#followed an artist today for Cool Art and then they put “fuck ao3 and fuck you if you donate to ao3” content on our dash

[mantisgodsdomain]

Today's reminder that the block button is a free resource that can be used on anyone and anything that you don't care to find on your dashboard.

[monty-glasses-roxy]

i'm all ears for the book idea homie

You would not believe the confusion of this ask because I completely forgot about that post lmao

Anyway, yeah I thought it would be cool if we, as the fnaf community, made our own fnaf short story series for funsies. I was thinking without considering how to do it, so in my head I was saying it would be dope as hell if a bunch of us writers and artists got together and did a little series of spooky horror story fnaf books that followed the same format as the actual books, but with more art stuff for the artists to join in and... better writing in a lot of cases lmao. I was thinking of physical books at the time like how I've seen some some of those big community zines that raise money for charity but I have no idea how to do that so...

Now that it's not stupid in the morning before I've slept, the easiest way to do something like this I guess would to like... make a PDF maybe? Three stories per 'issue' I guess and release it for free of course! (Unless someone knows how to make 'pay what you want' with any money gained going to a good charity? I dunno. This would just make it optionally free) Someone could do epilogues for each one, so one long story over however many we make, which could be fun.

Could put it on a Neocities (which is a free website thingo that's also free to view) or something too. I dunno, it could be fun though! One collaborative project, linking together writers from different corners of the overall fnaf fandom to do what the source material is doing but better... that'd be pretty fucking cool ngl

The overall idea of what's actually getting written and stuff is where I'd pobably lose people though. The idea is basically 'do what the books are trying to do but better', as in... 'expand on the fnaf universe in short, fnaf themed stories' and not 'Blorbo Adventures: The Twink Robots Kiss' kind of stuff. So like... new animatronics, new attractions, new Fazbear themed horrors, people dying or whatever, possessed robots, terrible business decisions, elaborate coverups and... I dunno I've not read that many lmao but you get what I mean. Basically, do what you want, go crazy, just don't write your Canon Blorbos as you normally would if you were posting on Ao3.

I suppose it's like... Fazbear themed original fiction? Kind of? It could include re-imaginings of stuff of course, since that's part of what's in these books to begin with, but I still think it's probably not fan community oriented enough to ever see the light of day, ya know? Would be really fucking cool though!

Could do an interest check on it I suppose? How many people hate the books so much or want to write general spooky stories enough to join a poject like this? I dunno. If this post gets enough traction, I'll do a proper interest check and we'll see about it.

Also if none of this makes sense, you can for sure ask for clarification my brain is... not braining today :(

[writinglizards]

someone wanted us to kiss for a picture and i thought you were gonna stage kiss me w/ your thumbs in the middle buT NO OH MY GOD THATS……………..THATS A REAL KISS WOW OK au -- another writing prompt I lost the link to 💖

Okay, so this got WAY out of hand, but here you go! <3

Title: A Portrait of the Artist in Love

Summary:  Jaskier's senior exhibition requires he present a sequence of cohesive photos representing a theme of his choosing. Geralt, after seeing the photos in person, notices one's missing.

Read on Ao3

"So what's the matter?" Geralt finally asks when Jaskier stomps through the living room for the third time in under twenty minutes, his eyes still firmly trained on the tv set. He can't look like he cares too much or Jaskier will shut down on him, he knows.

"What's the matter is I've got my senior exhibition in two months and I still haven't settled on a fucking theme, that's the matter," he bites out, back to the sofa and hands threaded firmly through his hair, tugging hard.

Geralt sighs. All of Jaskier's problems seem to circle back to his senior exhibition. "I thought you had some photos?"

"I did," he says, tone venomous, "and then Valdo decided he was going to do a series on music and I refuse to compete with that pompous arse." Geralt bites his tongue against the 'why does what Valdo's doing matter?' He knows better.

"So? What are your ideas?" Jaskier shifts as if to speak, "and don't tell me you don't have any, I know you do." He clicks the tv off and shifts around to face Jaskier's back as he sighs, shoulders going slack.

"I want to do something personal," he says, and Geralt can hear the frustration in his voice, "something important. Not--" he can picture the way his face is scrunched up just from his tone, "--not something predictable, something trite. I want to do something meaningful."

"Okay. So make it personal. What's important to you, Jaskier?" he asks, voice soft, and watches as Jaskier's shoulders gradually go taunt again.

"Oh. Oh I could--" he cuts off, whirls around, and the nearly manic light in his eyes makes Geralt smile.

"There you go," he says, and Jaskier beams. The look on his face steals Geralt’s breath, tightens his chest. Jaskier crosses the room, headed for his bedroom slash photo studio and presumably his camera, but he pauses at the couch to squeeze Geralt's shoulder tightly.

"Thank you, darling." Geralt just rolls his eyes and clicks the tv back on.

* * * *

Jaskier never does share what idea he settled on, even after Geralt had asked, a few days later. He'd ducked his head, blushing, and told Geralt not to worry about it, it was fine, he'd get to see when it was done, and Geralt had let it go. Jaskier tends to hold his projects close to his chest until he's done with them anyway. It’s not personal.

They're seated at a cafe waiting for Yen to drop off Ciri for their afternoon trip to the zoo and Jaskier is, predicably, fiddling with his camera.

"Do you have to bring that everywhere?" he asks, tone light and teasing, and Jaskier only sticks his tongue out at him.

"Yes, you oaf, I do. I'm working," he snips, and then he lifts the camera and in a quick movement snaps a picture of Geralt's face.

"Jaskier."

"Just a test photo, love," he grins, not at all apologetic. Before Geralt can pitch anything close to a fit about Jaskier taking more photos of him (and out in public, no less), Yen and Ciri are stepping through the door. Ciri gives a delighted little shriek the way only children under five seem to do and throws herself at her father. Geralt catches her around the waist and hauls her into his lap, both of them laughing, and the photo is promptly forgotten about after that.

* * * *

"Can I come with you?"

"Why?" Geralt asks again, frowning at Jaskier where he stands next to their couch, shifting nervously with his camera clutched to his chest, "you don't like the barn."

"No, but I like Roach," he insists, "and I want to get some pictures of her. I haven't in a while." Geralt narrows his eyes.

"Is this about your project?" he asks, and the way Jaskier splutters is answer enough.

"Can't I just want to take nice photos of my best friend's lovely horse? Come on Geralt, I don't always have a reason." The color high on his cheeks says otherwise.

"Hm." He hefts his supply bag over his shoulder, "come on, then."

Jaskier practically beams the entire trip to the barn, even after he nearly slips in a spot of mud when they get there. His pure, simple joy is infectious, leaves Geralt grinning right alongside him. And if Jaskier takes pictures of him the entire time? Well, he's always taking pictures anyway.

* * * *

"Jask, my guy, must you always bring that stupid camera?" Lambert asks, "it's beer night," he says, as if beer should preclude Jaskier taking pictures.

"Yes, and? Your point?" He raises the camera to snap a blatant picture of Lambert. Aiden leans over to throw up a pair of bunny ears behind his boyfriend as if they're primary schoolers. Eskel laughs.

"Jaskier's exhibition's coming up, leave off," Geralt growls, reprimanding, and Jaskier grins all the brighter.

"Yes, thank you, darling!"

"Doesn't mean he needs to take pictures of us," Lambert grouches, but Aiden wraps his arm around his neck and pulls him into a gentle headlock.

"Be nice," Aiden admonishes, and Lambert grumbles, but subsides. After enough alcohol, no one really thinks about Jaskier's pictures.

* * * *

Catching Jaskier around their apartment snapping photos isn't strictly unusual. It's not even strictly unusual for Jaskier to be snapping photos of him, but--

"Must you take pictures while I'm trying to meditate?"

"Yeah," Jaskier answers, sunny and quick. Geralt gives a huff. The camera clicks again. "Just pretend I'm not here." Geralt hums an affirmative even though he knows it's an impossible task. He could never forget Jaskier was in a room with him.

* * * *

"Didn't know you were picking me up today," Geralt says, wandering over from his post by the medieval art exhibit to where Jaskier stands near the circulation desk, fiddling with his camera.

"Oh, well, you know," he grins brightly up at him, cheeks a little pink--maybe he's getting sick, "I was in the area and thought we could walk home together. I know you’ve got a little still but I can swing by Starbucks; I'll get you that fruity tea you like."

"Hm."

When he gets off his shift forty-five minutes later, Jaskier's waiting for him out front with the Starbucks already in hand, a radiant smile on his face, and Geralt’s chest clenches just looking at him.

* * * *

"Hey, so I know you're busy--" Jaskier starts over dinner one night, eyes focused down on his pasta, "and I don't know if you wanted to come or not, but the exhibition's next week and I--" he sneaks a glance up at Geralt from under his eyelashes, ducks his head, "--I'd like for you to be there."

Geralt can't help the smile that tugs at his lips, can't help the way affection swells in his chest. "Of course I'll go, Jask." It really is as simple as that.

* * * *

Geralt arrives in the midst of the opening hubbub. He knows Jaskier has to linger around his exhibit for at least the first hour or so and from what he understands it's tucked away somewhere toward the back, so Geralt takes a leisurely path in that general direction, stopping to look at the work Jaskier's classmates have done as he goes.

"Oh, Geralt!" Valdo's grinning as he waves him over and reluctantly he lets himself be lured in. "Good to see you here, my man. Jaskier's been a basketcase all day," he winks. Geralt rolls his eyes.

"I'm sure. Your work's good," he says, nodding back towards the row of photos behind them, all different instruments either alone or being played, the close up of hands on strings and keys.

"Don't let Jask hear you say that," he laughs, even as he preens at the praise. "And don't let him catch you over here, either. He'll be accusing infidelity in a heartbeat." Valdo winks again. Geralt doesn't even go to the effort of correcting the fact they're not together. Valdo never seems to remember anyway.

"Yeah. Have a good night, Valdo," he says before ducking out of the way of a shorter blonde woman who throws herself past him and into Valdo's arms, proclaiming her love for him and his photography. Another blonde follows behind her friend, smiling. Geralt hurries away before Priscilla and Essi can realize who Valdo had been talking to and rope him back into the conversation.

It's not that he dislikes Jaskier's friends it's just...they seem to assume things about the two of them. Yes, Geralt loves Jaskier, but Jaskier…he doesn’t know what Jaskier feels for him beyond a deep friendship.

He wanders a bit while he tries not to think about that, stopping to look at some of the other photos--landscapes, pets, significant others, children--until he spots Jaskier, all done up in the suit he'd picked out for the occasion months ago, the gold tie that Geralt had done for him this morning a beautiful contrast to the baby blue of his suit. And the pictures--

Geralt's breath catches. They're all of him; a photo of Geralt and Ciri from the zoo, Ciri seated on his shoulders, one tiny fist in his hair as she gestures wildly at the monkeys. Geralt astride Roach as he puts her through her paces at the barn, and later, Roach out in the pasture, Geralt leading her in a gentle cool down, the both of them in profile. Geralt and his brothers over beers, Geralt grinning, Eskel telling a story, hands spread wide, Lambert and Aiden leaning on each other across the table, smiles indulgent. Geralt meditating in their living room, the ghost of a smile on his face. Geralt at the museum, explaining the history of medieval art to a gaggle of tourists.

They're all him.

"Oh, thank fuck, Geralt, I--" Jaskier breaks off as he gets closer, takes in Geralt's expression, "Geralt?"

His mouth is dry and he has to clear his throat twice before he can get any words to work. "They're all of...me?" Jaskier flushes immediately.

"Well I mean--yes? I wanted it to be something important and personal and, uh, what's more personal than everything my best friend loves?" he explains rapidly, as if he's worried Geralt will cut him off, not let him explain.

"Oh," he says, because it's the only thing he can get out. And then as it dawns on him, "wait, if this is about--" he has to clear his throat again, uncharacteristically embarrassed, "--about what I love...why aren't you in any of them?"

"What, I--" Jaskier chokes off, that flush going a little darker, "I, I didn't--we weren't allowed to be the subjects of our own photos," he lies, and Geralt just raises a brow. He's seen his classmate's work--he knows it's a bullshit answer and Jaskier knows he knows.

"I didn't want to presume," he mumbles, then, a little firmer, "and it would have had to been staged. "I don't--staged photos are terrible, Geralt, you know how I feel about that." He does, but it doesn't change the fact Jaskier's collection is incomplete without him.

"Hm."

* * * *

He thinks about it for the rest of the exhibition and once he starts, it's like he can't stop. Jaskier has a collection of photos of things Geralt loves, and Jaskier's not in any of them.

It takes him almost a week to set it right.

"Geralt," Jaskier calls as the front door clicks open, Jaskier home from class. "Geralt darling, I'm famished, what--" he cuts off abruptly when he steps into the living room, gaze catching on the camera set on the tripod set up on the coffee table. Geralt stands in front of the lens, between the camera and the large bay window overlooking the distant park.

"Jaskier." Geralt's a little bit of a nervous wreck about it, but it's fine. Probably. After all, Jaskier spent months taking photos of Geralt and the things he loved. What's one more?

"Geralt, what--"

"Come here." Jaskier swallows roughly, adams apple bobbing, before he puts his bag down and steps up beside him. "Check the camera," Geralt says softly, "make sure I did it right."

Jaskier does, quick. "It's set on the ten second timer. Should I--?"

"Yeah," he says, stomach clenching in some horrible mix of fear and anticipation, "and come here."

"Geralt, if you'd wanted to take a picture together, I could have--" he says, setting the camera and starting over. He cuts off abruptly when Geralt loops an arm around his waist and tugs him in close until they're chest to chest, his other hand at Jaskier's jaw, thumb sweeping back and forth across his cheek.

"I know," he says, voice pitched low, "but you're missing a picture." And then he dips his head and kisses him.

Jaskier makes a small, wounded noise and then his arms are around Geralt's neck, fingers tight in his hair as he presses up into Geralt's grip, surges against him. Geralt cups his jaw and nips at his lower lip, revels in the quiet gasp that leaves Jaskier open for him to lick into his mouth, deepen the kiss. Distantly he's aware of the camera going off, but it's inconsequential to the way Jaskier feels in his arms.

The kiss only breaks when Jaskier pulls away to hide his face in Geralt's throat, gasping for air. Geralt chuckles, a little breathless.

"Now I'm not complaining," Jaskier says, sounding a little dazed, "but what did I do to deserve that? Because I'd like to keep doing it. Repeatedly, if possible." Geralt laughs.

"You were missing a picture," Geralt says again, and the look on Jaskier's face when he pulls back is so confused it makes his chest constrict. "The things I love," Geralt reminds, and Jaskier flushes bright red.

"Geralt--" he stammers out, flustered, before he returns to hiding his face in Geralt's shoulder. "Melitele help me," He presses his lips to the fabric of Geralt's shirt, a warm, fleeting pressure, "you really are going to be the death of me."

"Don't see how," he hums, tips his head to rest his cheek against Jaskier's head.

"Thought you wanted a friendly picture and then you just--! You just wrapped your arm around my waist like you've done it a hundred times before and I thought, oh, he's going to pretend to kiss me, for the photo, because of course you would and you, you just--" he makes a tiny, outraged noise. Geralt chuckles again. "Don't laugh at me, Geralt, I almost died."

"Mmhm," he rubs his cheek where it rests, mussing Jaskier's hair. Jaskier just huffs. "How'd the picture come out?"

Reluctantly, Jaskier peels himself away to check the photo, and Geralt can already tell from the face he's making it didn't come out well. "You moved," Jaskier admonishes, eyes glued to the tiny viewer. He fiddles with a few settings before putting it back down on the tripod. "Alright," he presses his way back into Geralt's arms, "we'll just have to try again."

"Yeah," Geralt grins, and he kisses him again.

[serenadeonacanoe]

Honestly, I'd piss him off on purpose. (Namjoon x OFC)

Pairing: Namjoon x Original Female Character

Genre/Warnings: Smut, Angst, Fluff, too tired to beta

Tags: Artist!Namjoon, Yoongi and Tae are the best flatmates, Enemies to Lovers I guess... more like brats to making out in the storage unit, OFC is an idiot.

Summary:

"Wow. Is that that grumpy artist behind you? Jesus. He really looks like a bit of a dick. And you are right. He really is hot..." Oh no. Speakerphone. Namjoon was standing behind me and was staring at me. Then at my phone. He let out a little laugh, then raised his hand to wave at Tae and Yoongi outside who were now also staring at him as if frozen, before turning around in unison. As if that would help. As if he couldn't see them. Or better even... couldn't hear them.

[...]

Mister Darcy has nothing on Kim Namjoon - that new and upcoming artist you probably already heard of (You haven't? How dare you? At least have the decency to pretend you have!). He is cold, serious, and rather good at making other people believe he is a prick. Especially Elizabeth Bennet - uh... Charlotte - is about to lose it because of him. Maybe in a good way. Man, I'd literally piss him off on purpose.

More chapters on AO3

CHAPTER 1

Even the sound of my own nails rhythmically tapping on the top of the counter was annoying me. To be fair, it didn't need much today to blow my fuze that had never been particularly long in the first place. But after a week consisting of being belittled by old white men and endless hours of unpaid overtime I about had it. Welcome to the art world. You know well before you enter that the hours are horrible and the job market is more than frustrating, but you love art and you have good organisational skills, you are resilient, charming when it counts and tend to romanticize things even when you know you shouldn't. It's too late to turn around now.

"That is why I don't use an agenda or notebook. If something is important enough for me to attend I simply won't forget. I know you youngsters are all about the bullet journaling and expressing yourself by mapping out your life but it really is just another way to procrastinate instead of getting to actual work." For a second I considered throwing my damn notebook in the buyer's face, but that probably wouldn't have helped my CV and the new job I would have to look for starting tomorrow. At least I should have screamed at him a little. Mainly, that I didn't care, that I was on my period and my shitty shower in the shitty flat i shared had broken and no dry shampoo in the world had fixed my hair this morning and that god damn it, how the hell was I supposed to remember every phone number, every call my boss had to take, every art handling transport I had organized if I couldn't write it down somewhere. Instead, I smiled. Died a little on the inside and complimented him on the gift of his exceptional memory and asked whether he would like another cup of coffee.

"What a dick." Samantha murmured, more to herself than me, after the guy had finally left, which made me snort under my breath. She usually didn't say much but when she did it was usually pure gold. In the end, it didn't matter that he was. Didn't matter that everyone at the gallery thought the art he had bought from us over the last couple of months had neither been smart nor impressive purchases. Mainly expensive. And flashy.

"Doesn't matter now." I said in a sigh after a quick glance at the clock. It was Friday night and we were about to close. Since it was my birthday on Monday I had taken two days off, about the longest break I had had this year and I was looking forward to being the lazy slob for a few days I was maybe always meant to be. In silence we answered a few last emails, tidied up the desks and counters so that potential buyers that would come in over the weekend wouldn't have to suspect anyone was actually working here. - A white desk. A huge Imac on it. That was all they needed to see, folders and pens and apparently especially agendas to be hidden away in drawers.

At five to eight I threw on my coat and Samantha just gave me a tired smile. Probably happy for me, just exhausted. "Have fun then? Don't get too wasted?" "Oh..." I said with a huge smug grin on my lips. "You have no idea... gonna take a bottle of Moët with me from the bar and drink it in my bathtub after eating a huge pepperoni pizza by myself and dancing to only the finest of 90s Euro Trash." I couldn't help it, apparently, I felt it necessary to give Sam a little demonstration, waving my arms up and down while swaying my hips in a way that I'd probably would not have if it hadn't been for a bit with an audience of a single person. Or maybe two?

A quiet scoff behind me and I quickly turned around, slowly lowering my arms, Sam biting her lower lip at the sight of me standing there like an idiot in front of HIM of all people.

Men didn't have to be old to annoy me. Or white. Yes, those were the ones that pissed me off most usually, but no one had managed to do so as much as Kim Namjoon recently. And now he was standing there, looking me up and down and stopping at my hair. The crazy too-much-dry-shampoo-because-the-shower-broke-hair. "Nice." He just commented and then looked over at Sam. "I'd like to take a last look before Sunday's opening if that is okay?" I stood there, my shoulders dropping, completely ignored.

"Uhm, actually, my babysitter has to leave in about an hour and I will have to be home before that." Samantha replied and I was impressed by how calm she stayed. "Of course." Namjoon said and gave her a slight smile. "Anyone else still around? Chris maybe?" Of course Chris hadn't been in today. It was Friday and unless important guests had announced themselves the owner of the gallery wasn't around on Fridays... "I am afraid not. But maybe Charlotte has a few minutes?" Well. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I felt a little betrayed. "Wouldn't want to keep anyone from their important Moët-Pizza-Dance Party plans." Namjoon replied before I could say a word. His voice once more dropping to a hushed, deep disapproval and his hands buried in the pockets of his rather expensive looking coat. Silence for a few moments and then he just walked off towards the room his exhibition had been set up all week. Showing without a further word that I would have to stay anyways if he wanted it that way.

"Well thank you for pushing me under the bus like that. Really appreciate it." "I am so sorry. But I was serious, I can't lose this babysitter. She got Jamie to eat vegetables. VEGETABLES!" Samantha suddenly seemed in a rush, grabbing her jacket and purse and showering me in promises she would make it up to me. Even though we both knew that wouldn't happen and wasn't necessary. Suddenly having to stay longer was normal. I just hated that it had to be today. And because of him.

I heard the door close behind Sam and I stood there for a second before putting my bag down again. Usually, I would have followed the artist, asking if I could somehow help, but nahhh... my ego was bruised up enough now, especially remembering the little dance. I closed my eyes. Fucking hated the guy. Always had. Well, not quite. I had thought he was cool for about five minutes when he had come in the first time. We had heard about him for quite a few months before, I think I had even seen pictures of him at some point, but those were nothing compared to him in real life. He came in all cheekbones and sharp chin and an all grey outfit, quick pace, observant gaze. Incredibly hot. He had also completely ignored me.

That's how it had started - a bruised ego. He couldn't know that it was my weak spot. Having studied art and its management and now feeling like a better secretary at times, when my colleagues and I were doing all the behind the scenes work while Chris worked very little hours and ended up with all the money and recognition. I was aware this wasn't the only field of work where this was the case, but it still frustrated me... I had imagined my life in the last years of my 20s to be a bit more glamorous than living in a tiny apartment on the outskirts of the city... spending my Friday night waiting for some rude artist dude to leave so I could lock up.

But what I perhaps hated most about him... was that I admired him. - Purely for his art. Really. Even the fact that he kept acting as if I wasn't around every time he came in didn't mean I couldn't admit that. At least to myself. The stories behind his huge colleagues were clever and thought through, but even without context, the pure aesthetics were mesmerizing. It was the kind of art that touched something deep inside of you and standing in front of it I always had a hundred questions. Whenever he brought in a new piece I was the first one to sneak a peek in the back rooms before it was hung.

"I don't get why you have such a problem with him. He is just... quiet. I think he might even be shy... stop being so sensitive and just ask him out already." I had almost strangled Sam for that comment a couple of weeks back. Stop being so sensitive. What did that even mean? Comments like that made me want to cry and scream at the same time, which probably would have been perceived as even more sensitive, but when had insensitivity become something to strive for? I had only kept quiet because I liked Sam and I knew what she had tried to say. At least I thought so. That I might have given less of a shit if I hadn't been rather attracted to Namjoon. Even though I had never mentioned it, she just knew. She knew if I didn't care about something I didn't waste my time on it. But if something made me angry or upset there was usually more to it. I hated that she could read me that easily. But he was still a dick and I still wanted to go home.

He took his sweet time. After an hour I walked up to him, a little speech prepared in my head about how he could come back first thing tomorrow. But when he turned around he just raised a hand between us to keep me from interrupting and turned away again. I hadn't seen that he was on the phone. "No, it's nothing, just one of the gallery employees." I heard him say and okay... if I wasn't about to explode before I was now. I stood there for a minute, fuming, and then simply walked back to the office area, my hand shaking when I started turning off the gallery lights one by one. It wasn't as satisfying as I had hoped but still felt good. Two minutes later the only lights still on were the one above my head and the one in front of the door. I would at least give him a clear direction where to head, he seemed to need it.

When Namjoon appeared out of one of the dark corners he looked even more annoyed than usual. Looking my direction through squinting eyes and his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek. "Seriously?" he yelled my way and almost walked into one of the little flyer shelves. Wasn't the first time I had seen that happen to him though so maybe that had nothing to do with the light.

I felt oddly triumphant. By the time I had put on my coat and turned off the remaining lights, ready to finally lock up, Namjoon had almost found his way, standing in the open door, still on his phone. A little groan from my side when he didn't even notice that I was standing behind me went by unnoticed. Or simply ignored. But instead of the appropriate clearing of the throat or the maybe less polite squeezing past him, I just put my hands on his back and gently pushed him forward a bit, until his feet hit the pavement and he turned around. Dropping his hand with the phone in it, for a second he looked like he wanted to push back. Or trample me.

