dancingtotuyo · 7 months ago
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All Farms…
Javier Peña
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Summary: Javier has to decide what to do with the ranch
Warnings/Tags: grief, loss, hurt (no comfort?), ranch/farm used interchangeably here.
Notes: I started this on Christmas after walking my grandparents farm which happens to be the same farm I lived on for the first 7 years of my life. My grandparents are getting older which has sparked a lot of conversation with what will happen to the farm when they're gone. Fast forward to now, I'm currently processing a lot of feelings this Easter weekend. I lost my step dad last year. He was a farmer too. After his cancer diagnosis, all of us kids (there are ALOT of us) came home for Easter. It was the last time I saw him look like himself and the last time we were all together before he died. In my processing, I started working on this piece again. It's one of those things I need to put out into the world for me. I hope for anyone else going through something similar, it brings you comfort or makes you feel not quite so alone.
Peep the cow picture. I took that one myself at Christmas :)
Words: 966
Author Master List
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All farms have a graveyard. One of lost memories and stories. Typically along a ridge or tree line, piled-up equipment that was never sold or broken beyond repair sits in overgrown piles and sunken earth. The old family car. The beat-up sports car or pickup truck each son or sometimes daughter inevitably thought they could fix only to spend hundreds of fruitless hours with one glory ride before it went haywire. Scrap metal torn from barn roofs pile up. Every tire imaginable is half buried in the earth. No farmer dares to clean out the graveyard. The moment you do, you’ll find use or need for the items thrown out. 
The Peńa’s graveyard sits between scattered trees at the bottom of the hill. Javier rarely makes his way to that side of the farm. They don’t use that space for cattle since his dad downsized the herd. He pretends there’s no reason for it, but it’s more than just broken down cars and scrap piles to Javier. It’s a ghost town of memories. 
There’s his mom’s ‘62 Ford. The one she drove his whole childhood. The vehicle that took them across town, to Sunday services, and hosted their many road trips. It’s where his Mom feels most tangible, her soft voice playing in his head singing to the radio. 
His first truck. The one he’d spent months fixing up, he kissed Sally Jones on a Saturday night and done much more with Vanessa Reyes. He’s proposed to Lorraine in that truck, driven past the church in it too. 
Chucho’s first American Harvester sits further back. His dad is so proud of that machine… or he was. 
The ache grows in Javier’s chest as he stands at the edge of the graveyard. He begged Chucho for years to clean this up. His dad always waved him off, stating that he would get to it someday. Except, Chucho didn’t make it to someday, and now it is Javier’s responsibility.  
His fingers twitch, desperate for the feel of a cigarette between them. Nicorette gum sits in his breast pocket instead. He’s working to quit again, picking the worst damn time to do it, but that’s life. 
He should probably bring the tractor down to pull everything out. It’s overwhelming with no good place to start. Digging around down there will only dig up the memories. Javier can’t deal with the memories right now, so he leaves the project for another day. He only needs to clean it up if he decides to sell the ranch. 
The house is quiet when he walks through the door. Javier is used to the subtle sounds of life- the coffee pot going, the tv running on low, Chucho’s boots on the linoleum, but it never comes. It won’t ever come again. 
Javier kicks off his boots, lining them right next to his dad’s. He hasn’t moved them. He’s not sure he will. 
He heads for the back of the house toward his room but stops at his Dad’s door. It’s shut tight as he places a hand on the wood. Javier hasn’t gone in there since picking out clothes. It’s a strange thing to pick out clothes for a dead man. How does one pick out what someone will wear for the rest of eternity? 
His hand lands on the knob, and it gives way with a squeak. The same squeak that used to echo down the hall, waking Javier up before the sun to let him know it was time for chores. Javier is flooded with the comforting scent of his father. It envelopes him, pulling tears into his eyes immediately. The bed is fixed just as Chucho had left it before he went out and started the chores just as he always did. Except that day, almost a month ago now, Chucho Peña didn’t return to the house. 
He collapsed in the field. He was already gone when Javier found him. He died alone and that hurt almost as much as the fact that he was gone. 
A thin layer of dust covers the surfaces in the room. He should clean it, but would it lose its smell then? In here, Javier feels surrounded by his father. The closest he can get to him. His room, the one he shared with Javier’s mother, is perfectly preserved. 
Javier dares to ease onto the bed and look at the world from Chucho’s perspective every day as he woke up. On the dresser, there’s a photo of his parents when they first started dating, and one from Javier’s high school graduation. On the bedside table, there’s a book with a bookmark halfway through, a picture from his parent’s wedding day, and another of Chucho on the tractor with Javier in his lap. He couldn’t have been older than two at the time. Javier traces it with his finger, wishes he could remember that moment, wishes he could go back in time and relive it all, even the bad days, and treasure it all, ask his dad more questions, called him more often.
Javier lays down on his parents' bed. Chucho’s scent is thicker here with Javier’s head on his pillow. Big, hot tears fall from the corners of his eyes dampening the pillow. He rests his hands over his chest, letting his eyes close. Javier can hear his voice now, his laughter, catches a hint of his mother’s as well. It’s Javier’s job to carry on their legacy.
All farms have a graveyard. One of lost memories and stories. No farmer dares to clean out the graveyard. When a tractor kicks the dust or that farm use pickup can only be stripped for parts, Javier follows in his father’s footsteps. He lays them to rest between scattered trees at the bottom of the hill.
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andrea-lyn · 4 months ago
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The Raven Cycle - Master Fic Rec Post
See under the cut for fifteen total recs, mostly Pynch. There's also 10 additional in the "Recs Less Travelled" project here.
and on the seventh day he rested by Prevalent_Masters
On the seventh day, the Lynch brothers discovered they were friends once more.
Or, the week following the (near) apocalypse.
cool of your hand, back of my neck by grandfather_clock
Adam Parrish has been dumped for the second time ever. Ronan Lynch is a gleeful, weirdly invested observer. They drive around all night long. featuring: teenagers pretending they aren’t in love, shouting over loud music, minor arson, major arson, ronan lynch’s hand fixation, and an unfortunate amount of kiting.
getting swept away by sunmoontruth
“So. Your page. Your knight. Two different people, yes?” the psychic guesses—intuits. She points to each of the tarot cards: a girl with a golden cup, a boy with a golden cup. “Yes,” Gansey says. “But similar feelings,” the psychic says, mostly to herself. She opens her mouth. She closes her mouth. She instructs, “Last card.” Gansey draws. Death. Reversed. — Or a cross country road-trip, developing feelings, and the end of the world
god only knows (what i'd be without you) by RhymeReason
[Part of Gansey was starting to accept that two of his best friends were most likely dead.]
Or: gansey finds adam and ronan :)
hold me tight, fear me not by audikatia for Northisnotup
When Adam stepped around, he found himself suddenly in an emerald glen of moss-covered trees. More blue roses scattered over the green ground like raindrops or tears.
And there, in the center, was a man pinned to a tree with an arrow through his heart. :: Tam Lin AU
i should have loved a thunderbird instead by ssstrychnine
persephone leaves adam three things: her tarot cards, her voice, and a phone from 2003.
I Worship You, Your Fingers Snag My Soul by sherasaidgaywrites
He breathed into Adam’s mouth, his voice different, somehow; filled with meaning: “Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” He did his smoker’s breath, his fingertips a whisper on nerves. “His name was Adam.” And, oh, that was so fitting. What was Adam if not a man built from the dust? - Ronan does some contemplation during mass and then comes home to his second object of worship. He likens Adam unto God’s creations, Adam likens him unto God.
if, if, if by writerforlife
Declan decides it’s about time he and Adam Parrish have a chat.
like a secret (like an oath) by demigodbeautiies
“You know Richard Gansey well enough to be invited to his wedding,” Adam says, and it isn’t quite a question. Then he shakes his head, like he’s clearing it of a much bigger piece of debris, and says, “You’re the best man at his wedding?” - Pynch Fake Dating AU
Night Owls by aceofreaders (Kickasscookieeater)
Adam Parrish has worked at The Night Owl since the end of his college freshman year. It's named so because it's open late, which suits Adam just fine because no one ever comes in during those last hours before 12am.
Except, then someone does.
A foul mouthed, viciously handsome someone, who brings a slow rolling storm of change into Adam's steady life. And when he does, Adam won't be able to lie anymore.
since you've been home, see what you have become by Mici (noharlembeat)
Adam goes touring colleges, and Ronan comes along. And Opal, well. She stays with Declan.
Someone Worth Knowing by SprigsofViolets
Alex Claremont-Diaz and Adam Parrish meet on their first day at NYU. They do not hit it off—cue the academic rivalry. They hate each other until they learn to understand each other.
(I can’t tell you how many times I’ve re-read this one, esp as it hits two of my fave canons in all the right places)
There's No Place Like My Room by Lil_Redhead
Sometimes endings are endings, but sometimes they’re just middles and the real ending is very, very far away.
Or, the days between the last chapters and the epilogue of Greywaren
Time Isn’t Real (but you’re a constant) by SpiritsFlame
“Time is what prevents everything from happening at once.” - Albert Einstein. Adam wakes up in the future, learns a few things about himself, about time, and about his priorities. But mostly he just wishes that Time was doing it’s job better.
(you told me) this is right where it begins by starsandgutters
The aftermath of dealing with the demon leaves behind a wake of emotional debris they were not – couldn’t have been – fully prepared to tackle. They all have a lot on their plate: assessing the damage, picking up the broken pieces, allowing the wounds to scar over. And, of course, there’s the matter of Adam-and-Ronan. (Or: falling in love doesn’t magically fix all problems, but maybe that’s alright.)
And a blanket rec for pretty much anything shinealightonme has written for the fandom.
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jamesleech · 1 year ago
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In 1987, the Kien family stood on a red dirt road in a refugee camp called Site 2 somewhere along the border of Cambodia and Thailand. With their loved ones scattered, their home displaced, and their country suffused in violence, they place their hopes on a vague future. Absurd events become strangely, sadly common. Fate, or luck, or kindness brings them safe passage across the sea to Boston, MA; Montréal, QC; and finally, Bradenton, FL, a few minutes away from where this wall stands.
The youngest of the four depicted is our friend Anhdi. Today, he lives in Bradenton with his wife and three kids, who we invited to help paint and add to their family’s story directly. It’s a story with many secret turns and memories that shape their specific experience, but it’s also one that’s universal to so many who have had to flee their homes amidst conflict in the search of a new beginning. It’s a story of survival and the human spirit, and we feel so lucky to have been able to try and express it.
🌜🌞🌜🌞🌜🌞
“When the sun is up, the moon is absent!” was created in collaboration by Bryan Beyung and James Lee Chiahan in part of the 9th edition of the Shine mural festival in St. Petersburg, Florida. Made possible only with the support of David and Liliana of Artillery Residency, Jenee and the team at SHINE Mural Festival, Void Projects, and of course, the Kien family. We give our deepest thanks for the gift of an unforgettable experience, and our love to the people of St. Pete for your warm welcomes and kind words. Thank you!
Photo no.4: Mark Rapien Tree/moon: based on a drawing by Amelia Kien, age 6. Bottom left section and door: by Annie, Aaden, Adrian, and Amelia Kien; June, Zachariah and Noble.
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ghostussy · 1 year ago
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Copia x Reader
Copia comforts a young reader who has been diagnosed with anxiety, PTSD and depression. Don't @ me yes I'm projecting. It's 5.30 am and I have to get up soon and I've slept three hours, been up since 2 😭😭😭�� I need something to keep me going ig aufh
not beta read, written on mobile adnanssnd
TW: Depictions of mental illness. Trauma mentions. Medication/pills mention.
Sitting on the edge of your bed looking at the white sheet of paper, you tried not to cry. The words stared back at you, the looming threat of a diagnosis you'd chased for years crawling down your throat. The shame of seeing your birth name, being marked as the wrong gender on your medical documents.
Main st. Resource Center
Patient: [name], aged 19, female
Diagnosis: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder (GAD)
Appointment notes: Return in one month to discuss labs and new medication.
You sigh deeply, looking at the prescription bottle in your other hand. Lexapro, 10 mg., it read.
It takes all the self control in your body not to hurl the medication across the room, to watch the lid pop off with force, sending pills scattering across the room.
Your hands shake as you set the paper down on your nightstand, the medication bottle with it. You bury your face in your hands, tears threatening to spill; but you resist the urge. You have no tears left to cry. There is nothing left to mourn.
You felt so irreparably broken.
You'd spent years dreaming about this day. The day you finally got help. The day you finally felt safe. You should feel relieved, overjoyed, something. But you weren't.
You don't remember the drive home. You'd been on autopilot, taking roads you knew well, playing your favorite songs quietly on the radio. But you didn't sing along. How could you?
You were scared. Still are. What nineteen year old gets diagnosed with so many mental illnesses? Barely old enough to vote, too young to drink; and still, completely and totally fucked from the start.
It was frustrating. All the shit you went through- the deaths, the funerals, the accidents, the trauma- but you were traumatized long before any of that even occurred. No, your PTSD was caused by the only people sworn to protect you; your very own parents.
Years of emotional and physical abuse left you scarred. Afraid. Panic attacks constantly crawling up your back, a looming threat that never seemed to leave. Flashbacks that would leave you frozen in place, a cruel reminder of what happened. Nightmares that have you waking in a panic, the dream fading quickly but the pain lingering for long after.
You don't know what to do.
You flinch when your bedroom door is thrown open without so much as a knock, Copia walking in. "Ah, sorella, there you are. How- oh, dolcezza... what is the matter?" The bed dips next to you as he takes a seat, his voice soft and gentle. "Did the appointment not go as you'd hoped?"
You pass him the paper, which he reads quickly. His face softens. "What did they prescribe for you?" You pass him the bottle, and he takes it gingerly in his hands. "Ah... Lexapro..." he murmurs softly. "Si, I am familiar with this one. I take it myself." Your eyes slicker upwards, and he meets your gaze as he returns the bottle to you. "You have nothing to fear. It will take some getting used to. You will struggle to rest for a little while, but do not worry. I will be here to lull you to sleep." He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him as he kisses the top of your head.
"You will be okay, tesoro. This I can promise."
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thetalesofno-one · 9 months ago
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Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. II -Visions In The Mist-
D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/6 Chapter 2/5 ~5k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk
Summary Caught in the mists, the strange group of travelers continue their journey to discover where the strange events in Daggerford have left them. But this land is nothing like the one from where they came and dangers lurk in every shadow. Read CHAPTER 1, also available on AO3
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How long have they been walking? Minutes? Hours? The unfamiliar skies keep the secrets of their stars. Dusk or dawn, none can tell. No constellations stamped in night’s velvet or moon to track the night’s passing. If it even is night. The land hangs in the place caught in-between. Lost before the light, settled before the night. A timeless place where all await the eternal promise of a new day in the shadows of the half light before the sun sweeps over the world in golden flame or settles deeper into the dark.
Emet walks carefully at the back of this unfortunate group, hair damp and clinging to his armored shoulders in silver threads as teardrops of rain dot the dark metal. His eyes wander the forests around them, sharp ears strung taught as bowstrings to hear the sounds of danger even as he turns his senses toward the strangers before him. Everything within him pricks with the anticipation of trouble. Nerves like needles beneath his skin, feeling every raindrop muffled by his clothing, the faintest breath of air drift past the scars along his jaw, the weight of mist clinging to his lashes. All around them the forest moans with sharp creaks and cracks as old branches, brittle as bone, give to fracture in the winds. Unable to bend, they break. Unable to bow, they sway. And beyond the undulating movement of the land, raven song. 
The axe will fall.
Whether it will come from the quiet strangers weaving down the wagon trail ahead of Emet or through the choked light of the misty forest around them is where the answer hides. 
Their feet squelch in the thick mud leaving easy tracks along the path marked only by wagon wheels. But there is no helping that. 
The charmer tiefling leads with face fixed stubbornly forward, the rain scattering down the leather of his long coat in strange patterns. His hand always finds a way to linger near his blade, but he never graces those behind with so much as a glance. A point being made to his company about their welcome. The holy man totters about with a faint smile, occasionally pointing off to some interesting thing like a hiker on a light stroll through a lovely park. It is only the rebel who Emet catches checking on him over her shoulder with a sizing glare every few minutes. Though he suspects it is less to see if he is still with them and more to make sure he won’t bury anything sharp and pointed in her spine.
The endless mists swell around them, curling like cats about their legs and slithering across the paths and trees. The movement more akin to a living thing as it devours all in its unnatural chill. Shapes become shadows in its belly, the blurry silhouettes softening into new patterns that only hint at what may exist beyond. It is remarkable how many monsters can be made from shadows. 
The pale burial shroud settles heavily over the land and Emet wonders if it has ever known a day without it. Or if the land was stillborn at its first empty breath.
Behind them, the mists swallow up the path entirely. Ahead, the ghostly road continues, its muddy surface as pockmarked as the plague and settled with dark pools of still water. Their glass surfaces ripple in the light rains.
Lost in the poetry of the land, Emet is about to swirl his hand through a curious wave of mist when the charmer suddenly halts his obstinate power walk. The holy man keeping pace behind him nearly collides with the tiefling’s back and Emet would expect a sharp hiss from the charmer, were his eyes not locked on something ahead. Instead, the pitcher of dread that has hung over Emet since the barn in Daggerford pours out like sour wine in his stomach. He and the rebel crouch and catch up to the others with quiet speed.
The holy man lifts a silent finger, pointing to where the charmer’s eyes have locked unwaveringly upon some brush beside the path. Something crouches there at the edge of their vision where the fog begins to steal away the path and all beyond it. Hunched and still, the shadow watches them. Humanoid in shape. The charmer stares at it with narrowed eyes. The hairs along the back of Emet’s neck slowly rise as he feels the unseen eyes meet his.
“Hey! What are you doing!”
The charmer’s loud voice cuts through the silence sharp as breaking glass causing everyone to instinctually reach for their weapons with a jolt. 
His voice echoes dully through the woods and carries well beyond them as the charmer dashes forward, almost knocking down the holy man. But a wave of thick mist rolls over the area like an omen and the hunched shadow vanishes with it. The rest of them quickly catch up, armed and ready as the charmer searches around the brush with manic haste. 
No tracks, no sign of presence at all. Not so much as a single print left behind in the softened earth even as theirs scar the path deeply with every step. 
Nostrils flaring, the charmer glares up at the skies as though he might demand answers or perhaps find some in the absolutes of nature and time. But the land remains silent, the skies churning in ambiguous light.
His red fist flashes out, striking a tree quick as viper. Faint drops of blood stain the dark bark.
“DAMMIT!”
The rebel crosses her arms and raises a sharply pierced brow as the charmer whips away from everyone, eyes burning, fists clenched tight as his whipcord tail swishes furiously behind him. Without so much as a word, the tiefling begins swiping up fallen branches from the muddy road.
“What are you doing?” The rebel sighs.
The charmer speaks through clenched teeth, forcing an unconvincing reasonable tone through his tense throat, “I don’t what time it is or how long I’m going to be here.” He tosses a particularly feeble branch over his shoulder, “So I’m going to gather some supplies and make a shelter until there’s some sign of when this is! For all I know, this is the back country and that road will lead to nowhere for weeks.”
“Or it could lead to somewhere just ahead,” Emet crosses his arms, the dull chainmail clinking softly beneath the faded cloth and leather of his clothes. “We were just in a town, another could be close by.”
“We’re not near Daggerford anymore. If we were, it would’ve been right behind us when all this shit started.” The charmer’s jaw flexes, his eyes drifting over to the holy man. The old human stares up at the skies as if admiring a sun only he can see, always that faint smile and wonder in his eyes. And that’s all it takes to set the tiefling off even further, “You’re the one who dragged us all here, so what were you chasing after? Why did it bring us here?”
The old man plucks that perfectly white feather from his belt, its fibers untarnished and unweathered despite having been in the mud not but a few hours ago. He lifts it to the rain poured skies and whispers some little prayer, then lets it go. Though the feather flew before, ablaze in divine light, it unceremoniously drops into the mud now.
“Great, this one’s crazy.”
Ignoring or not hearing the charmer’s comment, the holy man sees the feather’s tip points down the muddy road. He smiles, “I think we should keep walking.”
“Because you dropped a feather on the ground?”
“It is a blessing from my god.”
“Ah, holy man.” Condescension drips from the charmer’s tongue, thick as poison, “And what is your god telling you now?”
The old man points a calloused finger down the path, smile bright, “He says go that way.”
The charmer’s eye twitches a moment before he bows with exaggeration, eyes practically rolling back far enough to glimpse his spine, “Well, then lead the way.” 
“Okay.” 
The holy man walk off.
Not so much as a drip of the charmer’s spite sticks to the holy man’s shoes. Something between shock and annoyance crosses the tiefling’s face as the old human fails to rise to his goading, treating their conversation as casually as a discussion of the weather. Emet almost wants to laugh, but as the old man turns from them, the smile fades and the sun in his eyes dims to something broken. 
Emet had caught a glimpse before, sorrow at the edges of the old man’s eyes when they first arrived here. But it flickered away so quickly, he thought he’d seen wrong. But there it is again, a mirage across the waters, flickering with the light and hiding that which is real. 
But the smile returns quick as a spark when the charmer drops his collection of dead twigs and hurriedly catches up to the holy man to try his best to walk ahead of him. You’d think the world would collapse if he actually let anyone else lead by the way he desperately sought control. But the old human only grins and walks faster. Neither break into a jog, but they might as well be.
Emet shakes his head and shares another silent expression with the rebel. Neither need words to wonder what in the nine hells they have been dragged into.
It isn’t long before the holy man tries to fill the silence with light conversation. He comments on everything from the weather and poor quality of the road to the refreshing chill of the rain despite the ice in the air numbing them to the bone. Emet is too tired to humor him and the others march ever onward in wet misery. Silence and glares reign in their grim company.
“You all seem like a quiet bunch,” the holy man grins.
“Sorry, my idea of small talk isn’t ‘the raven is pretty bird’,” the rebel murmurs with a slight click of her teeth. She pulls her damp jacket tighter.
“No, no. ‘The weather is pretty bad.’ Sorry, my common tongue is not so good.”
“Ah, well you do you.” The rebel’s large platform boots sink into a rather deep patch of mud and she shakes it off with a scowl, “It’s a stupid language anyway. This blasted—”
The thin grey light filtering through the gnarled canopies suddenly eclipses, enshrouding them in shadow. Hands reach for weapons before their heads snap to the heavens. A large shadow blackens the lands from above, wings blotting out the skies as something swiftly sweeps over them, the shadow gone before they can spy what has passed. No sound or rushing wind. Not even the mist stirs in the beast’s wake, as though nothing had passed at all. 
More shadows follow at rapid pace. Dark reptilian bodies cut through the fog with bats wings, plunging into the mists before being swallowed whole. Dozens of smaller avian creatures rocket past, following the same before they too vanish. No sound rustles the bones of the trees, no winds buffet them from the power of those wings. Silence. 
Visions in the mist. 
Emet barely has a moment to process the shape of the dragon before it’s gone and they are alone once more in the endless fog. Though he has been blessed enough to have never seen a dragon in person, there is no mistaking the shadow that swept over them.
The vision is gone for half a breath before something appears on the road before them, its figure forming like ink blotting and spreading across damp paper. Fleeting and ephemeral, a tall slender figure appears at the edge of their vision where the fog denies all detail. Large elegant feathered wings stretch out from their back, the wings fluttering and spreading wide as though about to take flight. Fog rolls over the road and the shadow melts into the mist.
In the distance another appears. Broad shouldered with an oversized arm tipped in large vicious claws, the figure lurks through moss covered trunks. He slings a large executioner’s axe across his thick shoulders and raises that swollen clawed hand toward them. The claws close slowly as if in promise of slow and agonizing pain. The silhouette seems to hold the holy man’s gaze before fading away.
Another shadow materializes at the edges of Emet’s vision and he whips around, backing up to the others. They take a circular formation, weapons drawn and eyes carved open, seeking every shadow in the mist. A cloak flickers between three ancient yew trees on phantom winds as a horse steps forward in dangerous silence. Its mane flickers as though aflame, a cloaked figure seated atop its back with an air of sharpened knives and slit throats. Though their eyes hide in the shadow of their figure, Emet can feel an empty appraising gaze wash over him.
Thunder cracks through the skies and the vision is gone.
“Everyone else is seeing this, yes?” The holy man asks carefully.
“Unfortunately,” Emet breathes, not daring to tear his eyes from the now empty mists.
“Oh thank the gods,” the rebel says, “I thought it was just me going mad with hunger and sleep deprivation. I’m so hungry…” she adds quietly.
They remain encircled about each other, backs close but not touching, searching the forests around them for another few moments longer. But every figure is gone without so much as a sound or a trace, as though all they ever were was shadow. 
Emet knew women with visions and men who could glimpse the possibility of futures in their sleep. But he’s never been one himself. His vision never stretches beyond the now. And though he knew others who sought the sight of these seers with their cryptic answers drawn from old cards and spilled atop velvet with rolled bones, he never placed faith in their fortunes. Yet something about these visions in the mist feels like omen.
The charmer slings his bow back across his chest, “So there’s dragons. Great.”
“That was a dragon?”
Emet raises a brow at the old human, half expecting this question to be some attempt at light humor. But his weathered face is genuine.
“The reptilian one with batwings, that one was. The others were too fast to tell,” Emet answers.
The rebel rubs her eyes, “Then how is it all gone now. We were surrounded and now there’s nothing, not even a hoof print in the mud.” Her hand pauses and her eyes narrow suspiciously over her knuckles, “This is some sort of mass hallucination, isn’t it.”
Emet waves his hand through the mist, watching it curl around his fingers in familiar smokey patterns. He frowns, “Something to do with the mist perhaps?”
“Oh shit, is this drug mist?” A half smile curls the rebel’s tinted lips and her usually aloof eyes brighten, showing the first sign of interest in anything since Emet has met her, “Maybe there’s drug mushrooms or something in the forrest. Thael.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised at this point…”
Up ahead, the path curves. Barely visible in the shifting tides of mist, the road vanishes and reappears beneath the tidal swells. The fog edges close then withdraws for a spell before returning once more to swallow it whole. Come-again currents move across the lands, obscuring and revealing trees and formations at the whim of the ethereal sea. With every landmark and trail stolen and given, the entire experience feels as hazy and surreal as a dream.
The charmer and the holy man both lead the new press forward, neither allowing the other to walk ahead of them—the tiefling with scowl, the holy man with a smirk. But their competitive pace slows as something large and dark looms through the mist, the silhouette towering as high as the withered canopies. 
The fog withdraws like a curtain before them revealing towering stone fortress walls, the mists retreating with eerie intention from the ancient ruins. An unseen hand setting the scene before them. Large buttresses brace the heavy fortifications like those dug deep into the earth outside the largest of city walls—those built against conquest, withstanding every siege unbroken. The stone palisades stretch as far as they can see into the distance to either side of the road, its shadow stretching further still.
Twin iron gates settle across the road and tower reaching several carts high above them, the curled and twisted metal shaped into a beautiful and dangerous sharp design. Matching braziers of bronze forged into large basins protrude on either side like offerings, their pools of oil alight in warm flame hissing lightly in the rain. The gate’s blackened and rusting metal glints softly in the firelight with beads of perpetual dew shimmering bright as stars against the flames. 
Silent stone sentinels stand before the gates, their decapitated shoulders bearing the weight of time and decay within the grey stone. Armored heads freed of their slit necks lay shattered at the sentinels’ feet with withered weeds tangling across the petrified features and curling across the cracks in a feeble attempt to seek the heavens. 
Above the gate and framed perfectly between the silent guardians, a large eagle with wings spread wide in flight is carved into the stonework by a heavy hand. The seal pressed like a coin into the palisades and dominating the apex of the gates with severe presence and sharp eyes.
Beyond the divide of stone and metal, the dark and misty forest stretches endless onward as though unaware of the stone leash wrapped about its throat. The muddy path unfurls ahead, a ribbon of promise through the deadwood.
Emet’s pale eyes search the symbolism carved into the stonework, but everything feels wholly unfamiliar; from the statues’ garb and weapons, to the eagle’s unusually sharpened features, every feather a blade. In his old life, Emet surrounded himself with books of every kind and read histories far and wide as he cared for the pieces that found their way into his hands and. He spent years of his life reading, and though he would never rival the knowledge of a wizard, he knew a little about a great many things. Most old places in Faerûn bear guardians of some familiar god or legend and their sigils carry the carved fields of well known ruling houses and cities. But all before him evades the familiar. Not the faint strangeness of lands and cultures away, but the unsettling unfamiliarity of worlds away. 
The dread that settled heavy and coiled as a viper in the pit of Emet’s stomach burrows a little deeper.
