#i need to know if the person spoken to assumes its a weird fashion forward trend they are following

[myheartismadeofstars]

Okay I am still pretty knew to the hanfu community but I want to know: are Hanfu season specific like kimono are? Like would it look strange to wear hanfu with spring flowers on it in fall? I've looked for information on google but I don't find the right information. Obviously kimono is influenced by Hanfu but that seasonal thing could easily be something Japanese specific.

[turinn]

Naive

Ray Blackwell x M!Reader

Summary: An invitation at a party reveals that Luka had no idea you’re gay, and brings up a concern you hadn’t had before. Tags: Crack, fluff, secret relationship, mention of homophobia, alcohol consumption A/N: This is based on a dream I had where Luka and I had this exact conversation and when I woke up and remembered it I nearly threw up laughing. I did actual research for the girls outfit and hair bc im a fashion history nerd. the pocket watch i just thought was cute. Fenrir calls the reader fruity but its okay bc hes gay too god bless Word Count: 1.5k

The party was the usual affair expected of the Godspeed's, an air of elegance- present but not too overbearing- hanging over the large hall. Music drifted gently to your ears as you took everything in, a small smile settling on your face.

You couldn't help but feel a little underdressed. The officers had, of course, kept their uniforms on, but everyone else present was dressed to the nines. You'd thought the suit you wore was lovely when you and Seth had seen it last week, dark blue with a white trim, paired with a pale cyan tie and pocket square. The gold watch that settled comfortably in your pocket had been a gift from Blanc, supposedly made by Oliver to look similar to his own, to commemorate your decision to stay in Cradle. Compared to everyone else, it felt rather simple now, but you pushed the thought aside. Nobody was judging what you were wearing, they were here to enjoy themselves same as you.

"Would you like a drink?" Ray asked, voice soft enough not to startle you too much. This wasn't too effective, as you'd gotten lost in your thoughts, and sort of forgotten there were people around you, but it was kind of him to try. "Oh, yes, please." You smiled at him and a moment later he'd walked off, talking to Sirius about something, leaving you alone with Luka. Fenrir had disappeared to greet his family when you'd first arrived, and Seth was who knows where, but you didn't mind it being just the two of you. Luka rarely came to these, in fact this was the first he'd been to since you'd arrived in Cradle, despite it being your fifth, and you decided someone should stick with him so he didn't feel quite as nervous.

As you turned to say something to him, you noticed a lady making her way over to the both of you, looking rather flustered. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and she seemed to be muttering something to herself, but it was clear she had intent to speak to one of you. Perhaps she wanted to talk to Luka? He was cute, it wouldn't surprise you. What did surprise you, however, was when she walked up to you instead.

"Um, excuse me if this is far too forward, but... would you be interested in dancing with me?" She sounded so nervous, and you almost wanted to say yes. Any other man would have been lucky to get such an invitation- she looked stunning. She wore her hair in curls, gathered at the back of her neck, with a hairpiece of pale blue flowers was pinned at the front, a necklace donning the same type of flower hanging just above the neckline of her gown. The gown in question matched the colour of the flowers well, though the width of the crinoline supported skirt would have made you concerned about the logistics of dancing with her- if you'd had any intention of saying yes. Her cheeks were tinted pink as she chewed her bottom lip and waited for your answer, avoiding your gaze. A hand on your chest and a sincerely apologetic look on your face, you began to respond. "Oh dear. I'm terribly sorry, but you seem to have gotten the wrong end of the stick. You're a very attractive young lady but I'm afraid... how should I put this," You glanced at Luka for help, but he seemed to have no idea what you were trying to tell her, "I'm afraid I don't tend to set my eye on the ladies, so to speak." "You're... gay?" A sympathetic nod. "That's the ticket. Sorry, love." "Oh, it's not a problem! I'm really sorry to have bothered you!" She suddenly looked much less nervous, though a little embarrassed, and scurried off. You sighed. "I feel a little bad. I really hope she finds someone to dance with." Luka looked at you quizzically. "Why did you lie to her?" A confused laugh escaped you. "I'm sorry?" "You told her you were into guys. Why lie?" As he said this, Seth and Fenrir came up behind him, and hearing his question their eyebrows shot up. So did yours. Was he kidding? "Luka, sweetie, you have got to tell me what part of my personality made you think I was heterosexual, so I can set about changing it immediately." Seth choked on his drink, and though you flashed him a grin, you weren't entirely kidding. Going from Victorian London to a world where being gay was perfectly acceptable had been quite the change, but you'd been certain all of your friends had known. It's not like you were quiet about it, and sure, Luka was naive but... come on, now. "Wait are you... you were being honest?" "Yes?" "Luka," Fenrir began, stepping next to you and resting an elbow on your shoulder, "How have you seriously not noticed that he's gay yet?" "Well- there was no reason for me to assume!" "You watched me drunk make out with at least 2 different Black Army soldiers in my first month here!" Luka looked flustered, and utterly dumbfounded. The expression was one he wore often, usually when people insinuated that someone was in love- but somehow about five times more confused. He was unfortunate enough that Ray and Sirius returned at this moment, just in time to hear both your last remark, and his next one.

"I thought that was just something you did when you were drunk?" In another moment you were on your knees, legs shaking so much from laughter that you couldn't hold yourself up any longer. Fenrir was right there beside you, practically convulsing. Everyone else was laughing too- except poor Luka. You felt a little bad, truly you did, but this had to be the funniest thing you had ever heard. "He's completely straight, but watch out! Get a couple drinks in him and he turns fruity!" Fenrir managed to get out between cackles, and Ray was glad to have put your drinks down when Luka had last spoken, because he too nearly fell to the ground at this.

"Luka- Luka I'm sorry." You pulled yourself to your feet, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "We aren't laughing at you." Another fit of giggles overcame you. "Okay we kind of are, but it's not malicious or anything. That was just... hands down the funniest thing you've ever said." It took most of you 5 or so minutes to fully calm down from what he'd said, and anything that jogged your memories of it would bring you back to a state of uncontrollable laughter for the rest of the night. Luka came round to it being pretty funny after you talked him through the dozens of times you'd mentioned your sexuality to him since you'd met- every one of which had gone over his head.

Hours after the party had worn down and you'd all made your way home, you lay in bed, your head pressed against a familiar chest, and sighed. "What's up?" "I just... D'you think anyone else just hasn't realised?" Ray cocked his head, confused. "I'm gonna need a little more info than that, kitten." "I suppose I just... Back in London, it's not even legal to be gay, and I don't know if it ever will be. When I first came out to Fen, he told me that it was fine here, accepted and even celebrated. So, I guess I just thought that people wouldn't make the automatic assumption that I'm straight, y'know? I mean I talk about it a lot among you guys but- when I’m out and about... where do people think my final destination is? When I pick up a silly cat themed gift for you does the shopkeep think I’m buying it for my wife? It shouldn't be a big deal, I guess, but I'd never been able to be myself until I came here, and now it's like I can be me but... people will still only see who I am if I tell them. It's just weird is all. I dunno. Maybe I'm drunk." "You're not drunk. It's an understandable concern. I guess I've never thought about it, because whether or not people would accept that part of me has never been an issue, but the fact that you've had to hide it for so long and now that you're able to be open people still aren't seeing it must be hard. If you want we could... come out, so to speak?" Your eyebrows raised, and you moved back, propping yourself up on your arm so you could look your partner in the eyes.