"Okay, what the hell is your problem, Charlotte?" His voice was hoarse. His eyes dark. God, he was hot. I hated him so much. "You." I simply replied and stared at him for a second, then turned around and locked the two locks on the door before stepping over to the alarm system. I couldn't help feeling smug because apparently, he knew my name. I imagined him staring at the back of my head because he was flustered, but couldn't be sure. All I knew was that when I turned around again a minute later he was still standing there, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his lips pressed together forming a straight line and watching me.

"Do you always act like that at work around people who could get you into trouble?" He was right, he could get me into trouble. But I was too fired up now, my heart racing. "Is that a threat?" "An observation." "Only around the ones I don't like." "Cool." "Great." "Enjoy the dance party. Sounds shit."

And with those words he had turned around, coat flying open in the wind, unfortunately making him look really cool as he walked away and I ABSOLUTELY HATED HIM. I kept my mouth shut and just walked off in the other direction, realizing minutes later that my car was parked the other way, but I kept walking for a while before I finally turned around. It took a while to calm down and only cuddling up to my cat on the couch to trash tv finally did the job. But by then I had realized something I wasn't sure I liked too much. Yeah, I thought he was a prick. And yeah I should have just played it cool. Would have been much smarted in many regards. But I also had somewhat enjoyed myself in the most fucked up way.

Seeing that stern look, that intense posture as he was towering over me... man, I'd literally piss him off on purpose.

More chapters on AO3

[artificialqueens]

Pretty in Pearls, Chapter 4 (Jankie) - Plastiquedoll

read on ao3 💄| previous chapters

A/N: hi!  here's a new chapter and I'm planting the crygi seed for the future *wink wink* I hope you enjoy it and thank you for reading it <3

-4-

“Good morning!” Jan greeted Nicky outside the café with a smile on her face.

“Hey! You woke up earlier today; I didn’t catch you on your way out the dorms.” The blonde noticed.

She was wearing a fuzzy cardigan sweater she had seen on Jaida before, light blue jeans, and white sneakers. Her hair was still wet which made Jan think she might have spent the night with her girlfriend before meeting her.

“Yeah, I had to return some books to the library so I left when Rosé went to class.”

They walked in and were welcomed by the familiar warmness of the interior of the coffee shop. Almost a month had passed but Jan was always comforted by the charm of the place. It was a crowded morning but they were able to squish at one little table near the entrance. They had just sat down when a fuming Jackie crossed the door, at first she didn’t see them but as soon as Jan waved at her she shuffled toward their direction and plopped herself in the empty chair.

She was wearing brown flare pants along with a white shirt and a yellow batwing cardigan with a floral pattern. Her brown hair had been violently ruffled by a gust of wind, the loose locks fell all over her face completing a look that matched her current mood.

“What are you doing here?” Nicky asked.

Jan was wondering the same; all of Jackie’s classes took place in the morning, it was early for her to be out.

She grunted a few words while holding a scrunchie between her teeth as she attempted to untangle her hair.

“What?” The girls asked at the same time.

Jackie tied her hair into a ponytail and sighed. “I got kicked out of class.”

Jan looked at her with disbelief. “What?” She repeated.

“Remember that professor that hates me for making –according to him- «snarky comments»? Well, he finally found a reason to express his dislike for me and asked me to leave.” She crossed her arms on her chest. “I wasn’t going to stay quiet when –in addition, to invisibilize women in art- he also tried to erase the queerness of the artists. No, not on my watch.”

“What a pig.” Nicky shook her head. “I can’t believe he had the nerve to kick you out because you called him out.”

“Oh, trust me, this isn’t the end of it. I’m filing a complaint and leaving that class. I’m done.”

“I’m sorry, Jackie. I know you liked the subject, too bad the professor is a jerk.” Jan tapped her shoulder softly.

The brunette got stiff by the sudden touch. She cleared her throat before speaking again. “Anyway… it sucks because I need the credit and it’s the only class that fits into my schedule.”

“Maybe there’s a way to fix it, talk with the administration or something.” Jan did what she did best, being undeniably positive.

“Yeah… maybe. But enough of that, I need a cup of coffee.”

As if she had read Jackie’s mind, a waitress approached and it wasn’t any other than…

“Hello, girls!”

“Crystal? You work here?” Jan asked.

The girl nodded. “I started yesterday.” She smiled brightly.

She had a blue apron with the café’s name on it over her clothes and Jan swore her hair –covered in colorful hair clips- was different than last time she saw her not even two days ago.

“Congratulations! That’s great!”

“Thank you. I had to drop one of my classes but I needed the job.”

Jackie grunted. “Please let’s not talk about dropping classes.” She began massaging her temples.

“Right! I’m here to take your order.” She pulled out a tiny notebook covered in glitter from her pocket and a unicorn gel pen. “I’m ready.”

“I think you have to say «what can I get you?»” Nicky commented.

“Oh, you’re right… Let me try again. What can I get you?” She repeated in an extremely polite voice.

“I’ll have a hot chocolate please.” Jan pointed at the menu.

“And I’d like a hazelnut latte.” Jackie followed.

“For me, a caramel macchiato.” The blonde finished the order.

“Perfect… so hot chocolate, hazelnut latte, and caramel macchiato.” Crystal checked her notes. “Right away.”

“Thank you.” They said and with that, the ginger left and then turned around.

Jan watched her go.

“I should get a job too.” She pouted. “I don’t want to ask for extra money from my parents, they are helping with the other half the scholarship and they are paying for my brother’s tuition too.”

“I work at the mall near here and there’s always something to do there. You could come with me later and ask around.” Nicky mentioned.

“I didn’t know that, what do you do?”

“I’m on the cosmetics section. I do people’s makeup during the weekends and convince them to buy products.”

“Of course you do…”

“What would you like to do?” Jackie inquired in the meantime she rearranged the sweeteners of the table.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I’ve had part-time jobs before. I used to work at an ice cream parlor. That was fun not to mention I had free ice cream. Then I worked at the post office, that wasn’t as much fun, it involved a lot of boxes… and during my senior year, I was the secretary of a dental office that… well, definitely wasn’t fun but I got to meet the same customers that were regulars on the ice cream parlor.”

Jackie and Nicky burst into laughter.

“You’ll do well…” The blonde assured.

“We can write your resume later and print it in the copy room.” Jackie suggested.

“That’s a great idea. Yeah, let’s do it.”

At that moment, Crystal returned with their drinks.

“Well, let’s see… I’ll put these over here, here and… here.” She placed the cups carefully and sighed with relief when everything stayed in place. “Great… Let me know if you need me.” She hummed.

“Thank you, Crystal!” Jan was going to leave a good tip for her friend.

When she turned around, they all exchanged misplaced cups in the blink of an eye.

“She’ll get better… hopefully.” Jackie added some sugar and took a sip of her coffee.

Jan drank some of her chocolate; the whipped cream created a mustache above her cupid’s bow and got the brunette looking fondly at her before taking a napkin and cleaning the corner of her mouth. Nicky raised an eyebrow but before she could say something, someone else showed up.

It was a girl that most definitely looked like a supermodel with her matching glen check pattern outfit consisting of a cropped jacket and a mini skirt with accents of yellow fabric and a belt with chains hanging from it along with a pair of black thigh-high boots. Her blonde hair framed her face and was tied on the back on a half up half down hairstyle.

“Hey, Nicky, did you finish the assignment for today’s class? And if you did, did you have any difficulty submitting it?” She looked upset, stressed.

“Uh… no. Maybe it’s because that paper is due tomorrow and the submission time starts… tomorrow?”

“Oh, thank God.” She sat on the only left empty chair with no need of an invitation and sighed letting all the air out of her lungs.

Their little table couldn’t accommodate more people so they squished even more.

Nicky turned to Jackie and Jan. “This is Gigi, she’s a classmate of mine and she actually lives in the same dorms as us. Gigi, do you remember my friend Jackie? And this is Jan, resident of the C dorm.”

The other blonde girl waved. “Hi, sorry… that was rude. I was freaking out due to that assignment.” She took a deep breath. “Hi, Jackie… I do remember you and Jan, we’re neighbors.”

“That’s great!” Jan smiled at her. “So you’re a fashion major too?”

She nodded. “I’m a sophomore as well but I’m a year younger than everyone else because of technicalities and my mom sending me to kindergarten one year earlier.”

“We’re the same age then. That’s cool.”

Gigi smiled, she was beautiful.

“How are you adapting to-” She was going to ask Jan something when she lowered her head in an attempt to hide behind Jackie. “Oh shit.”

“Gigi, what is it?” Nicky whispered.

“She’s here.” Gigi tried to descend even more.

“Uhm… who’s here?” Jackie looked around.

“She! She’s here right now… Oh God…” The girl seemed nervous and her cheeks were tinted in soft pink. “So, uh… there’s this girl who lives in our dorm I guess and I’ve bumped into her a couple of times before but… I don’t know, she’s like…” She blushed harder.

“Gigi Goode... The Gigi Goode is possibly… intimidated by someone?” Nicky gasped.

“Shhh… shut up… no… yeah… maybe. I don’t know. I’m gay and single, leave me alone.”

“Wait but how does she look like?” Jan also tried to find her among the crowd. They all were whispering.

“Oh my God… she’s coming… she’s walking in this direction, why is she walking in this direction? Never mind she has an apron.”

But it was Crystal who appeared next to Jan. “Hey guys, everything’s okay over here? Do you need something else?” She inquired, completely clueless.

The three remaining girls looked at Crystal, then at Gigi, and then at Crystal again as if it was a ping pong game.

“Oh, hey! I hadn’t seen you there, would you like me to bring something for you?” She asked Gigi while pulling out her Crystalcore things.

The blonde girl nodded and recovered the posture a little. “Uh… matcha… that’s the green thing… yeah… latte. Green tea?”

“Matcha tea latte?”

She nodded mechanically again.

“Alright, anything else?” The other girls shook their heads. “I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you.” Gigi’s voice sounded high-pitched.

Once Crystal left, all eyes were on the blonde once again.

“Oh my… I fucked up, didn’t I?”

Nicky’s jaw had dropped to the floor. “Wait, hold on a minute… you like her?”

“Shhh… God, Nicky, she could hear you or something.” Gigi pressed her hand on her chest, feeling her heart beating fast. “I didn’t know she worked here.”

Jan was trying to contain a smile, her lips turned into a thin line, meanwhile, Jackie stirred her lukewarm coffee.

“Uh… You know that’s my roommate, right?” Nicky smirked.

At that moment, Gigi almost fainted. Her face went from reddish to pale in a second and her eyes were full of terror as if she had seen a ghost.

“Excuse me, she’s your what?!”

“My roommate? Crystal? The girl with orange hair? I’ve told you about her. The one that put stickers on the notes she leaves me? She forgot her key three times in the span of a day? The one that –allegedly- accidentally shot a confetti cannon in our room and since then it feels like the place coughs confetti here and there? Rings your bell?”

That had been a good day, Jan recalled.

“Wait- That’s your Crystal? Your Crystal is my Crystal?” She covered her mouth after saying those words.

Jackie and Jan exchanged an amused look.

“Your Crystal?” Nicky tilted her head.

“I mean… that’s not what I mean…” She cleared her throat. “please don’t tell her I have a crush on her this is already too embarrassing for me… I could die like a Sim… of embarrassment, it’s a real thing, you know?”

“Relax, I won’t say a word and I’m sure the girls won’t either, right?” Jan and Jackie nodded.

Gigi seemed relieved. “Thank you… I can’t believe she’s your roommate.” She buried her face in her hands.

“I can’t believe you feel intimidated by her, she has a One Direction poster in our room.”

“There are so many things clicking in my head right now please leave your message after the tone. Beep.”

Jackie moved her hand in front of her eyes without getting a response. “I think you broke her, Nicky.”

“She’ll be fine. Plus, Crystal is bringing her tea right now.”

“Fuck…” She said as if was a reset command.

“Here you have.” The ginger placed the smoky cup in front of her. “I hope you enjoy it.” She smiled and winked before leaving.

Gigi gulped.

“Uh, Gigi, I’m not an expert but judging by the color of the beverage, that’s not what you ordered.” Jackie pointed out.

But the blonde wasn’t even looking at her. “I don’t care; this is the most delicious drink existing in the entire universe right now.”

“What’s that though?” Nicky tried to touch the cup but Gigi slapped her hand.

“No touching.” She glared at her classmate.

“Yeah, I feel like we’re going to be good friends.” Jan thought about it aloud.

“Alright, all set.”

Jackie let a big sigh out of her chest when she left the administration office; Jan had been waiting for her outside. They had gone there straight after leaving the café when Nicky and Gigi left for their class. On their way to the building, she had tried to cheer Jackie up by telling the entire confetti cannon anecdote in full detail but even afterward laughing at loud the brunette still seemed afflicted.

“I’ve submitted my complaint and the head administrator told me that the board will look into it. Until then, they said that most classes are already full so they’ll have to look for a different solution and they’ll contact me via e-mail or I’ll have to drop by next week.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? They’ll tell you what the next step is. It can only get better from here.”

“I hope so.” She shrugged. She didn’t sound fully convinced, though.

Jan checked the time on her phone. “Hey, we still have some time before your shift starts, we can hang out or something…”

Jackie bit her inner cheek. “I don’t know…”

Jan touched her shoulder gently. “Jackie, I hate you seen you like this. There has to be something that makes you feel at least one percent better.”

She looked at her with her big puppy eyes and Jackie couldn’t say no to her.

“Okay… there’s something that always makes me feel better.” She gave in.

“I’m listening.”

Jackie’s eyes sparked.

“No way…” Jan looked around. “This is awesome!”

They had gone upstairs –climbing several stairs-, to a place that wasn’t on the maps of the campus. Jackie had led the way without revealing a single detail –even when Jan asked many, many questions on their way there- she had said it was a surprise and that she didn’t want to spoil it. Finally, as they were climbing those endless stairs, her mood got a bit better.

They reached a single green metal door, it was locked but the brunette pulled a key from her set and opened it. The door led to a little hidden rooftop garden with a few hanging plants and flowers in terracotta pots, there was also a set of recycled wood chairs and an unvarnished coffee table rough around the edges. But without any doubt the most stunning part of that small place was the view, it was the perfect spot to contemplate most of the green areas of the campus including some of the park across the street nearby the café. It was almost noon and the sun hit the opposite side but in a few hours, it would be probably the best viewpoint of the sunset.

“What is this place?” The younger kept inspecting everything.

Jackie closed the door behind them. “It used to be a project made for a group of students to raise awareness about the use of recycling materials but since they all graduated no one really knows it exists. I accidentally discovered it last year when I took a photography class and spotted it with my camera from that crossroad.” She pointed with her index finger. “I did some research and the janitor gave me the key after asking… when I was done with the assignment, she let me keep it with the promise I would do some maintenance once in a while and keep the plants alive. And since then, I come here when I need to be alone or when I’m upset… like today.”

Jan stared at her. “I’m sorry that you had to drop that class.”

“I didn’t want to quit, you know? I thought I was going to be able to handle it, by giving up I feel like I let him win…”

“No, you didn’t. You don’t have to stand that mistreatment.” She looked the brunette in the eye. “I’m glad you did it; don’t let it be a defeat, it doesn’t have to be one.”

“Thank you.” A weak smile appeared on her face.

“I’m gonna hug right now, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“No, you don’t have to…”

“But I want to. C’mon, come here.” She extended her arms widely. “If you don’t let me hug you I’m going to hug myself and it’s going to be lame and I’m going to be sad.”

Jackie chuckled. “Okay, I guess…”

“Yay!” Jan jumped directly to her and wrapped her arms around her.

Jan’s shampoo smelled like almonds and honey. Her embrace made Jackie feel warm inside. Clouds could’ve been made of cotton and the sky was the bluest she had ever seen.

“You see? This is nice.” The younger still held her.

“Yeah, nice…” Jackie closed her eyes and for a moment, it was all right.

They stayed there for a little while. Jackie would have to go to the copy room soon and Jan had her class after lunch. During the time they were there, Jan played some music on her phone and they talked about what had happened earlier in the café. They agreed that it was sweet that Gigi had a crush on Crystal; Jackie watered the plants and told her the story of how she had met the blonde through Nicky. Later on, she sat on one of the chairs while Jan played hopscotch with the cracks in the concrete; she sang softly the song that was playing Hey There Delilah.

“You have a good singing voice,” Jackie mentioned.

“Huh? Me? Oh… I didn’t… I just sing for fun sometimes.” She suddenly felt coy.

“I mean it. It sounded lovely.”

“You’re just being nice. You haven’t heard Rosé or Lagoona, they are amazing.”

“They could tell you. I’m sure they’d agree with me.”

“I could never sing in front of them.” She looked mortified.

“You’d do well.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I don’t know…” Jan shrugged.

The music stopped and the alarm she had set went off.

“We have to go.” The younger announced. “I’ll walk with you to the copy room and then I’ll grab something to eat.”

“Okay. Let me close the door.”

She waited until the brunette was done and they started walking downstairs.

“I wish I could work with you, wouldn’t that be fun?” Jan casually mentioned.

“Well, you’re there all the time anyway.”

“Does it bother you?”

Jackie shook her head and smiled. “No, not at all.”

“I don’t understand it.” Jan lied on the table of the study room. “I have applied for every job available at the mall and still, no response and no results.”

“Ow, baby,” Rosé ruffled her hair. “I’m sure you’re going to find something soon.”

Lagoona lifted her gaze from the textbook. “I wish I could help but the restaurant where I work is full.”

“I thought you hated that place?” Jan turned toward her.

“I do, but the tips are good.” She highlighted a sentence with her pastel marker.

She was already studying for an upcoming presentation. Rosé was memorizing the lines of a play and she got Jan there to read the other part. Now they were on a break. The pink-haired girl was drinking peach soda from a can in the meantime Jan whined for her failed job search. Lagoona –whose blue hair was beginning to fade a little- googled some job offers in the area and read them at loud.

“There are a few that sound pretty disgusting if you ask me. I didn’t know the classified ads could be this kinky.” She frowned and put her phone down.

“Hey, what about that place?” Rosé snapped her fingers. “Goona, do you remember? The diner that’s a couple of blocks from here? We used to go there all the time during our freshman year.”

“Oh, yes. That was a nice place, didn’t we stop going there because your ex-roommate worked there?”

Rosé’s expression turned sour. “Yeah… but she got fired or quit, I don’t know. The point is, they were always hiring people, maybe you could ask there?”

“And you’ve waited this long to tell me?” Jan cried. “It’s been three agonizing days.”

“They are open now so you could-”

“Bye, guys! See you later.” She grabbed her things, threw them into her backpack, and dashed out just to return a couple of seconds later. “Yeah, so I don’t know where it is.”

Jan held her breath before walking past the door.

The diner was decorated in a retro style. It had black and white floor tiles, a long bar, red stools, chairs and booths, round tables, neon signs, vinyl albums and posters of classic Hollywood stars on the walls, lamps hanging from the ceiling, and even a functional jukebox. A few people were sitting at the bar, it was still early for dinner so almost everyone was having a milkshake or some ice cream.

Jan was welcomed by a girl with dark wavy hair in a striped red and white dress with a little white apron on. The name «Denali» was written on her tag.

“Welcome to Lucky’s, would you like a table or a seat on the bar?” She smiled and a pair of dimples appeared on her face.

“Hi, I was wondering if you have a job application for me or… if you were hiring right now?”

“Oh,” She lowered her notebook. “You wanna work here? Okay, just give me a second. You can sit over there.” Denali pointed at one empty table.

“Sure.” Jan held her backpack close to her body and moved to the booth.

Denali returned shortly after with a pen and a paper sheet in her hands.

“In normal circumstances, you’d have an interview with the manager but since he’s God knows where and I’m in charge in the meantime, I’m going to let you complete this form and then ask you some questions…”

“Alright, yeah.”

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

Jan filled the form with basic information, her full name, birth date, age, address, phone number, e-mail, etc. When she was done, she observed Denali serving customers, she moved like her feet weren’t touching the floor, with a full tray on her hands as if it weighed nothing, all with a giant smile on her face. She made it look easy.

“Everything alright?” She asked before sitting in front of Jan.

“Yes, I’m done.” She returned the paper sheet.

Denali scanned it, collecting information. “Janice? Okay, you’re a college student.”

“Jan is fine. Yes, I’m a freshman.”

“Aw,” She tilted her head. “I’m going to write my notes in front of you if that’s okay.” Jan nodded. “You haven’t worked as a waitress before, right?”

“No, but I’m a fast learner and I believe I compensate my lack of experience with enthusiasm, I’ve been told.”

She wrote something “Next, uhm… Why do you want to work here?”

“I need a job to pay for my things. As I said, this is my first year of college; I have a partial scholarship and my parents are supporting me from home but I don’t want to become a burden for them.”

“Do you mind if I ask about your scholarship?”

“No, not at all. It’s for baseball.”

“Work!” She nodded. “The last one, you wrote here your potential time schedules and, according to the rules, if you only work have twice per week you’ll have to take two Saturdays per month. Are you fine with that?”

“Sure, I can take any shift that day.”

“Well, Jan, the good news is that I sense we’re going to be besties, so I wrote «overqualified», «fast learner» and «tight schedules but willing to take Saturday’s shifts» which always is a plus.” She smiled at Jan. “I believe you’re going to get a call very soon.”

“Oh my God! Thank you.” Jan grinned. “I really appreciate that.”

“No worries. You’re lucky -no pun intended-, a girl just quit but being completely honest, she was a real bitch. You can’t be worse than her.”

“I’ve heard that before and… I’m okay with that.”

“Alright. I hope I see you soon.” She winked and returned to serve tables.

Jan left the diner with the biggest smile on Earth.

[schrijverr]

My Husband Does my Make-Up

Cas does Deans make up, takes place within the Famous Husband verse.

(I used this video, since I don’t know make up)

On AO3.

