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#it was gonna be about sans finally drawing a line under his past life once and for all
carlyraejepsans · 2 years
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I'm never gonna finish this fic, sooooo
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theredsuzuran · 3 years
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Hello! Could I request Douma with a s/o who enjoys art? For instance, painting or drawing then placing their artworks around the paradise cult? They could be demon / human but preferably aware about the whole eating cult members thing? Me being me I would be fine knowing that lol. Sorry if this is too specific but thank you in advance!
Thank you so much for this request, I hope its upto your liking and I apologize if I have messed up🥺
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Douma x Reader ~
The warm rays of the sun glistened your skin with a golden hue as you stood there on the long wide corridors holding the remaining pieces of arts that you were pasting on the walls of the busy temple, gazing at the distant sky with full concentration succumbing deep into the abyss of its aesthetics. So much so that you failed to notice your fellow cult members reaching out until someone pat your shoulder startling you suddenly.
"Oh" a soft sigh escape from your mouth as you to snapped out of your thoughts, looking directly at them with eyes still dreaming.
"We have been calling you for so long (y/n) san~ aren't you gonna tell your friends about him?"
"Do you think its going to rain anytime soon?"
"Are you even listening to what am saying?"
Averting your gaze from them you lifted your head upward at the direction of the tremendous vast expanse paying no attention to them while drifting away in your own world.
"If it rains will I see that again?" spacing out yet again but this time evoking vivid memories of a man finding your desolated body covered with blood and mud, drenched under the heavy downpour.
"What?" One or them inquired both curious and annoyed at the same time.
"I told you! (y/n) is weird just leave them alone its fruitless to strike any conversation at all, Lord douma probably shows his pity being a man of virtue" one of them whispered so that you don't hear them badmouthing you.
"Right who cares about those stupid paintings" the other giggled at your face then turned away leaving you behind in the now empty hallway.
All of them associate with you because of the favour you get from Douma, the supreme head of the eternal paradise cult. You have merely smiled knowing that they have always belittle your precious artworks crushing your fragile confidence into pieces although let's say you would never encounter them again and that's a different story, still they were unable to break your devotion. Every painting you made were nurtured and cared with great affection as you put your heart and soul into it. Most importantly there was the charming leader himself who encouraged you rather than making fun of it. That's the exact reason why douma was your savior.
Even though you knew the heinous crimes he have committed, the cannibalistic practices that occurs during midnight inside the temple complex, yes it terrifies you but still you cannot find in your heart to hate him, you wish demons could co exist together alongside mortals although it sounds absurd as predators can never befriend their natural prey but you were an artist who saw the world with a different perspective instead of blaming demons you felt sympathy. Since they were humans too once and due to unavoidable circumstances they are now suffering this fate. Making you wonder what was his story?
However you are quite mad lately since It has been days you last saw your beloved cult leader, afterall he has things to do and you seem to grow lonelier each day due to the lack of his presence. The way he caressed your cheeks and smiled ever so lovingly at you made your heart flutter with ecstacy. Art therefore have always been your escape as your days passes drawing sketches of him. You sat on the wooden engawa, with papers and colours scattered all over the floor holding your brush in hopes of completing his perfect image but your mind wandered to the eromous clouds engulfing the sky above. When suddenly you caught glimpse of a familiar sitting right next you.
"I thought I would wait since you were busy admiring the beautiful nature"
"Douma" a sudden rush of emotions came pouring down, the storm seem to have calm down by the heavy rain. However it was hard for poor (y/n) to decide whether to jump with pure happiness or to just sit and cry for leaving them astray.
"There there my little dove, am here" he replied smiling charmingly engulfing you in a tight embrace.
The two sat on top of the wooden floor. Once again letting the silence to develop, this time droplets of water accompanied the tranquil atmosphere with its drizzling sound.
"Are you hanging your paintings on the walls?" Douma asked enthusiastically breaking the previous calm.
"Yes" you replied politely
"good good" reaching his arms to pat you gently, he praised.
"Douma, where have you been?" You questioned Finally letting those words escape from your quivering lips which you were desperately trying to swallow inside this entire time and regretting because you are afraid of what might happen next for asking such an outrageous question ruining the blissful aura.
"Aww did (y/n) miss me?" Douma answered still maintaining his lively composure. Although there was sudden shift in the atmosphere as it grew a bit tense.
"What if I say I did?" You murmured under your breath blushing slightly to which his eyes widened for he have awaited long for something like this to happen.
"I have some orders to fulfill for that man" the douma chuckled slightly as he began speaking again "and probably he did not like it a bit that I failed to accomplish my mission" when you notice one of his beautiful multicolored orb a little swallowen as if someone have pierced his eyeballs out. You were aware of his supernatural existence and strength because he was not some ordinary demon but witnessing such injury made your heart drop.
"Now (y/n)~ show me what you are drawing" his face gleaming with excitement as he clapped his hands.
"It's not yet completed"
"Don't be like that show me" he made a puppy face.
"Noooo" you cried in protest trying your best to restrain him but failed miserably, since he was faster than you and upon seeing the drawing the sheet of paper he stopped responding. Been living for a century having money, status and almost a perfect immortal body, he still felt hollow. People stand in line for hours to worship him in order to achieve their own desires, to gift him valuable fortunes, antiques, exclusive garments and all sorts of expensive merchandise and sometimes in hope of wooing him but never in his life he felt so content by a simple piece of art made with such adoration. Overwhelming a ruthless uppermoon like him with strong emotions.
"I know it's not that good" you bit your lips in embarrassment but you were taken aback when you felt a pair of muscular arms wrapping your waist resting his head on your lean shoulders. Returning his gesture you smiled and closed your eyes running your hands in his platinum blonde hair in an attempt to soothe him.
"Douma do you remember the time we met?" douma hummed in response.
"Its because of you that am still alive and I can't show my gratitude enough, I have sworn to the art I love I will never break my loyalty towards you", douma looked at you this time when you suddenly reached your arms to cup his face amusing a bit in the process.
"Back when I was a child, I saw a beautiful arc covering the blue sky displaying a wide range of bright colours taking my breath away for I was mesmerized, and I hope I could see that again as I was laying down on the ground reminding the jovial moments of life before my demise, admist the rain I saw a shilloute of a man approaching me- that's when I saw that again in your eyes instilling hope within me, its a monochromatic world when you are not around"
That's when he took your hands into his large ones gently, giving the most lovable expression he could ever make, something so genuine for someone like him. He did not know why he was so attracted to a human like you. Moving his fingers on your lips caressing it softly smudging the colour you have applied before as he leaned closer and closer making your eyes shut tight too flustered to even look. Your face heating up on his cold touch, as you felt a his lips pressed softly onto your nose.
Opening your eyes slightly you found him grinning at your beet red face.
"Let's put that painting on my wall then!"
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real-jaune-isms · 3 years
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RWBY Volume 8 Chapter 11 Review/Remix
Not the most action packed chapter we’ve ever had, and certainly not as dramatic as Chapter 11s from past Volumes. But this week had some wonderful surprises and existential dread and depression in equal measure and I think that’s a formula for a pretty damn good watch.
Despite the devastating energy bomb Oscar delivered last episode, we open with the city of Atlas overrun with tons of Grimm. The people are still hiding in the subway, fearing for their lives twice over now that Ironwood’s monologue is playing and showing just how off his rocker he is. Those in the crater mines take it far worse, though we see some of the humans and faunus who had previously seemed on edge with each other holding one another in solidarity and comfort. Fiona breaks down in tears and is pulled into a Happy Huntress group hug by Joanna and May, so it’s a small comfort to see they’re all still alive.
Ironwood and Winter walk the halls of Atlas command together, and Winter can’t help but notice the fearful reverence the general’s presence instills in lesser officers. The Ace Ops are talking things over in the wake of their boss’ ultimatum, and Elm is of the belief that Ironwood was just bluffing about nuking Mantle if he doesn’t get what he wants. Vine agrees it may very well be the kick in the pants Team RWBY and the others will need to finally see the right path, but we the audience are getting pretty sick of hearing this shtick. Marrow thinks Ironwood is taking this too far, and Harriet is just angrily indifferent about the whole thing. Ironwood rounds the corner and addresses the squad with their new orders: get some drones ready to drop the bomb. Winter asks why exactly they need to actually make those kind of preparations, and he makes it clear that he really does intend to remove Mantle from the equation if he is prompted to. He actually thinks committing this massacre, nay genocide, will make Penny more willing to return to his command if she no longer has an alternative job. No, dumbass, she’ll only want to defy and even kill you more! This is how he believes they will save Atlas, but Marrow has had more than enough and calls him on his shit for a line like that. All this is doing is helping Salem in her mission to divide and destroy the world, and it’s spitting in the face of everything Marrow thought the Atlas military stood for. Harriet threatens to clean his clock if he doesn’t shut up, and Vine again suggests that this would be a necessary sacrifice for the good of the Kingdom. Elm tries to agree, to say that this should be their top priority whether they like it or not, but Marrow has more to say. He can’t believe any of them actually buy the nonsense they’re spouting, and wants to know if there’s anything his teammates actually believe in anymore. With so many moral compromises, where do they draw the line of patriotism vs fascism? The faunus man gives a pretty good clincher to his tirade by calling his badge and rank nothing more than a collar. Say what you want about the writing of the faunus discrimination subplots in the prior volumes, I think this was pretty good. Ironwood isn’t about to let Marrow walk away from a rant like that without consequences and we can hear his cocking his gun. Marrow hears it too, but before he can react Winter comes in from his right with a sucker punch that knocks him to the floor. As she drops a knee on Marrow’s back to cuff him for insubordination we see Ironwood was a second away from shooting this man, one of his few trusted elite soldiers left, in the back of the head for an execution without mercy or hesitation. She just saved his goddamn life and that makes her an MVP for this Volume. The other Ace Ops realize this close encounter with death too, and they all share the same expression of shock fear dread and confusion. Not even Vine can hide how much he doesn’t like what could have just occurred. Winter says she’s going to take this “traitor” to the brig where he belongs and Ironwood allows her to leave and do so, only taking his finger off the trigger once they’ve walked past him. Those with a better understanding of trigger discipline than I could probably make something poignant out of that, so have at it if you can. What is abundantly clear to us is that Winter will be taking Marrow no such place. She has absolutely had enough and she’s about to desert with him in tow. The remaining three have to get back in line and spend a little time rethinking their positions on this job. Well, at least one of them will be, I don’t think Harriet is gonna change course after what she’s already done.
From one tense situation to another, we go to the Schnee manor dining room where Team RWBY are trying to figure out their next moves with Oscar and Emerald. They know they don’t want Ironwood getting his hands on Penny, but they don’t know what to do instead that won’t result in mass casualties. They don’t know that Robyn and Qrow have flown the coop and might come to their aid soon, and under Ironwood’s watch there’s no way to try and evacuate the people in the crater before he drops the bomb. It’s a real bad situation with no clear solutions or backup plans. Emerald can’t help but be snarky and say if the perpetual optimism engine that is Ruby can’t think of what to do then there’s no right answer at all. Weiss is annoyed that Em is giving them sass when they really don’t need any, but Yang is downright furious and her to GTFO if she doesn’t like trying to help them solve this. Emerald tenses up when Yang stomps towards her with clenched fists, and her hands go to her weapons in case she needs to defend herself. We know Yang wouldn’t actually throw a punch even if she’s mad like this, but Em doesn’t. Probably because the most substantial thing connecting the two of them was the time Emerald used her semblance to make Yang look like a heartless brute who would break a leg for no reason on live TV. Also Emerald doesn’t have the best role models for how to handle frustration... Oscar continues to insist they all just take a deep breath and remember the big picture rather than lose it over small disagreements, and reminds them that Em is going to be staying on their side cuz Salem won’t let her safely be anywhere else. But when he tries to reassure the group with a reminder that Oz is back to offer help too it just tenses the situation further. Ruby’s got her head in her arms on the table, and she’s really having a hard time of it all. Oscar muses about all the negative personal energies keeping them from a productive cohesion, and Ruby pops off. A day’s worth of their best efforts, hard fought battles and painful consequences, and nothing has gotten better. Just like at the start of the Volume, all they’ve been able to do is argue over what to try and do while Atlas heads towards its demise. Yang tries to put an encouraging hand on her shoulder but she brushes it off and runs out of the room in a huff. Everyone silently realizes how much they’ve fucked this up if Ruby is so hopeless and desperate, and Yang follows her sister out of the room.
Upstairs, Jaune is doing his best to boost Nora’s Aura and help her heal faster, but it’s not doing anything about her lightning scars. Those babies are here to stay, and I don’t mind it. It shows history, survival and a damn good story about what she’s been able to power through. Ren is sitting at the foot of the bed, and the best he’s able to offer is how glad he is Nora is okay. She seems indifferent and even passive aggressive at the diagnosis on her scars, claiming it’s just another example of her being classic dumb Nora. Ren tries to object that this wasn’t her being stupid or foolhardy, but she bites back at him with all the resentment she seems to have been holding in since they split ways yesterday. He’s got no right to say what it was or wasn’t, he wasn’t there to see it. He pushed away from her when things went wrong because he didn’t want to have to feel anything he thought would be too hard to deal with. Ren makes no effort to argue, he knows she’s right and he apologizes profusely for how he wronged both her and Jaune. He regrets the things he said to them, or more likely the things he said to Jaune out on the tundra since he and Nora haven’t exactly talked much. He admits he’s been mad at himself for not measuring up to their mentor figures in the Ace Ops, for how little he could help when Tyrian came a’ slashing at Robyn’s election rally, and for slipping up and letting Neo get away with the Lamp. Mentioning the rally of course gets Nora’s attention away from her pissed off brooding, and she does start to listen a little more sympathetically. Ren says that he tried to tunnel vision on getting stronger in the hopes it would mean he wouldn’t fail again and bring the team down with him. We know from Ironwood how bad tunnel vision is, so I’m glad Ren is realizing it was a bad choice. Ren has realized now that by doing all that he failed the worst of all, that being in his role as a member of this team and as a partner to Nora. The two of them lock eyes, and Jaune notices the deeper meaning behind this prolonged eye contact and knows he should make himself scarce for now so they can have this more important conversation sans his third wheeling ass. Good boy, but a bit over the top excusing himself.
All Nora can find the words to ask is why Ren hadn’t said anything about these personal doubts sooner so they could try and deal with it and grow as a team, and he says he wanted to try and solve it himself because it was his problem and he was the one dragging the group down because of it. She disagrees on the grounds of her own perceived failings, being silly of mind and strong of muscle and little else of value. Ren won’t hear that kind of self depreciation sitting down, so he moves further up the bed to sit by her lap. He tries his best to give her affirmations by rephrasing her qualities as great things but she’s just not willing to hear it... until he gets a little more passionate about it than he may have meant to. These are the things he loves about her. Because he loves her. Lie Ren tells Nora Valkyrie “I love you”. Nora knows in her heart he really means that, but she has some things she wants to get off her chest. In the single sentence of backstory we get, her mom apparently abandoned her and fled from a Grimm attack before she ended up in Kuroyuri meeting Ren. SInce then they’ve always been an inseparable pair, and she wouldn’t give up a day of that for anything. But now she realizes she needs some time to really learn who she is as her own person and fighter, and going back to being as close as they were wouldn’t allow that kind of growth. Because Nora loves Ren too, always has. And she can tell their separate missions have done him some good too, but she needs a little more time before she’s ready to be the partner a great guy like him deserves. She just wants to know if that kind of request is okay with him. He puts a hand against her cheek and lovingly wipes away the tear she had shed. Of course that’s okay. He’s proud of her for being mindful of her own happiness and growth, and is willing to put the relationship they both very much look forward to having on hold while she grows as a person. This is a very healthy dynamic and all meming aside we really love to see it portrayed so naturally and acceptably in media. And for good wholesome measure, Ren Boops Nora. They laugh and smile and press their foreheads together because Rooster Teeth loves showing us that as a sign of proximity and intimate comfort.
Cutting to something far less happy, Qrow is retrieving Harbinger and Robyn’s gauntlet crossbow from a locker in what I assume might be evidence lockup. He asks Robyn if she’s got the security cameras running on loop, presumably so they can sneak through the halls undetected, but she is currently distracted. At least one screen is feeding audio of Ironwood’s threat to Mantle, and others are showing he really is gearing up to do so. Qrow tries to reassure her by resolutely saying they’ll stop him before he has the chance to, but she doesn’t seem to pleased with that plan. Regardless, they make their way through the halls and head for an elevator to take them up to the Academy. After avoiding being spotted by guards, they make it to the elevator but Robyn stops Qrow before he can hit the call button. She tries to advocate for a better way to solve this, he insists there isn’t one. Robyn says it’s not just about Qrow so it isn’t his choice alone to make what is or isn’t the only solution. Qrow just keeps insisting that this is what he’s gonna do and when he does it’ll all be safe and over with, but Robyn tries to suggest success isn’t guaranteed and if they fail it’ll only doom hundreds more than if they try something else. Qrow doesn’t give a damn, he just yells that Ironwood deserves to be killed, because in case the pronoun game was too hard Qrow is dead set on doing a murder. Robyn claps a hand over Qrow’s mouth and pushes him against the wall because they ARE still trying not to get caught remember? I really have to admit on my first watch I thought this was gonna be an eruption of some kind of romantic tension I just hadn’t noticed til now and she was going to shut him up with a kiss. But no, thank god they didn’t pull that tired trick. After making sure the coast really is clear, she gets to the heart of things. She can tell Qrow is in pain, he’s mourning, and its a shroud he’s well accustomed to. But don’t act like this is righteous justice for the people at large, Qrow wants blood on his hands purely for personal vengeance. She acknowledges that Clover had a lot of qualities worth looking up to the way Qrow had, but she thinks that at the end of the day Qrow has proven to be the better man and the better Huntsman. I feel like she could have phrased that a touch better so as to not speak quite so ill of the recently deceased, but the pep talk is there. He’s got the will to fight for what he believes is the right course of action rather than just what a higher up says he needs to, and that is the sort of strength of character that’s worth a whole lot in this world, so she hopes he won’t go abandoning it now that the going is even rougher. He seems to be calmed and inspired by this, but before any more words are said the elevator pings that it’s stopping on this floor so the two ready their weapons to fight whoever emerges. The doors open, but we have the perspective of whoever is inside looking out to see the two hunters drop their guard in confusion. As that is the end of that scene we will not be finding out who they saw for at least another week, but I think it’s most likely to be Winter and Marrow and the four of them will form an unlikely alliance.
Back in Schnee manor, Yang reaches the foyer to see Ruby sitting on the stairs clutching a banister. Instead of going right up to her Yang goes past to take a look at the collapsed suit of armor. She’s heard by now how Ruby and the others managed to kill the Hound, and tries to give her little sis amused props for doing what the elder sibling couldn’t. Instead Ruby just asks if Yang knows what they saw inside the Grimm. Yang says she does, and tenses up like she wants to brush past this very depressing topic Ruby is hinting at. Ruby is having none of that and just says what we’ve all been thinking. Summer Rose was most certainly turned into a Grimm too. Fearing the possibility in her head was one thing, but to hear Ruby say it aloud with a voice so hollow and hopeless is too much and Yang falls to her knees sobbing in a second flat. Yang tries to wipe the tears away, to be calm and strong like always, but Ruby isn’t stopping. They know Salem used to want Silver Eyed Warriors dead because of Maria’s brush with death years ago, but now Salem wants Ruby brought in alive and it seems obvious why. So why wouldn’t it be the case that Summer was the turning point, that fighting her was when Salem realized she could do so much more with her mortal foes? Ruby has had enough of lying to themselves for the sake of optimistic hope, her hope that Amity could get a message out got them nowhere but further failure and she blames herself for being childish. Yang takes her hand and assures her that it wasn’t childishness but rather optimism and hope. Those are things they desperately need in this struggle, but to be blindly optimistic can certainly be bad so they need to be smart about which risks they take. Ruby still isn’t about to concede this point because the risk she took was a failure and their message didn’t bring any help. I should like to remind the reader/viewer that it took about a week for Team RWBY to get from Mistral to Atlas and this message went out... 12 hours ago? Maybe 16? You’re giving up the ghost a little soon there sweetie, though they do need that help ASAP so better late than never isn’t really a viable option. Yang reminds Ruby that her plan was a bust too, but she kept trying to do good things that weren’t part of the plan and they did some good there. Summer took a risk too, by leaving for the mission she never came back from. And there’s little question that went according to plan either, but she still did her best and Yang still considers Summer her hero. As she embraces her little sister, I get the strong feeling that Summer isn’t the only Rose she considers her hero either... and by the tears that start welling up in Ruby’s eyes she clearly knows that.
Their sweet moment is shattered by the sound of equally shattered glass, and Jaune comes rushing down the stairs to tell them to get outside immediately. Penny woke up and the virus is in control again to make her head for the Vault without delay. Ruby bursts into her path to beg her to stop, and it does get her to start struggling against her digital orders. She begs to be stopped, and Ruby wraps her arms around her because honestly she’s just trying her best and with a weapon like Crescent Rose she’s gotta have some upper body strength. But that’s pretty meaningless against Penny’s rocket boots as she takes off with Ruby in tow. Blake and Ren use Gambol Shroud and Storm Flower (thank god for the grappling hook upgrade last Volume) to try and pull her down by each arm with the rest of their teams providing tug of war style support. Weiss uses a black glyph to really hold her in place once her feet are on the ground again. Before anyone can figure out what to do to properly subdue her Penny uses her magic to summon a cold vortex and blow them all off guard so she can start flying away again, still repeating her orders to open the Vault and self-terminate, though now she sounds emotional and conflicted about it due to her mental struggle. Before she can get any farther, a new set of chains grab her shoulders. Emerald has joined in, and even if it was a small gesture I found myself very enthusiastic to see her pitching in for the rescue. She yells for someone to do something already, and Jaune lets go of Blake’s side of the struggle (guess it would have been off balance if him Nora and Oscar were all helping Ren) to boost Weiss’ Aura so she can make a stronger inertia glyph. Back on the ground, Ruby hugs Penny again and asks how she can help her friend. And Penny says Ruby should kill her. If she does, Penny guarantees Ruby will be the one she gives the Winter Maiden powers to. None of the group like hearing this idea one little bit, but she thinks it’s the only way since she can’t fight the virus. But once again Nora swoops in with the sage words about it only being a part of you and not letting that be the end of it. Penny’s more than just a robot receiving orders, she’s got human spirit and willpower that’s been resisting for so long. This gets the gears in Ruby’s head turning and she realizes the human part can be what saves her. Jaune needs to boost her Aura, which he rushes over to do immediately. It seems to do the trick, and her soul is doing a much better job of keeping the virus contained, though it’s not gone forever. Everyone comes in for a happy group huddle, and she is assured that she is far more than a machine and that humanity is what will keep her going in spite of the remaining virus. It’s a very soft and touching moment. 
Then Emerald has something to say. They’re wrong... about being in the same place they started yesterday. They’ve made progress even though they can’t quite see it right now. They’ve taken some hits, and she admits some of that has been her fault, but that’s war so you gotta roll with the punches and fight on. She just really won’t like it if they give up the moment she decides she’ll fight by their side, okay?! It’s not like she likes these friendly, kind, understanding and emotionally complex fellow teens that are willing to take her in, baka!!! Oscar points out that she’s admitted she wants to stay with them and they all have a happy laugh realizing she’s got a softer side after all. Oscar helps her back to her feet, then addresses the group. Ozpin has some things he wants to say to them all, if they’re willing to hear it. They all share a look and decide that yes, they will listen. Oz comes forth and immediately launches into a speech about a fairy tale. Typical. We can presume these are further details about “The Girl who Fell Through the World”, and he says that girl took her grand trip to run away from consequences of a choice she has to make. But her problems only grow because the initial issue was never resolved. That’s the very thing he’s done here, his problem being the consequences of the truth and his past coming to light. He regrets not trusting them with the whole story and he regrets retreating into Oscar’s mind when he was found out. The group decides they understand where he was coming from a bit since in that interim they had to make some impossible choices about trust too. Trusting in someone is a risk, and they decide they’ll take that risk on him one more time. From the look of things, that second chance is going to Emerald too, and I hope she makes them proud. Penny winces again and it’s clear that one way or the other they will need to take her to the Vault. Ruby thinks on that for a second and realizes that’s actually worth a shot considering who they have at their disposal and the likelihood of it not going exactly how Ironwood thinks it will. To that end we see Ironwood down in the Vault receiving a call from Ruby saying Penny will be there. He sets the stipulation that Penny meet him at the entrance of the Academy and she has to come alone. I’m sure no green haired illusionist will play a hand in whether or not she really is alone... But either way there will be unexpected company because Watts hooked up a broken Scroll to the wiring of an Atlas robot to listen in on Ironwood’s call and know where the meeting will be. Neo arrives in the alley where the doctor and Cinder waiting, and it seems miss Fall has a scheme to get the ice cream psycho precisely what she’s demanding of them.
But what exactly these carefully laid plans will be has to wait a little while, cuz that’s the end for this week. Great job all around for this well balanced episode with many kinds of scenes and many ways to make my heart hurt...
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maidenof-thesea · 4 years
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Snakes & Butterflies | Part II
Pairing: Jimin x reader
Genre: Soulmate Au!, Fluff, Angst, Smut (Maybe, still debating)
Words: 2.9k
Warnings: None
Note: Here’s part 2 of my story, I hope you enjoy and understand that although Jimin has yet to come into the story, I hope you may find some of yourself in the character I am imagining and although BTS is important, I believe they would want us to value ourselves as much as we value them. 
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The drive to San Ysidro was uneventful… I wish I could say that. My mom’s friend had always rubbed me off the weird way. Maybe it had to do with the fact that my mom took me to her once my Soulmate mark never appeared by the time of puberty, which is the latest it should have, in some rare cases. It was straight out of cult movie, people chanting, this random lady rubbing essential oils and raw eggs on me. That was enough to traumatize me as a child. I respect my mother’s culture but brujeria (witchcraft) is where I draw the line. My father took the more medical route, I had seen countless doctors and all could not tell my parents what was wrong, having no mark was unheard of, they were very rare cases. 
Miss Cassandra was the only one who could actually give my parents an answer. It is common knowledge that Marks are there just to guide people’s souls to one another and the rest is up to them. When my grandpa died, grandma’s mark started to fade, but it never completely faded away. Although my case is rare, Miss Cassandra told my parents that my Soulmate did not exist in this lifetime, that perhaps in my past life, I had sinned and now I was being punished. I rolled my eyes at the memory. She was such a witch, literally. Now here I am about to knock on her door.
“It’s about time you got here!” a small lady with long black hair whipped open the door, regarding me with annoyed eyes. “I’m trying to watch my novela! It’s not like Netflix, okay I can’t just pause it!”
“Hello to you too, Miss Cassandra '' I said entering in the small house and almost coughed with the smell of lavender and sweet lemongrass smell. Above the door hung some dried flowers, almost whacking me. “I love what you’ve done with the place very welcoming.”
“Haha, very funny” she said pulling my coat off and ushering me to her kitchen. “Hurry up I don’t have enough time for this. I have a cleansing to do in thirty minutes.”
“What another person with pink eye?” 
SMACK.
“OW!”
“Cállate!” she yelled. “You’re gonna wake up Miguel!” As if her yelling won’t. I sat on the bar stool and saw that she had already prepared all the ingredients for the henna tattoo.
“I don’t like that we’re appropriating Indian culture,” I muttered. 
“I don’t either,” she said stirring the mix. “But business is booming.” Great, consumerism trumps morals. Wait-
“Hold on,” I said in surprise. “What do you mean booming?”
“Ay Díos mio,” she exasperated. “You’re mother wasn’t kidding! It’s like you’re living under a rock! Do you really not watch the news?”
“Well I didn’t think it was such a big deal!”
“Of course,” she said rolling her eyes. “Those girls have all come to me for help.”
“Huh, did you tell them they were sinners too?”
“Of course not!” She said putting on gloves. “I said they were cursed.” 
“I love how nonchalant you are about all this.” I said as she wiped my arm down and began to apply the henna. 
“I’m being very serious, but I know you have a hard time believing me, you are your father’s child.” She said not taking her eyes off my arm. “You never told me why you always want this specific sword as a mark.”
“Besides the fact that you told me marks as weapons were rare,” I said averting my eyes from her family photos across the room. “Which they aren’t since I helped a couple with arrow tattoos yesterday, there’s not any other reason.”
“Arrows?” she said dapping the tool in more henna ink. “That’s strange…”
We fell into a comfortable silence and I let her continue to focus on her task at hand. My phone buzzed in my pocket and making sure she was focused, I pulled it out and sure enough, there was a message from Jungkook.
Jungkook [6:30 pm]: Hey noona, it’s me Jungkook. Is everything ok?
Me [6:32 pm]: Yes, I should be home around 7.
Jungkook [6:33 pm]: Okay, I’m making pasta. Let me know when you are on your way.
Me [6:35 pm] OK.
“Is that Jungkook?” Cassandra said as she stepped back to look at her handiwork. I was momentarily taken aback, but realized my mom must have already told her. “How did he take it?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“He knows,” Cassandra said already cleaning up the ink. “Take a look to see if you like it.”
“How do you know-” I stuttered in shock. “It’s fine, I don’t need to look and I’ll make some excuse, I’ll say that my mark was burned off too just like those girls.”
“Your scars are too old for that.” she said regarding me with pity. “Just tell him the truth.”
“I can’t.” I said with finality in my tone. I wanted this conversation to end. “I don’t need any more pity from anybody.”
“Ah you see, you say that, but that is not what you want.” She said sighing. “You may be able to fool your mother but you can’t fool me. Soy una bruja. (I’m a witch)”
“I’m not having this conversation,” I said standing up and getting my bag and coat, I pulled out a couple of twenties and placed them on the table. 
“Do not be afraid of fate, Y/N” she said placing the money back in my hand. “I’m not entirely sure why but there’s something different, a spark in your future.”
“So you can see the future now?” I said scoffing as I walked towards the front door. 
“You had a dream last night? About the past?” 
I stopped in my tracks. Feeling the color drain from my face.
“A dream that felt like a memory? But you don’t remember?” she said as she approached me from behind and when I refused to turn around, she continued. “Destiny always finds a way, no matter how hard you try to erase it.”
“Well,” I said shivering. “If destiny decides to come knocking on my door, I could tell it to fuck off.” Cassandra laughs and smacks me on the back, making me flinch. This woman hits me more than my own mother. 
“That is something you would say mija,” she said hugging me. “Promise me you won’t cry too much.”
“Huh?”
“Ve con Díos” she replies and closes her door, leaving me in confusion on her doorstep. 
“‘Don’t cry too much?’” I repeated softly to myself as I made my way back to my car, only to see a man leaning against my passenger side. Great. “Can I help you?”
The man looks up at me from his phone. He looked at me up and down and started to approach me but stopped when I reached into my bag. He holds his hands up.
“Hold on!” He says, “I’m not gonna hurt you, I just wanted to talk that’s all.”
“Well you can talk from there I can hear just fine.” I said clutching my taser in my hand.
“Are you Y/N?”
“How the hell-did you follow me here?!”
“NO!” He yelled. “God no! Look here look!” He pulls up his sleeve to his jacket and shows me his arm. Nothing. No soulmate mark. “I’m just like you.”
