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hwaightme · 6 months

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Panacea

(masterlist)

🌊pairing: poet!seonghwa x doctor!gn!reader 🌊genre: fluff, slice of life, slow burn, healing, strangers to lovers, comfort 🌊summary: what do a poet who lost his inspiration and a cosmetic surgeon who lost their empathy have in common? when you make an escape from the city to a memory-filled cottage on the edge of the world, you meet park seonghwa, a poet who, after growing fatigued of shallow critique and unwanted attention, is on a search for true beauty. you, a surgeon who cannot bear to hear nor assess another patient , abhor its twisted definitions. as the seasons change, storms abate and your paths entangle, you discover a new, unparalleled kind of beauty. 🌊wordcount: 32.8k 🌊warnings/tags: semi-edited, attempts at sijo (forgive me), discussion of beauty standards, mention of surgery/clinics, weather imagery, nightmares, discussion of life and death (jokes relating to death), talk of oc death, urban/rural comparisons, isolation, burnout, philosophy, judgement of media, seaside, cliffs, dialogue + inner thoughts, perspective switching, falling in love, loving another's mind, talk of what is 'real' beauty, food (incl. meat), eating, cooking, implied anxiety, implied impulsive thoughts, sneak into home, lmk if anything else 🌊author's note: happy birthday, seonghwa, wishing for you and for atiny alike to have a cherished panacea and a love brighter than the stars <3 hope you enjoy, all reblogs and notes appreciated~

🌊playlist: 'unreal unearth' and 'unheard' by hozier, 'dark corners and alchemy' + reason to live by mehro, love letter from the sea to the shore by delaney bailey, okinawa by 92914, yeti + village song by paris paloma, exhale inhale by aurora, butterflies by tom odell, house song by searows, cornflower blue by flower face, icarus and apollo by ripto, the view between villages by noah kahan, my love mine all mine + i'm your man by mitski, when i c u by pomme

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

Art. Expression, embodiment, eternity. The world was art. From how the leaves trembled in the wind to how the water rippled, from a heartwarming smile to an earth-shattering glare, everything could be immortalised with an inspired, skilled transition. A perception of the eyes or the heart or the mind could be turned into anything from what might have been virtually nothing. Internal palaces, interpretation, innovation all were crafted and translated through art, onto canvases - trillions of brushstrokes, onto countless pages - trillions of priceless words, onto generations - wisdom and creation passed from one to another, all throughout history, leaving no stone unturned. To study and perceive art was to learn of the beauties of the universe, with beauty being a reflection of both aesthetics and terror. Such was life, and it breathed through the arts. From the beginning of time all the way to the modern era, art was a human’s true loyal companion. And even after the human would pass, art remained, loyal, vigilant, forever telling the tale that was cast onto a medium. One does not create art, one breathes it.

This is exactly why when an artist cannot create, it feels as though air has been knocked out of the lungs, a boulder weighed down on the chest, and the priceless essence of inspiration’s air could not be further away - a lost soul sinking into the hopeless abyss. The world grew darker and darker, until it fell silent. The artist, the art - a relationship of worship and boundless adoration, but also that of treachery and misery. Such was the fate of the one who stepped onto the thorned path of creation. One such humble human who, unlike a myriad of others, stumbled into the realm by accidental interest and longstanding innate passion, and due to the spontaneity and retained connection with the self had achieved relatively impressive success, was none other than Park Seonghwa. The poet. The visionary. The artist. Blessed with the spoken and written word, craftsmanship in rhythm and rhyme, grace in prose, he was a promising rising star in a progressively shallow world. As the consciousness melted into brevity and emotionlessness, he fearlessly dived into what made the soul, picking it apart, analysing it, and pouring the golden threads onto paper. An observer, he loved the colours of nature with all his heart. Every season, every day retained a magnificence for him which he tried to depict and incorporate in his work. Both experimental and traditionally sound, his “studies of daily life miniature wonders”, as he called his poetry, resonated.

But, as known far and wide, resonance brings expectation, and Seonghwa could not escape it either. Invitation after invitation, interviews and talk shows, signings if he was lucky to find a group of those truly interested in his craft; events all came clawing at him, tearing at his energy and soundness of mind until there was barely anything left, and even then, the droplets remaining were only thanks to his suddenly rediscovered harshness, followed by a series of declinations and digital disappearances. He made people feel, and in turn, the people felt like he owed them. The so-called success, or, in other words a nightmarish scrutiny that he could never foresee in the midst of his art, did not come without unrelated commentary either. From his attire to his physique to his facial expressions during public events - and on the occasion someone would recognise him on the street: his neutral, perfectly relaxed face, were all now considered to be public property. He could not breathe. Seonghwa’s hand shuddered whenever he would lift it in an attempt to write, aching, a nervous tremor turning into an earthquake the more he strained himself.

It was an impossible venture. Everywhere Seonghwa looked, everywhere he went, there were eyes and opinions, louder than his mind could ever be. The wind was no longer whistling a melody, returning to an indecipherable cacophony. The strawberries that the poet had purchased in the super store on the way to the edge of nothingness, where he was staying, were no longer sweet, crimson warnings left to rot in a bowl on the windowsill as he scurried from room to room out of fear of being spotted from the outside. There should be no one where he escaped to - an ancient cottage that belonged to a relative whom he had never known, but had spontaneously gotten close to out of necessity - was it a cousin?… leading to a spot where nothing ran, life was but a stillness, obedient to the sun and rain, lifting sorrows with the fog, falling into a slumber with the blanket of the pitch black night. In an effort to avoid the crowds and the rashness of his own potential future actions, Seonghwa had made an escape to what he would call ‘the void’. Forest, barely a hamlet to house civilization in the distance, sea. Infinite expanse of grassland, cliffsides, seagulls ceaselessly patrolling the skies. Within the first few days he had already forgotten where he was, and where he had come from. Such was existence without inspiration and purpose.

Rise and pretend to follow rhythm. One word on a page, floating towards abandonment. Ink drying. Lukewarm tea descending into the mouth of the sink. Swaying tulle, the only reminder that there was movement. Seonghwa collapsed onto the cream-coloured sofa, his dark tresses which had gotten considerably longer over his period of hiding after the astonishing battles with too many opinionated ignoramuses spilling over a throw pillow. He shut his eyes, a dull pressure behind them and of his temples becoming more pronounced. When was the last time he had a truly restful handful of hours of sleep? It would be bold to assume that he could answer that question. He could hear the creaking of the fence gate outside - the construction had a mind of its own, having sagged under its age and the salty air. Now, one of its corners sometimes dragged along the gravel path leading from the cottage out, and to the vistas of a tumultuous seaside. No one in sight except himself, and even then, Seonghwa avoided mirrors, terrified that he, too, would begin to repeat the utterings voiced to him again, and again. Black tar that stuck itself to his brain. He rubbed his temples, pinched the bridge of his nose, massaged his forehead, knowing full well that whatever he was planning to do was futile. There was no cure to this kind of sorrow. Only time. Fatigued from deliberation and heavy dread that plagued him, reducing function to nil, Seonghwa drifted, only the echoes of a suppressed catharsis haunting him.

It was a lulling ripple. Susurration of the shimmering waves, languidly guiding the timid moonlight. As the wind picked up, so did the infinite blanket of deep midnight blue, decorated with threads of pure silver. The whispers soon transformed into a harmony of echoes, filling the air with a chilling premonition. The quietude – the chosen one, to be sacrificed to the orchestration of natural disorder, a cyclical necessity. There was no rule, no need. Only the endless expanse of the living, breathing, turbulent waters. A storm. A roar engulfed the atmosphere, and all that dared oppose the metamorphosis. Imminent destruction of aquatic grace, devolving into a nightmarish, ghoulish madness. Reminiscent of a clamour, the waves crashed against your consciousness, persistently, repeatedly, threatening to tear away at your cranium and pour over into your lungs, taking ownership of your paralysed form.

Seonghwa struggled to catch a single breath, heaving, and yet running on empty, a shallow, superficial hint of oxygen lumped in his oesophagus. An unforgettable burning – his eyes, his nose, his lips, all enslaved by the agonising salt that penetrated their protective membranes and made him shriek as it buried itself in his cooling bloodstream. Seonghwa was losing to the elements, succumbing to the fatigue that was seeping into his aching, overstrained limbs. On the verge of giving up and letting go of the spirit that had driven him to struggle in the first place, he tried to shut his eyes just as he had done to his art, praying he would be let down slowly.

In futility and a sudden moment of clarity, the world went silent once more, only with a soft bubbling to accompany as he descended further and further down into the dark abyss, bidding farewell to the omniscient, looming and cruel sky. He was unsure whether what he was experiencing was a hallucination or a reality, however he distinctly felt gentle arms wrap around him, and pull him close to the body of another being, cradling his drowning form. The young poet allowed himself to relish in the sensation, lest it be the last, ignoring the light that was approaching once more. It was impossible to assume for it to be anything except the path to divinity, and for the trusted guide of the currents to be a guardian angel, carrying him through the sea to his final judgement.

The foreign warmth unwound Seonghwa, and he was in a blissful state of somnolence. Nothing existed except him and the sea that embraced him, sheltered him from the squall above the surface. The state was reminiscent of an embryo, yet to experience the harsh realities, beatific and unaware of what was to come. A mysterious stranger, a figure of grace made of sea foam, erasing his terrors and returning him to the terrestrial realm where he belonged. The sea, bewildered and endeared with his feeble mortality had bestowed mercy upon him - a foreign act, and yet it turned into a saving grace from the treacherous domain. He was not a being of the prejudiced, ravenous ocean. As his back felt the wet sand beneath, and a pressure on his chest, expelling water that was ravaging his lungs grew stronger, he was more confident in his livelihood, despite having lost his breath, his sight, his hearing. Nothing existed except a storm somewhere far from him, and a brutal stinging of salt that consumed the arteries. The liquid trickled from his frozen lips and down his cheeks, absorbed by the grains that were already sneaking into his hair. The pressure was getting more intense, bordering on unbearable. His ribs, subdued by agony, were begging for relief. His mouth opened in a silent scream, a hand shot out into the darkness. A snap. A crashing of a wave.

Seonghwa jolted awake, feeling his chest and looking around. The window, which had previously been left open only a crack, had swung open fully, and the tulle had flown out with what had to be an oncoming gale. A drumming resonated from the inner walls of the house, one which he decisively ignored and let it be consumed by the chaos outside. Leaning over to take a cautious peek, the young man rapidly discovered a downpour that was soaking the thin, white material - a flag begging for forgiveness from nature. He hurried from the sofa, almost stumbling over his feet and the carpet, careful to not slip on the puddle that started to form below the sill, on the aged floorboards. Cursing under his breath, he fought against the creaking wood that was ruthless in wishing to hold the window in place, until, in a final fit of frustration, Seonghwa pulled wildly, nearly tumbling back as the frame slid into its rightful location with a stubborn shake. He hit the curved iron handle back into position, noting how even more of the white paint on the frame had chipped off, and the wood beneath was starting to show signs of potential rot. Since he was merely a guest, though it was nearly approaching half a year that he had been residing in the cottage, he would have to call someone in his family about this, wouldn’t he? A stray finger glided over the damage, and he pondered how long it had been since the wear and tear had started. Who was it that left this cottage to abandon, for people who were virtually strangers to occupy for a temporary retreat?

He placed a hand to his chest, feeling the beating of his erratic heart, not yet calm from the nightmare. Curious, how the sea had crept into his mind so strongly. The guardian and the destroyer of the surrounding grounds. A mirror of the skies with a presentation and strength of its own. Undoubtedly scornful of his hollow presence - an artist who ceased to create. What could be more tragic and distasteful? He pulled at the loosely woven white sweater that hung loosely on his body, pinching the white sleeveless tee underneath when he spotted a speck of dust, or was it a grain of sand? He raised an eyebrow, trying to contain the particle between his fingers but failing to do so as it rolled down until it disappeared against the floor. Right, he had cleaning to do. He shook his head and led himself to the kitchen, where he grabbed rags, a bucket, some supplies to aid him in fixing up the attacked corner of the living room.

With an anxious swiftness, Seonghwa took down the translucent curtain and wiped the floorboards, the wall, the window sill, sighing at the scenery outside. Steely grey skies and thunderous clouds the colour of smoke and ash, diagonal rain rendering it almost impossible to see the rocky cliffs and hills that otherwise highlighted his vista. Waves took on a hue that was reminiscent of a mixture of emerald and onyx, with thick streaks of foam the colour of melancholy. Rocks, eroded and reshaped by the waters, were splotches of black in the landscape, and the tall grass - golden and green from the tedium of perpetual beatdowns by the sun and the storms, brushstrokes that blended with the speeding droplets. He paused. How marvellous it was, to become one with the sky. A connection to the heavens as it weeped, mourning the mortal motion of the earth. He squeezed the rag feeling the clouds’ tears well up between the digits. Surely, if he had been saved in his dream, there was hope? Seonghwa tilted his head, still, ensnared by the scenery outside, not too dissimilar from what had been his unconscious battle. The sea saved him. His beloved nature, void of humanity, of quotidien illness innate to every being. Those graceful hands, sending him in a spinning dance through the grand depths, a soothing drowning. Blind to the temporary, he had the pleasure of consuming eternal presence. Perhaps this was a sign, and not a horror that he had lived through.

After wiping the last of the moisture and taking the items back to the kitchen, he ambled back to the room. There was nothing stopping the waves. Untouched - not by the fishermen who he would see from time to time, not by the adventurers tourists who wanted to take in the views of the rising sun, not by those who, at least on paper, owned the neighbouring lands. Everyone was subordinate to the sea. Including himself. The dream was a call. It had to have been. He put a palm over the centre of his ribcage, the bone whispering what had unfolded a mere few minutes ago. The intensity of what reminded Seonghwa of an exorcism was nothing short of a twisted blessing. A shy smile crept onto his lips as the cottage took the brunt of another gust of wind and spears of rain and a ghost of a plank somewhere in the house groaned. Or perhaps it was the cottage itself, mumbling a greeting to its waking occupant. Swaying of the history contained within the building, time in every chip of paint, in every brick.

There was not much to fear in the sea’s cradle. In the middle of nowhere, with only himself and the coming autumn to keep him company, Seonghwa sensed the ebbs and flows of his soul start up again. He raised his hand to eye level, stretching it out until the fingers were splayed apart and the palm was flat and facing the floor. Much to his unexpected delight, it remained steady, obedient, attuned to his present musings. His legs led the way, guiding him to a door that was located almost under the stairs. With a click of the handle, the room he had made his office and study was revealed. An antique lacquered mahogany table, much too large for the space available, had been a formidable foe for the last few months, and now, was shining a different colour. Seonghwa ran a hand over the intricate detailing of its edges as he pushed the matching chair back. Glanced up, took in the scenery on the other side of the window - much smaller than the one he had fought against, but allowing him to behold the memorable landscape nonetheless.

Gingerly, he pulled at the iron hook of the top drawer, revealing a black, leather bound notebook and a pen - his favourite, from the little shop down the street where he lived in the city. Glossy chrome silver, ergonomic, and made to be a medium for the arts. Seonghwa noted the dryness in his throat, and adjusted the collar of his sweater absent-mindedly. It was easy, right? Just pick up the pen, take out the book and open it, sit down and- and what next? He paused, hand hovering over his tools. What was next, indeed? Flutters of ideas like fragile butterflies suspended in the mind palace, wishing for transition into the world of the living. Could he do it? Upon asking himself the question, he swore he heard the sea roar louder, and the cottage creak in response. With a shake of the head, he decided. Enough was enough. He had to try - it was now or never. He fell into the seat, holding his breath as he clenched the pen, letting it dig into his skin - a lethal blade. A blank page scrutinised him. On instinct, he decorated it with ink, flowing into the barren landscape, introducing himself.

천둥과 회색 바다, 갈매기 울음소리 (the thunder and the grey sea, the crying of seagulls)

폭풍은 심장의 리듬을 만든다 (the storm makes the rhythm of the heart)

입술과 볼에 소금이 행복한 추억이다 (the salt on the lips and cheeks is a happy memory)

The rain was still pouring when Seonghwa woke up again, having resorted to resting his fatigued body on the same sofa rather than carrying it upstairs. It was quieter that way, without the tears pouring directly on the roof above. Having dipped his fingertips back into writing, and dabbling in a more liberal interpretation of sijo, he was spent, as though he had gone through a war, crawled under barbed wire to find his own reflection on the other side. The poet ran a hand through his locks, still messy from the tossing and turning that he had undoubtedly done while asleep - at least this time he had no dreams, even if it was exactly through such a manifestation that he had discovered the urge to try and revive his calling and skill. He checked the time, the antique clock on the other side of the room idly ticking away regardless of what happened around it. Early dawn, and yet the surroundings remained immersed in grey. He stretched, not caring for the wool throw that he had used as his blanket sliding down to pool on his lap. A strain in his neck - he tilted his head to stretch the sleepy, insubordinate muscle, wincing as he seemed to have struck a painful point of tension. It was time to rise with the rainclouds. Seonghwa shuffled into his slippers, the chill creeping across the floor discouraging him from forgoing the action, and grabbed the throw, folding it on reflex.

One foot in front of the other, eyes still half-shut, the walls served as guides towards the staircase, and the wooden handrail was a direct lead that let him doze as he felt for each new elevation. The rain pelted the skylight that shed some light on the stairs, the thrum an intense melody. And to think that it was sunny and warm - the epitome of summer, only a mere few days ago. Well, he said few days, but that was more a liberal interpretation than anything. Stuck on the edge of early spring, the seasons had passed by him at a menacing pace, summer, autumn, winter all blending into one monstrous creature. When he reached the second floor, something prompted him to pause. Seonghwa squinted, focusing on the door at the far end of the corridor, more specifically, the decorative woven carpet that was hanging off a neatly hammered nail right into its centre - ornate, depicting a lighthouse scene that had instantly made the young poet wonder if there was one in the vicinity of the cottage. But it was not the carpet itself that momentarily disturbed him, but rather the angle at which it was hanging. Over the time of Seonghwa being in this property so far, he had already done his fair share of cleaning and adjustments, as one would expect, but not a single time did he see the item move off the centre of the thread that was hooked onto the nail - perhaps only when the door itself was used. Since Seonghwa had selected a room that had windows that looked in the direction of the fence gate and main entrance, rather than to the side and towards the cliffs, he had no need to enter the darkness, only for general upkeep. What had made the item move? Raising an eyebrow, he approached the door, creaking of the floorboards accompanying him. No sound from behind the door. Only the heaving of the house that saw many storms in its day. A chuckle involuntarily escaped him as he adjusted the carpet - he must still be under the impression from the dream, that must be it. Everything was suspicious; but that was how he usually got when he was in the depths of ideation. Sensitive, responsive, one with the world. Patting the rough fabric, he turned, making his way to his quarters.

The decor was simple, minimalist, with echoes of nautical and rustic themes. A tiny model of a sailboat in a bottle, displayed on a slab of wood that must have been cut and taken from the forest nearby. A laundry basket made out of a rope so thick that Seonghwa assumed that it used to be on a ship before settling in the cottage for retirement. White sheets, with a line of pale baby blue chequered fabric running through the very top, marking its direction. Matching chequered pillows - large, soft clouds stuffed to the brim with feathers, perfectly made. The bed had been left untouched by him that night, and remained in suspense. He ran a hand over its edge, feeling the soft fabric. Carefully, he placed the throw at the end of the bed, and turned towards the double wardrobe - well, he was being rather kind to call it that. Not quite a single, not quite a double, the piece which looked to have been made by whoever had been the owner of the land a while back stood proud, without any particular definition. It served its purpose, and was happy to do so. From the carved patterns around the handles to how the doors easily swung open, this piece of furniture was nothing like what he would see in the city. It contained love, care. Was one of a kind. Perhaps that was another issue he would have to take care of, should he return to the metropolis soon - change his interior. There was enough standard decor for him to turn into an automaton. An apartment like everybody else’s. Enough space, but no room to breathe - existing only to live up to or fulfill expectations.

He changed into a pleasant neutrality - in fact, most of the clothing that Seonghwa had brought with him retained a quality of muted bliss. Beige and cream, black, white, shades of grey, a few patterned pieces containing navy, diluted pinks here and there, he wanted to blend into the scenery. Shake with the tall grass. Stretch his arms out and embrace the sky, floating towards it. But for now, a white shirt would have to do. He made a couple of small adjustments while looking at the mirror that hung above the cabinet directly at the end of the bed, flush against the wall, flicking the dangling silver earring that he had left in since yesterday, used to napping with the accessory. A couple of brushes with the comb he kept on said cabinet, and finally, the look was manageable. Knowing he would be careful, Seonghwa decided to wash up before continuing on with his day; more adventuring around the house, down the stairs and off to the side past the kitchen. He stared at his reflection, dismissing the hints of stubble that were beginning to show themselves - as if anyone would care if he scrapped shaving altogether. No one except himself. The rest of the steps he could not skip over, diligence and habit taking back the reins. Routine, but in the house so far removed from places where routine was king, it was reassuring.

Soon enough, there were scrambled eggs on a plate, fork lying to the side, and a steaming cup of black tea in his hand as he flicked through his midnight musings. Not too bad. Certainly not the best. At least not to him. His hand was rash, his thoughts unclear, his rhythm lacking. It had to be better than this; the voice of judgement returned to him and struck him like lightning, only this time, the current of the bubbling waves dampened the effect. Why was it that he began to sound like those he grew up and returned to listening to? So much running, and to return to the same vocalisations? Enough. He set the notebook down, and took a sip of the still hot tea. Clarity, that was what he had to practise. Since he was alone, he had no other opinion to fear, and could work on his reconnection with art to his heart’s content. Seonghwa was lucky enough to not be tied to anything nor anyone in particular, and the continuously rising popularity of the songs he had worked on as a poet and lyricist a little while ago ensured that if need be, he had financial cover.

A stray thought about the outside world passed him. Did he still matter, or was he gradually being forgotten? One wave after another, one artist was bound to surpass another. Such was the harsh reality. His breakfast was cooling as he stared at the pristine table cloth, mulling the notion over. Time ran differently here, that much was certain. Could that mean that out there in the city, centuries had already passed? What was he missing? A mild panic started to rise in his throat, and on instinct he stood up, foregoing the rest of his meal in favour of a stroll within the confines of the walls but not before grabbing the tiny black notebook.

One step, another, and soon he fell into a rhythm, traversing the territories of the kitchen, dining and living room area, ambling into the miniature office space, back out again until he was retracing the same patterns, writing characters on the floor with each footfall. He was ink, combatting resistance to absorption into the primordial canvas, towards artistic immortality. Seonghwa wanted to push himself at first opportunity. He had to write, had to provide the listening curtains and chairs with fresh prose or poetry, whatever came to mind and was reasonable first. He was Park Seonghwa, for goodness sake. It should come easy. The months were just a pause like that when one holds their breath. Each day a microsecond. The shake, starting from deep in his upper arm and trickling lethal poison down to his wrist and fingers, started to give signs of its awakening. No, it could not be! The poet stopped, not dissimilar to how a car would stop at the edge of a cliff. What was happening to him? The book found recluse from his spiritual agony above a fireplace, one of the elements of the house Seonghwa had had no reason to experiment with, not being bothered by the howling cold drafts. Toying with the edge of his sleeve, he succumbed to pensive disorder, eyes locked on the unassuming object.

"Not today then…" the utterance melted into the ambience, "fiendish creature."

Determined creaking of wood and its crash jolted him off the spot, and Seonghwa was almost pulling himself up the stairs. The house was old enough to need repairs, but this could be major, and all the more disastrous if the rain bled in. Heart jumping out of his chest he skipped steps, alarm bells ringing in his ears. He had been submerged in his philosophies for so long that he could have easily missed some more complex deteriorating hazard of the cottage, particularly since he never had to even consider such a thing back in the capital. Maintenance, checks, security… all automatic and managed by someone he would never see, while here, he was the one responsible. He, the pseudo-owner for the coming season, had to see the outcomes, and admonish himself in the mirror should anything go wrong, which was probably one of the reasons why he preferred to not use the object more than necessary. He turned his head side to side, to the skylight, behind him, all for nothing. Only the drizzle, and the decorative carpet, tilted. Like it had been pushed on purpose. He inched towards the door, looking for any shadows that may fall through the crack at the bottom and stretch outwards. Stopping right in front, he put an ear to it, while pretending to adjust the piece of fabric. Nothing, or the house was keeping secrets from him, too. Fed up with the mystery, he yanked the handle, and then gave it a violent twist and push, all to no avail, meeting a secure lock. Did he accidentally lock it the last time he had been in? Seonghwa could not remember, but the curious appearance of this issue was more than inspiring. The storm was playing tricks on the poet again, whispering devious tales in his ears. A late night fog, he descended to the ground floor in search of his weapons to carve the enigma, not hearing the sigh that carelessly escaped through the keyhole.

차가운 강철 바다가 겨울을 삼킨다 (the winter is swallowed by the cold steel sea)

모래는 신성한 행위의 비밀을 간직한다 (the sands hold the secret of the sacred act)

장난꾸러기 봄은 또 무엇을 가져올까 (what else will the mischievous spring bring?)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

It wasn't that you were tired per se, it was just that if you were to spend another day doing what you had been doing, you would make it a personal goal to destroy the world. But you were smarter than acting on the manic rage that lapped at the shoreline of your consciousness, and so you did what any good citizen would do and removed yourself as cleanly as quietly as possible. On paper, there was nothing wrong, and a sabbatical did not seem to be out of order, especially considering the hours you had been putting in for the last few years. Some of your longer-term patients did have to be reshuffled of course, but you did not mind that one bit - they would not be haunting you anymore, at least not for the time period of professionally approved evaporation. There was no greater joy than shoving your identification badge into a drawer and ridding yourself of your scrubs for longer than a few hours.

Bare essentials in a rucksack and a train ticket was all you needed, and once you arrived at your safe haven, it would be piece of cake to hitch a ride from one of the farmers you had befriended - who knows, maybe this time around you could get on one of the fancy new tractors. When the prospect of returning to your favourite place was feeling more real, you could not help yourself but turn back to your tendencies of being a dreamer. It was always more delightful to live in the clouds to the rhythm of the sun’s rays rather than to a beeping of the heart monitor. You could almost imagine the journey, the beauty of it all.

But that turned out to be the farthest from the washed out reality that was possible. Somewhere around two thirds of the way to your sacred destination, right around the time when a toddler - evidently born and raised in the urbanscape, had finally stopped whining about going to some place where "there was nothing", and dozed off, huge storm clouds started to roll in from the direction of the coast. Just peachy, especially when your destination was a cottage that might as well have its address quoted as 'the sea'. But you were not made of sugar and could stand a couple of angry raindrops on your waterproof jacket, and besides these problems were ones you much preferred to deal with, unlike the constant barrage of everything at once back in the concrete cage. Less yammering, and the words that were exchanged in the country were compact, concise, meaningful. No beating around the bush or claiming ownership of other people's business, so long as you didn't interact too closely. But that was what the distance between the beloved cottage and any more major settlements was for - the most secure barrier of them all was time and energy, and very few would want to waste that on an extra trip that would be entirely fruitless.

A couple of droplets was an understatement as your soaked clothes were quick to tell you. Thanks to the unusually strong storm for this time of year there was no way for you to get to your asylum easily either. No one was out, and no good person would let even their work dogs out in such weather. You, however… you could not care less about it, or about anything except getting to the cottage for that matter.. Some sacrifices were worth it. And so after getting to the tiny village thanks to the same family with the toddler since it was on the way - the last remotely reliable collection of society before natural and non-human wilderness, through sludge and torrential downpour you tread, practically having to feel your way forward since the downpour painfully obscured your vision. Your feet knew the right path at least, and after you had donated the last of your social supplies to those metropolitan holidaymakers for your own benefit, with every metre you conquered you ended up striding faster and faster. Until you saw the lights. They could only mean two things. Either Old Man Yang came back to life and was perusing his grounds like Old Hamlet, or there was a guest. As much as you wanted the answer to be the former, it was obvious enough that the occupant was somebody else. Not that you were too bothered. You knew this house like the back of your hand, and were aware of how to get in and out pretty much unnoticed. Plus, it would not be the first time you would be doing so. Most people limited themselves to a couple of rooms, fearing that they would be overstepping should they actually ‘make themselves at home’ - a huge advantage for you when it came to climbing in. Little did they know that they would make Old Man cuss them out for their timidness if he were still around.

The first step was to avoid the front gate - a flimsy construction that had been installed without much skill nor effort, and so performed what you would generously call the bare minimum, only just holding itself together. Slanted and chipped, the fencing was in an abysmal state, off-putting, marking anyone who needed to stay at the cottage as truthfully desperate. You smiled bitterly - what a realisation. You continued on your way to the other side of the plot, barely guarded by a bush fence and the occasional appearance of proper stone fence pieces. This was mainly for show, to mark that the owner, or well, previous owner of the house was aware of what was ‘standard practice’ around these parts. Outward aesthetics was something that you had grown to despise over the years, hence why the tongue in cheek mockery of it in this construction spoke to your soul, and made the haven that much more homely. It was good to be back.

You navigated to the back of the house and ducked to squeeze through the hole on the wall. Much to your fortune, the room that was the speediest to access from a stealthy climb onto the shed located to the side of the building and a couple of shuffles of boxes was empty, though shockingly clean. It was obvious to the naked eye that the bedroom was visited quite regularly, at least to keep things neat and dustless. You nodded to yourself as you took off your shoes and clothes, shoving them in an oversized plastic bag that you had packed, originally for future laundry, now as a way to keep the items from bringing the rain indoors. The cold air hit you in one swoop, sending a series of shivers over your bare body. Hopping to the chest of drawers, you haphazardly went over the contents of each one until you found the towels, wrapping yourself in the largest one and throwing another onto the floorboards, roughly shoving it over to the puddle that still had formed under the bag. Once satisfied with the half-hearted drying, you changed into a fresh and remotely warmer set of clothes and hopped under the covers, drowsy and worn out from the impromptu hike and battering from the violent skies.

Just as your eyes started getting heavier and heavier, and you were losing yourself in the sound of the rain against the roof - a favourite of yours when it came to forgetting the nonsense you had to work towards back in the capital, the creaking of the footsteps jolted you from the somnolent fall and back to high alert. Was the guest brave enough to venture onto the second floor? Really? You concluded that they were comfortable using one of the other bedrooms, and that they were alone - the latter was a commonality among the guests of Old Man’s home, however, so that conclusion did not take much work. The steps ceased to resound across the corridor right behind the door, leaving shadows through the creak below. You froze and inadvertently held your breath, waiting for the guest’s next move. It was not that you were particularly scared of the potential interaction, but you did not want to deal with the terror that they might experience of having a random stranger appear in a house that was in the middle of nowhere. To a person ‘not in the know’, your presence would be more than horrifying. And so to do the other party, and your sleepiness, a favour, you stayed put.