Ships: Destiel

Warnings: None, but if you want me to tag something I’ll do so happily!

~~~~~~~~~~~

A lipsticked mouth is the only thing on screen, it smiles and with Deans voice it says: “Bet you didn’t see this shit coming.

Then the intro rolled, it was a drawn impala that came down the road, it stopped in the middle of the screen and the drawn Dean gave a wink to the viewers, then he sped off again and the smoke was bridge back to the video.

Dean and Cas were sitting next to each other, they weren’t in Dean usual filming space, but at a table with a bunch of make-up in front of them. Dean waved and said: “Hello hunters, you’re probably wondering what the hell is going on, so I’ll explain. Today my husband does my make-up!”

Cas waved as well and said a quick hello, before Dean went on: “He hasn’t been on the channel in a while and you all were begging for some more Cas content so here it is. As you might know Cas is prone to saying ‘Fuck the gender rules’, so all this stuff is his and he actually knows what he is doing.”

“I wouldn't go that far, Dean, but I do know more than you.” Cas said quickly to lower expectations.

Dean shook his head and told the camera: “He’s just being humble, ignore him.”

Then it jump cut and Cas was holding two foundations. He said: “I have these two and I’m just going to do a quick check to see which of these is Deans shade, so I don’t give him the failed spray tan look or something like that.”

Dean chuckled while Cas put a bit of both the shades on his hand and held them next to his face. Cas asked: “I think I know which one I want to use, but what do you think?”

Dean studied the two colors intently then shrugged and said: “I’m sorry, angel, but I really don’t see  much of a difference.”

Cas stared at him, until he looked again and said: “The top one, kinda looks better, I guess?”

Cas smiled at him and put one of the bottles away and squirted the other on the back of his hand. Dean, meanwhile said into the camera: “Cas is probably gonna do most of the talking here today, because he will tell you what he is doing, something I absolutely can not. I have no clue how he takes some brushes and colors and just makes art on his face, but I am excited to see it happening on my face.”

Cas quietly blushed, but ignored the complement in favor of getting his beauty blender and telling Dean to relax. Dean looked at him and asked: “What is that? Some sort of butt-plug?”

He was given a deadpan look by Cas, who said: “No, this is a beauty blender, I’m starting with foundation and I use this to beat the make up onto your face.”

Dan frowned: “That doesn’t sound all the nice to me, dude.”

“Then you just have to live with it, don’t you now.” Cas replied, “Turn to me.”

Dean did and Cas started to apply the foundation. After a few moments Dean commented: “This feels weird, not bad or anything, just weird. It’s kind of relaxing actually.”

They were done and Cas grabbed another small pallet. Dean asked: “So what are you doing now?”

“I’m going to contour your face now, because the foundation made it flat and even, so we’re giving your face it’s shape back.”

“Like shadows in a drawing?” Dean asked.

Cas lit up: “Yeah, exactly.”

Dean grinned back, but then smoothed out his features to allow Cas to work. They were facing each other, leaning in close. Cas took a break to see his work and find places where some more work was needed. As he did, Dean leaned forward and quickly stole a small kiss, both startling Cas and making him smile. He softly said: “Idiot.”

Dean only grinned in return and asked: “So master artist, is my face shape to your pleasing?”

Huffing out a small amused breath Cas nodded and said: “I do miss your freckles, so I might add some of those later and I’m really tempted to give you a cute blush. What is your opinion about those things?”

Dean seriously thought about it, then shrugged and said: “Whatever you think looks good, babe.  Trust you to make me handsome.”

Cas said: “I’ll make you beautiful.” then pecked his nose and turned back to the table. It cut immediately after that, Dean was the one who edited it and he had decided that no one needed to see the way he smiled a dopey smile and touched his nose on the spot Cas had kissed it like he was a virgin.

After the cut, Cas gave Dean a small blush on his cheeks before moving on to concealer. Dean asked, mock offended: “What on my handsome face needs concealing? You wound me.”

Cas rolled his eyes and dryly told him: “The bags under your eyes from the nights you spend editing instead of cuddling your perfectly cuddable husband?”

Dean laughed and asked: “Is cuddable even a word?”

“I don’t know, I teach History, not English.” Cas told him, going back to work.

It cut and Cas was holding a powder and said: “Now I’m setting your face with powder.”

“Why are you doing that?” Dean asked.

“To make sure my hard work doesn’t get lost during the day, when you go out and do stuff.”

Dean hummed: “Huh, neat.”

“I am now going to put on highlighter this is to-”

“Wait, let me guess.” Dean interrupted Cas, “It’s called highlighter, so it’s the opposite of the shadows, right? So it is make the face shape better?”

Cas smiled and said: “Yeah, it’s part of that. It’s to make your cheek stand out.”

Dean fist pumped, before letting Cas get back to putting on his make up. When he was done he said: “Now, I’m going to do your eyes, which is the actual look. I want to do purple, because that complements the green of your eyes.”

“Cool, let’s get started.” Dean said.

“I’m using this pallet.” Cas said, holding a pallet in the air, “and I’m going to start with this pastel purple color right here and just pack it on your lid and crease, so close your eyes.”

He started to move the brush, but Dean held up his hand and said: “Stop, I’m kind of scared it’s gonna blind me.”

Cas lowered the brush and reassured him: “It is safe for your eyes, otherwise it wouldn’t be sold and I will never hurt you, Dean. Just close your eyes and keep them close until I say you can open them and you’ll be okay. I will be gentle, I promise. But if you really want to, we can stop, no one has to know.”

Dean scratched his head, then let his shoulders sag and said: “No, it’s fine, just need to mentally prep myself a bit for this.”

“Take your time.”

“Pfiew, I have so much respect for you and all the people who do make up right now.”

Cas smiled.

It cut to Dean with his eyes closed, while Cas gently packed on the eyeshadow and hummed ‘Hey Jude’ softly under his breath.

Then it was done and Cas pointed at another color and said: “I want to use this deep purple on the lower lash line, so I’m going to use this small flat brush for that.” he did that, then grabbed another, fluffier brush and said: “And I’m using this one to blend it, I used a thicker brush like this one to blend the pastel portion of the eye.”

A cut. Cas said: “I’m using this pinkish purple color for the inner corner using this small brush.”

Dean said: “I’m so impressed with how professional you sound right now.”

Cas blushed a bit and admitted: “Beauty vloggers may be a guilty pleasure of mine.”

“Ahw, babe, that’s so cute.” Dean cooed, “You are going to have to show me later.”

It cut to Cas putting on the pinkish purple shade of eyeshadow in Deans inner corner. When he was done he asked Dean: “Are you comfortable with me putting on fake lashes?”

“Are those the ones who look really creepy when you pull them off?” Dean asked.

Cas grinned and nodded. Dean contemplated it, then decided: “It looks scary, but I’ll get to scare Sam, so do it.”

“The lengths you go to.”

“I’m an older brother, it is what I do.”

Another cut to Cas holding a lash of a pair of tweezers as he waved them to dry the glue a bit. He said: “I’ve cut these long and a bit dramatic lashes to size and I’m going to use these tweezers to place them perfectly along Deans lash line.”

He was placing them while Dean kept still, although there was a continuously stream of: “Holy fucks, this I scary, I ‘m gonna die. No, I’m gonna get stabbed in the eyeball, go blind and then die, crap, crap, crap. Oh, it’s done.”

“And you live, a miracle.” Cas smirked.

Dean hugged him and exclaimed: “My angel has saved me from a cruel fate.”

Then he looked and his eyes got big as he commented: “Damn, this is weird, I can see my lashes, well, not my lashes, but my fake lashes, this is so fricking weird.”

Cas left him to wonder for a few seconds, before he said: “I have to put on mascara to blend your fake lashes to your real lashes, so the fake ones look more real. I have to warn you, most people find this part a bit scary.”

Dean puffed out his chest: “I’m a though guy, I got this.”

Then it immediately cut to Cas actually putting on the mascara while Dean said: “This is scary, I don’t think I got this.”

Cas stopped and waited for a thumbs up.

Later he continued and although Dean didn’t stop him the chatter he had during the lashes returned until it was over. Dean sighed with relief that was crushed by Cas, who said: “I have this purple mascara, I wanted to put on your lower lashes, but if you don’t want to, it’s fine and we can leave it out. It’s up to you.”

Dean looked between Cas and the mascara, then he answered with a determined look on his face: “No, I’m doing it, you came up with this look and I’m wearing the full thing.”

It cut till it was done and Cas said: “So those are the eyes all complete, I don’t know if this was something you could follow, but I’m pretty proud of them. Now, all we need to do is the lips and give Dean his freckles back.”

“What are we doing for lips?” Dean asked.

“Well, since the eyes are a lot, I think we need neutral lips, so I’m doing that. First we have to line them.” Cas answered.

There was a cut to Cas lining Deans lips as Cas said: “You, Dean Winchester-Novak, have very nice lips.”

Dean made an embarrassed noise as he tried not to move his lips and ruin the line.

Then Cas was putting on a soft nude lip stick and when he was done Dean asked: “How are you going to do the freckles?”

“I’m going to draw on some freckles with an eyebrow pencil. I didn’t do your brows, because you have pretty good brows on your own.” Cas told him.

Dean made a ‘that’s fair’ face, then Cas got to work. As he was applying the freckles he said: “I know where some of your freckles are, so I’m trying to put them back, but I don’t know them all, so it’s not going to be an exact replica.”

Dean snorted and said: “No one was expecting that and the fact that you know where some of my freckles are is insane, dude.”

Cas tilted his head to the side contemplatively and asked: “Is it really insane?”

Dean immediately reassured him that it wasn’t insane, but very cute, at the end he tagged on the question: “How do you even know where some of them are, by the way?”

“I just spend a lot of time studying your face and trying to count your freckles.” Cas told him.

Then it cut to a few aesthetic shots of Deans face that show off the make up.

After that they were at the end card and Dean was ending his video: “That was it, hope this video taught you something about make and quenched your Cas thrist.”

“Don’t call it that, Dean.”

“What? It’s true.” he turned back to the viewers, “I know this is not what I usually do, but I hoped you enjoyed it anyway. Leave your thought about the video and the look down below. I’m probably posting some pictures of this look on my insta so go there to check that out, but for now that is it for today. Bye hunters, see you on the road!”

There was a small vlog-style clip at the end. Where Sam came walking in and saw Deans make up, he smiled and said: “Wow, dude, that looks epic.”

“Thanks.” Dean told him with a grin, then he ripped off his lashes and Sam screamed

Then the video was over

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

This was practically an entire

video off eye sex….

… I am uncomfortable

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

He looked so pretty!!!! A+, good

job!!!

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

No one:

Absolutely no one:

Dean: MAKE UP

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

Ahw, Dean was so interested in

the make up and Cass’s hobby

it’s so cute how he asks

questions throughout the entire

video

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

“I don’t know, I teach History,

not English”

I C O N I C

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

I love how soft they both are and

how Cas was willing to stop at

any time if Dean wanted to

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

What can’t this man do?

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

Rip Sam who has suffered through

years of eyesex

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

Okay, but is no one gonna talk

about how good Cas is at make up

like, he’s a MUA

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

CAS KNOWS HIS FRECKLES I AM SOFT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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

[littleoldrachel]

i am burned out (i smell of smoke) - part two

guys. the response to this has just been. unreal. thank you so much for all of the kindness and support you've shown me and this little fic. i couldn't be more grateful. y'all are wonderful and i don't know why i was so nervous to post in the first place. thank you.

for now, part two! (look, it's gotta get worse before it gets better!!! (it will get better though, i swear))

i am burned out (i smell of smoke) [on ao3]

summary: in which virgil falls apart, learns how to put himself back together, and realises he doesn’t have to do it alone.

word count: 3.6k ish ( part 1/5 | part 2/5 )

warnings: mental health issues

timeline: i suppose this is set in early TAG verse?  jeff is missing and nobody is Coping Well.

happy belated birthday, nutty!! <3

ii. 

He’s not better in the morning. Waking up is an unpleasant experience for Virgil at the best of times, only gratified by a large mug of coffee or the necessity of a rescue, but today - 

Virgil is aware of the heavy weight on his chest before he even opens his eyes. It’s even larger than it was last night, sucking him dry of what little energy sleep has reclaimed. 

Virgil glares down at his chest, half-wishing there was some outwards sign that something is wrong on the skin there. But there are only the same patches of bruises and still healing scars as adorn his whole body. 

He takes a deep breath, and feels the strain of it against this heavy weight. 

Is he getting sick? He can’t be - he’s only just had the flu, dammit! He has a job to do, and Scott will never let him get away with flying Two whilst sick again if their last shouting match about it was anything to go by. 

And even if he were getting sick - which he’s not - that chesty ache is different to this weighty nothingness. Instead of feeling ill, he’s just… tired. 

A Scott-like voice sounds in the back of his head, though it’s far harsher than Scott could ever be: concentrate on your job - on the people who need you.

But it’s right. That’s what he needs to focus on - that’ll be what gets him out of this awful funk. 

(Because that’s all it is. A funk).

(It has to be). 

*

It’s not better the following morning either. Nor the morning after that, no matter how many rescues he pushes himself through.

His go-to coping mechanism has always been music, and so he makes his way to the piano without even bothering to raid the kitchen for breakfast/lunch. He’s not hungry, which should probably trigger alarm bells but he’s too tired to care.

Instead, he plonks himself down on the piano stool, lifts the lid to his precious instrument, and stares at the keys, waiting. 

Only, nothing swells inside of him, desperate to be expressed - no emotion, no thought, nothing. 

Virgil has never been in front of a piano and felt nothing. Even before he could play, the very sight of a piano had him awestruck. He remembers his mother playing L.O.V.E just to make him smile, stressing over his finals with endless Rachmaninoff, and pouring out his grief through his own stormy compositions. The piano is and always has been less of an instrument and more of a mouthpiece, a beating heart, a lonely soul that he has bound to himself. For a child stricken mute by tragedy, a teenager struggling in his siblings’ shadows, an adult who can never save them all, his piano is the best way he’s found to dig those feelings out of himself. 

Scott has always said Virgil feels things too deeply. He’s right - even in this nothing-ness state, the depths of it are chasm-like inside him. 

And so, because he knows Scott would want him to try, Virgil half-heartedly plays the opening melody to one of his most recent compositions - a gentle, comforting little thing - but stops almost at once in frustration. 

He just doesn’t feel like it. 

(The upset this causes him is almost better than the awful emptiness because at least it’s a goddamn feeling).

*

The one place he feels semi-normal is the gym. At least there, he can distract himself with the burn of straining muscles and the clanging of too-heavy weights. 

At first, even the thought of venturing down here and working out is Too Much, and he can’t quite bring himself to do so.

But then - 

The image of a child buried beneath rocks he's too weak to lift propels him forward, a sharp twinge of anxiety in his chest. 

And so he rows until his shoulders are throbbing, pounds the treadmill till he can’t feel his feet anymore, presses weights more suited to the exosuit than a man. 

His whole body is trembling with exertion as he runs through some cool down stretches. As he makes to stand, his vision tips sideways, flecked with dark spots. 

It's a good twenty minutes before he tries again, this time leaning heavily on the weights racks. 

He pushed too hard and he knows it. Thank God his brothers weren't down here to see it or he would be in serious trouble.

But it has helped, at least a little. It quiets the worry in his mind that he's useless and the guilt of lives lost. The endorphins of exercise lessen the load on his chest momentarily and though he hurts all over, he'd rather this physical pain than the ache of feeling nothing at all. 

*

Virgil hasn't drawn anything in weeks now, despite the not-so-subtle hints from John that he would really, really like something new for his room on Five (and honestly sending Virgil breathtaking photos of double-ringed galaxies would usually have him mixing up colours at once). 

He wants to draw John something - heck, he just wants to draw something. Or maybe, he wants to want to draw something, but every time he sits down with a sketchpad or canvas, his mind empties and his heart is tired.

Like now, curled up in the window seat of his room with a pencil and pad in hand. It's been well over an hour and the page is still glaringly blank, both physically and mentally. 

A knock at his door startles him, and Alan's head pokes round it. "Hey, Virg, you busy?"

Virgil throws the pad and pencil aside, almost grateful for the distraction from his utter failings as an artist. "Never too busy for you, Allie, what's up?"

"Oh wait, you were drawing?!" Alan hurries over, reaching for the pad. "That's great, it's been ages - can I see?"

He turns over the pad before Virgil can stop him and deflates. "Oh."

"Sorry, Alan," Virgil says, tugging the pad back so that he doesn't have to see the disappointed worry in Alan's eyes. "Waiting for inspiration to strike."

"Oookaaay," Alan says slowly, "but if you're busy, you should have said... It's fine if you are! I can ask John instead. Or Brains."

"I'm not busy, honestly. What is it you need?"

Alan looks torn. "But your art time is so important to you.. and you haven't had time in weeks."

Virgil sighs, "it's not that I haven't had time. I just don't feel like it at the moment." He means it to be reassuring - confirmation that whatever Alan needs is more important than doing fuck-all - and it's the most honest he's been in weeks. 

But instead, Alan looks even more worried. "You don't feel like it? … why not?" 

Shit. It's easy to forget with King Smother Brother in the building that his younger brothers have learned from the best. Virgil doesn't know what to do. There's no way in hell he's spilling how horrible he feels all over his littlest brother. And so he does something that will only make him feel worse in the long run but that might disperse the concern in Alan's eyes. 

"I mean… I wanted it to be a surprise," Virgil says slowly, hating himself for the way Alan brightens at his lies. "But I've been working on something special for John's birthday."

Alan beams and it's almost worth the guilty squirm in Virgil's chest. "Can I see?!" 

"No, no, it's - it's not ready yet." Or started, planned, conceptualised… he's gonna have to get his shit together to fix this lie. 

"Okay, okay. Aw man, I can't wait to see it, Virg!" 

The guilt only swells, and with it, anxiousness. "What was it you needed, Allie?"

"Oh! Right, yeah, it's Physics."

Virgil blinks. "Isn't John your go-to guy for that?"

Alan bites his lip. "Yeah, but you have an Engineering degree. And also…" Alan sighs and flops down on Virgil's bed. "I don't get it and John's great except he doesn't get why I don't get it and-"

"Say no more." Virgil has himself been on the receiving end of John's frustrated rants; not only did he have to bear the humiliation of asking his younger brother for help, but he came away from it feeling even more stupid and hopeless. Thankfully, he'd had a Jeff to explain it to him in terms he could understand - it's a choking grief when Virgil realises that Alan doesn't have that same luxury. 

"It's this equation," Alan is saying, dragging Virgil back to the present. "I just don't get it."

A glance at the page and Virgil feels much steadier. He knows physics, and for once, this is a situation where he can help without failing anyone. 

*

Both on rescues and at home, Virgil has always been the focused, steady rock upon which his brothers can ground themselves. And he's still that, even worn out and perpetually empty, it's just a little harder to maintain it. He's vaguely aware that he's sort of falling apart and he should probably tell someone, even if it means Gordon will be flying his precious 'bird for a while. But the larger part of him is still working to convince himself that he's fine, because he should be fine.

The facade slips a couple of times and each time there's a cost that leaves Virgil so angry at himself, at his uselessness that he can't bear to face anyone. 

Scott watches his usually perfect aim fail three times in a row, and is forced to launch himself out of Thunderbird One to fire his own grappling hook. It takes on the first go because he's Scott fucking Tracy, but they’re too close to the ground thanks to Virgil's ineptitude and there's blood everywhere - oh God, it's everywhere - and Virgil is left with shaking hands staring at the man whose wounds Scott is desperately trying to plug.

John hears when he blacks out momentarily in the tunnel system beneath Mexico City. It's just a temporary dizziness from the heat of the packed soil (is what he's telling John, even though he doesn't remember the last time he ate, and forces himself to choke down an energy bar in guilt) but it distracts his brother from wherever else he is needed and Virgil hates himself for it.

Gordon is the one who wakes him sweating and yelling from a nightmare. There's such worry in his younger brother's face as he asks about the dream, but Virgil can't bring himself to explain that it was his father going up in flames over and over, as it has been for months now. A week later, when it's Scott's face replacing Jeff Tracy's, Virgil wakes to a panic attack, but Gordon is nowhere to be found. 

Alan seizes his arm at a landslide in south Wales, drags him to a man who is pale, sweating, clutching his broken leg, and Virgil goes into medic mode at once. Bind the leg, treat for shock, arrange transport to the nearest hospital.

Except the man never makes it to the hospital.

Because there’s a hard, swollen bruise up his ribcage that should have indicated internal bleeding. And he didn’t spot it - why didn’t he spot it? He has one job: help people, and he can’t even fucking do that right. The man dies on the way to the hospital, and Virgil can’t breathe. Alan tries - bless his good, generous soul - to reassure him, reminding him that there’s relatively little they can do for internal bleeds, they aren’t equipped for that kind of injury, but Virgil pushes him away with a roughness he’ll later regret.

He’s falling apart and this feeling wasn’t supposed to affect rescues, it wasn’t supposed to be a problem he actually had to face. This wasn’t supposed to happen, why did this happen, why, why, why - 

*

Scott is the one who drags him away from his bedroom, where he’s taken to moping alone. 

He doesn’t even knock, simply sweeping through the door in shorts and a tank top, trainers dangling by the laces. “Right, get changed, we’re going on a run.”

Virgil, who hasn’t moved (can’t move) from his bed since getting back from a rescue a few hours earlier, glares up at him. “Nope.”

“Move it.”

“Make me.”

Scott narrows his eyes. “You know I can.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Virgil regrets the words the second they leave his mouth, because no way in hell does he have the energy to wrestle with Scott right now, but his older brother does something much, much worse. 

He tickles him. 

Virgil goes into survivor mode: kicking, flailing, shoving Scott away all whilst breathlessly begging him to stop. When Scott finally relents, Virgil flops back on his bed, panting. 

“I - hate you.” 

“I know,” Scott says cheerfully. “Now, get dressed.”

They begin on Scott’s usual circuit across the beach, chasing the trail up under canopies of forest, and then break away to run alongside the cliff-edges. Most of the heat of the day has faded with the sun, but it’s still warm enough that they’re both sweating by the end of the ascent. Scott pauses at the crest of the cliff and stands silhouetted against the sunset. Virgil slows to a halt next to him.

"What's wrong?" Scott says suddenly and Virgil almost flinches.

"Nothing," he says. It's enough of a half-truth that he doesn't even feel guilty at the frustration in Scott's eyes. 

Scott stares at him. "Please don’t lie to me, Virg. Are you getting sick? Are you injured?”

“What - no, I’m not - I’m not lying -”

“Because I swear, if you ever pull that ‘pushing through pneumonia for the mission’ bullshit again, I will ground you for life-”

“Scott, I’m not sick!”

“Come on, Virg, you’ve always been a shit liar.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Then what’s going on with you?! This is your favourite route." He sweeps a hand over the view of endless ocean, soaked pink and gold beneath the setting sun. "Normally you're urging us to get back so you can get it all down on a canvas, and today, you haven’t even noticed. Please, Virg?” Scott takes a step towards him, resting a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. Talk to me?”

The unbridled concern in Scott’s tone hurts and Virgil simultaneously wants nothing more than to fix it and to stop being its cause. 

Except that - he's fine, he's okay, he's coping with whatever this is. And he doesn't even know what this is so he would rather set himself on fire than trigger another of his brother's nightmares.

“I’m okay, Scott, really.” Scott shakes his head and Virgil doubles down. “I am, I’m just tired.” (So tired, so fucking tired but no amount of sleep seems to help). “It’s been a crazy couple of months.”

Scott frowns, and Virgil forces himself not to cringe at the intensity of his brother’s stare. This feeling is shaping him up to be a damned good liar, and Virgil hates it.

“You have been looking tired,” Scott says eventually, and Virgil sighs internally. “Do I need to give you leave to rest up - and tell me the truth, Virg, I swear to God -”

“No, no.”

Don’t leave me alone with this feeling and nothing to distract from it. 

“Swear it?” 

Virgil nods and watches the relief bloom in his brother’s eyes. He almost doesn’t hate himself for it, because he’s trying his damnedest to convince himself that he is fine, even though it’s becoming increasingly apparent he’s really, really not. But he doesn’t know how to explain how empty and tired and fragile he feels, and so he can’t.

“No more skipping family dinners though, Virg. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you aren’t around at mealtimes lately, I miss you.”

*

The thing is, he's just not hungry anymore - not for Scott's special blueberry pancakes, nor for authentic Italian pizza from his favourite restaurant courtesy of Gordon on the way home one day. He's especially not hungry for Grandma's (literal) rock cake, no matter how hurt she looks by his rejection. 

Virgil knows he's losing weight - he can feel it in the looseness of his uniform around his limbs and in how he has to cinch his belt a little tighter than before. He also knows that in intensifying his workouts, he should be increasing his intake to match. 

