#head in hands grinds my teeth until i transform into dust i miss them so goddamn bad

[froggyrights]

[ninwrites]

a memory of love's refrain

Pairing: Joe/Nicky

Summary: a snapshot of an evening spent in a small Brooklyn apartment // circa 1940's

Joe trudges up the long staircase, his boots heavy against the wrought metal. He’d bargained with Nicky about the cost of four flights of stairs against the beautiful view it awarded when they had first decided to move to Brooklyn, because Nicky had been convinced it would be better for them to stay somewhere closer to the ground, as it would award them a quicker escape. Joe had hushed him, insisting the view would be worth it, and that upon the rare chance such a getaway would be required, he’d personally carry Nicky out to save time.

Of course, no view could compare to that which greets him when he steps past the threshold, already unlacing his boots before the door has even shut behind him. Joe could spot Nicky in a sea of thousands, could find him by the guide of his soul with his eyes closed; it is not quite so difficult to see him here, bustling about their small kitchen. Nicky likes to put a record on while he prepares food, and the music is magical and mournful, the lyrics winding around the room, echoed by his low humming. The air is filled with the sharp scent of peppers and garlic, the melody punctuated by the rhythmic grind of a porcelain pestle and mortar, which Joe had made as an anniversary gift for Nicky some time before, though neither could quite remember what exactly they were celebrating.

“Take a photo, habibi, it will last longer.” .

Joe laughs softly, absentmindedly wiping any excess grease from his hands on his denim overalls as he crosses their small apartment. “No image could ever capture your ethereal beauty, tesoro mio, the camera would shatter in my very hands, struck down by divine intervention.”

Nicky turns, his back leant against the countertop. There’s a smudge of red paste across his cheek that Joe follows with his thumb, nipping at the pad even as the bright scent of chili tickles his nose. “Angelo,” he whispers, reverent. Nicky is leaning into his touch before Joe has noticed that he’d moved, hands caressing each side of Nicky’s face with a grace reserved for holy things.

“You’re making Ojja,” Joe hums, pressing warm kisses to every plane of Nicky’s face that he can reach. “Oh, angelo, it is not just your face that the heavens carved from marble, it is your very heart.”

“Incurable,” Nicky mutters, hooking his thumbs in the back pockets of Joe’s overalls. “It has been a long week. I do not know about you, but I am missing our family greatly, and this is as close as I can think to having them here with us.”

“Love is that which makes a home, and your food is almost as sweet with it as you are.” Joe rests his forehead against Nicky’s, which is good as saying ‘I miss them too’.

“I always enjoy watching Booker’s face redden as he pretends the spices do not affect his delicate French sensibilities.” Nicky says, nonchalantly. Joe barks out a laugh, rough and warm.

“Mon amour,” Joe teases. “You’ll just have to make it for them when they return.”

Booker and Andy were both in Europe anticipating the repercussions of war, and Joe and Nicky were in America, as it was groundwork which often brought the more reliable information. They had created a lovely little home in a brick apartment near a dockyard where Joe played engineer, while Nicky established a presence in the neighbourhood, occasionally taking up work bagging at the local grocers a few blocks away to maintain appearances. They were bachelors, both orphaned at a young age, living together to save money - and it was working. No one batted an eyelid. The truth didn’t matter. History taught that people never stayed discontent in their circumstances for long, and they could feel conflict upon the horizon like the electricity of an oncoming storm.

Joe pulls back, pressing a kiss to Nicky’s hairline. “I am the luckiest man in the world.” He swipes his pinky along the ridge of the mortar, touching the tip to Nicky’s tongue. “Do you taste that?”

“Tastes like harissa.” Nicky points out.

Joe shakes his head, kissing the corner of Nicky’s mouth, chasing the heat. “That is joy, vita mia, that is life and love.”

“If I had known you would have returned so hungry, I would have packed you an extra sandwich.” Nicky pulls Joe in until their hips are pressed flush. “The ojja will not take long to cook. I was hoping to have a dance before dinner but perhaps we should eat while the sun is still high.”

“I would eat your food, stone-cold and seasoned with gravel, if it meant I could share the meal with you by my side.” Joe curls his hand against the newly shaved nape of Nicky’s neck. “A dance does sound quite lovely, though.”

“Then it is agreed.” Nicky presses a quick kiss to Joe’s cheek, the skin beneath warm and flushed. “What shall we dance to first? Any preferences?”

Nicky walks over to the gramophone, his hand curled around Joe’s without thought. The gramophone stands on a small table next to the window, on the sill of which sits a pot that is filled with whichever flower Joe had most recently procured for Nicky. The other day he had brought home roses from a local florist, which had cost a few dollars and gotten him a nice ribbing from the boys down the docks for being sweet on his mystery woman. It was all worth it for the shine in Nicky’s eyes when he brought them close to his face and took in their sweet scent, for the way he had whispered thank you against Joe’s mouth and the tender care in which he watered them each morning. When the flowers crumble, Joe will make potpourri of them, and their apartment will linger with the memory of the petals even as a new flower, a dahlia perhaps if he can find one that suits, takes pride in the sunlight.

“Something romantic,” Joe says, as though there is ever any other option.

Nicky hums, his focus on the small stack of records leant against the wall. Joe slips an arm around Nicky’s waist, his chin hooked over Nicky’s shoulder, pressing an idle kiss to his collarbone. Nicky has folded the sleeves of his linen shirt up to his elbows, his forearms warmed by the August sun and dusted with golden hairs. If he weren’t so preoccupied, Joe would have kissed from his elbow down to the pulse point of his wrist and across each finger tip.

The gramophone crackles as the needle spins, and then cheerful, warm jazz fills the room, carrying the voice of Annette Hanshaw: “you have a great way, an up-to-date way, of telling me you love me, it gives me such a thrill, I know it always will.”

Joe hums, taking a step back only to offer his right hand to Nicky, his left folded behind his back as he bows his head. “Nicolò.”

Nicky smiles, a tender and private thing, for Joe’s eyes only. “Yusuf.” The curve of his palm is a perfect fit against Joe’s open hand.

Joe presses a warm kiss against the ridges of Nicky’s knuckles. “It would be the greatest honour of my life to dance with you around our kitchen on this fine evening.”

Outside the window, a pigeon coos. Nicky’s head tilts. “While I feel it necessary to point out that I did ask you first, if I recall correctly, you professed the very exact thing last night.”

Joe, undeterred, draws on Nicky’s hand to bring him closer. “Then, perhaps you would do me the honour twice? You know, they invented music for lovers.”

Nicky’s eyebrows creep up, the corner of his mouth drawn up into a sly smile. “Yusuf, I’m not sure there is anything in existence which you don’t believe was invented for lovers. Everything from the moon, to a simple loaf of bread, to the game of chess.”

Joe undoes the top two buttons of Nicky’s shirt, leaving the front of his chest exposed, his collarbone protruding like a hawk’s wing. “Everything that I am, that I do, is borne from love.” He slips his hand beneath Nicky’s shirt, palm pressed over his heart. “Who would I be without it? Who would I be if I had not fallen for my beautiful enemy?”

