#patiently picking their way through accompanying it on piano

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: February 10

“Blues Run the Game” by Jackson C Frank

[terrm9]

Father’s Day

Ethan makes sure to celebrate the Father’s Day with his daughter. (Ethan X Chiara X Matilda)

Words count: 4 000

Warnings: two swear words, fluff

Author’s note: I don’t know what happened here guys. I am so sorry, this fic lacks plot and point, depth, quality, this truly is one fluffy piece of shit. I had a good feeling about it when the idea appeared in my brain and then I started to write and nothing seemed right. And I just kept telling myself ‘just keep writing and it will start making sense. It will get better’... and suddenly the fic is finished and it still doesn’t make sense. I was so close to not posting it, but then I thought that sometimes mindless fluff can make my mood better and so maybe it can do some good to you too. Love you all and I promise I won’t be angry or hurt if you hate this:D

Also Ethan is ~47 in this fic, if you thought I wouldn't mention his graying hair, I am sorry but I did

Also also, I didn't find the strength needed for a proof reading this and so I didn't proof read it. If you see a mistake, please pretend you don't see it

The sun was long set at the time Ethan stepped into the apartment and even though he rationally knew that it was late, he couldn’t quite give up on his hope that maybe Matilda was still up. On the days like this, when more patients came in than out of the hospital and there was so much of a paperwork that he has to bring it home with him, there is nothing Ethan loved more than to put his daughter to sleep and then spend a nice quiet evening with Chiara.

But of course, Matilda was fast asleep – judging by the silence filling the whole apartment – and so Ethan was looking forward to skipping to the part of sharing an evening with his wife.

Chiara didn’t notice him as he stepped into the living room, her nose slightly crinkled as she was filling some papers spread on the dining table, white earpods in her ears.

Looks like I am not the only one to bring work home with me today.

Ethan stopped in his tracks for a moment, just inhaling the familiar scent of Chiara and home and absorbing the picture in front of him. Even after alsmot ten years since he met her for the first time, even though she was his wife now, someone he woke up next to every morning, Chiara still – always – managed to knock the air out of his lungs. How her smile only gained more brightness through the years and how she looked almost like a girl with her hair braided on one side.

Had he been an artist, he would call her his muse.

But he was just a man, a doctor with any artistic words stuck in his throat and so he just kept staring at Chiara and thought, inspiration, that’s what she was, because even the most rational of men could get inspired.

„I can feel you standing there,“ Chiara exclaimed suddenly, putting the earpods off and turning to him with that bright smile.

„My apologies,“ he smiled faintly and crossed the distance between them to give her, what Chiara called ‚a proper greeting‘. He kissed her softly and it only took the feeling of Chiara’s warm body under his hands to ease the tension in him almost completely.

„Matilda missed you tonight,“ Chiara murmured into his chest, not willing to break their embrance.

„As I missed her,“ Ethan sighed. „Did you have an eventful afternoon?“

Chiara chuckled at that, parting from him at last to switch her phone off and leave the work on the dining table.

„Just the usual. The teacher asked them to draw themselves in the future and she couldn’t decide which version of that future she should draw because she wants to be everything.“

Ethan could imagine the conversation very well. Matilda, at the age of five, knew exactly what she didn't want to become when she grows up - a doctor. She kept shifting between wishing to be a travel blogger like her aunt Kyra or a photographer like aunt Alicia. After a weekend spent in Providence, she proclaimed that she could also imagine being a cable repairwoman like grandpa, because grandpa has the coolest coworkers that came over and let her eat chocolate cookies and watch football with them. And if by any unfortunate coincidence she should become a doctor after all, she would definitely be a surgeon like uncle Bryce, because he actually cuts people and that's much more interesting than her parents' job. All they do is talk about the patients.

„I promised her you would take her to school tomorrow. You have rounds in the morning but I can taker over,“ which would only be a service for you, she thought to herself. „That would certainly make her feel better.“

„Was she that sad that I didn’t come home earlier?“

"Oh, she was more sad about the Father's Day program at her school – you know, the one where kids and their dads go together - but I explained her why you had to miss it."

Ethan furrowed his brows, confused for a while.

"Why do I have to miss it?" he asked as he picked Matilda's stuffed llama from the floor.

"It's the Wednesday when you are at the conference in Seattle."

Ethan put the toy on the couch next to Til's favourite blanket and sat down before responding, his voice carrying no sign of hesitation.

"If there's a Father's Day program at her school and she wants me to be there, I'll be there."

Ethan knew all too well why he was so persistent on being there.

He wished he didn’t know, but he did.

Because he knew what it felt like to spend so many of his Mother’s Days programms with his teeth gritted, wishing it could all just end.

He could still remember the first Mother’s Day without Luise, how his teacher walked into the class and told them that they would create nice postcards for their moms and how Ethan’s classmate pointed his finger at him and said: „And what is Ramsey going to do? It’s not fair that he doesn’t need to do anything for the whole hour.“

It was the first time Ethan punched someone.

There was no way, no way, that he would allow his daughter to feel any of those feelings.

His thoughts were interrupted by Chiara, now sitting right next to him, a soft concern visible on her features.

„Alan and Naveen would go with her, you know. She wouldn’t be alone.“

„I am her father.“

„And you are also an author of the study this whole conference is going to be about.“

Ethan knew Chiara was right, just as he knew that she was doing this not because she didn’t want him to attend the programm, rather because she respected and supported his career.

But her arguments were of no use. Ethan’s mind was made up and he only wondered if this is what it felt like, all those years ago, when he pushed Chiara away in order to support her career. The idea of putting career first was making him uncomfortable and all he could do was to think, how did Chiara see it all those years ago?

Or rather, how did he not see it back then?

He had no answers, only his gratitude that she stayed and showed him the world through her eyes.

„Aurora is just as much of an author as me. She can handle the conference without me just fine. You can go with her.“

„Me?“ Chiara asked incredulously.

„Sure. They don’t really care which Dr. Ramsey will come.“

Ethan aged well. More wrinkles circled the corners of his eyes and the grey hair on his temples were not an optical illusion anymore (and Chiara has never found him more handsome than now) and his gaze changed too, the cold blue of his eyes almost forgotten, as his eyes were warm and soft almost all the time he was with his family.

Ethan aged and changed and yet there was a thing that didn’t change in the slightest in these last years. His insufferable stubborness.

And so Chiara knew that he won’t change his mind and that there was no point in trying to and while it warmed her heart to see how in love with Matilda Ethan was, the study was important to him.

Obviously not important enough, however, and Chiara decided not to push him any further. Instead, she asked curiously.

„And what are you going to perform? What if Matilda wants to do something crazy?" Chiara raised an eyebrow.

"Of course she won't want anything crazy. What if it were my father and Naveen taking her?"

Chiara laughed wholeheartedly at his question, because for someone so brilliant, sometimes Ethan was desperately clueless when it came to people around him - and what they were willing to do for their daughter.

"Please, this is Naveen and Alan you are talking about. Matilda could say she wants to sing Hakuna Matata and they would come dressed as Timon and Pumba."

"Ah," Ethan exhaled, obviously only now realizing that Chiara was, indeed, right. And singing - or dancing, for God's sake - was not part of his plan. "Well, she can play some basic compound on the piano, she has learned some already. And I could accompany her on the cello."

Chiara choked on the water she was just drinking, turning to look at Ethan so swiftly, his brows furrowed in a concern for her neck.

"On a what now?"

“A cello. I thought you knew that I used to play the cello as a kid.”

“Of course, but the as a kid part is important. I mean, I played a piano as a kid and now I couldn’t play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star if my life depended on it.”

Ethan laughed, wrapping his arm around Chiara in a half-hug and had to bite his tongue not to tell her that maybe Matilda could teach her, as she already could play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star exceptionally well.

“I might have stopped playing actively when I was ten, but I found a certain sense of serenity in music – and playing – for a long time after that. I-,” Ethan stopped himself, mulling over his next words. It was not like he didn’t want to tell Chiara anything, but talking about his years at med school was not something he did often. “I befriended a music shop’s owner back in Baltimore. He was a nice guy, barely older than me and so very different. He had musical instruments for sale there and as we became closer, he let me borrow the cello and play a little in the back of the shop. It became a thing that helped me clear my head when school became too stressful and it also helped me not to forget how to play. I think Matilda’s level on the piano is very close to what I can remember with the cello.”

Now all he had to do was to find someone who would borrow him the cello.

*** *** ***

Ethan always found it amusing, how his mornings with Matilda differed compared to Matilda’s mornings with Chiara.

He made sure to wake her up earlier than usual, so that they could cook breakfast together and have some time to spare.

Chiara – the person that hated mornings more than eggplants – did all she could to stay in bed for as long as possible. She would rather prepare Matilda’s breakfast in the evening and run to the school than wake up before 6 AM.

And it seemed like Matilda realized this difference quite soon, for all the times Ethan came to wake her up, she knew she could ask him to join her in bed for a few minutes.

"Hey, little Rookie," Ethan whispered, softly stroking Matilda's curls out of her forehead so that he could press a gentle kiss on it. "Time to wake up. We don't want to be late for school."

The little Rookie nickname was first used when Til was perhaps one year old and it made her giggle so hard Ethan kept using it. Chiara found it extremely funny, always pointing out that Matilda was nothing if not Ethan’s exact copy – and she was right. With her big blue eyes and long curly dark hair, there was no doubt that she was Ethan’s daughter. Not that the similarities ended in her physical appearence – she was phenomenally subborn for a five year old (to which Ethan always argued that she could as well inherit that from Chiara) and sarcasm was her second language. She also might have used ‚fuck‘ once or twice and Ethan knew it’s not Chiara she heard that from.

