#despite having actually managed 10k a couple of days i think it is maybe IMPOSSIBLE lol

[dearmrsawyer]

Hello! Some of my work friends and I have been doing the August Step Up to Breast Cancer challenge to try and raise some money for breast cancer research. Basically the challenge is to attempt 10,000 steps a day while raising money! My success has been uhh mixed, i was derailed for a bit when sick and also keep forgetting to bring my phone when i get up and walk around LOL but! the attempt is what matters!

If anyone is interested in donating to my page you can find it here :)

[maybankiara]

pairing: JJ Maybank x Kiara Carrera

chapter summary: JJ faces his past. Things with the Heyward match seem to be getting more complicated, and there's a promise to his manager that JJ has obliged to keep. His friends, though, are here to help out.

word count: 10k

what we once had masterlist

read on ao3

The helmet comes off, and not even a moment passes before JJ’s tasting salt on his tongue, with wind swirling between the beach houses. He hops off his bike with ease, holding the helmet underneath his arm, and locks it all in place. Sweat has plastered his hair to his forehead and it’s wet as he runs his hand through it, in a vain attempt at making it look a little less stiff.

 He walks forward, between the houses until he’s reached the place where the sidewalk meets the sand, stretching on each side as far as he can see. It’s a hell of a sight, and one that he doesn’t see too often.

 There’s a pier in front of him, a little to the left, with people jumping off it. The beach itself is filled with people, too, mostly sunbathing as spring heats are starting. JJ sees a couple of surfers paddling on their boards, out to catch the early morning waves.

 His chest tightens at the thought. It’s been a while since the last time he surfed, or even touched the ocean. He tells himself he doesn’t miss it, but each time he sees the vastness of the ocean and feels its call, it rings a little less true.

 Coming to the beach is something that has happened less than a handful of times, since he arrived in California.

 JJ sits on a bench at the edge of the sidewalk. All he can hear is the gulls crashing into waves and people’s chatter – the houses muffle the sounds from the street.

 Moments like these are something JJ doesn’t allow himself to have very often. Seeing people living their lives like they belong to the ocean reminds him of what he’s lost, and JJ Maybank has done everything in his capacity to forget the past. The ocean, the waves, the thrill of riding water with nothing but a wooden board to support him – he’s sacrificed all of it.

 It was his only choice.

 There’s a memory, one that he doesn’t seem to be able to get rid of, fluttering in the back of his mind, slithering its way into the forefront. He feels the board under his chest as a wave splashes into his mouth and all he tastes is salt, and it’s so much of it that he coughs, while his friends laugh. He recalls splashing the curly-haired girl on his left with water, and it goes back and forth until he takes hold of her legs and drags her off the board. The other two join them in the wrestling, and JJ feels his head being pushed underwater, time and time again, all with laughter. The waves come and go and they rise to their surfing boards and catch them, one friend teasing the other. The memory is so real that it seems as if he can still feel the wave underneath his fingertips as he rides on it, keeping himself on the board until the very last moment. The girl in front of him is just as good, if not better, and the smile she gives him… In the moment, the two of them are all there is. The rest of the world can go screw itself, for all he cares, as long as they’re riding the waves and she’s smiling at him like she knows. But then the wave crashes over him and JJ nearly drowns, and the memory crashes to an end.  

 JJ heaves a sigh, letting his body relax against the back of the bench. The helmet is still on his lap and he’s tapping against it, the rhythm akin to that of the waves crashing on the beach.

 He glances at his phone to check the time – 9:43am. He’s got over an hour until he needs to be at the cafe. There’s also a missed call from Elliott; JJ twirls the phone around in his hands, waiting for the tightness around his chest to loosen its grip.

 JJ Maybank’s a fighter, not a surfer. He’s done with that – he is done with the reputation the Maybank name had carried until now. He doesn’t need to be just another fisherman, another surfer, another goddamn waste of space who can’t breathe without water.

 The phone rings. Elliott answers on the third bell.

 ‘My phone was on silent,’ says JJ, in lieu of a greeting. ‘What’s up?’

 ‘Daphne and I are arguing about’—‘Discussing,’ is demanded in the background—‘Right, discussing tables.’

 JJ laughs Elliott’s little aggravated sigh. ‘Tables?’

 ‘Seating arrangements. Daphne is saying we should put Ada and Julianna with the gym table, and I’m saying—’

 ‘Julianna? Jorge’s ex?’ JJ shakes his head, unable to fight the grin forming on his face. ‘Dude, no way. They’ll kill each other.’

 ‘Exactly! She keeps saying it’ll be good to reunite them.’ Elliott repeats JJ’s words to Daphne, who replies something the phone doesn’t catch. ‘Can you come over? We need a mediator.’

 ‘You mean you need someone to support you.’

 The ocean’s call is quieter than his friend’s chuckle. ‘Not too far from the truth. Actually, Daphne’s sister brought some cookies last night, they’re really good, and there’s still a lot left. I would bring them to the gym, but you know Tommy.’

 ‘Yeah,’ chuckles JJ. His fingers are playing with the chinstrap, lightly pushing the inner foam of the helmet. ‘Look, the cookies sound great and all, but I’ve actually got something in a bit.’

 ‘Something,’ Elliott repeats with a hint of teasing. ‘Something that’s got you all mysterious?’

 ‘If it goes well, maybe I’ll tell you about it.’

 Elliott hums in response. ‘Alright. I’m hoping it goes well, then.’

 ‘Thanks.’ JJ itches the skin below his jaw. ‘Hey, Elliott?’

 ‘Yeah?’

 ‘Can you bring those cookies to the gym, actually? Tommy doesn’t need to see them, just give them to me in a box.’

 There’s laughter on the other end of the line and Elliott, muffled, tells Daphne that JJ wants the cookies, after all. He promises to bring the cookies and wishes JJ luck, again, with whatever it is he’s got coming up. JJ thanks him and a part of him wishes he wasn’t so persistent in keeping the whole thing a secret. It’s a fleeting thought – JJ knows that the more he talks about something, the more real and permanent it becomes.

 This is a one-time thing. Nobody needs to know. In a few hours, it will all be done and over with.

  ★

JJ parks the bike a few blocks away, a few minutes before it hits eleven. He knows he’s going to be late, but he didn’t account for the lack of parking spots on a Friday morning in the heart of San Diego, and he tells himself that the miscalculation isn’t entirely his fault, or on purpose.

 It’s only a few minutes.

 (And a few years, but JJ doesn’t let the thought fully form in his head.)

 His hands are casually in his pocket and he’s got that casual stride on the pavement and he’s looking around, casually, because he’s not stressed. Because he’s crossing the distance between his bike and the cafe at a normal speed, despite knowing he should probably try not to be any more late than he already is. The people around him are going on about their day as usual and he tells himself that he is doing the same.

 It’s just coffee. It’s just a business meeting. He’s done plenty of those.

 When he spots the cafe’s sign across the street, he’s waiting for a green light. The inside is well-lit and his eyes scan for familiar bushy hair, or braids, or a tie-dyed headband, despite knowing that the distance is too great for him to see anything. The most he can make out are silhouettes and shapes, and all he can do is wonder which one of them she is.

 (He wonders if her skin is still sun-kissed, with faint freckles littered across her face.)

 The green light comes. JJ crosses the street leaning to the left, so when he’s on the other side, he’s not standing in front of the cafe window.

 He takes a big breath, ignoring the increasing pace of his heart’s beating.

 ‘C’mon,’ he whispers, ‘it’s just business.’

 JJ starts walking alongside the window, glancing in. She’s not anywhere on the left side so he peeks towards the right, taking his time as he approaches the entrance door – but there’s no girl that fits his expectations.

 He enters and, for a moment, thinks she isn’t there. His heart sinks in his chest as he frowns, scanning the crowd once again.

 (Did he want to see her?)

 He doesn’t have time to think, because when he lays his eyes upon her, sitting in the very middle of the cafe, he can’t tear them off. His feet are frozen in place and a breath hitched in his throat and he feels as if the world is spinning, just the tiniest bit.

 Her hair’s not curly, but straight with big, elegant waves at the tips; it’s not pulled up into a effortless bun within a moment, but a high, slicked-back ponytail that accentuates her cheekbones and her jawline, and brings the ten years he hasn’t seen her in, to full display. She looks sharper. Too sharp — seeing her brings him into a state that is almost delirious.

 Has he not believed her to be more than a figment of her imagination, after all these years? Has the memory of her been etched into the back of his brain so deeply that combining that with the image of the person in front of him is impossible?

 She’s not looking at him and he’s lucky, because his jaw is on the floor, and he might faint.

 JJ remembers her to look unruly, untamed, wild in every way he could appreciate. Her face is in front of him yet he hardly recognises her, while knowing it’s truly her all the same.

 He brings himself out of it – he’s here for one thing and one thing only.

 Kie doesn’t look up as he approaches her, until the chair opposite of her screeches and he sees himself to it. Her lip quivers a little and she takes a sharp breath, blinking quickly.

 JJ’s had a moment to recalibrate. ‘Hey,’ he greets, and before she gets a word in, ‘look, I’m here strictly on business. Everybody’s been nagging me to do this match and I figured if I get you to stop asking, they’ll do the same. I’m not doing it. I don’t care about the money, or whatever it is that you guys are offering. This match is not happening.’

 All Kie does is stare at him with her mouth slightly agape, brown eyes running over him as if trying to comprehend what she’s seeing. Trying to believe it.

 A waitress comes and asks for his order. Kie’s got hers already, and all he gets is a sandwich and some coffee. It’s good for his stomach. The waitress leaves with a smile on her face because JJ told her she’s done her hair nicely and he sits back, looking at Kie, waiting.

 Expecting.

 She’s tapping her fingers on the table with a sharp look in her eyes, lips pressed together. His gaze doesn’t waver even if he feels scrutinised and judged.

 Kie calls his name. ‘Can’t we just talk, like normal people?’

 ‘I thought you called about a business thing,’ JJ responds, before he can think about the melody of maturity in her voice and how much they’re not kids anymore.

 ‘I did. It’s about the match. But I wanted to—’

 ‘Then let’s talk about the match, yeah? The one that’s not happening? Is that enough?’

 Her eyebrows furrow and she parts her lips to respond when the waitress puts coffee in front of JJ, with a sandwich and a croissant. When he thanks and asks about the croissant, she gives him a sheepish smile. ‘It’s for nice customers.’

 (Later, he finds her phone number written on the bill. He throws it away.)

 Kie relaxes her hand, taking a sip of her coffee or whatever it is that she’s drinking. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t seem as agitated when she sighs – it’s assurance. ‘If it was just about the match, you wouldn’t have come here.’

 ‘You’re the one who travelled halfway across the States to get here.’

 ‘And?’ Kie’s raised eyebrow is a challenge. ‘I’m here on business because I’ve been invited here, expecting a little more than just a refusal that could’ve been done over the phone.’

 ‘Well, that’s what you’re getting. I’m done.’

 His voice may be steady, but he feels his armpits sweating, and his toes tap a silent rhythm against the parquet. He was a fool to think he could sit it out here, in the cafe, with Kiara fucking Carrera on the other side of the table. He’s only had one rule that he’s stuck to for nearly ten years now and he can’t believe he managed to fuck it up.

 Stupid, he thinks, fucking idiotic.

 JJ rises from his chair with a screech loud enough to turn a couple of heads. He apologises quietly, a little uneasy about causing a commotion.

 ‘You haven’t touched your food, JJ.’

 He glances at it. ‘It doesn’t look very appetising.’

 ‘I have a feeling your waitress will be disappointed.’ There’s a bite to her tone, something more dangerous than the playful kind he’s used to, and it makes him falter – and that seems to be enough. ‘At least stay until you’ve finished your food.’

 Without a word, JJ moves back into his seat, well aware of the eyes still on him.

 There’s no victory in the stifled tilt of Kie’s smile. A little irritation, disbelief, maybe even disappointment, but no gloating. No self-satisfaction in knowing she’s got her way.

 JJ takes a bite out of the croissant, unsettled by the unfamiliarity of the girl in front of him.

 ‘I told you this isn’t happening, so I’m going to finish my food and leave. You’ve got time to say whatever you want to say until then.’

 Kie’s neck tenses and the sip she takes seems almost forceful. The arch of her brow is the same, but the intensity of the gaze is deeper; protruding, rather than tempting. ‘What I want to say?’

 ‘Mhm.’

 ‘You’re unbelievable.’

 ‘Aren’t you supposed to be begging for the match or something?’

 ‘Begging?’ Kie gasps quietly – all her emotions seem to be expressed through the poor cup of coffee, which she nearly slams on the table. ‘You ran away without telling anyone. Without telling us. Pope and I, we— we thought you were dead. For nearly four fucking years. And surprise, guess what? We find out you’re alive by accident, and not only are you alive and well, but getting into boxing, and have the audacity to say I’m here to beg you? Do you know how that feels?’

 ‘No,’ JJ responds, mouth full of croissant, ‘but if the way you’re being right now is saying anything, seems like you’re taking it too close to heart. And for the record, I do kickboxing.’

 ‘Are you fucking kidding me right now?’

 He holds her gaze for a few moments, unwavering. ‘Do I look like I am?’

 If this was old Kie, she would kick off at someone treating her like this. She would curse and tell him off and make him regret ever being born. But no – all she does is lean back in her chair, look to the side with anger palpable but dissipating.

 JJ finishes his croissant and starts drinking his coffee. ‘Did you arrange the match to get to me?’

 ‘No.’

 All he does is raise his eyebrows, and her sigh falters. Her hand reaches for the end of her ponytail, twirling a few strands around her fingers – her hair’s longer than he’s ever seen it, and usually JJ finds this kind of hairstyle hot, but there’s something off about this. He can’t place a finger on it.

 When their eyes meet again, Kie doesn’t seem so…stiff. Her posture drops and she seems to almost fold into herself, letting her hair fall over her shoulder.

 ‘Pope is wanting to try out kickboxing,’ she says, finally. ‘Branch out, and all that. We thought that if we’re doing this, then we might as well try getting you into the equation.’

 ‘Two birds, one stone.’ JJ runs a hand through his hair; it’s no longer sticky, but there’s a weird texture to it, and he’s self conscious about the way he looks for the first time since he’s arrived here. ‘I’m just a pawn in your little game, then.’

 ‘No, JJ— You know that’s not true. We’ve been trying to contact you for years, and this was the only way.’ When he forces a chuckle, she adds, ‘I’m being serious.’

 ‘I thought the lack of ways to contact me would speak for itself.’

 Kie crosses her arms on her chest. ‘Not for everybody. Friends keep trying.’

 The chuckle escapes him before he can stop it. There’s a lot he could say right now but he keeps it to himself, because he doesn’t think she is ready to hear exactly what he thinks about friends. That fateful summer, a lot happened, and a lot of it JJ has been repressing to this very day – the summer didn’t end with the storm.

 He doesn’t see a point in telling her any of that when he’s already moved on. He eats his sandwich, instead, and watches her as if she’s the most boring thing he could possibly be looking at. After this, she’ll know how he feels about the whole reaching out thing. If all goes well, he’ll never have to look at her again.

 ‘It’s been ten years.’ Kie shifts in her seat, gauging his reaction to her statement. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

 ‘There’s a lot more but I don’t think you’d like to hear any of it.’ It comes out snappier than he expected it to and she flinches. ‘See?’

 ‘I’m not doing this for me, JJ.’

 ‘Oh, really? Cause I don’t see Pope anywhere around here, and you sure as hell aren’t doing this for me.’

 JJ says Pope’s name as if it were a curse. Kie flinches at this, again, and he doesn’t like the way he isn’t opposed to seeing her flinch from his words. Maybe some part of him is relishing in the ability to hurt him the way she hurt him all those years ago – a nasty, malevolent part, but a part of him nonetheless.

 Kie stares at him for a moment, as if loading a gun, and then: ‘We’re doing this for John B and Sarah.’

 She fires it.

 JJ feels as if someone’s dragging him by his feet, down into hell, where everybody can see and hear and feel what he sees and hears and feels – the repressed guilt seeping through every scar being cut open. He doesn’t feel like eating anymore.

 But in reality, all he does is set his sandwich back on the plate, and let the bitterness of the coffee fill his mouth. ‘What about them?’

 ‘We never held a funeral for them.’

 ‘We buried them.’

 ‘No, we didn’t,’ she says. Her voice falters. ‘There were no bodies, so we refused to believe they’re really dead.’ She pauses a little and JJ thinks he can see an internal battle within her. ‘We just thought it’d be nice to, you know. Actually pay our respects. Say goodbye. We never really got to do that.’

 ‘I said my goodbyes when I left Kildare,’ JJ retorts. ‘It’s not my problem that you didn’t.’

