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fangirlovestuff · 4 years ago

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Seasons of Love - Chris Evans x reader

a/n - hey lovely people!! this idea would not leave my head and i really like it so here i am writing it:) the years in the fic are according to chris’ birth year (1981). also, this is more chris centeric, which i haven’t really done yet and i liked how it came out, i’d love to hear your thoguhts on that if you have any! enjoy<3

Summary: the story of chris and you, told through specific seasons of your life. a fluffy (and a bit angsty) coming of age story.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: like one bad word i think, a teeny bit of angst

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Summer, 1998.

It was a special summer. Chris always knew he'd remember this summer forever. It was the first summer he fell in love.

"Summer is full of possibilities."

You and Chris just finished hiking a trail not too far from home, your water bottles nearly emptied due to the heat, your clothes slightly disheveled. Not too different than any other time you did that together.

The two of you were sitting down under a tree, watching the view, when you spoke that sentence.

"It is," Chris agreed. He turned his head to look at you and continued, "that's kinda awesome."

"Yeah," you said softly, still not looking at him, "but it's also scary as fuck." You chuckled dryly. "It's our last summer. What if we don't make the best of it?"

"It's not 'our last summer'," Chris chuckled, "it's just…"

"Our last summer," you completed with a grin once you saw he was struggling to find the words, finally turning to face him.

"Whatever," he laughed.

"What do you want to do this summer, Chris?"

He frowned slightly. "I'm serious," you continued, "what do you wanna do? Really."

"I don't… know. Same old, I guess?"

"See, that's why summer is so scary!" you turned your whole body to face him now. "It feels like in no time, our entire lives will be just 'same old'. And we'll have endless possibilities, but it will still be just same old! I refuse to admit I'm that boring," you huffed, "at least for now."

"So, what do you want to do this summer?" Chris asked with a smile, amused by your antics.

"Something remarkable. Something I can tell my children about and say, 'when I was your age, I did…' whatever it is we'll do, you know?"

"I guess," he shrugged.

"Okay, so what's something you've always wanted to do but never thought you could?"

He pretended to contemplate it for a second, and before he could open his mouth you cut in, "and don't say something like eat only candy for a week! Something real," you pointed two fingers towards your eyes and then to him, as if to indicate you're watching him.

"Okay, okay," he chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender, "something real."

A comfortable silence stretched over the two of you as you both thought about it. In truth, you both knew the answer. It was as clear as the summer sky stretching out above you. But in your still teenage minds, it seemed to be as heavy as the noon heat.

When your eyes met his, you laughed softly. "I feel like we were thinking about the same thing, which is kinda stupid honestly. I mean, why wouldn't we ju-"

He swiftly leaned in and planted his lips on yours, the kiss only lasting ever so long before the smiles you both sported got in the way. Your eyes were still closed when you spoke, but you could feel Chris' gaze on you when you started, "yep," you finally opened your eyes and smiled, "definitely thinking about the same thing."

That summer was made of so many forevers Chris truly thought it would never end. Moments that seemed to stretch on in the most beautiful of ways, as if the universe was giving you her blessing, giving you time.

You knew each other so well sometimes Chris thought you were more in his head than he was. And every time he looked into your eyes, every time you laughed, every time he kissed you, every night you spent watching the stars, every day you spent at the beach, or at home, or really wherever, he knew that fear of yours didn't come true.

You two did the most remarkable thing you could've – you've fallen in love.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Autumn, 2000.

Autumn in LA was different than it was back home.

At home, his mom would probably be stocking up on candy for Halloween, and his siblings would be playing around with their dog in the fallen leaves, and he'd be forced to take a jacket with him even if it wasn't even that cold outside because people cared about him.

Not that in LA they entirely didn't, but it wasn't the same. Mostly because you weren't there.

You two talked a big game, sure, always making plans to meet soon. But with the both of you being so far apart, and being so busy pursuing your dreams, it never came true.

And when it finally did, after a while, it wasn't like it was that great either.

"I don't… I don't think we… this-" you fumbled over your words and sighed. "I don't want to hold you back."

"I know. I don't want to hold you back either," he sighed, rubbing your arm in a soothing manner.

You were laying on the couch, his arm around you, pulling you close, and really, it was a weird position to be having this conversation in, but at the same time, he kind of couldn't imagine it happening differently.

He understood what you were trying to say. He thought you were right. But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt to hear it.

"I just… I don't think long distance works that well with us," you continued, and then sighed again. "Ugh, this is terrible."

"it kinda is," he chuckled quietly, and you slapped his chest lightly in annoyance. "You know I understand, right?" he said, more serious this time.

"I know. You know I don't really want to do this, right?"

"I know. But I know why you are."

"Good," you said softly. "My flight leaves tomorrow at 8, so we probably won't see each other in the morning."

"Okay," he replied, simply wrapping his arm tighter around you.

He didn't know if he dreamt it, but the next morning, in the early hours before the sun rose, you came into his room and planted a soft kiss on his forehead.

"See you later," you softly whispered, and a few minutes later, the faint sound of the apartment door shutting reached his ears.

Fall at home was a fun time. Chris loved Halloween, loved watching the beautiful leaves fall, the world around him preparing for a winter's slumber. The air was crisp, the heat, on days when it appeared, wasn't as heavy, and the cold not that harsh. It was beautifully balanced.

Out here though, he started seeing fall not from an outside perspective, but, in a way, from a tree's perspective.

The beautiful leaves fell, and he couldn't reach them again. He was left to stand bare against the oncoming winter cold, a sight that to an outsider would seem impressive, a feat of the majestic strength only nature can possess.

To Chris, it just seemed lonely.

He knew it was a natural process, drifting apart. Just like the leaves falling, it was somewhat inevitable, wasn't it? high school sweethearts were too lucky to be true. But that didn't stop a small but powerful part of him to hope. A hope that didn't come true, and now, where did that leave him?

If autumn at home was balanced, this autumn was anything but. It was almost as if he'd lost an organ, a limb. He couldn't balance the way he did before, he'd have to find a new way, but for now, he just existed in the unbalanced. It consumed his mind, what could he have done differently? Could he have stopped this?

Of course, these questions can't really be answered. Not by him or anyone else. So, he'd grow that limb back. Spring would come, and the leaves and flowers would blossom again.

But that fall, you two fell apart. And in those moments, the bareness of winter seemed insufferable.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Winter, 2006.

Winters always seemed long to Chris.

As a kid, it was because he couldn't really play outside as much, his mother fearing he'd catch a cold. So, he was sentenced to long days inside, which were often very nice honestly, hot cocoa and warm blankets never in short supply. But kids sometimes can't help but want what they can't have, can’t they?

Well, that notion clearly never left Chris, even if he's not a kid anymore.

Winters were always long, but without you, they seemed longer than ever.

You talked on occasion. You come from the same relatively small town, so losing contact wasn't truly an option, especially because you used to be so close. People would always joke about you being a package deal, hanging out together so much it became second nature.

If Chris became too bored in his own house, or just plain tired of his siblings, it was the obvious thing to go to your house, and vice versa. Now, that refuge wasn't an option anymore.

At first, it was noticeable, like a gaping wound that wouldn't close that he couldn't help running his finger over, checking if maybe it healed already. Now, it was only a dull reminder of what used to be.

It's not like Chris didn't date. He did. And from what he heard (again, small town, friends from childhood. People always filled him up on what you were doing, even when he didn't ask.) you were dating too.

He really had no right to say that it bothered him.

You came up in his mind less and less, as time went on. But winters, being gray, and void of sun, full of storms, were always more introspective. That one especially, no one special really being in his life. Not that it wasn't fun, but he missed home, being grounded, happy. He was happy, in a way, just not the way he was used to.

It was full of contradictions, his mind struggling to make sense of his entangled feelings. You weren't there, and it hurt, but really it was so long since you've been there, and there's no one else at the moment, so was he just missing you or did he just miss loving someone the way he loves y- loved you?

The clean snow a perfect juxtaposition to his clouded mind, he decided to take a walk.

The streets were bustling as always, everyone walking around with a purpose, a destination in mind, which allowed Chris to slip between the crowds, unnoticed. He went to a coffee shop, got something hot to busy his hands with, and continued his aimless journey.

He ended up at a park, sitting down on a cold bench. He took a sip from his cup, wincing slightly at his still hot beverage, before sighing, closing his eyes for a split second before opening them again at the vibration of his phone.

Pulling his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, he held the cup carefully in his other hand as he opened the message.

Think of the devil. Although, you were anything but.

How are you?

Before he could type up an answer, his phone buzzed with another message.

I'll be in town in a week, thought we could maybe get a coffee, catch up. If you want.

He chuckled at the wording. Not a question, but a statement. Well, maybe there was some type of question there, between the lines, but to him, the answer was just as clear as the one to your question many summers ago.

Sure. When are you coming in?

Maybe, spring will be here closer than he thought.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Spring, 2015.

Spring was the season of rebirth, the blossoms thriving once more, the weather warmer by the day.

You once told Chris spring was your favorite season.

"Really?" he asked, turning towards you, "why?"

"It's a rewarding season. It's like… for the entirety of winter, the trees were standing bare, the animals were confined to their lairs, more or less. And now, they've made it to see the beauty, the profusion. The next year, they do it all again, of course, but spring will always be there to show them it was worth it. Plus, the weather warms up, but not too much, which is a blessing. Especially to your sweaters," you joked, referring to the countless ones you'd pretty much stolen.

But Chris knew what you meant. The blossoms of happiness were spreading out across his life these days. Not everything was perfect, of course, but it was as near perfect as it could be.

"So, what do you wanna do for your birthday?" you asked next, surprising him with the sudden change of topic.

"Uh, I don't know. I haven't really thought about it," he shrugged. "but there's a while yet. Why, you had anything in mind?"

"Not really," you said, "that's why I asked. Anyways, think about it, will you?" you smiled and patted his shoulder affectionately before getting up, probably to put your empty cup in the sink.

He didn't know the answer to that. He had everything he could want and more.

There was something inexplicably comforting about spring. As a kid, springs always seemed like endings to Chris. The end of the school year, the end of a long winter. Only as he grew older he realized that springs are also wonderful beginnings. It was a fresh start, but also respected the past. It seemed to value the experiences of the past, yet prompting you to open a new page, giving the opportunity to start again.

Chris took that opportunity with both of his hands, especially when it came to you. Sure, every spring there would come the time of his birthday, but that was minor. Really, he celebrated you, all year but in spring especially.

Spring was the season of going to concerts together, you laughing at Chris as he's doing his best not to get recognized in his cheesy disguise of sunglasses and a hat. It's the season of going on spontaneous picnics because, "look how beautiful it is outside, Chris!", and he can't tell you no about anything. It's the season of taking Dodger out for long, long hikes, so when he comes home he falls right asleep, usually in your lap. It's the season of going out in the afternoon and it's warm, but by the time you come back it's night and it gets chilly, so Chris gives you his jacket, teasing you about how you always forget your own.

It's the season of preparing for summer as well, going through the cabinets and moving the winter clothes to the back and the summer clothes to the front. It's the season of finally using the pool again, and inviting his nephews and nieces over as well, and watching you splash around with them, carefully of course. It's the season of remembering that first summer together, and how far you've come since, together and individually.

Growing up was never easy. Growing up together was insufferable sometimes. But you fought, and you grew, and you talked things out. Spring, in a way, resembled the fact that you could overcome anything. Even after the harshest winter comes spring in all of its glory, blossom and vibrant colors.

And so, you two set out for one more great spring, and everything that will come after it. Summer was full of possibilities, but together, these possibilities didn't seem all that scary anymore.

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please tell me your thoughts<3 and stay hydrated besties!! btw, i opened a taglist for only chris & his characters fics so tell me if you’d like to join it / move taglists or really whatever you want to tell me i love talking to people:))

Taglist: @horny-nd-bored @shannon124 @perfectlyharolds @wintersoldierslut @iceebabies @sleepingpapermouse @steverogerswasalwaysworthy @holtzkinnon @angelicl-y @stydia-4-ever @thatoneperson5000 @fangirlfree @kaitcordx25 @bequeening @steve-barry-damon-logan @itscrazycherryblossomcollection @hollandxmarvel @stargazingfangirl18 @readsreblogsfics @onetwo3000 @beritmetal @harrystylesholland @jazbot2000 @anobscurename @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @peggycarter-steverogers @evansphnx12 @starlightcrystalline @procrastinatingsapphictrash

Chris & co. taglist: @patzammit

if you wanna join / be removed from a taglist, comment/message me! much love <3

#chris evans x reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x you #chris evans fluff

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trulymadlysydney · 4 years ago

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Somewhere In Time: Ten

“I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo. "So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

tw: Death, Loss of Parent

Previous Chapters HERE

***Please Do Not Repost Without Permission***

March 10th, 1990, 11:54am

Seventeen year-old Oliver Ward sighs, glancing mindlessly out the window of the old retirement home and fighting a yawn.

It isn’t that he doesn’t love his Saturday mornings spent with his ninety one year-old companion, because he does. In fact, most Saturdays he forgets that this is even an extra credit assignment at all. He knows, of course, how terrific this is going to look on his college applications-- but he doesn’t think of it like that. Over the past month or so, he’s befriended the older gentleman he’s been assigned by his AP psychology teacher, and the old man has taken a liking to him as well. Most Saturdays, Oliver loses track of the time because he finds himself lost in some story the old man is sharing with him.

This Saturday, however, Oliver doesn’t much feel like socializing.

It isn’t anyone’s fault but his own. Not really, at least. The previous night had been spent tossing and turning in bed, with a total of two non-consecutive hours of sleep. He’s exhausted, he’s bummed, and he’s pretty sure he’s lost the girl of his dreams.

“Awful talkative today, aren’t you?” The older gentleman speaks in his thick accent from his spot on his recliner, drawing Oliver from his thoughts and startling him.

Oliver turns, softening when he sees the man’s understanding smile. He chuckles sheepishly. “Sorry, Mr. Styles. Got a lot on my mind I guess.”

The gentleman— Mr. Styles— nods knowingly. “Well, I figured as much,” he says. “And I know how that goes. Do you want to talk about it?”

Oliver sighs again, moving closer to Mr. Styles. “I’m afraid it’ll bore you, sir. And I’m not sure you’d understand.”

Mr. Styles grins a dimpled grin, with a twinkle in his eye. “Try me.”

That’s something that Oliver loves about Mr. Styles. He’s never judged Oliver, no matter how silly he thinks he sounds, and honestly he gives better advice than anyone Oliver has ever known. He seems to have an air of mystery about him-- he always has-- and Oliver is sure that Mr. Styles knows at least two secrets of the universe that he’s keeping to himself.

So he shrugs, taking a seat on the bed beside the old man. “Okay. So. There’s…. a girl.”

Mr. Styles nods understandingly. “Always is, isn’t there?”

“She’s the grade below me. She’s my best friend, but lately it’s been…. I don’t know, kinda more than that? I think?”

“Mutually?”

“Yeah, I mean…” Oliver fiddles with his hands in his lap. “Yeah. We’ve been hanging out and stuff. Even kissed a few times.”

Mr. Styles wiggles his eyebrows. “Oooh, I see.”

“But lately I feel like…” Olivier sighs. “I don’t know. Like she’s getting bored with me.”

Mr. Styles sits back further in his seat, reminiscent of a therapist in his comfy chair. “What makes you say that?”

“I think she wants me to like… commit.”

“Ah.” The old man chuckles. “I see.”

Oliver eyes the older gentleman, curious as to how Mr. Styles could possibly understand any of this. As far as Oliver knows, Mr. Styles has never been married. A few times, he’s mentioned a girl from his youth, but never anyone after that. All Oliver knew about the girl is that she up and left, leaving poor Mr. Styles alone and heartbroken. And truth be told, Oliver had always found it silly how Mr. Styles had never moved on from that.

Oliver shrugs. “Anyway… I dunno. She’s been playing hard to get recently, like maybe she’s bored with me? Like, she flirts and stuff, but then when it doesn’t go further I feel like she gets annoyed. And...I want to commit, but what if I’m getting mixed signals, you know? I mean like, what if that’s not actually what she wants? You feel me? What if I ruin what we have going by trying to label it? And besides,” he sighs, “I find out soon if I got into Syracuse. And if I did get in, I would start there in the fall. What if she doesn’t want to do the long distance thing?”

Mr. Styles chuckles wittingly, but not in a condescending way. “Well first of all, son, I think you’re completely overthinking this.”

This brings a smile to Oliver’s face. “I have been known to do that.”

“That being said, you seem to really like this girl. And from the sound of things, she likes you as well. Am I wrong?”

“Well, that’s the thing. We’ve kissed and stuff, but like, what if I’m reading it wrong?”

“How can you possibly read a kiss wrong?” Mr. Styles grins.

Oliver sighs. “You’re right. I know. Feelings are just… really hard.”

“Who is the lucky lady anyway?” Mr. Styles settles further into his seat. “Can’t say I recall you ever mentioning having a girl.”

“Her name is Roni,” Oliver says. “Well, Veronica. She goes to my school. I think I may have mentioned that.”

Oliver has launched deeply into the backstory of how he and this girl met, completely unaware of the way that Mr. Styles’ face has gone entirely ghostly white. The old man is frozen in his chair, unblinking, and hardly listening to a word Oliver has said.

He doesn’t even realize he’s cutting Oliver off when he speaks. “I’m sorry… what did you say her name was?”

“Roni?”

“Last name?” Mr. Styles presses.

“Uhh… Elliot?”

If Mr. Styles didn’t look ill before, he certainly does now. Oliver takes notice of this, rising to his feet. “Mr. Styles, are you alright?”

Mr. Styles blinks a few times, his breath heavy as shakes his head. For whatever reason, he won’t look at Oliver now. He looks at the wall, out the window, at the floor-- literally anywhere but at his young companion. Oliver begins to grow worried, and he steps towards Mr. Styles, putting a concerned hand on his back.

“Should I call the nurse?”

It’s when Oliver asks this that Mr. Styles seems to regain some sense of consciousness back. He blinks up at Oliver, almost like a curious little child, and shakes his head-- as if reminding himself to be present. “No,” he says quietly. “No, don’t call the nurse.”

“You’re scaring me,” Oliver admits. “Where did you just go?”

Mr. Styles swallows thickly, eyes growing misty. “You said… Veronica Elliot?”

Oliver nods. “That’s right.”

The way that Mr. Styles scans Oliver’s face makes him grow anxious, and it becomes apparent that Oliver wants to let go and perhaps take a step back. He’s a good kid though-- one who genuinely cares for Mr. Styles-- so he stays put. “Sir?”

Mr. Styles lets out a shaky breath, obviously still processing everything that’s going on, before looking back up at Oliver “I just--” He trails off, noting for the first time the worry in the young boy’s eyes. He softens just a bit.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Oliver says. “I can call the nurse, it’s not a big deal! I just--”

“No,” Mr. Styles says, suddenly seeming more like himself than before. “No, there will be no need for that, son.”

Oliver hesitantly relaxes, still keeping his eyes trained on Mr. Styles’ face. “What just happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Mr. Styles says, the slightest bit of color slowly returning to his face. “I just… knew her mum. That’s all.”

“Oh!” Oliver seems to take this as an acceptable answer, obviously relaxing again. “Yeah. Her mom died like, five years ago actually. It was super sad. Car accident.”

“Five years ago,” Mr. Styles repeats, more to himself than to Oliver. “God.”

“Yeah,” Oliver says, nodding. “She’s okay! Lives with her grandparents. They’re super cool.” He smiles suddenly, as if remembering something. “They like me a lot.”

Mr. Styles smiles absently. “I’ll bet they do,” he says gently.

“Anyway,” Oliver sighs, “I don’t know. Do you think I should go for it?”

Mr. Styles takes his time with his answer, still trying to process everything he’s hearing. Oliver seems preoccupied with his own thoughts, which is good because he doesn’t notice the dampness of Mr. Style’s eyes.

What Oliver doesn’t know is that Mr. Styles is reliving every memory he has with the same girl Oliver is fretting over. Mr. Styles is suddenly twenty-five years old again, in 1925, dancing in his living room with the girl from the future, and he’s young and head over heels in love with her. He’s remembering everything that the young girl had told him about her timeline, about the boy named Oliver who was waiting in the future for her-- who befriended her shortly after her mother passed and asked her to be his girlfriend just before he graduated.

This all checks out, and it makes Mr. Styles’ heart feel something it hasn’t felt in ages. He blinks a few times, trying to clear out the moisture in his eyes.

“Well,” Mr. Styles says, after a long pause. “I think that… life is too short to let something so good pass you by. Do you really like her?”

“So much, Mr. Styles.” Oliver nods eagerly. “And I think she likes me too, I’m just scared.”

Mr. Styles shakes his head, doing his best to cover up the shakiness in his own voice. “Don’t be. You need to make this girl your own. You never know what tomorrow holds. You don’t want to lose her, and spend the rest of your days wishing you still had the chances that you have now.”

Oliver can tell that Mr. Styles is deep in his own head now, and he debates even speaking at all. Mr. Styles continues on. “Can’t even begin to tell you how much I wish I could go back and change some things. Make some better decisions.”

“I know what you mean,” Oliver says, even though he really doesn’t. How could he?

“And,” Mr. Styles says, making an effort to sound less philosophical--less introspective-- and more human, “from the sounds of things, she really likes you, too, son.”

Oliver smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mr. Styles swallows a lump in his throat. “Take my advice, and don’t mess this up with her. She sounds like a once in a lifetime kind of girl.”

“But what if--”

“No more ‘what if!’” Mr. Styles sounds more stern than Oliver has ever heard him, and it takes Oliver aback. “Get her. Love her. Love her now. You don’t realize how important she is, Oliver. These feelings are real. These feelings make life worth living. You can’t pass them up because you’re too scared.”

“And if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

“She does.” Mr. Styles softens as soon as he speaks, as if realizing he’s being far too blunt. “Oliver, she does. Trust me on this one.”

Oliver opens his mouth, then closes it. Mr. Styles somehow seems to read his mind, and he continues speaking. “Make her your girl.”

“You really think I should?” Oliver asks quietly.

“I know you should.”

After a brief pause in which the two stand seemingly at a hold, Mr. Styles clears his throat gently.

“Don’t let her pass you by,” he says, for emphasis.

Oliver smiles, nodding his head in finality. “Alright,” he says. “You’re right, Mr. Styles. I can’t let her pass me by, can I? I really like her, and--”

“And I know she likes you, too.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna call her.”

Oliver moves like he’s going to leave the room, stopping abruptly as if realizing that he’s here because of school. The two seem to have the thought at the same time-- that Oliver is getting college credit just for spending a few hours a weekend with Mr. Styles, and they laugh awkwardly together.

“Sorry,” Oliver says. “I didn’t mean to--”

“You know what you can do for me, son?” There’s a smile on Mr. Styles’ face, but there is a serious edge to his tone of voice. “Genuinely?”

“Anything,” Oliver says. “Anything you need.”

“Bring her in.” Mr. Styles smiles, contrasting Oliver’s confused expression. “Bring her in, and let me meet her. Hm? Would love to meet her.”

“Yeah?”

Mr. Styles nods. “Yeah,” he says, somewhat absently, but with a smile for Oliver nonetheless. “Would love to see the young lady that’s done such a number on you.”

