#listen ive had the same voice since i turned 13

[bruciemilf]

Jason who came back to life built like a vibe check but he has his 12 year old voice

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

(possible out of context spoilers for woe be gone up to episode 24)

(also point of this way-too-long post thats not even about dw is that i think i now have an idea of what a 13-pov/13-narrated season would look like) (if that might entice you to read some of this thing) (it would me, like, i just mean, knowing what the point is usually kinda helps reading a long thing so there you go thats the point)

right so ive been listening to woe be gone and one of my favourite things about it is how occasionally the protagonist just suddenly reveals to us a bunch of stuff hes been thinking about which he hasnt been telling us about

which is a little jarring bc hes the only voice, hes the one tellling us about everything that happens to him, and he walks us through seemingly every one of his considerations and plans

but also it’s something you can expect bc also from the start he draws attention to the fact that when we are hearing the episode, it’s been a while since the events described in them have happened to him, because he needed to... make the episode. duh. episode 2:

Wooooow. Wow wow wow. Your brain will turn anything into a morsel of nostalgia, won’t it? I did a whole episode about the first round of WOE.BEGONE and made it sound like it had a happy ending. And it felt that way, too, when I was telling the story.

The real kicker to this whole thing is that this challenge happened a month ago. You, dear listener, have not yet caught up to the point where you are watching me play WOE.BEGONE in real time.

mike repeatedly, casually, calls attention to the fact that hes in control of the entirety of what we know of the story. not just with these kinda lines but also with the fake ads, the “cue the heist music”, the barely-there line between the mike walters that does the announcements at the top of the show and the mike walters the character (are they the same person?), casually dropping the fact that his name is not mike walters and then never mentioning it again:

I mean, this is a guy who seemed to honestly believe that my name was Mike Walters. Hmm, I never labored under the delusion that his name was actually CANNONBALL in all caps. I wonder which of us had the better call-sign.

in this same episode he also says:

Saying that I was going to fly to Vancouver was actually a sort of silly mistake on my part. I imagine quite a few listeners heard that I was going to fly to Vancouver and wondered if that was even possible. Doesn’t Mike Walters live in America? That [REDACTED] jumbled censor thing sure does sound like Saint Louis– no matter what I did to the voice snippet, damn it! I reversed it and pitched it down and it still sounded like St. Louis. So then I switched the order of the reversed syllables and it still sounded like St. Louis, at which point I just said fuck it, some people will figure it out and it will add a little bit to the mystery-solving aspect of the podcast.

giving us a false sense of knowing the guy, as if he let us have this piece of information for free. he does a similar thing when he moves to oldbrush valley:

I’m sure that you’re wondering about where exactly this place is. Stop trying. I’m being vague on purpose. Don’t come find me. Anne. Don’t come find me.

"dont come find me” and “im being vague on purpose” while giving anne (and whoever really) exactly enough information to find him. there are also repeated mentions of his information security practices:

“So, things weren’t adding up and nobody would give me a straight answer. Nobody knew what to make of your little scene. So, natch, I broke into your apartment and started poking around. You’d do the same for me, right?”

“Sure thing, Anne.” I said.

“Unfortunately for me, it’s not like you wrote WOE.BEGONE on little pieces of paper and scattered them throughout your house for the spry young female detective to find. Also, your computer was bricked? What’s up with that?” She asked.

“Oh yeah, it’s a dead man’s switch. If I don’t enter a password every week, it overwrites my entire computer with 1s and 0s.” I said.

“That’s a long way to go for WOE.BEGONE,” She said.

“Oh, it wasn’t for WOE.BEGONE. It’s just good InfoSec.”

and:

How do I know that he isn’t the only gamerunner? Because he doesn’t log out of gmail when he’s done with it, either. C’mon, dude. At least force me to guess your password or force 2 factor authentication and get the code off the phone that I took off you while I was tying you up. When it started, I thought that the story of WOE.BEGONE would be about the consequences of seeking power, but now I think that the moral is to take your information security seriously, especially if you have something that is worth protecting.

but then also this:

“How are you gonna narrow it down from a whole city full of people?” I asked.

“I have ways,” he said. His eyes narrowed.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“Didn’t you go to the University of [Redacted]?” CANNONBALL asked.

“So? I’ve lived here for ten years,” I said. Shit. Why do I still have a Facebook page?

and this, a few episodes after “dont come find me”:

Hunter Jeremiah Hartley has a public facebook page where he posts all the time about the stuff that happens on at O.V.E.R., pictures included. None of what we have access to out here is strictly classified. There are the cabins, but we aren’t allowed in them so unless you’re breaking the rules, you don’t know anything more about them than if you had looked up an aerial view of them on Google Maps. Pictures of them on social media are fine. This made it trivial for Anne to pinpoint where I was at O.V.E.R. No journalist-ing required.

he does all this stuff and says that hes “private” but also that hes not, like, top of the hierarchy at this. ‘sure i do the basics but i could be less sloppy, there are people who do this way better than me’. “you caught the dumbest fish in the pond and put him in a barrel” he says at one point to someone who has him kidnapped

another thing he calls attention to casually and repeatedly is the fact that hes not a great person:

Oh, god dammit. I don’t wanna kill a pig. I mean, I know, I eat meat, specifically pork, and so I’ve just been outsourcing this exact labor for my whole life. I’m a hypocrite if I’m willing to let suffering happen as long as it is just outside my eyeline, but fuck it! I can be a hypocrite. I’m worse shit than that all the time. I’m a liar, I’m a bad friend, I’m a shitty podcaster. Throw “hypocrite” on the heap.

And you might be saying to yourself “well jeez, Mike, you don’t sound like a very good person.” Yeah, no shit. A good person stands absolutely no chance of winning this game or getting their hands anywhere near this tech or any of the other levers of power that this world offers. I can be smart, I can be kind, I can hold the correct political positions. But I can also lie, cheat, steal, take advantage of other people, disregard others’ feelings. When I was growing up my mom told me that I was capable of anything and I really took that to heart. Capable of anything. Even murder.

and then theres this entire monologue on lying:

Bigger, more important lies are mostly the truth. It is only the greasy, disgusting core of a betrayal or act of aggression that must be kept fully hidden. The goal is to be able to enact your heinous plan, not to keep them from ever feeling skeptical or suspicious of you. Your enemy’s opinion of your standing is worthless. They can say that they saw it coming all they want, but it won’t reverse their defeat. Fully blindsiding someone is great, but if you opponent knows you well and gets their wits about them, it isn’t usually an option. If it is an option, you should consider loftier goals with more formidable enemies. You’re capable of so much more!

Richard Nixon and co. created the term “limited hangout” to describe the practice of telling your enemy part of the truth in order to get information from them and to keep the construction of your lie believable. They meant it as “hanging” a “limited” amount of the truth out there as bait, not as a limited time to hang out with someone, which is what I always thought it meant until I looked it up. It’s a very 70s way of putting things. It didn’t have a perfect batting average with Nixon, what with the Watergate and all, but it is a long-standing part of CIA spycraft at this point. It works, but it can’t be your only line of infosec defense.

This is a great tool to have in your arsenal, but it is also important to realize that it is tool in the arsenal of every accomplished liar on the planet. Luckily, knowing that other good liars are doing this is a bit of information in itself. It means that the person who is lying to you might be giving you a lot of the truth as well. You can use that to try and reverse-engineer what lies at the murky core that they are trying to conceal from you. Two liars lying to each other? That’s an arms race.

Four liars lying to each other? This is WOE.BEGONE.

so hes constantly showing us ways in which hes not to be trusted but at the same time he has control over the entire narrative hes giving us. you know you cant really trust him but also what else is there to trust? youve only got his word (reference that no one will get: it’s like trying to figure out who the mole is in widm, the producers arent gonna let us)

so you dont trust him, but also you kinda do, bc you have to, and then occasionally he just opens an episode dropping a bunch of info like “ive been suspecting something else than what ive been talking about has been going on and heres proof now im in the middle of a kidnapping’. that kinda thing.

anyway. the point of all this is just to say, i think im getting an idea of what a 13-pov/13-narrated season might look like

[hargrove-mayfields]

Just A Dream Away

Chapter 1/13 read here on ao3!

my piece for @harringrovebigbang!

