staples,” Taehyung mumbles under his breath and hunching over behind you to look at the patient, making you let out a few muffled giggles. “They’re so perfectly aligned.”

“I’ve actually spent most of my life stapling,” you reply and he lets out a low chuckle.

“You must be an expert then,” he says, close enough to feel his breath hit your neck.

“I even won a contest back in my hometown when I was eight,” you continue with the gag, making him laugh softly.

“A prestigious competition.”

“Of course,” you say as you finish the last staple. The nurse clears her throat again, and you suddenly remember she had been in the room.

“Dr. Kim, can you step out for a moment?” The nurse commands rather than asks. You both turn to look at her dumbfounded. Taehyung hesitates, taking one last look at you before turning his heel away past the doors and out back into the corridors.

You pretend it’s no big deal as you’re back to the operation, preparing to close up the patient’s chest.

“You know, Y/N,” she begins to say, adjusting the machine to loosen its grip on the sliced open skin, “I don’t think having him in here during operations is a good idea.”

Your eyes flick to hers for a second and she’s staring at you, like she’s trying to decipher a riddle written on your face. “What makes you say that?” You ask for after a while, your hands busy and eyes down.

“You two flirt too much,” she simply says and your breath halts for a moment. “But at least he makes you less nervous. Or more, I’m not sure.”

She continues watching you as you work in silence and show no signs of a reaction.

“You’re lucky,” she continues, “he’s a cute one.”

Your eyebrow crooks, still not looking at her. “You interested?”

“After seeing that,” she responds and you already feel a smile creeping, “I’ll leave that department to you.”

You chuckle lowly. Your department. A sense of pride begins to glow in your chest, spreading the warmth throughout your body.

The conversation ends there, letting you finish the successful surgery without any more distractions of cute boys and honey oozing love seeping from your chest.

“Good job today, Y/N,” the nurse says, slipping off her gloves and throwing them into the bin.

“You too,” you huff, hooking your mask down and reaching for a cup of water nearby.

“I’ll take my break now,” she tells you, giving one last wave of her hand before she’s pushing through the doors and back out into the hallways.

You swallow the water down, clearing your throat and soothing it in the process, letting the ambient noise that enters the room from the open doors to sink in.

Suddenly, the doors being opened again, just as they were about to slide shut again. Droplets run down your chin as you pull the cup away from your mouth.

Taehyung walks in and you spring awake, placing the cup down. His hands naturally reach out for your waist as he closes in on you. There’s nobody else in the room now, allowing you to relish in his lips properly.

He pulls away from the kiss to breathe. “We got told off today.”

You giggle. “You were being a distraction.”

“More like you let me be one,” he says, pecking your lips again. Then he’s pulling away until he’s an arm length away, ignoring your pout at the lack of contact. “I have somebody you should meet.”

You immediately furrow your eyebrows, not liking the way his eyes gleam with mischief, harboring a surprise. “Taehyung…” you begin and he chuckles.

“One sec,” he says, holding up a finger and jogging back outside. He returns a few moments later, followed by a woman. “This is Dr. Y/N,” he says to her, gesturing to your still figure.

The woman begins to run to you, her black bob swaying behind her, letting a few strays get caught in her lips. She must be in her early thirties, a young yet matured aura, but her face was lit up like a child and maybe even a bit pink from crying. She wraps her arms around your neck, catching you off guard and making a noise of surprise leave your mouth.

“Thank you!” She squeals into your shoulder and you still don’t know how to react, your hands stationary in the air.

A sinking feeling settles in your insides when you realise what Taehyung had done, catching his eyes from across the room. He stands, arms crossed and a proud grin across his face, not faltering when your stare hardens.

The woman pulls away, gripping your shoulders in her antsy fingers and it forces you to look at her again. “Thank you,” she repeats, now a bit more calmly. You search her face, unable to say anything. “Can I see him?” She asks, turning away from you and to the patient at the bed.

Your answer gets caught in your suddenly dried up throat, still staring at the woman in bewilderment instead of thinking up a response.

“Of course,” Taehyung takes over, walking closer. The woman’s eyes flick to his, and then back to the patient. “He’s still not conscious, yet. But he’s alright.”

Taehyung steps up to the bed, uncovering the piece of fabric over the patient’s face. Your heart jolts as you see the man, around the same age as the woman, dark brown hair pushed back by a large forehead. You never look at the patients for operations unless you absolutely have to.

The woman melts in her place, reaching out to run her fingers through his hair and rest against on his scalp. From your angle, you can see tears roll down her cheeks when she blinks, carrying down black droplets from her smudged mascara with it.

You walk closer to her, offering her a piece of tissue that you gripped a little too tightly. She takes it, muttering a soft ‘thank you’, dabbing it against her face and along her waterline. Watching the scene made your stomach stir uncomfortably and your palms to clamp up.

You weren’t used to this. To narratives. To faces. To families and loved ones. All the patients were to you were systems of pumping veins underneath canvases of skin, a job to complete and then leave when it was all over. Once your mask and gloves were off, the association was done.

But now you were watching this woman, tenderly caressing this man’s face and holding her tears hostage with a tissue, softly weeping as she looked at something she thought for certain she would lose. 

Who was this woman to him? A wife? A girlfriend? A sister? How did she find him? Was she with him when he collapsed, or did somebody else bring him?

You weren’t supposed to think about this. You weren’t supposed to get attached.

You catch Taehyung’s stare, his smile growing twice the size as you did so.

“When will he be awake?” The woman creeks, her voice barely audible.

“By tomorrow,” Taehyung talks for you again, and you’re grateful because you don’t think you can. “Let’s get you back out.”

She nods at his words, leaning down to give a light peck on the man’s forehead and smoothing over his hair again, before pulling the fabric over his face again.

She walks gingerly, clutching onto the tissue and the fabric of her dress close to her. Taehyung crosses to help her, placing a gentle hand on the small of her back and leading her out. He gives you one last smile, one that said he was proud of you, before disappearing out.

You let out an exhale you hadn’t known you’ve been holding, relaxing your hunched up shoulders. You turn back to look at the patient, but it makes your heart sting so you snap away.

Taehyung peeks through the doors, motioning for you to come out, and you do so gladly, unable to stay in the same room anymore.

You’re greeted with the white lights and green undertone of a hospital, your ears finally exposed to some noise. Taehyung wraps his fingers around your wrist, wheeling you in, but not too close in the public eye.

“You did good,” he says, letting go of your wrist before anybody could take notice.

“I didn’t ask for that,” you mutter, crossing your arms in front of your chest and huffing.

Taehyung laughs, reaching out to uncross them and placing his hands over your shoulders. “Didn’t that feel good?”

“No,” you mumble through the grit of your teeth. “That was really weird.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, twirling a piece of astray hair by your eyes with his finger. Your stomach feels light at the action before you stop him.

“Let’s get out of here,” you say, turning the direction to your office, “the next nurse on duty might find us.”

“And tell us off again?” Taehyung asks, crooking an eyebrow and chuckling. A smile creeps onto your face as he follows behind you, jogging to catch up to your pace. “Did she say anything after I left? The nurse, I mean.”

“She said you were cute,” you answer, watching his face morph into a mix of embarrassment and pride.

There’s a pause. “I don’t mean to make you jealous,” he begins and you roll your eyes, “but she did always give me these—looks—when I worked with her.”

“Looks?” You ask, turning the corner.

“Looks,” Taehyung confirms, nodding and biting his bottom lip.

You smile. “She also said you were off the market.”

“She could tell?”

“Apparently so,” you say as you continue to navigate through the nonsensical corridors.

“That’s good,” he says, slinging his arm around you, “I don’t want anybody to give me ‘looks’ anyways. Besides you, of course.”

It becomes difficult to die down the beam growing on your face, your chest glowing with happiness. Happiness you haven’t felt for a long time, and a happiness you’ve only found again when he entered your life once more. 

You’re aware that even in an empty corridor, there’s a possibility people could catch you, but you let his arm hang on you, holding onto his wrist and leaning down a little to give his hand a quick peck.

You turn another corner, the door to your office now within your sights. You feel Taehyung lean down to whisper into your ear.

“You looked so hot when you were operating,” he hushes, his breath tickling your skin and making you squirm. “Something about this uniform, or maybe it’s just you.”

“You get turned on at the sight of open heart surgeries?” You tease, only because it’s fun to tease him.

“If you’re doing it, then yes,” he responds, leaning even closer. “You get what I’m thinking?”

Your cheeks burn in a sudden pool of excitement, tearing your gaze away from his looming one. “I—”

“Y/N?”

Hoseok’s voice makes your limbs numb and your throat dry. You feel Taehyung’s arm drop as you spin around behind you. The simple echo of your name that reverberated between the hallways was followed by an almost deafening ring to pound in your ears.

He was standing at the end, all the way in the back, holding two cups of coffee like always. Despite the distance, you can see his gentle fingers tighten their grip.

Taehyung makes the first move.

“Oh, what's up man,” he says as he begins to make his way closer. It was so Taehyung of him to brush it off and turn the situation casual.

Hoseok’s eyes finally leave you to meet his, his hanging lips forming a smile. “Hi Taehyung,” he responds with an attempt of warmth but it came out more dry than intended.

You swallow saliva down your throat before you speak. “Hey Hoseok,” you say, approaching him with caution. Taehyung placed a friendly hand on his shoulder and Hoseok acknowledged it hesitantly.

When Hoseok looks back at you, he misses your eyes, instead focusing on your cheeks and then the top of your head, but never your eyes. Nevertheless, he greets you with a smile, and it makes everything you do against him hurt so much more.

“Well, I better get going,” Taehyung says before you or Hoseok can say anything further, “my shift just started.” He leaves, going back down the way to the operation room and not allowing either of you react.

There’s a silence that falls over you and Hoseok as you stand in front of him alone.

A silence that has always otherwise been occupied with flirty conversation and exchanged laughter, and it feels completely and utterly foreign.

“Oh,” he suddenly says, making you look up at him rather than fixing your gaze on his shoes, “I brought you coffee.”

You heart kicks. “Thanks.” You take your cup from his hands, missing the contact of his fingers.

“Did I—interrupt—anything?” Hoseok slowly says, and you hate how he always thinks his existence is a burden to you.

“Not at all,” you lie, “we were just getting back from an operation.”

“You work in the same ward?”

Your limbs rigidify as the words you let slip out of your lips catch up to you. You’re very sure this newfound fact about Taehyung will do nothing to improve Hoseok’s already worn down self esteem, and your heart takes a beating for it.

You nod, brushing off his words to tell him Taehyung working side by side with meant nothing. “Wanna come into my office?”

“Y/N,” he speaks, making you stand still in place.

There’s a long pause.

It’s so long and excruciating, like when a song ends and you’re suddenly thrown into the absence of noise, anticipating something to happen but you never know when it will.

“I need to talk to you.”

“...What’s wrong?”

“Why are you ignoring me?”

Another pause.

“I don't see you during lunch, we don’t have our coffee meetings anymore.”

Another pause and you can’t do anything but just stare back.

“Is it because of—”

“Hoseok,” you interrupt, feeling your fingers numb around the coffee cup, now lukewarm. “Let’s go to my office—”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Y/N,” he’s telling you so softly but it’s so forced all at once.

God.

You just want him to do something, like yell or say how much he hates you so all of this could be easy. But not Hoseok. The sweet caring Hoseok that was too head over heals in love with you for his own damn good. He could never yell, never say he hates you, never show you anything deeper than this outer shell of him.

“Really, you don’t,” he’s still saying, and smiling now.

You don’t say anything; you think it's to choose and form your words carefully, but really it’s because you don’t want this conversation to happen.

“We’re dating,” you surge. The air becomes so thick and stuffy, so palpable, it becomes hard to breathe.

“...I see.”

Your knees feel like they’re shaking uncontrollably. The way Hoseok leaves your gaze and falls onto the floor in front of you makes your stomach twist until it hurts. “I didn’t mean to ignore you—”

“It’s fine!” Hoseok says, his face lifting up to your level again when he had thought you felt bad. “I did the same thing back in highschool when I first got a girlfriend. I forgot my friends had existed.” He lets out a chuckle at the nostalgia but you don’t follow. “Happens to everyone.”

He was lying. For your benefit. As always.

“Let’s go have coffee then,” you say, switching the coffee cup to your other hand nervously.

“You sure he wouldn’t mind?” He lets out another laugh, the question meaning to be lighthearted.

Your face falls. “You’re important to me, Hoseok.” You say it as a fact when such a certainty becomes forgotten to both of you.

Your response shocks him, but he’s good at pretending. “I know, Y/N. It’s just—you don’t have to pity me.”

“What?”

“You can be with him, if that’s what you want,” Hoseok says, placing a hand in the pocket of his coat. “We don’t have to have these pity coffee meetings.”

The grip around the cup loosens at his words, almost dropping it to the floor. Pity? Was that what he thought your relationship with him was built on?

“Hos—”

“Just promise me we can finally make those weekend plans,” he interrupts before you could protest.

You realise two things then. You realise that’s all he wanted from you. Not your apology or your excuses. Just your company.

And you realize how much you love him.

Not the same way you love Taehyung. Not in the romantic sense, but nonetheless it’s such a deep attachment that it resides somewhere deep in the pits of your insides, far below the surface of the skin.

Yet if you love him, why do you hurt him so much?

“Of course,” you reply without hesitation. “Anything.”

Hoseok’s face lights up, washing away all the gloom he thought you couldn’t see.

The familiar sight of his grin and the bunch up of his cheeks against his golden complexion made you relax the parts of your body you had unknowingly tensed up. You wished he could be happy like this all the time, but as long as he cared for you, that couldn’t happen.

“Really? How about this weekend?” He asked, bouncing on his toes a bit.

“Anything,” you repeat, reaching a hand out to place on his forearm. He takes it as an initiative to hug you, wrapping his arms around your figure. You indulge in his warmth and the comfort of his touch, but he holds onto you longer than you thought he would.

“Cool! I’ll text you the details,” Hoseok says after he de-attaches himself from you a little too frantically.

“Alright,” you’re saying, watching as he begins to make his way out of the corridor. “Hoseok…”

He turns around, his eyes wide.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

You watched as the edges of Hoseok’s lips gradually tilted up to a smile. “Just promise me you can make it this weekend.”

Your eyebrows furrow but you nod feverently. “Promise.”

You’re presented with the warm sight of his dimples that only form when he’s smiling wide enough. You owe him so much more smiles like that. He walks away, waving with his free hand and holding his coffee cup with the other.

You remember your own cup and you’re suddenly aware how much warmth it lost over time. You begin walking to your office, bringing the cup to your mouth. The bitter taste infiltrates your mouth and your face morphs into one of disgust, but you end up finishing the whole cup that afternoon.

Taehyung had first come to your place a few days ago, and the environment of your home remained unfamiliar boundaries for him. You told him, ‘mi casa, su casa’ and he laughed in your face but allowed himself to kick his shoes off and plop down onto your sofa like it really was his own casa.