 Kie sits there, looking as if he’s backhanded her across the cheek. There’s an ache in JJ’s chest when he realises this, yet he drowns it by having the rest of his coffee.

 He’s a quarter of a sandwich away from never dealing with his past again.

 ‘So you don’t want to—’

 ‘No. Whatever you’re about to say, the answer is no.’

 I don’t want anything that’s got you included in it.

 ‘Okay,’ says Kie, with a shaky little breath falling from her lips. ‘If that’s what you want.’

 JJ raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s it?’

 Kie shrugs, a little too nonchalant, fiddling with the phone that was turned face-down on the table until now. Her eyes avoid meeting his. ‘I’m not here to beg, JJ. I tried to get through to you, and you’re refusing, and I’m not a fool.’

 ‘Cool. Thanks.’

 She shakes her head. ‘I just hope you know what you’re doing.’

 There’s a beat and it’s almost as if the world has stopped, and then: ‘I’m happy here, Kiara. I don’t think I’ve ever— I’ve never felt like this.’

 She understands what he’s saying, he’s sure of it, and he knows that it hurts her to hear him even if she isn’t showing it. Kie clears her throat and sips the last of her coffee, rising from her chair with more grace than he would’ve expected from her.

 ‘Great, then. I’m glad to hear that,’ she says. ‘Just… Take care of yourself, JJ.’

 ‘Yeah.’

 You too, he thinks, but can’t bring himself to say it.

 He watches her take her purse and put on the leather jacket as if he were watching her in slow motion – she’s taller, he thinks, and the top she’s wearing is skin-tight (JJ tries not to take notice of her curves, but his eyes are only eyes) and the black trousers are elegant, with simple platform shoes to complete the look. It doesn’t seem like the Kie he’s used to, but he guesses the Kie he is—was—used to doesn’t quite exist anymore.

 In her place, instead, is this woman he hardly recognises, who straightens her hear, wears smart clothing and holds herself with the pride worthy of a Kook.

 Guess both of them have grown into their roots.

 An image flashes before him – Kie in her Midsummer’s dress, leaping into his arms with the desire to go on an adventure. She played the role of a lady then, but now she felt like one, and JJ has never been and never will be to consider himself worthy of someone like that.

 It pricks, like a thorn in his foot, and maybe it’s spite that washes over him, or jealousy, or bitterness that their lives have gone this way, and he doesn’t know what comes over him but—

 ‘I thought I was falling for you, you know.’ He lets out a dry chuckle, not shying away from her gaze. ‘I was a fucking idiot.’

 Kie freezes. She’s looking at him as if she wishes she wasn’t – as if the bullet he’d just fired hurts the same as the one she fired at him. Her lip quivers and when the realisation dawns over her, the taken-aback look in the lines around her eyes is so reminiscent of his Kie that JJ almost regrets his words.

 Almost, but he doesn’t. Not when he can still feel the lump in his throat choking him from the mere mention of what he’s lost.

 She rubs her forehead with her finger, opening and closing her mouth for a few seconds, shock slowly dwindling; JJ just watches. Wonders if she’s got another bullet up her sleeve.

 ‘I, um— I’m guessing no one told you.’ She pauses and looks at him – she’s acting as if he hadn’t just confessed that. Instead of anger, or shock, her face is showing  genuine concern; another flash of his Kie. ‘Your dad died two years ago.’

 She doesn’t express her condolences and JJ appreciates that. ‘Thanks.’

 ‘Yeah. Well.’

 He doesn’t ask her to stay. She doesn’t offer.

 Kie leaves without a real goodbye, and JJ is left sitting alone at a coffee table for two, with a quarter of a sandwich he never picks up again. His thoughts are swirling around his head and he thinks he can hear her shoes clicking as she walks through the door, behind him, but doesn’t turn to look.

 The back of his head is ringing loud enough to tune out all the other noise and JJ finds himself drowning in the sound, finally choking on the lump in his throat until it almost kills him.

 But it’s over now – he survived.

 It’s over.

 He buries his head in his hands, and just breathes.

  ★

‘C’mon, Stan, give me a proper jab. You keep going like that and Leila will kick your— Yeah, kid, that’s good!’ JJ pats Stan, a scrawny boy of barely twelve, on the back, and gives him a light shove back towards his training partner. JJ claps his hands, grabbing the attention of all the twenty-ish kids in proximity. ‘Alright, kids. We’re going to switch it up a little. Stan and Owen, go find yourself some space. Stella and Charlie. Simon and Vi. Leila and Allie. Freddie and…’

 Within half a minute, all the pairings have been switched up. Most regular gym-goers are currently away so the kids have got nearly the entire gym to themselves, and JJ likes making use of that.

 ‘Make space,’ he tells them, spreading his arms wide. ‘We’re doing a combo – two jabs, a cross, a hook, and then you finish off with any leg move you’d like, but make it a surprise. Leila, come over.’

 The girl who was just paired with Stanley walks up to JJ, hands locked behind her back as a wide smile stretches across her face. Her hair’s tied up in two pigtails, curly and brown. For a moment, she reminds JJ of another girl with dark curly hair.

 He shakes the thought out of his head.

 ‘Leila,’ he says, raising his hands. ‘You remember the instructions?’

 ‘Two jabs, a cross, a hook, a kick.’

 ‘Alright. You ready to show it on me?’

 The little girl nods, confident. JJ raises his hands and helps her perform the blows, all a little flimsy, but hitting the targets. When she finishes, he gives her a high-five, and Leila skedaddles back next to Allie.

 He blows the whistle and sets the timer on his watch, looking over the kids as they perform. He takes note of Stanley’s fast improvement, Owen’s determination to learn from his mistakes, Leila’s knack for precision, Vi’s astonishing speed, Charlie’s firm defence. Each of the kids has got something special going for them – something that, if JJ does his job right, will get them far in the future.

 JJ loves his job.

 They do some more exercises until the end of the session, when JJ gives them a makeshift obstacle course to go through. Most of them groan, but he tells them that if they want to get somewhere in life, they’ve got to go through the hard stuff, too.

 He isn’t always motivational because he knows it easily becomes too much, but he’s aware that some of these kids don’t have adults to properly guide them. If all he contributes is a statement that hardly makes sense every now and then, but sticks around in their little heads, it’s still better than nothing.

 Besides, JJ likes these kids. He wants to help out as much as he can.

 (He tells himself it’s got nothing to do with his own lack of a positive authority figure when he was a kid.)

 JJ walks up to the ring bell they have in the corner of the gym and strikes it, letting it echo for a bit. The kids scramble themselves into a line and he walks along them, smiling.

 ‘You were great today,’ he tells them. ‘Keep up the progress. You can have a day off tomorrow, but we’re going to start introducing a couple of new things next week, so I’m expecting everybody to be doing some working out even on your days off. Understood?’

 There’s a cheer of yes’s, and JJ’s smile widens. ‘Questions?’

 There’s a cheer of no’s, so JJ extends his hand. Within seconds, all of the kids have got their hands on his, assembled around him in a circle. ‘What are we?’

 ‘WARRIORS!’

 The kids cheer again, as they always do, running off to get changed and leave. JJ watches it unfold with an ease inside his chest – it never ceases to amaze him how easily kids are pleased. All they need is someone to believe in them.

 JJ clears his throat. ‘Simon, it’s your turn to help me tidy up!’

 Another scrawny boy with a red birthmark on his left eyebrow turns around, running over to JJ with no hesitation. Today, there’s a bruise marking his face, too.

 ‘It was my turn last week,’ says the kid.

 ‘Well, sometimes life isn’t fair, so your turn comes twice in two weeks.’ JJ shrugs and throws an arm around the kid—he reaches to JJ’s shoulders—and walks with him to the mats, starting to pile them up.

 Simon is one of the best kids JJ’s ever taught. Smart and quick, easy to miss – all the kids are good, but Simon is the one JJ would put his money on. Kid’s got talent. Now it’s only the matter of time when he’ll start honing it in.

 But he can’t do that if he’s getting into fights outside the gym.

 ‘So,’ JJ says, picking up the cones from the obstacle course. ‘Who managed to get their hands on the hardest kid to aim for?’

 Simon freezes a little. ‘It was just some guys from school. It’s not a big deal.’

 ‘Were you the one who started it?’

 ‘No, Coach,’ says Simon, a little offended. ‘I’d never start a fight.’

 ‘Okay, I don’t doubt it.’ He elbows him gently, so Simon could see the concern on his face. ‘These kids, do they tease you often?’

 ‘Sometimes.’ The kid shrugs; he’s still avoiding JJ’s gaze. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

 ‘Simon—’

 ‘Really, Coach. You don’t need to worry about me.’ He says it with assurance, as if it’s absurd that JJ would even worry about him, and it strikes a note of familiarity JJ wishes it hadn’t.

 JJ sighs and sits down, motioning for the boy to do the same. Most of the other kids have left already so no one would find it odd, even if they took notice. ‘Is your dad expecting you home soon?’

 ‘He’s not going to be home until late.’

 ‘Well, would you like to help me make the plan for next week? Nothing big, just to see what we could do. I haven’t made up my mind yet, so…’

 Simon smiles and the purple on his cheek shines bright under the gym light. ‘I’d love to help, Coach!’

 After training the kids, JJ usually has a training session himself. He either spars with Rocco, who waves at him just now as he enters the gym, or boxes on the punching bag to test his limits. Now, he’s showing Simon how to keep his defence better and firmer and read the opponent’s body language before he evades, including some exercises Rocco showed him a few weeks back.

 Simon doesn’t like help and charity, something that JJ can relate to, but he needs some sort of guidance if he’s going to be dealing with bullies.

 After about half an hour of their one-on-one session, they’re both sweatier than before, and Simon is panting a little. He’s got good stamina for a thirteen-year-old, but that doesn’t always help in a brawl.

 ‘Look,’ says JJ, quietly. ‘I know the rule of the club is no fighting outside the gym. But you can defend yourself, alright? That’s fine. We’re going to understand that. As long as you don’t start anything and you don’t hurt anyone more than you need to defend yourself, it’s fine.’

 The realisation dawns on Simon’s face and his eyes drop to his feet, shoulders slumping. ‘I don’t need special lessons, Coach.’

 ‘I’m not giving you special lessons. You’re going to learn this either today or at some point in the future. I just thought it could be more useful to you now.’

 He doesn’t mean anything by this, but Simon is just thirteen and he’s taking this as a wound on his pride, if the way he’s holding himself is anything to judge by. Maybe JJ isn’t the best person for things like this, but he doesn’t think Simon’s dad can improve his defence in a scrap. Court officials don’t seem like they could hold their own in a street fight.

 ‘Look. You don’t have to listen to me if you don’t want to. But when they come at you, the most important thing is to protect your head, if you can’t get away, or run.’

 ‘I can’t run,’ Simon mutters. Something flashes over his face and he adds, ‘Running is for cowards.’

 ‘Running is for smart people who don’t want to get beaten. Take it from me.’ JJ lifts his shirt a little, exposing his lower side – on the left, there’s a thin scar that’s an imprint of one of Rafe Cameron’s rings. ‘Better save your head than your pride.’

 Simon nods. There’s a little hesitation in the way his eyes are glued to JJ’s scar until he covers it. ‘What if really I can’t run?’

 ‘Then you defend yourself.’

 ‘And if I can’t defend myself?’

 ‘Then you hit, and try to run.’

 ‘And what if I can’t do that, either?’

 Who the fuck are these bullies? ‘Then you call me.’

 At this, Simon seems a little more relaxed, and JJ wraps an arm around him again, pulling him closer. Simon’s hands wrap around him without hesitation. ‘Thanks, Coach.’

 The boy’s spirits seem to be lifted when he finally leaves the gym, a little better for the wear. JJ finds himself worrying about the kid – he’s never been a troublemaker and he doesn’t seem like someone who’d be an easy target for bullies, but then again, San Diego works differently than Kildare.

 It could be a one-off thing, JJ tells himself as he finishes cleaning up. The gym starts to fill as it’s just hit half past eleven and he makes a beeline for the punching bag next to Rocco, doing an elaborate handshake with the guy when he spots him.

 ‘What’s up, Daddy Maybank?’

 JJ ties the bandages around his palm with a quirk in his brow. ‘What the hell are you on about?’

 ‘The kid,’ Rocco says, nodding towards where JJ and Simon were sitting. ‘I saw you were dealing with him fine. Was that because of the bruise, or what?’

 ‘He’s got some kids bugging him.’

 ‘You worried about him?’

 ‘Nah.’ JJ extends his hands towards Rocco and he tightens the gloves, tapping them lightly. ‘Simon lives three blocks away from here. He’s tough.’

 Rocco nods and takes a step back before unloading a few punches to the bag hanging in front of him, all light but precise. ‘His dad’s that judge, right?’

 ‘Judge MacIntyre, yeah.’

 ‘Eh. Seems like kind of an asshole.’

 ‘That’s what being a judge does to you,’ JJ mutters, landing a few punches to his own bag; they land heavier than expected. ‘Or having any power over the small man.’

 Rocco lets out a sharp chuckle. ‘Good thing he’s got you, then. You’re going to make a good dad someday.’

 There’s a retort on the tip of JJ’s tongue but he swallows it, and opts for a punch, gritting his teeth, instead.

 ‘Seriously. You’re a natural with kids. No wonder they love having you as a coach.’

 Thud.

 ‘Can we go back to boxing, or are you going to get all sappy now?’

 ‘Alright, alright.’ Rocco raises his hands in defeat, shaking his head a little. ‘No need to get all Rocky Balboa on me for that.’

 JJ heaves a sigh and it’s as much of an apology as Rocco’s going to get. Both of them seem to be aware of that, because they do end up going back to boxing. They agree on a series of timed exercises, all the advanced versions of the ones he plans on giving the kids, chatting about things they’ve got going on for them. Rocco’s recently started a new job downtown as a sous-chef and it’s looking pretty good for him – he’s got a ten-year plan of having his own restaurant, and seven years are already behind him.

 They’re doing variations of the jab-cross-hook-kick combination he gave the kids. JJ’s punches are hard enough to be heard throughout the entire gym, or so it seems – he’s feeling the pressure of the intensity in the tendons throughout the back of his hand, getting tense and sore already. He’s got an unfamiliar stiffness in his shoulders, pushing his feet into the ground; beating the shit out of the bag does little to help to relieve the tension.

 Physically, anyway. Mentally, JJ feels like he’s pushing out every thought he’d repressed to the back of his mind in the past few days – every face and memory that showed up unannounced and unwanted.

 Rocco calls his name, loudly, and JJ gives it one more go until his hands drop to his sides, sweat dripping down his temples.

 ‘Where did you go?’

 ‘Nowhere,’ says JJ. He wants to wipe the sweat off of him, but he knows better than to use his gloves, like he used to. ‘I just thought I’d push myself today.’

 ‘Don’t push too hard just yet. I still want to beat your ass after we’re done warming up.’

 ‘You, beating my ass?’

 ‘Damn right.’

 Rocco winks at him and announces the start of another round. JJ takes it a little easier; his hands ache a little and even his neck is sore from all the tensing, still.

 They end up sparring a few rounds later. Rocco puts up quite a fight but it’s mostly fun, a little dirty, and a little more challenging than one would think a friendly spar would be. Rocco’s good and he’s more of a technical fighter rather than a brawler, which is a stark contrast to JJ (even with all his improvements over the years). Not only is Rocco good at deflecting JJ’s throws from a southpaw stance, but he also knows JJ’s strength and weaknesses better than probably everyone apart from Tommy.

 Sometimes, JJ wonders what would’ve become of Rocco Voigt if he decided to pursue a form of boxing instead of the culinary arts. He could’ve been one of the greats – but some people just prefer to enjoy the quiet simplicities of life.

 (Others, JJ thinks, don’t have that luxury.)

  ★

On Sunday morning, he finds some inspiration for tinkering around the bus. Jorge said that they could add some colour to it, a name spelled out over the entire thing in graffiti (art would be done by Jorge himself), but JJ hasn’t made his mind up on the name just yet.

 He’s sitting on his toolbox with the spring sun high above him, staring at the bus as if it’s going to tell him its name. There’s quite a few things he’s thinking of fixing up today – the suspensors, for a start, and he’s got an additional few sets of screws to hold the back seats in place. He needs to take measurements for a minibar, too, one that he hopes to install by the time the next match comes around, so that the boys don’t need to carry drinks in bags.

 With headphones stuffed into his ears, JJ finds a hard rock playlist to jam to while fixing up the bus. Usually he’d listen to something more soothing, like reggae, but now it doesn’t feel like the right pick.