Art and moodboard from my amazing team, @monochromegee and @shewritesdirty respectively, to come soon!

~~~~

Six months. Six months and twelve days.

That’s how long Billy has been in the hospital. In a coma. His health rapidly deteriorating.

After one month it was required he be put on a ventilator. Two and his wounds started getting infected. By month three, the hospital asked that a representative be chosen for him, just in case he didn’t pull through.

Neil Hargrove refused. Barked into the receiver something along the lines of, “What do I care if the boy wanted to go and get himself killed?” It was entirely defensive, his voice cracking as he finished his sentence, but the hospital still never contacted him again, not for updates or bills or anything. His wife was far too busy taking care of one grieving child and a lazy husband already to worry about an additional burden.

All of Billy’s extended family was still in California, had written him off years before they’d even left home for Indiana anyways. The moment his mother walked out the door, nobody else wanted him either, so they were off the table too.

The town of Hawkins had been turned inside out by the deaths of more than thirty community members, some of which were still being reported as missing so many months later. Nobody had the time, or in many cases the heart, to take care of the lone survivor.

That left only one person. The one who’d been taking care of him even before he’d fallen into a coma. The one who’d understood him better than anyone else, who’d given him a chance, who’d loved him more than anything.

Steve gets a call from the hospital, the way he is usually woken up these days. Every other morning, as soon as visitation opens, a nurse calls him for a quick update. The duties of a representative for someone unconscious, for his Billy in a coma.

He’s beyond exhausted, dragging himself to and from Hawkins General day in and day out, sometimes bringing Max or a few of the other kids along with him. Mostly because every day is the same thing, walking through the halls, facing the polite smiles from nurses who deal with this on the daily, don’t understand the way it feels to see the one you love on that bed.

If he does hear anything new, it’s usually not good news. He knows Billy is getting worse, but still he sits in that room for countless hours, watching and waiting for the moment he’s struck with a miracle, and he comes back to him.

The hospital is not quite as patient though, and since about month four of Billy’s hospital stay, they’d been encouraging Steve to consider his wards right to die. After so much time had passed by without signs of improvement, the nurses had started hesitating in the doorway when he was around, and offering kind little suggestions that were supposed to push him towards the decision to let Billy go.

Things like, “It’s not really him anymore, honey.” and, “He’s getting worse by the minute, poor thing.”, and Steve’s favorite, the one that made him leave the hospital in tears, “If he wanted to wake up, he would have done it by now.”

But no matter how true what they were saying may have been, Steve really did not want to hear it. The only reason the thought of letting Billy go had ever crossed the minds of doctors and nurses was because of what was on the news, all these up and coming stories about hospital ethics committees that were popping up all over the country recently.

They were being selfish, willing to let Billy die just because they were scared they wouldn’t be able to stand the heat that would come from keeping an eighteen year old boy on life support for as long as they had. Whether or not they actually thought they could save him was a question for another day.

So they would mail Steve countless papers and claims and pamphlets to try to reason with him, to persuade him that the best thing to do was to kill Billy because they didn’t want to deal with him anymore. It made him sick to his stomach, to think that people who were supposedly trained to help people were so hellbent on giving up on a patient.

He wonders sometimes, if they wouldn’t be so hasty to pull the plug had he been an easier case. If his father was more supportive and his biological mother present, or if the government hadn’t worked so hard to cover up the origin of his injuries. Maybe even if his representative was a nice young woman instead.

But there’s nothing he can do about it, so he just crumples the papers and ignores their premature condolences, and goes to visit Billy at every moment he can.

The drive to the hospital that particular morning feels like it takes a whole day instead of the 20 minutes the route actually is, Steve feeling like he’s suspended in time. It doesn’t seem real, taking the stairs up to the second floor, elevators were a no go after the free fall he took at Starcourt, and taking a visitor sticker and a bunch of papers from the woman at the reception desk.

He’s walked this route more times than he can count, but this time he can feel that something is wrong, different. On the top of the very first sheet the desk lady hands him, in bold black letters, are the printed words “Right-to-Die” and Steve already knows what is coming.

The woman gives him a half sympathetic look and reads off her scripted spiel. “The Hargrove boy has been unresponsive for six months now, with no signs of improvement in his condition. The recently instituted hospital ethics board wants you to seriously consider the contents of these forms.”

The words are so hollow, the look on her face mostly bored. Steve guesses this same speech was probably given to a thousand other people who’d come through this hospital, and it makes him feel nauseated just listening to it, her less than genuine pity as she reads off her clipboard, making it seem like she doesn’t even care what she is asking of him.

“It’s of course among your rights as representative to say no, but we want to remind you that he has no quality of life being artificially kept alive, and it might be best to let him go.”

“No, they told me he couldn’t feel anything. He’s not suffering.” Steve insists, and as much as he believes that he is right, the confidence in his voice is false. This was something he’d been thinking about every day for the last half a year. “You’ve kept him alive this long, right? That��s got to mean something.”

“Still, this is about him. We just want you to think about if keeping him alive is the right thing to do anymore when we can’t be sure what he’s going through. When he isn’t himself.”

Of course this was something he’d considered in his own mind, six months is a long time, and it was inevitable that a few times on his worst days, he’d have to think about pulling the plug. It was just so different hearing this nurse who didn’t know Billy insisting on it, it was just so impersonal, and it made him think about the hospital's greed, and how they probably just wanted to save money on ventilators and open up another bed.

Without saying another word to her, Steve walks away without the clipboard of papers, and off to room B-216. Of course he'd known this was coming. They’d been trying to drop hints since the moment Billy stopped being able to breathe on his own, but he’d been in denial. As long as Billy's heart was still beating, Steve had hope that he would recover if the doctors would just try.

Still, as he sits down in the chair next to Billy’s bed, he decides he doesn’t want to call Max today. He takes the desk woman's advice, as angry as it made him, and takes the time to truly reflect on the boy in that bed, with the feeding tube down his throat, the respirator breathing for him beside his bed, the IV in his neck, there because the veins in his arms had been so overused.

His hair is much longer now, just past his collarbones, but without maintenance, his blonde curls are knotted and dull. His skin is unnaturally pale, his freckles faded to nothing, and his whole body is littered with angry, dark red scars. The hole in the center of his chest still isn’t all the way healed, and the nurses are constantly fighting to keep it free of infection.

When he wakes up, they say he will be in immense pain and that he will have forgotten how to walk and talk and probably even breathe on his own. There was a chance too that his memory will have gaps in it, which could mean anything from forgetting what happened to him in July, to not even knowing his own name.

Basically if, no- when he wakes up, he won’t really be Billy.

Steve had always heard about and seen in the movies coma patients who twitch their fingers or moved their eyes, or who really give any signs of life, miraculously waking up and being themselves again, but Billy, he had only done the opposite.

At some point, he has to accept that Billy won’t be like one of those other patients, and, in the condition he is in, all pale skin and open wounds and zero signs of responsiveness, they were only prolonging his death. They had tried just about everything they could thanks to Steve’s willingness to cover the expenses, and, although he didn’t want to believe it, maybe just couldn’t accept it quite yet, it was, as the nurse had said, time to think about letting Billy go.

Not today though. He’d spend today with him at the very least, trying to push those thoughts to the back of his mind while he still could. The nurses used to say, when Billy had first been admitted and they still thought there was a chance of recovery, that Steve and Max, whenever she could come, should try talking to him, and Steve always did.

He never really has a whole lot to say, not since everything has been calming down recently. There were no more funerals to attend, no more grieving families to take a hot dish and his condolences to. The kids didn’t need him to watch them anymore, and Family Video had decided to lay him off until he didn’t have to make daily hospital commutes and he could work again. Basically, Steve’s entire world was Billy.

So it was only fair that Billy was what he usually talked about, reminiscing about everything they’d gotten to do together before the accident, telling him about what was happening with his sister now that she was getting older, and giving him updates on how many days it had been and how much he missed and loved him. One of the nurses had heard him say that once, seen him lean forwards and press a kiss to Billys forehead, but she had only turned away, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

Today though, it was much harder than usual to think of something to say to him. He always tried to leave all of the bad stuff at the door, didn’t think it would do Billy any good if he could even hear, to be listening to him always complaining or moping about their situation, but with death weighing heavy on his mind, what else was there to think about?

The anger and the remorse and the depression would be for when he went home tonight and downed a whole bottle of Fireball, Billy’s favorite whiskey, and called Robin drunk off his ass at two in the morning to tell her about how terrible he felt.

It was because he loved Billy with all of his heart that he wouldn’t put him through that. Even if it hurt more than anything else to see his love broken down and dying, which was, in Steve’s opinion, the worst thing that had ever happened to him, he always wore a smile on his face every day he walked into that hospital room.

As hard as that was, and as guilty as it made him feel to admit, Billy's sickness wasn’t the only thing making Steve miserable. He had also been through some unimaginable things himself while trapped in the Starcourt mall, and he didn't come out the other side the same.

Nightmares plagued him constantly, so that when he would eventually come back home from the hospital, he didn’t sleep more than fifteen minutes through the night. Being alone for too long warped his perception of reality, made him think everyone he knew and loved was gone, that he’d been abandoned or all his friends killed. He would constantly call to check on them, most of the time drunk and panicking, but they’d stopped picking up after the first few times. There were so many triggers too that could send him back to that night in an instant, where he’d just get stuck again.

And perhaps that is exactly why he can’t let Billy go so easily, because even if it is heartbreaking and makes him feel so empty inside being there with a version of his Billy who couldn’t speak to him or who he couldn’t hold, he was still alive. If he died now, Steve would have nothing. It would be no different from the losses everyone had suffered, the death of the chief of police and at least thirty other community members robbing them of their soundness of mind.

Letting go of Billy would just be another blow, to him and to the tight-knit community who had come so close together after the accident that rocked their little town. You wouldn't be able to tell from the fact that his room was always empty except for Steve or his sister, but the papers had revered him as a hero. Who he’d become after being hospitalized meant his death wouldn't just affect loved ones.

But more than any of that, he just didn’t want to give up on him. Pulling the plug meant sacrificing so many more moments they could have together, losing the chance to move on from what had happened. How could Steve ever know when it was the right time to do that?

When was it safe to say that Billy wouldn’t ever recover, and that they were just stretching out the inevitable? When could he feel right in letting his very best friend and the love of his life die? Deep down, past his initial reaction of shock and heartbreak, he knows he’ll never truly be ready to say goodbye, but that now was that time regardless.

Just like the nurses said, he wasn’t really Billy anymore. Who he’d been was a teenage boy with too much energy to burn, always getting into trouble and always in motion, bouncing his knee, twisting the ring on his middle finger or the locket around his neck, chain smoking cigarette after cigarette. It used to drive Steve insane how he wouldn’t sit still for anything, but now he would give anything just to have that back.

There was no personality left in him, no stupid jokes to cheer Steve up, no pestering his sister and her friends like a big brother does, nothing left in him at all that made him distinctly Billy. Steve wondered if maybe he had already given up.

If maybe, Billy wasn’t even in there at all anymore, and they were holding on to nothing just to feed their own selfishness. Steve wasn’t the most emotional of people, usually panicking before he got upset, but he could feel tears pricking at his eyes now, as he watched the slow rise and fall of Billy’s, or not Billy’s, chest, and listened to the beeps and hums of the machines that kept him going.

He knew what needed to be done. Just not today.

For now, he holds Billy's hand, unmoving and just warm enough that he could tell he was alive, and whispered to him anything that came to his mind.

If Billy could hear him, he knew he was probably tired of hearing the same stories over and over, thinking of Billy waking up and complaining about Steve being too boring made him chuckle to himself. An instant pang of regret tightens his chest, feeling guilty for being happy.

There was a really sweet nurse about the age of his mother who always checked in on him at the same time everyday, like he was the one with tubes and machines sticking out of his body. Her name was Dale, and she always peeked her head into the room around meal times to ask if he had been down to the cafeteria yet. Usually he hadn’t, and sometimes he still forgot to eat anyways, but it meant a lot to him.

Today though, she came all the way in the room, a sad look on her face, and he had to avoid her gaze entirely to keep himself from breaking down, choosing instead to focus on Billy’s slender fingers where he’d laced them through his own.

“Steve, honey, I know this is really hard for you, it’s hard for all of us when something like this happens, but you need to take care of yourself.” She was just being kind, but he wouldn’t hear it.

If this was going to be the last full day he’d ever spend with Billy, he was going to make it count. A soggy sandwich in the dingy old cafeteria wasn’t worth spending a single moment away from the other boy's bedside. He feels vaguely guilty about it, but he ignores the well meaning nurse, even as she says her generic condolences that all of them were trained to say.

He smooths out Billy's hair, brushing the part that always hung in his eyes to the side carefully, something Billy himself had always seemed to do when he was nervous. It reminds him of the time they tried to do each other's hair and Billy taught him how to make a braid, so he tells Billy about it.

When he hears the distant roar of a car's engine from the open window, it reminds him of the first time Billy drove him home in the now totaled beyond recognition Camaro, so he talks about that. A bird landing on the windowsill reminds him of sitting on Billy’s bed and talking about the seagulls and the beaches back in California where Billy had grown up, so he tells Billy that story too. The phone ringing at the receptionist's desk down the hallway reminds him of the time Billy had called him in the middle of the night to invite him out to the quarry, where they’d kissed for the first time and Steve clumsily asked him to make things official, so again, he told Billy all about it.

It's mostly a comfort to himself, keeping his mind off of the reality of the situation, but then the desk lady announces over the overhead system that visiting hours are over, and it’s time for him to go.

They had been giving him a lot of leeway here at Hawkins General, allowing him to visit every single day and sometimes with a 14 year old, which was strictly against the rules of the ICU. The end of visiting hours was a rule they always stood by though, and despite how much it crushed him to leave Billy by himself overnight, he always did it.

On his way out, he grabbed the stack of papers the receptionist tried to give him off of her desk. He would call Susan in the morning and ask her what she thought. He would try to involve her in the choice, since she’d technically claimed Billy as her dependent after her marriage to his father, who had given enough verbal and written agreements that he wanted nothing at all to do with his son while he was hospitalized that his wife could, and had, stepped in.

He went home that night with the thought in his head that this was the last time he’d do this, and by this time tomorrow, Billy would be dead.

[heli0s-writes]

IV. Symbiosis

Summary: “Since you’ve been caught—” Fury squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries. Petty theft. Grand larceny. The damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

A/N: 4.8k words. I’m a liar who lies because after 4 months of overthinking and coming up with diddly squat, here is part 4 of Trinity Epoch sans smut. I’m sorry! I’ll double your pleasure next time. xx Thank you for sticking with me, I’m so sorry it’s taken so long.

Warnings: Language. References to canon-typical violence.

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

Bucky stays like that a while longer, just breathing.

Your fingers trace his hair—running through the strands, over the shell of his ear, then resting briefly on his cheek. All the ways you used to with Natasha when she’d break her own heart, or maybe ways you would have liked her to have done for you when you felt like you were dying a little bit.

You feel it now: a small death in the wake of last night’s simple touches. Your body and Steve’s body curled around each other sprung something immeasurable, as if the drift flowered then and ripened beneath your skins. You bit into it. You savored its taste. You could have lived on it alone.

Everything smears together like a child’s careless hand in a mess of paints until all the brights muddle dark. A shaky breath as you work yourself into calming, trying to find coherent words while your head remains a pot of sideways soup, at best.

Bucky shifts until he’s looking up at you, nose millimeters away. His irises are just a touch more gray, a sprinkle less green. You can see Steve in him, just as he can see Steve in you and then your eyes begin to prickle, Nat’s face undulating behind the burn.

You don’t really know what you want to say. Maybe apologize, run, beg for forgiveness, grab Bucky by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that you didn’t mean it— you didn’t mean to hurt him. That you love him. That he lives inside you, too.

His ghost from the drift— the aftermath phenomena of the neural bridge when pilots take on a bit of each other’s consciousness out of the cockpit and into the world with them. Take two people with a predisposition for the drift into the cockpit into each other’s brains and they exit heightened—sharper, better—imbued with each other’s strengths and knowledge. Mind-meld long enough, deep enough, and your core endures, but you become a different beast.

When Steve’s consciousness bled into yours, so did Bucky’s. If you walked away with half of Rogers, you also got a quarter of Barnes and it only compounded worse during Polidori’s drop. Resurrecting trauma, agitating itself, making a mess of your weary soul.