Oliver laughs, and even Mr. Styles lets out a personable chuckle-- as if he’s in on some joke that Oliver didn’t know he was keeping.

“I suppose I could bring her in,” Oliver says, “but again, I don’t want it to be weird--”

“It won’t be,” Mr. Styles says. The playful gleam still lingers in his eyes. “What, am I not interesting enough for her?”

Oliver laughs. “No, no! She’ll love you!”

The words hit the old gentleman’s heart in a way that Oliver doesn’t notice.

She did love him. She does. She just isn’t aware of that yet.

“I hope you’re right,” Oliver adds. “About all of this, I mean. I hope she does like me and I’m not just… I dunno, reading too far into it?”

“I can assure you that you aren’t, Oliver.”

There is no trace of doubt on Mr. Styles face, and it makes Oliver both nervous and reassured. He smiles. “Alright then,” he says. “I’ll talk to her.”

Mr. Styles relaxes into his chair, nodding his head in finality. “Alright then,” he echoes. “Good man.”

Oliver returns once again for his weekly visit the following Saturday, only this time, he’s hand in hand with his new girlfriend of four whole days. He’d taken Mr. Styles’ advice and asked her to be his after confessing everything he was feeling for her. She, of course, felt the same way, and though it didn’t come as a surprise to Oliver it did come as a great relief.

Roni hadn’t seemed as thrilled to go share the news with Mr. Styles, however, once Oliver brought it up.

“Why did we have to come so early though?” Sixteen year-old Roni whines, as she and her new boyfriend Oliver make their way into the Senior Citizen’s home. “Like, couldn’t we have come in the afternoon? I’m sure Mr. Style wouldn’t even know the difference.”

Oliver chuckles. “It’s Mr. Styles,” he corrects, “With an S. And he seemed really excited about this! This is the time he gave me, so this is the time we’re here.”

“Why was he so excited anyway?” Roni asks, picking at a hangnail on her thumb. “He doesn’t even know me.”

“No,” Oliver says, “but he knows me. And he helped me out a lot! Gave me a lot of advice about you. Least I can do is introduce him, you know?”

“I guess,” Roni mumbles to herself as Oliver checks in at the front desk.

Everyone here seems to brighten at Oliver’s presence. All the little old ladies know him by name, and he’s quite the charmer. It’s one of the reasons Roni likes him so much, really. He talks so fondly about his Saturday’s spent here, and Roni can’t think of a single person his age who would enjoy it as much as he does. It’s cute the way he gushes about Mr. Styles, and how he had mentioned him when he’d asked Roni to be his girlfriend-- officially-- four days ago.

Truly, Roni feels like she owes a lot to this Mr. Styles, and she really can understand why he would want to meet her. The least she can do is thank him for telling Oliver to man up and commit already.

Oliver clips his badge to the collar of his shirt and gives Roni a little visitor’s sticker on which he’s scribbled her name with a green sharpie. He’s dotted the “i” with a little heart, and it makes Roni’s cheeks grow hot when she notices. He smiles, nodding his head towards the receptionist and interlacing his fingers with Roni’s.

Roni follows her boyfriend down the long hallways, into the elevator (where she has a mini makeout session with him because, come on, who could resist him when he’s looking this cute?) and onto the third floor.

He leads her out into the hallway, trying his best to dismiss how flushed and messy he looks (honestly, Roni takes pride in her work) and giving Roni’s hand a subtle squeeze as they walk along.

Roni looks at the doors as they walk, subconsciously counting the numbers in her head 304, 305, 306… each room an entire home to these people. Each room a final resting place for all of them.

Oliver stops walking in front of door 310, and suddenly Roni grows nervous. Her stomach seems to do cartwheels as Oliver smiles down at her. “You’re gonna love him,” he says quietly, as if to reassure her. “He’s the coolest.”

Before Roni even has time to reply, Oliver is rapping his knuckles against the large wooden door. Two quick knocks, followed by one that seems out of rhythm with the other two.

After a few seconds, nothing happens. Roni shifts her weight to her other foot and waits, somewhat impatiently, wanting nothing more than to go home and make out with her boyfriend. Oliver seems to feel her energy, giving her side a few playful yet charged squeezes that make her giggle.

“No!” she squeaks, squirming out of his grasp. “Don’t do that here!”

The door opens as Roni is mid giggle, and she and Oliver are met with a little old man, hunched over and looking at them with a warm and expectant smile. He’s dressed nicer than Harry’s ever seen him dress, and on his head rests a little gray cap that’s probably as old as he is.

“Oliver,” the old man says by way of a greeting. And then he looks at Roni.

The reaction he has to Roni is strange to say the least. It doesn’t make Roni uncomfortable by any means, but something in his demeanor shifts, and he seems to grow a hundred times more serious. His stare is intense; so much so that it makes Roni shift her gaze. His eyes seem to grow strangely misty, and his jaw begins trembling-- as if he’s about to cry.

He looks at Roni like he’s known her all his life, and it’s strange. She almost feels bad that she doesn’t recognize him as well.

She clears her throat, trying to lighten up the now tense silence. ‘Hi!” she says, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear and holding out her hand. “I’m Roni.”

Mr. Styles swallows audibly, his trembling jaw hardly calming as a smile tugs on the corners of his lips. “Roni,” he says. He takes her hand in his and gives it a squeeze, never once removing his eyes from hers. “How wonderful it is to finally meet you.”

Roni looks at Oliver, wondering if he feels the same intense vibes that she’s feeling as well. She laughs awkwardly, unsure of what else to do. “I’ve--uh-- heard a lot about you, Mr. Styles!”

Mr. Styles grins, an old hidden dimple flashing amongst the wrinkles of his cheeks. “All bad, I hope,” he says, and now Oliver laughs.

“Of course,” he says. “I had to let her know what a menace you were!”

Mr. Styles laughs, sounding suddenly young and full of life again. He moves slowly to the side. “Come in, please. Make yourselves comfortable!”

Roni and Oliver share a glance and a quick smile before they enter the room. It isn’t much, but it’s cozy. Roni is surprised when she’s met with a delicious vanilla smell emanating from a candle in the corner of the room. (Not that she’d been expecting the place to stink, of course, but she absolutely had expected it to smell like old people, which it did not.)

“Wow,” Oliver says, as if even he is surprised with the state of the room. “Mr. Styles, you cleaned this place up nice!”

Mr. Styles grins. “But of course,” he says. “You have to when you have a pretty girl coming over!” He looks at Roni. “Does this boy not clean up for you when you’re spending time together?”

Roni giggles. “He does. Although I have to say, the vanilla candle is an excellent touch. I don’t even think Oliver owns a candle!”

Mr. Styles shakes his head, a playful smile on his cheeks. “What a shame. Oliver, you best buy some candles for your lady!”

Oliver and Roni both laugh. “Vanilla is my favorite,” Roni comments.

“Somehow I had a hunch,” Mr. Styles replies with a playful wink.

With every passing minute that turns into an hour, the three grow more and more comfortable together. It isn’t weird, or forced, and Roni marvels at how easy it is to talk to Mr. Styles. He asks her questions about her life, oddly fascinated by every word that comes out of her mouth. The way he watches her with his undivided attention makes her feel important.

He plays music from a little tape recorder that sits in the window of his room. It takes him a moment to figure it out, and Oliver has to help him a bit, but he finally gets there. Roni doesn’t recognize any of the music playing (nor does she realize the way Mr. Styles watches her reaction to a few specific songs very closely), but she enjoys the tunes nonetheless.

He shares memories associated with each song; what specific stories each song calls to his mind. And Roni listens, fascinated with every single one of them, realizing that she could genuinely listen to this old man speak about his youth for days.

A stack of books on the nightstand near his bed draws Roni’s attention at some point, and she rises to her feet to go examine them further. Mr. Styles notes her movements and smiles, almost knowingly, to himself. She thumbs at the one on the top of the pile, a small menu from some pizza place marking his spot towards the back of the book. She cocks her head to the side to get a better view of the books title:

Alternate Realities: by Lawrence Leshawn

She blinks a few times, the concept of an alternate reality very new to her. Without thinking, she picks the book up and scans the back of it. She glances back at the pile, noting the various ones on time travel, meditation, and astral projection. Time travel being the only topic of the other three books that she’d ever considered before, this discovery of books feels like a landmine of information.

“Bit nerdy, innit?” Mr. Styles’ voice pulls Roni from her thoughts, and she turns to him, still holding the book in her hands. His eyes twinkle. “Is that what the kids are saying these days? ‘Nerdy?’”

Roni giggles. “It is. But this isn’t nerdy.”

“Ohh,” Mr. Styles says, playfully brushing away her words with his hand. “Come now. Yes it is.”

“You’ll never get Roni to agree with that,” Oliver speaks up. “Haven’t I told you before? She’s super into all that!”

Roni feels her cheeks go hot with embarrassment, but Mr. Styles’ only smiles at her. “No kidding!”

“I mean…” Roni trails off shyly, worried she’s about to make a fool of herself. “Yeah. Kinda. It’s silly.”

“It’s not silly,” Mr. Styles replies quickly, a hint of gravity to his words. “Never say that.”

Roni debates telling Mr. Styles everything; about how she’s trying to find her mother, about how she’s already tried (and been unsuccessful) multiple times, and about how he is the first person (other than Oliver) who hasn’t actually thought she was silly for this at all.

But she’s only just met Mr. Styles, and she doesn’t want to bombard him with her own personal life story just yet-- nor is she certain he would really care. So she only shrugs, a soft smile spreading across her cheeks.

“Yeah. I just… think it’s neat. That’s all.”

There’s a look on Mr. Styles’ face that seems to say that he’s interested, but he doesn’t want to push her. He waits patiently for her to continue, but when she doesn’t, he tries pressing just a tiny bit. “Any particular reason?”

Even Oliver is watching her now, waiting for her answer even though he’s already known for a while. He offers her an encouraging smile, and Roni hesitates briefly before speaking “I just want to go back and see my mom again. She passed like five years ago and I just…” She trails off, feeling silly despite the understanding looks on both Oliver and Mr. Styles’ faces.

“I understand.” Mr. Styles speaks up after a few moments of silence. Roni doesn’t notice the all knowing smile on his face, or the way his eyes have grown damp. She doesn’t catch the way he swallows down the lump in his throat. Or how he looks at her the same way she looks out the window: pensive and lost in thought.

“Anyway,” Roni sighs, halfway through a laugh. “I don’t know. Oliver is the only one who believes me and even then, I’m not sure he really does.”

“I do!” Oliver laughs, shrugging almost defensively. “I do. I just don’t know if they’ve like… I dunno, developed some way to time travel yet. I don’t know if technology has come that far, you know? What do you think, Mr. Styles?”

Both Roni and Mr. Styles seem to be deep in their own little worlds, but it’s lost on Oliver as he waits for a response from the older gentleman. Mr. Styles smiles to himself, chuckling gently. “I think it’s entirely possible,” he says, voice quiet. “And I hope miss Roni never gives it up.”

Roni smiles, turning to face the old man. “You really mean that?” she asks, stepping towards him. “Like, you really think it’s possible?”

“I can promise you it is,” he says. “I’m certain of it.”

Roni, realizing she’s still holding the Alternate Realities book, holds it up and gestures at it with her free hand. “What about this stuff? I’ve never really heard of it.”

Mr. Styles grins, obviously glad she’s asked. He shifts in his seat, speaking slowly. “Have either of you ever heard of a parallel universe?”

Roni and Oliver both shake their heads, and Mr. Styles raises his eyebrows. “No? Well. It’s a plane of existence, similar to the very one we’re living in right now now, that co-exists with our own. It is said that there are multiple.”

“Multiple… existences?” Roni questions.

“That’s right,” Mr. Styles continues. “Not much is known about them. Especially considering that it isn’t even known if they exist or not. But if they do, it is said that some are wildly different than your current existence now, while others are exactly the same with only a few minor differences.”

“Gnarly!” Oliver exclaims. “So like, somewhere out there, I exist but I’m a billionaire?”

Mr. Styles chuckles. “It’s possible.”

“Wait wait wait,” Roni says, significantly less convinced than her boyfriend. “So you mean that somewhere out there in the world, there’s another Roni? Who has no idea I exist?”

“We don’t know.” Mr. Styles shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe she knows all about you.”

Roni shakes her head, trying to wrap her mind around all this new information. “That’s nuts.”

“Not really,” Oliver offers. “Kinda makes sense if you think about it.”

“So wait” Roni says, setting the book on the dresser and walking to stand by Mr. Styles. “I told you why I’m into this. Why are you into this?”

The old man goes quiet, smiling a tight lipped smile and hesitating as if really giving thought to his answer. “I like to think that in another reality, somewhere in time, I’m with my honey.”

Roni softens. “Oh, I see. Did she--” She’s about to ask if Mr. Styles’ girl passed away as well, but she thinks better of it, unsure as to whether or not that’s an appropriate question.

Mr. Styles chuckles quietly, knowing exactly where Roni was going with her question. “I lost her,” he explains, because it isn’t technically a lie. “Many, many years ago.”

“Oh.” Roni frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” At this point, it’s impossible for him to hide the way his voice cracks. Roni looks at him, then averts her eyes, as if she feels guilty for hearing it. Oliver sighs, stepping forward.

“Mr. Styles--”

“You remind me of her,” Mr. Styles says, ignoring Oliver. The look on his face makes it seem like he’s got more on his mind.

“Yeah?” Roni steps towards Mr. Styles, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He sighs, reaching up to place his hand on top of hers. “Yeah,” he says. “More than you’d even believe.”

“Wish I could’ve met her.”

Mr. Styles grins up at her, swallowing thickly and patting her hand. “Yeah. She was my honey.”

He takes a deep breath, looking away from Roni and glancing out the window. There’s a charged silence. Oliver squirms uncomfortably, but Roni stays right where she is, waiting patiently for Mr. Styles to continue.

“I think she’s doing just fine,” Mr. Styles says. He smiles up at Roni. “Wherever she is.”

“Maybe she’s with my mom,” Roni offers.

Mr. Styles closes his mouth, blinks back a few of his tears, and nods his head. “Perhaps she is. Wouldn’t that be something.”

“I didn’t mean to like… make you sad or anything, Mr. Styles--”

“You didn’t, darling.” The old man shakes his head. “Don’t be silly.”

Somehow, Roni doesn’t believe him.

The subject is swiftly changed and the rest of their visit goes by relatively smoothly. Mr. Styles is back to his cheery self before Roni can even think twice about the interaction they’ve just shared, and soon the three are laughing and chatting away like best friends again.

All too quickly does their visit come to an end. They say their goodbyes, although it’s obvious that Mr. Styles doesn’t want their time together to be over. He looks almost emotional to be saying goodbye to Roni, something that neither of the two teenagers seem to understand.

After he gives her a warm embrace, careful not to hold her too long or, heaven forbid, make her feel uncomfortable, Mr. Styles pulls away, holding Roni at arm’s length.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Confused, Roni cocks her head to the side. “For?”

“You’ve made me feel young again. I cannot even begin to express how badly I needed this.”

Roni smiles. “Oh. You’re welcome then!” She giggles. “It was so nice meeting you, Mr. Styles.”

“The pleasure was all mine, honey.” His hands tremble as he lets go of her. He turns to Oliver. “You bring her back to visit sometime soon, alright?”

Oliver chuckles. “I will. But don’t go liking her more than you like me, now. I’ve been here way longer.”

Mr. Styles laughs. “Sure,” he says, “but she is prettier.”

Oliver slings his arm over Roni’s shoulder. “Well I can’t argue with that, can I?”

When they finally do go their separate ways, Roni and Oliver playfully chase each other out to Oliver’s car-- blissfully unaware of the way that Mr. Styles watches them from his bedroom window with tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. They don’t know that Mr. Styles doesn’t leave his bedroom for the entire rest of the day-- to the point that the caretakers at the home begin to worry about him.

They don’t know that Mr. Styles has just reunited with his honey, after nearly sixty-five years of looking for her, and that she has obviously no idea herself.

Oliver continues his weekly visits to Mr. Styles room for a few more weeks, noting that he is completely unlike himself, until mid April when Mr. Styles passes away.

Oliver attends his funeral. Roni, visiting a cousin out of town, does not.

Both Roni and Oliver eventually forget about the old man completely, moving on with their lives and living together in blissful ignorance of just how odd time can be.

It isn’t until ten years later, in April of 2000, that Roni seems to recall the little old man, realizing with immense sadness how significant he really was.

With a heart shattering sob, she hopes that he’s with his honey, somewhere in time, just like he said.

------

December 31st, 1999, 11:54pm

It is ridiculously bright when Roni tries to open her eyes.

She opens her eyes too quickly at first, immediately regretting it and squeezing them shut again. The act of closing them once more, however, pushes a hot tear that’s been waiting for release from the corner of one eye

And suddenly, it all comes flooding back to her.

Harry, 1925, Violet LaRue, the ocean, her mother…

She is so overwhelmed all at once with emotions that she grows sort of nauseous, and she sits up immediately to try and stop the spinning of the room around her.

The room --her and Oliver’s shared bedroom-- looks completely untouched, as if she’d never left. There is hip-hop music booming downstairs, lots of chattering, and a smell in the air that can only be described as drunk people. The silence in the room, however, contrasts the chaos that’s occurring downstairs, and it makes her head pound.

Roni looks around slowly, noticing the skimpy, revealing party dress she’s wearing that clings to her every curve. It looks untouched as well, albeit a bit disheveled, and she reaches a cautious hand down to smooth it over her lap.

She hears Oliver’s booming laugh downstairs, and the sound feels like a stab to the heart. He must be completely wasted. The clock on the wall reads 11:54pm, and she knows she has to get back down to the party before the clock strikes midnight.

Never in her entire life has Roni felt anything like the feeling she’s currently experiencing.

Surely she couldn’t have dreamt it all. It was real-- Harry was real, and seeing her mother was real. Besides, the fact that she’s even crying right now tells her that she had to have been experiencing something physical.

Which reminds her…

Roni rises to her feet and makes her way over to the mirror hanging on the back of the door. She pulls the neckline of her dress down, and feels her own breath catch in her throat when she finds what she’s looking for.

There, in the exact spot on her chest that she’d been anticipating it to be, is a bruise left by Harry. The last remaining physical reminder of his existence.

With a shaky hand, she gently brushes her thumb over the purpling skin. It stings, just a bit, but it’s real. It’s there. And it’s too much for Roni to handle.

Grateful for the cover of the commotion downstairs, Roni can’t help herself but to let out a pathetic sob as everything comes flooding over her. How could she have been with Harry not even five minutes ago? And her mother? How was her mother just there and now suddenly she’s gone again?

How can she be expected to go on in a world where neither of them exist, and she’s the only one with knowledge of what she’s just experienced?

She collapses to her knees, eyes closing and another choking sob echoing from her throat. She reaches up to wipe her damp eyelashes, mindful of the fact that sooner or later she’s going to have to go downstairs and face everybody again— which she can’t do with a face full of runny makeup.

But right now she doesn’t care. Right now, she’s overwhelmed, and upset, and deeply, deeply missing the love of her life.

It’s been ages since she’s cried this hard, and it feels somewhat therapeutic, although it doesn’t fix the terrible ache in her heart. Her throat hurts and her chest heaves. She reaches up to cover her own mouth to quiet her wails as her heart feels like it’s physically breaking.

She misses him. She misses him so much.

On top of that, having her mother so close to her after so long without her--only to have to leave her once more-- is more painful than she had ever anticipated it would be.

Roni remains like this for another minute or so, until she’s drawn by her thoughts when she hears her own name faintly downstairs. Someone asks where she is, and Oliver slurs out that she’s been gone for a while. When someone suggests that he go find her and he jubilantly agrees, Roni panics.

“Shit.” She reaches up and wipes at her snotty nose; stumbling awkwardly to her feet and making her way to the mirror once again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Roni scrambles to fix her hair and wipe away the splotchy mascara stains under her eye. She prays that Oliver is too drunk to even notice that she’s crying, and she swallows down the intense heartache still in her throat. When she’s at least somewhat satisfied with her appearance, she hears footsteps coming down the hallway— her cue to leave. With a deep breath, she opens the bedroom door just in time to eee Oliver approaching.

Oliver, with his sweet, drunken smile, immediately opens his arms. “Ronnaaaaaay!” He says, by way of greeting her. “There you are!” He doesn’t wait for her to respond, instead he just wraps her up in his arms and gives her a big, suffocating squeeze. He pulls away to press an obnoxious kiss to her forehead, and it breaks Roni’s heart even more.

On any other occasion, she would find this unbearably adorable. But now, the scent of the alcohol mixed with his cologne is making her even more nauseous than she already was.

After a few more wet pecks to her forehead, he squishes her cheeks in his hand and kisses his way down her face, pausing only once he reaches her mouth and realizes it’s wet and salty. He pulls away, not removing his hands from her cheeks, and furrows his eyebrows as he scans her face. “You been crying?”

Roni knows that if she opens her mouth, she’ll lose control again. So she only smiles, turning away and giggling softly as she nods.

Oliver doesn’t seem to find this as humorous as Roni does, and he tilts his head so that he’s once again in her line of vision. “Heyyy, hey,” he coos. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

She sniffs, trying her hardest to keep her light smile on her face. “It’s nothing,” she says, throat raspy and voice hardly above a whisper. “I promise.”

“It’s not nothing,” he says, wiping at Roni’s damp face and gently guiding her back into their bedroom. He’s thoughtful like that-- he doesn’t want Roni to feel it necessary to squash her emotions should anyone walk by. He knows she wouldn’t want anyone else to see her crying like this. He doesn’t close the door fully, leaving only a crack, before turning to Roni.

She doesn’t say anything, but the way he’s being so ridiculously sweet to her is making her want to cry harder. This isn’t fair; not fair to her and definitely not to him. She crosses her arms over her torso, feeling ridiculously vulnerable under his gaze.

He gives her a sympathetic smile, and there’s a look in his eyes that comes across almost as if he knows what’s going on. She lets out a little half laugh/half sob, and she feels closer to him than she expected to in this moment. She speaks.

“Are you gonna say something?”

Oliver cuts her off, speaking only a half second after her. “You tried that time travel junk again, didn’t you?”

His words feel like a slap to the face, but they aren’t exactly wrong. She stays frozen, mouth agape, and then wilts.

“Yeah,” she whispers, because what else is there for her to say?

“Ohhh, babe.” Oliver steps towards her, wrapping her in his arms. I told you it wasn’t gonna work.”

Roni knows she should have expected that kind of response from him, but still. Ouch.

For a split second, she almost loses it. She almost tells him everything; about how it did work, about how she’s actually been gone for a little over a week now-- not just a few minutes--, and about how hard it was to find her way back. She wants to mention seeing her mom, and she wants to rub it in his face. “You were wrong! You were wrong about it all! I saw my mom! She hugged me!”

It’s when she considers telling him about Harry, however, that some sense is knocked back into her.

Just the mere, brief thought of Harry makes her want to break down again, and subconsciously the mark on her chest that Harry had left begins to sting. She chews the inside of her cheek so hard it hurts.