Thursday was an off day for both of you, and you naturally wanted to spend the entirety of it with him. He arrived at your house at three in the afternoon, dressed in a simple white tee and boxy sweatpants that lost the shape of his thin waist and thick thighs.

“Love this fancy attire,” you say, stepping back to allow him through the entrance.

“Why do I have to dress up if all I’ll I’m gonna do is take it off?” He asks, walking in and gingerly sliding his slippers off.

You scoff. “You sound so sure.”

Taehyung turns back, shutting the door for you with one arm and gripping your waist with the other. “Part of my charm,” he mumbles before kissing you languidly. “Your friend kind of cock-blocked me last time.”

You pull back, pushing his chest away with your palms and Taehyung immediately recognizes the tone change, staring down at you with round eyes.

“Don’t say things like that,” you mutter, slipping past him and falling back onto your couch.

He continues standing there for a while before he follows. You bounce in your seat when he lands next to you, resisting a reaction when you feel him loop an arm over your shoulders and nestle his face into your neck.

“Sorry,” he mumbles after a while. “Crossed a line, didn’t I?”

You don’t have to answer, instead choosing to relax in his touch as a response.

“Can we actually—talk about him for a second?” Taehyung leans back and grips your shoulder, eyeing you curiously.

You turn to face him, biting your lip. “What about him?”

“It’s just—” He stops when he feels you tense your upper body, “—he’s in love with you, isn’t he?”

You swallow, breaking the eye contact. “I wouldn’t say love—”

“He is,” Taehyung confirms.

“...I suppose,” you say, feeling your heart flutter at the subject matter. You’ve never talked about this with anybody before, and the sheer idea makes you nervous.

“Does he know you know?”

“I’m not sure,” you reply honestly.

“Has he done anything about it?”

“Taehyung,” you interrupt, shooting up to release yourself from his contact. “Can you stop this—jealousy game—that you’re playing?”

He sits up too, placing his palms down by his thighs. “I’m not jealous—”

“Then why is this important? If I’m with you and not him?”

“It’s not that, baby.” He stops to reach over to your face and smooth out the frown formed on your face, immediately relaxing you. The action urges you to smile but you hold back. “It’s just...we both know this could become a problem.”

“You’re act like he’s some disease—”

“I’m not!” He exclaims. “I just want to be with you without feeling like our relationship is hurting somebody else. I don’t like being ‘the other man’, you know?” He pauses. “I can see how he looks at you. It’s how I look at you.”

You close your mouth, gazing into empty space as his words run through your head. “You’re not ‘the other man’,” you finally speak, “but neither is Hoseok. Whatever he may feel, it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Taehyung lets a sigh escape his lips.

“He’s still my friend, and you’re still my boyfriend. I promise nothing will change that.”

He looks up at you through hooded eyes, a smile slowly rising as his fingers tickle the side of your thigh. “You know I’m not concerned about that.”

You chuckle a little. “I know.” A pause. “He’ll be okay. I hope so anyways.”

“Does he mean a lot to you?”

“...Yes,” you answer truthfully, taking a pause to weigh in the heaviness of your answer.

Another pause. “You look good with him,” Taehyung says all too quietly, pulling his hands away from you. Something unsettling rests on his tongue and the same feeling begins to churn in your stomach.

“I feel better with you,” you respond, staring right into his worn down eyes, as if to tell him to take you seriously. When he looks up at you, there’s hesitation in his gaze, instead taking what you say in grains of salt.

“You think so?” Taehyung asks timidly, a grin splitting across his face.

“I love you, stupid” you tell him, leaning into him as if to prove your words. His lips merge with yours so fluently. You love him so much, wanting nothing but to just be with him, away from everything and anything that wasn’t you and him.

You climb onto his lap and he digs his nails into your waist to keep you stationary, running the pad of his fingers against your hipbone. You sigh into the kiss and he begins to dust light pecks along your neck.

Your hands rub his shoulders, massaging and indenting themselves into his skin through the chafing fabric of his shirt. The kisses he places over you are chaste at first, slowly building to reveal the vicious desire in the pits of his stomach, leaning down to bite your collarbones in a juxtaposition of pain and pleasure.

Your grip on his shoulders tighten, bunching the material up that creates delicious friction against his skin, the tell tale signs of his groan at his actions letting you know just how he was feeling.

“I love you,” Taehyung hushes against the landscape of your chest, gnawing at your bones, “so much.”

You keen into his touch, hands reaching down to pluck and fidget with the string of his sweatpants. He responds by letting out staggering whines before hooking his fingers around the waistband and sliding them down. You lift your hips up to create space and Taehyung pulls you back down impatiently.

You giggle into his neck before it’s drained from your lips as he lifts your shirt up above your head and throws it to the side. His hands explore the newly exposed surface, pressing his palms into your breasts and tenderly rubbing your sides.

Your lips find purchase in the shell of his ear, whispering how much you love him and rubbing your centre against the firm outline underneath his underwear, parting your lower lips around him.

“Y/N,” he growls, encouraging you to roll your hips faster and urgently. His hands make their way towards your shorts, pulling them down and hooking his fingers over the band of your pants, quickly making acquaintances with your bare skin. You continue the onslaught of your hips against his and he pinches your ass in response.

Making you yelp in his grasp did little to ease his arousal, causing you to instead bounce against the constrictions of him. “Taehyungie,” you mumble against his ear.

“Taehyungie?” He repeats, pulling back to properly look at you. “You only called me that when you were drunk.”

“And horny,” you say, eliciting another moan from him as you roll again as if to remind him of the close contact between you two and the task ahead.

“Fair enough,” he says, forcing a grin to erupt on your features. He taps at your waist and you know what he means, standing up to slip out of your underwear and let them pool at your feet.

You were now stark naked in front of him, his stern gaze making butterflies bloom at your stomach. You were still all too new to this, and it just hit you you were about to do this again.

“Come here,” Taehyung beckons, eager to get you back onto his lap. “Don’t worry.”

His words amplify your arousal, the act going far beyond than just having sex, but making love.

You oblige, falling onto him and delving into his lips again. He runs his hands up your back, fingering the indents of your spine before reaching your hair and nestling a fist in it to bring your mouths closer.

The fingers that rested against his neck slowly lead down his chest, over his stomach, until it meets his waistband again. You break the kiss, as if to ask permission, and he returns it with a chuckle.

“You don’t even need to ask, sweetheart.”

His lips are saliva slick when he speaks, the enticing appearance teasing you until you go to kiss him again. Your hand slips underneath, grabbing him and exposing him to the cold air of your apartment. He moans and you catch the vibrations, letting it slip down your throat.

“Please sit on me,” he whispers. The crudeness of his words makes you lethargic before even beginning. You don’t hesitate to indulge in his wishes, easing yourself slowly down until you’re flush against him.

You’re already on the cusp, clenching down firmly and rolling your eyes back.

“Oh god,” he grumbles and you agree. He’s so warm and thick, kissing all the right spots against your walls. He’s perfect.

“Tae,” you’re saying during the outpour of sensations as you begin to ride him, slowly rolling your hips. His hands find comfort in the curve of your hip, forcing you to move faster and reach deeper, letting out a wanton moan from you.

“You’re so good,” Taehyung says with coarse, creating a path of pecks from your cheekbones down to your neck. His encouragements make you weaker, until your thighs are trembling against his.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop.” Your words no longer register to you, you let them fall from the petal of your lips nonsensically as the thought of him inside you overtakes your mind. A hand leaves your waist and runs down until it meets your ass cheek, giving it a harsh slap. You suck in cold air through your teeth, momentarily stopping your actions to saturate yourself in the feeling.

His palm lifts your ass up, only to bring it back down. The cascade of pleasure runs through your bloodstream, rendering you immobile. He repeats the action, over and over, until you can’t take it anymore.

He’s capturing the insistent moans you release with his lips, not letting you pull away even as you come. Your legs liquify and your face is rigid, before you relax against his shoulder, kissing the exposed skin tenderly. He follows you shortly after, cradling your body close to his.

“I love you,” he repeats to ingrain into your head and you can’t help but melt.

You feel so much for him but you can’t articulate any of into comprehensible words and sentences. He was all you had ever wanted, and now he really was yours.

“Okay, I’ma need you to get off of me now before I get hard again,” he says, looking down at where your bodies connect. You laugh, lifting yourself off his lap and letting him slide out of you.

“We really didn’t need to do this on my sofa,” you say, standing up and inspecting the material for any stains by his thighs. “I have a perfectly fine bed.”

Taehyung chuckles, rubbing your waist again. “It’s hotter this way.”

“It won’t be hot when I have to rub my cushions down,” you continue, bending down to pick up your abandoned garments. You catch him eyeing your naked figure as you slide your underwear back on, causing you crook your eyebrow up in amusement.

“Yes it will,” he says, bracing for your touch with his hands out, inviting you to reside on his lap yet again. He kisses you, only breaking it to help you slide your shirt back on. “Keep the shorts off.”

You scoff before falling onto the seat next to him, resting your outstretched legs over his thighs.

“So,” you begin and it catches his attention, “you’ll be okay with me hanging out with Hoseok tomorrow?”

His face pauses before letting himself smile. “Of course,” he says. “Just...don’t stop loving him because of me. It would break me.”

You feel your chest warm at his words, reaching your hand out to slot your fingers through his. “You’re sweet.”

“I know,” he jokes and you throw your head back when you laugh.

You’re about to call Hoseok for the third time in a row when you spot his figure jogging towards your direction, hair bouncing and an apologetic expression daunting his features. You push yourself off the brick wall, slipping your phone into the pocket of your jeans and huffing a sigh of relief after fifteen solitary minutes of waiting.

“I’m so sorry,” he says once he’s in earshot of you, holding his arms out for a quick hug. You return it, not demanding or requiring an explanation but he gives it to you nonetheless. “There was an accident on the highway and it just slowed everything down.”

“It’s fine,” you say with a smile, pulling away and patting the small of his back. Frankly, nothing Hoseok could do would annoy you, especially when it’s not his fault. “Let’s go inside.”

“Finally,” he agrees, holding onto your elbow and leading you towards the entrance to the restaurant. “I’m starving.”

You could tell this restaurant was high class; clean-cut-white arched windows and a deep ruby burlap decorating the entrance. It was a particular lifestyle you did not indulge in, and it clearly showed in your outfit choice for the night.

“I wish you told me I needed to dress up a bit,” you say, taking a glance over your jean and tee combination.

“Sorry,” he says with a sheepish grin. “I, for one, think you look great.” You reply with a grin, but his words boils over in your head and you’re wondering if it overstepped any boundaries. “You ever been to this place?”

“I’ve never even been to this side of town,” you answer, eliciting a chuckle from him as the both of you pass by the considerably impressive line of people who had been there far longer than either of you.

“Reservation for Jung Hoseok,” he leans over to the receptionist. Her mascara adorned eyelashes cover her gaze as she searches for the name, nodding once when she finds it and another time when she looks up.

“Table for two?”

“Yes,” he answers, placing a hand over your shoulder. She notices you standing there, most likely looking out of place next to Hoseok’s tight fitted dress pants and white sleeved shirt clad body.

“Right away,” she tells the two of you with a big PR smile and gesturing towards the interior of the restaurant before leading you through its doors.

You both follow swiftly, allowing you to admire the gold embroidery of its curtains and marble surface of its surfaces on your way. You seat yourself at a table by the wall, secluded away from the other bustling guests but greeted with a more than impressive view out into the lavish street outside.

“This place is so fancy,” you comment, adjusting your seat to scoot in further.

“Do you like it?” Hoseok asks, looking up earnestly with lidded eyes. “It was a risky choice…” He trails off, leaving your gaze.

“It’s great,” you answer just as the waiter comes, presenting you your menus. Hoseok thanks him, flashing him a teethy grin.

“What am I craving?” Hoseok asks himself, eyes scanning the items with careful eyes. You’re watching him, the edge of your mouth tugged upwards. His fingers tap the back of the menu erratically.

“Hoseok,” you surprise him, as evident in his wide eyes, “everything on here is really expensive. I only brought enough to afford an appetizer—”

“Don’t worry about the price, Y/N,” he says, grinning again. “I’ll pay for the order. It’s on the house.”

You frown. “But it’s so expensive. I don’t want you to waste your money on me.”

Your attire and the amount cash on you told enough about the level of details Hoseok had disclosed about the night, and you had honestly expected something so much more simple and familiar, like a round of beer and greasy burgers.

“It’s my treat,” Hoseok responds. “You can pay me back later.”

You let out a hearty laugh, making him smile behind his menu. It got you to close the conversation, but you still didn’t feel at ease. Not only was it expensive, but paying for you only seemed appropriate in the occasion of a date, and not a get-together with a friend.

You order the cheapest items, a glass of water and a greek salad, just to spare Hoseok’s wallet.

“Can I ask a question?” Hoseok gulps, placing his glass of wine back down onto the table cloth.

“Shoot,” you say, leaning forward and crooking an eyebrow.

“Tell me why you wanted to become a doctor.”

“Did I never tell you?” You frown, picking up a bit of your salad onto your fork.

“Nope,” he replies, taking one more sip of the wine before turning back to his salmon entrée.

“Well,” you drag out the word and Hoseok chuckles. “I always liked blood and gore.”

“You’re joking,” he says, smiling wide.

“I also liked science, especially biology,” you continue, “because—”

“Blood and gore,” he finishes for you. “Got it.” You laugh.

“That combo led me down this career path. I actually wanted to be a vet at first, just cause I liked pets, but then again, every kid wants to be a vet before they realise cutting into their furry friends was on the resumé.”

Hoseok piles a piece of fish onto his fork, plopping it into his mouth and chewing quickly to speak again. “But why a heart doctor specifically?”

You take sip of your water before answering. You honestly didn’t know. Was it because of the money? Maybe. The thrill of saving patients on the cusp of death? Definitely not.

“I have no idea,” you say, at a loss of thought. “I just kinda—chose it.”

“Did you and Taehyung choose together?”

The sound of his name from his mouth made the density in the air grow thick. But you brush it off. You have to, if you ever wanted things to be normal.

“No,” you say, looking down at your plate, “he moved to another city before then.”

You don’t know why, but the subject makes knots thread themselves in your stomach and pull at your insides. It shouldn’t. It was all behind you, and you got much more than just reconciliation. You got Taehyung.

“Moved?” Hoseok edges on, suddenly invested into the story for all the wrong reasons. “Where? Why?”

“Hoseok,” you interrupt, no longer liking where this conversation was going. “It’s—it doesn’t matter.”

“Why did you never tell me about him?” He continues nonetheless. You see his grip around the empty glass, like it would shatter if he held it any tighter. “Did he hurt you that bad?”

Your face flares up. “He’s not like that.”

“Of course he hurt you.”

You’re about to continue, but you close your gaping mouth, instead occupying it with a sip of cold water. You didn’t like this side of Hoseok, which was ridiculous because you had been certain you liked everything about him.

“Hoseok, please can we drop this—”

“Just be honest with me Y/N,” he talks a little louder and you can feel people’s gazes fall onto your table. “Why would you be with a guy like him?”

Suddenly, a red cloud of rage eclipses your reasoning and you find nothing wrong with yelling. “This isn’t your place to talk about him like that!”