He’s also not sleeping - or at least, not sleeping restfully. His nights are riddled with horrific dreams that he wakes from in a panic, or he spends hours unable to switch his mind off for all the terrible thoughts echoing round it. 

The thing is - he can't quite bring himself to care about it all. He’s finding it so hard to care about anything at all (besides his family and the rescues, of course, though even these are draining him beyond all reason), least of all himself. 

*

After one sleepless night, Virgil wanders aimlessly through the house in the groggy rays of the rising sun. Scott will already be on his morning run and Gordon will be halfway through his pre-breakfast swim. And Virgil -

He should be in bed, dead to the world, only to be woken up under dire circumstances or so help me, Gordon - 

Instead, he finds himself in front of his piano. It’s been long enough that a film of dust has settled atop the lid, and he traces his finger through it absently, then decides to try. For Scott, if not for himself (definitely not for himself).

He rifles through boxes of sheet music waiting for something to grab him. When nothing inevitably does, he snatches up whatever’s sticking out sideways, and begins to play. The notes are familiar enough that he closes his eyes, waiting to lose himself in the melody.

But that tug never comes. 

Virgil finishes the piece just as empty and useless and tired as he started it, and opens his eyes to see Gordon standing there, toast in hand.

“Morning,” Gordon says grinning wickedly. “Long time, no see, Mr Piano Man.”

“Hey,” Virgil says quietly, filing the sheet music away again. He’s not in the mood for Gordon’s joviality right now - then again, when is he ever these days? He feels guilty for thinking it at once. 

“What’s wrong?” Gordon demands, his eyes narrowed. He leans across the piano and Virgil glowers at those buttery fingers.

“If you get grease on my piano, Gordon, you won’t live to regret it.”

“Sheesh. Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning. But seriously, what’s up?”

“Gordon. I mean it.”

Gordon rolls his eyes so hard it must physically hurt him to do so, but raises his hands in surrender. “Fine. Now will you talk to me?”

Virgil looks down at the keys. “Why would anything be up?”

“Well,” Gordon says slowly, “numero uno, I don’t remember the last time I got to have crunchy peanut butter on toast, which means you’re not eating us out of house and home, which is Highly Suspicious Behaviour. Y dos, you only play that when you’re feeling down.”

“I’m surprised you remember that,” Virgil says, caught off guard enough that he doesn’t even attempt to deny it.

“I listen,” Gordon says indignantly. “Chopping is what you play when you feel sad.”

“Chopin.”

“Bless you.”

Virgil half-smiles, in spite of himself. He doesn’t remember the last time he smiled. 

And there’s a moment, where he thinks: tell him, tell him there’s this horrible feeling inside of you and you’re afraid it’s going to swallow you whole, and he’s going to - he wants to - he means to, but-

“I’m okay, Gords, honest. Just nostalgic.”

Gordon looks at him with eyes far older than his years. “You know it’s okay if you’re not okay though, right?”

“Sure.”

“I mean it, Virg. You’re always here for us. Let us be here for you too, yeah?”

There’s a lump in his throat and Virgil can’t trust himself to speak, so he nods vigorously instead. His brother looks uncharacteristically sad as Virgil makes his excuses to hurry off to the gym and it hurts, all these lies hurt, he’s hurting so much.

He’s just dropped the weight when the floor lurches beneath him and he staggers. 

Hm. Low blood sugar. 

The medic in him is furious at himself, but that guy is also buried beneath a thick layer of exhausted indifference, impenetrable sadness and an overwhelming nothingness. 

And so, Virgil does what he does best. He keeps going.

Keeps going through the motions of gym, rescue, take care of brothers, rescue, repairs, sleep, gym, rescue, because what else can he do? 

*

Until he can’t.

There’s a day that dawns bright and beautiful like every single goddamn day on their tropical island. The birdsong is melodic, the butterflies are a tapestry of colour, the sea sparkles beneath lazy golden rays. 

And Virgil can’t get out of bed. 

Not won’t, not doesn’t want to - physically cannot. 

The weight on his chest has finally become heavy enough that it pins him beneath his covers and he cannot shake it off. Every single particle of the emptiness inside him has insidiously become a despair so absolute and almighty that Virgil cannot bear it inside of him but is powerless to get it out. It’s the worst feeling he has ever known - worse than watching his mother die before his eyes, worse than his father turning away from him in his own grief, worse than trying to keep a splintered family together with frayed nerves and a broken heart. He’s not okay. He’s falling apart. 

It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to accept these as facts, rather than fears.

But the realisation only makes him feel even more alone. 

[lallemcnt]

go ahead and watch my heart burn (part five/final)

can be read on ao3

"It's impossible." said pride. "It's risky." said experience. "It's pointless." said reason. "Give it a try." whispered the heart.

What am I doing?

Lucas brushes down the front of his blue long-sleeved shirt with agitated hands. He doesn’t know what to wear, is he overdressed or underdressed? When he asked what he should wear all Eliott said was semi-casual, but Lucas didn’t have a clue what that meant. Could he still wear his trainers and jeans if he wore this shirt? It was ridiculous, really, how worked up he was getting but he doesn't want to embarrass Eliott. He wants to be the perfect supportive boyfriend this evening. Boyfriend. Just that simple word makes the butterflies in his stomach fluctuate.

Smoothing back his hair he wishes he owned gel or something to style it. He checks himself out once more in the mirror: blue shirt with the first two buttons undone — not as daring as Eliott, black slim-fitting jeans and black adidas he’s owned for years, but has become adept at keeping in good condition. This will have to do, he thinks. He snaps a photo and sends it to Yann for approval before slipping on his blue bomber, wrapping his scarf around his neck and entering the chilly October evening of Paris.

The lamps are lit, leaves dust the streets in piles of oranges and browns, signs that Autumn is in full bloom. Bicycles zoom past him, adults sit outside cafes, bundled up in thick jumpers and boots, and he’s breathing in that cool air and basking in the dusk of eight p.m. There is something about Autumn that sings of fresh starts, layering up against the brisk wind and bitter air, the tang of hot chocolate and burnt tongues, cold fingers, the excitement of the spooky season, gearing up for pumpkin carving and house parties full of wasted teens.

Burying his hands in his pockets his breaths puff out visibly before him, sinking into the air like steam off a hot drink, and he is thankful that he wore a scarf at least. Thankful that in and amongst his anxiety and paranoia about the evening, he had enough brain cells left to protect himself against the cold.

Today at 20:15

yann: hot stuff lulu

Lucas rolls his eyes before pocketing his phone and looking up at the building before him. It’s nothing overtly artistic, it blends in with the shops on either side of it. Weirdly, it reminds Lucas of Grimmauld Place in Harry Potter, throwing him back to times spent at Yann’s watching all seven films straight without breaks. That thought, at least, calms him somewhat. He stands in the shadows not daring to step into the light just yet. He takes several deep breaths in, reassuring himself that he will be fine, he’s here for Eliott and his love for him can eclipse his anxiety for the night. He can do this.

He ponders texting Eliott to tell him he’s arrived but stops because Eliott is probably talking to other people, engaging in conversations with kindred spirits who know art. Lucas doesn’t know shit about art. He can look at a photo, a painting or sculpture and appreciate its beauty or vulgarity and deduce his own interpretations, but that’s it. He decides that he will not speak to anyone about the exhibition because he will undoubtedly make a complete idiot of himself. So when he steps inside from the night into a brightly lit room, the contrast to the night outside dazzling him for a second, he unwraps his scarf and takes his jacket off, moving towards the table of mini bites. Eating he can do, and well, but interacting with people, let alone those from completely different stratospheres, is not his forte. He wishes he had invited Arthur along with him, someone he could be comfortably uncomfortable with until Eliott is less busy.

He accepts an offer of champagne from an inscrutable looking man in all black, tucking his coat and scarf in his elbow. He glances around noticing painted portraits and landscapes set against bleach-white walls, a wall has been erected in the middle of the space, and children race round it, trailing their coats behind them to shrieks of laughter which melt into the background of the music filtering in through small speakers. Lucas doesn’t recognise it, the music that is, but it fits the scene: artists and art and educated people knowing what they’re talking about. He can decipher a light piano melody and the strings of a guitar, it must be something indie he concludes.

Already he feels negative thoughts clouding his mind: Why are you even here? You don’t know shit. Everyone knows you’re a fraud. Everyone is looking at you and laughing. Normally these thought spirals last for a while, he will reassure himself, tell himself that he’s being irrational, that no one is looking at him, that they are more interested in the art. He will be fine for five minutes then the thoughts will attack again like a vicious viper, poisoning his thoughts and no antidote is strong enough to stave off the anxiety for long. But, this evening is not about him, and he is really trying to be more positive. He keeps Eliott in his mind and his breathless excitement over the phone when he called to confirm with Lucas, to ensure Lucas would definitely be there. Lucas bottles that voice and plays it on repeat, tucking it against his heart in the little nook Eliott has carved for himself there.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucas notices someone looking over at him and he debates engaging in inane conversation or turning away and pretending to be interested in the food. He goes with option two, picking up a vegan sausage roll and biting into it, but he’s miscalculated and his glass testers out of his hand and he’s imagining the fantastic shatter and the heads turning and the silence and his stomach is dropping, but the glass never meets the floor.

“Fuck-”

“Here you go.”

Lucas looks into deep brown eyes, framed by tortoise-shell glasses and light-brown hair. “Thank you.”

“I saw you struggling a bit there...you know there’s a cloakroom, right?”

“Um. Apparently not.”

Laughter and then, “Follow me. I’ll show you where it is.”

Lucas puts down his glasses, shoves the rest of the sausage roll and follows the retreating back of the girl who saved his ass tonight.

They end up in a room just off the main one, and Lucas notices it is a lot cooler out here, what is it about museums and no air conditioning? He swears he could sweat a foundation within the hour. The girl gestures to a row of coats and jackets hanging suspended from seemingly nothing until Lucas hangs his own one up with his scarf and feels a metal bar holding them in place.

“Thanks again. Seriously. Eternally grateful.”

She’s smiling, the girl, hands clasped behind her back. “So, who are you?”

Lucas’ eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Is there some guest list or something because no one was out the front-”

The girl is laughing now, hair falling forward into her face. “No, I didn’t mean that. Are you a fellow artist or?”

“Oh,” Lucas feels his cheeks grow warm. “Definitely not. You?”

“No, just here for the free booze and food, and my sister’s work is being shown so there’s also that.”

Lucas can’t help but smile. “Yeah, there’s that.”

“Wanna get some more bubbly?”

He learns her name is Ashley, that she studies at the École Normale de Musique de Paris, that she is boisterous and is incredible at impressions. They begin by eating some of the nibbles followed by a glass of cheap bubbly that is decidedly not champagne. They drift around the room, beginning at the far wall on the right observing black-white portraits both painted and photographed; they read the labels affixed to the wall on the right-side of each art piece, noting the artists, the name of the piece and the description of what is being shown. They stand up straight, perfect postures, and move onto the next piece which rings familiar to Lucas, reminding him of impressionist paintings which he quite likes. See, while Lucas is not an expert, he knows Monet, because Manon has a rendition of his water lilies on her bedroom wall — this recognition lifts his confidence a bit. They stop at a sculpture, a body encased in a cage, almost serpent-like, limbs extended and curved in an oval shape — made from clay. Lucas drops his head on Ashley’s shoulder and they stare at this body for a while until she is called away by her sister, they hug and say goodbye. This is where Lucas is when he sees him.

The atmosphere instantly changes for Lucas; he feels less alone, less like an idiot, he feels the room brighten infinitesimally and wonders if that’s some affect of the exhibition, but soon knows, viscerally, that that’s just the affect Eliott has on him. He is a work of art all in himself; Lucas could stare at him all day.

Eliott is in a green turtle neck and black slacks, rolled and cuffed just above the ankles. Hair artfully messy, un-styled.

Lucas turns away as if that will stop Eliott from noticing him, as if Eliott wouldn’t recognise him in a crowd of short white boys with long brown hair.

“Hey!”

“Hi.” Lucas says shyly.

In an alternative reality he would run up and jump into Eliott’s arms, squeezing him to his chest, sigh into his warmth and kiss him right on the lips. Alas, this is not another universe, this is theirs all messy and twisted and perverse, but within this volume of space, on this planet being destroyed by human insolence, there is a pocket they have created for themselves, and when Lucas looks back at Eliott, he knows that they are both imagining themselves else where, without public scrutiny. There is also the case of the glass in his hand and, at this moment, Lucas doesn’t trust himself not to drop it.

Eliott meets him halfway and kisses Lucas on the lips, it’s short and sweet and Lucas would die for more, but he’s aware of where they are and isn’t the biggest fan of public displays of affection anyway. Eliott cups Lucas’ face and pulls him forward, encircling him in warmth and a musky scent. Lucas breathes him in before letting go reluctantly.

“How long have you been here?”

“Forty minutes or so, I think.”

Eliott looks at Lucas in disbelief. “You should have come and found me, you goose.” He brushes their noses together.

I don’t know anything about art; I don’t know why you would want me here. But he’s learning that some of his thoughts are ridiculous and it’s just his anxiety screwing him over so he tries to not think of that, and instead, absorb the absolute joy on Eliott’s face instead. He wants you here.

“You looked busy,” Lucas shrugs. “I didn’t want to interrupt the magic.”

Eliott is shaking his head, pulling Lucas in for another quick kiss. “You interrupt nothing, my love.”

Terms of endearment: Lucas has never been the biggest fan of them, finding them cringey but this- my love it awakens his soul, his spirit, it lights the desire in him to boiling point. Eliott in that turtle neck, calling him my love, is not helping Lucas’ need to rip his clothes off. But he holds himself together: cheeks turning rosy and biting his lip as Eliott turns him around and guides him to his own piece, Lucas can feel the nervous energy bouncing off of him.

Lucas is excited, mainly for Eliott, and how much he wants Lucas to see his work after weeks of it being kept secret. He wants to be properly introduced to this other side of Eliott whom he has only seen in brief glimpses of drawings as they materialise on Eliott’s wall or are folded carefully into the pocket of his own jacket. Though they have been dating, officially, for the past month, together for three, he doesn’t know the ambitious side of his boyfriend that well. He could tell you Eliott’s favourite author: Virginia Woolf, his favourite food: bacon and cheese omelette, how he likes his coffee: black, no milk or sugar, and that he is seemingly late to most things except when it comes to their one-on-one time. He could tell you that Eliott prefers paperbacks to hardbacks and folds back the cover whenever he’s reading and that it hurts Lucas’ soul just a bit whenever he sees that. However, Lucas could not tell you, just yet, what Eliott’s passion project has been for the past five months, one month before they met.

Built into one of the many white walls is a screen on which either side are a pair of black headphones. Lucas throws a quick glance at Eliott who is biting his thumb nervously before slipping the headphones on and standing directly in the middle, a few paces back from the screen.

It’s on loop; Lucas sees the credits first before it begins again. A new beginning, a fresh start. It’s a film. Lucas recognises the old railway track that circles the city walls of Paris where they once stood at the time of Napoleon III’s reign. He looks over at Eliott in surprise to see him smiling at Lucas. A few weeks back Eliott talked about going to La Petite Ceinture with Lucas and here it is, right there before him. There is a bridge engulfed in shadows and there is music, relatively loud: a soft beat, violins, maybe? The music is what catches Lucas’ attention the most, he has always had an ear for it, especially the classical, owed to his mother’s appreciation for it, leading to it become the sound Lucas would wake up to every morning before school. The beginnings of a new symphony trickling beneath his door at seven a.m.

If he knows anything about Eliott he can prophesise that there will be something romantic about this film. A shadow materialises from the right holding shining a torch beneath the bridge which appears at first, impenetrable, however, a shape emerges from the shadows; the dense black around it lightens slightly illuminating the shape into a figure. Lucas’ heart starts picking up its beat, hardly noticeable at all, as a story of fear and courage, of light and dark, is borne; he’s sure there is an even deeper meaning there, one he is missing, but as the two characters meet across the bridge of their differences, sharing in their similarities, Lucas can’t help but wonder if the juxtaposition of light and dark reflects the two people who are sharing their darkest fears and greatest dreams with each other, ones they were scared to admit to themselves. The music picks up in a crescendo as their lips touch and they cross the barrier into the other’s world and Lucas’ heart is in his throat at the utter tenderness which is very Eliott. He reaches out his hand behind him and feels long fingers slip into the gaps between his own, he squeezes their hands together and continues staring at the screen while the credits roll, revelling in the experience of this creation he has had the privilege to be privy to.

POLARIS written and directed by eliott demaury

Letting go of Eliott’s hand while he hangs up his headphones, Lucas is in awe of his boyfriend. Eliott often spoke about the pieces he worked on, but Lucas didn’t no it culminated into this. He turns to face him and is met with a nervous smile. Lucas steps right in front of him, reaches up to cup his face and shakes his head on a laugh.

“Who the hell are you?”

Eliott’s face pinches together and his eyebrows draw down in question.

“Amazing.” Lucas throws his arms around Eliott’s neck and affixes himself to his chest, tucking his head into the space where Eliott’s neck meets his shoulder.

“Did you like it?” Eliott whispers as he circles his arms around Lucas’ waist.

Jerking back, Lucas clutches Eliott’s biceps. “I have no words that would do it justice. How do I have the most beautiful boyfriend in the world?”

Eliott ducks his head in response, shy and self-conscious at Lucas’ praise, he glances at Lucas through his eyelashes and asks, “So, you liked it?”

Kissing his nose, Lucas pecks Eliott on the lips and whispers against them, “My heart is weeping tears. I loved it. Of course, I did.”

The smile he receives is beatific. Only then does he realise the extent of Eliott’s nerves and how Lucas is the one who got him all tied up, he hugs Eliott once more, tightly, in reassurance. “I loved it.”

When they finally part, Eliott checks his phone and asks Lucas, “When are we meeting the guys?”

“Around 9:30, I think. We don’t have to go, though.”

“No, I want to.”

“But what about this?” Lucas gestures to the screen — where Eliott’s film has begun to roll again —and the space around him. “This is your night.”

Eliott shoves his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve been here since seven, it’s too much, even for me — all the attention.”

It is scary how much Lucas gets that, gets Eliott, how he must be drained from speaking to numerous people all evening about his work and theirs. Though, he does look happy, just tired and in need of some down time, which, Lucas thinks, is the exact opposite of the energy his friends exude.

Lucas nods his head, gesturing with his thumb to the cloakroom. “Yeah, we can go. I just need to get my jacket.”

-

“YES!” Yann is raising his controller in the air, grinning with satisfaction.

“Yann! What the fuck, man! Arthur, stop! Lucas, come on, back me here!” Basile is yelling, his eyes fixated on the TV screen, divided in two, his half decorated in big red letters: YOU LOSE.

Lucas is laughing along with Yann, Arthur and Eliott, because it was sabotage but also hilarious. He clutches at his sides as Baz gets increasingly more annoyed. He is criminally competitive, and with Arthur dancing in front of Baz’s side of the screen and messing up his hair in an attempt to distract him and make him lose to Yann, Basile’s temper is rising, his face reddening — a feat they execute every time they play video games.

Arthur is cackling and robbing Baz of his remote.

“You promised you wouldn’t do this again!”

“You gotta stop trusting us, man.” Yann responds, already choosing his team for his next match against Arthur.

Baz sighs and gets up to find another beer.

“I’m assuming you do this every time, huh?” Eliott is biting his lips, trying to keep his laughter in because he feels bad.

The other three all look at each other with shit-eating grins on their faces, but when they turn to meet Eliott’s gaze, their smiles turn sheepish. Then they are back to playing Fifa and British rap music blunts from Yann’s speaker, Arthur raps along to it and when Baz returns, already cooled down — his annoyance forgotten, he joins in and hops down next to Lucas on a beanbag. When Baz passes both Eliott and Lucas a beer each, Lucas rests his head on Baz’s shoulder in apology, looking up at him, and they exchange smiles. He knows they’re okay, that Baz is not mad.

After a few games, Eliott retreats into the kitchen and after fifteen minutes of no return, Lucas trails after, curious.

Lucas peaks into the kitchen then leans against the doorway, observing Eliott cutting a grapefruit into small chunks before dropping them into a jug full of ice. He stands before a window, the street lamps from outside shining through the glass and lightening Eliott’s hair to a golden-brown.

“What are you doing?”

Eliott looks up briefly and returns to his task of cutting fruit. “Making sangria.”

“Mmm,” Lucas licks his lips. “Can I help?”

“Um, yeah. Pour in the wine?”

“That I can do.”

Lucas hears rather than sees Eliott saunter in his direction. Placing an elbow on the kitchen counter he leans against it with his body and...proceeds to knock over the open bottle of champagne. It appears to happen in slow motion: Eliott reaching out to steady the bottle, his reflexes failing him, Lucas reaches out at the same time and they both become funnels for the wine as it slips throw their hands and slides down their arms like they’re in a fucking Carrie film, soaking Lucas’ shirt. He gasps at the shock of cold, staring down at his shirt for a second.

When he eventually looks up at Eliott, his back is turned and his shoulders are shaking as he clears up the spillage with a sponge, as much as he, ineffectively, as it continues to drip on the ground from his own wine-drenched arms.

Lucas throws his head back and groans, causing Eliott to sputter out a laugh which turns into loud gasps of air and occasional breaks of laughter. Lucas looks down at his blue shirt again, which sticks to his chest, and begins laughing too. Shoulders shaking in communion with Eliott’s, he bumps his him against Eliott’s hip, almost slipping in the wine on the floor and is caught by the biceps in a firm grip. Their laughter silenced until they lock eyes and Eliott’s rolled his lips inwards, his eyes entirely unapologetic and mischievous as he slides his hands down Lucas’ sides, joining them at the small of his back, but Lucas is still caught up in the vision of Eliott trying to clean the surface while he was soaked in wine, making his attempts futile, and he knows that look in Eliott’s eyes, that he was about to kiss him, but he can’t help it. Lucas’ head falls forward against Eliott’s chest and his ribs ache as he begins laughing again. Helpless against it.

After a few tries, Lucas manages to gasp out — between laughs — that they need to clean themselves up. He directs Eliott to Yann’s bathroom and washes down his arms for him in what must be freezing cold water because Eliott is yelling in protest while Lucas refuses to adjust the temperature because this is his payback to Eliott for ruining his shirt. He can be petty like it. He’s laughing all the way through it and Eliott’s eyes narrow down at him in suspicion.

Once Eliott is all cleaned up, he returns to try and salvage what’s left of his sangria ingredients, meanwhile, Lucas slips into one of Yann’s t-shirts, bundling his own shirt up into a ball and dumping it by his shoes at the door. When he returns to the scene of the crime, Eliott looks over at him and smirks, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, he gives Lucas a once over.

Of course Lucas knows why he’s getting that look; Yann’s t-shirt reaches to below his bum, but he chooses to ignore Eliott’s look and raises his chin slightly.

“Yes?” He asks, as he reaches for the bottle with the remaining red wine in it and downs the liquid in seconds.

“Nothing.” Eliott responds, but he is inching closer to Lucas, slowly and steadily.

They are both a bit tipsy curtesy of the three beers and then the bottle of cider they shared (disgusting in Lucas’ opinion). At least, Lucas is. He only felt it hit him when he stood in the doorway in Yann’s shirt and Eliott’s gaze fell upon him, slightly teasing and incredibly enticing. He can’t quite look him in the eye, feeling a bit nervous, so he plants his eyes on Eliott’s chest. This does not help remotely because now Lucas’ is thinking about Eliott’s tattoo there and his smooth chest and he is really starting to believe that Eliott is some otherworldly creature who has been sent to Earth to rob Lucas of his sensibilities.

He stands there, and brushes Lucas’ lips slowly with his thumb, saying: “They’re all rosy now.”

Raising his own fingers to his lips, Lucas brushes them too, only to have this hand snatched away by Eliott who brings them to his own lips and kisses each finger individually, like they each deserve his undivided attention.

“You can’t do that here.” Lucas almost gasps out.

“Hm?” Eliott asks, holding Lucas’ hand now, grey-green eyes searching Lucas’, as if Lucas’ voice hadn’t completely given him away.

“I definitely have a semi.”

Eliott bites his lip in amusement, raising Lucas’ fingers to his mouth once more, but Lucas rips his hand out of Eliott’s grasp and takes a couple steps back which Eliott seems thoroughly enthralled by as he counters Lucas’ steps until Lucas is flush against the kitchen counter and Eliott is lifting him onto the marble surface, planting his hands on either side of Lucas as he leans forward and captures his lips in a blazing kiss that defuses any nervousness in Lucas’ brain about his friends walking in, because he really couldn’t give less of a fuck right now.

In between the first kiss and the next, Lucas whispers fuck and before he can emit an embarrassingly loud groan, Eliott is sweeping him into another fiery kiss that lights him up from the inside out, incandescent. Lucas swears that in the vacuum of space there is no star that shines quite like Eliott, that can evoke such happiness or hope in another person.