“I’m sorry, honey.” Oliver’s use of the pet name that Roni had grown so used to hearing from Harry’s mouth makes her nauseated. She tries to break free from Oliver’s grasp, but he holds her tighter. “I know how much you wanted it to work.”

“Stop,” she whispers.

He doesn’t hear her.

“I know you’ve tried for years, but haven’t you been through enough heartbreak?” Oliver sighs. “I really think it’s time you give it up, Ron. I don’t know why you won’t just listen to me about this stuff.”

“Stop it.” Roni finally does break out of Oliver’s embrace, and in his drunken state he blinks dumbly back at her.

“Did I say something?”

“Fuck’s sake,” she says, wiping the tears on her cheeks. “You’re right, okay? I’m an idiot. I’m done trying. I quit. Is that what you want to hear? Can we fucking stop?”

Oliver frowns, hesitantly taking a step towards Roni. “Babe, I didn’t mean--”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Roni says, harsher than intended. “Okay? Drop it. Please. I’m begging. I just want to go to bed.”

“But it’s almost midnight.” Oliver is pouting now, and although it should make Roni soften a bit, it only makes her angry.

Oliver takes a more definitive step in Roni’s direction. “I don’t want to start the new year fighting with you, babe. Can we just go back down to our party? We can talk about this tomorrow.” He shrugs. “Or not! We don’t have to ever talk about it again if you don’t want to. I just want to bring in the new year kissing you, surrounded by our friends. So can we just… please?”

Roni scans his face, feeling more and more on the verge of breakdown with every passing second. She closes her eyes, wishing she were anywhere but here, and covers her face with her hands. “God,” she groans, before taking a big breath and opening her eyes again. “Fine. Sure. Let’s go.”

Oliver smiles softly, holding out his hand timidly for her to take. “Sure you’re not mad?”

It isn’t Oliver’s fault. Of course it isn’t. So how can Roni be angry with him?

She sighs, trying to bitterly laugh off a tear that’s threatening to roll down her cheek and ignoring his hand. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I’m sure.”

“Not sure I believe you,” Oliver chuckles, “But okay.” He steps in, closing the gap between him and Roni and puckering his lips. He speaks in a babyish voice that, in any other circumstances, would absolutely melt Roni. “Gimme kiss?”

It makes Roni even more upset than she already is, but who is she to deny Oliver? He is none the wiser as to what’s going on, and she can’t exactly drop this bomb on him right now. Not when he’s drunk. Not when there’s a party going on downstairs.

Not when they’ve been together for so many years with absolutely no problems before this.

Before Roni even has time to process what’s happening, Oliver is taking her wrist in his hand and pulling her impossibly closer to him. He kisses her, softly at first, and then a bit more passionate once their lips are fastened together.

It’s Oliver who is making all the effort then; tongue maneuvering it’s way into Roni’s mouth as seductively as he can manage. Roni would have no objections to this in any other situation. In fact, she would welcome this. The normal Roni would suggest she and Oliver skip out on the midnight countdown altogether, in fact, and elect to stay up here bringing in the new year whilst fucking like rabbits.

But not now. Of course not now. In fact, probably not ever again. How could she ever go back to Oliver now? After Harry? After everything she’d felt for Harry?

How could she have done this to Oliver?

She gently pushes Oliver off of her, hoping he doesn’t note the tears in her eyes. “Please,” she says quietly. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Oliver giggles, “Kiss your boyfriend? You scared our friends will catch on? Start thinking we might have crushes on each other? Assume you think I’m hot?”

Roni knows Oliver is playing around, but she genuinely is not in the mood for that right now, and she’s afraid that if he says much else she’ll snap. She groans, leaning in and pressing the most bland, unemotional kiss to his lips. “Lets go,” she says. “Please. We’re going to miss the countdown.”

She begins making her way out of the room with Oliver close behind her. “I expect a much better kiss than that when the ball drops!” Oliver says. “Much, much better!”

Roni’s heart is pounding in her ears so loudly she can hardly hear herself think. Her face grows hot while the inside of her body feels cold. She’s having a panic attack, no doubt about it, and for once she’s glad that everyone is going to be too drunk to acknowledge it.

“Ron?” Oliver asks as he and Roni begin descending the stairs. “Hey, Ron? Baby… will you stop a minute?”

“I don’t want to miss the ball drop,” Roni says, refusing to turn around and trying her hardest to sound like her breathing is under control.

Oliver stops her, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Sweetheart,” he says tenderly. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” Roni insists, more urgently than intended. She sighs (the shakiness of her breath incredibly obvious to both of them) and softens as best she can.

“I’m not being weird,” she repeats. “Just tired.”

“You know if something is going on you can tell me, right?” Oliver sounds more sober than he has in hours, and the way he looks at Roni makes her insides shake with guilt.

She opens her mouth to speak, but has to forcibly stop herself when she almost says Harry’s name. She scans his face, so genuinely concerned and yet ridiculously kind, and she swallows down the vomit rising in her throat. “Yeah,” she says “I know.”

Oliver smiles. “Okay then.” He gives her shoulder a squeeze and follows her lead back into the living room.

Roni feels like she’s in a dream as she moves; like her body is here physically but her mind is elsewhere. In the strangest way possible, her brain feels small and disconnected entirely. She can see everyone cheering when she and Oliver walk in. She can feel her friend put a red solo cup filled with alcohol into her hand. She can hear her name being called, but she doesn’t register it. She doesn’t register anything that’s going on at the moment, actually.

Her attention is briefly caught when she hears people start counting down, signaling that the ball is about to drop. Their exuberant voices sound far away, however, as if she’s hearing them from the next room over. Her face feels cold and her hands feel sweaty, and she thinks maybe if everyone would scoot over a bit she’d be able to breathe better.

“18….17…. 16….”

Someone accidentally bumps into Roni, knocking into the cup in her hand and sloshing a bit of its contents onto her dress. No one reacts; in fact, no one else even notices. Oliver gives her hand a quick squeeze, pulling her close to him and wrapping his arm around her waist.

“...12… 11….”

Roni’s ears burn. She knows where she is, but she cannot, for the life of her, focus on a single thing. Her heart is hurting. This doesn’t feel right. She shouldn’t be here.

Slowly, the room around her begins spinning. Roni wobbles a bit on her feet and Oliver catches her, probably chalking her wooziness up to her being as drunk as he is. She almost wishes she was, because maybe that would make everything hurt less.

“...8… 7…6”

Roni’s throat feels like it’s closing in on itself, and her mind seems to be running far behind her actual body. She tries to blink herself into some clarity, glancing around the room. She’s looking--hoping-- for someone who she knows damn well isn’t there. Someone who couldn’t even try to be there. The only person she cares to see at this point.

“...3...2...1…”

The entire room erupts in cheers, which definitely doesn’t help the throbbing in Roni’s brain, and the song Auld Lang Syne blasts from the tv. There is nothing but chaos surrounding Roni, and she almost gags at the feeling of the lump in her throat. She opens her mouth to say something, but is promptly cut off when Oliver pulls her in by her hips, fastening his lips to hers in a kiss that feels a far too enthusiastic for Roni’s taste.

The way he’s holding her by her hips would be enough to make her swoon on any other occasion. But now it makes her feel suffocated, and she doesn’t even close her eyes as she gives Oliver a half-assed kiss back.

No one else in the room seems to be aware of what’s going on. They’re all too drunk, too busy making out with their respective partners/fuck buddies/love interests for the evening, to seem to care or even notice at all that Roni’s eyes are wide open. The guilt, the pain, the longing for Harry-- all of it wraps itself around Roni’s heart and squeezes like a python.

Oliver pulls away, a dopey smile on his face. “Happy New Year, baby!”

He looks so thrilled; so beyond naive to not only the fact that she’s hurt him in what she’s certain will be an unforgivable way, but also the fact that she is more concerned with missing Harry than feeling much else at all right now.

“Roni?”

A voice from off to the side catches her attention, and she turns in slow motion to see her and Oliver’s mutual friend, Zach, squinting at her. “Ron, you don’t look so good.”

“Wait, yeah,” comes Zach’s girlfriend, Skye. “Girl, are you okay?”

Roni hears their questions. She hears them, but she doesn’t process them. Zach and Skye aren’t the only people who seem to be concerned, as more and more people around them quickly catch on.

“Sweetheart?” comes Oliver’s voice, and Roni turns, almost drunkenly.

“Is she drunk?”

“Did she take something?”

“She looks green!”

“Baby?” It’s Oliver’s voice that breaks through the deafening noise the most, although Roni still can’t even really process what he’s saying. “Roni? Hun, can you hear me?”

“Everyone step back!”

“Let her breathe!”

“Can someone get her some water?”

“Ron?”

Her breathing is so shallow now that she can actually hear herself gasping for air. She feels like she’s choking. She hates this. She hates these people. She doesn’t want to be here.

Where she wants to be is with Harry. Alone with him, in his tiny apartment that isn’t even half the size of the room. The year 2000 nothing but a vague memory, something she knows is so far in the future that she’ll never have to worry about it. She should have stayed.

Goddammit, she should have stayed.

As she looks around the room at these people who she should love-- who she should be thrilled to be surrounded by-- she realizes that she’s never felt more alone. Not a single one of them would understand what’s going on. How is she supposed to continue on into the new year-- the new millennium-- feeling so isolated in her own feelings?

“I can’t breathe.”

She can feel herself saying the words, yet her own voice sounds so fuzzy and far away.

“She can’t breathe!” someone repeats. “Everyone back up!”

“Can we get her some water?”

“Ron?”

It’s too much. It’s all too fucking much.

Roni’s knees wobble a bit before she feels them buckle. The last thing she sees before hitting the ground is Oliver worriedly scrambling to catch her.

And then everything is dark.

#Harry Styles #Harry #One Direction #Harry Styles fanfiction #Harry fanfiction #One direction fanfiction #fanfiction #Harry Styles AU #Harry AU #One Direction AU #AU #Harry Styles angst #Harry angst #One Direction angst #angst

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theycallmebeccawrites · 4 years ago

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Chris & Ellie Series: Episode 25

Happy New Year’s Eve (and yes, I realize some of you are already in 2021, but I’m not.) Nothing like waiting until almost the last minute to get my promised new episode posted before the end of December. But success.

I’m currently on my lunch break, so I have to keep this short and sweet.

Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me as I’ve been writing this series. I truly appreciate each and everyone one of you. And shout out to my betas: @nomadicpixel @alievans007 @heather-lynn and @mrs-captain-evans - you four are amazing cheerleaders and this story wouldn’t be what it is without you and your help.

♥Becca♥

Pairing: Chris Evans x Ellie Spencer (OFC)

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: n/a

Episode Summary: Chris returns to Los Angeles (and Ellie)... for real this time.

Disclaimer: This work of fiction is not to be reposted, used or translated without my permission.

This episode can also be read on AO3.

The Chris and Ellie series is primarily chronological. It begins with a flash forward to 2016 and has a few other scenes in the future. However, the majority of their story is told in chronological order starting in 2013 and going through 2017. Each episode starts with a date to help you place it within the story.

The Chris & Ellie Series Masterlist | Chris & Ellie Masterlist

Episode 24.5

Episode 25: Only Fools Rush In

December 5, 2014

Chris's house in Los Angeles was dark when the cab came to a stop in front of it in the early hours of the morning. The driver helped Chris get his luggage out of the trunk and then wished him a 'Merry Christmas' after Chris slipped him a tip.

As the cab drove away, Chris stared up at the big house, trying to block out the memories from that day in July when he'd seen Ellie and Pierre hugging. Now that he knew what had actually happened, he felt like a fool for jumping to conclusions.

He couldn’t bring himself to regret it. That rock bottom moment for him had been a catalyst. He'd finally gotten over the hurdles his mind created and was letting his heart take the lead on the whole Ellie dilemma. He owed it to them both to seek her out. He didn't know how it would go, but he was prepared to apologize and, if she wanted, walk away.

Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the door and carried his suitcases in. His eyes drifted up the stairs and he knew he should take them up to his bedroom, but he wasn't ready to go there yet. Instead, he dropped the suitcases at the bottom of the stairs then walked through the quiet house, taking everything in.

For some reason, Chris had expected everything to be different, but it all looked the same. The only thing that was noticeably different was the smell. The house didn't smell bad by any means, it just didn't smell like the light, fruity scent that he associated with Ellie.

It wasn't until he got to the kitchen that he noticed things missing, specifically Ellie's things. Like her ugly coffee cups that she insisted on keeping next to the coffeemaker so they were within easy reach first thing in the morning. His eyes then slid to the floor by the backdoor where Daisy's things had been. He missed her almost as much as he missed Ellie.

Taking a shaky breath, he started a pot of coffee, knowing it would be the only way he was going to make it through the day after taking a red eye flight from Boston to Los Angeles. While the coffee brewed, he grabbed a mug from the cupboard and then looked back at the coffee maker.

"I don't know why you keep them so far apart," Ellie's voice came back to him from a long-forgotten conversation. "It's silly. The coffee cups should be right above the coffee pot for easy access. Everyone knows that."

"You're right," he admitted out loud in his empty kitchen.

Trying to remember the other things Ellie had said to him over their time together, he opened the doors of all his cupboards and began reorganizing them. At first, it required a lot of thought, but once it got down to just putting things away, his mind started to wander.

It had been ten days since he'd learned the truth about what had happened in the driveway back in July. At first, he had been too overwhelmed by the information and hadn't been able to process it. Opening up to his mom about everything had helped, but that had just been step one.

The next step had been sorting through his feelings. He knew he was in love with Ellie. Months of long, lonely nights of introspection convinced him of that. But he also knew that his feelings weren't what was important right now. Ellie's feelings were all what mattered. Him being in love with her didn't mean a damn thing if she didn't feel the same way. Or worse, if she hated him and never wanted to see him again.

He'd tried to put on a brave face for Thanksgiving, but his heart hadn't really been in it. He'd gone through the motions, but not even a competitive game of Trivial Pursuit had pulled him out of his head.

His mom had given him until Saturday morning before she'd stepped in to help some more. Through a series of questions, like 'what are you thinking' and 'what are you planning to do', she helped him get through the quagmire that was his brain. The outcome of which had been him deciding to go back to Los Angeles to talk to Ellie.

The biggest question that had followed his decision had been when. Scott had gone back to LA Sunday morning, but Chris hadn't been ready yet. He'd wanted to come back with a game plan. Even if it all ended up a complete and utter failure.

"What are you doing?" Scott's voice came through the fog of Chris's brain, bringing him back to the present.

Shaking his head, Chris turned and found his brother standing at the top of the stairs to the basement. Seeing the confused expression on Scott's face, he took a step back and took in the reorganizing disaster that was his kitchen.

"Are you ok?" Scott asked, slowly. He'd known Chris was arriving this morning, but he hadn't expected to find his brother rearranging the kitchen when he came in from the guest house where he was now living.

"I'm fine," Chris assured him. "Just felt like reorganizing, I guess." He shrugged. "Ellie was always commenting on the silly places some things were stored and she was right." Stepping forward, he opened the cupboard over the coffee pot. "The mugs are here now. Above the coffee pot."

"You could have just moved the coffee pot," Scott said with a stifled yawn.

"I could have, but it makes sense for the coffee pot, coffee and coffee cups to all be in one area," Chris explained. "Speaking of which, I made coffee. You want some?"

"Shouldn't you be fighting jet lag or something?" his brother asked.

"I slept on the plane," Chris replied with a shrug. "And I've had two cups of coffee this morning. I'll sleep later."

"In your bedroom or in one of the guestrooms?" Scott asked, cautiously. He knew coming back to the house was a big first step for Chris, but he didn't think his brother was fully prepared for the onslaught of memories that the house would bring. Seeing Chris tense at his question, Scott pressed on. "Have you been upstairs yet?"

"I couldn't go upstairs," Chris admitted, softly. The bedroom held so many memories for himself and Ellie but was also the place that his worst memory with her had happened.

"Want me to go with you?" Scott offered. He'd walked by Ellie's side during the aftermath of the breakup and now that his brother was forced to deal with it himself, he could help him, too.

"Will you help me with the kitchen first?" Chris asked, gesturing to the stuff that was still on the counters to put away.

Knowing his brother needed to mentally prepare himself to go upstairs, Scott helped him finish reorganizing the kitchen. He didn't want to admit it out loud, but some of the changes really did make sense. Others, he knew would drive Ellie crazy. Which made him want to take a picture and send it to her, but he resisted the urge. She didn't know Chris was back in town yet and he didn't want to be the one to tell her.

After the last cabinet door closed, Scott expected Chris to come up with a reason not to go upstairs, but his brother surprised him by leading him out of the kitchen.

"Are you ready for this?" Scott asked as he picked up two of Chris's suitcases.

"Not really, but it's not like I have much choice, is it?" Chris asked as he grabbed his other suitcase.

"It'll be ok, you'll see," Scott assured him. "The cleaning lady was here yesterday and she made the bed for you and cleaned the bathroom."

Leading Chris up the stairs, Scott waited for him at the bedroom door. He knew his brother needed to be the one to open the door to fully cement his current reality. Afterall, the last time Chris had been in the room, Ellie had been peacefully sleeping in the bed and it had been April.

"You got this," Scott encouraged as they stood outside the closed bedroom door.

Turning the handle, Chris pushed the door open and found the room just as it had always been when he came home from a long time away. It was both comforting and depressing.

He forced himself to take a step into the room and then another until he reached the bed. He dropped his suitcase onto it and Scott did the same with the other two.

Turning to survey the room, he saw the two neatly stacked piles of clothes on the dresser by the bedroom door. He recognized some of the sweatshirts that Ellie had borrowed from him, but others were just clothes he had worn during the days leading up to his early departure.

Sucking in a breath, he turned his attention to the closet. Crossing the room, he opened the door and was taken aback at the chaotic state of it. He knew he'd packed in a rush, but he hadn't realized he'd left it in such a state.

"I told the housekeeper not to clean it up," Scott said from behind him. "I thought you needed to see the way you left things."

"I hadn't realized," Chris whispered as he felt pressure building in his chest. He could only imagine how shocked and hurt Ellie had been when she'd seen the room. "I really fucked up."

"You did," Scott agreed. There was no reason to sugar coat things anymore. At the same time, he could feel the anxiety radiating off his brother. Reaching over, he put his hand on Chris's shoulder and squeezed. "You're here now. That's what's important."

Turning to look at his brother, Chris felt the weight of the last eight months on his shoulders. Not only had he lost Ellie, but he'd effectively lost his own brother, too. Both because of his own stupidity.

"I'm sorry for being a jackass," he told Scott.

"I know you are and I forgive you," Scott replied with a smile. "I'll try not to rub it in your face. Too much anyway."

Chris rolled his eyes and pulled his brother in for a hug.

"So what's your plan?" Scott asked, once they'd parted.

"I'm going to go talk to her," Chris told him.

"You mean call her, right?" Scott responded. The idea of Chris just showing up at Ellie's apartment left him uneasy. Assuming his brother knew where she lived.

"No, I'm going to go find her and talk to her," Chris replied with a shake of his head. "We both know I'm eight months too late to just call her like everything is fine between us."

"You can't just show up, Chris," Scott insisted. "You should give her some sort of warning that you're wanting to fix things. A phone call would be the best way to do that."

"That's assuming she hasn't blocked my number," Chris pointed out. "And on the off chance she hasn't, who says she would even answer the call? Or that she won't hang up when she realizes I'm the one calling?"

"She hasn't and she won't," Scott assured him. He knew Ellie hadn't blocked or deleted Chris's number because he'd looked when he'd seen her the other day. As for the second part, he was certain that she would answer the phone for Chris. If only to make sure that everyone was ok.

"I have to talk to her in person," Chris stated in a tone of finality. "Even if it's just to tell her I'm sorry."

Scott sighed, but nodded his head, as if giving his permission, which meant a lot to Chris. He knew that Scott and Ellie had gotten closer during his absence and Scott had been there for her. Oddly enough, he even appreciated the balancing act his brother was doing to protect Ellie but also help him.

"I don't suppose you'd give me her address," Chris asked, hesitantly. He didn't want to cause problems between his brother and Ellie, especially if things didn't work out for the two of them, but it was worth a try.

"I don't know her address," Scott replied. It wasn't a lie, exactly. He didn't know the address of her apartment or even the address of the bookstore. He could tell Chris where Ellie's apartment was, but he didn't want Chris to catch Ellie off guard. Like his brother, she needed time to process things and having Chris just show up on her doorstep would not be ideal.

"Then I guess I'll start at the bookstore," Chris reasoned. "That's where I was planning to start anyway." He frowned as a thought crossed his mind. "She still works at the bookstore, right?"

"Yes," Scott told him, making a mental note to call the bookstore when he had the chance to give them a heads up. "They have later hours right now because of the holidays. You'll probably want to go on Monday. That tends to be their slow day, though with Christmas right around the corner, that might be different."

"I'm going tonight," Chris stated. "And I knew about the later hours, I saw it on their website. I plan on getting there right before closing time."

"Oh," Scott said, hoping his voice sounded calm despite the panic that Chris's words had caused. Then he remembered that Ellie wasn't working that night. He couldn't remember exactly what she was doing, but he thought it had to do with the afterschool program she'd been helping with. Possibly a Christmas party? Whatever it was didn't matter. All that mattered was that someone else would be at the bookstore and she would get a heads up that Chris was looking for her before they met. He wondered if Ellie would believe him if he sent her a text in the morning saying that Chris had shown up at the house.

"... and that's my plan," Chris's voice trailed off.

Scott blinked and then coughed awkwardly as he realized he'd missed Chris's plans while panicking. "Uh, sounds like you have it all planned out then," he said, hoping his voice didn't give anything away.

"Yeah, I guess," Chris replied, nodding, his mind on his plan. He'd spent hours formulating it and it was almost time to put it into action. He took a deep breath and turned his attention back to the disaster that was his closet. "I suppose I should deal with this."

"Good idea," Scott said, his mind on making the phone call. "I'll let you do that. I need to go make a phone call anyway."

It wasn't until Scott had left that Chris felt the weight of the pressure he'd succumbed to the night he'd walked away. Unlike that night, however, his heart was able to push past his chaotic thoughts. Starting with the overturned hamper, he picked it up, thankful that someone had taken care of the dirty clothes that had been in there.

It took him a couple hours to get everything picked up and the clothes from his suitcases put away. The hardest part of it all had been the sweatshirts that Ellie had borrowed from him. He smelled each one, hoping they'd still smell like her, but they didn't.

Around two in the afternoon, he gave in to the mental and physical exhaustion he was feeling and laid down for a nap. He slept for a couple of hours and woke up feeling a little groggy, but also recharged.

Hearing his stomach growl, he made his way downstairs and found the house empty. Going into the kitchen, it took him a few minutes to remember where he had moved things to in the kitchen, but eventually he had what he needed to make himself a sandwich.

With hours to kill, he thought about going downstairs to watch tv, but he wasn't sure he was ready for that. At least, not on his own. The basement, even more so than his bedroom, held so many memories for himself and Ellie. It was where they had built their friendship and where it had grown to be more.

Instead, he went back upstairs to take a shower before trying to figure out what to wear. All black seemed too dramatic, but he didn't feel right wearing anything she'd told him she loved seeing him wear. The goal of tonight was for her to see that he was back in town and for him to at least apologize to her. He hoped that she would give him a couple minutes to explain things, but he didn't want to push her to do anything she wasn't comfortable with.