 Shortly after, JJ finds himself under the bus. There’s a mechanics’ garage just next to the parking lot, where JJ used to work. Still does, occasionally, when he wants to tinker with something and he doesn’t know what to do with the bus. The mechanics there are more than okay with letting him use the equipment on Sundays, provided he pays for what he breaks, if it comes to that.

 It’s a fine deal.

 Some Metallica is blasting through his earbuds when JJ feels the bus shake a little. He’s lying on a creeper seat with his hands covered in grease, suspensors half through being fixed – all he can hope is that whoever needs him, doesn’t need him for long.

 JJ pushes himself out against the bottom of the bus. When the sun hits his eyes he shields them, and some of the grease drops onto his face – great.

 ‘Thought you said you’d be taking time off this weekend.’

 ‘You know me,’ says JJ, wiping his hands on his trousers before finally taking the earbuds out.  ‘Can’t let myself be without something to do.’

 Tommy is sitting on his toolbox, his trademark hoodie thrown over his head despite the relatively warm weather. He’s twirling a wrench in his hand. ‘What are you fixing?’

 JJ nods in the direction of a box with metal parts sticking out of it. ‘Suspensors. The back’s a bit bumpy.’

 ‘Doesn’t seem like a lot of work.’

 ‘There’s a few other things.’

 The silence that falls after Tommy’s nod isn’t unpleasant. Cars drive in the background and there’s distant chatter, all paired with a flicker of JJ’s zippo. He inhales the smoke from the cigarette and rolls his eyes at the trainer, who seems to refrain from saying anything.

 When JJ flicks off some of the burnt parts, he sighs. ‘It’s my only one in a week.’

 ‘As long as you’re preparing for the match.’ There’s a pause, then: ‘Which you are.’

 All JJ does in response is nod, blowing smoke through a small hole between his lips.

 Of course I’m preparing for the fucking match, he wants to say, but he’s learnt to keep his flame from setting everything on fire. It’s about my life. I’m not gambling it away.

 Half of the cigarette has burnt out and it tastes more bitter than he’s used to. He flicks it to the floor and stubs it out, then throws it out in the bin. Tommy gives him the slight raise of brows, but doesn’t comment.

 JJ sits down on the creeper. ‘What’s bringing you here?’

 ‘I know you’re still pissed about the Heyward match.’

 ‘I’m not.’ He pushes the creeper back until he’s pressed against the warm steel of the bus. ‘I got that sorted out, it’s in the past. All I’m thinking about is how to beat McLaggen.’

 (I did what I had to. It was the right thing to do. It was.)

 Tommy stares at him – his brow lowers over his eye, protruding and scrutinising. JJ holds his gaze, despite the chills rising up his spine at the feeling of being analysed. Tommy’s good at the psychological, even without the talking, and it’s not often that JJ is on the receiving end of it.

 I know you’re lying, says Tommy’s quiet sigh, and the little shake of his head before his face relaxes tells JJ, I know your head’s not as in it as it’s supposed to be.

 He doesn’t say any of that.

 ‘We’re starting boxing and MMA training right after that match’s over.’

 JJ frowns. ‘That’s too soon.’

 There’s another pause. Tommy’s hands bring the wrench to a still, before he throws it at the blond. ‘Nick told me about the ultimatum.’

 ‘The one he gave me or the one I responded with?’

 ‘Both. You’re playing with fire, and people are talking.’ Tommy’s voice is stern but the lines of his face are softer than usual; the tilt of his brow concerning rather than scolding. ‘I know you don’t pay attention to the press, but if word about this gets out, you could get some shitty comments your way.’

 Think about your reputation, is the underlying warning here, but JJ doesn’t quite give a fuck. Or at least he likes to think so – the reputation is what’s giving him matches and keeping the bookies on him. It’s yet another thing he can’t gamble with, despite consistently dancing on the edge of doing so.

 JJ sticks his hands into his pockets. He finds the Zippo, and wedges his finger between the cap and the body. ‘What are the consequences?’

 ‘Don’t fuck with me, Maybank. You know what I’m talking about.’

 Tommy glares at him with head tilted to the side, fingers running through his hair like it’s his own future JJ’s toying with.

 The moment is charged. JJ lets out a quivering sigh, giving his trainer a reluctant nod.

 It’s not his kickboxing reputation that’s on the line. If word gets out that he refuses matches and whatnot, he won’t be able to fight high-profile fighters upon his very entrance into the MMA and boxing worlds. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t give a damn, but he made a promise to Nick that he’s got to keep.

 (He knows it would’ve been easier to do the match he keeps refusing and never do boxing again. It just happens to be the one piece of his integrity JJ can’t compromise.)

 ‘Can I worry about that later?’

 ‘When’s later?’ asks Tommy. ‘After the McLaggen match, after securing your first boxing match, after fighting in the octagon?’

 ‘Whenever.’ JJ takes the Zippo out and lights it; he watches the flame dance until the gentle breeze blows it out. ‘Just not right now.’

 Tommy waits for a beat, and then he’s off the toolbox, standing in front of JJ with hands stuffed in pockets, with the sun shining behind his back. His face is half-shadowed by the contrast and the dominant energy reminds JJ of someone else who used to stand over him like that.

 He flinches, then lets the Zippo burn his finger a little until the pain brings him to the present.

 ‘Maybank.’ Tommy shifts his weight from one foot to another, teetering on the edge of whatever he’s about to say. ‘If there’s anything you want to talk about, there’s—’

 ‘There isn’t. And if there was, I don’t think it’d be you I’d come to.’

 It may be the sun’s optical illusion, but JJ thinks he sees a genuine smile in the corners of the man’s lips. ‘I was going to suggest Thawne. Or Barbas.’

 With a pat on JJ’s shoulder, Tommy declares this conversation over. He stays for a few more minutes, asking JJ about the suspensors and the other things he’s planning to do, even letting the boy show him how to fix some of the things he didn’t know. By the time Tommy leaves, JJ realises he’s gone from a sour mood to something where he can focus back on tinkering without feeling the weight on his chest that comes whenever the cursed bout is mentioned.

 JJ dunks himself under the bus again with a flashlight in his mouth, grabs a wrench, and gets back to work.

  ★

Jorge Barbas is, as per usual, late.

 JJ’s found himself a spot in the back of the dive bar, slumped in the seat as he glances over the place again, looking for something to divert his boredom. There’s a group of bikers a few tables away, loud and having fun, and maybe a few weeks ago JJ would’ve joined them, and share some of his own experiences from back when he travelled half the country on his bike. On the other side there’s a group of girls, two of whom keep looking over, and maybe a few weeks back JJ would’ve entertained that thought, too.

 The only conclusion JJ draws from this as he keeps on looking, is that in the past few weeks, he’s definitely lost some of what made him fun.

 The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He shoots Jorge another text and he gets a reply almost instantly, consisting of the usual: Got held up at Joanna’s. I’m on my way. Sorry! It makes JJ laugh – Jorge’s honest, at least, even that means admitting he’s late because he can’t resist his fiancee. It’s just as endearing as it is annoying, and JJ lets it slip.

 At least now he knows he’s got about ten more minutes to kill, if Jorge’s just left Joanna’s. That’s on top of the fifteen he’s already waited, and the one beer he’s finished, and…

 Boredom, like alcohol, drives a man to do things he otherwise wouldn’t.

 JJ googles Pope Heyward.

 It’s more of just clicking on the previous searches, if he’s being honest with himself, and he goes to the page that posts quality videos of Pope’s matches. The most recent one was a month ago, so about the same time as JJ’s. He opens the video and watches it, recognising Pope’s moves, analysing it as if it were another fighter, another opponent, and not someone he would’ve once upon a time taken a bullet for.

 (Has taken a bullet for. Not a physical one, but jail time and a fine at sixteen feel all the same.)

 Pope hits the guy with a messy, exhausted cross—not unlike he’d do to JJ when they would playfight—then steps back, and ends the match with a clean, powerful right jab straight into the nose. JJ feels a distant sense of pride swell in his chest – seeing the smile on Pope’s face when he realises the guy’s down, but walking over to make sure he’s doing okay, it makes him think that maybe not everything has changed.

 Then they zoom into Pope’s face, and JJ drops to the comments. Most of them are positive, some are critiquing Pope, and some are so blatantly pure hate and irritation that JJ finds himself wanting to argue with them – Pope’s doing a good job, he thinks, I’d know better than anyone.

 There’s a reason why Pope’s name is up there with the big guys. He’s still got quite a bit left to climb, but he’s as reputable in boxing as JJ is in kickboxing – considering the scales of each sport, Pope’s got it much better. He’s like a bull, steadfast and determined, where JJ is like a snake, quick and whimsical.

 It could’ve been a bout to watch.

 One of the bikers slams his beer on the table and JJ’s head snaps in his direction; it’s nothing, he tells himself, even if his body tenses. The girls on the other table are throwing concerned glances around the bar. Half-heartedly, he nods at the one who catches his eye, as if to say that he’s got this.

 Don’t worry, he thinks the look is saying, I’ve got this.

 His head’s ringing a little and he’s gripping his phone so hard it might break, but nothing comes of it. The bikers quieten down, and JJ’s attention is brought back to his phone when he sees what he’s accidentally clicked.

 Pope’s Instagram account is less… Pope, for the lack of a better expression, than he’d expected. The first few pictures are of him, some solo shots and others with his training team, matches, whatnot. JJ finds himself scrolling for a while to find a photo that feels even the slightest bit personal – there’s a photo of him with his parents for his dad’s 55th birthday nearly a year ago. Hardly any photos with friends, and none with—

 JJ clicks on a photo dated from September, 2018. Nearly two year and a half years ago. There’s Pope, sweaty after a match, with a belt for the lightweight category around his waist, and Kie at his side, arms wrapped around the boy. Her hair is flat there, too, but the smile on her face is just as JJ remembers it – open and welcoming, as if the entire world ought to smile, too.

 Pope’s embrace is firm. He looks ecstatic, happier than he’s ever looked from how JJ remembers him.

 JJ’s gaze remains on the picture for a moment, before he finds himself scrolling through the other pictures from the post. Another one of him and Kie, with his parents, too, this time; one of him and his entire team by his side; one of what must’ve been the afterparty. Pope looks nothing short of belonging there – Pope, who was the worst at parties because he always wanted to just smoke weed and talk about the most random things, and almost exclusively it would be just the Pogues entertaining him. Kie is in the frame, too, with a glass filled with champagne, the same wide smile taking over her entire face.

 Leaving was the best decision he could’ve made for them.

 His finger slips (or so he tells himself) and the account that opens is Kie’s. JJ closes the app within a heartbeat, putting his phone away.

 He can’t be doing this. He said it’s over. He called it all off, told himself he’d never meddle with their lives again, that what happened in Kildare stays in Kildare. He said what he said to make her not want to get in contact with him again. He said what he said because it was the last time he was going to talk to her. He said what he said because it was the only thing he never got to say.

 He can’t be doing… Whatever it is that he’s doing right now.

 (Ten years, he thinks. I’ve held out for ten years. Looking at her Instagram profile won’t change that.)

 So he looks around, checks that Jorge’s ten minutes are up and he still hasn’t showed up, and unlocks his phone.

 For a while, he scrolls. Kie’s profile feels more like the Kie he used to know than the one he met a few days ago – pictures of animals, travels, friends and family, Pope’s matches, and even some photos and videos of her trying to box, too. She radiates happiness, the genuine kind that he doesn’t think can be faked even on social media. She’s got herself the life she’s always wanted.

 This time, JJ doesn’t try to fight the happiness bubbling in his chest, or the smile reaching his cheeks. He clicks on a photo of Kie and an elephant, and the location is somewhere in Africa, dated from January. She’s got a tank top and cargo shorts on, with her hair pulled up in a ponytail and messy curls seeping out of it. There are photos where she’s polished, all prim and proper, but these are rarer. This seems like the person Kie is when the curtain is drawn and she gets to be herself.

 It only hurts because that means that the Kie who came to meet him wasn’t this Kie.

 (He’s kind of known that they were both coming guarded, putting up pretences of whatever they were trying to portray. She was just as closed off as he was, just as defensive, just as unwilling to show honest care. It was the PR manager Kiara Carrera, not his Kie from the island, even if she tried to make it seem different.

 He wasn’t the JJ from the island, either.)

 She’s happy. Pope’s happy. That’s all that matters.

 JJ can move on now.

 The infamously-late friend shows up shortly after that, with two beers in tow, and all’s forgiven. JJ’s entertained by a story about Jorge’s in-laws, who seem to be giving him hell even before he’s officially an in-law.

 ‘I won’t be late again,’ Jorge muses, index finger pointed up.

 JJ chuckles. He shakes his head and sips the beer, knowing he’s going to particularly enjoy alcohol tonight. ‘Famous last words.’

 ‘You’ll see.’

 ‘As long as you keep getting a round whenever you’re late, I’m down.’

 The two shake hands and Jorge gets JJ talking about the kids he’s training, about Elliott, about how Nick won’t get off his back, and his tongue loosens enough to talk about these things without feeling the weight of them. Jorge’s good helping people unwind, and JJ loves him for that.

 It ends up being like with Tommy – he’s worried about shit and then someone comes around and takes his mind off of it. By the third beer, he forgets Kiara Carrera or Pope Heyward even exist.

  ★

JJ comes home late. It’s nearing midnight, which isn’t all too late for a twenty-six year old bachelor living alone with no job to wake up for in the morning, but it’s late for him.

 He comes home late, and drunk.

 The door nearly kicks him in the face when he stumbles into the hallway, struggling to even find the light switch. He curses and teeters around, wanting to just plop into bed and forget about the headache he’s going to have in the morning. All he needs is to find a pen so he can write down the plans he made with Jorge, because sober him won’t remember.

 JJ sticks his hand into the drawer in the hallway cupboard and instead of a pen, his fingers grip an envelope.

 Intoxicated, pissed at the world for trying to throw his past at his face, he lets the universe—fate—win. He takes the envelope out of the drawer, not even wiping the dust it has gathered in all this time. His head is spinning a little so he steadies himself with the empty palm flat against the wall, letting the cold bring some sobriety into him.

 I need to turn on the heating if I’m planning on showering, he thinks as he sinks onto the windowsill. I need to put more coffee grounds in the coffee maker.

 In his hands, the letter feels as if it’s on fire. He throws it on the coffee table to prevent himself from getting burnt.

 Outside his apartment, the moon is barely there, and everything seems to be tinted an ugly shade of orange-yellow. Orange used to be JJ’s favourite colour – vibrant and joyful, a little out of the ordinary, but you can find it anywhere you look. Now, it feels like everything that made it vibrant has sucked all life and joy out of it, filling the gaping holes with rust that’s spreading like a virus, eating at everything that once was good.

 JJ Maybank spent ten years repressing the trauma of his childhood and adolescence. He spent ten years erasing everything his father had done, good and bad, in order to rewrite his own sense of self. He spent ten years learning who he is when he’s not bound by the shackles of being a Maybank.

 He fights under the name because he has chosen to reclaim it. To prove to himself that being a Maybank doesn’t guarantee being a good-for-nothing nobody.

 The letter on the table is the last thing that’s keeping him from letting go and knowing that pains him more than he’d ever admit.

 He sits on the couch with hands clasped in his lap, pushing at his nailbeds. The entire place is shrouded in darkness, even with the orange seeping through the window – it lands on the envelope like a curse, wrapping its repellent stench of rust over it. It’s almost as if the rust is coming from the inside, too – the merging of the evil.

 They’re as good as one.

 JJ’s head is ringing and he feels the pressure pushing on his ears, pushing him into himself, the sensation all too familiar; when does this end?

 You do as I say, echoes Luke Maybank’s voice. JJ’s teeth grip and he shuts his eyes close, to not see the envelope, to not see the rusty light, to not see the rust underneath a car that could fall on top of him, to not—

 JJ dives and grabs the letter. He doesn’t look at it until he’s sitting back in the chair, his heart is beating its way out of his chest, and he’s said to himself a thousand times that he can’t hurt him.

 It’s dated June 21, 2019. Almost two years ago.

 Luke Maybank always had a funny way of sending letters on the odd occasion he’d do it, writing down the date of sending it on the envelope. In case it gets lost, he said once JJ asked him about it, You can’t trust the fuckin’ post. They’re all scummy, stealin’ letters left and right.

 JJ couldn’t have been older than six, yet his father was already crass and blunt, with no regard for raising a child. He’d never meant to be a father in the first place, and it’s a fact that JJ could never fix.

 (He tried. He tried running away, doing whatever Luke asked, being whoever he wanted him to be, until he realised that he’d only be happy if JJ was dead.)