More shuffling, a tug on the decor on the other side of the door - so sensitive that it probably shifted because of your jumping about, and in what must have been a quarter of an hour, maybe even less, the guest disappeared downstairs. The rain had gotten lighter since the time when you had just arrived. Rustling. Pots and pans clinking against one another. Opening of the fridge - so the stranger was making breakfast. You grinned into the bedsheets and snuggled into the warmth. How you missed this place. Its sounds, its welcoming nature, its beauty that defeated all definitions of the word. There were no standards that you needed to abide by while safely by the sea. No roadblocks, no arguments, no regrets or shame on people’s faces. Perhaps this was another reason why you did not want to interact with the guest - that would mean you having to stare at them, and goodness forbid you would be unable to turn off your work brain and end up micro analysing them. No, you needed to sleep that off. At some point while you were drifting in semi-consciousness the pacing that the stranger had commenced had stopped, and a concerning silence washed over the property. Eyebrows furrowed, you lifted your upper body. When no other sound came, you slid out of the bed, too curious to try falling asleep now. One step, another and you were already turning the door knob, cautious to push the door discreetly. You listened. Creak, sigh, so they were still-

That deep and smooth voice? So the guest was likely male, okay stay calm. You tried to reason, but the phrase kept replaying in your head, and you found yourself being ashamed to admit that, at least from this distance, the tone was more than pleasant. Perhaps you should try introducing yourself - at least to have a conversation. What were you thinking? This was someone who you did not know, someone who could be dangerous, who could attack you - no, not today, not ever. At least not until you were to run out of crackers, apples and water in your bag. Rapidly, you reversed into the living room and without a second thought, shut the door like you normally would. Clearly, you could not think straight after lateral human interaction as almost instantly you heard chaotic shuffling from downstairs. In one last strive to protect yourself you remembered the key to the door that was located on a tiny table set right by the wall to the right. One swipe, one twist, and you launched yourself into the bed in an effort to hide and minimise any movement for when the man arrived. And just in time, because just under quarter of a minute later, the stranger was back, and was attempting to enter the room while you were damning your curiosity. It was comical how the only thought that crossed your mind was the hope that if you were to cross paths with him eventually, that you would not have to cut your getaway short and go back to the heartbreaking world of expectations, regrets and erasure. Perhaps it was selfish to say, but here, in the cottage, you could live for yourself and think for yourself for once and not feel as though you were overstepping.

At some point between then and the moment you realised that the rain had stopped, you had fallen asleep, missing the entirety of the morning. You were gazing at the walls, the light from the window, the silhouette that your items strewn about on the floor, with different eyes. A revival. You were finally home. And that was when your own behaviour hit you; indeed, you were home! No matter who that other person was, you knew the ins and outs of this house better than anyone else, and just listening to the man walk around was enough to make the conclusion that he was definitely a newcomer. Probably was here for some weeks, maybe a month at most, but that was not enough to be aware of the creaks in the stairs or where all of the emergency supplies were located - the shed had been left untouched all this time, as you had spotted out of the corner of your eye. He was being cautious. Not quite living. Well, at least he was being respectful.

You patted the bed and slid out from under the covers with a stretch. The hints of sunshine were protruding through the clouds, transforming the views from your window into an infinite stretch of dewy, silvery green and a glistening and bashful blue, protected by the rolling behemoths of cloud up above. For once, you were looking forward to the coming day. You pushed yourself off the bed and stepped closer, now having the fence that you had recently infiltrated the cottage through in your sight and beyond it - the same gorgeous grassland that broke into a shallow, albeit fragile dockside. Technically, it was still part of a long series of cliffs, revealing limestone and chalk and iron from all ages, but that was a two or three hour walk down the coastline. Here, those titans were friendly pets that you could easily scale and hop down from. Nonetheless, they did a brilliant job in separating the marine from the earthly, reminiscent of the mythical division of the mortal and heavenly realms. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a certain someone treading that legendary midpoint, dressed in a simple shirt and wide, skirt-like trousers. You leaned onto the window sill, well aware that it was not going to do much in helping you discern the details that made up the enigmatic figure, but you were going to pretend like you were confident in your assumptions about the aesthetic appeal.

Dark hair, falling to somewhere close to the shoulders, tall in stature, of a thinner build, or at least that was what you guessed when the figure turned to step closer to the edge. They were holding something in either hand, and whatever it was appeared important, but the distance concealed such tiny details from you. You couldn't quite form a complete picture, but it was easy enough to put two and two together from the silence that currently reigned over the house and the stranger out for a stroll, that this was probably your impromptu housemate. Not too bad, a nice blob in the distance that you could appreciate through the horizon's blur. More importantly, this person with dark hair and a deep voice was giving you control over the ground floor for a short while, and you desperately needed to make use of the resources located there. You laid out a high speed itinerary for yourself and made a dash for the door, counting the seconds that each task took you. This behaviour was something you were unlikely to ever get rid of - your studies, and then your job both permitted you too little time to have the luxury of wasting it. How long could an inhale and exhale take?

It was astonishing just how neat the cottage was - you dared to say that it was the neatest that you had ever seen it - major refurbishment and repair requirements aside. So this guy was detail oriented, clean and homely, huh? You ran a hand over the kitchen counter while passing it to rush to the shower raising your eyebrows at the lack of dust. Damn, you might have underestimated what kind of guest this individual was. Your surprise was not limited to the main living area - the bathroom almost reminded you of the scrub room and theatre with how spotless it was. Not a single timescale stain on the glass or mirror, perfectly arranged decorations, laundry basket and towels. Even the bar of soap was turned to the smaller side so that it would be easier to use and not linger in moisture. Inadvertently, you shivered, almost slamming the bar down and moving to ruffle the towels just the slightest bit so there would be a breath of life in them. You kicked the bath mat slightly off centre, disturbed by its impeccable alignment with the tiles. Oh, this man might become your enemy. This was about to become a crisis.

One purposefully careless shower later, you had drawn a smiley face on the mirror and were now unceremoniously raiding the kitchen, claiming that you were famished and urgently needed to make the most chaos-inducing meal of all time, which given the available ingredients just so happened to be a monstrous apple pie. You were not sure what exactly provoked you and caused you to ignite the oven with a fire of rage, and channel a palette of negativity into beating butter and sugar, but this was most certainly the most ‘vigorously’ that you had ever made a pie. Whizzing through the stages of making the pastry and sending it away to cool, you took to making the filling, whispering each one of your actions out loud, narrating as though you were back in the operating room. You needed the knife, you needed the cinnamon, you-

Slamming the utensils onto the cutting board, nearly sending a small ceramic bowl flying in the process as your sleeve slipped over its rim, you groaned in disapproval. This was exactly what you were trying to escape from, and yet anything you did was simply returning you to your daily life. Why did your hands, your mind have to live in just one place, erasing the moments when your body as a whole experienced joy? Why was it so easy to retrace the steps back into personal nightmares? Damn your steady hands, your unbreakable focus. To hell with it all. On the verge of throwing the knife at the neighbouring wall, you toyed with the handle. You were tired. So unbelievably tired of the nonsense that had accumulated over your time back in the city. While anyone else would say that you had been lucky to receive what you had - an education in a prestigious university, renowned across the nation, residency in high ranking hospitals, settlement in a private clinic in an expensive district, a career in the medical field that was deemed ‘not too intense nor too gory’... you could not help but wish to burn it all in favour of the paradise that you ran to.

Your childhood. Carefree, in a small town by the sea. In fact, on a clear day you could see the outlines of it from here - on many occasions you had stood by the fence gate with Old Man, who had taught you how to read the clouds, the forests, spot things no one else could. How he, with his wrinkled, dry hand pointed in the direction of what were your roots. But not your home. You had hugged him tight that day, muttering that it was in the cottage that you were happy. Old Man never forced you to leave. In fact, the room that you were staying in had always been left ready for a guest - you. But of course, in the eyes of everybody else, this was not what was considered successful. Study, take exams, study, do extracurricular activities, fix your pronunciation, change your look, change yourself to be like someone else, for what? To appease others, as you had realised in the middle of your time at medical school. You were a talking piece, a conversation starter. Nothing more. And so, with every opportunity, you stepped farther away from those who had taken your clarity and safe haven.

Old Man died when you were about to graduate university. You found out only two months later. Since then, you were on your own. You clenched your hand into a fist until the knuckles turned white, while tears inadvertently pooled in your eyes before you dabbed at them with the corner of your sweater. Your childhood home did not exist anymore - you checked two summers ago. Deemed too rundown since no one had moved in after your parents made a mad dash for the metropolis, it was now just a bitter memory. At least in the act of honouring the past you were victorious. Your body began to move on its own accord, floating through the instructions, from one step to another, at ease since your thoughts were preoccupied by reminiscence. For a person whose livelihood majorly relied on their hands, you were terrifically remiss about what you subjected them to; some of your colleagues were known to wear gloves almost all hours of the day, others refrained from doing anything physical unless it was lifting a scalpel. To put it simply, this drove you mad. Every single one of them: self-important, unaware, isolated. Let this pie be baked in hellfire for all you-

Mid-spin, just as you were finished with making the filling and were in the process of lining a baking tin with some of the pastry, the front door creaked open, revealing the figure that you had spotted outside of your window, walking alongside the beginnings of what would be a cliff’s edge. You stood still, holding the pie tin, feeling the grooves of its edges, balancing the dough that was still wrapped in clingfilm right in the middle, as though if you were to not move this man would not see you. Heart quickening to a nauseating pace, the intense scrutiny that you were receiving made you want to collapse behind the counter. Before this moment, you had convinced yourself that you had fully adopted a devil may care attitude, and that you were ready for whoever you would encounter, having prepared the humble abode for a you-style reception and to assert who truly was deserving of ownership of this property. But something about this enigmatic persona who, just like you, remained unmoving, echoed the seastorms. A roaring of the waves was contained in his orbs, so dark due to the light being behind the man’s back that you could barely detect the transition from pupil to iris. A nose worthy of being depicted in renaissance paintings, in fact, if you had to pinpoint one way to describe the stranger, is that he reminded you of subjects that graced the walls of art galleries, selected by masters to be immortalised in the artists’ name. Nameless, much like he was to you in this present moment. His lips, ever so slightly parted as if he had been on the verge of saying something to you, only for the aim to fall short of execution, voice drowning in doubt or disgust. The corners of the man’s mouth were gently downturned - not unpleasantly so, but rather giving him an aura of intimidation that intrigued you. Shadows on his face suggested to you that he was unshaven, though, you had to admit that it was not too bad of a look. In fact, an interesting edge of ruggedness that balanced with his longer locks gave the man a new form of allure, and in turn, forced you to keep your eyes on him despite feeling inklings of terror. The scene reminded you of a faceoff between two territorial wolves - whose domain was this? Only time and a match of resolve would tell.

He was the first to break eye contact, sighing and moving to take off his shoes and trench coat. You remained still - a hostile animal that was expecting aggression at any moment. The man was silent, unphased by your ‘out of the blue’ appearance at least outwardly, and you were not certain whether his lack of reaction was something to be taken with gratitude or suspicion. As you inspected his motions, how he stretched out his arm to hang the trench coat on the rack that was hammered to the wall, with the right nail ever so slightly lower than the left, how he ran a hand through his hair, casting shadows over what hinted at months of fatigue. Not quite pallid, but definitely tired skin, holding times of discomfort, sleeplessness. Dark circles under those deep, pensive orbs, cheeks that were somewhere between sunken and youthful. The man stood before you in a white shirt, the colour a last cry to some form of purity and hope. You could guess why he was at the cottage, since it was not too challenging to see your own reflection in the corners of his soul, much like you could sense that he was reading you. He reminded you of an angel who was tired of praying, barely capable of carrying his body. Pressed down by the story that had been written for him, he was likely here for an escape, to drown out the sounds of whatever he was running from. Perhaps you should be friendly, and welcome this lost soul. After all, he could be unaware of where he is nor of what unspoken rules exist around here. The least you could do is make him feel at home-

“You made a mess,” and just like that, all desire to be amiable flew out of the window and into the sea. His curt comment was like a burning cold scalpel, words too familiar to be neutral and well-received.

Before you could respond, the man was well on his way to the bathroom, and judging by the slam of the door, he was not very pleased to see the rearrangements you had made. No comments followed, however, and instead, the pause was filled by the sound of running water, followed by a muffled mumbling when following a couple of rattles, the pressure inevitably dropped and there was barely a trickle. You shook your head, amused by how this man had been living in this property without the basic knowhow. Clearly, he was one of the many cityfolk who wanted to try his luck while on holiday. Exotic stay to talk about with his glamorous friends, you bet. For him to explain how ‘the bucolic was not even as appealing as literature made it out to be’. Standard. Faceless. You would forget him in no time, especially since he would probably leave before it got less fun and more mundane to stay out in the wilderness. That pretty face should not know harshness. With a huff, you set the tin down onto the counter and set the oven to preheat. With swift, irritated movements, you took to lining the metal with the dough, and in no time shifted to ladling the filling inside, halting to watch the last of the fruity cinnamon remnants dribble from the bowl down to join the rest of the sweet and sour promise.

The man returned when you were in the process of lacing strings of dough together to structure a coherent design. With an embarrassing surgical precision, you focused on the patterns - culinary sutures, almost horrified by the technique that you could not prevent from channelling itself through your body, to your very fingertips especially now that there was an audience. If he wanted to give you a stern talking to, it had quickly dissipated and mid-stride, the stranger was observing you as though you were carrying out a sacred ritual. The spotlight was on you as you demonstrated how to put the flesh back together. Piecing the skin bit by bit so as to ensure minimal scarring, careful now, people come to you to make themselves feel beautiful after all. String by string, the pie was looking more like itself, a recipe book photograph, something worthy of immortalising as the model step before baking. A beeping confirmed that the patient was relaxed, steady, with a perfect heart rate - good, all the readings were steady, now all you needed was to make the final - you felt for the tray finding empty space. Did someone misplace the tools? Panic shot into your nervous system and with a jolt you pushed yourself away from the table, only to find yourself gazing, startled, at someone who you had begun to assume was an intern. The guest, or cohabitant? An eyebrow raised, the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he took in your state. You clicked your tongue, finally putting two and two together and grabbing the timer behind you, purposefully taking your time so that you would not have to look at your newfound personification of madness for longer than necessary. So much for an introduction; the figure who was still a mystery to you slinked back into the shadows, with only the click of the office door serving as a confirmation that he was real. You rubbed your temples, the distant thrumming of a headache resembling a thunder that crawled over the horizon. Demonstratively, you sprinkled some flour onto a previously clean spot on the wooden countertop, only to automatically reach for the towel and drop the action again. No, it was time to bake. You needed to bake. You needed to make this place feel like home for the next couple of months, even if this peculiar character was going to be sharing it.

When you finally slid the pie into the oven and shut the door, giving it one last look before setting the timer for forty-five minutes, a curiosity crawled from the crevices of your mind and poked at you. Were you really going to avoid that man for your entire stay, assuming he was leaving soon? You had already admitted to yourself that he was objectively… and subjectively attractive. That much you had to give to him. Attitude - you were not quite ready to make judgments about, considering that if it were you in his place, you would have been chasing yourself around the house with a frying pan. It was comical, really; a stranger in a house, baking like they own the place. In spirit you might, to a person not in the know you were the official owner, but to the family who inherited the place you likely were nothing but a pest or an echo of the past that they were trying to forget. At least they did not demolish the cottage yet.

With a side step, you headed in the direction of the couch, but moved on when you noticed more damage than you had been used to on the window off to its side. Running a hand over the edges, it was clear that a certain someone had not shut it properly when nature had played up outside. So you had your tasks being planned out for you; with a grin, you nodded at the prospect. Nothing like good old maintenance of a castle in the sky to do the trick of dissociating you from your own life and responsibilities. All you needed was the right tools, perhaps some wood, and some paint. And then the fence gate could do with some tender love and care… you listed off parts of the house that you wanted to renovate or check on, imagining something greater and better than yourself. You noted the gentle breeze outside, and even though a greyness prevailed, it was far more promising for a brighter day than the performance the clouds had put on yesternight; maybe this autumn would not be too rough, and would show you its beautiful colours.

You did not see the mysterious guest until it was approximately dinner time. The pie was being kept safe and warm in the oven, and you were idly leafing through an ancient magazine - the remnants of days that you had spent at the cottage back when Old Man was still around. Another thing frozen in time, to be forever beautiful until you were to forget it. The shadowy presence commanded your attention almost immediately, and you lifted your head only to peer into a solemn darkness in the shape of a scowl, etched out on exhausted elegance. The man sighed before crossing his arms, and leaned against one of the few segments of the wall that was not bowing under the weight of framed memories, pins and nails.

Just what was this person thinking? As the clock marked your shared awkwardness with every tick, you grew more self-conscious. Was there something so repulsive about your presence, that the guest, or rather… the present resident, could not bear to function without hostility? Letting the pages fall onto one another, forming a yellowed stack, you rose from your position, having been hunched over the combined kitchen and dinner table.

“Some pie?”

The words landed somewhere between your two forms, unusually shy, a request so timid and tentative that it might as well have been the wind outside. One tick of the clock, another, and another. It was easy to wonder if you appeared untrustworthy. It must be the way in which your brows were positioned, or how the corners of your mouth naturally curled ever so slightly downwards if you were not paying attention. Or maybe-

“Sure. Thanks.”

That same tone. Words, curt, unforgiving, but a step towards proper introduction. Who knew such coldness could evoke a wave of joy in anyone? As though on command, you hurried to the kitchen, a childish excitement overtaking you as you imagined the reaction he might have to your baking. It was one of the few things that was your safe haven - although you did not indulge in the activity too often, you had experienced the euphoria that came with it enough times to elevate it above the usual hobby. He had to enjoy the apple pie, surely.

As you grabbed the towel to use as makeshift heat protection, and prepared a mat onto which to set down the perfectly warm pie, you noticed the dark haired man match your movements. Narrowly missing your elbow, he navigated the space with calculated reach, and produced cutlery, plates, and a couple of mugs. Without any consultation, his selection of items was soon on the table, and next, the kettle was obediently bubbling up with excitement for another steaming cup of tea. You raised your eyebrows and huffed, balancing the pie in your hands as you walked around the counters and gently set it down. With a nod you confirmed your own satisfaction and gestured to your partner in table-setting to take a seat. He refused, instead remaining standing stock still by the lonely piece of furniture, pupils gliding along wherever you went.

Those deep eyes, a blended mahogany and sienna, depending on how downcast the lashes appeared to be, remained trained either on you, or were burning holes in the tablecloth as you picked at your respective slices. The wisps of flavour and freshness escaped the filling, an unfathomably lush aroma clinging desperately to the air in the search of a satiated appreciator. But to no avail. No lips uttered a single word of praise, nor did you dare ask for it. It was a habit that you had been forced to break away from come adulthood, not that it had ever given you much satisfaction before the fact. You tried to convince yourself that the culinary feat was as delicious as Old Man had told you it had been, but in the gloom of your company and circumstance, it tasted bland, colourless, miserable. As though you were eating your own forlornness. You rested your fork on the edge of the plate, no longer having the courage to take another bite.

Just when you were about to give into your impulses and storm out, only pausing to consider if you should permanently borrow the rain coat that was hanging by the front door, the man quietly raised a piece of the dessert to his mouth, not minding your not quite discreet gawking. Savouring every bit of texture, the harmony of ingredients that collaborated to produce the bucolic ideal in gastronomic form, he revelled in the taste of home. You noted the subtle changes in his appearance as he roughly sliced away another bitesize piece with his fork, then another, features relaxing into the experience as though finally after many days if not weeks he saw the sun. You melted into a close-mouthed smile, turning away to let your gaze aimlessly wander across the living room.

“It’s good.”

“Thank you.”

There it was. Your first exchange. The beginning of something. Or the end. Perhaps both. When you turned back, no longer did his face appear as dangerous, instead sustaining an almost amiable curiosity.

“Why aren’t you eating?” his question held genuine concern as he paused, darting down to your hands and back upwards.

“I- oh, sorry, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” settling in what you assumed to be the safest option, your trained clinical professionalism you responded and started to hack away at the pie before you. Your choice of words provoked a chuckle - an unexpected sound that echoed in your ears for a little longer than you would have liked.

“Not at all… I think the two of us are even,” ever so enigmatic, your interlocutor responded. You let a slice of apple melt on your tongue, fructose and syrup clouding your nerves over choosing the right way to respond.

“...In?”

“Two people caught adrift in the middle of a storm, unsure of whether to keep holding on, or to let go. Are we not alike?”

Peculiar expression, unsettling, piercing through you and laying you bear until the pie left a bitter aftertaste. But of course, you could not do anything except pass it off as nothing. It was only natural for your self-acknowledged and accepted self-denial. Moreover, how could you two be similar? Obviously from different places, with different visions, the only thing that brought you together was this little cottage by the sea. At the same time, the words planted a seed of curiosity in your mind. Old Man liked to say there existed no coincidences, only well-hidden strings of fate and twists of certainty. You peered at the man again, gaze inadvertently settling on the freckle that was positioned almost perfectly in the middle of his collarbone - even what some of your clients considered to be an imperfection contained balance and elegance. Like hell would anyone ever be able to replicate that. Out of habit, you measured angles, sized up the man sitting opposite- at least you were not giving him the doctor smile yet - staying at the cottage was already doing you some good.

“So…” you began, but the words died away faster than flowers in early spring before you could deliver them, joining the disappearing wisps of heat from the pie.

“What brings me here? I assume that is the question,” so the delivery was successful. You nodded, attempting to ignore the hint of smugness tugging at the stranger’s lips, “I needed a break. So… I looked for a place. Remembered some relatives, then… ended up here. Yourself?”

“Oh,” you revealed your surprise, the phrases playing back in your head. ‘Relatives’... so Old Man did have someone inherit the property after all?

“Oh?”

“Sorry. You just said, ‘relatives’?”

“Well, yes,” he set his cutlery aside, gracefully picking up the cup of tea to take a sip before continuing, “this cottage is under the name of one of my cousins, however, as you can see… they have no use for it. Hence why I was told I can stay here for as long as I like.”

“Luxurious.”

“Hardly.”

“Limitless time off? A rarity in this day and age,” you sighed, giving a bittersweet smile.

“Everything is measured by time, be it days or bills. Runs out eventually.”

“That-” you paused, “is true,” it was difficult to admit that the smile you received from your fellow dessert buddy was charming, but there was simply no other way to describe it. Except perhaps ‘dazzling’ would do, but you did not wish to get ahead of yourself and swoon over a man whose name you did not even know.

“So, dare I ask the same elaboration? What brings you to the edge of the world?”

The clock ticked loudly in your ears, and you swore you could sense the draft creeping across the floorboards and over your feet. The moment was surreal, and not in a million years you would think you would find yourself in a situation such as this. At least not when considering the gruelling cycle you had subscribed to since you were young enough to give up your dreams in favour of others’. You were here because you were re-tracing your steps back to a time when you still had air in your lungs and a fighting spirit that had not been charred by a bleak reality and troubling conventions that society hammered down on everyone without exception. In some sense, for a little while, you did not wish to be yourself, but a version that you kept hidden away.

“I suppose I needed a break too, so I came back to the one place that I know as a paradise.”

“Intriguing. Did you know great uncle Yang?” he followed, tilting his head just a little.

“Yeah. Quite well, actually,” you were curt. Unwilling to share too much, but the man pressed on.

“How?”

“Came ‘round quite often,” you poked at the remnants of your pie slice.

“I wish I could have,” caught off-guard, you lifted your head, perplexed, “I have only heard about how amazing of a man he was. Distance proved to be unconquerable for me, and excuses far too strong to rebuke. Am I correct in assuming that you were closer?”

“Closer… I guess. I… well. I’m from this area. Grandpa, he- him and Old Man Yang were friends so…”

“Is your grandfather from the village-”

“He was… he had resided in a neighbouring house before it got torn down.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for bringing the mood down.”

“The mood is how it is - like the weather, sometimes you need a little rain to appreciate the sunshine.”

“A poet, aren’t you?” you half-joked, trying to turn the situation around. The memories were flooding back at a fast pace, and you were struggling to keep up with them. The guest, however, was instead taken aback, as though your jesting was an accidental truth. You raised an eyebrow.

“How did you… do you know me?”

“I feel like we have been apologising back and forth but, really sorry am I supposed to-”

“Oh no! Not at all! It is just that you are right, I am a poet. Job-wise, I mean,” taking notice of the way in which he started to attack the edge of his shirt sleeve.

“It’s cool.”

“Hm?”

“Your job.”

“Ah, it’s just throwing words on a page and hoping they make sense-”

“If that’s what it is then you’re gifted. Hoping is already an art. Hardly anyone does that anymore,” yourself included. Finally, you were more at ease; whether it was with yourself or with the situation at hand, you could not be bothered to decide.

“Thank you… are you in the arts?”

“Maybe some people would consider what I do a sort of art, but at the end of the day it’s far, far from it. Surgeon. Cosmetic.”

“So the science side of beauty?”

“Science and human opinion collided. Thankfully, there’s plenty of nature here for me to rest my eyes,” you gestured around you, suggesting the quietude of the cottage, and absence of any community in the immediate vicinity. The man nodded in understanding, choosing not to comment further.

“I… I do not think I have introduced myself yet. Park Seonghwa. Though, Seonghwa is absolutely fine seeing as we are friends by circumstance.

“Well, fantastic to meet you, Seonghwa. L/N Y/N. I hope we have great times ahead of us.”

“This time is all ours.”

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

As Seonghwa watched you redo the fence gate, he could not help but wonder if you really were a surgeon or not. Perhaps he was being a little prejudiced, but the image he had held in his mind of doctors and nurses was vastly different to how you carried yourself. Starting from how lacking in enthusiasm your descriptions of what you did were - without an ounce of pride, you simply listed off a couple of facts about your workplace like address, services and your responsibilities, and then returned to pondering housework and searching for tools. Seonghwa had assumed that any cosmetic surgeon working in a private clinic that was located in one of the most coveted and famous neighbourhoods of the capital would have a lot more of a well-meaning snootiness, or at the very least an eagerness to share their experiences. After all, the years of study and training had to be a mark of lifelong dedication, no?

You were anything but delicate with your hands as they aligned wood against wood. However, these same hands were steady, each movement calculated, deliberate, precise. There was not a single bit of power wasted in how you realigned the gate to not sink at the hinges. Tools arranged on a miniature mat did remind Seonghwa of what he had seen in medical dramas - neat operating chambers, every piece of equipment counted and arranged in a very specific order. So far, your actions and habits had been the most telling, making him choose to believe you. It was highly probable that you were exactly like him, hiding from yourself, from your immediate responsibilities - the weight on your shoulders having gotten increasingly overwhelming. It was not as if he had been fully open, heart on sleeve, with you and you were not returning the honesty; both of you had chosen to remain observers, walking in a circle as though there was an unspoken showdown, suspense in which both of you were waiting for something to go wrong. He did not wish to reveal his weaknesses, and neither did you.

In no time at all, you were done with the gate, marking the success by standing up straight and wiping your hands with a towel you nicked from one of the closets that Seonghwa had never yet dared to open. Catching his eye, you smiled and gave a cheerful thumbs up, one which he instinctively returned from his viewing spot by the front door. You picked up the equipment, roughly shoved it into a bag, and upon a quick adjustment of your jeans swiftly made your way back into the house. As you were kicking off your shoes, using your feet to position them in a reasonable spot that was out of the direct way into the house, Seonghwa spotted a little stain on your sweater. It could have been easily avoided with a rolling of the sleeves, however given your determination, it felt intentional. He bit his lower lip, musing the meaning behind your numerous deliberate actions over the last few days.

It was easy enough to notice that out of the two of you, Seonghwa was far more neat and pedantic about maintaining said ‘clean’ environment, while you were all for a freer living situation, not bothering to readjust the bathroom towels, or straighten the chair after pushing it back. Without a shadow of a doubt, you were very much in control of what you were doing - it was obvious. Sometimes, the young poet was sure that you were reminding yourself to not be organised, and only at critical times, such as the maintenance works on the gate, did training and composure characteristic of a highly skilled medical professional shine through. Without any explicit mission or goal, you appeared to be running from order, an act previously unimaginable to Seonghwa, but one he could understand, having been doing what was essentially the opposite. He resisted further moving your shoes when you walked into the living room, and bit back a comment about how you set the tools off to the side on the floor, instead continuing to watch you float to the kitchen to wash your hands. You were refreshed, a little sun in the departure of the cold season, your pink cheeks and grin that was threatening to take over all of your features returning a bashful youthfulness to you - something that he could not spot in the slightest upon first meeting. He did not know you yet, but he could sense that this was much more like the real you than the exhausted shell of a human who was suspicious of everything and everyone.

Seonghwa ran a hand through his hair before crossing his arms and leaning against the arc that separated the kitchen and living room, studying your approach to the window that he had combatted some days ago. You were in your element, fluid, determined. As much as you probably would have hated to hear him say, you were very much a surgeon before an operation, plan in the eyes and stable hands raised in front of you as you assessed your metaphorical patient. Was this a cosmetic procedure? Or a lot more invasive? Terminology he had picked up from perusals of the news and media plagued Seonghwa’s mind as he watched you carefully unlock the window, click your tongue and get to picking at the rotten frame, a replacement sitting patiently under your feet. How and where from - you were not too inclined to reveal all secrets of the cottage, but he could gather that there was some underlying rhythm or internal network of miscellaneous tools and ‘thingamajigs’ that all harmonised to create the cosy domestic paradise he had come to enjoy in his undetermined stay.

It was enthralling how, out of the two of you, you seemed to be more in harmony with the place. Well, perhaps not so strange, considering you were the one who had practically grown up in these walls. And much like Seonghwa could only guess about the inner workings of the house, the same came to you. Without any particular desire to be welcoming or amiable, you were focused on tending to any impending ruin rather than entertaining a stranger. This, however, made the poet all the more intrigued. You had to be running from something, maybe something similar to his own demons. Maybe something much darker. The nature of your work was a double-edged sword, after all. What were you seeing, or decisively ignoring by making this grand escape to the end of the world?