He spent the remaining time going over every aspect of his plan. He purposely hadn't written down what he wanted to say, because he didn't want it to sound rehearsed, but he had a general idea. If all went well, Ellie would be at the shop when he got there and then he'd either talk to her or make plans to talk to her another time.

He felt nervous, but oddly calm at the same time. He was as ready as he'd ever be.

With two hours until closing time, he left the house and made his way to the Los Angeles neighborhood that the bookstore was in. He gave himself more than enough time to get there, not wanting to risk getting stuck in traffic and getting there after they closed for the night.

As it was, he got there a good forty-five minutes before closing time and stopped for coffee before finding a parking spot in front of the shop. He sipped his coffee as he waited, mentally going over everything he wanted to say to Ellie. Assuming she let him talk and didn't run him out of the shop.

With five minutes left until closing time, Chris got out of the car and made his way to the shop. The bells jingled above his head as he came inside.

"We're closing in -" A friendly voice started to say before switching to a less friendly one when he came into sight. "Oh. It's you."

Even though he'd never met Veronica, the shop owner, he knew that was exactly who the middle aged woman was. "You know who I am?" he asked, hesitantly.

"You're Ellie's actor," the woman replied, pursing her lips. "I'd heard you were in town."

"Scott," Chris said, suddenly feeling annoyed with his brother. Obviously that had been the mysterious phone call he'd had to make. "Look, I'm just -"

"I know you're trying to find Ellie," Veronica interrupted him. "Go sit in the break room. I'll be with you in a minute."

Confused, Chris followed her directions and made his way into the break room. It was as he stepped into the back room that he picked up on a familiar scent that rocked him to his core. Ellie had been here or maybe her scent was just imprinted on the place since she worked here. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed the smell until now.

"I dated an actor once," Veronica's voice said from behind him.

Chris turned to face her, waiting for a clue as to how it applied to himself and Ellie.

"It was the worst experience of my life," Veronica continued. "He was the vainest man I'd ever met, in the end. At first, he treated me like a queen. Taking me to parties and events with other famous people. Then something changed and it became hell for me. It's been thirty years and I still can't say one nice thing about him."

"I'm sorry you went through that," he said, still confused. "But you're right, Hollywood is filled with some pompous assholes."

"And are you one of them?" she asked pointedly.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I will admit that I let Hollywood and fame in general get to my head when I was in my twenties, but that's not who I am anymore or who I want to be."

"Ellie and your brother would agree to that, I know," Veronica told him. "Which is the only reason you are in the break room right now and not standing outside."

As she crossed her arms and leveled a protective look at him, Chris realized what was happening. His brother had obviously clued her into the fact that he was back to talk to Ellie, but Veronica had taken it a step farther, wanting to protect Ellie from anymore heartache if she could.

"I fucked up," he said, simply. Obviously, he had mentally prepared to talk to Ellie, not her boss, but if he had to play hardball to get the chance to talk to her, he'd do it. "And I hurt her in the process and I regret that."

"Now you're back," Veronica stated, visually unswayed by his words.

"Now I'm back," he confirmed. "I don't know if I can fix things, but I want to try. If she'll let me."

"And if she won't?" Veronica pressed.

"Then I walk away. Forever," Chris promised. Squaring his shoulders, he added, "I'm not here to tell her I love her. I'm not saying I don't, but I know that my words aren't worth shit to her, to you, to anyone who knew about our relationship."

Veronica's eyebrows rose at his confession, but she didn't interrupt.

"I just need a chance to talk to her," he continued. "My brother wanted me to call her, but I know this conversation has to happen in person. It's been too long for it to happen any other way."

As if triggered by the word 'call', Veronica's phone started to ring. He saw her take it out of her pocket and saw the look of surprise that crossed her face.

"Excuse me for a minute," she said before disappearing into a private office and closing the door.

Sighing, Chris sank down into a chair at the table. Dealing with an overprotective boss was not something he had planned. Let alone his brother tipping off said boss. That said, he was happy that Ellie had people looking out for her.

Hearing the door open, he saw Veronica putting on a coat.

"Mr. Evans, you are lucky that I believe in fate," she told him as she turned off the lights in the office. "I assume you brought your car?"

"Uh, yes," he replied, more confused than ever, as he stood up.

"Good, Ellie needs us," she told him. "I'll let you drive."

"Is she ok?" he asked as he followed Veronica out of the building via the door in the alley.

"She's fine, but Santa just called saying he was going to the ER for appendicitis," Veronica explained as she locked up.

"Santa?" Chris repeated. What the hell was she even talking about?

"The costume should fit you," Veronica continued as if not hearing him. She led him down the alley and to the street.

"Wait? You want me to dress up as Santa?" Chris said, finally catching up. Sort of.

"Yes," Veronica replied, turning to look at him. "Unless everything you said in the break room was a lie."

"It wasn't," he said firmly, finally knowing something for certain.

"Good." Veronica nodded as they reached his car, the only one parked in front of the bookstore. "The community center is a ten minute drive from here. We'll need to hurry though. The kids are expecting Santa and Mrs. Claus to hand out presents."

Head still spinning in confusion, Chris followed her directions to the community center. Then found himself ushered down a dark hallway to an office.

"Your costume is in there," Veronica told him. She opened a door and all but pushed him inside.

Mind still trying to catch up with what was going on, it took Chris a minute to see the Santa costume hanging on a coat hook. Still not sure what this all had to do with Ellie, he grabbed the red, fake velvet pants and was in the process of pulling them on over his jeans when the door suddenly opened.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a woman dressed as Mrs. Claus come into the room. Her costume consisted of a red velour dress that matched Santa’s costume, a white curly wig and a pair of fake glasses.

Glasses that circled eyes he knew very well.

Eyes that widened when they saw him standing there.

"Chris," Ellie said in a tone of disbelief.

Episode 26

Want to find me off tumblr? I'm @beccatheycallme on twitter. I also post my stories on AO3.

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ordinaryschmuck · 4 years ago

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What I Thought About Loki (Season One)

(Sorry this is later than it should have been. I may or may not be experiencing burnout from reviewing every episode of the gayest show Disney has ever produced)

Salutations, random people on the internet. I am an Ordinary Schmuck. I write stories and reviews and draw comics and cartoons.

Do you want to know what's fun about the Marvel Cinematic Universe? It is now officially at the point where the writers can do whatever the hell they want.

A TV series about two Avengers getting stuck in a series of sitcoms as one of them explores their personal grief? Sure.

Another series as a guy with metal bird wings fights the inner racism of his nation to take the mantel of representing the idea of what that nation should be? Why not?

A forgettable movie about a superspy and her much more mildly entertaining pretend family working together to kill the Godfather? F**king go for it (Let that be a taste for my Black Widow review in October)!

There is no limit to what you can get with these movies and shows anymore, and I personally consider that a good thing. It allows this franchise to lean further into creative insanity, thus embracing its comic roots in the process. Take Loki, for example. It is a series about an alternate version of one of Marvel's best villains bouncing around the timeline with Owen Wilson to prevent the end of the universe. It sounds like just the right amount of wackiness that it should be too good to fail.

But that's today's question: Did it fail? To find out my own answer to that, we're gonna have to dive deep into spoilers. So be wary as you continue reading.

With that said, let's review, shall we?

WHAT I LIKED

Loki Himself: Let's get this out of the way: This isn't the same Loki we've seen grow within five movies. The Loki in this series, while similar in many ways, is still his very own character. He goes through his own redemption and developments that fleshes out Loki, all through ways that, if I'm being honest with you, is done much better in six-hour-long episodes than in past films. Loki's story was already entertaining, but he didn't really grow that much aside from being this chaotic neutral character instead of this wickedly evil supervillain. Through his series, we get to see a gradual change in his personality, witnessing him understand his true nature and "glorious purpose," to the point where he's already this completely different person after one season. Large in part because of the position he's forced into.

Some fans might say that the series is less about Loki and more about the TVA. And while I can unquestionably see their point, I still believe that the TVA is the perfect way for Loki to grow. He's a character all about causing chaos and controlling others, so forcing him to work for an organization that takes that away allows Loki time to really do some introspection. Because if his tricks don't work, and his deceptions can't fool others, then who is he? Well, through this series, we see who he truly is: A character who is alone and is intended to be nothing more than a villain whose only truly selfless act got him killed in the end. Even if he wants to better himself, he can't because that "goes against the sacred timeline." Loki is a person who is destined to fail, and he gets to see it all with his own eyes by looking at what his life was meant to be and by observing what it could have been. It's all tragic and yet another example of these shows proving how they allow underdeveloped characters in the MCU a better chance to shine. Because if Loki can give even more depth to a character who's already compelling as is, then that is a feat worth admiration.

The Score: Let's give our gratitude toward Natalie Holt, who f**king killed it with this series score. Every piece she made is nothing short of glorious. Sylvie's and the TVA's themes particularly stand out, as they perfectly capture who/what they're representing. Such as how Sylvie's is big and boisterous where the TVA's sound eerie and almost unnatural. Holt also finds genius ways to implement other scores into the series, from using familiar tracks from the Thor movies to even rescoring "Ride of the Valkyries" in a way that makes a scene even more epic than it already could have been. The MCU isn't best known for its musical scores, partly because they aim to be suitable rather than memorable. But every now and again, something as spectacular as the Loki soundtrack sprinkles through the cracks of mediocrity. Making fans all the more grateful because of it.

There’s a lot of Talking: To some, this will be considered a complaint. Most fans of the MCU come for the action, comedy, and insanely lovable characters. Not so much for the dialogue and exposition. That being said, I consider all of the talking to be one of Loki's best features. All the background information about the TVA added with the character's backstories fascinates me, making me enthusiastic about learning more. Not everyone else will be as interested in lore and world-building as others, but just because something doesn't grab you, in particular, doesn't mean it isn't appealing at all. Case in point: There's a reason why the Five Nights at Freddy's franchise has lasted as long as it has, and it's not entirely because of how "scary" it is.

There's also the fact that most of the dialogue in Loki is highly engaging. I'll admit, some scenes do drag a bit. However, every line is delivered so well that I'm more likely to hang on to every word when characters simply have honest conversations with each other. And if I can be entertained by Loki talking with Morbius about jetskis, then I know a show is doing at least something right.

It’s Funny: This shouldn't be a surprise. The MCU is well-known for its quippy humor in the direct acknowledgment that it doesn't take itself too seriously. With that said, it is clear which movies and shows are intended to be taken seriously, while others are meant to be comedies. Loki tries to be a bit of both. There are some heavy scenes that impact the characters, and probably even some fans, due to how well-acted and professionally written they can be. However, this is also a series about a Norse god traveling through time to deal with alternate versions of himself, with one of them being an alligator. I'd personally consider it a crime against storytelling to not make it funny. Thankfully, the writers aren't idiots and know to make the series fun with a few flawlessly timed and delivered jokes that never really take away from the few good grim moments that actually work.

It Kept Me Surprised: About everything I appreciate about Loki, the fact that I could never really tell what direction it was going is what I consider its absolute best feature. Every time I think I knew what was going to happen, there was always this one big twist that heavily subverted any and every one of my expectations. Such as how each time I thought I knew who the big bad was in this series, it turns out that there was an even worse threat built up in the background. The best part is that these twists aren't meant for shock value. It's always supposed to drive the story forward, and on a rewatch, you can always tell how the seeds have been planted for making each surprise work. It's good that it kept fans guessing, as being predictable and expected would probably be the worst path to take when making a series about Loki, a character who's all about trickery and deception. So bonus points for being in line with the character.

The TVA: You can complain all you want about how the show is more about the TVA than it is Loki, but you can't deny how the organization in question is a solid addition to the MCU. Initially, it was entertaining to see Loki of all characters be taken aback by how the whole process works. And it was worth a chuckle seeing Infinity Stones, the most powerful objects in the universe, get treated as paperweights. However, as the season continues and we learn about the TVA, the writers show that their intention is to try and write a message about freedom vs. control. We've seen this before in movies like Captain America: The Winter Soldier or Captain America: Civil War, but with those films, it always felt like the writers were leaning more towards one answer instead of making it obscure over which decision is correct. This is why I enjoy the fact that Loki went on saying that there really is no right answer for this scenario. If the TVA doesn't prune variants, it could result in utter chaos and destruction that no one from any timeline can prepare themselves for. But when they do prune variants along with their timelines, it takes away all free will, forcing people to be someone they probably don't even want to be. It's a situation where there really is no middle ground. Even if you bring up how people could erase timelines more destructive than others, that still takes away free will on top of how there's no unbiased way of deciding which timelines are better or worse. And the series found a brilliant way to explain this moral: The season starts by showing how the TVA is necessary, to later point out how there are flaws and evil secrets within it, and ends things with the revelation that there are consequences without the TVA keeping the timeline in check. It's an epic showcase of fantastic ideas met with exquisite execution that I can't help but give my seal of approval to.

Miss Minutes: Not much to say. This was just a cute character, and I love that Tara Strong, one of the most popular voice actors, basically plays a role in the MCU now.

Justifying Avengers: Endgame: Smartest. Decision. This series. Made. Bar none.

Because when you establish that the main plot is about a character getting arrested for f**king over the timeline, you're immediately going to get people questioning, "Why do the Avengers get off scot-free?" So by quickly explaining how their time-traveling antics were supposed to happen, it negates every one of those complaints...or most of them. There are probably still a-holes who are poking holes in that logic, but they're not the ones writing this review, so f**k them.

Mobius: I didn't really expect Owen Wilson to do that good of a job in Loki. Primarily due to how the Cars franchise discredits him as a professional actor for...forever. With that said, Owen Wilson's Mobius might just be one of the most entertaining characters in the series. Yes, even more so than Loki himself. Mobius acts as the perfect straight man to Loki's antics, what with being so familiar with the supposed god of mischief through past variations of him. Because of that, it's always a blast seeing these two bounce off one another through Loki trying to trick a Loki expert, and said expert even deceiving Loki at times. Also, on his own, Mobius is still pretty fun. He has this sort of witty energy that's often present in Phil Coulson (Love that character too, BTW), but thanks to Owen Wilson's quirks in his acting, there's a lot more energy to Mobius than one would find in Coulson. As well as a tad bit of tragedy because of Mobius being a variant and having no clue what his life used to be. It's a lot to unpack and is impressively written, added to how it's Owen Wilson who helps make the character work as well as he did. Cars may not have done much for his career, but Loki sure as hell showed his strengths.

Ravonna Renslayer: Probably the least entertaining character, but definitely one of the most intriguing. At least to me.

Ravonna is a character who is so steadfast in her believes that she refuses to accept that she may be wrong. Without the proper writing, someone like Ravonna could tick off (ha) certain people. Personally, I believe that Ravonna is written well enough where even though I disagree with her belief, I can understand where she's coming from. She's done so much for the TVA, bringing an end to so many variants and timelines that she can't accept that it was all for nothing. In short, Ravonna represents the control side of the freedom vs. control theme that the writers are pushing. Her presence is necessary while still being an appealing character instead of a plot device. Again, at least to me.

Hunter B-15: I have no strong feelings one way or another towards B-15's personality, but I will admit that I love the expectation-subversion done with her. She has this air of someone who's like, "I'm this by-the-books badass cop, and I will only warm up to this cocky rookie after several instances of them proving themselves." That's...technically not B-15. She's the first to see Loki isn't that bad, but only because B-15 is the first in the main cast to learn the hidden vile present in the TVA. It makes her change in point of view more believable than how writers usually work a character like hers, on top of adding a new type of engaging motivation for why she fights. I may not particularly enjoy her personality, but I do love her contributions.

Loki Watching What His Life Could Have Been: This was a brilliant decision by the writers. It's basically having Loki speedrun his own character development through witnessing what he could have gone through and seeing the person he's meant to be, providing a decent explanation for why he decides to work for the TVA. And on the plus side, Tom Hiddleston did a fantastic job at portraying the right emotions the character would have through a moment like this. Such as grief, tearful mirth, and borderline shock and horror. It's a scene that no other character could go through, as no one but Loki needed a wake-up call for who he truly is. This series might heavily focus on the TVA, but scenes like this prove just who's the star of the show.

Loki Causing Mischief in Pompeii: I just really love this scene. It's so chaotic and hilarious, all heavily carried by the fact that you can tell that Tom Hiddleston is having the time of his damn life being this character. What more can I say about it.

Sylvie: The first of many surprises this season offered, and boy was she a great one.

Despite being an alternate version of Loki, I do appreciate that Sylvie's her own character and not just "Loki, but with boobs." She still has the charm and charisma, but she also comes across as more hardened and intelligent when compared to the mischievous prick we've grown to love. A large part of that is due to her backstory, which might just be the most tragic one these movies and shows have ever made. Sylvie got taken away when she was a little girl, losing everything she knew and loved, and it was all for something that the people who arrested her don't even remember. How sad is that? The fact that her life got permanently screwed over, leaving zero impact on the people responsible for it. As badass as it is to hear her say she grew up at the ends of a thousand worlds (that's an album title if I ever heard one), it really is depressing to know what she went through. It also makes her the perfect candidate to represent the freedom side of the freedom vs. control argument. Because she's absolutely going to want to fight to put an end to the people who decide how the lives of trillions should be. Those same people took everything from Sylvie, and if I were in her position, I'd probably do the same thing. Of course, we all know the consequences that come from this, and people might criticize Sylvie the same way they complain about Thor and Star Lord for screwing over the universe in Avengers: Infinity War. But here's the thing: Sylvie's goals are driven by vengeance, which can blind people from any other alternatives. Meaning her killing He Who Remains is less of a story flaw and more of a character flaw. It may be a bad decision, but that's for Season Two Sylvie to figure out. For now, I'll just appreciate the well-written and highly compelling character we got this season and eagerly wait as we see what happens next with her.

The Oneshot in Episode Three: Not as epic as the hallway scene in Daredevil, but I do find it impressive that it tries to combine real effects, fighting, and CGI in a way where it's all convincing enough.

Lady Sif Kicking Loki in the D**k: This is a scene that makes me realize why I love this series. At first, I laugh at Loki being stuck in a time loop where Lady Sif kicks him in the d**k over and over again. But a few scenes later, this setup actually works as a character moment that explains why Loki does the things he does.

This series crafted phenomenal character development through Loki getting kicked in the d**k by the most underrated badass of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. It's a perfect balance of comedy and drama that not every story can nail, yet Loki seemed like it did with very little effort.

Classic Loki: This variant shows the true tragedy of being Loki. The only way to survive is to live in isolation, far away from everything and everyone he loves, only to end up having his one good deed result in his death anyways. Classic Loki is definitive proof that no matter what face they have, Lokis never gets happy endings. They're destined to lose, but at least this version knows that if you're going out, you're going out big. And at least he got to go out with a mischievous laugh.

(Plus, the fact that he's wearing Loki's first costume from the comics is a pretty cute callback).

Alligator Loki: Alligator Loki is surprisingly adorable, and if you know me, you know that I can't resist cute s**t. It's not in my nature.

Loki on Loki Violence: If you thought Loki going ham in Pompeii was chaotic, that was nothing to this scene. Because watching these Lokis backstab one another, to full-on murdering each other, is a moment that is best described as pure, unadulterated chaos. And I. Loved. Every. Second of it.

The Opening Logo for the Season Finale: I'm still not that big of a fan of the opening fanfare playing for each episode, but I will admit that it was a cool feature to play vocal clips of famous quotes when the corresponding character appears. It's a great way of showing the chaos of how the "sacred timeline" works without having it to be explained further.

The Citadel: I adore the set design of the Citadel. So much history and backstory shine through the state of every room the characters walk into. You get a perfect picture of what exactly happened, but seeing how ninety percent of the place is in shambles, it's pretty evident that not everything turned out peachy keen. And as a personal note, my favorite aspect of the Citadel is the yellow cracks in the walls. It looks as though reality itself is cracking apart, which is pretty fitting when considering where the Citadel actually is.

He Who Remains: This man. I. Love. This man.

I love this man for two reasons.

A. He's a ton of fun. Credit to that goes to the performance delivered by Jonathon Majors. Not only is it apparent that Majors is having a blast, but he does a great job at conveying how He Who Remains is a strategic individual but is still very much off his rocker. These villains are always my favorite due to how much of a blast it is seeing someone with high intelligence just embracing their own insanity. If you ask me, personalities are always essential for villains. Because even when they have the generic plot to rule everything around them, you're at least going to remember who they are for how entertaining they were. Thankfully He Who Remains has that entertainment value, as it makes me really excited for his eventual return, whether it'd be strictly through Loki Season Two or perhaps future movies.

And B. He Who Remains is a fantastic foil for Loki. He Who Remains is everything Loki wishes he could have been, causing so much death, destruction, and chaos to the multiverse. The important factor is that he does it all through order and control. The one thing Loki despises, and He Who Remains uses it to his advantage. I feel like that's what makes him the perfect antagonist to Loki, thanks to him winning the game by not playing it. I would love it if He Who Remains makes further appearances in future movies and shows, especially given how he's hinted to be Kane the Conqueror, but if he's only the main antagonist in Loki, I'm still all for it. He was a great character in his short time on screen, and I can't wait to see what happens next with him.

WHAT I DISLIKED

Revealing that Loki was D.B. Cooper: A cute scene, but it's really unnecessary. It adds nothing to the plot, and I feel like if it was cut out entirely, it wouldn't have been the end of the world...Yeah. That's it.

That's my one and only complaint about this season.

Maybe some scenes drag a bit, and I guess Episode Three is kind of the weakest, but there's not really anything that this series does poorly that warrants an in-depth complaint.

Nope.

Nothing at all...

…

...

...I'm not touching that "controversy" of Loki falling for Sylvie instead of Mobius. That's a situation where there are no winners.

Only losers.

Exclusively losers.

Other than that, this season was amazing!

IN CONCLUSION

I'd give the first season of Loki a well-earned A, with a 9.5 through my usual MCU ranking system. It turns out, it really is the best type of wackiness that was just too good to fail. The characters are fun and likable, the comedy and drama worked excellently, and the expansive world-building made me really intrigued with the more we learned. It's hard to say if Season Two will keep this momentum, but that's for the future to figure out. For now, let's just sit back and enjoy the chaos.

(Now, if you don't excuse me, I have to figure out how to review Marvel's What If...)