Joe makes a pointed noise in the back of his throat, shaking his head just enough that his curls, when he ducks his head to press a kiss against Nicky’s sternum, brush against the underside of Nicky’s chin. “Every day that I wake up next to you is a good day, for I get to live it in your shadow.”

Nicky’s hands cradle Joe’s face, as though he is holding something precious, a great treasure worth revering.

“Yusuf.” Nicky tips his forehead against Joe’s, his lips brushing against the bridge of Joe’s nose.

He’d broken it the second day of their acquaintance, swung his arm wide with a force so great it sent Joe sprawling to the floor. Joe had laughed through bloody hands, his lips and teeth stained bright red. It was the first sign of fire that he’d ever seen in Nicky, and that same spark flickers behind Nicky’s eyes now.

“You have never been in my shadow.” Nicky whispers. “You have always been my sun.”

He draws Joe in for a deep kiss, stepping back and trusting that Joe will follow, and he always does - he’d once walked to the ends of the earth across burning sand without even knowing Nicky’s name. The rest is easy.

“If music was made for lovers as you so profess, then we must dance to it.” Nicky whispers against Joe’s cheek, letting his arms rest on Joe’s shoulders, his hands hooked loosely behind his neck.

They sway, from one side to the other, and it’s less a dance and more the flow of the record rising from within them, their bodies moving in time with the echo of their hearts. Joe clutches at Nicky’s elbow, fingers caught in the linen, soft against his worn touch. His other hand slips around to press against the small of Nicky’s back, at the bottom of his spine, where Joe had once run him through with a scimitar.

The gramophone skips, Nat King Cole’s rich voice filling the room. Nicky tips his head, his eyes half-lidded. Joe hums along, soothing his hand up Nicky’s arm and around his shoulder, his fingers tapping along the ridge of Nicky’s spine. Nicky hides his smile against the cut of Joe’s jaw, pressing a kiss to his pulse point, letting the warmth of Joe’s skin radiate around him, the scent of saltwater from the docks mixing with the orange notes of his cologne, at once familiar and calming.

“Would you sing for me, Nicolò?” Joe asks, his hands tracing secrets and lines against Nicky’s back. Nicky doesn’t protest about how his voice isn’t that great, because he knows it would be a waste of time, and besides that, he doesn’t mind.

“The melody haunts my reverie and I am once again with you,” His voice is low, and it cracks on some of the words, but he can feel Joe’s smile against his ear, knows his eyes are closed. He insists it helps him hear better. “When our love was new and each kiss an inspiration.”

Joe peppers the line of Nicky’s neck with half-open kisses, peeling the collar of his shirt back as far as he can, across his shoulder and down his chest, his breath ghosting across Nicky’s skin in huffs of heated air.

“But that was long ago,” Nicky’s voice drops to a whisper. “And now my consolation is in the stardust of a song.”

The sun has already begun to sink into the horizon. Nicky pulls back, admiring the way the sunlight casts Joe’s profile in shadows, caught in his air, reflecting off the gold in his eyes.

They’ll have to eat by candlelight tonight. Joe will love it.

[bugged13it]

Lucky Feather Charms - Reveal

Y’all still here for more wing AU!? ‘Course you are! Even though it’s been months :’D (but just in time for AU August, yay?) Anyways, I was fretting over part two so it just started gathering dust. It was originally going to be Marinette’s side of the lucky charm exchange, but that wound up being a rehash of the Befana episode(but with wings)—and that’s a horrible idea so here’s your LADRIEN WING AU/HALF REVEAL.

Check out the first part if you haven’t already! Part One || Part Two(U R Here!)

(Psst! If you like my writing, also check out my works on AO3: (Time Travel Fic) (Mermaid AU) Written before AU August, but hey, this month is all about AUs!)

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Gotta find a spot.

Adrien’s shoes pounded loudly against the pavement, but any noise he made went unnoticed, quickly drowned out by the frantic screaming of the crowds and the blaring roar of an akumatized victim as it terrorized tourists from the banks of the Seine. Luckily, Ladybug had swooped in fairly quickly, so at least he didn’t have to worry about any unprotected masses.

He would have joined her in a heartbeat, of course, but Adrien had been held up for far longer than usual. Evading his bodyguard was a bit more difficult when the car had gotten stuck on one of the bridges leading to Notre Dame. Even when he managed to slip away, he found no suitable places to hide since any practical space was already occupied by groups of terrified civilians.

“There!” Plagg shouted from his pocket, frantically pointing ahead the same instant Adrien spotted the fire escape on the side of the building. “Get to the roof!” he urged.

Adrien gunned it, sprinting toward the ladder and jumping up with a wild flutter of his wings to neatly grab a hold of the lowest rung. The rusted, flaking metal protested with a teeth-grinding squeal, but eventually gave in thanks to Adrien’s encouraging kick. It slid down from the platform and allowed him to properly scale the building. The clanging of the scaffolding beneath his feet echoed loudly with his every step as he scrambled over the zig-zagging stairway, and Adrien winced at the cacophony, hoping that it wouldn’t draw too much attention.

Any normal person could have easily flown up to the rooftop without breaking a sweat and avoided the mess of noise in the first place, but Adrien knew from experience that he wouldn’t be able to lift off. Thanks to his father’s stupid rules, he wasn’t allowed to fly. As a result of avoiding any wind-blown scruff, his wings were very much out of practice—at least, they were when he wasn’t transformed.

Adrien finally stumbled onto the flat rooftop, unable to help glancing back when another furious roar ripped out across the distance. A gigantic reptile with pebbled skin and slender, flailing limbs crashed through the surf and swung its head from side to side. With a stuttering heartbeat, Adrien realized that Ladybug was no longer fighting against it. As his eyes frantically swept through the clear sky, he saw no signs of his partner.

He was so… so late. Ladybug had spent way too long holding off the akuma on her own. Unable to wait for Chat Noir to show up, she’d already exhausted the use of her lucky charm. Unfortunately, it looked like the monster hadn’t let Ladybug anywhere near its akumatized object, and her time must have finally run out. Hopefully, she was only missing because she was busy recharging her kwami, and not because she was seriously injured somewhere.

Adrien tried not to dwell on that, shaking his head and turning his attention back to the rooftop. It was well secluded, and with a quick scan he spotted what looked like a decent shed, immediately sprinting toward it.

He didn’t even hear the flutter of wings until it was too late, too focused on hiding so he could transform as quickly as possible and help his lady. Tearing around the corner of the shed, Adrien only caught a flash of red before he suddenly collided with another person, their large, white wings flaring up in surprise as they let out a surprised shriek.

“L-Ladybug?” That was the only thing Adrien was able to get out before she suddenly slammed her hands over his eyes and a shrill beeping reached his ears.

“Don’t look!” she yelled desperately. And then, a flare of pink light flashed along the shadow of her palms.