“Do any of you recognize any of this?” Hoping against hope that one of the others will bring relief to his building unease with a single ‘yes’.
“I don’t get out much,” the rebel’s words drift with carefully crafted carelessness, the fragile kind balanced atop the tip of a needle and easily toppled.
Where in the nine hells are they? And what in the hells happened to them?
The half-elf stares warily at the path beyond ahead, searching, “There’s no tapers or oil. No discarded match ends. No footprints. If someone lit these fires there should be something.”
“Magical?” The holy man ventures.
She shakes her head as she wanders closer, her heavy boots sinking deep into the mud as soft as potter’s clay, “No. There’s no enchantments carved into the basin. This doesn’t seem right…” the rebel’s eyes wander up the doors.
A savage wail cuts through the silence, the twisted iron gates swinging open at the rebel’s approach. She jumps back, hand shooting to the coiled whip dangling from her belt as all instinctively reach for their weapons. The arms of the gates swing languidly open to welcome its new guests, slowing to a gentle stop before hitting the stone walls. The path is empty beyond, the muddy road devoid of prints, and not a breath of wind strong enough to have shifted the heavy iron. The only ghosts around being themselves.
The gates silently welcome with ominous silence.
Emet eyes the dark iron doors, the sharp intricacies of the design feeling wholly dangerous now.
“You ever hear of a honey trap?” The rebel half-elf asks.
The old human scratches his chin a moment, “What is a honey trap?”
“It’s when someone lures you in with something that’s way too good.”
“This does not look good, though.”
“I mean, compared to that,” she gestures behind them where the mist has devoured the path and forest so thoroughly it is like the world has fallen away entirely. 
How did—?
Emet stumbles back from the wall of fog nearly pressing against his back. Something about the ground doesn’t feel right with that step, the soil too shallow as though what’s beneath his boots is as hollow and thin as an open grave. The world gained a new edge when his back was turned and he wonders if all it would take is a single step forward to fall off forever. Emet swallows hard. He didn’t sense the mist’s approach at all.
The half-elf cocks her thumb toward the open gate where the path is still hazy, but visible, “Weird creepy trail sounds better than lost forever in fog, wouldn’t you say?”
The holy man sweeps his arm to the defaced sentinels, “Headless statues, dark forest. Bad bad. Both choices are bad. There is no honey.”
“You make a good point, but this path is slightly less bad.”
A scoff breaks the conversation and the charmer shoulders past them, “If you’re all so scared then I’ll go first.”
He strides through the open gates without pause, though his hand never leaves the hilt of his blade. On the other side, Emet swears he sees the man take a settling breath as though he’d been holding it. The tiefling turns around on the other side, sweeping one arm out as if to say, ‘See, still alive.’
“This devil boy has confidence.” The holy man nods, but whether in admiration or acknowledgement of foolishness, Emet isn’t sure.
“I don’t know if it’s confidence or stupidity,” the rebel comments with the baffled wonder of watching someone step into a worg den.
“Time will tell.” The holy man smiles faintly, that ghost of sorrow flickering across his eyes before fading again, “Though he did punch a tree for no reason earlier.”
“Like, it’s clearly a trap. I mean I know it’s our only path now, but still.”
Emet listens to the exchange in silence as he keeps an eye on the devouring fog behind him. He’s more inclined to agree with the ’stupidity’ assessment. It’s the same brazen confidence of someone who decides careless action is better than careful delayed action. A blazing blade too eager to swing and choosing to deal with the consequences as they come. Clearly ‘devil boy’ has never been ambushed in his life, but Emet’s 229 years have taught him a very different lesson. And if the charmer wants to be the rat that tests the trap, let him. Emet will be the one to step over his snapped neck to the other side.
The tiefling gives another dramatic look to either side for his audience, ‘Oh look, there’s nothing here and nothing over there.’ Seems Emet has been around this man long enough to hear the snideness even in his gestures. Charmer indeed.
The holy man gathers his faith like his robes and walks through next. Willing enough to walk through fire when another has survived the flames, but smart enough to wait until the heat is tested by another. Emet waits for the rebel to go next, intending to be their rearguard, but she holds her ground and gives Emet a challenge in her sharp look, piercings glinting wildly across her face in the brazier’s firelight.
Tired of checking over her shoulder at him, he supposes. No matter. Emet skirts past her—careful to keep a comfortable distance between them—and she trails along behind him after a hesitant glance at the wall of fog behind them. So long as she doesn’t burry a dagger in his back, she can walk where she pleases. Emet’s grip tightens on the broken glaive’s haft, dark memories whispering like ghosts in the hollows of his heart at the thought. Beneath his armor, a deep scar aches across his back through to his chest and he finds his hand lightly touching the place where steel parted bone and left his ribs broken with a river of blood pouring down the valleys of his muscled stomach.
He’s had more than enough blades buried in his spine for this lifetime. 
A defeated sigh behind Emet curls his lips into a faint smile. Seems the half-elf has discovered the first problem with having a seven foot tall moon-elf-shaped obstruction walking in front of her.
The smile quickly dies however as the metallic screech of iron tears through the forest behind them. Emet whips around just in time to see the heavy twisted gates slam shut with a boom of finality, the sharp metal cutting off the path a mere hand’s width behind the rebel’s back. One step less and she would’ve been crushed in two. 
The impact shakes the ground beneath them, the sound echoing loudly through the forest. Emet’s heart hammers in his chest at the sudden shift, withdrawing the blades at his hips in an instant’s held breath. The rebel stumbles back toward him and he instinctively steps out of her way before she catches herself, whip drawn, shield up.
“Probably a gust,” the charmer shrugs nonchalantly in the still air, though Emet notes his swords are drawn as well.
“Then that is a powerful gust,” the holy man adds before muttering a long string of prayers beneath his breath.
Emet didn’t use to be this on edge and a part of him curses how often he finds his gauntleted hands wrapping around his blades in this company. But he has no control when the unexpected happens, his mind becoming blank and muscles quick. His body falling back on training when his head loses itself. He only comes back when steel is drawn and the air isn’t filled with the screams of the dying. Cold calculation and precision only returning to his mind after instinct has had its way. His company use to call him cold for the way he could act without emotion, cutting down the dead without a second thought. They were only ever half right. But now he knows fear and it blinds him.
The paladin he once was died in that cemetery. 
He’s not sure what’s been left behind.
Grounding himself in the silence of the forest, Emet pulls himself out of haunted memory and watches as the rebel cautiously gives the gates a test shove. But the iron doors hold steady. Locked tight. A fine trap if he ever did see one, and they strolled right in. Wrapping her hands around the metal of the doors this time, the rebel gives several rough shakes followed by a swift kick. The doors give little more than a faint shudder beneath her force.
“We might be able to get this open again with a few of us,” she pants.
The holy man pauses his prayers, “And then what?”
“Well, then we’re not stuck in this weird fucking place!”
A shadow stains the mahogany of the holy man’s eyes to ebony as he glances to either side of the seemingly endless wall stretching through the accursed mist. The eclipse passes and that warm smile fills his voice with the confidence only those devoted to gods can conjure, “There will be another door.”
The rebel still pants, trying to catch her breath, but it’s not from exertion. 
“And if there’s not, then we’ll break through this one,” Emet adds darkly. He does not hold the same faith in the heavens. The gods already showed him they do not care.
Emet glares at the backs of the headless sentinels through the iron gates and wonders if they are meant to keep others out, or something in. As the holy man said, only time will tell.
“People made this wall and where there’s people, there’s food, drink, and a bed,” the charmer strolls backward down the road as he speaks, “I want all three, so I’m going this way.”
He twists on his heel and marches ahead without a glance to see if any follow. Emet makes note to never turn his back on this one and to never find himself at the charmer’s mercy. He will slit the rope of a man dangling off a cliff if it’s in his way and leave the man to bleed out on the stones so long as it doesn’t bloody his own shoes. 
With no path behind, and only one ahead, they follow. 
The holy man races ahead, smirking as he begins the game of trying to take one step ahead of the tiefling again. It only irritates the man into quickening his own pace to stay ahead, but still too proud to break into a run lest it reveal how much he desires control. At least someone is capable of lightheartedness on this strange, weary day.
The rebel waits for Emet to go ahead of her and he relents without fuss. He traveled for an entire day on foot before reaching the barn in Daggerford, and for weeks before that, following the amber shard away from home in search of answers and power. It’s been nearly two days since he’s rested. Legs filled with steel and mind drowning beneath a fog all its own, Emet keeps the exhaustion at bay with movement. He knows it will catch up to him, but hopefully not before reaching shelter and safety.
He might be a hollow shell, his soul carved empty by blade and bone to carry another, but this body still knows the burdens of the living. And death will not welcome nor comfort him. It will only curse what he gave everything to save. So he must live.
He must live.
And he must find a way before it is too late.
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thepayloadisgay · 1 year ago
Text
re-wired
Shimadacest / Genzo
M (so far)
Ch 1/??
Tags (so far): canon divergence, angst and feels, omnics, implied alcoholism, masturbation
Hanzo's found himself in Budapest, one of the few places in the world where omnics and humans co-exist in something like normality. And maybe it's like a home now. Worth seeping off these bones as he tries to form the word exist, to live. Dodging, picking off assassins, deafening himself to the news of his clan. Maybe ignorance is bliss. Different names smother Hanzo, numbers his age. But he still knows what he sees when he looks in the mirror. You're not here. Rumblings in the world of omnics start to break the seams of not just Budapest, but Europe, the world. New faces, new names. And then for Hanzo, he can't quite shift this shadow he's sure is an assassin. Why is he taking so long? Why won't he just take the hit and kill him? Maybe it's a fantasy, and he's dreaming demise again. Maybe.
Read below the cut, or on AO3 here. Enjoy!!
He’d been here too long, it was almost home.
But home was nothing, now.
A hollow word in passing, part of a goodbye when leaving behind another face Hanzo will never see again, won’t remember. For those he will, home isn’t a word for them. Even if it’s false.
Strangers are the comfort, familiarity not.
Had anything ever really changed?
The Danube flows beneath. A mirror of colour. Rippling neons, stars almost lost. Forgotten. The colours mush as a tour boat splits the water two, music and laughter pounding the surface, echoing under the bridge where Hanzo stands, forearms bare. Cold on stone, still and sore.
It was sunset when he stopped here, bag of groceries tucked between feet, sparse with too many things he’d forgotten, denied.
It’s night now as he watches the Danube, the burst of people along its banks, tourists spilling onto boats, into restaurants, out of Buda and back into Pest, the roads rumbling as the bars open wide, the clubs dialled to ten.
He moved between the sides of the Danube, never staying with the same four walls too long. From the cobbled streets, high hills near the castle in a cramped room, barely space to stretch; the old communist blocks by the blistered edges, structured, rigid, peace. To the noise, vibrant colliding culture of the centre at the crown of the Andrássy Avenue, woken at dawn by the bells of the basilica.
Just another place bruised in his penance, a witness to his shame.
One day there won’t be anywhere left that won’t know.
Where will he go then?
His watch buzzes midnight, a reminder of routine. To ground. But right now, all it reminds him is that he can’t feel his arms, numb and cold, still stuck to stone as he listens to the water, wondering what it feels like below.
——
The longest he’d been in one place for months. A hostel off of Múzeum körút. Behind a heavy wrought iron gate between a second hand bookstore, and another. Down an alley, path uneven, pages of an old book torn, scattered, its spine split in the gutter.
Hanzo inputs the code, eyes away, long hair a mask from the cameras above, behind, probably below. Ritual more than anything. His face is already all over this city, continent, to those that cared.
Through a doorway painted blue, carvings dying gold. Top floor, but (nearly) always the stairs. Winding and wide. Patterned stone, wrought iron rails in beauty shaped like the tails of his dragons, the arc of his bow.
First two floors the bookstore. The rest are homes, rooms and flats for the hostel, a hotel he knows is half something else. Some of the flats are empty. One abandoned part-way through refurbishment. One destroyed, boarded off (panels placed back carefully every time by each visitor. He’s not the only one). There’s another that one of the residents simply said “nem” when she first saw Hanzo look at its locked door, scratched symbols, words, too many unintelligible in several languages.
So he listened.
As always at this time, she was leaning out of one of the windows on floor four, throwing seed to the pigeons below, the courtyard a cacophony of their coos.
“Late,” she says, heavy accent. Fall of brown hair braided, striped grey. One green eye, the other blind.
Hanzo pulls out a bag of seed, one of two, and hands it to her outstretched palm. “Took a walk,” he says back in slow Hungarian. Everytime he attempts the language, he can see her smile something. He doesn’t know if it's mockery, amusement, or appreciation.
“Take a walk after, next time.”
“Hm.”
He watches her sit back on the stool at the window, cross her legs and scatter a handful of seeds to below.
“Not much.” Hanzo listens, Hanzo watches. “Maria took the kids for the weekend. Jan is leaving for holiday in the morning. Six days. Stephan’s working an extra shift tonight. Looked like he hadn’t slept since the last. Two new guests at the hostel. One’s an omnic.”
“Short term?”
She shrugs. “Omnic five days. The other just a night. But wants to keep it open if needed.”
Hanzo writes to memory everything she says, hearing the gears, wheels of the lift click into motion as it descends down to ground.
“Hotel is come and go as always.”
“How many?”
“Lots. You want a tally? That’s extra.”
Hanzo frowns, a look near lost beneath the heavy fall of his hair.
“Anyone look-”
“Suspicious? Yes. Out of place? No.”
The lift stops, opening at ground.
“Anything else?” he asks, picking his bag from between his feet.
“I left some cabbage rolls in your fridge.”
The lift starts to ascend, and Hanzo tightens the grip on his bag. “Thank you,” he stutters, taking the last flights of steps two at a time.
——
Two old keys unlock the old heavy door. Hanzo pays extra to service the small flat himself, but Mariann owns the hostel, and does what she does after the trust of bird seed and her alarm at the contents of his grocery shopping.
It’s split into kitchen and room with a divider. Old, ornate, teakwood. Some of the design weathered from touch, time. But she never ventures past the three cabinets that make the kitchen. Rarely the fridge.
Shoes off, he sets the bag on the counter. Bare. Empties it quick, pushing the bag of seed to the side for later. Bread, away. Eggs. Fruit. More lentils. Alcohol. Chocolate.
He opens the fridge, the only light in the room. Some condiments. Expired milk replaced with fresh. And a note, stuck to the top of the tupperware of cabbage rolls. Mariann’s scrawl.
Tilly’s got another job for you. 10am. Nehru part.
He closes the door. Darkness, again.
Tapping his watch (1:33am), he sets the reminder alongside his regular alarm for dawn, sheds his coat, takes a banana, slice of bread, bottle of alcohol to bed and nothing.
(but there’s always a pause before the small wooden sparrow he’d carved in Bali, years, years ago. always perched beside a blunted shard of sword, something green. sometimes he reaches out to touch the sparrow
but he can’t
can’t)
——
“Again!”
Genji taps his arm, excited, as he begs Hanzo to show him the trick with the sword, the coin, Hanzo’s patience wearing thin as his younger brother tugs on his sleeve, clambering for attention-
“Here again?”
Genji slides a glass over wood, the bartop sticky, a mosaic of his brother’s prints, wondering how many others overlap, smudging away Hanzo’s, gnawing at the Genji he knows, becoming the Genji they do-
“Again?”
Desperation, Hanzo’s hand slams to the wall beside his brother’s head, hair shorter, greener. Smells sweet and he inhales. Anticipation in Genji’s eyes as he looks up-
“Again-”
A beg, as he pulls Hanzo’s blade further to his chest. Another to his gut. Spread and wept and a maw of no return. Hanzo wants to look up. He hears a smile, but he’d see nothing but desecration. Hears beauty, loves pain. Licks blood, kisses the grave-
——
Hanzo snaps awake, a fist of sheets in his palm, dented with his nails, near torn. Back damp with sweat, hair awry, stuck to skin and sheets, lining the wave of his dragon.
He runs a hand through his hair, staring at the other side of the bed expecting blood and brutal. (maybe a desperation that it might be you there, whole and love, just for me) Two pillows. Untouched. Empty.
Checks his hands.
Reaches out to make sure.
It’s slow as he hauls himself up, finding the hair tie he’d forgotten. But it’s abandoned again when he sees the slither of the curtain move by the window, ajar.
There’s no open windows here unless he’s awake, a guard. It’s small. Barely enough for a hand, the curtain moving in dance as the breeze weaves into the stuffy room, creeping over Hanzo’s sticky skin.
For too long he just stares, a lock of hair tickling against his lips, uncaring.
Impossible. He’s so careful, so-
The curtains flick, light licking the glass on his bedside table, smudged with fingers, lips; the half empty bottle, obscuring the empty one behind.
Adrenaline wanes. Gut sinks. Head rings.
A swallow, and he unsticks from bed, body lead. Two fingers push close the window, keeping to shadow, curtain exhaling, and stop.
He smooths the fabric, touch lingering as if he’s trying to find something, feel something.
Nothing.
He rolls a shoulder, and peels off his shirt, draping it over the back of the chair. When he notices the small wooden sparrow on its side, beak touching the shard of his sword.
There’s no hesitation this time when Hanzo reaches out, picks it up to right the wrong, sitting it back in ceremony.
5:16 am
The basilica will ring soon at six. As will his alarm. There’s no point in bed anymore. All that’s left is sheets that need washed, dreams given, taken, and an empty space you won’t fill.
He checks the window again. Runs his hand over the locks on the door. Touches the two tiles beside the fridge and then steps into the bathroom, avoiding the mirror as he sheds the rest of his clothes, turning the shower to max.
The light from the room is enough as he steps inside, a shaky inhale as the water burns his skin, the steam clouding vision, muggy air.
Palm to wet wall (Hanzo’s hand slams to the wall beside his brother’s head) he breathes deep, long (Smells sweet and he inhales) forehead smudging tiles, hand smearing chest (Anticipation in Genji’s eyes as he looks up-) and Hanzo looks down, sliding his wet hand over wet cock-
(Licks blood, kisses the grave-)
-wondering if he’ll suffocate or burn, first.
——
Too early.
Hanzo wanders the quiet streets near the park, window shopping mindlessly. Catching his reflection more than wanted. He’s dressed well today. He always is.
But over the months, years, he’s been slipping. Living as a nomad from room to face to place, he was sure a part of him had shed everywhere he’d left behind. Something in him wearing thin he didn’t want to know. Just felt.
He stares a little longer at a shop window selling leather goods, stretching his fingers against his own gloves, old and worn and a shape of his own.
Hair pulled back in a bun, he runs a hand along one side, his undercut growing out too long, pinched grey. The other side he’d let grow long ago, the shorter lengths long enough to catch in his ponytail now. Usually.
He keeps the beard. Sometimes shaving when moving cities, countries, to hide. It’s mostly too much of a comfort, now. Too bare without.
Too long he’s looked, and turns away.
09:37 and he has a coffee. Black. Three sugars.
09:49 and he’s sitting on a bench in Nehru Part, close to the edge of the Danube. And he waits.
Watches the way the wind rustles the leaves on the trees above, hushing the city’s sound to their own, shedding the first leaves before the yawn of Autumn, side to side in a dance, before falling at Hanzo’s feet.
Feels the breeze on his skin. Nothing like earlier in his room. An alarm, unexpected. This might be something like comfort, pulling the shorter strands of hair from his bun, picking up the leaves at his feet, pulling the scent of pastries at his back, the scatter of voices ahead. No words, just noise.
He takes a drink of his coffee, counting another day.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Hanzo takes another drink of his coffee as he ignores Tilly. As she takes a seat at his side, always a little too close. It’s just a bit of fun for her, exploring the intricacies of human’s social bounds, their affection, fun. And with Hanzo, if he has any of the above.
Hanzo just recrosses his legs, foot pointing in the opposite direction.
“What’s the job?”
“I hear cucumbers help for those dark eyebags,” she says, casual. Two of her forehead LEDs are broken, the lilac, sometimes turquoise, brighter on her left side. Which Hanzo also notices that she uses more, moves more, than her right.
“Any other top ten magazine quips for me this morning?”
Tilly laughs, the two elongated sides of her head plate that remind Hanzo of wings, lighting up with the trill of her voice. “As many as you want.”
Hanzo inhales slow. Steady. “Oh, good.” Takes another sip.
“Got you another observe and report at Blood and Chrome tonight. Maybe protect if shit goes down. They liked you last time.” Tilly sits chin on palm as she waits for Hanzo’s reply, knowing his answer already. Money good. Low risk. Trusted.
“Bartend again?”
“Yup.”
A last, long drink of his coffee. Hanzo stares at the university of technology and economics across the river, sunlight picking out the details on stone, the pillars, the gold and mosaic on its red roof. Age and beauty, stories worn, time crumbled. He wants to sketch it every time he sees it, despite never having drawn a single thing before. He’s gotten as far as purchasing a sketch book, pencils. Next time.
“Send me the details.”
“Thanks, Han.”
“Thanks, Han.” Genji always talked with touch as well as tongue. Hands busy forming the words, contact, their meaning. It became a second language in public. A third, in private.
“Hanzo.” He doesn’t look at her. A voice firm, but not unkind. A way she’s heard many times before, and will hear many times again.
“Wish I could stay, but I got more messages to deliver,” she says, climbing over the back of the bench. “Get some sleep Han.” A quiet ‘Hmph’ “ Eat Mar’s stuffed cabbages at least.”
“Goodbye, Tilly.”
“Szia.”
He sits for a while, coffee cup empty, fingers cold. The trees stretch, the Danube sighs. Sun quiets behind clouds.
And from the small bag in his coat pocket, Hanzo throws a handful of bird seed to the ground, watching pigeons, great tits, a sparrow swoop down, and dance at his feet.
——
It had taken months. Trial and error with several prototypes, but Hanzo had managed (with some help) to have his own collapsible bow, without compromising performance or integrity. A labour of love.
Compact enough to fit in a bag. The arrows were the problem. One couldn’t simply split them in two, assemble and fire like he could his bow with a touch, flick, done.
Luckily few people cared what others carried here. Pistols on hip. Rifles on back. Swords in sheaths. As long as you had your permit, of course.
“Just a bow, arrows?” asks the omnic. Mariann had said her name was Tilly. Seven LEDs on her forehead. Three eye slits, not two. It looked like the third she’d carved herself. “No sword? You look like a sword guy.”
“Bow, and arrows.” “Alright alright. I’ll get one done.” “I’ll need a few, with different names.” “That’ll cost ya.” Hanzo sets down a stack of Euros, sinking back against the metal dresser, the bass of the club below stuck in his throat. “Help yourself.”
A city of humans, omnics, side by tentative side. Many still walked on tiptoes, ready to flee. Some settled to heels, shoulders dropped, calling Budapest home.
A city now almost its own state, rolling its own laws, walls, declaring stability for omnics (safety was arguable), work, if they proved themselves (we don’t talk about what happened if they didn’t).
Fast becoming a multicultural epicentre like London, it was expanding out, and up. But also, down.
And down, was where Hanzo walked. Lived. Worked.
Crime thrived here. A congregation of humans and omnics brushing side by side, co-existing but wanting to live, bred a rich, vibrant underworld that lived seen, unseen. World, within world. And even if it felt like the city was holding its breath, it seemed to work.
It wasn’t lost on Hanzo that he’d turned his back on his family, their legacy, ways-
-only to fall right back in, just a different shade, name.
At least here, he felt like he was helping people (didn’t you try back home too?), useful and giving back (funny what memories we pick and choose).
Mostly, though, he was doing it to survive. What money he’d taken from his family dwindling, and it was a reliable way to keep an ear to the ground, connected. Safe, within harm.
And Hanzo knew the world. How to move. Talk. When to run, when to bleed.
Tonight, he was back at Blood and Chrome, one of the less mainstream mixed clubs for humans and omnics (there were segregated clubs, of course. The omnics only clubs never staying in one place too long, rotating locations, word of mouth, last minute). Fewer tourists, less desirable location away from the Danube, tucked underground - but it mattered in almost every other way in the world he walked.
Here you find people you want, people you don’t. People you won’t anywhere else. Money changes hands more than some banks. Names change when you walk through the door. Faces forgotten when you walk back out.
The drinks are good, the music a mix of rock, metal, EDM depending on room, night, with places to dance, talk, and doors to close for things you don’t want anyone to see. All tucked underground in an old metro station, decommissioned and reclaimed.
The club is built around its exposed bones, dented with years of nights like this. Graffiti immortalising Budapest’s metamorphosis to today. LEDs lining floors, walls, hanging from exposed beams and concrete, under tables, part of chairs. Murals spread over walls, some on ceilings. There’s colour everywhere, and it changes when you’re not looking. When you forget, and are dragged back weeks later for a job you don’t want.
It stinks of alcohol. Sweat. Metal. Oil.
It tastes of whatever you want.
And it sounds busy, voices indistinguishable between the music as Hanzo slips in through the back, the omnic bouncer stepping aside, expecting him. It’s a Friday, so not unusual. He’s working the room they call The Boiler. Downstairs again and one of the bigger rooms, sometimes closed off for exclusivity. Sometimes for a dead body.
The first time he came here, it felt like a community more than a club. More rooms unfolding after each door. Stairs leading to more floors he wondered how far down it really went. Owned by an omnic and human couple, there was always a buzz when they were spotted at their club, tucked in a corner, private.
There was a buzz tonight, but it felt different. As if something new had cracked open. Bristling hairs on skin, sparking exposed wires, the seams of the city picked.
Hanzo hangs his coat, and a last glance at the mirror in the bar staff room, tucking his hair back into a bun. The shorter strands of his outgrown undercut already falling free.
He tucks his small pack at the back of his waist with his bow, arrows already long stashed underneath the bar from his last few jobs here. And pushes the swing doors open for work.
All Blood and Chrome’s employees were like Hanzo. Well. All those down in The Boiler floor and below, anyway. Criminals; former, current, no-choice in the matter. Everyone vetted heavily by the owners, recommended from all the way down from Mariann and even Tilly, he was sure (“hey I’m just your messenger and forgery bot”).
“Oh hey-” she stops, trying to pick his name from memory.
“Morio.”
“Oh, that’s right. Mo.”
A short, sharp sigh. “What is it with people and nicknames, here.”
Hanzo tucks a cloth into his belt, dressed in black jeans, purple long sleeve t-shirt (tattoo always covered, here), half hanging off his right shoulder. Some nights there was a dress code. Usually, it was whatever the hell you wanted. Hanzo tried to dress unassuming. Like anyone who might walk through these doors.
He missed his hair ribbon.
Sometimes he still caught himself reaching up to touch, run his fingers along the silk.
“Easier to say,” she says tapping something into her phone. Hanzo’s burner beeps (everyone has a burner just for work. Sometimes two). “Remember mine?”
“Adrienne.”
A smirk. “Not nickname but, accent’s getting better,” she says with a wink under her mane of red curls. “Anyway. You’re assigned to the veranda tonight.”
(Excerpt from mixed nightlife spots of Budapest for the traveller: …The Veranda: despite being underground, this section of The Boiler Room looks a lot like a veranda might. Or not. Aglow in faux nature, bloom changing weekly, wood fused with metal and the lights, it’s become a favourite corner of those that matter around here…)
“Who?”
Adrienne nods to his burner and she turns back to the bar, asking for the customer’s request, flicking two glasses onto the bar with flair.
Hanzo unlocks the file with thumbprint, a secondary code following.
Rav[REDACTED] Approx 20 active years [REDACTED]tor. Tall. Smooth voice, apparently. Controlled and calm. Purple colourings. You’ll know him when you see him. Rumblings of him through the omnics like livewire right now. Heard he’d rather skewer a human than sit next to one, but when you're desperate, right? Think he’s here for connections, money, help, fucking anything for his cause. I need to know. You have ears like a bat and some weirdo intuition. You ain’t failed me yet, Katniss.
Hanzo glances at The Veranda. Two humans. Omnic. Some vacant tables. Empty glasses litter their table. He takes a tray, and walks, weaving through bodies, blaring music, faces he knows, doesn’t.
None of them know him as Hanzo. He wonders when he’ll lose his name, too.
The music muted as he steps into The Veranda, the words and whispers of every face he plucks to memory all that matters now.
His mark isn’t here yet, so he waits. Watches. Works.
——
He sits in a corner, arm over a woman he’s known for an hour. Couples less inconspicuous than alone. He hasn’t talked to her since walking in the door. Neither has she, her face pin lit from her phone.
Eyes follow his mark. Back. Forth. Cybernetic eyes building on what he already knows.
Not tonight, they said, he’s here. City’s a livewire. Guest of honour.
So he waits. Watches. Works.
