#but it's hard not to feel bitter looking back. nostalgia's quite a drug.

[on-stolen-sunbeams]

There was a donut shop I used to pass on my walk to school senior year. I remember those pastel mornings well; the soft clouds of steam rising gently from outside vents, the way the world stood quiet, only interrupted by occasional puttering of an old pickup turning into the parking lot. It was in an old plaza, with flat, squat buildings and slightly garish, brightly colored signage. Every so often, if the breeze blew right, you could smell the faint aroma of coffee wafting your way. If you walked past early enough, sometimes you'd catch the glow of twinkle lights adorning the fence, still on from the night before and not yet washed out by sunlight. It was softer, somehow, a gentler, simpler place than the tall corporate-sleek tech companies, all silver and chrome, that came before. A kinder, more subdued plane of existence a few hundred feet down the road cloaked in goldenhour magic.

I once promised myself I'd stop by sometime, walk to school with a maple-glazed pastry in hand or curl up in the outdoor seating area and watch the sunrise. The shop opened early enough, after all. But I never did keep that promise. I regret it now.

It might just be the heartsick for yesteryear part of me, wedged somewhere beneath my ribcage like a particularly uncooperative splinter. But there's something pinprick painful about those unfulfilled promises. Not just about a warm donut, but penciled lists in childish handwriting with big dreams, so full of heart, leaving no room for much else. the complete and utter conviction in a happy ending. now I swirl bittersweet. Kids have the kind of faith that could take them to the stars should they only wish to glance a meteor. I know my younger self would lend me grace and sweet forgiveness that I can no longer afford, but I refuse to make a habit of accepting the priceless for free.

I'm not where I wanted to be. I didn't dream of dinner conversations under a veneer of disappointment and gray days, or pray to spend my days desperately clutching at mediocrity, of blending into wallpaper and counting down days torn between relief and dread.

It's easy to twist words into a new genre, a new form, cut sentences at the root and move them somewhere better. It's much harder to replant ampersand ambitions. I can't explain how things warped until they splintered. There's no clearcut reason for the way things are opposed to how they should've been. I don't want to look back and gloss over the regret, but averting my eyes is the least painful option, because it hurts, the twin desires to patch up youthful hopes and grind them to dust beneath my heel.

I don't know how this one ends. There's no moral, no central thesis I can cling to. I should've woven some kind of unifying theme, embedded details like a trail of breadcrumbs to an inevitable conclusion instead of throwing darts in the direction of a last page. The ending is still vague and uncertain. The story's not over yet.

Maybe I'll close with a zoomed in shot of a plane ticket, then a morning treat, some lesson in how it's never too late. The credits will roll into a lovely dawn sky, the focus will drag across a half-full coffee cup and evoke some sense of closure and peace. Onwards and upwards, it gets better. Maybe the shop's closed now, and the story ends with a solitary figure walking away, head heavy. the scene closes and you exit with a sour aftertaste and a wasted journey. I'm not cruel enough to spread regret like poisoned dandelion seeds in spring but sometimes it bleeds into the syllables. Maybe it fades off. I never visit, never wonder, slam the door shut and pretend today is day one and everything that came before never existed. Nostalgia sucks, but every open wound eventually scars over and flattens if you leave it be. Perhaps this one will too.

It's still too early to tell.

Some seven-year old part of me promises it will be alright. My seventeen year-old shade looks on with distrustful desperation. 

(I hope I do right by her.)

[besthimbomachine]

I want your commentary on a section of one of your fics, or a whole fic, that you've been DYING to get your thoughts out on. 😊

I hope you've been having a good day, and wanted to get this in before I go to bed glrbfj.

Owwwn thank you sweetheart <3

Btw I got this ask for the Directors Commentary thing AND another one for that too by an anon, nonnie I'm gonna save yours until chapter 4 is done cause I'll for SURE have things to talk about chapter 4 too. I fought through the pure angst of chapters 1 and 2 to get to the other ones which will have more funny, fluffy and horny things which I love writing. Chapter 3 already starts that off with the horny.

Anyways into the commentary proper, I did a bunch of parts of chapter 3 cause I really liked writing it.

I guess first I wanna comment in the fic as a whole. If anyone doesn't know, the title "my love when it counted" comes from the hozier song shrike. If you haven't listened to it, go and look it up, it's great and very much the vibe of this fic.

Anyways, this fic came not from a prompt or situation I found hot as most of mine do but from a feeling. Like, we know Kenny talked about thinking of retiring due to his injuries and we've been getting the vibe, esp after this week's show but also on his feud with Osprey, that he has been feeling the years. That he knows time has started to take it's toll on him. And I myself have been kinda going through my own crisis cause I'm reaching thirty, and as someone who only fell in tune with my own skin after I was 25, the dawning of my youth scares me.

So a heavy theme of this fic is time, how it changes you, in some ways it's bad, in some ways it's good, but it changes you. It has the power to change you so thoroughly that you become a stranger to your past self. So this is a story about the inexorable march of time and the changes it forces on you, and how sometimes you can be the right person at the wrong time. It's also about learning to live with your mistakes and putting in the work to fix things.

Also, every chapter has a working title so I can tell from one look at my Google docs what it's gonna be about, this one was "down memory lane hard".

Chapter parts will be under the read more

That was the box Kenny had dumped any photo with you in, to never be seen again. Shit, he didn’t even know he still had that. He was supposed to have thrown it away, but he never did quite get up the courage to do so. Looking at them now, he could feel the bitter sweet pang of nostalgia, the way it tasted like ashes in his mouth. Swallowing thickly, he stacked the photos together in the box again. That’s when he noticed something else, the black metal previously hidden by the scattered papers shining back at him. (Kenny made the big mistake of giving himself time to doubt instead of just throwing things out right away, big mistake buddy. Nostalgia is a drug, and also a liar, rarely the past is quite as good as it makes you think. Anyways, this is not the last we will hear from the nostalgia box, it still holds something else we haven’t heard about yet.)

For the most part, the camera seemed ok, and it sparked in Kenny a curiosity that he knew he shouldn’t feed. Whatever pictures it held, he knew they would do him no good right now. He knew he should just put it back in the box and leave it be. But he couldn’t resist as his finger pushed the power button, body moving on its own, ignoring all common sense. All he could do was hope the thing just would not turn on. (These three first chapters are just a long stretch of Kenny making bad decisions, some he really thinks would work out - like pretending you are strangers instead of trying to behave normally - and others he really know wouldn’t work out and still he does. At this point he is doing this almost as a type of self flagellation, he knows it will only hurt but it feels better to have the pain than nothing at all)

But of course it did. (hello ominous one liner in italic my old friend)

When Kenny finally made his way to the old photos, the first thing he was greeted with was his own face. Those same baby blues staring back at him, although a good few wrinkles less and many years younger. (references to how he feels about his age are actually important but hey kenny time did you good, you look better now) He had a smile on his face, features framed by the ropes as he sat on the floor of the ring. Behind him, he could see the silhouettes of Matt and Nick facing the vast empty arena, only a few more blurred forms dotted in the background. 

Sighing deeply, Kenny moved on to the older photos. Passing through pictures of him, Matt and Nick preparing in the ring, as well as pictures of you getting ready or climbing on the ropes. There was one video from that day that had you and Kenny dancing around the ring, and for the second time now he felt his heart shatter as his memory failed him. He made through the pictures of the four of you, but nothing moved his mind, the memories truly lost to time. (Time and how it changes people is at the core of this fics theme yes and the first thing time goes for in a person is their memories, the human mind is actually very bad at remembering things and sometimes that’s great but other times it’s depressing.)

Biting his lower lip, Kenny laid back against the headboard, finger pressing the button again, but the picture meeting him this time being completely different. The photo had been taken in front of a large mirror outside a building, and standing in the frame were the two of you. He had an umbrella in hand, and you had the camera covering half of your face as you looked through the viewfinder. (Go ahead and imagine the most Wes Anderson looking ass picture, that’s what I was going for, and yes I do deserve to get sent to the content gulag for my hipster crimes)

Sighing again, Kenny flipped through the photos rapidly before stopping when he noticed a change in environment. The picture he’d stopped in was of you, looking away from the camera with your hair tied up, water covering your bare chest all the way above the breasts. He paused, studying the environment, the stone walls and hazy fog circling you were hard to mistake. You two were at an onsen, by the size of it a private one, probably from whichever place you were staying at. (Hello darkness my old friend, like I said, I would have a hard time getting into an onsen cause the japanese still connect tattoos to criminal behavior and I’m covered in tattos but I’ve never commited a crime [Maria has in fact commited multiple minor crimes ranging from drug possession, to showin her tits in public, to having sex in a public-ish place, to stealing from a supermarket to the worst of all,multiple accounts of  piracy])

Kenny’s eyes trailed the exposed skin on the back of your neck, eyes following the curve of your spine as it delved underwater. He felt his chest tighten again, you were so gorgeous, if he closed his eyes he could almost feel your soft skin on his fingertips. The next picture had you laughing, waving one hand at the camera as if trying to shoo him away. Your movement - and the surrounding fog - made the photo blurry, but he could still see your exposed chest. Warm water spilled down the inside of your breasts, kissing your skin in ways he could only have in his dreams now.

Moving on to the next photo, Kenny felt the air hitching in his throat as his eyes met with your own, large and entrancing in a way that he never found again after he lost you. Your beautiful irises stared back at him through the screen, keeping him locked in place for a good moment as he felt himself dragged to the bottom of a lake. And for a second there, he really didn’t want to resurface. (Kenny is longing to the point of self destruction, poor guy, but like I said I like to write my man a little pathetic, take him down a notch, make him suffer for his crimes and have to work to get the girl)

When he finally remembered to breathe, Kenny fully took in the image. You stared straight ahead, deep sultry eyes locked with the lens as his hand touched your face. One of your hands held his own, your lips touching his knuckles and the back of his fingers in a soft kiss. Water droplets ran down the curve of your breasts, with the way you were sitting the water just about touched your chest, not fully reaching your nipples. God, you looked like something out of this world, like a siren ready to drag him underwater, a lure he’d never deny. (If he won’t let you do like a siren and drag him to the bottom of a lake to kill him, does he really love you?)

Blood rushed to Kenny’s face and in a moment his breathing became hard, air evading him for a long second. It was almost like he’d forgotten just how gorgeous you could be. His fragile memory - and his most shameful dreams - not doing justice to a sight he once had so freely that he didn’t fully value. He was young and stupid, and you were too beautiful for him to understand - and fuck, from what he saw in the ring you’d only gotten better. (Gotta make sure to remind yall that we are romanticizing aging in this house, you look better in your early thrities than you did in your early twenties!!!)

It did him no good. (Ominous one liner here again to remind Kenny that he should have just turned off the camera)

Watching the scene in the camera had Kenny groaning, extending his legs out in the bed, free hand coming to rest on top of the bulge now formed in his pants. He watched the image of you continue to tease him on the screen, licking his swollen head as you made eye contact with the lens. Muttering curses, his eyes followed the movements of your tongue, his fingers caressing his large bulge over the fabric of his pants. Just the sight of your lips surrounding the head of his cock being enough to have him fully hard. (One hard thing about this chapter was making it clear what was happening on the screen and what was happenning in current time you know, I wanted to make it clear enough so that things wouldn’t be too confusing. Anyways, love writing handjobs and blowjobs, this short smut gave me both, I should have expanded on it but I was tired already.)

Shit, he knew he shouldn’t be watching this. Let alone taking his pleasure from it.  It felt wrong, but he didn’t really wanna think about that right now. Kenny only barely remembered filming this video, let alone that it still existed somewhere. He brushed against it again by pure chance, it was not like a premeditated thing. 

Fuck, he missed you in more ways than he’d want to admit, and he didn’t want to deny his body’s desire. He didn’t want to deny the way seeing you in the ring had his mind reeling. The way hearing your voice in the backstage halls sent shivers down his spine. He knew it was wrong, but for a single moment he chose to give in to the desire burning deep inside his core. (We get a ‘I know it’s wrong but fuck it’ moment. Was it wrong of him? Yeah, kinda. But as someone who has been friends with people attracted to me and has artistic nudes floating somewhere in the internet, my personal belief is you can jerk off to a picture of me whatever so long as you treat me like a normal human being I don’t care)

Pulling the waistband of his pants down, Kenny released his throbbing cock. Veins popping around the thick shaft and sensitive head, his fingers sliding around it lazily. (thick and veiny is my favorite) He watched as you started slowly moving your head up and down on the screen, each time taking more of his shaft inside your mouth. Groaning, he cursed the lack of audio on the camera, wanting nothing more than to hear the delicious sounds he knew you’d be making. Kenny’s large hand wrapping tight around his length, fingers barely meeting as he pumped himself slowly. (One way I like to give the idea of dick size in smut instead of using the extremely vague and relative ‘it’s huge’ or the waaaay to specific and not sexy at all ‘X inches’ is to compare it to other things, writing blowjobs and handjobs is good for that. I mean, you know how large Kenny’s hands are, if his fingers can barely touch when he warps his hand around his cock, you know it’s BIG)

Kenny took in a sharp breath as he saw your lips getting close to the base of his cock, the camera shaking in his hands as a shiver coursed through his body, setting every nerve alight. He threw his head back, cursing under his breath before looking down again, watching you with darkened eyes. Taking his hand from his cock for a second, Kenny spat on his palm before he went back to fisting his length, fingers now picking up speed. (Spit is not good as lube I know, but it gives a raw sense of desperation that I find sexy for blowjob scenes)

Darkened eyes followed your movements as you bobbed your head a few more times, from tip all the way down, until your lips finally reached the base. The image shook a little before it steadied again. Kenny could almost feel the sensations, the tip of his cock touching the back of your throat, the wet warmth of your mouth stretching around his dick. He’d never forget that feeling, sinful and holy, pleasure bordering on pain. (Deep throat! Deep throat! A girl got a well trained gag reflex, kudos. Also, I know it’s cheap using a pleasure/pain comparison but I like it, I do.)

You continued your sucking on screen, and oh, what wouldn’t Kenny give to hear the noises. He groaned, trying to conjure them in his head as he fisted himself faster now, one hand almost not enough to satisfy his full length. Pre cum dripped from his swollen head, onto his fingers and down his veiny cock, making his movements easier and faster. His erection throbbing in his hand, feeling hot and heavy against his rough palm. (I love this whole paragraph, man. It’s cause Kenny has those hug beautiful hands with long thick fingers. Imining that pumping a big fat cock has me way too horny. I’m a sucker for nice hands.)

You locked eyes with the camera once again, and Kenny could see his hips bucking forward in the video. The hand in your hair stuttering in its pace as your tongue slipped out of your mouth and under his cock. Shit, just seeing that had him delirious, spilling praises out of his lips that he knew you’d never hear. (Gotta slip at least a little ‘alas, poor kenny’ moment in the middle of this horny mess) He imagined the feeling of your mouth, the warmth of your tongue all around him. Deft fists pumped up and down at a voracious speed, his cock heavy and slick in his hands, balls feeling full and tight.

In the screen, his hips bucked erratically now, not even caring if he was bringing your head all the way down or not. Your lips looked wet and abused as they stretched around his girth, moving up and down fast. Pulling your head all the way to his tip, Kenny’s hand moved to your lip, pulling your open mouth towards the camera before coming back to his own cock. He fisted himself a couple times, resting the head of his cock on your tongue as his thick length twitched. Rope after rope of his thick white cum spilled past your plump lips, filling your mouth with it. (I regret now not thinkin gof using the word flooding instead of filling, it would be sexier, but also I find the ‘cumming on someones open mouth so you can watch it’ thing very sexy)

Kenny pumped his hand faster and harder, feeling the coil in his gut snap as he watched you close your pretty mouth, swallowing all of his hot cum, tongue darting out to lick some that had slipped down your lip. He felt his orgasm hit like a truck, shutting his eyes as the intensity of the feeling had him seeing stars. With a grunt, his cock spasmed in his hand, shooting his cum like a torrent. Multiple white, thick ropes spilling from his cock, feeling hot as they poured on his exposed thighs and hips, staining his shirt where they fell on the fabric. 

Kenny rode his orgasm for what felt like forever, ecstasy completely clouding his mind. When he finally came to, eyes opening to see his still hard cock twitching slowly. Pearly white of cum painted his fingers, a string of it coming from the head and connecting to his hips. He swiped his thumb over his still sensitive head, spreading his thick white jizz over the tip. He was breathing hard, and it still took him a moment to fully return from his high. (I have a cum kink, send me to the nasty jail cause I’m gonna write guys who cum a lot and also guys whose cum is thick, you know I’m really horny for a character if I give him both traits, I like the image of a throbbing cock too, just *chefs kiss*, once again, loved writing these two paragraphs. Press F for Kenny’s shirt tho, depending on the fabric this is gonna be hard to clean.)

Looking at the mess he’d made, Kenny felt that pang of guilt back in his chest. Shit, he shouldn’t have done that. Pushing his cock back into his pants, he cleaned his hand in his already stained shirt before sitting straight against the headboard, the full weight of his guilt crashing down. He ran his hand through his hair, lips feeling dry as he swallowed hard.

He really shouldn’t have done that. If Kenny had felt bad after your recent fight, he felt even worse now. Like a sleazy, cowardly excuse of a man. One who was too weak to let go and too harsh to fix things. Worse, he felt like he had slipped back into the self centered asshole you’d left all those years back. Shit, this wasn’t who he wanted to be, and it made him sick to the stomach. He looked back to the camera, the video had already ended, the final image being your smiling face. (like I described this chapter once: Kenny’s very bad no good at all post nut clarity)

With a quick push of the buttons, Kenny deleted the video, erasing it from existence like he had done with the others after your break up. This was the right thing, and if he had known about this camera, known about this video, he’d have done it a long time ago. Now it was done, still he felt like shit. And there wasn’t really any way to erase that taste of guilt from his mouth. (We finish with Kenny doing the correct thing and also showing that he was an asshole but not a completly awful person, he did have the mind to at least do the minimally decent thing of erasing the sex videos he knew he had - he may or may not have jerked off to them before that just as he may or may not have jerked off to videos of reader’s matches - and this one he is erasing now. Like I said he will get the chance to straighten up his act and make some better choices, I don’t wanna end this in angst no happy ending)

[strandedcrow]

thoughts on the glass animals album dreamland? (info dump welcome)

YES hi hello thank you

I talked like,, a lot so I’m sparing y'all with a cut

The album itself is just so well organized and executed it’s insane. The entire album just captures the feeling of taking a nostalgic trip through your own life and the way that it ends up forgotten in a way, sickly sweet and vague, subdued, and so easy to get completely lost in. And part of what makes it so well done is the pure authenticity it’s completely drenched in. The album itself didn’t exist until quarantine hit, they had been taking a break after a band member was injured and had to recover, and that isolation had that same impact on them as it did on most of us, and the result was this extremely genuine album embodying nostalgia itself.

As a band they’ve always done such an incredible job of maintaining a theme throughout their album that is consistent without becoming repetitive. The song Dreamland does such a perfect job of pulling you into the album, easing you into a subdued album, fuzzy around the edges but clear once you can hone in on the details, on what’s being said, perfectly reflective of the theme it’s introducing you to. While it’s doing that it’s also providing a smooth shift from the last song on the album before it, HTBAHB. Agnes leaves that album off on such an extremely a somber, desperate, and lost note, which Dreamland picks up, just as lost in itself, taking off so beautifully from Agnes’ “You’re gone but you’re on my mind, I’m lost but I don’t know why,” and getting into the why. But it does so by warning you first, “You see in kodachrome, you see in pink and gold.” This album is distorted, it’s not right, the colors are wrong and everything is sweeter than it should be. At the same time, it sets up for the songs to follow, like “That worst thing you said” for It’s All So Incredibly Loud and “You were ten years old, holding hands in the classroom, he had a gun on the first day of high school” for Space Ghost Coast to Coast.It’s those vague, unconnected memories that you haven't quite grasped onto yet in full, but you know you’re going to get lost in them once you do. You’re stepping back from the overload of information and action today to visit who you used to be and what made you who you are now.

Right after it, Tangerine does something that Life Itself did for HTBAHB, it smoothened the general sound’s transition between albums. Just as Life Itself, with its beat similar to the album before its own could have fit into ZABA with no issue, Tangerine could have been on HTBAHB without disrupting the album. The “retro” vibe, the themes revolving around both the nostalgia of Dreamland and those of past relationships deteriorating because of missed opportunities and growing apart fits so well into both albums, it’s such a great transition from the past album to the current. The “I’m begging, hands knees please, tangerine” is also a common expression used (often as a double entendre) by them, again like in Life Itself, with its chorus being “Come back down to my knees, gotta get back, gotta get free, come back down to my knees, lean back now, lean back and breathe,” which just sets up for a really smooth callback to previous songs and album. Something else that Tangerine establishes is something that’s been a running theme with Glass Animals since ZABA: fruit. There is a lot of fruit here. It used to be a running joke that Glass Animals wasn’t actually a band, but a cryptic pineapple worshipping cult (no amount of music made will fool me, this is definitely a pineapple cult). This album uses fruit to remind you of the sugary sweetness of nostalgia, but there’s more history and, well, fan specific nostalgia that goes with that metaphor, too.

Hot Sugar is similar to a later song, Waterfalls Coming Out Your mouth, in that it’s about someone who is so cool that they aren’t actually cool. The person isn’t genuine, the idea of them isn’t actually them, but this was someone that you still want to be anyways, because who wouldn’t want to be that cool? The song doesn’t have much deeper meaning underlying it compared to some other’s because that depth doesn’t exist here, with this person. You know they’re “faking it,” but it doesn’t really matter beyond deciding if you actually like them or if you just want to be them, and the answer is the latter. This song is also similar to another, later song, Tokyo Drifting, introducing the listener to this person that he wants to be like, referencing “Hot rubber on the tar,” and setting the stage for the later song to tell you more about what he wanted to be like. Also, once again, through a mention of watermelon, fruit continues to be a recurring theme in the earlier tracks on this album, when the trip through nostalgic memories is still more sweet than bitter.

Right after we get introduced to this idea of who he wanted to be, we move onto what became of someone he knew closely, shared a lot with, and very suddenly lost touch with through Space Ghost Coast to Coast. The music itself is reminiscent of the music he listened to at the time. This song, being a telling of something that actually happened, is so authentic and raw in how it ends up, all still told through the layer of confusion, hurt, and again, that sweetness of nostalgia, with “You look bizarre in the apricot” establishing a deceptively sweet but confused tone over something heavy through yet another fruit metaphor. This song also manages to hit on other songs from the album when he tries to delve into why his friend did what he did, “Were you bored of gender norms,” matching with Dreamland’s “Go ask your questions like “What makes a man?”,” “… of being alone,” matching Heat Waves’ “I don’t wanna be alone, you know it hurts me too,” and “… no mama home, a bad divorce” matching pretty much the entirety of Domestic Bliss. Like Hot Sugar, this song sets up for Tokyo Drifting, with his idea of who he wants to be but isn’t, with “Remember when you stole mom’s old Geo Metro, you wore her old bathrobe, too small to see the road.” There’s also more blatant references being made to both past shooters (Black cap back with a trench coat, ay) and the arguments afterwards of what motivated them (Playing too much of that GTA, playing too much of that Dr. Dre). While he still wants to understand his old friend, and what happened for him to change so abruptly and dangerously, he does not want anything to do with him anymore. It’s a song about a loss of innocence and the understanding that sometimes you just won’t understand why someone does something. It’s just a complete banger in general.

Which then takes us to Tokyo Drifting, which absolutely slaps. The song itself revolves around what he wanted to be like, singing from a new persona rather than his own (Cane Suga from HTBAHB was done through the same persona). It breaks the pattern of referencing to fruit, instead focusing on drugs and alcohol, dropping the sickly sweet lens of nostalgia for something more fitting of the song’s specific theme. Don’t worry, though, dragonfruit was used extremely heavily in this songs promotion as a single, so the fruit is still there, just not directly, and that lack of directly referring to a fruit in the song itself fits with the way that the song breaks from nostalgia of things that have happened and people he knew into something that was never real. There is no rose colored glasses needed for something that never even happened. I don’t have much else to say on it, it just goes hard, this was my most listened to song two years in a row lmao.

Melon and the Coconut is just sheer Glass Animals. It’s weird, it’s fun, and it sounds great. It cleanly splits the album in half, splitting the POV’s straight down the middle while making a reference to its own position in the album, “Sometimes B-sides are the best songs.” Needless to say, there are some super subtle references to fruit in Melon and the Coconut, the song about two fruit.

Then, the second half of the album kicks off with Your Love (Deja Vu), a song extremely similar in theme to previous songs about missed timing, like ZABA’s Pools and HTBAHB’s Pork Soda. Instead of fruit, “juice” is mentioned in this song. It takes the turn from thinking about people you were friends with, what you wanted to be like, to people that you were with, and things that just didn’t work out.

And then there’s Waterfalls Coming Out Your Mouth. It’s such a clean parallel to looking back on things with nostalgia and seeing them through the fake sweetness that time brings, with this song being about the rose colored glasses that were present in the moment, the time when you start getting to know someone but you aren’t actually getting to know them, you’re getting to know this other, more impressive version of them instead, and they get the exact same experience of you on their own end. He’s letting this other person have their own version of him while he has his own version of them in his head, and he knows their version of him is wrong, so he also knows whatever he thinks of them is going to be wrong, too. He knows them, but at the same time he doesn’t. He’s realizing here, that this person, like the Hot Sugar person, is too cool, and they aren’t real, it’s all just talk, and it’s all fake like the “chemical warfare, red lips and television eyewear, raspberry soda hair, in the pool with a blow up gummy bear.” It’s sweet, sure, but it’s also fake. “Chat shit but where’s the real you? Never seen The Price Is Right, I’m a liar been on that shit since ’99. You make me look like a clown, clap clap, you’re a clever clever cookie now” has no right go that hard, and yet it Does.

Then, abruptly, we get to It’s All So Incredibly Loud. The song itself is subdued, it’s that point in your trip through your own memories where you remember why things went wrong. You get shaken from your train of thought and lose your place in it, because you aren’t there anymore, you’re here and you can’t go back, you can’t fix anything, all that’s left for you to do now is mourn the wrongs and accept them, even though its painful. This is remembering what Dreamland meant by “That worst thing you said,” the realization that you have to break someone else’s heart, and how much that hurts.

((home movie: rockets)) is the longest home movie audio in the album, and creates a smooth transition back into childhood, journeying back through a sound similar to that of their first album, ZABA, on the way there for the album to transition into Domestic Bliss. This time, with someone else entirely’s perspective falling back onto knees, but this time under an entirely different tone, “Fight for me. We can leave I’m begging, please, on my on my knees.” These two songs back to back continue the downward spiral that too much nostalgia can leave you falling into, the wrongs, the regrets, this trip down memory lane has lasted too long, now.

Which drops us off at Heat Waves, which returns back to his own perspective after Domestic Bliss focused on a friend of his. It fits the bittersweet feeling in nostalgia, the understanding and acceptance that you can’t go back, you just have to keep going forward and separate instead for everyone’s sake, a followup less to the tangent in thought that is Domestic Bliss, and more to It’s All So Incredibly Loud. It also wraps up those previous album’s songs, Pools and Pork Soda in a way, bringing a sense of closure to the nostalgic feelings, as well as to the entire album.

And finally Helium, the bookend opposite to Dreamland. This song flawlessly embodies that feeling of when you realize you’ve just been sitting and staring at a photo album for an hour now, and you finally take a look around you, feeling the air conditioning on your skin, hearing the sounds of the world around you, snapping back out of your train of thought and into real life again. Things didn’t work the way that you used to think they would, but that’s a good thing. It is such a perfect ending to the nostalgic journey that is this entire album. Fading back into the melody that started this journey of sickly sweet memories of people you looked up to, when you learned for the first time that people can change and you might not ever understand why, ideas of who you once wanted to be, finding something light that you can laugh about, realizing how similar so many things in your life have been to each other, the realization that the people you used to look up to might not have actually been that impressive the whole time, your regrets, times you wish you could have done more, and the understanding that sometimes you shouldn’t have done so much.

I love this album so much man

[baepsaetan]

Novocaine Enough | Yoonseok | Part 3

Amazing banner credit to @joonscore​​

Part 1 -> Part 2

Pairing: Yoongi x Hoseok

Wordcount: 8k

Genre: Exes to lovers, angst, smut

Rating: 18+

Summary: Four years later, and Yoongi is still an itch under his skin. Hoseok is trying to move on, from his past life and his past love, but there are some voids that can’t be filled. Some needs that can’t be met. And when Hoseok enters a club and hears the music of the man he left so long ago, he realizes that some addictions can’t be healed by anything as simple as time.

Warnings: Swearing; implied, mentioned and past drug use/abuse (cocaine, ecstasy, weed, alcohol); past overdosing; mutually unhealthy relationship dynamic; explicit (kinda angry) sex, including biting, oral, gagging, rimming, edging, marking, barebacking, thigh riding.

Ao3 Link: here

A/N: Part three! Which I totally forgot to post before now, lol. Not sure if anyone hasn’t seen this on Ao3 already, but if ya haven’t, feel free to give a like. :)

They collide a little too hard, a little too combatively, and Hoseok's lips tingle when they find Yoongi's. He embraces the pain, even as his arms are wrapping around the other man, caging him in like he's afraid Yoongi's going to suddenly disappear. It's a little awkward, but Yoongi squirms in his embrace, gets himself into a better position, and then they're actually kissing.

This is a moment when they both freeze, as if the reality of what they're doing has suddenly crashed into them. Hoseok's muscles lock, and he's abruptly in the back of his mind, wondering if this is the right thing, doubting it is, knowing it isn't, and maybe he shouldn't –

Yoongi's tongue parts his lips and the acrid taste of smoke and beer slams him back into the moment. Hoseok gasps, released, and his arms tighten spasmodically, a bodily rejection of his mind. Yoongi tastes like he remembers, and this is suddenly easy, natural, and the worry dies, smothered beneath the nostalgia slipping across his tongue. Warmth floods his face, and he can't help but dig the tips of his fingers into Yoongi's shoulders, proving to himself that the man is there.

His eyes are closed and the reddish hues dart under his eyelids, flurrying in time with his spiked heart rate. Yoongi is the first to pull away, but only to nip at the edge of Hoseok's lip and then move lower, kissing along the length of his jaw with just a touch of teeth. The fluttery pressure lasts for only a moment, and then the other man is kissing him again. This time Hoseok gravitates into the contact, leans even further until his weight is pushing Yoongi back.

With a low hum that Hoseok can feel resounding through his own mouth, Yoongi allows himself to be shifted backwards until he's laid out on the couch. They break contact long enough for Yoongi to swing his legs up, and Hoseok straddles his hips, knees pushing comfortably into the cushions. He pauses, then, to stare down at the man under him.

Yoongi's skin is unusually flushed, his lips already swollen from their fierce contact. It's his eyes that catch Hoseok, though, deep and dark and so demanding they rip a sense of urgency from somewhere at the base of Hoseok's throat. His hand impulsively rises to cup Yoongi's face – and Yoongi turns away, just a little, avoiding the touch. It leaves an emptiness heavy in the pads of Hoseok's fingers, an ache in his heart, and he has to drive the feeling out somehow.

Tracing his hand down Yoongi's neck is almost enough, and when Hoseok hunches over and presses kisses into the other man's collarbone, it gets even better. Burying his face into the crook of the man’s neck and inhaling the scent of his citrusy cologne overwhelms Hoseok’s senses, drowning the bitterness in a wave of comfort and desire. Yoongi's breath is a harsh pant, and his voice is harsh, too, when he insists, "Come on."

Hoseok is abruptly aware of the fact that he's eager to do more. His next kiss lingers on Yoongi's collarbone, and so does the next, and when he moves to Yoongi's throat, Hoseok bites him, a little nip that nonetheless draws a sharp inhale from his partner. He does it for a second time, just to hear the overwhelmed sound again, and Yoongi is quick to oblige him. Relishing the taut groan, he pulls away to admire the man underneath him.

Just for a moment, but Yoongi's eyes, previously drifted closed, snap open and he makes an inquiring huff.

Not quite willing to admit how much he'd love to just stare at the sweat that's beginning to trickle down Yoongi's face, Hoseok smiles. "You mind some marks?"

Yoongi's lip curls, but his gaze is intrigued. "You want to?" Before Hoseok can reply, he snickers, head falling back to bare his neck more fully. "Sure. Why not?"

Hoseok doesn't need to be told twice. (But he does want to ask again, just in case this isn't what it should be, just in case –)

Ignoring that, he dips his head and his lips are soft when he starts sucking on Yoongi's throat. They don't stay that way, not when he increases the pressure, and under him the other man shifts, arches up like he's desperate to close the space between them. Hoseok indulges, grinding down with his groin as his mouth relents for a moment, placing lighter kisses around the area he'd been sucking on. Yoongi bucks his hips, seeking more friction, and Hoseok finds himself grinning, a wolfish expression that doesn't fade even with his softer contact.

He doesn't give Yoongi too much of a break, anyways; before too long he's back, sucking on the abused skin harder than before. It feels good to press his mouth against the other man's neck, to know that he's leaving a mark that nothing but time will scrub away. Yoongi bruises easily and long, Hoseok remembers that, and so for at least the next week he's going to be bearing a sign, a clear flag to anyone who dares to believe Yoongi is anything but taken.

Even if he isn't actually taken.

The thought has heat prickling across the nape of Hoseok's neck, and it takes him a second to realize it's pissed him off. His next nip is sharper and Yoongi hisses in mild protest. He goes mostly ignored, because though Hoseok tries to soften himself, tries to gentle the way his mouth crushes against Yoongi's throat, it's still hard enough to inspire another grunt from the other man.

And yet, for all that Hoseok knows he's actually hurting his partner, Yoongi doesn't make any move to shove him away. Doesn't even voice a protest beyond the first light objection. In fact, he keeps tilting his chin further up, giving Hoseok even more space to work with, and his hands are digging in just above his waistband, anchoring Hoseok with a grip that's on the razor edge of pain. The pressure grounds him and he needs it, needs an anchor against the dull anger that’s trying to flare to life amidst the hollowness in his chest.

It's not until Hoseok bites Yoongi for the umpteenth and an iron tang fills his mouth that he realizes the fire is more out of control than he’d thought.

Immediately he draws back, guilt and blood on his tongue, although the taste isn’t quite strong enough to expunge his surprisingly possessive anger. The skin isn’t broken too badly, just a slightly more pronounced red among the splotches of pink littering Yoongi’s neck, but he can’t make himself look away.

His companion asks without opening his eyes, “Admiring your handiwork?”

Setting his teeth over the impulse to say something breezy – and avoid the truth – he answers honestly. “You’re bleeding a bit.”

Yoongi lazily opens an eye. “Seriously?” His voice is so unfazed it subdues some of the remorse threaded through Hoseok’s ribs; it can’t have hurt too bad if he hadn’t even noticed. “I’m not bleeding on the couch, am I?”

Hoseok dutifully inspects the dribble, barely deserving of the name. “Nah.”

The eye closes. “Good. Bite me too hard again and I’ll bite you back.”

He’s so relieved it makes him flippant. And sharp. “Is that a promise?”

A hoarse laugh, and Yoongi’s hands tighten around his waist. “Only if you want it to be.”

Leaving it there, Hoseok leans back down. Much more gentle, he actually spends more time skimming his lips over the marks, mouthing the tender areas rather than kissing them, let alone biting. It doesn’t last long, though. Energy simmers through his core, an awful agitation that only grows with each taste of sweat, with every low exhale that the man under him makes. Yoongi is also impatient, shoving up Hoseok’s shirt as he runs his fingers along his sides, the warmth of his touch leaving Hoseok shaky with anticipation.

Before too long, he folds to the pressure of that wordless touch. Taking off his shirt is, in the haze of the moment, only slightly nerve-wracking. The dregs of alcohol still in his system help matters, swamping any second thoughts Hoseok might have had and leaving him dizzy and expectant.

