#it's a vague shot at a vague notion of “something bad”

[hayheadd]

Oc drawing. Dzmuha in the old village.

And a little snippy... From my 180 page google doc of nightmares. Backhanded compliment from local tryhard internalised mysoginist girl.

[iwoulddieforher]

She Doesn't Get Out Much | Casey Novak x Alex Cabot | Part 2

To read the summary and the previous works, check this post here.

This chapter summary: Casey gets the support she needs- it's tough to accept help, though. Mild warning for discussions of substance abuse disorders/exercise dependency issues, but it's all in the context of healing from them.

[2]

“If you don't start eating,” the notorious, cutthroat judge said, “I’m going to start spoon-feeding you as if you're one of my kids.” 

Casey Novak pressed her lips into a thin line and gave her mentor turned friend a pointed stare, which Mary Clark didn't even flinch under- rather, she flexed her eyebrows and provided her with a patronizing smile. 

The redhead sighed, raising the soup to her mouth and blowing on it briefly before slipping the spoon into her mouth, tilting it back, and swallowing. 

It was a dense mixture of broth, vegetables and chicken, well seasoned and proportioned but the flavor of it still weighed heavy on her tongue. She supposed it had been a while since she had eaten something indulgent like this was. It felt uncomfortable, but Mary had directed her to do so, and Casey wasn't in the habit of disobeying the elder woman.

“Good,” Mary commented, “Now, tell me how the job has been. I haven't seen you in a couple weeks, and in white collar you used to ask me to dinner at least twice a month- what's been going on?” 

“You’re very direct,” Casey muttered under her breath, emerald eyes flickering to the side, “Most people would have the decency to wait until the person they invited out begins that type of conversation.” 

“You don't become a judge and then half-way decent defense attorney by dancing around the point, dear,” came the easy reply, and Casey shot her another look that very clearly rejected the notion the other woman was only a ‘half-way decent’ attorney. Casey thought Mary Clark might be the most admirable person she knew. 

They were both sitting comfortably in a small up-scale restaurant, a staple of Mary’s collection of small esteemed yet hideaway locations for when she wanted to drag her protege out for a meal. It used to happen very frequently, called on by either one- Mary would send Casey an invitation if she decided too much time had passed since she’d seen her, and Casey would call on her when she needed advice or otherwise some form of solace. 

With her parents in a different state, it felt odd to admit, but Clark had filed seamlessly into her life as her emergency contact. It felt natural, having Mary tuck her under her wing, offering the wise experience decades of being at the forefront of law had provided her, and the emotional support she had needed. Even now, when Casey had gone to the prosecution and Mary parted to the defense, she felt more comfortable sharing her mind with her than perhaps anyone else. She wasn't entirely sure why she had so stubbornly been avoiding her.

“It’s been a bad couple months,” Casey replied vaguely, stirring her spoon idly and watching the liquid ripple under the ministration, “I haven't … had time for leisure.” 

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone,” Mary commented wryly. “What is it, Casey? You’ve picked some kind of poison. You can tell me. Drinking? Drugs? Sex?” 

“No-!” Casey snapped in an astonished and indignant huff, taken aback by Mary’s forwardness, although part of her wasn't particularly surprised by it. Mary did not make it a habit to beat around the bush, and it was obvious Casey wasn't doing as well as she could be, so of course Clark would be aggressive in her attempt to help her. It was familiar, though, the way Mary engaged with her, even if it still did make her a bit flustered to hear possible abuses said so brazenly. It took a lot to fluster someone as forward as Novak, so that was certainly saying something. 

“I’m not addicted to anything,” Casey denied fervently, and honestly, because she wasn't. “I haven't taken anything I’m not supposed to, and I haven't been sleeping around, if that was the implication.” 

“Sex addiction doesn't necessarily imply sleeping around, you can be addicted to sex with only one partner-” Mary half-shrugged and raised her teacup daintily, her pinkie finger extended automatically which made Casey snort internally at the juxtaposition between her professionalism and the vulgarity of her words. 

“-but, I digress. Okay. So, what's wrong with you, then? I’ve reared four children and one manchild husband. I've heard and seen far more than I need to in order to know I can handle what you're going to tell me.” 

Casey stayed stubbornly quiet. 

She knew, internally, that she was inevitably going to tell her, because of course she would. She knew Mary was aware of that too. There was no version of this conversation in which she’d successfully be able to keep her struggle a secret, and she didn't want there to be one either, she did want to tell her. 

It was a way to reassure herself, though, that her vulnerability was accepted- if she made Mary work her for it, then there was no way Mary could ever blame her for opening up, not that she … that was a bad thing to think, wasn't it? 

“Don't disappear into that thick head of yours, Casey.” The sound of an impatiently tapping finger against the white tablecloth snapped Casey out of her internal dialogue and she swallowed, blinking back into present focus. Mary was looking at her expectantly.

“I started working at SVU,” Casey said, then, in an uncharacteristically small voice, a note of defeat in her tone. 

Mary rewarded her for the slight lower of her guard by immediately ceasing the motion of her finger, and her eyes shifted from stern and expectant to almost maternal-like in care. This was the dynamic between the two- so long as Casey displayed the level of trust, respect and expectation the elder obliged her too, Mary would be her place of attention and support. 

“Well, that much I’m aware of. You’ve asked me for help on some of your cases,” Mary nodded, tilting her head to the side. “Has something happened?”

Casey felt nauseous immediately, the line of questioning making her stomach flip uncomfortably. She could feel her shoulders urging her to let them hunch inward, so she forced herself to do the exact opposite, pushing her shoulders down and backwards while straightening her spine. Mary watched her do so with a disguised sense of interest, and although Casey knew she was watching, it didn't add or lessen the discomfort she felt. 

She felt childlike under Mary’s intent gaze, but then again, she was the same age as Mary’s own children, so she supposed it wasn't that ridiculous of a thought. Casey felt small and somehow even weaker, more tired. She didn't want to admit that. She had worked exceptionally hard so that no one could ever identify she was struggling, and despite knowing she had to admit it if she wanted to improve the situation at all, it was a difficult thing to do. 

A swell of anxiety rose in her middle, blocking her throat, and she coughed awkwardly. This wasn't like the defiant silence she had provided Alex with, where both didn't quite know what to say or if they were even ready to converse at all, she simultaneously wanted to pour it all out and run for the hills. It reminded her oddly of telling her father she had received a misconduct for fighting in the school courtyard, steeling herself desperately and yet hopelessly against his fiercely stoic gaze. She needed to say it, and she knew she wasn't going to be punished for it, but she just couldn't bring herself to do so. 

“Casey,” the elder woman’s voice was far gentler now, “You know there's nothing you could tell me that could sway my opinion of you, yes?” 

“I know,” Casey muttered hoarsely around the frog lodged firmly in her throat, “I don't know why this is so hard for me. It shouldn't be.”

“Nonsense,” Mary insisted, “Come now, dear. You take as much time as you need to find the words, but please do share them with me.” 

The redhead nodded slowly, trying to ease tension from her stuff muscles by letting out a shaky exhale. The stress wasn't subsiding the way she had hoped it would. 

Ironically, and in a way Casey thought to herself was wildly naive, she almost wished it was Alex across from her- Alex who had already seen, who she didn't need to explain it all too, Alex who was trying to win her favor back and therefore couldn't make any real demand of her, while Mary- albeit gently- was currently asking for quite a lot. 

Leverage and position, just like when drafting a plea deal. 

She decided to try to frame it this way to herself. She had committed the crime of recklessly manhandling her latest court cases by showing up exhausted and experiencing physical afflictions, and she could forgive herself for her stupidity if she plead her way out by taking responsibility. The only way she could do that is if she admitted to the judge- a position Mary had formerly held, so it wasn't even that far off- her misconduct, and hope the court accepted her attempt at reconciliation.

Casey thought about how she’d want a defendant to apologize when admitting guilt to the court, and decided to follow the structure that type of address would entail. 

“I’ve been reckless,” Casey said slowly, “I’ve endangered my cases and therefore the reputation of myself and the DA by appearing in court while in a state in which I shouldn't have.” 

Mary nodded, although a small twinge of confusion was evident in the way one of her eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly- Casey had previously denied any sort of substance abuse, and she couldn't assume any other sort of state she could’ve appeared in. 

“It isn't an excuse for my actions, but I’d like to offer an explanation,” Casey breathed, letting her green eyes flicker warily up to Mary's warm brown ones, and letting herself relax slightly when she was met only with sympathy and apparently growing concern, “I … I haven't been sleeping. I’ve intentionally neglected sleeping because I … I keep …” 

She was growing frustrated with her inability to just spit the godforsaken words out, and she could see Mary’s eyes flicker down as Casey’s fingers clenched in on themselves from where she had laid them on the table. 

“It's stupid,” Casey gasped, tears pricking at her eyes, defeat tasting as bitter in her mouth as the feeling of her voice cracking with emotion did.

Mary’s hand extended over the length of the table to nestle comfortably over her’s, squeezing in a successful attempt to be reassuring. Casey felt herself breathe a bit easier with the physical affection, and she let her eyes drift to fixate on the gleam of Mary's golden rings as the elder woman ran her thumb soothingly over Casey’s hand.

“You’re working a really stressful job, Casey.” Mary coaxed, “I won't blame you for anything you’ve done, not when you've clearly already been beating yourself up for it.” 

“I haven't been eating,” Casey spit out the words as if they were burning her, because they felt like they were, “I haven't been- been sleeping, because all I do when I’m not working is- is exercise.” 

Mary looked bewildered, but now that Casey had gotten over that particular hurdle, it was like a dam had split wide open. Words lapped eagerly through the floodgates, tumbling from her tongue before she had a chance to agonize over each syllable. 

“It's- it's gotten bad. I don't function, anymore, I can't stand to be in my own head if I’m not- from the second I get off of work, I’m at the batting cages until I physically can't be, and I have all these bruises and I know people are worried about me but I just can't- I can't handle it, everything feels to impossible, and when I’m moving I can't think about all that, but I’ve been stuck in perpetual movement for- for weeks, and I can't do this anymore.” 

The hand that encased her’s squeezed again, warm and soft, unflinching and firm. Casey’s mind flickered back to watching Alex’s hand quiver every couple seconds, an action Alex herself hadn't even seemed aware of. The parallel was very obvious to her, but she wasn't sure what it meant.

She felt her eyes prick with tears, and despite not wanting to shake Mary’s hand off she needed to as she reached to press the edges of her palms against her eyes to contain the miserable liquid before it ruined her makeup and composure entirely. Mary had seen a lot from her, but sobbing wasn't one of them- Casey certainly did not make it a habit to cry in front of others, and this was no exception. She gritted her teeth and tried to curse internally. She tried to transfer her exhaustion and her anxiety into fury at the universe, but when she did that only caused an inadvertent flex in her bicep, and she realized that was exactly how she had gotten this bad. She had been channeling her grief into rage she could unleash via swings of a softball bat, and now she was stuck with no other way to bring herself back down.

“Can I tell you a story?” 

This was exactly why Casey confided in Mary- the elder woman always managed to catch her off guard in the best way possible. 

Mary never made her feel bitter with empty platitudes and pleasantries and faux comforts. She always had something unexpected and exactly right to calm the bubbling swirl of overwhelm in Casey’s heart. With a small hint of relief, a whispered thank-you to God for sending her a mentor like Mary Clark, Casey nodded and resigned herself to listen.

Casey studied the face of the older woman, chocolate brown irises with wisdom and smile wrinkles near her eyes and cheeks as her expression smoothed over thoughtfully. The elder woman broke eye contact to drop her gaze to the tablecloth, and Casey realized she was slightly uncomfortable.

“You don't know this about me,” Mary started, “because I don't quite make it a habit to tell, but it seems like a fitting time for me to tell you about something that happened … probably right around the time you started preschool. I do have a few years on you, after all.” 

Even though through her scrutiny Casey was finding more slight indicators what Mary was about to confide was not an easy subject for her, she was making an obvious attempt to keep it lighthearted for Casey’s benefit. Casey offered her a weak smile at that small bit of humor.

“I had just had my third,” Mary murmured, referring to her children, “and the delivery had complications. To spare you the awkward details, it wasn't anything pretty. I had to stay in the hospital for a week or so, and it was much harder than I ever expected it could be, especially since my first two were reasonably easy.” 

She took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and then closed it again, her short brown hair swaying slightly as she shook her head. Mary attempted to gather the words, and Casey tried not to feel exceptionally guilty for asking this of her, but unlike with Alex- who was scrambling to find purchase, would offer information she’d later regret if it helped her regain standing next to Casey- Casey could trust that whatever Mary had to say was something she meant too. She didn't need to reassure Clark that she didn't need to say anything she was uncomfortable with.

“People always talk about postpartum depression,” Mary said after a few seconds, “Well, they do now- maybe not as much when I was going through it- but you never really understand until you're exhausted and can't muster up the willpower to want to care for yourself, or the kid you're going with it through, let alone the other two and a good-for-nothing husband- it was hard, Casey.” 

“I can only imagine,” Casey heard herself say, as if through water. Something about the way Mary spoke soothed her frayed nerves in a way she hadn't felt in months. It was a weird experience, to finally be out and vulnerable, to not hold a facade. To not be the one scrutinized, rather the one observing. 

“But obviously, just because you want to give up and sleep for weeks, you can't. World keeps spinning. Kids need to be cared for. So I picked up a habit that helped me keep me upright- I started smoking.” 

Casey didn't know how to respond to that, so she just lowered her gaze submissively and shook her head slowly, hoping that conveyed some sort of empathy, not that she felt like Mary expected any from her.

“It was a cigarette a day, and then one every couple hours, and then before you knew it I was calling recess in court just so I could go out myself and chain-smoke. I was going through a pack in less than three days, and bottles of whatever kind of perfume I could use to try to hide the stench of it even faster.” 

Mary waved her hand as though attempting to make a dismissive motion, but the weight of her words was far from anything Casey could ignore. 

“I knew it had to stop when I had to ask a defense counselor to justify an objection, only because I had been mentally wondering when the next time I could hold a recess was, and not because I needed the elaboration. I don't think I’ve ever admitted that to anyone before.” 

Brown eyes met green, and Mary’s gaze bore a comfortable space into Casey’s soul, chipping through the layers of crumbling cement to fill the hollow space with comfort instead of numb exhaustion. 

“It hurts, Casey. I know it does. And almost every person you’ll find in a courthouse has some kind of story where the stress just got too much and they lost it. Some drink, some sleep with people they shouldn't, some take it out on other people. Some never recover, but I did, and I know you will, too.” 

“I don't know how,” Casey’s voice cracked, but she didn't clamp her mouth shut or try to stiffen, she forced herself to relax into the vulnerability of the moment. 

“You don't have too.” 

Casey blinked at her and Mary’s hand found her’s once again. 

“It starts with eating better,” Mary soothed, “it starts with listening to your basic needs. Eat when you're hungry, drink when you're thirsty, sleep when you're tired and you can. Rest in the arms of people who love you.”

“I can't,” the redhead choked, pushing her head into her hands desperately, hiding her face and seeking support from her arms hopelessly. 

“Mary, for years- for years, I’ve been- I’ve been telling myself that all I had to do was make it ‘till high school graduation, make it through law school, make it until I get married, but there's no goals anymore, and everything’s falling apart.” 

Mary’s gaze sharpened quickly and Casey realized she had slipped up, revealed something she hadn't meant too. Mary had known she was engaged, and as Casey watched while internally cursing herself for the impulsive statement, her gaze flickered down to Casey’s hand. Casey had been engaged, and if marriage wasn't a goalpost anymore, that left only two options- either she had a husband, or she no longer had the immediate potential of one. No band adored Casey’s ring finger, and she could see that recognition click in Mary's eyes.

Defense attorneys had a habit of declaring their thoughts out loud, even if the implication of the situation was obvious enough. Clark was no different. It made Casey wince inwardly. 

“You're not engaged to Mr. Morrison anymore?” 

It had been a little over a year, fourteen long months since Casey had thrown Charlie out of her house, and the majority of people who had known about the engagement through idle understanding still didn't know it was over. Though, to be fair, she hadn't ever had that broad of a social circle to begin with- her parents had been informed when Casey kicked him out, his parents minutes after, and the few drifting college friends over the following weeks, and mostly only after they had asked first. Mary was one of the few exceptions who had been aware through random small talk, and Casey had never gone out of her immediate way to declare her potential marriage had crashed into a burning heap.

“No,” Casey muttered. She glanced up through her eyelashes, deciding if Mary would run with this topic, she’d continue it. Old women were always suckers to discuss romance in younger people, weren't they? “I’m not. And the person I saw after that didn't quite work out either, I- … I think.” 

She hadn't lost Alex entirely. They would be speaking in two week’s time. But she had spent the past months struggling with the assumption she’d never enjoy the company of the blonde ever again, and despite it now being corrected, the shape their relationship had previously been did not fit the way Casey’s character had morphed under the stress of the previous months. 

It was like a house one had moved out of and then revisited- bittersweet and hollowed, nostalgic in a heart wrenching way. The adornments that had lined the hallways, the understanding and familiarity ripped out and the walls entirely repainted. Perhaps the potential to repossess the property would occur, but there was no guarantee it would work, or that it would be at all comfortable like it had been before. 

It might not work. She would not base her fragile state of the foundation that she had no way of ensuring would not crack under her. If she were to be better, she’d do it without her, and if she wanted to share a second chance with Alex, she’d need to be healthy for that.

“You think?” Mary tilted her head, but then blinked and shook her head quickly. “For another time, Casey. Clever, though, trying to redirect me like that.” 

“Lawyer for a reason,” Casey said quietly, taking a spoonful of now-cold soup into her mouth so she’d have something other than speaking to do with her tongue. She averted her gaze. Her mental energy to have an emotionally taxing conversation like this was plummeting by the second, even with someone she trusted as much as Mary Clark.

“So if you don't have that type of consolation, Casey, what support are you getting?” 

That was the question probing the area Casey did not want to delve into. She sighed and closed her eyes, hoping Mary would get the message, which of course she did- but even a defense attorney as formidable as her wasn't quite sure how to breach such a sensitive topic.

“... You're working with the Special Victims Unit, so you have a set rotation of detectives now- are any of them trustworthy enough?” 

“I don't know how to answer that without sounding like a rejected schoolchild,” Casey muttered before she could stop herself. Pathetic, she groaned internally, why would she say something so pitiful? She was a prosecutor for God's sake, she should be stoic and cold and statuesque, but instead she had her elbows on her table with her head in her hands spilling her soul to the judge she did her clerkship under because a couple coworkers didn't appreciate that her face didn't look like Alex’s stupidly pretty one. 

The image of Alex’s smiling face, with her smooth porcelain skin and golden hair, the perfect image of everything that was wrong with Casey and the symbol she had used to punish and oppress herself, made adrenaline bolt into her veins. She wanted to run away, now. Hit something. Even with the norepinephrine she didn't have enough energy to do so. 

It's unfair, something inside her said, to hold Alex’s image in such a negative regard. Alex had been struggling too. Alex was trying to be nice to her, despite the venom Casey had spat. Alex wanted to keep trying. Alex was good. If Alex was good, then Casey must be bad, because Casey was not what Alex was- but Casey was not a bad person. This, despite her insecurities, she knew. 

“I’m tired of mental gymnastics,” Casey groaned out loud, because what kind of internal dialogue was that supposed to be, “Fuck this.” 

“Then we proceed through this in steps,” Mary affirmed, “And if you're a rejected school kid, I’ll be the teacher whose classroom you eat lunch in until you manage to make your own friends. This won't last forever, Casey, but until it's over I’ll hold your hand, so to speak.” 

Casey decided to ignore the comparison of herself to some little high schooler with her cafeteria tray in her English teacher’s classroom and focus on the proposal.

Proceeding step by step. Court proceedings were something Casey was good at following. She could do steps. She had a feeling Mary knew that was the equivalency she would immediately draw and had intrinsically framed it as such for her benefit.

“Okay,” Casey took a deep breath and nodded, straightening up and smoothing out the tablecloth and the skirt over her lap out of habit, “Okay.” 

“The first step,” Mary’s eyebrows flexed as though warning Casey not to be dejected, because she already knew she would be, “Is to let yourself accept you’re struggling. You've got thick skin, dear, I know you hate to admit it, but you have a problem right now, and you can't fix it if you keep agonizing over how much you hate that you have one.” 

“I’m here, aren't I? I’m having this conversation,” Casey responded, slightly indignant. 

Mary was quick to offer a quick “Yes, of course,” as a consolation. “I meant, though,” she was quick to continue, “That you need to come to terms with it. Counseling, I’d suggest, but you're stubborn and hate opening up to people, so perhaps journalling. Just get everything in your head out somewhere, and I guarantee you it’ll clear some space in that brain of yours.” 

“Journaling,” Casey echoed distantly. 

She wanted to cry, all of a sudden. She didn't want to be here anymore. She was exhausted and even though the way she had been going felt horrible at least, in a twisted way, it was familiar- but this? It felt easier to just lapse back into erecting brick walls.

I don't want to do this, something inside her thoughts despairingly, I just want to crawl into a hole and hide. I’m not like Mary. I don't have children to take care of. There's nothing keeping me going the way a mother is driven to persevere. 

“Okay,” she said, despite the voice in her head and the overwhelming sensation of internal organs churning in the cavity of her chest, “I can do that. What would come next?” 

The look Mary gave her made it obvious the older woman saw right through her facade, but she did not choose to comment on it. 

“Better habit forming.” Mary said flatly, and Casey shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. That much was obvious. Eating better, drinking enough, sleeping more. She already knew she had to do that, but perhaps after getting her head a bit clearer through Mary’s suggestion of journaling it would be easier than where she currently found herself.

“The step after that would be getting yourself out there again,” and here too Mary had to shoot her a stern look, because Casey snorted at the notion, “You need friends, Casey. You need to find people you're comfortable sharing things with.” 

Casey was silent.

“And after?” She asked, finally, because she didn't like sitting in silence with Mary Clark.

“Foresight and planning are essential to a lawyer,” Mary agreed, taking another slow sip of tea that had long since cooled off, “but you know better than anyone that you can't plan too far in advance, or it’ll become impossible to deal adequately with unforeseen challenges. Focus on what I told you, dear, and let the rest come naturally.” 

I don't want to be here anymore, Casey's voice told herself. I don't want to do this. This seems so hard. I look pathetic and weak in front of my mentor, and it's not like anything will change. I don't want to be here. I want to go home.

She was going to cry if she stayed here for any longer, she realized. She needed to go home. 

Before she could formulate some sort of excuse to tuck tail and duck off, Mary’s lips curved into a sympathetic smile, and she looked at her with an air a bit too motherly, a bit too familiar for Casey to be entirely comfortable with.

“You’re done talking for today, Casey, aren't you?” 

“Yes,” Casey’s voice came out in a small rasp, “This is harder than I expected it to be. I can't… I don't…” 

Mary shushed her, a soothing, hummed coax to Casey’s fragile psyche. Casey didn't need to talk, it seemed. Only listen. Casey could do that. Casey could force herself to do that. 

“I don't want to keep you any longer than you’re comfortable with,” the elder woman said in a quiet voice, quiet enough that Casey felt comfortable leaning forward slightly, “so I will provide you now with my closing statement, which begins by affirming I don't expect a return statement, so feel free to leave when I’m done talking.” 

Casey’s eyebrows simultaneously raised and tilted, a look of be-deadass crossing her face. It was generous for Mary to offer an exit without requiring her to say something to part, but she’d never leave without acknowledging the effort Mary was putting into this conversation. Mary smiled in response.

“I’d like to say how proud I am for agreeing to meet with me, and acknowledge how exhausting this must be for you right now,” at this Casey averted her gaze, her heart jolting in her chest, but she tried to settle into the uncomfortable warmth. It caught her off guard, but not in a bad way. She had heard people be sympathetic, offer comfort that simultaneously wasn't genuine but also not a lie- words they thought would bring something, but offered more out of a sense that that was what they were supposed to say, supposed to do. Tense, Awkward. Forced. But Mary spoke so easily that even Casey’s naturally oversuspicious mind was lulled, at least to some degree. 

“And furthermore, I urge you to remember how good of a lawyer you are. How many people you’ve helped, be it financial ruin from your time in white collar or the gift of a fighting chance to special victims in your new work. You may feel powerless, but you’ve been making a real difference, Casey. You’ve been doing well. You’re good, and not only at what you do, but in general- you’re a good person, Casey, no matter what kind of affliction provokes you.” 

A small shudder ran down Casey’s spine. It hurt to hear that, somehow, perhaps it hurt because her first instinct was to argue. 

“You’ve got me to call if you ever need advice, or a shoulder, or a helping hand,” Mary continued, “Or a shoe. And I know, you’ll argue with me about this, but I know with absolute certainty I’m not the only one who cares about you. Find the people who do and stay with them. You’ll be okay, Casey. Everything will be okay.” 

With that, she promptly nodded, the same way she had in court after finishing her closing statement, or giving the floor back to the prosecution. She had said her piece. 

“Thank you,” Casey started, before opening and then closing her mouth blankly. How was one supposed to respond to that- how did she want to respond to that? 

Being comforted by anyone- being offered consolation or support hadn't been an experience she had the privilege of receiving in months, perhaps years. Mary gave it to her as though it was water. Casey may as well have been terminally dehydrated. Her throat was choking trying to swallow something she wasn't at all used too- but she needed it, fuck, she had needed it. 

So she simply repeated a “thank you”, reaching over the table to squeeze Mary’s hand softly, mirroring the elder attorney’s earlier action. Casey took a deep breath, letting her eyes flutter shut. 