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sadsackpostteen · 11 months ago
Text
Maybe I'm going mad
(2.7k words)
Summary:
Seb landed on the paddock, unannounced and unaware, and the only way seems to be sent back was a closure with Mark.
*trigger warning: very brief mention of physical violence, coming from Mark's illusion, if you're uncomfortable with it, skip the paragraph starting with He can't remember how many times.....
Work Text:
"Mate, you gotta stop doing that, looks like it you are patronizing me." Oscar shoved his phone into his manager's hand with an undertone full of undetectable grudge, which, regardless of how nonchalant he looked, could never escape the vigilant eyes of the latter.
Mark took the phone, deliberately not glancing at the screen in a closer distance, greeted by the candid shot taken in Mclaren's garage where he squatted in front of the driver, mansplaining something, while the younger man stared back at him, deadpan as always.
"How is that patronizing? You can barely see my face." Mark held back every muscle around his mouth, not letting his tone show any suggestion of a smirk, and handed the phone back to Oscar.
"Of all the empty chairs in the room, you have to squat down to talk to me. Even the back of your head, Mark, spells patronizing." The younger Aussie accepted the phone without looking back at his manager, walking faster towards his motorhome.
"Mate, you do remember I was asking you about dinner, not instructing you how to race weren't I?" His manager couldn't keep his voice strained anymore, hand brushing the young man's as he speeded up the pace to chase after him, giggling like a fool.
Feeling slightly self-conscious of the accidental physical touch, however reassuring that was, Oscar cracked for a split second as well, but quickly resumed his usual stance. "You're probably right, mate. My brain's gonna hurt for thinking too much."
The confession melted Mark's heart so much he thought it might burst with affection.
From the beginning of their relationship, where Oscar was too laidback to reveal his own feelings besides racing while Mark never felt obligated to coax them out of his boy's head, since they were comfortable enough with each other's company, to every now and then when Mark was endearingly dumbfounded at the emotional crumbs scattered by the young man, between nothing and everything along the road, now look how far they've come.
Ever since the young Aussie stepped into the seat of F1 cockpit, the pressure, mostly imposed by the driver himself, which weighed ten tonnes heavier than any other's expectation, has attenuated their distance instead. More and more often, he not only asked his manager questions about racing guidance for every new track he hadn't traveled before, but how he thought of those destinations as well, exhilarated for the adventure, overanxious for the results, and rarest of all, insecure about the reality.
"You know this is your rookie season in F1, right?" He recalled the same line he used to comfort Oscar every time his driver had regarded himself falling short of his teammate, the emotionless countenance he displayed despite on the inside there was a turmoil of self blaming. "No one is expecting you to win a wdc right away. The teammate battle means nothing when the perspective is different. Your brain's gonna hurt if you keep thinking too much."
The reverberation of his memory churned his stomach into a pond of unclassified emotions, unsettling yet transient. How to store that moment of sizzling pleasure was a talent he was never fortunate enough to be endowed with.
Those words were no secret code nor inside joke, but bearing in mind that Oscar has taken what he had said by heart only occurred to the older man that the smile plastered on his face when Oscar looked at him, clearly waiting for his reply to something.
It was honestly embarrassing, how being with a young man turned him into a school girl in front of a crush instead. Love is indeed a silly thing, he pondered.
"Sorry pup, you were saying?"
"Is that Sebastian Vettel over there?" Ignoring how unnerved the nickname made him, he pointed at a distant figure wandering around and looking lost.
bring himself back to present. "Yes, that's him."
"Is there any bee project to promote today?" There was no inflection in Oscar's answer, nothing sarcastic nor curious, just plain enquiring.
Mark chuckled, enjoying the effortless humor despite that was not the young man's intention. "Nah, I don't think this is what he came for."
"Oh," this time Mark noticed an ounce of perplexion in his tone, "why don't you ask about it?"
Driven by his own wonder and Oscar's, Mark approached him hesitantly. Thanks to the driver reflex, the German sensed him within a few strides, sparing Mark the strenuous effort of not spooking the unexpected guest. Still, the blond let out a little gasp of surprise, and when he looked up at his older teammate, something akin to fondness was glittering in his eyes. His lips, pink and plump, parted. Out of relief, he closed the distance between them and reached his teammate's upper arm like his second nature. All of a sudden, Mark found himself back in the old Red Bull hospitality, where all the intimate interactions, regardless of the mixed signals they implied, captivated him, disorienting the time from then and now.
"Mark, what's going on?" The reverie was disrupted by a monotonous question. Mark detached his arm from the grip of the young German, who shot him a slight pout in return.
He reluctantly shifted his gaze away from Seb's soft underlip to reply to his younger driver. "I'm not sure what's going on either. This is a hundred percent Sebastian, but probably a fifteen-year-younger version. You see, I had the same t-shirt as that one." He then turned back to his old teammate, questioning, "and what year you're from?"
"Isn't now 2010?" His eyebrows furrowed, looking genuinely confused.
"Nope", Mark took out his phone to show him the time and date, trying hard to repress the thought of how adorable the face he made. "Although you look no different from the back, especially that messy hair of yours."
"Get off, you know you love my hair." Emboldened by the bicker, Seb gently shoved at Mark's shoulder, more like a kitten punch.
As the older man reached for a ruffle at the mop of golden curls, an act he never dared to do when they were busy snagging each other's throats but longed to since back then, the younger Aussie interrupted his motion, meekly gesturing to the opposite direction, asking for permission to leave, "Um, Mark? I'm going to find Kim."
"Wait, pup, I'll go with you." Mark dropped his hand to his side and decided to leave Seb as he was.
"No, stay, you seem fun." Seb called him out over Mark's shoulder, "and you, you have to help me get out of here."
"How am I supposed to do that when I don't even know how you got here in the first place?" Mark grimaced, as helpless as his ex-teammate.
"Let's see," the German snickered, left brow arching, suggesting some sick trap plotting inside his head, waiting for Mark to voluntarily step in, "if I can't come back, Britta will worry sick, so do Christian and Dr. Marko, and the only man who's gonna pop champagne for my disappearance would be you, since you don't have anything else to celebrate."
"You cannot be serious." Instead of snapping or looking defeated as per Sebastian's wish, Mark grunted, shook his head and walked back to Oscar, who remained deadpan but clearly shocked amid the aftermath of the snarky remark.
"Fine, I'll come clean." said the German's voice from behind.
Mark stopped the retreat, waiting for the whole context to fill in within him.
"You and I were having a fight, you ran away in the middle of it, and boy, did you change. I left the house too, so you wouldn't have to confront me when you're back. But I guess I ran too far and ended up here."
As if hit by lightning, Mark was reminded of the night when they were having one of the worst fights.
They were so smitten with each other that the tension on the track could be easily forgotten afterward. But being older never equates to being wiser. One minute he was intimidated by the German on track, an epitome of feral and ruthless, one overtake after another, the next he crowded him in the most secluded corner possible on the paddock, devouring the blond's mouth like viaticum, hands roaming up and down inside his fireproof, however, the touch alone could never satiate both of them. He was somehow twisted, as the stronger the urge to curse the German's race being destroyed grew, the more sleepless nights Mark had spent, thrusting him like a lumberjack until his younger teammate ran out of voice begging for more fullness, satisfied and ruined all at once.
He can't remember how many times he wanted to choke him, hands already wrapping around that slender neck, one more squeeze he'll suffer. Underneath him, Seb looked deliciously wrecked, casting him the dreamy look he couldn't stand for a second. Their eyes met as he was thinking that dark thought, he wondered how he had kept his sanity at bay.
On the track, they've been fighting over the team's favorite. Off the track, he wondered whether he was Seb's favorite. Yet he cannot decide the one he saw in Seb's eyes was himself, or the lover figure Seb had hoped he was.
He wanted to become the latter, to seamlessly slide in the projection, to satisfy Seb's need whatsoever. But he also wanted him to have a taste of the disappointment he'd been bitterly swallowing, race after race, and to shatter every anticipation Seb and he had envisioned when they started everything.
This love-hate relationship began tearing him into halves, yet neither of which he could afford to separate from his teammate. Because the harder he had tried to distance himself, the more pieces he would break into.
Mark had mulled over night after night, finally pulling the trigger, for the sake of his sanity.
Surprisingly, Seb accepted the decision in a calm and peaceful manner. "No hard feelings." He reassured Mark with his signature smile, all teeth and bright as sunshine.
Mark, almost brittle for the outcome, read into the rationality and deluded himself into believing that he was the one who devoted more to this relationship, as the pain he imposed on himself can testify. Seb stared at him as though he had grown a second head, amused by the accusation. Adding one more layer to Mark's devastation, he didn't use this as the last opportunity to let Mark in, disclose a peek inside his mind, or defend himself in any form, which can be a comfort for Mark's own good. That "I don't give a fuck" attitude can sometimes build up around as an armor, shielding irrelevant people's irrelevant thoughts from getting into his own head, but right then and there it pierced through the older man's heart, pumping, draining, until the last droplet of whatever kept the love flooding over his veins dried out.
The lull must have been extended during his track of rewind, that or both younger drivers didn't expect him to say anything to supplement. He glanced at Oscar, who was still quietly fidgeting about whether to stay or go, then at Sebastian, the exact person emerging out of nowhere, just to help him relive a painful phase of his life where he'd been agonizing over losses that he deemed insurmountable in every aspect.
"Yeah, I do remember." His eyes fixed back on the blonde, voice trembling from the tumultuous memory where he almost sent a search party for the missing blonde, while the same person was having a reminiscing conversation with his older self in the presence of the latter's younger boyfriend. The absurdity of how his past and present collided has never crossed his mind. Now that it unraveled in front of him, Mark felt like he was witnessing a track wreck: nothing he could do to prevent it from happening, nor could he look away. The cruelty has made his past efforts of healing and remaking in vain. How he wished he woke up and found himself in a fever dream.
"Honestly, I don't wannna go back." The blonde hung his head, frustrated, "the mind game, or whatever we were playing, was sick. I hate it as much I hate it tormenting you, us."
"Go home, Seb." Mark pressed him, voice gentle and soft, as if pampering a wounded puppy.
"But how can I go back to the grumpy man who treated me rough and hostile when you are so sweet and nice now?" He cast a wistful look at Mark, and the young man unwillingly lurching behind, discreet as a shadow.
Before Mark made one more attempt to send Seb back, his fellow Aussie interjected, "Mark? I really gotta find Kim. It was nice meeting you, Sebastian." then he turned his heels around without Mark answering back, running in the biggest hurry of his life.
Seeing his mental anchor ditching him, Mark couldn't blame him. His number one priority right now was to transport the impulsive young German back to his past self, who must have been extremely concerned, regardless of the accusation of being schadenfreude.
"What if I told you we didn't break up that night?"
The German's eyes lit up like the tower at midnight, "Really? You mean that?"
Mark couldn't reel in the thought that he still found him endearing, a guilty but unchecked feeling gripping him tightly around the throat. He let out a deep breath, trying to get past the lump, "I do mean it, and please don't use my own words against me when we fight next time, but I've never been mad at you."
Like a heavy weight was lifted off Seb's shoulder, he visibly relaxed a bit, hands stretching out from both sides, "Will you forgive me and give me a hug, before I go back?"
"Is that the magic word to send you back, 'I forgive you'?" Mark dodged the reaching hands, making little quotation marks in the air, then giving the German's shoulder a friendly pat instead. If he lingered for slightly longer, no one mentioned about it. "You will get the hug from me tonight."
"Goodbye Mark, see you at home."
"Goodbye, Seb."
I miss you, but I don't miss holding you. He secretly thought to himself, glancing over his shoulder one last time, realizing that Seb was long gone, turning back for Oscar.
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seacee16 · 1 year ago
Text
when petals fall | bangchan
bang chan x original female character
warnings: none
prev chapter // next chapter
!! FULL STORY ON AO3 !!
ch. 22 ~ when enchanted roads part
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It was Sunday night, and as per usual, Chan sat in his little studio with an audience of thousands watching his smiling face. He scrolled through the waves of comments coming through, answering questions and laughing at the odd pick-up lines thrown his way.
“’Chan, you look tired’”, a comment read, causing the leader to laugh softly. “Would I even be Bang Chan of Stray Kids if I weren’t tired?”
The comment section blew up in amused remarks, bringing out the truth to his statement. However, his laughter ceased, and his smile – his façade – dropped ever so slightly. Chan slumped back in his chair; head tilted up with closed eyes for a moment. He let out a shaky sigh. Maybe, he thought.
“Actually, STAY,” he started nervously. “I have been feeling more tired these days, and not just the usual comeback season kind of exhaustion. I don’t know,” he chuckled awkwardly, fingers playing with the draw strings of his signature dark hoodie. “I guess the sky has just felt too heavy to manage on my own lately.
“But I’ll be okay. I have STAY, and I have the members who always look out for me, even when they think I don’t notice it.” And I have her, Chan thought, his smile faltering. “I know that I have a lot of people who would be there for me when I need it, so I am beyond grateful. You all know me as this fearless leader who takes every burden upon himself to spare as many feelings as possible, but I’ve started to learn that sharing really is caring. That I should be able to share my burdens with the people who care about me, and visa versa. Because that’s what you do for the people you love. You carry the weight of their sky when they feel too weak to keep it up themselves.”
Chan watched as hearts flooded the comment section, filling his chest with a new warmth. Sakura had been right. He didn’t have to be strong for them. All they wanted was for him to be happy and healthy.
“The next song that I am going to play was suggested by STAYS. Let’s go!” Chan clicked on his mouse and watched as the video began to play on the monitor in front of him. A soft guitar was heard through the speakers as the old Swift song flooded the small studio.
 
Your eyes whispered ‘Have we met?’
Cross the room your silhouette starts to make its way to me.
 
Chan felt his mind drift with the melody, helpless to the memories of that night that surfaced with the flowing instrumental. The shadow dancing below the dull street lights, drawing him in like the tide. The way her eyes met his through the darkness, sparkling with a kind of familiarity that he had overlooked. They were kind eyes. Sweet eyes. Eyes that held no hostility or judgement. Then she smiled, and her dance continued. Then came her voice. Light and snarky, nipping at him playfully as if they hadn’t just met. She was the most familiar stranger. Their meeting was far from accidental. The dalliance was fated, their strings knotting tighter with each word.
He sat in silence as the lyrics crossed the screen, absorbing every strum and interpretation. Despite the steady inflow of comments from his livestream, Chan couldn’t bring himself to look at them. All he could think about was her.
This night is sparkling, don’t you let it go.
He thought about the way the Seoul skyline shone in the ripples along the surface of the Han River. Long beams of light shattering into a glowing scatter of glitter with every dip of her fingertips into the cool water. He watched her, wondering how the icy liquid failed to make her shiver. She just sat there, crouched at the river’s edge as she admired the view. All the while, Chan had simply been admiring her.
The song played on, much longer than what the idol would usually play it. Soon, the bridge was heard and Chan felt his heard clench with every word.
This is me praying that this was the very first page, not where our storyline ends.
He never admitted it, but Chan knew that things had changed since their first fated meeting. That he was different.
My thoughts will echo your name until I see you again.
Over the days that they had been apart, all he could think about was her. The way he saw traces of her in everything. The stars he saw walking back to the dorm, the faint smell of paint in the air as he passed Hyunjin’s room, the cracked headphones still laying on his desk. It was impossible to erase her existence from his memory, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how much the thought of her hurt him.
Chan thought about the way she looked at their album release. He had tried to play it off, but, in the room full of executives and people of importance, finding her in the crowd came as easy as breathing. He had always loved how she looked in purple tones. The way the colour looked against her skin. The skirt of her lavender dress drifted just below her knees, a cream jersey hanging loosely over her shoulders. She looked beautiful. She always did. There had been a distance between them, but Chan had no trouble spotting the smear of baby blue on the side of her neck, only visible when she turned her head to speak to one of his members. It took all of his strength not to walk over to her and wipe away the paint, to drag his thumb over the skin of her jaw.
He hadn’t been able to rid her face from his mind since. And he tried.
These are the words I held back, as I was leaving too soon.
The image of her walking away from him that night struck him hard. His very thoughts from that moment repeating in his mind. I love you. Her face held a perfectly crafted smile, one made to comfort the hurting. However, her eyes were broken. Torn. Dreading every step added to the distance between them. I love you. They had only just gotten to know one another. There was no much more than he wanted to find out. What it was like to study in Japan? When her love for animals started? How she got the small scar on the side of her left hand, and how he could keep her safe from ever getting hurt again? Chan wanted to know everything about her, even if it took a lifetime.
I love you. I love you. Stay.
Suddenly, he was back on that beach in Jeju. The memory of the cold water lapping at his ankles, the wind pushing against his back, and her fingers pulling at his hair. Her lips. Sea salt and spearmint. A taste that would never wipe from his memory. That night, he had made a silent prayer to the stars watching them. He asked them to let him keep that memory for the rest of his life. He asked to never forget the feeling of her curled up in his arms. Despite how silly it seemed, he prayed. He wanted her. More than anything. The image flashed through his mind. The moonlight shining down on her, causing her eyes to glow. She had been wrong that night. He wasn’t the sun. No matter how brightly he shone, her glow would always be stronger. In the equation of them, he was the flower and she the sun to which he grew. Chan thought about kissing her as gently as the moon caressed her skin. It was all he thought about that night, the idea of sleep far from sight. It was as if she had a spell over him. An enchantment.
I was enchanted to meet you.
Chan paused the song abruptly, forgetting to let the melody fade out like he usually did. He blinked. Once. Twice. Then he looked up at the comments flowing across the screen. Some were full of hearts; some were worried by his silence. But all that he could see was the distorted reflection of his own face staring back at him. For the first time, Chan saw the love in his eyes. The same love that his members saw whenever he spoke about Sakura.
“Uhm, I think I’ll have to end today’s live here. I just remembered that I promised the kids that I wouldn’t be home too late. They’ve been on my case about getting enough sleep lately,” Chan lied, hoping that the eyes watching him would be blinded by his guilty laugh and their knowledge of his bad sleeping habits. While a handful of the newer comments begged him to stay, majority of them reassured him that it was okay, telling him to get as much rest as he could. He couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t stay up too late, STAY. I’ll see you all next week.” The boy proceeded to hug the camera, before sitting back down and finishing off in his usual pose.
The live ended with the click of a button, and Chan wasted no time in gathering his things before dashing out of the room. The door swung shut behind him, leaving the dark room lit by the forgotten monitor screen, still frozen on the lyrics that had pulled on his heartstrings. And as it shut down, the next line faded away.
Please don’t be in love with someone else.
<3        <3        <3
It didn’t take long for Chan to find her. It was a long shot, but deep down, he knew where she would be. Where she always was. And there he found her, watching the ripples dance over the surface of the Han River. Sakura was bundled up in a thick brown coat, the collar pulled up to her chin to keep out the cold. She looked warm, but her eyes were glossy and cold. His walk – or run – over to the park had consisted of him mentally preparing a speech to get her to give them a chance. To give him a chance. He wanted to be the one she called when she was drunk and heartbroken. He wanted to be the one to hold her on the difficult nights, and laugh with her during the happy days. He wanted her firsts and lasts and everything in between for as long as she allowed. A string of wishes on his tongue, yet every one of them forgotten as soon as she was in sight.
“I don’t want you to be in love with someone else!”
His declaration was loud, carried by the strong wind over the span of empty space between them. And even from a distance, Chan could see the way her body tensed up.
“Whether its Kazuki or some other guy you happen to meet along the way. I don’t want you to love somebody who isn’t me.” He approached her slowly, just like he had that first night. He was scared she would run before he could say everything on his mind. “I know I made the wrong decision. I do that sometimes. I’m not perfect. I make mistakes as much as the next man. But, Sakura, going to the river to see you again that night was the best decision I have ever made.”
It took a moment, but she finally turned to face him. Both arms were crossed over her torso in a hug, shielding her from whatever hurt may come her way. Tired eyes and cold-tinted nose, Sakura still looked perfect to him. Her eyes moved around nervously.
“Chan-“
“No, you’re not pushing me away this time. You were right. I do care about what the media says about the kids. I’d be a terrible leader if I didn’t. But I also care about you, Sakura. And I care about me, and I care about who I am when you’re with me. I have been so painfully selfless for years. It’s my turn to be selfish. This is what I want. I want this. Fuck, I want you, petal. So, I refuse to give up on this when we haven’t even tried.”
Sakura stilled, thinking over his words. The pause made his fingers pulse anxiously, his heart hammering beneath his ribs as he waited for her reply. Finally, she spoke.
“There’s something I need to know. Please.” Chan nodded.
“That night. I told you that I loved- that I love you. I didn’t give you a chance to say anything back because I knew that if you did, I wouldn’t have the strength to walk away from you. But I need to know. Did you ever feel the same way?”
“You’re really asking me that?” Chan asked in disbelief. Had I really not been obvious enough with my feelings towards her? Did she really not know?
Sakura dropped her head, hiding her face from his gaze. “Please, just tell me.”
With a soft chuckle, Chan walked up to her. His hands cupped her face and tilted it up, forcing her golden eyes to meet his own. There was something in his gaze that she had only ever seen in videos. When he was at the centre of his universe, staring out at the stars. It was raw and beautiful. It took her breath away.
“Since that very first night,” he whispered into the space between them. “Sakura Itõ. I fell for you. I fell for you like a house of cards in a hurricane. Like a sandcastle at the mercy of a wave.” 
Chan leaned closer, until her lips were a single breath away from his own. “I yearned for you the way Icarus prayed for freedom, and, like he to the sun, I can’t help but be weak in your presence.” Their noses touched. A small brush of skin. He saw her eyes close in a blink, felt her eyelashes graze his cheek tenderly. “I am so deeply in love with you, Sakura. My heart is yours.”
It was gradual, but he watched as her lips pulled up into a smile. One brighter than all the others she had shown him. Her eyes curved downwards, pinching at its corners.
“I swear to god, Christopher, if you don’t kiss me right now-“
“Way ahead of you, petal.”
In an instant, his lips were lowered to hers, smiling at the contact. He felt her smile back, wrapping her arms around her neck as his own snaked around her waist. She was so happy that he could taste it. Her joy as she soft lips molded together with his own. They were soft, sweet, just the way he remembered them to be that night on the beach. Since that day, he had wanted nothing more than to hold her close to him like that again. So close that their bodies knotted together, hearts intertwined. He could feel the warmth of her skin radiating through her thin cardigan.
Like Icarus to the sun.
When they had no air to spare in their burning lungs, they pulled away, never leaving the others arms. Sakura couldn’t seem to wipe the smile from her face as the man pressed small kisses on her cheeks, covering her face in his adoration for. She pulled him closer, memorizing the feelings of having him so close. She was determined to remember it all.
“It’s blue,” she said to no one in particular, as she reached up to play with his hair. It hadn’t been styled like the last time she saw him, now laying limp over his forehead.
Chan chuckled. “Do you like it?”
“Very much. I’ve always had a thing for blue hair,” she confessed, running her hand through the waves. A content sigh floated past his lips. When their laughter ceased, and there was a hint of quiet in the air, Chan whispered, “Don’t go, Sakura.”
Her eyes widened. “How did you-“
“Hyunjin saw the ticket when he met with you. He told me a few nights ago.” Sakura’s head fell forward, embarrassed to have been caught.
“I’m sorry.”
“Hey, hey, no,” Chan rushed, cradling her face in his palms so that she would look at him. Her eyes had begun to mist. The boy frowned at the sight, wasting no time in pressing a series of small kisses to her pouted lips in hopes of a smile. “It’s okay. I understand why you wouldn’t have told me. Things weren’t that great with us back then. I’m not mad, petal, I swear.” He brushed stray her long bangs out of her face, tucking it behind her ear gently. “I really don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to go,” she told him truthfully. Chan would have found hope in her words had it not been for the frown that deepened on her face. “But I have to if I want to be settled in before the semester starts.”
What?
“Semester?” Chan’s face lit up a moment later. “You got in?!” Despite the sadness she felt, Sakura managed to flash him a genuine smile. His excitement was contagious.
She squealed as the male wrapped both arms around her, spinning around with the girl tucked tightly in his arms. The sound of their laughter echoed through the darkness surrounding them.
When she was finally back on her own two feet, Sakura felt him reach up to hold her face once more. When she looked at him, she failed to see anything other than pure adoration. It made her heart flutter.
“I am so unbelievably proud of you, Sakura. You’re going to do great; I just know it.”
“But-“
“It’s okay,” he replied before her doubt could set in. He knew what she was going to say. And as much as he wanted her to stay, Chan knew that it wouldn’t be right to keep her there. Not when she had worked so hard for her future. “I will be cheering for you every step of the way, petal.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, “for being the happiness I needed.”
One last time, Sakura let her hands push back the hair covering his forehead, savouring the feeling of his soft curls between her fingers. She noticed when his eyelids fell, and the ragged exhale that followed. Maybe he was trying to savour it too. When her hands cupped his face, his own lifted to cover hers, cold skin against warm. She felt the way he squeezed her hands. The action was a silent plea for her to stay, even when his lips had told her to go.
“I guess this is where you leave,” he whispered. The words tore its claws along the length of her heart, sending wave after wave of pain as every memory with the boy resurfaced. He didn’t want to let her go. For once in his life, Chan wanted to be selfish. He wanted her.
“Leaving doesn’t mean forgetting, Chan.”
“But it does lead to change. Memories, lives…feelings.” Sakura choked down a whimper.
Rip off the band-aid. You need to be strong. Please do not falter.
She watched the way his beautiful face contorted in sadness.
I’m sorry, Chan. Forgive me.
“Can you look at me?”
Chan remained still, not wanting to see the look on her face when she said goodbye. He didn’t want to face the anguish that was so clear in her voice alone. He wouldn’t be able to bear it. Her words were a slow and merciless pain that he begged would end, but he knew that the end would only come when she left. He was torn.
“I always loved your eyes,” he heard her say. “There was never a moment where your eyes lied. So honest and beautiful.”
He felt her words creep in, and before he knew it, he was staring right back into her misty eyes. They smiled back at him. A sad smile. He hated it.
“Nothing will change how I feel about you. Okay? There were days where the thought of meeting you seemed impossible, but now that we’ve met – now that I have you in my life – Chan, I can’t even imagine a world where our paths didn’t cross the way they did. So, I need you to know that whether you forget-“
“You said leaving doesn’t mean forgetting,” he repeated her words, not liking where her sentence was heading. “I’m not going to forget you, Sakura. I don’t want to forget you.”
“Let me finish, please.” The last word hung in the air like a ghost, barely there. The girl leaned forward until her forehead rested against his. “You live a life infinitely different to mine. You’ll go one tours and I’ll sit in boring lecture halls. Nothing is guaranteed in this world. W-We may not meet again. It could be tomorrow, or in a month, or a year. But I need you to know this. I’ll always be there. Chan, whether you forget me or not, I will love you either way.”
Chan opened his mouth to speak, but the girl covered his lips with her own. It was a brief kiss, enough to stop the words from leaving his mouth.
“Don’t,” she begged against his lips, each breath shared. “Don’t say it.”
“But-“
She kissed him again, a little harder than the first time. Chan’s hands cradled her face gently, while her own dropped to grasp the lapels of his blazer.
When she pulled away, she said, “Don-“
“I love you.”
It was impossible not to see the worship in his eyes as he stared at her, begging her to listen to him. And she did. Three words were all it took to make her heart burn in her chest. She wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry. She wanted to kiss him and never pull away. God, she loved him. So wholly and to every corner of the universe. He was her living, breathing heart.
Sakura shook her head, lightly punching his hard chest. It only made him pull her closer, his heartbeat felt against her own chest. “You never listen.”
“I blame the hours in the studio, and the millions of screaming fans. It’s made me a little hard of hearing.”
“You’re insufferable, Christopher.”
“You mean irresistible.”
“I mean irritating,” she shot back.
“Adorable.”
“Conceited.”
“Confident.”
“Aggravating.”
“I love you.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me,” Chan finished, a Cheshire cat grin plastered on his face. And she did.
Sakura pulled on his hoodie and met him in the space between. She let herself memorize every taste and smell and feeling in that moment.
“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered against the curve of her lips. “For us. Please, don’t try to stop me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“I lied,” he admitted, this time pulling away from her lips slightly. “That night when I said that I wasn’t experienced with the concept of love. I was afraid of the word. Love is permanent, but fleeting all the same. I know what love is because of them, Sakura. The kids. I’d do anything for those seven, and that’s what love is, isn’t it? Because of them, I know what love is because I love them. And I know that I love you.”
