#heartowrito original works

[heartowrite-o]

this was a warm-up I did before I started working on something else. I was considering going back to it and making a short story out of it but I never did

It's familiar, she thinks, in a way she can't properly describe—nostalgia for a place she's never been. The scenery outside the train window is foreign, the passing of open fields and trees clustered together across the landscape like a gathering of gossipers, heads huddled together, is completely new to her. Yet she can't deny the warmth in her chest as the train slows to a stop, the feeling of returning home when she steps onto the unfamiliar platform.

The wind is the first to welcome her, a gentle breeze that tugs at the loose strands of hair not gathered away into her ponytail, and seems to beckon her towards the well-worn dirt path just to the west of the train stop. She adjusts the strap on her bag, to have something to do with her hands and calm her nerves, and descends the steps to the path, a wisp of dirt wafting up as her feet hit the ground after landing hard off of the just slightly too tall last step.

She follows the path, the sun overhead. It's warm, but not unpleasantly so thanks to the cool wind encouraging her onward. She keeps her eyes forward, trained on the spot where the dirt road disappears into a single point on the horizon.

Belatedly, she wishes she had arranged for someone to at least drop a bike off at the station.

There is no point worrying about it now. The station is far behind her, just a lone speck in the vast field surrounding her. She can't turn back—doesn't want to—so she shakes away the anxiety, and the tiny bits of dread forming in her mind at the thought of how much, ugh, exercise she's about to get.

At the very least, the scenery is pleasant. It's all very much the same, she initially thinks, until she bothers to take a closer look and really appreciate the world around her. The grass is swaying gently in the wind, a brilliant bright green in a way she had only seen in paintings back home. Small white flowers pepper the field, breaking up the sea of green. A sea parted by the dirt path she walked upon.

-

The sky is orange, and the sun is disappearing over the gentle slopes of the field by the time she sees the fork in the path. A single signpost is jutting up from the split, leaning slightly towards the right path. There is only one arrow on the post—she finds the other when she stubs her toe on it. It was lying pitifully on the ground in front of the post, nearly covered by the tall green grass.

She already knows the arrow on the sign is the one pointing her in the right direction, but she stoops over and picks the fallen arrow from the ground, blows the dust from it's surface, and leans it carefully against the post.

-

She follows the sign pointing to the left side of the path, where the dirt road curves towards the treeline that had been out of sight from the station. Her feet ache, and she's tired—tired of walking, tired of being outside, tired of having to pull her socks up because they keep bunching under her heel—but she's so close, and that thought alone keeps her going.

The field feels different at night. The wind has picked up, turning the pleasant breeze into one just slightly on the wrong side of chilly. As the stars twinkle into view, a symphony of crickets fade in slowly, until they're so loud she's convinced herself that every cricket in the world must have followed her here.

She stops just short of the treeline, craning her neck upwards. The stars are so bright, brighter than anything she'd ever seen in the city. She knew the light of the city blocked out the stars, she had learned that so many times from school, from TV, friends. But seeing it was unbelievable. No matter where she cast her gaze, no matter which section of sky she focused on, the sky was freckled with what must have been hundreds of stars.

For a moment, the crickets seem to quiet, leaving just her, the stars, and the realization that she suddenly feels very, very small.

She smiles. The feeling doesn't scare her at all.

-

With one last look up at the stars, she lets the path guide her through the forest. The tree branches allow in just enough of the moonlight that the dirt in front of her is dappled with bursts of light, a splattering of white paint on a black canvas. It's just barely visible, enough that she can keep following the trail, although she does occasionally have to readjust herself when she realizes she's reached a curve.

She's never been afraid of the dark, not since she was a little girl, but the shadow of trees and the silence (the crickets have all but disappeared now), does make her chest tighten with anxiety. She holds onto the strap of her bag like a lifeline, keeps her eyes on the path, and tries not to jump whenever the silence is interrupted by a snapping twig, or the hoot of an owl.

She's practically jogging by the time she sees the opening in the forest, and breaks out into a sprint. She whirls past the trees, weaving her way through the low hanging branches, ignoring the way they seemed to be reaching for her. Her feet pound against the dirt, kicking up dust clouds and knocking small rocks out of the way, and she doesn't stop until she finally, finally breaks out of the forest's clutches.

A fence post is a welcome rest stop. She leans heavily against it, nearly doubled over as she catches her breath. Her lungs burn, and her feet hurt worse than before...her socks have also slipped under her heels again, and she wrinkles her nose with annoyance as she drops to the ground to fix them.

It's not until her socks are fixed (removed entirely and shoved into her bag), that it clicks in her head that a fence post usually means a whole fence, and that a whole fence is usually surrounding something. She stands upright finally, pushing her bangs away from her forehead, and lets her eyes follow the line of the fence to a small home with dark windows. It's dark, but even so, she can see the details of the home—brick, a cobblestone path leading up to the wooden door. Each window is adorned with a flowerbed on the windowsill, and even more flowers litter the small garden protected by the fence.

But this home is just one of many. She gets back on track, and returns to the path, which winds through the village. Lampposts line the road, their glow only dim, and working more like beacons rather than doing anything to actually illuminate the area around it.

The homes are a little bit cookie-cutter. Bricks, dark wooden doors. Some have curtains drawn closed, others have windows glowing a gentle yellow, shadows moving across them. The yards vary in size, some with none, others with large expanses of gardening space, filled with flowers and vegetables that make her mouth water.

The path leads her to a small bridge over a babbling creek. She stops to lean against the railing, peering down at the water below. The moonlight shines off of the water, illuminating the pebbles below the surface. The shadows of fish move slowly underneath her, hiding under the bridge when she pushes herself from the railing just a bit too quickly.

