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bevioletskies · 3 years

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spare me a little (of your love)

summary: Klavier always liked to express his love with flowers, so sending a beautiful bouquet to his boyfriend every now and then seemed like the obvious thing to do. However, there’s just one little problem - Apollo is very, very allergic to pollen.

word count: 5.3k | read on ao3

a/n: For @klapollo-week, day two of seven (prompt: "flowers"). All seven of my fics take place in the same continuity! However, each can be read as a stand-alone, with the exception of day seven being a sequel to day five.

This fic takes place at some distant point in time after Spirit of Justice where Apollo and Trucy have learned that they’re siblings, but doesn’t reference any specific plotlines otherwise. My source for flower meanings can be found here. Fic title is from the song Spare Me a Little of Your Love by Fleetwood Mac.

“The language of...flowers?”

“Oui, oui, mon ami!” Athena chirped, nodding eagerly. “That’s just one of the many languages I speak, y’know.”

Apollo eyed her skeptically over the top of his laptop screen. “...right. Elaborate, please.”

“Well, you know how people usually give roses to express their love?” Athena said, leaning across the gap between their desks. She didn’t even blink when she accidentally knocked over Apollo’s calendar and pen holder in one fell swoop. Apollo, on the other hand, shot her an affronted glance that she deftly ignored. “Well, each flower actually has its own specific meaning. It even varies from color to color! Par exemple, white roses symbolize innocence, while yellow roses symbolize friendship.”

“That seems unnecessarily complicated,” Apollo remarked. “Don’t most flowers come with a card? Why can’t people just write their messages instead?”

They turned at the sound of a disappointed groan coming from the middle of the room. “You’re so unromantic, Polly,” Trucy complained, peeking at them from over the back of the couch. “I almost feel bad for Mr. Gavin!”

“Hey,” Apollo protested. “I can be - I-I’m romantic!”

“If you say so,” Athena giggled, poking him in the shoulder. Huffing, Apollo prodded her back. Athena reached for a rubber band, fully intending to escalate things. She lowered her projectile dejectedly when Apollo raised his hands in surrender; he had no interest in losing an eye today.

“Sunflowers and tulips are supposed to symbolize happiness, right?” Phoenix asked. “Those are pretty much the only flowers I really know, so.”

There was a long, uncomfortably drawn-out silence. “...Daddy, your ex-girlfriend’s name was Dahlia. Her real name was - is - Iris.”

“Oh...right,” Phoenix chuckled, only mildly embarrassed. “Speaking of, do you know what dahlias and irises mean, Athena?”

Athena’s eyes were practically sparkling now. “Oui! Dahlias symbolize elegance and dignity.” Phoenix made a face. “...but, they also symbolize dishonesty and betrayal.”

“That’s more like it,” Phoenix muttered under his breath. “And irises?”

“Faith, wisdom, that kinda thing,” Athena shrugged. She then paused. “Y’know, if you want some ideas on the kinds of flowers Mr. Edgeworth would like, I can make some - ”

“Nope, nope, I-I’m good,” Phoenix interrupted swiftly, his face reddening. He had a vase of daffodils sitting on his desk, which Edgeworth had sent to the office a few days ago. None of them believed Phoenix when he claimed they were purely intended for decoration. “So why the sudden interest in flowers, Apollo? Is this, er...is this about Gavin?”

“If you’re not talking about your prosecutor, sir, I’m not talking about mine,” Apollo said firmly, turning back to his laptop.

“Sure, except I think your prosecutor’s fair game when he picks you up from work most days,” Phoenix teased. His tone was eerily similar to Trucy’s. If Phoenix wasn’t both his boss and his sort-of stepfather, Apollo would’ve picked up a rubber band himself.

A few hours later, Apollo was locking up the office for the evening when he heard the roar of a familiar-sounding motorcycle coming up the street. He turned, biting back a smile as Klavier pulled up beside the sidewalk and turned off his engine. “Your bike really is as obnoxious as you are.”

Klavier removed his helmet, pouting. “Achtung, is that any way to greet your boyfriend?”

“It is for me,” Apollo replied, kissing him briefly. “Hi.”

“Hallo,” Klavier murmured against Apollo’s lips, grinning as he pulled away. “Dinner?”

“Yes, please,” Apollo said, reaching for Klavier’s spare helmet. “I’m feeling...pizza and all the cheesy garlic breadsticks. Or maybe we can just get cheesy garlic breadsticks.”

“As nice as that sounds, you need more vegetables than the little bits you get in your cup noodles, baby,” Klavier said, patting Apollo’s hip affectionately. “Pizza, breadsticks, and a side salad, ja?”

“Fine, fine,” Apollo grumbled, settling in behind Klavier. “Turn me into a rabbit, why don’t you? Buy me a bag of carrot sticks the next time we go to the grocery store. Stuff my mattress with straw and newspaper - ”

“And people think I’m the dramatic one,” Klavier lamented, shaking his head in amusement.

It wasn’t long before the two of them were sitting on the floor of Klavier’s living room, pleasantly stuffed with pizza and breadsticks and a mediocre amount of Greek salad (“I’m not a fan of olives, you know.” “Not surprising, since the color doesn’t work with your complexion.” “Klavier, I swear to - ”). A random made-for-TV movie was playing in the background on mute, though neither of them were particularly interested in watching it.

“How was work?” Apollo asked, taking a much-needed gulp of cold water. He wasn’t sure if he was ever going to get the taste of garlic out of his mouth.

“Boring, unfortunately,” Klavier said with a grimace. “Herr Edgeworth didn’t have anything but paperwork to offer me. No trials, no investigations, nichts. You?”

“Same,” Apollo replied. “Mr. Wright’s mostly working with Athena this month, so they’re taking the big clients while I get stuck with the smaller cases. Not that I’m complaining, I mean - it’s a nice change from Khura’in. I don’t want every trial to feel like I’m going under, you know?”

“Nein, that would be terrible,” Klavier agreed. “Exciting, sure, but the stress wouldn’t be worth it. I already found a gray hair the other day, ach.”

Apollo snorted. “Just one? You should see mine - I’m gonna be completely gray by thirty-five at this rate.” He shuffled closer so he could snuggle up against Klavier’s side, letting his head drop to Klavier’s shoulder. “So...turns out, Athena knows all about the flower language thing. Figured she might.”

“Flower...language...thing?” Klavier echoed, confused. He then brightened. “Ah! From our video call with my mama the other day, ja? I didn’t know you were actually interested.”

“I wasn’t, not at first,” Apollo admitted, squeezing Klavier’s arm. “But...I want your parents to like me, and since she said she was taking an interest, I thought, y’know, why not look into it? And it sounds kinda...contrived, not gonna lie. But I guess it’s kinda sweet, too. Like a secret language between just two people.”

Klavier’s face softened. “Ja, exactly. My parents used to write love letters to each other when they were in school, so I think this is Mama’s way of starting a new tradition - buying Papa flowers so he can plant them in his garden. You should see our family estate in the summer, it’s absolutely stunning.”

“Sounds like it,” Apollo said, smiling. “Your parents’ lives sound so...peaceful. Baking, gardening, travelling...I know it’s a little early to start thinking about retirement, but still, they’re living the dream.”

“They’re not retired yet,” Klavier chuckled. “And stop making me feel like I’m dating an old man, bitte. You complaining about your back makes me feel like I have to start complaining about my back.”

Apollo hummed, tracing random patterns along Klavier’s forearm with his finger. He was pleasantly sleepy from a number of things - his long, if uneventful day of work, the amount of cheese and carbs he’d just consumed, and the warmth of Klavier’s skin against his. “Sorry we can’t all afford chiropractors and massage therapists, sheesh,” he teased, unable to hold back a yawn.

“Maybe we can get a massage together someday,” Klavier suggested, stretching luxuriously. “Ah, before I forget - since we were talking about my parents just now, they asked me the other day if it would be alright to text you and send you things, little gifts and whatnot.”

“Huh? They would do that?” Apollo exclaimed. “I only just met them, like, a week ago!”

“They’re a bit...much,” Klavier said carefully. “Even when I was in high school, every friend I brought home was a potential lover to them, you know? They wanted to know everything about them, to shower them with gifts and affection. Even when I started working, I would ask Papa if I could have some flowers from his garden - you know, an arrangement to thank Herr Edgeworth for giving me a raise, a bouquet for my manager when we got our first record deal - and it was always the same story. Achtung, it’s embarrassing, but they mean well. You don’t have to say ja if you don’t want to, I just thought I’d ask.”

“No, I - it’s okay, I’d love to get to know your parents more, I’m just surprised,” Apollo admitted. The thought of them liking him this easily made him both relieved and unnerved at the same time. “Should I, uh, get them something in return?”

“Nein, nein, let them spoil you.” Klavier cupped Apollo’s face in his hands, kissing him softly. “Just like I do.”

“Sap,” Apollo murmured, kissing him back.

_____

It was a sort of gradual thing, for the most part. Barely a day had gone by when Apollo found himself in a group text with Klavier’s parents; he quickly discovered how witty and sweet and whip-smart they both were. Klavier’s father sent gorgeous photos of his garden - and calling it a garden seemed almost too modest when it seemed to be the size of a soccer field - while Klavier’s mother sent book recommendations, even the occasional movie recommendation.

“I never thought I’d be at that point in my life where my boyfriend’s mother sends me three long paragraphs about how she ‘discovered’ the Legally Blonde musical, but here we are,” Apollo had mused to the other agency members.

“Did you tell her that Klavier reminds everyone of that song, the one that goes - ”

“No, Athena, I did not. I want her to like me, remember?”

Soon after that, gifts started to arrive. Apollo had requested they send them to the agency, given how little he trusted his apartment building’s security after they nearly let his cat escape not too long ago. Unfortunately, it was too late before he realized that sometimes, he trusted his co-workers - or more specifically, his sister - even less.

“Trucy, do you know who ate the last piece of pie? Y’know, the one I was saving for today, to celebrate the end of my trial?”

“...huh. No idea, sorry, Polly!”

“Wait - th-there’s graham crumbs on Mr. Hat, what the hell - ”

His sister’s betrayal aside, Apollo felt good about things, almost unusually good. He soon started texting Klavier’s parents just as frequently as he did his own mother, thanking them for their generosity whenever they sent the occasional box of pastries or discounted event tickets. They also exchanged anecdotes about Klavier, along with stories about their own lives. He even received celebratory emojis whenever he told them about his victories in court - over their son, no less.

“I’m starting to think they like you more than they like me,” Klavier had lamented, though he seemed pleased all the same.

Then, a month into their budding familial relationship, a problem arrived on Apollo’s desk in the form of a bouquet the size of his head.

“Ah-choo!”

Trucy and Athena, who had been standing by the latter’s desk, both startled at the sound. “Ay Dios mío!” Athena exclaimed, clutching her heart in shock. “Are you okay, Apollo? That was some sneeze. I thought we were having another earthquake!”

“Har, har,” Apollo said dryly, reaching for a tissue. “It’s just the - achoo - flowers, that’s all.”

“They’re beautiful - very classic,” Athena added, dropping into Apollo’s desk chair so she could get a closer look. “Red roses and white lilies, claro. Ooh, I see some red carnations and white chrysanthemums, too!”

“Well, I see a card,” Trucy said, plucking a small white notecard from between the leaves. “Let’s see what it says!”

“That’s for - achoo - me, thank you very much.” Apollo snatched the card out of her hands, then squinted through his watery eyes to read it. “I...oh. Klavier says his mom helped him make the arrangement, with flowers from his dad’s garden.”

“How sweet!” Trucy gushed, taking a moment to sniff them, inhaling deeply as her eyes drifted closed. “Ooh, and they smell amazing. Mr. Gavin is such a good - ”

“Ah-choo!” Apollo sniffled, wiping his nose carefully. “...dammit.”

“I didn’t know you were allergic to pollen, Apollo,” Phoenix commented; he was on the other side of the room, pouring himself a cup of tea. “You never had any problems with the flowers Edgeworth sent to m - I mean, to the office.”

“Maybe it’s a freshly-cut thing?” Athena guessed, ignoring Phoenix’s awkward laugh. “Or, y’know, some flowers are worse for allergies than others. Dahlias, for example, are the worst.” Phoenix made another face before turning back to what he was doing.

“You should tell him you’re allergic,” Trucy said, patting Apollo’s free hand in sympathy. “I’m sure he’d understand.”

“But…” Apollo hesitated. The others braced themselves, anticipating another sneeze. “...this is from Klavier and his parents, you know? I can put up with a sneeze or two if it makes them happy. He loves sending flowers, and his dad’s really into gardening, so...if I tell them, they’ll stop doing it, and they’ll be too understanding, and I - I can’t deal with that. The, uh, the niceness, I mean.”

“Poor you, having the sweetest in-laws in the world,” Athena teased, pouting exaggeratedly. Oh, the humanity, Widget added. Apollo would have glared at them both, had he not started sneezing again. “Como tú quieras, I guess.”

Hours later, when Klavier met Apollo at the agency, the sight of his face brightening when he saw the bouquet confirmed Apollo’s fears. “Ah, how wunderschön,” Klavier declared, beaming. “I was worried they wouldn’t hold up during delivery. Do you like them, liebe?”

“They’re beautiful,” Apollo said, as honest as he could be. “Thanks, Klavier. I, uh, I hope it didn’t take you too long to put together.”

“You know how picky I can be,” Klavier hummed, carefully drawing a carnation out of the vase between two practiced fingers and bringing it up to his nose to smell. “I don’t settle for anything less than perfekt.” He turned, smirking. “That’s why I’m dating you, after all.”

“Gross,” Apollo said, wrinkling his nose; the effect was ruined by his affectionate laughter. “Hey, is it okay if I press them after they’ve wilted? I was thinking I could keep ‘em in my journal as a nice little reminder.”

Klavier chuckled, reaching over to squeeze Apollo’s hand. “Of course, Forehead. They’re all yours, you don’t have to ask for my permission. And I’m sure Mama and Papa would be delighted to hear you’re planning to give Papa’s flowers a second life. We’ll have to send you more in the future, ja?”

“...ja,” Apollo said weakly, his heart sinking.

_____

The next bouquet arrived two weeks later, bigger and bolder than before. According to Athena, it consisted of pink and orange roses, pink lilies, and yellow alstroemeria. However, it seemed to be the handful of sunflowers that topped everything off that left Apollo’s nose running all day.

“I think the only sunflower I can stand to be around is my attorney’s badge,” Apollo had bemoaned.

After that came an arrangement of white daisies, red gerbera, and white limonium (or, as Trucy liked to call it - she liked practicing tongue twisters when she was bored - “linoleum”). Then green hydrangeas and Queen Anne’s lace, which admittedly wasn't so bad, followed by purple daisies and pink gerbera, which was very, very bad. Apollo did not like the fact that he was getting used to the taste of Benadryl. He did manage to get some reprieve when Klavier sent him a simple vase of pink peonies.

“They’re hypoallergenic,” Athena had informed him. “But...mein Gott, Apollo, just tell him already!”

“But if I do, i-it’s…” Apollo had gestured wildly, unable to find the right words. Athena and Trucy had exchanged glances, then shook their heads in eerily synchronized disappointment.

Pink carnations and pink alstroemeria, purple irises and white aster, yellow daisies and orange roses; Apollo was starting to think the Gavin family garden was endless. And while his journal had never looked prettier, every page decorated with carefully pressed petals, every other page detailed with a date and a description courtesy of Athena’s expertise, his nose had never looked worse, his skin pink and dry and irritated. He was getting too used to the smell of CeraVe as well.

Finally, a bouquet of red roses - thankfully, also hypoallergenic - arrived with Klavier himself. He seemed delighted to be at the agency while everyone else was present for once, chatting happily with Athena and marvelling at Trucy’s card tricks. He and Phoenix seemed awkward around each other, though Apollo supposed that was to be expected. Even now, they hesitated whenever Apollo brought the other one up.

“So what’re you doing here, Mr. Gavin?” Trucy asked after she’d successfully duped him three times in a row. Apollo had to stop her before she started charging him for it. “Is it date night?”

“Not exactly,” Klavier said, turning to Apollo. “I came here to ask you something in person, liebe.”

Apollo raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s not suspicious at all. What’s up?”

“I think it’s about time you meet my parents in person.” Klavier took both of Apollo’s hands in his, smiling hopefully. “So, if you’re ready...are you free this weekend? We could go to my family estate, spend the day - Mama would love to teach you how to make those puff pastries you like, and Papa wants to show you around the garden so you can see where all your wunderschön flowers came from.”

“I...oh.” Apollo’s face fell for a split second before he quickly regained his composure. “Sorry, Klav, that sounds incredible, but I-I was gonna stay with Mom this weekend. Maybe another time?”

“Natürlich,” Klavier replied, still smiling. While his smiles usually made Apollo feel warm and fuzzy, now all he was feeling was gnawing guilt. “Let me know when you have a free weekend, ja?”

“For sure,” Apollo promised, pecking him briefly on the cheek. “And thanks for the roses, even though I, uh, kinda ruined the occasion.”

“Ruined?” Klavier repeated, chuckling. “Ach, it’s no big deal, you’re busy. We have time, don’t we?”

“Of course!” Apollo exclaimed, far too loudly. Klavier didn’t seem to mind, though; he leaned down to kiss Apollo properly, humming all the while.

“Anyway, I should get going before Herr Edgeworth notices I’m not in my office,” Klavier said, reluctantly pulling away. The look on Phoenix's face suggested he knew that Edgeworth had figured it out long ago. “Auf Wiedersehen, süßer!”

The second Klavier left, Apollo let out the breath he’d been holding. He didn’t even need to look up to know the others were staring at him very judgmentally. “...I don’t wanna hear it.”

“You really shouldn’t lie to your boyfriend, Apollo,” Phoenix said gently; his voice had taken on the sort of “dad” tone that made Apollo feel even guiltier. “Er, that is, you shouldn’t lie to anyone, but you know what I mean. Are you really protecting his feelings by doing this?”

Sighing, Apollo collapsed into his desk chair, dropping his forehead to his desk with an audible thunk. “I know, I know. It was stupid from the start, but...I-I honestly wasn’t expecting him to send this many! I thought it’d be, y’know, for special occasions only, like every few months or whatever. Then I could deal with it, and he would never have to know. Not, like, just ‘cos he felt like it. Though I guess I really should’ve seen it coming, knowing him.”

“You really gotta tell him,” Trucy insisted. “Next time you see him, okay? Or else you’re never gonna say anything!”

“I will, I swear,” Apollo insisted, combing his fingers through his hair. He could feel more grays coming in by the second. “I have no interest in being the worst boyfriend ever, believe me.”

_____

It didn’t take long for Apollo to realize that while he was perfectly fine - or, at least, reasonably fine - with confrontation in the courtroom, he was very much not fine with confrontation in his personal life. The flower arrangements came less frequently now, and when they did, they seemed to be exclusively hypoallergenic. Klavier’s invitations, on the other hand, seemed more persistent.

“I don’t mean to push,” Klavier would say. “It’s just that exam week is coming up and, being professors and all, they’re going to be very busy soon. I was hoping we’d be able to spend some time with them before then.”

“Yeah, o-of course,” Apollo would reply, his stomach twisting every time, knowing full well he was about to turn him down again.

Another weekend went by, then another. There always seemed to be something, whether it was Apollo’s sudden frequent visits to Thalassa’s, Trucy’s sudden need for a magic show assistant, or that Apollo was just too tired to be good company. Eventually, Klavier seemed to simply stop asking. In fact, he seemed to stop asking him about anything at all.

“Do you wanna grab lunch?” Apollo had once asked Klavier while they were both packing up after the end of a lengthy trial.

“I don’t know.” Klavier had sounded tired, subdued; he refused to look Apollo in the eyes. “I think I’m just going to head back to the office and catch up on my emails. Take care, Herr Forehead.” He’d quickly swept out of the courtroom before Apollo could even say goodbye.

Apollo’s group text with his parents seemed to slow down, too, especially when it came to Klavier’s papa’s photos of his garden. Klavier’s mama, on the other hand, sent him short, stilted messages, now seemingly out of obligation instead of affection. Their near-radio silence, Apollo had to admit, was well-deserved. He knew he had to do something before it was too late, if it wasn’t already too late.

“I was surprised you wanted me to join you today,” Klavier said one morning as the two of them were taking a leisurely stroll around People Park, hand-in-hand. “Lately, I feel like I’ve been dating a ghost, achtung. We only ever see each other in court. Maybe at crime scenes, too, if we’re lucky.”

“And I’m surprised you agreed to come,” Apollo admitted. “I missed you, Klavier. Only...I, uh, I know that’s really my fault, not yours.”

“You do, do you?” Klavier sounded bitter. His grip on Apollo’s hand was looser than usual, like he was ready to pull away at any second, like he wanted to run. The thought made Apollo’s chest ache. “And here, I thought you were as oblivious as ever.”

“Hey,” Apollo protested, frowning. Then, he sighed. “No, you - you’re right. This is on me. Will you - I - listen, I have something for you, back at the office. Can we go get it before you head to work?”

Klavier nodded shortly. While his eyes had softened, his smile was still strained. “Ja, let’s go.”

Thankfully, the agency was empty when they got there, save for a certain something sitting patiently on Apollo’s desk. He set his bag down, then turned on all the lights, his heart pounding rapidly against his ribcage. “So these aren’t as nice as your dad’s, but, uh. This is for you...and your parents.”

“What do you - ah!” Klavier approached Apollo’s desk with wide, disbelieving eyes, his gaze fixated on the beautiful arrangement of white lilies, yellow tulips, and white orchids wrapped in white decorative tissue paper. “Apollo, these are...they’re lovely! Did you pick these out yourself?”

“Athena helped,” Apollo said, hovering nervously. “She said white lilies are for humility, yellow tulips can mean forgiveness, and white orchids symbolize strength. Fitting, since I wanted to...apologize. For being a horrible boyfriend.”

“I don’t know about ‘horrible’,” Klavier said, gently running a finger down the length of one of the orchids. “...but you have been distant. If you’re not actually interested in meeting my parents, or if you...if you want to end things, just say so, will you?” His voice cracked. “I might like a bit of drama every now and then, but not in my own life. Not in my own relationship.”

“What?! No, no, I-I don’t wanna end things at all!” Apollo exclaimed, his voice filling the room. He took a few deep, even breaths to calm himself. “Just...will you hear me out? Please?” Klavier nodded, though he refused to look at him. “I’m...I’m sorry for avoiding you and your parents. And before you ask...yes. I was doing it on purpose. It’s nothing that - none of you did anything wrong, okay? It’s me, i-it’s - it - I - ah - ”

Klavier turned on his heel, worried. “Apollo? Are you - ”

“Ah-choo!”

Klavier jumped. “Ach - Apollo?”

“I forgot there were asters in there,” Apollo grumbled, reaching for a tissue. He wasn’t sure which was redder now, his nose or his cheeks. “It’s - I - achoo - ”

“Apollo,” Klavier said slowly; if Apollo didn’t know any better, he would've thought he was trying not to laugh. “Are you, by chance...allergic to pollen?”

Apollo sniffed sharply. “...yes, dammit, yes! That’s literally what I’ve been trying to say - achoo - just now, until - achoo - my sinuses decided to - achoo - speak for me!” He was half-doubled over at this point, clenching a fistful of tissues in both hands.

“Baby, have you been rejecting my invitation to meet my parents because you’re allergic to all the flowers we’ve been sending you for the last several weeks?” Klavier sounded more incredulous than angry.

“...yes. Yes, I have, yes, I’m an idiot and an asshole and - achoo - I’m so sorry, Klavier, I - achoo - ”

“Bitte, say it, don’t spray it.” Klavier held up Apollo’s tissue box for him, keeping it - and Apollo himself - at a good distance. “Mein Gott, Apollo, I thought you wanted to break up with me! Why didn’t you say anything earlier?!”