Lucas is being tugged forward until he is chest to chest to Eliott while his own hands are making a mess of his boyfriend’s hair, and trailing down his neck and cupping his jaw to deepen the kiss.

“Lucas! Lulu!”

“Get your ass in here! It’s time to PLAY!”

“Luuuuuucas!”

“I’m coming to find you!” Baz.

That comment makes them jerk apart. Resting their foreheads on each other’s shoulders, waiting for their breaths to slow down, return to some semblance of normal before they rejoin le gang. God knows Lucas will not hear the end of this but he is flush with desire and with love. Sliding down to the floor, he intertwines his fingers with Eliott’s, resting his head on Eliott’s shoulder for a second before they go back to the living room and have to face the music.

-

He is feeling nervous because this is a big deal but he doesn’t want it to be a big thing; it is a step forward in what he hopes is the right direction. A step forward into trying to take care of himself and being a better person for himself and everyone he loves. He wants to explore the world more, be less afraid of the everyday things that do not warrant his constant fear and anguish, he doesn’t want to be second guessing himself or the kindness people show him. He doesn’t want to be thinking that people are pretending to like him, that pity motives them to hang out with him. He wishes to be free of these burdens, and he knows, he knows that it won’t all be magically fixed with a sprinkle of fairy dust, he knows he has this for life, but when he thinks back on the days where he would cancel plans to stay at home or lie in bed and read comics, the days where he was exhausted beyond comprehension and become lax with personal hygiene, when he thinks back on those dark days, he knows he would do anything to reduce their frequency.

So, when he brings it up to Eliott, he’s trying to be casual about it, just drop it into the conversation like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t look at Eliott, pretends to be scanning for a book Eliott has been begging him to read almost since the time they met to add to the illusion of nonchalance he has going.

“I’m gonna be going to therapy, but since I’m doing it for free, I’m on the waitlist so I probably won’t have my first appointment till the end of March.” Lucas is chill. He is cool. To emphasise this, he flops down on Eliott’s sofa, one of his favourite places — all soft, like a cocoon that molds to his body, familiar with his shape after hours and hours spent lounging in its warmth.

“Lucas?”

Lucas remains where he’s lying down, book held above his head, pretending to read and his arms are already beginning to ache, but he’s going for casual remember.

“Yeah?”

“Lucas.”

The boy in question can’t decipher the tone of his boyfriend’s voice. He can feel the butterflies beginning their familiar swirl deep in his belly, so he thinks of that quote Eliott recently stuck up above his bed: “I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.”

“Uh huh?”

The book is snatched from his hands, revealing a wide-eyed Eliott. He dumps the book beside Lucas’ head and stares down at him in askance.

“Therapy? When did this happen?” Why didn’t you tell me, he doesn’t say. Eliott is in shock, Lucas concludes. Well, maybe not shock but he looks almost disbelieving and confused, maybe, as to why Lucas didn’t tell him his plan. But the thing with Lucas is, he likes to get things done without telling people because he doesn’t want to disappoint them in case he reneges. The look on Eliott’s face tells him it was worth it.

“Yesterday.”

“And you waited until now,” Eliott checks his phone before staring Lucas down once more. “Three in the afternoon to tell me this?” He is smiling, proud. Lucas feels it in his bones.

He is proud of himself too. Eliott’s expression softens, as though he can read Lucas’ mind. He leans down and kisses Lucas’ forehead, then, as though that is not enough contact, not enough to show his pride, he circles himself around Lucas, lying down on his chest, elbow resting on the sofa by Lucas’ head. They are eye to eye now, cerulean eyes meeting misty grey ones: a mosaic of the ocean seas, calm and settled. The weight of Eliott’s body against him as he looks at Lucas with admiration, grounds Lucas in the moment, he feels it like a new beginning, a fresh start: beginning his journey of learning that his feelings and needs are important as much as everyone else’s in the world.

Lucas shrugs in response. “I didn’t want to disappoint you, because if I had told you and I didn’t go through with it I wouldn’t have been able to handle breaking a promise. Especially to you.”

“Lucas-”

“I know you’re going to say that I could never disappoint you, but that’s not true, and I would have been disappointed in myself, and it would’ve all been made even worse, because I’d have your disappointment on top of my own guilt. But I did it, I’ve done it. And…yeah.”

Eliott’s face went through a myriad of emotions while Lucas was walking, but, now, he brushes Lucas hair in tender strokes, kisses his forehead once more, trailing his nose down to Lucas’ and hovering there. On the precipice of something.

“Can I take you there?”

“To therapy?” Lucas inquires.

“Yeah.”

March is four months away. That will be eight months with Eliott. Lucas mulls over his question, even closes his eyes and hums for a second.

“I guess so.” He concedes, lifting his head up a fraction of an inch, just so he can brush his lips against Eliott’s. Their noses slide passed each other, like two puzzle pieces finally fitted together, like when the sun and moon finally cross paths, and the probability of an eclipse increases exponentially, blotting out the star-speckled night and snow-white January mornings, the blazing heat of a summer’s afternoon and the tear-stained watercolour sky of early spring as it creeps towards dusk.

“I don’t remember where but I think I read somewhere that taking things a day at a time can really help, for people like me, who deal with anxious and constant worries about the future; trying to think in the now, focusing on what you have to do on that day and that day only, which isn’t always possible, but it really stuck with me. I’m trying to be more positive, and take things as they come, to stop trying to control everything by taking the day as it is and focusing on it instead of what’s to come later. Like focusing on what I’m doing now, in that hour, you know?”

Eliott nods in understanding, eyes bare on Lucas’, giving him his full undivided attention, wanting him to know that he is listening, that what he is saying is being heard.

“Taking things minute by minute?”

Lucas nods his head, licking his lips as a small tear slips from his eye. “Exactly.”

“Well that sounds like a plan. Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, with Lucas Lallemant. Sounds like my kind of thing.”

Eliott’s lips tick up at the side in a small smile as he brushes away Lucas’ tear, kissing the patch of wet skin. He sits up, pulling Lucas up with him, cupping his face as he feels arms circle his own waist. Tight. Eliott’s eyes-crinkle as he rests his forehead against Lucas’ in something akin to prayer.

Minute by minute.

[justheretobreakthings]

Welcome to the Family - Chapter 6

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Word Count: 3,049 (Total Word Count: 15,010) Read on AO3

Story Summary: Lance had been excited about his family taking in a foster kid, eager to get to meet his brand new little brother or sister, who would surely adore and idolize their super cool Big Brother Lance. What he got instead was a sullen, quiet, temperamental teenage housemate with a criminal record and a disastrous haircut.

The days leading up to the beginning of the school year were both too long and not long enough. Too long because there wasn’t a whole lot for Keith to occupy his time with. That was, admittedly, at least a little his own fault, as he spent the vast majority of his time in his room rather than downstairs where things were actually happening.

But it was easier on him this way. The TV in the front room was usually taken, and he didn’t want to interfere with anyone else’s use. Even when it wasn’t, the room was right there adjacent to the stairs and the basement entrance and the front door, all which were constantly trafficked. No way would he be able to relax amidst all that. And there was a family computer in the basement, but it faced outward into the room at large, and Keith hated the feeling of people looking over his shoulder while he was online, no matter how innocuous his browsing may be. Besides, Rachel had brought her trumpet home from summer band on Friday to practice it over the weekend, and the basement was her prefered practice space, so that was.

Tania, after noticing just how much time Keith spent hibernating in his room, had ordered a small used television for it online - despite Keith’s insistence that it wasn’t necessary, and hadn’t she already blown enough money on him over the past few days anyway - but they still had to wait for the delivery.

So the meantime was whiled away by re-reading his books and cautiously trying out the art supplies Tania had bought him for school. He didn’t think much of his artistic abilities, but it was one of the only creative outlets suggested by past therapists and social workers that actually clicked with him. He wouldn’t normally have asked his foster family for supplies, but Altea High required every student to take at least one year of a fine arts elective, so registering for art class had actually been a reason to need them.

The days were not long enough, though, in that, in spite of the way time had dragged, Keith still hadn’t managed to properly make himself feel ready to return to school by the time Monday morning rolled around. He woke early in the morning to a knocking at his door and Manuel’s voice telling him it was time to get up, and went downstairs to an unusually elaborate first-day-of-school breakfast, which Lance and Rachel both ate rather robotically, still adjusting to the waking world after a summer of sleeping in.

He threw on his clothes for the day - some dark gray jeans and a short-sleeved flannel that had formerly been Marco’s and which, to Keith’s surprise, had actually fit him pretty much perfectly, and were in better shape than most of Keith’s own clothes anyhow - and managed to get to the bathroom to finish his morning routine before Lance got to it. He had already managed to learn just how elaborate Lance’s ablutions were, and true to form, he kept Keith and Rachel waiting impatiently downstairs for twenty minutes in order to get his hair and face ‘perfect’. Even though when he finally was satisfied and came to join them, Keith could swear Lance looked exactly the same as he always did.

Rachel led the way out the door, slipping into the driver’s seat of an old scratched-up LeSabre parked at the curb. “You can take shotgun if you want,” she said to Lance as he opened the door of the seat behind her.

“God, no thanks,” Lance said. “I’ve seen you drive. I’m sitting where I’m most likely to survive when you inevitably crash us headlong into the auditorium.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Oh, whatever. Keith will sit up front with me, right, Keith?”

“Uh, sure,” Keith said, opening the door and carefully sliding into the seat.

“Do what you want,” Lance said. “But don’t be surprised if you’re the first to go.”

“Shut up, Lance,” Rachel said as she turned the key in the ignition. She shifted the car into drive and started down the road.

“Tell Keith how many tries it took you to pass your driving test.”

“I passed it eventually, it doesn’t matter.”

“Five tries. And on the third try she ran over a - ”

Rachel cut him off by speeding up and then braking hard at the stop sign on the corner, sending Keith lurching forward and Lance’s face knocking into her headrest. “Oops,” she said flatly. “Sorry, Lance, guess I’m just a bad driver.”

“Vete a la mierda,” Lance muttered, rubbing his forehead with a scowl.

“I’m telling Mamá you’re teaching Keith bad words,” said Rachel.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Keith managed to tune them out not long into the drive. He pulled his feet onto the seat and his knees up to his chest, letting all his focus drift to the buildings and trees and street signs they passed as he stared out the car window, trying to familiarize himself with the new surroundings, look out for landmarks that would make the route easier to remember if he needed to walk to or from school any time soon. Occasionally certain foster families of the past would forget to take him to school or pick him up. Or maybe do so intentionally. He could never be certain.

Lance and Rachel managed to keep up their light bickering all the way up until they pulled into the student parking lot, where Rachel had to try twice to park between the lines of her selected parking space, to Lance’s amusement. Despite Lance’s elaborate morning routine, it seemed they had still managed to arrive at school earlier than most, since the majority of the parking spaces were still empty. That was good. Keith still needed to stop by the front office to pick up his finalized schedule, and the last thing he needed was for that to make him late on the first day of school.

He parted ways from the McClains at the entrance, where they set off to their lockers and Keith to the front office. It was fairly crowded when he entered, students and a few parents trying to get some last-minute arrangements made before classes began. Keith hovered near the doorway, not wanting to barge past anyone or draw undue attention to himself by going to the receptionist.

In the midst of debating how he was going to go about asking for his schedule, his thoughts were interrupted by his name being called. The door to the guidance counselor’s office, adjacent to the front office, had been flung open, and Mr. Smythe stood in the entryway, waving him over.

Keith let out a breath and hurried over. Mr. Smythe was a recognizable presence, if a rather overwhelming one. He was a difficult person to forget, between the shock of bright orange hair on his head to the elaborate matching mustache, from his shoulderpadded blazer to his distinct accent. He’d certainly left an impression when Keith and Tania had met with him a few days prior.

“Keith, my boy, good to see you again!” Mr. Smythe said, beckoning him toward the office. “Come in, come in, I was just about to get your schedule printed up for you.” Keith followed him into the little office silently. He wasn’t sure how long this would take, so he opted to keep standing rather than take a seat in one of the chairs along the wall by the door.

“Now,” Mr. Smythe said, plopping himself into his own chair and turning to his computer screen. “I fit you into the art elective you wanted and made room for you in one of the Spanish 1 classes that fit the rest of your schedule. We also managed to get a gym uniform in for you in your size in time for you to be able to participate in your Phys. Ed. class today, so you can let Señora McClain know she needn’t worry about that.”

“Okay,” Keith said.

The printer on Mr. Smythe’s desk whirred as the counselor swiveled his chair to face Keith directly. “Regarding your core classes,” he continued. “For most of them we’ve decided to go ahead and place you in the standard sophomore level courses. I understand that there may be a few concepts from freshman courses that may need to be reviewed for you, but I’ve given your teachers fair warning ahead of time, so they’re aware that you may need a little bit of one-on-one assistance. Don’t be afraid to ask for it. I’ve also gone ahead and gotten you signed up for peer tutoring during your study hall block, so that could be a means to help you catch up.”

“Oh.” Keith’s shoulders slumped and he lowered his gaze. The whole situation was embarrassing, him being as far behind in school as he was. He knew he wasn’t stupid - despite what certain foster family members or classmates had told him in the past - but between constantly switching schools, his discipline record, assignments and books gone missing, the absolute joke of ‘education’ that the juvenile center had stuck him with all through last school year, and a decade of intense stress as the icing on the cake, well… he was probably lucky that his grades weren’t even worse.

“The only class that we couldn’t put you in sophomore level for was your Mathematics requirement,” Mr. Smythe was continuing, and Keith shook himself back into the present. “Seeing as the syllabus is much more linear than your other core classes. We’ve placed you in Algebra 1. However, if you put some elbow grease into your studies, Ms. Ryner has said that she would be happy to work with you to map out an independent study curriculum to get you back on track. If you go that route, you can have Pre-Calculus finished by graduation, same as the majority of your classmates. Of course, only Algebra 2 is a required credit for graduation, but colleges will be looking for - ”

“The regular track is fine, Mr. Smythe,” Keith said, immediately wincing afterward when he realized he had just interrupted.

Mr. Smythe, fortunately, didn’t seem to take offense at the interruption, and instead simply gave him a brief nod before pulling the schedule out of the printer tray and handing it to him. “Well, the option is available all this semester in case you change your mind. We’ll be happy to make accommodations.”

“Thanks,” Keith grunted. He accepted the paper and scanned the schedule.

“And Keith?”

“Mm?”

“That doesn’t just apply to classes.” Keith looked back up from the schedule to find Mr. Smythe’s gaze fixed firmly on him, intense and sincere. “If you are having any difficulties adjusting here, any concerns, or if you just need someone to talk to. My job isn’t just schedule planning and test prep, you know.”

Keith narrowed his eyes. “Why… are you telling me that?”

Mr. Smythe shrugged. “Thought I’d make the offer. It’s never easy for a new student to transition, and I know you have a bit of a, ah, colorful history in school settings - ”

“Who told you that?” Keith snapped.

“Your transcripts,” Mr. Smythe replied simply.

“... Oh.”

“Of course, it’s entirely up to you if you want to meet with me or not,” Mr. Smythe continued. “Señora McClain did inquire about it, but doesn’t want to force anything. Just be aware, my door is always open.” He leaned back in his chair and swiveled his gaze to his computer. “Feel free to run along, now, Keith. Wouldn’t want to make you late for your first class.”

“Um, right,” Keith said, hesitating only a moment before backing out the door, pulling it closed behind him.

His next stop was his locker, and thankfully he remembered where that was from the school tour he’d been given last week, and it was close, only two halls down from the administrative wing. The hallway was crowded when he got there, and he clung to the straps of his backpack tightly as he wove his way through the mass of students and to his locker.

He hung his backpack onto the hook and grabbed some supplies for his morning classes. Biology was the first listed on the sheet that Mr. Smythe had given him, located in room 224, which was… he wasn’t sure where. It was a lot to remember after only a single tour.

Biting his lip, he looked around the crowd of students. Lockers were grouped by year, so this hallway should be full of sophomores, which hopefully meant that a familiar face was nearby. After a few moments of scanning, he spotted an orange headband poking up from the crowd, taller than most of the other students around, and he set off in that direction. He recognized that headband, he was pretty sure, and the odds of another student in the same school having that same particular taste in hair accessories seemed slim.

Sure enough, the boy with the headband was the same as the one who had been visiting the house the other day, and Lance was with him, chatting idly while leaning up against a nearby locker, the girl who’d been with them there as well, standing with her arms wrapped around a bright green trapper keeper.

The boy - Keith couldn’t quite recall his name; Hank, maybe? - noticed his approach, and greeted him with a smile and a wave, that got the others’ attention and had them turning to him as well. “Hey Keith!” he said brightly.

“Hey...” Keith said in return.

“Hunk,” the boy supplied. Oh, well, he had been close.

“Right.” He cleared his throat and held up his schedule to the others. “Do, um, do you guys know - could one of you show me - um, room 224?”

“Here, lemme see that,” Lance said, snatching the schedule out of Keith’s hand to examine. “Huh, same bio class as me, so you can just follow me there. Same lunch blocks too, looks like. And English, and computer science… and gym…” He raised a brow at Keith. “You stalking me, man? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, but - ”

“I’m not stalking you,” Keith said, glaring as he grabbed his schedule back from him. “I didn’t pick the schedule.”

“Relax, I’m joking. Just making sure you’re aware how blessed you are to have me in so many of your classes.”

“I see we’re playing fast and loose with the definition of the word ‘blessed’ this morning,” the girl remarked, and for the life of him Keith couldn’t remember what her name was.

“Pidge here is just jealous of you,” Lance said to Keith. Pidge, then. Keith repeated it in his head a few times to commit it to memory.

“I am jealous of no one,” Pidge said. “I’ve got most of my classes with Hunk, so if anyone should be jealous, it’s you.”

“Aww, Pidge,” Hunk said with a smile. “That’s sweet of you to - wait, what do you want?”

“Your cookie at lunch.”

“No.”

“Then I take back my compliment.”

“All right, well,” Lance straightened up from the row of lockers and stretched. “Come on Keith, I’ll show you where Biology. Let’s give these two some privacy to get their flirt on.”

He made a gesture to follow as he stepped away, as Hunk let out an indignant squawk and Pidge stuck her tongue out at him. Keith hurried to fall into place next to him. “Wait, those two are dating?” he asked.

Lance smirked. “Heh, nah, they just get annoyed when I say they are. So, of course, I say it all the time. Why, you looking to get together with one of them? Because I gotta tell you, I don’t think you’re either of their type - for a number of reasons.”

Keith grimaced and shook his head. “No, I don’t date.”

“Huh,” said Lance. “Guess I’ll have to tell Pidge she was right.”

“What?”

“Here we are,” Lance said, dropping the subject abruptly and gesturing grandly into the doorway of a classroom. “Welcome to the Joy of Biology.”

He moved toward the back to plop into an empty desk, and Keith followed along behind him, staring straight ahead and watching the other students in the corners of his vision. Cautiously he edged toward the desk beside Lance’s. “So, do we just sit anywhere, or - ?”

He paused when he realized that Lance was already striking up a conversation with the occupant of his other desk neighbor, a girl with wire-frame glasses and a thick black ponytail. Deciding not to disturb them, Keith slid silently into the open desk, setting his notebook and folder on the desk’s surface and opting to simply remain quiet until class began.

The teacher, Mrs. Montgomery, arrived right before the bell rang and the students who were still standing as they chatted amongst themselves, presumably catching up after the summer break, hastened into the empty desks that remained. She thankfully didn’t try any sort of first day of school look-what-a-cool-teacher-I-am opening stunt, and instead opened the class fairly dully, dropping a stack of syllabi onto one of the desks in the front row for the students to pass around and returning to the front podium to read out the roll call.

It wasn’t exactly a big social occasion or anything worse being nervous over, but he still rehearsed saying ‘here’ in his head a dozen times over so that he was prepared when she called his name. “Kogane, Keith.”

“Here,” he replied.

He may have messed it up somehow anyway, though, because a kid sitting two desks away jumped in his seat and whipped his head around at the sound of Keith’s voice to look him up and down. He had floppy brown bangs and a sharply angled face, and the moment his gaze met Keith’s, his eyes widened and he quickly turned away again.

Keith narrowed his eyes at the back of the kid’s head. Something about his face struck him as vaguely familiar, just a twinge of recognition in his gut. He wracked his mind, but he couldn’t place it, and he reluctantly let the matter drop from his thoughts when the teacher finished with roll call and started passing out the textbooks.

[crimsonbluemoon]

My Tumblr Birthday!

Sooooo according to my archives and such, exactly one year ago today I became a member of the bbs fandom! It’s been a hell of a year, I will tell you that. 

So just some thoughts about this weird ass journey, if you’d be so kind to humor an old woman.

I kind of remember coming into this fandom not really expecting much? Like I kinda squirmed my way in thinking that it’d be really cool to like, read other peoples stories and get to know everyone. I don’t really know how, but I got attention because of my Cops AU idea that sort of caught wildfire. Then I posted my first little stories about Christmas and such before my bigger story, Want You,  and I was so amazed by the love and affection it got on this platform (I put it on Ao3 but it just wasn’t the same). 

I also remember how stunned I was with 100 followers? I felt like I had reached my peak and I couldn’t really go any higher. Again, I managed to get lucky by making some really good friends at the start of my fandom life and kind of being able to joke around and gain attention from them. It wasn’t any super big, but I was thankful for the time they gave me. Watching Deli draw, getting to know Kiwi, admiring Bels and Ether and Grace’s works. It was all so wonderful! 

Then around January, Sherry sent me a message asking me to help with an idea about a BBS shipping server. And it was crazy how that changed my life. The server brought good and bad things out, and I won’t say I never thought of just tossing in the towel and leaving. But I’m so happy that I stayed! I met people like Sei and Shorty and Pandy and Cana and Moon through my server. I got to see them grow as people and shared laughs with them. I also got to open up a bit and learn that it was okay to not be perfect. Because damn do I want to be perfect. But they supported me there, and evern at my darkest point,those who I never thought would stick up for me did. 

I learned what it felt like to be hated. I learned what it felt like to have people who didn’t know me, know my story, know my past and know my insecurities, rip me apart and make me feel worthless. I learned that sometimes, simply having a different opinion about a ship or a boy could make the nicest of people reject you. I learned that sometimes, people you thought would always be supportive and understanding of you could turn on you and never speak to you again. It was weird, knowing that despite the followers numbers that grew and the asks/fans who reached out to me and told me how ‘inspiring’ i was, I could feel so empty. To this day, I’m still struggling with this concept. I wanna figure myself out, and how I got to where I am while also not knowing who I am.

I started up one of the coolest projects in my life here; Libahunt. I’ve written stories before, don’t get me wrong. I’ve written stories for bigger fandoms, with more comments, more kudos, more views. BBS is a small time fandom, so I knew what I was getting into. But man, for such a little place, y’all have big hearts. The love, support, and just damn attention I got for this story was amazing. The fanart? I cant even begin to tell you how much that all means to me. Every time I see a piece, my heart melts to think I got to inspire someone. Hearing people freak out in discord, seeing the reblogs and comments you make...that’s all I want in life. So honestly, thank you all for making me realize how much I love this story and helping me get my ass back in gear to write it properly. 

Kind of on the same topic, I really got to thank some super important people for just...being there for me. I can’t list EVERYONE because jesus I would be here forever, but these ones just...they really stick out for me.

@firstaidquarters: My writing wife, half of my brain, my HC partner in crime, honestly one of the best people I’ve met. Ever. Like, do you get how much you mean to me? How you just make my world a better place? If I’m mad or sad or hyper or just being fucking stupid, you’re there. You literally spent 28 hours helping me write a story without ever asking anything in return. I wanted to quit, I wanted to throw my computer and never look at it again. But you just...sat there and kept me going. And now? It’s fucking amazing because of you. And I never have to explain myself to you. You just get it. And God I can’t even say enough how much our HCing has been a blessing. I don’t even think you realize that without you, I wouldn’t still be in this fandom. I cannot thank you enough, even if you created that wretched Minibat. 