 His fingers glide across where the envelope has been closed, feeling the edge of the paper. A thick layer of dust remains on his finger. He thinks of his mind, of all the memories he must’ve buried to be able to not fall apart from the heaviness of his childhood, and wonders if there’s a layer of dust covering them, too.

 He’s afraid of what he’d find.

 In the end, JJ puts the letter back in the drawer, and sees himself to bed. There will be a day when he won’t feel like opening that letter would open everything he’d sealed away; when opening it won’t feel the same as lying underneath the guillotine with Luke Maybank holding the rope.

 Today, there is only a line without dust – a line uncovering his full name written in his father’s handwriting, and it looks like a curse.

  ★

  next chapter

[the-recusants-sigil]

Hello, hello! Thank you for the warm welcome!! <3 

OK so I absolutely ADORE this idea and I love writing for these four so so much!!  I couldn’t write just a couple of sentences and these turned into novel chapters, so I’m splitting your request into 4 parts. That way, I’m not just dropping a 10K word document on you asfhsfshfhsf

Here is Part 1 of your request- going numerically, that’d be Xigbar!

Thanks again for stopping by, I hope you like this one and the others to come!!

Xigbar

Words: 2388

-The mission started out simply enough. It definitely wasn't anything outlandishly difficult: just track down an overgrown Heartless, eliminate it, and report back. Absolutely no big deal.

-Except it WAS a big fuckin deal. There he was, wandering the Land of Dragons in the dead of winter, on the edge of hypothermia and certainly not thinking straight. Perhaps he was no longer capable of feeling emotions, but frostbite was another story entirely. He knew better than to RTC without finishing  a mission, so here he was,in the dark,  trudging through waist-deep dnowdrifts on a fucking mountain to find this stupid thing.

-Xigbar had been walking since he arrived that morning. In fact, he'd started out in a slightly warmer climate miles away at this point, and he'd briefly pondered taking off his jacket to cool off a bit despite the risks. Now, his teeth chattered violently and he wished with every fiber of his being for a fire. Just a small one, to warm his toes and keep his fingers firmly attached.

-In the faint light of the half-moon, he caught sight of something that stopped him dead in his tracks: a single, enormous footprint.

-Squinting into the darkness, he peered ahead and made out another, and another, heading up the mountain towards a small cluster of coniferous trees up ahead. Ah, shit. More walking.

-Before he could take a single step, a low, rumbling growl came from behind him. The Freeshooter turned, slowly, to face the biggest fucking Heartless he'd ever seen in his life.

-Glistening fangs, beady yellow eyes, twisted horns and inky black scales covered the thing. If he had to guess, Xigbar figured the thing was at least twelve feet tall and built like a tank.

-As he discovered, it was fast, too- even its eyes, glowing bright in the darkness, were impossible to track as the thing closed the distance between the two. It swiped at him with claws like kitchen knives and put him on the defensive immediately. No doubt, the beast had his number; at every point he warped to, it was waiting with jaws wide open, ready to crunch down. It batted him around, tossing him in the air and catching him in its jaws once it had its fun.

-Between the cold and the brutal sneak-attack, Xigbar found his energy fading fast. He raised his only free hand and squeezed his eye shut, focusing the last of his energy on getting somewhere, anywhere, safe.

-......

-....................

-Look, all you were trying to do was keep your head down and out of trouble. There were a lot of vibrant characters in San Fransisco, but all you cared about was doing well at your job and enjoying your ground floor studio apartment. Affordable housing of any kind was a rare luxury in the city, and you'd struck gold with a landlady who just wanted a good, responsible, quiet tenant. For her, you checked all the boxes.

-You certainly weren't looking to get involved with anyone else. Not platonically, not romantically, not even as roommates.

-And yet, here was this man leaned against your trashcan in the alley, bleeding everywhere and groaning. Despite the summer heat, he was dressed way up in a long black trenchcoat (torn to tatters though it was), trousers, knee length boots, and gloves.

-What was his deal?

-You'd never seen a dying person before. OK, so maybe he wasn’t dying. But as it was, if anyone else were to witness him in the alley, in front of your place, bleeding out with only you around, they might assume it was you who did it. Your brain short-circuited and, unable to fully think through the situation, you dragged the man inside your apartment and slid the patio door closed.

-So there you were, panicking inside your studio with an unconscious dying dude bleeding out on the floor. What would your landlord say? Would you ever get your deposit back for damaging the green shag carpet?

-At the very least, you figured you could ask him some questions when he woke up and help him contact the cops, in case he'd lost his phone. In the meantime, you put on a pot of coffee and watched the man sleep, contemplating his features. He was handsome, with nicely tanned skin and long, dark hair shot through with streaks of brown. A deep scar ran the length of one cheek, and the opposite eye was covered with an eyepatch. He sort of looked like an anime convention escapee, you thought, but then again, folks in the city proper were often just like this.

-”Ugghhh....” the man stirred gently, and you jumped. The single remaining eye fluttered open, and you were struck by the color: bright yellow, like your little Volkswagen Beetle parked outside. He glanced around slowly at first before sitting bolt-upright and grimacing. Perhaps he forgot about his injuries.

-”Uh... are you okay?” you asked dumbly. His head whipped around to meet you, and the intensity of his glare instantly made you feel... small.

-”Yeah, definitely, just dandy,” he grunted and waved flippantly in your direction. Steadying himself against the wall, he tried and failed to rise to his feet. The man raised a mangled hand into the air in front of him, ever so briefly, then sighed and let it drop to his side. “Can you... can you maybe tell me where exactly I am?”

-”Uh, I mean- it's, uh. My apartment. San Fransisco? California? Planet Earth?”   You licked your lips and sighed. “I found you in the alley. Did you get hit by a car?”

-”Car? What are you talking about? I don’t know what any of that means. I need to get home. I need to get out of here and report back- OWWWW!” Xigbar yelped as his second failed attempt at standing brought him closer to the ground.

-”No. I don't think so, Mister. You might have a concussion.”At that point, you'd already folded the spare futon down from its hiding spot in the wall and tossed down some spare pillows and blankets.

-“That means lots of rest. I thought they were worse, but your cuts don't actually look horrible. Let's get you cleaned up and laying down, then maybe we can get you an urgent care appointment to look at your head.”

-”No. No doctors.”

-”You religious, or scared or something?”

-”Er- yeah. Somethin' like that.”

-.............

-Xigbar really knew he should have RTC'd as soon as he was able to stand. He should have reported back a week ago. Yet here he was, truly a stranger in a strange land, crashing on this good Samaritan's couch, eating good food, and- for the first time in a really long time- relaxing.

-For him, some peroxide, butterfly bandages and ibuprofen were the trifecta- his wounds cleaned up nicely and the pain was definitely more bearable.

-You called out of work for the week shortly after he woke up, feeding them a line about your brother-in-law dying or some shit; you didn't have one, of course, but nobody had to know that. He told you his name was Xigbar, and that's really all you knew. The dude was tight-lipped to say the least.

-Xigbar went with you on every trip you took. At first, he was pretty wary of your little yellow Bug, but he warmed up to it pretty quickly- at least, until you dumped the clutch and stalled on a hill for the first time. He jumped like he thought the thing was trying to kill him, and you couldn't help but laugh.

-He went with you on trips to the grocery store. You showed him your favorite restaurant (and taught him how to talk to the server like a person rather than a barmaid). He sat next to you on the sofa as you pointed angrily at the TV and complained about some goings-on in your world. He helped you uncork a cheap bottle of Trader Joe's wine, then another, and another, and you ended up talking shit about your coworkers. For you, it was the guy who followed you all over the office and wouldn't leave you alone for anything. Xigbar offered to punch him as a show of gratitude, but you assured him that no, it was really okay, the guy was just a little weird.

-On the other hand, Xigbar's work stories were different. You surmised that his office was comprised entirely of... er, vibrant characters. Like, for instance, the one that ditched work every single day by hanging out in the break room right next to his manager. There was also the “gambling addict in denial”- according to Xigbar-  who had, just a few weeks ago, literally swindled the pants off of a man in a bar. And there was the one who could, and would, electrocute and stab anyone and everyone for the slightest of infractions.

-”Uh, dude. Have you talked to HR?”

-”...What's an 'HR'?”

-”Human Resources, duh!” you sighed dramatically.

-The loud, barking laugh that followed told you that he had not, in fact, talked to HR.

-.........................

-Six days had passed since you'd found Xigbar bleeding all over everything in your alley. Since then he'd improved dramatically, and when you could tell he was feeling well enough to stand on his feet, you decided that his seventh day with you would be devoted to seeing as many tourist attractions as possible together. The guy didn't have any memories, he told you, so you wanted to help him “start fresh” with as many happy ones as possible.

-This was, of course, a total lie: Xigbar remembered everything in his life, he liked to think, with the exception of how he got here. He was totally content to live the lie and continue following you around.

-In just a few days, something about you had grown on him. He couldn't quite place it, but it was something about your smile, your ripostes after his witty comments, the way your hair fell over your face when you slept, your tendency to rant and rave and scream at the endless city traffic... he didn't know what to do. For the first time in a long time, he was at a loss.

-You took him absolutely everywhere you could think of: a boat tour of the bay, a cable car ride up Telegraph Hill, a brief stop for brunch at a local bistro, gift store browsing, and finally a walk across the Golden Gate Bridge to watch the sun set. The roads were more peaceful than they normally were, even for a Sunday evening. Perfect, you thought.

-If Xigbar had a heart it would have been racing: being near him made his mind do backflips and twist itself into knots. He enjoyed being there, but more than he liked the sight of the setting sun, he loved the wind in your hair and the glimmer of joy in your eyes. Those beautiful eyes.... God dammit.

-”Hey, let's take a picture!”

-”Huh??”

-Before he could stop you, you'd produced your phone from your pocket and turned on the camera.

-You held the phone in front of the two of you, snapping a seies of pictures, and drew it close to examine. In all of them, Xigbar smiled even wider than you had- genuinely, not his usual, wolfish grin.

-He has such a nice smile, you thought.

-He peeked over your shoulder at the picture, too, and felt his chest tighten in a way he'd nearly forgotten.

-.......

-After that, Xigbar knew it was time for him to head back. Xemnas would surely drill him about his whereabouts. Xigbar thought it odd that he hadn't seen so much as a single Shadow in his time here. Even if the world was really as bad as you said it was, he supposed that a world yet untouched by darkness must have some kind of hope.

-The minute you got home, you printed out two copies of the picture of the two of you on glossy photo paper, each picture small enough to fit inside a wallet. He took it gratefully from you and turned it over in his hands, the tightness in his chest creeping back.

-”This has been a really great time. Thanks for takin' such great care of me. You really got a knack for it,” he started. Suddenly your chest, too, felt heavy. “But I really oughta get back to my life. Boss Man's gotta be wonderin' about me by now, ya know? Same with yours.”

-”Yeah... I guess so,” you sighed. It had been nice having him around, despite the rocky beginning. Your eyes swept over his lithe figure and settled on his face- angular, ruggedly handsome, and watching you intently for a follow-up to your response.

-”I'm actually going to miss you,” you admitted.  “Who's gonna sass me for running stop signs and stalling on hills? Or talk shit about my coworkers with me? I hope I get to see you again. Please don't be a stranger.”

-He reached forward, fingertips brushing over your face, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You didn't brush him off when he laced his fingers through your hair, and when he pulled you in for a kiss, you grabbed his coat and pulled him in as close as you could.

-He drew away sooner than you would have liked. Than you would have both liked, really.

-”I'll make a point to stop back by, 'kay?” he assured you. With a sad smile, he lifted a hand and was surrounded by wisps of inky black and purple smoke. Just like that, he was gone.

-”W-what?” Wide-eyed, heart racing, you glanced around your apartment and resisted the urge to scream.

-”What the FUCK was that?!”

-.................

-As soon as Xigbar was back within the walls of the castle, he realized he'd fucked up.

-”Aww, shit!” There was no way she hadn’t seen the corridor of darkness, and there wasn’t really a good way to explain it, either.

-Mortified, and more than a little tired, he reached into his pocket and checked to make sure the picture was still there. Xemnas could wait until tomorrow; he'd sleep on his little snafu and figure out what to say the next time he visited you.

[dailyironfamily]

day 11 - medieval au

Day eleven of the November Fic Challenge is a medieval AU! Which I tweaked slightly to make a medieval fantasy AU featuring prince Rhodey, knight Pepper, and dragon Tony. There’s about 10k worth of ideas shoved into 3k of fic but I had to wrap this up if I wanted to post it on time.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a King and Queen, just and fair, who ruled over the people. They had three sons, the youngest of whom was named James. James was an inquisitive child, mostly left to his own devices, as the eldest brother was set to inherit the kingdom, and the middle brother to inherit control of the Royal Guard. As he grew, he became more adventurous, dabbling in the sciences, venturing out into the kingdom on his own, and generally getting himself into trouble. His parents loved his daring, but they worried for his safety, and appointed him a companion from the Guard.

Sir Virginia Potts was young and inexperienced, but she had been friends with Prince James since her days as a squire, and the King and Queen hoped she could encourage some restraint in their son. Virginia took her job very seriously, but she did not have much success in tempering James’s venturesome spirit. More often she was roped along into his schemes, and the two could be found running from a pack of angry trolls or irritated castle staff.

This continued for several years until, on the eve of his twenty-third birthday, Princes James was kidnapped by a dragon.

Virginia swore to the King and Queen that she would return their son safely to them, and set off to the dragon’s rumored stronghold: an abandoned castle in the mountains. It was a long journey, taking two weeks on horse and then by foot. The keep was ancient, not recorded on many recent maps, but Virginia collected information from people in the area and compared her findings to the maps she had. Soon enough the castle was revealed to her, and she drew her sword and strode up to the doors.

As she called out to the foul beast to show itself and return the prince to her, she was surprised when the doors opened to reveal Prince James himself. He grinned sheepishly at her, inviting her inside, and Virginia wondered what he had gotten himself into this time.

“I’m sorry, you what?” she asks, unsure she was hearing this properly.

“I wasn’t kidnapped. I ran away,” James says again, though it’s as ridiculous hearing it the second time as the first.

“Why would you run away? Without telling me?”

“Because you’d try to stop me.”

She can’t say that’s untrue, but it still hurts, knowing James hadn’t even confided in her about his plan. “Your parents are worried sick, James.”

James does look ashamed about that much, at least. “I know, and I’m sorry. But I couldn’t exactly tell them I was leaving either.”

“What did you do, James? And what about the dragon who’s taken this castle?”

The doors to the dining hall open with a loud creak, and Virginia’s hand goes to her sword, instantly on alert.

“James? Who’s our guest?”

The man who speaks is handsome, dark-haired, maybe a couple years older than them, but there’s something unsettling about his eyes, and Virginia keeps her hand firmly on the hilt of her sword.

James shoots her a worried look and says, “Virginia, this is Anthony. He owns the castle.”

Anthony’s eyes shimmer, snake’s eyes for a tenth of a second, and Virginia gasps and draws her sword.

James explains everything once he manages to calm Virginia down enough to stop attacking the man. Anthony is a dragon, yes, (his real name unpronounceable by human tongue), but he never tried to kidnap James, or harm him. James ran away with him because they’re in love. Virginia listens to this explanation while glaring at Anthony the whole time, waiting for him to try something, though he never does.

Despite this, she’s not about to just leave empty-handed. If James won’t return home, then Virginia will stay here with him as his protector until such a time as he comes to his senses and returns with her. Anthony bristles at the arrangement, but James agrees, just glad that no one is getting stabbed or set on fire.

No one else lives in the castle, which is understandably in disrepair. James shows her to quarters that are mostly still intact, and she spends the time asking him questions about Anthony—how strong is his magic, how did they meet, is he the dragon who’s been attacking the neighboring kingdoms. James answers what he can, but he promises that Anthony hasn’t been ransacking any villages lately thanks to him. Virginia scoffs at the thought of a reformed dragon, but she doesn’t argue any further. Soon enough James will see his mistake, and then she’ll be able to take him home.

She doesn’t spend any time alone with Anthony for the first few days, making sure to stick by James’s side as much as possible. James chafes under her strict watch, however, and finally shoos her away. Hurt, she takes the opportunity to explore more of the castle, and stumbles across a lab in a high tower with the largest telescope she’s ever seen. The tables are littered with books and pages of notes, and she glances over them before going to check out the telescope. It’s pointed at the stars, sparkling dots visible in the inky black sky, and she stares at them in wonder through the telescope.

She jumps when someone behind her clears their throat, and she quickly steps back from the telescope. Anthony stands in the doorway to the lab, handsome as ever, but now she knows it’s just magic making him look that way. Still, only very powerful dragons can hold a human form for long, so she knows not to underestimate him.