#marvel cinematic universe #mcu reviews #loki tv series #loki #sylvie #mobius #ravonna renslayer #hunter b 15 #classic loki #alligator loki #he who remains #kang the conqueror #what i thought about

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harry-sussex · 4 years ago

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You're lovely, and I enjoy seeing your blog on my dashboard. I'm sorry this has been such a difficult thing to process. It's always really difficult to rework an image of someone you once thought you knew. However I'd like to just put it out there - sometimes (I think the large majority of the time) news is presented in the most sensationalist way, such that nowadays I make a point of de-sensationalizing any news I read in my head. In the case of the whole Harry's memoir thing- I can sympathize with Harry as a person possibly just wanting to take back some control of the narrative for himself. Not just in the most recent events with family (that I tend to think are less horrifying than the fandom/Twitter sussex squad discusses it anyway), but in all aspects of his life. I do not at all think he's going to put his family on blast. I can easily imagine Meghan reigning that dialogue in; she has the tendency to think before she speaks that he seems to lack. And he loves his family. Similar to The Interview promos, I imagine the publishing house knew to increase the interest by implying it to be a tell all memoir. I think he's just done a lot of growing up that he didn't know he had to do over a short period of time, esp re: implicit bias/racism in the setting of media's blatant attack on someone he loves, and is disappointed by the institution's and his family's response to it. I think he's emerged a more introspective and aware human, albeit a disillusioned one. Yes it breaks my heart to think that Meghan won't get a break from the tabloids any time soon. If I were him I'd counsel him to write it & sit on it for a few yrs. But I don't want to give the media the power to destroy Meghan in my mind, and I pray she & Harry won't either. I think she'll be okay. She's a strong one, and I think he's able to draw that same link for himself and be thoughtful about what he does. No one likes being misunderstood/misinterpreted, and I wouldn't be surprised if Harry's especially triggered by that given his history with the press. Maybe this idea emerged from therapy, idk. I can empathize with that, even if I wouldn't do it myself. I hope and pray Meghan gets the support she needs from him and her loved ones in the meantime. I'm honestly not going to read it. I think the less attention I give the BRF the better off they are, unless they're doing something immoral/illegal (see: Woking pizza alibi). And I think at the end of the day, people will unfairly judge other people, especially public figures that have tragic pasts and are publically fighting with the media. A lot of it is going to be noise and I'm not going to give my energy into figuring it out. I like to think I've got a good sense of who they are as people - flawed but ultimately well meaning and earnest. I'm a huge admirer of Meghan and think Harry got really lucky with this one and I'm proud of him for choosing her in more ways than one. I believe Harry and Meghan are lovely people, and I 100% believe their interview. I believe that there are people in the palace with a lot of unchecked power who deliberately uncovered her and Archie from BRF protection for reasons of believed superiority over Meg & Arch. And they're figuring out how to deal with that as a couple and a family. And it's none of my business past that imo. I pray for them and hope it'll eventually end in peace for them all. Just wanted to add another perspective, and hopefully some levity. xx M

Hi, dear. First thing’s first, I really appreciate that this is off anon lol. I love it when people own their opinions, and it says a lot that you did. So thank you for that.

Second of all, I really appreciate the nuance and perspective that is in this message. I agree that the news is sensationalist, and my initial reaction was based off of that. I did watch the promotional clips of the interview and I believe it did sour my expectations going into it when I watched it nearly a week after it aired. I did my best to stay away from Tumblr because I didn’t want that to hinder my view, but it was impossible to separate the promotions that presented the information one way from what it actually was, and thank you for bringing that up with respect to the memoir because I hadn’t considered it. I will say that my knee jerk reaction is pretty on par with the way I still feel about it 24 hours later, especially since I got the news directly, not from Tumblr or Twitter or anywhere else, but you’re right that it could have soured my view from the very start.

I appreciate that he wants to take back some of the narrative but I think that ship has sailed, tbh. He did that with the interview and now I just think it feels like information overload. At some point, people are going to get tired of hearing the wealthy, privileged, powerful Prince complain about his life while more than 4 million people have died due to a global pandemic in less than 2 years. Not to say that he doesn’t struggle - in the words of Roxane Gay, there is no oppression Olympics (and that can be extended to struggle Olympics) - but people view it that way and will get tired of it, if they haven’t already.

I also agree that Harry’s past with the press has tarnished the way he has handled the media and the public post-exit, when he’s finally in a position to strike back without being somewhat obliged to them as part of the circumstances of his birth. I understand and sympathize with him but I just don’t think the public does, and the public matters much, much more than the perspective of one single American fan, to whom he’s never been obliged, and I simply do not think the public will afford him that same understanding, sympathy, and leniency. The public and the media are critical to his humanitarian work - his mother never realized that towards the end of her life, and I truly don’t think she would have been the martyr/saint she is perceived to be now if she had lived, because she did not know how to meet the media in the middle and eventually that started to piss people off. He’s starting to piss people off now and if it doesn’t bother him personally (which it definitely does), I don’t want it to affect his causes. The Invictus Games, Sentebale, Walking with the Wounded, WellChild, Mayhew, Smartworks, Archewell, etc. deserve better than to suffer the wrath of the media and an apathetic public because their patrons simply will not shut up lol.

I guess my point is that they will be unfairly judged (regardless, but especially due to the way they’re handling things), and I think it would suit them better in the long run if they adopted a different strategy. I really sympathize with the fact that he feels frustrated with the narrative that has been manufactured but I really, really think the narrative will only get worse and worse as he continues to go on and on about how badly his life sucks, basically. Again, I don’t deny that he struggles - we all do, some more than others, especially when there are mental health issues - but the public, to me, simply does not care. My own therapist has told me to simply stop caring about the things that I discuss with him. Not to say that they’re not relevant, important, or worthy of discussion - they absolutely are - but his point is that you cannot change people and you are wasting your energy and struggling yourself because you want to change them so, so, so badly that you’re neglecting your own self care in the process. I hate that I do it to myself and I also hate that he appears to be doing it to himself. I’m sure a lot of this conversation has been brought up in his own therapy, and I’m no professional, but I’m doing my best to heed the advice of my own therapist - which is the opposite of what Harry is doing - and it’s done wonders for me, when I actually can do it.

If there’s anything I know from this whole thing, it’s that Harry is absolutely punching above his weight, love him as I may, and that he adores, adores, adores his wife. He has chosen her from the very second she came into his life and I couldn’t want anything more for him or from her. I’m not going to lie, I would have been in this thing for any wife that Harry chose, because I was here long before Meghan specifically came into his life. However, I am glad every day that he chose her, that he loves her, that he wants to protect her, that she loves him back, that he lives the life with her that he’s wanted as long as I (and I’m sure he) can remember. I love her because he loves her, and I would have no matter what, because at the end of the day, it’s his happiness and comfort that matters to me, that has mattered to me since I discovered him and how wonderful he can be more than 7 years ago. What more could I ask of Meghan? What more, as his fan to the end (annoy me as he may), could I want for him? Who could say anything about her in that regard? If there’s anything that has come of this mess, to me, it’s that Harry loves, loves, loves his wife. I will always be happy for him and I will always be proud of him for choosing her, even if I don’t always agree with the way he goes about it.

I’m looking forward to peace, too. I cannot wait for things to just die out, for them to work things out as a couple and as a family, and for everyone to move on. The family will still do their thing and the Sussexes can do theirs, but I cannot deal with this back and forth, tit for tat, petty nonsense anymore. They’re wonderful and flawed, like the rest of them (except Andrew), and I just hope that they can all come to some kind of agreement or terms that lets this die down. It’s exhausting for everyone - themselves included. If I’m this tired, I can only imagine how tired they all are.

Thanks for stopping by, and sorry for the essay (essays, these past 24 hours lol). I really appreciate your kindness in this message, your presence in my notifications (I do see them!), your nuanced perspective and like I said before, I really, really appreciate that you own it!

#Ask #possibilitiesofsainthood #Prince harry #duke of sussex #meghan markle #duchess of sussex #phmemoir

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orime-stories · 4 years ago

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(From adraveins on main.) 10, 14, 17 for the writer asks!

Thank you! <3 Asks here, more answers here and here.

10. Estimate the percentage of your writing that is dialogue vs description? Which is easier for you?

I’m useless with numbers in any and all forms so I’m just going to ignore that P word there. :p My inspiration tends to be very character-interaction focused, and so most of my writings actually start out as tagless dialogues. And then even the bits that don’t have any other characters involved tend to be very stream-of-consciousness almost verbalisations of my OC’s inner thoughts, which I guess feels dialogue adjacent. So that definitely seems to be what comes easiest to me. Description is usually pretty bare bones in my stories when it comes to actions, appearances, environments and what have you. All my description juice seems to go on description of emotions and internal states. I wonder sometimes if description of external stuff is something I’ll improve on over time, but it’s not something I’m stressing about or actively pushing for. I’m happy to have more introspection focused fics if that’s what’s happy to come out of me.

14. What’s the longest story you’ve written? Is it finished? How long did it take you?

Seluna’s Story for the first Pillars of Eternity game is my longest at the moment. Currently sitting at 46,491 words, 30,152 of which have been published so far. It’s not finished, but I hope it will be one day. I wrote the very first (and still unpublished) scene for it way back in 2015, and then first started organising everything and publishing it on AO3 at the end of 2019. It’ll be bittersweet when I finally do finish it because I enjoy working on it so much, but then I’ll be able to turn my sights to wrangling through the bits and pieces I have written for Deadfire and I’m looking forward to that too.

17. How has your writing process changed between beginner writer you and current writer you?

If we’re going back to the very beginning, that’ll be nine year old me writing day-in-the-life-of stories about the family cat in various sticker-covered notebooks. Then fourteen year old me writing gloriously edgy poems at two in the morning about difficult things I was going through (and I want to be clear that I look back on those with nothing but affection, as well as gratitude for how much they helped me - no cringe on this blog!). And then there’s current day me spitting ideas and fragments about characters I’ve made for video games into the notes app on my phone when I’m out and about or in the middle of other stuff (or supposed to be working) and then seeing what I’ve got and expanding it out on my computer when I have free time.

Content-wise, beginner writer me would do a heck of a lot of “and then this action happened for this explicit reason, and then this action happened for this explicit reason, and then this extremely long and boring dialogue happened that explicitly stated every possible detail of what the characters were about and were trying to do, especially the completely unnecessary parts that nobody cares or needs to know about.” Current writer me is mercilessly paring away things that don’t seem like they need to be there (maybe even too much, going back to my barebones description tendencies), and understanding that the reader will get things without needing everything explicitly spelled out e.g. “She did this thing very sadly because she was very sad. And she was sad specifically about...” My characters are still very sad very often (sorry guys...), but I think I’m better now at just diving straight into what that feels like and how they’re attempting to deal with it rather than slapping a huge label saying “this is sadness btw” over the top of everything.

#asks and tags #response #writing process asks #personal

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thebreakdownisthebecoming · 4 years ago

Text

just a place to put things.

Once upon a time I had two accounts here. One, a photography blog that was accidently deleted. The other, a yoga blog, intentionally deleted. The yoga blog was called, “the enlightenment of an aspiring yogi,” and for a while, I actually wrote some pretty beautiful posts. And that’s the problem... “for a while.” Everything about my journaling and blogging is just “for a while.” Consistency is my biggest problem. Which is kind of crazy because I like writing (handwriting and typing) and I love reading. And I am introspective to a fault. Literally, introspection to the point of an anxiety disorder, moderate depression, body dysmorphia, and increasingly more social isolation (which I can no longer conveniently blame on COVID and social distancing, etc.)

So what is the problem with journaling (or blogging as I guess this electronic version is technically called)? Well, several:

1. I always think that I need to have a great introduction. Something that states my intentions and in case it ever is read by a wide audience (because who knows who’s scouring the internet) is captivating and charming and vulnerable and leads to a book deal...

2. I get so lost in my thoughts and analyzing my feelings that my ONE thing I was going to write about suddenly turns into 10 tangents and a never ending entry/post that really justifies 10 separate posts yet is just endless rambling.

3. My brain is ACTUALLY hardwired to not start processing anything about myself until it hits the pillow, then suddenly it’s imperative that I get to the core of every thought and feeling I’ve experienced not only in that day, but my entire lifetime.

4. I actually do a lot better making connections or “assessing the damage” or “realizing my triggers and traumas” or whatever you want to label it, when I am talking- usually out loud to myself in the car.

This last point is actually the most important I think. Even though I know I’m not, I feel like I am the only person that out of the blue will start talking to myself as if another person is in the room with me, telling them about something that hurt or bothered me, today or ten years ago. Just pick up middle of an ongoing conversation I didn’t even know I was having with my subconscious and suddenly have it RIGHT NOW. And it has to be that unplanned element that is the magic of it; when my brain starts putting things together and it all comes pouring out of... my head? my heart? my mouth. Because the minute I tell myself, “no we’re going to think about/work though/handle this situation or feeling” or “we’re going to write about this later...” no more magic. It’s suddenly a thing we have to do.

I also get frustrated because I feel like I’m not explaining it well. If anyone were ever to read this, people today are NOT interested in reading long anythings. We want headlines, quotes, 30 second videos, “stories,” captions... Which means that the space and words you do get, you better make sure you are picking the absolute right ones to get your point across. And that’s a lot of pressure. I know we’ve all heard that when we feel alone in our thoughts/feelings it simply isn’t true because so many can relate... which is hard, because our pain and our stories are just that, OURS, but the bigger sentiment is that we’ve all felt pain and we all want that to be recognized. And to do that, we want to find the words that are uniquely ours.

The things is, I think there’s a lot of value to journaling (whether others read it or not.) I think I’m programmed to write for an audience, like this post is talking to you not me. Realistically, I know I will be the only one who ever knows of it’s existence and that’s ok. The value is not in how many people read and respond (which is hard to remember in our world of likes and follows) but in creating a space for myself. A place to tackle a thought, leave fresh ones, maybe eventually look back and see a bigger picture, or growth, or healing.

I’ve collected some prompts for myself which I think might be the best way to tackle this (although free form is also “allowed.) And I like the idea of typing because faster and no hand cramps, hello Millennial.

Here now is also the pressure for the perfect closing- the end to this post but the beginning of a new habit or journey or something... (still doubtful of my consistency.) But here’s the thing, this is just space, and it’s going to treated as such. Space to lay down any words, any thoughts... and to see what’s there when you step back, also what’s there when you get up close and start sifting through. Just a place to put things for now...

#journaling #journal #blog #blogging #blogpost #journalingcommunity #journalingyourway #journalprompts #mentalhealth #mentalhealthmatters #journalingtherapy #journalingmylife

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juliepodewitz · 4 years ago

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I Still Have to Come Out Every Day

“My mom doesn’t accept me. I’m not the person they (my parents) wanted me to be. They’ve told me that my whole life has been a lie. They grew up privileged, brought me up in the same way, private schools, two homes, a boat, choice to top colleges. They are all about appearances. My bisexuality makes them look bad.”

Sandra* is a twenty-something woman who only recently came out to her parents. She’s been out for several years to her close friends. She is living in her own apartment, has a job she enjoys, adopted a dog, has many friends, started a career she enjoys, and is pursuing her passions in life. Although she grew up in a more progressive time than me (she is 25 years younger), she said she would never have dared to come out during high school. “It was all about image. We were all the same, Anglo-Saxon rich kids worried about appearances. We hung out in packs, all trying to fit in to a mold. There was one openly gay woman and she stood out – and by herself. I wish I’d been self-confident enough back then to openly be who I knew I was but know I could never have done it.” Seeing as she went to school nearly three decades after I did, I was surprised to hear this. Surely, we have progressed more in thirty years, no?

Sandra says she grew up an only child. She was privileged, living a life most only see on television. She had a horse, music and dance lessons, took fancy vacations, attended a private school. She went skiing in winter and to their summer home during school holiday. Her parents belong to a country club. She was pretty and popular. She had it all. Except the freedom to speak the truth. When I asked her why she felt she couldn’t say tell anyone she hesitates slightly. “It’s just not what I would have considered at that time. I would have been shunned from everything I knew. I wasn’t ready to face that.”

Speaking with her today I can’t imagine this poised, self-assured, confident, interesting, introspective woman worrying about not fitting in, or even wanting to fit in to such a restrictive social mold. “It’s been a process. Therapy has helped. So was going away to college, being exposed to people from various backgrounds. I went to the wrong school, of course. I chose a liberal program, very much unlike the schools my parents wanted me to attend. I didn’t introduce my first partner to my parents. I wasn’t out to them at that time. I was out to my friends and classmates. I just wasn’t ready to face them.”

As a mother whose teenaged daughter has recently come out, I can’t imagine the turmoil Sandra went through having to gather the courage to face her parents. My daughter knows our feelings toward diversity, how we are pro-gay marriage and have long-time gay friends, friends who are part of our family. It’s never been a big deal, meaning their sexuality wasn’t mentioned as a part of who they are, much like our heterosexuality is part of who we are yet not mentioned, only assumed. And yet it was difficult for her to finally tell us. I asked Sandra what her parents’ reaction was when she finally told them. “It didn’t go well. My mother has not yet accepted my bisexuality as who I am. Our relationship is very strained. We barely speak currently. While shocked at first, my dad is trying a bit more.”

Since our daughter is our only child, my heart goes out to her parents, even though I vehemently disagree with their stance. I do not understand sacrificing my only child. I was going to say sacrificing the relationship because of a belief I have but I’m not even sure what her mother is thinking is so important that it comes before the love of her child. I’d like to speak with her to better wrap my head around it because I simply do not understand. Is what “they” think that important?

I try not to judge but I find myself imperfect in this circumstance.

It’s not only her parents with whom Sandra is cautious. She says she has to play the room every time she meets someone new. Will they like me when they find out? Do they think I’m going to hell? Will I be minimized at work? I tell her this must be stressful. “Yes, but I think I am used to it by now.” I try and imagine how it must feel to constantly be on my feet, second guessing my movements, words and presentation in fear my truth will be exposed, thus being targeted, or worse. I cannot.

“It hasn’t stopped with my parents. I still have to come out every day,” she tells me. I have to evaluate the situation, have to read the person in front of me. Do I trust them? How should I behave? Can I say “girlfriend” when referencing my partner? When is it appropriate, if ever? Sometimes I have to remind myself who knows and who doesn’t and then keep myself in check. When I decide to say something, it’s the conversation all over again. It’s facing the fear of rejection, judgment, loss. It’s the feeling of having to prove that I’m still the same person they know and like. As if I have to prove that bisexuality is okay. Regular people are bisexual, too.”

I can’t help but think it’s like Groundhog Day. Only not funny. My optimistic self says it’s going to get better, one conversation at time. I’d like to continue having these conversations and giving a platform for anyone who wants to tell their story to say it out loud. Loud and proud, knowing that they are as “normal” as the next guy, who, by the way, is not normal. What is normal, anyway? That may be another topic of discussion. Stay tuned, and Sandra, you are far from “normal.” You are extraordinary. Thank you for sharing your story.

*Not her real name.

Julie Podewitz

April 2021

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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How the Cyberpunk 2077 Soundtrack Found Its Dystopian Sound in a Soviet-Era Synthesizer

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CD Projekt Red’s Cyberpunk 2077 is arguably the the biggest video game release of 2020, transporting players to a gritty sci-fi world full of bio-augmented criminals and lowlives. True to its name, the game explores some pretty deep concepts about cyberspace and what life might be like in a futuristic transhuman society where technological advancements have turned us less human and more machine. So it’s no surprise that the game’s score often sounds like something recovered from the year 2077 and brought back to our time. At its very best, the soundtrack elevates this grim dystopia.

In the wake of Cyberpunk 2077‘s massive launch, Den of Geek spoke with the trio of composers behind the game’s score: Marcin Przybylowicz (The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt), P.T. Adamczyk (Gwent: The Witcher Card Game), and Paul Leonard-Morgan (Dredd). The three composers discussed the soundtrack’s conception and revealed the unconventional methods they used to create the score’s unique, ominous sound.

The Cyberpunk 2077 Original Score, which contains two discs-worth of the game’s enormous pool of music, is available now to buy and stream. As players have discovered in the week since the game’s launch, the score isn’t exactly the pulsating, adrenaline-fueled synth barrage some might be expecting from a cyberpunk title. It’s largely ambient, with ominous layers of otherworldly bass bellows, tribal beats that sound both futuristic and primal, and melancholic wades through placid synth soundscapes. There are definitely bangers on the tracklist, but what stands out is that many of the pieces almost feel introspective.

“You’re dealing with a complex story, and there’s [a vast] number of characters in Cyberpunk,” Adamczyk explains. “Finding a theme or an idea or a motif and being confident in it…that’s really difficult because there are so many different things happening in the story, and you could score it a thousand different ways. And they all would be good enough. But the question remains, ‘What is the essence?’”

Przybylowicz was the first of the three composers to start work on the score for Cyberpunk 2077 very early in the game’s production. In laying the foundations for what the game’s music would sound like (the elusive “essence” Adamczyk speaks of), he set out to create something unique, though he was also committed to honoring the source material that the game is steeped in.

“We were trying to find out how our take on Cyberpunk would differ from other bits of culture,” says Marcin of the initial creative process. “We must never forget that our game is not a game that is simply set in a yberpunk universe. Our game is Cyberpunk 2077, which means that it’s based on a very well described and very lore-heavy, already existing universe, Cyberpunk 2020 by Mike Pondsmith. So that means there is a ton of source material, tons of creative work that has already been done before. So we needed to reach out to these books and see if we could pinpoint anything that would remain useful for us after we move the events from 2020 to 2077. Then we started to formulate how that would translate to the game’s sonic palette.”

The original tabletop game paints a picture of an alternate future in which corruption reigns and oppressive megacorporations wage war on each other, as the denizens of gang-infested, urban sprawls like Night City struggle to survive on the streets. Humans and machines intertwine via cybernetic enhancements, and this unholy merging of flesh and technology is represented vividly in the game’s score, which often employs the use of synth that sounds both metallic and organic.

The majority of electronic music is created from a widely-available database of preset sounds built into a computer or synth. To create Cyberpunk 2077’s unique sonic identity, the composers eschewed convention and took a more experimental approach, using a slew of odd machines to create bespoke sounds that give the score its ethereal edge.

“What we’ve done is ridiculous,” Leonard-Morgan explains. “It hasn’t been done before. We’ve composed with virtually no software at all. It’s all external gear. So it’s all weird and wacky synthesizers, all weird modular synths, always stuff which you then had to record the audio and process that around. You can never recreate the sounds again.”

The trio used rare, long out-of-production machines, took their already unique built-in sounds, and manipulated them further to compose the game’s music. The result is a tapestry of interconnected compositions that have a dark, Frankenstein’s-monster bizarreness to them, and one of the most prominent and peculiar synths you’ll hear in the mix has a curious background of its own.

“P.T. and I own our own Soviet-made Polivokses. Mine’s from 1982,” Przybylowicz says. “My Polivoks still has a price tag: 800 Rubles, which is, I think by today’s standards, 10 bucks. It’s a duophonic synthesizer similar to the Moog Sub 37, which is a very famous duophonic unit. I heard a story that during the Cold War, blueprints [of the Moog Sub 37] were stolen by Soviet agents in order to obtain something that they could copy [to build their own synthesizer]. Supposedly they were trying to make an exact copy, but you know, something always goes wrong on the production lines–they ended up with a machine that is truly, remarkably ugly-sounding. Yet still sounds like nothing else.”

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Another strange machine in the trio’s fleet of synths is the Folktek Mescaline, an infernal-looking mess of jet-black panels, spiraling bronze detailing, and a scattered arrangement of inputs, knobs, buttons, and switches. It looks so intimidating and unapproachable that it’s no wonder the trio harnessed its power in their compositions.

“All three of us own Folktek Mescalines,” Przybylowicz says. “It’s a small modular system that allows you to basically do anything. It doesn’t come with a very good manual. It doesn’t feature keyboards. It doesn’t feature any self-explanatory indications of what’s doing what. So it’s all based on experimentation.”