“Right, this should last a while. Seems the winter was pretty harsh this year, so I’ll have to check the rest of the windows too. You know what, maybe the attic as well,” you explained as you stood up straight, wiping your hands with the cloth you had retrieved from the toolkit.

“There is an attic?”

“Uh, yeah. You can get to it from my room.”

“You mean the guest room that you raided?”

“Hardly a guest room when there are no guests here, don’t you think?” you raised an eyebrow, sauntering past him, clearly searching for a way to set your words in stone with a pointed physical gesture.

“Mm, you’re right,” the last thing Seonghwa wanted was trouble on an already stormy horizon.

“Ah… Seonghwa?” you tentatively uttered his name, as if still testing how it sounded.

“That’s right.”

“What were you planning on doing?”

“Huh?”

“Right now.”

“...Probably returning to the office-”

“-ah, so you are going to hole yourself up. Got you,” without giving as much as a second to process or retaliate, you continued, “could you figure out food? If you don’t mind, that is. When I was getting the kit I saw something I wanted to check out. Shouldn’t be long, though.”

“I’ll see what I can put together.”

For what had to be the first time, Seonghwa noted the hint of a genuine smile ghosting over your lips. As you responded with a quick ‘thank you’ and left the cottage once more, already on another mission, he could not help but pause and tilt his head in confusion.

“Well wasn’t that awfully domestic…” The terrifying part was that he was not entirely opposed to the gesture.

Newfound vigour spread over his body and ignited a gentle flame in his heart. With purpose, he moved across from the living room back to the kitchen, beginning his search and preparations. This could also be a chance to get to know you better - your likes and dislikes, any quirks and habits. In turn, he had an opportunity to tell you wordlessly about himself. Brushing loose hair out of his face as he leaned over to grab a cutting board, he exhaled, amused. Care. Expression of care. Soothing waves of comfort and affection in the form of acting to provide some form of relief for another. This was something he had entirely forgotten in the blur of his day to day, and abandoned the possibility of returning to the notion by making an unplanned escape, only to find the lost memory right here, in this cottage. Doing, without wanting something in return except harmless conversation.

Time went by swiftly when it passed with purpose. Mind left unoccupied by hauntings of rhyme and rhythm thanks to a pleasant sense of urgency, Seonghwa could concentrate on making something out of whatever he had found in the cupboards and fridge. Back in the city, particularly towards the last few months before his sudden departure, he rarely cooked, be it due to lack of time or of energy. Instead he relied on restaurants where he had to survive loud company, or takeaway orders which, eventually, had all come to taste the same. Solitude had woken him up, and your appearance was another jolt to the system. Curious, how the mind worked.

The afternoon crawled towards the evening with certainty, and as the horizon turned to a murky grey with the hints of sunset, you returned, tired, but triumphant. Quietly, as though you were old friends who had exhausted all conversation, you made final preparations and dined. The occasional compliment escaped you, much to Seonghwa’s joy, but other than that, he was left to spin stories about you and leave it all up to overly elaborate guesswork. Asking about the shed did not do much, either. Brushing everything off as though the fixes had been but a mere ‘walk in the park’ was your well-measured defence. They could be, compared to whatever you did back in the city. Eventually, Seonghwa mustered the courage to attempt to satiate his curiosity, and left a question hanging in the air.

“Could you… tell me more about yourself?”

“That’s quite broad. What do you want to know?”

“Mm… cutting straight to the chase, huh.”

“I’m not one to enjoy wasting time,” you emphasised, setting down your fork on a cleared plate and leaning back in your chair, clearly in anticipation of an unpleasant interrogation. Seonghwa had to tread with care, but could not help the stirring of his inquisitive nature.

“Right, I figured. Barely arrived and the cottage is already pristine,”

“Hardly. Much work still left to do.”

“Well, give yourself at least some credit-”

“-So, the question?” you interrupted, putting your elbows on the table and tilting your head. No optimism or kindness in your eyes as you regarded Seonghwa. Just what were you thinking he was going to say?

“Ah, yes. Uh… how do I say this… considering we are both in, hm-”

“In the middle of nowhere, you can say that. I won’t take it personally,” you nodded urging him to get to the point.

“Thanks. So, since we are here, I have been thinking if our reasons for being here are in any way similar. Or, if not, just how different,” when you did not respond, or even acknowledge his thoughts, he persisted, “that’s about it… I mean, if you want to talk about it, that is.”

“Not really-”

“Oh! Okay, I- sorry,”

“No, you’re fine. Just because I don’t really want to doesn’t mean I won’t. It’s all part of getting to know a person, isn’t it?” turning to the side, you stared at the freshly redone window. It was holding up well. Beautifully, even. Seonghwa hated to keep making the comparisons, but he could not rid himself of the image of how you could be like professionally. Perhaps this was because this was the only concrete thing he had found out about you, but you were, in his eyes, every bit a representation of the medical field. Just as he assumed you were going to bestow upon him more discoveries, you shot him a side glance, “besides, it’s not like you are an open book either. For all I know you might be on the run from the police.”

“What?” he exclaimed a little too loudly to consider calm.

“I’m just kidding. Or am I?” you quickly raised your eyebrows, clearly finding amusement in Seonghwa’s discomfort, “Anyways… what brings me here… well, I am on a break. I’d like to think it is a well-deserved one.”

“Annual leave?”

“I guess, though, in medicine… is there ever such a thing? We’re not exactly corporate are we.”

Seonghwa finished the last of his meal and took a quick sip of his tea. While you were not looking directly at him, he could feel your scrutiny nonetheless. Suddenly, he felt the need to redo his hair, check his face in the mirror, adjust his clothes - anything to feel more presentable, even though it would not make much of a difference. Cold, but not hostile. Thinking back to how he had greeted you, he cringed. Was this the impression he had inadvertently given? Maybe. Very likely, actually, considering that for the first while he wanted nothing to do with another individual in the house. And now what was he expecting, an immediate shift into being best friends or at least allies? Biting the inside of his cheek, he mumbled:

“Might be foolish on my part, but I suppose I thought clinics would work differently.”

“Oh they do, that’s correct. But since money has to be made, we have to do a bit more negotiation to have a nice, unbroken holiday.”

“Two weeks?”

“See, that’s what employers want. More like four to six. Paid. I did my time in that place and I would say me being away would benefit all of society.”

“You’re making it sound like torture,” with a bitter laugh, you accepted his joke.

“How much would you like me to tell you about what I do? Until you agree?” your tone was flat, unnerving.

The wind was, once again, picking up outside, and whatever patchy thin wisps of cloud had been hovering around the area already disappeared, to be replaced by thick storm bringers, looming, menacing. An all-consuming darkness was rolling across the horizon and right towards the cottage, and Seonghwa could only hope that you really did know what you were doing when it came to mending. Out of habit, he adjusted the shorter strands that fell over his face, and took another sneaky glance at your features. Drumming out some unknown rhythm on the table, your fingers danced across the tablecloth. You were daring him to agree. And who would he be if he did not accept the challenge? Most certainly not an artist.

“I… I suppose you can tell me anything.”

“Heart to heart with a stranger?”

“Sure. If you are okay with that.”

“Then tell me this, Seonghwa,” you turned towards him again, only this time, you did look angered, “are you here because you are an eccentric, or because celebrity life got too much?”

“So you do know me,”

“While I was outside I remembered seeing your face on top searches or something. You sure know how to build up a following.”

“I call that a fluke.”

“Collaborating with a famous singer to write songs for their album is a fluke?”

“We have a mutual friend. Mutual friend reached out to me, said ‘hey you write poetry, how about you help out’ and so I did- hey, wait, why am I defending something normal-”

“I don’t know, but something is making you antsy, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, it’s probably the fact that you are attacking me out of the blue.”

“I am just asking a question.”

“Sounds like you are judging me,”

“Aren’t you judging me?”

“Aren’t we both judging each other?”

“True.”

With a huff, you crossed your arms and looked at your empty plate. Seonghwa followed suit, agitated. Neither of you had particularly good points, but nonetheless managed to bring to light issues that you and him were denying. Without a single word, both Seonghwa and yourself were going through the skeletons that were in the closets of your minds. He cleared his throat.

“It’s the latter. You hit the nail on the head.”

“I see.”

“People might pretend to know one thing or another about lyrics, but no one ever cares to read past that. I’ve had maybe one, two people ask me about my poetry, and none about my post graduate work.”

“Post graduate?”

“Yes.”

“Linguistics? Literature?”

“Something like that.”

A pause. The first few rain droplets hit the roof of the cottage and splattered against the windows facing the shore. It had to be another downpour coming. The clock continued its dedicated beat, and you were an immovable statue, as if you were storing away all he had told you about himself. Though he had not offered a resume to you, of course he wouldn’t, it was probably easy enough for you to put one experience with another, and paint his whole life.

“A scholar,” Seonghwa sharply exhaled, wondering how you had come to this conclusion.

“Trying to be. Probably more accurate to say that I am a poetry nerd who wants to become an academically accredited poetry nerd.”

“Hey, you’re passionate. That’s commendable,” your eyes softened, reminding Seonghwa of how people regarded something fragile. All because of hope? The same hope and inspiration which he had lost and was trying to discover again?

“I should be saying that to you. I mean medical school, and then launching into active practice right after is no easy feat.”

“That… is true.”

“But something’s off?”

“Bingo.”

“And you are running from it.”

“Hm… probably. Actually, you know what let’s call things like they are. That’s right.”

“And this thing is…?” he trailed off, encouraging you. You stared at the view outside the window, shapes now barely distinguishable as the droplets turned into bucketfuls and the streaks across the glass transformed into an unbroken blur. As your gaze settled back on the man sitting across from you, he saw a resemblance between the weather and your expression, and could not look away out of fear that he could miss the ever-changing emotions, musings, revelations that etched themselves on your face, only to disappear in a split second.

“You know…answer me this. I think you are the perfect person to ask.”

“Ask away.”

“What is ‘beauty’?”

“Beauty.”

“Yes. Beauty. What is it?”

“To me, or-”

“Whatever way you want to answer. What is it?”

“A feeling.”

You tilted your head and squinted in response to him. Truth be told, Seonghwa surprised even himself by the speed of his outburst. Feeling. He could not define beauty, and he did not believe that he was in a position to ever do so, but based on the callings of his heart, based on the changes of nature, of how words flowed from pen to paper or how they felt on the tongue and on the lips, he could sense beauty, and he was sure of it.

“Interesting. An artistic answer, I’ll give you that.”

“Were you looking for something else?”

“Something more clinical, potentially. But I like how you put it better. It’s more alive.”

“Are you running from beauty?”

“More like, I don’t know what it is anymore. And so my feet led me to the place where I think it existed. Or as you say, the feeling existed.”

“But… beauty is everywhere, no?” He knew he was being hypocritical, having cursed his own environment - both animate and inanimate, time and time again, but the mantra of any dreamer was the only thing that crossed his mind in this moment.

“Not in a cosmetic surgeon’s office, it’s not. Everyone either walks in there thinking it doesn’t exist, or walks out thinking that way. Aesthetic beauty, visual beauty is such a lie that I sometimes wonder if I see at all. Don’t get me wrong, I love nothing more than to make someone feel like they really are in their own skin, and countless times I have seen people gaining their happiness and their whole lives back after a visit to our clinic... but... beauty. Beauty itself is so, so strange.”

Your voice wavered. Any previously existing hard exterior was but an illusion, and Seonghwa could see the faint glow of a young spirit who wanted to do better for the world, but was beaten down, deciding that it had enough for a long time. In the effort to save it, you came here. To find your so-called muse, your safe space.

“I want to hear more… about this. If you don’t mind.”

“About people putting themselves down?” you sighed, ready to stand up and take your leave.

“No, no! Goodness, no. More about beauty. And what you think of it. And why do you think you ‘lost’ it, in a sense?”

“I’m starting to think we really are on the same boat in the same storm…” you mumbled, glancing at the time, and then rocking in the chair to finally lift yourself up, “... then I say we need more tea.”

“Consider it done.”

Some shuffling, dishwashing, and side glances later, both of you were settled on the edges of the sofa, preferring to find a reason to not stare at one another rather than adopt a position akin to that at a therapist’s office. Neither of you wanted to pretend you held answers to the mind’s mysteries, and neither of you wanted to come off as some complex character. Instead, you slowly but surely began to lay all your cards down on the table as the barley tea cooled in your cups. Seonghwa silently nodded as you elaborated on your frustration with the perfectly in line plates, the crisp and straightened towels, and the spotless counters. Unsettling, inexplicable, but the sensations you experienced when you stared at the lack of chaos were more than real.

“It’s the uniformity that puts me off.”

“So… things being in order, organised, in their places… annoys you?”

“Well… I cannot say it annoys me, because it doesn’t… this goes away after a while. But for the first little bit of time I will probably freak out whenever I see things that look a little too clean.”

“Got it. I shouldn’t clean up messes. See? You have something you find beautiful,” Seonghwa pointed out, a soft smile gracing his lips. As the conversation took on a more abstract, philosophical tone and your dispositions ceased to be so formal, he felt himself relaxing more and more by the second, and decisively taking the lead in conversation.

“Hm. A little chaos couldn’t hurt anyone. But I am sorry though, it must have been unnerving, considering that you are doing the opposite,” you responded, a genuinely apologetic look on your face. So you did notice. You were quick. Or simply very observant. Seonghwa shook his head to try and dismiss the little positive attention, but to no avail, “no really, it is nice to see you feeling at home here. I mean this.”

“This really is your place, isn’t it?” he narrowed his eyes, appearing rather feline as he tilted his head, hair flattening on the back of the sofa.

“It holds a lot of memories.”

“Tell me, did you come here to look for memories, or to change your present?”

“A bit of both. So, like I mentioned. Beauty. It’s sort of been a sore topic for me since I was a kid. Be it to fit a standard visually, or academically, or whatever else. Success was beauty, beauty was success. But there comes a time where, when you hear about beauty a few too many times, it starts to lose meaning,” you stopped for a moment to gather your thoughts and listen to the howling of the wind outside. With a click of the tongue, you continued, “You know how when you repeat a word again and again, it starts to sound and feel weird?”

“Yes.”

“Same with anything. If there is no variation, if there is no real value behind a given repetition, beauty is just some random ‘thing’ that cannot be achieved.”

“Value behind repetition?”

“Yeah. We breathe right?”

“Right.”

“Heart beats, right?”

“Right…” Seonghwa momentarily shut his eyes, focusing on the sensations you were describing, feeling a little more alive.

“Those are all valuable repetitions. And even then, we feel them so differently. But… what is something ‘beautiful’? It could be like you said, a sense. But saying ‘beauty’ this, or ‘beauty’ that… the concept ends up being void of meaning to me.”

“Hm… could it be that… in that context - the context of your job, the context of your day to day, how beauty is presented to you... is something you disagree with?”

“Ah! That, yes, exactly-” setting your cup down on the coffee table, you clapped your hands, happy with the encapsulation.

It felt easier than it should have been to establish something artists chase after and die for. A diagnosis uttered by a ruthless analyst marking the withering of beauty in another’s life. With the presence of a dulled, uninspired eye came the ability to see past mere feeling, and evaluate the essence of what had been plaguing you, and apparently, Seonghwa as well. He was in muted shock, both delighted and horrified by the conclusion. Loss of beauty because of the world in which he lived - how could a poet survive, if not by translating their works to terror? In the blink of an eye, the discourse was abandoned, and Seonghwa found himself floating in his own mind, the dark ocean waves crawling through his ear canals - a deafening roar marking the coming of his nightmares. Ever since he had become interested in poetry, he was fond of what he could experience with his five senses, and then added a sprinkle of inferences with a mystical sixth. Flowing from line to line he felt, and admired what surrounded him in syllables until the world began to darken, and his wrist and brain transformed to lead. In the absence of what he thought was beautiful, was he truly surrounded by something utterly vile? If extrapolating from your conclusions, it could very well be the case.

“...-hwa, Seonghwa-” startled, his eyes darted side to side and then settled on you. He did not realise he was clenching his cup with a white-fisted rage and, embarrassed, set it down beside yours on the table, “what had you so pensive?”

Your worry was charming, the young poet could not deny. How your lips, slightly parted, were waiting on what to say. How even though you were clearly fighting your own battles, you immediately pushed them away. No wonder you were tired. And no wonder Seonghwa felt a resemblance to you. Feeling. And feeling too much. Even when you were clearly burned out from doing so, you were ready to do it again, and again, until you were nothing but a trembling stalk of grass on the cliffside, swaying with current affairs and mundane happenings everyone had to abide by. Going with the flow was something neither of you could settle for, and that was what ended up bringing you together.

“When we think beauty is gone, does it mean there is not even a likeness to it, or does it mean we are not looking hard enough?”

“Mm… good question,” you traced abstract shapes on the pillow you took into your lap, maybe for comfort, maybe to have at least an illusion of a barrier between you and him. Seonghwa kept quiet, picking up the tea and masking his concern, “Since we both ran as soon as we’ve had enough, I think the former. An optimist would probably say the latter but based on what I have seen… I find it damn hard to believe in a happily ever after.”

“Did something happen?”

“Hm… did it?” you echoed, gaze fixed on the floorboards.

“Cleary. I am all ears.”

“You are doing too much.”

“This is the least I can do,” judging by the way you regarded him, being heard was a rare occasion for you, and sent a strange ache into Seonghwa’s heart. How many of your stories were left untold?

“Where do I even start… let’s just say this holiday was not fully on my own volition.”

“That rebellious, huh?”

“That’s what happens when you convince someone to leave the clinic, I fear.”

“You told someone to leave?” perplexed and fascinated, Seonghwa turned to fully face you.

“I mean… when you have a sixteen year old girl sitting there in front of you telling you she has one thing after another to fix and got a giftcard for eyelid surgery from her family… that’s the best option, in my opinion.”

“W-what?!”

“Happens more often than you’d think,” you dismissed his shock with a melancholic coldness, “we try our best to find compromises, best plans, bring happiness into a patient’s life, but when you can clearly see they are being pressured or are at risk of a plethora of other things both physical and mental… I draw the line.”

“You just have your morals set, and want what you feel is best.”

“And that is bad for business. Maybe I’m missing the plot. Maybe I should actually let people carve themselves up however they wish.”

Resigned, you stood up and walked towards the window, each step heavier than the previous one. Seonghwa observed your motions, seeing in you a tired sun that could barely lug itself across the heavens. Wrapped up in smoky grey, your shine slumbered, and you regarded the dull landscape with a matching passivity. For all you cared, at least in this moment in time, the stormy weather could last an eternity. An angered muse on the verge of giving up; an ancient legend on the verge of extinction; a sacrifice in the midst of the bloodbath that was the strive for perfection. A lost voice. You were not the first, and most certainly not the last to suffer this cruel fate and its many variations. In fact, if Seonghwa were to look in the mirror, he knew he would discover in his inky pupils the same resolution. If he were to look into a million faces, they too, would bear the traces of antithesis to childhood dreams. Disillusionment - the bane of existence, and the band to unite it.

He wished he could memorise this scene with every intricate detail remaining intact. The way the light flickered across your face as raindrops strengthened their barrage was downright haunting, and reminiscent of a television’s unsettling static that could make a room glow white. You delicately hugged yourself, lost in thought. Voice barely above a whisper escaped you, a string of apologies as you appeared to allow yourself to feel regret over being your true self around someone who was barely an acquaintance.

“I’m sorry… I… I talked a lot didn’t I? Complete nonsense too. I mean, what the hell is the point of taking something untouchable apart, as if we could ever understand it?” you bit your lower lip. Seonghwa imagined the sea foam decorating the shore, the ebb and flow of the erratic waves while he studied the patterns in your hair. The odd wave, the styling of stubborn locks all amounting to acceptance of its unruliness. Was that not beautiful?

A tender blossom in the earliest spring, wavering and inching its way upwards, filled with hope. A budding, pale green leaf, only just unfurling, tentatively feeling the first breeze, trembling with anxious delight. Seonghwa remained still as he let the progression of scenes dash past him while he gazed at you. Shyly smiling to himself, he greeted his own sleepy heart. It stirred, intrigued by the unpredictable series of events and serendipitous meeting, recalling words that had turned foreign to him not too long ago. While there were millions of characters, thousands of lines and an infinite number of ideas, the root remained a timid secret, one Seonghwa did not wish to explore quite yet. In the absence of beauty, or the stalling of its perception, remembering beauty was more than enough.

“You’re doing well.”

“Hm? You mean, uh, the window?” confused, you pointed at the frame, earning a chuckle from the wistful poet.

“That too, of course, but I meant in general. You are doing well,” before you could speak, he interrupted your doubt, “you are not failing, you are planning ahead. There is only so much we can do, and sometimes, pausing is the only right decision.”

Seonghwa hoped that by saying this out loud, to you, he could take his own advice. But it was never easy to listen to oneself, when he knew of all the noise that stuck to his brain, knew of the taunts and the mazes. It was more simple to wish that the verbal sword could cut through someone else’s worries, and in turn, shine a light on his own and let them evaporate. You grinned; you could have guessed that this was one of his mantras that he tried to learn how to believe in, or there was a sliver of a chance that you agreed. It was beautiful to wait.

구름을 은빛으로 물들이는 눈물 처럼 (like tears that colour the clouds silver)

바다와 하늘을 잇는 수많은 실이 있다 (there are many threads connecting the sea and the sky)

태양이 보이고 당신의 눈에 반사된다 (the sun is visible and reflects in your eyes)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

An oversharer, a wildfire, taken and enchanted by a glimpse of the silver mystical lining. In every storm there was a fair share of this metaphorical metal - hints of hope that anyone stranded could hold onto. To your dismay and horror, you found solace in a stranger… or could you even call Seonghwa by that title anymore? Having poured more from your life’s cup than you had done at catch ups with your city friends, you were terrified of the amiability you possessed, and the open-armed rush of confidence you had experienced when engaged in deep conversation was quickly replaced by fear. What if you were digging your grave? What if you had signed yourself up for demise? It was so unlike you to share so much… and yet it felt so comfortable. You were alive for once, and the cottage was beginning to warm up to you again, voices of more than one echoing off its walls. But how could you know that Seonghwa had good intentions? You could not remember much of what you had seen online, except some tiny excerpts about the title track on which he had worked, but other than that - nothing. You had over-exaggerated your knowledge of his ways and his work as a silly flex of superiority, but… the more you thought about it, the more guilty you felt. You were a liar. A fiend. Seeking company, but writhing like a snake.

Ever since that first heart to heart, you remained distant, despite Seonghwa’s consistent efforts to get to know you better and better. He was not pushy, kept his jokes lighthearted, but you saw every attempt to learn more about you and your stories as a threat. You were in the same house, but it was as though the walls were closing in just on you. With a violent tug, you forced the towel off the hanger and let it pool on the floor, fleece resembling the perfect sands on faraway islands that you had seen advertised an astonishing number of times, but chose to believe in it being some business-crafted utopia. You could not bear picking the towel up from the ground. No matter how many times you would try to hang it, it would not look conventionally pretty. You tried, you really tried to arrange things how Seonghwa arranged them, be it out of respect or to conform, but your hands would produce something akin to a tremble, and at the last moment, the final product - destruction, was before your eyes. Slowly, you sank to the floor, feeling cold tile. Struggling slightly, you crammed yourself against the wall, and pushed the door a little to leave nothing more than a tiny creak. One last razor cut of light to be a guiding thread back to hollow function.

Leaning against the wall, you found yourself trying to escape your own thoughts, but the more you stared into the darkness, the more futile this race was. Inevitably, you were your own limit. At times, it was a good thing - you could go as far as you could. But other times… it meant falling and falling deep down until you were in the state you were currently in. Hands shaking just enough to send a wave of panic crashing into you, eyelids heavy from questionable and ever-changing sleep. It felt strange, having someone new know of your concerns and information somewhat beyond your day to day. Unlike regular ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’, you had inadvertently let Seonghwa see the root of your worries, and it was astonishingly hard to bear. In the dark looming corners of the bathroom, you could see your reflection. The crumpled towel taunted you, and in a spur of rage, you kicked it, immediately curling back up, arms hugging your legs. What was so hard about sharing your mind? Was it because he looked like he understood? Or was it because you were afraid that he actually did understand, and now you were at his mercy?

Vulnerability - a muse for artists, a disease for those favouring logic and wishing to move through life as an invincible figure. You were in a position where people trusted you, or rather, had to trust you if they wanted a job well done. True, you were not quite senior enough in your career to carry out the more complex procedures, but you had done your fair share of scalpel holding to curse the anxious tremor of your hands at this present moment. The fear was becoming unbearable, and it was all because of some silly conversation about what made things beautiful, and what beauty was. Ridiculous. The words blended with the heavy rainfall outside, and continued to return like the tide, higher and higher each time. It had been quite a number of days since the seemingly simple and friendly talk, and yet it gnawed at you. You wanted out, no, you needed out of this mess. Out of your own head. Old Man would have undoubtedly laughed at you, called you a feral wild and untamed beast, incapable of letting a little sunshine in your life - something of a nickname that you had acquired in the last years of his life, when you were already deep in the river of souls in the capital. But he was not here to reassure you, not here to crack a joke at the right time or to offer you protection. If there was any way you were going to survive your sabbatical, you had to hold tight and keep to yourself for the remainder of the weeks. You were going to pretend you knew his motives, and at any opportunity would tell yourself that you were staring at evil’s beautiful eyes-

Beautiful. No. You shook your head in disapproval. Eyes. Just. Regular. Eyes. In the dim evening lamplight, when you two would silently share the living room, both of you preoccupied with your own version of dawdling, they held little fireflies. Reflections of warm gold and a stunning white on a near onyx sky. Just eyes that you could not read, windows through which you did not want to look in search of a soul. Some part of you hoped that this entrancing vision would remain with you, and you would never have to see him under nauseating fluorescent lights; the scene was a professional instinct, but if there was something which you approached with more aggression than even your own paranoid self-preservation, it was to detach your present, and your continuous. Seonghwa was Seonghwa, and did not need some nobody like you to pretend to know how he should look. You exhaled, a shiver running over your form as the chill from the floor became more noticeable. A poem popped up in your mind, or rather, the few lines that Seonghwa had quoted to you the other night. Something or other about flowers, how they bloomed and wilted. While you could not grasp the exact words, your heart kept the poem safe and whole, with such diligence that it hurt. It was another one of his tries to get you to inch out of your shell. You shut your tired eyes, only to see how the shadows fell across his face as he had turned to you, lips remaining parted when he trailed off, glimmering orbs regarding you so sincerely and gently that you wanted to howl in agony. With a rub of your palm, stopping at your mouth, you wished to wipe the memory physically - your mind was too unwilling to do so. No, Seonghwa had to be some tragic, cruel joke the universe was playing on you. He simultaneously was indescribable and yet so, so simple, but if you were to be tasked to put him into words, you would sooner learn how to fly than to be capable of achieving such a feat. On the tip of your tongue were so many phrases and solutions to mysteries but none clear enough to be whispered into the early dawn. Seonghwa was who he was, and that was what scared you. You could not let him get to you like this.

Reluctantly, only due to the cold starting to become unbearable, you pushed yourself off the floor, and were once again faced with the task of picking up the pitiful puddle of fabric. With an apparent scowl, you bent forward, lifting the item and throwing it over the hook, determining that this just had to do. No one was going to throw a fit over this - and if Seonghwa was, well, you would just be happy enough to have decided to try and maintain distance. The more evidence or actions to support your desires the better. Cautiously you slid out of the bathroom and made your way down the corridor, avoiding creaky floorboards. Seonghwa was probably still asleep, and you were supposed to be. The early dawn was creeping through the lazily drawn curtains, and painting the floor in a hazy blue and grey. Hints of sunshine, tentative, shy, could be spotted on the very edge of the horizon. Maybe, just maybe, the weather would start looking a little more like spring. One step, another, and you were nearly at the dining table, front door ahead of you. Technically, if you so wished, you could spend the day in solitude; a visit to the nearby village was long overdue and it would almost guarantee an entire day outside of the cottage and away from the man who had taken residence in your brain as if out of spite. In addition, you could run some errands, and that definitely needed an early start. Your mind began to craft an itinerary, happy to abandon worries one by one. The market, the bakery, an obligatory visit to the post office to greet Old Man's and grandpa's friend… much to do. So much to do, in fact, that you only narrowly missed a ghostly figure appearing and stopping right in front of you, and had to rely on its sleepy reflexes to prevent you from colliding head on. You yelped as hands grasped your upper arms, and in an effort to escape you stumbled back.

“Hey, careful-”

That honey-sweet, deep voice forced you to glance at the so-called ghost. Perplexed, you saw none other than Seonghwa, who had been on his way out of the cottage office, stopped by the crossing of your somnolent paths. Dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks, it was evident that he had been awake for at least as long as you, if not more. Like a deer caught in the headlights, you could only stare.

“You… you alright? Sorry if I scared you… it’s just… you know…”

“Oh no, I’m fine just… didn’t think you were awake, is all…” you mumbled, eyes starting to dart in all directions.

“Yeah, I get that. I didn’t sleep too well so I decided to get an early start to the day… same for you?”

“Sort of,” you were anxious under his burning observation. The shapeless, oversized hoodie that hung over your figure was your only salvation. Subconsciously, one of your hands reached for the opposing upper arm, forming something akin to a barrier between you and Seonghwa. Your legs protested, and you remained rooted to the same spot, only capable of a barely audible mutter: “I was thinking of heading out today. To the village. Will be out for a while.”

“Village? I have not been there yet. May I come with you?” eager, Seonghwa asked, smiling softly.

“Then how did you keep everything stocked up?”

“I’m organised. And visited that one super store that is on the way.”

“That’s even farther than the village?”

“Like I said. On the way.”

“Resourceful,” you knew you were stalling giving an answer to his request, but Seonghwa persisted.

“So… may I come with you?”

With no rain or violent dancing of the ocean waves to save the awkward quietude, you were in a situation no different to the one you were in a mere few minutes ago. Bathed in darkness, wisps of thoughts about the young poet permeating through restless meditation. He styled his hair differently today, you noted - most of it was brushed back, with a few elegant strands remaining over his face, approximately reaching the length of his nose. No wonder the media had clinged onto him; Seonghwa had undeniable appeal, and that on top of what was a unique form of artistry in the world of popular and quick entertainment, he was a dream for any agent, should he have found the limelight exciting. But clearly, he did not wish to risk going blind, and here he was, the muse and the poet in one form, trying to find peace.

“If I will be a nuisance, then it is okay I can-”

“Why not?” your swift interjection pushed Seonghwa into a long pause.