It took another minute or so before Apollo finally stopped sneezing long enough to get a full sentence out. He sniffled again, wiping his nose completely clean. “...have you ever told, like, the tiniest lie to make someone happy, only for it to turn into a big...thing? And then you know you have to come clean, that it’s what you’re s’posed to do, but the thought of doing it makes you anxious, even if not doing it also makes you anxious, and then...it just...it, uh, it stays with you.” He swallowed thickly, shaking his head. “Not that that’s an excuse, it’s just - that’s just what happened. I’m sorry, Klavier, I really am. I really do want to meet your parents, they’re so sweet and friendly a-and funny, I’m just...I’m bad at this. Really, really bad at this.”

Klavier sighed. Apollo held his breath, anticipating the worst. Then, Klavier wrapped him in his arms, letting out another sigh of relief. “I understand, liebe, and...I forgive you. Danke for explaining yourself.” He kissed the top of Apollo’s head. “Maybe we should’ve stuck to sending you pies, ja?”

Apollo laughed wetly. “I don’t know how you’re joking right now. That’s usually my job.” He lifted his head from Klavier’s chest to look up at him with a grateful smile. “I really did love the flowers, you know. When they weren’t attacking my respiratory system, that is.”

“Still, let’s not push it any further,” Klavier said wryly. “Now - two things, if you don’t mind. First, let me give you some moisturizer for your poor, poor nose. I’m not kissing you until I’m sure your skin won’t flake off in the process.”

“Ew, thanks for the gross visual,” Apollo grimaced. “And the second thing?”

Klavier smiled. “If you're alright with it, I’d like you to tell my parents what happened...in person.”

_____

The garden was just as beautiful as Apollo imagined it to be, given the dozens and dozens of photos he’d gotten from Klavier’s papa. It was full and lush and vibrant, with towering trees that provided ample shade, a beautiful gazebo with a built-in fireplace, a gorgeous two-tiered fish pond, and of course, a plethora of flowers, as far as they could see. Everything was especially beautiful, in Apollo’s opinion, from the relative safety of the conservatory.

“We’re not throwing you to the wolves, darling,” Klavier’s mama insisted, as if she were talking about actual wild animals and not her husband’s hobby. “We’ll stay in here for high tea so you can admire the garden at a safe distance, yes?”

“Yes, th-thank you,” Apollo stammered, relieved. “High tea?”

“Today’s menu is German chocolate scones and mini-sandwiches. With the crusts cut off for my fussy baby boy, of course,” she added, pinching Klavier’s cheek with a devious grin.

“Mama,” Klavier protested, embarrassed. His papa chuckled, settling into the chair across from his son; he still had a smudge of dirt on his nose. “I’m a grown man, achtung. I have my own health insurance and everything!”

“I really am sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Gavin,” Apollo said sincerely. Despite their kindness and generosity, he was still somewhat intimidated by them, by how tall and beautiful and well-spoken they were. As much as he didn’t want to think about his former boss, Apollo could see where he and Klavier got their good looks and charm from. “I wanted to make a good impression, but I, uh, I didn’t go about it the right way. I’ve been wanting to meet you for a while now, but...I kept it from happening for a dumb reason, and it led to me hurting your feelings and Klavier’s feelings. I’m sorry.”

“All is forgiven,” Klavier’s papa insisted, waving a hand. “Just promise you’ll stop by every now and then, alright? Our doors are open to you, Apollo. Consider us your parents, too, if you’d like.”

Apollo smiled softly. “I would, sir.”

“It’ll be a good, allergy-free time, I promise,” he continued with a teasing wink. “We’ll bake some bread, watch some home movies...are you interested in seeing - ach, what do the kids call it - Klavier’s ‘goth phase’?”

Apollo’s mouth dropped open. “...his what.”

“Papa, nein,” Klavier whined; he really did sound like a child now. “Maybe it was a mistake to bring you here, liebling.”

“Oh, I disagree,” Apollo said, his grin widening. “I would love to see Klavier’s goth phase. Did he dye his hair?”

“Oh, did he,” Klavier’s mama said slyly with the exasperated sigh of a parent who had dealt with too much. “It’s a miracle he managed to get back to blond at all.” She then got to her feet, smoothing out the front of her apron. “Anyway, Papa and I should go check on the scones now. You two sit tight, okay?” Before Apollo could blink, she’d dropped kisses on both his and Klavier’s foreheads, then disappeared down the hallway and into the kitchen, her husband in tow. He turned to look at Klavier, who was watching him nervously.

“I love them,” Apollo admitted. “They’re so sweet, Klav, they - stop looking at me like that, will you?”

“You can’t blame me for worrying,” Klavier said, kissing him briefly. “But I’m glad to hear it. Ich liebe dich, schatz.”

“Love you too, dork,” Apollo murmured against Klavier’s lips. “...so. Did you have a lip ring, or snake bites, or - ”

“Get out of my house,” Klavier huffed, pinching Apollo’s arm with an exaggerated pout.

“Hey! This isn’t your house, it’s your parents’ house, and they said their doors were open,” Apollo teased, laughing. Rolling his eyes, Klavier pulled Apollo into his arms, the two of them snuggled up on the loveseat. In the distance, they could see birds and butterflies fluttering among the flowers, a stray squirrel or two sniffing curiously at the edge of the fish pond. It was peaceful, serene. If it wasn't for the pollen, Apollo could see himself staying outside for hours at a time. “...but seriously, I’m looking forward to the video evidence.”

“I’m sure you are,” Klavier sighed, giving Apollo one last kiss before his parents returned with a large tray of sandwiches, scones, tea, and a vase with a single red rose for decoration - hypoallergenic, of course.

_____

a/n: Welcome to my second entry for Klapollo Week 2021! Continuity-wise, this is the fourth of seven fics, but again, there is no need to read the others to follow each fic on its own. Today, I have projected my allergies and anxiety onto Apollo, because that's what fanfiction is for, right? I hope y'all like my version of the Gavins; I've written them as cold and distant a couple of times, but I usually prefer to write them as warm and witty so that Klavier has a good support system in his life.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Likes and reblogs would be much appreciated. Hoping you're all safe and healthy and doing well ❤️

#KlapolloWeek2021 #klapollo #kyodoroki #klapollo fic #ace attorney #ace attorney fic #myfic #long post #sorry these previews are so massive!!#today's and day four's are probably the most lighthearted

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goldenraeofsun · 3 years

Text

Remember Me, Honeybee

Part I

Two hours into the farmers market, and Dean’s had enough. Even the gorgeous day outside, sunlight streaming down from a cloudless sky, does nothing for him.

Next to him in their produce stall, Sam rearranges their vegetable display with all the intensity of Bobby Fischer facing off against the Soviets. He adjusts an eggplant a few inches to the left, eyes it critically, and moves it back where it was.

Yesterday, Dean got sunburned from too many hours in the sun harvesting. But before he could even think about a shower, a visitor pounded on their door because some neighbor ratted them out to local Fish and Wildlife. So on top of dealing with a peeling forehead and an aching back, Dean had to take care of Ms. Rosen nearly breaking and entering to get at Sam or his watercress - she wasn’t really clear on which was her priority.

Sam, the cowardly sasquatch, bolted the moment her car tires pulled up to their farm.

It took an hour to get Ms. Rosen to leave. First, Dean had to show her Sam’s pet watercress plants at the edge of their property. According to Ms. Rosen, they’re an invasive species, which Sam could’ve mentioned to Dean at some point. Then, Ms. Rosen explained the $150 fine - all the while heavily implying she could dock a few bucks if left alone in a room with Sam.

Dean forked over the money. Sam’s virtue got to live to see another day.

At least Becky gave Dean plenty of blackmail material. If Sam pisses him off one more time, guess who’s getting Sam’s phone number faxed straight to her field office?

Dean was looking forward to sharing the whole story with Cas when they pulled up to the farmer’s market that morning. But his favorite beekeeper, potter, and candlestick maker is notably absent again.

As Hannah steps away from her stall to replenish her display, Dean seizes his chance. “Be right back,” he calls to Sam as he darts out behind their table.

When she catches sight of him, Hannah turns her back to lift a crate of soaps that would’ve left Dean sore for days. Goddamn angel strength.

“I may be a dumb human,” Dean starts, “but even I know that angels don’t get sick.” His voice drips with disdain. “Where’s Cas? The real reason, this time. Not that BS you fed me last week.”

Hannah sighs, her normally refined tawny wings fluttering in barely-concealed agitation. “He’s… indisposed.”

Dean folds his arms over his chest. “Cas has been here, rain or shine, every market for two whole friggin’ years. Is he,” he forces out the words, dread trickling down his spine, “dying or something?”

“No.” Hannah shakes her head. “He’s not mortally ill. He’s just indisposed.”

Dean gawks at her. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You have customers,” Hannah says shortly.

Dean waves off a soccer mom armed with a bushel of kale and a hungry leer. “Sam’s handling the orders.” He points at the line in front of Sam, and the lady walks off in a huff.

“Is that right?” Hannah asks innocently once Dean’s attention darts back to her.

“Cut the crap,” Dean says sharply. “Why hasn’t Cas shown for the past two weeks? The real reason. None of that indisposed bullshit.”

Hannah sighs. “You’re keeping me from my own customers.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “So you’d better talk fast.”

Hannah makes a face like she smelled Sam’s post-Chipotle farts. “Castiel was cursed.”

“What?”

“Keep it down,” Hannah hisses, leaning in. “He - well, it’s a long story. Our cousin, an archangel, cursed him.”

“For fuck’s sake, why?”

Hannah’s lips purse. “Gabriel has been very hard to contact for the details. He apparently thought Castiel was moping too loudly or too frequently. ”

“Moping?” Dean echoes, his brow furrowing. “Cas always seemed fine to me.”

Hannah shrugs. “Ask Gabriel. Now, if you don’t mind,” she lifts her nose into the air, wings straightening, “I have customers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean retreats to his vegetable stand, his head swimming.

Dean never saw himself as a farmer until his health nut little brother decided to ditch his high-paying (and stressful) lawyer job to play Green Acres, and Dean, naturally, followed since there was no goddamn way Sam knew his way around a tractor. Sam was more likely to mow down his own gigantor foot than move a clod of dirt. Luckily, to Dean, an engine’s an engine.

At the farmers market, Sam’s booth was placed next to Cas’s. On their first day, Cas walked over with a complimentary jar of honey. He was stilted and awkward, sure, but he was also the first one to welcome them into the fold.

Lost in thoughts and worries about Cas, Dean almost gives a customer a twenty dollar bill instead of a one, blanks on when their summer squash will be in season, and accidentally rings up asparagus as broccoli.

“Look,” Sam says after apologizing for Dean’s latest mistake, “why don’t you head back and check on the tomatoes? It’s winding down here.”

Dean dubiously eyes the hubbub of people browsing vegetables.

Sam gives him a light shove towards their truck. “Just go. I know you don’t want to be here, anyway.”

Dean grimaces. “It’s that obvious?”

“To everyone and their grandmother,” Sam says under his breath.

Asparagus Man at the front of the line nods gravely.

“Thanks,” Dean says sourly to both of them.

“Go check on Cas,” Sam says as he gestures for the next customer to step up to the register. “Swing by and pick me up in a few hours.”

* * *

At the foot of the unpaved driveway up to Cas’s house, Dean cuts the engine. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, debating with himself. Cas might not want visitors.

But Dean brought pie.

Homemade, of course. And if it was supposed to celebrate Sam’s birthday tomorrow, what Cas doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Sam likes cake better, anyway, because he’s a freak.

Dean grabs the pie, shoves open the door, and strides up the dirt road to Cas’s house before he can talk himself out of it for good.

This is what you do for sick friends, anyway. Charlie drove all the way up to the city with chicken noodle soup, Settlers of Catan, and prime gossip on Benny’s on-and-off-again thing with Andrea when Dean had the flu a few years ago.

Dean is just being a good friend. It’s not weird.

He knocks on Cas’s cobalt blue door, his heart beating double-time behind his ribs as the seconds wear on with no answer.

Dean dawdles on Cas’s welcome mat. He tries again. Cas’s house isn’t exactly small, with its pottery studio in the basement and wax room in the back. Cas might be in his nest, on the can, or in his garden by the hives. Hell, with this mysterious curse, Cas might not be home at all - but stuck in some angel hospital being poked and prodded by docs. He probably should have squeezed Hannah for more details.

The door opens as Dean contemplates, for the hundredth time, bailing with his tail between his legs.

“Hello?” Cas says, peering curiously at Dean.

“Cas,” Dean says, relieved. From one cursory look, Cas seems normal. His hair’s fucked up, of course. His dark wings are equally unkempt, feathers sticking out every which way. All typical Cas.

Cas blinks. His mouth opens, closes, and opens again. But no sound comes out.

“You’re up,” Dean says stupidly. Of course Cas is up, or he wouldn’t have been able to answer the damn door. Dean shifts his weight to his other foot. “Hannah mentioned you’d, uh, been cursed,” he says awkwardly.

Cas relaxes a fraction. “Ah, yes, I was.”

Dean gives Cas another once-over. “I just found out this morning, so I thought I’d stop by. Bring pie." He holds up the pie as evidence. "See how you are. But you look good.”

Cas squints at him, his head tilting. “Thank you?” he asks like he had a half-dozen responses in his head and chose that one at random.

“No prob.”

Cas’s gaze darts down to the pie in Dean’s hands for the first time. “Would you like to come in?”

Dean grins. “Yeah,” he says, stepping inside. “I’ll take this to the kitchen. I’m starving. Do you wanna eat it now?”

Cas gestures him forward. “This way.”

Dean throws him a funny look but follows him to the kitchen he’s been in about a hundred times before - for Cas’s annual Spring Equinox party, for a handful of dinners with other farmers in the area, for water breaks in between weeding Cas’s bee-friendly garden.

Afternoon sunlight from the beautiful day outside streams through the large windows that overlook the back porch and garden. It illuminates the kitchen table, absolutely covered with what looks like all of Cas’s beekeeping books.

Dean clears enough space for pie and strides over to the drawer for the baking utensils, saying over his shoulder, “I hope you’re hungry.”

When Cas doesn’t answer, Dean hastily turns back around - only to find himself practically nose-to-nose with Cas.

Dean takes an instinctive step backwards, his ass smacking the drawer closed again. “Dude,” he says in a strangled voice. His heart pounds in his chest at the close proximity and intense look in Cas’s eye. “We talked about this. Personal space.”

Cas retreats, his brow furrowing. “My apologies,” he mumbles. “I must have misread the situation.”

“I - yeah - I guess,” Dean stutters as he grabs plates and stacks two forks on top.

Cas falls heavily into a seat at the kitchen table. Silently, he moves enough books around for them to sit and eat.

Dean eyes the haphazard piles as he takes his own seat. “D’you have a problem with one of the hives or something?”

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says, his brow furrowing. “But it’s hard to tell.”

Dean snorts as he cuts them both slices. “I thought you knew everything about bees.”

Cas shoots him a dour look. “I did,” he says pointedly.

“Did?”

Cas fusses with a pamphlet on colony collapse. “I’m trying to catch up, but there is a lot of information to learn.”

Dean frowns. “Catch up to what?”

“To where I was,” Cas says, head tilting.

Dean sets the pie server down to focus on Cas, since he’s not making any goddamn sense. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Cas looks at him like Dean’s the one who lost his mind. “I don’t remember how to take care of them.” After a beat, he clarifies, “The bees. I’ve spent the better part of two weeks relearning how to maintain the hives, harvest honey, check if there is enough honey to harvest...” he drifts off, looking more than a little lost.

Dean blinks. “That’s the curse?” He grimaces as he forks off a generous corner of pie. “Dick move on Gabriel’s part. That’s your goddamn livelihood.”

Cas tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “He didn’t just make me forget the bees.”

Dean chews at Cas thoughtfully. “What else? Please tell me you forgot that time with the goat and a hooker.”

Cas stares at him. “I don’t remember anything.”

Dean’s next bite of pie freezes halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean anything?” he demands.

“I didn’t think it needed explaining,” Cas says waspishly, as all the pieces finally fall into place for Dean. “I thought Hannah told you about it.” His feathers rustle against the back of his chair.

“Hannah only said you were cursed!” Dean flails, “Not that you have goddamned amnesia. Do you know what pie is? Do you know who I am?”

Cas blinks, a little taken aback by Dean’s reaction. “I retain my general knowledge. I know what pie is,” he says. “I don’t remember eating it, but I know it is meat or fruit wrapped in pastry.”

“Oh my god.”

Cas’s gaze falls to the uneaten pie in front of him. “And, no, I don’t know who you are.”

Dean blinks, all the blood draining from his face. He forces out, “You’re serious.”

“I’d hardly joke with a stranger,” Cas says frankly.

Dean lets his fork drop back to the plate with a clatter.

Cas peers at him curiously. “The curse erased all my personal memories, but I was assuming we were friends, is this right? You know your way around my house, and Hannah wouldn’t have divulged my condition to just anyone.”

“Yeah,” Dean says gruffly, “we’re friends. I - my brother and me, we have a stand next to yours at the farmer’s market.”

“Oh,” Cas says. “Work colleagues, then.”

Dean snorts. “A little more than that.”

Cas bites his lip. “But you told me to respect your personal space. If we were -”

“Woah!” Dean cuts in before Memento can come up with any more bright ideas, “We’re close friends, alright?” he says before Cas can get another word out, “But not… like that.”

Dean doesn’t even know if Cas goes for humans. Most angels don’t. Cas never mentioned any romantic partners, and Dean never pressed. Better to keep that box locked up tight. Cas never shied away from giving his opinion to Dean or anyone else. He’s the most blunt, sincere person Dean knows - angel or human.

If he felt anything for Dean - the barest speck of more-than-friendly feelings, he’d have said something.

“Oh,” Cas says, and, behind him, his wings droop the smallest fraction.

Dean scans the table and pushes Cas’s worn copy of The How-To-Do-It Book of Bee-Keeping by Richard Taylor his way. “Test me.”

“What?”

Dean shovels more pie into his mouth. “As’ me anyfin’,” he mumbles.

Bemused, Cas opens the book to a random page. “How do you use a bee escape?” he reads aloud.

“Do you know what they are?” At Cas’s headshake, Dean holds his fingers about three inches apart, “They’re little plastic doodads with little bee-sized holes in the middle. You slide ‘em in the hive right before you’re about to harvest. Once they’re fitted, you smoke out the bees, one comb at a time. Once they’re out of the way, you can scrape off the honey.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Do you also keep bees?”

Dean can’t help his loud laugh. “God no,” he says as he closes his mouth around another bite of pie. “I’m just a farmer. But I’ve helped you out a few times.”

At least twice a month since Dean moved to this corner of semi-rural America, but who’s counting. Honey is only harvested once a year, but Cas can always use an extra set of hands in his garden. Or around the house. Dean’s worked off more than one argument with Sam by kneading clay in Cas’s pottery studio basement.

“So you know all this from me,” Cas says dubiously.

“Sure do,” Dean says, smacking his lips as he debates another slice of Cas’s get-well-soon pie. “You’re a good teacher, and once you get on a roll about the bees, it’s kinda hard to shut you up.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” Dean says as he cuts himself another (smallish) slice. “I look hot in a beekeeper suit, anyway.”

Cas frowns, confused. “Do most humans find baggy coveralls and heavy veils sexually appealing?”

Dean snorts. “That was a joke.”

Dean doesn’t mention that he finds the beekeeper getup hot as hell as long as it’s Cas wearing it.

It’s just - Cas doesn’t usually bother with the veil since he likes to have a full range of vision when caring for his bees. Dean once let a whole comb drop on his foot at the sight of Cas bent over, wholly concentrated on the hive, a barely-there smile hidden in the corners of his mouth. His blue eyes were luminous in the bright sunlight, and every few seconds he would lick his lips, probably to wipe away the beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip.

“Oh,” Cas says, a faint blush touching his cheeks. His gaze drops to his plate, and his wings sag behind him.

Dean mentally kicks himself. Cas might still have all a whole encyclopedia shoved in his brain, but jokes will fly right over his head like so many of Cas’s precious bees. Since Dean started hanging around, he had been getting better with the jokes and references, but Total Recall Cas got that goddamn factory reset, so Dean has to cool it for now.

“Forget it,” he tells Cas. “I’m an asshole.”

Cas squints across the table at him. “You are not.”

“Huh?”

Cas carefully spears off a bit of pie. “You came by to check on me, offer me food,” he slips his fork into his mouth, eyes closing as he savors the tart cherries and buttery pastry, “stay and talk.”

“I, mean, yeah,” Dean says, wrongfooted, “we’re friends. ‘S the least I could do.”

Cas has another bite. “This is really good.”

“Thanks,” Dean says before he crams the rest of his slice into his mouth. He studies Cas as they both eat, an uncomfortable foreboding settling deep in his stomach. Now he sees it, how Cas doesn’t look at him with any familiarity. It’s more like, to Cas, Dean is some fucked up jigsaw puzzle slash zoo animal. Eventually, Dean has to ask, “Are you going to get your memories back?”

Cas shakes his head, his expression hardening. “I’m not sure.”

Dean’s mouth falls open. “Are you serious?” He braces both elbows on the table. “But you were cursed - there’s gotta be a way to break it. That’s how curses work, right?”

Cas exhales a slow sigh. “Gabriel did say there was a way to break it.”

“And you haven’t yet?” Dean demands, almost offended on Cas’s - his Cas’s - behalf. “You’re okay forgetting your whole life?”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Are you insane?” he hisses, his feathers puffing up like an angry cat. “Of course I am not ‘okay,’” he says, air quotes and all, which Dean hasn’t seen since he told Cas they were lame. (He felt bad about it for a week afterward and gave Cas a free apology pumpkin. First of the season.)

“I am able to navigate the outside world as well as a human toddler,” Cas continues heatedly. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do for the past two weeks?”

Dean huffs an impatient breath. “What have you tried so far?”

Cas grimaces. “Gabriel said it could be broken like all curses could be broken.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I have no clue,” Cas says frankly. “I spent a week in Heaven’s archives and libraries. The most common way to break curses is by consuming a stone taken from the stomach of a goat -”

Dean makes a gagging noise.

“-or bathing in the blood of a virgin at the new moon.”

“Not any less gross,” Dean says emphatically. “Where the hell are you going to get virgin blood? Are they talking about, like, a whole virgin? Or does born again count?”

Cas shakes his head. “The new moon was four days ago.”

Dean frowns. “Did you have to do the blood thing?”

From the look on Cas’s face, Dean isn’t going to make him watch Carrie anytime soon.

“So I went to more obscure magic,” Cas continues. “I tried bathing in a natural source of water. And then I ran a bath and filled it with salt, since salt repels evil.”

“All I’m hearing is lots of bathing so far.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I lit sage in every room and burned three types of wood. I wore an evil eye bracelet. I sprinkled consecrated water blended with honey over the threshold.”

“No dice?”

Cas throws him a baleful look. “I have ants now.”

Dean snorts. “Well that sucks,” he says, since what else can you say when your best friend swaps all his memories for a Bug's Life?

Cas sighs. “From my notes and research, I can’t leave the hives completely unattended, so I’ve spent the past few days trying to figure out how not to kill them,” he says, gesturing to the rest of the kitchen table. “Once I’ve determined if the bees will survive on their own, I can look back into the curse.”

Dean purses his lips. “Have you prayed to Gabriel? Tried to convince him to take it back?”

“Every day since it happened,” Cas says, his face somber.

“Alright,” Dean says, grabbing Cas’s empty plate, “I can’t help with the curse stuff since I save the teen witch adventures for Sabrina. I can help with the bees, though, if you want.” He gets to his feet and dumps the plates in the sink.

Once his back is turned, he frowns as he thinks his words over. Who knows if this Cas actually wants him around? This Cas doesn’t know him from Adam.

To the dishes Dean says, “The next beekeeper is a few towns over. I could give him a call for you, if you’d rather have him. Cain’s mostly retired, so he’d probably have the time to show you the ropes.”

“Is Cain an angel?”