Yoongi doesn't whistle at the reveal like Hoseok had, but his eyes are keen with admiration as they skim across Hoseok's upper body. The considering look is back, and after a moment of mute appreciation that leaves Hoseok flushed and simultaneously more relaxed, he commands, "Get off, 'kay? I wanna try something else."

Scrambling to do as bid, he lifts himself off of Yoongi. "Just sit there," Yoongi says, gesturing at the couch as he gets to his feet. Hoseok suffers a pang of disappointed confusion at the lack of immediate attention, but all his companion does is shove the table back further before returning. And then he's settling onto Hoseok. More specifically, he nudges Hoseok's legs open and then sits on his right thigh, his legs nestled on either side.

Automatically Hoseok tenses to support the added weight, and Yoongi's tongue slips across his lower lip as he settles more firmly onto the hard muscles. He rubs against Hoseok's thigh and lets out an approving breath, and Hoseok can already feel himself hardening in a way that marking up his ex hadn’t quite managed. Yoongi notices – of course he does – and his hand drops down to caress Hoseok's free leg, thumb starting near his groin and then dragging down against the leather of his pants. "Didn't I say you should take these off? Too late now, I guess," he comments with a smile that's too pointed to be anything but provoking.

The touch is enough, and the smile is entirely too much. With a grunt, Hoseok grabs Yoongi at the hips, both keeping him steady and pushing him down a little. A second later and he starts to bounce his leg, nothing jarring, just a smooth motion that Yoongi grinds himself against. Flexing his thigh at the same time gets the other man to groan, so Hoseok does it again, and then again, relishing the husky sound and the feeling of Yoongi heavy on his body.

This is – almost – familiar. When Yoongi wraps his arms around Hoseok’s bare shoulders to balance himself, it’s that much closer to what he remembers, but… not quite. Not quite, because the small man doesn’t press his forehead against Hoseok’s. Doesn’t look him in the eyes as he rides him, but looks past him, the pleasure crossing his face a removed and distant thing.

Hoseok’s own pleasure feels disconnected, too. The throbbing from his cock is quickly becoming a heated intensity that radiates through his gut, and his movements become rougher, hips jerking with the need to chase the feeling of Yoongi grinding against him. It’s good, great even, but there’s a desperation in his urgency that he suspects won’t be satisfied by coming.

He’s chasing a peak, and it’s not even the height he wants to hit.

Eyes closing against that knowledge, swallowing back the gritty taste of it, Hoseok is caught off guard when one of Yoongi’s arms drops and his fingers find Hoseok’s nipple. Inhaling through his clenched teeth, his eyes fly open and then widen as the other man lightly twists the sensitive nub.

“Fuck, Yoongs,” he spits, and Yoongi grins like a cat who just spotted some cream.

“Mmm, this still gets you, hey?” his lover asks. Given that Hoseok gasps a moment later, Yoongi’s thumb rolling the stiffening nipple, he hardly needs a reply. He takes that as an answer and his other hand joins the fun, and Hoseok’s taut frame is shortly shaking with the flames being produced by those dexterous fingers. He’s always been overly sensitive in his chest.

He lets himself be pleased that his ex remembers, but nothing more than that.  

A particularly callous tweak makes him jerk, his leg jumping hard into Yoongi’s groin, and Yoongi yelps – which, honestly, karma – before biting back the sound and scowling instead. “You dick,” he mutters without heat, but his fingers become even more ruthless as they play with Hoseok’s nipples. That, of course, does absolutely nothing to still Hoseok, and before too long he can’t focus on helping the other man get off on his thigh, his nerves shot through with spastic jolts of pleasure that have him barely able to keep together.

After another probably too hard bounce, Yoongi eases off with a light scoff. “God, you’re as bad as a prep school virgin. Been a bit of a dry spell for you or something?”

It’s true that they used to be able to edge each other a helluva lot longer and more intensely than this, but Hoseok reddens at the implication of that question. And at the nerve of asking it, too. He tries to keep his voice level, but it gets higher as he says, “Is that any business of yours?”

Yoongi looks away, but not before his smug expression crumples. He does a much better job of keeping his tone even, though. He’s always been better than Hobi at that. “Guess not.”

The reminder isn’t totally a mood killer, but it does inject something stiff and uncomfortable into the air. With a hard exhale, Yoongi shakes his head, apparently trying to physically throw off the bleakness. It doesn’t work for Hoseok, and it doesn’t seem to work for the other man either, judging by the somber cast that’s taken over his face.

With Yoongi, though, the deeper and darker he gets, the hungrier he gets, too. The more desperately he reaches for what he wants, the more he craves it. It’s always been like that; whether he aimed for money or fame or skill or a high, he’s always wanted it too much.

He wants this too much, too. Whatever the hell this is, between them. That becomes obvious as Yoongi rolls his shoulders, lips pressing together, and then gets off of Hoseok’s thigh, only to kneel between Hoseok’s legs a second later. When his hands fall to Hoseok’s belt, Hoseok knows he’s being driven by that greed. And – maybe – by a desire to make up for what he’d said. He won’t apologize, not in so many words, but he’s gentle in unbuckling the strap, and his eyes are inquiring when he pauses and looks up at Hoseok, silently asking for permission.

The sight of the small man on his knees in front of him has Hoseok’s throat closing and he can’t make himself speak. The defensive anger from Yoongi’s stupid remark hasn’t left, but neither has his own need, and he, too, sometimes wants things too much. Way too much.

His nod ends up being jerky, but he lifts his hips to help Yoongi pull the belt out of its hoops. With an ease that suggests he, at least, hasn’t been through a dry spell recently, Yoongi unbuttons Hoseok’s pants, undoes the zipper, and then his hand is wrapped around Hoseok’s cock and pulling it out of its confines. It’s already hard and leaking. It only takes one light stroke, made slick by his precum, to have arousal surging up Hoseok’s veins, quieting the longing that’s humming in his head.

This feels so good, it’s almost enough. Hoseok throws back his head, eyes hardly seeing the ceiling, breath and words tangling in his trachea and escaping as barely more than an incoherent plea. Yoongi’s always been good at this, at spreading ecstasy with the mere palms of his hands, and today he’s overdoing himself. Sensitive to Hoseok’s every gasp and whine, his hands sculpt around Hoseok’s dick with just enough pressure, just enough friction to have Hoseok writhing in his seat, thrusting into that pressure with wild abandon.

Panting breaths away from coming, he manages to choke, “Ah, fuck, fuck Yoongi, I’m –”

And abruptly the hand is gone.

He lifts his head, something like a whimper emerging from his lips. It makes his attempt at a glare more than a little feeble, but he does try to glare, because Yoongi is sitting back on his heels and flashing a shit-eating grin that’s so self-satisfied it would have been funny if Hoseok wasn’t currently aching with sodden dissatisfaction. He moves to grab his cock and finish himself, but Yoongi catches his wrist, stopping the movement.

It’s probably possible to break the hold, yet Hoseok just limply drops his arm, caving in to the light grip.

“You’re an asshole,” he exhales, and Yoongi bobs his head in unrepentant agreement.

Still wearing that smug smile, he pushes away the hair from his sweat-soaked forehead. “Yeah. But you should be thanking me; this’ll just make it better when I blow you.”

With his cock still throbbing, a handjob now seems preferable to a blowjob later, and Hoseok snorts. “Better? Maybe your tongue technology is outdated.”  

The reference to the original song he’d created makes Yoongi laugh. It’s probably the most carefree – even joyful – he’s sounded the entire night. “Nah man. That shit is upgraded and it’ll keep you elated.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows jump up disbelievingly and he stares. Too fast for him to contain, a rusty laugh suddenly barrels up his throat and bursts from between lips that can’t press hard enough to hold it.  

A blush floods Yoongi’s face, cheeks bunching as his flustered smile and barely suppressed giggle scrunch his eyes into narrow crescents. It feels like Hoseok’s heart literally misses a beat as it stumbles over itself, a screechy sort of delight building in his throat, and he has to throttle the urge to reach out and squish the adorable face in front of him. In the past, doing that would make Yoongi even more embarrassed, maybe even pouty, and it would be that much more hilarious and cute. Which, of course, had made it entirely worth doing.

Now, however…

Well, now Hoseok keeps his hands to himself, but he can’t hold back the raucous cackles that keep exploding from him. The laughter is so boisterous it actually hurts a little, but he can’t keep it contained. Maybe he’s just that relieved to have something to laugh at, or maybe in Yoongi’s absence he’s become more sensitive to just how charming the man is when he’s abashed and simultaneously pleased with himself. Regardless, Hoseok is helpless to stop the explosion of hilarity, and Yoongi’s failed attempt at sulking doesn't help.

In fact, seeing his companion struggle to latch a frown on his flushed face, only to drop it seconds later and subside into loud laughter, has him almost howling with mirth.  

His amusement drains more quickly than it might have – and honestly, the still-hard state of his dick might have had something to do with it – but Hoseok’s chest is just a little lighter when his cackling abates. It’s – he’d thought he’d never laugh like this again, not with Yoongi. It feels so good to be proven wrong.

Lips still curved upwards, hurting his cheeks, Hoseok can barely get himself together when he tries to talk. “Oh-kay,” he gasps around the lingering laughter, shallow annoyance at Yoongi’s antics totally forgotten. “Okay. Fine, fine. Mr. Updated, I’m ready to be elated.” A pause, and then he’s found enough air to add, “Do I need to read the warning label?”

Yoongi got a hold of the hilarity more quickly than Hoseok did, quickly enough that his voice is almost back to sardonic when he replies, “Nah. I’m not the one with a choking hazard.” His eyes deliberately flick down.

Hoseok chokes at that – and at Yoongi’s hand, once again sliding up his cock. Give it to him, once Yoongi’s decided to do something, he doesn’t hesitate to get it done. They don’t bother discussing condoms, a holdover from older days; both of them are pretty meticulous about getting tested, and shared that conversation years ago.

That makes it easy to relax at the feeling of Yoongi fisting the base of his cock, and then Yoongi is licking his head while his hand rubs the shaft in long, languorous strokes. The soft, wet heat flows straight to Hoseok’s lungs, to his head, a blanket of stifling pleasure. His breath is abruptly heavy, staggering, and automatically Hoseok curls his fingers through Yoongi’s hair, needing to feel something under him, to have some measure of control.

That’s a bit of intimacy that the other man allows, gaze sultry enough to set Hoseok’s skin aflame... if his mouth weren’t doing that already. Hoseok meets the heady scrutiny with an unwavering look, and there’s still a trace of laughter evident in the creases around Yoongi’s eyes. Affection courses through his arteries and he doesn’t know if this is poison or an antidote. All he knows is that he’ll take what’s given, whatever the results. No questions asked.

Yoongi is offering him an answer to his emptiness, and all Hoseok wants is to drown in it.

And drown in it he does, in the thick sounds the other man makes around his cock, in the feel of his fingers settled into Yoongi’s soft locks, in the geyser of aching incandescence that’s fountaining through his stomach and erupting in his chest.

“Yoongi,” he mumbles, and the syllables are perfect in his mouth. “Yoongi, you’re… ah … so, so good . Fuck me, you’re...”

This is part of what he’s wanted so desperately. And even if it’s only half, a third, a decimal of what he’s been longing for, Hoseok soaks in the sensation and, in the moment – right now – convinces himself that this is enough.

This is enough, but – but his fingers still tighten, hips jacking forward faster and harder to chase the warmth that Yoongi is giving him. The man on his knees grunts at the added force, and his hands fall from Hoseok’s cock to brace against Hoseok’s thighs. Not a sign to stop, not yet, and Hoseok wants so badly, wants to come in Yoongi’s mouth, wants to spill himself for something more than absolutely nothing at all.

Frantically Hoseok fucks Yoongi’s mouth, his thrusts deep and heavy, gaze focused on Yoongi’s face. The other man has his eyes closed, and he takes the hard jerks with a bobbing throat and squeezed eyes. A bit of saliva has escaped from the corner of his mouth, and his sweat is plastering his darkened hair to his forehead in a straggling mess. Like this – choking and gagging on Hoseok’s cock, fingers feebly curled into his thighs, face strained with the effort of keeping up – Yoongi looks… fuck, Yoongi looks good. He looks… like how Hoseok wants him to look. Barely keeping it together. Wrecked.

Hoseok comes with a muffled groan, the sound tearing out of him like there’s a wound in his throat, pleasure coursing through him in jagged strips of lightning. Yoongi chokes more harshly, and then his hands are pushing firmly against Hoseok’s legs. Taking that cue immediately, Hoseok relaxes his grip, letting the other man pull off of him with a wet noise.

Still gasping, Yoongi nonetheless keeps his face near Hoseok’s cock, and the last few spurts catch him on the lips, the cheek. Pearly white fluid trickles down his chin, mixing with his saliva, and the sight is abruptly so overwhelming Hoseok has to look away.

Yoongi’s breath is ragged, interspersed with coughing, and it takes several minutes to smooth out. In that time, Hoseok... drifts. The sexual satisfaction drapes across him, smothering in its weight, and he makes no attempt to disentangle himself from it. In a different time he would have pulled Yoongi into his lap, caressed his back and pressed gentle kisses along his shoulders until he recovered his breath. Maybe he would have gotten him a glass of water, or joined him on the floor.

Now… Now Yoongi rests on his haunches, recovering alone. Hoseok recovers alone, too. By the time Yoongi’s caught his breath, the painful ecstasy has faded, leaving a worn out ache that’s nowhere near his groin, but somewhere higher, just above his sternum.

He’d… shit, had he really wanted to see Yoongi choke? Wanted to see him struggle to keep up, to take it, just to please Hoseok? Because… what, because he deserved it?

Guilt invades his head, dispelling the satisfaction like mist in a heavy rain. Hoseok shifts uncomfortably, forcing himself to turn his eyes to Yoongi.

The other man is looking at him, and when he sees Hoseok’s gaze, he flushes. He doesn’t glance away, though. Face still slick with cum and spit, his cheeks stained red from effort and from coughing, he shouldn’t look as soft as he does. As tender. “How was it?” he asks, like it’s not already obvious, and though his voice is hoarse, it isn’t mocking.

“Good. Really good.” Hoseok’s hands are on his thighs, rubbing at the fabric, and he can’t seem to make himself stop. “I – If I went a bit overboard, or –”

“Did I tell you to get off, except at the end?” Yoongi slowly rises, turning the motion into one long stretch. His neck and collarbone are marked with a mottled collection of the fresh hickeys that are beginning to show. “Nothing’s changed with that, Hobi. I can take it.”

That doesn’t mean you should have to. That’s something Hoseok doesn’t know how to say. Why are you taking it, is another collection of words that won’t leave his tongue. The biting, the bruises, the facefucking… It’s not that they’d never done it before, but this is a further extreme, and more than that, it’s not mutual. They liked pushing at each other, straining limits, but this –

This isn’t that.

“Well – I’m still sorry.”

“Didn’t I tell you to leave off on that shit?” Harsh words, but said mildly, and Yoongi shakes his head. “I’ll be right back.” He slips away, leaving Hoseok to the shame that’s fighting with his justifications. A stalemate. He really can’t remember where his pleasure had begun and his resentment had ended in the stifling thrill of fucking Yoongi. If there even was a beginning… or an end.

Yoongi comes back too quickly for the question to spiral into something blacker. He’s got a Kleenex box in one hand, a bottle in another, and sets both on the table unceremoniously. Snagging a tissue for himself, Yoongi starts wiping off his face while using his other hand to turn the bottle so that the label’s facing Hoseok.

Lube, as if he couldn’t have guessed.

Somewhat surprisingly, though, Yoongi doesn’t immediately pop the question. To Hoseok’s relief, he’s quiet as they clean up a bit. Then Yoongi settles back on the couch, his limbs sprawled in a lazily casual pose. Not right next to Hoseok, but close. Close enough to reach, if Hoseok wanted to.

He wants to.

His hands remain at his side.

Working his jaw, his thumb gently massaging his throat, Yoongi smiles faintly. “Mmm, that’s gonna hurt in the morning.” When Hoseok grimaces, he shakes his head. “In a good way, Hobi.” Yoongi pauses, leans a little away, like he wants to get a better look at his companion. After a moment of quiet that draws out thick and uneasy (at least on Hoseok’s part), Yoongi says softly, “You know I’m good, right? This didn’t, like, kill the mood for me or anything. I just couldn’t quite finish you off, at the end. Not your fault.”

It didn’t kill the mood for Hoseok, either, and that might be part of the problem. Shoulders hunched, he replies tersely. “I didn’t – I don’t wanna hurt you, Yoongs.”

“Really? Coulda fooled me.” When Hoseok huddles even further into himself at the lightly teasing note, Yoongi hums, a chastised sound. “Nah, I’m kidding. Besides, maybe I want you to hurt me. Ever think of that?”

Hoseok skirts a glance at him sidelong, and Yoongi raises a sardonic eyebrow. “You’re not gonna kinkshame me, are you? I still remember the mirror thing, with–”

“How are you so okay with this!?” The demand bursts out, more of an appeal than a question, and Hoseok can’t stand how relaxed the other man looks. How easily he’s accepting how Hoseok has been going at him tonight. Hoseok had disliked how cutting Yoongi was earlier, the insults and taunts sinking in like barbs, but he’d take that before – before whatever the hell Yoongi is doing now.

Yoongi examines Hoseok for a long moment before he replies. “I… forgot,” he eventually says, the words slow but not uncertain. “How good it feels, how… how whole I feel, to be near you. So you’re rough, so what? As if I give a fuck about that, after… everything else.”

There’s too much in those words. Too much hope, too much joy… and too much permission granted when it shouldn’t be, or at least for the wrong reasons.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He repeats it because he has to drive the words through his own skull, convince himself of them. “Not like this, Yoongi. Not…”

“So don’t.” He jerks around to stare at Yoongi head on, and the other man is smiling, just a thin twist of amusement. “Whatever else, you’re not an asshole, Hobi. I haven’t known you in years, and I still know that’s true. If it’s bugging you this much, it’s not your thing. At least not tonight.”

Hoseok doesn’t reply. He can still feel that bloom of pleasure, that wave of satisfied vindication that had struck him so forcefully at the sight of Yoongi choking. With that in his head, he’s not so sure that Yoongi’s right about him not being an asshole.

“Hey.” It’s Yoongi that bridges the gap, reaching over to give Hoseok’s bare shoulder a gentle shake. “It happened. I’m fine. Hell, I didn’t mind it.” His free hand steals up to caress the many marks Hoseok had left scattered across his neck. “Might even learn to do more than that. But…” Now his exhale is harder, closer to frustration. “For now, forget about it, okay? If you’re done, that’s fine, but I’m still good to go.”

That’s one of Yoongi’s greatest strengths. When he makes his peace with something, that’s it. He’s not someone to gnaw on a problem, to mull it over until it’s stripped to nothingness; he’s too blunt, too firm in himself, to bother with that.

Hoseok… does not have that strength. However, with Yoongi’s grip warm and secure on his shoulder, he thinks that maybe… maybe he could lean into his companion’s strength. Borrow a little of that certainty. At least for now.

Another bandaid. At this rate they’ll be covered with them.

It’s better than bleeding out. Hoseok makes himself smile; he makes himself chuckle. The sound is strained, but it still fills the air with something other than oppressive tension. “If you’re still good to go, old man, I am too.”

A long-time joke that makes Yoongi laugh. “You won’t be calling me that later,” he promises, and closes the distance between them.

They make out again, messier and deeper than last time. Physically at least, Hoseok was absolutely not lying when he said he was good, and as Yoongi strips out of his pants and underwear, it quickly becomes obvious that the other man wasn’t lying, either. Hoseok follows suit, yanks off the pants that hadn’t quite made it all the way off before.

Everything about this is slower than before, and it’s also softer. They kiss for a long time, hands busy exploring each other’s bodies, running over the canvas of skin with careful precision. A rediscovery.

Hoseok feels abruptly – timid isn’t quite it, but hesitant. Uncertain. Yoongi easily steps into the gap left by his misgivings. He’s gentle when he kisses Hoseok, but his hands are firm as they guide Hoseok to bend over the arm of the couch, bracing himself with his forearms. Those hands are no less certain when they cup Hoseok’s ass, spreading him wide.

Yoongi kisses the back of his thighs first, tender presses that still have the air seeping out of Hoseok’s lungs. Everything after that is a landslide of languorous sensation. The feel of Yoongi rimming him is a silky sort of pleasure, inspiring a tingling bliss that has his eyes drifting shut. Yoongi’s tongue flicks against him, slow strokes that tease his nerves, and he keeps at it until the languor becomes hotter, more urgent. His hands are busy too, playing with Hoseok’s balls and sliding along his stomach, and the touches are liquid heat added to a vessel that’s already overflowing.

Hoseok finds himself whining, subdued little sobs that he can’t quite hold back. The first time Yoongi adds lube to the mixture, the slick coldness of it being worked between his cheeks makes Hoseok stiffen and nearly yelp. Behind him Yoongi laughs, his fingers stilling for a moment, giving Hoseok a chance to relax. “Bear with it, yeah? Just a little more…”

Then his finger is penetrating Hoseok, still slow, almost too slow, and Hoseok moans. “Good boy,” Yoongi murmurs, dragging through the motion with maddening control. “You take it so good, Hobi.” He adds another finger shortly after, and the pressure quickly becomes staggering.

“More,” he groans, pushing back against Yoongi's hand.

The need floats through his stomach, so light it’s almost separate from him, but Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Nuh-uh. We’re going my way now, Hobi.”

Somewhere in the midst of the fluttering pleasure, Hoseok has just enough brain capacity left to suspect this may be some kind of revenge. Yoongi strokes his ass while penetrating him more deeply, and another wave of bliss drowns the thought.

Didn’t matter. This is a kind of revenge he could get behind.

The first time Hoseok finds himself about to come, the orgasm gathering force at the edge of his groin and his voice pitching up into raw breathlessness, he’s severely disappointed. Abruptly Yoongi’s fingers are gone, and even worse, his other hand is wrapped around the tip of Hoseok’s cock, lightly squeezing. Hoseok’s orgasm rises – hovers – and then falls away, back into a simmering intensity that has him writhing petulantly.

“Yoongi,” he gasps accusingly when he’s found enough breath to get anything out.

“So impatient,” Yoongi drawls, fingers dragging against Hoseok’s ass cheek in teasing circles – but doing nothing more than that.

“You are such an – ah. ”

Yoongi doesn’t move his fingers much once he’s slid them back in, just mild motions, enough to keep the fires in Hoseok’s gut stoked but no more than that. “Do you wanna beg me, Hobi? I’d probably let you get off if you did.”

A memory. Yoongi leaning over him and Hoseok so strung out he’s almost delirious. Strung out on Molly, yeah, but on feelings, too. A tsunami of sensations. An affection that’s so keen it hurts as he gazes into Yoongi’s blown pupils. The words, falling from his mouth in a nearly incoherent stream. “Please, Yoongi, please, I want you so bad, I want – I want – Please.”

He drops his head, presses his face against the forearm that’s braced against the couch’s arm. “Such an asshole.” The words are muffled, but Yoongi clearly hears them because he huffs, caught between a chuckle and a scoff.

“Suit yourself.”

When Yoongi’s fingers leave Hoseok, he has just enough time to be extravagantly dissatisfied before the other man puts one hand on his hip, the other sliding up his spine to rest on the nape of his neck. From that position Yoongi leans over him, hips pressing into his ass, breath tickling his face. “You ready for something a bit more?”

“Only if it’s actually more,” Hoseok retorts.  

A hard breath and then Yoongi gently nips at the outer shell of his ear, a teasing rebuke. “‘Course it will be.”

Though he takes his goddamn time with this, too. Settles back and preps himself with more lube, to judge by the tense sounds he makes, and Hoseok glances back a few times to enjoy the sight of Yoongi stroking his cock. After some time – more time than is needed, Yoongi’s eyes alight with wicked amusement when Hoseok squirms – he guides himself to Hoseok, the other hand returning to grip the back of his neck. Enters him with a gradual thrust that’s slick and easy because of the lube. Almost too easy, leaving Hoseok panting for more.

Yoongi’s not a liar, though. At least not about this. He gives Hoseok more, and then some.

His dick is more than enough to fill Hoseok, a swelling force that only grows as Yoongi pushes himself in more deeply. The heat builds, swelters, sweeps across Hoseok’s muscles until he’s trembling with the intensity of it. His partner’s sounds – guttural grunts that pitch into tantalizing breathlessness – just enhance the feverish frenzy.

Yoongi is as deliberate as before, but – thank fucking God – he picks up the pace before too long. His tempo is jarring in its relentless drive, and he hammers into Hoseok with so much force that it becomes hard to hold himself up on the couch arm.

A particularly strong thrust spills Hoseok off his balance, and he pitches forward and finds himself hanging off the edge of the couch, the arm pushing into his lower chest. The sudden change in position puts Yoongi at just the right angle, and his next stroke has Hoseok crying out with the burn of pleasure. The other man slows, but Hoseok manages to croak, “No, Yoongs, keep – keep going,” and Yoongi obliges.

At last, and too soon, he comes. The tidal wave of electric heat surges from Hoseok’s groin, splashes against his nerves and sends waves of shuddering release through his trembling body as his back arches. Hoseok shakes with the intensity of his peak, whining gasps escaping his lips, his vision white around the edges. He can feel his cum trickling down his leg, and the sensation makes him sag. It takes all he has not to collapse completely, to just let the pleasure overwhelm him.

But Yoongi’s still going, so Hoseok does the best he can to keep upright. After the initial flurry of gut-wrenching fervor, it gets easier, and he rolls his hips a bit, pushes back, trying to return the favour. Yoongi’s hand never left his neck, and it tightens now as Yoongi’s strokes become faster, shorter, more erratic. “Fuck, Hobi,” he’s panting, the words a slur of feeling. “You’re so – perfect. So much ...”

Hoseok feels Yoongi’s orgasm as a pulsing at the base of his cock, buried in Hoseok’s ass. As, seconds later, an increased wetness pooling inside. More vivid is Yoongi’s voice, huskily crying out, his tone a tapestry of gratified colours.

He can read that tapestry, and to hear Yoongi elevated to those blissful highs makes something in Hoseok’s chest tighten and lighten simultaneously. When Yoongi slumps against him, rubbing his face into Hoseok’s shoulder, the exhilaration just soars, a sweet joy that they still have this. Can still leave each other spent in the best way possible.

The past wavers against the future like a mirage rising from the road, difficult to separate, but for this moment, with Yoongi a warm weight against his back, Hoseok ignores the presence of the illusion. He flops onto the couch, and Yoongi falls partially on him with a grunt of agreement. They lie there for several minutes, and the other man barely moves, his breathing deep and steady as it spills against Hoseok’s skin.

It doesn’t last forever. It can’t. But while it does, he closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the careless way Yoongi slouches into him. Like it’s natural. Like they’re both exactly where they’re supposed to be. He lets himself believe in the reassuring burden at his back. Lets himself believe, for now, that it won’t suddenly disappear.

Yoongi lifts himself up after a while, but not before nuzzling against Hoseok’s shoulder a final time. “Time to clean up,” he whispers, and then he’s pulling out in a gush of sticky warmth that stains Hoseok’s thighs and probably the couch, too.

The next few minutes are all business, though this, at least, isn’t caused by whatever alienation is between them. Yoongi’s always been very no-nonsense about clean-up, and Hoseok is enough of a neat freak to jump on that wagon with wholehearted purpose. They don’t talk, and at first that’s fine, the familiarity of the tasks before them settling naturally into the silence. They wipe themselves off, fix the squished cushions. As Hoseok pulls on his pants, Yoongi disappears and then reappears with cleaning supplies.

By mutual agreement, Hoseok scrubs the floor and Yoongi tackles the couch. It’s as his knees are pressed into the floor and he’s briskly wiping at the puddle left by the blowjob that discomfort starts to creep up on him, and the quiet begins to grate.

Even when they’re done and Yoongi’s flipped the worst of the cushions with nonchalant disregard for whoever turns it over in the future, the silence stays. They settle back onto the couch – Yoongi in a new set of clothes he’d recovered from his room down the hallway, black sweats and a grey T-shirt – and this is different than the agonizingly tense stillness of before.

It’s more tired, less hostile. But no less bewildered, for all of that.

Hoseok wonders how stupid it is to wish that, just once, a bandaid could cure gaping wounds and broken hearts.

At least Yoongi isn’t sitting much apart from him. As they recline, Yoongi with his feet up on the table, the smaller man is close enough to touch. Hoseok, made greedy by everything that’s gone before, too drained to be afraid enough to stop, holds out his hand. After a moment of hesitation, Yoongi settles his hand on top. Not quite holding – his fingertips trace fitfully across Hoseok’s palm, a ticklish series of swirls and lines.

Yoongi seems content to sit as they are; his eyes are half-closed, and he doesn’t stir like Hoseok does, every few seconds shifting and tensing. Yoongi is good at accepting the things in his hands, especially if it’s what he’s wanted all along. For Hoseok, though…

The anxiety grows, and if it isn’t anywhere near strong enough to displace the satisfaction and almost-wholeness of the last hour or so, it’s too stubborn to totally dislodge from his mind.

He steals a look at Yoongi, at his long lashes lazily fluttering over his dark eyes, at the slight curl of his mouth, an unconscious expression of contentment. The sight has Hoseok’s throat closing with yearning, and he honestly can’t tell if it’s a longing for the man or his ability to exist in the moment. Hoseok used to be good at that – he used to be the best – but it’s something he’s lost over the years.

Just like so much else. How much of it can he get back? How much should he get back?

What if he wants it all?

He stirs for the umpteenth time, but more forcefully. When he withdraws his hand, Yoongi’s eyes slide open, head tipping to consider him. His expression is watchful and solemn, so much so that Hoseok realizes he hadn’t been as at ease as Hoseok had thought.

“Tired?” Yoongi asks wanly.

“Something like that,” Hoseok replies, just as faded.

There isn’t a window in this room, but there must be one in the kitchen because Yoongi says, “It’s almost a fucking snowstorm out there. Not much point in you going home in that.”

There’s a pause, and Yoongi’s gaze drifts to the hallway leading to his room. He hadn’t offered the space for them to fuck around in – a hurt that Hoseok buried deep in his chest when they began – and he seems to be struggling now. Furrows appear between his fine eyebrows, an eloquent testament to the conflict going on in his head, a return to the tension of before. Hoseok abruptly can’t bear to see it.

They both want so badly, but sometimes – for just today, or maybe forever – they have to accept that they can’t have it all.

“I’ll sleep on the couch.” Yoongi stills at the declaration Hoseok makes, his hand coming up to press against his neck like he needs reassurance.

It’s such a lost, lonely look. Hoseok swallows, and then smiles. One of his better pieces. “It’s fine. You always get those rocks for pillows, I’ll be better out here.”

“They’re good for my neck,” Yoongi mutters, but his hand doesn’t leave his throat and he still looks unsure. Like any second he might blurt out the invitation that neither of them are really comfortable accepting.

“I still move around like a psycho in my sleep, Yoongs, ‘specially in an unfamiliar bed. Believe me, it’s better if I’m out here.” He meets Yoongi’s gaze, tries to reassure with eyes alone that he is okay with this.

And he is. Insofar as he’s been okay with anything tonight.

At last Yoongi relents and his hand falls. “‘Kay. I’ll grab you some shit.”

Blankets, a pillow, some oversized sweats, a toothbrush, they’re all unceremoniously dumped onto the couch. Yoongi – somewhat belatedly – gives him a tour of the small apartment, though it doesn’t include his room. It’s essentially to point out the bathroom and where the chipped glasses for water are in the kitchen. As he’d said, it’s snowing hard outside, and when Hoseok returns to the living room he actually feels grateful to be able to curl into blankets instead of straggling outside in the cold.    

The rest is just cleaning up, fastidiously making a bed for himself, throwing on the sweatpants Yoongi provided, and then reclining on the couch. It’s just a bit too small, and he might or might not find himself falling off it at some point during the night – he was being honest about the restlessness thing – but nonetheless Hoseok grins at Yoongi, hovering nearby.

“Perfect!” he declares, stretching out his arms and wiggling his toes under the blanket.

Yoongi lifts an eyebrow at the enthusiastic and totally not excessive display. “You look like a kid at your first sleepover,” he observes with a snort that does nothing to dispel the affection in his voice.

Hoseok squirms his way deeper into the blankets in reply.

Smiling faintly, Yoongi shakes his head. “Night, Hobi. You want the light off?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

The living room is abruptly dark, leaving just the light spilling from behind the door to Yoongi’s bedroom, left slightly ajar. Hoseok wiggles a few more times, finding a more comfortable position. It’s as he’s sinking into the cushions with a sudden sense of exhaustion that he realizes Yoongi isn’t in his room; his silhouette is breaking up the light coming from there.  

He cranes his neck, can’t see anything but Yoongi’s dim outline down the hall, and gives it up as a bad job. Instead Hoseok just stares up at the ceiling he can’t see, listening to the sound of his own steady breathing. He waits.

“Hey, Hobi?” Yoongi’s voice eventually slips through the dark room, diffidently calling for Hoseok’s attention, and he murmurs a quiet question in return.

“I missed you, too.”

It comes to Hoseok as Yoongi’s door softly closes that he’s holding his breath. Like a sudden exhale might release the thrumming in his chest. Like he might spill the nebulous joy if he sighs too hard. His thoughts are fragile with uncertainty. The elation is a shivery, delicate thing, and he knows if he holds it too hard in his head it’s going to go to pieces under the weight of the past.

So Hoseok doesn’t hold the words hard. He breathes. Breathes and closes his eyes and pushes his face into the pillow that smells like Yoongi. He follows those words as he slips into sleep, and he couldn’t have said where they were leading him.

[dropsofletters]

to the man who broke my heart

title: to the man who broke my heart pairing: yoo kihyun/reader genre: runaway!au/1990’s!au/friends with benefits!au/rich kids!au summary: behind flashing cameras and news articles, people don't realize the emotional pressure and stress celebrities, from any industry, go through. that's something she has bonded about with yoo kihyun, co-owner of a business just like herself, seeking for power in other forms rather than money. the only way they can commit to their dreams, however, is by running away from such a world. will they be able to withstand the idea of being out of the public? type: angst/fluff/romance/suggestive word count: 9,799

The nineties are so posh, so sufficiently cocky that it would leave anyone with a bitter taste on their mouths. The upstanding point of friendships, of growth, of ambition, of leaving nostalgia behind for more futuristic beings. People cared so much that they stopped caring, earning this fashionable yet futuristically invasive mindset that, on the long run, will be an issue to society.

For anyone but the ones with the riches in the world, whose nine-to-five jobs consist of socialite invitations and whom will only grow stronger with their exclusive clubs, their bright and enigmatic personas that will always be a societal rule. Those who have money never get old, never run out of this je ne se quoi people desire to have—it only heightens if that person is good to the public eye, a role model of sorts.

This life is so easy. Her life is so easy. For the love of absolute money, she gets to have one of the best cars of the decade, a porsche that sits at the front of her favorite lounge, heels clicking against the pavement as the welcoming of her entrance, not even sparing the security guard a second glance when she finally enters her desired Saturday-night spot. To be honest, it’s not really simple to live a life like this—so superficial, immensely so, to the point she feels a little bit dizzy simply from stepping inside and hearing the infamous tune of a popular band playing, the rock, grunge-y tone what is in fashion nowadays.

From Mondays to Fridays, people imagine her to be certain way. In light of feminine power opening up to society as a norm, rather normality, it is still quite strange how magazines about the richest of individuals in the country, heck, even internationally, portray her as this gal of fashion, like a makeup enthusiast or an actress. Anyone who didn’t know her would never guess that, while still pretty young and definitely guided by a manager, certain staff to keep her on check, she invests rather than socialize. The usual concept that people misunderstand in such a place, her localities treating her like another blank dot in the famous environment.

You just have to be stupid.

Everyone thinks that is all it consists about. You have to entertain, give a little bit of drama, with the tiniest bit of professionalism, with an apology here and a rumor there and there you have it: the rich lifestyle.

