#did i still struggle? ..yes i did

[inkskinned]

you were raised in comparison.

it wasn't always obvious (well. except for the times that it was), but you internalized it young. you had to eat what you didn't like, other people are going hungry, and you should be grateful. you had to suck it up and walk on the twisted ankle, it wasn't broken, you were just being a baby. you were never actually suffering, people obviously had it worse than you did.

you had a roof over your head - imagine! with the way you behaved, with how you talked back to your parents? you're lucky they didn't kick you out on your ass. they had friends who had to deal with that. hell, you have friends who had to deal with that. and how dare you imply your father isn't there for you - just because he doesn't ever actually talk to you and just because he's completely emotionally checked out of your life doesn't mean you're not fucking lucky. think about your cousins, who don't even get to speak to their dad. so what if yours has a mean streak; is aggressive and rude. at least you have a father to be rude to you.

you really think you're hurting? you were raised in a home! you had access to clean water! you never so much as came close to experiencing a real problem. sure, okay. you have this "mental illness" thing, but teenagers are always depressed, right. it's a phase, you'll move on with your life.

what do you mean you feel burnt out at work. what do you mean you mean you never "formed healthy coping mechanisms?" we raised you better than that. you were supposed to just shoulder through things. to hold yourself to high expectations. "burning out" is for people with real jobs and real stress. burnout is for people who have sick kids and people who have high-paying jobs and people who are actually experiencing something difficult. recently you almost cried because you couldn't find your fucking car keys. you just have lost your sense of gratitude, and honestly, we're kind of hurt. we tell you we love you, isn't that enough? if you want us to stick around, you need to be better about proving it. you need to shut up about how your mental health is ruined.

it could be worse! what if you were actually experiencing executive dysfunction. if you were really actually sick, would you even be able to look at things on the internet about it? you just spend too much time on webMD. you just like to freak yourself out and feel like you belong to something. you just like playing the victim. this is always how you have been - you've always been so fucking dramatic. you have no idea how good you have it - you're too fucking sensitive.

you were like, maybe too good of a kid. unwilling to make a real fuss. and the whole time - the little points, the little validations - they went unnoticed. it isn't that you were looking for love, specifically - more like you'd just wanted any one person to actually listen. that was all you'd really need. you just needed to be witnessed. it wasn't that you couldn't withstand the burden, but you did want to know that anyone was watching. these days, you are so accustomed to the idea of comparison - you don't even think you belong in your own communities. someone always fits better than you do. you're always the outlier. they made these places safe, and then you go in, and you are just not... quite the same way that would actually-fit.

you watch the little white ocean of your numbness lap at your ankles. the tide has been coming in for a while, you need to do something about it. what you want to do is take a nap. what you want to do is develop some kind of time machine - it's not like you want your life to stop, not completely, but it would really nice if you could just get everything to freeze, just for a little while, just until you're finished resting. but at least you're not the worst you've been. at least you have anything. you're so fucking lucky. do you have any concept of the amount of global suffering?

a little ant dies at the side of your kitchen sink. you look at its strange chitinous body and think - if you could just somehow convince yourself it is enough, it will finally be enough and you can be happy. no changes will have to be made. you just need to remember what you could lose. what is still precious to you.

you can't stop staring at the ant. you could be an ant instead of a person, that is how lucky you are. it's just - you didn't know the name of the ant, did you. it's just - ants spend their whole life working, and never complain. never pull the car over to weep.

it's just - when it died, it curled up into a tight little ball.

something kind of uncomfortable: you do that when you sleep.

[angelshizuka]

Stolas + his fancy new robe

HELLUVA BOSS: SEASON TWO TRAILER

[lovexmemonster]

#1 iruma fans!

that one twitter redraw trend (original image by @/_K0TTERl_ on twt!) but i made it. love trio

[mueritos]

i hope we continue to see more protests within the US military. i see a lot of leftists and folks who are anti-military who have such an open disdain for the people who are in the military, yet neglect to considering the conditions this country makes to produce ideology, poverty, and the illusion of choice to make all kinds of people choose to enlist in the military. You ever see those videos of ROTC kids recording each other asking why they joined the military and everyone's like, "healthcare", "it helped me go to college", "I was bored" or "free ptsd lol". I hate to remind everyone but folks who are in the military are people, too, and they are the same victims and perpetrators of violence as the rest of you, we have all been shallowly conditioned to view each other as enemies just because one person is wearing army greens and the other is not.

some of the biggest anti-war advocates are those who engaged in war. Veterans who genuinely believed they were protecting the US against "terrorism" come back with blood on their hands, and they choose to realize that it was US imperialism that forced them to carry out violence, instead of doubling down and shielding themselves from the fact that they too are capable of atrocities... This is a class of people who are intentionally conditioned to be as poor and as ideologically aligned to US imperialism so that the military has a never-ending pool to send their youth to destroy other country's youth. The only people I have ever heard say "do not join the military" are those who ARE military.