Dean laughs over the splashing water. “No, he’s a crotchety old bastard who would rather live with bees than people. You get along.” He sets the rinsed plates out to dry and faces Cas. “I’m sure you have his number in your phone too, come to think of it.”

Cas meets Dean’s cautious gaze with his usual soul-searing stare. “I wouldn’t mind if you helped me. Maybe I could call Cain if there are any advanced problems we can’t figure out together.”

Dean smiles. “Sounds like a plan.” He jerks his head towards the backyard. “You wanna get suited up?”

“Now?” Cas asks, alarmed.

“No time like the present,” Dean says as he walks out of the kitchen without waiting for Cas to follow. “Come on, we’re wasting daylight.”

* * *

Cas stares at his beekeeper suit, hanging in its usual place on his screened back porch, next to his gardening gloves.

“You okay?” Dean asks. “You’ve got a spare in your shed, so I’ll grab it on the way.”

Cas picks up the suit like it’s about to bite him.

“’S a good thing I’m here,” Dean says as Cas slowly unzips the front. “It’s always a bitch to get your wings covered.”

Cas’s wings slump. “I have a feeling this is going to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Hey,” Dean says, taking a step forward, “no, it’s your bees. You love them.”

Cas frowns. “But I don’t remember how.”

Dean grins. “Then you’re a lucky son of a bitch who gets to fall in love with something all over again.” He sighs wistfully. “What I wouldn’t give to erase Star Wars from my brain and watch it again for the first time.”

“What is Star Wars?”

“A trilogy of movies from the 70s and 80s,” Dean says, his smile widening.

Cas nods. “I’ll have to rewatch them, then.”

“Damn right,” Dean says. “I gave you the DVDs for my birthday last year, so they should be around here somewhere.”

“For your birthday?” Cas asks, eyebrows rising. “Isn’t gift-giving normally the other way around?”

Dean shrugs. “But I’d been bugging you to watch ‘em with me for years. Trust me, it was an awesome birthday.”

Cas opens his mouth like he’s not sure where to poke holes in Dean’s story first, so Dean reaches for the wing covers. “I think we should do the hard part first.”

“You’re currently the expert,” Cas says as he sets the suit aside.

Dean frowns as he takes in Cas’s black wings, reflecting muted tones of magenta, purple, cobalt, and green. Normally, Cas rocks the sex wing look - a few feathers askew here and there like someone raked their fingers through them - but now his wings look more like Cas stuck his alulas in an electrical socket.

Without thinking, Dean says, “It’s gonna be hard to get them in the wing covers. They’re a little messed up, dude.” As Cas’s face falls, Dean adds quickly, “Nothing a little grooming can’t fix.”

Cas flushes. “I haven’t been able to reach my whole wingspan on my own. Hannah offered-” he breaks off, his gaze skittering around to settle just over Dean’s left shoulder. “But I don’t know her, not really, so I was uncomfortable accepting.”

Dean takes a step back. “I mean, you don’t need to do it. I’ll have to touch a couple feathers to get these on you, if you’re okay with that.”

Cas swallows. “No, you’re right. My wings are a mess.”

Dean’s fingers practically tingle with the urge to reach out and smooth down the closest feathers, but he shoves his free hand deep into his pocket instead.

“Can you help me?” Cas asks.

Dean quietly dies inside.

Cas’s wings flutter in anticipation, and Dean is so, so weak.

“Yeah,” Dean says gruffly as he drops the wing cover and approaches Cas’s back. “You sure, man? I - I’ve never done this before.”

Cas turns his head. “Never?”

Dean clenches his hands into fists. Don’t touch. Not until he says so. Dean can keep his goddamn hands to himself. Cas deserves that much.

“Do you want me to walk you through it?” Cas asks softly. “I know how, since it’s only personal memories about my life that seem to have been affected.”

“Ah,” Dean hesitates, a hundred and one wing kink porn videos flashing through his head like popup ads. “No,” he coughs, “I know the mechanics.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

Dean fidgets in place. “‘S like picking beans, right? Don’t pull on them too hard. They’ll come off if they want to come off. Make sure nothing is sticking out at weird angles.”

Cas makes a face. “Did you just compare my wings to legumes?”

“Maybe?” Dean says defensively. “Look, I know vegetables, and I know what your wings are supposed to look like. What else do you want from me?”

Cas’s mouth opens, but no words come out. With a sigh, he faces forward, presenting his wings for Dean.

Dean inhales a deep breath. Christ, his hands are goddamn shaking. Get a fucking grip, Winchester. He lightly touches the base of Cas’s left wing.

Cas shivers, the feathers rippling.

Dean yanks his hand back.

“Sorry,” Cas says sheepishly. “You took me by surprise. Please continue.”

Gently, Dean grazes the base of the wing again. The feathers rustle like under a moderate breeze, but Cas doesn’t tell him to stop, so Dean keeps going. He feels along the surface of Cas’s wings, most of the feathers slipping, glossy smooth, under his fingertips - until he catches the first snag. Nerves rocketing up to eleven, Dean tugs lightly on the first feather out of place.

Cas sucks in a breath.

It comes loose, and Dean has a fleeting, stupid thought to steal it for himself. But he lets it flutter to the floor.

Dean soldiers on, biting his lip as he tries to keep himself from grabbing handfuls of feathers and burying his face in Cas’s wings. Meticulously, painstakingly, he combs through the mess. As he moves closer to the second joint, Cas’s feathers, which had been subtly shifting the whole time, stiffen.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

Cas nods, stilted. “Please continue,” he says, his voice rough.

Dean frowns. If Cas is uncomfortable and doesn’t want to tell him, Dean’s not going to be the asshole who turns a blind eye to the signs. He withdraws his hands, and Cas’s wings -

They flare out, seeking Dean’s touch.

Without thinking, Dean blurts an astounded, “Dude.”

“Apologies,” Cas says, and, from this angle, Dean has primetime viewing of the back of Cas’ traffic light-red neck. His wings retreat to fold stiff as a board behind Cas’s back.

“Hey, no,” Dean says as he lays a hand along Cas’s wing, petting it gently. “I just wanted to check in with you.” He grins lopsidedly, not that Cas can see him. “Communication is important.”

Cas coughs. “Indeed,” he says, and his voice still sounds off. “Please continue. I,” he breaks off, turning a little in place so Dean can see half of his face, “I was enjoying it.”

“Good,” Dean says with a little too much enthusiasm. “I - uh, me too.”

Cas blinks. “You were?” He frowns. “Grooming is… boring. A chore.”

“Not for humans,” Dean says as he picks up where he left off. “We don’t have big fancy wings to lug around everywhere. They’re-”

“What?” Cas waits, clearly expecting an answer.

Dean sighs. “Cool,” he supplies lamely. “Your wings are cool.”

Dean can’t see Cas’s face with his back turned, but his wings fluff up ever so slightly, so Dean counts it as a win. “I’m glad you think so,” Cas says quietly.

“’Course,” Dean says, easy as pie. He pulls on another feather, and, when it doesn’t come out, tucks it back into its proper place, “I’ve never seen an angel with wings like yours. Malachi’s got dark grey ones, and I thought they were your shade of black, but they’re not. Plus, he’s an asshole.”

Cas chuckles. “I don’t see how him being an asshole has anything to do with his wing color.”

“No, but, if you ever run into him - an angel with dark grey wings - now you know.”

“So you’re only looking out for me.”

“You don’t know this yet,” Dean tells him conspiratorially, “but I’m awesome.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to see that for myself.”

Thank God Cas can’t see Dean’s face. Equally embarrassed and pleased, Dean rambles, “You should also watch out for Metatron - the white-winged dude who runs the thrift shop down the road. He’s been angling to set up shop at the farmers market for fucking ever even though he has a storefront for all his crap. Whoever said white wings meant purity was full of shit because Metatron’s a douche.”

Cas laughs, and Dean nearly slumps over in relief.

He can still make Cas laugh.

“Hannah, she’s okay,” Dean continues as he combs through the rest of Cas’s secondaries and coverts before he gets to the primaries, large and built for flight, and completely within Cas’s reach to groom himself. “But her partner, Duma, hates you for some reason, so I’d steer clear of her.”

Cas’s wings dip a few inches. “It doesn’t sound like I’m on good terms with many angels.”

Dean lightly runs his palm over Cas’s flight feathers - while he’s back here, he might as well. “I guess not,” he admits because Cas is right, “but they’ve all got massive sticks up their asses, so you’re better off.”

“They’re family.”

“They’re dicks,” Dean corrects. “Come on, you’re goddamn cursed with amnesia , and not one is here helping you out? Dick move for dick angels,” he finishes.

“Hannah visited.”

“Like I said, Hannah’s okay,” Dean says as he straightens up.

“At least you’re here,” Cas points out.

“Yeah,” Dean says bitterly as he brushes out bits of fluffy down near the base of Cas other wing, “After two weeks.”

“You said you didn’t know.”

“I should’ve.”

“How?” Cas asks, sounding baffled.

Dean scoffs as he cards his fingers through the shorter feathers near the bone of Cas’s wing, “You didn’t show at the farmers market. You always show.”

“But-”

Dean shakes his head. “I should’ve known something was up.” He yanks a little too hard on a feather, and the brittle shaft breaks between his thumb and pointer finger. Dean lets it fall to the floor in disgust. “But Hannah said you were sick, and I didn’t know if you were the type who wanted company or everyone to stay the hell away. And then I talked to Sammy, and he said angels don’t really get sick like we do.” He exhales a slow breath, consciously holding himself back from tearing any more feathers out. Cas doesn’t deserve that, especially after all the shit he’s dealing with.

“We do get sick,” Cas says, his voice breaking through Dean’s morose reminiscing of the past week, “But never with the type of illnesses that can be treated outside of Heaven.”

“That’s what Sammy told me,” Dean says heavily.

“You were worried?”

Dean pokes him in the muscular part of the wing. “Of course I was worried.”

Cas’s head tilts, but not enough that Dean can make out his expression. “Because we’re friends.”

Dean swallows. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “because we’re friends.” He tugs on a few more feathers, and one comes loose. He holds it between his fingers for a beat, rubbing his thumb along the vane. With a sigh, he moves onto Cas’s other flight feathers. He gives them a few long strokes, unable to help his smile as he feels at the power, the potential, all hidden in Cas’s wings. But, eventually, he has to straighten up.

“All done,” he says with forced cheer as Cas turns around to face him.

Cas blinks a few times like he’s coming out of a trance. “Thank you,” he says gruffly.

He spreads his wings.

Dean’s breath catches in his chest, and his awe must show all over face, judging by Cas’s barely-there smirk. But, dammit, Dean’s going to enjoy the sight. Cas never puts himself on display like this, preferring to play the nerdy beekeeper in a trench coat rather than an almighty Angel of the Lord.

Cas turns his head to inspect Dean’s work. He gives an experimental flap, sweeping all the old feathers littering the floor up into the air. “Thank you, Dean,” he says sincerely. He folds his wings back, and Dean’s heart aches for something he never had in the first place.

“Don’t - don’t mention it,” Dean chokes out.

A fluffy piece of down drifts down to settle on Cas’s nose. He goes cross-eyed to keep it in view.

Dean cracks up. Grinning, he reaches up to brush away the offending bit of down.

Cas catches his arm in an iron grip, his own face oddly intense.

“Cas?”

But before Dean can finish his sentence, Cas pulls him closer and seals their mouths together.

Dean lets out a muffled (completely manly) noise of surprise against Cas’s lips before muscle memory takes over. As Dean kisses back, Cas makes a light soothing rumble in the back of his throat, his touch gentle and warm. Dean’s other hand grasps desperately at Cas’s shirt, anchoring him in place. An electric, bubbly feeling is exploding in his chest, a wild kind of joy Dean normally would tamp down, tell himself, watch out for the other shoe to drop.

Other shoes like Cas’s missing memory.

Dean freezes, and it takes him a long moment to realize Cas isn’t moving either. His grip on Dean’s arm has gone slack. Dean opens his eyes to find Cas’s eyes wide open and glowing with an electric blue light.

Fuck.

Dean’s watched his fair share of angel-on-angel porn and more than his fair share of angel-on-human porn, and kissing’s not supposed to do that.

Dean takes a stumbling step back. “Cas?” he tries.

But Cas doesn’t move. He doesn’t give any sign he heard Dean at all.

Dean falls forward, tripping over his feet. He grips Cas, hard, by the shoulders. With his heart in his throat, he gives Cas a small shake. “Cas?” he tries again, and his voice sounds alien to his own ears, loud and breathy with his panic. He shakes him harder. “Cas!”

Several agonizing seconds pass, and the light slowly dims from behind Cas’s eyes, leaving behind his normal blue.

“Dean?”

Dean’s knees nearly give out with relief. “Hey,” he says weakly, “Nice to have you back, buddy.”

Cas blinks a few times. He swallows, a strange expression coming over his face.

“You okay?” Dean demands. “What the fuck was that?”

Cas stares at him. “That was the curse breaking.”

Read Part II here!

#profoundnet #angel castiel #beekeper castiel #farmer dean #fluff #wing grooming #amnesia #mutual pining #friends to lovers #rae writes fic

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berrykook · 4 years

Text

can’t bear it (y!hs)

set in the overtime universe

in which hoseok is just trying to help you understand that he knows what’s best for you and you feel yourself start to slip

contents: yandere!hoseok, kidnapping, “gaslighting” / manipulation, vomit, gore / mutilation, good/bad little girl rhetoric

word count: 3.7k

a/n: thanks for the request !! i had fun writing it heheh

i’m tagging gaslighting in quotations because i feel like hoseok is like,, KiNdA gaslighting but pretty lightly

also idk why my mc’s always be throwing up LOL it’s just for a second i swear

my inbox is open for yandere requests! i do not write non-con, hitting (punching, slapping, etc.), or ddlg / ageplay (in this fic i included good/bad little girl rhetoric because i thought it would make hoseok seem more spooky but otherwise i do not write ageplay --- use of word daddy is ok)

lmk what u guys think!

*☆*ﾟ゜ﾟ*☆*ﾟ゜ﾟ*☆*ﾟ゜ﾟ*☆*ﾟ゜ﾟ*☆*ﾟ゜ﾟ*☆*ﾟ゜ﾟ*☆*ﾟ゜ﾟ*☆*ﾟ゜ﾟ*☆*ﾟ゜ﾟ*☆*ﾟ

Your stomach softly growled as you stared down into your takeout box of noodles and studied the way the sauce doesn’t cling to some vegetables. Hoseok ordered your favorite again, but you couldn’t remember ever loving this dish. He must have been referring to the time before he brought you to live with him (an incident in which your head was hit very hard).

Hoseok stared at you like he always did, refusing to eat until he saw you take the first bite. He sat with his hands folded, watching you and your hazy mind work through dinnertime. All you had to do was pick up your chopsticks and eat, but something in you could not bring yourself to do so.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Not hungry?”

Whether it was intentional or not, Hoseok’s tone never came out of the woods. He spoke slowly in low tones as if he was always ready to pounce on you. You wondered if he spoke to his employees the same way.

You gingerly picked up your chopsticks.

“You haven’t been eating well lately. Is something wrong?” Hoseok is wringing his hands now. You began to stare back at him.

You remained silent for a long moment before saying clearly, “Yes. I don’t feel well.”

Hoseok clicks his tongue, rising from his seat across from you to sit next to you instead. He rests his hand on yours. Hoseok wasn’t overly affectionate which you were lucky for at the beginning of this relationship, but you now felt touch-starved and undesirable. He held an immense amount of power over you and he knew it too.

“What’s wrong? Talk to me,” he mumbled, placing a palm against your forehead. “You’re not warm. I seriously doubt you’re sick, you never are. Tell me what’s wrong, please.” He leaned in closer.

You held back a huff of frustration, knowing how angry he got when you weren’t his perfect little girl. Hoseok knew exactly how to get under your skin and scare you shitless. If you weren’t careful and deliberate with every motion, every phrase, every word, he would catch on in a heartbeat and do whatever it took to show you he owned you. It only took three days in his basement for you to confess your love for him and start begging to be let out.

You fidgeted nervously, quickly glancing at the front door behind Hoseok. He hadn’t let you out in nearly six months and as much as you loved him, you were beginning to get antsy.

Hoseok was scary, but treated you well. He thoroughly explained on several occasions how much you needed him and how he loved you so deeply that it was in his very nature to keep you protected from the world like this. He even let you free from being chained in his basement after only a couple weeks, which was awesome! Hoseok never called himself your boyfriend, but you figured he was close enough. He fed you when you weren’t being bad and he recited his love for you often. It terrified you when you first met that time you woke up in his basement, but with time you found yourself believing him more and more. This was not living, but you were becoming so far gone from your past that it seemed like perhaps this sheltered life was what you were meant to receive.

Hoseok studied you deeply, noticing immediately how your eyes darted behind him at the front door. He sighed, mentally preparing himself to pull out all the stops to get the idea out of your pretty little head.

“Mm, baby, are you bored? Did you want to go outside?” He smiled a bit, stroking the back of your head and looking at you sweetly.

Immediately, you furrowed your brows and gripped his hand tighter. You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off.

“You must be tired of being cooped up in the house all day...don’t you want to see what’s out there?”

Hoseok stood up, placing a hand on your back to guide you up as well.

“H-Hobi, I don’t need to. I don’t mind staying inside…” you said bashfully, tugging his hand to lead him back into his chair.

His smile was wide like the Cheshire Cat’s. He reached to hold your face by your chin.

“No, I’m sure you must be going crazy being in here all day. Let’s go outside. Maybe you can run around a bit so your appetite can return.”

You weren’t stupid. You saw from the windows that Hoseok lived in a deep forest and made a lengthy commute each day to the city for his work. Perhaps Hoseok was feeling particularly sadistic today. You had been on your best behavior as of late - you listened well, ate when you didn’t feel ill, wore what he chose for you, told him you loved him and cuddled him and let him kiss you. His obtuseness came completely out of left field. You were the best little girl you could be - it made no sense.

“Hobi, I’m really hungry now. I would like to eat.” By the end of your statement, you were whispering fearfully as he was now leaning in close enough to kiss you.

“Don’t be silly. I saw you looking at the door. Come on,” he tugged you along, bending to tie your shoes for you.

“Hoseok, I really think I should go eat, please. I don’t want to go outside, it’ll be cold and dark and we’re in the forest, pl-”

“You know you want to leave. Don’t you? Wasn’t it only a few weeks ago you were saying you wanted to leave me?”

You’re crying now. “No! Please, I don’t want to leave, I love you, I swear! Hobi, I’ve changed!” Hoseok ignores your cries, pushing you out the front door with a smack on your ass.

“Be back in an hour, sweetheart. I don’t want the wild animals to find you.”

He slammed the door in your face and you began to hyperventilate for a moment. You knew he didn’t retreat from his spot at the door and he could clearly hear your cries. How did just looking at the door for a moment lead to this?

You spent a few minutes on your knees, bawling into your hands on the front porch. The tall forest prematurely made it nightfall at the ground level. After another few minutes, something caught your eye deeper into the woods. You stood slowly, hoping you were correct.

It was a car. A parked red van within walking distance of Hoseok’s house. Your legs moved on their own towards it. You were certain it didn’t belong to Hoseok as you kissed him goodbye from outside his black sedan each day. The drive to get away from Hoseok kicked in like a horse as you began running towards this car, desperate for help or some more information on where in the country the house was. If you were lucky, somebody would be in the car.

You were close enough to read the license plate when a searing pain shot through your leg and burned every cell in your body. You fell forward, coughing up a bit of your stomach after. You screamed for a moment, but then your body stopped taking in air effectively and you were left on the ground like a fish out of water.

You sobbed, desperately searching for a switch or button to release the contraption stuck around your ankle. Just a few yards from the car, chained to a tree was a steel bear trap that you stepped into perfectly. The claws dug well into the flesh on your leg, pouring blood over the forest floor as your heartbeat became erratic. Its jaws were locked far too strongly for you to pry apart. The house was barely visible to you now as the sun set completely and you were utterly stuck by this soccer mom van in the middle of god knows where.

The clock continued to tick as your hour of “freedom” was coming to a close. You wanted to throw up again at the sight of yourself. You nearly called out to Hoseok for help, but restrained yourself quickly. He was right - he always was. He was right for keeping you inside the way he did. You couldn’t even run half a mile into the forest without getting caught in a bear trap. The clinking of metal chains reminded you of your time in Hoseok’s basement and how cold it was and how hungry you became. You were hungry now as well, even through the nausea, and you let out a sad cry as your stomach growled angrily again. If Hoseok ever saved you again, you would eat everything he put in front of you with gusto. You leaned your head against the thick trunk of the tree you were chained to and watched the bugs on the floor crawl by. Your heart twinged as you missed Hoseok after just an hour apart. You felt you were no better than the insects you were watching.

The pain in your leg was unlike anything you had felt before. You knew it was unrealistic to die from a bear trap, but you felt like you were at the brink. You had long since given up trying to claw the trap apart, stopping when the third of your fingernails split. The blood from your ankle made its way all over the white sweater Hoseok had picked out for you that morning. Hopefully an actual bear would come by and put you out of your misery before Hoseok could come by and chastise you for getting your clothes dirty.

Eventually, you heard his voice through the trees. “Sweetheart!” His voice sang and you panicked at the thought of how angry he would be that you got yourself hurt. You saw a light coming from the direction of your house and you braced yourself to soon be found.

You didn’t have the energy to yell back at him, so you waited for him to find you instead. Hoseok was smarter than you would like to admit and he obviously already knew that you wouldn’t make it far. Yet, he took his sweet, sweet time searching for you.

Eventually, his flashlight landed on your chest and you looked away, nervous to see him. He sighed.

“Oh, baby...look what you did,” he tsked. He stood above you with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. He made a noise of disdain when your lower lip began to tremble. “Hurts, doesn’t it? I would help make it all better, but you’ve been such a bad girl lately. I thought you knew better than to go outside, but I guess you just couldn’t listen to me.”

You covered your mouth to hide your snivelling. “I’m s-so sorry!”

“I know you are, baby. See, if you listen to me and stay inside like a good girl, then these things won’t happen. What am I gonna do with you?” Hoseok bent down to face level with you, still sitting against the tree trunk shivering in immense pain. “I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, and earlier you sure made it clear that you don’t want to be in my house with me…”

You sobbed, reaching to hold his shoulders. “No! I want to go back home and be with you. I’m sorry for being ungrateful, I just want to be with you!” Hoseok clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“Is that really what you want, baby? You really want to come back and live with me?” Hoseok spoke slowly, letting you marinate in the ache of your calf. He knew you loved him. Putting you in solitary confinement for the first two months was more than enough for you to worship the ground he walks on. Some days, he just needed to tease you a little.

“Yes, please. I’m sorry, I’ll never leave you, I swear.” Hoseok stared at you with a smile before taking your face into his hands and kissing you for a long moment.

“Good. Jin-hyung is going to help you with your leg, okay?”

Hoseok fishes in his pockets before pulling out a silver key and unlocking the chains around the tree.

“Wow, baby, you must have really run into this trap for it to have closed on you so hard...we better take it out in the house.”

You stared at him in shock. “This...this trap was yours?” Hoseok smoothed the top of your head.

“Everything on this land is mine,” he hissed with a sweet smile.

“B-but, I’ve never seen you drive this car. And why do you have bear traps!? You don’t hunt, Hoseok!” You are steadily becoming more hysterical and Hoseok sighs, hugging you to him. You holler at the pain of him shifting your leg.

“Baby, this is Jungkook’s car. You remember him, right? He’s taking his fianceè to Busan soon and they’ll need a car to hold their kids someday. He’s keeping it here because his apartment only gives him one parking space.” Hoseok kisses your cheek, rubbing your back when your crying intensifies. Ah, he’ll need to bring you back home soon before you lose too much blood. “You can understand that, can’t you?”

Hyperventilating on top of a foot caught in a bear trap had you lightheaded. You rested your cheek against Hoseok’s shoulder. “How am I supposed to get this off my foot?” You sobbed.