Someone like Yoo Kihyun understands, along with her, that there is more to that statement.

This lounge—rather, this nightclub, everything is so relaxed nowadays (or pretends to be) that she has to call it that way, is their current meeting spot. In between seas of people dancing together, some wearing pointless sunglasses, loose fitted shirts, others standing on tables and yet a handful of people eating from those same tables indicates that she has gotten there at its peak in time. It’s easy to figure out where Kihyun may be, in all his delightfully alluring glory. Someone like him was crafted from all the wrecked pieces of the world, taking the most stunning of diamonds and the poise of the ocean to create him. Him, whom in some way or another gravitated towards her. Him, who understood the complexity of being part of a world and yet, being so far away from it. There is a difference between the owners of the circus and the ones who get to display their talents, yet, it’s ever a rarity to not put them together.

From the first moment she saw him, three years ago in 1991, she knew she’d fall for him. The type of falling that comes with being bored, with having too much time to spare and too many thoughts to get cherished by. If fame is a drug, daydreaming can count as one, too. At the time, his black hair had fell over his forehead romantically, eyes going upper and upper—no, even higher than the sky itself to create constellations with that smile of his, the one that rounds his cheeks, makes the tip of his nose more prominent and his heart less unreachable. He is a man that could be played with...if ignorance takes the best of you and you dismiss his intelligence, his strictfulness, his nature that says:

I’ll do what I want, when I want, because I want.

At the time, it was not a party. Hell, at the time her investments were not even as big as now, and yet, they had grown together. All they could have spoken about then was the growth of the telephonic industry after this decade, how the world seems to rotate more in socialties now that it has developed. A friend of a friend of a friend sort of thing, this is how the world sells. His intelligence had captured her, because past business he sees the world as an experiment. How long will it take until everyone lose their essence to be the copy to the neighbor, who is also a copy of someone else.

Kihyun believes in cycles, in routines, that is why they meet in that nightclub every single Saturday night, eight twenty-two on the dot and instead of dancing, he is simply in the corner, giving her that infamous smile from afar, like he really means to give a serious meaning to them later on in life.

He will, actually, he seems like the type—she is an investor of car companies, surely growing stronger and definitely a huge name that goes around far too much for anyone’s liking. Kihyun is developing cell phones, creates new pieces that only get better with time. He says ten years from now, he’ll get even more innovative. As of now, reuniting and pretending to be friends is easier, mainly because they have so much to lose. People like them do not get magazine covers, they don’t get to be called ‘the new Winona Ryder and Johnny Depp’, they are simply compared.

Who’s richer?

Who’s stronger?

Whose career is bound to finish easier?

This time around, cladded in a black sweater, she moves faster to get to the spot beside him, but just in time before she would sit down, she feels his hand gliding across her back, absentmindedly igniting her skin with trembles when he caresses the small bit that trails down her back in this pink cropped sweater of hers. The weather is cold, not cold enough to not feel put-together for once. He brings her closer, half sitting on the comfortable chair and half seated on his thigh, his fingers pointing at the TV screen not too far ahead with a gullible smile on his face. Whatever got Kihyun to smile like a little kid really must have amused him.

“Look at that.” But how does she look at anything else but him? That is the question, the same one she asks herself when she doesn’t permit herself to stay the night with him or when they come to the agreement to wait. Wait until they rot, maybe, but that is far from the point. Instead, she likes to cling to Saturdays, the only day in which Kihyun is not wearing a suit or holding tightly onto his phone. Thus, she does stop looking at him, instead settling her gaze on the TV ahead and trying to catch anything of what the news reporter is saying.

She doesn’t, actually, pretty difficult to do such a thing when everyone is singing along to music, grinding on each other and basically living their lives away for one night. She fixes herself on her seat when she gets to read the headlines, see the pictures that display on the screen just in time for her to scoff. “No way...”

“I can’t actually believe they did it,” Kihyun says, his arm still wrapped around her waist, his voice tickling her shoulder from the fair proximity in between the two. “They actually ran away.”

She gives him a side-eye, though she has to turn her head to look at him, bangs swept to the side softly, falling upon his face ever so slightly. He should use more hairspray, but that is not him—those are the try-hards of this fashion momentum, but not him. “This is so insane.” Two of their friends, a couple to be exact, had bonded with them about the complexity of this life and the toxicity of the public eye that feels like they own celebrities, or socialites, or anyone who dares to show their lives to the masses. This is only heightened in fear when corporations tighten their holds on younger individuals, crafting perfect products, immaculate businesspeople and yet, voids in their hearts. “Props to them. I—They really ran away. People think they are missing, but...do you think they really are missing or left to Barbados like they wanted to?”

“No way. They’ve been talking about leaving for the past few weeks and they said May was their month. Of course they’d leave now. It’s a plan.” Kihyun utters, intelligence in numbers clear as day as he rests his cheek against his palm, letting out a sigh. “...I wonder what that feels like.”

While opening the menu to read over the specials, she hums. “What?”

“Running away.”

“...You could never want such a thing, though.” She tells him, knowing him better than he could ever know himself. Though, he simply leans back on his seat, playing with the straw of his first drink before sighing.

“I know...” He trails and she knows there’s a counterpart to it. “But,” There it is, the initiation of a glimpse of Kihyun’s complicated mindset, yet so enticing. “It’s tiresome. This industry is only getting tougher, more sold, one day there won’t be a line between investments in technology, in music, in theater and plain out illegal stuff.” He answers, something in his eyes completely understandable to her. In this industry, people are obsessed with feeling...and with that, winning. To win, you have to take down any competition. “I don’t ever want to be part of that.”

She nudges his side with her body, resting her head on his shoulder. “You’ll never have to go through that.”

“I hope.” Kihyun breathes out before nodding her way. “Would you want to leave?”

It takes her two seconds. No, even less. She gives him an answer immediately. “Hell yeah.”

“That was quick.”

“It’s because I’ve always thought of it.”

“...I know like 97% of your personal life and I had never heard you say you want to leave.” He whispers close to her, tapping his fingers against the table in some rhythm that matches the song in the background. “Where is this coming from, in your case?”

“It’s more insecurity than anything,” And she is intelligent enough to realize this, pushing the menu down and standing up to go ask for her meal. Something greasy seems about right for this night, leaving her full and yet, satisfied. “I know I'm not...the typical investor. One, I’m a woman. Two, all the articles have dismissed me as one of the least interesting business owners. I’m never going to be one of the Thirty Under Thirty and—” It stings, it hurts, it makes her feel like there is something wrong with her, when in reality all the downsides are part of who she is. Young. A woman. Technically part of a family of interesting, immaculate individuals whom she has to compete with in order to stand out. “I would love to stop being compared to my cousins for a second. I’d love for magazines to stop using me as the stereotype of a successful, yet boring and bland woman on one of those articles of ‘10 ways you’re going to lose your man’ and...” She cuts herself off then, laughing when Kihyun starts to catch her humor. “Really, Kihyun, I’m the picture of the woman that appears on the third way or something. ‘You’re paying much attention to work and less to sex. He’ll get bored of you’. This bullshit of a society really gets me, because the public and our business-people are equally as draining, let me tell you.”

“Just, stop—” He chuckles, shaking his head along to her words. “You...okay, that’s not going to make you lose any man.”

“I’m not interested in who I lose,” She tells him, biting down on her bottom lip after shrugging. “I’m more of a ‘who-I-keep’ kind of person.”

“Bossy.”

“The boss, yes.” She replies, though she breaks character fairly soon. Why is it that there is always this voice biting at her life in the back of her head, telling her to stop pretending? “...Not that I’ll be at this point. My business is owned by four of our generation, my cousins and I and I am the fourth in line. If the other three die, I’ll take their spot.”

“If they don’t realize the gem you are business-wise, I support you completely in running away.” This is just a joke, after all, none of them would ever be able to leave this city, much less leave their businesses behind. They have families to make proud, friends to keep around, money to take care of and people with jobs to help out. They are far too busy to have the fantasy of a romantic vacation.

“Thank you.” Looking to the sides just in case anyone is watching—though, no one cares about others than the fan-based celebrities—, she leans forward to capture his lips in a brief, sweet, almost innocent kiss before smiling at him. “I’m thinking burgers for tonight.”

“It’s on me, then.”

💔

What does a president have to do with a singer? An actor with a robber? What connects the world in every stance of it?

Money.

Money does.

Mocked she feels like when she sits in the middle of this meeting room, people with suitcases and elegant clothing surrounding her, poison in their bloods as the thrive for money. She has been reached by this injection of power, a golden necklace hanging from her neck, resting upon the neckline of her black button down, half opened to give it a casual look. Her hands, obsessed with holding papers in between them to gain another eventful contract, are decorated in equally as golden rings. Everything about her speaks like a product, and it is the same getaway of her destructive mechanism.

Bad, how bad it is that the red lipstick on her only feels like a mask, how she pleads to the world to free her from the curse of money, crafted like a masterpiece, almost like a building that is still under construction. Money is what will burn her one day, and it starts with the simplistic title of betrayal. The people in said room are speaking about the loss of one of their sponsored individuals, exactly in the rap industry—Jooheon had signed his contract off with them, instead siding with Kihyun’s business, leaving them in absolute turmoil. It is easy to lose the youthful demographic if a rapper simply shrugs off some cars for a phone. It means their product, as known as it is, is just another line in the drawing that is the world of businesses.

Eyes are casted upon her, mostly her cousins’, as if glaring at her, knowing of her relationship with Kihyun, the silent love she exudes for the man, always talking about him like grace itself, as if the gods had put all the beauty and wellness of the world on his shoulders. Her long nails glide across the pictures of Jooheon’s appearance in Kihyun’s business new commercial and by her side, she sees the contract that had been signed off, the money he gave them back and for some reason, she swallows thickly.

“We need you to cut ties with Kihyun.” Her oldest cousin says, the first in line, her hair perfectly put-together even in such an early time in the morning. Something about her has always been scary, like she would never give anyone a smile, not even if there was a camera in front of her. “...I don’t want to keep going around the subject. He has only been using you to get closer to our clients and snatch them away.”

But that is impossible. It’s more possible for the sky to burn and dull its light than for Kihyun to even betray her. Poison doesn’t linger on his veins, but he is intelligent. Perhaps, this is just a movement of the bigger beings of his company, not exactly a family-based one, but one of those more experienced CEO’s that help him in bigger decisions. “I doubt he made that decision.” Her mind remains blank, however, trying to defend him in any way possible...but money could cut the fondest of bonds. “Kihyun has like five people before him in his company. I imagine they offered Jooheon more money, for instance, and since Jooheon wants to reach a youthful audience, it is easier to sell a phone than to sell a car—”

“But your job is to sell cars, to invest on them, to earn that money with hard work.” Her cousin continues, tilting her head to the side when she leans forward on the table. “Our sales dropped. We don’t care if Jooheon’s seventeen-year-old fans have money, we care about selling.”

“It’s not the most intelligent of business moves, actually. I told you so before.” She fights back, crossing one leg over the other as if to gain confidence. She doesn’t, almost suffocated under her cousin’s dark stare. “Jooheon may have enough money to buy a car, but we create sports cars. We don’t need Jooheon—”

“And Kihyun does?”

“Well, a phone is cheaper than a car.”

Her cousin releases a sigh, leaning her forehead against the table and pointing at one of her workers to speak for her. “Miss, we need you to cut ties with Kihyun. Sponsors and investors will be immensely turned off by our offers if we make them lose money.”

“We still have other sponsors in the celebrity industry, though.” She defends, knowing well that there is one person that keeps her same in the world of the movement of money. The only person that sees the fun in this superficial matter, whose movements are not always for socializing but rather to enjoy himself. “We have actor Lee Minho with us. He’s more of franchise, he is older than Jooheon, definitely richer, his fans are older as well...”

Her oldest cousin lifts her body up at that, fingertips wrapping around her hair to keep the strands up and away. However, her frustration is voiced out by the third in line, always sweeter than the boss of the cousins. “Kihyun knew about this,” She starts. “And everyone is aware of your friendship. Paparazzi, socialites, the world knows you two get along well, but we just need a headline.”

“Headline?” Confusion takes over her, folding her hands over her lap, playing with the edge of her shirt. Everything about her life has always been so expensive, so crafted, and seeing the only real thing that stays being pushed away and out of her life is a trigger.

“What she is trying to say.” Her third cousin points towards the first cousin in line for the car company. “She’s meaning to tell you that we need to paint Kihyun as the bad guy. His reputation being tainted by us, using your friendship with him, painting him as a betrayer will only work to our favor. Just imagine it.” She utters, a smile grazing her features, yet it speaks about everything rather than comfort. “Yoo Kihyun’s new personality. Hindsight from our favorite cousins about how the phone-company owner betrayed one of his friends to get to the top.”

Sickening, it feels like, to dress on money-coated clothes, to have all the gold in the world and all the space to live in, even going as far as a spot to die in...and yet, still feel so lonely, so misunderstood. This is the corporation part, the obnoxiously painful part of it all that speaks about stepping harder than others—a dance of flamenco, worth of being applauded thanks to its artistry excellence...significative in the horrendousness of life. “I’m not going to do that.”

“...Then, watch millions burn in the air, people losing their jobs because of you.” The oldest cousin says once again, leaving a bitter taste of her mouth and, for a moment, it’s difficult to even swallow.

“It’s not going to get that far.”

“How do you know?”

“I—Listen, it’s impossible. Jooheon is not an influence to the entire world, it’s the 90’s, there is a solution to this.” She responds, standing up from her spot and running her hands over the expanse of her abdomen, wanting to smooth the fabric there. “What’s with all the money-talk now? We have been doing excellently this year, don’t worry.”

The leader cousin ignores her, crossing her arms over her chest to highlight her poised stance. “I’ll worry. This is the business train, you either get on it or you don’t.”

At the time, she couldn’t come up with a proper response. She was scared. Now, laying down on a hotel bed whilst hoping no paparazzi caught her trace, she thinks of a million outcomes.

How not to feel powerful when he is by her side? In this hotel, like they have always belonged somewhere and it is with the other. Truthfully, Kihyun is not simply just any man, which is why it is not difficult for him to make fire out of water, to turn tears into laughter, into passion, absolute tranquility with this burning, heated desire to be stronger. Miniscule beings do not exist in Kihyun’s language and though his height is something people mock him for, he finds his strength as a person to be gigantic. That is...until someone tears him to shreds.

Kihyun is not only the man that has glided his hands across the skin of her thighs in search for her heart. He is not only a scientist that has played with the hormones of love in order to get her tranced. He’s not only a coworker, of sorts, a man that knows the life she lives—Kihyun is that one guy who has seen her bare, not only in body but in soul, the one person that understands she will never be part of this life. She loves the money, the pleasantries, the feeling of leather on the back of her thighs as long as she is not wearing a skirt...and he opens her mind to new hindsights. Technology is not at its peak, but once it is, she’ll be happy to be part of this revolutionary stance.

“I am scared,” She admits, playing with his hands that rest on her abdomen and lord, how stupid it is that she wishes—for now—that Kihyun would hold a ring on his finger that would claim him as hers, even just a piece of him. She wants to be a bond to bound there, a connection that makes this feel more believable to her cousins. All the anxiety of being part of the famous world, as often as she gets compared to others, has only been heard by him. “They told me I had to come up with some drama between us this week. If not, they are just telling the world. I have no say in what comes next.”

“Fuck.” Kihyun breathes out, sitting up on the bed before turning to look at her. “Money is really out here to destroy humanity, isn’t it?”

She squints her eyes at that, staring ahead while lost in her thoughts. “I wish I could be stronger than money.”

“You are to me.” He says, pressing a fleeting kiss to her lips to get her back to reality. “Even if you want, you’ll never be quite as toxic and powerful as money.”

“You like money...and you like me, what’s the difference?”

Kihyun’s lips quirk up at that, bad in the good, looking like a dream, even when the golden lights of the hotel help him achieve that look. Or is it the love she feels for him? Though not unrequited, also not voiced out. “...It’s different, I don’t know how, but it is. I know you won’t kill me in the end, for one.” He tells her, pushing the covers off his body before extending his hands. “God, I wish...I wish we could do something.”

“You know, it would be amazing to pick up our bags and leave somewhere. Somewhere we can be...you know, young, like we have to be.” She pushes, sitting up with excitement on the bed. Her eyes are glistening, almost white, like the thirst for money is now craving freedom. “We’d be able to have all the facilities...but it would hurt them. It would remind my cousins and your upper businessmen that we are worth it, we are not some youth call for magazines to talk about. We aren’t based on predictions—”

Kihyun runs his fingers through his damp hair, the shower he took just a few minutes ago memory of how he was not alone in there, either. Something about him is complicated now, almost unreachable. “You want to run away?”

“Why not?” She asks, shrugging her shoulders with a soft smile on her face. “I want to feel like I am not a product to consume for once.”

“...It sounds insane.” Kihyun shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest while deep in thought. “We have worked so hard to be part of corporations. Now we want to be freed from just that.”

“We are not as important as them, Kihyun!” She exclaims, an ironic smile on her features. Money, money, everyone wants it, to the point lust could never compare to power money has. It causes wars, fights, divorces, it leaves families alone and friendships asking for help. Money gives materialistic things, fakes to be your friend until it kills you. If the paper-money could smile, it would, all those dead figures of history giving their souls to immortality all in the name of money. Oh, what a fake pride, money speaks more than any mystical being could. “We will be trashed if...we give them time. It’s so scary, I have also given my life away for this.” Her breathing quickens at that. “We have so much money to spend, to save, to use to live...why don’t we show it ho much we don’t care about it?”

“We do care about it, though. It’s all we have known.” He argues with her, though softly, knowing that they were both raised in extremely wealthy families, counting paper from the moment they were children. “Leaving that behind is difficult. Once we run out of money, it’s over.”

“We just have to be mindful of it. Our life is not over if we just have a bit less.” She tells him, jumping a bit on the bed, mattress wiggling under her weight. “Imagine how beautiful it would be! We’d finally have heaven on Earth, we’ll be stronger than we have ever been!” She doesn’t realize power is speaking here, the strength of love and admiration for the person in front of her—the same one who could leave her side if only the fake news her cousins are planning do get out. They will if she doesn’t try. “You have said before that you would love to run away.”

“For a week or two, not my entire life.” Kihyun whispers, biting down on his bottom lip before clearing his throat. “Though, I’ll have to disappear from your life if your cousins go through with their plan.”

When nearing him, she opens the gates of heaven to him, resting her hands over his shoulders and searching for his face. After all, she wants him, but she doesn’t want to make him miserable just to make herself happy. “Hey...even if I leave, you don’t have to leave with me. I’m just saying...since we are both involved in this, we could leave for a while and live off our own money. Even...the company’s, but that is if we’re looking for revenge and being criminals.” She tries to make him laugh, a brief breathy chuckle released from his lips.

“Do you have a place in mine?”

“...I want to go big.” She replies, fluttering her eyelashes almost romantically. “But it’s up to you to follow me or not. Really, I won’t get mad.”

“I could try it out for a few weeks.” Kihyun answers, almost tranced by the idea of not caring of the world that surrounds him for a second. Egotistic, partially the benefits of being rich, the priviledge clouding all their judgement. “Let’s take a flight after this. Let’s leave.”

She gasps at that, almost a bit dramatically, but hearing that from Kihyun means business. It means certainty. “Are you serious? Are we really leaving?”

“For a bit. Just that. Let’s see how we do being irreponsible for once.” He replies, staring at her eyes for a second before grabbing her cheek and pinching it delicately. “If I try this, I want it to be with you.”

Money doesn’t matter, burn it all, if that means having Kihyun there for her.

What an atrocious mentality.

💔

It glistens under the lights of the night, passing through the windows of a taxi, yellow, bright, like the start of their first night finally being free. The previous one had consisted of sleeping, giggly after a late-night conversation, jet-lagged and confused as to where they stand, where they live, what they have done with nothing left behind, other than some of their material beings—parts of them that they can earn back. She has never felt quite as close to Kihyun as she is now, with his legs parted, dark and ripped jeans perfect for their night out, hand resting on top of her thigh, like he always has to make sure he is by her side. His face looks tranquil when she shows him her black credit card, almost at ease, because this is what they are used to: runaways and yet so fitting into the rich world.

Living with Kihyun seems to be easy now, like any demon has cleared the world for it to leave in peace, the upbeat tone of  Snoop Dogg song playing in the background, legs crossed over the other to showcase her pretty yellow dress, not snug but still loose enough for it to feel free. This is what they finally are, god, it’s such a beautiful word to say. Free, like birds. Free, like a song. Free, free, free.

“With this, we’re going to give Tommy a visit.” She speaks softly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her air just in time to have Kihyun laughing at her antics. “What? It’s our first night here...and we can spend our money whichever way we want. Let’s bu Carolina Herrera perfumes, and Tommy Hilfiger clothes. Let’s ask for a Ferrari and compete against my own company. Let’s—” Her fingertips wrap around his phone, the one that rests on his bag stupidly, big and blocky. “Let’s get rid of your brand. Nokia sounds about right, trendy even.”

Kihyun’s eyebrows quirk up at that, taking the card from her hands and she imagines him that he is going to say it is alright. After all, Kihyun lives for his own will and if she had been powerful enough to get him to agree to running away from their businesses without saying any word, now staying at another country, she feels like she can get him to spend some...thousands. “Or, we could actually think about what we are spending. Uh, less Nokia and—”

“You are just scared of using Nokia.”

“Are you down to driving a Ferrari?”

“I mean...the leather is terrible,” She answers, scrunching up her nose before laughing. “But we are here to make fun of our brands, labels, whatever has kept us back.” His chapped lips purse up at that, making her sigh when she interlocks their hands together, taking the one that rested on her thigh. They may be friends with benefits, but she is his friend over anything, she knows him better than she likes to admit. “Cheap leather isn’t going to stop me from feeling...like money doesn’t define me.”

“By using money?” Kihyun asks. “I don’t know...I am used to...you know, being a product. Whatever happens after I buy a Nokia will probably ruin my life.” He chuckles, finding amusing the spot he is in right now. “Nokia don’t have as good signal as we do.”

Trailing her eyes up and down his small nose, his perfect lips and his bright eyes, she feels like living this night up as the driver takes them to the best and most expensives stores for them to feel like they have forever to live. “The only person I care to call is you, though.”

“...Huh, you know I don’t like it when you become cheesy.” Kihyun mumbles, letting his fingers fix her hair before huffing against her lips. He wouldn’t kiss her, not here, not when they finally have each other completely. “So, you want us to buy Tommy Hilfiger clothes, get out of here with a Ferrari, use Nokia’s to call people...who we should not even be calling when we’re running away?” She nods her head.

“I’m here for a good time, not a smart one. I have plenty of those.”

“What’s next? We’re going to have Jay Z perform for us personally?”

“Not a bad idea,” She points out, wriggling her finger and laughing when she turns to look at the city lights. In such a city, they are so small, they do not matter all that much, much less do they belong to an elite that will put pressure over them. They are a duo, the high-budget but still endlessly uncomparable Bonnie and Clyde. No one cares about them here, much less do they care about their power. They are only more rich people in between the rich, a necklace in between diamonds, heels in between boots. What else could be better?

“Everything is so pretty here.” Kihyun says, pressing his back to her side when he leans forward, her gaze turning back to see the moving lights on his skin, all cause of the motion.

“Yeah...” What is more beautiful, the tall buildings, electric city-life, the bustle of the individuals walking and talking and enjoying music, or the man by her side, trusty enough to leave everything behind—at least momentarily, just for her—. “You really are beautiful.”

Kihyun’s eyes look down at that, inspecting her face before pressing his lips together. “Thank you.”

“I’ve been told I’m pretty good-looking myself.” There she is, seeking for a compliment out of the half-cold, half-warm man.

Lukewarm, yes, that is his word. Common just doesn’t do it for him, like he wants it all but none at the same time. Bubbling inside her body, like champagne of the richest sellers, is the love that could only explode all over the place if she let it. For now, she keeps it hidden...it’s all about enjoying the night, living as they wish. “...You are gorgeous, not only good looking.”

“I’m not even going to say thank you because I knew that.” She jokes, placing a kiss on the juncture of his neck, right above his yugular, smelling the Calvin Klein cologne—or is it Polo Sport?

Her body almost falls to the pavement once the car comes to a halt, Kihyun’s fingers hooking on the handle of the door to open it, catching her by the waist just before falling. “Alright, let’s start this night.”

She’ll remember this night ten years from now, twenty years after as well, when her card had glided across with such ease and such carelessness that she had felt stronger than the leashes that had kept her in place in the past. A palace, they created, in such a big decision of leaving, following the noise of the city and getting lost in the complexity of it all. His smile is palpable, picking up the biggest of coats, wearing it over his body in a fashionable way, taking too many rings to ever fit on their fingers and still, wearing them. Feeding the nostalgia with lollipop rings and hair bleach they promise to use sooner than later, matching terrible hairstyles if they dare and please.

That is the easiest part of the night, deepening when they really do live up to that promise of buying a Nokia and for some reason, she does acquire the red car that she would have never thought of having. Kihyun’s hands always gravitate towards her waist, but why does gravity exist when he makes her feel like she is flying? His breathing on her body adrenaline in its purest form, even more so when he is the driver of their new car, windows rolled down and the wind blowing on his already untamed hair, elbow resting on the door, his fingertips resting on his cheek while they speak. She can’t tear her gaze away from him, such a dream with music playing in the background, phenomenon after phenomenon making her happier.

“We could get used to this.” She tells him, getting a hum from him when she extends her legs, trying to ease the ache on them after walking for so long. “Don’t you agree?”

“This is the most fun I’ve had in awhile, yes.” Kihyun answers another question before quirking an eyebrow. “But I’m not sure if we can have fun forever.”

“Why not?!” She exclaims, jumping a bit on her seat before smiling. “We’ll fight against the world. Who even needs us in the capitalist world? We’re one of many.”

“We’re only fueling capitalism with this.” Kihyun tuts, her hand colliding against his thigh in a small smack.

“But we’re more than it.”

“How so?”

“Unlike other people, we’re having fun with money. We’re not competing, we are living.” His eyes gleam at that, sparing her a glance and then releasing a soft chuckle.

“We’ll try to make this last, then. Our forever, let’s call it.”

In moments like these, youth doesn’t know better, which is why she wraps her lips around the world romantically. “Yes, our forever.” She tells him, only to grasp on the skin of his thigh. “But we won’t last forever if I let you keep driving. You’re not that good”

“I got my driver’s license in a cereal box. Let me do my thing.” Kihyun replies, though she watches him get ready to park the car and give it to her.

The night is not even close to being finished to them, but they don’t have to think about the concept of time anymore...at least, not for now.

Not for their forever.

💔

The expanse of Kihyun’s body is all she feels, the bass of the song in the background a mix in between a club banger and one of those misfits in the music industry, that is not as scene-changing as the feeling of freedom she gets with him. He feels expensive, from the small protruding veins on his skin, mostly on his arms when she twirls around on his arms, her back pressed to his chest, arms wrapped around her waist, his smile pressed to her shoulder like when he is trying to hide his smile—he’s happy, she can tell, the millionare house they had invested in suddenly feeling cramped when his body is so close, the necklace around his neck digging in her nape, his sin in contact with hers by the deep neck of his button down.

Buying a house a week after their departure from their real life seemed like a step closer to normality, a freak show the more they enter their lives into this. Not a smoker, much less a junkie, she still feels tranced in this faux sense of reality they have created. The comfort of waking up to him is far too intoxicating, sharing books and ideas, thinking about the future in just enjoying it, not necessarily working for it. They are privileged, yes, she knows this fairly well but she’s taking the reigns of it. Kihyun’s marks around his face have smoothened, like he is much more tranquil. Sometimes, his smile first thing in the morning makes her feel like there is a moment now for them to fall in love.

Or they may be in love already.

Interlocking their fingers together, she swings while getting closer to him, bodies snug together like they never belonged to separate worlds. She tilts her head slightly, to the point their eyes connect just in time for her to send a remark his way. “It’s been a while since we’ve danced together.”

Bringing his bottle of beer up his lips, he takes a small swing before smiling. “I remember the first time I asked you to dance,” He tells her, placing the bottle down on the coffee table without letting go of her body, their bodies bending slightly, but his arms are once again around her waist, hands one in essence. “You were shy.”

“You’re just a good dancer. I thought: ‘So, this guy is giving me the time of the day and making me look like a fool while at it, interesting.’”

He hums, placing a kiss to her cheek just in time to heighten the feelings around her body. The dull Kihyun is fire in these moments, when he knows exactly what he is doing, like a seductive part of life—he’s the most exquisite of places and she wants to make him home. Money, fame, sex, it all matters less when Yoo Kihyun exists in this world. “You’re such a people-pleaser, you know exactly what to say and when.” He whispers before twisting her around and looking into her eyes, face flushed with a faint glow, a little bit of oils and that blush that she loves being part of. “That was so many years ago. Like three years? I was so nervous, too. You were such a badass.”

“Were?”

“Are, actually. You got me to run away from my world, convinced me in some way or another, and that’s impressive.” Kihyun tells her, bottom lip stuck in between his teeth when he bites down on it, hands making a trip out of her curves when he hugs her tightly, her own hands resting on his chest, seeking for his quickened heart.

“I’ve been having the best time of my life.” She confesses, all love confessions and adoration while Kihyun is much more silent in that sense. His body pulls away from hers, a small stop sign appearing on her heart when he reaches for his backpack, taking out his beloved camera before swinging it in the air softly.

“Let’s remember it. Come on, I want to take pictures of you.”

She chuckles at that, covering her face when he points his camera at her, taking a seat on the couch with his legs parted, looking way longer than they actually are. Something about him is more relaxed, as if she finally meets the real version of Kihyun—the one that doesn’t think so much about his future and just enjoys the now. “I look like a mess, Kihyun. Come on, don’t.” The idea of her mismatched satin bathrobe in a beige color and her purple pajamas in the same material being caught on camera is not so pleasing, but Kihyun shakes his head.

“Uncover your face. You look pretty. Besides, I want cute pictures of you.”

“Kihyun—”

“Please?” His eyebrows knit together at that, making her heart sing a lullaby to its left ventricle, pumping blood faster than she could ever imagine, heart picking up its pace. She sighs, dropping her bathrobe down her shoulders slightly, half-off and turning around, covering half of her face with a peace sign and her shoulder covering a small chunk of her face. “Wow, you can see so much of yourself in this picture.” His sarcasm is clear on his voice and she sighs, half-laughing at his words.

“Alright, I’ll drop my hand.” She rests her hands in front of her, looking into the camera and hearing the flash going off. “This reminds me of paparazzi.”

“Don’t compare me to those lifeless guys.” He adds, looking down at the camera and taking pictures as she gets closer to him. “They will rip the life out of anyone. They’re zombies, sort of.”

But the light of him, his life, is coming back to him. She realizes this when she takes a seat on his lap, grasping his face on her hands and feeling the camera rest in between their bodies. Before, they were too busy to say the things that are important...but now, in this secluded mansion, they have all the time in the world to make another friend fall in love. “They’ll never dull you, Kihyun. They won’t reach us here.” This power they swear they have blinded them to the world that lived out there, much more when his hands expand over her pajama bottoms, caressing the skin of her hips before leaning forward and capturing a kiss from her lips, like the flicker of a camera that catches her off guard.

His rosy and thin lips glide across hers, deepening the kiss when she runs her fingertips through the strands of black hair. “Thank you for lying to me.” She swears she hears him say, but she can’t quite make out the sentence because she leans forward to kiss him again. They want to feel alive, but every fire needs to be dulled down at some point before it burns it all.

💔

Each day, something new is born. An invention, a feeling, a person. Also, something dies—faith, for example, is the most often left behind sentiment. Currently, no one needs it...or so people claim. They only need to feel alive, they don’t need promises of a tomorrow or the day after that, or so she had thought in the past. She is relishing in the feeling of not having achy eyes in the early mornings, of having less coffee and more memories to cling into, of feeling like the owner of her world with no responsibilities whatsoever. She isn’t thinking straight, she calls herself out at times, but whenever she wakes up to the sight of Kihyun, she feels like she is not alone in this. Thus, not entirely lost, as well.

The morning for them includes slices of a vintage cake they had bought the previous night from a small business, the red and yellow colors brightening their day with the sweetness of the treet, paired up with lattes and the TV playing in the background. The counters are still squeaky clean, for she has more time to take care of cleaning now that she doesn’t have to worry about thousands of workers around the continent. For, it’s easy for her to rest her knees on the seat, elbows propped on the island in order to watch the block-like TV with more precision.

On the other end of the island, Kihyun seems to be far more stressed, though he does not move. His hand remains wrapped around the handle of his mug, hair thrown everywhere in his style, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down after swallowing harshly, eyes trained into the TV as well. She sees all the love and peacefulness leaving him the more they hear the news...because they are in them. Two socialites, two business-people, runaways of society that are apparently ‘missing’ according to this news outlet.

“The second victim goes by the name of Yoo Kihyun, co-owner of Jung’s Phone Company, who was last seen with his well known friend getting out of some hotel together. The family of the young man has been looking for him—” She reaches for the remote then, muting the screen in no time before standing up from her spot and staying in the way of the TV, earning a scowl from Kihyun almost immediately.

“Get away.”

“Kihyun, don’t listen to that. We’re—”

“We’re running away from our families, our friends, people that care about us! Don’t you hear that?!” Kihyun tells her loudly, something triggering inside him, frowning deeply when he scratches his head, rubbing his face soon after when wrinkles form on his forehead. “We have worried people. Whether you want to accept it or not, this is highly egotistical. I said a few weeks of this and it has gotten out of control.”

She lowers her shoulders at that, walking forward until she is standing on one end of the island while he is seated on the other. “Kihyun, this wasn’t only my decision. Rise and shine, sunshine, we have done this together.” She tells him, voice filled with pettiness as she crosses her arms over her chest. “We have been happy. Minutes ago you were happy, don’t paint me as the one that was egoistic.”

“I am not saying that.” Kihyun finishes, licking the corner of his mouth and trying to look over her sholder to see what the news is announcing. “Just—Let me look.”

“We can just call our families and tell them we’re here. I don’t see why you’re so bothered.”

“Because we have to go back, that’s it.” Kihyun says, taking a long gulp of his coffee, probably burning his tongue along the way. He hisses soon after, cause of the warmth of his drink. “You don’t get it? The police are involved in this. We have responsibilities and if we dare tell our families, just like that, that we are staying here  because we want to be irresponsible, we will be painted to the media like two slackers.”

What had gone wrong? She doesn’t know, the weapon of love is now held against her, perhaps a grenade or a gun, she is unsure. Everything he says just sounds so reasonable, yet like a stab to her back. Perhaps, he had not enjoyed himself quite as much as she did—maybe his forever is not ever going to be actually an union. “Is that what you think we have been doing? Slacking? Kihyun, we have lived—”

“Living life doesn’t mean ou get to avoid responsibilities.” Kihyun counterparts, making her chuckle sarcastically, parting her lips soon after to speak to him.

“Are you meaning to call me irresponsible?”

What a terrible poem, so distasteful in the mouth, to listen about their love story being destroyed by none other than the media. What they had avoided had reached them easily, as if the fire in beween them could always die down with water. “Let’s calm down.”

“No,” She answers. “I’m not dumb, I’m not numb. I know what I’m doing. Unlike you, I don’t care about a business if I’m going to be exploited by the media. Look how many celebrities don’t want to be part of this. We are rich, that doesn’t mean we are happy!”

“Which is why we should look for happiness in work!”

“Well, I thought I could seek happiness in you.” The wrongest decision she could have ever made, she realizes, because Kihyun was never a certainty, much less he meant the forever he was claming to ahve. A forever with different stand-points, knowing that they were never going to want the same thing for long periods of time. There is a reason why they always remained friends with benefits and never a couple they had become. “You know what? Make your fucking decision. I’ll be in the guest’s room when you sort yourself out. Unlike you, if I start something, I finish it.”