This is in no way to ever excuse or explain away any of the atrocious war crimes and violence this industry and its people have committed against others. What I am saying is that we absolutely cannot cast aside the individuals who have been victimized within US imperialism, even if they are wearing army greens. I was speaking with my Palestinian classmate last week and another classmate--a member of the US air force-- walked up to me and struck up a conversation. My military classmate showed me her new bird, bid both of us goodbye, and left. My Palestinian classmate asked me if I was close with her, and I said we talked quite often, and she said, "I never met a person who's in the military. I still hate the military, but I never knew that they did, too. I didn't realize that they were also victims."

If my Palestinian classmate--one who is actively watching her own community die--can understand that it is not individuals who are the problem but it is in fact systems, US imperialism, white supremacy, capitalism...why can't we all? And she has EVERY reason to hate any individual military member. A lot of online activism just creates more barriers. if your optics look bad, complicated, or contradictory, you are cast aside. Everyone has got the be the perfect activist, you can never make a mistake or share a half-baked thought, you should always believe every word from a marginalized persons mouth (because being marginalized doesn't mean you're not entrenched in white supremacy too!) and you should never question what you see...Do you know what you sound like? The very imperialists who are convincing poor whites to vote against themselves. Perfectionism is white supremacy. Black & white thinking is white supremacy.

I'd rather have a military member who genuinely believed in the US imperialism machine but was disillusioned after being deployed as my comrade than some leftist who cherishes the performance of "being a good person". I don't want "good people" in our movements. I want humans who care. I want humans who make mistakes and who learn from them. I want humans who accept the messiness of a person. I want humans who hold others accountable and allow themselves to take responsibility for their actions. I want people who change for themselves and others.

fight systems, not individual people. we can change each other, but if we're too preoccupied looking like the World's Perfect Activists, we will only consume each other alive. Connect to your fellow humans, forever and always.

[cinnamonsly]

i don’t think there is anything worse in this entire world than desperately clinging onto a hyperfixation you’ve had forever that you know is slowly fading away from you

[blaithnne]

my timephoon hot take is that the episode was literally fine, it's the episodes that came AFTER it that fucked things up

[bonefall]

Voted for Bumble bc of course but also if you think Alex would not pspsps Bumble you are wrong. If they could communicate they would go to therapy together /s

If then could communicate they would go to therapy together

/GEN

Kyle/Green Lantern resurrects her but then he becomes convinced that she's not the same person she was before the incident, OR SOMETHING SOMETHING Black Lanterns aren't ACTUALLY bad they're just misunderstood Grim Reaper types, in either case Alex ends up breaking it off with Kyle because they've become very different people.

And then Bumble's there

And then they go to therapy or Alex adopts Bumble, and then uhhh Bumble's like one of the superpets. Like Krypto the Superdog. Free premise go forth and play with it if ur a DC fan

[simcardiac-arrested]

unleashes the horrors upon you (the horrors are my gay little ocs)

[thefrogdalorian]

The UCS Lego Razor Crest figure of Din made a fine addition to my collection...

[laundrybiscuits]

I had zero plans to continue this but @shdwsilk came in with the extremely good takes sooo…

If you don’t know Inception this is probably incomprehensible. Soz.

“Shouldn’t you be talking to the mark?”

Steve visibly startles as Eddie slides onto the barstool next to him. Steve’s in a suit, because the mark is the most boring person alive and thinks a fancy cocktail party in a hotel is the stuff dreams are made of; Henderson was extremely specific about the number of dashing rogues Eddie was allowed to drop in for passionate speeches and/or dueling purposes.*

“Eddie?” says Steve. 

“Mm, no, Johanna Berger.” Eddie tosses his head, letting ice-blonde hair cascade over his bare shoulders, and smirks up at Steve. “I am quite charmed to meet you, darling.”