“Yeah. Why not, indeed. Thank you. Then, hm… may I quickly grab a couple of things? You were planning on leaving now, right?” You nodded, and watched him rush upstairs, revived.

The response, a little boyish, rough and carefree, brought a hint of a grin to your face. Simple pleasures in life were hard to find, and you had persuaded yourself to not acknowledge them, but you could not deny just how endearing it was to see Seonghwa glowing from the inside because of a couple of words and a trip to do some chores as if it was to be an adventure. You spun on your heels and ambled towards the front door. After throwing the hood over your head, you tugged on a puffer coat which you had rediscovered in one of the wardrobes - it had been a hand-me-down from Old Man when you had none of your clothes which were more suitable for rural life left after a strong push from your parents to forget your days on the shoreline. The coat had been one of the many secrets you shared with Old Man, and had been a small but certain happiness. Smelling like rain storms and sea salt, it was comforting, and still much too big for you. But it felt like home.

“Right, so, what exactly are we doing?” Seonghwa’s voice rang out across the room as he approached, having added a wool trench coat and pale scarf of an indistinguishable colour to his ensemble. You chuckled, stepping into your boots and gesturing for him to do the same.

“I was thinking we could hit the shops. Get some fresh produce if it’s been brought in already. That’s essentially the main goal. Oh, if you have anything digital to do, I know a place.”

“Really?”

“You have your phone in your pocket, right?” you pointed at his right hand which was stuffed into the mass of his coat. Seonghwa nodded.

“A standard representative of our generation, aren’t I?”

“I’d do the same if I had something urgent going on,” a flash of pained regret did not go unnoticed by you. Biting his lower lip, he suppressed whatever association he had made.

“Thank you.”

“Shall we?”

Seonghwa shifted his footing to reach around you, and turned the door handle. The early morning yawned out a pleasant chill. Pale green leaves of the shrubbery surrounding the house trembled with excitement, and the gate stood proud, awaiting its next command. Your hand hovered above the wood for a couple of seconds. You turned your head towards the poet.

“It might take us an hour or more to get there, are you fine with that?”

“More than fine. I guessed it wouldn’t be a five minute convenience store trip.”

“Alright then.”

As you embarked on your trek to the village, you decided that the landscape had finally started to take on more springlike hues. Previously barren trees which were bent by years of gales and hurricanes were now dotted with adorable buds of white, pink and green, while the grass that survived the winter was giving way to thriving youth. The Earth was turning, waking up and stretching in its celestial bed, starting to peek out from under its star-patterned blanket. You tugged on the hood and stuffed your hands into the pockets of Old Man’s coat, content with your split-second plan-making. While it was not ideal to have Seonghwa as your quest buddy, you could not exactly see him with the hoodie blocking out your peripherals. Only the crunching of gravel under a second pair of shoes marked his presence.

The scene was faintly nostalgic, but you could not put a finger on the reason why. As you wordlessly followed the winding road and veered off onto a trail that cut to the village, you simply accepted the comfort. The cherry blossom season must be coming here soon, and then the sun would surely roll out of its bed and the seas would be tranquil. You made a mental note to try to walk past the more residential outskirts to see if the gardens of the brave few still had the fragile flowers - the only marking of this representation of spring in the near vicinity. Gravel gave way to a sparser smattering of pebbles, and soon enough only rocks pressed deep into dirt from years of steps and bicycles were left for you to scrutinise. Occasionally, you caught a glimpse of Seonghwa’s shoes when he took a slightly longer stride - expensive, without a doubt. But even in a landscape that served as the antithesis to cosmopolitan luxury, you had to admit that Seonghwa wore them well. Gingerly, you peeked out from the side of your hood, eyes darting to a random point up ahead as soon as your walking partner’s head began to turn. Your assumption was right - he was every bit the character of a dark and dramatic novel; dressed in all black, halo of pale light gracing his locks. You hated how easy it was to question your morals in his favour, or rather in favour of your wanting to be more carefree and open around him. What other stories would he tell? What soft prose would dance on his lips and tantalise you?

You gasped, hands clenched into fists, pockets tightening as you pressed against the fabric. A surprisingly cold gust of wind hit your face, and you were too slow to react. The hood flew back, allowing your hair to be tousled by the elements. You should stop getting so lost in your thoughts - you reprimanded yourself, and began to reach upwards. Seonghwa slowed down to match your pace, waited, and voicelessly pinched the edge of your hoodie, halting any further movement until you understood his intentions. Too confused by the sudden affection to care, you brushed your fingers through your hair and held it in place, allowing the hood to slide back on without further resistance.

“Thanks,” you huffed, stuck in an automatic bow.

“Don’t worry about it,” Seonghwa continued to walk, unperturbed, “it seems the wind is picking up again.”

“At least it’s not as cold anymore.”

“Good point. Refreshing. Let’s call it that.”

“Mm. Oh, Seonghwa-”

“Yes?” you paused to breathe, much too affected by the response speed Seonghwa had to his name. After telling yourself that this was his usual self rather than particular attention, you resumed.

“I have a beanie. If you want it.”

“Pardon?” you met the young man’s perplexed look, and patted the many pockets of the coat until you found the right one. After unclasping the metal button, you revealed the tip of a wool hat. His grin made the pang of embarrassment worthwhile - dazzling, sunny, so very Seonghwa that your heart hurt a little.

“Wind. Hair. All that. You know. Ahem. You get me,” you stumbled over your words, much to what appeared to be Seonghwa’s delight.

“I do. Thank you. I am okay for now,” he stopped you before you could close the pocket again, “but, if you don’t mind I’ll take the beanie. I have pockets too.”

“It’s supposed to stay in this coat.”

“Why?”

“Tradition.”

“Ah. Understood.”

You regretted your awkward gesture of friendliness, but you had to cancel out his approaches somehow. It would be strange to owe him. Was there such a thing when it came to emotion? Not wanting to dwell on the thought, you made yourself speed up, steps growing heavier against the uneven ground. Seonghwa followed suit, but you could only imagine his face at this moment, probably holding back a laugh, withholding some snarky comment out of sheer pity. That was normally how it was, so when what had to have been at least a couple of minutes passed, you were frustrated. Where was his voice? Could you simply not hear it over the wind? Was he intentionally being quiet?

“Seonghwa?”

“You are speeding along, Y/N, wow-”

“Sorry-”

“I’m just curious,” you slowed back down, allowing Seonghwa to catch up and join you on your side, “why that specific pocket?”

“That’s just how it has been all this time. This coat was passed down to me, and with it came a set of safekeeping and storage rules.”

“Rules?”

“Yep. From what pocket to keep what in, to where to hang it in what season. Couldn’t really do the latter properly but I think the coat held up well enough,” you inspected whatever part of the coat that you could spot from the safety of your hood, and peered to your right when you heard an approving hum.

“Looks like it could survive anything.”

“It probably could, if I’m honest. In my memory alone it survived being thrashed about on a clothing line in what had to have been some crazy strong cyclone and survived being abandoned on the cliffs.”

“How does this even happen?”

“Sometimes I do think Old Man did some things just for laughs, but he always had a fun story to tell and if he had to make some sacrifices for it… maybe it was worth it in the end,” you sighed and finished your philosophising.

“We all set our worths and prices, don’t we?” gradually, your stride turned into an amble, making Seonghwa get ahead. To your surprise, he halted almost immediately, and turned. When he spotted your unease, he furrowed his brows and stepped closer. He was searching for something in your stance, or in your expression - be it a change or a revelation, but clearly whatever you were doing was not enough. In the blink of an eye, he was a lot closer than arm’s reach. Inadvertently, you held your breath.

“What?” the question slipped from you as Seonghwa stretched out his hand, palm upright.

“I think I’ll have the beanie, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds like you are doing me a favour.”

“I am just appreciating an act of kindness,” he gingerly picked the item from your grasp, “and besides, if you are going to be racing how you are now all the way to the village, my ears might freeze.”

You wanted to wipe the dorky smirk from his face, but even then you appreciated his undeniable charm. The ever-changing palette of expressions on his stunning face fascinated you, reminiscent of the metamorphosis of a flame or silver waters. You would hate to use the exact word which you were running from, so you settled to mutely acknowledge Seonghwa as ‘interesting’. Interesting, and all-consuming. You looked at the horizon, his silhouette still dancing in your vision. It was just because he did not question yet another of the many quirks of Old Man that you still honoured. Had to be. You were simply under the influence of a tiny sliver of positive emotion; nothing to worry about.

Soon enough, you were met with the main road - or what could be called a road in a rural no-name settlement, and the ghost-like buildings that marked remnants of local life. As more and more people left the place in the hopes of a better life in a bigger, more modern city, only memories and the past remained, sentenced to erode into the earth with every new season. You could recognise the buildings, of course. The colours faded, and the structures grew weary with time, but they were still standing, just like you. Waving with a tired, invisible hand. You trudged along, cursing under your breath when you saw Old Man’s friend’s house up for sale. In other words, eventually up for demolition. This village was surviving and existing until the countdown to its erasure would be completed, rather than hoping that one day, something or someone would breathe new life into it. Boarded up windows and dull grey fences; withering gardens and exhausted roofs that damned every new rainfall. There was no spring here, nor was there a winter.

“Pretty quiet…” Seonghwa commented, taking in the sorrowful and glum surroundings. You could not offer any counter-argument.

“Indeed it is… Maybe because it is an off season…” you caught your own words and exhaled, bemused, “but when is there ‘a season’ in this place?”

“May? October?”

“Could be the case. But then people prefer to go to the tourist town further south, don’t they?”

“More space for us,” with a shrug, Seonghwa responded. It looked almost as if he was reading the village’s history through the cracks and crumbling stone. Eyes travelling from side to side and sometimes stopping to scrutinise something of interest that you could never spot, he looked like he was trying to find and remember every detail, akin to a pre-op examination.

“The market is down the street.”

“Got it.”

“And then we can stop by the cafe.”

“Can do.”

“You don’t need to?”

“I could, but I don’t have to.”

“Whatever works for you. But I need a nice hot chocolate and the awareness that the world has not exploded yet.”

“Or maybe it did,” Seonghwa added, making you chuckle.

“Or maybe it did. This place certainly has a surreal other-worldly barrenness to it.”

“How appealing.”

“Home sweet home.”

A home you could barely recognise. The deterioration was abhorrent, and truth be told, when you had been on your way to the cottage and managed to catch a ride with a family, you were surprised they had any business in the village. They must have left already. No one in their right mind could survive more than a few days in a place like this, unless this was the lesser of a wide selection of evils.

Seonghwa remained quiet as you stepped into a tiny two-story building that was called ‘the market’, but was just a reminder of what had been in its place before. The stock was good enough, from fresh produce off by the windows to the refrigerated and frozen goods lined up by the walls, and the cashier who was hunched over a crossword puzzle finally showed that there was some life remaining in the village. You picked up a basket which still possessed the logo of the superstore nearby - a permanent souvenir, and with Seonghwa in toe, browsed the shelves. Occasionally Seonghwa would stop you to point at an item, or you would exchange a couple of words to debate the necessity of one thing or other, but progressed through the maze fast enough and ended up at the ancient table converted into a register.

With a vexed huff, the man behind the desk put down his pencil, and began to hammer out the prices on the old cash machine. The buttons creaked in protest, so worn that you could barely see the numbers on their faces. In one swift motion, you produced a canvas bag from another pocket, and signalled to Seonghwa to start packing while you held it open. You tried to avoid brushing your hands against his, and he politely ignored the awkwardness of your movements. Before you could ask for the total, he was already setting a couple of bills down on the counter, shaking his head at you to not argue. You narrowed your eyes, but continued to watch as the cashier counted the money, slammed another few buttons to unlock the register, and produced some change. The door of the shop shook from the wind outside, but he paid it no mind, only caring for the next word that he had to guess for his puzzle. The two of you swiftly departed, Seonghwa striding ahead to stop in front of you and try taking the bag out of your grasp.

“I could have paid, Seonghwa.”

“I could have, too. And I did. What of it?”

“How much do I owe you?”

“We are living together, aren’t we? Consider this to be my household contribution, and this-” using your moment of disorientation he yanked the handles and tightly grabbed the canvas bag, “is just me being nice.”

“You’re making it sound strange.”

“How?” he was jittery, you could tell. The reason was a mystery, but he was awfully chipper compared to even fifteen minutes ago.

“Tell me, are you nervous?” he licked his lips - a habit you had noticed within the first couple of days, and knitted his brows.

“What… what makes you think so?”

“I think I have seen enough of you to catch the gist of how you’re feeling,” you deadpanned, and turned to continue walking towards the cafe, “this village isn’t haunted if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s been ages and as you can see, I’m still alive and kicking.” The joke was not received too well judging by the forlorn tinge to Seonghwa’s disposition, but he did not put up a front or argue. Out of the blue, you heard him grumbling:

“I’m not scared of ghosts…”

“Sure.”

“Hey!”

“What? I believe you!”

“Okay! Fine! Not ghosts but… something like it,” weighing the phrase, Seonghwa wondered how to continue. When you reached the entrance to the cafe you halted, and stood fully facing your partner in existential misery.

“Which is?”

“...Emails.”

“Can’t blame you. Scary buggers. Right, shall we?” you pointed at the door and tried the handle. It gave in easily and, announced by the sound of wind chimes strung up above the door right by the frame, you entered.

If only there was someone to greet you. You tapped the counter a couple of times and reread the message left on a sheet of paper that had been roughly ripped out of a notebook.

“Stepped out, be back later, for internet leave fee in box. We are not getting any warm drinks today, unfortunately. Owner won’t be back in a while.”

“Didn’t they say they will be back later?”

“The definition of later is warped here. It means they’ll be back later to close up shop.”

“Odd.”

“Not when there are no customers for days on end. I mean, there probably are some, but they are more than likely after the internet and not the coffee.”

You dropped the paper and passed by the dozing barista machine towards the table pressed right against a barren, rusted orange or brown coloured wall - unappealing, but it had been this shade for a s long as your memory would allow you to think back, so at least it had the brand of continuity. The table itself was a little more experimental: instead of a traditional approach with legs, the piece of furniture was a thick converted shelf, positioned high enough to be like a bar. On the far end and somewhat masked by the lack of lighting stood a rickety old monitor from a bygone era, with equally ancient wires protruding out of it and escaping into amateurishly drilled holes in the wall. The keyboard: a black-coloured classic with keys thicker than a finger, was tucked under the monitor, along with a matching mouse. After pulling out the bar stool in front of the makeshift computer station but not sitting down, you lifted a foot to rest on one of the many horizontal metal bars that linked the legs together, and scanned the fees which were written with a shaking hand on a piece of paper, stuck on the wall probably while you were still a kid.

“Huh, the prices are higher than I remember.”

“Inflation,” Seonghwa offered. He had set down the groceries on the shelf-table, and stood beside you to watch the screen come to life after a couple of attempts to click the power button.

“Seems the economy reaches these parts of the country too. Is fifteen minutes going to be okay?”

“More than-” Seonghwa began to reach into his coat again, only to be stopped by you.

“Let me take this at least,” you stuffed a couple of bills into the small box that was right next to the computer and detracted your attention back to the almost-complete loading screen.

Finally, the machine went out of its slumber. You looked for a browser engine, chuckling when you saw an outdated logo marking no change from what had to be the last decade, and proceeded to search for the news. After a couple of minutes of navigating from page to page, you concluded that society had not done anything particularly remarkable, nor atrocious. A reassuring kind of ‘boring’, which was more than you could hope for. You stepped away from the stool, gesturing for Seonghwa to take a seat. He hesitated, unwilling to spare as much as a glance to the email login screen.

“Didn’t you say you-”

“Is it strange to say that I am scared?”

“Of?”

“I’m not even sure, to be honest,” he took off the beanie and ran a hand through his hair. Seonghwa was restless, and while he did defeat himself and sit in the chair, a daze took control of him before he could as much as click.

“Are there some things that you hope not to see?”

“Maybe… or… how do I even explain this?”

“How it is. Saying anything is already a start.”

“So you know how- well, of course you know- I appeared on television, and did some other interviews?”

“Uh-huh, and congratulations, by the way,” your earnest commendation was met with a nervous twitch of the lips - not quite reaching joy, but Seonghwa was nonetheless touched.

“Thank you. So, hah- just, after that there have been numerous emails, phone calls, even physical mail, asking the same things and trying to shove the same answers in my mouth. My agent was thrilled initially since it is publicity, and kept on forwarding one opportunity after another but… at some point it hit me that the press do not need me,” he finished typing in his details, but could not bear to click ‘log in’.

“Do not need you?”

“No. What they need is an image that they crafted based on their perception of me. It is true that a person forms their first impression in half a second or something like that, but when representatives of prestigious outlets do not know a single thing about my poetry which, mind you, is my main job, one does begin losing hope.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want to see the empty flattery and shallowness, right?”

“Sounds about right.”

You pondered his concern. Everyone deserved sincerity, especially when it came to things that quite literally formed a large part of one’s life. It would not be an overstepping of personal rules to empathise, would it? If there was a person in need, it was another’s duty to help them through difficulties. It was the least you could do. At the same time, you felt like you were falling, and fast, into the grasp of confusing emotions, and the more you studied Seonghwa and thought about his beau- -interesting mind, you wanted to delve into it more. You wished to understand his curves and edges, read the miraculous flame which even in times of difficulty was never extinguished in his dark irises. You stared, and Seonghwa did not mind it. In fact, if anything, he was enjoying your nearly overwhelming concentration on him. Compared to the last few days when you would actively isolate yourself, this was the most time you had spent in such proximity, and toeing the line of a heart to heart. You despised the fact that you understood Seonghwa a little too well, and that, beyond the surface, you two were much the same. For some strange reason, it hurt you to see him distraught or inconvenienced. In this place which bore the traces of both your stories, be it personal or through relatives, you wanted to maintain a safe haven, if not for yourself then for him. There were always bound to be disappointments, and when both of you would inevitably have to return to your humdrum routines and unfounded chaos, they would only amplify. So why not try to cultivate a little happiness here, in the middle of nowhere? You bit the inside of your cheek as a disturbing, but astonishingly serene resolution bloomed in your musings. To hell with your rules and boundaries. Either way your heart was going to ache, but at least like this you could make the cause of it be a little more… poetic.

“Let’s sort through your inbox together, and then we can have a nice and quiet rest of the day,” you leaned over, and clicked the mouse. The screen illuminated both your faces. You tried to ignore just how close yours was to Seonghwa’s.

He let you take the lead on scanning through the items, only sometimes providing whatever guidance he could offer. As the number decreased, so did his worry, and soon enough, you were exchanging jokes as you deleted or archived more and more emails. Neither of you commented on how your hand which you had set down on the table for a little more balance was pressed against his own, nor how you were practically shoulder to shoulder. Beyond an initial awareness both of you wanted to remain quiet in an effort to preserve this safe space. No rumination, no questions, nothing. Only what felt right. And it just so happened that in the moment when Seonghwa turned to gaze into your eyes, relieved and cheerful, it felt natural to put his hand over yours. And who were you to go against the universe?

“Thank you, Y/N. This was so silly, I really should be able to handle this but… I dare say you are my saviour.”

“Not at all. I just want to help as best as I can,” you felt him softly squeeze your hand. You couldn’t look away.

“It’s the little things. I am very grateful,” you wished you could say something grand or quote something in response, but you were afraid that a medical encyclopaedia would not fit the mood.

“No phone checking today, I think we’ve done enough.”

“Sure, Hwa.”

It was the little things. How his eyes caught the rays of light that slipped into the cafe. How he expressed himself so wholeheartedly and openly. How he wanted to be himself even when so many people were against him. In him you saw an inspiring strength; the spring after a freezing winter. Just like you had helped him with emails, he was unknowingly helping you clean up your struggles and doubts, prodding at neurons and metaphorical cobwebs until problems did not seem quite as monstrous as before. For the first time in a while, you wanted to be okay.

“Home?” The only word that fit the cottage, for you and for him. Seonghwa gleamed in response.

“Home.”

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

“Let’s go to the cliffs.”

“Sounds suspicious, what are you scheming?” you raised an eyebrow, but, nonetheless, closed the book that was neatly positioned on your lap - the aftermath of you two having grown more relaxed around one another, and you venturing into the office and asking for recommendations from Old Man’s library. Seonghwa was more than happy to offer a couple of titles which he could spot hidden on the shelves, and now could discreetly enjoy the sight of you being fully immersed in one of them.

“I just think we could use a good break,” he crossed his arms and nodded to himself. He did not want to reveal all his plans just yet, but it was hard to remain cryptic when anything to do with a location could raise questions.

“Again, suspicious. What are you on about?” Seonghwa watched you look for the old postcard which you had been using as a bookmark, smiling when you finally discovered it had fallen beside you on the sofa.

With each day, Seonghwa was getting a chance to see more and more sides of you, and he would not stop it for the world. He found himself grinning like a fool when you would be even the tiniest bit clumsy, endeared by vulnerability that you did not dare show him before. He lost himself in the sound of your voice as you formulated analogies between art and medicine, explaining concepts in such a way that it felt like poetry. His heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings when, after a day of chores, the two of you would settle down to simply be in each other’s company. As such, with the newfound lightness in his soul, Seonghwa wanted to help you feel at least a fraction similar.

“Mm… I do want to keep this a surprise, but I get how this sounds like a different type of pact, doesn't it?”

“You can say that again.”

“Okay… hm… if I say, with one hundred percent guarantee we will be getting home safe, in one piece and hopefully feel a lot better, will you agree to satisfy my spontaneous caprice?” You pretended to mull over his request, your pointer finger resting on your chin.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes. Fine.”

His megawatt grin nearly blinded you as he approached you in a couple of steps and reached out his hands towards you. You glanced up and down, amused by his excitement. Seonghwa swore that all his organs flipped in his body as you clasped his hands, palm pressed to palm, and let him lift you off the sofa. When you nearly collided with his chest, he steadied you, shaking his head when a thank you fluttered from your lips. It was a shame that he had to let go. Patiently, he waited by the door as you changed into an outfit more appropriate for the weather; while the days have seen a pleasant rise in temperature to balmy spring, the occasional seaside gust was quick to remind of the earliness of the season. The cherry blossoms must have already bloomed further south, Seonghwa mused. But for once, he did not feel rushed to see them or take obligatory photographs, content with the beauty he was living on the coast of nowhere. He adjusted his cream coloured hat and matching sweater, reaching to flatten the under shirt that started to peek from under the knit collar.

Whether it was on purpose or not, he noticed how you had matched him with your outfit - flared jeans matching his jeans-skirt combination, and a determined selection of beige boots. Seonghwa was, by nature, something of a hopeless romantic, but it was moments such as this that made him both flustered and proud of his nature. As you stepped out of the cottage, bathed in a rejuvenating sunlight, he squinted and made a visor out of his hand to look more closely and try his best to remember the scene. Your head was held higher, your steps were more confident, and when you looked back to check if Seonghwa was following you, you had a mischievous glint in your eyes. He sped up, softly tapped your arm and beamed.

“Right, mystery boy, lead the way. Something tells me that you have a very particular location in mind.”

“That, I do. Spotted it some time ago. You probably know it, but I want to share it with you nonetheless.”

“Well, it would be my first time seeing it with you, wouldn't it?” Your mouth pressed into a fine line before you burst into a giggle after having considered your words for a fraction longer, “Goodness, sorry-”

“I like that,” Seonghwa smirked, enjoying the subtle flirtation.

“Pardon?”

“First time for everything. Quite the celebration, is it not?” When you did not answer, par a joking eye roll, he pointed to the right, elaborating his planned route, in the direction opposite to the village and right by the sea. After a couple of beats of silence, you turned to him.

“Celebration? Seems like you are thinking of something specific.”

“Mm… maybe.”

“Oh… is it your birthday? Oh no I have nothing to-” your face fell.

“No! No, I'm touched that you care this much though, darling,” half in jest, half testing the waters, Seonghwa let the pet name slip. Though it appeared to have been wasted nerves worrying about your reaction, as you did not bat an eye. He looked ahead, “it's in two days.”

“So you aren't much of a birthday enjoyer? Judging by how you are here… and not in the city.”

“There are different ways to celebrate. And, if you don't mind. This is how I would love to celebrate mine.”

You looked magical in the golden rays. With half the sky a hazy white, the other promising a gloomy grey storm, you were his good and evil, his battle.You came to him like nightfall, and made him learn of shimmering sunrises. The speckles of bright light in your irises were downright enchanting, and only grew more captivating as you tilted your head, inadvertently capturing more sunlight. His April wishes, muted prayers for one moment to turn to another, and another after that. He did not dare voice his true perception of you, knowing that the one word to come to his mind was one you did not favour, and as such, stuck to walking onwards, to the cliffs, in anticipation of what he had been hoping to do with you for a considerable amount of time. You did not answer him, instead choosing to study your shoes and continue to follow his footsteps closely. The wind caressed your hair like a loving relative greeting and doting on their favourite child. You hid your hands in your sleeves, fists closing over their edges, in an effort to protect them from getting cold. No attempts have been made to guess what Seonghwa wanted to do, much to his surprise; considering how hostile you two had acted towards each other in the very beginning, this level of trust was akin to the greatest of honours, and reminded him of the unfurling of a flower that had initially been guarded by thick grey leaves, only to reveal a tender yellow white and reddish heart along with a gorgeous adornment of pastel pink petals. Fragile, vulnerable, far from eternal, but because of how temporary their natural perfection was, they were all the more beautiful. Seonghwa looked in the opposite direction from you and scowled, scolding himself. He should not think of the future, at least not just yet. It was all too soon, all too fast, anything could happen and he should not get his hopes up even when his entire being was burning into an enamoured cloud of ash.

The sea glistened, waves showing off magnificent adornments of regal silver and gold, dolled up with white lush fur-like foam. Playfully, they lapped at the shore and urged the two of you to keep going. Rolling hills soon gave way to the cliffs which with every few minutes of your journey grew taller and taller, revealing stunning white chalk faces and decorations of limestone. A number of weeks ago Seonghwa had made it his mission to explore the expanse, thereby finding what had to be the real end of the world. A terrific, breathtaking drop together with violently shaking grassland and treacherous edges, by far the tallest point on the cliffside was nothing short of freeing. With everything he had lived through being forced to stare at his back, and only the sea in front of him, he need not be concerned, at least for a few breaths, with what battles he was yet to face. After a couple of ventures to the cliffs, he found a new perspective, one that had been solidified when he had destiny bring him to you, or you to him. Had there ever been a muse, or was it simply an excuse for him to not try even when he was certain he could not achieve anything? Now, he knew he could fly freely on the wings of his own inspiration and wanted nothing more than for you to feel the same.

As the two of you approached the peak, Seonghwa became a little agitated, concerned with how you were going to react to his proposition which he had planned to utter only once you had arrived. You were quiet, occasionally looking left and right to study the brightening landscape. The steely horizon engulfed the sea, infinite, invincible, and met two pairs of eyes. Two people, who, with time, came to be undefeated. You had not voiced your concerns often, but he had seen them weighing you down, serpents tightening around your throat until you had nothing left to do but to rush out of the cottage under the pretence of ‘needing to check something’, when in fact all you wanted was air. Time and time again he could see how this, and only this place was home to you and was the soothing balm that could heal all wounds. Now as you stood to his right, occupied by your own ponderings, he saw you combine with your surroundings, making one gorgeous painting. You belonged here. Thanks to you, he felt like he did, too. The beginnings of another plan started to take root in his mind as he recalled familial logistics and the cottage, but pushed the matter for a later time; this needed the city and iron resolve. Seonghwa rubbed his hands together and rocked back and forth a couple of times.

“So,” you began, still observing the waves.

“So,” he mirrored.

“What’s this grand scheme of yours for which we needed to hike up here?”

“Not liking the views?”

“Of course I do. I’m just trying to understand.”

“Okay. Then… how about this,” he took a deep breath, stifling a nervous laugh, and with all he had, yelled at the sea, trying to drown out the sound of the Earth. He screamed with his heart, expelling all its ache and giving it room to mend itself with golden thread. He stretched out his arms and shut his eyes, embracing a better tomorrow.

Taken aback but thrilled, you spontaneously began to laugh. Wholly, without any barriers; your genuine full-body laughter overtook you, and you were half-bent, ecstatic from Seonghwa’s sudden chaos. You cackled until tears started to well up in your eyes and you needed to remind yourself to breathe, and only laughed harder once Seonghwa joined you, him just barely retaining balance and not collapsing on the ground. His shout was still ringing in your ears as you lifted your head and through airy chuckling called out to him.

“Is- is this what- you were- thinking of all- all along?”

“Go on, show me what you’ve got-” he challenged, squeezing the words out between wheezing.

“W-what? Like… right now?”

“No better time than now! Go!” He encouraged you, prayed for you to let your darkness go.

There it was. As the wind picked up and the sea roared, you joined them with your own warrior cry, stretching your arms out much the same as Seonghwa had done. You stared at the sky, squinting only to stop your eyes watering from the laughter and the gusts. He gazed at you with adoration and pride. As soon as he heard your scream start to die down, he recovered and made a beeline towards you, repositioning to face the sea, and poked you.

“On the count of three. One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Together you let joy into your lives, cursing all that had harmed you before, and bravely took on the challenge to exist. There was always going to be trouble, there were always going to be disagreements and so-called ugliness in the world around you, but in your vision, even if just for a flash, there was guaranteed to be beauty, if not in the representations of small but certain happiness, then in the self. As Seonghwa and you shouted again and again at the skies, you knew your next inhale would be the freshest.

Lightheaded, you searched for his arm, apologising when your own crashed into it. Rapidly, his hand found yours, and Seonghwa, in a moment of what could possibly be foolish courage, intertwined your fingers together. Your eyes widened, and initially he thought he had made a mistake. But doubt evaporated faster than rain on a scalding hot day; you held on tight, lowered your arms, and swung them back and forth, before launching into another cheerful scream. Your hand in his, the perfect match. He had hesitated the last time, back in the cafe, but now he was sure that it was worth the wait. This was his home. His healing.

돌풍과 절벽에 부딪히는 파도 소리 (Gusts of wind and the sound of waves crashing against cliffs)

새로운 시작을 의미하는 수많은 소리 (The many sounds of a new beginning)

당신의 웃음소리가 가장 크게 들린다 (Your laughter is the loudest)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

You had shooed Seonghwa out of the kitchen as soon as you heard his sleepy, post afternoon nap descent down the stairs. Despite his protests after you had waited until midnight and wished him a happy birthday, which mainly consisted of him worrying over your potential lack of rest and whether anything was necessary, you wanted to try your best. It would have been most certainly easier to follow his advice and treat this day and evening like any other, but that would not have been a representation of you, nor of how you felt towards your friend. Countless times he had given you strength and support that prior to meeting him you could have only imagined. More than that, he never asked for anything in return except your company, and for you to allow yourself to feel happy; such behaviour and way of thinking was rare, so on many occasions you second-guessed or doubted him, but each time you had been proven wrong. Seonghwa was a warm person who left a deep impression on everyone, and most certainly left an everlasting one on you.

