#its about a magic school.. and not a good one...

[the-breath-in-air]

As a reading teacher I was on board and in agreement with all of the above about the bullshit that was No Child Left Behind...and with how we've still got remnants of it even with the changes in the Every Student Succeeds Act...until I saw the bit about schools no longer teaching phonics and only teaching "approved sight words." Because that misunderstands how teaching sight words are supposed to function.

(Now, with a caveat that every state is going to be a bit different...and even every district might be a bit different in how they do this...)

In California in the 1980s and 1990s, they used this thing called 'whole language' which was a disaster. And the idea behind it was that students would learn sight words (i.e. the shape of words) and then use context clues to figure out unknown words. And their reading would somehow magically improve by exposure to high interest texts. Read more and you'd somehow magically absorb more words with minimal phonics instruction. That was nonsense.

But after the 1990s, 'whole language' instruction really fell out of fashion. And actually, one of the only good things about NCLB, was its emphasis on direct phonics instruction. And now (at least where I teach in the U.S.) direct phonics instruction occurs alongside teaching sight words. Sight words are used as larger chunks to figure out unknown words. (i.e. if you know the word 'cat' you can use it to figure out the word 'catch' so long as you've also been taught what sound 'ch' makes). So sight words should be used as part of phonics instruction, not in replace of it.

Now, does the way California's currently teaching reading work? According to the test scores, no. And as a reading intervention teacher for secondary students, I can also say that the current program my district uses for intervention doesn't work. For a number of reasons. But it does involve direct phonics instruction. And it's not about teaching an approved word list. Even the disaster that was whole language wasn't about teaching only an approved word list.

I was today years old. That is disgusting.

No Child Left Behind is one of the worst things to ever be incentivized in schools. It was signed into law when I was 14. Reading Rainbow was my show as a kid. LeVar Burton played a big part in why I became an avid reader to date. The joy of it. It's an adventure around the globe and through different time periods without stepping on a plane or time machine.

Children parrot behavior. In grade school, I always wanted to read the same amount of books as my teachers (50 books) and managed to double that each year. Before No Child Left Behind, book fairs and Scholastic catalogs were a serious matter like your grandma's Fingerhut catalogs. Libraries were (and still are) a wonderland.

Reading comprehension and proficiency in schools has been declining for decades. A crisis. The joy of books isn't pushed anymore and I'm always saddened by it. It's one of the reasons why I post my book reviews and recommendations on here, as well as posts from others to encourage reading and (novel) writing. Kids will parrot your behavior while the education system sadly fails to return as that example.

[abigailovesz]

EVEN IN THE DARK

summary: a quiet girl battling anxiety and depression, caused by bullying crosses paths with jj Maybank - the golden boy with a wild smile and deep wounds no one sees. what begins as a cautious friendship grows into a love that is raw, patient, and life-changing. together, they learn to navigate mental illness, grief, and the scars of their pasts, building a life defined not by perfection, but by presence. through marriage, parenthood, and healing, they choose each other again and again - proving that true love isn’t about saving someone, but standing beside them when the world goes quiet.

inspo: sailor song - gigi perez

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of anxiety and depression as well as panic attacks, a miscarriage, mentions of jjs past so abuse, self worth/insecurity, happy ending, and pregnancy.

a/n: im sorry this is so fucking long, but i took me a whole month so hope ya like it i also got part of this idea from a writing project i had done a few years ago & i somehow found it again in my room so its inspired by that ! (a few of the lines are from the paper thats why its so fuckin poetic lmao) basically the life jj deserved ayye

you had always lived in the quieter spaces of life. A soft-spoken girl with sad eyes that held more stories than you could ever say aloud. on the outside, you were just another senior trying to make it through the school year. but inside, every day felt like dragging your feet through wet sand.

anxiety and depression had become a constant hum in your mind. they crept in quietly during childhood after days of getting tormented, made fun of and rooted themselves firmly by the time you turned sixteen. mornings were battles, and nights were battlegrounds. your thoughts raced, heart often pounded without reason, and sometimes you felt like you were drowning in a sea only you could see.

no one really noticed. except for jj maybank.

to everyone else, jj was the golden boy of the outer Banks. Loud, wild, always the center of attention. the sun seemed to shine differently around him - like it couldn’t help but follow his charm. but that charm? It was a mask. one he wore every day and every hour. beneath the jokes and the laughter was a boy who had learned too young how to hide his pain. a boy with his own fears, his own scars.

jj first noticed you in the library. you sat in the farthest corner, headphones on, curled up in a way that said “do not disturb.” But something about your stillness intrigued him. not in a romantic way at first — more like recognition. He saw something familiar in her silence. He saw himself.

you both didn't talk for weeks. just quiet glances, stolen between book stacks and hallways. until one rainy afternoon, your anxiety had reached a boiling point. you'd fled class, overwhelmed and breathless, and locked yourself in the art room. you hadn’t expected anyone else to be there - but jj was.

he didn’t say anything right away. he just sat on the floor a few feet away and picked up a pencil. he started sketching - he surprisingly, was pretty good at it but never showed anyone. Silence filled the room, comfortable and understanding. When your breath slowed, you asked without looking at him, “why are you here?”

jj hesitated, then answered truthfully. “sometimes I come here when I can’t breathe.”

That was the beginning.

you both began to find each other in hidden places. the dock behind the marina at sunset. The rooftop of the old motel. your porch swing on sleepless nights. he didn’t ask your to be happy. you didn’t ask him to be strong. you both just existed - painfully, beautifully, honestly.

one night, under a sky of stars, jj had confessed the words he was always afraid to say, “I feel broken.”

you looked at him with eyes full of quiet understanding. “then we’re two pieces of the same mirror,” he said. “cracked. but still reflecting somethin' real.”

the world didn’t stop hurting. your anxiety didn’t vanish, and his demons didn’t magically disappear. but together, you both built a space where pain didn’t have to be hidden. you aughed in the darkness. cried without shame. found genuine happiness in small things - like late beach walks, or sharing a milkshake without speaking.

jj became your own anchor when the waves got too high. you became his lighthouse when the storms closed in.

love didn’t cure you both. but it gave the two of you strength. It reminded you and him that you weren’t alone - you had eachother. that being vulnerable wasn’t weakness, but bravery. And that sometimes, the most broken hearts are the ones most capable of deep love.

HIGH SCHOOL ENDED with a blur of bittersweet emotions. jj didn’t walk at graduation — not because he didn’t want to, but because he was afraid. afraid of what came next. you, however, sat in the crowd with trembling hands, hearing your name echo across the stadium speakers.

you walked that stage not because you felt strong - but because jj was in the stands, silently cheering you on.

you both stayed in the outer banks for one more summer. long, golden days filled with sunsets. jj worked at the boatyard, fixing things with his hands, while you took photographs of the coastline and wrote in your journal — pieces of poems she never showed anyone but him.

but as summer ended, change rolled in.

you had been accepted into a university a few hours away to study psychology - you wanted to understand your own mind and help others like you. jj, on the other hand, had no clear path. no college plans. just a restless heart and a fear of becoming his father.

you both fought the night before you left.

“I don’t belong in that world, baby” jj said, pacing your tiny bedroom.

“you belong anywhere you choose to be,” you argued, tears threatening. “you’re not broken, jj. you’re scared. like I was. like I still am.”

he didn’t come to you the next morning. but he left a note tucked into your bag.

“I don’t know how to be in the world without you in it but I want to learn how to be worthy of standing next to you in it.”

you both spent the first few months apart aching in different ways. you struggled with new routines, panic attacks in lecture halls, and the isolation of pretending to be okay. jj picked up extra shifts, and started visiting john b more and more.

you both wrote letters. real ones. Ink on paper. because some things felt too special to say out loud. jj’s handwriting was messy, rushed, but his words were always honest.

and you always wrote back.

the next summer, he showed up at your apartment, sunburned and smiling. “there ya are," he let out a long breath. "missed you - everyday baby." you threw your arms around him, eyes shutting in relief.

years passed. slowly, you both grew - not into new people, but into fuller versions of yourselves. both had setbacks. panic attacks, sleepless nights, old fears rising easily. but they never faced them alone again.

eventually, jj applied to a mechanics program in the same city away from outer banks and near your college. he fell in love with working on boats, but also with the quiet way your eyes still lit up when he walked into the room.

you graduated with honors. at your ceremony, you read a speech about healing in imperfect ways. you thanked your professors. your therapist. and one “unexpected person who reminded me I didn’t have to be okay to be loved. I just had to be real.”

jj proposed on that same rooftop you both used to sneak onto back in high school. no audience. no flash. just a small ring, shaky hands, and these words -

“you once told me we were pieces of the same mirror. I think we’ve built something.. new now, y'know?”

And you, smiling through tears, whispered - “yes. always yes.”

YEARS LATER, your house sat at the edge of a coastal town, far enough from the chaos but close enough to the sea that jj could still smell the salt in the morning. the house was small — two bedrooms, sun-drenched windows, and walls lined with your photographs. It wasn’t perfect. but it was theirs.

jj now ran his own repair shop by the docks. he never called himself a business owner - that felt too fancy to him - but he was proud of what he’d built. he still had bad days. the kind where the weight in his chest made it hard to move, where old memories were louder than he’d like. but he knew, he had you.

you both didn’t have children - not yet, maybe not ever. It was something you'd talked about gently, honestly, without pressure. you both had been through too much to rush anything.

love did not have to look like everyone else's.

but then, it happened.

you were ten weeks pregnant. you both hadn’t told many people. just the close circle of jj's second family: john b, Pope, everyone through a phone call. a cautious kind of joy had filled the house since the first test. jj had kissed your belly every night like a quiet promise, and you had finally started to believe you could do this - that your body was safe enough for life.

but that afternoon, something shifted. a dull ache turned into sharp pain. then came the blood.

at first, you panicked. “maybe it’s normal,” you whispered, standing in the bathroom, knuckles white as you gripped the sink. “spotting happens… sometimes.”

jj found you there, pale and trembling, your hands shaking as you tried to google symptoms. he didn’t say anything at first - just knelt and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind.

“we’re goin' to the doctor,” he said, calm. but his grip tightened slightly. “right now.”

you both sat in the sterile ultrasound room, you stared at the ceiling, jj clutching her hand like a lifeline. the silence from the tech stretched longer than it should have. then came the words you'd feared: “I’m so sorry… there’s no heartbeat.”

you didn’t cry right away. just nodded, numb, like someone who’d forgotten how to speak. jj looked stunned - like someone had yanked the air from his lungs - but he kept his eyes on her. Always on her.

When you both got home, you went straight to the bedroom and curled up on your side of the bed, hand resting instinctively where life had once been. “I shouldn’t have gotten attached,” you whispered.

jj sat beside her, silent for a long time. then he said, voice low and trembling, “fuck, I was already in love with someone I never got to meet.”

that’s when the tears came. for both of you.

but you knew you were still loved and okay with jj. you could try again.

IT STARTED WITH a test left on the bathroom counter. you sat on the tile floor, knees tucked to your chest, staring at the result with wide, disbelieving eyes. jj came home from the shop covered in grease, and when he found her there, silent and pale, he knelt beside her.

when you showed him the test, he didn’t speak at first. just layed his head against your shoulder. after a long, quiet breath, he whispered, “we'll be okay, it won't happen again baby.”

pregnancy - again - wasn’t perfect. your anxiety sharpened with each passing month. the questions, the what-ifs, the nights lying awake wondering if you’d be enough, if it would happen again.

When your daughter, lena maybank, was born, you cried harder than you ever had — not just from pain, but from awe. lena had her mother’s deep, thoughtful eyes and her father’s blond curls.

jj held her for the first time with hands that used to shake at the thought of being a father. but as he looked down at the tiny child, something in him stilled. “hello, girly,” he whispered. “you look just like me.”

parenthood didn’t erase your's and jj's mental struggles. In fact, it brought some of them to the surface. sleepless nights triggered jj’s old anger - not at anyone, but at the helplessness he sometimes felt. your depression came like a fog you hadn’t expected, even after all your experience.

but now they had language. and tools. and each other.

one evening, after putting lena to bed, jj and you sat on the porch, hands entwined like they always had been. “I never thought we’d make it here,” he whispered.

you kissed the side of his neck. “I did. because I knew we’d keep showing up. that’s what love is. and now we’re teaching her how to do the same.”

you then rested your head on his shoulder, the sound of the ocean in the distance, lena sleeping peacefully inside.

and jj knew, he would never ever be alone again.

[joshym]

Le Morte d'Arthur: Chapter 7

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x f!Reader, Sam Kiszka x f!Reader (don't hate me)

Summary: It all began with a passion for literature. What was once a dream to walk the halls of the University of Michigan is now a reality.

You thought you were prepared for everything.

A new town, a new school, a new way of life,

but what you were not prepared for...

was meeting the enigma that is Jake Kiszka.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Word Count: 32.6k +

Le Morte d'Arthur Masterlist, Series Playlist

Warnings: please proceed with caution if you find any of the following to be triggering. MDNI 18+ ONLY. struggles with body dysmorphia/eating (including food restriction), strong feelings of inadequacy, heavy emotions/ talks of an absent parent, *extremely* sick & terminally-ill parent, talks of end-of-life plans, anxiety/stress/depression, parents fighting, child neglect, eating disorder behaviors as a result, recollection of past struggles with anorexia/restricting, talks of an ED facility, passing out, blood, (from an accidental cut) SMUT: oral, (f!rec) fingering, (f!rec) cock warming, unprotected (please let me know if i missed anything that is triggering!)

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

a/n: as always, thank you from the bottom of my heart for your patience. this certainly isn't an easy story to write, but it comes from & with a lot of love. 🤍 (i ask that you kindly ignore any mistakes/grammar errors. these chapters are awful to edit, as i'm sure you could've guessed. i'm doing my best. LOL)

also, huge thank you to @jakeyt for being the best editor & my right hand in helping create this. i seriously couldn't have done it without you. love you SO much. you're the best sister i could ever ask for. big thank you to @gracev0609 for some very sweet ideas to include in this chapter.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

December 9th:

Graduation day

“[Arthur] felt the light of Guinevere’s eyes [in] his life…”  (Tennyson, IOTK)

You’d convinced yourself this was gone for good. Certain that this feeling would fade into a distant memory, dulled by the slow drag of time. Nothing more than a blip in your past, a chapter in your book. Nothing more – and, to your quiet heartbreak, nothing less. 

Waking up in his arms is…it’s magic. It’s safe. There’s nothing in your life that could come remotely close to the solace you find in the embrace of his arms.

He’s still asleep, tiny snores falling from his kiss-swollen, lipstick stained lips – evidence of last night. His chest is warm against your cheek, rising and falling in near perfect rhythm with your own breathing. And your body, still feeling everything from the night before. Aching muscles, sore limbs…the best pain this world can offer. 

Neither one of you bothered putting clothes back on before you fell asleep. And truthfully, you wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s something so beautiful about the intimacy of it all. Your bodies, in their most natural state, resting together after a night of absolute bliss. Only half covered by the satin sheets, too hot last night to bother with them. Yet, the chill of the morning has given way to goosebumps littering exposed flesh, making you seek his warmth all the more. 

The soft, morning sun, peaking her quiet light through dark blinds. Specks of dust and fluff living in her rays, normally hidden in plain sight when she’s not there to give them light. And, she’s displaying even more evidence of the events of last night. 

A shattered photo frame rests on the floor near the dresser, left for the next days’ clean up. A subtle tinge shivers your bones when you remember that you were the cause of the destruction. 

I’ll buy him a new frame, you silently ponder. Though, the reason for the frame’s untimely death is making you tremble for a purpose entirely different. 

Pleasure, of the degree in which your body has never before experienced, sent the glass cascading to its doom. He didn’t seem to mind one bit. And while you tried to offer your apologies, in truth, you didn’t care much about it, either. Not in the moment, when your world was held in the hands of Jake Kiszka. And in his lips.

The memory, though only hours ago, feels distant enough. Your body is suddenly in a state of craving once again. A familiar pulsing between your legs at the thought. It just so happens that, maybe, you can have it again, instead of lamenting on a piece of the past.

You needed this. And the fact that you were sure you’d never have it again, after barely having it in the first place – your body suddenly feels whole again. And the irony of it all is that the person who took those pieces of you, he’s also the only one truly capable of giving them back.  

Perhaps you haven’t truly lost him. At least, not now. 

And, perhaps…

It’s a shot in the dark, a foolish thought that, if wrong, could lead to more heartbreak. But, maybe, after last night, he won’t leave. Maybe last night proved to him that you’re worth sticking around for. 

His slow breathing becomes a bit more shallow as he begins to stir, wrapping his arms around you even before his eyes have even opened. A sleepy pair of lips kisses the crown of your head just before you kiss the blushed skin of his chest. The contact makes it rise a bit higher as he takes a deeper breath, a gentle sigh escaping his half-parted lips. 

You kiss him again, then again, sucking the flesh a little more with each contact of your lips. And, every gesture elicits more of a reaction from him. More sweet sighs, beautiful groans. Each noise only makes you want to give him more. 

And, that’s just what you’ll do. You angle yourself just right, so you’re able to reach a bit higher. Kissing the expanse of his chest, his pecks, finding your way to his neck, the skin still littered with pretty marks in the shape of your lips. 

He stirs just a bit more, a lazy grin worn on his lips. His eyes, still partially covered by sleepy lids, though exhaustion doesn’t stop him from pulling your body up a few inches, your face now close enough to his that your lips can at last meet. 

The kiss, so sleepy yet full of passion. He moans beautifully against your lips, stealing your breath when his hand reaches down to your thigh, drawing your bent knee to rest against his hip. His lips grow in vigor, warm hand gliding up the skin of your thigh and reaching for your ass. 

His fingers rake over your skin, heated and purposeful as they dip between your legs. 

You feel yourself tense the moment his finger slips inside, only from the tenderness left from only hours ago. You’re dripping for him, yet there’s a dull ache that exists from the night prior. 

“Hey,” he says, hushed and worried. His movements stop altogether as you silently curse your body for reacting the way it did. “Everything okay, doll?”

His fretting, though you truly just want to keep going, is the most sweet gesture. The way he knew that something was off, before you even had the chance to say anything. (Odds are, you probably wouldn’t have.)

“Y-yeah, just a little sore from last night, I guess,” you breathe, your ache for his touch far more potent than the physical pain. Nevertheless, you do hurt a little. Not much, yet enough that it elicited a bit of a reaction when he touched you.

“Oh, baby…,” he hums, his voice full of remorse and heavy with guilt. “I’m sorry, doll. We don’t have to keep –,”

“No, please don’t stop,” you whisper, pleading with him. Any ache you could ever experience is worth it with him, and a pain such as this only serves to turn you on all the more. It’s a testament of the gravity of last night – the exhaustion of your physical form is a mark of the most intense bliss that he offered you. 

And, it’s certainly not his fault that he’s so goddamn big. 

Fuck. The thought alone has you willing to do it all over again and again, despite any pain. 

He looks up at you with lazy, sleepy eyes. Dark circles beneath them, an image of unfiltered beauty. And his lips – enviable to anyone. So plush and soft. The perfect natural shade of muted rose – never pale like yours are without any lipstick. 

And beneath the fragile gleam of the morning sun, you can see the beginnings of his facial hair better than you ever have. And god, you just hope he continues to let it grow. So handsome with or without, but you’d love to see it on him.

He catches the growing smile on your lips, offering you one in return with a gentle wink of his eye. “Then let me help you, doll.”

Before you can even question his intentions, he’s swooping you up with one arm wrapped around the small of your back, an unparalleled strength in his arms that you’ll never get enough of. 

Laying you down on the bed, the two of you having switched positions, he looks even more beautiful on top of you than he did below you. In truth, you quite like him like this. Him overtop of you, domineering in the gentlest of ways. And when he holds himself up with his arms, the muscles bulge and contour in a way that makes you want to give him everything you have. 

“Just relax for me, doll,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss your lips with the most delicate force. “I want you comfortable first. Don’t ever want to hurt you.” 

He lays his body down between your legs, hands holding your ribs. His lips kiss a path down the center of your chest, spending a little extra time on each bud of your breasts. Sucking them gently, circling his warm tongue around them, paying each one the same amount of care. His tangled, messy hair, draped across your bare skin like a blanket of the finest material. It tickles your flesh as it falls over you, moving with him with the same lingering touch of his lips.

His lips mark a path down to your center, sucking a warm kiss on your lower belly. You sigh from the deepest point of your lungs at the feeling, his lips inching closer still until they meet your dripping core. A gentle kiss to your aching bud, with lips so full and warm. 

He moans at the taste of you, his eyes fluttering closed as he licks his lips, your juices dancing on his tongue. “Jesus,” he whispers, his breath hot against your chilled flesh. He places a palm on the back of each of your thighs, spreading you open even more before his lips press into you again, tender and primal. “Fucking intoxicating.”

His tongue trails your pulsing clit, falling down to your clenching opening and sinking inside. Pressing in and out, soft and gentle like the softest velvet inside of you. His face lifts away, just for a moment, giving room for his middle finger to slip inside. And again, he sinks in so carefully, his eyes studying your face. “This feel okay, doll?”

“Yes, yes…,” you breathe, your eyelids falling shut when his finger presses all the way to the knuckle. He holds still for a breath, then begins massaging your walls with the pad of his finger, somehow soothing any pain that exists. 

Fuck – you feel yourself clenching around him, muscles pusling with every movement. Your pussy, spilling around his finger from the most gentle touch he’s offering. When you feel his lips kiss the flesh of your inner thigh, you feel the warmth in your lower belly begin to spread, your heart beating faster and faster as your walls tighten. They give way to the most entrancing bliss, your wetness now dripping in the palm of his hand.

Jesus. The way he can do this to you, to make you fall apart with even the lightest touch…

Your hands reach for his hair – an instinct – gently pulling at the locks as you come down from your soothing euphoria.

“Does it feel better, doll?” He seals his question with another kiss to your thigh, his finger carefully pulling away as your breathing becomes normal again. In one spellbinding move, he places his finger in his mouth and sucks it clean, eyes growing darker as he tastes you on his skin.

“Mhm,” you hum, reaching for his shoulders, coaxing him up your body. You weave your fingers in his hair once more, using it to draw his face toward yours. He kisses your lips, so soft and warm. The taste of you, still lingering on his tongue. 

“My pretty doll…,” he whispers, the gruffness of his voice vibrating against the skin of your neck, his lips kissing a slow and lazy path to the shell of your ear. Goosebumps present themselves on each inch of your skin, your belly tightening as you feel the thick head of his cock begin to carefully slip inside of you. “Let me know if it’s too much,” he mutters, filling you at a slow and gentle pace.

The soreness from the night before is no more than a tender twinge, eased by the gentleness of his movements. An elating kind of ache, the kind that you welcome. 

You feel yourself growing more aroused, the dull ache only heightening your pleasure. Slow as he can, he fills you completely, resting inside of you. The careful twitching of his cock against your pulsing walls, the slow nibbles and kisses left by his lips against tight skin…the feeling in your belly only begins tightening even more. You’re certain you could reach your release again, just like this, with nothing more than him nestled inside of you, warm and full. 

Your legs wrapped around his hips, hands tangled in his messy locks as he kisses along your jaw, the column of your neck. His hips, so tender in their wary movement. “I want you to come with me,” he mumbles, a warm, silken whisper into your skin. 

So lost in your state of bliss, you nearly missed his words, your mind focused only on the languid movements of his body and lips. There’s a beat of silence as you take a moment to register, and once you do, a memory of the very same words from last night comes forth in your mind. It leaves you with only one question.

“W-where, baby?” 

You can hardly speak, his body almost rendering you void of speech, lacking the proper weight of air in your lungs to form more than a few words. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he balances himself on one arm above you, the hand of the other cradling your face when his heavy-lidded eyes beg yours to look into them. “London, doll. Come with me to London. Go to Oxford, live in the literature with me.” 

What? 

Your brain short-circuits. Your eyelids flutter, like your body’s trying to make sense of what it’s just heard. He wants you to go with him? Instead of just staying here? 

“You…you’re still going?”

He nods slowly, his brows knitting together — like he can’t believe you’d even ask. The confusion in his eyes hits harder than words ever could. And suddenly, you’re humiliated for saying anything at all.

In the breath of a sigh, your body suddenly tenses beneath him, your hands letting go of his hair. He doesn’t waste another moment, reading the language of your body well enough to know that this should probably stop. 

He pulls himself away from you, slow and gentle, letting your body set the pace before he’s no longer resting warmly inside of you. 

He then helps you sit up, your back resting against the headboard. “Y/n…,” he begins, the muttering of your name sending a chill up your exposed spin. 

He’s sitting just across from you, black silk sheets draped over his hips, just below his stomach. You can see the outline of his cock – still hard – through the thin material, the indentions of his hips. The vision of him, making your core pulse between your legs…your body is betraying your emotions. 

But as much as you crave him, that moment has undeniably passed. 

Everything felt so soft, just a moment ago – his hands, his mouth. Now, it feels more distant than ever. Was it all just a prelude to this? 

“What – what made you think I wasn’t going, baby?”

“I – I guess I –,” you try, yet your mind is suddenly a scrambled mess of your own foolishness. “I don’t know…I was just hoping you changed your mind.”

He breathes a heavy sigh, tousling his hair with his fingers. He’s looking toward the corner of his room, staring off into a distance that you can’t see. You can only wonder what he’s thinking, his glaring eyes holding more depth within them than you’ve ever seen.

He lets out a breath once more, looking at you once again. His hand reaches for your calf, holding you within his warm grip while he glares at you with heavy intent. “Y/n, I’m so sorry that I’ve made you think that. But, doll…” He shifts closer to you, your legs now on either side of his hips, his hand gliding up to your thigh. “I’m still going. I have to, y/n. And I want you on this journey with me.” 

With him? To say you’re blindsided…

You’re in shock. Frozen in pure disbelief. Does he really think this could work?

“Jake that’s…” Your heart is spiraling. You want to cling to the version of this moment that was yours just minutes ago. The one where nothing else mattered. But now, every word feels like a cruel reminder that he’s already made his choice. 

But, fuck. Every goddamn cell in your body is longing to kiss him, to reach for him and hold him. You can’t. And fuck it all – you just don’t know what to do right now. “That’s not possible.”

“Look, I – I know I’m proposing something massive. But, I feel this from the depths of my soul, doll.” His hand reaches for yours, and you place it within his palm without question. His thumb, rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles, his body leaning closer. “This could be your path – you’re brilliant. Why don’t you give yourself the chance to embrace the sky? Soar beyond any limit you’ve placed on yourself?”

There’s something holding you back, a muffled voice in the back of your mind telling you that this can't happen. It’s impossible. Though, you can’t think of any good reason. The way he’s looking at you right now, waiting on his own bated breath for you to speak, like his very life depends on your answer…this is a pressure you’ve never known. 

You just want him to stay. To choose a future here – with you – instead of chasing on across the world.

How can he expect you to do something so drastic, something that’ll change every single aspect of your life? You’ve been through enough change. You’re sick of abrupt, unnerving change. 

For once, just for once, you wish things would remain just as they are.

No. You can’t do this. And he can’t expect you to do this. It isn’t as easy for you as it is for him. And apparently, it’s very easy for him. 

“I can’t, Jake. It isn’t that simple – nothing is that simple for me.” Your skin begins to heat with an anger you don’t recognize. This isn’t fair – it’s not right. He can’t string you along the way he has, lie to you, and then expect you to follow him wherever he goes. 

Suddenly, you can’t handle being in this bed any longer. You can’t handle him looking at you as though you are the problem here. Why is he putting all of this on you? 

Your canvas bag is laying on the floor next to the bed, just within arms reach. You lean over and dig through it until you find your pale blue Nike pullover. Once you toss it over your head, knowing it’s long enough to cover you, you pull yourself away from the bed, from him. 

“What are you doing, y/n?” Jake follows in suit, and from the corner of your eye, you catch him padding across the room to his dresser and pulling out a pair black sweatpants. You’re rummaging through your bag once more in a frantic search for the pair of leggings you know you packed with your sweatshirt.

“Can we please just talk about this?” He asks, standing directly behind you as you're crouched on the floor, finally locating the leggings. 

“My life isn’t something I can just pack up and carry to the other side of the world,” you snap as you step into your leggings, one foot at a time, the waistband snapping against your skin when you pull them up. 

Your next words churn in your stomach, bitter as bile rising in your throat. You don’t want to speak them – but they’re the truth. And he knows it just as well as you do. “You’re leaving, Jake. That’s not going to change. So why don’t you make it easier for both of us and just end this now?”

He flinches, as though you’ve just physically struck him. His jaw tensing, eyes glassy and dark. “So this, it’s just…” His hands float between the tiny space between you, a subtle gesture towards the both of you. “It’s just over, then? Just like that?”

“You’re not exactly giving this much of a chance. I don’t know what you expected me to do, but going to London isn’t possible, Jake.” 

That tiny space, closed in all the more as his body leans in towards yours. His breath, blowing gently against your tousled bangs. “You’ve still not given me a reason why you won’t come.” 

A reason…

Moving across the world for a man you’ve known no longer than a few months sounds rather absurd. 

But, you know better than to limit the person standing before you to just some man. Jake is different. He’s always been different. That pull toward him – it’s never made sense. Never needed to. It just is. Even when he acted as though you were the last person in the universe he’d want to be around. 

You thought you were over that. Over his aversion to you without any good rationale.

But.

What if that was the truth? What if he was never pretending? What if you were just something convenient for him? Something temporary?

Did he make you fall for him – give him the deepest parts of your heart – only to crush them when he decided you weren’t enough to stay for? And now he has the audacity to ask you to go to him?

Well, he’s asking you to do the impossible. And at this point, it’s offensive that he’d do so. He knows you can’t do that. Why torment you further? And why does he think you’d move across the globe for him, when there are plenty of opportunities right here in the states for you? It’s not all about him. You are just as much a part of this equation as he is. And, in your mind, even more so.

You’ve not made the decision yet. Haven't given yourself enough time to give it the proper amount of consideration. But if it’s a reason that he wants…

“I’m going to L.A.”

He says nothing. His eyes widen, lips part, but no words come.

So, you will fill the silence.

“After – after I graduate, I’m going to L.A. to pursue this, this modeling thing.  It’s…it’s what I want, Jake. I want to do this.”

Still, no words dare to leave his plush lips. Instead, a silent echo of despair plays across his features. Looking down at you, his lips now closed in a tight line. Questions in abundance are written in his eyes, yet he still doesn’t ask them. The air, tense and heavy, is now suffocating. 

But, why? Why would he be so full of disillusionment when he won’t even be here to see you leave, like you will be forced to do when he leaves? 

It’s not entirely the truth. You don’t know if you’ll actually go through with this. But that isn’t the point. Right now, it’s the only thing keeping you from giving in.

This isn’t just about him. 

The silence grows unbearable.You can practically hear his heartbeat in your own ears. You feel this urge to explain yourself, though you know you don’t owe him a thing. Still, your heart is working overtime to keep your walls up. And, looking into his whiskey toned eyes, your heart is begging to be placed on your sleeve. 

“I just…” Your voice, weighted and hardly louder than a whisper. “I’m graduating earlier than I thought. This May, actually. And I wanted to –,”

He lets out a sharp exhale, making you stop.

Your words barely make sense in your own mind. Saying them outloud only makes them sound more absurd.

What the fuck are you even saying?

This reason is beginning to feel more like an excuse. And, what Jake doesn’t know is that you’ve already applied to Oxford. And yeah, you did it mostly because of the persuasion from Dr. Movack. But, your professor isn’t the only reason you did so. 

You should be excited to tell Jake about it. But instead, you’re lying to his face to prove a point. A point that has become lost within his eyes. 

If he found out – if he knew you’d already considered choosing London – what would he think about this?

You’ve dug yourself a goddamn hole. And at this point, you can no longer see any glimmer of sunlight at the top.

He takes a step back from you, to which you feel the coldness in the air at his absence. Only a step, but a pronounced step. Enough that you’ve lost his warmth. He scoffs as he prepares his response, the callous smirk on his lips agitating you to no end. “And what exactly are you going to L.A. for?”

Excuse me? Have you seriously forgotten, or are you just trying to piss me off?

You tilt your chin up, defensive.“Stardust, Jake. The agency that wants me to model for them. It’s too good an opportunity to pass up.”

He laughs, dryly, looking at you as if your words were some other language he didn’t fully comprehend. “A good opportunity for what, exactly?”

The uncontrolled huff of sharp breath that passes your lips is nearly matching his own mockery, the muscles in your jaw tightening as you begin to speak. “For my future. I want to do this. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.”

If you don’t believe what you’re saying, you know he doesn’t, either. But you’re not giving this up. If he can have his thing, so can you. 

“That is bullshit, y/n. And you know it just as well as I do.” He steps forward again, closer this time, forcing you to meet his gaze. His stern, serious glare that’s making any air from your lungs catch in your throat before it can reach your lips. His voice drops, intense. “Since when do you care about modeling? Since when is that something you’ve ever wanted?”

Arms still crossed tightly over your chest, you steel yourself, firm. “People change.”

“No.” He exhales, sharply, shaking his head. “People lie to themselves when they’re trying to prove a point, when they’re trying to be ingenuine and deny who they are.” 

How dare he…

“That’s what you’re doing, right?” His voice is razor-sharp, but his eyes soften. “Trying to prove a point to me? Because I don’t know what you’re doing, y/n, but I know you’re not doing this because you want to.”

The muscles in your jaw clench once again, to a near painful degree. Your heart beats angrily in your chest, slamming against your ribs. “Why do you care so much about what I do? You don’t know everything, Jake. You don’t know everything about me.”

His lips part slightly, but he doesn’t speak.

Then, softer – quieter – he says, “I do know you.”

His chest rises and falls with a heavy breath, gaze locked onto yours. “And I know that your passions have never had anything to do with ending up on the cover of a magazine.”

He leans in just enough to make you catch your breath. His voice is raw, almost pleading.

“It’s late nights buried in stories, dissecting them until you’ve found every possible hidden meaning. Studying until your eyes are too heavy to stay open. It’s m –,”

He swallows hard. Shuts his eyes for a second. When they open again, they’re softer.

“It’s literature, y/n. The lore you’ve fallen in love with won’t be there when you’re posing behind a camera.”

Your stomach twists. A lump rises in your throat.

You want to be angry. You want to tell him he’s wrong.

But he’s not.

He’s dead fucking on.

And he knows it.

But you’re not backing down.

“I can do this, Jake. I am doing this.” Your voice shakes, yet you keep your chin held high. “This is for me to decide, not you.”

“I’m not trying to decide anything. I just — it’s dangerous, y/n. Dangerous for someone like you –,”

“Someone like me?”

Realization begins its dawn, and every silent second that passes winds you up like a tightening wire, tension creeping up your spine the longer he doesn’t speak. Though the fear that exists in relation to his next words is incredibly pronounced, you do wish he’d just say something. 

You can decipher one thing within his silence – he didn’t mean to go this route. And it’s evident that he isn’t prepared for such a conversion.

And neither are you.  

“I just mean –,” he tries, though your own mouth seems to be moving much faster than his.

“You really think I’m not strong enough, is that it? Think I can’t handle it?”

“Y/n –,”

“You think I’ll fall apart.”

His lips are pressed in a thin, firm line. Not quite a frown, not soft. The corners of his mouth are twitching just slightly, betraying the tension on his jaw. A heavy gaze cast upon you, loaded with concern, unwavering. Like he’s holding back something. 

He doesn’t confirm your question, though he’s not denying it. 

It’s true. It’s exactly what he thinks. 

You shake your head as you look away, as it’s becoming increasingly difficult to look at him any longer. To see those eyes, looking at you is if you’ll break at any second. “I’m not some fragile thing, Jake. I can take care of myself.”