Adrien froze in place, his pulse starting to race when he realized that, rather than the cool feel of her suit to act as a layer between them, the new warmth pressed against his face was from her direct touch.

Oh, his brain absentmindedly hummed. These are Ladybug’s hands…

“Uhm… P-please don’t look.” Her voice wavered, and he could hear the hushed sound of her feathers rustling nervously. He could completely understand why. One wrong move, and her identity would be exposed—not that he would ever do that to his own partner. Even if she was out of the suit… And standing right in front of him...

Stop that, he mentally chided himself. He knew her identity must be kept a secret, despite the pounding of his own heart about the fact that she was right. There.

“I’d never look,” he instead reassured her, just barely resisting adding a, ‘milady’ to the end of that. His voice sounded much more calm than he felt as he gently laid his hands over hers to hold them more securely in place. There would be no accidental reveals on his watch.

Ladybug stiffened beneath his touch and let out an odd noise—something akin to a sharp whine—but she didn’t pull away.

“Got it!” a high-pitched voice cried out, and Adrien recognized the sound of Tikki’s voice.

“H-hurry, Tikki…” Ladybug pleaded nervously. “N-not that I trust you at all—NO! I mean—I trust you completely!” He could feel delicate brushes of wind from all the fluttering her wings were doing. “I just feel better with your eyes covered...”

“Don’t worry, I understand the need to keep your identity secret, Ladybug,” he said.

A stiff, stagnant silence settled between them while they seemed to mentally agree to wait quietly for Tikki to finish off her recharge-snack. Each passing second dragged despite the frantic pounding of his heart. Was it his imagination, or was Ladybug’s pulse racing just as much as his?

It felt like an eternity before Tikki finally let out an energetic, “Ready!”

Ladybug immediately called out to her kwami, and Adrien had to squeeze his eyes shut when the blinding light flashed over her hands. She finally pulled back, and he rubbed at his face, blinking away the spots in front of his vision to focus on Ladybug standing before him.

“Thanks, Adrien.” She lifted her hand in a shy little wave. “I know you—AAH! I knew I could trust you, that is!”

And with that, she turned almost too quickly to spread her wings. Ladybug flapped them once, then ruffled his hair with the resulting gust as she gracefully alighted from the roof and veered toward the akuma still terrorizing the tourists.

Adrien stared after her, a gentle smile tugging up the corners of his mouth as he waved his hand slowly, even though she probably wasn’t looking at him anymore. “She trusts me...” he murmured happily.

“Hel-lo!” At Plagg’s sharp yelp, Adrien jolted out of his daze. “Transform?” Plagg huffed, his feathers angrily ruffling up.

“OH. Yes! Right!” Adrien unfurled his wings, mostly just for his own entertainment as he shifted into a dynamic pose. But before he could call out the words, with his wings fanned out, and his pale feathers stretched out on either side of him, something odd caught his attention.

Despite Plagg’s impatient yowl when he paused, Adrien’s eyes flicked to the underside of his wings where he always kept Marinette’s lucky charm tucked away. It was usually hidden, but with his limbs extended, the blue feather could easily be spotted nestled within his light plumage.

From the corner of his vision, he didn’t see any dark splotch, and the lack of it made him panic for a split second, believing he might have lost it. But no, as he turned his searching gaze, he was instead met with something that took him completely by surprise. Adrien faltered then, not because the feather was gone, but because something had replaced it.

Marinette’s charm was still there, tied where it was supposed to be. Only, it didn’t look the same. The colorful little beads still hung in their place, but a new, sleek feather of unblemished white fluttered beneath them.

“What’s wrong?” Plagg asked, even though his kwami quickly followed his frozen gaze. Upon seeing what he was staring at, Plagg suddenly made a noise that sounded like he was choking on a piece of cheese.

“Marinette’s feather... transformed…?” Adrien whispered in awe, his eyes jumping over it as his heart started racing. It was a very familiar feather that he knew so well, from the shape of its vent down to the pristine color of its barbs. “...into Ladybug’s?”

“Tha-ha-hat’s just the way the magic works!” Plagg stammered as he flew up in front of Adrien’s face, waving his paws wildly.

“Then why didn’t mine change when she transformed?” Adrien demanded, his pulse ramping up and creating a tempo like a furious drumbeat in his ears. It drowned out Plagg’s further protests, and instead of listening to him, Adrien simply called out to his kwami to transform.

In the flash of green light that drew out his protective suit, his wings also changed. They grew and lengthened, shivering and crackling with an energy and newfound power as a darkness bled through their quills like ink.

And there, in the shimmering obsidian of his transformed wings, Ladybug’s feather waved delicately from its string, still as pristine and clear as a snowflake in a void.

“Ladybug is Marinette…” Adrien whispered, folding his wing closer to stroke the lone feather. He couldn’t feel anything through his suit, but he imagined it was just as soft and delicate as it was before.

“Chat Noir!” The sound of Ladybug’s yell in the distance jolted him from his thoughts. “Where are you!?”

“A-a-a-ah!” Adrien cried out as he spun around in a panic, his wings molting a few feathers as he launched awkwardly into the sky. “Here, milady!” He grabbed his baton, adjusted his flight path, and swooped toward the fray. 

Marinette! He wasn’t able to hide his excitement as a grin broke out on his face. Just wait!

[littleladymab]

The Phoenix Suite (SW Rebels Pod+Fic)

Do you know what a phoenix is? It is said that the bird would go out in a burst of flames, and then rise from its ashes, born again. Even if we lose here, the Rebellion will never go out. Someone will always be the spark.

((Kallus tries to get a message to the Rebellion, but he fails -- tries to get a message to the Rebellion but he fails -- but he fails -- he fails))

Series: Star Wars Rebels Characters: Kallus, Thrawn, and the Ghost Crew Rating: Teen Tags: S3 Finale, time-loop, warnings for implied torture/character death/suicide (but again, it's a time loop, so it doesn't stick)

Read by Litra (link to stream)

----

Kallus hits the ground, hard.

He wheezes, more in shock than in pain, and inhales a lungful of dust and air tinged with the ozone of blaster fire. His shoulder takes the brunt of the blow, hands cuffed uselessly behind him.

Still, he’s able to roll into the fall and scrambles to his feet as the call goes up behind him.

“Grand Admiral!” a trooper shouts. “The prisoner is trying to escape!”

Kallus can’t hear Thrawn’s response, but the screams of the dying Rebel forces and the heavy tread of the walkers is enough of an answer: He’ll die with Atollon, and with the Rebellion.

For a wild, frantic second, Kallus considers charging one of the rear guards and taking their blaster, dragging down whoever else he can with his inevitable demise.

But then the part of his brain that clings to survival, to the barest glimmer of hope that this can still be salvaged, urges him onward.

So he runs — away from the sounds of the massacre, away from the orderly advance of the troopers and their walkers. Far enough that the only thing he can hear is the distant roar of chaos and ships crashing to the planet’s surface in his ears.