You should call her little Terminator, Chiara always teased and partly, she was right.

But there were many traits and marks of Chiara in their daughter, marks not so visible but unmistakely hers. How Matilda’s smile was always bright and warm and sincere, something only Chiara could pass on. How she came home one day from school and asked Ethan if he could make cupcakes with her, because her classmate loves cupcakes but his parents are too busy to make them for him and so she would love to bring him some to school. How she appreciated the most common of things, like sun shining because it makes her skin warm and also rain falling because she can jump in the puddles. Her genuine curiosity and open heart and just her general need to make people around her feel good.

That was all Chiara’s mark and Ethan loved his two girls so much it sometimes still surprised him. That he was capable of such love.

It also made him want more sometimes. More people to love that much.

„Snuggle time, please?“ Matilda smiled, her eyes still closed and Ethan was prepared, he knew this request would come and so he didn’t even need to check the watch to know that he could lay down next to her, the tiny bed making his position rather awkward.

He snuggled Matilda from behind and between her slow stirs as she began to wake up and his soft kisses put on the back of her head, he whispered how excited he was to attend the Father’s Day program with her.

*** *** ***

Ethan didn’t even need to try hard to persuade Matilda that a piano-cello duet would be better to perform than a dance. She liked the idea from the beginning and after going through her music sheets with Chiara, she happily exclaimed that they could try to learn Hedwig’s Theme together. Her eyes were bright and full of excitement and Ethan knew the decision was already made, because he couldn’t resist that face.

And so they performed and for a girl who was five and her father, who was almost fifty, they did a great job. Seeing Matilda’s pure, unadultered joy and excitement and so much gratitude that her dad could be there with here, was something Ethan would consider one of the best moments of his life forever.

Tillie was almost jumping up and down with the happiness as they watched her classmates and their fathers or grandfathers or mothers in some cases or maybe even uncles perform their numbers. She was clapping hard after every single one and she kept waving at everyone, her smile so wide Ethan thought for a while that she resembled Bryce more than anyone. The thought made him chuckle, because Matilda would love to hear that, as Bryce was her hero and possibly the best person she could spend her sleepovers at.

Ethan could hardly say that he enjoyed being surrounded by so many people, but he sincerely did enjoy spending the day with his kid. He didn’t regret choosing making a fool out of himself in front of bunch of kids instead of the conference. He almost forgot about the conference altogether until Aurora’s call interrupted the bustle full of laughter around them.

She only called him to let him know that all went well and she was off to have a lunch with other diagnosticians that helped with the study.

"Yes, alright. I'll see you on Monday. Good job, Aurora," Ethan put the phone back into his pocket and turned to Matilda.

"I am sorry you missed the conference because of me, dad."

Ethan knelt down so that he could face his daughter, the very same blue eyes he knew from mirrors, looking back at him, wide and curious.

He smiled softly, kissing Matilda's forehead before responding.

"I am not. No conference is that important, and just between the two of us," Ethan lowered his voice and put his best serious face on, causing the mischievous sparks ignite in Tillie's eyes "Conferences are so boring. You saved me from a torture."

She giggled and threw her arms around Ethan's neck, squeezing him as hard as a five years old could.

"Now let's go, I think there's an ice cream that needs to be eaten."

"But daddy you said ice creams are sugar bomb!"

Ethan chuckled at her shocked expression - not sure is it was a genuine one or an act - and took her little hand into his.

"I'll pretend I don't see you eating it."

Matilda squealed and before her ‚no sugar in this house‘ dad could change his mind, she stormed off in the direction of the ice cream truck.

Before she could reach her destination, however, she stopped in her tracks and tugged on Ethan’s sleeve, pointing at the little girl sitting under one of the trees – alone.

„That’s Dorothy! She is my best friend.“

Yes, Ethan remembered Matilda mentioning Dorsey, her best friend, quite often, but he never got a chance to meet her before. The girl was tiny, much smaller than Matilda – which inherited Ethan’s significant height, too – her hair almost white and her eyes similar to Matilda’s, big and blue but not even close to being as bright.

„She doesn’t have a dad,“ Matilda added, her voice much less excited now. „She didn’t want to come here but her mom has to be at work.“

Ethan’s heart tightened at her words, the description of Dorothy’s situation reminding him of his own when he was a kid way too much.

„Why don’t you go and ask her to join us for an ice cream?“ Ethan smiled at Matilda faintly.

Before he could as much as blink, Matilda was gone and in the very next moment, both girls were back, smiling up at him, his own kid widely and Dorothy very shyly.

„Hello, Dorothy,“ Ethan knelt down and smiled at her encouragingly. „I am Ethan. It is my pleasure to meet you, Matilda talks about you a lot.“

„Hello,“ Dorothy muttered, not meeting his eyes and Ethan noticed she was holding Matilda’s hand.

Without any other word, he stood up and led both girls to find an ice cream truck, only half-listening to what they were talking about – enough to recognize that Dorothy was much more open when talking to Matilda, but not enough to register particular words.

Maybe that’s why Matilda’s next question took him off the guard.

„Right, daddy? I was just telling Dorsey that you could be her dad, right? And I would be her sister!“

Ethan’s eyes widened and before he could find the right words – gentle but also firm enough to explain that that’s not exactly how these things work, Matilda spoke again.

„She could come over anytime and we could have sleepovers like the ones I have with uncle Bryce or grandpa and we would play together and I could borrow her my toys, right?“

Ethan nodded and smiled, of course Dorothy is always welcome to stay at our place, and let the topic go, because there was nothing wrong about his daughter having best friend that would come over.

Thirty minutes later, all three of them sat at the grass and ate their ice creams and it was easy to forget the previous converstaions.

*** *** ***

Until he came into his office, a week after the Father’s Day and found Chiara waiting for him, her arms crossed at her chest and her expression unusually stoic.

Before he could ask what was wrong, Chiara spoke.

„Matilda’s teacher just called.“

„What?“ Ethan stepped closer, automatically reaching into his pocket to make sure his phone, wallet and car keys are there and he is ready to leave and pick up Matilda at any moment. „Is something wrong? Is she in trouble? Sick?“

„She is absolutely alright,“ Chiara shook her head sligthly, her face unreadable – something that scared Ethan more than her visible anger. „She just called me to let me know about the rumors going around Matilda’s class these past few days. She thought it would be better if I found out from her rather than from other parents.“

„Rumors?“ Ethan asked, utterly lost and confused.

It took all the willpower Chiara had not to let her facade slip and keep her expression neutral. But teasing Ethan was one of her main hobbies, even after ten years, and so she tried her best.

„Apparently, Matilda and Dorothy Wilkins told everyone that they are in fact sisters. They have different mommies but the same dad – no other than the famous Dr. Ramsey,“ now, it was really hard not to laugh. Ethan’s whole face paled and the confusion was quickly replaced by recognition. „The other kids shared the news with their parents and now those parents talk.“

Ethan didn’t know that Matilda told Chiara about her idea of Ethan becoming Dorothy’s dad the very same evening she shared it with Ethan himself and even though Chiara tried to explain why that idea is not going to work the way the wished it would, Matilda was stubborn. Meaning, Matilda adopted Dorothy as her sister anyway and didn’t mind sharing her dad with her.

„Fuck,“ Ethan whispered, pacing around the office, not really looking up at Chiara.

If he did, he would catch her grinning.

She cleared her throat quickly and added: „Some of the parents came to tell the poor teacher that they appreciate how civil the mothers of Matilda and Dorothy are about the whole thing and that it must’ve taken much strength of our spirits to put out kids into same school.“

She couldn’t anymore. The first chuckle escaped her and when Ethan’s eyes met hers, the mischievous sparks were dancing on full display in her irises, her smile wide and so amused.

Ethan exhaled a sigh full of relief and rolled his eyes and when he looked at Chiara again, she was laughing softly, badly trying to cover her laugh with the hand over her mouth.

The bizarreness of the whole situation and his wife’s reaction made Ethan laugh too and he slumped down on the couch, pulling Chiara with him.

„We should give some kind of explanation, right?“ he whispered when they both calmed down.

„Oh, I don’t know. I am the civil one,“ Chiara smirked smugly. „And with a strong spirit!“

Ethan laughed again at that, thinking about how any kind of rumors about him and Chiara startled him in the beginning of their relationship and how over the years, Chiara managed to teach him to just let people talk.

„She really wants that sibling, huh?“ Chiara broke the silence, poking his side softly.

„Yes, she does,“ Ethan nodded.

„And you would...want that too, right?“ Chiara asked again, this time much more seriousness in her voice.

Both Chiara and Ethan were decided to adopt a child back in the days they believed they would never have their own. After Matilda was born, they didn’t really talk about it anymore – they felt too blessed, too lucky that they’ve gotten her and they were happy.

But the thoughts of adoption never truly left their heads and Chiara knew that especially Ethan considered the option often. She could see him talking to Matilda when she asked for a sister or a brother for her birthday, she saw the dreamy smile as they spoke about little kids.

And it was not like she was against the idea of adopting a child – quite the opposite. She grew up with two siblings and her brother and sister were one of the best parts of her childhood. She wished she could give Matilda the same feeling, the same love she recieved at her age. She just felt like she would be asking for too much, like it would be selfish to want another little human that would make them happy, when they already had one.

Those thoughts were not rational, but they were there and they slowed her decisions down.

„Yes, I would,“ Ethan nodded after a long while, looking straight into Chiara’s eyes.