And for the entirety of the afternoon, the night, even the midnight, she expects to shed tears, to dry herself out of sadness...but she knows better than doing that. Yoo Kihyun was always a businessman, always the man in the back of every picture of socialites, too responsible to ever follow his heart...and she loved him for that.

It only so happened that he broke her heart with the main reason why she had fallen in love with him.

💔

They teach you money will save you, but it never does.

They never told her the peak of the morning is just as healing, that the moment in which the sun is too dark to shine to its fullest potential is when she will feel the most empowered. In the faint distance, she swears she can see outlines of birds, of planes, of the mix between nature and complete humanity. While seated on that couch, in and out of sleep, stuck in the guest’s room, she wonders what her road will look like. She wants freedom and she knows she wasn’t happy before, but she is not sure what will be her north, her passion, the reason she will wake up every day with the need to pull herself back up. That should never be another person, and for that Kihyun is right.

What Kihyun doesn’t remember is that they had always spoken about a moment like this, as well, that their future was always left for a later...and while trying to live a forever, they discovered nothings lasts a lifetime. For moments like these, she prays for time to go back, for the threads to be sewn back together to create a warm blanket to cover her in the middle of this coldness. She hears him around the house and part of her wishes he enters that guest room, he never does, the stars going up, going down, now merging into the morning after endless hours of being in and out of sleep, of snacking in whatever she finds in that room...of promising herself that this is a nightmare.

Why is it that each time she wakes up he is still leaving?

Part of her wished for him to leave silently, for her to be asleep when he closed the door a final time and left the town by plane, putting away every thought of unconditional love. But Kihyun is not this type of person, not necessarily career driven, but also not given to love entirely. Kihyun knows balance...and maybe that is something she should study, not letting go of the leash completely but also not keeping herself trapped. It’s difficult to do that when she had painted a love glistening in the dark, only to be left alone with a sun that would never shine quite as bright again.

She prays that sun does remember its beauty. She prays that this is the lowest point she can reach before lifting herself up again.

Hopeless she is when she hears the door opening and unlike her old mansion, it could have been a worker—a cleaner, her assistant, even her manager, but right now it could only be Kihyun. Her heartbeat slows down at that moment, because even after everything he is still her comfort, but it doesn’t relax her to hear the rolling of wheels in his luggage, his voice getting clearer when he utters her name out.

It breaks her because she has heard her name being called thousands of ways, but never quite like this, like this is the sweetest of goodbyes. Bittersweet, she’d call it. She brings her knees up her chest, looking out the window and staring at the city, still lighted down, and she can’t even bring herself to look at him when he takes the seat beside her in that couch, his eyes trained on her.

“I knew you’d leave,” She whispers, trying to keep her voice levelled though it’s extremel difficult to do so, closing her eyes to stop the headache that comes with a bad night of sleep. Maybe, she is hurting, as well. Is she losing a friend, apart from a lover? “I should have known, any day and everyday, that I was delusional for thinking we had a future. Much less one like this.”

“I’m doing it for me.” He tells her, trying to look into her eyes, but she keeps them closed. She knows she’ll ask him to stay if she looks into his eyes. The stars are falling down, but the sun is not going up. This is the first and last time he breaks her heart. “I have responsibilities, baby. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry—”

“But I am.”

“I know, but don’t say it.” She opens her eyes, looking out the window and letting out a soft sigh. She presses her fingers to her temples, catching the attention of Kihyun.

“Do you want me to get you an aspirin?”

“No.” Though, she misses the usual ‘thank you’ she would have said otherwise. “If you’re going to leave, just leave now.”

The feeling of his clothes rustling against the sofa is heard around the room, too loud to be bearable, his body bringing itself up until his lips hover over her temple, trying to kiss it but she pulls away from him, as if electricity goes through them. Her body protects itself with her arms wrapped around it, shaking her head just in time to hear him say: “I’m sorry, I love you. I mean it, I really love you.”

Some people never prepare you for the better-off goodbyes, and she knows she would never have been ready for the silence that continued soon after, because she was unable to tell Kihyun what she really felt. She loved him, endlessly, more than the zeroes in her bank account, more than a house could ever cost, more than any contract she ever signed. He probably knew this, he’s intelligent, but she never got to say it...much less when Kihyun whispers his goodbyes and leaves with that damned rolling of wheels against the tiles, all coming from his luggage.

One of those planes in the sky will welcome the man that broke her heart and once he gets back, he’ll tell her cousins where she is. That, however, couldn’t hurt as much as a broken romance that comes with the realization that enjoyment can only last so long before it becomes an addiction.

Still, there is love in the darkness of the sun...and she’ll find it beneath herself. In some place in this new town, she’ll find a new business to construct, a name to be remembered once she finishes. Smiles will make their way back to her, tomorrow or the day after that. Quick, it will heal her, she proclaims.

Faster than Kihyun leaving her, though she wishes him well.

[aliceslantern]

Heartlines, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 19--Lion’s Den

Twelve years ago, Xemnas betrayed the royal court of Radiant Garden to his father, Xehanort. Prince Ienzo flees to another city and begins university in the aftermath, hoping the anonymity will protect him from eager eyes with ill intent. The darkness spilling across the country, as well as an individual from his past, cut short Ienzo's new beginning and bring new conflicts to light. Strained between the desires of his magic and his heart, Ienzo's choice will change him forever.

Modern Fantasy AU, Soulmates, Zemyx. Updates Fridays until it's done.

Chapter summary:  Newly a captive, Ienzo tries to learn what Xehanort wants from him, as well as his plans.

Read in on FF.net/on AO3

---

Ienzo woke suddenly, flailing against the blankets draped over him. His breasts ached terribly and there were wet spots on his shirt; he must’ve been under for some time. He touched one, wincing.

Xehanort’s son. Strands of nothingness around his throat. Darkness.

Where was he?

He was in a small, narrow room. It was minimally furnished--the single wrought iron bed was against one corner, by a narrow window; a small, very old oak writing desk was against the other wall; a squat, two drawer dresser was next to it. The walls were painted a faint violet, adorned with a crown moulding. A cracked door opened to a tiny bathroom with a shower. Ienzo padded across to the other door and tried it; locked, of course. He reached for his magic and found it sluggish, deadened. He darted over to the window, looked outside, and his heart nearly stopped.

Ienzo knew where he was; the castle in what was once Radiant Garden. A strange, faint mist wreathed the city, vaguely sulfuric. Massive poles in the distance held floodlights, likely to defend the remaining populace against Heartless. He opened the window and tried to reach out, but a ward blocked him.

He was a captive.

Amalia.

Panic overtook him then, and he tried the door again in vain, pounding on the thick old wood. “Let me out!” No response; he suspected a muffling charm had been placed on the door.

He hadn’t realized how dependent he was on her presence, her aura until it was gone. He had to have been drugged somehow, or enchanted, for his magic to simply be sleeping like this. But he hoped more than anything that Amalia was safe back in Demyx’s arms. He found himself mouthing a fervent prayer to whatever was listening for that to be the case. He had no idea what Xehanort or his sons would do to his newborn daughter if they had her. Kill her? Mold her into a shiny tool to use? He had no idea which was worse.

The door opened, and he struggled to conceal the wetness on his shirt with his blanket. He saw a small old woman with a tray of food, water, tea, and of all things, a lily in a thin crystal vase. “Good, you’re finally awake,” she said. She had a kind smile. “You must be starved, poor thing.”

Ienzo was reeling, wondering how to react, what angle to play. Motionless, he watched her cross the room and set the tray down on the writing desk. He could physically overtake her, he knew, and bound out the open door--unless that was warded too. But how far would he reasonably get before he ran into a guard, or worse? He couldn’t defend himself from prowling Heartless without magic.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “I treated those scratches on your throat, the bruises. Just awful, in my opinion.”

“Who are…” he trailed off.

Another smile. She brushed off her skirt; she was wearing what had once been servants’ livery under Ansem’s reign, crisp, comfortable, and functional. “My name is Lydia,” she said. “I’m surprised you don’t remember me, your highness. I was once the castle librarian. You were always there, weren’t you?”

Ienzo blinked slowly; a veil of time and panic made it hard to remember. Lydia had looked much younger then, her hair brown instead of gray. She’d always been happy to give him the books that Even said were too mature for him. “I apologize, I--”

She smiled again. “I know, I haven’t aged well.” A wry laugh.

He swallowed. “Am I a… prisoner?” he asked cautiously.

“The word being used is “guest.”” She bit her lip. “I think that’s for you to determine, your highness.” She pulled the domed lid from the plate, revealing a breakfast--eggs, toast, hash browns. Ienzo struggled not to react; ever since he’d been breastfeeding, his appetite had been nearly insatiable. “I’ll bring you a change of clothes. Go on, eat.”

She left, and shut the door behind her; Ienzo heard the click of the tumblers as it locked. He approached the food warily, sniffed it. His magic could tell him if it was poisoned, or drugged--except it was dead.

The practical thing to do would be to wait out this sensation until he could sense if anything was in the food.

But the smell made him weak . He’d need food to be able to think clearly, to plan. He sipped the water timidly; it tasted normal, so did the tea. The flavor of the egg nearly brought tears to his eyes. Xehanort must’ve kept the castle’s chefs; it all was the same as he remembered.

Focus, Ienzo.

He was nearly finished when Lydia returned with a small cloth bundle. “Better?” she asked.

“...Quite.”

“Remy heard you were here and made it specially. He so rarely gets to cook the way he wants to anymore. Xeha--er. His Lordship prefers things sour, bitter.”

Specially. What did that mean? “Give him my regards,” Ienzo said in a neutral voice.

“...Of course.” She reached past him to take the tray. “I’m told someone will collect you in half an hour, if you’d like to shower and dress.”

Ienzo hesitated for a moment. He didn’t want to appear like he was playing into Xehanort’s hands--but maybe he should? To find out what he could? Play innocent, naive, claim Even had been coddling him all this time.

Either way, he could not go wherever he was going covered in breastmilk. If they didn’t know about his daughter, he couldn’t risk letting them find out. Perhaps the rush of magic from her birth had been confused for a spell of his own creation. And if that were the case... why wait four weeks? To lull them into a false sense of security, he realized equally.

He showered--the water smelled vaguely like iron--and winced, his nipples twinging again as he touched them. Without magic, he couldn’t exactly strain it off into the sink or toilet, despite the relief it would give him. The soap smelled harsh, but at least it washed off the scent of the milk. He washed his stained shirt thoroughly and left it to dry on the towel rack.

The clothing he’d been left was simple, but rather formal--slacks, a neatly pressed button-up, a white sweater vest, a purple ascot. He combed his messy hair with his fingers.

And then Ienzo waited.

It didn’t take long before someone came for him. There was a gentle knock at the door, then the lock clicked open. Ienzo tried to keep his expression open, neutral, but it was difficult when he saw their face.

Xemnas. The man had the gall to smile. “Old friend,” he said, in a voice that had only deepened with age. “Did you enjoy your meal?”

Definitely medicated, Ienzo decided. “Quite. You’ll have to give your father my thanks.”

“You may do so yourself. Would you like to go for a walk?”

Ienzo smiled pleasantly. He followed Xemnas out of the open door. The man was dressed similarly smartly, in a well-tailored black suit with a red tie. He realized he was being kept in the old servants’ quarters, from before Ansem had given them the apartments; his suspicions were correct and a pair of armored guards were at both ends of the hall.

“Please do not take offense to this,” Xemnas began. “But when my brother brought you in… we were rather surprised. We were expecting…”

“A princess?” He made himself smile again. “I’m afraid that phase of my life was left behind long ago.”

“I’m sure it protected you quite well.”

“Quite.”

Xemnas paused. “No harm will come to you here,” he said. “Be sure of that.”

“That so?”

“My father seeks to earn your trust. I hope it will work in the other direction too.”

“All this talk… I have never actually had the pleasure of meeting your father.” He found himself infinitely glad of the etiquette lessons Even had given him when he was younger. Best be diplomatic for now, until he had more information.

“I’m afraid outside opinion may have tarnished your view of him.”

Ienzo had to bite his tongue. “...Perhaps.” They continued walking in silence for a while. Xemnas’s pace was sedate, even relaxed. The faint smell of sulfur was everywhere; Heartless dazedly wandered the halls, but did not come near them. “Our guards,” he explained calmly. “After all, they do not need breaks, nor they need to eat.”

“Practical,” Ienzo said, trying to swallow the horror.

The castle, to his surprise, was much the same, down to the decorations; the only thing that had been changed was all the crests, away from the violet he’d known under his father, replaced with a deep red with a large X. “The symbol “chi,”” Xemnas told him, “Though some pronounce it “key.””

“...I see.”

He saw a few human servants here and there; they paused to bow to Xemnas as he passed. All the while, Ienzo swallowed the bittersweet nostalgia that threatened to overtake him. Memories stabbed him behind the eyes--here, Braig teaching him to ride the stair bannister; hiding here from Even as he chased him for his lessons; riding Aeleus’s shoulders along this hallway on their way to the gardens. “...Is it good to be home?” Xemnas asked, cutting his gold eyes to Ienzo.

“It certainly is nostalgic.”

“It could be your home once more. Had I… my way, you’d have never been forced to leave.”

He struggled to come up with a response, anger scalding his veins. Had Xemnas kept him here, doubtless they would've used and abused his power. “It seems there was poor communication all around,” he said vaguely.

“Indeed.”

They reached the throne room at last. Ansem had hardly ever used it in his reign other than for public events; he was much more comfortable meeting dignitaries or the public in his labs, his studies. It makes us more approachable, less mythic, he’d told Ienzo. The last thing you want to do is foster a divide between yourself and your people. We are royal, but we are not superior.

Ienzo’s heart beat heavily in his chest. He tried to keep breathing steadily, aware Xemnas was watching every little twitch of his face.

A pair of guards opened the large, heavy double doors.

It was just as Ienzo remembered, yet it had been perverted, too. The high, Gothic ceilings with the stained glass, sunlight pouring through; the marble, carved and laid in the shapes of flowers, polished to a shine; the long marble columns, the mural painted on the back wall, of the gods’ first contact with what was considered Ienzo’s first ancestor. The three thrones were the same, too. The middle one, the most prominent and most ornate, was reserved for the ruler, the lesser two for their heir and their consort.

All three of these thrones were occupied, and the mural was partially covered with another large banner, but this one had a different symbol; a black and red heart with an X crossing through, its bottom flared into a strange parody of a fleur de lis.

And there they were. The youngest son who had kidnapped him; the eldest son, boredly reading a book. And Xehanort himself.

He was much older than Ienzo thought he would be, in his eighties most likely, his bald head wrinkled, the veins visible. When he stood and spread his arms in welcome, his back was slightly hunched, and his legs were spindly. He took slow, long steps towards Ienzo, and when he got closer, bowed deeply. “Might I say it is an honor to meet at last, your highness,” he began, in a low, scratchy voice that sounded like he’d gargled marbles his whole life.

“Please, call me Ienzo,” he said. He offered a polite smile. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“Aren’t you a polite young man.” He stood back up. “Ienzo. Is that, perhaps, after the first archmage?”

“The very same.”

“Aren’t names so much more meaningful, when we can choose them?”

He nodded once. He noticed the youngest son was watching him with a wicked smirk; he was petting something. Ienzo thought at first that it may have been a black cat, but the thing lifted its head. A Heartless. A disconcertingly small Heartless. He wasn’t quite able to mask his fear. It wasn’t--not--

“Oh, did you see young Xehanort’s pet? Bring it here, would you, son?”

He obeyed. Ienzo tried to keep breathing. It had sharp, long antennae, but it seemed rather content in its master’s arms.

“My eldest made these,” Xehanort explained, giving the Heartless a stroke. “Pure shadow--and nothing else. We’re hoping to see if they develop sentience, the way our other Heartless have. You’re a man of science, aren’t you, Ienzo?”

“...Quite.”

“Darkness is not quite so evil as you’ve been taught your whole life. Rather… it is one side of a coin. That balance is crucial to all life; one can never hope to crush out all darkness.”

“Do you seek to crush the light, then?” he asked, without meaning to.

Xehanort chuckled. “Of course not,” he said. “Of course not.”

It was the repetition that put Ienzo ill-at-ease. Instead, he just nodded.

“Darkness gives power, stability, clarity . It’s never been fair that your kind has been able to utilize magic, whereas the common folk… cannot. Think of how many fewer people would die of sicknesses, injuries, starvation, dehydration, if they just had the means to… borrow power from the earth.”

“Can the darkness do that?”

“Quite, my dear prince. I’d be happy to show you. But alas, we are only new friends.” He smiled. “I want to make this world better . Your father… well meaning as he was, simply could not stop what has been brewing for years. People should be equal .”

“And magic is an equalizer?”

“ Power is an equalizer.” He paused, as thought to let that sink in.

“...I see.” Scarily, Xehanort had a point. But some bodies simply couldn’t handle magic--the entropy and energy alone could kill, or in Isa’s case, degrade. Was that worth it? Was there not another way?

“I hope you’ll come to understand what we’re doing here,” Xehanort said.

“Perhaps I will.”

---

For most of the rest of the first week, Ienzo was kept in that small room. He was allowed out once a day for a half-hour walk with Xemnas. Other than Lydia bringing Ienzo his meals three times a day… Ienzo was alone. He realized that even in their most desperate circumstances, with Even he’d never been alone . There was always someone to talk to, scheme with, fight with.

Ienzo kept trying to use his magic. For three days he flushed his meals down the toilet, hoping maybe it was some kind of drug that would wash out of his system, but nothing came of it and he was only making his own head cloudy.

His breasts still ached tremendously. He tried to squeeze the milk out, with his hands, but all he did was give himself bruises, his already too-pale flesh marking easily. The omni-present ache made him think of his daughter, the way she felt in his arms, the way she smelled. The way it felt when the three of them cuddled together, so perfect, like nothing was missing. Ienzo’s heart felt like it was on fire.

Demyx. Amalia. Their names echoed constantly in his head, and more than once he woke with tears in his eyes. Please let them be safe. Please. Please.

Ienzo could not fall apart. He couldn’t afford to. He had to keep his head on straight, to perform, to try to earn Xehanort and his sons’ trust so he could--

Could… what?

Ienzo sat up slowly. He hadn’t been sleeping well, hurting too much inside and out to get much rest. What did he plan on doing, exactly?

It came to him in a flash--the computer. If he could gain enough favor to get down to that lab, he could contact Tron, who could contact Cid, who could let the others know that he was alive and safe (relatively speaking), and that, more than anything, he had an in--even if it made him seem like a traitor.

Maybe it was time for the prince to come out of hiding.

---

He’d just fallen into an uncertain sleep, and dreamed about his daughter. Hefting her up in the air. Kissing the little pads of her feet. The joy, the love on Demyx’s face as he cared for her. When he woke his breasts were hurting more than ever, and again, milk had seeped through the thin pajamas he’d been given.

He heard the click of the lock at the door, and before he could adequately cover himself, Lydia came in with his next meal. “Oh,” she said softly, and for the first time she shut the door behind her. “You… poor dear. You’re nursing, aren’t you?”

Ienzo knew better than to lie. He could smell the milk, slightly sweet. He just pulled the blanket to his chest. One lie he could tell was that the baby had died, but as he tried to force the words past his lips, the tears ran over. “Don’t tell him.” Humiliation broke over Ienzo in a wave, along with more panic. “Please, don’t tell him.”

Lydia picked up the napkin from the breakfast tray and handed it to him. She locked eyes with him. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, her dark eyes sharp and serious, and while there was complete honesty in her tone--and faint memories of her helping him in the library--Ienzo could not trust her.

He could barely eat that morning, in too much of an anxious haze. Xehanort could not know he’d had a child. He was not going to let Amalia and Demyx be doomed.

Didn’t you doom them simply by carrying her to term? An insidious voice asked in the back of his head. If you’d aborted her, she wouldn’t have ever been in any danger.

But what about the Forecast?

It took a lot of strength--almost all he had left--to clean himself up and wait to see if someone would retrieve him. Lydia came back several hours later with another tray, some cloth, and a book. The cloth wasn’t out of the ordinary--she brought him his laundered clothing--but the book was new. “Something to help with the leaking,” she said, and took the tray without another word.

Ienzo unfolded the bundle. It reminded him of a binder from years past, but thin cloth pads had been slipped into small pockets. She’d even left him some extra pads as well. He exhaled slowly and put it on. At least he no longer had to worry about this.

If he didn’t get back to her soon, the milk would dry up. Losing that connection before he was ready only made his eyes tear up further. He blinked it away. He had to be strong for her, to get through. Falling apart would only be self-indulgent. This taken care of, he picked up the book.

It was a simple volume of fairy stories, one he remembered well, one that had been taken from Ansem’s study. He sniffed the pages; old paper, leather, glue. The ribbon marked one of the pages towards the back of the book, and he flipped towards it.

Ienzo did not remember this story well. Perhaps Ansem had never let him read it, or he’d already moved on from fairy tales by then. The story was about Kingdom Hearts; that it was the gods’ paradise, and that one young god, unruly and rebellious, had gone against her parents’ wishes to visit man. She fell in love with a mortal, and when they married, their child could talk with the earth, could use that magic of the gods--Ienzo’s ancestor.

But there was more to the story than this, namely that Kingdom Hearts had thereafter been sealed to prevent more gods from giving mankind what they didn’t deserve. But the god that did the sealing was clumsy… and he dropped the key.

In a neat, firm pencil in the margins was “Keyblade.”

Suddenly the eradication of the seekers made a whole lot more sense.

Xehanort wasn’t looking to craft a Keyblade. He was looking to find one. To find one… he had to engineer a seeker or magic user, perhaps with the nothing, with the darkness…

Even’s replicas…

Ienzo’s breath caught. Of course. That was why he’d wanted them. If these “fake” bodies died from incompatible magic use, it wouldn’t be noticed--it wouldn’t matter. If they could not learn to wield Keyblades as Even had originally hypothesized… perhaps they could learn to seek those who could.

He had to get this message to them somehow.

A knock at the door. Hurriedly, Ienzo shoved it under the mattress before the lock clicked open. “Ienzo,” Xemnas said pleasantly. “My father was wondering if you might like to join us for tea.”

He swallowed. “Sounds wonderful.”

[valkerymillenia]

Umbrella Academy

season 2, episode 8

Once again- live blogging my thoughts and reactions in one post to avoid spamming.

So this is how the FBI gets their hands on Vanya, huh? Seems most fan theories were wrong.

Oh, Sissy's last name is Cooper!

I did wonder about that -how did remember her name despite forgetting everything else? If she knew her name then she should have been able to remember other little fragments.

Of course the feds focus on the fact that her name is Russian. Cold war bullshit. I guess they think she's a spy or since Russian sleeper soldier or something.

"I'm not Russian" -you kinda are though 😅 Tatiana was Russian and gave birth to you in Moscow sooo...

DID VANYA JUST SPEAK RUSSIAN?!

Is that one of the 7 languages that Reggie all the siblings or....? Does it... Does it have something to do with her powers or her birth place?

"simple-minded boy"? FUCK YOU.😠

"communist threat" there it is 🙄

Oh no, she's losing her cool. Here come the powers... I keep wondering how she does that 'sucking the life' out of someone thing. 🤔

That's a lot of puke.

Poor Five, he's starting to crack under the stress.

Why is Ben gagging? He's dead, he shouldn't be able to feel or smell the puke.

Loving Robert's real curls starting to show.

"I regret nothing" -hmm.... Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of.

"there's a giant dead white boy on my couch" 😆

"Oh, I see. It's gonna be one of those kind of nights, huh? So are we burning or burying?" -this is why I love Klaus! He doesn't even flinch, he doesn't care what happened, he doesn't ask, he just immediately decides that he's going to help his sister get rid of a dead body like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Although, it would be interesting if Klaus actual saw the Swede ghosts too. I just want Klaus to be seeing ghosts everywhere again, ok? I want that struggle from season 1 to be brought back and not swept under the rug for plot convenience. As a writer, if you make something an important character trait, you stick with it and they haven't done that with Klaus, they are half-assing his struggle with his powers.

It's the Swede really going to...? Oh good, saved by the cat.

Oh! So that's what "lavender" means! I was right, it was the perfume, it was probably obvious but I'm a little dumb.

Ah! Lila is trying to hire Diego for the Commission???

Diego is so confused.

"colorful history" sounds so wrong and sexual 😣

Diego is so full of bullshit. His loyalties absolutely lie with his family, he's just too defensive to admit it.

Reginald FRAMED Pogo's family drawing? So he's a better dad to the chimp than his own kids, huh?

THE TELEVATOR!!!!!!! PLANS FOR THE TELEVATOR!!!! I love comic references, please tell me we'll see a real televator in the show!

So Reggie really is planning something about JFK...

"are you involved in something nefarious?" "Quite often. Did you have something more specific in mind?" -at least he owns it 😆

"shaggy man" -ah! Poor Diego!

Reggie really loves this Grace, huh? But she has a point.

Five is losing it a bit, huh?

The baby powder 🤣

"I have to find myself" -RIGHT! I was wondering when this would come up! Old!Five was there for the JFK thing so Five just has to find his old self and his briefcase in order to correct all this mess. More comic references!

"arguably the most dangerous assassin in the time-space continuum" -DAMN RIGHT 💯

"paradox psychosis" 🤣I know it's supposed to be super serious but the symptoms are so funny...

"a spotter? What is that? Like a wingman?" 😆 This parallels that "Body man? What's that? Like a masseuse?" line in s02e02 where Five is the confused one.

Five, do you really think your brother can stop you if you spiral? Because I don't.

Luther doesn't have a great attention span, does he?

Harlan's drawing is interesting... I get a feeling it's important.

Shit, they are torturing Vanya!! This is so bad!

LSD? LSD?????? No, that's a terrible idea with her powers!!!

Eeeewwwww the eyeballs! 👁️

That's a hell of a bad trip... The way the music makes with the visuals reminds me of my synesthesia though.

Oh! So this is where the scene of all the adult siblings in the Academy uniforms is from!!! (I remember someone saying it was Diego dreaming of having a drugged hallucination in the asylum, they were pretty close! It's Vanya drugged by the FBI instead!)

"I get you" -that is not the face of a person that gets this at all, Luther!

"Don't freak out." -like that ever worked 😆

Lila trying to have her cake and eat it too with her mom and Diego.

That informational video 🤣🤣🤣

Free coffee! Weekly donuts* (*fees apply)! Wow, so tempting 😒

"whatever your skill, education, or comfort level with moral ambiguity (...)" 😆

Are the Fives just having a staring contest? 🤣🤣

Ah! How can Five be bitchy and aggressive to HIMSELF 😆

"all those years on the apocalypse, we never stopped working about our family." -why does Luther look so damn surprised to hear this?? Why the hell does he think Five is doing so this for?!

Wow, Five is really bitter about his body, isn't he? He's making old!Five so nervous 😅

Oops, there's stage 4 for old!Five!

And there's stage 3 as well and stages 5 and 6 for little!Five.

I get a feeling Five doesn't really have the accurate calculations, he's just lying and using the originals.

"I don't trust him!" -he's... He's you...14 days ago! How do you not trust yourself?

"but he's you" "exactly" 🤣🤣🤣

I'm so afraid how what Diego is going to do. I get a feeling hell fuck up trying to be a misguided hero again...

"I'm Diego. I have a knife." 😆

"it's very shiny" 🤣

So Diego is a legend, huh? 😏

"there's been a coup d'etat" "what's that? Cadillac?" -don't play dumb, Diego, I don't believe for a single second that you don't know what a coup is.

So the new apocalypse WAS Vanya's fault but by proxy (actually more the FBI's fault), she was just a small domino. So literally the only one that didn't actively do anything to impact the timeline ends up being the one doing the most damage (again)? PLOT TWIST!

Oh no, DON'T GET ANY IDEAS ABOUT YOUR SISTER, DIEGO! YOU SAW HOW BADLY THAT ENDED LAST TIME!

No, I refuse to believe "she will always be the bomb" 😠😠😠😠

LOL, hi, Dot!

NO! LUTHER, YOU MORON! DON'T GIVE HIM ALL THAT INFO! YOU'LL CHANGE EVERYTHING AND CEASE TO EXIST!!!

These dumb siblings exhaust me

"little jerk-off" -why are you insulting yourself, you weirdo? 😆

Old!Five with all the PP symptoms and yet he says he never felt better in his life 🤣

"you're getting paranoid" -you both are, and sweaty, itchy and gassy. All that's missing is the homicidal rage at this point 😅

Vanya's hallucination shows us a twisted paranoid view she has of her siblings and it's very interesting:

-Ben is protective, defends her, he can do no harm, probably because he died young so nostalgia blurs her memory of him

-Allison defends her but is also arrogant and condescending, speaking as if she's implying that Vanya is weak, probably because Vanya feels that Allison is perfect and has an inferiority complex

-Luther is just as arrogant and looks down her, calling her lazy, but does so without malice (more mockery than anger)

-Klaus is accusing and suspicious but still on the fence and excitable, probably reflecting Vanya's own doubts and how she herself sees Klaus

-Five just stares, judging and silent but unable to look away, probably because she trusts him but she also doesn't know him, there's the same nostalgia effect as Ben but because Five came back (to stop her) the inferiority and fear of judgement is still there

-Diego is completely different, awkward and detached, this one is the most interesting because he's one of the people that was most vocal and mean against her in season 1 but apparently she sees a kindred spirit in him to an extent, either that or she fears she means nothing to him

Maybe I'm overanalyzing again...

I totally predicted the dishes would be brains but it's still gross.

Ew, the chewing... 😫 It's giving me the creeps.

Why is she seeing Harlan's drawing? She was gone already when he made that particular drawing (I knew it would be important), is she connected to him now??

And how does she remember her own birth??

Holy shit, Harlan is feeling Vanya's pain!!!😲😲😲

"why are people so much heavier when they're dead?" "You got a lot of practice at this?" 😅

Ben and Klaus conversation actually makes me feel a bit better about the possession but it makes no sense at all 🤣

Poor Ray keeps meeting in-laws in the weirdest situations 🤣🤣🤣🤣 his face! 🤝

Ray is having a nervous breakdown 😣 poor guy...

The moment Lila notices Diego is missing, the intercom chimes "Loyalty isn't a choice, it's a lifestyle" and if that isn't foreshadowing for Lila choosing sides then I don't know what is.

This is a really painful way for Vanya to recover her memories but it's so well done!

Holy shit... 😳

Klaus asking the real question here. She's being tortured, Klaus, go help!!!

HOLY SHIT! HARLAN HAS VANYA'S POWERS NOW?!

No, no, no,no, no, no nononononono! This is so bad! A child with a disorder that makes emotions hard to regulate suddenly having an apocalyptic level of power that connects directly to emotion is just a recipe for disaster!

[angrylizardjacket]

Run to Paradise {Nikki Sixx} Part 21

21. you look like a man you’ll never meet

Summary: They all have houses! The tour is over! Lola and Nikki fight about what is and isn’t a shitty father! 

Warnings: uh, drinking and drugs and blowjobs in ikea but not explicitly. arguments about shitty parents.

ragtag bunch of misfits: @starlalove @toofasttofallinlove  @xrosegoldwolfx @obsessivesky  @trpwthme @lovehelpmewrite @colsons-crue  @marvelismylifffe  @lilytalebi @glitterdreamsz  @freddiessmallnipples @crazysaladchopshop @inthebackofmycarlaytheirbodies  @dramatique-moi  @missqueeniewrites @calspixie  @aryssav @catsoo12  @sweetshutter @silvertonguedserpent  @shamelessobsessions @lavenderbones22  @keepcalm-and-beyou @scarecrowmax  @nicholeh7 @unknownoblivion

{masterlist}

Three houses. No license. Three different sets of emotions and feelings that can pass for love. More money than her family ever had locked in a safe in the back of her closet with her piano score books.

When they get back from tour, the four of them clear out what little shit they care about from the apartment. Vince doesn't even bother coming to collect anything.

"If I've left any shit there, burn it."

Tommy, after hearing that, follows his lead, but he comes along for nostalgia, if nothing else. Nikki collects a few stashes of drugs and cash that he'd left behind in case of emergency. Lola collects up the porn magazines and piano sheet music she'd left in the closet, along with a folded up piece of paper that Tommy snatches the moment it catches his interest. His expression turns amused as he unfolds it.

"You have got the weirdest fuckin' spank bank, Lo," he turns the photo to Nikki, who laughs, though Lola's expression sours considerably and she tries to awkwardly get the picture back, "seriously, in with all those nudie mags you've got a fuckin' photocopy of a burnt picture of an old, Hawaiian dude?" He squints at words written on the back, reads out the first of two names; "Oh, Maleko Fields, sounds saucy, or is he Kaitlin?" Lola actually flinches at that, but he doesn't seem to notice, "Either way, I've gotta hand it to you, that's an extremely specific-"

"That's my dad, you asshole!" It comes out as a growl, and Tommy's face falls. Lola grabs the old picture back, carefully refolding it and tucking it into the front of one of the piano books.

The three of them are looking for places, but they crash on Vince's sofa until they find ones they like, though it doesn't take long. They're not exactly picky, just wanting something gaudy, with a good view, and a pool, and more bathrooms than any of them rightly need. Lola doesn't care much about how the house is decorated, but she calls up Doc the morning after she and Nikki are given the keys; she wants a piano, and she wants him to put her in touch with whoever can give her the gaudiest, most expensive piano known to man.

"I want Elton John to have fucked on it, I want those keys diamond encrusted, I want Freddie fucking Mercury to have done coke off of it, I want the Piano Man piano!" She announces, standing in the sparsely decorated living room, hand on her hip, looking out the window, already feeling herself getting bored of the conversation and wanting to explore the balcony and the view beyond.

"Are you fucking high? It's not even nine," Doc grumbles. It's a Sunday, Lola doesn't even consider for a second that she might have woken him up. If you pay enough money, anyone will get up when you ask, real estate agents and band managers alike, is how she reasons it.

"Of course I'm fucking high, and I've got a house of my own and cash to blow; I want what Johann Sebastian Bach had! I want Tchaikovsky, I want Stravinsky, I want fucking Gershwin!" She demanded, getting louder and more dramatic with each name she rattled off.

"If you yell one more composer at me, you're fired." Doc cuts her off, before yawning, "listen; you guys are coming in next week to start work on the new album, right? I'll get a number for you by then if you promise to make sure they're here on time."

"On time?" Lola actually laughs. Doc sighs, and gives her an hour leeway, but they come to an agreement.

Nikki's still asleep on the mattress on the floor of their new bedroom, but Lola's strung out body clock had her up at four in the morning, and she hasn't been able to get back to sleep. She watched the sun rise over the LA skyline on one side of the house, lost track of time watching the ocean from their balcony on the other side while drinking a bottle of spiced rum, swam naked in their brand new pool, and tried to make a list of all the furniture they needed to buy, but just ended up writing sofa and underlining it five times as she lay on the plush carpet of the living room.

The photocopy of the photo of Lola's father sits on the kitchen island, staring silently at the ceiling; Nikki calls it creepy when he wakes up. He laments for a moment about not having a fridge before pulling a beer from the case they'd opened the night before in celebration.

"Why is it burned?" He asks, cracking the can, "and why haven't you finished the job?" He snickers and takes a loud, obnoxious sip. Lola gives him a shove, glaring down at the picture for a long moment.

"Because he's fuckin' out there somewhere, and what if I forget what he looks like?" She turns, raising her eyebrows at Nikki expectantly.

"So you keep it around so you know who to burn when the real thing shows up?" He asks, and Lola scowls. "Why don't I know shit about your parents?" Nikki asks bluntly. Lola takes the drink from his hands and begins to gulp it down, but he steals it back, and ends up getting beer all over both of them in the struggle.

"I'm not gonna burn my dad," Lola, beer covered and strung out at midday on a Sunday, speaks in a tone that Nikki can't quite identify. Her hand comes up to scratch at her shoulder blade, and he's not even sure if she's aware that she's doing it. "He was great, okay? When he was around he was great. When - when he comes back, I wanna show him that I'm better, alright? That - you know what? Fuck it, I don't have to explain shit to you, Nikki." Her whole face scrunches up and she picks up the photo.