It had been decided at the very start of your relationship, which had officially begun a few months after you'd made the choice to stay in Cradle, that the two of you would keep it under wraps for a while. Being from the Land of Reason was more than enough reason for people to take an unwanted interest in you, and you didn't need the extra attention being the King of Spades' partner would garner. Plus, anyone with a grudge against Ray would see you as a target the second you announced it. It had been a sensible suggestion on his part, one you hadn't hesitated to agree to, and as far as you knew only Sirius and Fenrir knew about your relationship. Fenrir because he had walked in on you sitting in Ray's lap while he worked late one night, and Sirius because- well, can anything get past that guy? And now, Ray was offering to tell the entirety of Cradle you were his, just so that you didn't feel like you were hiding your identity anymore? You could feel your eyes starting to burn, and you cursed the late hour and the alcohol in your system for making you cry so easily, but... "I don't think we need to be that drastic. You were right when you said it would keep me safe for us to not be in the public eye, at least for now. I'm sure Seth can come up with some better way for me to tell the whole world I'm gay." "I don't doubt that at all." Ray grinned, placing a gentle kiss on first your forehead, then your nose, and finally on your lips. "Tomorrow, though. You need your beauty sleep." "Ah, yeah, can't risk getting ugly. My boyfriend might not want me anymore." You quipped. "Exactly." He smirked at you, turning out the light and pulling you into his arms.

[photiniainsummer]

A Little Audience Participation Can Tip the Scales (1/?): The Lede

Genre: GenFic - Action, Mystery, Humor

Rating: Teen and Up

Story Summary: There’s a strange group living at the old Markiplier Manor.

They’re the villains of their tales, they’re looking for information, and they need your help putting Mark’s scattered egos back together to get their lives back.

And stop Mark and the Entity breaking reality.

Small goals.

(Second Person POV, vaguely fem-coded Reader)

Chapter Summary: The one where your cheeky coworker convinces you to check out the old Markiplier Manor with him.

Word Count: 5372

Author's Note: Decided to cross-post from my Ao3! The next three chapters are already up, and I try to post every Tuesday. :3

Interested?

Read on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30510852/chapters/75244647

The Lede

You watch amusedly from your desk as Jonah, your coworker-slash-mentor and partner in crime, comes bustling through the door to the reporters’ bullpen. He’s late, as usual, his half-open messenger bag slung across his rumpled self. Scribbled-on papers and even his laptop haphazardly jut out from the bag as he struggles to balance a breakfast sandwich on his thermos. Sometimes, all he had to do was exist to make you nervous. He starts to make his way across to you and your neighboring desks but is intercepted by the resident office mom for what she calls a “good old fashioned talking-to.” She’s always trying to tenderly bully him into being a better example for the junior reporters like yourself, although you have to wonder why she keeps it up despite its clearly limited efficacy. It’s not even that Jonah’s particularly stubborn - he’s just one of those people who, no matter how early he leaves home or how hard he tries, something just so happens to make him late. You can see how it would seem intentional, but you know Jonah’s too honest and, frankly, not creative enough to come up with the plethora of scenarios that conspire against him. You’ve just learned to tell Jonah to show up at least half an hour before you actually want him to.

Eleanor, however, is committed to whipping Jonah into shape. In the midst of her chiding, Jonah catches your gaze and pulls an awful face, startling a laugh out of you. Eleanor, of course, seizes on this and switches to berating him about listening when spoken to as you try to pull your attention back to scanning the morning news. He really knows how to dig himself in deeper, you think, chewing your lip to keep from laughing at the memory of his terrible expression.

“Don’t even start,” Jonah grumbles when he finally extracts himself from Eleanor’s chastising, sliding into his desk across from you. “You heard it, she already ran the full gamut this morning.” You give him your best shocked look.

“Who, me? No idea what you’re talking about,” you reply coolly, punctuating your tease by exaggeratedly returning to your work and clattering at your keyboard. “I was just going to ask how your morning went.” Jonah groans, but his lips tug upward in his typical crooked smile. At least he’d managed to shave without cutting himself this morning, you note.

“Ugh. Just because you were born able to wake up five minutes before your alarm doesn’t mean the rest of us were. Besides, I was up listening to the scanner.” Now it’s your turn to groan.

“That thing again? It’s barely legal for you to have one here, even Walker said as much.” Your boss and head editor had given Jonah his patented disapproving brow-furrow and pressed-lip combo when it had come up in conversation, but he hadn’t explicitly told the crime reporter to get rid of it, either. Jonah argued it kept him ahead of the curve on his beat, but with as many connections as he had, you suspected he used it more for the thrill of it than bettering his job performance. “What was so interesting last night, anyway? Any high-speed chases?”

“Not in our limits, unfortunately.” Jonah chuckles at your unamused expression, popping the lid on his thermos. “Kidding, come on. No, it was quiet last night, except… well.” He pauses, something changing in his expression. It’s enough to pull your attention away from your inbox. Jonah’s a goofball, but he’s a damn good reporter with a mind like a whip. He has to be, to be head of the crime division. So you take it seriously when he casts his eyes around the office before leaning in conspiratorially. His voice is hushed as he murmurs to you. “Someone called in that they saw a suspicious person skulking around the old Markiplier Manor.”

You immediately lose interest. That was news to him? The Manor had been abandoned as long as you had been alive, long since off the market after being passed from renovator to developer for most of its nearing-hundred year existence. Even with calls for it to be turned into some kind of museum, it had never been able to shake its grisly past or tendency for the strange. You’d heard the stories of the few historic maintenance crews dealing with randomly exploding lightbulbs and eerie spectres, disembodied voices and footsteps - but that’s all they were, stories. Stories from a creepy, old, run-down house on the edge of town. It was a hotspot for teenagers wanting to prove their guts - hell, you had even gone with a couple of friends back in high school, although you had been busted by a roving patrol car. You sigh at the memory of just how badly your mom had berated you about breaking curfew and fix Jonah with a disappointed look. He was immature at the worst of times, but you thought he’d at least be able to tell a lead from normal shenanigans. “That was exciting enough to make you late for the third time this week? You’re supposed to be a senior reporter around here, you know.” Jonah huffs, leaning forward on his desk and closer to you. He seems intent, despite your skepticism.

“Well, if you’d let me finish explaining, then you might know why such an on-time and dedicated individual such as yours truly would have let the time slip away from him,” he replies, sarcasm curling his tone. A quip rises on your tongue that he was the one drawing it out so much, but Jonah has a certain glint in his eyes. Something had his attention. You finally turn from your computer monitor and to face him, only slightly exasperated.

“Okay, okay. Listening.”

The man grins slightly and shifts his weight further forward on his elbows, keeping his voice down as he continues. “All right, so, PD gets this call from a neighbor that they saw someone wandering around on the property, yeah? They send an officer to check it out - of course, nobody’s around by the time he shows up. But the weird thing is… they found all the lights on inside.”

You blink, sure you missed something. “Like. Shop lights, right? There’s some construction crew working on it, or… they called in an appraiser and they forgot to turn them off.” Jonah shakes his head.

“Nope. Light fixtures. Every single one with a bulb in was blazing. And no crews or anything, I called the agency that owns the place. The last pro they had in there was over four years ago. There’s a security guard that checks it out regularly, but the power’s been off for years.”