“I am glad to see you enjoying yourself,” he says, either unconcerned with or unaware of her suspicion. “I could show you how to change the angle of the telescope, if you wish.”

“A dragon who studies the stars,” she scoffs, brushing him off. “I didn’t think your kind were interested in anything other than treasure.”

“Science is a treasure,” he says so sincerely she almost feels bad for mocking him. “It’s one of the reasons I like James very much. He understands.”

She falls silent, because it’s one of the reasons she likes James too. He always wants to discover something new, something that he then shows her.

“Well, I’ll leave you be if you don’t want my help,” Anthony says after a moment, nodding at her. “You’re welcome up here any time. Or to the library, if you’re interested. Some of the books are very old, but they’re legible.”

He turns to leave without waiting for her response, but she mutters a “Thank you” before the door closes fully. She never does find out if he heard her or not.

Virginia glowers over her dinner a few evenings later, trying to ignore Anthony and James. The dragon had admitted over supper he doesn’t know any forms of human dance, and James had eagerly leaped up to teach him. Anthony had fetched a music box to play a tune, since they had no actual musicians, and now James was trying to walk him through some simple steps. Unable to help herself, she watches Anthony blunder around for a few minutes before she sighs and drops her napkin on the table, standing up.

“James, you’re trying to get him to lead while you’re already leading,” she says, interrupting their latest attempt.

James looks up, letting Anthony go, and motioning for Virginia to join him. “Then why don’t we show him how it’s done first?”

She hesitates, not meaning to get involved, but historically she’s always been bad at saying no to James. She takes his hand, and as Anthony resets the music box, goes through a few simple dance steps with James for him to observe.

“It’s quite simple,” she sniffs when they’re done, but the subtle insult goes right over Anthony’s head, who just nods seriously. They switch places, and she winds the music box for them. This time, Anthony follows James’s lead much better, with minimal stumbling.

James smiles widely, an expression of pride on his face. “Of course, there’s usually more than two people on the floor, and you switch partners and such throughout the dance.”

Anthony looks over at Virginia, and James laughs.

“Three’s still not enough. However…” James gives her a contemplative look. “Ginny, come dance with Anthony, let him try to lead this time.”

Virginia frowns. “What? No, why would I dance with him?”

“Because I asked,” James replies with a cheeky grin, and Virginia huffs but goes over to them, holding out a hand to Anthony.

“If you get too close to me I will stab you,” she says pointedly, and Anthony nods, polite as ever.

James starts up the music and Virginia lets Anthony attempt to guide her through the motions of the dance. She resists at first, but the look of concentration on his face is almost endearing, as if he’s doing his absolute best to get every step correct, and she finds herself helping him along, the two of them dancing until the music box trails to a stop. She stares at him and his peculiar eyes (they’re very, very blue, when they aren’t flickering snakelike slits of gold), until James claps them both on the shoulders and tells Anthony he did a wonderful job. Virginia draws her hand back, wondering what sort of spell had come over her just then.

The weather warms up and James wants to take them swimming in the lake by the castle. Both of them balk at the idea; Anthony says dragons don’t swim, and Virginia’s half inclined to agree knights don’t swim either. James shrugs and says he’ll just go on his own, and that’s more than enough for both Anthony and Virginia to readily agree to come with him. She can’t have come all this way and spent all this time just to let James drown in a lake, after all.

Virginia doesn’t wear her armor, though she brings her sword. It never hurts to be prepared. Anthony brings a book with him, and James rolls his eyes when he sees the two of them standing on the edge of the lake.

“You two are impossible,” he mutters, already stripping out of his clothes.

Virginia glances away, though it’s not as if she’s never seen him shirtless before. It just seems...odd now, with Anthony watching as well. What James and Anthony have is something she doesn’t want to intrude on, even if she still doesn’t understand why James would give up his life with his family to be with a dragon and she’s trying to break them up so James can come home anyway. She’s got some principles about the matter.

Left only in his undergarments, James makes a run for the lake, jumping in with a splash. Anthony sits down under a tree, its leaves just starting to sprout again, leaving Virginia to stand there, undecided. Well, if Anthony won’t have any fun, she won’t leave James disappointed. She turns away from him and strips to her last layer as well, dropping the rest of her clothes on the grass and running into the lake.

James waves as she swims over to him, then splashes her as soon as she gets close enough. Sputtering, she splashes him back, igniting a splash war that lasts several minutes until James concedes defeat. Virginia feels like they’re kids again, back when she was in training and she and James would run around all over the castle. Times were simpler then, she thinks with a sigh. James wasn’t running off to court any dragons back then. She misses the way things were.

“James...” she starts, trying to figure out how to put these thoughts into words. “Do you really not want to come back home?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he answers, floating in front of her. He looks over at Anthony, still sitting under the tree with his book. “I miss my family. But I’m a third son. I didn’t have any real responsibility at all except to be spoiled. When I met Anthony, it’s like...a whole new world opened up to me.”

Virginia frowns, pushing her wet hair out of her face. “You had me. Wasn’t that enough?”

Whatever James’s answer, Virginia never hears it. An ear-piercing shriek rends the air, and she whips around, looking for the source. Something large and scaly is flying across the lake, and for a second she thinks it’s Anthony finally showing his true colors planning to eat them both. But the creature’s coming from the wrong direction, and it’s too small to be a full dragon.

“Wyvern!” James shouts, diving for the shore where their clothes are. “Anthony!”

Virginia scrambles after him, but the lake slows their movement, and the wyvern is too fast, it’s wings making waves on the still water. She curses herself for being such an idiot and leaving her armor back at the castle and her sword on the grass, it’ll be all her fault when James gets eaten—

A loud roar answers their yelling, the sound even more heart-stopping than the wyvern’s shrieking. A huge red dragon unfurls its wings underneath that budding tree, the kickback from it taking off nearly knocking Virginia backwards. Anthony shoots across the water, crashing into the wyvern in the air.

Virginia grabs James by the hand and runs the rest of the way out of the lake as the two creatures grapple. The wyvern puts up a fight, but Anthony is larger, his four legs outclassing the wyvern’s two, his claws and teeth strong enough to tear even the strongest of enemies to shreds. Eventually the wyvern goes limp in Anthony’s grip, and the dragon flies to the far side of the lake to dump its body on the shore before flying back to the two shivering humans on the other side.

Virginia has her sword in one hand, James’s hand in the other, and she brandishes the blade at him when he lands, her expression a fierce line of determination. Anthony merely folds his wings back and takes a few wobbling steps before the transformation magic overtakes him, body shrinking and scales disappearing until there’s nothing left but a naked human covered in blood. Most of it is blue, the wyvern’s blood, but Virginia spots a splash of red at his side, and then Anthony’s on his knees, falling forward into the grass.

They carry Anthony back to his room in the castle, and Virginia tends to his wounds. She has more experience with medicine than James, but even she’s never taken care of a dragon, and she’s unsure if what she can do will be good enough. The gash in his side is the worst of the injuries, and Virginia wonders if he wouldn’t heal faster if he had stayed in his dragon form instead of using up his magic turning back into a human. They can’t do anything until he awakens, so Virginia does the best she can, and then they wait.

She sits vigil with James, not wanting to leave his side. He worries the whole time, holding Anthony’s hand, brushing his hair from his forehead, making her check his bandages more often than she really needs to. Virginia doesn’t protest, just does as asked, surprised to find that she’s worried about Anthony herself. But it’s to be expected, she thinks. He did save their lives fending off that wyvern.

Anthony doesn’t wake for two days, but when he finally does, all his wounds are completely gone.

“I’m sorry for not telling you,” he says, voice a little weak, but otherwise sounding just like he had before. James hugs him tight, and Anthony soothingly runs a hand over James’s back. “I just needed to rest to give my magic time to heal everything. There was no need to worry.”

“Yes, well, we worried anyway,” Virginia snaps, and Anthony looks up at her in surprise. She clears her throat and corrects herself. “James was worried, and I was worried about James.”

“Of course,” Anthony says softly, kissing James on the forehead. Virginia doesn’t think he sounds entirely convinced.

Nothing changes after that day, and yet, Virginia can’t help but feel like something’s different. She’s not sure if it’s her, or James, or Anthony, but things seem...tense. They go about their days as normal, but sometimes she catches James and Anthony whispering to each other, only to have them clam up when she walks in. She doesn’t even see Anthony for an entire day, and when she asks James what’s wrong, he says there’s nothing wrong.

Dinner that evening is a suspicious affair, Virginia glancing between the two men. She’d been trying to give them extra space since the incident with the wyvern so they can spend time together without her, but this is getting ridiculous.

“Where were you today?” she asks Anthony straight out, not wanting to step politely around the issue. Anthony jumps, startled, and looks to James, who nods. Virginia’s confusion only ramps up at that odd gesture.

“I was...working,” he admits, setting down his fork. He pulls a box out of his pocket, then gets up and kneels beside Virginia’s chair. “In the hopes that you would accept this.”

He opens the box, revealing a golden necklace with the biggest emeralds that Virginia’s ever seen. Her eyes go wide, taking in the gift, then Anthony’s anxious expression.

“What is this?” She looks between him and James, because surely this didn’t come out of nowhere without being discussed with James.

“I wish to ask you to stay here with James and I,” Anthony says, sounding more uncertain than Virginia’s ever heard him. “This is a courting gift.”

Virginia feels incredibly faint. A dragon is presenting her with a courting gift. A dragon who just so happens to already be courting her best friend, who is (was?) a prince.

“And you’re all right with this?” she asks James, looking at him again.

James nods. “I suggested the emeralds, actually. The necklace is from me too.”

“You too,” she squeaks, then shuts her mouth and clears her throat. “This is...”

“You don’t have to say yes,” Anthony says hastily, still kneeling beside her. “You are free to leave at any time. But James and I would be very happy to have you stay.”

She should do as he says and leave. She was only here to get James back in the first place. But how could she return to the King and Queen without their son like she’d promised? She would be disgraced. And if she thought about it...she’s enjoyed her time here. Even if Anthony is a dragon, and the castle is hundreds of years old and starting to fall apart. They’re resourceful people. Maybe they can even put the place back together.

She reaches out, gently touching Anthony’s hand. He looks up at her, waiting, and she nods.

His nervousness fades away into a bright smile, and he stands, taking the necklace from the box. She holds her hair out of the way while he clasps the necklace around her neck, reverently laying the emeralds across her chest.

“Welcome home,” James tells her gleefully, getting up as well and moving around the table to take her hand in his.

Virginia looks down, brushing her fingers over the necklace. What a life she led, and it was all James’s fault. Still, as Anthony helped her stand and James wrapped his arms around her to give her a tight hug, she supposes it could be much, much worse.

[thedefinitionofbts]

Young

Alternatively “Wings of My Words” (你曾是少年)

Pairings: Jung Hoseok x Reader 

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Slice of Life, Tennis Player!Hoseok

Words: 10K

Description: 

He was someone you weren’t supposed to trust, someone who could break down your walls and leave you more vulnerable than you ever thought you could be. He was everything you knew you should stay away from, so why didn’t you think before falling?

Well, that’s simply because like every one who came before you, you were once rightfully and unapologetically…

Young.

A/N: Loosely inspired by the song “Young” by *cue Hobi’s voice* “their friends The Chainsmokers” and S.H.E’s “你曾是少年” (trans: you were once a youngster)

They say that when you reach your late-twenties you were supposed to have settled with a job, perhaps be on your way to marriage, starting a family, and have a relatively clear blueprint of the next ten or twenty years of your life. It’s when you’ve reached that period when musings like the meaning of existence, love, and the pursuit of happiness were things that you didn’t have time to contemplate because work life was hectic, you always had too much on your plate, and those youthful days of dreaming have long passed.

But that’s just what they say.

And it’s those moments where you’re sitting in a coffee shop, reading a book as the people on the streets outside go about their day, when the endless loneliness of your late-twenties, a time when you used to think by now you’d know what future you wanted to head towards and you should have life figured out and the path paved, hit you the hardest.  

You weren’t expecting anything in particular to happen today, but life in actuality is full of surprises.

“Y/N?”

The sound of his voice cuts through the background noise that you have consciously blocked out so you could enjoy the book gripped between your two hands, and you initially think you are just hearing things because the rhythm of the musical noise and the tone of the words escaping that person’s lips is so familiar it makes you actually believe you’re in a dream because the last time you heard that voice echo those exact syllables was ten years ago. But at this point, you have nothing to lose, so you look up from the words on the page just to make sure.

And it’s that defining moment in every cliché movie, the one where the main characters see each other for the first time in years, and they share this tumultuous past that the audience exists just to hear about.

Ok, maybe not that dramatic, but close enough.

And he looks just as good as the first time you set your eyes on him. He’s dressed differently though, draped in attire that makes him look more mature. His jawline is even more chiseled than you last remembered, raised eyebrows giving away the fatigue of age enhanced by the subtle wrinkling of his forehead. But his eyes…his eyes have not changed, even though they are looking at you in the most astonished way possible.

His hot cup of coffee is still gripped in his hand, and you can almost see it tremble slightly as you watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, swallowing and averting his eyes, most likely regretting calling out your name.

“H-Hoseok?” You manage to mutter just before he is able to utter an apology for disturbing you and running off.

  …

It was your first day of school. Scratch that. First day at your new school. You were already in your junior year of high school, when your dad decided to switch jobs and move your whole family to a new town, ripping you away from everything you knew: the close knit group of friends that you had been with for years, the relationships you had already begun to build with your teachers (for the purpose of getting good letters of recommendation for college), and the dreams you had worked towards reaching in tennis.

A small town up north with no indoor tennis courts.

How the fuck are you supposed to play in the winter? Junior year is when coaches recruit players for college, and every tennis player knows even a day without practice could negatively effect your game. It was absolutely vital that you got enough court time, something that will soon turn into an impossible feat. 

“Just focus on your studies from now on. There’s no use playing in college anyways.” Was what your dad had said to you, after you had dreamed of becoming a professional tennis player since you were 10, but soon realized being a professional athlete was not in the cards for you, not in this universe at least. Hence, at 15, you decided to change your plans and play in college instead; thinking at least you could get into a top school on a full scholarship that way.

Well, not anymore.

And the fact that the girls’ tennis team at your new school sucked balls (figuratively and probably literally too) made your point even more valid. Who were you even going to practice with? It’s not like the shitty town had a tennis club with experienced coaches or good players for that matter.

But enough of the details.

Point is things weren’t looking too bright for you. At least you managed to make a couple of friends pretty quickly, word got around about you leading the girls team to their first ever championship and also taking over the valedictorian-to-be spot with your perfect grades. Seolhyun, the girl who apparently held that spot before you came along, wasn’t too happy about it judging from the glares she would shoot you whenever you passed by her in the halls. But that’s to be expected right? You were no stranger to cutthroat competition and innate female jealousy, heck, you survived a number of years in the junior league where saying that it was a dog eat dog world was putting it nicely.

Your new group of friends, Jisoo, Jenny, Rose, and Lisa were four of the most popular girls in school, and they were pretty adamant about inviting you to be a part of their clique (something about anyone who could get Seolhyun jealous was worthy of joining them). And yeah, schools in small towns are cliquey, which you found out pretty early on. You didn’t want to join them at first, being the type to stray away from rumors and avoid high school drama like the plague, but you figured sitting with them at their “popular” lunch table was better than eating alone in the corner for the next two years.

“What’d you get?” Lisa voices, nodding to Rose, who was scrutinizing her test paper that the teacher had handed back last class.

“87” Rose huffs. “I was this close to an A” She says, rolling her eyes and folding the paper and tucking it away in her backpack.

“Still pretty good” Jisoo shrugs.

“Y/N, what did you get?” Jenny queries, turning towards you.

You look down at the perfectly preserved paper in your hands, not a single red mark to be found. No surprise, in fact you’d be disappointed in yourself if there were.

“100” Lisa voices, peeking over at your test.

…

All was going well in your new school. You were on your way to making it through the last two years of high school with virtually with no more bumps in the road… or so you naively thought.

It was everything about the way he carried himself, the way he dressed, the way he interacted with his friends and other students whom he clearly held an air of superiority towards that screamed stay away, especially for a star student like you. You needed to focus on getting into your dream school, now that tennis wasn’t a valid option any longer; a perfect SAT score combined with a commendable GPA was the ticket to getting where you were supposed to go.

No slip ups. And absolutely no distractions.

He was someone you definitely didn’t want to get involved with, and you knew that. You fucking knew it like the back of you hand, and it wasn’t a source of alarm, not at first, not at all, and certainly not obvious in the least. Something as impossible as falling for him was never a worry, never an imminent concern, and didn’t even show up on your radar until he called your name for the first time.

