#but he Also carries a sort of pride and dignity to him which makes the others mistake him for a nobleman cuz of it

[aria0fgold]

My headcanons for the named trio in The Cursing of Chateau Castle series:

Josephandre is a big bear. It just fits for him I think! He gets he/him pronouns, and as a way to make him a liiiil more relatable for Mira, he'd have two craft types (Rock type being his main one and paper craft for the other). Battle style wise, I think it fits him to be more of a self-sustaining tank. He buffs defense, heals, and puts up shields. For his weapon, he'd use his fists like Isabeau. He'll be the second fastest in the trio.

Lady Irene-Janine-Kanine looks like an elegant noblewoman on the outside but she has vibes similar to Euphrasie! She gets she/her pronouns. Her craft type is Paper. Battle style wise, she's more on the offensive side, a main dps kind of thing. Most of her skills focus on buffing attack and speed, she'd have an item that helps regen her hp a lil bit and her chosen weapon is an umbrella. The tip is a sharp blade so it's used like a spear that has a hidden sword in its handle. Open it, and it becomes a shield! That'd be one of her skills too, although it's only applicable to her. She's the fastest one of the trio.

Pierre-Jacques-Erneste looks like a nobleman and carries himself as such! He gets he/they pronouns. Their craft type is Scissors. Battle style wise, he's more of a debuffer, skills focusing on weakening the enemies, slowing them down, poisoning them. Their weapon is a sword dagger, though he doesn't seem to be able to handle it well, how clumsy! But he Is a nobleman so it makes sense! Oh but... why doesn't he have a title? They're the slowest one of the trio, how strange, he seemed to be faster than Lady Irene-Janine-Karine that one time though.

[nightsdreamgates]

I absolutely LOVE your au and your writing ✍️ for it.

Can I ask for some general dating headcannons for reala and nights? It can be the main game or your au, whichever you prefer

To make it much easier for me, since I'm STILL sick 😭😭 I will write general Headcanons for both of them from the main game! Pretty summarized too to not make it seem like a cluster giggles

# ;. NiGHTS Romance Gen. HCs:

" Despite his carefree, troublemaker and anti-hero perks, NiGHTS never always been just reduced into being ``goofy``. He is a nightmaren with many layers, that he hides it under his playful nature. He can be quiet, as the full moon night, can be snarky, as a serpent, yet caring as well... Not afraid to show how he really feels, yet intriguing when he chooses to simply observe and keep his own points to themself. How?... How could be so frustrating yet so adoring at same time?! Whoever manages to get inside this maren's mind, things gets more clearer."

NiGHTS never expected much to be in a relationship, but they also always had curiosity on it!

In a romantic sense, NiGHTS would be the funny bf/gf in the relationship, sometimes teasing you to a point that it's annoying, only to see your grumpy face and angry huffs

Their way of love communication, is gifts, quality time and touching. Giving you little trinkets that made them think of you, spending time on Nightopia while slowly holding your hand without you even noticing

NiGHTS like the way your hand feels, how your skin is smooth or so delicate with his - To a point that when he carries you in a bride style, they rub their cheeks into yours as a form of affection

NiGHTS from the game itself, we notice that he speaks on his own language - althought I think he also can speak in any language you are native of!

About the languages, if you teach them a few accents from your native language and it's meanings, NiGHTS will start using them correctly as he can, even creating few new words just for you to make fun of him

He is an attention seeker and pretty petty when he wants to, so when you ignore him or slightly brush him away, they start to become dramatic and cling onto you, just to make you feel guilty or bad for it (never in a harmful way, since he cares about your feelings too!)

If he would have a favorite memory, one that they find the sweetest, it would be one night, you and him started to talk about your own future, your problems and fears... The way that you looked at him once he admitted his mistakes and even fears, he felt like the world had turned merciful to him... to give someone he can trust on, without worrying much.

Now one silly and last that I thought, is that sometimes when you have to rescue him out of the ideya palaces, when he had made you upset a day ago, you would tease on him and even prank, making him to have to say the magic words so you can help him!

NiGHTS still has his ego and pride... But the way you manage to break it by simply being kind, fair and gorgeous to their eyes, is what gets him more lost in knees for you ♡

.

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# ;. Reala - Romance Gen. Hcs:

" How could I even be choosen by this sort of feelings? Love isn't made for someone like me, althought it gives me a sense of admired by inferiors - loved in a sense of being cared, sounds stupid. And if it does, then I'm a fool for had fallen so easily in your schemes. I never truly cared about anything besides myself, since I am the only one to trust. Say whatever you want, my devotion to my purpose is still loyal, but I don't trust my creator. If what you say is true, if I can have the dignity to deserve `love`... Then show me. "

During the time he had spent with you, all you did was nothing but show him respect in a different way.

With his power, mighty and fear he brings upon his own kind, you seemed to not fear him. Which intrigued him as much it annoyed him.

Now that he understand your fearless nature, is nothing but respect, the way you act merciful, kind and caring to him, was enough for this tough maren' soften in your arms.

His way of showing love, is words of affirmation, praisings, touching and gifts. Ways that he can dedicate on now this relationship, on how he deserves your love as much you deserves to be felt special.

You always reassured him that they don't need to do that to proof something that you already see, but Reala tends to be a bit stubborn, insisting, until he promised to at least `tone it down`.

He never been a cranked up boomer, he also got some humour, and find himself pleased hearing you laughing at his salty attitude.

Their sarcasm is pretty clear, but if you aren't used to it, he would be surprised seeing how innocent you are to a point of not getting sarcasm most of the time. (Dw he'll teach u how to be salty)

His ideal partner always had been someone who are capable of controlling and helping the relationship grow, someone that takes it and compromise it deeply, not just a night stander or a simple girlfriend/boyfriend thing.

He loves when you kiss his face tenderly; this face that many people screamed and ran away of it, being held and kissed, praised on too, by their darling.

If you ask, Reala would let you sit on his lap while they are on the throne. Specially if you give him pats and bunch of affection. The sense of being praised like that makes his stomach tingle.

Dating Reala also means `watchdog` or `bodyguard` benefits, he will destroy anyone, the whole WORLD, if he sees you crying... Then they would compliment and keep you so close.

Ty very much for the request and the patience, hope ya like it!

[masonsystem]

complaining abt godot's role in the ending of 3-5 hur hur

it took me some rewatches some rereads and a whole lot of thinking, but i think i finally get what 3-5 was going for now.. basically, godot is supposed to be this tragic figure that was forced into being a killer in order to protect maya. the game is self-aware enough to point out the flaws with his actions, with how he was too prideful to ask for phoenix's help, how he may have been blinded by revenge against dahlia, etc. and while im still not the biggest fan of how the game executed this reveal, as i still think there wasnt enough foreshadowing to warrant the reveal that he was at the temple this entire time (which is also why it took as long as it did for me to rly understand the ending).. i have bigger gripes with his overall character arc, so atp its whatever. my overall main gripes w godot's arc is that im weirded out by how it kinda overshadows mia's and maya's character, while also being framed in a way im not particularly on board with..

i find it weird that godot had acted in mia's and maya's self-interest, yet he hadnt consulted or properly spoke to either of them at all. he didnt have any means to speak with mia, so my main criticisms are between him and maya. tho i do find it weird that tht a proper conversation between mia and godot didnt happen at any point.. but thats besides the point. anyways, its weird that he just let maya go to hazakura, knowing that this would put her life in danger, and didnt think to inform neither maya nor phoenix abt this. he just let that happen, thinking that he (along w iris' and misty's cooperation) wouldve been enough to protect her.. like what. like ok, the game at least makes it so he points out how kinda stupid this was of him, and that if he really cared abt maya's safety, he shouldve let either her or phoenix know. but its still like.. the reason he didnt tell neither maya nor phoenix was bc of his pride; he faulted phoenix for not protecting mia, and so he wanted to show him how protecting someone should be done. and bc he held a grudge against phoenix for not protecting mia, he didnt want phoenix's help at all. and so he kept both maya and phoenix in the dark bc of his own pride……

and its like, this wasnt just a silly little mistake he made, valuing his pride over practicality. no.. this ended up costing a person's life, and not just any person, but the mother of our dearest friends. which is terrible! but that on its own, isnt actually that bad, writing wise. a tragedy borne from a person's pride is a common tragedy, and when executed well, can be really really good. but the problem i have w how godot's character arc executed this is with the framing.. after we undress godot as misty's murderer, hes then surrounded with an air of tragic dignity. as though him killing misty was an inevitable, sorrowful, tragic thing…. and im sorry but WHAT??? WHAT?!??!

this dude… KILLED SOMEONE. he allowed maya to get caught in a dangerous situation, which he Knew about, didnt tell neither her or phoenix about the danger, and then had to Kill someone to protect maya, all bc he was too prideful!! he ended up in this situation where he had to kill someone bc of his pride! this is a tragedy, yes, but it is more senseless than it is tragic. this isnt a "this didnt have to happen" type of tragedy, this is a "why the fuck did this even happen to begin with??!?" type of tragedy!! and yet… it isnt portrayed as such??

instead of being portrayed as a shameful fool... godot is instead allowed to maintain an air of dignity?? why is that??? when i think back to the other killers we've convicted who maintained an air of dignity, i can recall vasquez, mimi miney, and gant. all three of them confessed on the stand, and express a grim sort of resignation at what they have done. vasquez killed out of self defense, miney to cover her tracks, and gant for a twisted sort of insurance. and yet, despite the resigned dignity that they carried with them, these guys still had an air of shame surrounding them! bc they were killers!!! so why was godot afforded a special type of tragic dignity…??? bc him becoming a murderer wasnt some sort of tragedy… it was just senseless!! and not just that, but i had to drag the truth out of him! he didnt just confess to what he had done, when he couldve.. LIKE…. i get its for the drama, and to fold up the dahlia arc first but still.. basically.. WHY THE FUCK DID I DRINK A CUP OF COFFEE WITH HIM..?!?!? WITH THE PERSON WHO KILLED MY BESTIES' MOM…. WHAT?!?!?

and!!! and why were mia and maya… so ok with this??? thats another thing, this game shouldve been abt mia and maya; the final case was all abt the fey clan women, we've played as mia for 2/5 of the cases, and the fact tht mia, who despite being such an important character, had been out of the spotlight for the overarching narratives of the past 2 games.. aa3 shouldve been the fey women's turn!! but instead…. its about.. Godot??!? and the thing is like… godot's arc is supposed to also be about mia and maya, right? bc hes closely linked with mia, and 'became a killer' to protect maya…. but instead, his arc, and by extension aa3 as a whole, is like.. about his dumb pride.. huh??!! its about what Godot thinks about mia and maya, but not about mia or maya themselves. and the fact that both mia and maya had tried to cover for him…. what even bro. not to mention! that the past 2 games had already gone over the whole "the courtroom shouldnt be a battle of personal pride, but for justice instead" schtick, and then godot comes belatedly shambling in trying to score a victory against us as a matter of personal honor, like what?? What!!!

but basically yeah um... for these reasons, aa3 is definitely the least favorite of the trilogy for me, and this isnt even going over the whole iris and dahlia deal which is another type of strange... 3-5's final trial was just. Strangeee to me. also since im rambling anyways, just to comment some more abt how i think there wasnt enough foreshadowing to godot's presence at the temple.. theres a moment when maya is on the stand, where you can press a statement that talks abt a storage room that godot couldve been hidden in this whole time:

and thats just like... what!!?? a storage room thats just. never been seen or mentioned... and its like. well then if this is all it takes for someone to have just been at the temple this whole time, then gumshoe couldve also been here this entire time, what!! and also godot being here this entire time meant that he just like, ignored pearl the whole time while she was stranded here... which is.. such a shitty thing for him to do... Huhhhh?????

[thebluestbluewords]

For the h/c bingo ....

Jaylos and hijacked car !!

ty for sending this!!! I've been writing super super slowly lately BUT I finally reached a posting point for tumblr and hopefully I'll have the rest of this done in just a few more days!

Jaylos, Hijacked Car, mentions of painful terrible death but no actual injury in this section. Mentions of isle-related food issues.

01.

“I don’t think stealing a car is the best idea, man,” Carlos says doubtfully, trotting along behind Jay, arms full of the junk they’ve been collecting. “There’s not like, a lot to choose from out here. Are we stealing from the Commander?” 

Jay’s moving fast. “What Rourke? Nah. I’ve got a better idea. You scared to find out who it is?” 

“No,” Carlos says immediately. He’s not scared. .It’s just that he has some sort of self-preservation instinct, and his gang doesn’t seem to have any at all. Not that it makes a difference, because they don’t have many other choices. He needs the parts, and there’s nowhere else to get them, and even if he is scared, or if Jay were a little bit less careless about getting hurt,  they don’t have another option. “Just. Not really looking to get my head kicked in today, which is what will happen if I get caught with my hands in anyone else’s vehicle.” 

Jay glances back at him. “Sounds like you’re scared,” he says, grinning. He looks cool. Like, Auradon-shiny magazine ad levels of cool and confident and shit.  Like he’s having a great time, and not dragging Carlos after him through the market while he talks out loud about the stupidest fucking idea that they’ve ever had. “You wanna play it safe, furball? Let your mother find out you were in her engine again, tearing shit out for your projects?” 

“That’s none of your business what I was doing with her engine,” Carlos shoots back, aiming for haughty indifference to the opinions of people like Jay, and missing. Badly. “And also, I don’t tear shit out, I remove it. Carefully. With the correct tools.” 

“You’ve got them with you, yeah?” 

This is going nowhere that Carlos wants to be. 

“Yes, I have the car shit.”  he agrees, hefting the bag. It’s somewhere in the pile of junk he’s carrying. Under the other greasy car parts that he definitely didn’t rip out of other machines he’s been working on. It’s not like he needs the other machines or anything. They’re only his life’s work. Totally fine to rip apart because apparently his mother needs a functioning car as of yesterday, and right now her precious baby automobile is in about seven different pieces in various other machines spread across his bolt-holes on other sides of the Isle. 

“Sooo,” Jay says, drawing out the word so that it’s basically three words, with a great deal more significance than a single syllable is supposed to have. Carlos almost hates when he does this, except for how the stupid face Jay makes along with the words makes him want to do something forbidden. With his mouth. On Jay’s mouth. Gently. With tongue. “We’re gonna steal a new engine. I’ll distract the owners, who you’ve already worked for, by the way, and you carefully remove your shit with the proper tools, and then we’re golden.” 

“And then they catch us,” Carlos agrees. “and I get my shit kicked in again.”

Jay sighs with his whole body, throwing his shoulders into it. “They’re not gonna catch us.” 

“Except for how they are.” 

“They’re not! Besides, what’s the worst that’ll happen? They steal the engine back, and we’re back where you started?” 

Plus or minus some new bruises. And a sense of pride and dignity that he’ll lose, because being caught by an Animal, (because there’s only so many people with cars on the isle, and even fewer that Carlos has worked with, and if they keep walking the way they’re currently going there’s nowhere left to go except the Air Pirate junkyard) is just humiliating. 

 “I just think it’s a stupid plan!” Carlos says one last time, like it’s going to change anything. “Stealing from Karnage is like asking to get caught, and then he’s going to literally eat your heart out of your chest and Mal’s going to laugh at us for being dumbasses who got murdered over a car engine.” 

Jay laughs, because he’s a reckless asshole sometimes who likes pulling off the impossible. The annoying thing is that he usually does pull it off, and his ego just gets worse every time he escapes with whatever thing he was trying to get. “Mal’s going to give us shit no matter what happens. You wanna tell her that you chickened out and left me to face Karnage all on my own? How d’you think that one’s gonna go down? Hey, fearless leader, I left your second in command behind when he was trying to do me a favor, and now he’s being eaten by wolves and needs you to go come to the rescue.” 

“Shut up, she’s not gonna be that bad.” 

“She’s gonna be too busy fooling around with Evie to come to my rescue, and you’re gonna have to come back and recover my body once the wolves are done with it.” 

Carlos shivers. Gods, but he hates the Animals. It’s bad enough that they’re basically d-o-g-s, but it’s somehow worse because they talk and drink like humans despite not having opposable thumbs to hold the bottles with. “Maybe that’s been my plan. You can be a distraction for them to eat while I’m running away with my new engine.” 

Jay laughs, and turns around to clap a hand down on Carlos’s shoulder. “Hey, that’s almost the same as my plan! Glad you’re on board, man. I’ll distract them, you pop the stuff out and make a run for it. It’ll take, what, ten minutes for you to get the stuff we need out of the car?” 

Carlos sighs. They’re doing this. “Five. It’s not attached that well. I’m the one who put it in there in the first place.” 

“I thought your work was the best around.” Jay teases, turning his head slightly to walk backwards for a second. Carlos takes the second to appreciate the way Jay’s hair is moving in the faintly smoke-scented breeze. 

He’s not taking advantage of the moment if Jay actively encourages the looks. Sure, they’ve never exactly said anything about any feelings that might be between them, but there’s a lot that they don’t talk about. It’s not safe to have feelings about other people, for one thing. For another,Jay already knows that he looks. He’s never said anything about it, and once, when they were both in the hideout later than they were supposed to be, Jay didn’t move away from him on their shitty old couch, and they slept just like they’d been sitting, with Carlos’s head on Jay’s shoulder. 

It’s almost as stupid and reckless as their current plan, but someday, Carlos is going to try kissing Jay. He’s pretty sure it’s going to go well. And if it doesn’t, it’s not he doesn’t have a million ways to die, and keep dying until he can hide his shame and run away to the pirate’s side of the island to form a new identity and never try to kiss anyone ever again. 

“I didn’t wanna spend a lot of time on this one, man. It was a quick-n-dirty job. The crew freaks me out.” 

“Oh, cause they're–” Jay makes a snapping motion with his teeth. Animals. “Yeah?” 

The moment of heartstopping terror is fine. It’s normal. It’s not going to actually hurt him, unlike the air pirates themselves, who are happily going to chew his legs off when they get caught. 

“Yeah,” Carlos agrees, suppressing the queasy shiver that his body wants to give at the mention of the air pirate pack. At least all of the villains on the Isle are sentient Animals, and not the same mindless killing machines as untrained dogs outside of the Isle. Sure, there’s plenty of books out there claiming that dogs are the best companions humans can have. Libraries of them even. Enough books to build a wall, which is exactly what Carlos would like to have between himself and any canines, regardless of their capital-A-Animal status. “They’re– yeah. I don’t like working around them.” 

“All the more reason to get in and out,” Jay points out, infuriatingly rational. “You should drop the rest of your stuff before we go in though. You wanna hide it at my dad’s place?” 

Carlos does not want to hide his stuff anywhere near an adult. He usually keeps his spare parts in the sort of hidey-holes that only children can fit into, the sort of places that are accessible through tiny storage windows and cracked ventilation shafts that are from the Before times. The adults haven’t managed to break into every abandoned warehouse on the isle, and there’s just enough places still that are only accessible through places small enough for a kid to fit through that they’re almost safe. 

At fourteen, Carlos is still small and skinny enough to fit into the childish bolt-holes that he’s been using for years. Jay isn’t, not anymore, which they’ve all been taking as a victory. Finally, one of them is large enough to take on an adult. Sixteen isn’t actually that far off from fourteen, but between the two of them, Jay’s already grown into what will probably be his adult body, and Carlos is still fighting his mother and her henchmen for every scrap of food he can get, and probably won’t ever be tall enough to reach the higher beams in the warehouse all the Dragon Hall kids like to use for parkour practice. 

It’s fine. 

The offer of a storage space is a kindness, and it’s one that Carlos doesn’t especially want to take, but also can’t exactly afford not to. 

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Sure. We can drop it there. You’re sure we can pick it up later?” 

“Dad’s out of the place until sundown.” Jay says, slowing down. “He’s not back til things open up for the night. We can keep it under my stuff until then. I’ve got a box that’s mostly empty, and he probably won’t look at it twice so long as I bring some interesting shit back when we swing by to pick it up again.” 

“Fine,” Carlos agrees, sliding half of his pile into Jay’s waiting arms. They can stash it for a few hours without too much risk, especially if Jafar is out for most of that time. “Are you lifting anything good from the air pirate garage?” 

“Just some batteries they’ve had around for a while. Nothing they’ve been using.” Jay says, grinning. 

Batteries are more valuable than gold. There’s limited electricity on the Isle, so battery power is how most of the smaller gadgets have to run. Car batteries can give a smaller household power for weeks before they die, and they usually don’t explode before then, especially if they’re being sold to the market goers, who usually live further away from the docks and the saltwater that’ll corrupt them faster than that. 

It’s risky. The air pirates have one of the biggest (read: only) legit garages on the isle, but they’re also limited on what they can do in terms of opposable thumbs for some of the more fiddly installations. It’s why they call in other engineers (read: Carlos) to help with some of their more sensitive projects, but that limitation combined with their ample supply of teeth and overpowered biting jaws means that they can sometimes acquire a pileup of parts beyond what they can use at one time. So it’s probably true that they have’t been using all of their batters, but it’s also likely equally true that they can and will exact revenge against anyone who takes the hoard. 

“You’re going to die,” Carlos tells Jay seriously. “You’re crazy, man.” 

“Does that mean you’re not doing it with me?” 

“No,” Carlos sighs. He’s stupid, but not stupid enough to trade probable death for the absolute one that’s waiting if he doesn’t come up with the parts to fix his mother’s car by tomorrow morning. “I’m in.” 

02.

“This is the worst plan.” 

Jay lifts the bag of tools up so Carlos can reach them easier. “We’ve had worse. What about the time with the eels and the jelly?” 

“One of the worst.” 

“Maybe. Can you reach?” 

Carlos shifts his weight carefully onto his toes. The car they need is hanging on chains over his head, and the guts of the engine are exposed, which should make it easy to reach. If things were fair, they’d both be able to use the giant crank in the corner to move the car down to where he can actually reach it, but because they’re the unlucky bastards who’re stuck on the isle, nothing is fair and the crank is so rusted over that they can’t risk touching it without it squealing and exposing them to the pirates. 

His fingertips brush over the rusted belly of the car. Just a few more centimeters, and he could get his longest wrench up where he needs it. Just enough to get a little leverage, and then he could get what they need. 

“Almost–” Carlos risks a tiny bit further, and jams the tip of his middle finger into a crevice in the car. Rust flakes rain down into his face. “Ouch. No.” 

“Damn. Can you get down?” 

Getting down is easy. Two steps down off the stepstool, and then another off the roof of the junk car that’s standing on, and then a quick hop to the ground. 

Carlos hops down, engineless and somewhat greasier than when they started. “So.” 

Jay steps back, trying very hard not to look like he was spotting Carlos on the way down. “So,” he agrees. “Plan B?” 

“Which is?” 

Jay glances up at the car hanging over their heads. “I’m taller. I can probably reach the parts, if you can tell me exactly what I’m looking for and distract them when they notice we’re here.” 

Distract the Air Pirates. Right. A shiver of icy-hot nausea sweeps through Carlos at the thought of being in front of that many angry Animals. Teeth and fangs and claws….and him without a single seasoning. Maybe he should have put barbeque sauce under his eyes, just to spare the pirates the horror of eating him alive and unseasoned. Even if he can distract them long enough, there’s still no guarantee that Jay will be able to get the correct piece out of the car, and they’ll have done all this for nothing, and at the loss of the pirates as a customer. 

On the other hand,  if they don’t at least try to get the part tonight, he’s going home to Cruella empty handed and still without a hope of getting her a working vehicle by tomorrow. 

Okay. 

“You’re sure you can get it out?” Carlos asks, already pulling out the tools he’ll need to pass up. “It’s the plugs and the connector gaskets. And the piece at the back that looks like a little steam valve. You’ve helped with the plugs before, just don’t–” 

“I know, I know,” Jay interrupts, voice low and urgent. “Pull the plug out from the top, disconnect the wires first, and don’t drop anything or it’ll go straight through where we don’t want it to go.” 

Carlos blinks. “Wow, you do listen. I’m so proud.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Jay says, but he’s smiling a little bit, and it’s worth the embarrassment of offering it to see his reaction to the praise. “Gimme the stuff and I’ll hop up in a sec.” 

It’s a set of pliers and two wrenches. Not a huge amount of tools. “If you lose these I might never forgive you.” Carlos whispers. 

Jay accepts the tools with the appropriate respect, and tucks them in the front pockets of his jacket. “I know.” 

“Come back alive.” 

That gets another grin, one of the brilliantly bright ones that looks so out of place on the Isle. “I will.” Jay promises, leaping up onto the hood of the car before Carlos can do anything else. It’s a quick step up onto the stepstool, and from there it’s easy for Jay, with his stupidly superior height, to grab the side of the car and hoist himself the rest of the way up so he can get the pieces they need. 

Carlos waits.

The darkened garage is not a great place to be waiting alone. There’s a lot of other places that Carlos would rather be, if he’s being honest. His closet isn’t usually his first choice, but it’s quiet, and doesn’t have faint scratching noises in every corner that could be rats, or the echoes of what Jay is doing above him, or the pirates finally coming in to discover them both. His mother’s kitchen isn’t much better, but it’s at least warm. The garage is cool and dark, and there’s sticky mystery rags left all over the place. And some sort of scrabbly noise that’s definitely coming from under a car over there. 

Carlos has a flashlight in his pocket. He could turn it on to check out the noise, but the flash of light, even if he just turns it on for a second, would probably alert the pirates. Better to wait. Also, it’s hard to be sure of what he’s hearing over the thumping of his own heartbeat. 

The scratching noise could be nothing. No reason for Carlos’s lungs to feel like they’re pulling air in through wet cement. It’s fine, and there’s no animals sneaking up on them with their superior senses and teeth and claws and hey, sweating like it’s the middle of summer probably isn’t the best thing to be happening, but it’s probably nothing. 

Breathe. 

Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium– 

The scrabbling turns into a clang, and Carlos whips his head around so fast something in his neck snaps. There’s fur. Brown, disgusting fur. Not Don Karnage. 

 There’s a fuckoff-huge rat in the corner. That’s what the noise is, just a rat. 

Carlos doesn’t hate rats the way that he hates certain other animals. He actually likes some of them, because they’re sort of cute, and it’s not the worst thing when one of the rats in Hell Hall runs through the closet before him in the morning and sets off a couple of the bear traps before he can get a chance to trip into them. They’re almost smart sometimes, especially here on the isle where their colonies have space to grow and fight with the smaller humans for whatever food scraps they can get without being poisoned like they’d be in Auradon.  Villains can appreciate the value in a free pet, and also prefer to use their poisons on more valuable targets than household pests. 

“Hey,” Carlos whispers, flicking a hand at the rat. As much as he appreciates the company, it’s a little unnerving to be stared at by a rodent as big as his foot. “Get out of here.” 

The rat lifts a paw, almost like it’s flicking a hand back. 

Aw, shit. 

“TRESPASSER!” the rat squeaks at the top of its tiny lungs. “CRIMINAL! CRIMINAL IN THE SHOP!” 

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. 

“I’m not–” Carlos stutters, lunging for the rat. “Hey, shut up, I’m not trespassing. I work here, same as you, right? I’ve got my tools and everything.” 

“TRESPASSER!” the rat squeaks, bolting for the door. “CRIMINAL!” 

Rats are smart. 

“I’ve got food.” Carlos says quickly, stepping back towards his bag. Hands up. Nobody likes being grabbed, not even a rat. His heart is beating so hard he’s pretty sure even the rat can hear it, but it’s fine. He’s got bribes, and nobody on the isle is going to turn down food, especially not an underpaid evening guard. It seems pretty reasonable to assume that not even guard rats get fair pay. Carlos has, in fact, been employed by the Air Pirates before, and he’s pretty sure it’s a safe assumption based on how well they compensated their human help. 

The rat stops. “I’m listening.” it says, in a normal, squeaky little voice. 

“Hey, yeah, you want my food? I’ve got a sandwich, only a few days old. Peanut butter.” 

“Not to be a sell-out,” the rat says. “Because I’m not, in case you were wondering. Us rats are actually very loyal creatures. Very good to our masters. But yes. I do want your food.” 

“You’re fair to them when they’re fair to you?” Carlos asks absently, rummaging through his bag for the sandwich. It was going to be his dinner tonight, but he’s not going to have time to eat while he’s working on the car anyway.  “I bet the Air Pirates aren’t very generous bosses, right? They probably never share the best stuff with you, not when you’re so small and they’re so big.” 

“As a matter of fact, they don’t.” the rat agrees. “Awful bosses, and they smell terrible too.” 

Carlos swallows hard at the thought. He’s worked down here a few times when it’s been raining, and the smell of that many wet canines in one place meant that he was fighting back nausea all day. The memory makes giving up his dinner hurt a little less. “So if I give you the sandwich, you’ll keep quiet about the fact that I’m in here?” 

The rat laughs. “Sure. And if you give me your name, I’ll even tell them it wasn’t you.” 

“An hour. Please.”  

The rat creeps forward. “An hour I can do. It’ll take me that long to finish this thing. Peanut butter, you said?” 

Carlos looks down at the sandwich in his hand, a little bit desperately. Goodbye, dinner. Hello, a new level of despicable bribery. “And jelly. Grape. Didn’t even have mold in the jar when I got it.” 

“Mold adds flavor. It’s important for your immune system. Kids these days should eat more dirt if they really wanna know what’s good for them.” 

“Well,” Carlos says, praying that he’s not being too obvious about the fact that he’s stalling for time. “I would, but I have this sandwich here, and unless you want it, I’m really going to choose this over the dirt, Mister rat, sir.” 

The rat sniffs. “That’s Ratticus to you. And I’ll take that.” 

“An hour of silence,” Carlos insists, holding on to the food. “And you promise not to tell them I was here?” 

“I said an hour. Don’t push your luck, kid.” 

An hour is fine. Jay should have the pieces out in a few more minutes, and they can be halfway across the isle in an hour. Even if they have to stop back at the Junk Shop, they can still be back at Hell Hall and the far reaches of the market area within an hour’s time.  “Deal.” 

The rat scurries forward and takes the sandwich into his mouth. “‘Uf ‘ont ‘egress ‘if,” he says. “Pwomif.” 

Carlos already regrets giving away the food. Stupid talking Animals, posting guards. Stupid misplaced loyalty, giving up his dinner to protect Jay. Stupid car, being just too high for him to reach. The only one of them in here tonight who’s not stupid is the rat, who’s already gone, taking the sandwich with him. 

“Stupid,” Carlos whispers, kicking a downed tire. “Stupid fucking rats.” 

“Hey,” Jay whisper-hisses from above. “Cee.” 

“What?” 

“Would you grab my batteries while I’m up here? My source said they’re allegedly  in a box by the main office.” 

“Allegedly.” Carlos mutters, heading off in the direction of the office. “Allegedly, there’s no guards here, dont’cha know.” 

“Grab three if you can carry them!” Jay whispers back. 

Argh. Batteries for Jay. Engine pieces for his mother. The sandwich for the rats. Carlos would fucking love to get something for himself, but that’s never going to happen, and he prides himself on being the rational one. Jay’s the charming one, Mal’s the planner, Evie’s the beautiful one, and Carlos is the rational one, the one who gives up his time and his engine pieces and his fucking food for everyone else so that they don’t beat him up and make his life even more miserable than it already is. 

The batteries are in a cardboard box by the door of the office. They’re heavy, but a stack of three (out of the twelve the pirates have, what the fuck) isn’t too much to handle. 

Carlos staggers back with the batteries in his arms. Two of them fit in the tool bag, which is perfect, because there’s no way he’s running all the way back to the junk shop carrying all three of them in his arms. The third one he wraps in a rag from the floor and tucks inside his jacket. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep it hidden from the most obvious of prying eyes on the trip back out. 

“Catch.” Jay calls. 

The spark plugs hit Carlos’s hands, two greasy, perfect little pieces that might buy him enough time to fix his mother’s engine before she ends him. “Received.” 

Jay hits the car roof a moment later. The tools are sticking out of his pocket, and there’s a faint outline of more pieces shoved down the front of his jacket.  “Got them all. Ready to run?” 

“So ready. This place still gives me the creeps.” 

“Tell me about it,” Jay says, without any real heat. “Wicked work with the guard though. Smart thinking to buy him off with food like that.” 

“Next time we do something like this I’m giving the guard your dinner,” Carlos mumbles, zipping his jacket securely over the battery and plugs. “You can tell Evie what happened to it. She doesn’t still get on your case about missing meals, right?” 

“Nah. She likes you more.” 

“Bold words from the guy who tried to charm her pants off last week.” 

Jay breathes out something like a laugh. He’s got the bag with the tools and the remaining batteries slung over his shoulder. “Ouch, man.  She turned me down, I’ll have you know. I think she’s saving herself for a special someone else, if y’know what I mean.” 

Carlos almost smiles at that. It’s an open secret that Mal and Evie are spending every free moment together, doing what teenagers do. “What, a woman?” 

“Ooh, double ouch.” Jay snarks, vaulting up to the top of the rusty chain link fence surrounding the junkyard. They came in through the front gate, but there’s a light on in the doghouse next to it now, so they can’t take the risk again. The fence is closer to where they need to run anyway. “You ever think about going into a career in villainy with that mouth?” 

“You ever think about–” Carlos shoots back. And then stops. There’s motion by the front gate, and it’s something moving on two legs. “Shit. Hide.” 

To Jay’s credit, he does. Immediately. The fence rattles a bit, but Jay’s already fading into the shadows faster than Carlos can track him, so he should be able to run before the guards find him. Jay’s fast. He should be able to make it home. . 

Carlos drops to the ground. There’s no time for him to jump the fence too, not unless he wants the figure to hear him for sure, and probably get a good solid look and smell of him too. If he can play dead, there’s a chance that the pirate won’t notice him. 

If Carlos is lucky, the pirate will be like the rest of them. Drunk and stupid. Both categories of people make mistakes, and Carlos is betting hard that this one is going to be one or the other, or if he’s very, very lucky, both. 

The figure is moving. Clawed feet coming this way. Moving erratically. Maybe drunk, maybe something else. Maybe playing a game. Carlos can’t keep running the chances in his head anymore, because he’s stuck now. Nowhere to run without being seen. He’s got a corner of Jay’s battery jammed into his chest. His heart is pounding double-time around it. Maybe triple-time. His breath is caught in his chest too, but he can’t afford the sounds that gasping for enough air would make, so he’s stuck slightly dizzy, shoving his own face into the dirt and playing dead as best he can. 

Someone takes a heavy, crunching footstep closer. 

It’s a dry night. No stench of wet canine in the air tonight, but the idea of it still hangs heavy across the entire garage and junkyard. 

Another crunching footstep closer. 

Carlos breathes as shallowly as he can. Less movement is better. He’s fully hidden behind the stack of tires. Hidden and silent, that’s him. Like a statue. One of the marble ones that people are always selling and arguing about selling on TV. Here lies the Statue of An Idiot, prone on the ground. By the old master Fear, produced in the mid 21st century. 

The footsteps stop. 

Fuck. 

The beast pounds on something metallic. A shrieking clang, rusted metal scraping over more rusted metal. Carlos can taste it in the back of his throat. 

The beast howls out a yell into the night. “Your shitbucket’s not here, Lassy! You owe me a day’s work!” 

Glass breaking. Not close. Inside the house, maybe. 

“I tol– told yah!” the creature shouts back in the direction of the glass. “You moved in last week when we got those new vulture scraps in! You owe me, bet’s a bet!” 

More howls from the house. The Air Pirates must be in there, Carlos realizes. The footsteps turn and crunch away. It’s still not safe to move. Not when his legs are numb with fear. 

It takes a long moment of awful, blessed silence after the pirate goes back in the house before Jay melts out of the shadows again. He’s still got the bag, which means he was probably waiting there the whole time. Watching Carlos panic and crush his own face into the filthy ground over nothing. 

Wonderful. 

Vaulting the fence is easy. 

“Run?” Jay whispers. “There’s a way back that’ll run us past the docks. Fish guts so heavy they’ll lose any trail they had.” 

Carlos doesn’t trust his voice just yet, but it’s a clever idea. He nods. 

“You sure you can keep up?” 

It’s a little easier to breathe when he’s trying not to laugh. “Yeah. Like you could outrun me.” 

Jay grins. He’s practically bouncing in place, adrenaline probably keeping him hyped up and raring to go. “That sounds like a challenge, furball. You sure you wanna race me tonight? I’ve got your parts and everything. I bet I can outrun you even with your tools on my back.” 

“Fuckin’ bet. Back to your place?” 

“You know it.” 

[thesvnsins]

{Prologue}

Genre: angst, fantasy

Warnings: kidnapping, dragons, separating from family, a little family drama.

Wordcount: 2.4k

A/n: okay so this is my first series. Don't know what to expect(?)

Be my Treasure | Next

Your feet dragged you through the hallways of your palace. Everything was already set. The weather was clear and the sun was shining brightly. The guests had already arrived. The food was already prepared. The wedding gown was sitting perfectly on you.

The wedding.

Your wedding.

A ceremony that binds the groom and bride together. Forever. Something special for both of them. Something that makes their hearts bloom....so why aren't you able to feel anything?

It's not your day. It was supposed to be your sister's day. It was Lara's wedding. And yet here you are, preparing to walk down the aisle and become one with the person she was supposed to be with.

Royalty is such a cruel path.

Your parents had worked hard to find the perfect husband. A princess and a king. The ceremony would unite you to him making you the queen of his kingdom.

But not his heart.

Your sister had specially given you her most adorned jewellery for this day. The royal circlet. Only the highest-ranked people in the family were allowed to wear it.

You weren't supposed to wear it. It's only worn on the wedding day of the crown princess. You are not the crown princess. You never were.

You were summoned ten minutes ago, informing you about the beginning of your wedding ceremony.

Typically, it would be held in the royal church with a minimum audience, sealing the deal in front of the families. But since the king liked the outdoors, the wedding was also being held in the royal gardens with more than required people.

That's where you were headed to. The royal gardens. A place where you spend most of your childhood with your sister. Playing with her. Laughing with her. But now all the happiness was going to get crushed under your king's commands.

When a princess is married to a king, he takes over the princess's kingdom as a sign of dominance and power. Taking the crown and making it his own. Stealing it. Claiming it as his. A centuries-old tradition of your kingdom.

Said tradition is going to happen to you. Caelum isn't a very big kingdom and you might not be the crown heir but being the princess of an independent kingdom was one of your dignities which you carried with pride.

Covering your face with the thick veil you enter through the heavy metal doors, introducing you to the new setup arranged in the gardens.

The chairs are placed in proper rows and the orchestra is playing a beautiful melody for your arrival. The guests all are standing up from their seats, some smiling, some clapping.

A big floral arch was straight in your view with white and pink roses, just like the bouquet you were holding. Your eyes land on the person in front of the arch.

The king.

Your king.

Or that's what he is supposed to be.

You have been trying so hard to have any sort of feelings for him but it always comes back to your emotions and not the title of his position.

He is wearing proper regal attire with a sword clasping close to his waist. His smile is wide and gorgeous, but not welcoming.

He has always been known for his looks more than his victories. But you don't find him quite attractive as your friends had suggested. Or was it because you don't feel anything for him. You don't even know his name, how did your parents think you can love someone without knowing a single speck about them.

After today, you will be his and would have to follow all his rules, all his regulations and all his orders. Nothing yours. Nothing of your own. You won't be allowed to make any decisions or be given any choices.

Just him and his rules.

You start walking as the pianist hits the crescendo. The guests smile while looking at the bride, all fake. They all know it's meaningless.

Everything is fake. They always have two faces. One for show and the other which shows the real person. This is all for show.

Always have been. You rarely get to meet a genuine person. Even your own family makes you question them sometimes.

At least they are not able to see who is behind the veil. They don't know. Would never know. If it's you or Lara.

You reach to the handsome king and he gently takes your left hand and kisses the top of it.

"You're looking beautiful, my princess" he compliments you but his words somehow make shives of fear run through your spine.

Princess.

His princess.

More like a caged bird kept as a trophy. Used as a souvenir to show off. Making them believe that he had won you. Conquered you.

His smile, his touch, his presence all make you feel cold. So cold. Is this going to be your life? You can't spend a lifetime with someone who makes you feel numb but one look at your parent's face twists your thoughts completely.

They both look so happy, looking at their daughter getting married and having a settled life. Getting to have stability in the kingdom and their lives, who wouldn't want that.

The officiant starts to speak the seven holy vows made by the bride and groom which binds them together in divine matrimony.

The vow of Communication

The vow of Support

The vow of Respect

The vow of Protection

The vow of Vulnerability

The vow of Trust

The vow of Love

You know he won't obey any of these vows as he is the king, he treats everyone as his housekeeper, let it be his family members too.

Your eyes roam around your surroundings for one last time. Looking at them through a filtered white layer. Remembering each detail - the view of lavender flowers lined up against each other, the listless flow of the river Meraki through your gardens, the little passage it created through your gardens to water the plants themselves, your parent's proud faces. Your parents. The king and the queen of Caelum.

But your sister was nowhere to be seen. Maybe hidden in her room or the library with her lover.

Everything suddenly seemed so surreal. You were just a princess - walking around the palace halls, playing with your friends, enjoying your life - and suddenly you were going to get married. But when the reality hit you, you couldn't stop but close your eyes and breath still to calm yourself. How you grew up here and now you have to leave it all behind just for the sake of a deal.

A deal with no respect, no independence, no love.

Nothing.

The officiant's voice brings you back as he asks you to answer his question with an 'I do'. The king looked at you with gleaming eyes awaiting your reply. If eyes could speak, his would confess greed. Hungry for power and not for love. Burning for authority and not respect. How could someone be so lifeless?

Your parents waited for your answer. Even the guests seemed interested. Dying to know when the 'crown princess' will answer the king with a charming smile.

Suddenly the open environment felt suffocating to you. Were you ready to give your life to someone you never knew just for the sake of strength? Were you ready to respect someone who you knew would cheat behind your back? Were you ready to love him just for the sake of a promise?

But before you could give any reply, high pitched screams were heard from the other side of the palace. Servants screamed and many came running into the gardens.

Your father went to one of them, "What happened?" he asked, terrified by the look on the servents face.

"The da-drag..." But they couldn't get much out due to the lack of oxygen. Your father turns towards you his eyes filled with tears as if full of regret or was it fear?

You couldn't understand.

He ordered a few guards something and they all started to run with him to the other side of the palace.

The king abruptly held both of your upper arms tightly making you look at him, "Just say yes Lara and it would be done!" he screams, still wanting an answer. An answer. An authority that only you could give him. Authority over you and your kingdom. But you couldn't get anything out of your mouth. As if you froze on spot. You are not Lara. How could you answer?

You could never answer.

Lara could never answer.

The guests and your relatives started running in different directions, trying to hide from something you didn't know.

Before you could ask anyone the reason for this frenzy your mother held your wrists tightly

"Come on, just get in! Be safe!" her voice cracked mid-sentence but that didn't stop her as she ran with you towards the palace.

The king shouted behind you about something like 'missing a great opportunity' but you didn't halt your steps, you felt good running away from him but still didn't understand the reason behind the shouts and screams.

But before you could get inside the palace threshold, a big silhouette covered the grounds. The sky was clear, you saw it this morning. The clouds don't move that quickly. You didn't realise when your mother stopped, neither the shouts were audible nor the guests were visible.

The shadow moved and that's when you realised that it wasn't a cloud. Your eyes slowly moved towards the sky and all you could see was a dark purple body of a huge winged creature you never saw or read about.

The creature moved its wings in a powerful stoke which lead to you and your mother stumbling. As you fell, the circlet tiara adorning your forehead also dropped.

You moved quickly to get it as it was studded with the most important royal jewel, a Painite.

As you gripped the tiara close to you, you felt a strong presence behind you.

But before you could turn and look behind you, two very sharp claws held you by your upper arms and you felt your feet being elevated off the grounds.

Many screams and desperate pleas of your mother and sister were heard by you. You started twisting and swivelling but his strong limbs held you so tightly, you could feel your skin being pierced by his nails.

All you could do was scream and shout at the top of your lungs as their figure became shorter and shorter.

You didn't even dare to look up, too scared of the creature who was holding you. Your lips trembled as tears poured out of your eyes. The pain given by his claws was too much for you to take.

Its powerful wings flapped and spiked through the air as it moved further away from your home. All you could do was just stare in disbelief.

It was your wedding day. You had just walked down the aisle and now you were being held by a mystical creature that was taking you to God knows where.

A small part of your brain was somehow glad. Now you don't have to marry an obnoxious king. But looking at the bigger picture, you were being held by a monster in mid-air. One slip and you will be quiet forever.

You hadn't noticed how fast your heart was beating until now. Your breathing was slightly increased and uneven. A single drop of sweat trickled by your hairline to your brow.

Fear.

You were never afraid of anything but right now the fear of not ever meeting your family combined with the fear of death made you hysterical.

That thought made you adjust your shoulders a little bit. That might have provoked something as the beast flared its nostrils and clenched his claws more tightly.

You noticed creeks of blood seeping out of the jabbed claws on your forearm. It wasn't burning very much or maybe the adrenaline wasn't letting you sense it.

After a while, you finally found the courage to take a good look at your captivator. Through your position, you weren't able to define much of its feature but you were able to see the shiny purple-coloured scales in the sunlight.

It had a long neck and scales all over its skin. Its head had two long regal shaped horns. Its back supported its huge wings.

The most striking feature this animal had were its eyes. They weren't any usual colour but were the colour of amethyst. They gleamed in the sunlight. They looked so magical that you almost forgot you were flying high up in the sky.

Your eyes roamed to his limbs and you saw two arrows stabbed in his front limbs, through which it held you.

Its blood wasn't clearly evident but the glint of the red liquid made it clear that the arrows were deep in his skin. You looked down and couldn't help but be captivated by the view beneath you.

The Meraki river was flowing gently through the woods and the trees were standing tall. Their leaves covered most of the ground and rare open patches of land were visible with a few houses. Not many people were residing there.

Suddenly a thought occurred to you. You have studied in your earlier years that a few houses meant that the area was barely habitable or uninhabitable at all. Not many residents meant you were at the edge of the habitable province.

"Where are you taking me?!" you shouted at the creature but got nothing in response.

You wiggled a bit as you knew it aggravated it and that it did. But you didn't get any information instead it clenched its claws more deeply into your forearms making you whimper in return.

It was foolish of you. To even try to talk to an animal who has probably never seen civilisation.

The sun was slowly starting to set. The shadow of this animal was constantly on you so you weren't able to feel much of the afternoon sun's heat.

But now as the sun started to move west, you secretly prayed that it didn't. You have no idea what would happen to you once there is no light for you to survive in. The moonlight won't be sufficient for you.

You don't know where this creature was taking you but the rush of cold that ran down your spine was one indication that things aren't going to be the same anymore.

Taglist:

@dayrin085

[twstheadcanons]

Endless Halloween Ghost Possessions as the Characters’ Opposing Philosophies (1)

I understand the main appeal of the possessed characters is, generally, funny moments of the students acting ludicrously out of character and the opposite of who they are, but I started viewing it as them being possessed by the qualities of what they never want to be, and the polar opposite of the philosophies they live by.  

This post features Jack, Jade, Epel, and Deuce’s possessions.  The others will be in a second post, or I may just update this one to feature them as well.

Jack Howl A highly competitive sort, Jack carries himself with pride and self-respect, and values his physical and mental fortitude.  He takes the saying ‘survival of the fittest’ to heart.  He doesn’t want to cut corners or take the easy way out, and isn’t afraid to get dirty or roughed up when standing up for his beliefs, even if it’s against his seniors.  Jack would rather reach his goals through his own strength for the sake of his pride and dignity.  Power means a great deal to Jack, especially physical strength, and, by extension, magic. However, he doesn’t neglect his studies either, his pride won’t let him.

He isn’t so much a ‘stickler for the rules’ as he is someone who wants to prove to himself that he can do just fine despite the limitations he faces.  However, he despises the idea of others holding him back.   On the extreme end of things, he initially – and generally still does – dislike working with others or even the slightest possibility of having to ‘depend’ on others, hence his preference for less ‘team-oriented’ sports, like track and field, where all he needs to trust and depend on are his own capabilities.  

The ghost possessing him, on the other hand, is arrogant with nothing to back it up other than, presumably, his past life’s nobility.  he despises getting dirty and certainly won’t tolerate getting roughed up, and cannot back up his bark with any amount of bite, having no strength and little self-discipline, unlike Jack.  A person who never earned how proud they act. 