“I am very grateful,” she said slowly, “to have a mentor like you, Mary. Thank you for deciding to check on me, and thank you for listening to everything. Thank you for being so kind. When I’m back to normal, though,” her eyes flickered up, hoping to inject a small veil of playfulness, “I hope we go straight back to your ruthless teasing over my mishaps.”

“Oh, dear,” Mary chuckled, but her voice was still tinted with sympathy, “I’d never dream of anything otherwise.” 

“Good, then.” Casey said quietly.

She was done now. She had heard Mary out and responded in some way she decidedly thought was adequate. It felt awkward leaving but her heart couldn't take much more of the way she had forced it open for this meeting.

“I’ll see you soon, yes?” Mary asked, and Casey nodded easily. It wasn't like with Alex where the next meeting was loaded and something to obsess or agonize over. Another meal with Mary was as inevitable as rain falling- Mary needed the excitement of insights into the life of an up-and-coming ambitious young attorney, and more than that Casey needed her trusted mentor’s advice. 

“I’ve got this check,” Mary murmured, picking up her teacup, “So go on home, now. And Casey- take care of yourself.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Casey said softly, before standing up and slinging her coat over her shoulders. She turned back for a small second, her eyebrows furrowing. Casey swallowed once as a nervous tick, letting her bottom lip part open for a small second. It felt awkward leaving. It felt impossible to stay here.

“Thank you,” she said one last time, sheepishly, quietly. 

Mary didn't look up, but she smiled widely over the rim of her teacup. 

Casey turned and left. 

[senka-mesecine]

How do you think the boys would best comfort a sad lover? <3

-

― Chris does it by getting angry on your behalf at whatever it is that's bringing you down and making you upset. Fact is, he gets angrier than you'll ever be, taking your moods and problems entirely to heart and being genuinely aggrieved by them like your greatest ever advocate could only be. Like, man's pissed off and he makes a note to let it be known. You'll see him pacing. See him ranting in your stead. See him be outraged. Sometimes, he might even bring up vocalized thoughts of violence and what he would do to fix this, and these are the days your sadness hits him the worst seeing as how though he might not seem it, Taylor actually would stand up for you in your darkest moments when others are only talking about helping you and...that's oddly comforting. To know someone has your back so fully. Suffice to say, he doesn't leave your side. Probably sits with you, somewhere close to you, back bent, hands clasped over his knees looking just as upset as you are. There's something reassuring about that; the understanding you're never gonna suffer alone around him and that (eerily) he'd do quite literally whatever it takes to make things the way they used to be even without you asking. By the end of it, it might be you holding Chris back from fighting your battles because he'll get that invested in what he sees as avenging you.

― O'Neill might take the proverbial piss out of you at first, teasing you somewhat (hoping that in doing so he'll disperse your bad mood) and this is only because he actually noticed you were upset long before you ever said anything and he didn't wanna seem like a mush for being upset right alongside you. But, truth is, he gets nervy. Was nervy right from the start and he covered it up being a cocky irritant and by extension, irritating you and hoping it'll at least make you angry at him if not make you laugh at some stupid joke he inappropriately and probably deliberately told at the wrong time because either's fucking better than you being sad, making him sit down beside you and rant and rave insistently on the subject that's been making you blue like someone personally and entirely invested in the whole ordeal...and that's because he is. He'll be there wagging his finger in an accusatory manner, muttering, stuttering, tapping his foot, chain-smoking to calm down, talking for hours on the subject matter like the offense for your sadness is on him personally and this is something he needs to get off his chest to you and Jesus Christ, he might just bring his own figurative blood pressure up so much he'll be on the verge of sobbing up. How's any of that comforting you may ask? Well, it is, because in his own hapless way Red undeniably cares to stupid degrees. This means so much to him the man's all jitters and that's...a weird O'Neill bit of consolation.

― Bunny, the king of all empaths offers to kill someone; no, I mean it. That's his solution. God forbid you ever even vaguely mention it was a living person or living persons that upset you instead of a vague emotion or situation that can't be shot like a flesh and blood individual would be because he's downright gonna offer the solution of them getting carved up like a pig. Sure, it could come off like a darkly juvenile, try-hard joke on his part but it is undeniably he really means it as he goes into vaguely childish descriptions on how he would conduct the deed if he had the chance and being openly surprised if you're not impressed or immediately turned on by the fact. That whole murder-to-avenge-you notion of his probably comforts (and amuses) him far more than it'll ever comfort you and if you ever criticize or reprimand him for it, he might just get annoyed with you and call you a killjoy or a pussy. Fact is, he doesn't know how to handle this. So, he's throwing things at the wall to see what sticks and furthermore, Bunny's bringing up suggestions likely to cheer him up thinking it'll cheer you up. When all fails, though? Literally all his attempts? Likely to mellow out and sit down beside you doing the unthinkable of being affectionate after some long rant on how he could still do if you'se wanted; he's eerily like a kid in those moments for all his violent tendencies, snuggling up close and muttering something about tearing you a new one if you ever bring this up to anyone.

― Rhah busts out everything he's got; The weed, the records, the liquor, the dimmed lights, his embrace, his words --- baby, all of it. You being sad is the gateway to one of those profoundly enlightening evenings where you two truly talk about life itself for hours. Probably until dawn. How you two don't run out of topics is hard to assess the same way it's difficult to tell what you even talk about except that you talk, or maybe even just whisper idly and lazily once you both get too tired and groggy to continue, at one point swerving entirely off topic from whatever it was that brought you down in the first place and you find yourself amidst a conversation like no other genuinely feeling better afterwards because it's impossible not to feel better when you're surrounded by all things meant to make you feel better --- the songs, his presence and the overall atmosphere of it all. Lets be real, probably all the weed too, either directly or through exposure of secondhand smoke. Vermucci gets characteristically philosophical during all of this, naturally, probably tracing his fingers along your body, worshipping every inch of you, holding you close, muttering deeply and saying something about sadness being bullshit anyway and how in his experience there ain't nothing in life genuinely worth throwing away good feelings over precisely because that shit's so rare. For someone quite so cynical, he's unbelievably romantic when you get upset. Almost like he lives for moments like this; when he can use his oratory skills to genuinely talk you out of depression all while simultaneously very much acknowledging that sucker for the demon that it is.

― Thing is Wolfe desperately wants to be useful and furthermore, he wants to be The Man. You know? The problem solver. The tough one. The strong one. The rock. The one who someone else turns to for guidance and support. In a vacuum of emptiness that separates him from the other soldiers a sad significant other is perfect because it is an immaculate opportunity for him to be just that; someone's hero for a change. Doesn't mean Wolfe's happy you're sad or something. Not like he's looking forward to this or gleefully rubbing his hands together scheming (...or is he?). But, he is looking forward to being needed by you like he's looking forward for fresh air to breathe even though he doesn't let on. So, when you're upset? He genuinely immediately notices before you even say and anything or before you yourself even know and he personally offers to be of assistance like a dutiful, smiling clerk asking their boss about his chores would be. That's how he poses his comfort too. He outright lists all the things he could bring you right about now to make things easier on you. Napkins? Tissues? A shoulder to cry on (himself)? Anything you need? Anything at all? This is the reflection of a professional deformation at play. He was de-facto in charge of a bunch of men that technically should've relied on him for guidance on and off the field but who mostly ignored him so he tries awfully hard to be of service and in an oddly convoluted sense he is probably quite good at it too precisely because he's so keen on it. You don't know why it works or what about it works but it works.

― In you being sad you might just find out Elias is more of a melancholy person himself than ever anticipated, in fact, he feels, understands, empathizes and personally experienced everything you're going through right now. It's like he's been there. In your own shoes. He's walked the exact miles you're walking right now, deciding to wait for you on the other end to make the necessary steps you need to make to reach him and where he's standing. He's a profoundly wistful person in actuality and your sadness not only feels seen, it's known and by far the experience of depression is infinitely less lonely with that realization in mind. It feels like a warm hug or a pat on the back from someone who truly loves you and furthermore, gets you. In talking with each other, he might just reminisce at the state of the world, the state of life, of this whole goddamn mess and the sea of chaos --- you two in it --- viewing you like his own anchor. The notion of that is somehow so lofty even though Elias delivers with genuine heartfelt humbleness and without an ounce of pretentiousness that it is in fact, a comfort in your dark hour. That someone thinks of you so highly as to see you as the one bright spot in the whole universe. Even if you don't immediately agree with his view of you or try to argue it you can't help to feel (secretly?) lifted by it. Loved by it. Simultaneously, it's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever told you.

― King has a naturally ingrained, God-given talent of making any problem seem infinitely less serious than it truly is through a combination of being surprisingly wise and sagely about and being just downright funny. By being a unbelievably positive influence regardless of the situation or how dire it is. If Rhah's the occasional gloom-and-doomer of the group, King is just hope incarnate. Man just has an infectious light about him that's hard to explain. You could pretty much simply sit and be in his company and probably feel better by sheer default because he rubs off on you like something addictive. The problem you're having doesn't even need to be outright discussed in some immense detail because...it somehow becomes unimportant or simply shrinks to something seemingly miniscule and far off in King's presence. What was a mountain melts down into an acorn subjectively. You can forget about it all for a moment. Or talk. Either's groovy. But, what could've started out as a pretty crappy day for you might just end up with you singing and dancing even though it's perhaps something you never do because that's the degree to which King's aura just sweeps you under its wings. One part of your day, week or month could've been sheer despair with no light at the end of the tunnel and the next? Contrastively? You don't know what happened but the minute you came in close contact with King life was wonderful again. How does he do it? Good people just have that effect, you suppose.

― Barnes could tell something's brewing inside of you weeks before it actually culminated in your outright sadness mainly because he notices infinitely more than he ever shows; he's one for talking in details quietly more so than being a direct talker. Probably having followed the development of your upset for days thinking it'll pass because this stuff usually does and when it didn't, he followed the process even more ardently like a tactician assessing a target. Might've poured one out for you quietly once it got really bad and just told you to talk. Talk about it. It's maybe one of his good traits; being an astounding listener --- a habit he practices even when he doesn't give a shit about people, but my god, when he does? One should genuinely be aware what one tells him because he forgets nothing, misplaces no detail and weights everything --- every word being a fine line walked between him being currently mellow by your side and silently going out and doing something about you being sad. Or doing something to someone. Do anything. You name it. If Bunny offers to kill someone Barnes might just do it and not even blink. Fact is, even though he mainly appears coldly poker faced this affects him more inwardly and than outwardly. There could be moments where you'll catch him staring back at you sadly over a drink and you find a reflection of him literally being melancholic over your situation and not even hiding it. Fact is, the scene is so harrowing and an unusual sight considering Barnes is Barnes it might just weirdly sober you up. He is sad for you. The man sad for barely anyone in the whole goddamn world. The understated gravitas of that. Jesus Christ.

[themistressofdolls]

An insult to life itself

I rolled out of bed feeling tired and low on energy from being up late watching the feed. Just one more I told myself and before I knew it the clock had hit four am before I finally let myself drift off for the night.

Didn't help my head was killing me, bad sleep hygiene they called it right? I saw a short video talking about it the other night.

The lonely nights gazing at the screen blurred into each other days becoming weeks becoming months then years.

Dad was in the living room watching the network which generated a new version of the The Sopranos finale made in America in which a gun man comes out of the bathroom and Tony quickly guns him down with an uzi before a small army of mafia goons enter the Holsten's to take him on in a heroic last stand.

I watched as the digitally resurrected corpse of James Gandolfini shot his way through countless men before looking at the camera “Families what its all about and I'm not going to let any of these bastards unseat me as the boss! We're going to war, to finish this.” as he looked at Carmela and kissed her.

Then Walter White from breaking bad entered the Holstens “So you're the big boss of New Jersey? I came all the way from Albuquerque, the names Heisenberg and I need your help to take out a man named Gus Fring...Do this and you'll be untouchable.”

The old man typed into the touchscreen to begin generating season seven, maybe this one would have a cross over with the wire, through I worry he's running out of ideas for prompts along with shows to pick apart for what ifs.

“Morning.” I shouted as I dragged myself into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

As I scrubbed I took out my pad “Generate Lo-jam pop rock something with Teal ocean wave pre future aesthetic.” I said as the service responded taking a few seconds to generate an entire playlist with album covers of random shapes of vague nostalgic imagery.

After washing up I returned to the living room “Can you change your little brothers food bag before you head out to work?” My dad asked apathetically before his attention returned to the Sopranos season seven.

Grabbing a gel pack from the cupboard I opened the door to Nicolas room, who was still inside his media pod, most likely watching HappyApple which generates educational kids content(tm).

Took me back since it was the same educational program I underwent when I was his age, after all its generative AI engine was built and approved personally by the TemuDisneyWonderbread company.

I remember my Grandfather told us about schools from back in his day where you had to leave the home to study when he was a kid, that was before the government de-funded them since innovations made such archaic things obsolete anyway.

After changing the bag I headed outside to grab an Amazon Tesla rideshare to work, during the ride the radio was tuned into GPT 7.02 digital generating a story about the recent efforts of the American regeneration organizations efforts to clean up the east coast radiation trench, a relic from the deepfake wars which was before my time but grandfather told me all about it and how a plague of misinformation caused world war three.

Passing through the city I saw some graffiti on a wall, yet somehow it reminded me of when I was a child, that I wanted to be an artist once.

Silly notion I grew out of thankfully, after all that's not a real job and besides we have machines to do all that stuff now.

[ask-asexual-crystal-gems]

@galaxy--ace seems to want to discuss morality. I’m not claiming to be any philosophical expert, but consequentialism holds that anything that results in (or may result in?) more harm is immoral.

If a policeman puts a dog in danger, for example, he’s doing something more immoral (if you hold that a dog ain’t got no business getting shot for human constructed problems, that’s unfair to the animal) than if he’s just having it do a relatively tranquil task like drug sniffing.

Now, ofc, philosophically speaking, as I understand it, most religious fundies are operating on some version of deontology. As in, an action in and of itself is bad no matter whether it’s risking or causing more harm or not. To me that’s silly.

(btw the last sentence in your post sounds like an empirical claim, so I’m going to need some citation if I’m going to bore my readers with the textwalls that seem largely irrelevant to the point I’m making. And yeah, OP said nothing about poly relationships, that was a reblogger named WhereSerpentsWalk. That topic necessitates a discussion about STDs and the downplaying that gets done. Which you are also doing. Another reason why I don’t wanna host stuff containing perpetuation of harmful attitudes my blog. No offense. /gen)

So, if putting others in harm’s way is an immoral act (no matter if the dog actually gets shot or not) then risking harm to one partner by pursuing a second or third or fourth potential vector of infection, especially in open poly relationships or even just if you’re having one night stands with multiple people, is immoral towards them.

(and towards everyone else involved as well.)

Consent to that harm isn’t as important as recognizing the notion that you’re consciously choosing to put others in harm’s way.

You’re still free to do it, just like somebody is free to not donate to charity and buy some capitalist whatever doodad while somebody else does a more morally optimal action.

It is suboptimal. Morally.

imho

Religious people make it just about who is good and evil, which is a toddler way of looking at the universe. A more realistic lens is just a sliding scale, a spectrum of morality, and people shouldn’t get butthurt about being factually identified as getting an A- at life instead of an A+. 

People who sleep around, but do safe sex are getting a B. People in open poly relationships probably get a B-. People who sleep around without doing safe sex get an F. Frequency of doing so plays a part in the sliding scale as well. Is this making sense?

This is not even getting into the potential hurt feelings ofc. One survey I recall vaguely said around 50% of people going into one night stands hoped it evolved into something else. That’s a whole lot of playing roulette with other peoples’ hearts if you’re unaffected. As an aro person, I feel it’s my responsibility to point out that if you lean that way, or experience attraction without much romance, just bc the other person puts on a brave face, doesn’t mean your actions haven’t had neg util, as they say in the formal debate circles. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a gender disparity in who came out of it bruised, either.

Lines of thought that seem Normal but are actually rooted in extreme puritanism:

-Seeing the nude human body is inherently traumatic -Sex scenes in art are pointless -Wearing kink-related clothing in public is the similar to performing a sex scene in front of unwilling participants -Depicting female characters expressing sexuality is always degrading -People's sexual fantasies are always an endorsement of the behavior they want to see in real life -Sex work is more traumatic and coercive than other types of work The goal is to treat sex as just another thing people do. That is a much healthier attitude than hiding it! It's not uniquely traumatic, it's not weird to talk about it or include it in society.

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Death in the Vatican (Aliprandi, 1982)

With the passing of Pope Francis (R.I.P.), I started looking up papal themed movies and this one caught my interest. To be honest I suspect a lot of people are gonna be watching Conclave, but a) that's not on any of my services at the moment, b) it looks like a prestige TV show and when normies start talking about things that are or look like prestige TV shows, I automatically assume they're bad, and c) I got an idea in my head that the movie is basically Ralph Fiennes saying in the raspiest, most wheezing voice, "The pope is deeeeeeeaaaaaaad!" and I didn't want to dispel that notion. So I watched this instead.

And yeah... I can see why I'd never heard of this. On paper, a movie about a member of the clergy undergoing a spiritual and political crisis and getting involved in a plot to assassinate a left wing reformer pope sounds like it should be interesting, but all of this plays with the lowest possible urgency. The assassination plot isn't even introduced until we're more than an hour into this, and much of the movie is just characters talking in extremely brown looking rooms. I do think a movie about a reformer trying to lead an institution deeply entrenched in its ways and resistant to change could be interesting, but this doesn't seem to explore any of this all that thoughtfully. I'm not a Catholic so perhaps I was missing all the religious truth bombs that were being dropped in the dialogue, but it seemed like the reformer pope was talking in only vague platitudes.

So this is a nice reminder that some Italian genre movies from the '80s are actually bad and rightfully forgotten. That being said, if a particularly undiscerning boutique Blu-ray label was feeling up to it, they could assemble all three minutes or so of footage with any semblance of style (the POV shot where we watch a character knock over a bunch of furniture while retreating from the camera, the hallucination scene, the wacky sniper scope flourish) into a trailer. They could get some critic to drop a blurb calling this is "a politically and theologically daring mind melter!" If no one is willing to compromise their reputation, they can quote my review out of context. And if they couldn't find a member of the cast or crew, they could get somebody to record a feature talking about "religion in genre cinema" or something and have them sit in front of a poster of The Exorcist or whatever Italian ripoff the label previously released. Boom! Slap that shit on a Blu-ray and sell it for $40.

[misfitwashere]

Putin's paranoia

Terrorism, delusion, and self-destruction

Timothy Snyder

Mar 26, 2024

  On Friday 22 March four men associated with Islamic State attacked civilians in a concert venue near Moscow known as Crocus City Hall.  Islamic State (IS-K) claimed responsibility for the horrifying mass murder, and released videos recorded the terrorists' perspective (don't watch them).  Russia has since apprehended four men, who seem to be the perpetrators. 

Russia has been engaged with Islamic State for some time.  Russia has been bombing Syria since 2015.  Russia and Islamic State compete throughout Africa for resources.  All four of the accused are Tadjiks, a people subjected to discrimination inside Russia.

            These are the facts, subject to further verification and interpretation -- and inherently unpredictable, as facts always are.  What was entirely predictable (and predicted) was that, regardless of the facts, Putin and his propagandists would place the blame for the attack on Ukraine and the United States.  If Ukraine and the West are guilty, then Russian security services do not have to explain why they failed to stop Islamic terrorists from killing so many Russians, because Islamic terror vanishes from the story.  And if Ukrainians are to blame, then this would seem to justify the war that Russia is prosecuting against Ukraine.

Aftermath of Russian ballistic missile strike on Kyiv, 25 March

            Russian officials make a highly circumstantial argument: the terrorists' car was stopped near Bryansk, which is in western Russia, and so vaguely near Ukraine, which means that the four Tadjiks in a Renault were intending to cross the Ukrainian border, which means that they had Ukrainian backers, which means that it was a Ukrainian operation, which means that the Americans were behind it.  The reasoning here leaves something to be desired.  And the series of associations rests on no factual basis.

            The suspects were in a car near the west Russian city of Bryansk.  This much seems to be true.  The first version of the story was that they were headed for Belarus, which would make more sense, given the route.  Anyone with local knowledge would make a still more telling point. Because of the special relationship between Russia and Belarus, the Russian-Belarusian border is porous.  Once inside Belarus, it is relatively easy to pass into the European Union, because the Belarusian regime enables human smuggling into Lithuania and Poland.  Four Tadjiks in a Renault would have been, in this sense, welcome in Belarus.  They would have had a decent chance to pay a smuggler to get them into the Schengen zone and thereby escape.

            The idea that the suspects were headed for Ukraine seems to be entirely invented and is extremely implausible.  As of this writing, none of the suspects seem to have said anything about Ukraine, despite the fact that they have been tortured, presumably with such a confession in mind.  And the notion of a Ukrainian escape route really makes no sense.  The Russian-Ukrainian border is a place where Russian security forces are concentrated.  It is a site of combat.  It is the last place terrorists would want to go.  Four Tadjiks in a Renault would have needed some very, very high-level Russian protection to get anywhere near the Russian-Ukrainian border. 

            Russian propagandists have told the population that it was not Islamic State but Ukraine who is to blame.  ISIS is just a "fake."  The propagandists need not give reasons, and don't.  Only Putin is permitted to set the theoretical tone for the argument for Ukrainian involvement, and yesterday (25 March) he gave that a shot.  His version went like this: Ukrainians are Nazis; Nazis do bad things; a bad thing happened; therefore Ukraine is to blame.  

One does not have to be a logician to find the holes.  They are disturbingly large. 

            The premises do not work together.  While it is true that Nazis do bad things, it does not follow that all bad things are done by Nazis.  And the first premise is empirically false. 

            One should not have to say this at this point of the war, but the Ukrainians are not the Nazis in this conflict.  The Ukrainian far right has never done well in elections, and is far less prominent than in any European state you care to name, let alone the United States.  Ukrainians have an active civil society, a vibrant press, multiple political parties, and freedom of speech.  Ukraine's president won a free and fair election.  He is also, incidentally, Jewish.  The Ukrainian minister of defense, for that matter, is a Muslim.  The commander-in-chief of the Ukrainian armed forces was born in Russia, where his parents still reside.  This kind of political and social pluralism is unusual by any standards.

A Kyivan looks out the window after yesterday’s (25 March) Russian ballistic missile strike

            In Putin's version of the Russian language, of course, the word "Nazi" has no meaning beyond "what I wish for you to consider as the enemy."  If we are going to pursue the question of who the fascists in this war are, however, it is worth knowing that Russia has none of what Ukraine has.  Putin has never won anything like a plausible election to any office.  His regime has crushed civil society, political parties (except his own), and the press.  Putin runs a single-party state where the only principle of the single party is his personal status as its Leader.  He rules at home by terror and prosecutes a genocidal war abroad, in Ukraine, with the help of Russian soldiers who ever more often openly identify as fascists.  Putin himself espouses what is unmistakably a fascist ideology.

            Calling the Ukrainians the Nazis while being the Nazis is not itself a problem within this system, since being the fascists involves living within a big lie.  The challenge to such a system is that reality sometimes intervenes in a way that is hard to control -- as when Islamic State carries out an act of terror.  This brings in a whole set of political and social realities that are usually suppressed in Russian propaganda: the bombing of Syrian civilians since 2015; the bloody resource wars in Africa; the oppression of Tadjiks.  

            In Russia's system, it is not simply political convenience that adds the big lie of Ukrainian jihadism to the big lie of Ukrainian Nazism.  It is the deeper need to make reality, or at least psychological reality, conform to the story told by the state.  In the psychological project, more killing is necessary.  Russians are engaged in the project of killing Ukrainians.  Russians in Ukraine torture Ukrainians for being loyal to Ukraine, deport Ukrainian children for assimilation to Russia, and persecute and execute local elites who they regard as threats.  Russians fire some combination of shells, glide bombs, drones, cruise missiles, and ballistic missiles at Ukraine every single day, for no reason that communicates with reality. Yesterday, for example, multiple Ukrainian cities were struck by fifty-seven Russian missiles and drones.

            It is the killing itself that makes the lies true, in a psychological sense.  Russian soldiers who have killed Ukrainians believe they are fighting "Nazis," whatever that means.  And now Russian soldiers write "for Crocus" on he shells they fire at Ukrainians.  Yesterday (25 March) Russia fired two ballistic missiles at central Kyiv, even as Russian authorities announced that the terrorist attack means that they are permitted to kill high officials of the Ukrainian state.

Rescue workers prepare to help victims after a Russian ballistic missile hit the Kyiv Academy of Decorative and Applied Arts and Design. Photo by Kostiantyn Liberov/Libkos/Getty Images)

            Among Ukrainians, all of this generates a weary shrug.  It has been a kind of Western parlor game these last two years to ascertain the "rational" motivations behind Russia's war of atrocity in Ukraine.  Such a debate is attractive in the West, because if one can identify a Russian rationality one can then defend a policy of doing less, or doing nothing, to help Ukraine win the war.  If Russia is rational, then surely some compromise can be found.  This is a Russian leadership, however, that interprets the fact of American warnings about the attack as a reason to blame the United States for it: as the puppetmaster of Ukraine, which is itself the puppetmaster of Islamic State. 

            For Ukrainians, being identified as Islamists as well as Nazis is just one more detail in what is for them a war of self-defense and survival.  And of course, as Ukrainians will remind you, for different audiences the Kremlin also characterizes Ukraine as the center of gay civilization, as an element of the Jewish international conspiracy, and as a Satanist cult.  So (the memes are out there) Ukraine is now a gay Jewish Nazi Islamist Satanist regime.

            The Kremlin goal of identifying Ukrainians as terrorists might matter in the war.  It can be used as an excuse to continue, to mobilize, to commit new kinds of war crimes.  This is one way this will certainly go.  But it is not certain that this development will be stable. 