“Excuse me?” I said offensively. “What the hell do you know about me?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude. Let me explain.” He said pulling out his wallet, he pulls out a card and attempts to hand it to me. When I refuse to take it, he places it on the windshield wiper of my car. “My name is Minho. Lee Minho. I’m a professor at the University. I heard about your situation. I-”
My phone rings and we’re both startled and I quickly pull it out of my pocket and answer without checking. 
“Noona?” Jungkook says his voice laced with worry. “Where are you? It’s already ten minutes past seven.”
“Oh Kookie,” I say cooing even though my heart was beating rapidly. “Don’t worry, I just had to stop by for gas real quick. I’ll be there in 30.”
“Oh okay Noona” Jungkook says softly. “Drive safely okay?” I hum in response and he hangs up. 
“Okay bye babe! Love you!” I say as I hear the dial tone. I look back at Minho and he seemed a bit confused. “I don’t know what you are talking about. My Soulmate is waiting for me, so if you’ll excuse me.”
“I’m sorry,” He said moving away from my car. “But you are Y/N right?”
“I’m sorry but how in the hell-”
“Your father sent me here.” He said, “He said you would be here. He told me everything. If there’s somewhere more private you want to go to dis-”
“Look,” I said stepping up to him. “I don’t know why you think it’s appropriate to approach me like this but I am definitely not interested in what you have to say or offer and as a matter of fact you can forget that I even exist.”
“I’m sorry but I can’t do that,” Minho said with a hint of desperation. And with a shake of his head, he took a step back. “I didn’t want to meet you in these circumstances either, but I was just so curious and-”
“Look,” I said interrupting him. “I’m sure you have good intentions, but you are not the first man my father has pushed on me. You are the first to approach me this way though and trust me you are not making a good first impression.”
“But-”
“I have to go,” I said with finality, entering my car. “I have someone waiting for me.”
Instead of stopping me, Minho just watched me go. I sighed with relief once I got back on the highway. I would have to break so many laws just to make it on time and I was grateful that the traffic wasn’t too bad. Once I had a view of the cottage, I slowed down not wanting to scare the beach goers. My phone started to ring again and instead of Jungkook’s name like I expected, it was an unknown number. I answered and a deep gruff voice resonated from the speakers of my car.
“Why do you always have to disappoint me?” My father said with an eerie calm voice. 
“How did you get my number?” I responded back, clenching my hands on the steering wheel. “Mom pro-”
“Do you really think she had a choice in the matter?” 
“And do you think you have the right to decide she has no choice?” I scoffed. “You must have threatened to divorce her again. And you’re supposed to be Soul-”
“ENOUGH.” He all but roared and I flinched causing me to jerk the car. 
“I’m driving right now,” I said rolling my eyes. “So if you don’t mind, can we keep this conversation civil?”
“You’re gonna want to talk to this professor.”
“Why? Because he has money?” 
“His research-”
“So what now I’m gonna be a lab monkey for this guy?!”
“Y/N did you see his Mark?” He said calm once more, and when I said nothing, he continued. “He doesn’t have one either. Just like you.”
“What?” 
“Talk to him.” He said and the phone call was disconnected. I had managed to park on the driveway of the cottage. On my windshield, I could see the business card that Minho left. I felt my breath leave my lungs and I could feel tears starting to pool in my eyes. My thoughts were racing and it made me dizzy. I quickly got out of the car and made my way to the beach, not even going to the cottage. Thank goodness it was a short walk. Once I stepped onto the uneven sand I sat down and hugged my knees to my chest. I then proceeded to take deep calming breaths and once more I focused on the sound of the waves, willing myself to think logically and calmly. 
He doesn’t have a mark? Is he one of the victims too? Or was he really just like me? Did he never have one like me? And if so, what does that mean for me? Could it be possible that no mark could be a Mark?
“Is he my Soulmate?” I thought out loud. 
“Noona?” 
I jumped up from my position that I almost lost my footing, and strong arms caught me. Looking up, Jungkook was staring down at me in confusion and shock once he saw my tear stained cheeks. I quickly scrambled from his embrace and wiped my cheeks.
“Jungkook!” I said avoiding eye contact. “How did you-”
“Why are you crying?” Jungkook said cupping my cheeks in his hands. I felt my face get hot. “Is this about your Mark?”
“Let’s go inside,” I said tugging his hands from my face, but I held his hand as I led him back to the cottage. “Did you start the movie?”
“Y/N,” Jungkook said stepping his way in front of me, blocking the path. “Why were-”
“Just got off the phone with my dad,” I shrugged. It wasn’t exactly a lie. “The usual: ‘You are such a disappointment’, ‘You’re not my daughter if you are useless.’ The works.”
“I don’t remember him being like that,” Jungkook said, pulling me to a hug. I cleared my throat as I felt my face once again go hot. This boy was gonna give me heart palpitations. 
“People change,” I replied, wrapping my arms around him. “Like you. When did you get so tall! I still can’t believe you’re the same Kookie that used to pull on my pigtails.”
“Noona,” Jungkook whined and bent down to tuck his face in my neck. I felt myself stiffen and almost immediately he released me and started up the path to the cottage. I quickly followed, not wanting to be out in the cold anymore. I followed him inside and Luke Skywalker’s face was on the TV screen and I squealed and jumped onto the couch getting myself comfortable for the movie marathon. Jungkook comes back from the kitchen and hands me a bowl of pasta to which I hum in thanks, my eyes never leaving the screen. “People never really change.”
I looked at him and he was staring right back. I put the pasta down and grabbed the remote to pause the movie. We sat in silence for a bit. Yuki jumped onto the armchair across from us and was staring intently at me, almost as if waiting for me to speak up.
“Jungk-”
“Noona,” Jungkook says, “You don’t have to explain anything to me, if you’re not ready.”
“I-” I sighed. “Depends on what you want to know..”
“Since when?” He sighs. “How long has it been?”
You should tell him the truth
“If I tell you,” I say as I clench my fingers. “Will you promise not to look at me differently or walk on eggshells around me?”
“Noona,” Jungkook says, turning to face me. “Why would I look at you any different?”
I turn to look at him with incredulous eyes and his eyes shined with sincerity. It threw me off. I look back at Yuki who started to purr, almost as if to encourage me.
“Well when I hit pube-”
“No Noona,” Jungkook said with a sigh. “How long have you shut yourself off from the world?”
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said confused. “Why does that matter?”
“Seriously?!” Jungkook shouted, standing up. “Noona, why aren’t you acting like yourself? You were never one to hide, there’s moments where you seem like yourself but then you’re this completely different person-almost like your mem-”
He stopped abruptly almost if coming to a realization or as if he said too much. 
“Jungkook,” I said standing up as well, wanting to comfort him but not sure what to do. “You aren’t curious as to why I don’t have a mark? I mean that’s what everyone-”
“Noona,” Jungkook said almost exasperated. “Mark or not, you’re you. I know that life changes people, I understand that but you act as if you’re ashamed.”
“Kookie,” I said stepping back. “You have no idea what my life has been like.”
“I’m sorry,” Jungkook said covering his face. “You’re right, but I can’t but feel guilty-”
“Jungkookie,” I said rubbing his back. “You have no reason to feel guilty.”
“I’m sorry that we-that I wasn’t there for you.” Jungkook sighed as he wrapped his arms around me, using my head as a headrest. Normally I wouldn’t be comfortable with this amount of skinship, mostly because I never let myself get close to anyone besides my mom and Jennie. But with Jungkook, it felt so natural and I felt a sense of relief. “Jimin and I would have never let you hide…”
I felt myself stiffen with the mention of Jimin’s name, and I almost recoiled from him, almost as if my body felt a sense of shame. But why would I feel that way?
“Noona?” Jungkook said, cocking his head in confusion. “Are you-”
Jungkook’s phone rang, interrupting him as we both came to our senses. He quickly ran to get it from the kitchen table as I gathered Yuki in my arms, requesting cuddles from her. 
“Speaking of the devil,” Jungkook said, his voice laced with a hint of anger. He showed me his phone and ‘Jiminie Hyung’ was facetiming him. 
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the artist | chapter ten
I finally got a hold of Lars later that evening, and right before I went to bed no less. I placed the set of graphite pencils Joey had given me on my desk and I positioned them around a bit so they were leaned up against a small stack of books there, right underneath my window, and I wondered if I could convince Dave and Stone to send me one of their plants for an added mood to it. I still wondered about their garden and the mechanics behind it, and in particular why the two of them were so adamant on ensuring no outsiders got a hold of it. Maybe that was why they were so kind to me on that first impression: Dave figured I hailed from around there and thus he made that assumption.
But after I had changed my clothes and ran a brush through my hair, I picked up my phone and dialed Lars' number. I figured Chris had fallen asleep at that point so I wished not to bother him. I knew Lars had had a long day that day given his speech slurred a bit. But it was in fact nice to hear his voice again after a time. He cleared his throat twice in the first minute alone I was on the phone with him.
“Will and I are figuring that it's best that we let Joey stay in the upstairs loft with the both of us,” he was saying at one point. “At least until one of us can travel back home—you know, I can go back to San Francisco.”
“Is there not enough money for you guys to go around?” I asked him as his line crackled a bit.
“Not at all. I have some and Will scrounges up a little bit from the bottom of his bank account, but that's about it. Joey spent almost the rest of his money on those pencils he got for you.”
I swallowed at the sound of that.
“I should probably tell you,” he started up again, “William—doesn't really have a lot of money anyway.”
“I thought so,” I confessed to him. “I mean, just hearing that he's living in the upstairs loft above the speakeasy and whatnot, and he's living there with you and Joey.”
“Well, I mean, he's almost out of money. He showed me the amount in there at the moment and it's alarming to see. He hopes to get this place open before he runs out of funds entirely.”
“So what're you thinking?” I asked him as I crawled under the covers of my bed. I started to wonder if Joey getting me those pencils were more than just a gift for me.
“Well, I am glad that you called when you did and I thank you for doing so. We need you here with us, to help us out. I have no idea what your situation is but we need you. We need your genius and your prowess—” He was cut off by the sound of something. “—huh? Oh, I'm speaking to Holly.”
He returned to me.
“Darling Joseph says hi.”
“Hi, Joey,” I said in a sweet voice. He was sweet to me, and thus I needed to return the favor.
“Hey, Hahlls!” he called out in a broken voice.
“So you guys want me there? When?” I asked Lars again once he returned to me.
“Well, preferrably tomorrow. That's how badly we need you here.”
“Bring your digital stuff with ya, too,” Joey added from the background.
“Yes!” Lars chimed in. “Bring your digital enhancement stuff, too. We need to see you at your fullest potential and at your most vulnerable. You gave yourself through your art when we modeled for you. The only way we can succeed is if we have you with us.”
“Sounds like a lot,” I admitted, even though if I had survived the pandemic, I could bring that speakeasy forth and I could help turn things around for the three of them.
“Well—I am sure you know what to do,” he assured me. “I believe in you. Joey believes in you, as does Will. We believe that you can lead the way and we shall be right behind you every step of the way.”
I smiled when he said that and I bode him good night before hanging up. I set my phone down on my desk and then I reached underneath my pillow for my sketchbook. I was about to doodle something real quick when I got an idea upon looking at those graphites again. I set my sketchbook down on my lap and reached for my phone again.
I pressed on the number in my address book and brought it up to my ear. I waited out one ring, and then—
“Hey, Holly,” Dave replied in a soft voice; he, too, sounded tired.
“Hey, Dave, can I ask you a question before you or I fall asleep?”
“Sure, what's up?”
“Do you have any extra flowers?”
“As a matter of fact, we do, yeah!” he answered. “Why, would you like some?”
“Yeah, maybe one of your lilies or one of your sunflowers. A little something to brighten up my room a bit. You know, like that.”
“I think we can do that, although Chris called me earlier today and said he wants to do something nice for you, too. He told me that he's kind of in the same boat as Joey, though, like his savings are starting to fall by the wayside.”
“Oh, man.” I frowned at the sound of that.
“Yeah—that's according to him, anyways. Stone and I are doing alright, but a few bucks for us goes a long way whereas when you're living in a place like the heart of Seattle like he is, it's pretty brutal.”
I cleared my throat. “Did Lars tell you what's going on with them?” I asked him in a small voice.
“He did, yeah. And I would know about that, too. After Nirvana, I was livin' in a van and I had no motivation to do anything.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I took a good long look at myself in the mirror and said, 'I'm gonna live every day as though it were my last.' And I did, and I have been. The pandemic also helped bring that to fruition. You know, the whole thing that the virus could infect you at any given second and it could kill you within a day.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about that,” I said as I received flashbacks to when news of the virus hitting the mainland United States entered my mind right then.
“So what kind of flowers did you say? A lily or a sunflower?”
“Yeah, but I'm good with either one. Plants inspire me as much as music does.”
“And new ideas, I would reckon,” he added; I heard the rustling of a sleeping bag on his end and I knew he and Stone were ready for bed, too.
“Absolutely!” I declared. “And I dunno 'bout you but after the pandemic, I'm more than happy to go forth with a new way of life. I know my parents are.” And as soon as I said that, I regretted within a few microseconds of saying it. I hoped he didn't take it the wrong way.
“Say 'hi' to them for me when you get a chance,” he said with a little chuckle.
We said good night to each other and hung up at the same time. That time, I set my phone on the desk and picked up my sketchbook again. I decided to just use a mechanical pencil for this late night drawing and save those nice graphites Joey got me for something a little more important. I leaned back with the book sprawled over my lap and proceeded to do a study of hair: Chris' luxurious black waves, Joey's beautiful jet black corkscrews, Will's fine but fuzzy kinks, Lars' smooth feathery tendrils, and I even tried my hand at Stone's fine head of hair and Dave's delicate blond locks.
I doodled until I fell asleep with the book on my lap. I woke up at some time early in the morning and set the book on the desk, and lay down onto my back. I fell asleep for about a few hours when I was jarred awake by the sound of my mom's voice.
“Holly!”
I opened my eyes and peered about the room. The sun had risen just enough to bring some fresh new light in there, but I knew it was still early. I rubbed my eyes when she called my name again.
I rolled out of bed and darted out of the room to see what was the matter. I skidded into the living room where she had taken her seat on the couch and leaned forward as though something intense took place on the television. She, too, had woken up by the tired look upon her face and her robe wrapped around her body.
“What's wrong?” I sputtered as my voice broke from sleep and from fear.
“The virus came back,” she told me in a grave voice.
“Oh, no,” I muttered. I looked on at the news report to find that it was in fact true: the corona virus had returned with a vengeance. Cases were spiking all over the remnants of the country in the past few days alone.
“Yeah, the current vaccine isn't working anymore because the virus behaved like a regular, actual pathogen and it mutated again.”
“Which means...” My voice trailed off.
“You can't really go out now, unless it's important,” my dad added from the kitchen.
But helping out Will, Joey, Lars, and Chris was important. It was imperative that I be there at the speakeasy to do the dirty work for them. I promised Lars I would be there that day: if I had to sneak out with my mask on over my face, then I would have to do that.
This virus and the pathetic response to it singlehandedly ruined their lives as musicians: I needed to ensure that it wouldn't ruin my life as an artist, much less an artist who wanted to save them from the horrors of poverty.
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san-station · 4 years
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A Quiet Place AU / ATEEZ (Post-apocalyptic)
Chapter 3
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↝Word count: 2139
Description: In a world full of silence and dangerous creatures seeking for blood, a group of friends have to survive for their own good and find the safe place they’ve heard about months ago.
Pairing: OC x San
WARNING: cursing most of all.
・・・・・・・・
Rollercoaster
The fourth floor of the old damaged building was my place, my comfort zone, the only moment where I could be entirely alone with my thoughts, my feelings, my sorrows and my draws. The four gray aged and dingy walls were covered by my creations on every blank space that once were painted with cute bird patterns. Five months ago, when we found the place, I was depressed, my parents death followed me everywhere, so much that nothing mattered to me anymore. The twelve of us traveled afoot for over six days to finally reach the end of the forest we were hiding for, at least, the past month. The tan and shaped boy, Lucas, got lost a whole fucking day in the woods when he decided he wanted to pee because was too shy to do it near us. Fucking kid… We’d splitted in two groups of four and the three left had to stay in the encounter spot. Misuk, Jongho and Yunho stayed while we silently looked for any sign of the cinnamon colored boy. I'm not gonna lie, my heart ached when Lucas got missing, he was one of the amusing boys that kept us underground and kinda happy. While he was wandering around looking for a perfect spot, he’d felt in a huge hole of human bones and was too afraid to give us any signal (not that he could scream either). He had scratched his knees and hands and was afraid of any infection so, the moment he saw us, tears decorated his great looking face while Mingi and Wooyoung helped him climb the slippery ground. 
“I swear I’ll never pee again”, he signed shaking his head and moving forward to the encounter spot for water to clean the minor injuries.  After that, we found ourselves in a half-destroyed city, the place was literally torn in two ‘cause the government thought bombs would do their purpose and annihilate everything in their paths. Wrong. Thousands of people had died in the incident and just a little amount of the monsters. But eventually everyone mad about it died or had better things to do, like, survive for example. We couldn’t find a sustentable home over there, so we kept walking a mile away from the city until we realized this old and abandoned building with its eight floors and its amazing basement.
My fingers moved away from the smooth side of the wall, the green splash coated the black under it to mixed the colors and picture a beautiful pickup as finished work. I’ve been painting a whole zoo in the room for my own pleasure. And because most of animals were extinct by then; if you saw a bird, a rat or a racoon, they would probably be slaughter a minute later due to the sounds they made by instinct...  The paints were a gift Seonghwa and Mingi gave me to help my depression. It kinda worked, it was the right time to be oblivious. I smiled watching the glorious bird, for obvious reasons (lack of paints) I only could draw it in green, black and yellow, but that didn’t make it less wonderful. The problem with my comfort zone was that I didn’t want anyone near it for two good reasons: number one, it was my spot, they all knew I was usually painting and shit, and for that, concentration is the motto. Number two, half of the animals I drew had a straight thin red line underneath their mouths to remember those species were forever gone. 
My hands were covered in green and black from tip to my wrist but I didn't care when I cleaned my sweaty forehead staining all half of my face in the process. 
Hongjoong suddenly walked into the room slowly with two cups of whatever that was, he and Seonghwa were the only ones allowed to come inside because they wanted to assure I was okay with my panic attacks. I wasn’t even paying attention to him, I was focused on that animal and his grace… it needed the final detail, so I crunched and grabbed the red paint on the floor next to the few lefts I had. I opened it, clean my middle right finger with my little painted towel specifically used for that, and then I let my finger separate the head off of the bird’s body. I sighted and stepped back to admire the result. However, without any warning my back collided with Hongjoong’s body and I holded a scream facing him, as a reflect, I almost threw a punch to his face. My wide eyes saw the mullet boy grabbing the cups hardly while he smile at me in surprise. 
“I like it”, he whispered motioning to the bird with one of his occupied hands. As fast as I could, I covered his mouth with my green-black hands.
“No talk, you know we are not safe here”, I signed. Soon after, he extended a cup to me and pointed to an empty place to sit on the floor. He turned around, sat on the cold and all dusty cement and patted next to him. I contained my giggles when I saw his face all covered in paint. 
“Sorry”, I signed pointing at his lips. He glared at himself not finding the cause of my amusement. He then touched his face and looked at his painted fingers. He smiled. 
"Don't worry about it, Ji, now come and sit next to me”, he insisted. 
My feet followed the order and I was now next to him sharing a cup of green tea. I hated tea, he knew I hated it, so why…? 
Hongjoong leaned over me until I felt his warm breath in my ears. 
“Taste it, it's for the nerves.”
I sighed, I was afraid of being caught if he kept talking, so I gestured him to shut the fuck up one more time or I'll end him. He lifted his hands in defeat. 
My lips tasted the hot water with essence and immediately I was ready to spill it out, Hongjoong was faster and begged me with his puppy eyes to drink it all for my own health. That man was manipulative as fuck, so there I was, finishing my disgusted tea with tears in my eyes. 
Two almost imperceptible knocks on the door made us both jerked from our sits, Jongho's smooth whisper alarmed us. 
“May I come in?” 
I slapped my face listening to the young one. Panic was taking over me for like two seconds, but the mullet boy answered putting a hand on my shoulder and looking at the door.
“Wait a minute...” he said as quiet as he could.
Jongho sighed loudly and Hongjoong gave me a judging narrowed eyebrow, he brushed the hair out of my face and cleaned a little of the paint rubbing my forehead with the thumb.
“Ji…”, he started. 
“No fucking way”, I shook my head in denial. “You know he can't, Joong… No one”, I signed abruptly and grabbed the cup off the floor. The next thing Jongho saw was the mullet boy grabbing his arm friendly, escorting him downstairs. I followed behind after closing the door carefully. 
“I just wanted to talk to you, Jiyeong”, he turned to face me and I could tell he looked… sad. It'd been a while since we saw the light-brown haired boy so gloomy about something. He stopped going down in the second floor and yanked his arm from Hongjoong's grip a little bit stronger that he should. “I want to know how she died, Ji… I just…”, he raised a hand and scratched the back of his neck. “I don't know, may-maybe we can go to the same spot and collect whatever is left of her and maybe make a good funeral… I… I don't know, guys…  she deserves it.”
I sighed, the walls around us started to feel like they were closing, reaching each other for one gold: suffocate us, but that’s how I actually felt. If only they knew how hard it was for me to stop thinking about what happened, they’d stop asking questions I didn’t want to answer.
“Jongho… there's no way we can do that”, my whisper sounded harsh, still that wasn't the feeling I wanted to transmit, my heart shrinked from sadness. “The place will be plagued with the odor, her scents...", I stood in the first floor now, Jongho gave me the most concerned face I've ever seen before. I felt like the villain of the story, yet I was being realistic. "The creatures will be around it, Jongho, we can’t risk our lives.” Jongho’s hands turned into fists, I ignored them. I knew his blood was probably boiling in his body but, could you blame him? He was receiving cold water on his face while sleeping. Wake up, Jongho… 
“The moment you step on that rooftop, you'll be gone, we don't need that”, I really wanted to make his dream come true but if it meant losing him, or anyone else, it didn't worth it. At all. 
“We certainly didn't need Misuk's death either”, he spatted a little loud for my pleasure, my body immediately freeze, Hongjoong was next to me after giving the final steps to the main floor. The minor left walking down the hallway to the basement as we heard the footsteps disappear. I rubbed my temples roughly and sighted. 
“Ugh, I didn't mean to sound like that…”, I mumbled after the basement door clicked closed. 
“I know…”, Hongjoong caressed my back with two pats and passed me, “He knows it too, but let him be mad for a second, it’s a kid."
“I didn't know…”, I signed, talking outside was getting me more and more anxious.
“Yeah, they had a thing, not too serious though”, we made our way to the basement again. “But at the end of the world, we all need to be loved.” 
I left out a scoff. 
Oh my God… of course… 
“Surviving is all we need, Joong.”
“Humanity needs survivors, Jiyeong”, the mullet boy opened the door silently and we entered. “How do you think  we can do that if we don't love other people and create families”. Yeosang’s head raised from the kitchen at the sound of Joong’s voice, he had a full plate of cooked fish ready to be eaten. Now he was listening to our conversation while washing his hands on the sink. 
“Stop right there, ugh…”, I sat on the couch beside Mingi, the boy was counting how many plastic bottles will be needed for dinner. I caressed his hair and he smiled still focusing on the bottles.
“Our priority is to survive, not create new human life in this dystopia, you crazy man.”
“I'm not joking”, Hongjoong made his way towards the fridge and had a sip of carrot juice. “Eventually you'll have to find a family too.” He smirked and walked to the other side of the room, were the beds were. My heart ached with the memories of my beloved family.
“I have one already.”
“I'm not talking about us”, he disappeared in his room. A soft “Sup’?” was all I heard before a refreshing Seonghwa made act of presence after he got out of the room with his hair barely wet.
“He’s not wrong, to be honest”, the black haired man smiled while he joined Yeosang and helped him with the green bowl made of leaves that contained eggs and potato salad.   
    “You want a new family, Ji?!”, Mingi opened wide his eyes getting out of his trance, he was surprised and kind of scared. Oh, sweet big boy…
    “No, Mingi, Hongjoong and I were talking about preserving the human race on Earth even though we might all get kill for that”, I speak shrugging not giving it to much care.
   “You’re thinking about having a baby right now?! With Joong?!”, Mingi asked incredulously loud. I breathed and stood up. 
    I felt Yeosang’s gazed and I looked at him, I wanted to smile at his shook face, but then I remembered he was a fucking cinist. 
“I’m all sweaty and dirty, I’m gonna wash myself and then catch y’all on the roof”. I heard Seonghwa’s soft laugh after I closed the ladies’ bathroom door and sighed. 
“Why does Hongjoong have to be the one? It’s not fair” Mingi asked again. The sound of footsteps resonated on the place.
"Shut up, Mingi, they aren’t serious about that”, Yeosang’s voice sounded a bit mad and tired, but he speaked again, more gentle. “Let’s go with the others, she’ll be there soon and this is the first night without Misuk, so Jongho needs us.”
So everyone knew about Misuk and Jongho except for me? What a shitty friend you are, Jiyeong… 
(...)
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noelgarcias · 4 years
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[ tommy martinez, cismale & he/him ] did you know that NOEL GARCIA was on full disclosure? yeah, apparently the TWENTY FIVE year old CHEF was hiding HE’S LIVING UNDER A FALSE IDENTITY TO AVOID HIS PAST. i never would’ve expected it from our resident ARTISAN. i wonder how they’ll deal with this, considering how PASSIONATE & STUBBORN they are. // written by pepper: twenty three, est, she/her.  
it is i, pepperoni mcpony back once again to bring you yet another messy ass muse. i am once again on that new muse juice, but also kind of on the recycled muse juice like i’ve used this fc and this name before but it didn’t work out, so i’ve changed a lot about him and revamped him and so now he’s better than every babeeyyy. down bellow will be a bit about noel, or rather dante if we’re being technical. you can just call him noel though. full disclosure (badum tss sdkjsdkj) this is gonna be messy as hell, because noel’s inspo is more scattered than percy’s but we’re gonna push through folks.
BIO ;
okay so noel’s family is kind of inspired by the quinns (from ‘you’ on netflix), the castillos (from how to get away with murder) and like henry gouldings family in crazy rich asians. 
dante isaac campana was brought into the world in madrid spain with a silver spoon dangling out of his mouth. you’d never guess from looking at him, what with his hobo chic style and generally unkept appearance but it’s the truth. he came in this world out of a well paid surrogate as the second child of the infamous sofia and gabriel campana. and he wanted for nothing because of it, his parents made sure of that.
gabriel was a ceo and sofia was a wildly successful author, and from the moment noel could breathe his parents had his whole life set up for him. after all they wanted their son to be successful and they planned to make sure of it. a hefty trust fund in his name, to be accessible at the age of eighteen. a place in the family business that he would fill the moment he finished university. they even had an arrangement for who noel would marry eventually, before he was even old enough to understand what the concept of marriage was. it was all planned out for noel without the slightest bit of input from noel himself, and dante  was just supposed for accept that. the funny thing is at first he did.
after all he was young and he had no reason not to. he loved his parents deeply at first, and they probably loved him in return, even if they had a bit of an odd way of showing it. dante’s parents were the type to shower their children in superficial affection. buying them things. kissing and hugging them when there was someone around to see. encouraging them only when it came to pursuits that they approved of. sure noel could draw, and learn guitar, and learn piano, as long as those things were just hobbies. as long as he didn’t forget the plan because The Plan was law.
dante only became aware of how conditional his parents love for them was when his elder sister started to slip under the pressure they put on her shoulders. anya campana was about fifteen at the time, and dante, six years her younger, had to watch as his sister crumbled. anya had always cared too much about what their parents thought of her, about impressing them and making them proud. it didn’t help that her parents made it clear that they would not accept anything less than excellence. the pressure drove anya to substance abuse, just to take the edge off, just to make things easier. it wasn’t long the weight of their parents expectations had drove anya to a full on addiction, all in the pursuit of success. but of course when dante’s parents found out they had no sympathy for her. only disappointment. their father had every plan to make anya, his eldest, the head of the company when she came of age, but that ‘slip up’ cost her the role. instead the position would be given to dante, and anya would be sent quietly to rehab. it was an eye opening experience for dante, honestly. to see just how replaceable their parents saw them.  
the truth is the campanas were fake. plastic. sure they smiled in the public eye and the relationship between the siblings at least was genuine, but the truth was gabriel was cheating on sofia when he thought no one was looking, and sofia had openly slapped each of her children across the face at least once, usually when she got a bit too much wine in her. the older dante got the more and more he felt his love for his parents becoming more of an obligation than anything tangible. 
when dante was thirteen, around the time anya’s second stint in rehab, all hell broke loose in the campana household. initially dante thought that his mother had uncovered one of his fathers many affairs again, but instead it was much worse. his mother had discovered his father had an illegitimate child with dante’s favourite childhood nanny of all people. considering sofia couldn’t have children herself (hence the surrogate for both of the campana children) and even gabriel was struggling with impotence, this was a shock and a slap in the face. only emphasized by the fact that dante’s ex nanny had passed away, leaving dante’s father as the kids legal guardian. 
and so suddenly dante had a younger sibling. it was a situation that took getting used to but it wasn’t long until dante adored them, and the feeling was quickly mutual. while dante’s father could barely interact with the child without inciting his wife, and dante’s mother treated them with coldness, dante and his sibling became painfully close due to circumstance. 
for years it went on like that. the three campana siblings all attempting to impress their parents for different reasons. his youngest sibling to feel less like an outsider, dante just because he knew no other way, anya because she desperately wanted to get back into their parents good graces. but anya never could do anything quite right, always somehow ended up messing up spectacularly and publicly. until one day, anya disappeared.
dante and his younger sibling were the first to notice. his parents just assumed that anya was on another bender, and when the siblings brought this to their attention that’s exactly what they said in reply. but they were wrong. in 2012 anya campana was kidnapped and held for a ransom of one billion dollars. dante can still remember getting the ransom call. he can still remember the sheer panic, the cold fear. and he can still remember his father refusing to pay the money. trying to negotiate with the kidnappers, as if anya’s life was just another deal. he can remember begging his father just to pay the money, because it wasn’t like they didn’t have it. but his father was convinced he could get the kidnappers to lower the price, or that the police would find anya before he had to pay it. they didn’t. anya campana died in the winter of 2012 at the hands of a couple of common criminals, all because their father apparently had his own idea about the worth of each of his children. 
dante was furious and disgusted and grieving. his sister, his confidante and likely one of the two people in his life to love him unconditionally, was gone. dante officially snapped when his mother had the audacity to write a book about the experience. by the time the book was picked up by a publisher, dante had packed his bags, liquidated his trust fund, taken his younger sibling and fled spain with two new identities for them both. his sibling was under the age of eighteen at the time, so the campanas really could have called the police and reported dante for kidnapping, but dante knew that his parents wouldn’t risk making a scene so soon after the spectacle that anya’s death was. he and his sibling would be safe for a while as long as they laid low. and they did. dante -- now known as noel garcia-- and his sibling moved to san francisco and have been keeping a low profile ever since. 
honestly, noel adapted to the american dream like a fish to water. having a new name, having no one in this continent knowing who he was, finally being out from under his parents thumb -- it was all so freeing, and noel really dove head first into that feeling. ever since he’s just been living the life he always dreamed of having. doing exactly what he wants and nothing less one hundred percent of the time (which is exactly how and why he got married, and is still married honestly). he lives his life on pure free spirited impulse one hundred percent of the time, with exception of rare show of responsibility he puts into helping raise his younger sibling. he tries to live his life in a way he hopes would make his sister proud. he’s determined to live enough for the both of them. 
somehow, despite the multiple private investigators his parents have undoubtedly sent to find them, they’ve remained undetected. that is until full disclosure decided to expose him. now noel is just waiting for the day one of his parents shows up at his door demanding he come back to take over the family business. he isn’t looking forward to it, but he is kinda looking forward to finally telling them to fuck off, which is really the only silver lining. 