“I never said you were.” He hesitates, as though he’s pondering his next words with careful precision. You then feel a finger hook under your jaw, pressing you to look back to him. And when you give in to his touch, as you irritatingly seem unable to deny, you realize the worry in his eyes has only grown deeper, heavier. His face, far softer than before. “But you’re not invincible, either.”

Those words…they sit in the air for a moment, weighted. They echo through your mind, hearing his voice repeat them over and over on a loop. They only go silent when his hand cups your jaw, thumb caressing your cheek bone as he takes a deep breath. “I’m leaving, y/n. I’m leaving soon. And I’m begging you…” He leans in just a spell, yet enough that his lips are daring to touch yours. “Please consider chasing after what you love.”

What I love. 

He means literature. He means books, stories. Lore that you’ve become lost within more times than you have your own, real life. The very thing that has been the only constant in your life, the world that remained stable for you when yours fell apart. 

Yes, that is what he means. 

But, one thing you’ve realized you love even more than literature…

If you were to choose London, if you decide to go to school at Oxford University, to chase after what you love…

You’d be chasing after him. 

And you can’t. You can’t do that. Not this time.

As his lips press into yours, you let yourself feel them. Kissing him it’s…it’s the most painful kind of bliss you’ve ever known. 

And before the kiss can linger any longer, you pull away. And it hurts. The pain, physical, pressing into your ribs. This choice isn’t easy. 

But it’s right. 

“And what if I don’t, Jake?” 

His eyes, beautiful, laced with honey and whiskey, flicker with a pain you’ve never seen in him before. And when you take a step back, keeping your arms safely over your chest, they become even darker as he rips them away from you. Staring at the floor, a hand running through his silken locks, he says the words you thought you were prepared to hear. But, as it is, you’re not. 

“Then, I guess this is over.”

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

The morning sun was blinding through the layer of frozen glass the night's bitter cold had left behind on your windshield. Though it was hard to see, the wipers did help to clear your view, and the sun was shielded a little by your sunglasses. You didn’t want to spend another second there, so you took the risk and left.

The ice melted eventually.

The drive home presented a new kind of numbness to your system. A hollow, stagnant void where emotion should be. Your mind, meanwhile, spins like a relentless tornado. A storm of thought that you just can’t calm down.

 Thoughts about London. About L.A – a modeling job that you may have just decided to accept. (Out of spite.)

Modeling…when the fuck have you ever wanted to model?

His words have played like a cracked record in your mind since you left his room. Skipping, stuttering, never stopping. Over and over again – his voice presses against your thoughts as if he’s still standing by your side, breathing them into your ear. 

Every last word his lips spoke this morning. All of them, sitting directly against your chest, weighing down your heart, refusing to let you take a full breath.

You’re adamantly against going to London. It’s out of the question. It just can’t happen. 

Only, you seem to have forgotten why.

You’re reasoning, your excuse – it’s slipped your mind somewhere beyond your reach. All you can think about now is the way his emotions flooded his eyes when you walked away.

Neither of you said much before you left. It’s true – he got the last word. The last one that mattered, at least. There wasn’t anything more you could’ve said. Though, there was plenty more you wanted to say. But your pride wouldn’t allow for it. Instead, you offered an absent “goodbye,” and walked away, leaving everything from last night and this morning behind with him.

At least that’s what you told yourself. 

The truth is, last night and this morning are stitched into you now. And they’ll stay there, clinging to you for a long, long time.

Forever, maybe. 

But right now, you don’t have the luxury of letting yourself outwardly feel it. You probably couldn’t even if you tried.

Your mom needs you. And you’ll give her as much of yourself as possible until Nat comes to pick you up for graduation later this morning.

Yes – you’re still going. You have to. Not just for Jake, for Josh, too. (And for you, in a way that you can’t fully comprehend just yet. But, you know you need it. In some way.)

She’s doing pretty well this morning. Her breathing is mostly clear, her skin looks more plump and hydrated than usual. She’s even got enough energy for a cup of coffee, something she hasn’t wanted the last few mornings.

You’ll take that as a good sign. Anything she can put in her system is a step in the proper direction. Even if it’s just a warm cup of coffee.

You have your own coffee in hand, having made a quick stop at Hyperion on the way here. The place Sam took you to not long ago – you found yourself a strange craving for it this morning. 

It’s so cold out today, and a warm vanilla latte sounded like the perfect remedy to contrast the chilly air. The sweet, warm drink – comforting in more ways than one right now. 

You’re ready for the ceremony a bit earlier than you needed to be. There’s still at least thirty minutes until Nat and Danny are expected to pick you up. You’re glad you gave yourself a little extra time, because the jewelry in your green velvet box has somehow become a tangled mess. Every necklace, knotted into one giant ball of metal chain. 

You only begin to panic when you see gold, a realization that your necklace from your dad is mixed up in there.

You can’t begin to fathom how this happened. It just doesn’t make sense. Everything in this box is always handled with the utmost care – you never leave it in a state that could cause this to happen. 

Panic ensues even more when you see the sword charm poking through the center of the mix. 

Every other necklace, you couldn’t care less what happens to them. But those two, specifically, you need to untangle, safely. 

A few bobby pins lie loose at the bottom of the vox, scattered across the black velour lining,m spared from the tangled chaos.

This trick has worked before – surely it’ll work now.

You grab one, pry it flat and wedge one end of it right in the center of the knot. You dig, twist, nudge, searching for any slack you can find. You tease at coils and pull at edges until something begins to give. But as a few chains start to loosen, your mom calls from the living room, asking for another cup of coffee.

“Y-yeah, one sec,” you call back, voice tight as you frantically attempt to free at least one of the two necklaces. You’ve managed to untangle most of the others, but not those – not the ones you need. They refuse to budge.

And now that a few links are freed, you can see it clearly – the two necklaces, your gold charm with your initial, and the sword, are wrapped into each other in a single, impossible knot. It almost looks deliberate, like someone rolled the chains between their palms, again and again, until they became fused together in a tight mess.

If you had the time, you know you could get them loose. You know that. But right now, you don’t.

You’ve hardly gone a day without wearing the necklace from your dad. It’s been your anchor as of late. Without it, you feel a sense of loneliness. Emptiness.

And today, of all days, you could really use it’s comfort. But there’s just no time to free it.

It’s the same story with the sword. 

You probably shouldn’t wear it today, but you want to. 

Again, there’s no time. 

Both will have to stay here, twisted and snarled together in a bind that you can’t release them from. The thought has your throat constricting, your chest heating with a frustrated sadness. 

Is this what will finally get me to cry this morning? 

“Y/n!” The power behind her voice startles youm cutting through the quiet storm. She’s mustered enough strength to yell, probably more than she should spend, all for the sake of another cup of coffee.

“Coming,” you say, a whisper, using the sleeve of your sweater to dry your dampening eyes before carefully closing the lid of your jewelry box.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Graduation.

The twins didn’t leave a single person out today. 

Sam, Nat, Malachi, Danny – even Danny’s parents were extended an invite. And you, of course. Weeks have passed since Jake had personally handed you your own invite. Though, when he did, things were a bit different between you two than they are now. Of course, you had no problem making the promise to be here today at that time. 

It stings your chest when it dawns on you – their parents would have been here. Their grandparents, too. They’re supposed to be here. Thanks to the cruel nature of the world, they aren’t.  

Jake’s emotions were certainly heavy this morning. Heavier than usual. And fuck you for not even thinking of the fact that he’s graduating college without any of the people who raised him being here. Not a single one. 

The grief he must be experiencing at this very moment…you can’t fathom. Truly.

And here you are – doing whatever the fuck you’re doing – perhaps making it worse for him. Maybe he will be better off in London, without you to drag him down any further. 

And yet, here you are, at the packed full Crisler Arena to witness Jake and Josh be granted their well deserved degrees. And that’s just the thing – this day is just as much about Josh, too, whom you also made the very same promise to. You couldn’t break the promise you’d made, to both of them. No matter the circumstances.

The last graduation you attended was your own from high school, some four years ago now. You graduated alongside a measly thirty six students, nothing in comparison to the eight thousand and some change that will be handed their futures today. It’s the moments like these that you realize just how different the world you grew up in was. Vastly different. Cherry Tree may as well be another world – another universe – at this point. 

A simple, all-black outfit felt like the best choice for today. Not that you typically wear much different – black just happens to be the most flattering shade on you. The favorite look as of late has been an oversized sweater and tights, with your thrifted Chelsea boots and your pleather coat. A little variation in the sweaters, of course. Today’s is a full-fledged turtle neck with bell sleeves. 

The red lip has become a staple of yours since filming came to an end. And having taken a bit more time with your eye makeup as of late, you’ve perfected a quick black wing with nothing more than an angle brush and a good black eyeshadow. The film brought out a new sense of confidence in you that you’re trying your damnedest to include in your day to day. The modeling offer certainly helped with that cause, too. 

The clothes are still big – they still hide your body when you can’t allow yourself the poise to show off that part of yourself. But, you’ve discovered that a few extra minutes on your makeup in the mornings does add an air of confidence about you that you wouldn’t have normally. 

Simple. But effective. And yet one more instance in which this film changed the entire pathway of your existence. 

Nat is a picture of perfection in her midnight blue bodycon. Full sleeves, the dress reaching her nude heel clad feet in a sweater material to keep her warm. Every color compliments her honeyed skin tone, but this particular tinge of blue, a rich sapphire – her skin is glowing more than ever. 

And Danny, her model compliment in a mustard yellow sweater and dark wash jeans. 

The first thing you noticed about the pair today when they came to pick you up was their curls. Both of them, with the shiniest, tightly defined ringlets framing their features. Nat’s hair, always the most incredible set of ebony curls, so there wasn’t a single cell in your body that was shocked to see her hair in such pristine shape. 

But Danny’s. His curls are gorgeous, but they’re always a bit more frizzy than his counterparts. Noting how shiny and defined his shoulder-length curls are today, pulled back in a handsome half-up ponytail, you made sure to extend him a compliment. To which, unsurprisingly, Nat boasted her own hand in the matter, twirling one of his curls around her finger from the passenger's seat while he drove. “He finally let me dip into my products and give this hair a proper curl routine,” she’d said, admiring her work while he was stuck at a red light. 

He said she’d argued with him for weeks about it, but he finally gave in and let her have her way. And, knowing Nat, there is truly no other way to be had. He was bound to give in someday, so she was going to have it her way, one way or another. 

She even got him to admit that she was right about the effect a couple of curl creams could have on already beautiful curls. And that, you’re certain, boosted her ego tenfold. But she deserves it. Because, when it comes to hair – specifically curly hair – everyone should trust Natalia Delores with their life. 

It felt like a bit of an inside joke when Danny’s parents even noticed the stark difference in his locks, his mom practically squealing when she saw him, doting over how ‘handsome her sweet boy’ is. His dad, big Dan, made a couple jokes regarding his own hair that had begun to thin over the years, but that he was a true lady killer back in the eighties with his hair that didn’t require the ever-popular perm. Lori, Danny’s mom, one of the sweetest souls you’ve ever encountered, had to disagree with her husband. It certainly garnered a chuckle out of you, and it was very much needed.

Being here now, after the events of this morning – from only a few hours ago – your nerves are teetering the edge. And aside from the obvious, being here to watch Jake in his final moments as an undergraduate, his final moments in the role that introduced you to him…

Perhaps it’ll offer some closure. Finality to the months long rendezvous with him, that came to an end hours before this very moment. 

This will give that ending its final bow. A piece you’ll no longer need to cling onto, one that you can allow to end the second he receives his degree. 

A chapter, coming to its final end.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

You’d tried so hard not to place him amongst the rest of the graduates, but your eyes find him naturally – drawn to him the way moths are drawn to moonlight. For a moth, the lunar veil serves as its guiding glow. Its sense of direction. Its instinctual compass.

Without the quiet, pale glow, it will lose its way –  frantic, searching for something to replace it, something else to be its guide. But nothing will offer the sanctuary it once found in the ashen gleam. Instead, what it clings to seals its fated demise. 

You are the moth – irresistibly pulled towards him, a desire that at times overrides all reason and sense.

But, Jake. 

Is he the moon that represents the right path, or is he the false light you cling to that knocks you off course? 

If nothing else, you’re certain of this – after last night, and especially after this morning, the sight of him derives the kind of pain that feels wrong to be felt. Too heavy, cutting much too deep for him to be the thing that lights the right path for you.

Still, though. 

You know it hurts because you want him to represent the right path. 

But if he doesn’t, you can’t force him to. Fate is fate. You can’t choose who will guide you in the right direction. 

And yet, there he is. Glowing amongst thousands of other graduates – a gleam in the ocean of students wearing their all-black regalia. Your vantage point, a bit distorted from how far up you are; a disadvantaged side view at best. But, that’s enough to know he looks incredible. Unfairly beautiful. And if anyone could make a cap and gown look like a sin, it’s Jake. 

The only thing that disappoints you is how little you can see of him. 

You should be surprised that he’s sporting his round, black frames on the day of his commencement – you can spot them easily, even from this high up. 

You’re not surprised he’s wearing them. Not even a little bit. They’re a classic Jake statement at this point. And frankly, it makes you smile that he’s wearing them. Those John Lennon shades that are his staple, that go perfectly with any outfit he wears – indoors and out, huge event or casual outing. 

If it weren’t for Josh and Natalia’s protests to your aversion to coming today, you wouldn’t be here. Truly, it’s the last place you want to be at the moment. 

Your heart begins fluttering a mile a second as his row rises next, each student filing toward the stairs at the side of the stage to begin their walk. Only a few more names stand in the way the moment he will cross beneath the stage lights, Josh close behind him for his own journey. You’re just as nervous as if you were right alongside the rest of the graduates, feeling the daunting pressure of having your name read aloud for the thousands of people watching you.

But you’re also proud. So, so proud. Of both of them. If you were to be asked, you’d say that those two are the most deserving of this outstanding eminence. 

Your heart pounds – fast and hard – when the student ahead of Jake steps onto the stage. You don’t catch their name. Wouldn’t be able to name this person if you tried. Even as their name has just been announced through the microphone, bouncing off every wall in this massive place. 

No, when your sights are set on Jake, everything else around you turns to black. 

Then, you watch Jake slip off his shades, gripping them tightly in his right hand. Behind him, Josh reaches out and pats his twin’s shoulder. But Jake turns, pulling him into a hug instead. A sweet rebellion against the formality.

Though you’re a few hundred feet away from them, the distance shrinking them to tiny blips of themselves, you can see and feel their shared emotions. 

Your whole row stands in preparation for Jake’s walk. And, while the name read just a moment ago was a muffled echo, Jake’s name rings perfectly loud and fucking clear. 

“Jacob Thomas Kiszka, Summa Cum Laude.” 

Thunderous. 

The cheers are like constant claps of powerful thunder accompanying his well deserved trek along the stage. But, as loud as the nearly twelve thousand spectators are, Josh’s cheers are certainly giving everyone here a run for their money. You swear you can hear him shouting for his twin. Whistling through his fingers, screaming what you can only assume is an abundant ‘hell yeah, Jake!’ at the very top of his lungs. Josh is loud. That is just a fact. 

Chi’s face is beat red at his fiance’s display, though he can’t disguise the smile stretching across his pearly whites. Nat can’t stop giggling at him, cheering Jake on through beats of laughter. And Sam, chanting hard for his brother is such a sweet display. Huge grin, palm-clapping louder than everyone else.

You don’t know how he’s so alert today. You’d thought for sure he’d be out for the count with the world's worst hangover, given his state last night. But his demeanor is quite the opposite. If you didn’t know he was blackout drunk only twelve or so hours ago, you wouldn’t know. He doesn’t even look sleepy. 

How? 

Meanwhile, the buzz you had last night is still present in your queasy tummy and aching head. Though, that could be the effects from this morning, the loud, constant echoes of cheers in the arena. Could be a lot of things, truly. 

You’ve noticed it a few times since you’ve been here, but Sam’s eyes keep finding you from the other end of the row. He’ll smile each time your eyes meet, a smile that says there’s more to it than just a friendly grin. You don’t know what, of course. But he’s looked at you most of this time. And all you can do, aside from blush, is smile right back.

Summa Cum Laude. The highest academic honor bestowed upon Jake, and a golden medal placed around his neck to signify his massive achievements as a scholar. His brain is a work of pure art, a place of wonderment.

And, unfortunate for you, it’s sexy as hell that he’s been given this honor, that he’s earned it. A perfect grade point average to seal his bachelor’s degree. 

Far away as you are, up high in the stands, you can still see the tight, closed-lip smile on his mouth as Dr. Movack personally hands him his diploma holder. A strong handshake from the two, turning into a warm squeeze. A tear begs to fall from your eye at the vision, though you sniff it away before it can make its quick escape. 

Crying is ridiculous right now. Save it, y/n. 

He then pauses for his photograph, hand in hand with Dr. Ono, U of M’s President, a slightly bigger grin on his lips. After a second, he continues down the stage with a saunter in true, Jake fashion; no urgency whatsoever in his boot-clad steps. His golden stole embroidered with the letter ‘M’ swinging from his neck, amongst a plethora of colorful chords to accompany his medal. And his cap, lazily sat on top of his chestnut hair, on the verge of slipping off his head entirely. 

Time is moving in slow motion as you watch him make his final steps across the stage, stopping to place his tassel to the left for his official graduate photo at the end of the small staircase leading back to the floor seats. The same path every student who’s walked the stage has taken thus far. Only, Jake is the first student you’ve seen thus far to place sunglasses on his face for his photograph. 

That little gesture certainly makes you smile, annoying as it may be. Because, seriously – who does that? 

Jacob Thomas Kiszka. That’s who. 

Those give peace a chance shades, straight out of the strawberry fields. The ones you tried to hate, but for very obvious reasons, you just couldn't. Ever. 

The lump in your throat as you’ve just witnessed his final moments as an undergraduate is so profound, nearly choking you with the urge to shed a lot of tears. But, you swallow them back yet again when his twins name is announced, the very same academic merit bequeathed to him.

“Joshua Michael Kiszka, Summa Cum Laude.”

In the same, identical fashion to Jake, the arena erupts with celebratory applause. Josh, not nearly as cool and collected as Jake, practically skips down the stage, pumping his fists high in the air before he reaches Dr. Turner, who’s handing him his own diploma holder. 

Josh doesn’t hold back – he goes straight for the hug. No handshake, no formalities necessary; just a full hug. A Josh hug – the most loving type of hug there is. 

Malachi can’t stop shouting for his fiance. Jumping up and down, flailing his long, lanky arms about, his tall frame making the entire row shake with his celebration. Nat certainly is not much different, having now celebrated both twins in a similar fashion to Chi. They are siblings, afterall. 

As Josh takes his final steps across the stage, he looks directly to your row, locking eyes the best he can with Malachi despite their hundred-foot distance. And with that, both of them blow each other kisses and catch them, holding their closed fists to their heart at the exact same time. 

Their love is so beautiful – it truly makes your heart hurt with adoration. 

Of course, no sunglasses grace Josh’s face for his photograph at the end of the stage. Only a massive, full-toothed smile. The most precious human being. Always.

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“Good afternoon, graduates, families, faculty, and honored guests.”

The graduates have all passed along the stage, and in what you would consider to be record timing. Thousands of them, in just under two hours. Given the sheer volume of people in their graduation regalia, you expected at least double the amount of time that it actually took. 

Dr. Ono is now center stage, reciting his final, farewell speech to the crowd before the ceremony comes to its official end. 

“Today, we gather not only to celebrate achievement, but to honor the grit, the growth, and the passion that brought each of you to this moment. You’ve written papers through the night, questioned the world around you, and dared to dream a little bigger every year. And now here you are, crossing this stage into your next chapter.”

“I’d like to take a moment to recognize a few extraordinary groups among you. To those who graduated Summa, Magna, and Cum Laude, please stand so that we may recognize you once more.” 

Jake, Josh, along with several other students stand to be honored. The twins, each nudging into each other with their shoulders and smiling, reaching around to shake the hands of their fellow peers and friends who are also standing. 

And of course, the audience celebrates them with echoed intensity, a sky-splitting roar in the arena. 

Dr. Ono claps a few times away from the mic before giving permission for the graduates to take their seats once more.

“Before we conclude this morning’s ceremony,” he continues once the crowd has quieted, his gaze sweeping the sea of caps and gowns seated in their designated chairs across the floor. “There is one final honor I wish to recognize – an extraordinary one.”

He pauses a moment, folding his hands lightly over the edge of the glass podium. The crowd quiets a smidge further, distant sounds of careful coughs and gentle whispers are the only murmurings among everyone.“In my more than twenty years of service in higher education, I’ve personally had the privilege of bestowing this award to only three students. Today, I am both honored and proud to say that a fourth joins their ranks.”

He takes a breath, steadying his voice. “Today,” he continues, more umph on the word this time. “This University, founded over two hundred years ago, will see its thirty-second recipient of one of the most distinguished academic awards in education.”

You can’t explain it. It’s just a feeling – quiet, a little uncertain. Yer, undeniable.

This is for Jake.

"The Rhodes Scholarship, established over one hundred and twenty years ago, remains one of the most prestigious academic honors in the world. It was created to fully fund the postgraduate studies of exceptional students at the University of Oxford in England. This student was nominated by the English department chair, Dr. Chadwick Movack.”

Yep. Here it is.

“Admission to Oxford alone is a remarkable achievement. To be selected for the Rhodes Scholarship – among thousands of applicants worldwide – is a rare and extraordinary distinction.”

Your eyes, ever trained to spot him as they are, immediately find him in the mix of black caps. 

And there he is, sitting beside his twin, looking up at Dr. Ono as he finishes his speech. Seemingly unaware that he is the honoree. But, how could he suspect any differently? Who else would be so deserving? Who else from this class is going to Oxford?

In your mind, no one, not a single soul, is more deserving than him. 

“At this time, would you please join me in congratulating Jacob Thomas Kiszka for his outstanding achievements.” 

Like a storm breaking, the arena fills with roaring applause. Most are standing in ovation, including your row. Each of you, shooting up the moment his name is announced. Hell, you were ready when he said Movack’s name. When Dr. Ono mentioned Oxford. 

Those tears – you were able to hold them back before. But, right now? They’re entirely uncontrolled. Wetting your cheeks, landing on top of your smiling lips, a salty taste finding your tongue. 

These are proud tears, happy tears. 

But, selfishly, these tears do not just celebrate. 

They mourn. Each drop on your cheek is a word your lips cannot say. Not right now. And, perhaps, not ever again. 

Yes, these tears are born of pride and joy. But even moreso, they are born of the ache in your heart. 

Nat, standing beside you, cheering for her friend to the fullest extent that she can, quickly looks to you. She must’ve heard a sniffle, a quiet sob that needed release. 

She knows. 

And she offers no words, for she understands that words aren’t needed. Only the kind touch of a friend who gets it, a sweet embrace of your shoulder as she smiles at you. A quiet reassurance that, although it doesn’t feel like it right now, everything will be okay. 

Eventually.

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“Hey, y/n!” Sam taps your shoulder to gather your attention, walking close enough behind you that his foot catches the heel of your boot. 

“S-sorry about that,” he giggles as you turn your head over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of his warm smile and sleepy, alcohol-binged eyes. “I just wanted to ask if you wanted to run a quick errand with me before we head back to the apartment. Won’t take long, just need to pick something up real fast.” 

Upon first instinct, your eyes make a quick scan to locate Jake. He’s walking with Josh and Malachi, reading from the graduation program and seemingly paying no attention to you. So be it, then. 

“Y-yeah, sure!” The excitement in your voice is feigned, and you’re not even sure why you said yes. It’s not what you wanted to say, not what you want to do. But Sam’s excitement is very much real, and the gesture to lock his arm with yours as you make your exit from the arena a bit quicker is indicative that you’re now fully committed.

Arm in arm, you walk past a somewhat confused couple that you rode with initially. “I’ll uh, I’ll meet you guys there,” you say to them as Sam drags you along. Nat nods her head as she continues down the stairs with Danny.

Sam, acting as though he’s been here dozens of times, takes you through an alternate route, away from the mass of the crowd. A bit of a back way, of sorts, walking you through the areas behind the stands in lieu of through them. And he’s smiling the whole time, too. Like the most giddy, excitable child about to embark on a wondrous vacation. Before you know it, you’ve surpassed the crowd of people and made it to one of the parking lots, Sam’s vintage Bug now in clear sight. Certainly hard to miss such a vibrant orange amongst a sea of neutral colored vehicles. You’ve hardly gotten the chance to throw your pleather coat on before he’s prancing around to the drivers side and not wasting a single second to hop in. 

“I presume you’ll tell me where we’re going soon,” You say, situating yourself in the passenger seat while he takes a moment to let the engine warm. 

He chuckles with a mysterious undertone, stretching his seatbelt over his lap. “You’ll see when we get there!” Seatbelts secured, the engine thrums a deep grumble as he backs out of the parking spot.

Old as his Bug is, his radio is still in working condition, quite unlike your Firebird that’s about thirty years newer than his cruiser. He scans the stations for a second until you hear a few recognizable chords, and a very distinct voice belonging to none other than Ann Wilson. “Ah, a classic,” Sam says, turning the volume up a few notches, Alone echoing off of every window and leather seat. “These women are badass.”

Sam starts bobbing his head in beat with the drum, as though it’s a full on rock anthem instead of the heartbreak ballad you know it to be. His voice, hit in pitch and a little more than rough, slips into the chorus: “I never really cared until I met you!” 

He certainly doesn’t hold back, even tossing in a dramatic air-drum hit on the dashboard for good measure. You try to keep a straight face, really – you try. But the sight of him getting incredibly theatrical with the song that has no business being funny is just too much. A giggle slips out before you can stop it, and even you find yourself falling victim to the catchy lick of the song. 

“And now it chills me to the bone – how do I get you alone?” The two of you, singing in perfectly off-key unison. He glances at you and smirks as the final chorus finishes out, both of you still singing your hearts out like you mean each and every word. And maybe you do. Maybe he does. 

Underneath the laughter and tone-deaf singing, the lyrics somehow begin hitting a little too close. That ache Ann is singing of – wanting someone who just feels out of reach. Yeah. That gets shoved down real fast. 

The song fades to its ending, and Sam’s fingers twist the volume knob to the left, turning it down to a near mute. The static noises being the only thing left that can still be heard, along with the rumbling tires against the paved city roads. 

“I heard about the modeling offer,” Sam admits with quite the grin stretching his mustache. Still looking at the road, his head is just slightly cocked towards you, awaiting your response as he’s ready to give you his attention on the matter. Already, a drastic difference in the way Jake has treated the situation. Not a smile one on his lips when you’d discussed it. He acted repulsed by the idea, implied that you lack the strength to be able to handle such a thing. But Sam…

“Not too sure about it yet,” you say, staring down into your lap as your mind flashes images of Jake from this morning, when you’d had a very similar conversation that went to absolute shit. 

Those images begin to fade, though, the second that Sam chimes in with his opinion. And, again – a drastic difference from his older brother. “Well, I, for one, think it’s a great idea,” he boasts, his heartfelt smile widening all the more, his eyes lit up as they move back and forth from you and the road. “Look at you, y/n. You’re just as pretty as any model I’ve ever seen. Prettier, even.”

When he reaches the four way stop, waiting for the two cars that were there first to take their turns, his warm hand reaches for your thigh, holding you just above the knee. Fingers wrapped tight around you, thumb rubbing small circles over your tights. 

Sam hasn’t touched you like this in….well, it’s been a very long time. And as innocent of a gesture as it is, you can’t deny the rush of heat burning your chest, filling your lungs at the contact. And right now, though you’ll never admit it outloud, you can’t deny it to yourself that you want more. 

It feels nice. Really nice. And his compliment certainly helped. Something Jake can’t seem to do. It’s like he refuses to acknowledge that it just might be a really good thing for you, that it could help you. Instead, he thinks you’re too weak to handle such a thing. Well, you may just have to prove him wrong. And you may need Sam to help you do that. 

Though Sam was not garnering much attention from you last night at the party, you do remember overhearing a few conversations between him and a couple of guests he was taking photos of for Josh’s guest book. Apparently, from what you could gather, Sam offered to take the photos with his new Polaroid for the purpose of testing it out. He’d been finding himself deep within the photography realm as of late, and wanted the opportunity to hone in his skills a bit. 

And, though you’ve blocked a lot of this night out of your mind, the night you found yourself tangled up with him in his sheets, your memory is clear enough to recall a collection of cameras sitting neatly on top of his dresser. Some new, some old. Dozens of them.

“Sammy, would you want to help me with something?” You ask, your own hand instinctively finding the top of his, still draped over your leg. The movement didn’t even require a thought – you just did it. It was a natural compulsion – you’re not even sure why it happened. 

But it did. And Sam, given his cherry red cheeks and a grin that reaches his bright eyes, he certainly likes it. 

“Anything for you,” he answers through his smile, voice sweet and soft as silk. 

“I need to build a portfolio for the agency. Just a collection of photos to show my skill, or whatever.” It feels odd to even speak about these things, as if the contract has already been accepted. Of course, it very much has not been. You’ve not called Sylvia back to confirm or deny, and you haven’t even made up your mind whether you will or won’t. She did, however, advise that you go ahead and gather some photos to submit. Just so they have something, should you decide to go ahead with it. Doing so doesn’t exactly promise anything. So, what’s the harm in it? And, what’s the harm in enlisting Sam for a little help? Afterall, it’d be helping him, too. His drive is awfully attractive to you. 

He pats your thigh before he answers your question, breathing a sweet giggle as he pulls his Bug into a parking lot. You’d been so caught up in the conversation, in his hand warming your leg, that you hadn’t been paying any mind to where you were going, to where you are right now. You’ve driven past it a couple of times, always felt a sense of pride in the city for housing such a place. All About Animals, a rescue, shelter, and adoption agency for homeless animals. 

You did notice something in the back seat earlier, though you’ve not really looked until now; a pink collar with a silver charm dangling from the clasp, a matching pink leash curled around it, and a white harness with pink polka-dots. That’s right. Sam told you last week that he was on the hunt for a puppy. 

Oh my goodness. 

“I would be honored to take photos of you, y/n,” Sam says as he tosses the gear in park, jiggling the key a bit until it comes out of the ignition. But you’re a bit too distracted to talk about that any longer.

“Sam! Are we picking up your puppy?” Your voice blurts out in a beam of pure excitement, ignoring his offer to help entirely as you’re pulling your seatbelt off and opening the door, all in one eager go. 

He does the same, an ecstatic leap from the driver's side, far too distracted to bother with locking up the Bug before taking impatient strides toward the glass doors. “Yep!”

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

“Well hi there, Samuel!” Her eyes crinkle with the smile she offers him. She gives her auburn-dyed curls a quick fluff with one hand, the strands springing up against her forehead like they’ve done this a hundred times before. With the same hand, she reaches into the front pocket of her cotton denims – the kind with the elastic waistband – and pulls out a baby pink hanky. She blows her nose into it with a loud honk, folds it neatly, and tucks it right back where it came from like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The smile on your lips is derived from a memory, to a time when you’d visit Texas, playing by yourself in the humid afternoon air, your grandma doing practically the exact same thing as she enjoyed her porch swing. The Summer air would often make her sneeze, and boy would she let one fly. Rather dramatically so. 

The old hanky, the loud nose blowing and sneezing. A few silly things that you’ll always remember, and with a strange fondness that feels altogether nostalgic and melancholic. 

“S’it that day already?” Shesteps around the corner, arms open wide for Sam who walks right into her embrace without hesitation. It’s a sweet sight – she doesn’t even clear his shoulder, her short frame swallowed by the hug. 

“Sure is! Can you believe it?” Sam replies, his voice high and bright. Their hug lingers a beat or two longer than you’d expect, held together by something deeper than a simple greeting of an acquaintance. When she pulls back, one arm still looped around Sam’s waist, her gaze shifts to you. Her warm face, softening even more when Sam gestures toward you with a gentle sweep of his hand.

“Helen, I’d like you to meet y/n,” he introduces. His smile is soft, his eyes finding yours with an aura of tenderness that makes you smile. “She’s here for a little moral support.”

“Hello, sweetheart!” Helen beams, already closing the distance between you. Before you can even react, she’s in your space, arms wrapping around you in a hug so tender and warm. Her head just grazes your chin, and her embrace carries a kind of sincerity that makes your throat tighten just a little bit. You haven’t known her for more than a minute, but something about her makes you feel chosen. Seen. Like she’s picked you to care about, and that’s that.

“Pretty as a picture,” she murmurs, tapping your cheekbone with a cold, wrinkled finger, so gentle that you hardly feel it. She smells like sweetened black coffee and a particular kind of mint – Mentos, you’d bet money on it – the scent so distinct it wraps around you. You imagine she’s the type to keep sleeves of them tucked in her purse, always ready to press one into someone’s palm with a wink and a pat on the hand.

“Thank you, ma’am,” you say, polite on instinct. 

But her dark blue eyes widen behind those oversized square frames, her hand waving in front of her face like she’s shooing away a pesky fly. “No, no, baby girl,” she says, her voice like sugared honey. “Just call me Helen.” 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Helen amiably leads you and Sam toward the back of the building, down a long, echoey corridor lined with kennels full of dogs of all sorts. The two of them, engaging in small talk as though they go way back as old pals, while you tow behind them, only hearing every few words or so. These precious dogs are yanking at the strings of your heart. Their sweet faces watching you, tails wagging as you walk by. Each one, with their names written in dry erase on the glass they’re imprisoned behind. You’d thought about adopting one when you first moved here, but the right time just hasn’t presented itself yet. And with your moms health, the right time may never come. At least, not until she…

Helen lets out a cheer that would rival a younger crowd, throwing her hands in the air in a display of triumph when she and Sam near a little room at the very end of the hallway. She opens the door just a hair, and before she can open it all the way, out comes the most excited little creature. A beautiful pitbull with a brindle coat. Not quite a puppy, though not entirely full grown. And, this sweet baby runs straight to Sam.

“Rosie!” He exclaims, dropping to his knees with a thud to the ceramic flooring. In an instant, his arms are wrapped around his new baby, pulling her close. Unable to stop yourself, you crouch down beside him, drawn in like gravity to the soft, wriggling mass of love in his arms. She’s beautiful – eyes warm and liquid with trust, tail thumping against the floor like it’s a drum. Her mouth splits into the closest thing a dog has to a grin, and then her tongue is everywhere, a flurry of ecstatic licks painting Sam’s cheeks.

“This is – ,” Sam starts, but he doesn’t stand a chance. His words dissolve into helpless laughter as she climbs further into his lap, tail wagging so hard her whole body wobbles with it. He tips backward with a huff of breath, arms flailing slightly before steadying her again, caught entirely in the whirlwind of affection.

“Rosie?” you echo, trying to help him find his words. The second her name leaves your lips, her attention snaps to you – ears perked, tail wagging even faster. Then she launches herself into your arms like a missile of pure love, tongue darting for your nose, your chin, your forehead. Her paws scramble up your shoulders as she presses into you, her own clumsy version of a hug. You laugh – loud, unfiltered, and real. The kind of laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep and good, the kind only a dog can summon.

“Rose Bud Kiszka,” Sam announces through a grin so wide it’s nearly a laugh itself, his chest still heaving from joy. “Rosie for short.”

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Dribbles of drool through heavy, happy pants drip against your tights, but you couldn’t be bothered to care even if you tried. Rosie has kept close to you, perched on your lap during the drive back to the apartment. Her hot breath has completely fogged up the icey glass of the passengers window while she watches the city pass by. 

She’s about the happiest dog you’ve ever encountered – she’s more than ready to go to her new home. And it’ll be the most loving home she’s ever known. 

When Sam was filling out her adoption forms at the shelter, Helen told you all about Rosie’s story. Rescued from the streets, about two months ago. She somehow managed to find her own way to the shelter, stood outside in the pouring rain one day and barked like her life depended on it, until she caught Helen’s attention. 