            It might matter to Russians that Putin's big lie about Ukraine is growing whiskers.  Once forced into gay-Nazi-Jewish-Islamist-Satanist territory, Russians just might be reminded of the late Stalinist purges directed against supposed Zionist-Trotskyite-fascist-imperialist (etc.) conspiracies.  Or, more simply, people inside the regime, backed into a corner by Putin's escalation of unreality, might just realize that the Ukrainian scenario makes no logistical sense, and lacks any evidentiary basis. 

            This can undermine Putin's authority, and the sense that his story is a useful one.  Judging by yesterday's appearance, this is no longer the nimble post-truth Putin who is capable of changing out one lie for another as necessary, with a wink to the insider along the way.  This now seems to be a Putin who actually believes what he says -- or, in the best case, lacks the creativity to react to events in the world.  His speech yesterday was grim for everyone, including to Russians who would like to think that their leader is ahead of events.

            Putin's Ukrainian theory could make Russia more vulnerable to terrorism.  The Crocus City Hall attack was more likely because Putin has chosen to use his security apparatus against Ukraine and the opposition.  It is typical of his priorities that, on the very day of the Crocus City Hall attack, the regime defined international LGBT organizations as "terrorist."  When Putin publicly ridiculed the United States on 19 March for warning of an Islamic State attack, he was signaling to the security apparatus that this was not a real danger.  In conflating Islamic State with Ukraine now, he is doing the same thing at a higher level.  That cannot be helpful in the practical work of preventing another attack.

            Nor can, surely, Putin’s idea that Islamic State takes orders from the Jewish president of a European state, and that its actors are nothing more than pawns of American masters.  I am not going to claim any expert knowledge of how Islamic State works or its leaders think, but it seems like it would not be best practice to ignore it and insult it at the same time. 

TS 26 March 2024

[comicaurora]

Heyo, it's the fool who wants to make a comic with zero experience in drawing or finishing stories again. A lot of people, including you, I think, mentioned that "Your first work will be bad". Any tips how…not to do that? I don't expect it to be a magnum opus or smth, but I at least want to make something people would genuinely unironically enjoy, and "first story is always not good" notion everywhere is very discouraging

It's not like I never tried anything creative ever, but this is my first attempt of putting it down on paper with intention of completing it, instead of having vague ideas of "I know what would be so cool when I make it a thing" in my head for months without acting upon any of these ideas

It's definitely a disheartening adage, even if it's supposed to take the pressure off young creators.

Unfortunately, no matter how good your starting point gets - and you can get it very good, don't get me wrong - you are still going to find it unbearably bad when you look back on it with experienced eyes. You might eventually circle back around to finding it impressive, considering it was your absolute first starting point and you had no experience, but you still won't be able to see its merit the way your audience will.

The thing is, your first project is going to teach you a lot of things you couldn't have known you needed to learn beforehand. This means everything you make after learning those things is going to be smoother in process and better in result. There's also just the fact that the more you do this sort of thing the more practiced you'll get at the mechanical side of it, making it faster and easier for you and leaving you with more energy to punch things up. Compare the Big Fight Scene from chapter 3 with the one from chapter 17 in terms of visual complexity:

Particle effects, ambient glow, soft lighting, atmospheric depth, metallic effects, light and shadow. The seeds of these ideas are present in the earlier shot, but executed in a much clumsier way. Fourteen chapters of gradually increasing complexity and just raw practice got me to the point where drawing that second panel was fun rather than exhausting. If I'd tried that in the first chapter I would've probably been so worn out just trying to finish the lineart that the quality of the rest of the image would've suffered from sheer exhaustion.

And even before that, those first chapters only flowed as well as they did because I'd been drawing hundreds and hundreds of video frames for years at this point, which had gotten my lineart muscle memory polished enough that I wasn't agonizing over every single stroke.

I was absolutely determined to start this comic off at the best level of quality I could, and that determination kept me kicking the can down the road for a decade. I think this was a good thing; if I'd started it any earlier I think I would've been a slow enough learner that the quality increase over those first few chapters wouldn't have been as steep as it was. And that first chapter was as good as I could've made it at the time; I didn't take any shortcuts or laze around, and I used every skill I'd learned over the previous decade of physical and digital art. Of course, if I knew then what I knew now there's loads of stuff I'd have changed about the way I handled the intro. In fact, I'm going to break my One Rule about "never going back or redoing things" and I'm going to walk you all through chapter 1 and what I would change/fix if I was drawing it now.

Remove the outline on the background mountains, add color variance to the further mountains so they appear farther in the background, un-muddy the color of the sky and make those clouds a little more impressive; this could've looked like a full glorious noonday sun. The forest was drawn with an experimental brush I'd created for foliage that I ended up deciding didn't produce the effect I wanted; I'd probably go through and use the technique I developed for Gleicann's forest to cel shade blocks of foliage.

Add at least the bare hint of buildings behind the sword pedestal - just gradient outlines would be fine, similar to the extended backgrounds in Zuurith. Also slap some blue cinder-y particle effects coming up off the sword. Clean up the shading layer so there aren't as many holes. Add metallic shine to the blade and marbling/stone texture to the pedestal.

Un-muddy the colors on this background; they match The Collector's color palette but that matters less than looking nice. The background needs something - speed lines, the implication of foliage - etc. The poses could also be more dynamic and drawn with more confidence. To show the power behind the blows, re-choreographs the fight to show more of the damage it does to the environment - the sword carving through rocks, ploughing furrows into the ground, starting to spark with starfire, etc.

Same problem with the foliage; the special brush adds too much detail, drawing the eye away from the important parts of the scene, and the colors are muddy to cover that up. Brighter greens and cel-shaded layers would produce the effect I actually wanted and be faster than hand-drawing every treetrunk and then shading them so they're indistinguishable anyway. Also, more intense shading on the foreground figure - a neutral tan shadow layer is functional, but it could look a lot more dramatic, and he's shaded much more lightly than the extremely muddied background is.

Of course, "if I knew then what I know now" is a meaningless turn of phrase. I needed to draw these pages this way in order to learn what I know now. If I had jumped straight into the shortcuts I've painstakingly developed without having had that intervening practice, the end result would've been just as bad - if not worse, because it would've been executed shakily, without the confidence that accompanies muscle memory. The techniques I used in this first chapter had served me well up til that point. The techniques I use now were built on these foundations. Lamenting that I could've done it better if I'd started now is like saying the pyramids would be so much taller if they'd laid the foundations at the top part instead.

There's a degree to which this work is sisyphusian. You do your best, you push yourself, and then your "best" gets better. At some point you have to accept that what was your best is still okay, even if you can't see it that way.

When I was working on this comic in the pre-actually-drawing-it years, I came to a realization that helped me get unstuck: "good enough" is a mask that "perfect" wears. Striving for perfection is a pointless task, and this is pretty well known, but it seems a lot more reasonable to just try to get "good enough" at art to guarantee that your work will be good enough. But if you unpack that concept, you likely find that your definition of "good enough" is basically "without flaws." Which is "perfect." Which is, as mentioned, unattainable. Those pages are as good as I could've possibly made them at the time, and they aren't perfect, and I never thought they were perfect, because I knew if I waited for them to be perfect in my eyes I'd never make them. I just had to grit my teeth, make them public and hope that people got something out of them that I couldn't.

There is a baseline level of artistic skill and preparation that I do recommend cultivating - figure and life drawing, anatomy studies, landscapes, reading Scott McCloud's "Understanding Comics" cover to cover - but there is no hardline starting point at which you are guaranteed to be good enough to make the story and art good. This is because "good" is subjective, and as long as you are improving as an artist, your own perspective on your old work will never be that it is "good." You have to trust that the audience that likes your story likes it for their own valid reasons.

The thing is, I know this is a bummer. This whole thing is a bummer perspective. Artists want to make good art and the nature of artistic creation is being unable to see your own art as good for long. If you believe that your art must be a certain baseline level of Good to be worthy of existing, this truth seems to be a condemnation to an eternal and pointless purgatorial struggle.

The most valuable skill an artist can develop at this stage is strangling that insecurity with their bare hands.

Trust your audience! Trust that they enjoy what they enjoy, and trust that they see something in your art, even if all you can see are the critiques you'd use to polish it! "Perfect" and "good enough" will tell you that your creation will always be hideously unlovable and must be hidden from scrutiny until it's "ready", but like all insecurities, underpinning this is the axiom that anyone who likes you or your work is lying. Strangle this falsehood, trust freely and openly that your audience is being honest with you, and while you work to improve on the creation side of things, trust that in the eyes of the people who like your work, it is Good Enough.

[samueldays]

[Part 1 of 2] Taking a stab at the notion of "post-scarcity" here as a prelude to longer comments on AI, automation, and artbots.

At first pass, it's an absurd incoherent notion. Star Trek talked a big game about having something of the sort thanks to the replicator, and the moment an author blinked, it was back to scarcity, for example with Picard's French chateau. Those are very very scarce, and even in fiction, replicators can't replicate the prestige that comes with a French chateau.

At second pass, a bunch of people noticed that their idea was poorly named and the name didn't represent their hopes.

See for example, Wikipedia:

Post-scarcity does not mean that scarcity has been eliminated for all goods and services but that all people can easily have their basic survival needs met along with some significant proportion of their desires for goods and services.[3] Writers on the topic often emphasize that some commodities will remain scarce in a post-scarcity society.[4][5][6][7]

This sort of vague handwaving about "some significant proportion" and "many goods" and backpedaling is the good sort of talk about post-scarcity, relatively speaking, from what I can find. The bad sort is brainrotted whining about capitalism, blaming scarcity and entropy and greed and everything the speaker dislikes on capitalism.

But let me try to interpret it charitably nonetheless. It seems that my homeland of Norway became a post-scarcity society sometime between 1960 and 1980, having been electrified by then, not suffering any famines or invasions since then, having a poverty rate within measurement error of 0%, et cetera.

This runs into new problems. Even if Norway of fifty years ago matches a putative stated definition of "post-scarcity", Norway of fifty years ago very much does not match the way I observe that "post-scarcity" is used in practice. Post-scarcity is poorly defined in use but it's implicitly a future that's better than the present, not worse.

Maybe we need to go back to Star Trek.

Third pass: Post-scarcity is when there's replicators.

On the one hand, it feels like a kinda cheap shot to accuse some (many?) people of having a worldview revolving around a fictional device from a technobabble show, where setting implications usually went away at the end of the episode, and where technology might work or not depending on the needs of the plot this week.

On the other hand, a lot of people are TV-brained, and "replicators" is still usefully more specific than "scarcity", and seems to be the general sort of thing a lot of people mean by "post-scarcity", ignoring the sorts of things that Star Trek ignored. For those unfamiliar with the technobabble show in question, lemme briefly recap how it works: the replicator is a machine that can make a very wide variety of products in very short time.

If you want a bicycle, for example, you go to the replicator and say "bicycle" (and search through the offered models, and other interface implementation details that we can gloss over) and the replicator spits out a brand new bicycle that's made then and there. The replicator is free for the marginal typical use.

Caveats: There might be a monthly subscription fee, or a limit on not making your own skyscraper, but a new bicycle is free. The Everything-Maker might be restricted from outputting some substances like radioactive elements, but it can make a new bicycle and other items of a median home. Matter input and mass recycling are probably required. With that said...

Broke a plate? Get a new one from the replicator. Stained a shirt? Replicate a new one. Lightbulb stopped working? Replicator. You want a surfboard? Replicator. You want tea? Replicator.

The replicator's omni-machine status replaces a lot of cupboards and storage and supplies when you can get almost whatever you want on the fly. It's an amazingly convenient fictional device, and gets rid of the kind of "scarcity" of not having some doodad on hand.

"Post-scarcity", also called "AI has taken all the jobs."

[midnightactual]

Well to answer your question about "mentor" Yoruichi it's a archetype and the way Kubo writes character interactions being very poop and unrealistic. For example Isshin's the daddy but he doesn't act like one, Yoruichi and Urahara are the mentor's but vaguely if ever act like it, the karakura gang are close friends but vaguely if never act like it, the soul society is the ally but vaguely if never acts like it ect. This is probably the biggest problem with Kubo's writing dude does not know how to flush out character interactions. On a side note why do you think Yoruichi treats Ichigo like insect she's about to step on minus the Kubo factor? (Parallel to that could you imagine how Yoruichi would have treated Ichigo if she found him 2 inches tall in rirukas doll house she'd fuck with him so hard 🤣)

I want to be very clear that I don't think Kubo is a good writer in most capacities. He's usually pretty mid at best (and when he is good it's usually far too subtle to be effective) and has all kinds of flaws. However, this conception of his writing—and I don't mean offense by saying this—is very small-minded and inaccurate.

What I mean by that is when you analyze and evaluate a piece of writing, judging whether something was intentional or not requires careful consideration. The main criteria for such is determining whether what you're seeing is happenstance or if it forms a persistent and consistent pattern.

And the things you're describing are indeed persistent and consistent. Kubo is not bad at portraying character interactions. He is intentionally not having his characters interact in order to convey something. It's a theme, not an error, and the theme is alienation and isolation. It's a commentary on the lived Japanese experience.

You're not supposed to come away thinking that Kubo sucks at writing friendships. You're supposed to understand that the "friendships" portrayed are vapid and superficial. Orihime's reason for wanting to be around Ichigo initially is "he makes funny faces". Chad is willing to die for Ichigo because he once intervened in Chad being bullied and saved a coin (that didn't even wind up being his Fullbring—that was not a mistake, it was a deliberate choice to tell you the coin was never what was actually important). Uryū tags along because of inertia. These people aren't actually good friends. This is directly called out in the "fight" between Shunsui and Chad:

Well, the truth is that not only are Ichigo's friendships with Orihime and Uryū thin, because they too have only been a thing for 2 months at this point, but actually Ichigo's friendship with Chad is thin too because they've only known each other for a year or so, which is hardly any better. (Only Ichigo's friendship with Rukia is actually notable because "she changed his world".)

You're supposed to understand these people are actually really bad friends. The manga repeatedly makes this point.

They don't hang out. They don't confide in one another. They don't trust each other. They don't even particularly like one another. They're really more acquaintances of circumstance than friends.

That's why they end up like this. Largely alone. Isolated. Mostly ignoring one another. This pseudo-Renaissance arrangement is framed like this, just like the real ones, for a very good reason.

That reason is why Uryū is facing away up above, didn't go to Ichigo's watching party of Chad's boxing match, and is sitting in the background here in the bottom-right by himself.

Q370: In the new one shot Ichigo says that he's over at Keigo's ramen shop with everyone. By everyone, who exactly is he referring to? Besides Mizuiro, who else was there with him? Chad too? A370: The guy sitting in the back is Uryu.

So once you understand that what you're seeing with interpersonal relationships of all kinds in Bleach is not a mistake, but a very deliberate, intentional, and methodical choice, and you see how "friends" treat one another, you can see how ridiculous the "mentor" notion truly is, and how it comes out of nowhere.

It's not that Yoruichi (and Kisuke and so on) are portrayed as being bad at being mentors because Kubo doesn't know how to write that kind of thing. It's that they, the characters themselves, really do not give a shit about these kids but are nonetheless forced to rely on them. And yes, that is exactly how they think of them (as does Kūkaku):

"Boy". "Fool". "Stupid child". "Kids". "Fool".

This isn't a mistake.

As for why this is from Yoruichi's end, I've sort of answered it before, but I'll give you the tl;dr: Yoruichi is a professional soldier and Ichigo is a naïve child soldier. Of course she finds his presence and relying upon him aggravating. Imagine attaching a 16-17 year-old high school student to a Navy SEAL team on an infiltration mission. They'd absolutely hate it.

Anyway, this goes back to my point: imagining that these people are actually close is exactly like believing everything an ad says about how a product will make you attractive or popular or cool or whatever. It's wishful thinking that originates from buy-in as to what you're told and want to believe is true rather than what you actually see if you pay attention.

It's not real.

[eyedelater]

morality

(part 2 of a series of posts about tsukishima hajime. part 1 here)

one could argue that tsukishima is as bad a person as ogata because he too killed his own dad and has killed many other people, not just for military reasons, but at the behest of the head of a REBEL military faction with shady plans and shadier means. and he does tend to kill people up close instead of from far away like a sniper. you have to consider, though, that when tsukishima killed his dad, he wasn't intending to, and he didn't revel in it and give a whole big speech like ogata did. he let his rage take over and decided to beat the hell out of his dad, but he never decided to kill him. that part was accidental. (he did tell tsurumi that he didn't regret it, but that was based on the mistaken notion that it was revenge for causing igogusa to kill herself. once he found out the truth, he regretted it. we know this because after the stenka, he warned sugimoto against losing control and doing something that he can't take back.) the bottom line is that tsukishima does not enjoy killing people. he kills people because he feels that is part of his duty, which arises from the debt he feels he owes to tsurumi for saving him. he doesn't pay close attention to his feelings of guilt or allow himself to express them publicly or privately, but he does have them. he just grits his teeth and does what he is told to do (and sometimes even does the expected dirty work without being explicitly told) because he has given his free will over to tsurumi completely. by comparison, ogata seems to enjoy killing people explicitly of his own free will, in the same way he enjoys hunting game… or in a similar way, depending on who he is killing. ogata always kills willfully and intentionally, because that is what a hunter does. tsukishima doesn't wallow in feelings of guilt over killing people because that part of him has withered up, whereas ogata doesn't wallow in feelings of guilt over killing people because he does not have the innate understanding of those feelings that most people have and hasn't for his whole life.

in the past, i've made a big deal of it (in my head) when fictional characters have a habit of killing people. a character's moral standing meant a lot to me on a personal level. but now, something has changed in me, and i don't get stuck on that point as much. probably i have hardened my heart, and it's a problem on my end, but let's set that aside. despite tsukishima and koito both killing a lot of people, i want them to be happy. maybe it's because they both would not have gone out of their way to kill people if not for their circumstances (such as being in the military and also being in a rebel military group). they are not killers at heart; it is the innate immorality of war (and the military itself) that has corrupted both of them into killing. they have both done unforgivable things, but they can improve as people and do their best in the future to be a positive force in the world instead of a negative one. (except they both stay in the military until the end of WWII so that's really difficult. that's one reason it's kind of nicer to put them in a reincarnation AU...)

when inkarmat blocks tanigaki from being shot by tsukishima and tells him to kill her first if his sense of justice allows it, it's probably not quite as big a mental struggle for tsukishima as it should be. after all, for years now, it's not like he's been believing that he is steadfastly pursuing justice. he knows he's a pawn for tsurumi's plans, and he knows tsurumi's plans will hurt some people and help others. he may vaguely believe that tsurumi's plans will work out better for japan in the long run, but justice itself is not something he has been overly concerned with. his personal sense of justice has greatly deteriorated over his long tenure as a pawn. later, when koito sees tanigaki and inkarmat on their way out, hesitates, and decides not to stop them… that's because his sense of justice hasn't been fully corrupted yet. of course, it has been a little corrupted, because he had already killed lots of people for tsurumi before this (at abashiri) and he will kill more people for tsurumi after this (at goryokaku). but he still has a basic sense of right and wrong that tsukishima lacks at the time. that's why it's good that he becomes a guiding force for tsukishima in the end… if tsukishima feels like he needs to follow someone with big ideas, it should be someone who still believes justice is worth pursuing.

[mollierdr2]

My Boy

Idea: Eliza and Isaac don’t die in the robbery, but instead lose everything they have.  Isaac reflects back on his relationship with his dad throughout the years.  

Word Count: 3700+

Warnings: Major Character Death, spoilers (why would you be reading Red Dead fics if you don't know what happens?), bad writing lol--Also, I have a vague recollection of something like this, so if I accidentally stole your idea, let me know so I can credit you!

OH AND I'M NOT SHORTENING HIS WORDS TO MAKE IT LOOK LIKE HE HAS AN ACCENT OR WHATEVER BECAUSE I DON'T LIKE THE WAY IT LOOKS--IMAGINE IT WHEREVER YOU SEE FIT

1905 - Outside of Dallas

I don’t think I can say my relationship with my dad was ever a very strong one, but there was always a lot of love between us.  From the first time I can remember him visiting to the last, I looked up to him.  I didn’t see him frequently–that came with the confines of his “job”--but he always made sure that I had a good time.  

My mother and I lived in a small homestead just 50 miles north of Dallas, Texas, for my early years and he’d visit on the holidays–first week of summer, Easter, Christmas–things like that.  Mother wasn’t too proud of him or how we got our money, but I think she saw how I adored him and knew she’d have to keep him around somehow.  

The first visit I can remember–I was probably 6 or 7– was during the summer.  He came bearing gifts and money and a promise to teach me to hunt and fish by the end of his stay.  Mother wasn’t pleased with the notion of me holding and operating a weapon, but he managed to convince her that it was necessary.  Besides, he said, it was better to learn early. 

I made him stay in my bed every night and tell me stories of the untamed “Wild West” he’d set out to conquer with his friends.  He told me stories of banks and greedy miners and all I could think of was how undeniably interesting he was.  My dad was an enigma; I wanted to be him.  

The morning after his arrival, he took me out to the woods and handed me the smallest rifle he haid.  “What you’re gonna do-” he said, lifting the rifle up to his cheek, “is rest your cheek on the side of the bottom, here, okay?”

“Yessir,” I said, mimicking him.  

“Are you right or left-handed, boy?” He asked me, lowering his rifle and stepping behind me.

“Sir?”

“Which hand is your dominant hand; your right or your left?” 

“I dunno,” I said, flushed.  My dad took a step back and helped me lower the rifle.  

“Alright, what I’m gonna have you do is point your finger, okay?”  He grabbed my arm and raised it to point at the tree in front of us.  “Look at what you’re pointing at, close your right eye and look at it, and then do the same for your left eye.”

“What for?” I asked, frowning and turning back to look at him. 

“So we can see which eye is your dominant eye.  Normally it’s the same as your dominant hand,” he said, repositioning my hand.  “Now close your right eye, son.”

I did as he said, closing my right eye, opening it, and then closing my left eye.  “It moves with my right eye closed,” I told him, looking back up at him.

“Same as me, then.  Pick your rifle back up and we’ll try this again,” he said, and I did.  Within the next 15 minutes, I’d successfully shot a couple of bottles and watched as he shot a rabbit for supper. 

“Mother!” I shouted, bounding up the porch stairs.  “Look what we got!”

“Is that a rabbit?” She asked, squinting and putting up her hands to shield the sun.  

“Sure is,” Dad said, lifting it up. “I taught the boy to shoot and showed him how to shoot something moving.  Figured I could teach and get us some supper at the same time.”

“I got three bottles, Ma!” I wrapped my arms around her, smiling.  

“A whole three, huh?  I’m proud of you, son.”  She poked my side and we stood, walking back inside the house.  Glancing back at my dad, she said, “I suppose I should get to cooking this rabbit, if you don’t mind skinning it for me.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem,” he said, grabbing the rabbit by the ears and yanking its skin all the way off.  I stood and stared, jaw dropped.  My mother also stood and stared, but with the same look she gave me when I tore up her flowers and brought them to her in a bouquet.  I was unable to tell why she’d be upset in both instances.  “Sorry,” Dad grumbled, handing her the skinned carcass.  

The stew my mother made with that rabbit was delicious.  Dad left before we got to the bottom of the pot.  I missed him a whole lot.  

We moved out of that homestead a couple of months later after a robbery and in with Professor Wyndham, a professor of theology.  Mother always said that he showed us grace by allowing us to move in with him, but I always felt quite unhappy in that house.  He made me go to school.  I was fortunate enough to have already been taught to read and write by my father, but at school, they told me that everything I knew was wrong.  Instead of writing with my left, I needed to write with my right.  I had to read the Bible instead of the comics from the news.  I hated it, and I begged Mother to let me quit school, but she remained firm in her belief that school was essential, and my argument that my dad hadn’t gone to school seemed only to further her opinion.  

When we lived with Professor Wyndham, Dad visited less.  And when Dad did visit, Professor Wyndham wouldn’t let him stay with us in the house.  I was probably 9 or 10 when I overheard an argument between the three of them.  I’d been sent to bed after supper, despite my swearing that I was not tired.  What I did instead was wait in the hall for my dad to be done with the formalities and come see me.  It started rather agreeably, with my father saying, “Would you all mind if I took the boy out on a hunting trip up North for a few days?  I’ve been tracking this bear in Arkansas for a couple of weeks now.”

“We’re not comfortable that you wouldn’t hurt him, Mr. Morgan,” the professor said, standing.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time for Mrs. Wyndham and I to retire to our bedroom.  It’s high time you do the same.”

Dad stood too, but with more purpose than the professor.  “Please, I just want to spend some more time with my-”

“He’s not yours.  He hasn’t been yours since you refused to stay with him,” Mother said, standing as well.  All three of them were staring at each other like some sort of Mexican stand-off.  “Joseph saved us–he gave us a home and a father figure for Isaac when you were God-knows-where doing God-knows-what–and I don’t think I’m comfortable with my son thinking of you as anything but the man who abandoned him.”

“I didn’t abandon no one!  You knew what would happen as soon as you got pregnant, so don’t blame me for that!”  Dad’s face went red.  I briefly considered going to him and saying that yes, Mother, I would like to go on a hunting trip with my dad.  But I stayed put, watching from the corner.  “And another thing: I kept you guys supported for as long as I could!  Sure, it weren’t much, but it was all I had.  You’re the one who started refusing my help.”

“Go home, Mr. Morgan, wherever on Earth that may be,” Professor Wyndham said. "I hope that you find God someday and that you accept His love.  Until you do, you will never be welcome in my home.”