 Granted, to a point, Jack’s insistence on being ‘independent’ and trying to shoot for the ‘lone wolf’ towards the beginning stems from him being your average immature schoolboy, but at the very least, Jack can back up his intense personality through his actions, something a ghost constantly complaining about the slightest bit of dirt could never do.  The ghost is helpless, clearly dependent on others doing the work, and looks down on intensive effort – all of which Jack, someone insistent on being ‘self-reliant’ who also, to an extend, respects his seniors, rejects.

Jade Leech Also got long because this dude’s always getting misunderstood and no I do not know where all the gaming analogies came from sometimes it just be like that.

Jade’s main thing is that he wants to keep control of his situations, but in a way that shields him from having to shoulder the burden of the consequences and complications of full-blown leadership.  As a vice-leader, he’s capable, intelligent, and – despite his joined reputation with Floyd – has a charisma to him as a composed individual.  

Usually, until the last minute, Jade prefers keeping his true intentions to himself, otherwise he neatly folds them between supplementary motivations and ambiguity.  His preference for a supporting role is stems from knowing it’ll eventually benefit him in the long-run.  His (and Floyd’s for that matter) assistance to Azul in many situations boils down to the fact he knows Azul will want to return the favour, hence Jade loses nothing in helping him.  This goes for other students.  This isn’t to say Jade avoids rocking the boat.  He’s perfectly fine with doing that, largely for his own amusement since he knows, generally, his reputation makes many students less likely to challenge him, and for the ones that aren’t afraid to, he can handle himself and have a good time for shits and giggles.  

When Jade knows he can get something out of it, he’ll happily involve himself, even if that ‘something’ is simple amusement.  In a sense, he’s a healer on your MMORPG team that’ll favour healing the players making sure their healer avoids the brunt of a mission, but will gladly leave the more reckless ones with one pixel of health before healing them to remind them who’s actually carrying them.  He isn’t wholly malicious, per say, but he prioritises his own goals and motivations in the grand scheme of things, and if being an amicable, helpful individual others brings him closer to that, he gladly participates.

Possessed Jade, for the most part, is just the very cursed notion of Jade’s voice actor talking like Floyd’s and makes for a grand ol’ time.  But it’s also very much things Jade doesn’t want to be.  Being in the frontlines isn’t Jade’s style, he doesn’t want to openly admit that he enjoys a good fight for fun and doesn’t share Floyd’s fondness for flair and overt dramatics.  Even if people are aware of his shady undertones, Jade’s grip on remaining ambiguous and making others second-guess his intentions just adds yet another layer to the situation.

Jade’s composure and personable nature gets him closer to his goals and interests with minimal obstacles, meanwhile the ghost will do what it wants when it wants, much like Floyd. And while Floyd gets easily irritated by inconveniences, Jade calmly adapts.  Where Floyd prefers the straightforward approach, Jade personally prefers indirect methods (even though you can argue if Floyd’s way gets thing done, Jade happily lets Floyd do as he pleases, and in that sense gladly uses Floyd’s brute strength as a speedrun to his or their own shared interest). 

 Boisterous and impulsive isn’t Jade’s style, unlike the ghost’s, his style adapts to a situation to avoid the most jagged waters.  He’s far from a pacifist, but more likely to equip poison effects to a game character and let it do some of the work than go straight into the heat of conflict.  In terms of eccentrics –  Floyd and the ghost are more like Hideki Kamiya's motifs and Jade is more like Yoko Taro’s motifs.  If that makes no sense to you don’t worry about.  If ya know ya know.

  Epel Felmier Epel himself says that, in the Village of Harvest, he’s the youngest of its residents, with the others adults and elderly that have lived with their own traditions.  Farming consists of labour-intensive tasks, of which, typically, get assigned as ‘masculine’.  For Epel, growing up with his ‘delicate’ appearance, received off-hand comments about his appearance, equating his looks to his personality and own strength and, ultimately, leading Epel to be constantly underestimated despite a fierce inner determination (much like Vil).  Unfortunately, this experiencing whilst growing up, alongside general social expectations, led Epel to develop some fierce opinions on what is and isn’t ‘masculine’ enough.  

As such, Epel’s grown up with his fair share of frustration, which inevitably led to his shockingingly short temper and confrontational attitude towards others that don’t fit into those masculine expectations.  Epel hates being seen as weak just because of his appearance, and so he overcompensates with traditionally ‘masculine’ traits, such as his willingness to throw hands, speak in a blunt manner, etc.  unfortunately, that also means he has a hot pot of toxic masculinity to unlearn, a key point to his mindset in “The Beautiful Oppressor”.  

As such, he rejects and criticizes things like dancing a certain way, dressing a certain way, or anything else considered ‘girly’ – that seemingly ‘reinforces’ that ‘weak’ image imposed onto Epel on a daily basis.  This, of course, leads to the irony of Epel’s situation – he hates being judged for his appearance, but his environment led him to doing the exact same thing to others, hence his strained relationship with Vil, a person comfortable with his appearance who openly rejects those very gender norms that Epel feels held back by.

The ghost possessing him not only chooses to possess him specifically because of his misleading appearance, but acts in a way that Epel would never be caught dead acting, and to the extreme end of it to boot.  Not only is it humiliating for Epel to find out how he acted, but it’s so in stark contrast compared to the ‘grit’ even Leona Kingscholar himself acknowledges Epel has.  It’s traits Epel’s rejected the great part of his life, and another instance being made to act a way he doesn’t want to, frankly.

Deuce Spade For Deuce, it’s less about how resilient, durable, and strong Deuce is.  Deuce overheard his mother sobbing over the phone to his grandmother about how Deuce’s rebellious, violent streak not only worried, but exhausted her.  And it hits such a raw nerve that Deuce actively makes a 180 in his behaviour for her sake. He never wanted to trouble her, never wanted to upset her, so now he puts his all into being a respectable student, someone his mother can be proud of, and also someone that doesn’t have to depend on her to get him out of trouble.  

As for the ghost possessing him, they not only go completely against Deuce’s former tough guy ways. Deuce has always been quick to anger, but he makes the conscious effort to keep him emotions in check whenever possible, especially when he knows he’s in the wrong or that lashing out makes things worse.  And, even if he wants to become a better person, he’s still a proud individual who takes pride in his hard work and stamina even against hard work and stressful situations.  

The ghost can’t do that, they’re a child with little to no control over their emotions, dependent on their mother, and constantly asking for her help.  For Deuce, that’s the opposite of what he wants – what he wants is to become a better, stronger person for his mother, someone she can be proud of.  He wants to be an emotionally stronger, stable person – not someone who lets his emotions get the best of him, like his younger self.   A child has little control over their emotions, but as Deuce is now, the last thing he wants is his emotions getting the better of him being expected from others.

[lilyrachelcassidy]

Moonlight

Draco x Reader One-Shot

Summary: This is based off the song ‘Moonlight’ by Ariana Grande. During the bad times of War, not everything has to be so black-and-white. Both Y/N and Draco know it just too well.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: language 

tags: @drawlfoy @eltanin-malfoy

Composing yourself had been more than a hard thing to ask for lately.

The Death Eater had finally taken Hogwarts under their control; famous Harry Potter, who was allegedly supposed to play a hero, disappeared in the depth of the unknown; the plan of escaping the school turned out to be an utter failure since the Dementors encircled and blocked every passage of absconding, escalating the disappointment over students.

Yet you hadn't thought of the plan B as an alternative solution, but you were sure, even if you managed to find one, it might take a few more months to figure things out. And you had to admit that increasing anxiety about your parents made you cry yourself to sleep at night. Despite your insistent pleads of the letters to contact you, you hadn't received any response or other sign of life ever since over two months of a constant worry.

And yet, it wasn't the worst part.

The Carrows, who unwarrantedly preferred to call themselves professors Carrows from now on, had decided to introduce their new methods of teaching everyone. And punishing for any triviality.

Once, for example, in Charms class -- which was the worst nightmare of a week -- you had been asked to stand up in front of the class and demonstrate a Crucio curse on the First Year who happened to accidentally bump into Alecto in the corridor. Obviously, you hadn't obeyed an imposed task to which Carrows only reacted with unrestrained rage. Instead of punishing the eleven-year-old boy, the lesson had turned out to be your disciplining session of torture for not being submissive enough. Although the feat had brought you more renown later on, which served to make Carrows more flustered, you still couldn't get out of the Hospital Wing for whole three days.

All of that also led your Occulumency to suffer, which was doubling the struggle. There was for sure no doubt it was an important skill to have, not only to create a mental barrier protecting yourself from uninvited intruders; but also preventing others' thoughts from leaking into your head. It was already enough of bearing the non-stopping suspense in the air. So, the idea of accumulating more emotions on your account would probably navigate to an outburst.  

One thing, however, surprised you. You had found out that people who outwardly seemed to have quite a reputation of cruel tossers were actually more decent and human than you could think. In particular, certain Draco Malfoy, who had been selected as a Head Boy in terms of this year.

Wandering around the school and doing the night patrols, he had happened to find you sitting hunched over, face buried in your knees, and sobbing brokenly at the fate the Wizarding World was faced to deal with. He had flumped next to you, without question, silently accompanying and comforting you in moments of solitude.

Two other times of your encounter had been in the library: spotting you among the crowd of students, he would come over and take a nearby place. You didn't know whether it was a matter of pride or disposition, but he had never spoken up, which you, in fact, didn't mind. At first, you had been a little bit dubious about his sudden influx of approachability. However, as to mute your suspicions down, you tried not pondering about it too much.

Funny, how the real nature of the boy who you had known for a nonchalant sneer and teasing remarks, could suddenly become so interesting and mysterious.

It was on a Thursday late that you were strolling up to The Astronomy Tower to see the Thestrals soaring in the air. Normally, it was around the time when you would be putting yourself to the bed, but too many thoughts were buzzing in your mind, and you knew it wouldn't give you much space to sleep anyways. The only optimum, instead of staring aimlessly at the ceiling and flipping from one to the other side of the mattress, was busying yourself with something else. The lack of sleep was due to nothing else than today's lesson with Carrows. They had thought up an idea of having some practice with a Confrigo spell which, rather unfortunately, was presented on a living phantom. As always, a whole hour of torments was disastrous, to say at least, and even after classes, you couldn't shake off the echo of troubled screams and beggings, which carried over the petrified room of students. That's why you were thinking you could swallow your emotions down, quietly and undisturbedly, in the only place you could wish for some private space. Besides, it was the only spot resembling the old Hogwarts you had known from the previous years, showing the calming extent of green grounds.

However to your surprise, when you pushed the door to The Astronomy Tower, noiselessly, you could notice a silhouette of a man already standing at the barrier, which made you momentarily flabbergasted suddenly considering an option of running upon a teacher. To save yourself from much too unwanted detention, you decided to change your track, rushing straight into your dormitory. But almost as you succeeded doing so, in the last moment, a person shifted in their place and spoke up before you had room to move.

"Pretty late for a casual stroll, huh?" At once, a feeling of dread ebbed away, and you exhaled deeply air you didn't know you were holding as you recognized none other than Draco with his back turned towards you. His tone was as usually taunting, but something in a timbre of sadness was hitched to it as well. "Shouldn't be sneaking out of the room on the patroling hours, you know? I'm the least of who you could come upon today."

Your dignity told you to say something in order to defend your harmless saunter to calm down your nerves, which benefited only your mental account. However, he made a point -- you could have been caught not only by some random teacher but Currows themselves who, you were inexorably aware, wouldn't let a chance of dehumanizing others slip away. And besides, you were a little too dumbstruck to speak, realizing it must be the first time Draco fucking prince Malfoy had uttered more than a word to you. What was a coincidence of meeting up with him just on the same day as you had been wondering about your atypical relationship formed within this school year?

Before your contemplation ended, Draco's voice carried on with a conversation, echoing off the walls. "Care to join? Seeing as you're already here."

Frowning to yourself at how surreal the situation can become, you stepped off the stairs with no more hesitation. You truly wouldn't have suspected the things would turn out that way -- embracing his Head Boy position, you thought he would send you off back to the Hufflepuff Tower with his dismissive attitude as it usually was. Inviting you over to company him was a top cherry you hadn't even considered. Truthfully, it made you feel a little thrilled to accept this offer.

As you walked over to him, his facial features became much sharper than from afar. Now, as you looked at him closely, you could define the contours of his face were even more angelic yet still masculine than in daily light. The platonic hair glinted accordingly to the moon above; his blue eyes were focused on a black void in the sky, clearly pondering more than concentrating on a particular object; a mouth pursed into a line, not a mocking expression he was usually carrying himself with. Eyeing him like that and still not being capable of deciphering him suggested he must be someone between a completely unemotional git or an excellent master of Occulumency. You preferred to presume the second one.

Quickly, realizing you were staring, you turned your head to behold a collection of vivid stars hovering above your head. You knew it was only in the Wizarding World that sky flickered so brightly -- your father was a muggle, and a whole family dwelled among a non-magical society, which you didn't mind at all. And that's why you were able to recognize... differences existing between those two worlds.

"Why are you here?" you asked curiously, not quite capable of restraining yourself from doing so. You were standing close enough to him to smell his sandalwood cologne.

He gave you a perfunctory smile, and although it was a three-second gesture, it somehow made you lighter on the chest to know he was convenient with a conversation. "Needed someplace to think," he explained, not darting his eyes away from where he was looking. He took a pause there. "You?"

"The same reason," you answered simply, shrugging. "My roommates can be too loud sometimes, and I needed some silence to sort out...stuff."

Draco nodded in understanding, not interfering any further into the topic. Brushing your hair habitually with fingers, you scolded yourself for coming up here in the first place. How could you act so irresponsibly to think you could smoothly break a regulations' rule and without anyone finding out? Although you were desperate to hide it, the presence of Draco made you inexplicably nervous, and even though you tried to gulp it down, your stomach was churning when he was around. Time proved his intentions weren't bad after all, and you confronted with the truth ever since he first happened to find you at the moment of your meltdown in the corridor, clutching to him as if he was your sanity. But that didn't dispel your doubts about him becoming a fully active Death Eater, who praised with a Dark Mark on the left forearm like with a reward for some kind of acrobatic stunt.

Your gaze swept briefly over the rolled-up sleeves of his snow-white shirt only to assure yourself the mark didn't disappear off his arm with some help of the power of your imagination. Yet it was still there -- as always, tinted coal-black, scary and blood-curdling every time you looked at it.

That evidently didn't escape Draco's notice who, as though reading your mind, started. "You know, I didn't want this." He didn't have to show what he meant by saying so because you instantly figured it out. You looked up at him, and almost invisibly, his skin pale as it already was, changed even to the whiter shade. "He has bait on me. All of this: assassinating Dumbledore; obeying his will -- it's not because I want that."

The sudden shock welled up at these words, and you gawked at him stupidly, not quite able to process what he had just told you. Swallowing with some difficulty, you coerced yourself to a mutter. "Why... why are you telling me this?"

For the first time this night, his steely stare landed at you, scanning your face to detect signs of emotion. You attempted to conceal it, but he could see you were thunderstruck by his unexpected confession. Without preamble, he smiled slightly at you. "I thought you ought to know."

Ignoring the clenching in your chest, you did your best to not break eye contact with Draco when his eyes were intently locked on yours now. You could swear, something on the verge of interest and sympathy flickered in them for a second. "Why?"

"Because you're the only person who doesn't freak out when I'm around," he explained carefully. "Every time I go to the library or appear in any other public place, you're the only one who doesn't glare."

He closed his eyes, clearly relived with the fact he could confide the worries he had been carrying for a long time. Breathing out through the nose and his lips flinching a little, his head spun again to the blank of the sky.

It was a depressing sight to see him in such dejection, and the images of him being cast aside by his former group of friends with who he had been laughing merely a year ago rolled into your head, try as might to suppress it. You could only imagine what it must feel like to be rejected by everyone around; to play the main role in something you never wished to participate in.

For a moment, you thought he was going to continue because he grunted enigmatically, but the silence remained. Unable to restrain the urge to offer physical comfort, you affectionately grabbed his palm, squeezing it in the reassurance that you were there for him. He didn't attempt to break himself out of the grip, which presumably was a good indication.

"I believe you," you stated, for some reason, satisfied with the fact you're the one to comfort him. "You are a good person, Draco."

This time, it was he who clasped your hand, and he glimpsed at you once more, towering over you with his long legs. "No. In the past, things happened, and to say, I'm not proud of them. Jeering, mocking, insulting -- that wasn't fa-."

"Past is a past, Draco," you cut him off, knowing where it all was leading, and you wanted to bring it to an abrupt end. It was the least adequate moment for apologies. "You can't fix it. Good that you understand your mistakes by now."

He hummed in comprehension, smiling, and his grasp tightened around your palm as if you were about to run off from him, which he couldn't be more wrong about. Admitting to yourself, you loved his smile -- though it was seldom, it much differed from a smirk you were accustomed to at that point -- and you secretly hoped he could do it more often. You also loved that even if he didn't talk much, he was very successful in lifting you up.

Therefore, there you were: standing arm-to-arm with your ex-bully who you had happened to run across; observing the moon in its full exposure; holding hands in reassurance. Both of you clearly enjoyed this gratifying moment and were lingering towards it not to end.

"Thank you," Draco finally choked out. "Thank you for...everything."

Ultimately, smashing the wall of uncertainty down, he wrapped his arms around your neck, hunching a little to adjust to your height, and buried his face in the crook of your neck. At first, your body stiffened at the sudden touch and a skip of the boundary, but as not to agitate him, you adapted yourself soon enough by reciprocating the hug. You started to rub the slow, steady circles on his back, and little by little, he began stroking your hair, softly grazing your scalp.

How long you stood clinging to each other like this, you didn't know. Hearing Draco sigh quietly, feel the rise and fall of it against your hands. Your heart sunk when you heard him breathe out, and you prepared yourself for him to mix out of the embrace because of sudden consciousness he was cuddling with a half-blood Hufflepuff he had been mocking for half of a decade ('I should get going'; 'I didn't mean what I said earlier; 'leave me be, Y/S'). But none of this happened, and he was only murmuring into your ear.

"I presume I should escort you to the dormitory. I could tell you were the whole time with me so no one would get any suspicion if we run into...anyone," he offered, yet you felt him almost grimacing at the thought of ending a moment you were two having.

"Mhm..." you agreed with no more opposition. "But let's give it one more minute."

____________

A/N: This is so typical of me to do something other than what's necessary lmao ;) The second chapter of Summer Nights is almost up if anyone interested. As I think of it now, this one-shot gives me such a vibe of Loud Places/Turn. However, I hope you enjoyed it :) Oh, and I'm explaining the sudden change of schedule with posting: 1. I'm very irresposible; 2. I got the super inspo to scribble this one-shot. Hah, sorry...

[spockandawe]

I’m so unbelievably weak against characters who make terrible choices because they’re hurting and upset. I love the subtler resentful decisions that quietly build up ill will, and I love the big dramatic choices that end with everyone going down in flames. But more than anything, I love love love hurting myself with the emotional flavor of a character struggling with the tension of simultaneously realizing that people hate/mistrust them (or how much people hate/mistrust them, or which people hate/mistrust them), while also realizing that those people just have... no idea where they’re coming from.

I was thinking about this first because of Mu Qing, who is honestly a very low-key version of this scenario (and it’s also quieter since he’s not a lead character and rarely takes the spotlight himself). But the first big tgcf flashback honestly made my heart ache, seeing him trying to walk a line between maintaining his own independence/pride and not belonging to someone he wants to be peers with, but when he tries to be tactful, people decide he’s being shady.  He was picking cherries, to bring a treat to his poor mother (and the poor children around his home), but then got accused of stealing, and then didn’t want to say that it was because his only remaining parent was living in poverty. And it continues through the present day! He knocks out Feng Xin so he can save him from a burning city, because Feng Xin refuses to leave, and people are like ‘>:OOO MU QING ATTACKED FENG XIN??’ In some ways, this character hurts me more than the others, because he rarely does anything wrong, he has a bad attitude, but his most significant “missteps” tend to be like ‘you could have been a little more kind, tbh.’

But also too, I’ve been working my way through the svsss extras again, and... Shen Jiu. God, Shen Jiu. This character is agonizing, and I love him so much. He makes terrible choices! He does terrible things! He tries to set up an actual literal child to die horribly, because he resents that this child had a parent who loved him, and that he found his way to Cang Qiong young enough to reach his full potential! It’s absolutely unforgivable! But nobody except Yue Qingyuan has any clue how much Shen Jiu has been through and how to possibly help him grow or heal or how to support him into better decision making. And Shen Jiu is so hurt by the way Yue Qingyuan left him that he refuses to let Yue Qingyuan help him now. Like! This child was a slave, begging for food on the streets, then was sold to a rich boy who abused him in sexually-flavored ways and planned to marry him to his sister so he could keep him forever, and then his “rescuer” was a scumbag adult who taught him to steal and murder. 

And while Shen Jiu was suffering, he thinks Yue Qingyuan, who came from the same beginning and who promised to come back for him, was living in careless pampered luxury in a prestigious cultivation sect. Shen Jiu’s own self-evaluations are incredibly harsh, from the moment he’s reunited with Yue Qingyuan. He calls himself terrible, he calls himself a thing, and once it’s clear that he’s going to pay the price for his bad decisions, he tries hard to shove away the one person who cares about him and find some way to protect him. Yue Qingyuan never stopped loving him and defending him, but literally nobody else in the world has any sympathy for him whatsoever. How am I not supposed to be heartbroken? Shang Qinghua sighs over how his readers used to hate on Shen Qingqiu for having no motivations, which, sure, that’s understandable from what’s on the “Proud Immortal Demon Way” pages, but seeing the trauma driving his choices in svsss and seeing his own self-awareness and self-loathing and knowing that one (1) person in-universe has any inkling of his internal world (and that person died trying to help him), I’m! In pain!!!

Plus, in svsss proper, I saw a post in passing once that was something like... ‘readers are hard on luo binghe, because he’s the only mxtx protagonist where we see the worst decisions of his life and aren’t in his head to understand why he’s making those decisions.’ Which I still find fascinating, and think about often. It makes sense to me. And as far as my terrible-decision-making children go, he’s very interesting to me because he doesn’t really deal with the widespread distaste/mistrust that mu qing and shen jiu experience, it’s very much targeted on one person. I live for the parts of svsss where all Luo Binghe has to do is breathe, and Shen Qingqiu flinches and bolts. And Luo Binghe is not acting in kind or well-considered ways, a lot of the time! But he was seventeen, and his beloved teacher had told him that ‘humans can be good or evil, demons can be good or evil,’ but the moment Luo Binghe turned out to be half demon, even though he’d just been fighting desperately trying to protect Shen Qingqiu, that teacher he trusted more than anything immediately turned on him, stabbed him in the chest, and threw him into hell.

That’s agonizing!!!! Even without the aftermath, that’s agonizing to read! And when Luo Binghe comes back, years later, he’s upset, he’s hurt, he’s lonely, he’s still stinging from that betrayal, of course he’s not making good decisions. I follow good blogs, because I haven’t seen any terrible Luo Binghe takes on my dash, but I’m kind of :c that these takes apparently exist. Again, it’s not that I think he makes good decisions, but I can see why he makes bad decisions, and I can see other characters missing that context, and I am rolling in terrible, glorious pain. Luo Binghe shows up secretly in Huan Hua Palace and starts taking it over and generally acts shady as heck? Well, Shizun wouldn’t let him beg for forgiveness when he was a disciple, and he’s afraid to face Shen Qingqiu until he can meet him on a semi-equal footing. Luo Binghe gets angry and spiteful when Shen Qingqiu asks if he’s responsible for the sowers? Yes he does! He’d always, always tried to do right by Shen Qingqiu, and trusted Shen Qingqiu when he said demons could be decent people, but the moment he turned out to be half-demon, Shen Qingqiu immediately started expecting the worst from him at every turn. It hurts! I don’t blame him for acting on that hurt! And I am so endlessly compelled by the way that Shen Qingqiu completely fails to recognize the context for where Binghe is coming from.

And like... I cannot leave out Xue Yang and Jin Guangyao. Xue Yang is fascinating in his own way, because the steps are... a lot more explicit and clear-cut than some of these other characters. Shen Jiu’s downward spiral is very internal and he curls up tight to hide his weak spots even with the person who values him most in the whole world, but Xue Yang very plainly tries to lay out his reasoning for his most important person. His whole world is crumbling by the time things reach that point, and it was probably beyond salvaging, but god! He tries so hard to explain the position the world placed him in, from childhood onward, helpless and vulnerable, and that nobody was going to defend him except himself. 

But when Xiao Xingchen doesn’t understand what he’s trying to communicate, when he realizes that the person he values most isn’t willing to hear what he’s trying to say, he starts lashing out again and trying to hurt. It’s the same lesson he learned when he was young, in some ways. ‘If I’m stupid enough to trust you, you’re going to use that to hurt me.’ And then the logical next step, ‘If you’re going to hurt me, all I can do is try to hurt you worse.’ You can see the trauma playing out right there on the page, and it’s agonizing. I can understand some people not enjoying reading things that make them hurt that way, but I have trouble Getting it when people don’t at least find that kind of dynamic compelling as hell. I’ll sometimes avoid media that I know is going to make me sad, but if I’m in the mood to Experience Sadness, I know a dynamic like this is going to grab me by the heart and shake me like a ragdoll.

And... Jin Guangyao. He was on my mind too, partly because I’ve seen a few takes on his motivations lately that honestly kind of baffle me? Like, to each their own, especially since mdzs never takes us inside his head. But I see posts that like... he was bullying Nie Mingjue, or what if Lan Xichen could Tell he was never genuine and mistrusted him on some level, and how to put this. It’s not that I agree with the choices he made, though I really don’t want to play fandom purity police in any way, shape, or form (murder is good, actually), but I understand the choices he made enough that those sort of interpretations that skew towards the cruelty-for-the-sake-of-cruelty territory honestly kind of upset me.

There’s some interesting comparisons to be made with Mu Qing, in some ways. They both grew up poor, without a father, in “shameful” single-parent situations (a sex worker mother vs. a father being executed for being a criminal). They were poor boys with ambition, but no matter how they tried to carry themselves with dignity, those poor beginnings were rubbed in their faces, years after the fact. I think it does make a real difference that Mu Qing’s shame is mostly based in his own history (sweeping floors) while Jin Guangyao’s is more external (son of a whore), and that Jin Guangyao’s also insulted a parent who he loved dearly, and that Mu Qing was seeking the respect outside of famiial structures while Jin Guangyao was desperate to be accepted by his father.

There’s so much of Jin Guangyao’s early life that’s like ‘I’m Just Trying To Live My Life, My Dude,’ and it hurts me to watch. He really didn’t have goals that were all that excessive! If his goals were excessive in some way, it’s only by virtue of how highly ranked his father was, which isn’t his fault. His goal: ‘I want my father to accept me into the family.’ What the world saw: “oh my god, this son of a whore SERIOUSLY wants to be brought into this noble family, lmaooooo.’ There are characters who are more compassionate than that, and a lot of that reaction is down to the nature of the setting, but LORD, man! It’s honestly a pretty restrained goal for a kid to have! Especially when his father totally promised to come back for him someday, and he waited patiently for years before setting out on his own.

And even once he gets kicked down the steps of Koi Tower and dials back his ambitions, he gets so little space to breathe. He’s learning cultivation late, he takes a position as a nobody in a different cultivation sect, he’s just trying to live. But no matter how he rolls with the punches, no matter how he smiles and bears it, he’s being constantly, constantly prodded in that old, painful bruise. I’ve been finally working my way through The Untamed, and it was painful to watch, in Gusu, when he’s trying to present the Nie Sect’s gift to Lan QIren, and people just start focking gossiping about him, right there, perfectly audibly. And when we see him back in Qinghe, he’s perfectly polite and deferential, and that one disciple is still like ‘fuck you, ur mom was a whore.’

He makes bad decisions, but even when he makes good decisions, he can’t win. I don’t get anything from him at all that suggests he had Hugely Lofty Ambitions from a young age, he just wanted some kind of decent life, but almost nobody would cut him a break. Nie Mingjue did cut him a break, and Lan Xichen was gentle and kind to him, and that made such an impact on him. But I also think it made it that much worse, when he made later questionable decisions, and Nie Mingjue refused to let him explain himself. Nie Mingjue’s rigidity breaks my heart in lots of ways, but especially when it comes to Jin Guangyao. I don’t want to make this all about personal attachment, but it’s kind of inescapable in this situation. Nie Mingjue sends him a loud, violent message that if he’s not perfectly morally upright, he’s Done. But by now, Jin Guangyao has years of history of people being cruel to him based on a history he never was able to control. Nie Mingjue protected him, but hes made it clear that protection was... conditional. There could be arguments about how conditional, and what the non-murdery limits would have been, but the murder has been done, and it was already clear that Nie Mingjue never had the power to protect him from everything.

I can’t read Jin Guangyao’s later actions without also reading that fear and insecurity into his decisions. He even tries to say it outright, that he’s afraid of everyone and everything, and Nie Mingjue misses the point. Jin Guangyao hurts me a lottle, because he suffers both in terms of the general public’s judgment of him, but also in the judgment of someone he cared deeply about. I can see the reasoning and trauma, but so many other people in the story can’t. Jin Guangyao gets pushed to the edge by how his father holds him at arm’s length from the family, the atrocities he tells Jin Guangyao to commit on his behalf (and then maybe I’ll treat you like my actual son, maybe), but when he tries to express that, Nie Mingjue is like ‘can’t you just endure more, though??’ He builds a temple with a statue with the face of his dead beloved mother, and the public is like ‘omg, he made that statue with his OWN FACE, can you believe it??’

In some ways, the way Lan Xichen determinedly loves and trusts him makes it all hurt even worse. I absolutely believe Jin Guangyao when he says that he never once wanted to act against Lan Xichen. So many of the terrible decisions Jin Guangyao makes tie so directly to him seeking either safety or security. But he works hard in social gatherings to keep the peace and people think he’s two-faced. He endures years of mistreatment before hitting back and people judge him for hitting back at all and say that well, what else could we have respected from someone with that background. Nie Mingjue threatens to kill him multiple times, and he was a very straightforward, honest man, of course Jin Guangyao was frightened of him and decided it was safer to see him dead. I live for the pain of seeing a character I love make decisions I strongly disagree with, understanding why they’re making those decisions, and seeing other characters not understand, and simply hate them for the decisions.

This isn’t exactly new, this is why I’ll never be able to shake my love for Starscream, even if his quality of motivation... varies by continuity. And Pharma and Prowl are two of my favorite characters in all of idw1 for exactly this reason. I’ve got  at least three fics brushing up against Pharma’s resentment over ‘yes, i got ordered to run a hospital on a garbage planet I was sharing the most violent, sadistic decepticons in existence, I SURE WONDER WHY I WAS DRIVEN TO THIS DESPERATE POINT, BUT THE LOVE OF MY LIFE THINKS I’M JUST A TERRIBLE PERSON, SO I GUESS THAT’S THAT.’ 

And in the murderbot books, I genuinely get reduced to tears when murderbot has to deal with people compassionately interpreting its behavior instead of giving it no credit, the way its used to. I find the raksura books intensely, intensely satisfying in how Moon struggles to fit into a highly social, close-knit society after growing up so traumatized and alone, and how his colony gradually adapts to him and gets used to his quirks, instead of driving him out, the way he’s experienced so many times. No real conclusion here, I was just spacing out during a work training call, and got overtaken by how much I love characters who experience this particular flavor of emotional isolation.

[twistedtummies2]

The Mad Doctor of Night Raven (Commission)

Another commission; this is from the same person who created Tock Crockwork and Caelyum in past stories. This time, we introduce another OC of theirs: Xavier Madoc, based on The Mad Doctor from Epic Mickey. This is also my first time properly writing for Idia and Ortho! :D

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“You sure this is everything you need, me hearties?”

“Nya! It better be! Some of this is heavy!” You smirked as you adjusted the box of electronic equipment in your arms. You checked on your companions, who were carrying similar boxes. To your right strolled Grim, the fire-eared, trident-tailed, cat-like imp. He was carrying a very small box - fitting for his size - while yours was more medium sized. A box matching the size of yours was in the arms of your more human comrade: a tall, slender young man with long, fuschia-colored dreadlocks, dressed all in brown. “Thanks for the help, Cael,” you said to him gratefully. Caelyum De Macabre shrugged cheerily. “Don’t mention it!” he chuckled. “For one thing, helping you get this stuff was part of my job at the Mystery Shop. Sam prides himself on having everything; if I couldn’t find something like all this, he might dock my pay.” “Would he?” you blinked. “Probably not, but he MIGHT,” huffed Cael. “And as for carrying some of this…” His smile became more bashful. “...I owe you both. If it weren’t for you all...I might not have been able to reconcile with Mia.” “How is she, by the way?” you asked, tilting your head, then smirked teasingly. “Have you proposed yet?” “Well...um...yes and no?” chuckled Cael, pausing to flick a stray dreadlock out of his face before continuing. “We had a talk about that, actually, and...we decided it would be best to wait to get married till after I finished school.” “Well, as soon as you have your wedding, make sure you guys send me and Grim an invite!” Cael nodded to say he would, then both of you paused as you heard a sort of growly groan come from Grim. “Having trouble, Little Monster?” Cael asked, tilting his own head this time. “I wish people would stop calling me that,” grumbled the imp, and continued to march onward, tail flicking angrily behind him as the blue flames in his ears crackled faintly. “I’ve got it. The Great Grim won’t be defeated by a box!” He paused, blinked, then mumbled: “That’s something I didn’t think I’d say today…” Both yourself and Caelyum snickered.

“Why’d the otaku guy ask for all this, anyway?” Cael asked as the three of you continued on. “It’s for the science expo!” Grim said. “Science expo?” frowned Caelyum. “Idia’s final exam,” you nodded, and explained: “Crowley is holding a science expo here in a couple of weeks, and Idia has to create something for it for one of his classes.” “Well...cool, but why are YOU guys getting it?” “Because the thought of leaving his room multiple times to take multiple trips nearly made Idia have a heart attack,” you answered, dryly. Cael blinked...then sighed. “Yeah,” he muttered. “From what little I’ve seen of Shroud, that sounds about right.” “I hope he appreciates the help,” huffed Grim, and bounced the box of equipment in his little arms as he continued to march forward, moving ahead of you both. “It’s not easy hauling all this from the Mystery Shop all the way Igni-YIPE!” Grim let out a shrill yelp, and fell back onto his bunce; he’d bumped into something, which hit the floor with a crash. The box full of equipment fell to the ground. Yourself and Cael quickly but carefully put down your own boxes and hurried to gather the fallen items and inspect them swiftly, while Grim growled and rubbed his sore haunches. “Nothing’s damaged,” Cael sighed with relief. “Are you alright, Grim?” you asked. “No,” pouted Grim. “My dignity is wounded, and it’s hard keeping it intact as it is.” You smirked affectionately. “Oh my gosh!” exclaimed a new voice. “Are you okay?!” The three of you looked up to see a new figure rushing towards you all. The figure was a young man, dressed in the black-and-blue, informal, leather-jacket-clad dorm costume of Ignihyde. His skin was pale, and he had moppish hair, which had been dyed mint green with blue tips. His eyes were heterochromatic, and similarly colored: one was emerald, the other cobalt. He was somewhat gangly in build, yet handsome in features. “Nya...I’m not hurt, if that’s what you mean,” Grim muttered out, stumbling back onto his hindpaws and dusting off his fur. “I wasn’t talking to you!” the young man snapped, catching Grim off-guard...then knelt down to what Grim had bumped into. “Abe! Abe, are you okay?” The figured Grim had bumped into, you soon realized, was a robot. It was dressed like a porter, and - in contrast to the synthetic skin and almost fully human appearance of Ortho Shroud - had a decidedly mechanical, industrial look: all metal plates and gear-twisting joints. Its face was mask-like, with two yellow lamps for eyes. The robot shook its head with a whirring noise, as if to clear it, then the mute bot - it had no mouth - nodded to the young Ignihyde student. The mint-eyed boy sighed with relief, and smiled at the bot as if it were an old friend, patting its shoulder. Then, he glared at Grim almost childishly. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?!” the lad snapped. “Me?!” snapped Grim, stomping one foot angrily, ear-fire flaring up. “Your stupid robot was the one who bumped into me!” The green-and-blue-haired youth gasped, looking deeply offended, and hugged Abe close. “Don’t listen to the mean little raccoon, Abe,” he crooned to the bot, stroking the back of its head like it was his child. “You’re perfect just the way you are.” “I AM NOT A RACCOON!” screamed Grim. “I don’t even LOOK like one; why does everyone keep calling me that?!” The student from Ignihyde was too busy fawning over his robot like it was a spoiled child to answer. The robot squirmed, its yellow eyes flickering; you got the feeling that if a machine had the power to blush, Abe would have been doing so from all the attention. Grim pouted and grumbled while yourself and Caelyum stepped closer to address the newcomer, who helped the robot to its feet. The machine called Abe clattered and clanked a bit as the young man pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket and began to check over the mechanical wonder’s form. “Buddy, I keep telling you, you have to make sure to look both ways,” whispered the young scientist. “Maybe some of your circuits need rewiring; it’s like your memory bank has a hole or two in it somewhere. Tch. My fault for using-” “Excuse me,” you spoke up. “Who are you?” The Ignihyde student looked to you...then smiled. “Oh, hey there!” he said, waving with the hand that held the screwdriver. “Name’s Xavier. Xavier Madoc, if you, ah, wanna get all formal and stuff, heh. I’m a, uh, first year here in the dorm. I was just taking my buddy Abe here for a tour around the campus!” He patted his robot’s back; Abe stumbled forward, and rubbed his arm, looking a little nervous as he nodded to you in greeting. Sensing the AI’s anxiety, you gave a disarming smile of your own and bowed your head in return. This seemed to make Abe perk up a bit. “Nice to meet you both,” you said. “Speak for yourself,” mumbled Grim. “Hey, not Abe’s fault you’re an imperfect specimen of biology,” frowned Xavier. Before either yourself or Grim could point out Abe was clearly not a perfect machine, either, Xavier’s eyes lit up with recognition as he noticed the other member of the party. “Oh, it’s you again! Kale, yeah?” “Cael,” De Macabre corrected, with a mild smile. “Is this your presentation for the science expo?” “Pffft! Oh-ho, yeah, like...c’mon. Making artificial life? That’s, like, SO twenty years ago,” Xavier snorted. “Nope! I’ve got somethin’ a whole lot bigger in mind! It’s gonna REALLY put me on the map!” “After how much all those parts cost you, I should hope so,” mumbled Caelyum. “Hold on, back up,” you said, giving a  “time out” gesture. “The two of you know each other?” “Only peripherally,” admitted the shopkeeper’s aid. “Just like you guys, I helped Xavier pick out some items for his project.”

“Cool,” you commented. “They work perfectly, by the way!” Xavier butted in, and then giddlily clapped his hands. “Ohhhh, this is gonna Rock. The. World. Like, if there was a world, and my new invention could hold it, it would just…” He made explosive noises as he mimed shaking something in his hands, then puffed them out with a long, whining “Aaaaaah!” noise. “...That would be it,” he declared, grinning from ear to ear. “Nothing is gonna top this one, nothing!” “Well, you seem pretty confident,” you chuckled. “Trust me, if there’s one thing I know...well, actually, I know, like, a lot of things, I guess?” Xavier frowned, turning his eyes heavenward as he counted on his fingers. “I mean, there’s, like mechanical engineering, alchemy, anatomy, welding, potion making, computer science...basically, yeah, if there’s one thing I can do, it’s how to make something awesome. With SCIENCE!” The last word was spoken with great melodrama, complete with Xavier lifting one hand theatrically, throwing his head back with pride and puffing out his chest arrogantly. Abe seemed to roll his eyes at his creator’s hammy attitude. “I wouldn’t get too cocky,” Cael said warningly, as he stepped back to lift his box up off the floor. “Yeah! Especially with all this to contend with,” Grim grinned a little smugly, picking his own box back up as well. Xavier frowned as he saw you lift the third and final box, now looking both curious and perhaps borderline suspicious. “Yeah, about that...what’s with all the toys?” he said, pointing to the box with a slight frown, as if the items within were beneath him. “Is there, like, a kid entering the expo, or are you cleaning out trash…?” You blinked, and the three in your party shared looks. The strange part about that comment was it didn’t sound like it was meant to be an insult. Xavier seriously seemed to see the tools in the boxes as inferior. “These are for Idia. Your dorm head,” you said, slowly. Xavier’s eyes widened, and so did his smile. “Oh! Oh, COOL! So, wait, holdupholdupholdup...you’re saying Idia Shroud - THE Idia Shroud - is gonna come outta his hideout and tussle with the muscle at the contest?” “That’s...one way of putting it, yep,” you answered unsteadily. “That’s TERRIFIC!” Xavier exclaimed, clapping his hands and bouncing on his heels with giddy delight. Abe tilted his head with curiosity, and Xavier, noticing the robot’s reaction, decided to explain. “When I beat Idia, that’ll be, like, the best thing ever!” Madoc told Abe. “I can finally show just how perfect and brilliant my machines are! Abe, it’s gonna be DA BOMB! HA HA HA!” Xavier cackled with almost unhinged delight, pumping his fists. Abe turned his lamplike eyes towards your group. You see what I have to put up with? he seemed to be saying. “Be wary,” Caelyum warned. “You shouldn’t underestimate Shroud: he’s dorm head for a reason. He literally made his own brother, you know; have you made anything that impressive before?” Xavier looked to Cael...and his smile fell. A sudden coldness came over his expression, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you saying my machines aren’t impressive?” he whispered, his voice lowering an octave. “No, I don’t think he’s saying that at all!” you interrupted, sensing the tension and wanting to cut it short. “Just...um...Idia’s not half bad either, you know.” Xavier smirked, but his eyes were still glittering like emerald daggers. “Hmph. He may be dorm head, but he’s got nothing on The Madoc,” Xavier boasted, jabbing a thumb at himself...then, his eyes brightened, and his whole being became exuberant once more. “Hey! Hey, you should totally come see the expo! All of you! That’d be great!” “Then we could see you win, huh?” you smirked right back, already sensing his thoughts. “Well...or see the others lose,” he said with a sinister laugh. “Your choice of how you wanna word it.” “Nya...that seems a jerky way to put it,” grumbled Grim, but no one paid attention to him. “Well, Crowley is probably gonna ask us to do something there anyways, with his track record,” you muttered. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw you there.” “Perfect,” smiled Xavier, then cocked his head innocently. “Uh...right, I, ah...yeah, just realized I never got who YOU were?” You gave your name quickly. “I’m Prefect of the Ramshackle Dorm,” you explained, and pointed to Grim. “This is Grim.” “Aww...nice that your dorm allows pets.” Grim looked like he was pondering the many ways he coil make life excruciatingly painful for Xavier Madoc. “Why do you say that?” Cael spoke up. “Does yours not?” “Honestly, I dunno,” shrugged Xavier. “I’ve never had a pet. Never wanted one, really.” He tapped Abe on the chest; the robot - who had been staring off at something on a wall - jumped at the clanking on his abdomen. “I just deal with machines,” he said. “Pets are so...fussy. And unpredictable. You have to feed them and clean up their mess...my machines are clean and easy to handle. A machine can’t leave you or get sick; if there’s a malfunction, just a touch of oil or a twist of a wrench, and it’s all fixed, usually! And, hey, if something breaks, I can just rebuild it!” Abe looked hurt. “Oh, not you, buddy,” Xavier chuckled, patting his metal shoulder. “You’re irreplaceable.” Abe seemed to smile, but since he had no visible lips, you couldn’t tell. “I think it’s a good thing to have pets,” Caelyum argued, then gave a joking smile. “Maybe you should buy a lab rat or something?” Xavier shuddered. “Right, and be around animals AND people? Thanks, I think I’ll pass.” “And you were teasing Idia about leaving HIS hideout?” Grim taunted. Xavier glared at him. “I’m not scared of people,” he protested. “I just...don’t like crowds. I don’t like most people, either.” “You seem to be chatting easily with us,” you observed. “Well...yeah, but…no offense, I’m not gonna be inviting you to my lab anytime soon,” Xavier smiled weakly. “I like my privacy, that’s all.” You weren’t quite sure how to respond to that. “Speaking of,” Xavier went on, without waiting to see if you WOULD respond, “I gotta get back to work: I’ve gotta work out some clibrations for my new invention, then maybe see about modifying Abe’s storage banks, not to mention figuring out a few blueprints for future projects…” “Jeeze, don’t you do anything fun?!” Grim exclaimed. “Science IS fun,” huffed Xavier, sticking his nose up snootily. “And I don’t see a reason to stand here and be insulted by a furball.” While Grim sputtered, offended, Xavier looked to Abe. “Come, my friend!” he called out, theatrically. “Back to the laboratory!” Abe saluted, and he and his creator turned on their heels before marching away. The metallic footsteps of the robot echoed down the hall for several seconds after they vanished from sight. “I don’t like him,” grumbled Grim. “We gathered that,” Caelyum smirked. “He seems...eccentric,” you murmured, then shook your head. “Then again, I guess it’d be hard to find anybody at this school who ISN’T at least a little bit odd.” “He seemed like a good sort to me,” Cael nodded, then frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps a bit too sure of himself for his own good...not to mention a little too antisocial…” “Hey, I’ve dealt with Idia; trust me, that was nothing on the antisocial level,” you scoffed, as the three of you went down a side passage and headed off to find Idia’s room. “That’s not quite what I mean,” mumbled Caelyum, and then went on, aloud. “You know the donation jar at the Mystery Shop?” “You mean for the Medical Center?” “Yeah,” Cael said. “He didn’t donate anything. That’s not surprising, I guess, and it wouldn’t have really bothered me at all - donations from customers are hit and miss, always - but when I asked him if he’d like to make a donation, his response was…unsettling.” “Nya?” Grim meowed, one ear flicking with curiosity. “And what did he say?” “He said, ‘Sorry, but there are too many people out there to worry about the sick ones.’” You blinked...then scowled. “Okay...that’s...not very nice...and a little confusing,” you murmured. “Yeah,” Caelyum said. “The weirdest part was he then started rambling about the machines in the Medical Center. He seemed more interested in how the machines worked than what they actually did to help people.” You glanced back over your shoulder. Now, you were starting to feel worried. A person that strange, that obsessed, and that sure of his own superiority… ...Suddenly, Xavier’s eccentricities were starting to take a more sinister undercurrent. “Let’s just forget about him,” snorted Grim. “Come on, the scaredy-cat’s waiting!” “Right,” you muttered, then shook your head to clear it, and picked up the pace, this time taking the lead yourself. “Come on, you two...if Idia’s going to have any shot at that science expo - Madoc or no Madoc - he’ll need these parts.’