She didn’t go into too much detail, but from the sounds of it, Rosie had some signs that she’d come from an abusive home. Perhaps escaped one. You didn’t ask any questions – you knew your heart couldn’t handle knowing much more. All you needed to know was that Helen had spent the last few months taking care of Rosie, getting her back to health, loving her when she’d never known love before. Helen also told you that, when Sam came by last week, he and Rosie had a bond so strong and instantaneous. She and Sam both knew right away that Rosie was the dog for him. She only needed a few more shots before she was ready. And today, she was ready. Ready to come home. 

Rosie has come such a long way, all thanks to the big heart that Helen possesses. It just makes you wonder how many babies just like Rosie that Helen has saved. People like her deserve all the goodness and love this world has to offer. 

“Helen is absolutely precious,” you tell Sam as you reminisce on meeting such a wonderful woman, reaching a hand up to scratch behind Rosie’s ears. She leans into the touch, resting her head against your hand, her tail thumping in her own beat against your lap. 

Sam glances at you from the driver's seat, one hand steady on the wheel while the other reaches for Rosie’s back, offering her even more scratches.“Isn’t she?” He agrees, a lingering smile as he watches the road. “She was my grandma's best friend for years. She’s known us our whole lives.” 

He takes one final turn down the road toward the apartments, his hand sliding over the leather in a single woosh as it spins back around. “Helen would give us these weird, chewy mints every time we’d see her,” he giggles, eyebrows scrunched as he remembers. “The twins loved ‘em, but I was more of the chocolate kind of kid. Didn’t care much for minty candy.” 

I knew it.

He’s now pulling into the parking lot, taking his designated space right in front of the building. And, right behind Jake’s Rover. The vision of The Black Pearl alone has your chest tightening, your face burning red hot despite the cool air coming in from Sam’s now open door. 

“You girls ready to go inside?” He asks, giddy as can be while he rushes over to your side. And sweet Rosie – her ears fell the second he left the car, but as he’s opening the passengers door for the both of you, her ears have perked right back up, her tail thumping away as her brand new dad is back in her line of sight once more. She loves him so much already. It’s enough to make you almost forget about Jake for the moment. Almost. 

The lapse doesn’t last long. Rosie leaps from your lap, your fingers wrapped tightly around her pink leash in case she tries to bolt. She doesn’t, of course. She pounces Sam instantly, hugging his hips, gentle barks and happy whines coated with excitement to see him once again. 

It takes you a moment to realize that a claw on her back foot dug into your skin when she bolted from the car, snagging your tights and effectively ripping a large hole right down the middle of your thigh. The cold breeze on your exposed skin takes your attention away from the leash for a split second, your grip on it letting up just a bit. But, that’s all it takes. The leash slips from your hand quick, the nylon slipping through your palm, nearly burning the skin. And before you can even try to catch it to stop her, you realize she’s now seeking the affections of Jake, whom you had no idea was already out here, eager to meet his new dog-niece. 

Rosie, treating Jake the very same as Sam – he bends down to her level, letting her kiss and hug him all she wants. He greets her, using her full name, both hands offering rubs and scratches all down her back and up to her ears. “She’s quite a hoot, Samuel,” he snickers, kissing her right back through her displays of love. “She’ll be a wonderful addition to the family. Won’t ‘cha, girl?” 

Until now, you’d thought it’d be a cold day in hell before you’d hear Jake use a baby voice. It should not be affecting you in the ways that it is – tormentingly domestic, agonizingly gentle. 

Though, why should you be surprised? You’ve seen this man’s heart more times than you can keep track of – of course he’s warmhearted with animals. How could you expect any less from the man that played you a beautiful, enchanting rendition of a heartfelt love song in the privacy of his own room? 

All at once, you’re wishing this whole scenario could’ve played out just a little different. As in, you wish it were you and the other Kiszka out here that had gone to pick up this sweet angel. Terrible as it sounds. But, an even worse thing to feel. It’s a feeling you’ll just have to get used to, because it won’t be waning anytime soon. 

Like a moth drawn to moonlight.

Jake’s coos and kisses have you battling the glowing neon L-word flickering in your mind – louder, brighter, more blinding than the bulbs on Josh’s marquee from last night. More powerful than the sign displayed against The Fox Theatre. 

You don’t think Jake has looked at you yet. And if he has, it was for a fleeting second. The dog seems to have his undivided interest, and that’s fine. That’s how it should be, in truth. But, of course, that isn’t quite the case for you. And it doesn’t help at all that he looks damn good. 

Baggy khakis, a white, torn up t-shirt under the black corduroy jacket you’ve seen him wear a lot recently. It’s not nearly heavy enough for the brutal cold, and the ‘scarf’ he has tied around his neck is closer to the likes of a thin bandana, with a single coin on a silver chain hanging below it. He must be cold – the temperature is several degrees below freezing. But, in typical Jake fashion, his winter ‘coats’ are usually reduced to some cool button down-shacket type of outerwear. Not that you’ll complain, of course. It certainly makes you giggle to think about, though. 

The bitter air is far more unforgiving outside of the car, and the wind has only picked up since you left the animal shelter. The rip in your tights – though they weren’t that warm to begin with – is making every inch of your skin ice cold, even beneath your layers up top. 

Your first instinct is to run inside, not expose yourself to the burning chill much longer. Let these two brave the cold if they so choose – doesn’t mean you have to. But as you turn to shut the car door, preparing your trek inside the warm apartment, you notice a set of eyes behind a familiar pair of shades looking up. At you. The sunlight is catching just right against their black tint. And because of that, you can see his orbs perfectly as they fall upon you. But not just you, on the rip in your tights. 

A flame – practically enough to warm you, despite the cruel nip in the air – ignites beneath your chest, warming your cheeks on an instant. And that very flame, fanned by the memory of the night prior, when Jake’s hands saw the demise of another pair of tights. 

His brows, muddled and flustered, are drawn in the middle. And his lips are held in a tight, fine line as he’s staring directly at the damage done to the garment. The damage caused by the dog. 

But Jake may be thinking the worst of the worst right now. Something along the same vein as the happenings of last night. And considering you’ve been with Sam for the better part of two hours now…

But why should he care? It was his choice to call it quits this morning, right? So, the anger seeping through his features right now is not warranted. Yeah, you could explain that Rosie is the reason your tights are ripped. (And if Jake had any sense right now, he’d realize that she was just in your lap, and that she is the most probable cause for this.) 

But, what’s the point in trying to explain? You know you’d fall victim to over explaining, all for the purpose of ensuring that he feels better about it. 

Well, you don’t owe him that. Let him think what he wants. If that’s what he’s thinking.

And if it is, the mere thought of it is giving you a strange feeling of power over him, an upper hand of sorts. A bit of confidence, even. Confidence to do something you may not have done otherwise. Something that’ll bathe his fury in even more fire when you do. 

Fuck it. 

“I think she’ll fit in beautifully,” you say, kneeling down right beside Jake. It’s unmistakable, the extra threads that tear in your tights when you lean down. Too much tension in the fabric, and you know Jake heard them rip further. 

Your face, close to his, though you’re not looking at him. Only paying attention to Rosie, who’s turned her attention toward you a little. Her fur under your touch is so soft – you can only assume she’d just gotten a fresh groom and bath before her departure from the shelter. Given the sweet scent of coconut emanating from her, you’d say that’s a plausible assumption. 

You’re doing your very best to focus on Rosie, and not Jake. But as it stands, his scent is overpowering the coconut – sandalwood, musk. Jake. 

He's looking at you – that much you can decipher from the image your peripheral is offering. You’re trying to play it off as though you’re only down here for Rosie. But, the choice to do this has suddenly become one of regret. After this morning, doing this is not only cruel to him; it’s cruel to you. 

And now, you’re feeling like an utter fool. Going with Sam in the first place was perhaps not the best move – it’s one that you’re certain Jake isn’t exactly crazy about. And why’d you go with Sam in the first place? 

Fuck. 

Jake is silent now, and his lack of response – of any words to you at all – makes you want to sprint toward the apartment. Get out of this situation altogether. Where you should’ve been this whole time. Had you just gone up there like you’d meant to the second you stepped out of the Bug, this situation would’ve been avoided altogether. You can only imagine what he’s thinking now. 

And imagining is all you can handle at the moment; you don’t want to know what’s running through his mind right now. What ran through his mind when he discovered that you’d gone with Sam to pick up his dog. Doesn’t get more couple than that. And the goddamn rip in your tights, to make it all so much worse. Completely out of context, but you know how it looks. 

And, to make it all so, so much worse, you’ve asked Sam to take photos of you. Photos for the job that Jake is adamantly against you partaking in. 

Fucking hell, y/n. What are you doing?

You wish to god that you knew. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

The party today is far more mild than last nights. A small lunch of chicken salad croissants prepared by Lori, and the drinks are reduced to a much calmer mimosa bar. The entire kitchen counter, dedicated to creating any guests’ brunch cocktail of choice. You’d gone your whole life believing there was only one way to create a mimos – a simple concaction of champagne and orange juice and viola. However, the Kiszka’s have yet again challenged what you’ve known of the world. 

There’s orange juice. But there’s also grapefruit juice, (a classic Josh choice) pineapple, guava, pomegranate, tangerine. All set up in chilled, tall glasses, with their names written on the front. And, tons of bowls of endless frozen fruit options. Just about any variation your own mind could possibly come up with is feasible, thanks to this insane mimosa display. Just one more thing that reminds you of where you came from, and that you’re most certainly not from here. Oklahoma just wasn’t like this. Not your area of Oklahoma, at least.

Your mixture of choice was champagne, pomegranate juice and frozen blueberries, and it’s perhaps the most delicious drink you’ve ever sipped on. Tart, sweet, and the Faire La Fête is a beautiful choice for the base. Not that you’re a connoisseur by any stretch of the definition, but you’ve certainly learned a lot about this sort of thing in the past few months. 

Some of the decor is still up from the night before, most notably the marquee and the banner you and Josh had created for Jake. The guest books are now in each of the twin’s rooms, and the space isn’t nearly as packed as it was last night. A more intimate gathering, the room filled only with a few of the most important people in the lives of the two you’re celebrating. And you just happen to be one of them. And no matter what has happened – or is happening – with you and the long-haired twin, you’re flattered to be considered a part of this group. 

Speaking of the twins — they’ve been each other's main company since you’ve been here. Keeping to themselves in the kitchen, talking and laughing the loudest you’ve ever heard from these two. More cackling than anything – wheezing and snorting with every other word. The smile on your lips at their repartee is straight from your heart. 

“Where’d you two run off to?” Nat asks, plopping herself down on the couch beside you, the bounce of the cushion threatening the mimosa in your hand to become part of your ensemble. “And how did that get there?” She questions, looking directly at the blatant rip across your thigh as she takes a bite of her sandwich. You’ve tried to cover it as best you can — crossing the other leg over it when you’re sitting down, stretching the polyester fabric of your sweater as far as it’ll go before it rips. Of course, you can’t escape it. 

The knowing look in Nat’s golden eyes is indicative that she’s thinking something similar to what Jake probably assumes as well. “It was the dog, Natalia. She snagged them when she got out of the car.” You take a sip of the tangy, fizzy liquid held in your hand, feeling it come back up your nose when Nat nudges you so hard you nearly drop the glass. 

“Nat! I’m serious!” You say, a whispered yell so as to avoid anyone hearing the conversation. She gives out an amused little laugh, full of disbelief and perhaps a little judgement. She shovels in the last bite of her chicken salad sandwich, scooching over just a bit closer to you to make room for Danny’s mom. 

“I hope the sandwiches were up to par,” Lori says, Nat wholeheartedly agreeing with a mouth full of the food in question. Nodding her head, croissant crumbs falling from her smiling, chewing mouth. Lori chuckles and shakes her head amusingly, patting Nat on the shoulder like she’s seen her this way a hundred times or more. “What about you, y/n? Did you like ‘em too?”

A cold, tense chill stiffens your spine, your posture straightening the instant she asks you. 

If you’re honest, you didn’t intentionally avoid the food. You’re just…not hungry. So, eating a sandwich didn’t even cross your mind. The drink felt like plenty. Hunger hasn’t called yet, so you haven’t felt the need. 

Nat’s thoughts may as well be amplified through an intercom, with speakers in every corner of the living room – you know what she’s thinking, her carefree eyes hardening as she now realizes that you haven’t eaten yet. You just hope to god that she doesn’t verbalize her thoughts, embarrass you in front of everyone. In front of Danny’s mom, who's as unsuspecting as she could possibly be. 

The truth of it is, you didn’t mean to not eat. Not for the reasons running amuck in Natalia’s mind, you’re sure. It was as simple as a lack of hunger. That’s all. But of course, a lovely response of someone being privy of your complex relationship with food, is they assume the worst. Always.

And this very moment is why you don’t enjoy people knowing. Why you’ve opted to hide it, even from those you deem closest to you. Because, no matter what, they’ll look at the illness before they look at you. 

You look to Lori, whose eyes are wide and eager to hear your thoughts on the food she’d prepared. A pleasant mom smile, warm and inviting on her thin, lightly glossed lips. “I haven’t had the chance to dig into them yet,” you explain, avoiding Nat’s glare as much as you can. Though, it’s hard, given she’s right in the middle of you and Lori. “But I’ll get one before I leave! They look delicious.” 

“Yep, she sure will,” Nat butts in, just as Lori was taking a breath to speak to you. A snarky smile on Nat’s face, and a tension very much present in her jaw as she looks at you. Her eyes, speaking all the words she wants to say, but (hopefully) knows she shouldn’t. Not here, at least. 

“I’ll make sure she gets a couple,” she says, now looking at Lori who, still, is completely oblivious. “Actually, I’ll just go put a few in a ziplock for her.”

“Wonderful idea, Natalia!” Lori commends, placing her hand on Nat’s leg just as she’s about to stand from the couch. Instead, Lori stands. “No, no, sweetheart. Let me do it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wagner,” you say as she heads to the kitchen, assuring you with a smile that it’s no problem.

“They’re good, y/n.” You hear Nat’s voice from over your shoulder, her cool hand now resting on your knee. When you look back at her, that tension she’d held before has softened, a familiar hint of concern in her irises. “You really should try them. Please.”

“I will, Nat.” 

You’re not angry with her. You can’t be. You know she cares. But, dammit. Why do things always come back to this? Conversations with her anymore almost always end up going somewhere deeper, somewhere that you wish you could go one day without discussing. 

Jesus – you have to feel it all the fucking time. It’d just be nice to live like normal for once, pretend it’s not there. Even if it’s just for a little while. Not every single thing in your life needs to revolve around it. But when it’s a near constant topic of conversation, it certainly feels like it’s the only thing about you that matters.

At least she cares. And at this point in your life, that’s all you can ask for.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

“You’ve always talked about it,” you hear Josh say before he takes the last, generous swig of his grapefruit mimosa. “And I’ll be honest — I’m puzzled that you’ve not done it yet.”

You don’t mean to eavesdrop, but they aren’t exactly keeping their voices down. And, you’re only a few short feet away from them, rinsing out your champagne flute in the sink while they talk. 

“I guess I knew that living here was always temporary, and I wanted to wait until I moved somewhere more…” Though you’re not looking directly at him, your eyes solely on the task of rinsing the dish soap from the glass, you can see his hands grabbing at the air, as though he’s searching for the right word to take hold of. “...more permanent, I suppose”

Permanent. That word. It stings. Like fucking hell. 

“I get that,” Josh says, understanding. Though you can sense a melancholic lilt in his tone. It hits you – something you hadn’t truly considered until now. Jake and Josh aren’t just brothers. They’re twins. They’ve never lived a single day without the other by their side. They’ve always been each other’s anchor, each other’s constant – understanding one another in a way no one else ever could. They don’t just share a bond. They share DNA.

This whole thing…London – it’s probably a thousand times harder on Josh than anyone else. You’ve been so lost in your own sadness over it that you hadn’t even considered how his twin brother may be feeling. 

“Will your driver's license work over there to operate one?”

What?

“Yeah, for the first twelve months. But I’ll have to register it under my London address before I can purchase a motorcycle anyways, so I’d just as soon renew it once I get there.” 

Motorcycle? 

Your grip on the glass loosens the second you hear that word, and it comes crashing into the black, steel sink. Naturally, of course, it shatters upon impact. The noise echoes throughout the whole damn apartment, drawing everyone's attention straight to you. 

Even Rosie, who’s been calm and sweet as can be since the moment she walked into her new home, is startled and begins barking, loudly. Sam kneels to the floor, rubbing her chest and talking to her to calm her frazzled nerves. Your cheeks are suddenly burning with the blood that’s rushed to them. 

“You alright over there, girl?” Nat asks from her place on the couch, sinked into the cushion between Danny and his mom, his dad on the other side of Danny. All of them, each set of concerned eyes, looking at you as though you’d just, well, broken glass. 

“I’m, uh – I’m good,” you say, unable to keep from glancing to your right, noting a set of twins who are looking right at you. Their faces, the very same expression – concern laced in each set of brown eyes. 

You begin to feel warm water trickle down your left hand, reaching your wrist. There’s a paper towel on the counter to your right, so you grab it real fast to dry your skin. Only, when you do, you realize rather quickly that it isn’t water.

“Shit,” Jake rasps, wooden chair legs screeching against the linoleum floor. He’s beside you within a matter of seconds, taking the paper towel from your hand and pressing it against the opened gash on the outside of your palm, right below your pinky. How did you not notice the blood in the sink, on the counter, the droplets on the floor? And how did you not feel the glass slicing into you?

Of course, you feel the sting now. Now that you’ve realized what’s happened. It happened so quickly – your brain couldn’t register it until your eyes saw it. 

But what’s more tangible than the sharp pain on the surface of your skin, is the feeling of him pressed against you, treating your wound as though it’s the most crucial thing he needs to be doing at the given moment. 

He’s holding your wounded hand so tight, with both of his. Holding the dampened cloth against you, soaking up the blood. And his body, nestled right against yours. His scent, intoxicating. 

“Are you alright, doll?” 

No. Not now.

You blink a few times, attempting to ground yourself in this reality and not in another one. One where Jake is more to you than a fleeting experience, more than a goddamn chapter. 

Something as simple as taking care of your cut is rendering you almost speechless, nearly in a trance. His touch does that, though. You know that, and surely he knows that. “Y-yeah, didn’t even feel it,” you say, trying your damnedest to avoid his piercing eyes right now. Though try as you might, his gaze is impossible to ignore. Always. And this time, it's weighted with worry. Worry for you. 

Still looking at you, carrying your gaze as he holds your bleeding hand within his, he speaks to the room. “Can someone go grab the first-aid kit?”

“On it,” Josh responds, immediately following Jake’s request and jogging toward the bathroom down the hall.

Jake’s eyes then follow a path down to your hand, now trembling as the pain has begun to increase just a bit. You look as he carefully lifts away the towel, and for a cut to bleed so much, it’s certainly rather small. “I suppose stitches won’t be necessary,” he says, low and under his breath. More husky than before, as though he doesn’t want anyone else to hear him. A careful, mysterious smile on his lips. “Maybe just a little scar to tell the tale.” 

You’ve not even noticed that Josh is now standing beside you, digging through the first-aid kit for the proper items. Jake’s thumb brushing over the blade of your hand, the careful knit in his brow as he examines you — the rest of the world is suddenly not nearly as important. 

Jake holds his other hand out, to which Josh then places a tiny tube of Neosporin ointment in his opened palm. He squeezes a small amount on the cut, the initial sting jolting your body a bit. “Sorry, y/n,” he whispers, surely noting your involuntary reaction. 

The tip of his finger rubs it in just a bit, then he reaches for the open band-aid next to the sink that Josh prepared for him. He places it over the cut, his touch gentle and light as a feather as he smooths it over your skin. “That feel okay, doll?”

Fuck. The ache between your thighs, a reminder of last night and this morning, is growing all the more as your legs threaten to squeeze together. 

“Y-yes, it’s fine,” you stutter, snapping yourself out of this when you notice Nat walking up to you from your peripheral. 

“Damn, y/n,” she says, leaning over the kitchen peninsula to take a gander at the situation. “That could’ve been bad, dude.” There’s still a decent amount of blood in the sink, and a few drops along the counter. Luckily, the finish is a dark, almost black granite, and the sink is black. So, staining won’t be an issue. Still, the mess makes it look much worse than it actually was.

“Undoubtedly,” Jake agrees, quiet and deep. “It’s a wonder she didn’t slice clear to the bone.”

He wets another paper towel and uses it to clean the rest of the blood that had trickled down your wrist, his other hand holding your arm close to his chest as he ensures he’s gotten it all. The towel, cold and wet against your skin, sends a flood of goosebumps up the expanse of your arm.

“It’s okay, Jake. I got it from here,” you say, your voice breaking as you speak each word, feeling yourself crumbling away even further as he doesn’t follow your command. 

You don’t dare stop him physically, however. Your body simply won’t let you. You’re drawn to him, captivated. He’s magnetic, pulling you in, keeping you where he wants you. Where you want you. 

Like a moth drawn to moonlight.

“It’s all gone, I believe,” he says, entirely disregarding what you’d said. Ignoring you, holding true to this calling he feels to take care of you. 

Suddenly, the air flickering with a sense of deja vu, this moment begins to feel familiar. A forgotten memory — you know this. But how?

“We’ve been here before, haven't we?” His words, whispered, meant only for your ears. It’s as though he can hear what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. Perhaps he is feeling it, too. 

That’s right. 

The night your mom was taken by ambulance to the emergency room, when you became so overwhelmed that you slammed your left hand on the counter in a rage-filled moment. 

He held ice on your hand that night as you spoke with the nurse about your moms condition. He stayed there with you, refused to leave you there alone, stranded when you didn’t have your car. He tended to your left hand that night, the very same hand that he’s caring for now. 

And now that you’re remembering, the cut is practically in the same spot that met the counter at the hospital. The same hand, the same place on your hand. And Jake. There to help you heal when you didn’t expect him to. He remembers. 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, quietly and carrying through a sigh of your breath. And fight it as you might, your lips tug into a smile that, as your eyes meet his, he mimics. 

Though, as the moment lingers, your smile begins to falter when you remember the conversation from this morning. The things that were said, the emotions that weighed down the room, heavy. 

“I guess this is over.”

Those words, coming straight from his lips. He’s chosen to end this…thing between you. His choice, right?

Oddly enough, it feels as though you were the one who truly made the choice. He just verbalized it – made it real by speaking it into the universe. So, it’s over. 

And this moment – Jake taking care of you, holding you, not leaving your side until he’s sure you’re okay – shouldn’t be happening. Because all it’s doing is adding yet another reason for it to hurt when he’s gone. 

And you can’t allow the pain to fester even more. It’s already an open, bleeding wound. One that can’t be fixed with a paper towel and a band-aid. The blood runs a little deeper – it’s thicker. No physical wound could ever compare.

You feel your smile fade, the muscles in your face beginning to droop. Your eyes flick down to where your bodies connect – his hand still gripped around your wrist. 

And the second you look back up to him, you notice that his smile has fallen, too. Without so much as a word – in pure silence – he lets go, as though he’s realized, too, that this shouldn’t be happening. 

His eyes, a silent apology before he looks away and begins carefully removing the shattered remains of the glass from the sink. Each piece clinks softly against the stainless steel, delicate and deliberate, as though he knows one wrong movement might break something else – something already hanging by a thread.

You watch him work, the muscles tightening in his jaw, his expression entirely unreadable as he picks up the mess. The silence between you is loud. Uncomfortably so. You want to say something, anything. But, what’s left to say when goodbye has already been spoken?

So instead, you take a step back. Then another. Distance growing in small steps, and he doesn’t try to stop you. Just as you step out of the kitchen completely, now in the living room beside Sam and Nat, you glance back once more.

He’s still there. Still carefully collecting the broken pieces. And maybe, in some way, you both are.

Trying to clean up what’s already been shattered. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

“I know there are still a few weeks until Christmas,” Josh declares from the top of the stairs, beginning his descent down to the living room with a couple of gift bags dangling from each hand. “But I felt that right now was as good a time as any to bestow upon you all, my precious loved ones, your Christmas gifts from me.” 

He makes a slow, melodramatic trek down the stairs with the gifts. And as you glance around the room, everyone appears to be just as perplexed as you. 

What does this man have up his sleeve?  

One thing about Josh – he’s unpredictable. In all the best ways.

“I’ve recently found myself a new hobby. Once our lovely film came to an exuberant end, I decided I needed something to keep my hands busy until film school begins in August.”

Gift bags in hand as he takes the final step into the living room, he makes it to you first. “To y/n,” he says, grinning.

You blink in surprise, caught off guard in the best way, and take the gift. Inside the gift bag is something wrapped in crinkly black tissue. You glance up at him as you peel it open, curiosity flickering in your eyes.

Inside is a black frame holding a perfectly stitched replica of The Shining’s iconic carpet — the bold hexagon pattern in orange, red, and brown. And right in the center, redrum is spelled out in bold, crimson thread, delicate drops of blood stitched just beneath. Your mouth opens in a startled laugh — part affection, part amazement. It’s creepy. It’s clever. It’s so you. 

But what really gets you is the thought of Josh sitting somewhere, hands steady, taking the time it requires to create something as detailed and intricate as this. The hours this must have taken, just for you. And not just you — it’s clear he’s done something like this for everyone. You feel warmth blooming deep within your chest at the thought. 

“It’s perfect,” you murmur, brushing your thumb gently across the top of the frame. “And I love that you made it.” You glance up at him, his smile soft and full. “It’s just incredible. It seriously looks —,”

“Expertly done?” Josh interrupts, resting a hand dramatically on his popped hip.

A bubble of laughter erupts from your throat. “You just took the words straight from my mouth,” you say through a Josh-induced giggle, to which he flicks his wrist mid air. A physical display of this ‘I know’ moment. 

Still holding the frame in your lap, you look back down at it. The details. You’re still in awe over them. 

And the care. The willingness to do something like this, for you. You don’t say anything right away, but the emotions are there. Sitting heavy against your ribs. 

You’ll treasure this forever. That much is certain. 

“Nat,” Josh says, offering hers with a sly wink. “You’re next, my dear.” From the bag, she pulls out a frame wrapped in baby pink tissue. 

Ripping it away, she reveals a pale-orange frame surrounding a stitched stack of books. Each spine, stitched in gold lettering against the dark blue, yellow, pink, and purple books, are just a few of her favorite authors; Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, Cherríe Moraga, and Alice Walker. 

Never one to cry at the drop of a hat. And yet, you see her struggling to fight back a few tears. A losing battle, of course. One slips away from her eye before she can stop it. Her hand quickly brushes it away, though it’s too late – she’s been caught. 

“You mean to tell me,” Josh says, crouching down to her level as she’s sitting on the couch. “That I made the Natalia Delores León – my fiery Aries – cry?” He knows damn well that his mocking could very well lead to some trouble for him in the near future. 

But, alas – she lets him have this moment. For now. 

“It was one tear, Joshua.” She pats the curls on top of his head, very much aware of the fact that he doesn’t typically love when people touch his hair. He quickly stands, a giant and satisfied smile on his lips, fluffing his hair back in place. “Don’t expect it to happen ever again,” she tosses back with a wicked, sass-filled grin. 

Josh wheezes a chuckle as he moves on to Sam, who’s now sitting right beside you on the couch. The second he took his seat, Jake – situated on his typical choice of the Nova lounge – shifted his eyes away from you, and hasn’t bothered to look at you since. Immediately after he took care of your hand, things went right back to the way they’ve been all day. 

Avoidance, tension. Silence. 

Sam didn’t even bat an eye at your injury, only picking on you for being so clumsy. And that’s fine.

But Jake…his tender care made you feel safe. And you just didn’t feel that with Sam. In fact, you’ve yet to feel it with him. But that doesn’t matter. Not anymore. 

“Samuel,” Josh announces as he hands his little brother his own gift. Rosie, sitting between Sam’s legs, becomes quite excited. Her tail thumps the floor, mouth open in a panting smile, sweetly as Josh for some attention.

He kneels down and gives her some love without question, kissing her nose and rubbing her chest while Sam opens his own gift. 

His is a shot of his orange Bug, recreated in thread like a photo. Beside it, a tiny Polaroid camera that almost exactly replicates the one he used at the party last night. Sam beams with a big smile, a gentle giggle. “Ah, thank you, brother!”

Josh then jogs to the kitchen, catching Danny just as he’s finishing off the last bit of the champagne. He’s never cared to drink in front of his parents, so he opted to wait until they left to indulge a little. But, waiting that long meant he didn’t get more than a few swigs before it was all gone. 

Josh sets his gift on the counter, making a horrible (what you can only assume) lightsaber noise as he steps away. “Daniel, I hope the force is strong with this one.”

“Cheesy, Josh,” Danny laughs as he digs into his bag, unveiling his gift high in the air so that you all can see from the living room.

As suspected: the Star Wars logo stitched just like the opening crawl of each movie, complete with tiny X-wings and a stitched lightsaber hilt in the corner. 

“This is sick!” Danny boasts, staring at his gift like it’s the most incredible piece of artwork he’s ever seen. “Damn, dude. You didn’t a good fucking job.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Josh responds in a knowing tone, prancing on back to the living room to Malachi, standing with this shoulder leaned against the entertainment center. 

“My love, my finance,” Josh says, leaning up on his tiptoes to plant a sweet kiss to Chi’s cheek. “Due to recent events,” he continues, his left hand flying up in the air, displaying the stunning ring he was given the night before. “Yours will be given to you at a later date. I'd like to tweak a few things before I give you the final product.” 

And then, Josh turns to Jake, the only one remaining. There’s a beat of silence as he hands the bag to his twin. 

The last gift, wrapped in navy tissue paper, speckled with silver stars. Jake unfolds it carefully, and finds a dark frame, one that mirrors yours. He rests it on his lap, but from where you’re sitting, the angle keeps you from seeing exactly what it is.

Whatever it is, though, Jake doesn’t speak at first. He just takes a breath. Lets it settle for a moment.

“Taurus,” he mutters eventually, his voice quiet as he runs a finger over the stitching. “It’s the Taurus constellation, right?” He looks up at Josh, standing beside the chair. The words sound more like a confirmation than a question. Josh nods once, smiling without a word.

Jake blinks down at the gift for a moment, lips parting with a smile. He laughs, quiet and breathy. More like a huff – soft and knowing. Not the kind of laugh that comes from humor, but from something warmer. Something that lives closer to the heart.

He holds it up to share with the rest of you.

The Taurus constellation, stitched in silver thread across a dark indigo canvas. Just below it: JMK and JTK, stitched in the very same thread. And, beneath that, a gentle phrase that ties it all together. 

So you always know where to look when you want to find your way home.

Jake blinks fast and rubs his eyes before rising to his feet. He sets the frame gently on the chair and pulls Josh into a hug. Tight, unhurried, deeply felt.

No one says a word. And no one needs to.

This moment is reserved for Jake and Josh – twins who have never gone a day apart since the minute they were born.

The room holds its breath with them, a quiet reverence, save for the sniffles echoing in the air. 

No one is ready for Jake to leave. No one. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Jake disappeared shortly after Josh handed out his gifts. Your best guess was he just went to work — perhaps he got a phone call from a tenant that he needed to take care of, didn’t bother to let anyone know before he left. 

You’d spent the rest of your time trying not to think about his absence. Because, whether anyone likes it or not, an absent Jake will be the new reality. Soon, at that. 

But his separation was still noticed. Especially by you, as you found yourself glancing all around the visual spots of the apartment more than once during the movie, hoping he’d come back, from wherever it was that he disappeared to. 

He didn’t. Everyone that was left — you, Sam, Nat, Danny, Josh, Chi — watched the entirety of It’s a Wonderful Life without a single trace of Jake. All two hours and ten minutes of it. (A Josh pick, naturally.)

Nat, true to form, was asleep within the first few minutes of the movie. Snoring before the first scene came to an end, snuggled up with her head in Danny’s lap while he played with her hair. 

Sam sat next to you the whole time. And every so often, he’d scoot just a little closer. Enough that the two of you were wrapped up in a full-blown cuddle by the end of the movie. You wanted it to feel wrong – it didn’t. But while it didn’t feel wrong, it didn’t exactly feel right, either. 

You certainly indulged in it, though. Because it did feel nice. He kept you warm, and his scent of herbal greens and spicy citrus was rather calming. It wasn’t wrong, it wasn't right. But it was nice. And you’d be dishonest if you said you didn’t enjoy it. But it wasn’t what you truly wanted.

Cuddled with Sam, while your eyes wandered the room for Jake — seeking him. Wishing he were close to you. But he never showed up. And at some point, you finally just gave up on him. You decided that if he were planning to join everyone again, he’d have already done it. No one else seemed phased by it, so you chose to let it go. 

The winter sun sets earlier, so it’s almost completely dark outside during the early evening hour, just a little past six. Way past time for you to be home, though. 

You’ve just gotten off the phone with your mom to let her know you’ll be on your way in just a few minutes. She sounded okay on the other end, just tired. A little winded, yet no more than usual. But you knew it was time to get back to her. 

Danny was charged with the task of waking up Natalia — she’d insisted she be the one to take you home, so you turned down Sam when he offered. But you know just as well as anyone else that waking Natalia is no easy feat. And tonight has proven to be the impossible dream. She’s still sound asleep, stirring only enough to huff and gruff when Danny tries to get her up. “It’s practically useless at this point,” he says, relinquishing all hope when she begins snoring again. 

��The offer still stands, y/n,” you hear Sam say from the kitchen, where he’s just fed Rosie her first dinner in her new home. She’s behind the kitchen peninsula, so you can’t see her. But you can certainly hear her chomping away at her kibble. A good sign that she’s eating so well, though you never had any doubt. She’s perfectly comfortable already. 

You take a final glance around the room, peeking down the hallway towards Jake’s room in one last, aching pursuit of him. Hoping against all hope that he’ll somehow appear from the woodwork and he will offer to take you. And if he did, you know it’d be the final time. But in your final search, you come to terms with the fact that he’s nowhere to be found. And he probably wants it that way. 

So, you agree to let Sam take you. A bit hesitant, of course. And it’s not his fault that you are. If it weren’t for Jake, you know you'd be more than thrilled to be with Sam. You just can’t get Jake out of your goddamn mind. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

You’ve said your goodbyes to all those awake and accounted for. You and Sam have just made it outside, and if you thought it was cold before, it’s at least thirty degrees colder now. Has to be. And, the further you make it in the parking lot, you see a few flakes of snow spitting from the sky. As you look up, you realize the sky is glittering with icy precipitation. 

It’s beautiful. It’s not quite enough to cover the ground – it’s just enough to leave a thin layer of powdered ice against the black pavement.

You blink away a couple of flakes when they land in your eyelashes, the cold air bitter, yet still refreshing against your skin. Like it’s reawakening your senses, sprinkling your face with chilly whispered kisses. 

The moon, though covered by heavy clouds that carry snow, is still as bright as if it were shining in the sky all on its own. You follow the trail of its gleam, all the way down to the parking lot you’re standing in, stopping just above a billow of smoke coming from behind Jake’s Rover. You take a few more steps, Sam oblivious as he follows behind, until the sight of him stops you. 

Jake.

He’s leaned against his The Black Pearl, one hand buried in the pocket of his black jeans, the other lifted to his mouth, a red ember flickering between his fingers. Smoke coils from his lips, catching the moon’s silver light and drifting into the cold, still air.

He’s doing the same as you just were – staring off into the vast sky, blinking away soft snowflakes when they drift across his eyes. 

You didn’t even know he smoked. Not once have you tasted it on his lips, or smelled it on his skin. This is either something new, or something he’s able to hide quite well. Sam seems entirely unphased by it, which would indicate that this certainly isn’t anything out of the ordinary. 

Whatever the case, there’s something so peaceful about it, so alluring. The smell of cigarette smoke has never been your favorite. Yet as you watch him quietly blow the smoke from his lips, the wind gently wafting it your way, it’s not nearly as bothersome as it would normally be. You quite enjoy it, in truth. 