He would never push her. But he wouldn’t lie either.

Chiara nodded and leaned in to press a soft kiss on Ethan’s mouth, pouring her emotions into it, her excitement with the idea just as strong as her anxiety.

Deep down, she knew that the decision has just been made. That no matter how openly they talked about it or expressed themselves, all three Ramseys wished to share their love and happiness with another soul.

[sytco]

common blessings [joochan]

pairing: childhood friend!hong joochan x reader

word count: 3.5k (!)

requested: "toothrotting fluff ft. joochan"

dedicated to @sahiflowers.

a/n: im SO SO sorry this took so long and i hope u like it even a little and that it makes u smile thank u for being so patient ily!! ily!!! reminder im always here for u!!

In which you find that time is meaningless when Joochan is not by your side.

~

wonderboy.

-

Sometimes, you speculate whether Joochan has some kind of genius for finding you as soon as the school bell rings, signalling the end of another day.

Today, he surprises you behind the auditorium where you lean against a maple tree, hugging your bag to your chest, because you’ve skipped your last period (Introduction to Psychology) in favor of lying on the grass so you can watch the clouds in peace. And Joochan smiles a fond, fond smile because you have that look on your face again that you only get when you’re lost in thought.

“Missed me?”

You tense from shock before relaxing at the sight of your boyfriend who widens his arms so you can walk right into them.

“How’d you find me?” Your voice is muffled in the fabric of his vest and Joochan reaches up so he can play with the back of your collar.

“Just had a little hunch you might be here.” And this is the answer he always gives, accompanied with the same smug smile each time.

You pout even if Joochan can’t see it. “That doesn’t explain anything.”

“Well now,” he says in an affected voice that sounds like the narrator from that National Geographic documentary on penguins the two of you watched last week, “I can’t afford to have you getting your hands on all my secrets, can I? I’ve got to keep some things to myself so that in ten year's time, you’ll still think I’m the most amazing and magical boy in the universe.”

It’s ridiculous, you think, how it’s nearly winter but the way you can feel the laughter that starts in his chest and electrifies you to your fingertips is more than capable of keeping you warm and making you feel like you’re really alive.

“Doesn’t matter if I find out all your secrets or not,” you mumble, “you’ll always be the most amazing and magical boy in the universe to me.”

From the courtyard around the corner, you can hear Jaehyun shouting a loud “Oi Joochan!”.

Joochan ignores him and instead casually pecks your cheek with a kiss that feels like a blessing. “Always?”

You tilt your head as though unsure. "Well… for at least fifty years, probably.”

“Fifty?!” Joochan echoes in mock outrage, and you playfully poke his side to which he flinches slightly.

“I was lying. I meant for all of time ever.”

And despite him doing his best to hide it, your boyfriend melts instantly, burying his face in the crook of your neck where he’s probably smiling his brilliant smile that feels like the sun against your skin.

Jaehyun’s voice interrupts the peace and quiet once again with a noticeably louder and more panicked tone.

“Hong Joochan! We’re going to be late for soccer practice!”

Joochan groans exaggeratedly and you can’t help but giggle at his theatrics. “Wish I didn’t have to go to stupid practice,” he grumbles.

“You know, I’ll wait for you in the library until you’re done,” you offer and Joochan perks up - if only slightly because your arms still feel like heaven after years of loving you, and two hours of kicking a ball around (while Donghyun and Jibeom brainstorm inventive ways to trip each other up, much to Coach Lee’s chagrin) just can’t compete. He tells you as much in the way his arms tighten around you.

“You’re the best,” Joochan declares suddenly, “I might be the most amazing and magical boy in the universe, but you’re the best.”

You snort. “Go to practice already before Jaehyun starts going spare, wonderboy.”

Joochan kisses your forehead one last time before he detaches himself from you with a dejected sigh and picks up your bag, slinging it over his shoulder despite your protests. “Walk with me to the oval?”

You slip your hand into his hand only to find it a perfect fit and wonder briefly if there is anywhere in this world you would not walk to with Hong Joochan, the boy who has a smile like sunlight and a personality like a billion shooting stars.

“Of course.”

*

fm.

-

There is the occasional moment in which you wish that your boyfriend wasn’t so exceedingly talented in nearly every field he tries his hand at, because the various extracurriculars that Joochan (being the naturally energetic and enthusiastic person he is) involves himself with have an awful way of making tremendous demands on his time towards the end of the semester.

Right now is one of those moments when Joochan trudges into your room and dives face first onto your bed without even bothering to shake his coat off. “So what was it today?” you ask in a voice that betrays your concern and Joochan can’t help but smile at it.

“Theatre rehearsal,” he yawns, “then string quartet practice. Also an hour of soccer drills with some of the boys. Even though it’s a Saturday.”

You get up from your chair at the desk so you can sit on the bed where Joochan immediately moves his head onto your lap, lifting your hand and resting it on his hair. You absentmindedly start stroking it, staring out the window at a soft grey sky.

“Did you eat?”

Joochan shakes his head. “No time. My dumb E string broke again so I barely managed to have half an apple before we went straight into a new Mozart piece today. Think we might perform it at the next concert. You’d come, right?” And he asks that in a self-assured tone, because he already knows what your answer is going to be.

You give it to him anyway because there’s no point in hiding your blatant admiration for all that he does. “No matter what.”

“And just to see me, right?”

You fake a pause that has Joochan peering up at you suspiciously.

“You do know I have friends who aren’t you that are participating in the concert, right? Like Jangjun and Sungyoon?”

Joochan scowls. “But none of those hooligans are your boyfriend, who - in case you forgot but I do know you’d never - is me.”

“That’s quite true,” you concede before leaning down to kiss his cheek with a smile that makes Joochan’s stomach fill with butterflies which are probably colored pink and green and blue. It never gets old, he thinks: your talent for turning his world upside down in a look or a word or an action. And you don’t even know you’re doing it most of the time.

“Mean,” he accuses but in a half-hearted manner and your smile only widens because you know that Joochan is supremely happy despite his exhaustion, if the way his brow has smoothed completely and he has started drawing little stars on your knee is anything to go by.

There’s a gentle lull in the conversation while you continue to run your fingers through Joochan’s hair, and especially his fringe. It’s almost as though time has passed you by, leaving you together in your own little reality where things like hazy futures and big concerts and broken violin strings do not dare draw near.

“Wanna order something later on for dinner?” you ask quietly.

“Maybe,” he grins through closed eyes, “but nap first.”

Your radio continues to run, and you drift in and out of listening to the DJ duo while watching the rain finally fall outside.

“It’s been pretty cold recently, hasn’t it?” one of the DJs opens the conversation after a small stream of ads.

“Sure has, pal. And speaking of the cold, apparently our first snow of the season is scheduled for next week Friday!”

“So do you have any plans lined up with a special someone?”

“Just had to remind me of how single I am, didn’t you”- rambunctious peals of laughter crackle from the speakers - “but maybe some of our lovely listeners will send in their plans for next Friday.”

“I sure did - and wow, they’re already pouring in! Do you wanna read one out?”

“Let’s see… Listener ha_miii_ran says: ‘I’m planning on confessing to my crush of two years. I’m pretty nervous about this so I’m hoping the two of you will wish me luck!’ All the best of luck to you, Ha Miran-nim, from the both of us. I don’t know how you’re planning on it, but hopefully the first snow will act as a good luck charm for you!”

“Yeah, good luck Ha Miran-nim!” the other DJ chimes in. “Be sure to update us on how it goes!”

“Well, we’ll be back with some more stories after this excerpt from a famous piano concerto - maybe some of our more classically-inclined audience will recognise its globally renowned composer.”

A beautiful melody begins to play and you’re on the cusp of losing yourself in the music when you are most abruptly interrupted by a sleepy, but decisive, “Gershwin.”

You blink down at Joochan. “What?”

“It’s Gershwin. The composer. Don't you think your boyfriend's clever for knowing that?"

“I thought my boyfriend was asleep, actually,” and you narrow your eyes.

“I was,” Joochan protests, “I only woke up when they were talking about the snow or something. And then they talked about that person who’s confessing to their crush of two years - got me thinking about how I can relate because I vividly remember having a crush on you for at least three before I could muster up the courage to confess. Which ended up working out for the best, you know,” he adds in a thoughtful tone, “but sometimes I’d get so nervous just thinking about it that I couldn’t sleep at all. Anyways, I’m really hungry now, so can we order something soon please?”

Maybe it’s the way he so nonchalantly wears his heart for you on his sleeve, or maybe it’s the way he looks at you as though you have strung the Milky Way itself together and made a gift of it to him. Maybe it’s the way you simply realize that you might not be able to live with yourself if you were to lose your boyfriend, ever. But for whatever reason it is, a thousand smiles bloom in your heart and you lean down to give Joochan a kiss that hopefully tastes like everything you cannot possibly put into words.

“Anything you want,” you whisper, and Joochan draws a heart on your knee in response.

*

enchanted.

-

You’re outside the auditorium again but in front of it, this time, and not behind. The post-concert hubbub has died down, mostly owing to the fact that much of the audience has left already whether it’s to a late congratulatory supper or down to the boardwalk where fireworks are scheduled to go off at midnight. The bouquet of lily of the valleys in your hand trembles slightly as you use your other hand to fumble around for your ringing phone.

“Hello?”

“You’re waiting outside, right?” Joochan asks.

“Yeah, I am.”

“See, Donghyun, I told you I was right about - wait. Wait! Don't move!”