Adamczyk elaborates, “You can’t really decide, ‘I’m just going to play an A minor chord’ on a Mescaline. Getting an A minor chord is a real pain in the ass because you have to pretty much tune the machine to that specific chord. You have to try to find your way with these instruments and try to somehow find a musical way of using them. Half of the time, you have no idea what you’re doing.”

The game boasts around eight hours of music that, amazingly, is virtually all in the key of A minor to allow the different compositions to flow seamlessly in and out of each other as the player transitions between different encounters and scenarios.

“Games are like living organisms,” Przybylowicz explains. “It’s dependent on the player’s actions, even if we’re talking about the most linear scripted games. Ours obviously is nothing like that. It’s a full-fledged, open-world RPG with multiple branching lines in the narrative arc. So obviously it’s even more difficult [to compose for], but I think in a sense it’s almost liberating to work on a thing that changes so many times during even a single playthrough, you know?”

Cyberpunk 2077 had fans practically salivating in the days leading to its release date. It’s not only the next chapter of a long-beloved sci-fi franchise, but CD Projekt RED’s follow-up to the all-time classic The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, which is, to put it mildly, a tough act to follow. The composers feel the magnitude of the moment, though they remain unshakable, confident in the work they’ve put forward.

“Working on a game of such a big scale, ambition and quality and fan base…I think it naturally adds to the pressure,” says Przybylowicz. “So the bigger the hype gets, the bigger the expectations are getting, and the bigger the pressure gets. I think it’s at least in some parts a natural process of this profession, when you get to work on a project of this reputation.”

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

“It doesn’t matter for me whether it’s a one million dollar film, a hundred million dollar film, a billion-dollar game, or whatever,” Leonard-Morgan adds. “The point is it’s all about the creative process. That’s the part that I really, really enjoy. And I think as soon as you start letting external forces come into your head, that’s where I start to kind of…Self-doubt is the wrong phrase. But you start second-guessing, and second guessing is just the worst thing you can do as a composer.”

You can listen to the score below:

Cyberpunk 2077 is out now on PlayStation 5, Xbox Series X, PC, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, and Google Stadia.

The post How the Cyberpunk 2077 Soundtrack Found Its Dystopian Sound in a Soviet-Era Synthesizer appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3an3h8A

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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sheps-shepherd · 5 years ago

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Title: Candlelight Concoctions

Pairing: Mikleo/Sorey; Mikleo & Sorey

Rating: T (for non-explicitly implied sexual content)

Written for @sormikweek 2020 Day 5: Waning Gibbous - Introspection; Receiving and Sharing / Capella - Eminence; Knowledge

A/N: At this time, not all of the week's prompts were completed, but I do plan on finishing and posting all of them as I get them done. I'm invested in this project of mine; they're getting done, I promise. For now, here is the next completed prompt!

In case you missed the memo: all of my SorMik Week 2020 prompts are taking place in a BBC Merlin AU where magic has been outlawed, Mikleo has magic, and Sorey is not only a prince but also Too Good for the world.

Apologies in advance if Tumblr messes with any of the formatting!

Enjoy!

Read on AO3

---

“Can I ask about the magic?”

The pattern of fingers carding through his hair didn’t falter with the question. Sorey continued to comb through the short strands, brushing his bangs back and away from his forehead. The action helped cool Mikleo’s heated skin and calm the magical frenzy that had been bursting inside him earlier. It was strange, to feel the touch of fingertips there instead of his circlet, but also far from uncomfortable. In fact, as he lay with his head pillowed on Sorey’s arm, pressed flush together in the small space the inn’s bed provided, Mikleo didn’t think he’d ever felt more comfortable in his life.

“Mhm,” he hummed, not opening his eyes as he basked in the warmth that came with being so close to Sorey. “You can ask me anything.”

His magic stirred at the mention, but Mikleo found the willpower to keep it shoved down. It had already had its fun, buzzing around inside of him as it chased each of Sorey’s touches, leaving him thoroughly hazy and exhausted now that they had finished. Now, in the aftermath, was the time for it to be just between him and Sorey. His magic would have to deal with that.

Surprisingly, it didn’t seem to put up much of a fuss. It quietly went back to rest, sated by their prince’s presence and affections, leaving behind the soft murmur Mikleo always carried with him. Just as comforting as Sorey’s touch.

“How long have you had it?”

“Forever. I was born with it.”

“Are all people who have magic born with it? Because, Velvet….” Sorey’s voice trailed off, like he was unsure of how to finish the thought. Mikleo didn’t need him to.

“I can’t vouch for everyone who has it,” he said, “but I think it’s more a matter of becoming aware that it’s there. Not everyone is as in-tuned with it, and not everyone’s is the same. It just depends on the user.”

“So you’ve always known about yours?”

“Mhm. My earliest memory is of laying in my crib and staring at the mobile my mother had hanging above it. She’d leave the window open so the breeze would make it spin, but I guess it was never fast enough for my liking. I sent it flying off the hook. Scared her half to death.”

Mikleo did remember: remembered opening his eyes that day and staring up at the stillness of the mobile, remembered the tiny cloth-sewn animals tauntingly waving the slightest bit, remembered the childlike want to see them dance and the not-yet-frightening feeling that rushed to fulfill his wish.

The fright came later, long after he’d outgrown his crib, as he watched the horror on his mother’s face grow deeper and deeper every time he had to tell her he hadn’t meant to do whatever it was his magic had done.

Now, Mikleo opened his eyes and saw the dark rafters of their inn room, just out of reach of the flickering light of the candle burning on the bedside table. He turned his head and saw Sorey - saw the smile that graced his face and the dopey look in his eyes. The sight of him made Mikleo’s mouth twitch. No one had ever looked so happy listening to him talk about his magic before.

“Who else knows?” was the next question. Mikleo hummed again, thoughtfully.

“My mother and my uncle. Gramps. Zaveid found out by accident a while ago, but I asked him not to say anything. I think Eizen and Edna suspect it and just haven’t brought it up yet.” He paused for a moment. “And Velvet.”

Sorey blinked in surprise. “Velvet knows?”

“She was the first person I told, actually. Back in Camlann, when her magic was first starting to show itself. She came to Gramps and I, and she was so scared… I couldn’t act like I didn’t know what she was going through.” He sighed softly and turned to stare back up at the ceiling. “And I was afraid. Of what might happen to her if she thought she was alone. Magic is so unpredictable; it thrives off of everything. I had people who helped me make sure it grew from something good. I wanted Velvet to have that too.”

Sorey was quiet, still diligently brushing his fingers through Mikleo’s hair. Mikleo didn’t push him to speak again, letting him have however much time he needed to process everything he’d said. Sorey’s family had always been a sensitive subject for him.

“Thank you,” he said finally, and the sentiment startled Mikleo into turning back towards him. Sorey’s face was still soft, even with the tinge of sadness that Mikleo could make out along the edges of his features. “For looking out for her. I think you’re right; she needed someone like that. Like you.”

“You were that someone for her, too.”

It was the right thing to say. Sorey’s answering smile drowned out some of his sadness. “And am I that someone for you?”

It was such a baiting statement, but Mikleo took it regardless. He wiggled his arm free from where it lay trapped between their bodies and lifted his hand towards Sorey’s face. He cupped the other’s jaw in his palm, his thumb brushing against his cheek and his fingers slipping through the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck. Green eyes watched him expectantly; Sorey’s gaze didn’t waver at the touch.

“Of course you are,” Mikleo murmured, and his efforts were rewarded with Sorey’s trademark grin, the one that outshined the sun and made Mikleo feel warm all the way down to his toes.

Sorey’s hand finally left his hair. Mikleo didn’t get a chance to miss the contact - Sorey wrapped that arm around his waist, tugging him into what Mikleo thought was meant to be a hug given the position they were laying in. It brought them closer together, enough for Sorey to lift his chin and be able to press a kiss to Mikleo’s forehead. Mikleo’s eyes fluttered in response. Between the comforting touches and the warmth radiating off of Sorey, he found himself fading fast.

He suddenly felt himself being shaken and opened eyes he didn’t remember closing. Sorey was still watching him as intently as before. Ever the child, Mikleo thought vaguely. Of course he isn’t tired yet.

“One more question?” Sorey asked softly, hopefully. Mikleo nodded against the pillow.

“One more.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sorey’s tone wasn’t accusing. “I meant it when I said I wasn’t mad that you didn’t, but I want to know why. So I can fix whatever it is that made you feel like you couldn’t tell me.”

“Sorey.” Mikleo’s heart could have burst out of several things: relief, exasperation, love. “You don’t have to fix anything. That was never it.” He adjusted his hand so it laid more comfortably against Sorey’s cheek, stroking his thumb along his cheekbone. “It was all me. My entire life I’ve been told that I had to hide who I was, that no one could ever know about my magic. So I did. I never told anyone, not until Velvet.”

He paused again. Sorey waited for him to continue, watching with ever-patient eyes. He really wasn’t angry. And Mikleo was beyond grateful for him, not for the first time since they’d met.

“I wish I could have told you first,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t regret telling Velvet, or that Zaveid found out, but I wish it was you. It should have been.”

“Mikleo.” Sorey’s voice was just as quiet. “All that matters is you told me. I don’t care who knew first. I know now.”

“I care,” Mikleo pressed on. “It never felt right, keeping it from you. I wanted you to know, but… things got so complicated.”

Which was the understatement of the century, really. In fact, hiding his and Velvet’s magic had been the easy part of it all. The complications had all come later. Artorius denouncing Sorey and having to flee Camlann and constantly running around the continent trying to find a way to right all the wrongs while also not letting Sorey get himself killed-

“There was never going to be a good time,” Sorey spoke again, bringing Mikleo’s attention back to him before his mind could go through every scare Sorey had ever given him since they’d left Camlann. “This wasn’t any better than any other time you could have told me, okay?”

“I can think of one.”

“Oh, yeah? When?”

“Can’t you guess?” He tucked a brown curl back into place behind Sorey’s ear. “It was a night just like this one.”

Sorey’s eyebrows drew together as he thought about it. He was quiet long enough for Mikleo to consider admonishing him, because really, they hadn’t had many nights together like this before. They didn’t have that kind of time. But before he could open his mouth to start, Sorey’s eyes lit up and widened with understanding.

“That night?” Mikleo nodded, feeling a tiny smile tug at the corner of his lips. He did open his mouth this time, now with a teasing remark at the ready, but Sorey wasn’t really looking at him anymore. It was more like he was looking through him.

“That’s right,” Sorey continued, sounding distant, like he was talking out loud to himself instead of to Mikleo. “You said you had something to tell me. You said it was important, but you never told me what it was. You never had the chance….”

Sorey propped himself up on his elbow, the movement so quick and sudden that Mikleo started where he was laying. He stared up at Sorey, and Sorey stared back at him, and the length of his side felt cold and numb without his prince there to warm it.

“I stole your confession.”

Mikleo snorted at how horrified he sounded. “I would hardly say you stole it-”

“But I did!” Sorey squawked. “I told you I wanted to say my piece first and- And I was just so happy when you said you felt the same way about me that I-”

“I forgot, too.” Mikleo pushed himself up on his own elbows, giving Sorey as stern of a look as he could when he had nothing but affection to back it. “Don’t blame yourself. I was perfectly capable of stopping you and telling you. I just didn’t. And the next morning, I felt awful about missing a chance to tell you again, but definitely not about what I told you instead.”

Sorey still didn’t look convinced. So Mikleo shifted onto one elbow, mirroring the other’s position and inadvertently placing himself back into the warmth he’d just been missing. He ducked his head and placed a swift kiss against Sorey’s mouth, just to make sure he really had his attention. When he leaned back again, Sorey’s eyes were bright and focused on him.

“I know you have the kind of soul that always wants to take the burden so no one else has to,” Mikleo said softly, “but don’t, not with this. My magic isn’t yours to carry.”

And Mikleo could tell that was a point Sorey still wanted to argue. He could also tell that Sorey couldn’t stop the smile that took over his face.

“So on top of being the most powerful sorcerer to ever live, you can read souls, too? What else are you hiding from me, Mikleo?”

“Nice try, but that was your last question.”

“Good thing I don’t need to ask about this anymore, then.”

Sorey reached out with his free hand and cupped the back of his neck. He guided Mikleo in for a proper kiss, one that was soft and unhurried and made his magic sing. Sorey kissed him until every bit of him was warm again. Mikleo clutched at the bed sheet covering his hip and let him.

They fell back to the bed in opposite positions, Sorey now stretched out on his back with Mikleo’s head pillowed on his chest. But Sorey’s hand found Mikleo’s hair again, fingers twisting into the strands at the back of his head. It was grounding, and Mikleo was helpless against it. He didn’t bother trying to keep his eyes open.

“I’m really glad you told me.”

Sorey’s voice was quiet once more, laced with a newfound grogginess. Even he was getting tired now. Mikleo didn’t want to think about how late - or early, more likely - they’d stayed up together, and definitely didn’t want to think about how annoyed Velvet would be with them if she found out about it in the morning.

He pressed his face further against Sorey’s chest, hoping it brought the same sense of comfort that the other had been lavishing him with all night.

“Me too.”

It must have. Sorey only shifted - carefully, doing his best not to disturb Mikleo’s head on his chest - enough to blow out the half-burned candle. He tipped back into his previous position and cradled Mikleo close like he was something precious. “Night, Mikki,” he mumbled.

With his head rising and falling in time with his prince’s steady breathing, Mikleo fell asleep, his magic humming beneath his skin.

The next morning, after he’d finished dressing, Mikleo was trying to get his hair to look some semblance of presentable when he realized his fingers weren’t bumping against the cool metal of his circlet. He hadn’t even noticed he’d forgotten something that had been such an integral part of his morning routine for most of his life.

Silently chiding himself, Mikleo turned back towards the bed, only to find Sorey already standing behind him. The prince was dressed sans his cloak and had Mikleo’s circlet balanced between his fingers.

“May I?”

Mikleo nodded dumbly. Seeing Sorey so comfortably integrating himself into the magic world was apparently going to take some getting used to.

He kept his eyes trained on Sorey’s as the other came forward, stayed still as Sorey used one hand to brush his bangs out of the way and the other to guide his circlet back to its proper place. He fiddled with it for a moment, making sure it was settled firmly against Mikleo’s forehead, then swept his bangs back over it - hiding his deepest darkest secret away once again.

But now that Sorey knew, how deep and dark could it really still be?

“I’m glad it was something you didn’t feel like you had to bring up last night,” Sorey said suddenly, Mikleo blinking at the sound of his voice, “but I just want to make sure you know.” He reached down and grabbed Mikleo’s hands, clasping them and holding them between their bodies. “Your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell anyone, not even the others. Who knows and how they find out, that’s up to you. I’ll always be waiting right here if you need me. Okay?”

Mikleo could have cried. His magic sparked to life in his chest, and all he could do was croak out a simple okay even though there were a thousand things he wanted to say instead.

But somehow, Sorey seemed to understand every single one of them anyway. His smile was like sunlight and filled Mikleo with warmth just as fiercely as his kisses did - at least, that was what Mikleo told himself when he felt the burn in his cheeks as Sorey brought their joined hands to his mouth and kissed them.

“You ready?” Again Mikleo nodded, and again Sorey took the lead, dropping his hands in favor of wrapping an arm around Mikleo’s shoulders. “Then let’s go. I’m sure the others are already up and waiting for us.” He guided Mikleo across the room, grabbing his cloak with his free hand as they passed it. Leaving the room felt like walking away from something sacred - something Mikleo wished he could keep forever and take with him because it was theirs and no one else’s.

But at least, he considered as he wrapped his own arm around Sorey’s waist, wanting to be as close to his prince as possible, that’s the only thing I have to leave behind.

And that something would stay behind in that room forever, waiting for the next occupants to share their stories and add to it.

Maybe, at least, it could help somebody else tell someone they loved their own deepest darkest secret.

Hopefully their ending would be just as good as his.

#talesoffanfic #sormikweek2020 #sormik #sorey #mikleo #merlin au

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darlinrogue · 5 years ago

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"You know,"—Kenny lifts his head, weary, from the window and glimpses Adam, exhausted as he drives through the vacant streets of whatever city he'd managed to drive to without Kenny noticing—"you mentioned a girlfriend before?" An incongruous question, perhaps, but Kenny, truthfully, has wondered often about Adam's sexuality. And at three o'clock in the morning, he and Adam have to stay awake somehow: introspection it is. "Do you, uh, only like women? You don't have to answer—"

Comfort for Sol after the Dec 2. Dynamite We NEED IT

Adam and Kenny

A light waltz rolled from the radio in three-four time. A Strauss, Künstlerleben op. 316, written in 1867, a jovial, ‘gay,’ piece. Interjected into a Vienne at the edge of disaster as Austria crumbled around the carnival city. The song infused with a melancholic melody and yearning string instruments. The decaying nobility dreams of a glory day long past and danced the inevitable fall of their dynasty away. So, explained the smooth voiced disc jockey that introduced the piece with all the confidence of a history nerd who probably got shoved in a locker in high-school. Adam wouldn’t pretend he was smart like that, this station wasn’t his first choice. After five hours in the car they had cycled through: Adam’s playlists, Kenny’s playlist, and every other radio station on air. Thirty minutes into a marathon of Norteña music, Adam cracked first and turned on the benign classical music, played on a public air wave. All just to eke out some variety from the bland monotonous strips of American highway and interstate. Besides, no words, and especially no Spanish that he only half-understood in his current state, meant it required less brain power to process. A resource that was in dwindling supply for Adam.

Adam tapped his finger against the steering wheel in time with the waltz. Apparently, this was like old fashioned twerking. A dramatic, intimate dance where partners held each other close and danced vigorously. Despite the song being undeniably wonder bread white, Adam found a natural ebb and flow that sparked a desire to move in some way. Bob his head a little bit, tap his foot, all as he nudged the cruise control-up another notch. The car engine revved and the speedometer edged in at a solid eighty miles an hour. With no one else on the road Adam dominated the left lane. It was a pure head rush, breaking the speed limit with no restrictions and no witnesses. All while listening to a playful violin trill. Brights on, illuminating the tall cedar, oaks, and pines, twined with dense underbrush on the sides of the road. The, black, ominous trees walled the interstate, trapping them, forcing them the only way forward. The white and yellow marked pavement extended far into the twisted dark, with hints of gentle turns far off. A couple miles down the road, twin red taillights glowed like angry eyes. The mapping program on his phone noted their exit was next. He compressed the breaks, the cruise control flicked off and Adam coasted onto the ramp.

Kenny shifted, and the movement drew Adam’s attention for a split second. Kenny sat in shotgun with the chair leaned back. His hands threaded through his hair and rubbed at his eyes. Best as Adam could tell he had spent the past three hours passed out and had not even been roused when Adam smack him for snoring. In a moment or two he was upright and alert, peering-out the window, his curly hair like the silhouette of a mop. Adam explained they were taking a diversion into Knoxville for the sole reason that Adam had to go pee. Kenny muttered his assent.

Google Maps took them to a beat-up 24/7 gas station at the edge of the city. Moth riddled, flickering and humming, fluorescent lights illuminated the cracked pavement of the parking lot. Lined beneath the front windows was stacks of firewood, an ice machine, and a tire pressure gauge. Adam left Kenny to fill-up the tank while Adam lunged out of the car to make use of the facilities. Inside, an exhausted looking twenty-something attended the counter and her phone. Over the top of the rows of junk food riddled shelves, Adam saw the bathroom. After taking care of his physical needs, on his way-out he perused the aisle while Kenny took his turn in the Powder room. He bough a couple packages of cookies, crackers, and bags of chips. Then, a coffee from himself from a somewhat suspect machine and a bottle of 2% from the fridge, for Kenny. Adam paid at the register and sipped on his caffeine as he stepped-off the curb outside the station. Cars rolled by on the road, whispering with the heated Summer wind. Kenny, already back outside, stretched-out beside the car, his gold hair white-washed by the lights. Sliding into the front seat, Adam offered Kenny the milk on one stipulation: Adam could use it to thin his coffee. It turned-out that he had purchased mud water. Kenny agreed and they were back on the trail, navigating the downtown and suburbia, in search of the road North. The street lights faded, and into this darkness, as Adam waited for a red light to turn green, Kenny began his thought:

You know.

Green light, go, Adam hit the gas, and rolled through. For a second, once through the intersection, he glanced at Kenny. In the dark car, lit by the thin dashboard glow, Kenny peered at him, curious, bur not pressing. There was a glimmer in his blue eyes. Adam returned his gaze to the windshield and the passing silver screen of Knoxville scenery. A right took them back onto the highway and Adam merged with the sparse traffic as he processed what Kenny asked him. You mentioned a girlfriend before? Do you only like women? Back on the smooth sailing of the interstate, Adam sunk back in his seat and sought comfort from the shitty coffee. It tasted bitter and yet smoother with the milk.

“You asked me two questions, there,” Adam observed, lifting a corresponding number of fingers. It’d be easy to only answer one, Kenny wouldn’t force it. He resolved, tongue darting over his chapped lips, to answer both. He reached-out and turned down the radio to but a couple notches. “And uh, well, I guess, the answer to both is it’s complicated.”

“I mean, yeah, these things usually are,” Kenny joked, he leaned back his seat a little bit and propped a foot on the dash. He glanced at the mapping program on Adam’s phone and the oppressive number of hours left, “We got time though, so take as much as you need. Like, I’m just curious is all, and if I keep sleeping in this chair I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow, Piz.”

“Well, to answer the first question,” Adam chuckled. “I did have a girlfriend, once, back in college.”

“Ah, a college sweetheart--” Kenny teased. “That’s classic.”

“Yeah,” Adam chuckled. A fond smile spread on his lips. Like those arrogant, dancing nobles in Vienne, he thought of a time long gone. “We’re still friends, you know, we talk every now and then, meet-up for lunch or something, she’s married now, pregnant, with her first kid.”

“Okay, but that’s all past tense, what happened? Give me the details, man,” Kenny said. He interlaced his hands behind his head, shifting in the car seat. “I mean, if it’s not too hard, or anything.”

Adam shrugged, one shoulder-up to his ear with casual dismissal. Maybe a few years ago it would’ve been 'hard’ but things had changed. He had changed-- or rather, something had changed around him. There was someone else now for him to be heartbroken over. The old stuff were all scars now, not wounds that leaked with the slightest prod. Not like they used to.

“So, the deal is I went into college with like, two years of credit, yeah?” Adam said, he checked over at Kenny to make sure he was following. “You can imagine this kinda put me in a weird spot. I was a Freshman but also basically a Junior and I was taking the classes in my major right away. I didn’t make a lot of friends that way, though. So, yeah, she was a little older than me and her name was Amanda. Long black hair, dark eyes, kinda short, but pretty, she was an art student, so we met in like this advanced drawing class. And Kenny, holy shit, I have to show you pictures of some of the stuff she does, when we get to the hotel, it’s nuts. Like these hyper realistic watercolor and oil paint portraits, that look even better than the actual thing. She works as a like, a background artist in L.A., now, so she’s legit. Way better than anything I could do.”

Kenny hummed, low in his throat, and Adam took that as a cue to continue.