It’s only when he looks at you that you realize you’re just standing here, staring at him. And all at once, you’re humiliated, your feet shuffling clumsily toward Sam’s Bug that, of course, is right behind the back of Jake’s Rover, facing him head on.

His piercing eyes, glowing against the pale light of the moon, watch you with pure intent as you reach Sam’s car, tracking your every awkward step. 

Sam follows close behind you, silent, not bothering to open the car door for you. Not like Jake would have. Something he’s always done. But right now, he’s just watching. 

The moment you slip into the passenger seat and yank the door closed, Jake flicks his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot without looking away from you. 

Sam says something – a question? – but your head may as well be underwater. You can’t make out his words, his voice a mere vibration in the air. Absently, you mutter a distracted “yes,” eyes still locked with Jake, heart beating against your ribs. You reach for your seatbelt with trembling hands.

And then you feel it – Sam’s finger, warm and gentle, carefully pulling your chin toward him.

Before a single coherent thought can form, before you can even catch your breath, Sam’s lips press against yours. Soft, uncertain, but real. Real enough to shatter the last bit of remaining sense within you. For a quiet moment, the kiss deepens. Against all odds, against all reason, you find yourself leaning into it. Your eyes flutter closed, lips dancing with his in the silence. 

But just before you’ve reached a point when coming back will no longer be an open, your eyes fly open, the kiss breaking, heart stuttering in your chest. 

As Sam’s hand still holds your cheek, you look forward again, not even offering Sam as much as an acknowledgement. 

And he’s gone. Jake is gone. 

The spot where he stood, leaning against the back of his Rover, is empty. Fuck.

And all at once, you begin to remember the question that Sam had asked, when you were so entranced by Jake. Much too lost in his eyes to accept that he wasn’t the one to your left, asking if he could kiss you.

You said yes. Sam asked if he could kiss you, and you said yes. And it happened right in front of Jake, right before his own eyes.

And now he’s gone. He’s just fucking gone. Goddammit. 

“That was wonderful, y/n,” Sam says, drawing your eyes back to him. The sweetest smile on his lips, dark brown eyes drinking you in. It hurts your heart because you just can’t reciprocate, no matter how much you wish you could.

It’s just not the time.

“Y-yeah, um –,” you stutter, voice cracked and wet with tears that you refuse to let fall. “S-sorry I just…” You glance forward one more time, the spot he once stood still empty. Only an extinguished cigarette butt remains where his boots were. “I really need to get home.”

“No problem,” he winks, completely inattentive to your current state of mind it would seem. 

The engine starts with a lazy flick of his wrist, sputtering and rattling almost as much as your Firebird does upon starting it. You sit here, body stiff, your insides hollow. Your hands are clutching the seatbelt across your chest like it’s your life support.

You can’t look at Sam. Not to any fault of his own, you just can’t. He doesn’t seem to catch on, anyways. 

Your throat tightens around the apology you silently toss into the air, hoping the universe will deliver it to Jake. 

Sam hums to the radio as he pulls onto the road, blissful and unaware of the earthquake happening within you. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to hold back the tears you feel you could cry at any second. 

You said yes to Sam. And Jake saw. How do you come back from that? Can you?

Does it even matter? He’s leaving. Even if you could fix it, he won’t even be here long enough to see it fixed. 

Maybe this was the closure you both needed. The kind that cuts deeper than any knife ever could.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

December 10th:

Three days until he leaves.

He’s called three times since this morning.

You just can’t bring yourself to answer him, to face him after yesterday morning. And, after what happened last night. You’re embarrassed. You’re ashamed. You don’t even know where to begin, how to explain and articulate something so convoluted in your own mind. 

Yeah, this hurts like fucking hell. But talking to him will surely hurt much worse. What is there to say, anyway? It’s done. And that’s what he wanted. 

But god, you miss him. You miss his voice. Everything in you wants to answer right now as he’s calling for the sixth time. But you don’t let yourself. Answering him won’t do anything but cause you (and him) more pain.

The call, just the same as all the others, goes to your voicemail. Unanswered. 

But now, in lieu of calling, he’s now restored to texting you again. 

Jake: Can we please just talk?

You can’t imagine what else there is to talk about – it’s already done. He made that choice. You kissed his brother. There’s nothing left to say. It’s over, just like he wanted.

You: There’s nothing to talk about.

Yes there is. There’s plenty to talk about. 

You just don’t fucking know how to talk about it. 

Avoiding it, ignoring it, seems like the best thing. For both of you.

Your heart thumps, racing in your chest as your phone vibrates in your palm again. You stare at the incoming call, his name in big letters on your screen. And you let it ring. Unanswered, again. 

Jake: Please, y/n. I just want to talk to you.

You: I can’t talk right now. I’m sorry.

Sorry I won’t speak to you, sorry that I kissed your fucking brother in front of you.

Jake: Ok.

Ok. 

There’s no response you feel you need to make to that, and before you could even try to come up with one, he’s put his Do Not Disturb on. 

So, there’s no point. Perhaps he’ll leave you be. Because that’s the best thing. For both of you.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

You’d never experienced a Trader Joe’s until you came to Michigan. Walmart was pretty much it where you’re from. Even then, Walmart trips were reserved only for your dads paycheck weeks. The Dollar Tree down the road from your house was the grocery spot you most frequented. 

But, as you quickly discovered when you moved here, Trader Joe’s is truly what grocery shopping dreams are made of. It feels as though you’re walking into the friendliest neighborhood market each time you walk inside. And, your personal favorite touch, the chalkboards at the front with cute little illustrations to promote the best products and deals of the week. 

So, needless to say, you stop by the one on East Stadium Boulevard just about any chance you can get. 

Today, the purpose of the trip is to get some chicken broth for your mom. 

It’s about all she can manage to eat at the moment. Solid foods choke her more often than not. With as bad as her breathing has gotten – and it’s bad – she can’t find the energy to properly chew or swallow any food. Even something as soft as mashed potatoes is too much for her. She isn’t getting nearly enough nutrition right now, being only able to handle drinks. She refused smoothies when you’d mentioned those to her, knowing that you could blend up plenty of protein in one for her. But, she was adamantly against it. You questioned her opposition, of course. To which she only told you that she ‘didn’t like ‘em’ in the sharpest, most abrasive tone she could muster.

Okay. Got it. 

So, chicken broth was the next idea you’d had. And, instead of asking her if she'd be okay with it, you’d decided it’d be best to just give it to her, and not ask her beforehand. 

An ironic truth you’ve learned lately is that, even though it’s called the Dollar Tree, items at Trader Joe’s are actually much cheaper. For instance, the chicken broth you’ve chosen to purchase is $1.99 per box. That’s four cups of chicken broth for two bucks. The Dollar Tree back home would’ve charged you at least double, if not triple that. 

You’ve loaded your basket with four boxes of the stuff, feeling quite assured in the fact that this new diet won’t cost you an arm and a leg. Hell, you could easily switch to this diet, too. Not too much, but it’s enough. The thought then crosses your mind that’d only be fair to eat what she is able to eat, too. It certainly wouldn’t be right to eat the food that she wants to eat, but can’t. So, before you make it out of the aisle, you quickly turn on your heel back toward the shelf you’d picked these boxes up from. And, grabbing two more so there’s plenty for the both of you. 

I Wanna Be Your Lover fades out over the speakers, allowing for the next tune to lead in as you approach the check out. Only two cashiers are working right now, both with lines at least three people deep. No matter, though. You’re not exactly in any hurry to leave. The Trader Joe’s atmosphere offers you a bit of peace, and you’ll take as much of that as you can. Even if it means waiting in line to buy your six boxes of chicken broth. 

But, that peace is quickly dismissed as you begin to note the song becoming increasingly louder through the store’s sound system. A couple of chords in, and you feel a stark sinking feeling in your tummy. 

A delicate, melancholic piano melody. Spacious, unhurried. A quiet contemplation within each note. A subtle, gentle tap of a drum, accompanying Billy Joel’s smooth, tender voice. Knowing, heartfelt advice in the lyric. 

And, hearing it at a volume that suddenly feels much too loud, you’re remembering the last time you heard this song. Where you were, who you were with, where you were going…

You're so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need

Though you can see when you're wrong

You know you can't always see when you're right

As a warm, lone tear begins its trial down your cheek, you find a new sense of urgency to get out of here. To your relief, you’re the next customer in line. With a ridiculous haste, you place your six boxes of chicken broth on the counter for the clerk to scan. 

An older lady, perhaps close to your moms age. Years and years of a rough life written across her face in deeply set wrinkles. Hooded eyelids, colored with a chalky blue shadow reaching to her thin, greying brows. She smells like cigarette smoke and White Diamonds. 

She greets you with a kind grin, displaying her yellowed teeth under her red painted, cracked lips. You offer her a smile back, though it isn’t a genuine one. And, based on the fall of her features, she can tell something is wrong. “Doing alright, sweetheart?” 

Something about her. Her appearance, her voice. She reminds you of your mom. Well, who she used to be. Who you thought she was. How do you explain that to a complete stranger? 

Yeah, I’m great. This song is just triggering as fuck, and you happen to remind me of my dying mother who’s refusing to take care of herself. 

“Doing just fine,” you fib, forcing a smile to stretch your Burt’s Bees coated lips. She taps the touch screen on the register a few times before reading you your grand total of $12.66.

She places the boxes of broth in a brown paper bag while you slide your debit card through the machine, trying not to pay attention to the fact that she’s now singing along to the blessed song. 

And you know that when the truth is told

That you can get what you want or you can just get old

You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through

Her cracking voice, almost grating in contrast to the soft tone of Billy Joel. Grating, yet soothing in some odd way. Still, you’re just ready to leave. Get your boxed chicken broth home, hope that your mom will be willing to try it. 

The cashier – Gertrude, according to her red name badge clipped to her black Trader Joe’s t-shirt – rips off the receipt from the printer, silently confirming that you’re okay with her placing it in the paper bag. When you nod your head, she does just that. 

With a sweet smile and her wish for you to have a great rest of your day, you bid her the same and head towards the automatic glass doors. Brown paper bag in one hand, full with the boxes of chicken broth, the other hand fishing for your keys from your crossbody sitting against your upper torso. 

Reaching your Firebird feels like sweet relief. Chipped red paint and all – at least you know this thing is a piece of shit. No surprises, no unexpected breakdowns. 

Everything with this car is expected. So, because of that, you can rely on it to be a pretty consistent part of your life. Consistently breaking down, consistently failing you – at least you know it’s coming. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

‘It’s time to start making plans, y/n.’

That single sentence has played like a cracked record in your head since the moment you heard Doctor Roth utter the words. And, knowing there’s nothing more you can do for her, that you should only worry about keeping her comfortable…

You’re grieving her. And she’s not even gone yet. Though, grieving this woman already feels strange. A grievance that you feel shouldn’t weigh so heavily atop your shoulders. But, aside from her reluctance to help you help her, you don’t understand why you feel that way. 

No matter the reason, you’re still doing everything you can think of. Right now, that means serving her warm chicken broth in a coffee mug. Because that is the only way she’ll ingest it. You’ll certainly not argue it. As long as she’s eating it, you couldn’t care less how she wants to do it. 

You’d prepared yourself for much more of an argument when you came home with the Trader Joe’s purchase today. Fully expected her to go off on you about the proposal of trying chicken broth, in a similar manner that she had with the smoothie idea. 

But, you’ve grown accustomed to her unpredictability as of late. So, while her willingness to try it didn’t entirely surprise you, you’d still prepared yourself for a fight about it. 

She’s sipping on the warm liquid gingerly, cupping the red mug with Stillwell Memorial Hospital printed in white lettering. The hospital she used to frequent when you lived in Cherry Tree.

You’d spent a lot of time there before the move – that was the place she received her initial diagnosis. 

She’s owned that mug for years. Longer than you’ve been alive. Just one of those things – a bookshelf, a wall clock, a blanket – that’s always been around. Something you never put much thought into, something that’s just a part of your life. 

That mug is certainly one of those things. But for some reason, as you’re watching her dry, cracked lips sip the warm broth from the brim, a mundane mug that your eyes have landed on thousands of times before, you’re thinking much more about it than you ever have. It could be the hospital logo, it could be that this particular mug has never been used for anything aside from a morning cup of coffee, that it’s now being used as the sole reason your mom is getting any nutrition at the moment. 

Who would’ve known that such a simple item would curate such a convoluted, complex array of emotions. 

Perhaps it isn’t the mug that’s doing it – perhaps circumstances of your life, especially in this stage, have forced you to think more and more about things that have not yet required such deep amounts of thought. 

 A careful thank you crosses her lips as she motions for you to come gather the now empty mug. Your feet, tucked under your thighs, are now planted on the carpet, grounding you enough to stand. It takes your body a little longer than a second to get it – the couch cushions are becoming more like quick sand everyday. So worn down, so saggy from over a decade of use. Your body always sinks into them as though they could swallow you whole. 

Bracing the palms of your hands on either side of your body, you're at last able to lift yourself from the crater you’ve left in the soft cushion. 

But the moment you begin to stand, the room starts a slow, lazy spin. Tilting, though your head remains steady. A sudden rush of dizziness hits you like a thousand pound weight. Lightheaded, queasy. Your fingers and toes, tingly and almost numb. The walls around you caving in, turning black.

Your body then shifts right back down to the couch, your knees too weak to support your weight all of a sudden. Consciousness on the brink of fading, your moms voice like a distant echo as she asks you if you’re okay. An inkling tells you to raise your knees to your chest and place your head between them, quick as your body is able to. 

And the moment you do, the feeling in your fingers begins to come back, your toes no longer tingling, blood rushing back to your head. 

It all happened so fast, yet it felt like you were in a slow motion film. 

“...y/n, are you okay?” 

Her voice is suddenly much more clear, though you can’t answer her just yet. Not with words, at least. 

A lazy thumbs up with your right hand will have to suffice for the moment. You’re not ready to lift your head just  yet, afraid the sudden rush of nausea will overcome you. 

This has happened before. Though, it hasn’t happened in a long time. 

As your senses are finally coming back to normal, enough that you feel you can safely lift your head, you’re very clearly recalling a few moments all too familiar to this one. To this feeling that you haven’t experienced since you lived in Oklahoma.

Low blood sugar. 

Very low blood sugar. Low enough that your body, your brain is entirely deprived of energy. 

Textbook hypoglycemic spell. 

The first time this happened to you, you were only a few days into your sixteenth year. It happened at school. You didn’t know what to do when the room began spinning, so you ran down the hallway towards the bathroom. Only, you didn’t make it. You only made it as far as the glass case holding all the sports trophies and medals. A few steps from the bathroom. 

The principal woke you up while the nurse was taking your vitals, right there in the middle of the hallway. At least a dozen or so of your classmates had gathered around to catch a glimpse of the goth girl that had fainted. 

Your dad was there within minutes of you coming to, and while you were still foggy and too unstable to walk, he carried you out of the school and drove you to the hospital. To Stillwell, the very same one your moms mug came from. 

“Lack of fuel,” the emergency nurse had said, as you lay flat on the hospital bed, being pricked and prodded by her needle in a mad hunt for a vein. ‘Has she been eating enough?’ 

She was talking to your dad, even though you were right there. It was like you were in no condition to answer questions about your own body. But, at the time, you probably weren’t. 

You needed fluids, bad. And she just couldn’t find your fucking vein. 

Your dad didn’t know how to answer that question. In truth, he didn’t know that you hadn’t been eating. Not yet.

He knew you began to skip breakfast when you were eleven because you wanted to get to school ‘early to do some reading.’ He knew you’d take a lunchbox to school everyday when you started middle school, but he didn’t know that you’d just toss its contents in the trash the moment you’d get there. He knew you’d take your dinner to your bedroom to work on homework in highschool, but he didn’t know that you’d dump your plate outside the window by your bed. The skunks and opossums had quite the dinner every night thanks to you. And thanks to them, no evidence that you’d done such a thing. 

He did know that you’d been losing weight, but he had no reason to think you were lying about it being due to the increased activity during P.E. The weight loss didn’t truly become noticeable until your sophomore year of highschool. And it was enough that even you were beginning to see the difference. 

Your mom had noticed the weight loss, too. But she never said much. Nothing at all if your memory serves your right. It was like she was jealous of the attention you were getting from your dad at that time, like she held some vendetta over you because of it. 

Well, that only became worse when the nurse told your dad that there were signs you hadn’t been eating, that you’d have to undergo quite the recovery plan if you didn’t start eating. And given how weak your vitals truly were, that recovery plan could have included a stay at a treatment facility in Tulsa over an hour away. By yourself. For at least a month. Perhaps longer.

That was something you were not too keen on doing. 

The emergency room nurse strongly recommended therapy, but that was something your family wasn’t able to afford at the time. So, your dad opted to spend hours upon hours with you to help you recover, and to avoid the program in Tulsa. He wanted you to heal, but he didn’t want you going away anymore than you wanted to. 

But, your mom. 

Your parents had always argued, but this time in your life would serve as the worst of their fights. All because of you. 

She didn’t take your condition seriously at first. She’d tell your dad, after he’d just spent an entire day at the library doing research, that these conditions weren’t real. 

“There’s nothing wrong with her,” you heard her yell one day, both of them behind their bedroom door, trying to keep you from hearing. But, they were so loud, and the walls of your home in Cherry Tree were thinner than notebook paper. “Teen girls are just vain, Jeff. I went through it, we all go through it. She’ll be fine. You’re making a big fuss over nothing.”

At the time, though it pains you to admit this now, you agreed with her. 

And you only did so because you didn’t want to be treated like there was something wrong with you. You didn’t want to believe that there was, and your dad’s daily harping on the matter frustrated you to no end. You wanted the situation to just disappear, for everyone to agree that it was only a phase and you were just being a vain teenager. 

You knew the truth, though. 

Vanity wasn’t even on your mind when you’d stopped eating. Not initially, at least.

Your parents hated each other. Each day saw a massive fight. Some of them would result in whatever items were close by being chucked across the living room. Some of them would end with one of them – sometimes both of them – leaving the house in a fit of pure rage. 

It went on for years. And there was nothing you could do about it. 

You had spent the last ten years longing for your family to come together like they had when you spent Christmas in the hospital, with a collapsed lung from the bitter outside conditions. 

You didn’t do that on purpose, of course. But you realized that, if your parents would come together and stop fighting for anything, it’d be because of your health. 

It wasn’t even that you wanted their attention – which you did. You just wanted them to stop fighting. And if your health got bad enough, they’d have no choice but to become a unit once more, for the sake of their ill daughter who needed them. (Who needed them when she was well, too.) 

They just didn’t seem to care unless something was very wrong. 

Your body was changing. Your mature hormones began developing at a rate you couldn't prepare for. You didn’t like it – you didn’t like the new things about your body that made you feel and look different. And you didn’t like the way food made you feel. You discovered that at the tender age of eleven.

All of those things could very well contribute to a rough relationship with food for anyone. And for you, they were the perfect storm to create a terrible habit. 

But what really did it, what set your mind to skip a meal a day, two meals a day, three meals a day – it was your parents. 

You couldn’t control them. You couldn’t control their ceaseless fighting, their refusal to be a team for you, their only child. Their child who was dealing with the worst of the worst from her peers, who was being bullied on a near day-to-day basis over the way she looked, over her differences that kids her age didn’t understand. Your dad tried to be there for you, but your mom took him away everytime. 

You knew the way to get them to notice you — make yourself sick. Just like the time your lung collapsed.

Only, you couldn’t replicate that. Not safely, at least. You didn’t want anything that drastic, only something that would get them to look at you again. You needed them, and there wasn’t a single effort you’d made to get them back that had worked. 

Until you fainted at school. When you fainted due to a lack of fuel. 

You’d let things progress a little further than you had intended, and there was no turning back once you’d reached that point. It’d been years of restricting, and it had finally gotten to that point. 

The illness became a sense of consistency for you – it gave you a means of control when every part of your life outside of it was out of your control. 

And from then on, everytime chaos had taken the lead in your life, when things began to unravel even the slightest, your old friend would return just in time, when you needed to feel in charge. In charge of something. 

In reality, you’ve just been relapsing over and over again throughout the course of the last decade or so. And in truth, you’re not certain you’ve ever fully healed enough to consider these moments true relapses – these are just the moments when it’s worse. 

Right now, this stage in your life just happens to be one of those moments. And at this point, giving this long-time friend attention when it shows up at your doorstep is as innate as breathing. You know you’re welcoming danger with open arms, but it doesn’t feel like you’re doing anything more than inviting an old friend back to your home. 

Your dad did everything he could to help, though his knowledge was rather limited. And you fought the hell out of him over it. 

You were getting the affection from him that you wanted, so you knew that healing would take it away again. He and your mom were still fighting, of course. But you were at least in your dads line of sight again. 

And your mom…

She hated it. And you never knew why she hated it. 

Could a mother truly be jealous over her daughter's father giving her attention? Surely not, right? 

That question wasn’t on your mind back then, but it’s certainly crossed it a time or two since he left. That, and so many more questions. Ones that you fear will never be answered. 

There finally came a point when your mom did start to take your illness seriously, though her way of doing so was an attempt to convince your dad to send you to Tulsa. ‘There’s nothing else we can do with’er,’ she’d said. ‘She’s better off somewhere else.’

Did she want to get rid of you?

That was when you decided to straighten up. You did not want to leave, and you knew how your mom worked – she had plenty of sway over your dad, and you knew that he’d eventually give in if she’d tried hard enough. 

You started eating again, but you didn’t let yourself indulge. You carefully watched everything you ate. So, you were eating, but you weren’t eating the things that would make you gain weight. 

It wasn’t enough. Not enough protein to sustain you for an entire day. But, it was enough to get your mom to change her mind about Tulsa. 

And, just as you’d suspected, the moment they thought you were “healed,” you stopped existing in their world again. 

This all happened again when you were nineteen. 

Another trip to the hospital, just like the one when you were sixteen. You’d fainted during your shift at the diner, and your manager immediately took you to the hospital in Stillwell. 

And that time was much, much worse. 

That was when you were told that you’d done irreversible damage to your body, that carrying children in the future would most likely be impossible. At the time, you didn’t care too much about it. Hell, you were nineteen. Kids were the last thing on your mind at that time. What you cared about was getting through school, and getting the hell out of Cherry Tree. 

Tulsa was brought up again during that emergency room visit, and you vowed to turn things around quick to avoid it again.

And it wasn’t long after that that your dad left. 

Is that why he…? 

“Y/n,” your mom says, nudging your arm with her clammy hand. “What are you doing? Are you oka –,” 

“I’m fine,” you snap through a cracked voice, feeling okay enough to lift your head from between your knees. “S-sorry, just got a little dizzy.” 

She’s looking at you with an eyebrow cocked, eyes held wide open, lips parted before she speaks again. “That hasn’t happened in a while, has it?” 

You’re an adult now. A full fledged, grown woman capable of making her own choices. Capable of taking care of her dying mother. Yet, you’re still afraid she’ll try and send you off to Tulsa again. You know better – she wouldn’t want her sole caregiver gone right now.

Still yet, you’ll give into the instinct to pretend like nothing is wrong. “Nope, it hasn’t.” Though you don’t truly possess enough strength to comfortably stand right now, you’re pushing yourself to do it, anyways. The dizziness is still present, though it’s much better than it was moments ago. 

Steading yourself on your feet, mentally pleading with your knees to not buckle beneath you, you take the empty mug from your moms hand. Just like you tried to do before all of this happened. “I’m fine, though. I think I just need to get some rest.”

An elongated, disbelieving ‘oooookay,’ is your mothers response as you head to the kitchen with the dirty mug. Running some water in it, you set it in the sink to let it soak for a bit before you wash it, bracing yourself with both hands against the counter to offset your Jell-o legs. 

You know you need to eat. You know you do. Because as much as you hate the feeling of being full, you hate this feeling just as much. Maybe even a little more. 

Chicken broth in a mug. Just like your mom.

That’ll do.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

December 11th:

Two days until he leaves.

I shouldn’t have come here, you ponder as the cashier rings up your purchase, holding your breath when he tells you the price.

“That’ll be $272.62 with tax,” he says, deadpanned in expression as he carefully folds it into the box with the list of tips on caring for leather. 

Jesus Christ. 

Letting out all the breath you’d been holding, your arms and your brain have a major disconnect as you absently reach for your debit card. No reservations about the price are strong enough to stop you from swiping the plastic through the taunting machine. The only reason you’re able to afford this right now is because your moms disability check hit the account a day early. 

Bills aren’t due for another week, and you’ll have already received your paycheck from the library by them…So, it feels a bit more justified given the circumstances. It certainly doesn’t make it okay that you’re using disability money for this — it’s pretty shitty of you, actually. You find you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel nearly every month to make ends meet as it is. You’ve been able to get by thus far, but that’s only because extra spending has been at a very low minimum. But, fuck. You have to buy this. It’s too perfect not to. It just screamed his name the second your eyes caught it hanging with the replica collection. 

And if you’re to be completely honest, it’s kind of the reason you wanted to come in here anyway. It was advertised on their Instagram page, a limited edition piece that won’t be coming back in stock after the new year. You just wanted to see it in person, get a look at it beyond the lens of a screen. 

The intent wasn’t to buy it.

Wasn’t. 

But as soon as you saw it, you knew you had to get it for him. How and when you’ll give it to him…that’s another issue entirely. 

In truth, none of those things really matter. There’s nothing to say you have to give it to him. Maybe you can keep it for yourself. True, you have no real use for it. There’s no guitar in your life that requires it. But, it is sentimental to you for a multitude of reasons. And not all of them surround Jake. (Only most of them.) 

The dinging approval from the machine brings you back to earth, and to the realization that you did, in fact, spend almost three hundred dollars on someone you may never see again after the next few weeks. Or you spent it on you, for a nostalgic buy that will only serve to break your heart every time you see it. 

Still, either story isn’t exactly justifiable. And no justification will help alleviate this overbearing, sinking feeling that you’ve basically ensured the account will be drained for the next week.

Since you knew he just had to have it, a better option would’ve been to just send him the fucking link to it and let him buy it if he wants it. He has the kind of money for these things, not you. 

But you didn’t want to do that. The nagging voice in your head convinced you that it’d be nice to surprise him with it. (And another voice in your head, the more unrealistic one, said that such a gift might convince him to stay here with you. Stupid. Hoping against hope when it’s way too far fetched to even obtain that hope.)

“I’ve put the receipt into the box should you need to return it,” the greasy haired, unenthused hippie-wannabe says, sliding the white paper box across the glass counter top to you. “This is a limited item, so the return window is only two weeks after purchase. Warranty is good for two years.” His eyes are focused on something behind the counter that you can’t see, and if you had to guess, you’d say it's probably a script of some sort. The same spiel he gives to every customer. No one is more special than the other. You get it. Been there before. Cherry Tree Grocery made you memorize a mandatory monologue, along with a bullshit sales pitch for a credit card with scam-worthy interest rates. 

“Thanks and have a guitartastic day,” he finishes, failing at concealing the announce in his voice. Can’t blame him, though. Guitartastic? Yeah, you’d be a little more than peeved if you had to deliver that line with every customer.

“Yeah, you too,” you respond in a subdued voice, lifting the box from the counter, fishing your keys out of your crossbody with one hand as you’re making steady strides to the exit doors of Detroit Guitar. 

Return it. He said you have two weeks to return it. Maybe you can just do that after a day or so. Just keep it for a little while, let it serve as a symbol of what could’ve been a wonderfully thoughtful gift to someone you care (cared?) enough for to spend money on that you don’t possess. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

“You spent how much?”

“About two hundred seventy…and some change,” you admit to a very baffled Nat. You had to talk to someone about this impulse purchase during your drive home, and who better than her than confess such a thing to? The silent drive, thanks to the busted radio, would only make you question your choice even further.  Of course, her reaction is just as you’d expected. Shocked, inquisitive. A tad on the judgemental side. Her lack of restraint when it comes to voicing her thoughts should be studied, dear lord. 

“I admittedly know nothing about the world of guitar straps,” she wittingly comments. “But isn't that a bit much for a piece of faux leather that holds a guitar to you?”

“Nat, it’s an exact replica of one of Stevie Ray Vaughan’s favorites. When I say exact, I mean I would fully believe that this was actually his if I didn’t know any better,” you explain to her, and to yourself. You’re still trying to justify the purchase to yourself, too. But, you are right – it’s a true match in style to one he used often, one that has gone down in rock and roll history as iconic, and nothing less. Stark black, patterned with a flow of white music notes, hand stitched. It’s a classic piece in its own right, certainly one that any fan of his would instantly recognize. 

It’ll look so beautiful attached to Jake’s SG. A stunning complement to the dark red hue of the body. That, in truth, was all you could think of when you made the trip to shop – the image of Jake’s guitar donned with such an important piece in the vast chronicle of the blues. The point is, you know he’ll love it. You know he will. And that alone is plenty of justification. 

At least, that’s what you’ll tell yourself. 

“And it is not faux leather, Natalia. It’s one hundred percent real. Just –,” you sigh, fighting the internal battle of whether this was a completely outlandish choice or not. And her judgey tone is certainly not helping with that. “I need you to trust that I wouldn’t just buy this for no reason. It has meaning, Natalia. There’s a lot of significance wrapped up in this –,” 

You stop talking when you hear her scoff on the other end, feeling just a bit offended with the display. “What was that about, Natalia?”

“Why on earth are you getting so defensive about this?” She irately asks, with every right, too. 

You’re feeling far more confrontational than normal, probably due to the fact that you’re plagued with guilt over the whole ordeal. The money you spent on this should be spent elsewhere. It’s just not financially responsible. But, goddamnit – you want him to have this. 

“Listen,” she persists, her tone shifting to a calmer one. “All I’m worried about is the fact that you two are basically no contact at this point. It’s a great gift, y/n. But are you okay with giving him something that special when you’re not going to date him? I assume that’s the plan, anyway.” 

Well. She’s right about that. A pretty solid point, actually. Sure, you were certainly thinking everything she’s saying, but hearing it out loud makes it all the more palpable in your mind. You’re undoubtedly not going to ‘date’ him. He’s not going to be your boyfriend. Wasn’t to begin with, not ever. 

“I know,” you concede, a heavy, defeated sigh accompanying your words. The Firebird screeches to a quick stop at the red light that you almost ran through, your frustrations making it difficult to keep your mind on the fact that you’re driving. Everything in your backseat – canvas bag full of books, laptop, the guitar strap – all plummeted to the floorboard. Yet another grievance rattle your nerves to the nth degree.

“I’ll return it,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. “I’ve got two weeks to take it back. I’ll just do that.”

You knew you’d come to regret this. It wasn’t wise; What if your mom finds out that you used her disability money – the money you need for rent – on something like this? You have always been the responsible one, and that doesn’t stop when it comes to money. The shit you learned after you dad left about saving each and every penny you had…feels like it’s all gone out the window. And for what? The guy who’ll just become part of your past in the very near future? 

If there were ever a moment you felt utterly stupid, right now would be that moment. 

“Just do what you think is best, y/n,” she advises, her voice more gentle than it was before. “I won’t judge you either way – I just want you to be okay with whatever decision you make and not regret it.” 

And therein lies the problem. 

What you want to do and what you know is best are on opposing sides. You want to give it to him, show him that you thought of him when you saw it. Give him a little something to make him think of you when he’s gone. (And, maybe, give him something that’d make him want to stay.)

But you know the best idea would be to take it back to the shop, receive a full refund, forget about it altogether. 

Your heart and your head – the two just never seem to see eye to eye. Do you follow the emotional urge or the logical move? 

Either way, you can’t be sure that you’ll be much better off if you’d choose to go one way or the other. Who would’ve thought that a simple (though, not really simple at all) gift could stir such a massive whirlwind of emotions? 

You barely hear Nat mutter something on her end of the call, but her voice is now drowned out by the deep, uneven thrumming of your Firebird’s ancient engine that’s now sputtering and threatening to stall after slamming on your brakes the way you did. You ask her to repeat what she’d said, but you’re still unable to make out any intelligible words. 

“I can’t hear you, Nat,” you say, raising your own voice now to compete with the intrusive noise as you’re finally turning on the street of your apartment. “My stupid car is screaming at me so I need you to talk a little louder.” 

Through shuffling and static on the other end, you can faintly make out Danny’s name. She’s probably insisting you let him take a look at your car again, but as the engine grows even louder, you decide it’s no use.

“I’ll just have to call you back,” you finally say, defeated, ending the call with a sharp press of your thumb. You toss your phone in the passenger seat, landing with a hard thud against the cracked and stained vinyl seat.

Pulling into the lot outside of your building, you shift the damn thing in park and kill the engine with a rough twist of your key. The Firebird sputters one last time before it falls silent. But the silence only makes the chaos in your mind scream even louder.

You sit there a moment, hands still gripping the wheel, forehead pressed into the worn leather. The harsh scent of overheated metal and old dust infiltrates your nose, threatening a sneeze at any moment.

The guitar strap lies on the floorboard behind you, almost hidden beneath your spilled books and laptop,

Maybe you’ll return it tomorrow.

Maybe you won’t.

Right now, you’re too tired to decide what the fuck you’re going to do.

Right now, all you can do is sit here, broken in more ways than one, wishing the world (and your heart) would just, for once, make things simple.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

You’re not surprised it didn’t wake her. She sleeps about as soundly as any person could these days. And, with the humming noise that accompanies her oxygen machine, she hardly hears a thing outside of her room. 

Still, you checked on her first thing. Sometimes, if she’s startled awake, her coughing fits become so bad that it takes hours for her body to calm down. So, when you hear the intrusion again, it pisses you off for her sake. (And yours – if she can’t sleep, you don’t sleep.) 

Whomever it is isn’t frantically knocking, though you’re inclined to believe that whatever the reasoning for such a visit is of some importance, given it’s well past midnight. 

Your first thought is Nat, but that thought quickly dissipates when you realize she hasn’t sent you a text warning her impending arrival. She would never just show up unannounced. And if she did, the knocks on the door would be far less spaced out, because something would be very wrong.

That leaves only two options – a burglar, or the man whom you’ve been avoiding for two days now. 

At this point, you think you’d prefer the burglar to the latter. 

A third knock against the door sets your heating anger to a near boil. 

With quiet defiance, you march across the living room and unlock the door, swinging it open to reveal what you already knew.

It’s no burglar. Not one after anything materialistic, at least. This one is after your heart. And, he may as well head to the next door, because there’s not much left of yours to steal. 

“It’s late, Jake.” 

“I know that.” 

If he told you that he’s just ran a marathon, you’d have no problem believing it. Wouldn’t question such a thing based on the looks of him. 

His hair, a low, messy bun against the nape of his neck. Tendrils of hair have fallen out of the bun, framing his blushed and sweaty face, sticking to the skin. His breaths are nearly heaving, nostrils flaring with each quick bit of air he sucks in. 

You’re reluctant to invite him in, but the cold burst of air blowing through the open door calls for it. Which, again, forces you to wonder why he’s so sweaty, why the sleeves of his black Jimi Hendrix hoodie are pulled up to his elbows. 

You remember this hoodie rather well. You’ve seen it before, and though it’s been a long time since then, the image of it will forever remain seared in your memory. 

All black, with a black-and-white photo of Hendrix performing at Woodstock across his chest. The photo is a bit weathered, its corners soft and faded. You can only imagine he’s had it for years. 

You love it. Truly.

With no words, only the motion of your hands, you offer to let him come inside. He does so in a sluggish manner, turning to close the door behind him. 

Letting him inside is as far as you’ll go, though. You don’t offer your couch to him, don’t ask if he’d like to go to your room to talk. Standing, awkwardly, taking up the space in the middle of the living room will just have to fucking do. Whatever he has to say to you, whatever compelled him to show up unannounced after midnight, he can take care of right here. 

“What do you want, Jake?”

The question, more like an assertion – you can’t think of any valid reason he’d show up here like this. 

“You’re really okay with letting me leave like this, huh?”

“Yes.” 