Dad flexed his right hand next to his gun and sighed, turning and bursting out of the door without another word.  I ran after him, too fast for Mother or the professor to catch me, crying for him to stop.  “Please take me with you, Dad!” I cried, wrapping my arms around his waist.  “I won’t cause no trouble to you and I’ll be real good, okay?”

“Let me go, son,” He said, pushing me back and crouching down, putting his hands on my shoulders.  “Look, there’s some things I can’t change, and one of those is who I am.  I’m a bad man, and I don’t want you seeing none of that, okay?  You stay here with your mama and be good for me.”

“But Dad, please-”

“Be good for me, my boy.  I’ll be closer to you guys now–only a day away–so I’ll try to visit you more.  We’ll go hunting and fishing next time, and I’ll let you ride on Boadicea.  She’s a real good horse, and I see you looking at her-”

“I don’t want you to go yet!” I hugged him again, but this time he hugged me back.

“I know.”

That was all he said before standing and climbing back onto his horse, leaving me there.  He didn’t say goodbye–it wasn’t in his nature to–but instead he waved and rode away.  Mother and Professor Wyndham were pleased to hear of his departure, despite my great sadness.  I cried for days afterward.  

Though he’d promised to come, he didn’t.  I assumed that he was off doing the things he did–whatever they were–and he couldn’t afford to come see me.  I never held any ill-will or contempt against him, even if I should have.  He would come back for me eventually, and maybe when I was old enough he’d take me with him.  I held onto the belief that he would and continued on with my studies because maybe if I just held my head down and did what I was told, they’d let me go, though I knew deep down that they never would.

It wasn’t for another year and a half that he came back, and he looked different.  More tired than before, and with bits of gray streaking his hair.  He didn’t have anything to give me, but he held up his promise.  We took a couple of days to go North and camp in the valley.  It was just him and me again; Arthur and Isaac taking on the wilderness.  I asked him if he ever thought about Mother and I; if he wished he’d stayed.  “Every day,” he said, his face illuminated with an orange hue from the fire.  “I was too far in with everything to leave, and now I don’t think I will, son.”

“Why don’t you take me with you?” I asked, looking up at him.

“I already told you why.” He tilted his head toward the dirt, half-smiling.  “I don’t want you near any of that.  You’re too good a kid for my life, you hear me?” 

“Yessir.” I didn’t ask him again, though I always wished he’d just let me go.  I was already proficient with a gun and I’d have done anything to be like him.  Nothing my mother or the professor could say would make me hate him; he was my dad and he was amazing.  He fought bad guys and helped poor people–I couldn't see where that set him apart from any of my storybook heroes. 

The next morning, we tracked and shot a black bear.  Dad taught me how to skin the bear, explaining everything the pelt could be used for.  As a gift, he let me keep my pelt and we brought the meat back home to restock our dwindling food supply.  Professor Wyndham seemed to–for the first time–be thankful for my dad’s efforts, telling him that he’d be able to feed the people at the church with our leftovers.  He never thanked Dad, but I knew he was appreciative of our efforts.

Either as a loosening of policy or a gesture of thanks, Dad was allowed to stay in the house that week.  I slept on the porch with him, listening to him roll around all night.  Something about him was different than before and it wasn’t just aging.  He was more weathered; it was like he’d seen things that people shouldn’t see.  I didn’t ask him about it because I knew he wouldn’t want to talk, but I wished I could help.  Here was a man I’d spent my whole life wanting to be and he was so tortured that he couldn’t sleep at night.  I decided I’d make him proud somehow, as if it’d make him sleep easier at night.  

“Hey dad?” I whispered.

“Isaac?  Go to sleep, son.”

“What do you do?  I mean, besides fighting bad guys and stuff.  You always tell me I don’t wanna be like you, but you’re so good at being my dad and hunting and stuff so I was just wondering-”

“Do you remember when you lived on the homestead and you had to take care of the land everyday?”

“Of course I do.”

“It’s like that.  I have people I take care of–stuff I maintain–and I’ll get in trouble if I don’t do that, just like you did.  Now go to sleep; I’m leaving tomorrow and I want to take you for a ride.”

“Okay, Dad.  Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, boy.”

The next day was the last time I saw him for a long time.  We got up at sunrise and–like he said we would–Dad and I rode to the Red River and back.  Then he left.  I was 13 the next time he came–the last time he came–and if I thought he was a different man the time prior, he was a whole new man now.  He came on a new horse with nothing to give us.  I didn’t care about gifts, though, not when I could see that he wasn’t well.  Despite my mother’s best efforts to remain slightly hospitable, he wouldn’t eat much and preferred to stay at a hotel.  Professor Wyndham didn’t have to stir up a storm about him being there; it was like he didn’t want to be in the first place.

The grave and off-putting feel of this visit was present from the second I saw him riding down the strip.  His head was tipped and his body was limp.  His clothes seemed to be looser than they’d been before; I could no longer see the muscles I had envied my entire life.  He hitched his new horse on the post in front of the house and smiled faintly when he saw me.  “Hey, son,” he said.  

“Hello, Dad.” I stepped off of the porch to help him with his things, and was surprised when he leaned into me a little more than I was used to.  When had this changed?  When was I the strong one?  I shook off the feeling and took his bag from him.  “Let’s get you settled in.”

The room he was staying in was small–much smaller than the rooms at home–and for once in my life (and probably his, too), he looked small in it.  His clothes were looser and his skin was pale, with dark, purple circles around his eyes.  His forehead glittered with sweat despite the mild temperatures.  He groaned as he sunk into the armchair by the bed.  

He was a lunger.  There were plenty of lungers in Dallas–they came for the clear air; I’d helped a few at the church–but I never expected to see my dad as one of them.  Growing up, I was sure that he was invincible; he got into all of these fights with bad guys and never once faltered, always steadfast and unshaken.  But looking at him now, it felt like something was lost and it was more than his fighting spirit.  It was like the fire in his eyes had faded; he’d lost his spark.  

“I’ll just sit here a minute, son, okay?” He said, wheezing.

“Yessir.” I sat down at the foot of his bed, trying not to look at him.  The guilt of not looking gnawed at me, but I wasn’t sure how I could.  Would it make him uncomfortable?  He knew how highly I thought of him, and I was sure that staring would make it worse for him.

My dad was a proud man, even if he’d deny it.  He wasn’t the kind of proud to fight someone over an insult or something like that, but instead the kind of proud to never admit that he was wrong, or that, like in this instance, he was sick.  I knew this–even at 13–and didn’t try to press him for anything.  If he wanted to tell me about it, he would, but he seemed to enjoy our silence for now.

“I just want to say that I’m proud of you,” he said quietly, breathing shakily.  “You’re a good kid.”

“Th-thank you?” I frowned.  “What brought on this?”

“Well, I ain’t gonna be around forever, and-”

“Don’t say that,” I whispered.

“It’s the truth.  There’s no sense in denying it-”

“Don’t say that.  Please.”  My chin quivered.  I knew he was right–he always was–but it was something I didn’t want to accept; how could I?  I had lived for his visits.  When I was younger, I would sit on the porch for hours to watch for him.  He rarely came, but when he did, I was ecstatic.  There was my dad and he was great.  He fought bad guys and traveled all over the country, but he somehow managed to come back for me, no matter how hard it was.  The professor could never fill Dad’s shoes, not even if he tried.  I’d never love him like I loved my dad.  

He took a deep breath and said, “I ain’t well… and it’s not gonna get any better.”

“But-”

“No, listen to me.  I’m gonna take you fishing tomorrow, just you and me up on that lake in the mountains for a day.  We’ll bring the fish home, cook them up, and I’ll have to leave again.  I have some business to take care of and then I’m coming back, okay?  I’m coming back for you and I’m staying.” He coughed into his hand and grunted.  “I’m staying here as soon as I get my business dealt with.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say or do.  This was probably the longest I’d heard him speak to me–aside from teaching moments, maybe–and I’d never heard him speak with such desperation.  It scared me.  He was never like this; always cool and collected.  

“Yessir,” I finally mustered, blinking.

“I will come back, I promise you, Isaac.”  He coughed some more and, looking up, said, “I just gotta do some favors and it’ll all be over.”

I nodded again.  Despite swearing it to me–promising he’d be back–he sounded like he was convincing himself, more than anything.  He was still trying to have some sort of control, I guess; trying to say that even though everything had gone wrong, he was going to get to the other side of it all.  He would manage it, by God, and he would finally get what he wanted.

And I believed him.  I clung onto his every word.  Here was my idol, the man I’d wanted to be my whole life, telling me that he’d finally stay.  Maybe then we’d be a happy family.  Mother would ditch the professor, who I hated so, and we’d go back to the homestead and we’d be happy.  Dad would be there with us–we’d be ranchers–and he’d teach me all about how to care for the animals.  We’d have cows and sheep and horses.  I had wanted a horse of my own my whole life and for some reason, I thought that Dad moving to Dallas would get me one.  Maybe it would have; who knows?

After I went fishing with him, I never saw him again.  I waited two years before giving up on it all; he was surely dead or captured by then, and there was no point in hoping for him to come back.  Eventually, we got concrete news of his passing from a Native man called Charles.  He explained that dad was caught between two worlds–his gang and us–and he couldn’t get out of the gang.  “He tried,” Charles said.  “He tried so hard.  He loved you so much.”

So did I.  I asked for every detail of his death, though, in hindsight, I wish I hadn’t.  I wish I could’ve pretended that he didn’t die the death of an outlaw–left to choke on his own blood–and that he really was the hero I had imagined him to be.  

Instead I know that he died alone in the middle of nowhere after being betrayed by the man he gave up everything for; the person he gave up me for.  I was his son–his own blood–and he followed that man to his death.

And I wish I could resent him for it; I wish that knowing this would make his death feel more righteous and deserved, but I’ll always feel like the world did me wrong.  I had a dad.  His name was Arthur Morgan, and he was good.  He did a lot of bad things, but he was good.  He and I were finally going to have the life we deserved and he just… died.  I can’t even remember our fishing trip or when we got back home.  I  can remember him leaving though, and I can remember watching for him tirelessly.  I sat on that porch day in and day out, refusing to go inside to eat or sleep with the hope that I’d see his broad frame atop a pretty horse, probably calling me boy or son; never by my name.

 I can’t remember his voice now, or the way he spoke.  I couldn’t tell you if his hair was blond or brown or if his eyes were green with bits of blue or blue with bits of green.  Every time I visualize him, it’s an image of a man I never knew and I never will.  I can try and learn about him from his writing, which I’m doing, but it’ll never be enough.  There’s so much that went unsaid between us and maybe it stems from our ignorance to each other. 

I never told him directly, so this journal may be the closest I’ll ever get: I love you, Dad, and I forgave you for not coming back the second you left. 

[senka-mesecine]

Could you please do sfw headcanons for being in a relationship with o'neill? Also if you dont mind can you do some nsfw ones?

---

SFW:

― O'Neill's a certified wife guy, through and through, meaning that you're most likely to wear the proverbial trousers in the relationship and call most of the shots, not because Red's incapable of leading as such, it is simply because he happens to prefer it like this, a brownnoser and residential ass-kisser in an army structure easily translating to something of a dyed-in-the-bone people pleaser in a more civilian setting, in a familial social bubble, making him a proud proponent to the famous saying of Happy Wife, Happy Life. Of course, in front of the boys or other men he might flaunt the very opposite for masculine brownie points and to seem like some sort of despotic authority figure laying down the law with an iron fist and who doesn't let anyone wrap him around their finger, but the truth of the matter is, you, as the partner, are in charge. Chances are high that whatever you say goes and he likes that.

― Ironically, the macho flaunting just about stops when he's surrounded by guys he dislikes and who dislike him, making no effort to hide that he's downright cocky about the fact he's got a woman that's pleased with the notion that he does anything for her, like a loyal puppy dog gone arrogant after too many thrown chewing bones. 'What? You got a problem with that, Taylor, huh? You jealous or something? That you ain't got what it takes, uh-oh?' Red might just ask, smiling smarmily, chewing something in his mouth with great distinction like he considers the fact he's of service to the missus one of his prime achievements in life and in fact, people are possibly usually so weirdly taken aback by how downright slimy and smug he seems by it that they often don't know what to retort back to a guy who seems to relish the notion of being so openly ingratiating to another person.

― In fact, to expand upon this, Red's a wife guy to such a degree, even before you're actually the wife, he needs to hold himself back from flaunting just to what level you occupy most of his thoughts; if he doesn't itch to brag about you, he itches to relay anecdotes about you and if it's not anecdotes, it's him casually mentioning how you're the greatest thing since sliced bread in some shape, way or form with genuine pride added to the mix. Takes a feat of actual willpower on O'Neill's behalf to act at least a little aloof and maintain some sense of a dignified nonchalant aura that, no, in fact, his life doesn't revolve around the missus. Truth is, though, it does. And chances are, everyone who even vaguely knows him senses it. Whenever there's a blank space in conversation people already brace for it by default; Oh, no, O'Neill will jump in again. On and on about Mrs. O'Neill.

― Likely that he downright gets nervy and panicky when your correspondence is even slightly late, when he's expecting a letter or a call from you...well...more nervy and panicky than usually. Red will honest to god bounce his foot up and down, chew his nails, stutter when he talks and fall into a flurry of anxious ticks and all because he's so eager for some contact from you that it manifests in his usual manner just flaring up. Might just act meanspirited asshole to whatever cherry happens to be unlucky enough to get into his hairs on that particular day of the week. He just loves you, is all; wants to interact with you as much as possible and real chance is, he always gets this real bad feeling you might change your mind about him one way or another. That some crap might happen to him and that this could be the last time ever and that worse yet, he missed a written word or two from you because of it.

― Becomes something of an even bigger consummate coward once he's met you, mainly due to the fact that there's an reason extra to stay alive and by extension, he desperately wants to live and be with you. Desperately in a way a weasel caught in a trap might be, squealing and clawing to get out. He gets that it's not exactly a virtue to be proud of, but he also possibly doesn't care, willing to ass kiss, snivel, flatter, suck up, lie, cheat, fraud, fake, rat on others to collect favors later, maintain tactical alliances with the worst people and do just about anything anyone else could consider slippery, sycophantic and muggy to get ahead in whatever teensy, tinsy way. And really, when you peel back the reasons behind his motivations, it all boils down to Red wanting his freedom to be reunited with you as he rotates back to the world. There's...something almost pathetically romantic about it all.

― On a lighter note, he lives to tease you. Since day one, it's just about the prime way he flirts. Acting insufferable around you, prodding at you, poking, provoking you, being something of an occasional bully, being a jokester purely for your sake, being smarmy to infuriate you on purpose because that's the main way he knows for sure he'll keep your attention whether you like it or not, then switching things around and attempting to act suave which might come off as funny unintentionally as he leans one arm above your head to show them off, hitting you with some cheesy one liner he's way too content with. Point is, O'Neill never stops doing this regardless how many years into a relationship he is; merely a week or a full decade could've passed and he'll still be here wooing and seducing his woman like the very first day, however haplessly because it can't be helped.

― You're Mrs. O'Neill. You're Mrs. O'Neill probably since the moment he's met you, and a moniker he initially uses to mess with you and anger you with, much to his personal enjoyment, possibly grows into a legitimate endearment he utilizes at least ten times a day; right up there with My Old Lady and The Missus. The Ball and Chain when he feels particularly jovial about it, admittedly, uttering said nickname with the widest smile imaginable like he rather takes pleasure in the idea as a whole, and in conclusion, Red probably ends up being a surprisingly devoted partner against all odds, which might astound some people thinking that someone so slippery and slimy probably doesn't have it in them, but I do think one of his defining traits is the need to be deferential, at least to some degree, to someone. Fact is, he's chosen you. He's never gonna be shaken off either because he's stuck to you like a gum.

―

NSFW:

― O'Neill's the definition of 'whipped' and happy about it. Again, not because he can't do anything else, rather because he specifically likes it like this, so, if it ain't broke, no reason to fix it --- furthermore, it is because he likes mean women. They're inherently a fetish all on their own. He likes being bossed around, he likes you on top, he likes you taking charge, he likes you taking what you want and having a ride on top of him and frankly, he wouldn't have it any other way. To expand, he likes being teased to excess too; getting a hand job and having his dick stroked and edged until he's practically begging and whining for it with his toes curled only to be denied is one of the main things he frequently circles back to; bonus points if you go ahead and act mean about that too and just refuse to let him finish. Man would undoubtedly go at it until his eyes goddamn nearly water.

― He's a boobs guy, he's an ass guy, he's a legs guy, probably a feets guy too; not hard imagining him in post coital bliss polishing your toe nails propped on his lap as he's, in his usually anxiety-ridden state, complaining about something after you're just done fucking each other's brains out; point is, Red has a thing every part of you and he's not high strung on specifics, but yeah, if we had to single something out as a point of interest --- feet. One time you might've playfully (or unintentionally) slapped him with your foot while he was preparing to climb on top of you and it changed the trajectory of O'Neill's life; ever since then, he's had a keen fascination for them and he's be in a big want to do anything from massaging them, to sucking on them, to being stepped on. And if you ain't willing? Oh, it's just a joke, a joke, calm down, babe! Except...

― Enjoys slapping, enjoys hairpulling, enjoys being on the receiving end of it and absolutely smiles insufferably as it all takes place. Likes strip poker, likes you pouring liquor all over yourself so he can lick it all off and has any number of highly specific kinks that have O'Neill written all over them to the point that if anyone ever heard about half of these they'd just know Oh, that crap Red's into, right? Furthermore, as much as he's into degradation and being dommed, it is undeniable Red does like being the one getting comforted in the aftermath; likes meanness, sure, but it when it's combined with some genuine softness and empathy for him, especially taking into account how rare both traits in his life, he just melts into a puddle of goo and practically whimpers as you pull him into your embrace and let him use your boobs as cushions, falling into rambling elaborate pillow talk.

― Oh, yeah. The famous 'O'Neill death grip'. Thing is, I do think Red likes to pretend like he doesn't always have submissive tendencies, even to you. I think he has moments where he's deliberately unbearably cocky precisely because he wants to be pegged down a notch and elicit as much nastiness out of you as humanly possible, irritating all your worst impulses out of you so you would practically wrestle obedience and devoted deference out of him. In layman terms, he wants to piss you off badly purely so you'd give it to him and chances are, man relishes a bit of playfighting where he promptly loses and then pretends that nah-uh, he let you lost, see, because it doesn't count when someone's fighting a girl --- might just say that on purposes purely to irritate and flare you up even further; key indicator being that he has a shit eating grin plastered on as he awaits your reaction.

― Lingerie; why would he like lingerie? He's a Lifer that's been in the bush for god knows how long and he has bad, awful feelings about his own predicament ever since --- he wants and likes to look at something pretty, goddamnit. Something not out of a stained, disgusting fucking magazine spread. Which leaves center stage for underwear of all sorts --- funny thing being that O'Neill isn't particular on what gets him off in that department when it comes to you, even though he might claim, in great and obnoxiously know-it-all-detail that he enjoys them broads in the frills, the real satin, the finest type of stockings on the market and god knows what else he might come up with, embellishing tall tales and parading a supposedly refined, experienced taste in women. In reality, you could be minding your business in an oversized shirt, socks and some deep waisted cotton whiteys and Red genuinely might whine at the sight of it.

― Less so a kink and more of a general preference I can envision him having, but beach sex comes to into question. In fact, easy to imagine that after years spent on the front Red probably fantasized about anything connected to a very long vacation that reveries tied to rolling around the sand all oiled under the sunshine up are pretty much an overidealized sexual staple of his by now. Fucking you on the beach? You fucking him? Some shades of exhibitionism involved? Escapism? Him having an elaborate list of army bases stationed on exotic locations and how he wants to be deployed to each so he could get it on with you there? Yeah, why not. That's typically O'Neill. What's even more O'Neill is it all becoming an euphuism that lets everyone know he got some poon. He comes back from R&R, flashing his walk of pride around camp and merely flashes a cocksure, cat-that-got-the-cream grin at everyone explaining 'He's been in Okinawa.' and everyone covertly rolls their eyes because they know what he means.

― Red has a major praising kink he undoubtedly doesn't even know he possesses or realize he's starved for, because being mean to keep him keen isn't enough, I don't figure. Not for the long haul, anyway. Being domineering and something of a bad bitch just doesn't continuously pack the same punch if it's layered on thick with the guy with zero variety; what gets him going in every regard, emotional and sexual is him being told, rarity of all rarities, how good he's doing. Stroking his curls as you tell him how pleased you are, with zero sarcasm or snark involved. Balancing the authoritative behavior with actual commendations and complements that has him definitely melting into putty in your hands. These are the things that graduate lust and sexual chemistry into flat out love and adoration, because again, when's the last time this ever happened to him? That someone appreciated him like this?

[robininthelabyrinth]

i've been keeping a list of possible prompts for you and there's one i have no memory of adding that just says "courtesan nmj????" so i guess that's the prompt you're getting lmao

What Does the Fox Say - ao3

“Second Madame Nie!” a disciple shouted, rushing into her little garden. She didn’t recognize him, but he was solidly built and well-muscled like most of the others – truly, the Unclean Realm was a rapturous feast for one with eyes to see it. Yum, yum. “Second Madame Nie, I have bad news!”

Boo. She hated bad news: bad news meant she’d have to do something, usually, and right now she was seated very comfortably in a pleasant piece of sun in the garden path that’d been made up just for her and to her preferences, with her feet up on a chair and a full plate of fruit from the kitchen on the table in front of her just begging to be devoured, morsel by delicious morsel.

Her schedule was packed!

“I regret to tell you, but your husband has been killed!”

“Oh,” she said, frowning slightly. “Has he? How obnoxious of him.”

How unreliable. Men.

She sighed.

“Second Madame – Second Madame – you don’t understand!” The disciple was all red-eyed and weepy, which was a look she liked, especially in big, stout men like this. The salt added a bit of spice to the whole thing. “You must flee at once! He was killed by Sect Leader Wen in an act of outright aggression – Sect Leader Wen has declared war – the Wen sect is invading!”

She nodded and picked up another lychee to start peeling it. She’d get around to fleeing in her own time. As long as this Wen sect or whatnot was being led by a man, she wasn’t terribly concerned.

“They intend to wipe out the inheritance of Qinghe Nie! They will rip out the child in your belly!”

She hummed noncommittally. Really, how attached was she to having a child of her own? Really?

“They will slaughter civilians – execute Nie-gongzi –”

Her hands stilled.

“What,” she said, and the disciple took a step back automatically, proving that he, at least, had something more of a survival instinct than her late husband did. “Hurt my little meat bun? My darling rice roll? My savory zongzi?”

She stood up, diminutive height and over-large belly and frilly clothing doing absolutely nothing to diminish the vaguely menacing aura that darkened the sky around her. She bared her teeth.

“Who does this upstart Wen dog think he is?!”

The disciple blinked owlishly, but nodded, seeming relieved that she’d finally accepted his concern, though she could see on his face that he was thinking that her reasoning was – characteristically – a little strange. But then again, and she could see this thought process on his far too honest face, it was well known that the second Madame Nie been quite strange ever since Sect Leader Nie had found her in some lonesome place with no family or background and brought her back to be his new wife nevertheless.

Such a charming man. Pity about his loss, really.

“You have to flee at once, we can’t possibly fight so many people,” the disciple said once more, and this time she nodded in agreement. “We can escort you to a hidden exit –”

“No!” a little voice called. “We can’t go.”

She turned to look, and there was the little pork-and-shrimp dumpling himself, chubby-cheeked and earnest-eyed, looking as delicious as always.

“What do you mean, fish cake?” she asked. “Of course we have to go. Didn’t you hear what this strapping young man said? This Wen person wants to kill you!”

“If Father is dead, then I’m the sect leader,” her stepson said. He was serious and solemn in a way that made her want to pinch his cheeks and bury her face into his belly to blow raspberries, and also possibly to eat him right up, flesh and marrow and gristle and all. “That means it’s my responsibility to preserve the Nie sect.”

“Nie-gongzi, no!” the disciple cried, throwing himself to his knees in a dramatic display of loyalty. “You would only die – far better for you to run, and live!”

“Then isn’t the same true for everyone else?” the tasty little dish asked, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting. Possibly he was trying to put on a fierce expression, maybe, she couldn’t quite tell sometimes. He was so cute. “Why should I live, and them not? I refuse to buy my life with their deaths!”

“But – Nie-gongzi –”

Her charming little honey cake shook his head and held up a hand to stop the disciple, turning to look at her instead.

“Second Mother,” he said, and he had that wholesome trusting expression again that was such a perfect little one-shot-kill to the heart, ugh. “You always said you’re the best at hiding. The best in the world, no one better among all the gods or demons!”

She was, too. She couldn’t help but preen a little, proud.

“– can’t you do something?”

“Oh, darling cabbage bun,” she said, not without fondness. “I can hide myself from even the net of Heaven itself if I so choose, from gods and demons alike, and I can most certainly hide a small group from any mortal eyes that dare to look, if you don’t mind being a little tiny bit dishonorable about the business. But an entire sect? That’s a bit much, even for someone as talented and skilled as me.”

Her stepson looked up at her, all straight-steel sincerity and upright righteousness wrapped into a perfectly edible little snack-sized package. “If we split them up, the sect could be small groups,” he said eagerly. “Couldn’t you do something then?”

He was so cute, and he trusted her. He trusted her, believed in her, felt that she could perform miracles with a wave of her sleeve if only she so wished.

It was awful.

She couldn’t bear it.

“Oh all right, you nummy little slice of roast pork belly,” she said, yielding. “But I’m telling you now, it won’t be the least bit honorable! There’s only so many excuses you can come up with for having a lot of strong men with wide shoulders and women with thick thighs hanging around, and not a single one of them has the slightest bit to do with what you people consider to be appropriate.”

“That’s all right. Preserving human life comes first, always.”