You relived his amputation last night, just as fresh as you relived Nat’s death. More visceral than the first trial run, you witnessed him—felt him—torn and hoarse, clutching his shoulder as he rocked helplessly inside Orion’s chest, frayed wires sparking across his cheek and landing in his own blood. His teeth gnashing together as he tried to hold on for Steve’s sake, steering his co-pilot’s panic back on course. Terrified and agonized, but he was hellbent on making it out.

Bucky who made you laugh. Bucky who took you to dinner. Who walked with you, gave you his jacket, listened to your rambling and crying, and kissed you because you reminded him of his co-pilot, or maybe of himself.  

How could you not love him, after all this?

Armageddon slows for nothing though, and before the first letter of his name can fall out recklessly from your mouth, three precise thumps jostles it back in.

Steve’s voice is muffled through heavy steel. “You in there?”

The door slides open with a tremulous croak but neither of you bother to separate. Nothing seems to matter now.

“Buck...” Steve looks from one raw face to the other, stepping forward and reaching out. He grasps Bucky’s hand. “We should talk—” he closes his mouth into a thin line, shoulders slumping heavily before letting go. “I’m sorry. Later. Shit’s hit the fan.”

-

The office is stagnant air full of questions but other than the squeak of the marshal leaning back in his chair, nobody makes a sound.

Fury untucks a finger from the crook of his elbow before pointing it between your eyes.

“Culpability.”

Across the room, you flinch in his crosshairs. Standing apart from them, you’re partially slack against one of many steel filing cabinets, using it to prop yourself up in case your knees might give out as vertigo descends.

It’s been a lot to take in. Everything— the night, the morning, emotionally, mentally, physically. The hull is a steel cage, and pilots are well armored, but you’re still hooked up to the robot enduring damage, taking hits at barely .0001 percent, but taking it all the same. You’re bruised up good beneath your clothes— Polidori’s claws leaving four tender imprints of a scratch to Orion’s right shoulder. Your shoulder. Steve’s shoulder.

To your right, he shifts. A tiny hint of pain streaks over his expression before it falls serene again, fixed on Fury.

“Since you’ve been caught—” the marshal squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries, petty theft, grand larceny, the damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

This thing, being any story a 13-year old kid with two thumbs and a twitter account can spin between now and when you let Pepper Potts spin it for you first. There’s not a lot imagination can’t conjure to fill in the blank pixelated space between Bucky standing on the curb and you right behind him wearing his cap and jacket. Not to mention that once speculation goes live, it starts sprouting all sorts of appendages with minds of their own, and no matter how diligently you might cut one off, two would only sprout in its place.

The marshal stands up and takes heavy steps before turning the corner of his desk, absently tapping a pile of folders together like they’re not already in a perfect column. He slips a manila folder out from the stack and it becomes obvious that his suggestion is just buildup to some other type of impetus.

When you open the file up under his sharp gaze, you feel the blood drain from your face and possibly from your entire body.

The bullet he aimed between your eyes hits home. Cue your brains blowing out slow. Impetus met.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky appears over your shoulder, staring at the same grainy photocopied document. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I make a lot of jokes?” Fury leans forward, pointer curving over the top edge, tapping emphatically one, two, three times, even waving it back and forth in front of your unseeing eyes. “I’ve got a good contact inside the PPDC who risked a lot to get this out. They’re just plans for now, dogeared behind other pages, but don’t doubt the Corps’ cowardice for a second. The second this program looks like it might not hold up, they’ll turn their efforts there.”

You’re gone. Trapped between the lines, vehemently scanning the page, reading the same words over and over until they no longer make sense. But it’s not like they made any sense in the first place.

ANTI-KAIJU WALL: CONSTRUCTION AGENDA. SPRING 2020.

The conception of a perimeter stretching around the Pan Pacific—North and Central America, East and South Asia to isolate emerging Kaiju. It’s a fetal skeleton at most, the roughest of outlines for a plan, and truthfully, it’s no plan at all.

It’s shameful. It’s shit.

The so-called Wall of Life implies the portending death of the Program—of all Shatterdomes and Jaegers. It implies no support, no funding, and no repairs. No Kodiak. No juniors. No future.

Back and forth, you’re still desperately inspecting as if the words might shift into a new message, maybe one that didn’t spell out certain extinction, but despair is rippling across your face. Bi Fang and Polidori had wings, and they were only Category II. Bi Fang massacred one of the best pilots you’ve ever known—and it was only a Category II. Any higher and they’d blow through that wall like a ribbon of wet toilet paper.

Hysteria creeps up at the mere thought of it, fear stubbornly lodging itself in your throat. Nuclear-powered automata—the only proven defense against the terror of massive alien attacks are being dismantled in favor of steel rods and cinderblocks. They might as well build it out of Legos.

Anti-Kaiju Wall. A string of ants meeting a boot.

You’re panting softly, tongue swollen in your mouth, shaking with equal parts terror and rage, on the verge of breaking into inappropriate laughter and yelling.

“What—what do they expect?” You croak, “The breach opens, the fucking thing comes out, sees a fence, and what—they think it’s—going to crawl back in…?”

“Hey, calm down,” Bucky curls his fingers around your elbow. His hand and its black plates are peering at you, purring, dull gold bands threading at the knuckles. For a second, the prosthetic disappears. For a second, he’s blood red again.

“Hey!” Bucky grips tightly when you sway. “I’m fine! Don’t—don’t.” Steve’s jaw is set firmly on your other side, arms crossed so severely his biceps bulge with the strain.

“Nick,” He’s abruptly brusque as he eases the file from your grip. “Give us a minute.”

“You’re in my office.” But the marshal’s words hold no bite. He’s already won; he knows. Cornered again, he’s got you same as before in Red Cloud. 

You get the gist: play out your redemption arc and come clean with your record. Win over the public, hoard all the additional support and funding you can because you’ll need every goddamn cent of it when the PPDC rips it away. The gossip. The photos. The headlines. It’s the perfect opportunity for a few hundred million when the media is putting a magnifying glass on your presence in Hong Kong.

Duty. Duty. Duty.

You’re just one small part of this colossal puzzle—a negligible smear of guts across the battlefield trying to keep the rest of the pieces together while the PPDC sits in their panic rooms throttling the entire fucking thing.

Fury steps to the cabinet and slides the file back in its place, keeping the illusion of it being just another unremarkable envelope in a row of hundreds of others. The metal drawer shuts with a clang, housing the most damning piece of information you’ve ever seen. His tact aside, you know he would never show you his hand like this if it wasn’t completely necessary—or pertinent.

Steve was right, you understand now.

The world owes you. And it owns you.

-

The next six—seven?—hours scatter like pulled teeth with your head spinning like a top the entire way. Pepper had been outside the door for the conversation, waiting on standby to whisk you off for princess lessons. Having already (and correctly) predicted your compliance, Fury scheduled an interview for precisely at nine. Then you were off, towed along by Miss Potts and her hasty strut.  

You try to find perspective, reminding yourself that you’ve successfully gone toe-to-toe with the Empire State Building with fifteen rows of teeth seven fucking times and come out on the other side alive and if not in one whole piece, then at least 2-3 relatively serviceable pieces. You’re functional. A little damaged, but fine enough. But there’s also the fact that you’d just hopped out of Orion not even 24 hours ago coupled with how you’re suddenly in the middle of something that feels less like a confused love triangle and more like divine providence at the end of the world.

Fuck. No time to think about it now. The human brain is not programmed to multitask, and you’re hanging on by a mere thread. You prioritize making it through the night just as alive as you can make it out of a drop. Just a couple of hours and you can rest. Just a couple more.

After what felt like an eternity and a half of simulating Q&A, practicing your posture, smiling into a mirror, and one horrible limo ride where you stared dead-eyed out the window—Steve and Bucky’s steely gazes after you—the building finally comes into view.  

Hair. Makeup. Wardrobe. You wear pants. You smile for the camera. You don’t stand in the middle of the group photo.

8:55 and time halts to a near stop. You can hear your heart in your throat, or in your skull. Your eyes feel switched from their sockets, or stomach rotated 30 degrees. Someone fixes your mic wire, your blouse collar, asking you to turn just a little over there. Three cameras are pointed to capture every angle, punitive red dots angry and glaring.

A live broadcast was agreed upon to ensure the least amount of potential edits and skews, as well as the charmingly quaint idea that it’s unscripted. The rub, therein, lies upon the burden of poise and a flawless performance. You rehearsed lines until your jaw felt like it was coming unhinged. Then you did it again. 

Everything requires precision, and you keep that in mind with your hand on the glass of Dom Perignon being constantly refilled. An amicable gesture by the hosts, but their intentions are cunning: loose lips sink ships, and they’re betting on yours to sink the S.S. Orion Bravo.

Out of view, the translator sits with her legs crossed, listening to the questions before turning the words over in English.

You take a sip of champagne and it fires off like a gunshot—Cantonese and English in rapid-fire verses.

<2017 was a fateful year for both the Jaeger Program and the world. Beloved pilot Natasha Romanoff sacrificed her life to protect Alaska’s coast in a final battle against Category 2 Bi Fang. Memorials dedicated to Romanoff’s efforts appeared across every nation to lament her death and celebrate her heroism. Yet, somehow, no one seemed to be asking the million-dollar question: Where is her co-pilot?>

<Two days ago, pictures were taken in Hong Kong of James Barnes and a mysterious woman. Our sources here at TVB have worked tirelessly to uncover her identity.>

<Today we have the pleasure of introducing her to everyone tuning in. This is the first time you’ve ever been in the public eye, and astonishingly, next to two of the best pilots in the Program. There are so many questions, but first, the whole world wants to know…. why keep it secret?>

The host’s open hand urges your reply.

The lights seem to turn up even brighter. Your back starts sweating. The room is about to collapse. In short, naturally­­—infuriatingly—you choke.

Seven hours of droning like a broken wind up toy, already knowing how to answer this question by heart, prepping yourself for the interrogation, the relentless demand to publicize your grief, to placate the people about your relationship with their heroes—and, you choke.

Bucky’s chin tilts microscopically in the corner of your line of vision. You’re fine, he’s saying, you got it. He’s strangely calm, even pleased, as you stutter involuntarily. Like he’s the first to remember an inside joke you’d long forgotten, his grin widens the longer you look at him. Steve turns next. Focus. Don’t fight the drift. The drift is silence.

And suddenly, your shoulders ease. The static in your exhausted brain slides out of your ears.

You sit up tall. You smile. It doesn’t quite feel like your smile, but, it’s a good one. You know this smile; it’s Steve’s smile. Like a seamless assembly, you fall into rhythm.

The white of his teeth slip out from between Steve’s lips. He notices too.

You calmly recite the introductory speech you’d been practicing for the last two hours, feeling out your new voice, borrowing from his bearing—deeper, smoother, certain. The major points get run through: your record and own personality traits keeping you from the spotlight, admitting genuinely that you’re pretty damn uncomfortable now, so they’ll have to forgive you for any slip ups. It goes over well, as Pepper predicted; “candid” blunders made Rangers human—made them likable.

When the subject of Anchorage rolls back around, you can practically feel Steve’s jaw bulging preemptively. You graze his foot with yours as a warning to back off.

<It’s remarkable that you were able to bring the Jaeger back to shore, there has been only one pilot who was capable of that—>

“I’m thankful to have had Stacker Pentecost as my mentor. I owe so much of my resilience to him. It was difficult, but simply put, I had no other choice. I feel so lucky to have survived it.”

<Natasha Romanoff-->

“She was one of a kind.”

<Was it hard to—>

“Yes.”

The host clears his throat, visibly awkward that you’re being so terse, but taking the hint until  Bucky turns into the spotlight, that divorced happiness he’s so skilled at beaming into the lenses. 

Steve easily picks it up, steering the conversation where he wants it to go. He’s disarmingly sincere as he relays the process of Bucky’s injury, replacement, apprehension, and finally success

His bright blue eyes flicker secret messages and you decipher them all.

“The connection was like—"

There’s a bell chiming in your ears. Bright, crisp chirps of it, cutting through laughter and bickering. You taste summer air in your throat, Bucky’s hair flying in the wind. “Riding a bike…”

“Exactly. New bike, same motions, and it worked. It was great. We learned things about each other. Some good, some bad—”

Crosshatched pencil lines of their shared apartment. Smudges of charcoal in a sketchbook. “He’s an unbelievable artist, but—”

“No— don’t say it!”

Bucky smothering a small kitchen fire. Steve throwing a damp rag on him in a frantic attempt to assist. Your voice is bubbling out gleefully. “—an awful cook!”

“It’s true,” Bucky smugly chimes in. “The boy can’t boil water. Breakfast eggs come with shells every time.” You can taste the grit between your molars—crushed grains inside an overdone omelet, Bucky spitting out spinach and feta cheese.

“Oh my god,” you sputter into a sip of champagne. “It’s so bad.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with? Two people knowing my secrets. Two.”

<Fantastic! Already we can see a great friendship here—>

It seems congratulatory, but there’s determination to drive into scandalous territory, poking at any rumor to lance and leak. A sly smile crosses his face as his assistant shows photos of you and Bucky in the city, but the lurid suggestion only gets shrugged off. “We’d gone out for dinner. It was the first time I’d left the Shatterdome after Seigehook and I needed moral support.”

<The jacket tells a different story.>

“I’d give you my jacket if you looked cold.”

<Steve, Ophelia isn’t concerned that your new co-pilot is a woman?>

“No, absolutely not. ‘Lia’s the first person to support Orion—and the loudest. I don’t know what I’d do without her. You don’t have her behind the curtain, too, do you?”

<Well, what about personal memories? Won’t you know everything about each other…? Private things?>

“Sure, but what pair of pilots don’t? You got twins and siblings, not just married couples. Look, here’s the thing: the neural bridge doesn’t take you to a filing cabinet. It’s not open like that. It’s more like—somebody help me—” Bucky snaps his fingers your way, “—what’d you call it the other day?”

You didn’t, but you say, “A dream?”

“Right, a dream. If you think about it, you can pull on it, but if it’s not in the forefront of your mind. It’s a non-issue.”

“We’re all adults here,” Steve confirms.

<Do you plan for James to return to the cockpit? Is that the goal? James, how do you feel about all of this, taken away from your own Jaeger?>

Steve’s palm faces outward as if keeping the host at bay— or, you think, keeping himself at bay.  “Hold on. This isn’t about replacement. Nobody is framing it like a nail in the coffin—we’re in the interim of a period of time, readjusting. Short of death, nothing is going to take him away.”

Sunlight. Recruitment. Ice baths. Training until they had to carry each other to bed. Your eyes flutter, head pilfering through the memories like instinct.

“James is still Orion’s co-pilot.” You agree. Apprehension. Dread. Terror. Confidence in each other even when they didn’t believe in themselves. They were together. Nothing else mattered. “Steve’s co-pilot.”

The tight look on his face is temporarily wiped as he beams proudly, “He’s my Bucky. Always has been, always will be.” He claps Bucky on the back twice and each thump’s echo bounces its way into your chest.

Bucky bristles and sputters, but a healthy pink dusts its way across his cheeks, “Don’t embarrass me, Rogers.”

“Are you blushing?” You tease, elated.

“Don’t you start, either.”

<Well… this is very wonderful. Is there a possibility we’ll be seeing a triple-piloted machine? The Tang triplets have been in talks for a new model.>

Steve shakes his head. “We haven’t discussed it yet. Nothing’s off the table, by any means. Just not priority at the moment.”

<What is priority at the moment?>

“Normalcy, as much as we can get in the middle of all this.” Bucky holds out his hand, closing it into a fist, letting the camera zoom in. “We’re… still working through all the kinks, balancing the personal and global.” 

He flexes his fingers, letting the microphones pick up the drone of machinery, but his meaning is another secret. Clicking Morse codes of well-oiled obsidian plates purring two names. You’ve stopped listening to everything but the echo incandescent in your heart.

You down your glass.

-

Champagne tipsy, you try not to stagger through the lobby. The doorman nods toward the limousine parked faithfully by the curb.

The barrage of questions slowed after it became apparent that there would be no sensationalist headline. There was attention to Bucky’s arm, his handsome face, of course, before the banter quickly devolved into entertaining frivolous sidebar queries. Five flutes bubbled down your throat and by the end of it, you no longer wanted to grab camera one and shake the shit out of it, anger whittled down to a dull hum of annoyance.

Thirty million stupid dollars for inane reels of:

What’s in your purse? What do you eat? How do you stay feminine in a Shatterdome full of testosterone—have you tried any K-beauty skincare routines? Do you have anyone special in your life?

Bucky went in, then, leaning forward until he was nearly rocking off and leveled his glare. You know she’s on the other side of the same robot, buckled up into a ninety-pound rig steering two-hundred tons of—

It took a miracle (see: Steve’s firm hand discreetly on the back of Bucky’s neck and Pepper drawing a sharp line across her throat) to effectively halt the derailing train.

“I can’t believe,” Bucky grouses now, opening the door and waving the driver back to the front. “Those goddamn questions.”  

“Does wiping my sweaty face with my even sweatier shirt count as skincare? What’s the K stand for?”

Bucky smacks the back of your head with one hand, other clumsily yanking the door open with the other. “For Korean—have you been living under a rock? Just—get in the fuckin’ car.”

You slap him back. “Quit it, you invalid.”

“Invalid? I’ll show you a fuckin’—Steve, did you hear—”

“Both of you, get in the car.”

And you shriek, scrambling in and yanking Bucky along by the scruff of his jacket. Mischief courses beneath your skin, encouraged by clever alcohol, now fully buzzed its way to every extremity.

Still giggling and leaning into the thrill of it, you slump over the smooth plastic molding of the door and press your face against the tinted window. It’s a cool reprieve on your warmed cheek, frosting when your temperature meet the glass. Bucky’s easy Cantonese, albeit slurred, is requesting a ride back to base. His hand has found its way into yours, fingers laced large and warm, clasping tight before he lets go.

“Haven’t had a drink—oh--” you murmur, catching yourself as the wheels shift.

“Since Red Cloud.”

“Outta my head, Rogers.”

“Says the person who kept finishing my sentences during that interview.”

“It’s the champagne! It makes me—“

“Stupid?”