As you let meat and seaweed simmer in sesame oil, you laughed at yourself. Had you from a month ago been here with present you, present you would have definitely gotten an earful. Who were you, showing so much kindness to someone who you had not known for a long time? But then again, there were enough people who you had known for a long time who were far from deserving of kindness, and yet you forced yourself to tolerate them anyway. At least in this case, your affection was coming from the heart and not from obligation or some twisted version of filial piety based not on love and respect but on fear and manipulation. Caring for someone was simple when it was the natural thing to do. You twisted your head when you heard more shuffling, and noticed Seonghwa, dressed in loungewear as opposed to the more formal outfit he had chosen to wear on his venture out to the village earlier, speed-sliding across the living room and to his office. You chuckled when he raised his hands in the air and mouthed that ‘he is innocent and does not see anything’. It was easy enough to guess what you were making. Seonghwa could probably guess from the smell alone, but nevertheless he played along and remained patient.

Soon enough, the soup base was in and bubbling away, filling the cottage with mouthwatering fragrance. The home that only you and Seonghwa knew felt complete and was blooming like the gorgeous flora in early April. Threats of a storm had been false alarms and instead a warm sun settled on the magnificent light blue and ultramarine. The occasional white ball of cotton would race across like a tiny woodland rabbit away to wonderland, but nothing could dispel the euphoria that enveloped you. It was simple to imagine the cottage disappearing, but that made every second more precious. For all you knew, in a couple of months the real owners of the property could decide to demolish the priceless history and sell off the land to some magnate for the building of a resort or a private mansion; such an outcome was far too plausible, and you could only clench your teeth and pretend to not be affected. Old Man would have locked himself in this cottage if anyone were to try and destroy it. Now, more than ever, you understood why. The walls had seen decades of history, both of the planet and of the humans who had visited or inhabited the cottage. Tears of sadness and of laughter, bitter love and sweet loss, paradise and purgatory. The cottage, apart from bricks and mortar, was built with memories and the souls of everyone and everything. Wherever you looked, you could recollect something associated with the items in your vision, be it a clock or a creaky floorboard. This, if destroyed, would never be recovered, and would be sacrificed to fading memory. Of course, the human mind was the most powerful when it came to reflecting on the past, but there was only so much it could do when society was as fast paced and as demanding as it was. You did not want to forget, and so wanted to desperately cling to what little you had left of a precious safe haven that had now been fully revived. Wasn't the past always more beautiful when it blended with the present and gained deeper and more vibrant colours?

“Seonghwa! It's ready!”

“Hello I am here-” almost immediately, he rushed out of the office and strode into the kitchen, “did you make seaweed soup? For me?”

“As if you did not guess.”

“Hey, hey, I saw, heard, and said nothing. My goodness, Y/N, I am touched beyond words…”

“It's not too big of a deal, really. I just wanted to make a little something for you and again, wish you a happy birthday,” you attempted to wave him off and stirred the soup once more before turning off the gas and setting the spoon down.

“I hope you don't mind this very forward expression of affection, but may I… hug you?” arms ever so slightly lifted from his sides, Seonghwa waited.

“Woah Seonghwa, so daring,” you teased, “ah come here, birthday boy,” you invited him, heart beating just that little bit faster when he gave you a boxy wide grin and stepped forward to close the space.

Your arms wrapped around his torso, sliding down into a more relaxed position on his waist while his had snaked around you, condoning you from the world. You were careful to not tarnish the impeccable white fabric, but inevitably gave in when you sensed Seonghwa's hand hovering behind your head, as if saying that you could relax into him fully, without any worries. A dazing softness consumed you as your cheek met his shoulder - one last effort to maintain at least a bit of distance between your faces and to hide your quickly blooming blush. He was what you imagined a daydream would be as a person: sweet and comforting, with subtle floral notes and a deep lasting undertone with an indescribable complexity. Honey and the most decadent coffee were the two things that came to mind, but they lacked the original heaviness of the taste and aroma. So heavenly, so surreal, so Seonghwa. Like the setting sun when it hit the waves.

“Thank you,” he whispered into your hair. You suppressed a shiver. Rocking side to side, you stood in the kitchen, neither of you wanting to disturb this bliss.

“Mm, it’s fine.”

“More than fine.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

“Shall we eat?”

“Yes please,” he uttered, but showed no signs of moving. His arms remained where they were; if anything, they were holding onto you with even more determination, as though you were so fragile you had to be protected from even a speck of dust.

“Are we… uhm, we kind of… need to move to get everything set up.”

“Ah, right,” flustered, Seonhwa detangled himself from you, and rushed to open a cupboard, producing a pair of bowls. A hint of red was visible on his cheeks and the tips of his ears; you were not alone in being a tiny bit shy from the obvious reciprocation.

You had learned each other’s patterns, who tended to move in what order, who reached where, who minded what. The two of you moved in perfect synchrony without trying, following newly acquired instinct. How could you ever not adore the cottage and all the events that led up to now? Not all had been sweet, but without the sour and the atrocious, you would not have been able to experience what you were experiencing as you settled down across from Seonghwa. Or rather, in close proximity to him, since almost instantly, he stood up from his seat and gestured for you to rise again only to take your chair and bring it closer to his side. Accepting your adorable fate, you took your bowl and cutlery and repositioned them.

“There. Now I approve.”

“Wait a second!” you searched in your pockets for an item you had discovered in the midst of your cooking frenzy. Seonghwa was patient, albeit confused, and waited until you produced a box of matches and balanced it on your palm, “not a candle, but you can make a wish!”

“My word, this is, hah- I love it.”

“Perfect. Then, here we go!”

You took out a match, and struck it against the side of the box, gasping as it burst into flames - luckily not too intensely or you would be short for time. You started to sing while Seonghwa joined you by mouthing the lyrics and accompanying with rhythmic claps. The fire started to move down the match, the tip of it having already burned out. Saved by the final notes you saw Seonghwa briefly closing his eyes. He reached out his hand and softly rested it on your wrist as he blew out the flame right before it reached your fingers. As suddenly as he had touched you, he let go, not too dissimilar from the dancing red and orange flickers which had just been illuminating the birthday table. For good measure you shook the match and excused yourself to dispose of it after running it under some water. After drying your hands, you straightened out the towel without a second thought. The rest of the meal was quiet aside from a phrase here and there. No longer was there a need to fill the pauses. Companionship was enough. Only when you were almost done did Seonghwa address you, gingerly as though he was scared of breaking the calm.

“Again, thank you so much, this is the best birthday I ever had. I even got to make a wish!” he chuckled.

“I highly doubt it, but I’ll accept your kind words.”

“Humble, so humble,” he paused. When you lowered your spoon to give him your undivided attention, you noticed his miniscule pout.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Ah, nothing. Nothing much.”

“About all the birthday wishes you read, right?” you nudged him.

“Hm, there were some…” he recollected.

“And?” you tried, sensing that he was purposefully leaving some things unsaid.

The question hung in the air, a time bomb. Seonghwa bided the seconds he had to himself before he inevitably had to respond by tasting more of the seaweed soup and nodding in approval. You gave him a brief nod and were about to let the matter go for the sake of a celebratory evening, however it seemed that Seonghwa had other plans. He never could lie, you realised. Or speak in half-truths. He was sincere to a fault, but it was one of the many things you had come to like about him.

“So there is something.”

“Yes.”

‘Say it.”

“I... I don’t know. It might be a little... sad?” he was careful with his words, evidently not wanting to make a big deal out of whatever was plaguing his mind.

“Go on. Say it. It’s okay,’ something told you that you knew what it was going to be anyways. You pursed your lips, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest.

“I’ll... I’ll have to leave. In a couple of days? Yeah... Hm... I- yeah. in a couple of days,” he fumbled his words and could not face you, instead staring at his own reflection in the soup.

It was bound to happen someday. Your time was not eternal, either. If not today, then you would have had to have this conversation at some point either tomorrow, or the day after that... or could you have pushed it until much later? Would have Seonghwa forgiven you if, on the day of your departure, you would have dropped the news that your sabbatical had run out? If not him, then it would have most certainly been you starting the conversation.

“Oh. Okay,” you mumbled, heart and mind in conflict. This was your fault - had he remained a stranger, you would have had an easier time now. How he had suddenly appeared in your life, he would have disappeared, but now? The inevitable parting was like a high risk, invasive operation which no matter what was going to have aftershocks and side effects.

Seonghwa did not look any better. Misty-eyed and regretful, he inadvertently slumped his shoulders and curled into himself, appearing smaller and more feeble. You wished he did not care, so that it would be easier to learn how to hate him, but you could not ignore how the knuckles of the hand with which he was holding the spoon were turning white. Tentatively, you reached out to him and rested a hand on his shoulder, an action that took him somewhat by surprise judging by how quickly his head turned towards you. His dark eyes bore into yours, shimmering with intense emotion, threatening to overspill.

You realised: this was it. The crossroads. You were faced with a choice, and it was up to you to decide what was to be the absolute right. You could hold a pause and then resort to exhibiting an astonishingly unperturbed stance; he had his life and his path to follow, you had yours, so what if you had poured your souls out to each other and he had rekindled something which you thought you had lost forever? Or you could take a risk and potentially condemn yourself to hurting, if not for the rest of your life than at least for a long, long time, after which all you had seen and lived through in these few weeks at the cottage would have been the one memory to stick with you no matter what you were to do. You knew that wherever, be it under fluorescent lights, or while planning a correction surgery or attempting to discourage a patient from following a fad, you would see him. You bit the bullet, and, for what had to be the first time, followed your heart. Because tragedy, too, could be beautiful.

“Let’s make the most of what we have left. And then see what the future holds. We are two people who are very alike. Caught adrift in a storm. That is what you told me when we first started getting to know each other, right?”

Seonghwa's eyes conveyed a delicate balance of tenderness and nervousness. His gaze, though wrestling with melancholy, flickered with a charming intensity that spoke volumes. His free hand that rested on his leg that he had begun to shake out of unchangeable habit betrayed a subtle tremor, a silent testament to the whirlwind in his mind. Fingers danced nervously, tracing invisible patterns or perhaps echoing poetry that floated in his heart. You could only guess what he was grappling with, but, in the end, when you put your hand over his to abate some of his tension, a reciprocation of your determined decision was undeniable. As he stilled, you observed a serene reassurance. A quiet confidence that spoke of an undeniable care for you, of what could happen to the two of you, and of how worth it the risk was in the end. His heart beat in harmony with yours, mutual melodies rang out in time to the day rushing past the cottage. You shared a longing that was born out of the fear of what could be lost if words failed. But were words even necessary, when this bouquet of delicate emotions was so unbelievably easy to read? The truth was unwavering, and it, too, was beautiful.

“How does the storm look like to you?” he whispered, turning his hand palm up to clasp yours. You knew what was on his mind, and he was aware of what you wanted, no, needed to say to defeat a part of yourself that was scared to ever feel.

‘Beautiful. So, so beautiful.”

“Could you tell me more about it?”

“Hmm...” you thought for a moment, before pointing to Seonghwa’s shoulder. He nodded, and in no time, your head was resting on him while your fingers tightly intertwined, “...where should I start?”

“Anywhere.“

“You’re a poet and an academic, for goodness’ sake, I’d like some expert advice,” you retorted, your voice remaining light, bright and playful.

“Hardly the latter.”

“That’s what the future is holding for you, isn’t it?” you felt his cheek brush your crown, and smiled to yourself when you heard a low chuckle.

“I sure hope so. Much better than whatever was happening before.”

“It’s all part of the journey.”

“I see someone’s very optimistic!” Seonghwa’s exclamation was void of any malice. Genuinely cheerful and proud of your metamorphosis from a sardonic and grim misanthrope to a hopeful doctor proud of who they and those they loved were, he considered it to be the greatest gift. Laden with meaning and stemming from unfathomable effort, you allowed yourself to flourish and find reasons to live, rather than reasons to not die.

“Maybe because, while there are certain things we cannot change, I have come to realise that there is something sweet about it. Take leaving the cottage for example. Technically, we could stay. But in the long term, it is only going to result in a far from happy ending. So what does that mean for both you and me? We cannot change the fact that we have to leave. However in this we confirm to ourselves and each other that this is not a dream and that our time here... yeah. Yeah,” you cut yourself off, embarrassed by your own words, earning yourself a tiny shoulder nudge and a squeeze of the hand.

“Yeah, what?” Seonghwa’s curiosity was piqued. Too late. No going back for you. You bit your lower lip and inhaled deeply in an effort to stop yourself from cringing.

“Please forgive me for the insane cheesiness, but-”

“Only the highest quality cheese could come from you, don’t you fret.”

“Seonghwa!”

“What? Accept it. Now, as the people say, ‘spill the tea’.”

“A modern poet, truly.”

“Of course, of course, I try my best.”

“Anyways,” you interjected, returning to your train of thought, “ I just wanted to say that I am happy...”

“With what?” you could catch a note of teasing in his tone, but chose to let it go.

“With... this,” you gestured to him, to yourself and then to the surrounding rooms, “this is by far... the best I have felt. In a long, long time.”

“Oh? Someone made you feel this way before?”

“Shush, you get what I mean,” you glared upwards and twisted to lightly slap Seonghwa on his chest, which turned out to be a mistake in the making since he did not miss the chance to capture you fully. And so you were stuck, semi-suspended and essentially at Seonghwa’s mercy with how he was supporting your balance, blinking in surprise at his coy smirk.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. What are you ready to say?”

“Considering how we keep switching topics, I don’t think I can answer anything.”

“Okay, okay, the storm then. What does it mean?”

“What storm?” you furrowed your brows.

“Y/N we just discussed it-”

“Ah, right. Actually, you know what, everything might be linked,” you tried to shuffle to get a better angle and not feel like you were about to topple at any moment, but Seonghwa was not so eager to stop practically cradling you.

“Hm?”

“I mean, the books you recommended, the things you write, hell, even the cottage and you and I... isn't this all like the weather?”

“Curious observation, but yes, I can see where you are coming from. Do go on,”

“If you let me sit down properly, and maybe... finish your soup?” you pointed your chin at the cooling dish.

“Right, sorry, but hey! You too! I see the-”

“Eat, Hwa, then I promise you I will give you a full rundown of my chaotic analogies.”

You were shocked from how speedily he inhaled the soup and then, with a proud look on his face, flung his arm over the back of your chair and announced that his mission was accomplished. As you chewed on the last of the seaweed and ladled the last spoonful of broth, a tiny voice in your head made you want to return to the cliffs and yell louder than before: this conversation, everything that was happening now was because you had accepted that something was beautiful to you. Or rather, instead of connecting beauty to something concrete, you now were comfortable with beauty being an ever-changing continuum. Thanks to what?

“Okay, I’m done now. So, the storm. We were running from them, weren’t we?”

“Mhm.”

“But now... I don’t know if you think the same but I dare say those storms are not so spooky anymore,” if only you could have taken a picture then and there to keep in your wallet. The precious glimmering joy visible across every feature was contagious, and your doubt was forgotten.

“Not spooky at all,” you could hear the gears moving in his head as he regarded you.

“What?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason,” he sighed and hid his gaze, “...shall we clear the table?”

“Let’s do it.”

He did not miss the chances to brush past you, or to steady himself after reaching across for something by tapping your arm or your waist. Not that you minded, but his amplified affections were dizzying. It was as though he was doing everything in his power to ensure that he would be missed so strongly by you that you would end up snapping and attempting to find him in the big city. That was when it hit you - you did not know where he lived, nor where location-wise he worked, nor his contact details. It had never come up in conversation - neither of you were terribly fond of delving too deep into how life was in the metropolis and had shared what was necessary for the present, and considering that in the weeks you had been here you two were always in close proximity, things like phone numbers or social media details were obsolete. When you finished washing up, dried your hands, and waited for Seonghwa to complete his task of putting the dishes away, you were astonished by your own lack of foresight. You had always been a planner but following your time at the cottage you wanted time to stop.

“Hey may I ask something? Or rather for something?”

“Go on ahead- wow, the sun sure is doing its magic,” you followed Seonghwa’s gaze and stepped after him into the living room.

The window. A little old thing. The frame was holding up impressively well, and the paint had remained pristine even after you had opened the window a couple of times to let the fresh air in. Beyond it, between the shrubs and above the stone wall was a never ending golden steppe, rippling and rolling in heavenly rays. It was rare to have a day as good as this on this part of the coastline. Leaves shimmered like coins, and the clouds took on yellow, orange and lilac hues, waving from up above.

“Truly.”

“Anyways, as you were saying?” he turned, catching some of the sunlight on his regal form.

“Let me borrow the horrendous phrase for a second... ahem, may I get your number?” Much to your delight and amusement, Seonghwa did not bat an eye, and instead dug in his pocket.

“Ahead of you, but thank you for reminding me. Here. I put down my number, my home address, the publisher’s office... and my private social media if you want to connect on there.”

“How-”

“I want to... hm... I didn’t think that, when I come to actually saying what I want to say, that it would be kind of hard,” cryptic, as ever when he was about to shake you to your core with something profound. You took the piece of paper from him, carefully refolding it after checking the written contents and sliding it into the pocket of your cardigan.

“Time for me to inquire. Whatever do you mean?”

“I want to keep this going.”

“Oh?”

“Interesting thing to wish for after we literally lived together, but... I want to see you. Officially see you. What do you say?”

“Ever the gentleman,” his lopsided grin made you wish you could squeeze his cheeks. Perhaps down the line you could have that privilege, “I accept.”

“You do?”

“I too, really want to see you. Often, I hope,” Seonghwa’s vigorous nodding, paired with his undivided attention was like a thousand suns, brilliant and beyond anything you could put into a sentence. He approached you and peered into what had to be your very soul.

“May I spoil a potential gift? And, sort of, the reason why I need to depart?”

“Go on, I am all ears.”

“You know how,” his pointer fingers hooked around yours, and you were subconsciously pulled to him, “my relatives own this cottage, right?”

“Right,” you were aware, and had accepted it. Such was life.

“Well... I may or may not have gotten in contact with them, and am starting a legal process to put the property up for sale.”

“For sale? Excuse me? Are you mad? It will be- no, I cannot let this, no, they will bulldoze this place into the dirt I-” you began to panic, voice rising higher and blood beginning to boil.

“I did not say to whom the property will be sold.”

“Some mogul or billionaire who does real estate for fun.”

“Are you either of the two?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you a mogul or real estate fiend?”

“I? No?”

“The sale is a formality anyways. The cost will be put down as one won, which I’ll just pass to my cousin with a handshake. Your job, should you wish to be the owner of the cottage, is to sign some papers, and attend some meetings.”

“Am I dreaming?”

“This place does sometimes give the surreal sensation of floating in space, but I promise you, you are not. In fact, tomorrow we can go to the cafe again and I can show-”

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you thank you thank you-”

“Glad I can help in some way. This is your cottage, after all-”

“I am on cloud nine... how is this- how did you?” you swung your arms, with Seonghwa’s following.

“Easy. I just mentioned you. That was enough to seal the deal. Old Man talked about you, you know.”

“Oh, I- may I hug you?”

“You do not need to ask me for permission to do that,” you did not need to be told twice.

Your thoughts were racing. This could not be. You shut your eyes until you saw phosphenes. Opened them again. You were still in Seonghwa’s arms, in that sweet-scented paradise, caressed by a tender flame. All emotions that had been slumbering over the years have fully awoken, and were threatening to come to the surface to rejoice in what could only be called the reclaiming of the self. Your history, your identity that was stored in these four walls was now promised to be yours. Was that not to celebrate?

“Seonghwa… it is your birthday and you are giving me the gift of an infinite number of lifetimes...”

“My gift is seeing you so happy,” you inhaled sharply, and peered at his dark chocolate irises.

“Come on, you cannot be serious.”

“I am more serious than you could imagine. And I hope to keep proving it to you. Day by day. Again, if you let me.”

“I don’t know what to say or do right now. I am a tiny bit overwhelmed... this... this is as if I walked into a magical house, met a magician, and he tapped me on the head with a little wand and here we are, wish granted,”

“I knew I was missing something.”

“What?“

“A wand,” you beamed and floated into bliss, focusing on Seonghwa’s heartbeat, endearingly close to your own both physically, and rhythmically. Right here was beautiful, right this moment was beautiful. The promise and plan was beautiful. But one note of misery remained, one that you were determined to vanquish.

“Seonghwa?”

“Yes?”

“I am a little anxious about something...” he hugged you closer, but instead of it being soothing, it made you want to cry despite the euphoria you were experiencing.

“What is it?”

“What if it goes away?”

“What goes?”

“What if beauty disappears when I go back?”

You knew it was a silly question, you knew that it was all in your head and that you sounded like an absolute desperate fool while asking this, but it was sickening, a lump in your throat that you could not swallow. The first light of love and of freedom, so pure and so unconditional, was addictive and sweet. You did not want to consider its falsities or ponder potential disillusionment. You threw away even the inklings of paranoid suspicion that Seonghwa, too, could join the ranks of those who laced their kind words with malice or with judgement, and might have wanted to play with your feelings, both romantic and historic. At least right here, right now, you wanted to believe in there being someone who could love in both the presence and absence of beauty, whatever any given individual desired to define it to be. You wanted to know that he was on your team, and that this place really was a key to real life wish-fulfilment. Seonghwa’s hand slowly glided down your back, disappeared, and slid down again. In this perpetual motion he silently offered some stability.

“You know it won’t.”

“How?”

“Because you are you. Your soul is beautiful. And if you ever think that the world around you is starting to strike you like the cold winter months, remember that, now, I am just one call away. Always.”

“But it- goodness, sorry,” you were choked up and had to pause. Seonghwa did not make you hurry, instead, he brushed away the strand of hair that was about to get in your eye, and looked at you as though you were his future.

“Don’t apologise for feeling, my angel.”

‘Stop, Hwa, you’re going to make me bawl in a moment,” you exclaimed with a groan, trying to laugh your concerns away. Seonghwa chuckled, but kept holding onto you, rocking on his legs, swaying side to side like the eternal, unstoppable clock that governed your entangled lives.

“Oh no, we don’t want that, do we?” his voice vibrated across his chest, and in turn, struck your heart like a dozen healing melodies. ‘We’, it was now ‘we’, rather than everyone being left to scramble for salvation, against everybody else who surrounded them. You repeated the word in your mind once, and again, and again, until it turned into wind chimes twirling in a waltz with a serene breeze.

“I’d like to smile more with you.”

“I’d like that too. I never get tired of smiling with you,” you pushed your upper body away by a fraction to admire Seonghwa more.

“I am afraid, Seonghwa. You make me so happy. I- I am so happy. But so, so afraid that all of this will vanish.”

“Y/N,” his hands clasped around you, relaxing - a gentle salvation from all dark secrets the coming months undoubtedly contained, “Beauty shall never vanish. Because love is beautiful. There were times when I have been shaken even by the weakest of winds, and times when my breathing was unbearably heavy. One single comment or event... anything at all could turn a bright summer day into a biting winter. Storms shall always remain, even if we try to bid them farewell...”

He waited for you to steady your breaths before continuing, and upon your brief nod, pressed his forehead against yours. His hair tickled your skin the tiniest bit, but it only made you more aware of him, more connected to him. More loved and seen.

“Our pasts and our steps through our years brought us towards each other. And... I am... so, so honoured and so happy that a person like me can bring happiness to your life, and can only hope that I can give you as much love. I am stunned by how we do the little things together, how you ask about me, how you, you wonderful angel, give me love for no reason as if it was only natural,” tears welled up in your eyes, only to be caught by Seonghwa’s thumbs and erased before they could form a river, “Maybe my greatest gift is you, and all the little things that make you, you. Because you are here, in my life, and are part of my world, I am learning the feeling of love again. Now,” he noticed your urgency as you were about to interrupt him, and tapped your nose with his own, “Thanks to you, thanks to us, I am finding beauty. I cherish our past, our spectacular present, and pray for our future to exceed eternity.”

“Seonghwa...”

“Spring comes and goes, but I will always ensure that your heart stays warm. If you will let me.”

“If you will let me do the same,” the gap between you grew smaller and smaller, until was a mere memory and you tasted the coffee and honey, the many sunrises and sunsets to come, the sound of the waves and the rustling of the grass on the cliffs.

The cottage, while it was a real place with its many wonders, was more than that. It was a panacea, a safe haven in one’s mind or a world for those whom one loved. The cottage could be anything, could be anyone, could be anywhere.

And that was truly beautiful.

⋆✧.✧⋆

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strawberrystepmom · 10 months

Text

pairing: Gojo Satoru x F!Reader

word count: 6.8k

about: Gojo is many things but you get to know him best as Satoru through the eyes of the people who see him as something else entirely - nothing but a fellow human being.

contents: Told through three non-linear stories. CW: Reader is drinking alcohol in story 1, discussions of non major character death and marriage in story 2, discussions of trauma with Megumi and food mentions in story 3. Established relationship, reader is a sorcerer and teacher alongside Gojo, reader is referred to as girlfriend and my girl in story 1 and he is referred to as boyfriend. A bit of angst/discussion of losing someone you love in story 2 but otherwise it's mostly silce of life fluff.

notes: Happy early birthday to my Sagittarius superstar! ♡ This isn’t birthday themed but i’ve been working on this for a few weeks and am proud of how it turned out. If you read, thank you and I hope that you enjoy.

“I have this thing tonight and I want you to come.”

Generally when Satoru says something like this you roll your eyes, irritated about the last minute notice he’s infamous for, but his grin was so earnest you said yes without thinking too hard about it.

It’s easy to indulge him no matter how hard you try to deny your tendency to give in to his whims and it’s how you’ve ended up stepping into a bar in a neighborhood you have never been in with his arm slung over your shoulder, the moon hanging high in the sky while the stars twinkle above. The atmosphere is practically buzzing before he enters and it’s even louder when the patrons spot him, various cheers scattered around the room and arms raised in the air.

Clearly, they know him and he knows them.

“Hideki!” He points to a man who cheers. “Takahiro!” He points to another who nods. “I don’t remember your name,” he points to a third man who is already tipsy enough that he simply smiles and shrugs. Alcohol helps but you’re sure that Satoru’s smile and demeanor are half of the reason his worst behavior isn’t held against him by anyone in the small group that is clearly regulars to this bar.

Food sizzles behind the counter and you start to ease into the unfamiliar setting, sliding onto a chair and leaning back to watch the master at work, his natural charm infectious and soon it feels like the dimly lit room is practically thrumming with energy, voices chatting excitedly and other patrons typing texts inviting friends to come see the man, the myth, the legend in person.

GOJO SATORU - DARTS CHAMPION!

His name is written on a napkin and stuck in the wood paneling above the dart board with a dart. Seeing the bold characters when you spot them on the wall, you giggle. It’s so like him to do something like this for no other reason beyond what was likely boredom and inability to sleep one random night.

The patrons buzz amongst themselves about Gojo’s appearance, his sunglasses slung low on his nose while he flashes a grin at anyone who comes near him, and you watch from afar with a far more demure grin of your own. His name clearly carries weight even outside of the confines of the sorcerer community and you hide your smile by looking around the dimly lit bar, sizzling coming from behind the counter while the chefs flip yakitori by the skewer sticking through it. Your mouth waters and a beer is placed in front of you without even asking for it, your eyes darting across the bar only to be met with a wink tossed over his shoulder from your boyfriend.

One of the men he was speaking to sidles up to you and offers a polite bow of his head. Returning his gesture, you lift the beer glass to your mouth and take a sip, raising your eyebrows when he speaks.

“You must be the girl he always talks about.”

Raising your eyebrows, the warmth in your throat from the beer you’re sipping slowly spreads through your face out of slight embarrassment he talks about you at all when you’re out of earshot. You can’t control what he says when the two of you are apart and only whatever God reigns above knows what he has said but it couldn’t have been too terrible considering the man doesn’t look at you lecherously or with anything but curiosity. Smiling, you fan your face and tilt your head toward the grills to play off the heat of embarrassment as heat from cooking.

“I certainly hope so.”

You believe that you are the girl in question but your gut churns at the thought he may be mentioning someone else despite the two of you recently making it very clear you are serious about one another, closing off any lingering attachments elsewhere to focus on your relationship.

“Oh, I know so. He shows us pictures of you all the time.”

Sipping from your beer, you look away briefly, embarrassed about that as well. Gojo has many photos of you, not all of which are meant for other eyes, and you hope that he has enough decency to keep them to himself. Looking to change the subject, you remember the legendary title held by your boyfriend within these walls and shift in your seat to face the man next to you. He’s probably in his 40’s and looks a little worn around the edges but it could also simply be the hazy vibe of the entire bar making him seem that way. Nothing here seems clean, pristine, or perfect - unlike the way Gojo is elevated by his peers - and it amuses you how easily he has found his place amongst it all.

“So, how long has he been coming here to play darts?” Your question makes the man shake his head and shrug. “A few months, maybe. Came out of nowhere one night.”

He gratefully bows his head when a dish with a skewer is passed across the bar toward him by the chef and wordlessly, another is passed in your direction. You accept it with a bow of your own, appreciative of how kind everyone has been despite your status as an outsider. It’s easy to feel outcast when you consider how isolated the work of a sorcerer tends to be, something you’ve lamented to your boyfriend on more than one occasion, so being accepted open armed and without question is almost uncomfortable no matter how well you play it off by saying thank you for the meal and biting through a perfectly charred green onion and humming your approval.

“It’s the craziest thing any of us have ever seen. He hits the bullseye without even looking sometimes.”

Snorting as you chew, you keep it to yourself that he’s in all likelihood using his excellent perception to cheat knowing that the average person doesn’t care about Limitless or Six Eyes or anything remotely similar. They don’t know he has been exceptional since birth, they just know he has a mean wrist and hits his mark every single time. Honestly, you think that may be why he likes it here so much. He doesn’t have to be anything but some guy sipping on a cold soda.

“He has a knack for a lot of things,” you mutter to no one in particular, noticing that your companion has left his seat and walked toward where a crowd has gathered around the dartboard. The show must be about to begin and you settle into your seat, taking another bite and washing it down with a sip from your beer. More people weave past you and Satoru appears almost out of thin air, joking and laughing at the crowd.