Hoseok cooed, rubbing your back a little harder. “I thought you knew what’s best for yourself...since you’re such a big girl and you always take ca-”

You cut him off with a wail. “Hoseok, please help me! I’ll die here, please!” He hissed at your yelling on his shoulder.

“Shh, stop that! Ah, I guess I can try and help you get back to the house. I thought you didn’t need someone like me…” Hoseok got started on unchaining the trap.

“No, I-I do need you! I’m sorry, I’ll never act out again…” you mumbled ashamedly. Hoseok heaved you up with a pained scream from you. He kissed your cheek in a lame attempt to calm you.

“Yeah? Are you going to be my good girl and stay inside the house?”

You cried a bit harder when he said this, remembering how you bawled on his front steps after he shut the door on you.

“Yes, I promise,” you whimpered.

“Good. Jin-hyung will be here in an hour to help fix you. Shh, don’t cry, I know it’s a long time,” he whispered to you. You cried all the way to the house and all the way down the concrete stairs to Hoseok’s basement.

“I don’t like it here, Hobi, please...can’t we go somewhere else?” Hoseok calmed your weeping by playing with your hair.

“This is what’s best. I’m here with you, my love...remember I love you so much.” He kissed your forehead softly. “We’ll get you out of this mess.”

You wrapped your hands around the sheets of the bed Hoseok placed you on and writhed in agony.

“It hurts,” you mumbled, still crying softly.

Hoseok cooed, “Aw, my baby…”

The anger within you began to rise like a tidal wave. Perhaps it was being back in this bed under Hoseok’s house, or perhaps you were finally understanding the lengths Hoseok would go to in order to claim you. The throbbing in your ankle aligned with a new throbbing in your head. Hoseok lay with you on the bed you woke up chained to all those months ago when he first took you. It took three strokes to the top of our head for you to snap.

“You did this to me,” you whispered, turning your face away from him.

Hoseok stopped stroking your hair as if he had just been doused with cold water.

“Huh? Say that again for me, baby, I didn’t quite hear you.” Hoseok tangled his fingers in your hair. You braced yourself for a harsh tug.

“This is your trap. I didn’t even want to go outside. I wasn’t even being bad.”

You didn’t force yourself to look at him as you spoke. You couldn’t even remember the last time you had stood up to him...was it recent? Wasn’t it during those first three days in his basement? It felt like a dream.

“I’ve been perfect these last few months. You kidnapped me yet I have been perfect for you! I didn’t deserve this!” You were steadily becoming hysterical. It felt good to let yourself become unraveled after weeks of living complacently in his clutch. Hoseok still hadn’t said anything, still keeping his hand gently against your scalp.

“How could you do this to me? I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me and you put me in a bear trap for what? Not eating my dinner? I didn’t eat because you make me sick!”

At this point, Hoseok began calmly rising from the bed and making his way over to your trapped foot. You barely noticed, too wound up in your angry rant. You didn’t care anymore. There was just no right way to be Hoseok’s victim, and there was no hope for escape either. You were surrounded by miles of forest and the only communication with other humans was Hoseok’s equally repulsive friends and two of them were moving across the country soon. You envied them and their stupid red van and happy little life. You had only met Jungkook and his fiancèe once, but they seemed to love each other deeply. You once wished for something like that, at least before Hoseok came into your life.

“You stupid motherfucker! Piece of shit! Fix my fucking leg, you asshole!” Hoseok watched you yell with blank eyes before cracking a slight smile. He chuckled, adoring the way your tongue was so sharp.

“Are you done, sweetie?” He massaged your calves. The pain in your foot almost felt as hot as the rage bubbling through your veins at the moment.

“You’re going to burn in hell for what you’ve done to me. Son of the devil,” you hissed.

Hoseok grinned wordlessly again before placing his hands on both sides of the bear trap and releasing its jaws with a manly grunt. A scream ripped through you, dying into dry sobs after a moment. You supposed it was good that he did it when you were furious and the adrenaline was pushing you off the edge.

Hoseok was panting heavily. “Baby, did you know that some animals gnaw their own limbs off to free themselves from bear traps?” You watched with a glare as he fiddled with the contraption. You prayed that he would be offended enough to just kill you already. “I haven’t seen it happen myself. Some hunters find bear traps inhumane for that very reason. I understand. The animal has done no wrong, correct?” The shoddy lighting of his basement cast a shadow over his face.

“I can’t imagine how it would feel to be so helpless like that...so scared and alone...you must have felt that way back in that forest, huh? Baby?” You refused to entertain him any longer. Hoseok was being oddly soft-spoken and gentle with his tone. It wasn’t often that he brought out this voice.

“You must be so upset, huh? Scared, maybe even suicidal. You might even feel like a lost cause.” The trap snapped back into its original open position with a clang. “I’ve never viewed you that way. All I’ve ever seen you as was my perfect girl, even when you weren’t being so good. I never lost hope in you. All I’ve ever wanted was for you to snap out of it and love me too and fucking mean it.” His tone turned angry for a second, but he quickly shut it down. You stared at how he held the open trap with such expertise.

“You might think you were being so careful and good, but I see right through you. I just know you so well, baby. I knew deep down, there was still a part of you that defied me, even though I just wanted you to be your best self. I knew there was still some part of you left for me to crack apart and mold to include me with it.”

You were much more dizzy now.

“I’m doing this for your own good. So we can be happy together.”

You caught on with a start, sitting up quickly. You couldn’t even get one word out before Hoseok swiftly grabbed your good foot with a heavy hand and positioned it on the plate of the open trap. He jumped back, successfully evading the teeth of the trap which were now clamped around your other foot.

You let out a gut-wrenching scream. Not only did you scream from the pain of the bear trap, but also from the pain of the cold basement, the pain of the thick woods that surrounded the house. Hoseok watched you thrash on the bed as if you were possessed. Both of your ankles poured out blood and soiled the white bed sheets you lay on.

“Honey, be careful! Look at what happened to the sheets,” he tsked. “Ah, look at what you’ve done. How did my silly girl manage to get caught into two traps in one day? What am I gonna do with you?”

You began bawling again as Hoseok remained standing over you. His voice remained sickly sweet and you found yourself yearning for him to taunt you with his usual nasty tone.

“I want to die,” you weep. Hoseok seemed affected by this for a second before reverting back to his calm stance.

He silently came back around the bed, placing a kiss on your forehead once more before making his way up the concrete stairs. You thought about calling out to him for a moment, but ultimately decided not to. Hoseok shut the door behind him, not bothering to lock it. You wouldn’t be able to walk anyway. He made his way to the kitchen, stretching as he did so, and opened a cabinet in search of some tea. Your cries were barely audible over the hum of the microwave heating his water.

#yandere hoseok #yandere!hoseok #yandere!bts #yandere bts

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moonlady9 · 4 years

Text

Adoption

another drabble for my 300 followers milestone, this idea came from @gumbogir-blog, its not exactly what you wanted, but I couldn’t get the idea out of my head.

Just tooth rotting fluff of newly adopted Naruto and Kakashi just trying his best.

Kakashi took the little hand of the golden haired, ocean eyed boy. His hand felt so big and consuming to the boy’s little one, covering it in just the palm. Squatting down to see the unsure face, and pushing back sunshine locks, he gave the boy a smile.

“Naruto, I’m going to do my best to take care of you. I’ll do my best to earn your trust and to make us a family. The moment we walk out those big oak front doors, you are my son. I want you to know that.”

Naruto sniffled, rubbing his nose with his spare hand, nodding slowly. Family, what a strange word. His foster “families” hadn’t been kind for the last ten years of his life. They had called him stupid, a troubled child, annoying. They way their eyes looked at him, always angry and like he was a cockroach. He looked up to storm gray eyes, these eyes didn’t look at him like that, that was something at least.

Kakashi placed his hand on Naruto’s shoulder, “Want to go shopping? We can get you new clothes, some nice shoes, set up your room, some toys?”

Naruto smiled cautiously, “Yeah, okay.”

The mall was—an experience. Naruto wanted to run around everywhere. He was so excited to touch everything and explore, like he had never been in one. It made Kakashi’s heart ache but also lighten with the wide smile and bright laughter. He learned that Naruto’s favorite color was orange. He loved toads and foxes, didn’t care for reading but loved puzzles.

They were walking past the food court when Naruto stiffened at a stall. Eyes wide, mouth watering. Ramen. He tugged on Kakashi’s hand. “They sell ramen here?”

Kakashi looked at the modest stand, nodding slowly. “Yeah, do you like ramen?”

“The last family always gave me the miso one in a cup. They taught me to use the kettle so could make it myself.” The employees were kneading dough, cutting it into noodles, putting it in large pans of broth. This wasn’t instant ramen.

With a chuckle and an unconscious ruffling of blond hair, Kakashi agreed. He put their bags down and picked a seat at the bar top. “Would you like miso or want to try something else?”

Naruto jumped up to the stool. There were a few pots with different broths. He carefully sniffs each one. Finally settling on one, “That one.”

“You have to say please.” Kakashi gently reminded him with a smile.

Naruto blushed lightly, turning back to the server, “Please, that one.”

Watching him eat real ramen for the first time was something Kakashi knew he would never forget. The pure joy, the raw delight on his face, he wanted to keep seeing it in the future.

As time went on, there were good times and bad. Naruto couldn’t sit still in class, he was disruptive, loud. His reading comprehension low, test scores low, reading was at a lower level that expected. He squinted while reading. Kakashi fielded all these comments from teachers. Trying to talk to Naruto was difficult, he became defensive, lashing out.

Maybe a sport to get his physical aggression out. Kakashi could teach him baseball, he had played ball in high school and college. Hopefully, Naruto would like it.

Naruto didn’t like it.

“I have to wait how long to get on the field? That’s stupid. Everyone is sitting the entire time. This is a stupid game.” Naruto exclaimed throwing the bat on the dirt and walking away.

Okay, Kakashi needed a new angle.

The squinting turned out to be dyslexia not bad eyesight. Something else to work with along with attention problems.

Kakashi had to remind himself to not get frustrated. It wasn’t Naruto’s fault. What was frustrating were the public outbursts.

One particular bad one was at the sports store trying to find something else Naruto could enjoy.

“I don’t want soccer, tennis is dumb, golf is for old men, football looks slow. I don’t understand how this will help! I don’t want any of this! Nobody even wants me on their teams at school anyways. They all hate me!” He ran off into the store.

“Naruto! Come back!” Kakashi tried to catch him, but he was gone in a flash. Running his hands through his hair, he let out a groan of frustration. This was the part that they didn’t tell you about in those adoption seminars. The guilt, the feeling of helplessness, the anger. He needed to find Naruto before he got in trouble.

“He’s a spirited child.”

Kakashi turned to the soft teasing voice. His lungs punched out the air they had been containing. She flipped her auburn hair back, her forest eyes gentle, with a small smile on her plump lips.

“Uh, um, yes. He’s just still adjusting. I thought maybe a sport might help, but it doesn’t seem like he cares for any. It seems it another thing he is struggling with at school.” He put back the football he had been holding.

“Ah, well, I’m sure he’ll come around,” she said kindly.

He chuckled sheepishly, “I’m sorry. I just dumped a lot of info on you.”

Her laugh was light, “No, don’t worry about it.”

“You have children?” he asked for anything better to say.

“Oh, no. I just—he seems sweet and precocious. Does he take after his mom?”

Kakashi tilted his head in thought of how to word it. “I don’t know actually. He recently came into my life. I’m still learning who he is.”

Her head quirked in confusion. “I’m sorry, these are personal questions, and I am a total stranger.”

Naruto came running back, “I want this,” shoving a basketball into Kakashi’s hand.

Looking down at the ball and Naruto’s pout and pink cheeks, Kakashi sighed. “I’ll buy it for you if you apologize. And you have to mean it.”

Naruto looked away, crossing his arms. He took a breath. Kakashi had spoken to him about his outbursts and emotions. He tried, but sometimes, he couldn’t help it. But Kakashi never yelled at him or looked at him with annoyance like his other families had. He should try harder.

Kakashi waited. He looked over to where the woman had been standing, but she had left. Great.

“I’m sorry I yelled.” Naruto finally managed, his toes scuffing the floor.

Kakashi squatted down, “We’ll talk about the other stuff you said at home.” Kakashi wanted him to know there was more to come.

Naruto glanced down, nodding slowly.

“Now you need a basket for this, we can hang one over the garage.” Kakashi stood up and went to search for a basket.

He looked around hoping to see auburn hair, but there was none in sight. He had missed an opportunity to get the woman’s name and number, he sighed in regret. At least Naruto had found something that seemed to excite him and that had been the entire point of coming to the store. But that woman—nothing to do about it now.

Things progressed with Naruto, they got better. Basketball was something he was a natural to, it focused him. Kakashi learned how to help Naruto cope with his dyslexia and attention span. Then he worked with his teachers to make it a better learning environment. Kakashi felt so proud of his son when Naruto came home with report cards and improved grades.

“Look Dad!” Naruto shoved his grades excitedly into Kakashi’s hands.

Kakashi felt his heart clench, it was the first time Naruto had called him Dad. Without thought, he pulled him into a hug, Naruto clinging to his neck as they laughed together.

“Can I invite my friends over?” Naruto asked.

Friends? Kakashi’s eyes stung. With a smile and a ruffle of golden hair, “Sure, you can invite your friends over. Want to watch a movie and eat junk food?”

An eager nod from the boy, “Yes! Choji loves chips and Shikamaru likes movies with animals.”

“Alright, Friday night then.” Kakashi felt like his heart couldn’t swell any bigger as Naruto whooped in delight and ran outside to play. He pinned the sheet of grades to the refrigerator. Maybe he wasn’t as bad a father as he thought he was.

#kakashi #naruto #sex and candy side story #adoption #fluff #moonlady9writes #drabbles

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lunnanunna · 5 years

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Downtime

Stray Kids 10th Member AU:

Summary: Ollie plans a day out for her and her boys.

A/N: I promise I’m still here, and so is Ollie! As always, requests are open! I could definitely use some ideas.

“Hold the corners down until Jisung comes back with some rocks,” Ollie ordered, as another gust of wind tried to blow away their blanket.

“I’m pretty sure normal people don’t use rocks to hold down their picnic blankets,” Changbin stated as he squatted by one of the corners.

“Normal people also don’t have picnics in storms,” Seungmin stated, rolling his eyes.

“There is no storm!” Ollie yelled for the nth time in the past 15 minutes.

“Then what do you call this wind?” Felix asked, sitting down to hold another corner in place.

“Wind. It’s just wind,” she said, then a big gust of wind blew. “YOU FOOLS!” Ollie yelled as she watched the blanket slip from the boy’s hands and fly away. Ollie quickly started running after it, as the boys laughed.

“Where’s…” Jisung had come back with four rocks that he had found, but the blanket and Ollie were gone.

“There,” Chan pointed, then went to go help Ollie. When he reached her, he could hear her mumbling in English, and knew that she was annoyed. He saw the blanket come to a stop, and grabbed it before another gust of wind could blow it away.

“I just wanted to try to have a picnic. But of course on our only free day to try, a flippin’ hurricane had to come,” Ollie grumbled as she walked over to Chan.

“Let’s not be over dramatic,” he stated, patting her head, “It’s not supposed to rain until later, which gives us enough time to eat and hangout. The guys are just being jerks.”

“I’m sorry,” Ollie pouted, hooking arms with him and resting her head on his shoulder.

“You don’t need to be sorry. We get it it. You want us to have some downtime, because of our busy schedule. We’re really grateful for that, even if Seungmin’s complaining overpowers his gratitude.” he said, chuckling when Ollie did.

They reached the rest of the boys and quickly began setting down the blanket again. Then Jisung set to work with placing the rocks in each corner, effectively keeping the blanket in place just as another gust blew.

“Okay, let’s set up food, cause Chris is hungry,” Chan voiced as he opened the bags that had containers of foods and snacks.

Ollie along with Jisung and Jeongin laughed at Chan. The rest of the guys joined them on the blanket and they began to pass along the food. Soon everyone was focused on eating and very little was said.

“You know, despite the wind, it’s actually a nice day,” Hyunjin said placing his food down and looking at the sky.

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” Minho said. “Noona’s food definitely makes it even better,” he smiled at Ollie, who at the moment had her cheeks filled with noodles. She gave him a thumbs up, prompting everyone to laugh.

After swallowing she said, “I’m glad you guys are happy. I’ve been watching all of you work so hard, and I really thought that a day for just fun and relaxing was in order.”

“You make it sound like we’re the only ones working. Noona, you have a bad habit of overworking yourself too, and ignoring that and caring for us instead,” Jisung turned to her from across the blanket.

“Not that we don’t appreciate it, but today’s break is as much for you as it is for us,” Jeongin said as he hugged Ollie. A smile made its way onto her lips.

“I love you guys,” Ollie said, clearing her throat. She definitely wasn’t going to cry.

“We love you too! Now finish eating so we can play a game of soccer,” Felix said as he put his trash in a bag and went to grab the ball. The others soon joined him and were waiting for Chan and Ollie who stayed behind to clean up.

“Noona? Hyung? You’re playing right?” Seungmin asked from across the field.

“Of course,” Chan answered as he got ready to run to them.

“Give me a sec! My Crocs aren’t on sport mode!” Ollie cried out, then proceeded to laugh as she heard multiple groans from the field.

Ollie’s Masterlist

#stray kids #stray kids au #stray kids fanfic #stray kids scenarios #stray kids oneshot #stray kids reactions #stray kids imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop reactions #kpop oneshots #bang chan #Lee Minho #seo changbin #hwang hyunjin #han jisung #lee felix #kim seungmin #yang jeongin #stray kids 9th member

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nctinfo · 5 years

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[TRANS] WayV’s interview with Mens Uno June 2019 issue!

Kun

Which three phrases would you use to describe yourself? Soft on the outside but tough on the inside, tenacious, understanding

What’s the most memorable moment since your official debut? When I’m waiting for the doors to our first stage to open, in my heart, I was like: “I’ve waited for this day for a long time.” When I was onstage, and I saw the fans off-stage, it was very memorable.

Please say something to yourself in three years’ time. Please do not forget your dream, do it well, do it happily, and do what you like.

Which aspect would you be the most happy to be complimented for? It should be the piano, I didn’t learn it formally and I relied on myself to find my way around. Now, I can even help the members to compose a song, and I can play simple piano pieces, so when the fans compliment it for me, I feel quite a sense of achievement.

What’s your greatest hobby in life? When I was young my aspiration was to be a pilot, so I downloaded a pilot simulator on my computer, and I love to play it when I’m bored in the dorm.

Which dish from your hometown do you miss the most? My mom’s Szechuan boiled fish, and my grandmother’s sweet and sour fish, it’s all fish related dishes, haha!

If you could exchange bodies with another member, who would you choose? Yangyang, our youngest, he’s especially naive, and really gets doted on by us geges, the feeling of being doted on is actually quite good.

Ten

What do you think is the most appealing thing about yourself? My performance skills onstage, my dancing, my singing, and what I look like when I’m happy.

What is the most memorable moment from your official debut till now? When our first teaser was released.

What is the most difficult thing you’ve encountered in learning mandarin? Mandarin has a lot of tones, and the pronunciation is a little difficult, but I think Mandarin is very interesting to learn, and I really wanted to learn it all along, so being a part of WayV is also a very good opportunity for me.

What’s your biggest hobby in life? Singing, dancing, and drawing, I like to use my pen to record what I’m feeling at the time.

If you can only bring three things when leaving home, what would they be? My phone, earphones and cologne. I like cologne very much, so I spray it every day, I like a neutral scent with a slight sweetness.

Which dish from your hometown do you miss the most? The food my mother makes, like Pad Thai (Thai stir fried noodles), Som Tam (Thai salad).

If you can switch bodies with one member, who would you choose? Yangyang, I want to experience what it is like to be the youngest brother in the team too.

Winwin

Which three phrases would you use to describe yourself? Going with the flow, the sun, and the spring breeze.

What is the most memorable moment from your official debut till now? Our first showcase, when the enthusiastic fans beneath the stage were cheering for and encouraging us.

Please say something to yourself in three years’ time. Bravely march forth, many people are supporting you from behind, don’t be afraid, fighting!

What’s the biggest reward of attending “My Brilliant Master”? Us four “apprentices” all have different personalities, but after attending the show and getting familiar with everyone, we all got along and chatted together smoothly, and the three older brothers were also very considerate towards me. All the “masters” are also senior experts in each of their professions and special fields, so there can be a lot to learn from them about professional attitudes, which to me is something beneficial for life.

What’s your greatest hobby in life? Watching movies, listening to music, and recently I’ve been frequently sitting in the living room with my members watching TV.

Which dish from your hometown do you miss the most? I haven’t eaten home-cooked food made by my parents in a long time, so I miss even their simple stir-fried greens a lot.

If you could exchange bodies with another member, who would you choose? Yangyang, because he’s not afraid to watch horror movies. Even though he’s the maknae of the team, he dares to try anything and has a lot of guts.

Lucas

Which three phrases would you use to describe yourself? Flame, ocean, limitless.

Please say something to yourself in three years’ time. Wong Yukhei, are you healthy? Are you happy? Did you buy your parents a house yet?

From your first time attending “Running Man,” were there any interesting or unforgettable moments? The other hosts took very good care of me, so it was really fun during the shoots. My Mandarin is not every good, so I sometimes can’t Get their jokes, thus a lot of funny situations will occur.

What’s your greatest hobby in life? Exercising, listening to music. I get excited as soon as I hear music, and my youthful passion will jump out, totally immersing myself to enjoy the moment.

Who is the role model in your heart? Choi Yun-fat, because to me he is a good senior to learn from. (T/N: Choi Yun-fat is an iconic Hong Kong actor known for his tough and cool roles.)

Which dish from your hometown do you miss the most? My mom is Thai, so everything she cooks is delicious, and I also miss the pastries in Hong Kong.

If you could exchange bodies with another member, who would you choose? Kun, because his cooked meals are delicious, and I personally hope to own this skill of his so I can cook food for my family.

Xiaojun

Which three phrases would you use to describe yourself? Passion, sunshine, gentle.

What is the most memorable moment from your official debut till now? Before the curtains open on our debut stage, there is enough time for you to feel the atmosphere present, the waiting time backstage is very memorable.

Please say something to yourself in three years’ time. Remember all that you did in these three years, always let yourself reflect.

If you were praised for one of your skills, which skill being praised would make you the happiest? Probably singing, I spend 50% of my energy on singing.

Who is the role model in your heart? My older brother and my father.

Disregarding time and space, what would like to do, and with who? Do the most ordinary things with my family.

Which dish from your hometown do you miss the most? Dried beancurd rolls, it’s a Hakka dish, it uses dried beancurds, which are wrapped around shrimp and vegetables.

Hendery

Which three phrases would you use to describe yourself? Modest, learn, eager to learn.

What is the most memorable moment from your official debut till now? The release of the dance practice version of Regular was extremely memorable, I will look at everyone’s comments, and I hope I’ll learn from everyone’s opinions.

If you were praised for one of your skills, which skill being praised would make you the happiest? I’m already very happy if someone praised me, if everyone recognizes my capabilities, I’ll feel very accomplished.

Who is the role model in your heart? He’s right beside me, it’s Li Yongqin gege, he’s one of my role models, his persistence, his readiness to face problems, and also his capabilities make him really great.

If you can only bring three things when leaving home, what would they be? The first one is a definite necessity, my phone, the second is prepared for my phone, a solar-powered power bank, the third is a hat.

Which dish from your hometown do you miss the most? I really like dimsum, but I miss steamed chicken feet with black bean sauce the most, I still drool when I think of it now.

If you could exchange bodies with another member, who would you choose? No need to think, it’s Lucas, because I have a smaller build, and I often only have to eat a little bit of food before I’m full, and was unable to try lots of food. Lucas likes food a lot too, and if I could become him, I’ll be able to try every dish on the table.

Yangyang

Which three phrases would you use to describe yourself? Cool and handsome at the same time, approachable, humorous.