“You’re an ass, Barnes.” But you’re laughing at him, at the way he’s smirking— cheeks gone ruddy. Both of them, open beside each other, heads inclined intuitively together. It makes you ache to see—to experience again after disruption—Rogers and Barnes. Barnes and Rogers. Perfectly fitted.

The partition slides up. The sunroof tugs open with a whistling draft.

Hong Kong’s lights are vivid—too much to properly see the extent of space’s beauty, but there are a few twinkles you’re able to make out in the moonless night as light poles and skyscraper tips whiz overhead. They’re brighter than most, simple to spot patterns in the dark.

“Orion’s out tonight,” you mutter, moving to catch the line of its belt, “Look. Beneath his feet is Lepus, the hare, pursued for all time.” From across, Steve follows, also looking to find their hero as your hair rustles wildly, making a hurricane against your ear.

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Bucky scolds. He’s annoyed and comfortable on leather, ankle crossed over opposite knee. “You’re not being chased by anything. Besides, if you were a constellation, you’d probably be the soup ladle.”

You laugh. He’s always playing the part of a stoic so well. “Hey, I’ll have you know the Little Dipper’s got the north star in it. That soup ladle’s gonna be the thing that gets you home when you’re lost.”

The tone shifts—time dragging its pace as you look at them in wonder. The city’s overripe heaviness of the blows through, making goosebumps on heated skin.

“Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky slips his jacket from his shoulders to slide over yours. He tugs the lapels down like he’s trying to keep you on earth and your hands clasp on his wrists for a second before you let go. They’re both sitting up now, watching your bleary gaze unfocus.

Steve and Bucky oscillate in front of your eyes, their lines blurring until it doesn’t really matter who you’re looking at—until they become one. So easy, like this, just them like two sides of the same coin, belonging so seamlessly to each other.

“Sorry,” you blurt in shame, “I feel like I fucked it up. Ruined a thing that wasn’t mine to ruin.”

“Think you put it together,” Steve responds quietly, and the simplicity of his statement throws you off. “We found our way.”

“Soup ladle,” Bucky jokes.

“But, aren’t we just trading one war for another? World peace only made it because of monsters.” Unspoken questions hidden inside large-scale metaphors— symbiosis could only be achieved under the lies of other relationships. Whatever this would be, it wouldn’t be accepted. Steve still retains his supermodel girlfriend and you and Bucky dutifully fall in line for your own packaged little PR lies.

He shrugs. “I’m fine with losing a few battles in this war, but Orion’s got a good track record, doesn’t it, Buck?”

“Twelve— thirteen kills, sweetheart.” Bucky’s grin is lopsided. “Don’t forget you made that happen.”

“Thirteen’s an unlucky number.”

“Feels lucky to me.” Steve’s hand wraps around your wrist, thumb resting on your pulse. He taps your skin, looking genuinely apologetic. “Listen, all I can do is ask— and I’m not good at asking for things. I just want to make them happen.” A quick glance at the watch under his cuffs and he tugs at your arm like a lost child, “So, before we get back… will you come here?”

As he said, he’s not really asking. More like reaching his will out to you, finding you when you’re caught in the undertow and pulling you back to safety. To them. Okay. Okay.

Your footing slips, but they take your hands and turn you carefully, letting you settle in between. Bucky hums a low sound, fingers curling around your waist. Steve does the same to the opposite side and you feel both torn apart and held together by them.

Steve nuzzles your neck, hot on your skin.

“She was wrong,” he whispers, barely audible over the sound of your rising breath, “You know that? She was wrong, and I was wrong. I thought it couldn’t happen—thought I had other priorities, other things to manage and settle and save and... I lost sight of what matters most. But I’m gonna really fix it this time—I’m gonna do it right by you.” 

He looks to Bucky, pained and relieved, “Both of you, I promise.” He takes Bucky’s hand in his own and holds it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, his palm, saying softly, “I love you, Buck. I’m sorry you waited so long.”

“Hey stupid,” Bucky says shakily when your chin starts to quiver at the sight of them. He’s sniffling and swallowing his syllables, unable to stop himself from staring at Steve’s face in his hand, how Steve kisses the blue pulse in his wrist. “Ain’t you—too pretty to cry?”

The rocking of the car flattens out as Steve gently presses his lips to yours, letting the trail of salt bursting down your cheek into his mouth. He moves to the line of your jaw, promising,

It’s okay. I got you. Nothing’s gonna hurt you anymore.

They kiss you and the world turns itself right.

They kiss you and then they kiss each other. Again and again and again.

[al3x1ss]

Just a Friend to You

Chapter 13: Kill this love

Blackpink in your area

“AGAAASHII!”

Bokuto ran up, smacking the ball down as the whistle blew. While morning practice was never something to look forward too, especially in December, new tournaments were coming soon and the boys had to be ready.

“Alright! You guys get a 5 minute break, also some of the girls team is coming in to pick up things so best behavior-“

Yukie gasped loudly at her coach as Kaori grabbed her arm tightly.

“IS Y/N COMING?” Coach sighed disappointedly at the two girls, shaking his head before lifting it once again.

“Don’t you three talk everyday?”

“YES BUT ITS BEEN TWO WEEKS SINCE IVE SEEN HER MAN!”

“Yes, Y/N is coming.”

Akaashi lifted his head as he heard Y/N’s name. With two weeks passing since her confession, he’s given her space, however it’s really affected him for the worse. Akaashi sighs, feeling tired once again as he hasn’t gotten much sleep since that night.

Walking up to Bokuto, the loud bang of the door startles him awake as 3 girls enter, beginning to walk to their coach.

While Aika and Y/N rant to eachother, Ine just laughs along as Y/N waves to her coach, smiling brightly.

“You should try and talk to her.” Akaashi turns to find Kaori to his right, looking up at him.

“Sure, it was two weeks ago, but you both probably miss eachother,” Kaori says, turning her eyes to once again look at Y/N, “and she seems happier.”

“I know, but I don’t want to pressure her, id rather her come to me I guess.”

“You’re never gonna get anywhere like that Akaashi.” His eyes turn once again to now Bokuto, with his elbow resting on Kaori’s head as an arm rest.

“You gotta just be upfront about it-“

“GET YOUR ARM OFF OF MY HEAD BOKUTO!”

“Just try to be as polite as you can-“

“YOU HEAVY ASS BITCH MOVE! YOUR ARMPITS SMELL!”

“And maybe apologize?”

“BRO WHAT AM I, A FUCKIN WALL?!”

A giggle is heard through the gym, Akaashi turning to see Y/N approaching along with Aika, while Ine still talks with her coach. Y/N covers her mouth, smiling brightly at the two fighting.

“You guys are dumbasses. Bokuto get off of Kaor, she might bite.”

“WHAT THE FUCK AM I, A DOG? I DIDNT KNOW IT WAS BULLY KAORI DAY.” Yukie sighs, coming up and placing a hand on Kaori’s shoulder.

“Hun, it’s always bully Kaori day.”

“YOU BITCH!”

While the managers bicker, Akaashi shakes his head, turning to meet Y/N’s eyes.

They meet for a while, the girl staring blankly at him while he blinks repeatedly, trying to figure out what to say while she does the same.

Settling for a wave, Y/N does the action, then turning back to Aika. Akaashi softly smiles, looking at the ground.

It’s a start.

Walking out of her classroom, Y/N sees Haya staring at her phone. Smiling, she waved as she approaches her.

“Hey Hay-“

The girl runs away quickly, passing by students as Y/N’s eyes follow her, with passing students looking back at Haya, then murmuring. Y/N tilts her head in confusion, pulling out her phone while pushing her hair out of her face.

After some classes, Y/N leaves the classroom, heading towards the cafeteria to see her teammates around Haya eating. Entering the room, she smiles at them while they wave, Haya giving her a tight lipped smile then placing her head on Y/N’s shoulder. After eating little, she turns to Haya, letting the girl lift her head.

“Come with me,” the girl whispered as the two stood, Haya raising herself sluggishly, “we’ll be right back!”

The two girls go to the doors that lead to the outside tables, with Haya on the girls left.

“I’m going to guess you heard what happened.” Haya says, with Y/N sighing but nodding in response.

“Haya it is not your fault.”

Hearing a familiar voice, Konoha raises his head to see Haya and Y/N their way towards them, he nudged Bokuto in the side, causing the boy to choke.

“HEY I ALMOST DIED!”

“Bokuto.”

He looks to where Konoha was facing, seeing Y/N walking. His eyes widened, realizing that Akaashi has now also seen the two girls talking. He blinks, turning back to face the two boys.

“Not a word.”

Konoha nods along with Bokuto, but all three boys try to be as quiet as possible to not only listen in, but not have an awkward interaction.

“Haya.”

The two girls coincidentally stop just before the boys’ table, with Bokuto slightly leaning forward to get a better listen.

“We all commit to love that makes you cry and it kills you inside. It’s gonna sting and you’re gonna feel really shitty.”

Haya’s head slightly drops, letting out a sad sigh. Y/N gives her a small smile, linking her arm with hers as they begin to walk again, this time directly past the boys’ table as the ladies don’t notice.

“We must kill this love, now it’s sad but it’s true. It’s gonna hurt if you hang onto it for too long. It’s been two weeks for me, yeah?” Haya nods in agreement, giving the girl the benefit of the doubt.

“Yeah, and now look at me, I’m really close to being over Akaashi.”

The girl smiles at Haya softly, them walking as they hear a faint choking sound quickly. Haya turns her head, looking for the sound, but shrugs it off as the girls go back inside.

“Akaashi? You okay?”

“Can I get some water?”

Notes

Akaashi does not like Y/N

It has been 2 weeks since the confession

Ine has not confessed to Takara

Ine meant to text the group chat, but forgot to click send

Yes, everyone clowned her for it even after the confrontation

Y/N is not FULLY over Akaashi

Back to Masterlist

C. 12 <- C. 13 -> C. 14

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[harringrovetrashrat]

(We had a romcom month in Nov and y’all are gonna be subject to my bs.  This one is While You Were Sleeping inspired)

Steve groaned when there was knocking.

“Tommy, for the last time, no, you can’t move in, no I’m not in black underwear, and no--” He swung the door open to a smiling Billy, one eyebrow raised teasingly.  Steve flushed.  “Sorry, thought you were Tommy.” He said, shoving his hands into his pajama pockets.  Billy chuckled.

“Happens all the time,” he said.  He stood there a moment before ducking his head and licking his lips, wry smile on his face.  “Can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah!” Steve chirped, moving out of the way so Billy could enter.  He moved into the living room, letting Billy follow.  “Sorry,” he said with a wince, gesturing to the mess.  Billy shrugged.  It was quiet a moment before Billy cleared his throat and pointed at Steve’s chest.

“Deciding on ties?” He asked.  Steve looked down, looked at the navy blue, dark green, and coral neckties he had on.

“Oh,” Steve chuckled, pulling them off.  “Yeah, just uh, just seeing what will work.  For tomorrow.” Steve stared at Billy, taking him in.  Billy was looking at the clothes Steve had laid out, at the options he’d pulled out for the impromptu wedding.  It made his heart clench, made his lungs feel heavy.  He wanted Billy to say something.  “What did--”

“I’m sorry,” he said, face set.  “For all the trouble I gave you.” Steve’s words were stuck in his throat as Billy spoke.  “I’m gonna be really happy to, to call you my brother in law,” he said, smiling at Steve.  It didn’t reach his eyes quite right and Steve wanted him to fucking say something.  Billy hummed softly and pulled a small package out of his pocket.  “Oh, I got you a wedding gift,” he said.

“Yeah?” Steve’s voice was soft and Billy looked up at him through his lashes.  Steve gently took the present, unwrapping it carefully.

“I saw it in the window on a job and just--”

“Billy,” Steve breathed.  It was a snow globe.  Nothing fancy, but it was of Florence.  Steve shook it, watching the snow fall.  “Billy I--”

“Anyway--”

“Tell me a reason why I shouldn’t marry Heather,” he said, cutting Billy off.  “Tell me a reason and I won’t.”  Billy froze, gaze sad.  But, he didn’t say anything.  Didn’t utter a peep.  Steve gripped the snow globe tighter and smiled, nodding reflexively to the rejection, trying to push through the way it felt like his heart was breaking.  “Okay.  Yeah.”

“Steve,” Billy said, voice soft.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?  At the--” Steve took a breath.  “At the ceremony.” Billy looked like he wanted to say something, wanted to say a lot of things.  But again, he didn’t.  Just nodded and put his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah,” he replied, voice quiet.  “Tomorrow.” Steve shut the door behind Billy as he left, leaning his forehead against it to cry.  He took shuddery breaths, tried not to cry the day before his wedding, but for once, he couldn’t stop the tears.

--

Steve couldn’t believe he was late.  Couldn’t believe he was going to be late to his own wedding.  Yeah, maybe he wasn’t looking forward to it as much as he would have been a month ago, but he didn’t want to be late.  He skidded into the hallway and quickly found the room where everything had been set up.  Hop and Joyce were standing and talking, Murray was just sitting and watching the show, and Billy--

Billy was standing and waiting on Heather’s side.  Because of course he was her Man of Honor.  Steve walked in, waving.  He made it halfway down the aisle before he realized he’d left his jacket on.  So he ran back, put it on the hook, and walked down the aisle towards the family again.

“Finally!” Hopper boomed, smiling.  “You didn’t get cold feet did you?” Steve chuckled and shook his head.

“No, no.  Let’s uh, let’s do this.” Steve nodded to the rest of the family and looked at Billy.  Billy looked away from him as soon as they locked eyes and Steve once more wished for a lot of things.

Music began and Steve watched Heather walk down the aisle, Hopper leading her along.  They were smiling and Heather pulled her IV along, beaming at Steve.  He smiled back, thinking about how she and Billy had the same dimples.

Then the priest had started to speak and Steve looked in Heather’s eyes and--

“I object,” he said quietly.

“He what?” Hopper said, leaning forward.  Heather just blinked, tilting her head.  The priest gave him a quizzical look.

“We haven’t gotten to that part yet,” he said.

“I’m sorry but I can’t do this,” Steve said, letting go of Heather’s hands and stepping back.  “I--” He looked at the family.  “I’ve been lying to you.  To all of you.  And I can’t go through with this when I love--” He looked at Billy, heart slamming against his ribcage.  Billy stared, jaw slack.

“Billy?” Hopper groaned.  “Boy, what did you do?” Billy snapped out of his shock, furrowing his brow.

“What did I do?  I didn’t do anything!”

“He didn’t!” Steve cut in.  Everyone fell silent again.  “He didn't.  This is all on me, okay?  I’m not.  I’ve never been Heather’s fiancee.” The family collectively blinked.  “There was a miscommunication when she arrived and I didn’t correct them and then you guys came and--” He choked up a little, anxiety and regret filling him.  “You were all so lovely,” he  breathed out.  “A big, loving family that annoyed each other and ragged on each other but still loved each other at the end of the day.  I never… My parents stopped living at home when I was 13.  They didn’t stay at home with me for more than a week at a time.  I’ve never had real, good family in my life and…” He looked at them, all in varying degrees of shock.  “I fell in love with all of you,” he said, voice soft but strong.  Sure.  “And I was selfish and held onto it for too long.  Let this keep going when Heather doesn’t even know me.” He looks at her then, finding her smiling, even if it was sad.  Steve had let go of her hands during his little speech, but he took one again.  “I’m sorry,” he said to her.  “It was unfair to you and-- I’m just sorry.” Steve looked at Billy, who seemed unsure if he was shocked, angry, sad, or happy.  Steve understood that.  “I’m sorry to you too, because somewhere along the way of falling in love with your family, I fell in love with you as well.  And it wasn’t fair to… To want that when you didn’t know the truth.”

Before anyone could say anything else, the door burst open.

“I object!” A short, redheaded woman yelled from the doorway.

“Anyone else?” The priest asked, annoyed and ready to go home.

“Who are you?” Hopper demanded, brows drawn together.

“I’m Heather’s real fiancee!” She snapped, stomping down the aisle.  Heather’s eyes bugged out.

“Carol?  You said no!” She protested.

“Yeah, well I changed my mind--”

“What the fuck?” Joyce mumbled, pressing a dainty hand to her forehead.  The family got mixed up in the commotion and Steve quickly slipped out before anyone could pay him any mind.  It was easier that way.  He could slip out of their lives as easily as he slipped in and let them get back to normal.

--

Steve scratched a line on his notepad with his pen, cheek resting on his hand.  The day was slow, most people quietly bustling their way along in the cold of Chicago.  He sighed, letting his head fall forward to the desk.

“Listen,” Robin said from behind him, spinning around in her chair.  “It’s literally painful watching you mope.  Let’s get drinks tonight or something.” Steve didn’t look over his shoulder, just shrugged.

“Not feeling it,” he mumbled.  Robin sighed.  She opened her mouth to say more, maybe snark some sense back into him, when she saw a group approaching.  Steve still had his head down, shoulders slumped as he tried to make himself small.

It had been a long week since everything and Steve was tired.  Was tired, was sad, and didn’t really want to exist.  He’d been looking at plane tickets while holding Billy’s snow globe like some sort of creep for most of the week.  If he imagined being able to bring Billy along, no one else needed to know.  But it was the only thing he could think of to do.  To take some steps to enjoy his life, even if he had to do it alone.

He really didn’t want to do it alone.

There was a clink in front of him and he grabbed the change, not looking up or even saying his customary hello.  Once he had the pass printed, he slipped it back under the window and a hand quickly placed itself on top of his.  Steve’s breath caught.  He knew those fingers.  Knew those rings.  He’d memorized them.

Blue eyes were gazing down at him when he looked up, mouth opening in shock.  Billy smiled at him, small and hopeful.  Hopper and Joyce were doing a particularly bad job of hiding behind the pillar and watching.  Murray and Max had foregone trying to hide and were just watching, smiling at the sight.  Steve’s mind was racing.  Were they here to tell him off?  Were they mad?  Were they--

“Wanna go on a trip with me, pretty boy?” Billy asked, voice gentle and loving and everything Steve had been wanting to hear for the past month.  He gaped, mind working too slow to catch up.  Billy looked a little nervous at his silence, obviously chewing on the inside of his lip.

“Oh my god,” Robin said as the silence dragged on too long. “He so fucking does.  Please, take his moping ass on a date so I don’t have to drown him myself.”

“Robin!” Steve hissed, turning red.

“You’ve literally been depressed all week and it’s been bringing my vibe down.” Her look softened as she smirked, small and just at Steve.  “Go get your man.  I’ll cover for you.”

Steve could have kissed her.

Instead, he stood, shoving the door to the booth open and jumping the turnstile to cup Billy’s face and pull him into a kiss.  Billy’s hands settled on his waist as he smiled against Steve’s lips.  Joyce let out a Yes! that was probably louder than it should have been, but Steve didn’t care.  Didn’t think about anything except the lips pressed against his.  When he pulled back, Billy was smiling, bright and happy and Steve loved him.

“I’d go anywhere with you, Blue.”

[kimnjss]

[ he stands you up ] requested.

@taestannie​: super angsty anniversary weekend where he stands you up.

@houseofarmanto​: forgetting your anniversary.

warnings: there are none?? 

A/N: requests for reactions are now open and without commissions. if you want to send a reaction request in, simply send me an ask!

NAMJOON

It's been six months since you started your relationship with Namjoon and despite his  busy schedule he promised, a million times promised, that he would be able to meet with you for dinner to celebrate the special day. Any other day, any other time, you'd not get your hopes up because you knew how unpredictable his schedule was even if it was premade and solidified. Things came up and you understood that.