The disciple looked between them, clearly completely confused. Clearly all his effort had been spent on developing the muscles in his arms (quite nice) rather than his brain (quite slow).

“What?” he said. “What’s happening?”

“We’re saving the sect,” Nie Mingjue announced happily, clapping his hands together. Too precious, too precious entirely; she’d have to make sure no one else even thought about going near her darling little snackling. “Tell everyone to prepare to evacuate.”

“That will take too long,” she said, and smiled, with teeth. “Let me call some friends to help.”

-

When the Wen sect arrived at the Unclean Realm, they found the gate open.

That was unexpected enough, but when they entered, they found that the entire place had emptied out – not just of people, but of everything else, too. There wasn’t a single intact chair or table in the entire place, not a scrap of cloth nor a bit of food, like it’d been swept clean by locusts or wild monkeys come to pilfer whatever they could.

Even the paving stones where arrays had been laid out by the Nie sect’s ancestors had been pried up and carted away.

Sect Leader Wen ordered a search, but there wasn’t any trace of it – of the people, of the stuff, anything.

No one ever found out what happened.

-

Jin Guangyao despised social events, he’d found.

It was one thing when it was something he’d planned himself, where the work was interesting enough to distract him, but when he was an honored guest for someone else…miserable. Utterly miserable.

The only thing more miserable was when the host was his erstwhile father, from whom he’d forcefully extracted recognition. With Wen Ruohan as his backer, indulging his favorite torturer as if a beloved pet, there wasn’t much Jin Guangshan could do to refuse, and neither could he force Jin Guangyao to do anything on his behalf, either. And so Jin Guangyao, sitting as always by Wen Ruohan’s side, right beneath his sons, was now an honored guest at his father’s house, getting offered his pick of prostitutes as if the man had no notion of the irony.

Maybe he didn’t. Jin Guangyao couldn’t quite tell if his father had just forgotten his origins, thinking his bastard son too unimportant to remember the details of, or whether it was meant as a deliberate insult – who could tell?

“Oh, right,” the simpering idiot in front of him, a nephew or cousin of some sort to the sect leader, said. “Our dear Jin Guangyao is known not to like the gentle flower queens, even when they come from the finest houses in Lanling. Isn’t that right, cousin?”

Jin Guangyao’s fists clenched. A deliberate insult, then.

Despite that, his face remained neutral. Instead, he chuckled and said, “The appeal is limited. After all, I have seen the best of them.”

Beside him, Wen Ruohan nodded and smirked. He appreciated Jin Guangyao’s devotion to his mother, though Jin Guangyao suspected it was because he thought it funny that Jin Guangyao would bother to honor such a lowly woman – but what he thought didn’t matter, not really. All that mattered was that he let Jin Guangyao pay his respects to her to his heart’s content.

“Well, you’re in luck!” the idiot Jin Zixun said, looking absurdly smug. “We have something of a different flavor than the usual tonight – we’ve invited entertainment from the local branch of Splendid Spring.”

Jin Guangyao barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes.

The Splendid Spring Palace was a series of brothels that had popped up fully formed just about everywhere some years back, with madams and girls and musicians and bodyguards of all sorts. It was so patently a political move that Jin Guangyao had barely bothered to pay attention to it once he’d become actually powerful, and Wen Ruohan hadn’t paid attention to it at all. After all, in the unlikely event that the business really was backed by a cultivation sect that didn’t care about its face any longer, anyone who needed to use such a façade to gather power was clearly beneath notice.

Jin Guangyao had paid only very little attention, but to different and unusual aspects of the place: by all accounts, they were surprisingly decent employers as far as places like that went. They didn’t steal girls or accept unwilling goods – they had some connection with the merchant caravans, or at least one of the companies that helped coordinate routes and provide protection to such things, and they were as meticulous about checking things over as they were about seeking refunds if they were dissatisfied – and they did accept married girls fleeing unhappy marriages, which not everyone did. They did buy up all the girls in the local markets wherever they were, but they swept them away and brought them back transformed, even the ones that wouldn’t sell because they were too ugly; Jin Guangyao assumed that meant they had people who were talented in make-up and clothing, since the usual rumors of the girls being blessed with a yao’s enchantment were obviously ridiculous and nothing more than the usual marketing gimmicks that brothels since time immemorial had tried.

Even once they had the girls in hand, the places were pretty decent: they had physicians on staff to help with the usual side effects of the business, made sure their girls were clean and healthy, and were said to even limit the number of customers a girl would be obliged to take on in a given evening…honestly, knowing as he did the brothel business, Jin Guangyao sometimes wondered how they’d managed to bespell enough people to even make money in the early days. At any rate, whatever they’d done, it’d worked, because by now they had a solid enough reputation to trade on.

In short: a decent enough place, far better than the usual run of the mill. Once he’d had the ability to do so, he’d even pulled a few strings and arranged for the better of his mother’s old compatriots to end up there, since he couldn’t convince them to leave their old professions behind entirely.

Anyway, if they also seemed to have a sideline in information brokering and assassinations, well, let them. In the cultivation world, where the only thing that mattered was strength, real strength.

A little thing like that wouldn’t make any real difference.

Or so Jin Guangyao had thought.

He found himself re-thinking that, though, when the entertainment in question came out. There were the usual set of attractive (albeit in a wider variety of shapes and sizes than usually seen) dancers, dressed up in silks that seemed actually high quality, and plenty of strapping young men carrying sabers – dancers as well, once assumed, to provide some spice to the entertainment, and implicitly on the offer for men who cut their sleeves or women with more flexibility, like widows or ones with especially permissive husbands. Wen Ruohan’s wives were in that latter category, and they were already whispering to each other excitedly, looking at them.

They’d even brought in the local madame, who was…

Well, she was actually breathtaking, even by Jin Guangyao’s extremely jaded standards. She had hair that fell almost all the way to her ankles, shimmering in the light, and dark eyes shining with liveliness, a smooth and ageless face that simultaneously suggested youth and health but also winked at knowable experience, the features characteristic of what his mother’s employers had called the ‘fox-face’. As if to emphasize that, the lady was wrapped in fox-fur and draped in embroidered brocade, with little stylized foxes running up and down the hems of her clothing and along the gazy silk draped on her shoulders.

It ought to have looked absurd, looked gaudy and overwrought and overdone, but it didn’t.

She was a thousand dreams of wealth and beauty and power and sex appeal all wrapped up in one, and even Jin Guangyao – who was in his personal preferences quite firmly a cutsleeve – couldn’t help but intrigued by her, wondering what it might be like to touch the hem of such a glorious creature.

And next to her…

The lady was accompanied by two men that seemed completely different from each other. One was a slender and winsome young man, fluttering his eyelashes from behind a fan with a charming smile, emanating the appeal of softness and weakness, ready to be indulged. While the other…

Jin Guangyao swallowed.

He was the exact opposite of the first man. Clearly strong, muscular and powerful, and tall to the point of towering, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, a chest that you could lean your head against and an ass that begged to have someone’s hands on it – and there were his hands, big and broad, perfect for holding someone down or up if they so wished and of a size that was very promising as to what was only hinted at under his clothes. His face was hidden behind a veil as if he were a woman, marking him, like his comrade, as one of the available courtesans of the Splendid Spring, but his body was visible under clothing clearly cut to put it to the best advantage.

And oh, what advantages it had…!

“It seems we found something to the tastes of dear cousin Guangyao after all,” the idiot said mockingly, sniggering and snorting like the pig he was, and for once Jin Guangyao didn’t even care.

“Who’s the woman in front?” Wen Ruohan asked, ignoring their interplay. He seemed utterly fascinated, almost spellbound, and Jin Guangyao couldn’t blame him one bit. If this woman had been at the same brothel as his mother, there wouldn’t have even been room for jealousy or shame; his mother would have gone straight up to her to ask for some tips. “She seems…familiar, somehow.”

“That’s the madame of the Splendid Spring,” Jin Zixun said proudly, as if he’d done anything at all in relation to this – nonsense, of course. Everyone know which brothels were backed by the Jin sect, and Splendid Spring wasn’t one of them. He was acting as if he deserve a pat on the back just for the introduction! “That means she’s not for sale.”

His smile faded a little, twisting in a small bit of bitterness. “Or so she told my uncle, anyway…although I’m sure if it were Sect Leader Wen asking, the answer would undoubtedly be different.”

Probably because Jin Guangshan couldn’t slaughter prostitutes with impunity if they said no to him, whereas no one could stop Wen Ruohan from doing any damn thing he pleased.

Wen Ruohan grunted, pleased by the answer – he was a possessive man, in the rare events that he did exert himself in the realm of women, and there had been more than one instance where he’d stolen away some girl his sons had been eyeing first just for the joy of having had her first – and raised a hand, catching the lady’s eye and gesturing for her to come over, which she did.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She laughed. “You can call me Hu Jiuwei. With the ‘Hu’ being the character for fox.”

Jin Guangyao tried not to choke. There were false names and then there were false names – the lady’s theme was already clearly related to foxes, given her fox-face and fox-fur lining and the foxes embroidered onto her robes. Was the over-the-top name really necessary?

“It’s a fake name,” she added, unnecessarily.

“I see,” Wen Ruohan said, sounding a little choked himself. Possibly it was the woman calling herself ‘Foxy Ninetails’ and then kindly reassuring them all that the name was false as if she thought them too dumb to figure it out that was tripping him up a little. Jin Guangyao couldn’t tell if she was doing it deliberately in order to make her frankly inhuman beauty a little less frightening, or maybe she was blessed with so much beauty that she hadn’t bothered to cultivate her brain at all. “Are you our entertainment for the evening?”

She smiled, and any complaints Jin Guangyao (or indeed Wen Ruohan) might have had about her intelligence faded away at once.

It was that type of smile.

You could wreck nations with that type of smile. Jin Guangyao couldn’t help but wonder: how had a woman this extraordinary ended up in a brothel, of all places? How had no one snatched her up to keep her all for himself before now?

“My sons and I –” she gestured at the two behind her, “– would be more than happy to provide you with all the entertainment you could possibly want.”

Her smile widened.

“We’ve been hoping for an opportunity like this for a long time.”

[btsmosphere]

Breathe Again | KTH

~summary: everything in your world has changed. everything, that is, except the boy who still believes there are spirits in the forest. ~pairing: taehyung x reader ~word count: 16.6k ~my neighbour totoro au, artist!taehyung, fashion designer!reader, childhood friends to lovers, comfort, fluff, slight angst, slow burn, totoro just wants them to be together ~rating: pg13 ~warnings: mentions of burnout, mentions of a toxic work environment, a skipped meal, a tiny bit of blood, being outside in bad weather, heights?

~a/n: hi everyone, long time no see! welcome to my first fic since my hiatus!! this is for the ghibli collab which is being run by @birbdae​💞 this one is for anyone who likes ghibli films, wants some comforting boyfriend vibes from tae or just vaguely chaotic totoro content💜this one turned kinda long, but I hope I’ve captured the ghibli vibes well! I would love to hear if you read this and what you think! come chat with me💖

Taking you over familiar roads, the bus bumped gently against uneven ground. But you didn’t so much as blink, cheek resting against the glass which rattled slightly in its pane.

You knew this place.

Something about returning down these roads stirred memories within you, though they tugged more at your body than your mind. The haze of smiles and childish laughter these streets made you recall felt alien to you.

But you knew that if you were to set your feet down in the earth here, they would be able to take you home even with your eyes closed. Your hands have memorised the shapes of the leaves in the forest and the wind would push your hair back like an old friend.

You knew this place, and it knew you.

That’s what you were afraid of.

It was as if a tape was being rewound: taking you whizzing back through the exact route you had ridden out of your hometown when you left so many years ago.

Who would remember you? More importantly, who would remember your goals, the way you had rushed away to the city at the first chance to pursue your goals as a fashion designer.

You hoped they wouldn’t ask. After all, you didn’t know the answers yourself.

Of course, there was the possibility that the town you were coming back to would have changed. There were always new buildings going up in the city, roads closed and the crowds still crawling around like ants. Always moving, never slowing.

But the moment you turned away from thanking the bus driver and settled your feet on the soil, you knew there was no question of this place being unrecognisable. Grass still tufted through at the edges of the road; there was the stream that had always run here, still bubbling merrily and bouncing the odd fleck of light through the grasses it nestled between.

Rumbling into life again behind you, the bus trundled on its way.

First stopping to take a deep breath, you turned after it, feet falling in the shallow furrows made by the tyre marks. As predicted, you gave barely a thought for the direction, your legs easily remembering their way down the short road to reach the market square.

As you moved past the first houses, you parted ways with the stream. It wasn’t long after that the road opened into the square and you finally saw another living being.

Though it wasn’t a big town by any stretch, there were always people around during the day. Luckily it wasn’t market day today, which you were thankful for because the whole town would have been out, and you may well have been caught up for hours by all the people wanting to talk to you.

As it was, three ladies cried out at you from a front doorstep where they were chatting. Hurriedly shooting them a smile, you waved, hoping that would deter them. In the end, you were only waylaid by a couple of questions – how long would you be staying? how’s the big city? – that you could brush off with noncommittal answers.

In that time, you had attracted the gazes of an older couple strolling hand in hand nearby. Gripping the strap of your backpack tighter, you bobbed your head in greeting and scurried past.

Grabbing your phone from your pocket, you picked up the pace. Shooting a quick message to let your aunt know you had arrived kept you occupied with an excuse to avoid a few more staring faces. Perhaps they would think you rude, antisocial, to be walking with your head down and staring at your device instead, but it was comforting in a way. A remnant of your city life, where everyone was wrapped up in technology.

Having braved the main square, you lowered your phone again. Forcing a steady exhale from your mouth, you pressed further through the mercifully empty streets leading away.

The squeak of a bicycle wheel was all the warning you received for the next person you would pass on your journey. Preparing a smile in a hurry, you found yourself staring across at a man you recognised coming around the corner.

Kim Taehyung hadn’t changed much, face lighting up in his trademark rectangular grin as he saw you. He had grown into his handsome features in the time you had been away, and you found your smile wasn’t entirely fake as he slowed on the other side of the street.

Simple white t shirt hanging from his frame, he was wheeling a bike beside him, dusty bags slung over the top. He fit right in with this place.

He was just opening his mouth when you gulped back your faltering smile, ducking your head again and continuing on your way.

With your feet carrying you slightly faster now, you garbled greetings and smalltalk to the other villagers you crossed paths with. The path sloped downhill as you approached the edge of the town, where houses fell away to make space for the rice fields and farmland. From your road, you could look across the flat terraces that stretched, glittering, to the horizon.

Approaching your own place at last, you had to admit you were glad to see Mei lean out of her window to greet you. The old woman had lived there as long as you could remember, and always had a kind word to say.

But though you returned her wave with genuine care, you didn’t stay to talk, instead pressing the keys into the disused lock of your front door. Reluctant from its neglect, it resisted, grating around slowly until finally caving, releasing the door with a groan.

The last time you had seen the inside of this house was many years ago now. Your aunt had raised you here, but had now moved in with her new partner; rather than selling, she had kept the place for you, ‘in case you ever want to come back or visit’.

Sliding the door aside with only a few snags, you stood in the doorway, unmoving.

For a brief moment, a familiar yet long-forgotten feeling had fallen over you. With a blink, the notion that a flurry of movement had greeted you from the shadows slipped away easily.

Dust bunnies, Mei always used to say.

Tugging vigorously at dust sheets that covered the windows, you let light stream into the room, at last allowing you to pull the door closed. Despite all that still required attention, you slumped against it.

Sniffing, you swiped a hand across your cheek. Surely it was just the dust irritating you.

While something inside you felt… different, relieved, to be back here, a larger part of you resisted that. This was only a temporary waystation. There was no use getting settled here again. This was no longer where you belonged…

If only you had found that in the city. That was supposed to be where you would thrive, forge your life amongst the unforgiving glare of neon billboards and buzzing traffic.

You resented the feeling of ease that crept over you now you were back. Resented the people that were content here, fitting fluidly with the meandering of village life. Like Kim Taehyung: he had grown up here with you, but unlike you he had remained right at home, never erring.

You had tried so hard, forever persistent that the world would bend to your will. That you were destined for greater things than this unremarkable town.

Yet now you even found yourself envious of those who stayed here.

They seemed happy.

A low buzz shot through your thoughts, drawing your attention to your illuminated phone screen.

With a dispassioned sigh, you pushed yourself to your feet. You ought to shift some dust from this place in time for your aunt to come for dinner.

Luckily, the house was empty, the few furnishings shoved away in cupboards. After fishing a broom from somewhere, you swept, and had just pulled the last cushion from the cupboard when you heard the familiar call of your name.

Hurrying forwards and plastering a smile on your face, you tugged the door open to help her; her arms were bursting with food. Still, you were surprised by the urge you got to hug her. After depositing all the ingredients in the small kitchen, you gladly returned her tight embrace.

“My darling,” she squeezed you tight, “it’s been so long.”

“I missed you, auntie,” you admitted.

Perhaps you had sounded a little too forlorn because she quickly drew you back to study your face.

“How have you been? Feeding yourself well enough?”

You let out a sound halfway between a giggle and a shriek as she grabbed at your cheek, a gesture that seemed far too familiar.

Brushing her off, you didn’t have time to dwell on the sensation her affections had stirred in you, as more voices drifted from the front room.

Of course, she had invited some friends.

By the time you had greeted each woman, dodged questions and laughed at your aunt and her girlfriend bickering from the kitchen, a steaming bowl was pressed into your hands and everyone gathered to eat. This was a scene you were so familiar with, a sight so common in your childhood, but now…

You shifted, eyes trained on your bowl as Mei told a story of your five-year-old self.

Why was everyone still the same? So nice to you, so comfortable with each other just like always? Your life, your career was seemingly spiralling off course and that guilt still sat heavy on your bones.

How could you retreat back here, accept all this? You should still be working. Not giving up. But you couldn’t bring yourself to do that either.

The same feeling lingered even through the clinking of dishes as your guests chipped in to help clear away, and remained in the following silence and dark as you flattened out your futon, curling up in isolation.

You wouldn’t allow this to feel right.

Even as sleep finally ensnared you in its claws just to spit you out the next morning, you continued to tell yourself what you should want. You should be missing your job, you should be missing the city. And though your heart wasn’t in it, you wouldn’t allow yourself to think otherwise.

The sun was high in the sky the next day when you found yourself staring at the blank page of your sketchbook.

I still want to design. Right?

Okay, so, let’s make a design. Design something. Just one thing. Just one idea, so I know I can still do it. I want to know that this is still the right thing.

I can do it.

Your eyes ran down your watercolour palette, each colour stained with others and hollowed in the middle with use. The small pot of water you had prepared sat too, remaining clear as your pen hovered over the paper.

Some time later, it clattered onto the tabletop.

That blank page stared at you for the rest of the day. Your contest continued even as you slurped at the instant noodles you had made. Every time your thoughts strayed outside, they would be tethered right back again.

There was no point running from your struggle. You would go out as soon as you had managed something productive. For now, the packets of food you had brought in your bag from the city would tide you over.

But as certain as you were that you would achieve something, the next day stretched out in exactly the same way.

It was on the third day that a knock at your door broke through your otherwise deserted world inside this room.

Without a second thought to the depressing dinner you were halfway through, you stood up. Only for a moment you hesitated, before conceding that this wasn’t the city, and it was more usual to have visitors here.

Padding across the floor, you pushed the door aside.

“Y/N! Hi!”

You blinked in the beaming face of Kim Taehyung that greeted you.

“Taehyung!” you returned in genuine surprise, “um, come in…”

Stepping back as you remembered your manners, you cast a look around the room. Unfortunately you hadn’t yet disposed of the slowly growing pile of torn ramen packets on the table, but it was too late.

“Thank you, you don’t have to-“

Nonetheless, Taehyung stepped inside to let you close the door on the cloudy day outside. If he noticed the sad state of your abode, he made no comment.

“I-I just thought I’d come by and visit you,” he smiled hopefully, “I haven’t seen you out since you came back…”

Gulping in the face of his innocent curiosity, you glanced at the floor.

“I’m sorry, I just haven’t… had the chance.”

Your excuse was weak and you knew it. Either way, Taehyung was quick to brush aside your worry.

“It’s nothing to apologise for! I thought I had just missed you and- well, I wanted to come to see you anyway. It’s been a while.”

A soft chuckle passed your lips, which curled into a sad smile. With a nod, you looked up at him.

“Yeah. It has.”

Though his face was smiling as always, it had softened as he studied you.

“Do you want to go on a walk?” he offered, “it must have been hard, being away from the countryside.”

The thought of your abandoned ramen cooling on the table behind you dissipated in an instant.

The outside was a refreshing thought, and it was as if Taehyung had opened the door to the possibility. Once there was a time you would have headed out for no reason, just for fun. That was something you had left behind, but with the welcoming boy to encourage you, you were nodding eagerly before you could form a reply.

Although the village was no longer bathed in sun, cool air rushing to meet you instead, the breeze seemed to carry some weight away from your shoulders. The route Taehyung began to tread beside you was well ingrained in your feet, but your mind was still waking up to the familiar sights.

“I always loved the view from here,” you smiled, muttering almost to yourself.

Taehyung heard you, though. There was no noise for your voice to lose itself in, except the wind that took your words on a winding path through the air.

Slowing his steps, you eased beside him as well. You had barely left your road, but being so near to the edge of the village, the swathes of rippling fields were never far from view; now they stretched out like a carpet below the higher ground your village occupied.

“What’s it like, living in the city?” Taehyung recaptured your attention.

Startled, your eyes turned to him as he remained gazing across the lush greenery, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his loose trousers. His shirt, too, billowed slightly in the playful breeze as you strolled together.

It was those words which brought you crashing back to your senses. The city had been far from your mind, chased away the moment you were reminded of nature’s sprawling cloak across the land. It had been so easy to forget…

“Busy,” was all you offered in way of reply at first. A slight sigh was whipped away by the wind before you found the words to continue. “There’s always people doing things, just like here. Only… bigger. More. They don’t have time to stop and speak to you. It’s so much brighter too…

“I like the neon signs,” you admitted, “but with them, you can barely see the stars.”

While you spoke, Taehyung’s eyes drifted back to you, listening intently. After you stopped, he left silence to settle for a moment.

“It sounds different,” he replied.

You simply hummed an affirmative, but a large smile was sliding back onto his face.

“But I bet they love you!” he grinned, face lifting in such eager happiness that it made your heart ache. Wanting so badly to return his joy, you knew you could never fake happiness that genuine.

“Not really…” you scuffed your toes against the ground, suddenly particularly interested in the way the dirt cracked around your shoes.

As such, you missed the deepening furrow of Tae’s brows, but he stayed quiet, sensing your inhale as you prepared to elaborate.

“Maybe it’s because I had always dreamed of moving there, but nothing was as easy as I imagined,” you spoke quietly, “I was so stupid thinking everything would be simple once I got a place as an intern. The company took me on, but I haven’t got any further.”

A short glance back to Tae showed his brows set in a serious line, mulling your words seriously.

“I’m sure if you keep working hard, they’ll see you,” he smiled, “you always wanted to be a designer. I know you can be.”

For a moment, his words stunned all breath in your throat. Swallowing harshly, you tore your eyes from his, roughly shaking your head.

“It’s just not going right,” you lamented, “all I’ve done since I moved there is work, I take the overtime and travel for shows at weekends, shadow where I can… I feel like I can’t do anymore. And still, nothing. Not even a commission, let alone a promotion. I haven’t headed a project team once. It’s like…” panting softly from the speed your frustrated words spilled out, you paused for a moment, shoulders slumping. “It’s like everyone else knows something I don’t.”

“That’s why you came back?”

His low tone was still light and looking back to him brought you face to face with wide, earnest eyes. Of course, he had guessed accurately. You hadn’t quite intended to spill in so much detail what was troubling you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to resent it.

Confirming his assumption with a nod, you watched Taehyung cock his head to the side before returning his gaze back across the forest.

By now you were drawing closer to where the trees huddled together at the borders of the farmland. The track was a little less well-trodden here, your feet falling between scattered grasses that pushed upwards.

“I don’t think it’s you that’s the problem,” he twisted his body around to face you, still walking towards the forest.

All you could do was blink, slightly startled at his assertion. Thankfully, he continued, pulling his hands from his pockets and spreading them to indicate the surrounding trees which you were entering.

“You’re doing everything you can, and that should be more than enough. There’s no secret to learn… well, maybe…”

“Hey!” you elbowed him as he trailed off, “do you know a secret?”

Mirroring your grin, Taehyung sighed, shaking his head at the ground. You kept your eyes trained on him, as if he might really hold some clue that would solve everything for you. Then he raised his head, fluffy strands of hair falling across his smile-brightened eyes.

“Maybe patience,” he shrugged, “I’m sure you’d get somewhere eventually… but also- maybe you should try to value your time more. There isn’t just one path you can take, and you can always change.”

“I-I guess that’s true,” you stammered.

It was something that had crossed your mind, but you had always shoved the idea away the moment you considered it. You knew what you wanted to do, and you shouldn’t give up on it. Hearing another say it, out loud, was… strangely affirming. But your eyes still fled Taehyung’s gaze, skittering about the trees stretching their hands to the sky.

“Either way,” a gentle nudge at your side brought your begrudging gaze back to your friend, “it’s good to have you back for a bit. I’ve missed you. I’m sure your aunt has, too,” he quickly added.

Grateful for his offer of turning away from the previous conversation, you relaxed a little.

“I’ve missed it here too,” you admitted, “thanks for coming over, it’s good to be out.”

For some reason, as you continued ambling through the forest, you felt no guilt creeping in about time you should be spending working. Instead, you barely felt the minutes passing as you laughed with Taehyung about various scenes from your childhoods. If anything, the small amount of guilt tugging at you was guilt for losing touch.