PERSONALITY ; 
god who knows folks like i said dkjsdjksd noel is a mess in my brain
PASSIONATE THOUGH! god he’s so passionate, like noel just feels everything on 10 one hundred percent of the time. The type to get teary eyed over a dead bird, but also the type to like stay up five days straight working on a project because he can’t get it out of his mind
despite this thinks romantic love is a straight up myth lmao because of his parents relationship, so we love a contradictory king. a bleeding heart but also a philiophobe. 
nurturing honestly? but only with people he actually cares about like his sibling and wife. a dad friend i suppose. 
but also impulsive. like the type to suggest going to vegas on a whim and get WILDLY FUCKED UP DRUNK, but also that really coherent drunk who can be doing body shots one minute and be trying to gently coax someone else to drink water the next. 
thinks he’s funny! sometimes he is tbh. very sarcastic honestly.
a big ol’ flirt just naturally. also bi, so equal opportunity for everybody. 
very touchy feely tbh because he’s a tactile person.
a live and let live kinda guy like actually,,, so close to a hippie that percy is triggered. 
a bit promiscuous but he’s okay with it. he’s a hoe but he knows it you know. 
the most generous person when it comes to money and kindness. the type to sit down with a homeless person and end up giving them his jacket, five hundred dollars, and a new outlook on life. 
the type to hold a grudge until the day he dies, but also the type of person who can’t NOT help someone who needs help you know. like he hates his parents but if his mother called him tomorrow like i want to see you one last time before i die, he would fly out to spain to see her smh he might not talk to her the whole time because he’s petty and like ‘there, you’ve seen me’ efjkdsfj but he’d do it. 
very liberal. literally can’t talk to conservatives without wanting to physically fight them. has definitely gone to a protest and gotten arrested for punching a nazi. luckily was released before the whole living with a fake identity thing could be found out. 
HEADCANNONS ;
alright now onto the fun stuff.
deaf in his left ear and has been all his life. it’s kind of difficult for him to hear a specific person talking in a crowd of too many people, especially if you’re standing on his left so he might straight up text your instead. also if you’re standing on his left side in general, he might turn to face you better to hear you.
noel’s occupation is a chef at a restaurant but in truth at heart he’s an artist. like his art is his heart, and it’s actually very popular and he gets a lot of offers from people wanting to buy it but he can never part with anything he’s made so he always refuses the offers, no matter how much money the customer is bidding. he has refused offers on grounds such as ‘i didn’t like the vibes he was giving off’ or ‘that asshole was wearing a jack johnson shirt’ or even, once ‘pretty sure i saw that guy in a dream once. he fucking sucked.’ so most of his art decorates his and evie’s apartment instead, and he’ll even give some to friends for free. noel actually wants to become a full time artist but considering how picky he is about who actually buys his art, it’s unlikely because he’ll literally make no money. hence, being a chef. no matter what noel enjoys seeing people enjoy his food, so it works out. 
actually learned to cook from his family chef, and hasn’t really had time to get any professional training but he really wants to. he has absolutely snuck into culinary school very briefly before just to sit in on a few classes. just pretended he went there and made a bunch of friends and learned a lot of stuff, and even taught some culinary students a few things. but he was eventually discovered and kicked out rip, but it was a great time while it lasted.  
honestly pretty good at anything having to do with his hands, hence the artisan label. noel is the type of person who knows nothing about like mechanics but can like fix something if you put it in front of him. likes to make furniture as a hobby so hit your boy up if you want a sexy chair. also makes sculptures and does a bit of pottery, like your boy has his fingers in more than a few pots
intelligent in the way that he just has a lot of pretty well informed opinions like if you want a fun fact don’t go to noel but if you want a good insightful conversation he’s your man.
a big defender of the environment.
has a bunch of tattoos. i imagine him with at least one sleeve and he’s probably starting another. is seriously considering a neck tat. his parents would hate it and that just makes him love it more.
honestly got married a bit because it was a choice he got to make for himself that his parents had no control over. the thought of his parents still believing he will be playing into the arranged marriage they had laid out for him only for him to tell them he already married his bandmate was super satisfying.
doesn't do drugs at all, the most hell do is smoke weed. used to see his sister at her worst (aka withdrawal symptoms, two overdoses) and so he doesn’t even want to be close to anyone who does drugs, cause he can’t do that again. 
if you watch jenna marbles i want you to know that noel is julian in the kitchen and julian in the kitchen only
surprisingly has a green thumb? can revive almost any plant with relative ease
never learnt how to ride a bike tbh
surprising the type to get into physical fights when he’s drunk, which he hates, because it reminds him of his mother. 
WANTED CONNECTIONS ;
younger sibling ; if you’ve guessed that i’m going to put a wc into the main for noel’s younger sibling than you’ve guessed right but if anyone here wants it before i put the message into the main let me know!
claire to his brad ; ... please. i’m begging here. noel is a chef but i haven’t decided where and i really want him to have a chef friend or baker friend who he just messes around with in the kitchen. maybe they even make amateur funnily little gourmet-makes-esque youtube videos where noel doesn’t show his face because he doesn’t want his parents to see but sdkjsdkj he’s like julian behind the camera, making comments and having a good time. give me this.
a virgo ; speaking of julian, noel does have julian energy and so he therefore probably needs a jenna. please give him someone to help with his impulse control. someone to say, hey, maybe you shouldn’t deep fry that turkey in a huge vat right outside your apartment in the middle of may. maybe you should just take a nap. you know?
a love hate relationship ; honestly i just want someone who noel actively despises but still helps out anyways. like he doesn’t like who they are a person, but he can’t leave them alone, because they’re usually in some sort of trouble and unfortunately noel just can’t watch people implode. 
one night stands / hookups / previous dates ; noel’s marriage is open but since he was keeping his whole marriage a secret in the first place these people probably wouldn’t have known that at the time sdkjsdkj but noel is perfectly willing to explain that now that full disclosure has exposed them and he’s got no more secrets to keep. 
a best friend ; or two! i’d love a bromance for him and another close friendship that doesn’t have to be a bromance, just someone who he’s really close to. 
okay this has gotten hella long so i’m gonna stop now but like this if you want to plot and i’ll come running! and to anyone who got all the way to the end of this... you’re the real mvp. <3
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sapphicscholar · 5 years
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Pride Month Prompts Day 15: Sleepover (Grace/Frankie)
From this Pride Month Prompts post! I’m taking the opportunity to write some short fics for a variety of pairings that I haven’t written for as much, maybe at all. They won’t be going on AO3, so I’ll be sure to tag them all with #pride month prompts so you can find them later if you want.
 Day 15: Sleepover
Pairing: Grace/Frankie
A/N: Set post-S5, so some spoilers as a heads up
Grace’s second sleepover is just as unexpected as her first one had been. Her first, a night of squatting in a home that had, until so recently, been hers, was filled with floor mattresses and squealing pigs and lukewarm vodka and secret sharing that Frankie had insisted was part of the quintessential sleepover experience. Her second comes after a teary beach confession. Her knees ache from the attempt at running across the sand to a woman she’d once sworn she’d never voluntarily spend a single minute with; a sense of betrayal and loss still hang heavy in the air between them; and the night is filled with chilled vodka and apologies and explanations Grace feels compelled to provide even though she’s made it a policy ever since starting her own business never to justify her personal choices to anyone but herself—and sometimes she doesn’t even like to think too hard on her own about her life choices.
The third sleepover doesn’t arrive until the night the divorce is finalized, even though Grace has slept in the beach house plenty of times since then. But on the day everything goes through, Frankie meets her with a joint and a pile of Brat Pack movies that neither of them really want to see but Frankie insists are slumber party classics. The mattresses are already set up in the living room, though this time there’s an extra pillow for Grace’s knee, and there’s enough electricity to go around without siphoning it off the neighbors’ grid. Frankie is considerate enough to pretend not to notice the small sob quickly stifled in Grace’s sleeve as they’re both falling asleep.
From then on, the sleepovers become a semi-regular occurrence almost every month, with Frankie insisting that Grace was deprived of a very important adolescent ritual. Grace finds herself becoming accustomed to a whole host of party games that she can sometimes admit are fun, particularly when they’re played with a martini in hand.
During the fourth sleepover, after vetoing Twister by reminding Frankie about their afternoon spent as floor people together, Grace plays Truth or Dare for the first time (everyone in college had insisted they were much too mature for it by then). Among other dares, Grace ends up drinking an awful concoction of the first three things Frankie puts her hands on in the fridge while blindfolded, and Frankie, in turn, experiences the joys of one of her first martinis, though she insists the olives are the only decent part of the whole thing. Grace talks more about her first kiss with a girl, while Frankie regales Grace with tales of her first time getting stoned. The game skids to an abrupt end when a rather tipsy Frankie—“How do you drink more than one of these? The whole world’s staring backwards at me, Grace!”—asks Grace to talk about her best sexual experience for a truth.
At sleepover number five, Frankie introduces Grace to the joys of prank phone calls. Frankie goes first to show her how it’s done, calling Bud and asking in a lower voice if his refrigerator is running. Only, while she’s giggling, he lets out a loud sigh: “We’ve all got caller ID these days, Mom. I’m going, alright?” After that, a google search reveals the magic of *67, then a long rabbit hole of all the other * extensions, and Grace, several martinis in, rolls her eyes but still gives in to Frankie’s pleading and manages a whole phone call to a San Diego bar asking if a Seymour Butts is there. Frankie tries Bud again when Coyote doesn’t answer, but Grace draws the line at her own daughters. She hasn’t told them about the sleepovers yet. She isn’t sure why, but she doesn’t want to share this…thing just yet. Like the handful of Say Yes nights, the sleepovers are something private. Something fun in a genuine way that stands so at odds with the kind of person Grace Hanson presents herself as to the rest of society. Something reserved for her and Frankie and no one else—them against the world.
Sleepover six is postponed by a week thanks to a family gathering, but Frankie makes up for lost time by coming down wholly prepared with tiny books and a handful of pens Grace recognizes as having gone missing from her purse and desk and bedside table over the past few weeks. They spend the night playing Mad Libs that Frankie delights in making as filthy as she can, cackling as Grace reads each half-nonsensical story back to her. She saves a particularly explicit one where scissoring had been her verb of choice because it had actually gotten a reaction out of Grace other than an eye roll or a deep sigh—though both of those had happened too. Grace is too distracted by Frankie’s cries of excitement to notice that Frankie cuts her off after two martinis. The night doesn’t seem any less fun for the loss.
It’s at their seventh sleepover that Grace learns the joys of MASH and homemade fortune tellers. She’s quite pleased to learn that George Clooney will be her next husband and listens patiently as Frankie explains that they’ll live in a mansion and drive a Jeep—“You’re gonna have to use a whole can of hairspray every ride. I’ll light a candle for the poor Earth.”—and somehow manage to have another two children. Grace furrows her brow in confusion when Frankie appears just as delighted to learn that Grace will be her wife, even though they’ll be living in a shack with a pet snake and no car. Frankie had shrugged off Grace’s confusion, ready with an answer for every question. “We’re basically married now.” (Grace doesn’t question why the thought makes her stomach swoop, not unlike the sensation of cresting up and over a steep hill too fast in her car.) “Can’t be worse than Walden Villas, and we got through that together.” “Better than those wild fuckers in Santa Fe. Everywhere you went: surprise snakes!” “Cars are bad for the Earth. I need to make up for all your hairspray, Grace!”
One night, Grace arrives home after dinner with Brianna and Mallory to find a note waiting on the kitchen table that says nothing more than: “In the studio. Come over when home.”
There’s also a text waiting for her: “Plz bring cheese curls. Thnx!”
When she gets out to the studio, a bag of cheese curls tucked under her arm and her phone clutched in her hand, she finds that the whole space has been taken over by pillows and mattresses and colorful, draped sheets and swaths of fabric that she’d only vaguely registered Frankie bringing home over the past few months. Some of them shimmer with gold and silver threads embedded in the fabric, and the smell of incense wafts through the air.
“It looks like an opium den in here,” Grace mutters to herself.
A moment later, Frankie’s head pops out from a side entrance. “Really? Oh good, I was worried I might have gone too mainstream and hit hipster coffee shop.”
“No, no, solidly opium den.”
“Come in?”
And it’s going to hurt her knees and probably muss her hair, and she’d only voluntarily done this for her own grandchildren one time before deciding it was enough for a lifetime, but Frankie has done this for her, Frankie is waiting in there for her, so Grace will go.
Inside, Frankie waits with two glasses of wine, only half-filled, and a small plate of snacks that are a step up from the typical junk food fare on these nights that Grace refuses to touch until she’s too distracted to keep all of her attention focused on calories and sugar and fat.
“Have extra time today?” Grace asks, casting a glance around at the ornate decorations.
“You don’t just miss the one-year anniversary of your first ever intentional, non-squatting slumber party, now do you?” It’s said in that tone of voice that suggests everything is fine and light and breezy, that nothing matters more or less than anything else, which so easily slides into the idea that nothing matters to Frankie at all, but Grace catches the sense of sincerity lurking in the background. Some old memory pulls at the back of her mind—something about grand gestures and how important they were, something about their uses…
After a few minutes and a few false starts with Frankie attempting to ask something only to trail down on those long, winding tangents that lead her back to where she began only about half of the time, Frankie finally proposes that they play a good game of Truth or Dare.
It takes three rounds for Grace to choose dare, and Frankie takes a deep breath when she does. “I dare you to dare me to ask you something important next round.”
Grace may not have ever played the game before Frankie, but she’s fairly certain that isn’t how the rules work. Still, she nods anyway. It’s better not to disagree with Frankie, even when she does things like insisting that the entire phrase, “got to scissoring,” should count as a past tense verb for Mad Libs. So she asks Frankie, “Truth or dare?” and isn’t the least bit surprised when Frankie answers, “Dare.”
Frankie sits in silence, looking expectantly back at Grace.
“What?”
“Don’t you have something to dare me?”
Grace fixes Frankie with a disbelieving look, one eyebrow arched and her lips slightly pursed. “You already know what it is.”
“You have to dare me, though. Otherwise we might as well be playing the mind-reading game, and you know I’m always up to try it, but you never seem to be thinking about any of the things that I can see.”
“That’s because you always guess Del Taco burritos, martinis, and vibrators!” Just because two of those are true more often than she’d like them to be doesn’t make it a great guess.
“Grace,” Frankie nearly whines. “Are you going to dare me?”
“Fine.” Grace holds up her hands, trying to preempt an explanation about the ethics of accepting a dare and then reneging on the dared action. “I dare you to ask me something important.”
Frankie clasps her hands together in her lap, twisting at a chunky ring adorning her middle finger. “We’ve gone through a lot of shit together these past few years. And at our first ever sleepover, you asked me if I wanted to do something. I said no because, you know, we’re Grace and Frankie!” Grace nods along because she thinks she gets it, gets what it means to go from being Grace and Robert, and Frankie and Sol, to Grace and Frankie, and fuck Robert and Sol. “I squatted you until we were best friends, and now we have our thing. That thing where we get our house back and fight the bureaucratic machine that is the post office and make vibrators for people like us.”
“Okay.”
“But I can’t stop thinking about…that other thing. That thing that might make Grace and Frankie a different kind of thing. Well, we could still be amateur sleuths and fight the system and sell vibrators because how could we give any of that up when there are still so many Harriets out there that need us? Did you know—”
“Frankie!”
“Right. Anyway, if you don’t believe me that I’ve been thinking about it, I’ve got a whole bunch of paintings that aren’t as abstract as they should have been for Coyote’s last visit.” She gestures with her thumb somewhere behind her, which Grace has learned over years spent looking for ringing phones and TV remotes and bags of cheese curls doesn’t actually mean directly behind her but instead anywhere that isn’t directly in front of her. “So I thought maybe I could try asking myself. Eh, well, not quite, but Grace Hanson, do you want to kiss me? No joking or pranks or take-backsies. Just…just me asking.”
Grace blinks. Pauses. Doesn’t wait long enough to parse through why it was that her heart and body screamed yes before her head had registered the implications of the question. For once, she lets herself act on an impulse that she suspects won’t be anything like the destructive ones born of too many drinks and not enough food. She leans forward, finds Frankie meeting her halfway. Her lips are a little chapped, though her mouth blessedly does not yet taste like cheese curl dust, and the first few seconds are clumsy as they try to figure out angles and noses and long hair that seems to find its way between their lips again and again. But even still, before they’ve found their rhythm, Grace knows without a doubt that it’s the best first kiss she’s ever had. She doesn’t pull back until they’ve gotten the hang of things well enough that her breathing is shallow and fast.
Frankie beams up at her—wide and unconcerned and exultant. “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t thrilled about the snake on that last MASH game, but maybe—and hear me out on this one—have you considered chickens?”
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steve0discusses · 5 years
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Yugioh S3 Ep 39: Tea Fight
Hey I just wandered into a random forum on the internet about the deaths that impacted you the most in a series, and I was in there faster than you can say “How many GRR Martin fans does it take to kill off a pregnant lightbulb in a random wedding episode″ (the answer is no one in this entire forum watched anything but anime) and then this one guy stood up in the back of this little internet forum and was just going off about how this one dude died in Yugioh GX and he turned off the TV and like didn’t want to even go back to the season until his students were like “no really, professor, please keep watching Yugioh GX” and he was like “WHAT’S EVEN THE POINT NOW” and it was like...really??? The series where nearly 200 people have died in just the first 3 seasons??? (which I didn’t comment, don’t worry, I just kinda lurked in stunned silence)
So like, lets talk more about Yugioh, which apparently has one of the roughest death scenes in any series that this random adult guy on the internet has ever watched. Course that was GX. I’m pretty sure I take so long on this show that I’ll probably still be recapping Season 3 of Yugioh when I’m dead and reincarnated into some cursed locket that a poor internet blogger wears around their neck.
Which would be shaped like a DVD set of Seaquest, S2. Like sometimes we talk about -sonas and we draw people and characters but what would your puzzle necklace -sona be? (remembering that is has to be cursed, heavy, awkward, and as inconveniently shaped as possible--you can’t just say Gucci or wtv) Because mine is the DVD collectors set of Seaquest, but only S2. Bro says that his is a Comic Sans version of Tolstoy’s War and Peace.
But I digress, so we start this episode knowing that Joey and Kaiba are dueling or whatever--but honestly none of this matters to me. Not at all. This doesn’t matter to anyone because for the first time ever, I finally get to see Tea try and punch out a God. Or a Ghost. Really hard to tell the difference between God and Ghost in this show.
And like, no one else will even witness this event because they’re too obsessed with Joey. So much so, that Yugi makes a staggering observation.
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In the actual dialogue of the show, Pharaoh’s response to Yugi’s comment here was “HMMMMMMMmmmmMMHhmmmmmmmm”
and it’s like yeah, hard agree, Pharaoh, hard agree.
(read more under the cut)
Anyways, our very punchable God/Ghost character never came down from atop of Card Mess Mountain, and he’s just been sitting here on his perch trying really hard to just parse what exactly went down over the past few episodes.
Marik right now is me before I write every recap.
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So he decides, well if the Rod did something for Kaiba, I guess it should do something for me, thus kind of proving that no one on Earth understands how to use this item anymore. I was kinda banking on the the fact that Marik’s Slightly-More-Evil-Possessed-Ghost-God-Entity-Person was kind of like the only guy who knows what’s going on with these gadgets outside of Bakura, but nah. Not even this guy knows. Now that Bakura’s temporarily vaporized, basically all that these millennium items are now are heavy paperweights that sometimes make your life just super inconvenient.
And I guess it can possess minds but wtv. Had Marik remembered that this rod can possess minds he would have had a much, much easier time in this episode. Of course, we haven’t really seen him possess anyone since Slightly-Better-Marik peaced out, so maybe that’s just something only Slightly-Better-Marik can do?
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Ah. There it is.
What sweet catharsis.
She doesn’t actually punch him, which is kind of a shame, but because they can’t show Marik explode like a slo mo frozen giant gummy bear shot with a deer slug directly on screen, this episode is Tea-punch free.
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Anyway, during this episode, the Millennium Puzzle develops a neat new trick--which is to set an alarm to remind Pharaoh to check up on his sort-of-not-really-girlfriend for once in his damn lifetime because this asshole will not do it otherwise because he is just waaaaay too busy thinking about cards.
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And then it just finally dawns on Yugi that he boarded Murderzone island like 3 hours ago.
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And, because this is Yugi, do you think he’ll tell everyone else what’s going on? Do you think he’ll step in and be like “woah woah stop the game for five seconds I just realized Tea might be in huge danger and we all should go and stop the murder.”
Do you think Yugi, for once in his entire life, will finally tell the entire truth to his friends who have constantly given him love and support and who just want Yugi to tell them the entire truth even once? Just ONCE?
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That’s right, in an effort to be polite, he apologizes to Joey for ditching him and then books it without bothering anyone else.
The lengths Yugi will go to be as awkward as possible in order to not make anything awkward.
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And then he just books it as fast as he can go and I guarantee that offscreen, everyone just kind of stopped what they were doing, looked at eachother, and Seto was like “Well, now why am I even playing?”
Anyway, atop the tall tall tower that takes like 15 minutes to get to the top of, Marik as Tea is very easily holding their own. And listen, Marik didn’t say any of the next lines in these caps but I can’t stop thinking about how freakin weird this would be for him. I’ve been kinda holding this in for a little while and youknow what? I have to talk about it for just a little bit. Just a little.
Like I usaully just erase any shipping stuff but just...give me a little second to just...touch on this subject. Just a little bit.
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And while Marik thinking about dating is absolutely not canon, I’m just saying, going from tombkeeper to living within the body of not-Pharaoh’s-GF must have been a really crazy ride for Marik. Like, he starts out life learning literally everything about Pharaoh lore that is left over from the wastes of time. But, none of it--and I mean none of it--could have prepared him for the High School dating scene of “but should I text him more than twice a day or is that too much texting?” They don’t tell you how to do that in the Pharaoh brand card scriptures that they tattoo on your back with a hot knife in underground Pharaoh school.
Marik went from mole-person who has no human contact to just watching this whole weird thing unfold with Tea and Pharaoh giving eachother hoverhands-of-a-hoverhands hugs, and it must have been just completely wild for him. I’m not suggesting he remotely enjoyed it or didn’t enjoy it, but I’m just suggesting that the thought must have crossed his mind that this would be the last place he ever expected to end up when he picked up the Millennium Rod.
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And it’s like, congrats, Marik, your soul went to hell and then you accidentally dated your own god.
I’m sure there’s plenty of fanfics about this already to fill in the gaps, so I won’t go too deep into this but man, Marik could have possessed anyone, and he possessed this girl.
Which again was probably because she’s strangely super strong because then Tea reveals that she could have done this the entire time.
LOOK AT THIS.
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SHE DID THIS FROM STANDING. OLYMPIC GYMNASTS CAN’T DO THIS.
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And then I guess Marik got sleepy after that much effort and just passed out.
And no one got to see it, Ishizu didn’t see it, Pharaoh didn’t see it.
Who’s here now, PS, Pharaoh finally showed up. That long as hell elevator must’ve stopped like 4 times on the way up for Roland who’s on his break, probably heating up the grill to talk to the other Kaiba Dad Stand-ins and have a Kaiba Dad Stand-In brunch where all they do is talk about sports, dark sunglasses, and if they should send Mokuba to UC Davis or Colorado State.
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And so, seeing that Tea is passed out on the ground, Pharaoh jumps to conclusions and it very much looks like we’re gonna get a Millennium Item fight, which we haven’t yet seen Pharaoh even do.
Like, when you think about it, do either of these people even know what they are doing? Like Marik can at least fight a bunch of robots and one stationary computer monitor, but does Pharaoh have any idea that thing can shoot lasers?
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Much like a bobcat making itself look really big to fight other bobcats, Pharaoh managed to poof up his hair big enough to spook Marik into actually stepping down. I guess Marik figured he’d have a better time with cards than lasers that neither of them know how to shoot in any general direction.
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I gotta say, Pharaoh’s reaction to Marik secretly being in the body of his girlfriend was like “oh. Well we better go save him then before he dies.” and I do appreciate that. He seems secure enough in his own identity to not be bothered by this gender reversal he was not even aware of at the time. How I wish more boys on TV were more secure about that type of thing.
Like obviously this show that has no romance in it will never actually talk about sexuality but just enjoy this moment of zen where this possible lowhanging punchline could have happened and the writers room went “do we have to do the Family Guy/Friends thing?” and they were like “nah.” because Pharaoh canonically would not at all be bothered by this. At all.
Anyway, I’m kinda bummed that they didn’t extend Tea fight out for 3 episodes, but at least I got one Tea fight in before the end of the series.
I can’t believe she did a weird backflip thing off of a rail that was on a tower 300 ft in the air. I can’t believe that was the B plot of this episode.
And here’s a link to read these recaps in Chronological Order.
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ccyans · 5 years
Text
Lionheart chapter 1
AO3
"Sorry, Doffy."
Feathers press against Law's ears and Law's nose. They're all he can see and all he can feel, damp and smelling vaguely of charcoal and cigarette smoke over the sharply biting cold. Law claws at them, frantic, feeling fistfuls scrunch and snap between his fingers. Trying to get past the bulk of Cora-san's coat. Trying to get past the bulk of Cora-san in general, who's placed himself between Law and the Family like a bulwark.
Cora-san, who's a giant stupid apologizing liar that Doflamingo is going to kill if someone doesn't do something soon.
Law's fingers scrabble harder, catch fabric. Touches something sticky and hot that trickles down his wrist. He slams one fist against Cora-san's back and it's like slamming into a brick wall for how much Cora-san moves; the actual brick wall behind him might have yielded easier. "You dumbass!" Law screams. "You promised! You said we'd get out of here together!" Except it might as well have been screamed into the abyss with Silence on because there is no sound, nothing but the slow shudder of Cora-san's chest, the hiss of the wind through the feathered coat. "You said he wouldn't kill you absolute moron, you promised."
A flurry of blows, because if he can't hear Law he can at least feel that. And maybe he does, but it definitely doesn't give the reaction Law's hoping for. Cora-san's voice is a low, ragged exhale. "The kid's gone Doffy," he says, even as Law yells at him to shut up, Cora you stupidhead, we need a plan, he's going to shoot, please please please stop talking. "He's free alright? Let him go."
And Law can't hear himself, can't hear anything but the wind and the feathers and the silence from which there comes the click of a safety being drawn back as
Doflamingo
pulls the trigger.
The sound is thunder falling Law screaming Cora-san flinching back in a full body jerk and it isn't fair, this isn't fair, when has anything in Law's life ever been fair. But Cora-san had promised, and they'd been so so close to getting away before Doflamingo'd caught up and Cora-san had hid Law between himself and the crumbling brick of Minion's abandoned town and so Law had thought -- Law had dared to think -- and he hasn't prayed to anything in three years but God oh God if there's any kind of mercy in this world --
There isn't. There isn't ever any. Doflamingo shoots again and again and again and Law can feel the impact break flesh shatter bone send Cora gasping, Flevance for the second time, himself bawling and shrieking incomprehensible things like not again go away get us away Cora-san can't die CoRA-san PLEASE that do absolutely nothing to smother the incoming blow of the next --
GET US AWAY
-- gunshot.
 *
The world flashes blue.
 And then they are
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
 *
One long heartbeat stretch spent in vertigo, in that blue-shimmer place. Upside down inside out no way to tell left from right. There's a scream still in Law's throat and feathers still clutched in Law's fists and that need to get away get Cora away echoing in Law's head. A fraction of a moment being squeezed through liminal space, and then only impact.
*
His forehead smacks something hard. His palms skitters on cold tile. He goes down banging knees and elbows that already ache, and for a second all he sees are stars. The second lasts only that though, and Law is scrambling up before his next breath, wheezing and gasping and feeling as if someone has just reached a hand into his chest and yanked out the system of his heart and lungs because "CORA-SAN!" he screams, and registers his voice actually making it to his ears with an extra windfall of terror he didn't  know he had. "CORA-SAN, CORA-SAN!"
no no no no no
So much blood and Law's hands are already red with it. When did that happen, he doesn't know. Blood congealing in a pool under the coat and Cora-san's slumped form, blood sliding from Cora-san's mouth. Law tears his way the half meter where Cora-san's head lolls, where of all things he's smiling. Why the fuck is he smiling. This isn't worth it; Law isn't worth it. And he can't be dead, he just can't be. Law needs to -- staunch blood flow. Get bandages. Find a pulse.
Find a pulse.
Law's hands flutter over Cora-san's neck. The pale skin under Cora-san's jaw is bruised and purpling, ugly mottled patterns. Law's hands shake and Law's heart hammers a drumroll in his ears and for what feels like the longest time there isn't anything at all before yes, there, pulse. The relief is immediate. It's also immediately gone. The thrum under Law's finger is nothing but a whisper. And how is Law gonna get the bullets out, how is Law gonna get the blood back in. He jerks around for something to help, anything to help, even if there's only snow and snow and more --
There's no snow. Law pauses.
The ground is tile.
The ground cannot possibly be tile.
Except somehow, it is. And the light overhead isn't from Minion island's overcast sky, but instead a steel plated ceiling shining down fluorescence, glass and plastic bottles rattling on shelves against the walls. Everywhere there's monitors and machinery and the distinct tang of antiseptic, sharp beyond the memory sense of blood and snow. An honest to goodness operating table sits in the middle of the room. It's fitted neatly with a white sheet. For half a second Law looks at it all very blankly and thinks, what the hell. Is he dreaming. Is he hallucinating. Is he just plain dead. His sight-line completes the rotation of this impossibility to fall upon speckled jeans and a long sweeping coat. And the man standing in front of Law has the blankest expression Law's ever seen. And the man standing in front of Law has Law's father's face.
Underneath Law's blood-slicked fingers, Cora-san's pulse shudders.
Just like that all other thoughts sublimate to nothing.
Once again the world narrows itself into liminal space. Cora-san still dying and Law still useless and where he is doesn't matter, only the klaxon panic of Cora and Nonono. Hysteria fractures everything into snapshots. Relevance to the current problem dictates their sequence. And this here is an operating room. And this man has Law's father's face. And Law's father had been a doctor. And this man has got to be a doctor. The grief and hope and incoherence are tangling together in Law's head when he throws himself across the gap and fists his hands into the hem of the man's jeans and screams, past the snot and tears and rasp in his throat, "HELP HIM."
The man's gaze jerks down.