But, after seeing the look on his face, hearing the sureness in his voice when he made his promise, you decided that you would trust it and wait up for him. You put on a nice dress, did your hair and makeup prettily and waited for him to come pick you up, a large smile on your face.

As the hours ticked by, your smile seemed to fade and your patience began to wither. An hour, you could understand with him being late. If you remembered correctly, he had a busy day ahead of him so an hour late was expected. But four hours!? Four whole hours and not a single phone call?

To say you were livid would be an understatement. With a huff, you were kicking your heels from your feet, and trudging up the stairs to take all of this gunk off of your face and go to bed. Night completely ruined.

As you were wiping at your eyeliner, your phone lit up beside you. The smiling picture of you and Namjoon doing it's job in annoying you as a message from his truly popped up onto the screen.

[23:19] ♡ joonie ♡ : OHMYGOD!? BABY. im sooo fucking sorry, i forgot. im not even going to act like i didn't, because i really forgot.

[23:21] ♡ joonie ♡ : and don't take this to think ur not important to me, bc ur the most important thing to me... i just got caught up in the studio.

[23:26] ♡ joonie ♡ : im running home now, ready to make it up to u. please don't be mad!!

Setting your phone down, you shook your head, turning your attention back to your reflection in the mirror. You knew he meant his apologies and that he wasn't lying when he said that you were important to him.

If only this had just been the first time he forgot about you.

JIN

A hundred days together was a big deal. To you and Jin. He had woke you up this morning with the biggest of smiles ready to tell you exactly what today was, as if you'd forget. Like most days, Jin had to work, and of course you didn't mind. You were looking forward to when he'd come home.

There was no way he hadn't planned something fun for the two of you to do tonight and you couldn't wait to figure out what it was. Jin liked to keep things interesting when it came to your relationship, always surprising you and willing to spice things up.

Even after one hundred days, you could genuinely say that there has never been a bored moment between the two of you. Whether he was making you laugh with his corny jokes or if you were teaching each other new recipes, there was always something for you to do. Something fun that you could enjoy together.

Throughout the entire day, you couldn't help but think up what something special would he have planned for you two. Ideas changing the later in the day it got. The romantic walk where the two of you watched the sunset being crossed off as the sunset and he was nowhere in sight.

Briefly, you contemplated sending him a text, but didn't want to be annoying or overbearing. Surely, he didn't forget, right? He was just running late. Probably caught up at practice or in the studio or something? Jin was a busy guy, you understood that much, all you had to do was wait and when he came home the two of you would be able to do something fun together.

That was what you kept telling yourself as you watched the time change on the clock, until it's past midnight and the front door is slamming shut. Okay, stargazing was always fun! Especially if you got creative and brought blankets out into the backyard.

Without a word, Jin was entering the room. He offered you a small smile before kicking his shoes off of his feet. You watched as he stripped his jeans from his body, tossing his shirt away in the corner before sinking onto the bed. “I'm beat. Will you turn out the light when you're finished?”

He spoke on a yawn, eyes falling closed as he slowly began to drift to sleep.

YOONGI

[ 09:57 ] to- yoonfi ✩: you won't be busy all day, right?

[ 10:13 ] yoonfi ✩: nope, not all day. y?

[ 10:13 ] to- yoonfi ✩ : come home early! ive a surprise for you!!

To say your boyfriend was a hard worker would be the understatement of the century. Long hours spent in the studio, producing track after track, refusing to eat until he got the hook just right. He was so hard on himself, but with good reason, the boy was a genius when it came to making music.

The same could be said for his first mixtape, AgustD. You could perfectly remember the smile on his face when he let you listen to the completed version, the way it grew when it finally dropped and his fans loved it more than he had thought.

That was four years ago. Exactly. He had changed so much in the past four years, grown in so many ways and you were so proud of him. Which was why you were more than willing to spoil him on the four year anniversary of his mixtape.

Blessed that he didn't have a busy day, even though he told you that he didn't, you made sure to check with the others. Your boyfriend had the tendency to forget when there was something pending on their schedule.

According to them, though, he was free as a bird and you were ready to take advantage of the free time you'd have as soon as he finished his meeting this afternoon.

A little while after he left for work, you went out and bought an array of ingredients to prepare his favorite meal. Paired with his favorite brand of wine, you couldn't wait to see that smile of his once he walked through the door and caught whiff of what you made.

The food wasn't it, though. You also had splurged and bought him those speakers he had been eyeing for the past few weeks. Figured you'd surprise him with the gift after dinner, when he was relaxed in front of the TV just after you offered to give his back the massage it greatly deserved.

Then, of course, he'd be overwhelmed with happiness and here comes the wild monkey sex you'd have on the couch, and on the stairs, and on the bedroom floor, mapping out every inch of the room until you were falling onto the bed. Or something like that.

You had been so caught up in your plan and making sure that the food was just right, that it took you a moment to realize how late it had gotten. Way past the time Yoongi was supposed to be home.

With furrowed brows, you lifted your phone to dial him. His drawl of a 'hello' tickling your eyes after the third ring. “I thought you'd be home early?” You wondered after he moved to a quieter room to hear you better.

“I'm sorry, baby. I should've called. The meeting sucked so me and Joon have to come up with something new. It'll be all night, but I'll see you in the morning. Alright?” What were you to say? He had to work. Mumbling your agreement, you let the line go dead before plopping at the kitchen table.

HOSEOK

You had thought that Hoseok flying in on the same day of your anniversary would be cutting it close. It was a 14 hour flight, there was no way he'd land in time to make the plans that you had stupidly planned and you didn't really want him to. He'd be so exhausted after flying and you were sure that all he'd want to do would be to get some rest.

But it was your three year anniversary and he wanted to celebrate, insisted that he wouldn't be too tired to spend time with you and marveled about how the only thing he wanted after a long flight was to be with you.

So, per his request, you were slipping into the silky dress he had sent over. Allowing his stylist to come and do your hair and makeup, again, per his request.  

Despite the fact that he wanted to keep where he was taking you a secret, you were able to convince him that it would be better if the two of you just met there in hopes to save time. He, reluctantly, agreed which was why you were seated alone in the restaurant he had so graciously rented out for the two of you.

Scanning over the menu over and over again, reading and rereading every word hoping to pass time. He should be here by now, right? Hobi was clear when he thought you that he'd be landing a little bit after eight and he had planned to come straight here from the airport. It was now 10, so what gives?

Lifting your phone, you frown at the message that you had somehow missed while studying the menu.

[ 21:22 ] hoseokie: princess!! our connecting flight was delayed. i won't be able to makee it :( sooo sorry, ill see you when i get back!

Your standing from your seat before you can read the end of the message, annoyed and overall disappointed. If only he had listened to you when you said over and over again that he wouldn't be able to make it.

At least the restaurant was empty, definitely saved you from looking as stupid as you felt in front of a room full of strangers.

JIMIN

Six o'clock. He had repeated it countless times before leaving the house so where was he now that it was six o'clock? He knew how important this day was to you, how important it should be to him. So where was he?

Was it too much to ask to be with your boyfriend on the anniversary of the day you met? He had said he would be here, so why wasn't he sitting next to you on the stupid park bench, enjoying the picnic you had prepared?

You had met Jimin exactly a year ago today. Could still remember the smile that took over his features when he spotted you seated on this very park bench, exasperation tinting your cheeks as you leaned back in attempt to catch your breath.

He had plopped down beside you without a second thought, a lame joke falling from his lips one he used in hopes to cheer you up. It had worked, you had laughed and instantly fell for the large smile that seemed to light up his entire face.

The two of you had been inseparable since that day, falling in love with each other slowly as the days went by until he was asking you to move in with him five months into your relationship. You said yes, of course and these past months settled and together had been... not what you were expecting.

A nice place for the two of you to live meant that Jimin needed to become a bit more serious about his work and no matter how great of a dancer he was, the craft didn't really call for a steady check. Which was why you encouraged, not pushed, him to get a regular 9-5 that would benefit the both of you in the end.

That's what people in serious blooming relationships did. Started making plans for the future, preparing to take care of each other. And in no way, did you expect him to quit dancing – just dial it back a bit so you wouldn't go bankrupt.

Either way, you regretted the decision of both of you needing steady jobs because lately it was like the two of you had become ships in the night. Hardly seeing each other for more than an hour with your opposite hours. But tonight, he promised, assured you that he would make it and be able to make up all the time the two of you had lost.

You were excited, got dressed up, yet he was nowhere to be found. After a full hour of waiting or him, you were effectively annoyed and ready to pack up and leave. Just as you stood, your phone buzzed in your purse.

Setting your belongings back onto the bench with a huff, you're reaching into your purse and pulling out your phone. Jimin's name lighting up on the screen, only worsening your mood. Did he really wait a whole hour to text you that he wasn't going to be able to make it? Of course he'd miss it, it was obvious now after an hour.

[19:07] jiminie!: i know u must be pissed nd im sooo sorry.

[19:08] jiminie!: i came home early nd wanted to take a little nap, but overslept. [19:10] jimine!: come home, i've prepared something nice for us.

No matter how mad you wanted to be, how mad you knew you should be, you really couldn't bring yourself to be. The boy was tired and you loved him, asked this of him so the least you could do was be a little bit understanding.

TAEHYUNG

The scowl doesn't leave your face not once the entire day. While you're cleaning up the house, while you're fixing lunch, while you're binge watching your favorite TV show. Pursed lips, raised brows and clenched teeth. You've been a foul mood all day and you had one person to thank for that.

The same person who rolled over half sleep nearly crushing you to death, but you didn't say anything because you loved him and loved being in his arms no matter the fact that you couldn't breathe underneath his weight. The same person that sprung up this morning, not a word about the meaning of today, just a grumbled: “Could you get breakfast ready?” As he pulled himself from he bed to go shower.

The same person that forgot your fucking anniversary and didn't even bat an eye when you brought up the date in hopes hearing the numbers would some how jot his memory. It didn't. What it did do, though, was remind him of the various things he had scheduled today with his little friends. Barely stopped to kiss you as he rushed out the door.

So your foul mood was his fault and you were planning to give him the cold shoulder until you were satisfied with the groveling he'd pull from being ignored. If there was one thing Taehyung hated was being ignored, you knew that more than anyone. One thing that you hated? When your so called boyfriend forgot the day that marked the start of your relationship.

You figured ignoring him would be fair.

Now, there was no way you didn't understand that Taehyung was a busy guy. He was always in and out of the house and so adamant about putting his all into his work and you admired that about him. You just never thought it would be some type of tug of war when it came to spending time with him. Especially on days as important as this one.

Punching the pause button on the remote, you reached to grab your phone cutting it's vibrating dance short as you read the message that had appeared on the screen.

[ 17:11 ] joon: happy anniversary. sorry we're stealing ur boyfriend :( what did he do this morning, though?

Ah, Namjoon their ever so considerate leader. Not a surprise that he'd be more attentive than your actual boyfriend on this day. How could someone, who was not even inside your relationship, wish you happy anniversary before your own man!?

[ 17:13 ] to joon: he forgot.

Tossing the phone beside you, the scowl on your face deepens as you glare at the characters on the screen. Stupid idiots, kissing and cooing as if their whole love story wasn't about to go to shit within the second act. How unfair. Taehyung would love bad mouthing shitty romcoms, but you had to be mad at him because he was a little shit.

Not even five minutes after the message sent to Namjoon was your phone dinging, Taehyung's specialized name lighting up your screen. Pfft, did he really need his friend to remind him of the day? How pathetic.

[ 17:17 ] boyfriend!!: baby!! oooh my god, im sooo... u know this isn't like me, i don't know what to say. we're in a radio interview now, but im rushing home right when it's over. pls, don't be upset. i mean i know ur upset, but lets at least try to salvage what left of the day we have. please. im soo sorry.

You thought, for a moment that you could be petty in this moment. Type back some snarky reply that you knew would make him feel some type of way. You just... didn't have the energy. Being forgotten about sucked, hurt in an odd way that you couldn't really explain.

Taehyung was a great boyfriend, but it was starting to get a little old the way he had your relationship on the back burner of his life. He was either with you, or not. Something's gotta give.

JUNGKOOK

You knew from the moment the words left Namjoon's lips, your boyfriend wasn't going to find true peace ever again. Let alone be able to rest properly. Producer. Which brought on a new array of responsibilities that Jungkook to very seriously, as he should.

Much like your meticulous boyfriend, everything had to be absolutely perfect and anything short of that wasn't worth presenting. That exact mentality was the reason why he spent so many long hours in the studio, at dance practice. Going over and redoing each note, each step, until he was satisfied or until he was being dragged out.

It was more often the latter because this boy was never satisfied no matter how great everything he did ended up looking, sounding. He still strives to be the best, better than the best. So it was no surprise that you were seeing him much less when his new title was being announced.

Producer Jungkook. It was safe to say that he was stressed. Not to mention that he still had to keep up with choreography, singing, interviews and being the youngest of the biggest boy band in the world.

You understood that, so you didn't blame he when he was too tired to fool around. Didn't make a fuss when dinner plans had to be canceled. Agreed when he asked you to watch him, help him figure out what he was missing. You were always there for him when he needed you.

So it was completely fair that you'd get a little pissed when you asked the same for him and he didn't deliver. It wasn't like you were requesting something bizarre or out of the ordinary, honestly, you just wanted him to be home early to spend a few hours together for your anniversary.

Three months wasn't long, not that much of a milestone, but it was still exciting and you wanted to be with him. Especially since he's been like a ghost these past few weeks. Was it too much to ask that he was home for just one night? Just one night where he was Jeon Jungkook of BTS, but just your regular boyfriend.

His apology came two hours after he was supposed to show up. A short message explaining that he wouldn't be able to make it. Like you couldn't of guessed that. Still, you waited, his favorite show cued up and ready. The incoming message had you flicking the TV off with a huff, trudging up the stairs with a prominent pout of your lips.

The pout didn't lift from your lips the rest of the night and pretty soon you were slipping underneath the sheets, lip jutted. He missed dinner fine, five o'clock was a little early to ask someone to leave work. But was he really not even going to make the effort to get in before you had fallen asleep?

Guess not.

It wasn't until after one did you feel the bed shift, a tentative arm wrapping around your waist as a heavy breath left his lips. But you were in no mood to be cuddled, especially not by him. Fully awake and alert now, you were shoving his hand from your body, scooting away from him.

“Come on, baby. Please. Today's been so shitty, I just want to hold you.” You could hear the sadness in his voice. But what about you? Did he even consider that your day might have  been shitty too?

Forcing your eyes shut, you acted as if you had fallen back asleep. Back turned to him, because you could guess the sad look he had on his face. You couldn't bring yourself to turn around and give in, allowing yourself to be engulfed in him. Not tonight.

[theundercovermarvelfan]

Whumptober 2020 - Day 13

Whumtober Challenge @whumptober2020

Day 13 Breathe in, Breath Out Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask

“Is everyone out, did everyone make it out?” Steve demanded as he ran up to the jet, desperately taking stock of his team.

Tony, Thor, Bruce, Natasha… 

“Clint!” Natasha gasped as they all seemed to come to realization of who was missing at the same time. 

Steve spun around, feeling the blood drain from his face as he looked at the warehouse, smoke pouring out of every visible window and door. 

“Clint? Clint, can you hear me?” Steve tried over the comms., even though he knew in the pit of his stomach it wouldn’t do any good. There was a long moment of silence over the line, followed by a burst of static. 

And then Steve was running. 

He barely paused as he slammed his shoulder into the nearest door, bursting into the warehouse. He paused, squinting through the smoke. The air clung hot and heavy to his skin, indicating how difficult it would be to breathe if it weren’t for the Super Soldier Serum. 

“Clint?” Steve called as he looked around frantically, but he couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him because of smoke that was only getting thicker by the moment. 

He heard him before he saw him. In the end all he had to do was follow the sound of the hacking cough before he finally came across Clint, slumped over on the floor as he had tried to get underneath the smoke that was now pressing almost to the floor. He had ripped off the bottom of his pant leg and was holding it over his nose and mouth, in an attempt to filter some of the air he was breathing, but it was painfully clear the damage had already been done. As Steve dropped to a knee next to him, Clint looked up at him, blinking through bloodshot eyes as he desperately wheezed in one labored breath after another. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I got you,” Steve assured him as he leaned down and ducked under one of Clint’s arms and leveraged him up to his feet. 

Clint thankfully had enough awareness to keep the piece of fabric pressed to his nose and mouth as he stumbled along next to Steve. Steve moved them as quickly as he could back toward the exit, finally bursting back out into the fresh air. They made it a good twenty feet from the burning warehouse before Clint’s legs finally gave out, sending them both toppling to the ground. 

“Clint! Clint, are you okay?” 