Eventually, you found yourself reclining in the grass at his side.

“Do you remember when you told me there were spirits in this forest?” you laughed softly.

“Hey!” he grinned back, “they are real!”

Though you giggled along with him, you sensed some defiance in the glittering of his eyes, which made you tail off. Your mouth quirked up at the corner.

“You really still believe in them?”

You didn’t miss the way his eyes strayed from your own, glancing to the grass and across the leafy landscape. But still, he responded.

“I saw them,” he murmured, bringing a fond smile to your face.

“Maybe people out in the countryside really are crazy,” you joked, flopping back to lie on the floor.

“Maybe,” came the chuckled reply.

Taehyung’s shoulder brushed against your own as he joined you on the floor.

Warmth blooming in your chest, you continued to stare across the treetops as they were brushed with the glow of the encroaching sunlight. Something within you longed to capture this moment, grab the warm-tinted clouds streaming across the sky and bring them to earth to rest beside you.

And later, you would realise that was why you had turned to design.

You picked up your paintbrush and brought colour to the white sheet at last.

Too caught up in your seeming breakthrough, with a design almost finished on your page, you were easily busy enough to ignore the way Taehyung’s face crept into your mind. Trying to summon images of the breathtaking evening you had spent, the boy was inextricable from the memory.

The relief and liberation that had flooded you the moment you allowed yourself some respite had come from having him beside you.

Though you were a fashion designer, not a portrait artist, the flipside of the page was steadily filling with sketches of Taehyung. You hadn’t been able to capture him the exact way you wanted, his striking features escaping you, but you couldn’t hold back from trying at least.

But though you had made some progress on your creative block, you still clung to the shelter of your empty house. The hush of the village provided you with a peace of mind you hadn’t even noticed was missing while you were away.

Before you could dig yourself any more holes wondering about the fate of your career, however, exactly the person you had been hoping to see came back around.

Taehyung beamed widely from his perch on your doorstep. That wonderful smile never failed to produce a brighter grin on your own face too.

However, this time he didn’t step into your house when you made room for him. Disappointment sunk to your stomach, realising you had expected him to stay.

But his next words killed off any sadness before it could even take root within you.

“Put your shoes on,” he flashed a playful grin, “you’re coming to mine for dinner.”

“I am?” you snorted, though you were already reaching for your boots.

“Yep,” he smirked.

Folding his arms, he leaned against your doorframe while you hurriedly got ready.

“Unless you have plans?” he chuckled, “another extravagant microwave meal for one?”

Gaping, your head shot up to meet his twinkling gaze.

“You may be right,” you scoffed, finally closing the door behind you as you joined him on the street, “but that doesn’t make it nice. What would your grandma think of your manners?”

“And what would your aunt think of the way you’re eating?” he retorted.

Lips rising into a begrudging smile, you sort of fell against him in a playful nudge. The next moment, though, your eyes grew wider as he slung an arm around you, giving it a squeeze as his fingers nipped at your cheek.

“I’m joking,” he cooed, “I just want you to eat well.”

At least the sentiment was there. About an hour later you found yourself sat giggling in front of a bowl of charred remains that once were food.

“I tried,” Tae was pouting, poking around in his own bowl.

“You didn’t have to try something so fancy,” you hid more laughter behind your hand, “there’s more room for error.”

“But grandma told me exactly how to make it,” he frowned down at his dish as if it had wronged him, “I don’t know what I even did to mess it up!”

Unable to help it, a fond smile broke onto your face.

“Thank you, Taehyung.”

Your words seemed to startle him, as he immediately started spluttering about how you could thank him after he destroyed your dinner. It only served to pull more laughter from you.

“I appreciate it,” you assured him, “now how about we make something simple?”

His kitchen was stocked with fresh vegetables from the farmlands, making it easy for you to pick some and get to work. Closer to the rice fields than your house, Taehyung’s place bordered with the forest, every window giving generous views on the surrounding greenery.

“Done!”

Turning away from the trees outside the window, which you had somewhat lost yourself in, you found Taehyung stood proudly behind you. In his hands sat a bowl stacked with the vegetables he had chopped.

A look back at your own board showed you had made much less progress.

“Let me finish those,” he placed his bowl down and came to stand next to you. “I think you would be better off doing the cooking.”

Laughing, you agreed and let him take the knife from your fingers. Next, you began to fry your ingredients with the rice that hadn’t been a victim of Taehyung’s previous attempts.

Once he was done, Taehyung approached you, sliding the remaining vegetables into the pan. But even as they fell, sizzling, into the dish, he didn’t move away from you.

“Smells good,” he complimented.

Muttering a brief thank you, you kept your eyes on the food as you stirred it. You could almost pretend the heat in your cheeks was from the warmth of the stove and not the way he leaned closer as he smelled your cooking, such that his chest pressed up against your back, face hovering above your shoulder.

But before your resolve could wear thin enough for you to look around at him while he was in such painfully close proximity, a rumble interrupted your thoughts.

Taehyung instantly pulled away, apologies spilling from his lips. You, on the other hand, burst into laughter.

“Was that your stomach?” you cried.

“Maybe,” he mumbled, rubbing a hand across his middle.

Chuckling, you shut off the stove.

“Luckily, dinner is ready,” you grinned.

Taehyung eagerly dashed to grab plates, letting you pile them up with food.

Together, you brought your steaming meals to the front room where Tae pushed open the front door, inviting you to sit on the step.

“I guess it is kind of late,” you said after your first bite, “no wonder you were hungry.”

Proving your point, the boy beside you was already wolfing down his meal. Smiling to yourself, you dove back into your own food as you stared across the darkening valley, stars now painted in the mirror-smooth surfaces of the rice fields.

Sweet as always, Taehyung thrust a basket of the vegetables into your arms before you left – though, of course, he was walking back with you. Still, you were embarrassed to note the hint of resentment at his wonderful actions, as it meant you had one less excuse to see him again. In truth, you didn’t want to leave at all.

But you still thanked him profusely, and you meant it. His kindness warmed your heart, and guilt twisted inside you at the thought of taking his actions to mean anything further.

He probably felt sorry for you, lost as you were. Meanwhile he had found a place in the world, and he was happy here. Almost certainly he only wanted to do some good for an old friend.

But for tonight, you couldn’t help but indulge in the flutters Taehyung set off in your heart, a few more sketches joining the others before you fell into bed.

Since you arrived, you hadn’t been very productive. You knew this, but bringing yourself to care was becoming difficult. No, you were too busy enjoying finally getting some peace and time away from the job that had been tiring you out.

But even in your time off, it seemed too much to ask of them to let you rest.

“-so I need your assessment of the project before we can move forwards…”

Your boss’ voice crackled over the line as you held your phone passively at your ear. Gulping as she rambled on about the practicality of your colleague’s design – when she was the one who had given the project to him when you really wanted it – you stared blankly at your notebook. Only one page remained filled. The simple design you had been thrilled with a couple of days ago now crumbled in your estimation.

Tell her you can’t do it. This is your time off. At least ask to be paid for it-

“Of course. I can do that,” you replied automatically.

Instant alarm bells started ringing in your head. You had to stick up for yourself before too much was loaded onto you-

“Wonderful, I’m sending them over now. Thanks a lot,” your boss spoke, line cutting off before you could so much as open your mouth.

Huffing, you flopped back onto your bed, where you had been sleeping peacefully before your ringing phone rudely awoke you. But you didn’t rest there for more than a few seconds before you were rolling yourself off and staggering over to dig out the laptop you hadn’t touched since leaving the city.

Opening up your emails, you saw the most recent one from your boss, but unfortunately your inbox was also rammed with several others you hadn’t bothered to check. You supposed you could never have expected to be completely away from work.

Resolving to check them later, you clicked on the first of the files from your boss. Already, you groaned, seeing that the plans were more extensive than you had believed over the phone.

You couldn’t deny that you accepted this too easily.

But then again, you never wanted to be seen slacking. Maybe if you did this, it would finally be noticed and you would be in line for the next promotion…

That was what you told yourself the last time too. And the time before that, and before that.

At this point, even the thought of actually being promoted didn’t fill you with the excitement it should. It was all you had worked for, and yet all you could think of was how much more work it would mean.

Attempting to shove away your heavy pile of thoughts, you focussed back on the task at hand.

Wrangling your brain into action, however, proved difficult. You realised too late that it should have been lunchtime, hurriedly trying to make yourself something while it was already halfway through the evening, sky darkening beyond your window. But even though it was getting later and you had been working all day, you had got next to nothing done.

Even the pattering of rain on your roof which began early on did little to ease the stress creeping back into its familiar residence in your brain.

Your head was spinning as you sliced up a pepper, not able to focus on the simple movement of your hands. You knew you should be looking at your work, but even as your mind hovered around the matter, you were unable to think straight as everything proved a dead end.

A sharp pinch shook you from your haze.

Hands stilling, you looked down to find a sliver of red already growing of your fingertip. Cursing, you threw down your cooking, turning to the sink.

The blood was swept away with the stream of water from your tap, showing only a miniscule cut, but your finger shook anyway. Staring down at the small line, even though it was clean now, your breath hitched in the back of your throat.

The rain, relentless on your roof, was the only sound muffling the sobs which left you as you hunched over the basin.

Letting your hand drop, you clutched onto the edge of the surface. You felt like a child; your computer was filled with demands, your head occupied with work, but you just didn’t want to.

Why couldn’t they just leave you be?

Some instinct within you had set your feet moving before your mind could catch up. Abandoning your laptop where its screen still passively illuminated a square of your desk, you were slipping shoes on, practically throwing your door aside with your sudden desperation to reach the outdoors.

The rain which immediately hit your skin hardly occurred to you. All you could manage was to breathe deeply in the saturated air.

You had succeeded in rediscovering some of the inspiration that led you to your current path; it had always been the beauty of your hometown, the countryside with its vast fields and open skies, the peace and the fury of the elements.

And maybe you had forgotten it, but now you knew it again you wanted to seize it with both hands. The pull of work only made you resent it more.

You had to escape.

And so your feet were taking you down your road, slipping on the track which had already begun turning to mud under the onslaught from the heavens.

You had barely left the glow of the last house on your street before water was running in streams down your cheeks, mingling with the salty tears that had been falling before. Hiccupping, you wrapped your arms around yourself.

Though you sniffed, you didn’t bother to wipe at your face.

But already the ruthless pelting of raindrops began to batter away the frustration that had been stirred in you. Still breathing heavily, you pressed unflinchingly on, your mind only able to focus on stepping forward through the storm.

Despite your lack of destination, your pace was rapid and soon you were stumbling between trees as you reached the forest. Here, the hammer of rain was lighter, plucking at leaves harmlessly and filling the air with the hollow chorus.

The oppressive feeling from sitting caged by your computer was fading. But now you weren’t sure whether your shaking was from your outburst or from the cold. Only, you couldn’t exactly bring yourself to care.

It wasn’t until now that your pace slowed in the least. Finally you were away from the pressing weight that had begun to crush you, even if it still remained waiting for you at home.

Weaving between trunks, your speed waned at last, allowing your fingers to trace along the wisened and cracked bark of each one. Even when you needed to blink repeatedly to gain clear sight from unshed tears and raindrops collecting on your lashes – even when your frame shook from head to toe, hair plastered against your skin – you finally felt free.

Having nature roar around you cast the demands of work, something that once loomed over you, far out of your sight.

Feet still tripping forwards, all it took was a toe catching on a root before your knees were meeting the earth.

Down here, the raindrops jostled the smaller plants that coated the forest floor. Looking up, you tried to wipe your hands, though it was fruitless against your sodden trousers.

But you paused in your motion as you caught sight of something.

Ahead of you, some tree roots twisted upwards, sculpted into a small arch. Although beyond that, you could see little, you rose slowly and stepped closer to it.

A few leftover tears leaked from your eyes, but they were indetectable as they slipped among the rainwater. Taking no notice, your eyes remained ahead as you reached the strange opening.

Ducking, you padded inside, not hurrying at all. It inspired a stiller pace for some reason.

The first thing you were aware of was the lack of rain falling on your back. Instead, the air was perfectly calm, only the distant pattering of water on leaves a reminder of the storm you had previously been in.

A few more steps and you found yourself in the centre of what appeared to be a large tree. Bark walls encircled the generous space, though it was obscured by the abundant greenery coating them decadently.

Tiredness was rapidly seeping into your bones now, and all you could think of the moss was how soft it looked, so tempting to your drooping eyes.

Exhaustion masked any shock you would otherwise have felt, then, when your eyes fell on a larger shape lying near the far wall. But this was not part of the tree, nor its foliage. Drawing nearer, you found it appeared to be furry. Enormous ears lay flat on the leafy ground where its head lay. Its round belly rose taller than you did from the ground, even though it was horizontal.

Staring through your bleary eyes, you merely chuckled at the unusual sight.

The creature inflated with each deep breath. It was sleeping.

You were sure you must be too, given what a funny dream you were having right now. But you were still so tired.

Without further thought, you let yourself tumble to the ground so you could rest, propped up against the forest creature. Indeed it was as soft as you had imagined looking at it.

Everything was peaceful as sleep embraced you at last.

Taehyung jerked awake, the whole house seemingly clamouring in his ears.

Eyes wide, he threw off his covers, though he wasn’t sure what he expected to do. The wind was hurtling through the air outside, hitting his house like a freight train. Windows shaking in their panes, bullets of rain still spattered against the glass.

Pulling his blanket with him, Taehyung retreated towards the main room. Although he stayed back from the windows, he still looked out, watching the vague shapes of dark trees as they attempted to uproot themselves in the blustering air.

He couldn’t deny being a little unnerved by the sudden ferocity of the weather. With a calming breath, however, he reminded himself of the true form of the wind. The image of the grinning cat brought a smile stretching across his own lips as well. It had been years since he had seen it, or the spirit Totoro and their friends.

But even if he was a child then, he clutched onto those memories, trying to keep them vivid as possible.

He was about to settle down on the sofa to wait out the noise when a different shape made itself known in the window.

Doing a double take hard enough to give him whiplash, Taehyung managed to keep himself from staggering backwards in shock. Blinking determinedly, he kept his eyes fixed on the familiar form as it drew closer into the light from his porch.

Although he knew they were real, he still found himself struggling to comprehend it.

This wasn’t another dream, another memory or image on his canvas. Pushed against all the walls in his study, and his bedroom too when they overflowed the space, images of the forest spirit were strewn about his living quarters. He could never forget it but…

Why would it come back?

A moment elapsed, Totoro’s huge frame blocking out much of the view behind them as they stared blankly down at Taehyung the way they always did. The pandemonium of the wind died away.

And then Tae’s senses kicked back in, and he was sprinting to the door, hurrying into the night because there was something else.

Totoro was carrying something-

No.

Someone.

Breathless, he stood on the step, taking in the figure cradled in Totoro’s arms. It was you.

He remained still, so Totoro moved forwards, towering above him. But Taehyung could never be intimidated, knowing this gentle giant well enough. Instead, his eyes remained on you as Totoro lowered you towards him.

You were clearly asleep, eyes shut and chest rising and falling evenly. But it was how on earth you came to be so, in Totoro’s arms, and now in front Tae’s house, that had his brow furrowing deeply.

Though water no longer sat on your skin, the dampness of your hair and clothes remained. You must be freezing.

However, as Tae hurried forward a couple more steps to reach out for you, a warmth engulfed him. Recognising the forest spirit’s familiar magic, a hint of a smile returned to his face.

Though Totoro now relinquished their grip, the magic remained cocooning you, making Taehyung able to hold you in his arms as you had been rendered weightless.

Straightening to their full colossal height, Totoro backed away. Still feeling that comforting magic wrap around the two of you, Taehyung smiled as he bowed, as deeply as he could with you in his arms. Totoro gave a little bob of their own before turning away.

For a short moment, Taehyung watched the spirit amble away. But you were the priority. Unsure how long the magic would last, he backed into the door to push it open and get you both inside. Looking around in mild panic, he settled on the first place he thought of and moved through to the bedroom.

Setting you down on the futon, he pushed your wet hair away from your forehead with his palm.

Next, he hovered for a moment.

Eventually he stood back, swallowing nervously as he watched you. It was still the middle of the night, and raindrops were splattering the window again, though less harsh than before.

Of course, his concern was still unsatisfied. If Totoro had found you, that could only mean you had been in the forest. But… why? At this time of night, you should be safely tucked away inside.

Well, at least you were now.

Sighing, he turned away to retrieve the blanket he had dragged to the living room. Collecting a few more cushions for good measure, he placed them down on the closer edge of the futon. It was big enough for him to sleep here too, while still leaving some distance between you.

After depositing his bedding, Tae made one more trip to the cupboard, bringing out a duvet. Though thick, it was very light. He liked to think of it as his ‘cloud duvet’.

Seating himself, he leaned across to you to cover you with his favourite duvet, but stopped short.

The hair lying on his pillows was already drying. So too were your pyjamas.

Sighing, he shook his head lightly and continued to throw the covers across your sleeping form.

He would get his answers in the morning. Settling down himself, Taehyung turned onto his side so his back faced you. For now you were okay, Totoro had made sure of that.

But aside from what had happened to you, one thing plagued his mind the most even as he closed his eyes.

Why had Totoro brought you to him?

Beams of light hung lazily in the air, only warded off by the thin fabric of Taehyung’s curtains. Blinking in the hazy morning, the usual hushed whisper of the forest greeted him, no trace of the furore of last night.

Except for the weight on the bed beside him.

Rubbing one hand across his face, he looked down at you. You remained nestled against the pillows, hair fanning out as the light cast it into rich colour. When his arm fell, it was perilously close to you, but he didn’t move it away.

Taehyung knew there was breakfast to be made and explanations to be had once he left the comfort of the bed.

Still, he lay unmoving, content to simply let his gaze roam your resting features. Warm light glowing against your skin showed it invitingly soft. His dark eyes traced your eyelashes where they rested, the gentle slope of your lips…

His breath hitched, a slight gasp lost in the fabric of his pillow.

At the first inclination of your lashes shifting, bringing you closer to wakefulness, he retreated, sliding out from his blanket and away to the kitchen. A puff of air left his lips as he willed his feet to fall noiselessly, leaving you to slumber.

He could easily blame the moment on his hazy awakening from sleep. He could pretend he only stayed next to you for want of staying warm in bed for a while longer.

Except he knew it would never be the truth.

You were truly breathtaking to him, painted perfectly in the dreamy morning light. All he could do was steer his thoughts away and turn them to preparing some breakfast.

And that was what roused you: the vague scent of steaming rice in the air and the odd clang of kitchenware from the other room. Rolling over as your eyelids cracked apart, you registered the indulgently soft duvet you were under, the scent of rain on the pillow.

It was already light, so you eased yourself to sit, stretching out your back with a quiet groan.

Vaguely, you remembered the sound of raindrops in the air, earth biting at your knees and a giant tree. It had certainly been a strange dream, you thought as you opened your eyes.

And paused, blinking.

This wasn’t your room. Hell, it wasn’t even your house.

From among the fluffy mountains of bedding, you slowly took in the place. Somehow, you weren’t exactly panicked by the position you found yourself, oddly comforted by the domestic sounds of cooking. You could guess where you were, and became more certain when your eyes fell on a row of assorted paintings propped against the wall.

When Taehyung poked his head into the bedroom, he found you awake and sat up. You had moved to the side of the bed, and were sitting cross legged as a hand delicately skimmed the surface of the nearest painting.

For a moment, he didn’t announce himself. Breathing deeply, his eyes rested fondly on the back of your head, ignoring the painting. He could see the artwork anytime, and he knew it well.

A vibrant green landscape of the forest, he had put Totoro and the other spirits dotted about the trees. Some were barely there, signifying how they protected the woods even though almost no one believed in them at all.

You must have sensed him, however, for you were snatching your hand back from the image and whirling around to face him.

“You alright there?” he smirked gently at your surprise.

“Yeah…” you murmured.

Noticing you chewing your lip, looking between him and the painting, Taehyung’s small smile faded a little. The confused tone you spoke with placed a light frown in its place.

“Yeah?” his low voice echoed.

Pushing himself away from the doorframe, he drew closer, hands dug into his pockets.

“That… that thing, in your drawing,” you frowned, staring right at it. “I dreamt about it.”

“Ah,” understanding dawned on Taehyung and he sat down beside you. Neither of you complained at the closeness as his leg pressed flush to your own. “That’s the forest spirit I told you about. Well, all of them are. But that’s Totoro.”

His tone had been anything but ridiculing, but still you looked around to find his expression genuine, eyes slightly creased at the corners in a vague smile.

“I-I don’t understand,” you breathed.

“You didn’t dream about them,” he leaned closer for emphasis, shifting to face you better, “it was real. Do you remember coming here?”

For a moment, you frowned, eyes escaping his as they seemed to look far away while you tried to recall. You came up empty.

“No…”

“That’s because Totoro brought you to me,” Taehyung went on, patient as before, “last night, they brought you in from the storm.”

He paused for a moment, wetting his lips as he gauged your reaction before carrying on:

“Do you remember why you were out? Did you fall asleep in the forest?”

Again, that look took over your face. Your gaze fell to your hands as they played with the hem of the duvet, untangling the mass of memories from the night before.

“I think… I must have done…” you frowned, then suddenly started. “Oh crap! I remember why I left! My boss is gonna kill me-“

Panicked, Taehyung placed his hands on your knees as you carried on rambling, starting to push the blankets away in your sudden rush.

“Hey, hey, Y/N slow down, what’s going on?”

“I-I got a call from work,” you hastily explained, “they need me to approve a set of designs and I said it was fine even though-“

“I thought you took the time off work?”

“I did, I did but I said yes anyway but then I just felt so… so- argh! I was so stressed all over again and I just wanted to get out…” the clarity you lacked the night before made you cringe as you pictured yourself walking down the muddy track in just pyjamas, heading into the trees in the middle of the night. You chuckled drily, “maybe not my wisest idea.”

“No,” Taehyung had to agree, inclining his head, “but you’re here right now. Work doesn’t need you this instant.”

Pulling your lower lip between your teeth, you weren’t quite sure if he spoke the truth. Either way, you decided you didn’t much care when the boy broke into a shy grin and offered a hopeful ‘stay for breakfast?’.

He had managed to cook without mishap this time, resulting in a self-satisfied grin which you could easily tell translated into an I-told-you-so.

Happily full after his meal, Taehyung told you that he was going to do some painting, but that you were welcome to stay. From someone else, you might not be sure if they meant it or were just saying it out of politeness, but Taehyung had already offered you a set of clothes and a hot drink.

You certainly didn’t want to go yet, and you dared to hope he wanted you to stay as well.

So you accepted his offer and settled on the sofa with a steaming mug of tea and a book you had plucked at random from the shelves. Meanwhile, Taehyung turned on an old fashioned radio, which crackled softly into life in the corner before filling the atmosphere with calm music.

You knew for a fact Tae had a study in his house, but he brought his materials out into the main room anyway. Neither of you needed to say much as he set to work and you sipped your tea, going about your tasks in the mutual comfort of shared space.

He was facing the window as he worked, allowing you a view of his progress.

In the end, you became far too distracted to make it far through the book at all, too busy watching colour fill up the blank spaces. The work had already been started, with just a wash of colour occupying the canvas.

Now, you got to watch as from the blur of colours and shapes came the form of a forest. But this one was not bathed in the glory of day, the colours dark and muted instead.

Smooth brushstrokes left in their wake a body of water, glittering stars scattered within it. The limited palette of the night-time scene was fascinating to you. At last, Tae’s brush was picking out the form of the spirit again, peering from behind the trees. Your mouth curved up into a smile.

As Taehyung stood back, brush clamped in his mouth as he assessed his work so far, you scrambled to flip over a chunk of pages in your book. Burying your face in it, your cheeks burned as you realised you had been staring this whole time.

“What do you think?”

Making an effort to look as surprised as possible, you turned back to find Tae beaming at you.

“I think it’s wonderful,” you assured him, “the colours, the water… everything.”

His eyes lit up, smile only growing wider.

“Thank you! You really think so?”

At your indulgent nod, he turned back with renewed enthusiasm to complete the side of the forest which had yet to emerge from the melange of colour.

“Shall I get us lunch?” you offered not long after, noticing that you had now been there for a few hours.

Though Tae was engrossed in his painting, nose almost pressed to the canvas as he detailed some leaves in the moonlight, he graced you with an appreciative smile and a nod.

Slipping away to the kitchen, you soon reacquainted yourself with where everything lived and got to work. It wasn’t long before your limited cooking skills had done their job. A brief call to Taehyung had him emerging in the doorway with a smile on his face, taking the bowl gratefully.

Once again you settled happily on the front step, taking in the tranquil forest. It had calmed to a mere breeze since the night before, the leaves rustling, bright green in the midday sun.

“I can see why you like it here,” you commented between mouthfuls, “it must be a great place to work.”

Taehyung hummed around his mouth of food, but soon swallowed and replied, head tilted as his eyes scanned the forest.

“It inspires me.”

“So does Totoro,” you smiled. However, it couldn’t be denied that you were digging for more information after your strange encounter.

An understanding smile curved Tae’s lips and he set his chopsticks down briefly.

“You’re right,” he nodded, “for me, they’re tied together with the forest. I haven’t seen them since I was younger, but this place keeps them alive in my imagination, I suppose.”

“Wow,” you breathed, “no wonder your work is so good, hmm? You really love this place.”

As you dug back into your food, Taehyung turned his smiling eyes to you. Though you didn’t meet his gaze, he held his breath. Chewing his lip, he wondered why he couldn’t shake that feeling that had overcome him that morning.

Eventually, he forced himself back to his food, shuffling an inch or so away from you for good measure.