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Several weeks later, the science expo at Night Raven College commenced. Various students from across the campus were readying their inventions and projects. You had been right, of course: the Headmaster had, indeed, demanded that you attend the expo. As custodians, your job was to help those preparing their experiments, and to clean up any messes that might come up. By some miracle, not a drop of an acid, nor a bit of any base, had yet to stain the floor, and nothing solid had broken. Of course, that could change at any time, so yourself and Grim wandered around the expo, peeking at different experiments on display. A lot of what was being shown you didn’t fully understand - science had never been your strongest point - and, truth be told, the majority of the students involved were not ones you knew personally. There were, however, two familiar faces you were hoping to see. “Nya...where are the Shrouds?” meowed Grim, flicking his tail from side to side and blinking his big blue-green eyes up at you. “Shouldn’t Idia and Ortho have set up their panel already.” “Yeah, they should have,” you nodded. “Maybe they just didn’t get things ready in time?” “Not the way I heard it.” The voice caught your attention, and both yourself and Grim smiled as you saw who it belonged to. “Oh, Cael! So you came here after all, huh?” you grinned. “Yup. I actually invited Mia, but she couldn’t make it; some kind of royal business,” the shopkeeper’s assistant shrugged. “I wanted to see how the items Sam and I sold were being used, so I asked him if I could get out of my job at the Mystery Shop a few hours early to check things out.” “I see. I’m sorry to hear Mia couldn’t make it,” you said, sympathetically. Caelyum smiled gently. “For years I lived without her,” he said, faintly. “Even if we’re not together, my heart will always be with her...and hers with mine…” “Ugh...gag me,” sneered Grim. “You don’t have to make it sound so dramatic, you know; you’re a bigger ham than the guys at Pomefiore!” Cael blushed and you giggled. “Anyway...Ortho told me he and Idia had finished their work,” Caelyum informed you and the imp. “They actually have it stored here at the hall, since they felt that would make it easier for transport and setup.” “That’s strange, then. Even Idia usually isn’t late for these things,” you murmured, looking a little concerned. “He’s not?” Cael asked, curiously. “I would have thought, with his reputation, he would try his hardest to avoid them.” “Well, Idia usually has Ortho attend the Dorm Leader Meetings - and other events - and then uses his computer to do a voice stream from his room,” you explained. “That way he can make his presentations without having to face the crowds directly. There should be no reason for at least one of them to not be-” “Excuse me! Pardon me! Coming through! Thank you!” “Idon’twannagoIdon’twannagoIdon’twannagohelphelphelp…!” Grim turned around fast at the sound of the familiar voices, and tugged on your leg, pointing in the direction they were coming from. Both you and Cael quickly looked in the direction he had indicated, and saw the crowd of students and helpful staff members parting… ...Revealing the form of Ortho Shroud, who all but skipped merrily along through the campus convention hall where the expo was being held, dragging along what looked like an enormous black-and-blue bag. You quickly realized the “enormous bag” was really Idia Shroud, who was lying belly down on the floor. His dead-white hands were holding up his hoodie in a steel-knuckled grip, while his glowing blue, ethereal hair spilled across the floor from under it. Ortho noticed your group soon enough; his cybernetic eyes widened, and he waved, trotting over to three of you. You looked to Caelyum, who was staring bug-eyed, stunned by the bizarre tableaux. You had to admit, it said something that, somehow, you were a lot less weirded out. “Hi ya, Prefect!” Ortho chirped in his electronic way, as he stopped a few feet away from your trio. You could see that, now at a standstill, Idia was shaking like a leaf. “Uhhhh...hi,” you greeted awkwardly. “Nya! Why are you two so late?” Grim grimaced. “And what exactly is going on?” Cael asked, sounding like he was trying not to shout that out in confusion. “Oh! Well, um, Big Brother’s thingamajig that he uses for remote conference? It, uh...kinda had a malfunction,” Ortho said, an embarrassed smile flickering behind the mask-like apparatus on his android face. “Malfunction?” the three of you repeated, looking at each other, and then back at Ortho. “Yeah,” Ortho said, and scratched the back of his head. “My brother convinced a stray cat into our room so he could give it some food...but when he tried to snuggle it, it bolted back out the window, and knocked the device off a table and onto the floor. We...didn’t have time to fix it.” A keening whine from Idia made it hard from you to determine if you should laugh or just feel sorry for the poor, anxious noble son. “Yeesh...and that’s what all this is about, huh?” “Yep!” Ortho siad, cheerily. “Big Brother still has to attend his final for the class, after all! So I made sure to get him here with enough time to set up shop!” Ortho’s chest was puffed out with pride; you swore, if he had a tail, it would have been wagging like a puppy’s. You couldn’t help but smile, even as Grim and Cael both rolled their eyes, crossing their arms over their chests. “Well, good job, Ortho; that’s being responsible!” you said, and playfully patted the boy-like droid’s head; you would never understand how that fire-like hair DIDN’T burn your fingers, but no matter. “I’m sure once he’s done having a panic attack, he’ll be proud of you.” Ortho giggled happily and his eyes crinkled with another sweet “smile.” You now turned your attention to Idia, as Ortho released his leg. The instant, Idia felt his leg being let go, he stopped shaking and froze. Slowly, he rolled onto his back...and huge amber yellow eyes, glowing like warning lights, peered out from behind the hoodie. Idia took one look at the crowd in the hall, and the faces looking at him...and squeaked like a mouse before hiding his face. He clumsily tried to get to his feet and run away...only to let out a shrill, strangled sound as he tripped on his own feet and fell over. Ortho let out an “eep!” and rushed to catch hold of his brother before the computer genius could eat tile. “Nervous, Idia?” Grim drawled with a smirk. Cael couldn’t help but chuckle as Idia whimpered with terror, quivering once again. “P-People,” came Idia’s voice behind his hood. “Too...t-too many people...please...t-take me back to my room...I-I’d rather watch the English dubbing of Ghost Stories than do this…heck, I’d rather play Iron Gear: Survive than be here...!” “Not till you finish your presentation,” Ortho said. “Come on, Big Brother! Show everybody how cool you are!” “I don’t wanna be cool!” Idia nearly sobbed. “Please, not this! Not…” He gulped and nearly choked on the next words. “...T-Talking to people...having them judge me...no, no, not that…” Idia shook his head behind his hood stubbornly. Ortho looked at you helplessly. You sighed and knelt down to Idia’s level. You cautiously reached out to the trembling socially anxious scientist, who whimpered as he felt your hands brush against him, and curled up tightly, as if afraid of being struck. With a sympathetic smile, you carefully parted his hands and pulled down his hood. His face now fully exposed to the outside world, Idia blinked his giant yellow eyes at you with real fear. His dark lips were trembling, and you swore those golden irises were getting a little misty as he looked on the verge of crying with fear. You could hear his shark-like teeth chattering as if winter had come early that year. “Idia,” you said softly, “It’s got to be done, and you’re the only one who can do it.” “Why is that?” peeped Idia, childishly. “Because it’s YOUR creation, Idia,” you said, with an encouraging smile. “No one knows it better than you do.” “Yeah! It’s not like we can talk about all this science-y junk!” Grim broke in...then subsided when Idia reacted by looking hurt, while Ortho gave him an almost murderous glare. “The presentation only has to be a few minutes long,” Cael thought to put in helpfully. “A few SECONDS is too much!” Idia said, and hurried to try and hide his face again...but you prevented it with your hands as you carefully held his wrists. His black-nailed fingers twitched with mortal dread as he looked into your earnest, honest eyes. “Idia, does Ortho know anything about the project?” “Well...n-no, not enough to tell them everything,” Idia admitted, squirming uncomfortably and almost guiltily, like a child admitting he’d stolen five cookies from the cookie jar. “Is there anybody else who could give the presentation on your behalf, with the knowledge you have?” Idia blinked. Those last few words seemed to have stirred something in his breast, and he looked at you anew, blinking a few times, as realization dawned on his pale face. “...No...I guess not,” he said, softly. “Well then?” you urged, tenderly, raising one eyebrow. Idia bit his lip; his sharp teeth almost drew blood. (Almost.) “...But...b-but I’m scared,” he cheeped out, like a wounded baby bird. It took all your willpower not to kiss his forehead. How could a denizen of the Underworld be so friggin’ cute?! “It’s okay to be scared,” you assured him. “Being brave means doing things even though you are scared.” “No, being brave means enduring unpleasant situations without showing fear,” Idia droned. “That’s literally in the dictionary.” “And how brave do you think the Lord of the Underworld was when he fought the Mighty Hercules?” “A lot braver than I am!” Idia replied, without missing a beat, and promptly hid his face again, rolling onto his side, like a child refusing to get out of bed. “I’m not doing it!” You bit your own lip, and looked around awkwardly. A LOT of people were staring, and that was only going to make Idia feel worse. You had to pacify this quickly. “Mr. Shroud.” You blinked up at Caelyum, who knelt down beside you with a reassuring smile of his own. Idia peeked out of his hoodie timidly. “Wh-What?” “Once this is over, I’d be happy to give you a free Jumbo Jar of Jelly Babies from the Mystery Shop as a reward for your efforts,” Cael offered. Idia’s eyes went wide at the mention of so much candy. “...F-Free?” “Yes,” Cael nodded. “I’ll just put my own money back into the shop to make up the expense. BUT,” he said, in a stern, almost parental tone, holding up one finger, “You have to at least try to make your presentation first.” Idia licked his lips, but he still looked uncertain. “...What if they don’t like my creation, though?” he whispered, shivering a little. “They’ll love it, Big Brother!” Ortho declared. “It’s the best thing ever! You’re so smart, it has to be!” “And all three of us,” you thought to add, “Will be there. Myself, Cael, and Grim: we’ll be watching and cheering you on.” Idia squirmed again. “...The watching part I could live without, but…” Finally, at long last...he gave a scared, small, hesitant smile. “...The cheering part...I-I’d appreciate it,” he chuckled, and seemed to perk up a bit. “And, h-hey...I get lots of candy out of it, yeah?” “Sugary gummies galore,” winked Caelyum. Idia paused once more, and took a deep breath, before finally relenting: “F-Fine...I’ll...I’ll try not to screw up...” “That’s the spirit, Brother!” cheered Ortho joyously, and helped Idia to his feet. Idia gave a nervous nod to his brother, then gave you a shy wave and a smile that showed just a hint of his pointed teeth, as the young android led him away to another part of the hall. Both yourself and Caelyum stood to your full heights and sighed with relief. “Sam’s gonna kill me,” he mumbled. “He gets pretty strict with inventory; I think it’s the con-man in him…” “Just don’t make a deal with him, and you’ll be fine,” Grim giggled. “You know, maybe another incentive we could have used was a chance for ‘snuggle time’ with a certain ‘Little Monster,’” you said, airily, giving Grim a teasing smile. The cat-like little beast blushed bright red, and his ears flared up. “Th-That’s not funny, Minion!” he snapped, huffishly, while Cael chortled merrily at the thought. Just then, another laugh was heard from the far end of the hall; you recognized it instantly. “Xavier?” you murmured, remembering the strange scientist from a few weeks ago. “Sounds like the judging has begun,” Caelyum remarked, as he noticed a group of official-looking gentlemen, along with some students, gathered in the area. “Nya! Let’s go see what’s up!” Grim suggested, and loped off on all fours to do exactly that. You and Caelyum shrugged to each other, and followed at a casual pace. You soon came to the panel hosted by Xavier. To one side stood Abe, who had traded out his porter’s costume for a buttoned-up labcoat...although, amusing, he still wore his porter’s cap upon his head. The mechanical man’s mask-like, expressionless, featureless face somehow still managed to look rather bashful as he waved shyly at the mob that now surrounded the corner spot. It was Xavier Madoc himself, however, who most arrested your attention. He stood in front of a table, over which was draped a light gray table cloth...and on top of that was a large, oddly-shaped...something. No one could tell what, exactly, for a second tablecloth - also colored gray - was covering it. Xavier was dressed in a long labcoat, which stretched past his knees and halfway down his shins. Underneath this, the eccentric inventor wore blue jeans and white tennis shoes; the former was held up by a peculiar teal-colored belt. A light gray midriff shirt, with black pinstripes, was perhaps the weirdest part of his ensemble; emblazoned on his chest, upon this shirt, was an unusual design: a black-stenciled image that, on one side, resembled a skull, while the other side resembled a clockwork gear, the two parts meshed together unsettlingly. With his wild, wide grin and the way he bowed to the crowd - more like a circus ringmaster than a distinguished scholar - one couldn’t help but find him a most uncommon figure. “Ladies and gentlemen...and undecided!” he greeted, and laughed at his own joke (no one else did, but he didn’t seem to care) before continuing: “Allow me to introduce myself: I am Xavier Madoc! Also, allow me to introduce my trusty counterpart, Abe! His name stands for Assistant Bot Extraordinaire. Yeah, ha, not the most, uh...SCIENTIFIC name I could’ve come up with, but what can I say? I liked the acronym.” Abe rolled his electronic eyes and nodded to the judges, who nodded back before refocusing on Xavier, who rubbed his eyes as he moved to the opposite side of the table from Abe. “Friends and colleagues of science, let us talk about emotions, shall we?” he began, still speaking in an almost carnival-esque tone of voice, which made Cael roll his eyes and scoff. “He sounds almost like Sam at times,” the Swamplands native mumbled. You and Grim smiled at him, then looked back at Xavier as he began his spiel. “Emotions are a fickle thing,” Madoc said, lifting a finger in emphasis. “Emotions can be our strength, but they can also be our weakness. What a beautiful world it would be if we could all be logical, without those...pesky things like jealousy or greed to spur us in the wrong direction. Even here, in a school of black magic, love is just as revered as vengeance. There is a reason, of course...two, really. One, I would argue, is human frailty. We cannot help ourselves; we are, very tragically, made to be feeling creatures more often than thinkers. But another is perhaps more practical, in this particular world...and that, my friends, is that we need it as fuel. Magic is a powerful entity in our world, arguably more than science, and while it is not uncommon for the two to mesh together, no one has found a way to properly harness the power of the human spirit that allows our magic to work. Well, my friends...I, Xavier Madoc, have found the solution to that quandary!” So saying, Xavier through out both arms in a grand gesture and sang out: “TA-DA!” Silence. Nothing happened. The judges and the crowd just stared at Xavier awkwardly. Xavier blinked, then looked to Abe, who was looking around the room blithely. He frowned and whistled, getting the droid’s attention. “Abe,” he said, and pointed to the table. “You’ll want to take off the tablecloth on that cue, ‘kay, buddy?” Abe nodded, and scooted closer to the table. “Thank you,” whispered Xavier, and tried again, louder: “TA-DA!” A horrible grinding sound was heard as Abe grabbed the tablecloth on the table, nearly knocking over the item under the second veil as he gave it a tug. Xavier yelped for him to stop, and swooped in just in time to right the object before it could crash to the floor. You forced yourself not to laugh; Grim and Caelyum were not inclined to do the same. “So much for ‘the perfection of machines,’ huh?” the fluffy little imp whispered. “Hush!” you scolded...but internally, you conceded he had a point. Abe shuffled sheepishly as Xavier brushed his mint-and-cerulean bangs from his face and gave him an impatient, toothy smile. The dark doctor-in-training could hear some of the crowd snickering, and he hated it. “Not THAT tablecloth,” he said through clenched teeth, and pointed to the device under the covering. “THIS tablecloth. Got it?” Abe nodded, looking like a scared child. “Thank you,” Xavier sighed in frustration, and took a deep breath before trying one more time: “TA-DA!” Finally, Abe swirled off the right tablecloth with great panache. Underneath it was unveiled a strange machine, about the size and shape of the average backpack. Most of it was covered in white leather, but several mechanical apparatuses were jutting from it. Among these were two large copper tanks on either side, several steel cylinders, and two long tubes of tough, transparent rubber, which led from one of the sets of caps into the copper tanks. Two beige-colored leather straps were attached, and it was into these straps that Xavier slipped his long, lanky arms, putting the strange pack on his back. “Introducing my newest invention!” Xavier declared with a beaming, proud smile. “The Emotion Reservoir Power Converter - or ERPC, if you want to shorten it. We can’t all have cool acronyms like Abe, heh...ANYWAY! I would argue that negative emotions have more importance here than positive ones: Blot is the result of an overabundance of black magic use, and much of dark wizardry involves the channeling of negative power. The ERPC can drain small doses of negative emotional energy directly from the subject, and then convert them into magical energy, without the user suffering a state of Overblot!” “Can you give us a demonstration?” one of the judges spoke up. He was a portly man, with spectacles perched upon a crooked nose. “I hoped you would ask that, Dr. Alcott,” Xavier answered with a Devil-May-Care wink, then looked to his robotic companion. “Abe? The book, please!” The robot nodded, and reached into the folds of his labcoat, before handing his creator a small book with a bright pink cover. On it was the title “Princess Pony and the Island of Fluffy Squirrels,” by Lorina Faustus. Xavier blushed bright red and swatted at Abe, who hurriedly put the book away while giggles and chuckles once again came from the audience. “I told you not to…! THE OTHER BOOK, ABE!” Abe quickly fished a second book out: this was a black leatherbound volume with the image of a galaxy festooning its front. Xavier took it and sighed, shaking his head before flipping to a bookmarked page. “Here,” he declared, pointing at the page in question and tapping it with a finger, “Is an excellent example. Keep in mind, gentlemen and ladies, I am but a first year here. The spell I’m about to perform is typically a fourth-year level spell, and I have taken no classes on the subject. Should you wish for confirmation of this later, simply consult the members of the staff on standby today.” Xavier thus cleared his throat, and lifted one hand, extending his thin fingers towards the ceiling before mumbling the incantation in the book. He closed his eyes, furrowing his brow and gritting his teeth, trying to concentrate...his fingers clawed as he flexed them, arm trembling as he forced all the power he could muster into his spellcasting… A dim, murky cloud of purple - shapeless and formless - hovered over the heads of the judges. Specks and blotches of many hues, like splatters of watercolor on a half-burned piece of parchment, appeared and disappeared...before, finally, Xavier gasped and relinquished the attempt, and the colors all faded, the cloud dissipating in an instant. “Haaaaah...a-as you can...ahem...as you can s-see,” Xavier gasped out, wiping some sweat from his brow. “That was hardly an easy task, gentleman...and hardly a good demonstration of that spell. Thankfully, my new invention can allow me to ‘upgrade’ my abilities, through use of my Unique Magic…” He lifted his left hand, the one that he had first used to try and enact the spell, and flexed his fingers as he recited his magic words. “...Paint & Thinner.” There was a flash of turquoise-toned light...and suddenly, Xavier’s left arm had undergone a startling and somewhat disquieting transformation. The fingers and thumb of his left hand had turned into a set of what looked like syringes, the needles resembling claws, his whole hand now seemingly mechanical and metallic. “My power,” Xavier smirked, flexing his taloned hand, “Allows me to extract emotion from a person. This is the ‘Thinner’ part of the equation. The emotional energy is converted to a liquid state. I can, of course, also return the emotions to their original owners, in a gaseous state: this is the ‘Paint’ aspect. Now, I know this is, uh...you know...a little freaky, but...I’m going to need a volunteer.” He handed the spellbook to Abe and added: “My assistant doesn’t exactly have veins to target.” Naturally, at first, nobody stepped forward. Xavier’s expression shifted, and he started to seem crestfallen, perhaps even a little scared… You sighed, shook your head, and stepped closer, raising one arm. “I volunteer,” you said. Xavier grinned, and nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Prefect,” he said, and addressed the audience as - with the clinical care of a master surgeon - he pulled you closer by one arm. “Everyone watch closely, please.” He then looked back at you; his voice was the professional, bland calm of a medical expert as he said the timeless refrain: “This won’t hurt a bit.” The syringes were inserted into your arm. You closed your eyes, trying to relax, remembering all the injections you had gotten. You did not feel the slightest prick as they did their work, and soon, bright green fluid - the color of some toxic acid - was drawn from your very body into the syringe fingers. “Sit down,” whispered Xavier, in the same clinical, almost cold tone, easing you into a nearby chair which Abe had prepared. His actions seemed more dismissive than in the vein of proper bedside manners. You sank into it gratefully. You felt...lightheaded. Cold. Almost ill. You didn’t know it at the time, but before the congregation of onlookers, your skin had suddenly turned very, very pale, and your hair and eyes had lost all color. Even your clothes seemed to have become more faded, causing you to look like a monochrome character from a black-and-white movie. You hoped the sickening, hollow sensation inside you wouldn’t last long as Xavier turned to the audience again. “Generally speaking, draining the emotion from the victim will leave them feeling weakened; enough power drawn can lead to them being rendered unconscious. My machine allows me to withdraw more than I would usually be able to manage in a single dose without even touching the subject, should I wish...but for safety purposes, I think we had better focus on the OUTPUT demonstration. Observe…” He closed his eyes...and suddenly, the syringes emptied, as if the power was being drawn through his arm and into his core...then, the same green fluid bubbled through the pipes, and a slosh came from the copper tanks as your emotions filled them with liquid energy. “Now,” said Xavier, and waved a hand for Abe to open the book and show him the page, as his syringe hand lifted to the ceiling. “Let’s see if the emotional energy I’ve drained from my volunteer can be converted to enough magical power, via the ERPC, for the spell I attempted earlier. Remember, everybody: first year here…” Once again, Xavier lifted his hand to the ceiling...and this time, as he spoke the incantation, the purple cloud became a beautiful circle of deep indigo, revealing the boundless reaches of outer space. Splashes of color became perfect images of planets and stars, so real in appearance one swore they could touch them. In fact, one student DID try to touch one...and yelped, as the sun actually burnt their finger slightly. “Careful,” chuckled Xavier, and then flexed his fingers...and the beautiful image disappeared. He then turned to the judges and, without a word, bowed. He had rested his case. The judges seemed most impressed. Dr. Alcott and the others applauded and smiled, looking quite pleased. However, they had other presentations to attend to, and after a few more perfunctory questions, they moved on. As the judges moved on, and the crowd went with them, Xavier looked two, kneeling down to look at your face. You felt dizzy and queasy, and the look on his face indicated he could tell. He extended his fingers. “Breathe normally,” he instructed, and a faint blue mist poured from the needle like fingers...and you sighed as you felt the ill feeling go away. Steadily, the color flooded back into your being at the same time. “Oh, dear Gods...wh-what was that?” “That was what it was like to be drained of emotional energy,” Xavier said, and gave an anxious sort of smile. “Pretty icky, huh?” “You said it,” you grumbled. “That was a bold decision, Prefect,” Cael observed, as Grim nodded in agreement. Both he and the imp looked rather concerned; they had lingered behind to check on you. Abe placed a mute hand upon your shoulder. You glanced up briefly at the featureless mechanical man, then smiled weakly back at your friends. “Well, he needed someone...who else would have done it?” you reasoned, then shuddered. “I really don’t like needles though…” “Not my fault it’s how my power works,” chuckled Xavier, but obligingly lifted his hand and spoke the counter-curse: “Thinner & Paint.” Another flash of blue-green light, and his hand returned to normal. He gave it a shake, then extended it to you. “Thank you for the help,” he said, sincerely. “Gotta admit, I didn’t expect anybody to put their best foot forward for me like that…” “I’m glad I could start a new custom,” you said, and shook his hand before shakily standing up. “I still don’t feel quite ready for work though…” “Give it a couple short minutes, and it’ll wear off on its own,” Xavier said sweetly. Just then, more applause came...louder than before. The four of you looked; Xavier frowned and the rest of you perked up as you realized who the next contender was… “The Shrouds!” exclaimed Grim. “Let’s see what they are up to,” suggested Cael. “Right,” you nodded, then smiled at Xavier. “Really cool invention. I hope you win!” Xavier’s eyes widened as he looked back at you, seemingly taken aback by the compliment and well-wishes...then smiled awkwardly. “Heh...uh...th-thanks, um...enjoy the rest of the expo. I mean, no one else is gonna be as awesome, but...you know…” You just laughed, and joined your friends, giving Xavier a wave as you strolled towards the Shrouds’ panel. You never noticed how Xavier’s smile faded into a cold, almost lifeless expression behind you while your back turned away. “No one else is gonna be as awesome,” he whispered to himself, forebodingly. Unaware of the ominous moment that had passed, your gaggle descended with the rest of the onlookers to see what the Head of Ignihyde and his “Baby Brother” had in store. Said “Baby Brother” was brushing humming in a vocoded-sounding way (he WAS an android, after all) as he brushed down a machine on the table. The device was not hidden by anything, the way Xavier’s power pack had been, which meant you and all and sundry could take a peek at it. It was...difficult to describe. The shape of the thing vaguely resembled a small ice maker, colored black and gray, but with three glass tubes on the top, each filled with strange fluids in primary colors: red, yellow, and blue. While Ortho dusted it off, Idia, was standing off to one side; his knees were almost knocking together, and his fingers fiddled endlessly with the dangling pullstrings of his hoodie as he stared at the judges, brow bathed in cold sweat. “Okay, Brother-o’-mine!” cheered Ortho, and looked to Idia happily. “It’s all set.” Idia said nothing. He didn’t move. He stared straight ahead, like a statue, still focused unblinkingly on the judges. “Uh...brother?” Idia whimpered, still frozen and shaking. “BROTHER!” shouted Ortho, fire-hair flaring up and turning orange for a second as he stomped his foot in frustration. Idia yelped and jumped about a foot in the air. “IWASN’TTHINKINGABOUTHIDING!” he exclaimed in a jabbering sort of way...then blinked when he saw Ortho’s pouty expression. (How the android could pout with no visible lips was anyone’s guess.) He flushed; Idia never blushed red or pink, but his cheeks turned a sort of bluish-purple color. “C’mon!” Ortho urged, and gestured towards the group. “They’re waiting.” This did not seem to encourage Idia, who flinched and looked nervously at the impatient judges. “I...um...uh...w-well, uh...aha...er…” You frowned, glancing with concern at Grim and Caelyum; the former matched your expression, while the other mostly looked bored. This was not going well. A thought came to you, and you stepped forward slightly. Idia must have heard your approach, because his eyes quickly darted to see you, and the encouraging smile you gave. Suddenly, he seemed to relax...but only VERY slightly. Idia was the sort to fear he was BREATHING too loudly and that would get on people’s nerves, he could only be so calm. Still, it helped enough for him to clear his throat and begin talking. “Ahem...s-sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, with a nervous smile, tapping his fingers together childishly. “I’m, ah...not used to this sort of...front and center kinda thing, heh...honestly, I wish I were hiding under my blankets right now...BUT! But, ah...I think the device I’ve made will at least be of interest…” So saying, Idia seemed to pluck up some courage. Your own smile widened as he placed a hand on the machine, and his stance straightened. If there was one thing that Shroud could talk about with SOME pride, it was his work. “I don’t need to tell all you that, uh...th-that the source of magic for m-many wizards and witches is their magic crystals, right? Right. So, ah...I, well...I got to thinking: the problem with the crystals is they can...well...run out. We have to mine for them, we have to dig for them, and there’s always a chance that someday...y’know...th-there might not be any left. Which would...kinda suck, ha. SO! I decided to try and create SYNTHETIC crystals…” He tapped the tubes on the top of the machine. “With these three simple potion compounds, mixed together in the right order, I can...well...do that. Using this machine.” “Would you say there are other advantages to this idea?” Dr. Alcott spoke up. “Oh, y-yes!” Idia said, starting to smile as he realized he had someone’s interest, though he seemed a bit nervous when he noticed the way the other judges scribbled some quick notes down. “Ahem...yes, sir. See, with synthetic crystals, not only do you not need to dig them up, but...well...if you have these compounds, and this machine, you can make as many as you like.” “Well, yes,” Dr. Alcott nodded, “But are they any more advantageous than natural crystals?” Idia paused, as if to think on his answer, then nodded slowly. “There is one other thing,” he said, almost shyly. (Well...there was no “almost” about it, this was Idia Shroud, but you gave him the benefit of the wiggle room anyway.) He paused before steadily elaborating: “Synthetic crystals do have a couple of weaknesses. They are not as physically strong as natural ones, for a start, the same way synthetic gems are not as strong as real jewels. You also can’t make them as large as natural crystals, because with the compounds being used, they can become unstable. But, at the average size of the average magic crystal…” He pointed to the one he wore himself, on his arm, before continuing. “...It can actually last longer than a natural crystal. It...well...um...I don’t know how to explain it, actually, but my experiments have shown that...well...you can use them for a longer period of time before worrying about Overblotting.” “Well, that’s definitely an advantage,” smiled Dr. Alcott, seemingly impressed, then turned serious as he scratched a few notes down before speaking again: “Can we see how this machine works?” “Y-Yes! Yes, of course!” nodded Idia...then tapped Ortho on the shoulder. “Little brother? Um...w-would you do the honors?” He then added in a whisper, “I’ll probably mess up…” Your smile became slightly less proud: Idia was still Idia. Ortho just giggled. “You can’t mess up turning the machine on, Big Brother!” he teased quietly, but still obeyed, pressing a button on the contraption. A loud whirring sound was heard, and the potions in the tubes bubbled and then began to lessen in volume; you could hear the sound of fluid being stirred and mixed, followed by the low humming buzz of another item either cooling or heating the stuff inside the machine… ...It only took about two minutes - during which the judges’ attention was raptly focused on the device, and several in the crowd mumbled to one another with interest - and then, with a rattle and a clatter, a teardrop-shaped, transparent, pale blue crystal dropped into a tray inside the machine. Idia opened the lid and pulled the crystal out of the tray, holding it up for everyone to see, then offered it to the judges, who inspected it closely. Finally, Dr. Alcott handed the artificial crystal back to Idia with a smile. “Fine work, young Master Shroud,” he nodded in approval. “Fine work indeed.” The other judges and the audience applauded. Idia smiled bashfully, tucking his head down and mouthing a quiet word of thanks as he hugged the crystal to his chest. Ortho, noticing the way his brother was shaking, gave him an encouraging hug as the mob and the judges - still chatting betwixt themselves - moved away. Once again, yourself and your friends stepped forward, all of you wearing matching grins. “I’m so proud of you!” you cheered, and gave Idia a hug. You felt the eldest Shroud freeze up in your embrace, and couldn’t help but smile still wider; Idia, bless his heart, still wasn’t used to much physical interaction, and you could feel him starting to twitch. You gave him a very gentle, comforting squeeze, and rubbed his back reassuringly. Only then did his arms steadily move upwards to gingerly return the hug. “Nya!” Grim called out happily, trotting over with a wide grin, purring up at the fire-haired Ignihyde head. “You did a lot better than I expected!” “An interesting invention, too,” Cael complimented. “I’m sure you’ll end up with first place!” “Oh, I-I dunno,” mumbled Idia, rubbing one arm and squirming slightly with embarrassment. “I thought Madoc had a pretty cool creation, too…” “His was neat,” nodded Grim, “But I think yours is better.” “His energy converter DID have one noticeable issue,” Cael thought to add, glancing back towards Xavier’s panel - by now, the odd scientist and his assistant had turned their attention away, and were seemingly polishing the power pack. “It depends on HIM in order to work. No one else would be able to use it: it’s not something you can mass produce, because no one else has his Unique Magic.” “That’s true,” Ortho spoke up. “But hey! The basic idea isn’t bad; with a little adjusting, he could make it something really special for everyone to use!�� “If he cares enough to try,” mumbled Grim; he subsided at the look you gave him. “It’s up to the judges, and the contest has just started,” you said, crisply, then smiled at Idia once more. “Whatever happens, you did good. Don’t doubt that.” Idia smiled sweetly. “Th-thank you,” he whispered, then glanced at the crystal in his hand and back up at you...before offering it cautiously. “Would you...like a souvenir? Heh…” You chuckled, and took the crystal, placing it in your pocket. “Sure,” you said. “Thanks, Idia.” “Y-You’re w-w-welcome,” stuttered Idia, looking like he was scared of feeling too happy. He paused and cleared his throat with a cough before reaching into his hoodie’s pocket, pulling out his cell phone. “Well, um...I wanna catch up with a new show I’m watching, so...I’m, uh...y’know...gonna go find a nice, safe corner till the judgment call comes, and...well…ju st, uh...exist, heh…” “Can I watch with you, Big Brother?” Ortho peeped hopefully. “Sure,” Idia said with a smile and a nod, then gave you the same gestures before scurrying away, looking like he couldn’t wait to get away from everything that had the power to breathe. Yourself and your two companions chuckled and gave a collective mock salute to the Shroud brothers, as Ortho followed Idia quickly. Then, still chattering amongst yourselves, you hurried to rejoin the group and see what else was at the exposition… None of you were aware of Xavier Madoc’s eyes following the mob’s movements, before glancing back at Idia’s device. One could have sworn his one green eye flashed.

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The exposition had come to an end, and after two hours of deliberation, the judges were ready to deliver their verdict. The contestants had lined up on either side of the room, while the audience sat in chairs before a podium. Yourself, Caelyum, and Grim all took seats in the second row (the front row had filled up too quickly) and watched as Dr. Alcott approached the podium, adjusting his spectacles and shuffling some papers in his hands. You glanced to the right. Along with the other contenders at the expo, Idia and Xavier were naturally lined up, both on the same side of the hall. Xavier stood with a cocksure smile, arms crossed, while Idia was nervously twiddling his fingers, biting his lip with his dagger-like teeth. He looked towards Xavier and smiled nervously. “S-So, uh...may the best man win, huh?” he said, awkwardly. Xavier didn’t even look at the dorm head as he narrowed his eyes and simply said, “Don’t worry. I will.” Idia looked a bit befuddled. Abe and Ortho - who stood beside their corresponding creators - looked at each other and shrugged. The sound of Dr. Alcott brought your attention back to the podium. “It’s time,” Cael and Grim murmured at the same time, as the lead judge addressed the audience, crooked nose pointed high. “Friends of science,” the doctor began, “I am not one for grand speeches or over-sentimentalizing the talents we’ve seen on display here today. Virtually every experiment we viewed today, every invention created or formula concocted, was of interest.As far as those doing this for an assignment go, my supposition is you will all pass with flying colors. However, there can only be one winner: one person to leave this exposition a proper champion.” He snapped his fingers and one of the other judges stepped up beside him, and handed him a trophy, with a golden ornament resembling a ringed planet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Alcott intoned, “The winner of the Annual Science Expo is…” Xavier smirked, and straightened up his labcoat, taking a deep breath, as if ready to thank everyone… “...Mr. Idia Shroud!” Xavier froze, the smile seemingly slapped from his face as his eyes widened. Idia’s eyes widened too, and he gasped in surprise as the crowd applauded. One could almost see tears in his eyes as he realized what had happened. Yourself and your party cheered as Ortho nudged Idia up to the podium to accept his trophy, which he did with trembling fingers. You were grinning from ear to ear, and so was Idia; his shark-toothed smile had never been wider, you felt, nor more genuine in nature. His amber eyes sparkled like a pair of glittering gold coins. As Dr. Alcott began to congratulate Shroud - who was hugging the trophy to his chest almost like a teddy bear - you turned to see the other contenders. Most of them - including Abe - were clapping politely. The only exceptions were Ortho, who was literally dancing with joy… ...And Xavier Madoc. He looked absolutely livid. His face was almost as red as Riddle Rosehearts’ could get, his fists clenched, one eye twitching as he gritted his teeth angrily. His mismatched eyes were burning… You felt your blood run cold as the blue eye was surrounded by a matching aura. “Grim!” you hissed, tapping the feline-like creature on the side. Grim turned fast...and his ears flattened back and he mewed as he saw droplets of ink dripping from the magic crystal Xavier wore… “Oh, no,” he gulped nervously. “What’s wrong?” Caelyum whispered...then frozen when he saw the same. “Oh, barnacles...is that…?” “Overblot,” you replied, gravely. “Here we go again…” Just as Dr. Alcott shook Idia’s hand, and was about to dismiss him, Xavier suddenly let out a screeching cry of apoplectic rage, which startled everyone present. All eyes watched as the white labcoat of the first-year science master flapped behind him like the wings of a huge war bird, as he flew back towards his panel, and hurriedly strapped the ERPC to his back. “Unacceptable!” he shouted. “I will not allow it! I WILL NOT ALLOW IT! No one outsmarts me! NOBODY! My machines are perfect! My work is superior in every way! And if you doubt that - if ANYONE STILL doubts that…!” A feral grin came to his face as he extended one arm. “...Then I’ll just have to prove otherwise, won’t I? Paint & Thinner.” A flash of turquoise light was immediately followed by an explosive sound. KA-ZAM! A gale wind ripped through the hall, as a swirl of black mist surrounded Xavier Madoc; you cursed violently under your breath as blue and green light burst through pockets in the spiraling cloud of inky darkness. No doubt Xavier’s strong emotions and the level of magic he had put out earlier had blended together, and with the power pack on, he could burn through magic and cause damage with greater force and strength than you could guess. “Brace yourselves!” you called to Caelyum and Grim, as everyone else in the hall dove or ducked for cover. “This isn’t gonna be easy!” “Is it ever?!” Grim yowled, while Cael simply squinted, watching with you as the mist began to clear… ...And soon, you could see the change that had come over Xavier Madoc. The right side of his body had seemingly not changed at all...but the left was another story. Not only was there now a blue aura surrounding his left eye, not to mention the metallic, syringe-tipped left hand...but his whole left side seemed to have become a cyborganic nightmare. The left side of his face was covered in metal plates, and his entire left arm and leg had become robotic in nature; the clothes on the left side of his body were seemingly frayed and shredded, exposing portions of a metal chest and clockwork-esque innards. In-between the joints of his limbs and face, black ink oozed like oil. Xavier’s one green eye was feral looking; bloodshot with a pinprick pupil. He grinned in a manic way, and let out a cackling laugh that rebounded off the hall walls. “HA HA HA HA HA! You dared to overlook my creations?! You spurned my talents, eh?! Then let me show just how powerful I can REALLY become!” he roared, and the ERPC roared to life as he thrust out his syringe hand. “I told you, I can extend my unique abilities without proximity! So now...NOW, ALL OF YOU, GIVE ME YOUR POWER!” In horrific fashion, the needles extended...and five members in the crowd collapsed as they were pricked, turning gray and pallid. Their entire being became monochrome as, in a split second, all emotion was drained from them and into Xavier’s being. Xavier shot out his claws again, the protracting talons jabbing into another five people and rendering them the same. Now, panic set in, and people screamed as they raced for the door. “Don’t leave in such a rush!” laughed Madoc, and snapped the fingers of his one human hand. The doors suddenly shifted, becoming solid walls, and all the windows clicked as they were locked into place. “The party’s just beginning!” Xavier’s claws lunged at you now, but yourself, Grim, and Cael all quickly dropped, ducking the attack. Three other people who had been standing behind you, along with two more, were drained in your stead. Xavier shuddered, a toxic aura surrounding him as the tanks were filled with more and more emotional energy. “More...MORE!” he bellowed. “If I can’t have your respect, I will have your rage...your despair...your panice...fuel me! FUEL ME!” Idia and Dr. Alcott ducked behind the podium with twin yelps. Ortho hurried to check on his brother, and barely avoided the needles as they shot out. The other judges weren’t so lucky, and crumpled in an unconscious, grayscale-colored heap as their emotions were drained. Abe rushed forward to try and stop his creator, desperately grabbing hold of Xavier’s one human arm. Xavier snarled, gnashing his teeth. “Imbecile and traitor!” he roared into the droid’s pleading face. “I have no further use for YOU!” Xavier jerked away his human hand, then, with a sneer, thrust it out again...and - THOOM! - a magical shockwave slammed into Abe’s chest, sending the robot flying. He crashed down beside your trio, the three of you still lying on the ground as Xavier continued to stick his needles into everyone who moved. The room was in a panic, the other contestants’ creations smashing on the floor as people dove for cover. Slowly, Xavier began to make his way through the hall, laughing dementedly. “All this over a freaking trophy?!” hissed Grim. “I think there’s got to be more to it,” mumbled Caelyum. Abe nodded, as if to confirm this, and then gave you a look as if to ask, Now what? This was the burning question; you had to figure out a way to keep Xavier from hurting more people, as well as remove the power pack. As long as he still had the converter on, his power wouldn’t drop. He could potentially stay in Overblot for a much longer period of time, burning the power almost as quickly as he got it...growing just strong enough to overwhelm… “Okay, I’ve got a plan,” you said at last, and whispered to your compatriots. “Listen closely…” Xavier, meanwhile, grinned as he approached a group of people, huddled together. “Let’s try an experiment,” he hissed, a mad grin on the young doctor’s face as he lifted his syringe hand. “I now know how swiftly I can drain an organism...now, can I make it more slow and painful?” He cackled, his victims babbling pleas for him to stop as he lifted his hand, preparing to shoot out the razor-sharp needles and drain them dry. “Every emotion in your body...slowly siphoning into mine...let’s see how long it can really-” FWOOSH! “Nya! Back off, crazy-coat!” Xavier jumped back with an almost animalistic sneer, and swirled his ragged cape around as he looked towards the source of the fire that had distracted him. Grim was standing in a ready pose, balls of blue flame held in each forepaw as he smirked challengingly. “Insufferable hairball!” shouted Xavier. “I WILL NOT BE DENIED! I WILL HAVE MORE POWER!” He lunged at Grim, swiping with his robotic talons, but Grim moved aside quickly. As Xavier plunged towards him, a loud smashing sound was heard from behind. The mad doctor turned quickly, and his one good eye widened in surprise as he saw that Abe had kicked a hole clear through the wall, and was ushering people through the hole and out of the area, Idia and Dr. Alcott leading those still conscious to safety. “NO!” shouted Xavier, and shot out his needles...but he was just too late as Abe blocked him, giving him a determined glare as they scratched helplessly against his armored plating. Then, giving Xavier an almost pitying expression, the robot leapt through the hole himself. Xavier moved to try and give pursuit, but Grim thrust out his arms, and formed a wide ring of fire that blocked the scientist’s path. “You think this will stop me?!” Xavier bellowed. “You can’t defeat me! My invention gives me power beyond yours!” “Good to know. I’d hate to have to refund anything.” Xavier stopped short and glanced about, trying to find the source of Caelyum’s voice...before, suddenly, he felt a strange sensation brushing up against his legs. He looked down...and screamed in a mixture of panic and rage as a horde of marble white Locker Crabs began to swarm over him, their pincers latching onto parts of his clothing and the edges of his inkstained metal carapace, trying to drag him to the floor. “GET OFF ME, YOU CRETINOUS CRUSTACEANS!” yelled Xavier, trying to kick and swat away the crabs, unaware of the shadow that stepped through a gap that formed in the flames, and approached from behind. The crabs snipped their claws at the leather straps holding the ERPC in place. Xavier slapped them away...then jerked as, suddenly, the weight of his invention was pulled away. “WHAT?!” he spat, and turned around fast, pupils pinpricks as he saw you jump backwards, holding the device in your hands. “NO! NO, YOU-GACK!” He hit the floors as the crabs tripped him up. You scampered back through the gap in the flames, which Grim soon closed up. The little monster was jumping up and down, pumping his forepaws/fists and cheering. “NYA! Get ‘im, Cael! Pin ‘im down!” the cat called. “We’ve won now!” A low laugh from under the swarm of Locker Crabs knocked the smile from Grim’s face. “Won? Hardly. I’m still getting warmed up!” ZAM! Xavier sent out another shockwave with a loud shout. You toppled onto your back, the ERPC falling from your hands and thunking onto the floor. The crabs scattered, and the flames were extinguished as Grim was sent rolling across the hall. You quickly sat back up...and shuddered. Xavier loomed over you, the acid-colored aura around him showing his fury as trails of spilling ink traced his steps. You snatched up the ERPC and scrambled to your feet, making a dash for the whole in the wall. “NOT SO FAST!” roared Madoc, and lifted his human hand. He screamed some foreign incantation, and the shattered section was suddenly patched up, the debris flying back into place, stitching together like a jigsaw puzzle’s corners. You swerved and made a dash for a window; you could break it, after all, even if it was locked. Xavier snarled out another incantation, however...and teleported directly in front of you. You skidded to a halt, but not fast enough as he grabbed hold of your arm with one hand, and lifted his syringe claws, a wild grin on his cyborganic face. “HA HA HA!” he cackled. “What a foolish attempt that was! You truly thought you could defeat me?! I will drain you till your very soul is rendered inert! Nothing can resist my power! With the ERPC, I can remain like this for eternity! And when the world grovels at my feet, I will build more machines! BRILLIANT machines! My mechanical creations will-!” FWOOMPH! A burst of flame slammed into Xavier, bowling him over and singing his labcoat. You fell back down and scrambled away as you held tightly to the power pack. Xavier snarled as he stood back up, his mechanical pieces clicking and sparking...as the two of you saw who had re-entered the room. It was Idia Shroud; Ortho had evidently picked the lock on one of the windows, and the pair had climbed through. Idia was visibly trembling, but tried his hardest to look brave, twists of orange curling through his ethereal blue hairdo. “Leave. Them. Alone,” Idia intoned. Madoc sneered. “First you steal my prize, now you RUIN MY MONOLOGUE?!” he yelled. “Alright! Just for that, I WILL OBLITERATE YOU!” Xavier charged at Idia, but the head of Ignihyde narrowed his eyes, gritting his sharp, jagged teeth. His hand shook as he held it, as if showing doubt… ...Then, his stance and expression hardened, and the shaking stopped. Just as Xavier Madoc leapt through the air, swiping his syringe claws through the air...he snapped his fingers. KRAK-KOOM! An explosive blast of fire and noise, like a grenade had gone off, erupted directly before Madoc. The explosion sent the mad scientist flying backwards, his labcoat tattered and scorched, black marks on his skull plates. Xavier cried out as he slammed headfirst into a wall...then crumpled to the floor, and fell still. He was out like a light. The mad doctor was done. You sighed with relief and stood up as Ortho cheered. “WOO-HOO! Way to go, Big Brother!” he exclaimed, and gave Idia a smack on the back. The hunched head of Ignihyde flinched and smiled shyly at his artificial sibling. “It was nothing,” he whispered faintly, visibly blushing. “Are you okay, Prefect?” Ortho asked. “I’m fine,” you nodded as you approached them, and glanced around. “Where are the others?” Right on cue, a low growl was heard. The three of you looked to see Grim was just sitting up, massaging his skull after evidently banging his head during his tumble. “Me-owwwww…! That creep hits way too hard!” he moaned out. “Did anybody get the number on that-MREOWR?!” He was cut off as Idia scooped the imp up and began to snuggle him, crooning and planting chaste, loving kisses on his head. “Awwww, the poor wittle kitty!” he cooed sympathetically. “Did you get an ouchie? Did the mean cyborg hurt you, huh?” “HISSSSS! I’M FINE!” Grim spat, kicking and squirming. “L-Lemme go! For the last time, I DON’T LIKE SNUGGLES, STOP!” Idia just let out a happy hum, squeezing Grim, repeatedly crooning, “Awww, poor thing, you poor little dear…!” over and over again. Ortho giggled sweetly, while you just rolled your eyes and smiled. A skittering sound heralded the reappearance of Caelyum, who reformed out of a pillar of white sand crabs. He stumbled on his feet as he returned to his normal state, and you placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “You okay?” you whispered. “No,” mumbled Cael, and smiled wearily. “When I use the power that way, a fraction of my will - my mind - is in every single crab. I feel like I just got thrown through the loop-the-loop of a roller coaster seventeen times.” You gently patted his shoulder and smiled back, gratefully. “Walk it off, matey,” you said softly with a wink. Cael chuckled. “Aye,” he nodded, as your group moved to look down at the defeated Xavier Madoc. “I will.” For several seconds, the ink-leaking cyborg lay on the ground, unmoving. But that was alright: none of you were expecting him to move. By now, you knew the drill of how things worked after Overblot...and sure enough, after a few seconds, wisps of silvery-white mist began to drift up from the defeated scientist, as his whole body began to glow a blinding white. All of you shielded your eyes from the light, watching as the mist began to spiral, and soon enough, images formed in the center of the floating cloud. Pictures from the past… “Dad! Dad, look at this!” A tall, thin man in white, with a pointed goatee, looked down from the workbench he was stationed at. He smiled as a small boy - with mismatched eyes of blue and green - came waddling into the room, holding a piece of paper. “What is it, Xavier?” “I made a blueprint, dad! I wanna make a robot! Like one of yours!” squeaked the young Xavier, and held out the paper to his father. “Do you think it’s any good, Dad? Do ya? Huh?” The older man lifted the paper and looked; he chuckled at the untidy crayon scrawl drawn on the page, the acronym “A.B.E.” accompanying a childish drawing of a metal man in a porter’s outfit. “Not a bad idea, Xavier,” he complimented his son, and handed the “blueprint” back to its creator before ruffling his son’s hair. “You’ll make a fine inventor, at this rate.” Xavier giggled, playfully swatting at his father’s hand, then gave him a wide but shy smile. “You promise?” he peeped. “Could I...could I be as good as you, Dad?” “No,” the man answered, and leaned down, kissing his son’s forehead. “You’ll be even better.” The child’s happy hum was interrupted by the shifting of time, as a new image spun into view: Xavier was a little older now, and working in a laboratory. He whistled as he fitted a screw into place on a device he was building...only to freeze as he heard voices coming from outside the shop. Curious, he trotted over to the door, and peeked outside. He could see the shadows of two men, arguing not so far away, and heard what they were saying. One of them he recognized as his father’s voice… “Oscar, you can’t be serious!” “I’m sorry, Xander,” the other voice said. “All I know is that Charles got to me first. What would that tell you?” “That Charles is a faster runner,” droned Xander. Xavier giggled softly, but clapped a hand over his mouth to avoid being heard. “Very funny,” Oscar’s voice drawled. “I’m serious, Oscar. You KNOW me, we’ve worked together for years! Are you going to take his word over mine?” “Right now, I haven’t got a choice. His patent has been in development at my company for a while; all that’s left are i’s to dot and t’s to cross. Even if what you say is true, Xander, he finished his work more quickly; I’m not seeing a lot of incentive here.” A pause. “...So that’s it then?” came the terse voice of Xavier’s father. “What about my family, Oscar? What about my son?” “Relax, Xander. You’ll come up with more inventions, you always do, and I’ll be just as willing to buy!” “Forget it. I’ll find another person to sell to.” Another pause. “...Okay. Okay. If that’s how you feel about it,” came Oscar’s weak reply. “Goodbye, Xander.” “Goodbye, Oscar. Tell Charlie he knows where to stuff it.” Oscar’s shadow disappeared, and a few moments later, the sound of a door was heard opening and closing. Xander was heard sighing, and Xavier saw his father’s silhouette slump into a nearby chair. Curious, the boy trundled out of the room to his father’s side; the older inventor was sitting with his head in his hands, massaging his brow. “Dad?” peeped Xavier. “What was all that?” Xander blinked at his son. “Oh. You...heard that, huh?” Xavier nodded slowly. Xander blinked...then sighed and picked his child up, placing him in his lap. “Listen to this, Xavier, because it’s very important,” said the doctor to his son. “Not all inventors are good. You must guard your inventions well, and you must always do your best to make sure no one can top you. People will try to steal what you make, people will look for weaknesses in it. Never let them find any way to stop you.” He placed a hand under his son’s chin and gave a sad smile. “You’ll be brilliant someday...but with brilliance comes danger. You can’t trust anyone, understand?” “I can trust you.” “Of course,” chuckled Xander. “And I can trust my machines,” added Xavier. “Well, yes, but a machine isn’t a person,” Xander said. “Machines only exist to follow their programming. Machines will always do what they’re supposed to. Machines will only let you down if people making them make mistakes. People aren’t like that: people are flawed, and people are foolish. They will pass you over and cheat you if they find a way or reason. Never let that happen. Okay?” “Okay, Dad. I’ll do my best.” The scene shifted again. Xavier was now much older, nearly the same age as he was now. Abe now stood at his side as he worked on a project in his laboratory, building a new machine. “This is going to be the greatest thing ever!” he cheered, grinning to his mechanical companion, who nodded in happy agreement. “Just think of how much fun the science fair will be with this completed! Ha Ha! Man, Abe, we have this in the bag!” “Hi, Xavier!” The pair looked towards a new face that had entered the lab: a fellow youngster in red. “Oh, hey, Gus! What’s up? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the science fair?” “I haven’t figured out what to do yet,” sighed the boy sadly, then smiled weakly. “So, uh...I thought, well...maybe you could help me come up with an idea. I mean...you’re like a billion times better at this stuff, heh…” “Sure, I can help!” smiled Xavier, helpfully, and clapped his hands together, dusting them off, waving for Abe to go fetch a few books. As the robot marched off, the teen in red noticed the item on the workbench. “Hey, what’s that?” “Huh? Oh! It’s my project for the science fair. Looks pretty cool, right?” “Yeah! What’s it do?” Xavier explained quickly. The lad looked envious of his science-savvy friend. “Wow...I’ll never figure out how you can do all that stuff...you’ve gotta be the best inventor ever!” “Awww,” blushed Xavier. “It’s just a knack.” “Can you show me how you make it?” the teen asked, hesitantly. “Sure, if you want,” Xavier said, blithely shrugging and smiling. “Then I’ll help you figure out what you’ll do yourself. Sound fair?” The boy smirked; Xavier didn’t notice the cunning in his eyes. “Yeah. That sounds fair,” the classmate answered. The scenario changed once more. Xavier now glared with absolute hatred at the boy in red...who was smiling, chest puffed out with pride, as he showed off his machine to the judges, who cheered and applauded. It was a machine identical to the one Xavier had made...and the boy had made it first. Xavier had been forced to change his plans, and the experiment he’d come up with at the last minute had been sub-par. The cheat got first place. Xavier got nothing. Xavier snarled, fists clenching as the boy in red smirked in a sidelong way at him, and mouthed the word, “Sucker,” before continuing to bask in adulation. Xavier Madoc scowled as he packed up his items. He was shaking a little. “You can’t trust anyone,” he whispered to himself. “Well, you’ll see...you’ll ALL see...I’ll come up with something no one else can top. I will PROVE to you how good my science is. Just wait and see…” His mismatched eyes burned as he turned his back on the laughing classmates and applauding teachers...and stalked back to his lab. Alone. With his machines. “...I don’t need anybody. Just my machines.”