Johanna is a young widow who may or may not have had something to do with her late husband’s untimely death, so she’s wearing a plunging black dress designed to show off some real bombshell curves. He’s pretty proud of her rack, honestly; it’s harder than you’d think to make sure everything looks realistic. 

“Are you doing an accent?”

Eddie scowls. Johanna went to an international school, so her accent’s subtle to the untrained American ear, but he spent two solid hours last weekend reviewing Austrian vowels with his dialect coach. 

“Are you not doing an accent?”

“Uh, no? Because I don’t need to? The mark’s from Connecticut.” 

“Perhaps the both of you could use a little more exposure to…foreign affairs.” Johanna leans in coyly, trailing one red nail up Steve’s arm. 

Steve lets out a snort that sounds completely unrehearsed. “Does that ever actually work for you, dude?”

Johanna tilts her head, gazing up at Steve. She’s not the type to get intimidated, but she is the type to be curious. She’ll take risks if it means getting a chance to pry someone open. 

“You don’t spend much time with other forgers, do you?” she says. 

Steve shrugs. “I don’t really do the whole, uh, dreamsharing community. I mean, I guess I’ve kinda been doing this a while, but like—not seriously, you know? It’s not really my thing. Wasn’t planning on any more jobs at all, but Henderson showed up, and you know what that kid’s like.”

Steve looks so openly fond just saying Henderson’s name that Johanna has the sudden urge to shield Steve’s face from the crowd somehow. The poor fool, she thinks in despair. He has yet to learn that a tenderness like that is to be protected.

Or—maybe Johanna would be contemptuous. Maybe she’d think: what a fool. Anyone could see how to break Steve Harrington’s heart.

“Yeah,” says Eddie. “I know what Henderson’s like. Biggest pain in my ass imaginable.”

The soft look on Steve’s face shifts into a real smile as he glances over. “Tell me about it,” he says. “Hey, you sound like you again.”

“What, no I don’t,” says Eddie. 

“No, it’s good. It’s better than whats-her-name.”

Eddie looks down at himself, thoroughly-researched curves straining at the satiny bodice and a manicured hand still resting on Steve’s arm. “Maybe you just need to get to know Johanna,” he says. “She’s a hell of a dame.”

“Sure.” Steve winks. “Tell her to give me a ring sometime.”

“Oh my god, why are you hanging out with projections,” says Mike freaking Wheeler, popping up like a bad penny in a cater waiter outfit. “Steve, go talk to the mark! We’re running out of time!”

“Okay, okay, sheesh,” says Steve, pushing away from the bar.

“Jesus, Wheeler, we’re two levels down. We got plenty of time,” says Eddie, pointedly not watching Steve weaving through his crowd. 

“Wait, is—are you—Eddie?” The kid is openly gawking at Johanna. 

“Eyes up here, champ,” says Eddie. “This is Johanna Berger, and she’s here to make sure everything goes according to plan. Also, she’s here to look appropriately and publicly devastated at the tragic death of her husband, because the yacht club wives are getting gossipy.” 

“Whoa,” says Wheeler. “That…wasn’t in the briefing.”

“Keep up, yeah? You’re in the dreamshare business, the briefing never covers everything.” Eddie puts a tray of champagne flutes in Wheeler’s hands and snags one for Johanna as Wheeler fumbles to keep from dropping the rest. 

Johanna sips the champagne. It doesn’t taste like anything at all. 

“Darling,” she says. “If you learn to let dreams surprise you, I think you will have a better life, yes?” 

Across the room, Steve looks up from charming the mark. He smiles at Johanna, just a quick and completely unprofessional flash of teeth before turning his attention back to a Connecticut banker who probably wouldn’t have a hope in hell of catching Steve’s attention in the waking world.

Or maybe that’s Steve’s type. Maybe he’s got some smart, boring wife in a conservative pantsuit tucked away somewhere. Maybe she comes home every day like clockwork to a hot meal and freshly-bathed children and has absolutely no idea that her trophy husband inhabits dreamscapes in his spare time. 

No, he is better than that, thinks Johanna. In my soul I know that he deserves better. I would take him away from such a woman in an instant.

Which is just—

Okay, so Steve Harrington might be a slightly bigger problem than Eddie’d thought.

*“Zero, Eddie! Zero rogues, zero secret Cinderellas, whatever that means, zero drama. Just assume the answer is always going to be zero with this guy!”

“Then what’s the goddamn point, Henderson?”

“Uh, maybe the nice fat paycheck coming our way?”