“Who thinks I should show my girl over there why I’m the champion?”

The champion, The Strongest, it’s all the same to him as long as he’s the star of the show no matter where he is.

The crowd erupts and turns to glance at you, much to your mortification as you shrink slightly into your seat and another skewer is passed across the bar. You aren’t shy or apprehensive about receiving attention but it’s the insinuation that you are his girl that makes you feel a little uncertain. It’s a big responsibility to love a man with the world in his palm and there have been many times you’ve wondered if you are even up to the task. Will you be enough to keep him happy forever?

He doesn’t give you much time to chase a trail of darkness in your own mind, your attention grabbed when he shouts your name across the bar and flings a dart. It whizzes through the air and hits its designated bullseye with a definitive slam and the bar erupts into applause and hooting.

“That’s not even how you play darts.”

You’re talking to yourself again but simultaneously biting back a smile while Satoru spreads his arms wide and looks around as if to say, “yeah, I did that.” You want so badly to be annoyed by his pomp but his enthusiasm is nothing if not contagious and the crowd grows more rowdy with each second that passes.

“Now it’s her turn to throw one for you!”

As soon as the suggestion is tossed out, you lift the yakitori to your mouth and take a bite to avoid having to walk toward the opposite end of the bar to do just as you’re being asked. He’s a tough act to follow and although your ego isn’t even a speck compared to his, you aren’t sure you can handle the disappointed aww-ing that would come as a result of firing a shot that lands off of the board.

“Come on!”

“Do it for Gojo! Do it for Gojo!”

Just as you’re about to throw your hands up and shake your head, Satoru locks eyes with you and crooks his finger, beckoning you toward him with a smirk that you know you are far too weak for him to deny. Making a show of groaning and rolling your eyes, you trudge across the wooden floors and finally you stand next to him. He throws his arm over your shoulder with an easy chuckle and bends his knees to get low enough to whisper in your ear, voice a rasp.

“Yeah, do it for Gojo.”

He produces a dart between his fingers and you reach to grab it, plucking it between your own to get a feel for it while casting him a sidelong glance that clearly amuses him. You have done this just once or twice at an arcade with darts that do not have the sharpened metal point but this is real and everyone is watching you and you’re doing it for him - the man you love no matter where the two of you are.

You take a deep breath and he removes himself from hovering over your shoulder, giving you ample space to get comfortable. Spreading your feet apart, you make a few motions with your elbow to test the angle you need to throw at and you swear the bar falls completely silent the moment you gnaw your lower lip with your teeth and toss it, hoping some of Satoru’s natural good luck has rubbed off on you.

Instead, the dart clatters to the ground. For a millisecond, you want to follow suit and fall to the ground and hopefully disappear and never come back but without missing a beat, everyone cheers for you anyway. The eruption makes the building feel like it’s shaking, stomping feet and clapping hands coming from every direction while Satoru bundles you in his arms and pulls you against him. Dipping his chin, he presses a kiss against your temple and you sigh, leaning into it.

“Looks like the champion is still undefeated!” He shouts and you elbow him playfully in the ribs. This only draws a wicked little snicker from your boyfriend and he bends down to whisper in your ear again, one hand wrapped around your waist. “Better luck next time, baby.”

The crowd continues to cheer and several patrons take their turn approaching and clapping Gojo on the back. It’s surprising despite knowing his Infinity is off because you’re in his arms but you know it means that he’s comfortable. He trusts everyone here and their intentions, at least for now and that’s good enough for you.

You tap his arm once and he lets you go, his eyes following your every movement as you bend to pick up your dart from the ground and hold it in your palm. Smirking, you turn toward him with a twinkle in your eye that he recognizes all too well and the patrons hold their breath wondering what will happen next.

“I think the champion is counting his chickens before they hatch.”

An ooh spreads across the bar and you grin to match Satoru’s toothy one, holding your arms open to offer yourself as a contender. His glasses slide down his nose a little and he pushes them back up, covering his eyes enough that you won’t be able to tell if his abilities are on or off.

“Finally, a worthy opponent!”

His words send the patrons into another frenzy and you laugh although the only person who can hear it is the man standing closest to you, the one who wants to make you laugh the most. You join his side and he wraps one of his arms around your shoulders again while plucking a dart from his pants pocket and moving to toss it again.

“Good luck,” he mutters while looking down at you with a smirk and he lands yet another shot perfectly without even looking.

It’s always evident when either you or Satoru have a rough day. Your shoulders slump and smiles become half hearted, hiding the frustration simmering inside of you. His need to cling to you becomes more intense than ever, you are the desperate reminder he needs that he’s human after maiming curses, and that’s how you’ve ended up walking hand in hand back to his apartment.

The two of you were lucky enough to make it off campus before sunset and you can count today as one of the handful of times that you’ve been reprimanded by Principal Yaga thanks to a mission that leveled the bottom floor of a local preschool. Thankfully no one was injured but you were reckless and deserved the reminder of the innocent that needed protecting. That’s why you do what you do.

Gojo, well…he is rarely not in trouble but today hurts worse because he got you in trouble, too. The two of you are rarely paired up for missions after the Great Restaurant Destruction of 2012 where he leveled a small family restaurant in Yokohama in an ill guided attempt to impress you but now that three years since then have passed, Yaga insists it’s to keep at least one instructor on campus at all times.

No matter what occurred today, both of you seem a little zapped. His steps are heavier and slower and you’ve been quiet the entire walk to his apartment from the train station. It has been awhile since the two of you have spent any time over here, too busy with work and crashing at your place that is closer to campus than his if you have a night together, but it’s nice to get a change of scenery. His neighborhood is far nicer than your very normal one and you enjoy taking in the sights of how he lives when he’s not with you.

Down the sidewalk, an elderly woman catches your eye and you see her struggling with a few bags. Nudging Satoru’s ribs, he looks down at you and then down the sidewalk and immediately shouts, holding his arms in the air.

“Baba!”

Before you can reprimand Satoru for being impolite and skipping all sense of formality, especially toward an elder, the woman turns her head with a smile and offers a small wave in his direction. She’s slightly hunched in the shoulders likely due to age and her hair is a beautiful pale gray, the fading sunlight catching the hollows of her cheekbones. Your breath catches in your throat as you’re reminded that there’s nothing more beautiful than to grow old, something you pray often that yourself and Satoru are able to do together. Especially after a day like today.

“That’s Mrs. Ikedo, remember?”

You nod at his words, vaguely remembering a conversation the two of you had about Satoru helping her move some things from her home into storage a few months ago. Mrs. Ikedo steps slowly in the direction of the two of you and he takes a few long legged steps toward her and offers his arm to help. She swats it away playfully and you smile watching the interaction, almost identical to how the two of you behave often. How does he so easily find stubborn women to surround himself with?

“Where have you been, young man?”

Witnessing the two of them interact, you wonder how much she knows about the life Satoru leads. Does she know about his abilities? The danger he willingly puts himself in to keep people safe? He doesn’t see it as dangerous, of course, his incredible belief in himself outweighs all other possibilities but there is always a chance he’ll never come home regardless. A breeze blows by as the ominous thought of him never coming back bleeds into your mind and you shiver slightly, pulling your jacket closer to your body.

“You know me, I’m a wanted and busy man.”

She laughs and you smile despite only being on the fringes of the conversation. The sun dips lower in the sky, dusk coloring the world in warm amber, and you’re almost too lost in your thoughts when he joins your side once more and pulls you close to him. He doesn’t caress all of your sadness away but the way his thumb massages your side even through your jacket helps you feel more grounded.

“Baba invited us in for a cup of tea. You up for it?”

It would be impolite to say anything but yes so you nod, letting him lead the way to the home you know belongs to her because it’s four buildings down from his. The longer you’ve been standing here, the more you recall about her because he has mentioned her more than once.

“Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. Ikedo.” You smile warmly in her direction and she walks slowly beside the two of you, her grocery bags now slung over Satoru’s free arm despite him jokingly picking up the lightest one and then asking her to handle the rest.

“You don’t have to be so formal with me, this one sure isn’t.”

She jerks her head in the direction of Satoru who chuckles and waves his arm, the reusable bags hanging from them rustling against his shirt. Your formality is almost always a balm to his brash nature so you too easily fall into the role. Gratefulness warms you against the cool evening air and you lean further into your boyfriend’s side.

“Remember who is carrying your bags,” she pats his forearm and you follow her inside of her home, taking your shoes off at the door and looking around. It resembles the home of every other elderly person you’ve ever been into - covered in various collectibles and photos. Smiling faces and one you can easily recognize as her a long time ago, hair cropped to her chin in a tidy bob.

“Satoru looked at that one and asked me what century I was born in.”

It would be best to reprimand him for rudeness once again but instead, you giggle and rub your palms together to warm them. Winter has arrived and while there isn’t yet snow on the ground, the air feels chilly even indoors and you will welcome a cup of tea between your hands as soon as you are able. Mrs. Ikedo leads you through her home and into the kitchen where Gojo places her shopping bags on the counter, sighing.

“I just remembered I have something for you from Gifu,” he says with a sigh and a stretch, pretending the bags were any kind of a hassle for him. “Is it okay if she stays here while I run home to grab it?”

The woman nods and you fight the urge to be annoyed that he’s leaving you in a stranger’s home no matter how kind she may be. This day keeps going on and on and you are fighting off a pout and an attitude when a warm mug is offered to you with a smile, the lovely scent of green tea filling your nostrils and calming you down.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?”

You laugh, head bobbing in agreement. That is certainly one word to describe him and many have said the same thing to you in the past. He is something, the word takes a life of its own and has a different meaning to everyone who says it. To you, he’s your “sometimes not but currently yes” boyfriend, a man who has known you since you were fifteen years old and still had baby fat making your cheeks chubby, your best friend most of the time but you understand why others struggle to see him that way.

“He knows it, too. Most people say that’s the worst thing about him - he knows who he is and brings him everywhere he goes.”

The woman laughs and ushers you in the direction of the sitting area of her home, inviting you to sit down at a kotatsu that she flicks the switch on to heat up. You will be the last person to ever turn down the opportunity to warm up and you kneel on the ground, holding your mug against your legs that are tucked beneath you.

“I was surprised when he told me he’s a teacher.” You nod again, understanding that this surprises many people that the mouthiest man in the room has apparently been entrusted to create future well adjusted adults. “I figured he would be a model or something judging by the size of him. What do you feed him?”

“It always surprises people when he tells them that he teaches but he really has a way with the kids.” You respond with a giggle, sipping your tea as you finish speaking and letting the warmth seep through you. The strain of your shoulders starts to relax and you lean back, comfortable. “He keeps things fun for them so they don’t realize they’re learning most of the time.”

She hums and nods.

“He brought that Hakari over here last year because he told me the boy needed to learn a little hard work.”

That’s an amusing sentiment from someone who doesn’t work very hard himself, you think, but you remember the issues he had with Hakari last year and how only a few of them resolved themselves going into his second year and now he’s your problem - attitude and all. Despite his hands off approach to work, he is a good kid deep down and you know the support of the man the sorcerer community basically views as a god probably helped bolster his confidence. That’s what makes Satoru so good at what he does - the weight that his praise carries. All people dream of being told they’re doing a good job by the star in their field.

“He was right about that. Hakari is my student now and it must have helped him a little bit, he shows up to class three days a week now instead of one.”

She grins at you and sips from her tea, settling beneath the warmth of the kotatsu with a contented sigh.

“You’re a teacher too, I recall Satoru telling me. You seem more suited to the role than he does.” She nods and sips again, placing the cup in front of her when she’s finished. “A lot more nurturing.”

It always embarrasses you a little bit to know that Gojo talks about you when the two of you are apart. That’s not to say that you don’t talk about him because you do. In fact, you gush. Your sisters and friends get tired of hearing about it during the good times and put you on temporary bans against talking about him at all. It feels more vulnerable when it’s him doing the talking, though.

“Thank you for saying that. I’m glad I get to work with him, he’s definitely one of the best parts of the job even on bad days like today.”

A comfortable silence falls between the two of you for a moment and you know she’s appraising you but you aren’t sure on what criteria. Are you slouching? You’re certain that the mascara you put on this morning is likely flaking beneath your eyes by this point and you look a mess but you doubt she’d care too much about that kind of thing.

“Would you take some advice from a nosy old lady?”

She sure is funny. You find yourself laughing at her again, nodding gratefully. You are warm and relaxed and you can see why he has made friends with this woman.

“Of course. All of the best wisdom comes from nosy old ladies.”

Sighing, she leans forward and makes a face while moving her legs.

“This cold…terrible for my joints,” she laments while settling back in. You sip your tea and watch patiently, scooting closer to the warmth of the kotatsu yourself.

“He loves you.” You choke on the mouthful of tea you were swallowing and she chuckles while you wipe the corners of your mouth and cough. “The person you want to spend the night with after a bad day is the person you love. Don’t push him away or punish him for not understanding everything yet, he has a lot to learn too.”

You’re shocked by the wisdom and you blink at her dumbly. Words aren’t coming to you easily and she can tell, smiling kindly and watching you grip your mug for dear life.

“Give him time. He’ll grow to be the man you’re married to for 70 years.” She nods toward the wall behind you and turning your head, you gasp to see a portrait of Mrs. Ikedo and who you are assuming is the now gone Mr. Ikedo by her side, matching grins in wedding kimonos. It’s overwhelming to be compared to a couple that clearly had so much love in it and you blink tightly, willing yourself not to cry and embarrass your boyfriend in front of his friend.

“Take it from me, the ones who need a little patience are the ones you have the most fun with.”

Sniffling, you nod and sip from your tea again. You hope that she won’t hold it against you that you’re struggling to find the words of appreciation for her sentiment. Blessedly, you hear her front door open and Satoru hums while taking his shoes off and entering her home, whining when he sees the two of you are comfortable without him.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he mutters sarcastically while joining your side, kneeling and sliding a decorative box across the floor in the direction of his friend. You lean your head on his bicep and he smiles, glad to be touching you in any capacity. You are his comfort and his Infinity always off when you’re near, something that the woman across from you likely has no idea about.

There is a wall between him and the world and you are what reminds him of what exists between the two places. You make him more..human.

“If you brought me another set of tea cups I’m going to throw them at you,” she mutters while opening the box but a delighted grin quickly replaces her teasing frown when she sees a ceramic frog inside the box. Lifting it out, she shows it off and you smile.

“Another for the collection. You know me too well.”

Satoru shrugs and you see it rather than feel it, making a note to ask him a few more questions about just how close he and the widow are when the two of you get home.

At 8 am on a Saturday, a knock rings through the Fushiguro children’s apartment and Megumi rises from where he sits on the floor reading with a groan, his sister scrambling to get up behind him to see who could possibly be visiting them this early. He would assume it’s Gojo but usually he just invites himself in so it has to be…

You.

Megumi opens the door wide enough you can see his eyes and you wiggle your fingers in a wave. The morning sun shines behind you and his sister appears behind him and says your name excitedly. Suddenly he feels annoyed and shy and a million other things he can’t explain because he’s twelve and the world is nothing short of frustrating at that age anyway.

He almost got into a fight at school this week and that’s why you’re here. Satoru is off in Iwate on a mission and as his guardian, he received the phone call while “decimating a den of second grade curses” (his words) and debated even telling you about it. His concern for Megumi outweighs all else though and he asked you last night to check up on them today, just to see how he seems. Tsumiki is always the angel of the household and right now she’s pushing past her brother to let you in even though he’s reluctant. He knows you must know, that big mouthed overgrown idiot-

“Good morning, I’m here to make you breakfast!”

Megumi’s mean thoughts cut themselves off when you offer to cook and he moves enough that the door can open, letting you slip through a narrow crack with a smile. He knows you’re a capable cook and he’d be silly to shoo you off when you’re offering so kindly.

“What’s for breakfast?” He asks as you toe your shoes off and enter the apartment, taking a deep breath along the way. It’s clean as always, the futons are folded, it’s small but cozy and you smile seeing pictures of Satoru and the two of them hanging on the walls. Megumi can pretend he doesn’t like to be around him but there are many signs that point to otherwise, a little smile evident on his face in each framed image.

“I was going to ask you the same thing! What do you want?”

Breezing through the living room, both of them follow after you.

“We usually have rice with a fried egg on top,” Tsumiki chimes in while she trounces to your side. She’s almost taller than you are and it amazes you how time flies. It wasn’t all that long ago you were braiding her hair and polishing her fingernails for her, her brother shyly requesting you paint his thumbnails alongside hers.

“I’m not asking what you usually have, silly, I’m asking what you want to have.”

You raise yourself up on the balls of your feet slightly to reach high enough to affectionately rub the top of her head and it makes her giggle, the two of you finally making it through the kitchen where her brother is already waiting.

“Depending on what you have in the cupboards, I can make just about anything,” you offer with a hum at the end, wondering who will offer up a suggestion first. You know the two of them are shy about their needs and often pretend they don’t have any lest they concern their guardian or anyone else he has around to help out with the situation but you try to encourage them to speak up when they can. They’re both good kids; wonderful, even, if you consider the situation they’re in.

“How about something fancy? Oh, I can make some French toast.”

Despite himself, the surly almost teenager smiles and shrugs. His sister practically dances out of the kitchen, walking back toward the small living room space of their accommodations, her unabashed sweetness the perfect foil to her brother whose mouth remains in a flat line while his green eyes scan over you, hunting for ill intent he will never find.

“Why are you here?”

You look up from combing through cabinets to find even the most basic ingredients and make a note to give Satoru a piece of your mind for keeping the kitchen mostly stocked with convenience food rather than what they need to make meals, meeting Megumi’s uncertain glance. He rests against the counter and for a moment you realize that he is no longer the unruly haired child the two of you used to take for the occasional picnic and day at the museum with Tsumiki. He’s growing up and you feel guilty for making things confusing for him thanks to your admittedly confusing dynamic with the man who more or less cares for him, his de facto big brother.

Megumi and Tsumiki both have experienced a lot in their young lives and all of the attempts everyone in Satoru’s life have made to help them have a normal childhood cannot fix the pain of loss and the anxiety of not knowing what comes next. Neither of them are apt to open up about all of it, satisfied long ago with the thought that their parents ran off together and never returned, and part of you hopes they never find out the truth. There is safety in ignorance and what have these last four years been besides an attempt to keep them as safe as two children can be?

Stepping away from the cupboard, you turn to face him and lean your own hip against the countertop, attempting to meet him on his level.

“I’m here because the two of you got good grades and I wanted to celebrate with you. Is that okay?” His skepticism practically wafts off of him and you snort. “We got good grades three months ago.”

You sigh, knowing you’ve been caught in an admittedly bad lie but you don’t bother to elaborate the real reason knowing he’s well aware. Changing the subject is probably the worst way to handle it but hey, you aren’t here to discipline him so you assume the role you’re better at and that’s comfort.

“Can’t I just do something nice for you two? You don’t have to earn everything.”

A shadow falls over his face and you notice it, leaning forward on your elbows slightly to look at him. He is a boy with big emotions even if he hides them to appear stoic on the surface, something you have worried for years that Satoru is not equipped enough to handle given he rarely blinks at his own distress before compartmentalizing it. There’s more than meets the eye for the enigmatic man who ties all of your lives together but children aren’t always the most capable of picking up on that, seeing him as an overly happy nuisance rather than someone who covers up anguish with smiles.

“People have been doing things for me my whole life even if I’m not acting my best.”

Tilting your head, you wordlessly ask him to elaborate if he would like to and he sighs. The way his shoulders slump gives away anything he’s trying to hide and the nurturing part of you fights the urge to make him spill knowing it would surely backfire. You’re aware he has mixed emotions about his relationship with Gojo thanks to the few times you’ve been able to get him to open up enough to talk about how he feels indebted to the man for saving his sister more so than saving him but that’s a big load to carry for a twelve year old. To keep things as light as you can, you take a card from Gojo’s book and play it off as nothing, propping your chin up with your fist and keeping your elbows on the counter.

“So? It’s not like they’re asking you to pay them back. We all have times where we are not our best.”

The unspoken part of your statement is that Megumi knows he will eventually have to become a sorcerer someday but given his abilities, it was inevitable no matter whose care he came into. Perhaps this is some form of payment for the guardianship he has been given over the years but you don’t believe that Gojo sees it that way on more than a surface level, a debt paid with flesh is hardly one that the cornerstone of sorcerer society would care to collect on from a child.

“Listen,” you use the weighted silence in the kitchen to your advantage and keep your tone low and even while speaking. You’re sure that if Tsumiki were listening that she would hear you anyway but you don’t think too hard about it. “All anyone wants is for you and your sister to be safe and happy. We stop in because we care about you and want you to know that you always have people on your side.”

Watching him carefully, you hope that your words bring him some comfort and you swear that a trace of a blush comes across his cheeks. The tips of his ears are red which always gives him away and you reach to pinch his cheek, to which he responds by slapping at your hand and groaning, scrunching his nose.

“We love our little Megumi, what can we say?”

He rolls his eyes but something about him feels definitively lighter so you feel as though your job is done. You open your mouth to speak again but you’re stopped when you hear the front door open, Megumi looking over his shoulder to see who could possibly be here.

“Pancakes!”

The shout comes from the front door and you recognize the voice immediately. A smile comes across your lips and Tsumiki stands up in the living room and rushes to the door to greet Satoru who just arrived at the apartment with still hot breakfast in takeout bags dangling from his arms.

Megumi rolls his eyes but his usual frown is replaced by the hint of a smile. He leans against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest and watches his sister greet Gojo gleefully, already thanking him profusely while he heads toward the kitchen to see you standing there. He raises his eyebrows, feigning surprise, and you roll your eyes as he holds up his arms and shows off the bags.

“Celebrating the two little geniuses in apartment 9-A!”

You nod and he sticks his tongue out at you while he passes, shimmying past Megumi to place the bags on the counter next to you. Wordlessly, you try to indicate that the smart boy has already picked up on the lie and to not proceed with it by widening your eyes and shaking your head but he misses the cue.

“I had the same idea.”

Megumi scoffs and lifts himself away from where he leans, stepping quietly toward the enticing smell of a fancy breakfast looking between the two of you while gathering plates from the cupboard to his right.

“Yeah that’s because you guys are exactly alike.”

Tsumiki opens her mouth to reprimand him for being rude but you shake your head, smiling as you lean over toward her brother.

“Yeah but which one of us do you like better?”

This finally draws a chuckle from the usually sullen boy and you nudge him playfully, a shy smile on his face that he dips his chin to try and hide. The curve of his cheek gives him away and you decide to leave him be for now until he leans in and fake whispers, plates between his palms.

“You but don’t tell him.”

“I heard that!”

Feigning offense, Satoru scoffs and holds his hand to his t-shirt clad chest. You smile up at him and he winks down at you, the two of you aware that the Fushiguro siblings are watching your every move. Megumi pushes past you to begin unpacking the bags after handing the plates to Tsumiki who giggles and leaves the three of you alone.

“So I’m not in trouble?” Gojo sighs and claps Megumi on the back, shaking his head. “No but if you start a fight you better win it or else you will be.”

You gasp and smack his bicep with the back of your hand, frowning while Megumi genuinely laughs and starts opening containers that smell so good it makes all of your mouths water. The discussion isn’t over but it’s paused for now and that’s something all of you can accept.

“What? I’m just saying,” Satoru argues while picking up a container and heading toward the set table. “Haven’t I always taught you to finish fights that you start?”

Megumi nods, following after the man with another container. Their relationship is unconventional but he can’t deny that he has learned not just that but much more from him. Each of you sit and you notice Megumi perk up a bit, Satoru using his chopsticks to put pancakes on each of the plates.

“To winning fights!”

“Hey, I thought it was to good grades! And he didn’t even fight!” Tsumiki interjects and you laugh, hugging her shoulders. Her brother scoffs at the white haired man next to him while he pours criminal amounts of syrup over his plate and for a moment, you think that maybe this arrangement is more comfortable for them than it seems.

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #kendall writes #satoken

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white-00-7 · 5 months

Text

The fallen

Lucifer x reader

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Part 2 here

Third person pov:

After Charlie and Vaggie helped Y/n to change her clothes and to tend to her wound they leave her alone. After half an hour Lucifer came in with a bowl of water and a towel. He sits in the chair next to the bed and place the towel on her forehead after squeezing the water out of it. All the demons and angels in the building had questions in their minds. Why is she down here? What will happen from now on? Will she wake up?

Minutes turned to hours and then in days. The angel didn't woke up in a week. Her wounds were healed and her complexion looked better but she still didn't woke up. Lucifer, Charlie and Vaggie took turns to take care of her. Their hope started to get small as her eyes stayed closed. It was Charlie's turn to watch over her when she saw her fingers and eyes move. She quickly ran and screamed to her father that Y/n is waking up. They run out of their souls back to find Y/n sitting up on the bed looking out the window and humming.

Y/n pov:

She slowly opened her eyes but close then again as the red light in the room hurts her eyes a little. After some time she opened then completely and sit up looking around. Her clothes are changed, her wounds are healed. She humms and look out the window to see she didn't dream. She was in hell. When she hears the door she slowly takes her eyes off the scenery outside and look at the people who entered her room. They approached her slowly to not scare her and she smiled at them l. "Hi my little morningstar. And to you to my second morningstar. Vaggie. Why do you guys look so haggard? Did heaven came to fight while I was sleeping a little?" She ask softly then laugh at their expressions. Charlie looks at her and smile wholeheartedly "you were out for 2 weeks y/n. We started to feel helpless. I'm so glad you woke up" said Charlie and wipe some tears from her eyes. Lucifer took her hand and sigh in relief to find her skin cold but warm in the same time. She smiled softly as squeeze the king's hand as she looks at them. "Who can help me get out of this bed? I feel stuffed in this room. You said to weeks but for me it was a good night rest. I was working in human world." She sits up still holding Lucifer hand and get up slowly. She snap her fingers and her clothes changed in a beautiful liliac color with musical notes at then hem of the dress and her hair was in a loose braid with stars in it.

She was looking at the little Samael and his creations. She places a golden duck made of glass on his desk while he was out and a card with 'happy birthday little morningstar'. After that every year she only goes to his house to place his gift and card next to it then leave.

She looks at Lucifer and says embarrassed "C..can I hug you little morningstar? I wanted to do it for so long. I couldn't give you my presents for so many years. I can at least give you a hug now"

Third person pov:

Lucifer was looking at her and nods as he hugs her tightly remembering about the glass duckies she gived him. Now it's all clear. The same pet name and the same warm and comfortable smell. Y/n looks at the 2 female demons and open one arm for them to. Charlie run to her arms and Vaggie followed her. The galaxy angel hugs them with her arms and wings feeling like all her work was worth it.

#lucifer x reader #hazbin lucifer #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar #x reader #hazbin hotel #haz #lucifer loves ducks

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ofmdrecaps · 1 month

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08/16 - 17/2024 Daily OFMD Recap

TLDR; Taika Waititi's Birthday!; David Jenkins; GalaxyCon San Jose: Vico, Con, Nathan, Kristian; David Fane; Samba Schutte; Madeleine Sami; Nat Torres; Erroll Shand; Cohen Holloway; Love Notes;

== Taika Waititi ==

Okay so I'm drastically late because yet again my life has become nutzoid, but Happy VERY belated birthday to the main man Taika Waititi! His birthday was August 16th, and he spent it with lots of friends and loved ones <3

Lots of videos! I couldn't include them all here, so you can see them all in one place on the Repo.

Sources: VasJMorgan's / Rita Ora's Instagram

== David Jenkins ==

David shared a tattoo that one of our crewmates shared his way!

Source: David Jenkins Instagram Stories

== GalaxyCon San Jose: Vico, Con, Kristian, and Nathan ==

Since there was so much footage, I'm going to try and break this up into two parts so I can fit in some other news!

Our friends over at @adoptourcrew were kind enough to live tweet the panel, here's those tweets below:

As you can see there was some clowning going on as well! Next up is fan shots shared on GalaxyCon San Jose or the cast member's instagrams! I'll try to get the original photo links in but if not I apologize! Let me know if I need to update them!

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Visit San Jose (@visitsanjose)

instagram

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by GalaxyCon (@galaxyconlive)

instagram

And Nathan was out with Con on his birthday!

Source: Galaxy Con San Jose's Instagram / Nathan/Con/Kristian/Vico's Instagrams

== David Fane ==

It's been a busy week for David! So glad to see him smiling!

Source: David Fane's Instagram

== Samba Schutte ==

Samba met up with his first drama teacher and sent a lovely message!

My very first drama teacher, the man who gave me the confidence to give my dream a shot, who helped me believe that I have something to offer as an artist. I owe him a lot, the ground that helped my seeds grow into a garden, and an amazing human and humanitarian to boot. So lovely to see you again, my dear Eugene van Erven. Check out his books! 23 years and going❤️✨🙏🏾

Source: Samba Schutte's Instagram

== Erroll Shand ==

Erroll is on Episode 5 of The Clearing, playing Henrik! You can check it out on DisneyPlus in Australia-- I tried looking for it on Disney Plus US but no luck. If you know of a better way to watch please let me know!

Source: Erroll Shand's Instagram

== Nat Torres ==

One of our fantastic writers, Nat Torres posted some quick pics for the end of summer. I had to get their dogs in there because of reasons.

Source: Natalie Torres' Instagram

== Madeleine Sami ==

Mads and her Co-star of Double Parked, Antonia Prebble talking life <3

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by The Breeze Auckland (@thebreezeauckland)

instagram

Source: TheBreezeAuckland Instagram

== Cohen Holloway ==

Pop Pop pops up so irregularly, so I had to share him being mentioned in this post by Costume Designer: Lissy Turner, tagged for a BTS picture of the film Lowdown Dirty Criminals.

Source: Cohen Holloway's Instagram

== Love Notes ==

Okay Lovelies, apologies, gonna need to have the fan spotlights in the next post because there was just so much going on with the Cast and Crew these past few days! There's still more to show, and I'll work on getting tonight's recap up as well here in a little bit. I truly hope you're being kind to yourself this weekend lovelies. It's been so busy lately, and I know sometimes life like to pop up and kick us in the tush and make things harder -- so remember that you're doing the best you can with what you have. There's enough shame in this world, try to remember not to add to it for yourself, because you deserve grace, especially when things continue to be tough. Sending so much love crew.

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A post shared by REALEST® (@realestintentions)

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inevitably-johnlocked · 2 months

Note

Hi!! Love your acc, it's really useful for fics <33 I was wondering if you knew any fics that elaborated on the morgue scene (the one where john beat up shrelock) bc i always felt it was very brushed over in the series and frankly i think it needed to be elaborated on more.