The mist cleared and evaporated, and the white light faded...revealing Xavier Madoc had changed back to normal on the floor. He was still unconscious, but the glow was gone from his blue eye, and the machinery parts had vanished. Silence reigned for a few seconds. This was not unheard of. By now, you had accepted there was always a “digestion period” where everyone was taking in what they’d just learned. This time, however...the silence stayed unbroken. No one spoke a word, looking like they were trying to properly form thoughts, even as Xavier began to stir again. As he did, he reached out with a hand, fumblingly, mumbling incoherently… ...And froze as someone knelt down and took that hand. Xavier looked up...and seemed stunned when he stared into the wide yellow eyes of Idia Shroud. For a moment, the two looked at each other...then Xavier pulled away with a sneer. “Cheat,” he hissed. “I never cheated,” whispered Idia, sounding surprisingly confident for once...confident, but careful. “It’s not that no one recognized you, Xavier; no one was trying to neglect you. It’s just...there could only be one winner. And I happened to be it.” “It wasn’t an easy decision, either,” added Ortho. “Oh, no?” Xavier grimaced, looking skeptical. “No,” Idia answered. “Dr. Alcott spoke to me before I returned: you would have been second place. Your invention really impressed him and the other judges, they just...felt mine was more easy to use widespread. Yours needed a few tweaks for them to give it the topmost prize.” “They said they couldn’t have asked for a better start to the expo than you,” added Ortho, in a quiet, helpful voice. The bitterness in Xavier’s face had faded slightly, leaving his expression blank and cold. He turned away quietly, and hugged himself, curling up against the wall. “You can’t shut yourself out because of one bad incident,” whispered Caelyum. “Trust me: I know what it’s like when you seal off your heart. It doesn’t get pretty.” “No one is invincible,” added Grim. “Well...except for me, but...that’s because I’m awesome.” You rolled your eyes at the hubris of “The Great Grim,” and knelt down beside Idia, looking into the heterochromatic eyes of the mad scientist. “Just because you’re brilliant doesn’t mean everything is going to be perfect. Similarly,” you said, “Just because one person did something terrible, it doesn’t mean you can shun all people. Everyone and everything has flaws. The important thing is to learn from them.” Xavier furrowed his brow and looked down at the floor for several seconds...then looked back up at both of you. “...I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I...I shouldn’t have lost control. That was...that was childish of me. And...I’m sorry for what I did.” He looked to Idia and smiled shyly. “Your invention was...not too bad.” “Thank you,” Idia said, with a slight blush, and helped the scientist to his feet. Just then, the sound of metallic footsteps echoed out. The group of you turned...and Xavier’s heart seemed to sink as he saw Abe re-enter the hall, yellow eyes fixed on his creator. “Abe, I’m so, SO sorry,” Xavier said, seriously. “I shouldn’t have-EEP!” He was cut off as the metal man crushed him in a solid bear hug, nuzzling his steel cheek against his creator’s hair. Ortho and Grim both giggled, while yourself and Caelyum smirked. Idia, for his part, didn’t seem to know what to make of the scene. “I think he already forgives you,” you said teasingly. Abe nodded to show this was the case. It was obvious he was just happy his maker was back to normal. Xavier smiled bashfully and gestured for the metal man to put him down, then looked to Idia. “So, uh...y-you’re the head of the dorm,” he said, and rubbed his arm. “Do you, uh...like...have any ideas on how to make the ERPC better? More...accessible?” “I can think of something. You know...maybe,” Idia said with a timid smile. “I mean...I’m r-really not the best choice, I...I got the whole idea for MY thing from an anime-” “Anime?” Xavier asked, and perked up visibly. “What anime?” “Oh! Uh...Magica Marocca. It’s...um...a Magic Girl series? You, ah, probably don’t know what that is-” “YOU WATCH MAGICA MAROCCA?!” Idia blinked, stunned, at the sudden look of exuberant excitement on Xavier’s face. “You...you’ve seen it?” the otaku nearly squeaked out. “I love that series!” exclaimed Xavier. “I mean...okay, it’s not, like, the GREATEST thing, in terms of story? Kinda rushed...but I really love the art style, a-and the way it plays with the themes and ideas of a typical Magic Girl series! It’s like Watchmen, but for...that!” Idia looked like he’d just found his soulmate. “I feel the same way! A-And have you seen Glitter Cure?” “Rascal is one of THE best villains ever.” “I AGREE!” squealed Idia, clapping giddily, that wide, almost manic smile you saw so rarely stretching across his face, matching Xavier’s instantly. “Oh, my gosh, no one EVER knows about that one! This is great!” “It is!” nodded Xavier eagerly...then took his turn to blush. “Um...d’ya think we can...oh...I-I dunno...maybe watch some together?” “I mean...only if you want to,” peeped Idia, ducking his head anxiously. “I’m...n-not used to people who...WANT to watch it with me, heh...normally I-I can only talk about it online…” “I’d like to watch it with you,” Xavier promised. “And...and we can talk about our inventions in the meantime. Does...does that sound fair?” Idia nodded slowly, and began to smile wider once more. “Yeah...yeah, it sounds like a plan,” he said, then looked to Ortho. “Is...is it okay with you, Little Brother?” Ortho gaped. “...You’re asking me if YOU can have a VISITOR in the apartment?” “Yes.” “Like...you WANT to HANG OUT WITH SOMEONE?” “Yuh-huh.” “...Okay, who are you, and what have you done with my Big Brother?” You snickered. So did Xavier, as Idia smiled awkwardly. “You wanna come with, Abe?” the mad scientist asked his robotic companion, who saluted in response. “Great!” Idia laughed. “Let’s go then!” And with unusual, uncharacteristic joy, the otaku and the eccentric sauntered off together, their androids following them as the exit door reformed and they left the convention hall. You smiled. “Well,” you sighed happily. “All’s well that end’s well. Looks like Idia’s found a new friend at last.” “I’m happy for them,” smiled Caelyum. “Finding a person who you can connect with is important.” “Uh-huh,” nodded Grim. “Now, there’s just one problem.” “What’s that?” both you and Cael asked. Grim wordlessly pointed to the mess of chairs, scorch marks, busted machines, and dented walls that the hall had become. You went pale. “...Ohhhhh...right...I forgot...we’re the janitors.” “Uh-huh,” Grim said again, drably. “Well, good luck with that!” Caelyum chirped, and began to saunter off towards the door. “Hey! HEY! Where are you going?!” snapped Grim. “Back to the Mystery Shop,” Cael called over his shoulders. “I have a job of my own to do, me hearties! Take care!” “But-!” Your call was unanswered. Cael disappeared, leaving you and Grim standing alone in the mess. You both looked around, then at each other. “...Grim?” “Yeah, Minion?” “It’s moments like these where I wonder if helping people is worth it.” “I never wonder, Minion,” sighed Grim. “Moments like these, I know it isn’t.”

Your feet shuffled as you went to find the broom and dust pan. From saving the day to cleaning up the wreckage, a Prefect’s work was never done.

The End

[sevsnapeposts]

Snapetober Day 5: Apple orchard.

hello, this one was a bit hard t imagine, but it was oh so fun to write. i love interactions between severus and the other professors. please, feel free to read it over in ao3 if you'd like, and also if yoou'd be kind enough, go give me some kudos over there. thanks, hope you enjoy~.

Day 5 - Apple orchard.

--

Hogwarts was a college of the highest prestige, and as such it had a reputation to uphold. One could doubt its safety, the responsibility professors had in handing out certain punishments to students, and even the expertise of said professors themselves (people pointed to Remus Lupin, although honestly, Lockhart was the blackest sheep ever), but there was something that could never be reproached: The quality of the food.

From mashed potatoes to the most elaborate cake to all kinds of drinks, every meal at Hogwarts was a pleasure. Elves cooked everything to perfection, and if it weren't for a certain professor, everyone thoroughly enjoyed the cooking. Much of it was due to the quality of the products, all being the best of the best, natural and fresh. The elves gathered the very first harvest at the end of the summer holidays, leading to the Great Banquet, the best dinner of the year in the opinion of the vast majority.

And speaking of it, it was primordial to get things done. This year they would have Beauxbatons and Durmstrang as guests, and Hogwarts couldn’t disappoint.

Somewhere in the castle, Dumbledore had an idea.

"I seem unable to understand why we had to come".

Severus hated many things: teenagers, the smell of wet dog, physical contact, Potter, Potter's godfather, Potter's father, and lately Lucius for nagging him about going to see the Quidditch World Cup. But if there was one thing Severus hated more than all those things put together, it was the sun. Especially the summer sun. He had nothing against the nice hot, light-filled days of that time of year, as long as he could be tucked underground, in the sweet, cold shade, surrounded by water and silence and not a drop of sunlight.

Unfortunately for him, the poor man was walking along with all the other Heads of House, and Dumbledore of course, under the tireless and exhausting gaze of the major star. They were on their way to an apple orchard, the one that supplied Hogwarts and where the elves would appear in a few hours. It had occurred to Dumbledore that it would be a fun outing for the five of them, and Severus couldn't have disagreed more, but everyone else was largely ignoring him, determined to have some fun.

In any case, Severus felt his face hot, certain that his pale skin was quite flushed, which bothered him even more. He looked at his companions, for a second envying how fresh they all looked: Pomona was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, while Filius was wearing some sort of scout outfit that gave him an almost, almost , funny look; Minerva, on the other side, was wearing a dress that reached below the knee, white with small flowers of different colors that made her look much younger; even Dumbledore had changed his usual outfits that (in the young professor's eyes) looked like pajamas to a pair of shorts from which his slender legs peeked out, the long beard braided to keep it out of the way. The only one who had steadfastly refused to change was Severus, who wore his capes and capes of clothing black as the abyss, and thanks to which he was slowly dying of heat. Not even the cooling spell he had cast on himself could do much more than keep him from perspiring.

But he didn't care. He had a reputation to uphold, for fuck's sake.

“Because it's fun!”, Dumbledore exclaimed. Severus walked between him and Minerva, as usual, while Pomona and Filius walked a bit ahead, marveling like little children at every damn plant in the field. “Also, I know you love our summer vacation expeditions and activities”.

Severus didn't reply, but he shot him a cold, unamused look, as for the last time they'd been out on ‘summer vacation expeditions and activities’ he was almost eaten by a dragon.

"Come on Severus, chill", Minerva chimed in, pulling a hat from her enchanted purse. It was huge and colorful, clearly not one that she would ever wear herself. The woman looked at him with almost sadistic amusement. “Look what I got you! It should help you cool down a bit”.

"No thanks", said the young man, looking listlessly at the hat. He noticed that it also had a cleat that was attached into a bun at the back.

He didn't even want to imagine the teasing if word got out. If they had already been unbearable about Longbottom's grandmother’s outfit...

"Tsk, you're going to get a heatstroke at this rate, and neither of us are going to carry you", the professor reproached him, handing the hat to Dumbledore for examination. Severus raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think I have that much luck”.

With another annoyed snort, the group decided to ignore the miserable man again, opting instead to go ahead with the other two teachers. Severus noticed that Dumbledore had put on the hat he was wearing himself and barely had the strength to not snort.

A short time later they reached the top of the hill, where the orchard was. The orchard was somewhat visited, so the landowner had hired some workers to properly care for the people coming and going. At the moment, two young witches were waiting for them standing there, with shorts and shirts tied mid-torso, and thin, light-toned capes tangled around their shoulders and falling to the ground.

Severus was tempted to petrify one of them and change clothes.

The girls welcomed them, very animated, and provided a basket to each one, as well as a tablecloth so that they could sit and watch the sunset if they wanted to. Dumbledore thanked them kindly, and Severus finally put on Minerva's hat when he heard one of the witches comment that smoke was coming out of his head. Minerva laughed at him.

"Shut up".

What had started out as a simple and boring day picking apples ended up being a visceral competition to see who put more fruits in their respective basket after Dumbledore bet 5 galleons that he would be the one with the most. Severus had been in the middle of all the mess, watching as Filius sneakily enchanted apples to fly from Minerva's basket into his own while Dumbledore helped him by distracting the Transfiguration teacher; how Pomona ‘accidentally’ tripped over the headmaster's basket, and in the process of helping him pick them up she took a load of them with her; how Minerva would transform twigs into fake apples to add to her collection.

He hadn't participated in their affairs, of course, because he thought it was the stupidest thing in the world, but he didn't hesitate to gossip to others, starting an argument that ended in apples flying through the air and more than one trampled basket.

Now it was dusk, the ravaging sun being only a bright half disk out on the horizon, slowly fading away. The five teachers had already cleaned up their mess by then, and were sitting on the red and white checkered tablecloth, relaxing after their pitched battle. The only basket that was left intact and capable of carrying apples was Severus', so this had been placed in the center of the group so that anyone could reach out and grab one of the fruits. No one was surprised that Severus was the only one who didn't want to eat one, despite Minerva's scolding look.

But still, the man had already overcome his annoyance, although he wasn’t going to show it out of pure pride. He told himself it was because the damn heat was finally subsiding, which meant he was already able to take off the stupid hat; it had nothing to do with how hilarious he thought the professors' quarrel was, having so much fun with it that he often didn't even realize he was smiling, and that by the end of the day he didn't even remember that he was hot.

"What are we going to do? There are so many! I think if I eat one more I might as well explode”, Pomona complained, who by then had already eaten at least 5 apples. No one could blame her, as they were very sweet, firm without being too harsh, and so juicy that one ran the risk of getting both chin and chest dirty.

How Dumbledore didn’t get his beard dirty, nobody knew.

"The elves will take them to the castle when they come to collect the others. For now, we can leave them with those young ladies”, Dumbledore replied, biting his apple as he gazed at the horizon. Severus noticed how he shot him a sideways glance and braced himself for the worst. “By the way, Severus, I think you... caught the eye of one of them. The redhead, Lauren. Maybe you should go talk to her”.

Severus grimaced, trying to ignore the howl whistles the other teachers were making, as well as Minerva's elbow, which had dug into hir ribs as the woman taunted him.

He already had enough with being one person's crush.

"I think it’d be a better idea if you paid me the galleons you owe me", he replied, sitting upright. The other adults exchanged glances before making heated comments.

"And why would we give you something?".

"I wasn't serious about the bet...".

"You weren't even participating!".

"The way I see it", Severus said, raising his voice above the others, sure that he looked much more serious than the rest as he was the only one with enough dignity to still wear wizard clothes and not Muggle rags, "Dumbledore said whoever had the most apples in the basket was the winner, and the only basket I see is mine”.

"That's because you refused to participate!" Minerva growled, arms folded. Her eyes sparkled.

"I refused to cheat. I had fewer apples than you, but since they have to be in the basket and not in the memory… For instance, victory is mine”.

"That doesn't make any sense, Severus!", Pomona cried. The man waved his hand in a dismissive manner.

“If all players on a Quidditch team break their brooms over petty arguments during a match, would the opposing team be denied victory when only they are left in the air?”, he argued.

There was a heavy silence whilst the others, again, exchanged glances. And then, between reluctance and curses, his four companions searched their pockets and gave him the agreed galleons. Even Dumbledore looked dumbfounded. Severus didn't comment on it, but everyone noticed that his expression was much more smug than before when he reached out to finally eat an apple.

Minerva wasn’t about to be left with such a bitter loss.

"I bet Lauren would like to see that face on you”.

“Oh bloody hell Minerva, do shut up”.

[sneverussape]

with friends like these

oneshot, 3300+ words. unbeta-ed because i really only wanted to write an angsty-ish brotp snucius (although technically this has minerva in it more than snape because um he’s already dead in this), and it turned out to be a character exploration type thing idek

summary: “Headmistress McGonagall, I am requesting that he be buried on my family estate.”

-- It was with newfound purpose that Lucius Malfoy found himself apparating just beyond the wards of Hogwarts, with full intent of storming the castle and not leaving without having his demands met. He stalked heavily towards the nearest entrance, cane forgotten, as he resolutely ignored the sight of the half-ruined structure that loomed at him over the craggy hilltop, the relic seemingly taunting him for his sins. Christ, Malfoy! The deep baritone that haunted his dreams and waking moments rose automatically to the forefront of his thoughts. What’s got your knickers in a twist? The sound of the heel of his boots ringing against the castle’s stone floors were loud enough to drown out the ghosts that resided in his head. It was also joined by the general cacophony taking place inside: classes were still taking place while renovations still went underway, and students, staff, as well as what seemed to be a significant percentage of Britain’s wizarding population were milling about the corridors, elbow-deep in activity. Several aurors that he recognized turned their heads as he walked past, but Lucius made no effort to acknowledge them. He came here for one purpose and one purpose alone, and by Merlin he was going to see it through no matter what it took. He regarded himself as fortunate when he saw the target of his ire just outside the Headmaster’s old office, conversing with Shacklebolt—Minister Shacklebolt, the voice in his head tutted—and with a confidence that he hadn’t felt in many months, he managed to incline his head at them in greeting as they turned towards him as he approached. “Minister,” he greeted Shacklebolt, before turning to Minerva McGonagall, who looked at him as though he were an insect that she wanted to scrape off the sole of her boot. Lucius deftly ignored the expression and instead gave her a curt nod. “Headmistress. May I have a word?” His tone brooked no request and he was sure both Shacklebolt and Minerva had noticed. The Minister looked at him impassively. “On what matters, Malfoy?” he asked, equally obstinate, and Lucius had to restrain himself in order to not sneer. “I believe anything to do with your contributions to the castle’s renovations as well as any reparations to the war victims has to go through me, not the headmistress.” “I’m afraid it’s personal, Minister.” Lucius’ jaw hurt as he forced a smile. “It’s on the topic of…family.” Family! The bark of a laugh that resounded in his head made him startle. You’re having me on! Lucius nearly growled at his lapse of control. Both Shacklebolt and Minerva were now staring at him with a critical expression, quite likely debating about the possibility of him being unsound. “Family, you say, Lord Malfoy?” Minerva echoed, and although the witch looked like she had aged a century in the handful of months that had passed since the Dark L—Voldemort had been defeated, her voice still held an undercurrent of steel, sharpened to a point like a goblin-made blade. She knew, he sensed, that what he was going to ask from her was no trivial matter. “Minerva—” Shacklebolt started protesting, but Lucius beat him to the quick. “You may keep my wand for the duration of my meeting the Headmistress, Minister, if it suits.” He unsheathed his wand, brand new and unfamiliar, and offered it to Shacklebolt, who looked at him as though he had just offered himself up to a Dementor’s Kiss. Lucius of course understood the reaction, but it also only confirmed to him how little people thought of him, and the lengths he would go to obtain what he wanted. Pitiable fools. He goaded a bit more: “You may also inspect my person to ensure I do not carry additional weapons or wands. Perhaps a little Veritaserum afterwards—” “Enough.” Shacklebolt held up his hand then took Lucius’ wand with the other, gripping it with more force than necessary. His face had darkened at the mention of Veritaserum, which was a little-known sore point between Shacklebolt and his many heavy-handed aurors, and Lucius would have known of course, from personal experience. “We’ve little time for theatrics, Malfoy, so I would be grateful if you started and concluded this matter of yours with Minerva as quickly as possible.” Lucius nodded. “Of course, Minister,” he said, before turning to meet Minerva with a purposeful stare. She inclined her head and led the way towards the staircase, muttering a password too low for him to catch. The stairs appeared with a low grinding sound that made Lucius clench his jaw. She gestured at him wordlessly to follow. “Now,” Minerva said before they were barely within the confines of the Headmistress’ office, “Lucius Malfoy, I don’t know what game you’re playing at but I’m of the opinion that this is not about your son—” “It’s Severus.” His name tasted bitter and thick on his tongue, like blood, and Lucius’ anger that had awakened since the precise moment that morning when he had read the Prophet started to once more smolder as soon as he was face-to-face with the damnable witch. He released a pent-up breath through his nostrils as he stated the next few words: “Headmistress McGonagall, I am requesting that he be buried on my family estate.” Minerva had already gone pale at the mention of his name, but the succeeding statement leached out all the remaining color in her face. He doubted he could have elicited the same reaction even if he had held her at wandpoint, and the sight gave Lucius the familiar stirrings of satisfaction. The Headmistress, however, was able to recover swiftly, her composure returning as though it was as simple as shedding a cloak. “Professor Snape,” she began, and it was with much annoyance for Lucius to realize that her voice did not so much as shake, when his own felt like caving in whenever he even attempted to say his name, “had explicitly stated—” “That is a lie!” The thin veneer of Lucius patience cracked, and he could feel as his anger grew, enough to stoke his magic enough that it threatened to spill over despite the lack of a wand. The various glass ornaments on the shelves surrounding them trembled, the glass and metal tinkling softly in the still air. Careful, Malfoy, the soft voice now taunted, testing his limits. Careful… Lucius tried again. He would not lose control. Not for this. “Headmistress. With all due respect, I believe Severus would have more likely requested he be incinerated on the spot than be buried on Hogwarts grounds.” Minerva looked as though she wanted to hex him. “To be buried here on the grounds was a mutual decision made by the Minister and the rest of the staff, as he was the headmaster at the time of his death. He was also laid to rest beside Albus Dumbledore, who was his friend—” “I was his friend!” he thundered. The word made Lucius’ stomach turn, enough to make him want to be violently ill. His temper, carefully hidden away after so many months of questioning, of trials, of him burying his pride and family honor, all for the sake of his family’s survival, came rushing forth. He was seething, enraged at Minerva’s presumptuousness, at her utter damnable gall. “Albus Dumbledore only noticed him after he proved himself useful, but before that had seen nothing but barely a wisp of a boy. He was such a little savage that you would not care to look twice at him. But he was my…” He couldn’t bear saying the word again; it seemed to barely capture what they had had and what they had been through, and so he let the choked pause speak for itself. “I’d known him since he was eleven. I was his prefect…for Merlin’s sake, I tutored him! Think what you want of me, Minerva, but Severus….” He cleared his throat but found he was unable to say any more; his lips were trembling, and he clamped them together in a fit of desperation. Had he brought his cane he would have been gripping it by now. As it was, he had to resort to clenching his hands into fists behind his back. Across from where he stood, the Headmistress surveyed him with an odd expression, as though she was debating on the merits of having him summoned by St. Mungo’s for a thorough examination.  “We should have been consulted…Merlin, we should have been told!” Lucius concluded bitterly, not able to find it in himself to accept that no one had deigned to tell them of the memorial service that had taken place before the term had even started, and he had been left to find out through the thrice-damned Prophet a month after it had already occurred. He was insulted beyond all rational thought. “I will not leave until you grant me this request.” He would not beg. No, he would demand it. It was the least he could do, for Severus’ pride and dignity as much as his own. “I was not aware you and Severus had had any sort of…friendship.” Minerva told him, her tone flat. “He was not very forthcoming regarding such information, and had we known…” Lucius almost laughed. He would not be swayed by such platitudes, especially coming from a Gryffindor witch, no matter that she had, once upon a time, been a close colleague to his own father. “You would not have cared to inform us, at any rate, and Slytherins have long kept our circles intimate so any news of our friendship would not have been spoken about outside of it,” he said coolly. “However, as it stands, Professor Snape was…very dear to Narcissa and Draco and myself, and I would rather he be…laid to rest…where he would be safe, rather than have his grave be vandalized by hooligans—” Minerva gave him a pointed look. “And I suppose the Malfoy estate where Voldemort had resided for months would be a haven for him?” The voice in his head cackled, a rich carefree sound that Lucius had not heard in decades. “The Dark—Voldemort did not have full use of the grounds,” he found himself retorting, his face suddenly hot at having been so easily outwitted, and the fact that Minerva did not even flinch at saying his former master’s name. Damn it all to Hades. “Severus can be laid to rest in Narcissa’s garden, near the greenhouse where he planted his potions ingredients to his heart’s content.” This bit of information seemed to interest the Headmistress. “Severus had…what? He planted potions ingredients on Malfoy grounds?” “He had control of an entire greenhouse.” Lucius could not help keeping the haughty tone from his voice, her curiosity having given him an opportunity to gain leverage over the conversation. If he had to prove his claim over Severus, then so be it. “It’s been overrun by his vegetation since before Draco was barely a twinkle in his mother’s eye. No one but him was allowed inside. One of the bedrooms in the Manor is also his. He used to spend the summer holidays there, and on occasion, the Yule holidays as well. He used to play Quidditch with Narcissa on the pitch, then eventually it was the three of them with Draco. That little whelp had read nearly the entire Malfoy library. For Merlin’s sake, he has a personal house elf at the Manor—” Had. The voice was quiet now. Not that I never appreciated it, Malfoy, but then you were always a showy git… Lucius blinked rapidly as his eyes burned. He suspected dust…the entire office must not have been cleaned in months. He was surprised that when he next glanced at Minerva, her expression had changed completely. It had closed off, as though she was attempting very hard to not let her true feelings come to the surface. “If you need proof, I would be willing to…share my memories,” Lucius offered as a final attempt, although it rankled him to do so. He had had enough aurors and members of the Wizengamot poking around in his mind and memories to last five lifetimes, but it was a small price to pay in exchange for what he was asking for. “That would not be necessary,” the Headmistress said curtly. “Inasmuch as we have never really seen eye to eye, Lord Malfoy, I would be glad to take you at your word, especially when it comes to a man whom we both had seen as a friend. After all, you have absolutely nothing to gain from this unexpected demand, except perhaps the assuaging of your apparent guilt.” Her words made him feel as though she had physically struck him, and his ire increased tenfold. Once more, the shelves surrounding them tinkled and trembled. “We did not bury him here, however.” The shuddering that had been starting to build up in the room ceased and the room plunged into a filled silence. “What?” Lucius croaked. He wondered if he had gotten it all wrong then. Perhaps Severus was alive…? He would not put it past the whelp to figure out some way to cheat death… “He is very much gone, Lord Mal—Lucius.” Minerva’s tone had changed, and Lucius realized that he had spoken aloud. His face colored at the realization. “I am quite aware!” he snapped, although he could not deny the horrible emptiness that came with the snuffing out of that latest hope. Severus was gone. He had seen the body for all of twenty seconds before the aurors had taken him away. Since that moment, he had barely slept and had taken to eating only a necessary amount to not collapse during the long hours of questioning he had had to endure. It had almost been automatic, the steps to ensure his and his family’s survival, but it did nothing to quell the voice in his head. That was, until he’d seen the headline stating SEVERUS SNAPE GIVEN HERO’S BURIAL that morning, which he’d promptly reduced to ashes into his half-empty teacup. Hogwarts did not deserve Severus. Albus Dumbledore certainly had not. Severus had owed them nothing but had given them everything, had gone out of his way to put himself in the line of fire even when Lucius had told him repeatedly to be a face in the crowd, you must protect yourself first and foremost and the insufferable boy had gone and done the exact opposite. “Do you regret it?” Minerva asked him, and Lucius knew that if he had had his wand the witch would have wished she had never opened her accursed mouth. Just what more did these people want from him? He had told the Ministry, the aurors, even the Potter boy everything! He had contributed considerable sums for war repairs and reparations. He had given them names of other Death Eaters, none of whom he had particularly cared for anyway, and if they had been imbecilic enough to get caught and deny all of their known involvement, then that would hardly be on his conscience. He cared for little and for few. You sad bastard. The voice sounded amused. All that money and nothing to show for it, apart from a small family made from glass and a filthy half-blood brat with a filthy mouth… “I have never felt a loss this deep,” Lucius replied with much difficulty, which was the most he would allow. His pride may have been shattered, but he would not admit any of his true feelings in detail, especially not to the Gryffindor Head of House. A former version of himself would have gone apoplectic with rage had he known this would have taken place at any point in the distant future, but now…so many had been lost, Severus included, and the blood on his hands stained everything he touched. The Headmistress regarded him for a long moment, as though deciding on what to say next. “We did not bury him here,” she finally stated, and this time her voice was tight. “I regarded Severus as a friend, and occasionally we would have private conversations about…matters. In a rare moment of vulnerability, he had once expressed to me his wishes…should he not see the end of the war.” Lucius felt all at once enraged and betrayed. “And?” he asked, attempting to put on a mask of indifference, although he couldn’t help his lips from curling in distaste. He needed to know what they had done. Had they thrown him into the sea? Had they given him an unmarked grave somewhere in the Hebrides? “We did not bury him at all.” Minerva said, looking all at once despairing and yet triumphant. Her eyes glistened, pinning Lucius where he stood. “He had wished not to, because he was afraid…of people desecrating his grave, or not letting him rest. He stated that he wanted to be burned, for practicality’s sake.” This time Lucius laughed. Trust the little bastard to have proven one of his rare jokes right! “You cast Incendio on him then?” he asked, his tone sharper than expected. He felt ill and hollow. “That must have been a laugh since he had never been liked by your crowd…” Minerva looked at him heatedly. “We performed the Liberi ritual, of course. Two weeks after the battle, but we had told no one else. The staff had attended. The Minister and Mr. Potter had also been there, of course, but if I had known…” Something that looked like regret flashed in her eyes. “Forgive me, Lucius. I would have had you there, had I known. I would have ensured it.” “Liberi…” Lucius’ knees felt weak and as if all the air had been knocked out of his lungs. It was what they had done as well for his father, and what he would have done for Severus himself, had he been granted the opportunity. “You built a pyre? You followed the preparation rituals? Did you cast it properly?” “Horace was the only pureblood in attendance and ensured we did everything correctly. Hagrid built the pyre. I prepared the body myself. It helped we were all feeling no small amount of guilt for…everything.” Minerva said, and Lucius was momentarily curious but allowed her her privacy. They all had their ghosts. He knew about that most of all. “But the burial…?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. “It was a ruse.” “Yes. And we decided that we also still needed a physical memorial at any rate, but that the safest place would be on Hogwarts grounds. There is a frightening amount of wards on both the graves, especially after Voldemort saw to desecrating one himself.” This time, the name barely registered. Lucius gave a definitive nod. “I apologise I would not be able to acquiesce to your request, Lord Malfoy.” Minerva reverted to formality, signaling their conversation to be at an end. No matter. He had gotten what he had come for. He had gotten more than what he could have asked for. He gave the Headmistress a small formal bow. “You have my gratitude.” Minerva seemed to stiffen. “He was my dear friend as he was yours. I am…deeply sorry for your loss.” Lucius pondered for a moment if he should return the sentiment, for he knew the Headmistress had lost dozens of others apart from Severus, but he decided he could not bring himself to care. He nodded again and Minerva accepted, leading him back towards the door out of the offices. If you were still considering a plot for my grave at the estate, I would prefer it to be in the greenhouse rather than out of it. It should be great fun for you and Cissa, entangling the wards. I can’t assure your ridiculous hair will be safe from it, however... For the first time in many months, Lucius found it in him to smirk in amusement as the voice rambled on.

[cosmicjoke]

Alright, and now I’ve reached the final chapter of “No Regrets”, so let’s just dive right in!

There really is so much more to unpack from this story than I think people realize.

Firstly, just a few, truly devastating observations I want to talk about.

The first one being how, even after Furlan gets swallowed by the Titan, Levi still believes he can save him. The fact that he cuts the Titan open from the chest down to his sternum, and free’s Furlan’s arm, and the panels which show Levi reaching out for his hand and ripping him from the Titan’s stomach is just… so heartbreaking.  The way too that he gently carry’s him back to the ground and lays him out, only to discover that his entire lower half is gone, and he’s dead, just the level of trauma you know this must be causing Levi is immense, and beyond tragic.  This is one of only two, true friends in his life, and he’s so desperate to have been able to save him, that he clings on to the possibility to the bitter end, until he’s forced to face the bleak reality. Levi’s devastation is really brilliantly depicted in how he wobbles, as if his knees are weak, when he stands back up.

And then of course comes Levi’s rage, and how he takes it out on the Titans, expressing his grief and pain in the only way he knows how, through violence.  

But maybe the most heartbreaking moment here comes once he’s through killing every Titan there, and he starts to stumble away, and his foot comes into contact with Isabel’s severed head. This is, once more, another area in which the manga improved hugely over the visual novel.  

Levi’s reaction here is just… the most heartbreaking thing ever.  The way he stares when he realizes he’s looking at Isabel’s head, and then falls to his knees, his overwhelming grief here is just so beautifully depicted in these panels, as he reaches out a hand to cover her eyes, and then slides them closed, in an attempt to give her some sort of dignity in death.  The way he can’t even look at her, just doubled over in his grief, just killed me to see.  It’s so unspeakably sad, and conveys to us readers the true depth of Levi’s despair, I think.

And then we move on from this horrific grief, to the climactic moment of the story, when Levi and Erwin again come together, and we see Levi’s overwhelming rage.  Again, this entire scene was a massive improvement over the visual novel.  Well, for starters, in the visual novel, they had Levi cut Erwin’s horse down to bring him to the ground, and again, that’s just so out of character.  Luckily, they fixed that here too, with Levi simply leaping up and dragging Erwin off his horse.

These panels really are amazing too is showing Levi’s intense rage, as he warns Mike to back the hell off, and brings his blade to Erwin’s neck.

What’s really interesting here is what Levi says.  

After the struggle of the choice he made, before Furlan and Isabel were killed, after giving so much consideration and choosing based largely on their own dreams and wishes, Levi tells Erwin here “I’m going to kill you, you bastard.  That’s why I’m here.”.  And Erwin responds, after studying Levi a moment, “So they… all died? I see.”.  Erwin gleans here, both from Levi’s words and expression, that his friends have died, and what he says indicates that he knows the only reason Levi hasn’t tried to kill him before now is because Furlan’s and Isabel’s own well being and their own dreams were the only thing holding Levi back.  Levi made no attempt on Erwin’s life before because he was placing Furlan’s and Isabel’s wishes above his own, but now that they’re gone, there’s nothing to keep Levi from acting out his revenge.  

This is also where we get Erwin’s full reveal of just how in control of this entire situation he’s been this whole time, and how he manipulated every player and outcome to his desires.

This really isn’t something I see get discussed a whole lot when talking about Levi’s relationship with Erwin, and how it started out.  But, unquestionably, Erwin used Levi and his friends against their consent, to achieve his own ends.  He set the whole thing up, from first spreading rumors about having some sort of evidence against Lovof’s embezzlement, to then spreading the information that he was looking to recruit Levi and his friends from the Underground, thereby giving Lovof the very idea of going to them to obtain his own proof of the evidence’s existence, while simultaneously leading Erwin to the definitive proof he sought by following the messenger Lovof sent and intercepting him.  At the same time, giving Erwin a means of throwing Lovof off by using Levi, Furlan and Isabel for cover.  It really is incredibly impressive, but also heartbreaking, the way Erwin used Levi and his friends to his own ends, but of course, perfectly in character for Erwin too, willing to do whatever it takes to achieve his goals. It begs certain questions though about the equality between Erwin and Levi, at least at the start of their relationship.  Erwin clearly had the control and power in this situation, and though clearly he never meant for Furlan and Isabel to die, still, his decision to rope Levi and them into his plans to catch Lovof and also to gain their strength and skill for the SC, did lead indirectly to their deaths.  Surely, if Erwin had never meddled in their lives, and used them as tools, they would have all still been alive in the Underground.  

But of course, this leads into a really interesting clash, then, between Levi and Erwin, and where we see Erwin win Levi over to his cause.  This is, as is becoming a redundant theme of my analysis here, a giant improvement over the visual novel.  There, it makes it seems as if Levi decides to follow Erwin only because Erwin has something Levi lacks, and until he can figure out what that something is, he won’t be able to “defeat him”, implying that Levi is still somehow obsessed with beating Erwin in some way.  Like he isn’t joining Erwin to fight for his dream of a better world, but because he wants to figure out what Erwin has that he doesn’t, so he can become superior, or whatever.  But here, in the manga, Levi’s reasons for deciding to follow Erwin are much more complex, and tied in with his own personal drive of wanting to help and save others, and into his relationship with Furlan and Isabel.  

Levi tells him “It wasn’t worth throwing away their lives!  They were nothing but pawns in your worthless game.  Well, you lose.”, right before he means to take Erwin’s head off.

What’s interesting here is Erwin’s response.  He doesn’t try to deny to Levi that he used Furlan and Isabel and Levi himself as pawns. He doesn’t argue, or try to defend himself on that front.  What he takes issue with is Levi calling the reasons for it a “worthless game”.

Erwin’s entire speech to Levi here really builds off of the feelings Levi had already started to develop, about feeling like he had maybe found a place to belong, where he could maximize the good he could do.  This wasn’t yet a fully formed idea in Levi’s head, up to this point, but the seeds of it had started to form.

Erwin asks Levi who’s responsible for killing his friends.  He asks if it was him, if it was Levi, and then he asks if he really thought that if they had come together to attack Erwin, that they would have made it out alive.  

This is what Levi is beating himself up over, of course.  The belief that he made the wrong decision, in leaving Furlan and Isabel behind, thinking to himself if they hadn’t split up, they would still be alive.  He blames himself for how he came to that decision, and starts to say as much to Erwin here, saying it was his conceit and his pride that was to blame, no doubt thinking of how it was his memory of Erwin and the humiliation he caused Levi that was the final tipping point which decided him in favor of going after Erwin himself, and also how he simply convinced himself that he would be able to shoulder all of the responsibility himself in such a dire situation, remembering how he told Furlan “I can do it by myself!” so insistently, asking him to trust him, to trust essentially in Levi’s strength.  To Levi, in this moment, his own strength must have seemed worthless suddenly, his belief in it leading to nothing but abject failure.   But then Erwin cuts him off and says, emphatically that, no, it was the Titans who killed them, before beginning to talk about how little they know about the Titans, and how if they continue to remain ignorant like that, they’ll never win against them.  He tells Levi to look around himself, and points out how, for as far as the eye can see, there are no walls, and then suggests that, in all that open space, there might be something they can find to free humanity from its despair and imprisonment.  And then he reminds Levi that there are people who want to stop this from this from happening, only concerned with their own profits and losses, content to stay where danger can’t reach them.  He shows sympathy, saying it’s understandable why they feel that way, because they’ve been blinded by the walls for a hundred years, and can’t see past their own survival.

And then he asks Levi if his eyes have remained clouded too.  He’s asking Levi here if he only knows how to live for himself, and if he’ll kill him and return to the Underground to continue to do so, after losing the two people he cared most about in this world.

But of course, Levi’s already learned how to live for people other than himself.  That was his whole reason for coming to the Surface in the first place.  In support and dedication to the hopes and dreams of his friends.  Levi’s eyes HAVEN’T been clouded, he’s already discovered and embraced what it means to give your life for others, already able to see past his own benefit.  

Erwin reminds Levi of that here, and tells him they won’t give up on going outside the walls, before asking Levi to fight with the Survey Corps, telling him “Humanity needs your skill!!”.  He reminds Levi, even after the loss of the two people whom he had been living for up to that point, that he can continue to live for others still, that he can still fight for the hopes and dreams of others, and that he doesn’t have to return to the life of isolation and loneliness and futility that he once lived, that he doesn’t have to return to simply surviving, or fighting only to survive. He’s reminding Levi that his life can mean more than that, just like he realized when he became friends with Isabel and Furlan.  That his life can have purpose, and that, if he lends his strength to the SC, he can do more even than help a few people.  He can, in fact, help all of humanity.  

The following panels show Levi coming to this realization.  He remembers Furlan and Isabel at his sides as they rode out into the open for the first time, into the first, true sense of freedom they had ever known, and their shared awe and wonder at the sight.  And Levi is realizing here, just as he had fought for his friends dreams of freedom, and of a better, more hopeful life, he can continue to fight for the same, only for everybody, for all people.  He can make the most of his abilities, and help the most people, by staying in the SC and fighting at Erwin’s side, fighting for Erwin’s vision of something beyond the walls, of a kind of salvation for humanity.

What Erwin gives Levi here, really, the thing Erwin gives Levi that he before lacked, is a sense of hope. A belief in his own ability to make a meaningful, positive impact on the lives of others.  It’s like Erwin’s own belief in that hope for humanity’s salvation is so strong, that Levi finds himself able to believe in it too, and he decides then and there that, for the sake of that hope, for the sake of the vision of something better, Levi will stay by Erwin’s side.  Because it’s what Levi’s always wanted to do, to fight for the hopes and dreams of others, to fight to make the lives of other people better, and Erwin has shown him the way to do so.  He shows Levi that Furlan and Isabel didn’t die for a “worthless game”, but for the sake of all human kind, and that’s why Levi is able to let go of his anger towards Erwin and follow him.  And that really feeds into Levi’s need, later on, for every soldier’s death to carry meaning.  If he can believe Furlan and Isabel died for a truly important reason, he can accept it and cope with his grief.  Like Isabel expressed herself before, these people genuinely believe their cause is worth dying for, and Erwin reminds Levi of this again.  

So he forgets his anger and pain, and chooses instead to follow Erwin, and dedicate himself to the cause of humanity’s salvation.  

The final panels of the manga are incredibly moving, with Levi slowing down behind Erwin and Mike, and glancing back one last time to where he lost his two, best friends, before looking away and riding on, as the sun shines through the clouds.  Like one, final acknowledgment of their lives together, and the sacrifice they made, before committing himself fully to his new life ahead.

 I’m going to be compiling all of these chapter analysis’ into a single, master post, which I’ll have up soon.  Anyway, I hope whoever took the time to read them found them worthwhile in some way, and thank you so much if you did!  And remember, if you have anything to contribute, or just want to make a comment of any sort, feel free!

[animemangasoul]

Who Are You?

Summery: A Wizard takes away Tim’s memories of his least important person. Unfortunately for Damian, that’s him.

He doesn’t remember him. Doesn’t remember the little kid with the pinched face and uncertain eyes. He looks at him and he feels... something, but it’s not enough so he doesn’t pursue it. Just gives the little guy a wide smile and asks him his name. He must be important, he thinks. If he lives with Bruce.

“Damian.” The words are spoken softly, hesitantly, but they are also firm, strong. Tim feels like if he had known him, he would have admired him for that.

Instead he smiles even wider and reaches out a hand. “Tim,” he says in return and something flashes in the kid’s eyes; the sharp gaze darting between his outstretched hand to his face and then back to his hand again. Tim frowns. Maybe they hadn’t gotten along back--

But the kid doesn’t give him a chance to retract his offer, darting forward almost in desperation as he lungs forward to sandwich Tim’s fingers between his own two hands. “Pleasure to meet you again Timothy,” he blurts out; cheeks turning beat red as he does. But Tim can only smile, because the sincerity behind the halting words are very evident.

He wonders if they’d gotten along well.

He wonders if they did, why had he forgotten him.

The least important person the wizard had said..... So why Damian?

The rest of them, his family were firmly lodged in his brain. He could remember their every laugh, their every hug, tears, smiles, love. Good, bad, ugly. He remembered it all. Bruce with his confidence and safety, Cass with her warm hug and kisses. Dick with his laughter and comfort. Jason with his honesty and wild personality. Duke with his brilliance and gentleness. Alfred with his Alfredness.  

Remembering them wasn’t hard because the memories of them have never left him. So why Damian? Why him?

------------------

He wonders about it for the rest of the week. Especially when he hears the kid’s last name.

The little kid who skitters around the corners. The kid who doesn’t quite know how to laugh but his eyes would still manage to give him away every single time he found something funny.  

The little Robin who must have inherited the mantle after him and carried it with dignity and respect that must have made Tim’s heart bloom with pride.

Damian Wayne.

His little brother.

His only little brother.

And yet..... He didn’t remember him.

Least important.

Why?

---------------

Dick finds him one morning standing in front of the family portrait. The hall is empty except for the two of them, and when Dick comes to a stop next to him, neither speaks for a long while.

Tim is busy examining the expressions on everyone’s faces. And Dick, well, Tim wasn’t quite sure what he was doing but he leaves him to it. Dick would talk when he felt like it and not a second earlier.

“If you can’t remember him, how do you remember Duke?”

The words are no louder than a whisper and Tim can feel the unease coming off of his older brother in waves, but he elects not to comment on it. Instead he shrugs and focuses his gaze on the little face of the forgotten kid standing regally next to Bruce.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know!”