Please say something to yourself in three years’ time. I hope that I can maintain my current attitude of treating it as both work and my interest.

As the team’s youngest, what are some benefits of interacting with your geges? In many aspects, the geges will just let me be/let me do what I want.

What are you obsessed with in your daily life? I really like to watch basketball and soccer competitions and watch racing competitions. In the past when I was overseas, I have driven a go-kart before, and I really like my feeling of speed

Who is the role model in your heart? Firstly it’s my parents, I want to become someone like them. And also every member of our team is my role model, as they all have different charms, and have aspects of which I can learn from.

If you could break through the limitations of time and space, what would you like to do and who would you do it with? I would like to go exploring by myself, and go to those places where people wouldn’t usually go to

Which dish from your hometown do you miss the most? I miss any type of stir-fried food

Translation: Jess, Angela, Seol @ FY! NCT (NCTINFO) | Source: Mens Uno Scan — Do not repost or take out without our permission!

#NCT #wayv #kun #ten #winwin #lucas #hendery #xiaojun #yangyang #t:trans #t:interview #Mens Uno #mens uno: june 2019

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cottonblush · 5 years

Text

puppy love | nyt

❧ word count: 5,916

❧ genre: fluff with some floff on the side

❧ notes: this is the first full length oneshot that i’ve written that i’m actually proud of?? i’ve written anime oneshots and stuff but they were always subpar? but this is like my first ever masterpiece so i really hope you guys like it:) also tysm @joynct and shira for helping me choose which member to base it on. i think the reason it flows so well is because yuta just fits this storyline so perfectly?? btw there’s a hint of embarrassed!yuta at the end oomf!! also p.s: mary, the messy bun is for you:)) p.p.s: i’m renaming this and idk what to use for initials because like Nakamoto YuTa or Joong YooTae

It was a warm August afternoon and Yuta had just moved into his apartment off campus for his second year of college. He hung up the last of his hoodies in and placed it in his closet before taking a few steps back to admire his handiwork. He released an accomplished grunt before flopping down on his mattress. The feeling of tiredness seeped into Yuta's bones as his eyes slowly closed and his mind drifted closer and closer to sleep. Sunlight streamed in through his windows and cascaded down onto his fair skin, creating a blanket of warmth. The soft chirping of the birds outside was like Yuta's own natural noise machine. Ah, Yuta thought to himself, I'm living the life-

A series of knocks pierced through the tranquil silence, alerting Yuta that someone was at his front door. "I'm coming," he groaned out, even though he knew whoever was on the other side of the door would never hear him. He sauntered over to the entrance and grasped the cool metal of the doorknob, yanking the large oak door open. He was met with the sight of a young lady who seemed to be around the same age as him. You had a fairly large duffel bag looped around each arm and a box in your hands.

Offering a kind smile, you introduced yourself, "Hey, I'm Y/n! Looks like we'll be roommates." You shuffled forward a bit and Yuta backed up in response, allowing you to get acquainted with the apartment.

"I'll grab some of your stuff," Yuta offered, already moving to pick up some of the boxes that were sitting idly in the hallway. Clearing his throat, he continued, "Your room is the one on the right. Mine is on the left. Maybe once you're done unpacking we can introduce ourselves a bit more." In response, Yuta heard a soft giggle and a 'sure.'

Not long after all of the boxes had been transferred to your room and Yuta settled down on the couch in the living room, he heard a door open. He glanced up in time to see you lethargically walk over and plop yourself down on a chair, releasing a loud sigh.

"Done unpacking?" he asked, mirth swimming in his deep orbs they swept over your tired form. He definitely related.

"Not even close. I'll get to it tomorrow or something. I just have so much stuff. I may or may not have packed way too much stuff," you sheepishly responded.

"Ah, so you must be a freshman."

"Jeez. Is it that obvious?"

"I mean, kinda? All freshmen tend to overestimate how much they need. Plus, all your boxes say 'college stuff' so I knew you weren't some random girl."

The two laughed and the atmosphere settled into a comfortable silence. Yuta grabbed his laptop from its resting place on the coffee table, enjoying the feeling of the cool exterior against the warm pads of his fingertips. Within a minute, the only sounds that filled the room were the dull sound of the TV playing and the soft clicks of a keyboard as he typed up a storm. For a split second, his eyes flickered away from the bright screen in front of him and towards the small chair on the other side of the coffee table. He expected to find his new roommate scrolling through her phone like she had been moments before. However, he saw your legs pulled up into your chest and your head nestled snuggly between your knees. Although your eyelids weren't completely closed, they seemed to drag down, wanting to pull you into the land of dreams. The slight parting of your lips and the consistent rise and fall of your chest indicated that you were not far from it.

Yuta felt for you. Just a year ago, he was in your exact position. He knew you had to be feeling quite nervous being in a new environment alone for the first time. A small smile fell on the young man's lips as he slowly and quietly got up from his position on the couch. He turned off the TV and tiptoed over to his room so he could grab a blanket. Once he returned, he gently draped the fluffy fabric over your shoulders and drew the blinds shut, preventing the harsh rays of the sun from falling onto her face. He picked up his laptop and headed back to his room, shutting the door behind him so that he could play some music without disturbing his new roommate.

Time passed in a flash and before he knew it, Yuta looked out of his window and saw the sun already setting along the horizon. His stomach grumbled sonorously, causing him to look towards the clock resting on his bedside table. His eyebrows shot up as he saw that the small digital clock read 7 o'clock. "Man, I can't believe I got so distracted. I missed dinner time," Yuta grumbled as he swung his legs over the side of his bed and trudged towards the kitchen. In his peripheral vision, he noticed you slowly stretching your limbs, arching your back, and releasing a content sigh before swaddling yourself back into his snuggly blue blanket. You reminded him of a kitten basking in the sun and as someone who could morph into a dog, he thought that thought might turn him off, but Yuta found it somewhat adorable.

It was a shame that he had to wake her from her catnap, but he figured you should get something to eat too. He shook her shoulder a bit, watching as your eyelashes fluttered before they revealed her deep irises. "You should eat something," Yuta suggested. As he walked towards the light switches to illuminate the room, he heard you mumble in a soft voice, "Hmm.. This blanket smells really nice. Smells like home."

At the time, Yuta didn't know why there was a falter in his step. He found that the room had become weirdly warm and even went to the thermostat to check if something was amiss. And as he grabbed a pot from one of the cabinets and saw his distorted reflection in the bottom of the stainless steel vessel, he had no idea why his cheeks were so rosy. It wasn't like Yuta found the girl cute or anything. Nope. Definitely not something as absurd as that.

Ignoring the tingling feeling that passed through his body, Yuta put the pot on the stove along with some water and got out a packet of ramen noodles. "You eat dinner really early, dude," came your voice from the living room.

Letting out a chortle, Yuta didn't hesitate to retort, "It's not healthy to eat late, y'know?"

You walked around the small island in the middle of the kitchen in order to see what was being prepared, a teasing smile appearing on your face when you saw a familiar ramen noodle package and some shredded cheese. Not one to back down, you said, "Cheesy ramen isn't very healthy no matter what time, is it?"

"Touché."

Yuta was becoming increasingly annoyed with himself. He'd only known you for a little more than half a day, and yet everything you did brought a warm feeling to his chest. He mentally berated himself, You can't have a crush on this girl, Yuta! Pull yourself together. It hasn't even been a day.

About two months into the first semester of his sophomore year, Yuta acknowledged that he had just been in denial. It took him a while but he had come to terms with the fact that he liked his roommate. After all, not many girls could have him feeling so happy-go-lucky with just a simple smile. However, much to his dismay, you appeared to have no interest in him at all. Maybe, he figured, I'm just not her type.

Now, any rational guy would probably give up on the girl, fearing the possibility of an awkward atmosphere if their relationship were to go awry. Especially if this girl was living with them for the rest of the school year. However, Yuta was far from normal. He'd always been. He began thinking of what kind of guys you might've liked. He snapped his fingers as a great thought hit him. He'd seen a soccer jersey sitting on the top of her laundry basket. If you were athletic, maybe you liked guys who were athletic too.

Yuta was definitely not what you would consider athletic. He hadn't got real exercise since P.E. in his last year of high school. It'd been more than a year and all he'd done was focus on studying and playing video games. He'd turned into a pile of skinny, lanky limbs. But one thing was for sure. Yuta was determined. Determined to get you to notice him. He started going to the gym regularly. He ate healthier and even joined a Facebook group for guys who wanted to get in shape. There, he met one of his closest friends, Taeil. He learned that Taeil was also a sophomore at the same school and eventually, the two started going to the gym together. He kept up his routine, always making time to study, of course. At the start of the second semester, he'd already developed definition in his biceps and his figure had become much sturdier.

Riding on a wave of confidence from his new and improved self, Yuta ended up trying out for the soccer team (a.k.a the university's pride and joy) along with his new friend. The two ended up making the team, though they were far from being a starting player. It was on the cold, thin benches that the duo of Yuta and Taeil became a trio. They met another bench warmer who was a transfer student from China named Sicheng and the three instantly hit it off.

Eventually, Yuta opened up to his two best friends about his predicament. They talked for hours one day and by the end of the evening, Sicheng had planted a seed of a thought in Yuta's head that you would notice him if he was a starting player. Once again, Yuta began his fitness grind, practicing drills and spending much more time on the field than some of the team's star players. It turned out that Yuta and Sicheng were natural soccer players, Yuta excelling in speed and agility, and Sicheng pulling of crazy trick shots with his insane flexibility and previous martial arts knowledge. They became starters in no time. Taeil, on the other hand, decided that soccer wasn't his thing and decided that next year, he would take up tennis instead.

With the joy of making it to the starting team also came increased popularity. The trio got invited to parties almost every weekend and even hosted a couple of their own. Yuta truly did enjoy this faster paced lifestyle. It felt nice to be finally noticed. It felt nice to be considered a 'prodigy' or a 'genius.' However, when he was at all those rumbustious parties surrounded by girls that he would've considered to be way out of his league just months before, a part of his mind always drifted back to you. He'd started this all to impress you, but what good would it do if he was spending all his time at parties instead of at home with you.

Unfortunately, you still didn't seem to be showing any interest in Yuta and with a battered ego, he was easily swept away into the exuberant life of partying and popularity. Of course, you two were still friends. You never drifted away, but you never got close either. It was as if the two of you were like the same poles of two magnets. Yuta wanted to get closer to you, yet some force seemed to be keeping you two apart.

The rest of the year passed by within a blink of an eye, and before he knew it, Yuta was spending on summer vacation again, basking in the cool air of his air conditioner as the blazing sun heated up the whole town. It was around the middle of June when Yuta got a text from you. Honestly, he hadn't been thinking of you as often and was starting to think that maybe his feelings were dying down. He didn't make as much of an effort to get in touch with you as he used to, so when got a text from you wondering if you two were planning on being roommates again for the next school year, Yuta was genuinely surprised. Just because he was surprised, it didn't mean he would turn down your offer. You two got along well and looked out for each other. Coincidentally, the week before, Taeil and Sicheng had let Yuta know that they would be living on campus together with one of Taeil's friends who was transferring that year. So if living with you meant he could escape the possibility of rooming with someone he didn't get along with, he'd gladly say yes.

And that's exactly what he did. He chose to call you to let you know, but he started to regret his decision when he heard you pick up and your cheerful voice sing into his ear.

"Hi, Yuta! What's up?"

That's weird, Yuta thought. You almost sounded… nervous?

"Hey. I got your text. Just wanted to let you know I'm down to room with you again. Did you want to find a place in the same building?"

"Haha, yeah. That'd be convenient. And this year, my parents are coming with me to help unpack! Isn't that cool? I know you moved out before me last year, but this year, you'll finally get to meet them!"

"Oh yeah, um, that's exciting?"

If anyone asked, Yuta would definitely deny the fact that his voice cracked at the thought of getting to meet your parents. Ok, so maybe he hadn't completely gotten over you. But it was a work in progress, at least.

"You must be Yuta," a man with a familiar jovial tone said to our protagonist as he approached the new apartment that he decided to rent with you. Yuta offered a signature smile and nodded.

"Nice to meet you, Sir. It's been a pleasure living with Y/n and I'm glad you've allowed me to do so again this year."

Your father let out a hearty chuckle in response, "Oh, son, there's no need to be so formal! Y/n has only said good things of you. You can consider yourself part of the family!"

The two men were shaking hands with each other when they were interrupted by your voice shouting in a shrill tone, "Yuta, oh my gosh! Your suitcase!"

Instead of turning to the sound of your voice like his body automatically wanted to do, he forced himself to look back to where he came from. His eyes widened as he saw the elevator closing and descending, taking his suitcase along with it. You ran up to him and placed a hand on his arm, hunched over laughing. Once you managed to regain your breath, you said to him, "Yuta, the way you manage to be such an airhead sometimes while maintaining a perfect GPA and being on the soccer team still amazes me to this day. You have a true gift, I swear!"

Yuta's face burned with embarrassment, but he couldn't help laugh along with you as you ran down the hall and repeatedly hit the button that would bring the elevator back up. This was definitely a great way to make a good impression on the parents of the girl he'd had a crush on for almost all of his sophomore year. He didn't let it get to him, though. He missed it; he missed being around you.

He quickly got all of his things unpacked with the help of you and your family. As the sun set and the stars made themselves apparent, you said waved goodbye to your family and shut the door behind you, releasing a tired and somewhat melancholic sigh. "I miss them already," you muttered dejectedly, "I can't believe I have to wait until Thanksgiving to see them again."

Yuta, wanting to put an end to the sad atmosphere, cheerily assured you, "Well, Y/n, I guess the two of us just have two have a super fun year so that the time flies by!" He finished by flashing his pearly whites and doing a cute little eye smile for extra effect.

"R-Right," you said, as if surprised by his presence. Without warning, you quickly scurried off into your room and shut the door behind you.

It was Yuta's turn to sigh as he pointedly told himself, "Wow, Yuta. You can’t even cheer her up. What kind of roommate and friend are you?"

Luckily, it seemed your mood had turned quickly and by the end of the hour, you had come out of your room and situated yourself on the couch with a book, humming a soft tune as you became enraptured by the story. Yuta felt his shoulders finally relax as he saw that your spirits had brightened. Usually, he'd go sit right next to you and offer to watch a movie, but that night, he decided to give you some space and turned in early, bidding you a fleeting 'goodnight.'

By the time school rolled around, the dynamic between you two had been built back up and you eased into the school year like you'd been doing it your whole life. It was all going so smooth until one afternoon a bit before Yuta's 4 o'clock analytic chemistry class. He and you were sitting on the couch, you flipping through channels while he did some last minute reading. All of a sudden you said something that made Yuta pause.

"I have a date tonight. Don't wait up, okay?"

When Yuta paused, he quite literally paused everything. His hand stopped mid page flip, his brain went blank, and he was pretty sure he stopped breathing for a bit. Clearing his throat and trying to sound as inconspicuous as possible, he said, "Oh, that's cool, I guess."

He thought to himself, Do not get jealous, Yuta. You are NOT jealous of someone you don't even know. Y/n hasn't paid you any attention in the past year. Why would she start now?

But once you jumped up excitedly and started rambling on about the outfit you were going to wear, he slowly felt a green eyed monster growing in the pit of his stomach.

"Oh, that's right! I've got to get some makeup for my date tonight," you informed. "I should be back in about an hour so I guess I'll see you when I see you."

As you grabbed your wallet and shut the door behind you, Yuta's vision went white. The thought of you on a date with someone else made him uncomfortable. The thought of someone else with their arms around you made him absolutely furious. He knew he didn’t own you or anything, but the thought of you with someone else just felt so wrong that he truly believed it to be. He had to do something. He felt his body do something he hadn't done in a very long time. He felt his body shrink in size as he got on all fours, his limbs becoming furry and his nose extending out into a snout. Within a matter of seconds, he had successfully shapeshifted into a medium sized Shiba Inu and was already heading towards your bedroom. Pushing the door open with his head, he immediately spotted the aforementioned date outfit lying on your bed. Without giving it any thought, he grabbed it between his sharp teeth and pulled as hard as he could.

When Yuta finally came to, he realized he had just destroyed a perfectly good dress of yours and you would be livid if you found out. He panicked for a second before getting an idea. Morphing back into his human form, he opened the window in your bedroom and placed a couple pieces of torn fabric on the floor and on the windowsill, creating a trail. That way, it looked like some animal had gotten in and been the one to rip up your clothes.

Looking at the time on his watch, he realized he had to leave right away if he wanted to make it to class, so he grabbed his things and rushed out the door, slamming it behind him with a resonant thud.

Throughout his whole class, he couldn't focus on the teacher at all, his mind drifting toward what your reaction was going to be. He ended up having to ask one of his friends for a summary of the lesson after class and even then, every word he heard was muddled and his brain was fuzzy.

When he got to the front door of your shared apartment, Yuta didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps you ended up going on the date anyway. But when he opened the door, he was greeted with the sight of you sitting crisscross-apple-sauce on the couch shoveling ice cream into your mouth at an alarming rate and pouting all the while.

Trying to be as casual and unassuming as possible, he greeted you, "H-Hey, Y/n. What's up? How come you're not on your date?"

You pouted some more before turning to him with big doe eyes and whining, "Some bird or squirrel or whatever got into the apartment and ripped up my nice outfit. It was my only fancy outfit, too! I had to cancel. I didn't want to show up looking like a hobo. It was so last minute too. He's never gonna want to go out with me again!"

Yuta wanted to assure you that you'd look stunning even if you wore the ugliest, most garish outfit ever, but he forced those words down his throat.

"I'm sorry. How about we order some pizza and sushi and pig out," he said as he situated himself next to you and gave your back a comforting pat.

You let out a huff and leaned yourself on his side. Resting your head on his shoulder, you grumbled, "I guess… But right now I just want to watch a super badass murder mystery. Like Inspector Gadget."

Once again, Yuta wanted to mention that Inspector Gadget was not a homicide investigator, nor was he badass in any way, shape, or form, but he decided it just wasn’t the time. Also, he probably couldn't form proper sentences even if he tried. All he could think about was how soft your hair was as it tickled his cheek and the sensitive skin on his neck.

This little routine continued for quite a while. Whenever you had a date, your clothes or shoes would mysteriously get chewed up. And even when you prepared a backup outfit, that got ruined too. In all honesty, Yuta was pretty content with the way things were. It's not like you ever got mad about it. You were just disappointed that you couldn't get a date. But all good things in Yuta's life eventually came to an end. He knew this would never last.

He was relaxing with Taeil, Sicheng, and the newest addition to the group, Taeyong, in the quad and was lamenting for the thousandth time about how you still didn't notice him and how he was still not over you. Taeil disappointedly shook his head and remarked, "Bro, you're as whipped for her as a stiffened meringue."

Yuta furrowed his brows and said, "I thought you said you'd take up tennis, not cooking or baking or whatever."

Taeil seemed to think about it for a second before responding, "Yeah, I did say that. But Taeyong convinced me that cooking would be fun!"

Yuta's eyes drifted over to Taeyong's slightly guilty visage, letting out an amused chortle. He seemed to have the opposite reaction to Sicheng's. While Yuta's eyes danced with mirth, Sicheng groaned and rested his head in his hands. He pleaded, "Oh my god, Yuta. Please stop him. Please! I thought living with two chefs would be cool and I could leech off of them and their good food, but all Taeil does is make food puns and Taeyong is too nice to tell him to stop."

"Ok, but why can't you tell Taeil to stop-"

"He literally won't listen. It's like I'm invisible or something. I've never been ignored by him before"

"Aww, Sicheng! Are you jealous?"

Taeyong chose that time to cut in to the conversation, "Speaking of jealous, I know you all are gonna be super jealous of me! I have a date tonight with a really cute girl. And she's like super smart too!"

Yuta really didn't care much about where the conversation was headed. Sure, he was happy for Taeyong, but he was really down in the dumps about you. He almost zoned out until Taeyong suddenly sprang up and pointed to somewhere behind him and yelped, "Look! There she is! Her name's Y/n and hopefully you guys will meet her soon when I can introduce her as my girlfriend. Anyway, I'll see you guys later. I'm gonna go see if she'll let me walk her to her next class!"

And with that, Taeyong scurried off into the distance looking happy as could be. Contrastingly, Yuta blanched when he heard your name. He turned around just to check if perhaps Taeyong was talking about a different Y/n, but was greeted by the sight of Taeyong catching up to you and grabbing your free hand that wasn't grasping a backpack strap, sending you a shy smile. Turning back around, Yuta slumped in his lawn chair and let out a dejected moan. Dragging his hands down his face, he sighed, "Of course. It had to be her."

Sicheng and Taeil offered looks of pity, both saying how there was no way Taeyong could've known and that if Yuta talked to Taeyong, he'd surely step down. But he couldn't. "I couldn't ask him to do that," he told his two friends. "She's free to choose whoever she wants and date whoever she wants to date. I don't own her. No one does."

His friends nodded in understanding and offered him a somewhat awkward goodbye as they watched him collect his stuff and head back to your shared apartment that was not too far from campus. As he trudged back, Yuta thought to himself, You're such a hypocrite. It's not like you've been giving her much of a choice lately.

Yuta was sipping on a protein shake and watching another episode of Inspector Gadget (you'd got him hooked onto the show, but he'd never admit it to you) when your bedroom door opened. You stepped out wearing an adorable yellow off the shoulder top and a pair of dark wash jeans that happened to make your butt look better than Yuta thought imaginable. Your hair was neatly parted and although it looked like you hadn't spent much time on it, each curl fell perfectly around your face. Your makeup was very light, but it was definitely there. One look at your lips and he could almost smell the strawberry lip balm that he was almost certain you were wearing. It was his favorite. All in all, it looked like this outfit was made for him. For the first time in his life, he was truly and totally breathless. The way you could be so effortless and make him feel the way he felt? It scared him. It scared him so much.

You walked to the door anxiously, as if waiting for something to happen. Usually, your sneakers would barely create any sound against the hardwood floors. But the whole apartment was silent, so each step you took seemed to echo tauntingly in Yuta's ears. His animalistic side urged him, pleaded him, to do something before it was too late.

So he did. For once, he was willing to take the risk. It took him all of his sophomore year and half of his junior year to realize that he was utterly, wholly in love with you. And the thought of you and Taeyong together was clawing at his heart so violently that he could barely breathe. Within three large strides, he was right behind you, grasping your hand as if you'd disappear if he let go.

"Y/n," he croaked. When you wouldn't look him in the eye, he gently grabbed your chin and tilted it towards him. For a second, he didn't know what to say. The tension between you and him was almost palpable. Your large doe eyes urged him to do something, to say something. But Yuta was frustrated. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to tell say 'I love you' when he knew you felt nothing for him in return. Delicately, he whispered, "Oh my god, how can you be so oblivious?" Your eyebrows pinched together in confusion and you were about to respond when he dropped your hand, leaving it to grasp at the air where he stood as he stormed off to his bedroom and shut himself in with a loud slam of the door.

"I'm stupid," Yuta said to himself as he laid on his bed in the darkness and stared at his ceiling, "I'm so stupid." He repeated it over and over again, almost like a mantra, for who knows how long when there was a soft knock at his door.

"Yuta," your voice called out with uncertainty. "Are you still in there?" The door cracked open and warm yellow light slowly poured into his room. He squinted a bit, eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness as he sat himself up and turned to face you.

He took in your appearance, your baggy sweatpants, your hair tied up in a messy bun, your makeup wiped away but that goddamn strawberry lip balm ever present on your soft petals. "What are you doing here?" he questioned.

She let out a tired chuckle and approached him, sitting in front of him on the edge of his bed. "I'm here for you, dumbass. I don't know if you could tell or not, but I've liked you for a while. Since summer, I think."

"W-What? Are you serious? What about Taeyong?"

"I told him it wouldn't work out because I was already interested in you. It was kinda weird. When I told him I'm your roommate, he just looked super guilty for some reason."