It seems like all the wine Hoseok had consumed did the same to him as his words did to you, and it makes you wonder if that’s the reason he always drank coffee and not alcohol. “All you ever do is defend him, but he does nothing for you. He’s just dead weight, isn’t he?”

That had been the final straw for you, and you were grabbing the cloth resting on your lap with clenched fists and throwing it onto the table. You felt everybody’s attention as you’re leaving the restaurant, now perfectly content with Hoseok paying for everything.

“Uh, ma’am,” the receptionist when as you push past the doors with haste, “is there a prob—”

“I’m so sorry,” you stop her, “where is the nearest phone booth? My phone is low on battery.”

“Uh,” she repeats, “it’s just past that building, on the right.”

“Thank you.” You follow her directions, ignoring the curious gazes cast upon you and  walking briskly so if Hoseok were to come out, he couldn’t catch up.

You were absolutely fuming, livid even. The fact that Taehyung had encouraged you—no, he wanted you to go—despite Hoseok’s feelings for you, and for him to talk about him like he was dirt, it all just made your head spin and your pulse to grow frantic.

You turned the corner, looking behind you to see if Hoseok was following you. You don’t see him, and you’re not sure whether that makes you happy or not. You climb into the empty phone booth, dialing Taehyung’s number and listening to its rings.

“Hey baby.” His voice makes you breathe a sigh of relief, letting all the anger accumulated to wash over you. “How’s everything? Where’s your phone?”

“Can you pick me up, please?” You plead, letting your body to lean against the booth and clutching the phone with antsy hands.

“Did something happen?” You can hear the concern raised in his voice, like his eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth is shut tight in a straight line.

“No, nothing happened,” you say because you are certain whatever he’s thinking is much worse than reality, “I just need to be home.”

“Okay,” Taehyung says, not pushing anything further, “I’ll be there, same place I dropped you off.”

“I love you,” you say into the phone, fluttering your eyes close at the comfort he brings.

“Love you,” he repeats, “five minutes tops, I promise.”

“Okay,” you almost whisper before hanging up. It takes a while for you to move, numb as you process everything that had just happened.

What was Hoseok to you now?

Had your entire friendship crashed in the period of two minutes?

When you step out of the phone booth, Hoseok waits for you. You miss his eyes.

“Y/N.” You look up. The streetlight casted a yellow upon his sunken face.

God, how did it get to this. How could you hate Hoseok? The Hoseok that gave you half his lunch, bought you coffee every other day, spent every free shift at work by your side. Your Hoseok.

“I’m sorry.”

Hoseok’s eyes widen as the words leave your mouth. “You don’t have to apologize.”

You walk past him, slumping against the wall of a building until you’re sat on the pavement. He follows your lead, back scraping against the rough bricking.

You stare into space for a while, frowning. How could it get to this?

“I’m an idiot,” Hoseok speaks. Your eyebrow crooks. “I should have just taken you to the bar or some burger place nearby.”

You suppress a smile. “Why didn’t you?” You roll your head over to his side, eyeing him curiously.

“I wanted to impress you,” he says, placing his hands on his knees and picking at his fingernails.

You sigh in response, saying nothing.

“Booked a reservation for the most expensive restaurant I could find, bought and ironed a dress shirt and pair of pants,” he continues.

You’re suddenly acute of the chafing of your denim jeans and fit of your tee around your waist. It was obvious Hoseok had put in all the thought into tonight, and you did not.

“I was so nervous I hid in some corner store right before we met up. I couldn’t even pick up your calls.”

You reach over, placing your hand over his. He flinches, only a little.

“Can I confess something now?” You say and his eyes flick to yours.

“Go on.”

“I don’t like coffee.”

“Already knew that.”

“What?”

Hoseok chuckles. “I mean, I’ve never even seen you take a sip. It took a week for me to realise.”

“A week?”

“A week,” he repeats, smiling down into his lap. “Plus, you have a considerably impressive pile of untouched coffee cups in your garbage bin. 1 + 1 does equal 2.”

You giggle. “Drinking the actual coffee was the least important thing in our meetings.”

“Yeah,” he agrees with a huff of a laugh.

Then there was a comfortable silence over the passing cars and flicker of streetlights above.

“Listen, Y/N,” he begins to say and you already know what he’s going to say. “I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s okay if you did, Hoseok,” you say, cutting right through his sugar coated lie.

“I mean, I don’t hate Taehyung himself. I’m sure he’s a great guy—”

“He is,” you intrude.

“Which makes sense, that’s why you like him.” He pauses. “It’s just—the idea of him—is what upsets me.”

You knew exactly what he meant. You closed your eyes, inhaling and exhaling the cool breeze slowly, bracing yourself for what was going to happen right now.

“I never got it,” he starts to say and you squeeze his hand a little tighter, “but now I do. If he—if—I mean,” he sighs to recollect his thought, “Would you have fallen for me?”

There it was.

Your eyes flutter shut, painfully tight, releasing your grip on his hand.

Had it been your choice—had you had gotten over Taehyung—you would have fallen for Hoseok right when you met him. What was there not to fall for? You two would have been the “it-couple” of your hospital. The resident love birds. The heart doctor and the dermatologist.

The thought brings a smile to your face—but then again, what would have conspired the impending day Taehyung would have started working? Finally seeing you through a sheer coincidence, or more of a miracle, but with another man. And if Taehyung had been telling the truth that one night up on the rooftop, which you knew he did, that meant he would have still been in love with you.

It would have completely broken him, the final tip to the crumbling of his very being, and that idea pains you more than anything else has the power to. More than love triangles and old friends with harbored feelings.

“Yes,” you answer after a while. From the corner of your eye, you see Hoseok’s chest rise and fall, and you hear his glistening lips part open. “I would have.”

You turn to him, acute to the close proximity of your faces, and before you could even comprehend what was happening, he was kissing you.

His hands go to dust light strokes underneath your jaw, lips massaging themselves against yours and his breath mixing in with yours.

You pull back with a gasp, putting your hand up to deliver a harsh, cold, red slap against his cheek.

Your whole body is on fire. Your cheeks are rubescent, your throat is hot and closed up, your stomach feels like its inside out, and the palm of your hand was absolutely burning.

“Y/N.”

It’s not Hoseok’s voice that cuts into the air. You look up, eyesight almost blinded by his white car lights, but you could still make out his face in the driver's seat.

You swiftly stand up on your two shaky feet, staggering towards him with hesitance.

“Tae—”

“Get in,” Taehyung interrupts. You couldn’t tell his tone, but you were certain he had seen enough.

You stand up straight, your lips parting and letting the cool air hit the sides of your mouth. You turn back to look behind you.

Hoseok was still, staring down into the pavement at his feet, clutching his cheek—“Y/N, get in,” in his hand.

“He’s drunk—”

“Not my problem—”

“It’s my problem—”

“You did enough tonight.”

You feel your heart fall from your perched ribcage down into your stomach at his words. “Tae,” you say, feeling as though you were close to collapsing so you grip onto the car window for support, “I didn’t—”

“Get in Y/N,” Taehyung repeats again. “Last time.”

“Tae,” you plead, your tone giving your desperation away, unable to bear the thought of driving away and leaving Hoseok drunk and alone in cold, empty street, “please.”

He doesn’t reply, his stare digging painfully deep into your eyes. “Fine.”

You take in another sigh, opening the door open. Nobody exchanged any words, and nobody had to. Hoseok followed into the backseat, quietly mumbling his address, and that was it.

You didn’t even allow yourself to admire the night sky passing over you, instead finding refuge in your lap and your hands. The tension was tightly wound between your lungs. You don’t move, you barely breathe.

Taehyung stops in front of Hoseok’s apartment, blankly staring out ahead and waiting. Hoseok doesn’t say anything as he climbs out, and he certainly doesn’t dare look at you. Then, Taehyung is speeding away, just like that.

The air hasn’t seem to have gotten lighter with Hoseok’s absence, but in fact, so much heavier. You could see Taehyung’s knuckles turn white around the clutch of the steering wheel and the pace of his chest rising and falling quicken.

The engine is turned off at the front of your building, telling you immediately that he was going to talk. You fidget with the hem of your shirt, staring down at your feet instead of him.

“I don’t want you to be around him anymore,” he says. You could tell he was mustering his voice to sound stern and sure, but you know that he was hurting, probably more than you were.

“Tae,” you mumble.

“How...how could...” he can’t continue, the grip on the steering wheel still rigid.

“It was all him.” you whisper. Your eyelids fall heavy, your brain racking for any kind of solution for all of this. But life wasn’t that easy. It never was, and it never will be. “I—I would never—”

“If I ever see him in proximity of you, I will knock the living hell—”

“Stop it!” You urge, shaking now. Taehyung rakes over your frantic appearance, his round delicate eyes now wide in anger and pain.

“Don’t tell me what to stop,” Taehyung solidifies his voice, leaning in closer to you. “You weren’t the one to see the love of your—fucking—life kissing somebody else!”

“That was nothing. It didn’t mean anything—”

“You always say that,” he says, his eyebrows furrowing and his cheeks red, “but it fucking does mean something. How can I trust you?”

You feel your heart jolt in your chest. “Taehyung, it wasn’t me—”

“You let it happen.” You hear his teeth grit against itself in his mouth.

“I was too shocked—”

“Shocked?” He yelled in outrage. “Shocked about what? What did you expect from him? A pathetic, self loathing—”

“Taehyung, stop!” You beg again. You can’t stop the tears now. It seemed like your entire world was crashing right in front of you; you ruined your closest friendship, and now you were ruining it with Taehyung. Again. “Please stop.”

“I should have never let you go out with him,” he says, now staring in front of him again. “It was stupid of me to think he had the fucking capacity to control himself and not touch you with his filthy hands—”

“Tae,” you plead. He doesn’t react, he doesn’t even flinch. You’re not sure what you’re pleading for. For him to forgive you? To forgive Hoseok? To stop talking and let everything cool down for tomorrow morning?

A long silence. So long you could hear a high pitched ringing fill the space of the car.

“I’m serious Y/N. Don’t ever go near him again.”

You sit up. “I can’t.”

He breaks his gaze to turn to you. “What?”

“He’s still my best friend—”

“He kissed you—”

“He was drunk!”

“I don’t care! He would have done it sober too—”

“No he wouldn’t have!” You wipe the tears from your face hastily, your skin chafing against itself.

“Don’t go near him—”

“You can’t boss me around like this!” You shout. Your face feels like it’s on fire, and so does your throat and chest. “We’ve only been dating for a week—”

“I’ve been in love with you for five years!” Taehyung yells back, lurching forward. It scares you and you flinch. He immediately sees the reaction, leaning back and pausing. “Y/N, do you even care about anything?”

Your eyes narrow. “What kind of question is that?”

“Do you care about me? About us?”

“Stop saying—”

“Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem like it.” He puts a hand back on the steering wheel, as if he was ready to leave. “It’s like you get a kick out of ruining all your relationships.”

You open the car door, slamming it shut behind you with all your strength. You don’t look back once, even as you hear his engine rev up and drive away. You barely get to the entrance to your building before you feel your knees give into the floor. You hold onto the wall for support, but it didn’t matter. You were a mess.

The sobs that left your shaky lips were muffled by your even shakier hands. You stand up straight, wiping your tears quickly and taking a few deep breaths.

The elevator ride up to your apartment was somber, and the only thing you were grateful for at this moment was it was empty.

You couldn’t sleep.

You hated not being able to sleep.

You hated being weak, and you hated Taehyung and you probably hated Hoseok too. Most of all, you hated yourself, but one way or another, everything was your fault.

[newstechreviews]

There are many reasons you might be familiar with Jordan Fisher. Gen Z-ers might remember him from Disney Channel’s Liv and Maddie and Teen Beach Movie. Broadway fans know him for his role as John Laurens/Philip Hamilton in Lin-Manuel Miranda‘s hit musical Hamilton, and for appearing in Grease Live! and Rent: Live. Nearly two million video gamers have watched him stream Fortnite with the gaming platform Twitch, and audiences watched him sparkle and shimmy his way to victory on Dancing With the Stars in 2017.

Now, with a role in Netflix’s To All the Boys: P.S. I Still Love You as a love interest for Lara Jean Covey (Lana Condor), Fisher can add bonafide heartthrob to this growing collection of varied credits. That’s as long as viewers don’t revolt when his character, the suave and intellectual John Ambrose McClaren, steals the spotlight from Noah Centineo’s Peter Kavinsky.

When To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before hit Netflix in 2018, it quickly became a breakout among Netflix’s slate of romantic comedies like Set It Up and The Kissing Booth. Though the streamer is typically tight-lipped about its metrics, Netflix cited To All the Boys as one of its “most viewed original films ever with strong repeat viewing,” according to Variety. Lara Jean and Peter’s budding romance is at the heart of the film, which is based on Jenny Han’s YA novels of the same name. The two enter into a faux relationship to make others jealous — specifically, Peter’s ex and Lara Jean’s older sister’s boyfriend. Shock of all shocks, the “fake” relationship eventually gives way to something real, and the movie’s swoon-worthy, knee-bending final kiss is one for the rom-com books.

John Ambrose McClaren is the ‘marrying type’

To All the Boys 2, out Feb. 12 ahead of Valentine’s Day, has the tough job of convincing viewers that Peter might not actually be perfect. In an early scene in which the couple has their first date at an upscale restaurant, Peter explains that fancy place settings have two forks in case you drop one. He then knocks one of his forks onto the ground, the wrong move at a moment when Lara Jean is earnestly excited about her first-ever real date. Cringe.

This establishes an opportunity for Fisher’s John Ambrose to swoop in. In an unexplained coincidence, John Ambrose — one of Lara Jean’s former crushes who mistakenly received a private love letter in the first film — starts volunteering with her at a nursing home, after Peter blew off his girlfriend’s volunteer work to go elsewhere with his jock friends. As it turns out, Lara Jean’s unrequited crush on her childhood best friend wasn’t unrequited at all. Though Peter may be a popular athlete with charm to spare, John Ambrose loves Model U.N., hanging out with elderly folks and playing the piano. It’s the perfect love story…or isn’t it?

Fisher, 25, has a certain level of respect for John Ambrose, whom he sees as a different kind of prospect for Lara Jean. “Peter Kavinsky in high school and college is pretty great, but John Ambrose is the marrying type,” the actor, who is himself engaged to his longtime childhood friend, told TIME in an email.

Viewers seemed to agree with that sentiment. Within hours of the film’s release, Twitter was ablaze with John Ambrose fever.

think it’s safe to say, the world is now in love with john ambrose mcclaren AND jordan fisher now #ToAlltheBoys2 pic.twitter.com/47V3hjMcat

— cynthia⁷ 💌 psisly spoilers (@bcrstens) February 12, 2020

As fans inevitably debate the pros and cons of the great John Ambrose vs. Peter Kavinsky match-up, Fisher will be focusing his attention on another love story unfolding in front of a live audience, in his third week starring in the Broadway blockbuster Dear Evan Hansen at New York’s Music Box Theatre.