And then you have less than two seconds to process exactly what is happening before your boyfriend catches you up in a running embrace that sends the world spinning in a flurry of snow and stars and kisses that Joochan plants all over your cheeks. He remains blissfully unaware that somewhere in the vicinity, Donghyun has started making gagging sounds at your very public display of affection, punctuated by Jaehyun’s giggling. (You pay them no mind.)

“Did you enjoy the concert?” he asks, fond expectation twinkling in his eyes.

You nod too much. “You were incredible,” you tell him honestly, and Joochan beams.

“I was, wasn’t I?” he says in a satisfied voice as he pulls you closer. “Guess all those hours of practice paid off.”

“It’s almost like that’s the whole point of practicing,” you tease.

“It’s lucky you’re cute and I’m hopelessly in love with you,” Joochan crinkles his nose in contrived distaste for your little jab before hugging you again so he can hear you whisper just how proud you are of him, right into his ear.

And the two of you stay like that for a little before you remember the gift you brought with you.

“For me?” And the look in his eyes reminds you of how he looked at you when you first told him that you loved him too - or maybe of every time you’ve told him that you love him too.

“Who else?”

He snaps up the bouquet, pressing it against his nose and inhaling deeply with a smile. "This is a nice surprise."

"They mean 'return to happiness'," you say, gently touching a little white bloom that looks like a star against the backdrop of Joochan's black school blazer. "Thought it was cute. And the florist was sold out of roses anyway."

Joochan laughs with the warmth of a thousand sunbeams and puts your hand in his so he can start gently tugging you away.

“But your violin”- you begin protesting.

“But nothing,” he shushes you as the school gets smaller and smaller behind you in the distance. “I don’t even want to see that thing for a week. Hey, and guess what - I found a secret place for just you and me so we can watch the fireworks without being pressed up against everyone else like sardines in a tin can.”

“You and I are going to watch the fireworks?” you echo, surprise colouring your voice.

Joochan’s exhale turns into a giggle. “Who else?” And you dig an elbow into his side, hiding a smile at his antics.

The two of you stroll down quiet streets and you lean into your boyfriend’s comforting warmth. Most shops are closed with the exception of some fast food chains and convenience stores, but you notice almost none of them now as Joochan picks up the pace, his excitement bleeding into the quiet song he sings that floats up in the air and is lost somewhere in the stars above.

“Here we are,” says Joochan proudly and he helps you up into the little gazebo at the top of the hill you hadn’t realized you were climbing. “Take this,” he adds as he tosses you a torch that brightly illuminates the space you’re in as soon as you switch it on. You turn to the rustling sounds on your left, finally seeing the wooden bench that Joochan is busy spreading a rug over.

“You planned this beforehand?” And there’s a note of wonder in your voice - the same kind that only Joochan ever seems to be able to evoke. “I thought we were going straight home.”

He gestures for you to sit next to him with a charming smile and you do so immediately. “Told you I can’t give up all the secrecy. Not yet.” Or, he thinks privately to himself, not when you look at him like that.

The golden light from the torch casts long shadows over the grass and gives Joochan’s face a nearly ethereal glow that reminds you of summer sunsets despite the cold. You slip into a soft and easy silence - one that comes from memories built upon memories, resulting in a code made up of gazes and touch that only the two of you will ever understand. And so when he squeezes your hand gently, you instantly open your arms for him to sink right into.

There’s only a few minutes left until midnight when you finally speak.

“Joochan,” you murmur.

“Mm?”

“You ever think about where we’ll be this time next year?”

Joochan shifts his posture slightly. “Often, actually. Especially when I go to sleep at night and think about tomorrow - then I’ll wonder if it’ll even remotely go the way I want it to.”

“And how do you usually want it to go?” you ask.

“Someone has a lot of questions today,” Joochan remarks with a droll look on his face that makes you laugh briefly before his expression sobers. “But usually I want it to go safely. You know? Everything in its proper place and things like that. And more importantly, I want to know all the time that I’ll be able to see you.”

You’re silent for a moment, looking out over the view of the city. If you squint, you can just make out the boardwalk by the beach and the crowds of people who have gathered there, young and old alike. “I’m scared sometimes.”

Joochan frowns. “Scared of what? I’ll fight it off for you,” and he waves a threatening fist at nothing in particular.

“The future, I guess. It sounds silly but… sometimes I don’t know if we’ll always be okay. Like this, the way things are right now. Whether it’s tomorrow or next year or even after that.” Your voice fades in volume until it’s nearly lost against the threads of your scarf, and Joochan’s heart breaks a little when he hears it: the genuine uncertainty and timid fear that seeps past the smile you give him in an effort to hide it.

“Why do you think we might not be okay?”

You look down at your feet, almost embarrassed by your own honesty. “Well, people… change, Joo. They move places, and have goals to achieve and dreams to chase down. And we’re not immune to that either.”

It’s Joochan’s turn to be silent for a bit as he mulls over your words before he straightens in your hold, turning his face towards you so he can affectionately bump his nose against yours. “You’re right,” he says in a voice that mirrors your sadness, “and it would be a lie to say I don’t think about the same things you do. But”- and he leans in to give you a quick kiss that’s shaped like a smile - “it’d also be a lie to say that every dream doesn’t feature you in it. Because every dream of mine that I’ve ever had places you centre stage.”

He kisses you again, a little longer - a little more wistfully.

“You see, the real problem here is that you have me perpetually thinking that I can’t do any of this without you,” he says simply. “Whether it’s late night phone calls or early morning messages; or maybe we’ll find ourselves having to book flights for each other, holding bags full of gifts that remind us of us. And maybe it’ll be hard and maybe I’ll wake up some days, knowing I won’t be able to see you. But that doesn’t mean we won’t be okay.”

You swallow and Joochan watches you carefully, the urgency in his eyes prompting him to lift your chin so you can see it too.

“Even if we change,” he continues in a whisper, hoping you will understand the heart in his words. “And we should. And we will, and we’ll still be okay. You believe me, don’t you? Seeing as I’m the most amazing and magical boy in the universe?”

Somewhere, midnight comes and goes and the fireworks start, dousing you and Joochan in bursts of coloured light.

“Of course I do,” you smile with eyes that glitter with tears of relief and he pulls you into a tight hug, so tight you can feel every movement of his rib cage as he breathes in and out.

For once, you do not feel that fear deep down that threatens to taint your time with the only boy you think you cannot live without. And so you unreservedly hold him in return, fingers running through his hair as he tells you that he loves you, over and over again.

*

up, up and away.

-

There had been a time during your childhood when your one greatest wish had been to go see the stars.

So your friend Joochan, in all his clumsy sincerity, had done his best to make you a rocket out of a box he’d found at home. He’d then brought it to your house after he’d finished it, blue marker staining his fingertips and glitter shaped like stars lost in his thick fringe.

The two of you had sat in it together and looked up at the moon, holding hands from childish innocence and recounting thrilling tales of adventures you’d never had. And before having to go home to bed that day, he’d made you a promise that present-day Joochan complains about not being able to fulfill.

“I know I said I’d take you to the stars,” Joochan sighs in displeasure from where he lies on your bed, right next to you, “but while your boyfriend is exceptionally talented, you do know I’m no astronaut, right?”

You hold his hand in response and look into his eyes that sparkle with mirth and deeper in, shine with a love that always gives you peace.

It may be that Joochan will never be able to keep his promise of taking you to space in a real, functioning rocket. But, as you drop a kiss on his mouth that soon widens into a brilliant smile, you can’t find it in yourself to really care.

After all, it’s hard to miss the stars when for you, they all start with Joochan and end with him.

-

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[seokmingiggles]

comfortable.

@gloryofroses19 requested on 201219: “Would you write a fluff Min Yoongi one shot where he’s crushing on Jimin and Taehyung’s fellow 95er best friend who’s birthday is 11 days before Taehyung’s (aka today), so she and Yoongi get together when he find her taking a break on a balcony at a surprise birthday party they threw for her (lying to her that it was for Taehyung) even though they know she hates the idea of being the center/doesn’t like making a big deal about her birthday?”

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader

Genre: fluff, friends to lovers(?), first confessions.

1.96k words

Warnings: some alcohol consumption.

At your surprise birthday party, you find yourself to be more enamoured by the musician accompanying you on your balcony than the happenings inside. Alternatively, where Yoongi has been waiting for the opportune moment to confess to you, unknowing that his feelings are mutual.

A/N: First of all, thank you for being my first request! I hope I’ve done your concept justice :) There are a couple of small details that I haven’t included, but the overall gist should be the same. I hope you enjoy it! And happy birthday if it’s anyone’s birthday who may be reading!

•• "I can't believe you two! This looks amazing. Thank you," Jimin beamed as he spun around to look at the array of decorations you and Taehyung had embellished his apartment with earlier that afternoon.

For Jimin's 25th birthday, you wanted to do something special. The boy was the biggest libra you knew—loving to host parties and social gatherings. While parties weren't typically your cup of tea, you and Taehyung knew that Jimin would appreciate the sentiment.

"I think we make a pretty good team, right, (Y/N)-ie?" Taehyung smiled back at Jimin's praise, patting your shoulder as he referred to you.

•

Only a couple of months later, you found yourself in a similar situation.

"Surprise!" A chorus of voices called out as you stepped into your apartment, Taehyung nudging you through the doorway as you were momentarily stunned.

"What's all this?" You forced a smile and directed the question to your tall friend beside you, slipping your shoes off and proceeding to remove your outerwear. You could already feel your face beginning to heat at all of the gazes directed at you.

Taehyung chortled, "It's for you, obviously. Happy birthday, (Y/N)-ie."