Breaking the cuffs is easy when he has a moment. He knows where to apply the right amount of pressure, even with his hands locked behind him.

There’s a faint and ominous skittering sound to his left, so he banks right. He has no knowledge of Atollon, and he certainly doesn’t want to learn about the local fauna.

Not when his brain is reeling and clawing desperately for a solution. Not when he’s staunchly ignoring the voice in the back of his head, the cold, calculated tone of the ISB Agent, as it scoffs and says you know a hopeless case when you see one.

Because he does. He knew from the moment he woke up in the cell after being knocked out by Thrawn on the communications tower.

Shit, probably earlier than that, if he’s being completely honest.

Playing at being a Rebel, thinking he could handle the mantle of Fulcrum.

The moment Thrawn walked into the picture, he was fucked.

His feet carry him without thought, winding away deeper and deeper into the wilds of this uninhabited planet. Further, he thinks, from the remains of his failure.

Until he crests a ridge and he’s standing on a cliff and he can see it all spread out before him. The base flattened, like a bug squashed beneath a boot. The white shapes of troopers picking their way through the remains, and the occasional flash of blaster fire when they find a survivor.

His stomach turns at the sight, the now familiar sickening sensation that this is the mighty hand of the Empire. This is not a war, and it never will be.

And it’s not that he wanted to go down in a blaze of glory or anything. He just wanted to make a difference for once. The tug in his chest, the last desperate pull of hope that led him this way, finally dies, leaving him standing on uneasy legs at the edge of the precipice.

“This is all my fault,” he says to the valley below, and wishes that it could be more of an apology and less of a goodbye.

“Which side do you mourn for?” a voice like thunder asks, and Kallus whirls around — reaching for a weapon that isn’t there.

But instead of a man, instead of Grand Admiral Thrawn with his glowing red eyes or the emotionless mask of a trooper, Kallus finds himself facing a creature that towers like a mountain above him. Its head is framed in a halo of dust as constellations of atmo burners light up behind it, and eyes like twin suns stare down at the human.

Kallus is speechless. Nothing in all of his training has prepared him for this. “What are you?” he asks instead.

“I,” the creature intones, shifting its head so that its silhouette is visible in the fading light, “am the Bendu.” It creaks with every movement, the coral that forms its antlers and outer shell grinding together as the beast lowers itself to Kallus’ level. “And what are you? You found me, yet… you are not a Jedi.”

Kallus wonders what makes being a Jedi a prerequisite for this. “I am…” Kallus starts, but in the end, he can’t figure out what the answer should be.

“Alexsandr Kallus, Imperial Security Bureau Agent 021,” the creature supplies, and Kallus feels hot and cold inside all at once.

He grinds his teeth and clenches his hands into fists and refuses to give into a physical display of his anger. “Not any longer.”

The Bendu studies him, those burning yellow eyes peeling him away layer by layer. “You wear the uniform. You keep that name close to your heart. Who are you, Alexsandr Kallus, if not an agent of the Empire?”

Enough is enough.

Every bruise and broken rib and laceration stings, the pain pulsing in time to his ragged breathing and his labored heartbeat. They are what reminds him of who he is, because everything he can see and hear tells him that the Bendu is right, he still is ISB-021.

He draws himself up to his full height, and throws his shoulders back in a way that he has seen Rebellion fighters do — one that conveys defiance instead of the perfectly postured lines of the Empire. “I am Fulcrum,” he says. “I am a Rebel spy, an Imperial defector. I am—” Here he falters, voice finally cracking. “I am well and truly fucked.”

The Bendu gives a low growl of something that might be understanding deep in its chest. “So then, Alexsandr Kallus: Which side do you mourn for?”

A laugh, strained and hysterical, boils up the back of his throat, but he swallows it down before it can get loose. “Why would I mourn the Imperials? They are the clear victors here.”

“Ah,” the Bendu says, as if it had caught Kallus in a particularly clever trap. “But in their victory, have they not also lost? Things they don’t even realize are missing.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Kallus counters. “If you were here, why didn’t you help the Rebellion? Why didn’t you help the Jedi?”

There is another rumble, this time like a storm, and the blazing suns of the Bendu’s eyes flash in warning. “I am the one in the middle. As I told the Jedi Knight who came and asked for my assistance, I take no side.”

Kallus just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. More Force and Jedi nonsense taken to the extreme. “This is a war. You side with the oppressors when you refuse to take action against them.”

“You picked a side, Agent. You carry pride for what you have done. Who are you, with your accolades and titles bestowed upon you by your Empire, to tell me that I do more harm than good? I am the Bendu. I am the one in the middle.”

Standing there on the cliff’s edge, still in his ISB uniform, Kallus wonders if he himself isn’t currently dangling precariously in the middle. Stranded between two worlds, no longer one but not truly another. He rejected the Empire, but was never fully accepted by the Rebellion.

Except that’s not true, is it? Not really. It wasn’t all that long ago that he was in the detention cell, undoing Ezra Bridger’s handcuffs, and the boy turned to look up at him with an expression of distrust but determination. The crew of the Ghost put everything on the line to try and save him, but he had said no. I can do more good here.

“I didn’t think that I had a choice,” Kallus finally says. “I didn’t know anything else.”

“Then what changed?”

How to answer? A part of him had died after that night on Bahryn. The person who crawled his way out of the ice and into the trader’s ship was someone else entirely.

Kallus had been given a choice; several, in fact.

He had spared Garazeb Orrelios’ life, twice. He had declined the invitation to be rescued by the Ghost crew.

That’s when he began to acknowledge the cracks — the chipping veneer on the Empire’s elaborate portrait of the future. When given the chance to do something more, he knew that there was another answer than the easy one offered by the Empire.

Eventually, he gives a helpless shrug. “Everything.”

The Bendu considers this, considers him. It’s similar to the feeling of being studied by Kanan Jarrus, or by the Inquisitor. That depth in their gaze that sees beyond this moment, like they know something is about to happen.

Someone who can see the full picture, where Kallus cannot.

Kallus knows, without a doubt, that he’s about to be given another choice. He is a man who takes disjointed pieces and knows how to put them together into a narrative. He is a man who has thrived on logic and reason for so long that they are second nature to him.

There is nothing left for him except execution at the hands of the Empire, or a slow death in the wilds of Atollon. There is no other way for this story to end, except for the choice that he will be offered.

“Would you change this, if you could?” The Bendu waves one massive hand, encompassing Kallus beaten and bloody, the smoldering valley below, the remains of destroyed ships like falling stars in the hazy sky.

“Yes,” Kallus says without hesitating.

“What would you change?”

Another shrug, not knowing where to begin. “Everything.”

The Bendu leans in closer still, until its eyes are the only thing that Kallus can see, and its hot breath washes over him. “If you could do this over again, would you?”

Now is not the time for logic and reason. Now is the time for gut instinct, in trusting something bigger than himself, bigger than the Empire.