“I think it’s important to have a good place,” he stated, still staring at his dish when you looked around, “a place that works for you, when you need to be creative. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“Yeah,” you nodded vaguely.

But though you never disagreed, you weren’t sure you did understand. And it struck you that perhaps you should. Previously, you had only cared about what your job title could be. Never had you focussed on where you were, convinced you could continue to force out designs the way you always had…

But right now, you thought you might share Tae’s view, the motion of the leaves and the gentle sun caressing them stirring up your long lost desire to create.

And the presence of a warm figure beside you, full of support, had you wishing perhaps a little too much that you could stay.

You couldn’t delude yourself for much longer, unfortunately. Inside, Taehyung was happy to leave your dishes on the side and his brushes out as he offered to walk you home.

However, when he proposed taking you ‘the scenic way’, you dared entertain the thought that perhaps he might like having you around, too.

Though you hadn’t been here for some time and thus your sense of direction was shaky at best, you could tell that Taehyung was leading you around to the other side of town, albeit through the forest. Neither of you were in any hurry to get there, instead enjoying the dappled shade of the woodland path, reams of laughter drifting through the tree trunks as you joked together.

A subtle ache had begun in your cheeks from the constant smiling. But as Tae broke from the path, insisting on building an ‘installation art piece’, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

Instead, you eagerly joined Taehyung as he ran giggling through the trees, scouring the floor for twigs and stones. If anyone else had seen you, it would certainly appear childish. Especially when Taehyung encouraged you to give him a leg up so he could reach a particularly beautiful fallen leaf that was lodged in the crook of a tree branch.

It was when he leapt down again with a subtle huff that you both burst into laughter again. Through the slits your eyes became as you creased with mirth, you caught a glimpse of a broad, boxy smile that robbed you of breath in an instant.

In front of you, Taehyung was chuckling, that beautiful smile still stretching at his lips. And once again, the urge to capture this moment swelled in you. You couldn’t take your eyes from him, simply trying to commit the image to memory with the unattainable hope that it would never fade away.

As he wiped one last tear, you hurriedly turned away, cursing the intense speed your heart had reached.

“What’s your plan, Van Gogh?” you joked, hoping he couldn’t see your sudden nerves.

“Not sure,” he replied happily. Fingers catching your wrist, he tugged you further on. Striding away towards the path ahead of you, he would never see the heat blooming in your face at the contact.

Flustered, you hurried after him, only to run into his back as he stopped without warning.

“Tae? Is-?”

Poking your head from your spot behind his shoulder, you too rapidly quieted.

Though it was not long since you last saw Totoro, the memory was a haze of rain and tears. Now, though, you gulped at the sight. The spirit was waddling along the pathway, each step somehow regal with its commanding size.

With wide eyes you turned to Taehyung. His side profile showed an awed smile, a shallow breath escaping him.

When the creature turned around, you stiffened. But beside you, Taehyung simply stepped forwards, leaving you staring between him and Totoro. Bowing briefly, Tae moved even closer while you hurried to observe the same manners.

Unaffected, Totoro simply turned, continuing their ambling journey through the woods.

Frown taking over your face and unsure what to do, you looked to Tae at your side. However, his expression had split into a joyful grin that obscured his eyes within creases, and before you could even open your mouth, he was dashing to follow the spirit.

Taken by surprise, you could do nothing but follow, tripping through the undergrowth until you spilled back out onto the path.

Laughter was bubbling from your lips before you could control it. Taehyung’s giggled soon mingled with yours in the air.

On reaching the spirit’s side, you slowed somewhat. Totoro accepted your presence with barely a look your way as they kept plodding onwards. What were small steps for the creature, however, took you at a surprising pace that had a sweat breaking from your forehead after a while.

“Tada!”

A flourish of Taehyung’s arms accompanied the first breaking of the companionable silence you had journeyed in.

Following where he gestured, your eyes lit up at the sight of glittering water.

“This was where we were going?”

“Yes! Do you remember it?”

A bounce had already entered Tae’s step, and he spun to talk to you while skipping backwards.

“Of course I do!” you nodded.

Just outside this village, the stream grew broader, creating a wide, flat brook. Countless afternoons of your childhood had been spent here, hopping over the stepping stones that lay above the water’s surface, or splashing in the shallow depths at the edges.

Despite the fuzzy heat of the evening, you found a little extra energy to race after Taehyung to the bank.

Within moments, he was kicking his shoes off and hopping into the glistening water. It only just came up to his ankles, close to the side where blades of grass drooped over, their tips disturbing the surface.

Sitting down for a breather, you also slipped off your shoes and dipped your feet in. Soothingly cool, the water brought relief against the heat you had worked up on the walk.

However, you never got much chance to rest as Taehyung stuck a hand directly under your nose. Scoffing, you took it anyway. In some small retribution, you aimed a kick in his direction once he had dragged you up, sending droplets of water showering over his legs.

Of course, you were instantly shrieking as he sent a playful, but much more powerful, wave of water back your way.

Though you were still aware of the large form of Totoro standing nearby, you were inexplicably more comfortable with their presence now. In fact, they faded to the back of your mind as you let yourself become preoccupied with the impromptu water fight that had your breathless laughs carrying over the rippling stream.

Eventually, you collapsed back onto the grassy bank, head thrown back as you breathed, heavy and exhilarated. For a moment, you simply let a gentle breeze soothe your skin.

When you looked back up, Taehyung snapped his eyes away from you so fast you were hardly sure you had caught them in the first place. Just as he turned away, a shadow fell over you.

Tipping your head back, you saw Totoro looking back down at you.

Before you could speak, let alone turn to face them, a bundle of sticks had fallen at your side, a couple rolling right up to your fingers where they rested. Picking the rough objects up, you looked back to the spirit quizzically. They were the sticks Taehyung had collected earlier, eventually carried here with him and left on the ground.

Then Totoro moved away, downstream a little.

Approaching you, Taehyung bent down to retrieve a few for himself.

“I think they want to play,” he smiled.

Totoro was watching you, almost expectantly. A smile quirked over your lips.

“I know this game!”

Side by side, you and Taehyung padded upstream a few paces, selecting a stick each.

“Three! Two! One!” he counted loudly, although you swore he dropped his stick a little before the last was called.

“Hey!” you shoved him playfully, but he was already taking off jogging towards Totoro.

You had lost sight of the slim shapes moving through the water, so you walked after him, groaning as Totoro held up the gnarled stick Taehyung had chosen.

“That’s not fair!” you tried to sound indignant, even going so far as to fold your arms, but laughter betrayed you.

Several rematches later, the sun was beginning to dip in earnest, and you had to admit it was time to get home. You were still closer to Tae’s house than yours, given the roundabout route you had taken.

As the light painted the sky darker, a few wisps of grey swirling below amber, the laughter died down at the prospect of going back home. Either way, there wasn’t much you could use as an excuse to stay here longer, so you slipped your shoes back on and began making your way over the stepping stones.

Taehyung went first, more steady on his feet while you slipped, taking a moment to get your footing on each one.

Totoro, on the other hand, simply watched you go.

Once, you turned back to give them a shy wave, but they didn’t move. Despite the muteness of the spirit, you thought it looked a little affronted at your leaving.

I’ll come back you promised silently with a smile.

Staring at the wonderful creature, you understood the fond firmness of belief Tae had described feeling about the forest spirits.

But with your eyes averted, your next step was not calculated. Suddenly there was no rock beneath your foot, leg slipping straight down the side as you whipped your attention to the front too late.

“Woah!”

A gasp left you as Taehyung’s exclamation faded from the air, his hands steadfast around your waist. Gulping at the sudden contact, you dared to look up. Dark eyes bore right back into your own and they weren’t breaking away.

“You okay?”

When the words left his lips, you felt them as breath drifting across your own more than you heard them.

You tried to nod, afraid that your noses would touch, close as you were. Somehow, though, you couldn’t look away. The hypnotising softness within his irises had you unsteady all over again as you placed your foot carefully back on stone.

Still, his hands stayed in place. And you didn’t want them to move away.

Tentatively, you breathed in, unable to help your gaze dipping to Taehyung’s temptingly plump lips.

He can’t have missed it. But you realised too late, returning your gaze to the safer, yet still perilous, territory of his eyes. Only to find him slightly further away, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as his eyebrows raised slightly.

Snapping your mouth closed, you stiffened as horror set in. Was he uncomfortable? Had you revealed yourself?

But still he didn’t back away-

A yelp punctuated the air, startled from your own lungs with the impact of your body against Tae’s chest. In a split second, you were landing against something firm with a large splash in the relative quiet of the evening.

Gasping as cold water covered your back, you jerked only to find a strong arm circling you in its grip. Below you, a low rumble of laughter vibrated through your body.

Eyes widening, you realised you were lying pressed flush against Taehyung.

As the grip around you loosened, taking some warmth with it, you looked into Tae’s eyes which were once again creasing with mirth. He struggled to sit it the shallow stream, eventually ending up with you straddled on his lap as his arm remained looped casually around you. Despite the water, icier now in the deepening evening, heat was flaming in your cheeks.

Eager to twist around, you laid eyes on what had caused your unfortunate impact. Totoro stood in the water, unmoving as ever although they were quite clearly the only culprit in sight.

“What-?” you spluttered.

Still laughing, Taehyung helped ease you off him, keeping your hand clasped in his own as you both clambered to your feet. Water dripped from your hair, your legs and shoes sending miniature downfalls over the stepping stones as you returned to them.

“Have we angered the spirit?” you stage whispered to Taehyung, who laughed loudly.

“Sorry Totoro, we have to go home,” Tae sent a bow towards the creature. They blinked back.

Giggling slightly, you took a tentative step onto the next boulder. No sooner had you moved than the wind suddenly picked up around you, the waves in the brook growing more prominent as chill air ensnared your damp skin.

Taehyung cursed under his breath.

“It’s freezing,” he muttered, gritting his teeth.

Subconsciously, you huddled closer to him as he looked around – first at the path ahead and over the stream, then back towards the forest. Both of you seemed to gravitate to the latter, where leaves rioted in the air above the treetops.

As you stood in the wind, Taehyung’s arm had lifted to absently hold your waist. You felt him tug lightly.

“Maybe we should go back to mine. It’s still too far to your place, we might both freeze.”

“Are you sure?” you breathed, though you wanted to agree there and then, run back to his warm bed and not move for several hours. The way your voice came shakily with the shivers that began only confirmed Tae’s plan, and he was already setting off towards the riverbank.

“Very sure. Let’s get inside.”

Not needing to be told twice, you followed hastily, only connected to Tae by your fingertips that clutched each other as he led the way.

A particularly violent gust had your shoulders hunching. You were nearly at the side of the stream, and so you kept your focus for a moment longer on the rocks in front of you, before at last your feet met the grassy floor.

But on looking up, the sight that greeted you on the bank had your mouth hanging open.

What looked like a bus was standing in front of you. Or what would have looked like a bus, if not for the fact that it was smiling.

But after the day you had had, you made no protest as Tae told you it was okay to get in, merely accepting your fate with an incredulous sigh.

Tae’s hand on the small of your back as you stepped inside didn’t go unnoticed by you, but you let it slide. It was nice to be out of the cold, so you busied yourself with getting cosy on the seats that ran down the sides of the interior.

A jolt announced your departure. Looking around, you found Totoro hadn’t joined you, but watched you leave from the bank instead.

Turning back to the scene in front of you, you were surprised to note that no wind touched your frozen skin any more, despite the fact the windows on this bus seemed to be… well, non-existent. Beside you, Tae was leaning out slightly with a giddy grin lighting up his face, hand splayed in the air.

With a smile creeping onto your own face, you resigned yourself to the unexpected journey. Folding your arms against the side, you too stared out across the sky.

The treetops were far beneath you now, your whole village visible though it looked toy-sized from here. Wisps of clouds flew close overhead while your vantage point showed the glaring sun peeking above the horizon, illuminating your face with the last of the day’s warmth.

A glance to Taehyung showed his face bathed in the glow as well, painting his skin with molten gold that danced in his eyes and streaked through his hair like brushstrokes.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

Mindless to the risk of him catching you, you allowed your gaze to trail along his features, cast into striking light and shade. You longed to reach out, touch his hair. It looked indulgently soft, waving in a light breeze as you travelled.

All too soon, shadows were once again flitting over his cheeks as you were brought closer to the ground.

Awed smile remaining on his parted lips, he turned his face to you. Though you swallowed, you didn’t bother to look away, simply returning a smile. If possible, his seemed to soften even more at this.

Landing was softer than leaving the ground, barely a bump letting you know you were back on the earth. Since you sat down, lethargy had crept up on you, revealing how spent you were after the day outside.

Taehyung stood while you were still blinking groggily from your position laying on your arms.

“Come on,” a low chuckled accompanied the sliding of arms around you.

You complied, finding your feet and stepping out of the bus with a yawn. Without a moment to spare, the vehicle? creature? had leapt from the ground, soon whizzing out of sight.

Until you climbed the steps to Taehyung’s house, the cool air waking you sufficiently to slip off your shoes, you hadn’t noticed that your clothes had dried.

“They never stop with the surprises,” Taehyung’s low voice chuckled, making you look up.

You had been standing just inside the doorway, ogling your sleeves as if you might blink and find them soaking wet again in an instant. Meanwhile, Tae stood in the living room, one hand dug into a pocket as his other fingers slipped open the top button of his shirt with practised ease.

Gulping at the sight, you fixed your eyes back on his.

He simply smiled. Under one arm he gathered a blanket that had been strewn on the couch, but it was his free hand he held out to you, fingers outstretched, inviting.

Grateful, you stepped closer, inhaling the comforting scent of his home. You hadn’t noticed it before, but though your clothes were dry they still gave off the odour of river water, making the aroma of paints mingled with herbs and spices more prominent by contrast as you closed the space between you.

Hand closing around the offered blanket, you broke eye contact for the first time.

“This feels like a dream,” you murmured, head shaking lightly.

A beat of silence as Tae released his grip on the soft fabric, transferring it to your fingers.

“It does,” he whispered.

Had you looked up, you would have found his eyes still trained intently on you. So close, he bit his tongue, not trusting his voice further given the way his throat closed up, lending his deep voice more gravel than usual.

Stifling a yawn, you looked around, already pulling the blanket over your shoulders. Despite the quick journey and drying off, the chill of the outside lingered a little.

“Where do you want me?” you yawned.

Tae cleared his throat before he spoke, stepping away though he left his fingers tangled loosely with your own.

“The bedroom is fine, i-if you want to, that is,” he hastened to add, “we’re both tired. Let’s get some sleep.”

While normally your manners would have you protest at least a little, you had to admit how sleepy you were becoming. It was impossible to deny that Tae had just proposed exactly what you wanted, and so you let him lead you to the bedroom, where you sunk onto the futon as he gathered some clothes from his wardrobe.

Folded beside you, you handled them with reverent fingers, slipping out of your clothes once Tae had excused himself for the bathroom.

You reversed your tasks once more before you found yourself bundled in comforting blankets, the weight next to you a steadying influence in the darkness. Though you longed to reach out for him, trace your fingertips over his skin, hold him close-

you really were just too tired.

And maybe it was testament to the security of his presence that you were unable to act on your desires, sleep claiming you strongly instead, taking you quicker than you had managed in months.

Waking up, however, was a different story.

While the exhaustion of yesterday had muffled any thoughts beyond wanting to sleep, today your mind was overflowing even as you first blinked at the pale light.

Beside you, Taehyung still lay sleeping. You were simultaneously aware of his peaceful beauty, and the panic with which you found yourself revelling in it. It seemed you had become a little too attached to him. Maybe this had all been a mistake…

Also in the back of your mind, though rapidly elbowing its way to the forefront, was the fact you hadn’t been home for an entire day. Your phone was still there; who knew how many work calls you might have missed?

Though you couldn’t quite find it in yourself to regret turning away from it, you couldn’t shake the itching responsibility to get back and see what mess awaited.

But at the same time, that terrified you beyond belief.

Most of all, however, your mind was swimming with colours. Shapes, snippets of designs floated in your brain. You weren’t sure when the last time that had happened was. You used to dream up your designs, when you were still beginning your career, desperate to create.

And though there were many scary things waiting for you, this revelation, this newfound desire to design again, lent your limbs new strength as you rolled from the bed.

Reclaiming your clothes from last night was first up; Tae had draped them over kitchen chairs to air out, but the smell lingered a little. It didn’t bother you too much, so you dressed quickly.

It was then that the soft creaking of floorboards caught your attention. You turned just in time to see Tae emerge from the bedroom, eyes barely cracked open while his lips were puffed out in an adorable pout, clearly only half-awake.

Stopping with an arm on the doorframe, hair flopping haphazardly around his face, he squinted across at you.

“Where are you going?” his low voice still rumbled in his throat, dry with disuse this morning.

Silently moving, you quickly padded across the floor towards him. None of the curtains were open yet, the watery morning light permeating the air tentatively.

In this dim space, you had the courage to lift your palms to press against his cheeks. On meeting his big eyes that stared across at you, you swallowed.

“There’s something I have to do,” you breathed, gaze skimming down his face as he watched you. Despite his bewildered state this early in the day, he was beginning to become more alert at your words.

Slowly, his fingers lifted to wrap gently around your wrist.

“Okay,” his voice remained husky, “but… you’ll come back?”

You tore your eyes from where they had focussed, without your consent, on his lips, to return his intent stare.

“Of course I will,” you whispered, mouth turning up at the corners.

For a moment, your breathing hitched. Such close distance between you two was becoming frequent, but you were far from used to it. Your cheeks still heated up, breath shallow as you savoured the softness of his skin under your hand.

Your eyes slid closed. In the relative darkness that encapsulated you, it was easy to think wishfully, imagine leaning closer in this timeless space where no one would see…

But then the moment passed, your hand slipping inconsequentially from his lingering grip.

Bringing your hand back to your side, you squeezed a smile his way and took a step backwards.

Then another.

He remained standing there as your pace sped up, and soon you were out of the door. As it closed behind you, you swore you could have seen a large pair of eyes blinking from between the trees.

Knowing what you did now, you couldn’t write it off, but neither did you pay any more attention, feeling a strange weightlessness as you trod the path to your house.

Going the short way this time, it didn’t take you long as you walked the tracks beside the glistening rice fields and farmland. Workers were already out, having risen with the sun which had fully emerged from the trees by now. As you passed, you exchanged nods and waves, smiling and giving good greetings to all you looked up at you.

Quiet fell again once you reached your road.

A nervous chill ran through you, but there was a thrill to it.

Approaching your house, you found two figures standing outside. With a frown, you drew closer.

“Auntie?” you called, making the women turn to you, “Mei?”

Mei’s warm face formed a friendly smile while your aunt beside her gawked. Recovering from her shook, she hurried to you, grasping your hands as your received her with confusion.

“Mei told me you were at Kim Taehyung’s? Is that true?”

With a glance to the old lady, you confirmed.

“That’s a relief,” your aunt laughed, “I came around yesterday to find you gone! You even left your phone!”

She was holding it out to you. Smiling weakly, you suddenly felt the weight of her watching you. Thankfully, Mei began to walk back towards her house, lessening your audience.

Sure enough, when you powered your phone on, it was instantly lighting up, ping after ping flooding your screen with notifications, calls and messages.

A frown made your aunt’s concern clear, but even you surprised yourself with your confidence as you simply grinned back.

“I have it under control,” you assured her, and walked up your steps to the door.

Inside, you took a breath, but could put it off no more. Beyond the fear of what you were about to do, lay the images of your home, the expansive fields and forests that had always been your source of inspiration. And now, a giant, friendly forest spirit-

And a hand, resting in yours.

The dial tone filled your ears, and you took a seat. Your notebook was still atop your desk, thrown aside to make way for your laptop, sat open with its screen dead. Nor had you disposed of your instant food wrappers-

“Y/N,” a stern voice crackled through the line. Your boss. “Where are those plans I asked you for?”

Though she couldn’t see you, you brought a smile to your face, summoned to lend you confidence.

“I’m sorry,” you quickly apologised, already hearing the reprimand on her lips, “but something came up. And I… I have something to tell you.”

A sigh.

“Go on.”

“Well… I’ve been thinking. I appreciate all the opportunities I’ve had with this company, but I don’t think it’s taking me where I would like to go-“

“Y/N!” you weren’t sure you had ever heard so much emotion in your boss’ voice. Her voice rang with pure shock, “Do you mean to say-?”

“This is me, handing in my notice,” you spoke clearly, “thank you.”

Silence stretched out for longer than you could comfortably take. But, should you need to, you were ready to repeat yourself. Somewhere on the other line, you heard a muffled voice trying to get your boss’ attention, but it was soon gone again. You knew well the dismissive wave that person will have received.

“Very well,” she spoke at last.

And with that acceptance, you felt like you were floating.

There was a spring in your step even as you cleaned up the mess you had left behind, the whole time itching to get your hands on your pens and brushes.

You had quit. You had quit!

For so long, the notion would never have crossed your mind, the prospect of giving up too terrifying to consider. But you weren’t giving up, not at all. Maybe you were giving up on what you thought you wanted. Or what you had wanted, once upon a time, but now no longer fit you.

Instead of guilt or fear, you were filled with excitement. You knew what you wanted.

And you were halfway there.

This, however, was the easy part. No matter how hard it may be to rebuild your career, starting afresh, none of those obstacles scared you quite as much as the next thought to enter your mind.

Taehyung.

But you had promised him you would come back.

And perhaps one upheaval was enough for one day, you thought as you gathered your sketchbook, your paints. You could afford to hide from your feelings for a little longer, right?

You certainly couldn’t deny them, but you were afraid to admit them. Who knew what could happen then? You dared not hope for them being returned, and concluded to let yourself enjoy time with Tae for now.

After all, you were so excited to create, an almost alien passion that you were thrilled to welcome back.

And you could think of no one better to share this joy with. Taehyung was an artist too; he would understand.

Not far from Tae’s house, back past the open farmland, a familiar shape dominated the path in front of you. The sight of Totoro brought a smile to your face, reminding you of all the magic you had discovered in this place since you returned.

What you hadn’t quite expected was for them to be waiting for you. Unsure what to do, you settled for a quick bow and a quiet ‘hello’ as you continued.

Walking past the spirit, it just watched you for an extended moment before following along behind.

Taehyung was at the kitchen window when you arrived, and saw you coming. A boxy smile lit up his face before it disappeared from the window, emerging only seconds later in the doorway, a pair of paintbrushes clutched in his hand and dripping onto the porch. The day had bloomed into gorgeous full sun, and he held his hand up to shield his eyes from it as he watched you arrive.

A glance behind you confirmed Totoro was still following.

“They were standing around outside all morning,” Tae began talking, coming down the steps to meet you, “thought they wanted me to come into the forest, but when I tried, they walked even further down that way. What do you think’s got into them?”

“Beats me,” you shrugged, “but they seem happy enough now.”

Sure enough, Totoro had retreated a little further towards the treeline, still watching you both. For a moment, you and Tae both twisted around, looking back at the creature.

“Anyway…” you laughed.

Joining in, Tae led the way back inside, wiping his brushes against his trousers.

“Did you do what you needed to?” he asked, back facing you. The art supplies in your arms hadn’t gone unnoticed, and he was pulling out a chair to place next to his own setup.

“Yeah,” you hummed, setting your things down, “I, er- I quit my job.”

Brows lifting, Tae straightened up to face you. But his mouth soon slid into a bright smirk.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathed. You couldn’t keep your own beaming smile away from your face.

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer.

“So you’re going to be around here for a while, then?”

“Yeah,” you smiled warmly, “I think I am.”

Over the next few hours, the image you had hoped for came to life. Sitting side by side, you and Tae both went about your works in pleasureable silence. Him, hidden behind an easel and periodically popping his head around it to survey they scenery, and you, meagre sketchbook propped on a cluttered desk.

It was perfect.

And finally, your creative energy was allowed to burst forth. For the first time since you were a student, you drew. And drew. And drew.

Pages seemed to fill themselves up, and if some thoughts were still unpolished, at least they were here, proof that you had never lost your spark, the spark which the fruitless toil of your old workplace had stamped out. Maybe you had just lost your way, temporarily.

And for that short afternoon, you were able to push all other thoughts from your mind. Especially those pertaining to a certain fluffy-haired artist with a boxy smile.

But even having half your worries settled was a relief.

That night, you returned home. Though you slept easier than the last time you were in this bed, you were ashamed of how much you longed for Tae’s presence next to you. Even when you had slept silently, barely touching save for the odd brush of an arm or leg when you rolled over, it was a grounding relief to have him there.

Luckily, you hadn’t even had to ask him yesterday if you could drop by again; he had leapt on the chance to invite you himself.

So you didn’t dwell on the way you reached out when you woke up, expecting to find a warm presence under the blankets with you. Instead, you happily climbed out of bed, ready to repeat your routine from yesterday.

This time, you at least brought some snacks along from your kitchen.

Today brought a large dose of d                         ja-vu along with it. Totoro was once again waiting for you, expectant. It took you off guard, but slipped your mind once you were back at Tae’s side, happily working for the remainder of the morning.

But Totoro didn’t give up. Those large eyes blinked through the window when the two of you went to prepare food.

“Do you want attention?” you chuckled, knowing you wouldn’t receive an answer.

“What do you say?” Tae’s low voice grew closer, “fancy a break outside?”

You were prevented from replying when his breath fell across your neck, causing you to stiffen. But he simply leaned over, hooking his chin lazily on your shoulder as he dropped another spoon into the sink where you were washing up.

“Y/N?” he frowned when met with your silence, small pout forming as he drew back to look at you.

You shook yourself.

“What? Oh, yes,” you tripped over your tongue, “that sounds great. Looks like Totoro would appreciate that too.”

With a laugh, Tae wiped his hands on a cloth.