You furrow your brow and sit in thoughtful silence for a moment, hunched and staring at your desk as you puzzle over the details. Jonah watches you intently while you think, taking the chance to work on his massive thermos of coffee, so strong you could smell it across your desks. He’d done this since you’d joined the paper, assuming the role of your mentor, at least informally. He would offer you the details of a story or curious anecdote that he’d started with and watch your mind run. You had always appreciated the exercise - it kept you sharp in dealing with local politics and its various mealy-mouthed players - and he appreciated getting a second pair of eyes on the issue at hand. Sometimes you picked up on things he hadn’t, ran rabbits he might not have. Working the inside of your cheek between your teeth, you roll the details over in your mind, hunting for another explanation as Jonah hunted for the bottom of his thermos. Something didn’t sit right with you about the details, but what?

Suddenly, you land on it, sitting up suddenly and turning to Jonah, who lifts his eyebrows at you. “The neighbor that made the call, did they mention the lights, or just someone wandering around outside?” His face breaks into a pleased smile, eyes dancing with the curiosity of the problem before the two of you.

“Nice catch. They didn’t mention the lights at all, just the trespasser.”

“So the lights got turned on between the neighbor making the call and the officer showing up.” Jonah’s smile turns into a real grin, cheeks split with it.

“Exactly. But why?” The other reporter leans back in his chair with a sigh. “That’s what kept me up, and made me late. Again.” He sips his coffee idly. “And it’s why I’m going to check it out for myself tonight.”

“What?” Jonah jumps in his chair with the volume of your exclaimation, quickly shushing you as he looks around in a panic. He can’t be serious, you think, but lower your voice. What is he being so low-key about? “No, Jonah, you absolutely can not go poking around some abandoned house.” He settles somewhat, content that nobody cast a glance your way after your outburst. Most of your colleagues are already out on assignments, anyway, given the later hour. But he’s determined, unfazed by your forbiddance.

“And why not? I’m just following a lead.” You open your mouth to protest further, but he interrupts. “Oh, come on, you aren’t a little curious to see what’s going on? What’s the harm, the cops just checked it out, it’s totally safe.” That gleeful glint is back in his eyes. How it thrills and infuriates you in equal measure.

“Seriously? Someone could be squatting there, and the cops just didn’t find them. Someone tapping a neighbor’s powerline and clearly not in their right mind, if they’re turning every light on in the place. Besides, even if it is empty, they could have a patrol posted on it now.” Jonah’s excitement begins to fade in the face of your barrage of facts. “If that agency still owns it, then it’s private, posted property, and you’d be actively breaking the law.” He sucks his teeth and slumps back in his chair, somewhat defeated.

“You’re no fun. Where’s your reporter’s spirit, your drive!” You turn back to your computer, shaking your head as you try to refocus on catching up with your inbox.

“Getting arrested for trespassing and/or breaking and entering isn’t ‘reporter’s spirit,’ Jo. You’re not Nancy Drew, you can’t just start poking your nose around abandoned buildings. It’s not safe.”

Jonah pauses for a moment, then gets an annoyingly knowing grin on his face. He leans forward again, good humor returning. “Ohhhh, so you’re scared is what I’m hearing.”

You huff in exasperation. “Literally how is that the conclusion you’re drawing from what I just said? I told you--”

“You’re the one who said ‘safe’! That means you think it might be dangerous and you’re scared.”

“Yeah, for your job and general well-being. Seriously, Jonah, I’m not scared of some abandoned house. Just because a couple of people happened to get murdered there--”

“Ah ah ah, they only found one body. The Mayor and the District Attorney were missing, assumed dead. Same for the killer.”

“Okay, Mr. Nitpicky. You you that’s even less scary, right? But, regardless, none of that makes the place inherently dangerous or scary. Hospitals aren’t scary, at least not like that, and people die there all the time.”

Jonah doesn’t immediately reply, giving you the opportunity to hammer out a reply to a scheduling issue and push your lunch meeting with the Senator back an hour. How did her assistant manage to double book her? you wonder as your reply zooms off. When you get the chance to look back to your coworker, he has a wry, sneaky little smile on his face. “What?”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” You shake your head. He really isn’t giving this up. “Fine, if you’re soooo not scared, then I dare you to come check it out with me tonight.”

“Absolutely not, did you forget about the illegal part? We aren’t kids, this isn’t just messing around after school. It could look bad for the paper, and you know Walker as well as I do - there’s no second chances.”

Jonah pauses. Mulling over your words, the threat of being fired. Then, “I’ll buy you dinner from that new Japanese place uptown.”

Visions of high-end sushi dance enticingly in your mind. Your stomach threatens to growl, with it being the end of the month and your bank account looking dismally light. Jonah always knows how to hook you, damn him. It doesn’t help that you knew from that look on his face that he knew you were already burning up inside with curiosity. The two of you were peas in a pod, and he had seen that since your first day at the paper. It was exactly why he’d gotten you set up as his desk neighbor, why he’d taken it upon himself to play mentor for you, probably why he was telling you any of this in the first place, despite how low-profile he clearly wanted to stay. You were going to be at that Manor tonight as soon as Jonah had heard the cop call in over the scanner. You sigh quietly through your nose, letting the decision sink in before you make it official.

“Fine. What time?” you ask, not looking away from your screen. Despite trying to ignore him, you could still see Jonah’s joyous fist-pump out of the corner of your eye.

What’s the harm in a little urban exploring, anyway? At least I’ll be there to keep Jonah from going too far with it, you muse to yourself, already planning your celebratory dinner.

What’s the worst that could happen?

---

Even after three years of working closely with Jonah Scott, you still managed to underestimate just how late he could be. You had agreed to meet at the foot of the Manor’s drive at Jonah-time 5:30, 6 sharp for normal people. However, it’s already pushing half-past with no apology text or update to speak of from the crime reporter. Wasn’t this his stupid plan? you mentally grumble, fruitlessly checking your phone again. At this point, your text conversation was fully one-sided, your messages over the last thirty-ish minutes taking up the entirety of your screen. With a defeated sigh, you flick the app shut and slide over to your ridesharing app. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to stick around, and with the sun setting quickly, like hell you’re going to willingly hang around the abandoned Manor longer than you have to.

As you scan available drivers, you consider just how to make Jonah pay for standing you up. You mentally upgrade your promised sushi meal straight into a sushi boat, and although you know you don’t have the heart to commit to such an egregious attack on his wallet, the thought brings a smile to your face. At the very least, you decide to charge him the cost of your rides to and from the massive property - the place is barely in the city limits, not to mention situated up a long road that only led into an almost equally long driveway. Your already light bank account was begging for mercy as you select a nearby driver. Of course it was surge pricing, to boot. The estimated ride cost is enough to make you pause and hope beyond hope that Jonah and his old jalopy were right around the corner. Maybe his phone had just died. Or maybe he was being a particularly safe driver and ignoring his texts. You decide to give it another couple of minutes, if just to make sure you had no other option but to pay through the nose for a ride home. With a sigh, you turn back towards the Manor itself, its exposed-rock exterior catching the burning sunset.

It doesn’t even look that creepy. Really, with the warmth of the setting sun, it almost looks inhabited, just in limbo between relying on daylight and its residents needing to turn the lights on for the evening. The grounds are well-maintained, too, likely thanks to a strict HOA. You figure that if neighbors are paying enough attention to report people wandering around the property despite how spaced out the houses are here, there’s likely a resident weed-measurer who complains as soon as the yard breaches an acceptable length.