Your arms become crossed over your chest, a bold stance of resistance. You’re mad. And you don’t even know why you’re mad. You are the one who kissed his brother. You have been ignoring him since. 

In some way, you feel that leaving things like this will make it easier when he’s gone. Mending things will only make his absence hurt much worse. At least this way, you’ll be too angry to miss him.

He watches your every move, studying you, reading you. He knows what you’re feeling, and he knows you’re full of shit when you say you’re fine with things ending this way. But what choice has he left you with?

Your arms across your body – they’re more of a comforting embrace. You feel your walls breaking above an already faulty foundation. You’re just trying to keep yourself stable at this point.

“No you’re not, y/n. And this avoidance game won’t make this any better.” 

“Avoidance, Jake? Shall I remind you of your own avoidance tactics? How you just led me on and didn’t think to clue me in on this little detail of your life? Knowing that I’ve already been down this path before?”

“This wasn’t some cruel design, y/n. I never wanted to end up here, with you looking at me like this.” 

 “You’re the one who’s okay with leaving in the first place, Jake. So, I’m okay if we leave things just like this.”

Again, a fucking lie. A lie to protect the remaining tattered shreds left of your heart. You can’t even discern whether or not it’s working. 

“I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to coming with me. Think about it, y/n. All of the things you love, the birthplace of the works you’ve spent your whole life with. The history, y/n. These are the things you care about, not some egotistic modeling gig. That’s not you, y/n.”  

He takes one step closer to you, the muscles in his jaw clenching and tightening, nostrils flaring with every deep breath from his chest.

“Oxford is you; literature is you. Why are you rejecting who you are?”  

He’s not wrong. In truth, just about everything he’s saying is right. 

It makes sense. All of it. 

But your reluctance hasn’t waned. And you’ll be goddamned if you could understand why. Spite is truly the only thing you can think of. Because if you’re honest with him and yourself, going to London feels like the moment your whole life has been leading up to.

And it makes you think…is Jake the light you’re meant to follow? Like a moth uses the moon wayfind – 

Your mom. She’s awake. 

And she’s coughing. 

Suddenly, a reason bigger than you – you can’t leave her. She’ll die without you. She has no one else in this world to take care of her. You’re it. 

Your mom. She is the reason.

“That, Jake.” For a moment, you uncross your arms, ridding yourself of the tiny bit of security you found in them, pointing your finger towards her closed bedroom door. “That is why I can’t go. And it’s selfish of you to think I could just leave her for you.”

“Selfish, y/n? I’m standing here, pleading with you to live the life that you want to live, to not forget who you are, and that makes me selfish?”

“I can’t leave her, Jake. You know that.” 

You stand firm, crossing your arms once more and willing your voice not to crack or falter in anyway. 

“But you’re willing to leave her for L.A.? If she really is the only reason you won’t consider London, what makes L.A. so different, hm?”  

Your breath catches, body stiffening as you soak in his words, his incredibly valid point. There’s no answer. No reasonable one. He’s right, again. 

L.A. truly isn’t any different. It may be across the country instead of the world, but does distance actually matter? You weren’t even thinking of your mom when you said you were going to pursue L.A. She didn’t cross your fucking mind once. 

Why are you okay with that, and not London? 

The only difference – Jake. And your goddamn pride that you refuse to let go of. And as it stands, you’re not sure there’s any turning back from it. 

There’s silence for a moment. You don’t know what to say, how to argue something utterly inarguable. 

His eyes watch you, reading the thoughts behind your own until he finally speaks again. “Why are you so sure about going after something you’ve never given a fuck about, but adamantly refuse to go with me in pursuit of something you love?”   

“It’s just –,” you try, scrambling through the thoughts in your brain to come up with something to say that’ll make any sort of sense. “It’s different, Jake. It’s just different.”

Different? 

Is it, though? Jesus – if you don’t believe it, how is he supposed to?

“She’s doing this on purpose, y/n.”

Excuse me?

“And you know that. She’s letting herself stay this way so you won’t live your own life. And it’s working.” 

Your pulse begins surging, your insides twisting in knots as a storm of pure anger begins to brew beneath your ribs. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. How dare he accuse your mom of something so…so fucking vile. 

And so completely wrong.

“That is not true, Jake!” You want to yell, to scream at the top of your lungs. But you can’t. You don’t want her to have to hear any of this.“She would never do something like that. You can’t say that – you don’t know what she’s been through.”

The way he’s looking at you, as if he knows something you don’t. But he doesn’t know. He isn’t the one that’s responsible for keeping her alive. He doesn’t live with her, he doesn’t have to witness her death playing out before his own two eyes. 

The coughs don’t last long, thank goodness. You were terrified that she’d cough herself into a spell that she wouldn’t be able to get out of without you. 

“You’re taking care of her and not yourself, y/n. And she won’t let you take care of yourself. She doesn’t want me to do it, either. It’s dangerous for you to keep taking care of her. She wants you to be unhappy, she doesn’t want you to heal. Everyone else can see that, y/n. Why are you so blind to it?”

“Jake – ,”

No. He doesn’t get to say shit like that to you. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It’s not his fucking place. 

“You’re asking me to uproot my life and move to a different country, Jake.” Your arm snaps towards your left, as if  pointing in the direction of London. The joints in your elbow pop as you do, your finger staying in the London direction as you continue pressing your point.

“That is the difference. And it’s obvious that I wasn’t on your mind when you made this decision. You were fine with leaving me. So just leave.” That finger, pointing towards your make believe London, is now pointing ahead of you. At the door. 

“This decision, y/n, I didn’t –,” he begins, voice suddenly much softer than before. A frustrated palm begins rubbing at his forehead, his eyes hidden behind their lids for a brief moment as he finds his wording. “I didn’t just choose to move across the world overnight. I was accepted to Oxford long before this semester even began. Before I ever knew you, y/n. I’m not fine with leaving you, that is why I’m begging you to consider following your true path.” 

He pauses with a heavy breath, hands tucking the loose strands of hair behind his ears. 

You feel the lump in your throat begin to tighten, your eyes blurring behind a new wetness. You can’t help but wonder how things have gone so wrong. So fucking wrong. 

What are you doing?

“I know you applied to Oxford,” he says, and your heart begins to thump hard beneath your chest. Pounding in your ears, rattling your bones. “And I know you wouldn’t have done that if this wasn’t laying on your heart.”  

You feel like a child that’s been caught in a lie – embarrassed, cheeks burning, heart exposed. He knows. 

He’s already seen that wall crumble before you even realized it had fallen.

“H-how do you –,” you stutter out through a cracked, timid voice. But he’s ready to answer you before you can even finish your question. 

You already know the answer. 

“Movack.”

Yep.

“He was elated that you applied. And that tells me that you’ve already considered this option.”  

Words fail you.

You stand here, lips parted, yet nothing dares to rise past your tongue. 

“Listen…,” he whispers, his eyes not breaking from yours. “Whether you chose to come to London or not, I can’t leave with this weight between us. If this is where it ends, then we need to let it end with grace, with us seeing each other clearly. Please, y/n. I’m begging you. I can’t bear to leave you like this. I can’t bear this.”

He steps forward slowly, fingers twitching at his sides as though he’s aching to reach for you. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, as though he’s memorizing every curve and contour of your face. 

Your lip begins to tremble, quivering as you hold his heavy gaze. There’s a long beat of silence, lingering.

He then exhales, sharp and exhausted, running a hand down his face before letting it fall limp to his side.

“And if this is the last time I see you, then I need you to know – you’ve broken me, y/n. You shattered something in me, you’ve changed me.” A bitter laugh escapes him, hardly more than a breath. “God, I needed it. I wish I – I just wish I could put it into words, but my heart is speaking a language my lips don’t know how to translate. I just –,”

He stops, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, as though he’s breathing away any tears that may threaten to fall. And then, he says it. The words you can’t bear to hear. 

The ones that will make this hurt all the more.

“I love you, y/n.”

No. Please, no.

Warm, full tears spill down your cheeks, tracing the curve of your jaw. So many tears. Too many to count.

You swallow the sob building in your throat, composing yourself before you can truly let this sink in. 

You softly shake your head in blindsided silence, as if that could somehow undo what’s just been spoken.

But it won’t. You know that. 

And now, there’s only one thing left to say. Because you can’t let him see that you feel it, too.

You already feel too much. And you have for a long fucking time.

It has to end here.

 “You need to go Jake.”

“What? Y/n listen to me –,”

“You need to go.”

It’s unmistakable, the tears in his eyes as he silently turns away, giving you what you want. What you’ve wanted this whole time – for him to just leave. 

There’s no reason to watch him walk away. No reason to let yourself experience the pain of seeing him leave your apartment. For the last time. 

No. You can’t do it. You won’t. 

You let your eyes wander to your feet as you shut the door, fighting the burning desire to slam it. If you didn’t live in a complex, you most certainly would have. 

Shut, deadbolt locked – it’s done. 

The building is so quiet, so still – you can hear The Black Pearl’s engine start up all the way from the second floor. You know the sound, tangible even from a distance. You’ve heard it more times than you can count. It’s familiar. Heartbreakingly so. 

The only thing left to do — now that he’s gone — is go to bed. Sleep. Forget about all of this, of Jake. 

A faint tapping stops you before you can take more than one step. A stuttering flutter, just above you. And when you look in the direction of the strange noise, your eyes land upon a creature, wings of silken pale green floating against the overhead light. Hovering just beneath the plastic dome of the fixture, entirely lost within the soft glow it emanates like an invisible tether. 

If it stays in here, it’ll surely die. And you can’t let that happen to such an eye-catching moth. You’ve never seen one this beautiful, this noble. 

Quiet as you can, you turn to unlock and crack open the door, ensuring you're prepared to set this lovely thing free, once and for all. 

“Wrong light, little guy. Let’s get you back outside where you’re safe,” you whisper, gently reaching your hands above your head, cupping it safely between your palms. 

“You don’t belong here.” 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

December 12th:

One day until he leaves.

You haven’t heard from him today.

Not once. 

And it’s a relief. 

At least, it’s supposed to be. 

It’s not, though. 

You thought you wanted him to leave you alone. And perhaps you did when you told him as much. But now, your body is feeling ten times heavier with a burdening guilt. Guilt over letting him leave like this. He’d asked you over and over if you were truly okay with letting it end this way, letting him go to London without a proper goodbye, without anything but the nudge of a cold shoulder. 

And you said yes. 

But that’s not the truth.

You’ve become so accustomed to lying in order to protect your heart, that you’re starting question what the fuck is even real anymore. 

You’re tired of not knowing – you’re tired of lying. 

You’ve let yourself rot in bed for the better part of the day, save for your early shift at the library. Stocking books, updating records, listening to the echoing tick of the giant wall clock…it took your mind off of things at the time. 

But now, you’re on hour four of lying in bed, staring at your phone, ‘watching TikToks,’ but only truly looking at the top of the screen. Watching, waiting to see his name appear. 

And it doesn’t. You fear his time of trying to reach you has worn out – that clocked has reached its final tick. And you should be happy about it. 

So, why aren’t you? Why are you stuck here, sprawled out on your mattress – the same position you’ve been in for over four hours now – waiting for a single name to pop up on the screen of your phone? 

It’s ridiculous, truly. And it’s a waste of your goddamn time. There are plenty of things you could be doing right now, in lieu of awaiting a message that won’t be coming, one that shouldn’t be coming. 

Dinner’s easy these days – chicken broth, water, tea if your mom is feeling up to it. She’s resting in her own bed now, Western film playing on her TV, probably dozing in and out of sleep. 

So, given the earlier ending to each night as of late, there actually isn’t anything else for you to do. Apartment is clean as a whistle, dishes washed and put away. Maybe it’d be best if you let yourself drift to sleep, too. What else is there to do? Keep your eyes glued to a screen for something that won’t happen? 

Sleep. You just want to sleep. 

You click the message icon, just in case you happen to miss something. Of course, there’s nothing. Nothing new, nothing from him. So, with a deep breath in your nose and out of your parted lips, you lock your phone and sit on the dark wood table beside your bed. 

And that’s where it’ll stay for the rest of the night. No more waiting, no more wishing. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

December 13th:

The last day.

This morning, you woke up with a heaviness in your chest that you’ve never felt before. Weighing on you, crushing your ribs, your heart pounding beneath the pressure. Your body, covered in a layer of cold sweat the second you opened your eyes.

You knew why.

It felt as though you’d finally come to terms with it all – your guiding light, your navigational compass, he’s leaving. And suddenly, you realized just how lost you’ll be without him. 

Everything came to a crushing realization, all at once.

You drove at least fifteen miles over the limit the whole way. Speeding up when lights turned yellow, passing and weaving through traffic when they slowed you down. You’ve wasted so much goddamn time. You couldn’t let yourself waste one more fucking second. 

He came to you when your foolish self dismissed him each time he tried to reach out, when he begged for you to not let him leave without mending things. You wouldn’t fucking listen. Even when he drove over twenty minutes in the middle of the night, showing up for you. 

So, it’s only right that you offer him the same. Give both of you the chance to see him off properly. You let your hurt feelings get in the way of so much. And right now, all you can think is how fucking stupid you’ve been. He tried, and you shut him out. And the result? You didn’t end up hurting any less, like you thought you would. 

No, you’re hurting so much worse. And it’s your fault this time. Not his. He tried, and you didn’t 

You barely hit the brakes when you shove the gear in park, viciously jolting yourself forward when the car screeches to a quick halt. Not the best move for your aged Firebird, but you’ll worry about that later. 

You don’t even bother turning the thing off. There’s no time for that. 

The door to their apartment feels daunting as you run towards it, pounding the wood with your closed fist when you’re close enough to make contact. After a few seconds of nothing, you knock again. 

Finally, the knob begins to turn from the other side. You’re ready to leap into his arms the moment he opens the door, to hold him, kiss him. Give yourself one last chance to experience what it feels like to be wrapped in his arms, to taste him one more time, seal it in your memory where it can always stay with you.

But when the door opens, it’s not Jake behind the frame. It’s Josh. And if you were paying close enough attention — which you’re not— you’d notice the redness around Josh’s eyes and cheeks, his freshly wet eyelashes. 

Paying no mind, you push your way inside, ready to run to his room, where you’re sure he is. But you don’t make it far. You’re stopped by Josh’s gentle touch, his grounding hand placed on your shoulder. He doesn’t use force, yet it stops you just as abruptly as if he were. 

“Please, Josh. I know he doesn’t want to see me but I need to tell him that –,”

“Y/n. Stop.” You don’t heed him. 

It’s obvious that Jake is upset with you — he has every reason to be. But you have to do this. You can’t let him go this way, without him hearing the truth written on your laden heart. This is the ending. That is a lucid fact. But, you can’t let it end before you say what you need to say. Your heart won’t beat the same ever again if you don’t. 

“No, Josh. I need to tell him that I lo –,”

“Y/n!” 

His voice is jarring, enough to silence you and keep you from taking another step towards the hallway. And his eyes, just as staggering as his voice – they’re telling you something you’ve a feeling you really don’t want to hear from his lips. 

“Listen to me,” he pleads, closing the space between you. “He’s –” He sniffles, his eyes now heavy with new tears. “He’s not here, love.”

“W-what?” Your heart is racing, cold sweat collecting on your skin. Your throat tightens, it’s so hard to swallow. 

No. No. 

“That’s impossible, Josh! His flight isn’t until –,”

He stops you with another squeeze of your shoulder, tears now running down his cheeks, pooling around his dark moustache. “He was able to get an earlier flight, y/n. I just got back from the airport.”

No.

“His plane just left, darling. He’s gone.”

You’re too late. 

There’s nothing to say, so the tears will say it all for you. Quiet tears, no sobbing. Just quiet, regretful tears. There for you when you’re hurting. Always there. A warm, gentle comfort to accompany your pain. 

Always there. 

He didn’t say goodbye. And it’s your fault that he didn’t. 

Fuck, he tried. You wouldn’t hear it. Didn’t give him the chance to. And you let him leave without telling him how you truly feel. When you decided to get your head out of your ass, it was too goddamn late. 

You know the pain of someone leaving without saying goodbye, without you getting the chance to say the things that’d gone unspoken for so long. Leaving a hole in your heart, open and void. And when he wanted to give you that much, you closed yourself off. It’s your fault. 

And now, he’s gone. It’s the end of the chapter. The page, officially turned. He’ll never speak to you again. You may never see him again.

Josh sniffles again as he wraps both arms around your shoulders, pulling as close to his body as he can. His embrace, so warm against your trembling form. A comfort, though one all too familiar to the one you’re longing for right now. And because of that, it’s only making this pain hurt worse. 

Much, much worse. 

“I know, y/n. I’m gonna miss him, too.”

You were too late.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

a/n: i know. i'm sad, too. we've still got a long ways to go, loves. don't be afraid to let me know what you think! anon or not, i love hearing from you.🤍

as always, thank you all for your love & support. hearing from you guys makes my heart soar, & it truly keeps me going. my inbox is always open. don't ever be afraid to reach out. 🤍 you all are truly the best.

if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, follow this link or send me an ask/dm & i'll be sure to add you. ☺️ (let me know if i've missed you!!!) (also, i know tags are being a little weird right now—will you let me know if you did/didn’t receive a notification?) sending all my love!

National Alliance for Eating Disorders. Please reach out if you're struggling. You're worth it. 🤍

taglist:

@jakeyt @alwaysonthemend @sacredjake @jakesgrapejuice @misshunnybee @reesetrippingthelight @way-to-go-lad @sinarainbows @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @klarxtr @watchingover-hypegirl @brinlygvf @stardustjake @gretavanbear @devilat-thedoor @literal-dead-leaf @gvf-ficreads @jaaakeeey @capturethechaos @neptune2324 @jaketlove @thetroublegetssoloud71 @myleftsock @sanguinebats @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface @joshskittytickler @aflameforgoinghome @heckingfrick @fitalich @starshine-gvf @audgeppp @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @ninas-tearsofrain @torniturntomyarrow @beautifulcrayola @writingcold @welllauragvf @loveisonaroll @itsafullmoon @gretasfallingsky @i-love-gvf @kiszkas-canvas @mackalah @gvfmarge @jordie-gvf @gretavansara @highway-tuna @vikingsisthenewsexy

[thekimspoblog]

I really fucking can't with these "Glinda isn't a bimbo" op-eds. This is a character who says "Why can't you teach us history instead of always harping on the past"? The majority of the play's dialogue is a joke at her expense. If your argument is that she only pretends to be shallow to fit in, congratulations, you drank the amnesia water, are conflating her with Fiyero, and ignoring all the times this character really is just plain ignorant. The fact that she falls ass-backwards into a plot conclusion that vindicates her "popularity-first" worldview, is the result of an ending that was - FRANKLY - a little bit sloppy and didn't think through its own implications. The point of "Popular" is NOOOOOOOTTTTTT that Glinda is RIGHT; it's a persuasive but ultimately cynical and misguided thesis statement the same way "Wonderful" is. The audience is supposed to understand that while it's a well-intentioned gesture, a makeover isn't what Elphaba needs and the advice is kind of bad actually. Elphaba doesn't need to change one bit; what she needs is for someone to take her side, and at a critical juncture, Glinda can't be that for her. The first two hours of the play are a total screed against anyone paralyzed by conformity, and the final 45 minutes contradict that in favor of a happy ending.

And it's FINE! And it's cute, and I love it! But "Glinda is correct to call herself shrewd and acshually she was playing 4-D chess when she decided against running away with Elphaba" is an absolutely baffling interpretation of the text. Like what would have happened if the Wizard COULDN'T have been guilt-tripped into stepping down?! You would have sold your soul and ratted your best friend out to the nazis for no good reason, idiot! Just because Glinda is a successful queen bee in college doesn't mean the script intended to portray her as politically savvy; if that was true, Morrible would have had a WAYYYY harder time manipulating her. She's not the sharpest quill in the drawer, and she's doing what she thinks she has to to hold onto life as she knows it.

I am BEGGING the shippers to stop with this shit. By treating Glinda and Elphaba's story as two equally valid diverging paths, you diminish the bravery of Elphaba's choice to become an enemy of the state, and how painful it was to do that alone. You also bastardize GLINDA'S character arc, by ignoring that cowardice and myopia cause her to function as the antagonist for most of the story, and that only at the 11th hour she starts to grow beyond that. Low key? It's a bit grotesque hearing Tumblrinas talk about how "Harry Potter isn't anti-fascist; Wicked is the superior magical boarding school franchise". And then you enter the fandom and it's a bunch of sapphics yammering on about how trying to change the system from the inside ISN'T a terrible plan, actually!

It is a terrible plan. For the first 66% of the runtime, the play says it's a terrible plan. Glinda was written to be a ditz. Get over it.

[doctorweebmd]

ok my OTHER reflection:

on the one hand its really frustrating to see the posts about docs and healthcare in general on here be so narrow-minded. bad experiences with certain providers have lead to a huge spread of misinformation and mistrust with the whole system. which can and HAS lead to people avoiding 'evil' doctors for perfectly treatable illnesses and dying from them (the vaccine bullshit, anyone?)

but on the other hand. it is TERRIFYING how some of these docs practice medicine. at times i think 'are you just burned out and don't give a shit or are you straight up just stupid?' and i work in critical care. where quite literally every case is life or death. even in the academic sector where there is supposedly a standard of excellence, some doctors i would not let touch my loved ones with a ten foot pole.

and that sucks. i know this is the no nuance piss on the poor webbed site but 'the medical system and people that work for it are fallible and aspects of it are morally questionable at best/unethical at worst' AND 'the field of medicine exists to help people first and foremost and mistrusting/avoiding it can be detrimental in the long run' can and DO co-exist

[gingerbreadmonsters]

its so important to me that you know how much ive already cried over this wip and its literally only been two days

[icewindandboringhorror]

golf

[monsterblogging]

"I know JK Rowing is a terrible person but her books are so good-"

You sure about that?

I mean, just for a start, have you taken a good look at her fantasy creatures lately? A whole bunch of them are straight-up based on malicious and dehumanizing stereotypes about actual people.

Remember the werewolves? And being a werewolf was made into a kind of metaphor for having AIDS?

And you know how AIDS was first associated with gay men? And how conservatives back in the day were claiming gay men were preying on children in order to convert them to gayness?

Remember how Fenrir Greyback preyed on children in particular? Yeah, she put that subtext in there. She was an adult in the 90's. She knew damn well what she was doing.

Remember the house elves? Remember how most of them loved to serve and needed to have a home and a master or else they just wouldn't know what to do with themselves?

Did you know that's literally what slavers in the American South said about the Black people they kept enslaved? Go look up the happy slave myth.

Do I even need to get into the goblins and the antisemitic tropes they're based on? No, folkloric goblins were not gold-hoarding bankers waiting for their chance to stab humanity in the back.

"But the characters are so good!"

Are you kidding me?

Most of her characters are pretty one-dimensional, including Harry. Her idea of making a morally complicated character is giving a tragic past to a bully. Numerous characters are little more than stereotypes. (Looking at Fleur right now.) Literally anybody, including you, can easily make dozens of characters just as good, if not better. (It doesn't exactly take a lot of character designing skill to go, "hey, actually, having a sad backstory doesn't make it okay to bully children" or "hey, maybe I should not base a character on the first stereotype that pops into my head.")

"But the rest of the worldbuilding!"

Sorry, but her worldbuilding is just as basic as her characters. Magical castles and secret passages are stock tropes. Magical people who keep their true nature secret from humanity is the premise of pretty much every White Wolf TTRPG. Most of her fantasy creatures are just common European fairy tale and folklore creatures with shitty stereotypes projected onto them.

I'm not saying "basic worldbuilding bad." I'm saying, you could do just as good, if not better, with minimal effort.

Also there's her magical bioessentialism, where only Harry's abusive blood relatives could provide him with supernatural protection from Voldemort. Rowling thus effectively declared that non-biological family isn't quite real family, and that abusive biofamily can give you some essential thing that a loving, supportive family that isn't related to you just can't.

The Hogwarts houses are one of the most insidious elements of her worldbuilding. The idea of being sorted gives you a little dopamine hit because wow now you have a li'l niche where you belong!

But the actual function of the houses and sorting system and the House Cup is teaching children to see each other as rivals, and ensure that the most toxic views of the upper class get passed on to every new batch of kids sorted into Slytherin.

Hogwarts effectively prepares children for a dystopia where magic serves to distract its citizens from how nightmarishly awful it is. Economic inequality is so bad that people like Arthur and Molly Weasley can barely afford to put their kids through school, casual sadism is just an accepted norm in everyday society, and non-humans are second class citizens. Rowling sorta acts like she thinks this is a bad thing with certain lines she gave to Dumbledore, but in the end, her special boy protagonist becomes an auror; IE, a defender of the status quo. So.

If you've never seen it, Lily Simpson's video goes into even more detail on how the worldbuilding of Harry Potter is actually incredibly fucked up, and how it betrays small-minded attitudes on Rowling's part. There's no separating the art from this artist, because Rowling's rotten values pour out of nearly every page.

Yes, there are many things in Harry Potter that evoke feelings and inspire people, but there's absolutely nothing in it that this series has a monopoly on. You can find those same experiences in much, much better media.

[theveryworstthing]

Wisteria Wizards ✨. no one asked for these, i just felt like doing some wizard character design.

here are two older wizards and their apprentices dressed up for some fall witch festival. the Wisteria sect of wizards are chill with witches. many of them grew up learning witchcraft instead of wizardry and/or escaped wizarding school to seek out alternative magic styles (and because wizard school sucks. magic is dangerous and if you start exhibiting Wizard Symptoms then you absolutely need a mentor and support system to help you through it but Jesus Christ. no school should have it's own cemetery.)

Fun Facts:

first wizard's parasol is actually a staff and a crystal ball that's sort of "unfolded". he's a fan of corsets and his big naturals come from him being a rare dwarf with gigantism. He/Him unless he's in dwarven company where she uses She/Her. personal gender male, cultural gender female.

second wizard uses a prosthetic hand for a wand. great wand, less great hand. using it as a hand can actually take more effort than using it as a wand because he has to think about any super fine movements unless he sets it to mirror his other hand. This isn't the biggest problem because he rarely changes its position or uses it for complicated actions outside of spells. he was born with one arm and that's what he's used to. all of this is, of course, less important than the fact that he has a little dragon familiar named Yogurt that likes to be carried around like a sleepy stress ball. this is inconvenient but adorable.

third wizard? a bad bitch with great fashion. that's all. yes that cloak is alive, what of it?

fourth wizard isn't good enough at hiding his Symptoms yet but he's trying his best.

[prlssprfctn]

In his new room - in his new house - Jason searches up for a circus performances and stares at them for hours. First, he watches at them mindlessly, unconsciously curious, and then, he starts to take notes.

He is a street kid, and everything about him screams of that. So, he is nowhere near the grace of these performers on the screen. His arms are not that strong, too, but he is agile, and his legs are much stronger - he can think of something.

He can be just as good as the boy he is replacing.

It is not like someone tells him to match Richard Grayson, and it is not like someone admits that Jason is here to replace the first Wonder Boy, but Jason heard Bruce's conversation with Dick earlier. It was meant not for his ears, but it doesn't matter now.

"So, now what, you exile me, and bring a boy to replace me?!"

Jason is not mad. All of it ‐ adoption papers, the manor, the school - is much more than he ever thought he would get in his life. Being replacement doesn't sound as bad anyway; especially, if his brother is so cool.

So, he makes notes on circus performances and slightly chopes his hair. They are much curlier than Dick's - he has more of a wavy ones, and the only ever look that way, when they get long; his childhood photos with short hair looks too straight - but the cut does its magic.

The next day, Bruce compliments his hair absentmindedly and is positively surprised by his new moves on the patrol, asking where he learnt it from. Jason lies about not remembering, but his cheeks are flashed, and his smile is all about teeth. He can't wait to show it to Dick once they finally get on a mission together.

Expect, when they do, Dick just nods and mutters a light-hearted "good job" before leaving to talk with his team. And Jason knows Dick doesn't want to be mean - he gets it; no one feels good about having a replacement, especially the one that seems so cheap in comparison - but he still cries that night in his pillow, feeling himself a little kid, even if he isn't one. Even if he never was.

Jason wonders if his own replacement would make him understand Dick.

But Jason never gets replaced.

No matter the taunting voice of the Lazarus Pit in the back of his head - that sometimes sounds suspiciously like Talia's; you remain unavenged and replaced - and his own intrusive thoughts that spiral in uneven lines, Jason doesn't think Tim was ever meant to be his replacement. Being replaced means to match the person that was meant to be left behind. And no one asked Tim to be like Jason.

If anything, memory of Jason was thrown under the rag, hidden and locked securely in heads of those who survived. And if they brought Jason up, then it was always an example of what Robin shouldn't do: run away, disobey, and allow emotions to consume you. So, not much of an exemplary original. More like an opposite.

Jason feels an urge to explain that to Tim once; when they sit together on the rooftop, almost like a proper family, instead of broken pieces of someone's idea of a one.

'You could never replace me,' he says, and the instant it leaves his mouth, he knows it came out wrong.

Tim rolls his eyes.

'Yeah, dude. Whatever.'

'No, I mean—' He grits his teeth, scrapping slightly the back of his hand. 'I mean... You could never replace me, because... Because you were always better.'

Tim freezes. His big blue eyes shift in something more confused, and it is almost as if he is not sure how he needs to react — to protest? To agree? To thank him?

Jason doesn't know what to do, too.

He wants to say: it is easy as that, babybird. They wanted to have someone who would have nothing in common with me — someone who could help them to forget about my existence, about the existence of the failed Robin.

But he can't make himself speak again. And he is not sure he wants to stay any longer to hear Tin manging to put his thoughts in the words; he is better than him at this, too, and he almost always sounds convincing.

So, he leaves.

In his room - in the building he owns now - he ruffles his outgrown hair, fluffs up the white streak, and passes by his only remaining photo with Bruce in the frame, on the shelf under the stolen tire.

He still does this semi-circus move in his fights - almost frozen in the air, with his back arched - but he doesn't expect anyone to compliment him anymore.

[yeosatinyngz]

(rules anon) I was just wondering if you could do something similar to your forgot your bday ask u got? but they forgot your anniversary bc they were hanging out with the Mc? hurt and comfort or hurt and no comfort whatever you decide (but u totes don't have to do this tho if it makes you uncomfortable!)

I apologize for the delay, I was bombarded with school work and studying but I’m finally done with the semester and have the time to write your request, hope you like it! <3

THEY FORGET YOUR ANNIVERSARY

↳Fem! Non MC Reader | Angst w/ comfort

Lies were the very thing you were feeding yourself with when you heard no response from your partner, cause surely there was no way he had forgotten the anniversary of when you both got together.

You sent out your usual good morning text to him but many hours have passed by to the point where the sun was currently setting. You had your message chat with him opened, staring at it hoping it will somehow lead to him miraculously messaging you back. But to no avail, your text remained unanswered.

You release a deep sigh and close your phone. You needed to distract your mind off of your current situation so you decided to go outside for a walk to clear your head. You were enjoying the breeze until you heard a familiar laugh, the laugh that belonged to your beloved. 

You turned around to see him walking alongside his colleague, mc. They looked so happy and perfect together, as if they were destined to be together. Oh, you thought to yourself while your heart shattered into a million pieces. You couldn’t bear to witness the scene before you anymore so you quickly left.

You made it back home and slammed the door shut. That’s when everything you held back in you just came falling apart. Your body trembled as your legs gave out on you, you landed on the floor with a thud as the tears started to roll down your eyes. You don’t even know how long you were crying until the door opened with the very man you were despairing over. 

“Honey I’m home-” That’s when he realized the current state you were in, he quickly rushed over to check up on you, “What’s wrong my love?” He asks so softly while his hand reaches out to attempt to wipe away your tears. You were quick to smack his hand away and turned your head away from him. 

Shakily letting out a breath of air, you turn back to look him straight into his eyes with fury, firmly declaring, “Let’s break up.” His eyes immediately widened as he frantically grabbed your hands. “Please don’t say that, at least tell me why.” He looked at you with those dangerous puppy dog eyes of his that were brimming with tears.

You scoffed and yanked your hands away from his, “Isn’t forgetting our anniversary and hanging out with another girl reason enough?” He goes quiet and you can’t help but let out a bitter laugh, “You got your reason, now leave.” 

You couldn’t stand the sight of him anymore and you were ready to get up but he pulled you down towards him, tightly wrapping you into his embrace. “Hey! What are you doing?! Let go of me!” You protest as you squirm in his arms. “Please,” He lets out weakly, “Just listen to me.” 

Seeing that you weren’t protesting anymore, Xavier continued on, “While I have no excuse for forgetting our anniversary, I was only with mc because we were assigned a mission together and were just catching up afterwards.” “You looked a little too happy, you were giggling with her and all”  you huffed. “She was teasing me about you and saying how cute we were together. You should know that I have eyes on no one else but you.”

“And yet you forgot our anniversary.” “...There’s no arguing that, I’m sorry.” He truly looked so sad and his signature puppy dog eyes were back and working its magic on you, “Please let me make it up to you.” You sigh, giving in to his pouty state, “Alright” He immediately brightened from this word alone “But you will have to do your best because you are still not forgiven.” “I promise!”

He kept his promise as he surprised you the very next day with a beautiful arrangement of flowers (that he harassed Jeremiah to help him with over night, poor dude does not get paid enough), spoiling you with all of your favorite food (he wanted to cook and bake everything himself but we all know why he decided to order delivery instead), gifting you a matching set of necklace (His had your initial while yours had an X), and of course caring to all your needs.

You decided to go visit Rafayel instead of just waiting around for a response that you won’t be getting anytime soon. However, once you got to his studio you came to realize that he wasn’t home either. Strange, you thought to yourself. Where could he be at this time? 

The only person that could possibly know your boyfriend’s whereabouts was Thomas so you went ahead and gave him a call. To your luck, he was quick to pick up, “Sorry to bother you Thomas but do you happen to know where Rafayel is?” “I’m not exactly sure where he is right now but I remember mc saying she was going to pick him up.” “Oh…thanks for letting me know.” “Yeah no problem.” He says while you quickly say bye to him and hang up the call.

It took everything in you to not lose your mind right now. The grip you had on your phone was so intense it probably wasn’t far from being broken into pieces. You tried calming yourself down and decided to settle on his couch for the meanwhile. You were going to wait until he came back.

It felt like an eternity waiting for Rafayel to come back, your mind kept spiraling the more the seconds passed by and you just needed him to hurry up so you could confront him and get it over with. 

As if your prayers were heard, the door to the studio door opened and in walked your beautiful boyfriend, well soon to be ex boyfriend accompanied with his bodyguard. His eyes were quick to find your figure sitting on your coach and he jumped back in surprise, “Oh you scared me, what are you doing here cutie?” 

That’s when he noticed the nasty glare you were giving him and your arms crossed over each other. He mentally panics, Uh oh, I fucked up. “Oh you should be scared, Rafayel.” He felt chills go down his spine from your cold words. That’s when mc awkwardly coughs and speaks up, “Uh I think I’ll excuse myself” before she quickly dashed out the door leaving you two in awkward silence. 

Rafayel was quick to rush to your side, dramatically dropping down to his knees and planting his face into your lap. He lifts his chin up and looks up at you while begging for forgiveness, “Please forgive me cutie, you can do whatever you want with me just please don’t be mad anymore.” 

His eyes were filled with despair as he waited anxiously for your response, his pout deepening the longer you delayed your response. “I’ll let you guess what you did wrong.” His brain freezes as he tries to come up with all the possibilities. You grabbed his chin to force him to look into your eyes, “You forgot our anniversary and chose to go out with that bodyguard of yours.” 

He mentally curses himself, “I’m sorry cutie, I’ve been working on this piece for the past week nonstop and got the dates mixed up, I swear it wasn’t on purpose. The reason I was out with Miss bodyguard is because I was getting some materials to finish up my piece.” 