‘The whole idea as an actor is that you disappear’

In Dear Evan Hansen, Fisher plays an extremely anxious high schooler who gets caught in a web of lies that threatens every relationship in his life. The show’s plot, which involves teen suicide, is devastating at times. Evan Hansen and John Ambrose are entirely dissimilar characters, as are the tones of the two projects. Fisher says that challenge is part of his passion as a performer. “That’s film and that’s Broadway and that’s acting and that’s creating. The whole idea as an actor is that you disappear,” Fisher told TIME, hours before taking the stage on Wednesday evening. “If anybody gets to see both the film and Dear Evan Hansen, yeah, it’s going to be a bit of a culture shock for them, but that’s the goal as an actor to create that separation.”

Nathan JohnsonJordan Fisher as Evan Hansen in ‘Dear Evan Hansen’ on Broadway

“The complexity of this boy is akin to climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro,” Fisher said of playing Evan Hansen in a press release ahead of his opening last month. His casting also makes history as he is the first person of color to headline the Tony-winning show in its titular role, which Ben Platt originated in 2015.

Fisher considers himself a ‘renaissance man’

Before his big break (or breaks, depending on whom you ask), Fisher moved to L.A. from his hometown of Birmingham, Ala., quickly earning roles on Nickelodeon’s iCarly and ABC Family’s The Secret Life of the American Teenager at 17 years old. Fisher admits that in the years since, his varying resume of work on TV, in theater and the music industry (he began releasing original music in 2014 and is featured on the Moana soundtrack) have positioned him as “renaissance man.” Just take his Twitter bio, for instance, which reads: “actor. recording artist. gamer. streamer. songwriter. lots of other things.”

That he’s a “gamer” is perhaps the most renaissance-man-like trait of them all, in a very modern sort of way. Like 2019 TIME 100 honoree Ninja, Fisher is among the most well-known faces of the rapidly growing video game streaming industry, which is essentially the gamer’s version of online influencing. He is partnered with Twitch, a live stream service that allows fans around the world to watch their favorite celebrities play, and is known to use his singing and dancing skills to his advantage online, entertaining with more than just his gaming skills. Fans pay for a monthly subscription to watch Fisher’s streams without advertisements and for some other perks.

Epic Games, which owns Fortnite, clearly noticed his wide appeal. Last month, Fortnite created a new “emote,” a dance that characters can do within the game, based on a dance he had posted on TikTok. The company also tapped him to host the first Fortnite World Cup last summer.

Dropping into Emote Royale with my new emote! Enter the contest and you could get your own emote too. #EmoteRoyaleContest @FortniteGame @tiktok_us https://t.co/7ECMjAF5Ed pic.twitter.com/N6rgxcZfJB

— Jordan Fisher (@Jordan_Fisher) January 18, 2020

Though he will be plenty busy during the rest of his 16-week run on Broadway, gaming remains a huge passion and important benchmark of his career. “To me, art is art, and entertainment is entertainment, and I have crafted a world in the last 16 years of doing this where I’ve never really had to pick one thing over the other, and thankfully I love all of the things that I do,” he said.

Sitting at this curious and unique intersection of fame, Fisher said he’s enjoyed bringing together all of his interests. And the fact that all of his pursuits include people from such different backgrounds — the video gaming, musical theater and rom-com communities don’t typically overlap — is especially exciting for him. He asks: “Where video gaming is concerned, it has always incorporated art, film, acting and music, so why can’t that belong in the same space as Broadway and rom-coms?”

Fisher hopes that by refusing to pick one art form, he can pique different interests within his varying demographics of fans. “The fact that the gaming community is actually interested in what I’m doing in all my other spaces, whether it be music or Broadway or film or television, it just helps with the narrative and it’s exciting for me, especially as somebody that’s a fan of all of it, as well,” he said.

[the-record-columns]

Jan. 29, 2020: Columns

Coke is it!

By KEN WELBORN

Record Editor

Early this week, when I stopped by Wilkes Steel and Recycling to check on my friend, Bert Hall, who would I find in the office but the long ago retired Frank Day.

As always, the subject of Coca-Cola comes up because of his connection with McNeil family, who, for many years, ran the local Coca-Cola bottling company.

And, anyone who collects anything is bound to have something with Coca-Cola on it.

They have the Coke name on everything from calendars to coo coo clocks. I mean, really: glasses, coolers, store signs of all descriptions, thermometers, trays, napkins, lunch boxes, hats, visors, fans, blotters, post cards, toy trucks and vans, mirrors, ice picks, bottle openers of all types and styles, knives, ashtrays, matches, cigarette lighters, radios, coasters, menu boards, door pulls/pushers, checkerboards, grocery carts, domino’s, Frisbees, jewelry, every possible article of clothing, aprons, watches, belts, coin purses, light fixtures, and clocks — just to begin the list.

And, of course, Coca-Cola has always “owned” Santa.

Well, while I have nothing that begins to approach the Coca-Cola collection of someone like Jerry Dameron, I do have a few good pieces, and, today I am going to talk about a few I have tripped and fallen into. As many of you who read this column know, from the early 1900’s till the 1980’s, we had our own Coca-Cola bottling company right here in North Wilkesboro, like I mentioned earlier, owned and operated by the McNeil family.

Well, a while back, a man came through and sold me a Coca-Cola crate for 24 bottles. An aside, the books that list Coca-Cola memorabilia refer to almost all holders of drinks as “crates,” however, to a kid from Hinshaw Street, they will always be “pop crates” to me. So, why would I buy this particular pop crate, knowing that in our Museum on Main one of most anything is sufficient. Well, this one has “North Wilkesboro, NC” stamped into the wood on each end and is painted to match.

I am sure there are more of these North Wilkesboro pop crates out there, but I have yet to see one. When I asked Dick McNeil, the man who ran the bottling company when I was working for Paul Cashion at WWWC Radio and later for myself at Thursday Magazine (predecessor to The Record), he said that the national Coca-Cola company had uncounted thousands of pop crates he could buy for next to nothing each. To get the North Wilkesboro name stamped and painted on some of them meant stopping the production line and doing this specialty item and therefore they cost much more — so these were never bought in great quantity. And, speaking of Dick, he was kind enough to let me have a beautiful Fresca sign from the 1960’s — I think — and it is a beauty.

And, lastly today, another pop crate.

Some time back, I went to Lynchburg, Va., to see my daughter, Jordan, and Jason Hammer. These trips are always a treat, and this one was no exception. In addition to seeing a great play, “Loan Me a Tenor,” we had the chance to scrounge around through a few antique haunts. Of the places we stopped, by far my favorite was Rick’s Antique Store in Forest, Va. That little town’s other claim to fame is being the site of Thomas Jefferson’s summer home.

However, Rick’s store, and Rick Lindsay himself, clearly trumped (no pun) Jefferson on this day. I cannot begin to tell you about the cool things Rick had on display, particularly impressive was the array of gas pumps and signs that were everywhere. The store itself was an old, white two-story clapboard affair that was older than Methuselah. Rick, who wasn’t that old, but had clearly been to the rodeo before was an absolute delight to speak with. Knowledgeable and friendly, you just wanted to stay all day.

And then there was the pop crate.

Yes, I have seen a gazillion of them — of every kind and description — I thought. But, there at Rick’s Antiques, nestled on a high shelf amongst the oil cans and porcelain signs, was a wooden, six-pack pop crate that held large glass bottles of Coca-Cola. By the time they came out with the large bottles, the only holders I can remember were red plastic. As I was standing there with my mouth hanging open, thinking I had never seen one of this kind of pop crate, Rick chimed in: “You know, I had never seen one of those, till I bought that one.”

Well, I bought it. Bottles and all. Wrapped it in towels for the trip home and have been showing it off ever since. And I know that one day, somebody is going to tell me where I can find all of these pop crates I could ever want — but they haven’t yet. Not a living breathing soul has laid claim to having ever seen one like this one — not even Bucky Luttrell.

Not even Jerry Dameron.

So there you go!

 Truth, justice and the American way

By HEATHER DEAN

Record Reporter

(Editor’s note: This is in response to the reaction Heather Dean has received since the hearing prompted by the affidavit she filed challenging the legitimacy, due to misinformation about whether or not former Wilkes School Board candidate Marty Roberts was eligible to run. A hearing by Wilkes Board of Elections, held on Friday, Jan. 3, ruled that Roberts was not eligible to run for office. Roberts has since withdrawn his candidacy.)

 The online harassment over taking on a non-citizen trying to run for office in Wilkes has died down a bit, which is nice, since I was called everything but "Christ the Savior."

There are a few rumors going around that I still have need to address personally with some people, but I was never called "wrong" either, so that's vindication enough for me. However, the perfect strangers walking up to me at other events, meetings, emails, messages, thanking me has not ceased. I came in Monday morning to find this in my inbox from a lady I don’t know, stating: "You're amazing! I might not have to leave this God-forsaken county after all. Going to take out one of those good ol' boys one at a time!"

Two weeks ago I had a bartender thank me for "standing up for Wilkes County, and running off that fake, that make the rest of our party look crazy" and many around me, also of the same party as the person I filed the affidavit against, concurred and I even got an "atta boy" slap on the back from an old farmer.

At three different events I covered last week, people I didn't know came up and told me they were proud of me for doing what was right, and wished more people would do so.

A person that was in attendance at the hearing said that I was a perfect example of “grace under pressure,” was impressed at how “professional, knowledgeable, prepared, and well spoken” I was as I testified, especially when the defendant’s lawyer started trying to intimidate me with his line of questioning, and I didn't “flinch.”

One who works closely with those in the legal professions told me I was brave to come in without legal counsel-not that it had been necessary, but not that I needed it either, because they had heard from others I did “as good job as any lawyer would have regardless.”

Several in the religious community have lamented to me this is why people are turning away from the church, because of the hypocrisy of a few.

Veterans have thanked me for going into "ground zero" and defending what they fought for.

I don't say these things to prove to the naysayers that I was right. I don't have to justify my want of defending the state constitution. I say this because it's the anonymous people that make the difference. I got lambasted on the stand because I wouldn't reveal my anonymous source. The truth is, I have no idea who the person is that came forward with the info.

Just like the others above, I don't know them personally, but they know me from my work in the community, and this person knew I could be trusted to do what was right. Also, as I stated in the hearing, this person was afraid to file it themselves because of the backlash they and their family would receive as they had ties with the defendant in the community.

The anonymous make the difference because you never know who is paying attention, and that's today's perspective on why we need to walk our talk, whether its our personal or religious beliefs, be kind and love everyone regardless of their differences, and above other things, stand up for justice, even if it’s just in a small little town where you think no one pays attention to you.

Just for the record, I love my hometown.

 Profaning the holy sites

By AMBASSADOR EARL COX and KATHLEEN COX

Special to The Record

Peace in the Middle East has been historically elusive because Arab hatred of Israel and the Jews is as deep and wide as the universe itself.  It’s almost on par with the maniacal hatred the Democrats and the liberal media have for U.S. President Donald Trump. 

Earlier this month the world held its collective breath as the U.S. and Iran seemed on the brink of a major conflict.  President Trump gave the green light for a targeted, deadly drone attack against an Iranian military commander who was a known terrorist mastermind. Iran threatened retaliation and promised the United  States would pay a heavy price.  In response, President Trump warned that if even one American, or American asset, were to suffer harm by Iran, then America would attack Iranian cultural sites. This sent the world into a rage.  President Trump was tried and convicted in the court of public opinion of everything from violating international treaties to committing war crimes.  Threatening to attack an Iranian cultural site was akin to setting off an atomic bomb yet Israel’s cultural and religious sites are physically attacked and desecrated almost daily.  It’s a mystery that the world remains silent.  

Such widespread hatred for the Jews can only be explained in a spiritual sense. Arabs and Jews are both descendants of Abraham.  The Arabs are from Abraham’s son Ishmael born to him of a bondwoman (slave).   The Jews came through Abraham’s promised son, Isaac, born of his wife Sarah.  G-d separated to Himself both a land and a people.  The land became known as Israel and the people, being from Judah, became known as Jews. G-d promised His blessings upon Isaac and his descendants but G-d also said He would make Ishmael into a great nation but added that he (Ishmael) would be “like a wild jackass, his hand against everyone and everyone’s hand against him, and he shall dwell over against all his kinsmen,” which includes the Jews.

The physical land known as Canaan became the land of Israel and it changed hands and boundary lines time and again over the course of history.  Many of Israel’s cultural and religious sites are on land currently occupied and governed by the Palestinians.

In the city of Hebron, which today is located in Palestinian territory, is the cave Abraham purchased as a burial place for his wife, Sarah.  Tradition holds that Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Rebekah and Leah are also buried in that cave.

Rachel’s Tomb lies on the northern outskirts of Bethlehem which is under Palestinian control. It is described in Hebrew writings as, “The building with the dome and olive tree.” This became a Jewish symbol, appearing in drawings, on postage stamps, photographs, artworks and depicted on the covers of Jewish holy books. However, today the little domed structure has been encased in a giant concrete block surrounded by gun positions and guard towers and covered with camouflage netting. Whoever visits the tomb today would find it hard to recognize as the place engraved on Jewish hearts and memories. It has been obscured and desecrated and is not a safe place. Jews can only reach it in bulletproof vehicles under military supervision.

Joseph’s Tomb in Nablus has been attacked on many occasions. It has been set ablaze and desecrated having been used as a trash dump and urinal but this sort of treatment is not unique to Joseph’s Tomb. Desecrating Jewish holy sites is a widespread Palestinian practice.  

The historic “Shalom al Israel” synagogue in Jericho has also been attacked. Holy books and archeologically significant relics have been burned, and the synagogue’s ancient mosaic has been damaged.

Hundreds of incidents have been recorded (though not necessarily reported) in which Palestinians from Bethlehem and surrounding Palestinian camps and villages have thrown rocks and Molotov cocktails, and have even shot at Jewish worshippers, pilgrims and Israeli soldiers attempting to visit the synagogue and other Jewish holy sites located on Palestinian occupied land.  Is this behavior not worthy to be condemned and punished? 

Even today it is often dangerous for Jews to visit the graves of their loved ones buried in the cemetery on the Mount of Olives. Entire sections have been desecrated and the headstones of Jewish graves shattered.  Some of the headstones have even been carried off and used by Arabs and Palestinians as paving stones or in construction of animal shelters or other dwellings. 

The Palestinians use their real or fictitious religious interests to make political capital for their national campaign against Israel and the Jews and the world seems to nod in their favor.  Plain and simple, this is wrong.  Palestinians have not merely threatened to profane Jewish holy sites, they have physically done so in the most egregious of ways.  All this, and more, and yet the world takes no notice.  President Trump merely threatens to attack Iranian Muslim sites and suddenly he is a war criminal with a price tag on his head.

The Palestinians have proven that they cannot be trusted to preserve and protect Jewish cultural or religious sites.  It makes no sense that the profane should be charged with safeguarding the holy.  It’s not right but it is the modern way because the world has fallen too far to the left. 

What’s in a Decade?

By CARL WHITE

Life in the Carolinas

It seems like there is a lot of noise in the world today.