That being said, the building itself barely looks like a home. Although you had brushed up on its appearance and floorplan online, images couldn’t prepare you for just how much it really looks like a castle. You knew its creator, Mark Iplier, had been a fabulously wealthy actor back in the day, building his first house to match, but good lord. There’s still such a thing as too much. It has turrets, for crying out loud. Not to mention Google Earth showed that the massive patio that wrapped around practically the entirety of the backside of the building was home to some kind of natural waterfall-looking pool and a life-sized chessboard. It had been impressive online, but in real life, the place is enormous to the point of ridiculousness.

I guess it matches its creator, then, you muse, considering what you had gleaned from a scan of a few biographical entries earlier in the day. He was a local legend, to be sure, but you had never learned more about him than surface stuff and the details of the murder case that had basically ended his career. Before all that, though, Mark had been the embodiment of every stereotype you could muster about early 20th century new-money creatives -- massive personalities with a penchant for equally massive parties. As beloved as he had been on stage and film, he’d been even more so in social circles, known for all-night ragers with massive multisection big bands, ample liquor even in the height of Prohibition, and occasionally the exotic animal or two. Famously, Mark had once arrived at a costume party on the back of an elephant, led by four retainers and dressed like a prince, swathed in silks.

In that context, the house seemed to make a bit more sense, although it had clearly seen better days. The paint on wrought-iron fence surrounding the grounds needs a fresh coat, peeled off in places; you can see a few shutters hanging lopsidedly from their hinges. It’s almost sad, the longer you look at it, especially knowing the revelry it had once hosted. Mark’s own life mirrored the place, as cliche as it was. After the incident, Mark never seemed able to recover. Even the few pictures you had found of him afterwards looked different - he seemed thinner, his eyes haunted, his smile forced. He’d appeared in a handful of films after the fact, but something had changed in him, and he ended up becoming somewhat of a recluse until his death. It was horribly tragic, really. Just trying to put yourself in his shoes had your throat tightening up a bit. Your childhood friend goes off the deep end and goes on a rampage out of nowhere with the rest of your closest friends as casualties - a freak incident right as you’re hitting your stride--

Suddenly, your phone breaks out into its ringtone, startling you out of your empathetic wallowing. You fumble the device in your hand just to keep a grip on it, cursing as you manage to maintain your hold. You check the screen - a local number, but you don’t recognize it. You answer anyway, crossing your fingers it’s not just a spoof call. “Hello?”

Jonah’s voice crackles through on the other end. “Kid! Hey, I’m so sorry-”

“You better have a damn good explanation lined up, Scott,” you snap, interrupting. “Where the hell are you?”

“God, I know, I’m sorry, I’ve been trying to get home for the last hour to call you. My car practically blew up in my face on my way home from work, and it must have been something electrical because my phone was connected and charging and got totally fried. It was kind of working for a second, but I just had to give up and come home in a taxi. I’m having to use an emergency landline, I can’t believe the damn thing even works.” The annoyance drains from your body, his tone so disappointed and clearly stressed that you can’t keep a hold on your frustration.

“Oh, Jo. I’m sorry. Are you okay, though? It didn’t shock you or anything, right?”

“No, thank god, no hospital bills on top of everything else. Look, I’m really sorry. Are you still out there?”

“Yeah, I was just about to get a ride home when you called.”

“Oh, awesome, so have you gone in?!” You scoff out of reflex, stunned at his emotional 180. If he was here, you’d give him a good pop on the head.

“What? No, Jonah, of course I didn’t go in! This was your plan, I was waiting on you to roll your goofy ass up this stupid hill. You’re lucky this place is out of the way, I bet the neighborhood association would have called the cops on me by now if the houses were any closer,” you grump down the line. Jonah’s laugh crackles on the other end.

“Lucky’s my middle name, especially today, right? Look, I know I already owe you big, but can’t you just slip in and take a look around? Like hell I’m gonna be able to afford getting a ride out there any time soon, and you’re already there… Just see if the door’s unlocked or something, look in some windows?” He’s really begging, now, and his tone melts your resolve. How does he do that every time? You sigh heavily, crossing your arms and peering up at the manor. Its large, dark windows stand out against the lighter stone as the sunlight truly begins to fade. They feel like eyes, looking down at you from the top of the hill. It sends a shiver up your spine.

“Jonah, you know I value you as a dear friend and colleague, but... Fine, look, this place is creepy, I admit it, I’m a chicken, I’m scared of the creepy murder house, can’t we just come back some other time when we’re a we and not just a me?” Although your rushed confession is half joking, it’s obvious Jonah isn’t fully engaged. He only gives a short laugh in response before you hear him shift the phone a bit, pausing. Thinking. It feels like an age before he speaks again, the crickets beginning their evening song in the interim.

Then, “Look, Vivian, I. I haven’t been straight-up with you. Yeah, the scanner was going off last night, but the truth is I’ve... been thinking about that place for months. Remember that puff piece about Mark, the retrospective Devontae put up a couple months ago?”

You shift your weight, turning away from the manor and its looming walls to focus on your friend’s voice. His tone had seriously shifted. This is Real Talk time. “Yeah, sure. The board killed it. It was weird, especially since it was his death-iversary, right? But… I dunno, Jo, that’s not enough to--”

“I talked with my friends at the Star, their board nixed a retrospective, too. So did the Inquirer, the Daily, and the Herald. Not to mention anything having to do with Mark for at least the last couple of years. I checked Walker’s record cabinet, too. Anything mentioning Mark, that night, his life after… hell, even the Manor, everything is heavily edited. Anything even adjacently referencing his existence is lucky if his name doesn’t get cut.”

You draw up short. A bit of concrete is loose underneath your feet, rocking slightly with you as you shift your weight from foot to foot. What is he getting at? “I mean. Yeah, okay, that’s pretty weird, but maybe… I dunno, maybe the board doesn’t want to bring up a dark moment like that, or more likely, they don’t wanna openly admit the town hasn’t been able to get their shit together about the Manor and make it into something other than an eyesore all this time later. You know at least half of them take board work as their victory lap after a glorious public service career,” you offer, laying it on thick. Jonah hums, considering it.

“Could be. But still, kind of a personal bent for an editorial board to take, no? Even for them. And it’s not just our board, it’s consistent across the papers.”

“But nothing that awful happened to warrant this. I mean, sure, his buddy killed a detective and presumably a couple of friends in his house, that’s sad, but… Mark wasn’t involved. He didn’t do anything, at least, nothing bad enough to make everyone decide it’d be better if he just didn’t exist.”

“Nothing that we know about,” he offers, quieter. Your blood chills.

“...you think something else happened? Something worse?” Jonah is silent for a moment. His next words are careful.

“Maybe. I don’t know. But I think what happened at the Manor has more to do with Mark than he wanted people to think, more than reports let on. And that, whatever really happened, it’s something bad enough that even now, this long after everything and even him passing over two decades ago, someone’s keen to keep it covered up.”

You’re quiet, mind reeling. You were a local, you knew as well as anyone that all of this stuff is treated more like an urban legend than true local history. It’s almost larger than life, at this point; you had heard the story told and retold a thousand times over until the telling itself was smooth and simple. Mark, fresh off a successful play’s run, had invited over his old university buddies for a night of good old fashioned revelry and reconciliation after years of petty disagreements had crescendoed with his wife cheating on him with his oldest friend, the Colonel WIlliam J. Barnum. However, little was resolved, and adding alcohol to the mix turned out to be deadly. Tensions between the group came to a head the next day, and the Colonel snapped. His rampage ended in the death of the city’s leading detective and, presumably, two of the original group’s members, although their bodies were never found, seemingly dumped in the woods behind the Manor. The Colonel’s attempt to cover up his crime left the others a chance to escape and alert the police, but the killer, too, disappeared, and was never heard from again.