Steve looked up to see Natasha running over to them, dropping to her knees next to Clint. He was hunched over with one hand braced on the ground while the other was still pressing the cloth to his face as he coughed and wheezed, every breath sounding horribly painful. 

Suddenly, the load roar of an explosion tore through the air around them. On instinct, Steve threw his arms up and used his body to cover the two more vulnerable teammates, blocking the heat and debris. Once the wave passed, Steve looked over his shoulder to see that half the warehouse had collapsed. More than that… it was the portion where Clint had been stranded just a few minutes ago.

Damnit, that was lucky. 

“The fire must have hit something explosive,” Steve panted as he stared at the wreckage, knowing full well he was pointing out the obvious. 

“Steve, we need to get Clint back to the jet,” Natasha said urgently. “Now!”

Steve turned back quickly, surprised by the panic that laced Natasha’s voice. He looked down at Clint, who was still coughing but didn’t seem any worse off than he had been just a minute ago. Then Steve saw it. Clint had dropped his hand away from his mouth, letting the piece of fabric fall to the ground. It was hard to tell, since the fabric was black, the stains could have just been saliva. But when Steve saw Clint’s hand, it was painfully clear what those stains really were. 

Blood. Clint was coughing up blood. 

“Here, I got him,” Steve said, moving forward. 

It said something that Clint didn’t even have it in him to protest as Steve scooped him up in his arms. Instead, Clint seemed to spasm in on himself as he continued to choke and wheeze desperately for oxygen. 

Steve and Natasha ran back to the Quinjet, finding the rest of the team waiting anxiously for them. 

“Is he alright?” Thor asked. 

“Tony, get the jet powered up, we need a hospital,” Steve ordered, letting the statement answer the question. 

“On it,” Tony said as he ran up the ramp into the jet.

“What’s the situation?” Bruce asked worriedly as they approached. 

“He hasn’t stopped coughing and there’s blood coming up,” Natasha said briskly as they made their way up the ramp, Bruce and Thor falling into step behind them. 

“Okay, put him down over there, but keep him sitting up,” Bruce ordered as he hurried over to the medical supplies. 

Natasha stepped in front of Steve and quickly pushed one of the medical cots over so that it was up against the wall of the jet. Then Steve set Clint down, carefully situating him so that his back was to the wall, though he still remained hunched over and coughing into his hands. For a long moment, Steve could only stare helplessly as it felt like they were watching him slowly suffocate right in front of them. 

“Here, hold this to his face,” Bruce said, shoving an oxygen mask into Steve’s hands. “Don’t put the strap over his head, just hold it, you’ll need to move it when he coughs so the blood doesn’t pool in it.”

Steve folded his leg underneath him as he shifted more fully onto the cot. “Easy, Clint,” Steve said, trying to draw Clint’s attention to him. Clint’s gaze drifted vaguely in his direction. “This is going to help,” He said as he held up the mask while Bruce set the oxygen tank that it was hooked up to to run wide open.

Steve slipped one hand behind Clint’s head to help brace him as he used the other to hold the mask up over Clint’s nose and mouth, an action that Clint was aware enough not to fight as he dropped his shaking, blood stained hands into his lap. Natasha sat on Clint’s other side to keep him from tipping over. Holding the mask was easier said than done since Clint seemed to be coughing more than he was breathing, but Steve quickly found a rhythm. 

“Will he be alright?” Thor asked, shifted uneasily from foot to food nearby. 

“It’s hard to say,” Bruce admitted as he went back to rummaging through medical supplies. “The blood could just be from a relatively minor lesion in his trachea caused by the coughing. Or… it could be coming from his lungs. Which would be really bad. Especially since we’re a decent ways out from a real hospital out here.” 

There was a heavy silence following the statement, broken only by the sound of the Quinjet rumbling to life. 

“Clint, I’m going to hook you up to an IV, hopefully I’m just being overly cautious though,” Bruce narrated as he set up the equipment. 

Bruce took Clint’s hand and had to scrub with three different alcohol wipes before it was clean enough to place the IV. Clint watched with what seemed like a detached interest. But the coughing was finally starting to slow down a bit and Steve felt like he was holding the mask up to Clint’s face for longer than he initially was.  

“Clint, can you try talking at all?” Bruce asked as he took out a stethoscope. 

Clint wheezed in a couple labored breaths before he managed to rasp out, “Hurts.”

“I know,” Bruce said sympathetically as he listened to Clint’s chest. “I need you to stay upright and conscious for me though. If the blood is in your lungs, we don’t want it pooling there.”

“Can you tell if it is in his lungs?” Natasha questioned as they watched Bruce listen carefully to his stethoscope. 

“I can’t say for sure,” Bruce said grimly as he straightened up. “There’s definitely some fluid, but he also very likely has chemical pneumonia due to all the chemicals in that warehouse he likely inhaled while they burned up. In any case, I don’t have the equipment to really be able to deal with it here. All we can really do is keep him going until we can get him to the hospital.”

“We can do that,” Steve said with what he hoped sounded like more conviction than he felt. 

It was perhaps the longest plane ride any of them had endured. Even as Clint’s coughing became less severe, his breathing remained terribly shallow as he fought to pull in each breath. His coughs also went from painfully dry to thick and wet, which was perhaps even more concerning. 

It took almost two hours for them to reach a hospital that had a landing pad where they could land. Tony had alerted the medical team, who were ready to rush onto the jet the moment the jet lowered. Bruce stuck with the team as they loaded Clint onto a gurney and took him into the hospital, rattling off his decompensating vitals. And if they were being honest, Bruce was there to help but also to look after Clint, since the Avengers couldn’t necessarily trust random hospitals to be free of anyone who held a grudge against them. 

Once again, Clint had gotten lucky. The smoke inhalation had caused a pulmonary embolism that had been severe enough to need removal, but the doctors were able to perform the procedure without any complications. After that, they were able to stabilize him enough that the next day the Avengers were able to transport him home in order to be under the care of their own trusted medical staff. 

Another crisis averted and just another day in the life of the Avengers. 

[pamphletstoinspire]

Today is the Third Sunday of Advent - Gaudete Sunday (December 13, 2020)

The Third Sunday of Advent takes its common name from the Latin word Gaudete (“Rejoice”), the first word of the introit of this day’s Mass.

The Epistle of St. Paul to the Philippians, iv. 4-7.

Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I say, rejoice. Let your modesty be known to all men. The Lord is nigh. Be nothing solicitous; but in every thing, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your petitions be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasseth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus our Lord. 

by Bishop Ehrler, 1891

“I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness: make straight the way of the Lord.” (John I: 23.)

In my text of to-day, my dearly-beloved, St. John calls himself a voice, thereby giving his disciples plainly to understand that he was not the “Word made flesh,” but simply the voice of that Word. And those who listened to him knew that the Son of God could not then be far off, inasmuch as they already heard his voice in the person of the Baptist. As the voice prepares the way for the word, so that it may come forth intelligibly from the mouth of man, so also John, through his voice, (that is, through his preaching and baptism) prepared the hearts of men for the coming of Christ. Hence, he says that he is that voice which Isaias had long before foretold as crying out: “Make straight the way of the Lord.” In what did this preparation principally consist?” He preached the baptism of penance, for the remission of sins (Luke 3 : 3).” He consoled the people, and after he had imbued them with faith in the Redeemer, he animated them still further to love him and confide in him:

I. Through the hope of pardon; II. Through the hope of grace; and III. Through the hope of glory. This three-fold hope, my brethren, is the necessary fruit of that three-fold faith of which we spoke, last Sunday. From the faith of the commandments, springs the hope of pardon; from the faith of miracles, the hope of grace; and from the faith of the promises, the hope of glory. We will, to-day, examine the foundations of these three truths.

I. Every sinner, no matter how often or how grievously he mav have violated the Commandments of God, has a sure hope of pardon. It is true that, when a hardened offender turns to God, and calls upon him for forgiveness, the abyss of evil cries out to the abyss of mercy; or as the Psalmist expresses it: “Deep calleth upon deep.” (Ps. 41 : 8.) But, though this abyss of wickedness be ever so deep and fathomless, that of God’s mercy is still greater and more profound; where sin hath abounded, grace more fully abounds. “Turn ye to me, saith the Lord of Hosts: and I will turn to you (Zach. 1 : 3).” Yea, He promises still further: “If the wicked do penance for all his sins which he hath committed, and keep all my commandments, I will not remember all his iniquities that he hath done (Ezech. 18 : 21-22).”

Moreover, He not only invites the sinner to repentance, my dear brethren, but He waits long and patiently for his conversion. “I desire not the death of the wicked,” He declares by the mouth of his prophet, “but that the wicked turn from his ways and live (Ezech. 33 : 11).” “The Lord is compassionate and merciful (Ps. 112 : 8).” He is merciful to all sinners, He is long-suffering toward the perverse and obdurate, so that they may be converted from the evil of their ways; or, as the Wise Man says in his apostrophe to the Most High: “Thou overlookest the sins of men for the sake of repentance (Wis. 11: 24).” Why, then, do you delay your repentance, unhappy sinner? “Despisest thou the riches of His goodness, and patience, and longsuffering? Knowest thou pot that the benignity of God leadeth thee to penance (Rom. 2: 4)?” Long and zealously did St. John the Baptist preach to the Jews “the baptism of penance,” for no other purpose than “for the remission of their sins”! Yet, how often might he not have said to them: “Be not as your fathers, to whom the former prophets have cried, saying: Thus saith the Lord of Hosts: turn ye from your evil ways, and from your wicked thoughts: but they did not give ear (Zach. 1: 4).” I beseech of you now, my brethren, to take warning from the example of that hardened and stiff-necked people, and listening, to follow with docility and faith “the voice of one crying in the wilderness.” Making straight the way of the Lord by the faith of the Commandments, you will not only enjoy the assured hope of pardon for past sins, but also, if you will humbly beg it from God, the hope of grace that will prevent you from committing sins in the future.

II. The hope of pardon, my dear Christians, is far from being so attractive to the sinner as the hope of continued grace. He knows that God’s forgiveness for the past will avail him nothing, if he continues to offend Him anew by fresh sins. He also knows that, of himself, he is utterly unable to avoid evil; and that “it is God who worketh in him both to will and to accomplish according to His good will (Phil. 2: 13).” The Wise Man declares that: “To God the wicked and his wickedness are hateful alike; “and when the converted sinner remembers that he was once an object of hatred to that good God, and reflects at the same time that he is now His friend and favorite, what can he do but cry out gratefully with St. Paul: “By the grace of God, I am what I am (1 Cor. 15 : 10)!” adding with the Psalmist: “What shall I render to the Lord, for all the things that He hath rendered to me (Ps. 115 : 12)?” The recollection of one’s past misery is the first happy effect of grace, as well as the first step toward future holiness.

But this knowledge, my brethren, is due altogether to the ineffable goodness of God. “The Lord is my light and my salvation (Ps. 26: 1)!” O ye poor, blinded sinners! no matter how deeply you may be sunk in misery, “Come ye to him, and be enlightened (Ps. 33: 6).” Seeing, you will understand the danger from which you have been rescued by the mercy of God; and understanding, you will learn to dread a relapse into sin.

Grace is alike necessary to convert the sinner and to preserve him in the divine friendship after his conversion. The soul of a Christian is like a fortified city, which is surrounded on all sides by enemies. “Unless the Lord keep the city, he watcheth in vain that keepeth it (Ps. 126: 1).” Our spiritual enemies are most numerous, their plans most cunningly devised for our destruction; and we are obliged to contend constantly with the traitorous foe within the walls–our own miserable concupiscence. A man’s enemies, says the Lord, are they of his own household (Mich. 7 : 6). But, for our consolation, let us be firmly assured that God will not desert us, unless we first turn our backs on Him; and it is especially written of the just: “The Lord keepeth all them that love Him (Ps. 144: 20).” God does not constrain the free will of man; but His grace is always ready to co-operate with that free will in the grand work of salvation. “He has created us without our aid,” says St. Augustine, ” but He will not save us without our co-operation.” His assistance is so essential to the success of our undertakings, that no one can begin, continue, or complete any work without the all-powerful help of God. He has, then, a just right to issue His commands, since His gracious help encompasses His children on every side, mercifully and efficaciously enabling them to keep His commandments to the end. See, O dearly beloved! how firm and consistent is the hope of grace, to the heart of the repentant and converted sinner!

III. The hope of glory is that strong and intimate confidence which supports the just, and enables them to persevere in the performance of their good works. “He that shall persevere unto the end, he shall be saved (Matth. 10 : 22),” says our Saviour. In what does this being saved consist?” One can truly receive the happiness of the elect,” says St. Augustine, “but one can never properly estimate it.” “I can more easily tell what is not in heaven than what is there.” Death shall be no more in that kingdom of delights; and sorrow, and weakness, and sickness shall be at an end; neither shall hunger, nor thirst, heat, disappointment, or any other misery, afflict the children of God. “They shall be inebriated with the plenty of Thy house: and Thou shalt make them drink of the torrent of Thy pleasure (Ps. 35: 9).” “And they shall reign with God forever and ever (Apoc. 22: 5).” “Oh, true life! Oh, eternal life! Oh, eternally happy life!” exclaims in an ecstasy the great Bishop of Hippo–unable to find words to express the feelings of his heart, when he would depict the ineffable joys of Paradise. And if any thing further were needed to encourage us, we shall find it in the exhortation and promise of our Saviour which is jointly the foundation of our hope: “Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: because your reward is very great in heaven (Matth. 5 : 12).” St. Bernard, speaking of this same reward, says: “It is so great that one can not exhaust it; and so precious that one can not sufficiently value it.”

And what does God require from us, my brethren, in order to merit this heavenly recompense? If He exacted of us to serve him for half an eternity, the demand would not be too great. “The days of man are short (Job 14: 5).” “Our days upon earth are but a shadow” (Job 8: 9), and they “are passed more swiftly than the web is cut by the weaver (Job 7 : 6).” Should we not, then, apply these few brief days to serving our Creator, and keeping His commandments? “His commands are not heavy (1 John 5: 3).” This short life may be filled with miseries, I will admit, my dear fellow-sufferers, but, with the Apostle of the Gentiles, “I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory to come, that shall be revealed in us (Rom. 8: 18).” That which we suffer is only temporary, and “our present tribulation, which is momentary and light, worketh for us above measure exceedingly an eternal weight of glory (2 Cor. 4: 17).”

Peroration. Therefore, “prepare ye the way of the Lord,” beloved Christians, and “trust in Him, all ye congregation of people (Ps. 61: 9).” “Being justified by faith, let us have peace with God, through our Lord Jesus Christ: by Whom, also, we have access through faith into this grace, wherein we stand, and glory in the hope of the glory of the sons of God (Rom. 5: 1-2).” God receives us back into His friendship even after we have frequently and basely insulted him. He upholds us by His all-powerful grace in the path of righteousness; and he promises us, moreover, an eternal reward if we serve Him faithfully during the short days of our life. Dearly beloved, have we not here three signal mercies of our good God, sufficient to excite us to the thorough and lasting reformation of our lives? Ah! yes, let us put our hope in his divine power and goodness; and persevering bravely with His help in the path of virtue, let us hope to love, for all eternity, that gracious God in whom we have believed and hoped unwaveringly here below. Amen. 

[celosiaa]

steady, love (chapter 7)

Summary:

Martin is not doing well.

Jon is there with him through every step.

(because I became obsessed ™ with the idea of Martin dealing with the physical and emotional aftermath of leaving the Lonely)

Chapters 1-7 are up on ao3 under the same username!

(The EYE speaks in glitched text.  Jon’s thoughts are italicized.)

WARNINGS: illness, hospitals, medical talk, addiction mention

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

P̘ͮnͯͧ͋̏e͓̳̭͗ͩu͔̲ͥ̽̿ͯ̾m̲̑̉̿̏̅ͨ̿̔o̭͚͗̏̉̂̌ͪ̿͗n̪̟̫̩͉̍̓ͤ̈̿̂i͙̥͕̱̯̿ͮ͋̄ͣ̄̀a͎͔̮̻͗͊ͣ̓ͯ̄͛͒͑ ̝͇͍̯̫̺̋ͫͯ̍́ͤ̄ͤS̹͍͓̪̠̙̯̟̥̔ͬ̑̋ͪ̚e̻͉̳͈͕͔̟͍̲̖ͭ̈́̎̿ͦv͈͓̼̲̭͍̖̲͐̒̿͊ͬ̉ͭͅe̻̫̞̬̬̤̯̹ͨ̃ͤͩͤ̉ͦ̈r̪͚̙͖̩͉͓͙ͤ͐̆̽̑̊͒̚i̼̘̖̼͕̫̦̻̩̙̬͐̓ͣ̇̚t̤̙̹͉̭ͭ̄̔ͭ͊̍̓͛͋̚ẙ̼͙̩̻͈͙̈́́̒ͣ̿̋ͣ̚ ͙̺̱̣̪̒ͩ̋͑ͫͤͭ̓̌Î̺̼͓͇̖͖͋͒ͥ̓͋̇ṇ͇͎̓̿̄͛̐̂̽̿̓d͚̤̩̹ͤ̍̈ͭ͐̄͗e̫̺͓̺̤̺͋̒͋̂x̖̟̦͊͂͂̾̓ ͈ͨ̈̾ͣ̿̅Ŝ̗̗̈́̇c͓ͪͧ̓o̭̜re:

aͦ ̀c̤̏l̠ͪi̻͍n͉̿̋i͖ͨ̉c̘ͬͬa̗̖ͅl̹͊͂̈ ͉̊̉̔ẗ̗̥̣ö̻̳̓̄o͒͛̋̈́̚l̘̳͂̃͒ ͎̋͌ͪ͋f̙̖͑ͥ̒̍ọ̼̭ͭ̈̃r͎̥̪̓̏̇ ͖̞͍̐ͫ̀m̱̣̖̤̎ͯͩe̮̫̙ͯ͐̚ͅȧ͉̥ͨ̂ͧͣs̮̟̗͇ͧ͒̅u̥̥͕͔͕̔̾r͙͍̘ͨ̈́͗̂ḯ̠͙̹̘͒̍n̗̐̌̎̋́ͭ̊g͚̝̜̳̬̈́ͦ̂ ̘̗̗̓͂ͭ͊͑t͓͙̯̩͒͌̾͌h̲̳̝͓̊̓̆̚ẻ̥͚͉͙̑͒̑ ̫̤͊ͦͥ͊̄̈́l̮̦̯̏̎̽̈́ͥỉ̟̖̲ͯ̿̓̊k̜̬̮̙ͬ̑͂̂ḛ̭͕̽͊̄ͦͅl͇̺̼̤̿ͦ͒̚ï̠̙̮̪̠̓̎h̯̱͔͖ͭ͗̉ọ͖̝̘̔̊ͮo̳̬̬̩ͧͩ͋d̲̦̩̰̿̍͒ ̲ͨ̀̾͋͋ͩo̤͖̤͋ͨͭ̚f͌ͥ̈͂̄̅̈́ ̞ͨͭͬͭ̚m̮̪̄̆͋̔o̬̰̺̤ͥ̈́r̘̳̈́̔̐ͅt͕̳͇̎̉a͓̤̫͕ͪl̤͍̰͋ͮì̫̠̂͒t͙̥ͧͥẙ̤ͦ̓ ͓͇̺̻f̤́͂r̼͑̏o̦̱̘m͐̓ ̲ͮp̙̀ṉėu͉monia.

A̮ ̞s̬ͨc̥͈ǒ͆r͈͂e̪ͤ̚ ̼ͬͯiͭ̾̑s͙͗̌̓ ̮̪̝͙g̻̿̊͛i̹͛̒ͬv̯̄̿͊ͦe͚̺ͣͨͦn̙̹͂ͤͩ ̠͙̝̊͒b͊̇̔̆̉a̝̰ͧ́ͨs͕͖̝͗̌ḛ̣̥̄ͣḓ̥͌̄ͩ ͚̙͈͊ͯu̘ͪ̋̊̂p͕̥ͫͫ̚ȯ͖̙̒ͬn̗̓ͮ̎̿ ̘̽̈́̊͂t͙̞̻̯̏ḫ͉̰͕͚e̼̫̳̩̤ ͇̐͆͆̅f̓ͭ̄͛ő̜̯̫l̹̉ͪ̂l̩̘̻ͦo͔͕̊w̯̞̃i̇̍̈́n̞̾ͩg͙͒ ̻̊f̻̚a̽c̰t̄ors:

God, shut UP.

Jon buries his face in his hands, the familiar hunger-driven brain fog beginning to settle in.  It’s been nearly thirty minutes since Martin had his x-ray, and he’s been dozing ever since.  Left with nothing but the silence for company, Jon’s head has been spinning with information that he doesn’t want, he doesn’t need, he doesn’t understand.

He rubs at his eyes.

Christ, I am exhausted.

Before he can sink further into his misery, there is a sharp rapping on the door, and Jon is forced to pick up his head and push wearily forward.  Martin’s eyes flutter open along with the door, which reveals Aaron, cheery as ever.

“Hi again, how are we doing in here?” he says, flashing a wide smile in Martin’s direction.

Eyes still half-lidded with sleep, Martin gives yet another thumbs up in response.  At this, Jon cannot help but roll his eyes and sigh, sharing a sidelong look with the doctor.  Aaron returns the look, nodding at Jon in acknowledgment before he continues.

“That good, eh?  Well, the results are in, and—drumroll please…”

With a flourish, he slides Martin’s x-ray in front of the lightboard and points at dense-looking white spots on Martin’s lungs.

“You’ve got a pretty significantly sized infection in your left lung, with a small spot of infection in your right.  Which means that it’s a double pneumonia, and a pretty nasty one at that.  But you knew that already, I’d wager.”

Martin lets out a faint sigh, and nods.  Seeming to sense his growing fatigue, Aaron lowers himself to sitting on a rolling stool, and turns to address both Martin and Jon in a softer voice.