Desperate to hide the tremor in her lip, she wrapped her arms around his neck, hiding her face in the warmth of his neck. She felt his arms wind around her waist the way it had so many times before, encasing her completely. The warmth of his body against hers fought off any cold that grazed her skin. She listened to the hammering of his heart, wishing for nothing more than to listen to the sound for the rest of her life. The rhythm was perfect, lulling, singing her name in praise with each steady ba-dum. A slow series of kisses were laid in a path from the top of her head, down the side of her face and neck, until they reached her shoulder. In between each kiss, Chan whispered a light ‘I love you’, forever imprinting the sound of his voice into her memory.
When she finally brought herself to pull away, she told him, “You are not rose, nor fox. Your heart should never be tamed by another. At least, not right now. It should be wild and free and filled with blinding love in a world choking on its own darkness. That is how you will stay unique. It is how you will always be the person that I love, Chan.”
The man let a sad smile slip onto his face. He stared down at the girl he had come to love with his entire being, taking in her light for a final time. “I believe that we will have our time. It may not be right now, but it will come. No matter how far apart we are, you will always be my one unique rose. No one can take that place, petal,” he vowed, tucking a wind-blown strand of hair behind her ear.
“Rose. Petal. That’s why you call me petal?” The boy nodded. “I always thought it was because of my name.”
The pair stood in silence, savouring their final moments together before reality pulled them apart. Chan lifted her hand to his face, and – with eyes locked on hers – he pressed a delicate kiss to her wrist. One final act of comfort. Confirmation that she would be okay. Her response came in both palms cupping his face, lifting to her toes to kiss each dimple with trembling lips for one final time. Her nose brushed his cheek as she moved to the other dip, savoring the feel of his smooth skin beneath her kiss. With hearts yearning to hang on, they finally let go. Each took a step back, one larger than the other. Both equally as hesitant. However, Sakura was the one to take a few more steps back while Chan watched her in the eerie quiet of the night.
Once she stood far enough away from him, so far that her voice would be but a whisper once it reached him, she stopped.
“See you around, stranger,” she called out, keeping a content smile on her face. It was a smile that Chan would never forget. Despite the tears glistening along her laugh lines, her grin was wide and sincere. She was more than happy to have her heart broken by him.
“Until then, petal. I’ll be waiting.”
<3        <3        <3
Seven pairs of ears peaked at the sound of the keypad at the front door, the squeak of the hinges following shortly after as their leader entered the dorm. They had seen his live. They knew why he had left so abruptly after the final song. They knew. So, they waited up, ready to take on every storm cloud that followed him.
When he entered the main living space, Chan wasn’t surprised to see all of them sitting around. He had expected it. The eldest wanted to ask why they were all still awake at such a late hour. He wanted to tease them about getting enough sleep and shoo them to bed before his façade cracked. The words from his live hung fresh in his mind.
“Hyung.”
One word. It took one word for all of Chan’s walls to dissolve, leaving behind a hurting heart. He tried to smile, tried to choke down the sob in his throat, but his friend’s voice was so gentle and so worried and he missed her so much that it pained him. She was going to leave, and all he could do was pray that their paths would cross again. But there was no certainty. There never was.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, looking up to see Hyunjin standing beside him. The younger boy extended his hand, a lilac envelope in his grasp.
“You should read it, hyung.”
The boy motioned for the rest of the members to leave the room to give their leader some privacy, but Chan stopped them. Desperate to not be alone as he discovered the contents of the letter. “Stay. Please.”
A smile graced each face in the room as they remained in their seats, watching silently as the letter unfolded in his hands.
My most unique Chan,
You once told me that people make the worst decisions when they are drunk, but we are proof that that is not true. I wasn’t drunk when I first told you my name, and you weren’t drunk the night you told me to stay. And while our happy-intoxicated choices were far from the worst, its outcomes have led us to where we are now, and it is the worst I have felt in a while.
We are not at fault. We did nothing wrong. No one can shame us for our feelings. I was not wrong for letting you into my life and you were not wrong for kissing me. You said it yourself. You’re human. So, I truly hope you aren’t beating yourself up about what happened. My sweet Chan, you did nothing wrong, okay?
If you’re reading this, then you may already know that I’m leaving. I’m sorry. I came to Seoul as an escape from the pain of otōsan’s passing. It was meant to be a time to clear my head and figure out what was next. But in my stay, I began to fear my return home, and delayed the inevitable for as long as possible. Now, I know what I want. I’ve accepted the next chapter of my life and the absence that will always follow me in some way. Because of you, I was able to face the voice in the waves and let go of a weight I once thought would always pull me down. Thank you. I can only hope that I have helped you as much as you have helped me. If I can say one thing: listen to those kids. Let them in. Allow them to support you the way you support them. Even pillars need a strong foundation. It’s okay to wallow in the shade of your clouds sometimes, but don’t wallow alone. Sit in the company of those seven boys who love you and wait. Just until the rain stops. And when it does, let yourself enjoy the sunshine for once. You’re allowed to be happy with the simple things.
You are the warmth of the sun on the coldest of winter days. My apricity. My northern lights. My little prince. You have tamed me. I’ll admit that I tried to fight it at first. I didn’t want to burn myself with a flame I had created. But it didn’t. You kept me warm, thawed out the cold, and gave me light in the middle of the dark. Now, I am forever yours to love and break. The whole point of The Little Prince is to not only see things as what they are, but what they could be, and when I’m with you, that is all I can do. Think about what we could be. I wanted you to be the one I cry to. I wanted to be the one who bears the weight of the world with you. I wanted it to be us so badly, Chan. I pray that one day it is. You are tangled into my soul, our strings of fate woven like a web.
You make me so undeniably happy, Chan. You must know that. Everything seemed better after you approached me at the river that day. Brighter. I wanted to smile again, because I knew that if I did, you would smile too. instead of this dull ghost of the person I once was, I started to see myself in a new light. Glowing and shining. And like the sun and the moon, I only shine because of you.
Thank the boys for me. I wish I could have spent more time with them all. I will remember Jeju for the rest of my life. Each of you made it a little easier on me without even knowing it, and for that I’m grateful. Their laughter filled the place of sadness and I can’t imagine how it would have been without you. I wish I had more time with them. There are so many recipes I would have wanted to learn from Felix, and there are so many books I wanted to recommend to Jisung. Percy Jackson is just the tip of the iceberg. I need you to thank Hyunjin too. He saw a lot of the worse of me, and every time he stayed without judgement. He is a great friend. They all are. You are truly lucky, Chan.
I believe that our story is not over yet, but I will be patient until the next chapter. I won’t say I’ll miss you. I am content in knowing that I have parts of you with me for the rest of my life. Your thoughts on my favourite movie. The songs you played when we were alone. The feeling in my chest when you kissed me in the waves. You are everywhere, and so I know I will never be alone again. Neither will you.
I will love you in every orbit, Nemo.
Yours,
Sakura
 
He reached out blindly, hands finding the outstretched arms of the other Australian as he tried to pull himself together. They couldn’t seem him like that. He had to be strong.
They have as much right to look out for you the same way that you do for them, Chan. You need to learn to let them look after you.
Sakura’s words echoed through his head, and slowly, he gave his tears permission to fall.
Lee Know stood from his place on the couch and walked up to him. Without the usual hesitation, the second eldest wrapped his arms around the leader, lightly guiding his face to rest in between his neck and shoulder. The dancer hummed softly, hearing the man sniffle and hiccup in his embrace. On the inside, he was smiling sadly. They all were. Because Chan was allowing them to help him, and that was all they ever wanted.
“It’s okay, hyung. We’re here.” One by one, the remaining five members approached them, joining in on the group hug, their leader trapped at the very centre of their love.
“Don’t worry, Lee Know. I’m okay.”
“But you don’t have to be,” Changbin replied, his hand resting on the leader’s back.
Jisung nodded, and added, “It’s okay to be sad, hyung.”
And it was. It was okay because he knew that he loved her, and that she loved him. It was okay to be sad over giving up something that made him so happy.
So, Chan grabbed onto the members closest to him and let his tears fall freely.
“Thank you,” he whispered in a voice too weak to hear.
He passed on his sky, and felt as it grew lighter than it had been in years. All because of his seven precious brothers. His chosen family.
His home.
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ledenews · 5 months ago
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Mt. Zion Cemetery Caretakers Anxious for Restoration to Begin
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Charles Yocke was told by a friend a “mudslide” had taken place at his beloved Mt. Zion Cemetery, but what he discovered the morning of April 3rd was an outright avalanche of mud. Every single day since the volunteer caretaker has been navigating an unpaved path he hopes leads to a complete restoration, but he’s frustrated he still doesn’t know when the project will begin. “Pat Henry lives at the top of the hill and he called him early that morning and told me, ‘Looks like you have a mudslide in the cemetery.’ ‘OK,’ I thought, ‘I’d better go see what I have to shovel up.’ Well, that’s not what I saw when I came up here,” Yocke recalled. “I only live the down the road, so I jumped into my truck, and I drove up here. As soon as I got close enough, I saw it and said, ‘Holy sh!t!’ “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who to call,” he said. “I knew I had to get the word out and I knew I had to get the place locked up. No way could I let anyone on the grounds, and the graveyard is still closed today. That’s when I contacted some media and they reported what happened.” The dirt is dry now at the Mount Zion Cemetery in Wheeling, but a massive amount of work needs to be performed before the graveyard is fully restored. W.Va. Gov. Jim Justice has since dropped off $2 million that the Bel-O-Mar Regional Council will administer; thousands of dollars in donations have been recorded by the Wheeling Mt. Zion Cemetery Corporation volunteer Paula Stein, and an endowment fund finances the landscaping upkeep. Last week, 11 counties in West Virginia – including Ohio County – were designated federal disaster areas so the counties now qualify for federal relief dollars to repair damages caused by the double-flood natural disaster. But. “Everything so far has been happening really fast, but when will the actual work get done? When will the work begin? I don’t know those answers when our families ask,” Yocke admitted. “We want to get this done as soon as possible, but I don’t even know if we’ll get it started this year. I hope so … it’s only May. “I know how important this cemetery is to our families, and I know this whole community is supporting us, so for everyone involved I sure hope everyone can get this moving along,” he said. “I keep asking people when we can get started and they have explained that there’s a lot to get straight before we can get moving. That’s frustrating for everyone.” Mount Zion remains closed to visitors today, but they can take pause in the A-frame chapel located near the entrance. Piece by Piece The avalanche originated near the top of the hill near Incline Avenue in the Mozart area, and Yocke estimates as many as 125 grave markers were affected by the rolling mud. Many of those stones, though, were assembled when initially placed, but now they are scattered, buried, and in pieces. Many of the graves also were decorated by family, and those items – flower vases, picture frames, and other items – will need sorted once movement of the massive amount of dirt begins and the restoration process is launched.    “Until the project begins, we won’t know how many monuments were involved, but we do know several of them were made in parts so we’ll have to see what needs to be cleaned and put back together,” Yocke said. “I’m sure we’ll make new footers for each of the stones, but it has to be surveyed first to make sure we’re putting everything back where it belongs. “There are some photos, and we know there’s technology that can help, too, but we may need some help from the families because we hope they’ll remember best where they visited their loved ones,” he said. “But we have to get there first. The cemetery has to be closed off right now for safety reasons, and as soon as people can enter safely, we’ll open it up again.” W.Va. Del. Shawn Fluharty (D-5) was one of the first state lawmakers to contact Yocke once the disaster took place, and last week he collected the names of the American veterans laid to rest at Mount Zion so he can register the project for additional funding. He explained the $2 million contributed by the state will be administered by the Bel-O-Mar Regional Council, a state-created organization that fosters cooperation with community and economic development. Yocke and W.Va. Del. Shawn Fluharty surveyed the damage last week when the lawmaker visited to collect the names of the more than 400 American veterans laid to rest at Mount Zion. “Since a lot of the funding for the repairs is coming from the state of West Virginia, there will be input from state officials about contractors and some things like that, but this work, I doubt, will be performed by employees of the state,” Fluharty explained. “There will be guidance, and help when it’s needed during this process, and I’m sure the folks from Bel-O-Mar will be keeping track of the progress. “At the end of all of this, I am positive we’ll have some kind of event because fixing this damage in a historic cemetery like this is a pretty big deal,” he said. “There are more than 400 American veterans who have been laid to rest here, and those families will be part of everything.” Fluharty also is confident additional dollars will be received thanks to the natural disaster designation. “Federal funding is another piece to this, but I am encouraged more dollars will be available for what needs to be done here,” Fluharty explained. “When I was informed of this slide, I immediately contacted Sen. (Joe) Manchin’s office because I knew he was traveling to Wheeling on a separate matter. He met with us and told us what needed to happen, and those things have happened so we can apply for more help. “The documents that Charles gave me included the names of the American soldiers who were interred here,” he said. “They will be honored.” Meanwhile, Yocke and Stein not-so-patiently await a start date. “Everyone wants this project to get done the right way, and I know that’s going to take a little time to get things in order,” Yocke said. “Sure, it’s frustrating. It’s real frustrating. People who want to visit the cemetery are getting frustrated, too, and that’s understandable. “A lot of them thought as soon as we got the ($2 million) someone would be up on the hill fixing it by now, and I get that,” he added. “There’s the mud we have to deal with, but there’s a lot more that needs done to fix it for good, too. Honestly, I’d hate to see what another serious rain would do.” Yocke and Paula Stein have been the only volunteers caring for Mount Zion Cemetery for nearly 10 years. Read the full article
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study-in-uk-msm-unify · 10 months ago
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Your Pocket-Friendly London Adventure: A Simple Guide for International Students
Welcome, fellow global explorers! Today, we're unveiling the ultimate handbook for Study in UK students looking to embrace the vibrant culture of London without breaking the bank. Get ready for a journey filled with free activities that will not only enrich your experience but also leave your wallet happily intact.
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Explore the Royal Beauty: Free Museums Galore
London is a treasure trove of world-class museums, and the best part? Many of them won't cost you a penny! From the iconic British Museum to the awe-inspiring National Gallery, immerse yourself in art, history, and culture without spending a dime.
Nature's Retreat: Serenity in London's Parks
Escape the urban hustle and bustle by exploring London's picturesque parks. From the expansive Hyde Park to the charming Greenwich Park, discover green havens perfect for picnics, jogging, or simply unwinding amidst nature's embrace.
Architectural Marvels: Free Landmarks Tour
London's skyline is adorned with architectural wonders, and you can marvel at them without opening your wallet. Take a stroll along the Thames, snap photos of the majestic Tower Bridge, and admire the grandeur of Buckingham Palace – all without spending a single pound.
Street Markets Extravaganza: A Feast for the Senses
Dive into the heart of London's diverse neighborhoods by exploring its vibrant street markets. From Borough Market's delectable treats to the eclectic offerings at Portobello Road Market, savor the flavors, sights, and sounds of the city's cultural melting pots.
Cultural Gems: Free Events and Exhibitions
Stay in the know about the latest free events and exhibitions happening in London. Whether it's a lively street festival or an insightful art exhibition, the city is brimming with cultural experiences that won't dent your budget.
Thames Riverside Stroll: A Scenic Walkway
Embark on a leisurely stroll along the Thames Riverside Walk for breathtaking views of iconic landmarks. This free activity offers a front-row seat to London's charm, allowing you to soak in the city's atmosphere without spending a penny.
Literary Exploration: Free Libraries and Bookshops
For book enthusiasts, London is a literary paradise. Explore renowned libraries like the British Library or get lost in the charm of independent bookshops scattered across the city – a delightful experience for the mind and soul.
Free Cultural Events: Tapping into London's Arts Scene
Immerse yourself in London's thriving arts scene by attending free cultural events. From open-air concerts in parks to street performances in Covent Garden, the city offers a myriad of artistic expressions that won't cost you a thing.
Fitness and Wellness: Free Exercise Classes
Maintain your well-being without draining your budget. London hosts free fitness classes in parks, providing a fantastic opportunity to stay active, meet new people, and enjoy the city's green spaces simultaneously.
Community Engagement: Volunteering Opportunities
Give back to the community and make a positive impact by exploring volunteering opportunities in London. Whether it's assisting at local events or participating in community projects, you'll find numerous ways to contribute while making new connections.
So there you have it – a comprehensive guide to navigating London's vibrant offerings without spending a fortune. Embrace the city's cultural richness, connect with fellow students, and make the most of your study abroad student experience in this enchanting metropolis!
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cyaontheroad · 2 years ago
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Top 20 'Cya On The Road' Tours of 2022 - part 2
If you love to travel but hate following rigid schedules and boring guides, then check out the Cya On The Road platform, the ultimate AI-powered self-guided audio tour app. With this app, you can explore over 90 countries around the world at your own pace and get authentic experiences created by the locals. Your phone becomes your personal travel guide, telling you fascinating stories and taking you to amazing places only the locals know. Whether you want to explore Australia, New Zealand, Europe, the UK, the USA or more, your new travel buddy has got you covered.
But with so many options to choose from, how do you decide which audio tours to take? Don't worry, we've got you covered too. We've compiled a list of the top 20 self-guided audio tours of 2022 on the Cya On The Road platform that you won't want to miss. These tours are based on popularity and uniqueness. So without further ado, let's dive in!
#1 - 10
#11
📌 Stanley, Tasmania, Australia
#12
📌 Gundagai, NSW, Australia
#13
📌 Hobart, Tasmania, Australia
#14
📌 Sydney, NSW, Australia
#15
📌 Armidale, NSW, Australia
#16
📌 Campbelltown, NSW, Australia
#17
📌 Darwin, NT, Australia
#18
📌 Ross, Tasmania, Australia
#19
📌 Newtown, NSW, Australia
#20
📌 London, England, UK
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rjalker · 2 years ago
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The Wooing of Miss Woppit
by Eugene Field
Second Book of Tales, published 1896
You can find the whole, public domain book here on Project Gutenberg.
This short story is 11,000 ish words long.
It was definitely written with transphobic intent, but, being public domain (meaning anyone and everyone has free reign to do with it whatever they want, including rewriting it into a full-length novel or a movie or literally anything), anyone who wants to could very easily fix that, considering it's just the very end that's transphobic.
Anyways this author died in 1895 and we should celebrate because he's a misogynist as well as a transphobe. The book this is from was actually published the year after he died lol.
____
The Wooing of Miss Woppit
At that time the camp was new. Most of what was called the valuable property was owned by an English syndicate, but there were many who had small claims scattered here and there on the mountainside, and Three-fingered Hoover and I were rightly reckoned among these others. The camp was new and rough to the degree of uncouthness, yet, upon the whole, the little population was well disposed and orderly. But along in the spring of '81, finding that we numbered eight hundred, with electric lights, telephones, a bank, a meeting-house, a race-track, and such-like modern improvements, we of Red Hoss Mountain became possessed of the notion to have a city government; so nothing else would do but to proceed at once and solemnly to the choice of a mayor, marshal, clerk, and other municipal officers. The spirit of party politics (as it is known and as it controls things elsewhere) did not enter into the short and active canvass; there were numerous candidates for each office, all were friends, and the most popular of the lot were to win. The campaign was fervent but good-natured.
I shall venture to say that Jim Woppit would never have been elected city marshal but for the potent circumstance that several of the most influential gentlemen in the camp were in love with Jim's sister; that was Jim's hold on these influences, and that was why he was elected.
-
Yet Jim was what you 'd call a good fellow—not that he was fair to look upon, for he was not; he was swarthy and heavy-featured and hulking; but he was a fair-speaking man, and he was always ready to help out the boys when they went broke or were elsewise in trouble. Yes, take him all in all, Jim Woppit was properly fairly popular, although, as I shall always maintain, he would never have been elected city marshal over Buckskin and Red Drake and Salty Boardman if it had n't been (as I have intimated) for the backing he got from Hoover, Jake Dodsley, and Barber Sam. These three men last named were influences in the camp, enterprising and respected citizens, with plenty of sand in their craws and plenty of stuff in their pockets; they loved Miss Woppit, and they were in honor bound to stand by the interests of the brother of that fascinating young woman.
I was not surprised that they were smitten; she might have caught me, too, had it not been for the little woman and the three kids back in the states. As handsome and as gentle a lady was Miss Woppit as ever walked a white pine floor—so very different from White River Ann, and Red Drake's wife, and old man Edgar's daughter, for they were magpies who chattered continually and maliciously, hating Miss Woppit because she wisely chose to have nothing to do with them. She lived with her brother Jim on the side-hill, just off the main road, in the cabin that Smooth Ephe Hicks built before he was thrown off his broncho into the gulch. It was a pretty but lonesome place, about three-quarters of a mile from the camp, adjoining the claim which Jim Woppit worked in a lazy sort of way—Jim being fairly well fixed, having sold off a coal farm in Illinois just before he came west.
In this little cabin abode Miss Woppit during the period of her wooing, a period covering, as I now recall, six or, may be, eight months. She was so pretty, so modest, so diligent, so homekeeping, and so shy, what wonder that those lonely, heart-hungry men should fall in love with her? In all the population of the camp the number of women was fewer than two score, and of this number half were married, others were hopeless spinsters, and others were irretrievably bad, only excepting Miss Woppit, the prettiest, the tidiest, the gentlest of all. She was good, pure, and lovely in her womanliness; I shall not say that I envied—no, I respected Hoover and Dodsley and Barber Sam for being stuck on the girl; you 'd have respected 'em, too, if you 'd seen her and—and them. But I did take it to heart because Miss Woppit seemed disinclined to favor any suit for her fair hand—particularly because she was by no means partial to Three-fingered Hoover, as square a man as ever struck pay dirt—dear old pardner, your honest eyes will never read these lines, between which speaks my lasting love for you!
In the first place, Miss Woppit would never let the boys call on her of an evening unless her brother Jim was home; she had strict notions about that sort of thing which she would n't waive. I reckon she was right according to the way society looks at these things, but it was powerful hard on Three-fingered Hoover and Jake Dodsley and Barber Sam to be handicapped by etiquette when they had their bosoms chock full of love and were dying to tell the girl all about it.
Jake Dodsley came a heap nearer than the others to letting Miss Woppit know what his exact feelings were. He was a poet of no mean order. What he wrote was printed regularly in Cad Davis' Leadville paper under the head of "Pearls of Pegasus," and all us Red Hoss Mountain folks allowed that next to Willie Pabor of Denver our own Jake Dodsley had more of the afflatus in him than any other living human poet. Hoover appreciated Jake's genius, even though Jake was his rival. It was Jake's custom to write poems at Miss Woppit—poems breathing the most fervid sentiment, all about love and bleeding hearts and unrequited affection. The papers containing these effusions he would gather together with rare diligence, and would send them, marked duly with a blue or a red pencil, to Miss Woppit.
The poem which Hoover liked best was one entitled "True Love," and Hoover committed it to memory—yes, he went even further; he hired Professor De Blanc (Casey's piano player) to set it to music, and this office the professor discharged nobly, producing a simple but solemn-like melody which Hoover was wont to sing in feeling wise, poor, dear, misguided fellow that he was! Seems to me I can hear his big, honest, husky, voice lifted up even now in rendition of that expression of his passion:
Turrue love never dies—
Like a river flowin'
In its course it gathers force,
Broader, deeper growin';
Strength'nin' in the storms 'at come,
Triumphin' in sorrer,
Till To-day fades away
In the las' To-morrer.
Wot though Time flies?
Turrue love never dies!
Moreover, Three-fingered Hoover discoursed deftly upon the fiddle; at obligates and things he was not much, but at real music he could not be beat. Called his fiddle "Mother," because his own mother was dead, and being he loved her and had no other way of showing it, why, he named his fiddle after her. Three-fingered Hoover was full of just such queer conceits.
Barber Sam was another music genius; his skill as a performer upon the guitar was one of the marvels of the camp. Nor had he an indifferent voice—Prof. De Blanc allowed that if Barber Sam's voice had been cultured at the proper time—by which I suppose he meant in youth—Barber Sam would undoubtedly have become "one of the brightest constellations in the operatic firmament." Moreover, Barber Sam had a winsome presence; a dapper body was he, with a clear olive skin, soulful eyes, a noble mustache, and a splendid suit of black curly hair. His powers of conversation were remarkable—that fact, coupled with his playing the guitar and wearing plaid clothes, gave him the name of Barber Sam, for he was not really a barber; was only just like one.
In the face of all their wooing, Miss Woppit hardened her heart against these three gentlemen, any one of whom the highest lady in the land might have been proud to catch. The girl was not inclined to affairs of the heart; she cared for no man but her brother Jim. What seemed to suit her best was to tend to things about the cabin—it was called The Bower, the poet Jake Dodsley having given it that name—to till the little garden where the hollyhocks grew, and to stroll away by herself on the hillside or down through Magpie Glen, beside the gulch. A queer, moodful creature she was; unlike other girls, so far as we were able to judge. She just doted on Jim, and Jim only—how she loved that brother you shall know presently.
It was lucky that we organized a city government when we did. All communities have streaks of bad luck, and it was just after we had elected a mayor, a marshal, and a full quota of officers that Red Hoss Mountain had a spell of experiences that seemed likely at one time to break up the camp. There 's no telling where it all would have ended if we had n't happened to have a corps of vigilant and brave men in office, determined to maintain law and order at all personal hazards. With a camp, same as 'tis with dogs, it is mighty unhealthy to get a bad name.
The tidal wave of crime—if I may so term it—struck us three days after the election. I remember distinctly that all our crowd was in at Casey's, soon after nightfall, indulging in harmless pleasantries, such as eating, drinking, and stud poker. Casey was telling how he had turned several cute tricks on election day, and his recital recalled to others certain exciting experiences they had had in the states; so, in an atmosphere of tobacco, beer, onions, wine, and braggadocio, and with the further delectable stimulus of seven-year-old McBrayer, the evening opened up congenially and gave great promise. The boys were convivial, if not boisterous. But Jim Woppit, wearing the big silver star of his exalted office on his coat-front, was present in the interests of peace and order, and the severest respect was shown to the newly elected representative of municipal dignity and authority.
All of a sudden, sharp, exacting, and staccato-like, the telephone sounded; seemed like it said, "Quick—trouble—help!" By the merest chance—a lucky chance—Jim Woppit happened to be close by, and he reached for the telephone and answered the summons.
"Yes." "Where?" "You bet—right away!"
That was what Jim said; of course, we heard only one side of the talk. But we knew that something—something remarkable had happened. Jim was visibly excited; he let go the telephone, and, turning around, full over against us, he said, "By ——, boys! the stage hez been robbed!"
A robbery! The first in the Red Hoss Mountain country! Every man leapt to his feet and broke for the door, his right hand thrust instinctively back toward his hip pocket. There was blood in every eye.
Hank Eaves' broncho was tied in front of Casey's.
"Tell me where to go," says Hank, "and I 'll git thar in a minnit. I 'm fixed."
"No, Hank," says Jim Woppit, commanding like, "I 'll go. I 'm city marshal, an' it's my place to go—I 'm the repersentive of law an' order an' I 'll enforce 'em—damn me ef I don't!"
"That's bizness—Jim's head 's level!" cried Barber Sam.
"Let Jim have the broncho," the rest of us counselled, and Hank had to give in, though he hated to, for he was spoiling for trouble—cussedest fellow for fighting you ever saw! Jim threw himself astride the spunky little broncho and was off like a flash.
"Come on, boys," he called back to us; "come on, ez fast ez you kin to the glen!"
Of course we could n't anywhere near keep up with him; he was soon out of sight. But Magpie Glen was only a bit away—just a trifle up along the main road beyond the Woppit cabin. Encouraged by the excitement of the moment and by the whooping of Jake Dodsley, who opined (for being a poet he always opined) that some evil might have befallen his cherished Miss Woppit—incited by these influences we made all haste. But Miss Woppit was presumably safe, for as we hustled by The Bower we saw the front room lighted up and the shadow of Miss Woppit's slender figure flitting to and fro behind the white curtain. She was frightened almost to death, poor girl!
It appeared from the story of Steve Barclay, the stage-driver, that along about eight o'clock the stage reached the glen—a darkish, dismal spot, and the horses, tired and sweaty, toiled almost painfully up the short stretch of rising ground. There were seven people in the stage: Mr. Mills, superintendent of the Royal Victoria mine; a travelling man (or drummer) from Chicago, one Pryor, an invalid tenderfoot, and four miners returning from a round-up at Denver. Steve Barclay was the only person outside. As the stage reached the summit of the little hill the figure of a man stole suddenly from the thicket by the roadside, stood directly in front of the leading horses, and commanded a halt. The movement was so sudden as to terrify the horses, and the consequence was that, in shying, the brutes came near tipping the coach completely over. Barclay was powerless to act, for the assailant covered him with two murderous revolvers and bade him throw up his hands.