It feels like a well-worn path in your mind. Nobody ever questioned Mark’s innocence in everything - it was assumed. He had just been there, equally terrorized by the killer as the other victims. But exact details had never emerged to the public, and Mark had been reticent to ever speak of things. The missing guests, too, were just so easily presumed dead at the hands of their friend, their mysterious disappearances more like eerie window-dressing on a ghost story than a suspicious hole in an otherwise tightly-woven story.

Maybe not so tightly, since now that you can see the holes, it’s hard to ignore them.

The tender inside of your cheek aches from your teeth worrying it, bitten raw. You swallow your thoughts for a moment, trying to return to the conversation. Jonah’s been equally quiet, letting you puzzle. “...and you think the Manor has some clue to that? To what might have… really happened?”

“...that’s my working theory. Mark left the place so quickly after everything, it’s still full of his stuff. He didn’t want anything to do with it, wanted to start fresh. Technically, the local historical society owns it all, now, but you know what their funding is like, so it’s all just sitting around. I figure, in his rush, he left something behind that can give us an idea of what we’re missing. Besides, reports of weird stuff happening there has been on an uptick.” You suck your teeth, feeling some of the edge of the conspiracy theory-laiden tension fade.

“Massive media blackout, I can run with. But, what, you think there are ghosts that have something to do with it?”

Jonah groans. “I never said ghosts, specifically, but… come on, kid, you have to admit it’s weird.”

“It’s practically a hundred-year old house, of course it’s weird - the wires are probably all way out of code and nobody’s been in the place in ages.”

“Okay, okay, maybe it’s a stretch,” he admits, retreating from the point. “I’m just looking for patterns. We don’t have a lot to go on, in terms of hard information. Which is why getting in there is so important.” He’s turning toward pleading again. “Please, kid, it’d mean the damn world to me if you’d just take a look around. I’ve got no idea when I’ll be able to get out there myself. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.” You know he wouldn’t, he’s always been considerate of your time and comfort. Really, Jonah is one of the best friends you’ve had, coworker element aside. It makes it horribly hard to say no to him. Which is why whatever reservations you’re still holding on to cave in the face of his honesty.

“...okay. I’ll go poke around. But you seriously, seriously owe me for this one.” You can practically hear Jonah smile on the other end.

“Seriously, I do. Thank you, kid, honestly.” He sounds relieved, taking a steadying breath. Was he really so worried you’d say no? “And take pictures if you see anything!” he quickly adds.

“Only if you call the cops if I don’t call you back in an hour. If there’s someone in there, Jonah, I--”

“Hey, hey, I promise. I’ll stay right by the phone. Cross my heart.”

You sigh quietly to yourself. “All right, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, kid, and seriously. Thank you.” He sounds painfully sincere. You can’t summon up the spite to gripe at him anymore, so you let yourself be equally honest.

“I’ve got you, Jo. You know that.”

“Yeah. I know. Okay, I’m gonna let you go. Just be careful.”

“I will be.”

Then the line goes dead and your phone beeps dully before returning to your ridesharing app. You stare at it for a second, before you swipe up and close the app completely. No way you were going to chicken out now. Apart from Jonah’s confession, your mind was on fire. Sure, you could go home and just apologize to Jonah, but you know you’d be awake all night, tossing and trying to turn over the truth thanks to your limited information but unlimited curiosity. It wasn’t just his skepticism polluting your mind, either, there was definitely something missing from the narrative. Almost like the incident was too well-put-together, the reports from back then too careful with their words, what they didn’t say. Real crimes were messy because people were messy - their memories faulty, their behavior unpredictable and sloppy, even more so when under duress. But everything about the case and its retelling was clean. Neat.

It might as well have been wrapped up with a bow.

With nothing else between you and the Manor besides the peeling gate, you turn back to face its imposing exterior. Although the house had glowed softly in the setting sun, the rock reflecting the light so warmly, it had faded to a soft gray in the twilight. The windows are obviously dark and empty, now, their size exaggerated by the deepening of shadows as the sun slipped behind the horizon. You stare up at them, watching them back through the locked front gate from your tottering bit of pavement. You take another breath in, out. Then you square your shoulders and step up to the gate.

“It’s just a creepy old house,” you mutter, worming yourself between the wide bars. “Nobody inside, just a weird… big house. ” Nonetheless, a shiver goes down your spine when you’re through and the lawn stretches out before you and up to the front door. You crane your neck towards the nearest neighbor, but their windows were dark, too.

So why does it feel like someone’s watching you?

[no-d4y-but-tod4y]

Thanks to @betsysinlove for the tag on her wonderful piece!

The rules are the same as last time!

Enjoy!

———

Love Is Blind: Episode Two

Alma tapped her pen against the spiral bound notebook in her hand. She scrutinised the handwritten notes that had accumulated throughout the experiment. A couple of redeeming qualities here, a few witty one-liners that made her laugh there. A big fat NO over the slimy man that gave her the creeps - she had scribbled out what little she recorded until the pen ran out of ink.

Nobody in the potential list held a candle to Frankie.

She’d been looking forward to seeing him all day. Eventually he would walk in to her pod (they told her to stay in one place this time and let the men come to her) and that’s what spurred her on.

When she lay on her back, listening to the chirpy sportsman talk about his athletic achievements, she wondered if Frank was at all competitive. When the blanket cocooning her made her feel safe and secure whilst enduring disgusting “womanly expectations”, she consoled herself with the thought that at least Frank had made it out of the 1800’s. When her date didn’t reply to anything with more than a one word answer, she longed for Frank because she knew he would have taken a huge interest in her and what she had to say.

‘Okay, Alma,’ the voice of a crew member caught her attention as he let himself into the room. ‘Thank you for your time today, we got some great footage. We don’t need to go over anything else so you...are done!’

‘I’m done?’

‘And dusted. Shall I take you back to the common room?’ He blinked. ‘You’re looking confused.’

‘That can’t be. I haven’t seen all of my dates yet.’

Now it was his turn to look confused. ‘We’re on a tight schedule so that should be everyone...’ he flipped through a cluster of pages on his clipboard while Alma fought off a certain degree of panic. ‘No, you’re definitely finished. We don’t have anyone else lined up to see you today.’

‘But what about - I wanted a second date with-.’ She stopped, for fear of crying.

‘With...?’

‘Frankie. Frankie, you must know who I’m talking about. Thick plummy accent, likes to drink Old Fashioned cocktails?’

‘Oh right. Him.’ The crew member wore an expression that Alma couldn’t quite read but didn’t like. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but to go on a second date you both have to agree.’

That painful sinking feeling was all too familiar. Of being punched in the gut and a large rock forcing its way down the throat and into the stomach. She felt her face getting hot and dearly wanted the man to go away and let her cry in peace.

Deep down she didn’t expect a different outcome. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

She was shaking all over on her walk back to the common room. She forced a fake smile and invented many wonderful dates to keep up with the other girls. When the time came she climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head.

Only then, away from the cameras, did the tears well up and spill over.

———

Frank stared at his notebook, fluffy pen in hand.

I have not seen Alma for two days. I am starting to get bad again.

The skinny men in black t-shirts and wireless headsets came to tell him Alma was ill, too ill to see him that day. He was sympathetic at first. Poor little thing, he thought, feeling poorly and being away from home is a simply rotten combination. He sent positive thoughts to his endearing first date and wished her a speedy recovery.