You had just been out for your annual birthday dinner with Taehyung and Jimin, your two best friends for many years. You should have suspected something when the elder suddenly stood from across the table shortly before he finished his meal, claiming he got an emergency text from his brother and had to leave right away. Really, the blond just wanted to make sure everything at your place was properly prepared before your arrival. Jimin picked up some last-minute snacks and drinks on his way to your apartment where everyone else was waiting patiently for your appearance.

You scanned the room around you. Where you'd normally have your comfortable, minimalist furnishings occupying the room, you found yourself standing before what had to be nearly a dozen people. You knew everyone here, that wasn't an issue. Instead, the matter was you simply didn't find joy in parties—even your own birthday party—despite the kind gesture from your two best friends who you knew put this gathering together out of love.

Your eyes landed on Seokjin, who was standing at your kitchen island having a conversation with Moonbyul and Sana; the two girls were laughing at something the eldest had said. Hoseok, Namjoon, and Nayeon, three you weren't completely familiar with, went to greet Taehyung behind you after wishing you a happy birthday. Mingyu and Jungkook were sitting on the sofa, each already with a drink in their hands. Yoongi sat in the armchair next to them; the youngest was beckoning you over to join them. As you were still a bit bewildered by the noise of the party, Jimin collected your hand and guided you to join him and the other three in the seating area.

Jimin took a seat on the floor after stealing a couch cushion to sit on, wanting to be close to the array of snacks organized on your coffee table. You figured it was because he had left the restaurant before he finished the last bits of his dinner (which Taehyung had no problem volunteering his stomach to handle the few remaining bites). You squished onto the end of the couch next to Mingyu, declining the offer of a drink that the boy held out to you as you sat down. Jimin accepted the drink on your behalf and the three gave a brief toast to you.

You eyed Yoongi for a moment. You knew him as a like-minded individual to yourself, in the sense that he also wasn't too fond of parties. Maybe that's why he was occupied with something on his phone. You noticed the slight pink tinge to his cheeks, likely from the beer, you considered, spotting the can on the side table next to him.

In reality, Yoongi was forcing himself to keep his eyes on his phone because he's sure he'd otherwise be caught admiring you. He already took in the pretty blush on the apples of your cheeks and the way you styled your hair nicely for your dinner with Jimin and Taehyung.

Yoongi didn't let himself have crushes very often, yet, he was unmistakably drawn to you. With your airy laughter and bright eyes and the most beautiful smile; how you'd appear lively even though he knew you were uncomfortable in party settings. Words couldn't encompass the effect you had on Yoongi. He was tongue-tied; smitten like a schoolboy having his first love.

He wanted to do something about his feelings for you, but he didn't know where to begin. Yoongi first met you through Taehyung when you were all back in college. He didn't know what to expect when the younger boy asked if he could bring his friend to Yoongi's piano recital later that spring but agreed nonetheless. Apparently, you were fond of classical music.

What was initially only some small talk at the end of the recital became a new acquaintance between the two of you. Sharing your favourite musicians and songs over coffee or the occasional study session after class happened naturally. Yoongi cherished the times you spent together during your studies. It was only natural for him to become disappointed when you drifted apart after graduation.

He thought that his feelings for you would subside from the distance created, but here he was in your presence once again, and it was like nothing had changed in his heart. He gulped down the last of his beer in an attempt to calm his senses.

•

Some playful conversation with your friends and a drink in you later, you found the heat radiating off your face becoming unbearable and decided to excuse yourself for a moment onto your balcony to regain your senses. For a one-bedroom apartment in the city, the balcony wasn't anything special to you. You typically didn't use it at all during the colder months of November to March, instead truly only utilizing it for the early summer sunrises that you had a front-row seat to.

Yoongi figured he must have done a poor job concealing his concern for you when Jungkook asked if he had too much to drink.

Yoongi just shook his head, muttering that he was fine as he watched you close the balcony door behind you.

"You should just tell her, hyung," Jimin had one hand on his full tummy and the other clutching a drink half-full, still sat on the floor. "Otherwise, nothing's going to keep happening between you two."

Yoongi tried to act like he was none-the-wiser of what the blond was talking about, only stopping his act when Jungkook interjected, "The least you could do is check if she's alright out there. Or maybe bring her a coat."

Yoongi wondered since when has Jungkook thought of good ideas? Especially after having a couple of drinks. The kid was more profound than he let on.

The nervous musician stood from the chair he'd been glued to thus far, wiping his clammy hands onto his jean-clad-thighs as he neared the balcony door after collecting your jacket. He told himself it was silly to be so anxious; he was only checking in on you.

Yoongi cleared his throat to prepare his voice from faltering, "Hey, are you feeling alright?"

You turned away from the cityscape to see him stepping outside, eyeing the bit of warm air escaping from inside as it became visible, mixing with the cool night atmosphere. The closed sliding door nicely muffled the overlapping voices and music from inside.

You nodded as Yoongi approached you, "I was getting a little bit stuffy inside. I'm good now, though. Crowds can wear me out after a while, especially in that small of a space."

"I'm the same way. I should've told those two to hold off on inviting so many people," the boy admitted. He briefly stood behind you to help you slip on the outerwear before taking a spot next to you by the railing.

"No, it's okay. I know how Taehyung and Jimin can get carried away when they plan something together. They were just excited and went overboard. Besides," you looked over your shoulder to peer past the door, "it looks like they're enjoying themselves, so it's all worth it."

The boy turned to look where your gaze was directed at, although he first admired the way your lips were tilted upwards as you watched your best friends dancing around in the living room with some of the other guests. Currently, Taehyung was trying to convince Seokjin to join him on the makeshift dance-floor between your furniture.

"This was supposed to be for you, though, (Y/N). It means nothing if you're not comfortable. If you're not enjoying yourself."

You turned your attention back to Yoongi, considering his point and then saying, "I'm comfortable. I feel comfortable out here with you, where it's much quieter other than the street noises below. You make me feel comfortable, Yoongi."

Despite the chilly December temperature, Yoongi's face never felt more warmed.

"You make me feel comfortable too, (Y/N)," he whispered. He saw your expression change as he spoke; you now looked genuinely content than how you were acting inside.

You maintained eye contact with the boy in front of you, taking in every feature on his face; the way his eyes looked in the moonlight, the small roundness of his nose, his cheekbones slightly flushed, his lips.

You'd be lying to yourself if you said you didn't find Min Yoongi attractive. From the moment you first saw him, you had been entranced by his performance on the piano; and it grew every minute after. Beginning to learn more about him as a person just made your admiration grow stronger.

"Forgive me if I'm being too forward, but could I kiss you?"

Your eyes widened for a split second as you processed the words leaving Yoongi's mouth, but you found yourself nodding before you could verbalize your thoughts.

Yoongi brought his hand gently to the side of your face, grazing your hair out of the way before he leaned in to connect your lips. His hand was cold from standing outside, but his lips were hot; you relished in the feeling of moving your mouth against his. He tasted slightly of beer but smelled of vanilla and musk.

You finally parted but kept your bodies close. You noticed how your hand made its way to his arm while his other one was delicately resting on your waist.

"Was that okay?" Yoongi timidly asked, not removing his gaze from you, your noses barely brushing.

"That was wonderful, Yoongi. The best birthday present," you smiled up at him and wrapped your arms around his torso.

"I can think of something better," he began, taking in the cute tilt to your head as you questioned his thoughts. "How about I take you out for dinner later this week. Does Saturday night work for you?"

You hummed like you were in deep thought, earning a light chuckle from the boy in your arms. "Tomorrow? I'll agree to dinner on one condition."

"And what might that be?"

You smoothed your thumb against his side, suddenly taking an interest in the collar of his jacket, "Could you kiss me again on Saturday?"

Now Yoongi was the one to pretend to be in profound consideration, finally replying, "I guess you'll have to wait to find out. But the odds seem likely. I like you a lot, (Y/N)."

"Good," you giggled, pulling him closer into your embrace, "I like you too. Otherwise, that whole interaction would have been uncomfortable."

Yoongi squeezed you back and smiled at your words, already wanting to kiss you once more without waiting for Saturday.

••

[riahlynn101]

“When I’m Gone.”

Chapter 16

Cassidy watches Sammy and Gregory leave from the apartment’s tiny balcony. Usually, she’d jump at getting the chance to leave. The apartment’s nice and all-it’s relatively clean and spacious for the price Sammy pays each month-but being trapped in such a small space for long periods brings memories of being stuck in that wretched suit for years on end. Not alone, like the other kids had been, fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on the day. 

She sighs, phasing through the sliding glass doors and into the living room. The TV show Gregory and her had been watching is still playing. An old rerun of Fredbear and Friends. She brought it up once in passing, and Gregory wouldn’t stop bugging her about it until Sammy dug through his childhood belongings and found the entire series (on VHS, of course). 

Since then, they’ve probably watched the entire one-hundred-episode series twenty times. Which, if she ignores all the trauma associated with the franchise, she finds enjoyable. Cassidy worried they wouldn’t find anything to bond over. But apparently not. 

Nearly every day, like clockwork, Gregory would get home around 4:00, 4:30 if the roads are bad or Sammy’s boss is being an asshole. They’d walk in the door, and Cassidy would stop holding her metaphorical breath. 

Sammy would make Gregory do his homework at the coffee table, and then, as long as he was done before dinner, they would watch a couple of episodes. Gregory, when he was a tad smaller, used to cling to her. A slight perk of coming back willing is that she can finally reach out and touch things when she wants too. 

A downside to that is that with touch, there’s no feelings involved. No nerves. No pain. No pleasure. Whatever. 