Alexsandr Kallus, no longer an ISB Agent, no longer Fulcrum, dead man walking, looks the Bendu straight in the eyes and says, “Yes.”

It happens all at once. (It happens over the course of an eternity.) [It happens in juddering starts and stops and flashes of moments strung together.]

Kallus feels like he’s being plunged into a pool (into the dead cold of space) [like he’s being torn apart and reconfigured]. There is a weight on his chest that saps the air from his lungs and before he can get a chance to wonder if he’s made a mistake, everything goes black.

(( read the rest on ao3 ))

[prepare4trouble]

Good Omens fanfic - Looking Like This (3)

Part 1 | Part 2

The Bentley really was back.

It wasn’t that Crowley hadn’t believed Aziraphale; after all, he had seen the bookshop, whole and unburnt, when it should have been a charred mess cordoned off and still damp from the hoses that had been used to extinguish the fire. He knew things had been put back more or less the way they had been before the aborted apocalypse had taken place, but it was that ‘more or less’ part that had been bothering him.

Aziraphale wasn’t exactly known for his automobile expertise; until sometime in the mid 60s he had still been referring to cars as ‘horseless carriages’ on occasion. He could have missed all kinds of discrepancies with the Bentley that Crowley would have picked up on instantly.

And so, until the taxi had dropped the two of them off outside Crowley’s flat, it had still been difficult to believe that the car that he had loved and taken care of for so many years; the car that he had purposely driven through the wall of flame that was the M25, and that he had held together through sheer force of will the whole way to Tadfield; the car that he had been convinced he had lost forever, was really back.

He might have gasped. Just a little bit.

“I did tell you,” Aziraphale said with a smug but very happy smile that looked completely out of place on the face he was currently wearing.

Crowley touched his fingertips to the black paint and caressed the bonnet lovingly. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “But it was hard to believe it until I saw it with my own two…” he hesitated. They weren’t his own two eyes, they were Aziraphale’s.  “Anyway,” he said. “You’ll get it when you see the bookshop.”

The car looked brand new; fresh off the factory floor. The paintwork gleamed in the sun in a way that it hadn’t for decades. For ninety years, Crowley had been looking after that car, carefully miracling away every scratch and bump, keeping the water and oil at optimum levels — without actually having to check them or top them up, of course — and once, because he had wanted the full car owner’s experience, even washing it by hand on a Sunday morning. He hadn’t enjoyed that very much, although there had been something oddly satisfying about polishing the paintwork afterwards.

Still, over the years it had aged in subtle ways. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, but there was a newness to the car now that hadn’t been there last week; something that he recognized from a long time ago. He wasn’t sure he liked it. Age had lent the car a certain kind of dignity that Crowley feared it might take a couple of decades to get back. Right now, it felt like something out of a period drama; not quite authentic.

He doubted that anybody else would notice.

He opened the door and slipped inside. It even smelled like a new car.  Not like a new car now; all chemicals and plastics and pine scented air freshener. No, it smelled like an old new car. Like a new car was supposed to smell.  He inhaled deeply, and touched the steering wheel reverently.

He noted with interest that the car was already fitted with a CD player. It wasn’t actually brand new, then; those hadn’t exactly been fitted as standard when he had first bought the car. Over the years, he had made changes, adding first a radio, then a tape player, and finally — when cassettes became hard to come by and all the music he had ever loved had been transformed into Queen — he had miracled in a CD player and started buying it again in a new format.

There was something else too. He frowned as he leaned in to get a closer look. Two USB ports were built into the dashboard, looking as though they were supposed to be there, and the display on a screen that definitely hadn’t existed the last time he had been in the car, said something about ‘bluetooth’.

“What’s a bluetooth?” he asked.

Aziraphale, still standing outside the car at the driver’s side, shrugged. “Is it some kind of fish?” he asked. “Or perhaps a whale?”

Crowley shook his head. It sounded like it could be right, but something like that had no place anywhere near a car. Especially a car of this quality. “Yeah maybe.” He had been thinking it was something to do with mobile phones. “Are you getting in, angel? Or are you planning on standing in the middle of the road all day? I thought you wanted to see your books.”

“Oh! Right.” Aziraphale hurried around the front of the car and clambered in.

Crowley put the key in the ignition, but didn’t turn it. He hesitated. Something else was different too. The car was the wrong size. The pedals were that little bit too far so that he had to stretch his legs to reach them, and a glance in the rear view mirror showed that it was angled slightly wrong. In fact, everything seemed that little bit off. He fumbled for the lever to move the seat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aziraphale look at him. “Problem?” he asked

“No,” Crowley insisted, grinding his… Aziraphale’s… teeth a little. “Nope, no problem at all.”

He couldn’t find it. It occurred to him that he had never had to adjust anything in the car before; it had always just fit him perfectly.

He moved the mirror; that at least was easy, then swept a hand along the side and then the front of his seat. Nothing. “You’re too short for my car,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale said. He sounded mildly offended.

“I mean…” Crowley waved a hand indicating the pedals of the car, then shook his head. “Your legs don’t… the seat’s too far… There should be a lever or a button or something around here to move the seat forward.”

“Really? In a car of this age?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley scowled at him, not sure exactly why the angel of all people — who as far as Crowley was aware had never even sat in the drivers seat of a car, let alone driven anywhere — would have the first clue about the features that cars of different ages should have.  He was right though. Crowley wasn’t sure whether he had simply been lucky with the car before, or whether he had unconsciously made changes to make it more comfortable to drive, but there probably wouldn’t have been any real way to move the seats around back then.

Well, that was easy enough to fix.  He turned the key in the ignition, then reached down the side of the seat again. His fingers immediately found a switch that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. He slid it forward and the seat moved to the correct position. “Yeah, really,” he said. He put the car into gear, pulled out into the quiet road and a nice, steady 70mph.

“You changed your music,” Aziraphale noted.

Crowley listened. Aziraphale was right; it wasn’t Queen. He turned up the volume a little. “Must be the radio,” he said. But it wasn’t.

“No, I don’t think so,” Aziraphale told him. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out three other disks.

“Try something for me; put one of those in instead,” Crowley told him.

Without questioning the request, Aziraphale took out the first CD and replaced it with the other one.   The first notes of Handel’s Water Music filled the car.

“This makes a pleasant change,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley shrugged, and swerved to narrowly avoid a cyclist. “I guess the CDs are as new as the car, technically they haven’t been in here long enough. Don’t get used to it, in about two weeks we’ll be listening to Another One Bites the Dust.”

But in the meantime, Aziraphale was right; it did make a nice change.

He squinted a little as he turned a corner into the sun. It seemed unusually bright today.

(part 4)

[trailmafia]

R2R2R - trip report

4/20/2019

I didn’t sleep at all. After rolling around in my tent aimlessly for a few hours I decided it was time to get going. At about 4am, after a quick coffee and a couple of avocados, I left Mather Campground and drove toward the grand canyon visitor center to park. From there I ran a quick 1.5  miles or so to the South Kaibob TH. 