But it happened again the next day, and this time he wasn’t quite so understanding.

If she was too sickly to even sit up and hold a simple conversation, what on Earth was she still doing on set? He had exceptional hearing, the sound of a veichle driving away no matter how distant would have caught his attention. She should be at home, where she would be taken care of. Come to think of it, he didn’t know where the medical unit was. Or if they even had one...

Frank was mooching all of this over in the common room, not really listening to anything the rest of them had to say. Which didn’t stray from the norm but at least he had a reason this time.

‘I think they allocated me a mute today. I barely got two words out of her. I can’t even remember her name. Olga, or something.’

‘Alma?’

‘Yes! Have you been on a date with her too?’

‘I think once, at the start of the experiment, but I hear she’s the reason that guy disappeared.’

‘I heard a rumour that he got arrested.’

Frank was so flabbergasted that he remained speechless for the first few moments. Upon making the connection between Alma, another man and a law that may have been broken, he snapped to attention.

‘Say that again?’ He leaned forwards, crossing his right leg over the left. ‘What happened?’

The man to start the conversation gave him a weird look. ‘Haven’t you noticed? That guy, the older man with the expensive suits. He was here one day and gone the next and the word is that this Alma was the last girl to be in the pod with him.

‘And,’ continued another, ‘I overheard the producers talking amongst themselves and from what I could pick out it may have been a legal obligation.’

Frank stared back at them with an expression akin to a sex doll. He could feel his mouth hanging open and his eyes unblinking but he was so lost for words he couldn’t even think straight.

Not only had Alma not fallen ill (therefore he’d caught the producers in a blatant lie) she’d had an altercation in which someone...tried to hurt her?

‘How could a crime have been committed when two people are separated by an impenetrable wall?

‘Oh, you never know, it only takes one thing. My guess is she reported him for something and they had to look into it by law and found something else.’

‘Me personally I didn’t like him, I thought he was a bit weird and too old to be on a show like this. It just came off as strange.’

Frank thought hard and tried to remember the man in question. He sat back and listened most days. Observed. However most of the time he fell into a daydream and didn’t realised he’d zoned out until there was no point zoning back in. A vague memory came to mind of spotting a tiny gold cufflink winking at him in the middle of the floor, but it ended there. One could safely assume it belonged to the vanished man if he’d already been cited as wearing expensive suits.

He was confused, but also felt a strong rage. Who would dare try and hurt his sweet little Alma?

He excused himself and entered the small room in which they made their video diaries.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ Frank demanded of the glassy lens staring at him. ‘I have a few things I’d like to discuss.’

He immediately recognised the man who’d briefed him before going into meet Alma on the first day. He stepped into the room with an arrogant smile on his face.

‘Hey, Finn, what’s going-?’

‘It’s Frank,’ he growled. ‘Why the fuck did you lie to me?’

‘Okay, first of all I won’t be spoken to like that-.’

‘And I will not be taken for a fool. You told me Alma was ill, too ill to sit up straight, yet I’ve got three men talking about their encounters with her today! And what’s this about unnerving men and jail time?’

———

Alma glanced over at the table stocked with Absolut, orange juice, an ice bucket and fresh orange slices. Because she didn’t drink anything else, the team left her the ingredients to make her vodka and orange herself, yet she didn’t feel like drinking it when it only reminded her of Frankie.

No stranger to the real world, Alma knew you can’t always get what you want. After letting herself get very upset she consoled herself with the thought that at least Frankie would find someone in the end.

Maudlin and disingenuous, she knew that.

It still would have hurt but it wouldn’t have been such an embarrassment if he’d just told her. She felt stupid and naive for letting herself feel so happy and excited. To get her hopes up like that for it all to come crashing down...and to have the whole thing broadcast on TV as if it wasn’t bad enough.

If no one interested her today, she would leave. She couldn’t put on a fake smile anymore.

‘I’d know that blurry shadow anywhere...’

The smoky drawl made her heart leap. She sat dead still, hardly daring to believe it.

‘Hello, stranger.’ Alma’s hands were shaking. ‘Where have you been hiding?’

‘Frankie!’ Alma launched herself from the sofa and down in front of the blue wall, almost crying with disbelief. Too overcome with joy to play it cool. ‘Oh, Frankie! I thought-! You said - I mean, they said-! They told me you didn’t-!’

‘I know what they told you, my darling. Believe me I am furious. Tell me, sweet girl, please tell me you didn’t think it was true?’

Alma lowered her gaze and swallowed hard.

‘I’m sorry, Frankie, I...it didn’t make me think you were a horrible person, I just-.’

‘Hush now, it’s alright. Don’t upset yourself.’ The urge to kick down that wall was as strong as ever. The poor girl was innocent in all of this and had been made to feel like a toy instead of a human being. ‘I adored my time with you, Alma.’ Frank stressed every word in the hopes that she would believe it. ‘I didn’t want to go. I never would have left you alone like that. The day after our meeting they told me you’d caught a sickness and were too poorly to see me, to see anyone. Earlier today I found out I’d been lied to and I demanded they take me to you.’

They lied?

Why would they do that?

How on earth did they think they could get away with it?

———

‘I’m intrigued by you, Alma.’ That voice sent shivers up her spine every time but with words like that...they’d have to mop her up from the floor. ‘Tell me more. Talk to me.’

Bold request when she could barely remember her own name.

‘Well...I’m Alma, you know that. I’m twenty years old, you know that too. I’m happy where I live, but it’s a bit out of the way. I wish I lived closer to the capital.’

‘Why?’

‘Stuff happens.’

Frank chuckled. Classic Alma. That term was coinable.

‘I love animals, I have two cats at home. They become members of the family and loosing them is a different kind of pain. My doggy taught me that, we lost him suddenly and it broke my heart.’

‘Oh you poor thing. I have five dogs at home and I couldn’t imagine loosing any one of them.’

‘Five? What type of dogs are they?’

‘I have a blue Staffordshire Bull Terrier called Persephone and I have a soft spot for her as she is my only girl. Razor is my Siberian Husky who thinks he’s a puppy and tried to sit on your lap and cries to be picked up and cuddled. Cujo is nothing like his namesake, he’s loving and docile, a true gentle giant. More recently I welcomed Kaiser into the house, a striking German Shepard who loves playing tug of war. And not two weeks ago I met my Newfoundland Dexter. He’s very big and stupid but the name suited a big bumbling dog in an affectionate sort of way. Well, to me it did.

Smiling so much for so long made Alma’s face ache.

‘But enough about me. You, my dear, are far more interesting. What do you do for fun?’

Going into this conversation, Alma thought it best to be careful about the information she shared. But something about Frank’s presence and the comfort she felt from it made the words just fall out. She felt safe around him. Like they could talk about anything. Therefore an hour after Frank asked to know more she was still talking about herself.

Now Frank knew most everything about her. Foods she liked, her love of reading and why that came about, things she was proud of, things she would go back and change if given the chance. Her insecurities, her fears, what she worried about and what she dearly hoped would happen one day. Music that made her cry and films she’s never forget, what she hopes to achieve from participating in the experiment and what she hoped to achieve from facing life head on.

‘...don’t feel bad Frankie but I was heartbroken when I thought you’d changed your mind because nobody else in here makes me feel the way you do. I feel happy and safe and protected and like I could never truly have a bad day again. I couldn’t handle thinking I’d never see you again, especially after-.’