Tim scoffs. “A wizard messed with my head Dick.”

His brother winces and Tim finds himself smiling at that. Damian and Dick were much alike. It was cute.  

“Did we get along?”

“What?”

Sighing, Tim leans forward to press a light finger against Damian’s painted face. “Did we get along? Me and Damian?” Scrutinizing the stern gaze and the almost hunched shoulders of the kid, Tim wonders what he must have been afraid of in this frozen moment. “I’ve always wanted a little brother you know.”

Dick remains quiet for an inordinate amount of time.  

His silence tells a full story, so when Dick finally musters up a casual. “Yes, but you were both just kids so you disagreed sometimes.” He hums in agreement and lets its slide.

Dick was lying to him but Tim did not elect to hold it against him.  

Pretty little lies could make even the best of men tempted in telling them and whatever dynamic he and Damian currently held most be infinitely better for Dick than their previous shared history.

Still, ‘strike one Dick,’ he thinks as he turns around to make his way down to the kitchen, he was hungry after all. ‘Lying doesn’t suit you big brother.’

“Wait.”

Foot frozen midair, Tim drags his eyes up from the stairs and back to the silent figure by the portrait. Dick looks so very still.

“Yeah?”

One hand coming up to run through his hair, his older brother gives him a sheepish smile; eyes gleaming suspiciously but smile as sincere as ever.

“You got along better at the end. Damian he.... you guys weren’t.... you didn’t like each other in the beginning,” Dick pauses and there is pain there, in those words. Bitter pain. Protective, angry.  

Something most have been stolen from him too Tim supposes. And it hurts more because Dick remembers. Whatever built relationship he and Damian had most have meant more to Dick than he was letting on.

Interesting.

“Thank you for telling me.” He leaves at that. Not without a second glance or thought.

Dick doesn’t follow him. Tim thinks that’s for the best.

----------------

“You hated him?”

Tim blinks in surprise. “Really?”

Kon nods. Eyes on the bright screen and tongue sticking out in concentration. “Yup.”

“Why?”

Kon curses loudly; leaning back and dragging the controller with him to avoid the upcoming wall. “I don’t know man,” he grits out. “You never got along and Dick used to pit you guys against each other or something. Choosing sides and shit.”

“Why?”

Shrugging, his best friend elects not to answer the question. “Beats me.”

Frowning in confusion, Tim nods slowly. “That’s super weird right? I mean, Dick wouldn’t do something like that. That’s not who he is. Or at least who I remember him to be.”

Kon shrugs again. “Never liked the guy so don’t ask me dude.”

Tim thinks about it for a second but then he too picks up his controller and Kon restarts the game. It really didn’t matter in the end, did it?

So what if he’d hated Damian in the beginning for some weird reason. The kid seemed pleasant enough last time he saw him so maybe he’d changed. Jason had managed it after all and well, Tim had frequently encountered and even befriended less than decent people before. So a little kid like Damian couldn’t be quite that bad right?

Maybe he needed to have a sit down and actually talk to him.

Talking to everyone else about how he was supposed to feel about Damian wasn’t really working after all. They most have had some form of relationship if the kid looked hurt when he didn’t remember him. It couldn’t have been all antagonistic, their relationship. And it couldn’t have been all that great either.

Maybe they’d reached a sort of an in between.  

----------------

Finding the time to talk to Damian proves to be difficult. Not only is work literally drowning him in stress and gives him less free time than a man working three jobs but turns out Damian was avoiding him.

It becomes all too obvious when he turns a corner one day and is met with the startled gaze of the kid who then; unable to avoid him any other way, actually turns around abruptly and sprints away.  

Tim is left standing there with an outreached hand and a mouth open for a yell that never leaves his lips.

After that, it becomes more and more difficult to pin the kid down. No matter what he does; waking up early, coming home an hour before his time, choosing to patrol with batman instead of alone, he can’t seem to get the kid to talk to him.

Somehow, that hurts.

Not in the normal sense of faint disappointment. Not in the way of feeling sad because a stranger elected to be rude to you, no. It was this gut punching pain that just wouldn’t go away.  

He didn’t even know him, but it hurt. It really really hurt and Tim didn’t like that one bit.  

Damian Wayne.

He needs to talk to him. Nothing was going to fix this otherwise. Even if he doesn’t remember him, he.....

“He’s hiding at my apartment ya know. That’s why you can’t find him.”

Tim practically jumps out of his skin. “What the hell Jay!”

His older brother grins. A savage sort of smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he barely seems to refrain from outright laughing at him.  

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Jason snorts. “And if you wanna catch the little brat you better go now.” And with that he disappears behind the roofline, leaving Tim to glare after him.  

“Jerk.”

--------------------------

“Found you!”

This time it’s Damian’s turn to jump out of his skin and well, Tim would definitely be lying if he said he didn’t see why Jason loved doing it so much.

“What.... why are you here Drake?”

Landing soundlessly on the floor, Tim shuts the window behind him before shuffling over to where Damian is sitting, careful not to trigger another run. “I just want to talk.”

The little guy glares at him. A proper glare with death threats and all. Tim is mildly amused. “Won’t you give me five minutes? Please?”

Damian flinches. “I do not wish to speak with you Drake.” He sounds young and scared and..... Tim doesn’t quite understand how he could have ever hated this kid.

“I don’t remember you,” he says slowly, the words leaving his mouth easily enough, but somewhere deep down, at the very bottom of his soul he finds himself retching at the casualness with which he says them.

It doesn’t help that the kid can’t quite hide the brief flair of hurt that dances through his eyes.

Fuck.

“I already know that Drake,” he snaps, but Tim steps forward, waving his arms frantically. “I didn’t mean it like that ki—Damian!” Swallowing thickly, he tries to take a deep breath. “Look, I just..... I don’t remember you that’s true. But,” he carries on quickly preventing Damian from cutting him off. “I would like to remember you again and just...” here he gives a helpless shrug. “Wanna help me find the wizard who did this and make him change me back?”

Clearly that’s not what Damian had been expecting him to say, for his supposed little brother is standing on the other side of Jason’s living room, silently gaping at him.

Tim bites down on his tongue to stop himself from saying anything stupid that’ll ruin things. And then--

“Why?” Damian’s voice is angry and suspicious, but it’s also pained and confused and.... Tim just wants to hug him. No kid should ever look that forlorn, ever.

“I want my memories back and I want to remember you,” he answers instead, giving the kid his most winning smile.

“Why?”

Sighing, Tim drops the smile and gives the kid an almost helpless look, because..... what do you say to that? How can he possible explain the disparity between what he’s feeling and what he knows. That his mind might not recall the little kid in front of him, who looks so much like Bruce, but his heart does.  

How can he just....

“I think you’re worth remembering,” he settles for in the end. “You might not have been part of my most important memories, but you were still important to me and that’s why the spell worked.” This time when he tries to smile, it comes out rather sad, a bit empty, slightly heartbroken. “We were getting there, weren’t we? Becoming brothers?”

Damian looks away and that tells him everything.

“Let me remember you.” Tim says, an almost plea breaking through his faked bravado.

This time when Damian looks back at him, it’s not fear or hurt or pain he sees, but a quiet sense of determination. It’s shaky and still uncertain, but it eases something within Tim. “So what do you say?” He asks again just to make sure.

The kid nods. “Very well Drake. You have yourself a deal.”

Tim grins and Damian, well Damian smiles just the tiniest bit and for the first time in days, Tim feels as if something broken in his heart has finally been put back together again.

It’ll work out in the end. Tim wouldn’t let it end any other way.

The End

@punjabj-ninja @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @river9noble

Anyone else who wants to be tagged please let me know. Or untagged either way :)

[ephemerlskies]

the eighth hour | ot7

⇢ pairing: hoseok x reader

[other members - namjoon, seokjin, and jimin]

⇢ genre: (long ass) one-shot, angst, partial fluff, thebreakfastclub!au, highschool!au, badboy!hoseok + fosterchild!hoseok, jock!jimin, nerd!namjoon, and seokjin as just your classic seokjin, childhoodfriends!au, friends to enemies to lovers

⇢ word count: 38.1k

⇢ warnings: explicit language, underage marijuana usage, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex, themes of bullying, themes of depression/anxiety, mentions of mental abuse, cliché high school tropes, mutual pining (as always), homophobic themes, mentions of physical violence, mentions of explicit pictures

⇢ summary: who would have guessed that five separate events could converge into one shared Saturday detention? what emerged as an even bigger, yet pleasing surprise was the bonds that could form despite the contractual bindings of the high school cliques that you, jimin, namjoon, seokjin, and hoseok were assigned to.

♪ playlist: apple juice - jessie reyez • around - niki • ivy - frank ocean • friends - bts • dont you (forget about me - simple minds ♪

a/n: holy shit this was super fun to write!!! i was going to make this a series but instead i just impulse wrote this as a super long one shot. anyway i hope you enjoy! <3 also the playlist really does match the ~vibes~ so i hope y'all give it a listen :)

8:00 - 10:00

You blamed timing. It had been the only scapegoat to somewhat reconcile your seething frustration, though there was always that part of you that scorned your own poorly executed decisions. Maybe if you hadn’t stopped to say hi and discuss something as unimportant as the temperament of the weather with your teacher in passing, or if you didn’t skip your semi-weekly coffee, or if you hadn’t spent as much time inspecting the new flyers pinned onto the bulletin board then you could have avoided this conundrum. Timing, however, was completely out of your control, making it ideal to place blame on. That and the troublesome deviant who had you being held accountable for actions that were not of your own doing. 

Jung Hoseok. Your once childhood best friend turned bitter and drifted towards a life of immorality and mild misdemeanors due to his series of unexplained personal calamities. 

Even the nonverbal idea of his name had triggered aggressive animosity in you. Well, it felt like hatred; the burn in your chest whenever you thought of him felt like hatred, but you never dug deep enough to figure it out. 

It was shocking that you could feel this despise with such severity, but Hoseok had that particular quality about him that seemed to make anything possible, though you could never quite place what that quality was. And of course, your path intersected with his at the exact wrong time and the exact wrong place. That particular quality had drawn a treacherous curiosity to influence you to linger a few seconds too long, another poor decision of yours. To top it off, the exact wrong person had caught you in this perfectly timed and unfortunate situation and convicted you on the grounds of guilt by association to land you a Saturday detention. Mulling over these consecutive misdirections was punishment enough to drag you miserably through the rest of the week; the detention waiting for you at the end of it was simply the cherry on top.

 Apprehensive questions had always been your mom’s go-to tick when it came to you. The car ride to school had been flushed with them being that this was your first detention, let alone run-in with authority, in your entire academic career and your annoyance to her queries was more fuel added to the already monstrous fire of regret. This had produced some odd concoction of eagerness to escape this interrogation. Though you had no real desire to start this long day, your mom’s questions were the closest to giving a reason to that.

Your mother pulled up two blocks away from the library where you would be jailed for the next eight hours, and she packed in a few more questions to delay your departure. You and she sat in the car, marinating in the discomfort, waiting for the minutes to tick by until eight o’clock arrived. Your mother looked to you with pity and guilt as if she were delivering you to a slaughterhouse, not aiding to relieve the guilt of your own harbor.

“It’s just detention, Mom. It’s fine.” And you wished you believed it as much as you wanted her to. 

“Did I remember to pack the apple?” 

“Yes.”

“And the water bottle isn’t leaking anymore, right?” Her worried voice and demeanor had not been subtle in the slightest for this question had been asked about eight minutes ago in this same car ride.

“No, mom.” The bite in your response had warned her to relent her questions. 

“Okay, I’ll see you at four.”

“I’ll see you.”

“I love you, ___.”

“Love you.”

Stepping out of that car, finally escaping from the perpetual, suffocating questions had you identifying the crisp Winter air as a comfort. The fog decorating the school’s roof and treetops looked like it wouldn’t recede. It was abhorrent, not being able to get a glimpse of the sun before an epoch of detention stole your last few seconds of freedom. 

Your deep inhalations had formed a few puffs of clouds mixing with the surrounding fog, and you began to prepare entry into the penitentiary that others called the library. Your heart had been pounding from the momentum of frustration with your mom’s doting. However, it hadn’t ceased even when you parted ways because of the dread of facing Jung Hoseok once again. 

If the thought of his name was enough to send you into a hurricane-like rage, you couldn’t imagine what type of disastrous storm awaited you being confined with him for the next eight hours. 

The walk down these couple of blocks was paced intentionally to stall the beginning of this tortuous Saturday. Your strides had slowed substantially as they carried you down the halls of your high school, past the bulletin boards that hammered more guilt upon remembering that was one of the fatal mistakes that led you here, then past the school’s cafe that drilled the regret even deeper in your bones. 

As you approached the doors to the library, you gripped the cold handle until it grew warm from your hand. A bit of time to breathe, compose and mask your nerves granted you half an ounce of dignity needed to open the door and step through the threshold. You walked over to the two rows of three desks and exchanged a cordial glance with the school’s renown football star, Park Jimin, seated at the front right table, in a manner that disguised your guilt with indifference. Then, you settled in the seat at the table behind his, finding this the optimal place to draw the least amount of attention.

The quiet boy sitting in the back of the rows had reacted with a noticeable surprise to see your face in this setting. He looked as embarrassed to be here as you felt, however, while you refused to show it, he draped it on his expression with little to no restraint. Both of you did not bother with the formality of a nod or smile, but a simple acknowledgment for the lack of proper acquaintance. 

Though you had never had a personal interaction with him, you still knew his name to be Kim Namjoon and that he was characterized by everyone who knew him as the nerdiest kid in school. Quite a cliché, though you had no reason to think he was anything beyond that since his rounded eyeglasses and turtleneck sweater certainly upheld the truth in that stereotype.  

The remnants of your intruded sleep felt heavy in your eyes which numbed your endurance to stay awake. Soon after the bothersome exhaustion almost conquered you into a sleep, a disarrayed body had fumbled through the doors snapping the heads of you, Jimin, and Namjoon towards him. He stood in front of the door, glancing back to it as if he were considering a swift escape from the concerned glares and embarrassment of the scene he had just made. And though there had only been three others to witness the progression of him rattling the handles, pushing against it with just enough force to unbalance him, and then nearly tripping into the eyes of his peers, it had been just enough to elicit a sizable amount of anxiety.

“Sorry, the door um…” He gestured towards it then towards the handle, then after bringing that same hand to his head to itch away his nervousness, “the door was jammed.”

None of you sitting in that book-filled jail cell cared, much less wanted to know the reason he barged in to interrupt the silence, but the way he fumbled through his words had been far too interesting and entirely ineffective in dismissing the unwanted attention. 

Jimin had found this particularly amusing as he choked down a few laughs as not to raze the other boy’s ego completely, but his efforts had just drawn more awareness that he was laughing at him. The lanky figure with red-tinted ears and cheeks scuttled with a low hanging head to the front table, next to the one Jimin was seated at, without another word as to avoid further demoting his dignity.

Dignity was a funny thing to everyone in the library. It was handled differently by each body during this Saturday detention. Some were trying to protect it, some had paid no mind to tend to it, some (you) were trying to pretend it was undisturbed, and one had felt the weight of his diminishing dignity as no heavier than a feather.

This one, the same one that tormented you with his mere existence, had shoved the door out of his way in a manner of excitement. He strutted through the room to suggest he had some sort of twisted pride to be here and that his dignity fluctuated from the various looks of disgust, annoyance, confusion, and attraction. 

Hoseok didn’t offer you more than a glance, although the scan of his eyes could hardly be counted as any sort of acknowledgment. In fact, he glared longer at Namjoon who had done everything in his power to surrender any dominance, already in scarce supply, and appear meek to avoid an altercation with Hoseok. 

The other boy, Kim Seokjin, who had previously made a fool of himself, waved at Hoseok expecting to make a quick friend through his naive opportunism. Hoseok responded by lurching forward with his fist raised level with his shoulder in an advancement of hostility. Despite Hoseok being about ten feet away from him and in no realistic position to actually hit him, Seokjin flinched. His juvenile bullying proved to be ineptly humorous to everyone else in the library, except Seokjin who successfully lodged himself deeper in embarrassment.

For some reason, you were agitated that everyone else’s presence but your own was enough to earn his attention. It was beyond reason to want this man’s eyes to meet yours, and yet when it failed to do so, there was an unmistakable disappointment sitting in the place where you wanted Hoseok to look. 

You knew it stemmed from the unsatisfied hope that he wouldn’t act like he didn’t know you once, that maybe he’d let the guarded past seep through and guide his eyes to rest on you gently, as they often used to do. But what did that matter? You hated him.

There was some shame that followed how you counted yourself lucky that he sat at the desk right behind you, giving you a perfect trajectory to shoot him a snide look. You hoped it would arouse guilt that he had been the reason you were here and that he couldn’t even present the decency of proper eye contact, though he most likely found it flattering from the way his lower lip slid between his teeth and a twisted grin formed. The quick avert of his wandering eyes had replaced the heat rising in your body with more disappointment.

“Hey, tool.” The voice behind you passed over your head to the target sitting in front of you. Jimin turned back to assure Hoseok was audacious enough to call him that name, “Yeah, I’m talking to you.”

“What do you want, dickhead?” Jimin had been over this conversation before it even began, but he still played into Hoseok’s little game. He too had succumbed to that particular quality of Hoseok’s that had many people wanting to argue with him. Nowadays, it seemed to be the only way to get a bit of his attention. 

“Ooh, dickhead.” Hoseok’s low scoff had interrupted him momentarily, and the toss of his feet on top of the desk and lean in his chair drained a bit of suspenseful tension into the air, “Those are big boy words. Someone’s been drinking their big boy juice!” His voice was caked in a sharp taunt that had Jimin’s fists contracting into themselves, leaving crescent-shaped dents in his palms from his fingernails.

“What’s your problem, dude? Just leave me alone. I didn’t even say anything to you.” Turning his body to face away was not nearly enough to evade Hoseok’s mission of infuriating Jimin just for the hell of it. 

The boy, layered in a black leather jacket over a red flannel, mounted the desk and jumped onto yours then Jimin’s with a racket of stomps that echoed between the shelves of books. You looked over to the spot on your table where his foot landed, grimacing at the dirt residue of his shoe print and the whiff of nicotine Hoseok left in his wake. Your attention, along with Namjoon’s and Seokjin’s, was soon shifting over to Hoseok who slumped into the chair beside Jimin, all in deep anticipation of what the delinquent would do next. 

Your focus was trained on his fingers that pushed through his hair, exposing his forehead, and if you weren’t so invested in his interaction with Jimin, you might have noticed the pesky butterflies flitting around your stomach. 

“Can I help you?” Jimin didn’t give Hoseok the satisfaction of another turned head, making Hoseok greedy and frustrated with Jimin’s passive protest.

“I just wanna know…” The glance he shot to you sent shivers through your body, but you knew there was some mischief in this look, “You and princess over there are fucking?”

“What the hell?” These words had escaped from your mouth before you had the chance to fully construct a more dignified response. Jimin looked to you in attempts to apologize on behalf of Hoseok’s foul tongue. Seokjin’s ears had grown into a much deeper red upon hearing these obscenities and Namjoon’s eyes had widened almost as large as his jaw-dropped mouth.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? I don’t even know ___ like that.” Hoseok sat on the desk to face you with a smirk of such arrogance that it riled a combative sneer from your face. 

“So, you’re telling me, you’ve never slipped him the tongue, ___? I swear I could cut the sexual tension with a knife.” 

“You’re delusional.” Jimin cut in.

“Maybe. I couldn’t be as delusional as you, being concussed probably a hundred times from rolling around in the grass with your football friends.” 

“As if a loser like you knows anything about me or my friends!” 

“You like rolling around with your brain-dead guy friends?”

“What did you say?” What Hoseok was alluding to hadn’t been a reference to what Jimin perceived it as, though it had gashed against a rather sensitive spot. More so a personal, secretive spot and Jimin sewed his lips shut in fear to push Hoseok any further.

“Shut up, Hoseok! Everyone stop acknowledging him. He just wants attention.” Though what you had said was true, and everyone surely agreed on that, Hoseok had drawn in each of you and had you all completely wrapped around his finger in minutes. 

You seemed to be spooled around it the tightest as your eyes were now at war against his piercing glare. A small ten seconds grew into eternity when you were under his gaze and the canopy of memories it seemed to hold, and when it was torn away from you there was a sense of relief and exhilaration tilling through you. 

Hoseok would never admit to it, but your eyes had almost faltered his own, almost moved him to an obedience that would have him sitting down at his desk and shutting up. There was a bloated discomfort with his recollection of your power over him, especially uncomfortable with the fact that the years of distance hadn’t diminished it in the slightest. Nor had it given him the time to muster a tolerance against your gleaming eyes. This pushed him to look towards the nerdish boy sitting in the back.

“What about you, nerd? Ever gotten down and dirty? I’m sure you haven’t but maybe ___ could help you out with that.” Namjoon was stiff except for his hands that had been quivering the moment Hoseok began directing his torments towards him. Maybe it wasn’t the hollow comments that had angered you, but the fact that he still wouldn’t find the nobility in himself to face you when he disgraced your name in such explicit ways. Or the fact that each time he failed to meet your eyes, you only felt yourself wrapping tighter around his finger.

“You’re an ass, Hoseok.” Jimin muttered under his breath because part of him was too afraid to address him with full confidence. 

“Jealous, meathead?” 

“Didn’t you hear ___? No one cares for the bullshit that comes out of your mouth.”

 “Yeah, that’s the point. If no one cares, then I can say whatever the hell I want.”

Someone did care, not that he had the mind or attention span to notice how even in hatred, you felt natural to be at his side again. Or rather, in between the crossfires of Hoseok and Jimin’s deafening stare-off. The letterman jacket covering Jimin’s torso had instigated Hoseok to flick the flap of his collar against Jimin’s cheek. He was swift to knock Hoseok’s hand and now his anger gave him the motive to speak louder. 

“Don’t start with me again, asshole.” 

Hoseok performed a fake shudder in the face of the confidence born in Jimin’s tone. The two have now risen to their feet and inches away from their noses brushing against each other. Jimin’s hands had repositioned into the same fists of enragement while Hoseok called Jimin’s aggression and raised him with his arms folding across his chest. Seokjin’s nails were being fervently trimmed by his teeth and Namjoon shifted to the edge of his seat. It was clear neither of their prideful masculinities would allow for them to subside from this standoff. Who would make the first move, however, had yet to be unraveled and thrilled everyone to oblivion in the dimly lit library.

Again, your eyes couldn’t be ripped from Hoseok and how his white tank top had clung against his heaving chest. The way his cocked eyebrow and ego had the strength of a crazed hurricane, one that swept you up in its winds with no trace of mercy. Still, there was nothing that could peel your eyes away from him, not even the rampant air currents thrashing through the library. Your focus had nearly distracted you from displaying your shameful affinity towards his arrogance and intimidation. Internally, you were sure you would have been salivating profusely with the way your mouth hung open. On the outside, you only stared, leaving the rest of what that meant up to Hoseok’s imagination. 

Has it really been long enough to note that his shoulders broadened and his jawline sharpened?

Timing played its incessant role as the overly suspicious Vice Principal Donald Dickson walked in, ridding the library of what could have resulted in bruised eyes and busted knuckles. Jimin and Hoseok sat down upon hearing the tick of the door handle, before the supervisor fully walked through the door and set his eyes on this group of expectant students. A beat of silence clung onto the space between the five of you, now six including the Vice Principal, and Dickson took in the sights of what he perceived were cowardice troublemakers sitting in the desks before him.

“Hello, everyone. You’re here today because you did something wrong. A wrong that needs to be punished. And what better way to do that than wasting away your Saturday?” 

His words had been spoken from an embittered tongue, eager to thread more guilt into each one of you. Truly the only thing more distasteful than his mustard colored tie paired with a navy blue collared shirt was his arrogance. In seconds, he squeezed the excess space between the five students, cramming you all, almost unwillingly, into a team against him. The surplus of space, flushed out by his own demean, drifted him further away. He stepped closer to the desk, specifically to the leather-coated boy slouched in his chair and leaned forward intending to tempt Hoseok into picking a fight with him. 

“Welcome back, Hoseok.” 

Dickson's arrogance began to singe the air, making the space smell rancid as if something had been rotting in this library for months.

“Good to be back, buddy!” His sarcastic chide sat horribly with Dickson, feeling this pet name as a challenge to his authority. And if something as trivial as the word ‘buddy’ stung him so, he couldn’t have been less prepared for the comment about to spill from Hoseok’s mouth, “How ‘bout we go for dinner after this, Donald? Oh, actually never mind. Looks like you’ve been eating enough for the both of us.” 

Normally, his empty insults would have passed through Dickson’s head but he had been in a bad mood today. The heckling had sent him right over the edge and gave him the opportunity to take his frustrations out on Hoseok.

“It’s Mr. Dickson to you. And you just earned yourself another Saturday detention.” Said with the slam of his hand against the table. All but Hoseok jumped from the slap that reverberated through the halls. The underlying tactic to put his foot down, or rather his hand down, lost its effect on the one person it was meant for; Hoseok saw this as a reciprocated challenge and was always up for a way to reclaim his domain.

“Don’t be stingy, how ‘bout another one?” Doing the exact opposite of what Dickens wanted, testing his power even more, though to Hoseok his power was nothing more than a pathetic hunger for any sort of authority, something missing from his life outside of work. If bossing around children was the only outlet to feed this obsession, Hoseok saw to it to make this worth his while.

“Fine! You got one!” 

“Can’t wait to see you again, babe.”

“That's it! All your Saturdays for the rest of the month are gonna be spent here, with me. You happy now?”

“Over the moon.” 

“Hoseok, stop it.” Even though your plea had been a whisper, it was loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Hoseok snuck a glance to your disapproving face. You’d been surprised to meet his unworried expression, despite arguing with Dickson and sacrificing all his Saturdays for the sake of knocking the vice principal down a few steps on the hierarchical ladder. His attention to you was stolen by Jimin.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Jimin had his head facing down in compliance as if he were setting an example for Hoseok. Just minutes ago, they were at each other’s throats, but Dickson had this vulgarity in his threats that excelled in earning him the title as the most hateable person known to humankind, of a much higher rank than Hoseok, and that forged some unspoken solidarity between all of you. If it hadn’t been for Dickson, Jimin and Hoseok would have broken into an all-out brawl. Instead, it smoothed the dynamic between the two boys to a shielding defense of one another.

“Shut it, Park. Or you’ll get one too.” 

It took everything in your willpower to not scoff at Dickson’s insolence. You, personally, had quite a bone to pick with him as he was the exact wrong person that caught you, withheld the opportunity to explain yourself, and unjustly held you responsible for simply being in the vicinity of the crime scene. As much as you hated Hoseok, there had been nothing so compelling of your hatred than Dickson.

“Now, each of you will write an essay.” All five mouths groaned in response to this, “Yeah, yeah. You’ll write an essay whether you like it or not. You will sit here for eight hours, not say a word, not move unless it's to write your essay, and not even think about trying to leave.”

“What if we have to go to the bathroom?” This was a genuine question masked with innocence, however it doubled as a ploy for Namjoon to aggravate Dickson.

“Well, you’ll hold it!”

“Mr. Dickson, you’re definitely supposed to let us go to the bathroom.” You added.

“Even prisoners get to go to the bathroom.” A comparison laid out by Hoseok, quite fitting as Dickson seemed to treat you all lower than the dirt lodged between the ridges of his shoes. 

“You don’t tell me what I can or can’t do!” Dickson grew red in the face, a sight for the sore eyes of the five prisoners in this library.

“So, you expect us to hold it all day?” Jimin tossed his own objection in this dispute. 

“I expect you to do what I say, or do you three want to join your little friend next Saturday?” Dickson didn’t hold his tongue or restrain the volume of his voice that was barking this unreasonable demand. The wag of his fingers was as if he had truly asserted any real or respectable power over the five of you. Seokjin released the chuckle that had been brewing in his chest ever since Dickson began spouting his hollow threats. 

“Something funny, kid?” 

Yes, you’re making an ass of yourself, you thought.

“Nope just… thought of something that happened earlier today. Like, way earlier today, uh, a joke! It was funny, so…” Now you were all at the mercy of Dickson’s comical attempt to have students worship him. 

Jimin’s head had buried deeper towards his chest to mask the tears forming from holding his laughter behind his teeth, while Namjoon utilized the cover of his hand to fence in his. You and Hoseok had been trading off with noiseless snickers that exhaled as huffs of breath when Dickson had turned his back to check the time.

“It is eight thirty-two. You punks have a good six and a half hours until four comes, so I suggest you take the time to work on your essays. If you don’t finish, you’ll be back here next week to do just that. You’re going to write about what you did wrong, and why it was wrong, along with a long, thoughtful apology for what you did.” Dickson paced back and forth in the front of the desks with the sets of eyes, minus Hoseok’s, following his body. Two things stood with a backless stance in yet another empty threat of Dickson’s. One, there were not any grounds for Dickson to mandate another Saturday detention if the five of you didn’t finish an unrequired essay. Hoseok had the pleasure of pointing out Dickson’s other incorrect claim.

“Seven.” 

“What?” One could see the steam pouring from his ears and nostrils as he halted as if Hoseok’s retort acted as a hurdle placed in his path.

“We have seven and a half hours until four.”

“That’s what I said.” 

Jimin’s eyes had rolled back at Dickson’s inability to ever admit he was wrong, a trait only painting him into a bigger joke. You shook your head softly because the stillness you were trying to maintain was too overwhelming to handle, and this seemed to ease the second-hand embarrassment raging through you each time Dickson opened his mouth.

“No, you definitely said six. You said ‘you punks have a good six and a half hours until four’. Then Hoseok said ‘seven’ and then you said ‘what’ and then he said ‘we have seven and a half hours until four’ and then you sa-”

“Enough!” Dickson exclaimed.

Seokjin spoke innocently to give a correction to Dickson. His shallow grasp of social cues often had his well-intentioned actions trilling off his tongue with a sting to Dickson’s pride. Though, nothing had done more harm to Dickson’s pride than the prance of his half delusional authority before the eyes of those who had their own reasons for being stuck here. None, however, had been as lewd as the tyrannical reasons that drove Dickson here. 

“Watch your tone, kid.”

“Who else heard Dickson say six?” Hoseok asked after raising his hand high, followed by Jimin, Namjoon and you casting your concurring votes. Seokjin’s slow uplift of his hand was soon diverted to play off his affirmation as scratching his head. Hoseok’s smirk bloomed from the majority’s favor with him, and the one effortful but ultimately silenced support of Seokjin. 

“Looks like the Is have it!”

“Whatever! I’ll be back to check on you all in a couple hours. No moving from your seats. No talking.” He felt the slight of each of your hands, depleting his once esteemed title of vice principal to a speck of dust that did nothing more than agitate the noses of unimpressed students. The stiffness in all your muscles began to deteriorate from Dickson’s reluctant retreat, having you loosening the clench of your jaw. Watching Dickson wrangle the handle of the broken door before a gruff exit had assisted in soothing your nerves.

Not long after he left, not even a few seconds after the door closed, Hoseok felt an itch for not-so-civil disobedience and scratched a sweet relief to that by walking over to Namjoon, who had been scribbling on the paper that should have been filled with the assigned essay. He snagged the paper from the pencil once being grazed against it and jerked his hand away to evade Namjoon’s attempt at retrieving the stolen item. 

Everyone else’s attention had been forthcoming, and all found the contents of Namjoon’s paper much more worthy of their time than the essay was. Hoseok took a second for his own inspection as his lips curved to a quiet grin. Before Namjoon got the chance to explain it, Hoseok cruised along to the front of the room to behold to the rest of you the picture etched onto the paper.

“It looks like we got an artist on our hands.” Though it was heavy with teasing, there had been a cloaked adoration in Hoseok’s word. It was almost as if he were showing Namjoon’s talent off through the guise of badgering. You hadn’t known the man before you in the same way you knew him as a child, yet you still picked up on this through the lilt of his voice. 

It dawned on you then; no matter how many years past and how the roads of change diverted you in life-altering directions, there would always be a piece of the inner child in you. Small and fainter than the drop of a pin, but still there. You saw the kind child that Hoseok used to be still rummaging around deep within, trying to find its way to the surface.

Hoseok took notice of your perceptive glare that had differed from the others; your eyes always whispered something more that made him equal parts elusive towards you and troubled that maybe you’d been able to crack open his once impenetrable veil. The crusted formation of his toughened skin soaked in your eyes, making it softer and easier to see through. 

“Is that-” Your eyes squinted to focus on the detailing of the drawing, “Is that me?” The simultaneous glares of everyone onto Namjoon had caused a slight perspiration to fog the lens of his glasses. 

It was unmistakable, the face and shadowing were a near perfect imitation of yours, but the sharpness of each line exuded a striking tenacity quite the opposite of the demure front you upheld. A tenacity that felt indicative of a desperation for something; to Namjoon, it was clear in your eyes there had been a facet in your life missing which left you feeling robbed. This tore through you like lightning, leaving you to discover the source of what had been robbed of you. 

“Looks like I was wrong. The sexual tension wasn’t between meathead and ___, but bookworm and ___.” The blush on your cheeks wasn’t nearly as red as Namjoon’s entire face. “My sincerest apologies, please tell us how you and ___ fell in love. I wanna know every little detail.” 

He’d considered various routes of excuses, such as the picture wasn’t of you, or that maybe he’d absentmindedly sketched your features simply because you were in the same room but there would be no avail in either. He knew Hoseok wouldn’t accept that, backing him against the wall of shared curiosity between the other four, so Namjoon resolved that telling the truth was far more becoming of him than protecting the last of his dignity.

“To be fair, I drew almost everyone in the room.” He slipped a few papers from underneath his notebook, accompanied by an exasperated sigh, all depicting his own interpretation on his peers sitting before him. Each one held some unfeigned element of you all, not of intention though also not of coincidence, that drained the multiple facades to ineffectiveness until they were completely impotent. Everyone had gathered around Namjoon’s desk looking for their own picture, and neither Jimin nor Seokjin were prepared to face theirs.

“Yo, this is sick!” Jimin had his portrait between his fingers, eyes scaling the led sketch that accentuated his more flattering features. It was pleasing in the beginning but as he examined with more scrutiny that feeling had been sullied into fear. There had been a glint of worry in the eyes of Jimin’s drawing that had his once excited smile fading into a humbled concern of the growing nuances this small detail suggested. Jimin was just glad everyone else was concentrated on their own portrait so no one would be able to see this unsettling vulnerability strewn into the drawing.

Seokjin’s was a rather accurate paradigm of his eccentric expressions and attitude. To his surprise, this was given a more favorable look to what most people thought were awkward tendencies; it had become the focal point of the portrait as if there had been some unadulterated goodness in his heart that Namjoon seemed to be the only one to see. And below that surface of the painting, there was a tired expression bleeding through the excited one. All at once, his burdens seemed lucid and bare within the positivity intended to circumvent those exact burdens.

“I didn’t know you drew.” Jimin broke the silence with what he believed to be a keen observation. Namjoon found it quite daunting of him to act like this had been some revelation that the rest of you shared. 

“Well, you never asked. In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation.” There had been an edge ruminating within the words Namjoon spoke that blew through the air and raised a few hairs on Jimin’s neck.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that we’ve been in art class together all year and my art has just now caught you by surprise.” The accusations in his tone shriveled Jimin into a corner of odd mortification for his ignorance of those who didn’t run in his circle. What made matters worse was there could be no proper objection to what Namjoon said, as he looked around to each of your faces trying to recount any memorable interaction with you all. It would be more fitting to call the rest of you strangers than acquaintances, let alone schoolmates, and least of all friends.

“I-” All words had been brushed to a place unworthy of being verbalized. 

“Meathead has better things to attend to than talking to us lowlifes, Namjoon.” Hoseok cut off Jimin’s already lost train of thought. 

You and the four others were now positioned in a circle, though some sitting on the floor and others finding a seat on top of the desks, you were all in this circle, together. The outside world had given you all the freedom to choose who you talked to, what kinds of people you associated with. Perhaps too much freedom that amounted in severed connections and missed opportunities to meet those who might serve as beneficial to your life. However in this room, in the crowded library which held that freedom from you all and granted you an even better gift of contingency, there had been an irresistible gravitation to seek entertainment through each other and learn what would have gone unlearned if not for the five different mishaps that led the five individuals to this room.

“I never said you were a lowlife!”

“Oh, but you were thinking it. Admit it.”

“Are you ever going to stop talking?”

“Are you ever going to stop using the entire bottle of Axe body spray or do you want us to lose our sense of smell?” Namjoon and Seokjin were more humored by this comment than you had been. Not because you didn’t find it funny, and it was all too true to foster any denial from Jimin and anyone in a ten foot radius of the boy, but because you kept busy wondering how the transition of the once sweet-tongued Hoseok had developed him to acquire such a thirst for belittlement. Or perhaps, why he had undergone this caustic transformation.

“Oh, like you’d ever be caught with me or Jimin at one of your parties with all your hoodlum friends.” You shot him this retort aspiring to sour his praise from the two other boys.

“You wanna party with me, sweetness? I think I can arrange that.” It was surprising, the sarcastic offer, and it suggested that he wasn't the one who initiated the drift of your friendship. That had struck some chord with you because you were certain it was all his doing, and subsequently cleared your tongue of a witty retort that would shut him up. He shifted from his crossed legged pose to dangle his legs from the end of the table that sat behind where your back had been. The tip of his foot had nudged against your shoulder blade in a tease to which you hastily swat his dark boot away.

“Fuck off, Hoseok.”

“You’re the one who brought it up! Don’t be shy, I’d love to see you get plastered with me and my, as you call it, hoodlum friends.” He had been a few more light kicks away from you landing your hand against the side of his cheek. To his luck, your resolve had kept your hands folded in your lap.

“In your dreams.”

“I’d party with you!” Seokjin’s idealism had interrupted your exchange with Hoseok as his eyes, now raked with astonishment, moved to the boy sitting diagonally from himself.

“I'm sorry, did you say something?” Hoseok asked. Jimin’s fingers pinched the bridge of his nose while you had surrendered to the foot still digging into your upper back to turn towards Seokjin as well.

“Um, just that I’d hang out with you.” A bit of regret had a stutter leaking through his words.

“I wouldn't want to interrupt your bible study with my hoodlum parties.” Thickly layered sarcasm was just another social cue Seokjin was wholesomely unaware of, or perhaps he’d caught onto Hoseok’s aim to insult but didn’t care about it as much as you and the others had.

“I’m not even religious and I can handle parties! I’ve been to lots of parties.” He had fooled no one in the library with that statement. Seokjin’s volume had tapered off towards the end, filling the quiet of his voice with even more regret. There was a force out of his control that had him spewing the first thoughts that popped into his head through an unfiltered mouth.

“Bud, you are the human embodiment of an unwanted boner. Stiff? Yes. Annoying? Check! Something no one wants at their parties let alone in their pants? One hundred percent.” The rest of you, but mostly Jimin, had given up on taking the high road. This was made obvious to Seokjin and Hoseok through the contagious laughter afflicting the three of you, and even Seokjin couldn’t resist the smile tugging at the ends of his lips.

“Hey Hoseok, come look.” Namjoon’s beckon was said seconds before a few more taps of his pencil against the paper. It wasn't in his nature to call out to someone like Hoseok, but the need for him to face his painting had given his words the momentum to be spoken.

His approach had been a bit too unsuspecting; he didn’t think to craft a strong guard for seeing his portrait that he’d been waiting for. That had been a grave mistake. 

Hoseok stared at the page as if he had seen a ghost. Though it was not one of an unfamiliar face, the apparition had been the mirror image of him. With the glide of his pencil, Namjoon haunted the man with the impenetrable veil to a state of uncharacteristic lethargy. You were sitting right behind him, giving you the perfect vantage point to witness the picture of a man being stripped from his conceit. In the drawing, he was crying. This had nearly gone unnoticed from the obstruction of your vision by his shoulder. 

Nearly, but it was the first detail that caught your eye. It was eerily familiar, like Deja-vu. Even if the others were to see it, they wouldn’t have distinguished how this had illustrated a portrayal awfully close to the innocence of a younger Hoseok, of which only you had been acquainted with, and he immediately crumpled it to a ball before you were able to collect any more of the details to your memory. 

“What kind of shit are you trying to pull, huh?” His demanding question stripped the lighthearted atmosphere from the room. The cuff of Namjoon’s turtleneck joined the shriveled paper in his hand as Hoseok yanked him to a weak stand and an even weaker defense. 

Jimin compensated for Namjoon’s frailty with a firm grasp on both of Hoseok’s arms followed by pulling him away to stop what could have been a brutal beating. The paper had fallen from Hoseok’s hand which went unseen because he was struggling to free himself from Jimin’s strong grasp, which was cultivated through his athleticism.

“Bro, calm down!”

“Hoseok, stop being like that!” Your voice had his scowl now directing towards you, still maintaining the weathered clutch on your heart. There was no ambiguity in fear. One thing often scarce in Hoseok's eyes, but you saw it then. You knew his anger wasn’t of shallow disliking to the picture, but what it exposed of him that he was trying so desperately to mask.

Seokjin had taken it upon himself to see what triggered the fumed reaction from Hoseok by picking up the paper and stretching out the wrinkles enough for proper inspection. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as to why Hoseok would waste his temper on something as trivial as a few fictitious tears. With one more thrust of Hoseok’s shoulder, he escaped Jimin’s distracted hold and swiped the paper from Seokjin before anyone else had the chance to see it.

Hoseok wished you hadn’t seen it, as well as the other boy. The troubling fear in the painting, and how it reflected that particular quality onto him, though in an entirely new light. He wished it were gentler, the reflection; he wished it didn’t cut deep enough to carry a brutalizing truth. He wished it wasn't a reflection at all, that instead it was a misjudgment or an oversight. And he had no idea you saw past what Seokjin saw as just penciled tears on a paper. His shields of iron and skin were in no position to stand against your eyes. 

They never were.

“What the fuck are you looking at, freak?” 

“Hobi, don’t call him that.”

And with the utterance of the long-abandoned nickname, Hobi, it had sparked a sequence of memories to rattle through Hoseok’s mind. He was collapsing into himself, into the memories of you and your voice possessing exclusivity to the nickname that held a sentiment of which he’d almost forgotten. The scenes had tranquilized his boiling fury to a light simmer. Such nostalgia had that effect on his mind, as well as expelling the surroundings of the library from each of his senses and replacing them with sweet, untouched memories. 

The fragrance of fresh linen and lemon crowded his nose, the same way it would when he would walk into the comfort of your home. Long ago, when his arrival required no invitation, but was an expected, weekly affair. And during tough times, it grew in frequency. 

His nose would grow to associate the smells of linen and lemon with your home of pure safety, then into the arms of your mother whose delight had gone almost unmatched when she saw him. However, it never surmounted the ripples of joy you would feel when you were greeted with his arrival, and you believed you would never have to miss that feeling. This scent sailed him into the tragically estranged feeling of safety, now a malicious craving for it to return pooled in his chest; missing the feeling of safety he once had with you almost hurt more than the actual absence of it.

Though he wondered if it truly was the nickname ‘Hobi’ that swept him in a melancholic reminiscence, or the stark smell of fresh linen and lemon invading his nose. He wondered why it was that no other person had ever made him remember such insignificant details of his past that were too good to hold onto. He wondered if it really were the nostalgic scents and nickname, rather than the person who they reminded him of; all the good, safe things that left with you and your budding friendship. 

The muffled voices of those around him were just enough to crack through the tent of reminiscence.

“It’s okay to cry, Hoseok. We all know you just act tough but inside you care about what others think just as much as the rest of us.” That comment had been restitution for Hoseok’s previous jab at Jimin’s body spray misusage.

“Yeah, I cry all the time! Just the other day-” Seokjin chimed with agility from the quickly fading regret.

“Please stop talking. Please don’t make me punch you.” Jimin’s interruptive threat crammed back the thoughtless anecdote about to spill from Seokjin’s mouth.

“Wait, I’d actually like to see that. Seokjin, keep going.” To Namjoon, the idea of a boyish fight between the two sounded far more entertaining than whatever story Jimin had stopped Seokjin from sharing. “Why are you so afraid of crying anyway?”

“Yeah why?”

“Tell us, Hoseok.”

Consecutive questions such as these held a violence equivalent to assault in Hoseok's mind. He’d been cornered, his eyes that once couldn't bear to rest on you before now seemed to plead with yours for a salve from these bombardments. And you couldn’t tell if you hated him or the fact that with one look, he had winded you tighter around his finger.

“Hoseok is just mad because he cried during Marley and Me.” You said, quick to scavenge for a decent distraction. Your memory of watching this movie with him about ten years ago had been far too riveting to keep to yourself. 

In fact, you rationed it positively selfish to hoard something as enthralling as Jung Hoseok crying real tears, not like the ones on Namjoon’s drawing. And part of you, part of him too, knew this was done in favor of Hoseok to misdirect the rest of them from the actual root of his anger. Exploring the soul-bearing secrets he kept hidden beneath his thick skin was a venture overwhelmed by terror and discomfort. You felt this through that look glazing his eyes, and figured the Marley and Me incident was a worthy sacrifice to protect something far too fragile to tread on. The four of you were now swimming through a lake of laughter as Hoseok tried to suppress his annoyance, and especially his gratefulness to what you had done for him.

It began then, the struggle. He found the constant maintenance of keeping his skin intact over his heart forfeiting to your offer of kindness. As much as he tried to press the skin back onto himself, it would shed almost a bit too easily.

“What kind of heartless monster doesn’t cry at a dying dog? You’re all insufferable.” Hoseok stood up, turning away from the belly-aching giggles still erupting from you and the other three, “And I was eight years old. And ___ cried harder.” His trudge to the back of the room, away from the commotion of the drawings, was gorged in a strange distrust.

There was the possibility he had spilled one too many secrets with his long, catatonic silence after the way you called him that name. How you all had established a comfort to open yourselves to a partially amiable conversation together and that Hoseok felt like he was the one standing on the outside looking in. 

Thus, leaving Hoseok feeling betrayed, distrustful, and fumbling over where to place the blame. 

With himself, the full-fledged outing of his feelings that were ripped from his chest by his own hand without the consent of his mind. It felt unlawful, like he was unwillingly breaking his own rules. Or perhaps blame lied with the people who took one look at his leather jacket and paid zero caution when shedding a few layers of the deceitful front of his skin. What was left was the outer shell, the once impenetrable veil lying on the floor, and a man without his protective skin, open and raw and sensitive, though scared of vulnerability above all else. 

The rest of you followed suit to return to your empty chairs, ignoring how the air was damp with a complex rigidity that none of you felt equipped to handle. No one, least of all you, had been sure of what to do with the discomfort that sterilized the air with nothing but the sounds of five syncopated breaths, longing for some release of this silent torture.

You were sure of two things. 

First, you hated Hoseok and he showed his reciprocation of that through the flipped middle finger when you braved a glance back to him. Second, you concluded that the reasons pillaring your hatred for him had changed within two of the eight hours in this library. It was astounding, torn between being impressive and pathetic the way he’d roped you back into the sentiment of the young, inseparable children residing in the darker caverns of your hearts. 

The younger you that handed him a tissue and a shoulder to lean on, a gift of nothing close to judgement, when you had seen him crying at that sad movie. The younger him that in many ways held a strapping debt over your head for rescuing you from numerous bullies throughout elementary and middle school and a long spell of loneliness from your lack of friends in your younger years. The two mellow hearted friends attached at the hip, and the heart, that skipped along the steps of life as if misery and loneliness were nightmares lived out by those who didn’t have a person like Hoseok in their lives. They were locked away for quite some time and remained that way due to the abundance of freedom that this library had suspended. 

Because in the library, you couldn't run or hide.

Hoseok was sure of one thing, and one thing only. It was far clearer than the tainted air of the library along with the fogged arena of the outside world, and brighter than the way your eyes still outshined the shadow of his own pain; the irrefutability was beyond the depths of the ocean. 

His heart had been broken, pulverized to a dust, for far too long and it was because of how dearly he missed you and the safety that accompanied you. 

If you looked closely, you could see past his skin to his bones and all the secrets and scars carved in them.

 10:00 - 12:00

Timing. What you thought was an incarnation of the devil itself, seemed to torture you through today like it had a personal agenda against you. The five students and their endurance of boredom had been eroded from the minutes that felt like hours and the confiscated cell phones leaving you all to the devices of screenless misery. 