I decided on the South Kaibob > North Kaibob > Bright Angel Route. First, because it gave me a chance to see more of the canyon, and even though it was 2-3 miles longer, it was a “less steep” ascent out of the canyon when I would need the relief most - I knew I would be feeling the hurt at that point. As a bonus, parking at the visitor center, about halfway between both trailheads, would let me tick off an extra couple miles to get me as close to my goal of 50 miles as I could bear, having to run to the South Kaibob TH from my car and possibly back to my car from the Bright Angel TH if my legs were still functional. 

One of the most difficult parts of the day was just getting out of Mather Campground. I drove around for about 20+ minutes trying to find my way out. After flagging a family in a minivan down to ask for help escaping the campground, they laughed and told me to follow them out. Finally making it to the visitor center, I parked, stretched, ran to the South Kaibob TH, and descended into the abyss. 

The weather was perfect - 55 degrees F at the TH and about 65 degrees F down at skeleton point - clear skies and crisp, clean air with this deep hypnotic purple and crimson red glow permeating down into the steep corkscrew below. 

 I was only at Cedar Ridge (1.5 miles in) when I knew that the stairs were going to be a major problem for my left knee that had been having some IT Band issues. I’m not a fan of stairs on any trail really as they force you into an unnatural rhythm and create a very awkward angle on your joints. Luckily though, I didn’t hit any mule trains on the way down and I knew that would save me some time.

When I finally made it down for my first glimpse of the Colorado River, I submitted to the pain, even though my knee was in a full blown rebellion against me, hinting for me to abort while I still could.

 It was normal for the joints in my knees to start rubbing at that time, before I discovered how to stretch, strengthen, and foam roll properly, but usually only after about 25 miles in. I was only 9 miles in and knew I had about 40 something miles to go. This would be the going back point if I decided to give into the growing discomfort, but I dug in, and decided there was no way in hell I was going back, even if it meant not walking for a couple days. I was hell-bent.

After my first crossing of the Colorado, the terrain flattens out into one of the most exotic, single-track, slot-canyon trails I have ever been on. Or at least for the next 8 miles from Phantom Ranch to Manzanita Creek. The latter I knew was my only water stop on the entire north side of the canyon because the north rim would be closed for another couple of weeks.

I was in a nice groove, running about a 9 min/mile pace, listening to boulders crack into each other beneath the Bright Angel Creek beside me, crossing small suspension bridges, smelling the prehistoric red dust that came up with each step, becoming more and more comfortable with the pain in my left knee as my world above the rim began to melt away. I began to settle into this lush, Sonoran canyon-land.

I had only passed a handful of hikers at this point, but was more interested in catching up to the two running shoe prints that I had been seeing since I dropped in. At Manzanita Creek I bumped into two  Canadian girls in full running gear who seemed super happy to see another runner planning on completing the same route. They confirmed they had left the trail head 45 minutes before me so I was convinced it was the two prints that I had been chasing all morning. This gave me some closure that I was making decent time, being right on schedule with the splits I had calculated beforehand. We talked for a few minutes while filling up on water, all of us thrilled about being on this epic run. I pressed on ahead though and told them I would see them on my way back down from the north rim. Off I went.

Passing Roaring Springs was another cool rush and a well needed distraction from the ever sharpening pain in my knee. I could feel the vibration of this massive waterfall thundering down into the canyon, reminding me how small I was. Farther up the trail I began to hear what sounded like helicopter blades, echoing louder and louder as I passed over and under misty bridges and aqua blue waterfalls. Finally, about 3/4 of the way up, I came around the corner to the source of loud echoing blades. It was a helicopter lowering what looked like a generator to two workers harnessed onto the side of the sheer canyon wall. I was stunned that these two guys were just hanging onto the side of a cliff going about their work like it was normal, grabbing onto the slowly repelling machine, giving the helicopter pilot a thumbs up that they had control of it. I remember wanting to say something to them but I didn’t know what to say because I was so perplexed, so I just kept running up the trail smiling in wonder, smh.

At this point, I had passed a couple of runners who were on their way down. This surprised me because I hadn’t really seen any other fresh tracks earlier on the South Kaibob besides those of the two girls I just bumped into, so I assumed they probably just came down Bright Angel. I over-enthusiastically exchanged high fives with them, being so excited again to encounter other people on the same run as me. I noticed that none of them were wearing packs though which made me question if I was the only one wearing one, but then it dawned on me later on that most of them had probably stashed them at Manzanita to cut down unnecessary weight for the 5,000′ climb up the rim. Next time.

When I finally made it up to the north rim there was nobody. Just a bunch of left over snow. I had pictured this moment in my head, but I couldn’t have imagined how much peace and happiness I would feel as I rested my legs for the first time and slowly ate a bag of dried cranberries and some trail mix. I was as far away from safety as I had ever been and I had never felt better. What a strange and enlightening moment that was.

After about a 10 minute rest, my mind was back to the 24 mile challenge ahead of me with a blown out knee. The water spigot was dry which I knew was going to be the case reading every nps report I could, but nonetheless I was hoping to fill up at the slight chance the spigots were back on for the season. I also decided that on this rare occasion I would take some Ibuprofen I had packed, attempting to numb the increasingly sharp pain I was feeling. So I threw some pills in my mouth and a big handful of snow to wash them down. I packed some snow into the knee brace I was wearing as well as my hydration bladder to cool down and supplement whatever water I had left. Regardless, I felt amazing as these hardy calories coursed through body. I had only been eating gels up to this point (about 8 GU’s). The temperature had dropped to about 43 degrees F on the north rim so I put some layers back on, covered my neck and face with a buff, and dropped back into the gorge with an incredible sense of refreshment and vitality. 

About 3 switchbacks down from the trail head or 400 yards or so I turned around the corner to hear a “Cack cack cack cack” of branches snapping in half that I will NEVER forget. I turned to respond with my eyes to see what my ears just heard. 

I’m not sure exactly what it was, but it was big, and as quickly as my head could turn, whatever it was disappeared back up towards where I had just come from. I had read several reports of cougars being spotted in this particular area this time of year but I’ll never really know what it was. I was officially spooked though and started running like hell. All pain in my body disappeared as the adrenaline took over. 

Shortly after this encounter I bumped into the Canadian girls again who were on their way up. I was coming at them fast and when I finally got to them I told them what had just happened. They immediately stopped in their tracks and turned around to come back down with me. I didn’t want to discourage them from missing the north rim but I think they could tell that I was genuinely spooked and that was enough for them. They  followed me pretty closely for about a mile down until they were feeling a little more at ease, and they finally stopped to rest. I kept going, and this was the last I would see them. I was genuinely spooked, but as my downhill pace picked up and the endorphins started flooding through my veins, that fear transformed into exhilaration like I have never felt. This was now a true adventure.  

Then, as quickly as my high surged to its highest point, the pain began to set in again. This time with a ferocity that still sends shivers down my spine thinking about it. I was now unable to control the limp that had been developing as my knee was almost completely locked. 