Being the No. 1 singles player on the girl’s team and winning the seasonal championship for your school last fall season (which would not have been possible had you not joined the team despite their crappy record), it wasn’t a surprise that the coach of the boys tennis team asked if you wanted to help out in the spring as a student assistant coach. Especially since the boy’s coach was a close friend of your fathers. They had played on the same team back during their university days, and he had helped you train last summer, so it was only natural that you would repay the favor. They were short on hands anyways.

Spring was boys tennis season. And today was the first day of practice and of course it would be raining outside in a town with, you repeat, no indoor tennis courts, meaning that there was no way you could play outside on the actual courts in risk of slipping and sustaining an injury that would have you out all season. The coach had decided to just have the team gather in the gym where he could go over logistics.

Everything was moving along smoothly until you decided to walk past the area where everyone was playing around to get to you phone, which you somehow accidentally left in your backpack. Very unlike you. And thinking back, it was perhaps because of your unlucky fate that it just so happened to be today that you would make your biggest mistake in high school…or so you thought at the time.

“Y/N, watch out!” You hear someone shout as you watch a fluffy yellow tennis ball zoom past your eyes. If you were a single step further along your walk to your backpack, you would’ve been hit smack in the face, earning you a bruised eye and who knows how many comments the next day.

You turn to see where the ball came from, only to have your eyes land on a boy wearing a backwards cap, decked out in Nike tennis apparel, and sporting a cheeky grin as he waited for you to turn and face him.

“Careful there” He says with a wink as you continue to stare, wondering how he knew your name when you didn’t have a clue who he was.

The flutter in your chest that the 17 year old you had not experienced in the past caught you by surprise as your eyes met his in that infinitesimal second that felt like a fleeting eternity. It snuck up on the you who was foolishly defenseless and unassuming, and it converted a seemingly harmless and deceptively casual encounter into a serendipitous moment you would look back on and remember for years to come.

…

A few days later, you see him again. And you start to wonder why you had never seen him around before. It was like after the day you became aware of his existence, there was no way to ignore the fact that he went to your school and he was, no matter how much you tried to ignore the thought, “pretty cute” as described by your 17 year old self. In your defense, finding a human being of the opposite sex attractive was not something out of the ordinary. But it was completely new to you because before this, you had never considered any of the guys in high school to be even remotely datable, based on your standards, which everyone you had discussed the matter with voiced that they were too high.

But to each their own, you would argue.

He was wearing his cap backwards again, a signature of his you assumed, a style that conveniently revealed his smooth forehead and even smoother facial skin. Wow, he didn’t even have pimples. But he did have this douche-y smirk plastered on his face as he spoke with his guy friends. One of which looked like some emo dude who didn’t give fuck and another who was tall which you recognized from literature class because he was always the first to raise his hand to answer questions. The entire scene was somehow attractive to you, and you knew from then, you were doomed.

“Who’s that?” You asked while eating lunch with your group of friends.

Jennie turns her head in the direction that you were looking. “Oh, you mean Jung Hoseok?”

“Hoseok?” You repeat, feeling the syllables roll off your tongue like you had finally found what you had been looking for, as if you were finally getting a taste of water after a long period of perpetual thirst.

“Yeah, he’s No. 1 on the boys team. He’s held that spot since freshman year, a real player. Figuratively and Literally.” Jennie says.

“What do you mean?” You inquire, finally dragging your gaze away from the magnetic source it was being drawn towards to turn to the girls, who were all looking at you now.

“Y/N, don’t tell me you’ve never seem him making out with a different girl every week.” Rosie replies. “He takes PDA to the next level. ”

You raise an eyebrow, grabbing another glance at the expensively dressed boy who was still busy talking to his group of guy friends.

“He may not look it, but-“ Rosie

“May not look it?” Jisoo cuts her off mid-sentence. “Have you seen the way he dresses? That button up shirt and slacks scream douche bag. Nobody dresses that nicely for school unless they were trying to impress people.”

“Preppy and rich. He’s a tennis player, what do you expect?” Lisa shrugs.

“I’m a tennis player” You defend, instincts kicking back in and siding against stereotypes against all tennis players in the world.

“We know, but you’re different” Jennie says, patting you on the shoulder. 

“Yeah, Hoseok just does it to get girls” Jisoo explains. “When was the last time he’s been in an actual relationship?”

“Ha, like never” Rose scoffs.

“Isn’t he with Seolhyun?” Lisa asks.

“They’re just playing around, last I heard” Jenny says. “Saw them making out in the hall by the band room this morning. Made me want to gag and tell them to get a room instead of trying to make everyone want to gauge their eyes out.”

…

Spring rain was finally letting up which entailed the beginning of actual practice. And yeah, you would think that after everything your friends warned you about, you would do everything you could to stay away from this Hoseok guy, but that wasn’t really plausible, now was it? You, being the student assistant coach for the boys’ tennis team, and Hoseok, being the No. 1 singles player.

You don’t want to sound like a broken record, but you were powerlessly and undeniably fucking doomed.

On day 1 of practice, the coach decided to make everyone play a game as warm up. One in which two teams of 3-4 people line up on opposite sides of the court, playing with only one shared racquet. A person was to hit the ball and then pass the racquet to the next person in line. First team to mess up loses.

You stand behind Hoseok as he hits a forehand and turns to hand you the racquet. There was nothing unusual about the interaction, nothing particularly noteworthy about the motion, and no big deal, that is until he decided to make it one with a very immature comment.

Hoseok takes a step closer to you. “Was I too rough?” You look up at him, swallowing the saliva that had built up in your mouth because of how close his body was to yours. You could practically feel the heat radiating from his chest, which is well worth to point out, was bare, as all the boys had conveniently removed their shirts because it was, quote unquote “too hot”, while you were still wrapped in your hoodie being the type to get cold easily. “Sorry, I’ll be more gentle next time” He winks and runs back in line. The boys behind you burst out in laughter.

Very mature.

“Y/N, why don’t you and Hoseok go play a match on court 1” You hear your coach shout over from the next court over. “Our first meet is this Saturday, and I want you to make sure he’s ready. 

No choice. You had no choice but to do as you were told.

But what you did have control over was showing Hoseok that playing with him was completely against your own will, despite that tiny bit of excitement churning in the pit of your stomach that you were choosing to ignore so you could put on a bitch face and show him you were not going to fall for his antics. 

“Go easy on me ok?” He says after you guys decide who was to serve first.

“As if” You scoff, grabbing the newly opened can of balls away from him and walk to the baseline to begin.

“Yeah, beat him Y/N” Taehyung shouts from the other side of the fence separating back-to-back courts. Taehyung and Jimin were doubles players, partners for life on and off court. They were safe to say, your favorites on the team so far.

Hoseok smirks as he watches you get in the zone, ready to kick his ass, in which 45 minutes later, you do.

“Game, set, match” You shout as you hit a winner straight off his serve.

Hoseok sighs and walks towards the net smiling to shake your hand. You can’t help but notice how large his hand is compared to yours, and how long and slender his fingers are. His grip is firm and when you were about to pull away, he holds his grip a millisecond longer, just enough to notice but not enough to suspect he had mischievous intentions or ulterior motives, if you will.

“Good match” He says, still smiling at you, and for a moment the thought that his smile is seemingly brighter than the sun crossed your mind, but it’s gone the instant you hear the other boys whistling and cheering.

Again. Very mature.

…

The next time you see him, he’s with his friends again. And you were just by yourself, minding your own business while walking to your next class, when you just so happen to run into him with his posse. They sure looked like they were having a good time, joking around and laughing in the hallway. And you think you can get by unnoticed, like Hoseok wouldn’t see you, or at least he’d pretend he didn’t know you while he was with his friends. But no, apparently that’s not how things work in this world.

“Y/N” You hear the familiar voice call just as you were about to make your getaway.

Looking up, you see that annoyingly friendly smile again. One that for some damn reason doesn’t look as douchey when it’s directed towards you, and it dangerously makes you forget the player that he is (in the non-tennis-wise sense), the warning that is written in his preppy attire and jock-like attitude.

“H-hey” You manage to reply but immediately regret as your shaking voice escapes your lips. What the fuck happened to the confident side of you that kicked his ass in tennis the other day?

Hoseok chuckles. “See you at practice” He waves and is off before you can turn your head and watch him walk off with his friends.

At least you didn’t have any classes with him, but there was no way to hide anything from your friends, especially with how fast the latest gossip flew around at your school.

“So what’s up with you and Hoseok?” Jisoo asks as she sits down next to you at the coveted “popular” lunch table.

“Me? Hoseok? Nothing” You say, almost a tad bit hysterically. How the fuck does she know? You sure as hell didn’t tell any of them you were helping coach the boys’ team.

“Namjoon told Jennie that Hoseok’s been talking about you lately” Jisoo continues.

“I heard my name” Jennie says as she walks up to the table, lunch tray in hand.

“We were talking about Hoseok” Jisoo explains. “Y/N, we warned you about him, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. And there’s nothing going on. I beat him in tennis a few days ago. He’s probably just bitter about it.” You shrug, hoping they would just let it go because talking about him made it worse. You didn’t even want to think about him, or be reminded of the way talking about him made you giddy and want to think about him more. Fuck.

“That’s not the story I heard” Jennie raises her eyebrow.

“Story?” Lisa says, rushing over to the table and almost spilling the contents of her tray all over the floor. “I want to hear a story!”

“It’s about Hoseok” Jennie takes a moment to inform Lisa. She then turns back to you. “Namjoon said Hoseok recently cut ties with Seolhyun.”

Rose, Lisa, and Jisoo all gasp at once.

“…and that has to do with me because….” You trail off, praying that you sound skeptical and nonchalant.

“According to what I was told, shit went down like this.” Jennie, puts both of her elbows on the table and takes a deep breathe. “Seolhyun thought she had Hoseok in the palm of her hands. Aka, she assumed they were together. Officially. Which we all know doesn’t apply to Hoseok, but I guess little miss former-almost valedictorian and prom queen thought she was good enough to tie him down. She had told everyone that they were dating. But then just the other day, Hoseok suddenly decided to walk up to Seolhyun to confront her about it, after not caring about the matter for weeks. ” Jennie crosses her arms. “And Hoseok said, quote ‘were we ever a thing?’”.

Jisoo gasps. “He said that to her after every one in the school has already seen them making out in the halls and assumed they were together? Unbelievable.”

“Seolhyun cried didn’t she?” Lisa says with a bored expression. Jennie nods, a fake sympathy conveyed by her sad pout.

“But what does that have to do with me?” You cut in, failing to see your own involvement in this type of high school drama that you swore you never wanted to be a part of.

“It’s simple. It just means he found his next target.” Rose answers.

“And it’s you.” Jennie adds.

…

Normally you wouldn’t get up early on Saturday mornings, but the SAT was in a month, and you had a mock test to complete. You tried not letting your mind wander off as you stared at the long, and might you add, dull paragraph in the critical reading section that was displayed in front of you. It wasn’t a big deal. You had been taking these so-called practiced tests every Saturday for a year now, and luckily have seen steady improvement. It was unlike you to be distracted while reading, especially not to the point where you had to go back and re-read the same section because you weren’t paying attention the first time you skimmed through. This was very alarming. And as much as you tried not to think about “other” things, for the first time in your high school career that just didn’t seem possible no matter how hard you tried.

“It was an unusually difficult section,” You explain as you watch your dad check your answers, only to shake his head every time he marked one wrong.

“And what happens if you get unlucky and face an unusually difficult test?” He asks, looking up at you sternly past his reading glasses.

“I’ll put in extra preparation this month” You assure him, and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as he nods, satisfied with your discipline. 

The boys were playing against their first school this afternoon, and coach was expecting you to go and “cheer them on”. The underlying meaning of it being, review their match playing strategy and figure out what they still needed to work on. Oh, and might you also add that he specifically requested you to “examine” Hoseok’s match because cause quote “the No. 1 singles player is the person who carries the entire team.” 

Again, no choice. But that didn’t change the fact that Hoseok’s match was probably the most exciting to watch because although you had beaten him, he was still the best on the team, and for someone who grew up in a small town with no access to indoor tennis courts, meaning he could only play for half of the year, he was pretty darn good.

You cheer for him, clapping every time he won a point, classic etiquette in tennis, but even if it wasn’t, that burst of a shout after he hit a backhand down the line was not controllable, and you felt your cheeks flush when you realized how loud you were, only emphasized when Hoseok spotted you in the crowd and smirked.

He wins. 6-2 6-3. Easy.

“Can I have your number?” Hoseok asks as he walks towards you and sit down next to you in the grass. You had moved over to check out the other matches going on, trying to avoid him, but again, things just don’t work out the way you want…or do they, because deep down you secretly wanted him to come over and talk to you.

Sure. “No” You force yourself to say.

Hoseok shrugs. “Coach gave it to me already. Told me to hit you up for extra practice this season.”

That motherfu-

“Then why did you even bother to ask? And is he even allowed to do that?” You make an offended face.

“Didn’t want it to feel like you were forced against your will, but it seems that it is.” It was the first time you saw the look of disappointment on his face, but you knew, you fucking knew this was all part of his plan to get you to feel sympathetic. It was just another trick in his bag of goodies.

“You don’t say?” You retort.

“It’s ok if you don’t want to. I just tell coach we’re both too busy with school.” He turns and stares at the courts distantly, and you almost feel guilty about being so cold to him. If you really thought about it, he’s never done anything to you, per se, you’ve just been heavily influenced by third party sources, and it’s unfair to assume based on rumors. Or you were too weak to control your inner desires. Fuck.

“I’ll do it,” You say after a sigh.

“Wait, what?” Hoseok turns and looks at you confused.

“I’ll practice with you” You say, turning to face him, and you think you’re imagining the way his eyes sparkle a little as he registers your words, the way a little twitch of his upturned lip gives away the delight he was trying to contain, and for a momentary pause in time you let yourself return his smile.

…

So you were right about coach screwing you over when he gave your number to Hoseok, because the first time you spoke with him alone, like actually alone, for a good three hours after practicing with him one-on-one, you fell for him… not that your weren’t already slowly slipping into said black hole before that.

And for some unknown reason, you led yourself to believe he wasn’t what everyone made him out to be. And no matter how many times you told yourself you were being a blind idiot, his full body laugh and suggestive smiles tore down whatever barrier you were trying to build between him and your dumb ass.

“You totally could’ve gone pro,” He says as he takes a sip of water from his bottle.

“I didn’t have what it took, mentally or physically.” You say, staring out at the empty park you guys were practicing by.

“Ok, I get the physical part.” He eyes you up and down, while you glance over and scowl at him. “You’re pretty small.”

“Gee, thanks” You mutter.

“What’s the average height for a female professional tennis player? 5’9? 175cm?” He looks at the sky; fluffy clouds drifting over to momentarily cover the sun.

“Yeah” You respond. “Can we not talk about me being short?”

Hoseok chuckles, his perfect smile making another appearance. “Sorry.” He sighs. “So what about the mental part?”

“I’m bad at dealing with my nerves. I choke.” You reply. It was true. Choking during a match is when a player gets so nervous, their legs feel like marshmallows and they can’t perform nearly as well as they should be able to. It’s when you muscles tense up and you make a ton of mistakes you normally shouldn’t, and lose to people you know you’re supposed to beat.

“Hey, we all do that” Hoseok says. “Getting nervous just means you really want to win, and it’s a necessary motivator.”

“Not when it’s an extreme case of the nerves,” You correct, turning towards him. “But whatever, it’s in the past. Tennis isn’t really my thing anymore.”

There’s a short pause and it’s in no way awkward or uncomfortable.

“But you’re still really good. Like really good. I can only imagine how good you were when you really trained intensely. ” He smiles. And you can’t refuse the warmth that spreads through your chest at his comment. It’s been a long time since you’ve heard such kind words about your tennis skills. Not just kind, but sincere words from someone who really understood why you had to give up your dream, a person who knows you’re still amazing even though you didn’t make it, an earnest appreciation for the hard work you put in for so many years. 

You don’t know if that conversation is what led to the events that came after. Namely Hoseok asking you out on a real date and you somehow (or rather predictability at this point) agreeing, him driving you around town and chatting with him while sitting in the passenger seat like some country song, secret flirty glances during all subsequent practices which you thought no one noticed, and even studying together on weekends at the coffee shop by your house.

Snowball effect. That’s what it was. 

You also blame the raging teen hormones.

And on top of that, the infamous “first love”, the one that everyone talks about because it’s exhilarating and unforgettable and unapologetically so. Feelings you never even imagined existed were constantly churning in the pit of your stomach, and even though you knew it was precarious, having been warned of the risk you were taking with someone like him beforehand, you didn’t care. Not when Hoseok held your hand as if he would never let it go, not when he locked his lips with yours as if you were his last love, and certainly not when day in and day out the thought of him was what made you happier than you’ve ever been.