His eyes are gold ringed -- just like Father's, exactly like Fathers, exactly like Law's, down to their cold and hard and almost startled slant. For half a heartbeat Law stares and the man stares back. The moment passes. Unimportant. Law's fingers scrabble bloody furrows down the fabric of the man's pantleg. His words trip and spill to the hammering desperation in his ears.
"Please I'm begging you you've got help him he's dying he's everything I can't again not again please please please --"
The man's gaze lifts, settles on Cora-san.
Two heartbeats pass.
And then he wrenches past in a movement that sends Law sprawling, explosive even without bearing to mind his previous utter stillness, sweeping coat and clattering footsteps and the snap of fingers in the silence. Law comes up from his wheezing fall just in time to see that spectral blue from before coat the operating theatre. A sharp flick of the man's wrist, a pop displacement of air, and Cora-san's not crumpled on the ground but on the operating table. The man's sword clatters gracelessly to the floor even as his hand curls, midair, around the hilt of a scalpel instead.
Law scrambles next to him, to the steel leg of the operating table. Tries to peer over but it's too high and he can't see. The man has one hand around the vicinity of Cora-san's chest, the scalpel in his other hand glinting light. He doesn't seem to register Law's presence at all.  
That's fine. Everything is fine as long as Cora-san lives. Concentration is important -- the man had better be concentrating. Law keeps very quiet even as he feels like he's about to jitter out of his skin. His throat is hoarse. The tears haven't stopped coming yet. He digs his nails into the meat of his palms hard enough to draw blood.
Please.
Something clicks dully on the tile of the floor, tossed aside. Law looks down on reflex. Bullets, red stained. His next breath hisses out between his teeth.
The man works. Law watches him.
He ditches the scalpel shortly after the bullets. Gets forceps instead, then suturing tools, medical equipment appearing and disappearing from his hands like cards from a magician's show. He whisks an IV pole from across the room with that same strange pop. Finds saline. Finds morphine. Finds blood packets for transfusion. The monitors in the room turn on to show heart-rate and oxygen saturation and blood pressure as the man slides needles under Cora-san's skin, and it's been three years since Law's been in a fully kitted theatre but he can still read vitals fine, their uneven jumps and stutters.
The man works.
Sutures. Bandages. The fitting of an oxygen mask over Cora-san's face.
Law doesn't know for how long the man works, only that Cora-san's vitals have stabilized to something vaguely passable when he finally stops and sets his hands on the edge of the operating table. His fingers clutch the metal hard enough for it to creak, red up to his wrists with Cora-san's blood. His back is one curved stoop.
The man exhales, shakily. He stares at Cora-san. Law stares at Cora-san.
And then abruptly he turns, and makes a beeline for the door.
Law catches one brief glimpse of the man's expression before he's gone, white-pallored and lips pressed thin, Law's gold eyes in Law's father's face. He nearly trips on the crumpled pile of Cora-san's coat on his way out. A brief stagger, not quite a fall, and then a pause as he just stares down. He wrenches the door open with one hand. The walls shudder as he slams it back shut.
Law watches him go through the same distant, molasses haze that's been his attention span concerning pretty much everything after the initial landing. Who the man is, where here is, how they conceivably got to wherever here is --that's all unimportant and peripheral. Even though it might be important. He can't really tell at the moment. Cora-san, Law thinks, and only then does the world sharpen briefly. Law bites down on his chattering teeth and forces his shaky limbs to climb onto the operating table, panting with effort by the time he finally collapses on top of the IV lines.
It's hard to think. He feels dizzy and weightless. His head is pounding. With relief. With exhaustion. With the vestige of overwhelming terror and overwhelming grief, the desperate, shot-punch hope. He tucks himself into the crook of Cora-san's side and listens for the thunder of Cora-san's heart, ignores the way his vision statics at the edges. It's fine. It's just the adrenaline wearing off, the stupid Amber Lead. In his ears Cora-san's heartbeat is a familiar drum-roll, and Law chases after the reassurance of it, the steady ba-dump, a lulling comfort after all the nights tucked snug in Cora-san's coat against the wind and North Blue's cold winter.
Law closes his eyes. He clutches at the tassels of Cora-san's dumb hat. To himself he thinks, fervent and fierce, he's alive he's alive he's alive.
The monitors sound and Cora-san breathes.
Law listens, and doesn't know when he falls asleep.
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rubberduckyrye · 5 years
Text
minawakitten replied to your post “Sorry for Undertale-ing on main but I’e been listening to songs that...”
yall gonna have to go into more detail about that because that gremlin child did not give me many good impressions [ especially when asriel goes into detail about the time they were as one being ]
Sorry I was really focused on drawing this:
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Now that I got some of my feels out of my system I’ll tell you about Chara, or at least, the story I had for her.
Spoilers under the cut, because I still want to write this damn story one day gdi
Okay so Yeah I get why you’d think Chara is an absolute gremlin. TBH I thought the same when I started developing the original AU where this specific interpretation of Chara comes from, but the story developed beyond that and she became the protagonist.
But first: Have you ever heard of the Narrator Chara Theory?
I’m not sure how popular the theory is now, but it was kind of popular when I was in the undertale fandom. The idea is simple: Chara is the narrator. This explains some strange things, like why the narrator is addressed as “Chara” by Flowey when you open the game after a pacifist run to RESET it, and other bits and bobs. A lot of people use the flavor text like “No Chocolate” or “Where are the Knives” from the genocide route to point out that this is Chara and Chara is evil--except that flavor text is narration. You can’t just say some narration is Chara while others aren’t. It’s all or nothing, and there’s hints that depending on how the player plays the game determines what kind of personality Chara gets at the end. When you do a genocide run, Chara wants to destroy the world because Chara saw Frisk kill all of monster kind and decided that the whole world should be erased. If you think about it, they are said to hate humans--and why wouldn’t they hate humans more after seeing Frisk massacre the entire monster race? What motivation would Chara have to want this world to live if the species they grew fond of was obliterated?
It’s also implied that the player’s/Frisk’s actions makes Chara “Good” or “Evil” depending on what you do. Notice how the narration changes in the different routes? That implies that the narrator themselves is a character being affected by Frisk’s actions. Chara may or may not also feel bitterness at monster kind in the afterlife, because of the declaration of war Asgore had, which is why Chara may have been enthusiastic about the genocide run as well as the pacifist run.
Once you consider Chara to be the narrator Chara’s character expands beyond what Asriel gives you and the hints you get about them in the game. Asriel’s claim that they weren’t a good person almost becomes kind of cruel, and before you say Asriel is a sweet baby child that can do no harm, let’s not forget that Asriel is also Flowey and Flowey is just Asriel’s personality without much empathy/sympathy/unable to feel emotions. 
I’d like to point out that Chara... literally gave their life to try to save monster kind. They had no point of reference to what would happen to them after they died and Asriel took their soul, there was no real way for them to have known they weren’t going to just cease existing afterwards. Them taking their body up to the surface? That was probably Chara wanting to give closure to any family, or in a more bitter tone, bring their body up to the surface to show what the humans what they had done--killed them. 
It’s implied heavily that Chara was abused, which is where they get their hatred of humanity from. Them wanting to kill all the humans on the surface, while still morally wrong, was probably a sort of revenge for what they did to them. They were hurt and abused, and they have an intense hatred for humanity that they probably wanted to wipe most of humanity out because of their past abuse. That is especially amplified with how it was monster kind that gave them a good home, food, love and care where as humanity remained ugly and horrid. There were no positive human influences on Chara, and seeing how such a kind and loving race was trapped under ground probably fueled the fire even more.
Either way, they did sacrifice themselves to try to free human kind, regardless of interpretations and speculation. 
Now in comes my specific girl here.
My interpretation of Chara didn’t just have the above conflicts weighing on her mind, but also pressure accidentally put onto her and Asriel. Asgore, Toriel, and all of monster kind calling them their “hope” and... you know? That’s actually a lot of pressure to put on two kids, especially when one of them was abused like Chara was.
Chara sort of cracked under the pressure, feeling like she had to do something to save all of monster kind, and it lead her to mixing the poisonous buttercup flowers with milk chocolate to make poisonous chocolate bars Asriel could sneak to her without Asgore or Toriel noticing. Because she felt like she wasn’t worth anything, and hated herself for being human, she chose to sacrifice herself.
Asriel absorbed her soul, and she took her body to the surface to give closure to her brother, Marcus. Marcus is an OC who is also the soul of INTEGRITY. Yes, the ballet dancer soul is a boy in this story, and that actually kind of comes into play as to why Chara and her brother were heavily abused and eventually kicked out and living as starving children in a village. Marcus immediately recognizes his sister, and of course, thinks Asriel killed her. This causes a riot within the town and Chara wanted to fight them, kill them and collect their souls to free monster kind from the underground, but Asriel refused to fight. This ends up getting them both killed like in the canon.
In this AU/Story, Chara actually had a yellow soul of JUSTICE rather than a red soul. However she died with a red soul--how? Well in this AU, a RED soul isn’t actually a naturally occurring soul color, but rather represents the soul being overtaken by DETERMINATION. Being DETERMINED to save monster kind turned her soul red, but she couldn’t perform the RESET trick Frisk can. Why? 
Marcus.
Marcus, being a blue soul, was filled with DETERMINATION to the point where his soul was red. The implications here is that yellow is easier to make red than blue is, so Marcus was filled with more DETERMINATION than Chara. In a fit of rage, he tracked Asriel to the underground carrying Chara’s body back with him, to show the monsters what hey had done to his sister and why they were being massacred by him.
His DETERMINATION wore thin, however, as he couldn’t kill Asgore, so his soul returned to blue and his soul was taken as the first soul. Enter the first glitch RESET.
You see, in this story, Chara wasn’t supposed to die like she did. She was supposed to free monsters peacefully after her brother found her, but because she died like she did, the world’s code was glitched, and it tried to rectify itself by trying to recreate the peaceful scenario. This is why there was a drought of humans not even coming near the underground and then suddenly, six humans fell in succession. 
Meanwhile, Chara was put in the LOADING SCREEN, basically a dark room with no light aside from green lines of code flickering on the wall. She eventually realizes she can manipulate the code, and spends a very long time learning how to manipulate it to build a console, a machine that allowed her to see what was going on in the outside world.
Before she was able to finally make the console, however, six humans had fallen and killed. Asgore, not wanting to kill humans anymore, sent the six souls to Gaster (yes he has a role in this) and his lab assistants, Sans and Alphys, to try to figure out a better solution.
The DETERMINATION machine was created as a result, and extracted all of the DETERMINATION from the six souls. However, at a sort of celebration party for the success of the machine, Goner Kid was left unattended and accidentally pushed some buttons on the machine’s control panel, causing a severe malfunction.
Sans was only able to teleport himself and Alphys out of the lab before the machine exploded, obliterating all of their coworkers into space and time, including Gaster. The DETERMINATION plus explosion also forced another glitch RESET, creating the timeline where Gaster and all of those who perished in the lab never existed, and creating the situation with Alphys and Flowey.
Chara develops her console quite a bit after Flowey’s conception, and by this point Flowey’s been killing and RESETTING and abusing his powers. 
After realizing who Flowey was, this naturally upset Chara. She eventually pieced together what happened by observing, and found that she remembers through the glitch RESETS. So she basically watches Flowey turn everyone’s lives into his play things until, you guessed it, the DETERMINATION from the previous timeline with Gaster manifests itself as Frisk, the first and only pure RED soul with no base attributes.
Frisk’s DETERMINATION surpasses Flowey’s, and Frisk takes over the timeline.
In this story, Frisk is initially a coward who runs away from all fights, but soon they start to realize their power and they become a bit more kinder. Chara is also guiding them as the “narrator” and helping them through the underground.
They do a pacifist run. Everyone’s got their happy ending.
But then... they RESET. 
Frisk is the only human Chara can itneract with, so she immediately questions what Frisk was thinking, and Frisk says that they want to save both Chara and Asriel from their fate. Seeing nothing wrong with this, Chara lets them try to save her and Asriel.
RESET after RESET, and nothing is working. Chara tells Frisk to give up, but Frisk gets an idea. They decide to kill--after all, they could just RESET to bring them back, and it might lead to a clue as to how to save Chara and Asriel. Chara reluctantly agrees to it.
This is the beginning of hell.
Frisk goes through RESET after RESET trying to figure out how to save Asriel and Chara, but nothing they do is working. Not even killing. So they get desperate, and start trying to kill everyone.
That’s when a “glitch” happens in Chara’s code.
As Frisk attempts a genocide run, both their and Chara’s LOVE goes up. However, Frisk aborts the first genocide run after killing Mettaton and they RESET, thinking that there had to be a better way... except the damage has been done.
Because Chara exists outside of the RESETS, Chara’s LOVE never RESET either, and this turned her cold. Hateful. She decided that Frisk’s attempts to save her and Asriel weren’t just a waste of time--it was a form of torture.
Chara decided then, “If this is a world of ‘kill or be killed’... wouldn’t it be better off dead?”
From there, Chara devised a plan to force Frisk into completing a genocide run. She started forcing Frisk into RESETS and claimed that she had no idea what had happened. After a while, she lied to Frisk and told them that the world was ending and Frisk needed to complete a genocide run in order ti fix it. Frisk refused at first, but all Chara had to do was be patient, and Frisk finally gave in and went to attempt a genocide run.
Cue glitch two.
As they were fighting Sans, it was Sans’ code that glitched, making him remember the tale of monsters being able to absorb a human soul. Thinking that there was no other way to stop Frisk from completing a Genocide run, he forces his soul and Frisk’s to fuse.
This also causes a RESET, and Chara’s LOVE is finally back down to LV 1. However, Frisk is now unavailable for her to talk to, because now Frisk and Sans are both neither human nor monster. Sans looks the same, except for his soul, which looked like this:
Tumblr media
The problem is, like Asriel and Chara, Sans had no way of knowing that Frisk would still have control over his body, and this causes a new kind of hell to be born as Frisk tries to complete the genocide run with Sans’s body and magic.
However, because Frisk cannot kill Sans without killing themselves and resetting, the genocide run cannot be completed at all. Sans also has a tendency to fight back for control before Frisk is able to get close to realizing this, so they are locked in an endless hell of Frisk trying to “save the world from the glitch they made” and Sans fighting to stop the from completing a genocide run.
And Chara could do nothing but watch. 
She couldn’t contact Frisk anymore and tell them it was a lie, so she’s basically forced to watch their struggles with the guilt heavy on her shoulders that she caused this. 
Cue the next Glitch.
Upon a RESET, Chara’s yellow soul was restored and Chara becomes the “eighth” human to fall into the underground, though she has no memories of who she is or everything that had happened. She is also wearing Frisk’s clothing, and only remembers the name “Frisk” at first, so she thinks she is Frisk. She eventually meets Sans and has to rely on him to make “Save points” but notices that he seems really bitter and pissed off at her for some reason when his eyes are white, and when they are red, he’s much kinder. She goes through the underground with her yellow soul and eventually uncovers all of what I mentioned before, and realizes that Frisk and Sans are still fused, and Frisk hasn’t gone on another Genocide run because of Chara’s appearance.
Despite Frisk refusing to kill, Sans refuses to give up their soul, paranoid that once he does they’ll just ruin everything all over again, and he blames Chara for their actions. 
However the story is designed to be a series of mistakes and unfortunate events that no one person can be blamed for--Frisk’s first unprompted attempt at a genocide run corrupted Chara, Chara lied to Frisk in a plot to end the world, and Sans refuses to let Frisk’s soul go not just to keep them from hurting others, but to keep some control. None of these characters in this story are good or evil.
Anyway, Chara decides to complete a pacifist run, and it’s mostly the same from that point until just before Flowey turns into Asriel. Flowey knows Sans has Frisk’s soul, and tries to rip their souls apart--but Sans refusing to let go, makes it so Frisk’s soul and his split in half.
Frisk’s half-soul is enough to transform Flowey into Asriel, and then Chara finds her own DETERMINATION to overpower Asriel and complete the pacifist run. She gives her body to Frisk’s half-soul so they could live in their happy ending, and she and Asriel move on to the afterlife after the barrier is finally destroyed and humans and monsters can have their hopeful future once again.
Of course, Chara’s more than just this story however. She’s a break dancer, where as her brother was a ballet dancer, and their non gender-conforming interests is what gets them abused to begin with. However Chara also can play the violin and is an excellent programmer thanks to her being trapped in the LOADING SCREEN. However she’s also severely touch repulsed from living there for so long by herself. She’s also suuuper awkward and can be prickly to talk to. She’s cold, but she doesn’t really know how to be more social as her social skills are entirely wrecked at that point. 
She actually hates all chocolate except white chocolate. Milk and Dark chocolate especially make her sick upon association with the poisoned chocolate bars she originally used to try to sacrifice herself to save everyone.
Anyway that’s my info=dump on my Chara from my one story and I love my daughter.
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jostenminyard · 6 years
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Signing on the Line - Ch. 1 & 2
Summary: When Neil Josten is offered a position as a starting striker for a professional Exy team, he feels like all of his dreams are coming true. He signs the contract, not caring about the strict morality clause that controls who he can and can't date in the public eye.
Then he meets Andrew Minyard, the top-ranked goalie of a rival team, and then Neil thinks he might just have to care after all.
A/N: Detailed tag list and warnings on AO3. I’m posting around twice a week there, and will round up the chapters once a week here!
Chapter 1 on AO3 | Chapter 2 on AO3 
The contract was read by his manager first, then his lawyer, his manager again, and then finally given to Neil.
He had a week to read it over, and he took to every word like they were something sacred, like he needed to memorize all of it. He hardly understood a thing, but was fortunately smart enough to not let his eagerness of being signed cloud his judgement.
From that first day in little league, to his last day at the University of Arizona, he’s been working towards a contract like this all his life. Playing for the pros, he’d be larger than his own existence. His name would grow to be bigger than his body, no longer associated with anything else, attached to Exy and only Exy, longer than he’d ever be alive.
In the heat of the moment, the fruition of a dream, he almost signed the contract before he even read the opening statement.
But thankfully, he didn’t, so now he sits here in his manager’s office with his manager, his lawyer, the head coach of the team, and one of their recruiters.
The lawyer goes over all the parts Neil had highlighted, the parts he couldn’t quite grasp. The salary he understood and thought of as unimportant, but the sponsor part, not so much, so his lawyer helpfully explains the process; a proceed of any profit made from a sponsorship or ad goes directly back to the team’s management.
His lawyer says the percentage is negotiable, but Neil waves it off. Money is the last thing he’s playing for.
When they get to the public relations section, everyone in the small room grows tense, aware of who Neil is, who Neil was.
He was a Wesninski, but Neil had left that name in his past long before he ever attended UOA. He hadn’t known what that name even meant until a camera crew showed up at his stadium and deemed him ‘The Butcher’s Son’.
Neil’s mother never did explain it, never told him why he had to be Alex, Stefan, Chris and then Neil Josten, of all names, and that he could never again be Nathaniel Wesninski after his father passed away. He was too young to ask why, so it was a new name and a new home every few years until his mother too, had to move on from life.
She died with her sickness and with every secret and with the very strict order to be anyone else but himself.
It made for a very interesting start to Neil’s final year of university, to be cut from class so he could be interrogated by the FBI. But Neil didn’t know anything; who his father was, what his father did, what his mother told him, where the money went.
Mary hadn’t told Neil a thing, so he could never be incriminated.
But the name stuck - Nathaniel Wesninski, the son of a murderer - and it made captaining his team all that much harder. Working with a team that refused to listen to him and was sickened by the sight of him made for some very easy losses, and prevented them from entering semi-finals.
It had every recruiter turning their gaze away from Neil, writing him off as unimportant, even though he was fighting with every tooth and nail to rally his team together.
Somehow, however, one pair of eyes stayed on him, and those eyes weren’t able to deny his talent.
Those eyes brought Neil here, to the San Francisco Seakings.
Here, to where he’s about to sign the contract of his dreams, except for one little thing:
The contract is a story, a script, and his freedom of speech has been stripped.
Every interview, TV spot and paparazzi picture will all be handled by someone above Neil’s head. He’ll be assigned his own publicist to go over media training with him, to create plans and strategies, and to control all his social media accounts from here on out.
But . . . he doesn’t care about any of that, not really. He’s here to play. He’s used to being anyone but himself.
They go over a few more things about his image clean up. It’s already been decided how Neil will be marketed - the official partner of Kevin Day. The rookie that’s going to help Kevin bring his team up the ranks, the same way Neil was able to run UOA up until his fifth year.
Kevin’s eyes were the ones on him, apparently, when Neil was sure nobody was watching him.
The talk of PR naturally brings up the part in the contract that had Neil scratching his head in confusion the most, because he didn’t understand how ‘dating and relationship(s)’ could be associated with playing for the pros.
It’s apparently a very big association, as it takes up a large paragraph in his contract.
Like everything about his own life so far, who he dates can only be shown in the limelight if it’s beneficial for him, the team, and the sponsors. As if Neil is nothing more than a special-edition trading card.
Any celebrity, from A to Z, could end up on Neil’s arm at some point. If it’d help his image, bring in sales, increase viewership, the Seakings’ PR team will be signing a check to whatever starlet’s name is most popular at the time.
It’s about image.
A morality clause; saying that his name must be publicized a certain way, and if he acts against it, Neil will be, in other words, slapped with a legal fee to cover the cost of potential damage, and be forced to forfeit his contract.
The black words on the paper don’t say he can’t be anything outside the ‘norm’, but they do say he can’t be perceived as such. Neil scowls at the wording, sending a scathing look at everyone in the room, hoping it’ll somehow reach whichever airhead wrote that and felt that they got to decide what normal is.
He stares down at his dream contract and suddenly sees it as a pair of handcuffs.
“I’m not comfortable with signing that,” Neil explains, and waves a hand at the thick binding of paper.
“It’s not real, Neil, it’s a show. It brings in the viewers and the ticket holders, which then raises the amount the sponsors are willing to put in,” his manager explains, as if it’s all obvious. “Every player you’ve ever seen in a game has signed this part of the contract. It’s nothing.”
“This basically says you’re forcing players out of their orientations,” Neil says, one eyebrow lifting. “That’s nothing?”
“Listen, kid, nobody’s forcing anybody. It doesn’t matter if you’re gay, straight, whatever, because we’re not saying you can’t be,” Coach Mullens suddenly says. “The world just can’t know and that’s how it is. If you want a career, then you’ll keep your secret love a secret and away from my court. If that’s gonna be a problem, then you’ll never find your footing in this world, I can promise you that.”
Neil hears the click of metal, the handcuffs sliding into place. “For the rest of my life?”
“You wouldn’t be considering this contract if you didn’t want to play Exy for the rest of your life.”
And that’s what it all comes back to, the handcuffs sliding off, the room tilting back into colour.
Exy.
It doesn’t really matter to him anyway, does it? He’s yet to encounter anyone electric enough to spark up his skin. Nothing will shock him as much as this sport does.
If they want to control who he holds hands with just to make a profit, then he won’t stop them, because it won’t stop him from his game. It won’t stop him from winning medals and trophies and championships. It won’t stop him from standing on an Olympic podium one day.
So he picks up the pen, signs the contract, and doesn’t think another thought about it.
-
He can’t believe he ever thought it was as easy as just playing Exy.
The season officially starts in October, training starts in August, but now, mid-July, he stands in his manager’s hotel room as a stylist yanks him into a black velvet suit. The first step to playing for a professional team, it seems, is attending charity event after sponsorship dinner after press conference after banquet after charity event. And repeat.
Tonight the NEL hosts its debut banquet, with every team attending, with every sports journalist in the country going to try and snatch as many first-time interviews as they can.
His manager and his publicist have been drilling him all week, preparing him for whatever questions may be asked and how he’s supposed to respond. His publicist will never be more than ten feet away, and in case that fails, and in case Neil’s mouth gets away from him, Kevin Day will be attached to his hip.
Neil would complain that he doesn’t need a babysitter, but he understands the role he’s playing now.
The Exy world knows who Neil is, knows that Kevin’s the one who saved his career. They’ve only exchanged the barest of words so far, but Kevin and Neil are far past the point of being teammates now. They’re to be a pair.
One of the dynamic duos that fans go crazy over. If successful, their names will be on shirts, hats, signs. When you hear the name Day, Josten will never be far behind.
It just sucks that nothing in his life is under his control. He doesn’t even get to choose the colour of his socks tonight.
A town car arrives to pick Neil up, Kevin already sitting inside, dressed in a similar suit. His tie is aqua, Neil’s is silver; the two colours of their team.
“All this for a game?” Neil asks, as they draw closer to the banquet. From the car he can see the red carpet, the security guards, the paparazzi and the news teams and journalists and the flashing cameras. “We’re athletes, not celebrities.”
Kevin hasn’t said a word to him all throughout the ride, and he doesn’t bother to meet Neil’s eyes, choosing instead to look out the window at the awaiting media frenzy. “In this world, it’s the same thing. Most people like it.”
Neil swallows roughly, and wonders for a split second if this is what he was really made for. “Are you one of them?” he asks, his voice slightly shaking.
Nothing in Kevin shakes. He’s been playing for this team for two years. He’s walked this red carpet before.
“I get paid to play something I would pay to play. It works for me.”
The words effectively stop the race to Neil’s heart. The words latch onto him and pull up the corners of his mouth, releasing the smallest of smiles. The words are exactly what Neil needed to hear.
“Then it’ll work for me.”
There’s a roar of a crowd once they step out of their car. Immediately they’re met by flashing white lights and their names being called, security trying to hold back aggressive reporters from crossing their line.
Kevin smiles, tight and clipped but somehow wide, his signature look. Neil’s publicist instructed him to leave behind the hard, jagged, bitter mess of what he was at UOA. His script tonight says to smile, smile, smile, be warm, be forgiving.
If Kevin can do it, then he can do it.
Their publicists push them past certain reporters, usher them closer to others, and Neil answers the questions that come his way as best he can, actively trying to be on his best behaviour, to be the face they want him to be.
Kevin’s partner; the untapped potential that Kevin saved, pulled from the rubble of a crumbling career and given another chance.
If that’s the story they want to portray then he’ll play it, as long as he gets to play his own game. That’s the one thing they can’t control; how hard he hits and how fast he runs and how many goals he gets to score will be all his.
Still, once they’re finally inside the dimly-lit banquet hall, with fewer reporters and more athletes, Neil lets out a breath of relief. Event workers direct them to their table where their other teammates are seated.
Neil’s met a few of them before, and has played against a few of them too. Laila Dermott was the goalie for the Trojans when Neil’s team went up against them in his first and second year. Matt Boyd, who greets Neil with an eager handshake, played with Kevin for the Foxes, but he graduated before Neil could ever get a chance to play in the championships against him.
Small talk ensues, most of the team happy to be reunited after the off-season, eager to get back to their stadium next month and begin practices.
But he’s been directed to talk only to Kevin in public for the time being, so unless he’s spoken to, he doesn’t open his mouth.
There’s a loud commotion near the entrance way, a flood of reporters flocking the doors, lights going off and names being called. Another team has arrived.
Beside him, Kevin goes tense.
Then his hand is on Neil’s arm, and he’s beckoning him upwards. “Come on.”
Their publicists remind them the entire walk over of what they should and shouldn’t say; Kevin has to flaunt his new partner, and if Kevin and Neil are to be the duo that dominates the country, they’ll have to find a way to best the current duo that holds top status.
Riko Moriyama and Andrew Minyard, of the New York Nighthawks.
They stand next to each other like they’d rather be anywhere else in the world, faces stony and cold, eyes sharp and on anywhere but each other. They allow their pictures to be taken, but their patience doesn’t last, and Riko raises a finger to the nearest photographer in an immediate order for them to disperse.
The season hasn’t even started yet, but the pair’s presence has fear and rivalry hot in the air, soaking into the skin of every team present. The two stand there in their matching black and metallic suits and strike the atmosphere like a bolt of lightning.
They’ve been a fascination of Neil’s since he started university. He knows all about the cracking partnership of what was once Riko and Kevin, and the intense rivalry between schools that soon followed.
But it was Andrew who was the focal point of Neil’s fascination.
Andrew signed with Riko’s team immediately after graduating from Palmetto State, and caused the whole world to disrupt into a maddening dark chaos.
Because he was supposed to sign with Kevin’s.
Spurned by two former teammates and partners, Kevin leads the way towards them, looking determined to wave his new partner in their faces. As they get closer, Neil becomes aware of the fact that he’s Kevin’s choice now, but he was never his first.
“Riko. Andrew,” Kevin says cooly, and it feels like the entire room goes quiet. “Welcome.”
Neil keeps a step behind Kevin, not using him to hide but letting him be the focus of whatever is to come.
Riko Moriyama is not what the TV makes him look out to be. Neil has spent a portion of his college career watching Riko’s every move, studying all his games religiously, taking notes and copying moves and techniques to use in his own game.
During a game or facing off against a reporter, Riko is venomous, dangerous.
Standing in front of Kevin, he looks a foot shorter. If he wants to meet Kevin’s eyes then he has no choice but to tilt his head up, a fact that only increases the hatred radiating off of him.
His voice and his presence have him standing seven feet tall, though. “Kevin, Kevin, Kevin,” he says easily, his smile glinting in the dark of the room.
And then there’s Andrew.
Neil wasn’t aware that Andrew was staring at him, and accidentally locks eyes with him when he looks over. It feels like a stab, and it takes everything in Neil to not jerk back. Andrew’s energy is just that; a knife held out, ready to slice.
“I wanted to formally introduce you to our new starting striker, Neil Josten,” Kevin says, and turns slightly to put a hand on Neil’s arm, beckoning him forward. It’s the last move Neil wants to make, feeling more like being shoved into a shark tank with an open wound than anything else.
“Oh, yes,” Riko says, nodding. “The one from Arizona. His team’s performance last year was quite miserable, so I understand why you had to beg for him. Good thing you’re used to begging, right, Kevin?”
Riko doesn’t shake Neil’s hand, and instead makes direct eye contact with him, as if that’s enough.
“You best get acquainted with Andrew. He’ll be blocking all your shots this season.”
Standing there in his silver and black suit, hair sleek and eyes sharp, Andrew says his first words of the night, and directs them all at Kevin. “Another pet, Kevin? What if this one tells you no, too? Where will you be then?”
“Andrew,” Kevin says, almost warningly.
It all goes above Neil’s head, words clearly holding message from a past that he wasn’t part of. It’s not part of his story, any of it, so he focuses on the story he has to tell now; being Kevin’s partner, starting striker for the San Francisco Seakings.
“I’m Neil,” he says brightly, or as bright as he can in the face of two devilish beings. “I played against you my junior year at Arizona.”
He thinks he hears Kevin’s breath hitch when he extends his hand out for Andrew. The atmosphere of the entire room slows and swirls with danger, but it’s too late; Neil’s hand is already out, presenting itself clear to Andrew.
Nothing changes in Andrew’s bored expression, but his eyes drop to the offered hand.
Then he takes it, gripping it tight in a firm shake.
“Odd. I don’t remember you at all.”
Immediately, there’s a flash of a camera near them, but neither pull away. Neil lets his hand be held for another moment, and when it becomes evident that Andrew won’t be the first to let go, he forces his hand to slide out and away.
“I can’t wait to get acquainted,” Neil says, going for simple and light-hearted, but it comes out more heated, more twisted, more teasing.
Andrew effortlessly slips his hands into his pockets and doesn’t take his eyes off Neil. “The pleasure will surely be yours. Or maybe not. Riko? Let’s go.”