"If he was such a great fuckin' guy, why'd he leave? Great dads don't fuckin' do that-"

Lola pushes Nikki had enough that he actually falls on his ass, and there's tears in her eyes.

"I get that you're dad's an asshole, Frankie, but-"

"Shut up!" Nikki snaps, scrambling to his feet, expression furious, "you fucking bitch, that's not my name-"

"Don't talk shit about my fucking dad!" Lola steps up to him, her hands braced against his chest, but he catches her wrists before she can shove him again.

"He sounds like a fucking dirtbag!"

"You're the dirtbag; don't take your daddy issues out on me!" Lola doesn't fight his hold, just glares up at him as tears begin to flow down her cheeks. Nikki's mouth is pressed into a thin, unhappy line.

"A dirtbag with daddy issues, and mommy issues; a slut with no standards, no taste, and good hair?" He laughs but it's bitter; he won't let her go, still holding her to him by her wrists. Lola's still crying, face twisted and angry, but she doesn't step back or try and escape his grip, "we're two sides of the same fuckin' coin, Kaitie, and I know from shit dads. If your fuckin' dirtbag dad wasn't there when he could have been, when he should have been, then he's shit." His grip on her hands tightens just a little. "No exceptions. Burn his picture."

The damn bursts and Lola actually wails, presses her forehead to Nikki's chest. He doesn't hug her, his expression is stony as he tries not to think too hard about the moment he found himself in. He'd made Lola cry.

"You look just like him anyways." He's not sure what he means by that, and he's not even sure if Lola registered it.

"I hate you." He hears her sniffle quietly.

"You'll get over it."

It's the worst fight they've had in a while, and Lola pins her father's photo directly to the living room wall out of spite. She stays with Tommy for a few days, but Nikki still doesn't touch the picture.

With Tommy, she actually goes grocery shopping with him, as strangely domestic as it is. They take turns pushing the cart too fast down the aisles while the other rides on the front until Tommy loses control and Lola ends up winded and crushed against the cereal boxes. They try to cook together and almost start a fire, and end up eating pizza that first night Lola stays at the house. Tommy's sofa is excessively big, and they could easily spread out in space of their own, but they enjoy being tangled up with each other while Invasion of the Body Snatchers plays on his brand new TV.

If she never wanted to go back to Nikki, she knows she probably wouldn't have to. They haven't even been living together officially for two days and they're already fighting. Her body clock is fucked, and she contemplates her life at five in the morning, watching the gentle rise and fall of Tommy's chest with his breathing as he sleeps soundly.

She loved Tommy, and she knew he loved her, and the same could be said for Vince, and even Mick, though to a much lesser extent. The point is, if she wanted to keep running from herself, she'd never lack accommodation, she'd never lack love, in one way or another. Doc had once told her that she was very easy to love, when she wanted to be, very easy to be endeared towards when she wasn't spitting acid or starting a fight or kicking up a stink. Even Doc himself admitting to being rather endeared to her, though he clarified that 'it's like the love you have for a rescue animal, a stray you nurse back to health and give to a shelter'. She's smacked him angrily, and told him she was a person. Doc agreed, but his words had stuck with her.

Very easy to love. Very hard to like.

When she gets back to her house, it's almost six, almost sunrise, the house is still mostly empty, and Nikki's awake. The picture's still on the wall, and he's sitting on a deck chair on the balcony with a bottle of Jack for company. The sun rises on the other side of the house, but he's fixated on the ocean.

"His name was Maleko, and my mom's name was Irene."

"I didn't-" he seems confused to see her there at all. But Lola's quick to cut him off.

"Shut up, I'm telling you about my parents," Lola grabbed the bottle from him, sitting cross legged on the cool tiles right by him, looking out at the ocean.

"Why?"

"Because I've know you for years, and it's weird that I haven't told you about my family, okay? You were right." She tipped the bottle back, swallowing hard.

"You look like your dad," Nikki's voice is softer this time, though it's neither positive nor negative, and Lola snorted a laugh.

"Yeah, it was the only part about me mom liked after he left." She inhaled sharply, passing back the bottle, "like I said, his name was Maleko, but from what I can remember, he went by Leo, and I don't know why he left, but he's not a damn dirtbag, okay? He was kinder than my fucking mom ever was, and-" she clenched her jaw, pausing for a moment to search her jacket pockets for her cigarettes, before lighting one, "and listen, I just wanted him to be proud, I just wanted him to smile again, because I swear that motherfucker was made of sunshine." She angrily wiped a tear from her eye before it spilled.

Nikki was quiet for a very long time, didn't know what to say, still up from the night before, and drunk as all hell. He reached out and scratched at Lola's scalp gently, in liu of a reaction. She just laughed.

"Why- why 're you back?" Nikki asked finally.

"Do you like me, Nikki?" She counters with, and Nikki hums a little, still scratching her hair.

"Of course, you're one of the few assholes I can put up with for more than a few days at a time," it's not the highest compliment in the world, but Lola's beaming nonetheless.

"I think I like you too," she snorted. Nikki's stopped scratching her head and is raising the bottle of Jack to his lips, frowning.

"Did we go back to the damn third grade? What's gotten into you?"

The house is undecorated because Nikki says he didn't have the patience to not go into a homicidal rage in IKEA. He won't admit that it felt weird to be buying furniture for their house without Lola. It's decorated mostly in blacks, or dark chestnut wood, and the bedframe is strong enough that Lola won't break it if she's tied up to it, and Lola buys a frame for her father's photo. They buy a new sofa, and Lola feels the strangest, most irrational twinge of guilt, like she's betrayed the sofa they pulled off the curb all those years ago; she tells Nikki and he smirks, offers to buy a box cutter and slash the sofa up to make it feel like home.

"Or we could just fuck on it until it's got just as many stains," he grins, it's all sharp teeth and the promise of a bigger bite.

"Now you're speaking my language," she smirks back, and she grabs his hand, pulls him behind a display bedroom set with a particularly large cupboard. She sucks him off before some underpaid assistant can interrupt them, and he repays the favor in the store's bathroom, and somehow this is the strangest situation they've ever gotten each other off in. Clubs, pubs, hotel pools, closets at TV studios, parks, alley ways, any number of places on tour that Lola honestly doesn't remember - they've got nothing on a furniture store where they're deciding on furnishings for their shared house. Lola doesn't want to think about why that is, so she just enjoys the moment.

It seems like no time at all before they're back in the studio, and so when they're not working, they're drinking, and partying, and using their mansions the way LA mansions often found themselves being used; for parties.

Tommy's out every night in LA, still looking like he could walk on stage at any minute, but he has a few starlets calling him up every so often. If he's not at clubs, he's with the Vince at a strip club, and sometimes Nikki's with them, though Lola's there about as often as Vince. Vince himself got his heart caught on a woman he meets at a club named Sharise, who is lovely and loud and beautiful, and she calls Lola 'sweetheart' without making it sound condescending, even when she's coming out of Vince's mansion and Lola's coming in, both fully aware of the situation at hand.

"I'm pretty sure she doesn't actually know my name," Lola sits on Vince's marble countertops in her underwear, eating grilled cheese in the afternoon. Later, Tommy and a few other guys Lola sort of knows will be around, pregaming before they hit the town. Maybe Sharise will come by, maybe she'll bring friends; Lola likes when she brings friends, finds she likes getting ready to go out with girls, sometimes even more than getting ready with the band.

Back in the present, with Lola on the counter, Vince laughs where he's mixing a bunch of spirits in a fancy glass and calling it a cocktail, even though it seems closer to molotov rather than anything you'd be able to find at a bar.

"Sorry, baby, do you want a formal introduction?" He asks, and offers the drink to Lola to try.

"Needs more Captain Morgan," Lola wrinkled her nose after a hearty gulp, handing it back, "and yeah, maybe, I don't know; you seem pretty serious about her."

"Why've you gotta keep drinking like you're broke, at this point I'm begging you to get better taste," Vince took back his drink with a faux wounded expression, holding it to his chest before he took a tentative sip. Lola's eyes shined with amusement.

"Believe me, lover boy, you don't want me to raise my standards in any way, shape, or form." Her leg comes down from the counter, dangling by the cabinets, and she leans back onto her elbows, cheeky smile on her lips as she poses, a challenging look in her eyes.

"Ouch," Vince snorts, but he's clearly not hurt by her words as he leans in and kisses her. When he pulls back, however, he's more contemplative than Lola's used to seeing him, and he sips his drink again before letting his thoughts form words; "I mean, yeah, Sharise-" he pauses, "there's just something about her, dude, she's hot and sweet and fuck, she's got a real bite to her-"

"Of course, you wouldn't like her half as much if she wasn't at least a little bit mean to you," Lola teased.

"Watch it, it's the only reason I keep you around anymore," Vince fires back with a smirk, and though they both know it's not true, Lola plays along.

"Oi! I also give fantastic head."

Sharise is going to be around for a while, and she and Lola get along well enough, so Vince will walk that tightrope as long as he possibly can.

Lola splits her time between houses, between her partners, although occasionally Tommy will spend the night with her and Vince, or her and Nikki, though Nikki's never been one to take the initiative the way the others would. Both Vince and Nikki's places have a piano, while Tommy has a keyboard in his studio, and Lola finds herself playing more and more.

For a while, for a good, long while, Lola thinks she might be happy. She finds herself taking less pills, if only to clear her head enough to remember how to play her favourite songs, though she's still drinking rum like it's water, and taking more coke than any reasonable person probably should.

It won't last, this feeling, this contentment, she knows it won't last, but right now, she's playing Elton John, watching the sun set over the Ocean, while Nikki applies his eyeliner in the bathroom, and Vince is singing along where he's eating Chinese food in the kitchen with Tommy. Someone rings the doorbell, and she can hear more cars pulling up, and there's a strange, warm pride that fills her chest.

[unsettlingshortstories]

Reeling for the Empire

Karen Russell (2013)

    Several of us claim to have been the daughters of samurai, but of course there is no way for anyone to verify that now. It’s a relief, in its way, the new anonymity. We come here tall and thin, noblewomen from Yamaguchi, graceful as calligraphy; short and poor, Hida girls with bloody feet, crow-voiced and vulgar; entrusted to the Model Mill by our teary mothers; rented out by our destitute uncles — but within a day or two the drink the Recruitment Agent gave us begins to take effect. And the more our kaiko-bodies begin to resemble one another, the more frantically each factory girl works to reinvent her past. One of the consequences of our captivity here in Nowhere Mill, and of the darkness that pools on the factory floor, and of the polar fur that covers our faces, blanking us all into sisters, is that anybody can be anyone she likes in the past. Some of our lies are quite bold: Yuna says that her great-uncle has a scrap of sailcloth from the Black Ships. Dai claims that she knelt alongside her samurai father at the Battle of Shiroyama. Nishi fibs that she once stowed away in the imperial caboose from Shimbashi Station to Yokohama, and saw Emperor Meiji eating pink cake. Back in Gifu I had tangly hair like a donkey’s tail, a mouth like a small red bean, but I tell the others that I was very beautiful.

    “Where are you from?” they ask me.

    “The castle in Gifu, perhaps you know it from the famous woodblocks? My great-grandfather was a warrior.”

    “Oh! But Kitsune, we thought you said your father was the one who printed the woodblocks? The famous ukiyo-e artist, Utagawa Kuniyoshi …”

    “Yes. He was, yesterday.”

    I’ll put it bluntly: we are all becoming reelers. Some kind of hybrid creature, part kaiko, silkworm caterpillar, and part human female. Some of the older workers’ faces are already quite covered with a coarse white fur, but my face and thighs stayed smooth for twenty days. In fact I’ve only just begun to grow the white hair on my belly. During my first nights and days in the silk-reeling factory I was always shaking. I have never been a hysterical person, and so at first I misread these tremors as mere mood; I was in the clutches of a giddy sort of terror, I thought. Then the roiling feeling became solid. It was the thread: a color purling invisibly in my belly. Silk. Yards and yards of thin color would soon be extracted from me by the Machine.

--

    Today, the Agent drops off two new recruits, sisters from the Yamagata Prefecture, a blue village called Sakegawa, which none of us have visited. They are the daughters of a salmon fisherman and their names are Tooka and Etsuyo. They are twelve and nineteen. Tooka has a waist-length braid and baby fat; Etsuyo looks like a forest doe, with her long neck and watchful brown eyes. We step into the light and Etsuyo swallows her scream. Tooka starts wailing—“Who are you? What’s happened to you? What is this place?”

    Dai crosses the room to them, and despite their terror the Sakegawa sisters are too sleepy and too shocked to recoil from her embrace. They appear to have drunk the tea very recently, because they’re quaking on their feet. Etsuyo’s eyes cross as if she is about to faint. Dai unrolls two tatami mats in a dark corner, helps them to stretch out. “Sleep a little,” she whispers. “Dream.”

    “Is this the silk-reeling factory?” slurs Tooka, half-conscious on her bedroll.

    “Oh, yes,” Dai says. Her furry face hovers like a moon above them.

    Tooka nods, satisfied, as if willing to dismiss all of her terror to continue believing in the Agent’s promises, and shuts her eyes.

    Sometimes when the new recruits confide the hopes that brought them to our factory, I have to suppress a bitter laugh. Long before the kaiko change turned us into mirror images of one another, we were sisters already, spinning identical dreams in beds thousands of miles apart, fantasizing about gold silks and an “imperial vocation.” We envisioned our future dowries, our families’ miraculous freedom from debt. We thrilled to the same tales of women working in the grand textile mills, where steel machines from Europe gleamed in the light of the Meiji sunrise. Our world had changed so rapidly in the wake of the Black Ships that the poets could barely keep pace with the scenes outside their own windows. Industry, trade, unstoppable growth: years before the Agent came to find us, our dreams anticipated his promises.

    Since my arrival here, my own fantasies have grown as dark as the room. In them I snip a new girl’s thread midair, or yank all the silk out of her at once, so that she falls lifelessly forward like a Bunraku puppet. I haven’t been able to cry since my first night here — but often I feel a water pushing at my skull. “Can the thread migrate to your brain?” I’ve asked Dai nervously. Silk starts as a liquid. Right now I can feel it traveling below my navel, my thread. Foaming icily along the lining of my stomach. Under the blankets I watch it rise in a hard lump. There are twenty workers sleeping on twelve tatami, two rows of us, our heads ten centimeters apart, our earlobes curled like snails on adjacent leaves, and though we are always hungry, every one of us has a round belly. Most nights I can barely sleep, moaning for dawn and the Machine.

--

    Every aspect of our new lives, from working to sleeping, eating and shitting, bathing when we can get wastewater from the Machine, is conducted in one brick room. The far wall has a single oval window, set high in its center. Too high for us to see much besides scraps of cloud and a woodpecker that is like a celebrity to us, provoking gasps and applause every time he appears. Kaiko-joko, we call ourselves. Silkworm-workers. Unlike regular joko, we have no foreman or men. We are all alone in the box of this room. Dai says that she’s the dormitory supervisor, but that’s Dai’s game.

    We were all brought here by the same man, the factory Recruitment Agent. A representative, endorsed by Emperor Meiji himself, from the new Ministry for the Promotion of Industry.

    We were all told slightly different versions of the same story.

    Our fathers or guardians signed contracts that varied only slightly in their terms, most promising a five-yen advance for one year of our lives.

    The Recruitment Agent travels the countryside to recruit female workers willing to travel far from their home prefectures to a new European-style silk-reeling mill. Presumably, he is out recruiting now. He makes his pitch not to the woman herself but to her father or guardian, or in some few cases, where single women cannot be procured, her husband. I am here on behalf of the nation, he begins. In the spirit of Shokusan-Kōgyō. Increase production, encourage industry. We are recruiting only the most skillful and loyal mill workers, he continues. Not just peasant girls — like your offspring, he might say with his silver tongue to men in the Gifu and Mie prefectures — but the well-bred daughters of noblemen. Samurai and aristocrats. City-born governors have begged me to train their daughters on the Western technologies. Last week, the Medical General of the Imperial Army sent his nineteen-year-old twins, by train! Sometimes there is resistance from the father or guardian, especially among the hicks, those stony-faced men from distant centuries who still make bean paste, wade into rice paddies, brew sake using thousand-year-old methods; but the Agent waves all qualms away — Ah, you’ve heard about x-Mill or y-Factory? No, the French yatoi engineers don’t drink girls’ blood, haha, that is what they call red wine. Yes, there was a fire at Aichi Factory, a little trouble with tuberculosis in Suwa. But our factory is quite different — it is a national secret. Yes, a place that makes even the French filature in the backwoods of Gunma, with its brick walls and steam engines, look antiquated! This phantom factory he presents to her father or guardian with great cheerfulness and urgency, for he says we have awoken to dawn, the Enlightened Era of the Meiji, and we must all play our role now. Japan’s silk is her world export. The Blight in Europe, the pébrine virus, has killed every silkworm, forever halted the Westerners’ cocoon production. The demand is as vast as the ocean. This is the moment to seize. Silk-reeling is a sacred vocation — she will be reeling for the empire.

    The fathers and guardians nearly always sign the contract. Publicly, the joko’s family will share a cup of hot tea with the Agent. They celebrate her new career and the five-yen advance against her legally mortgaged future. Privately, an hour or so later, the Agent will share a special toast with the girl herself. The Agent improvises his tearooms: an attic in a forest inn or a locked changing room in a bathhouse or, in the case of Iku, an abandoned cowshed.

--

    After sunset, the old blind woman arrives. “The zookeeper,” we call her. She hauls our food to the grated door, unbars the lower panel. We pass her that day’s skeins of reeled silk, and she pushes two sacks of mulberry leaves through the panel with a long stick. The woman never speaks to us, no matter what questions we shout at her. She simply waits, patiently, for our skeins, and so long as they are acceptable in quality and weight, she slides in our leaves. Tonight she has also slid in a tray of steaming human food for the new recruits. Tooka and Etsuyo get cups of rice and miso soup with floating carrots. Hunks of real ginger are unraveling in the broth, like hair. We all sit on the opposite side of the room and watch them chew with a dewy nostalgia that disgusts me even as I find myself ogling their long white fingers on their chopsticks, the balls of rice. The salt and fat smells of their food make my eyes ache. When we eat the mulberry leaves, we lower our new faces to the floor.

    They drink down the soup in silence. “Are we dreaming?” I hear one whisper.

    “The tea drugged us!” the younger sister, Tooka, cries at last. Her gaze darts here and there, as if she’s hoping to be contradicted. They traveled nine days by riverboat and oxcart, Etsuyo tells us, wearing blindfolds the entire time. So we could be that far north of Yamagata, or west. Or east, the younger sister says. We collect facts from every new kaiko-joko and use them to draw thread maps of Japan on the factory floor. But not even Tsuki the Apt can guess our whereabouts.

    Nowhere Mill, we call this place.

    Dai crosses the room and speaks soothingly to the sisters; then she leads them right to me. Oh, happy day. I glare at her through an unchewed mouthful of leaves.

    “Kitsune is quite a veteran now,” says smiling Dai, leading the fishy sisters to me, “she will show you around—”

    I hate this part. But you have to tell the new ones what’s in store for them. Minds have been spoiled by the surprise.

    “Will the manager of this factory be coming soon?” Etsuyo asks, in a grave voice. “I think there has been a mistake.”

    “We don’t belong here!” Tooka breathes.

    There’s nowhere else for you now, I say, staring at the floor. That tea he poured into you back in Sakegawa? The Agent’s drink is remaking your insides. Your intestines, your secret organs. Soon your stomachs will bloat. You will manufacture silk in your gut with the same helpless skill that you digest food, exhale. The kaiko-change, he calls it. A revolutionary process. Not even Chiyo, who knows sericulture, has ever heard of a tea that turns girls into silkworms. We think the tea may have been created abroad, by French chemists or British engineers. Yatoi-tea. Unless it’s the Agent’s own technology.

    I try to smile at them now.

    In the cup it was so lovely to look at, wasn’t it? An orange hue, like something out of the princess’s floating world woodblocks.

    Etsuyo is shaking. “But we can’t undo it? Surely there’s a cure. A way to reverse it, before it’s … too late.”

    Before we look like you, she means.

    “The only cure is a temporary one, and it comes from the Machine. When your thread begins, you’ll understand …”

    It takes thirteen to fourteen hours for the Machine to empty a kaiko-joko of her thread. The relief of being rid of it is indescribable.

    These seashore girls know next to nothing about silkworm cultivation. In the mountains of Chichibu, Chiyo tells them, everyone in her village was involved. Seventy families worked together in a web: planting and watering the mulberry trees, raising the kaiko eggs to pupa, feeding the silkworm caterpillars. The art of silk production was very, very inefficient, I tell the sisters. Slow and costly. Until us.

    I try to weed the pride from my voice, but it’s difficult. In spite of everything, I can’t help but admire the quantity of silk that we kaiko-joko can produce in a single day. The Agent boasts that he has made us the most productive machines in the empire, surpassing even those steel zithers and cast-iron belchers at Tomioka Model Mill.

    Eliminated: mechanical famine. Supply problems caused by the cocoons’ tiny size and irregular quality.

    Eliminated: waste silk.

    Eliminated: the cultivation of the kaiko. The harvesting of their eggs. The laborious collection and separation of the silk cocoons. We silkworm-girls combine all these processes in the single factory of our bodies. Ceaselessly, even while we dream, we are generating thread. Every droplet of our energy, every moment of our time flows into the silk.

    I guide the sisters to the first of the three workbenches. “Here are the basins,” I say, “steam heated, quite modern, eh, where we boil the water.”

    I plunge my left hand under the boiling water for as long as I can bear it. Soon the skin of my fingertips softens and bursts, and fine waggling fibers rise from them. Green thread lifts right out of my veins. With my right hand I pluck up the thread from my left fingertips and wrist.

    “See? Easy.”

    A single strand is too fine to reel. So you have to draw several out, wind six or eight around your finger, rub them together, to get the right denier; when they are thick enough, you feed them to the Machine.

    Dai is drawing red thread onto her reeler, watching me approvingly.

    “Are we monsters now?” Tooka wants to know.

    I give Dai a helpless look; that’s a question I won’t answer.

    Dai considers.

    In the end she tells the new reelers about the juhyou, the “snow monsters,” snow-and-ice-covered trees in Zao Onsen, her home. “The snow monsters”—Dai smiles, brushing her white whiskers—“are very beautiful. Their disguises make them beautiful. But they are still trees, you see, under all that frost.”

--

    While the sisters drink in this news, I steer them to the Machine.

    The Machine looks like a great steel-and-wood beast with a dozen rotating eyes and steaming mouths — it’s twenty meters long and takes up nearly half the room. The central reeler is a huge and ever-spinning O, capped with rows of flashing metal teeth. Pulleys swing our damp thread left to right across it, refining it into finished silk. Tooka shivers and says it looks as if the Machine is smiling at us. Kaiko-joko sit at the workbenches that face the giant wheel, pulling glowing threads from their own fingers, stretching threads across their reeling frames like zither strings. A stinging music.

    No tebiki cranks to turn, I show them. Steam power has freed both our hands.

    “ ‘Freed,’ I suppose, isn’t quite the right word, is it?” says Iku drily. Lotus-colored thread is flooding out of her left palm and reeling around her dowel. With her right hand she adjusts the outflow.

    Here is the final miracle, I say: our silk comes out of us in colors. There is no longer any need to dye it. There is no other silk like it on the world market, boasts the Agent. If you look at it from the right angle, a pollen seems to rise up and swirl into your eyes. Words can’t exaggerate the joy of this effect.

    Nobody has ever guessed her own color correctly — Hoshi predicted hers would be peach and it was blue; Nishi thought pink, got hazel. I would have bet my entire five-yen advance that mine would be light gray, like my cat’s fur. But then I woke and pushed the swollen webbing of my thumb and a sprig of green came out. On my day zero, in the middle of my terror, I was surprised into a laugh: here was a translucent green I swore I’d never seen before anywhere in nature, and yet I knew it as my own on sight.

    “It’s as if the surface is charged with our aura,” says Hoshi, counting syllables on her knuckles for her next haiku.

    About this I don’t tease her. I’m no poet, but I’d swear to the silks’ strange glow. The sisters seem to agree with me; one looks like she’s about to faint.

    “Courage, sisters!” sings Hoshi. Hoshi is our haiku laureate. She came from a school for young noblewomen and pretends to have read every book in the world. We all agree that she is generally insufferable.

    “Our silks are sold in Paris and America — they are worn by Emperor Meiji himself. The Agent tells me we are the treasures of the realm.” Hoshi’s white whiskers extend nearly to her ears now. Hoshi’s optimism is indefatigable.

    “That girl was hairy when she got here,” I whisper to the sisters, “if you want to know the truth.”

--

    The old blind woman comes again, takes our silks, pushes the leaves in with a stick, and we fall upon them. If you think we kaiko-joko leave even one trampled stem behind, you underestimate the deep, death-thwarting taste of the mulberry. Vital green, as if sunlight is zipping up your spinal column.

    In other factories, we’ve heard, there are foremen and managers and whistles to announce and regulate the breaks. Here the clocks and whistles are in our bodies. The thread itself is our boss. There is a fifteen-minute period between the mulberry orgy—“call it the evening meal, please, don’t be disgusting,” Dai pleads, her saliva still gleaming on the floor — and the regeneration of the thread. During this period, we sit in a circle in the center of the room, an equal distance from our bedding and the Machine. Stubbornly we reel backward: Takayama town. Oyaka village. Toku. Kiyo. Nara. Fudai. Sho. Radishes and pickles. Laurel and camphor smells of Shikoku. Father. Mother. Mount Fuji. The Inland Sea.

--

    All Japan is undergoing a transformation — we kaiko-joko are not alone in that respect. I watched my grandfather become a sharecropper on his own property. A dependent. He was a young man when the Black Ships came to Edo. He grew foxtail millet and red buckwheat. Half his crop he paid in rent; then two-thirds; finally, after two bad harvests, he owed his entire yield. That year, our capital moved in a ceremonial, and real, procession from Kyoto to Edo, now Tokyo, the world shedding names under the carriage wheels, and the teenage emperor in his palanquin traveling over the mountains like an imperial worm.

    In the first decade of the Mejii government, my grandfather was forced into bankruptcy by the land tax. In 1873, he joined the farmer’s revolt in Chūbu. Along with hundreds of others of the newly bankrupted and dispossessed from Chūbu, Gifa, Aichi, he set fire to the creditor’s offices where his debts were recorded. After the rebellion failed, he hanged himself in our barn. The gesture was meaningless. The debt still existed, of course.

    My father inherited the debts of his father.

    There was no dowry for me.

    In my twenty-third year, my mother died, and my father turned white, lay flat. Death seeded in him and began to grow tall, like grain, and my brothers carried Father to the Inoba shrine for the mountain cure.

    It was at precisely this moment that the Recruitment Agent arrived at our door.

    The Agent visited after a thundershower. He had a parasol from London. I had never seen such a handsome person in my life, man or woman. He had blue eyelids, a birth defect, he said, but it had worked out to his extraordinary advantage. He let me sniff at his vial of French cologne. It was as if a rumor had materialized inside the dark interior of our farmhouse. He wore Western dress. He also had — and I found this incredibly appealing — mid-ear sideburns and a mustache.

    “My father is sick,” I told him. I was alone in the house. “He is in the other room, sleeping.”

    “Well, let’s not disturb him.” The Agent smiled and stood to go.

    “I can read,” I said. For years I’d worked as a servant in the summer retreat of a Kobe family. “I can write my name.”

    Show me the contract, I begged him.

    And he did. I couldn’t run away from the factory and I couldn’t die, either, explained the Recruitment Agent — and perhaps I looked at him a little dreamily, because I remember that he repeated this injunction in a hard voice, tightening up the grammar: “If you die, your father will pay.” He was peering deeply into my face; it was April, and I could see the rain in his mustache. I met his gaze and giggled, embarrassing myself.

    “Look at you, blinking like a firefly! Only it’s very serious—”

    He lunged forward and grabbed playfully at my waist, causing my entire face to darken in what I hoped was a womanly blush. The Agent, perhaps fearful that I was choking on a radish, thumped my back.

    “There, there, Kitsune! You will come with me to the model factory? You will reel for the realm, for your emperor? For me, too,” he added softly, with a smile.

    I nodded, very serious myself now. He let his fingers brush softly against my knuckles as he drew out the contract.

    “Let me bring it to Father,” I told the Agent. “Stand back. Stay here. His disease is contagious.”

    The Agent laughed. He said he wasn’t used to being bossed by a joko. But he waited. Who knows if he believed me?

    My father would never have signed the document. He would not have agreed to let me go. He blamed the new government for my grandfather’s death. He was suspicious of foreigners. He would have demanded to know, certainly, where the factory was located. But I could work whereas he could not. I saw my father coming home, cured, and finding the five-yen advance. I had never used an ink pen before. In my life as a daughter and a sister, I had never felt so powerful. No woman in Gifu had ever brokered such a deal on her own. KITSUNE TAJIMA, I wrote in the slot for the future worker’s name, my heart pounding in my ears. When I returned it, I apologized for my father’s unsteady hand.

    On our way to the kaiko-tea ceremony, I was so excited that I could barely make my questions about the factory intelligible. He took me to a summer guesthouse in the woods behind the Miya River, which he told me was owned by a Takayama merchant family and, at the moment, empty.

    Something is wrong, I knew then. This knowledge sounded with such clarity that it seemed almost independent of my body, like a bird calling once over the trees. But I proceeded, following the Agent toward a dim staircase. The first room I glimpsed was elegantly furnished, and I felt my spirits lift again, along with my caution. I counted fourteen steps to the first landing, where he opened the door onto a room that reflected none of the downstairs refinement. There was a table with two stools, a bed; otherwise the room was bare. I was surprised to see a large brown blot on the mattress. One porcelain teapot. One cup. The Agent lifted the tea with an unreadable expression, frowning into the pot; as he poured, I thought I heard a little splash; then he cursed, excused himself, said he needed a fresh ingredient. I heard him continuing up the staircase. I peered into the cup and saw that there was something alive inside it — writhing, dying — a fat white kaiko. I shuddered but I didn’t fish it out. What sort of tea ceremony was this? Maybe, I thought, the Agent is testing me, to see if I am squeamish, weak. Something bad was coming — the stench of a bad and thickening future was everywhere in that room. The bad thing was right under my nose, crinkling its little legs at me.

    I pinched my nostrils shut, just as if I were standing in the mud a heartbeat from jumping into the Miya River. Without so much as consulting the Agent, I squinched my eyes shut and gulped.

    The other workers cannot believe I did this willingly. Apparently, one sip of the kaiko-tea is so venomous that most bodies go into convulsions. Only through the Agent’s intervention were they able to get the tea down. It took his hands around their throats.

    I arranged my hands in my lap and sat on the cot. Already I was feeling a little dizzy. I remember smiling with a sweet vacancy at the door when he returned.

    “You — drank it.”

    I nodded proudly.

    Then I saw pure amazement pass over his face — I passed the test, I thought happily. Only it wasn’t that, quite. He began to laugh.

    “No joko,” he sputtered, “not one of you, ever—” He was rolling his eyes at the room’s corners, as if he regretted that the hilarity of this moment was wasted on me. “No girl has ever gulped a pot of it!”

    Already the narcolepsy was buzzing through me, like a hive of bees stinging me to sleep. I lay guiltily on the mat — why couldn’t I sit up? Now the Agent would think I was worthless for work. I opened my mouth to explain that I was feeling ill but only a smacking sound came out. I held my eyes open for as long as I could stand it.

    Even then, I was still dreaming of my prestigious new career as a factory reeler. Under the Meiji government, the hereditary classes had been abolished, and I even let myself imagine that the Agent might marry me, pay off my family’s debts. As I watched, the Agent’s genteel expression underwent a complete transformation; suddenly it was as blank as a stump. The last thing I saw, before shutting my eyes, was his face.

--

    I slept for two days and woke on a dirty tatami in this factory with Dai applauding me; the green thread had erupted through my palms in my sleep — the metamorphosis unusually accelerated. I was lucky, as Chiyo says. Unlike Tooka and Etsuyo and so many of the others I had no limbo period, no cramps from my guts unwinding, changing; no time at all to meditate on what I was becoming — a secret, a furred and fleshy silk factory.

    What would Chiyo think of me, if she knew how much I envy her initiation story? That what befell her — her struggle, her screams — I long for? That I would exchange my memory for Chiyo’s in a heartbeat? Surely this must be the final, inarguable proof that I am, indeed, a monster.

    Many workers here have a proof of their innocence, some physical trace, on the body: scar tissue, a brave spot. A sign of struggle that is ineradicable. Some girls will push their white fuzz aside to show you: Dai’s pocked hands, Mitsuki’s rope burns around her neck. Gin has wiggly lines around her mouth, like lightning, where she was scalded by the tea that she spat out.

    And me?

    There was a moment, at the bottom of the stairwell, and a door that I could easily have opened back into the woods of Gifu. I alone, it seems, out of twenty-two workers, signed my own contract.

    “Why did you drink it, Kitsune?”

    I shrug.

    “I was thirsty,” I say.

--

    Roosters begin to crow outside the walls of Nowhere Mill at five a.m. They make a sound like gargled light, very beautiful, which I picture as Dai’s red and Gin’s orange and Yoshi’s pink thread singing on the world’s largest reeler. Dawn. I’ve been lying awake in the dark for hours.

    “Kitsune, you never sleep. I hear the way you breathe,” Dai says.

    “I sleep a little.”

    “What stops you?” Dai rubs her belly sadly. “Too much thread?”

    “Up here.” I knock on my head. “I can’t stop reliving it: the Agent walking through our fields under his parasol, in the rain …”

    “You should sleep,” says Dai, peering into my eyeball. “Yellowish. You don’t look well.”

    Midmorning, there is a malfunction. Some hitch in the Machine causes my reeler to spin backward, pulling the thread from my fingers so quickly that I am jerked onto my knees; then I’m dragged along the floor toward the Machine’s central wheel like an enormous, flopping fish. The room fills with my howls. With surprising calm, I become aware that my right arm is on the point of being wrenched from its socket. I lift my chin and begin, with a naturalness that belongs entirely to my terror, to swivel my head around and bite blindly at the air; at last I snap the threads with my kaiko-jaws and fall sideways. Under my wrist, more thread kinks and scrags. There is a terrible stinging in my hands and my head. I let my eyes close: for some reason I see the space beneath my mother’s cedar chest, where the moonlight lay in green splashes on our floor. I used to hide there as a child and sleep so soundly that no one in our one-room house could ever find me. No such luck today: hands latch onto my shoulders. Voices are calling my name—“Kitsune! Are you awake? Are you okay?”

    “I’m just clumsy,” I laugh nervously. But then I look down at my hand. Short threads extrude from the bruised skin of my knuckles. They are the wrong color. Not my green. Ash.

    Suddenly I feel short of breath again.

    It gets worse when I look up. The silk that I reeled this morning is bright green. But the more recent thread drying on the bottom of my reeler is black. Black as the sea, as the forest at night, says Hoshi euphemistically. She is too courteous to make the more sinister comparisons.

    I swallow a cry. Am I sick? It occurs to me that five or six of these black threads dragged my entire weight. It had felt as though my bones would snap in two before my thread did.

    “Oh no!” gasp Tooka and Etsuyo. Not exactly sensitive, these sisters from Sakegawa. “Oh, poor Kitsune! Is that going to happen to us, too?”

    “Anything you want to tell us?” Dai prods. “About how you are feeling?”

    “I feel about as well as you all look today,” I growl.

    “I’m not worried,” says Dai in a too-friendly way, clapping my shoulder. “Kitsune just needs sleep.”

    But everybody is staring at the spot midway up the reel where the green silk shades into black.