Then the men in the coach were ordered out and compelled to disgorge their valuables, the robber seeming to identify and to pay particular attention to Mr. Mills, the superintendent, who had brought with him from Denver a large sum of money. When the miners made a slight show of resistance the assailant called to his comrades in the bush to fire upon the first man who showed fight; this threat induced a wise resignation to the inevitable. Having possessed himself in an incredibly short time of his booty, the highwayman backed into the thicket and quickly made off. The procedure from first to last occupied hardly more than five minutes.
The victims of this outrage agreed that the narrative as I have given it was in the main correct. Barclay testified that he saw the barrels of rifles gleaming from the thicket when the outlaw called to his confederates. On the other hand, Mr. Mills, who was the principal loser by the affair, insisted that the outlaw did his work alone, and that his command to his alleged accomplices was merely a bluff. There was, too, a difference in the description given of the highwayman, some of the party describing him as a short, thick-set man, others asserting that he was tall and slender. Of his face no sight had been obtained, for he wore a half-mask and a large slouch hat pulled well down over his ears. But whatever dispute there may have been as to details, one thing was sure—robbery had been done, and the robber had fled with four gold watches and cash to the amount of, say, two thousand five hundred dollars.
Recovering betimes from their alarm and bethinking themselves of pursuit of the outlaws, the helpless victims proceeded to push into camp to arouse the miners. It was then that Barclay discovered that the tire of one of the front wheels had come off in the jolt and wrench caused by the frightened horses. As no time was to be lost, Barclay suggested that somebody run down the road to Woppit's cabin and telephone to camp. Mr. Mills and the Chicago drummer undertook this errand. After considerable parley—for Miss Woppit wisely insisted upon being convinced of her visitors' honorable intentions—these two men were admitted, and so the alarm was transmitted to Casey's, Miss Woppit meanwhile exhibiting violent alarm lest her brother Jim should come to harm in pursuing the fugitives.
As for Jim Woppit, he never once lost his head. When the rest of us came up to the scene of the robbery he had formed a plan of pursuit. It was safe, he said, to take for granted that there was a gang of the outlaws. They would undoubtedly strike for Eagle Pass, since there was no possible way of escape in the opposite direction, the gulch, deep and wide, following the main road close into camp. Ten of us should go with him—ten of the huskiest miners mounted upon the stanchest bronchoes the camp could supply. "We shall come up with the hellions before mornin'," said he, and then he gritted his teeth significantly. A brave man and a cool man, you 'll allow; good-hearted, too, for in the midst of all the excitement he thought of his sister, and he said, almost tenderly, to Three-fingered Hoover: "I can trust you, pardner, I know. Go up to the cabin and tell her it's all right—that I 'll be back to-morrow and that she must n't be skeered. And if she is skeered, why, you kind o' hang round there to-night and act like you knew everything was all O. K."
"But may be Hoover 'll be lonesome," suggested Barber Sam. He was a sly dog.
"Then you go 'long too," said Jim Woppit. "Tell her I said so."
Three-fingered Hoover would rather—a good deal rather—have gone alone. Yet, with all that pardonable selfishness, he recognized a certain impropriety in calling alone at night upon an unprotected female. So Hoover accepted, though not gayly, of Barber Sam's escort, and in a happy moment it occurred to the twain that it might be a pious idea to take their music instruments with them. Hardly, therefore, had Jim Woppit and his posse flourished out of camp when Three-fingered Hoover and Barber Sam, carrying Mother and the famous guitar, returned along the main road toward The Bower.
When the cabin came in view—the cabin on the side hill with hollyhocks standing guard round it—one of those subtle fancies in which Barber Sam's active brain abounded possessed Barber Sam. It was to convey to Miss Woppit's ear good tidings upon the wings of music. "Suppose we play 'All's Well'?" suggested Barber Sam. "That'll let her know that everything's O. K."
"Just the thing!" answered Three-fingered Hoover, and then he added, and he meant it: "Durned if you ain't jest about as slick as they make 'em, pardner!"
The combined efforts of the guitar and Mother failed, however, to produce any manifestation whatever, so far as Miss Woppit was concerned. The light in the front room of the cabin glowed steadily, but no shadow of the girl's slender form was to be seen upon the white muslin curtain. So the two men went up the gravelly walk and knocked firmly but respectfully at the door.
They had surmised that Miss Woppit might be asleep, but, oh, no, not she. She was not the kind of sister to be sleeping when her brother was in possible danger. The answer to the firm but respectful knocking was immediate.
"Who's there and what do you want?" asked Miss Woppit in tremulous tones, with her face close to the latch. There was no mistaking the poor thing's alarm.
"It's only us gents," answered Three-fingered Hoover, "me an' Barber Sam; did n't you hear us serenadin' you a minnit ago? We 've come to tell you that everything 's all right—Jim told us to come—he told us to tell you not to be skeered, and if you wuz skeered how we gents should kind of hang round here to-night; be you skeered, Miss Woppit? Your voice sounds sort o' like you wuz."
Having now unbolted and unlatched and opened the door, Miss Woppit confessed that she was indeed alarmed; the pallor of her face confirmed that confession. Where was Jim? Had they caught the robbers? Was there actually no possibility of Jim's getting shot or stabbed or hurt? These and similar questions did the girl put to the two men, who, true to their trust, assured the timorous creature in well-assumed tones of confidence that her brother could n't get hurt, no matter how hard he might try.
To make short of a long tale, I will say that the result of the long parley, in which Miss Woppit exhibited a most charming maidenly embarrassment, was that Three-fingered Hoover and Barber Sam were admitted to the cabin for the night. It was understood—nay, it was explicitly set forth, that they should have possession of the front room wherein they now stood, while Miss Woppit was to retire to her apartment beyond, which, according to popular fame and in very truth, served both as a kitchen and Miss Woppit's bedroom, there being only two rooms in the cabin.
This front room had in it a round table, a half-dozen chairs, a small sheet-iron stove, and a rude kind of settee that served Jim Woppit for a bed by night. There were some pictures hung about on the walls—neither better nor poorer than the pictures invariably found in the homes of miners. There was the inevitable portrait of John C. Fremont and the inevitable print of the pathfinder planting his flag on the summit of Pike's Peak; a map of Colorado had been ingeniously invested with an old looking-glass frame, and there were several cheap chromos of flowers and fruit, presumably Miss Woppit's contributions to the art stores of the household. Upon the centre table, which was covered with a square green cloth, stood a large oil lamp, whose redolence and constant spluttering testified pathetically to its neglect. There were two books on the table—viz., an old "Life of Kit Carson" and a bound file of the "Police News," abounding, as you will surmise, in atrocious delineations of criminal life. We can understand that a volume of police literature would not be out of place in the home of an executive of the law.
Miss Woppit, though hardly reassured by the hearty protestations of Hoover and Barber Sam as to her brother's security, hoped that all would be well. With evident diffidence she bade her guests make themselves at home; there was plenty of wood in the box behind the stove and plenty of oil in the tell-tale lamp; she fetched a big platter of crackers, a mammoth cut of cheese, a can of cove oysters, and a noble supply of condiments. Did the gents reckon they would be comfortable? The gents smiled and bowed obsequiously, neither, however, indulging in conversation to any marked degree, for, as was quite natural, each felt in the presence of his rival a certain embarrassment which we can fancy Miss Woppit respected if she did not enjoy it.
Finally Miss Woppit retired to her own delectable bower in the kitchen with the parting remark that she would sleep in a sense of perfect security; this declaration flattered her protectors, albeit she had no sooner closed the door than she piled the kitchen woodbox and her own small trunk against it—a proceeding that touched Three-fingered Hoover deeply and evoked from him a tender expression as to the natural timidity of womankind, which sentiment the crafty Barber Sam instantly indorsed in a tone loud enough for the lady to hear.
It is presumed that Miss Woppit slept that night. Following the moving of that woodbox and that small trunk there was no sound of betrayal if Miss Woppit did not sleep. Once the men in the front room were startled by the woman's voice crying out, "Jim—oh, Jim!" in tones of such terror as to leave no doubt that Miss Woppit slept and dreamed frightful dreams.
The men themselves were wakeful enough; they were there to protect a lady, and they were in no particular derelict to that trust. Sometimes they talked together in the hushed voices that beseem a sick-chamber; anon they took up their music apparata and thrummed and sawed therefrom such harmonies as would seem likely to lull to sweeter repose the object of their affection in the adjoining chamber beyond the woodbox and the small trunk; the circumstance of the robbery they discussed in discreet tones, both agreeing that the highwaymen were as good as dead by this time. We can fancy that the twain were distinctly annoyed upon discovering in one corner of the room, during their vigils, a number of Leadville and Denver newspapers containing sonnets, poems, odes, triolets, and such like, conspicuously marked with blue or red pencil tracings and all aimed, in a poetic sense, at Miss Woppit's virgin heart. This was the subtle work of the gifted Jake Dodsley! This was his ingenious way of storming the citadel of the coy maiden's affections.
The discovery led Barber Sam to ventilate his opinion of the crafty Dodsley, an opinion designedly pitched in a high and stentorian key and expressive of everything but compliment. On the contrary, Three-fingered Hoover—a guileless man, if ever there was one—stood bravely up for Jake, imputing this artifice of his to a passion which knows no ethics so far as competition is concerned. It was true, as Hoover admitted, that poets seldom make good husbands, but, being an exceptionally good poet, Jake might prove also an exception in matrimony, providing he found a wife at his time of life. But as to the genius of the man there could be no question; not even the poet Pabor had in all his glory done a poem so fine as that favorite poem of Hoover's, which, direct from the burning types of the "Leadville Herald," Hoover had committed to the tablets of his memory and was wont to repeat or sing on all occasions to the aggrandizement of Jake Dodsley's fame. Gradually the trend of the discussion led to the suggestion that Hoover sing this favorite poem, and this he did in a soothing, soulful voice. Barber Sam accompanying him upon that wondrous guitar. What a picture that must have been! Even upon the mountain-sides of that far-off West human hearts respond tenderly to the touch of love.
—Wot though time flies?
Turrue love never dies!
That honest voice—oh, could I hear it now! That honest face—oh, could I see it again! And, oh, that once more I could feel the clasp of that brave hand and the cordial grace of that dear, noble presence!
It was in the fall of the year; the nights were long, yet this night sped quickly. Long before daybreak significant sounds in the back room betokened that Miss Woppit was up and moving around. Through the closed door and from behind the improvised rampart of wood-box and small trunk the young lady informed her chivalric protectors that they might go home, prefacing this permission, however, with a solicitous inquiry as to whether anything had been heard from Brother Jim and his posse.
Jim Woppit and his men must have had a hard ride of it. They did not show up in camp until eleven o'clock that day, and a tougher-looking outfit you never saw. They had scoured the surrounding country with the utmost diligence, yet no trace whatever had they discovered of the outlaws; the wretches had disappeared so quickly, so mysteriously, that it seemed hard to believe that they had indeed existed. The crime, so boldly and so successfully done, was of course the one theme of talk, of theory, and of speculation in all that region for the conventional period of nine days. And then it appeared to be forgotten, or, at least, men seldom spoke of it, and presently it came to be accepted as the popular belief that the robbery had been committed by a gang of desperate tramps, this theory being confirmed by a certain exploit subsequently in the San Juan country, an exploit wherein three desperate tramps assaulted the triweekly road-hack, and, making off with their booty, were ultimately taken and strung up to a convenient tree.
Still, the reward of one thousand dollars offered by the city government of Red Hoss Mountain for information leading to the arrest of the glen robbers was not withdrawn, and there were those in the camp who quietly persevered in the belief that the outrage had been done by parties as yet undiscovered, if not unsuspected. Mr. Mills, the superintendent of the Royal Victoria, had many a secret conference with Jim Woppit, and it finally leaked out that the cold, discriminating, and vigilant eye of eternal justice was riveted upon Steve Barclay, the stage-driver. Few of us suspected Steve; he was a good-natured, inoffensive fellow; it seemed the idlest folly to surmise that he could have been in collusion with the highwaymen. But Mr. Mills had his own ideas on the subject; he was a man of positive convictions, and, having pretty nearly always demonstrated that he was in the right, it boded ill for Steve Barclay when Mr. Mills made up his mind that Steve must have been concerned in one way or another in that Magpie Glen crime.
The wooing of Miss Woppit pursued the even tenor of its curious triple way. Wars and rumors of wars served merely to imbue it with certain heroic fervor. Jake Dodsley's contributions to the "Leadville Herald" and to Henry Feldwisch's Denver "Inter-Ocean," though still aimed at the virgin mistress of The Bower, were pitched in a more exalted key and breathed a spirit that defied all human dangers. What though death confronted the poet and the brutal malice of nocturnal marauders threatened the object of his adoration, what, short of superhuman intervention, should prevent the poet from baffling all hostile environments and placing the queen of his heart securely upon his throne beside him, etc., etc.? We all know how the poets go it when they once get started. The Magpie Glen affair gave Jake Dodsley a new impulse, and marked copies of his wonderful effusions found their way to the Woppit cabin in amazing plenty and with exceeding frequency. In a moment of vindictive bitterness was Barber Sam heard to intimate that the robbery was particularly to be regretted for having served to open the sluices of Jake Dodsley's poetic soul.
'T was the purest comedy, this wooing was; through it all the finger of fate traced a deep line of pathos. The poetic Dodsley, with his inexhaustible fund of rhyme, of optimism and of subtlety; Barber Sam, with his envy, his jealousy, and his garrulity; Three-fingered Hoover with his manly yearning, timorousness, tenderness, and awkwardness—these three in a seemingly vain quest of love reciprocated; the girl, fair, lonely, dutiful—filled with devotion to her brother and striving, amid it all, to preserve a proper womanly neutrality toward these other men; there was in this little comedy among those distant hills so much of real pathos.
As for Jim Woppit, he showed not the slightest partiality toward any one of the three suitors; with all he was upon terms of equal friendship. It seemed as if Jim had made up his mind in the beginning to let the best one win; it was a free, fair, square race, so far as Jim was concerned, and that was why Jim always had stanch backers in Jake Dodsley, Barber Sam, and Three-fingered Hoover.
My sympathies were all with Hoover; he and I were pardners. He loved the girl in his own beautiful, awkward way. He seldom spoke of her to me, for he was not the man to unfold what his heart treasured. He was not an envious man, yet sometimes he would tell how he regretted that early education had not fallen to his lot, for in that case he, too, might have been a poet. Mother—the old red fiddle—was his solace. Coming home to our cabin late of nights I'd hear him within scraping away at that tune De Blanc had written for him, and he believed what Mother sung to him in her squeaky voice of the deathlessness of true love. And many a time—I can tell it now—many a time in the dead of night I have known him to steal out of the cabin with Mother and go up the main road to the gateway of The Bower, where, in moonlight or in darkness (it mattered not to him), he would repeat over and over again that melancholy tune, hoping thereby to touch the sensibilities of the lady of his heart.
In the early part of February there was a second robbery. This time the stage was overhauled at Lone Pine, a ranch five miles beyond the camp. The details of this affair were similar to those of the previous business in the glen. A masked man sprang from the roadside, presented two revolvers at Steve Barclay's head, and called upon all within the stage to come out, holding up their hands. The outrage was successfully carried out, but the booty was inconsiderable, somewhat less than eight hundred dollars falling into the highwayman's hands. The robber and his pals fled as before; the time that elapsed before word could be got to camp facilitated the escape of the outlaws.
A two days' scouring of the surrounding country revealed absolutely no sign or trace of the fugitives. But it was pretty evident now that the two crimes had been committed by a gang intimately acquainted with, if not actually living in, the locality. Confirmation of this was had when five weeks later the stage was again stopped and robbed at Lone Pine under conditions exactly corresponding with the second robbery. The mystery baffled the wits of all. Intense excitement prevailed; a reward of five thousand dollars was advertised for the apprehension of the outlaws; the camp fairly seethed with rage, and the mining country for miles around was stirred by a determination to hunt out and kill the miscreants. Detectives came from Denver and snooped around. Everybody bought extra guns and laid in a further supply of ammunition. Yet the stage robbers—bless you! nobody could find hide or hair of 'em.
Miss Woppit stood her share of the excitement and alarm as long as she could, and then she spoke her mind to Jim. He told us about it. Miss Woppit owed a certain duty to Jim, she said; was it not enough for her to be worried almost to death with fears for his safety as marshal of the camp? Was it fair that in addition to this haunting terror she should be constantly harassed by a consciousness of her own personal danger? She was a woman and alone in a cabin some distance from any other habitation; one crime had been committed within a step of that isolated cabin; what further crime might not be attempted by the miscreants?
"The girl is skeered," said Jim Woppit, "and I don't know that I wonder at it. Women folks is nervous-like, anyhow, and these doings of late hev been enough to worrit the strongest of us men."
"Why, there ain't an hour in the day," testified Casey, "that Miss Woppit don't telephone down here to ask whether everything is all right, and whether Jim is O. K."
"I know it," said Jim. "The girl is skeered, and I 'd oughter thought of it before. I must bring her down into the camp to live. Jest ez soon ez I can git the lumber I 'll put up a cabin on the Bush lot next to the bank."
Jim owned the Bush lot, as it was called. He had talked about building a store there in the spring, but we all applauded this sudden determination to put up a cabin instead, a home for his sister. That was a determination that bespoke a thoughtfulness and a tenderness that ennobled Jim Woppit in our opinions. It was the square thing.
Barber Sam, ever fertile in suggestion, allowed that it might be a pious idea for Miss Woppit to move down to the Mears House and board there until the new cabin was built. Possibly the circumstance that Barber Sam himself boarded at the Mears House did not inspire this suggestion. At any rate, the suggestion seemed a good one, but Jim duly reported that his sister thought it better to stay in the old place till the new place was ready; she had stuck it out so far, and she would try to stick it out the little while longer yet required.
This ultimatum must have interrupted the serenity of Barber Sam's temper; he broke his E string that evening, and half an hour later somebody sat down on the guitar and cracked it irremediably.
And now again it was spring. Nothing can keep away the change in the season. In the mountain country the change comes swiftly, unheralded. One day it was bleak and cheerless; the next day brought with it the grace of sunshine and warmth; as if by magic, verdure began to deck the hillsides, and we heard again the cheerful murmur of waters in the gulch. The hollyhocks about The Bower shot up once more and put forth their honest, rugged leaves. In this divine springtime, who could think evil, who do it?
Sir Charles Lackington, president of the Royal Victoria mine, was now due at the camp. He represented the English syndicate that owned the large property. Ill health compelled him to live at Colorado Springs. Once a year he visited Red Hoss Mountain, and always in May. It was announced that he would come to the camp by Tuesday's stage. That stage was robbed by that mysterious outlaw and his gang. But Sir Charles happened not to be among the passengers.
This robbery (the fourth altogether) took place at a point midway between Lone Pine and the glen. The highwayman darted upon the leading horses as they were descending the hill and so misdirected their course that the coach was overturned in the brush at the roadside. In the fall Steve Barclay's right arm was broken. With consummate coolness the highwayman (now positively described as a thick-set man, with a beard) proceeded to relieve his victims of their valuables, but not until he had called, as was his wont, to his confederates in ambush to keep the passengers covered with their rifles. The outlaw inquired which of his victims was Sir Charles Lackington, and evinced rage when he learned that that gentleman was not among the passengers by coach.
It happened that Jake Dodsley was one of the victims of the highwayman's greed. He had been to Denver and was bringing home a pair of elaborate gold earrings which he intended for—for Miss Woppit, of course. Poets have deeper and stronger feelings than common folk. Jake Dodsley's poetic nature rebelled when he found himself deprived of those lovely baubles intended for the idol of his heart. So, no sooner had the outlaw retreated to the brush than Jake Dodsley whipped out his gun and took to the same brush, bent upon an encounter with his despoiler. Poor Jake never came from the brush alive. The rest heard the report of a rifle shot, and when, some time later, they found Jake, he was dead, with a rifle ball in his head.
The first murder done and the fourth robbery! Yet the mystery was as insoluble as ever. Of what avail was the rage of eight hundred miners, the sagacity of the indefatigable officers of the law, and the united efforts of the vengeance-breathing population throughout the country round about to hunt the murderers down? Why, it seemed as if the devil himself were holding justice up to ridicule and scorn.
We had the funeral next day. Sir Charles Lackington came by private wagon in the morning; his daughter was with him. Their escape from participation in the affair of the previous day naturally filled them with thanksgiving, yet did not abate their sympathy for the rest of us in our mourning over the dead poet. Sir Charles was the first to suggest a fund for a monument to poor Jake, and he headed the subscription list with one hundred dollars, cash down. A noble funeral it was; everybody cried; at the grave Three-fingered Hoover recited the poem about true love and Jim Woppit threw in a wreath of hollyhock leaves which his sister had sent—the poor thing was too sick to come herself. She must have cared more for Jake than she had ever let on, for she took to her bed when she heard that he was dead.
Amid the deepest excitement further schemes for the apprehension of the criminals who had so long baffled detection were set on foot and—but this is not a story of crime; it is the story of a wooing, and I must not suffer myself to be drawn away from the narrative of that wooing. With the death of the poet Dodsley one actor fell out of the little comedy. And yet another stepped in at once. You would hardly guess who it was—Mary Lackington. This seventeen-year-old girl favored her father in personal appearance and character; she was of the English type of blonde beauty—a light-hearted, good-hearted, sympathetic creature who recognized it as her paramount duty to minister to her invalid father. He had been her instructor in books, he had conducted her education, he had directed her amusements, he had been her associate—in short, father and daughter were companions, and from that sweet companionship both derived a solace and wisdom precious above all things else. Mary Lackington was, perhaps, in some particulars mature beyond her years; the sweetness, the simplicity, and the guilelessness of her character was the sweetness, the simplicity, and the guilelessness of childhood. Fair and innocent, this womanly maiden came into the comedy of that mountain wooing.
Three-fingered Hoover had never been regarded an artful man, but now, all at once, for the first time in his life, he practised a subtlety. He became acquainted with Mary Lackington; I am not sure that he did not meet Sir Charles at the firemen's muster in Pueblo some years before. Getting acquainted with Miss Mary was no hard thing; the girl flitted whithersoever she pleased, and she enjoyed chatting with the miners, whom she found charmingly fresh, original, and manly, and as for the miners, they simply adored Miss Mary. Sir Charles owed his popularity largely to his winsome daughter.
Mary was not long in discovering that Three-fingered Hoover had a little romance all of his own. Maybe some of the other boys told her about it. At any rate, Mary was charmed, and without hesitation she commanded Hoover to confess all. How the big, awkward fellow ever got through with it I for my part can't imagine, but tell her he did—yes, he fairly unbosomed his secret, and Mary was still more delighted and laughed and declared that it was the loveliest love story she had ever heard. Right here was where Hoover's first and only subtlety came in.
"And now, Miss Mary," says he, "you can do me a good turn, and I hope you will do it. Get acquainted with the lady and work it up with her for me. Tell her that you know—not that I told you, but that you happen to have found it out, that I like her—like her better 'n anybody else; that I 'm the pure stuff; that if anybody ties to me they can find me thar every time and can bet their last case on me! Don't lay it on too thick, but sort of let on I 'm O. K. You women understand such things—if you 'll help me locate this claim I 'm sure everything 'll pan out all right; will ye?"
The bare thought of promoting a love affair set Mary nearly wild with enthusiasm. She had read of experiences of this kind, but of course she had never participated in any. She accepted the commission gayly yet earnestly. She would seek Miss Woppit at once, and she would be so discreet in her tactics—yes, she would be as artful as the most skilled diplomat at the court of love.
Had she met Miss Woppit? Yes, and then again no. She had been rambling in the glen yesterday and, coming down the road, had stopped near the pathway leading to The Bower to pick a wild flower of exceeding brilliancy. About to resume her course to camp she became aware that another stood near her. A woman, having passed noiselessly from the cabin, stood in the gravelly pathway looking upon the girl with an expression wholly indefinable. The woman was young, perhaps twenty; she was tall and of symmetrical form, though rather stout; her face was comely, perchance a bit masculine in its strength of features, and the eyes were shy, but of swift and certain glance, as if instantaneously they read through and through the object upon which they rested.
"You frightened me," said Mary Lackington, and she had been startled, truly; "I did not hear you coming, and so I was frightened when I saw you standing there."
To this explanation the apparition made no answer, but continued to regard Mary steadfastly with the indefinable look—an expression partly of admiration, partly of distrust, partly of appeal, perhaps. Mary Lackington grew nervous; she did therefore the most sensible thing she could have done under the circumstances—she proceeded on her way homeward.
This, then, was Mary's first meeting with Miss Woppit. Not particularly encouraging to a renewal of the acquaintance; yet now that Mary had so delicate and so important a mission to execute she burned to know more of the lonely creature on that hill side, and she accepted with enthusiasm, as I have said, the charge committed to her by the enamored Hoover.
Sir Charles and his daughter remained at the camp about three weeks. In that time Mary became friendly with Miss Woppit, as intimate, in fact, as it was possible for anybody to become with her. Mary found herself drawn strangely and inexplicably toward the woman. The fascination which Miss Woppit exercised over her was altogether new to Mary; here was a woman of lowly birth and in lowly circumstances, illiterate, neglected, lonely, yet possessing a charm—an indefinable charm which was distinct and potent, yet not to be analyzed—yes, hardly recognizable by any process of cool mental dissection, but magically persuasive in the subtlety of its presence and influence. Mary had sought to locate, to diagnose that charm; did it lie in her sympathy with the woman's lonely lot, or was it the romance of the wooing, or was it the fascination of those restless, searching eyes that Mary so often looked up to find fixed upon her with an expression she could not forget and could not define?
I incline to the belief that all these things combined to constitute the charm whereof I speak. Miss Woppit had not the beauty that would be likely to attract one other own sex; she had none of the sprightliness and wit of womankind, and she seemed to be wholly unacquainted with the little arts, accomplishments and vanities in which women invariably find amusement. She was simply a strange, lonely creature who had accepted valorously her duty to minister to the comfort of her brother; the circumstances of her wooing invested her name and her lot with a certain pleasing romance; she was a woman, she was loyal to her sense of duty, and she was, to a greater degree than most women, a martyr—herein, perhaps, lay the secret to the fascination Miss Woppit had for Mary Lackington.
At any rate, Mary and Miss Woppit became, to all appearances, fast friends; the wooing of Miss Woppit progressed apace, and the mystery of those Red Hoss Mountain crimes became more and—but I have already declared myself upon that point and I shall say no more thereof except so far as bears directly upon my story, which is, I repeat, of a wooing, and not of crime.
Three-fingered Hoover had every confidence in the ultimate success of the scheme to which Miss Mary had become an enthusiastic party. In occasional pessimistic moods he found himself compelled to confess to himself that the reports made by Miss Mary were not altogether such as would inspire enthusiasm in the bosom of a man less optimistic than he—Hoover—was.
To tell the truth, Mary found the task of doing Hoover's courting for him much more difficult than she had ever fancied a task of that kind could be. In spite of her unacquaintance with the artifices of the world Miss Woppit exhibited the daintiest skill at turning the drift of the conversation whenever, by the most studied tact, Mary Lackington succeeded in bringing the conversation around to a point where the virtues of Three-fingered Hoover, as a candidate for Miss Woppit's esteem, could be expatiated upon. From what Miss Woppit implied rather than said, Mary took it that Miss Woppit esteemed Mr. Hoover highly as a gentleman and as a friend—that she perhaps valued his friendship more than she did that of any other man in the world, always excepting her brother Jim, of course.
Miss Mary reported all this to Hoover much more gracefully than I have put it, for, being a woman, her sympathies would naturally exhibit themselves with peculiar tenderness when conveying to a lover certain information touching his inamorata.
There were two subjects upon which Miss Woppit seemed to love to hear Mary talk. One was Mary herself and the other was Jim Woppit. Mary regarded this as being very natural. Why should n't this women in exile pine to hear of the gay, beautiful world outside her pent horizon? So Mary told her all about the sights she had seen, the places she had been to, the people she had met, the books she had read, the dresses she—but, no, Miss Woppit cared nothing for that kind of gossip—now you 'll agree that she was a remarkable woman, not to want to hear all about the lovely dresses Mary had seen and could describe so eloquently.
Then again, as to Jim, was n't it natural that Miss Woppit, fairly wrapped up in that brother, should be anxious to hear the good opinion that other folk had of him? Did the miners like Jim, she asked—what did they say, and what did Sir Charles say? Miss Woppit was fertile in questionings of this kind, and Mary made satisfactory answers, for she was sure that everybody liked Jim, and as for her father, why, he had taken Jim right into his confidence the day he came to the camp.
Sir Charles had indeed made a confidant of Jim. One day he called him into his room at the Mears House. "Mr. City Marshal," said Sir Charles, in atone that implied secrecy, "I have given it out that I shall leave the camp for home day after to-morrow."