We are in the beginnings of a new decade. We have never had a 2020 before. It has a nice ring to it; maybe that’s because Barbara Walters burned it into the minds of millions of Americans, including myself, on the ABC News Magazine show with the same name.

In 1978, the show’s rocky start smoothed out nicely when veteran newsman Hugh Downs joined the show as host.  

Walters joined the show in 1979 and then in 1984 she became and remained the joint co-host with Downs for 15 years.

The thing that so many remember is how she would welcome viewers with, “I’m Barbara Walters and this is 2020.” If you were watching TV for New Year Celebrations 2020, clips of Barbara Walters and those impersonating her iconic delivery of “Welcome to 2020” were plentiful. It was clever and perfect for the moment.

We all have memory triggers. Whatever the reason, for me hearing those words repeated over and over on TV and on social media set into motion a flurry of memories and thoughts about the idea that we are starting not just a new year, but a new decade. After a few days of processing everything floating around in my head, I started to commit to paper these thoughts. Thinking about 12 months is one thing but thinking and planning for 120 months - Ten Years - is another thing all together.

Our TV show, Life In The Carolinas, has started its 11th year of broadcast. In December that seemed like a long time, but reflecting on it now, that’s just a little over a decade.

But then again, a decade can be significant. Take the Roaring 20’s.

They were roaring because they needed to be. Coming out of a world war was not an easy time and we, as the land of the free and home of the brave, needed to do something to bring about as much prosperity and happiness as possible. It was a time of Jazz music, automobiles, bathtub gin and bootleggers. It was a time of political and social change. There was not prosperity for everyone, but the opportunities to prosper were much greater than the decade before.

The big takeaway for me is that it needed to happen, and it did. Many may argue about what was or was not good about it, but at least there was something new to argue about.

It was a decade to remember for sure. Even to this day I enjoy my visits to the Jazz Room in Charlotte. I like to close my eyes, take in the moment and reflect on the people and music of our past that still stirs our emotions and thus our actions.

Bluegrass and Mountain music hits me the same way. It’s a celebration of evolving history.

And sometimes it’s not a specific decade that’s significant, but an event that occurs throughout, like the Carolinas tradition of the National Hollerin Contest in Spivey Corners.

It started in 1969 and the first titled champion was Leonard Emanuel. Every year after the first it was his standard that everyone strived to meet and beat. The contest received national and international attention and lasted for 47 years before the event was retired.

I will always remember that segment, I had my first and only hollerin lesson on camera, I decided to remain the storyteller and not join the competition. But for the people who participated for almost five decades it was the highlight of the year.

I’m not sure what decade thinkers are called but is seems as if I have joined the ranks. I’m starting to like it a lot.

[dnowit41]

The Dirk Nowitzki stories: An oral history of the Mavericks legend

-James Herbert

Before a Dallas Mavericks practice in January, Dirk Nowitzki lined up for a race with Dennis Smith Jr. The 40-year-old started at half court, the 21-year-old at the baseline.

3 … 2 … 1 … Smith took off. Nowitzki did not.

"He was like, 'Nah, not ready. Not ready. Let's get to practice,'" Mavericks forward Ryan Broekhoff said.

Smith does not buy the idea that Nowitzki wasn't warmed up.

"It took him too long to start," Smith said. "I accelerated quicker than he did. Once he seen that, he looked back. He was like, 'Oh, he's behind me.' He just gave it up. Smart."

The genesis of the race, according to Smith, who is now with the New York Knicks: "He was in the locker room selling woof tickets basically, saying everybody say he moves slow, and this, that and the third. He bet $10,000 in a foot race that nobody will beat him if he starts at halfcourt and they start from full court. So I came in there and I heard. I got wind of it and I took the bet immediately, and of course I won the bet two times. And he ain't pay my money yet. So this summer, I'ma probably go shake him down in Dallas."

Before any summer shakedown, the Mavericks will celebrate Nowitzki's career at their final home game of the season Tuesday. Nowitzki has not officially announced that he intends to retire, but during the stretch run, owner Mark Cuban told CBS Sports, "It's really just starting to hit me that he only has a few weeks left." Dallas will finish things off Wednesday in San Antonio.

Over the course of Nowitzki's 21st season, more than 30 people who have been around him -- current and former teammates, opponents, Mavericks staff -- participated in interviews for this oral history to capture how the superstar from Würzburg made his mark in Dallas and beyond.

"Why do people want my autograph?"

Mavericks general manager Donnie Nelson scouted Nowitzki and coached him at the 1998 Nike Hoop Summit. Nelson saw a "long, tall, skinny German drink of water," and took a liking to his shooting ability and competitiveness. Nowitzki had skipped a playoff game with the DJK Würzburg X-Rays, the second-division team in his hometown, in order to be in San Antonio. It paid off.

"The Hoop Summit, I guess you can call it his American Idol coming out party, where in front of pretty much every GM at the time he erupted and scored 30-plus points," Nelson said. "And did so in spectacular fashion."

Dallas acquired the No. 9 pick in the 1998 draft to select him even though Paul Pierce-- also ranked in the Mavs' top three -- was unexpectedly available. An apprehensive, perhaps even reluctant Nowitzki came to Dallas several months later, at the conclusion of the NBA's lockout. He and third-year guard Steve Nash, acquired in a trade from Phoenix, sported bleached blond hair at their introductory press conference. "I thought a couple members of the Beach Boys got lost," Nelson said.

Greg Buckner, Mavericks wing, 1999-2002; 2006-07: People were booing him in Reunion Arena. People were upset with Nellie for drafting him and making the trade for Tractor Traylor.

Donnie Nelson, Mavericks assistant coach and director of scouting, 1997-2002; general manager, 2002-present: We were like eight years in the Bataan Death March, the Maverick walk in the desert, where we hadn't made the playoffs.

Greg Buckner: It was a weird year. It was a lockout year. The season then didn't start until January. You get one week of practice. Then you have three games in three nights, for a kid. It was hard even for vets at that time. And the language barrier. High expectations on the kid. And he definitely struggled with that. He definitely didn't have the confidence.

Al Whitley, Mavericks equipment manager, 2005-06; special assistant to owner, 2018-19, childhood friend of Nash: Early on, Dirk would always be like, "Why do people want my autograph or want to high-five me or take a picture with me?" He didn't really understand it, but he always made time for those people. And he just had a connection with them.

Marc Gasol, Raptors center: There was nobody ahead of him. He was kind of the pioneer for many, many things. And kudos for him for being ready for that, and to Dallas to have that open mindset of allowing him to change things and to believe in something different that nobody at that point believed in. I think it makes franchises feel safer. It gives an example. To me, the bravest part is, like, Dallas. It was never done before, and they did it. They saw Dirk work every day and the way he interacted with his teammates and, obviously, it worked. But it takes bravery because there's uncertainty in all that that it might not work and we might look like fools.

Donnie Nelson: Brave is one word. Scary is another.

Greg Buckner: And he struggled early. He didn't come out like Luka [Doncic], like gangbusters in the beginning. He came in and he struggled. And they knew it couldn't be tough love with him, it had to be nurturing to make sure he was successful. Because he was struggling mentally going through it, and didn't know if he belonged or not.

Donnie Nelson: For us and my dad [coach Don Nelson], we had literally thrown our reputations, history, everything we've done in the league in the hands of two young guys that were completely unproven. A lot of times, those guys have kind of a high casualty count. Especially guys from Europe. So it was exhilarating, fun and frightening, all at the same time.

Greg Buckner: People don't remember when Dirk first got here, he was a 3-man. He was a small forward. He was not a 4-man or a center. He was a small forward. And the things that he was doing in practice, with the perimeter skills and his size, I had never seen anything like that. So I said this kid is going to be a Hall of Famer. I said, "I don't know what the hell, how good Larry Bird was, or what Larry Bird was, but there's no way he could have been as good as this kid is going to be." And they were like, "Yeah, you're crazy, whatever."

Nick Van Exel, Mavericks guard, 2001-03: I just knew he was a rookie. I didn't know who he was. Didn't know anything about him. And I don't even think he had a good game, but just the things that he was doing on the court, I was impressed. And me and Antonio McDyess, even Chauncey Billups, we was like, damn, that dude's going to be good. This is what we're saying in the locker room. So I'll never forget, after the game, I'm walking out and I'm in front of him. I hear somebody coming behind me and I turned around and it was him, so I actually waited. I probably was about 20 feet in front of him and I waited for him. I said, "Man, you're going to be a good player, man. You just keep balling. You're going to figure this shit out, and you're going to be a good player. We just had that little brief moment, and then when I got traded to Dallas, that's the first thing he brought up to me. He was like, "You remember when you told me?" I said, 'Hell yeah, I remember that shit 'cause I knew you were gonna be special."

"A little bit more 'I'm going to cut your head off'"

Nowitzki was fortunate to start his career playing for Don Nelson, a forward-thinking coach who didn't try to turn him into a traditional big man. It helped, too, to have Nash and Michael Finley at his side. Nowitzki's talent and work ethic were undeniable, and the soft touch on his jumper stood out to anyone who was paying attention. He needed time, though, to develop into the Mavericks' undisputed franchise player, and there is some debate about how clear it was that he would.

Mark Cuban, Mavericks owner, 2000-present: I didn't know how good he would be. Had no idea.

Greg Buckner: After his rookie year, they'd take us all, us young guys, and we do summer league. We do summer league that year in Utah and L.A., I think it was back then, and he f---ing put on a show. I mean, he put on a show. He even turned me into a scorer, and I couldn't score to save my life. He just put on a show. He was clearly the best young player out there. It wasn't even close. And then after you see that success in those two, three weeks that we had in summer league, that next year, it was just too easy for him. He just became confident.

Adrian Griffin, Mavericks wing, 2001-2003; 2005-2006: His second year, I was with the Celtics and we were playing Dallas and I had never heard of Dirk Nowitzki before. So, I switched on him, BANG! Just drilled a 3. And I was like, that's probably just a glitch, probably just a mistake, he probably got lucky on that. Came right back down, I got right back on him again in transition, BANG! Rick Pitino is now giving me an earful. He was cussing me out, calling me every name. "You gotta get up and play him!" That's the first time that I was introduced to Dirk Nowitzki, and then I became a fan from afar.

Donnie Nelson: Dirk just needed time to physically, mentally mature, and I think that's where a guy like Michael Finley and Steve, Holger certainly, my dad and the Dallas community really made him feel welcome in the early days.

Adrian Griffin: I was there to witness almost a total transformation of his mental approach, mental game. The first stint when I was there, we had Dirk Nowitzki, Steve Nash, Michael Finley, and I can recall at the end of the game, when we needed a basket or a certain play, they all three would defer to each other like you go ahead and take it, or you take it. My second stint, Dirk was like give me the effing ball. That was the difference.

Greg Buckner: I mean, obviously Dirk never wanted the attention. He's never going to be the guy that is going to say, "Yeah, it was about me," or whatever. But Dirk always knew he was going to be the franchise guy. And Dirk always knew after that second year, it was Dirk's show. It was not Nash's show, it was not Finley's show, it was not Van Exel's show. It was Dirk's show. Dirk was the franchise from his third year on. And let's not get that messed up. And we all knew that. We all knew who the man was.

Calvin Booth, Mavericks center, 2000-2001; 2004-2005: It was a legitimate Big 3. I think all three of those guys were equally important to us winning. Dirk and Finley were usually going to be the leading scorers, Steve obviously did what he did to help everybody else out and make shots. I think by the time I got there, I got there midseason, I think by that time he's starting to get his footing and he's having more big games. He ended up making third team All-NBA that year.

Mark Cuban: He had Nash and Fin working with him continuously. Encouraging him. Plus we started winning and he knew he was the best player on the team. If you heard all the shit he would talk, you would know he was OK with growing into the role of the best player and a leader.

Al Whitley: When Steve left, as hard as that was for both of them and for all of us, it actually did help Dirk's career and kind of pushed him into that kind of leadership role that he wasn't necessarily comfortable with before Steve left.

Nick Van Exel: Once he got along in his career, he started to see how good he was and how good he could become and he started to take his approach to another level. And one thing about him is he's so cool off the court, but on the court he got kind of a fire inside of him to where he was a little bit different. He was a little bit nastier. He was a little bit more I'm going to cut your head off.

Adrian Griffin: He was always cool and calm, especially my second time with him. That's the confidence that you have. It's almost like the Jordans and the Kobe Bryants. You just have this aura that we can't lose or we're never out of a game. We're down 20 in the fourth, so what? We got Dirk Nowitzki. That's how you always felt. You always had a chance. He'd come in and bang three 3s in a row, and now you're back in it and then everyone's juices are going. He could just have that impact. He's a game-changer. In a couple possessions, you put the ball in his hands and he'd just work magic.

"I used to call him the black German"

In the 2006 playoffs, weeks before the Mavericks lost to the Miami Heat in the NBA Finals, Nowitzki revealed that, in order to relieve pressure at the free throw line, he liked to sing to himself under his breath. His song of choice at the time was David Hasselhoff's "Looking for Freedom," which was a No. 1 hit in Germany when Nowitzki was 10 years old. There is more, however, to Nowitzki's musical stylings than the work of former Baywatch stars.

Nowitzki's coach and mentor, Holger Geschwindner, wanted him to see basketball as a dance. In one of 2014 documentary The Perfect Shot's more memorable scenes, Geschwindner's former teammate Ernest Butler plays saxophone during a training session as a bunch of German players try move and dribble a ball to the rhythm. Butler and his saxophone are in the foreground, with a basketball hoop on the gym wall behind him -- a perfect shot, indeed.

Geschwindner bought Nowitzki a sax of his own for Christmas and, after Terry Porter's elbow cost him a front tooth in the 2001 playoffs, Nowitzki lamented that he couldn't play it like he wanted to in the summer. Just before the Outback portion of his head-clearing trip to Australia after the top-seeded Mavs lost to the eighth-seeded Warriors in the first round in 2007, the reigning MVP and Geschwindner hit the Sydney Opera House for Beethoven's Fourth and Seventh symphonies.

Anyone who knows Nowitzki, though, is aware that, for more than two decades, he has fancied himself a rapper.

Greg Buckner: Gary Trent took him under his wing and played hip-hop music for him. I mean, Dirk is the biggest hip-hop junkie in the world at this time. He's quoting all hip-hop songs and stuff like that.

Nick Van Exel: He was just real goofy. Real goofy. Singing songs. Trying to sing the rap songs. I used to call him the black German.

Justin Anderson, Mavericks wing, 2015-2017: You can tell he hung out with a lot of black guys when he first came into the league, and I asked him about it because, like, all his slang, he's on point with it. Like, "Nahmsaying?" He says all types of things. Gary Trent was his vet, so he was like, "Man, I had all the OGs with me." Those are all usually the funny things.

Greg Buckner: Nash is obviously from Canada and has a different-type background. Michael Finley is from Chicago. Gary Trent is from the Midwest. I'm from the South in Kentucky. We had Cedric Ceballos from L.A. He's just a sponge, soaking all this stuff in, and it created, as we say, a monster, boy, because he could hit you with all kinds of things from all walks of life. It really rounded him out to be a great jokester in all different realms of life.