“You’re No. 1 in our class?” He asks, flipping through your test papers all marked with perfect scores.

“Honestly, high school is not that hard” You shrug.

Hoseok’s mouth hangs open in awe. “Teach me your ways,” He says, making a motion to get on his knees and bow down to you.

“Pls” You roll your eyes before laughing.

“You probably get this a lot, but how are you so perfect?” He comments, gazing into your eyes in a way that makes you swallow nervously and your heart pound like crazy.

…

“Just friends?” Jennie huffs, crossing her arms and shaking her head. You had confronted her after the rumors of you and Hoseok dating spread like wildfire.

Not surprising at all.

“Hoseok doesn’t date remember?” You lie, knowing perfectly well that you and Hoseok were most definitely not “just friends”. Especially not when you were planning on having him meet your parents next weekend. Yeah, meeting your parents. The same parents who specifically stated they didn’t want you to date in high school and especially not in the all-important year you were applying to college. But it was getting hard lying to them about where you were going on Friday nights and Saturday afternoons, and it was impossible to explain why someone was now driving you home after tennis practice so you don’t have to take the bus for an hour every day.

“Which is why you need to cut ties with him!” Rose jumps in before Jennie could say anything.

“I think I can handle it guys” You say, trying to quell the annoyance that was building up. You were beginning to hate the way they spoke about Hoseok, about how he’s this douche bag who plays with girls’ hearts, when in reality he’s nothing like that and everyone had just been blinded by nasty rumors.

Of course, it was everyone else who was blind and not you.

“We just don’t want to see you get hurt,” Jennie says, reaching over and caressing your arm when she noticed you were getting a little worked up.

Thinking back, you probably should’ve taken her warning more seriously. But then again, maybe it was good that you didn’t.

It was safe to say that your parents did not like Hoseok. Did not like as in, they’re going to make it blatantly obvious that they disapproved of him more than you failing a test, and that said a lot.

“I’d advise the both of you to stop this nonsense and focus on school.” Your dad had said the moment Hoseok sat down at the dinner table.

“I’m sorry?” Hoseok says, confused as to why a supposed introductory dinner was starting out on such hostile footing.

“Hoseok, was it?” Your dad continues, ignoring the alarmed looks from you. “I heard you play tennis. How are you grades? Do you plan on entering an elite university?”

Hoseok clears his throat. “My grades are average. They’re not stellar, so I’m planning on attending a middle tier school.” He answers, and you can sense the tension in the room, like it was this puff of smoke that was clogging your lungs.

Your dad chuckles. “You are aware of my daughter’s standards, right?”

“I-“ Hoseok begins but is cut off.

“I don’t know how you found the audacity to approach her with your” Pause. “average skills.” He says.

“Dad!” You shout, not being able to believe he was saying this.

Hoseok was containing himself well, you had to give him props for that because god knows how irritated and downright embarrassed he must feel on the inside. And your dad just wouldn’t stop, no matter how much you nudged his leg under the table, the attacking comments just kept coming. 

“Please excuse me” Hoseok says when he finally couldn’t stand the attacks from your dad any longer. He storms out of the house, holding back from starting a real fight because that would’ve led to an even bigger disaster.

You follow after him, but he’s already pulling out his car keys.

“Hoseok!” You shout. “Wait” You grab onto his arm, and he turns around to look at you tenderly. Anger evaporating from his previously tensed expression.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, ok” He says with a weary smile before getting in his car and driving off.

And you think you’re dreaming and the events that went down did not just happen, but you’re tackled by the reality that is a nightmare the moment you walk back in your house. Your dad had left the table, and it was just your mom, cleaning up the untouched food in eerie silence.

“You’re wasting your time with him.” She said, as you willed yourself to hold back the tears that were nipping at your eyes.

“But mom, I can handle school and-“

“I’m not talking about what your father was saying” She interrupts. “I’m purely considering the fact that young love rarely lasts, and he doesn’t look like the kind of person who will stay with you through the storm.”

“How would you know!” You almost shout back, it was the first time you had the audacity to speak to your mom in this way, but the fact that she just labeled Hoseok after knowing him for one dinner made you livid.

“Well, are you the first girl he’s been with?” She asks, voice revealing that she already knew the answer.

No. “I don’t know” You lie. You knew you weren’t.

“Do you believe he will stay faithful to you when you both go off to college?”

I don’t know. “Yes” You murmur, genuinely unsure, so that was technically only half a lie.  

“Honey” She says. “You’re still young, you’ll meet plenty of great people in the future. ”

And you would’ve made an even bigger mistake if you had took her word on that, because we all know the heart will not follow any sort of logic, and fate is not something anyone can decide.

… 

…

“It’s been a while. How have you been?” You say as you watch the familiar, yet unfamiliar figure, pull out a chair and seat himself in front of you.

“10 years. I’ve been decent. Could be worse.” He chuckles. “You?”

“I’m good.” You answer.

“Classic easy way out answer” He grins, and you can still see remnants of the sun in his smiling face, although the fuel that the burning flames had run on had been sucked dry lately.

You find out that he recently found a job in the city, after being unemployed for over 6 months when the marketing company he worked for went bankrupt. It sounded like quite the struggle, but everyone was struggling in today’s economy.

“I got my PhD two years ago, and I’m still a postdoc in my current lab” You explain, trying to sound casual, and summarizing the last 10 years in once succinct sentence. It felt strange knowing the person sitting across from you was once the closest person to you outside of family but now exiled to that awkward place between acquaintance and old friend.

You watch as he nods his head slowly, soaking in the circumstances and most likely feeling the same kind of nostalgic awkwardness that you were. He sighs and takes a cautious sip of his coffee in effort to postpone having to take the lead in this unexpected meeting of sorts.

“Going down the academic professor route?” He queries, raising an eyebrow and curving his lips upward in attempt to lighten the mood like old times.

You chuckle a little. “Honestly, I’m not too sure. I’ve never embraced the thought of being a college professor. Writing proposals all the time for funding and having to be responsible for students who have paid a ton of money for good education.” 

“Ah, right, you’re not too good with pressure.” He nods, understandingly.

And you’re surprised he still remembers.

The Jung Hoseok who you have not spoken to in over 10 years still remembers the first real conversation he had with you that day on the tennis court in the empty park in that small town. That defining moment which lead your two paths to cross, one in which you revealed more of yourself than you had initially intended.  

“How do you like the city?” You ask looking into his eyes that still remind you of so many things you’ve chosen to forget.

“It’s beautiful and exciting. There’s so much to do and it’s so different from the small towns I’m used to.” His eyes glance over at the scenery outside the window, the tall skyscrapers blocking a view that would otherwise go on for miles. “So far I’m liking it, but I don’t know if I’ll be feeling the same after living here long-term.”

“Yeah, it can get hectic. And public transportation is frustrating, especially if you have a long commute to work like me.” You voice, thinking of all the times you cursed at rush hour traffic and the one late night you took the subway after midnight and waited two hours for the train that took it’s sweet ass time.

Small talk.

You weren’t particularly good at it, and it always made you conscious of how awkward you are as a social creature, but you subtly wanted Hoseok to keep you company for as long as possible. Because he’s the one person from your past that you, admittedly, haven’t forgotten despite your not so strong attempts to do so.

It works. For a good hour or so before he finishes his coffee and tells you he needs to head out. You smile and nod, and tell him that it was good to see him, a pleasant encounter that could only be described at fate hard at work again, but you try and not think about it that way because it sounds stupid. Because you don’t know what he’s thinking or if you’ll ever get answers to why things happened the way they did, whether it was for better or worse. You also don’t know if you’ll ever see him again by chance, or if this is actually your last chance to do something. Anything. So thank god you ran out of that coffee shop, summing up every last ounce of courage you had and took matters into your own hands. Closing the distance between two parallel lines with your own strength instead of letting such a destined opportunity pass.

“Hoseok, wait” You call after him, rushing to stop him from not only physically leaving, but leaving the one thing that had been left unresolved for so many years.

He turns, staring perplexedly at your frenzied state.

“I just have one more question.” You say, trying to catch your breath. You bite your bottom lip, maybe it was a mistake to ask, but it’s been long enough right? 

“Why did you do it?” You finally manage to blurt out.

The expression that crossed his face is unreadable. It was a mixture of acceptance, a calmness that almost seemed indifferent and detached, and lingering regret, a pain from an old would that doesn’t go away because a part of your nerves have been scarred. That feeling of being powerless over the things you can’t control, like not being tall enough to be a professional athlete, not being able to see the uncertain future but trying to shape the un-shapeable anyways, or just simple making mistakes because you were young.

…

…

Dating in secret. Or at least that’s what it felt like. It was obvious that no one accepted your relationship. Not your friends and certainly not your parents.

What made it even worse was that this mess you were in, hindered your test performance. You had to re-take the SAT, a fact that made your father very, very unhappy. But for once in your finely tuned life, you didn’t fucking care that your world was gradually crashing down. So what if you didn’t get into your “dream school”? Did that define you as a person? Did that mean you were a failure for life?

You had heard of countless stories where success was not determined by test scores, grades, or what college a person attended. Besides, both Bill Gates and Steve Jobs were drop outs, and look how successful they became. 

It was a new kind of mindset you adopted. One in which compelled you to sneak out to bars with Hoseok at night, get drunk while underage, make love in public places while hidden under the guise of moonlit nights. And it was exhilarating, the way young love, first love, is supposed to be.

Hearing the sound of pebbles hitting your window, you already know who it is. You had been waiting for him, pretending to be asleep when you had told your parents goodnight and rushed up to your bedroom with a stomach full of anticipation. Kicking off your blankets you practically sprint to your window, opening it to the fresh breeze that kisses your face. 

“Ready?” You hear a voice shout lightly from below. You nod, enthusiastically, the same reaction you give him every time he sneaks you out to the bar late at night.

“Where are we going?” You breathe after getting into his car and realizing he’s not taking you the usual route.

“Somewhere I’ve wanted to take you for a while now” He replies, eyes focused on the road and mouth curved upwards in a warm smile. Your eyes trace along the curves of his silhouette, the contours of his figure outlined by the moon and etched in your memory. The way he controls the steering wheel with one arm and rests his other hand gently on your thigh is something you should’ve gotten used to by now, but the way his arm veins bulge with every small movement and the way his fingers dance on your skin never fails to ignite a flame in you.  

Hoseok takes you to an open field, doesn’t sound too appealing at first, but it’s not just any field, it’s a meadow, a field of flowers. And although you can’t see much at night, he insists that the glow of the moon and stars will be enough to see all that you think may be cloaked in darkness.

And he’s right. Or maybe you’re just caught up in the moment because you think you can see fluttering shapes when the wind brushes by, petals dancing in the air, their outline only visible because of the marginally lighter night sky, and the occasional sparkle of fireflies lighting up the black canvas.

He leads you over to a soft patch of grass under a tree, and the you who is normally terrified of the dark, especially in such a remote location feels fearless right then because Jung Hoseok could be leading you to the end of the world and you would gladly follow, no further questions asked. And your young mind chooses to believe that he was all you needed, because the warmth from his hands and the tenderness of his caress makes you wonder how you ever lived without his presence, something that seemed to feel just as important as the fundamental necessities that provided you with life.

When you sit down next to him and lean against his ever so familiar body, he wraps am arm around your shoulder, securing you in his embrace. He looks at you with an endearing gaze, lifting his other arm and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You know I was warned to stay away from you right?” You voice, waiting to see how Hoseok would react to your not-so surprising revelation.

“Yeah, which is why I was shocked you agreed to go out with me.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep, sedative breath. “But would you believe me if I told you that you were my first.”

“So you lied about not being a virgin?” You raise an eyebrow, invisible in the dark but laced in your voice.

Hoseok laughs lightly. “No, not first in that sense.” He clears his throat, taking the time to organize his thoughts; running through his next words in his mind before letting them slip past his lips. “The first girl that made me stop thinking about other girls…the only person that makes me want to better myself…oh god, I suck at this.” He sighs, blushing in embarrassment.

You giggle, reaching an arm up to touch his face, cupping his cheek in your hand.

“Don’t worry, I get it,” You say with a smile, head still rested against his firm, comforting chest.

Hoseok was someone who made you want to choose love over bread because for a fleeting moment in time, you wholeheartedly believed it didn’t matter how shitty everything else in the world was, as long as he was with you, you could create a happiness.

“Hoseok?” You murmur after a long period of silent gazing at the nocturnal landscape.

“Hmm?” He hums, shifting slightly to look at you, who by now has raised your head to gaze at him.

“What do you think will happen to us?” 

He sighs gently. “I wish I knew.” He whispers.

“We can go to the same college.” You suggest, a statement that causes him to fall silent.

“Y/N” Hoseok voices, and it’s hard to identify the emotion entangled in his voice. It’s almost stern, but also weary at the same time. “I could never get into those schools that you’re applying to.” He huffs a silent chuckle.

“That’s ok, I’ll just apply to the schools you’re applying to” You say, almost cheerfully, like you were choosing to ignore how naïve your declaration sounded.

He removes his arm from your shoulder and sits up to look at you, placing his hands on your cheeks and rubbing the soft flesh with his thumb, like he was wiping nonexistent tears from your face.

“No, you’re not going to make sacrifices for me.” He says, still staring into your eyes. “You’re going to get into your dream school, and you’re going to be the successful women you were destined to be.” He smiles faintly. “You’ll fly high in your life, and know that I’ll be cheering you on.”

…

It was no miracle that you did get the acceptance letter from your dream school. Apparently not being able to test well under pressure was exactly what was holding you back from achieving the coveted perfect score on the SAT. And it was all thanks to Hoseok that you were able to rid yourself of that hindrance. It wasn’t just the fact that he changed you in a fundamental way, but he had also continued to help you cope with pressure and the expectation that you had been held up to all your life.

As you had voiced before, high school classes weren’t that hard so your GPA did not suffer at all, even though you were spending half of your free time going on dates with Hoseok, living freely without care despite the weight that continued to rest on your shoulders. It seemed like a win-win, and maybe now your parents would at least attempt to accept him. And you think you’ve finally figured everything out, that everything was now, truly falling into place.

You think. But when have you’re thoughts actually reflected reality correctly?

And then you learn that when your world actually comes crashing down, it doesn’t happen slowly. You can’t see everything falling one by one, the tiles sliding down the walls of your reality giving you time to make a run for it at least. But no, crashing worlds are not that nice to the living, it’s not gradual, it just flashes by, demolished in one single swoop.

It happens when you’re walking down the familiar halls of the school you almost grew to feel comfortable in. The band hall in particular. The one where the Hoseok you knew, diverted from the Hoseok everyone else at the school knew…or so you thought.

“Turn away” You hear Jennie shout before pushing you to face the other direction.

“Why-“ You begin to ask but are cut off by a gasp from Rose and Jisoo.

“Oh no…” Lisa murmurs. 

“Guys, what’s happening?” You question, trying to turn to see but the four of them are intentionally blocking your view.

And then you see it.

“You fucking asshole!” You shout down the hall at the two people making out like they were putting a show on for the world.

The girl turns around; face shocked with fear and quickly runs off as you stomp up to none other than Jung fucking Hoseok.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You ask through gritted teeth, you were feeling slightly dizzy, partially hoping that maybe, just maybe, this was all a nightmare you would soon wake up from. But it clearly wasn’t, because Hoseok’s grip on your arm is tight enough to cause you to lose circulation as he drags you outside. You attempt to rip your arm away, but he’s too strong.

“Stop making a commotion” He says, almost calmly, like he had all of this planned or some shit.

“EXPLAIN.” You order. “And if you’re going to come up with shitty excuse laced lies, I’m leaving” You spit, crossing your arms and staring him down with a piercing gaze.

And that motherfucker has the nerve, the audacity, to fucking smirk.

“I’m not going to sugar coat any of this. It is exactly what you saw.” Hoseok says nonchalantly. He places his arms on his hips and turns his head to direct his attention to the grass blowing in the field like he didn’t just slap you in the face. “You’re better off without an asshole like me.” He sighs.  

“Stop acting like this is a fucking Korean drama Hoseok!” You scream, tearing rushing down your face hot and angry. “You’re not doing anyone favors here. Hoseok, please…” You reach out and grab his arm, desperately, thinking that maybe he’ll snap out of whatever trance he was in. The robotic look in his eyes was scary and you don’t know why, what, how…there were just too many questions.