At this point the temperature started spiking again as I made my return to the canyon floor. I was burning through water quickly and ran out about 2 miles before hitting Manzanita again. Water never tasted this good. There was a guy lying on the bench there getting some rest. He had his hat resting over his face but kept one eye peeking out at me, watching me nervously, gulping water into my mouth faster than I could swallow it. 

I knew this upcoming section from Manzanita to Bright Angel campground would be the easiest and the perfect opportunity to make up some time that I had begun to lose from my slowing pace. It was about 8 miles of slightly downhill running. I went into autopilot, grinding my teeth, and wincing in pain at every uneven step I was forced to take. Somewhere around Cottonwood campground I found a nice river crossing and soaked my legs in the rushing cold water for a few minutes. 

Throughout the day, I had this growing realization that even though I was in pain, all things were fair somehow. Nature provided as much as it could for me. It gave me snow to stuff in my knee brace and in my pack when I ran out of water. It gave me a gentle breeze when I was burning up, and a nice cool river to soak my legs in when they began to swell. Ultimately though, nature is impartial. It’s not there to  soothe your pain.  It’s not there to comfort you when things get bad. Nature is there to give you a glimpse into yourself. It’s there to remind you that you are alive. Each moment your heart is still pumping blood throughout your body is a good moment. 

My legs still slightly numb from the ice cold soak in the river, I flew through the rest of the narrow canyon, past Phantom Ranch and back to the Colorado. 

I had been contemplating going back up the South Kaibob knowing it was the shorter route, but I was determined to stick with the plan, knowing I would be seeing one of the most beautiful trails on earth, and finishing what I set out to do.

The sun was blazing down as I crossed the Silver Bridge during the hottest part of the day and ran the sandy banks of the Colorado River toward the bottom of the trail. I knew the hardest part of the trip lie ahead. They say the Bright Angel is the safest trail in the canyon, but 40 miles in, nothing seemed safe. Beautiful streams and lush gardens taunted me to stop and enjoy like all the other hikers and leisure seekers, but I knew I had to keep going. Surprisingly, I was still passing people on the trail pretty quickly and began to develop the feeling that I was on the other side of my fears, confident I would make it out. I knew looking up to the top was a big mistake and would check my growing confidence if I did. I could see it out of the corner of my eye, but I tried to keep a balanced approach, staying focused on the moment and each next step, but not forgetting to appreciate the desert paradise surrounding me. 

At this point, I was helplessly tripping over rocks and smashing the tips of my toes harder and harder as I became more fatigued. I couldn’t lift my legs high enough to step over them anymore. I knew that my left and right big toenails were probably going to fall off. I couldn’t feel them anymore though. I knew this was pretty common with ultra runners and it used to gross me out quite a bit. Now, it was a sign that I was progressing. It was an initiation, a marker on my path to running long distance ultra marathons. 

I made my final water refill at Indian Garden. Using the last of my salt tablets and the rest of my food, I felt like I had planned my nutrition pretty well, and now that the sun was beginning to set below the rim I was really bouncing back from a mental low. This was the most beautiful portion of the trip I thought. The final switchbacks were long and steep and took everything I had, but I felt good and really took in the beauty of the trail for the last few miles as I reflected on my day.

As my ears began to pop, I knew I was close. If I stopped at all at this point though my knee would completely lock up, so I kept a steady pace most of the way back up. With the help of some positive vibes from a hiker, my spirits were lifted just high enough to get me out with a smile. As I slowly and haggardly made my way past her, she asked if I was ok. Apparently I didn’t look so good, but I smiled, coughed, and nodded my head up and down in exhaustion. We had a couple quick laughs at my expense, questioning my sanity and the dirt covering my face, and then before I knew it, she was gone, several switchbacks below as I maintained course. I was still so focused on the end.

Seeing camera clad tourists with no hiking gear on was my sign that I was close. They had no idea what I had just done, and that was comforting to me, knowing that I had this little secret. They would probably never see what I saw or experience what I experienced that day. This was my moment of self-transcendence. This is what I had been searching for my whole life. Just over 12 hours and 49.2 miles later, I reached the Bright Angel trail head. 

#r2r2r 

[frosty-tian]

Fan Flash Fiction: A Cold Start:

Ratings: General Audiences

Warnings: None

Genre: Slice-of-life, Comedy/Humour

Fandom: ‘Boomboom-school’

Characters: Rin Hiryu, other Class 1-B students (minor role/appearances.)

Words: 1500+

Extra notes: Idea from my wonderful friend @seersnake! As usual, polite constructive criticisms/feedback are welcome.

Summary:

It’s the new start for Rin, which meant new attitude, and new things to look forward to. However, on this fine morning, an unexpected problem strikes. 

Will Rin still be able to have a great time despite the new obstacle ahead?

Early sunlight slanted through the curtain’s crack. The long, warm beam split my room cleanly in half, turning dust specks into flickers of ember.

Usually, I simply would’ve groaned and turn my back to the light, but I was sure about this day being different.

Why, it’s the first day of December. This meant… Few more steps until Christmas and the long-awaited New Years!

Determined that absolutely nothing will meddle with this happy thought in my head, I enthusiastically threw off my warm blankets (I have the habit of sleeping with two layers during colder nights), wearing an unusually big (and possibly stupid) smile that’s brimming with optimism.

 This optimism fell flat seconds after I yanked open the thin, olive-green curtains.

I blinked once, twice.

How...?

There were small, grinding sounds (I think) when I gritted my teeth, before I hissed softly through them:

“You…!”

Within a brief matter of seconds, I was hunched in front of my laptop’s screen, click-clacking away on the keys furiously. Right after the result page popped up, I hastily skimmed across the bright screen.

“Clear with periodic clouds, wind speed…”

Finally, I stopped cold on a particular text. I gaped with much horror. Even took me a few seconds to process the info.

  “-10C/14F”

 Oh, damn it….!

  “Isn’t this bit of an over-kill?” Setsuna dropped one of her casual remarks while she tilted her head to one side and scrutinized me with a wrinkled nose. She was wearing a stylish, puffy green jacket over her uniform. Parts below the below the belt had scale patterns that’s made of something like green foil burned into the fabric, which gradually faded as it crept upwards from the hem. I can confirm that she’s one of the more up-to-date fashionsta in our class, but this morning, she looked prettier than usual.

Better judgment managed to strike me during the right moment, so I kept my tongue in my cotton surgical mask.

Simply puffed out in my full ‘winter gear’, I wonder why she thought this was something worth making a big fuss about. Okay, maybe I did throw in some ‘extra layers’ for a good measure, but still…

“I ran out of ginger powder for my warming drink.”

“Ah.”

Our conversation was cut short by a cheerful voice.

“Good morning, Setsuna! Good morning… Uhhh.”

Kendo hurriedly strolled past us, clearly not wanting to be late for class. She’s the class president, after all.