Kevin grabs Neil’s arm tight and doesn’t give him a chance to try and respond, hauling him away from the duo and taking him back to their table. “That was a mistake.”
Neil is too busy looking at his hand to look at Kevin. It feels like it’s still being squeezed, tingling along his palm. “That was your idea,” he says pointedly.
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Kevin says, gripping Neil’s arm harder. “Do you have any idea what you just started?”
Confusion weighs heavier on him than the impending fear of danger, so he frowns and asks, “What?”
Kevin groans, finally releasing Neil like he can’t stand to touch him anymore. Then, away from the table still and away from the whole world dying to catch just a few of their words, he leans in and hisses near Neil’s ear, “Andrew wouldn't have bothered to shake your hand unless he found you interesting.”
And at first Neil doesn’t understand.
But then, he does.
And he can’t help but feel like he just shook the hand of death itself.
-
After listening to a few speeches, hearing his own name come up a couple of times, posing for various pictures with various teammates and being asked the same round of questions over and over, he desperately needs to breathe.
Breathe in smoke that is, the scent reminding him so much of his mother, so he pays a server twenty bucks to tell him where the most discreet place to take a smoke break is. Kevin sends him a look when he pushes away from the table, but he ignores it, buttoning up his suit jacket as he stands, then takes off to follow the server.
He’s guided through a hectic kitchen, led down a hall and then another hall before being led out a large metal door. The loading docks, he guesses, judging by the packing boxes and the garage doors.
Neil says thank you, then quickly lights up a cigarette as soon as he’s left alone. One deep inhale to get it going, and the heavy weight of expectation seeps out of him, replaced by a temporary ease. He knows he’s being stupid, and that this is just how it is and that he needs to get used to it, but he just didn’t expect it all to be - like this.
Maybe when practice starts it’ll get easier, it’ll feel real, like he really is here to play a game and not pose for a picture with a practiced smile.
“Does Kevin know you smoke?”
In the empty loading dock, the sound of another voice echoes, rebounding off every wall, but even when the sound fades Neil’s heart is still racing. He immediately looks around, eyes narrowed and posture careful.
Across the way, shadowed by a stack of crates, stands Andrew Minyard. His regal suit and equally regal hairstyle contrast too sharply with the mess of crates and boxes and graffiti, but leaning against the wall with one leg propped, Andrew looks casual, relaxed.
Pretending his heart didn’t nearly just detonate from shock, Neil takes another inhale of smoke before crossing over to Andrew. He notes the cigarette in Andrew’s own hand, nearly burned down to a stub, and arches a brow. “I don’t, but does Riko know that you do?”
“Doesn’t matter. Riko doesn’t own me,” Andrew says simply, then crushes the end of his cigarette against the wall and tosses it.
Neil pauses, considering that, then says scornfully, “Kevin doesn’t own me.”
Andrew answers that with a bored look.
“He doesn’t,” Neil insists, not sure why that look riles up his every nerve. He takes another breath in and holds the smoke in his lungs for too long of a second, then slowly lets it out, but it does nothing to calm him now.
“When somebody is the reason for your very existence, they own you. Kevin got you your contract, yes? Well then he owns you.”
Anger flares in Neil’s chest, along with something he can’t place, something sharp and jarring. The truth, maybe.
Neil keeps it reined in, making his face blank as he can make it. He’s barely aware that he’s speaking, that annoying flaring feeling still bright in his chest, masking the increasing rate of his pulse. “Is that why you wouldn’t sign with him then? You didn’t want to be owned?”
Andrew considers that, it seems, by the way he tilts his head slightly to the side, but that illusion of confusion is snapped when he leans forward and grabs Neil’s cigarette from his fingers, bringing it up to his own mouth.
“A heavy question to be asking,” Andrew says slowly. “For a man who doesn’t know me.”
“I don’t have to know you to know your statistics,” Neil says, voice heavier now with annoyance over his stolen cigarette. Oddly enough, his lungs don’t ache without it, not if he can watch the ring Andrew’s lips make around the filter. “You’re not just the top-ranked goalie in the NEL.”
It only takes a few seconds for his mind to cough up the info he needs, the small facts and the large facts about Andrew Minyard, jersey number three, the New York Nighthawk’s starting goalie. Facts ranging from his speed to his aim to how many shots he blocked in total all of last season.
When he’s done listing the facts, the statistics, he expects something in Andrew’s face to change, expects to see some form of pride or triumph, but Andrew doesn’t even blink.
He blows out a cloud of smoke right into Neil’s face and says, “You’re straddling the border between obsessive and creepy. I should be calling security.”
“They’re facts. Everyone knows them.”
“Not like that.”
“I have to know,” Neil says defensively. “If I ever want to score on you.”
“Knowing all that won’t increase your level of talent,” Andrew scoffs, finally showing a sliver of emotion - judgement.
“I just don’t get it,” Neil says, backtracking to turn the subject to its origin point. “You and Kevin were a great pair. You’d do even better if you were on the same team again. Why’d you sign with his enemy?”
Andrew says, too easily, “Kevin’s enemy is not my enemy. I am my own enemy. Signing with the Nighthawks made that less so.”
Neil barely has a second to frown, to think about that, before Andrew is pushing away from the wall and taking a step closer into Neil’s space.
It’s strange, he thinks, in the brief few seconds he has before Andrew opens his mouth again, that he’s spent all night feeling suffocated but now, with a stranger breathing smoke in his face, standing toe to toe with him, all he feels is air.
“My answers come with a pricetag. You can compensate me with one of your own; why did you sign with the Seakings?”
The way he says it almost sounds like he’s implying that Neil had a decision, that Neil had other options to consider.
It takes a few seconds, but then it hits Neil.
Andrew isn’t implying that at all, he’s implying the opposite.
Rubbing dirt in the wound, running a highlighter across every word, shining a spotlight right on Neil’s still-aching heart.
He didn’t have any options.
“They were the only team to offer me a contract,” Neil admits, low and quiet, and even though that rage is back in his chest, he doesn’t push Andrew away.
“Then perhaps you should quit harping on what contracts I did or didn’t sign and focus on yourself,” Andrew says, and it’s venomous but it’s bright. “Like the real reason Kevin signed you. I bet you still think it’s because you’re his chance at finally besting Riko, right?”
Neil stares at a spot over Andrew’s shoulder, trying desperately to build his wall back up brick by brick, but every breath and word from Andrew has cement crumbling like dust in Neil’s hands.
“That’s one of the reasons, yes,” Neil says flatly, avoiding Andrew’s eyes.
Andrew leans in closer until his mouth is near Neil’s ear, and makes a buzzing noise, deep and grating, like Neil got the answer wrong. This close, a noise like that can’t echo off the walls, but Neil still hears it being repeated in every nerve in his body.
“No. Kevin will never have faith, in anything or anybody, a lesson you need to learn quickly. He will give up on you if you cannot give him what benefits him,” Andrew says quickly, that venom in his tone stinging so much Neil thinks it’s paralyzing him. “You know what you are? His scapegoat. When your team inevitably loses, he can place the blame on you, and no one will question him.”
Neil is still, from head to toe, but some bright hot instinct kicks in a second later, giving him the strength to snap his neck down and face forward, glaring down the scant few inches between him and Andrew.
“You’re going to eat those words,” Neil promises, and without looking he reaches between them for his stolen cigarette.
Andrew jerks his hand away, holding it out of Neil’s reach.
“I’m not hungry,” Andrew says, then flicks the cigarette behind him and turns away to walk back inside.
Then Neil is alone, with nothing and nobody saying his name, with nothing but his thoughts and the truth of him and the weight of his reality, and a sudden burning promise fueling its way through him.
He suddenly doesn’t need to breathe. He just needs to prove Andrew wrong.
- Chapter 2
If that one brief interaction out by the loading docks supplied enough rage-induced encouragement to last a decade, the question that Neil answers on his way out of the banquet supplies enough encouragement to last a lifetime.
When he’s asked it, he doesn’t think of the repercussions, doesn’t think about the fact that every word said in public is a play in a game.
It’s the truth, at least, and maybe that’s why he says it.
Two security guards guide Neil and Kevin to their town car, the night having run its course on Neil and the effects of alcohol having run its course on Kevin. But the guards’ presence doesn’t stop the remaining reporters from flocking to their car, doesn’t stop the flash of cameras.
Doesn’t stop the question; “Neil, Neil! Now that you’ve met the opposing teams, how do you feel about your chances? Do you still think you can help Kevin bring your team to the playoffs?”
Neil stops, turns, and fixes on a smile that he doesn’t have to fake. He can see Kevin shaking his head from the corner of his eye, their publicists practically begging him to not answer this question.
He has to. He made a promise in his head to Andrew.
“Actually, if anything, I feel even more encouraged,” Neil says warmly, as if his words are pleasant opposed to cruel. “I know that with Kevin’s guidance, together we’re going to change how the playoffs are played. His enemies are now my enemies.”
He hopes that somehow, someway, Andrew watches this, and knows Neil’s words are for him.
“Are you referencing Riko Moriyama and his team?”
His smile deepens. “Andrew Minyard,” Neil says, and likes the way his tongue feels after saying his name. “He’s not as impenetrable as he thinks he is, and I’m going to take him down goal by goal. I’m going to score on him.”
Instead of prompting Neil for more, the reporter directs the microphone to Kevin, who stands there shell-shocked, as if Neil just reached into his chest and punched his heart. “Comments?”
Kevin glares at Neil, then faces the camera. “With enough coaching and practice, I fully believe in Neil’s future success,” he says dully, before motioning towards his publicist to clear out the reporters.
All in all, the question took less than a minute to answer.
Neil smiles to himself on the drive home, not knowing that one question will fuel the rest of his life.
-
It was an inevitable feud.
Long in the making, already in the process before Neil Josten was ever a Seaking. This feud was perhaps the main reason Kevin vouched for his recruitment. There hasn’t been a hype like this over a season since Kevin and Riko signed to the pros.
Because this feud started off between the Ravens and the Foxes, technically.
The Foxes lost the championships in Kevin and Andrew’s final year. That loss against the Ravens was only intensified when Andrew signed with Riko, and Kevin was forced to start his professional career on his own.
In Neil’s opinion, Kevin’s the best, but he was too used to having support. His first year as a Seaking, they made it to playoffs and were eliminated after the first round. His second year, they hadn’t earned enough points to qualify.
Losing three years in a row to someone he used to win with only had Kevin playing harder.
But now, Neil isn’t sure what Kevin saw in him that made him think partner.
Kevin’s Comeback Key, most articles had nicknamed Neil. It put a new spark in an old feud. Kevin had ammunition now - or, as most of the Exy world saw it, Kevin had no excuse not to win now.
With a new season, a new striker, a new attitude to Kevin’s playing style and a determination that nothing could cut through, it was an inevitable feud.
It was never meant to be like this, however, between the rookie and the goalie. Nobody ever thought it’d be Neil vs. Andrew, but now that it is, it’s everywhere.
Neil knows how press works, he’s seen his own interviews show up online as soon as they’re filmed, he knows better. Yet he still feels a bit stunned at how quick this - whatever this is - blows up. Everything and everyone, between the ESPN channel to the smallest online magazine, has something to say about it.
The picture of their handshake dominates every single article, with screaming headlines printed over top, their names flashing and bright. Minyard vs Josten, 03 vs 10, Rookie to Score On Goalie?
One news site tracks Andrew and Neil’s college career, and pulls up the footage of Neil’s deathmatch against the Foxes. In the video, Neil tries to run at the goal and score, only to have Andrew catch his ball and rebound it off Neil’s helmet.
It’s their only in-game interaction to date, but it’s more than enough to tip the scales in Andrew’s favour. Neil’s rookie image is painted even darker.
Statistics are compared, histories are recovered, stories are made up. The more gossip-run sites say Kevin only recruited Neil to replace the hole that Andrew left in his shield. Some sites say that Andrew’s going to use Neil’s inexperience to flaunt his own talent back in Kevin’s face.
It’s a mess, and Neil helped make it.
Unlike before though, there are people who want to support him. Neil almost doesn’t believe it when old teammates from Arizona are recorded vouching his name, saying their praises, citing his grim determination as an advantage over Andrew Minyard.
In August, the Seakings start preseason practice, often hosting open practices for fans and reporters to sit in and watch. Kevin pushes Neil to play harder, even if it is against his own team, reminding him that the world is watching.
The world is watching, and once they witness that grim determination in action, the scales tip slightly under Neil’s weight. Reporters begin to comment positively on his accuracy. Fans start to show up at their practices with signs.
Neil can’t remember the last time a fan held up a sign with his name on it that wasn’t followed by massive black X’s.
It’s inspiring, and has Neil fighting more aggressively during practice to prove them all right, that he deserves their faith.
It’s inspiring until the day it isn’t, when the feud hits its next point, and then even Neil loses faith in himself.
The whole team is gathered in their lounge after practice, sweaty and exhausted, but whatever’s about to play on the TV is apparently more important than showering. Coach Mullens stands by the television with his arms folded, face grim, remote control clutched tightly in one hand.
When he’s sure he has his team’s attention, he faces the TV and clicks play on the remote.
All the way over in New York, the Nighthawks are having their own open practice. A sportscaster from ESPN talks at the camera, commenting on the team’s impressive technique as a scrimmage plays out.
Any reporter who knows Andrew Minyard knows the risks of putting a microphone in his face, yet that doesn’t stop this reporter from approaching him as he walks off the court, helmet in his hands and eyes uncaring as he attempts to walk past them.
“Andrew, what do you have to say about the current buzz surrounding Neil Josten of the San Francisco Seakings? He says he’s going to score on you, what do you think his chances are?”
Andrew stops abruptly and turns to face the camera, fixing it with a look that could shatter glass.
“To say he has a chance would give him false hope. There is no chance and there is no hope,” Andrew says, cooly. “If Neil ‘Pipe Dream’ Josten wants to challenge me in public, then he better be ready to be destroyed in public.”
Not sparing another breath or word, Andrew turns from the camera and walks away, leaving the reporter stunned in their spot.
There’s something satisfying about hearing Andrew say his name, but Neil can hardly focus on that when his chest suddenly feels ten times heavier.
Coach is talking, the team is murmuring, Kevin is sending an angry, frantic glance in Neil’s direction.
Neil stares at the TV screen, still seeing Andrew on it. His heart turns in panicked circles, spinning faster every time he replays Andrew’s sharp words.
His heart stops spinning, and decides to land on a feeling Neil hasn’t felt in awhile, a feeling that Andrew’s rivalry ignites; the silent swell of hope.
-
“You shook his hand,” is Kevin’s explanation for ripping Neil from his apartment at 10:00PM and dragging him to the stadium. “You started this, now you are going to find a way to end it.”
It’s incredibly jarring to be two souls in a stadium that seats thousands. Loud and echoey and all-consuming. Neil almost prefers it. He almost doesn’t quite mind the sleep deprivation that will follow. He almost thinks he can tolerate Kevin’s harsh words and harsher critique.
“Andrew doesn’t do challenges; he crushes them. By putting yourself in his path you’ve single-handedly obliterated our chances of facing them in the playoffs.”
Neil glares up at Kevin through the faceguard of his helmet. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“You don’t know Andrew, he works on spite or not at all. He’ll personally see to it that you never make it within ten feet of his goal. Lucky for him, it should be rather easy.”
It aggravates Neil, but that was likely Kevin’s aim, to get Neil to push himself the next step forward. His shots are forced to be faster, more aggressive, until Neil’s every cell is cursing the very second that Kevin Day was born.
Their private practices continue until Neil feels reformed, shaped into something - better.
That feeling of such elevation might have gotten to his head, because at their next open practice with the team, a reporter asks Neil, “Are you excited for the season to start?”
And Neil easily responds with, “More excited than I’ve ever been. Kevin’s an incredible captain, and he’s shaping us all into a weapon. The Nighthawks should be scared, and Riko should be sorry.”
“Why’s that?”
“That he ever doubted Kevin in the first place,” Neil says, frowning a bit, as if the answer was obvious. “But he can apologize on our court come November.”
To the viewers and the multiple news outlets that try to analyze Neil’s statement, it sounds like good-natured team rivalry. It sounds like the role he’s meant to play - the rookie to Kevin’s captaincy, partners, together, a duo.
That’s not how it sounds to the Nighthawks.
Not at all, Neil realizes, the next day during a closed practice, when Riko Moriyama steps onto their court all the way from New York City.
The entire team falls silent.
Riko’s dressed in a blue so dark it could be black. His eyes scan the lines of their well-worn court as if the floor is fouling his shoes. The Seakings stand around in their gear, scrimmage paused, looking from one to the other with a million silenced questions. Their coaches stand in the inner court, equally quiet, not making any movements to signal a stop to Riko’s presence.
Laila’s the first to speak up, storming out of her goal as she rips her helmet off. “What the hell are you doing here? How’d you even get in?”
Riko doesn’t look at her, his glare trained on both Kevin and Neil.
“Your court is a shame to the very sport you play,” Riko says, crossing his arms over his chest. “My family invented this sport. It is not difficult for me to gain access to any and all stadiums.”
Despite their hostile history, and despite the anger rippling across his face, Kevin remains wordless.
“This is a private practice,” Neil finally says, after sending a disappointed look Kevin’s way. “You’re in violation of the rules.”
“My family invented this sport,” Riko repeats, more viciously, turning all his attention on Neil. “You are a mockery to it. What makes you think a rookie like you has the right to speak against my team? Your name does not belong anywhere near mine.”
“It wasn’t you I was challenging,” Neil says, as calm as he can make it. It’s not that Riko unnerves him, it’s that Riko irritates him, and it irritates Neil even more that Riko has the audacity to say such things while standing on the Seakings’ logo.
“I didn’t come alone,” Riko says, and doesn’t turn around when the court door suddenly slams open. “You think you can score on Andrew? Prove it.”
The Seakings remain dead quiet as somebody else steps onto the court, footsteps like gunshots off the floor. Andrew comes up towards them wearing his own team’s gear, clashing harshly with the aqua of the Seakings.
Andrew stops right behind Riko and swings his racquet up to rest against his shoulder, looking like he’s contemplating taking a nap in the next five seconds.
“I’m not doing this,” Neil says firmly, taking a step back.
That only strengthens Riko’s grave smile. “Then we can give ESPN a ring and have a reporter here in minutes. I’m sure they’d love to hear you admit defeat.”
“You can’t -”
“This is what you get when you run your mouth off with foul and false accusations. Do not make promises if you have no way to make them true. You will practice against Andrew until you finally see how dim your chances are.”
Riko sends a look Kevin’s way, something dark and controlling in his eyes, and Neil’s stomach sinks, knowing fully well how Kevin will respond to that look.
With a small sigh, Kevin steps up to Neil and grabs his racquet, halting it. “Don’t use all your energy at once,” he says, a red-hot warning low in his voice. “Pace yourself.” Then he gives the racquet’s net a tug and walks away, following Riko and the rest of the Seakings off the court.
Then it’s just Neil and Andrew, and suddenly Neil’s knees feel weak.
Ignoring that, because nothing about Andrew unnerves Neil either, he steadies his face and turns a look on his opposer, souring his expression as best he can. Despite that sourness, he manages a smirk. “I thought Riko didn’t own you.”
Andrew says nothing but sticks his racquet out to roll a ball towards himself. Without breaking eye contact, he flicks it up and sends it flying right at Neil’s helmet. It bounces off with a sharp smack, then rolls away.
Neil doesn’t back down from that challenge.
He follows Kevin’s advice and paces himself, firing perfunctory shot after shot, carefully thought out and planned. Andrew responds to that by standing completely still and tilting his racquet whichever way he knows Neil is going to swing.
Irritation itches under Neil’s skin. He’s giving nearly every percent he has and Andrew’s barely turned his switch on, but Neil doesn’t fall for it, doesn’t give his one-hundred just yet. He waits for Andrew to break patience first.
Tens of minutes later, or at least that’s how it feels, Andrew finally stops moving to stare at Neil blankly. He leans down to pick up a ball, tosses it slightly, then smacks it with all his might, firing it at Neil at a speed that could hurt him.
Slow doesn’t exist after that. Fast, faster, fastest, Neil dodges every shot and shoots them back even quicker. He runs and leaps and tries from a different angle every single time, but somehow Andrew just knows where they’re going to land. Neil might as well be shooting at a brick wall.
His blood hasn’t felt like this before, never been so hot. It burns with determination, infuriation, some primal sort of need flowing through him to shoot and score and to wipe that stupid look off Andrew’s stupid face.
After trying every trick he knows, he thinks back to night practice, and shifts his body into a move he’s seen Kevin perform.
Andrew is expecting that, too, and flicks the ball away with a short snap of his wrist.
Neil stands a few feet back from the goal, panting and doubled over, watching his failure of a ball roll shamefully away.
“Remember,” Andrew calls out, the mocking in his voice sounding almost like a song. “All the night practice with Kevin won’t change a thing, he will never keep his faith in you. A few more shots and he’ll be done with you for good.”
“No,” Neil grits out, and snaps into action, investing his last percent into charging the goal with every ounce of passion and hatred he has. Except when he swings his racquet back to fire a shot, all his muscles twist to a stop. It forces his grip slack, has him skidding to a halt.
Without momentum, the ball slides free of the net and hits the ground with a low thud.
The only body part that doesn’t burn are his eyes, so he watches the ball roll away, physically unable to reach out for it.
A banging on the court wall has Neil fumbling to find enough energy to look over. Kevin is making a cutting gesture at his neck, while Riko stands next to him, arms folded and face expressionless. The lack of smug satisfaction across Riko’s face is somehow worse than any at all.
Neil gasps out in defeat and doubles over, and doesn’t dare look up at Andrew, not even when there’s a tap against his helmet, the large net of Andrew’s racquet in his face.
“At least you tried,” Andrew says, and taps Neil’s helmet again.
“I never said I’m giving up,” Neil says back, just barely, before finally looking up at him.
The rest of the stadium vanishes, disintegrating quickly as Andrew leans forward, too close, as close as he was the night they met in the docks. The sound of his breath and his voice right by Neil’s ear shouldn’t sound so familiar, but it is.
Their helmets are all that separates them physically, but nothing can stop Andrew’s words from touching him. “Then until we meet again,” Andrew says, and it’s too much of a whisper to be a threat.
Andrew strolls off the court looking as if he hadn’t moved so much as a muscle while playing against Neil. Without another word to the Seakings, he and Riko disappear.
Footsteps break up the world of silence. Kevin rushes onto the court where Neil is now kneeling, his every body part on fire. “Neil.”
For whatever reason, there’s a defiant part of Neil that doesn’t want to look up, to meet the eyes of somebody who isn’t Andrew. Staring at Andrew had forced Neil to look as honest as he’s looked in months - he means it when he looks at Andrew with intent. Looking at anybody else will force a mask back on, and he’s not sure if he can fake it right now.
Kevin tugs at him when he remains quiet, gripping him roughly until he’s steady on his feet.
“He’s good,” Neil says distantly, staring at the court doors.
“You can’t beat him alone,” Kevin says somberly, and then, after a pause, “We have to do it together.”
It’s far from the harsh criticism Neil’s accustomed to. It draws his eyes to Kevin’s retreating figure as he walks away, trying to piece it all together.
He stays alone on the court for a few more minutes.
Showing Neil just how unattainable something is won’t make him want it any less. There’s fire in his muscles, a stinging suggestion that perhaps he won’t ever score on Andrew, but if anything, it only makes him want it more.
Riko’s the one who failed tonight.
Neil’s alone on the court, but he feels the ghost of Andrew’s closeness, and now more than ever, he can’t quite quell the hope of it.
-
Even with his arms stinging and burning, he couldn’t quite make himself go home.
So now he stands alone in the Seakings stadium, out on the court, envisioning where the ball would go if he stood here, or there, if he lifted the racquet like this and not that. The only conclusion he can come to though, is that no matter how he throws the ball, Andrew will be there to block it.
Neil wants to find it strange that he only feels determined in face of such an impossible challenge, but he doesn’t. What he does find strange is what he can’t explain; how ontop of determination, he feels put-off, disoriented, like there’s an answer in Andrew that is right there but Neil just can’t see it.
He can feel it though, like pinpricks and frustration and -
Shock.
Because when Neil turns around after staring at the goal for an endless minute, Andrew Minyard himself is standing in the open doorway to the court, leaning against the plexiglass frame with his arms crossed and his expression cool.
Neil suddenly lets out his breath and begins to smile, and the urge to figure things out disappears as he lets curiosity take over. He was tired before, tired and sore, but for some reason, with Andrew right there, he no longer feels like sleeping.
“Hey,” Neil says, taking off his helmet as he steps closer. He looks over Andrew’s head for something or somebody in the distance, but Andrew is alone. “Where’s Riko? Did he finally loosen your leash?”
Andrew’s expression hardens, then fades into blankness. “One would think that with all the time you spend talking about Riko that he owns you, as well.”
“So he does own you?”
Andrew ignores that and steps further into the court, walking a circle around Neil. “Your determination to play could be admirable if it weren’t so pathetic,” he says, eyes drifting to the racquet still in Neil’s hands. “What’s keeping you here?”
“Uh, well . . .” Neil looks at his racquet and realizes then how much it hurts to hold it. “I want to?”
“You want to, or you feel you’re expected to?”
Neil frowns and plucks at a string in the net. “There’s not much of a difference if I like doing it though, right?”
Andrew scoffs and makes another lap around Neil, never making eye contact as he walks. “Let’s play a new game,” he says while nodding. “It’s called ‘let’s not talk about Exy for five minutes’.”
Neil frowns again, but it’s quickly won over by a smirk. “You want me to stop talking about Exy? When we’re currently standing on an Exy court, in an Exy stadium, where I am dressed in my Exy gear, while holding my Exy racquet?”
Andrew pauses, face falling even more blank. “Can you do it or not?”
“Do I win anything if I do?”
Andrew finally looks at Neil then, his eyes narrowed as he thinks, then says, “To be determined.”
For some reason, Neil laughs.
And even though he hasn’t gone more than a minute without thinking about Exy over the past five years, Neil has never been one to back down from an impossible challenge . . .
“Okay, you’re on. Starting now.”
Except Neil hasn’t ever been faced with a challenge quite like this.
Andrew stares at Neil for the first thirty seconds, as Neil’s mouth forms different shapes and half-muttered words escape his lips only to be bit back down - because everything and anything he has to say has to be about Exy, the game, his team, his sponsors, his statistics, press pieces for the media and pre-written answers to endless repetitive questions and -
And he hasn’t ever been asked to talk about anything else.
“I - uh -” Neil stammers, heat flooding his face. “What do you want to talk about?”
Andrew’s eyes look as if they’re about to roll back. “How did you manage to complete college with the vocabulary of a two year old? What do you want to talk about?”
There’s a force in Neil’s throat, like the hand of someone controlling a puppet, about to make him say what they want him to say. He grits his teeth in time to stop himself and then sighs, giving his shoulders a slight shrug.
He doesn’t know what he wants to say, but he wants to say something.
Because Andrew stands there calmly, willing to listen.
“. . . my running shoes are beginning to break down,” is what Neil ends up saying, face flaming crimson now that the words are out. “I’ve put off buying a new pair though. I guess I hate spending money.”
He watches with his heart racing as one of Andrew’s eyebrows slowly lifts; clearly bored with Neil, and his pathetic attempt at normal conversation.
“I’m trying, okay?” Neil asks rather desperately, trying hard not to flinch as that eyebrow raises higher. “I’m not very interesting.”
All at once, Andrew smirks, and it transforms his entire face. He takes a step closer until he’s right in front of Neil, a powerful presence when compared to Neil’s nervous wreck of a body. He eyes the racquet that Neil’s still holding and threads his fingers through the net, giving it a quick tug.
“Your vocabulary is in need of a refresher, Neil,” Andrew says lowly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I don’t think you understand what ‘interesting’ means. You win this round. ‘A’ for effort, and all that.”
He tugs on the racquet again before turning around to leave, and even when he’s gone, Neil doesn’t understand.
But he wants to.
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epacer · 5 years
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Story You May Have Missed
Crawford High football team coach jacked up
Go smash face
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Late August: On this muggy morning, the air hangs thick under a gray, un-comforting sky. In a small hollow among small hills m East San Diego, several-score teenage boys and a few men gather at Colts Field, home to Crawford High School’s football team, for two-a-days, practice sessions held every weekday morning and afternoon in the last few weeks before school starts.
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A handful of spectators, including some boys too young to be in high school and two teenage girls with babies in strollers, dot the rickety bleachers on the field’s south side and observe the practice as quietly as if they were watching lawn bowling. Their passive demeanor belies the barely contained mayhem erupting a few yards away.
"RUN! RUN! I NEED SOME HELP! LET'S HUSTLE, GENTLEMEN!" Echoing off the banks of ice plant, across the field into the bleachers, comes the screechy, house-on-fire voice of one of the men. "MAN TO MAN! PICK ONE MAN AND STAY WITH HIM!" The field is loosely divvied up, each sector occupied by a different squad — varsity in red jerseys and junior varsity in blue — each running a different set of drills. The loudest exhortations come from the area where players are being run through intrasquad scrimmages — rehearsals of offensive and defensive plays. The offensive squad tries various pass patterns and running plays, and the defense tries to read them and react.
The piercing voice belongs to the defensive coordinator for the junior varsity. He screams at his players almost nonstop, not angrily, but just because everything on the field is at a level where adrenalin counts more than words. His own intensity would no doubt consume his lean frame if it weren't allowed to escape in this way. "HEY. WAY TO WRESTLE IM TO THE GROUND OVER THERE! HEY. WAY TO HOLD ON. MAN!" The players are learning the particulars of the game, to be sure, but they are also being initiated into a rock-hard world where muscle and animal urgency mean the difference between prevailing and submitting, between elation and despair. "HARD HARD! HARDHARD HARDHARDHARDHARD, COME ON. GO!"
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"GO BALLS OUT! COME ON. GET ANGRY!"
The offense tries a run. The ball earner slips a tackle and picks up speed on his way down the side of the field. Short, powerfully built, he swivels his hips as he easily shifts his weight to change course and elude more pursuers. Finally one defender draws a bead on him. The bodies fly at each other in the open field and meet with a trebly, plastic thwaack that echoes through the neighborhood. A herd suddenly thunders up; other bodies soar into the heap; pads helmets arms cleats, a rapid succession of muffled thwaacks, a crowd of unhhs, grass and dirt spraying over the pile, a momentary stillness and quiet, during which the sounds from other squads can be heard.
"NICE TACKLE!" The coach exchanges a few hand slaps as the bodies untangle.
"WAY TO GO, DEFENSE! GOOD JOB, D! HELLUVA JOB ... DEFENSE. YOU GUYS ARE DOIN' A HECK OF A JOB OUT HERE! GETTIN' BURNED A LITTLE BIT, BUT YOU'RE PLAYIN' SOME BALL!"
But the offense is playin' some ball too. A pass: The receiver streaks down the sideline The ball is underthrown. The receiver holds up, leaps a little into the air. The defender dives to knock the ball away. The receiver snatches it, spins, and prances the few steps into the end zone. He slows and turns around and jogs back. His smile visible the length of the field, he says simply, "Touch... down." They are the words of a victorious man. but they are uttered in the gentle, high-pitched voice of a boy.