--

    My next mornings are spent splashing through the hot water basin, looking for fresh fibers. I pull out yards of the greenish-black thread. Soiled silk. Hideous. Useless for kimonos. I sit and reel for my sixteen hours, until the Machine gets the last bit out of me with a shudder.

    My thread is green three days out of seven. After that, I’m lucky to get two green outflows in a row. This transformation happens to me alone. None of the other workers report a change in their colors. It must be my own illness then, not kaiko-evolution. If we had a foreman here, he would quarantine me. He might destroy me, the way silkworms infected with the blight are burned up in Katamura.

    And in Gifu? Perhaps my father has died at the base of Mount Inaba. Or has he made a full recovery, journeyed home with my brothers, and cried out with joyful astonishment to find my five-yen advance? Let it be that, I pray. My afterlife will be whatever he chooses to do with that money.

--

    Today marks the forty-second day since we last saw the Agent. In the past he has reliably surprised us with visits, once or twice per month. Factory inspections, he calls them, scribbling notes about the progress of our transformations, the changes in our weight and shape, the quality of our silk production. He’s never stayed away so long before. The thought of the Agent, either coming or not coming, makes me want to retch. Water sloshes in my head. I lie on the mat with my eyes shut tight and watch the orange tea splash into my cup …

    “I hear you in there, Kitsune. I know what you’re doing. You didn’t sleep.”

    Dai’s voice. I keep my eyes shut.

    “Kitsune, stop thinking about it. You are making yourself sick.”

    “Dai, I can’t.”

    Today my stomach is so full of thread that I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand. I’m afraid that it will all be black. Some of us are now forced to crawl on our hands and knees to the Machine, toppled by our ungainly bellies. I can smell the basins heating. A thick, greasy steam fills the room. I peek up at Dai’s face, then let my eyes flutter shut again.

    “Smell that?” I say, more nastily than I intend to. “In here we’re dead already. At least on the stairwell I can breathe forest air.”

    “Unwinding one cocoon for an eternity,” she snarls. “As if you had only a single memory. Reeling in the wrong direction.”

    Dai looks ready to slap me. She’s angrier than I’ve ever seen her. Dai is the Big Mother but she’s also a samurai’s daughter, and sometimes that combination gives rise to a ferocious kind of caring. She’s tender with the little ones, but if an older joko plummets into a mood or ill health, she’ll scream at us until our ears split. Furious, I suppose, at her inability to defend us from ourselves.

    “The others also suffered in their pasts,” she says. “But we sleep, we get up, we go to work, some crawl forward if there is no other way …”

    “I’m not like the others,” I insist, hating the baleful note in my voice but desperate to make Dai understand this. Is Dai blind to the contrast? Can she not see that the innocent recruits — the ones who were signed over to the Agent by their fathers and their brothers — produce pure colors, in radiant hues? Whereas my thread looks rotten, greeny-black.

    “Sleep can’t wipe me clean like them. I chose this fate. I can’t blame a greedy uncle, a gullible father. I drank the tea of my own free will.”

    “Your free will,” says Dai, so slowly that I’m sure she’s about to mock me; then her eyes widen with something like joy. “Ah! So: use that to stop drinking it at night, in your memory. Use your will to stop thinking about the Agent.”

    Dai is smiling down at me like she’s won the argument.

    “Oh, yes, very simple!” I laugh angrily. “I’ll just stop. Why didn’t I think of that? Say, here’s one for you, Dai,” I snap. “Stop reeling for the Agent at your workbench. Stop making the thread in your gut. Try that, I’m sure you’ll feel better.”

    Then we are shouting at each other, our first true fight; Dai doesn’t understand that this memory reassembles itself in me mechanically, just as the thread swells in our new bodies. It’s nothing I control. I see the Agent arrive; my hand trembling; the ink lacing my name across the contract. My regret: I know I’ll never get to the bottom of it. I’ll never escape either place, Nowhere Mill or Gifu. Every night, the cup refills in my mind.

    “Go reel for the empire, Dai. Make more silk for him to sell. Go throw the little girls another party! Make believe we’re not slaves here.”

    Dai storms off, and I feel a mean little pleasure.

    For two days we don’t speak, until I worry that we never will again. But on the second night, Dai finds me. She leans in and whispers that she has accepted my challenge. At first I am so happy to hear her voice that I only laugh, take her hand. “What challenge? What are you talking about?”

    “I thought about what you said,” she tells me. She talks about her samurai father’s last stand, the Satsuma Rebellion. In the countryside, she says, there are peasant armies who protest “the blood tax,” refuse to sow new crops. I nod with my eyes shut, watching my grandfather’s hat floating through our fields in Gifu.

    “And you’re right, Kitsune — we have to stop reeling. If we don’t, he’ll get every year of our futures. He’ll get our last breaths. The silk belongs to us, we make it. We can use that to bargain with the Agent.”

    The following morning, Dai announces that she won’t move from her mat.

    “I’m on strike,” she says. “No more reeling.”

    By the second day, her belly has grown so bloated with thread that we are begging her to work. The mulberry leaves arrive, and she refuses to eat them.

    “No more room for that.” She smiles.

    Dai’s face is so swollen that she can’t open one eye. She lies with her arms crossed over her chest, her belly heaving.

    By the fourth day, I can barely look at her.

    “You’ll die,” I whisper.

    She nods resolutely.

    “I’m escaping. He might still stop me. But I’ll do my best.”

    We send a note for the Agent with the blind woman. “Please tell him to come.”

    “Join me,” Dai begs us, and our eyes dull and lower, we sway. For five days, Dai doesn’t reel. She never eats. Some of us, I’m sure, don’t mind the extra fistful of leaves. (A tiny voice I can’t gag begins to babble in the background: If x-many others strike, Kitsune, there will be x-much more food for you …)

    Guiltily, I set her portion aside, pushing the leaves into a little triangle. There, I think. The flag of Dai’s resistance. Something flashes on one — a real silkworm. Inching along in its wet and stupid oblivion. My stomach flips to see all the little holes its hunger has punched into the green leaf.

    During our break, I bring Dai my blanket. I try to squeeze some of the water from the leaf-velvet onto her tongue, which she refuses. She doesn’t make a sound, but I hiss — her belly is grotesquely distended and stippled with lumps, like a sow’s pregnant with a litter of ten piglets. Her excess thread is packed in knots. Strangling Dai from within. Perhaps the Agent can call on a Western veterinarian, I find myself thinking. Whatever is happening to her seems beyond the ken of Emperor Meiji’s own doctors.

    “Start reeling again!” I gasp. “Dai, please.”

    “It looks worse than it is. It’s easy enough to stop. You’ll see for yourself, I hope.”

    Her skin has an unhealthy translucence. Her eyes are standing out in her shrunken face, as if every breath costs her. Soon I will be able to see the very thoughts in her skull, the way red thread fans into veiny view under her skin. Dai gives me her bravest smile. “Get some rest, Kitsune. Stop poisoning yourself on the stairwell of Gifu. If I can stop reeling, surely you can, too.”

--

    When she dies, all the silk is still stubbornly housed in her belly, “stolen from the factory,” as the Agent alleges. “This girl died a thief.”

    Three days after her death, he finally shows up. He strides over to Dai and touches her belly with a stick. When a few of us grab for his legs, he makes a face and kicks us off.

    “Perhaps we can still salvage some of it,” he grumbles, rolling her into his sack.

--

    A great sadness settles over our whole group and doesn’t lift. What the Agent carried off with Dai was everything we had left: Chiyo’s clouds and mountains, my farmhouse in Gifu, Etsuyo’s fiancé. It’s clear to us now that we can never leave this room — we can never be away from the Machine for more than five days. Unless we live here, where the Machine can extract the thread from our bodies at speeds no human hand could match, the silk will build and build and kill us in the end. Dai’s experiment has taught us that.

    You never hear a peep in here about the New Year anymore.

--

    I’m eating, I’m reeling, but I, too, appear to be dying. Thread almost totally black. The denier too uneven for any market. In my mind I talk to Dai about it, and she is very reassuring: “It’s going to be fine, Kitsune. Only, please, you have to stop—”

    Stop thinking about it. This was Dai’s final entreaty to me.

    I close my eyes. I watch my hand signing my father’s name again. I am at the bottom of a stairwell in Gifu. The first time I made this ascent I felt weightless, but now the wood groans under my feet. Just as a single cocoon contains a thousand yards of silk, I can unreel a thousand miles from my memory of this one misstep.

    Still, I’m not convinced that you were right, Dai — that it’s such a bad thing, a useless enterprise, to reel and reel out my memory at night. Some part of me, the human part of me, is kept alive by this, I think. Like water flushing a wound, to prevent it from closing. I am a lucky one, like Chiyo says. I made a terrible mistake. In Gifu, in my raggedy clothes, I had an unreckonable power. I didn’t know that at the time. But when I return to the stairwell now, I can feel them webbing around me: my choices, their infinite variety, spiraling out of my hands, my invisible thread. Regret is a pilgrimage back to the place where I was free to choose. It’s become my sanctuary here in Nowhere Mill. A threshold where I still exist.

    One morning, two weeks after Dai’s strike, I start talking to Chiyo about her family’s cottage business in Chichibu. Chiyo complains about the smells in her dry attic, where they destroy the silkworm larvae in vinegary solutions. Why do they do that? I want to know. I’ve never heard this part before. Oh, to stop them from undergoing the transformation, Chiyo says. First, the silkworms stop eating. Then they spin their cocoons. Once inside, they molt several times. They grow wings and teeth. If the caterpillars are allowed to evolve, they change into moths. Then these moths bite through the silk and fly off, ruining it for the market.

    Teeth and wings, wings and teeth, I keep hearing all day under the whine of the cables.

    That night, I try an experiment. I let myself think the black thoughts all evening. Great wheels inside me turn backward at fantastic, groaning velocities. What I focus on is my shadow in the stairwell, falling slantwise behind me, like silk. I see the ink spilling onto the contract, my name bloating monstrously.

    And when dawn comes, and I slug my way over to the workbench and plunge my hands into the boiling vat, I see that the experiment was a success. My new threads are stronger and blacker than ever; silk of some nameless variety we have never belly-spun before. I crank them out of my wrist and onto the dowel. There’s not a fleck of green left, not a single frayed strand. “Moonless,” says Hoshi, shrinking from them. Opaque. Midnight at Nowhere Mill pales in comparison. Looking down into the basin, I feel a wild excitement. I made it that color. So I’m no mere carrier, no diseased kaiko—I can channel these dyes from my mind into the tough new fiber. I can change my thread’s denier, control its production. Seized by a second inspiration, I begin to unreel at speeds I would have just yesterday thought laughably impossible. Not even Yuna can produce as much thread in an hour. I ignore the whispers that pool around me on the workbench:

    “Kitsune’s fishing too deep — look at her finger slits!”

    “They look like gills.” Etsuyo shudders.

    “Someone should stop her. She’s fishing right down to the bone.”

    “What is she making?”

    “What are you making?”

    “What are you going to do with all that, Kitsune?” Tooka asks nervously.

    “Oh, who knows? I’ll just see what it comes to.”

    But I do know. Without my giving a thought to what step comes next, my hands begin to fly.

    The weaving comes so naturally to me that I am barely aware I am doing it, humming as if in a dream. But this weaving is instinctual. What takes effort, what requires a special kind of concentration, is generating the right density of the thread. To do so, I have to keep forging my father’s name in my mind, climbing those stairs, watching my mistake unfurl. I have to drink the toxic tea and feel it burn my throat, lie flat on the cot while my organs are remade by the Agent for the factory, thinking only, Yes, I chose this. When these memories send the fierce regret spiraling through me, I focus on my heartbeat, my throbbing palms. Fibers stiffen inside my fingers. Grow strong, I direct the thread. Go black. Lengthen. Stick. And then, when I return to the vats, what I’ve produced is exactly the necessary denier and darkness. I sit at the workbench, at my ordinary station. And I am so happy to discover that I can do all this myself: the silk-generation, the separation, the dyeing, the reeling. Out of the same intuition, I discover that I know how to alter the Machine. “Help me, Tsuki,” I say, because I want her to watch what I am doing. I begin to explain, but she is already disassembling my reeler. “I know, Kitsune,” she says, “I see what you have in mind.” Words seem to be unnecessary now between me and Tsuki — we beam thoughts soundlessly across the room. Perhaps speech will be the next superfluity in Nowhere Mill. Another step we kaiko-girls can skip.

    Together we adjust the feeder gears, so that the black thread travels in a loop; after getting wrung out and doubled on the Machine’s great wheel, it shuttles back to my hands. I add fresh fibers, drape the long skein over my knees. It is going to be as tall as a man, six feet at least.

    Many girls continue feeding the Machine as if nothing unusual is happening. Others, like Tsuki, are watching to see what my fingers are doing. For the past several months, every time I’ve reminisced about the Agent coming to Gifu, bile has risen in my throat. It seems to be composed of every bitterness: grief and rage, the acid regrets. But then, in the middle of my weaving, obeying a queer impulse, I spit some onto my hand. This bile glues my fingers to my fur. Another of nature’s wonders. So even the nausea of regret can be converted to use. I grin to Dai in my head. With this dill-colored glue, I am at last able to rub a sealant over my new thread and complete my work.

    It takes me ten hours to spin the black cocoon.

    The first girls who see it take one look and run back to the tatami.

    The second girls are cautiously admiring.

    Hoshi waddles over with her bellyful of blue silk and screams.

    I am halfway up the southern wall of Nowhere Mill before I realize what I am doing; then I’m parallel to the woodpecker’s window. The gluey thread collected on my palms sticks me to the glass. For the first time I can see outside: from this angle, nothing but clouds and sky, a blue eternity. We will have wings soon, I think, and ten feet below me I hear Tsuki laugh out loud. Using my thread and the homemade glue, I attach the cocoon to a wooden beam; soon, I am floating in circles over the Machine, suspended by my own line. “Come down!” Hoshi yells, but she’s the only one. I secure the cocoon and then I let myself fall, all my weight supported by one thread. Now the cocoon sways over the Machine, a furled black flag, creaking slightly. I think of my grandfather hanging by the thick rope from our barn door.

    More black thread spasms down my arms.

    “Kitsune, please. You’ll make the Agent angry! You shouldn’t waste your silk that way — pretty soon they’ll stop bringing you the leaves! Don’t forget the trade, it’s silk for leaves, Kitsune. What happens when he stops feeding us?”

    But in the end I convince all of the workers to join me. Instinct obviates the need for a lesson — swiftly the others discover that they, too, can change their thread from within, drawing strength from the colors and seasons of their memories. Before we can begin to weave our cocoons, however, we first agree to work night and day to reel the ordinary silk, doubling our production, stockpiling the surplus skeins. Then we seize control of the machinery of Nowhere Mill. We spend the next six days dismantling and reassembling the Machine, using its gears and reels to speed the production of our own shimmering cocoons. Each dusk, we continue to deliver the regular number of skeins to the zookeeper, to avoid arousing the Agent’s suspicions. When we are ready for the next stage of our revolution, only then will we invite him to tour our factory floor.

    Silkworm moths develop long ivory wings, says Chiyo, bronzed with ancient designs. Do they have antennae, mouths? I ask her. Can they see? Who knows what the world will look like to us if our strike succeeds? I believe we will emerge from it entirely new creatures. In truth there is no model for what will happen to us next. We’ll have to wait and learn what we’ve become when we get out.

--

    The old blind woman really is blind, we decide. She squints directly at the wrecked and rerouted Machine and waits with her arms extended for one of us to deposit the skeins. Instead, Hoshi pushes a letter through the grate.

    “We don’t have any silk today.”

    “Bring this to the Agent.”

    “Go. Tell. Him.”

    As usual, the old woman says nothing. The mulberry sacks sit on the wagon. After a moment she claps to show us that her hands are empty, kicks the wagon away. Signals: no silk, no food. Her face is slack. On our side of the grate, I hear girls smacking their jaws, swallowing saliva. Fresh forest smells rise off the sacks. But we won’t beg, will we? We won’t turn back. Dai lived without food for five days. Our faces press against the grate. Several of our longest whiskers tickle the zookeeper’s withered cheeks; at last, a dark cloud passes over her face. She barks with surprise, swats the air. Her wrinkles tighten into a grimace of fear. She backs away from our voices, her fist closed around our invitation to the Agent.

    “NO SILK,” repeats Tsaiko slowly.

--

    The Agent comes the very next night.

    “Hello?”

    He raps at our grated door with a stick, but he remains in the threshold. For a moment I am sure that he won’t come in.

    “They’re gone, they’re gone,” I wail, rocking.

    “What!”

    The grate slides open and he steps onto the factory floor, into our shadows.

    “Yes, they’ve all escaped, every one of them, all your kaiko-joko—”

    Now my sisters drop down on their threads. They fall from the ceiling on whistling lines of silk, swinging into the light, and I feel as though I am dreaming — it is a dreamlike repetition of our initiation, when the Agent dropped the infecting kaiko into the orange tea. Watching his eyes widen and his mouth stretch into a scream, I too am shocked. We have no mirrors here in Nowhere Mill, and I’ve spent the past few months convinced that we were still identifiable as girls, women — no beauty queens, certainly, shaggy and white and misshapen, but at least half human; it’s only now, watching the Agent’s reaction, that I realize what we’ve become in his absence. I see us as he must: white faces, with sunken noses that look partially erased. Eyes insect-huge. Spines and elbows incubating lace for wings. My muscles tense, and then I am airborne, launching myself onto the Agent’s back — for a second I get a thrilling sense of what true flight will feel like, once we complete our transformation. I alight on his shoulders and hook my legs around him. The Agent grunts beneath my weight, staggers forward.

    “These wings of ours are invisible to you,” I say directly into the Agent’s ear. I clasp my hands around his neck, lean into the whisper. “And in fact you will never see them, since they exist only in our future, where you are dead and we are living, flying.”

    I then turn the Agent’s head so that he can admire our silk. For the past week every worker has used the altered Machine to spin her own cocoon — they hang from the far wall, coral and emerald and blue, ordered by hue, like a rainbow. While the rest of Japan changes outside the walls of Nowhere Mill, we’ll hang side by side, hidden against the bricks. Paralyzed inside our silk, but spinning faster and faster. Passing into our next phase. Then, we’ll escape. (Inside his cocoon, the Agent will turn blue and suffocate.)

    “And look,” I say, counting down the wall: twenty-one workers, and twenty-two cocoons. When he sees the black sac, I feel his neck stiffen. “We have spun one for you.” I smile down at him. The Agent is stumbling around beneath me, babbling something that I admit I make no great effort to understand. The glue sticks my knees to his shoulders. Several of us busy ourselves with getting the gag in place, and this is accomplished before the Agent can scream once. Gin and Nishi bring down the cast-iron grate behind him.

    The slender Agent is heavier than he looks. It takes four of us to stuff him into the socklike cocoon. I smile at the Agent and instruct the others to leave his eyes for last, thinking that he will be very impressed to see our skill at reeling up close. Behind me, even as this attack is under way, the other kaiko-joko are climbing into their cocoons. Already there are girls half swallowed by them, winding silk threads over their knees, sealing the outermost layer with glue.

    Now our methods regress a bit, get a little old-fashioned. I reel the last of the black cocoon by hand. Several kaiko-joko have to hold the Agent steady so that I can orbit him with the thread. I spin around his chin and his cheekbones, his lips. To get over his mustache requires several revolutions. Bits of my white fur drift down and disappear into his nostrils. His eyes are huge and black and void of any recognition. I whisper my name to him, to see if I can jostle my old self loose from his memory: Kitsune Tajima, of Gifu Prefecture.

    Nothing.

    So then I continue reeling upward, naming the workers of Nowhere Mill all the while: “Nishi. Yoshi. Yuna. Uki. Etsuyo. Gin. Hoshi. Raku. Chiyoko. Mitsuko. Tsaiko. Tooka. Dai.

    “Kitsune,” I repeat, closing the circle. The last thing I see before shutting his eyes is the reflection of my shining new face.

[bhaalxbabe]

50 Interesting OC Asks

TW: Kal & Victor are just terrible so things they say might be disturbing

1. What is a rumor people tell about them? 

For Asiel and Alaina it’s definitely how many people they slept with or who they slept with. For Erasmus it’s that he’s a virgin. They’re wrong but they’re also not wrong. I think Stephane would have weird rumors ?? Where people assume scary things about him like he has a sex slave dungeon or something or that he’s so immune to all types of drugs that nothing can get him high anymore and that’s why he’s a fucking savage. But in reality Stephane sits in his room and eats ice cream. 

2. How long would they last in the zombie apocalypse? 

If there was no one watching Alaina - not long. I think she would be able to sneak by but that could only last for so long. Erasmus would be fucking dead in an instant if there was no one. Asiel, Stephane, Eskandar, and Ruben are def the top contenders. Kal too !! VICTOR WOULD WANT TO FUCK THE ZOMBIES AND I AM UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THAT THOUGHT. 

 3. If they’re about to get in a fight, what song plays in their head as their ‘hype song’? 

Alaina: 7/11 - Beyonce (I love to think this is both hers and Asiel’s hype song and when this comes on they dance like a bunch of dumbasses)

Stephane: Don’t Stop - Innerpartysystem

Asiel: Everybody - Don Broco OR War Child - Hollywood Undead

Ruben: Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand 

Kal: Backmask - Mindless Self Indulgence (GOD THIS SONG IS JUST HIM)

Cesaire: I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor - Arctic Monkeys

4. How important is family to them? 

To Alaina it’s important but it’s more like...the whole idea of family ? Since she doesn’t have her own ? Like she considers the Demonios her family so they are important to her. For Stephane he didn’t give a single FUCK about family until he and Alaina had theirs, but before he despised the whole idea of family and thought it was fake. The same thing for Asiel. For Cesaire I feel like family would be a difficult and uncomfortable topic. He hated his dad and was basically forced to hate his twin brother but he got the better end of it ? I think he would be confused on what like...constitutes a good family. 

5. If they had a theme song, what would it be? 

Letha: Stripper by Sohodolls & Future Nostalgia - Dua Lipa

Ophelia: Portrait of a Female by Cruel Youth & Violence by Grimes 

Kal: House of Wolves by My Chemical Romance

Victor: The Dismemberment Song by Blue Kid (THIS IS MY ABSOLUTE FAV)

6. What’s a movie they can quote from start to finish? 

Asiel can quote dumb humor movies like Idiocracy or something and Letha can also...quote those.

Asiel: Please speak your name!

Letha: Well, i’m not sure that-

Asiel: You have entered the name, NOT SURE. Is NOT SURE correct ?

Letha: No it’s not correct-

Asiel: Thank you! NOT is correct ! Is SURE correct?

Letha: No, it’s not-

Asiel: We already confirmed your first name is NOT 

8. If they were given 1000 acres of land with no strings attached, what would they do with it? 

ALAINA WOULD HAVE A FARM !!! SHE WOULD HAVE A FARM AND SHE WOULD BE SOOOO HAPPY !! And Stephane would join her and he would’t really do anything except cheer his wife on and Alaina accepts that 

13. How did they find out Santa isn’t real?

Erasmus: Well, I was around eight or so. I thought the idea of Santa, this magical person who appeared from our chimneys who ate our cookies and delivered our gifts was absolutely absurd. There is about 7.5 billion people in the world and you expect me to believe this single man could visit all the children in a single night and do all of that? No. Impossible. I confronted my parents and they finally told me it was them.

Alaina, Asiel, Stephane, Eskandar, Kal, Letha, LITERALLY EVERYONE ELSE WHO DIDN’T EVEN HAVE A CHILDHOOD @ ERASMUS: .....

14. What’s a personality trait they wish they had? 

Alaina wishes she was smarter.

Asiel wishes he was able to feel empathy. 

Erasmus (secretly and in denial) wishes he was funny. 

16. If they were arrested with no explanation, what would their friends and family think they had done? 

Alaina: Asiel got arrested ?! I told him he wasn’t allowed in that donut shop anymore !!! :’(

Asiel: Lanes is in jail ??? GOOD FOR HER !! Finally someone punched her ‘jail card’. So what was it for? Public intoxication or indecency?

Erasmus: I told Letha nudes weren’t allowed on twitter !!!!

Ophelia: Kal ?? In jail ?? You’re fucking with me. Kal never gets caught. You’re just trying to trick me into leaving so he’d be able to go “SURPRISE!” and break my other leg.

17. In 40 years, what will they be the most nostalgic about? 

Victor: Do you remember the night we all went to the strip club together? And I saw that beautiful girl, with the smoothest skin. Candi, I believe her name was, with an ‘i’. Her body was almost perfectly preserved without the help of my chemicals for almost a week! A week with that smooth skin underneath my fingertips. I wanted to cut them off after, afraid that if I didn’t nothing was ever going to feel as good underneath my skin like that ever again. She looked just like she was before I killed her. It was the best sex I've ever had, what I would give to relive that week.

Ophelia:  😟

Kal: *Zzzzzzz* 

18. How would they describe their family? 

Kal would describe his family as “boring” which would be the reason why he killed them 

I’d like to imagine that Victor’s famiy died in a v traumatic way ? Where he had to see their corpses or something which was why he turned out the way he is - so fascinated with the dead but i’ll get back to that later 

I’m kind of torn on how Asiel would react to questions about his family, since he resents them so much I don’t think he would outwardly express that because that’s Asiel’s thing, you can’t find out WHY he hates the world but I feel like he’d be too upset to lie about it so he would dodge the question but in a v sneaky way so you wouldn’t see he was bothered by the question 

20. Do they have any pets? If so, what are they? 

ALAINA HAS TWO (2) PETS !! A German Shepherd named Orpheus and a Green Anaconda named No Feet or Nofie for short

23. What’s the most important object they own? 

I’d like to think that somewhere Stephane has a picture of his family (with Ciro’s face cut out) and he even couldn’t bring himself to cut Cesaire out and he occasionally looks over it fondly when he’s feeling a certain type of way \

I feel like Asiel would have something from Natalie, his sister (I should ?? Change her name LOL) that reminds him of her, lately I have been thinking of killing her off LOL to increase Asiel’s angst and bitterness towards the world so an item that would remind him of her would be so so important to him 

24. What event in their life would make a good movie? 

EVERYONE’S LIFE IS A FUCKING MOVIE THEY’RE ALL IN THE MAFIA 

27. What makes a person beautiful to them? 

Alaina thinks everyone is beautiful in their own way and they have certain specific things about them that makes them beautiful 

Stephane would find genuine kindness beautiful, just being kind not for any other reason than you genuine want to help and you genuinely care (tbh just Alaina in generally, if you’re anything like her you’re all set) 

Erasmus is the same way with genuine kindness, but I feel like he’s moreso people being happy ? Because he’s kind of sad and grumpy and seeing people being happy and enjoying their life he finds very attractive (NOT ASIEL ENJOYING HIS LIFE THOUGH) 

Victor thinks people going into rigor mortis is beautiful so...there’s...that 

Asiel would also be attractive to genuineness but not kindness specifically, just people actually being themselves and not afraid of being themselves - but also Asiel finds everyone hot ?? so 

I think Kal is incapable of finding people beautiful or attractive because he’s so fucking egotistical but I think what would peak his interest is people who are interesting - like if you can make him think you’re worth keeping alive he might fuck you or smthing or at least not kill you so that’s a plus 

28. If they turned into their crush/significant other for a day, what would they do? 

ALAINA WOULD BE SO EXCITED TO BE STEPHANE FOR SOME REASON like I feel like she’d take it as an opportunity to understand him better and she would just be excited to view the world from his “tall perspective” 

Stephane would flip the fuck out for the first solid five minutes but then use the opportunity to take more pictures of Alaina in outfits or underwear he’d always want her to wear (with her permission ofc) god and I feel like he would love the opportunity to be mean to people while in her body just to see people’s faces of Alaina cussing them out but then he knew she’d cry so he would refrain from doing that 

36. Do they believe things happen for a reason? 

CESAIRE BELIEVES IN FATE SO FUCKING MUCH like he believes in zodiac signs and things that are written in the stars, if something is meant to happen then it would have happened is definitely his motto but he would definitely work hard to make things happen as well 

42. Do they drink/smoke/do drugs? 

Alaina is an alcoholic in Arc 1 because she believes that since her life is better now she shouldn’t be feeling sad and thinking that she has problems because her life could be so much worse so she drinks to “cope” with her problems and eventually Etienne gets her into drugs as well but after she breaks up with Etienne, Asiel helps her become sober 

Asiel used to drink and do drugs like in an excessive amount but when he ODed and scared Natalie by almost dying he quit that 

Stephane, Kal, Ruben, and Eskandar smoke but it’s all casual 

46. What is something silly they’ve been tricked into believing? 

Alaina would believe anything you tell her from fucking anyone she’s so fucking dumb and I love her so fucking much for it she’s so cute 

50. What topic could they give a 20 minute presentation on with no preparation?

Asiel: Anyways, and that’s why the Ninja Turtles are better than the Avengers, any questions ? 

Erasmus: THIS IS A PROFESSIONAL MEETING !!!!!!

[insane-control-room]

The Concept, Chapter 5

Ao3 Link

It’s been too long since I’ve gone on.

Warning: Contains themes and scenes that are not suitable for everyone. Specifics are: overdose, suicidal ideation and related, depression, and insanity

Henry learned rather quickly the place he found himself in was hell.

Then again, he knew it from the time he worked there, but the disheveled state of the building made the tyranny of the aura all the more prevalent.

There were locked doors, broken and flickering lights, creaking floorboards, the massive ink machine he remembered Joey tinkering with and creating.

Joey Drew. The name left a sour taste in his mouth.

Henry easily powered up the machine

He almost jumped out of his skin when a plank fell from the ceiling, cursing it out and sputtering, hand gripping his heart.

The damn cutout that just… appeared, out of nowhere, almost like it was set up, it’s black, dark, venomous pie cut eyes following him, trained on him, a vice on his body.

He looked beyond it.

He stiffened, walking up to the… thing mechanically, no choice but to investigate, to try and piece together the shattered bits of clues.

The… the sight of Boris’ mangled and vivisected body. It was sick, something very wrong.

Preternatural, twisted a fairytale gone south faster than the stock market crash of ‘29.

Henry did not have very many good memories of working here, but his old desk brought in a wave of nostalgia. But from what? Maybe it was just the joy of animation. Of bringing things to life with his hands.

To grow and create.

Back in the day, Joey made him stay late with him to work on animations.

Pushed him, encouraged his workaholism.

Work hard, work happy.

Then it got worse.

Work hard, work harder.

Happiness ebbed away, and stress alongside exhaustion strained into the job.

More and more effort, pushing himself harder, forcing himself to his limits.

Work your hardest.

Looking at the doodle on his desk, the doodle he had frantically covered, marked with a note for Wally to hide it, he realized how much time he wasted there. Cowering in some strange version of friendship and fear.

Mostly discomfort.

The friend that overstayed his invitation.

The invitation being into Henry’s life.

He tried to force him from his family, pushing the idea of a ‘studio family’, neglecting his own family, his wife and his daughter.

Sure, Diane and he did not last - but he had Linda.

His daughter, who he ignored and pushed away while he worked for Joey. He should have spent more time with her instead of leaving her with Diane or with one of her grandmothers, he should have bonded with her more.

He realized that when he left.

His daughter was so happy, such euphoria coursing through her when he told her that he quit, and she had taken him by the hand to spin around their living room with him, chanting, “daddy, daddy, you’re finally home!”

Now, for some inexplicable, insane, god damned reason, he was back. He was back in the place he lied to himself about. The studio was never anything good, it was a prison, a prison sealed with stockholm syndrome, a jail cell with the most cunning locks.

And here, back in this Hell… something was so very wrong.

Starting up the machine was easy.

The ritual was strangely familiar, as though he had performed it before, but maybe in a vague dreamlike state.

Was it deja vu?

No, he had definitely done this before….

______

Red eyes.

Angry, hurt, red eyes.

Henry stared at Joey. Something was off about him.

_____

The change in the man was obvious now. There was no doubt about it, he was changed. Skin dark like black tea, eyes red like rubies, magenta glasses, a tall stature on his shoulders yet bound to the wheelchair, black jacket, white pants, all familiar and yet so strange.

“Joey?” he murmured. The man ignored him pointedly, eyes narrowing. Red eyes, red, eyes, alexandrite red eyes. Whose were those? Whose lanky body? “... Johan?”

The man before him froze.

Then he smiled nervously, a smile Henry knew very well, but why?

“Let’s talk.”

____

“You promised one more run,” Henry growled, jabbing a finger into Joey’s chest. He rose a hand in a worried protest, a hand that Henry plucked out of the air. Their eyes met, Joey’s puce fearful and confused, he did not recall making such a promise. Henry’s second hand grasped his wrist, and he twisted. Joey howled, back snapping straight with the pain he could not escape from. Seconds, agonizing seconds, passed, and with a sud- SNAP. Joey felt like he could not breathe.

Henry’s hands were on his other wrist, bringing it down onto the counter with a crack. Johan wordlessly howled, doubling over on his broken wrists.

“That should teach you not to lie,” Henry growled. Joey, on his knees, gasped in air as tears spilled over his cheeks painfully. “I expect you to finish on the next run, or if I were you, I would fear for my hands.”

Joey nodded soundlessly and slowly, shaking and shivering.

Henry walked to the door, slipping through it without a word. Johan, stuck in his kneeling position, lowered his forehead to the floor, allowing his tears to drip through his lashes.

Shakily, a smile spread on his lips. Soon it will all be over. Soon it will all end. He would be forgiven! What a benevolent master Henry was! How kind!

Forgiveness!

What a remarkable, impossible, wonderful thought!

___

Dear reader, the next moments are no fault of mine. They are the result of another, whom despite pleading, constantly put aside their wellbeing. And so, it is with a bitterness I divulge the plaintiff cry of self inflicted impairment. This is their fault in two major ways.

I am merely relaying it.

He regretted deleting the Numerica.

He had to have something.

Everything hurt, his wrists ached, more than with the pain of the chains that normally enveloped them, tight and cruel.

He wanted something to relax his mind.

He wanted it.

He NEEDED it.

He groaned.

His closed eyes snapped open, a grin lopsidedly spreading on his lips.

He knew where he could get something of the sort.

He rummaged in another’s dimension, pulling his hand back.

In it, yellow pills.

Half of one was one dose, right?

Shrugging, he tipped the whole thing into his mouth.

He smiled and let the drug take over.

Colors, brighter than he had ever seen in his life, due to his impairment, splashed over his vision. Pain vanished. Ink dripped from his lips.

The colors heightened.

Brighter.

Whiter.

Maybe death would be good.

He did not regret stealing the pills, he never would see him again, anyways.

Johan’s final gift to him, his death with the other’s instrument.

He groaned as the pain from overdose kicked in.

His stomach throbbed and his head ached.

Pain hit every nerve.

He wanted to curse him. To curse them.

But he could not, he was powerless, and he felt tears prick his eyes, only the bright green of the numbers on his vision.

They dripped down the sides of his face, slipping into his hair, shame burning into him again. He cried out in agony, needless needles jabbing into every muscle, tearing him open from the inside out like claws, ripping into every single bone and tendon, a gluttonous devour of any clean feeling he held.

He wanted to die as the pain coursed through him, but he knew he would not be able to.

He choked on his tears, unable to move as the pills wrecked his body, forcing him to scream out, his voice raw and aching, trapped more than before.

He gasped and sobbed, hating himself.

Hating his weakness.

Hating everything about himself.

Pathetic.

He tried to curl up to let the pain ebb away, but the pills kept him still.

He hated himself.

He closed his eyes, and sobbed.

Why did they do this to him?!

Why were they giving him more pain than he was in already!?

Did they hate him?

They must, right?

There was no other explanation.

Confusion sank into him. He thought they loved him. Did… did they never love him?

He felt his shoulders slump.

No one could love him.

Obviously.

He was just a glitch bitch, a worthless shit, empty code, useless machinery. Pathetic, broken, a toy. Nothing. A zero.

They were right to hate him.

He was nothing good, nothing kind, a liar, a drug addict, a murderer, and now, a thief.

Pathetic.