At this point, Eddie can either admit that he isn’t actually in it for the money (gross, not an option) or subside into a sulky silence. So: zero dashing rogues. It’s fine. He’s not bitter at all.

[mo-ok]

Go Onger / RPM Jacket Swaps ❤️💙💛💙❤️

[ljussangen]

I have decided that I am just going to be positive and strong. Sure, there are always obstacles and negativity in life, but there are also many, many blessings. The trees, the plants, animals, nature, waterfalls, lakes, the sky, the sun, my man and our son, love, smiles, friendly encounters, tasty food to cook and eat, beautiful things to see and touch and smell and hold.

Despite my traumatic past and long history of depression, I am making this choice. I will make it every day as long as I live, even if it is difficult to do so, for letting heartache and trauma and pain and sadness decide for me is not how I want to live. There are so, so many blessings and beautiful things in life. You just have to look for them, and stop letting other things make the choice for you.

[the-knife-consumer]

"Yona was just added bc Nintendo wants people to stop shipping sidlink!" Literally what the hell are you talking about

[jicklet]

Nevermore || The Beast Within

[kitpine]

So do you wanna kissy kiss Ramona Flowers orrrrrrrrr

I-

I don't have to answer that! You literally cannot make me.

[revasserium]

requests are open

54. first love, last rites (alternatively titled: sign)

kageyama; 2,631 words; mute!reader w/ mentions of japanese sign language, mostly fluff

01. new

he remembers the first time like a dream, scenes drifting in and out of focus, the images hazy behind the screen of time and memories re-remembered a million times, the rough edges and imperfections smoothed over by years of polishing — your shy, round face and your huge dark eyes peering at him from behind your mother’s legs. but he remembers your smile with a startling clarity —

so big, so bright, so sweet and happy and unrelenting.

your family just moved in next door, or so he gathers from the pitter patter of words he catches as the adults above you both chat. and you’re still watching him, half-hidden from view, your fingers digging into your mom’s beige slacks.

“tobio, say hi,” his own mother urges him with a pat on the back. he frowns, his lips pulling down as he tries to muster the breath. somewhere upstairs, he can feel his sister watching and he wonders at the unfairness. why’s he have to be the one to make friends with the new neighbors? why not her?

“hi…” he finally forces out. a huff of a word.

but when he looks up again, it’s to find you stepping out from behind your mom, a bit less hidden.

you reach out your hand and he stares at it for a solid five seconds before taking it in his.

it’s warm, he thinks, and soft, he realizes.

you pull your hand back and flash him a smile — that smile, that smile.

and somewhere in the back of his young, yet-unburdened mind, he knows he’ll be chasing that smile for the rest of his life.

02. weight

he’d never thought it was strange the way you speak with your hands, the way your fingers flicker and flash, your words big and sharp sometimes, small and hesitant at others. he doesn’t question, in the way that children never question, about the differences in your preferred modes of communication, and he learns quickly enough.

sign… language…

you spell out the letters one by one, slowly to show him and then the motions for the words — a rapid spinning of the fingers. he nods and repeats. you smile and continue.

and like this, he learns about the shapes and weights of words.

03. tomorrow

“ugh, i hate math…”

you look at him over your homework, blinking before you tap your pencil twice on his worksheet, motioning for him to hand it over. he frowns, sighing as he pushes the paper towards you, shifting his chair to sit next to you, bending over it to watch your pencil move.

your arms brush, your knees press.

outside, the spring droops on sun-soaked cherry trees, their branches budding in green.

you chatter with your free hand as you work out the equation on the page.

see? it’s easy, you push the worksheet back at him with two more decisive taps, the dark charcoal lead digging dots into his worksheet. he frowns harder as he tries to piece together how you arrived at the answer.

“it’s not easy,” he says, even as the bell rings, signaling the end of study period, and the classroom erupts into a clamor of voices, of scraping chairs and tinkling phone charms, of laughter and shouts and the poomf poomf poomf of the chalkboard eraser being cleaned.

you try to hide your laughter behind your hands even as kageyama tucks his workbook back into his schoolbag and shoulders it.

“same time tomorrow?” he asks as he makes his way towards the door. you flash him a thumbs up and a hearty nod and he finds himself smiling. he tosses his fingers up into a sideways peace sign before turning out into the crowded middle-school hallway.

see you later.