"Yes, I had heerd talk," answered Jim Woppit. "You are going by the stage."
"Certainly, by the stage," said Sir Charles, "but not day after to-morrow; I go to-morrow."
"To-morrow, sir?"
"To-morrow," repeated Sir Charles. "The coach leaves here, as I am told, at eleven o' clock. At four we shall arrive at Wolcott Siding, there to catch the down express, barring delay. I say 'barring delay,' and it is with a view to evading the probability of delay that I have given out that I am to leave on a certain day, whereas, in fact, I shall leave a day earlier. You understand?"
"You bet I do," said Jim. "You are afraid of—of the robbers?"
"I shall have some money with me," answered Sir Charles, "but that alone does not make me desirous of eluding the highwaymen. My daughter—a fright of that kind might lead to the most disastrous results."
"Correct," said Jim.
"So I have planned this secret departure," continued Sir Charles. "No one in the camp now knows of it but you and me, and I have a favor—a distinct favor—to ask of you in pursuance of this plan. It is that you and a posse of the bravest men you can pick shall accompany the coach, or, what is perhaps better, precede the coach by a few minutes, so as to frighten away the outlaws in case they may happen to be lurking in ambush."
Jim signified his hearty approval of the proposition. He even expressed a fervent hope that a rencontre with the outlaws might transpire, and then he muttered a cordial "d—— 'em!"
"In order, however," suggested Sir Charles, "to avert suspicion here in camp it would be wise for your men to meet quietly at some obscure point and ride together, not along the main road, but around the mountain by the Tin Cup path, coming in on the main road this side of Lone Pine ranch. You should await our arrival, and then, everything being tranquil, your posse can precede us as an advance guard in accordance with my previous suggestion."
"It might be a pious idea," said Jim, "for me to give the boys a pointer. They 'll be on to it, anyhow, and I know 'em well enough to trust 'em."
"You know your men; do as you please about apprising them of their errand," said Sir Charles. "I have only to request that you assure each that he will be well rewarded for his services."
This makes a rude break in our wooing; but I am narrating actual happenings. Poor old Hoover's subtlety all for naught, Mary's friendly offices incompleted, the pleasant visits to the cabin among the hollyhocks suspended perhaps forever, Miss Woppit's lonely lot rendered still more lonely by the departure of her sweet girl friend—all this was threatened by the proposed flight—for flight it was—of Sir Charles and Mary Lackington.
That May morning was a glorious one. Summer seemed to have burst upon the camp and the noble mountain-sentinels about it.
"We are going to-day," said Sir Charles to his daughter. "Hush! not a word about it to anybody. I have reasons for wishing our departure to be secret."
"You have heard bad news?" asked Mary, quickly.
"Not at all," answered Sir Charles, smilingly. "There is absolutely no cause for alarm. We must go quietly; when we reach home I will tell you my reasons and then we will have a hearty laugh together."
Mary Lackington set about packing her effects, and all the time her thoughts were of her lonely friend in the hill-side cabin. In this hour of her departure she felt herself drawn even more strangely and tenderly toward that weird, incomprehensible creature; such a tugging at her heart the girl had never experienced till now. What would Miss Woppit say—what would she think? The thought of going away with never so much as a good-by struck Mary Lackington as being a wanton piece of heartlessness. But she would write to Miss Woppit as soon as ever she reached home—she would write a letter that would banish every suspicion of unfeelingness.
Then, too, Mary thought of Hoover; what would the big, honest fellow think, to find himself deserted in this emergency without a word of warning? Altogether it was very dreadful. But Mary Lackington was a daughter who did her father's bidding trustingly.
Three-fingered Hoover went with Jim Woppit that day. There were thirteen in the posse—fatal number—mounted on sturdy bronchos and armed to the teeth. They knew their business and they went gayly on their way. Around the mountain and over the Tin Cup path they galloped, a good seven miles, I 'll dare swear; and now at last they met up with the main road, and at Jim Woppit's command they drew in under the trees to await the approach of the party in the stage.
Meanwhile in camp the comedy was drawing to a close. Bill Merridew drove stage that day; he was Steve Barclay's pardner—pretty near the only man in camp that stood out for Steve when he was suspicioned of being in some sort of cahoots with the robbers. Steve Barclay's arm was still useless and Bill was reckoned the next best horseman in the world.
The stage drew up in front of the Mears House. Perhaps half a dozen passengers were in waiting and the usual bevy of idlers was there to watch the departure. Great was the astonishment when Sir Charles and Mary Lackington appeared and stepped into the coach. Everybody knew Sir Charles and his daughter, and, as I have told you, it had been given out that they were not to leave the camp until the morrow. Forthwith there passed around mysterious whisperings as to the cause of Sir Charles' sudden departure.
It must have been a whim on Barber Sam's part. At any rate, he issued just then from Casey's restaurant across the way, jaunty and chipper as ever. He saw Sir Charles in the stage and Bill Merridew on the box. He gave a low, significant whistle. Then he crossed the road.
"Bill," says he, quietly, "It 's a summerish day, and not feelin' just as pert as I oughter I reckon I 'll ride a right smart piece with you for my health!"
With these words Barber Sam climbed up and sat upon the box with Bill Merridew. A moment later the stage was on its course along the main road.
"Look a' here, Bill Merridew," says Barber Sam, fiercely, "there 's a lord inside and you outside, to-day—a mighty suspicious coincidence! No, you need n't let on you don't tumble to my meenin'! I 've had my eye on Steve Barclay an' you, and I 'm ready for a showdown. I 'm travelin' for my health to-day, and so are you, Bill Merridew! I 'm fixed from the ground up an' you know there ain't a man in the Red Hoss Mountain country that is handier with a gun than me. Now I mean bizness; if there is any onpleasantness to-day and if you try to come any funny bizness, why, d—— me, Bill Merridew, if I don't blow your head off!"
Pleasant words these for Bill to listen to. But Bill knew Barber Sam and he had presence of mind enough to couch his expostulatory reply in the most obsequious terms. He protested against Barber Sam's harsh imputations.
"I 've had my say," was Barber Sam's answer. "I ain't goin' to rub it in. You understand that I mean bizness this trip; so don't forget it. Now let's talk about the weather."
Mary Lackington had hoped that, as they passed The Bower, she would catch a glimpse of Miss Woppit—perhaps have sufficient opportunity to call out a hasty farewell to her. But Miss Woppit was nowhere to be seen. The little door of the cabin was open, so presumably the mistress was not far away. Mary was disappointed, vexed; she threw herself back and resigned herself to indignant reflections.
The stage had proceeded perhaps four miles on its way when its progress was arrested by the sudden appearance of a man, whose habit and gestures threatened evil. This stranger was of short and chunky build and he was clad in stout, dark garments that fitted him snugly. A slouch hat was pulled down over his head and a half-mask of brown muslin concealed the features of his face. He held out two murderous pistols and in a sharp voice cried "Halt!" Instantaneously Barber Sam recognized in this bold figure the mysterious outlaw who for so many months had been the terror of the district, and instinctively he reached for his pistol-pocket.
"Throw up your hands!" commanded the outlaw. He had the drop on them. Recalling poor Jake Dodsley's fate Barber Sam discreetly did as he was bidden. As for Bill Merridew, he was shaking like a wine-jelly. The horses had come to a stand, and the passengers in the coach were wondering why a stop had been made so soon. Wholly unaware of what had happened, Mary Lackington thrust her head from the door window of the coach and looked forward up the road, in the direction of the threatening outlaw. She comprehended the situation at once and with a scream fell back into her father's arms.
Presumably, the unexpected discovery of a woman among the number of his intended victims disconcerted the ruffian. At any rate, he stepped back a pace or two and for a moment lowered his weapons. That moment was fatal to him. Quick as lightning Barber Sam whipped out his unerring revolver and fired. The outlaw fell like a lump of dough in the road. At that instant Bill Merridew recovered his wits; gathering up the lines and laying on the whip mercilessly he urged his horses into a gallop. Over the body of the outlaw crunched the hoofs of the frightened brutes and rumbled the wheels of the heavy stage.
"We 've got him this time!" yelled Barber Sam, wildly. "Stop your horses, Bill—you 're all right, Bill, and I 'm sorry I ever did you dirt—stop your horses, and let 's finish the sneakin' critter!"
There was the greatest excitement. The passengers fairly fell out of the coach, and it seemed as if they had an arsenal with them. Mary Lackington was as self-possessed as any of the rest.
"Are you sure he is dead?" she asked. "Don't let us go nearer till we know that he is dead; he will surely kill us!"
The gamest man in the world would n't have stood the ghost of a show in the face of those murderous weapons now brought to bear on the fallen and crushed wretch.
"If he ain't dead already he 's so near it that there ain't no fun in it," said Bill Merridew.
In spite of this assurance, however, the party advanced cautiously toward the man. Convinced finally that there was no longer cause for alarm, Barber Sam strode boldly up to the body, bent over it, tore off the hat and pulled aside the muslin half-mask. One swift glance at the outlaw's face, and Barber Sam recoiled.
"Great God!" he cried, "Miss Woppit!"
It was, indeed, Miss Woppit—the fair-haired, shy-eyed boy who for months had masqueraded in the camp as a woman. Now, that masquerade disclosed and the dreadful mystery of the past revealed, the nameless boy, fair in spite of his crimes and his hideous wounds, lay dying in the dust and gravel of the road.
Jim Woppit and his posse, a mile away, had heard the pistol-shot. It seemed but a moment ere they swept down the road to the scene of the tragedy; they came with the swiftness of the wind. Jim Woppit galloped ahead, his swarthy face the picture of terror.
"Who is it—who 's killed—who 's hurt?" he asked.
Nobody made answer, and that meant everything to Jim. He leapt from his horse, crept to the dying boy's side and took the bruised head into his lap. The yellowish hair had fallen down about the shoulders; Jim stroked it and spoke to the white face, repeating "Willie, Willie, Willie," over and over again.
The presence and the voice of that evil brother, whom he had so bravely served, seemed to arrest the offices of Death. The boy came slowly to, opened his eyes and saw Jim Woppit there. There was pathos, not reproach, in the dying eyes.
"It 's all up, Jim," said the boy, faintly, "I did the best I could."
All that Jim Woppit could answer was "Willie, Willie, Willie," over and over again.
"This was to have been the last and we were going away to be decent folks," this was what the boy went on to say; "I wish it could have been so, for I have wanted to live ever since—ever since I knew her."
Mary Lackington gave a great moan. She stood a way off, but she heard these words and they revealed much—so very much to her—more, perhaps, than you and I can guess.
He did not speak her name. The boy seemed not to know that she was there. He said no other word, but with Jim Woppit bending over him and wailing that piteous "Willie, Willie, Willie," over and over again, the boy closed his eyes and was dead.
Then they all looked upon Jim Woppit, but no one spoke. If words were to be said, it was Jim Woppit's place to say them, and that dreadful silence seemed to cry: "Speak out, Jim Woppit, for your last hour has come!"
Jim Woppit was no coward. He stood erect before them all and plucked from his breast the star of his office and cast away from him the weapon he had worn. He was magnificent in that last, evil hour!
"Men," said he. "I speak for him an' not for myself. Ez God is my judge, that boy wuz not to blame. I made him do it all—the lyin', the robbery, the murder; he done it because I told him to, an' because havin' begun he tried to save me. Why, he wuz a kid ez innocent ez a leetle toddlin' child. He wanted to go away from here an' be different from wot he wuz, but I kep' at him an' made him do an' do agin wot has brought the end to-day. Las' night he cried when I told him he must do the stage this mornin; seemed like he wuz soft on the girl yonder. It wuz to have been the las' time—I promised him that, an' so—an' so it is. Men, you 'll find the money an' everything else in the cabin—under the floor of the cabin. Make it ez square all round ez you kin."
Then Jim Woppit backed a space away, and, before the rest could realize what he was about, he turned, darted through the narrow thicket, and hurled himself into the gulch, seven hundred feet down.
But the May sunlight was sweet and gracious, and there lay the dead boy, caressed of that charity of nature and smiling in its glory.
Bill was the first to speak—Bill Merridew, I mean. He was Steve Barclay's partner and both had been wronged most grievously.
"Now throw the other one over, too," cried Bill, savagely. "Let 'em both rot in the gulch!"
But a braver, kindlier man said "No!" It was Three-fingered Hoover, who came forward now and knelt beside the dead boy and held the white face between his hard, brown hands and smoothed the yellowish hair and looked with unspeakable tenderness upon the closed eyes.
"Leave her to me," said he, reverently. "It wuz ez near ez I ever come to lovin' a woman, and I reckon it's ez near ez I ever shell come. So let me do with her ez pleases me."
It was their will to let Three-fingered Hoover have his way. With exceeding tenderness he bore the body back to camp and he gave it into the hands of womenfolk to prepare it for burial, that no man's touch should profane that vestige of his love. You see he chose to think of her to the last as she had seemed to him in life.
And it was another conceit of his to put over the grave, among the hollyhocks on that mountain-side, a shaft of pure white marble bearing simply the words "Miss Woppit."
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spinchip · 4 years ago
Text
It’s Not That Bad
Wordcount: 2400 Ship: Mountaingshipping, Cole/Zane/Kai Warnings: Broken bones, blood, violence, injury
Summary: Zane hides an injury.
The fight can’t even be classified as a real fight, in Coles opinion. It’s a street brawl, raw knuckles and split lips- the remaining members of the SOG are brutal when they catch the scent of blood. Without leadership the gang has devolved into troublemakers and men itching for violence, and they’ve gotten bolder- the fight taking place in broad daylight near the center of town. Two weeks ago they’d taken Jay down in the middle of a scrap, a bat to the side of his temple when the group had been separated (he’d been laid up in bed in the dark for days afterwards with a concussion) and since then they’d gotten cocky about the Ninja's weakness.
Lloyd had been adamant about showing a united front- the Ninja team had to be unflappable, rigid and strong to show the growing gang that they were not so easily beaten. They couldn’t afford to give them another inch, which is why it’s so frustrating when they get separated once more. There’s a new player on the gangs side this time, a big man hefting a hammer that could hold its own against Coles. He’s not particularly fast, but the others in the group keep them occupied while the man swings his weapon with bone breaking force. His presence was not something they could ignore, splitting their attention dangerously, making their formation too easy to break.
And it’s not Jay this time, but Zane, who is pushed into a throng of enemies all looking for blood.
Cole doesn’t see what happens to get them to this point, he misses the moment Zane is surrounded, but Lloyd urges the others to make their way to him over the clash of fists. Zane’s always been capable, and today is no exception- but just like before when it had been Jay, there are too many, and it’s not long before a lucky shot sends Zane to the pavement. A sloppy leg sweep Zane wasn’t expecting, going sprawling onto his stomach. It’s simple enough to recover from just fine.
Except the big man swings his hammer before Zane can get his hands underneath him. Down down down in a deadly arc-
There’s no warning Cole can give, no speed or strength to stop it, random men pushing him away from his friend but not crowded enough where he can’t watch it happen. The head of the hammer hits the base of Zane back and the sound it makes- Cole can feel the impact in his bones, his stomach churning and nearly making him gag. The crack of the anvil on metal makes him feel ill.
Zane doesn’t yell or scream, his fingers dig into concrete so hard they leave gouges, and then he goes completely limp. He looks dead, lying facedown on the pavement. The gang members hoot and holler, their fight rejuvenated, and they jump into the fray with more vigor than before.
Slowly, the man brings his hammer up and Coles realizes he means to hit him again.  He pushes frantically through the fight, blows glancing off his shoulders as he barrels through. Nya appears at his side, hair askew, and throws waves of water that sweep several people off their feet, dumping them clear of the path. Cole slams into the big man's side before he can deliver another blow, knocking him back from Zanes still form. Before either of them can get to the downed nindroid, new adversaries file in to try and beat them back, the fight resuming- but the ninja now scrambled and panicked at the loss of one of their own, and the gang member reveling in it.
The man with the hammer, he’s got thin blonde hair and dark eyes, manages to keep up with Cole. Despite Coles obvious skill and experience, he’s making stupid rookie mistakes. Internally cursing, Cole urges himself to focus- rushing into the fray to protect Zane would mean nothing if he fell to the man's hammer too, but it’s looking increasingly grim. The man is pushing himself faster, sweat beading on his brow, and he’s strong.
A smaller man darts past the two of them in a planned maneuver. The big man steps back and Cole is thrown off kilter as his hammer swings wide, and realizes too late that the smaller man has a knife- he can’t avoid it now. He twists, steps back, tries to minimize the damage- and then the man’s legs slide out beneath him and he hits the ground hard, head bouncing off the ice-slick pavement. Zane appears at Coles side and throws ice hard, frost and big chunks of ice invigorated by the wet pavement from Nyas last attack freeze the big man's legs to the road. Cole falls into place at his side, the two fighting off a few more before the gang realizes Zanes back on his feet.
Their bravado and cockiness vanishes. One man turns and runs, and at that the gang scatters- the one who are able to, of course, and are not frozen to the sidewalk or knocked unconscious.
Cole spins around to face Zane, who’s surveying the scene silently, “Are you alright?” He asks, hovering his hands over Zane as if to feel out the injury by aura alone.
Zane’s eyes are trained on the alleyways the gang members disappeared into, mouth a thin and calculated line, “I am alright. The Sons of Garmadons strength is dwindling.”
Cole blinks, frowning. It was almost like Zane wasn’t speaking to him, but the backs of the men hiding away in the dark corners of the streets. As if he was making a point.
The cops show up and begin to load the remaining men into Police Cruisers or ambulances, depending on their state. The ninja did not always pull their punches, especially after Zane hit the ground.
Zane watches as the man with the hammer is loaded onto a police cruiser.
Lloyd motions the two of them over, the others are gathered near a throng of policemen milling about, and Cole reaches out and sets a hand of the small of Zane's back to lead him- Zanes shirt is soaked through and ice cold. The moment his fingers make contact, Zane jolts forward with the barest intake of breath between his teeth. Cole jerks his hand back, the pain flashing across Zanes face almost impossible to catch, but Cole knows his boyfriend better than anyone. A blank mask slips over Zanes face as he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the act, striding across the pavement before Cole can comment.
Cole trails after him, and now that he’s really looking he can see a dark outline of what looks like water straining the back of Zanes gi. In the heat of battle, if Zane got a particularly bad scape, he’d do some emergency first aid and patch himself up with ice like a scab. The hammer hit him hard, it must have jostled something loose- Cole tries not to worry too hard, Zane is still standing and had even fought with him. They just needed to wrap this up quick and get him home. He has half a mind to scoop the nindroid up gently and carry him back right now- but Zanes' words from earlier hang around his ears. Treating Zane like a delicate injured flower in front of any of the new SOG was bound to encourage their violence, just like in the aftermath of Jay. Like Lloyd wanted, a united and unbreakable front is what they needed to project.
Zane is hiding an injury, and for the sake of reputation, Cole has to allow it.
The police chief is standing with the others, and by the time Cole catches up Zane’s already reassuring everyone, “I am fine.” he says gently, Kais worry coming off of him in waves, “Is there anything we can help with?” He directs his next question to the police chief, clasping his hands in front of him.
Cole, along with the rest of his little family, zeroes in on the way Zanes hands are trembling.
His face is completely serene, his gi is soaked through as his ice patch job struggles to stay frozen, and he’s shaking badly enough for even Nya to notice, shooting him a concerned glance as the Police Chief thanks them. He drones on about safety measures and clean up and other things Cole wants him to shut up about so he can bundle Zane up in his arms and kiss and make it better.
Finally, once the conversation draws to a close and they can excuse themselves from the scene, they unconsciously box Zane in as they walk back to where the bounty is parked. The ramp is down and they surround him protectively as they trek up it. Zane still doesn’t hint that anything is wrong, the silence stretching over them tense as they wait for something to happen.
Nya lifts the bounty into the air, and still Zane doesn’t say anything as he pensively stares over the edge of the railing. Cole can’t stand it anymore, he turns around as the city disappears beneath the clouds, “Zane-” he starts.
“Cole.” Zane gasps, grabbing at Coles shoulders as his knees buckle, the calm mask cracking down the middle as he collapses. Like on the pavement before, Zane clenches his hands and bunches Coles gi in his fingers. Cole, startled, grabs Zanes waist- he gasps and whimpers, and cold fear snaps across Cole's mind. He’s never heard Zane make that noise before.
“Not there,” he shakes his head, Cole moves his hands up to cup under Zanes armpits, and while he doesn’t seem to be happy he doesn’t make that awful whimper again.
Jay and Kai are at his side, fluttering their hands in a panic. They want to help but Zanes reaction makes them reluctant to put their hands on him.
“How can we help? What’s hurt?” Jay asks as Cole pulls Zane closer, pressing them together to help stabilize him.
Zane doesn’t attempt to stand on his own, “Shut me down,” He pants, “It’s- the hammer. He broke my spine.”
Jay pales dramatically, weaseling between the two of them to gain access to Zanes chest compartment. He pried it open quickly, reaching it with practiced ease and resting his finger on the switch off button.
He hesitates, under normal circumstances Jay was to never use this button, “Are you sure?”
“Jay.” Zane stresses each letter, and tears spill over his eyes.
He goes limp- again- as Jay pushes the button, his forced shutdown stealing the iron grip from his hands and the tension from his body. He ragdolls in coles arms, slumping bonelessly into his chest. With no ice to keep him stable, Coles can feel the way his body- it’s… it’s not quite right, the break in his spine sending intense warning siglas to coles head where he’s laid against him. The same bone deep wrongness he’s felt once, in dance class when he was 12, and a girl landed wrong doing a complex dance move and her hand had twisted the wrong way- it’d made him sick, seeing the new bend in her wrist where there wasn’t supposed to be one. It makes him feel sick to carry Zane down to the garage when the dock at the monastery, legs trailing behind him and waist a little too loose where the rigid metal casing was snapped.
Jay's prognosis is, “It’s better than It could have been.” Which is not reassuring to Cole, but Nya seems to lose a bit of tension at.
Zane's artificial spine worked much like Cole or Kais, a bundle of ‘nerves’ and wires and other tubes strung through it to keep it safe. The blow had broken through the outer protective metal but the main cord and delicate wiring was largely unharmed. A few pinched and torn wires, mostly- Zane's ice brace kept the wound from deteriorating drastically. Jay wouldn’t comment on how much pain an injury like this would heap onto their friend, but Cole remembers the way the blood had drained from his face at Zanes confession.
“The fact that he could even move…” He mutters to Nya in awe, delicately and oh so gently maneuvering wires. Nya nodded, mute.
Once their repairs reach completion it’s nearly dark out, Jay flips the on switch back up, and they wait for Zane to turn on.
He wakes up with wet eyes, a few stray tears slipping down his face as the leftover pain signals work their way out of his system. He twists over the edge of the table, looking for relief from the hazy pain, nearly taking himself to the floor if not for Coles gentle hands steadying him.
He clutches at Cole again with a low sound of pain, and slowly his eyes clear.
Cole holds him as Zane buries his face in the soft of his gi top, hiding his eyes against Cole's collarbone. Kai moves in and starts to pet his hair soothingly, warmth spreading through his hands.
“You should have said something.” Cole murmurs, “This wasn’t a loose tube or a scrape, this isn’t something you should have powered through. You should have stayed down.” Cole doesn’t dwell on how much it must have hurt for Zane to get back on his feet, and how if he hadn’t the grunts knife would have struck home.
“I could not.” Zane breathes, pulling a way to readjust so he’s resting his cheek against Cole and his face is bare, “If the SOG knew they had hurt me-”
“We would have dealt with it just fine.” Kai says firmly, “Zane, this- you can’t hide an injury that bad. Watching you collapse, knowing how badly you were in pain…” He can’t finish his sentence, huddling closer and clutching at both his boys.
“I apologize,” Zane mutters, his eyelids flutter.
“We can discuss this tomorrow.” Cole says gently, “But I think we’re all exhausted. Let’s go to bed.”
Kai looks like he wants to say something else, but Zanes dazed and sleepy expression makes the words die on his tongue. He runs a hand through his hair, and Cole watches the weight of the day fully settle on his boyfriend's shoulders, “...Yeah, that sounds good to me.”
Cole carries Zane up to bed, Kai immediately taking up a spot at their boys' side. Zane curls into the warmth of Kais embrace as Cole turns out the light and crawls in behind him. Cole cuddles into Zane, who’s already asleep again, and idly traces the near imperceptible scar on his back where the hammer had split metal.
He stares into the patch of darkness where Zanes head is, and thinks about Zane lying prone on the pavement. He pulls him closer, wraps him up in his arms and holds on tight.
He closes his eyes, and sleep doesn’t hesitate to come.
232 notes · View notes
weasleydream · 3 years ago
Text
unfairness
here it is, my participation to @omgrachwrites​ writing challenge! once again, congrats for 1k love, so happy for you!!
the prompts were “I’ll feel much better if you let me walk you home.” ; “I really want to kiss you right now.” “Do it then.” and “This is all in my head. It’s all happening in my head.”
As usual, feel free to like, comment, reblog and enjoy!
TW: the end can be a bit violent
masterlist 
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We had realized our relationship wasn’t as bright as we had thought when an umpteenth rumor about us had spread between Hogwarts’ walls, at some point during our sixth year of school. It wasn’t the first, far from that, but it was definitely the worst because it also involved this Ravenclaw guy whose name was still unknown to me at the time. As far as I could tell, there had always been jealous girls that had tried to get Fred to dump me, and plenty of boys that wanted to convince me that they had more to offer than the Weasley boy. The only difference with this rumor was that Fred kinda despised said Ravenclaw boy because of a Quidditch match the year before, and he had turned his nervousness into a burst of anger I hadn’t anticipated. Problem is that, at the same time, I had heard Angelina telling Katie that Lee had told her that George had implied that Fred was seeing someone else, and just everything that had happened that year had gotten the best of me. 
Our first break up had occurred a week after we had heard about these rumours, and during the rest of our sixth year and most of our seventh until now, we had ended our relationship twice more. 
The worst in all of this was that I loved Fred. So fucking much. I loved him and I was ready to do anything for him, and I knew it was the same for him, but it was just not possible to keep a relationship as ours was. We didn’t have the same interests at all, Fred was obsessed with his shop project and me with the learning of defense against the dark arts (through Dumbledore’s army, of course). He was nonchalant and sometimes forgetful, I was fussy and very sensitive. When one of us was too busy, a date planned was quickly forgotten and the fight very likely to happen. 
That’s why, as I was in my dorm trying to choose what to wear, the main question in my mind was to know if it was worth it. A few clothes were scattered on my bed, and two pairs of boots were thrown on the floor. It had been almost half an hour and I only had twenty minutes left before having to join Fred who would probably be waiting for me in the common room. I had hoped this little preparation session would help me ease my terrible mood but it seemed that it was a fail. Finally opting for comfortable jeans and one of Fred’s sweaters - even though we were almost in June, the week had been a bit cold - I spent the rest of my time reading again some transfiguration notes. I headed downstairs exactly twenty minutes later only to find the common room completely empty. 
“Of course…” I muttered. 
As soon as the portrait opened, the noise in the corridors broke the silence I had been plunged in for an hour. Some people were talking about the coming exams, others about the next class they would have. Not once did I hear my name in a conversation, which had become quite rare with the time. I had learned the hard way that people always had something to say about my relationship with Fred, and if there wasn’t any tasty gossip, then inventing one wasn’t a problem.
I found Fred in the great hall, sitting with George, Ron and Harry. They were all talking about something that had to be classified as a defence secret considering how they suddenly became interested in everything that wasn’t me. Ron and Harry turned to Hermione, who was sitting at the table behind them, and George patted Fred’s shoulder before nodding at me and leaving without a word. It was usual, this taciturn behaviour George had when I was here; we had never gotten along that well, and if I was being honest, it was probably another problem between Fred and I. 
We headed outside and took the road to Hogsmeade. We were walking next to each other, our hands brushing every now and then without ever really touching. The distance had become natural, touches were rare now and it was in moments like these that I hated it the most. Hating on the happy couples we saw on our way was easier than trying to find something nice to talk about, so that’s what I did. Fred looked like he was lost in his world and he only gave me some attention when he pushed the Three Broomsticks’ door for me. We found a table against a window, which provided a nice warmth, and Fred put his jacket on the chair. 
“Butterbeer or hot chocolate?”
“You know the answer.” I said, playing with my sleeve.
“So it’ll be hot chocolate with chamallows for the damsel.”