Yuta made a mental note to tell his friend how genuinely kind a person he was and maybe set him up with one of the many people who he knew had a crush on Taeyong. "Wow, bless him, honestly. I don't deserve him." You gave him a puzzled look, but he continued anyway, "What made you change your mind? You haven't really shown much interest in me at all."

"Well, it's kinda a long story. I mean, I've liked you since the beginning of summer. That's why I probably sounded so weird over the phone when I asked you to be my roommate again. But you got super popular and you didn't show me much interest either. So I kinda tried to push my feelings away. And then this guy asked me out on a date and it was like this golden opportunity. But my outfit got ruined. And all my date outfits kept on getting ruined."

Yuta gulped nervously and was about to interrupt, but you were on a roll, "And they just kept on getting ruined. But only the nice ones. I'm not dumb, so I did a little experimenting. I put nuts and treats in my closet to see if the animals would maybe eat those instead, but they only seemed to be interested in the clothes that I laid out. Step two, I laid out clothes on random nights when I didn't have dates too, but those never got chewed up. That was when I knew something was up. So I put a camera in my room and had one of my friends help me set up a live feed. And I caught this dog. This really cute Shiba Inu. I found the culprit. But I kept watching and it turned into you. And if I'm being honest, I was freaked out at first. But now I just think it's cool. Anyway, I knew it was you, but I didn't want to assume, so I waited for a sign. And tonight, you gave me one. So I took it and ran with it, I guess."

Yuta was feeling so many emotions in that moment. He was embarrassed, confused, and scared. But he was also overwhelmingly happy. However, in the midst of all the emotions, he still felt that he had to clear things up. "Hold on a second," he uttered. "I didn't show you any interest?! You really are oblivious, Y/n! I've liked you since you first moved in with me! The only reason I started working out and joined the soccer team was to impress you because I saw that stupid Lionel Messi jersey in your laundry basket one time. The entirety of my sophomore year of college was me trying to impress you. Oh my gosh, how am I in love with someone as dumb as you?"

"Hey! I'm not dumb. I just wasn't interested in dating during my freshman year and I- Wait. Did you say you love me?"

"No?"

"Yes. You totally did! I just heard you. Wow, guess I have blackmail against you now, don't I?"

You let out an obnoxiously loud laugh, your shoulders shaking and your eyes sparkling with joy. In that moment, you looked like an angel. Actually, screw that. You were the most beautiful thing in the whole universe. Better than any angel.

"I love you," Yuta said. "I love you, like a lot. And you don't have to say it back. I just want you to know that I love you and I think you're perfect." With that, he grabbed your shoulders and slowly brought you closer, placing a gentle, fleeting kiss on your forehead and then leaning back. But the reaction he got was not what he expected.

Your face was blank as you articulated, "That's it? That's all I get? You just professed your undying love for me and all I get is a frickin' forehead kiss?" Your voice rose with every word you spoke as you got closer and closer until only a few millimeters separated the two of you. Gathering up some courage, you placed your hands on Yuta's cheeks and pulled him in for a proper kiss.

Your lips fit perfectly into his and you wanted to stay like that forever, but a thought suddenly plagued your brain. You just had to ask, "Hey, Yuta? Will you ever let me see you transform in real life? Wait! Do you like to be pet and stuff! OHMYGOSH WAITWAITWAIT THAT'S LIKE SO CUTE WHAT THE HECK!! Um no wait ignore those questions! Most importantly, do you have like a kink that comes with it? Like do you like doggy style or-"

"Y/N I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU FINISH THAT SENTENCE I WILL NEVER TALK TO YOU!"

"Aww, you're embarrassed! That's cute. I really caught myself a cutie!"

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"Ugh, I know."

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thunder-birb · 6 years

Text

The 5 times Tamaki accidentally confessed to Mirio and the one time he didn’t have to

Mini Series Part II

“Tamaki! Hey! I hope you don’t mind me joining you” The familiar weight of Mirio, nudging against my shoulder for the briefest of moments and then preceding to scoot a few inches away from me to give me some space; is one of the nicest, most unassuming gestures anyone has done for me. Most people like my parents, sister and even some of our teachers presume that they know exactly what I need when I’m feeling clammed up or nervous. However, that usually takes a turn for the worse and the guilt of making everyone worry about me always elevates my anxiety.

That’s why most people have resigned to not doing anything at all. And in most circumstances, I would actually prefer this method, but there are those moments in which being alone is the worse possible decision I have ever made in my life. Because then, nothing hinders my mind from spiralling into a poisonous cycle of crippling vitriolic thoughts.

Enter Mirio Togata. He has witnessed a fair share of my anxiety spells and usually lets the ‘capable adults’ deal with it. However, when it is just the two of us, Mirio has the brightest idea of all and simply asks me what I need. No one and I mean no one, has ever done that approach and through many incidents, I learned, just as much as Mirio, that I actually don’t like being by myself when it happens.

It still doesn’t mean I also want to be enveloped with attention either. That just makes me feel suffocated, cornered and incapable of handling my own emotions. So, Mirio does what he does best and just stays by me instead. He lays on the grass when we’re outside at the park or watches Television when we’re sitting in his couch or continues to read his favorite comic; ready to talk about it if I need to or not say anything at all.

He gives me the space I need to pull myself together again and does not try to fix what isn’t his to solve.

Today is one of those days and surely enough Mirio is laying on the grass next to me by the soccer field, his school jacket bunched up together as his makeshift pillow with pocky in his mouth and a new manga volume he’s been dying to read. He’s really into his manga that he doesn’t even notice me watching him; observing how he’s almost finished his first box of pocky all by himself. Or how he’s been tapping his white sneakers to the beat of another one of his favorite rock ballads. Sometimes he even starts humming absentmindedly, but I get too nervous to ask him what he’s actually singing in case it embarrasses him and I’ll never hear him humm again.

“Hey, you’re back. Everything alright?” He stops tapping his foot and drops the manga to his chest. Then, he places his hands behind his head and turns to peer at me, blue button eyes shining in the sunlight reflecting the ocean-like hues of the sky above.

“Yeah… It’s just-- Everyone always expects something from me. The teachers, the students, my parents and I can never give them what they want. I can’t even manifest anything more than a lousy bud, but they still want more just because I lucked out and got a really ‘cool quirk.’ Too bad I’m terrible at everything I do and-- ” I start to explain, but the feelings of disappointment and frustration begin to flood my consciousness and I just don’t want to go back to the gym with everyone’s eyes on me.

I shake my head and tightly shut my eyes, trying not to think about how I could not for the life of me do anything worthy of my quirk. Not with everyone watching, eyes heavy with anticipation, making me short of breath and prickling with nerves that I know I’m visibly shaking.

Just Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In.

And that’s when he starts singing. No longer only to himself.

“Here are days where things don’t go well

But even in the scarce light filtering through the leaves

I can still feel the same sun

Even if it’s a dream where I’m covered in snow

I will keep going your way

I believe I will go walking this road

So as not to lose my way”

It’s almost a crime that Mirio can actually belt a note without sounding like a seal. I already can’t see his flaws as flaws, but silly attributes or even as quirks before that became the national term for our mutations. So naturally, everything good about him unsettles every fiber of my body, but in a crazy good way. Too good that I feel like I might throw up sometimes.

“Oh man! Sorry you had to hear that!” He laughs, the rich kind that’s a little exaggerated at the end to show he’s starting to get self-conscious. “I was only gonna sing a line or two, but that song just really gets me going you know? And I figure maybe it can help you, too” Mirio pinks a little bit, which does further damage to my Broca area that I could no longer speak or look at him without physically hurting from his brightness.

“That bad huh? I’m sorry Tamaki! As a hero I will do everyone’s ears a favor and never sing again!” he laughs, self-awareness out the window and resigns to looking up at the sky.

☀️☀️☀️

I don’t know exactly how many minutes we spend laying in complete silence, watching the cottony clouds take form and float by like strangers in passing at the crosswalk, but it settles the last bits of my nerves. Mirio proceeds to point out really rad looking cloud shapes, and swears one even looks like a bowl of ramen. I chuckle not seeing it at all, but Mirio insists and surely enough so does his stomach as it growls particularly loud and hangry.

We turn our heads at the same time and laugh so hard my cheeks starts to hurt. I try to avoid Mirio’s face because now both my stomach and cheek muscles are starting to tighten, but it’s so hard to resist looking when he’s smiling so vividly that his ears are turning pink. In an attempt to stop, he gets up, but somehow trips on the way up and falls on his bum.

We laugh even harder and now I really have to stop. My face is turning red from straining itself and the pain is getting unbearable, so I start doing the breathing exercises my sister advises I practice. I am so caught up in centering myself, I don’t notice Mirio get up, put his jacket back on, throw his trash in the bin and stash his manga back in his duffel bag. He has his hand out for me by the time I open my eyes and I gulp down the nerves attempting to choke me up. Wow his face is real close and ears still a little rosy.

“C’mon Tamaki! Let’s get some food!” He suggests and I nod, shying away from his gaze as he kindly pulls me up. I bite down on my lip, trying to gain some control of myself and we head to the night market Mirio frequents.

The smell of beef, barbeque, and fried seafood of every kind has us salivating and we make quick steps towards his favorite stand. The old man greets us with his signature smile and Mirio makes small talk as he does with everyone. After ordering, we sit at our usual spot at the far right end of the stall and start devouring our noodles the moment the Ojichan hands it to us.

We finish our food quickly as if we have not eaten the whole day and by the time we clean our bowl, I feel so full, so happy and like I can do anything.

“Hey Mirio, watch this!” I call his attention and manifest my left arm into the noodles we just ate. It’s stupid and spontaneous and I don’t even really think it’ll work, but Mirio’s jaw drops so low I immediately howl with laughter with my noodle arm (it really worked!) smacking the table. Mirio almost slides off his chair from laughing too much as I continue to flail my noodle arms around. But, eventually everyone starts noticing and we huddle closer in secret. It can’t stop us from playing around too much though and ultimately we are escorted out as usual because we are starting to bother the obachans.

🐙🐙🐙

The walk home feels light and the incident earlier today feels so far away and minor when usually I spend the rest of the time replaying the worst bits of it. But not tonight and we fall into step, strolling through the familiar streets, while Mirio starts humming again. I listen to the melody and realize that it’s definitely the ballad he sang earlier. I get lost in it, crossing the roads in routine that I don’t notice we’re standing in front of my house and how he’s stopped humming for some time now.

“Well I’ll see you tomorrow Tamaki! Goodnight~” Mirio waits until I look at him, then squeezes my shoulder and smiles in that way that he does that I couldn’t help the small groan that escapes my throat.

“Goodnight Mirio! Get home safely” I mumble, opening the gate and hurrying through, but then I stop in my tracks and go back outside. It just wouldn’t be right not to tell him. “Mirio wait--” I yell, hoping he isn’t too far away and then he turns his head to look at me.

“Did you forget--”

“You have a great voice!” I yell back trying to hold on to the sudden burst of bravery subduing my innately antsy nature.

“I mean everything you do is pretty much incredible-” No. Did I just say that out loud?? Crap damage control say something anythingggg “--and uh---I-- I know you’ll master your quirk soon enough too!” word vomit once again takes over me and I’m so freaking nervous after saying that out loud baka baka baka that I keep my head down, shaking worst than earlier. This was a mistake.

“Tamaki, you really overestimate me!” he says back and I slowly lift my head, stopping just below his mouth. “But I always appreciate your kind words of encouragement and if anyone was awesome today, it would be you Noodle Arms! Now that’s cool!” Mirio wiggles his arms around in demonstration even crouching a little so, I see it in my line of vision. Then, soon enough I can’t help, but smile at him and his permeating warmth and enigmatic way of uplifting any bad situation like a real pro hero.

“Say hello to your family for me!” He waves one last time and then turns back to cross the street. I watch him until I can no longer see the blonde hair from afar, just soaking up all the brightness now that it’s at a safe distance from me.

“Tamaki! What did I say about hanging around outside at this time of the night?” my okaasan yells from the front door and I quickly make my way inside. “You know you could just invite him over if you don’t wanna say bye just yet” My mom suggests and I squeak, run past her and head straight to my room.

“Tamaki wait! You have to eat---” was the last I heard before I blast my music, wrap my body in all of my blankets and fall fast asleep from the warmth of the day.

Part 1 of 5

And here is Part II! Thanks to all who have read and liked the story. It really means a lot to me and if anyone is wondering, the song Mirio sang is Yume no Tsubomi by Remioromen (which is the band his Hero name partly came from, if I’m not mistaken). Thanks again and I hope you enjoy this just as much as the first part ^^

#miritama #Mirio Togata #Tamaki Amajiki #mirio x tamaki #bnha #mha #soft fic #mirio #tamaki

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nevillelongsbottom · 6 years

Text

microwave meals and math student meltdowns pairing: rowan khanna x andre egwu x charlie weasley word count: 2,597 links: ao3 for the @rowanprotectionsquad june ships event

Here is Rowan Khanna’s predicament.

There is a fraternity house three blocks down hosting the party of the year – red solo cups, booming bass, sex on the dishevelled heap of coats – but Ben Copper has just asked Rowan if he’d do Ben a solid and cover his shift down at the 24-hour library, where apparently the math majors have set up tents trying to cram for their finals. Rowan’s curiosity is piqued. He wants to know what kinds of snacks math majors eat to keep them alive, and fuck, he’d just like to spend a night in the library and pretend he’s Night at the fucking Museum.

But Bill Weasley is at that party, and Rowan has spent the past year of his college life losing his shit and discovering his sexuality over Bill Weasley.

Whichever option he chooses, he is absolutely fucked. If he decides to whittle away his almost-blossoming college life by taking a free shift at the library, he will miss out on Bill Weasley (but not miss out on the joy of inhaling book-smell, an activity Rowan doesn’t get to do so much now that he can’t even afford a book a month unless it’s digital and on sale). If he goes to the party, he is going to have a terrible time because he can barely stand the burn of alcohol in the back of his throat and because he can also barely stand anybody else at the college. He should’ve gone somewhere better. He should’ve done Harvard – but he can barely afford this run-of-the-mill state college, so where the hell else could he have gone?

Doesn’t stop him regretting, though. He’ll never be Bill Gates now.

Spinning around on the barstool behind the desk of the record store he works in, he decides to consult Tumblr. Rowan is startlingly popular on the website, yawning out his thoughts about every franchise that takes off everywhere across the social media spectrum and smashing out a fanfic now and then. Occasionally a fanfic involving copious amounts of sex, because Rowan has to make up for his saint-like lifestyle somehow, and he’s never going to manage enough food to eat more than microwaveable pasta for the rest of his student life. People also keep sending him asks about college. He’s not sure how to answer, because the real answer to surviving college is never sleeping, making sure to eat three meals a day even if they’re all Pot Noodle, and studying so hard he’s started getting migraines.

anonymous asked you: be a good Samaritan and go help your friend at the library xx

anonymous asked you: you’ll get other chances with that guy you like. parties are shit anyway

Rowan groans so loudly at the messages that a patron whose entrance he hadn’t noticed gives him a frightened look, and he shoots an apologetic look back. It’s certainly not his job or his prerogative to scare customers off from his own stresses, and he tries to shift the thought as he asks if the customer is looking for anything specific –

and joyfully enough for Rowan, he is indeed. So the predicament gets to sit a little longer in the back of his brain.

By the time he’s finished work and has consumed a dinner of grilled cheese, he’s long since given up on the idea of the party. He doesn’t feel damn near sociable enough, and just the thought of drinking alcohol makes his stomach churn; Rowan’s not so good at surviving an entire day without a nap, and he wonders if it’d be acceptable just to doze off behind the front desk to the lull of weeping students. Or maybe he could just read.

Maybe write a chapter or two of his ongoing no-powers high school Spiderman and Deadpool romance epic.

The library’s pretty quiet for all the myths he’s heard: when he arrives, there are indeed actual camping tents set up where some tables used to be and a good selection of about ten math majors all camped out inside and a couple milling about with packets of crisps. One boy is eating a pot of pasta in the doorway to the library kitchen; Rowan figures that the anarchy has already been installed, so brews himself a cup of tea and takes his spot at the library front desk, picking at the various knickknacks and tchotchkes.

He’s slight enough from his pasta-related malnutrition to be able to fit into the bucket chair with his legs crossed, and he serves an hour in peace with his cup of tea and his Kindle and a trashy gay romance novel he bought for a dollar on the Kindle store. He used to feel guilty, but he can’t find it in himself to even summon a single piece of guilt shrapnel; he spends so much time reading textbooks with sentences he has to decipher like he’s a codebreaker not a student that he needs some kind of switch-off, and who’s to say he isn’t allowed a bit of mind-numbing reading?

And, all in all, Rowan’s having a pretty decent conclusion to his dilemma when he hears the sound of footsteps approaching and glances up from between the pages of unabashedly shameful sensual pottery. It’s a math student. His cheeks are tear-stained.

“Got any tissues?” he asks nervously. Rowan does not, but he can’t say the same for his well-stocked maze of a temporary desk, and he finds a packet in one of the jam-packed drawers, handing it over to the student, whose arms are surprisingly muscular for a math geek. Rowan wonders if he’s in the soccer team; he’s too short for basketball. He asks. The math boy laughs. “Oh, no, I’m not in a big sport. I’m on the lacrosse team, but I’ve taken a break for the math stakeout.”

“Have you considered that studying at home might be more relaxing?” Rowan asks, offering the math boy a stress ball; he declines, likely on the fact that it’s the grottiest thing Rowan’s ever had the misfortune of picking up and he immediately counters it with a choking amount of hand sanitiser.

“I work best under stressful conditions,” math boy elaborates. “And since I’m living in a tent, I don’t have time to worry about all the stupid things I usually worry about, like plucking my eyebrows or what clothes I’m wearing or how my hair looks.”

Math boy has little more than a buzzcut. Rowan raises his eyebrows, but says nothing, and avoids letting his eyes linger for too long on the math boy’s incredibly extra outfit of a striped turtleneck and wide leg red corduroy pants with some on-trend ugly Nikes. Rowan has to admit that he’s good-looking, and he does like math boy’s dedication, and he hasn’t had sex since that time with his best friend in the back of a rental in high school. So. He wouldn’t mind.

“I’m Andre,” math boy says. Shit. He’s likely noticed Rowan’s unsubtle idea of checking him out, but the name drop can only be a good sign.

Rowan goes in for the handshake. He’s so thirsty that he practically gets flushed from that alone. “Rowan. Khanna. History.”

And, with that, Andre returns to his inevitable doom and Rowan returns merely to imagining the fires of passion. It’s not that he’s ever been particularly interested in sex, or romance, or any of that - but it’s been way too long, and he’s going to cry if he eats any more microwave meals, and he wants someone to distract him from the call of the void that seems to follow being a single college student with at least two crushes. He groans.

“Problem?” an inquiring voice laughs. Rowan recognises the accent: it’s Southern and hillbilly but too gentle to belong to an actual hillbilly, and his head snaps up, expecting Bill Weasley and his tousled hair and his fang earring and his accepting attitude and his lax alternative style–

but it’s just an amused Charlie, and Charlie’s no Bill. He’s shorter, with a shaved head, an explosion of freckles, and a dragon tattoo. But God, Rowan thinks. As handsome as Bill. Just less outgoing. Charlie purportedly just lets things happen.

“I hate being a student,” Rowan sighs, and Charlie concurs. Their eyes meet long enough for Rowan’s heart to skip a beat. He looks like Bill.

Charlie leans in.

“Bathroom?”

“Oh, Christ, please.”

Rowan doesn’t bother making a sign explaining his absence; nobody seems to want to speak to him, and that’s probably because it’s eleven at night and the only people in the library are the math crew, those lacking in the will to live, and him.

And he’s now backed up against the wall of the disabled toilet with Charlie under his waistband, so he’s not sure he gets to stack up well anymore.

Charlie makes short work of Rowan and lets him sink to the floor, breathless. He sets himself up, legs wrapped around Rowan, but sits still anyway. It’s a shit vantage point.

“Math?” Charlie asks.

“History.”

“Cryptozoology.”

“What the hell’s that?”

“I get to go on field trips to find wendigos.”

“Oh, my fiery feet! My burning feet of fire!”

“That’s the one. Can you get on all fours?”

Rowan does, resisting the familiar urge to gasp as Charlie pushes himself between Rowan’s thighs and lets this follow with tumbling expletives. Rowan can feel Charlie’s hands shaking a little where they hold his waist, and doesn’t think he’s worth that much, honestly.

Charlie starts moving, slowly at first but unable to temper himself. “Oh, God, I can’t,” he stutters, pushing faster and faster until Rowan’s thighs ache and he thinks he might come again just from the sounds of Charlie slipping over the edge and him grabbing Rowan’s hair as he thrusts.

Rowan’s so easy.

Charlie spills over his legs and then flips him round to finish Rowan off again until he can’t see straight anymore and is lying enjoying the last of his ethereal moments before he comes back into the realisation that he’s lying on the floor of a bathroom stall and his stomach is sticky and his hair is so out of order that he looks like he hasn’t brushed it in weeks.

He groans, and starts a little when he feels something soft run across his snail trail and down to his legs.

Charlie’s cleaning him up with a wet wipe.

“Do you carry those around with you everywhere?”

“Listen, do you want to try and clean yourself up with one-ply?”

Rowan supposes not. “Thanks.”

“You volunteer librarians. You always look like you’re desperate for it.”

“I’m covering for my friend Ben.”

“Even more desperate.”

“Have you and Ben ever…?”

“No. He kinda looks like he’d fall apart. I’ve got a bit of a thing going with Tonks, though. She’s amazing.”

“So, Charlie, what exactly started you on your path of having bathroom sex with all the student librarians?”

“I don’t know, really. It happened once and then I just kept going for it. Makes me feel a little less like I want to drive away and never come back.”

Charlie runs a hand across Rowan’s cheek and tucks some of his hair behind his ear. Rowan looks back at him.

“I get that,” Rowan says, and stands up.

Rowan is not very pleasantly woken from his slumber at seven in the morning by the next student volunteer, who seems entirely nonplussed by the fact that Rowan has slept through the majority of his cover shift.

He decides to be cordial enough to return the mug he’d borrowed to the kitchen, and of course, just to ensure that Rowan Khanna never gets any peace and is always living a life of predicaments, Andre and Charlie are kissing in the corner.

“I know this library is twenty-four-hour, but you can go home,” Rowan sniffs. “You can wait before your next conquest.”

“I was waiting for you,” Andre clarifies, and he laughs awkwardly for a moment. “I hate being in that fucking tent. I’m not learning anything. It’s not even a political stance; the board don’t care. I saw you two go into the bathroom yesterday, and- goddammit, I just want to be free to do what I want to do and not eat their idea of fucking meals which have no nutritional value whatsoever!”

“If we’re having sex, we’re going to breakfast first,” Rowan says. Charlie laughs.

“I’ll pay,” he says.

They have a slightly crappy breakfast in Starbucks, but the caffeine hits Rowan like a sledgehammer, righting all the wrongs in his system like the ultimate pill. Charlie has a roll and a hot chocolate and seems at an almost eerie bliss at his corner of the table, as if the stress of student life has entirely evaded him. Andre’s still got that math student vibe of being permanently jittered. He takes two toilet breaks in the time it takes them to eat breakfast.

“Don’t you drink coffee, Charlie?” Rowan asks. He has to ask. He doesn’t even understand how someone could survive a day in college without being fuelled through it by caffeine highs and bathroom blowjob crashes. Andre’s drinking tea, but that’s still caffeine.

“No,” he says. “I don’t like it.”

Rowan is hit by a wave of newfound respect for Charlie: under the influence of no stimulants, he survives daily college life, from lessons to screwing in library bathrooms, and he never once seems to look out of place. He almost wants to think fuck Bill. Bill might be cool, but Rowan’s seen him disheveled and grumpy in sweatpants: Charlie doesn’t seem to know how to be a mess, and though Andre is clearly an emotional wreck, he’s an emotional wreck in good trousers.