04. listen

he hears them whispering, talking in between classes, outside during break period, during their mandatory gym classes — he hears them wonder, musing on the reasons behind why he spends so much time with you. why he would even want to. he never answers them, but he hears them.

and he knows that you can hear them too.

it’s okay, you tell him, i wonder too, sometimes.

kageyama stares down at the lunchbox in his lap.

“because,” he says, putting down his chopsticks to motion with his hands, “i want to.”

you smile, reaching out to steal an octopus sausage, popping it into your mouth with a pleased nod. he watches, as he always does, with a kind of muted wonder at just how much can be said without a single spoken word. he watches the way you sway back and forth with the summer breeze, the rooftop scattered with other students, all out to enjoy their lunch beneath the welcoming sun.

it’s quieter up here, so much quieter than the cafeteria or the field out back or the classrooms that allow their students to eat at their desks.

“and…” he folds his hands together, palm to palm, as if trying to catch a firefly’s light, “we’re friends.”

05. hands

he has always thought your hands were beautiful.

“it’s pretty,” he tells you one day, blushing as you blink up at him, quirking your head to one side, like a curious sparrow, waiting, wondering.

he swallows, hard, and its then that he realizes his hands are shaking. he bunches them into fists, squeezing them before letting go, feeling the blood rush back into his fingers, warm and tingling and strong.

“your voice,” he says, but he points to your hands, and as you look back down at them, he reaches out to take them in his.

“it’s pretty,” he repeats, his voice softer this time, less rushed, less forced, his fingers gentle as he folds them over yours.

06. care

he can tell you’re angry even without looking at your face, your normally fluid fingers stuttering as you swap between bandaging up his thumb and yammering away at how he’s gotta be more careful.

“i know,” he says, sighing as you glare up at him once more, dabbing iodine into the wound before tying off the bandage perhaps a bit too tight. he bites back a wince as you drop his hand, the first-aide kit clacking shut as you slam the lid.

his eyes follow the way your shoulders rise and fall with each of your breaths, how your cheeks are ruddy and red from worry, anger.

your hands are important, you say, reaching out to take them, clutching them between your own. you shake them as if trying to shake some sense into him, and he nods, but you shake your head, sharp and vehement.

no, you don’t understand.

“i get it! i do! i need them for volleyball, for setting —”

you shake your head again, squeezing his hands so tight that he does wince this time, his arms jerking back from the pain. your eyes are wide and dark and not for the first time, kageyama finds himself beholden by them, by the strength of your gaze, of your grip as you pull him back towards you.

they’re important to me.

you jab a finger into your own chest, once, twice, three times. so hard that he finally reaches out to catch your hand before you can do it again.

“stop — stop that! your hands are important too! th-they’re important to me!”

there’s a ringing silence, the kind that slices through a room, knife-sharp and bell-deep and kageyama realizes that his chest is heaving, his own heartbeats a thundering drumbeat behind his ears, pounding, pounding —

you slowly twist your palms in his till you can smooth your fingers over his loosening hands. you trace your thumbs along the the pads of his thumbs, pressing slightly to work out the tension he’s collected there. slowly, you move to the base of his pointer fingers, and then his middle finger, one by one, till his hands are warm and loose in his lap between your bodies.

“tomorrow’s game,” he says, his voice soft and rasping and more than a little sorry, “will you… be there?”

you let out an audible sigh, your shoulders slumping down, but you dip your head in a quick nod, your finger flicking out towards him.

i’ll go.

he feels himself relax, slowly softening back into his skin as he nods along as well.

“good. i’ll see you there.”

07. silence

even in the mind-numbing din of a game, there are moments of quiet — and it is in those moments kageyama finds himself most comfortable. in the space between when the spiker’s feet leave the ground and when their palm meets the ball, in the breath before a serve, in the millisecond space between a jump and a block.

“mah… but it really is impressive how you can find even the smallest moments of quiet in a match to concentrate,” sugawara drapes his arm over kageyama’s shoulder during court-switch, giving him a quick squeeze, and a teasing smirk “but i guess that’s why you’re a genius, and we’re all just plebs, hm?”

he dips his head with a huffed, “thanks,” but he glances up towards the stands and finds you immediately.

he feels your smile like a breath of air in a screaming crowd.

you catch his eye and raise both your fists, pumping them twice, and he feels his chest expand with warmth.

good luck!

he allows himself the shadow of a grin, turning back to the game, his shoulders square, his back straight, the cheers and shouts of crowd fading out. it’s his serve.

the whistle blows, he takes a breath, and he revels in the quiet.