On a run up the middle, one ball carrier is about to break free, when from the mass of thwaackmg bodies rises a pair of hands. They reach for him from behind, grasp him by the neck, and snap him backwards to the ground. He does not get up at once. He does rise after a few minutes, while the tackier is made to do 20 push-ups as penance.
The scrimmages wind down. All players now race through punishing drills designed to forge their bodies and reprogram then: reflexes. Several groups are made to run repeated 40-yard sprints, nearly halfway up V the field, full-out, to a specified yard line, then wheel and sprint back. If any one of them gives less than his all or stops short of (or overruns) the line, it doesn't count. The first sprints are run with spirit; the players shoot by. By the fourth or fifth circuit, there is little air in those lungs and the coaches must provide the motivation.
"SOMEBODY'S NOT RUNNING! YOU'RE GONNA COST THIS GROUP 20 SPRINTS!"
A little more effort on the next sprint. By the tenth time around, there is no more horsepower to be gotten out of their straining muscles. "THAT ONE DIDN'T COUNT!" A player lets out. "Shit."
The head coach alerts an assistant. "COACH. IF ONE GUY DOESN'T GO A MILLION MILES AN HOUR. IT DOESN'T COUNT." (Coaches address each other as "Coach,” the mutual recognition of a priestly order, as one senator might call another "Senator.”) The assistant replies quietly, as if receiving a sacrament — "Got it." The sprinters grunt, and cry out, and stagger, and sprint some more.
Finally, the practice ends. As the coaches offer a few last pointers and reminders — which may or may not be heard — the players collapse on the grass and strip their helmets, jersey, cleats, shoulder pads. Their faces are sweaty. Their uniforms are bruised with grass stains and caked with mud. Their breathing is heavy — almost desperate. Eventually, one by one. they find their feet and begin to file across the street to the gym, where they will dress and head home for lunch They will do it all over in a few hours and again tomorrow morning.
"To tell you the truth, I’d sell my soul to be able to go through it again. I still miss playing." Dan Armstrong is not kidding. He loves football, and it is an informed love. Now 36. Armstrong played fullback and linebacker at Kearny High School, Mesa Junior College, and San Diego State and has coached high school teams in San Diego and in Akron, Ohio, for a total of 11 years. He has coached at Crawford for the past 7 years, as head coach since last year He leans his chair back in the coaches' office, just off the locker room in the Crawford gym. In his tank top and gym shorts, he looks the part of a lifelong jock. His broad shoulders and powerful legs, though softening a little, clearly belong to someone who has spent many years in rigorous training. He carries himself with an easy, confident gait, sits relaxed, alert, and is content now to wax philosophical about this head-banging game. This is a man in his element.
What is it about this game that engages him so deeply? He smiles, his warmth and openness contrasting sharply with the roughneck tone of his sport. "Probably the controlled violence. It's a physical game, and there’s a lot of hard contact, hard hitting. But there's also a lot of strategy involved. It's very stimulating to sit down and scout somebody and break down film" — Armstrong and his colleagues spend every Sunday reviewing game films of upcoming opponents — "and try to find a weakness and exploit it." And then there is the aesthetics of pure athleticism "You can see some kid go down the field'and jump above everybody and catch a ball, and it’s like watching Baryshnikov When we're out there, and we see stuff like that." he adds, laughing, "we say, 'Great coaching.' "
For Armstrong, there are three indelible things football gives its devotees. "First of all. you establish lifelong friendships that you never forget. My high school football buddies are still my best friends. When you go through what these kids go through and what we went through, day after day with these guys, it's like going through the service together. And you form bonds that'll never be broken. Second of all. you learn the team concept and how to work together with a group of guys for one common goal. And thirdly, you learn that you get out of life what you put into it. If you absolutely refuse to lose, that only leaves one option. you have to win. But if you do lose, and you don't learn something from it, then you've lost twice."
Because it is played in a fever of teeth-grinding ferocity from start to finish, football can be seen as a fundamentally more emotional — Armstrong calls it "inspirational" — game than most. It both requires and produces a mindset that can only be called Fired Up. The player succeeds to the extent that he is aroused beyond himself, beyond his normal state of consciousness. "That's what they always say about guys who ‘play over their heads,' " Armstrong agrees. "That's because they get so pumped up. And that's what we try and do. We believe that if we are more inspired and more fired up, we're gonna win more ball games."
The largest part of the coach’s job is generating that arousal in his charges. In Armstrong's case, it often means providing motivation where none exists in a player's life; some Crawford students, he says, come from single-parent homes and are often unsupervised or otherwise left with little to deflect the temptation to hang out with local gangs. And for some of these same students, Armstrong says, football represents the only genuine chance to escape a life full of dead ends, the only potential ticket to a college education and a prayer of earning a decent living, in or out of sports.
In 1986, UCSD student Lorimel Arabe studied Crawford football players and their counterparts at University High School and found the predominantly white and more affluent University team less intent on football as a long-term career or short-term means of getting an education than was the Crawford team. So while Armstrong and his fellow coaches may have to spend a good part of their time cajoling players to keep up their grades or attendance, once the players are on the field and getting positive reinforcement for their efforts, they take to it with an abandon suggesting they have found a productive outlet for the violent urges experienced daily on the streets of the inner city.
Armstrong doesn’t shrink from this; in fact, it fits nicely into his program — he wants his players to go all-out. Asked whether this doesn't encourage injuries, he answers that the opposite is true: "When you get hurt is when you don't go all-out. You get someone going half-speed and someone going full-speed, and someone gets hurt." Beyond that, the team has, and wants to maintain, a reputation for being a "pretty physical football team." Eavesdropping offensive line coach Roger Engle nods approvingly. "We feel like we gotta out-hit a team to beat 'em."
Crawford's streetwise players take to this approach, continues Armstrong. "When you get a tough kid like that, it's easy to preach that mentality to 'im and get that pride developed that says, 'Hey, I'm gonna knock someone’s head off. and I’m gonna physically intimidate people.' I tell these guys something they can relate to. I say. ‘It's a goddang war with rules. It's a street fight with rules.’ " As the summer practices began, the coaches were frankly disappointed that the workouts weren't physical enough, but by this afternoon, "there were some big-league collisions and guys likin' it. We always kid 'em, we tell 'em, ‘If you're not half-dinged with snot runnin’ down your nose, you're not hitting anybody.' They like that, and they joke around; they'll get up and do this” — he wipes his nose on an imaginary sleeve with an exaggerated motion — "and see if there’s any snot running out of their noses. They're a good group of kids."
What they get for throwing themselves so wholeheartedly into the fray — for managing to. as Armstrong exhorts them to before every game, "go out and fly around and knock some butt out there" — is the evanescent joy of winning, of having prevailed, of being recognized by the tribe as an alpha male. Armstrong has been at both extremes, both as player and coach. "Winning is the greatest feeling in the world And so consequently, when you lose that one on the last second ... I mean, I’ve gotten sick to my stomach after a loss." But oh, those wins. The thrill never pales. "Probably the closest feeling you can get to it is when you have a kid. You actually think to yourself, 'It doesn't get any better than this. I'm as happy as I can be.' "
Late September: The Colts are preparing for their third game. They will play the Sweetwater High Red Devils at Sweetwater, having lost the opener to Patrick Henry High, 14-12, and won the second game, against Madison. 5-0 (a score more likely in a baseball game; "We pitched a six-hitter," jokes Armstrong).
In the cramped team room, under a sign that says "Dedication," eleven players are in various stages of dress. They don most of their uniforms here but carry the shoulder pads and jerseys with them on the bus to the site of the game and finish dressing minutes before taking the field. So a dozen or so shoulder pad sets, wearing their respective jerseys, now sit on the cement floor, like headless behemoths buried up to their chests, the jersey numbers half-visible. A player takes some aspirin, perhaps in anticipation of the pounding he will shortly receive.
The coaches enter for a few words before boarding the bus. Jeff Olivero, the defensive coordinator, speaks first. "All week long I been hearin' about ‘They got 11 guys comin' back,' " he begins, referring to Sweetwater's many returning seniors. Crawford's young team could be intimidated by this. "So what? They also got a quarterback who averages 232 yards a game — but he ain't gonna if we put pressure on him." He goes over a few defensive configurations and specific assignments and urges the team to “fly around and have fun out there."
Coach Armstrong has the last word. His voice starts out loud and gets even louder. "We been slidin' on offense," he admonishes the silent team. "There’ve been times when it seemed the best we could do was tie 0-0. But I'll tell you what. I know that no team in the county can go around us." The Colts' strength this year has been defense, and he wants them to maintain their stinginess with opponents while revving up their offense. Sweetwater has lost its first two games; tonight’s game is a perfect opportunity, he says, for Crawford to assert itself and all aspects of its game. And he doesn't want to have to tell the team twice. "We're not gonna have a half-time talk about smash-face football. We're gonna come out, we’re gonna stomp the shit out of 'em from the opening whistle. This is their back yard, and it's a pivotal game for us. Awright, let's go down and have a good game and knock the snot out of 'em. Any questions?"
"NO, COACH!"
Above the concrete bleacher stands on the home-team side of Sweetwater's stadium is a modest press box. Mounted above the press box is an aging .wooden sign. It depicts an endless chain of autos riding into infinity. Flanking the cars are the legends "National City Mile of Cars... is RED DEVIL COUNTRY." Added below, for good measure, is another legend, offering the simple, hyperactive ejaculation, "RED DEVILS!"
The Devils and Colts each take half the field for pregame calisthenics. Stretching. Jumping jacks Pivots. Players call and respond across the field, everyone gradually turning up his own and his teammates’ internal amps. Eventually, a few taunts cross the invisible border between the two teams. The Red Devils look big and sound mean, their voices low and gruff compared to the Colts'. "Num-buh 56, you a cry-baby!" shouts someone from Sweetwater. Before anyone from Crawford can reply. Armstrong forbids it: "Let those pads do the talking."
Calisthenics finished, the team runs through drills The defensive line's chore is to drop flat, bounce up, and wiggle forward. Their coach is Dave Grissom, and his voice is right on top of them. "GET THROUGH GET THROUGH GET THROUGH! COME ON, HIT 'IM! HIT 'IM! I LOVE THIS PART!"
The offense runs a pass play. Vernon Shaver, Crawford's talented, heavily recruited wide receiver, glides along in a graceful stride, easily adjusting his gait to catch a ball thrown over his shoulder.
The Colts gather in the end zone just before the coin toss. Already, they are breathing heavily and wiping then brows on their jersey tails. Armstrong reviews the toss choices with the captains who will attend the coin toss, then has a few last admonitions for his Colts. "Remember these guys — we scrimmaged them last year — they’re cheap-shot artists. I don't wanna see you guys fightin' these guys. I will not tolerate it, it’s not joart of our program." The players nod compliantly. Fight? Us? Armstrong continues. "Were in their back yard. What does a dog do in your back yard?"
"SHIT!" yell the players. "Yeah.” a few voices add. "that's what we're gonna do, we're gonna shit in their back yard!"
"When a team comes out and does jumping jacks in my face," says Armstrong, "that pisses me off!"
"YEAH!"
"Awright. We’re gonna come out from the opemng gun and smash then face. If we hit 'em hard from the first drive, you just watch them hang their heads."
"YEAH!"
From here the playing field looks so wide, so long, and — worse — so flat, with nowhere to hide.
Crawford kicks off, and Sweetwater begins its first drive from its own 30-yard line. Two quick runs take the Red Devils to midfield. Then the earth opens under the Colts as a Sweetwater running back breaks free and romps into the end zone. Barely a minute has elapsed. The Crawford team and coaches are thunderstruck.
Redemption: The play is called back as Sweetwater is penalized for holding. The reprieve enlivens the entire Crawford sideline. Olivero screams, "PLAY THE FOOTBALL!” Grissom merely yells, "Loosen up! Loosen up!”
Sweetwater's offense stalls, gaining little. They punt and Crawford begins a long, grinding drive from its own 10-yard line. More than a dozen plays later — most of them head-down, ram-the-wall runs — Crawford is deep inside Sweetwater's territory. Colt running back Peter Ervin takes the ball at the 30 and is barely brought down by the last Sweetwater defender at the 7. He slams his fist into the ground. He gets up to try it again. This time he's tackled behind the line of scrimmage, and a Sweetwater player soars onto the pile after the whistle has blown, driving his helmet between Ervin’s shoulder blades. Ervin lies breathless.
The officials whistle the penalty, and flags fly, but Armstrong races to the pile-up and begins berating the officials. The umpire will have none of it. "You come out here and take care of your injured man," he tells Armstrong, "but don't bad-mouth the officials or I'm gonna tag you. That’s half the distance to the goal on them, but five yards on you.”
If Armstrong is called for unsportsmanlike conduct, it will cost his team more, at this position on the field, than Sweetwater's late-hit violation. But clearly the penalties are not the issue. Armstrong has prohibited his players from retaliating against cheap shots, but he must back that up by defending them himself And he, no less than his players, must assert his claim to the entire expanse of contested territory — physical and psychological .
Crawford now has the ball a yard and a half from the end zone. A running play nets nothing. Armstrong calls time out, sprints onto the field, and joins the huddle. When play resumes, Ervin roars over the line for a touchdown. The sparse Crawford crowd, studded with parents and teachers in blue Colts jackets, erupts A successful point-after kick makes it 7-0. The air is thick with adrenalin.
The rest of the first half proceeds sloppily and uneventfully Sweetwater nearly returns a kick for a touchdown. Its beefy fullback at first seems unstoppable, but the offense can't get any momentum going Shaver fumbles a punt, and Sweetwater recovers but cannot capitalize. Crawford recovers a fumble only to throw an interception. This is not precision football. But the air is thick with adrenalin.
Halftime. Both teams leave the field through a single gate On their way to the gym, a few opposing players exchange curses. The Crawford coaches hustle their team away.
What do coaches tell their teams at half-time? About what you'd expect As the players sprawl on the floor and benches for some rest, Armstrong hammers at them, "We gotta go out there and put together the same kinda drive we scored on! We gotta go up 14-0! We can't let them think they’re back in the game.
"We're not fooling anybody lining up," he continues, his voice softening for a moment. "Get your butts up! We gotta get off the ball! Come on, guys." his voice rising, "we said we gotta get better from week to week! On kickoff teams" — getting sterner — "we don't have 11 guys wanna fly downfield. We've got 4 or 5 guys flyin’, and 4 or 5 guys sayin', ‘I hope those guys in front of me make the tackle.' Lemme tell ya. that happens again, we're gonna make wholesale replacements!”
Olivero chimes in, "DO WE WANNA PLAY HARD-NOSE FOOTBALL?"
"YEAH!"
The players have a few minutes to relax. Most use it to keep hyping up themselves and each other. "Know what?" lineman-linebacker Jorge Brathwaite asks of no one in particular. “They (Sweetwater) told me the game ain't over yet — and it ain't over! We ain't scored yet! We gotta get fired up!"
"YEAH!"
Before they leave the locker room, Armstrong has one last admonition. "Awright, let's show some maturity out there — let’s ice somebody!"
"YEAH!"
The Colts do just what Armstrong wants. They score to open the second half, covering nearly 70 yards in a drive capped by a long pass to Shaver. Ervin bulls across again, from close in, for the touchdown. 14-0. Sweetwater fumbles on its next possession, and Crawford recovers; a few plays later and another obstinant run by Ervin and it's 21-0. The Crawford side of the field is happily riotous.
But the game’s physical toll is becoming evident. Legs are cramping up. Guys are "flyin' around" out there, but some are making crash landings. On one running play. Colt tailback Richie McClees is tackled at the sideline and spun backwards off his feet, his head slamming to the ground as he slides on his back. Mike Hwozdek, a short, quiet guy built like a brick wall, is looking for another helmet; his is broken.
Crawford pours it on. Sweetwater grows desperate and attempts a long sideline pass. Colt cornerback James Hester reads it perfectly, keeps himself between the ball and the intended receiver, then flings himself through the air and comes down with the interception. right in front of his jubilant teammates. He walks to the bench to catch his breath. "I saw it was overthrown, and he didn’t," he gasps.
Meanwhile Crawford is driving. Quarterback Chris Townsend scrambles and hits tight end Allah Hillie, one of Crawford’s few big players, with a pass Hillie turns into a long gain. In the space of three plays. Crawford has two touchdowns called back for penalties. The first time. Brathwaite is called for illegal motion. In the exultant atmosphere, it barely matters. "Jorge is trying to keep it even," Armstrong jokes. They settle for a field goal. 24-0.
The coaches are not interested in letting up.
"GET TO THE QUARTERBACK!" they yell at their defense. "YA GOTTA BE READY TO GO! SUCK IT UP!" It works: Crawford sacks the Sweetwater quarterback on three successive plays for losses totaling 30 yards. The Colts dominate the field. The game ends without further scoring.
The coaches are the last to board the bus. The team is ready to tear the roof off. Armstrong quiets them long enough to say, “On behalf of the coaching staff. I'd just like to thank you guys for one helluva effort." The players roar in self-congratulation. On the way back to Crawford, they hoot out the windows, slap each other, joke and holler and sing. Brathwaite stands in the aisle and swings a pom-pom he has gotten from somewhere. "Jorge is kind of our spiritual leader," says Armstrong. "Reverend Jorge?" he is asked. "Yeah — the Rev," he laughs, finally starting to fully enjoy himself. He turns and quiets the team once more. "Hey, Jorge, you got a new nickname: Reverend Jorge — The Rev!" Deafening cheers.
As the bus turns down the street leading into the parking lot behind the Crawford gym, a single player prompts his confederates with "One! Two! You know what to do!" With that, they burst into the school’s alma mater, the credo of all Crawford Colts, the undying pledge of fealty to all that is Crawfordian:
   All hail. Crawford High School
   Crimson, white and blue
   Loyalty and honor
   We will pledge to you — FOREVER!
   Our banners always waving
   Crowned with victory
   All hail. Crawford High School
   We will be true to thee
These guys sing it as if their lives depended on it.
Before the team files off the bus, Armstrong wants just one more moment with his players. "I just wanna say, go home, get some rest, enjoy your weekend, stay outta trouble, and Monday we go back to work."
"YEAH!"
Late October. Crawford has won its next three games, two by scores of 29-0 and 36-0. They have won five straight. Their defense has remained strong, and the offense has improved — in the parlance of the game, "gotten untracked.'" They now prepare for their homecoming game against St. Augustine High, to be played at Patrick Henry High.
The Crawford campus is clean and tidy and received a fresh coat of paint a couple of years ago, so its institutional plainness is mitigated somewhat by an undeniable cheeriness. Sandwich boards in pathways and courtyards and the senior quad are emblazoned with inspirational mottoes: Your Thoughts Today Become Your Tomorrow. Organize for Success. I Am a Success. I Deserve the Best.
Whether because of or in spite of these signs and other official entreaties, the student body files into the gym for the lunchtime pep rally. Much of the student body, anyway. Twenty years ago, Crawford had more than 3000 students, all but a handful from middle-class white families. Today, the school serves roughly 1500 students, about one-third of whom are Indochinese. There are about as many-black and almost as many white students, and a few Hispanic, South Pacific, and other minorities. Blacks and whites remain keen on football, but the Indochinese students evince little interest in the sport.
Still, the rally is well attended. But the program comes off as perfunctory. (Maybe the ritual is wearing thin.) Conducted essentially by cheerleaders and emceed by one whose words were not made more lucid by the PA. system, the rally is a short course in why and how to root for the home team. First, the assembly sings the alma mater, the words to which are painted on a large wooden sign high on the east wall. Many of the girls form a kind of V-for-victory salute with their right hands and slowly wave then: arms back and forth while singing. (This may help propagate the supernatural mystery of homecoming, for it too has no apparent meaning.) Next come a succession of cheerleader chants, formations, exercises, incantations. A cheerleader displays a handkerchief, or sock, urging all to wave same during the game. "Our goal is for everyone to have ’em so we can wave 'em and really impress whoever we're playing."
Finally, the rally climaxes with the introduction of the homecoming court — the underclass representatives and the senior couples who are candidates for homecoming queen and king. These students are preceded by two faculty couples, who take the floor arm-in-arm to raucous hoots and cheers, the mock sexuality of their momentary companionship apparently too much for the easily aroused audience. The couples all enter through a makeshift portal, festooned with sequins and the legend "Crawford Colts." The seniors rotate to different parts of the floor so all can get a good look at them. Of the four eligible couples, three of the boys are on the football team. The only one who isn't seems to have his own booster club. From high in the bleachers comes a strident cheer as several girls unfurl a banner saying simply "Jeremy/King." The 500 or more students in attendance take all this seriously, dutifully filling out ballots and depositing them in sanctioned receptacles on their way out. Within a couple of minutes the gym is empty, the student body presumably pepped to the max.
In the team room, before boarding the bus. Armstrong is revving everyone's engine. "They’re popping off," he says about St. Augustine, "but if ten guys hit 'em on the first play, they’ll stop popping off. They won’t set the pace, we will. It’s our homecoming."
"YEAH!"
In the locker room at Henry, the players finish suiting up. The mood is quiet but nonchalant. A trio of Colts eyes with scorn the posted school records for Henry’s baseball teams. "Most home runs — 7?" A smirk. "We killed all those records."
Allah Hillie is fussing with a helmet. "Had to get a new one." he deadpans. Did his get cracked? "Naw, I do the hitting." The team is loose.
In the end zone before the coin toss. Armstrong inverts the alien-canine metaphor. "We re in our own back yard. Nobody shits in our back yard!"
"THAT'S RIGHT!"
"Awright guys, let's go out there and represent your school real well and have some fun. Let's do it all on the field, fellas." And they trot off toward another shutout.
Only this time the Colts are too loose Within the first few minutes, it becomes clear that Crawford's game is in disarray. The players seem listless, on the field and on the sideline. St. Augustine’s game consists almost entirely of sending an ox-like running back (with the lawyerly name of Hunter Buckner) up the middle or around the end with the ball firmly in his grasp. Crawford is unable to contain him. It takes until the start of the second quarter for the Saints to score — their band plays "When the Saints Go Marching In" — and the wonder is why they haven't scored several times by then. Crawford is making mistakes big and small. A long pass down the sideline, intended for Vernon Shaver, is overthrown, one of many errant passes that night by Chris Townsend. Shaver and the defender collide, but nothing comes of it. When the offense comes off the field, Olivero educates him: "You gotta hit the ground, Vernon! You tnp and it's interference; you keep runnin’, the officials don't see nothin'!"
Midway through the second quarter, Armstrong is yelling at Olivero. No one seems to know why, and everyone is unnerved — unnerved at the sight of it. at the shellacking being administered to them, at the prospect of being whupped at Our Homecoming. The five straight wins and four shutouts are a vapor, a phantom. The only thing that seems real is the sight of Buckner’s meaty calves plodding through the Crawford defensive line, slowly but inexorably.
At halftime the score is still only 7-0, but looming larger is the question of what the coach can do to rally his team in the face of impending disaster. Anderson throws the score in their faces. "You guys are real good at makin' a show of how fired up you are," Armstrong begins, "and goin' out and playin' like dogshit. We should be genin' beat 21-0!
"We got a guy more concerned about his tuxedo and homecoming than he is about playin’ football! Mission Bay beat this team 29-6! It's gona get down and dirty, son!" He admonishes particular players, picks apart elements of the game plan that are not being executed, again threatens wholesale replacements in the lineup if improvement isn't quickly shown. Last, he puts the team on notice to cede bragging rights to the Saints, who. he says, have earned them for the moment. "We're gonna go out there and keep our mouths shut and take our medicine like men, and then, at the end of the game, we'll see."
But the view will not improve. Crawford seems unable to do anything right. St. Augustine's slower but bigger lineup has them stymied. Midway through the fourth quarter, the Saints take over on Crawford’s 35-yard line and throw a touchdown pass on the first play. The St. Augustine fans are the ones waving hankies. On the Crawford sideline, players offer up plaintive cries to their cohorts. "Get the ball, defense!" "Hey! Pump it up out here!" But there is no pumping up, and hope drains from the Crawford throng as the last minutes tick off the scoreboard. Several late Colt injuries show how lopsided the game is, despite the meager 14-0 final score. Vernon Shaver is tackled in midair on an incomplete pass play and is a long time getting up; when he finally does rise, he leaves the field slowly, clutching his shoulder. Peter Ervin limps off the field with a painful ankle, removes his shoe and sock, and sits grimacing on the bench. Chris Townsend, who has taken a terrible pounding tonight and braved a series of injuries throughout the season, sustains a concussion, his third to date, in the waning moments His doctor will later refuse to permit him to play again this year. Mercifully, time finally expires.
The mood on the bus... imagine a charter carrying souls to hell. A fight breaks out between two teammates, flares, and dies. The parking lot is jammed; the team may be trapped here in its misery forever. Weeks go by. Crowds mill about and stare at the traffic. Coaches eventually board. Armstrong gravely apologizes for his poor coaching, then blasts anyone who wants to blame a teammate. "We all got beat." he says, and that's that. Quiet prevails.
Halfway home, the mood still somber, Armstrong gets up and addresses the team again. "Hey, there's something I wanna say, and I want you to hear it from me. I did something tonight that was totally inexcusable, and I want to apologize in front of all of you to Coach Olivero for it. I don't want you guys blamin' anybody else, and I shouldn't either. I was just outcoached out there, and I had no right to take it out on Coach Olivero. So Coach, I'm sorry, and it won't happen again." Olivero gives him a brotherly jab. Hey. Coach. I'd already forgotten about it.
The street leading up to the gym is blocked off due to the homecoming dance, and the driver is instructed to park in the alley out by the baseball field. Heading down the alley, someone offers a morbid "One. Two. You. Know. What. Tb. Do." And the team responds with a dirgelike rendition of the alma mater. If their earlier version was jubilant and the students' version at the pep rally was merely rote, this one is positively funereal.
Armstrong is first off the bus, and the team follows him silently the 100 yards or so up to the gym Turning a corner and ascending a few steps right at the gym, the coach and the first few following behind him pass an apparently inconsequential scuffle involving three or four high-school-age boys. A growing crowd is milling in the parking lot just beyond. As more coaches and players pass by, the scuffle suddenly dissolves — or rather, all but one of the boys suddenly vanish. The last fellow is on his back and staggers to his feet. He emits a moan that may be an attempt at speech. His eyes look toward the unaware players passing by but settle on none of them. He cannot stand steadily. There is blood.
As Armstrong reaches the door, a few school staff members appear — a vice principal, other coaches, the head of campus security — agitated, alert. Someone says there was gang-related violence at the game... some arrests ... a stabbing... this scuffle a few feet away seems also to be gang-related ... apparently only the fellow staggering is a Crawford student, his attackers gang members...
The players are hustled into the gym, although several want to get into it. The combination of a humiliating loss and an ugly skirmish (victimizing, it is suggested, a friend of some players), right in their own back yard, is more than some can bear. But the adults are commanding, and the entire team is soon safely inside the gym.
The injured boy is carried into the coaches’ office. The police are called. A coach who has been at Crawford some 30 years allows as how "I was popped one, but I'm okay."
The vice principal is bleeding on the cheek, blood dripping in a neat line down to his jaw, but he protests that he is okay. He will later take eight stitches in his cheek. The boy is lying on a desk. His broken nose is bleeding into his throat, making his breathing difficult. Someone is tending to him, calming him. He wants to get up and leave, but a friend who has come by urges him to "lounge, man. lounge."
A dozen, two dozen people are streaming in and out of the office. A few girls, who might have been hustled inside for then: protection, sit in the men's locker room, slightly embarrassed. Outside in the parking lot and in the street beyond. 100 or more young people hang around waiting — some for the dance, some for more dangerous fun. The police arrive. A white girl and a black girl embrace just outside the coaches' office and are consumed in tears.
The vice principal and the security chief confer; the chief adamantly declares the dance canceled. They will need more police to make the decision stick. More patrol cars arrive, and an ambulance. Slowly, the parking lot empties as a crowd of seniors, some dressed casually, others more elegantly, begins to realize they will not have their homecoming dance. The band hired for the dance must now reload the equipment they had just finished unloading. The police secure the area and gradually disperse the crowd without further incident.
Mid-November. The Colts have rebounded from their loss to St. Augustine with twin 28-0 wins, against San Diego High and Christian High. They finish their regular season with an 8-2 record, 4-1 in their league, the City Central League. Tied with archrival Lincoln for best record in the league, they have captured the title on the strength of having beaten Lincoln in their October 14 game. Crawford thus enters the countywide playoffs seeded fourth out of 16 teams in the 2A division (comprising schools with medium-sized enrollments). Their first-round opponent in the single-elimination tournament is Ramona High. Whether from the clear mountain air or the fresh apples, the Ramona players have a staggering size advantage over Crawford: The offensive line averages six feet four and 240 pounds to the Crawford defensive line’s five feet eight and 140 or so pounds "But I'll tell you what." asserts Armstrong, "these street kids, they're not intimidated by a big person in a football uniform. That's not the scariest thing they've seen. They're not afraid to go smash face into that." Once again the Colts promise to fly around and have fun out there. How much and whose butt gets knocked where ... that will depend on who is more fired up.
Compounding the task for the Colts is a curious psychodrama. Vernon Shaver has inspired doubt in him among his teammates and, in the process, come close to frittering away a golden chance at a first-class education and a career in the pros. The week following the loss to St. Augustine, Shaver abruptly quit the team under mysterious circumstances. A few days later, he came to Armstrong asking to be reinstated. It's not up to me, the coach told him; it’s up to the team. If they vote you in, you're in, if not, you're out. The team voted to take him back, on one condition: that he do 400 yards of belly-busters each day of practice. This grueling regimen calls for the victim to sprint 100 yards one way and then back, with the added feature that at any moment, at the sound of a coach’s whistle he must immediately flop to his belly, push himself back up quickly, and continue his all-out sprint Shaver did his daily belly-busters without complaint and went on to score a 56-yard touchdown in the last regular game After another absence from practice, this one excused, Shaver has shown dedication at daily workouts and appears committed to his team and his future.
Sometimes motivation is a slippery thing. Armstrong calls Shaver the most talented athlete he has ever coached. But anyone in the game can tell you that talent alone does not produce greatness. Shaver has the kind of athletic ability that could lead Crawford to a championship, if he finds the desire. If he waltzes away from his team, no major college in the country will have him. But that, as they say, is what makes a ball game. For every tale of unmaximized potential, Armstrong will tell you of a tough kid, this close to ruination, who found not just a meal ticket but salvation in football — like the Crawford graduate who now starts for San Jose State and who recently visited him to say, "If it weren't for you, I'd be dead by now.”
Finally, one sees it’s not just the love of sport, the delight m seeing a body hurtle through space and not only accomplish but repeat the impossible, that keeps Dan Armstrong motivated. Through endless sweaty practices. Through budget cutbacks. Despite working without a full-time teaching contract. In the face of crowd violence, which has again forced officials to reschedule games to afternoons, and gang warfare erupting mere inches from his office door. Dan Armstrong keeps at it and hopes to spend his life at it because, in a culture all but stripped of a sound means of ritually initiating boys into manhood, of welcoming them into the tribe, of endowing them with the powers and responsibilities of being a man, he has found a way. Not the best way nor the only way, but one way to turn aimless youths from self-destruction. He does it because it is a good way to bleed off excess testosterone at less risk to bystanders than, say, a war. He does it because "it gives me a chance to compete when my eligibility's gone," but more than that, he does it for the same reason his students and colleagues and everyone who's ever thrown or caught a ball or gotten up from a blinding tackle half-dinged, with snot running out his nose does it: because of the longing to be brave and strong and true: because he's a man. *Reposted article from the SD Reader by Phil Catalfo of November 22, 1989
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akedocitydespair · 7 years
Text
AI Protocol | ATTN: Hoshi
There was some type of fear in Masae’s eyes as she forced herself to look directly at Hoshi. She raised her hands, and signed as slowly as she could. She knew he could understand the pain behind her words as she laid her thoughts out.