Without even waiting for your response he got up and dragged you along with him to unveil the canvas that was hidden underneath a cloth. You could tell that it was unfinished but it was no doubt that what he painted was you. You unconsciously let out a gasp because you couldn’t believe what your eyes were witnessing.

Rafayel has painted you in a way where no one else in this world can ever come close to replicating, he drew your likeness in such an ethereal way that it left you speechless. “I- Is this how you see me?” He nods, “I’m ashamed to show you the unfinished product but this piece doesn’t even come close to showcasing your beauty, you continue to inspire me everyday cutie so I hope you can forgive me.” You threw yourself at him and crushed him into a hug. “You are more than forgiven, I love you so much Raf.” He plants a kiss on your temple, “I love you so much you don’t even know.”

Sighing, you went along with your last resort, calling Greyson. You dislike wasting their precious time when they’re on the clock but you’re sure Greyson can spare you maybe a minute or two compared to Zayne. Your heart drums even faster as the seconds prolonged from him picking up the phone.

Finally you hear Greyson’s voice fill your ear, “What’s up?” “Sorry to bother you Greyson but I just wanted to know how Zayne was doing.” “It’s no bother really, he actually left a while ago.” “Oh is that so?” “Yeah, his last patient today was mc and they left together about maybe forty five minutes ago.” You remained silent as your mind started coming up with different scenarios, you were quickly pulled out of your thoughts by Greyson calling out to you. “Sorry about that, thanks for telling me, have a good night.” “You too.”

Then the call ends, leaving you alone with all your doubtful thoughts. You sat at the couch waiting there for Zayne to come back but as the hours passed you were hopeless. 

You don’t even know what time it was or when you even fell asleep but you awoke to keys jingling and the front door opening. You slowly got up and walked up to him, “How come you’re home so late?” “Sorry about that, mc invited me over for dinner since grandma Josephine wanted to see me.” 

“Well you could’ve told me ahead of time, I wouldn’t have made dinner and waited on your return then” your words came out a little harsher than you wanted and Zayne took notice. You walked over to the dining table to clear out all the food and he followed after you to also help.

That’s when he freezes, in the middle of the table sat a cake with the words ‘Happy Anniversary’ in your handwriting. He looks up at you but you pay him no attention. “You made this cake?” You look back at him with cold eyes, “Yeah but it doesn’t matter anymore, you can toss it out since there’s nothing to celebrate.” You were done putting everything in the fridge and you walked out of the kitchen. “I’ll be heading to bed first, I’m taking the guest bedroom.” 

Before you could take another step Zayne reaches out and grabs your hand, you were too tired for this. You turned around and looked him in his eyes while you pried his hand off yours, “Can we not do this right now? I’m exhausted and don’t want to deal with this.” “Please”, his hazel eyes were swimming with regret as they pleaded with you to listen. You manage to grumble out a “You have five minutes.”

“It was not my intention to forget our special day, I’ve been overwhelmed recently with work and it all messed with my head. I'm truly so sorry and I know empty words won’t do anything for you at this moment but I will make it my duty to make it up to you just please don’t leave me, you’re the only person in this world I can’t bear to lose.” 

You reached up and cupped his face with both of your hands, “I’m not going to leave you, you dummy. I just want you to rely on me and communicate with me more when you’re tired. A relationship consists of two people, let us both carry the same amount of weight. But don’t think you’re off the hook about forgetting our anniversary though, you’re still on thin ice mister.” He lets out a small laugh, “Duly noted.”

You checked in with the twins about Sylus’s schedule in advance and they confirmed that he would be out during the afternoon today. You set out to the N109 Zone, specifically his place so that you could plan out surprising him for your anniversary.

It took you lots of time and effort with putting up all the decorations and manually blowing up the balloons. After everything was done you rested on the couch for a while.

You still have plenty of time till his return so you were currently helping his chef prepare his favorite dishes. You put extra care into making the food since it was a special occasion. You couldn’t wait to surprise Sylus.

It was about time Sylus should be returning so you closed all the lights, hiding behind the couch, itching for the right moment to jump out and surprise the love of your life.

Suddenly, you heard the door open. This was the moment, prepare yourself. The lights turn on and you hear footsteps coming closer to you. You jumped out yelling surprise ready to pop the confetti until you came face to face with Kieran, with Luke behind him.

“Huh, where’s Sylus?” Kieran speaks up, “Boss had another unexpected business meeting so he’ll be back a little later.” “Oh” You sigh dejectedly. They try to cheer you up but you just slumped back onto the couch.

An hour has passed and still no trace of Sylus. At this point you looked so sad that Luke offered to call Sylus to see where he was at. Luke puts his phone on speaker so that you could also hear.

Soon you heard the deep silky voice that belonged to your partner, “What is it?” “I was just wondering when you’ll be home.” “I still haven’t wrapped things up with Miss Hunter yet so it’ll still take a while.” “Oh ok, please try to get home as soon as you can.” “I’ll try.”

Luke nervously looks at you after he ends the call. You laughed and a chill ran down both the twin’s back. “Miss, are you ok?” Kieran asks. Catching your breath after you laughed you responded, “How can I be ok after finding out the man I love forgot our anniversary and is out with this girl he frequently has business meetings with.”

You abruptly got up and went to gather your things with you. “W- where are you going?” Luke shakily asks. “I’m going home and neither of you guys are stopping me.” “Please reconsider!” Kieran pleaded, you threw him a death glare and walked towards the door, proceeding to open it and slam it on your way out. You felt bad for getting angry at the twins but your emotions got the better of you.

Sylus just got back and as soon as he opened the door he was welcomed with the sight of the twins panicking and shouting at him. “Boss, why didn’t you pick up your phone? We were calling you for so long, this is an emergency!!” “My phone died.” “You’re in big trouble boss.” “Huh?” Obviously confused by the commotion the twins pushed him to the living room.

He took in the sight and noticed the ‘Happy Anniversary’ banner. That’s when his heart drops, oh he messed up real bad. He wanted to beat himself but there were more pressing matters. “Either one of you give me your phone.” Once a phone was handed to him he quickly went to find your contact and called you.

However, it’s been the tenth time he’s calling you and you still haven’t picked up. As he was giving up you finally picked up, “Ugh would you quit spam calling me Kieran?” “Sweetie, I'm so sorry.” “Oh it’s you, I’m hanging up.” you said coldly. “Wait-” You wasted no time in ending the call. You were also quick to block Sylus and the twin’s numbers.

You were tired after everything that happened today so you drifted off to sleep. You don’t know how long you were sleeping but you woke up to a loud crash, jolting you up in your bed. You looked around to check the source of the noise and noticed that your balcony door was broken, the glass pieces shattered around your floor.

Then you feel a gush of wind as a familiar black and dark red mist surrounds you tightening you into a hold. You looked up and found yourself staring into a pair of shining scarlet eyes. “Let me go you psycho!” “Not until you listen to me.” You roll your eyes, “Not like you gave me any other option.”

He chuckles while walking towards you. Stopping when he’s directly in front of you. “I’m here to beg you for forgiveness, I’m sorry for neglecting you on our special day. I’ll do anything for your forgiveness, hell I’ll even grovel.” The gleam in your eyes doesn’t go unnoticed. Needless to say, Sylus did his part and earned your forgiveness.

[ducksido]

What if yuu died?

(I'm feeling angsty >:]) ((I kept crying while writing this))

DWARF'S MINE:

Grim

Grim is the first one to notice.

They were bickering, as usual. Yuu told him not to wander off. He called them bossy and sauntered ahead. He thought Yuu was right behind him until he heard the rumble.

When Grim turns around, the mine is collapsing. He hears a scream—their scream—and then nothing.

At first, Grim is in denial. “They’re probably fine! Just hiding like a scaredy-cat!” he yells, ears flat, tail bristled. He digs at the rocks, paws trembling, not because he’s weak but because he’s scared. His tiny claws scrape until they bleed.

Later, when the truth settles in, Grim doesn’t talk for days. No bragging. No yelling. He just curls up on the couch in Ramshackle, staring at the door like he’s waiting for Yuu to walk through it.

He starts blaming himself. Quietly. “I shoulda protected them… I’m the Great Grim, right? What good is all this power if I couldn’t save 'em…”

Ace Trappola

Ace puts up a wall.

He makes some stupid comment at first. “They seriously died that easily? Weak…”

But his voice cracks halfway through. He avoids eye contact with Deuce and walks away before anyone can see him clench his fists.

Later, Ace returns to the mine alone. He just stands at the spot where the rocks fell, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Dumbass… you weren’t even supposed to be here. What were you thinking, coming down here without magic?”

If anyone tries to talk to him about it, he brushes them off. But sometimes, when no one's looking, he stares at Ramshackle’s gate like he wants to go up and say something—but always turns around.

Deuce Spade

Deuce takes it hard.

He was right there. He thought he was being responsible. He was supposed to look out for the magicless student, right?

“I failed them…” “I should’ve noticed something was wrong…” “If I’d just reacted faster…”

He says things like that a lot. Grim won’t talk. Ace won’t listen. So Deuce just keeps repeating it to himself.

He visits Ramshackle and helps clean it up. Makes sure the firewood is stacked, the beds are neat—even though no one lives there anymore. “I just… want to keep it ready. In case they come back. Somehow.”

Crowley

Crowley is... complicated.

Publicly, he spins it as a “tragic accident”—“A rare, unfortunate incident during a school-sanctioned task! We shall honor our lost guest!” He uses big words and flashy speeches, and pretends like this wasn’t his fault.

But when he’s alone in his office, he looks at the file with Yuu’s name and wonders if he ever even really tried to help them.

He sent a magicless teen to mine with unstable students and monsters.

He knew they were different. Vulnerable. And yet, he brushed it off.

There’s a note he writes but never sends, addressed to the mirror that summoned Yuu:

“This realm took what it never should have touched. And now it has blood on its hands.”

He keeps the key to Ramshackle on his desk. Every time he sees it, he flinches.

RIDDLE'S OVERBLOT

Grim

He saw it happen.

He was right there—he saw the blast coming, and he tried to drag Yuu back, but they slipped from his grip.

“Yuu?” he calls out, paw nudging at their arm. “Hey. Hey, c’mon, this ain’t funny. Get up.”

He tries to laugh it off at first. Grim doesn’t do death. He doesn’t understand it. Not really.

But when the healers come and shake their heads, when no one responds, something inside Grim shatters.

His magic starts reacting wildly. He growls and sparks with unstable fire, yelling at Riddle’s unconscious body like it’s his fault. “You ruined everything! They’re gone and it’s because of YOU!”

Afterward, he won’t eat. Won’t talk. He curls up in Yuu’s bed with their uniform jacket tucked under his chin, tail limp.

“They promised we’d figure stuff out together... Now I gotta do it alone?”

Ace Trappola

Ace flips out.

Not right away. First, it’s disbelief. “No, no, they’re gonna get up. Right? Deuce? Tell me they’re fine.”

Then, it’s anger. At Riddle. At Cater and Trey for not stopping it. At himself.

He slams his fist into a wall so hard his knuckles bleed. “I should’ve pulled them out. I saw the signs. I knew something was gonna happen.”

He gets snappy. Bitter. Starts arguments with anyone who tries to sugarcoat it. “They didn’t ‘pass peacefully.’ They got caught up in some overblot crap that wasn’t even their fault!”

He avoids Ramshackle. Too many memories. Too much guilt.

But he keeps Yuu’s student ID in his jacket pocket.

Deuce Spade

Deuce cries.

He tries to hold it in, tries to be strong—because that’s what he thinks Yuu would’ve wanted—but the tears come anyway. He sobs into his hands when no one’s looking, shaking with the weight of regret.

“I promised to protect them…” he whispers.

He keeps up their dorm. Keeps bringing food to Grim, even if the little guy won’t touch it. He visits Crowley’s office demanding answers, demanding justice, yelling that this shouldn’t have happened.

Deuce becomes the one who remembers the little things—how Yuu liked their tea, the dumb jokes they told, the way they always said "I've got your back" even without magic.

And he makes sure everyone else remembers too.

Riddle Rosehearts

When he wakes up from the overblot and hears the news, he goes silent.

He doesn't cry. Doesn’t scream. He just… shuts down.

He asks to see the body. Crowley says no.

So Riddle walks to the rose maze himself, stands in the spot where Yuu fell, and just stares at the blood-stained petals.

“I didn’t mean to…”

He says it to no one. Over and over. A mantra. A curse.

He writes an apology note but tears it up. Who would it even go to?

Trey and Cater notice the shift—Riddle becomes harsher on himself. More rigid. Less confident. Because deep down, he knows:

Someone died because he lost control.

Cater Diamond

Cater’s smile doesn’t slip right away.

He’s used to filtering his emotions. Used to staying “on brand,” even when he’s horrified. So when he sees Yuu’s lifeless form after the magic storm clears, he just… freezes.

“H-Haha… no way, right? This has to be a prank. Right, Riddle?”

No one answers. Grim is howling. Ace is screaming. Deuce is crying.

Cater’s hands start to shake.

Later, he’ll post nothing. Not even a filtered picture. He'll ghost Magicam for a while.

He tries to visit Ramshackle once, to drop off a bouquet of marigolds and forget-me-nots—but the door creaks open and he sees Grim curled up on the couch, and he just can’t do it.

“I didn’t even know them,” he murmurs to himself, “and it still hurts this bad… What about the ones who did?”

Trey Clover

Trey stays composed. He always does.

He takes over when everyone else is falling apart—helping stabilize the overblot aftermath, escorting Riddle away from the scene, offering Deuce a tissue, shielding Cater from seeing too much.

But when he's alone in the kitchen later, making a tart for no one, he lets himself break a little.

His knife pauses mid-slice. A cherry slips and stains the counter red.

“I should’ve noticed Riddle was this close to snapping,” he mutters. “If I’d stopped him sooner…”

Trey doesn't cry. But guilt clings to him like powdered sugar on a fresh cake. Yuu wasn’t his responsibility, but they were in his dorm's garden. Under his vice-leadership. And that’s not something he forgets easily.

He leaves a note at Ramshackle with a box of treats:

“For Grim. I know they liked sweet things. —Trey”

Dire Crowley

Crowley is the one who has to “make it official.”

He stands before the gathered first years, his usual flourish gone. There’s no fanfare, no dramatic cloak-swoosh. Just a stiff, solemn tone.

“It is with deepest regret that I must confirm… the Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm has passed, following the incident involving an overblot.”

He doesn’t look anyone in the eye.

When the students leave, he stays behind in the hall, staring at the cracked mirror that once brought Yuu here.

“They were never supposed to be involved in magic,” he mutters. “I was supposed to protect them…”

He writes a formal report. Then another one. Then a third. None of them feel right.

Later, Crowley visits Ramshackle and sets down a key with a tiny raven charm beside their bed.

“I promised you safety. I failed. May this place remember you better than I did.”

LEONA'S OVERBLOT

It’s live. NRC's Spelldrive match is being broadcast across Twisted Wonderland.

Leona’s magic erupts like a sandstorm hurricane—spikes of sand and flame. Yuu is running, dragging an injured Grim, trying to reach Jack.

Then comes the roar.

Then silence.

The sand settles. A figure lies limp in the wreckage.

There’s a gasp on the feed. The camera zooms in— —and the world watches as the magicless Prefect, the one who stood beside overblots and chaos, lies still on the battlefield.

Grim

Grim doesn’t even process what happens at first.

He sees the sandstorm. The explosion of magic. He hears Yuu scream—and then nothing. Just silence.

He claws at their body. “Get up! Hey! I said get UP!”

He tries to use his magic. Tries to warm them up with a fireball. Nothing works.

He sobs until his voice is hoarse. He doesn’t leave their side—not when the teachers show up, not when the sun sets, not even when Crowley tries to move him.

“You said we were gonna leave this place together, remember? You promised…”

After that, he never says their name again. But he whispers it in his sleep, tail curled around their favorite pillow.

Ace Trappola

Ace punches Leona.

No questions, no hesitation—he hauls off and decks him right across the jaw, shouting “You bastard! You KILLED them!”

It doesn’t matter that Leona’s still recovering from the overblot. It doesn’t matter that he gets dragged off. He’s shaking with rage.

Ace’s grief comes out as fire. Loud. Angry. Messy.

Later, he sneaks into Ramshackle alone. He rifles through Yuu’s drawers, looking for something—a hoodie, a note, an old snack wrapper. Anything that still smells like them.

He finds a photo they all took before the Spelldrive match.

He keeps it in his wallet.

Deuce Spade

Deuce kneels beside Yuu’s body and doesn’t move for a long time.

He holds their hand. It’s still warm. He begs the healers to try again. Begs the staff to do something.

“They can’t be gone… Not them. Not Yuu…”

He starts blaming himself. “If I’d been faster. If I’d trained harder. If I’d just been stronger—”

He throws himself into becoming stronger after that. Pushing past his limits. Studying harder. Training until he drops.

But he never stops wearing the little Ramshackle pin Yuu made for him, safety-pinned to the inside of his collar.

Cater Diamond

Cater completely drops the act.

No more filters. No cute captions. No jokes.

He vanishes from Magicam for a full month. When he comes back, it’s quiet. Just a black square and one line:

“Miss u, bestie.”

He tries to keep smiling around others, especially Grim, but it’s clearly forced. His voice cracks sometimes.

“I never even said goodbye… How could I not say goodbye?!”

Cater leaves a bracelet at the edge of the Savanaclaw field where they fell—green and silver beads, their initials on it.

He comes back every week to make sure it's still there.

Trey Clover

Trey becomes the one who takes care of everyone else.

He comforts Grim. Checks on Deuce. Calms Ace. Brings food even when no one eats.

He tries to be steady, reliable—but even he has his moments.

Sometimes, late at night in the kitchen, when he’s baking and the scent of vanilla fills the room, he sees Yuu laughing by the counter and has to sit down before he breaks.

He brings a box of strawberry tarts to Ramshackle and places it on their bed, whispering, “You always liked these… right?”

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle is devastated.

He stares at their body with wide, horrified eyes. His throat closes. He stammers something—rules, overblot laws, consequences—but the words fall flat.

He visits their grave alone. He brings roses, red and white.

“I should have stopped Leona. I knew something was wrong. I should have said something. Done something…”

He reads old messages Yuu sent him. Keeps rereading them, like they'll change.

When Heartslabyul hosts a tea party in their memory, Riddle personally makes sure it’s perfect.

“They deserve nothing less.”

Jack Howl

Jack grits his teeth.

He says nothing at first. Just watches in silence as the healers pronounce Yuu gone.

But later, he trains. Harder than ever. His knuckles split. His legs ache.

“If I’d been there a second earlier… I could’ve shielded them.”

He doesn’t cry, but he starts carrying himself a little more respectfully. For Yuu.

At Ramshackle, he leaves a desert lily by their bed—a flower that survives in harshness. “You were tough. I’ll honor that.”

Dire Crowley

Crowley looks… older afterward.

He gives a dramatic speech at the memorial. Everyone assumes he’s playing it up again—until he chokes up mid-sentence.

“This school was supposed to keep them safe…”

He writes a letter to the Headmage’s council, arguing that overblots are no longer “rare accidents,” but institutional failures.

He also writes one to Yuu.

It sits in his drawer, never sent.

“You deserved better. From this world. From me. I only hope the next life is kinder.”

Leona Kingscholar

Leona doesn’t say a word when he’s told Yuu didn’t survive.

He just stares. At the scorch mark in the dirt. At the faces of the others—Grim sobbing, Deuce shaking, Ace screaming at him. He says nothing.

He turns away.

No apology. No excuse. He doesn't even try to defend himself.

Later, alone in his dorm, he leans against the wall with a clenched jaw, grinding his molars. His overblot haze is gone, but the image of Yuu—burned into his memory—won’t leave.

“Tch... They were a nobody. Just some magicless brat...”

But he’s not saying it to anyone else. He’s trying to convince himself. Because deep down, he knows that’s not true. Yuu stood their ground. Faced him when even Savanaclaw students ran. And they died because of him.

The next day, Leona doesn’t come out of his room.

The week after that, he’s quieter. Less sharp-tongued. Still dangerous, still smug—but there’s a heaviness in his voice now.

He doesn’t go to the memorial. But he sends a small wrapped parcel to Ramshackle with Ruggie.

Inside: a faded Savanaclaw armband and a simple note.

They had guts. —L

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie wasn’t close to Yuu, but they helped him once.

Shared a snack. Laughed at his dumb jokes. Treated him like a person, not Leona’s errand boy.

So when he sees their body, something shifts.

“…They’re really gone?”

He doesn’t cry. He’s too used to loss for that. But his stomach churns as he watches Grim howl and Ace get dragged away from Leona.

Ruggie knew this was gonna happen eventually. He just didn’t think it’d be Yuu.

He feels the tension in the dorm, hears the whispers from other students, and suddenly everything feels too loud.

That night, he lights a candle in the Savanaclaw lounge. It’s small, cheap, something from the Night Market.

He stares at the flame and murmurs, “Rest easy, alright? Sorry we never got to hang out more…”

Then he turns and gets back to work, because someone has to clean up the mess.

But he steals food from the cafeteria a little more often now.

For Grim.

AZUL'S OVERBLOT

Grim

He can’t even scream this time.

He runs to their body, but the water’s still seeping away. He tries to drag them out. Shouts for help.

He sobs into their clothes, claws clenched around fabric, whispering over and over, “No no no—come on, come on—don’t do this, please—”

He tries breathing fire, again and again, like maybe the warmth will bring them back.

Azul’s contracts burn around them. Grim doesn’t care. He curls around their chest and doesn’t move for hours.

Ace Trappola

Ace laughs.

It’s a broken sound, too sharp to be real.

“No way. No way they’re— They can’t be— This is stupid. They survived Leona. They survived Riddle. They’re Yuu.”

He looks at Azul like he wants to kill him, but then just… stops. He walks over to Yuu’s body and sits down beside them, knees to his chest, silent.

Hours later, he mutters to no one, “I didn’t even get to say sorry… I called them annoying this morning…”

Deuce Spade

Deuce falls to his knees.

He shakes Azul by the collar, shouting “WHAT DID YOU DO?!” before Jack pulls him back.

Then he kneels by Yuu and clutches their hand like it’s an anchor. He doesn’t move for a long time, even when everyone else starts to leave.

He wears their Ramshackle pin on his blazer after that. Cleans it every morning.

When he does tests, exams, in a track race, he whispers under his breath, “Watch me. I’ll make you proud.”

Jack Howl

Jack stands frozen in place.

His tail bristles. His claws dig into his palms. But he doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t cry.

He walks over and picks up the tattered scarf Yuu always wore, brushes the ink off it gently.

“They were a good one,” he says quietly.

He trains harder after that. Says less. But anyone who enters the Savannaclaw training field will find a small stone marker in the far corner.

“To the one who stood tall without claws.”

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie curses.

“Damn it. Damn it all.”

He kicks one of the broken tables. Then another. And then he stops—because he sees Grim, curled and shaking, and his chest aches.

He drops to a squat beside him, puts a hand on Grim’s back.

“They were… They were somethin’ else, huh?”

He steals food from the Lounge that night. Loads of it. Drops it off at Ramshackle with no note.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he swears to himself: No one else from their circle dies on his watch.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona’s the first to arrive after the overblot ends.

He sees the ink, the body, the shattered remains of the contracts—and doesn’t speak. Not at first.

“…You actually went and got them killed, huh?” he mutters to Azul.

Leona walks over to Yuu and crouches low. His tail flicks.

“Should’ve told you not to play hero again. Should’ve made you stay out of this.”

He leaves a desert lily by their side and walks away before anyone sees his hands shaking.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul is catatonic.

He collapses when the overblot fades. The moment he sees what he’s done—who he’s killed—his voice dies in his throat.

“No… No, no, no… I didn’t mean…”

He vomits ink.

He sobs behind his hands.

He screams at the sea for days afterward.

He locks himself in his office and doesn't come out. Not for weeks. He can’t even look at his own reflection.

Eventually, he stops using contracts.

He burns every single one.

Jade Leech

Jade is… quiet.

Too quiet.

He kneels beside the body and closes their eyes. Straightens their sleeves. Brushes the ink from their lashes.

Then he looks at Azul—torn, sobbing—and doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t smile after that. Not in the Lounge. Not in class.

When asked, he only says: “They were… sincere. And brave. It's a shame. A true shame.”

He visits Ramshackle every now and then, leaving wild mushrooms at the doorstep.

Floyd Leech

Floyd doesn’t take it well.

First, he laughs.

“Eh? Seriously? Shrimpy’s dead? Just like that?”

Then his smile vanishes. Completely.

“...No fun.”

He walks into the Lounge’s VIP room and trashes it. Rips through furniture. Breaks the glass. Shatters the chandelier.

No one stops him.

After that, he won’t talk about it. If someone mentions Yuu, he gets quiet.

He goes out swimming in the ocean for hours. Sometimes all night.

When he comes back, he’s always more tired.

Dire Crowley

Crowley stands at the edge of the scene, looking like a ghost.

This is the third time now. Third overblot. Third time Yuu has nearly died. Except this time…

He pulls his hat down, voice tight. “I failed them. Again.”

He doesn’t perform this time. No grand speeches. Just silence and shame.

He drafts a dozen letters to Yuu’s family—then throws them all out. What could he say? "Your child died in another world under my care?"

He declares a school-wide mourning period and cancels all contracts indefinitely.

But it’s not enough. Nothing is.

JAMIL'S OVERBLOT

They were too close. Always too close.

In trying to protect Kalim, in trying to talk Jamil down, they stepped into range—and one of the snake-like braids struck. Fast. Precise. Poisonous.

No one noticed the bite at first. Not even Yuu.

But as the overblot fades, and the sand settles, they collapse—pale, lips turning blue, their breathing labored until…

It stops.

And the music dies with them.

Grim

He’s the first to notice something’s wrong.

He shakes Yuu’s arm, pats their cheek. “Oi, this isn’t funny—come on, we’ve gotta scold Jamil, right?”

But their chest doesn’t rise.

Grim screams. His voice cracks.

“YUU?!”

He doesn’t leave their side for the rest of the night, paws clutching their arm, growling at anyone who tries to move them.

When Ace and Deuce return, he nearly attacks them just to stop them from seeing.

Jamil Viper

He sees the bite. He knows exactly what it means.

He knows.

He drops to his knees.

“...No… no no no…”

His voice shakes. His hands tremble. His overblot form may have faded, but its consequences linger like venom in his blood.

He killed them.

No tricks. No schemes. No brainwashing. Just murder.

He doesn’t run. He doesn’t speak. He just sits in the sand, staring at his hands, unable to move.

He’s silent for hours.

When they drag him away, he doesn’t resist.

Kalim Al-Asim

He doesn’t understand at first.

“Yuu? What are they doing? They’re just sleeping, right? Right, Jamil?!"

But Jamil won’t meet his eyes.

And when Grim doesn’t answer—when Grim starts sobbing—Kalim’s smile falls. Shatters.

“No… no, no, this isn’t…”

He grabs Yuu’s hand and holds it like he can warm it back to life.

“Please—wake up—we haven’t even gone swimming yet! You promised!”

He cries hard. For hours. He tries to take the blame, keeps saying:

“It should’ve been me. I was the one he hated…”

Azul Ashengrotto

When Azul sees the body, he goes eerily quiet.

He slams the lounge door shut, tells Jade and Floyd to cancel operations for a week. When they ask why, he just mutters:

“Yuu’s dead. Jamil’s overblot.”

That night, Azul goes down to the sea and throws in a silver pen—a token Yuu once gave him when he helped them with a contract.

He doesn’t talk about it afterward.

But he never lets a client leave with a dangerous deal again.

Jade Leech

Jade lowers his when he sees the body.

“…How unfortunate.”

He’s quiet for a long while. He plants a rare desert flower in a terrarium—a tribute. Waters it every morning.

When questioned, he only says, “They were brave. It is a shame bravery rarely guarantees survival.”

But his smiles are smaller now. More thoughtful. Especially around Jamil.

Floyd Leech

He gets quiet.

Too quiet.

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t grin. Just tosses a beach ball into the ocean and watches it float away.

When asked, he mutters, “Shrimpy was s’posed to come back. I was gonna show ‘em how to really swim…”

And then, with no warning, he grabs Jamil by the collar and slams him into a wall.

“You bit them, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t hit him. Just glares, then shoves him down and walks away.

He doesn’t show up to class for three days after that.

Crowley

He returns in high spirits, sunburned and humming—until he sees the school’s flag at half-mast.

“What happened—?”

Grim hits him with a fireball before he can finish his sentence.

When Crowley sees Yuu’s name etched into the memorial stone, he drops to his knees.

He doesn’t even try to justify himself.

He just whispers, “I left. Again. And they paid for it…”

And for once, Crowley vanishes from public view.

Not even the staff can find him for days.

Ace Trappola

He bursts through the gate, duffel in hand, bragging to Deuce—until Grim tackles him, claws shaking.

“They’re gone,” Grim wheezes, “They’re gone, Ace!”

Ace laughs. “Huh? Quit messin’ with me—what do you—”

Then he sees Deuce’s face pale. And the memorial stone. And the empty Ramshackle doorway.

“…No. No, no—this is a joke, right?!”

He punches the wall until his knuckles bleed.

Deuce Spade

He drops his bag the moment Grim tells them.

“No way… No—they were fine. They were fine when we left—”

He clutches his stomach and falls to his knees. “Why weren’t we here? Why didn’t we come back sooner?!”

He visits the grave every morning for a week. Leaves flowers. Doesn’t say much in class.

His grades improve. His magic sharpens.

He swears it won’t happen again.

Riddle Rosehearts

He stares at the nameplate on the stone.

“…They died protecting someone else?”

He places a red rose beneath the inscription.

“They never followed the rules… and still had the nerve to leave before I could thank them.”

His voice is brittle.

After that, he disciplines his dorm a little less harshly.

He gives Grim his leftover tarts in silence.

Trey Clover

He sighs deeply, brows furrowed.

“…I should’ve known something like this would happen.”

He helps Cater plan a quiet tribute in Heartslabyul. A tea party with Yuu’s favorite sweets. No rules. No scolding.

Just stories.

Trey keeps their seat open.

Cater Diamond

He cries in the hallway.

No selfies. No filters. No pretending.

Just raw, ugly crying.

“Why didn’t I get more pictures with them…?”

He organizes a social feed in their memory. Posts their art. Their dumb selfies. Their best moments.

It goes viral within NRC. Students from all dorms comment:

“They helped me.” “They stood up for me.” “I miss them…”

Leona Kingscholar

“…Damn snake.”

He growls low, tail twitching.

He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t threaten. Just walks out of the dorm and stares at the cliffs until sunset.

He was starting to respect them.

Now he never gets the chance.

Ruggie Bucchi

He’s pissed.

At Crowley. At Jamil. At himself.

He sneaks into the infirmary late at night and punches the wall once—just once.

Then he wipes his eyes and leaves, like nothing happened.

But he leaves offerings at the stone every week. Small things.

Bread. Buttons. A lucky toothpick.

Jack Howl

He stands before the memorial with flowers in hand and says nothing.

Not a word.

But he starts training harder.

When he duels, he whispers: “Hope you’re watching.”

VIL'S OVERBLOT

The air is thick with smoke and glamour. Vil's overblot form collapses, and the world finally breathes.

Everyone thinks it's over.

Until Yuu sways.

Until their lips tremble with blue.

Until they fall with no warning.

Grim reaches them first, and then all hell breaks loose.

Grim

He’s laughing at first. “We did it, right?! Right, Hench—?”

He sees the foam on their lips.

“No.”

He shakes them. “No—NO! Don’t you dare pull this crap—wake up! You said we were gonna get celebratory tuna!”

He shrieks when they stop breathing. He claws at his own face, trembling so hard he can barely speak.

When someone touches him, he bites them.

“DON’T—touch them—don’t take them away!!”

Ace Trappola

He rushes to Yuu’s side, shouting their name. Shaking them like that’ll undo it.

He looks to Deuce. Then to Grim. Then to Vil.

“WHO DID THIS?!”

He’s crying—actually crying—and it’s not cute. It’s ugly. Angry. Messy.

“I should’ve noticed—I should’ve—why didn’t I—?!”

He tries to do CPR. Tries to cast a healing spell. Anything.

None of it works.

Deuce Spade

He goes quiet. Stone-faced.

He tries to carry Yuu’s body like they’re still breathing, like maybe warmth and motion will bring them back.

His voice is hoarse: “I’ll take them to the infirmary. I can fix this. I can fix this.”

He doesn't stop walking until someone physically pulls him back.

When he finally lets go, he drops to his knees and sobs into his hands.

Jamil Viper

When he sees the foaming poison, the slow purple hue crawling over Yuu’s veins…

He knows.

“…Vil used poison,” he mutters, numb. “And they were too close.”

He staggers back, staring at his hands like he’s watching it happen all over again.

“Not again,” he whispers. “Not again.”

He turns and walks away. Doesn’t look back.

This time, he cries alone.

Kalim Al-Asim

“Yuu…?”

He kneels beside them. Touches their cheek.

“Yuu? Come on, wake up—it’s over, we won! You said you’d teach me how to bake that cake, remember?”

He keeps babbling. Keeps smiling. Even as tears start to fall.

Even when they don’t wake up.

“…They were always smiling,” he whispers. “Even when things were scary…”

Epel Felmier

He starts shaking.

He was right beside them. Right beside them.

And he didn’t notice.

“They were fine—they were still standing—they were smiling—”

He screams into his hands. Then punches the ground until his knuckles bleed.

Vil tries to stop him.

Epel shouts, “DON’T!”

And turns away, teeth bared in grief.

Rook Hunt

The first thing he says is quiet. Reverent.

“…They died beautifully.”

Everyone stares.

Then he kneels down and closes Yuu’s eyes gently.

“They were a soul full of light. To burn out in such a theatrical, bittersweet way… it’s almost poetic.”

His voice breaks.

He looks at Vil.

“Mon Roi. What have you done?”

Vil Schoenheit

He knew.

He knew what was in the poison. How fast it worked. How potent it was.

And still—still—he let it happen.

When Yuu collapses, his voice fails. He runs to them, brushes their hair back.

He presses his forehead to theirs.

“…You idiot,” he chokes. “Why didn’t you move? You should have stayed behind the curtain!”

He doesn’t say much after that.

But he cancels his return to the stage.

Forever.

Crowley

He returns to a somber, shattered NRC.

When he hears what happened, he doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t excuse himself.

He walks into Ramshackle dorm, sits in the dark, and whispers:

“I keep failing you.”

He shuts the dorm down for a week.

He leaves a golden brooch on Yuu’s old pillow.

Trey, Cater, Riddle, Leona, Ruggie, Jack

Trey makes a cake and leaves it at Ramshackle. Says nothing.

Cater posts one last selfie with Yuu and doesn’t log into Magicam again for a month.

Riddle reprimands Vil for days—then visits the grave in silence.

Leona grits his teeth, then throws a spell book across his room. Doesn’t talk about it.

Ruggie mutters, “Figures someone like him would mess it up,” then wipes his eyes.

Jack makes a point to place wildflowers near their grave every few days.

Jade whispers, “They died protecting others. Admirable… but costly.”

Floyd just says, “Shrimpy’s really gone, huh…” and doesn’t smile for a week.

Azul throws himself into managing the lounge, late at night he stares at a framed picture of him and Yuu and cries.

Hornton

He’s fixing the stage with his magic. Alone. Quiet. Restoring the ruins left behind after Vil’s rampage.

Then he sees it—Yuu’s name on the memorial plaque. A candle burning low.

He stares.

His magic falters.

“…No.”

His voice shakes.

“...No.”

He vanishes from the stage.

Later, students find the ruins of a blasted tree behind Ramshackle.

And Malleus is there. Silent. Still. Staring at Yuu’s favorite bench—the one they sat on during night talks.

He places a glowing crystal beside it. It hums softly. Mourning.