@kihorri : We weren’t close originally but jesus you came in like a wrecking ball, eh? My life has been crazy since I did that Banana Bus Tales thing with you. You helped get my name on the map. And for the past couple months, I’ve really adored the frienship we’ve created. Our DM messages are probably enough to get us sent to hell, but I’m okay with that. Each time you tell me you’re reading my story, I melt. Like to think you’d waste your time on me? To get to joke with you about ‘certain’ types of stories and watch you draw silly pictures...it makes my world! You drive me up a wall every way you can, you make me cry from your beautiful art, but you could put the pencil down and never draw again and I’d still wanna talk to you every day. Even with your horrible sleep schedule. 

@mssjynx : YOU! God you are a menace. Sneaky other writing wife. But like, one of the best writers in the BBS/Misfits fandom. You make me wanna read angst. Do you know how hard that is?!?! Like jesus man, you were so amazing with your cute stuff and your sad stuff. And you’re just as wonderful outside of your stories. I give you shit, I pull your tail, and we bicker like old women, but you are one of the sweetest people I got to meet in this fandom and even if I threaten it, I’ll never divorce you ( I mean you killed all the lawyers so...). 

@piwiskiwi: My libahunt artist! Your work is AMAZING. And you are just so prescious? I dont get to talk to you as much as I want to, but you were one of the first people I really connected to in this fandom and you don’t understand how much joy your art brings me. Like, you’re a rock star. You helped me at the start of Libahunt when it was just an idea, you helped create these pictures that others now use as references. You’re kind and funny, and even if you feed into Bel’s crazy ship, you’re the best partner for Libahunt I could ask for. 

Honestly, there’s so many others! I wanna write you all something because you all have changed me in one way or the other. But I’d be here all night and I don’t wanna take up all of your time. So just know this: You all made me who I am. Without you, the person reading this right now, I wouldn’t be Crim. That means the world to me. So, you mean the world to me. Thank you for being around for my first year here. And I don’t know if you guys will care, or if anyone even remembers memories with me or if I’m just an author you read, but I just...thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. <3

And also thanks for letting me reach 1500 followers. (Eh its closer to 1600 now, cause this happened like 3 weeks ago but I just wanted to wait until my 1 year to say it all at once. No need for two sappy posts.)  

Sincerely,

CrimsonBlueMoon <3

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Watford Cove

Chapter 5: not so typical love song

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Word count: 5365

Chapter: 5/13 [All chapters]

Summary: Baz goes to Simon's house to work on the project.

Read on AO3

AN: So as some of you may know/remember, I work at an amusement park. I was supposed to work today but it's literally raining all day so the park is most certainly closed. Which means I can post early! Hooray! This is personally one of my favourite chapters. I enjoyed writing it quite a bit, though I had trouble writing Baz's emotions. The boy is a weird self destructive mess and it's difficult getting that across lol. Finally, we learn a bit more about Simon. Plus some fluff, of course. Hope you all like it!

Tagging: @wayward-son-61​ @lunar-lover394​

———————————————-

“Where are you going?”

I lazily turn towards Mordelia. She’s standing next to me with her arms behind her back, rocking on her heels. The picture of an adorable, unassuming child. You can hardly tell she's a brat.

“Out,” I reply.

“Mum says you go out too much.”

I do feel a bit bad about that. Daphne does legitimately care about my well being. “Well, you can tell her I’m not going out drinking. She can stop worrying.”

“Drinking what?”

I sigh. Right, she is still seven years old. “Nevermind. I’m just going to do schoolwork at someone’s house. I might be home for supper or not, I don’t know.”

“Okay. When can I ride on your motorbike?”

I smirk and buckle up my helmet. “Let's wait until you can reach the pedals. Then we’ll talk.”

Mordelia pouts pathetically. I ruffle her hair, which only makes her pout become an impressive scowl. I flip down my visor with flare and rev my engine. I give Mordelia a salute before driving off down the country road.

Simon’s house isn’t that far from mine, actually. Maybe a twenty minute ride, the way I break the speeding laws. I zip down the hill at ludicrous speeds, and keep that pace up across the country roads until they become moderately paved. Soon I’m on the sparse outskirts of Watford Cove, not the bloody fucking wilderness like mine. A much nicer place to live in my opinion.

Only a few minutes in, I arrive at the address Simon texted me. The house is actually quite posh. It’s not the terrible extravagance of the Pitch mansion of course, but it’s nice. Red brick, white shutters, some fancy curtains. There's a silver mailbox at the end of the drive with "Salisbury" painted on it in annoyingly bright green letters. The handwriting looks childish, as in a child probably wrote it. The initials "LS" are under the words like an artist's signature. Hm, interesting.

I park my bike in the driveway then make my way to the oak door. The doorbell chimes deep and loud. There’s some steps and soon it swings open. Oh. This is...not Simon. Because Simon is not an older greying-blonde woman.

This woman reminds me of portraits my own grandmother. She was also tall, straight backed, and respectful looking. But my grandmother never showed an ounce of happiness. This woman has a very kind smile on her face though, her wrinkles more from the expression rather than age.

“Hello,” she says kindly. “May I help you?”

“Um, I’m here to see Simon.”

Both her blue eyes and smile widen. “Oh right, Simon said you were coming. Simon! Your friend is here!”

There’s a crashing sound, like someone falling on the ground. Rapid steps come down the stairs until a beaming Simon jumps to the bottom.

“Hi Baz,” he says breathlessly. “Glad you found it.”

“I have Google Maps, Salisbury,” I deadpan, but with a smirk.

“Oh yeah, right, let’s go.” He motions for me to follow him inside. I nod to the woman. She looks up towards the stairs, hands on her hips.

“Simon,” she says with mock accusation, “are you not going to introduce me to your friend?”

Simon freezes halfway up the steps and whips his head around. “Oh right! Sorry, Gran. Um, Gran, this is Baz. Baz, this is my grandmother, Ruth Salisbury.”

I reach out my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Salisbury.”

Her brows rise up in surprise. I suppose she didn’t expect politeness from a guy wearing a black Ramones shirt, leather jacket, and ear piercings. But she still takes my hand. “Pleasure to meet you as well, Baz. You two have fun.”

Simon scoffs. “It’s school, Gran. We’re not supposed to have fun.”

“School can be fun if you try, darling. Maths has made me very good at cards.”

“And you fleece Mrs. Jones every week at your games, I know. We gotta go.”

“Yes yes, go do your schoolwork. Don’t break anything.”

Simon and Ms. Salisbury smile good naturedly at each other as we go upstairs. He runs at a breakneck pace, nearly tripping over the green carpet. I follow more slowly, looking over the walls. Unlike my house, there are many personalised things. Landscape art, funny knick knacks, and some pictures. There’s one of Ms. Salisbury with an older man, who I assume to be her husband. Next to that, there’s the couple again but in their younger years. A boy and girl stand in the foreground, both as blonde as Ms. Salisbury. The last one at the top of the stairs is obviously the two kids as teenagers, grinning with arms around each other. The woman looks weirdly familiar. Her freckles, they remind me of...stars.

“Baz, c’mon!” Simon yells.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming. You’re quite bossy today, darling,” I say teasingly. I hear his gasp, then fall into a coughing fit.

“I-I just want to start working.” His voice is still a bit hoarse.

“Alright.”

I saunter down to the hall Simon went down. I step into his room, and...well, I’m not sure what else I expected. The bed and desk look old, but everything else is new. The floral blanket, the multicoloured rug, the IKEA shelf filled with comics, all quite fresh. The walls are bright blue and covered in posters. Troye Sivan, Lana del Ray, Hayley Kiyoko, and assorted pastel coloured art. Equally pastel clothes are spread out across the floor. The whole room is so...bright. It sort of hurts my eyes. I’d prefer everything a bit darker. I guess I like Simon’s colour palette in small doses, just not all in one room.

I look up. Simon’s at his desk. I finally notice that he’s wearing a new shirt. It’s like the sunflower one, but pink and with bright red rosebuds instead. It works with the copper undertones of his hair. He looks perfect in it.

“Pretty,” I whisper.

“What?” Simon asks sweetly.

Fuck, I hope my face isn’t as red as his shirt right now. “Um, nothing.”

He looks confused for only a moment then shrugs. “Okay. I woke up late and forgot breakfast, so I'm starving. Want some of this? For brain food and stuff.” He holds up a mint aero bar. My smile is instantaneous.

“Sure. Mint aeros are my favourite.”

He grins to his ears. “Mine too!

I sit in the chair next to him. He breaks off a large piece for me. We eat the chocolate at the same time, but Simon gets some around his mouth. (Of course he's a messy eater.) I want to slowly lick it off his cheek then kiss him so hard we run out of breath. I quickly look away to resist temptation. “So, you got the project up?”

“Oh yeah!” He turns back to his laptop. I see that the desk is covered in scribbly note paper, candy wrappers, and nail polish bottles. He’s got almost every colour in his preferred pastel shade. He’s actually wearing the pink one right now. It matches his shirt. I have to keep myself from making an out loud comment again.

“So I’ve started making the powerpoint,” Simon says, bringing up the application. “And I think we should start with Watership Down. The actual place. Cause it’s like, the most important setting right?”

I bite my tongue, because I...disagree. Strongly. Watership Down should be in the middle, because it is the end of their first journey and the beginning of the next. It’s important to illustrate that, I think. But he doesn’t know I would think that.

“Sure, cool,” I mutter.

“O-Okay. Then, uh, for characters, we should start with General Woundwort.”

Wrong, very wrong. He’s important, sure, but others should be discussed first. Maybe Hazel, Bigwig, or Fiver. Fuck, Bluebell should come before Woundwort.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” I hope there isn’t a strain in my voice.

“Awesome! And I thought for analysis, we could talk about the archetypes and shit.”

No! Archetypes are Jungian! We’re supposed to do Freudian! Oh, fuck it.

“Give me that,” I hiss, snatching the laptop away. Simon blinks at me confused. I type furiously, barely thinking really, just spouting out the knowledge I have onto the slides. Some of the stuff is very smart but not well put, so I redo the wording. Not good with words, just like Simon said. I don’t know how long it takes, but when I’m done, I put the laptop back on the desk with my arms crossed.

“There,” I say curtly.

Simon looks through it, jaw falling open wider and wider with every slide. I shift away. Christ, this is embarrassing.

“Holy shit,” Simon whispers. I wait for him to start laughing, or yelling because I change his work. But he just turns to me with big awe filled eyes. “You’re...really smart.”

My cheeks must be as red as tomatoes now. I scoff and look at the Hayley Kiyoko poster. “Yeah, whatever.”

“No, no, I mean it, Baz. This is bloody brilliant! You’re super smart!” His brow furrows. “Why do you never show up to class? You could be getting As in like, everything.”

I press my lips together, digging my nails into my bicep. “I don’t care about school or grades. That’s all.”

“Really? You just, don’t care?”

“No, I don’t.”

Simon sighs, and I hate how close to pity it sounds. I don’t need his pity or anyone else’s. I made my choice a long time ago, and I don’t regret it. Well, I mostly don’t regret it. Certainly don’t regret because of where I’m going when term is done. Not at all...

“So, uh,” Simon says rapidly, obviously trying to break the forming tension, “I'm also mostly done the drawings. I’ll scan them later and put them in the presentation if you like them.”

He pulls out a sketchbook from his desk and flips through the pages. He shoves it in my face once he’s found the right one, making me jolt back in my chair. I snatch it from him.

“Christ, Salisbury, let me actually look,” I chuckle.

“Oh, sorry, sorry.”

I look at the picture, and it’s my turn to be awestruck. It’s...amazing. Rough, raw, a bit messy, but amazing. He’s captured Watership Down in just pencil. Sure, it’s just a hill, but Simon has drawn it from the perspective of the rabbits, so it looks looming and majestic. There are little shapes at the top, and I realise it’s a few of the rabbits looking out into the distance. A cute and perfect addition.

“Wow, this is incredible,” I say with absolute reverence.

Simon blinks at me. He seems genuinely surprised. “R-Really?”

“Yes. You’re very talented, Simon.”

“Oh, uh, well, thanks. I’m...really glad you think so.” He fiddles with his fingers nervously. “There’s a-a couple more if you want to see them. Three pages after.”

I flip through a few more pages. There are a lot of rough, abstract sketches. They look more like feelings than specific things. Waves of smoke, angry scribbles of pencil, over and over. He must do that a lot. Eventually, I land on what I think I'm supposed to see. It's obviously Fiver, based on the photo he showed me. But it's not an exact replica. It's a gorgeous interpretation. He's emphasized Fiver's large, sad, all knowing eyes. You can almost see everything terrifying and wonderful happening in them. To say I’m impressed doesn’t really cover it.

I go to the next page, and I immediately recognise it as a scene from the animated movie. When El Ahrairah, the first rabbit, was given physical gifts to survive predators from their fictitious god Frith. This one is in colour, and somehow even more stylised than the movie. El Ahrairah himself is a deep rich brown with grey loops, the sun is swirl of orange and yellow, and the sky is ripples of vibrant blue. The same colour as his eyes.

“These,” I say, “are perfect, Simon.”

Simon chuckles nervously, fiddling with his fingers. “I’m glad you think so. Think Miss Possibelf will approve?”

“If she doesn’t, she’s completely incompetent. And I don’t think that’s true.” I absentmindedly turn to the next page. It’s the start of another unfinished drawing. It’s of someone’s face. Someone with sharp cheekbones and dark wavy hair. Wait, is that-

Simon snatches the book and quickly flips it closed. He hides half his scarlet face behind the leather cover for a long moment, until he nervously coughs and lowers it. “Okay, good,” he stutters. “Glad you think so. I, uh, guess we’re done now. Man, we really could just do most of this over text.” Mother of God, must he keep doing that hair tuck? It’s torture.

“I suppose that's true," I chuckle.

"Wanna hang out?" He asks very quickly, gripping his sketchbook with ghost white knuckles.

I shouldn't. Fuck, I really shouldn't. I should go home, avoid him, keep my toxic self far away from Simon. But fucking hell, I'm weak for this boy, and just weak in general.

"Sure." My voice stays impressively neutral. "Any ideas?"

Simon twists his lips, looking around the brightly coloured room. His eyes drift down to my hands and he smiles mischievously. “I could redo your nails.”

I look down at my hands. Well, my nails are definitely chipped. I forgot to repaint them a few days ago. I look back at him with a raised brow. “I doubt you have a bottle of my ‘Chanel Le Vernis in Gris Obscur’, Salisbury.”

“Nah, definitely no Chanel. But I got some pretty good stuff from the drugstore.” He lifts up some obviously cheap but pretty nail varnish bottles. They’re all his pastels colours though.

“Not really my style.”

He shrugs. “Maybe you’d like to try something new?”

I bite the corner of my mouth. The colours hurt my eyes a bit. But he looks so adorable with that hopeful grin and glint in his eyes. I sigh, and put my left hand out. “Very well. I want your darkest shade though.”

Simon literally bounces with excitement. “Awesome! So, uh, how about...” He messes around with the bottles, almost dropping a few. Eventually he settles on a pale blue. “This one, and,” he holds up a unused looking dark grey, “this one? We can alternate.”

“Hm, sure. That grey doesn’t really match your style, though.”

He shrugs. “Eh, came with the set. Glad it did. It, uh, matches your eyes.” He looks pointedly at the desk instead of my face. That’s good though. I don’t want him to see the blush that’s spread across my cheeks. “Now gimme your right hand.”

I do as he says, placing it on the desk. He puts down some paper towel then pick up his nail polish remover and cotton balls. I have the exact same supplies at home. He reaches towards my hand, but quickly hesitates. He’s shaking actually. I can’t blame him. Every time we’ve touched, it’s been accidental or very quickly. This is different. This isn't a shoulder pat or playful shove. This is long and sustained and purposeful. And I may not be showing it, but I’m just as nervous.

“I can take it off myself,” I say quickly, reaching for the bottle. But Simon pulls it away.

“No no, I’m good. Just sit there and look...badass, alright?”

My lip twitches up. He’s so sweet. I leave my hand where it is. “Very well.”

Slowly, shakily, he slips his finger under mine. His skin is callused but still much smoother than my rough palms. It feels weird, but very nice. Almost electric. He dabs the cotton ball on the nail, rubbing off all my high end black nail polish. Huh, they look odd. it’s been awhile since my nails have been clean. After wiping them dry, he starts on with the blue. It’s a nice colour. Not something I would pick, but I can see the appeal. Simon drags the brush against my nail slowly but surely, making sure the coat is even.

“Hm,” I say, “you’re good at this.”

“Thanks,” he chuckles. “Self taught. A lot of trial and error, y’know? Took me ages to figure out how to do my right hand.”

“I learned from YouTube videos. Those makeup gurus know their shit.”

“Huh, smart. Oh, y’know what.” He stops painting and spins in his chair. Even with his back to me, I now he’s fiddling with his phone. Suddenly, the honeyed voice of Lana Del Rey is resonating through the room. He spins back with a grin.

“Your weird music is necessary?” I raise an eyebrow for sarcastic emphasis. Simon chuckles.

“Yeah, helps me concentrate. And it’s part of my continuing effort to convert you to good music.”

“Oh, is that your grand mission?”

“Yup! Slowly pull you away from all those screamy boys with bad haircuts and towards the beauty of Troye and Lana.”

I scoff. “You keep trying that, darling.”

He gives me a shy but sort of playful look from under his long eyelashes. “I certainly will...darling.”

Oh shit. I hope my complexion hides my blush enough. I smile back and try to look calm, hiding the storm in my chest.

We switch between chatting and companionable silence. Though Simon is never truly quiet. He hums along with the song, or makes noises of contemplation and frustration while trying to get my nails right. His hands slowly get less shaky, which helps. When we’re not talking, I take the opportunity to just watch his expression. How he sticks his tongue out in concentration, and his brow pulls together, and his face adorable pinches together when he gets something wrong. He always tries his best to fix it though, even with his clumsy fingers. It’s really sweet. Just like him.

I'm so unbelievably fucked.

“And...there!” He pulls back with a flourish. “Topcoat and everything. What do you think?”

I examine my hands. Huh, the blue is actually nice on me. And he’s right, the grey matches my eyes. It’s very well done. Maybe black isn’t the only colour I should use. I look up. Simon is staring at me wide eyed, chewing on his lip, leg jittering.

“It’s wonderful,” I say. “You did a marvelous job, Salisbury. Maybe you have a future as a nail artist.”

His nervous expression breaks, thankfully. I’ve found I prefer his grin to his genuine agitation. Blushing smile? Adorable. Wide eyed leg jittering? Not so much. “T-Thanks. Maybe...you could do mine sometime?”

Our eyes meet, and there’s no deception there. He’s always so genuine. It’s amazing. “Sure," I say before thinking. "If you can learn to like black.”

She shrugs. “Well, if you can learn to like blue, I guess I can try black.”

He grins, and I grin back. There’s a stretch of silence. It builds between us, making the air thicker and thicker. I’m torn between what I want to say and what I should. That I want more from this, more than just winks and smiles and “darlings”. But I know it can’t work. Simon should know that. I should tell him, all of it. But...he'll hate me. For not telling him about Switzerland, for using him like a plaything, for being an utterly stupid reckless prick. Can I handle him truly hating me?

“Simon, love! It’s nearly supper! Are you and Baz done your work?” Ms. Salisbury’s voice carries quite well. It jolts me from my depressive pit. Simon sighs and leans out towards the door.

“Yeah! Be down in a minute, Gran.” He looks at me, and I swear I see genuine sadness. “Looks like it’s time to say goodbye.”

I try to hide my own disappointment. “Yeah, looks like it.”

He bounces out of his chair, then offers his hand. I inhale sharply. Did not expect that. But after only a second of hesitation, I take it. He pulls me to my feet with ease. I’m still disturbed by how much his strength excites me.

“C’mon, let’s get you back on your motorbike, Pitch.”

“Should get you on it one day,” I say under my breath.

“What?”

I straighten up, hands in my jacket pockets. “Nothing, Salisbury.”

We walk down the stairs quickly. Well, Simon more jumps down them. He’s a never ending ball of energy. Ms. Salisbury is at the bottom.

“How was the work, you two?” she asks sweetly.

“Wonderful!” Simon chirps. “Talked about bunnies and stuff, and Baz let me do his nails.”

My brow shoots up to my hairline. I can’t believe he’s so open about this. If I told my father or Daphne the same, they would not say anything at best and lecture me at worst. But Ms. Salisbury looks positively elated by Simon’s words. “Oh, marvellous. Finally you can practice on someone other than me, love.”

Simon rolls his eye. “Yeah, like you don’t like it.”

“Of course. But it’s good you have another guinea pig. May I see your work?”

Simon looks at me in silent question. I shrug in response, then hold out my hand for his grandmother. She flips the glasses down from her head. “Amazing job, Simon. You’ve gotten so much better. And it looks great on you, Baz.”

“Thank you, Ms. Salisbury.”

She pulls away, waving dismissively. “Please, call me Ruth. Now, Baz, will you be staying for dinner?”

“Uh.” I turn to Simon. “Am I staying for dinner, Simon?”

Simon’s face turns red. “Oh, sure, if you want.”

I shrug. “I’m certainly in no rush to get home, and if it’s no trouble.”

“Oh it’s none at all,” Ms. Salis- Ruth says, waving her hand dismissively.

“Then I guess I’ll stay for supper.”

Ruth claps her hand once loudly. “Wonderful! Let me put out another setting.”

She saunters off to the kitchen. I decide to actually take off my jacket and boots and stay awhile. Simon leans in close to my ear, making my pulse spike.

“Hope you like roast beef,” he whispers. “It’s the only thing Gran knows how to cook well. Grandpa was a chef, and she’s been on her own since he died, so she’s never had to cook anything else. But she’s been learning more since I’ve got here.”

I shrug like he does. “I think I’ll live.”

“Good to hear.”

Simon leads me to the small dining room table. When I go to the left side, Simon grabs my hand and drags me to the right. I jolt slightly. Wow, that’s bold for him. Not that I’m complaining. I sit next to him as Ruth brings out a platter of delicious smelling meat and mash potatoes. Simon immediately shovels the food on his plate, licking his lips like a starving animal. I on the other hand take only a few slices delicately just like my mother taught me. But Ruth gives me an odd look.

“Are you not hungry, Baz?” she asks.

“Um, no, I am,” I reply slowly.

“Then please, take as much as you like. I always make a lot because of Simon’s endless appetite.”

Simon rolls his eyes, speaking with a mouth full of roast beef. “I’m a growing boy!”

“Growing monster more like it,” Ruth chuckles.

Huh, okay. I decide to be polite and take some more. Dinner proper starts, and it's...weird. My family is never this talkative at supper. We’re mostly silent and sullen. But the Salisburies are the exact opposite. Ruth and Simon chat, though Simon has trouble responding through all the the food in his mouth. (The boy has zero manners. It’s adorable.)

“So, Baz,” Ruth asks, facing me, “how’s school for you? I’ve only ever heard about it from Simon and Miss Penelope.”

No one’s ever asked my opinion of school either. I shrug. “It’s alright. Not my favourite place to be, of course. I think English is my favourite subject.” I tap Simon’s foot under the table. His breath hitches slightly, and he flashes me only a small smile. But it’s enough.

“Glad to hear so. Simon loves English too. He’s always eager to get to first period for Miss Possibelf’s class every morning.”

I flick my eyes over to Simon. His cheeks are flushed as he bites into his roast beef.

“Hm, glad to hear I’m not the only one who loves literature.” I let my voice drawl a bit, hopefully enough for Simon to notice but not Ruth. He doesn’t look up from his food, but I feel his toe tap my foot. And once again, it’s enough. Everything Simon does seems to be enough for me.

“I’m just glad Simon’s adjusting to Watford,” Ruth sighs. “It’s not easy moving schools most of the way through the year.”

Simon sighs in return. They sound almost exactly alike. Though Simon is more exasperated. “I told you, Gran, I’m fine. My grades are much better than last term.”

“There’s a good reason for that.” Ruth aggressively stabs her beef, and Simon looks sad as he nods slightly. This is the only crack in Ruth's kind demeanour I’ve seen all day. It’s strange, and the curious brainiac in me wants to know more. But the sensible part knows to just keep eating my food.

“Hey,” Simon chirps, “did I tell you about the kid who gave himself a wedgie in gum class yet?”

Ruth’s playful smile immediately returns. “No, I don’t believe you have.”

“Oh man, it was hilarious! Baz you’ll love this too.”

I lean my cheek into my palm. “I’m sure I will.”

Simon launches into the rambling anecdote, using mostly weird noises and illustrative hand gestures instead of words. Ruth and I both laugh along genuinely. This is the first time I’ve enjoyed a family meal in ages. It may be unusual, but it’s certainly not unenjoyable.

Soon enough, dinner is over, and Ruth brings out dessert. They’re sour cherry scones from Pritchard Bakery. Simon takes three immediately and starts slathering butter all over them.

“You like scones?” I ask mockingly.

Simon nods, scone crumbs all around his mouth. “Uh-huh. Gran got me some my first day here. They’re absolutely incredible.”

“My cousin owns the bakery, you know.”

His eyes go impossibly wide. “Really?! Could you get me some free samples?”

I shrug, a playful smile on my face. “Maybe.”

“Simon, you eat enough, you don’t need any more,” Ruth kindly berates. Simon frowns.

“There’s never enough scones, Gran.”

Ruth and I exchange an understanding look. Maybe I will bring him to see Cousin Pritchard before I go though. Something to make him happy before I’m gone.

Soon enough, Simon’s eaten all the scones, the dishes are done, and it’s my time to go. I’m a gentleman, I know when to take my leave. Simon and Ruth walk me out of the house.

“It was lovely having you, Baz,” Ruth says. And I have to admit, I’m a bit taken aback. Most parents and/or guardians aren’t this friendly to me. Dev and Niall’s parents barely acknowledge my existence nowadays, and they’ve known me since I was a baby. It’s a warm feeling I never thought I’d miss.

“Thank you for having me, Ruth,” I reply, smiling graciously.

“Anytime. Simon, feel free to invite him over again.”

Simon smiles sweetly at me, cheeks unabashedly scarlet. “Yeah, okay. Maybe we should meet up before the presentation on Wednesday?”

I nod, hoping my cheeks aren’t as bright. “I think I’d like that.”

Because I would. I regretfully very much would.

“Awesome! See you later!”

My lip twitches up without thinking. “See you.”