Frank frowned. ‘What, darling?’

Alma didn’t want to put Frank in an uncomfortable position by telling him about the weird date that nearly made her leave the experiment. Especially since she just realised she might not be allowed to tell anyone in the first place. The laws of producing television shows were lost on her.

Frank had a feeling he knew what she wanted to tell him, but didn’t want to admit they’d been discussing her behind her back. She might feel disinclined to trust him and that would never do. Especially since he forgot to clarify with the male producer whether he was allowed to disclose his knowledge in the first place.

‘I’m sorry, petal, don’t worry. Just because you can tell me everything doesn’t mean you should have to.’

The conversation took a deliberate turn to steer them away from the discomfort.

‘So that’s me,’ Alma said. ‘What about you?’

Frank knew this was inevitable but that didn’t lessen the fear. He had a quick decision to either lie and spin a tale of normality and safety or be honest with a complete stranger (however much he liked her the statement was still true) and risk being turned away. Again.

Alma was not person of prejudice and judgment. She had already been so lovely and sweet to him, surely he owed it to her to at least give her a chance?

‘I suppose there was only so long I could get away with that,’ Frank mused, obviously smirking by the sound of his voice. ‘Well, darling, I’m Frankie, I’m old enough to legally drink alcohol and I live in a big country house in Windsor. Just a short drive away from London, where I recall you’d like to be?’

I just want to skip the formalities and get married right now.

Don’t be the first one to say it, you might come on too strong and scare him off.

I am nothing if not traditional.

‘I employ household staff who help me take care of such a big place. They are more like family than personnell. I take pride in my house and my appearance,’ well, though Frank, that’s one way to put it, ‘because I worked very hard to get to where I am now and I earned everything I have. I’m a firm believer in that where you come from or the start you have in life means nothing to where you can go or what you can achieve.’

Of course he would think like that. It all worked out for him. Alma didn’t see herself having huge prospects in anything. But she wasn’t going to tell him that.

‘That determination is refreshing,’ she said. Inwardly though she was already sulking as this was the second time Frank’s achievements thrawrted hers and, although she was sure he didn’t mean to, made her feel inferior and even quite guilty for making a connection with him. There were so many people better and more suited to Frank than she was. It was like ordering champagne and receiving sparkling water.

‘Let’s play a game.’ Alma immediately snapped back to attention. ‘I’m going to try and read your mind. I bet you’re sitting there now thinking that it’s all well and good for me to say these things but what does it really mean if I’m already there? You might even be thinking that I didn’t have any obstacles in my way, or affluent family members, or even a single scratch card and pot luck.’ Alma didn’t say anything. She was too embarrassed that she’d been caught red-handed. ‘Darling, if I told you I have a “weird” or “undesirable” aspect of myself that meant I did have to work harder than the average person and I still did it...would you believe me?’

‘No,’ she said immediately. ‘Because you’re not undesirable.’

‘Everyone has battles they have to fight, sweet girl. Not just you.’

Frank felt as sense of deep honour that Alma had opened up to him in the way that she did, explaining her fears of never succeeding because of narrow minded people that wouldn’t give her a chance because she wasn’t like ‘everyone else’. This turned into a long and deep and sometimes emotional conversation. Frank’s heart went out to her but he also couldn’t believe his...he supposed luck was the wrong word, but what divine being had looked down on him and presented him with someone now only who he liked and who liked him back, but someone who he didn’t have to be afraid of because he could relate to her all the way? Because they were exactly the same?

‘I know you like me, darling. You’ve never seen me before, you wouldn’t recognise me if I passed you on the street. Are you bothered at all about how I might look?’

‘No. I can’t wait to see you. I want to see you so badly. I want you to put your arms around me and pick me up and kiss me and smile at me.’

‘So why do you think I would feel any different? If you knew how much I like you, Alma, even after such a short time, how excited I am to head your voice and how I think about you all the time you’d never doubt yourself again.’

‘I think there’s a little bit of anxiety isn’t there?’ Frank continued when Alma didn’t say anything. ‘That I’ll change my mind once I really see you.’

No one could lie to Frank for long. ‘Yes.’

Frank stayed quiet but his kissed his palm and pressed it against the frosted blue glass. This was supposed to be fun and he didn’t want her getting worked up again, so he said,

‘I suppose that will make the moment I shove a big fat ring in your face that much sweeter.’

She laughed, thankfully, and the conversation remained lighthearted and loving until it was time to leave.

A producer met them at the door and said they would now be allowed to choose who they spent time with. They both immediately chose each other.

———

‘I’m excited but I’m scared,’ Alma said to the camera during her video diary. ‘I like Frankie so so much and I can’t wait to see him but I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how.’

‘What if I ruin it?’

‘My reputation precedes me and that’s what worries me the most. I know I look scary, and I know the average person will be shocked by my behaviour and appearance. I’ve been told time and time again that I come on too strong. The last thing I want to do is scare her, especially when she’s never been with anyone in this way before.’

‘He’s the right person—.’

‘—but I don’t think it’s the right time.’

‘So my answer is yes. I’d like a third date.’

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot - “Mislaid Destiny” (Rated PG)

Blaine works at a boutique market when he meets a man he’s sure is made for him by the contents in his shopping cart. (1938 words)

Notes: This is a re-write. Based on a personal experience.

Read on AO3.

It’s 2:15 in the afternoon – not yet time for the usual afternoon rush, but the store is still fairly busy. Blaine glances down the conveyor belt at the items currently being purchased by the elf-ish man standing behind the counter. The man looks back at Blaine, a shy grin curling his rosy lips as he waits to hand Blaine his money.

He’s polite, quiet, and slightly impatient, so Blaine does his best to speed things up for him.

Working as a cashier at this boutique little catch-all market isn’t Blaine’s dream job by any means, but it does have its perks. Money being one of them, of course - the biggest one since he’ll have completed his master’s degree soon, and then the age-old tradition of dodging the college loan officer will begin.

Another is people watching. As a performer, it is essential that he observe people from all walks of life. Over the past few years, Blaine has come to discover that he can tell more about someone by the way they stand, the movement of their eyes, the quality of their smile (whether it’s tight, genuine, if it reaches their eyes, or if it’s plain non-existent), and from the things they buy than from any amount of conversation.

His favorite customers so far have been a twelve-year-old girl who comes in every Friday around four with her brothers and sisters for hot dogs and ice cream (he is constantly amazed by her cool under pressure, her wisdom beyond her years, the unconditional love she shows her siblings even though the eldest of them is half her age and screams constantly); and an older gentleman who stops by two to three times a week for lemon meringue pie, who talks to Blaine about his deceased wife, his kids, and his time as a combat veteran until he backs up the line. But Blaine doesn’t mind. He assumes the man doesn’t have anyone nearby to talk to. And his life has been so interesting. Blaine’s other customers usually understand, and either wait patiently, enjoying the tales themselves, or go to another line.

As far as purchases made, his fave combinations of products have been, on one occasion, a can of baby formula and twelve six-packs of beer; on another - a box of chocolates, a bottle of wine, and a meat cleaver; and the pièce de résistance - a bottle of lubricant, a Winx DVD, sixteen cans of aerosol whipped cream, and a box of condoms.