The silence continued stalking the air, still just as heavy and nuanced as before. You wondered why the quiet didn’t feel all that quiet. In turn, it was nothing less than an earthy rumble at this point, like the ground was ready to shake and knock every book from the shelves around you. Every time your eyes would meet with another one of your peers, they’d be instantly veered with a quick glance towards the ceiling or down at the blank papers sitting on the desks before them. Hoseok fell asleep long before you had the chance to read the hints of his mind that were lightly seasoned in his eyes, that seemed to have a way of avoiding you today. 

Still without some of his skin, and now the loss of his dignity joined. Because of that, he was tired and needed to sleep. It had more or less been Hoseok’s melodramatic efforts to recoup for the loss that put him in a moped mood; you not being in his life was the little secret that fringed his heart far worse than Namjoon’s portrait.

Maybe if you would have let him know that yours and the others’ dignities had been left at the broken door of the library then he wouldn’t be as mortified. At the time, you didn’t feel like it had been your job to do so which was retrospectively an all too uncompassionate choice. A bad choice. Far worse than the ones you made to lead you to detention.

Seokjin and Jimin had been tossing crumpled pieces of binder paper and shooting them in the trash can with high spirits, the heavy boredom of detention being cut through by their makeshift basketball game.

“That's fifteen.” A gloat followed Jimin’s victorious fist shaking but soon to be shut down by Namjoon.

“No, that was fourteen.” He held the paper where two sets of tallies were marked side by side under the initials J and S.

“What? I was counting too and that was fifteen!”

“Ha! Read it and weep.” Seokjin teased.

“Jin, shut up! You've made like three.”

Namjoon checked the paper and confirmed Jimin’s rebuttal with a thumbs up. Your resting head on the palm of your hand shook with laughter at the scowl plastered across the boy's face, which had made a habit of blushing a bright red in regret of his comments. 

Seokjin said nothing to this, instead proceeded to crumple four more pieces of paper now encased in his hand.

“Well now it's gonna be seven.” He had made this claim a bit too soon after the sling of his arm amounted to all four paper balls bouncing off the rim of the trash can and scattering onto the floor. Having all three of you laugh broke the fourth boy’s slumber, but he went about it calm. Hoseok’s eyes opened, quiet and slow, and none of you noticed he had regained his consciousness.

Dickson’s return had hushed the last bit of laughter along with the surprising enjoyment circulating through the third hour of detention. This time, Dickson was mindful of your collective vendetta against him which was why he had been armored with even more aggression than the last time. The mix of you four riding off the delights of playing with the little entertainment made available and Dickson’s heavily loaded disdain would make for quite a reactive outcome. There had been a lewd displeasure of finding littered papers along the floor adding to his frustration.

“Which one of you imbeciles were tossing around paper balls when you should have been writing your essays?” The unresponsive silence pushed him over the edge of annoyance, “Well?” 

His earth-shattering holler had fully awoken Hoseok who joined the unconcerned teens in this noiseless stare off. A yell or a whisper wouldn’t have made a difference by the means of intimidation since none of you could take seriously a man who missed the step of re-zipping his fly after going to the bathroom. The five of you were urged to point it out, though none of you felt the need to bury him even lower in all of your regards; he did that quite adequately and consistently on his own.

“We all just really want to do well on our essays! What you call paper balls were the triumphant efforts of remorseful students, sir.” Any resistance to Hoseok’s humorous antagonizations towards Dickson were depleted by the second round of his arrival. Namjoon demonstrated his agreeance with a snide head nod joined by Jimin who also nodded some proof to Hoseok’s lie.

“Really? Is that true, Seokjin?” 

“Yes, we all just want to better ourselves, sir.” Singling the evidently weakest willed student did not go over the way Dickson had hoped. He stood by Hoseok’s lie even if he couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with Dickson. There had been some unknown element of surprise that had Seokjin just a few steps ahead of Dickson and a few steps behind the rest of you. Still, he was far ahead of Dickson, whose temper seemed to be strained.

“What about you ___, any thoughts?” He asked you this as if there was any evidence for his disbelief. And he was right of course, to be disbelieving, but the derogation of his voice did render his correct assumptions as nothing short of foolish dictatorship. Again, there was space. It was the five of you, a dividing space, and then Dickson. 

Space is meant to be empty, or it is not space at all, and Dickson’s unwelcomed invasion into it had made him the target of five unrelenting students.

“My English teacher says writing multiple drafts before turning in the final product is a clear-cut way to do well on essays.” Your eyes weren't level with his. They had been glancing back and forth from the desk to the unzipped fly of his pants that were now unfortunately a foot too close in your peripherals. Provided you had nothing to lose, maybe another one of your Saturdays, but even that seemed to be worth pointing the zip, or lack thereof, of his pants. “Sir, your fly is down.”

He hastily corrected this and his authority had been running too thin from the jabs sent his way, diluting any call to action he made into a watered down whine. It wasn't enough to spread over himself or each of you, making his second retreat taking place faster than the one before. On his way out, he tossed three out of four of the papers in the trash and kept one to inspect. There was no draft of an essay written on the paper, and for once he was right and it felt awful. 

You would have felt bad, but no one could empathize with his fatal arrogance.

“You kids are a piece of work. I don't get paid enough for this shit. You better be done with these essays by the end or I swear.” And he didn’t finish whatever he was about to say before walking out of the library, hurried and belittled. Jimin was, of course, the first one to burst through the silence with giggles and the sound had doubled, tripled, and so on until all of you had been absorbed in a fit of laughter. Even Hoseok released a smirky chuckle, and felt attuned with you, Namjoon, Seokjin, and Jimin. 

For lack of skin, one could assume. Or maybe he genuinely liked the way he felt around you and those who were on this team that was too diverse to give a definite label.

“___, I can’t believe you actually said it. God, I was going to but I thought he would have cried.” Jimin pushed out this appraisal through gasping for air. 

“I couldn’t help it. It was right in front of my face! I think I have to go wash my eyes out.” You were rubbing your temples to massage away the increasing disgust upon picturing it.

“If anything, I thought Seokjin would’ve been the one to do it.” Namjoon said, keeping busy with another illustration.

“Nah, ___ handled that perfectly.” Jimin managed to level his breath by now.

“I wonder if your bite is as big as your bark.” Hoseok said, just to get another one of those annoyed glares, which seemed to be the only way he knew how to get your attention now. His affluence of communicating, especially to you, has been sloping off to quite elementary levels. Still, he did what he could.

“You wanna find out?” Your voice insinuating you wouldn't falter to his bereavements. Your eyes looked back to the smirk of satisfaction painted over his face, boiling a bit of frustration in your chest. Mostly, frustration with yourself for finding your eyes trailing along the length of his admittedly handsome face. Frustrated that, no matter how insufferable he was, you were undeniably attracted to him which made you struggle to suppress your own smile.

“Guys, look.” Namjoon held up a stick figure sketch of Dickson. It wasn’t nearly eligible to be considered a sophisticated piece or technically accurate to Dickson’s appearance. Though the elementary style of it had a stronger sense of accuracy than any proper portrait of Dickson would have. The grimace of the stick-figured Dickson and the detailed pants that included a dropped fly upstaged whatever ornate cross-hatched or contoured lines that had been applied to the four of your drawings. 

“You have a talent, you gotta give me some lessons sometime.” It felt like Jimin meant more of this. Perhaps he had been referring to what Namjoon had said before. As if he were realizing his range of friends left Jimin destitute in the terms of social circles and in some way, Namjoon had been entirely unique from anyone he’d ever met. He didn’t want to be another cart in a train of unexpanded minds due to a case of the status quo. 

Namjoon was alluring, to put it simply. Outside of his long undisturbed comfort zone.

“Well, you haven’t seen my art skills. I like to call myself the Van Gogh of our high school.” Seokjin did nothing but embarrass himself, but it had a normalcy you and the rest had grown used to. Now it was not just expected of him but looked forward to. Things were changing before the eyes of the five different faces with five different stories. Changing, yet at the same time, feeling as if things had been returning.

“Yeah, all you have to do now is cut off your ear!” Namjoon said sarcastically.

More laughter, more good feelings poured into the library that once felt nothing more than a temporary, barren jail cell and a source of guilt and boredom. It was full now. Full of something much warmer than before. 

You were looking at Hoseok, now with a little less hatred. Seeing him smiling, laughing even, had softened your hatred to something else. It was still painful, and just as hard to identify as that particular quality of his. Whatever blame you directed towards him hadn’t been as hampering as this new feeling you got when you looked at him. He felt your gaze, louder than the chime of a bell, and wondered if he had shed enough skin yet to look back at you. To be filled with fresh linen and lemon and all the pieces of safety latched onto the exchange of glances that were not of the seniors in high school, but the childhood friends that long ago shared one heart.

Sadly, he didn't look to you, not yet. Not when he felt unready and unaccustomed to the ripe, underlying skin covering him now. He couldn't be brave enough to risk disappointing you with how his gaze might not have measured up to how sorry he felt for being the loose cannon in your life.

 You looked at the clock that read it was twenty-two minutes until the third hour of detention. Watching time tick by had proven to slow it nearly to a full stop, so you took to the sights displayed by the library window. The fog was still heavy, trading the perimeter of the parking lot with thick invisibility. Somehow, you had acclimated to the unseen sectors of what was within the fog. You couldn’t see through it, all you could truly see was fog, but that was not as pronounced as what you felt and what you knew. There was, without a doubt, something beyond the fog; that was what you knew. And what you felt was consoled in knowing there was surely something, anything beyond the fog, thus leading your eyes to Hoseok, again. You looked at him, right at his face, at his thin skin, and knew there was something beyond the fog.

“Stop leaning against the table, you’re gonna knock it down.” Namjoon had been referring to the tower of dusty books gone unread for a considerable amount of time for anyone, even the librarian, to notice they were missing. 

What, you wondered, could be more captivating than the mysteries hidden between the fog? To Jimin, Namjoon, and Seokjin, the antics of stacking books was that and more. There were about ten, maybe thirteen books piling taller than Namjoon. Though it had the advantage of resting on the already raised table, it was still admittedly impressive since Namjoon was on the taller side. Jimin stood on the table with arms flattened and extended to steady his balance and to still his body from any shaking that could derail their handy work. 

“Yeah, Jin, stop leaning.” What Hoseok said was clean of genuine concern, made clear from how he’d bumped the table with his knee causing the pile to teeter side to side, yet not enough to actually knock it down. The other three boys held their hands toward the books as if the gesture would have actually saved it from toppling over.

“___, come over and help us steady the books! Hurry!” Seokjin’s request had you rushing over try and balance the stack wobbling nearly to a complete collapse.

“Do you guys wanna do something actually fun?”

If not for the almost bewitching inflection of Hoseok’s question, you would have maintained focus on keeping these towering books from falling. Though, he spoke with an implication that he possessed something that would whisk you away from boredom and you were still, a bit less unapologetically, reeled tight around his finger. So, your attention was spent on Hoseok until there was no more. Same with the others. All four eyes tossing an unrestrained marvel in place of a verbal answer to his question. The vigilant silence was enough to have Hoseok’s hand digging in the pocket of his leather jacket and pulling out a neatly rolled joint.

“No fucking way, we can’t do that in here… Right?” Although he wanted to sound doubtful, repulsed by the stick of weed between Hoseok's fingers, the question threaded along the end of Jimin’s doubt had a faint enthusiasm.

“Dickson’s stupid. We can just tell him it was a skunk.” 

“I think we should really evaluate our actions before we do them.” By we, he really meant Hoseok. Seokjin tried to act in place of a sort of parental guidance, though he knew now how unlikely his influence would take effect.

“You’re right. Let’s see.” He paused and inspected the joint pinched between his fingers, “I’m bored, in fact, we’re all bored. I have weed, I want to get high, being high is fun. My evaluation says we should definitely get high.” Mocking the frail advice from Seokjin, Hoseok evaded the logic behind what the other boy had presented with yet another sarcastic remark. No one else argued, even those who were strongly opposed to drug usage, because there would clearly be no avail in discouraging Hoseok. Not to mention, deep down, all your inexperienced hearts had a slight curiosity for the coveted thing in Hoseok’s hand. 

“That’s hardly an adequate evaluation, Hoseok.” Namjoon said, though he was already crawling with a rising inclination since a much less favorable boredom would have tormented him if he declined the offer. Jimin, Seokjin, and Namjoon drove through the traffic of worries and doubts and arrived at the destination where Hoseok was impatiently waiting.

“Fine, then I guess I’ll just enjoy this by myself then.”

“Wait! I’ll- um, I’ll go.” Jimin said and it was enough for Namjoon and Seokjin to admit defeat to their desires. Football season had not begun yet, neither the periodic drug tests, and there was a growing stress looming over them all that could be displaced by getting high.

The only one still fraught with a neurotic hesitation and clinging opposition that pushed back from the cohorts all in agreement was you. Marijuana had always deterred your fascination, even though you knew it was on the safer side of most drugs, and your virgin lungs feared it in the same way your stomach feared alcohol and your heart once feared Hoseok’s return in it. However, Hoseok had slithered his way back into your life and that wasn’t scary in the slightest. It was exciting and comforting, even, to be graced with his return and it made you question what else you had been missing out on.

“Alright. Dickson usually falls asleep around now because he gets tired after eating lunch. God, I hate that I know that. Anyway, this gives us the chance to sneak out to the second-floor bathrooms where there aren’t any fire detectors.” 

The timing of his plan mapped out a perfect escape, however timing was never one to do you any favors. 

As the others snuck past the ajar door to Dickson’s office, inside the vice principal was sure enough sound asleep, you remained in the library and watched the others, one by one, throw all caution to the wind. Hoseok’s stalled exit from the room was ushering you to a state of indecisive pacing. It was clear he was waiting for you, though Namjoon’s, Jimin’s, and Seokjin’s company would satisfy the quota for a proper smoking circle. 

“You don’t have to come if you don't want to. The offer still stands either way.” He spoke tentatively and his eyes were habitually resting on anything, your hands, your chin, your lips, the floor, and even the fogged window, but not your eyes. He could resist the magnetism of your eyes because he felt like he needed to, but surrendered to the way his feet carried him a few steps closer to you. Enough steps to work a fast beating into your heart. 

“I’m not going to pressure you. I wouldn’t do that, you know?” 

You knew he meant this genuinely. The only thing thus far that came out of his mouth without the stain of sarcasm. It was because of how genuine he sounded that made the rattle between your bones far more feverish than the shallow, meaningless jabs he’d made to and about you during today.

Why does it hurt when you talk softly? Why does what should feel like soft fleece burn like the friction of gravel against my skin? 

You branded these questions in the eyes unseen by Hoseok. It aches to know that you hated him all this time, and you just now realized his soft spoken voice had been reigned by you. Softly, like the inner child begging to be liberated from Hoseok’s protective skin. Softly, like when he said he wouldn’t do that to you, it came from a place in his heart ten years in the making and reserved wholly by you.

“I just…” His steps hushed you. The proximity of his body to yours had placed you in the eye of the hurricane, where it was quiet and calm and even softer than his voice. He radiated an energy that reminded you of something strong that was tired of being strong and on the verge of withering away; like a tall, old oak tree. Mighty, beaten down from the weather, and readying to lay in its tomb. 

You always were able to admit he was attractive. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. The delicious sharpness of his facial features made for quite a face to look at. He was damn near perfect. But when did he become so beautiful? How did his sharp features soften to become delicate and lovely? The duality of this man was flexible, ranging from rough edges to rounded, gentle surfaces.

You believed his approach was to lead his quiet, soft voice to your ears because one had to be close - very close - for another to hear such a gentle tone. But he wouldn’t have achieved such closeness if it weren’t for the fortitude of longing and the smell of fresh linen and lemon that emigrated from you. Nor the gentleness of his voice could have been procured if the other three were still here. When it was just you, there was no reason to be anything but honest and gentle and close. Resistance was now undone by being with you and the timing of it all. It was peeling away more of Hoseok’s skin down to the bone and he allowed you to do this. Finding a place, the library, with someone, you, filled the hollow chasm of his chest with an oasis one could only classify as safety.

I want you to stay here with me. 

Wherever that thought surfaced from, whether it be the spirit of a younger you or the sentiment of the current you, it was too real to keep from choking back a few tears.

“___, I-” Before the words of an unbarred tongue expressed how he wanted to admit he missed you and lay out every reason for pushing you away in order to annul all the pain he caused both you and himself, Seokjin had peaked his head through the door quite similarly to the frantic way he previously exited it.

“Hey, are you guys coming or what?” His urgent whisper had melted the overwhelming feelings being exchanged through silent pauses and simultaneously reconstructed the wall that severed your friendship, or whatever you had with Hoseok. 

“___, you’re not coming?” Seokjin sounded friendly in his disappointment. If it weren't for the fact that what he was referring to was smoking pot then you would have joined simply because his tone had flipped into a sweet, inviting plea.

“No, sorry. I think I’m gonna hang back. Someone’s gotta keep watch for Dickson.” Hoseok exhaled with relief that you didn’t come. He didn’t want you to feel pressured and at least he could accomplish doing that.

The skin retraced its steps back onto Hoseok. And when you looked out the window, for you didn’t want to watch Hoseok leave you again, the fog was impervious. The tepid steps of his departure sounded similar to that of a ticking clock. Each tap moved time forward and Hoseok away from you.

When you looked back to the emptiness of the library, you wished you could follow him. It was too difficult. Not the walking itself, and joining them had only been one staircase away, but the following aspect of it. To follow him, to chase the man that left you like he did years ago, like a decomposed afterthought, was difficult because you feared to be met with dry rejection. You’d rather not venture off into the fog, and stay unharmed in the clearings.

 Hoseok should have, in the wise words of Seokjin, evaluated his actions before making any official commitments to them. His constant neglect of this crucial step had led him into quite disturbing situations, including this one.

It was a few minutes after the joint had been smoked to the stub of the filter. Hoseok tossed it in the toilet of the large stall they occupied. For the most part, the boys were silent and enjoying their highs. And Hoseok was silent as well, but his thoughts were under completely different circumstances. They were blaring around in his head with a sharp ringing.

The memory of you, his awareness of missing you, seeing you again, and finding that his ability to look into your eyes long expired had been a taxing precursor to getting high. It was a first to have his emotions heightened taller than a mountain because of his intoxication; most of the time it numbed his emotions and the world around him. Though, there is a first for everything and Hoseok was clamming up from all the guilt, loneliness, and longing ensued by the Indica making its way to his brain.

They were all talking by now, describing how they felt or if they were feeling any buzz at all. Namjoon was the first to be hit with a wave of high and he unceremoniously stood up to wash his hands because he insisted that he could ‘feel the germs crawling on his hands.’

Jimin and Seokjin were the next victims of the unspared joint. Jimin had been repeating the word “woah” until it was devoid of all meaning. 

Hoseok slipped under the spell last, but his high wasn't fermenting in the same light-hearted ways as the other boys’ highs. His harnessed a colossal weight that was an ounce away from being too much, from sending him into a fight or flight reaction. The stressor could only be the pent-up emotions that were billowing from his chest so wildly that there was no chance to inhibit or ignore it. Hoseok was not as high as the others, but high enough to send his dignity into the unreachable air. Soon, he couldn't tell if the discomfort in his skin was because of his high or his new discernment for this stifling barrier. 

The depth of this emotional hole was deeper than that of a dried well, and had left Hoseok to be somewhat of a benign lump to the conversation at hand.

“Guys, I think I’m peeing. I feel like I’m peeing. Am I peeing my pants right now?” Seokjin rose to a panicked stance, spinning and bending to check if there was any wetness seeping down the pant of his leg. Namjoon, who was still washing his hands, and Jimin had fallen into a debilitating laughter. Though even in a state of sobriety it would have perpetuated a hearty laugh, their elevated reactions were that of the high they were still riding, and based on Hoseok’s observations, wouldn’t be coming down from anytime soon. 

“Holy shit. Dude, just pee! we are literally surrounded by toilets.” It was a difficult task, but Jimin managed to squeak this out between his giggles. 

“I can't pee in front of you all! I get… I get pee shy.” They all noted, Seokjin was an exemplary companion to get high with. 

If Hoseok weren't entrapped in his thoughts of you, of fresh linen and lemon that seemed to be far more pungent than the remnants of weed wafting in the bathroom air, he would have tallied Seokjin as one of his go to smoking partners. Nothing deemed lucrative to distract him from what really mattered to him: 

Fresh linen and lemon and you, and his damn skin.

“You guys may make fun of me for my axe body spray but at least it’ll cover the weed smell.” Jimin gloated, hunchbacked and head lowered to check if the scent of weed clung to his clothes or hair.

“We’ve been in a closed room for like twenty minutes. Obviously, you’re not gonna smell the weed. ___’s probably gonna tell us that we smell like a walking dispensary.” Namjoon said with a chuckle. 

“Now you smell like Axe body spray and weed.” Seokjin hadn’t stopped patting down the inseam on his pants to make sure nothing was inordinately wet while throwing in an additional jab.

“We should be heading back soon.” The faucet finally shut upon hearing Hoseok’s suggestion. “You three go ahead first, I’ll hang back so Dickson doesn’t catch me with you all. God knows he would be way angrier to see me walking around with you three.” 

Namjoon dried his hands and nodded with red glazed eyes covered by partially deflated eyelids. Jimin stood up and yawned from the weed-induced drowse blanketing his own eyes and Seokjin’s eyes still scaled the expanse of his pant leg with hulking paranoia. 

In a line, they left the bathroom to house no one but Hoseok, the pungency of weed, and his memories. In Hoseok’s eyes, they were blindsided by one thing and one thing only.

 Ten years ago…

White faded to grey in the clouds hanging above your inattentive eyes. The sandbox with worn plastic digging tools and a red bucket was the only part of the world that mattered to you. Soon, everything else blurred into nothing. You liked the sandbox not for the majesty of castle building or the sandy canvas to carve the visions in your young, creative mind with the swipe of a finger, but because of its smallness and how there was no room for others to play in it if you were in it. That was undoubtedly a strange reason to enjoy a sandbox, especially since youth usually carried along with it a craving to meet the first friend you could find and stick with them through the trials and tribulations of elementary school. You were harder to please in the sphere of friendship, leaving you to take to the sandbox where there breached no worries of finding a companion. 

Your finicky little heart made you a feeble target for young, boyish bullies. The pleasure of picking on the loner of the grade often satisfied little boys of their brutish desires. You’d always been a bit docile, and perhaps too much for your own good. There was no need to fight back and usually their torments were no more damaging than paper cuts that would heal in less than one or two days.

Today, however, you were proud of the sand replica of the Andes Mountains, which was quite accurate in your own opinion. Having it grinded down to nothing, to a footprint of a bully’s unforgiving torture was the last straw. 

“What are you gonna do about it, loner?” One boy asked.

“Ha ha, good one!” The others cheered on his infantile belittlement.

You didn’t think words sanctioned a fitting reprimand for their actions which led you to throwing a handful of sand, aimed at their face. It wasn’t enough to do any physical damage, but it had been more than enough to elicit anger and fill the opened-mouthed laughs of the three other boys with the specks of dirt and other fine sediments. One boy cupped a clump of sand around a medium-sized rock and pelted your arm with it.

Hoseok, who had been sitting a few yards away, turned to see where the pained yelp originated. When his eyes laid on you and the way you had been rubbing a rock-shaped red mark on your left arm, he felt the muscles in his legs moving him before his brain told him to help you. Quite heroically, he leapt between the blockade of three boys and you, fists clenched and eyes narrowing to push the little roughness he had in his soft facial features against them.

“Leave. Go pick on someone else.” Hoseok warned with an edge that had two of the three boys tutting their heads down in shame.

“Oh yeah? What are you, ___’s boyfriend?” 

“I’m the guy who’s gonna beat you up if you don’t leave.” It had been the conviction in his voice that held all the power. The voice of an angel to you, and to them, the voice that made picking on the defenseless loner not worth the trouble. They all retreated to kick around dirt at each other giving Hoseok the chance to turn around and check your arm’s injury.

“Are you okay?” He sat down next to you, and to your surprise, there was just enough room for him in this tiny sandbox. 

“Yeah, it’s just a bruise. It’ll go away.”

“I’m sorry about those guys… I- I think they’re dumb jerks.” This little slight towards them was quite modest in comparison to how Hoseok spoke in his later years. It wasn’t intended to insult the bullies necessarily, but to show he was on your side. That you didn’t have to play in the sandbox alone anymore if he was lucky enough for your picky taste in friends to acquire a bias towards him

“Yeah, major jerks. They ruined my Andes Mountains.” You were shoving around some sand to piece together the broken sculpture.

“Why the Andes Mountains?”

“I don’t know. They’re cool! They’re super tall, have you seen them?” In some way, it wasn’t the mountains that were feeding your excitement and the discussion, though short, was much longer than anything you experienced before Hoseok. Not only did you ward off the few people that stumbled into your sandbox, but many kids began avoiding you altogether. 

“No, but I’ve seen pictures of other mountains.”

“I’ve seen them! They’re big and rocky and they go alllllll the way up to the sky!” Your arms shot up to mimic the mammoth Andes mountains. 

“I’ve never seen a mountain like that but I’ve seen a volcano.”

“Woah! Where?”

“It was on some beach. I don’t really remember.”

“You’ve been to the beach? I’ve always wanted to go! The beach is like one giant sandbox.” Hoseok chuckled at your fascination. If he could travel back in time, he would have befriended you long ago so you wouldn’t have to wish to go to the beach. You would have already been there - with him.

“It’s so fun! I found a jellyfish on the shore and threw it back into the ocean and it didn’t even sting me!” Now you had been laughing at his whimsical personality. 

“You’re weird… I like you.”

“Could I- Could I help you?” Hoseok asked this, already preparing himself to an untimely demise of his efforts to befriend you. 

You paused. Your empty arena of friends had gained a candidate well-suited for your liking. Even as a child, you knew the trope of ‘boys who bully you only do so because they have a crush on you’ was just a way to excuse the brazen attitudes of entitled little boys. Hoseok wasn’t like any of those boys. He was kind, he spoke gently when he asked to play with you. He fit into the sandbox with you and you didn’t mind the company. 

The answer was clear.

“Yeah sure. Grab a shovel!” You didn’t bother looking at him, though his eyes were immovable from you. 

“If you wet the sand it sticks together better.” He said, attempting to prove himself an asset to your sand mountain construction.

“I never thought about that. Thank you.” This piece of advice was the first of many gifts this boy would give to you. 

One could assume the rapid advancement of your affection towards him could be due to how easy it was for younger children to build attachments with one another. However, that could not single-handedly explain the way you already felt close to him and how when he wasn’t in the sandbox with you, the vast space was not comforting as it once was. Not in the slightest. It could not explain how you and him never fought over petty things such as sharing the red bucket or whose sandcastle was better. He, without fail, insisted yours was always best. How your fondness of him only grew whenever he handled you in a much more tender way than he handled the bullies, no longer coming around to throw rocks and mean words at you.

“Wanna have a playdate?” You proposed in an uncharacteristic lapse of valor. 

“Um…” The hesitance wasn't because he was opposed in the slightest to this offer, but the little details of his life that often got in the way of building normal relationships, “Yeah.”

“Yay! I just have to ask my mommy first. She will probably want to meet your parents.” You said while molding the sand into a pointed mound.

“I don’t…” He stilled his fingers against the dampened sand, hoping it would calm the fast pace of his heart. “I don’t have parents. I’m a foster kid.”

You didn’t give an immediate response, instead turning your attention over to the boy who was unable to move from mortification. It confused you that he felt ashamed of this, your young, well-intentioned mind unaware of the negative implications and stigmas that surrounded being in the foster system. You simply smiled.

“Well, that's ok! Mommy will just be happy I’m finally having a playdate.” You said, shearing away the depth to this aspect of Hoseok. He was surprised, and also comforted in the fact that him being a foster child was no bigger of a deal than the color of his hair or the size of his shoes. As if this trait of his was something normal. He felt normal with you, and his inexperienced heart couldn’t decorate the thankfulness he felt with the right words.

“I’m Hoseok, by the way.”

“I’m ___.”

And the rest was history.

With him, the world didn’t matter. The end of recess didn’t stalk your mind. The threat of mean boys had become unthreatening. The lonesome life that you were comfortable with now felt like pins and needles against your body. The idea of friendship that once felt like pins and needles was comfortable, with Hoseok. To think, you had been fooling yourself into believing you were okay with being lonely and that you would have never come to terms with the emotional poverty that being alone subjected you to if it weren’t for him. Because with him, you believed the byword adults would regularly preach ‘sharing is caring’. You nursed a considerable affection towards Hoseok to care for him and had now realized you had far too much space in your sandbox to not share it with him.

“Thank you for being my friend.” You said, in the wake of all the goodness of friendship he had introduced you to.

In sixth grade you weren’t worried about a new school or leeching onto a clique. The burden of belonging didn’t barge in on your life like it had most of your peers. You had the privilege of being best friends with Hoseok. He told you on the day of your fifth-grade promotion that middle school wasn’t so scary, not when he had you. There was nothing for you to do but trust in him, not because you had to, but because you wanted to and because you knew he would always be honest with you.

It was you, Hoseok, and the little sandbox against the world… until it was not.

Unlike the end of elementary school, the end of middle school was met with no such promises of the kindling allegiance Hoseok used to assure you of. You assumed it was because his consistency in your life now went without being said. However, you learned this was a terribly incorrect assessment.

The start of high school was when everything changed. The seasons cycled through right before your eyes, and you weren’t ready for the new semester of school that Autumn brought. What you had been even more unready for was the gradual disappearance of Hoseok from your life. When he’d been drawn to certain promiscuities and stopped coming over for the weekly visits and soon forgot the comfort of fresh linen and lemon. You wanted to ask him, or rather, plead that he wouldn’t drift. The only certainty in your life was becoming more and more unseen and, in his place, an evasive fog to renounce him from your vision altogether. There was nothing for you to do but let him go, not because you wanted to, but because you had to.

Because he stopped looking at you and forced a cold divide between you two without negotiation.

Eventually, you made friends though not nearly of the same caliber as Hoseok. Most of your connections felt shallow and a bit forced and you knew there was no way in hell you would have let them into the sandbox with you if you were a kid again. Not in the way you let Hoseok; you hated living with that knowledge.

It was horribly painful the way he tore the plant of his body from your life. He’d buried the seeds and began to fertilize your world with companionship and intimacy. He grew with every step that you grew, however the bud of your friendship hadn’t the chance to blossom before he ripped out every root tangled within the inner workings of your life.

He had abandoned you in the dark night of doubt and confusion and aloneness. Half of your broken heart was somewhat glad he didn’t tell you why he had done this because it would have been devastating to find out he simply didn’t like being around you anymore. That horrific thought that the need for you to be in his life grown to a rusted nonessential was second to aloneness in being the worst thing he left you with. The other half of your heart was dedicated to wishing he would walk into your life again.

Why would he do that to you? 

And more importantly, how could he do that to you? He knew there were no two things more fitting for each other than the two of you. So how could he dispose of the one thing that meant everything to you and leave it to rot in the soil with the rest of the broken, decaying promises? 

There was a reason, and he forbade himself from telling you. He was so ashamed of his bones that he decided to cover every fond memory and every scar that turned his skeleton textured with permanent divots with endless layers of skin.

The half of your heart that longed for him eventually merged with the other half that felt nothing but complete abandonment. The sandbox was of single occupancy once again. You hated him for that.

 Present day

Hoseok’s eyes were full. Not of bloodshot vessels along the whites of the eye and not of worry that Dickson would catch them. They were full, almost outweighing the irises, with none other than melancholy and tears. Real, wet tears. He could blink away the tears and wipe them on the sleeve of his flannel, but he couldn't disengage the melancholy, the utter sadness from infecting his eyes. 

Looking up at the tiled walls of the bathroom, there waxed a bitter disgust in his chest for going so long, far too many years, looking at anything that wasn't your eyes. His labored efforts to keep away from you, not even allowing himself the option to explain the purge of you from his life, was bitter. Disgusting. It filled him with more guilty tears. 

He wasn’t crying for himself or the pressing torture he had endured for the majority of his life. He was crying for you. He was crying for the fact that he couldn’t tell you all the reasons he’d left you and tarnished the purity of your smooth skin. He was crying for hurting you, he was not oblivious to it. 

Yes, he was crying. The portrait held a valid hypothesis of the future. An older Hoseok, crying for fear of losing you. For you.

He waited a few minutes longer, giving enough time to account for any sudden stops or distractions that might have been littered in the path of the other’s transfer back to the library. Hoseok stood, checking the mirror that the tears were dried, and the melancholy was clouded with a redeeming fog, and then made his way back to the library.

No one, not you, not even the thick skinned Hoseok could be immune to the commands of timing. It was unavoidable, the misfortune that timing would always sweep over the lives of you and Hoseok. Dickson was second to timing on being an unavoidable force of annoyance and persecution. Walking down the extensive, closed hallway gave Hoseok no possible divergent path to escape the hunt that Dickson seemed to be on. 

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here? I’m disappointed to say I’m not surprised to see you breaking the one rule I enforced.” The completely irrational and dictatorial rule that he had been referring to, of course, had Hoseok’s rejection of it written all over the way he strolled through the halls. 

Any number of excuses would have cushioned the blow of Dickson’s repercussive actions about to be set in a meticulous line. He could have said he honestly needed to relieve himself or that he was feeling nauseous and needed some air and a quick lap around the halls. But he didn’t want to make excuses for himself. 

Hoseok had been parading around this Saturday as if he had enough skin to protect him against the external forces of you, Dickson, even the other three boys. He was tired, reaching the apex of a tall cliff, climbing and climbing to what seemed like an abstracted end without the comfort of a hand to hold or a shoulder to lean on during this tiresome journey. And now, he just wanted to let his body fall down the agglomeration of his own barricades.

“I was smoking weed in the bathroom.” His defeat from trying and his apathy towards Dickson’s belligerent blows left him on the bottom of the cliff. There was no use in standing, in climbing again. No use but to fall and wait for the day to end.

Dickson took this vulnerability to his advantage. He was all too quick and far too eager to sink his teeth into the thin skin on Hoseok. As he was drinking the juices of all the power he felt entitled to, his thirst grew morbid, thinking the only way to quench it was to swallow every last drop of dignity from Hoseok’s body.

“You, Hoseok. You act like you’re top dog. You do whatever you want, whenever you want, and what does that leave you with? You’re never going to be satisfied. You’re gonna end up empty and broken just like the family you never had.” This was beyond crossing the line. Dickson had stomped over it, pummeled it into mush, spit his dirty hatred in it, and perverted every aspect of Hoseok’s life that had once been latched safely behind the line. “No wonder you’re such a troublemaker. You’re desperate for any sort of attention or authority because you never had the father figure in your life to set you straight. And even if you did, even if the world gave you every privilege and shortcut to living a better life, you would still probably be empty, broken, and useless to everyone around you. What are you gonna do? You’re gonna graduate in a year and I can safely bet you have no plans. You’re going to end up a nobody. A loser. Just another unwanted orphan.” 

The Hoseok four hours ago would kiss his knuckles against Dickson’s lip before he had the chance to finish grinding him to a pulp with those words. The Hoseok at twelve o’ clock, four hours older, was tired and swept in his anguish of losing you, or perhaps letting you go, or even worse, pushing you away. The tonnage of all these put his head into a haze and he couldn’t see Dickson, not that he wanted to. He couldn't see you, your eyes, even when he fell to his knees and begged the universe for that. He couldn’t smell fresh linen and lemon, only the faint memory of them which was quickly fading. The fog was surrounding, enclosing, imprisoning him but for what crime? For being the one who never seemed to be at the right place at the right times?

“Get your ass back to the library, Jung.” Dickson let this command roll off his tongue as if he’d been dubbed a place on a shiny pedestal. As if anyone in their right minds would have honored him for degrading the most fragile parts of Hoseok and shredding the sensitive skin of the man already fallen to the base of a cliff.

Wordless, visionless, Hoseok walked in a slump past Dickson to the library. Though, this book-filled prison felt safer than outside. Because it had you, it had the memory of your laughs and your eyes. It had the people who, though annoyed, still cared to give him more respect than he deserved. 

And everyone, especially you, were increasingly worried about the amount of time it took Hoseok to get back. The others almost settled on the conclusion that he had been caught and put in some sort of solitary confinement by Dickson. Toes curling and hands fisted, you prayed that he would return. You prayed and it cleared all the hatred from you, still leaving a few stains of resentment for him. You resented him, but hated? Not in the slightest. 

It was shocking, more so than your hatred of him, how in just four hours your animosity transformed into something tame and a little bit bruised and quite dramatically opposite of hatred. In hatred, one wants nothing to do with the other. In resentment, one seeks resolve with the other. You wanted him here and you wanted his eyes to make contact for longer than thirty seconds to make some sort of amends. 

“I’m guessing what's worrying you right now isn’t your essay?” Namjoon tacked a concern in his question and through the way he had been staring at the empty seat behind you, there was no doubt he was talking about Hoseok.

“I don’t know why I care. He’s the one who decided to leave.” The low hanging grin was the best ‘I’m fine’ face you could pull. It was no use against someone like Namjoon who, within seconds, painted a part of you gone unvisited by anyone, including yourself. “He probably ditched. He can never commit to anything.”

“Ouch. Didn’t know you took detention so seriously.” You and him were well aware that these questions were void of their surface meaning. The connotations strung onto his every word had encoded his knowledge of what was really going on and he was about to get it out of you. “You and him were friends in middle school right? I think I remember. You guys would always eat lunch together.”

You were about to correct him and tell him you’d actually been friends since the first grade, but you decided against it. What were you trying to prove by saying that, anyway?

“Yeah, well, that was a long time ago.” 

“Sorry, I didn't mean to pry.”

“No, it's nothing you have to be sorry about. It’s probably nothing he has to be sorry about either. It's just me setting my expectations too high and disappointing myself.” You paused to stilt the quiver in your voice about to crack through your words. No one had ever asked about what happened with you and Hoseok. No one had ever cared enough to even wonder. This was a first for you.

“I don’t see it that way. I think he’s lonelier than he lets on.” Namjoon wasn’t sure of what he was trying to prove, but he certainly harnessed more emotional intelligence than you had assumed. 

You suddenly felt guilty for doing the lazy thing of resigning him to a label, a slightly dehumanizing one at that, without even having one full conversation with him. 

“Sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I don't know. I’m not sure why I said that, but I just felt like I needed to say sorry. You’re a good guy, Namjoon.” The grin bubbling from your lips was not a front this time. You were genuinely, profoundly touched by the way he’d shown you compassion about the Hoseok situation like no other did. 

“Thanks, I guess.” He chuckled at the randomness of it, but knew you meant well and that you fully knew why you were apologetic. Feeling seen past the stigma pinned on his back, he knew you only meant well.

Right when you were about to give up and mark this as another self-designed hope that failed to be upheld, timing came to your aid. 

For once, it did and it brought Hoseok with it.

“I just got chewed out by Dickhead.” 

Despite the sting, the way he rubbed against the raw wound left by Dickson, it felt better than admitting it hurt him so. To make light of his deepest cuts and sprinkle a bit of his own salt in the wound, well, that was what Hoseok specialized in.

Seokjin, still riding on the waves of his high, walked over to Hoseok and wrapped him in a hug as if he had been gone for days. Hoseok stood still, he didn’t return the hug, nor did he shove Seokjin off of him. It wasn’t because he fancied a hug from this strange boy, but more so he felt too awkward to move or even react.

“Dude, we thought you died. We thought he killed you.” Eventually, Hoseok gathered the resolve to lightly nudge Seokjin from his personal space. 

“Well, I’m alive so you can stop hugging me.”

“Hoseok, what happened? Did he get you in trouble?” You sounded far more concerned than the rest. You really wanted to know if he was okay, but you found that it filtered through your throat with an overly mild expression of that. Still, he caught this, along with every other subtlety in your voice, and wanted more than anything to tell you the truth.

No, he thought, He did something far worse. I would have rather taken a lifetime of detentions than to have been forced to witness the sickeningly honest criticisms Dickson threw into my already melancholy, tearful eyes. How he left that interaction unscathed and I was drenched in the pain of facing my truth.

But the words didn't come out. He didn’t feel like anyone would care about what he said anyway, and he didn’t feel like dragging you into more of his issues.

“He just got all worked up about his no leaving the room policy. The usual ‘how dare you go against me’ sort of speech. I honestly didn’t really pay attention.” His eyes trailed to the floor.

“What a dick. Sorry, man.” Jimin said while yawning, unrecovered from the Indica induced drowsiness.

“Yeah sorry, but I’m sure you got in a few good comebacks, right?” Namjoon asked.

“Yeah, for sure.” Hoseok would have otherwise been boasting about the way he fired back against Dickson. You were expecting that, and when it failed to come you knew something was wrong.

Namjoon had been drawing a new picture while he asked this. Absent-mindedly enough to not notice Hoseok’s shaken behavior. The sketch was of the five of you, sitting in a circle. It was laid back, with a touch of delight that shed the new bond forming between you all into a visible light. No one in that room would have guessed this Saturday to turn out the way it did, however none of you really cared for the alternative outcomes. You were all just glad you were living through this one. 

The one that was encapsulated by the painting, the erasure of circumstantial union by a wave of perfectly crafted comradery. This wasn’t some deep insight of Namjoon’s, not like the ones in the individual portraits he drew. This was not of blind guesses or improbable hopes. This was clear to him, to you, to everyone. 

There were no such distractions to clamor your notice of his timid mannerisms. The way he walked a bit too quietly to his desk as if someone had stripped him down to nudeness for all eyes to witness. And just like before, when he first walked into the library, he found his seat without a single glance in your direction. Though, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel frustrated with him. Not when his worries were more real and devastating than his portrait. 

This time it was different on two accounts. One, your ambition for him to look to you was not so you could relish in the guilt tripping stare he would be met with. The reasons you wanted him to look to you now was because you wanted him to know he was seen and was anything but alone. Whatever Dickson said or did was not a burden he had to shoulder on his own. And two, he didn’t sit behind you, didn’t try to avoid the unavoidable. He sat right next to you, in the scant space of your table, and there was enough room for him; even in the smallest spaces, there would always be enough room for him anywhere you were.

The scenery of him was bringing it all back. The sandbox, the mountains of sand, the young savior with the heart of gold. The love of having him by your side and the pain of his gutting absence. The roots of him were sliding back between your veins, once again seeking habitat for the bloom of friendship, or something more. 

Look at me, you wanted to say. I’m finally able to see you again. Can you see me? We’re all here, Hoseok. Jimin, Namjoon, Seokjin, and me. We’re all here, waiting for your eyes. Waiting to see the bones beneath your skin.

“Hobi, are you okay?” This time you made sure your whisper only touched Hoseok’s ears.

“I don’t know. I don't know anymore.” He couldn’t see you and he had no idea you had been waiting for him, in the fog, all this time. 

 One week ago

The text read that the study group you had been invited to join, courtesy of your friend Lisa, had a study session on the second-floor study room. It wasn’t to hang out, just to study, and you wished it would be more than that. At least a part of you did. The other part of you, the one still hung up on something that happened long ago and the same part of you that liked to play in the sandbox alone, didn’t care that most of your friendly interactions had been surface level. 

One day, you’d meet with a few friends for coffee, or another you’d meet up with a group to study, and the more you hung out with people, the less personal friendship began to feel.

Friendship without Hoseok began to feel like a business exchange, or a mechanical interaction that had become overproduced and of less quality. Like pulling the same lever repeatedly, until it became a boring chore. Not to say you didn’t appreciate it. Though shallow, trite, and forced, it was more than Hoseok ever gave you these days.

But the text made you feel lonely, like an add on or an afterthought. Simply someone to fill an extra seat at the table. You wanted to feel like you weren’t just going through life without connecting, but connections were placed at such a high standard, thanks to Hoseok, that they were hard to come by.

Your teacher passed you through the halls, you tried to avoid eye contact but that made it even more obvious you didn’t want to talk to her. You both exchanged a cordial greeting and flung a few thoughtless comments about the weather into the mix to prevent any awkwardness. It was raining, you said. The rain looked like it was going to clear up, but still looks foggy out there, your teacher responded. She walked to her office and you returned to reality. 

Your reality. Alone.

You stared at the bulletin board and the dozens of neon colored flyers for new clubs and campus organizations. Band? You were hardly the musician. Physics? Barely passing Chemistry answered that quickly enough. Chess? You’d rather be lonely. Maybe it was pathetic, but you wondered why there wasn’t a club for finding people. No underlying activity, no common hobby shared amongst the group, just a club to help a few lonely souls feel a little less lonely. For people who had a hard time meeting friends and an even harder time keeping them. Where was that club?

You walked past the school’s cafe, not needing the caffeine to wind yourself up over the impeding awareness of how alone you felt today. Monday. The day of reckoning it seemed. When you felt alone, as you did today, your thoughts could only gather memories of Hoseok to cheer you up. To remember that once you weren’t so alone, it definitely felt better than remembering you were alone.

You and Hoseok had been diametrically opposed ever since the gradual end of your friendship. He’d become somewhat of a rebel and you stayed humbled and quiet. The once parallel lines of your souls running along the span of seven years together had diverged, his line east and yours, west, by the time you hit the eighth year. 

Today, all alone, you decided to start walking east. Not that you were looking for Hoseok necessarily, you were simply hoping to find something, or someone. It was that decision, along with the various others, that had you walking east and trying to get home before the rain fell again. You could have been surrounded by a group of classmates by now, who were half discussing the contents of the next Statistics exam and half meandering about what they were going to do this weekend, but that wouldn’t change the fact that you felt alone. 

Just like the one who played in the sandbox, you’d rather be alone while feeling alone. Though solitary walks in the rain meant you weren’t of any access to distractions. You began to wonder, which was never a good thing in your case, why you felt alone? There must be something wrong with you. Everyone else seemed to get along with the idea of friendship no matter the depth of them. You had concluded maybe ‘sociable’ wasn’t programmed in your DNA because sometimes you found yourself absolutely hating the idea. But that couldn’t be true because there was a part of your life that you spent loving the idea. Not just the idea, but the real deal as well. What could it be then? What was the reason you walked alone this Monday afternoon?

There he was. The moment you saw him you knew he was the reason.

“Hoseok.” You hadn’t felt those syllables in that order fall from your lips for quite some time, only hearing it in your head made him seem nearly unreal. But he was real, so was his name.

He had a cigarette stuck between his lips, then soon his fingers, leaning on the seat of his jet-black motorcycle. You were walking closer to him, slowly, like the way one would approach a wild animal so not to scare them off. Your steps drew you back to first grade again, and proximity wise, you were just as close to him as you were in the sand box. However, your hearts hadn’t even been in the same country.

“Do you need something?” The worst part about what he said was the fact that he didn’t mention your name. As if your name hadn’t crossed his mind in four years unlike how his was practically branded between the wrinkles of your brain. As if, to him, losing you was nothing more than a check off of some to-do list, a chore, a burden he was just trying to get over with. So, it was absolutely pathetic what you thought immediately in response to what he asked.

I need you.

“You smoke?”

“No, I just like holding cigarettes in my mouth.” Your eyes rolled to this, feeling a shockwave disassembling the Hoseok you remembered in your head. He was entirely new, not the boy who liked to go to the beach and played with sand, and you had a hard time recognizing him with this new skin he wore and the fog that, as your teacher guessed, was thickly lurking through the air. 

“How are you?” You thought this was a dumb question because you knew he would answer with some short winded, meaningless ‘good’ or ‘fine’ or maybe he wouldn’t even say anything at all, leading to a fateful dead-end to this dragged out conversation. It was enough to make you equally eager and exhausted. If you could call what you felt for him with words, it would be hate. Probably.

His face looked paler than it had before, and his hands looked like it would feel like ice if you touched them. You used to touch them all the time, and they were warm and looked just as warm as they felt. If you touched them now, would they be as cold as his voice? Would he even let you?

“I’d say I’m quite annoyed that someone decided to interrupt my peace and quiet.” He flicked the butt of the cigarette to shave a few ashes off the end of the stick. You just shook your head at how he didn’t hide the way he dodged your questions with insincerity.

“Sorry, jeez... How the tables have turned.” 

“What?”

“Oh just that,” You paused to wonder if him asking what you meant was some subtle indication he wanted to continue talking to you but you settled your bets on that being wishful thinking. Besides, you hated him so why should you care? “Way back when, I remember the roles were reversed. You were the one interrupting my peace and quiet.”