“I’m not playing around!” He says, finally letting the anger he was containing make its way to his voice. “Look at you, and me, we- we’re a fucking joke. And I know you’ve known the kind of person I am, don’t fucking pretend you actually believed I was someone different.” He huffs a laugh and it’s almost hysterical. “Y/N, look, I can spit out some fake apology right now, but I’m sure that’s not what you want to hear. Let’s just quietly go our separate ways. Good luck in college.” And that’s the last thing you hear from him as your heart clenches in your chest, limbs going numb, and ears ringing.

You stare as he tears his detached gaze from your puffy eyes, and you almost believe you’re hallucinating when you see the slight falter in his indifferent, heartless verging on cruel, expression. Because his eyelids droop a little, and his bottom lip quivers in a way that makes you want to hug him and tell him you know why he’s doing this and he doesn’t fucking have to, and let’s just forget all this shit happened and pretend we’re still strong enough to stay together no matter what the world decides to throw on us. But it’s just a fleeting thought, one that you don’t have the strength to put in action because you know it would be useless, and you don’t trust your instincts 100%, not when he’s ripping his arm from your grip and disappearing back into the school building.  

And he when he thinks you’re not watching anymore, when he assumes he’s out of sight, Hoseok crumbles, shoulders slumping and hand covering his mouth to muffle his hushed sobs.

Tennis season was over. Graduation was approaching, and you never saw him again, not in the halls, not picking you up to go on a date in town, not knocking on your bedroom window at night even though you foolishly, pathetically waited all summer, unwilling to let go of the fictional possibility that he would maybe, just maybe, come back.

He doesn’t.

Not for the next 10 years at least.

…

…

“I didn’t want to get in the way of your dreams” He replies. Simple, yet complicated because it was something you knew but couldn’t put to rest because it was unconfirmed.  

“So you did do it for me” You whisper, finally realizing you weren’t being delusional in thinking he didn’t cheat on you because he didn’t really love you.

“But I guess if I was really trying to be the hero in all this, I shouldn’t have bothered approaching you in the first place, right?” He forces a smile, but you know him well enough, even if it was the him 10 years ago, to understand that he not only hurt you but himself in the process. “And apparently love is more like talent rather than hard work” He chuckles lightly, looking down at the ground. Talent, something you are born with and don’t have a say in deciding how much of it or what kind you have, and hard work, the part of the path to success that you can regulate. It’s the age-old nature vs. nurture battle, and Hoseok was absolutely right. Love is nature, the talent that is gifted by the heavens, written in the stars. “It’s not something you can control.” 

Walking alongside him for the first time in years, your instincts lead you to Central Park, a gracefully designed natural environment with modern and traditional European architectural elements: a castle by the lake, flower gardens, and grassy fields to layout and bask in the sun. The trees that provided shade made you feel like you were finally alone with Hoseok once again, privately relieving a past you found hard to forget.

He doesn’t voice that he’s sorry, knowing that being sorry doesn’t do anything productive and only induces a sense of pity, but also accepting the fact that he made the decision that he did because he truly believed it was for the best at the time. It’s hard when you’re young and faced with an uncertain future and a relentless environment where people are constantly spewing toxic words and hurtful opinions at you. You get frustrated easily, wanting to make the right choices while at the same time, yearning for your own desires. Hoseok doesn’t know if he would change things if given the chance to go back. He doesn’t know if a slightly more mature version of himself would’ve chosen to avoid such catastrophic events, but one thing’s for sure, he loved you with all his heart, even though he was…young.

“So what happens now?” You ask.

“Since I’m here in the city now, if you want, we can meet up anytime” He responds. 

“Are you subtly asking me out?” You smirk.

“I’m a little rusty.” He sighs. “But yes, I am.” He smiles. “That is, if you want. Otherwise, we can pretend none of this happened.”

“I would love to” You respond soothingly, causing a familiar surprised look to spread across his features.

“I am in no way questioning your decision, but I can’t help but wonder why? A beautiful and successful woman like you should have men kissing the ground you walk on.” His eyes are wide and his lips are slightly parted, a reaction that makes your chest tingle with bursts of endearment.

“Because you remind me of a past I cannot go back to.” You voice matter-of-factly.

“Is that good or bad?” He nervously glances at you.

“I don’t have a clue.” You smile with a sigh. “I just know that to this day, I still clutch on to it as if it was what my life depended on. And I don’t have the desire or the will power to let it go.” You finish with a shrug.

At that Hoseok smiles, a beam that is indeed brighter than the sun, one that hits just the right notes, showing up at just the right time, and you know that this is right, that this is without a doubt unequivocally perfect, because it brings back something you had been missing for a long time.

And for now, you’re going to put off worrying about the future like the people around you keep urging you to do, and instead embrace the return of the kind of recklessness that is so often associated with youth because the man walking next to you right now is leading you in the direction in which your heart faces and for now, you don’t want to have it any other way.

…

[thegodcup]

Below is a post from hipsobriety. I pasted the whole text here because I wanted to be able to highlight the parts that I relate to directly. But, then I realized that I would be highlighting almost the whole thing. What she describes is a universal experience.  A couple months ago, I listened on the phone as my dear friend Holly read to me a draft of a long, thoughtful, honest piece about her experience with AA and its part in her recovery journey.

When she finished I took a long, deep breath. Holly’s story is gorgeously brave – just like her. She’s an example of the deep well of power we can find in the softness of our human hearts. She is also fiercely fierce.

She's been sober for two years, and has had a mostly negative experience with AA. Whenever she describes her story I find myself getting defensive, which is interesting. I think it’s natural to want to defend things that mean something to us, especially when those things feel so connected to our own safety. But I also get it. While my experience has been very different, I get it. I’ve had mixed feelings about it at many points. I’ve wrestled with the language, the people, the groupthink mentality, all of it. I’ve wished I could be one of those people who walked into the rooms and never questioned a thing, but I’m not.

But today I’m grateful that I don’t fuss too much with how I feel about AA. How I feel about it – like many things – changes all the time. Maybe a little bit like a long-term relationship, when you’ve reached that place where your love and commitment to the thing, the respect, the reverence that you’re in the hands of the Universe anyway, trumps the inevitable and lesser ups and downs. The benefits far outweigh the perceived costs. Are there things that bug me? Sure. But my relatively short experience has taught me that when I put myself in the middle of AA, I don’t drink. When I go to meetings regularly I feel infinitely better, emotionally and spiritually. When I don’t, I start to feel jiggy. I don’t totally get the connection, but that’s fine. I also don’t get how electricity works.

I spent a lot of time intellectualizing my thoughts and dissecting my feelings about AA and you know what? None of that helped me stay sober. Because what I was actually intellectualizing was my drinking – and that’s not an intellectual exercise.

So what if the same annoying person drones on for twenty fucking minutes about the story you’ve heard 100 times before, again. There’s someone who might need to hear it. Patience. Tolerance.

So some of the language in the big book is misogynistic and simple – maybe even offensive to me as a writer. It was written in the 1930’s (and yes, it could use an update), but the underlying message is still brilliantly beautiful and profound. Take what works – leave the rest.

So there are some weirdos, crazies, and people I find incredibly annoying in the program.Welcome to life. Everywhere. By and large, the majority of people I’ve come across in the rooms of AA are wonderfully compassionate, surprisingly funny, and exceedingly honest. They possess the rare qualities I most love in human beings who’ve gone through and survived some kind of hell: humility, spirituality, tolerance and a deep respect for life. It took time to find my crew and appreciate this vibe. It took a lot of shopping around meetings, sitting through bad ones, tolerating annoyances, time. But I can honestly say that when I’m in those rooms I feel a sense of calm and hope I don’t feel anywhere else.

It’s also important to note I do a lot of other things to keep moving forward, and by no means do I think AA is the only way to get and stay sober, nor do I think it’s the best way for everyone. It’s just what has worked for me so far. The other things I do – some of which are technically part of the program (meditation, prayer, honesty with others, service work) and some of which are technically not (yoga, running, lots of sleep, baths, writing, engaging in any creative outlet possible) have only been encouraged and enhanced by what I’ve learned in the rooms and through the people.

When Holly finished reading me her post I said I was bummed she’d had such a bad experience, because mine has just been so different. She asked if I’d write about my experience and I said, of course.

So I’ve distilled why I believe AA has worked for me so far into three primary points: the people, the ritual, and God energy.

THE PEOPLE. I FOUND A TRIBE.

Photo credit: Unsplash

“We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community.”

Being a human can be lonely. Being a human with an acute alcohol addiction is desperately, painfully lonely. By the end of my drinking I was surrounded by people, but nobody knew my insides. Nobody knew how much I was drinking, the crushing shame and anxiety I felt because of the things I did when I drank, how important booze was to me, how much I relied on it to feel normal, social, human. Even I didn’t know. We go to such great lengths to protect the addiction – such great lengths – that over time, incrementally, despite ourselves, we create a separate world with a population of two – us and the alcohol. While we exist in, manage, and are part of entire lives that include families and co-workers and big, vibrant circles of friends and houses and plans we are constantly, dreadfully alone.

In the rooms of AA I heard people describe my insides exactly. I heard people speak in a way I thought impossible. I’ve had more than a few friends say that while sitting in their first meeting, they were sure the person who took them there had tipped off the room, told them about their story, because the things people were saying were just too familiar, too close to their own experience, how could they possibly know? It’s funny but true. Of course nobody tipped them off. As wonderfully unique and special we all are, our human experiences are collectively, boringly similar. Love is love. Pain is pain. Fear is fear. Addiction is addiction. The thing Dr. Bob and Bill Wilson captured in the Big Book is the essence of what it’s like to experience alcoholism – the physical, mental and spiritual aspects of the disease – and every time we sit in a meeting we get the chance to recognize and be recognized, to hear how others have walked through it, to nod our heads and say, Yes, me, too. There is magic in Me, too. Me, too is the antidote to loneliness.

So by sitting there, listening and talking, I found a tribe. I now have a large circle of people I know from AA – some are very close friends, some are acquaintances, some are just familiar faces – all sharing this common, bizarre experience. I know so many people I wouldn’t have otherwise come across in my everyday life. People who used to be homeless, CEOs, Broadway dancers, insurance executives, total misfits and weirdos, wonderful humans. I hang out with these people inside and outside the rooms. When I first came in, they invited me to parties – sober parties – and I saw people having actual, real fun without drinking (gasp!). I was invited to dinners, to coffee, to run 10Ks and go on ski trips. They said, come along with us. They let me be weird and self-conscious and shaky like the most awkward days of junior high. When I said I was angry about everything, uncomfortable as fuck and sad, they nodded their heads, I knowand I have been there and Me, too. They told me to call whenever and picked up their phone when I did and didn’t ask why I was calling. They smiled when I showed up at a meeting after going missing for a few weeks and didn’t say, Where have you been?  But instead, I’m so happy to see you.

Anne Lamott talks about how at some point in her recovery process, she had developed relationships with so many people who were invested in her sobriety that she couldn’t just disappear anymore. If she went off the radar for more than a day or so, she’d get calls or people would show up at her house. She called them “The Interrupters.” I have a crew of them myself now, and 90% are folks I met in AA. They keep tabs. They send texts and call. They show up. They don’t let me disappear, even if I want to. This is a tribe and it’s important in sobriety (and life) because we humans get lost easily, we imagine ourselves alone, we float off to the edge. And the edge is where you can fall off.

Lest you think this sounds like a total love fest, let me be clear: it’s not all a love fest.Sometimes when I’m sitting in meetings I press the palms of my hands into my eye sockets willing someone to shut up. I’ve walked out of meetings because I can’t listen for one more second longer. I’ve wanted to punch certain people right in the face, make-out with others, and sometimes I just shake my head. But underneath all that I get access to some bigger, deeper realm where none of that shit matters – the “good” or the “bad” – because I know we’re all doing something so much more important just by sitting there, being totally imperfect.

Anne Lamott talks about how at some point in her recovery process, she had developed relationships with so many people who were invested in her sobriety that she couldn’t just disappear anymore. If she went off the radar for more than a day or so, she’d get calls or people would show up at her house. She called them “The Interrupters.” I have a crew of them myself now, and 90% are folks I met in AA. They keep tabs. They send texts and call. They show up. They don’t let me disappear, even if I want to. This is a tribe and it’s important in sobriety (and life) because we humans get lost easily, we imagine ourselves alone, we float off to the edge. And the edge is where you can fall off.

Lest you think this sounds like a total love fest, let me be clear: it’s not all a love fest.Sometimes when I’m sitting in meetings I press the palms of my hands into my eye sockets willing someone to shut up. I’ve walked out of meetings because I can’t listen for one more second longer. I’ve wanted to punch certain people right in the face, make-out with others, and sometimes I just shake my head. But underneath all that I get access to some bigger, deeper realm where none of that shit matters – the “good” or the “bad” – because I know we’re all doing something so much more important just by sitting there, being totally imperfect.

THE RITUAL: PATIENT ACTION

The ritual of meetings and the emphasis on action is another reason AA works for me. For a couple reasons:

I am lazy and dislike routines. I want to do things on my time, when I want to do them, the way I want. Which is fine and all, except when it comes to changing behaviors, paying bills and getting my kid to school on time. Particularly now, in early recovery, the simple practices of AA has been crucial. I remember when my first sponsor told me to call her every day. I thought, Every. Day?! I don’t talk to anyone EVERY DAY. But after a while (and enough falling on my face) I figured out why: recovery is a daily thing. Like one of the old timers said, “You wouldn’t skip a shower today because you took one yesterday would you?” (Well, yes. Yes I would skip a shower today, but point taken.)

It’s the same as any behavior we want to change. We must rewire our brains with new behaviors and that means action. Not talking about it, thinking about it, writing about it, but actually doing it. Sitting your ass in a chair and doing it. Over and over.

I also think it’s important to say, nothing “bad” happens if I don’t go to a meeting or call my sponsor every day, the program doesn’t require anything except a desire to stop drinking – these are just suggestions. Yet things seem to go a hell of a lot better when I follow those suggestions. At minimum, I stay sober. And at best, I help someone else do that.

“Every act or decision we make that supports life supports all life, including our own. The ripples we create return to us. ”

I have amnesia. We all do. We romanticize horrible relationships when they're over, we revere the dead even when they were assholes, and we forget the negative consequences of our behavior, over and over again. But when you have amnesia about a thing that can cause as much damage as drinking, it’s actually dangerous. When our neural pathways have been formed for years upon years (for me, 20!) to do a thing -- and that thing is so closely associated to daily living (laundry, dinner, restaurants, sex, 5:00 pm Monday - Friday (happy hour!), sporting events, sunny weather, fall weather, snowstorms, holidays, birthdays, thirsty Thursdays, celebrations, tough days, whatever – a hell of a lot of rewiring needs to happen.

When I first knew I had to quit drinking every day felt so fragile. Like I could step on a crack in the sidewalk and end up drunk again. Having a place to go and physically put by body was helpful and necessary. The rituals of going to a meeting, reading the preamble, hearing the same words, seeing familiar faces, the format of meetings, the daily-ness of it, I needed it. I like it. They say, move the feet and the heart will follow and I have found that to be the case.

GOD ENERGY

Photo credit: Unsplash

The third reason AA works for me is that in those rooms I find what I call “God energy.”

This has nothing to do with religion.

It’s the energy I feel when I am near the ocean, lost in a beautiful book, watching my daughter sleep, teaching yoga, in the writing flow. It’s an elevated energy - the vibration of hope and change. I want as much of it as I can get, on a daily basis, because it makes me feel better and not in a bottle-of-wine-or-six donuts-way, but in a long, restful sleep and a hug-from-your-favorite-aunt way. It reminds me I am connected to you. It reminds me both how strong, and also how powerless, I am.

I wrote the following four months ago, which sums it up better than I can now.

“I know AA isn't for everyone. There are many parts of it that kept me away and still turn me off sometimes. I know it isn't the only way, but if I look at my path over the past year, I feel deep gratitude that it exists.

I thought about it as I was sitting at a meeting tonight, feeling at ease, comfortable in my skin and at peace for the first time all day. Just listening and nodding and smiling at faces I know and strangers' too. Why I go now is the same reason I kept going back to the yoga mat so many years ago and still do today as often as possible. It is the same reason I bury my nose in my daughter's head and smell her 100 times a day. It is the same reason I never tire of looking at the ocean. I go because I feel God in those rooms. I feel God in all the broken bits of us sitting in those chairs. Because I can see the fear in someone's eyes when they are very new, and the way the room holds them. I can feel my own brokenness being seen and understood and thus, some kind of alchemy taking place. I can speak my own voice, even when it shakes. I see people hold space for one another, even when they are irritated, annoyed, angry, or disagree. I see people belly laugh and weep. I see people change…actually change. And it feels like witnessing miracles. So yeah, that's why I go. Because I need to be with God to remember who I am.”