08. sound

he learns the meaning of helpless the first time he hears you cry, the sound ripping through him like skin on gravel, harsh and tearing and raw. so jagged, so wrong — the way your breaths heave through your entire body, your hiccups cutting through the soft whine of your sobs.

you have your hands pressed to your ears, knees drawn up to your chest, your room dark except for the block of light pooling on the floor at this feet, caught by the shape of him in your doorframe.

there are so many things he wants to ask, so many things he wants to say — what’s wrong, who did this, tell me their names — tell me their names and i’ll make them pay — tell me, please — talk to me, say something — anything —

but for the first time in his life, when he reaches for the words, they do not appear. his voice stolen by the sight of you, curled up in the corner, hiding from the world, making yourself ever smaller, almost as if you wished you could disappear.

instead, he takes a step in and lets the door close behind him, shutting the pair of you in darkness. slowly, he lowers himself onto the edge of your bed, taking a deep, steadying breath, and then another one. you hiccup; the bed shifts; the sheets shuffle.

he pulls himself onto the mattress to sit across from you, cross-legged, leaving enough space between your bodies for you to deny him. he places both his hands there, palms up, open, imploring, patient. moments pass, and then just as slowly, the shape of you uncurls from itself in the corner, your toes inching forward till they almost touch his fingers.

you reach out to take his hands.

09. butterflies

the sight of your laughter never fails to stump him, to force a break in his thoughts, to slam pause on whatever else he might be doing.

a friend of yours is making you laugh, showing you something on her bedazzled phone, the pair of you giggling, your freshly painted fingers flashing like fish-scales beneath the fluorescent classroom lights. he catches bits of your conversation, his eyes so used to the rhythm of your hands, the way you flutter your fingers in between your thoughts, how you tend to move your entire upper body when you’re excited about something.

“ah… bakayama-kun, are you staring at your girlfriend again?”

kageyama whips around to glower at a much too smug-looking hinata, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face even as kageyama reaches out to try and whack him upside the head. hinata ducks out of the way with a gleeful laugh, and kageyama can feel his cheeks burning as he sinks further into his seat, glaring at the place where hinata used to be.

he feels your eyes on him before he ever turns around to look. but when he does, you quirk your head, blinking at him, a question in your eyes.

he shakes his head before grabbing his bag and stomping from the room, even as the bell rings to signal the end of lunch period.

when the teacher asks where kageyama-kun thinks he’s going, hinata answers that he’s probably got some stomach butterflies to deal with.

10. again

he doesn’t know when it happened, just that by the time he realized, it had already been happening for longer than he can remember. there was no after-school confession, no long-winded letters tucked into one another’s shoe lockers, no homemade chocolates on valentines day, no return-gifts on white day.

kageyama thinks that he’d simply woken up one morning and understood — he’d understood it in the same implicit way that his body had always understood the feeling of a volleyball court, the weight of a ball in his hands, the precise distance between the toss and the serve, the swing and the impact.

“tobio! you’re going to be late!”

he groans as he rolls out of bed, pulling on his track pants, haphazardly brushing his teeth as he digs for a pair of clean socks.

you’re waiting for him by the door, a bright red scarf around your neck, blowing warm air into your palms. you shoot him a bright grin and a wave as he slings his sports back over his shoulders and steps into his shoes.

“morning,” he says, blinking as you hand him a freshly steamed curry bun, still a bit hot to the touch.

he flashes you a grateful smile as he takes it, stuffing half of it into his mouth before you’re halfway down the street and when you turn to look at him with an exasperated huff, he crinkles his nose and holds still as you reach up to wipe the crumbs from the edge of his lips.

you motion for him to hurry, tapping at your wrist.

we’re going to be late!

he sighs, rolling his eyes as he shovels down the rest of the bun, breaking into an unwilling jog.

you let out a tiny, exasperated laugh before reaching out your hand towards him.

he blinks, stares at it for a second, and then reaches out to take it.

your hand is still small in his, and warm, and just as soft as he remembers. but your fingers are cold, and he curls his own fingers around yours, holding them tight as you smile up at him — bright and sweet and unrelenting.

you run your thumb over the back of his hand.

don’t let go.

you both hear the first bell ring when you’re a block from the school gates and he breaks out into a run, pulling you behind him, lacing your fingers between his, grinning despite himself.

you give him a squeeze and he squeezes back.

i won’t.