He left with a smile to order our drinks, leaving me alone for a good five minutes. When he came back, a pint of butterbeer in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other, I had had plenty of time to ruminate over everything I had decided to talk about with him during the past two days. However, the chuckle that shook his shoulders when he told me about the guy who had just tripped with three bottles of butterbeer in his hands stopped me. It could be a good afternoon, and these were too rare for my liking. It happened of course, our relationship wasn’t absolute hell, but it had definitely worsened with the time. 
“Y/N, you okay? You look quite pale.” Fred was looking at me with concern in the eyes. “No, don’t tell me: I bet a galleon you’ve been working on your potion essay until very very late at night. How right am I?”
“Very right,” I muttered before passing a hand on my face. “I don’t get it. How can you spend so little time on your work without being at least a little bit nervous?”
“You know I don’t really care about all of this. I’ve got other priorities and bigger ambitions.”
“I know, but you’ll need this knowledge, won’t you?”
Fred was keen to avoid another argument, and he sighed loudly. 
“We’ve already talked about this Y/N, George and I can do without all this scolar stuff. Plenty of people have done that already.”
“I know, I know.”
“I’m sorry we’ve spent all that time arguing.” added Fred after a pause. “It’s not time we can gain back.”
“Maybe we can’t,” I began cautiously, “but we can try to do better. Try not to lose more time.”
“It’s not like we have more time to lose anyway.” Another pause. “Do you want to take a walk? Looks like it’s getting warmer outside.”
We got up and exited the pub. Indeed, the sun was higher in the sky and its rays weren’t hidden by clouds. The warmth on my face was more than welcome, and the pleasant sensation made me forget Fred’s last sentence. 
This time, he grabbed my hand and we exchanged jokes on the way back to the castle. We bumped into a few friends and even one or two professors, but most of the time it was just Fred and I. Until the moment we arrived near the castle entrance, that is. 
“Hey Y/L/N, how are you?”
A Slytherin guy stepped in front of me, obliging me to stop and pull on Fred’s hand. The least I could say was that he didn’t look pleased at all with the interruption. The Slytherin didn’t look like he gave a care and kept smiling at me. 
“I was thinking, we could go to Hogsmeade together one of these days. I mean, I guess you want to cover your back, so I’m here if-”
I wanted this pretentious git to shut up, and it looked like Fred had read in my mind because his fist collided with the nose of the guy with a disgusting noise of cracked bone. 
“That’s what you get for trying to ask my girlfriend out.” he muttered before grabbing my hand. 
I should have said something, whether thank you or are you crazy? but in all honesty I was trying to calm my heart, which was beating like crazy. It was rare to hear such words from Fred’s mouth or so it had become, but hearing him calling me his girlfriend, punching a guy that was hitting on me, that gave me hope for our couple. 
And it made it even more painful when, a few weeks later, Fred left Hogwarts with George on his broom without a word to me. Without something as simple as a glance behind. All I could do was watch helplessly as he saluted Peeves and flew away and try to process the fact that he was giving up on me. Did that mean that we weren’t together anymore? That he had decided on his own he had enough of me, that I wasn’t worth the effort? It’s right here, alone in this crowded corridor after the most crazy departure from the castle we had witnessed, that I understood the meaning of what Fred had told me back at the Three Broomsticks, during our last date. It’s not like we have more time to lose anyway. What an idiot I had been! Here I was, thinking he was talking about the war, persuaded that he was just being extremely pessimistic, when he was in fact confessing that he was going to leave the castle and basically dump me without having the decency to assume it in front of me! I got back to my dorm, trying my best to keep a neutral face as I knew most of the students I would bump into were going to search for the slightest ounce of pain on my face. I only let my walls crumble when I got to the common room, and the first sobs left my mouth when the door of the dorm was closed. 
I threw myself on my bed and grabbed the pillow that I wedged underneath my chest. The anger would come later; for now, I needed to cry as many tears as I had in stock. I stayed in my bed the rest of the day, did surprisingly well in faking sleep when the dorm filled, and spent an agitated night. When I got up the next morning, my first thought was to wonder why my head was so heavy and painful, and when I remembered, my second thought was that it was time for anger. I grabbed my prettiest shirt, slipped in a particularly fitting pair of jeans, and watched myself in the mirror, hoping to fool people enough to avoid questions. At the sight of my dull skin, my eye bags and my glossy eyes, I realized the most beautiful clothes in the world wouldn’t make me feel better, so I sighed, grabbed my bag, sighed again and left the dorm with one goal: forgetting Fred Weasley, my love for him and the pain he had caused me. 
_ _ _ 
A few months later, it had become very obvious that I had failed that goal. I was still full of resentment toward Fred and what he had done, and I was able to get really irritated when someone reminded me of him in any way. The fact that I had gotten involved completely in the Order and that most of his family was in it too didn’t help at all and it had led to a few encounters I would have given anything to avoid. Fortunately, he was busy with his joke shop and we never saw each other long enough to say more than hello. Well, that was before Mrs Weasley organized a diner at the Burrow with a few members of the Order, me included. 
She had been particularly pleased to see me, and Ginny had confessed it was because her mother was persuaded I would run away. 
“You know, because of the git I have to call my brother.” she had added with a disapproving pout. 
Ginny had been very disappointed in Fred when he had left, not because of school because she would have done the same if she could but because he had left me on the sidelines. She was a good friend and confident, and even though family was everything to her, she had assured me she would never forgive Fred for what she used to call “a very stupid mistake”. However, as I was squeezed on the couch between her and Tonks, all the support she could provide me wasn’t enough considering the fact that Fred was only a meter or two away and his eyes were fixed on me. I was repeating myself that it didn’t matter, I didn’t care, it didn’t matter, but his gaze seemed to be getting heavier as the minutes passed by. It took me a good quarter of an hour to gather enough courage to look directly at him with the idea of making him understand he was annoying me, but the strange sparkle in his eyes intrigued me more than it should and I found myself looking away faster than what my ego could accept. A few seconds later, his hand was on my shoulder. 
“Do you mind if we talk?”
Ginny’s elbow hit my ribs repetitively until I sighed. I got up without a word and lifted an eyebrow, which Fred interpreted as a positive answer and apparently as an authorization to grab my hand. 
“Don’t go too far.” I warned before removing my hand and walking toward the stairs. 
I didn’t know how this would turn out as we hadn’t had any proper conversation since he had left months ago. All this rancour I had built up was ready to resurface at any moment, and I wanted to do my best to avoid the disaster. That’s why I decided it would be better if this conversation happened on a ground as neutral as possible, which would be complicated considering the fact that I was in his childhood home, but not impossible. I settled for a room I was sure wasn’t the twins’, maybe Bill’s, and if he wondered why this choice, Fred never questioned it out loud. The door closed behind his back, and I was surprised to notice that it didn’t cause me any anxiety. 
“You look tired.” he finally said with a certain hesitation when he understood I wouldn’t speak first. 
Quite honestly, I had imagined a lot of things, but certainly not this. 
“I’m- what? What does that mean?” I added with a grunt. 
“It means I think you look tired. Is it that surprising?”
“That you’re concerned for my well-being? Since you left school without telling me and didn’t give me any news I have to admit that yes, it’s surprising!”
It was too late to contain my anger as it seemed, and I decided the best I could do was leave the room before exploding. It was without counting on Fred though, who visibly didn’t want me to leave. 
“Get out of the way Fred, there’s nothing left to say.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, there’s everything to say.”
We looked each other in the eyes for quite a long time, and I eventually sighed before looking away, too afraid of the heartbeat my heart missed. 
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m sorry for what I did.”
“You’re right, I don’t want to hear it.”
“I wanted to tell you, really, I did, but things weren’t great between us and… I don’t know, I didn’t think that much.” I scoffed and took a step backward. Fred’s eyes were filled with what I had a hard time admitting was sadness - or regret, maybe? - and they followed every movement I made to sit on the bed. “Listen Y/N, back then I really loved you and I still love you now. But this thing between us… It turned out not good at all, it wasn’t healthy for us to keep it the way it was.”
“So you think you only had two options? You decided by yourself you had to choose between staying with me and keep suffering or leaving without a word?” My voice was maybe a bit louder than intended, but it was too late to keep my heart closed. He wanted a discussion, he would have it. “You never for a second imagined we could make it work again? Fred, what you did was breaking my heart, nothing else!”
“And I broke mine in the process.” 
“I- I don’t believe you. You’re the one who made the decision, you are the responsible. You are responsible!”
Fred looked away, and I could have sworn he was tearing up. All the words he could have come up with wouldn’t have changed my mind, but the tears that were now threatening to run down his face made my anger falter. It wasn’t pity but comprehension; these tears, they had covered my face so many times these last months and even before that I could recognize them undoubtedly. I was blaming Fred for leaving me, and even if I wouldn’t forgive him for the way he did it, blaming him for wanting a true breakup would be hypocritical. After all, hadn’t I thought about it myself? The only difference was that Fred had been brave enough to end it, not me. But that didn’t make the abandon any less painful, or these last months any less hard to think about. 
“Why now? It’s been months, why do you apologize now?”
Fred sniffed quietly and passed his hand on his face, wiping away a few tears in the process.
“Would you have let me apologize before?” Of course not, I would have punched him and left. “We were both hating me for what I did Y/N, and… I know I’m not pardonable, I just want you to understand that I regret and that no matter what happened, I’ll always be there if you need me.”
“I’ll be too Fred, trust me. But you’re right, you’re not pardonable.”
And I left without saying anything else, closed quietly the door between Fred and I, and it felt like it was the definitive end for us. 
_ _ _ 
Something like three weeks later, the situation of the wizarding world had worsened exponentially. Attacks from death eaters were getting more and more common, and this toward muggles, blood traitors and members of the Order. Two weeks ago, I had participated in my first real monitoring mission with Tonks, and that had made me a veritable member of the Order with all the dangers that it implied. My relationship with Fred had become a bit better after our conversation at the Burrow and he had been the first to show worry about me. An hour or so before my departure for the mission with Tonks, he had left the shop to find me and tell me to keep the Dumbledore’s Army galleon so that he could know if I was in trouble. I had accepted because I wanted him to leave but with time, I had concluded that having it with me was reassuring. I would have never admitted it in front of him though. 
A few days ago, Fred had invited me for a special evening at the shop that was organized for the presentation of a new product. He had refused to tell me anything about it and had assured me I would find it hilarious. I wanted to go but the thought of spending an evening with him still made me uncomfortable. Finally, I had accepted on the condition that Ginny was coming with me. 
The first thought that crossed my head when I apparated in Diagon Alley is that never in my life would I have thought it possible to see it so empty, so lifeless. Almost all the boutiques I had visited so many times were closed, some because the owner had stopped their activity for a question of security and others because of much darker reasons. My eyes found the only bright light of the alley and I picked up the pace to reach the twins’ shop quicker. All the customers were hurrying inside, they probably felt as oppressed as I did. 
“Here you are!” exclaimed Ginny when I reached the door. “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind. Glad you didn’t though, George told me what the new product is and it really seems fun.”
I hummed absent-mindedly as my eyes left the floor to wander around me. Trying to convince myself I wasn’t looking for Fred would have been stupid and a loss of time, so I just grumbled once more at my weakness and asked Ginny where her brother was. 
“Probably in the back shop preparing his grand entrance. Come on, let’s get closer to the stage.”
If she didn’t make any comment, I didn’t miss her smirk as she grabbed my hand to drag me through the crowd of customers. We finally reached the stage that was occupying all the space in this part of the shop, and I found an empty spot somewhere on the left. On the stage was a huge white cover that was hiding what looked like a board and a table one behind the other, and I barely had the time to think that it was a very simple installation before the twins made their appearance. Everyone cheered and especially the younger ones and Ginny. For my part, I adopted a small smile that widened when Fred winked at me - against my will, I promise. 
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began Fred. 
“Dear customers,” continued George. 
“Let us present to you our latest product.”
“It is the result of a long work of research and development-”
“And your future darling, it’s a promise.”
George waved his wand and the cover disappeared. 
At first, the silence seemed very heavy, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell had happened in their heads to create such a thing in times like these. Then, a kid in the audience giggled, and it seemed to relax everyone; laughter burst and some were already shaking their wallet. Ginny was applauding and shaking her head. The twins’ smiles widened and they got off of the platform to reach out to their customers. 
It was fun indeed, but I couldn’t help but wonder if they truly measured the impact of what they had just done. 
_ _ _ 
“U-no-poo Fred? Really?”
Fred giggled as if I had just told him a very good joke he had never heard before. 
“You have to admit that’s pretty clever!”
“That’s not clever, that’s stupid and not fun at all and- and that’s dangerous Fred!”
His gaze softened, but he didn’t let go of that cocky smirk. 
“Y/N, would you happen to be worried?”
“No, I was just thinking your instinct for survival was better than that.” My averted eyes didn’t mislead anyone though. “I don’t want you to get in trouble for this Fred, that’s all.”
“I won’t, don’t worry.” He hesitated for a second, and our eyes fell on the hand he had lifted and stopped above my shoulder. I didn’t say anything and he squeezed it gently. “These laughter earlier, that’s why we’re taking the risk. You have your way to fight the darkness, I have mine, that’s all.” I didn’t find anything to reply to that. “You know, I didn’t think you would come tonight, even Ginny was doubtful. And given the look on your face when I told you about it I thought you would refuse, really.” Fred paused and his fingers clenched lightly against my shoulder once more. “Why did you decide otherwise?”
That was a good question. Why? I had spent the last few days trying to figure out why the first answer in my head had been immediate and positive, why my heart had first beaten like crazy at the thought of seeing Fred again instead of aching as it used to, why I couldn’t hate him as much as I thought I did, as much as I thought I had to. Suddenly, some customer’s shoulder collided with my back with enough strength to make me lose my balance. The position we ended up in felt natural, as if Fred’s torso had always been there for me to rest my head on it and his hands were meant to be on my back. 
“I had missed this.” I murmured, and I felt his agreement through the vibrating of his body. 
I timidly encircled him with my own arms, and the feeling was so unhoped for, I had craved it for so long, that I found myself unable to move away from him. The more time passed by and the tighter our embrace was until it became almost difficult to breathe. 
“Maybe I should…” muttered Fred before loosening his hold, but without letting go of me. “Never again,” he added with a smile, and it didn’t take long for me to realize what it meant. “I’m not leaving you again.”
And as cliché as it could sound, I read the truth in his eyes. The pain, the regrets, the way he had been hating himself everyday for what he had done, but also comprehension because he knew I had been feeling the same. The Weasley sparkle was here too, bright and vivid and loving, and his smile was wider than every smile I had ever seen. I was probably looking the same, and if I wasn’t, I was definitely experiencing this euphoria that was shaking every cell of my body and making my heart beat so fast. 
“I really want to kiss you right now.” Fred’s voice was low, but it was the only thing I heard.
“Do it then.”
“Let me finish darling. I want to kiss you so bad, but I don’t deserve it, not after what I did to you. Give me some time to earn it, okay? We’ll make it work again, I’ll make it work again.”
I nodded, torn by two completely opposite emotions. I was grateful because Fred wanted us to become a loving couple again, and disappointed because I needed him, so much that it hurt. But after all this time, it wouldn’t have felt right, and after all maybe it was for the best. Suddenly, I became aware again of the noise in the shop: dozens of customers were still talking happily about their purchase and congratulating George.
“I should go back home. It’s… It’s a lot to take in.”
“I know, don’t worry.” Fred smiled and kissed my hair. I gave him my back and took barely two steps toward the door before he grabbed my hand. “Wait Y/N, I’ll feel much better if you let me walk you home. It’s dangerous outside and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“You shouldn’t leave your little party, Freddie. Don’t worry for me, I’ll apparate as soon as I can, okay?”
“You have the galleon, right?”
“Yes Fred, I have it, and yes I’ll warn you when I’m home.” 
He nodded and let go of my hand. I sneaked through the crowd of customers and reached the door. I was on the verge of opening it when Fred’s voice echoed. 
“Are you going to leave without a U-no-poo Y/N?”
“Who told you I needed one?”
Fred chuckled, and I only looked away when the door closed. The alley was still somber, and the same dying feeling was floating in the air, but my heart was lighter than it had been in months. I was so happy that nothing could have tarnished my joy, or so I thought. 
It’s my training as a new Order member that kicked in and made me dodge the first curse. As the only remaining window of Ollivander’s shop exploded, two dark silhouettes made their appearance between the twins’ shop and I, making it impossible for me to reach any safe place on this side of the alley. What I feared was confirmed when at least two other death eaters’ feet hit the paving stones. 
All of this had happened in a second, and I reached for the magical galleon in my pocket before anything else. An instant later, I was forced to dive to the ground with my hand still stuck in my jeans. I got up quickly and drew my wand. It was too late. Something burnt my back with such intensity that the heat spread to the core of my body. Through the excruciating pain, my dizzy brain noticed that there wasn’t a sound that left my mouth, and soon my knees hit the ground. My arms refused to obey and I found myself falling forward without anything to shield my head. The shock was brutal as the rest of the scene. The death eaters left without anything else, word or curse, and soon the noise made by their footsteps disappeared. It felt like an eternity before someone else arrived whereas it had probably been less than two minutes. Time definitely seemed to stop when I realized it was Fred. 
“Y/N, what’s- oh god, Y/N, can you hear me? Please tell me you’re still with me… Y/N!”
His arms slipped underneath my limp body. Even the heat he gave me as he was hugging me against his torso wasn’t enough to dissipate the icy cold in my bones. He was calling for help, desperate to be heard as it seemed like we were both glued to the paving stones. 
“Please Y/N, tell me- tell me I’m dreaming. This- This is all in my head, it’s all happening in my head...  Right? Y/N, say something, please!” I wished I could have reassured him, but my strength was leaving me. “I still have to gain back your love, Y/N you can’t leave me… You can’t…” 
Fred was almost sobbing now, shouting to whatever cruel god was watching him that he couldn’t live without me, screaming pleas and crying at this unfairness. His arms were still holding me, and even this feeling was slowly vanishing; soon, I wondered if I had ever felt it and the only answer I could get was the aching in my body that had nothing to do with the curse. 
Death wasn’t that bad, after all, less painful than life, and I wished Fred could read it in my mind.
103 notes · View notes
crescentsteel · 4 years ago
Text
Keeping a Secret - Part 5
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pairing: Tsukishima x f!manager of Sendai Frogs genre: sexual tension/crack/fluff/slow burn wc: 6.8k
[a/n]
Let me know if you want to be part of the taglist uwu
AO3
Part 4 || Part 6 || masterlist
“Your lips aren’t disgusting,” Tsukishima says quietly, but loud enough to reach your ears. You did hear him the first time though. You just didn’t understand what he meant so you brushed it off as garbled words induced by your sleep-deprived brain. 
You didn’t expect him to contradict the subtle insult you unconsciously threw at yourself. From his reaction to your suggestion a while ago, you’d think he’d be glad that you instantly discarded it instead of pushing it further. 
You pull back just enough to see his somber expression meeting your baffled one.
“I thought you didn’t want to do it again,” you mutter softly even though the kiss snapped you out of your drowsiness.
“I changed my mind,” he simply says.  
“Uhhh. Care to elaborate?” you ask, still confused as to what his change of mind entails. Does he now agree to your earlier proposal? Or is he just saying that he doesn’t mind kissing you again? 
...Wait, isn’t that the same?
Okay, so apparently your mind is still fuzzy and not digesting the situation clearly. His closeness isn’t helping either. 
Maybe you’re actually still asleep and you’re having sleep paralysis on their sofa. In just a matter of seconds, Tsukishima’s face will turn demon-like and scream at how moronic you are for dreaming about this.
“You’re allowed to kiss me when it’s just the two of us,” the boy sitting in front of you announces.
Tsukishima tries not to look away so you wouldn’t think he feels awkward agreeing to your suggestion the same way you offered it. You look way better and more alert after he kissed you so he’s expecting you to say something sassy to get back at his brutal words. 
Instead, you wrap a hand around your throat. Before he can even process what you’re doing, your hand is already joined by the other. 
“What are you doing?” he asks both confused and worried as your hands tighten on your neck, but you don’t answer. He only confirms that you’re indeed choking yourself when you start gasping for air. 
“What the fuck!” He hurriedly yanks your hands away from your throat, gripping each wrist and pulling them away from one another. 
You inhale sharply from the absence of your hands blocking your windpipe.
It didn’t work. You’re still in sleep paralysis and with absolutely no idea how to get out.
You close your eyes and dejectedly lean on his chest. “I’m too tired to tell if this is real or a poorly conjured dream. Demon, begone,” you mumble while feebly knocking your head against him.
“Tsukishima will think I’m an idiot,” you add.
He usually doesn’t care about the aftermath of his words. The more they get under a person’s skin, the more it amuses him. But you seem to have really taken his words to heart this time, and he hates the fact that he’s bothered by it. He’d rather be annoyed by you than plagued with guilt.
He admits he was being a complete dick earlier, but he didn’t expect it would get to you like this, to the point that you’d even think you’re dreaming.
He sighs, accepting that he needs to deal with the consequences of his sharp tongue. “You’re not an idiot, y/n,” he softly says. You lift your gaze and look at him like he’s grown two heads. “So stop acting like one already,” he spurs on, unable to help himself as his true nature immediately returns.
You detach yourself from him as life returns back to your eyes. “Okay, I’m not dreaming. You’re definitely Tsukishima.” You shake your hands, probably to shake off the lethargy from your nap, then slap both your cheeks with your palms. 
You steady yourself as you face him again. You verify the vague exchanges you two had with one question. “I take it we have a deal then?” 
He holds your resolute stare, trying to come up with some set of rules but weariness is already hitting his cognitive capabilities. However, there is one that’s extremely necessary for the both of you to follow. 
“No one should know about this.”
You scoff at his answer. “No one  will  know about this,” you repeat his words with a more convincing variation. So despite the insane premise of the arrangement and its lack of detail, he agrees.
“Deal.”
--
Tsukishima heads straight to the kitchen as soon as he gets home. In spite of the audacious agreement you now have, neither of you felt awkward when he walked you to the main road to see you off. Once again, you were right. Accepting that he is also attracted to you somehow cleared his head. He still doesn’t like it, but it’s better than constantly being irritated at the strange pull you have on him. 
Since you’ve proven yourself to always be right, he’ll give this a go. It’ll only be until the end of the project anyways, which won’t be long from now considering the timetable you laid out. 
As he gets a pitcher of water, he sees Akiteru approaching the kitchen as well. He moves away from the fridge to make way in case his brother is going to get something from it. But Akiteru passes him by and leans on the counter next to him instead. 
He pours himself a glass while growing prickly of Akiteru’s not-so-subtle staring.
“If you’re going to say something, just say it,” he snaps. 
Akiteru laughs lightly at his displeasure. “She’s very lovely,” his older brother comments randomly, and yet he already knows Akiteru is without a doubt talking about you. 
Lovely?
His mind instantly goes back to when you were: (a) dancing like a crippled fledgling; (b) squawking like a dying seagull to imitate a crocodile; and (c) choking yourself because you thought you were dreaming. 
“If an alien in a human suit is lovely, then sure,” he answers dryly as he returns the pitcher back to the fridge.
“She’s really just a classmate?” his older brother probes. 
Akiteru has been insinuating for a while now that he should get a girlfriend, as if not having one will cause him to miss out on this ‘great’ experience of life. So now that he’s finally brought someone home, Akiteru had decided in his head that you’re a potential romantic partner. 
“How many times do I need to answer that?” he responds sourly. 
His brother smiles apologetically, but his face shows a regaled glimmer. “Sorry, Kei. I must have misunderstood since I don’t kiss my classmates on the lips.”
He stills right as he was about to bring the glass to his lips. 
He did not hear Akiteru’s steps back then. If he did, he’d quickly give himself adequate distance from you. He’d blame you for the distraction, but you weren’t really doing anything outrageous at that moment. You were actually unobtrusive and reasonable for the first time. It was him and his guilt that preoccupied him well enough to not notice Akiteru.
He finishes his water and leaves the glass on the counter. “Goodnight,” he says without looking at Akiteru as he hurriedly goes back to his room. 
It hasn’t been an hour since you two made the deal but someone -- worse, his own brother, has already found out. His only consolation is that Akiteru doesn’t really talk with his social circle so there’s no need to be worried. Also, Akiteru is not really the type to babble about stuff like that. 
The disadvantage is also the same as its advantage, it’s Akiteru. He might get all excited and continue assuming that there’s more to the two of you than this limited agreement, when the truth is you’re just two individuals who agreed to make out in secret.
But that’s something he wouldn’t dare reveal to anyone, most especially to Akiteru.
When he reaches his room, he immediately texts you. 
‘We meet in your place next time.’
Hopefully, Akiteru will forget whatever he saw tonight if you don’t come back. 
--
Surprisingly but not really, you and Tsukishima are getting along swimmingly since you made the deal. ‘Swimmingly,’ meaning he still ignores you and regards you as a pest during practice. During your private meetings, however, he is agreeable. 
It still seems unbelievable to you when you actually think about it. You and Tsukishima exchanging kisses when no one’s around? You’d have a good laugh if someone even suggested that idea to you before you shared that first, completely unintended kiss.
It is indeed comical, how you two would sit across each other, and with only a certain glance, both of you already know what’s up. Eventually, it became a bother to stand and go over to one another just for a kiss so you two sit side by side now.
Tsukishima is funny though. Sometimes, he wouldn’t act upon it because he expects you to take the initiative. You don’t mind doing it, but it’s fun to see him all bothered while trying to study. 
“Tsukishima, you look weird. Are you okay?” You feigned concern even though you clearly know why. 
He didn’t spare you a glance at all and just mumbled, “I’m fine,” while typing.
“Hmmm, alright! I’m done so we can wrap up now,” you let him know as you started fixing your stuff up. You thought that he’d hold on to his dumb ego and follow suit since you’ve finished cleaning up, but he still hadn’t done anything. 
You held back a smile when you felt him grab your arm. You swiftly composed yourself before turning to his direction. 
“What?” you ask like you don’t have a clue.
He glowers at you. “You know what.”
You pursed your lips to the side as you gently shake your head. “I am very confused right now,” you acted persuasively.
He puffed tempestuously before he grabbed your nape and roughly descended down on your lips, utterly disregarding his unnecessary pride. You willingly reciprocate it. You latched your fingers in his wrist beside your cheek as you responded to each suck and nip of his lips.
When it ended, you smiled into his mouth which effectively gave you away. 
He harshly pulled himself away from you. “You fucking knew,” he muttered furiously.
You scrunched up your nose and grinned mischievously as you gently tapped his cheek. “Of course, I knew. See you tomorrow at the match, Tsukishima,” you said, gesturing to his scattered belongings.
Needless to say, he was extra salty with you during the match with the Lions. But hey, at least they won the game. 
However, despite the Lions now out of the picture, your workload isn’t any better because winning only means needing to prepare the next opponent’s profile. You’re just a bit thankful now that unwarranted and unexpected kisses are no longer bothering you since the two of  you acknowledged the stupid attraction you have for each other.
Still, that doesn’t mean that your body has magically recovered and you’re no longer stressed all of a sudden. Because you are. You are stressed as fuck. With your academic load also on the line, you can’t rest yet.
You’re starting to feel overwhelmed and whenever that happens, you succumb to your one coping mechanism: stress eating. 
You’re about to meet Tsukishima but you have a few minutes to spare, so you head to the nearest cake shop. You buy a mini cake for yourself and one slice for Tsukishima. You don’t feel like sharing yours so you just get him his own. 
With a paper bag in hand, you see Tsukishima waiting for you by your dormitory’s entrance. You waste no time and ask him to follow you even though he probably already knows where exactly your room is. 
One would think that when the door closes, you two would jump on each other’s arms and just get on with your deal, but nah.
You two get to your usual seats with your mind solely on the cake you bought as both of you take out your notes and laptop. 
After you pull up the journal you need to look at for the day, you eagerly bring out the cake.
‘Hnnnngg,’  you groan internally. The cake’s design is so pretty that you almost don’t wanna eat it. But of course you will. You’ve never had strawberry shortcake from that shop before, so you’re curious to taste if it’s as good as it looks. 
Just as you’ve been ogling at your cake, you catch Tsukishima staring at it as well. “Do you want some, Tsukki?” you ask before you give the slice you got for him. 
“Why would I want something childish?” he asks back with a scowl. 
“I don’t see how a cake is childish but okay.” You would’ve felt bad, but you’ll have the extra slice for yourself anyways so it’s not really that bad.
Normally, you would like to savor the pastry while doing something fun, but you don’t have the time for it right now. You’ll just eat it while doing your assigned stuff for the day. 
For someone who thinks cake is childish, he keeps glancing at you with tiny hints of envy every time you take a bite. When he sees you catch him peering at the cake, he instantly flicks his eyes back to his laptop.