In the three years Blaine has spent working at this store, never once has he found himself drawn to a customer in anything other than a professional way. He constructs an invisible wall between him and them – a line that should not be crossed. So he’s surprised at how this one customer has managed to capture his attention so completely. Though the man in front of him, rolling endlessly back and forth on the balls of his feet, isn’t necessarily Blaine’s type physically, the items on the belt are painting a picture that is quickly winning him over.

James Patterson’s Invisible – only one of Blaine’s favorite James Patterson books ever.

“I’ve read this,” he says nonchalantly as he scans the book and puts it into a shopping bag. “It’s fascinating. A real page turner.”

The man smiles wider, preening beneath Blaine’s approval of his book selection. It’s a nice smile. He doesn’t seem to like showing his teeth, but that’s alright. The fact that he also smiles with his eyes makes up for it.

Blaine moves on to the next item - a container of gourmet chicken noodle soup, the kind they make from scratch here at the store. Chicken noodle soup is one of Blaine’s all-time top choice comfort foods, and he can definitely appreciate a person who spends a little extra money to get the best.

A cronut – cronuts happen to be Blaine’s all-time favorite bakery item … and his biggest weakness. If not for cronuts, Blaine wouldn’t have gained fifteen pounds his first semester of college. He’s managed to lose the weight and keep it off since then, balancing his love of cronuts with a healthy diet and exercise. But amongst his other actor and model friends, he stands alone in his cronut obsession. It might be nice to find someone to share it with.

Blaine scans a bottle of Camus - a nice mid-brand cognac. Cognac is another one of Blaine’s guilty pleasures - an indulgence introduced to him by his first high school boyfriend his senior year. He’s not a heavy drinker, but sometimes he slips a bit in his coffee at bedtime, especially when he feels under the weather.

A bar of Yardley’s lavender-scented soap – Blaine’s grandmother always used this soap. Her skin, her hair, her entire house used to smell like lavender. It was her signature scent. God, Blaine misses her so much.

A dozen sterling roses – for some reason, sterlings are extremely difficult to get in the city. The store where Blaine works stocks them once in a blue moon, and he tries to buy them when they do. He’s a little sad to see this bunch go, but considering everything else, maybe this time he can let it slide.

Topping it all off, this month’s copy of Vogue, indicating a man with an interest in fashion, style, and sophistication. Blaine likes to consider himself fashion-forward, though he hasn’t exactly graduated from the 50s retro crooner chic he sported in high school - mainly sweater vests, wingtips, and bowties. They’ve been his go-to for so long, he doesn’t really own anything else.

But he’d be willing to learn from someone knowledgeable, who could spare time to give him a few pointers.

Plus, Blaine notes as he packs the magazine in with the other groceries, the man brought his own reusable bags to boot. Whether out of thrift or concern for the environment, Blaine finds the gesture very attractive.

If Blaine were ever to fall for a man based solely on his purchases, this man would be perfect.

Would it be weird to admit that to him, considering he’s at work and the man hasn’t spoken a word to him yet?

Blaine watches the man fidget uncomfortably, as if he knows his purchases are being scrutinized. He rises up on the balls of his feet and takes odd peeks out the window at a blue Honda parked out front.

He probably left his doors unlocked, Blaine surmises. Blaine would prefer to believe that as opposed to the possibility that he’s creeping this poor man out so much he can’t wait to grab his bags and run.

Blaine gives the bags a final once over before he loads them into the man’s shopping cart. Should he take the plunge and ask him out? This might not be the most appropriate of circumstances. Lord knows what his manager would think. Blaine isn’t so desperate that he needs to shop for a boyfriend at work, but it feels like decades since he’s gone out on a real date with someone he didn’t meet at a bar or on a dating website. He considers himself outgoing, he’s definitely not shy, but he can never seem to find someone he shares any real interests with. His type or no, this man seems oddly tailor made for him.

And he has blue eyes.

Blaine is a sucker for a beautiful pair of blue eyes.

“I’m going to need to see some i.d.,” Blaine says. When the man furrows his brow, Blaine explains, “For the liquor.” Blaine points to a sign hanging behind him at the register that explains the rules on carding for alcohol purchases in New York City. “It’s the law.”

“Oh … oh yes, of course.” The man shakes his head with a nervous laugh, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

A wallet that’s basically one big rainbow flag, the same wallet Blaine’s friend Brittany gave him at NYC Pride March last year.

Another interesting sign.

He opens it, pulls out his driver’s license, and hands it over.

“Chandler Kiehl,” Blaine reads out loud.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” Chandler giggles.

“I’m Blaine,” Blaine says, handing Chandler back his driver’s license.

“I know. It’s on your name tag.” Chandler reaches a long finger and taps the tag pinned to Blaine’s navy blue polo shirt.

“Right.” Blaine looks down at the tag, then back at Chandler. “Look, this might seem weird …” he starts out, trying to sound as sincere (and look as non-threatening) as he can. “I mean, I’ve definitely never done this before, but can I maybe ask you for your phone number?”

Chandler’s eyes open wide, his smile overwhelming his face.

“Ooo-la-la!” he exclaims, blushing to his roots. “Of course you may!”

Blaine hands Chandler a pen and a scratch piece of paper, and Chandler quickly but neatly scrawls out his name and number. When Chandler’s done, Blaine takes the pen and the slip of paper back, putting the number safely in the pocket of his khaki slacks.

“So, I’ll call you tonight?” Blaine asks.

“Sounds like a plan.” Chandler hands over a hundred dollar bill, keeping his hand out for the change.

“There you go.” Blaine hands Chandler the change, his own smile growing to match Chandler’s infectious glee. “Do you need any help out to your car?”

“Nope,” Chandler practically sings. “I think I’ve got it.”

“It was nice meeting you, Chandler,” Blaine says with a wink.

“Et vous, aussi, Blaine,” Chandler coos. He skips away, pushing the cart with the bags inside, swaying his hips in case Blaine is watching him leave.

Caught up immediately with another customer, Blaine doesn’t watch Chandler as he heads for the blue car out front. Chandler puts the bags in the back seat of his car, then climbs into the driver's seat, still aglow and giddy, doing a tiny dance as he buckles his seatbelt. Then he turns to the passenger seat, reclined all the way, with his best friend laying back on it, a tissue pressed to his nose.

“Dank you so much vor dis, Chadler,” Kurt mumbles around a cough, sniffling when he catches his breath.

“No problem,” Chandler says with a wave of his hand. “I promised I would take care of you until you got better, and so I shall. How are you feeling?”

“I veel like cwap.” Kurt blows his nose. “Der waz no way I waz going to be able to go in that store and buy my gwoceries.”

“Well, I do have to say you have some interesting tastes,” Chandler comments, looking over his shoulder at the bags in the back seat. “Oh! But you totally missed out on the hot cashier Blaine.”

“Oh?” Kurt raises a brow.

“Yup.” Chandler sighs dreamily. “He’s dark and handsome, with a sort of Elvis Presley-thing going …”

“Did he have a cute smile?” Kurt asks with more interest. He’s a sucker for a man with a smooth, seductive smile.

“The cutest!” Chandler chirps, putting a hand dramatically over his heart. “And the best thing is he asked me for my number!”

“Weally?” Kurt asks, a twinge of jealousy pinging inside his chest.

“Yeah, out of the blue,” Chandler explains, starting up the car. “I don’t really understand it. I barely said a word to him.”

“Well, maybe it’s just meant to be.”

“Maybe,” Chandler says, smiling at the thought of fate steering him in the path of this handsome man.

Kurt smiles at his besotted friend and closes his eyes, daydreaming of a mysterious man asking for his phone number.