Hey Nonny!

Ahh, yeah, I think I've been asked this a few times and I've just not ever posted a proper list. So because I need a list for this week, here's all of my TLD-adjacent fics I found doing a tag-search AND from old replies to other asks! Hope you enjoy, and add your own if you have them, friends!

TLD FIX-ITS / AFTERMATH of TLD

BOOKMARKS

Bridges by sussexbound (M, 6,602 w., 1 Ch || Post-TLD / S4 Fix It, Love Confessions, Mending Relationships, Moving Back In, Pining Sherlock, POV Sherlock, Past Abuse, Shaving) – The silence between them is deafening, interrupted only by the hum of the traffic outside, and the soft click-clunk of the plastic cups Rosie is playing with on the floor beside them. It is the first time they have been alone together, since Sherlock’s birthday. It’s only been two days, but it feels huge, important, like there is a precarious bridge stretched out before them both that they need to at least attempt to traverse.

The In-Between by blueink3 (M, 10,679 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Parentlock, Fix-It Fic, Canon Compliant) – Beginning in a Chinese restaurant and ending at the bottom of a well, what about the moments we didn’t see?

Drawn to Stars by Silvergirl (E, 109,272 w., 60 Ch. || S4 Compliant to TLD / TFP Doesn’t Exist, Sherlock’s Italian Adventure, Sherlock/OC and Johnlock, Jealous John, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, First Kiss/Time, Idiots in Love, 3 Part Story, Slow Burn, Inexperienced Sherlock, Bottom Sherlock, Introspection, Multiple Alternating First and Third Person POV, Separation and Reconciliation, Emotional Love Making, Love Confessions via Letters, Angst with Happy Ending) – After the Culverton Smith case Sherlock is clean, working, and looking for a romantic partner—since John has told him that’s what he needs. Shame John didn’t mention he was interested in that role himself, before Sherlock went off to Rome with a gorgeous Italian copper to try to fall in love and become a complete human being. Part 1 of the Drawn to Stars series

MARKED FOR LATER

toasting to grief by slylyaddictedtostories(T, 181 w., 1 Ch. || Poetry || Post T6T / TLD, Missing Scene) – John mussing over a drink about (missing) Sherlock and everything (he) they lost

Reconciliation by standbygo (T, 221 w, 1 Ch. || TLD Missing Scene, 221B Ficlet, Fix it Fic) – A missing scene from S4E2, "The Lying Detective". The hug was beautiful, but I wanted to add to it. My mother once said to me that you can forgive on your own, but you need to reconcile together.

My Heart Beats For You by jalexandria (M, 1,212 w., 1 Ch. || Hanahaki Disease AU || TLD Divergence, Angst, Non-Canonical Character Death, Sad Ending, Drugs, Pining Sherlock, Hurt John, Death Fic) – Things go very, very badly when John makes a horrible mistake.

Sherlock chooses himself by thewallflower07 (G, 2,035 w., 1 Ch. || Post TLD / No TFP, No Parentlock, Dialogue Heavy, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock and Feelings, John is Not Good, Angst) – Sherlock is a physical and emotional mess after John beats him bloody during the Culverton Smith case. He visits his therapist, who tells him to be selfish for the first time in his life. When John appears with his daughter and asks him to move back, Sherlock has to make a very difficult decision.

Reasons Wretched and Divine by Anyawen (G, 2,218 w., 1 Ch. || TLD Fix-It, John Has Issues, Admissions, Apologies, Explanations, Conversations, Emotions, Injury Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Fic, Drama & Angst, Declarations, Suicide, Assault, Marriage, Death, Drug Use, Guilt) – In the aftermath of Smith's arrest, John faces his anger and his regrets, exposing his vulnerabilities to Sherlock. They find ways to heal together.

Antiseptic by LipstickDaddy (G, 3,599 w., 1 Ch. || S4 / TLD Fix-It, Unseen Moments, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional / Psychological Abuse, Mutual Pining, Love Confessions, Protective Mycroft, Protective Greg, BAMF Mrs Hudson, Requited Unrequited Love) – What did John hear on that secret tape from Culverton’s hospital?

It Is What It Is by SpookyPorg (T, 3,874 w., 1 Ch. || TLD Fix It, Angst, Hug Scene, Love Confessions, Pining, Happy Ending, Making Out, Grief, First Kiss / Time) – After the very traumatizing events at the hospital, and John's heroic last-minute rescue, Sherlock is recovering at 221B. Doing his part to keep Sherlock under strict supervision, John pays a visit to his old flat for the first time in months. Reconciliation leads to confession.

The Tragedy Of Us by LipstickDaddy (G, 3,898 w., 2 Ch. || Post TLD, Angst, Romance, Tragedy, Hurt / Comfort, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Miscommunication, Requited Unrequited Love, Ambiguous / Open Ending) – John reflects on his relationship with Sherlock while the man is convalescing in hospital— twice.

wires Series by highfunctioningsociopath (M, 5,000+ w. across 2 works || Series WiP || Post T6T / TLD, Angst, Hurt / No Comfort, Loneliness, Mind Palace, Survivor Guilt, Mental Health Issues, Drug Addiction / Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Sherlock POV, Missing Scenes, Introspection, Psychological Trauma, Abusive Relationships, Grey Mary, Withdrawal, Depression, Self-Esteem Issues) – The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, after all. It just so happens to be lined with self-destruction.

I Want to Hear You Say It by LollipopCop (M, 8,000 w., 2 Ch. || TLD / S4 Fix It, Suicidal Thoughts, Heavy Angst, Love Confessions, Suffocation, Crying, First Kiss, Pining Sherlock, Happy Ending) – Instead of making Sherlock say he doesn't want to die, Culverton Smith forces Sherlock to repeatedly confess that he loves John before his death.

The Waning of Withdrawal by LoloLolly (E, 8,248 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TLD Fix-It, First Kiss, First Time, Mentions of Abuse, Mentions of Alcoholism, Mentions of Drug Addiction, Sexual Identity, Panic Attacks, PTSD, Sherlock's Scars, Bed Sharing, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Grief, Guilt) – Sherlock holds a weeping John in his arms and… does something that will forever change things between them. For better or worse. He fears the latter.

Slowly Suffocating by meet_me_in_samarra (M, 9,500 w., 7 Ch. || TLD Fix It, Suffocation, Hurt / Comfort, Whump) – Getting suffocated took some time. Enough time for Sherlock to ponder what went wrong. Hopefully also long enough for John to arrive and rescue him. Culverton Smith applied more pressure, impatient to turn Sherlock into a dead thing. A continuous story written for Whumptober 2023, following the 31 prompts for each day.

And Then There Were Two by NimWallace (T, 10,194 w., 20 Ch. || Post S4, Mutual Pining, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Angst, Grief / Mourning, Mystery, Cults) – It's quiet at Baker Street. Too quiet. It's been a year since Mary died, but only a few months since the events of the Final Problem, and Sherlock and John have fallen into a state of despairing and monotony. So when a case involving a vicious cult on the English Country side appears, they quickly jump to go undercover as Sean Harmony and John Wales. But how can Sherlock keep a delicate John from breaking? And how can John come to terms with his love for his detective? Most importantly, what really happened the night of the Final Problem?

The Death and Resurrection of a Beekeeper by shiplocks_of_love (M, 12,922 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || TLD / S4 Fix-It Fic, Sherlock’s Retirement, Sussex / Seaside, Brief Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Emotional Trauma, Angst with Hopeful Ending, Estranged Friends to Lovers, Partial Epistolary, No Eurus) – Sherlock escapes London for a quiet, solitary life in Sussex, exhausted after the whirlwind of drama following Mary’s death. One day, a letter arrives.

A Midnight Clear by khorazir (T, 13,120 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas-Carol Inspired || Post S3/Post-TLD / TFP Doesn't Exist, Christmas, Angst, Fluff, Pining, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Implied / Referenced Drug Use, Magical Realism) – It’s Christmas Eve, and Sherlock is working. Because that’s what he does. He doesn’t need Christmas, or holiday cheer, or even company. He’s fine on his own, thank you very much – until a series of strange encounters on his way back to Baker Street makes him reconsider.

The Ashes on the Ground by 221Beloved (M, 13,545+ w., 5/22 Ch. || WiP || Post-TLD, Miscommunication, Pining, Depression, Angst with Happy Ending, POV Sherlock) –What happens after? After the fire has burnt down and left nothing but ashes? Roughly two and a half years after what happened at Smith's hospital, things have settled. But have they really? Or is it all still hovering. And what if someone whirls up the ashes again? An old acquaintance. Can something new arise from cold ashes? Something stronger?

Entitled by Ranowa (T, 14,023 w., 2 Ch. || TLD Timeline, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Paternal Lestrade, John’s a Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Mess) – Lestrade draws a line, because he knows Sherlock won't.

Hope is a Subtle Glutton by isitandwonder (E, 15,753 w., 1 Ch. || No Johnlock, Sherlock/OMC, Racism, Aftermath of Violence, Happy Ending) – This is a story about Sherlock Holmes finally finding love and the happiness he deserves - just not with John Watson.

Angry Men by FawnHickory (M, 16,975 w., 16 Ch. || WiP || Post TLD Morgue Incident, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Self Examination, Big Brother Mycroft, Past Abuse, Sad Sherlock) – Greg gave John some things to consider in Destroy Him. John faces some uncomfortable truths about himself. Part 2 of the A Good Man and An Angry Man

What It Can Be by amaruuk (T, 18,310 w., 1 Ch. || Post TLD, Healing Friendship, Mutual Pining, First Kisses, Cake) – "Which is why we're all taking it in turns to keep you off the sweeties." With the help of his friends, Sherlock is healing from drug overuse and physical injuries. He is also trying to salvage his friendship with John with the hope that, perhaps, they can make it something more.

Hot Water Bottle by khorazir (T, 18,436 w., 1 Ch. || Post TLD / TFP Doesn’t Exist, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Communication, Demisexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Autumn, Bed Sharing, Developing Relationship, First Kiss) – A case in one of the remotest corners of the Lake District, a storm, an inn, a broken boiler, a room with two beds but only one hot water bottle, and two men who have a lot to sort out between them – all of this makes for a night to remember.

Contrition by sussexbound (E, 18,556+ w., 5/? Ch. || WiP || Post-S4/TFP Didn’t Happen, Rosie Doesn’t Exist, T6T/TLD is Canon, Year After TLD, Light BDSM, Soft Dom Sherlock / Sub John, Punishment, Light Bondage, Light Masochism / No Sadism, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Tenderness, Aftercare, Forgiveness, Edging, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Mutual Masturbation, Hand Jobs, Anal Fingering, Rimming, Frottage, Communication, Sexual Negotiation, Sexual Tension, Spanking, Head Injury, Anal Sex) – “You’ve been tense ever since we got back, itching for a fight, all your usual tells, but why…?” The truth strikes like lightning. “Oh… Oh! You’re not angry at me. Not this time. Well—maybe a little. But mostly, mostly you’re angry at yourself. Why? For falling behind? For not being there in time. For not taking Wilkes down fast enough?” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t really matter.” He lifts a finger to his swollen cheek and cut eyebrow. “You blame yourself for this. And you offered to fix it. But I wouldn’t let you, and… But that’s not what you really want, anyway, is it?” John looks stunned, a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming lorry, frozen, waiting for the lethal strike. “You don’t want me to let you help. At least not right away. No. What you want, what you really want is—punishment.”

The Nearer Your Destination by Silvergirl (E, 18,949 w., 6 Ch. || Post-TLD, Established Relationship, Wedding, Venice Honeymoon, Parentlock, Jealousy) – After a December wedding, Sherlock takes John to Venice for a February honeymoon. It's absolutely perfect, up until the moment he hears John growl, "What the hell is Zanardi doing here?" Part 4 of the Drawn to Stars series

Repentance by LollipopCop (E, 19,782 w., 2 Ch. || Post-TLD/Post S4 Fix It, Not TFP-Compliant, John-Centric, Angst, Self-Loathing, Hugging, First Kiss/Time, Rosie, Love Confessions, Crying, John’s Issues) – John cannot understand why Sherlock even wants to look at him after the horrible way he acted, and his guilt is destroying him. Why doesn’t Sherlock snap at him, scream at him, treat him the way he deserves?

The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Misfortune by Sherlockwatsonholmesblog (M, 20,455+ w., 4/7 Ch || Post TLD, Five Stages of Grief, Estranged Friends to Lovers, Implied / Referenced Suicide, Self Hatred, Slow Burn, Emotional Trauma, Recovery) – There seems to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance, for they have loved each other immensely. However, Some Days, love isn’t enough. Sherlock and John persevering, as always.

Becoming Us (A reunion in three parts) by addicted2hugh (E, 23,207 w., 3 Ch. || S4 Fix It, Pining Sherlock, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Protective John, First Time, POV Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Light Parentlock, Bottom Sherlock, Self-Harm, Drug Addiction, Sherlock is a Mess) – After watching Mary's last message, Sherlock and John try to be the "Baker Street Boys" again. Rebuilding the destroyed flat is the easy part. Will they manage to rebuild their friendship as well? And what did Mary mean when she said: "And if I'm gone, I know what you could become."?

Danger Nights by khorazir (T, 23,591 w., 3 Ch. || Post-TLD, Friends to Lovers, Mentioned Parentlock, Pining, First Kiss/Time, Winter, Folklore, Wales, Spooky Elements, Bed Sharing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Spooky Elements) – According to folklore, the nights between Christmas and Twelfth Night are the most dangerous of the year. During them, the Wild Hunt rides, and ghosts and demons come out to haunt unsuspecting and misbehaving folk. An investigation of a series of strange occurrences leads John and Sherlock to Hay-on-Wye on the Welsh Marches, to face ghosts weird and ancient as well as close and personal – and perhaps to start the new year on a more hopeful note than the previous one.

the silence of your words by dyingofangst (E, 27,326 w., 6 Ch. || Post TLD / TFP Isn’t Canon, Case Fic, Estranged Friends to Lovers, Kidnapping, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Bed Sharing, Night Conversations, Self-Esteem Issues) – Three years after John decided to distance himself from Sherlock, Rosie is kidnapped and John asks for Sherlock's help. But they're not what they used to be, and even if they learned how to heal on their own, there are still many things left unsaid between them, things they'll have to put aside to focus on finding Rosie, while both hoping it's not too late.

under the burden of solitude by subtext-is-my-division (E, 27,947 w., 5 Ch. || S3/S4 Fix It/Post TLD, Angst, Grief/Mourning, First Kiss, Mentions of Rape, Hurt/Comfort, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Fantasies, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Suicidal Thoughts Mentions, Five and Ones) – Five times they shared a bed platonically, and one time they didn't.

Entangled by missselene (E, 29,044 w., 13 Ch. || Original Male Character, One-Sided Johnlock, Online Dating, Lonely Sherlock, Dancing, First Kiss, Oblivious John, Dev. Rel., Jealous John) – Sherlock knows John will never return his feelings. So what if he decided to look for love elsewhere? Part 1 of the Sherlock & Sanjay series

Lessons in Astronomy Series by CaitlinFairchild (E, 31,164 w. across 3 stories || Angst, Post S3, Grief/Mourning, Mildly DubCon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Physical Abuse, Oral/Anal Sex, Unrequited Love, Pining, Sibling Incest (No Actual Holmescest), Masturbation, Accidental Voyeurism, Drug Addiction, Romance, Dev. Rel., Trust Issues, Happy Ending) – In a different time, a more naive time, Sherlock thought he was the star and John the satellite, circling him in worshipful orbit. He knows now that was never true. John was always the sun, bright and fierce, and Sherlock was the pale, cold moon, his only heat coming from the light he reflected. And then his sun went into supernova. Moriarty said he would burn him and he has, and John is the fire, his rage and grief incinerating Sherlock, burning the heart out of him in the end, turning him into nothing but cinder and ash. And now the supernova is collapsing, a black hole born where there was once warmth and heat and love, and Sherlock is being pulled down, down past the event horizon, into the endless frozen void where nothing can ever escape.

A Case for Domestic Propinquity by SilentAuror (E, 32,308 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TFP / Post S4 Fix It, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Domesticity) – As Sherlock and John renovate Baker Street with Rosie underfoot, Sherlock can't help but wondering how he could possibly convince John to just stay indefinitely... [TRANSLATIONS: 中文-普通话國語] | Русский]

Afghan Bullets, Beards, and Unlocked Bedroom Doors Series by addicted2hugh (E, 38,761+ w. across 2 works || WiP || Post-S4, Bearded John, Porn With Feelings, Friends to Lovers, First Time, Virgin Sherlock, References to Canon, Flashbacks, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Drug Use, References to Suicide, Grief/Mourning, Top Sherlock, Reunion) – Set after series 4. The boys are living together again, and John's new style drives Sherlock crazy. He's trying to keep his besotted heart and over-excited libido a secret, but John has other plans. Lots. Of. SEX. And love.

A Thing With Peas by khorazir (M, 39,5537 w., 3 Ch. || Post-S3/Post-TLD/TFP Doesn't Exist, Fluff and Angst, Communication, Demisexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Idiots in Love, Friends to Lovers, Developing Relationship, Implied / Referenced Drug Use, Parentlock, First Kiss) – Sherlock does the laundry. John cooks a thing with peas. They talk. Finally.

Limerence by SherlockWatson_Holmes (NR, 41,763 w., 17 Ch. || S4 / TLD Fix It, Character Death, Drug Use, Slow Burn, Angst with Happy Ending) – Limerence (noun); The state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person: typically characterised by a strong desire to maintain a relationship with the object of love and have one’s feelings reciprocated. S4 fix-it, starting on the tarmac.

Nocturne by SilentAuror (E, 47,927 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4 / S4 Fix It, Trauma, Bed Sharing, Friends to Lovers, POV John, Sherlock Whump) – When Sherlock is injured at a crime, an avalanche of suppressed trauma opens up. John ends up moving into his bedroom to ward off the nightmares, hoping against hope that this arrangement can last indefinitely. This is a story of nights spent together, trauma recovery, and John finally learning some truths long hidden.

The Night Is Darkest by missselene (E, 48,461 w., 8 Ch. || Post-TLD, Extremely Dub Con, S4 Rage Monster John, Insecure Sherlock, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Exploration, Healing, Self Care, Self Acceptance, Sexual Exploration, Casual Sex, Gentle Sex, Sherlock/OMC, Threesome with 2 OMCs, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Communication, Internalized Homophobia, Relationship Negotiation) – Sherlock Holmes would do anything for John Watson... and that includes letting John do whatever he wants to him. What would it take for Sherlock to stand up for himself and finally start taking care of his own needs?

Borrowed Ghosts by DiscordantWords (M, 57,216 w., 10 Ch. || TLD Divergence / TFP Doesn’t Exist, Minor Lestrolly, Pining Sherlock, John’s a Mess, Heavy Angst with Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Ghost Mary, Guilt, Forgiveness, Drinking, No Hug Scene) – In the aftermath of the Culverton Smith case, John spent one painfully stilted afternoon hanging out with Sherlock. He counted the minutes, finished his tea, and left for home without ever clearing the air between them.And once he'd left, he found it very hard to go back.

Lost In A Good Book by khorazir (M, 68,552 w., 6 Ch. || Magical Realism / Discworld Elements || Post TLD, Miscommunication, L-Space, Developing Relationship, Parentlock, Demisexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Bookshop) – After chasing a criminal into a poky second-hand bookshop, John and Sherlock find themselves not only stuck in the building, but in L-space itself. With things still raw and unsettled between them after the events surrounding the Culverton Smith case, this adds another dimension to their predicament, which not only constitutes of finding a way out of the shop (while avoiding getting murdered by the criminal), but also to finally address the issues between them.

This Would Make You Happy? by Ranowa (M, 71,217 w., 10 Ch. || Post-TLD Fix It, Past Viclock, Past Sherlock/OMC, Therapy, Protective John, Drug Use, Pining, Autistic Sherlock, Angst with a Happy Ending) – John, more than anything else, wants Sherlock to be happy. Sherlock, more than anything else, wants to make John happy. These two goals are not as in sync as one would think.

"Merry Christmas" I wrapped it up and sent it with a note saying "I love you" by starrysummernights (E, 135,132+ w., 30/31 Ch. || WIP || Post S4, Slow Burn, Mary is Not Nice, Christmas, Fluff, Smut, Angst, Parentlock, Past Torture / Rape) – John has moved back into 221B with his daughter Rosie after Mary was killed, but things are not exactly comfortable between him and Sherlock. After everything that has happened, they are trying to become friends again...and maybe something more. What better time than the Christmas season?! Takes place after TLD.

Limitless Ocean by angel-loving-star (M, 150,730+ w., 21/36 Ch. || WIP || Post-TLD / S4 Fix It, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, John's PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Sherlock Whump, Alcohol Abuse, Past Drug Addiction, Fluff, Parentlock, Coming Out, Nightmares, Panic / Anxiety Attacks, Dissociation, Alternating POV, Suicidal Ideation, Self-Harm Ideation, Internalized Homophobia, Closeted John, Angst, Insomnia, Domestics, Cuddling / Snuggling, Gay Sherlock) – Sherlock is recovering from the Culverton Smith case. But there are some things that time or body can't heal. When John and Rosie unexpectedly move back in 221B the day after Sherlock's birthday, nothing is as it used to be. Both he and John are treading on thin ice. It is only a matter of time until the first cracks appear. Until they begin to sink into the freezing waters of the ocean beneath, and are forced to face their demons, each other, and what has been lurking in the dark for far, far too long. Until it is only them, the promise of sky above the surface, and the limitless ocean flooding into their hearts.

The Chemist by TheGracefulBlueCat (M, 158,385 w., 46/? Ch. || WiP || TLD Fix-It, Drug Use and Withdrawal, Hurt/Comfort, Doctor John, Protective Mycroft, Sick Sherlock, Medical Procedures, Grief/Mourning, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Nightmares, Mental Health Issues, Victorian Sherlock, Asperger’s Sherlock, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Papa Lestrade, Drunkenness, Autistic Sherlock, Synesthesia, Insecure Sherlock, Angst, Sick Fic, Case Fic, Asylums) – Sherlock returns to Baker Street and faces detox. But he feels too exhausted and bad to go through it fully conscious, so he - once more - uses his mind palace to distract him with an old case. But due to his drug issues and the tension between him and John things don’t work as smoothly as everyone hoped they would, confronting Sherlock and all his friends with more of their demons than they would have liked to.

Radioactive Trees In A Red Forest by Maribor_Petrichor (E, 280,251 w., 73 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-S4, Suicidal Ideations, Alcohol / Rx Drug Abuse, Coming Out / Bisexual John, Seizures, Past/Referenced/Implied Child Abuse, Hallucinations, Rehab, Celibacy, Sobriety / Relapse, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Psychological Trauma, Nice /Not Anti-Mary, John’s POV, Parentlock, First Time, Angst, Switchlock, Angst with Happy Ending) – John Watson is what happens when a man can no longer see a reason to go on. John Watson is what happens when a man starts to let go. "It is what it is." John Watson is what happens when what "it is" becomes too much to bear. This is a story of the life, death, and resurrection of John Hamish Watson.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #long post #tld fics #aftermath of tld fics #my fic recs

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spartanblacksmith · 4 months

Text

The Forges of Remnant

Chapter 1: A New Dawn

Rose Penthouse, Vale. 24th day, 3rd month of Year 5028.

The winds howl throughout the valley. The grass is growing, and the frost is melting.

Spring is coming, Weiss thought.

The warm air is chasing the cold in a wistful game of tag. The birds chirp their songs and glide on the currents, seeking their mate.

Wearing nothing but the blanket around her, Weiss observed the city of Vale from the balcony of her penthouse in the central, tallest skyscraper. The elegant yet simple structures. The hustle and bustle of the people down below. She could see the park from where she was, and it was filled with a few birthday parties and barbecues.

The sight of the city, and the 3 others sitting in line, covering the valley floor, filled Weiss with a familiar happiness. She loved the past 2 months of living in this location.

This cute little valley. It's so wonderful and serene. I could see raising my children here. I could take them to that peak to observe the stars. Teach them navigation by those bright lights in the sky.

And then a regretful sadness swarmed over her as her thoughts.

But I can't.

Soon, they’d have to abandon this peaceful place. Another peaceful, beautiful place, left to its fate.

She always hated to do so. To leave a city to burn. All 4 of them, the cities sitting right there in the valley. But she had to do it. They all had to. And as she looked back to Ruby and Penny, asleep in their bed, she understood why.

If they stayed for much longer, her wives would fight. Weiss knew this.

They would defend the Remnant tribe. For they loved the people in it. They cherish me as much as I adore them.

And if they fought, they would die.

For the Horde would not be denied, nor defeated. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever.

For 5 thousand years, the Remnant Tribe have stayed ahead of the monstrous, mechanical Horde of the Grimm. Monstrous machines of war made to destroy civilization. All hope was lost when they attacked, for nothing was strong enough to stop them.

Lucky for the people of Remnant, her family's old construction equipment was still operational. And those old mechs were their salvation.

5 giant “Forge-Class” Construction Mechs. Crafted by Weiss's ancestor, Nicolas Schnee and Penny's father, Dr. Polendina, they were marvels of engineering in their time. The Forge was a gigantic white box with 4 folding legs, equipped with observation towers on top of it to see its progress, and a few defense towers, added on after their creation.

Although originally it was almost featureless, it was covered in scratches and graffiti after 5 thousand years of being around humans. But since the Forges had the ability to remove the graffiti, the people suspected they liked certain styles, and allowed them to stay.

The Forges walked in a herd, constructing whole cities for the remnants of civilization to live in. Vale, Vacuo, Atlas, Mistral, and Menagerie, named after the 5 kingdoms that were destroyed. they would walk in front of the following tribe of more than a million nomads, leading them like benevolent shepherds looking after their flock.

Gathering rocks and materials as they traveled, the Forge would construct whole buildings and streets inside them. And when it was safe enough, and at a good location, they would sit down, deposit their construct, and stand up. Boom, an entire city, ready to live in.

Even now, Weiss saw the four hulks resting on the horizon, sitting even bigger than the cities. Sleeping before they were to rise and travel again. Quietly receiving rocks and ore from the Miners guild, who looked to relieve the burden of material gathering from the Forges, even if it wasn't much, or necessary. A good hearted gesture if anything.

Yes, 4 Forges.

Atlas…

That was a story for another day.

Weiss walked inside and over to the bed. She sat down on it, next to her wife Penny. They saved Penny that day. Pulled her from her place in the control room, and fled the devastated Forge, along with the survivors.

Penny. If we were stronger, maybe…

Weiss pushes the hair from her lover's face. Penny is so peaceful when she sleeps. She is always adorable and sweet. Weiss felt her heart flutter every time she thought of her. She remembers the day she got her left eye’s scar in battle. The day Penny saved her and Ruby.

Ruby. Weiss looked at her cute dolt. Sleeping away her exhaustion from last night. Where Penny made her heart flutter, Ruby took her breath away. She was so strong, fearless, and quick witted. And her beauty grew every day. Ever since Weiss saw her in Silver Clans initiation ceremony, she knew they were destined to be together.

If only the younger me knew that she was half right, looking back to Penny.

How did I get so lucky? Two soulmates? Who both cherish me? It may be an effort to return their affections in a way they deserve, but it is always worth it.

Now, 7 years married, Weiss sits as head of the Remnant Council, with her wives supporting her all the way.

Ruby stirs a little, waking up. She rises to sit up on her arm. The covers almost slip away, as she catches them, holding them to her naked form. “Weiss, you're up early. You're never up before me. Is something wrong?”

Astute, as always.

“Yes. To be honest, I didn't sleep last night. I’ve been contemplating. Although Blake’s Shadow Clan says that the Horde is a month and a half away, I think we should pack up and go now, and not next week as we usually do.”

At Weiss's thoughts, Ruby simply waved them away. “Oh, you worry too much.” Ruby leaned over and cupped her wife's face. Weiss let herself lean into her touch. “They won't reach us ever again. I’ll make sure of it.”

Weiss grabbed Ruby's hand. “That's what I'm afraid of, Petal. They're dangerous. They're constantly after us. There's the unpredictable Salem's Hand. I fear for you… for Remnant… for… I…”

Ruby gently pulled Weiss in, and kissed her.

Ruby, this is serious. I won't be swayed by… by… what was I thinking about? No, focus. Focus… Oh, whatever. I’ve got a hot woman kissing me.

Weiss reached behind Ruby's head, petting her short black and red hair, forgetting her troubles for a moment. She leaned into her petal's kiss, passionate and sweet.

They break the kiss, and Weiss blushes a little, staring into her lovers silver eyes. “Ruby.”

“I derail your train of thought?”

“You and Penny have that effect on me.”

“I'm glad we do, Cutie Weiss.” Penny?

Ruby and Weiss look down to Penny, who is awake now, having a gander at her wives tender moment.

“How long have you been up?” Weiss asks, pecking a kiss on Penny's cheek.

“Long enough. Your worries about our situation are noted, but unnecessary. The Horde is very far behind, and maintenance on the Forges are complete. My calculations show that we are safe for another week before we must pack and head for the Coastal Plains. And even with delays, we will be passing by several old abandoned settlements. With proper decoys, they will distract the Horde for a time as we progress further.”

“Ceil came back with the Pathfinder Clan yesterday?” Ruby asks as she scoots closer to Penny.

“Yes. She came in last night and reported it. I was going to tell you two, but the surprise you had for me… I was understandably distracted.” Penny says as she takes a second to remind herself of their night together.

Oh, definitely. Our 7th anniversary is no small occasion. For someone as old as Penny, it doesn't seem like much. So Ruby and I make sure to celebrate it… passionately, every time, to remind her that she is loved. Even if she's an android, she's still learning love like the rest of us.

“Yeah, that's on us. The Coastal Plains. That's next to Vale's ancient origin, right?” Ruby asked.

Weiss takes a moment to think, then responds “Yep. It's been a long time since the Tribe have been there.”

Penny points a finger up. “743 years, actually. It was a nice looking place originally, 4,849 years ago. ‘Twas sad I had to eat the remains and turn them into some new constructs. At least Vale has kept to the original designs all these years.”

Ruby wrapped her arms around Penny. “Aw, come here, sweetie. Even when you were a Forge, you were always gentle, weren't you?” Ruby nuzzled her head into Penny's chest.

Penny touched Ruby's arm gently. “I tried to be. The other Forges are so stoic. But they don't assure the people. They left that to the Schnee family. I always tried to be different. To be inspirational.”

True, but the Schnees couldn't hold a candle to your kindness.