On the other side of the bridge, the path disappears entirely. It's just a semicircle of five buildings on the other side. Most of them are small, but the one in the middle is large, the only two-story building she's seen since arriving. The windows are lit up, and she can hear voices drifting outside, but she can't make out the exact detail of the chatter. It's got double saloon-style doors leading inside, and she catches her first glimpse of another human being for the first time in hours. They're seated on a stool, elbows on the counter, smiling at someone out of sight.

She shakes her head. There will be time to introduce herself later. She has no idea what time it is, but judging by the number of dark windows she had already passed, it must be late.

She approaches a building on the left end of the semicircle, a rusted mailbox just barely hanging onto it's post painted with fading numbers that matched the one on the piece of paper she had tucked away into her shorts' pocket. From excitement, or anxiety, or exhaustion, her hands shake as she takes the keys from her bag, steps up to the front door, and unlocks the door with an audible click.

“You're later than I thought.”

She fumbles with the keys, but no amount of flailing or trying to catch them with her knee prevents them from clattering to the front step of her new home. In the night air the clang of metal against stone sounds deafening, and her posture immediately goes rigid at the noise. She glances over her shoulder, face hot with embarrassment.

No taunts are thrown her way, at least not verbal ones. The person behind her—the one she had seen smiling earlier—had their hip leaned against the fence post (her fence post, a thought that wasn't important but struck her anyway), their hands in the pockets of their gray sweatshirt. They've got a smile on their face still, one slightly lopsided, a tiny smirk pulling up at the corner of their lips. Mocking, she would say, but she appreciated them not saying anything.

She picked up the keys and put them back in her bag, straight faced.

The stranger didn't move, but their eyes softened.

[heartowrite-o]

god fuck i finally managed to write something, i’ve been stuck for days.

its just a silly drabble of my octp (jamie and blake ahhh) but i wanted to practice silly fluffy shit so here we are here i am. i’ve never actually written about the events leading up to them getting together (i just write short stories with them + their friend group and either jamie and blake are already together or i don’t mention one way or the other at all) so idk this was fun. 

A punch in the gut.

That's what it felt like. Romcoms be damned, it did not feel like butterflies, it did not feel like a warm drink on a cold day, and it sure as hell didn't feel like the clouds had parted and light had found him for the first time in his sad, miserable life.

Realizing he was in love felt like someone had placed their hand on his shoulder, smiled at him, and then socked him in the stomach.

It hadn't occurred to him in some startling revelation on the beach, watching the sunset. He hadn't pieced it together while standing out on the balcony overlooking the French countryside, violins playing softly in the background. No, the Hallmark channel was a place of lies and deceit, because Jamie realized he was in love while he was rolling around on the floor trying to wrestle a Nintendo 64 controller away from Blake, because that absolute asshole was trying to convince him he was the superior Banjo-Kazooie player, and Jamie would not stand for such a claim.

He realizes it while he's got his palm pressed firmly against Blake's face, trying to push him away while pulling the controller closer to himself. There is no chorus of angels, no sudden swell of music followed by a soulful choir. He does not feel the sudden urge to break out into choreographed song and dance (Disney movies were also a house of lies).

Instead, he pauses, taking a moment to realize how close they are, how warm Blake's face is under his hand, and how he's not terribly disgusted with any of these things. Then there it is. A punch in the gut. Cupid had kindly strolled over to him, gave him a reassuring pat on the back, and then flung him off a cliff.

Jamie releases his hold on both Blake's face and the controller, and says nothing. Blake leans away from him with a triumphant whoop, and goes back to playing Banjo-Kazooie (which he truly was terrible at, but that was no longer the thought at the forefront of Jamie's mind).

Jamie is quiet for awhile, feeling just about every emotion in the entire universe at once, until the gut-punch feeling fades away into stone-cold dread, then the butterflies show up instead (there they are, he guesses romance novels weren't all lies). Is this good? Is it bad? What does he do, is he supposed to do anything?

He watches Blake carefully. He's a little unnerved by how not surprised he is by this revelation. Blake and him were a pair. They had been for at least four years now. Being with him felt natural and right. They had fallen into a natural pattern over the years that was just apart of his daily routine now. Blake was a part of his life, an important part. The one cog in the clock that made the whole thing tick.

He's afraid, but excited. Taking a step off this cliff means he might just fall and hit the ground, but there was also a chance he'd learn to fly instead.

He's suddenly embarrassed with his own thoughts, and silently vows that when he returns home, he will burn every romance novel he's ever even glanced at for longer than thirty seconds.

The conflict of emotions make his stomach hurt. He doesn't want to lose Blake, and he knows trying to get anything more out of their relationship could very well push the most important person in his life away from him.

So for now, he decides to shelve it. He tucks it away into a box, firmly tapes it closed, and hurtles it into the back of his mind, where he hopes it will stay, at least for a little while longer. One day he knows he'll stumble across it again, and maybe then he'll allow himself another look, but for now, he'll be content with what he has.

What he's not content with, however, is watching Blake thoroughly embarrass himself as he misses another jump and sends Banjo hurtling to his doom, so Jamie roughly yanks the controller out of Blake's hands. Their hands touch, his stomach feels like it just took another punch, but he ignores it. He places his hand over Blake's face and pushes him away, calling him a huge loser, which Blake just smiles at.

The smile makes his stomach do flip-flops, and Jamie kind of wants to launch him into the sun for making him feel this way. But that would be cruel, so instead Jamie settles on showing Blake how to play games like a decent human being, and not a failure. Maybe one day he'll address his thoughts, maybe one day he'll give the big declaration of love he's seen so many times before in movies, and maybe one day he'll do something so thoroughly cheesy and emotional that he satisfies Cupid's twisted and cruel sense of humor. But for now, he has this, he has these moments, and that's good enough.