To verify your hunch, you moan exaggeratedly the next time you take a spoonful of the cake, instantly earning you a menacing glare from the blonde across you. 
“I’m sorry. It’s just so good, you know. The bread is so fluffy. The cream is not too sweet. The strawberry filling has actual bits of strawberry.” You enact a chef’s kiss after your detailed remarks. 
“Amazing. Best I’ve ever had. 10/10 would recommend and buy again,” you give a positive review before getting another slice.
When you get another spoonful, you groan again and roll your eyes for added effect. You look at Tsukishima and you can tell that it’s getting to him. Yet, he’s still not saying anything. He only keeps staring as if silently imploring you that you should let him have a taste as well. 
As if you’ll bend to his will just like that. 
“If you want some, just say so,” you taunt him with a smirk as you scoop the last spoonful in the plate, giving him not much time to swallow his pride and ask. 
Before you can put it in your mouth, he stops you. “Fine,” he says as he grits his teeth. “I want some.” 
Tsukishima really is funny. It’s only cake but he sounds so angry and embarrassed just because he asked for a tiny piece. How can you not tease him just a bit more?
You take the remaining piece and move beside him. You get the spoonful of cake, extending your arm and offering it to him that way. 
He looks at the cake and then you. “I know how to eat,” he enunciates coldly at your attempt to spoon feed him. 
You shrug it off with an ‘okay,’ then proceed to withdraw your hand so you can have it for yourself. 
“Wait.”
You comply and let your retreating arm stay in place. A faint pink tint surfaces on his cheeks as he leans down and takes the cake from the spoon with his mouth. When he starts munching on it, he looks away and slump a little while savoring the small remains you gave him.
You press your lips together to repress a smile cause you know he’ll be even more embarrassed. But holy crap, Tsukishima is so cute like this! You want to take a picture of him right now and just ogle at how adorable he is when he’s this flustered. 
The Sendai Frog’s nastiest middle blocker, standing at 6’3, likes strawberry shortcake. You’re reeling internally at your astounding discovery. 
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he snarls with the tiny blush still on his face.
You can’t help it anymore and give him a tight-lipped smile. “Nothing,” you squeak out from how hard you’re trying not to gush at his cuteness.
He suddenly regains his composure as he narrows his eyes while studying your face. 
It’s your turn to be conscious from how he seems to have discovered something about you as well. 
“What?” you ask warily.
You’re completely caught off guard when he puts a hand on your shoulder and lunges down. His lips capture the skin just beside the corner of your mouth, delicately sucking on the skin before brushing his warm tongue against it. 
You go rigid on your seat at the totally unexpected action from him. It’s not even a kiss but you feel goosebumps prickling your skin while the air you’re breathing gets stuck in your throat. 
That’s all he does then hoists himself back up, his features devoid of any emotion as if he didn’t just do something bold. His hand on your shoulder goes up to spot he just licked and strokes it with his thumb. 
“You eat like a ten-year old,” he says blankly. 
Just like that, the situation is reversed. He now has the upperhand while you’re completely frozen as your mind helplessly tries to come up with something, anything, to hide the fact that you’re a complete muddled mess on the inside.
But nothing. Your mind does not work and all its attention is still on the little stunt Tsukishima pulled just now. 
Being the manager of the Frogs, you’ve always seen them as cute little puppies you need to take care of. You’re the one in charge of them so you always feel like you’re the one in control. The sense of control is even more reinforced with other male athletes getting swept away with your antics during matches. 
Even with the several kisses you shared with Tsukishima, it’s only now that you’re rendered utterly disconcerted. Your lips start to tremble while your brows contort with horror from the foreign feeling that’s creeping on your whole body.
Fuuuucck, you curse silently at your mind’s incapability to come up with a solution to handle the situation. 
To make it worse, the corner of his lips start to tug up, forming a smug grin that suits him ludicrously well. 
“You okay, y/n?” His pompous demeanor lets you know that the question is not out of concern. He is very much aware of the effect he has on you. He’s just milking it.
And it’s fucking working.
He drags his thumb to your chin and tilts it up to get a better view of your features growing even more at loss by the second. “What’s wrong, hmm?”
You press your quivering lips together as you harshly avert your gaze from his. “Nothing,” you say too softly, losing the playfulness you had not long ago.
“What’s that?” He pretends to not hear it. 
Seems like you’ve had enough because you swat his hand away from your chin and cover your whole face with both hands. 
His grin spreads wide from your surrender as a chuckle escapes his throat. To entertain himself even more, he pries your hands away from your face. It’s easier than he expected since your wrists are like twigs with no strength in them.
Your face is a furious shade of rose as you glare at him with both shame and anger. You try to retrieve your arms but he’s obviously way stronger than you. “Tsukishima, you smooth li’l shit, let go of me!”
With that, he releases you as he cackles from your remark. He can now see the merits of acknowledging the inexplicable magnetism between him and you. Now that he doesn’t have to feel conflicted about it, he can relish breaking your previously impervious defenses by teasing you this way. 
There wasn’t even any cake on your face. He just made it up to get back at you for toying with him like one of your dumb admirers. 
You give off one enraged puff then you go back to face your laptop.  You try to look fine but you’re trying too hard. He can tell that you’re still bothered by it even when you’re focused on your screen now. 
He gets back to his own as well, the same grin he had earlier still there. He thought you’re going to keep ignoring him for the rest of your meeting, but before he can even focus on his own task, you awkwardly slide him the paper bag you had. 
“I actually got you a slice in case you wanted one,” you huff timidly while meeting his surprised gaze. You don’t say anything else and get back to working. 
That was… thoughtful of you. You got him one even if he didn’t ask for it. And despite teasing you like that, you still gave it to him. If it was him, he wouldn’t have bothered.
He gets the cake and saves it for later at home. He’d like to enjoy it alone away from your cheekiness, ridding you the chance to make fun of him the second time.
When he looks at you again, you give him a brief glance before settling in to do your assignment. He does the same since you two have frolicked enough for the day. 
He had learned something about you from your former meetings:  you have unbreakable focus when you start concentrating on something. You don’t talk. You don’t fiddle with your phone. You don’t even peel your eyes away from the screen unless you’re checking something on your notes.  
The remarkable thing is how efficient you are. You work fast and come up with decent output. He’s seen it both in your write up for the project and in the reports you give to the team.
It’s almost impressive, if not for its inevitable downside: you run out of steam just as fast, which is what seems to be happening right now. He’s ignored the first two yawns he’s heard from you, but he can’t dismiss the third consecutive yawn. 
He looks at your direction and confirms that you’re indeed starting to drop your attentiveness. Your eyes are becoming lazy and you’re just pressing your keyboard too hard one key at a time. 
“Oy, it’s still early for you to be sleepy,” he scolds you.
You tap your face, a futile attempt to wake yourself up because your eyes are still dazed when you look at him. “It’s the cake. I overfed myself and now I want to sleep like one.” You groan as you realize your mistake. “No worries though. I just need coffee,” you mutter. 
He slams his palm on the wooden surface of your table. “Do not get coffee,” he warns almost threateningly. He does not want a repeat of what happened the last time where you’re one wheeze away from death because of your damn coffee.
“But I need it,” you protest.
“No, you don’t. What you need is rest.”
“Don’t wanna. It felt weird last time. I don’t like slacking off when someone else is being productive,” you insist further.
He sighs irritably at your obstinacy. There’s no need to rush because you two managed to get back on the schedule you set, but then again he understands why. You’re trying to get as much shit done before your responsibilities become too much for you. 
That’s probably how you’ve been getting by for the past three years, being a university scholar while managing the team. If being a student while being an athlete is already difficult for him, how much more  for you who has grades to maintain while working as well?
If it were anyone else, they’d have exploded from the humongous amount of work that entails. Yet, you come to the gym with that carefree attitude of yours like you’re not burdened in any way. In all the times you’ve met with him outside the gym, not once has he heard you complain about it. 
You don’t whine. You just do what needs to be done.
It’s something worth respecting, to say the least. But you should really rest when your body tells you to. 
“I’ll stop doing the report and watch volleyball clips from last year’s Olympics. Take your nap,” he says. 
Your face brightens up at his suggestion. “Can I watch with you?”
“No.” The point of him watching is so that you can rest easy, not for you to join him. However, the look on your face tells him you won’t budge unless he lets you watch with him. 
“I swear, it’ll do me better than a nap,” you press on. 
He rubs his temple with irritation as you leave him with no choice but to agree. “Fine.” You squeal at his approval and scamper to his side. 
He opens his folders of volleyball clips he’s yet to watch while you tuck your knees together the same way you did last time you watched documentaries for your project. 
Halfway through the first clip, he feels your head bump his shoulder. He peers at you from his peripheral and sees your hazy eyes fighting off sleep. He doesn’t say anything and just waits for your drowsiness to successfully take over. 
By the end of the first video, he feels your head bobbing forward which he can no longer ignore. “Can’t you just go to your bed and sleep?” he asks almost desperately. 
You fix your posture and open your eyes again. “I’m fine.”
He rolls his eyes and gives a resigned huff as he skids his laptop to your front. You shoot him a puzzled look while he positions himself behind you. 
“Continue watching then.” He scoots closer until your back is pressed to him, effectively caging you as he extends his legs on your both sides. There’s no use trying to convince you to sleep when you’re this stubborn. So, he’ll just provide you the means to do so. 
You frown at him which he answers with a raised eyebrow. In the end, you just shrug it off and go back to watching. 
Just as he anticipated, you’re already unconscious in a matter of minutes. Your head falls back to his chest. He lets you settle deeper in your sleep, watching you unconsciously find a position you’re most comfortable in. By the time the second video ends, you’re no longer wiggling around and have found refuge on the front of his shoulder with your arm loosely wrapped around his bicep. 
Although he did say that he’ll slack off with you, he sees no reason to uphold it now that he’s finally got you to rest. Unlike you, he works at a normal pace. He needs to continue doing his own tasks so when you wake up, he’s already done as well. 
He carefully reaches for his laptop and closes the video currently playing. He gets back to working on the current draft of the project, feeling the strain on his back with nothing to support him while you lean against him. 
He shouldn't be doing this. There is no reason for him to be inconvenienced this way by you. This isn’t part of the deal.
But seeing how you’re working so hard yet still face everyone else with that vexatious cheerful smile of yours, he deems you deserving of that serene look on your face while you’re peacefully snuggled within his grasp. 
Just as he allowed you to kiss him, he also allows you to hold on to him like this. 
--
“Hey, number 17!”
Tsukishima hears someone yell. He’s sure that it was him who’s being called because he recognizes the voice. It’s someone from the Jaguars, the team they’re up against after winning against the Lions the previous game.
Still, he’d like to pretend that he doesn’t know it’s him the other athlete is shouting for. The gym is filled with other number 17s from different teams anyways. He can easily dismiss it. 
However, he hears his last name not long after, automatically singling him out from the other players who also wore his jersey number. 
Even though he despises small talk, it would be rude to ignore other players when they specifically call for him in public. Not that he bothers about what other people think of him, but more about how he represents his team. 
In high school, he didn’t care at all. But things are different now in the professional level. He’s forced to engage in insignificant nonsense with other players. 
He just hopes that this time it won’t be one of those times and that whatever this is is actually important
He turns around lazily and sees not one, but two Jaguars approaching him. It’s their starting setter and their pinch server. “I thought you couldn’t hear us, dude,” the setter says. He doesn’t reply and just stands his ground while waiting for what they’re going to say. 
“Anyways, mind if we ask the number of your manager?” 
It’s worse than nonsense. They approached him because of you.
They turn towards each other and simper at how they seem to think that it’s a genius idea to ask him instead of you. 
“You can ask her yourself. She’s just over there with the rest of the team,” he passively suggests. He’d be glad to lead these two poor hopeful souls if they want to. He’s sure you’d be more than happy to entertain them, in your own kind of way. 
“Nah. We know how she disses everyone. That’s why we’re asking you, Tsukishima-kun,” the pinch server counters. 
He’s the least protective of you compared to the rest of the team. He doesn’t care if you flirt all day long with these people or if you give your number to every single person here at the stadium. 
But whatever these hoodlums the idea that  he’ll  be the one to give your number to them? It’s not his to give. It’s yours. “It’s not really my decision to make,” he responds. 
“Is she really that good of a manager that you won’t share her?” 
He would’ve not perceived anything out of it if not for the malicious grin that surfaced on the setter’s poor excuse of a face. The two athletes step closer and speak in a volume only for him to hear.��
“Come on now. Don’t tell us you guys are not touching that hot piece dangling itself in front of you.”
‘Lowlives.’ 
That’s the most fitting word he can describe these two uneducated imbeciles who talk like you’re a slice of meat. No one deserves to be treated like that, especially you who madly dedicate yourself out of actual interest and affection for the team and the sport. 
Yet, these two fucking dimwits are insinuating that you’re available for him and his teammates to sleep around with. It’s more than just disrespect. It’s an absolute mockery of the effort and commitment you have for the job. 
It’s not his place to be angry. He’s not the one being slighted. But the image of your exhausted features fighting off sleep to do the report of these scumbags in front of him makes him want to do something about their blatant lack of intelligence. 
“Don’t look so scary now. We’re not going to steal your manager. We just want to know what it’s like to have a hot one managing us,” the setter once again proves his brainlessness to Tsukishima, successfully provoking him to do what he’s been itching to do. 
He offers them a too-pleasant smile that he gives to people who are about to get a taste of his snide irony. “Sorry, but it’s not really my problem that no one wants to manage a bunch of unsightly goons.”
A vein on the setter’s temple looks like it’s about to pop out as his hand yanks Tsukishima’s collar. 
“The fuck did you say?!” The setter of the Jaguars lashes out, quickly losing his temper amidst the public gymnasium.
The feigned smile on Tsukishima’s face is replaced by a genuine smirk as the two dimwits react exactly the way he wants them too. Although he can rile them up even more than he did, something tells him that these peabrains will actually resort to violence if he does so.
They’ll definitely be held out from playing the game if they do get violent, but so will he if he gets involved. 
Even though he looks unmotivated and lazy, he actually likes being on the court. And if he’s going to be honest, he looks forward to blocking the tosses of the setter who’s clutching his shirt at present.
“You shitty blocker,” the pinch server backs up his teammate. 
The shift of attention from you to Tsukishima doesn’t surprise him at all. From slandering you, they quickly move to verbally attacking him. His eyebrow twitches up from the remark but doesn’t bother responding to it. 
Why would he when he’ll just prove them wrong later? Instead of engaging with these two, he should be getting back to the rest of the team to get ready for their match. 
He’s about to grab the setter’s wrist to yank it off him when a set of feminine fingers beat him to it.
“My, my. Thank you for wanting to be friends with one of our players, but he really needs to warm up now,” you say with congenial sympathy to the upcoming competition. 
They seem to have forgotten that you’re the reason why they approached him. The setter releases Tsukishima’s shirt with a glare before the two Jaguars walk away.
“Bye, bye! Let’s get along well, yeah??” you shout and wave at them way too enthusiastically. You probably didn’t catch them talking about you, which is a good thing because you didn’t need to hear that kind of horse shit.
You put a light hand on his shoulder, making him anticipate a lecture from you for dawdling around. But you only tell him that you two should go back already. 
As you both turn around, the smile on your face drops while your grip on his shoulder tightens. 
“Did it bother you that much?” he asks as you both walk back to the court. 
“You bet it did. The gall of them to call you a shitty blocker, those fuckfaces. I swear to God, I would’ve,” you take a sharp breath then slowly let it out as you take your hands off him. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. It’s just the usual gibberish talk among athletes,” you say to yourself, more than to him.
“What about what they said before that?”
Your brows scrunch up as you try to figure out what he’s talking about. “You mean when they assumed I’m sexing everyone from the team? Nah. I know some people think I’m a slut because I’m too sexy for their lame asses. I’m used to it so I don’t really care about crap like that,” you explain way too casually. 
He thought that at this time and age, people would be a little more progressive with how they think. Apparently, he was wrong. He’s always observed how you put yourself out there, entertaining any flattery that’s thrown at you. It’s also very obvious how open you are to showing affection for the team.
But he didn’t think people would have such indecent assumptions about you. What surprises him even more is you’ve been aware of it for some time now. Still, you continue being yourself.
“But Goooood. Their childish shit talking really pissed me off.” Your previous attempt to calm yourself down fails as anger graces your features once again.
“Promise me something, Tsukishima,” you tell him a few steps away from the court.
“What?” 
“Up your blocking game and win. I want to see those fucktard’s faces pulverized with defeat,” you announce as you seethe with fiery determination.
“There’s no need to promise,” he says calmly before the curve of his lips form a subtle yet definite grin. You immediately get his message as you mirror the arrogant pride on his face with a smirk of your own.
You’re not particularly competitive. Even as the captain of your own team before, you did not play to win. You played with your very best because you want to experience all the sport has to offer.
Maybe that’s why you stopped playing and decided to be a manager. You love the sport, but not as an athlete. You just love pushing people to their potential and being their support so they can give their all during matches.
Although you do like winning, you’re not hellbent on it. As long as the team gives their everything and you see them at their best, you’re happy with that.
This match is an exception.
At 23-24 with the Sendai Frogs on their match point, you’re clutching your notebook way too hard that the pages become crumpled and the edges dig in your palms.
When you saw Tsukishima earlier approached by the two Jaguars, you didn’t intervene immediately. You were near the area, watching and listening as to how things will unfold. You didn’t hear much of their mumbled conversation, but you caught enough words to put together that it was you they’re talking about. 
You do gain a lot of attention, but some of them are not exactly wholesome. Apparently, being outspoken and open equates to being easy to bed.
You just wish they said something more interesting because you almost yawned at how unoriginal their speculation is. You fucking around with the Sendai Frogs? Groundbreaking. 
What amused you though is Tsukishima’s response. Right at that moment, you wanted to kiss his snarky mouth. Not because he defended your honor, but from the clever snide comeback he quickly spat at their faces. 
Your amusement was quickly ruined when one of them laid a hand on him. You didn’t care that the fuckfaced setter did it in public. Even if he did it with no one around, your blood still would’ve boiled. But when he said that Tsukishima was a shitty blocker? The palm of your hand itched to get roughly acquainted with the opposing setter’s face. 
If this isn’t a tournament, you would’ve had a hard time deciding whether or not you’d have done it. But since this  is  a tournament, you can’t do that. You need to be civil and maintain good relations with every team, even if some of their members lack basic decency and  proper manners. 
Luckily, there is a way to get back at them: that is to win this match which has got you to the edge of your seat as soon as it reached the 20s of the second set. 
With Tsukishima, Eiji, and Kogane in front, there’s nothing to be scared about. It’s just that you really want them to score that last point already. 
The ball gets to your court and is received by Kogane, effectively cutting out your most optimal set-up to attack. 
“Tsukki!” Kogane calls out. Tsukishima runs to the center of the court, right in front of the net. The opposing blockers observe him to predict who he’s tossing the ball to, only to leave him completely open as he dunks the ball to the Jaguars’ side of the net.
You were sure it happened fast, but the pounding of your heart made it seem like the ball hitting the ground was in slow motion. You wait for the referee’s signal, hoping that there were no misplays on the Frog’s end that would prolong the game. 
The referee whistles and extends his arm to the Frog’s court, letting everyone know that it’s your team’s win. Cheers from team members themselves roar inside the gymnasium, soon joined by the applause from the audience. 
You’re supposed to check the losing facade of the Jaguars, but the joy and relief of winning floods you that you completely forget about how they insulted your clever middle blocker. You leave your tally notebook on the bench and rush to the court along with other members. 
You’ve always been impressed with Tsukishima’s blocking skills, but to win from his offensive mindfuckery with the other team just sent you to a whole different level of being proud. So it’s him you first go to. 
Without putting any thought to it, you wrap your arms around his waist. You don’t mind that he’s sweating and that his body heat is emanating from his skin. You’re too thrilled that he scored the winning point to even care. 
“Good job, Tsukishima!”
Right after saying it out loud, you feel him tense beneath your touch. You lift your gaze up to him and meet his eyes which are wide from shock and panic. Immediately after, your eyes do the same when you realize what you’ve done.
The loud cheers from the team have stopped.  You slowly turn your head to see why, even though you already know the reason.
It’s like a paused scene from a movie where everyone completely halts whatever they’re doing. The only difference is they stopped with their attention completely on you, specifically on how your limbs are enclosed around Tsukishima’s waist and your cheek flat on his chest. 
Shit. 
You’re hugging Tsukishima in public, in front of the whole team.
Part 4 || Part 6 || masterlist
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my-writings-and-musings · 4 years ago
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Could you do TFP bots (or just a few of them if you have charcater limit or just don't feel like doing them all, as long as Wheeljack is ingluded I'm good) with a human they just recued and they're like "I'm gonna call my dad hold on" and if they protest they're like "nah you'll like him I promise, just give him a minute" and her dads their old bot friend who went MIA (you can decide who the dad is, or go with Ironhide if you're as indeciceve as me lol)
I miiiiight just have to do this as a short story I hope that's okay! Got my Wrecker boys Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Smokescreen and Ultra Magnus.
Dust was still settling as you realized the threat was over, the collection of vehicons having scattered long before the cave had finished it's partial collapse and leaving you under the gathered team of bots who'd come together to shield you from falling debris. Rubbing off the powdered rocks covering your face, as well as coughing up the taste of dirt, you took a moment to gather yourself as your new giant allies did the same. It wasn't worth thinking about what would have happened if they hadn't come along when they had... In your defense, that ambush had come out of nowhere.
"You okay there?" A deep voice above you rumbled with concern, encouraging you to tilt your head upwards at the big green bot looking down at you. His optics were friendly, and despite his absolutely massive size and hands that transformed into wrecking balls, you immediately trusted him.
"Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks to you guys." You said gratefully, looking to each of the gathered team as they brushed the dust off themselves.
"Protecting organic life is the primary responsibility of Autobots, think nothing of it." The largest of them said, somewhat gruff as he meticulously picked off the worst of the rubble that had showered down upon them. Immediately, you knew he was the one in charge. Towering above the others and with shoulder pauldrons thicker than two of you, he gave off the energy of someone who took no nonsense and had the firepower to back up his authority, yet his gaze was mostly just annoyed as he looked down to you again. "Our second responsibility, however, is remaining hidden from the denizens of this planet. Saving you required us to break cover."
"Give the kid a break, sir. They managed to escape a whole squadron by themselves before running into us. I think we can cut them some slack." A far gruffer voice said, cutting in as the battle scarred mech in question took a protective step your way. Quite immediately the colors on his unique build were familiar to you, but you decided to stay quiet on that fact, reaching for the cellphone thankfully still secure in your pocket. While you hadn't found what you'd been looking for in this mine, at least you had something far more interesting to report.
The big blue bot looked to the other with an impressive frown, unintentionally cementing your thesis as to the scarred mech's identity. The back and forth continued more or less without an acknowledgement of your presence. "They've been seen in our company, Wheeljack. By the procedure Optimus established, we must now secure their wellbeing, and that will be quite the undertaking."
The only one who had not yet spoken, a smaller but solidly built blue bot who seemed the youngest of the group, chose that moment to jump in with a quip. "Doubt docbot will be too happy about another human in the bunker."
"He's all talk. Ratchet wants these little guys as safe as the big guy does, he won't put up a fight." The gruff one, who you were starting to like more by the moment, said with an amused but reassuring smile in your direction. Unable to help smiling back, you suddenly felt that this turn of events might have been more than you could have ever hoped for. If only you could get a word in edgewise...
"You're purposefully missing the point, soldier. We-"
"If it's gonna be such a hassle for you, I'll take 'em myself."
"Jackie..." Once more, the gentle green giant spoke up, looking quite concerned at his friend's purposeful egging on of the bot in charge. You got the sense that this kind of thing happened often by his tone, but personally, you were getting a little tired of being ignored. None of what they were discussing was necessary, and if anyone would have bothered to ask you they'd know that? Finally fed up, you took a breath and raised your arms to draw attention to your tiny self.
"Um, hello? Excuse me!" You shouted, mercifully ending the bickering and securing four pairs of optics on yourself. Relieved for the silence, you pulled out your phone and held it up, projecting your voice to ensure you were heard. The shocked expressions didn't cease when you started to explain, but you didn't let that stop you. Sorting this out would make everything easier for everyone. "I think there's a bit more going on than any of you know. Let me call my dad really quick, he'll set this straight."
The first to reply was the one you knew had to be the rookie of the group, who awkwardly cleared his vents and broke the silence only hesitantly. "Uh, bringing more humans into this really isn't our goal-"
"Who said anything about him being human?" You cut in, grinning from ear to ear at the looks they all gave you. Now that you had their unbroken attention, it was only a matter of summoning your dad and waiting for him to arrive. Dialing his frequency into your phone, you prepared to share just as much information as it took to get him here fastest, wanting to see the look on his face when he arrived and saw who you'd found. This was going to be fun...
----------------------------------------------------
The roar of a familiar engine had thankfully silenced the second round of bickering to break out amongst the two argumentative bots, who had gone back and forth between listening to you and calling for their superior. It had been entertaining at first, but by the time that roar had echoed down the tunnel you'd been relieved to hear it, and had hopped to your feet from your seat on a convenient rock. The bots had reflexively drawn their weapons, but there hadn't even been any need for you to stop them. A worn red paint job skidding around the corner had made them all hold fire.
In a rush, you'd run out to greet the massive off road vehicle just as it began to transform, and in moments had been embracing the offered hand of a hulking bot who kneeled before you with an expression of happy relief.
"Ironhide!"
"Wheeljack!" Your adopted dad cried out in absolute joy, letting you move safely to the side before approaching the bot who's identity you'd properly guessed. Ironhide had told you so many stories about the Wrecker, it made sense that you'd been able to tell who he was by appearance and mannerisms despite having never met. The two bots greeted one another with an earth trembling chest bump, after which your beaming father turned to the green bot with just as much enthusiasm, shaking hands and crashing their fists together with overwhelming power. "Bulkhead too? Where have you guys been?"
"We might ask you the same thing, soldier." The big blue bot said, cutting in with the same serious look that appeared to be his only expression. On a closer inspection, however, you could see a certain light in his optics. He wasn't altogether displeased to see a new arrival. Standing somewhat awkwardly to the side, the young blue bot appeared delighted if not quite confused.
"Uh, long story, Ultra Magnus sir. I've been on this planet for some time. Found this little troublemaker when they were half their current size, and I've been raising 'em to help with our cause." Ironhide said affectionately, stepping back and dropping to one knee to be more on your level. Before you could puff up proudly at the praise, a single digit tussled your hair as he often did to tease, and you sputtered before playfully pushing him away and undoing the damage. Chuckling, he turned back to his comrades. "Never figured I'd bump into you all here! Jackie, Bulk, and uh..."
The attention turned to the young bot, who only smiled with a wave and a not offended clarification on his name.
"Smokescreen."
Wheeljack gave your dad a playful punch, still buzzing at seeing his old friend alive. The friendship you'd so frequently heard about was clear as day before you. "Glad to see you in one piece, old Rusthide."
"We've been here for years, Ironhide. How come we didn't detect you?" Bulkhead said, looking just as happy but burdened by the question at hand. Ironhide tapped his audial with a somewhat glum smile.
"Communicator's been busted for ages, all I've got is an earth link for cellphones." He said, recalling an injury he'd endured long before meeting you. The line he'd built relied on earth technology, and you still remembered how many tries it had taken to get it right. It was impossible to imagine a whole other team of beings like himself had been out there the whole time... Yet he didn't look at all regretful as he glanced down at you. "If I'd known I wasn't alone, I would have introduced myself and the kid ages ago. Looks like we've got my little one to thank for bringing us together."
You pouted and crossed your arms at the comment. "I'm not little anymore, dad."
"They did alright in a scrap, but how about we get you two back to base? I'm sure the other's will want to hear the story." Wheeljack said, easing your damaged pride with the compliment. You had indeed evaded those Vehicons for a good long while before being rescued... speaking of which, you could use a bit of rest somewhere secure.
Once more, Ultra Magnus stepped in to halt the festivities. "First; I shall communicate with Optimus and let him know what has transpired. He will likely want to meet you in person before we make any rash decisions."
"Seriously? Come on, Mags! Let's get this bot in an actual base!" Wheeljack replied in a huff, bringing back the arguing from before as if it had never stopped. Looking quite amused, Ironhide merely chuckled and offered you his hand, allowing you to get a lift onto his shoulders as was your custom. Clearly not phased by what he was seeing, the only parent you'd ever known let you get comfortable before following the group out of the partially collapsed cave. Who could have thought your simple little scouting mission would end like this?
"Come on kiddo." He said softly, watching the bickering with an expression of nostalgia. "I have a feeling things are about to get pretty interesting."
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