“I distinctly remember saving your life.” To you, no matter how desperate it was, any sort of mild banter with him was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, treasured with the memories stored in your chest. This was certainly the case being that in almost four years, the little he said to you now was the most he’d probably ever say to you in the rest of your lifetime. You took what you could get, after all, beggars can’t be choosers.

“Okay, calm down, you saved me from getting sand in my hair and down my pants.” You laughed and took a subconscious step closer to him. Carefully, lightly as not to scare him away because Hoseok looked stiff and distant minded when he saw you move towards him.

The mumble was registered clearly by Hoseok from the way you watched his partial scowl transform into a barely intelligible smile. You saw it, despite how small it was, and you missed the way he looked when he smiled at you. You missed knowing why he smiled, since right now you had no idea what prompted him to curve his lips the slightest bit upwards. More than that, you missed being the reason he smiled. That was selfish, maybe, and far-fetched from the looks of the gaping distance he seemed to be as comfortable with as you were uncomfortable.

“Li-”

“You-”

“Oh, you go.” His and your eyes were both fixed on the cigarette twirling between his fingers. And though you haven’t talked to him in a while, you knew that the tapping and twirling of his fingers was one of his habits to soothe his nervousness. 

Was he nervous? 

You wanted to carve the part of your brain dedicated to overthinking, specifically when it came to Hoseok, out of your skull. You hated the fact that you overanalyzed his every movement down to the twitch of his ears more than the fact that you cared enough to do so in the first place, and you hated that more than the man himself.

“You shouldn’t put that stuff in your body.” From the way his eyes didn’t move from the cigarette, it felt like you could have said nothing at all. He brushed it aside as if he was never intending on listening to you in the first place.

No, you thought, not Hobi. He would care, I think. He has to care enough about himself to keep his body healthy. And for some reason, above all the other overthought thoughts, that one seemed to scare you the most. If he didn’t care about you anymore, and he didn’t care about himself, then did he care about anything at all?

“Mm.” His gruff response fit unfortunately well with his hand, the one with the cigarette, that was moving towards his mouth again as if it were some act of defiance against you. 

Your hand moved to curl around his wrist, which began a new set of overthought thoughts about how rough his skin felt against your hand. Soon, you found your thumb grazing softly along the underside of his forearm. It was you double checking to make sure this was the same skin as the Hoseok you knew before, an accidental gesture born out of instinct rather than methodic planning, something that, if he asked, you wouldn’t be able to explain. For the time being, you did everything you could to investigate where his new nihilistic attitude had bloomed from.

Before the ten second mark of this abnormal, slightly familiar contact, you channeled every neuron in your body to signal your hand to let go of him. He seemed blind sighted enough for you to snag the cigarette out of his hands and into your own.

“Do you want a hole in your neck?” 

“What are you doing?” He didn’t sound as angry as you expected him to be. Moreover, he looked worried which under sighted your awareness of the deft approach to reach for his cigarette back.

“Like I said, the tables have turned. Now, it’s me who’s saving your life.” 

Before you could throw it on the ground and flatten out the flame with your shoe, you braced for the unforced mistake of looking into his eyes and seeing nothing. All that was sitting in the socket of his eyes was a lusterless fog. You wanted to see his eyes more than you wanted him to care, which was an odd transition being that his care had been the top priority ever since freshman year. Your hands were gloved by warm cotton, but you would have taken them off to hold his hand and make them warm with yours.

“Hey!” You thought that was just in your head. Maybe the voice of reason to advise you from holding his hand because that would be extremely weird to do to an estranged friend. But it wasn’t a voice of reason that stopped you, it was quite possibly the worst person to stumble upon this encounter. “No smoking on campus!”

You turned around and saw Dickson’s manic expression then immediately turned to the cigarette that was in your hand. 

Shit.

“I can explain! It wasn’t-”

“Can it, ___! No excuses.” Dickson’s eyes trailed to the pack of cigarettes that the one in your hand was sourced from. He didn’t say anything, just shook his head and reached into the pocket of his blazer to pull out that notorious pink pad of detention slips. With nothing more than a smug grin flashed like bright headlights against you and Hoseok, one that you would grow to hate more than anything, Dickson turned and strut away with long strides and an elevated self-esteem.

“Looks like I’ll be seeing you this Saturday, princess.” He smirked. To you, it was a mockery and some sort of reprisal for taking his hand and his cigarette soon after. 

“Fuck you.” You turned away to walk a petty five or so yards away from him before some gravitational force pulled your head to turn back to him. To see if he was watching, perhaps waiting for you to walk back over to him but sure enough he’d kicked his leg over the seat of his motorcycle and started the engine long before you walked halfway towards where you were left to do nothing but watch him leave. He became smaller and smaller, hazier and hazier, and then unforeseeable in the fog.

You watched him leave, and you were almost sure you hated him.

 One week ago

[Hoseok’s POV]

It was enraging and inconvenient for the weather to fog up right as school let out. Hoseok had more trouble driving his motorcycle when there was too much clutter in the air that disoriented the view of the road. He rarely stayed on campus for longer than he needed to, but it looked like he needed to. On the brighter side of things, Hoseok didn’t have to return to his foster house that smelled of old, wet, rotting rags and sounded of strained but persistent screams of his foster parents. 

Even sitting in the fog, sucking in the burn of nicotine, was better than going back there. Days similar to these, days intruding his week more often than not, he found himself stuck between a place he wanted nothing to do with and a place he could envision through a pixelated glare that brought him warmth, quiet tranquility, fresh linen, and lemon. The arms that would meet his body and wrap him snug against another body, then the excited face of yours that met with his equally excited face. 

It was a shame he could only live out these delights through an array of distant artifacts far too old to expel the loneliness from his heart.

Monday was whirling him through a pool of memories he’d rather keep covered up; it was winter and there was no need to swim in such a pool unless he deemed the risk of freezing to death a tenable substitution for smoking cigarettes in the fog. But it was not a matter of whether he would willingly dive into the pool, rather it was whether or not he could keep himself from falling in or even being pushed in.

Hoseok hadn’t seen your face in nearly four years. Of course, he saw you around the campus, strolling the halls or sitting in the cafeteria. He hadn’t seen your face, however, the way he used to look at it before high school. When he was a child free to flagrantly admire what his heart fancied as beautiful, there was no remorse or guilt from the way his eyes brazenly printed the details of your face into his memory. The creases at the sides of your mouth, the ends of your eyes that were pushed closed by the force of your cheek, and the number of teeth visible when you would smile had been graphed out like a mathematical equation; he was of the few that could solve it between the interval of two seconds. He knew where the inner portion of your eyebrows began and how far down the tip of your nose rested on your face along with the lining of your hair scaling the top of your forehead better than he knew any geographical map studied in school.

Most importantly, he studied your eyes more meticulously than he had his own eyes. Not your arms, or hands, or even the support of your legs could carry as much as your eyes. Hoseok liked to look at them when you smiled because they held the softness of a blanket after a tiring day burdened by a snowstorm. He could see it so clearly, a vast cloth in your eyes made specifically to wrap around a body in need of warmth.

But when you were angry, they held the wildest fires that would burn down anything in their line of vision. No matter how difficult it was to look at your eyes when they were sad, he was familiar with the molting roses that made your tears look like wilting petals; it was unsurprising that even in sadness, you shed beauty from your eyes. 

To him, you were the most beautiful being he’d ever gotten the chance to see.

He loved seeing your face, even if the only way he could do so now was through the partially disfigured memories of his younger self. He was sad to say he had no current frame of reference to jar in his mental gallery of you. There was no way he could look at you on the will of his own because he was afraid to unsheathe the distance and repression set to protect you from him

There was no way, because he would have probably fallen in love with you all over again.

He was about to leave, but a gust of wind blew him towards the decision to smoke one more cigarette before surrendering to the house that smelled and felt quite the opposite of one place he truly considered his home. 

And then he saw you. Walking slowly, and you looked so frightened of him. In all fairness, there was no reason for you to look at him with anything other than repugnance and unease because he turned quite jagged over the years.

You, however, were a relic of the past. Like a highly revered piece of art in a museum of grandeur, with the flawlessly manicured, picturesque beauty that couldn’t be bothered with the touch of Hoseok’s calloused hands. He could only stare from behind the velvet roped boundary that kept his body from melting into the art of you.

“Hoseok.” Your voice doubled down on the apprehension that tensed your walk up to him. He pulled the cigarette from his lips, feeling it inappropriate to have such a foul thing in his mouth if he were to greet you. 

You looked so beautiful. So different from the thinly spread memories of your face; your cheeks had grown into maturation but still maintained a soft innocence. When he looked in your eyes, he did not see roses or raging fires or warming blankets, in fact, he could barely recognize them let alone see what they were holding. It hurt more than the smoke battering his lungs.

Get your shit together. Get away from ___. He reminded himself in an incriminating manner.

“Do you need something?” How he had the ability to keep his mind wrapped around you but spewed words forcing you away was beyond any comprehension. Nonetheless, he did it, simultaneously scolding and applauding himself for not reverting to the version of him that would have greeted you with a soft hug or loving smile.

“You smoke?” The disappointment packed into your voice put him at an odd with himself. 

Finding the frustration plowing through his chest, he processed these self-aggressions through a misdirection onto an unsuspecting victim. One he never thought deserving to be the target of his projected anger, but then again, it was the only way to hinder your warm hands from digging beneath his skin.

“No, I just like holding cigarettes in my mouth.” He exhaled relief, along with the rest of the smoke inhabiting his lungs, that you had rolled your eyes. His charade was fooling you into annoyance, keeping you just out of his reach where you belonged. 

“How are you?” Or maybe this act of his was not working as well as he thought, since you padded these questions down like you had nothing better to do. Hoseok began to feel worried, the brimming loneliness was about to unleash through the conversation you were, for some reason, trying to initiate.

If you were to go away, it would break me again. But, at least, it would keep my skin intact.

“I’d say I’m quite annoyed that someone decided to interrupt my peace and quiet.” He freed his cigarette from the ashes bunching at the end, hoping you would mimic this riddance. Maybe you would see he had burnt your body to an ash, and sooner or later the entire cigarette would fall away to black dust. If you saw that, would you finally have the sense to leave him?

He couldn’t stand looking at your eyes. To behold such beauty, suspended from any chance to have your body against his was nothing less that torture to him because he was so very cold, and you looked like you harbored enough warmth in your fingertips alone to cure him of it.

“Sorry, jeez… How the tables have turned.” 

Hoseok bit down against the side of his cheek hard enough to steal a bit of blood from his gums and to keep him from asking what your eyes were holding today, and if you would be so kind as to give him a piece of it to feed his empty, starving eyes.

So, he settled on:

“What?”

“Oh just that,” Hoseok panicked in the span of your brief pause. Could you notice he was asking for a bit of your eyes and warmth? He was fucking everything up as usual, he thought. “Way back when, I remember the roles were reversed. You were the one interrupting my peace and quiet.”

The jig had not been up yet, thankfully.

“I distinctly remember saving your life.” 

“Okay, calm down, you saved me from getting sand in my hair and down my pants.” When you stepped close to him, the film of fear once guarding your walk was scraped clean which led to more silent punishment for letting his selfish indulgences of your company get the best of him. 

His muscles couldn’t resist the smile bubbling under the thick skin on his lips. Not even skin, or fog, could hide the smiles that never seemed to run short with you. 

And it was the step, or how miserably trapped in the purgatory he felt, or how he smelled fresh linen and lemon exuding from your hair and clothes that pushed him into the pool of memories he’d been walking around, but avoiding submergence. 

It was deathly freezing. Now, he was fully submerged in the fluid-filled vat of your memories, however. It wasn’t the bone chilling frigidity of the water that had him reaching his arm out and gasping for air, but the enticing warmth of your body that stood above him, as if you were waiting for him to reach to your aid, for you to fill his depraved lungs with linen and lemon tinted oxygen.

“Li-”

“You-”

“Oh, you go.” He believed it was better that you spoke.

“You shouldn't put that stuff in your body.” 

The broken levers and switches and pulleys which made up the inner mechanisms of his body found your banal suggestions as the only surge of kindness his old machinery had felt for a while. He’d heard it before; the Health Education segments, the anti-smoking adverts, the doctor’s orations tunneling out of his ears as quickly as they entered. But your words were caught like traffic in his head, so much that it blocked all entry of a fiery retort to pass through his mouth.

“Mm.” He mumbled because you were right. He shouldn’t be smoking; he shouldn’t be doing a lot of things but some of his actions felt out of his control at this point of his life.

Unprepared could not describe the intense degree of shock Hoseok felt when your fingers wrapped around his wrist so attentively. He was reaching his arm out, waiting to be removed from the cold and isolated pool he’d fallen into (or perhaps pushed into by you), but he never expected his hand to be met. He predicted he would spend eternity reaching to no avail, left to drown in this chilling pond of memories that rendered him frozen in the world of the past. Instead, his body reunited with the dryness of the air.

Hoseok hoped you couldn't feel the embarrassingly quick speed of his pulse with your thumb that rested right against his artery.

“Do you want a hole in your neck?”

He would have responded with: Could it be any worse than freezing to death?

“What are you doing?” His expressionless visage, one labored with hiding his worry, had fallen away from his face. 

The way the cigarette looked in your hands had him nearing a faint. To him, it felt like an accessory, like a bracelet or a belt, like it belonged in his hands. But when you held it, the small stick looked like it was going to leave permanent stains of corruption along your skin. It was absolutely abhorrent in your fingers. Any second, your entire body would be lurking with his repulsive residue and he thought it would kill him before it killed you.

“Like I said, the tables have turned. Now, it's me who’s saving your life.” 

That was the tipping point for him. The surge of tender nostalgia. The last bid of persuasion he needed to grab your wrist instead and press his mouth against yours, warm and wet and gentle. And he would have done exactly that, he would have kissed you and offered his last breath to your lungs if not for the unexpected saving grace that arrived in the form of a bitter vice principal.

“Hey!” Dickson’s approach was followed with the inevitability of detention. Hoseok only knew this to be true because even when he wasn’t smoking on campus or doing something that would elicit a detention, Dickson always found a way of weaving in reason to prosecute Hoseok. “No smoking on campus!”

“I can explain! It wasn't-” 

“Can it, ___! No excuses.” Hoseok was in his own world now, counting down the seconds until the pink slip of detention would be presented in front of him on a rusty silver platter. When Dickson walked away, he found it fitting to begin breathing once again.

“Looks like I’ll be seeing you this Saturday, princess.” The mischief in his smirk bred the annoyance back into your chest, which was his goal of course. Before he got the chance to enact his sinful deed to close the space between your lips and his, he hopped on his motorcycle and wheeled himself to a safe distance. 

Cold and lonely, but safe.

He had the rest of the week to figure out how in the hell he was going to spend an entire day with you without looking into your eyes and breaking through the already vulnerable skin. 

 12:00 - 2:00

“Are you okay?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”

About two minutes after Jimin’s head took a dive, landed against the solid wood of the table, and snapped back awake, he looked a bit confused and tried to reattach himself to reality.

“Does anyone know what time it is?” 

“Twelve ten.” You and Namjoon answered in unison like you had been keeping track of every minute that passed since eight o’clock. 

“Time isn’t real.” The still high and rosy cheeked Seokjin mumbled out through a cluster of thoughts bumping around the otherwise empty space in his brain.

“I’m going to punch you.” Hoseok said, feeling sensitive to irritation after the denigration he had just undergone courtesy of a washed-out vice principal.

“Hoseok.” Your tone was a punishing command that needn’t more than the one-worded sternness to make Hoseok huff lightly in adherence. 

“It’s been,” Jimin paused to count with his fingers, “four hours already? It honestly hasn’t felt like it’s been that long.”

“Well, you know what they say.” Namjoon commented this with no further explanation as if Jimin had any actual clue to what the other boy was referring to.

“What? What do they say?” Jimin responded, expectant for the explanation.

“I know. Is it that time isn’t real?” You tried not to laugh at Seokjin’s re-utterance of his thoughts that were polished over with an intoxicated glaze, knowing your approbation to him would further aggravate Hoseok into actually punching Seokjin.

“How are you still that high, Jin?” Namjoon said through a soft chuckle.

“I don’t know it’s kind of freaking me out now. Am I gonna be high for the rest of my life?” 

“No and no. It’s that time goes by faster when you’re having fun.”

“That’s rich.” Hoseok took it upon himself to point out the irony and wicked hypocrisy of the insinuation that Jimin was having, of all things, fun with the four of you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jimin had almost forgotten Hoseok seemed to get the most satisfaction out of picking at Jimin specifically. 

Jimin wasn’t the easiest target since he was the furthest from a social pariah, Seokjin and Namjoon filled that slot, but he had both a namesake of being a star football player and a pyramidal structure of friends to lose from Hoseok’s unforgiving tongue. This made it much more satisfying to Hoseok.

“I just would have never guessed you would get off your high horse for a few hours to join the rest of us lowlifes. Consider me flattered.” This wasn’t the first or last sarcastic remark to whip tirelessly against Jimin however it was enough for Jimin to feel deserving of answers.

“Where do you keep getting this idea that I think of you guys as lowlifes?” 

“Oh, you wanna know?” Hoseok said, finding the clutter of denial Jimin had congregated around himself both ignorant and audacious. Even Namjoon and Seokjin found it astounding how gullible Jimin was towards his own refusal to admit an all too terrible truth.

“Please, enlighten me.” In the simplest terms, Jimin was in over his head to take on such a challenge with the amount of overzealous egoism in his voice. It felt like an affront, the ignorance shrouding him, to the experiences of the minnows that had to walk the halls with their heads hung low in order to avoid an unsolicited and traumatizing attack from the sharks of your school.

As much as Jimin didn’t want to acknowledge it, he was a shark, and the rest of you were minnows.

“Why don’t you tell everyone why you got detention?”

Jimin stiffened to a stone-like manner. It was petrifying to even move, let alone speak on behalf of his actions that led him here. He didn’t have his posse of dim-witted friends to protect him, nor the freedom of avoidance being trapped in the library. There was, for once, nowhere for Jimin to turn to other than the four faces of those deserving of his explanation.

“Well?” Hoseok coaxed.

“Damn, was it that bad?” Seokjin was worried he placed too much hope on Jimin’s shoulders. He wanted to believe Jimin was one of the good ones, or better ones at least. That out of his friends, Jimin would be the one to do the right thing because it would have been nothing short of betrayal if he relinquished himself to the cowardice of the ‘follow the leader’ mindset plaguing Jimin’s group of friends.

Perhaps it was the razing hues of the cheap fluorescent lights in the library, but there was a strange brightness illuminating this room in particular. Out in the halls, it was darker and easier to miss the faces of passing students. So dark that when you first stepped into the library, your eyes felt a slight burn and was forced to readjust to seeing with clarity for once in quite a long time. 

In the library, there was no way to miss their faces. Maybe if you closed your eyes it would have been easier and the burn of the lights infiltrating your retinas would be boiled down to a grazing sting but now wasn’t the time for closed eyes. The rarity of brightness and clarity was too good to return to the blindness of the halls and the fogged space of the world outside. It was safe to keep them open, just for now.

“Don’t tell me it was one of your dumb football friends who put you up to something.” You said as if you already knew this to be true. 

“They’re not dumb.” “What? Are you trying to defend them? Defend yourself?” Hoseok said and it was not caked in indifference or sarcasm. It was angry and driven by some demented sort of care for Jimin to take accountability for his actions; it was as if he knew Jimin was better than that but he wouldn’t admit this even with a gun to his head.

“No! It’s not that. It’s just…” Jimin had reached his breaking point. There was nothing left to hide. Not when the library was so damn bright that it singed his vision enough to well a few tears to collect at the base of his eyes. “They’re fucking cruel. I don’t think dumb people can be as cruel as them.” 

Jimin’s eyes were spaced out to the floor as if he had seen a ghost, or many ghosts in the form of the untracked amount of students that were swept into a relentless attack by those Jimin dared to call his friends. Those who he stood by, even if it cut through every moral instinct in his body. The most shameful ghosts were the ones sitting before him, listening attentively.

And the most haunting ghost of all was none other than himself. 

“Jimin, what did you do?” Namjoon, walking on eggshells or rather shards of glass, asked this of him apprehensively knowing how overwhelmingly displeased you all would be with his answer. 

“I didn’t have a choice! I-” The tears once held at bay on the bed of Jimin’s eyes had now been pushed over and down his cheeks from the guilt crowding the space where they once rested. “You know my friend Connor right? Well, I don’t know if I can call him a friend. Not anymore at least.”

The four silent nods didn’t give him enough time to construct the strong foundation of courage he needed to build upon this. However, Jimin had exhausted the last of his courage. All there was left for him, for all of you, was to be vulnerable. To be welcoming of his pain seemed to be the only source of strength to say what was needed to be said. What, for once, he felt like he could openly admit to. 

The library was bright. He began to feel seen because of it and the noiseless juncture gave him a chance to be heard.

“I, um, I made the mistake of leaving my phone out. God, I was so fucking stupid. I can’t believe I did that.” He took one deep breath to energize himself, “I, uh, I got a text from Kim Taehyung and,” 

Jimin had been instilling frequent pauses between what he was saying. Talking, especially to those whose opinions held a measurable importance to him, was the most difficult thing he had to do. Jimin spent over ten hours in the beating sun, extrapolated his muscles of their ability to move with the intensive workouts he had to do for training, ran over seven kilometers nearly every other day, and shoved an integral piece of his heart to a place of hateful and regretful shame for his whole life. But this, the uncomplicated act of talking had twisted into an unsolvable maze with Jimin placed right at the center.

“Connor looked. He- he fucking looked through my texts.”

The mention of Kim Taehyung, the only uncloseted person in your grade, had given you all the information needed to know why Connor looking through Jimin’s texts was not just an invasion of privacy but an infestation to the immunity Jimin built against how he loved; who he loved. The boundaries had been set and had been wrongly trespassed over, and to someone like Connor, that didn’t register as a violent act of homophobia. Jimin didn’t have to explain the contents of the texts for you all to know that it was far beyond platonic.

Suddenly, everything made sense to Hoseok. Being that he was the only one who knew what happened, but not as much to know the reasons behind it had him feeling almost as guilty as Jimin.

“You don’t have to explain yourself. I didn't know all that.” Hoseok had given Jimin an opt out, a shortcut to escape from the maze Jimin was still wandering through, which was his way of apologizing and clarifying he would never cross that boundary, the boundary that Connor ravaged with a hateful heart. 

Jimin turned it down. He turned down the shortcuts. This wasn’t a journey that would be accomplished by taking the easy way out. Sometimes, one must run right into the eye of the hurricane to be freed from the shackles of self-despair.

“No. I need to tell you guys. I don’t want you guys to think that...” Jimin pushed past the final wall, realizing the very mask meant to protect him was the thing that had been turning him into someone he couldn't recognize when he looked in the mirror. “I just… I want you guys to know.”

The low social status of the others in the room wasn’t why he felt like he could be honest. It wasn’t the fact that even if you all knew, it would have been diluted to an unverifiable and petty rumor because no one took what the delinquent, the loner, the nerd, and the freak said seriously. What motivated him, or more fittingly, what inspired him to be honest was your gift of listening, not just hearing to hear, but hearing to care and understand Jimin.

“I’m gay.” And he finally found the end of the maze. “I’ve never said it out loud before. It sounds weird coming out of my mouth.” What he expected was awkward silence, a few uncomfortable or disapproving grimaces, or a complete rejection of what he revealed himself to be. These expectations weren’t met, by the grace of God or more likely the grace of those who listened with care and understanding. And Jimin cried harder.

“I don’t think it sounds weird. I’m so happy you shared that with us.” You said in place of the expected rejection, and you smiled in the place of the expected turned back. “I’m proud of you for being so brave.”

“You are?” 

“We all are.” Namjoon added to the support.

No longer did Jimin feel the need to rely on the fractured confinement of the closet, but on the open, warm support of the four others and the brightness of the library. When he gathered the reactions for the four of you, the soft expressions directed towards him, he knew he was in a safe place. Even Hoseok, without outwardly smiling, gave him more acceptance than any of Jimin’s football teammates would have given him.

“No disrespect but what does that have to do with why you got detention?” Seokjin’s bluntness corralled Jimin back on topic, even if it wasn’t the most empathetic way of going about it.

“Oh yeah. Well, Connor started saying all this shit about telling everyone if I didn’t um…” It felt like the words coming from his throat weren’t hot air from his lungs, but jagged rocks scraping the sides of his windpipe, “If I didn’t beat Taehyung up then he’d tell everyone and leak our conversations.” 

“Would people finding out about you two be so bad?” Seokjin asked naively.

“You don’t understand. There weren’t just messages.” He had been fidgeting with the end of his shirt, engulfed by the regret of how he handled things. Though, his choices had made him a parcel between deciding on the lesser of two evils and this was never a fair advantage. “There- there were pictures too. He threatened to leak them and I… well, I thought I was protecting Taehyung from him, but I was being selfish. Weak. I was protecting myself.”

“Jimin, that’s not fair. Connor put you in such a fucked up position! God, how fucking dare he?” Your face was red with anger. Hoseok had been tracing the distress lines on your forehead and between your brows with reverence because it was too heartbreaking to look at the defeated expression tolling Jimin’s. “You know Connor also sent around my friend’s nudes after he was begging for them. He’s fucking vile.”

“There has to be something we can do to get him in trouble.” Namjoon had already been willing to risk having to voluntarily interact with Dickson to rat Connor out. However, Jimin objected strongly.

“No! Then word would get out. You don’t know half the shit my teammates say about gay people. There’s no way they would let me stay on the team. And my parents don’t have a clue. I have no idea how they’d react.” Jimin brought his forearm to wipe away the tears still spilling from his eyes. “I’m scared. I already lost the one person who I really cared about in this damn school because of that asshole. I can’t lose anything else.” 

“Why would you want to be on a team with people who hate gay people? Or be on the same team as the guy who literally blackmailed you into beating up your boyfriend.” Jimin didn’t take too kindly to Seokjin’s unthoughtful assertion. 

“You wouldn’t understand. I- I’ve built my life around football! I wouldn’t have any friends and my whole future is riding on my football career. God knows my grades aren’t enough to get me accepted into college let alone get a scholarship. You don’t understand the social pressure of not being a part of something.” Now, it was Jimin who made thoughtless assertions against Seokjin. “Someone like you just wouldn't understand.”

“Someone like me?”

“Do I have to say it?”

Internally, you pleaded with him not to say it. Namjoon already knew the hurtful assumptions Jimin had placed upon the four of you this whole time.

“Well, you're the one who brought it up.” Seokjin retorted.

“Say it, Jimin. Admit you think of yourself as better than us just because you're popular and on the football team.” Hoseok spat with a determined bite to his words.

“Fine! Someone like Seokjin is an outcast. It’s true, okay? It’s not my fault he doesn’t get the pressure that I’m under.” The admittance was torrid and vain but nonetheless true to Jimin’s prerogative. 

“Are you kidding me? You don't think all of us don't understand the social pressures of feeling like we don't belong?” He was never one to argue or get upset about things. He often felt like he had no place in ever standing up from the many instances when he’d been pushed to the ground for his entire life. 

Seokjin, and Namjoon too for that matter, have been casted as a sort of boot licker trapped in between the cogs of the social hierarchies in high school. Being at the very bottom, on the receiving end of the brute force from those who are lucky enough to be a part of something, hadn't been easy. They didn’t get the leverage to misstep or speak out, and their consequences had always been enforced with an expensive debt of hiding what was really on their minds. 

“You don’t think I see and hear the way people talk about me? I’m a freak, a low life, a joke. No one wants to be friends with someone like me. And yeah, I guess I am the joke of the school! The inside joke that everyone is a part of except for me. I've never had the fear of not belonging because that was a given ever since I started high school. At least you have something to lose. I never had that and I have to pretend like I’m okay with it all! I have to pretend that everything people say about me or make fun of me doesn't affect me. In fact, I feel like I have to constantly make a fool of myself because that’s the only way anyone pays attention to me! That's pathetic! If I didn’t, if I just shut up or if I-” His voice cut off momentarily from the lump impeding on his throat, “If I were to just disappear… or… if I were to die no one would care. And I have to pretend to be okay with that. But I’m not- I- I just hate it.” 

You didn’t have to look at his eyes to know he had also been crying. And he was right, everything he said. The way most people disregard him and when they do acknowledge Seokjin, it’s only to place hate or insults to titillate their sick amusement. It brought you to tears in the most gut-wrenching way, because part of you attuned to his loneliness. His feelings of unimportance, that if you were to fall off the face of the Earth one day, your tombstone would be just as undeclared and forgotten as your once beating hearts.

“Do you know how many death threats I’ve gotten in my locker? Yeah, they’re probably empty threats just to piss me off or scare me but they still affect me. I- I start to believe maybe I should be dead. I just… I just want to be seen.”

In some way, Jimin felt decided for just like Seokjin did. Decided by external forces that he should be manly, straight, and nothing beyond what had been expected of him. Though the oppression of heteronormativity chained around his neck was vastly different that the shackles that kept Seokjin at an arm's length away from ever making a true friend, there was a communion within the unwelcomed and pervasive loneliness.

And that kind of loneliness drives someone to a deep and unyielding kind of depression. The damaging isolation from having no one to tell you they love you when you feel unloved ricocheted against your insides, and it begins to feel like a hunger but a million times worse.

You couldn’t feed it on your own. You just have to wait for someone else to want to feed it, to want to love and accept you. But no one could wield such compassion when they were too occupied with fitting in, until now.

“I don’t think you’re a freak or a joke. I’d never make fun of you, and I would notice. If you left, Jin, I would notice.” Namjoon said to give Seokjin shelter and company in feeling out of place. He felt it too and it was heavy, crushingly heavy. 

“I think we’re all just pretending to be okay. Pretending that living and existing doesn't hurt and that every day doesn't leave a scar on our body in some way. Being alive when you are pretending is lonely because it isn’t you who’s living and existing. It’s the shell of you, and the real you has to watch from a distance. That distance is so lonely. And when you try to crawl back into that shell, and maybe become whole again, you just can’t. You’re stuck because you've been hurt too many times to feel safe in your own body. I’ve felt it, now I know Jimin and Seokjin feel it. Even ___ and Hoseok, I know you guys feel it too. I wish we could stop. I wish we didn’t have to pretend. If we could stay in this library, together, we wouldn’t have to. But the end of the day will come and we’ll all have to go back to pretending, won't we?”

A speechless agreement filled the air.

“I don’t. I don’t want to feel lonely anymore.” Seokjin said.

“Me neither, I don't want to go back to pretending. I want to be able to love who I want to love.” Jimin looked to Seokjin, scared and unsure of whether or not they could face the world again. Oddly enough, comfort surfed over fear and uncertainty because they were not alone anymore. To be in a state of apprehension with those who take time to understand one another lightened the load tenfold. If one can be lonely with other lonely people, then maybe they weren’t alone after all. 

In this library, bright and giving, they certainly weren't alone.

There was nothing to say or refute. Hoseok had in fact been pretending, his skin just as fake as the leather jacket covering him. Though now, unlike when he saw his portrait, he felt the absence of his skin to be freeing. He felt uncomfortable in his skin; he wanted it off completely. Being strong, pretending to be unhurt led him to come crashing down as hard as he did when he faced you again. You and all the mistakes he’d made and Dickson’s hostile attack in the halls. Perhaps weakness is a form of healing.

Letting the guard down just enough to let the kindness of another’s heart in. 

“Do you guys… to me, you guys are my friends.” Spoken with an intentional rephrase and delivered without an expectation that the four of you returned this projection of friendship, Seokjin felt less alone than he did in the dark of the hallways that, although physically narrow, were wide enough to have him walking through alone.

“You’re my friend.” You said this quickly, to not give any chance for silence to settle doubt. You were his friend, truly, more so than the friends you made to fill the Hoseok sized void in your life. “I don’t have a lot of friends either.”

“Me neither.” Namjoon said.

“I mean, I have a lot of friends, but I think it’s all bullshit. I think you guys are the only ones close to anything real.” Jimin said through a smile.

And though Hoseok had come to realize what it felt like to be seen, to have his bones exposed to the eyes of the understanding, there was still that adjustment period. Letting go of the habitual usage of rudeness and sarcasm as a defense mechanism against the rawness of being human with other people was not an easily dropped reflex.

“Wow, well this love fest was certainly something.” 

How could he do that? How could he reduce the trauma and bravery piled between the five of you to another crass, insensitive comment? 

“Oh, god. Can’t you just quit it already? Can’t you take anything seriously?” You were well beyond the brink of holding your tongue. Beyond the point of patience that was placating your owed explanation for Hoseok’s drastic change and unannounced desertion.

“No, that part of my brain died a long time ago. Sorry to burst your bubble, princess.”

“Oh, is that what your excuse is?”

The other boys sensed there was some unsaid history between the two of you which placed them as silent audience members, serving a watchful mediation to this long-awaited performance. 

“What’s your deal? Calm down, it was just a joke.” His insensitivity came from a place that grew used to pushing you away and stonewalling the idea of emotionality, yet another defense mechanism brandished to become second nature to him. And with the attentive eyes of the other three, there was no chance of loosening the skin and veered away from showing his bones. Hoseok knew exactly what ‘your deal’ was but he didn’t have the slightest idea of how much his feigned indifference packed more dirt in your wounds.

Or at least, you hoped he didn’t. It would have made it far worse to know he was aware of the way he hurt you. 

“What’s my deal? My deal is that you don’t care about anyone! You never cared about me and you made me believe that I could trust you. You’re just an asshole, when you get down to it. You have no heart.” You spat, feeling the heat rising just as quickly as your body which collected the strength to take a stand. 

He too stood up, facing you and it overspent the little energy he had to look into your eyes as you said these harsh things, unhidden in the library’s brightness. Of course, you didn't believe anything you just said. You knew he cared, or at least he did once, and that he had a heart, no matter how emptied of love it felt in his chest. His heart was there, beating slowly as if waiting to stop completely.

You were speaking through the frustrations of trying to reach out to someone who held their guard up stronger and mightier than a brick wall and seemed to want nothing to do with you. 

He didn’t know this. Hoseok was up to his neck in regret and guilt. He was tired, and his heart was weary from doing its job of maintaining his breath. A breath he didn’t feel worthy of harboring anymore. He had been tired for a while now and just wanted to be vulnerable, like the rest of you. However, no matter how many times he thought it over or talked himself into it, the skin just seemed to regenerate faster than it shed. 

He wanted to take you in his arms, never let go, tell you where it hurt and hoped you would love him there in the same way you would when you were young, and when his heart didn’t fully understand the hefty price of being the unwanted orphan who dragged misery into the lives of everyone associated with him. He wanted the sandbox, the Andes mountains, Marley and Me, the first grade, the aromas of linen and lemon, and you all over again. But he knew, he never stopped wanting that.

“You don’t know that, ___! You don’t know anything so how dare you make claims like that about me when you don't know half the shit I’ve been through!” He was screaming, though not so much in the literal sense. The high pitch of his voice was him trying to talk over the secrets that he kept from you. It seemed like the only thing that would drown out the loneliness itching to be liberated was his hurtful words. It sent you into a rage

“Then tell me! Let me help you or be there for you! Stop running away. For once in your life stop running!”

“Why would I tell you of all people?” The true meaning behind this was unclear through his spiteful tone and sandpaper skin. The one person he wanted the best for, he wanted to protect, wasn’t the person to dump all his problems on. Not you. Not your kind eyes and soft, warm hands and skin. He couldn't drag you under the bus with him and make you solve the unsolvable. To put you through that, it would have been better to drive a dull sword right through your chest. 

You wanted to slap him or shake him. Shake the secrets out of him and place him right under the bright lights of the library. You wanted to reach into his chest and pump the slowly dying organ with your own hand so he could keep on breathing.

“I hate you, Hobi. I fucking hate you.” You said this and you said his name. The name owned by your tongue that carried too much sentiment to mean anything of hatred. Both his name and your hatred flew through the thick fog surrounding Hoseok, but only one of those two met with his skin and melted it off his bones completely. 

“I hate me too.”

He couldn’t let you, or anyone see him cry. So he ran, just like always. Hoseok walked out of the library, right into the dark halls, but it was him running again. Running far away from you just like he did over three years ago.

It seemed like he didn’t reveal nearly as much as Seokjin and Jimin had. Even Namjoon, with the few words he’d offered on his place in the grips of loneliness seemed to be loads more than Hoseok gave.

But to you, it was enough. To you, his silence and grim avoidance told you everything you needed to know about Hoseok.

Dry eyes, dignity, skin, the defensive masks once mounded over your faces were nowhere in sight of this library. Becoming emotionally undone and disarmed was nothing more than becoming honest with yourselves and others. It came just in time before those mighty walls broke down to leave you all sitting ducks to the much harsher grasps of your peers’ judgements

It felt like symbiosis. The mutual giving and receiving between those who had been pretending, but were worn out by the last few hours of detention. To give the skin that covers and protects and hides the things unwanted by most of society. The things often put to shame or denial or negligence and root loneliness deeper into one’s body. And to receive a mindful ear that cares and listens, empathetically, to the words locked away, as well as a place where these insecurities and inner torments can be put to rest through the form of words.

No longer were these secrets kept. There was no one to shun or misunderstand or commit the crime of breaking the bones of those who stand out to fit in the mold of what was considered acceptable or worthwhile. 

Four out of five coats unworn, laying in the center of your circle, safe and understood.

The question remained, if and when the fifth one would be shed?

Namjoon broke the tense silence.

“Are you going to go after him?” 

If it was your freshman year, you would have been racing out of those doors before Namjoon had to ask. The you of the past would have climbed over the Andes mountains, the you of elementary school would have swam across the vast oceans to drag him back into your life. The you of the past, the one that had only a sandbox and Hoseok, would have gotten to the door before he had and blocked any exit from this room. 

But you were not in the past, and Hoseok was already gone. Namjoon had to ask whether or not you would go after him and that meant there was a chance you had given up, for good this time. There was a chance you wouldn’t go after him.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”

 Five years ago

For the better part of a year, Hoseok tumbled through life without any cadence for feelings and emotions. He was an adolescent boy, after all, and each week brought a new challenge to his plate that left little room to focus on the chaos of his life and guidance of his heartbeat. This week, he set his sights on getting you to race him on your scooters down the steepest hill in your neighborhood. 

Dusk was orange and warm, sending its hues along the streets and faces who were under it like an important message one must read with the utmost care. Hoseok liked this part of the day specifically because the end of the hour would take his tired body into your home to eat dinner with you and your mom. He saved that for later and for now, he and you were occupied with scraped knees and tired knuckles from gripping the handles of your scooters, and a hill rolling down so far it seemed like it would take a lifetime to reach the bottom of it.

“Come on! We’ve been practicing for hours! You can do it!” His scooter was edging to slip off the slope and down the hill in eagerness. Yours stationed a foot behind with your helmet strapped snug around your chin and a grip around the handles so tight, you left the divots of each finger on the rubber padding. 

“What if we die?” You looked at the back of his head soon turned to become his face as he peeled away his determined glare to a soft reassurance. Wheeling back to align the front of his scooter with the front of yours, he was left to subside to the beatings of his heart, fed by the sun placing itself on the crest of your helmet and the luminescent rays drizzling like a serene waterfall down your face and body. 

He never thought about beauty much, being that he was no older than thirteen years, but seeing you under the aging sun had put it at the forefront of his focus.

“If we die… then you’re mom’s gonna be mad. So, I won’t let that happen.” 

“Hobi!” You swung your arm that braised the bone of his shoulder not without a laugh at his rather playful response to your worries. 

“Trust me. We don’t die. And whoever gets to the bottom first wins.” Your laugh served as a catalyst that quickened the pace of his heart. Whatever it was trying to tell him in this moment, it was surely of sizable importance being that it sent waves of warmth through his cheeks and down to his legs. The challenge now hadn’t been the epic scootering down the hill but putting his heart aside long enough to last the rest of dusk.

“Wins what?” You asked with intrigue.

“I don’t know. A piggyback ride all the way home.” Tired legs and a heavy head convinced you this prize had been worth the risk of falling, akin to dying in your perspective. Your head turned to the hill, looming over the intersecting street at the base of it, notifying Hoseok that backing down was no longer an option.

“Alright. Ready, set, go!”

Opening your mouth didn’t come with the expected release of terrified screams but laughs of thrilled enjoyment. The wind was cut through by your body, now rocketing down the gradient that felt much less steep than it looked, and you commended Hoseok for convincing you to tackle this seemingly trifling challenge. 

“This is so fun!” Your yelp was lost in the rapid descent, but Hoseok, a few feet ahead of you, had been in range of your acclaim. 

It was then when the young adolescence in his brain was overtaken by the guidance of his heart. His own tired body became alive and light. When you said this, the joy in your voice made the decision for him to discreetly apply pressure to the metal brake of his scooter with his heel, to realize he couldn’t make you carry him home. 

Not because it was tiring for you, but he wanted to see the look on your face when you won. He needed that smile and the warm blanket of your eyes that would heal his aching muscles and tired body. And it was your open-mouthed smile and celebratory hops, along with the showering glints of sunlight and the end of dusk that turned his loss into an incredible win. His covert efforts to draw this joy from you came from a place none other than pure love.

“I won! Hobi, I won!” Without a second to spare, you ran and mounted his back with legs wrapped tight around his torso and your arms snug, but not quite choking, his neck. 

“Alright, fair is fair.” Though, it wasn't fair. Not in the slightest, and Hoseok made sure of that. 

The feeling of your soft, jaded breath against his neck was energizing, and every so often you would give his body a tight squeeze when he was struggling to trudge back up the hill, as if to thank him. And you were because you knew he let you win. You squeezed him in your arms, keeping firm to the memory of him and this triumph gifted to you. Though, it was not as great of a gift as Hoseok was to your life. 

“Thank you, Hobi.” Your soft whisper was followed by an even softer kiss on his cheek, damp from the sun and the hill and the piggy-back ride. Soft enough to communicate to him the gratitude in your heart, which translated and directly manifested into his lungs now fanned of all the burning once inflaming them; his face sporting quite a bashful smile too.

He was not tired, not when he was holding you because it felt more like you were holding him. Like you were always going to hold onto him.

The neatly lined houses had little to no variation. Individuality in this small, suburban town was like finding that needle in the haystack. To him, your house was that shiny little pin. Your house was a home, and he saw that through the partly uncurtained windows that gave him a view of the scene inside. Most of the time, you were already seated by the sill, waiting for him to arrive. 

You and Hoseok had arrived at the base of your driveway, staring up at the small incline that looked like it was taller than the Andes Mountains themselves to Hoseok.

“You know how I said we won't die?” You turned to his lightly blushed cheeks upon hearing this to see he was smiling. “Yeah, well, I think I’m going to die.” 

His pearly whites cemented with metal braces and strands of his unkept hair stuck in the sweat of his forehead were sightly. You began to laugh, looking at the goliath hill separating you and him from a home-cooked meal courtesy of your mom, then back at the odd, awkward boy who had yet to discover the wonders of deodorant and properly fitted clothing.

Hoseok wasn’t all too desirable in terms of the traditional realm of attractiveness. His arms were lanky, unable to place themselves naturally at his sides without looking uneven, and his posture did him no favors either. And you took in all five foot five of him, before he hit a spur of growth, and thought he was the loveliest little thirteen-year-old in your grade and in the whole world. 

“Come on, you know my mom won’t allow that. I got you, Hobi.” You weaved your hand through his, pulling with all the force your muscles could exert to haul him up the driveway. You made it to the top and your hand didn’t let go of him. Your mind was trying to deny the twists and turns of your stomach and the fast pumping of your heart any credence. 

When all else fails, you must listen to your heart.

Both you and Hoseok discovered in your very young, inexperienced lives that hills and driveways and scooters and all the other trivial barriers were no match to hearts. 

It was in first grade that he knew he was going to be your best friend. It was by eighth grade he knew he loved you. So much he’d carry you with bruised knees and broken arms to the ends of the earth. 

 2:00 - 4:00

Hoseok’s memories of you became sort of a mosaic. The little pieces of you were, singularly, a bit insignificant in the time they were being experienced. Often overlooked, and taken for granted, he couldn’t realize the beauty they captured until he stepped back. With distance, he saw the full picture, the ethereal mosaic had brought him a far and lonely appreciation for the past. 

All throughout the day, he didn’t want to look into your eyes like he did the day you convened with him in the parking lot where he was smoking. His fluency of your eyes had unraveled with time, leaving him feeling illiterate in the language of you and completely lost. When he felt lost, he wanted his heart to guide him again, but it would instruct him to return to you and replenish the deserted friendship. However, from what everyone told him, even Dickson, he wasn’t worth the effort. 

You had been staring at the door opened and closed by Hoseok, waiting to be opened and closed by you. As if there were a part of you deciding on letting him go, you tapped your hand against the table synchronically with the seconds ticking by on the clock. The door had eroded the rest of the library away, along with the three sets of eyes staring earnestly at you.

“So, are you gonna go or what? We have like two hours left and God knows whether he actually stayed on campus or not.” Seokjin sliced the wordless atmosphere with heavy hopes you would make any indication of your next move. 

“Seokjin, shut up! ___, don’t feel pressured to do anything.” This overlaid Jimin’s pounding urge to hoist you up himself and throw you into the wiles of the halls.

“What? ___ clearly wants to find him.” 

“Well, he clearly doesn’t want to be found. He’s such a child, honestly, I shouldn’t waste my time.” You knew you only said this to try and talk yourself out of the decision which had been established by your beating heart the minute Hoseok walked out. The obvious desire to follow him had been expressed through the discomfort you felt for tearing your eyes away from the door; you were guilty, above all else. 

Each tap of your hand could have been a prelude to your inevitable pursuit of the man who, in fact, did want to be found. It was effortful but insincere to attempt leveling the scale between the two options of chasing or letting go; the opportunity of Hoseok was a weightier one than the life without him, executed through repetitive, passionless motions. You were bored, repulsed by the way you had lived out each moment of your life just to wait for the next and the next until your life was over. 

“Come on, you know that’s not true.” Namjoon added, “We’ll cover for you if Dickson comes back. I really think you should go.”

“Yes, please. Go.” Seokjin placed his desires proudly once again. 

“In all honesty, I think you should go t-”

“Enough! I’ve already gone down that path. All I ever got from it was unheard voicemails and ignored texts.” You were still looking at the door, and still trying to talk yourself out of it - and still feeling guilty.

“Love is hard, I get it. But-” You didn’t let Namjoon finish his well-thought out life lesson that would have coerced you into going after him.

“What? I don’t love him.”

“Ooo, ___ and Hoseok? Fire and ice. Rain and sun. Winter and Sum-”

“Seokjin, don’t you have an essay to write?” You cut his words down as well, finding none of their entertainment in your inner psyche appropriate. They were placing themselves in your mind, but to them it wasn’t so much of a locked door than a door wide open with its secrets spilling out faster than the tick of the clock and the tap of your hand.

“Well, he clearly loves you. I don’t know him that well, but I can assure you he doesn’t get like that around just anyone.” Whatever ‘like that’ meant, you were annoyed that you knew exactly what Namjoon was implying. It didn’t stop you from perpetual, stubborn denial.

“He doesn’t love me.” 

“Oh… Are you being- Is ___…? Are- You’re stupid.” Seokjin’s words crumbled to near incoherency due to his complete astonishment for your lack of judgment. Perhaps if your belief that he didn’t love you was a genuine judgment, then his assessment would have been correct; you were being stupid.

“Well, fuck you too!”

“What he means to say,” Namjoon’s pause was to shoot Seokjin a disapproving glance, “is that it's really obvious you guys are into each other. I don’t know your history but there are definitely some unresolved feelings.”

“If you’re not gonna talk things out with him, at least tell him to come back so Dickson doesn’t get him into even more trouble.” Jimin’s addition only vegetated your inclination to find him again. 

It made sense. It was rational, reasonable, and therefore possible. You couldn’t let him get in trouble. You were just doing him that small favor. In your head, it caked over the real reason; to know he still cared or to see his eyes looking back at you, and figuring out what was the wedge that drove you and him apart. Maybe this would somehow re-cultivate the half of your heart still hanging by the thread that tethered you to him.