Cassidy didn’t spend all those years as a literal ghost to get hung up on specifics. She still cuddled Gregory, wrapping her arms around him like a big sister might. 

Distantly, she thinks she might have had a little sister at some point. Or maybe she was the little sister. 

She guesses it doesn’t matter now. 

Taking Gregory to Freddy’s. She swears. If a single hair is missing from his head, she’ll have Sammy’s head-Charlotte be damned. Her promise comes first. Besides, the kid has started to grow on her. 

Maybe she should have gone with them. Surely protecting Gregory means she has to follow him everywhere, right? Probably not-and she doesn’t (the bathroom and his bedroom are clear boundaries that she will not cross unless told otherwise)-but there’s a sinking feeling in her gut that there’s something wrong. 

She’s allowed to leave the apartment. Sammy made it abundantly clear that she’s free to make her own decisions. As a caveat it added that she could do whatever she wanted as long as no one got hurt or worse. 

A real buzzkill if you ask her, but she'll follow the rules as she knows he has no real way of enforcing them. The honor system, Sammy had called it, eyes pleading with her as he explained it.

“Please, please, Cassidy, do not kill anyone. I can’t stop you. But I’m putting my trust in you that no one ends up dead because of you.”

“I see,” she said, rocking back on her heels. A smug grin on her face. “So as long as someone ends up dead not because of me, it’s fine. Say a driverless semi-truck runs someone over. Ooo! Or a piano falls on someone out of nowhere, like in those old cartoons.” 

Sammy couldn’t look anymore done if he tried. 

“...I guess…”

She used to go to school with Gregory. None of the other kids could see her, so it gave her a tactical advantage when one of the little shits started harassing him. One flying chair across the room was enough to have her grounded from accompanying Gregory into the school building. That never stopped her from sitting on the pick-up and drop off curb at the front of the school, patiently waiting for Gregory to run to greet her. 

Logically, Cassidy knows, if she wanted to, she could continue going to Gregory’s classes. But if she also knows her temper is something to be reckoned with. She can’t recall if her temper came about after her death or if she’d always been so hot-headed. Either way, Shelby will be missing an eyebrow if she starts acting up.

One nasty conversation, a side eye, a change of pitch, Cassidy only needs one reason to ruin the rest of her life.

Is that excessive? Maybe…

But better excessive, than nothing. Excessive keeps people alive. Excessive keeps people safe. 

Nothing does nothing for nobody. Nothing is as good as sitting and watching it happen. Nothing is breaking her promise. 

So, to maintain control over herself, she stays outside the school, waiting. 

As much as she likes this new freedom, Freddy’s remains the only place she refuses to go to. Considering its history, that’s probably for the best. Too bad Sammy can’t see that.

X-x-x

Mr. Emily turns in his seat, a frantic look in his tired eyes. “I need you to stay close to me at all times, today. Okay?”

When he hums in response, Mr. Emily breathes deeply. “Gregory, I'm serious, please. You know the history of this place. I want you to be safe. Don’t make me live the rest of my life regretting this.”

Gregory wants to call him a worrywart, but the last time he’d done that, Mr. Emily had frozen up, eyes glassy. As if he was remembering something important. 

“You won’t. I promise I’ll be on my very best behavior.” 

“Thank you, that’s all I ask.”

Mister Emily hurriedly herds him towards the back entrance. He sends a questioning look over his shoulder, but either Mister Emily’s too preoccupied with finding the right key, or he’s conveniently forgotten which one he uses for the back door out of two distinctly different keys. One’s his car key.

 “Why can’t we go through the entrance?” He asks, tugging on his shirt. 

Mister Emily chuckles. “We are, Gregory,” he says. 

“No, I mean the one up front. The one that’s probably not locked. By the way you dropped your pocket on the ground.” 

“Oh, thank-” Mister Emily looks up from the ground, eyes narrowing. “You little shit.”

If he didn’t know him better, Gregory might recoil at his tone of voice. But Cassidy would vaporize Mister Emily before he ever even thought of hurting him.

“You know, you remind me of someone,” Mister Emily tells him, putting the key into the lock and turning the handle. The door creaks way too loudly as it opens.

Gregory makes a face. “Yeah? Who?” He files into the building after Mister Emily.

“Well…a few people actually. But the one I just thought of is one of your uncles, Michael.”

“I’m named-”

“-after him?”

Gregory hums. “Gregory Michael Afton,” he sing-songs.

“Gregory Michael Afton-Emily,” Mister Emily corrects, instantly. “God only knows why she named you after that uncle and not the one that…”

Mister Emily pauses, stopping himself. His eyes are getting glassy, again, and it makes Gregory’s chest feel strangely tight.

“Well, if you had a choice, you know just for fun, what would you have named me?”

That seems to bring his shine back, somewhat.

“Hell would freeze over before your mother ever let me name you what I want.”

They enter one of the service elevators. Gregory tilts his head to the side, confused.

“Why not?” 

“Because I one hundred percent would have named you Charlotte Evan Susie Gabriel Jeremy Fitz Cassidy Not-an-Afton Emily.” He keeps a straight face, facing away from Gregory. 

“So...is that my first name…or….” 

Mister Emily breaks, laughing so hard he has to hold onto the wall for support. 

Gregory isn’t much better, slouching against the door they came in, because his legs feel like jelly.

By the time the elevator opens to a very disgruntled manager, they’ve both recovered. 

“There you are!” he shouts, waving them over, or rather, Mister Emily over. 

“Oh, someone’s in trouble,” Gregory says. He can still feel his diaphragm twitch, and has to stutter through a few breaths before he calms himself. 

The manager turns to look at him, his eyes going wide. A wide, toothy grin taking up much of his face. “Hey there, little guy,” he greets, bending down to meet his height. “And how old are you?”

There’s something very, very wrong with this guy. Gregory hides behind Mister Emily. 

“Ah, shy little guy, isn’t he?”

“No, not usually. But he’s never been here before, so maybe it’s nerves.”

The guy stands up. Gregory can feel him staring at him, even with a human shield. 

“Maybe.” He hears a bunch of papers being shuffled. “Here’s your assignment. Take him to the daycare.”

Mister Emily groans. “The daycare? Isn’t that place closed for a reason?”

The manager laughs, patting Mister Emily’s arm so hard, Gregory winces on his behalf. “Only that one moon animatronic is out of business. He looks old enough to not take naps. Besides, sparkle or twinkle or whatever its fucking name is will love having a child to look after. And unless you want to lose your job, it’s not a choice.”

Mister Emily looks wearily back at him, then back at his manager.

He. Wouldn’t. Dare.

[kaysayshey]

les preludes || d. sawamura

i was thinking about daichi, go figure. a big virtual hug to anyone who can guess what i play based on this.

thinking about sitting in a concert hall for a piano recital, surrounded by others who appreciate the arts just as much as you do. how the stage is lit by an incredibly ornate chandelier of gold and bronze, the lights reflecting off of the polished black lid of the fazioli sitting center stage.

how the pantsuit you had dressed in suddenly seemed too simple when surrounded by the exquisite gowns of high-class concert-goers, those who could recite the board of directors' phone numbers by name. the ones relishing in the luxury of incredible seats per their season tickets, a luxury that you would potentially sell your soul for. after all, years of classical training only made you yearn for more.

a high-pitched giggle has you rolling your eyes before the lights dim. another socialite in a powder blue gown, the fakest grin you've ever seen plastered on a picture-perfect face. stifling the urge to groan, you plop your head into your palm, one elbow resting lazily on the armrest.

you had taught as many lessons as possible for the last month, filling in for any accompanist that would let you, just to afford these seats. there was no way you'd let this opportunity to see a soloist perform go to waste. no, never.

as you waited patiently, a cough interrupted the scarlatti running its da capo through your mind. a delightful interruption, to be honest. working on the same sonata for the past week with no reprieve? absolute madness.

the cougher in question was standing at the edge of the aisle, his navy suit a beautiful contrast to the brilliant red of the carpet and the dazzling gold of, well, everything else. dark brown hair and coffee-colored eyes with a polite smile to tie the boy-next-door look together. plastering a smile of your own onto your face was the task of the evening - after all, the chatty cathy's surrounding you had the potential to ruin this performance. as a result, you were feeling less than pleasant.

"might i set your bag down? i believe this is my seat," the man asked, his baritone voice as comforting as a a glass of wine after a long day in the studio. what you would give to hear him more was merely a quick thought as you placed the offending bag beneath your feet, gesturing for the man to sit beside you. with a nod, he did, all the while you thumbed through the program with the best of intentions. which, of course, was to avoid staring at the man you were now stuck next to for the next hour and a half.

what a time to be alive.

"what brought you tonight?" he asked in that same rich voice, smoother than any brandy you'd ever sipped. a cello player? french horn? vocalist? your head rushed at the possibilities, but with all the self-control you could muster, you smiled to answer his question.

"just needed some inspiration of my own. hard to practice the same thing over and over without hearing something new, you know?"

he nodded at that, his brow slightly furrowed, a gesture that only made him more attractive. like he was truly listening to what you had said, not just a mere pleasantry before silence.

"i can only imagine. a friend of mine suggested i come, so i guess i don't really know what it's like to understand it."

at that, you cocked your head. to... understand it. as a performer, there was more than just understanding. the headspace, the rush of applause, the tingle of anxiety from behind the curtain. the hours spent with your best friend, the metronome. the dull throb in your joints after hours with the piano.