☞ Hoshi-san…. are you… really going to go?
A pause. Masae eyes squinted slightly, a pained look flashing past her features for a moment as she put her mouth in a straight line- the same type of face Hoshi would make, all those times he tried so hard to hide his thoughts and feelings from her.
☞ Are you really… you’re going to… leave me... again...?
She shook her head. Tears were starting to form in her eyes. Her hands were getting shakier but she had more to say.
☞ Hoshi-san… there’s nothing there for you outside. You and I both know that. I can’t see my family anymore… it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair... that you’re going to leave me here all alone... when you have nowhere to go anyway! That’s…. That’s just not fair!!! You didn't… you didn't even want to listen to my last words, in my letter, you wanted to give up… I saw you, I saw you, Hoshi-san, at the fountain, how dare you forget about me so easily… and just throw my words out because you were too… l-lazy to try anymore….
Masae blinked, a few tears quickly rolling down her cheeks. She didn’t even try to wipe them away.
☞ You said you could get us all out! You said you were trying!! And all you did instead was let me get killed and you got hurt in the process! You didn't do anything for me then! Why, Hoshi-san?? That was what you asked when you found out Terauchi-san did it, right?? Well why didn't you save me? Why couldn't you help me? Don't you remember?? Don't you remember th-that… I didn't want to die… Why did I die?
She was getting so angry that she ended up pushing out more tears. Her breathing was heavy, and her glare was dead-set on her friend. Masae moved her hand close to her face for a second, but opted out of wiping away her tears. She needed to make him see how hurt she was by his selfishness.
☞ I don’t want you… to be alone out there. I’m your last friend… you're my last best friend that I can be with… I miss everyone so much… it'll be so so lonely here… you know what loneliness is like better than anyone... please don't do that to me. Don't leave me alone…
A few breaths. She needed to stay calm. Otherwise, he wouldn't understand exactly how hurt she was. How desperate she was to get him to stay.
☞ if you stay here, we can keep being friends… if you leave… you’ll only forget about me… I can’t… I c-can’t…
Her hands trembled as she tried to get the words out that no one else could understand. She was fully crying now, her throat becoming dry and face red with embarrassment. Turning away to hide her face behind her bandaged arm, she tried to wipe away the tears and finish her pleas. When she turned back towards him, she stepped forward, her eyes brimming with tears and so much hope lost in her face. The same look she’d give him when she asked him to let everything out, to tell her what was wrong, to talk to her, to trust her…
☞ I can’t be forgotten… I’m so scared, Hoshi-san… I can’t be here alone… I don’t want to be alone, Hoshi-san… please stay… please stay… I am here. I want… you to be here too…
She tried to clear her throat as she stared at him, tears rolling down her cheeks as she tried to wipe them dry with the back of her hands.  She then paused, reached out her arms a bit towards him, as if she was about to hug him. But it was almost as if she felt she wasn’t allowed to. Balling her hands into broken fists, they fell to her sides, defeated, tired. Masae cleared her throat and looked him dead in the eyes again. Her voice was coarse and quiet, but it was clear that her message was genuine.
“P-Please stay…”
...
“You wanted to die before you got here crab-san. You would hurt yourself before anyone else got hurt. But I died instead huh? You don’t owe me anything. But I’d trade places in a minute if it means I got to stay here. You're ungrateful for surviving this long…I don’t get the choice anymore. So you should at least make the right one and stay.”
...
Ryohei reached out to Hoshi, a brilliant smile on his face, looking as confident as ever as he held his hands out, palms up.
“Hoshi-san! Masae-san and I miss you so much! Won’t you stay and have tea with us? I promise I won’t spill any on your sketchbook! We can get started on that game! I have lots of ideas, and I need you to draw the concepts!”
He sniffled, wiping his tears with the heel of his palm, although his grin remained, gazing pleadingly at Hoshi.
“A-And-! If you go I-I’ll miss you! We all will! Me and Masae-san and Milky-chan and Gorou-san-!! So stay! Please!”
...
The image of Miliko flickered on the screen, her blank expression ever present. She placed her hand against the screen, giving a wan smile. "Hey... Hoshi! Are you really gonna leave...?" She seemed crestfallen. "I just figured that you'd... Want to stay. I'm not really useful anymore without a body, but I can still talk to you!"
She puffed up a little, giving a smile with a pinch of confidence. "I-It'll be stickbug and bear cub! We can talk about coffee and soda and stuff...?" Her voice wavering, the barista sunk to her knees. Tears began to stream down her cheeks.
"Hoshi... Please don't leave me alone... Have I made you mad somehow? D-Do... Do you hate me...?"
...
“Long time, no see, Think-tank-chan~.”
The honeyed tone rang cold as the echo carried it through to the artist. Sweet off the tongue, the words pang as they bounced off hollow steel plating. Words that were once welcoming.
With the quiet steps of flats approaching, the noise echoed from all directions, clouded by the speakers overhead the the reverb of the steel. The unsettling approach of someone that did not make noise when walking; theatrics for a very special someone deserving of such a show.
Materializing as if just stepping into view, the glimmering figure of the technician smirked as he came face to face with the final member of his class. Crimson eyes, slanted as they looked Hoshi up and down in contemplation; silence following action a quiet reminder of the deceptive interactions of the technician.
with a static chuckle and a widening grin, Ikumoto brought a hand to his chin as he looked upon the other with rehearsed amusement. The mild chuckles fell to scoffs behind closed lips as the technician found words. Slowly at first, riddled with static, until they picked up at a pace  as honeyed as the real Ikumoto.
“Bravo, Murukami-chan. You’ve improved, in all aspects of the word. It’s a shame though that it cost me my life for you to reach your potential. I’m really proud of how far you’ve come~.”
Arms now behind his back, the technician circled around Hoshi in steps, dancing around the artist as his words twitched between soured praise and regretful belittling, it was indistinguishable with whatever intentions they held.
“Seeing you up there, fighting for everyone and striving to move forward even despite wanting to give up… Todoroki-san would be praising you on your diligence. You reminded me, Hoshi, why you’re my hero~. Noble to the end, finally accomplishing our goals, our *dreams*, and now the sole proprietor of our grandiose city. Hmhm, does it feel good~? To finally get all the credit, now?”
With a pause in his chuckle, the technician hopped before Hoshi, simulating a boop on the artist’s nose. With a wide smirk and squinted eyes, the technician held an expression swaying between playful amusement in the situation and seething resentment.
“Of course, you *are* the last survivor of our class now, after all, making you responsible for the transgressions under here. Oh, of course, you designed the city as well, Hoshi~. Just think; what marvelous events may your creations be responsible for next? The next renaissance, I pressume.”
“If you really don’t want to design another encampment that will eventually be utilized In another atrocity, you don’t have to. What was that thing you said earlier, again~? ‘You couldn’t die until this ended’ or something? Well, what’re you gonna do now? It’s over, and your reason for staying alive is finished. Think designing an even greater atrocity is in your repertoire?”
Closing the distance between them, the technician stood on his toes. The generated breathes of the boy hummed against Hoshi’s ear, and the words softly trickled. Ikumoto’s whispers caressed the artist, comforting in their familiarity and sharp in their meanings.
“…hey, did I ever mean anything to you? Or did were you able to get over it by running away, like you always do? Like you’re doing now, abandoning us…”
with the silent forms lingering In the background, the slow materializations of more and more students came into view. Stares; some hollow, some burdensome, and some drooped with remorse for the artist, all came to face Hoshi. The sins of his transgressions watched on as the last survivor of the 81st planned his final betrayal.
“Hey, hey, Hoshi, it’s alright, it’s okay~.”
A gentle arm extending from the wavering body of the artist, ready to crumple, a response so modestly unwarranted cut through the heavy mood that seemed to weigh down on Hoshi.
Stepping again before the artist, a warmer expression painted the technicians face. Softened, deep red gazed upon Hoshi, a sympathetic smirk, as crooked and sincere as one could ever find in a friend, greeted the artist. A sight familiar, perhaps now only to Hoshi, stood awkward and unconfident, shushing the artist back into submission with soft words and even softer mannerisms.
“No, no, it’s fine, Hoshi, please~, it’s alright now. You don’t have to keep going for anyone’s sake.”
Knitted brows and a wistful smile accompanied Ikumoto’s sigh, drawn out and exasperated as a playful gesture. Choked chuckles between a snort and a grin layered themselves throughout the technician’s silver tongue.
“Look at you now, Murukami-san, look how strong you’ve become, for everyone’s sake~. I’m glad… that I got to be friends with someone like you. You’ve really done some impossibly wonderful things, but now… it’s okay now. I remember, how tired you felt back then, and even now, everyone makes you keep going. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you then, I really am. And you still feel you need to keep going, to keep struggling, and it’s okay…”
With another choked chuckle, artifacts of a strain sung in the melodies of Ikumoto’s peaceful reassurance.
“It’s okay, Hoshi, you can rest now. You’ve done everything asked of you, striving past everyone’s expectations. You’ve succeeded, Hoshi. You don’t have to worry about anything else anymore…”
Inching closer to the artist, the technician reached out for the artist’s hand. With gentle hesitation, Ikumoto stopped, hovering his fingers just over his friends, before quietly clasping them to his chest.
“I’ll be here for you now, Hoshi, I promise~. You'll always be enough for me, no matter what. Just this once, please, don’t run from me…”
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yatokamiii · 7 years
Text
Forever with you
Chuuya sat at the table twirling his half-full glass of wine. He sighed and rested his chin on his hand. He was so deep in thought that he almost missed the sound of the door opening, followed by a familiar voice.
“I’m home Chuuya.” Dazai greeted as he hung his tan coat on the hook next to the door.
“Hey Dazai, how was work?” Chuuya replied, a bit of a solemn tone still in his voice.
“Eh Kunikida had me doing paperwork forever, I was afraid I was gonna die from boredom~”
“You’d finally be dead, haven’t you been craving death for years?” Chuuya stated and stood up, walking to the kitchen.
“I’d like a peaceful suicide, Chuuya, that’s different than death coming to me.”
“Whatever. I had dinner ready but it was gonna spoil so I made you a plate and put it in the fridge. I’m gonna go take a shower.” Chuuya rubbed his forehead as he walked towards the staircase. He was suddenly stopped when he felt his wrist being tugged.
“Hey Chuuya-” Dazai called out as Chuuya began walking up the stairs. Chuuya stopped and turned around to look at Dazai. “Are you okay? Is something bothering you?”
“It’s nothing, I’m just pretty tired. Work is burning all of me energy. I feel like I have no time to relax anymore.” Chuuya lied.
“Aw my poor little Chuuya~” Dazai gave him a small, warm smile. “Go take a nice hot shower. I’ll be up for bed after I eat.” Chuuya nodded and walked up the rest of the stairs.
-
As soon as the bathroom door was closed and locked, Chuuya stepped in front of the mirror. He lightly touched the dark circles under his eyes and sighed. Stripping himself of his many layers, he prepared the shower to an almost scalding heat that any sane person wouldn’t dare go near.
Letting the water rain down on him, he dove back into his thoughts.
‘I can’t possibly know what he wants. What if he doesn’t want more out of our relationship? We already live together, maybe that’s where he draws the line. Oh god what if he’s cheating on me. Maybe all those late nights at work are cover up stories for cheating and that’s why he doesn’t want anything else. Oh god I-’
His thoughts abruptly ended when he heard a knock at the door. “Chuuya are you okay? You’ve been in there a while, you’re gonna overheat.”
“Uh y-yeah I’ll be out in a second.” Chuuya stuttered as he shut the shower off, stepped out, and dried himself with the towel sitting folded next to the sink. He walked past the fogged up mirror and stepped out of the bathroom and into their shared bedroom. Dazai was on the other side of the room unwrapping the copious amounts of bandages around his arms.
“Chuuya are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t finish your wine and you took a long shower. You only do that when you’ve got something really weighing on your mind.” Dazai looked at his petite boyfriend.
“I think I just need to take a few days off from work.” Chuuya lied once more as he slipped into his pajamas and climbed into their bed. “I’m gonna talk to Mori tomorrow.”
“You’re sure that’s all?”
“Yes, I promise. Good night Dazai.”
“Remember you can always come to me if you have any problems. Goodnight Chuuya, I love you.” Dazai leaned down and kissed the wet, soft red hair. Chuuya smiled a little bit.
“I love you too.”
~~
“Come in.” Mori’s voice sounded through the wood doors. Chuuya stepped inside and closed the door softly behind him. “Ah Chuuya, what can I do for you?” Mori folded his hands on his desk and leaned his weight onto his elbows.
“Mori you know I hate doing this, but I think I need a few days off.” Chuuya asked as he stood straight with his hands behind his back.
“Oh that’s not a problem, Chuuya. You do a lot for this organization, I think you deserve a few days to yourself. Plus we can’t have you screwing up any important work due to exhaustion or distractions.” Mori smiled a bit. “How many days would you like to take?”
“I think three would be best.” Chuuya replied.
“You can have four. Finish your assignments today and then your time off begins.” Mori explained before picking up the paperwork on his desk.
“Thank you, Mori.” Chuuya bowed slightly as he turned and walked out of the large office. Once the door closed behind him, he sighed and made his way to the elevator.
~~
“Dazai, I’m home. Are you here?” Chuuya called out as he hung his hat and coat next to the door. He noticed the familiar brown coat hanging on the hook. “Hey, shitty bastard, where are you hiding?”
“I’m in here Chuuya~” Dazai called from another room. Chuuya followed the voice and found himself in the kitchen. He stood in the opening to see Dazai covered in flour and sugar. “I wanted to help you feel better so I made you some cookies.” Dazai smiled. Chuuya chuckled lightly.
“Dazai, you’re a mess. Did any of the ingredients even make it into the mixing bowl?” Chuuya joked as he stepped closer to see the soft cookies on the tray. He couldn’t help but notice that the cookies looked delicious.
“Surprisingly yes, and they’re you’re favorite.” Dazai swiped a bit of the flour on his clothes onto his finger and tapped Chuuya’s nose, leaving a tiny dot of white powder. Chuuya frantically wiped it away before grabbing a cookie and taking a bite. They we’re still warm, and baked perfectly to where they were that perfect soft and chewyness.
“These are perfect Dazai,” Chuuya smiled and gave his boyfriend a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.” Dazai smiled to Chuuya as he wiped his hands on a towel.
“Did you talk to Mori about that time off?”
“Oh yeah, he gave me the next four days off. I only asked for three but he gave me four.” Chuuya shrugged. “I’m thinking I’ll just spend some time here at the house and probably visit Kouyou.”
“Alright well take care of yourself okay? I’ve gotta work the next two days but I don’t think I have any more late nights. So how about a date night one of these nights?” Chuuya smiled a bit.
“I’d like that.” He replied.
“I’ll let you know about plans.” Dazai smiled and stepped towards the staircase. “Alright I’m gonna go shower and clean myself up a little. I think flour got under my bandages somehow~”
“Only an idiot like you could manage that.” Chuuya chuckled a bit as Dazai walked away from his, leaving Chuuya alone with the warm cookies.
~~
“Thanks for meeting with me nee-san. This has been eating at me for a while and I don’t know what to do anymore.” Chuuya said in a quiet tone as he held the warm mug with fresh tea inside.
“Of course Chuuya,” Kouyou answered as she sat in the seat across from the redhead and placed her own mug in front of her. “What’s on your mind?” Chuuya sighed.
“I-I’m afraid that Dazai doesn’t want any bigger commitment out of our relationship.” He stuttered as he looked down at his reflection in the tea.
“As in marriage?”
“Well yeah. We already live together, we have for about 3 years now and we’ve been a couple for 5 years. I’m afraid that he’s falling out of love with me. And all these late work nights that he does, what if he’s cheating on me?” Chuuya ranted as he looked into Kouyou’s eyes, his own slightly glassing up.
“Chuuya, darling, I’ve seen how you and Dazai are with each other. If that boy somehow fell out of love with you, then whoever captured him has to be some kind of god.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better.”
“What I’m saying is, I think your worries are nothing to pay attention to. Yes Dazai can be an idiot sometimes but I don’t think he’s dumb enough to let you slip through his fingers.” She placed a supporting hand on Chuuya’s forearm. “Don’t worry about this, okay?”
“I’ll try not to. Thank you, Nee-san.” Chuuya smiled.
“Of course darling anytime.” She gave the redhead a soft and supportive smile.
~~
Chuuya sat in the dark mahogany arm chair, reading one of his favorite books and clutching a glass of wine. He felt all his worries fade away as his shoulders relaxed. As he turned the page, his attention was diverted to the sound of the front door opening.
“Hey Dazai.” Chuuya greeted as he looked back down to his book and took a sip of wine. The brunet moved wordlessly over to the redhead before giving him a quick kiss on the top of his head. “Dazai what was that for?” Chuuya questioned with a smile tugging at his lips.
“I missed you today.” Dazai replied as he fumbled with something in his pockets. Chuuya’s eyes diverted to his hands.
“What are you doing? What’s in your pocket?”
“Nothing.” Dazai lied with a flat face that would’ve been impossible to read if Chuuya hadn’t known Dazai for most of his life.
“Don’t lie to me you never put your hands in your pants pockets.” Chuuya crossed him arms and raised an eyebrow. “So what’s in your pockets?” Dazai sighed.
“Chuuya there’s nothing in my pockets, I promise.” Dazai smiled and raised his empty hands. “I just came by to get something Kunikida wanted me to fill out. I’ll be off work at 7, meet me at the fountain in the park?” Chuuya sighed.
“Sure.” Chuuya sat back down in his chair and resumed what he was doing prior to the conversation. “See you later.”
“Bye Chuuya~!” Dazai’s bubbly voice sang before the door closed behind him.
~~
Chuuya sighed as he grabbed a coat from the closet. It was a hip length black coat with a wool interior that was gifted to him by Dazai since he didn’t have any warm coats, that weren’t ankle length, for the winter. He grabbed his hat and began walking down the stairs to the front door. He grabbed his hat with a slight smile before locking up the house and beginning the walk to the park.
Chuuya took the walk as a time to think about why the hell Dazai wanted to meet him in the park. The fresh air was incredibly relaxing, and before he even realized it, he arrived at the empty park and found Dazai sitting on the edge of the fountain. The same exact spot where they went on their first date. The stunning brown orbs looked in Chuuya’s direction before widening with excitement. Chuuya couldn’t help but smile slightly at his boyfriend’s enthusiasm.
“Well hello my little redhead.” Dazai stood in front of Chuuya and smiled down at the other.
“What’s all this about Dazai? We haven’t been to this park in years.”
“Do you remember our first date Chuuya?” Dazai asked as he rested his hands on Chuuya’s hips. Chuuya responded by wrapping his arms around Dazai’s neck.  
“Of course. We were sitting right in front of that statue. We sat there for hours just eating little foods that we picked up along the street. And finally, after we finished our food, you leaned over and kissed me.” Chuuya reminisced happily. “That was such an amazing night.”
“Yeah it really was. It was the night I realized that I was in love with you.” Dazai took a deep breath. “Chuuya, I brought you to this park because I wanted to do something, and I’ve wanted to do this for a while. You are the love of my life and I wake up everyday being so thankful that I have you in my life. And I want to keep it that way.” Dazai released his hold on Chuuya to reach into his coat pocket. Realization of  what’s happening began to hit Chuuya.
“Dazai-” was all Chuuya could manage. He covered his mouth with his hand and released a small sob. He watched every single one of Dazai’s movements as he dropped his hands from Chuuya’s hips and reached into his pocket. Dazai took a small breath before getting down on one knee.
“Chuuya, will you marry me?” Dazai opened the small velvet box to reveal a simple silver band with small, flat, circular jewels going all the way around. Chuuya stood at a loss for a few seconds before nodded quickly. Dazai’s smile grew to reach his ears as he slipped the ring onto Chuuya’s finger before embracing the little redhead. Chuuya wrapped his arms around Dazai’s neck and buried his face into the crook of Dazai’s neck.
Chuuya pulled his face away from Dazai’s neck and looked up into his eyes. Chuuya smiled slightly as the space between them closed slowly, until it was completely gone and their lips were locked. It was a slow kiss but it was filled with emotion. Love, passion, happiness, Chuuya could feel it all. But most of all, he could feel his own smile glued to his lips.
And he could feel Dazai’s too.
~~~~
Fluff to make up for the angst I’ve been posting
I have another fluff fic that just needs editing and another fluff in the works!
Leave fanfic ]s that you wanna see me write in my messages, ask box, or submission box!
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sunbrights · 7 years
Text
fic: by the claw of dragon (5/7)
fandom: danganronpa characters/pairings: natsumi kuzuryuu, fuyuhiko kuzuryuu, peko pekoyama + 77th class ensemble, et al. kuzupeko. character tags will be updated on AO3 with plot-relevant characters as chapters are posted. rating: m summary: The Kuzuryuu Clan stands on the precipice of the greatest era of its history. Kuzuryuu Natsumi promises to be the strongest leader the clan has ever seen, the Overlord of the South born again. That Hopes’s Peak Academy would select her for it’s 77th class was assumed, not hoped for.
To the younger Kuzuryuu son, everything is as it’s meant to be.
Sonia knows.
Natsumi doesn’t know how, but it doesn’t matter. Probably she found out the same way Natsumi did: with good information and better sway with people equipped to act on it. Just because Natsumi’s exam wasn’t publicized doesn’t mean it was private, and there’s a small, unassuming girl in the now-senior class whose talent is the Ultimate Hacker. If it didn’t happen now, it would have eventually.
Knowing that doesn’t stop the restless churn of her stomach when she turns the corner and finds Sonia waiting for her out in the hall before morning homeroom, though. Her back is straight and her hands are folded in front of her; Natsumi recognizes the princess in her, all ice and etiquette, the same face she’d been so quick to shed before.
“Kuzuryuu-san.” Sonia doesn’t bow to greet her, not even the polite, shallow one she greets everyone with. “If you have time after class, I would like it if we could speak in private.”
There are eyes on the side of her face; Saionji openly snickers behind her hand when she and Koizumi brush past them into the classroom. Peko steps up behind her left shoulder, a looming presence made of as much cold steel as Sonia’s, but Sonia’s gaze refuses to break.
“Sure,” Natsumi says. “Whatever.” She lets her shoulder brush Sonia’s when she strolls past her into the classroom. “Not for too long, though, okay? I’m a busy woman, you know.”
“There is no need to worry,” Sonia says from behind her. “I do not anticipate to take up too much of your time.”
It’s a new room, but everyone has gravitated toward the same old configuration; the two seats up at the front where she and Sonia used to sit together are empty, just the same.
She takes her same seat, front and center. Peko slides into the desk behind her. It leaves two remaining empty desks in the classroom: Sonia’s normal one up at the front, and a second in the back next to Mitarai.
If Sonia hesitates, or even takes a second to consider her options, Natsumi doesn’t see it. She gathers her books against her chest and walks straight past her old desk to the back of the room. “Good morning, Mitarai-san,” Natsumi hears her say, with every bit of her usual morning chipperness. “Is this seat taken?”
The classroom is quiet. Saionji cranes her head from the seat on Natsumi’s other side to try and catch her eye. Mitarai stutters. “Uh, no. No, you can sit if you want.”
“Excellent!”
Natsumi keeps her eyes forward. She doesn’t realize she isn’t blinking until her eyes start to burn.
When class is over, no one lingers. Usually a handful of them will stay and blabber on until they’re nearly late for their next period, but today even Koizumi and her entourage slip out right at the bell. Yukizome makes an excuse about needing to drop by the office. Peko is the final one to leave, after Natsumi lifts one hand over her shoulder and waves her off.
Natsumi thinks about the empty gymnasium, yawning and oppressive.
Sonia waits until the door is all the way shut before she gets up. She moves back up to her old desk, and sits like she’s preparing for another class, hands folded on the desktop. She won’t look at Natsumi. She keeps her eyes trained on the smeared-but-empty blackboard.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Kuzuryuu-san,” she says. “My hope is that this can be productive for us both.”
Natsumi yawns. She has to force it. “Whatever,” she says, making sure to start the word before her yawn is all the way finished. “Just say what you came here to say. But can you at least be creative with your threats? All the standard ones get old fast, you know?”
Sonia’s mouth compresses into a thin line. “It is not that. I have no desire for retaliation against you or your clan. I have already resolved not to inform the rest of the Novoselic royal family of this incident.”
Natsumi catches herself playing with her pencil. She curls her fingers into a fist to get herself to stop; her father’s always said that her fidgeting was a tell. She weighs her words. “If you’re expecting me to say thank you for that,” she decides on, “you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“I would never expect that from you, Kuzuryuu-san.” Natsumi didn’t know Sonia had the capacity to be sardonic. “I only wish to understand. It took a significant amount of resources for you to acquire such… information in the first place, yes?”
“So?”
“So, I can only imagine you spent those resources in order to grant an advantage to yourself in our negotiations. There was an opportunity for you to do so.” Sonia looks over at her for the first time since that morning in the hall, but it’s only a flicker. It can’t have been intentional. “Why did you not? That is my only question.”
Natsumi manages to laugh. “That’s it?”
“Yes. That is it. It is a straightforward question to answer, is it not?”
Another flicker. It’s a weak point. Natsumi seizes it with both hands.
“You’re not gonna chew me out?” she asks. “Lecture me about my life choices? Tell me about how the bonds of friendship between women are sacred?” Sonia’s hands curl into fists on the desk. Natsumi leans far enough across the gap between their desks until she has to meet her eye dead-on. “Aren’t you upset?”
“Yes of course I am upset!” Sonia says, nearly shouts, and her voice cracks under her sudden surge of volume. “I am angry, and- and humiliated, and I cannot believe that you would still act like this after all that has happened!” Her eyes are shining. She blinks rapidly and sets her jaw. “But I also know in my heart that we are friends. No matter how many times I imagine it, I cannot think of you as having malicious intent the entire time. So please—”
Her tears are threatening to spill over. She composes herself with a deep, shuddering breath, and presses the edges of her fingers beneath her eyes. “Please,” she says again. Her voice is softer and steadier. “I wish to know why.”
Sonia will never fully trust her again. That’s a fact. Even if Natsumi spills the whole story right now, falls to her knees and begs forgiveness, all it will get her is a wary truce and a humiliating rumor about how the Kuzuryuu heir does her business.
She’s done. There’s no room for her to play around anymore.
She says, “We found something better.”
Sonia’s eyes are wide. “What?”
Natsumi tilts her head. “What, did you seriously believe you were our only option?” She counts to five in her head while Sonia blinks back at her, then lets a smile spread across her face. “Sheesh, you really think highly of that backwater country of yours, huh? Okay, let me spell it out for you.” She leans forward, and draws out each syllable, laboriously slow. “We. Didn’t. Need. You.”
“But—”
“But what? I needed something for my practical exam, I had your tape on hand—” She mimics an explosion with her hands. “Done. You should be grateful I didn’t save it for later.”
“My exam time,” Sonia tries again. “It changed last minute, and I—”
“Komaeda-kun’s supposed to be lucky, isn’t he?” Natsumi shrugs. “Maybe you just got caught up in his creepy, lucky wake.”
Sonia’s mask has shattered; there are tears on her eyelashes and grooves in her forehead. Her voice is small. “Why are you being like this?”
“If you thought I was at this school for anything other than business, that’s your fault, not mine,” Natsumi says. “Can I go now?”
The silence settles, painful.
“I see,” Sonia says finally. She sniffles into her sleeve. “I believe I understand now. If this is the path you have chosen, Kuzuryuu-san, then I believe it is best for the both of us if our friendship ends here.” Her chair clatters when she stands up, and even she can’t hide the way her voice wobbles when she says, “Excuse me.”
Natsumi sits in the classroom long after it’s empty. It’s not until the bell for the start of the next period rings that she pulls herself out of the desk and out of the room.
Peko is waiting for her in the hall.
*
me 22:48 sonia knows what i did, in case you care
me 22:48 she says she won’t spill to her parents but like there’s anything actually stopping her
me 23:03 don’t ignore me this is actually important
fuyu-chan 23:05 what the fuck do you want me to do about it?
me 23:05 i don’t know, figure something out with me?
me 23:05 you know how many tanks they have, right?
fuyu-chan 23:08 she’s your friend, you deal with it
fuyu-chan 23:08 you didn’t drag me out here to help you with your social life
fuyu-chan 23:09 unless you’ve got something for the clan, don’t fucking talk to me
me 23:09 how is this not for the clan?
me 23:09 do you WANT a whole country on our asses?
me 00:02 fine
*
Peko’s phone starts to ping again after only a day or two. Natsumi thinks it must be happening more often than it used to, because she hears it all the time: during class, during lunch, in the hallway, at their lockers, in the dojo.
(“Would you prefer I stopped responding?” Peko asks once, after the buzz of her phone on the desk interrupts Natsumi’s train of thought one too many times.
“No,” she answers. Her pencil tears the edge of her physics homework, and she has to pull out another sheet. “Not like I care.”
Peko stops anyway.)
Natsumi, for her part, gets tired of looking at an endless string of her own messages in the text conversation, so she stops. He’ll come around when he’s in a better mood; he always does. She plans on giving him the same cold shoulder he’s giving her until then.
It’s Thursday. Koizumi has brought lunch with her again for her bi-weekly trek to the west building. It’s wrapped in the same fabric as the last time Natsumi paid attention to it, with the rabbit design; she can see faint stains around the bottom edges.
Saionji hangs off the edge of Koizumi’s desk, whining about how, “If I have to spend another lunch looking at Pig Barf’s stupid face I’m totally gonna have a mental breakdown!” Koizumi pats the back of her head, but she doesn’t budge on the issue.
Natsumi’s never seen Satou come to the east building; it’s always been the other way around. Sometimes Koizumi brings the lunch, sometimes she doesn’t, but she’s always the one making the walk, and she’s almost always late for class the period after. Natsumi assumed she’d get tired of it after the first few weeks, but it’s going on a year now and they haven’t missed a day.
She stares at the cutesy rabbits on the side of Koizumi’s lunchbox, and thinks she knows how to get her brother in a better mood faster. She tilts her head back. “Hey, Peko-chan.”
“Yes.”
“Go have lunch with my brother today.”
Peko doesn’t answer right away. When Natsumi twists around in her seat to look at her, she’s frowning, her brow pinched.
Natsumi drapes both arms over the back of her chair, and sets her cheek against her elbow. “What? You don’t want to?”
“I—” It isn’t often Peko gets tongue-tied. She’s so pale that it makes it easier to see where the blush stands out against her cheeks. “No, it does sound… enjoyable, but…” It takes her several seconds too long to be believable, but once she finds her excuse, she latches onto it. “It’s still the early days of the school year. Shouldn’t I be seen eating with you?”