I get my helmet on. I don’t rev my engine as loud as usual to be respectful. Simon waves with his entire arm, while Ruth’s looks more like the queen. I salute in return. (That seems to be my thing now. I’ve embraced it.)

As I drive back towards my home, my mind stays with the Salisburies. With nail polish, roast beef, and a sense of peaceful happiness that lingers in me long after the house is in the distance.

I get to the Pitch hill and just sit there, looking up at the looming little bastard. I know what I’m supposed to do. Go back to all the misery there. But fuck that. I turn to the left, not back towards Simon’s, but at least somewhere my father isn’t. Somewhere I can keep this feeling for a little longer. And maybe get really pissed.

———————————————-

“Basilton! Where have you been?!”

If I didn’t already have a migraine, I’d assume my father’s voice had just given me one. Going on a two day bender will do that to you. I stop walking but don’t turn around. Honestly, I look like a wreck right now, and I don’t want him to see it.

“Away,” I say curtly.

“Away where?! We haven’t seen you in days! No calls, no mail. We’ve been worried sick!”

I groan and turn on my heels finally. To my utter surprise, he looks genuinely concerned. His eyes are wide and his hair is disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it. Huh. Actually worried about where I’ve been. That’s a first.

“Well, I’m home now,” I sigh. “Happy?”

“Certainly not.” He puts his hands on his hips like a pissed off school teacher. “I’ve been getting calls from your school. You’ve missed almost all of your classes, including tests and projects. I thought we had an agreement.”

I whip around, scowling with as much menace as I can muster with a hangover. “No, you gave me an ultimatum. And I refuse to be threatened into doing what you want, Father dearest.”

I start stomping away again, but we Grimms refuse to not have the last word. “Are you sure you haven’t just been...distracted, Basilton?”

I stop halfway up the stairs. The tone of his voice could imply many things, but I have a sinking feeling I know what he means. I chuckle, shaking my head. “Daphne told you about Tuesday, I suppose.”

“That you brought a boy over to our house without our knowledge? Yes. And I find it a bit disrespectful that-”

“That I what?!” I yell, probably louder than I should, considering it’s late at night and I have four younger siblings. “Dare to be gay?! Sorry it’s harder to ignore my sexuality when I’m actually acting on it.”

My father takes a deep breath, something he always does when he’s trying to keep his slipping composure. “Basilton, that is not what I meant.”

“Oh really? So you’re actually okay with me bringing guys around? Maybe I’ll start having big gay nightclub parties in the receiving room.”

I can see my father losing his cool. Bit by bit, his perfect British man composure is slipping. It’s the effect I certainly have these days. “That would not be appropriate, Basil. And I merely meant that maybe this ‘Simon’ is distracting you from your studies and causing your poor grades.”

For a second, I don’t know whether to laugh or be furious. Fire bubbles in my gut, my fingers curling on the bannister. Yup, let’s go with righteous fury. I stomp down the stairs and push my face into his.

“No,” I growl, “Simon is not at fault. You are. You are the catalyst for all the things I’m doing now, Your bullheadedness, your pride, your prejudi-”

“Oh for God’s sake, Basil!” He roars. “For once in your life take some goddamn responsibility for your own actions!”

I step back a bit. I haven’t seen him this outwardly angry in a year, but he’s practically seething. If he was the kind of man to throw a punch, he would have just clocked me. But instead he just stares me down in an attempt to intimidate. That won’t work.

“Fuck you,” I mutter, turning on my heels and stomping towards the door.

“Where are you going?” he calls after me.

“Out!” I turn to glare at him. “And I’ll be back when I feel like it!”

I make sure to slam the door very loudly, hoping my message is clear. I know exactly where I want to go. And who I want to see.

———————————————- 

AN: Is Baz being a total brat here? Yes. Is his bratiness sorta justified? Also yes. Things are complicated. And finally we meet Ruth! I loved reading everyone's comments speculating about Simon's home life cause this was planned from the start lol. But why is Simon living with Ruth? Well, that will be explained shortly. Tune in next time for answers :)

Chapter title is from "Alfie's Song" by Bleachers.

[artificialqueens]

One Direction (To Your Heart), 2/6 (Methessence) - Cheetah

Summary: Jaida will share two tattoos with her soulmate: one will be her own first tattoo, whilst the other will be theirs. And if there’s anything Jaida knows about her soulmate, it’s that they love One Direction - why else would it be written out on her skin?

What Jaida doesn’t expect, though, is that she’ll meet her soulmate during the final week of preparation for her first big fashion show, or that it’ll be the bubbly, blue-haired artist she’s working with.

Maybe it’s time she learned to embrace the unexpected. And One Direction.

Chapter Summary: Jaida meets Crystal, and finally gets acquainted with One Direction.

A/N: The song in this chapter is “Kiss You” by One Direction. I will admit that writing this fic has made me appreciate them a lot more than I used to lol

Thank you so much to @dollalpaca​ for betaing!

Ao3 || my blog

~

Meeting

At first, all Jaida sees is blue.

Her gaze swims in bright necklaces and denim, in cobalt hair rippling with colour like the ocean on a summer’s day. And then she meets brown eyes as wild and untameable as the seaside cliffs, shimmering like they’ve been touched by the moon. Jaida feels her breath catch in her throat.

“I’m Crystal.” The stranger extends her hand for Jaida to shake, and the sapphire bracelets adorning her wrists glimmer in the white light of the lobby. “Crystal Methyd. I’m the assistant events coordinator - I was told we’d be working together?”

“You’d be right,” Jaida greets her with a warm smile as she shakes her hand. Crystal’s grip is soft but firm, matching the silent confidence in her umber eyes.

Today is the first of many days they’ll be working together, doing odd jobs to ensure this fashion show runs smoothly. It’s Jaida’s first show with the Del Rio brand — in fact, it’s her first big fashion show in general — and she wants nothing more than for it to go well. She started working with Bianca shortly after her graduation, when the brand was nothing more than a handful of people with sewing machines and a dream. Now, it’s expanded into so much more, and Jaida is desperate to prove that she’s really, truly meant to be here.

As she stands opposite Crystal’s sunny smile, Bianca’s words from earlier in the morning ring in her head: “Here’s your schedule, Hall. You’re working with some girl who sounds like she might be a drug addict.”

She hopes beyond hope that Bianca is wrong. Nothing is going to ruin this for her, least of all the crazy assistant of the events coordinator.

And upon first glance, Crystal is as wild as her name suggests, with her summer-sky hair and eclectic sense of style. But there is such excitement in her smile and her brilliant eyes that Jaida can’t help but be immediately endeared, the worry dissipating slightly in her chest.

“So,” Crystal says, drawing out the syllable as she bounces on the balls of her feet. “Hair and makeup artists, yeah? You ready to go?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Jaida tucks her clipboard into her purse, even though she’s perused her schedule enough times that she’s sure she’s memorised it by now, and follows Crystal to her car.

They listen to One Direction for the entire drive.

At first, Jaida doesn’t realise what she’s listening to - she’s only aware that it’s some generic pop song that she’s probably heard before and couldn’t be bothered remembering. Crystal hums along, slightly off-key and warbly, but Jaida doesn’t mind.

“You okay with this music?” Crystal asks, midway through the song, as though only just realising Jaida might not agree with her taste in music.

“Yeah, I’m chill.” Jaida doesn’t actually like it, but she isn’t about to start a debate about the validity of modern pop. Besides, Crystal seems happy - and equally at ease with their lack of small talk - and Jaida is content with that.

“So tell me, girl, if everytime we to-o-ouch, you get this kinda ru-u-ush,” Crystal sings aloud while they’re waiting at a red light. “God, I love this song.”

“It’s not bad,” Jaida admits begrudgingly, stifling a smile when Crystal shoots her a look of abject horror.

“‘Not bad?’ This is art!”

“Naw, child, this ain’t it.”

Okay, so maybe she was wrong about starting a debate.

“No one knows how to appreciate One Direction anymore,” Crystal laments, as the lights change and she returns her focus to the road.

One Direction. Jaida’s mind can’t help but wander in the direction of her mysterious soulmate. It’s been four years since the night her soul tattoo appeared, and there’s still no sign of them. It doesn’t worry her like it used to; she’s decided to let fate run its course, and in the meantime, she does what she pleases. Now, seeing the mark on her skin has become routine. She’s grown accustomed to its presence the same way she got used to seeing herself with earrings after she got her ears pierced.

Soon enough, they’re arriving at the hairstylist’s studio, its walls lined with wigs and photographs of models with perfect hair. Crystal is like a bird, bright and breezy, hopping through the room with an enthusiasm that seems to radiate from all of her features. For a moment, Jaida wonders whether or not her own posture is too stiff, too poised, and has to remind herself that she’s a professional, here on business. So is Crystal, but the word professional seems to carry a different meaning for her.

And, as it turns out, any worries Jaida had about Crystal are unfounded. She is competent - incredibly so, in fact. The Crystal she sees in the stylist’s office is one who knows what she’s doing; who uses her wacky style and charm to her advantage, who gets her point across clearly and concisely. All Jaida needs to do is make sure Bianca’s vision is followed.

In a few hours, everything is sorted out, and the meeting is over faster than Jaida could have anticipated. The drive back passes in much the same fashion as the drive over: as soon as Crystal turns the key in the ignition, the same poppy, upbeat love songs begin pounding through the car. Crystal sings along shamelessly.

And again, all they seem to be listening to is One Direction.

“Do you listen to anything other than this stuff, child?”

“Well, yes,” Crystal says, “but I’m kind of obsessively listening to my One Direction playlist right now. I can change it, if you want.” She doesn’t sound offended, and Jaida likes that about her. She’s easy to get along with, and in the few short snippets of conversation they’ve had, Crystal has taken any teasing comment with an easygoing laugh and a toss of her ocean-blue hair.

“One Direction is fine,” Jaida decides after a moment. She can’t help but think of her soulmate, and whether or not they, too, have a One Direction playlist that they listen to on repeat. She might as well take this opportunity to get acquainted with their favourite band. “I just wanted to make sure you’ve got more taste than this.”

“Haters gonna hate,” Crystal replies breezily, grinning at Jaida in the rearview mirror, and Jaida grins right back.

~

Jaida is unusually nervous.

She swirls the words on her tongue — three simple words — and wonders at her own anxiety. She isn’t usually like this, and she’d hardly expect Crystal of all people to be the reason for it.

She bites the bullet as Crystal locks her car.

“You want lunch?” Jaida asks cordially.

Crystal chews on her bottom lip, silent, and for a moment, Jaida wonders what in the world she’s done wrong. Do event coordinators have something against eating lunch with their coworkers? Maybe it’s something specific to Crystal’s team, or maybe Crystal just doesn’t like her.

“I mean, I would,” Crystal says eventually, her voice high-pitched and sheepish. “But I promised I’d hang out with Widow on my break, so… I can’t.”

Jaida has no idea who Widow is, and she doesn’t bother asking. She isn’t sure whether or not she wants to know why all the people she’s hearing about today have such strange names.

“It’s cool,” she says instead. “I’ll see you after.”

“See you then!”

They part ways in the lobby. Jaida finds Nicky in her dressing room, saying something in French to her phone, adding a slow emphasis to every syllable as though she is talking to a small child. A moment later, a voice parrots it back through the phone, and Nicky visibly winces.

“We’ll work on it,” she promises. Her gaze snaps up when Jaida snickers, and Jaida takes her glare as an invitation to sit down right beside her.

“Hey, bitches,” Jaida says, grinning when she peers at the phone and sees Jackie’s pixelated face looking back. “How’re y’all going on this fine day?”

“Damn, something’s got you in a good mood,” Nicky comments wryly, but her cold facade is broken by the slight quirk of her lips. “Did that meth girl give you a joint or something?”

“I don’t smoke at work, you dumbass,” Jaida chides her playfully as Jackie laughs. “Also, her name is Crystal, and she is so fucking good at her job.”

Nicky raises a playful eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“Don’t give me that look, bitch. Didn’t you realise I’m back half an hour early?”

“Nope.”

“You guys, I’m so confused,” Jackie cuts in. “Since when was there a meth girl?”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you!” Nicky exclaims. She’d been there when Jaida had received her schedule, and had gawked right along with her when they saw Crystal’s name. “Just this chick Jaida’s working with for the next week. What was her full name again, Jaida? Crystal Meth?”

“Crystal Methyd,” Jaida corrects, as Jackie’s hand flies to her face in a feeble attempt to maintain her composure. Jaida can’t help but wonder if she’d react the same if she met Crystal in person; now that Jaida can put a face — and a personality — to the name, it seems less outlandish and more… quirky.

“So? What’s she like? Apart from being ‘so fucking good at her job?’” Nicky asks, her eyes gleaming with a strange sort of curiosity. “Is she as crazy as you thought?”

“And then some,” Jaida laughs. “But she’s, like, a fun crazy. It’s cool. She looks like a lollipop.”

Nicky nods slowly. “Please elaborate.”

“Blue hair, a fuck ton of necklaces… the whole shebang,” Jaida says. She’s still stunned at how Crystal doesn’t get sick of the constant rattling of the beads. “Like, you know those big ass lollipops we had as kids? The swirly rainbow ones? Imagine one of those, but blue. That’s Crystal.”

Nicky nearly chokes on her lunch.

“That is the single most amazing thing I have ever heard,” she proclaims, mouth still half full. “Calling someone a ‘big ass lollipop’. Have I told you I love you, Jaida?”

“Hey!” Jackie whines, pretending to be wounded by the statement. “I thought your heart belonged to me, Miss Doll.”

“You can share,” Nicky replies haughtily, sticking her tongue out at Jackie.

“No fair.”

“Deal with it.”

Jaida laughs, already all too familiar with Nicky and Jackie’s playful banter. They might bicker like an old married couple, but Jaida always sees how Nicky rolls her sleeves up when she’s nervous, sees how she’ll immediately relax as she gazes at her lilac flowers.

Jaida has known Nicky since they were kids, and she has never seen anyone make her smile like Jackie does.

“Well,” Jaida says, “unfortunately for you, child, my heart will soon belong to an avid One Direction fan. Sorry ’bout it.”

Soon, she thinks, as soon as the words have left her lips. How soon? It’s such a loose term. Soon could be twenty years, or it could be tomorrow. Fate has left her nothing but a string of words to follow, and she has given nothing back - save for the Arabic tattoo, her skin is empty.

“Girl, if they were still a thing, I would sit through an entire concert for you to find your soulmate,” Nicky promises. “And that’s no small deal, Jaida - that’s ten years off of my life, just for you.”

“Luckily for you they’re still no longer a thing,” Jackie remarks.

Jaida chuckles. “Actually, I listened to some One Direction today, in the car. Crystal played it non-stop.”

“Maybe Crystal is your soulmate!” Nicky gasps, bolting upright in her seat.

“Bitch! She’s my coworker!” Jaida can’t help but wrinkle her nose - Crystal is nice, but soulmates is taking it a bit too far.

“That’s how all the best love stories start, you know!”

“Naw, child, I doubt it. We’re too different.”

“Since when has that stopped anyone?” Jackie grins, sharing a knowing glance with Nicky.

“I’ll believe it until proven otherwise,” Nicky insists, slamming her fist on the table emphatically. “Besides, she sounds like the type to get a One Direction tattoo in a foreign language, don’t you think?”

Jaida rolls her eyes, amused. “You haven’t even met her!”

“And also,” Nicky continues slyly, ignoring Jaida. “You have no proof that she’s not your soulmate. You won’t know for sure until she shows you her collarbone.”

“Ooh, kinky,” Jaida deadpans. “What do you want me to do, take her to, like, a strip club or something and hope she takes her clothes off? You can do that, child, I’m keeping things professional.”

Jackie laughs. “Let’s plan a double date.”

“Let’s get through this next week first, then we’ll talk,” Jaida counters, knowing the possibility of her following through will be slim. Still, she can’t help but wonder if by then, she and Crystal will actually know each other well enough for the idea to be plausible.

“Oh, wait! I have something to show you,” Nicky gasps suddenly, swiping off of FaceTime and opening photos instead. She chooses an image before swivelling her phone around for Jaida to see. “Sorry, I know this is going totally off-topic, but you must see this.”

It’s a photograph of Shea Couleé, one of Nicky’s fellow models, standing in a gauzy gown of galactic violets and a shimmering ebony. Jaida recognises the design instantly - it was one of the first things she pitched to Bianca, who, later on, begrudgingly admitted that she liked it so much she’d nearly promoted Jaida on the spot. The top half of the dress is covered in jewelled stars and surrounded by rings of planets, whilst the bottom is layers of tulle and gleaming black satin that shines like the midnight sky. Jaida remembers thinking something like this would be impossible to bring to life, yet now, she’s not only seen it on a mannequin, but also right here, in this photograph of Shea.

And she looks so beautiful, Jaida almost feels herself tearing up. Shea’s warm brown skin seems to glow amidst the glimmering jewels and star-shaped rhinestones. She holds her head high, ink-dark hair cascading down her back and over her shoulders, spilling over constellations and galaxies. She looks regal, silver specks like starlight pooling in her obsidian eyes. She’s surrounded by tiny worlds, supernovas and shining stars, and Shea wears them all like she’s the sun. Jaida can’t take her eyes off of her.

“I know, right?” Nicky gushes. “Doesn’t she look so incredible?”

“Holy fuck. Holy shit, child, I can’t. This isn’t real. Pinch me.”

“It’s real!” Nicky promises, grinning from ear to ear. “I saw her at the fitting. She looks even better in person - I can’t wait for you to see her model it.”

Jaida genuinely has no words. They lodge in her throat, sticky with unspoken emotion. This moment feels… powerful. It feels like all her dreams have come true at once. All her late nights designing, sewing, stoning fabrics and adjusting seams - every moment feels worth it. She stares at the image, trying to sear it into her mind so that she’ll never forget it, wears the thought of it like a badge of honour. Jaida feels like anything is possible; like this show might just be perfect.

~

Jaida finds Crystal sitting in her car, headbanging to music so loud Jaida can hear it from outside — it’s still One Direction — as though the world isn’t passing right outside the windows.

“Hey, bitch,” Jaida greets her cheerfully, sliding into the passenger seat. She has to choke back a laugh when Crystal practically leaps out of her skin, her back stiffening until it’s ramrod straight.

“Shit,” she gasps. “Sorry. You literally gave me a heart attack. Oh my god, don’t ever do that again.”

This time, Jaida can’t hold back an amused snort. “I could tell. You were completely in your own world just then.”

“Such is the power of One Direction,” Crystal replies sagely as she turns the music back down to a more appropriate volume. “By the way, we’ve got another stop after this next meeting - the designers just finished the flyers and stuff, so we gotta go print them off.”

“No trouble.” Jaida can’t say she’s enthusiastic about having yet another task on her itinerary, but this one is so minimal effort that she can’t complain.

“Right, cool.” Crystal shifts the gearstick as Jaida leans back in her seat, surrounded by the generic pop melodies of One Direction and her own thoughts.

She can’t help but reminisce on Nicky’s words from earlier. What if all this is the work of fate? Are these car rides — and the fact that Crystal has, so far, played absolutely nothing but One Direction — destiny?

It sends an undeniable shiver up Jaida’s spine. To think that this moment was fated to happen no matter what she does feels… strange, to say the least. But if they are fated to fall in love, why doesn’t Jaida feel it?

She chances a sidewards glance at Crystal, and realises that she must have taken her denim jacket off sometime during the lunch break. Now, the jacket is loosely tied around her waist, and the T-shirt she’s wearing above it leaves her arms bare.

Bare enough for Jaida to see her tattoos.

There’s one on her right bicep: Jaida can only see the lower half of it, but it looks intricately detailed. She notices a small cat and a pair of legs before her gaze lands on the inside of Crystal’s other arm, where two circular symbols are inked onto her skin.

A weird combination of disappointment and relief washes over Jaida. Crystal isn’t fated to be hers after all - there are her tattoos, not one but two of them, likely both tied to a mysterious, predestined love.

You haven’t seen her collarbone yet, Nicky’s voice whispers in Jaida’s mind, but Jaida shoves it away. She doesn’t care. This is confirmation enough.

It’s incredibly common for people to get their soul tattoos in obvious places, like these tattoos on Crystal’s arms, or the flowers on Nicky and Jackie’s wrists that led them to one another. Jaida still remembers how Nicky would refuse to cover up her tattoos when she went outside, because “today could be the day, Jaida!”

Jaida almost laughs at the memory. She wonders if her own soulmate has spent as much of the last four years as possible with their tattoo showing. That might make things easier.

But Jaida has decided that she doesn’t care for easy. She’s grateful that her tattoo — her fucking One Direction tattoo — is in a place that she can cover up, and that in the meantime, her freedom is still hers. She doesn’t even need to think about her soulmate if she doesn’t want to. The words on her collarbone are the only things binding them, and right now, that bond can easily be ignored.

Her thoughts drift, momentarily, to Gigi - the girl she met years ago, with the honey-gold hair and skin as smooth as flower petals. She thinks about the image of the little doll on Gigi’s ribcage: the only trace of ink on her pale skin.

They had briefly asked about each other’s marks, and that was it. They didn’t match, but it didn’t matter. It had never mattered, even as they watched the spark die out and realised that maybe it was just destiny.

They’re still friends. Jaida sees Gigi sometimes, and it still makes her smile. Even if it’s over — even if it was never meant to be — they shared something special, regardless of their mismatched tattoos.

Jaida glances over at Crystal again. She’s focused on the road ahead, but she’s still quietly murmuring along to the music. She’s undeniably beautiful, Jaida thinks, with her sandy freckles and cerulean hair. She chances one more look at Crystal’s tattoos and fires off a text to Nicky.

I was right!! She’s already tattooed, so… no chance there.

Nicky’s reply comes instantaneously.

Seen her collarbone yet? ; )

Jaida leaves her on read.

~

Jaida and Crystal are the last customers in the print store.

It’s nearly closing time, and the girl behind the counter looks rather irritated to see them there. Ordinarily, Jaida wouldn’t have been too happy to be waiting around this late either, but today, she has Crystal. Talking to Crystal is easy; conversation flows between them like bubbling spring water, and Jaida soon forgets about the time.

She picks up one of the flyers as a staff member deposits a pile of them on the counter. Beside her, Crystal looks like she’s about to vibrate right out of her skin with anticipation.

“You good there?” Jaida asks, her brows furrowing in concern.

“Oh, yeah, totally.” Crystal shoots her a self-assured grin. “Just waiting to see what you think.”

Jaida’s gaze darts back to the flyer in her hand, and she almost does a double take. Looking back at her is a gorgeous model, dark skin shining a brilliant topaz in the gold lights and falling glitter.

And she’s wearing Jaida’s galaxy dress.

The drawing of it is almost better than the real thing. It no longer looks like a garment - rather, the model has become one with the universe itself, as though she carries worlds in her palms and constellations in her eyes. She looks powerful, commanding, ethereal.

Jaida’s gaze travels down the line of the model’s body and there, in the bottom corner, is a tiny signature of swirling script and looping letters. Jaida peers closer at it, making out an elegant C and the long tail of a Y.

“…Crystal, did you draw this?”

“I did!” Crystal seems to brighten, her face alight with pleasure, at Jaida’s realisation. “Do you like it?”

“Are you kidding? Child, this is amazing!” She traces the outline of the perfect silhouette, still in awe of the work of art she’s holding. Crystal’s talent is immeasurable.

“I was given some photocopies of the designs that are gonna be in the show,” Crystal says. “And I just liked this one so much I knew I had to draw it. Do you know who designed it? The sketch didn’t look like one of Bianca’s.”

“Yeah. It’s not,” Jaida replies, almost shyly. “It’s mine.”

“No way!” Crystal gasps, slamming her palms onto the counter and wincing at the noise she makes. “How are you not, like, head designer? Hell, you could probably take Bianca’s job if you wanted to.”

This gets a laugh out of Jaida. “Bitch, I’d have to pry it from her cold, dead hands!”

“Okay, okay, true. But holy shit, Jaida. This dress is gorgeous. What are you even doing running these silly errands? You should be with all the designers. Why aren’t you with all the designers? I bet Bianca’s just scared you’re gonna outdo her.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Jaida snickers, “but it’s really just that we don’t have enough people yet. We’re still a small brand, so it’s very, like, all hands on deck. Everyone’s gotta do a bit of everything.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” Crystal nods slowly. “How long have you been working with Bianca?”

“A year now,” Jaida replies. “It’s a good job. I get to do a lot of stuff - I’ve designed, sewed, and I did some of the models’ makeup one time.”

“Wow,” Crystal breathes, and Jaida warms at how impressed she looks. “You’ve gotta show me more of your dresses when we do the run-through in a couple days.”

Jaida smiles. “Sure.” There’s a pause before she adds, “what about you? What got you into event coordination?”

“I wanted to be a freelance artist for the longest time,” Crystal explains, shrugging. “But it’s just… not easy making a living like that. So I found some jobs where I could do some art here and there, and this was the first one that stuck.”

“I get that,” Jaida agrees quietly. It’s easy to have big dreams, but making them come true is another story - she feels lucky to have met Bianca when she did. “But with a talent like this,” she continues, gesturing to the flyer in her hands, “I can see you going places. Big places.”

“Aw.” Crystal’s face softens in a smile. “That’s so sweet. Thanks, Jaida.”

“That’s everything,” the girl behind the counter interrupts before Jaida can respond. “You’re with Del Rio, right?”

“Yep.”

“Right. All yours, then.” She gestures to the boxes of flyers and programs before turning away to shut off the printers.

“Welp, let’s get moving,” Crystal says, grunting as she heaves a box off the counter. Jaida follows, pretending not to notice the way Crystal’s tattoos flex as she moves. They load the boxes of flyers and event programs into the car before Crystal slams the boot shut, turning to face Jaida and smiling triumphantly.

“All in a good day’s work,” Jaida says, grinning.

“We were amazing today,” Crystal agrees, putting her hand up for a high-five. Jaida smiles and hits Crystal’s palm with her own.