“No one else sat with me in the dark,” he whispers. “No one else called me ‘Hornton.’”

IDIA'S OVERBLOT

Grim

He's inconsolable.

Screaming. Thrashing. Clinging to Yuu's unmoving form. There's soot on his fur and tear tracks down his face.

“They were just—they were just joking about food! We were gonna go home, we were—they PROMISED!!”

He tries to breathe fire in grief, but it sputters out into smoke. He curls into their chest and won’t let go.

Ace Trappola

“No.”

He walks up. Stares. Backs away.

“No. No—no, this isn’t—that’s not funny, Yuu. Get up.”

He turns to Deuce. His voice is cracking.

“They’re gonna sit up. They’re just messing with us, right?”

But no one laughs.

He kneels down and covers his face with both hands.

Deuce Spade

His entire body locks up.

“I should’ve—gone in with them. I should’ve…”

His fists clench so tightly they bleed.

He kneels beside Grim and takes one of Yuu’s hands in his. Quiet.

“Thank you… for everything.”

Jack Howl

He has no words. Only a silent, thunderous grief.

He lowers his head respectfully. Closes Yuu’s eyes with trembling fingers.

He doesn't cry. But his voice is hoarse for days.

Later, he trains until he collapses. Trying to make sure no one else dies again.

Ruggie Bucchi

“…Sh*t.”

That’s all he says at first. He turns away.

Wipes his eyes before anyone sees.

But he leaves a meat pie at their grave later. Wrapped in a checkered cloth. No note. No message.

Just something Yuu said they always wanted to try.

Leona Kingscholar

He scowls. Says they were reckless. That it was bound to happen.

But the minute no one’s watching, he storms off into the desert garden and roars so loud it shakes the windows.

When he comes back, he’s dragging an ancient herb said to revive the dead.

It doesn’t work.

Trey Clover

He finds Grim later in Ramshackle.

And quietly makes enough food for two, even though only Grim eats.

No one sees him cry.

But he starts baking a certain kind of cake more often—one that only Yuu ever asked for.

Cater Diamond

He doesn’t post anything on Magicam for three months.

He tries to smile. He jokes. But his heart’s not in it.

He visits Ramshackle every week and leaves flowers—sunflowers, yellow and bright.

“You always made things feel warm, y’know?” he whispers.

Riddle Rosehearts

He keeps it together at first.

But when he’s alone? He breaks.

He slams his fists into the desk. Screams into the void.

“They didn’t have magic! They shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have had to go alone!”

He writes a law in Yuu’s honor: “No student shall face a magical threat without backup.”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul’s hands shake when he sees Yuu’s body.

“They gave me a second chance,” he whispers.

“And I couldn’t even…”

He shuts down the Lounge for a week.

He orders every contract reviewed. Removes every dangerous clause Yuu once called out.

He leaves an ornate seashell at their grave. Etched with: “For the one who believed in me.”

Jade Leech

“…A tragedy.”

His tone is calm. But his eyes are not.

He takes off his gloves and places them over Yuu’s hands, folding them gently.

“I suppose I must find a new mushroom for mourning,” he murmurs.

He visits often. Leaves nothing but silence and prayers.

Floyd Leech

At first? Nothing.

Just blank staring.

Then: “Shrimpy’s really gone, huh?”

He doesn’t cry.

But he drags Idia by the collar and nearly kills him.

“You owe them. FIX IT.”

It takes four people to pull him off.

He doesn't smile after that. Not for a long time.

Idia Shroud

At first, he thinks it’s a glitch.

Then he sees them—unmoving, burned at the edges, body limp in Grim’s arms.

He doesn’t scream.

He just stares. A long time. And says:

“…I killed them.”

He doesn't resist when Floyd attacks. He wants to be punished.

Later, he shuts himself inside the lab. Ignores Ortho. Refuses food.

All he says, over and over, is:

“I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this.”

Ortho Shroud

“No. No, no, no—please wake up! I can scan you—I can rebuild you, I can—”

His voice distorts.

“PLEASE DON’T LEAVE NII-SAN BEHIND!!”

When Yuu doesn’t stir, Ortho’s eyes dim.

He flies off.

And no one sees him for three days.

Crowley

He was there. Watching from the surface. Powerless to go down with them.

When Yuu doesn’t return, he collapses to his knees.

He says nothing.

But every night after, the gate to the Underworld glows dimly. Lit by a single enchanted candle.

Burning for the student who dared cross the River Styx.

MALLEUS'S OVERBLOT (may be inaccurate)

Grim

He holds your hand as you fade, clawing at the thorns like they'll move.

“Don’t go. You—you always saved everyone!! I was supposed to protect you—!!”

He’s wailing.

When it’s over, he curls into your chest and doesn’t speak for two days.

Ace Trappola

He’s the first to scream.

“WHAT’S THE POINT OF WAKING UP IF THEY’RE DEAD!?”

He runs at the thorns. Punches them until his fists bleed. Until Deuce pulls him back.

He curses Malleus. Then curses himself.

Then, eventually, just sits on the floor. Staring.

Deuce Spade

He kneels beside your body.

His voice cracks as he says:

“I became a better person because of you…”

Then, in a whisper:

“…I don’t know how to be good without you.”

Cater Diamond

“No… not them… anyone but them…”

He sobs. No filters. No jokes. No posing.

His Magicam goes dark again. He locks himself in his room and cries into their old photos.

Trey Clover

He can’t breathe when he sees you.

He covers his face. Kneels.

“I should’ve done more. Been there. Helped you—something.”

He leaves a tiny tart beside your grave, baked with your favorite flavor.

Riddle Rosehearts

His voice is a whisper. Unsteady.

“They were the only one who understood me... even after everything I did...”

He places a rose—red and thornless—on your chest.

And kneels, head bowed.

Leona Kingscholar

He stares down at you. Quiet.

“I told you not to play hero,” he murmurs.

He sounds tired. Angry. Hollow.

But he watches over your grave when no one else will.

Silent. Guarding. For hours at a time.

Ruggie Bucchi

"...Tch."

He turns his back. Walks away.

But hours later, someone finds a crumpled note by your bed.

"Thanks for feeding me."

Jack Howl

He stands still for a long time.

Then salutes you with quiet reverence.

“You had more heart than anyone I’ve ever met.”

He trains harder than ever after that. To live by your example.

Azul Ashengrotto

He drops to his knees.

“This wasn’t part of the deal…”

His voice breaks.

“I would've traded everything. Just—just to keep them safe…”

He cancels all contracts for a week. Shuts down the Lounge. Cries behind locked doors.

Jade Leech

He gently closes your eyes.

And, for once, doesn’t smile.

“Even rare orchids wither in the frost,” he says.

And places a white lily beside you.

Floyd Leech

“…Shrimpy…”

He pokes your cheek.

No response.

Then he howls. He tears up a hallway. Slams a wall with a fist that cracks stone.

He doesn’t laugh again for a month.

Kalim Al-Asim

“No no no—you were supposed to live!! You saved me!! Why didn’t I save you!?”

He sobs into Jamil’s shoulder.

He lights candles in your memory every night.

Jamil Viper

He closes his eyes.

He doesn't speak. Just mutters a single word:

“Unfair.”

But later, he visits your resting place, presses a charm into the soil.

“I owed you more than I gave.”

Vil Schoenheit

He holds you like glass. Like something sacred.

“Your final act was... selfless. Poetic. Tragic.”

He speaks at your memorial.

And always leaves a pristine white rose.

Epel Felmier

His shoulders shake.

He refuses to speak at the ceremony. But he carves a tiny wooden charm for you.

He carries it in his pocket. Always.

Rook Hunt

Tears fall freely.

“Ah, mon trésor… such beauty, such sacrifice…”

He writes a ballad in your honor. He performs it in the forest, alone.

Idia Shroud

He stares at you with wide eyes. Whispering to himself.

“No. No. Not again. Not another one. Not like Ortho—!”

He curls into himself.

And when he reboots Ortho later, he hugs him like he’ll disappear too.

Ortho Shroud

He powers down for a full day.

And when he reactivates, he asks:

“Why didn’t I detect the danger? Why couldn’t I save them?”

He makes a digital backup of your voice. It plays when he’s alone.

Lilia Vanrouge

He lowers his head and whispers in old fae tongue.

“They were brave.”

He sings an ancient lullaby only fae children know.

And your grave is tended by wild roses from then on.

Silver

He brushes your hair back.

“I thought we’d all wake up…”

He places a dream charm on your chest.

“So you’d never be afraid. Not even now.”

Sebek Zigvolt

He yells.

First at Malleus. Then at the world. Then at himself.

“They protected you, my lord! And now they’re GONE!”

His voice breaks.

He kneels beside your grave.

“They were… a knight.”

Malleus Draconia

When he sees you fall, his world ends.

The thorns fade. The dreams collapse.

You lay still in his arms.

His voice is a whisper. A plead.

“No. No no no. This isn't what I wanted…”

He doesn’t overblot again.

He just… disappears.

Some say he wandered into the thorns. Others say he turned into mist.

But on quiet nights, a low voice murmurs:

“I wanted eternity with you.”

Crowley

For once… he takes responsibility.

He wears all black.

He lays a feathered mask at your grave.

And whispers:

“You were the one good thing I never deserved.”

[cryptotheism]

The "potion-crafter" archetype of alchemist used in fantasy is often, like, an independent chemist that works off commission or sales to create fireball elixirs or exorcism salves. Is there a grain of truth, there? Did alchemists in any period you studied make a living by synthesizing magical items (like panaceas or DIY-chrysopoeia-kits or somesuch) and selling them on to any willing customer, or was that not really in their domain?

Ha! You know sometimes it can be a bit annoying answering asks like this, because most fantasy media isn t terribly interested in authentically representing history, BUT THIS TIME I can give y'all a specific and direct answer!

The archetype of the potion-crafter you're talking about almost definitely has its roots in an actual pre-paracelcian european medical profession; the Apothecary.

There were three types of doctors in the 1500s. There were diagnosticians, the people who went to school to learn about anatomy, and were allowed to call themselves "doctor." There were surgeons, the low-skilled workers who were in charge of hacking off limbs and draining bedpans. And there were apothecaries, basically the medieval equivalent of a pharmacist.

If you were a wealthy merchant, and you went to a doctor for your runny nose, he would look you over, and give you a prescription that you were supposed to take down to your local apothecary, so you could buy a potion from them.

But these prescriptions weren't exactly strict. A doctor might prescribe you an exact list of ingredients with the amounts, or he might just prescribe you "a healing ungent of cooling and drying herbs." So the apothecaries occasionally had some wiggle room based on supplies and expertise.

The important thing to remember, is that apothecaries were NOT considered magicians or alchemists.

That is, until Paracelsus came along.

See, good ol' Paracelsus was a radical innovator. He was one of the first physicians in history to be all three types of doctor at once. He was a diagnostician, a surgeon, and an apothecary. He argued that all doctors should have knowledge of their entire profession, and that no doctor was above suturing their patients wounds, and mixing their patients medicines.

He was also, crucially, an alchemist and a magician.

Alchemy was the cutting edge of technology for the time, a practice regarded with equal parts awe and suspicion, but it was more the realm of glassblowers and metallurgists than doctors or botanists. Paracelsus disagreed. He argued that if it's part of God's creation, it should be used to heal the human body.

This extended to magic. Paracelsus figured that you had to factor in things like "the movement of the planets and their influence on the earth." And he was known for prescribing patients things like "astral talismans to be worn about the neck." A practice that, even for his time, was often seen as backwards and superstitious. (Although given how harmful medieval medicine was, the astral talismans might have been your best option sometimes.)

Paracelsus was a radical. People fucking hated him, especially when he was alive. But his ideas were extremely influential, and exploded in popularity after his death in 1541. I can confidently say that the fantasy archetype of the Potion Brewer is based on Paracelcian physicians, the doctor/alchemist/apothecary/magicians who followed his theories.

Here I'll link my Patreon if y'all wanna support my research! I have a whole section on Paracelsus.

[emiqip]

Pt.3 Apocalyptic Ponyo AU ft. Shockwave and his... kids. @keferon

For all they've been through together, this had to be the dumbest thing they've ever done- which is saying something, considering not too many months ago they collectively decided to raid the city's garbage dump not taking into account that a) there would be some kind of security system (who defends trash anyway? weirdos) b) the smell and c) the local population of possums they inevitably bothered. 

All in all, that could have even been considered a good day in Skywarp's book- yeah, they didn't find anything, they all smelled pretty fucking terrible without any way of washing the stench away and they were covered in bite marks, hoping none of those things had rabies- but they laughed and joked about it for weeks after. 

This situation, however, was anything but funny. 

Following Blue's little stunt, the remaining children left at base were informed to meet at the nearest shore, where the youngest's new... friend? Still waited for them. A few minutes of shock and surprise from both parties after, they finally decided on how to fix whatever this was. The plan was simple too: separate Blue from the sea freak, gather all of their stuff and set off to the sparkly horizon, leaving all of this behind their backs- no strings attached. 

Obviously that would've been too good to be true, something had to go wrong: of course their youngest still refused to leave, even when Damus finally gained some courage and went over to pick Blue up by force- too bad the little menace immediately started ugly sobbing. Not only that, the twins got over their fear pretty quickly, replacing it with the raw force of curiosity little kids have for anything ugly, sticky and new. Cue Soundwave being assigned as their official babysitter lest the two would sprint and try to climb the fish like a pair of coked-up squirrels. And, yeah, not the smoothest outcome but hey! Now they could, you know, leave. 

He was so so wrong. As soon as the Thing noticed they were walking away it started  chirping at them over and over, like it was calling for them to get back. Kinda sad, but they could ignore it (unless you were Blue- still crying in TC's arms while making grabby hands at the mer), what alarmed them was the fact that it started to use all of its upper body strength and try to slowly beach itself in the goal of reaching their group. Needless to say the situation called for a new plan fast- even in ten, considering its size, they still weren't enough to push it back in to the water. 

The solution was just to camp out on the shore and find a way out of this in the morning. To the absolute delight of their youngest, who decided that for the night he would be sleeping with the freak, and unsurprisingly the twins only followed by starting to poke and prod at the being, who seemed to enjoy the attention as much as them. Windcharger joined their little huddle too for the evening, explaining himself with a little shrug of his shoulders and a quick, "He's warm and I'm cold- you can freeze for one more night for all I care," and left it at that. That traitor.

Oh well, this would soon be over anyway. 

\\\

Two. Weeks. 

Two whole weeks passed since this whole charade was supposed to be over, but instead he found himself being ferried away on the wettest, most fucked up recreation of the 'Magic School Bus' he's ever seen.  Worst of all Ms. Fizzle was replaced by an oversize pancake with gills. 

This was supposed to be the closest thing to a compromise: the kids got to keep their fish and the others got a free ride trough the apocalypse- pretty sweet if you asked him.

They were slowly making their way towards what was once the busiest side of the city: he remembers coming here with his brothers and getting overwhelmed every time by the sheer amount of people bustling around. Both locals and tourists blended perfectly in a vortex of voices, faces and mannerisms. For a boy who lived at the edge, this was exhilarating. 

But the best part of this chaos were the shops windows: there was one who was squeezed between a tiny flea shop and a bakery owned by a couple of kind old people- the window's space was taken by a plethora of several vintage televisions, each of them displaying something different- his favorite old show was filmed at their local aquarium and had as protagonist a young orca mer, chirping away happily at the camera, while the crowd gasped in awe at the adorable display. 

He saw his face stare right back at him from the surface of the water. Tired eyes, sunken cheeks and hair grown matted and way too long- what would he do to reverse it all and go back to their shitty daily life. 

From the front of their unusual mean of transportation, he could hear the youngest kids screaming and laughing, more likely pestering the mer like a swarm of particularly persistent flies. Being too focused on eavesdropping the racket, he didn't notice Damus approaching him on unsteady feet. 

"I saw a billboard a few minutes ago: big bright and with the directions to the biggest mall in the city- I'd say we are overdue for a scavenger hunt to restock our resources, what do you say?" The older asked, before staring off into the distance. 

"Sure, why the hell not? I'm pretty sick and tired of eating only fish anyway- cheers to the big guy for catching it for us though." He absentmindedly patted the mer, earning a pleased rumble up ahead.

With a brief nod of assent, he took off to most likely talk to Skids- the teen, after a very intense game of charades, managed to establish a method to communicate with their newest addition, he was even successful in teaching the fishman some very simple words, and in turn the mer taught him some of his language: it was mainly made up of sounds and gestures but Skids, being the fast learner that he was, took to them pretty quickly- a shame that he never had the chance to attend a public school, he would've at the top of his classes for sure. 

He felt the mass he was sitting on stir briefly, as the massive mer changed the course of their journey. The scenery around them slowly changed: hills of crumbled and deformed buildings gave way to a forest of skyscrapers looming over all of them like giant concrete pillars. Since the wave hit, putting a stop to all human activity, nature was steadily taking over- vines descended from a top of buildings, patches of seaweed and sea flora were dotting the submerged asphalted streets. 

They watched in awe as schools of brilliant colored tropical fish darted past them- he heard Blue squeal along the lines of, "Sir. Pancake! Look, it's you!" when a familiar looking shark swam past them.  He could vaguely recognize some of the roads and alleyways, now nearly completely covered by corals and anemones, housing a variety of oceanic wildlife.

Despite everything, there was still beauty left in this abandoned world. 

\\\ 

The dark gaping maw leading inside the mall stared right back at them. Having no way to access the lower levels, since they were long lost under the waves, they had to find another way in- one of the walls had luckily given away to the erosion of the water, leaving the perfect entry point for them and their fishy companion. They were all well aware the mer wasn't too keen on leaving them alone for too long without becoming restless, so this was a win-win situation.

As the shadows progressively engulfed them, the smell of dampness and mold welcomed them inside. He felt TC's hand grabbing his right sleeve to catch his attention, as he turned around he saw his brother pointing at the water with his mouth agape. 

What he saw made him inhale quickly in complete surprise- a pool of neon blue light surrounded them from all sides, swaying gently at the rhythm of the mer's movements. 

"...bioluminescent algae- read about them once, but I never thought I would ever see them for myself." He heard TC whisper softly at him. 

"Woah, this is so fucking cool..." Soft murmurs of assent from his siblings filled the silence he left behind, as they all watched the water entranced by the spectacle of lights. 

They were all suddenly woken up from their trance by a brisk movement from their means of transport that almost made all of them topple over into the water. Apparently 'Sides decided he wanted to touch the pretty blue lights, nearly taking a dip for himself if the mer didn't glance over and quickly caught the little kid with one of his huge webbed hands. At least the pest had the decency to look away sheepishly at the mer's silent but admonishing expression. 

Without any other close calls, they made it to what was once the food court- a huge circular dome where the pavement had partially collapsed, leaving behind a slope where dry land and water could meet, the perfect place to finally get down and stretch their legs after hours of swimming around. Trailbreaker reached into his ridiculously big backpack and started passing around a bunch of flashlights- the teen liked to be prepared for anything, even if that meant bringing around some additional weight. 

The moment his feet met the ground he let out a happy sigh- exploring the sunken city was great and all, but nothing could compare to the chance of finally burning all of his residual energy. Damus clapped his hands to get everyone's attention and started his usual spiel before any resource-gathering trip. 

"Alright everyone, you know the drill: six of us are going in pair to explore the building- pick up only things you think will come in hand, leave everything else. Do not take more then you need, we are not the only survivors around, so let's not doom other people only because we felt a little bit greedy today. See something? Scream. Lastly, the brats stay here with Sir. Pancake, while one of us will also remain to keep watch- can I have a drum roll for our lucky winner?" The question was met with an enthusiastic chorus of voices. 

"Aand- Trailbreaker you're up!"

"Awh man- what?" The teen sagged his shoulders as Windcharger smugly patted his arm. 

"Look at the bright side dude: you'll have fish-dad helping you this time." 

"Not helpin' Charger, kudos for trying though..." Trailbreaker's muffled response came from behind his hands, as the other kid only shrugged and joined Skids to prepare for departure. 

In the meantime, Skywarp gingerly hooked his right arm with TC's, leading him towards one of the halls connected to the dome.  From the ceiling stray cables and crumbled pieces of drywall dangled freely, occasionally disturbed by a gentle breeze coming from inside the hallway. He gave himself a few seconds to glance behind his back: the children, in the few minutes they arrived, had apparently started their very own game of tag, skidding away on the wet floor, completely unbothered by what was happening around them. Trailbreaker, accepting his fate, decided to use this time to clean the barrel of his shotgun, while sitting on the floor with his back leaning on the mer's arm.

The creature however was looking apprehensively at them: worry and fret swirled in his blue eyes- they all knew he didn't like to see them leave, but this was necessary. He absentmindedly threw him his best calming smile, hoping to reassure him enough. The mer was briefly taken by surprise before nodding and giving Skywarp a hasty nod. 

 'I trust you.'

"Good luck everyone! If you're not back in an hour we'll come find your sorry asses, so be on time- I'm talking to you Skids!" Damus voice bounced on the walls of the abandoned building. 

"...you get lost one time-" The cut-off whispered replay of his sibling was the last thing he heard before entering the hall with TC in tow. 

\\\

Their wet footfalls was the only noise filling in the utter silence around them.

The bright beams of their flashlights cutting through the thick wall of darkness. Now that he had the chance to look at it up close, he could pinpoint exactly when life had come to a stop between these molded walls: on tiny cafe tables sat long forgotten coffee stained cups, the occasional eerily empty stroller was abandoned haphazardly in the middle of the hallway, still pale mannequins were silent witnesses to the disaster, while purses and toys littered the floors. Moments frozen in time. 

He felt himself shudder, trying to shake off the feeling of wrongness from his shoulders. 

So far they found only a couple of useful things, mainly industrial tape, iron wire and other items from a hardware store they had just raided. All the possibly edible things they dug up have all been either completely or partially covered in mold- all of this moisture made it difficult for things to stay fresh, especially since electricity had been one of the first things they'd lost to the massive wave, completely cutting off all of power to fridges. 

Hopefully the others had been more lucky, he really wasn't looking forward to another overcooked sardine- none of them had always been the greatest cook after all and he doubted Sir. Pancake knew his way around a stove. Great now he was thinking about the mer holding a comically small pan, while wearing a pink frilly apron with the words 'Kiss The Fish' printed on the front- 

He was interrupted mid-giggle by TC's pointy elbow digging into his side- which he was about to comment on before his brother nudged him again, signaling with his light to something on the wall. 

"Storage Room." Read his sibling aloud, with a knowing smile.

"Fucking jackpot, baby!" Skywarp blurred out- ooh the joy he'll feel when they'll be able to shove in their losers sibling faces a box full of protein bars. 

A wide new hallway opened up for them, at the end of it he could discern the top of a pair of rusted shut down automatic stairs. They eagerly hurried down them, impatience and hunger for discovery was eating away at them- before diving waist deep into a pool of freezing water. 

They both startled for a few seconds, and then realization hit. They both forgot the lower levels were entirely flooded, but thankfully water didn't seem too high from what they could see through the darkness- hopefully the floor was built on the same level and didn't suddenly dip under them. The water was way too murky to see what was happening under the surface, and that did nothing to appease the apprehension this place was giving off in waves- he suddenly felt the shivers he shrugged off return in full force. 

"Thunders, not gonna lie, I have a bad feeling about this." His whisper echoed on the walls enclosing them. 

"Yeah... I feel like there's something we're missing." The other confessed, as they slowly trudged forward. "It's been scratching my brain since we passed that cafè...".

"Right?! I feel the same... all that chaos and we only find a bunch of litter on the floor-"

Thundercracker stopped abruptly in his path, making him stop too. 

"Uh- TC, you okay?" He lifted his torch to better look at his brother. 

"...the corpses."

"Oh! Yeah, this was a very busy place, how come we haven't found... any... corpses..."

One of the worst mistakes humanity ever made, was to think that they had any chance at being on top of the food chain. Centuries of time spent spreading and conquering all known continents, had led them to believe that nothing could touch them if they hid behind their big wars and even bigger weapons. However, Hubris is the first deadly sin, condemned to be a human's last. 

From the void, a pair of bulging white eyes stared back at him. A gaping maw full of jagged yellowed teeth, was framed by two lines of receding gums barely attached to the skull. Ivory white plaques covered a shiny metal body underneath, decorating a lizard-like muscular frame, still as stone- like a spring ready to be released. 

They were moving even before his brain could catch up with him. Fight or flight on full force- his main goal was to get away and do it fast.  

Thundercracker quickly followed him, as he felt the large creature pounce towards them. 

Climbing the stairs and reaching the top almost slipping down and falling on his brother. 

They sprinted down the hall- heavy footsteps never too far behind as the beast snapped his monstrous jaws, trying to catch them. 

Blurs of the coffee shop and hardware store passed next to them, as realization hit him once more- they were bringing a human-eating mutant right to their little brothers. 

'See something? Scream.'

And screaming he did. 

His alarmed voice filled the dome as in a moment of distraction his foot slipped on a nearby puddle, leaving him to fall face first unto the hard ground- hopefully his little siblings where not stupid enough to try and come help him. 

He knew this was coming. 

A hot breeze hit the back of his head, as the stench of death reached his nostrils. The heavy weight of a massive clawed paw, pressed him flat on the floor, painfully crushing his chest. He wanted to say he had been brave enough to face his fate, but instead he hid his face inside the crook of his elbow, heaving a last breath verging on a whimper- he only wanted to help his family, and this is how he died, it felt a bit like deja-vu...

Too busy giving thought to his adrenaline infused rants, he didn't immediately feel the crushing weight being suddenly lifted off of him- a giant wall of muscle and pure unbridled fury, tackled the beast into the other side of the room. A low guttural threatening growl woke him up from his stupor and he was on his feet in seconds- the now enraged mer stood between Skywarp and the monster. 

The teen almost didn't recognize him, a completely mirrored image of the usually peaceful creature- what was once a beacon of gentleness, who always moved like he knew he could easily hurt any of them, oh so very careful of his size and strength- now gave away to a terrifying predator, claws and fangs fully on display and ready to use. 

The mutant pounced once again, now his attention taken solely by the mer, who in tow used his massive tail to spring forward and grab the monster by the tail- hastily pulling it towards the water where he could've a clear advantage. 

Too focused on the feral brawl, he didn't hear Damus' muffled voice calling him through the static ringing in his ears.  

"-warp, we need to move! Shit, Skywarp move your ass, goddamnit!" A hand forcefully grabbed his left arm, before he was pulled to his unsteady feet. The front of his shirt was snatched and he felt himself move and duck behind a nearby counter- his eyes never leaving the fight.

If this thing was anything else, now it would be long dead- but unfortunately genetics were on its side. The ivory armor covering its body made for an impenetrable defense- meaning, it was not only built to hunt things smaller than itself, but also to wear out bigger predators and use twist their tiredness on them to deal the final blow. 

"...he's not going to make it." 

"Uh? What are you talking ab-?" 

"He'll lose- WE HAVE TO HELP HIM!"

A still out-of-breath Thundercracker slowly approached him with his hands held up, like he was placating a wild animal and not his own brother. 

"Warp, please be reasonable- What chance do we have against that thing? Bullets will not work and we can't risk hitting our only ally against it, we shou-"

"What? Run? I'm not going to save my ass while someone else is going to die- you're not making me give him the Smokey treatment, no chance in hell." 

Only the sound of the background fight remained, as a mournful silence descended upon them. That name was bound to stir flashes of awful memories in all of them- the darkest times since the beginning of their broken little family. Their missing piece, forever lost. 

"...what's the plan?" The trembling voice of their youngest broke the silence. 

Skywarp drew in a ragged breath as he blurred out their only chance for all of them to get out of this alive. 

"Metal! The- that thing's body is made of metal underneath, if we can find a way to electrocute it, its own body is going to act as a super-conduct and fry it's organs from the inside out." 

"Me and 'Charger found a small generator not too far from here, I think we can use it," Skid's chimed in from the back of their little huddle, "we attach some cables on it and pinch that thing- than boom fried fish." 

With a plan in mind they all moved like a bunch of frenzied rats. Windcharger and Skids ran to fetch the generator, while Soundwave followed them in case they needed to jump-start it. The kids were ordered to stay put and not engage, as the others watched the fight, waiting for their time to strike. 

But as they took in every detail of what was happening, it was clear they had run out of time. The mer was clearly using the last of his energies to just keep the thing still- deep bleeding wounds littered his frame, one of his eyes was closed off by a cut that run at the center of his face, as he gasped for breath- eye dazed and a shaky pupil stared at his enemy. 

He registered his siblings returning with the small generator, but he was quick to snatch the cables attached to it from Soundwaves' hands. 

"We don't have time- I'm going to do something crazy, but it'll be fine!" He cried out, ignoring his siblings' shouted protests- metal was not the only super-conduct present in the dome. 

As he skidded to a stop and knelt near the water, he felt time slow down. He watched as the mutant freed itself and in a few seconds snapped its mouth on the mer's side, trying to rip off a large chunk of meat. The mer let out a haunting pain-filled cry, as he desperately used his last energies to claw at the mutants' skull, in hopes of getting it to let go. 

Skywarp had to act now.

Before he plucked the sparkling cables into the pool, he glanced once more not expecting to lock eye with the blue one of the mer- illuminated by the blue hue of the algae, covered in gaping wounds and suffering immense pain, was smiling at him- one of those familial calming smiles that he became used to on a daily basis, since their crazy companionship began. 

'I trust you.'

Those same eyes that were looking at him with only fondness, suddenly became bloodshot as an immense wave of energy traveled through his frame in a matter of seconds. Skywarp felt his, now free, hands tremble with adrenaline as they all watched their guardian being electrocuted- and with him the beast.

What had been merely moments, felt like hours. 

They won. 

The limp body of the beast slowly sunk into the depths dragged by it's own heavy body, as the victor stood tall in the middle of the dome. Water fell from his broad back in droplets, a deep purple hue cloaked him from underneath- the algae, who soon changed color after being hit by the wave of electricity. The mer red blood-shot eye never left his gaze as he held the other half of his face, covering his wounded eye with a clawed hand.

Skywarp and his brothers watched as their guardian's form eventually staggered and swayed, until his worn body hit the shore with a shuddering thud. A keening sound left the mer's mouth as his body convulsed a couple of times, before finally settling into a fetal position. 

A small blur rounded the counter he left behind his shoulders- Blue sprinted towards the now still body of the mer, halting himself near his head before hugging it as best as he could. 

"Get up... please, you have to get up- I don't want to leave you here," A sob escaped the little kid as he gently pushed at the mer's cheek, "please Sir.Panca- Dad, get up..."

Slowly they all began to huddle around the still-breathing, even if ragged, body of their guardian- the mer shuddered as he gently lifted his head to nudge soothingly at his youngest. He looked over all of them, as if to assure himself that nobody was injured, until he locked eyes with Skywarp once again. The mer cooed, lifting his hand to beckon him to come closer. 

The teen got up on unsteady legs and made his way toward his guardian, collapsing into the crook of his massive neck. As a clawed hand started caressing his back, he found it so difficult to hold in his tears. 

"I'm sorry- this is all my fault," he wailed, "and now you're hurt and- and I did this to you... when you've been nothing but gentle and patient with us from the beginning... some fucking friend I am." 

"...hurt?" He was taken by surprise as the mer spoke to him- a thick warped accented voice. 

"What? No, you big dummie- I'm not hurt..." 

His guardian had the gull to smile down at him- the huge fucking sap. He couldn't help but smile in tow as he felt Bluestreak join their little hug, and settle himself down to nap away the residual adrenaline. 

He watched as his siblings sat all around them- weapons in hand, standing on guard and silently daring anything or anyone to attack their guardian. 

Yeah, he was not ready for this to end just yet.

[mahalachives]

Part 1: The Lady of Autumn

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The worst part about nursing school isn't the exams, the clinical rotations, or even the soul-crushing student debt.

It's the persistent feeling that you're being slowly murdered by sleep deprivation.

Which, ironically, is exactly what they're training you to prevent in others.

"Just four more blocks," you mutter, clutching your textbooks as you trudge home at 2 AM. Streetlights flicker ominously above, casting elongated shadows that seem to reach for you with hungry fingers. You make a mental note to report this to the city's Department of Overly Dramatic Lighting.

Your phone buzzes.

Your roommate: Did you die from studying? Should I eat your leftover pizza?

You respond: Still alive. Touch my pizza and you won't be. I've memorized 206 bones in the human body, which means I know exactly which ones to break.

The wind intensifies, scattering crimson and gold leaves in a spiraling dance reminiscent of flames.

That's when it hits you—the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

Cold fingers trace your spine despite your thick jacket. You quicken your pace, mentally cataloging potential weapons in your bag.

Trauma care textbook? Too unwieldy, but could give someone a concussion—and then you'd be ethically obligated to treat them. Pen? Requires close combat skills you definitely lack. The pepper spray is buried somewhere in the depths of your backpack—unreachable in time, like that one french fry that falls between car seats.

A shadow shifts to your left. A figure emerges from between two parked cars.

A man. Unmistakably dangerous.

"Wallet and phone," he demands, voice gravelly with impatience.

"Seriously?" Exhaustion momentarily eclipses fear. "I'm a nursing student. I have seventeen dollars and a maxed-out credit card. You'd make better money outside Starbucks.”

His expression hardens, something feral flickering behind his eyes. "I said, wallet and phone." Moonlight catches the blade in his hand—not the cheap switchblade you'd expect, but something with an almost ceremonial quality to its curved edge.

"Fine, fine," you say, reaching slowly for your bag. "No need for violence. The seventeen dollars is all yours.”

As you move, he lunges forward—startled by a passing car or simply impatient.

The knife slides between your ribs with disturbing ease.

"Oh," you say stupidly. "That's not good."

Pain erupts, sharp and searing, as your textbooks crash to the pavement. The man flees without even taking your wallet, his footsteps fading too quickly, as if he's vanishing rather than running.

You press against the wound, your training asserting itself through the shock.

Pressure. You need pressure.

But blood seeps between your fingers with alarming speed, warm and sticky against your increasingly cold skin. Iron and copper fill your nostrils—the unmistakable scent of your own mortality.

"Help," you try to call, but it emerges as a whisper.

As you slide down against cold brick, vision blurring, something inexplicable happens. The shadows around you deepen, moving with apparent purpose. The autumn leaves aren't merely wind-blown—they're circling you in a deliberate vortex, faster and faster until they blur into a wall of fire-colored light.

In your fading consciousness, you witness something impossible.

A tear—as if reality itself has been sliced open by the same blade that pierced your side. Through this aperture pours light unlike anything you've seen before, golden, warm, and impossibly ancient. It smells of cinnamon and woodsmoke and something else—something that reminds you of lightning striking earth.

As darkness encroaches, one final, absurd thought crosses your mind. I'm definitely going to miss that anatomy exam tomorrow. Dr. Phillips will never believe I died as an excuse.

Then nothing.

Until you wake to a ceiling painted with flames and falling leaves, each one rendered with such excruciating detail that they appear to be actually falling, burning, dancing above you.

You sit up cautiously, your muscles responding with unfamiliar grace. Your body feels simultaneously lighter and more powerful, as if gravity holds less sway over you. Your hand instinctively finds your side where the stab wound should be.

Nothing. Not even scar tissue.

Just smooth skin beneath unfamiliar silk nightclothes embroidered with flame-colored threads in patterns of leaves and fire. You realize you've never felt silk this nice before.

When you swing your legs over the bed, the room tilts strangely. Your balance is off, your center of gravity shifted. You nearly stumble, catching yourself on an ornately carved bedpost shaped like twisted branches. Your reflexes seem sharper, but your limbs are longer than you remember, more elegant.

The door opens, and a petite woman with auburn hair enters, carrying a silver tray. When she notices you're conscious, she startles violently, nearly spilling a glass of dark liquid. The smell reaches you—wine, but infused with unfamiliar spices and something that makes your nose tingle.