“So, we met in class, and, over the course of the next semester we got to know each other, really well,” he said. “Like, I was hanging-out in her apartment to do projects and she was hanging-out in my dorm. I moved in with her for my Senior year, after she graduated. She just needed a roommate, you know? And not long after that we just, kinda started dating. I don’t know, it’s-- it’s hard to describe, even now, how I felt about her. Like, just this intensity I never experienced before. I really thought I was sick, actually-- like my stomach hurt. I called my mom and she told me I was a dumbass, and that I had a crush. It’s just that I was never interested in dating in high school, like I talked to girls and stuff, went to prom with one of my friends, but nothing like, you know?” Adam made an almost helpless gesture with his hand.

He rested his palm against his thigh. His other hand guided the steering wheel. Then, real quick, Adam focused on setting-up the cruise control again. If he had to compress the gas for the whole trip, his right hip would be sore as hell by the time they reach their destination. A couple nudges and they were flying at a clean eighty again. Adam took that time to organize his thoughts. Kenny didn’t say a word, but Adam could tell he was waiting for the elaboration.

“I really thought,” Adam murmured, his voice softened, wistful. “That I was going to marry her. Like, I was going to jewlery stores, looking at engagement rings, trying to figure-out how to save-up.”

“What, really?” Kenny asked, he leaned forward in his chair, elbows digging into the arm rest. “Seriously, man?”

“Yeah, we dated for almost two years after I graduated,” Adam said. “I was working as a teacher and she was a freelance artist, it was really great. Of course, I was traveling a lot-- on account of the wrestling thing, and she came to some shows, I don’t think she really got it? Amanda was sensitive, wouldn’t hurt a fly and she didn’t really vibe with fighting. Which, is fine, I was fine with it. I mean she watched these soap operas that I didn’t get, so it was kinda even, you know? But I think all that time away from home didn’t do a lot of good for our relationship. You know I was young, Kenny, like twenty-two? And she-- she got a job in California, and we talked about it, and--”

“Just didn’t work-out, huh?” Kenny asked, voice low.

Adam shook his head, lips pressing together into a thin line. He still recalled that conversation over the dinning room table. His hands interlaced in front of him, her on the other side, going through the logistics. She was so good at that, planning. That was something they shared in common, overthinking. This move was a dead necessity for her career. Texas just didn’t have the same opportunities that the City of Angels did. Except, Adam was training in Texas, fighting in Texas, teaching in Texas. It was the middle of the school year during his internship. He couldn’t pack-up and leave. The suggestion she came to was obvious but it didn’t make it easy. They break-up, go their separate ways, not try to force all of this to work to the determent of them both. For years Adam cursed himself for agreeing. He believed, as he laid in bed alone and cold, ruminating on his failures, he should’ve fought harder. Fought harder for them. Hung-up on what could’ve and should’ve been. It hurt more when she found a new guy in California. He still went to her wedding and was her best man. Because Adam still loved Amanda and he always would.

And he was okay with being next to her, because their relationship, their bond, was more important than his wounded pride.

“Yeah, it didn’t work-out,” Adam agreed. “I was, upset, for a while. A long while, actually, like, I really thought I’d never get another chance like her again, but--”

He paused, and ended the thought there. Amanda was so amazing, so brilliant, so awesome, and funny, and caring and kind, and she loved cats. She picked out local art for their apartment. Yet, Adam also remembered her occasional moods where she just couldn’t be talked to until the storm passed. The way she set her mind on things was sometimes endearing, sometimes frustrating. She wasn’t perfect, but she was great. It was apples-to-oranges, to compare her and Kenny. They were completely different people and Adam loved different things about them-- yet, it was still love. It couldn’t be measured or quantified. The only time he had ever felt this intensity before was with Amanda. He really didn’t think there was another person on this planet who could steal his heart like Amanda did. Then he met Kenny, and fell in love with Kenny.

And whoops, there was at least one other.

“You know, you live, you grow, you move-on,” Adam said, he shrugged again and nodded to himself. “If we hadn’t split I probably never would’ve gone to Japan, or met you and the Bucks. Or, joined AEW, never been tag-team champion. It’s a real Robert Frost poem, I could be a teacher in L.A. right now, instead of-- well, driving eight hours to Chicago in the middle of the night, but my point stands! I-I imagine you get it, picking between your career and well, sometimes relationships.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get,” Kenny muttered. He looked out the window. His nails scrapped against his jeans. “You know how it was with me and Ibushi. How leaving Japan felt. Especially, after we reconciled after so many years-- but that’s how it is.” He trailed off, leaving the thought behind.

“So, like, were you two ever,” Adam interjected. He glanced over at the same time Kenny did. Adam darted his gaze back to the red, feeling his cheeks heat and rosette. A deep appreciation for the late hour filled him. “I mean, like, I don’t know how to ask this. Were, you and Ibushi, you know, together? Like, together, together. Obviously, it’s not my business, but I’m just, just curious, is all. Like, the Golden Lovers, man? There’s some crazy rumors out there.”

Kenny laughed, a full chuckle that churned Adam’s stomach and yet set his face on fire. That sound made Adam feel warm, he wanted to hear it again desperately. “Yeah, Kota and I dated. We were together for like six years, and yeah, like you, if same-sex marriage was legal in Japan, I would’ve married him.”

It was such an upfront statement. a matter of fact If he could, he would, but the lack of gold ring on Kenny’s left finger told Adam he didn’t. Kenny nodded to himself but the silence lingered, the sentence wasn’t finished. The clock turned over to 3:23 and they passed an exit with bleeding, gold lights, with hotels, restaurants, and street lamps.

Kenny continued, but his voice was softer and more raw. “But then-- well, I screwed it up. I mean, I really messed-up. It wasn’t like you and your girl, where it was a pretty understanding with a clean break. I didn’t trust him, like I should. I thought he was going to leave me and so, I left first. Then like an idiot, I lashed-out, and ruined everything we built, and it ended. Just. Like. That--” Kenny snapped his fingers-- “We never got back together but, we’re friends again, we made-up, you know that, but the things I did, the things I did to Kota-- it's something I'll have to live with for the rest of my life.”

The night hid Adam’s expression. The darkness was a comfort. It hid the monsters in the back seat. The purr of the engine whispered in the absence of Kenny’s scathing indictment of himself. Like, he was judge, jury, and executioner, of his own tarnished soul. Adam could imagine what Kenny saw. His face in profile, the tree line whipping by the car windows, an impassive, emotionless, and neutral party, listening without comment to Kenny’s story. He wouldn’t see the slight grimace or twisting of Adam’s lips. Remembering all the shit Cody said about Ibushi. Adam, twisting Ibushi, Kenny’s arms back, while Cody reared with a chair. Holy fuck, was he such an embarrassing idiot, a complete moron, a destructive piece of shit. If Kenny saw the guilt in Adam’s eyes their conversation would screech to a sudden halt. Akin to if Adam slammed the breaks on the car right now. Instead, Adam allowed Kenny to mourn and didn’t derail to his own bullshit. It was the only way he would’ve heard the next bit, whispered into open air.

“He really was the first man I loved.”

Kenny sighed and leaned back into his seat, defeated, limp. Now, Adam realized, was definitely time to shift gears. Car analogies aside, Kenny couldn’t be left to ruminate. If there was a person who understood how much it sucked to obsess over an old ex, it was Adam Page.

“So, you’re like, gay?” Adam asked. He placed both of his hands on the wheel. Shifting, he rubbed his fingers over the rubber and plastic, feeling the coarse texture. Sweat pricked his palms and he heard his pulse skip, skip, and then it was off to the races. “That’s cool by the way, I’m totally cool with that, I mean--”

“Close, but actually, I’m bi,” Kenny said. He chuckled and then nudged Adam’s elbow with his hands. The brief, familiar contact enabled Adam to crack a grin. “Bisexual, guys, gals, non-binary pals, it’s all good to me. I know I don’t talk about it a lot. It’s not something I really like to have out there, circulating. It could cause problems in Japan, and it could be a whole thing, but I trust you. We’re partners, and, it’s kinda something I want you to know, actually.”

Adam grinned to himself and nodded along with Kenny points. He straightened in his seat, wiggling his butt back so his shoulders were flush with the chair. With a crick of his neck he popped a vertebrae with a satisfying ‘clunk.’

“Yeah, I was, actually going to say,” Adam began, he swallowed. “I uh-- I am too, bi, I mean, like I think I am. I haven’t tested it but, I’m, pretty sure. I haven’t... done anything, with a guy, before? I just have these feelings? Right, you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Kenny said, drawing-out the syllable. Adam could hear the smile in his voice. “I know how it is. I know, I get it, it’s all in your chest, right?” Kenny moved his hand over his heart to indicate what he meant. “You see a guy and it all kinda clicks in your brain, same way it does for a girl. I get it.”

“You know I don��t think I’ve ever really told anyone that,” Adam said, a little breathless.

Kenny shifted and his chair cranked upright. A fleeting, fluttering touch on his left elbow drew Adam’s gaze down. Kenny placed his hand on the center console between them, palm-up. He wiggled his fingers, an expectant invitation. Adam steadied his grip on the steering wheel and wiped his right hand down his jeans to clean the sweat off. He laid his hand in Kenny’s and Kenny interlaced their fingers, then squeezed. Adam wondered if Kenny could feel his stuttering pulse through the connected vital points of their wrists. Or, if he minded that Adam’s hands were damp. Yet, his nerves and troubled thoughts soothed, mostly to a stream of ecstatic proclamations about how he was holding hands with Kenny.

“I appreciate you being honest, Piz,” Kenny said. “I know it’s hard. Especially, when maybe you don’t have all the answers, but I’m glad you’ve figured some of it out. I don’t think I knew until I was in my twenties-- how about you?”

“Not long,” Adam admitted. Feelings, ideas since he was in high school, but nowadays he was totally certain. he rubbed his thumb over Kenny’s knuckles. Kenny had long, thin fingers, but a strong grip. Adam could feel his coarse callouses. The warmth of his hand. “In a way I always knew, this has always been a part of me. It was Amanda who helped me figure out the name for it, though.”

So, you’re bi, Amanda had said and Adam had stared at her like he was an idiot. Anytime Adam was around Amanda he felt like an idiot, but only because she was so smart. She had laughed at him and sipped on her beer. They sat outside on the porch, in cool Spring air, a rare balmy day at the outskirts of Los Angeles. She told him she was pregnant. He told her about Kenny. It was a fair exchange-- until Amanda asked him to be her kids godfather, or something similar, or whatever. And Adam had actually started crying, like a total sap. Yeah, yeah of course, that kid’ll be the best fucking horse rider this side of the Mississippi. She patted him on the shoulder and told him she’ll be cheering for him and Kenny. Next time she watched AEW-- because she did that every now and then these days.

She really liked Sonny Kiss-- Adam always knew she had good taste.

“She sounds great,” Kenny noted.

“She is,” Adam agreed, nodding. “If you ever get to meet her, I’d think you’d like her.”

Adam cocked a slight grin. Something was lighter in him, the air a little clear. It felt better, it felt right, to say it. Adam Page is bisexual, he likes guys and girls, and other stripes of human beings. It was the only way he could feel what he felt for Kenny. Exactly like it was for Amanda. Stomach full of butterflies, every emotion magnified to a soul-aching need, so Adam was raw and on edge. This terror, nausea, built like a screaming tea-kettle, into agony the demanded a release to relieve the pressure. This time, though, Adam found no outlet. Amanda was the one asked him out first, to the movies, to see The Avengers. He remembered sitting in the darkness of the theater, alone and sweaty, until she laid her head on his shoulder. Amanda who confessed first and who drew-out of Adam the depth of his feelings. Now that Adam thought about it, it was Amanda who texted first, Amanda who called first, Amanda who kissed first. Amanda who broke it off first. Adam Page was not known for taking the initiative in his relationships. Yet, he always figured it out, caught-up learned, and followed her lead. If he could just do the same for him and Kenny-- that was a pipe dream so obscure it almost made Adam scoff.

He couldn’t ruin another good friendship, he just couldn’t.

Adam was running out of bridges to burn.

“You know, it’s weird,” Adam said. “Because it’s like, I’ve never done anything, with a uh, you know-- a man before. The opportunity has never really come-up. I just kinda wonder, how am I supposed to know these feelings are real?”

“Well, I don’t know if I can answer that one for you, Page,” Kenny said. “But I definitely didn’t know until I met Ibushi. Then, it was real obvious. Yet, I always had a sense of it.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Adam murmured. He squeezed Kenny’s hand and Kenny squeezed back.

He definitely got it. At first, in the infancy of these feelings he’d thought they’d die or go away, like a bad head cold. Because Kenny Fucking Omega, could never love Adam Page. They were not in the same league, the best wrestler in the world and the weak link of the Elite. Then they were tag-team partners, and absence is not what makes a heart grow fonder, presence is. Long car drives, where they shot the breeze about anything and everything-- just like this. Hours spent chilling in the same hotel room, showing each other stupid memes, or watching TV together. Plane rides with their heads stacked on each other and complaining about the pressure change. Working-out in the weight rooms and spotting for each other. Training together, practicing the Last Call ‘till they got it right and didn’t fucking hit each other anymore. The longer Adam spent with Kenny Omega, the more certain he was that he loved him.

Loved him in a way he’d only felt once before. Loved him in a way that was different than how Adam felt about his mother. It was love, 100% all the way, love. True love-- wove, twue wove, to quote a good movie. Love that had all sorts of implications not just for his relationship with Kenny but Adam’s relationship with himself. How he understood himself and who he was. At twenty-nine years he was uncovering more and more about the person of Adam Page, the Hangman. Most of it, Adam didn’t like. Some of it, he did like, and he did like loving Kenny. Even if all he got to do was hold hands and talk.

“There’s a pool at the hotel,” Kenny said, suddenly, breaking Adam from his introspection.

“Yeah?” Adam asked.

“Yeah, I checked it out earlier,” Kenny said. “Listen, after we pass-out for a few hours-- you wanna go swimming? Of course, there’s the weight room and all that, we can do a few sets, blah, blah, blah-- but I wanna go swimming too.”

“I didn’t pack swim shorts-- did you?” Adam laughed. He had to wiggle his hand free, unfortunately, from Kenny’s grip so he could make a lane change.

“Bro,” Kenny stated, and Adam could feel Kenny’s eyes drilling into the side of his face. Intent, focused, and dead serious, “We have large, ample salaries as the Tag-Team Champions of AEW that can fix that problem.”

“Fair point,” Adam admitted. He shuffled his hands on the wheel a little bit and then cracked a big grin. “But yeah, I’m down to work-out, I need to work on my bi-ceps.”

Silence, total silence, Adam shot Kenny the most shit eating grin. For a moment Kenny stared at him, wordless, as if processing that nuclear bomb. Adam had to return his eyes to the road. Then, Kenny smacked Adam’s shoulder. Adam laughed and then laughed harder, when he heard Kenny break into chuckles.

“Do you think Tony Khan will let us change our team name to the Bisons?” Adam asked.

“No,” Kenny wheezed, his voice strained. He covered his eyes with his hands, shoulders shaking. “No, I don’t think so.”

In the wake of the laughter, Adam settled. Kenny leaned back his seat and despite his fear of cramps, was dozing in a few minutes. Dawn broke before they hit Cincinnati, a brilliant glow of purple, pinks, and golds on a distant blue horizon. It was right to Adam, to park on the 3rd level of the deck and to haul all their shit out of the car. Check-in, bleary eyed at the front desk, and then shuffle into the elevator, with a bagel, stolen from the breakfast, wedged in his mouth. Brush his teeth in the bathroom, kick off his shoes and pants, and then flop into bed. He vaguely recalled Kenny telling him good morning before they fell asleep.

#ofgrief #‘The Hangman’ || Adam: IC #‘Deals with God’ || Adam: Verse #‘Beloved’ || Adam and Kenny

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w-k-smith · 5 years ago

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Welcome to “Don’t Go to the Netherworld!” a Beetlejuice the Musical the Musical the Musical AU.

Beetlejuice - half-ghost, half-demon - has spent his entire afterlife in the Netherworld and works as the beleaguered assistant to Juno, his demonic bureaucrat mother. He thinks he’ll be stuck and miserable until doomsday, then a living girl breaks into the Netherworld in search of her dead mom. Beetlejuice promises to help Lydia Deetz, so long as she summons him to the living world once they’re done. Unfortunately, the best-laid plans of goths and ghosts often go downhill toward sandworms, dead boy bands, family drama, and worst of all, introspection.

It’s showtime!

Hey - feel free to check this out on AO3, where I’m w_k_smith. The original version of this post included links, but tumblr hides all my posts that have links in them, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

Chapter One: “It’s a Wonderful Afterlife” (6/19/20) Chapter Two: “Worm Welcome” (upcoming) Chapter Three: “Ghost to Ghost” (upcoming) Chapter Four: “To Beetle or not to Beetle?” (upcoming)

Warning: This story contains depictions of, references to, and discussion of topics like suicide, untimely death, abuse, and body horror - you know, like the musical does (though this probably has more). Know your boundaries, and stay safe.

First chapter under keep reading!

He was so relieved when the red alert exploded through the office, making every demon caseworker jump. He’d spent the past few hours cutting up the files Juno had given him into paper dolls, but even yards upon yards of multiheaded creatures got boring after a while. He magicked the dolls into running out of Juno’s office into the caseworker bullpen, and when that got no reaction, he’d made the dolls stand in crude positions and then cannibalize each other, but even that barely got a few snarls of “Get back to your own work, Beetlejuice.”

But red alerts were like fire alarms. Not only did they break up the day, but you also got to look at a fire.

“What asshole let the living person in?” he yelled, walking out of Juno’s office. He got his own too-small desk in a little reception area in front of her inner office. Officially, he was the Assistant to the Director of Netherworld Customs and Processing, but he was a glorified secretary. Most of his days were spent spinning his wheels or making the whiners who came to see Juno sit and wait until they gave up and went away.

He guessed his position as Juno’s half-demon assistant should have felt like a privilege, if he didn’t otherwise hate every aspect of the Netherworld. He got a desk and walls, while the full-demon caseworkers crammed their knife-fingers, pumpkin heads, flippers, and musty burlap bodies filled with bugs into an open-plan workspace. And the dead people who hung around had to make themselves busy wherever they found the space.

Right now everybody, demon and human alike, had scattered

“Out of the way, Beetlejuice!” the receptionist snapped, sprinting by in the high heels she’d died in, making them her only footwear from now until doomsday. She’d had another name once, but the MISS ARGENTINA sash across her torso had become a nametag a long time ago.

“Yeah, Miss A, better get to ’em before Juno does!” he said, yanking up his sagging pants.

“Care to help?” she snapped before rounding the corner.

He didn’t bother to respond. She’d asked knowing the answer would be “no.” Even if he thought it would make a difference, why should he? Sure, the living didn’t know crossing into the Netherworld meant they’d be chased down and probably killed by a screechy demon with a neck slit and horrible fashion sense. But hey. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

He didn’t see Juno around. Not yet, anyway. He was sure he’d hear her, once things went south for the trespasser.

Someone he didn’t recognize crept around the corner Miss Argentina hadn’t turned. The living girl stuck out like a raw steak at a vegan salad bar. Her face was flushed, and sweat glued her bangs to her forehead. Geez, he missed sweating. She walked without the weight of the underworld on her shoulders. And she was goth, with a dyed black bob, a black dress, and chunky black boots – very overdressed. Most of the recently deceased turned up in hospital gowns, sweatpants, Greek life t-shirts, or, best/worst, nothing at all. Few had the right combination of luck and irony to die in funeral garb.

He ducked behind a pillar in the bullpen before the living girl saw him. She licked her lips, looked left and right and left again, obviously no plan in mind…

And she ran into Juno’s office.

Oh. Oh oh oh this was just too good. Today was not going to be boring. Today might be his luckiest day of all.

He strode to Juno’s office door, walked through, and slammed it shut behind him.

“Do you have a death wish?” he asked the kid.

He was aware of the effect he had on living people…and a lot of dead people…and anyone and anything with even the memory of a digestive system. Today his hair was a dark green that verged on purple, his moss and stubble blended together nicely, and the caterpillar behind his right ear was busy spinning a cocoon.

The kid didn’t act freaked out or disgusted. She straightened her shoulders and said: “You have to hide me.”

He leaned against the door. “Do my ears deceive me?” He pulled his left ear out to arm’s length, and let it snap back like a rubber band. “Or is the girl running for her life making demands?”

“I came here for my mom. I can’t leave until I find her.”

“She isn’t here, Siouxsie Sioux. You’re the first living person who’s snuck in for the past decade.”

“My mom is dead. She died a few months ago. I have to find her, and bring her home. Well, to Connecticut, because my dad made us move to Connecticut, but then when he sees her, he’ll snap out of it, and we’ll go back to our actual home!” Desperation, denial. Maybe she was prepared to blend in with the newlydeads.

“Lemme get this straight – you, still alive and kicking, jumped into hell to find someone who has been dead for a while and bring them home with you? And you thought you could just do that? That this kind of violation of the natural order wasn’t going to rain down all kinds of shitfire and brimstone?”

“I knew there might be trouble.” She set her jaw. “I just didn’t care.”

He grinned. “Ah. Moxie. You’re pretty luck you decided to hide in my office.” He floated over his desk, crossed his legs, and pressed his fingers together. “I have a proposition. Quid pro quo, if you will.”

The kid gave him an extremely skeptical look. “You want me to make a deal with a demon?”

“Half demon, and what I’m asking for is a favor. Just a little, bitty thing.” He held his fingers a millimeter apart. “I’ll hide you. Keep the heat off. Distract the fuzz and frame your dog for eating your homework and tell the collection agents you aren’t home. And then, when you get back to the world of the living…you’ll say my name. Three times.”

She put her hands on her hips. “I’ll…what?”

“It’ll summon me. So I can be a part of the living world! At least for a while. And not be stuck in this trash fire.” He grimaced. “No, that’s not fair. Sometimes trash fires are fun. I should know; I’ve set a lot of them.”

Her frown deepened. “I don’t know…”

“Beetlejuice!” came a familiar roar. “Get out here right now!”

“Under the desk!” he told the kid, jumping to his feet.

“Don’t talk to me like –!”

“UNDER THE DESK!” he roared, drawing himself up a few extra feet, and opening his mouth to show multiple rows of teeth.

That did the trick. The kid dove under the desk, and he was glad her dress was black, because it blended in with the shadows and the dark stone of the floor.

Juno opened the door a second later, smoke and steam trickling from her neck slit. Her beehive quivered. Per usual, her red skirtsuit hung off her like loose skin, and she was pushing the walker she didn’t need ahead of her.

“Lawrence Beetlejuice Shoggoth, do you have anything to do with this?” she growled.

“To do with what?” he asked. “The red alert? It sure brightened up my total lack of morning. I won’t name names, but someone in the bullpen jumped out their skin. Literally, the scales are still on the floor.”

A bony finger was extended his way. “I know about your little obsession with the living world. Why do you think I watch you so closely? You are one more misstep from being banished between life and death, how do ya like that? Do you want to spend eternity watching your precious breathers without anyone able to hear or see you?”

Ah. That old chestnut. “No, Ma,” he said, settling onto the floor.

“If I hear that this was your handiwork…”

“…My entrails will decorate the lobby. Yeah, yeah, heard it all before.”