Crystal tuts. “That was weak,” she tells Jaida. “Come on, you can give me more than that!” She raises her hand again, waving it in Jaida’s face. “Go! Go! Go! Show me what you’ve got!”

“What the fuck,” Jaida laughs, but she complies, whacking Crystal’s hand with as much strength as she can. “Better?”

“Oof,” Crystal groans, shaking out her hand before breaking into a smile. “See? That was much better. I knew you had it in you.”

“You are so crazy.”

“That’s old news, Jaida,” Crystal replies sagely. “Old, old news.”

Jaida snorts, almost in disbelief. Crystal is so amusing.

“I see. Thanks for catching me up,” she says, playing along.

“You’re very welcome.” Crystal grins brightly before opening the car door. “Now let’s take this stuff back so we can go home. I want a warm shower and some food.”

“That sounds amazing,” Jaida murmurs, sliding into the passenger seat beside Crystal.

“Yeah. You know what else sounds amazing?” Crystal asks, grabbing her phone as the car hums to life. “This song. This is the perfect way to end a good day at work.”

A moment later, upbeat, electronic music fills the car, and Crystal immediately begins bobbing her head to the beat.

“Let me guess,” Jaida says, pretending to think, “One Direction?”

Crystal’s brilliant grin is all the confirmation she needs.

They begin driving, and Jaida will admit that while she doesn’t like the song, Crystal’s finally-free-of-work-for-the-day excitement is infectious.

“Baby say yeah, yeah, yeah!” Crystal sings as they’re waiting at a red light.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Jaida joins in, and her chest warms when Crystal turns to her, eyes wide and shining with a pleasant surprise.

“If you don’t wanna take it slow, and you just wanna take me home, baby say yeah, yeah, yeah,” Crystal sings, her gaze flicking expectantly to Jaida.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Jaida finishes. Crystal giggles, bubbly with delight, as the light changes and she resumes driving.

Jaida leans back into the faux leather of the seat, her skin flush with a strange — but not unwelcome — warmth. It feels like Crystal’s presence has touched her in a peculiar way. Her bluebell laughter, her childlike excitement, her wild and wonderful charisma — all of it feels so comfortable to Jaida already, even though she’s only known Crystal for a single day.

She likes Crystal, she’s decided. Crystal with the strange name and the lollipop hair. Crystal who sings along to One Direction in the car. Crystal with the tattoos painting her tanned skin.

Jaida leaves work that evening feeling light on her feet, a lively melody playing on loop in her head. This day turned out better than she could have expected, and she has high hopes for the week ahead.

She hums the melody that’s stuck in her head as she boards the train on her way home. It’s cheerful, upbeat - where did she hear this again?

With a laugh, she realises it’s the One Direction song she and Crystal had sung together on the way back home. Jaida decides it might not be so bad after all.

[holy-shit-dangan-ronpa]

Angie's Art Class

Super belated birthday fic for @dangandingus !! Please enjoy!

AO3 Mirror

Everyone gradually began to bid their farewells as breakfast concluded. Smiles were exchanged as plastic cutlery clattered against the elongated table, as all the students were satisfied with what they had eaten. The maid stacked the dishes, carrying them to the kitchen with a polite grin as each person left the dining hall.

Tightening her scrunchies, Harukawa let out a sigh, as she pondered what she could do today. There were only a limited number of things to do in her room, but she didn't particularly fancy spending time with anyone else.

"Please give it back!" she heard a technological voice whine from behind her, causing her to turn her head to glance at whatever was occurring behind her.

"No way, Keyboard!" the plum-haired child giggled, clutching something to his chest. The robot clawed at him to no avail. It appeared the hair that was normally present on the top of his head was missing, and putting the pieces together lead to the conclusion that the ruler had taken it.

"Kokichiiii! Makiiiii!" a peppy voice called out, with quick footsteps following. The owner of the voice could only be her - she was the only one who would call either by first name.

The caregiver turned the rest of her body in order to meet eyes with the artist, giving her a confused stare. She couldn't fathom a singular reason as to why the other would call out to her, seeing as everyone had just spent breakfast with each other. If she wanted something, she could've asked earlier.

"Hmm? What is it, Yonaga-chan?" the ruler questioned, looking the other over curiously. It seemed the artist had bent over to catch her breath for a moment - physical excursion was definitely not her strong suit. She quickly perked up however, closing her teal irises and clasping her hands together.

"Angie would like to invite the two of you to a private art lesson!" she beamed joyfully.

"Private art lesson...?" the caretaker questioned, looking directly at her. If she was being honest, even the children could draw better than her. She possessed the hand-eye coordination, but not the talent.

"Sounds like fun!" Ouma giggled, feigning interest with a smile.

Maki closed her eyes as to not seem rude, before rolling them not once, but twice. She sighed audibly.

"I won't be going," she replied curtly.

"Kami-sama told Angie that Maki hasn't been getting enough social interaction! And Angie hasn't seen Kokichi hang out with a girl ever! So Kami-sama gave Angie this super cool idea!"

The robot scratched his chin. "I've never seen Ouma-kun interact with a female either..."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ouma spat out defensively. "If anyone has gender issues, it's Chabashira-chan!"

"Mmm, Angie thinks you could both use some social skills. Angie already set everything up in her studio!"

"Like I said, I'm not going. Bye," the brown haired girl muttered. A smaller hand pulled her back, teary teal eyes staring into her red ones.

She knows that she's going to hell if she says no to that face.

From back at the table, the magician eats toast slowly. She blinks, trying to register the fact that she's awake and not in her bed. She glanced at the scene behind her, and massaged her temples for a moment. She then snapped her fingers.

Ki-bo's hair was back in place, whilst Yumeno was knocked out on the table from MP drainage. The robot patted her on the back.

"She sacrificed herself in my honor..."

Shirogane looked towards the magician, and quietly began to sing in memorial.

"Yume no tobira... zutto sagashi tsudzuketa..."

Taking this as a chance, the artist took Ouma's hand in her free one, and scurried out of the cafeteria before the other two could question her.

The three arrive in a large room. The walls are a cream color, and the floor is white. There are paint stains absolutely everywhere, particularly a large black smear right near the entrance. Along one wall is a set of cabinets on the ceiling, two sinks, and another set of cabinets under the sinks. There are four large, wooden tables, each with four stools of the same material. Six foot tall mahogany cabinets line another wall, and the other two have a chalkboard and white board respectively. There's a large easel that rests in front of the white board, a palette that's stained with paint resting on it. There's a sketch on the easel too, of some woman with horns and a single, long braid. She almost looked like Tenko.

The caregiver coughs, taking in a musty breath that's sure to have pencil shavings in it. Ouma looks around in awe.

Angie goes under one of the sink cabinets, lighting a pink candle. "Sorry, Angie's pretty messy," she interjected, taking out some cleaning materials. With a rag soaked in cleaning solution, she wiped down one of the wooden tables, along with the sinks.

She then shuffles through one of the kitchen cabinets, throwing random things around before pulling out... a hair dryer.

"Why do you have that...?" Harukawa questions as she plugs it into the wall, turning it to a medium setting.

"All true artists have hair driers!" she yells in response, drying off the wooden table with it. Ouma shrugs.

As soon as the table's dry, Angie instructs her guests to sit. They sit on opposite sides on the table, on opposite corners. Angie hands them each a large clear box, stuffed to the brim with materials.

"Woooooow!" Ouma marvels, and Harukawa can't tell if he's genuine or not. Harukawa opens the box in front of her - art materials. A spiral-bound sketchbook, a packet of pencils with a sharpener, a sponge, markers, colored pencils, paintbrushes, paints, charcoal... Angie's really put a lot of consideration into it, and she admires that.

"Write your name on it, because it's yours!" Angie instructs, smiling. Ouma opens his box, taking out a marker, going to write his name-

As if she teleported, the artist is behind him, holding his shoulders in an iron grip. The color has vanished from her face, eyes staring straight through him.

Ouma seems unaffected, as Angie snatches the marker out of his hand.

"Not. That. One."

Harukawa glances over at them, rather confused. Angie looks the most serious she's ever seen her, and it's quite frightening, if she's being honest. It was almost as if she had been possessed.

"Huuuuh? What's wrong with that marker, Yonaga-chan?" Ouma asks sweetly, looking up at the artist.

The artist twirled the marker around in her hand, before taking it in the thumb and index finger of both her hands. She gestured toward the ruler. "Kokichi, could you read this?"

"Co... pic?" Ouma muttered quietly, looking at the English label with a confused stare.

"Yup, yup! Kokichi's correct!" the artist beamed, clasping her hands together, the marker trapped inside. "Copics are very special alcohol-based markers. Kami-sama will be angry at you if you misuse them."

"What's so special about them?" the caretaker asked.

"Well... Um... They're the best markers, ever! People usually think of Crayola markers when they think of markers... But Copics are the ones the professionals use! They're about 800 yen a piece."

"Wooow, Yonaga-chan spent lots of money on these!" the ruler snickered, pressing his face against the few she had left in his box.

Angie protruded a sharpie from her pocket, handing it to the ruler. "You can use this to write your name on the box. Don’t ever use the Copics unless Angie instructs you to!" She then gave another sharpie to the caretaker, instructing her to do the same.

White sneakers clicked against the floor as the artist then approached her easel.

"Alright, class! Angie-san is ready to give her first lesson!"

Ouma clapped excitedly, while Harukawa closed her eyes and rolled them. Angie took a sketchbook from off the floor, (why it was there wasn't questioned) and opened to a blank page.

"Today, Angie-san is going to teach her students the basics of shading and shape drawing!"

As the last syllable of her words was uttered, a few knocks were rapped against the door. They were light and polite, so maybe it was Amami or Saihara? Angie skipped over to answer the door, and...

"Ryouma?" Angie asked, turning her head to the side as she looked the smaller boy in the eyes. He took whatever he had out of his mouth (it looked like it was Pocky) and sighed.

"Look, I hate to come in during..." the tennis player started, looking over at the scene, "...whatever the fuck this is, but I gotta take something from here.”

“What is it?” the artist mused, unsure of what the other meant.

“Rumor has it you’ve been makin’ statues of everybody. I’m taking mine,” he declares, entering the room and eyeing it for the statues.

“Ah, Angie hasn’t built Ryouma’s statue yet! She wanted to make sure she got your body type right, so she planned on doing you last.”

Hoshi looked confused, but only for a second. “Alright. Thanks. Bye,” he mumbled curtly as he went to leave, the shackle against his ankle clicking as he went.

“Wait! Angie thinks you should join her class!” the artist persisted as the tennis player put his hand on the doorknob. He looked back at her, but didn’t say anything.

“Angie’s teaching Kokichi and Maki some art basics! Angie thinks Ryouma would make a great addition to the class!”

“Not like I’ve got anything better to do,” Hoshi says under his breath, opting to sit next to Maki.

“Aww! Hoshi-chan won’t sit next to me!”

“Nobody wants to sit next to you.”

Ouma pouts, clearly offended. He knows that’s true though, so he doesn’t bother replying.

“As Angie was saying, today she will teach you about shading!” she exclaims, skipping back to the easel. She then widens her eyes as if getting a sudden burst of inspiration, skipping towards the cabinets underneath the sink. Forging through them, she finds a silver ball, and places it on the table where her classmates sat.

“...It’s a cannonball,” Harukawa observed, unimpressed.

“Maki’s right!” Angie replies. She goes into her pocket getting… A sticker? She places it on Maki’s forehead.

“...You gonna take it off?” Hoshi asks, slightly alarmed.

“The kids draw on me all the time. I’m used to it.”

As she says that, the lights in the room begin to dim. Angie goes to one of the cabinets, retrieving a desk lamp. (Nobody has yet to question where she’s getting all of this stuff, and nobody probably will.) She sets it on the desk, pointing it towards the cannonball.

“Neat,” Hoshi mutters, holding his head in one hand as he slumped against the desk.

“Angie wants everybody to pay attention to how the light affects the cannonball,” the artist instructed. “As you can see here, where the light is being shone on to, the ball is bright in color! Buuuut,” she starts to hover her finger along the ball’s side, “as the material gets farther from the source, the light gradiates into a darker color!”

Ouma giggles, switching the light off so that the room is entirely enveloped in darkness, minus the candle Angie had lit earlier. Harukawa switches it back on, giving the ruler a glare.

Angie, presumably unaffected, holds the lamp by the stand. She hovers it in various places around the ball.

“See how when Angie moves the light, the shading changes? Angie thinks that’s real neat!”

After hovering the light some more, the artist goes to the classroom’s rear, switching all the lights on. Hoshi flicks the lamp off.

“Everybody, take a piece of paper from your sketchbooks, and the pack of pencils Angie gave you!”

With a few riiiiips, all is done as instructed. Hoshi borrows a sheet from Maki’s sketchbook, and she sets the packet of pencils between the two of them.

“Use one of the pencils with the ‘H’ on it!” Angie says, smiling as always.

“B? H? Why’s there morse code on pencils?” Ouma grunts, picking up a pencil marked 2B.

“That is the question,” Hoshi snickers, looking at the pencil in the other’s hand. Harukawa giggles, but Ouma just looks at him with a confused stare.

“The codes tell you the weight of the pencil!” Angie clarifies. “Angie doesn’t know what the B and H actually stand for, but B’s are darker than H’s! H is light, B is dark. The higher the number, the lighter or darker the pencil is. H’s are used for sketching, since they’re light and easy to erase.”

Her ‘students’ nod in approval. Harukawa picks a 4H, Ryouma a 2H, and Ouma a 6H. Angie hits her easel with the back of her pencil to get the attention of the others.

“Please draw a circle on your paper!” Angie commands, as she begins to sketch a circle on her own. Her students have varying degrees of success.

Angie skips over. Hoshi just drew one, thick line. Harukawa tried to imitate what Angie had done, lines sketchy like hers, but she had ended up with an oval. Ouma’s is also an oval, but it’s a weird combination of sketchy lines, followed by one continuous line, as if he gave up halfway through.

“Mmmm,” Angie groans. She flips Hoshi’s paper over, and takes it in front of her.

“It’s best if you sketch in quick, thin strokes.” With this, she draws a circle again, occasionally taking out an eraser to get rid of the excess lines. “Like Angie said earlier, H pencils are easy to erase! Ryouma can use Angie’s example, but she wants Kokichi and Maki to try again!”

The two do as told, with better results. Angie has to guide Ouma’s hand for a bit, but he seems to get it after a while. Harukawa’s is nearly a perfect circle.

“Good job! Next, you’re going to need your 8B pencil, since we’ll be putting in the darkest shades.”

Angie wheels her easel over so that the others can see her easier. They all give her an expectant stare.

“When you’re drawing, you need a light source!” the artist declares, taking her own 8B pencil. In the corner of her paper, she draws an arrow. “Angie will pretend a spotlight is shining on her circle from this direction. You can put an arrow down if it helps!”

All three do, and then look back at her.

“Now, with the 8B, put a dark crescent shape in the corner of the sphere,” she says, showing them as she speaks. She presses hard with the pencil, hoping they do the same. They all try to, again with varying degrees of success.

“Now, get a pencil that’s a little bit lighter, and start fading out the top of the crescent! When you’re done, you should just have a little sliver below the crescent, and you shouldn’t be able to tell where you outlined the crescent. Remember to lighten your pressure as you get towards the spot where the light hits!”

The three students went to work, doing their best to shade their spheres per the artist’s instructions. Hoshi seemed to have a bit of trouble pressing lighter without loosening his grip, Ouma would go over spots so much that they became dark, and Harukawa was patchy in places. But it looked like they were trying their hardest, so Angie smiled proudly.

“Now fuzz out the bottom edge of the crescent! One, two! One, two!”

With determined eyes and pencils in hand, all three again went to work, a little bit better than last time. Each finished by releasing their pencil against the table, listening to the faint clatter as the pencil bounced against it.

Angie peered at their drawings, dancing between them.

“Nyahahaha! Divine work, guys! Angie’s gonna teach you all one last thing before ending class!”

Skipping back to the easel, the artist pulled out a tiny stub of wrapped paper, dirtied from lots of use. On the side, “TORTILLION” was written.

“You guys should have a few of these in your box! They’re tortileenies!”

“It says tortillion,” Hoshi scoffed, examining one in his hands.

“Mmm, whatever! They’re used for blending!”

“I’ll call it a blending stump, then,” the caretaker muttered, taking one in her hands.

Angie pouted. “Booooring.”

She was able to pick her face back up quickly.

“Anyway, like Angie said, tortileenies are used for shading! You use them on their side, and never on the tip, because that’ll ruin them!”

She showed her students the proper technique with her own drawing.

“You can go over any harsh parts with it to make it more fuzzy. Good luck!”

Scratchey scratch scratch.

All three diligently and wordlessly worked on their spheres. It seemed all of them were concentrating quite hard, doing their best to imitate the artist.

After a long period of this, Ouma let out an exhausted sigh, falling against the table. A few pencils rolled off and fell to the floor.

“I’m all arted out,” Ouma huffed, looking up at Angie. Harukawa politely began cleaning up, while Hoshi stared at his drawing, looking for some sort of way to make it better. He smudged it a bit more with his tortillion, before placing it down and closing his eyes. He put another stick of Pocky in his mouth.

“Well? Is that it, everyone?”

Harukawa nodded.

“Be sure to sign your name and date in the corner! Angie’s keeping these~”

Despite expecting complaints, none were given. Each signed the corner of their paper and dated it. Ouma left, hands behind his head. “Bye, Yonaga-chan!~” Hoshi left not long after, without a word. Harukawa did the same, but gave the artist a backhanded wave before exiting.

Angie took the three pieces in her hands before hugging them against her chest. They smudged a little, but compared to the graphite on her right palm, this was nothing.

The artist merrily skipped to the whiteboard, putting all three drawings next to each other. Hands on her hips, she gazed at them with pride.

Pushing in their stools, Angie smiled.

“Angie loves her classmates!”

[artificialqueens]

Late Bloomer Chapter 1

This is loosely based on “Late Bloomer” by Jenny Lewis

follow the fic at @ladyalix on ao3

CHAPTER ONE

Trixie chose Paris because it was the fashion capital of the world, she told herself, but mostly because it seemed the farthest away place in the world from Milwaukee. After high school she was determined to do something with her life, to prove to herself and the rest of her graduating class that her dreams were not unfounded - and she was also determined not to fuck it up. Her plan, really, was very simple. Rent a room somewhere with the limited funds she’d saved up washing dishes at the local greasy spoon for the past two years, apply for as many fashion-related internships and jobs as she could find, and serve enough cups of coffee and run enough Xerox trips until she was designing. Unfortunately, the plan did not include falling in love with the female, anxiety-ridden, chain-smoking Russian artist who lived down the hall.

“So you’re my new roommate,” said the chubby, red-haired woman who answered the door. Trixie noted the woman’s soft country accent - she had specifically chosen to live with an American expat as her French was high-school level, but something about this woman’s inflections were comfortingly familiar. She too was a refugee from a life far from any city of note.

“Yeah, hi, um, I’m Trixie - Trixie Mattel,” Trixie used the surname she had planned on adopting along with her new life - something that came from her reputation as Barbie-doll like, with her penchant for fashion, makeup, and all things pink and kitschy.

“I’m Ginger - Ginger Minj,” beamed the woman. Ginger opened the door wider, and Trixie gulped as she realised the flat was quite small; one room, strewn with clothing, art, and record albums, and one large bed.

“I forgot to mention, we’re going to have to share some space,” winced Ginger. “And I’m having a small get-together with my art friends tonight. You’ll like them, but I’m afraid there’s not much room to avoid us in.”

Trixie laughed. “That’s fine!” She began to unpack her solo suitcase, filled with her embellished thrift-store finds and her own pink creations, and put them in the small dresser by the bed.

“You’re quite an artist yourself,” commented Ginger, “did you make those?”

“Most of them, yeah. I want to go into fashion.”

Ginger chuckled. “You and every other girl in Paris.” Trixie tried not to show how the woman’s words had hurt her - she hadn’t really thought about how many stories like hers existed. In Milwaukee, she had been unique in her dreaming and determination. But after several hours off the plane she already saw how difficult it would be for her in a place like this, so saturated in its expectations and abundance of mediocre people with bigger egos and dreams than talents and resources.

“I’m going for a walk,” she managed, “to clear my head. And see the neighborhood.”

“Be back by eight tonight,” called Ginger. “It’s just a small get-together, but I want you to meet people.”

Ginger’s “small get-together” turned out to be a weed-and-pills-fueled party of about twenty strange-looking people of every colour, gender, and quirk packed into the tiny flat. Some sort of indie band Trixie wasn’t quite cool enough to recognize thrummed in the background. She felt very small and very young and very, very Milwaukee here.

“Trixie!” called Ginger. “There’s some people I’d like you to meet.” She gestured to a small group of women clustered towards the door, where they were admiring one of Ginger’s strange, abstract paintings.

“This one’s weird as fuck,” a tall, slender brunette girl remarked, taking a drag on a cigarette. Ginger beamed.

“Thanks, Violet, I did try. Girls - this is Trixie, my new roommate. She’s from Minnesota.”

“Milwaukee. Wisconsin,” amended Trixie. “You were close, though.”

Another girl, who had a septum ring but somehow made it look high-fashion, smirked.

“Milwaukee? Jesus, you must be in for a shock. You’re not in Kansas anymore; welcome to Oz.”

Trixie almost didn’t hear what the septum-pierced girl was saying to her, though, because just then an extraordinary-looking woman kitty-corner across the room caught her eye; barely ten years older than Trixie, or just really good at concealing her age, she was a tall, striking woman with blunt-cut, bleach-blond hair and intelligent blue eyes. What was most shocking, however, was her clothing - a macrame-covered dress that seemed like it came out of Trixie’s mom’s wardrobe from the 1970s, a dark fur cossack hat, and quirky jewelry scattered haphazardly - lip-shaped brooches, oversized faux-pearls, eyeball hairclips. Trixie, who had prided herself on her fashion-forward clothes, felt underdressed. Trixie felt her heart flutter in a way she had only read about - something girls were supposed to have felt to boys. Something she hadn’t ever known.

“Who is that?” she managed, pointing discreetly at the woman. The septum-pierced girl rolled her eyes.

“That’s Katya. She’s the craziest bitch I’ve ever met. She’s kind of a genius, though. I’d kill to be as talented as her.”

“Talented? What does she do?”

“She’s a performance artist. She does, like, interpretive dance and gymnastics and shit but somehow she makes it really incredible. She was a gymnast growing up, and they say she could have made it to the Russian Olympic team, but - “

“Shut up, Pearl,” said the taller girl - Violet - whom Trixie noticed was rather possessively holding onto the other girl - Pearl’s - forearm. Almost like they were dating. Trixie had never met a gay person before, except for her favorite teacher at school who got fired when the news of his personal life was revealed. Trixie shuddered. All her life she’d never liked anyone. But now she was safely in a community of queer people, she could ask herself - did she feel that way towards this enigmatic Katya?

“Sorry,” said Ginger, breaking the tense silence. “I think Katya wouldn’t want us… gossiping about her past. She’s put it behind her quite well.”

“Oh, God,” groaned Pearl playfully, “she noticed us.” The blonde woman was bounding across the room, a cigarette in her hand and a toothy grin on her face.

“ Devotchki”, she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in greeting. She turned to face Trixie, and Trixie had to fight the urge to turn her head shyly. “And who is this?” Her English was heavily accented, her voice the gravelly tone that gave away a chainsmoking habit.

“Um, I’m Trixie - Trixie Mattel,” said Trixie softly, using the new name with a tentative confidence.

“Trixie! What a lovely name!” beamed Katya. Trixie looked into her eyes and saw they were a startling icy blue, covered in thick black makeup. The makeup artist side of Trixie knew the Russian’s skills were dreadfully sloppy and amateurish but the strangely smitten Trixie thought Katya looked incredible - badass and vulnerable, strange and trendy all at once.

“I’m Katya - Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova, that is, but you can call me Katya.”

“Trixie’s from Wisconsin,” offered Violet with a knowing smirk, “she moved to Paris today.”

“Today?” gasped Katya, raising an eyebrow, “how old are you, dear?”

Trixie blushed, realising she was in fact quite young compared to these incredibly cool artists. “I’m eighteen. I just graduated from high school and I’m going to start looking for jobs tomorrow.”

Katya laughed - a glorious, rollicking laugh, her head thrown back and her hands moving side-to-side manically.

“You moved here without a job? Oh, that’s wonderful! You can, of course, speak French though…”

Shit. “Um…” Trixie began.

“Don’t worry,” said Katya. “I can help you. I’ve met many people in the years I’ve been here.”

“Everyone knows Katya,” offered Pearl. “She’s kind of famous.”

“And I live right down the hall,” the Russian woman offered. “Hey, tomorrow I take you drinking, okay? I can show you around the neighborhood a little more.”

“I’m trying to save most of my money for rent right now,” admitted Trixie; she really would have liked to go. “And I’m only eighteen.”

“Darling, this is France,” laughed Katya. “At least we know now you are not one of the Americans who only move here to drink legally before their twenty-first birthday. And don’t worry - it’s my treat.”

“Like - “ stammered Trixie. “Like a date?” of course it wasn’t a date, Trixie reminded herself. They were girls. Katya was probably straight anyway - but growing up poor like Trixie had, she wasn’t always comfortable having someone she had just barely met treat her to something like this. It was too much like charity. Somehow, though, Katya’s offer was different than that.

“Yes, something like a date,” said Katya breezily. “Moi druzya, do any of you have a light?”