Such a blight.

A disgrace.

He moaned, hand clenching on the pill bottle.

He wanted the pain to end. He wanted it to all go away.

He wanted everything to go away.

He wanted to die.

And this was a reminder he could not.

He hated himself.

____

Henry’s lips kept taking his attention. He had to focus, he needed to barter this right.

“I can do it in a thousand runs,” Johan assertively insisted. Henry shook his head. Joey scowled. “How about you try to repair our world using only ones and zeroes, huh?”

“I’m not the one who committed genocide,” Henry growled, his hand fisting on the table. Johan swallowed roughly. “Fifty at most.”

“Fifty!” Johan exclaimed, disgusted. “Fifty runs will never be enough for me to code even half of south america!”

“Then a hundred will suit you just fine!”

“Seven hundred fifty!” Johan lowered.

“Seventy five!” Henry challenged, eyes narrow.

“Eight hundred!” Joey insisted.

“A hundred,” Henry returned, not planning on conceding.

“Seven hundred is my lowest,” Joey grumbled, eyes looking over Henry, slitted and frustrated. “You can’t rush art.”

“This isn't god damned art!” Henry roared, leaping to his feet. “This is my goddamn life!”

“It’s my goddamn life, too!” Joey seethed. “Y-You don’t understand what you’ll be taking from me! People I love, people I car-”

“What fucking people!?” Henry demanded in an explosion, eyes wild, hands slamming onto the counter, making Johan jump back in fright and shock. “Other yous!? Is that it!? Fuck that, when this is over I’m going to make sure you never see them again! They’re distractions! All of you, every fuckin’ version is a liar! That’s probably why you get along so nice and dandy, oh, he’s a murderer, that’s fine, we all killed someone last week! Is that it!? And how many of you share the same fucking deviance?! How many of you are sods, huh?!”

“Henry!” Joey sputtered, flushing and grabbing at his heart pin. “Y-you’re bisexual, how can you say such a thing? How can you be so, so crude?”

Henry scowled, and then stopped, sighing and slowly lowering himself back onto his chair. Joey watched him with hurt in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, sincere. “I didn’t mean to say that, I got mad and I wanted to bother you. What I said was wrong.”

“It’s okay,” Johan murmured, sitting down in his wheelchair, his hands wrapping around his cup of tea. Henry’s cold hands pressed over his, and their eyes met. Joey’s lips quirked up in a small smile, Henry’s following in his smoother fashion. “Six hundred?”

“Two hundred.”

“Five hundred is the lowest I can do,” Johan shook his head.

Henry sighed, and stuck out his hand.

“Five hundred it is, then,” he said, sealing the deal with a shake.

Johan made his way to the door, opening it, paining a blue tack on the wall.

“This is run one.”

_____

Johan messed up. Repeatedly.

The artist was trying so hard, and Henry continuously got madder and angrier with him.

He wanted to please him so badly.

To be good!

He could be good!

He could!

Please, believe him, he could b-be good….

He offered Henry runs every time he failed.

With bright hopeful eyes.

Tears in them.

He was lowered, down, down, down, to 414.

____

He could not move properly. Something familiar, horrifically, hideously familiar, pressurized his chest. He was… on his knees? Something restraining him from falling. His blue black hair was splayed everywhere, messily spiking over his eyes. He swayed his head side to side, trying to get a bearing of his surroundings. A wry, tight grin crossed his lips, like someone tearing through paper unevenly with a knife.

Right.

He gave a hollow laugh, whistling to himself and swaying.

He could wait.

He was patient.

He would wait for the good doctor.

Eventually, the door clicked unlocked and swung open.

Footsteps waxed near him, and he continued to whistle and sway, head rolling on his shoulders and chest like a twisted pendulum.

The footsteps paused, and he tensed, a grin mangling his already eerie features.

Silence.

“Boo!” he sharply snapped his head up, jolting at the doctor before him, wild eyed and beaming maniacally. He dropped his notepad on the floor, the restrained man sticking out a leg to cover it and pull it back. The doctor, with his hand on his chest, glared at him as he cackled and hooted with laughter. “Aw! C’mon doc! You’re as white as a ghost!”

“Enough, Ramirez,” the doctor ground out, trying to get back his notebook. Joey grinned at him, kicking up the pad, bouncing it off his shoulder and catching it in his mouth. Quickly standing to full height, he towered over him, grinning smugly. “Joey Drew.”

“Fine, have it your way, Dr. Stein,” Joey grumbled tossing the book. His terrifyingly happy demeanor shifted to one of melancholy, and he sat back on the floor, straight jacket making him feel horribly itchy. “What’re you here for? To gloat?”

“No.” Henry flatly replied. “The lobotomy procedure was cancelled.”

“Really?” Johan’s head slowly rose, eyes wide with wonder. “And… and that means no split brain treatment either?”

“Neither.”

“Oh, thank you,” he breathed, sagging against the wall. “Oh, Doctor, thank you.”

“Are you going to take your medication without fighting this time?” Henry questioned blandly, measuring out a thick, black liquid, into a thin, cylindrical tube. Joey stared at it in disgust, hesitating before shaking his head in the negative. Henry grimace. “Take the goddamn medicine, Joey.”

“I don’t want that,” he grit out painfully, eyeing it with disgust and some fear. Henry approached him swiftly, holding him down on his shoulder. He glanced at him from the corner of his eye, flushing from embarrassment. “I’ll do it for a kiss.”

“Just take the it,” Henry growled, pushing the vial against his lips. Johan pursed them. “Come on already! Take it!”

He shook his head.

Henry’s nails dug into his shoulder, the glass painful through his lips. Joey reluctantly, feeling contempt toward himself, parted his lips.

“There we go,” Henry hummed, running a hand up and down his shoulder. Joey shuddered, his eyes squeezed shut. The taste of the ink… ink? What ink? INK.

With a skreech, he jolted back to reality, screaming, aching, trembling, thrashing.

He made sure he had command of his limbs, sharply lifting his hands and waving them in his face. He curled up, and cried.

Was that real?

Was his entire world a drug induced nightmare? Were the people he knew here just… just other people in an asylum? Was it all fake? It was, wasn’t it? There was no explanation. He was alone.

No.

He refused to believe that he was nothing more than a dream, he was real.

Think of the others.

More proof he was fake.

No.

He was real.

Nothing could stop him.

He was nothing, and nothing would stop him.

No.

He had to believe.

Belief never got him anywhere.

No.

He had to hope.

He had to hope, as belief abandoned him.

Hope was all he had, and he would use it.

He set his fingers to the keys.

Hours passed in his work. He slipped away to visit the others, having completed the necessary amount for the run, proud of himself.

In a few runs, he would have to meet with Henry.

He was not scared, he finally reconciled with his closest, and he was ready to face one of them again, he was ready.

He saved, and waited for Henry to come.

He fidgeted, an unfamiliar dull aching permeating his body.

What was wrong with him?

He coughed, feeling the throb from the simple action he was all too used to.

What was happening?

He tried to focus on the clock. It made him smile. Time worked again. It was a big accomplishment on his end, even if he saw it as a small feat. It was difficult, but he had done it.

What was wrong, why did he feel so… off?

. .. …

Pain spiked into all his being, every limb screaming, each cell shrieking.

He screamed, darkness flaring through his sight, and he felt the wheelchair dissipate from under him.

All he could feel was pain.

Agony seeped into every pore, his lungs burning, his eyes welling, his chest heaving as torment ripped though his body.

He could not move, all he could do was feel nightmares claw at his eyes, false memories of needles jabbing into him, tight restriction holding him in place as fire swept through him, razing every nerve.

“Johan! Are you alright!?” Henry’s voice cut through like a knife. Johan felt a strong arm on his back pulling him to sit. He felt himself get carried to the couch when it became clear he would collapse again. “Oh, Joey, you weigh less than ever before… Joey, pal, wake up, I’m going to get you something to drink, stay put.”

Joey groaned as he forced his bleary eyes open. To his relief, most of the apartment was still in place, and it seemed no progress was lost. Just a bit longer, and he would finish.

He sighed contentedly, leaning back against the couch, gripping it with one hand. Solid. The sensation made him want to laugh and cry out of elation and anticipation.

“Alright, Joey, I’m ba- holy shit!” Joey’s eyes rose to view the wide eyed stare of the other animator. His gaze was drawn to the top of his own head, following Henry’s look. He looked down at the hand on his lap shamefacedly as he caught the merest glimpse of silver. Silver! The other hand hastily shoved it off his forehead and back, not wanting to see any of it. He felt so young, but he felt so tired and ancient, and his body showed it. Henry rushed over to him, gentle, broad, calloused hands slipping through the locks in wonder and with great curiosity. “Your hair… it’s not black anymore. Or even blue.”

“Sorry it’s ugly,” Johan muttered, reaching to his knees and pulling them to his chest, Henry making an odd noise in his throat. “The cause of it is likely the fact that as our world becomes more filled, and as time measuring objects like clocks and calendars appear, I started to show the age I would be. I don’t suppose I aged very well, did I?”

“Joey, listen to me,” Henry’s voice was strange. Joey slowly looked up at him. “This isn't the first time I saw you with white. This is the first time it stuck. And it’s okay.”

“No it’s! It’s!” Joey made a frustrated sound, gritting his teeth. “I don’t! Want! To die! I don’t want to grow up! I’m still twenty two, no matter what my body looks like! I! I! I!”

“Calm down!” Henry soothed him, taking his hands off his face, where he was not even aware he was clawing at in his panic. "No, hey, don't worry about it! I think it... it looks nice! It suits you. And the tips… the tips are still black and blue.”

“Really?” Joey asked quietly, not wanting to grow a false hope. Henry nodded. “I’m certain I look like a buffoon.”

“Not at all,” Henry chuckled. “It’s kind of like a paint brush.”

He ran his hand through it again, Joey leaning into the gentle caress.

Henry’s hand continued to make its way through his hair repeatedly, until Johan felt his eyes slowly drifting shut. Henry’s hand slipped to his jaw, turning his head gently, until they were face to face. They looked at each other in their daze for a long moment, then eyes widened, and they both snapped away, muttering excuses to no one, Henry’s flush more apparent than Joey’s due to their skin tones.

“Here.” Henry muttered, thursting the cup of water he got at the other old gentleman, the liquid circling the glass as centripetal force tugged on it, a small amount leaping over the side, the drops landing on Johan’s hand. Henry’s breath seemed to freeze, and he shoved the cup into Joey’s hands. “Now, drink it, and don’t stop once you start. Doctor’s orders.”

“You... alright there, Hen?” Joey asked, lowering the empty glass, wiping his lips with a small napkin that moth brought him. “Thank you, Gracehopper. Henry, you look… hungry? Is there something I can get you to eat?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Henry shook himself out of it. “Uh, should we see how else you aged?”

“Sure,” Joey sighed in defeat. “It’s not like I’ve ever had go-”

A rumbling tore them from their conversation. Joey groaned.

“It’s destabilizing again. You should go.”

“Fine.”

Joey glitched himself into his wheelchair as Henry made his way to the door. Joey stirred before his computer before looking over at the man.

“I’m almost done,” he called out behind him. Henry paused, and left.

______

And then he was done.

He wept.

He cried his heart out.

He sobbed and shook.

Since, when all is finished, the shock hits.

Henry stood before him as he cried.

He hugged him, awkward from the wheelchair.

“Ten more runs,” Henry reminded, and Johan nodded and wiped his tears. Time to make them last. Hold each precious moment, for he will never have it again.

____

Johan waited quietly for Henry to appear.

When he did, they strolled onto the streets of Manhattan, weaving through the people.

People, something that had been missing for thirty long, long years.

Still, thirty years of life stolen.

Henry and Joey knew it was time to set things right.

They came back to the studio, the ink machine powered on, the computer on, and the world turning to black and green.

Joey typed in the formula with tears in his eyes.

Tears of hope.

The reset button appeared, and he and Henry silently approached it.

“YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME, JOHAN!” a voice that never was roared, calling the name like a mockery. “LISTEN TO ME, I AM GREATER THAN YOU WILL EVER DREAM TO BE!”

Pipes swirled up onto his ankles and ink welled against his limbs, restricting and grasping him, pulling him back to hell. He cried out, and Henry turned back to ask what the matter was, and his eyes widened as he saw Johan, being pulled back even as he dissipated, an arm wrapped tight around his throat.

Henry let out a battle roar, running back, punching the attacker in the face.

The man, for man it was, swore and stumbled back as Johan wheezed and typed a code as fast as he could to get him and Henry back to the button, and paused everything. Henry looked back at the man behind them frozen in time.

He stared at him.

“Joey?” he said, pointing at the default with confusion, eyebrows quirking at Johan.

“No.” Johan grit out. Henry scowled, pieces falling into place. He forced Johan to face him, the dark man refusing to meet his eyes. “What is your problem?”

“You have to deal with him,” Henry insisted. Joey bit his lip and looked to his shoes. “That man, that thing, that, that monster, he’s your problem to deal with. If you don’t get rid of him, he will always be a part of you. You will never be comfortable with who you are as long as you don’t face him. So go! Fight back!”

“Forget it,” Johan muttered, wheeling himself to the reset button. Henry let out a huff of frustration, going over to join him. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry curtly answered. “And you?”

“Yes,” he lied. He put his hand to the grey button, watching it fade into a deep indigo. He looked to Henry with a tilt of his head. “Your hand, if you please.”

Henry, saying nothing, placed his hand on the button as well, gold flowing from where his fingers met the code. It entwined with the blue, merging and dancing as one, sapping and strengthening each other, growing and changing and making something completely unheard of. There was a hum, and the button glowed green.

Active.

“Are you ready?” Henry inquired, his fingers twitching on the button, starting it.

“I am,” he fabricated. Inhaling sharply, he said, “Let’s do this.”

“Just so you know,” Henry’s hand tightened into a fist. “I don’t want to see you again. After whatever this is. I never want to see you ever again.”

Johan felt his heart break.

Again.

Something was wrong.

“Okay,” he whispered, ignoring the pang racing through his body.

“Well?” Henry prompted right hand pushing Joey’s left onto the button. “Click it now. On the count of three.”

The world was going to end, and Johan found it shoved in his face.

“Three!”

“Henry! Please, please, wait wait wait!”

“I thought you wanted us to end it all?”

“I don’t know!” he wailed.

“Two!”

“Please no! God, please wait, please, no, wait!”

“One!”

“Henry!”

He pushed their hands onto the button, slamming it and making the bright green glow gleam and glitter and glint and spread, time slowing, Johan able to see the numbers slowly making their way to the activated event.

He stared at the green numbers, eyes widening, and then

NOT THE FIRST TIME.

He gasped.

NOT THE SECOND TIME.

N-no… no, no, that does not make any sense, unless he had…

THIRD TIME.

He deleted his own memories.

Tears dripped down his face, memories flooding him, leaving him trembling, shaking, a tsunami of horror and disgust.

“Are you okay?” Henry’s voice asked him.

“Are you okay?” he asked twice before then.

Johan could not breathe.

Memory wipe?

Again?

Should he do another?

A fourth?

He looked back at the default Joey.

Henry was right, he would never leave him be if he did not fight back against it.

They stared at each other.

With a sharp turn, Johan wiped his memor

Johan Ramirez woke up in an abandoned apartment in Brooklyn.

He went to work and quit it.

He built a studio called “Joey Drew Studios”.

He built a computer.

He built an ink machine.

He deleted himself.

He destroyed his world.

He rebuilt everything, so slowly.

He stared at the default Joey.

Memories flooded back.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

How many times will he repeat this?

How many times will he meet the same people?

If he moves on… what will change?

He would have only met others twice, if met at all.

Could he move on?

He hesitated.

“Joey?” Henry asked for the first time.

A chill ran down his back.

Everything will change.

It is changing now.

He turned his wheelchair slowly to face the fraudulent version of himself, sitting high and proud as he rolled to him.

To it.

To nothing.

He was the mother fucking Johan “Joey” Drew Ramirez, and nothing could take it away.

“You. Are. Not. Real.” he forced from his mouth.

The copy grinned.

“You never were.” he breathed, closing his eyes. “I am me. I am Joey Drew. You are not. You are coding that broke off of the original, because I was afraid of who I was not.”

He rose his head and stuck his chin forward, hands… perfectly steady.

“I’m not good looking. I’m not confident. I’m not smart.”

He inhaled, long and slow.

“And that’s okay. I don’t need to be.”

“I have been told that I am kind. That I am funny. That I am okay. You are not.”

He opened his eyes. The man before him wavered and snapped.

“I love who I am. And you are not me. And I deserve everything I’ve made for myself.”

He turned back around, and wheeled back to Henry.

No more memory wipes. No more feeling wrong.

Meant to be like this.

He was proud of who he was.

He shined his pin on his palm, smiled, and reset with Henry along him.

“Hey, so,” he called to him in the vortex, everything being pulled to them. “Henry, can… do you think we can meet up after all this? I’ve got something to tell you.”

Henry looked at him.

“I know you said that you don’t want to see me again, but… it’s important.”

“Can’t you tell me now?” Henry asked, testily. “While this is all ending?”

“This has happened before,” Joey told him. “All of this.”

“Really now?” Henry asked, curiosity sparked. “Among everything else that’s happened from what you’ve done, this one might just take the cake.”

“Will you meet me?” Johan questioned, tilting his head. “Tuesday, at the old park?”

“I’ll meet you in nineteen thirty, eh?” he smiled at Joey. “Change some things up?”

“N-no,” Joey shifted. “As soon as possible. I’ll probably… go home.”

Henry gazed at him.

“Tuesday at the old park it is,” he quietly affirmed.

Joey smiled at him.

He smiled back.

“I love you, you know,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry muttered. “Love you too.”

Joey blinked, then beamed as reality warped around them.

Things were going to be great.

The end.

.

.

.

No.

He still has so many problems.

So much delicious fear, insanity, pain.

He’s not done yet.

Not by a long shot.

He has a job to do, he has a world to fix, and when all is said and done, it will end.

And it is not the end.

It cannot be….

Three pairs of feet surrounded the code that once was the body of Joey Drew.

It will not be...

“Well?” A wavering, glitching voice prompted. “Do we know who’s next?”

Not for a long long time…

“I believe he is,” a pulsing, tired one replied, turning to the last of them. “What do you think?”

Not until the drawing is done and framed and hung….

The ink demon only grinned, all teeth and no happiness.

…. The End.

[valdomarx]

like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die

Tony is still furious at Steve over the events of Civil War. But when Steve gets kidnapped using Stark technology, Tony feels responsible and figures out a plan to save him - by getting kidnapped himself.

Tony had designed the restraint tech in a hurry, after he’d been told he had 24 hours to bring in Cap and his team. The design was a rush job, lacking override controls, not his finest work. When they’d fought, the ankle restraints had lasted all of about five seconds before they were smashed apart by Cap’s shield, and Tony hadn’t thought about them since.

He hadn’t thought about Rogers since then, either.

So he told himself.

Rogers had made his choice. He’d chosen himself and his nostalgia for the past over his team and a present which needed him. Over Tony.

And that was fine. It wasn’t as if Rogers owed him anything (for the house, the funding, the moral support, the fami… the team). And it wasn’t as if there was any way he could have got through the man’s goddamn stubbornness. Tony had tried arguing, he’d tried cajoling, he’d tried threatening and begging and compromising.

And he’d ended up alone, abandoned in a freezing bunker in Siberia, his chest caved in and pain blooming throughout his body as the light from the arc reactor faded. He’d been ready to die. Would have welcomed it, even. But no. His punishment was to keep living, with yet another scar ripped across his heart by someone he thought he could trust.

He didn’t care if Rogers was on the run or in hiding, and wasn’t inclined to use what little precious influence he had left to protect him any further. Rogers had made his bed, now he could lie in it.

Rhodey limped in, hiding the physical pain well enough that other people wouldn’t have noticed it. Tony noticed, though. Rhodey had been doing better - getting stronger every day - and somehow (god, how?) he had retained his level, realistic outlook on life. Tony would have been jealous of Rhodey’s resilience, if it weren’t for the overwhelming feeling of gratitude he felt for having him there.

Now, though, Rhodey looked grave, and not because of the pain.

“Tones, there’s something you need to see,”

Rhodey handed over his tablet, which was playing a grainy video. Tony glanced down and sucked in a harsh breath.

Ste- Rogers was there, his face almost unrecognizable beneath a thick beard which was matted with blood. Trickles of red ran down his face from a slash above his eyebrow, and the eye socket beneath was bruised an ugly shade of purple. But it wasn’t the sight of the injuries which made Tony’s breath stop in his throat. It was his eyes: flat, blank, and vacant. There was something wrong, something very wrong, and blood rushed through Tony’s veins as the tendrils of panic began to creep into his mind.

Tony felt Rhodey’s hand on his shoulder, and he groped blindly to grasp his fingers as nausea welled inside him.

“That is an unfortunate situation for our Captain,” he heard himself saying, “But I don’t see how it’s my problem.” Jesus. When had he become so cold?

(When his friend had left to freeze to death in a bunker, a bitter inner voice helpfully reminded him.)

“Tony…” Rhodey’s tone was pained, and it made Tony look again. Then he spotted what was causing Rhodey such unease - there, around the Captain’s ankles, were a familiar set of chunky restraints. His restraints. His design. His work. Someone must have retrieved the broken restraints from Siberia and reverse engineered them.

Tony swallowed down the urge to vomit as he took in the visual of Rogers, immobilized and helpless, surely being tortured, experimented on, or worse, thanks to his technology. Stark Tech, killing and maiming once again.

“Where did you find this?” he asked Rhodey, very quietly.

“The dark web,” Rhodey informed him. “Some torture porn site. Most of the videos there turn out to be faked, but this one…” he trailed off, squeezing Tony’s shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s too much specific detail to be a fake,” he said, surprised by how level he sounded. “Send this to my personal tablet, will you, Rhodey?”

“Already done,” Rhodes said, still clinging on to Tony like he was concerned that Tony would fall down without him there. Perhaps he was right.

He watched the video over and over and over again. This was necessary, it was important - it was the only way he’d find out what was happening to Rogers and where he was being held. Rhodey was investigating the site which had uploaded the footage, but was pessimistic that his search would turn up anything useful.

So Tony watched the video, and every time it looped round again he scoured it for more details. For anything which could help identify a location.

The video started again.

Rogers, sat on a metal chair bolted to the concrete floor. Tony’s Stark Tech restraints round his ankles and his wrists. Darkness surrounded him, but dim outlines of walls suggested a small room. Lack of light suggested that it might be underground.

A voice from off-camera, taunting and jeering at him. No demands made or ransom requested, just a causal verbal humiliation. A faint trace of an accent. Irish? Scottish, maybe?

Rogers’ face was slack and expressionless. Drugged perhaps, though it would have to be something strong to sedate a supersoldier. Rogers didn’t wriggle, didn’t strain against his restraints, didn’t even seem to be aware that there was a camera pointed at him. It was as if he had checked out entirely, as if had no more fight left in him.

Tony grabbed a bottle of cheap vodka which he had hidden from Rhodey under his desk and took a long pull.

Rogers’ eyes looked straight through the camera, vacant and terrifying.

The next day, Natasha stopped by his office. That in itself was not unusual - although she wasn’t living in the compound, she still came by frequently. Tony had tried to bury his lingering feelings of resentment over her side-switching regarding the Accords, and to take her frequent presence as the olive branch that it was. But he continued to keep her at a distance.

He shouldn’t have been surprised by her, shall we say, moral flexibility. He’d seen it before. She was a spy, it was in her DNA to present every person she met with the version of herself that she wanted them to see. But Tony couldn’t shake the idea that she had been playing him - that she had never had any intention of signing the Accords, that her getting close to him was purely a strategy to suck information from him, before returning to Rogers, to whom her loyalties had always been stronger.

He knew that he was teetering on the verge of paranoia, but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to look her in the eye.

“Romanoff,” he greeted her curtly.

“Tony,” she said, using his first name as if that was something that they still did. “I need your help.”

At least she was upfront about her motives. No more manipulation or persuasion. Perhaps she sensed how close to the edge he was, and decided to go with forthrightness. He could appreciate that.

“And what can I do for the world’s foremost superspy?” he asked, almost fond, almost playful. Almost.

“It’s about Steve,” she said, and Tony’s stomach rolled when he heard the name. “He’s in trouble.”

Natasha filled in the details that Tony had been missing. Rogers had been out on a recon mission, investigating rumors of a possible decommissioned Hydra base. Rogers’ team had thought that an abandoned base might have offered them valuable intel at best, or at worst, could have contained dangerous materials which would pose a danger to the public.

(Now they care about public danger? Tony had thought bitterly. It hadn’t seem like a big concern when they ripped apart an airport in Germany or blew up a building in Lagos.)

Rogers had taken off to question a suspected ex-Hydra scientist about the base, assuring his team he could handle it alone. Just a quick bit of questioning. But then he had missed his first check-in. And his second.

By then Natasha had realized that something was wrong. She had asked T’Challa for help, and they’d flown to Rogers’ last known position. There was no sight of him, and no obvious evidence of a kidnapping. He was gone.

It had taken two days before they had received the video, sent anonymously over encrypted channels, and a further two days before they had contacted Tony.

Four days. Four days of confinement, of torture, of god knows what else. And they told Tony now.

Tony couldn’t say if he was more affronted that they had the gall to ask for his help, or furious that it had taken them until now to do so.

Tony spent more hours than he cared to count pouring over every frame of the video, searching for information that might give a clue to Rogers’ location. He memorized every detail: every wince, every shouted insult, every cold, dripping inch of the walls.

Rogers was definitely being drugged, that much was clear. Tony thought back to the restraints he’d designed, and the drug delivery system that he’d put in them. The deployment mechanism had never worked properly, and Tony hadn’t had time to fix it before the battle in Leipzig. But the “mood regulation system”, as he’d euphemistically termed it, was built into the restraints. Someone had found the time to make the system work, apparently.

Tony wondered how the captors had even known enough about Rogers’ physiology to design a drug that could incapacitate him. The details of the super soldier serum had always been top secret. Then he remembered the SHIELD data dump: the gigs of files which had been uploaded to the open internet when Rogers and Romanoff had taken down SHIELD and Hydra in one fell swoop.

This was a problem. Tony had designed the restraints to take Rogers down, hard. They were intended to be a temporary immobilization technique, used for a few minutes at a time to incapacitate someone whose metabolism burned through most drugs within minutes. He had honestly not for a moment considered what would happen if the restraints were used on Rogers for an extended period of time, but he knew it was nothing good.

This was on him. Whatever Rogers’ past sins might have been, he was now helpless and endangered because of Tony’s lazy rush job when designing those restraints. Tony’s fingers drummed against the hole in his chest where the arc reactor had been, tapping out a staccato of anxiety.

“Hey, Mr. Stark!” A voice pulled him out of his guilt spiral. Peter was loitering on the threshold of Tony’s workshop, bouncing on the balls of his feet but not intruding into the space until invited.

“Hey, kid,” Tony said with a smile. It felt like it was the first time he’d smiled and meant it in a long while. “What’s up?”

“Here’s the thing,” Peter started, bounding over to Tony, “I heard that you were looking for Cap.” Tony opened his mouth to protest, but Peter held up a hand and barreled onwards. “Don’t try to deny it, Rhodey told me about the video. Whatever is going on between you and your old teammates, I know that you care about them all. Now shush and let me help you for once.”

Tony smiled again. For an awkward and inexperienced kid, Peter sure had his number.

“I saw this other video a while back, and I think it could be connected to this case. I thought it was just some terrorist wannabes looking for clicks at first, but maybe…. Here, look.” Peter pulled up a video on his phone and showed it to Tony.

“We are the New AIM!” a figure in a yellow hazmat suit announced hysterically to the camera. “We are an organization of the finest scientific minds on the planet, and you will learn to respect us and fear us.”

The figure blabbed on about world domination and the new order arising; the usual delusional self-important villain shtick. But the final moments of the video caught Tony’s eye: the few seconds in which the camera pulled back to show the same dark walls and dim lighting as the video of Steve. “We will achieve great things,” the figure said pompously, as the video faded out to black. “We will bring the world’s strongest men to our cause, and then you will all see our truth.”

This was it. It had to be. It was AIM that had Rogers captive, and god only knew what they planned to do with him.

That night, Tony dreamed again of an empty road, a car careening into a tree. His footsteps felt heavy as he paced around the car to see his father, bloodied and defiant. Tony saw his fist slamming into Howard’s face, feeling bones and cartilage snapping under the blows. Howard’s eyes fluttered into blankness as he fell unconscious, and Tony felt nothing at all.

Tony’s feet lead him around to the other side of the car, feet hitting the ground in firm, efficient strides. He saw his mother, terrified and sobbing, and he reached out and wrapped his hand around her neck. The silver of his arm glinted in the lamplight as he squeezed…

And then the dream changed. It was Rogers beneath him, Rogers’ throat into which his fingers were digging. He could feel the power of his metal arm as its fingers tightened against soft flesh, causing ugly bruises to appear on Rogers’ pale skin. Tony tried to stop, tried to pull away, but his body was beyond his control. He tried to scream, but couldn’t open his mouth.

Rogers looked up at him, clinging to the last of his life as he was choked. Summoning his remaining strength, he coughed out, “Finish it.”

Tony awoke in panic, sitting bolt upright in bed. He ran to the bathroom and threw up, then curled into a ball on the tiled floor, shivering in the cold.

He went back to obsessively analyzing the video, but over the next days the dream keep surfacing in his mind. The feeling of his body beyond his control, of having his strings pulled by an invisible and malevolent force, haunted him.

His anger at Barnes had burned fast and bright, and he’d studiously avoided reading any of the files on Barnes which his teammates had compiled. He wasn’t ready to face them then. Over the months since Siberia, however, the anger had faded, to be replaced with pity. When Tony finally braced himself and cracked the files, a picture emerged of a man mentally violated, his sense of self stripped away, forced against his will to commit acts which were abhorrent to him.

Tony remembered the feeling of Wanda’s magic slithering through his mind, warping his view of himself and his world, pushing him towards the creation of Ultron. The lingering horror of having his mind manipulated stayed with him. When he thought about the same thing being done to Barnes, over and over again, he couldn’t hold on to his grudge. There were experiences Tony had been through which he would quite literally not wish on his worst enemy.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the dream though. Looking down at his hand, he remembered how it had appeared covered in shiny silver metal, the way it flexed not like armor but like his body itself was artificial. Tony pictured shiny metal all the way down to his bones, inhuman and cold.

And then an idea came to him, as his best ideas often did: with a quiet flash of inspiration.

He knew what he needed to do. He knew how to save Rogers.

The workshop at the compound was adequate and functional, but it lacked the warm familiarity of his workshop back in the tower. There, he had felt driven by the joy of creation and the wonder of discovery, here, his motivation was pure desperate need. If he was going to help Rogers, then he didn’t have the luxury of time for prototyping and adjustments - he needed the tech to work, right now.

The hours blurred into days as he tinkered, frustrated by the slowness of his progress. The video was never far from his mind, Rogers’ vacant eyes playing constantly behind his eyes. After god knows how many hours without sleep, he was reaching breaking point.

“May I enter, Mr Stark?” A polite voice floated through the room.

Tony sat up, wiping a hand down his face. “Vis? Is that you? Yes, you can come in.”

Vision floated serenely through a wall into the shop. He was evidently still having some issues with the concept of doors.

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” Vision said calmly. “May I be of assistance to you in some way?”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Uhh. This work is kind of complicated, and I don’t think engineering is really your field of specialty. But if I need someone to look at the electronics up close, I’ll let you know.”

Vision angled his head to one side. “That is not what I meant. I meant, can I help you personally? Would you like me to prepare you some food? Or to run you a bath?”

The thought of Vision’s earnest attempts at cooking made Tony smile despite himself. “Thanks, but no. I do appreciate the offer though.”

Vision inclined his head again.

“Where’s this coming from, Vis? You’re not bored, are you?”

“When I was made,” Vision said thoughtfully, “There were… fragments. Pieces of code from the system you knew as Jarvis. These fragments remain a part of my base code - a part of me. I was... concerned for your wellbeing.”

Tony’s throat felt tight. “Oh.”

“If you need me,” Vision said with a small smile, “You only have to ask. Good night, sir.”

Tony blinked back tears that were forming at the corners of his eyes as Vision floated out through the wall of the workshop.

Finally, finally, the new tech was ready. Tony considered telling Natasha about his plan, but decided on balance that she would probably just try to stop him. He hid a file with instructions for Rhodey in case he didn’t make it back within a week, and slipped out of the compound without drawing any attention.

It felt strange, to be heading out on a mission without his armor. Before, it had felt like the ultimate protection - a little too tempting at times, actually, as if he could shield himself from his the onslaught of an ugly world inside the suit. But since Siberia, since seeing the red and blue metal of a shield come smashing down into his chest, the armor no longer felt like any kind of security.

Even the Iron Man failed him eventually, Tony thought sourly. But take it all away, pull apart his friends and his home and his security, rip through his armor, and there was still something left. There was still Tony Stark, and there was still someone that needed saving.

As he made his way to the garage at the edge of the compound, Tony plucked at the hem of the sharply tailored suit he wore - a different kind of armor for a different kind of mission.

Getting himself kidnapped by AIM had been simple enough. He had been avoiding public appearances, not ready to deal with the angry, desperate, judgmental nature of crowds. So all he had to do was accept an invitation to give a keynote speech at some tech conference, and his name and location were splashed across Twitter and the tech press within minutes. He’d “accidentally” left his bodyguards behind in the hotel, and a team of eight armed thugs had grabbed him off the street on the short walk from his hotel to the conference. They’d thrown him into a van, knocked him out, and taken him to god knows where.

He came too and found himself tied to a chair, in a dark room that had the smell of damp. Probably underground. Possibly the same location in which the video had been made. A good start.

The hand which slapped him squarely across the face hard enough to snap his head back woke him fully. He opened his eyes, not wincing at the stinging pain across his cheek, to see a figure in what looked like a yellow hazmat suit.

“You’re awake,” the figure commented, sounding smug. “How privileged we are to have the great Tony Stark among us.”

Figures in the background sniggered, but all Tony could make out of them through the darkness were blobs of yellow.

“The BARF technology. You will show us how to weaponize it. You will help us to convert the minds of our enemies. If you do this to our satisfaction, we will allow you to live.”

Tony almost yawned. Kidnapped and forced to build weapons? Again? Couldn’t villains come up with something more original? (Like, say, manipulating two teammates into nearly beating each other to death, his mind added helpfully. Honestly, fuck Zemo, and fuck his vindictive machinations, but at least there was ambition to his plan. His current captors seemed distinctly pedestrian by comparison.)

It quickly became clear that the leader of the group, taller than the others and with a trace of a Scottish accent, had an axe to grind with Tony and a vindictive streak which he was enjoying exploring. He didn’t seem particularly interesting in instilling fear and compliance in Tony (just as well, because that would have been a fool’s game). He seemed to simply take pleasure in inflicting physical pain.

Tony could have given the man some pointers on his information extraction technique, but he was more interested in punching Tony in the face. Tony blinked dazedly another another blow made his head spin. He could feel blood trickling down his chin from where his lip was split open, and his right eye kept drooping closed as the skin around it swole.

There was something right about this, Tony reflected as the leader yanked his head forwards in order to line up another punch. This was no more than he deserved.

It was only when his captor raised his leg and kicked Tony hard in the chest that he felt the beginning of panic spiking in him. Though his chest appeared unscathed on casual inspection, there was only a thin layer of artificial skin covering the ruined mass of scars and implants where the reactor had been. If it was hit too hard, or in the wrong place, it could easily fail, his heart would stop, he would die here.

Tony curled up as much as he could while tied to the chair and tried to move his arms to protect his chest. His left arm was going numb again, tingles likes pins and needles running out from his chest, escalating into sharp spikes of pain which faded into terrifying absence of sensation. This, he knew, was not a good sign about the health of his heart.

“Hah,” the leader indicated Tony contemptuously to the others. “This one is about ready to crack already. Didn’t I say it would be easy?”