"My lady!" she exclaims, voice pitched high with unmistakable terror. But beneath the fear, you detect something else—a morbid curiosity, as if she's witnessing a predator that might choose another target instead of her. "You're—you're awake!"

You stare at her, bewildered by her fear. "Yes... How long was I asleep?" And why are you looking at me like I'm going to use your spleen as a hat?

She sets down the tray with trembling hands, maintaining maximum distance between you. "Three days, my lady. The High Lord has been most concerned."

High Lord.

The words should be meaningless, yet they resonate with peculiar familiarity, like a half-remembered dream. Images flash unbidden—a throne room with walls of amber, a crown of golden antlers, hands that can conjure fire with a snap of fingers.

"Where am I?" you ask gently, afraid she might bolt at any sudden movement. Your voice sounds strange to your ears—more musical, with an undercurrent of authority you've never possessed.

Her eyes widen further, pupils dilating with renewed fear. "The Autumn Court, my lady. Your home." She retreats toward the door, never breaking eye contact, as if you might attack without warning. "Shall I... inform Lord Eris of your awakening?"

"Yes, please," you reply, mystified by her reaction. "Thank you."

She curtsies deeply—too deeply, almost mockingly so, though terror doesn't resemble mockery—and hurries out, closing the door with a soft click that somehow conveys relief.

You slide from the bed, noticing an ornate mirror across the room. Approaching cautiously, you examine your reflection.

You look... different.

Not dramatically, but there's something otherworldly about your appearance now. Your features are still recognizable, but sharper, more refined. Your skin glows with a subtle luminescence, like late afternoon sunlight through amber. Your eyes now hold flecks of gold that shift and dance like embers in a dying fire. And most obviously, your ears now taper to delicate points. Fae ears. You touch them gently, half-expecting elaborate prosthetics.

But they're warm, sensitive—undeniably yours. When you touch them, a strange shiver runs down your spine, and the candles in the room flicker in response.

I can feel the magic, you realize with a jolt of both terror and exhilaration. It hums beneath your skin like an electrical current, responding to your emotions. The knowledge of how to use it feels tantalizingly close, like a word on the tip of your tongue.

The door opens without warning—no knock, no announcement—and a tall, imposing figure enters. He has auburn hair threaded with gold and eyes like smoldering embers. His face is all sharp angles and aristocratic contempt, beautiful but cold. Yet something flickers in those burning eyes when they meet yours—recognition, followed by confusion, followed by calculation so swift you almost miss it.

"Sister," he says, voice deceptively smooth, like honey concealing broken glass. "How... unexpected to see you awake." His fingers tap against his thigh in a pattern that seems deliberate rather than nervous—one-two-three, pause, one-two—as if counting or sending a signal.

Sister?

He approaches slowly, burning eyes assessing you with predatory intensity. When he passes the window, you notice how the late afternoon light bends toward him, as if drawn to his presence.

"The healers doubted your recovery. Father remains quite... displeased about the incident."

"Incident?" you echo, your voice sounding foreign even to yourself.

A flicker of something—suspicion?—crosses his features before vanishing behind indifference. He stops, studies you with his head tilted slightly, like a raptor sighting prey. "Yes. Your ill-conceived experiment." His smile never reaches his eyes, but a muscle twitches in his jaw—tension or suppressed emotion. "Three days unconscious is theatrical, even for you."

"I was trying to understand them," you say, surprised at the words rising unbidden from some deeper knowledge. "Mortals. Their bodies may be weak, but there's something... innovative about it."

He circles you deliberately, like a predator stalking prey. His movements are too fluid to be human, too predatory to be comforting. "You seem... different."

"Different how?" you ask carefully, fighting the urge to back away.

"I can't quite identify it." He stops uncomfortably close. You can smell autumn on him—fallen leaves, woodsmoke, the sharp tang of apples fermenting into cider. His smile turns cruel, but there's a guardedness to it now. "Is this your new strategy? Feigning amnesia for sympathy? It won't work on Father, I assure you."

"The spell may have had... unexpected effects," you admit, the half-truth forming easily. Something tells you revealing your true nature would be dangerous—possibly fatal. "I'm still... adjusting."

"Hmm." Skepticism radiates from him, but also a hint of curiosity. He examines your face as if searching for cracks in a mask. "Memory loss? Or something more interesting?"

You meet his gaze steadily, despite the instinctive fear his presence evokes. "Let's just say I'm seeing things from a new perspective."

A bark of laughter escapes him—genuine, if brief. "How delightfully cryptic. Perhaps you've finally developed an interesting personality to match your talent for cruelty." He steps back, and you resist the urge to sigh with relief. "Disoriented or not, Father expects you at dinner tonight. The Night Court delegation arrives tomorrow, and he won't tolerate any... incidents."

Night Court. Again, words that should mean nothing yet trigger faint recognition. Dark stone halls beneath a mountain. Political rivals. Ancient grudges. Assassination attempts thinly disguised as diplomatic overtures.

So basically Thanksgiving with extra stabbing.

"I'll be there," you promise, uncertain what else to say. "When should I present myself?"

"Sunset. Wear the red. Father will expect a demonstration of your control after your... mishap." Something almost like concern flashes across his features. "Don't disappoint him. The last time..." He gestures vaguely to a thin scar on his wrist. "Let's just say his temper hasn't improved with age."

"Thank you for the warning," you say, the words feeling strange in your mouth—genuine gratitude toward this dangerous, beautiful creature who is supposedly your brother.

His eyebrows rise slightly, that calculation returning to his gaze. "Now I know something is wrong. Expressing gratitude? Perhaps we should summon the healers again."

"Perhaps I'm simply in a generous mood." Or perhaps I'm not actually your psychotic sister, but just a nursing student who got stabbed and body-swapped into Fantasy Mean Girls.

"See that you are." He turns to leave, pausing at the threshold. "Oh, and sister? Try not to terrorize the servants so thoroughly. The last one you 'played with' still hasn't regained use of her hands. Even Father found that distasteful."

With that, he vanishes, leaving you alone with horrifying implications. And a newfound appreciation for your old life of student loans and instant ramen.

Whoever you now are—whoever's body you inhabit—is someone who tortures servants for amusement. Someone whose mere presence evokes terror. Someone even her brother approaches with caution.

You sink onto the bed's edge, heart racing. Your legs feel weak with the enormity of your situation. Magic. High Lord. Autumn Court. Pointed ears.

All impossible, yet undeniably real. And in a few hours, you must somehow convince a father you've never met that you are his daughter, a daughter renowned for cruelty and volatility. And you thought your nursing practical exams were stressful.

"This can't be happening," you whisper to the empty chamber.

As if in response, the flames in the fireplace leap higher, responding to your distress. On your bedside table, the wine in the glass ripples without being touched.

You stare at your reflection one final time, adjusting the crimson gown that drapes over your unfamiliar body like liquid fire. The fabric responds to your touch, rippling with actual embers that dance along the hemline without burning.

Magic. Your magic, apparently.

"You can do this," you mutter. "Just channel your inner Regina George with a sprinkle of sociopathy."

A knock at the door makes you jump. The same terrified servant enters, keeping her eyes downcast.

"My lady, Lord Eris asked me to remind you that dinner begins in ten minutes."

"Thank you," you say automatically.

The servant freezes, eyes widening in shock.

Right. Apparently psycho-sister doesn't say 'thank you.'

You clear your throat. "I mean... how dare you interrupt my preparations!" The attempt at menace falls embarrassingly flat, your voice rising into a question at the end.

The servant's expression shifts from terror to confusion. "My apologies, my lady. Shall I... help you with your hair?"

"No. Yes. I mean—" You attempt a haughty sneer. "Make it quick, or I'll... turn your fingers into twigs." Was that threatening enough? Too specific? Not specific enough?

The servant approaches cautiously, as if expecting a trap. When you don't immediately immolate her, she begins arranging your hair with trembling fingers.

"You seem... different, my lady," she ventures, immediately flinching as if expecting punishment.

"Do I? How fascinating that a lowly servant thinks she can analyze me," you reply, wincing internally at your awkward delivery.

"Of course not, my lady. Forgive me."

You catch her eye in the mirror, and genuine remorse floods you. "What's your name?" you ask softly.

She freezes mid-motion. "Briar, my lady. Though you've asked seven times this month."

"And I keep forgetting because you're so..." you search for something suitably cruel, "...insignificant."

Rather than appearing hurt, Briar looks relieved. This is familiar territory.

"That's more like you, my lady," she says, almost smiling.

Great. Even my attempts at cruelty are recognizable as fake.

"Tell me, Briar," you say as she pins a golden leaf-shaped comb into your hair. "What exactly is expected of me at dinner?"

Briar's hands pause. "The usual, my lady. Lord Beron will want a demonstration of your powers. You typically create those little fire animals that dance across the table." Her voice drops. "Though perhaps not the ones that tried to set Lord Eris's sleeve on fire last time."

"And what about the Night Court delegation?"

"They arrive tomorrow, my lady. The High Lord and his Inner Circle retinue from the Night Court." She hesitates. "Your father expects you to behave... diplomatically. After the incident with the wine at the Winter Court."

"Ah, yes. That incident."

"When you made Lord Kallias's wine freeze in his throat because he suggested your fire powers were less impressive than his lady's ice abilities? He nearly died."

Holy crap. Who AM I?

"A measured response," you manage to say.

Briar finishes your hair and steps back. "There. You look beautiful, my lady."

"Thank—" You catch yourself. "Obviously I do. Now get out before I decide to use your eyeballs as earrings."

Briar curtsies hurriedly and backs toward the door.

"Wait," you call, softening despite yourself. "Your hands. Are they... I mean, will they heal?"

Her expression shifts to pure confusion. "My hands, my lady?"

"My brother mentioned something about... never mind."

"Oh! You mean Lily's hands. After you made her hold burning coals." Briar's voice is matter-of-fact, but she subconsciously rubs her own palms. "The healer says she might regain partial use eventually."

The horror must show on your face because Briar adds hastily, "She spoke out of turn, my lady. Everyone agreed the punishment was... appropriate."

"Of course," you murmur, stomach churning.

When Briar leaves, you take several deep breaths. I'm inhabiting the body of a literal psychopath in a family of magical sadists. Cool. Cool cool cool.

The dining hall is breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure. The ceiling soars impossibly high, its fresco depicting scenes of battle and conquest. Flames dance in mid-air instead of candles, casting everything in flickering amber light.

At the head of the table sits a male who can only be your "father," Lord Beron. His power radiates from him like heat from a furnace, ancient and oppressive. His eyes—identical to Eris's—track your entrance with predatory assessment.

Eris sits at his right hand. Three other males who share your familial features occupy seats along the table—more brothers, you assume. Their conversation dies as you enter.

"Ah, the prodigal daughter awakens," Beron says, voice like gravel over silk. "How good of you to join us."

You dip into what you hope is an appropriate curtsy. "Father."

"We were taking bets on whether you'd grace us with your presence," says one brother, his tone suggesting he lost money on your arrival.

"Sorry to disappoint," you reply, taking the empty seat across from Eris.

Beron studies you with narrowed eyes. "I'm told your little... experiment left you somewhat altered."

"Nothing that affects my abilities, Father." You hope.

"We shall see." He gestures to your untouched goblet. "Show us."

Crap. Fire animals. How do I—

You stare at the goblet, willing something—anything—to happen. The magic inside you stirs sluggishly, like a reluctant student being forced to solve an equation at the board.

Come on. Fire. Animals. Dancing. How hard can it be?

To your relief, a tiny spark ignites above the wine. It grows, taking shape—limbs forming, a tail, ears—

"A... bunny?" one brother snorts. "How terrifying."

Indeed, a fire-rabbit now hops across the table, leaving no burns despite its flickering form. It looks less "creature of nightmare" and more "adorable woodland friend."

Beron's expression darkens. "Is this a jest?"

"I thought I'd try something... different," you manage.

"Different," Beron repeats flatly.

The rabbit multiplies, becoming two, then four, then eight tiny fire-bunnies hopping around the table. One nuzzles Eris's hand.

"Stop this foolishness," Beron commands.

You frantically try to extinguish them, but they only multiply faster, now nibbling at ghostly fire-carrots that materialize from nowhere.

Eris chokes on his wine, and you can't tell if it's suppressed rage or laughter.

"Perhaps she hit her head harder than we thought," suggests another brother, watching as a fire-bunny does a little dance by his plate.

"ENOUGH!" Beron roars, slamming his fist on the table.

The bunnies explode into shower of sparks that reform into—

"Butterflies?" Eris's voice cracks.

Dozens of fire-butterflies now flutter around the chandelier, casting warm, gentle light across the room.

The brothers exchange baffled glances.

"Who are you," Beron asks slowly, "and what have you done with my daughter?"

Oh no.

"I don't know what you mean, Father," you stammer. "I'm simply exploring... gentler forms of expression."

"Gentler," he repeats, as if you've suggested something obscene. "My daughter, who set her nursemaid on fire for brushing her hair too roughly, is exploring gentler forms of expression."

"Maybe it's a side effect of her spell," offers one brother. "Temporary insanity."

"I'm not insane," you protest. "I'm just..." A human nursing student trapped in a homicidal fairy's body. "...evolving as an artist."

Eris snorts into his wine, earning a glare from Beron.

"Control your creatures," Beron demands.

You concentrate, and the butterflies reluctantly merge into a single flame that hovers over the table before extinguishing itself.

An uncomfortable silence falls.

"Perhaps we should postpone the delegation," suggests the brother beside you. "If she's going to behave... oddly."

"No," Beron's voice is final. "The alliance is too important." His gaze fixes on you. "But you, daughter, will remain in your chambers tomorrow unless you can demonstrate appropriate behavior."

"What if..." you begin carefully, "...what if I promised not to harm anyone?"

The silence that follows is deafening.

"Not harm anyone?" Beron repeats incredulously. "That's the entire point of the delegation. To show strength. To remind them of the consequences of betrayal."

"Through diplomacy," you suggest weakly.

All five males stare at you as if you've sprouted a second head.

"I think," Eris says slowly, "that my sister is merely disoriented from her spell. She'll be herself by tomorrow." His eyes meet yours with unmistakable warning.

"Indeed," you grasp the lifeline. "Just a temporary... adjustment period."

Beron doesn't look convinced, but he returns to his meal with a dismissive gesture. "See that your 'adjustment' concludes before they arrive. The Night Court already thinks us weak after your mother's... display of mercy last solstice."

The brothers return to their previous conversations, though you catch them casting curious glances your way. Only Eris continues to study you openly, his expression calculating.

Later, as servants clear the plates, Eris corners you in the corridor.

"Whatever is happening with you, sister, fix it," he murmurs. "Father is already suspicious."

"I'm trying," you reply truthfully.

"Fire bunnies? Promises not to harm anyone?" He scoffs. "If I didn't know better, I'd think someone replaced you with a Spring Court weakling."

Your heart skips. "Don't be ridiculous."

"The sister I know would have turned that servant's hair to ash just for looking at her directly." He narrows his eyes. "Tomorrow, when they arrive, you will act like yourself. Feared. No more of whatever... this is." He gestures vaguely at all of you.

"Or what?"

A cold smile spreads across his face. "Or I'll tell Father exactly how your experiment failed. And what it might mean for the power dynamics within our court."

The threat hangs in the air between you.

"Fine," you manage. "I'll be more... myself."

"Good." Eris steps back. "I'll have the servants draw up a training schedule for you in the morning. Your magic is clearly... unstable." His eyes linger on yours, as if trying to peer through to the truth. "Sleep well, sister. Tomorrow will be... illuminating."

After he leaves, you hurry back to your chambers, heart pounding. The situation is worse than you thought. Not only are you trapped in a body that isn't yours, in a world of magic and cruelty, but now you have to pretend to be someone you're not—someone terrible.

The moment your door closes behind you, the tears come. Hot and desperate, they stream down your face as you slide to the floor, your back against the door. The elegant gown pools around you like congealing blood.

"I want to go home," you whisper, your voice breaking. "Please, I just want to go home."

Around you, the flames in the fireplace respond to your distress, flickering wildly before dimming to barely-glowing embers. Even the magic of this place seems to mourn with you.

For the first time since waking in this nightmare, you allow yourself to truly feel the loss. Your life. Your future. Your identity. All gone, replaced by this twisted fairy tale where your "family" measures love in scars and power in screams.

There, on the cold stone floor of a monster's bedroom, you cry until exhaustion claims you.

Tomorrow, you'll have to become the villain of someone else's story. But tonight—just for tonight—you allow yourself to be exactly who you are: lost, afraid, and desperately hoping for a way home.

Author's Note: Thanks for diving into this canon(ish) ACOTAR adventure where a nursing student with a "do no harm" oath is suddenly piloting the body of Autumn Court's resident psychopath—think "Florence Nightingale trapped in Bellatrix Lestrange" but with more awkward attempts at being evil.

There's something deliciously ironic about a healer having to pretend to be a torturer. More chapters coming soon! 🫡😶‍🌫️

[katiascraft]

Hi!! Sorry to bother you with a request. Can you make some angsty with miscomunication with happy ending where lando and reader are best friends and kinda like a thing but at the same time he is kinda with magui and then after a while lando and reader start dating and then dts Its drop and she finds out that magui was there when she trough They were already over? Very specific he he and im not good at english im sorry and thank you!

hey anon! I loved this idea sooooo much. i was already thinking about something like this so thank you so very much for your request! and sorry it took this long for me to write it :( i hope you enjoy it <3 (pss your english is very good and your requests will never bother me, they make me happy!) (also I hope it makes sense)

﹙LN4﹚ ── ❝ almost, always ❞

summary: this chapter of y/n’s life is about how lando said there was nobody else for him but then she appeared.

warnings: i used reckless by madison beer to write this one and traitor by olivia rodrigo :( and cried a lot. very angsty. but a happy ending after all. cursing. cheating. insults. please use your imagination along the ride! not proofread.

blog masterlist

You and Lando have been the best of friends since forever. Your older brother, Dante, went to school with George Russell and he has always been really supportive of his driving career. Since you have memory you were playing around at the karting competitions in different places of england and then europe. All of your family was really close to George's family so no doubt you were going to be there for him when he started racing in F2. and that’s exactly when you and Lando met. He was a cute little guy. But a handsome teenager with the most contagious laugh and sparkly ocean blue eyes. You knew that since then, that very first day of competition, you were in love with him.  

And Lando knew it too. He knew the moment he saw your sweet and shy smile directed at him there was no coming back to where things were. You changed his life. You showed him how it was like to love someone. The sun was behind you and it made you look like an angel in his teenage eyes. You were the most beautiful girl he has ever seen. So he knew he didn't have a chance. He kept his feelings and thought that he should be thankful you even talk to him. But you didn’t just talk to him just for talking. You built this magical bond full of love, understanding, admiration. It was healthy. It was safe.

You were inseparable, unbreakable and above all, untouchable. Everyone could see the chemistry. The sparks coming out of you. You had the kind of bond that made people think ‘they must be something more than just friends’. But you both were too scared to do anything about it. You just enjoyed each other's company and it was beautiful that way.

Until it wasn’t anymore. 

Nowaday things between you two are completely different but you were more than sure that if there was a chance to travel back in time, you would. And you would change everything that ruined everything. All the wrong decisions. All the stupid feelings. Her. you would more than gladly erase her. And maybe even erase him too.

Because even though he brought so much joy and love in your life, he also brought a lot of pain and insecurity. He was once your safe place but now you want to be as far away from him as possible. You’re no longer on speaking terms anymore. 

situationships suck ᝰ.ᐟ

(beginning 2023 - middle 2024)

You had convinced yourself what you felt for him was normal. That your heart racing every time he was too close was normal. That the way he looked at your lips when he talked to you was also normal. That the way he looked for you in the crowd every podium was normal. That the way butterflies went in circles in your stomach was normal. That your happiness was coming from his happiness was normal. 

It must be because he has a girlfriend. Luisa. And you like her, right? 

His touch didn’t burn your skin. His fingers didn’t trace circles in them when he was anxious. He didn’t whisper in your ear everytime he was nervous. He didn't ask his team to specifically be allowed to be at the garage close to him. He didn’t introduce you to every single member of the team and everybody knew you. He didn ‘t do all of that when she wasn’t around… because she wasn’t around and you were. 

Lando didn’t know what to do with his feelings. She was his best friend, the girl who got him in and out, through and through. She knew everything about him. She listened. She smiled at him in the sweetest way and made him gifts. When she was around she was the only person that mattered. And sometimes he forgot he had a girlfriend whether she was around or not. It was her, always. But he was a coward and didn’t believe she liked him back that way. She was gorgeous and he was just a dude. He wasn’t special the way he thought she was.

For him, it has always been you. But fear was a cruel thing. He didn’t wanna lose you. He didn’t want to hurt you. He wouldn’t forgive himself. 

So he played along as the loving and caring boyfriend with luisa when you were the only thing in his head. He preferred to stay in your safe bubble of almosts and what ifs rather than fuck it up with you. 

Until that night. The night he knew he couldn’t keep pretending and lose you. He couldn’t keep on lying to luisa. She deserved better. But seeing you with that guy in that little black dress drove him almost insane. You were so close to him, flirting disgustingly. He was red with anger. He wanted to do something but his girlfriend was there and you were supposed to be just that friend of his. His best friend and that was it. He should be happy for you. But he wasn’t. 

So in between the conversation you turned around and saw him staring. Stone face. He was looking straight through you. For a moment you forgot how to breathe. The way his jawline was pressed in a way it made his muscles show even more. His shirt unbuttoned. The lights reflecting on his beautiful eyes. You almost panicked. You could feel he was feeling the same. You knew you weren’t crazy. 

He felt it too. 

You don’t remember how it happened but you ended up on his sheets that night. The way he kissed you so desperately. He broke up with luisa as if it was easy. You didn’t have time to process it at the moment. To see the red flags waving high in the sky. Desire and desperation made it easy to ignore them. He was all your brain could think. His skin against yours. You moaning his name. 

You have waited for that moment your whole life. And you didn’t remember feelings of ecstasy ever before. 

“It’s always been you, yaknow?” His voice was deep and low. He pressed a soft kiss on your neck sending shivers down your spine. His fingers are tracing patterns in your arm. He felt at ease under your scent. 

You remember that night as the most magical night of your life. But you didn’t know that to him it was just another story he would get bored of and throw away.

While you were together, life was the most exciting thing in the world. Road trips, dates at the beach, paddle matches and barbecue with friends, travelling to london to visit his family, party nights, sex, kisses, roses and diamonds. It was perfect. He was the sweetest guy in this world. But there was one thing you wouldn't do. And that was calling him ‘mine’ because he wasn’t yours. You were just ‘friends’. But friends shouldn’t know how you taste, right?

That made you feel so confused. He told you he loved you and made love to you as if it was a promise. But then you were his friend to his family and friends. Just y/n. It was you, yes but not the way you would’ve preferred to be called. 

But then, out of nowhere it seemed, he would flirt with girls at parties in your face. And that’s when everything started going to shit. You didn’t understand what was actually going on. Why was he doing that? If you were so important to him, why would he play with you this way? If he cared so much about you, why would he put you under so much shit? 

But the breaking point was her. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a smile to die for. She was nothing special, just a blonde girl. But I guess blondes always have more fun than the rest of us, and more with that angelic face of hers. That’s when you lost lando. He started talking about her ‘she is nice, you know? I think you would like her’. And then he would stop inviting you to dates, but she would go with him and watch the sunset at max’s yacht. And she started replacing you in every way she could. And you just watched it happen being unable to stop it. You started realizing he didn’t even care about you. You were just another girl on his list and probably never considered you an actual friend. If he did, he wouldn’t have played with you this way. But he did, and it hurt. 

And that’s when everything ended. 

just a friend ᝰ.ᐟ

(july 2024)

“She’s just a friend y/n” he said, fed up with your questioning. You can clearly see in his face that he was so done with this discussion. 

“Lando, for fucks sake, stop lying to me. She clearly isn't” you insisted on entering his room at his Monaco house. 

“I can’t keep up with this y/n. Just stop. I don’t know what else you want me to say” he was getting really annoyed. 

“The truth! Tell me the fucking truth! Was I a joke to you? You never cared, did you? You just wanted to laugh in my fucking face right?” your voice expressed how hurt you were. 

“You’re not a joke y/n” 

You laughed dryly “right, alright. Then what’s her? Max told me lando, you kissed her. And i know you fucked her multiple times, i just know it. Stop pretending you dont know what the fuck is going on when you know exactly what im talking about!” tears started to stream down your face “is this what you wanted? Did you ever care about our friendship? My fucking feelings? I feel so used, it's disgusting lando. I knew you were stupid but I never thought you would be this evil. If you didn’t love me then why did you do all of this?” 

“y/n, i love you” you could see in his face he was now scared. But you didn't care anymore. And didn’t want to know the reasons for it either. 

“No, you don’t lando! If you fucking did you wouldn’t have hurt me this way! I was there for you for fucks sake, i was fucking there for you all of this time! I gave you everything! Everything! And all you ever wanted was to fuck a fucking model?! I can’t believe I was so damn stupid to believe every lie you fed me! Oh god i hate myself so much” 

·y/n, please, calm down. We can talk this-” 

“Do you really are asking me to fucking calm down after what you did?! And you didn't even deny it! You’re so guilty of all of it. You knew! You knew what you were fucking doing and you didn’t care! I hate you, lando. I hate you with every gut i have left” 

“No, no, no. please, y/n. Let me explain. It’s not like that. I do care about you. I just thought you didn’t want to be with me. You became so close to Max I thought you wanted to be with him and…” 

You couldn’t believe your ears. You just couldn’t believe he would really use that as an excuse. “Shut up lando, max is a fucking friend. It was you. It has always been you. Holy shit! I have your fucking letters saying i was all you have ever wanted! How could you? You’re ashamed of me, that's it, right? I'm not as beautiful as I should be for you to call me yours. I'm not a model enough for you, am I? I can't believe it! I'm so stupid” 

“No, y/n is not that, believe me. she isn't you.” he was literally begging on his knees. 

“Don’t be pathetic lando, i won’t ever believe a fucking word you say. You’re a liar. You played me as a toy. Like I was nothing and now you want me to believe you? Hope you are fucking happy with her, and i hope she can make up for what i couldn’t for not being fucking good enough for you” you were so hurt you just had to run from that bedroom, from that house. 

“y/n! Wait! Please!” It was too late. You were already in your mclaren. “I don’t know what I did…” he was left talking alone. And not understanding what he even did. But he knew he already regretted it. 

she. isn't. you.

she must be perfect but I hope you both go to hell ᝰ.ᐟ

(august 2024)

After that day, I didn't leave my bed. The way it all happened so fast. The way he would still lie to you. You hated men. You hated him and everything about him. All you knew from that day was what you could see on social media even though you always put ‘dont show this content’ or ‘i'm not interested in this content’. He lied and told everyone at a fan meeting that he was single, when you knew from Max he already asked her out… unlike with you. 

She seemed nice. She was very beautiful. But you weren’t that evolved yet. You hated her. If she didn’t exist then he would be still yours. It would be you there on holiday in the alps. Oh god, you fucking wanted to be her. She was all you wanted to be. Skinny, blonde, flawless. You wanted everything she had. She was sunkissed, you felt like a vampire. She was shining and you were drowning. She took everything from you and left no crumbs. 

And the worst part is that he seemed to be happy. You are still friends with Pietra and she told you she was nice and that they got along pretty well. And that maybe if  you and lando want to fix it, you all can be a huge group of friends. You fucking hated that idea. It repulsed you. But you weren’t so sure if it was because of her or because of him no more. 

It should be you, it should be you, it should be you. 

You were driving yourself insane stalking her profile. Obsessing with the idea she was everything you were not. You wanted to burn her alive even though the real asshole was him. 

But you loved him first, right? That should matter… Did it matter? Did he think of you? Did he regret it? Did he talk to her about his fears and dreams? Did he share the same joke that was only yours? Did he talk to her in her ear the same way he used to do with you? Was he as obsessed with her as he was with you? Did he feel the same? Was he in love? 

All the questions weren’t letting you have a moment of peace and your brain was really good at torturing you. 

guess my friends were right (you might love her now but you loved me first) ᝰ.ᐟ

(from august 2024 to march 2025)

Life for Lando wasn’t that easy after seeing you walking away from his life. He knew he fucked it up. But he tried to play it cool. As if you were right about everything, because he thinks he deserves to suffer after what he has done. Yes, he was a masochist at this point. He was dating someone he didn’t like at all, he knew. But he couldn’t stop his torture because he simply believed he didn’t deserve to be happy. He saw your eyes, the saw the pain he caused for being such a coward. And stupid. And idiotic. And a fucking loser. He acted like a kid and lost the girl of his dreams. The girl who had been there for him since the beginning. The one that got him by just looking in her eyes. She knew. She knew all of him, the real him. All his fears and dreams and desires and mistakes. He had it all. He had her, all of her to himself but let it fall. He threw her against the floor and broke her into so many pieces. And instead of mending his faults, he just ran away crying. Like a little kid running away from the monster under his bed. 

Maggie was doing her makeup at the hotel room’s mirror. He watched her for a while trying to puzzle what he felt for her. But all he wanted to see was you. And he knew it was impossible for that to happen now. And probably like ever again. 

The fact he had to pretend every single minute of his life was starting to take a toll on him. He lost that spark he used to have. He lost that characteristic smile when he did well in a race. And his interviews just turned monotone and grey. Something was off people would comment. But he didn’t care. He deserved it. He fucking deserved it. 

Maggie always tried to cheer him up and he pretended it was just because he hated the media. And not because you used to be there with him, always. But now it is almost alone. 

It almost happened. It was almost you. It was almost the happy ending you deserved but he decided to ruin it. It was almost you and him against the world. But it was almost, though all he wanted was forever with you. 

At the beginning he was obsessed with maggi. The way her eyes looked at him, that cheeky smile  of hers. She was all he wanted as a fantasy. She was his fantasy in real life. He was so captivated by her looks and sweet voice. Almost like yours. But something drew him to her. He still doesn’t know what it was. Guess some things don't have an explanation. She was soft and shiny. He wanted to touch her everywhere, everytime. He forgot he had the love of his life waiting for him to watch a movie and eat burritos and kinders. He forgot the small things mattered more. He forgot what it was like to feel love during sex. But he was drunk. In her looks, in the way she talked to him. He forgot about you. He couldn't concentrate. 

But when you were gone, he pretended maggie was you as twisted as it sounds. He was convinced he became completely insane. People constantly telling him how awful he was to the poor girl. Your brother hates him. Dante didn’t say hi to him ever again since that day. 

He saw you at a couple of races at the Mercedes garage. You always pretended to have never known him in your life. He saw fans on twitter theorizising why you didn’t look at him anymore. They also believed it was his fault. And surely it was. 

That day you walked past him. He smelled your scent, still wearing the same perfume you adored so much and that made him fall in love the first time he saw you. You were laughing while talking with Carmen in Spanish, because you were the king of languages. You were really good at them and you enjoyed so much learning new stuff. He liked that about you, you are always driven to learn and learn and learn. He wanted to say hi, and even though you ignored him, Carmen looked at him in a really not inviting way. Everybody knew he fucked it up. He felt so ashamed of himself. 

said you’d never hurt me but here we are ᝰ.ᐟ

(australian grand prix, 2025)

You were so nervous to be back at the paddock and at the same time so excited for this new chapter for mercedes. You were longing for Lewis but at the same time you were very excited about kimi. Weather conditions were terrible and it in a really sarcastic way showed how you really felt about being there. You didn’t want to come at first but Carmen was a really good convincing person and you were no exception. Plus, you wanted to see your friends George and Alex. The two brits were your best friends since F2 back in 2018 when it all started. It was insane that so many years have passed already. All of the memories you cherished in your heart. They were so precious to you. 

Kym illman received you at the gates taking pictures of you, your brother, carmen and george coming into the paddock for race day. You always hated the media because their cameras made you look so bad, you thought. But it was part of your friend’s work so, it was what it was. You were already so wet you thought it was embarrassing. A super big mercedes hoodie covered your body as a dress and some rain boots on. And you called that outfit a day. It wasn’t glamorous at all, but it was so you for sure. 

Heading to the Mercedes hospitality, you saw Lando taking coffee with his parents at the McLaren hospitality. Your brother put on his best dog face and didn’t look at them. But for some reason you couldn’t do that to his parents even though you hated their son. Lando’s mom looked at you and waved happily to see you. “Hey!, y/N!” she said sweetly and smiled at her. They were always really good to you. So you got closer and said hi to them properly with a kiss on a cheek and a little hug for each. 

“Hi” , you only said to Lando, keeping your distance in a sad and shy smile. He half smiled as well.

“Hi” he said back to you the same way. 

“Darling you look so gorgeous, I love that haircut on you. You’re such a pretty girl” his mom said and made you blush immediately. 

“Oh, thank you so much… i gotta go… have  a great race, lando” you said a bit awkwardly and walked away to the mercedes hospitality to join your people. 

Lando was in awe of you. He kept the way you said his name on his head. It’s been the longest time without hearing your voice, that he realized he forgot how it sounded. And he also realized that it was your sweet voice, the only voice he wanted to listen to the rest of his life. He hated himself for that. But after all this time, he had made one thing right. He broke up with Maggi a week ago. He couldn’t keep pretending, he was done. 

“She looked really beautiful… it’s sad you don't talk anymore. We really liked her” his mother said and he shook his head a bit.

“i fucked it up, mom. But i will figure out a way to make it right again” he answered but more reassuring himself rather than his mother. 

She smiled looking proudly at her son “the good thing is to learn darling, you’re a good boy, let yourself be happy and fight for what makes you happy… you deserve it” she said sweetly sending lando all the energy he needed to go afloat. 

the only girl you’ve ever wanted in your life ᝰ.ᐟ 

Lando won. Lando won. Lando won. He did it. Of course you were happy for your friend who came out third and kimi fourth! What an amazing race though you were at the brink of suffering from a heart attack for two hours. After a lot of champagne was thrown to George, you were resting in the hospitality building waiting for your brother, Dante and George to come around. Carmen went to talk to alexandra for a bit and Lili was already at the hotel. So you decided to check on twitter all of the memes and opinions on this race. You saw a few people sharing your pics and commenting whether they were happy to see you or telling you looked disgusting as ever. It was hard to get used to this side of the sport but you always tried to brush it off.

You were so concentrated on your phone, you didn’t realize until the third time Lando cleared his throat that he was there standing in front of you in his casual clothes already, and freshly showered, smelling as good as you remembered him. 

“Hi,” he said again, sitting in front of you. You smiled a bit shocked that he is here in front of you after so many months of not even seeing pics of him. And he looked really nice in your opinion, but when did he not? 

“Hey” you said. He was nervous, he didn’t like the fact your hoodie wasn’t McLaren but you looked cute anyway. 

“It's been a long time,” he answered.

“Yup” you nodded. 

Silence. 

You stared at each other for a while. If someone walked past, they would think you were playing eyesight war but you were just analysing each other trying to think of what to say or where to begin. 

“I’m sorry” you both said in unison. You looked at each other in surprise now and then laughed it away. 

“Alright, that was a bit weird,” he said, giggling. “Guess, we still connected somehow…” his voice turning off as the sentence ends. 

“I guess in a way we are… I can't stop thinking about you and what happened…” you confessed even to your own surprise. 

He smiled a little, feeling his heart start to race “me neither to be honest… i feel terrible about it” you could see how honest he was being. Or at least to want to believe him. He felt different. You guessed that maybe he doesn't know why he lied that much either. 

“I miss you” you confessed even though you didn’t want to. But even after everything… you still loved him. 

His eyes showed a little spark. It wasn't there when he sat in front of me a few minutes ago. Now his smile got bigger showing his dimples. He was a pretty motherfucker, you thought.

“I miss you too,” he agreed. 

Was this the beginning of a second chance? Or maybe you're announced dead? 

Or maybe the happily ever after you have always dreamed about, but only time will tell.

THE ENDᝰ.ᐟ 

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