I was rather surprised at how little she was dressed for the winter. Along with her uniform, there’s only a simple, pale yellow scarf bouncing with her orange side-tail over her shoulder.

She gave me a rather bewildered look as she passed.

Personally, I don’t blame her.

Who wouldn’t be confused when they see someone dressed up like a run-away penguin? Especially if it’s one with a terrible wardrobe and braided pony-tail.

After she disappeared around the corner, Setsuna turned to me and let out a small chuckle.

“Good-luck for today, dragon boy.” She gave a small wink and flicked her forked tongue as an odd way of salute before walking down the hall, one hand in a pocket, one hand swinging her school bag with a light spring in her steps.

I rolled my eyes and thought grumpily to myself

Yes, I’m afraid I would need the luck… very, very much…

 Not wanting to be too late on the first day of December, I hastily made my way down to the common area (while almost tripping down the staircase at least once).

Across the room, the glass doors with their edges frosted framed the morning scene like a pretty picture. Just overnight, the UA field was transformed into a dazzling white wonderland when the sudden snow-storm frosted over. Small clumps of white stood out amongst the bushes’ dark branches, glittering under the bright sun like millions of diamond shards. The trees stood silently in this wintry world, some of its branches bent down a little from the weight of snow.

Most might’ve spread their arms open with a big smile and deemed this sight a ‘miracle’, ‘beauty’ or even one of ‘nature’s wonder’.

Unfortunately, I’m not much of an admirer for such a cold, dead-looking landscape.

 I stood at least a meter away from the doors, shifting my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

Should I?

Sure, there’s rather the questionable choice of bunking (not like it’s the first time I did it since I began my school career in general), but the image of Teacher Vald and my family wearing a disappointed or disapproving frown crept into my mind…

Or maybe, I could ask someone else, like Shishida or Bondo to carry me? No no, that is bit of a selfish request, and might be embarrassment for both of us (especially them), not to mention…

 After another wasted minute of restless thoughts (and a few in-out puffs of deep breaths), I finally made up my mind.

Fearlessly, (I was trembling just a little) I stepped closer to the glass doors. I still kept my ground as they slid open with a faint whirr.

When the wind slapped against my face like a cold, wet sponge, I instantly tensed up.

But that alone wasn’t going to stop me.

Walking out into the cold, my breath became visible puffs of little white clouds that vanished into thin air. Felt like I was blowing out precious, warm steam instead of simple carbon dioxide.

 It appeared that someone had shovelled some of the snow in the early morning to make way, forming an oddly neat block of hard dirt in front of the dorm’s entrance.

Determined, I advanced my way to the far edge of the block. The thick layer of freshly fallen snow was at least 12 centimetres thick, and the mere sight actually sent a freezing jolt down my spine. That’s also when I realized how in the midst of rushing to get ready, the thought of packing snow boots had slipped clean from my mind. Great.

 Though reluctant, I began trudging painfully through the huge white blanket.

Cringing while my pant legs stuck to my skin as it slowly got soggy, I can’t help but to think, with just a hint of annoyance, to myself:

If only the person shovelled out a path as well…Certainly could’ve made quite a difference!

 It was about ten steps into my journey when a sudden, loud voice pierced the air like a stray bullet:

“RIN, YOU’RE WALKING IN THE WRONG DIRECTION!!!”

Tetsutetsu’s voice boomed across the vast field, making faint echoes that took some time to fade away into the distance. I froze, left foot hovering in mid-air. Turning my head slowly, I saw most of my classmates staring. Directly at me.

To the left, they were walking on a wide, pre-shovelled dirt road that connected our dorm to Class A’s in a T-junction, the middle extending to UA. Which I clearly missed like a dumb egg.

 The worst part about being humiliated in front of so many people is possibly how much focus you unconsciously have on everyone else’s reactions:

Kuroiro wore a huge grin from ear-to-ear. Tsuburaba’s whole body was shaking by trying awfully hard (and failing) to hold in a laugh. Yui just looked disappointed, Manga… face-palmed? Shoda had a really concerned look, Kendo…

Not too far away, a few approaching students from 1-A peering at us with curiosity.

 I felt some sort of hotness slowly spreading across my face. Thank goodness my red mask and hat somehow covered all of it.

Letting out a huge sigh of frustration, I started making my way back.

Should’ve watched if there were any little puddles.

As my foot shot out from right under me before I could even do a complete turn, the world became a colourful, sluggish blur.

For a brief moment, I caught the slightly softened version of my classmate’s shocked expressions out of the corner of my eye before I did a flip and slammed my back against the hard, wet ground. My sling bag went sailing through the wind, landing with an audible thud and sending up sprays of snow as it landed. Just when I thought this was the end of it, the freezing snow’s iciness stabbed into the back of my head as I sunk into it. I barely managed to stuff down the urge to scream. Sounds reminiscent of irritating alarm clocks screaming clashed around in my eardrums. Though I was rather well-cushioned, my spine still throbbed from the heavy impact.

 I groaned miserably as I tried slowly to ease myself up with numb arms, all while feeling hot tears prickling my eyes.

Could this possibly get any worse?

Failing to notice the frantic clopping of horse hooves, I gave a surprised yelp as a pair of small, purple-gloved hands suddenly thrusted out from under my armpits, right before strong arms hooked and helped (say: roughly jerked) me up.

“Are ya alright, Rin?! Did cha’ breakkkk anything?”

“Huh, what…?” My brain was probably half-frozen from the chill. The immediate follow-up of vigorous shaking turned it into a slushy mess.

“How many fingers am I holding upppp?” Despite being able to somewhat make out what Pony was saying, all I can see was a quivering, fuzzy bunny shape in front of my face.

A somewhat gruff yet gentle voice cut in:

“Lady Tsunotori, allow me to take it from here.”

“But…”

“Please.” “Okayyyy!”

Without a warning, Pony’s grip loosened, and I flopped down like a limp rag doll onto my knees, dazed.

Before I was given the chance to come back to my full senses, another pair of arms hoisted me right up. This pair was bigger with tufts of chocolate-coloured fur sticking out from the end of loose khaki jacket sleeves.

I sincerely hoped his glasses were fogged up. The fact that my face were pulling unpredictable, odd expressions made me want to of bury myself deeply, deeply into the soft snow.

Save for a few loud snorts, on one really laughed, but exchanged worried babbles between each other. Maybe one or two “Awwwww”s.

Pony popped up in front of me again, this time holding my (slightly soggy) school bag over her head with a triumphant look while looking up, as though she was showing me a treasure she dug up. Standing next to her like a proud big brother, Monoma was wearing a huge (but surprisingly pleasant) grin, patting her shoulder.

Ah… I’m pretty lucky to have them as classmates.

 To be honest, I had no idea whether we could make it to the first lesson in time.

But it didn’t matter that much, because I dozed off in the new-found warmth, surrounded by cheerful giggles and upbeat conversations about the latest gossips, the next test or future holiday plans.

It was the start of a dreary winter month, but at least it wasn’t a terrible one.