“I-” You stood up, walking towards the door that was about to be opened and closed, and looked back at the three boys now favoring much more satisfied and slightly smug looks on their faces, “Oh, shut up.”

Jimin held his hand, palm facing the ceiling, in front of Namjoon who greeted it with a victorious high five. Seokjin held his pencil up to signify you that he could now peacefully start his essay, to which you smiled warmly. You couldn’t thank them out loud, because you had nothing to ‘thank’, or so you thought.

You were just making sure Hoseok wouldn't get in trouble. That’s all it was. Then, you opened and closed the door and began the chase again. This time, however, the fog that once hurdled your vision was easy to sift through with the loud beats of your heart navigating you through the moors of the hallways.

You turned left, then stopped to ponder on turning back and going right instead. Hoseok didn’t make this easy and you wouldn’t have expected anything less from him. Eventually, you just let your body wander the many halls for about ten minutes before you decided on furthering your search to the roof of the main building. 

There was a new revenue of motivation that moved your legs forward. Before, they were struggling to keep up with everything life hurled at you. Now, it was far more determined and self-assured because you were moving towards a goal. You wanted to find him, and this time everything you had faced, all the loneliness, self-blame, forced smiles and friendships couldn’t keep up with you.

The stairs proved to be quite a test for your determination, and you passed with flying colors, heavy breaths, and inflamed hamstrings. You were lucky to push through the door and find him standing, staring off into the expanse of the fog. Towering over the haze had you realizing the entire school had been submerged, not just Hoseok and you and the library. Everything was under that sheet of blindness except for, as of now, you and Hoseok. The roof served as a platform to look upon the fog and stand safe from the numbing effect it debilitated on those in it. You knew he heard you. The perk of his ear as you ungracefully fell through the door to the open air told you he knew you were there. 

You stood a few feet behind him, and he offered only the view of his back facing you. There was a line to be crossed if you were to go towards him, place your hand on his shoulder, and ask him to face you. Whatever line that was, you knew it was Hoseok who set it and you wanted to know why.

“It’s cold out here.”

He said nothing, but did provide the tenuous gesture to turn his head, giving you a side profile of his face. In turn, wiring through your eyes was the stains of what could only be deduced as tears along his cheek. 

“Aren’t you cold? Let’s go back inside, Hobi.” 

Hoseok couldn’t look, doing so would only invite you to join him. It would plot his every desire along the pavement and undress how much he wanted to have and hold you. But you were no one’s, least of all his, to hold.

“Dickson could be back any minute.” Your footsteps towards him raised the clarity of your voice. You were doing a fine job at hiding the real reason you came up to get him, both from yourself and Hoseok. It pinched his weathered heart that you had just come up to warn him about Dickson. 

“Okay.” He answered curtly to bitter the atmosphere and showed no sign of leaving. 

“Well, I’m not leaving here until you get your ass down there, so, you’ll be getting me in trouble too.” You crossed the line which felt more like walking over a burned bridge, and placed yourself next to him with perfect access to see his face.

He was even more beautiful standing above the fog. 

You leaned your elbows next to his on the ledge of the building. His eyes, glistening from the tint of resisted tears, plowed over the treetops peeking through the top layers of mist. It was difficult to tell whether or not he was listening when his eyes were busy whispering secrets to everything in the far distance and the close proximities. To everything but you.

“Why?” Hoseok’s eyes were nudging towards the direction of you. He wanted so badly to look at you, to brave a glance but he was so cold out here that he had frozen over into ice. 

In this ice, he couldn’t move or even breathe for that matter. Looking at you and not being able to move towards you was an unnecessary torture of which he'd rather not look at you at all. So, he remained in his calcified state, eyes edging dangerously close to you.

“Why what?” Your eyes moved away from him, to the fog instead, trying to see the ground below. “You’re staying up here, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m staying with you.” Hoseok was shocked that you said this with such decisiveness; it was difficult to decipher whether this proposition came as easily as it was said. The lonely glades of mist were entrenched by a new plurality, like a double-edged sword ready to cut through the veil of secrets. The more you would push through Hoseok’s skin, the more it penetrated your own.

“God! Why can’t you just leave?” He removed himself from the ledge, pacing over to the space in the middle of the roof. Thinking this would suffice the desperation for distance was a gross miscalculation. You too pulled away from the ledge that overlooked the foggy plains and placed your steps consecutively with his. 

“Don’t you see I clearly don’t want you here?” That lie tasted much more sour when spoken out loud.

“I don't! Okay? I really don’t. I don't understand… I- Why did you leave? What the fuck did I do?” Your voice had matched in elevation with your frustration; you were not referring to him leaving the library, but to his cold departure from your life over three years ago. And with that, was the unending pursuit of him. 

“___, you just have better places to be. So go! Stop staying with me. Jesus fucking Christ! Look at me!” His hands angrily emphasized his sharp features that would surely draw blood if you came too close. “You shouldn't be hanging around with someone like me.”

“Is that what this has been all about?” You stood paralyzed; your body was stunned from this all too underwhelming reason. You were hoping that this wasn’t it, there was surely a much more redeeming explanation for how he ripped your heart right out of your chest. The thought that this was the reason for the cut tie had cornered you in a fiery rage. It made you furious. “Are you fucking kidding me, Hobi? That’s what this is about?”

What better place to be than right here, with you? You knew he would not be generous in giving any further explanation, so this question remained in your head.

“Yeah, actually, it is.” A shiver riddled its way under his jacket. He turned towards you, finding that revealing the truth which cemented him into a miserable, solitary life was not as climactic as he expected. Nor did he expect it to be revealed in the first place.

But it was, unceremoniously, rolled onto the roof. He had nothing to hide anymore so he looked at you. Your eyes, that he could finally see since you were above the fog, were close to tears. Years and years of denial and repression compounding against your heavy heart now alleviated, but it was not the least bit rewarding. You thought he was absolutely delusional to believe the gesture that his abandonment was rooted in the effort to protect you, when all it did was hurt you.

“No I-” You swiped your hand against your cheek, though it was useless as tears soon replaced themselves on your face, “That’s so stupid. That’s- You think I care? I don’t give a fuck about what you look like or what you do, Hobi. Don’t you understand I-”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m not good.” His voice wavered through his throat, releasing more as a cry for help than an assertion of truth. 

“How could you say that?” You did him the favor of taking the strides towards him. The initiative fell to you and your body moved through instinct to close that distance Hoseok kept trying to re-establish. His body was weak up close; when there was no space or fog and the jacket draped over his body could no longer keep his skin collected along his bones, he was weak and it was far more relieving to see him vulnerable. 

“You were the best thing to ever happen to me. You were the only little first grader that wanted to be my friend and not just that. You showed me that someone could actually want to be my friend. You gave me so many years of happiness that would have been dreadful without you. I would have hated life without you. And I do! I hate life without you, Hobi. I’m so lonely.” You were unsure how you came to finally reveal every message your heart pumped through your veins and up to your brain for all these years, but you were glad it happened.

It wasn’t Hoseok’s lack of effort that kept all the good things he’s done under the rug of unimportance. It was the mounds of contempt the world held for kids like him. The stigma of abandonment and undesirability that was clamping down on any part of him brave enough to reach out, making it difficult for any feelings to be shown without irreparable harm or discouragement.

“You don't mean that.”

“I don't mean that. That’s it? That’s all you can say?”

It was, for the moment, all he could say. The feelings of unworthiness facilitated utter shame of himself like congruent figures now inseparable from each other and had molded a cage of confinement around Hoseok. His body was trapped under the scrutiny of everyone who expected him to fail, and one day he was afraid your eyes would join. That one day, you would look upon him with nothing of warmth, love, or admiration. Nothing of the eyes populated with blankets and storms and bountiful roses. 

“You’re so fucking persistent!”

“Why are you pushing me away?”

“Because!”

“Tell me why! You know I deserve it.” The conversation metered out with a lot less organization and structure, which was the result of many untouched feelings released between the two of you. The blizzarding words were combative and destructive as well as reparative and conjoining, but most of all it was grievously uncivilized.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Three years. Three fucking years, Hoseok. I’ve wasted three years of my life blaming myself for losing you. Blaming myself for being lonely. God! I'm so mad at you! I'm so mad at myself for still loving you!”

And there it was. The last stroke of courage slipping from your mouth into the words spoken through an unfiltered and unrestrained heart. It was beating fast right now as if it had been unmoving in your chest for the past three years. Finally beating again, you felt all the blood return to your limbs in waves of pricks along the expanse of your skin.

Hoseok was not ready to be cast into the shallow, yet inescapable oasis of your testament. The remoteness of the past three years had him crawling through an emotionless desert, purged of any source of water or food or nourishments to keep his thick-skinned body functioning. The moment he was presented with a bit of the revitalizing water, Hoseok, like many starving people, dove into it too much, too fast.

He felt the atrophied muscles in his legs gain traction to glide towards you. The force was a savage agent of his tightly packed emotions which erupted the moment you said you loved him. He loved you, he knew that now, and his body wouldn’t allow him a second longer to sit desolate and starved. 

Without stopping him, his lips planted roughly and passionately against yours. You were wrapping your arms around his neck before the logical sense of what was happening had been granted permission into your conscience.

Your heart, his heart, were guiding and deepening the kiss, only tangling you tighter into your dedication for him as much as it was twisting the confusion and unanswered questions into a larger, messier knot.

His tongue slid against your lower lip, assuming an entrance to slip himself into your mouth. Your jaw hung slightly agape and gluttonous at the way his lips spilled such tender movements against yours. His hands were running along your back fervently, holding your body firmly in place, like he was trying to keep his own body from disassembling. 

Your lips were moving messily against his, though unchoreographed, they moved with a near perfect synchronicity. Refinement had seceded to your hunger to taste him. His mouth was sweet and hot, gentle and forceful, loving and angry, and the light pinch of his teeth that took your bottom lip between them had you moaning lightly into his mouth.

Then, everything once expounding into inexistence flooded back into reality. You divorced yourself from him as every empty promise claimed their demands to be fulfilled. The push against his chest was strong and it had to be in order to dissect that long awaited act of closeness. 

“What the hell?”

A long interval of silence tormented the rooftop since Hoseok could only explain himself through guilty looks directed at the concrete floor. The surface upholding him was solid, of course, so it was strange that he suddenly felt like he was sinking into the ground below. His hand ran through his hair, trying to bring himself to words. To say anything or do anything other than take you in his arms and hold onto you so that his body wouldn’t sink beneath the roof’s malleable surface.

“I’m sorry.” And that was not good enough for you. Not when he kissed you like he loved you and didn’t let you fill three years with desperate, lost hopes.

“Sorry for what? For kissing me or for giving up on our friendship? Or for breaking my heart? Or for making me feel like I did something wrong or wasn’t enough for you? Or for making me think that everything built between us was just my imagination?” The list could have lengthened into an unplanned admittance of all the pain he caused you, however, it wasn’t the time for you to speak. 

It was his turn.

“I guess I was just…” Afraid you wouldn’t want me anymore, “I guess I just didn't see it that way.”

“Stop lying.” You said and could only hope he wouldn’t revert to his evasive and insincere responses. Your hand came to rise and press against his chest. There was nothing to testify what came over you in this moment, but you wanted to feel his chest and know his heart was still beating. That, like yours, it still sent life throughout his body with its consecutive pumps. It was. 

Ever so harshly pounding away at his rib cage as if it were trying to break free.

“I never… I never had anyone care.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t wanna drag you into my shit.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Your hand moved from his chest to his chin, holding it in place so he couldn’t get the chance to look anywhere but into your eyes.

“Don’t be stupid, ___. My life isn't exactly picture perfect. From the beginning, my parents didn’t even want me.” He felt like he was being held emotionally captive by the years of trauma he had endured. Of the cycle of abuse and repression that crushed his will to feel anything at all. He was trying to break free. Despite all these facets of struggle, he spoke gently to you and it made your heart bleed empathy for his pain.

“Listen, there’s always that kid that everyone knows is trouble. Everyone knows that they’ll end up in a bad place. You know what I mean... That was me. I was that kid. I didn’t wanna drag you in that shit with me. You think I wanted to push you away? I had no other choice!” To you, he did have another choice. He could have stayed with you, but of course, he had no idea. 

Hoseok looked at you so sadly, with eyes begging to be loved and a voice softened by his tender, bruised heart. He felt so isolated. The imminence of his downfall became prevalent ever since he began to pay attention to the judgmental whispers of teachers and parents on open house nights when he showed up parentless, or when he was the last one at extended day care when everyone else’s parents came to pick them up from school. Paying attention to detail was the wrench thrown into his life, unhinging the naivety, and drilling in its place the knowledge that society had ostracized him for being an orphan.

Maybe it was because you loved him so much, and it was blinding. You didn’t see much of the world outside of the lens of Hoseok, but you didn’t feel the need to see such a place. Your figment of him was always in a good light; you couldn’t fathom shedding darkness or disappointment or repulsion anywhere near him. So, when he said this, you were completely oblivious of that dehumanizing label many teachers, parents, and fellow students grouped him under.

“I don’t understand.” 

“Of course you don’t.” He jerked his head away with a scoff. Though to no avail, your hand still mounted onto his chin.

“No I mean,” Your head turned down, attempting to process this information into coherency, “I don’t understand how anyone could see you like that.”

“See, this is exactly why I can’t be around you. I’d ruin you! You see the best in me and that's the worst thing you could do.”

‘Ruin you’? You still didn’t know what that meant.

“Were people really that bothered that you were an orphan?”

He said nothing. He simply looked at you as if you had pointed out an observation so universally accepted that it went unneeded to be discussed. Like it was a given to cast someone like him off, or to repeat his worthlessness until it was purged from a tongue bored of belittlement and moved onto the next victim of verbal assault. He was simply one of the dominoes falling into place. Falling on top of each forgotten and neglected child.

“You wanna know what Dickson said to me?” He paused, not to wait for your permission but to prepare himself to recount the hurtful things still pronging against his open wounds, “He told me I’m unwanted. He told me that I was going to end up some loser not even worth considering a part of society. Basically, I’m damaged goods, ___, and you shouldn’t be hanging around me. You actually have a chance to make something out of yourself. Don’t waste that chance on me. I can’t let you do that.”

“You know that's not true.” Your hand moved to his cheek since he slipped too easily away from your grip of his chin. You held him in place, you held him with you.

“Why shouldn’t I believe it? ___, think about it. I am pathetic. My own parents didn’t even want me. And my foster parents told me I was just a financial asset. That my only worth was their monthly foster parent check.” 

It was crushingly difficult to hear such punishing words coming from Hoseok. That he not only had to endure the unfeigned demoralization of those who saw his worth to be instrumental but that he had come to believe them. He came to resent himself for a choice that was not his to be made but still suffered every waking day for it.

“And I guess I thought you were going to leave me behind like everyone else seemed to do. Like everyone eventually just wants to get rid of me.” 

“What?” The core pillar of your relationship with Hoseok relied on his permanence in your life, so hearing him fear what didn’t once cross your mind took you back as well as your hand. “Hobi, how could you think that?”

He shrugged distantly.

“Don’t. Don't you dare.” Almost out of nowhere, your soft cries were emulsified by the dryness of the air and turned into a heavy sob. But, it was not out of nowhere. It was from somewhere deeply upset that you let him think so lowly of himself all these years. That maybe, you hadn’t fulfilled your job as his best friend. “First of all, don’t you dare say that about yourself and second of all Dickson is a piece of shit.”

“___, please don’t cry.” He was urgent in his request. 

Not over me. Don’t waste your wilting petals of tears over my corpse.

“You thought I would leave you? You weren’t protecting me from whatever inferiority complex you’ve carried around your whole life. You were protecting yourself.” 

“It’s not like that.” He stepped towards you, trying to ignore the wince worthy pain when you dodged him as if he were a bullet. “___, I love you.”

You were astounded by the signals so contrasting of each other that they led you to a plight of hysterics. You had to let out a flustered chuckle at the way he told you he would be heading left then turned right when you were already walking on the opposite path.

“I love you.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“I love you.”

“You have a fucking horrible way of showing it.” Your arms folded over your chest and he realized it was his turn to keep your gaze locked with his. To chase you and to be put in the position that he forced you into three years ago. “I can’t understand you.”

“I was weak. If your hands were covered in blood would you walk up to something good and clean and force your stains on it? Would you leave disgusting prints of yourself on something so pure just because you were the only person in my life that didn’t see me as just an orphan?” Hoseok drowned himself in his words, but obtained and kept a soft hold on your cheeks with his hands.

 He was unable to register how distorted his perception of himself was in your eyes, feeling as though everything he said drowned his lungs with waters that almost choked him from speaking at all. 

There was a borderless delusion which fraught the comparison Hoseok just explained. It fell close to thoughtless and hollow, the way he reduced you to some virginal, helpless and unattainable prize on a pedestal; he subjected you to some paradigm of pristine stature that wouldn’t have the good nature to be anything less than empathetic for him. Though, you were not the image of purity or unmarred of pain and suffering; he was the reason for that.

“I'm not some little innocent kid. I know bad shit happens, but I’d never let that change the way I see you.” Filling the vacancy of your heart wasn't all too touching. You were distraught, distrustful, of everything in this world that led Hoseok to such a destructive mindset. To ruin the sweetest boy and subject him to undeserved misery. “You’re not just an orphan. You will not let that define you, you hear me? You are you. You are Jung Hoseok. To me, you will always be Hobi.”

The most frustrating part of this was tied between the fact that no real blame could be placed on one contender and the difficulty of understanding someone’s story when it went untold for far too long. Perhaps you had been pretending his pain didn’t exist because it was easier to see him as a stone-like, uncaring heathen. It was easier to cover your deep grief for losing him with hatred, but it did nothing to solve the division between you two; at the end of the day, you were still lonely and you still needed him. Wasting three years away to bitter resentment was nothing compared to knowing the truth of it all but having no power in redirecting yourself to compassion rather than anger.

“I should have been honest. I was scared.” He said. “I just thought I could never be enough for you.”

The fog was fully cleared. Your eyes panned from the edge of the roof to Hoseok’s needful gaze and down his addicting lips. All this time, he was just as alone and just as afraid, existing no less than a car ride away from you and still light years from ever being able to garnish his defeat with an admittance that he needed someone.

What more was there to say? Hoseok could have droned on about the way his foster parents stripped him of innocence and tossed him into the frigid hands of self-reliance or how he felt himself sinking into failure when the world of no mercy pulled him by the ankle and dragged his thrashing body through life without the guidance of someone who knew what was best for him. He could have explained how every unmet expectation put him against the world, in constant competition with not just everyone else but himself. Fighting against his need to be cradled and cared for with his resistance to tenderness enacted to thicken the skin on his body so the weaponry of an orphaned life, unearned glares of contempt and disapproval, and predisposed low regards wouldn’t dig as deeply. 

He could have relayed all his nights lost to wondering why he wasn’t worth keeping. Why a child without the slightest clue how to dress, or bathe, or speak, or trust was turned away by the very people who brought him into this world and had to figure out all these lessons on his own.

It was the depletion of his own self-worth that drove him to loosen his grips, and how that was not of apathy but instead caring too much to let himself get in the way of your opportunely life. Letting you go was a loss that came with a painful imminence.

He said none of this because you looked at his eyes and he looked at yours. Through the clean air, the ripe and unhazed space among reuniting stares, he saw what your eyes carried. It was an ocean. A place of immeasurable depth and complexity, never still and constantly giving the sand something to shelter and love. A wide body of life and water that replenished the seared collection of bones under the parched skin of Hoseok’s flesh.

In loving you, in gazing into you, he let the water diffuse his skin until he was skinless, fully bone.

“I never stopped.” You redacted the fact that you were referring to loving him, because the unsaid implications were communicated much more beautifully and accurately than what the entire collection of the English language could attribute.

“Me neither.” Hoseok paused, dropping his hands from your face to his sides knowing with full confidence you and your gaze would remain with him, “I don’t know what to do.”

“About what?”

“I hate living. It's terrible. Everything about my life is terrible and I hate it.” His face turned wet quickly. Seeing this brought a natural desire to hold him again and to cast off his despair with your loving touch.

“Am I terrible?” You asked, hoping your words would serve as that gentle caress.

“No, how- Why would you say that?”

“Because I’m a part of your life. You might have gotten rid of me once, but I’m here to stay. Am I so terrible?”

“No. You’re wonderful.”

“Can you look at me and tell me I’m wrong when I say I need you in my life just as much as you need me?” The stagnant exchange of undeterred eyes was a comforting overture. A beginning that was not quite new, but a dormant adventure ready to be reborn into fruition.

“No.”

“So, I’m going to tell you. Hoseok, I need you in my life because I love you. Because no matter what people may say, you’ve brought nothing but love and happiness into my life.” The words, like a needle and thread woven into him, stitched the fabric of his heart back to fullness.  “Do you understand? I believe in you. I will be there for you. That’s what friends are for.”

“You’re my friend.” It constituted both a question and an irrefutable statement.

“Yours.”

“Mine.” He smiled softly, a gentle disparity against his tears.

“Life won’t be so terrible. I promise. If we have each other. If we have people who care, life is not so terrible. You have me, Hobi, you have someone who cares.”

There was no profound revelation with what you said. Nothing that was original or unordinary; it was quite common to be told you were cared about. One could refine your words to about three, maybe four, with the same tact. But that is exactly what made it original and unordinary to Hoseok. Countless people said the words ‘I care about you’, trillions of times and in hundreds of different ways and languages. It was said over and over again but Hoseok was never familiar with the comfort of being on the receiving end. To be cared about, and to be told he was cared about was quite revolutionary, and a completely profound rarity to him. And to him, these words were invented by your caring tongue; the first utterance that transformed the radical concept of care into something plausible. 

Sometimes, that’s all one needs. To be told they are cared for. Sometimes it’s enough to clean the bone of its wretched, heavy skin.

“What’s going to happen now?” You and he had migrated to look out to the fog ejecting itself among the trees and stretching all the way to the horizon. The trees were sitting so close together yet far enough for fog to slide between them. You wondered if the trees knew that they weren’t alone. 

“At this point, it's up to you.”

Once again, it wasn’t said. The beautiful things were expressed through silence because it somehow fertilized the sincerity with greater effect. Verbalizing them would have tainted what was kept clean and loving inside the warmth and safety of your hearts. You never knew to have such a connection with someone where the most important things that should be said aloud were somehow louder when they weren’t. Somehow, with the gentle brush of his arms against your sides as he was embracing you from behind, it was louder than words.

There was a stillness encompassing every piece of this moment. A stillness of the air, of time, of the two bodies placed above the fog. You and Hoseok were arrested from reality, lounging in the freedom of each other’s presence. The bright orange sun permeated through the grey clouds, reflecting specks of light along the faces of you and him. Seeing your skin once again carrying soft ornaments of the sun’s rays returned him to the only place he felt like he belonged: your heart. Being taken away from the chaos of life, Hoseok felt that this Saturday fell within the bounds of eternity.

“Are we going to be okay?”

“Together, we will be. We have each other.”

You took his hand in yours, fingers sliding together. His attention was stolen by you, or maybe it had belonged to you this whole time and was simply being returned to its rightful owner, still soaking in the sweet rays of the sun. He had no facetious, obtuse comment to tack along the tenderness of the roof. For once, he was vulnerable. It felt euphoric, like his heart truly began to pump life blood into his body.

“Okay.” He readied himself for the new world he was about to embark on, though this time, it was hand in hand with you.

“Ready?” You took a few steps back, towards the stairwell, your arm pulling Hoseok along, “I got you, Hobi.”

He nodded, no longer afraid of the dark halls. His narrative was not a singular venture. There was a partnership, a force of love perhaps, that pushed him to step forward. 

Hoseok once feared no one would get to his bones; to see the skeleton of himself underneath the epidermal armor. After many years and many layers of skin, no one had attempted much less succeeded in exposing his bones that yearned to be seen by the eyes of someone brave enough to face this quagmire.

And by chance, by timing's watchful eye, you had done just that. Lovingly exfoliated each layer of skin, washing away the scars and bruises of everything they had endured, and held his bones bare in your hands. Standing in the glimmering ocean waves of your eyes, feeling his bones, purified of all grief, against the air and conflated four years’ worth of the lonely, blinding fog once surrounding him. 

Standing in the sandbox once again of double occupancy. 

“I love you.” The words cascaded off his tongue with the same grace and earnest of what being in love felt like. Hoseok couldn’t do a lot of things and had quite a bit of trouble expressing himself for these past few years, but his love for you was something that couldn’t be anything less than accurate and sincere to do his heart a bit of justice. 

“You said that already.”

“Are you going to say it back or not?” He pulled you in by your waist, leaving you no other option than to oblige the requests he flew into the air.

“I love you, Hobi. I do. I love you.” Your hands lifted to his face, and his cheeks were warm. Though soft skin covering it, you could feel his bones. They were being caressed, loved, touched by your hands. 

He closed his eyes, trying to remember the last time he felt this at home when he wasn’t in your home of linens and lemons. His face shifted to the side to press his lips into your palm.

“I love you.” He said again, seeping into skin, printing the words into your bones. Hoseok had to repeat it, just to hear you say it once more, to make sure it was all real. That it wasn’t just him that was melting into the art of you, but the art of you touching him, coalescing with him.

“I love you.” Tears of his face were brushed by your thumb and they didn’t feel like the sad ones shed before. They were a sweet and gentle ode to everything he’d ever wanted since the moment he asked to play with you in the sandbox.

You were crying as well, holding him in your hands. Holding him. You could not see the fog, the only thing rapturing every sense was Hoseok. Your lips pressed lightly against his, feeling him smile into the kiss, and that drowned out the crisp, punishing air that pricked chills against your cheeks. 

Hoseok knew he was going to be okay.

 The two of you made your way back to the library, greeted with three suspenseful eyes, trained against the doorway partly from apprehension that Dickson would return and partly from hoping you and Hoseok would make a swift return. They, too, cared and wanted to see if Hoseok’s skin had finally shed.

“Heeeeey.” Seokjin drew out his coy greeting to tease you and Hoseok for the all too noticeable gesture of holding hands. Jimin and Namjoon were captured in the physical intimacy that you two casually displayed as well.

“You two took your sweet time, didn’t you?” Namjoon said to the pair of smiling faces now returning to the table behind Jimin without further explanation. He was implying the long absence of you and Hoseok was not delayed through a reprimand from Dickson but by your own insatiable desires for each other. 

“I found this idiot on the roof. Took me a bit to convince him to come back down here, but I did it.” You turned over to Hoseok who was investing his efforts in rearranging himself back into an outwardly tough manner.

“Oh, I bet you had to do a lot of convincing, huh ___.” Seokjin’s comment was met with a light slap against his shoulder by your hand for his lewd teasing, and the way his fingers imitated quotation marks when he said the word ‘convincing’.

“Hey! I actually had to convince him. This man is very, very stubborn.”

“Yeah, ___ wouldn’t leave me alone so I didn’t have much of a choice.” He stared at his hand once being held in yours, trying to shovel over the smile simmering on his lips. Jimin shifted to face you and Hoseok, eyes squinting to slits from reading the overwhelmingly happy expressions on your faces.

“So, Dickson came back.” Jimin said, smiling widely.

“Oh shit. What did he say?”

“We all pretended that we could see you and he was the only one that couldn’t see you guys. It was hilarious, you should have seen his face.” Seokjin intervened with his own account of the story. Jimin turned to him and burst out laughing harder than when Dickson walked like a defeated soldier out of the library.

“He was like, ‘You kids need to learn respect. You mess with the bull, you get the horns’ whatever that means. But he didn’t even end up doing anything because he knew we wouldn’t snitch. But, damn, you should have seen his face.” Jimin’s hand covered his mouth during the process of him laughing and wedging in pieces of the story in between. 

“That sounds like the dumbest cover up ever, but I guess Dickson is somehow dumber than that.” The count of five smiles amounted to each of you hunching over with laughter at the vice principal’s idle reactions to the detentionees displaying a clear sign of insubordination. 

“He is. He really is that dumb.” Namjoon said during a pause from whatever he was drawing.

“Well, either way, I appreciate the effort. And Hobi does too, even though he won’t admit it.” His stubborn disavowal of expressing appreciation contrived through rolled eyes that then landed onto the four others accompanying his space. Though shadowed through his many apathetic modes of emoting, he found this Saturday detention not only bearable, but enjoyable. He found himself attached to other people after severing all ties from actual intimacy. Being connected and vulnerable was an easier way of going about his life. And, he didn’t realize it then, but he planned on keeping it that way. 

“Hey guys?” Seokjin tossed aside the Dickson debacle with this conversational prelude, “What’s gonna happen when we go back out there?”

“What do you mean?” You asked, absentmindedly reaching over to grab Hoseok’s hand at the mention of leaving the safe space of the library. He responded to you with a gentle, reassuring squeeze that eased the contraction of your worried muscles.

“We’re still gonna be friends, right?” The prospect fell into consideration as the five of you were moved to silence. After a few exchanges of ambivalent and uncertain glances, Namjoon worked in a soft smile to soothe the frightful thought of returning to the harsh reality. 

“Yeah. We are.” His confirmation spoke for the rest of your benevolent agreement. 

“Well, I better see you guys at all of my games.” Jimin set this expectation as a receival of the newly polished friendships, grooming quite a bit of fondness being that the four of you knew more about Jimin than his own parents. “And, we’ll be sure to go to Namjoon’s.... Art competitions?”

“Not quite, but I appreciate the thought.” Namjoon laughed. 

The commonalities that were once so obscured between you all had become clear by the arrival of the eighth hour. Though there were many obstacles placed to stint any form of connection between five polar adversaries, you all found a salve from the relentless feeling of loneliness through each other. Your essays were never written, finding Dickson’s call for another Saturday detention of probable cause. Even if you were to write an essay on what you did wrong and why it was wrong as well as why you were sorry, there would be no truth unveiled in it. You all found that living unapologetically had been a far more effective catalyst for growth and maturation than any half-hearted essay assigned by a man with no credentials to call himself a student administrator.  

There was that phrase, "down to the bone", that had hung over Hoseok's mind for quite a bit today. Some say it implies when you've spent all you had, and are left with the poverty of dry marrow. That, to him, was a mutilation of the phrase which he couldn't accept.

This colloquial, "down to the bone", could not be a reference to having nothing left. Not in his case at least. Not when he felt so full of safety with nothing but his bones under the home of your eyes and hands

Hoseok looked at you, then to the other three and knew things would be different. Eventually, things would get better, he just had to wait long enough for those better things to come.

You found each other, and that was all that mattered.

 A week later, you met up in the campus’ cafe with Jimin, Namjoon, Seokjin, and Hoseok discussing the rather insignificant topic of which contestant was going to be eliminated from the reality television show you had all been keeping up with. 

“Hey, did you guys ever actually write that essay Dickson told us to write?” Seokjin asked, knowing he had failed to do so.

“Nope.” Jimin said unregretfully, almost with a prideful twist.

“Of course not.” You replied.

“Well, I might have written something on behalf of all of us. It wasn’t an essay per say, more like a letter to Dickson.” Namjoon said smugly into the cup of his coffee.

“What? What did you write?” Jimin put forth the curiosity shared by the four of you.

“Oh nothing too special.” But, of course, if it was anything of Namjoon’s doing, it was something entirely special.

You decided not to further pry on the specifics of what was written, rather sipping your coffee and learning not to regret how the hot liquid burned your tongue. Those eight hours spent in the library gifted you with a wider perspective. Maybe you burned your tongue on this coffee, and tomorrow you might miss the bus to work. Or, sometime in the near future, there would be a new store in the mall that lured you away from the errands set to a schedule and you would have to rush back to work a few minutes late. You learned that these small misdirections in life happen, at the exact right time and the exact right place.

The grateful receive of every moment, deliberate or erroneous, was like a single grain of sand. One grain might pinch out some annoyance. Ten was too textured to ignore. Dozens and thousands padded down as a sandbox where two childhood friends could play. And millions of grains of sand, of gratefully received moments, cultivated a soft shoreline; a place where the deep blue tides had a comfortable bed to tumble onto when it was tired from the tempestuous ocean. Where the contents of the ocean could spill along the wet sand, and it would humbly the tired water’s offerings. A place where a mass of misty, opaque air could roll in, cover every inch of the ocean and would blind the eyes. 

But, never the heart. 

The hearts, joined since the first grade, were free of scars because of the plethora of love that continued to flourish even in your absence. Love always keeps the heart safe.

Timing was a fickle arbiter, always tearing you from one thing to the next and the next and the next, but somehow leading you to exactly where you were meant to be. It has a way about itself, inevitably delivering you into the lives of those you were meant to be with. 

With Jimin, with Namjoon, with Seokjin.

And once again with Hoseok.

-----

a/n: thank you so much for plowing through this long, angsty one shot! i am so happy to finally release this and hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed creating it. as always, i would love to hear feedback from you lovely readers! 

[troublecominghq]

character name(s)/alias/etc: regulus arcturus black / r.a.b.

character age and date of birth: got stuck in the fold at 17, got out in august of year 120, so currently 18ish // year 78

character's pronouns/gender identity/romantic & sexual identity: he/they, agender, demisexual greyromantic

character faceclaim: timothee chalamet

oc or canon + which fandom affiliated with: canon, hp

currently located: treod, l’osau

moral alignment + people/groups etc they are aligned to: lawful neutral, his main allegiance is with the black family, or whatever is left of it, then the noir branch, and then the magical world of albion/hogwarts in general.

tell us about their personality/the kind of character they are/what kind of goals etc they have: regulus is defined by his capability to combine extremely conservative and progressive views at the same time. he is goal-oriented and is willing to bend social norms and go against orders to get what he wants, but he does hold respect for some hierarchies.

family is extremely important to him, as is following its traditions, but he can, at times, interpret them in ways that seem most fit to a particular situation and his own needs.

he’s extremely charming when he wants to, charismatic and good at getting people on his side. good manipulator. due to his upbringing he does however find it hard to forge genuine emotional connections with others and feels like it’s constantly necessary to be on guard with the rest of the world. his main defense mechanism is an inflated sense of self-worth and general arrogance.

now that he has found out that decades have passed since he got frozen in the fold and the dark lord has been destroyed, regulus’ main goal is to restore the black family and whatever is left of its property. he also wants to get rid of the fold, out of pure spite and anger of losing so much time to it.

biography: regulus was born in a pure blood family, the noble and most ancient house of black, and he carried this name with dignity and grace. he respected the traditions of the world he grew up in, and when he saw his brother sirius drift further and further away from what the heir of their house should be, he didn't hesitate to make himself the perfect son.

he loved sirius, of course, more than anything, but regulus wasn't born to live in someone's shadow, he was born to shine. and shine he did.

he was sorted into slytherin, as a proper black should, and he was brilliant in his studies, the top of his year on every single exam, a prefect. he even joined the quidditch team and became a seeker, another jewel in his crown.

of course, all of those were just temporary means to improve his status at hogwarts, and what regulus really had his eyes set upon was true power and influence after graduation, and when he learned about a group of older students, practicing dark arts and serving their ‘dark lord’, he knew that this was his and his family’s chance. regulus didn't particularly support all their ideals from the very beginning, but he saw an opportunity and wouldn't be a slytherin, or a black, if he didn't chase it.

so he became a death eater, and that was when his life started to crumble. blacks had never been a light family, not by any means, but there was a difference between darkness and pure madness, and this new dark lord was leaning into the latter with every passing day.

unfortunately for him, regulus, one of his youngest and seemingly most harmless followers, was also a genius and he wasn't about to let one madman destroy the world he and his family had thrived in for centuries.

so he used every trick he knew to sniff out every single of voldemort’s secrets and develop a scheme of bringing him down.

in the end, it was his pride that doomed him.

perhaps, if he hadn’t followed the trail to one of the horcruxes into the shadow fold in ravka alone, he would have gotten out safe, but regulus was too assured of his own skills. he ended up overwhelmed by the monsters of the fold, and had to resort to using a shield spell he had prepared as his last possible resort. he put himself in magical stasis, sending out a message to his parents about what had happened to him.

unfortunately for him, now that his powers were split between two major spells, his patronus couldn’t get all the way through the shadows of the fold.

and so regulus black was lost to the world.

until, years later, a particular sun summoner made her way through the fold on a ship following a route that went right across where he had spent the last decades. after such a long time of use, the spell he had put on himself was frail enough to be disrupted by the sudden surge of light and magic, and he found himself free once more.

almost completely magically drained and having lost twenty six years.

he had just enough strength left to apparate out of the fold, and after spending a couple of utterly miserable days recovering and making his way to os kervo, he reached it only to find the hidden black house his family had previously used during travels to ravka empty and filled with dust.

using a couple of spells here and there, regulus managed to get aboard a ship going from os kervo to treod, where he quickly got in touch with the senior black family branch, the noirs. from them, he soon learned the fate that his family had met in albion, which both saddened and enraged him. but he was still a black, and he had no intentions of being the last one.

so regulus went back to what he had done all those years before. scheming.

[gabriel-agreste-has-no-rights]

(Not a new fic, I just keep forgetting to officially post this one here)

Rating: T

Summary:  Ladybug's suit doesn't have any arch support. Luckily, she has a supportive partner who can help.

Word Count:  2262

Notes: Breaking my usual silly reveal fic brand for some ladynoir fluff.  Inspired by lnc2’s tumblr post: https://gabriel-agreste-has-no-rights.tumblr.com/post/190301790972/lnc2-lnc2-chat-noir-has-boots-but-what-about

Please ignore the fact that I may be misinterpreting Mister Bug and Lady Noire’s costume designs as well, it’s vaguely plot relevant lol

XXX

Long-distance akumas were the worst. She and Chat had swung, vaulted, and ran all the way across Paris to catch Cyclone, an akumatized cyclist upset he’d lost his place in the Tour de France.  A very very fast cyclist, thanks to Hawkmoth’s assistance.

“I think we should switch kwamis again,” Marinette grumbled as she dropped down to sit on the roof, her legs dangling off the side like the deadweight they were.  

“You know if you ever want to wear the clown costume all you have to do is ask.” Chat Noir smirked as he plopped down beside her, one foot resting over his knee. “I doubt I could’ve come up with what you did with the laundry detergent, though. I probably would’ve just asked for a jet pack. Or a motorcycle. Ooh, or maybe—”

“The Lucky Charm doesn’t work like that.”

“Maybe not for you. Maybe I just know what I want.” He leaned into her space, and it looked like he might have been wiggling his eyebrows, but it was hard to tell under his mask.

Marinette bit back a laugh and pushed him back by the nose. “Nice try.  I know exactly what I want in that regard, kitty.”

That statement was… not quite as true as it used to be.  She knew she was after blond hair and soft green eyes, after someone who was kind and sweet and selfless.  But before she’d realized it, the model smiles and loose t-shirts in her dreams were joined by teasing smirks and tight leather.

...But it was just because she spent so much time with Chat, that’s all.  For all the distance she’d tried to keep, it was hard to resist getting closer to him.  He was her best friend.

“The akuma right has nothing to do with it though,” she went on before she could fall down that rabbit hole again. “Well I guess it does a little. Sort of. I mean—I want your boots.”

Chat blinked. “I don’t think they’d fit you, Bug.”

“I mean,” she huffed, gesturing to her own suited feet, “I have no arch support whatsoever. The miraculous cure might fix the akuma’s damage, but I’m still left with two slabs of pain hanging at the end of my legs.”

They had (separately) dropped their transformations to feed their kwamis before suiting up again, but that hadn’t eased her aching feet either.  She was still really, really not looking forward to making it all the way back home. 

“Let me get this straight,” Chat said with a stifled snicker, “you want to borrow Plagg so your transformation will give you real shoes.”

“Hey, I’d like to see you run around my suit and not complain.  And your Mister Bug transformation doesn’t count.  Tikki gave you boots.”  She crossed her arms.  

He leaned back on his palms and smirked.  “Careful, Bugaboo.  I’m flattered you’re jealous of me, but green really isn’t your color.”

She shoved his arm, sending him flopping back on the roof with a laugh.

“I regret asking.  You keep the clown costume.”

He tucked his hands behind his head before flashing a wink.  “You just know you’d miss seeing me in black leather.”

“You’re impossible, you know that?”  She rolled her eyes, which kept her gaze from where Chat was stretched out, practically begging to be stared at.  She’d hate for her expression to prove him right.

“Im-paw-ssible, you mean.”  He gave a lopsided grin.  Yep, she could just focus on that, and not the way he was lounging like he was attempting to recreate one of Adrien’s model poses… and succeeding…

(Even best friends weren’t supposed to stare at each other like that, were they?)

His voice snapped her out of ogling him.  “If your feet really hurt, though, there’s always something else you could ask.”

“I already tried.”  She sighed.  If nothing else, the pain in her feet was also a good distraction from her unfairly attractive partner.  “Tikki can’t change the suit at this point.  Not unless I can drastically change how I see myself, but I can’t perform the mental gymnastics to pull that off.”

“I wasn’t talking about Tikki.”  He sat up abruptly and held out his hand.  “You know I’ll support you, even if your footwear won’t.”

Her nose scrunched.  “Sorry, Chat, but I don’t think moral support is going to heal my feet.”

“I didn’t mean moral support.  Foot massage, no strings attached.  For my partner who carries the whole world on her shoulders without even an insole.”

He beamed at her, as if rubbing her stinky, sweaty feet would be a favor to him.  

She shook her head.  “You really don’t have to, Chat.  My feet are disgusting.”  Especially after dashing across Paris all afternoon.  Her soles had to be caked in grit from every street in the city. 

“You could never disgust me, my Lady.”  He grinned dopily.  It should be illegal for him to show that kind of adoration with just a smile.  It was getting harder and harder to remember why she kept rejecting her partner.

Because you’re still in love with Adrien.  Because she couldn’t give Chat the kind of unwavering devotion he already showed her.  And because he didn’t deserve anything less.

...But he did offer the foot rubs with no strings attached.  With the way her feet were throbbing, to turn him down would be nothing but an act of pride.

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She kicked her feet up into his lap.  The suit protected her from the rough concrete and debris her feet were constantly exposed to, but the magical fabric barely dulled the soft touch of her partner’s hands.  All things considered, they’d shared weirder touches—they’d been tied up and tangled together more times than she could count at this point—but something about his soothing ministrations felt more intimate than she expected.  Maybe she’d just expected him to play a prank and tickle her, but this…

“If I would’ve known you’d do this, I would have asked you ages ago.”  Her voice was a little breathless as she laid back perpendicular to him.  His thumbs continued to massage heavenly patterns into the arch of her foot.

“So you’ll admit my hands are good for something besides using Cataclysm?”  His voice was teasing, but she didn’t care. Her foot had never felt this good. How much pain had built up there over the weeks and months of akuma fights?  

More importantly, how could she convince Chat to make this a regular thing?

“Yes,” she breathed.  “Where did you learn how to do this?  You have a side job as a masseuse?”

He chuckled but kept up the motion of his magical hands.  “Old friend, actually.  She always found ways to make me give her foot rubs when we were younger.”

“Lucky girl,” Marinette murmured, her eyes slipping closed.  He moved his attention to her other foot, working his way up from her heel towards her toes.  If this was how good Chat was with her feet…

Nope, nope, she was not letting that train of thought out of the station.

“Don’t worry, LB, your feet are much cuter than hers.”

“Please tell me you don’t have a weird thing for feet,” she blurted, apparently having lost her filter to his hands.

He just laughed, though.  “Only yours,” he said, and then she felt something soft press to the top of her big toe.

“Chat!”  She sprung upright to see him winking again before pulling his lips back from her foot.  “Gross!  You don’t know where that’s been!”

That only made him laugh harder—so hard he was actually gasping for breath.  “Your face!”

She snapped her jaw shut, only then realizing how dumbly she’d been gaping.  “You kissed my foot!  What did you expect me to do?”

“I kiss your hand all the time.”  He shrugged, his grin turning sly.  “So unless you have a thing for feet…”

“Oh my gosh, Chat, shut up.”  She covered her blushing cheeks, mostly just disappointed that there was no way she could both keep her dignity and ask him for another foot massage.

“I wouldn’t tell.  I’d give you alllll the foot rubs you want.”

“Tempting,” she muttered.

“Hmm?  What was that?”

She glared out from between her fingers, but couldn’t tell from his teasing grin if he’d actually heard her or not.

“I was just wondering,” she said, beginning to spin a plan in her mind.  “Foot massages aren’t that hard, really. Of course you’d be good at them.”

His grin fell to a pout.  “What are you getting at?”

“I mean, a real challenge would be giving a good neck and shoulder massage.  It takes a strong enough touch to ohhhhhhhh…”

She was gone.  He’d moved to kneel behind her, his fingers angled to keep his claws from pricking her as he dug into the knots that had been afflicting her for ages.  Anxiety and tension unraveled under the circular motions of his thumbs.

“What was that, Bugaboo?”  He whispered near her ear, sending shivers down her spine—shivers that he could probably feel, considering his hands had moved closer together to massage between her shoulderblades.

“You’re… terrible.”  

“Mm-hm.  I guess I should just stop, then—”

“Don’t you dare.”

Gone, gone, gone.  And from her quick response, he had to know it too.

His hands paused for half a second before starting again.

“As my Lady wishes,” he purred.

He didn’t hold back.  His fingers dug deep into muscles tight from use, pressing hard enough to make her wince at times.  But it still felt like heaven.  Why was she not dating this boy, again?

Bad Marinette, she told herself.  You can’t date your partner just to take advantage of his back rubs.  Or the fact that he’s hot.  Or the fact that he would literally die for you, and has proved so on several occasions.

Or the fact that he’s madly in love with you.  Can’t forget that.

Those reasons were not listed in order of importance, but they were rather compelling.  Particularly with his touch melting away her more rational objections.

She wasn’t sure how long it was (not long enough) when his hands finally stilled, resting with his thumbs gently brushing the curve of her shoulderblades.

“What do you say?  Did I pass the test?”  He asked, sounding a little self-conscious now.

Test of what?  Seeing if he could turn her into a puddle?  The answer to that was a definite yes, but she’d prefer to keep that information confidential for at least a little longer.

“Y-yeah.  Thanks, kitty.”  

Her skin missed his warmth as he drew back.

“Anytime, Bugaboo.”  

It sounded like he really was willing to let that be the end of that.  No strings attached.  But—

“I still owe you,” she said, tucking her legs under her and turning to face him.

“I had a feeling you’d say that,” he replied with a chuckle.  “You never do like to accept help, even from me.  Or maybe it’s especially from me…”

“That’s not it.”  She shook her head, scooting closer.  Was that really what he thought?  “We’re partners, Chat.  I just don’t want to take more than I give.”

“You give me plenty, Ladybug.”  His voice turned serious as his hand inched towards hers, before coming to rest on the concrete roof just a centimeter away.  “Just getting to spend time with you outside of fighting akumas is a treasure.  I wouldn’t ask for anything more than that.”

Despite his usual outrageous flirting, she knew that was true.  If she ever wanted him to stop, he would.

But she’d never wanted him to.  Maybe because she knew deep down, she’d been falling for him all along.

“Hmmmm.”  She looked away, out towards the sunset horizon.  “That’s too bad.”

“Huh?”

A grin tugged at her lips.  “I hear your Lucky Charm gives you exactly what you ask for.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched his expression turn from confusion, to shock, to hope.

“And you… know what I’d ask for, right?”

Her shrug screamed nonchalance.  She could only hope it would cover up the pounding of her heart.  

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Maybe she couldn’t give Chat her whole heart yet.  And maybe part of her was being selfish, worn down by his teasing smiles and melting hands.  But… she had a feeling that if she let down this last barrier, it wouldn’t be long before she was giving him the same smitten look he directed at her now.

“Will you go out with me, my Lady?”  His hands were clasped beneath his chin, his tone practically begging.  It almost made her regret what she was about to say.  But she couldn’t let him off that easy.

“That depends.”  

Her quick reply startled him—but not as much as the soft, slow kiss she pressed to his cheek.  

She decided that she absolutely adored the stunned look on his face, the pink blooming beneath his mask, his golden eyelashes fluttering.  He was still gaping when she tossed one last wink over her shoulder.

“Can you catch me now that my feet are feline good again?”

And he was still gaping when she tossed her yo-yo out to the next roof.

“Ladybug, wait—!”

She was done waiting.  Maybe he had a point about the Lucky Charm—he’d always known what he wanted.  She’d always gotten what she needed.

Finally, it seemed those two things were one and the same.