"i don't think you need to necessarily understand it to appreciate it," you began absent-mindedly, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "sure, knowing the theory and history is important. but that's not as important as how it makes you feel."

as you spoke, he nodded along with you, eyes as bright as when he had asked to sit beside you. almost a silent thank you. for what?

"and besides, you picked a good night to come. a solo transcription of one of liszt's tone poems? the perfect introduction," you prattled on, glancing to the stage in anticipation. "it's a beautiful work. who cares about the theory from the seats?"

at that, a dazzling grin flashed across his face, bright enough to put the chicago skyline to shame. enough that just temporarily, the stage didn't matter, the socialite crowd didn't matter. all that had been or could ever be was that smile.

"sounds like you know what you're talking about, miss-" he drawled off, suddenly sheepish.

"y/n. y/n l/n. and you?"

"sawamura daichi, but just daichi is fine, miss l/n."

before you could stop it, a girlish giggle escaped you. who are you, and what have you done with y/n l/n?

"just y/n is fine, thanks. i don't even have my students call me miss," you replied with another chuckle, the lightest blush on his cheeks sending butterflies from chest to stomach.

"you're a teacher?"

a nod, and yet another ramble to which daichi listened intently. your beginning piano studio, working with kids as young as three on their motor-skills and note recognition. older kids with the drive to perform, a pulse in their veins begging them to compete. recitals and accompanying and more well-tempered clavier than you were willing to admit. and love. it was always based on a simple love for music.

"well," he spoke slowly, as though the words were heavy on his tongue, "maybe you could teach me a thing or two sometime. over coffee?"

the lights began to dim as you opened your mouth to speak, the most unwelcome silence you'd ever experienced. in place of words, you gently took his calloused hand in your own, a light squeeze speaking where you couldn't.

yes.

[evebrennan]

not nothing

TIMING: circa two weeks ago LOCATION: The Artesian PARTIES: @deathisanartmetzli & @evebrennan SUMMARY: Metzli and Caoimhe aren’t just two people having drinks, but they both enjoy art, and maybe that’s better. CONTAINS: Alcohol, parental death, emotional abuse, domestic abuse

It was a bad idea. Caoimhe knew it the moment she’d read Artesian and piano player and Arvo Pärt. Any lingering doubts about how completely awful of an idea it was were chased away as she pushed her way through the doors, picking up the soft piano drifting from the back. She considered the initial offer of a karaoke bar, the tossup between beyond-drunk humans singing their hearts out for no other reason than because they loved to sing and no talent whatsoever was still a far better bet than whoever was plucking at keys one room over. At least at a karaoke bar her chances were fifty-fifty.

Her chances were none. But she wasn’t in the habit of denying herself entirely (she’d been there, she’d done that, it did nothing for the strings trailing down the road behind her), and she let herself step fully into the bar. The door clicked shut behind her and Caoimhe tried not to think about it.

Metzli was exactly the kind of hard to find Caoimhe expected of an internet-initiated meet-up, but she managed to catch their eye before too long. “This was a good choice.” She started, because it was. It was, with the piano filling the spaces between conversation. It was, despite the way her stomach twisted in on itself and she thought about it, thought about the way the pianist fumbled only barely on occasion, but she could– “And it’s Kee-va, by the way.”

“Yeah, I would’ve never gotten that right,” Metzli smiled and chuckled warmly at Caoimhe, settling into their seat and enjoying the table the two received. Far enough from the stage to hear each other easily, and close enough to let silence fall between them to listen to the pianist. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Caoimhe. You’re much more beautiful than I could’ve imagined.” Their smile continued, pulling out their charm. 

Metzli wore a navy suit, leaving the jacket unbuttoned for a more relaxed look. Accompanied by a black dress shirt and no tie. It gave off a casual energy. Because that’s what this was—a casual meet up with a woman. “My name is pretty straight forward, just mets-lee. Aztec in origin. And yours?” Getting in the VIP lounge was easy, throw in some money and it speaks for you. Thus, the saying, cash is king. 

The wine arrived promptly, and the waiter filled their glasses as the two kept their focus on each other. 

“Easy, charmer. Just drinks.” Caoimhe reminded, but it was hard to ignore how nice the bar was. She had half a mind to question how they’d gotten them in VIP at all, let alone on such short notice, but the world was full of people with hidden talents. Instead she wrapped a hand around the stem of the wine glass, eyes finding the pianist across the room. The music had shifted to something jazzy and fun and there were no fumbles to be heard. There was an experience to it Caoimhe wondered over for half a second before letting it go.

“It’s Irish.” She finally pulled her eyes away to find Metzli, fingers curling tighter around the glass. The accent was enough of a giveaway, but Caoimhe knew it could be hard to place. There was an edge to it she’d had spent many years trying to iron out, something a little closer to the old forest path leading up to her family’s too-grand home than the home itself. “If the accent doesn’t give it away, all the letters should.”

But she didn’t want to talk about Kenmare, or where her name came from, or how she could practically see her mother’s patient, knowing grin. “You know, I’ve been here for a couple of months now, and hadn’t even considered trying to get in here, yet you’ve managed it in a night.” She wasn’t going to ask them about their origins, but there was a question somewhere in there, regardless. Instead, she twisted the glass between her fingers and grinned, “You sure you’re not wasting it on just drinks?”

Metzli smiled knowingly and teased, “Ah, so you do think I’m charming?” Years of existence had molded them to be confident in their approach with women. With so long to live, striking out wasn’t intimidating. “You know what they say, cash is king,” They began, sipping on their wine and leaning back in their chair. “I don’t normally bribe, but when I came across someone who actually knew who Pärt was, I had to jump at the opportunity.” The answer was blunt and honest, though they did leave out how they needed a distraction from the pain they were feeling. Stuff like that had a way of killing the mood. 

“This isn’t a wasted opportunity by any means. Not when someone of your taste is keeping me company,” Metzli’s smile could be heard in their words, nothing masked but completely unveiled. Recent events had crumbled the structure they had built to hide behind, allowing the true effects of loneliness to set into wounds way past simply festering. “Not to mention, the great selection of wine they have. I do have a sort of affinity to the more luxurious things. Coming from nothing can do that to you, I suppose.” An air of surprise took their face for a moment before falling neutral again. Their ramblings took them off guard and it made them a little uneasy.

Shifting in their seat, they hoped to change the focus. “And you? What are you doing accepting dates from total strangers on the internet?”

“Drinks. Drinks with total strangers.” Caoimhe lifted the drink in question, but her smile belied her amusement. They were confident, she could give them that. Getting to know people beyond first names and passing interests hadn’t been something on Caoimhe’s agenda for some time. Connections didn’t lead to anything good. Connections led to anger, clenched fists outside of coffee shops, reasons for Caoimhe to look in her rearview mirror. She didn’t like connections, because connections had to be broken, they always had to be broken, and doing so never felt good.

But Metzli liked Pärt, and they were charming, and they knew a place where someone could actually play the piano.

“There’s a story there, isn’t there?” She set the drink down and leaned on her elbows, ignoring the soft piano in the background in favor of her company. Ignoring her better instincts to run, like she always did (she’d shown up in the first place, and she didn’t want to think about why). She hadn’t ruined White Crest quite yet, and they liked Pärt. “Came from nothing, and now you’re here. You don’t have to tell, but color me curious.”

Metzli scoffed, playfully and a little dramatically. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not afraid to call this what it is. A date. I’ll say it for the both of us.” They said into their glass, smiling. Caoimhe wasn’t one to get too close to people. That’s what Metzli began to gather. They could relate, uncomfortably so. They had spent their vampiric life alone, not bothering to let anyone behind the several barriers they had built between them and would-be connections. Some could be read like novels, while others like short stories. And nine times out of ten, Metzli chose to be read like the latter. But tonight was possibly the tenth shot and after this Caoimhe may never see them again. So really, what did they have to lose?

“Actually, yes. There is.” Metzli pulled out a small, worn out sketchbook from their pocket, and retrieved the pencil inside of it. Holding it up in a way so that Caoimhe couldn’t see the pages, they began. “I’ll give you the condensed version, and if you want to hear more, you can ask questions.” The pencil glided over the page, a practiced hand moving quickly. “I was born and raised in Jalisco, Mexico. To two parents who fell madly in love and accidentally had me. We were dirt poor, but my parents seemed to make it work for them. Began working when I was about eight years old or so. And by the time I was in my twenties, I had mastered carpentry and was a pretty good ranch hand.” They smiled, looking back and forth from the page and Caoimhe. 

“Unfortunately, parents weren’t the kindest, so I took to sketching in the woods on my lowest days. And on one special day, I found myself returning home to find my parents dead.” Brows creased together, but the pencil never stopped moving. “After that, I traveled and traveled until I managed to find myself here, owning my own art gallery, having an actual roof over my head with a cat, and arranging dates with beautiful women that have taste.” With the final detail made, Metzli turned the sketchbook to reveal a portrait of Caoimhe, of a moment of her now frozen in time on paper. “What do you think?” 

Shit.

Shit.

It was so unfortunate the ones to whom Caoimhe found herself most drawn had stories. Her life would be half as complicated, if she wasn’t so damn fascinated. They wrapped themselves in pencil lines or oils or paints, or notes drawn on staff paper. They smiled around songs sung like stories from ages ago, or danced to something they made up on the spot. They had feelings and hopes and dreams. They held a history, some not unlike her own. Their lives had meaning, full of so much creativity, futures stretched endlessly before them where they could choose to pick themselves up or let themselves fail or do both, because no one had sought to come along and take that future from them.

Caoimhe always sought to take it from them.