Seth Curry, Mavericks guard, 2016-18: The guy's from Germany. He doesn't really have an accent as much anymore, but he's in touch with the culture. He knows the music, knows the movies, knows that sense of humor. It's always funnier when it comes from Dirk.

Adrian Griffin, Mavericks wing, 2001-2003; 2005-2006: What people probably don't know is that Dirk and Steve used to bring their guitars in sometimes. They would play, try to teach each other how to play the guitar. I don't know how it ended. Maybe they could be Van Halen by now if they stuck with it. They were in the early years.

Greg Buckner: We all hung out together. We all went to Cedric Ceballos' house and hung out played cards and played dominos. Dirk then was playing the guitar. The funny thing about it, they would bring those guitars on the road and work at it.

Al Whitley: The instruments, the guitar, the saxophone, stuff like that, his mentor, Holger, has always encouraged him to learn different things outside of basketball. To advance your career and be the best you can possibly be, you have to expand your mind in certain things outside of the game of basketball. And musically, Holger is a big advocate of learning instruments helps you do that. I think that's how that all originated.

Adrian Griffin: He was learning. You wouldn't book him for a gig just yet back then, but they say 10,000 hours.

Nick Van Exel: It's probably our first road trip we go on, and I see my phone is lit up. You know, the blinking light. I'm like damn, who in the hell? I'm thinking maybe it's the front desk or something leaving a message. So I check it, and next thing you know, it's Dirk on there singing a damn song, playing a guitar. But I guess that was his way of welcoming me, breaking me in and whatever.

Al Whitley: He just sings and jokes around all the time. Sometimes even he'll rap in German just to keep the mood light for the guys. Half the songs he sings, if it's not hip-hop, a lot of our players, especially our younger players, have no idea who it is. It could be a classic rock band, the Rolling Stones, who Dirk loves, and these guys have no idea.

Ian Mahinmi, Mavericks center, 2010-2012: You see him sing and rap. And this is before important games.

Chandler Parsons, Mavericks forward, 2014-16: Tennis, he's unbelievable. His serve is a pro-level serve. Obviously he doesn't have the agility anymore and the foot speed, but his serve is next level. Singing, dancing, anything of that level, no shot. No good there. He's a Hall of Fame basketball player, not a dancer or a singer.

Dennis Smith Jr., Mavericks guard, 2017-19: It's horrible. The confidence level is high, but the tone is trash.

Nick Van Exel: I was just like, you know, I'm glad you chose basketball because that other path probably wouldn't have worked out for you.

Mark Cuban: Mick Jagger is lucky Dirk took up basketball.

"Man, how is he getting past people?"

The Mavs call it "the flamingo." You probably just call it the Dirk. It's the one-legged fadeaway jump shot that is to Nowitzki what the skyhook is to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. "That's a shot that terrified a lot of opponents because you didn't know when it was coming and you knew you couldn't block it anyway," Warriors star Kevin Durant said.

Nowitzki vexed opposing coaches because normal rules didn't apply to him. He was a master at making contested midrange shots, precisely the kind of looks that defenses were designed to allow. A simple pick-and-pop inspired nightmares.

DeAndre Jordan, Mavericks center, 2018-19: He's a monster, man. He could drive and get to the basket easily. You couldn't really block his shot because he fades away, he shoots with a high arc and he gets that knee up there. And for me, I was a young player, playing against him, so I wanted to really guard him hard or try to block his shot or do something that took him out of his game. But more times than not, it did not work.

Marc Gasol: He's a right-handed guy, high release, high arc, so you gotta be really close to contest that. Then if you take away the right hand -- which, he rarely drove right hand, but you still gotta honor the drive -- you cut him off, he's going to back to a little spin move, one-leg fadeaway. You're not getting to that shot. Everything was a counter to a deadly weapon, which was his jump shot.

Antawn Jamison, Mavericks forward, 2003-2004: I felt like the best defense was I had to make him work on the defensive end and try to score against him.

Mike Procopio, Mavericks director of player development, 2013-present: You watch these guys with these Instagram workouts in the summer that are bogus, like dribbling seven balls and jumping over shopping carts to get to a shot. Some guy's got a 40-foot pole that he's gotta shoot over like he's in the MTV Rock N' Jock game. Like, that's not him. He just does all these simple shots. He just knows his kill spots on the floor and he knows where he has to get to, and he gets to 'em.

Yogi Ferrell, Mavericks guard, 2016-2018: I've never seen him do a between-the-legs or a behind-the-back dribble ever. Probably not even a crossover.

Jae Crowder, Mavericks forward, 2012-2014: Really, how are you going to guard the pick-and-roll with him popping? If you hedge, he's big enough and tall enough to get the shot off. If you switch it, he sees right over the top of the smaller defender. When he's got it going, it's tough to stop him. It's tough to put the fire out. Obviously.

Vince Carter, Mavericks wing, 2011-2014: You look at him, he's the slowest guy out there, but yet you can't stay in front of him. He knew who he was and how to be effective, man. I tell you, in his day, he was a force to be reckoned with as far as, like, you sit him, you post him up at that free throw line, and he's just a smart player. He knew how to make defenses pay. You just look at it, like, man, how is he getting past people? But you have to respect the great shooter that he is. He knew how to get buckets. Obviously, 31,000 points speaks for itself.

Elton Brand, Mavericks center, 2012-13: I remember one game against Carlos Boozer, I know Boozer wants to go left. I'm screaming at Dirk, at Dirty, "Send him right, send him right!" Boozer goes left and scores. And then scores again. And I'm frustrated. I'm just like, "Goddamn, Dirty! Send him right!" And then Dirk hits two dagger 3s to win the game. I go back and apologize: "Look, you never have to play defense again, man."

Mike Procopio: He's not just like a hired assassin, hired gun who's going to get you 35. He's smart, he can pass. Back in his day -- before electricity -- he could actually get off the floor and get by guys. You watch him, I don't think he wants you to know this, but the reason why he invented the fadeaway is because Bill Russell kept on blocking his shot at The Garden. He needed his shot to go over him.

Ian Mahinmi: You can see KD now, Porzingis, all these 6-11, 7-footers, 7-foot-1 players, they all watched Dirk. They all watched Dirk shooting 3s and putting it on the floor and having this high release. This is Dirk. Ain't nobody who was doing it like that before him. From time to time when we have talks, especially with the younger generation, and we brought up the name Dirk and they're so quick to be like, "Uhhh." Like, no, man. Nah. Dirk is like that. You just haven't seen it. Do your research. Look some tape up. The man is great.

"The holy grail of his career"

In Nelson's view, Nowitzki's game had reached "a whole different stratosphere" by the time he returned to "the scene of the crime." That would be the 2011 NBA Finals, again meeting the Heat. Surrounded by veterans who knew they might never get back to the Finals, Nowitzki upstaged LeBron James, Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh. Then-Mavericks guard Jason Terry said it was hard to describe how he owed Nowitzki for the championship ring, but called it "phenomenal" to reach the pinnacle alongside him. Fans feel the same way.

"The people of this city view Dirk and their relationship with Dirk as a precious relationship," Dallas coach Rick Carlisle said. "It's been based upon all the right things. It's been based upon a singular vision to provide the ultimate moment, which came to fruition in the form of a championship in 2011."

Carlisle made sure to cite Nowitzki's "amazing sense of loyalty and giving" and mention the "untold of millions of dollars" Nowitzki sacrificed in free agency, which allowed the Mavs to sign Tyson Chandler. Without the addition of Chandler, there would have been no title, no parade and no incredible photos of Nowitzki wearing Ian Mahinmi's glasses at Miami nightclub LIV, where Cuban spent a reported $110,000 in four hours.

Donnie Nelson: Dirk felt (in 2006) not only did he let down people in the locker room, let down people in Dallas, but also around the globe. I mean, he was carrying a baton that has never been carried before.

Al Whitley: Disappointment and devastation. We did sit in the locker room for many, many hours till the wee hours of the morning. And I know it still hurts him. But if you look back, in order to reach the top of the mountain, you gotta go through peaks and valleys. And at the time, it felt like we got punched as hard as you can get punched, but in the end, I think it was meant to be along the journey to get to where we got to in 2011. The sun came up the next day -- we watched it -- and it is what it is.

Rick Carlisle, Mavericks coach, 2008-present: The only thing he's ever cared about is winning. In the 11 years that I've known him, that's the only thing. He was a 29-year-old guy about to become 30 when I got the job here, and the championship had eluded them in 2006. It was very painful.

Donnie Nelson: It's like somebody ripped your heart out.

Rick Carlisle: That was his only goal. And it wasn't just a goal that he had for himself. It was a goal that he had for the city of Dallas. And a lot of that had to do with his feelings about the fans here and of course his feelings about Mark Cuban. That was the only focus.

Donnie Nelson: You hear things like, "You'll never be able to win a championship with someone with a European mentality, they don't understand our game, there's no defense, people won't follow that kind of a leader." Blah blah blah, this and that. You hear everything. And when you fail, those things, whether they're real or not, become true in people's minds. And so when we're sitting there, about to stick a flag into Mount Everest in our first Finals run, and that cup is literally ripped from our arms, then you hear all of the naysayers.

Jason Terry, Mavericks guard, 2004-2012: Dirk and I had a very special relationship. You gotta understand, when I was traded to Dallas and then Steve Nash departed Dallas, Steve Nash was Dirk's best friend. He was the teammate that he had played with that they had that sort of relationship and chemistry. When I was brought in to replace Nash, people thought that relationship would kind of happen, it would be automatic. But we had to let that relationship grow organically, and we had to go through it -- trials and tribulations, adversity, losing in the playoffs, that sort of thing -- for our relationship to develop and for it to evolve. Besides Stockton and Malone, I say we had the best two-man game ever in NBA history.

Rick Carlisle: The amount of emotion that overcame him at the end of Game 6 on June 12, 2011 was amazing. He had to leave the court, he went back to the locker room just to try to collect himself. There were tears in his eyes. You look into the stands, if you looked up into the stands and saw Holger Geschwindner, there were tears in his eyes as well. These guys had basically captured the holy grail of his career, and it was an amazing moment that will never be duplicated.

Al Whitley: All the hard work and the blood, sweat and tears that he put into doing that, to see that come to life was one of the greatest moments of my life.

Donnie Nelson: It literally took me probably about two weeks of waking up, "Honey, that wasn't a dream, right? We've got the trophy, right?" It's like, "Yeah, remember you had the parade?"

Ian Mahinmi: Those glasses are not prescribed glasses. They're fake glasses. They're just a fashion statement, whatever. And then after we won, he was like, "Man, come on, man, let me see what I can do with this." And I remember he snatched them from me and he put them on. Little stuff like that, me as a young kid, this made me feel so special. That's just Dirk right there. He's that type of guy, man. He made fun of me wearing those glasses so many times. Almost every single day. And then here we go, Finals, we win and he's wearing it. It don't get no better than that.

Al Whitley: I was two seats down from him. It was hilarious. I don't even think he could see through them. The drinks were flowing so much at that point. But I actually thought he pulled the look off pretty good.

"We go at it in QuizUp"

"He trolls you," Dallas rookie Jalen Brunson said. "But also, like, he takes jokes, too."

Players new to the Mavericks do not always know about Nowitzki's trash talk, and then they inevitably find themselves on the receiving end of it during a scrimmage. Cuban's favorite Dirkisms are "Happy Birthday," "What a circus" and the immortal "He's a burger."

No one is more in tune with Nowitzki in this regard than Mike Procopio, the Mavs' head of player development. Procopio is a man who is willing to spend an hour and a half editing a video for the sole purpose of trolling the face of the franchise.

"Instead of The Perfect Shot, it was called 'The Perfect Limp,'" Procopio said. "And it was about all his follies on the court, falling down or getting shaken up on a pick-and-roll. I just sent it out on the group chat with all the players and stuff. And he's cool with it. He's laughing."

The day after our interview, Procopio followed up via text message. "I was going to stop but this old f--- just made fun of me again," he wrote. He had four more things to say about Nowitzki:

He's so old that his calcium deposits have calcium deposits.

He sometimes says I can't wait to retire. I tell him statistically he retired in 2014.

National Geographic is doing a ranking, who's the least mobile: The Titanic, Stonehenge or him. He came in fourth.

I tell his legs every day what the late, great Jim Valvano said: Survive and advance.

Wesley Matthews, Dallas Mavericks wing, 2015-2019: Obviously he's getting older, but he's still as good of a shit-talker as ever.

Zaza Pachulia, Mavericks center, 2015-16: I've been following him on social media. First of all, it took him a while to get on social media because he's so slow in everything. I saw a couple of tweets of his, clowning his teammates, and you could tell the guy has humor. But I didn't know that he had that much humor till I became his teammate. The guy is nonstop. Nonstop, and I mean that.

Greg Buckner: "What up, Work?" He says that to everybody. When he says that to you, you know you've been around Dirk, you know you've been one of his teammates and you've had a great time with him and you've been on his coattails, riding the ride, enjoying the show and watching him do his thing. It was really big when we first got in. Burger is almost disrespectful. When somebody calls you a burger, that's not a good thing. It's not like a good In-N-Out Burger. It's a bad thing. Burger is about him joking with you, telling you that you ain't shit.

Jae Crowder: If he calls you a burger, it feels like you're not on his level.

Dennis Smith Jr.: Somebody playing trash or if somebody's trash, he'll call 'em a burger.

Elton Brand: He'll call you a burger. I'm trying to defend him in practice and he'll be like, "Too little! E.B.'s too little!" Because, you know, he's 7-foot and I'm 6-7 3/4. He just talks trash. It's just love, though.

Greg Buckner: He was a burger on defense.

Mike Procopio: When he gets subbed out, he will look at my outfit and destroy what I'm wearing and I'll politely tell him that his defensive plus-minus reads like the Dow did in the stock market crash of 1929.

Ian Mahinmi: Let's say like during the game I would miss a bad shot. So it was for sure the next day at practice or shootaround, he'd look at me and he'd do the exact same shot. But he'd overexaggerate.

Mike Procopio: [Dirk and Doncic] are two clowns. They clown on each other. Dirk clowns on his weight and just sort of him butchering the English language. He'll just go at Dirk about how old he is. It's cool 'cause those guys are different because of obviously the age and what they've grown up with, but they're the same in the sense that they're competitive as hell. I mean, competitive as hell. But they're funny as hell. They're good to be around. Teammates love them. It's awesome to watch those guys. You could go 0-82 and you'd still have fun going to work every day because of those two guys.

Ian Mahinmi: Dirk will crack a joke at the most random time and he'll relax the atmosphere. When your leader is capable of taking a joke and making fun of yourself and laughing out loud, it's kind of like OK, this guy is human, this guy is actually just like me.