“Oh, please. I’ll be fine for one day. These chumps should know better than to mess with me by now. And if they don’t, I can reteach them myself.” Souda glares at her from the back of the room. Natsumi wiggles her fingers at him, smile big. “You should do it! What’s stopping you, huh?”
Peko hesitates. Her eyes drop down to her desk. “I don’t think I’m someone Fuyuhiko-sama wants to see right now,” she admits, fingers curled into the desktop.
“Yeah, that’s literally never been true.” Peko still looks uncertain. Natsumi feels a thin bubble of frustration gather in her gut. “At least he’s talking to you.”
“Young mistress, I—”
The bubble bursts. “Are you saying you won’t do it?” she interrupts, sitting up.
Peko’s turn around is instantaneous. Her chin drops to her chest, her hands in her lap. “No. Of course not. If that’s what you wish, young mistress, I’ll go after class. Should I announce myself to Fuyuhiko-sama before I arrive?”
Natsumi turns back around in her seat. She eyes her phone, laying face-up on her desk. (The screen is still jagged and broken; her father had refused to have it replaced before she left for school, citing her string of other broken phones.) Last she counted, all eight of the most recent messages in her text conversation with her brother had been from her.
“No,” she decides. “It can be a surprise. And don’t tell him it was my idea, okay?”
“Yes, young mistress."
*
fuyu-chan 12:12 seriously?
me 12:16 what?
fuyu-chan 12:16 you know exactly what
fuyu-chan 12:16 this is low even for you
me 12:16 excuse me for thinking you’d want a friendly face with you at lunch
fuyu-chan 12:18 don’t give me that bullshit. what the fuck is wrong with you?
fuyu-chan 12:18 you can’t just throw her at every single problem you have
fuyu-chan 12:19 did you seriously think this was going to make me LESS pissed at you?
fuyu-chan 12:19 after all the other shit you’ve pulled?
*
“Wuh-oh. I know that face. Which is it, deadbeat or baby daddy?”
She’s in the dining hall, eating lunch by herself at her and Peko’s usual table. When she looks up from her phone, ready to fling it at whoever felt the need to butt in, there’s a freshman girl sitting on her table at the far end, her feet on the bench, slurping on the straw of a pale green shake.
She’s completely ditched the school uniform for her own outfit, all bright colors and provocative lines. There’s a cute bear pin in her hair. She smiles when Natsumi glares up at her. “Who the hell are you?”
Her name is Enoshima Junko, from the 78th class. Natsumi knows all of them; she looked them up one-by-one when their names started cropping up on the message boards. Enoshima had been the sole exception: her fashion blog is massive and critically-acclaimed, and Natsumi has been a follower since she was in middle school.
But she has a reputation to maintain, and that doesn’t include letting any freshman who feels like it sidle up to her lunch table.
Enoshima slides down to sit across from her on the bench. She wraps both hands around her shake; it must be kale, Natsumi remembers her posting about it before school started. “You don’t know me? Well, that’s okay. Because I know you, Natsumi-senpai.” She holds her straw between her teeth when she smiles. “And there’s plenty of time left for us to get acquainted.”
“There’s forty minutes left in lunch,” Natsumi tells her. “You’ve got three.”
Enoshima pretends to shake her sleeve back to check her wrist. She isn’t wearing a watch. In May she’d posted about her favorite types of accessories, and watches hadn’t even made the list. “Hmmm. I bet I can make that work. I mean, it’s not like it’s much of a story, right?” She laughs, right in Natsumi’s face. She doesn’t even bother to try to hold it in. “You’re the junior who totally screwed the pooch on her practical exam!”
Natsumi grinds both fists down into the table. She doesn’t have to take this, especially not from some air-headed freshman. She makes to stand, but Enoshima waves her down, one-handed. “Hey, hey, hey. Don’t worry about it! Those judges just didn’t get you.��� She leans forward on both elbows, and her voice dips into a lower register. “But I get you.”
Natsumi sneers. She lowers herself back down to sitting. “What, some little freshman with bows on her jacket?” she says. “I don’t think so.”
Enoshima doesn’t flinch. She just keeps on talking, with that same, gravelly quality to her voice. “Sure,” she says. “I mean, it wasn’t just about the recording, right? It was about where you got it from, too. How the school had a perv on their payroll, waltzing around their precious Ultimates, and how you plucked it out from under their noses. How you could’ve taken down an entire country, because of their mistake. You could’ve just as easily used it on them as you could have on Sonia-senpai, right? Who in their right mind would want people like that watching out for the purest distillation of talent in the world? That’s what you thought was gonna guarantee you that sweet, sweet perfect score.”
Natsumi hasn’t told anyone that. Not Peko, not Fuyuhiko, no one.
“It didn’t go the way you wanted,” Enoshima goes on. Her eyes are bright. “You made one big mistake, senpai.”
Natsumi’s phone buzzes on the table. She claps her hand over top of it. The broken pieces of the screen jab into the edge of her palm.
Enoshima doesn’t look away from her face. She’s grinning when she says, “You gonna get that? It could be fate, sending you the eggplant emoji you’ve been dreaming of.”
“It’s my brother.” Natsumi doesn’t need to look.
“Ooh, even better. Talk about a scandal, am I right?”
“What do you mean?” Natsumi interrupts. “What mistake?”
“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Enoshima’s shake is almost empty. It gurgles loudly when she sucks on the straw. “You let them off too easy! You’re still assuming they respect your talent more than they want to keep you under their thumb.” She shrugs. “You threatened them, so they had to teach you a lesson.”
Natsumi means to make her lip curl, to make her uncertainty look like disdain, but it only feels like a grimace. “If they know anything about me, they know that’s a stupid move,” she says. “My family doesn’t stand for that.”
“And what do you think they’ll say if you do anything about it?” Enoshima sits up straight, and adjusts imaginary glasses on her face. Her impression of Fat Nose is unnervingly spot-on. “Hmhm, yes. It’s always disappointing to let a talented student go, but Kuzuryuu-kun was clearly not equipped to handle the rigors of our institution. This is nothing more than thinly-veiled retaliation for our panel’s assessment of her abilities. A shame that such a promising young woman would have such drastic faults of character.” She sheds the persona like a jacket flung into a corner, shoulders dropping and head lolling back dramatically. “Come on. Who d’you think the press is gonna side with on that one? Huh?”
She waits, her eyes big and expectant. She cups one hand around her ear. Natsumi glowers at her.
“Think about it. The word I’ve heard around town is that the Kuzuryuu siblings are a force to be reckoned with, you know? Hardly anybody drops your name without Fuyuhiko-kun’s right behind it.” Enoshima points the chewed straw of her shake at Natsumi’s phone. “But the scouting board, in all their cherry-picking wisdom, thinks he’s only good for the trash heap? Does that make sense to you?”
Natsumi lifts her hand. The new messages blink up at her from her phone’s lock screen.
fuyu-chan 12:22 this is between YOU and ME
fuyu-chan 12:22 or are you too much of a fucking coward to come talk to me yourself?
“Whomp,” Enoshima chirps. “Time’s up! Food for thought, Natsumi-senpai.” She slaps both hands on the table when she gets up. “And by the way,” she adds, “thanks for following! Meeting a longtime reader always touches me deep down in my special place.” She holds her hands in front of her chest, fingers curled together in a heart. “Talk to you later, bitch.”
*
Natsumi makes the walk to the west building before the end of the lunch period. There’s time enough left, and she doesn’t feel like sitting alone at that table with nothing on her tray. Her brother wants her to come talk to him, she’ll do it.
It would be easy for someone to mistake the west building for a nice one, if they’d never been inside the east building. The tuition money doesn’t go to waste, even if most of it must funnel into the main course: the interior decoration is nice, just not as classy as the main course; there are amenities, just not as many as the main course; the furniture and equipment look like they were handed down when they got too much wear in the main course.
The west building doesn’t have a dedicated dining hall the way the east building does; Natsumi can see some students eating at their desks through classroom windows, and others loitering in groups around the halls. That’s where she finds them: Peko and her brother and a kid she’s never seen before, clustered together outside the open door of one of the classrooms. Fuyuhiko leans against the wall with his arms crossed while the kid talks with both hands.
The reserve course uniform doesn’t suit him. The jacket is too boxy, and sits awkwardly on his shoulders even after it’s been tailored to fit him better. It makes him look smaller than he is, his torso drowning in dark fabric. He hates it, she can tell; he keeps fidgeting with it, plucking at the elbows and tugging on the hem.
Peko looks her way first. She steps toward her, away from Fuyuhiko’s shoulder, and that’s what tilts his head in her direction, too. Natsumi’s already braced for the worst of his anger or disgust or whatever else.
Their eyes meet, and he looks away, like he can’t even stand the sight of her.
The kid, on the other hand, is staring at her. He watches her walk up with big, nervous eyes, and he keeps looking at her even when her brother is determined to glare a hole in the door on the opposite side of the hall.
“Well?” she demands.
The kid flinches. Fuyuhiko decides to glare at the ceiling.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Natsumi?”
“Are you joking?” When he doesn’t answer, she slaps her hand on the wall next to his head. That gets him to look at her, at least. “You said I should come, dumbass!”
“Yeah, I didn’t mean right this fucking second!” Some of the other students are starting to glance their way. The kid looks uncomfortable, like he wants to bolt but isn’t sure if he can. “What the hell do you want?”
“I want to know when this stupid tantrum of yours is gonna be done.”
“Tantrum?” He stands up straight, lunges into her space. “Are you fucking serious right now? I’m—”
Students are starting to trickle out of homeroom and disperse to their afternoon classes. Natsumi spots the bright bob of Koizumi’s hair out of the corner of her eye first, but it’s Satou who stops in the doorway, hand on the frame.
Her eyes are narrow and suspicious. “I thought that was you,” she says. “Can’t you go anywhere without causing trouble, Natsumi?”
“Look who it is,” Natsumi jeers, loud enough that the students past Satou’s shoulder lift their heads. “Hey, Satou-san, how about you keep your nose in the dirt where it belongs? And out of my business?”
Koizumi elbows her way around Satou’s shoulder. “Hey! You can’t just talk to people like that. What did you even come down here for, huh?”
“Last I checked you weren’t part of this conversation either, Koizumi-san!” Natsumi snaps. “So get lost before I do it for you.”
“Fuck this,” Fuyuhiko interrupts. “I'm leaving. Some of us actually have class to go to.” His shoulder collides with hers when he shoves himself off the wall. “Later, Hinata. Bye, Peko.”
“You’re gonna have to talk to me eventually!” Natsumi shouts after him, but he’s already been swallowed by the surge of students from the other classrooms. Satou bumps into her when she passes, too, Koizumi’s hand at her elbow.
The kid is the only one left behind. He's got a deer-in-headlights look to him. “Um,” he says. “You're Kuzuryuu’s sister, right?”
Natsumi glares at him.
“Just because, you look kind of— I mean, you can tell you're related.”
She looks at Peko. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“Hinata Hajime,” Peko replies. “Fuyuhiko-sama brought him to lunch.”
“Uh. Yeah,” the kid says. He looks at Peko sideways. “I just met Pekoyama today. Your brother and I are… Friends? I guess?”
“You guess?”
“I mean.” Hinata gestures vaguely in Fuyuhiko’s wake. “We talk sometimes. I don’t know if he’d call us friends, though.”
Natsumi lifts her chin. “If you’re not sure, then he wouldn’t,” she tells him. “Remember that. Come on, Peko-chan.
“Wait,” Hinata says. “Kuzuryuu-san. I know it’s not any of my business, but—”
She rounds on him, and relishes the way he recoils, eyes big. “You’re right. It’s not any of your business. You think I give a crap what some talentless hack thinks of me?”
Hinata’s eyes narrow. It might be the first sign of a spine she’s seen from him since she showed up. “Your brother goes here,” he says. “Is he a talentless hack to you, too?”
Whatever. Slim spines crack easier.
She grabs him by the knot of his tie, and digs her nails in so that he doesn’t slip out of her grip when he jerks his head back. He swallows his yelp, and his face goes ashen; she can feel the way his pulse jumps against her knuckles. “It’s Hinata-kun, right?” He stares at her, and she drags him down to her level. “Right?” He nods. She smiles. “All right. Listen up, Hinata-kun. My brother is only stuck in this dump because Hope’s Peak is too afraid of what we’d do if they scouted the both of us. He doesn’t belong in here with trash like you, understand? And once I’m done, he won’t be. So you can be friends with him you guess as long as you want, but don’t think for one second that puts you on the same level as us.”
The bell rings for the next period. Natsumi shoves him when she lets him go, and he stumbles, hands at his collar.
“Come on, Peko-chan,” she says again, turning on her heel. “It’s time for class.”
*
me 07:53 we have to talk about this
me 08:12 i’m serious
me 08:13 do you want being here to be a complete waste of time?
me 08:13 because that’s what you’re doing right now
me 10:44 can you just talk to me like a grownup?
me 10:44 or are you just totally physically incapable?
me 13:28 i don’t know what else you want from me
me 13:28 i’m trying, okay
me 13:30 does sitting there ignoring all my messages make you feel better?
me 14:03 hey
me 14:03 hey
me 14:03 hey
me 14:22 i can’t fucking believe you sometimes
me 14:22 you’re such a fucking baby
me 15:42 WHAT
me 15:42 DO
me 15:42 YOU
me 15:42 WANT
me 15:42 FROM
me 15:42 ME
me 15:42 ???????????
me 16:35 are you going to do this all year?
me 18:19 will you please just answer me one time
me 01:57 you know what? fuck you
me 02:02 i don’t need your help anyway
*
She sends Peko back to the west building a week later, this time with a message and clear instructions to make her brother listen to every word. Natsumi spends the lunch period alone in their new homeroom, her half of Peko’s packed lunch spread out in front of her, and waits for her phone to go off.
She doesn’t have to wait long. She could probably time Peko’s trip across the courtyards just using the timestamp on her brother’s responses.
fuyu-chan 12:07 are you fucking serious?
fuyu-chan 12:07 I told you to STOP
me 12:07 what else was i supposed to do??
me 12:07 she’s the only one you bother talking to anymore
me 12:07 should i handwrite a letter and send it through your new bff hinata-kun?
fuyu-chan 12:10 for fuck’s sake
fuyu-chan 12:10 I can’t believe you’re still this fucking selfish
me 12:10 I’M the selfish one? ME??
me 12:10 you’re not even TRYING to listen
fuyu-chan 12:10 listen to what? some sob story about how this isn’t really your fault?
fuyu-chan 12:10 I’m not about to let you pull this manipulative bullshit on me
fuyu-chan 12:11 I have nothing to fucking say to you. ever
fuyu-chan 12:11 so FUCK OFF
The message blurs. It takes her a second to realize that it’s her eyes and not her phone, hot tears catching on her eyelashes. She drops the phone on the desk with a clatter and presses both hands over her face.
On the other side of the room, the open door of the classroom clicks quietly shut.
Fuck, she lost track of the days, fuck. It’s Thursday. “Get lost, Koizumi-san!” she says, too loud. “Nobody said you could come in here!” She turns her face toward the wall and scrubs her sleeve across her eyes until they burn.
Koizumi doesn’t leave. Her shoes are quiet on the classroom’s linoleum floor, but Natsumi can still hear her milling around behind her. Eventually she sits on the edge of one of the desks behind Natsumi’s shoulder and asks, “Why are you crying?”
“I said, get lost.”
Koizumi draws air between her teeth, a disdainful, judgmental sound that’s been grating on Natsumi’s nerves since they were thirteen.
“I heard about your fight with Sonia-chan,” Koizumi says. She stands up, and sets something on the desk she was sitting on. It’s her lunchbox, when Natsumi glances at it; the fabric it’s wrapped in is blue today, with a smiling cloud design on it. “She won’t tell any of us what it was about.” She waits. Natsumi doesn’t say anything. “Is Peko-chan not going to eat with you today, either?”
Natsumi presses the heels of both hands into her eyes until she sees spots. She means to sigh, annoyed, but it just comes out as a long exhale. “What do you care?”
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Koizumi says. She unties the top of her lunch. “I don’t feel bad for you. Whatever happened, I’d bet money that you brought it on yourself.” She takes out a single homemade meat bun and sets it on a napkin next to Natsumi’s knee. “But you have to have lunch. So stop being stubborn and just eat something.”
Natsumi ignores it.
“Come on,” Koizumi says again, once the silence gets to her. Her voice is softer. “This isn’t healthy. Yukizome-sensei is worried about you, you know?” She picks the meatbun back up and holds it under Natsumi’s nose. “You’ll feel better after you eat something, Natsumi-chan.”
Before she’s even recognized what she’s doing, Natsumi has Koizumi by the wrist. The meat bun tumbles out of her hand and onto the floor with a wet, thick sound. “You want to talk about what’s gonna make me feel better, Koizumi-san?”
Koizumi draws in a quick, frightened breath. She tries to pull her hand away, but Natsumi twists her wrist to pinch her skin and drag her forward, until they’re at eye level. “‘Cause I’ll tell you,” she says. “It’s not your charity. It’s not your pity. You want to congratulate yourself for alllll your good deeds, fine, but don’t foist them off on me like I’m one of your stupid pet projects. I look out for me, understand? I don’t need shit from you.”
Natsumi lets her go. Koizumi falls away from her until she runs into one of the desks behind her; the feet screech when it drags against the floor. She has her arm cradled against her stomach, the skin around her wrist angry and red.
Koizumi stays like that, braced against the jostled desk, breathing hard. “I only wanted to be your friend,” she says eventually, her voice trembling. “Back then. You’re the one who made it like this.”
She doesn’t take the time to retie the knot on her lunch before she stumbles out the door.
*
enoshima junko 12:16 what’s up bitch!!
enoshima junko 12:16 skip physics and come shopping with me
enoshima junko 12:16 there’s a pair of stiletto boots with your name ALL over them
*
peko 13:07 Will you not be attending class this afternoon?
fuyu-chan 13:29 where the hell are you?
fuyu-chan 13:30 peko says she hasn’t seen you since lunch
fuyu-chan 13:36 seriously natsumi don’t fucking start with this
*
Enoshima takes her to a tiny boutique wedged above a bakery. There’s no sign, inside or outside, and the walls of the stairwell are white and sparse. “Hisakawa and me go waaaaay back,” she explains, hips swaying on the staircase. “Trust me, you’re gonna love everything about her.”
But once they get inside, there’s only a bored-looking receptionist with a headset behind the front desk; he shoves a small clipboard toward them without looking up. Enoshima reaches past it to set her hand against his forearm, red nails bright against his dress shirt. “I should already be on the list.”
The receptionist jerks in his seat. He doesn’t recover well, expression tight when he turns to look at them. “Enoshima-san,” he says. “Welcome back. Hisakawa-san was expecting you.” His eyes slide to Natsumi. “Who’s your friend?”
“Kuzuryuu,” Natsumi answers.
The receptionist swallows. He stands from his desk, limbs stiff. “Of course. We were expecting you as well, Kuzuryuu-san. Come with me.”
“Don’t worry about Maeda,” Enoshima chirps, while he leads them back through the various show rooms. She doesn’t lower her voice. “He’s got a stick up his butt a mile long, but he’s all right.”
“Expecting me, huh?” Natsumi says, craning her neck to get a better look at one of the racks against the wall.
Enoshima grins at her. “Sure! I told them you were coming. What’re friends for, right, senpai?”
Maeda leads them all the way to a small room at the back of the store, then hovers just outside the door. The sofas are wider than the ones out front, with fatter cushions, and there’s a semicircle of matcha cookies laid out on a plate next to a pot of still-steaming tea. The room is flanked on both sides by massive racks of clothes, all at the high knife-edge of fashion, and all very, very expensive.
Enoshima dives toward one of the racks and throws a pair of tall black boots back at her. They have gold buckles and a skinny heel, and they’re exactly in Natsumi’s size. “Put those on!” she barks. She drapes herself back across one of the sofas and plucks one of the cookies from the plate. “Maeda back there is gonna be begging for you to step on him by the time we’re through.”
“If you could keep your voices down,” Maeda says behind them.
Natsumi sits on the opposite sofa, and drops her bag on the floor beside her. “So,” she says. “Cut the crap. Why’d you bring me here?” She bends down to toe the boots on. They’re well-made, and heavy in her hands. “It wasn’t just to show me these.”
“Well, it was at least, like, thirty percent to show you those. I mean, look at them, right?” Enoshima pillows her arms behind her head. “The rest, I just figured girls like you and me should stick together, you know?”
Natsumi scoffs. “‘You and me’?” Her ankles wobble when she stands up; the heels are taller than she’s used to. “That’s a good one. You and me nothing.”
She meets Enoshima’s eye through the big full-body mirror, but she only smiles back. “Did you know Hisakawa has six other little boutiques like this in the city?” Enoshima asks. She snaps another cookie between her teeth. “And that’s just here. A designer like that has a lot of connections. And she has to do a lot to make ends meet.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m just the go-between! The introduction. I’ve got an old friend in need of a loan and a new one who might be able to help her out.” Enoshima’s eyes rake up and down her body, evaluative. “We need to get you into something else,” she decides. “Those boots in that outfit make you look like the centerfold of a bad porno mag.”
She’s right. The boots clash oddly with her school uniform; they make her look like a little kid with questionable ideas of what an adult dresses like. Natsumi steps to the rack and snaps through choices. “Well, you can keep it to yourself,” she says. “My family doesn’t need any help selling loans.”
“Maybe not,” Enoshima says. “But you need momentum, am I right? Some resources? Friends in high places?” When Natsumi looks back over her shoulder at her, she laughs. “What do you think the fashion industry is, Natsumi-senpai?”
Natsumi pulls a dress from somewhere in the middle of the rack: black, with a high neckline and an image of a dragon winding up the left side, scales in shining gold leaf. “Don’t know,” she answers. “Don’t care.”
“Well, that’s okay,” Enoshima says, her smile sharp-edged. “I’ll just talk to myself! I love this stuff, you know. In case you hadn’t heard.”
Natsumi goes into the dressing room, and Enoshima does talk to herself. She tells herself all about Hisakawa: her history, her money troubles, her track record in the underbelly of Japan’s fashion world. By the time Natsumi has the dress over her head, she has to admit: it doesn’t sound like a bad deal.
When she comes back out, Enoshima whistles and drags her in front of the full-body mirror by the elbow. Her fingers are cold when she zips the dress the rest of the way up. “I like it,” she says. “Now this is the centerfold of a good porno mag, am I right?”
Natsumi skims her hands down her hips to smooth the fabric against her skin. It’s a better look with the heels than her school uniform. It’s a better look all around. She doesn’t feel like a little girl playing dress up, the way she always did wearing the elaborate kimonos her mother bought for her. She feels like herself, but better. Powerful. Intimidating.
Enoshima lingers behind her. She smooths her hands around Natsumi’s ribcage and plucks at pleats to give them more volume. “You know what I think, senpai?” she asks, her chin on Natsumi’s shoulder. She smiles at the mirror. “I think you’re gonna revolutionize the whole genre. Those old onna-oyabun tropes are so last century. You’re gonna give it some life. Some edge.” She draws Natsumi’s hair between her fingers and twists it into a high bun, tight enough to pinch her scalp. She pierces it with a pin at just the right angle to keep it secure without making it uncomfortable. “A new sense of scary-but-sexy style.”
Natsumi tilts her chin at herself in the mirror the way her father always does at the junior members when he dismisses them.
“Ooh, chilly.” Enoshima says, cheerful. “Bingo! Looks like we have a winner!”
Natsumi feels around the hem of the dress for the price tag, but Enoshima’s fingers clasp over hers before she can read it. The tips of her nails are sharp against the back of her hand. “Hey, hey, hey,” she says. “Don’t worry about it.” She twists her wrist to rip the tag off. “Just take it! Who else is gonna be able to pull of the metallic golden dragon look anyway, huh?“
Natsumi looks back over her shoulder, but Maeda hasn’t moved. He has two fingers against the earpiece of his headset, and he’s talking rapidly to someone about the cost of purple silk. “What,” she says, already rolling her eyes, “you’re going to pay for it?”
Her hands still linger on the collar of the dress despite herself, fine fabric shifting beneath her fingers. She doesn’t want to take it off. She doesn’t want to lose the feeling she has now, like her mistakes are all behind her and the future is at her fingertips.
Enoshima snorts. “No way! Hisakawa owes me a favor for saving her last show. Think of it as a gift, from her to me to you.” She slides one arm around Natsumi’s shoulders. “To celebrate a bright new partnership.”
Natsumi wears the dress and the shoes out of the store.
*
me 14:56 i’m on my way back now
me 14:56 wait for me outside the dorm
peko 14:56 Yes, young mistress.
*
Peko’s expression is pinched and tight when Natsumi sees her next. (Outside the dorm, as promised.) She steps forward when she sees her, relief smoothing out the lines.
“Welcome back, young mistress,” she says. Natsumi doesn’t break stride. Peko takes the cue to fall into step beside her. “Is something the matter?”
“Nope,” Natsumi answers. “We’re going to get my brother.”
Peko’s steps don’t hesitate, but she does look back over her shoulder, at the retreating dorm behind them. “Fuyuhiko-sama was—” She pauses, considers, chooses her words. “Agitated, when I saw him last. I don’t know if—”
“Too bad for him!” Natsumi’s heart is beating fast. The west building is too damn far. “Come on, pick up the pace!”
Peko doesn’t argue anymore. It’s late in the day; students must have already started scattering to their different clubs, but Natsumi knows her brother’s schedule, and she knows she’ll find him when he comes out of the main building.
Once he does, they’re settling this.
There are more students than Natsumi expects lingering on the front steps of the building, but it is the reserve course. Maybe they just have less to do. One of them is Satou, sitting at the base of the steps with a handful of friends who aren't Koizumi, who Natsumi's impressed exist at all.
Satou doesn’t see her, at first. But reserve course students always murmur among themselves when a main course student shows up on the steps of the west building, so it hardly takes any time at all. One of her friends points past her shoulder, and her head turns.
In the next moment, she’s on her feet. Natsumi lets her come, arms crossed and smile lazy, but Satou doesn’t stop when she’s within shouting distance. She charges straight at her, hand grasping blindly for her shoulder, and Peko has to shove her arm between them to shake her off. Satou at least knows enough not to swing at Peko; she only jerks her arm away and retreats a few steps like a dumb, injured dog.
“Hey!” Natsumi snaps. “Hands off! What the hell is your problem?”
Satou doesn’t back down. “My problem?” she shouts. Every head in the courtyard turns towards them. “You! It’s always you! Nothing gives you the right to treat people the way you do, Natsumi. You’re disgusting. You’re the worst. I can’t believe you’d even show your face here.”
“Ohhhh.” Natsumi rolls her eyes high, with her entire head. “I get it. Is this about Koizumi-san? Did she go crying to you again? Why am I not surprised?”
“I don’t know why she even still bothers trying to help you. You’re a lost cause. I don’t think you even have a heart at all.”
Students are starting to circle around them. None of the reserve course students have the guts to interrupt, not with Peko already grasping her shinai with one hand, but they watch, drawn in like bugs to a lantern. Fuyuhiko is one of them; he’s lingering at the top of the steps, Hinata behind him. Natsumi can see him past Satou’s shoulder, watching her.
“What do you know about it, huh?” she says. “Did you know you’re one of her little projects, too?” Satou scoffs, arms crossed. “No? You only talk to her, what, twice a week? That’s right, isn’t it? That’s about how often she decides she feels like gracing you with her presence? Do you think it makes her feel better about herself, sharing her talent with you wastes of space? Does she give herself brownie points for being the guiding light in your piss poor excuse for a life?”
Satou is glaring at her, but her cheeks are red. She doesn’t say anything, and Natsumi laughs in her face. “That’s what I thought. How does it feel, knowing you’ll never amount to anything other than a leech hanging off the back of Koizumi-san’s skirt?”
“They should’ve expelled you,” Satou spits. “You’re an embarrassment to Hope’s Peak.”
The other students gasp. Some of them start to whisper. Others laugh nervously. Natsumi isn’t sure how many or how loudly; her ears are ringing and her skin is cold, and the smug look on Satou’s face sets off something sour in her gut.
“Hey!” Her brother lunges to the front of the gathered crowd, elbow in the ribcage of some tittering girl, and Hinata has to catch him at the chest before he breaks the line. “The fuck did you just say to my sister, bitch?”
“Kuzuryuu— Hang on, calm down—”
“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down when this bitch is over here running her goddamn mouth—”
Satou keeps talking. She’s always been taller and broader than Natsumi; when Satou presses into her space, she looms. “You’re not talented. You’re a bully. That’s the only reason you’re still around. Watase-sensei and the other judges knew what a fraud you were, and look how you treated them! You don’t deserve to be in the main course with Mahiru!”
Natsumi’s had enough.
She hits Satou across the face, somewhere between a slap and a punch, the edges of her knuckles colliding with Satou’s cheekbone. The impact reverberates through the courtyard; it's hard enough to send Satou to the concrete. The shot of pain up it sends up the length of Natsumi’s arm expands in her chest as a full, giddy feeling, and rises straight up to her head.
A handful of overdramatic students scream, and the rest scatter like frightened birds.
It’s Natsumi’s turn to loom. Satou is holding both hands against her face when Natsumi steps over her, and they drop when Natsumi steps on her, shoe against her collarbone. There’s a bright slash of red along her cheek where the edge of Natsumi’s nail dug too deep.
She has to keep her ankle at a precise angle to keep the sharp point of her heel from digging too deeply into Satou’s chest. Natsumi can admire it even better at this angle, where it draws a dark smear of dirt across Satou’s white blouse.
“I think we need to have a chat, Satou-san,” Natsumi says. She keeps her voice high and delicate, and keeps a smile on her face. “Since you obviously didn’t hear me the first time. Which is funny, because I thought I was pretty clear, you know?” The ring of students around them is silent. “But maybe you’re just too stupid to get it. That’s fine. I’ll say it one more time, since we’re old friends, and this time I’ll even use small words.”
She leans down until all her weight is on the ball of her right foot. She can feel the way the cartilage in Satou’s shoulder strains under the pressure.
“My business is my business. Not yours. Not Koizumi-san’s. So you don’t need to concern yourself with it, okay? I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear you. I don’t want to hear about you. Ever.” The setting sun is warm against her back. It dumps her shadow over Satou’s trembling face. “We’re not going to have this conversation again. Understand?”
Satou’s chest heaves. Natsumi leans over her. “Sorry, Satou-san, I really need to be sure you get it this time, you know? I said—” She drives her heel down. “—do you understand?”
Satou scrabbles at the back of Natsumi’s heel, trying to relieve the pressure. Her chin jerks, intentional or not.
Natsumi lifts her weight up. She laughs when Satou scrambles away from her, tights tearing on the dirty concrete, and puts both hands on her hips. “Good enough! Glad we could get that settled, huh?” She tilts her head back. “Peko-chan, we’re leaving.”
“Yes, young mistress.”
She looks at her brother, where he's shoved his way to the front of the mass of students, Hinata’s hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t have the same wide-eyed, dumbfounded expression as the others, but she has trouble reading the expression he does have, his mouth thin and his brow creased. “Well?” she asks.
He rolls his shoulder to shake off Hinata’s hand. He nods at her, a shallow dip of his chin, and when she walks away the two of them are behind her, Fuyuhiko at her right shoulder and Peko at her left.
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