“What happens next is this: we need to get that fever down a bit and get you some antibiotics.  So we’re going to keep you here for a few hours while we get you those, as well as an IV to get you some liquids, and see what happens from there.  If you seem to be doing better, we’ll send you home with oral antibiotics and oxygen, in case you need it.  If not, we’re going to have to send you to the hospital in Aberdeen for treatment tonight, since I can’t keep anyone overnight here.  Does that all make sense?”

Sending a glance towards Martin, Jon squeezes his hand to elicit some sort of response, but he merely continues to stare at the doctor, blinking owlishly.  Jon clears his throat.

“Err, yes—that makes perfect sense, thank you,” Jon replies for him, certain that Martin had not taken in anything that had just been said.

“Happy to help,” Aaron replies, shooting Jon a lopsided grin. “Anything else I can do for you in the meantime?”

Jon takes a moment to think, watching as Martin’s eyes droop closed once again.

Basira.  She’ll want to know.

“Actually, yes—is there a phone I can use here?”

“’Course, just take a right down the hall.  Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

Aaron stands from his stool then, clapping a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“No trouble!  Isla—Martin’s nurse—will be around to get all that stuff to you.  I’m just a shout away if you need me, alright?”

“Right.  Thank you, Aaron.”

He dims the lights as he exits, closing the door behind him.  Turning his attention back to Martin, still drifting into fever-induced slumber, Jon takes up his left hand again, holding it in both of his own.  Slowly, nervously, he begins working his fingers over Martin’s palm, clumsily imitating Martin’s well-practiced massage technique.  He looks down at his own hands, scowling at the scars peppered across them, faded and pale against the dark of his skin.

My hands are too rough, this is foolish.

He is proven definitively wrong when Martin lets out a soft sigh of contentment, fogging up the mask instantly.

Jon grins from ear to ear and keeps going.

(13:37)

His left knee aches as he walks unevenly toward the hall phone, old injury pulling at him in the wake of half-carrying Martin to the car that morning.

Should have brought my brace.

Martin has been sleeping on and off for the past few hours, rousing only to cough or smile pleasantly at Isla when she comes by to tend to him.  He’s been set up with IV fluids and fever reducers since noon, and his first dose of antibiotics went down with little issue.  Left only with the prospect of waiting to see what happens, Jon finally feels comfortable enough to leave a sleeping Martin in the room for a while to call Basira, grab some coffee, find a bite to eat, and—

No, you will NOT smoke today.  Not an option.

Reaching the phone, Jon hesitates for a moment, mulling over what to say before finally dialing Basira’s number.  She lets it ring out a few times before picking up brusquely.

“Hussain speaking.”

“Basira?  It’s Jon.”

“Jon?  I don’t recognize this number.  Where are you?  What’s going on?” she asks rapidly, voice ticking up in concern.

“I’m calling from the village clinic.  You said to call if Martin got worse, and…well, he has.”

“Shit.  What happened?  Is he alright?”

Jon sighs exhaustedly, running a hand through his hair.  He can’t quite keep his voice from shaking.

“I’m…not sure, yet.  They’re keeping him under observation for the rest of the day to see if he needs to go to the hospital.”

“Jesus.”

“He was running a fever of nearly 40 this morning and sounded like…well, like he couldn’t breathe, so I took him here for help.  Apparently he’s got pneumonia.  He’s fallen asleep, so…I thought I’d call to let you know.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Y…yeah.”

Jon’s voice breaks roughly.

“How are you holding up?” she asks, in what might be the gentlest tone Jon has ever heard from her.

A lump forms immediately in his throat, making his eyes sting and his vision swim at the edges.

Pull it together, come on.

Tipping his head back for a moment, he blinks away the tears and takes a damp, shuddering breath that must have been audible on the other end.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” she soothes, her voice nearly a whisper.

Jon clutches at the receiver, as if it will somehow bring her closer.

“I-I’m fine, Basira.  Just…just tired.  And worried,” he says, voice thick.

“And hungry?”

“…yes.”

She sighs at this, pulling her phone away from her face for a moment.  Jon braces for her tone to be harsh upon her return, but to his relief, it remains decidedly softened— understanding, even.

“The statements should be there by tomorrow.  So there’s something good, at least.”

“R-right.  Something good.”

Silence falls for a moment before Basira continues, her voice returning to her usual matter-of-fact register.

“He’s going to be alright, Jon.  Even if he does have to go to the hospital.  He’ll recover, and then you can get back to your usual hopeless pining.”

At this, Jon can’t resist huffing out a laugh.

“Well…it’s not so hopeless anymore, actually.”

She gasps in shock.

“You’re joking!  You actually went for it, then?”

“Not-not exactly, it just sort of…happened.  I don’t know exactly how, but—yeah.  It’s…good.  Really good, actually,” he stammers, unable to keep his smile from bleeding into his tone.

“God, listen to you.  You’re like an enamored schoolboy,” she replies fondly.

Jon sputters in mock-indignation, pulling a hearty laugh from Basira.

“Well, I’m happy for you both.  You deserve something lovely, for once.”

“So do you, Basira,” Jon replies softly.

“…thanks.”

They allow the silence hang for a moment.  Basira then exhales sharply before continuing.

“Well, enough of the mushy shit.  Let me know what the doctors say, alright?  And tell Martin I hope he feels better soon.”

“I will.  Call you later, then.”

“You’d better.”

She hangs up on him, as always.

(14:43)

Half-empty coffee and a bagel in hand, Jon walks back to Martin’s room from where he had been standing outside, fiddling with an unlit cigarette for the better part of an hour.  It had taken everything in him, but he had managed not to light it, instead walking back through the clinic doors and deciding to snag some food on the way back to the room.  He cannot help the guilt welling up inside—for his struggle, for the way his hands are shaking, for bringing the cigarettes with him in the first place—

He opens the door to see Martin smiling back at him, and it all fades away.

Cheeks flushed and face pale, Martin is half-sitting in up in bed now, the heat no longer rolling off him with such vicious intensity as before.  His oxygen mask has now been replaced with a nasal cannula, allowing Jon a clear picture of the sunny smile Martin offers so freely.

Something warm tugs at Jon’s heart, and a wide grin spreads across his face.

“Well, well, look who’s got an upgrade,” he says lightly, stepping toward the bedside.

Martin’s own smile widens at this, and he reaches out for Jon’s hand as he sets his coffee and bagel on a nearby table.  Scooting his chair closer before sitting, Jon gently takes Martin’s hand in both of his own, closing his eyes and lowering his lips to the back of Martin’s palm.

3̙̩8͖̓͊.̘̹̎7͖̏.͙

At last.

Jon smiles against Martin’s hand for a moment before looking back up.

“Your temperature’s down,” he says, trying not to sound as dizzy with relief as he feels.

Martin nods quickly before clearing his throat, causing something to catch in his chest.  Turning away at once, he presses his face into his elbow as heavy-sounding coughing erupts from him, causing Jon’s brows to knit closer together in worry with every moment that passes.  Mercifully, the coughs fade away after about fifteen seconds.  Martin flops back gracelessly against the pillows, panting and exhausted.

And still smiling.

“Lucky to have you,” he rasps, lifting a hand to Jon’s cheek.

Jon leans closer, expression lightening, and brings up a hand to press against Martin’s palm where it rests.

“Lucky to have you,” he whispers, gazing intensely into the warm hazel of Martin’s eyes.

They remain like this for several seconds, neither wanting to violate the sanctity of this moment.  Martin then inhales sharply, mouth open to say something—before snapping it shut again, looking suddenly nervous.  Jon’s brows furrow instinctively.

“What is it, darling?” he asks, head tilting to the side of Martin’s palm.

The corners of Martin’s mouth curl up at the term of endearment, pulling a deep flush to his cheeks and ears.  Looking up again, he determinedly matches the intensity of Jon’s gaze.

“I…I love, you, Jon.”

He inhales more confidence.

“I love you.  Just…so much.”

Every nerve in Jon’s body is on fire.  Vacantly, he knows that his mouth is hanging open, his eyes wide, his face flushing with heat—but for a moment, he cannot move, nor breathe, nor speak.

Martin LOVES me.

Martin loves ME.

At last, he regains some measure of control, managing to keep hold of Martin’s left hand while shifting his weight to sit on the edge of his bed.  Reaching out his other toward his face, he cups Martin’s cheek with a still-shaking hand.  Their faces are just inches apart now, hovering, begging to be pressed together.

“I love you too, Martin Blackwood.  More than…more than I know how to say.”

Martin smiles then, wide and charming, before craning his neck up to brush his lips against Jon’s, questioning.

“Say it like this, then?” he whispers.

“Gladly.”

Their lips meet in a gentle blush of a thing, hesitant and brief, before deepening into a warm, unhurried kiss.  Martin’s hands move into Jon’s hair as they find the perfect rhythm, gentle and passionate and utterly their own.  When he manages to pull small noises of pleasure from Martin, Jon grins against his lips in pride before pulling him back in for more.

After nearly a minute, Martin urgently pushes back against Jon’s chest.  Immediately breaking contact, Jon pushes himself away frantically, careful not to touch him, panicked at the thought that he’d done something wrong.

“M-Martin, I’m so sorry, what ha—”

He is cut off as Martin pitches forward violently, coughing deeper than Jon has ever heard—as thick grey fog pours from his mouth, his eyes, his nostrils.

“God, Martin, here, here—”

Jon braces him by the shoulders as he leans forward, chest rumbling in desperation to clear the way for oxygen.  Guilt floods Jon as he feels the force of Martin’s convulsions beneath his hands.

Why did you kiss him?  Damn it damn it damn it

Dense fog is filling the room now, and Jon is struck with terror at the thought of anyone entering the room to see this.  The tendrils have nearly reached the door, could snake beneath it at any moment—

Tͮ̀h̥ͫ̎̂ë̗̹̯̜y̬͔͖̝̅̇ͧ ̯͙͈͖͙̈́͛̚w̮̺̻̜̔̈́ͬͩͮi̙̠̙͍̤̒ͩ̂̽l̺̣̣͕̩̥̟̈́̔ͨl̯̺̩̳̰͂̍̉̈́͌ ̼̼̬̟̞̘̏̈́̌͑ñ̩̞̲̯̤̅̉ͮo͓̝̠͌ͤ͊͗̿ͤṭ̯͂̈ͥͧ̂͆ ̳̦̣̃ͬ͒c͓ͥ̍͛̃o̔ͪ̈́m̓ͮe.

Jon pays for this knowledge with pain, every Mark on his body throbbing furiously.

Breathe it in, and let it go.

Breathe, let go.

Focus.

At long last, Martin’s hacking subsides, leaving him utterly spent and hunched forward on the bed.  Jon begins rubbing slow circles on his back with aching hands, calming him as he finally manages to regain his breath.  After a few moments, Jon gently guides him to lie back against the pillows.  Tears leak out of the corners of Martin’s eyes as he does so, and Jon’s heart clenches briefly with sympathy before Martin begins to laugh, a toothy grin spreading across his face.

“Wh…what is it, Martin?” he asks, confused.

“I think…I think that was the last of it, Jon,” he says, voice wobbling.

Jon inhales sharply, taking Martin’s hand.

“What? Really?”

“Y-yeah, really.  I can feel it, I…I think it’s really gone.  I’m not…I’m not Lonely, anymore.”

More tears spill over Martin’s cheeks as he resumes his weak laughter.  His own eyes brimming, threatening to cascade over a growing smile, Jon cups Martin’s face in his hands, wiping gently at his tears with his thumbs.  He then moves upwards, stroking a hand through Martin’s soft curls, watching as the last remaining bits of the fog dissipate forever.

A few minutes later, Martin smiles up at him, playfully swatting at his forearm.

“Let’s not do that again until I can breathe properly, though.”

At this, Jon laughs in earnest, before pressing his lips tenderly against Martin’s forehead.

I love him I love him I love him I love him

And he loves me.

He loves me.

[veiledpeaches]

chance encounters | part iv: what it took to understand

Summary: Between pages of meddling friends and societal expectations, all she actually wants is to find a happily ever after with Doyoung, even if it feels like that is no longer possible.

part i x part ii x part iii x part iv x part v x part vi

word count: 5.2k

GIF originally posted by @lukhei​

“Wait Mom, what do you mean you’re not coming? Aren’t you flying in on Friday?”

“He didn’t tell you? Youngho-ah, you’re scaring me.”

“What wouldn't he tell me?”

“Doyoung just called, he called to tell us that there isn’t going to be a wedding. He even apologized and said he would pay for our tickets and return the gifts. I told him there’s no need to, but he insisted. The poor boy kept thanking us for being concerned about him. He said he’s okay, but how can he be, John-ah? He was with her for 13 years.

“Oh sweetie, I can’t even imagine what his parents must be feeling right now. What’s going on? The wedding’s supposed to happen this Saturday. Was it wedding jitters? What happened between them? They were so good together, I can’t imagine what must’ve happened for them to break it off…”

It’s the fourth time his call has gone straight to voicemail, and Johnny gnashes his teeth in frustration. He quickly cancels the call via the touchscreen on his dashboard, sighing exasperatedly as he leans his elbow against the inside of the car door, his fingers in his previously nicely-gelled hair.

“He’s not answering any of my calls…”

“Johnny, calm down.”

“I can’t calm down!” His eyes are wild with worry, as he swerves into the next lane, his hand pressing firmly against the wheel, “Doyoung’s phone is never switched off. You can call him at 3am and he’ll pick up, that’s the kind of person he is. His phone is never switched off!”

Haewon falls silent, listening as Johnny takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry for snapping. I know you must be worried too.” He sighs again, biting his bottom lip. “He’s in hiding, Haewon. It’s not him, he doesn’t go MIA. The only time he was like this was a week before graduation, he suddenly went missing because he was panicking about the future and stuff.”

“Then it’ll be fine, he’ll pick himself up like he did before.”

Despite what she says, Haewon isn’t that sure. For the longest time, Inhee has been an irreplaceable constant in Doyoung’s life, someone who grounds him and takes care of him. It’s difficult to wrap the mind around the space she would leave in Doyoung’s life amongst the burnt shrapnel of their relationship, but it’s not completely unimaginable. Her mind inadvertently teeters between two possible reasons that led him to such a decision - one absolutely selfish, the other utterly heartbreaking.

“Why do you look like that?”

Haewon stills. “What do I look like?”

Johnny regards her suspiciously as he signals a right turn. “… I thought you said you didn’t tell him about Inhee.”

An omission of the truth is still a lie, the voice in her head tells her. When Johnny had asked her that night if she had told Doyoung about Inhee’s affair, she had shaken her head, said she was tired and then locked herself in her room until she fell asleep, her eyes still warm with tears. Subsequently, Johnny didn’t ask anything else, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she had confessed and just how badly it had gone.

No one else knows this, but Haewon can’t bring herself to be pathetic in front of Johnny. She refuses to cry in front of Johnny, refuses to tell him about what happened that Monday. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Johnny, in fact, she trusts him too much, but she can’t tell him in the crippling fear of seeing that look on his face - the same look that had settled on his face when it registered that she was in love with his friend, the dimming of the light in his eyes in a moment of poorly-concealed sympathy. Johnny, who  vowed to be her ‘rock, [her] absolute rock’, who has really lived up to his promise and been her rock for three and a half years - he’s not someone she wants to ever let down.

Moreover, while it is entirely possible that she could just be projecting and overthinking, what Doyoung had said the day she had tendered her resignation still clung like barnacles to her thoughts, making her mind whirl with unending possibilities.

“I didn’t, I’m just thinking about what might have happened.” She says against the mouth of her water bottle, gulping down to prevent other words from spilling out.

Johnny habitually chews on his lip in thought. “Maybe he realized he was in love with you- oh my God Haewon, are you okay?!”

Haewon laughs uneasily as she tries to hold back violent coughs and wipes her mouth.

“Wait, so… He did?!” Johnny raises both eyebrows.

“Of course not! What are you saying?!”

“Fine! Then don’t choke in my car!”

Johnny finally hears from Doyoung on Friday morning, the day before he’s supposed to get married. Needless to say, the conversation between them is somewhat chaotic, with Doyoung jokingly asking questions like, “aren’t you supposed to be in London at this time?” and Johnny stuttering an excuse before yelling, “ya! Don’t change the subject when we’re talking about you!” A smile finds itself on Haewon’s face as she listens quietly to their on-speaker conversation in the car, Johnny’s hands on the steering wheel as he drives both of them to work.

Doyoung had found his fiancée and her lover in the shower together when he had returned home at an unexpected time the previous Friday, an undeniably and surprisingly drama-like scenario. In a moment inspired by the swashbuckling protagonists Doyoung had read about growing up, he chose to face the incident with dignity and hero-like placidity, looking at Inhee dead in the eye and factually stating, “it’s over between us”.

As worrying as it is, it’s good to know that Doyoung’s safe. Upon breaking off the engagement and making all the necessary arrangements, Doyoung had returned to Guri for a week to spend time with his parents and attend to his personal and wedding cancelation matters, closing a chapter of his life as Haewon opens another of hers.

“When did he say he’ll be back?” Haewon asks now, watching Johnny loosen his tie as he crosses his legs and relaxes in the chair after dinner.

“He said tomorrow, but he isn’t sure.”

She nods pensively, sucking on the Melona ice pop in her hand.

A glint of mischief enters Johnny’s eyes, and he leans forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his thighs.

“Haewonnie, once he returns… It’s your chance.”

Upon safely locating Doyoung, Johnny had lapsed into his ‘y’all should get together’ rhetoric, encouraging Haewon to ‘seize the opportunity’, since it seems that life has presented her with a second chance. Haewon doesn’t have the heart to tell Johnny how she had actually taken her shot, the attempt collapsing lifelessly around her a couple of weeks ago and making her vow never to try again.

Instead, she brings her feet up against the couch, wrapping her arms around her knees and questions, “why do you want us to get together anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been rooting for this for the longest time, and you’re his friend.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, “please, I’m definitely being the good friend. Sure, maybe I hated Inhee and didn’t think she was deserving of Doyoung by any measure, but you know what would be even more deplorable?”

Haewon hums dismissively, twirling the red wine in her glass.

“Not bringing soulmates together.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He shrugs. “Besides, you guys have, like the worst taste in partners. The only way to ensure that you don’t continue fucking up in your love lives is to get together.”

“I do not!”

Johnny sits up in attention, crossing his legs on the ottoman. “Let’s not even talk about the guy who literally made you run away from him to Korea- What about the guy who made you do his laundry? And landline sex guy? Huh? Not to mention - mansplaining broker guy who cried when you guys had sex…”

“You heard that?!”

Johnny isn’t done. “The guy who cheated on you AND stole your money???”

“Okay fine, but in my defense… I mean, I didn’t really love any of them.”

“Of course not,” he smirks, finishing the rest of his Sangria, “they were just temporary replacements for Doyoung.”

She sighs exasperatedly. “That’s so not true-”

“A-ny-way,” Johnny’s attempt to silence her dissent by speaking even louder toes the line between irritating and downright hilarious, “against that backdrop, forgive me for being surprised that Doyoung caught your eye. You guys are so similar, I want it to happen, for my friends.” He leans back in a ‘mic drop’ moment, crossing his arms in front of him in gratuitous smug. “Plus, I can vouch that he’s an amazing lover…”

“What?!”

“I once heard him having sex with Inhee.” His face morphs into mock disgust. “I mean, I didn’t enjoy it, but… Her moans were, what’s the word for it – banshee-esque.”