Mike Procopio: Right now, it's our endless games of QuizUp on our apps. 'Cause we talk trash to each other all night. We'll play all night. We'll go at it about Mavericks history, NBA All-Star Game history and 90s music. And every time somebody wins, we screenshot the scoreboard and we say something pretty outlandish about the other person. After a game, after he chips off the iceberg that sank the Titanic and soaks his feet in it, and all his battered-out joints, and when he's out of it, he's on the bus, I know that I'll get a text on my phone that he challenged me in some game. We were like 78-79, we were like neck-and-neck for a while and then I went on a cold streak. Because we're playing Dallas Mavericks history. The f---ing guy, half the answers are about him anyway. How the f--- do I know how many offensive rebounds he had in his career? I thought Eric Montross was the leader.

Nick Van Exel: He's still trying to play, and I played with him in 2003, 2002, and I'm sitting behind the bench talking shit to him. So we were playing the last game in Dallas. He was at the free throw line. I said, "Dirk, man, you might as well come on sit back here with me, man. Let this shit go." He looked at me and starts laughing.

Mike Procopio: Our current score on QuizUp is 106-80 as of now. I hung in there for a while but, like Dirty's joints and legs, I'm on a tremendous downward spiral.

"You'd think he was the 15th guy"

If you really want to know what an NBA player is like, try to find out how he treats team staff. Whitley, who was Dallas' longtime equipment manager before his promotion this season, said that Nowitzki has "the biggest heart of any person of his stature that I've ever been around." He added that Nowitzki has "no diva in him" -- he never even asked for new socks, shirts and shoes.

Ask teammates about Nowitzki, and many of them will tell you it has been an honor to play with him. Mavericks center Dwight Powell is one of them, and he said he has been inspired by Nowitzki quietly finding ways to help the community and change lives in Dallas. Ex-Mavs guard Darren Collison will never forget watching Nowitzki slowly walk through a crowded airport, signing autograph after autograph, brushing nobody off. According to Whitley, countless players have told him over the years that they "never thought he was like this" because of his intensity on the court.

One of the peculiarities about playing until you're 40 is that you end up sharing the court with people who grew up cheering for you. "I've got his jersey," Joe Ingles said. "Only one I've got." When Ingles and Nowitzki got in a scuffle, the Utah Jazz forward "felt bad 'cause I really like him."

Justin Anderson: The team that I would always choose on 2K, the poster that was on my wall, the jersey that I begged mom to buy was Dirk's. Coming to the league, being drafted by the Mavericks was obviously a surreal moment to me. I remember when I first got to see him in the locker room, just being able to kick it with him.

Chandler Parsons: We would always have a group that we would go to get dinner on the road. I remember the girl I was dating at the time I played in Dallas was German, so we'd always go to his house and we'd play tennis or we'd just hang out. Just little things like that that I would never think I'd get the chance to do with one of the greats. And it's just crazy how the world works. It started off with idolizing this guy and now I would consider him a close friend. It's crazy that basketball brought me to someone I looked up to as a role model my whole life.

Ryan Broekhoff, Mavericks forward, 2018-present: When I started basketball, I was like, "I want to be like Dirk." You'd go into the backyard or play against friends and throw up the one-legged fadeaways. It didn't go in too much, but you'd yell, "Dirk!"

Doug McDermott, Mavericks wing, 2018-2018: When I was in college, I kind of started shooting those fadeaways because of him. I watched him in the Finals that year against LeBron. I posted a lot in college, so I added it to my game and it ended up being really huge for me.

Ryan Broekhoff: It's come up in a couple of interviews. Whether he's paid much attention to it or not is a different story. I haven't gone up to him and just gone, "I was a big fan," all this sort of stuff. When I first came in, I was like, "Oh, wow, there's Dirk walking in." Now it's, "Hey, Dirk, how you doing? How's your day?" I know him as a person and he's such a down-to-earth, funny, warm character that it made it easy for me to not just see him as an idol growing up but a teammate and, now, friend.

Doug McDermott: I didn't want to be a fanboy around him. He doesn't know how big of a fan I am.

Elton Brand: It was refreshing because you hear a lot of stories about other superstars, and you go to the Mavericks and the initial team dinner is at his house. His wife is setting up the food. It's like a normal, just everyday teammate. You wouldn't think he was the Hall of Famer, you'd think he was the 15th guy just trying to hang on at times, with his demeanor.

Dennis Smith Jr.: He's willing to allow you into that aspect of life, letting you know how he is. He even told me that I need to go by his house and start babysitting his kids. He told me that my rookie year.

Al Whitley: He's a superstar player that's always thinking about the staff and enjoys hanging out with them outside of basketball. Some of his closest friends are the Mavs staff. I mean, we've grown up with him.

Rick Carlisle: He's not high-maintenance. He's not needy. He's a giver, not a taker. And you gotta be real careful because all those qualities point to a guy that's easy to take for granted. My level of respect for him is so high, and my understanding for how special he is both as a person and as a player is so high that I refuse to take that guy for granted.

Adrian Griffin: Dirk Nowitzki was very content about being Dirk Nowitzki. He didn't feel he had to live up to any persona. He didn't feel he had to be a prima donna or be out in the media and put on a certain image. He was cool with being Dirk, and that's what made him so special. He'd come into practice with jeans on an a T-shirt. On the court, he was a killer. Off the court, he was a gentle giant. I don't know if you'll ever find a Dirk Nowitzki ever again.

"Dude, you're 38, are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?"

When Avery Johnson coached the Mavericks, he had to resort to punishments. "It would be like, 'Hey, tomorrow's off; if anybody comes in, they're getting fined," ex-Mavs center Calvin Booth said. Johnson said it to the whole team, but the message was for Nowitzki, who did not seem to respect the concept of an off-day.

This is not to say that his extreme commitment to his routine is a problem. "No one sets a better example than Dirk Nowitzki," Nelson said, speaking reverentially about the way his game evolved under the tutelage of Geschwindner. The two of them wanted to add to what they called his "toolbox" every summer, and Nelson still sounds mystified by the way Nowitzki improved as a rebounder early in his career.

"Dirk is like a son to all of us, but particularly Holger who, really, in a lot of respects, birthed him from a basketball perspective," Nelson said. "He was working with him back in the day when he literally was this kid that was just a little colt on the court, trying to figure out life. He's been his agent, he's been his mentor, he's been his motivation, he's been, really, everything from soup to nuts. And Holger's skill set and his ingenuity perfectly matched up, I think, with Dirk. It was one of these really cool time-and-place happenstances where these two planets came together."

Nowitzki put the Mavericks on his shoulders, but loud, vocal leadership was never his thing. "He showed me the ropes, he showed me without telling me," former Dallas wing Justin Anderson said. Anderson is one of many ex-Mavs who said they made a point of doing shooting drills with him and watching what he was doing. When Nowitzki went to the cold tub, Anderson followed him to the cold tub. When Anderson noticed Nowitzki was eating before treatment, he decided to eat before treatment.

"He taught me so much about the game, whether it's taking care of your body, how much water he drinks," Anderson said."I mean, he drinks an insane amount of water. Every time I saw him he had a big glass bottle of Mountain Valley water with him."

Elton Brand: I saw Holger, his coach, come in from Germany, and I'd get shots up at night and they were there all day and night, working on his form, doing his, like, squatting all the way down to the ground and shooting high-arcing shots.

Ian Mahinmi: I asked Holger to work me out just so I could see it. I worked out a few times with him and his stuff is hard. You get to a point where you master that shit, no wonder why you're a Hall of Famer.

Elton Brand: It was fascinating, watching him do like squats and not even shoot the ball. And bear crawls.

DeAndre Jordan: Some of it is very unorthodox, but, shit, I mean, if it works for you, it works for you. Obviously it has been proven to work over 21 seasons. We all could take a page out of his book.

Seth Curry: It's about routine. It's about what you do every day. If you do something every single day, you can master it, you can figure out what works for you. Even today, you see guys like KD and Steph take some of those things they've seen Dirk do with Holger and apply it to their workouts, like getting extra low, shooting it super high arc. He definitely changed the game in the way people practiced shooting.

Donnie Nelson: We would give Dirk and Holger things that they needed to work on over the course of the summer, and when the season was over, it was almost like they went right back to Würzburg and got in that gym. And by the time training camp came around, not only did he have it, but he had it mastered.

Jason Terry: To watch Dirk work, to watch him prepare the way he did, it made me a better professional and a better player. There was many nights where I would be on one end of the court, he would be on the other and he would be working on his craft. And I would just peek down to the other end and just watch him work and what he was doing and with the efficiency that he was doing it with. That routine alone, I implemented and it gave me the longevity that I've had to this day, to be able to play 19 years. Had I not been Dirk Nowitzki's teammate and been able to witness that greatness every single day and sit by him in the locker room during my time in Dallas, I don't think I would have played as long.

Donnie Nelson: In all the years that I've been here, we haven't had a single guy that's outworked him. We get rookies that say, "Oh yeah I'll be here every day that Dirk's here, I'll work harder," and this and that. Yeah, that lasts about a week.

Harrison Barnes, Mavericks forward, 2016-2019: He'd always brag. He'd be like, "I heard you were a hard worker." I'm like, "Yeah, likewise. Hey, if you want to get in the gym, let me know." And he was coming back and he's in the gym for like an hour and a half, two hours after practice. I'm like, "Dude, you're 38, are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?"

Ian Mahinmi: You get on the tip of your finger when you do your pushups -- Dirk is the first guy that I actually saw doing that type of pushup. So one day I was looking at him, and he was like, "Man, what are you looking at me for? Get down with me and let's do a series." I started that 'cause of him.

Chandler Parsons: I'm looking at my free-throw percentage this year, I'm shooting 90 percent. I used the breathing technique that he taught me. I've always breathed out on my free throw. Before he shoots, he breathes in and kind of holds his breath at the line, which I thought was different. Most guys exhale and he said that kind of puts motion through your whole body. It's a little thing like that that I've picked up on that I'm still using today that I would have never learned if I didn't play with him.

Mike Procopio: He just never goes away from what works for him. And I talked to Don Kalkstein, our sports psychologist, and he says, "Pro, he's been doing it for 20 years. The same thing." The same workout with Holger. The jokes are the same. Everything is the same. It's like a Twilight Zone episode, where everybody else is dead but he's still coming in, doing the same thing, like he's talking to mannequins every day. I literally think if you set up 40 mannequins of our staff and he walks by, he'll just say the same thing without even noticing.

"Cut out of a different cloth"

"It's tough to see him like this," Dallas guard J.J. Barea said last month. Nowitzki had just shot 2-for-13 in a blowout loss to the Brooklyn Nets, missing his first nine shots and all seven of his 3-point attempts. The fans at Barclays Center screamed for Dirk and booed other Mavericks when they didn't pass him the ball. Barea knows how much Nowitzki loves to compete. Everyone around him knows that, 21 years in, losses and bad games still get to him.

You don't need to be a longtime teammate to know that this season has been challenging for Nowitzki. He has spoken publicly about the setback that kept him out until mid-December after spending last offseason recovering from ankle surgery. Over the last few years, he has been honest about the frustration that has come with his body no longer being able to keep up with his mind, just like he was honest about his Finals heartbreak.

Nowitzki never pretended to be invincible. He owned his failings, deflected praise and answered questions. According to Cuban, players can learn a lesson from this: "Being humble, open and vulnerable are signs of strength."

Al Whitley: He put in so much work this past summer and was actually feeling really good. The setback was tough to watch. I don't think many people, if any other than himself, could get through that and continue to play on and keep fighting every day at his age and at his stature. It would have been easy to just hang it up and say, "I gave it a go and it just didn't work out." But instead he was the first one at the gym getting treatment, rehabbing, trying to figure it out and get it right 'cause he wanted to come back and play so bad.

Mike Procopio: He's got a lot on his mind. He's hurting. I think if you invested in ice this past couple years, it went up about 300 points in the stock market because we've monopolized it. But the guy's going through some tough times sometimes, so joking around and making the guy smile and laugh is pretty cool.

Greg Buckner: He's Mr. Maverick. The Dallas Mavericks' legacy is all because of Dirk. And a little bit of Mark Cuban, don't get me wrong. But Dirk is the legacy. And he knows this is his baby. You never want to give up your baby. He feels like the Mavericks is his baby, and I think that's why he's grinding and grinding can play as long as he has.

Donnie Nelson: Dirk a number of times could have gone a different direction and said, "Hey listen, let me go finish up with Golden State." Look, he's gotten calls from all the big boys. I mean, anyone that's been in the Finals run -- L.A., Miami, he gets calls from all of those guys. Recruiting calls from some of the best players that have ever played the game: "Hey, come on and join us. We're assured that we'll get to the Finals. We got a shot to get you another ring." Dirk has turned down all of those sirens to stick it out here in Dallas. That's, beyond words, appreciated.

Rick Carlisle: Dirk's a great friend. This is my 11th year. We arrived here in 2008 when my daughter was going into preschool. She's now in eighth grade and my present contract runs through the end of high school for her. I'm well aware that the reason my daughter is going to likely be in the same school for 14 straight years, with pre-K, kindergarten and then grades 1 through 12, is because of Dirk's greatness and all these very unique qualities. He now has a young family with three kids, and he's learning what that's all about. But he and I have been through a lot, and if you look at what's happened with the team since the championship, there's been a lot of upheaval. There's been significant change virtually every year. But he's kept a consistent approach, a positive mindset, a positive bent on the whole thing. And it's made my job lightyears easier than what it could have been.

Donnie Nelson: This is almost like a time warp because you really can't believe this is potentially coming to an end. You can't imagine your life without that person. And it's not like he's leaving forever or anything like that, but you've been so used to having him be the rudder of the franchise for so long, you don't really know how to react to it.

Mike Procopio: I love him. he's a good dude. I'll never admit that to his face. I'll Frank Underwood this thing and just lie and put a spin on it if anyone ever says it, but I love the dude. He's a good guy. He's one of the best. I'm glad I got a chance to spend six years with the guy.

Rick Carlisle: I've been in teams with superstars for decades. I can categorically say that Dirk is cut out of a different cloth. I can also say with the utmost confidence that we will never, ever see a guy in the NBA game quite like him, in terms of his humility, loyalty and all-out level of greatness. The interesting thing about Dirk is the humility and loyalty make it easy to marginalize certain parts of his game and certain huge contributions that he's made to the game. And at the end of the day, that's what makes him the most special.

Donnie Nelson: If San Antonio is the last hoorah, will be his last game, that ironically is where everything started. We're going to be playing right next door to that little gym to where the Hoop Summit was played, that little 5000-person gym. So Dirk's period is going to end literally about 50 yards from where his American Idol moment happened. Ironically, Holger and I, we're going to have a date at the same place that we did however many years ago. If that is in fact the last game, it's ironic serendipity. It's almost like a song.

[theafictionados]

A The 100 Character For Every Twenty One Pilots Song

Hello there!

Are you a fan of The 100? How about twenty one pilots? I have good news: you don’t need to be either to listen to twenty one pilots songs. But it helps! However, to get the most out of this article, I would advise that you be a fan of the CW show The 100 because this list contains spoilers up to Season 4 Episode 8! (And was written before Episode 9 so if anything crazy happens that contradicts everything I’ve said, NOT MY FAULT)

Now: to begin at the beginning. Let me start by introducing myself in case you are a person who is unfamiliar with my ridiculous life.