“I don’t want to have sex,” he says suddenly, and Charlie looks up so quickly that Rowan is hit by the urge to retract the statement; but it’s true, so he ploughs on. “I’m tired. And I want to just – watch Netflix with you guys.”

“If I’d known you’d say that, I’d have let Charlie do me in that kitchen,” Andre huffs, but concedes. Rowan’s correctly gauged that he also doesn’t have the energy left in him for any sort of vigorous physical exercise, or even any mental exercise. Rowan wonders what would happen if he asked Andre to read a book; perhaps he’d explode. “Depends on what you’re watching.”

“My vote’s on a Stranger Things marathon,” Charlie says.

This is how Rowan finds himself making out with his crush’s brother on a math student’s sofa whilst Barb finds herself left on her own at the pool. He bloody likes Stranger Things, too, but Charlie’s handsy. He can barely catch a breath because Charlie’s made it his mission to steal them all. Andre is content with Netflix.

Doesn’t stop him from nabbing a kiss or two.

Rowan’s not sure if this was the ideal answer to his initial predicament: after all, Charlie isn’t Bill, and he now seems to have acquired two boyfriends that his parents will disapprove of and whom he barely knows at all. But he guesses that he’s probably chosen right, because he’s not hungover, and he does have two boyfriends, one of whom is kind of the supreme Bill, the other a sobbing math student with an infectious smile and a sharp sense of style.

He could’ve had worse. And this is his reflection of the day that makes it to Tumblr, right after Peter Parker’s confession of love to Wade Wilson, a true slow burn at Chapter 52.

#i write shit #i need jesus #hp #rowan khanna #fanfic #hogwarts mystery #andre egwu #charlie weasley #hprarepairnet #hptriadsnet #rowan x charlie x andre

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seouliloquy · 6 years

Text

I am a complete disastrous wreck

I have been so depressed and so anxious and so apathetic, hypersensitive, easily irritated and downright miserable all at the same time for weeks now

My school has failed at helping me find a tutor for algorithms and seemed to given up trying at all since i havent heard from the education and learning center for two weeks now, despite them making false promises to get in touch with me soon about a solution to my problem.

I have skipped more classes this semester than ever on the excuse that i was not to be bothered to leave my room and needed a mental health day - which ends up being an even more miserable say because i feel guilt and shame and get even more nothing done than if i had been busy in classes. Othertimes i would skip so i could study for a test or take some time to actually be productive or get errands done that desperately need to be done during the day time that i dont have time to do.

I even called off work around 3 times.

I go to soccer to put off reality even more. I tell myself its because i’m a dedicated member of the team, because i need to social interaction, because it’s exercise and good for my health...but after practices i’m hardly feeling any better. I was coerced into playing goalkeeper in the freezing snow at the last and biggest most important tournament (all the more reason for me to be goalkeeper instead of anyone else because no one else can do it decently but me and i’m obviously not good enough to trust on the field so id i hadnt played keeper i likely would have barelt played at all and either way i felt like i wasted my entire weekend. In goal i hardly do much moving. They never take time to help me warm up. It was snowing and i’m standing there with 4 layers on still freezing my ass off and my toes completely numb and against Yonsei, the most important game, the 3 times i had to move at all i fucked up and let a goal in, letting us lose AGAIN and i know everyone blames me. Yeah i’m the better choice to do it but compared to the other teams goalkeepers i’m complete shit.

Whats the point of playing and doing something i’m supposed to love if doing it constantly makes me feel guilty and inadequate. I’m not skilled enough, i’m not fast enough, i still can’t fucking cross the ball and i still cant fogure out how the others who can do things well are so good at what they do despite the fact that i have 10 years of experience over everyone else...

Really the only reason i’d been going to soccer was just to escape from everything and avoid my other stressors because its all too much. I didnt have to think about algorithms or syntax or paying the tuition and rent bills or being lonely and unloveable.

I tell myself i go to the gym so i can have me time, to work on improving myself. Work towards getting the body that i want so i can feel more confident in my own skin. Work towards being stronger and faster so i can be a better athlete. Have a healthy routine so i dont develop athritis yet and have some stability to hopefully prevent flare ups.

Again, its jist another way to procrastinate. And even then i procrastinate or neglect going to the gym sometimes too. I survive off the temporary adrenaline high from cardio that tricks me into believing i’m okay when i’m really not.

Then i leave and i realize i could have spent that time getting extra sleep i need because my sleep lately is so poor and i never wake up feeling rested. If i didnt want to sleep then i should have gotten up and completed that homework assignment early or caught up on some studying that i desperately need to do.

Now with final exams looming over my head only two weeks away and i’m out of passes to skip class and i cant afford to cut my work hours anymore i’m stuck witg super limited studying time and no room to give and no motivatiom or energy to study when i should.

When i do sit and study, i cant concentrate. Nothing is retained in my memory. I struggle to understand things or comprehend a single paragraph of text and i fall asleep at my desk constantly or purposely distract myself with other things.

I’m gonna make a plan.

I’m gonna balance my budget.

Do laundry.

Clean my side of the room.

Organize my sock drawer.

Count my spare change.

Do some basic low-budget meal prep and pretend i’m actually going to eat less calories and eat less bad foods and treat my body like the temple that it is and feed it only the good stuff! Lies, she said, as she forgets about the container of a single overpriced cucumber in the fridge that cost 2$ and eats .80 cent ramyun noodles instead.

I keep forgetting to take my medicine - including my birth control- which i take for its contraceptive effects (like i could actually believe i’d be having sex anytime soon but at least i’m safe if i get raped because thats what i’m supposed to do, right? Be prepared for the worst) but i also take it to regulate my periods but i’m under so much stress and keep missing my pills thay my period is fucked up and my hormones are out of whack too only exacerbating my depression amd anxiett tenfold.

I have a fear of abandonment but i avoid getting too close to people because i know they are just going to leave me anyways. No, not leave. Forger me, dump me, use and dispose of me after my purpose is served.

I want so desperately to be the alpha female. To actually have my shit together and not merely seem like i do all the time. I want control of my life. I want to have less intense feelings about everything. I want to be invincible, admired and awed. Respected.

But what do i do to get that?

I’m mediocre at everything.

I dont have any special hidden talent. No one says, “oh you should talk to Lilo about that, she’s really good at that thing!”

I am a shoddy student and a shoddy musician and a shoddy artist and a shoddy athlete and a a shoddy cook and a shoddy friend (cause if i were anyone’s first choice they’d call me first for once)

I have no money, no academic merit or special skill set.

I’m completelt useless.

And i’m not pretty. I could get away witg being all of the above things if i were at least just pretty and still have a chance with society- getting a decent job, getting opportunities, being loved by someone else who isnt family....

In my current circumstances, how on earth is ir even possible for me to just “be happy” and “find happiness from within”

Being grateful for what i’m able to do doesnt help me feel better. It doesnt put things in perspective. I makes me hate this world even more that there even has to be people more worse off than me out there. I cant handle the cruelness and unfairness and superificiality of this world and all the people in it.

My body knows i’m not okay. My digestion is weird. My sleep and dreams arw wwird. My skin breaks out and i got hives on my hands and sores in my mouth from stress. I cry almost every day and spend the day with a tension headache from fighting the tears so i can appear “normal” in public because i’m embarassed and when anyone looks at me i want to scream at them and say “what daduq are you looking at, punk?” But i dont becauasw thats dangeous.

I’m just so sick and tired of everything and i’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of explaining myself because i’m not like my “normal” self. Where actually my real self is constantly screamig from inside my head and inside my chest to be let out like a child victim of abuse.

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junker-town · 5 years

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Gun violence, high school football and what coaches are doing to keep players safe

Gun violence, high school football and what coaches are doing to keep their players safe

If you ask Raekwon Robinson, a running back at Malcolm X Shabazz High School and Jaheem Burks’ best friend, what happened was ultimately their fault. It was Jaheem who wanted to go to Jersey City on that freezing January night in 2018 so their group of friends could go to a basketball game and then a party. Afterward, it was Raekwon who had insisted he was so hungry that they had to go to the store, even though it was after midnight.

“When I see [Jaheem] not doing what he used to be able to do, I choose to think about it, to see what could I have done differently,” Raekwon says, standing outside the Shabazz fieldhouse on a bright, blustery fall afternoon in Newark, New Jersey as he describes the regular flashbacks he still has. It’s just cold enough that he has a long sleeve shirt on under his pads, and clear enough that if you squint, you can see the New York City skyline from the field.

“I don’t want to blame it on myself, but I forced all of us to go to the store,” he says. “And because we went to the store, that happened.”

Jaheem, Raekwon and their friends were walking back from the corner store with juice tucked into their sweatshirt pockets. The closest chicken shack had already closed for the night, so as they walked back to the friend’s house where they were staying, Raekwon started putting in an order for Domino’s on his phone. It died because of the cold, and he looked up to find five men he’d never seen before in hoodies and ski masks staring at them from inside a car and on a nearby porch. It was odd, but none of them said anything so the group just kept walking — discussing pizza toppings, Raekwon remembers, smiling in disbelief.

A few seconds later, they heard gunfire erupt behind them. Raekwon and the rest of their friends took off running. “I was laughing because it caught me so off guard,” he says. “I was just like, wow, I might have a really crazy story.” Then a bullet flew by his head and hit an ambulance window. “I didn’t see it, I heard it,” Raekwon says. “That’s when I got scared.”

After the gunfire stopped, he heard Jaheem yelling. He’d been shot six times from his butt down to his calf, piercing his femoral artery. “I tried to get back up and run, but I got shot again so I stayed down on the ground,” says Jaheem, stoic and seemingly unperturbed by being asked to discuss the incident before practice, sharing his experience in measured, precise sentences just nine months after it happened. “First I was thinking about my life, to make sure I would make it,” he continues. “Control my breathing, stay calm. I just wanted the pain to go away.”

Raekwon found his friend sitting in a terrifyingly large pool of his own blood. The police, on high alert because of another shooting a few hours prior, had gotten there first, but Raekwon says they were simply documenting the wounds instead of tending to them.

“It was too cold to cry,” Raekwon says. “I was already shaking because it was so, so cold, and then I didn’t know what was going on. I knew he was going to be OK because it didn’t look like he was in pain, but the cops were yelling at everyone to back up and moving his body around all crazy — I’m like, stop moving him! That’s a puddle of blood that could probably fill up one of those whole boxes! [He points to a box of football gear.] The whole time they were moving him, more blood was coming out. There were no bullets inside him because they went straight through.”

He didn’t cry until the next day, when Jaheem’s aunt called and told him that Jaheem had been shot six times. “That broke me down,” Raekwon says. “I don’t believe Jaheem thinks about it — he still hasn’t cried about it, ever. I’m surprised.”

Jaheem had two surgeries; in one, they had to replace his artery. He spent two weeks at the Jersey City Medical Center before moving to a rehab facility in West Orange. At first, he would try to walk with a walker; every time he stood up, though, he got lightheaded because he’d lost so much blood. But once he got to rehab, he slowly learned how to walk again, going from a wheelchair, to crutches, to a cane, to just a limp that’s now all but disappeared.

“There was no way I thought he was suiting up this year,” Shabazz coach Darnell Grant, 47, says. “I’m like, ‘Listen man, you can take stats. I’ll put you in the booth, or you can help me coach.’ He looked me dead in the eyes: ‘Coach, I’m playing. You’ll see.’”

Natalie Weiner

Jaheem Burks (left) and Raekwon Robinson (right)

It’s a little slice of Americana right in the middle of Newark. The Friday night lights show two teams of teenage boys hopped up on Gatorade and bravado, butting heads on a brisk late October night. A healthy crowd of family, friends and neighbors cheer them on, many clutching lukewarm cups of ramen noodles or cocoa to fight the chill.

When the starting quarterback for the home team, Shabazz, is taken off the field after a hard hit, a new one steps in — a development that garners little fanfare from those in the stands, mostly content with the goose egg their opponents are laying.

But it should. The back-up QB is Jaheem Burks.

As he leads the team down the field, ultimately setting them up to score a touchdown, fans don’t know his name. They haven’t heard anything about a football player being shot. There’s no ceremony, no comment from the stadium announcer. Jaheem is just playing his game, exactly the way he wants; he’s already made the local news for his recovery, but there are plenty of people on the local news who hadn’t been so lucky. His own tragic accident (at Shabazz, they take care to call it an accident — “It wasn’t meant for him,” Grant explains) and return to football is barely a blip.

“We don’t play the pity party,” Grant says from his office the following week.

About an hour before practice starts, Grant sits behind his desk, hands folded, facing a few stacks of the academic progress reports he insists his players fill out each day. There’s a long table in the middle of the room where he meets with students, and sometimes monitors them during detention. When he’s not coaching the team, he’s the school’s dean of discipline, arriving at 7:50 a.m. to ensure kids are where they’re supposed to be, doing what they’re supposed to be doing. The last thing he has time to do is feed a redemption story that’s plenty remarkable on its own, for a community where honoring every victim of gun violence could easily become an all-consuming project.

“Don’t feel sorry for us,” he says. “These guys are champions.”

Grant is speaking literally: the team is defending its state title. Figuratively, they’re quite close to another, less tangible sort of triumph — this time, though, over much more brutal odds.

During his nine years coaching at Shabazz, Grant has lost four players to gun violence and had 10 players get shot, some on their way home from practice. One player was shot 14 times and survived. The day before our conversation, someone was wounded by gunfire near the school’s athletic field; the football team had been inside watching film, but a soccer game in progress had to be halted.

Last January, when Grant got the call that Jaheem had been shot, his reaction was one of relief. “I was just so happy he was alive,” he says. “That I didn’t have to go to another funeral.”

Grant is one of hundreds of high school football coaches across the country grappling with how to mitigate the effects of a problem they’re far from having the resources to solve: gun violence in America. Obviously, given that so far in 2019 over 10,000 Americans have died from a non-self-inflicted gunshot wound, it impacts almost everyone. But plenty of kids — especially those growing up in places like Newark, where such violence is numbingly ubiquitous — look to football to grant them a degree of immunity.

Conventional wisdom suggests that the sport offers an “escape” from under-resourced communities suffering from the effects of systemic neglect. If you work hard enough and make the right choices — playing football being one of the most accessible and appealing ways for boys, at least, to do that — you should be safe. A litany of cliches exist to describe the alternative: “Becoming a statistic.” “Dead or in jail.”

Grant knows most of his players have had someone in their lives for whom those cliches apply. “That’s why we have so many kids — we get the guys who don’t want that,” he says. His no-cut roster runs between 80 and 90 players from both Shabazz and smaller neighboring schools without football programs, depending on how many helmets he has. “They want to be something different.”

He also knows that concerns about concussions have cut into youth football participation nationally; in suburban Plainfield, New Jersey, where Grant has raised his six children, there’s no Pop Warner team for his twin seven-year-old boys. They have to drive to the next town over.

Shabazz, though, hasn’t experienced any decline. “It doesn’t affect us,” he says. “Football is going to come down to the people who have an option. My guys don’t have an option. They gotta play. They need to play. We don’t have lacrosse here. We don’t have established soccer here. Football, basketball, track. That’s the thing.”

Natalie Weiner

Coach Darnell Grant

But what Grant and his peers have found out the hard way is that even as it offers them structure and incentive, football alone is not enough to protect their charges. At least 67 boys and men 25 years old and under identified as current or former football players have been shot and killed in 2019 so far. Of those, 32 were under 18; the youngest, Washington, D.C.’s Karon Brown, was 11.

“What’s changed that now these kids growing up in the same neighborhood as I did gotta worry about life and death?” Grant remembers wondering in 2004 — the first time he lost a player, at a previous coaching job. He stood next to a high schooler who had been shot twice in the head, lying dead on the sidewalk a month after he’d gotten a scholarship offer from N.C. State. “I was so infuriated by the adults. What did we do differently? What didn’t we do for them that was done for us? Why is it no longer safe?”

It’s a detail that almost always makes the headline, whether the victim was 14 or 34: football player. Sometimes there’s a quote from the coach, or the school. Maybe the only photo in the local news files is one of the kid making a play. Maybe the yards he ran last season are somewhere toward the bottom. Very rarely do these stories get national coverage, with the 2015 murder of Zaevion Dobson — who was heralded posthumously as a hero — as one notable exception. But for many local outlets, the story is a depressingly familiar variation on the kinds of gun violence-related deaths that too often don’t get covered at all.

Its subtext is clear: this is not just another kid, this is a football player. A kid who tried; a kid who worked; a kid who was doing all the Right Things to avoid a fate as inevitable in America as fireworks on the Fourth of July. A football player died, and we should mourn more than we would otherwise but not that much, because another football player will die next week and next year, and we will pretend like it is exceptional when, in fact, it is the rule that children and young adults and old adults die preventable deaths every day because of the confluence of entrenched systemic discrimination and widely available lethal weapons.

We should mourn because he knew the odds were stacked against him and worked to overcome them anyway, as though his fate was ever fully in his own hands to begin with.

“You hear about kids that were the best that never was getting brutally murdered, and the story will be good until you bury them — about two weeks,” says Niketa Battle, 46, who lost a player each of his first two years as the head coach at Mays High School in Atlanta. He’s in year four. “But if a kid goes and plays in a DI program and gets in trouble, you’ll hear all about it. I always tell my kids, ‘Nobody cares if you get killed. Not at Mays. That’s what they expect, because of the area you live in.’ That’s the harsh reality.”

Somewhere deep down, maybe, we understand that each death signifies a greater failure. But it’s one that we tacitly accept with each “Football Star Shot and Killed” headline that passes by. An unfortunate one-off. How sad, we think. How terrible, as though a young person dying who didn’t play football is more tolerable. It’s a way to predigest tragedy, to filter an American epidemic into words we can understand: a football player died.

A little more than once a week, somewhere in America, a story like this runs.

Tyson Whiting

Football has been a lifelong love affair for Jaheem, who was born and raised in Newark. He watched Jerome Bettis run over people for the Steelers when he was five and has been a Pittsburgh fan ever since. That same year, his mother died of breast cancer (his dad is not in the picture), so Jaheem and his two older siblings went to live with his aunt and cousins. At nine, he started playing organized football; in middle school, he met Raekwon, his compatriot on and off the field. So when he was shot, his motivation to recover fully was clear.

“I couldn’t have that mindset like, just lay down and be lazy all day,” Jaheem says. Grant says he would have been a starter at receiver and defensive back his senior year had it not been for the shooting; he was back in the weight room at Shabazz before he was even officially back at school. “Obviously when I first got back, I wasn’t really running how I am right now. But I had to get up and work on my legs and try to get back on the field because I love football. That’s what I love to do.”

As for Raekwon, when he returned to school the Monday after the shooting, he dropped from honor roll to failing within a matter of weeks. “Before, I saw him every day,” he says of Jaheem. “I still see him every day. But just him not being around me, and I really couldn’t call him to speak to him... it was hurting me. I came to school just to come; I didn’t do nothing.”

It wasn’t the first time gun violence had impacted his life — when asked if he’d ever known anyone who was shot and killed, Raekwon holds up one hand to count and quickly runs out of fingers before giving up — but it was the first time he had witnessed it. Coincidentally he had signed up for an in-school leadership and healing program called the Bulldog Brotherhood, where he was referred to a counselor who helped him get makeup work to bring his grades back up. He says he learned about trauma from the program as he was experiencing it, which helped him.

“Being from where I’m at, I figured it would happen,” Raekwon says of the shooting. “I didn’t expect it, but I expected it. Not that we were doing anything wrong, I just — I don’t know. Around here, there’s no telling what happens.”

Data supports Raekwon’s grim hunch. Though gun violence statistics are notoriously hard to pin down, gun homicides tend to be concentrated where people are, in cities; small ones with disproportionate degrees of poverty, like Newark, tend to have higher rates. Fifty-two percent of gun homicide victims are Black men, according to the most recent available CDC data. Their reports also conclude that gun violence is the leading cause of death among Black children, who are 10 times more likely than their white counterparts to be shot and killed — a statistic that came perilously close to representing Jaheem and Raekwon.

That is not to say the experience of gun homicide victims — even those in a narrow category like current and former football players 25 and under — is homogenous. There have been at least 190 victims matching that description since 2017, according to the inevitably incomplete data collected by SB Nation. They lived in 38 states and Washington, D.C., in small towns and big cities alike. Some were white, some were Hispanic, most were Black. Some were shot in cases of mistaken identity, like Jaheem, or just caught in the crossfire; some were in disagreements that got heated. Some were victims of intentional murder, or of a stick-up gone wrong. Some — like Jordan Edwards, Isaiah Christian Green, Archer Amorosi, Leo Brooks Jr., D’Ettrick Griffin, O’Shae Terry and De’Von Bailey — were killed by police.

No matter the circumstance, most just wind up described as “in the wrong place at the wrong time”; a cliche that fails to account for the fact that they were exactly where they were supposed to be — walking to school or sitting at home or at a cookout to celebrate their graduation — and it didn’t make a difference.

“Nobody wakes up and says, ‘You know what, today I’m gonna plan on getting murdered,’” says Camden, New Jersey coach Preston Brown, 34, who leads the Woodrow Wilson High School team. He’s lost two players within the past year. “But there’s no margin for error. What might, in communities with more of a safety net, seem like harmless teenage shenanigans — seeing your friends, going to parties, getting a slice of pizza — become life-threatening.”

The way communities and media respond to these deaths tends to reflect how often they’ve seen them. Coach James Williams, who runs the team at Houston’s Fort Bend Marshall High School, lost his first player last December after seven seasons as the school’s head coach and 19 years in football. “It caught me completely off guard — it’s never something you think about or imagine would happen,” the 44-year-old coach says. He’d had players shot before, but never seriously injured or killed.

Williams’ Buffaloes had just closed an undefeated season and were preparing for a playoff run when 17-year-old Drew Conley, who had just transferred to Marshall that summer, was shot and killed by his uncle. “Definitely had a great personality — nothing but positives with that young man,” says Williams. “He made a big impact in a short time.”

The team, cheerleaders and band wore decals with his number — 3 — and hung up his jersey in a locker at their semifinal game four days later. “Remember 3” became both a rallying cry for the team and a hashtag, as Conley’s friends and teammates grieved and shared memories on social media. Conley’s funeral was two days before the team’s state championship game at Dallas Cowboys’ AT&T Stadium; five of his teammates were pallbearers. They wound up losing, a minor tragedy by comparison, but still heartbreaking given the shadow already cast over what should have been a pinnacle of Conley and his teammates’ high school experiences.

“Of course you want to win, but it was an accomplishment just to be there — especially under the circumstances they were in,” Williams says. “Losing a player two weeks before the state championship is such an emotional rollercoaster. The guys had to overcome so much, but they knew it was important to Drew, and that he wanted it badly for everyone.

“[Gun violence] is not prevalent where we are — it was just an unfortunate incident,” he continues. “Some areas have less crime than others, but there’s no safe area. At the end of the day, this can happen anywhere.”

For many other coaches — like Newark’s Darnell Grant — the first time they found out they’d outlived one of their players has long since past. Sometimes it’s too painful for both coaches and players to remember all those they’ve lost.

“It’s scary because the kids are kind of numb to it, to the point where every year you know it’s going to happen,” Brown says. Last fall, a recent graduate of his Camden program named Diquese Young, who had been accepted to college but deferred for a semester to help his mom, was shot and killed at 19. Six months later, Young’s good friend and former teammate Sincere Howard, 17, was also shot and killed. Brown recalls a recent shooting behind their field while the team was practicing; they paused to make sure it was safe and then went back to work.

“We kind of keep things among ourselves, and try not to focus on it so much,” he says. “The more you bring it up … there’s a whole tie-in of emotions, not only from the young people’s standpoint but for all of us, adults included.”

“I’m not going to say that my kids are insensitive to death, but they see it so often that it might be something that they’ve just grown to accept.”