Weiss crawled in next to Penny. “I remember. When I was younger, you would build whole parks for the young. Community centers and Opera Houses for the people. Unnecessary, but everyone loved you for that. You inspired the other 4 Forges to do more. That there was more to cities than just “Residential and Public Service” buildings.”

Penny blushes as Weiss holds her hand, saying her compliments. “To be fair, Mistral did the artsy thing first. Their buildings have always been nice looking.”

Ruby curled her finger in Penny's curly orange/red hair. “I loved when my mom brought me and Yang to Atlas to show us the graffiti you put on your own buildings. They were always so funny looking.”

Penny looked at both Ruby and Weiss with a bright smile on her face. “Thank you. I love you two for being so kind to me.”

If only there were words to express how much those words meant for us to you.

Weiss nuzzled her head into Penny's chest, bumping her nose against Ruby's.

Ruby smiled at her lovers and laughed. “We should probably get out of bed and start the day, or else we're gonna be late again.”

Both Weiss and Penny groaned in agony, being reminded of their duties.

Weiss had meetings all day regarding her Head Chieftain duties. She sometimes wished she didn't hold her 3 seats on the 15 seat Council.

Well, 2 and my sister's seat, Winter, commander of the warrior clans. She doesn't like politics, so she lets me use it. And I, very quickly, understood why in my career. People, especially stubborn, stupid people can be insufferable.

Penny, although she knew the Forges were in top shape, had all day, nay, all week to spend with the Engineer Clan with Yang's Ember Unit. She smashed it up, killing a Rogue Ursa with her Fire Clan 4 days ago.

Ruby had duties of her own. Her Silver Clan had patrols to do. They hadn't seen Beowolves for weeks, and that was a bad sign. They were gathering numbers for an attack, she often told Weiss. She was certain of it. They had to go hunting.

All three were reluctant to separate though.

“Five more minutes?”

“Five more minutes.”

“Yay, five more minutes.”

The three lay there, enjoying each other's company. Penny petted Weiss's head, running her fingers through her white hair. Weiss reached over to scratch Ruby's back. Ruby hugged Penny tight.

Oh, I could just lay here forever.

Simple, lovely, and blissful contentment in the arms of her lovers. What more could a woman ask for?

—----------------

Fields outside of ancient Mistral origin city. 24th day, 3rd month of Year 5028.

No one knows who or what made the Horde of Grimm. Some say it was a reckless pair of brothers, hell bent on world domination. Some say it was the Schnee Dust Company, a secret weapon development gone horribly wrong… or right if you believe the conspiracy theorists. Some say it was a mad scientist, a woman who despised the world and simply wanted it gone.

I know many people who believed it was the Schnee conspiracy. But after meeting Weiss, getting to know my sister-in-law, it's hard to believe now. Blake thought as she lay on the hill, observing the Horde.

From mysterious origins, these machines destroyed the kingdoms of old. They looked much like a Forge. Except for the 6 legs, gigantic hexagon shape, fully armed dozens of cannons, and the upper torso of a colossal, mechanical Leviathan sitting on top with long arms and razor sharp claws that tore through everything.

No one knew who was stupid enough to build them, then give them independence. But all had to flee from them. Their only solace was that the Leviathans were slow, and the Forges and the Remnant Tribe was faster than them.

Blake and Ren lay on the side of the hill, and spied on the distance with their scopes. Luck was on their side apparently. Blake knew how much Weiss was a worrywort, but now she had good news to give the Head Chieftain. The Leviathans were tearing apart some old ruins that used to be some cities the tribe had built a millennia prior.

Ren was taking notes on the number of Ursa there were and the 2 in development within Watts. “Didn't they destroy those before?”

Blake huffed some her hair out of her face. “They're mechs of destruction. They don't exactly have another purpose. They saw some structures standing, so they decided to crush it again. Not that complicated.”

“Well, I’m glad either way. Looks like they're taking their sweet time. Now I get 2 extra days to relax at home before I gotta pack up.”

“Don't you and Nora pack light? Everyone else does.” Blake adjusted her scope to take a look at Salem. Surrounded by her bodyguard Leviathans, as usual. She noted it down.

Salem was a paranoid War Forge. While there were 40 Leviathans in the Horde, there were four additional War Forges creating smaller Mechs to serve them. Their existence was a blight on life itself.

They were so nefarious, they had names so the warriors could remember them better. Tyrian, the "Ursa" Forge. Hazel, the "Nevermore" Forge. Watts, the "Repair Creep" Forge. And Salem, the Queen War Forge and "Beowolf" Forge. Each Factory had a bodyguard unit of 4 Leviathans and a swarm of smaller Mechs.

Ren kept taking notes, including one about the new Nevermore about to launch in a week's time from Hazel. “We do. But remember, she's got her Magnhild Unit. She can carry a lot more than other people. So she volunteers us to help others pack up and load up her unit with cargo. I know I got 8 families to load up once we get home, if she hasn't volunteered more.”

“Ah, right. Yang is the same way.” Blake takes a second to contemplate that. “Actually, all of the Fire Clan is like that. They use their mechs to help a lot of people travel.”

“Yep.” Ren says as he adjusts his scopes dials. “We love them for it though, don't we?”

A long sigh escaping Blake's mouth, she says “Yeah, we do.” Then a smile widens across her face at the thought of her wife.

Yang should be waking up by now. Her blanket falling away. I wonder if she slept in the… *sigh* Get your head out of the gutter, Blake. You can't always be thinking about your wife's voluptuous, beautiful… Hmm? Blake turned to Ren, who was quite silent.

“Ren? You alright?”

“Mmm.” Ren's face remains blank.

Blake took a guess as to what Ren was thinking of. “... Look, they can handle it, Ren.”

“I know. But... I wish those things would just give us a moment. There's so many already.”

Blake could see that Ren's face remained blank, but his hands were gripping his scope a little too hard.

She understood his anguish all too well. Nora received her scars in battle against the Ursa only last year. Ren was terrified all through the months it took for Nora to recover from her injuries. When he was home, he doted on her as much as he could. And Nora was returning to the Fire Clan next week.

Ren hated the Ursa.

Dreadful mech units that were quite large, the Ursa were the size of perhaps 3 skyscrapers side by side. They weren't the size of a Leviathan, who stood far taller and wider than a Forge, with worse weapons, but they were 3 times as fast as the Forges.

This meant they were able to catch up to the Tribe. And it was the Fire Clans duty to slay the Ursa when they threatened them.

And as Yang and Nora led the Fire Clan, Blake and Ren were seeing them often run off to battle, not knowing if they would return.

That fear was especially prevalent in Blake when she saw Yang’s Ember Unit being dragged in by two other Striker Units, smashed up and unresponsive. It took Penny and her crew 3 hours to cut Yang out of her cockpit, but by the gods luck, she was fine. Yang got the killing blow on the Ursa, but Blake wished she would be more careful.

It didn't help that she would have to report there were 5 Ursa now, with 2 on the way. More danger for them to face.

“Chief.” Blake turns around to see Illia call for her. “The Shadow Clan is ready to move out. Shall we head home?”

Behind the hill were 4 squads of 7, gathering, packing and loading equipment onto their Oobleck hover bikes. They were as fast as the professor who designed them.

They had been watching the Horde for 5 days now, keeping track of its progress. Now, it was time to head home. By the time they’re back, it'll be time for the tribe to set out again.

Blake thought it over. “Well, they're pretty busy. We'll head back, but keep the 9th squad out here to watch them, and we’ll come back after the tribe starts moving. Tell the 9th they can come back after 3 days and the 12th will relieve them.”

“Understood, Chief. Shall we?” Illia gestured to the speeders.

“Yes, but Illia, it's Blake. No need for formalities.”

“I… I know.” Illia turns away to talk to Squad 9 about their orders.

Ren gave Blake the side eye. “Still Chief?”

Blake flinched at that. Yeah. Still Chief. I’ll always be Chief to Illia.

“Old habits die hard, Ren.”

“It's been 10 years since the White Fang. Surely she can kick the habit?”

“It’s not easy to lose a quirk. You still have your quirks, ya know? And they've been around since Beacon.” Blake glanced over to Ren as he jumped a little.

“What quirks?”

“You still hold your cooking spoon out so Nora can lick it.”

“Only when I’m cooking for her and me.”

“And last time Yang and I had dinner at your place? You were cooking stew and Nora licked your spoon.”

“... I hoped you didn't notice that.”

“Well, I did.”

“Is there more?”

“Yes, but they're a secret. Nora told me.”

“Come on, tell me. What quirk?”

Blake laughed and shook her head and her cat ears flickered. “Well, we better get home. Yang has something planned for me when we get there.”

“Not gonna tell me, huh?” Ren and Blake walked over to where the hover speeder bikes were. “Nora's also got something planned, herself. Said she wanted to have a picnic under the stars and shattered moon.”

Blake hopped onto her speeder. “Nice. This region has a lot of constellations, if you're lucky enough to get a cloudless sky. Maybe if you pick the right spot, maybe you could see the Moon Goddess constellation.”

Ren didn't respond as Blake expected. He simply stood there, holding the handlebars of his speeder. Blake was about to say something, then she heard what had silenced him. A blood curdling scream.

*20 Minutes ago*

This is such a bad idea.

It will be fine, kid.

What do you mean it'll be fine!? We’re surrounded by the Horde! They're right over there by Vacuo, if you hadn't noticed!

Yes. That is a problem. But I doubt they'll find us here.

But they'll-

We’re deep in an abandoned Mistral settlement. On the 40th floor of a skyscraper that will hide our presence. There has been no sign that a human passed through here for nearly 500 years. Relax. They will pass, and we can continue on our way. We will find her.

Right… we will, right?

Yes. Jin is somewhere. We just need more information.

Well… okay, if you say-

*Clattering of metal nearby*

WHAT WAS THAT!?

Uh, I didn't think about scouts.

Why. Did. You. Not. THINK ABOUT SCOUTS!?

A Beowolf rounds the corner of the hallway. The kid blasts his shotgun towards the beast, and blows half his head off. It's not a killing blow, and the Beowolf howls and lunges. The kid shoots again, blowing the other half of the Beowolf's head off, but the beast succeeds in destroying his weapon with his claws. It falls to the ground, dead.

The kid, now defenseless, hears more howling.

Oh no.

RUN!

WHERE!?

The Shadow Clan. Find the Shadow Clan. They're always watching the Horde. They can get you out of here.

But where-

*A foot stomps a building nearby. A Leviathan has joined the chase for the kid.*

Move! They’ll find you, but there must be a “you” to find! Now Run!

*Present time*

Ren hopped onto his speeder. Blake yelled to the squad “Stay here.” Then both clan leaders moved their bikes up the hill again. They looked again in their scopes for what they could have missed. Then they saw it.

A boy excited the ruins of Mistral, running from the Horde, and he was being chased by a pack of Beowolves. He apparently was a stray nomad who was staying in the old city.

Blake started up her bike and zoomed towards the boy. Ren followed close behind.

It was a race to see who reached him first, for the Beowolf was not easily outdone. Standing at only 8 feet tall, small compared to its brethren, the Beowolf was the most loathed of all the enemy. For it was not only faster than a Forge, it was faster than most humans. And quite deadly.

Blake was racing as fast as she could. She could hear Ren preparing something behind her, but she had no time to look.

The boy was gasping for air, his legs doing all they could to outrun the beasts. When he saw the bikes coming towards him, hope filled him up again, and he got his second wind, sprinting harder.

The Pursuers and the Rescuers were converging in their own game of chicken. Would Blake have time to even get the boy before she was struck down?

She decided it was best to use it. She readied her missile pods. The bike was armed with two single use missile launchers, and Blake fires hers at the closest Beowolf. The first collides with his chest and staggers it. The second blew his head clean off.

Another two were on the verge of catching the boy.

Can't be stingy at a time like this. Blake readied her weapon, her sword from her time in the Silver Clan, and leaped from her bike.

As the bike slowed, she launched herself at one of the two Beowolf, converting her sword to a kusarigama, and wrapped her weapon around the Beowolf’s neck.

Blake landed next to the beast, and pulled the ribbon. Her sickle cut right through the beast's neck and lopped his head off, sending it dead to the ground.

Blake holstered her weapon and sprinted at the kid. Another Beowolf made a move, but Ren was quicker on the draw, firing his missile and hitting it square in the jaw. It fell to the ground right next to the kid and Blake. A second Beowolf received a missile to the leg, sending it sprawling to the ground.

She braked to a stop in front of the boy and grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket, not wasting time chatting. She hopped onto her bike and gave the boy to Ren.

Not wanting to overstay their unwelcoming party, the two of them sped away with their rescued straggler, easily outrunning their pursuers.

As was the way of the nomad.

The Shadow Clan joined up with them and they all flew down the fields towards home. They zoomed over hills and plains, heading back to Remnant.

Blake got on the radio “Squad 9, you know what to do. Since they're alerted, double the observation distance.”

She received acknowledgement from the Squad 9 lead, and the 7 scouts turned from the group and headed back to circle around the Horde.

Seeing the boy settle behind Ren, Blake realized that Weiss wouldn't get her good news this time. For she could hear the Leviathans stop their assault on the ruins and resume their march towards Remnant once more.

So they were after the straggler, not the ruins.

Blake simply shrugged her shoulders.

Oh well. It was but a day or 2 had they continued their destruction of the ruins. I'm glad we could save the straggler.

“Well, that could have been worse.” Blake glanced over at the kid. “Hey, kid. What's your name? And why are you out here?”

Blake could only hear mumbling come from the boy. Then again, they were moving at high speed, so that's understandable. She could see Ren use his semblance to calm the boy, and his trembling turned into a stillness. It was a moment before anything was said.

“Oscar.” Blake glanced at Ren as he said it. “He said his name is Oscar. And that he was on a mission for Ozma.”

“Who's Ozma?” Blake asked. Ren merely shrugged his shoulders.

Illia, who overheard, added in “Wasn't there an Oscar who went missing half a year ago from Mistral’s sector?”

Ren turned his head to listen again. “That's him.”

“I would still like to know. Why are you out here, running through ruins and evading the Horde?”

Ren listened again. “He said he's looking for Jin, the Librarian A.I., so he can give her to Qrow.”

Blake groaned internally.

Oh, of course this was Wanderer business.

But she didn't expect Qrow to send a boy out into the wild. Especially without a speeder.

Who even was this Jin? And Ozma?

Whatever the reason, she was sure delivering Oscar to his parents would cure him of his recklessness, and his business with the Wanderers would be finished. Hopefully. If he was crazy enough to come out here alone, who knows what he’d do.

Blake observed the oncoming change of scenery. Markings and signs could be seen.

Hmm, this is Ravens current stomping grounds. She better not try anything.

“Alright people, keep an eye out, we're heading into Bandit Territory. And we don't want no surprises.”

—-----------

Outside the Workshop of the Engineer Clan. 4th month, 1st day of Year 5028.

One Menagerie, Two Menagerie, Three Menagerie, Four Menagerie… ah forget it. Let's see if Penny needs help with Ember Celica.

Yang was restless. Blake was due back today and she couldn't wait to give her her present. But it was only 10 in the morning. So instead of waiting around, Yang tried to be productive.

But an hour later, standing outside the Engineer Clan’s Famous Workshop, Penny had turned her offer down. Yang wanted to work on her Ember Celica Unit, both to pass the time and make up for her mistake in her last battle. Make it up to the crew having to fix her unit.

But Penny and her crew just shooed her out of the Workshop, telling her not to worry. Yang and her Clan hunt and kill monsters, as well as protect the Tribe. Penny and her Clan make sure all of their equipment is in top shape. That's how they work together. Besides, the engineers preferred their quiet privacy anyway.

Although, as Yang turned and left, wishing them good luck. And as they resumed their work, a thought passed Yang's mind. With all that metal grinding and banging, how is that quiet?

So Yang decided to simply take her old school motorcycle, with actual wheels, through the streets of Vale to travel to the Shadow Clan headquarters in Menagerie.

Passing through the market and the warehouse district, Yang could see Vale as vibrant as ever. It was little wonder Ruby and her family decided to stay here. It was most like Atlas, so Weiss and Penny loved it. And they had the Engineers Workshop, and despite Penny saying they handled the equipment, she has no problem letting Ruby do her own weapon smithing.

Honestly, the two of them spoil Ruby. Well, that's not always a bad thing. Adorable, really.

It was also the home of the Silver Clan Headquarters, the Beowolf hunters. Ruby is the current leader of the Clan. Their mother used to be the leader of the clan too, so it holds great sentimental value to the sisters. Yang was passing the building complex, where memories bubbled up again.

Mom…

Yang held back tears as she rode on. The thought of Summer always had her on the verge.

Yang then reaches the city’s edge, and the paved road turns to dirt. Driving through the patch of land in between cities, she then entered Vacuo and its roughneck setting.

She knew they only looked rough on the outside. The inside was quite well designed and structured. The Vacuo Forge was meant for building cities in the desert, so they built on functionality foremost. But that didn't mean spartan living spaces. They had amenities just like the rest of the cities.

Yang spotted the Vital Coliseum on the edge of the city, though it wasn't hard to spot. This time around, it was in Vacuo.

The Vital Coliseum is switched around cities every cycle so no one feels left out of the festivities. A place for the warriors to test their mettle. But no deaths or maiming were allowed.

Yang winced at that thought. She was still banned for breaking Mercury's leg, who was also banned for illegal moves during the match. Moves that he had Emerald cover up with her illusions, that also got her banned. And we thought Penny had died that one time against Pyrrha, who Emerald was also affecting. Good thing her Forge could make another body for her, but Pyrrha was also banned. And the Nevermore attack that Ruby had to lead a counter charge against. And the Beowolf army that same Nevermore dropped on the Coliseum that everyone had to kill.

Man, the old days were rough.

Still, they exercise a lot of caution these days. So the games go on.

She took a detour to pass by her headquarters, the Fire Clan's Coliseum. Vacuo had an interesting time when it had to house 2 Coliseums, but they made due. As for the Fire Clan, Yang saw training was underway. 3 massive mechs were in the Coliseum, 2 veterans showing a recruit the ropes.

Good, good. The newbie’s getting her training in. She may even be ready for an engagement soon. And she can't do worse than Sage and Scarlet as mentors.

The Port Strikers. A tried and true mechanical weapon platform. Designed thousands of years ago by a veteran hunter, they have served as the frontline of the defense of Remnant. Bipedal and humanoid in nature, they could clobber an Ursa if utilized effectively. Standing almost 10 stories tall, they were equipped with weapons according to their pilots preferences.

Yang preferred the weapons she had back in the days she was in Silver Clan. Her Ember Celica gauntlets. Her Ember Unit was equipped with the oversized version, and she loved it.

Each Striker was also equipped with chest mounted missile launchers, dual knives for stabbing and climbing their massive foes, a jetpack, and grenades strapped to the waist like on a belt. There was also the option to mount a shoulder artillery cannon, but that tended to slow you down, so Yang didn't have one.

She left the area and her cohorts to their training.

Yang reached the other side of Vacuo and entered the space between it and Mistral. A very different look compared to its sister cities, Mistral was a fancy looking city. Ornate carvings and stone statues of creatures whose names were, unfortunately, lost to history. She passed the central park and saw the airships fly around. Mistral houses the best pilots in Remnant, so naturally it was the home of the Sky Clan, the Nevermore hunters. She passed by their airfield, filled with fighter and transport aircraft, and was once again leaving town.

Ah, home, sweet, home.

Menagerie. The majority of the Faunus in Remnant live here. Yang moved in with Blake right after their marriage. Since her father was the appointed Chieftain of the Faunus, his family was given the large Chieftains house the Menagerie Forge makes in every city. And he gave Blake and her wife, Yang, their own space in it.

She went by the house. Big and beautiful, her home was. Unfortunately, today the sight was depressing. Protesters were out front, calling for the current Chieftain of the Faunus to step down. They only come around once and a while when they feel like it, but they are persistent.

He held a council seat, and Ghirra was a great leader. The only reason for this ongoing protest, of 7 years now, was only because he was loosely related to Jacques Schnee through a chain of marriages and siblings.

First it was his daughter Weiss, who was married to Ruby and Penny. Then it was Ruby and Yang's sisterhood. Then it was her marriage to Blake. Then we get to Blake being the daughter of Ghirra. Convoluted and unnecessary.

Old grudges die hard, she supposed. Jacques was really hated during the years he and Ironwood were the heads of the council and commander of the clans.

He pushed the Faunus and those in the Miners Guild hard to meet their ridiculous quotas. So much so, they even fed the Forges more material than the Forges gathered themselves in those years for the first time in forever. Although the homes were free and food was shared by the gatherers and farmers, in Jacques’s head, the quicker cities were built meant more money when the shops stayed open longer.

But after the Atlas disaster, Ironwood killed Jacques and tried to lay all the blame on him. But he was banished for his actions, and for the destruction of a Forge. It was later revealed he had murdered a council member and Jacques in his madness, so now if he returns, it is to his death.

Back to the present, Yang shook her head at the current protesters.

Weiss was doing really well in her father's shoes. Remnant has been doing better than it's done before. She made sure everyone was treated fairly, and did her best to heal relations between the Humans and the Faunus. To lead with wisdom and justice. But some people are purely stubborn, and don't trust her.

Maybe it was the lies the White Fang were still spreading about her.

Absurd, really. And this development meant that Yang couldn't bring Blake home, otherwise she’d see this.

So, time for plan B. She sped away to the Shadow Clans Headquarters, at the far end of Menagerie. She arrived at the hanger bay holding all the hover bikes. Many of the clan warriors waved hello to her, knowing she was their leader's wife. Yang waved back, knowing they're a polite bunch.

Yang kicked the stand on her motorcycle, and leaned against it. She started waiting for Blake to arrive by the entrance, flipping through an old book she keeps in her motorcycle's side bag for such an occasion.

After a few minutes and getting bored with the book, she glanced down the valley the cities were sitting in.

A pretty sight, she thought. Tall mountain ranges on both sides with lush green grass waving through the middle. This world always has such beautiful scenery.

Just like Patch…

Yang and Ruby were born into the Vale sector, but their father, Tai, tried to raise Ruby and Yang in a little village away from Remnant called Patch with Ruby's mom, Summer. No running, no packing, no danger.

These villages are more common than one would think. With the Horde always after the Remnant Tribe, the villages were free to settle down in these out of the way communities. They could farm, craft, and take care of themselves quite easily.

Yang shook her head. It was a peaceful couple of years, Yang thought. Peaceful, but foolish of my parents to do so.

She knew Nora and Ren were born to a village themselves, and she knew the pain they went through. Just like her family.

The machines of war are always on the hunt, even for small little nothing villages. For they had found their little village with a stray Beowolf. A swarm of Beowolves, and an Ursa had been dispatched to kill them all.

Tai was pulling the cart with some of the wounded villagers, a young Yang and baby Ruby. That was when she saw her mother take her weapon, the one she had when she was the leader of the Silver Clan, and turn around. Tai and Yang called for Summer to not fight and run away.

Now that Yang thought about it, her mother had no other option. The monsters would have caught them all.

Summer leapt into action, unfurling her ax, splitting the helmet of the Beowolf pack leader, killing it, and then killing a quarter of his pack with massive shotgun blasts. She even managed to climb the Ursa, and break its eye. This made the hulk furious. Summer ran the other direction the villagers were going, to lead the monsters away.

Mom… Yang cried for her to come back. She cried and she cried, until she cried herself to sleep hours later.

Summer was never seen again.

A funeral was held, a memorial service. Her tombstone was placed onto a cliff somewhere and left behind. Then they all journeyed to rejoin Remnant. Their father was never the same, only a little better until maybe a few years ago.

Wiping a tear from her eye, Yang started thinking about the other things that happened in the past to cheer herself up.

She used to be in the Silver Clan with Ruby, Weiss, and Blake. Went to Beacon academy for warrior training and everything. They had a lot of misadventures during that time. The thought of it made her laugh.

There was the train station incident. A bit of a disaster against those bandits working for Torchwick. But at least it wasn't lived in. Well, other than bandits preying on the nearby village.

The temple ruin incident. Facing a Nevermore on foot? Something only my baby sister Ruby could do.

The bar incident. Okay, that was me. But Junior deserved it.

The battleship crash incident. Torchwick definitely regretted hijacking that one. Well, Neo gave us hell for years after his death before she retired. It did suck though, as it was the first battleship to work in 5,000 years.

The time Raven kidnapped Weiss for ransom, and team RBY and JNPR stealing a jet to rescue her. All with the help of the leader of the Sky Clan, Maria. And her Uncle Qrow's help with his knowledge of the wild, thanks to the Wanderers he leads.

Awkward, having to rescue your future sister in law from your biological mother, who happened to be the leader of a Bandit Clan. Her family tree was too complicated to give a lot of thought.

The time we burned down a bar, and that one was Ruby's fault. Okay, Ruby and my fault. But Junior still had it coming.

How they aren't banished is beyond her understanding.

The… Beacon incident. Yang touched her metallic arm. Not long before the destruction of Altas, was the attack of Beacon Academy. Some rebels known as the White Fang laid siege on the academy with some captured Beowolves. And it was there Blake's crazy ex stabbed her and sliced Yang's arm off. He slinked away with his followers, back into hiding.

Blake left the team and stayed with her family for a while, giving up the warrior life all together. Yang was laid up in recovery. Doctors say she couldn't be part of Silver Clan again, even with her new robot prosthetic arm. Major depression. She pushed away everyone who tried to help, even Ruby and Weiss. Eventually, with her father's help, Yang managed to get off the couch and get back into shape, though it wasn't easy.

Then Blake came back, her spirit renewed. She decided to join the Shadow Clan, do scouting instead. Yang joined the Fire Clan, for she was allowed to fight in it with her robot arm.

Things were looking up.

Then the Fall of Atlas happened. After that, Weiss had to leave Silver Clan and take her spot as Head Chieftain of the Council.

Then the White Fang attacked again, this time trying to cripple the Sky Clan in Mistral. Yang and Blake intercepted Adam, and after a difficult fight, killed him.

Ruby had to step up and take charge of the Silver Clan, without them. And she has. With Sun’s help, as well as Cinder, she's gotten the Clan in top shape.

And we get to now. A peaceful sunset on the horizon, as Yang waits for her beloved to show up, so she can take her on their date.

Not bad for a delinquent like me.

An hour passes, and Yang is dozing off on her bike when she hears a familiar sound.

Almost two dozen hover bikes appear on the horizon. The Shadow Clan runs out to meet their comrades.

Slowing to a stop, the dusty warriors get off their bikes to a warm welcome from their brethren. And Yang spots her. Taking off her helmet, Blake's hair catching the light. It just takes Yang's breath away every time.

She pushes her way through the crowd and scoops her wife into a bear hug, spinning her in joy. The crowd gives her some room, and Yang gives Blake a kiss as she set her back on the ground.

After Blake is able to collect herself, she smiles at her wife. “Yang, I'm glad to see you too.”

“Not too much trouble out there, is there?”

“Unfortunately, there's always trouble out there. And, we’ve even brought some back with us.” Blake looks back to Oscar, clinging to Ren, still not used to riding at high speeds for hours. After their week-long journey, he was ready to stay on solid ground.

“Straggler?”

“Yep.” Blake gestures to a squad leader named May. “Take Oscar inside and give him a warm bunk for the night. Tomorrow, we will look for his parents.”

“Aye, Ma’am” May gives a salute and guides Oscar to the barracks.

“So, do I get an explanation about him, or is it classified?” Yang says, throwing a thumb over her shoulder. The Clan had started to disperse back to their duties, taking the bikes inside for maintenance, the riders going inside for sleep and food.

“Nah. He was a straggler looking for something named Jin, the Librarian A.I. Said he was doing it for your uncle and a guy named Ozma.”

“Qrow? He doesn't do that. He’d at least send 3 hunters for something he wants, not one kid. I’ll see if I can get him on the horn tomorrow and ask what's up.”

Blake hugs her tall wife. “Thanks.”

Yang hugs her back. “Tomorrow. Tonight, I have something special planned.”

“Your wonderful home cooking, leading to a spicy night in bed together?” Blake said with a smirk.

Knowing that was plan A, now canceled, Yang responds with “No. Something else. Follow me to our steed, my lady.”

Getting on the bike, Blake holding onto Yang's waist, they speed away, the sunset on their backs.

—----------

Vacuo Forge mineral depository. 4th month, 1st day of Year 5028

The Miners Guild was vastly unnecessary, Grut thought, Stupid, stupid, stupid, these worms are. These people are pointlessly dumping materials into a divine machine that does it for them infinitely better than they can.

Grut was but a humble shark Faunas, meant for greater things he was, in his own opinion.

Grut was pushing a wheelbarrow full of rocks and ore so he could dump it into the Forges material receptacle. Knowing it was a drop in the bucket of the ocean of materials the godly giant gathers in merely a day.

But the silly miners thought they'd be nice to the machine god and gather some materials, and really contribute to the effort. If they weren't so quick to judge us for our worship, they would see they are no different.

Idiotic. What a load of rubbish, he thought. Ugh, why did Tyrian make me the spy?

Grut’s thoughts were often of ‘why couldn't Tyrian put me in the freaking office? Service? Even a craftsman. But no. I'm lugging rocks around all day, throwing out my back. This has better be for a good cause'.

His pager went off. The motion sensor at the end of the valley had been triggered. The Shadow Clan had returned.

He had reached the receptacle, and dumped his wheelbarrow into it. He had to hurry, else he missed them. He was walking back, and set his wheelbarrow down, saying to the others he was taking a break. They waved him away, and Grut went to the nearby hill. Behind the tree atop it, he readied himself.

He sat down on it and pulled out his binoculars and lunch. He started eating his sandwich, looking through the binoculars. A boring task, but it has to be done. His shark teeth took another bite into the meal as he scratched at his rough skin.

At least the view is nice and the food is tasty. Better than the stuff they serve in the Salem's Hand cafeteria. But I wonder how long Tyrians patience will last if they don't find-

Seeing the bikes crest the horizon, he sees what he's been looking for. Oscar was with them.

Grut pulled out his scroll and called Tyrian.

After a moment, he received an answer. “Her Majesty's loyal servant speaking.”

“Boss? Yeah, it's Grut. He’s here. The boy is here.”

“Grut? You see him? You're certain?”

“Yep. Shadow Clan got him. Don't know if he has Jinn.”

“Then we must strike while the iron is hot. He must not reach Qrow if he does have her.”

“What do we do?”

“You know what must be done. Your task as a spy is complete. I have… new orders for you.”

“Yes sir.” Anything should be better than this, He thought.

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