My name is Robyn Jeffrey and I’m a co-host with The Afictionados Podcast Network. (website, twitter, soundcloud) We do podcasts about your favorite tv shows including AND TOTALLY LIMITED TO AT THIS POINT, The 100, Riverdale, and LOST (my personal favorite). You can find us by searching “Afictionados” in Soundcloud or iTunes!

Something that I really love about TOP is that you can listen to their songs and there is nary a swear. I’m one of those people who get kind of taken out of things where there’s too much profanity. I also love that when they sing love songs, they hardly ever use gendered pronouns. Not all of them, but most of their love songs could be sung to any gender. And that makes writing this a little easier.

Ever since I became a fan of twenty one pilots, my sister and I have played this game where we choose a The 100 character that is best represented by each song. When I was at Unity Days in January, I shared this fact with a few friends and they wanted more!

I have tried my best to do this with every single TOP song. However, I tried very hard to not overlap or give multiple songs to one character, even though many of these songs could refer to Jasper or Murphy and so on. That’s why I’ll have a section at the bottom of the song with alternate characters that might also work. If you have a suggestion for a character that I don’t have already, let me know and I’ll add it with full credit!

Although Vessel was released first, I will begin with Blurryface, for my sister and I began with Blurryface. I’m aware that they also released a self-titled album in 2009 but I only just realized that you can buy that on iTunes and I’m not familiar with it at all so we’re only doing the last two albums OKAY? Here we go!

Blurryface

Heavydirtysoul – Octavia Blake

“Gangsters don’t cry.”

Originally, this song was Jasper’s song but with the addition of my rule of only one per customer, I felt that a different song described him better (or possibly, he was the only one to fit that song). And thus I came to the conclusion that this was an Octavia Blake song if I ever heard one; especially if you take the last season into consideration.

“There’s an infestation in my mind’s imagination.

I hope that they choke on smoke ‘cause I’m smoking them out the basement.

This is not rap. This is not hip-hip.

It’s just another attempt to make the voices stop.”

“Can you save my heavy, dirty, soul?”

Alternate: Jasper Jordan, Clarke Griffin, John Murphy, etc.

Stressed Out – All

“We would build a rocket ship and then we’d fly it far away.”

I felt that this song could refer to so many characters that I decided to make it a song for everyone. I think you could find a piece of whoever you wanted in this song.

“Wish we could turn back time to the good old days,

When our momma sang us to sleep but now we’re stressed out.”

Ride – Jasper Jordan

“I’m falling so I’m taking my time on my ride.”

Jasper is found in so many of these songs that it was hard to pick one for him. I found that this was a song that fit him best especially taking Season 4 into account. He knows that he won’t make it and so he’s just having fun with the time that he still has.

“Yeah, I think about the end just way too much

But it’s fun to fantasize.”

“I’ve been thinking too much. Help me.”

 Fairly Local – Roan

“I’m fairly local. I’ve been around. I’ve seen the streets you’re walking down.”

This song was originally Lincoln but since I found a better fit for him, I switched it to Roan and I think I like it even better! This song is reminiscent of when new people show up, like Skaikru, and try and take over.

“Yo, you, bulletproof in black like a funeral.

The world around us is burning but we’re so cold.

It’s the few, the proud, and the emotional.”

“I’m not evil to the core.

What I shouldn’t do I will fight.

I know I’m emotional.

What I wanna save I will try.”

Alternate: Lincoln, Indra, any grounder pick one

 Tear in my Heart – Finn Collins

“She’s the tear in my heart, I’m on fire.”

If this isn’t the most Finn Collins song you’ve ever heard, you’re wrong. This is one of the first songs that we assigned to a character. This is so Finn it’s incredible. Think season 2 Finn looking for Clarke. Like that Finn. It’s ridiculous. My favorite part of the song is that it literally says “I’m on fire” and isn’t that just brutal? It literally talks about her stabbing him HAHA

“Sometimes you’ve gotta bleed to know,

That you’re alive and have a soul.

But it takes someone to come around to show you how.”

“She’s a butcher with a smile, cut me farther than I’ve ever been.”

 Lane Boy – Nathan Miller

“They say ‘stay in your lane, boy’… but we go where we want to.”

This was kind of a hard one to choose. But I’m happy with the conclusion that I came to and I think it actually fits really well. This is one of my favorite songs on Blurryface. Also I <3 Miller. That is all.

“Who would live and die for on that list?

But the problem is,

There’s another list that exists and no one really wants to think about this.”

“If you get in between someone I love and me,

You’re gonna feel the heat of my cavalry.

All these songs I’m hearing are so heartless.

Don’t trust a perfect person and don’t trust a song that’s flawless.”

 The Judge – Thelonius Jaha

“You’re the judge, oh no, set me free.”

The way I’m choosing to look at this one is that Jaha is calling ALIE the judge. He wants ALIE to take him into the City of Light and away from all of the pain of his life. It also shows Jaha’s soft side when he’s always making sacrifices for others. I think.

“When the leader of the bad guys sang,

Something soft and soaked in pain,

I heard the echo from his secret hideaway.”

“I know my soul’s freezing.

Hell’s hot for good reason so please take me.”

 Doubt – Wells Jaha

“Don’t forget about me.”

Okay check it out. Not only is this super literal because Jaha actually forgot Wells in Season 3, but it’s also totally relevant to the 4 episodes he was in regarding Clarke and such.

“Even when I doubt you,

I’m no good without you.”

“Fear might be the death of me,

Fear leads to anxiety.

Don’t know what’s inside of me.”

Alternate: Monty Green

 Polarize – Bellamy Blake

“My friends and I, we’ve got a lot of problems.”

This was the one of the first songs that we assigned a character to and yeah maybe it started only with “better brother, better son” but if you look at the whole song it actually works quite well.

“It’s deciding where to die and deciding where to fight.

Deny, deny, denial.”

“I wanted to be a better brother, better son.

Wanted to be a better adversary to the evil I have done.

I have none to show to the one I love.”

 We Don’t Believe What’s On TV – Lexa

“We have all learned to kill our dreams.”

This was a really hard one to choose. I felt that many of the people that I could possibly give it to, already had a song. And although it could fit Lexa and Clarke’s relationship better, I’m pleased with my choice.

“I used to say, ‘I wanna die before I’m old’,

But because of you I might think twice.”

“I need to know that when I fail, you’ll still be here.”

Alternate: Finn Collins, John Murphy, Marcus Kane, who’s in love?

 Message Man – Clarke Griffin

“You don’t know what I’ve done. I’m wanted and on the run.”

This song was a Murphy song for such a long time until I realized, after the premiere of Season 3, that this works even better for Clarke than it does for Murphy. Clarke’s a major badass.

“A loser hides behind a mask of my disguise.

And who I am today is worse than other times.”

“You don’t know my brain the way you know my name.

And you don’t know my heart the way you know my face.”

Alternate: John Murphy

 Hometown – Maya Vie

“Take me home and show me the sun.”

Listen up. I had the hardest time figuring this one out but then my mother suggested Maya / Mount Weather in general and it’s absolutely perfect. I couldn’t think of anything else ever again. Now this song will haunt your dreams as a Mount Weather song.

“Where we’re from, there’s no sun.

Our hometown’s in the dark.”

“We don’t know, we don’t know,

How to put back the power in our soul.

We don’t know, we don’t know,

Where to find what once was in our bones.”

Alternate: Bryan, Charles Pike, peeps from farm station, Ilian

 Not Today – Charles Pike

“Heard your voice. There’s no choice.”

This was another difficult one. I want to dedicate this choice to my girls Sarah and Claire (aka the #1 Pike apologists).

“You are out of my mind, you aren’t seeing my side.

You spend all this time trying to get to me.”

“Don’t you test me though, just because I play the piano,

Doesn’t mean I am not willing to take you down. I’m sorry.”

 Goner – Lincoln

“I’m a goner. Somebody catch my breath.”

This one hurts. But it’s just so perfect. And don’t just look at the lyrics to this one. It’s the real musical genius of the finale of Blurryface that encapsulates Lincoln so perfectly. The soft, quiet beginning, into the loud, angry ending. It all works.

“Though I’m weak and beaten down,

I’ll slip away into the sound.

The ghost of you is close to me.

I’m inside out. You’re underneath.”

 Vessel

Ode to Sleep – Ilian

“I’m not free, I asked forgiveness three times.”

Some songs and this album were much harder to figure out than others. I knew that I wanted an Ilian song and this one fit the best out of what was left. It works with the fact that he blew up Arkadia and that he feels terrible about what he did in the City of Light.

“Please tell them you have no plans for me.

I will set my soul on fire, what have I become?”

“I swear I heard demons yelling,

Those crazy words they were spelling.

They told me I was gone.”

 Holding Onto You – Marcus Kane

“You should take my life, you should take my soul.”

This song was the Lincoln and Octavia song for a really long time. The second verse is one of my favorite verses of all of TOP’s discography. I think it’s just beautiful. But it works very well with Kane and Abby as well.

“Fight it.

Take the pain, ignite it.

Tie a noose around your mind,

Loose enough to breathe fine and tie it,

To a tree, tell it ‘you belong to me.

This ain’t a noose, this is a leash.

And I have news for you.

You must obey me.’”

Alternate: Lincoln

 Migraine – Raven Reyes

“Am I the only one I know, waging my wars behind my face and above my throat?”

How perfect is it that Raven had migraines this season and they have a song called Migraine? It’s perfect. I’m really pleased with this pairing. I think that Migraine is one of their best songs. It’s sometimes hard to catch all of the beautiful lyrics so I recommend looking them up because they work so well.

“…It is a door that holds back contents,

That make Pandora’s box contents look non-violent.

Behind my eyelids are islands of violence.

My mind’s ship-wrecked.

This is the only land my mind could find.”

“And I will say that we should take a day to break away

From all the pain our brain has made.

The game is not played alone.”

 House of Gold – Monty Green

“We’ll make pretend that you and me lived ever after happily.”

Sure. Maybe this song was given to Monty because he’s the only one that really got to talk with his Mom other than Clarke. But if you think about it, you could maybe think of it as CoL Hannah talking to Monty and trying to persuade him into joining her. And his father is even mentioned in the song. It works!

“She asked me, ‘Son, when I grow old,

Will you buy me a house of gold?

And when your father turns to stone,

Will you take care of me?’”

“And since we know that dreams are dead,

And life turns plans up on their head.

I will plan to be a bum.

So I just might become someone.”

 Car Radio – Luna

“Peace will win and fear will lose.”

This song is incredible. It has some of the cleverest lyrics I have ever heard. I really think it could fit with just about any character that is truly haunted by something that they’ve done. It really fits with Luna because of what happened on her little island and how she promotes peace over violence.

“Sometimes quiet is violent.

My pride is no longer inside.

It’s on my sleeve. My skin will scream.

Reminding me of who I killed.”

“I find over the course of our human existence,

One thing consists of consistence

And it’s that we’re all battling fear.

Oh dear, I don’t know if we know why we’re here.”

Alternate: Raven Reyes, Monty Green, Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake

 Semi-Automatic – John Murphy

“I’m semi-automatic. My prayer’s schizophrenic. But I’ll live on.”

This song has been the Murphy song for years. The real Murphy song. It speaks for itself.

“I’m never what I like,

I’m double-sided, and I just can’t hide,

I kinda like it when I make you cry,

‘Cause I’m twisted up, I’m twisted up inside.”

“The horrors of the night melt away,

Under the warm glow of survival of the day,

Then we move on.”

 Screen – Emori

“We’re broken people.”

We found that this song worked really well with Emori. Sometimes she’s talking about herself, then herself and Murphy, and maybe even sometimes herself and Otan. It’s however you like to interpret it that makes it so fun.

“I do not know why I would go

In front of you and hide my soul

‘Cause you’re the only one who knows it.”

“While you’re doing fine, there’s some people and I

Who have a really tough time getting through this life

So excuse up while we sing to the sky.”

 The Run & Go – Abby Griffin

“Cerebral thunder in one way conversations.”

I remember the day that I realized that this could be an Abby song. I remembered the person that she shot at the end of Season 3 and then listening to the chorus, I found that it fit all of this radio stuff that Abby and Kane are dealing with lately.

“I have killed a man and all I know

Is I am on the Run and Go.”

“Don’t wanna call you in the night time.

Don’t wanna give you all my pieces.

Don’t wanna hand you all my trouble.

Don’t wanna give you all my demons.

You’ll have to watch me struggle

From several rooms away.

But tonight, I’ll need you to stay.”

 Fake You Out – Harper McIntyre

“Silence gives you space.”

I made this a Harper song as soon as I saw God Complex and the “If you come back” debacle. Put DNR into this context and it works nicely. She’s feeling farther away from Monty than usual.

“I’ll never be, be what you see inside.

You say I’m not alone, but I am petrified.

You say that you are close, is close the closest star?

You just feel twice as far.”

“They feel they have no control over their prisoner’s cell.

And if you’re one of them then you’re one of me.

And you would do almost anything just to feel free.”

 Guns for Hands – Eric Jackson

“You all have guns, but you never put the safety on.”

I had this song for Indra originally. But after hearing Sachin’s interview with Meta Station, I definitely felt that Jackson would be the one most hoping that everyone would stop shooting each other. He just wants everyone to be healthy. Is that too much to ask???

“I’m trying, I’m trying to sleep.

But I can’t, but I can’t when you all have

Guns for hands.”

“But there’s hope out the window.

So that’s where we’ll go.

Let’s go outside and all join hands

But until then, you’ll never understand.”

 Trees – Indra & Gaia

“I know where you stand, silent in the trees.”

This song doesn’t have a whole lot of words. It’s a slow long with the same lyrics over and over again. And we had a really hard time deciphering who this would go to but in the end we assigned it to 2 characters. The relationship between Indra and Gaia. Indra wanting her to be a warrior and Gaia choosing to stay peaceful.

“I want to know you.

I want to see.

I want to say hello.”

“Why won’t you speak

Where I happen to be?

Silent in the trees.

Standing cowardly.”

 Truce – ALIE

“You will die but now your life is free.”

This is another one of those songs that doesn’t have a whole lot of lyrics. But I took it to mean ALIE’s downfall. She’s about to go to sleep after Clarke pulled the lever and is now just reflecting?

“Now the night is coming to an end,

The sun will rise and we will try again.”

“I will fear the night again,

I hope I’m not my only friend.”

 BONUS

Heathens – Echo

“All my friends are heathens, take it slow.”

I was thinking that I’d really love to have Heathens on this list and I looked at the other list of characters that I hadn’t used and thought that Echo would be a good one. Then I listened to the song again with an Echo lens and realised that it was perfect. Think Mount Weather Grounder Gang.

“Welcome to the room of people who have rooms of people

That they love one day, locked away.

Just because we check the guns at the door,

Doesn’t mean our brains will change from hand grenades.”

“You’ll never know the psychopath sitting next to you.

You’ll never know the murderer sitting next to you.

You’ll think ‘how’d I get here, sitting next to you?’”

THANKS FOR READING!

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