“I’m just going to be honest with you: if I was in suburban Atlanta, [players dying] probably would have been more of a shock,” Battle says. “I’m not going to say that my kids are insensitive to death, but they see it so often that it might be something that they’ve just grown to accept. I hope I don’t come off as very numb. But here, if you don’t have some sort of a tough skin about where you’re working, it will eat you alive.”

Battle, who has lost two players in the past three years, estimates six Mays High School students were killed in that same period. Mays student D’Ettrick Griffin, who had played recreational football, was shot and killed by Atlanta police earlier this year. In August, two boys aged 12 and 16 were shot outside a Mays football game; the 12-year-old may not walk again.

“I ask myself, why do I watch the news all the time? I know it’s nothing but negativity about what’s going on within the community,” says the 46-year-old coach, who also teaches physical education. “But I have to turn it on because I’m worried about my kids.”

He sometimes finds himself sitting at his desk in despair — the same desk he speaks to me from, the same desk that’s his base from 7 a.m. to 8:30 or 9 at night during football season, the same desk that’s the destination of his 45-minute commute. “Half of me is questioning, like, ‘Why are you putting yourself through so much stress?’” Battle says. “When I got this head coaching position, I had no gray hair. I’m graying so fast now, it’s crazy. I don’t know when I can just go home and rest — I literally have to get in the house and turn my ringer off.”

Battle grew up in Tifton, Georgia, stayed in-state to play football at Savannah State and Georgia Southern, and entered the corporate world before beginning his career as a coach. “It just wasn’t fulfilling, knowing that was going to be my life for the next 25 to 30 years,” he says. So he quit, and started coaching in suburban Atlanta. Nineteen years later, his longest tenure has been at Mays — which has also been his most challenging position.

“In the suburbs, my worst fear was a kid going to jail,” he says, adding that his peers working in suburban schools are most concerned about keeping kids from vaping. “Now my worst fear is waking up to one of my kids having been killed.”

Battle lost his first players in 2011 while working as the head coach at Morrow High School. He remembers talking with them before summer started, wishing them well and offering some counsel.

“I told them, make sure you love on everybody because it’s not guaranteed that we’ll be around next year,” he recalls. “But I just meant that people might move with graduation. Two of the kids would end up being killed.” One died in a high-speed car chase, the other was shot. Recently he found out another former player from that same year had been shot and killed.

“When you were a part of those kids’ lives and then tragically, whether it’s one year later or 10 years later, they end up getting killed…” Battle trails off.

“You have kids that are very edgy, and think bad things might happen to them,” he concludes. “But it also happens to the good kids, the ones that don’t participate in any form of street violence. Some kids will wake up and try to live a different life, but just can’t escape it. But football is their outlet to try.”

***

It’s the same outlet that Battle, Grant and Brown found first themselves. All played football in high school and earned athletic scholarships to help pay for their degrees. What they ultimately decided to do with those degrees, though, was to return to places near where they grew up, eschewing any idea about “escape” as advancement. They chose to help more young men find the kinds of opportunities that are too often much harder to come by as Black students in underfunded schools; as sons whose families might be working long hours just to get by.

“If my coaches had just coached us, and didn’t take hold of us the way they did — be fathers to us, monitoring every aspect of our lives — most of us would not have made it,” says Brown, who graduated from Woodrow Wilson himself. Brown’s younger brother was shot and killed in 2011, at age 20. “When I became a coach, I could do no different than what was done for me. You have to do everything in your power to protect them.”

The first step is to keep players as busy as possible. Creating programming that compels them to be at school as long as they can stand — study halls, practices, weight training, film study, meetings, team meals — all year round, six days a week, takes precedence over designing plays or coming up with game plans. Often, the funding for such supplementary programming at already-strapped public schools comes out of their own pockets.

“Like I tell the kids, from 3:30 to 9:30, I’m with you,” Battle says. “Those are football hours. That’s the same time that kids are going to give to the streets. You’re not playing against an opponent, you’re playing against the streets. And the streets are going to win every time. But if I have them in football practice until 9:30 and they get home at 10, there’s nothing they can really do but go to sleep, come back and do it again.”

The streets, to Battle, mean gangs. In Atlanta the number of gangs has nearly doubled in the past decade, spurring Battle to speak with his players ever more regularly about why they should avoid them. During one such talk, a player asked to say something; when Battle told him to go ahead, he raised his shirt to show a bullet hole in his chest, telling the rest of his team, “Y’all don’t want to end up like me.”

“The thing is, if you don’t take an interest in the kids, who’s going to?”

“He comes out and works harder than almost all the kids on this team, and he’s sitting there with a bullet hole in his chest,” Battle recalls, still incredulous.

He believes his team can offer some of what the local gangs might seem to: a sense of belonging in the midst of an environment that he characterizes as “a war zone.”

“The thing is, if you don’t take an interest in the kids, who’s going to?” he asks. “A lot of kids will feel more like they’re worth something [as a gang member], because somebody’s telling them they’re doing well even though they’re doing wrong.”

In Chicago, coach D’Angelo Dereef has gone one step further in keeping his players physically away from their too-often violent Garfield Park neighborhood. He hosted a weeklong lock-in during training camp at Al Raby High School for the sixth season in a row this summer, a reaction to what he sees as a spike in gun violence.

“Every week is a violent week in Chicago — this is one week where their parents can be relieved,” he explains. Dereef, 46, initially came up with the idea not long after he moved to the city from South Carolina; tragically, he lost a student to gun violence almost immediately. “I was a 30-year-old man coming home crying to my auntie and uncle’s house,” Dereef remembers.

So he thought of doing a lock-in, which would at least be a temporary refuge. After facing initial resistance because of the cost, he finally got approval by assuring that he and the other coaches would collectively provide food and solicit donations from local businesses. It’s mostly subsidized by Dereef himself.

First, he takes their phones for the entire week. Instead, they focus on football and what might ultimately — and unfairly — be survival skills: conflict resolution and how to talk to police. Most important, though, is to “show them brotherhood, and make them one: one team, one family,” Dereef says.

His job isn’t over after the lockout, though; when we talk, he’s on his way to try to find out why a particularly promising kid has stopped coming to practice. Dereef gets frustrated when he sees people underestimate his players, or assume they’re unmanageable. “They’re not getting into their brains to figure out why,” he says. “It’s like putting a Band-Aid on a big cut — that’s not going to stop the bleeding. Why is this kid scared to come to practice? We need this kid here because this could save his life.”

A few weeks prior, he’d been negotiating with a freshman player’s parole officer to let him come to practice — the player had been found with an illegal gun and was under house arrest. “I told him, you’re 250 to 300 pounds — you’re a big ol’ target,” Dereef says. “People are going to hide behind you when they start shooting, and you can’t hide behind nobody. You’re a bulletproof vest for everybody out there. Don’t be a crash dummy, be with us.”

Tyson Whiting

No coach can be with their players all the time, though. “It’s the away time,” Grant says of the moments he worries the most. “It’s when they leave us. Right now we try to run a six-day-a-week program, 12 months out of the year. But that last day and a half, we don’t have them.”

“I just worry about what’s going on from Friday night after you get home from the game to Sunday afternoon,” says Battle. “As long as I can put my hands on them, I know they’re good. But once they leave, they’re going back to the same areas that they’re trying to fight so hard to get away from.”

The technology-enabled cure for that worry is lots of group-texting, and communication with teachers and parents; sometimes they’re just checking in to make sure players have made it home safely. On snow days, Grant has his players send him videos of themselves working out to keep them occupied.

All the coaches stay in touch with their alums, texting and calling to make sure they’re still pushing forward and staying safe. Dereef calls his former players every Sunday: “How’s school?” “Are you leaving the girls alone?” “Are you leaving the weed and drinking alone?” After all, their lives are only slightly less precarious once they get to school: 2019 Giants draft pick Corey Ballantine was shot while celebrating making it to the league, and his friend and Washburn University teammate Dwane Simmons was killed in the same incident.

“I never talk about football,” Dereef insists. “I got them prepared for football.”

“It’s about trying to build a surrogate family around the game of football, just to give them all the resources and access that everyone has every place else.”

Pushing students academically can be as simple as letting the players know that someone is watching, that someone cares. “Some kids, you grow up talking about the day at school at the dinner table every night,” Grant says. “My guys don’t always get that — and because it’s not a big priority in the house, it’s not their priority. It’s about trying to build a surrogate family around the game of football, just to give them all the resources and access that everyone has every place else.”

Grades are typically the coaches’ biggest concern: all aim to have 100 percent college acceptance rates for their players, even if they’re not going to play at the next level.

“My thing is to at least have the choice,” Grant says. When we meet, a scout is in the next room talking to some seniors on the team. “If I don’t give you an option, why wouldn’t I expect you to fall into the same traps as everybody else? I gotta give you something different.”

“All my kids aren’t going to be 3.0, 4.0 kids,” Battle says. “But if I can get a kid from an F to a C, just to be able to say, ‘I told you you could pass, you just gotta put your mind to it’ — that’s the little incentive they need to keep going, because they found someone that can believe in them.”

The hardest part of the job, the coaches say, is the feeling that it might be impossible to give the players enough. Feeding them once is something, but what if there’s no food at home? Finding a tutor might help their grades, but if they go home and the electricity is turned off, how can they do their homework? And of course the worst case scenario, the one that all of these coaches have already confronted: what if they do everything they can, and a player does everything he can — and still winds up dead before his time?

Like Diquese Young, the Woodrow Wilson player killed in 2018 who had deferred college to help his mom. “When he was in school, he was the perfect guy,” Brown says. “He did all his work, he did track and football, he was always on time, he was a leader. If there was beef among other people in school, he would be the dude that could mediate it without an adult being present. He had that kind of presence.”

Young was accepted to over a dozen schools. “It was a bad idea; he should have been away at college,” Brown says. “The hood doesn’t have any feelings.”

Or his friend and teammate Sincere Howard. Or Coach Battle’s players, Carlos Davis II and Marquez Montgomery, neither of whom will ever be older than 15. Or any of the other boys and men whose names make up the far-too-long list at the bottom of this story.

The worst has happened, but each coach has picked up the pieces and kept going. After all, there are too many good stories to let the tragedies drag them down.

“Just seeing the kids that wake up and have hope,” says Battle of what inspires him to keep coaching kids both on the field and through the many risks they face each day. “They light up, because they’ve probably been told for so long that this is your life, and this is what your life is always going to be — and then they get exposed to something else.” In 2018, he had 20 players sign National Letters of Intent out of a 39-player graduating class.

“There’s nothing you can do about what happened in the past,” Grant says. “The only thing you can do is try to make it not repeat itself — that’s the motivation to work harder.”

***

Jaheem and Raekwon are now roommates at William Paterson University — Jaheem wants to study computer engineering, and Raekwon wants to study math.

Grant helped see them off this spring, working with them to sort out their college prospects and, more importantly, taking Jaheem get shoes for the prom. Everything is almost back to normal, but might never be completely the same.

“He was such a goofy, silly, jovial kid,” Grant says. “Now you see a seriousness about him that you didn’t before. I look at him sometimes, like man, they took his childhood away from him. They made him become a man too fast.”

Raekwon says since the shooting, he’s stopped walking around his neighborhood. Unless he has a ride, he tries to stay in the house. “I was careful before, but now it’s just like...I don’t do much,” he says. “You won’t see me going to the store or anything like that.” This year, another player on the Bulldogs was shot and survived, as was another Shabazz student.

After nearly a decade at Shabazz, Grant is starting a new position coaching at West Orange High School. There’s no doubt he’ll still be mentoring his players off the field, but he acknowledges that working at a more diverse school — where his non-football hours will be spent on academics instead of discipline — will be different.

“At Shabazz, sometimes it was just about the bare necessities — things that are supposed to come from home and for whatever reason they’re unable to provide,” he says. “In West Orange, there are two parents in the house but maybe they’re both working in the city. Kids are kids — they face a lot of the same struggles.”

Coaches around the country will continue the thankless work that Grant did for years, the work of trying to protect players even after they’ve learned firsthand that their best efforts may not be enough.

“Man, I’ve got to make sure these kids know that I care about them,” Battle says. “I just don’t know if I, Lord forbid it, might lose another one this year. I hope the cycle is broken — I pray to God it is. But in the event that it’s not, this is the job that I signed up for.”

The problem is insurmountable, the violence inescapable. But every year, coaches like Battle will open their teams to all, padding their no-cut rosters with any kids who want a place to show up and be seen — regardless of how good they are at football. There are always more kids with more possibilities, and to these coaches, their lives are worth protecting with everything they have.

This piece is dedicated to all gun violence victims and survivors, and those who love them. Below are 190 football players 25 and under shot and killed between 2017 and November 2019.

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dontbethatshank · 7 years

Text

Teach Me How To Listen (pt. 2)

Imagine: High School AU short-series - Newt pairing

Friday. December 5th. Game Night.

It was nearing 7 pm and all of you and your friends were heading out to a soccer game. Teresa muttered something about her cousin playing and Gally mentioned having a good friend on the team. So here you all were - sitting in the bleachers, nachos, sandwiches, and in your case the world’s largest cup of coffee in hand. It was chilly, but not too terrible you thought. Teresa brought a handful of blankets, everyone sitting on them and curling into them. You wore the varsity jacket that the strange boy gave to you. The patch on the left arm was one belonging to the soccer team, so you knew he would be here tonight. You hoped to spot him and give it back, although you were now realizing you never brought a second jacket because you were the most intelligent person to ever go to Heights High.

“Welcome to the Glade, everyone! I’m your announcer and everyone’s favorite register at nutrition, Siggy! Tonight is a home game between our own Heights High Gladers and WCKD High Cranks. The game starts in only four minutes, so grab your snacks, curl up in your jackets, and get ready,” Siggy, or how everyone else knew him as Frypan, exclaimed. Frypan was a happy, joyous boy - he picked up a job in the cafeteria Freshman year, and he soon became one of the most popular registers during break time and nutrition, mostly because he also sold his own baked goods to students if they bought something from his cart. You sat quietly, sipping at the coffee in between your hands, glancing to the side to see Minho’s arm curled around Teresa as she laughed and put the end of a sour straw into his mouth, laughing even louder as he slurped it up like a pasta noodle.

Shaking your head you smiled at them. Looking up above you slightly you saw Gally who was seated with a girl you had never met before. But after hearing bits of their conversation you knew that her name was Sonya and that she came to cheer on her brother who would be playing tonight. Gally seemed content on sharing his nachos with the girl as they chatted aimlessly, and you smiled at them too, happy Gally was smiling and talking nicely instead of grumbling or complaining at the usual. But quickly the game launched into action, and your eyes strained from the top of the bleachers to find the blonde haired boy on the field, trying to pinpoint him. But there were a handful of tall, lean blondes and you could barely see any other features besides hair and the baggy shirts over their torsos.

Oh well, you thought, I’ll have to try to find him after. And with that, you threw several pieces of popcorn into your mouth as you watched people cheer and groan. You were amused as you watched Teresa, half way into the game, shrieking as she stood up. “Tom! You moron! Don’t pass to defense if you're playing a forward! You just completely backtracked oh my God no, you idiot- no- just- oh my God, you just passed it to the other team,” Teresa groaned, slumping back into her seat. Minho laughed, rubbing her shoulder chuckled from amusement.

To be honest, you weren’t too into sports. You did t-ball when you were a kid and played soccer for a handful of years, but you instead fell in love with the arts and learning. So when the game came to an end and you completely were clueless on who won due to your daydreaming, you were unsurprised and mostly uncaring. But quickly you stood up, snatching the gray sweater/hoodie that Teresa had brought with her and mumbled a “gonna go find the blondie” before hurrying off down the stairs. Already the boys were gathering waterbottles and bags to go and shower and change. Your school won, unsurprisingly, and the opposing team sluggishly left the team.

The soccer team was laughing and cheering, chatting away. Some of the boys’ girlfriends came over to congratulate others ran off to celebrate with parents or friends, but a little over half stayed, cheering and talking animatedly. Once you got within a couple yards of the team, a few boys saw you and mumbled to one another, snickering and grabbing the attention of some of the others. “Did our boy reel in a catch or what?!” one boy said. He was tall, lean, thoroughly muscled, and had dark chocolate hair and warm caramel eyes. They twinkled with mischief but also kindness. “Now that’s a catch,” another boy smirked, leaning an arm on the other boy’s shoulder. He had dark, chocolate skin and stubbly black hair, a piercing white smile and light brown eyes that were streaked with a dark green it looked.

With a roll of your eyes, you stuffed your hands into the pockets of the varsity jacket you had on and walked right up to the first boy to say something about you. You looked up, pushing a small lock of hair from your face and raised an eyebrow expectantly at him. “Well?” you asked, “Do you know who’s the shank that owns this damn jacket or what?” He looked shocked and opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a familiar voice.

“Aye! Tom! What the fuck, loser?” came Teresa’s voice. “Hey! And stop hitting on my friends! Y/N’s my back-up in case this shank doesn’t keep up with me,” Teresa said, rolling her eyes as a thumb jut out to point at Minho, who in return gave a small cry of a protest. “I wasn’t hitting on your friend, it looks like she’s already been claimed,” Tom replied, a smirk coming back to his light peach lips, gesturing to the jacket. “Is that my brother’s jacket?” cam ea voice, and you noticed the blonde girl who was sitting with Gally now stood next to Tom, eyebrows raised. “Maybe? I don’t know the guy or anything,” you shrugged in response. “Tapping it and leaving them clueless. What a shank!” the second boy from earlier cried, sniggering.

“More like spilling milkshakes all over people and giving them something besides a sugar infested shirt to wear as an apology, but yea, close enough,” you replied, eyes rolling as sarcasm dripped from your lips. Sonya went to reply but another boy stepped up and looked at his teammates in confusion. “Thomas? Ben? What the hell? Sonya, what the bloody hell are you doing here?” it was him, you automatically decided. The accent, the hair, the twinkling eyes, and the scrawny and lean body structure were all identical. His eyes wondered over each face and then landed on yours, and his eyes widened, surprised.

“I’m here to cheer my brother on, dumbass. But Newt, who’s this?” Sonya asked, gesturing towards you, her face full of curiosity. “You’re Newt? Newton Issaics?” you asked after a minute, and the boy nodded slowly. With a shake of the head, you slid the varsity jacket off and handed t to him with his hoodie. “These belong to you from the incident on Wednesday. Thanks again...Newt,” you said, eyeing him up and down. You wore high waisted black skinnies and a simple, baggy grey tank top. your hands went into your pockets, bumps appearing on your arms as the cool air hit you.

By this point, most of Newt’s teammates had gotten distracted. Gally was talking to en, Teresa was joking with Thomas and introducing Minho, and Sonya was talking to another guy, laughing and shaking her head. Newt looked at you curiously, slipping his varsity jacket back around your shoulders. “You’re cold. Give it back another time,” he decided, holding the hoodie you handed him still. With a crooked smile, you thanked him before looking down and glancing at the thin watch on your wrist. “Shit, gotta go. Nice meeting you, Issaics,” you grinned before turning to leave, jogging off.

“Wait!” Newt called, jogging a few feet, still a couple yards away from you. “Who are you? I never got a name and you somehow knew my full name, that’s a bit unfair,” Newt said, smiling slightly. You backed away, looking at him and raising your arms into a shrug, grinning wildly. “Guess you’ll have to wait to find out, Issaics!” you called, then continued running off.

It was already 9pm but you were in your car driving to Newt’s house. Mr. Blackburn had given you his address, his number, and his mother’s number. You had gotten a message from his mother asking if you could come over after his game so she could meet you. You were supposed to meet him before the game, but things came up. You agreed, deciding this would be a short meeting, only an hour, to meet everyone and discuss things.

So here you were, your car parked on the side of the street in front of a nice, decent sized two-story house, lights on and the front door open with only a glass door cutting the inviting house out from the nipping cold. You walked up to the door and were greeted almost instantly after knocking a couple of times. A short, lean woman who was maybe in her mid-40s appeared and instantly welcomed you in. You had taken off Newt’s varsity jacket and held it folded in your arm. The woman grinned and welcomed you enthusiastically, guiding you to a glass kitchen table that had a thin, white lace covering over it. On the table were 4 cups of steaming cocoa in it and a plate of cookies. You could already tell you would like Mrs. Issaics.

“Come in dear! Newton is just getting home now with his sister from his game, and his father will be coming down any minute now,” the woman smiled. She had light teddy brown hair, much like Newts. It was thin and cut right below her collar bones, framing her face in a welcoming, warm kind of way. She had small, thin hands that moved nimbly and gracefully, arranging a couple of folders and small stacks of paper. She was just explaining to you how much you tutoring him meant to her and her husband when said man joined you, holding a large, calloused hand out to greet you. He too was a thin man, but he was very tall and was muscular from head to toe. He looked maybe a couple years younger than his wife but neither showed their age all that much. He wore baggy dark brown dress pants and had a simple plaid shirt tucket into his pants, glasses hanging from said shirt pocket. He sat next to his wife and took a small drink from the cup, snatching a cookie while his wife continued to talk.

You listened quietly and patiently, smiling and nodding when appropriate. Mrs. Issaics had just checked her watch when the door opened. “Mom! Dad! I’m home, I dropped Sonya off at Brenda’s,” the voice called out, a small clatter being heard as shoes were slipped off and knocked against the wall and a heavy bag thud against the floor. Walking into the dining area, he paused. You looked over your shoulder and smiled, a mischievious glint in your eyes. Newt’s own eyes widened, and his breath caught for a second as he realized just whom was going to be his tutor.

“Newton, dean! come, sit! This is Y/N, she will be your tutor for French. I was just showing her some of your last tests and the paperwork Mr. Blackburn sent us last week,” his mother smiled kindy, gesturing tot he chair next to you, the last cup of hot chocolate inviting him. You yourself had been eating a simple sugar cookie, sipping away at the warm, creamy liquid that was too inviting to resist in your mug. “You,” he mumbled quietly, narrowing his eyes as he sat down next to you as if he were analyzing you. “How nice to meet you, Newton,” you smiled, the same glint in your eyes as you put a hand up to shake his own hand. He did so slowly, before taking a sip from his own mug.

“I was thinking that tonight, once we were all introduced, Y/N here could show us her skills in French. I’ve heard your fluent! I figured no tutoring tonight, just a bit of introduction and such, is that okay with you dear?” Mrs. Issaics asked, a hand resting over your wrist as she smiled at you an then glanced at Newt. Newt shrugged and you nodded polietly. “Yes, of course. And actually, ma’am, I am fluent in 4 languages and am learning my 5th,” you responded kindly to the woman. You felt the need and desire to impress her, to gain her acceptance, and you quickly did. “Oh! How amazing!” she gasped, amazed by the statement. Newt choked on his drink, sputtering for a moment. “Fifth?!” he asked incredulously and you simply nodded, throwing him a lopsided grin as your response.

After only an hour, you were headed home. Your mugs were empty, most of the cookies had been eaten, and you had learned enough interesting facts about the Issaics family for the night. Mr. Issaics told you about his travels and how he himself knew two languages, Mrs. Issaics discussed her work and how Mr. Blackburn’s wife had suggested you per the eager recommendation of her husband, and Newt... well, he was quietly mostly. You got to know them a bit, discussed meeting times, materials needed, and the best way to approach the need for studying and learning the language.

By the end of the night, you had an ‘appointment’ with Newt tomorrow at 3 o’clock that evening. You slipped the jacket onto his lap before leaving, smiling at him, throwing a silent thank you at him before leaving through the door. As you got back into your car, after shooting a text to your mother to let her know that you were leaving now and would see her soon, you couldn’t help but grin widely. Newt intrigued you. In a way, you thought that fate was a cruel person who had a weird sense of humor. But then you decided that the world was just an unexplainable place that made you tutor the boys who spilled milkshakes on your favorite band tank tops at your favorite ice cream parlor.

You were oddly for tomorrow. And as you climbed into bed, you hummed in a soft contentedness as you curled into your sheet. I’m going to teach that boy French if it’s the last thing I do, you decided before drifting off to sleep. And you were not easily led astray from things you committ to.

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