The leader grabbed Tony’s hair and forced his face upwards, towards him. “We knew it would be simple to get you into our power. Helmut Zemo might have been a grandiose fool with a death wish, but he was right about one thing: Iron Man and Captain America. You’re each other’s greatest weakness.” He smiled down at Tony as if he were impressed with his own insight. “When we captured him and leaked that video, we hoped that your guilt would be overwhelming and you would make a stupid mistake. And here you are.”

Tony wondered if he was really that predictable, then conceded that his room full of Captain America memorabilia might have given him away. He let his face go slack and his eyes unfocused, head lolling to the side to suggest impending unconsciousness, hoping that this tedious D-list villain would wrap up his monologuing soon.

“Captain America will make a fine addition to our group. Once you have converted the BARF technology, we will use it to show him our ways, and he will become our soldier, not yours. He will follow our lead, and help us usher in our vision. This is inevitable.”

Tony tried not to roll his eyes, because seriously, what kind of idiot thought that technology for revisiting trauma and processing distressing emotions could be used as a brainwashing device, but decided there was little to be gained by explaining the finer points of cognitive neurocalibration to his captors. After all, if they knew what they were asking of him was utterly impossible, they’d kill him without hesitation.

“If you’re imaging that your dear Captain America will rescue you, then you can give up on that fantasy. We have found the restraints that you designed to be quite the effective sedative on him, when used repeatedly. He’s as docile as a lamb now.” The leader smiled again, white teeth visible through the dark mask of the boiler suit.

“But you will see that for yourself soon enough,” he said to Tony grandiosely. He turned to two of the lackeys at the back of the room. “Take him away,” he ordered, “And put him in the cell with the Captain. They can reminisce about better times before we end them.”

Better times? thought Tony wearily. He wasn’t sure he remembered having many of those with Rogers.

The guards dragged Tony to a small cell with a tiny window providing the only source of light, and thick steel bars across the door.

Rogers was kneeling on the floor, filthy and bedraggled but whole, and alive. Tony let out a harsh breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“Tony, you’re here,” Rogers said woozily, his face breaking into a broad smile for a moment. But when Tony was shoved into the cell and Rogers caught sight of him, his expression changed. “What… oh Tony, did they capture you too? What did they do to you?” he asked as he reached out to touch Tony, then seemed to think better of it and pulled his hand back.

Tony could feel the swelling of his cheek and the blood dripping from his lip, and conceded that he probably did look a bit of a mess right now. “It looks worse than it is,” he assured Rogers. Now was not the time for worrying about the state of his face.

“But…” Rogers’ speech was slow and confused, he was obviously still recovering from the sedative drugs that their captors were administering to him. “They hurt you,” he said, sounding genuinely pained.

Not as much as you did, Tony thought before quickly shoving the thought aside. Bitterness would not be helpful now.

“I’ll live,” he said, not letting any emotion show in his voice. “But we need to get you out of here. That’s why I’m here. I’ve got a plan.”

“You came to rescue me?” Rogers’ face lit up for a second. “But why would you do that? You hate me.” His face closed, the corners of his mouth turned down.

Tony had been prepared for Rogers to be injured, or incapacitated. What he hadn’t expected was for him to be so damn emotionally open. It was as if the drugs had stripped away his defensiveness and his self control along with his motivation for action - like everything he felt was splayed across his face for the world to see. Tony found it uncomfortably, horrifyingly intimate.

“Uhh. We can talk about that later,” Tony said, adding or preferably never to himself. “Right now I need some information from you. Our captors, they keep you somewhere else during the day, right? And bring you to this cell in the evening?”

Rogers seemed uncertain, but he nodded.

“What time do they take you out in the morning?” Tony prompted.

Rogers’ brow crinkled in concentration. “Long after dawn,” he said eventually. “They don’t have to turn the lights on. The sun is up for a few hours before they arrive.”

Okay, Rogers still had some of his mental capacity intact. Good. They were going to need it.

Some careful questioning established that Rogers was taken each day to another room in the compound, where he was held using the Stark Tech restraints. He must have been exposed to hours and hours worth of the sedative that Tony had designed, the one he had meant to only be used for a few minutes at most.

Rogers had been confused, at first, as to how Tony knew so much about the technology which was keeping him captive, though he had mumbled something about the restraints looking familiar. When Tony had explained that he knew how the technology worked because he had designed it, Rogers’ look of honest shock and sadness was a punch to the gut which had hurt more deeply than anything their captors had done to him.

Tony shoved his guilt and his regret deep down inside and focused on the plan.

“I’ve designed an inhibitor,” Tony informed Rogers, trying to stick to discussion of the facts and far away from discussion of feelings. “It should boost your immunity to the drugs, and make them affect you less.”

“Oh good,” Rogers said, sounding bafflingly cheerful and looking at Tony with complete trust. Now Steve trusted him? Not before, when if he’d only damn well talked to Tony and explained about Bucky, they could have worked something out? Not at any time in the last two years, when he could have told Tony the truth about his parents? But now. Now they were stuck in an ugly, cold, damp cell together and they hadn’t seen each other for months. Now Steve trusted him.

Tony grit his teeth and swallowed down a sick feeling. “I can inject you now,” Tony said, keeping his voice carefully even. “But it’ll take a few hours for the inhibitor to affect you. By tomorrow morning you should be feeling better.”

“Okay, Tony,” Rogers said, his face showing nothing other than open trust. “But how are you going to get the drugs here?”

When he’d been taken, the first thing Tony’s captors had done was to strip him of his jacket and his shoes, and empty his pockets. Fortunately, this was one problem which Tony had foreseen, and for which he had prepared. Being a futurist had to be good for some situations, right?

“Not a problem,” Tony told him confidently. “But, uhh, you might want to look away.”

Tony turned his left wrist to face himself, and tried not to wince as he used the jagged nail of his right thumb to slice open the delicate skin of his forearm. He felt a little queasy as he used his teeth to rip apart the skin to get at the tiny vial of inhibitor which he had stored subcutaneously, but this was far from the worst that his body had been through.

Eventually, with fingers slippery with blood, he grasped the needle-shaped vial under his skin and pulled it out with a triumphant smile. Steve stared at him, eyes wide.

“Don’t worry, Cap,” he said as he lined up the sharp tip of the vial with a vein in Rogers’ neck. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

Creating an inhibitor for the sedative drugs and designing a way of smuggling it into captivity had, unfortunately, been the easy part of Tony’s plan. Getting Cap back on his feet and somewhat in his right mind was a necessity for the more complicated part of the plan: actually getting them out.

Tony hadn’t been able to test the inhibitor, obviously, so he was unsure how effective it would be. This would be easier to execute if Cap was back to his usual tactical-minded self. It might be a bit easier on Tony, too, if he didn’t have to deal with seeing every emotion that Steve was feeling written all over his face. He quietly hoped for the inhibitor to kick in, hard, and soon.

“Tony?” Steve’s voice was wavering and unsure, not a hint of his usual commanding tone.

Tony sighed. “Yeah, Cap?”

“It’s cold.”

That it was. The cell was barren and freezing, the stone of the floor beneath them seeming to suck the warmth right out of his body where he was curled up on the ground. “Yeah, Cap. It’s cold,” he agreed.

There was the sound of shuffling from behind him, and Tony felt a solid mass of warmth pressed against his back while Steve slung an arm across his chest. Tony’s heart raced, panic and misery and longing all rolling into one desperate thrum as Steve wrapped himself around him.

As if sensing his discomfort, Steve rubbed gentle circles across Tony’s chest, his hand over the dead skin where the arc reactor had been. Tony steadied himself, tried to breathe, to remember that he was here to help Steve. And it was undeniably warmer with the two of them curled up together.

“I’m glad you’re here, Tony,” Steve said quietly. “Thank you for coming for me.”

Tony felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and told himself to pull his shit together. This was just a rescue mission, it was what he would do for any team mate, or hell, for any person who needed it. There was no need for him to make it weird.

He grasped for a response, but Steve was already dozing off, the captivity and the drugs clearly wearing on him. To his surprise, Tony felt a kind of calm descend on him as he lay on the cold ground and listened to Steve’s steady breathing.

“Tony, wake up,” a voice hissed.

Tony sat up, blinking slowly. Steve was crouched over him, posture solid, eyes sharp.

“We don’t have much time before I’m taken out of the cell for the day. I need to know the details of your plan.”

Cap was back into grim, professional mode, his face schooled into a look of intense concentration. The inhibitor must have kicked in, dulling the effect of the drugs. Tony would never have imagined he’d be so happy to see that expressionless mask back in place.

“I counted at least ten guards on the way in,” Tony told him. “Plus the leader. If they manage to put the base on lockdown before we overpower them, we’re in trouble.We need to take them down one by one, quickly and quietly.”

Steve gave a tight, determined nod.

“How many guards come to fetch you each morning?”

“Three.”

Three armed guards against the two of them, unarmed. Not ideal, but workable.

“Right,” he said, looking Steve in the eye to make sure he was still with him. “When they arrive to take you out, we’re going to incapacitate all three before any of them has the chance to push a panic button.”

“I’m nearly back to my usual strength, but I can’t take three guys at once. How are you proposing that you take down an armed man?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Tony said quickly. He could hear approaching footsteps outside their cell. “Just follow my lead.”

The guards threw open the door and entered the cell, faces grim. “You,” one of them snapped at Steve. “Hands behind your back.”

Steve flopped to his knees and clasped his wrists behind him docilely. His eyes were vacant and his jaw was slack, doing a convincing impression of someone under heavy sedation. Tony was reminded just how good this man was at hiding the truth.

Two guards went over to restrain Steve, while the third pointed his gun at Tony and leered. “Don’t worry, rich boy, we’ll be back to take you out for some fun later.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Tony said. He planted his feet, took a breath, and raised his hand, palm facing out like how he would aim a repulsor in the suit.

The guard laughed at him. “Is that supposed to be threatening?” He waved to his two friends. “Look at this, boys. We’ve got ourselves a fighter. Pity you haven’t got your fancy toys to protect you here.”

The other guards looked at Tony, joined in the jeering. But Tony’s eyes were fixed on Steve’s, and when he gave a tiny nod, they sprang into simultaneous action.

Steve lashed out with his right hand, and Tony heard the sickening snapping of bone as he hit one guy in the leg. As that one guard was collapsing, Steve kept his weight low and rolled into the other, toppling him over and knocking the radio which he had grabbed out of his hand.

The guy who was facing Tony pulled his weapon up, and aimed…

Tony concentrated, felt a switch flip in his mind, and tried not to scream as pain burst through his right hand. He felt a vicious crunching as the bones in his hand shifted and twisted, then a sick rending as the muscles were ripped and pushed apart. Thousands of red hot needles danced across his skin as liquid metal poured out of his hand.

And then, in a second, the pain cleared and a shiny red repulsor glove appeared, fully formed, encasing his hand. While the guard in front of him was still gawping in astonishment, Tony aimed a single repulsor blast at him and knocked him off his feet.

Steve made short work of the other two, and they quickly grabbed up their radios and weapons and locked the three of them in the cell.

Steve’s eyes stared at Tony’s hand, encased in its gauntlet. “Tony,” he asked, “What did you do to yourself?”

“This is Extremis Mark II. I realized, see, that I made a mistake with the Mark I, trying to use nanotechnology to rewrite DNA. It was too invasive, too prone to trouble. The Mark II doesn’t interface with my body, it just lives there. The armor is stored in a highly compressed format in my bones.” Tony smiled slightly to himself and flexed his fingers. “Now the suit and I really are one. Or at least will will be once I finish manufacturing the complete armor. For now I’ve just got the one glove.” He waved his hand helpfully.

“It’s stored in your bones? But then… deploying that… It looked like that hurt,” Steve said, face blank once again.

“Uhh, yeah. It did. But I didn’t have time for niceties like testing or making it user-friendly. There were time constraints in the design.”

“Time constraints?” Steve suddenly exploded. “What the hell does that mean? What could be more important than testing experimental technology before putting it inside your body?”

“Rescuing you, you fucking idiot,” Tony yelled back. “I designed the Mark II this week. It was the only way I could get a weapon here to you.”

“Oh,” Steve said quietly.

“Come on,” Tony said with a long-suffering sigh, “Let’s get out of here.”

On their way out, Tony took particular pleasure in repulsor beaming the leader of the group, knocking him face first into the concrete wall of the corridor they were barreling down.

It was… he hesitated to say fun, exactly, but it was at least satisfying to be fighting side by side with Cap again as they cleared the base. The two of them fell into the easy patterns of familiarity at which they had always excelled on the battlefield, but never managed to achieve in their down time.

Steve rolled into the main command room, dropping one guy with an uppercut and pivoting to throw a second guy directly into Tony’s line of fire as he entered behind him. Tony fired off a shot and wheeled to take out a third guy as he leapt over a console.

Suddenly, a whoosh of metal spun through the air by the head. Steve had picked up the nearest implement - a tea tray, rather improbably - and sent it arcing through the air, knocking down a fourth man behind Tony who he had missed and who had been lining up a shot on him. Tony gave Steve a quick nod of thanks and threw himself onwards.

By the time had taken down what turned out to be a total of 12 guards and kicked down the door to exit the base, they were both sweaty, bloodied, and grinning wildly.

Wandering out of the underground base and towards the lights and noise of a large city, they saw a few road signs and Tony realized with a start that they were in Madripoor.

Madripoor, the island nation off the coast of Singapore which was famed for its lack of extradition treaties and its lax approach to law enforcement. Of course, Tony thought, where better to set up your base of evil operations?

Fortunately, or perhaps sadly, Tony had done some business here in the shadier parts of his past and still had accounts in the city which he could access. People living in this legal gray zone of a city weren’t big fans of him these days, but Stark money was good everywhere.

The first thing he did was get a credit card, the second was to message Rhodey letting him know they were both safe, the third was to book a nearby hotel. Nothing fancy, just a place to camp for a moment and achieve goal number four: take a much-needed shower.

On arrival at the lobby of the hotel, the attractive woman staffing the front desk apologetically informed him that they only had one twin room left, and would that suffice? He waved off her apologies, happy to have somewhere to decamp and not planning to stay long. Steve had been unusual silent since the escaped the base, and he was swaying slightly. The man clearly needed to sit quietly for a bit.

When they got to their room, he felt a ridiculous prickle of concern as he left Steve sitting on the bed and gazing at the wall while he went to take a shower. Steve would be fine, he didn’t have to keep him in his sights at every moment. Tony was getting too clingy, too needy, too controlling, like he always did when he was uncertain.

He shook his head and stood under the shower, letting the water wash away the worst of the grime covering his body. He had avoided inspecting any of his injuries too closely over the last few days, but now he couldn’t ignore the thumping in his head and the oozing cuts on his face, the tender, aching soreness down his whole right arm and concentrated in his hand, and a sharp pain in his chest which he suspected was several broken ribs.

He watched the water circle the drain, tinged brown with dirt and pink with blood. It was fine. His body would heal.

Tony left the bathroom to let Steve have his turn in the shower. But Steve had fallen asleep, passed out on the top of the bed while still fully clothed. His face was drawn into a frown and he was shaking.

Tony took one look at him and abandoned plans to leave Madripoor that evening. Steve was clearly still struggling physically and mentally with the effects of his captivity. Tony could sympathize with that. They would stay here tonight, and the journey back to home with all its pressures and demands could wait until tomorrow.

“You know what, I’d say we’ve earned an evening off. Let’s stay here for the night,” Tony called over to Steve’s sleeping form. “I’ll call down to reception and see if I can get another room.”

“Wait,” Steve said suddenly, apparently not that asleep after all. He rolled over and looked at Tony. “You could stay here. There’s two beds and plenty of space.”

Tony raised an eyebrow and was about to say something flippant about thrifty 40s habits until he noticed the tight knots of misery in Steve’s eyes. He looked lost, a ghost of the vacant glassy stare that Tony had seen while Steve was sedated flitting across his face. “Please,” he said, quietly.

Tony acquiesced, of course.

Steve stepped out of the shower looking like a new man, face freshly shaved and his bruises already fading. But his movements were still a little disjointed, lacking their usual fluidity. The drugs had not quite flushed out of his system yet.

“We ought to find a doctor to check you over,” Tony said carefully.

Steve shook his head. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“But you’ve been through a trauma-”

“You don’t have to treat me like a child, Stark,” Steve snapped.

“I’m just trying to help,” Tony said, defensively.

“I don’t need you to fix me, okay?” Steve’s voice was harsh and he stepped forward into Tony’s personal space, his fists bunched up in anger. “I don’t need you telling me what to do.”

Suddenly all Tony could think about was those fits pounding into his face, the dull, heavy thud of shield impacting armor, and the screeching of rending metal as the reactor powering his suit blinked out. He remember looking up at Steve’s blank face, and knowing that he was about to die.

Steve reached out for him, but Tony recoiled and the room spun wildly for a moment. He heaved in shallow, tortured breaths, trying to push away the panic and the urge to run, run, run.

When he composed himself enough to look at Steve, he saw that his face was ashen. Steve ripped his hand away and stepped backwards, giving Tony space.

“Jesus, Tony,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Tony couldn’t keep the harsh tone out of his voice. “For standing near me? This is my problem, not yours. Forget it.”

“I’m sorry for making you feel unsafe around me.”

Tony didn’t know how to respond to that  - to the truth stated so plainly. His eyes flicked around the room, identifying exists, an old habit of nervousness that he’d never managed to break.

“And I’m sorry for Siberia too,” Steve said softly. “I thought I knew what the right thing to do was. But lately, I realized… anything that set us this at odds couldn’t have been the right way to go. Is it too late for us to work out some kind of compromise?”

Tony had imagined Steve coming to him with these words so many times, daydreaming about how they might patch things up, how they might move on together. Now it was laid in front of him, it seemed unreal.

“I…,” Tony took a deep breath. Whatever his personal issues with the man were, Steve was here, and he was trying. Tony could meet him halfway. “I’m sorry too, Steve. I’m sorry I attacked Barnes. I wish you’d explained his situation to me. I could have helped.”

Steve looked pained at the mention of Barnes’ name, guilt and worry written all over his face.

“I could still help,” Tony offered, looking at the floor. Despite whatever acrimony existed between him and Steve, he couldn’t blame Barnes for having had his mind manipulated. Tony had been there, had suffered that loss of dignity and of self. He had the opportunity to help another person who was suffering, and sometimes he had to be the bigger person.

“I’ve been working on a therapy technology that could help Barnes,” he continued. “That’s actually why the new AIM kidnapped me. They wanted me to use the technology to brainwash you. That’s not how it works, but it might help Barnes process what he’s been through. I could arrange treatment for him.”

“You’d do that for me?” Steve asked, looking suddenly hopeful.

“No,” Tony said coldly, enjoying the vindictiveness. “But I’d do it for him.”

Steve nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and looked so pathetically grateful that Tony felt a rush of guilt. Why did it always have to be this way between them? Why always with the recriminations and the judgments and the snarky comebacks? He wondered if they had missed their chance to be more than that, to be teammates, or even friends. Whether they could ever achieve stability after all they’d been through.

“You’re a good man, Tony,” Steve said, without a hint of irony or sarcasm. “Howard would have been proud.”

And Tony could see his good intentions, could tell that Steve was trying to heal the rift between them, to reach across the divide they’d created with shared memories. This was further than he’d ever imagined that they would get. But man oh man, did he pick the wrong thing to say.

Of all the old wounds to pick at, the subject of Howard was still an ugly scab across Tony’s psyche, the baggage of guilt and resentment and hostility still weighing heavily upon him. Steve, just like Howard, another man that Tony would never live up to, never be as strong as or as forthright as, Tony was trapped forever beneath the mammoth weight of expectations piled on him by those who should have protected him.

“It’s late,” Tony said, voice absolutely flat. He couldn’t stand to look at Steve’s face for another moment. “We should get some sleep.”

Tony stared at the ceiling, examining the ugly stucco, eyes drawn to the way each peak and trough was illuminated by the soft glow of neon signs from outside the window. He couldn’t work out why he felt so restless, so jumpy. The mission had been a success. He and Cap were both safe. Tomorrow they could go their separate ways and get back to their lives.

It hit him that perhaps this was the problem - he didn’t want to go back to the cold silence and the half an ocean between them. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Steve, but he knew that it wasn’t a return to how things had been before.

He didn’t want to be resentful any more, he realized. He was done being heartbroken. It was time to move on, and he knew that closure was a gift you give to yourself.

He heard shuffling from the other bed, then soft footsteps approaching. “Tony?” Steve asked softly. “You awake?”

Tony considered feigning sleep, rebuffing Steve, leaving this tangled mass of emotions to be dealt with at another time. But that felt like admitting defeat.

He rolled over. Steve looked worn, lacking his usual confident movements, his posture slumping. He nibbled nervously at a nail, and for a moment Tony imagined him as the little skinny kid he’d seen in photos from before the serum, the one who grew up in poverty and deprivation, the one who had just wanted to do his part to protect the innocent. “Can I join you?” Steve asked, not quite looking him in the eye.

As if Tony could ever refuse him. Steve had always been his weakness, his adoration splayed across his heart so clearly that even the villains could see it. “Okay,” he said, pushing aside the bed covers, leaving him shivering in the cool night air. “Get in.”

Steve climbed in, wrapping himself around Tony in a way which was already becoming disconcertingly familiar. Almost like home, Tony thought for a second before chiding himself for his sentimentality. Steve rolled to face him, the sharp lines of his face softened in the ambient glow of the room.

“Can I…” Steve’s voice trailed off, uncharacteristically uncertain. Or perhaps it was merely an elaborate ruse to play on Tony’s emotions - who could tell? Tony always had been a lousy judge of character. “Can I come home?”

Tony blinked. “I can’t stop you from entering the US. You’d be as safe or unsafe there as you would be back in Wakanda.”

“No, I mean… I miss our team. I want to come home.”

Our team? Our team? The Avengers are yours, maybe more so than mine, Tony thought but didn’t say.

But then he looked at Steve, really looked at him. Saw the worry lines around his eyes, etched deep with pain, the way his lips were pinched like he was bracing himself for rejection. If it was an act, it was a damn convincing one.

“Yeah, Cap,” Tony said warily. “You can come home.”

Steve held on to Tony tight, fingers clinging on to him as if he might disappear at any moment. Together, they drifted off into sleep.

In the week after their return to New York, Tony had been trying to set an at least somewhat reasonable sleep schedule, to eat, to keep moving. What he wanted to do - what he always wanted to do, but especially now - was to bury himself under a thick layer of schematics or booze or bed covers and not have to look anyone in the eye for a few days.

But he had responsibilities: a team that required him, people who were depending on him, and Steve who needed… something from him that he wasn’t quite ready to give yet. Forgiveness. Understanding. Validation. So, he got up each day, and negotiated.

Getting Steve into the Avengers compound had been a first step. The guarantee of his immunity from prosecution was something Tony was able to offer once Steve had agreed to signing a modified version of the Accords. That guarantee had cost Tony more political capital that he would ever have admitted, and after he had promised himself that he was done spending himself for Steve.

Tony reached for the bitterness that had become like a well-worn coat to him when he thought of Steve, a motivation to stay vigilant and to protect himself. But in the last days Tony had searched for anger and vindictiveness towards Steve, and found only pity. They had barely seen each other since their escape, Steve as busy as he was: finding a US facility which could help Barnes, making arrangements for the rest of his team to come home, running messages to them through Natasha.

Tony felt like he had run out of hate, that the fiery intensity of his fury at Steve’s betrayal and lies had been burned away, leaving only the glowing embers of sadness and regret. Now he just felt empty.

He rolled over and stared at the clock beside his bed, blinking out the time in vivid red. Sleep seemed like a lost cause. It was late - too late for anyone else to be awake, and too late for him to be reasonably working. But the idea of lying in a pit of his regrets was too tedious for Tony to face any more.

He was tired, so tired. Tired of the responsibility and the pressure, tired of his own impossibly high standards for himself, tired of trying to form the world into a safe place which it clearly would never be. But mostly, he was tired of fighting people who were once his friends.

He wondered if Steve was awake. He didn’t sleep much, seemed to always be in the gym late at night. Maybe he was still awake, and they could distract themselves with talk. About sports, or how Peter’s training was progressing, or god, anything.

Tony hadn’t quite realized that he had made a decision until he had rolled out of bed and was heading for the door.

He opened his bedroom door and stopped short. Steve was pacing up and down in the corridor outside, looking jittery. How long had he been out there? He turned to face Tony, and even with the regenerative powers of the serum, there were bags under his eyes and a downward turn to his mouth. He looked pale and exhausted.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Tony asked.

Steve nodded but said nothing.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Then Tony sighed, opened the door and waved for him to come in. Tony had wanted to speak with Steve, thought he could assess the situation between them, to run the numbers on the chances of repairing their relationship. But more than any of that, right now, he wanted to sleep. And it seemed like Steve did too.

Tony got into bed and threw back the covers to make space for Steve, who slid in next to him. Feeling Steve’s arms wrap around him and smelling his familiar scent of soap and leather, Tony felt himself relax. There would be time for hashing out the messy practicalities of their lives in the morning.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Steve mumbled into his hair. He’d said that before. Perhaps he even meant it.

Tony felt a lump in his throat, tried to process his conflicting emotions, failed. “I’m glad we’re here,” he replied, his voice hoarse and rough.

This is for the “captivity” square on my stony bingo card. The plot was inspired by this gorgeous fanart by kaciart. Maybe I will write some more of this in the future? Poor Steve and Tony have been through so much, I hope they can fix things between them eventually.

[thegreatunfinished]

It’s slippery in here: Twin Peaks, Trainspotting, and the dangerous complexities of nostalgia

The following contains spoilers for Twin Peaks and T2: Trainspotting. Weird combo I know, but hear me out.

2017 was the year of toxic nostalgia. We were desperate to escape into the past, to reject the heartbreaking complexities of the modern world, to make things great again and to take things back; so on and so forth. But it hardly ever worked out the way we wanted it to, and our world has got stuck in some weird sort of twilight zone, full of men holding plastic tiki torches and madmen building walls where once we had torn them down. Going back, trying to unnaturally force the toothpaste of time back into the tube of history, is always a little trickier than it first seems.

Two pieces of narrative art captured this wicked dichotomy: the seductive urge to go back and the realisation that even if you could, it mightn’t be a good idea. Ironically but entirely appropriately, both were resurrected remnants of the youth of Gen X & Y. And while the third season of Twin Peaksand T2: Trainspotting appear, on surface, to have not much to do with each other (weirdly, there are more drugs in the former than in the latter), the respective arcs and fates of Coop and Renton and friends might contain exactly the type of subtle, conflicted examination of nostalgia that our rose-coloured bespectacled world needs right now.

Director Danny Boyle indicates to us early on in T2 that nostalgia is going to be the central theme. The opening shots reach further back than even the original movie, giving us the first glimpse of our familiar protagonists as childhood friends. It’s a surprisingly saccharine opening gambit for a return to a world that we know of as anything but innocent, but it’s effective, and of course it’s just setting us up for a bitter rebuke later on. We cut to modern-day Renton: healthier than we once knew him but literally running at full throttle on a treadmill. Suddenly, his breathing gets tight and he falls, the implication being that his drug-ravaged body hinders him even in his new life. In these directly intercutting scenes, the past is both beautiful and dangerous, and it’s not done with him yet.

The first shot of Twin Peaks seasons 3 is also from the past: young Laura Palmer tells young Dale Cooper that she’ll see him again in 25 years. The next thing we know, Dale is old and he’s sitting across from the Giant-cum-Fireman, who’s really old. The shot’s in black and white, indicating to us that something weird is happening with time. As MIKE will soon ask Dale: is this future or is this past? We’re never quite told. Laura returns to say to Coop: you can go back now. Go back? Where? When?

The characters of T2 navigate their past like tourists, remembering odd moments from the first movie as they walk around their city like pasty Scottish ghosts. But this nostalgia is presented to us as quick, teasing and frustrated: we hear the opening beat of Iggy Pop, but we’re not allowed to hear any more. In Twin Peaks, our beloved characters are mostly held back from us for hours, and when they do appear it’s fleeting. Dale, a hero who’s existed in fans’ minds for decades, is taken from us as soon as he arrives and replaced with a clueless doppelganger. In both cases, we feel the storytellers struggling to engage with this exercise in nostalgia, and we’re told: this isn’t going to be as easy as you think. This isn’t Gilmore Girls.

In T2, the characters’ fondness for the past is expressed as an emotional stunting. Renton, Begbie, Sick Boy and Spud are all entranced, obsessed and traumatised by what happened before, and compelled to revisit it — like us, the viewers. In Twin Peaks, the storytellers use our desire for easy, clean nostalgia as a weapon against us. While Renton toys with totems of his youth (Iggy, heroin), tempted by their allure, Dougie Jones has moments of recognition of his own totems: coffee, pie, case files. Renton tries heroin and the results are anti-climactic. Dougie soon forgets his moments of clarity and returns to a stupor. Meanwhile, we watch on, grasping for totems from our past, and feeling increasingly conflicted about it.

The storytellers aren’t telling us that nostalgia is all bad, however — that’s far too simplistic. Spud’s nostalgia, and his ability to record it, saves him, while Bobby Briggs decodes clues from his dead father by investigating his own childhood. In both cases, nostalgia looks like it saves the day — though in actual fact, the revelations come from moving past the past, as it were, rather than staying stuck in it.

Both texts tease us for our desire to return. In T2, Diane appears briefly and wilfully non-consequentially — it’s not until later that a brief cutaway scene exposes Renton’s deeply-held regret at the loss of her in his life. In the most brutal case of pure nostalgia-baiting in Twin Peaks, Lynch and Frost make a middle-aged Audrey dance for us, explicitly calling the moment “Audrey’s Dance”, though of course that’s a title that exists in our world, not theirs. It’s as if they’re almost saying to us, with a sly grin: this is what you wanted isn’t it? Is this what you came for? The sequence, unsurprisingly, ends with a nasty punchline (setting us up for the exact same type of punchline that with which they’re soon to end the show).

Before the end of their running times, both texts will show us the very worst case extremes of unhealthy obsessions with the past. Renton and Sick Boy visit a bar full of nationalists who literally sing and stomp their feet about wanting to return a simpler, more racist time. In Twin Peaks, the worst side of nostalgia is represented maybe — just maybe — by Agent Cooper himself, who insists on literally travelling back in time to change the narrative of the past and save Laura Palmer. It’s an act for which he is punished, or at least is required to pay a great personal price for. Whatever you think of the ending of Twin Peaks, I find it hard not to read Lynch and Frost’s attitude the inability to let go of the past, as at the very least, deeply ambivalent, and possibly directly condemning. But whose nostalgia are they punishing? Coops? Theirs? Ours?

T2 ends in a similar fashion. Renton, having moved back into his dad’s house and staying in the same bedroom he was trapped in back in the first movie, finally succumbs to listening to Lust for Life, the audio lifeblood of the original movie. We’re left with the impression that Renton has reconnected with his past, and has found some peace, but at what ultimate cost?

Two heroes, delivered to the past, with massive question marks hanging over their choices, and their final fates. Two sets of storytellers, compelled to revisit their most famous creations, clearly conflicted over their own desire to do so, the commercial influences which got them there, and the nostalgic bloodlust of the audience that’s turning up to watch.

For my own part, here’s what I think Danny Boyle, David Lynch and Mark Frost are saying to us: enjoy nostalgia, dip into it, use it to anchor you like Bobby Briggs and centre you like Spud, but be careful not to go too deep, to become submerged entirely, like Coop. For though the past may seem golden and the present may seem broken in comparison, we will exist, succeed and fail, live and die, in the future, and the future only.

It’s slippery in here, says Bowie-turned-giant-tea-kettle before Coop literally steps into the past. With Brexit and MAGA and old Han Solo and older Deckard and redeployed Mulder and Scully and on and on and on, it’s getting pretty bloody slippery out here, too.

[dashproject-blog]

Dear visitors

As I sit down to write this most recent update, I am overwhelmed by a bitter-sweet wave of emotions. Bitter-sweet, because this week concludes the final week of the six-week DASH T4 testing phase. There are feelings of immense joy and pleasure from interacting, and hopefully, positively impacting the communities and schools involved in this project, as well as the lives of the principals, teachers and most importantly, the school children. There are also feelings of relief, after a successful, yet intensive testing period consisting of early mornings and late nights that will now cease. In the same breath, however, there is a sense of nostalgia and sadness that stirs inside me, because after working in these communities and schools for the past 3 years, we will now diverge into our separate lives. All this brings to mind the relationships and bonds that have been built with the people we have been working so closely with on such a regular basis, the fondness that has been fostered, and the many memories made along this journey that will forever remain in our hearts.

When I look back on the past six weeks, a day I am particularly reminded about while conducting data collection during this phase, one shy girl asked me: “What are you doing here and why are you doing this?” Looking at her, I assumed she must have been about 11 or 12 years old. I answered, “We are a research team from Nelson Mandela University and the University of Basel interested in disease, physical activity and school children’s health”. At this moment, her eyes lit up as she proceeded to ask, “Are you a doctor?” I said, “No, I’m not”. Confused, she asked: “What do you do then?” I briefly said, “I am a Biokineticist and we promote health and physical activity through exercise”. I then asked her, “Do you want to be a doctor?” She said, “Yes”. I asked, “What kind of a doctor would you like to be?” She said, “A brain surgeon”. And it was in this moment I found myself overwhelmed by deep sadness because I was reminded of the harsh reality that many of these children will be subjected to.

Educational opportunities for children from poor, disadvantaged communities are vanishingly slim. According to official figures, only about 40% of young South Africans nationwide obtain any qualification beyond grade 9. In 2011, a study conducted in a township in the Western Cape revealed that 2′894 students in 20 secondary schools made it to and sat for the matric exams administered at the end of Grade 12. Of those who sat, a scant 16% earned a bachelor pass (the qualification needed for access to university). And only 20 students (0.04%) went on to study at the University of Cape Town, a tertiary institution with an enrolment of over 25′000 students that is located near this township. The reality is that life in this community, and many communities much like this one is unstructured and hard. These neighbourhoods are very densely populated and overcrowded, with high rates of unemployment. Some residents still live in shacks, and in some cases, have to walk 200 meters or further to access water. Furthermore, gangsterism and drug abuse are rife, with high teenage pregnancy rates. With this in mind, a sense of duty to these children was reiterated – to encourage and motivate them so that they strive to reach their full potentials, promoting healthy bodies and healthy minds, despite the hardships they may encounter. Nelson Mandela once said, “Children are the most vulnerable citizens in any society and the greatest of our treasures”. On that note, my hope is that the work that we do in these communities provides a long-lasting positive impact on the lives of these learners so that many of them continue to pursue the dream that makes their eyes light up, much in the same way that the girl in this story’s eyes lit up when she told me about becoming a doctor one day.

Now, moving on to what’s still to come – The KaziBantu project: “Healthy Schools for Healthy Communities” (a.k.a. DASH 2.0) is progressing quite well. Material development for the learners’ and teachers’ toolkits are now approaching their final phases, with the learner’s toolkit currently in a review period prior to its completion.  With regards to the teachers’ toolkit, Step 1 – The Individual Risk Assessment, Step 2 – The Individual Risk Profile and Step 5 – The Evaluation Phases are currently being developed by the Nelson Mandela University CCT team. There are still some discussions around Step 3 – The Lifestyle Coaching Sessions and Step 4 – The Follow-up, Monitoring and Motivation Phase that needs some clarification; however, the content for this is also nearing its development process prior to review. Furthermore, the KaziBantu website is expected to be up and running imminently. And finally, a logo for the KaziBantu teachers’ toolkit mobile application, KaziHealth, has been finalized.

In conclusion, the pressure is on to meet the set deadlines with regards to all the various components within the development of the teachers’ and learners’ toolkits. However, excitement levels are also growing rather swiftly amongst team members in anticipation for the end-product of the KaziBantu project, as a whole.

Until we meet again, take care.