She flicked her wrist, and knocked him over the desk. He tumbled head over heels, and landed on his face. It goddam hurt, because his mother could always hurt him. He made sure he hit the ground with a comical splat sound so the kid wouldn’t panic and give the game away. When he looked up, the girl’s eyes were wide and fearful.

“How about this?” He stood up, and brushed his sleeves off. “That red alert was because some dumbass living human came into the Netherworld, right? And I can tell you didn’t catch them, because there’s more steam coming out of you than usual. I’ll go looking for the human. I’ll prove to you I didn’t do it.”

She crossed her arms, and drummed her fingers on her elbows. “Hmm…when you put it that way…this would be an excellent way for you to demonstrate the potential for more responsibility, and – I DON’T CARE. Just stay out of the way.”

Coming from Juno, that was a sappy “I love you.” She stormed out of the office, and he waited until the rattling of her heels faded out of earshot before he bent down to check on the kid.

“You have to get the hell out of here,” he told the goth girl curled up under his desk.

“That was your mother?” she asked.

“She’s my boss, too. She’s a demon; she doesn’t get me. I’d take my considerable skills elsewhere, but, y’know, it’s toe the line or get wedged between life and death forever. How did a living twelve-year-old wind up in the Netherworld, anyway?”

“I’m fifteen!” she said, standing up. “And that’s none of your business.”

“It is so my business, if we’re going to get you to the land of the living so you can take me with you. What did you do? Black magic? Séance?”

“I, um…” She gave him a hard look before continuing. “I found a book.”

“A book? Really? Which book?” Most living world books wouldn’t tell you jack about the Netherworld. Concepts like limbo or the bardo came close, but…

“Handbook for the Recently Deceased,” the kid said.

For several seconds, all he could do was stare at her. Her expression became grossly fascinated.

“Your eyeballs are falling out of their sockets,” she said.

He shoved them back in, and shook his head to clear it. “How did you get the Handbook, kid?”

She crossed her arms. “My name is Lydia. And I found it.”

“Found it where?”

“Your sister’s sock drawer.” She glared at him. “Look, it doesn’t matter where I found it, but I found it, and the first chapter said you could get to the land of the dead by drawing a door and knocking three times. So I did that, and I tried to blend in by joining this line of dead people, but we went through a metal detector or something, and all these alarms started going off, so I ran.”

Her story had a gaping hole in it in the shape of the fact that she couldn’t have opened the Handbook unless she was recently deceased, which she wasn’t. A ghost had to have shown her the book and let her through the door, which was a big no-no. Obviously, she wasn’t going to give up her source.

He didn’t care. In fact, he was delighted that they were still teaching living teenagers that snitches got stitches.

“Fine,” he said. “I can get you back, but when you do –”

“I have to say your name three times?”

“You have to say my name three times.”

She sat on his desk. “Which name? That Juno lady called you a lot of things.”

And Juno had cursed him so he couldn’t say it. For the same reason people on house arrest couldn’t unlock their ankle bracelets.

“I’ve got a card somewhere,” he muttered. He reached into his jacket, and handed her the little business card.

“ ‘2nd Street Dermatology – You’ve Got Us Under Your Skin’?” she read.

“Wrong card!” He grabbed it back, and plunged his hands deep in his pants pockets. There was so much junk in the way. “Hold this,” he said, handing Lydia a skull, a xylophone, a planchette – “Here!”

He took his stuff back, and she read the card. “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice Beetlejuice?”

He nodded.

“If I say this in the living world, it’ll bring you there?”

“In two shakes.”

“So you’re like a demon.”

“Half demon, half ghost.”

“Have you been here a long time?”

He nodded.

“Then you know how to find my mom!” she said. “You can be my guide! And as soon as we’re back in the living world, I promise I’ll say your name. And you won’t have to deal with your terrible mother ever again!”

It was a nice thought.

“You can’t get your mom,” he said. “That’s just a no-go.”

Her expression soured. “No-go with you, you mean,” she said. “You don’t really want to help me? Fine. I’ll manage by myself, I guess. That’s all I’ve been doing since my mom died, anyway.” She went for the door.

He scurried after her. “Lydia, wait! We can make a deal!”

Juno would kill her. That death wouldn’t be clean or fast. And then Juno could spend as long as she wanted punishing the newlydead girl for breaking the rules.

It wasn’t pleasant to discover there were still ideas that could make him want to vomit. Besides, if she went out by herself, he’d be losing his ticket to the living world. Another few centuries slogging around the office until the next stupid, lucky teenager came by. There was no point in not seeing this through as long as he could.

He forced a grin. “OK. I’ll be your guide.”

“You’ll help me find my mom?” she asked. “That’s really possible?”

“It’s really possible.”

It really wasn’t. He could try to argue with her, and eventually, she might listen and just go home. But if he was the one who burst her bubble, she’d be less inclined to do him a favor.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll help you find your mom. And I know exactly where to head. But first – we have to make you blend in.”

He smuggled the tiny goth out the back way, into the empty, rocky fields where the newlydeads lined up to head into the infinite Abyss that awaited them. No poor, unfortunate souls were hanging around just then, though you had to figure that people died about every second in the living room. He had given up trying to figure out the Netherworld’s relationship with time.

He made the tiny goth sit on a crag so they’d be eye-to-eye, and started rooting around his jacket for supplies. She looked skeptical, and he couldn’t blame her.

“How do I blend in?” Lydia asked.

“You have to look dead,” he said. “If you don’t go through the sensors – nice job, by the way, hopping right in the nearest line, very subtle – no one will automatically be able to tell you’re alive. But! If anyone gets within arm’s length, you’ll get caught. You have to stop flaunting your beating heart and functioning liver.”

“So I have to look recently deceased…” she said, and chewed on her bottom lip. “Should I put fake blood all over my face? Pretend I got poisoned?” She made a choking sound. “Maybe a noose?” She yanked one hand over her shoulder and let her head loll forward.

He tried not to flinch. She didn’t know that she’d just punched below the belt. Especially since he was wearing suspenders.

“Only newlydeads carry their wounds around,” he said. “That’s a good way to tell someone’s inexperienced. Have you seen the receptionist? She acts like she knows everything, but she’s still got those slit wrists, and the carbon monoxide skin.” He snorted. “Suicides.”

“I was going to jump off the roof of our new house,” Lydia said, very quietly. “Just yesterday. I wrote a note and everything.”

“Well, then, congratulations,” he said.

“For what?”

“For outdoing yourself. Running into hell wasn’t the dumbest idea you had this week. Have some grave dirt.” He tossed a handful of mud in her face.

She coughed, and tried to brush the dirt away, but just ended up smearing it across her forehead and cheeks. “What the HELL?”

“You have to make people believe you’ve been in the ground a long time. Get some of that under your fingernails, there you go. Now slouch!” he ordered. Her shoulders sagged. “Lower! Everything in your previous life is gone! No one cried at your funeral! Stoners are making out behind your head stone!”

“I’m deeeeead,” she said, stretching out the word and adding some vocal fry. She slid off the crag, and raised her arms like a zombie. Her eyes were half-closed. “Woe is me. How I long for one more breath.”

“Very nice.” He considered, then reached out and messed up her hair. “There. Dial it back by 30% and you’re golden.”

Her eyes lit up with a fervor only living teenagers had. “Does that mean we can go?”

“Yes. But you have to follow my lead, capeesh?”

“Capeesh,” she said, and he didn’t believe her.

He snapped his suspenders. “It’s showtime! Let’s go to Saturn!”

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice fanfiction #lawrence beetlejuice shoggoth #lydia deetz

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discourteouscuttlefish · 6 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Kayama Nemuri | Midnight Characters: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Kayama Nemuri | Midnight Additional Tags: oboro is mentioned often but not in it, post bnha vigilantes ch 64, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, i crave some emotional dealings and closure that the canon will NEVER give me, please let these boys provide emotional support to one another, they both think the other one blames them what a classic Summary:

Shouta has thrown himself into his training after Oboro's death, dedicated to making sure that he never fails another person he could have saved. Kayama, however, strongly disagrees with this coping method, as well as, his lack of willingness to go talk to Hizashi about it.

Wow wrote this fic like the tenderoni I am over the span of like, more time than it should have taken me!

The sun was just starting to dip below the tree line, illuminating the UA grounds in crimson light as Shouta finally decided to call it quits for the night. He’d started to push his training time later and later into the night. His parents hadn’t seemed bothered or seemed to notice at all for that matter; he supposed even if they had noticed the change in his training habits, this was time he’d previously spent hanging out with Oboro so it was no less time at home than usual. Oboro, who was no longer with him because Shouta had failed to act with the necessary quickness. Shouta had vowed that would never be the case again, and his improvements in his hero courses furthered his dedication to train as much as possible during his time at UA.

Typically, he had the training grounds to himself in the evenings, especially as he moved further into the woods. He preferred it that way; no distractions, no one trying to socialize, just pure training. This evening, however, he spotted another figure moving through the trees making a beeline for the clearing he was using to train. Though he could still only see the form’s silhouette in the diminishing evening light he could tell they were moving with determination and purpose.

Hopefully looking for someone else, he thought. It took a while to find a spot I wouldn’t be found or stumbled on.

Unfortunately, as the shadow emerged from the tree line, it revealed itself to be Nemuri. Shouta considered briefly that she may have timed her entrance because the shadows and last rays of red light highlighting her face certainly emphasized her aggravated facial expression.

“You’re here awfully late, Kayama.” He said, opting to ignore her expression and begin packing up his things instead.

I’m really not in the mood for another ‘intervention’ about my ‘coping mechanisms,’ as though that’s anyone’s business.

“What’s your problem?” She shot her first question at him with such force that he paused. That had not been what he’d expected.

“I... I’m not sure what you’re talking about...”

“Is this what you’re doing now? You don’t have time for anyone else? Morning, you train until class. Lunch, you train. Evening, you train. Weekends, you train. Is that all you’re going to do? Fuck the rest of us, I guess we never get to see you?” Nemuri was yelling, almost frantically, hands gesturing wildly as though trying to find an outlet to release her anger and frustration.

Shouta felt anger build inside him in response, why was this so hard for everyone to understand? Why couldn’t everyone leave him be?

“Yes. This is what I’m doing now... I watched my friend die in front of me,” his hands were clenched at his side and he could feel tears welling in his eyes. He cursed his eyes for betraying his anger and his grief. “He died because I wasn’t ready, but that’s never going to happen again. I’m not going to watch anyone die when I could prevent it. I’m sorry you don’t like how I’m dealing with it but that’s not my problem!”

Shouta was yelling now. Tears still pricking his eyes he can feel his face start to heat up, grateful now that night had fallen, and she hopefully couldn’t see he red face.

“And I don’t see why you’re so upset, it’s not like we were hanging out all the time before anyway. Most of the time I’m spending here I would have spent with Shirakumo...”

“And Hizashi.”

“... What?”

Nemuri had gone completely still. She may have been largely obscured by the darkness of the moonless night, but he could feel her eyes boring into his.

“And Hizashi.” She repeated punctuating each word.

His blood ran cold. All at once, the darkness and the chill of the early spring night caught up to him as he considered how to respond. If he was being honest, he’d been avoiding Hizashi outside of class and their classroom interaction was a necessity based their seat proximity but he’d kept in short and polite. The reasons had been numerous and, in Shoutas mind, logical. One was that Shouta desperately wanted to avoid Hizashi trying to talk to him about how he was feeling or coping. Shouta knew what he needed and wanted to do; he needed to get better, he needed to train and improve and learn from his failure. He was tired of everyone telling him he should take a break and recover. It was his mind, his grief, he knew how to get better and no one could understand that better than him.

The second had been the obvious side effect of his new routine. Hizashi was a social person, if he’d been with Shouta training he’d certainly have wanted to talk and distract Shouta and steer him to some other more exciting activity. He couldn’t afford that.

The third was perhaps less logical and more emotional, how could he look his friend in the eye after having let their other close friend die?

Shouta wasn’t dumb, he knew she wanted to know exactly that, why was he avoiding Hizashi? Yet, under her intense gaze he felt unable to verbalize any of his reasons. He’d never been good at sharing what he felt and why. He could tell, however, she was not going to move or continue until he said something.

“He seems like he’s doing fine to me. He was back to being the social butterfly within a month, I’m sure he can find better people to spend time with. I don’t know why he’d want to hang out with me anyway.”

He could tell instantly that he’d said the wrong thing.

“Why can’t you two ever just talk...” she’d whispered it, but in the silence that had fallen over them she may as well have screamed it in his face.

“He’s not okay.” Her voice was measured, as though she was putting a great deal of effort into keeping it steady. “He’s not. Okay. I’m worried about him, and you should be too. I’m worried he’s going to close himself to everyone and I don’t know what it will take for him to open up again... you think he’s strong because he can run around smiling all the time pretending nothing is wrong, but he’s not. It’s the opposite. He doesn’t know how to share the burden. Somewhere along the way he learned to close his true feelings off and just show what he thinks the world wants from him. But it can’t work forever, somethings going to break someday...”

Shouta felt his limbs growing numb and he was unsure if it was the cold or the creeping dread inside him.

“.. how am I supposed to help him? How do you even know he wants to see me?”

“Fuck, Shouta, he doesn’t need you to be his therapist, he needs you to be his friend!”

“I doubt he even still wants to be my friend...”

Kayama‘s eyes locked on him once more... she regarded him carefully, her face changing from confusion to recognition.

“You think he blames you for Oboro...”

He averted his gaze, finding an interesting patch of grass to study.

Kayama sighed, running her hand through her hair.

“Listen... I can promise you two things. One, Hizashi absolutely does not believe that. Two, he definitely wants to see you... more like needs to see you... The rest of your feelings you need to work out together, I won’t be the middleman for everything.”

She closed the gap between them and placed her hands on either of his shoulders.

“Please, go talk to him... for both your sakes.”

Shouta turned his head back towards her, gaze still firmly planted on the ground. After a moment he looked up and gave her a nod.

Finally, she seemed to relax, she spun on her heel wrapping her arm around his shoulder, leading him back toward UA.

“Thank you. Now please, let’s get out of here before I freeze to death.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shouta had dragged out his post-training shower for as long as he could justify but finally, he found himself walking the familiar route to Hizashi’s house. He wished he could do something about the tightening knot in his stomach. Every train and bus station he passed he fought the urge to just break off his path and head home.

Soon, he found himself outside a familiar home. He felt the knot tighten once more as he noted that all the lights appeared to be on. It was nearly 830 pm and in the back of his mind he’d hoped they would all be out and he could justify leaving so as not to disturb the rest of the Yamada family. But, as he reminded himself, it was a Friday and no one in the home had work or school to worry about.

He stood outside their door for what felt like an eternity, staring at the pale grain of the wooden door. After a minute, he willed himself to ring the doorbell, still hoping that no one would answer. He was quickly greeted by the familiar face of Hizashi’s mother. Shouta tried not to flinch at her emphatic signing as he was ushered into the house. He felt the knot tighten; she seemed a little too relieved to see him.

Shouta realized that, lost in his introspection, he’d entirely failed to process what she’d been signing to him. Granted, she’d signed with such speed and enthusiasm he may have had a hard time fully following it even not lost in thought.

Sorry, I’m tired, would you mind again slower? He returned in slow, unsure signs. He’d picked up quite a bit if he’d say so himself; Hizashi always laughed and said he’d give Shouta credit for his technical signing but deduct points until he could add in appropriate facial expressions to make his JSL complete. Shouta would like to say his lack of expressiveness was his big hangup now but really he’d never been the language savant Hizashi had and he could feel the holes in his knowledge where what he’d learned had slipped away since he’d not had cause to practice signing over the last few months.

It’s okay! We’ve missed you! I hope you are doing well it’s been quite some time. Is Hizashi expecting you?

No. Is he here? Where is everyone? Now he was just stalling. He hoped his lack of expression wasn’t making him seem curt.

She gave him a curious look but her smile quickly returned and she resumed signing, My wife’s in America for work, always traveling! The girls are in the kitchen. Hizashi is upstairs in the room you can go up.

He could see Hizashi’s three older sisters peering down the hall curiously at them. The youngest two seemed happy enough to see him, the oldest was somewhere on the fence between uncertainty and disapproval. She’d always been a mama bear, even more so than her mothers. He averted his gaze from them and looked up the stairs.

He signed ok with a nod and made his way up the stairs. The hallway that connected most of the bedrooms was, as always, brightly lit, brightly colored, and adorned with more pictures, paintings, and knick-knacks then he thought any house in Japan probably had spread across its entirety. The only thing out of the ordinary was the silence. The Yamada’s house was generally quieter than most homes since a majority of the communication was done via sign. However, this particular hallway was typically home to the sound of Hizashi blasting music at a just north of comfortable volume. Shouta often said he wished the other would be quieter, but in this moment he found he didn’t appreciate the others silence as much as he’d thought.

He gently knocked on the door he knew to belong to his friend. After some minor rustling behind the door it opened to a familiar face.

Hizashi looked... tired. Surprised to see Shouta, but more than anything tired. It was strange to see the blonde without any product or work in his hair, it was just held back by a simple head band. In general he was lacking his normal luster. Shouta wondered perhaps if Hizashi had looked this off at school and he had not noticed.

They stared at each other awkwardly for an eternal minute.

“... hey.” Shouta said dumbly.

Hizashi’s eyes widened and he made a vague erratic gesture in Shouta’s direction signaling him to wait. He ran back into his room, making a beeline to his hearing aids sitting out on the desk. Shouta made no move to follow him in, waiting awkwardly just outside the door wringing his hands. He’d been in this room a hundred times, but he couldn’t break through the feeling that he had no right to cross the threshold. A feeling that felt infinitely worse when Hizashi looked back in his direction seeming to have expected him to follow and been disappointed he had not. At least Shouta thought that it had looked like disappointment. He felt a little on edge about the ambiguity, normally Hizashi wore his heart on his sleeve and was one of the few people Shouta had no problem reading. Right now, the blonde’s expressions were subtle and vague, Shouta had a hard time making it out, especially over that big, fake smile Hizashi had just forced back onto his face.

“Haha sorry about that, what’s up? I wasn’t... expecting you...” Hizashi threw up some equally unconvincing finger guns to go with his wide grin. Shouta doubted this display would even be strong enough to convince their loosest acquaintances.

“I just wanted to see you... how you were doing that is...” Shouta hated how awkward it sounded, he wished he could communicate his feeling normally.

“How I’m...? Well I’m fine! Of course, I’m fine!”

Shouta averted his eyes and dropped his hands to his side clenching and unclenching them. God, he wished Nemuri was here. She had no problem expressing what she felt and what she thought others were feeling. He felt himself starting to get frustrated as he tried to figure out how he would get the other to open up. He had never considered that he’d be on this side of the conversation, normally it was Hizashi who was weaseling his way into Shouta’s thoughts.

“Are you ok? It’s not like you to drop by unplanned and started talking about feelings haha…”

“Please stop.”

Hizashi was taken aback. “Stop... what?”

Shouta looked back up to meet the other’s eyes.

“Please stop pretending you’re fine. I think I know you well enough to know a fake smile, or are you so done with me that’s all I get now.”

Hizashi’s expressing quickly changed from shock to anger, something Shouta has never been on the receiving end of from the blonde before.

“I’m done with you? I’m not the one who spends every waking hour running away from everyone to train in the woods! I can barely say two sentences to you before you run out of the classroom every day.” As he spoke, his volume increased to just above a normal volume and Shouta involuntarily flinched. Hizashi recoiled and mumbled and apology looking down at his feet.

Shouta was really wishing he hadn’t come.

“Look, I get that you don’t want to hang out with me anymore...” Fat tears had started spilling from Hizashi’s eyes, he desperately rubbed at them beneath his glasses. “Hearing my voice is probably just one more reminder of that building collapsing, even I can’t use my own quirk without the memory of it bringing down the building on Oboro replaying again and again.”

Ah. Shouta finally understood what Nemuri had meant. Hizashi didn’t blame Shouta for Oboro’s death, he thought that Shouta blamed him for it. He felt wretched, but he also felt like a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt tears begin to run down his own face.

Finally, he crossed into the bedroom and wrapped his arms around Hizashi, who tensed in his arms. Shouta wasn’t big on physical contact, but he knew Hizashi was and he didn’t think he minded it so much if it was with Hizashi.

“I don’t think it’s your fault, Hizashi,” he mumbled onto the blonde’s chest. “I was afraid. Afraid of being too weak to save others... afraid that you would see that I was too weak to save Oboro...”

Hizashi choked on a sob and finally released the tension he was holding and returned Shouta’s embrace. He buried his face in Shouta’s hair.

Sniffling for a little while longer, Hizashi finally managed to compose himself.

“That’s pretty stupid.” He half laughed in a raspy voice.

Shouta snorted, “You’re pretty stupid.”

“Maybe so.”

Shouta finally pulled away and looked his friend in the face. “We are having basically our first emotionally sincere conversation in months and you quote a GIF at me?”

Hizashi starts laughing again, wiping the last tears from his face.

“Sooooo… does this mean we can go back to hanging out again? I miss you. At the very least can I come hang out with you while you train? I promise I’ll be quiet.”

“I don’t want that...”

Hizashi immediately looked like he was about to cry again and Shouta cursed himself for his lack of verbosity.

“I mean I don’t want you to be quiet... well I kind of do sometimes... but I don’t want you to be quiet unless you want too...”

“Awww Shouta! So soft! I can’t wait to distract you at training and peer pressure you into doing things that are actually fun!”

Shouta stifled a laugh, “I retain my ability to revoke your invitation.”

Hizashi pouted and threw a hand up to his heart and the other to his forehead, dramatically flinging himself onto the bed.

“I don’t think I can take the heartbreak!”

After a few overly exaggerated death throws and a few seconds of pretending to be deceased, Hizashi popped back up and looked at Shouta.

“So... do you wanna, like, spend the night? It’s getting pretty late and I feel like if you try and go home, you’ll just pass out under a train station bench like a salary man. Plus, we’ve got plenty of catching up to do. Well I’ve got lots to tell you, as you’ve done nothing but train like a dork, I imagine this is gonna be pretty one sided haha!”

Shouts rolled his eyes and dropped his bag on the floor. Sending a quick text to let his mother know he wasn’t coming back, he flopped face down on Hizashi’s bed.

“Wow you could have at least laid down on one side and not the middle; it’s like having a pet.” Hizashi laughed, aggressively throwing himself on the bed half on top of Shouta, who grumbled but didn’t move.

As Shouta listened to Hizashi ramble about the goings on at UA and the student drama, he felt lighter and more relaxed than he had in months. He wiggled his hand free from under Hizashi and draped his arm over his friend, blinding grabbing at one of those wildly gesticulating hands. Hizashi brought his hand down and allowed their fingers to intertwine, a thoughtless action which caused no pause in his exuberant gossiping.

Shouta allowed himself to starting drifting off to the sound of Hizashi’s rambling. Though he would never admit to her, as he lay there, he was incredibly grateful to Nemuri for coming to interrupt him that evening.

#bnha vigilantes #bhna #erasermic #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #kayama nemuri #present mic #eraserhead #bnha vigilantes ch 64 spoilers #i straight up started writing this after 64 came out and was so slow 65 has been out for like a week

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