“I’ll go get changed.”

Not long later, you were surrounded by trees, bathed now in deep shade that shielded you from the midday sun. Totoro had seemingly been satisfied by your attention, as they had followed you on your walk without protest.

Not that you were sure how they would protest if they wanted to, but your point stands.

It was strange how accustomed you were to the spirit by now, no longer staring over your shoulder at the creature. Instead, you were preoccupied by Tae as he ran, giggling, towards a tree with the perfect low-hanging branches for climbing.

By the time you had reached him, he was dangling, sloth-style, so that he was level with your head. His grin was just as goofy upside-down, and you swatted at his soft hair as it hung off his reddening face.

“Budge up,” you grinned, trying to hoist yourself up as well.

You had succeeded in getting onto the first branch when Totoro appeared by the base of the tree. Smiling down at them, you waited for Tae to clamber up to the next bough.

The moment you looked back to him, however, you felt a strange tug, shrieking when you found no branch below your feet. Looking about wildly, your feet flailed, scrabbling for any kind of purchase.

From where he hung onto a branch, Taehyung looked down sharply in a panic, but instead found you level with him.

Wide eyes stared at one another until the same feeling clutched at Tae, stomach dropping as he was miraculously lifted from his perch.

A look behind you showed Totoro still right there, also floating. One arm was holding you, Tae’s hand clutching the other. As you blinked in mute shock at the spirit, they opened their mouth, stretching into a wide grin. Laughter floated past your lips at the sight.

Somehow, you dodged the branches crossing your path as you ascended, though they grew sparser as you carried on upwards. Unlike your journey in the bus, you could feel a breeze coursing past you now.

Gaping in disbelief, you found Tae again, reaching out to him. Your expression was mirrored on his, and he eagerly entwined your free hands, smile softening as you were brought closer in the air.

And as you floated high above the ground, you somehow felt little difference than the way you always did when Tae was beside you, hand resting in your own.

You laughed again, a sound of pure joy, forgetting the spirit carrying you as you simply watched his eyes. Among the cool breeze, you felt a slight tickle of warmth from his breath.

As you watched, his smile slowly melted from his lips, captivated instead by your stare, though he looked no less peaceful.

But just as distant hills could be revealed beyond the thinning leaves, you felt a warm hold loosening around you. You hadn’t even noticed it, but now it was retracting, you could feel the spirit’s magic clearly and panicked. In an instant, you had grabbed the nearest branch, which was surprisingly sturdy.

In your rush, your hand had slipped from Tae’s, but a shudder of the branch told you he had also caught hold of it.

The calming magic slipped away completely.

Now clutching the tree for dear life, you looked down, but Totoro was nowhere to be seen. Squeezing your eyes shut, you sucked in a deep breath. Then, with a surge of energy, you swung further onto the branch, ignoring the way it lurched, to give you a steadier sitting place.

“You alright?” you panted.

Only a grunt answered you as Tae copied your action.

As he righted himself, you caught an uneasy wobble in his expression, instinctively holding out a hand.

“Come here.”

Gladly taking it, Taehyung’s shoulders lowered, easing a bit once you were connected. Waiting for him, you shimmied a short distance to rest where the branch met the trunk. On reaching you, Tae pressed closer, shoulder up against your own.

Smiling fondly, you twisted so you could reach your arms around him loosely.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, though you had no idea what had just happened.

“Not a fan of heights,” he murmured, but his deep voice did not seem panicked.

“At least it’s pretty,” you pointed out, nudging him the smallest amount to avoid toppling.

You were right. Between picture frames formed by intertwining branches, the land stretched out in the brilliant light. The same land that had always inspired you. How could you bring yourself to be irritated at Totoro for bringing you here?

“You seem remarkably calm,” a chuckle rumbled through Tae’s chest.

“I’m not sure anything else can surprise me now.”

He smiled, turning towards you. In this position, though, you were intimately close, his nose barely an inch from your own once he had twisted to look into your eyes. Inhaling sharply, you gripped the tree trunk harder.

“Why do you think they brought us here?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered, not trusting your voice, “but they wouldn’t hurt us.”

“I know that,” Taehyung nodded, gaze dropping enough for you to deflate again.

Still holding onto each other like it was the most natural thing, you eyed the landscape for a little while longer, allowing quiet to elapse.

But this proximity wasn’t doing you any favours. Though you were sure Tae was oblivious, your heart was beating erratically, unable to forget his presence. All the thoughts that had occupied you lately were flooding in, except this time there was no escape.

Literally.

You were stuck in this tree next to the man who drove you crazy any time he looked your way. The man you were dying to spend time with the moment you woke up each day. The man who accepted you, supported you, reminded you where your true passion lay.

No, you couldn’t take this.

“Hey,” a low voice brushed your earlobe, just moments before a gentle finger found your chin, bringing it up.

You had barely noticed your gaze falling from the view in front of you while you lost yourself in useless circles of thought. Now, you couldn’t look away as shining dark eyes captivated your own.

“What are you thinking about?” Taehyung asked, lips curving upwards.

Licking your lips, you tore your eyes away. This was too much for your poor heart.

“Y/N?” he ducked to catch your eyes, brow creasing.

You were too weak for this boy. As soon as you saw the slight displeasure on his face, you longed to chase it away.

You sighed.

“You…”

Nearly as quiet as the breeze, you half hoped your admission would be carried away. But as you bit your tongue, daring to look up, you knew Tae had heard. His smile grew, though he tilted his head questioningly.

“What about me?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you grinned, looking away again. This was too risky. Maybe he would buy the joke and drop it before you made a fool of yourself-

“I was thinking about you too.”

You blinked.

“You were?”

He hummed, not a trace of insincerity in his large eyes as he nodded.

“Well…” you picked subconsciously at your sleeve, “what were you thinking about?”

“Nosy,” he griped, taking a light swipe at your nose with his forefinger.

Succeeding in bringing a smile to your face as you jerked your head away with a laugh, he sighed, shuffling closer indetectably.

“I was wondering… maybe Totoro did this because of you-“ just as you gaped indignantly, he hurried on “-because of us. They put us up here… together.”

“Oh. Yeah,” you nodded, brow furrowing.

“But even if- if that’s not the case…”

Taehyung trailed off, bringing your attention back to him. He wet his lips, sucking his lower one between worrying teeth before meeting your eyes again.

“We’re alone and, well… I was wondering what it would be like to kiss you.”

That knocked all the air out of your lungs. You sucked a shaky breath, then out.

“What it would be like?” you echoed.

He nodded, gulping.

And then something snapped. Unable to stand it anymore, you slid your hand to his jaw, the next moment surging forwards, lips colliding desperately.

His arms tugged you closer instantly, pulling you against him, fingers grasping at your waist hungrily as he titled his head to meet you. And heaven, it felt amazing. His lips were as soft as they looked, leaving you lapping at them with desire as his caressed yours just as dreamily, simultaneously intense with longing pressure and gentle with reverence.

Caving to him completely, you let yourself mould to his embrace. The flowing wind around you, the rustling of the leaves were utterly driven from your mind by the maddening nudge of his tongue, prompting you to deepen the kiss.

But though your fingers still clutched his jaw desperately, you were forced to break the kiss, falling away giddy and breathless.

Tae lifted a hand to your hair as well, stroking it soothingly as he pulled you close again, foreheads touching.

“Well…” you were the first to recover your voice, “I think it would feel something like that.”

A smile burst onto his face, dominating your vision, no doubt a copy of your own ecstatic grin.

Almost immediately, a strong wind ripped through the treetops. Wiping the smile from your face, you gripped tighter to both the tree and to Taehyung.

He looked around.

Following his gaze, sure enough, you were met with two large eyes staring innocently back at you.

A beat consisted of you blinking at one another in silence, before a gasping laugh burst from your mouth. Clapping a hand over it, you met Tae’s eyes, also finding him dissolve into laughter that creased his eyes.

“Looks like you were right,” you chuckled as the warm magic began to lift you once again.

“You were just waiting for us to confess!” Tae cried.

But the wide smile on his face as he pulled you closer mid-flight showed he was far from outraged.

That night saw you tumbling at last into the same bed as Tae again. You didn’t want to leave, and you never had to.

Over time, you moved in, your own things settling among the paintings, brushes and pots that filled Tae’s house. Your house.

Every day you would see the trees, feel the wind through your hair and the sun glowing between the forest branches – the very place where you had finally given into the love binding you.

And you drew. You drew and drew, and designed until you were making a name in your own right. People would ask you about the distinctive round creatures that commonly featured in your designs. Of course, you would always laugh, a familiar sound that you shared with your boyfriend, keeping the unofficial secret between yourselves.

The two of you knew, not only the forest spirits, but the dust bunnies and flurries of wind that snaked through the roof timbers on the coldest nights. And then, you could always be assured of a warm presence beside you, to hold you through the night.

But above all, you got to see that glorious smile every day, never fading from your life.

You could breathe again.

Thank you for reading! If you want more, there is a follow up drabble here. Come chat with me if you enjoyed it!

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[radiosandrecordings]

Crossposting my @summer-in-the-archives-event fic here too. [AO3] [Accompanying beautiful art]

He’d never get used to the rolling fields of quiet.

Miles behind and miles to go, not that he could see any of it through the thick blanket of fog that clung to his ankles, and his wrists, and his eyes. Miles to go before I sleep…

It was hard to describe the rain that fell, because even ‘fell’ felt like too active a descriptor. It didn’t pour, it didn’t ‘beat down’, it didn’t pelt, because those all required a sense of agency that the landscape just felt too apathetic to muster. It simply existed, and just happened to be moving downwards by coincidence.

Jon wasn’t sure if he knew or Knew that it seeped into his clothes, coating his skin, but he couldn’t even feel the droplets landing, even pinpricks of touch creating too much of a sensation for this place. He briefly wondered that, if he still had need for his glasses, would the rain even make the effort to trickle down and cloud the lenses.

The last Lonely domain he’d passed through, he’d never seen the avatar that lorded over it. He didn’t have any real interest in finding out, not like the personal vendettas that lead him to seeking out Jude, or Jared. Because with Peter dead he wasn’t left with any Lonely avatars left to chase, save the vague notions of the Lukas extended family. He was simply going to keep his head down and keep trudging, hopefully emerging through the thick banks of mist before he lost his mind to the monotony. If there was ever something to make you miss muffled cries from beneath the earth…

“Why are you here?”

The sound was accusatory, and may as well have been a shotgun in the silence. The damped chill was nothing in comparison to the ice that shot up his spine. The voice had no clear origin, no figures even silhouetted in shadow against the overgrown grass, but it came in close, delivered on the gentle, numbing breeze. Despite this, though, never in a thousand domains could he forget the sound of it. Of course it was his. Of course. Of course. “Martin?”

“No! ”

The voice sounded… Angry. But hurt, like it flinched away from the word. Like something that had been left to sit in the dark too long, that recoiled back from a stinging source of light.

“... I’m going to assume no one has called you that in a long time.” He tried to keep his voice light, as much as the stifling atmosphere would allow it.

“No one is anything here. It’s easier that way. If you’re somebody, you can be hurt. If you have too much personality, too many little facets and cracks, things start to snag and catch on it, and it drags you down to where things ache. But if you’re nothing, then they don’t have anything to cling onto. You can just slip away unharmed.” The voice sounded like it was moving, curling around him and moving from ear to ear, forward and back as it droned on in that echoing monotone that Jon had hoped he would never hear again, and at the same time, had longed to.

“And what about the good things?”

“There isn’t anything good, not anymore. You saw to that.”

Jon snorted. “Low blow, but fair.” He hesitated for a moment, trying to summon the words.

He’d had time, after he left the Lonely, to consider his actions. Regret pooled like acid in his stomach at the memory, and somehow it hurt more than ending the world. He wouldn’t say it was more important. He knew whatever he felt, and moreso, knew that one human life, was not paramount to the suffering of every creature great and small, but it felt more tangible. When he walked through the hellscapes, they were dreamlike, hazy, information in such clarity but to an extreme where it still felt nonsensical to perceive it as reality. He knew the fundamental truths that surrounded him but it still felt hard to accept them even as he lived them.

Yet despite having lived without it for eight months prior, the space beside him that failed to solidify into Martin still stung with his absence. And Jon regretted it every not-day he spent walking the hellscape, both in knowing he doomed a good man to suffering, or worse, revelry, in this new world, and in the far more personal, and far more selfish, part of him that missed him so goddamn much.

“But- But Martin, I think I made a mistake.”

“Obviously.”

“Not- Not that. I mean, when we were in the Lonely. The- The first time. With Peter Lukas.” The silence droned on, and Jon took that as his cue to continue. “Do you remember what I said? That maybe you were safer here? And that’s… That’s why I let you stay. I didn’t push you to, to leave with me because I thought you wanted to be here, that you’d be safer here than you’d be with me. But I don’t think that was entirely true.”

“I am safe here.”

“Maybe so. It doesn’t mean it’s better though, does it. Martin, I saw those people, in the last Lonely domain. I know it’s different, they were victims and you’re… You’re an avatar, here, you’re feeding off of all of this, but I promise you they were not happy. They were so alone and it didn’t protect them, it just made it worse. Think about it, the logic of this world. There are threats out there of unimaginable horror, and yet they were still assigned here, it’s their worst nightmare. And you were assigned here too. You’re all suffering, just in different ways, but all calculated to be your personal worst.”

“The Martin Blackwood you thought you knew doesn’t exist anymore. He had to be filed down, too many breaks and tears in him that grew and grew, any time someone raised a harsh word. The best way for him to be protected, is for him to go away entirely. You cannot hurt something that doesn’t exist.”

“Are you sure about that? Because you just said ‘I’.”

“What? ” That anger reemerged again, and as staunched as it was it was beautiful, a return to form amongst the dull monotone, reminiscent of the few times Jon had been privileged enough to witness a truly pissed off Martin Blackwood.

Jon found himself grinning. “You said ‘I am safe here’. Emphasis on the ‘I’. Ergo, you still have some form of identity left, and thus I would wager that the part of you left is Martin. Unless I’ve wandered across some other avatar of the Lonely who sounds like him, of course.”

“You’re always so fucking smug, you know that?”

The voice is coming from behind him. Actually, physically, presently behind him and Jon spins around so fast he’s almost dizzy.

And as much as it made his heart soar, and much as he was glad to finally, finally , see him again when he’d thought he never would, Martin looked… Bad.

His skin had darkened, mottled and blotchy with large swathes of a bruise-like blue or sickly green cropping up across his face and neck, or the parts of his forearms visible where his cable knit sleeves rolled back. It was like frostbite from the cold, or some disturbing onset of trench-foot from the damp, corpselike and unsettling. What was worse, though, were the parts that simply ceased. His hair didn’t even reach the tips, simply fading out into a grey static that merged with the mist, and it consumed his eyes whole, tear tracks streaking down his face in patterns of fuzzy, crackling grey that snapped and popped in the silence, far too reminiscent of a tape.

The sight made Jon’s heart clench like a fist, the combination of relief and horror, and in that moment he understood Jane Prentiss more completely than he ever had before. It would’ve felt like a rude comparison to consciously make, the person he cared for most equated to a pulped and writhing mass that churned out creatures that made your skin crawl before tearing into it. But he knew what she had seen in it, that call towards the thing that fascinated you, despite the turning it causes in your stomach.

Despite this, however, Jon steeled himself. This was rapidly becoming a battle, and he couldn’t afford the cost of emotions. He had to keep Martin, well… Martin. Draw out the emotion. In short, be a bit of a bastard. So instead, he cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you liked that about me?”

He could see Martin’s fists clench, the colour of his extremities dyed black from frostbite. The irritation was still clear as he started into “Fucking hell J-” but they both appeared taken aback as he dissolved into a choking, hacking cough.

It took everything in him for Jon to tamp down the need to surge forward, put a hand on his back and ask if he was okay. It was a strangely mundane thing; the man was made out of static and fog and despite seeming to have an on-and-off-again relationship with his corporeal form, this was the first recognisably human thing to adversely affect him. Why, though? What had Martin done to trigger- Oh. Oh .

“That- That priest from the statement… 0113005? Father Burroughs. He couldn’t say the name of god. Anything related to it, really. And you… You couldn’t say my…”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Martin spat. “You’re not a god or thee god, whatever your new eye magic might imply. It’s just…” He let out a breath that turned into a grumble. While his eyes had always been cloudy, he was now refusing to meet Jon’s gaze.

Regardless, it still drew a breathy laugh out of him. “No, I’m not that far gone into my own self importance yet. But… It’s about the connection, isn’t it?” Something in the conversation had changed, it’s tone or it’s flow, that felt contradicting. Tension coiling up to spring, or they’re barrelling towards a culmination, but at the same time, Jon felt like the wind had been kicked right out of him. He lowered himself to the ground, slowly, settling among the grass and trying to ignore the unpleasant dampness under him. Hey, he could feel the damp again. That was something.

“That’s more flattering, actually, I would say… The Lonely, it thinks if you acknowledge me directly, that would loosen it’s hold on you.” Jon huffed out a breath. “You know I listened to all the tapes. What was it that Daisy said to you, when I was on the run? ‘People say you two are close’? Well, the Lonely appears to agree.” He took a minute before adding, “I would, as well. And, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was too… Too in my own head, before, to admit it. Too much of a coward to do it before that, even. But you need to know I love you. And I know that you… Cared for me, at least? Even if I stuck my head in the sand to ignore it. But the Lonely seems to think you do, still. So will you please come back to me? I know it’s not- I know it won’t be much better, travelling through the domains, but it’s all I can offer and it has to be better than this. I can’t promise anything kind will be waiting for us in London, but you’d be yourself again, and I can’t… Martin, I can’t lose you again. To leave here, again, without you, I’d be losing you. Please.”

“No.”

There wasn’t even a delay to his response, stating it in monotone the second Jon had finished speaking. It felt like ice, lancing through his heart.

“Martin. Martin, please -”

“I said no. I thought you would’ve learned by now; I’m not exactly amenable when you come crawling to me with half baked plans of escape. Because you don’t love me, you love the idea of me. You are quite literally the only free man left in the world and you’re lonely . So you’re looking for a familiar face. Kind Martin, caring Martin, always there with tea and taking your side in every argument. Defending you to Tim when you’d just as soon slag him off behind his back, or on tape. Pretty appealing when everyone else is trying to kill you. At least he treated you like a god before this even started.”

Each sentence felt like another dagger to the chest, and it took him a moment to compose himself, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. Eventually, though, Jon spoke. “That’s not true, though. I- Martin I can’t apologise enough that that’s what it’s felt like, for you. But I need you to know, that isn’t true. A-At the start, maybe, I can’t deny I was stupid and spiteful, but you didn’t deserve any of it. And after that… I didn’t do a one-eighty and decide you were a doormat. I liked you because you were secretly enough of a prick as well. Any time you’d pull me out for lunch when I dragged my heels, or argued back when I said something shitty, that was… It felt like I was seeing the real you. The one you didn’t want to let people think of you as, but the one you were, because despite wanting to appear like the picture of innocence, you are a bitch, Martin Blackwood. And that’s my favourite thing about you. Maybe time is sweetening my memory, slightly, but I truly don’t believe there’s rose coloured glasses here. If we walk out of here, I’m not under any sort of illusion that it’ll be a honeymoon. We will doubtless find something to argue over, if not several, but I want that. I want you at my side to, to disagree and point out all my blind spots. We’re both stubborn bastards but I’m stupidly fallible, and I need you to keep me balanced. I don’t want a yes-man, I want you, Martin, and I’m asking for that knowing full well what it entails.”

When the words stopped flowing, he found himself gasping for breath, sobs building in his chest and threatening to spill over. But Martin was standing closer.

“That’s- I don’t- Fuck.” As Jon looked up, wiping at his own eyes, he could see fog starting to trickle from Martin’s mouth, coming in short bursts as his nostrils flared and chest rose and fell noticeably for the first time that Jon had seen since he stepped foot onto the moors. This caused a conflict of emotion in Jon, because while it seemed to be another step towards humanity, Martin letting the Lonely fall to the wayside in favour of reclaiming himself, it also looked far too close to a panic attack to be something worth celebrating.

“I don’t understand,” he finally settled on, voice cracking on the words. He slowly let himself sink to the ground opposite Jon, knees pulled up to his chest. “I left you. Time and again I left you. I left you to work with Lukas, and I left you when you tried to get me to run away, and I left you when I stayed on the beach.” His palms were pressed into his eyes, mist seeping from between his knuckles as he dragged them across his face, though Jon couldn’t be sure if he was attempting to wipe the fog away, or if he was stalling while he faltered, trying to summon the words. Both, maybe. Jon took the silence from him.

“You didn’t really choose that, though. You didn’t feel like you even had a choice. So Martin if… If you’re worried that I think badly of you for that, I don’t. Martin, I’ve done so many terrible things, so to- No, no, actually I don’t mean it like that. I don’t mean that you’re a good person, compared with me. I think you’re a good person full stop. And I just want you to be able to see that. I know the Lonely is quite literally clouding your judgement right now but… Please, just, just make me a deal?”

Martin’s palms were resting on his chin now, cupping his cheeks and curving around his neck. He nodded once, wearily, for Jon to continue.

Jon drew in a breath “I think I’m in some sort of… Bubble. Like a miniature domain, when I’m travelling. I think, if you agree to come with me, even for a little bit, that might dissolve some of the Lonely’s more adverse effects. Make it easier to think, to, to be yourself without its influence. If that is what happens, and you want to return… I’ll bring you back. But please, just… Try? For me?”

Martin sighed, hands dropping from his face. “...Fine.”

“You- Really?”

“Yes. I… Look, J-” Martin bit back another coughing fit. “Look. I am… There is a lot of me right now that wants to leave. The fog is… It’s in my head, figuratively, probably even literally, but… I remember something Basira said. When she got back, from, from The Unknowing . Melanie wanted to know how she got out, when the other three… When you, and Daisy, and Tim, didn’t. She said she reasoned her way out. So I’m going to listen to reason for a minute, as much as it’s paining me.”

Despite those final words, Jon felt his face crack into a smile. “That’s… Yes, you’re right. Well that’s… That’s a very reasonable connection to make.”

And for the first time in a long time, Martin smiled.

“Uhm, so how does this work then?” He eventually said, hand coming up again to scratch the back of his neck in an old nervous habit Jon could not be more happy to see.

“Well”, Jon said, taking a moment to brush sodden grass from his trousers as he got to his feet, “I would say, based on the dream logic that everything here seems to run on here, it should be rather simple.” He held out a hand to tug Martin up after him.

Martin took it.

It was almost cliché, how the Lonely fell away from him. It only took a few seconds, all in all, for the bruising to fade, receding their colourful splotches until his skin lay clear again. His frostbitten fingers healing themselves, sewing broken skin back together and returning to a healthy colour. His face, too, was returning to its original pallor, the change creeping up his neck and across his cheeks and leaving rich brown in its wake. Dark eyes stared down at Jon from behind long lashes, blinking away the last of the fog. He was beautiful.

“Hi,” Jon managed to choke out.

“Hi,” Martin said, and pulled him into his arms.

Jon just let himself be held in the pressure of the embrace for a moment, before bringing a hand up to card his fingers through Martin’s hair. While it had solidified into soft curls, the colour had stayed the same, bleaching it white under his fingertips. He wasn’t sure if Martin had noticed or not, but that was a conversation for another time. They were both a little preoccupied for the moment.

“How do you feel?” Jon eventually said, words pressed into the side of Martin’s neck.

“Uhm. Strange?” Martin eventually settled on. “It’s… I can remember what my thought process was, what the Lonely was pushing me to believe, but it’s like… It’s like the camera panned out, and now I can see it all clearly, and it looks… It looks stupid. Thank you, Jon. For coming to get me.”

“Of course,” Jon whispered, “Of course.”

Another moment passed before Martin spoke up again. “...Did you mean what you said, though? Or was that… Was that just to try and get me to leave? I- I won’t be angry, if it was, that- that’s very clever, I just want to know.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Which part do you mean?”

Martin let out an agitated sigh. “You- You know which one I mean, Jon. The- The part where that you said that you…”

“That I love you?” Jon said, picking up where Martin trailed off.

Martin’s face flushed, and just the sight of colour spreading across it made Jon’s heart soar, let alone the implications of why . “Of course I did. I- I’m sorry that you would think I would lie about that, even for something like this. No, Martin, I love you. So very much. And I know you might not feel that way anymore, in which case I am very much embarrassing myself here, but I know that you did at one stage so I hope it won’t make things too awkward between us.” “I do, Jon.”

“What?”

“I do. Still feel that way. I love you too, of course I do. My hero.”

It was Jon’s turn to feel his face flush, pleasant warmth bubbling to the surface. “Oh,” was all he managed to stutter out.

“Can I- Jon do you mind if I…” Martin trailed off again, and Jon began to think this might be a recurring theme between them. He’d make it work. He was pretty good at reading Martin, and the eyeline pointed directly at his lips made intentions quite clear.

“Is- Would just the cheek be okay?” He replied. It didn’t really feel like the time for a full run down on where boundaries lay, but he figured it was a start.

“More than,” Martin said, leaning down to press his lips softly against Jon’s cheek. He lingered for a few seconds, skin largely healed but still chapped from the cold, and it was one of the most beautiful things Jon had ever felt. He slipped one hand into Martin’s, and he felt their fingers twine together.

Martin leaned back, clearly trying to calm his grin into something more close-lipped and calm. “Where to now then?”

“Uhm. Forward, really, is just how I’ve been going. There isn’t any real sense of geography to it, we’ll just…. Get there when we get there.”

“Right. Because nothing can be simple these days.”

Jon missed this. He missed him. But he didn’t have to miss him anymore, did he? He was right there.

He squeezed his hand once, and started leading the way.