“Please don’t go on.”

“Look, all I'm saying is-” he sits up as if he was addressing a serious issue, “you guys are meant to be, okay? Believe me, I know these things. You’re soulmates.”

“Who are soulmates?”

A familiar tenor voice rings from behind them, making both Johnny and Haewon whip their heads towards the open door, a heart-wrenching sight greeting them. At the threshold stands a casually-dressed Doyoung, blue hoodie and black track pants embracing his seemingly thinner frame. His usually gelled dark hair falls softly across his forehead in a rare sight, but it’s the small smile worn on his face that arrests her heart, especially the way it doesn't reach his eyes like it used to.

“Why do you look like that?” He addresses Johnny, “you gave me your spare keys, remember?”

Without a word, Johnny launches himself into Doyoung’s arms, a gesture that looks far more endearing than comedic despite the quiet ‘oof’ that emits from Doyoung’s lips.

“Hey,” he chuckles against Johnny’s shoulder, even though his eyes are on Haewon, “I’m fine, don’t worry. Who are soulmates?”

Haewon smiles softly, letting out a shaky breath as she finds herself incapable of speech.

“I mean, I don’t know who specifically, but you know who and who aren’t soulmates?” Johnny releases Doyoung, laughing uneasily. “Me and Miss Booblicious.”

Haewon’s jaw drops, reluctantly shifting her gaze to meet Johnny’s taunting gaze, Doyoung’s following hers.

“What?” Johnny giggles like he meant to surprise her, “I heard you calling her that to Mama Kang the other night. And yes, we broke up a couple of days ago.”

“You didn’t tell me!”

Doyoung frowns. ��You were dating someone?”

“See?” Johnny glares comically, “this is why I didn’t want to tell either of you. You had too much on your plate. Besides, it’s fine, it wasn’t that serious…”

Not that serious my foot, Haewon thinks. You were about to get down on one knee.

Doyoung’s frown deepens as he turns towards Johnny, “okay, well tell me about it another time, I… uhm.”

“I actually came to speak to Haewon.”

She grabs a few bottles of soju Johnny recently purchased from the refrigerator, attempting futilely not to eavesdrop on their conversation in the sitting room. Unwittingly and somewhat annoyingly, her mind toys with the idea that she must mean something to Doyoung, since he’s here and seems to be reaching out to her. But she tries to shut that down, rummaging through the snack cabinet and stashing two bags of potato chips into her haversack before zipping her bag up and running out.

“Okay, I’m ready for ya-” she stops when she catches two surprised faces staring back at her.

She had changed out of her work wear into casual clothes after Doyoung had told her he wanted to talk to her privately and gestured with his car keys. Now, seeing their faces, she wonders if she should have just stayed in her baby blue button-down and pencil skirt.

Doyoung’s face breaks into a charming smile, “okay, let’s go”.

Haewon smiles back widely, following him out of the door after waving goodbye to a wide-eyed Johnny.

“This is arguably crossing the line of professionalism, but… I brought soju?” Haewon grins up at him, breaking the companionable silence they had shared all the way from the apartment to his car.

Doyoung laughs, but his smile still doesn’t reach his eyes. “No, it’s great, actually…” he pauses, revving up the engine and waiting for her to buckle her seatbelt before reversing out of the parking lot, “I think I’ll need it.”

She plays with the baseball keychain on her backpack zipper, unsure of what to say as she watches Doyoung’s fingers grip the steering wheel. She wants to ask him how he’s been, ask him how he feels, tell him how much she’s missed him the entire week, that she didn’t know how she was going to cope in America because not seeing him was somehow far more difficult than convincing herself to let go of him and move on.

She wants to tell him how many times she had passed by his office this week and wanted to walk in, hoping he’d somehow be there. The words press against the inside of her cheeks and threaten to spill from her lips, but she swallows them, knowing that there is a time and place for everything, and her time and place is entirely Doyoung’s tonight.

Instead, she presses her temple against the cool of the windowpane, smoothing the night out of her hair and waits for Doyoung to speak again.

“You know, Johnny has gone through more partners than the both of us combined,” he jokes now.

Haewon almost remarks back that Doyoung has really only been with one person since she’s known him but stops herself, knowing it’s too soon for something like that. She tries, instead, to find safe ground in this conversation.

“Well, he’s a romantic.” She says, sighing in relief internally when Doyoung laughs. “He won’t stop looking for his soulmate.”

“Remember Watanabe Aoi? I was honestly surprised when they broke up.” He quips, referring to the small bubbly Japanese model Johnny had dated for slightly more than a year, who had tearfully dumped him because of the long distance. Johnny had sworn himself off dating and relationships forever while binging himself on a tub of Ben & Jerry’s that night, but had then excitedly gone on a date with a girl from Haewon’s gym two weeks later.

Haewon smiles, remembering how Johnny had insisted, just a few days ago, that the topic of Aoi-san is still sensitive material.

“I was honestly glad. She didn’t love Johnny enough. He was willing to move to another country for her, but you and I both know she wouldn’t have done the same for him.” She sticks her bottom lip out, reminiscing how defensive Johnny had reacted when she had pointed that out thoughtlessly. “There were times he would wait for her to call the entire night, sleeping beside his phone, and then receive a nonchalant text from her the next morning about how she’d fallen asleep once she got home from work.”

Doyoung stifles a laugh at her unyielding tone. “Yeah but… I mean, relationships are hard.”

“Sure,” she nods, “but you should know your worth.”

This draws a curious glance from Doyoung, before he returns his eyes on the road quickly. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean… hmm. It’s like… Remember in college, finals season, everyone’s rushing to the library to study…” Doyoung makes an appreciative hum, “Well, imagine that, and your friend’s like, ‘oh I’m headed there too, save a seat for me’ so you do, but then it’s been close to an hour - and then two - and they haven’t turned up. Your bag is on the seat, and you’re thinking… If I continue to hog the seat, someone else can’t have it, but if I give it up, what if that friend does show up?”

“… You know what I think? I think… I think everyone should have a threshold, and when the waiting time exceeds that threshold, if someone else comes along… We shouldn’t be afraid to give up that seat.”

She twirls the tiny baseball with her fingers, pausing for a moment to let the words settle between them.

“Free ourselves up for something better, you know?” She says, finally looking up at him.

Doyoung hums thoughtfully, and they fall into a necessary silence.

They’re in dangerous waters, Haewon realizes. And as she watches Doyoung’s fingers dance across the dashboard to lower the AC, she briefly flirts with the idea that the stakes of action and inaction are, unlike what she had thought, barely equal. While Johnny had contended that telling Doyoung the truth would have put an end to their deceptive relationship, she remains convinced that if she had told Doyoung about Inhee’s affair earlier, chances are he wouldn’t have believed her, opting instead to trust someone he loved and had known for a longer time. Similarly, if she had not confessed that day, perhaps she wouldn’t be finding herself in the passenger seat of her ex-superior’s car, the atmosphere beholding a tension no one can cut through. But if she had not confessed that day, she also wouldn’t ever have had the courage to do so, and wouldn’t have known that in some manner, deep down, she meant something to him, no matter how little.

At the same time, however, Haewon gleans that she isn’t that much closer to an answer as she thought she would be. Instead, in the aftermath of her confession and the end of his relationship, she finds herself, pertaining to the situation of it all, simultaneously within and without.

It’s almost a cliché when Haewon finds herself on the grass facing the Han river, inhaling the salty river air deeply before unpacking the food and drinks from her backpack.

Doyoung lets out a tinkling laugh, watching her balance the soju bottles on her haversack lying on the grass.

“You’re so prepared, I even thought you brought a picnic mat.”

She sticks her tongue out, patting the clean but lightly damp grass next to her invitingly. So he smiles and crouches down to take a seat as she uncaps a bottle of peach soju for herself. Then, as if suddenly remembering, she fishes a pack of cigarettes from the bottom of the backpack and hands it over to him wordlessly.

“I haven’t had a cigarette in years,” Doyoung chuckles, but takes it anyway.

“I know,” she grins, “I stole this from Johnny. I thought it might help, you know, whatever you need to say. Let it out, boss.”

Before them, the streetlights on the Hangang Bridge shine relentlessly. The Han River is quiet for a Friday night, save for the muted honking in the distance and a chorus of cicadas rubbing their thighs together in the background. Haewon waits for Doyoung to start, feeling the tail of spring rubbing soft against her bare legs and watching as the heavy light from the bridge drape itself across the surface of the Han river like some form of condolence.

Doyoung lights a cigarette, the smoke curling out of him like a ghost.

“That’s what you wanted to tell me, wasn’t it?”

Haewon’s eyes widen.

“The whole day…” He says, turning to her with a gentle smile, “you were trying to get ahold of me to tell me that she was seeing someone else, weren’t you?”

She purses her lips and nod, taking a gulp of the soju in her hands. This is not the conversation she had expected.

“When you told me how you felt…” he exhales, “the next few days I kept thinking, ‘that’s not what she was gonna say’. I knew you wanted to tell me something the whole day, but that wasn’t it. You didn’t mean to say it, you weren’t prepared…”

“Thank you for overanalyzing my inability to form coherent sentences.”

Doyoung laughs breathily, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“The day after the… shower incident, Inhee kept asking me ‘did Haewon tell you?’, as if it mattered. Besides, it wasn’t difficult to guess that you knew as well, your reactions towards her when I mentioned her name in the last few weeks have been very telling.”

Haewon relaxes, then her eyes widen again when his words sink in.

“Yes, Haewon, I knew about the affair.”

Haewon’s jaw goes slack, but she’s unable to speak, watching as he smiles wistfully.

“About four months ago?” He says, as if knowing what she's about to ask. “There was this morning, just before we left the house, her phone was on the table, and I accidentally saw a text from him.”

He attempts to uncap a bottle of grapefruit soju with the cigarette still in his hands, until he gives up and hands it over to Haewon.

“There comes a point when you can’t deny that something is happening, even if you try to lie to yourself.”

Haewon bites her lip, handing the uncapped bottle back to him. So strange that that had been exactly what Haewon had thought just a few weeks ago. So strange how different the circumstances have since become.

“You know, Inhee said I didn’t love her, so I didn’t deserve to get upset about this.”

Haewon’s heart thumps against her chest. “She… She said that?”

“No, it’s true.” He smiles, downing a fair amount of soju, “I haven’t been in love with her for a while.”

Her eyes soften, watching his dark hair blow gently in the air and the light on the water reflecting on his cheeks, illuminating his face.

“Well, I can’t say, if I ever really loved her. For the better part of the relationship, she was always the one taking charge. Do you know she asked me out in high school? Everyone was incredulous – and I have to admit, I was as well. I wasn’t some captain of some sports team, I was a random short distance runner who preferred spending most of my time with the school magazine team than the track team.

“But when I hesitated, everyone said, ‘what are you doing? She just asked you out!’… to the extent that I felt I needed to choose her because she chose me. Hmm. It’s strange, isn’t it?” He muses, “that even at that age, some sort of… ranking system, based on the ‘leagues’ we were accorded - given our physical attractiveness and personal interests  - would emerge. And then future decisions - no matter how personal - could only be helmed by those ranked higher in the social hierarchy.”

He balances the soju bottle between his knees, taking a puff of his cigarette.

“I’m not going to chalk it all up to peer pressure – I can’t say I wasn’t drawn to her because of exactly those reasons. And as our relationship progressed, I saw that we were not always compatible. But I thought I was just picky, that I had doomed the relationship from the start with my skepticism and so could only see the parts of us that didn’t match. And when difficult things happened in the family – she was always there. When I needed someone – she was always there.

“I got too comfortable in the relationship. She was so good to me, and my whole family loved her, everyone loved her. She didn’t always support every decision I made, but she wouldn’t say a second thing once I made up my mind. We were so different, and she didn’t always see things the way I did, but I thought I didn’t need her to, you know? That these were things I could share with other people instead. ‘Your partner doesn’t have to be your best friend’, people told me that. So when my mother asked me when we were getting married, I… Well, I thought it was the right thing to do. So I proposed. And everyone was so happy. I mean, I guess I felt happy, that everyone was happy. I thought maybe the happiness was just belated for me.

“God, I made so many excuses to feel better, about not feeling better.” He frowns, but a laugh escapes his lips, and the laugh subsides into a hollow sort of quiet. “’You’ll be happy when you see her in her dress.’ I told myself. ‘When you see her walking down the aisle. When you’re actually married. When your first child is born.’ I was scared to admit that I wasn’t happy – and then, when I couldn’t deny it any longer, scared to do the thing I knew I had to, to be happy again.  

“I’m always saying things like, ‘fuck other people’s expectations, who cares what people think’, but I can’t deny that I caved. It was comfortable, it was easy – so even when I found out that she could be cheating on me, I didn’t want to ruin the future I had fallen so easily in step with. I didn’t know why I was still running, but I was so afraid to stop.”

He downs almost half the bottle of soju, before exhaling slowly.

“Do you think I’m a coward?” He turns towards her.

She thinks about his question for a moment, and shakes her head. “No, I think what you just said is what makes us human. And the courage to acknowledge that you’re human, is what makes you a braver one.”

And finally, Doyoung’s face breaks into a smile.

“You always know how to make me feel better.”

Haewon looks at him for a long time, his eyes sparkling but not watery, his tender sorrow hidden behind a gentle smile. This is the Doyoung she’s fallen in love with, strong and courageous, bent but not broken. The Doyoung who would know how to fix himself even if he is broken. The same Doyoung who, whether she recognizes it or not, looks at her as if she holds the ways of the universe.

“I want to thank you.” He adds.

She lets out a soft smile, brushing strands of hair away from her face.

“Thank you, for holding back, for hesitating. I know you were worried about hurting me, but I’m really okay. And actually, on some level, I’m glad you didn’t tell me. If you’d told me, I might have ignored all of it, again.

“Standing in front of the bathroom knowing I was minutes away from confronting her… That was the wake-up call I needed. I knew I could run away again, leave the apartment, pretend all of it wasn’t happening like I’d done before so many times when a hint of the affair presented itself. But this time… I couldn’t. I had to see the truth, had to see it face-to-face to wake up and realize that this wasn’t right for both of us. It wasn’t fair to her, and it wasn’t fair to me as well.

“So thank you, for not saying a thing.”

She can feel the warmth in her eyes, thinking about what he had to go through and feeling, once again, that Johnny had been right. Despite what Doyoung had said, she feels guilty knowing that he could have potentially avoided such a cruel confrontation. But even with the feeling of something lodged in her throat, Haewon knows it’s not her moment to show these secondhand emotions, especially when the haphazard debris of his relationship is still warm, still smoking. So she swallows these thoughts and any arising tears back with another big gulp of soju altogether.

“You deserve the best, Doyoung.” She says after a moment.

He turns to look at her gently, studying her features, “what’s wrong?”

She sighs, calming herself down.

“I just… I didn’t know if I was in the correct position-”

“Well you didn’t have to say anything, but you are. You’ve…” He purses his lips, “you’ve always been. In the right position, in the right place. You’re…”

He opens his mouth, and then shuts it, exhaling. Then his lips part again.

“You’re very important to me.”

Haewon looks at him, feeling the breath knocked out of her lungs.

And there it is, another confusing statement of Doyoung’s bordering this time, on frustrating. While she cannot bring herself to call him out on it, she finds herself no longer able to accept these somewhat lackadaisical words from him anymore, not when he is so entirely aware of the feelings she still has for him. So she drops him a teary chuckle, finishes the rest of her soju and mutters a “well, I feel the same way” instead of what she wants to say, these kinder words delivered like an afterthought to find themselves, somewhere, in the spaces between them.

She can feel Johnny’s curious peering as she finishes the rest of her breakfast, her mind still running amok with Doyoung’s words last night. She wonders why he always does this, drops these tiny bombs that mess with her for the next couple of days before she finally wills them away and classifies them as unintentional. She hears Johnny call her name faintly, but can only bring herself to tear her thoughts away from Doyoung at his third call.

“I saw you get in late last night,” Johnny says, “is everything ok?”

“Yeah, he just wanted to talk.” She stands and takes both empty bowls, as well as the empty stew pot, into the kitchen, running the tap to soak the dishes in the sink.

“He knows,” she says, hearing Johnny step into the kitchen behind her as she turns the tap off, “that, I knew.”

“Oh yeah, he told me.”

She nods, turning to face him, her hands still clasped on the countertop.

“So are you… like, getting together?”

Haewon shakes her head. “No, no of course not. I don’t think… I don’t think it’ll ever happen. About what you said yesterday… I think you’re wrong this time.” His expression morphs into bewilderment. “I put everything on the line, John, but he doesn’t want me.”

Johnny studies her carefully. “You confessed to him?”

She bites her lip and nods.

“The day you told me to tell him… I couldn’t… I ended up…” she sighs in exasperation.

“You didn’t tell me about this.”

“Sorry, I was… I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

“Never.” He says, his eyes soft and unreadable. “Come here,” he gestures with his open arms, wrapping them securely around her when she settles into his embrace. Being around Johnny has always been comforting, Haewon thinks to herself, smiling when she feels a kiss on her temple. She hugs him tightly, inhaling the scent of his laundry detergent instead of his usual cologne.

“I love you, you know that, right?” He says, releasing her from his embrace but his arms still wound around her waist.

She smiles, nodding.

“I know.”

Johnny’s gaze is soft and slightly dejected, and a part of Haewon wants to ask him what’s wrong, not understanding why there is a quiet, slightly fearful resolution in his eyes -

- until he pulls her even more closely towards him and slants his lips over hers.

xx

w/n: in case anyone was wondering, Watanabe Aoi was my Aikido sensei when I was young lmao. She was hot. I honestly just wanted a random name and was tired of searching for Korean names.

also, just to let you know ‘cause some people have been asking, tumblr works based on the number of reblogs! if you’re wondering why you can’t find chance encounters in the tags, it’s likely because people prefer ‘liking’ the post to ‘reblogging’ the post. this discrepancy can make a huge difference to my work, so if you really did enjoy the chapter, i encourage you to reblog it! :-) thank you for reading this! 

COME SCREAM AT ME HERE!!!  ask