She watched Metzli with their notebook, their hands hidden behind the cover, but she could imagine the way they moved. She could muse over whether each line meant something, or if it was something that came so naturally to them they didn’t have to think about it. They had an art gallery, and she wondered at how good it was, how much better it could be, if she just–

Metzli was one of those with a story, a past they’d picked themselves up from. Caoimhe listened as she tried not to think too hard about whatever they were sketching. She tried to imagine them, in the woods with a sketchbook, turning an escape into a future. It was admirable. Humans were always so damn admirable. And Caoimhe liked to think she picked her battles well, but the truth was she didn’t pick them at all. She ran, or she gave in.

“That’s beautiful.” It was. Caoimhe hadn’t realized she’d been looking, sitting still and focused long enough for Metzli to capture the moment. And they’d captured it perfectly, somehow, lines confident despite laying their history out on the table for Caoimhe to do with what she wished. “It’s incredible how people can take things that hurt and make something beautiful out of them, despite everything. I’m glad you were able to get something beautiful out of all of it.” She moved closer, tracing a bit around the eyes. This time, she gave in.  “How do you do this, the shading?”

The way Caoimhe watched and even seemed to fawn over the sketch brought a smile to Metzli’s face that reached their eyes. White Crest was full of people they were willing to discuss the hardest of memories, even if they were being extremely vague about some pretty crucial details. “Ah, the shading there has to be delicate. You see,” Their hand moved to graze Caoimhe’s cheek softly before pointing back at the drawing. “The shading there is light, so there can’t be as many crosshatches, while here,” This time they pointed at her neck and jawline. “Here, the crosshatches are more in number and closer together because of the definition and starkness of the shadow.” Discussing art was very much Metzli’s element, and teaching it had become second nature due to the classes they held at the gallery.

Caoimhe was a lover of the arts in general, and not just music. It enraptured them, beckoned them toward her to delve into her other interests in the arts. Maybe experience them with her and discover new works of art together. As friends or otherwise. “It’s not that beautiful though. The story—Not the sketch. The sketch is only a fraction as beautiful as the subject. I’m referring to the story. Had to do some dastardly things to get here. But what about you?” Metzli gestured to Caoimhe and then tore the sketch out of their sketchpad to hand over to her. “Do you have an interesting story you can indulge me with?”

Caoimhe knew what touch could do. She spent her life measuring it, calculating who and where and when. Whether it was something casual, or something purposeful. Metzli reached out and Caoimhe reached up, putting her hand between her cheek and theirs, and the brush was light but it meant something. Because they were talking about where to etch and when, about a life spent using art as a way to escape or express themselves or simply be happy, and Caoimhe wanted it. She wanted to know more, to help, to stop the gnawing in her stomach that–

That didn’t stop. It was like a jolt. She’d been expecting another stair and there wasn’t one. Her hand dropped in a movement that was almost too quick to be casual and she pulled in a breath and there was so much to process, she didn’t know where to start. Metzli was more than what they seemed, and Caoimhe let something like disappointment ease into something that felt a little more like excitement. They loved art, and she could watch them love art.

Caoimhe accepted the sketch and swallowed thickly, despite all the questions vying for attention on the tip of her tongue (who were they, what were they), despite the way her stomach still clenched but her lips ticked up in something close to a smile. Despite the fear they’d know. “My story isn’t quite so interesting.”

Eyes moved up and down, analyzing Caoimhe. She had been quick to protect her personal space, and even quicker to pretend like she hadn’t behaved anxiously. Something was at the tip of her tongue. A question, one of many. “You’ve got questions, don’t you?” Metzli asked, smiling and taking the bottle from the table to pour more in each glass. She must’ve felt it, their cold skin. Maybe that was it. Or maybe she didn’t like the attention on her. Or she quite possibly was intrigued by the vampire before her. Only, she didn’t know they were a monster. 

TW PARENTAL DEATH “That just makes me think it is interesting.” Metzli sipped on their wine and hummed thoughtfully. Fingers tapped on the table, organizing words into sentences that were coherent and strategic. “But if this is your way of keeping the attention off of you, I’m game. I mean, no one knows more about me, than me. So ask away.” Taking one more drink, they raised a finger, hoping to get another moment. “I will say though, you may just want to hug me by the end of it. It’s quite sad. I mean, not only were my parents murdered, but my whole…town was. There were very few survivors. War can be tough. Especially for the impoverished.” A look akin to despair, a longing painted onto their face, but it was quickly washed away with wine. 

“But, if you’re gonna ask me more questions, you have to tell me at least three facts about you. How does that sound?”

Caoimhe hummed, brow furrowing. For the first time since she’d pushed her way through the door, she couldn’t hear the piano. It was Metzli, and a story, and all the questions that still rattled around in her head. They had already volunteered so much (what war, are you okay, why can’t I– ), and despite their offer to ask as many questions as she would like, Caoimhe hesitated. She knew what it felt like to lay herself bare. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t something one did simply because.

“Only if it’s a hug you want.” She spun her glass on the table idly, picking through her words before she let them out. They’d been very upfront about their cynicism, and while Caoimhe had felt she’d understood some measure of it before, it was nothing compared to understanding the reasoning behind it. It was years too late to apologize for things that had happened long before they met; if it were her, she wouldn’t want pity. She wondered how much emotion Metzli kept hidden behind wine and the thick veneer of charm they’d had in place since she’d slid into the booth next to them. She wondered if they were waiting for the next war. “You don’t owe me your story, but...I’m here if you want to tell it.

“You don’t even have to volunteer it in exchange for mine. My mother is still in Ireland, but I haven’t seen her in years. I’m a runaway who never stopped running.” One, two, and “My family could provide for me anything I needed, they were hardly anything tragic, I just...had a difference in opinion.”

“Are you saying you want to hug me? How cute.” They teased through the longing they felt. Letting this mask, sewn perfectly together and with only a few cracks, slip on. “If I’m being honest though, I don’t know how I’d react. I’ve only ever gotten a handful of hugs. They’re nice. Maybe I’ll be a good hugger someday.” A breathy laugh tickled their lips and the smile continued to brighten toward Caoimhe. Being physical was easy, but the intimacy of a hug peppered their thoughts with unease. Sex was simple. Primal. But hugging was an animal that they had never really had an intention of tackling. 

A wry smile pulled at Metzli’s lips, listening intently and doing their best to mock sympathy. Even without a soul, they knew what conversations like these meant, and how to behave through them. They wore many masks, and all they had to do was pick the one that fit the scenario best. “I know a thing or two about running away,” Their finger traced along the rim as each word in their head was selected carefully. “And I know a lot about differences in opinion. That’s why I’m here. So far away from…home.” The word was bitter from a lifetime of pain felt. From miles upon miles ran in order to flee, to find a new life with a new meaning. “That’s why I’ve built my gallery and decided to make a name for myself. Metzli Bernal: Art Curator, not Metzli Bernal: uh—well, actually just, Nothing.” 

Lips replaced the finger that played at the rim of the glass, taking a steady drink. The warmth of the incoming buzz helped. Metzli relaxed further into their seat and locked eyes with Caoimhe, “I assume you have more questions? You looked both curious and concerned. What was that about? Never met an artist with such a fun backstory?”

“I’m not. But you know what they say about practice.” Caoimhe teased, working her way around telling them she likely wasn’t the person with whom they should practice. Besides, it was a useless saying. No amount of practice had ever left Caoimhe with any less strings, and she’d been trying since a boy with a French horn had decided she was everything before she’d reached the age of twenty. But Metzli looked so bright for a moment. They looked like the concept wasn’t unwelcome, and Caoimhe swallowed down whatever else she was going to say about it. If the brief touch of their hands was anything to go off of, it wasn’t as though she was going to have anything to worry about, anyway.

“Strangers in a bar we may be, but I can already say you’re not nothing, Metzli Bernal.” She was surprised to find she meant it. There were some people she met for a moment, bar bathrooms and alleys and music rooms long after everyone had gone home for the night. Encounters for her to brush off, or spend the rest of her life trying to escape. There were some people who stuck, but ultimately found themselves as shapes in her rearview mirror. Bridges burned, and Caoimhe made a point not to get to know anyone who lay on the other side well enough to get burned along with them. She didn’t know Metzli, and she wasn’t within any kind of blast range, but she knew they’d be a shape she’d remember.

“You know, there’s another saying, something like art is suffering.” Rather than linger on all the things she’d left in her rearview mirror, or how much she always cared, even when she knew she shouldn’t, Caoimhe grinned and leaned back in her chair, eyes bright. “I met a guitarist once who told me she could only write when her heart was broken. Pretty sure she spent half her life trying to find someone to break it for her. Her ballads were to die for, though. Never been a huge fan of country, but she had me sold. Have you ever considered spurs?”

“That only perfect practice makes perfect.” Metzli responded with a grin as lips met their glass. Piano notes danced in the air, providing a lovely ambience that allured them further towards Caoimhe. “Hugs are more of a third date kind of thing, and you were the one who said this wasn’t a date, so…” A suppressed chuckle broke through and they propped themselves on their elbows to turn their body in their seat. The way her presence met theirs with both subtly and boldness was as refreshing as lemonade on a hot summer’s day. Caoimhe had depth as vast as the ocean and Metzli’s curiosity urged them to swim deeper. 

And then she uttered words that struck them harder than anticipated. Not nothing. Metzli bit their lip. Harsh teeth dug into mauve lips, deepening the color. The confidence washed away and let vulnerability show through in the form of softening eyes and creased brows. Blinking quickly, they mustered together as much composure as they could and cleared their throat. “Apologies. I think something got stuck in my throat.”

It was with sheer dumb luck that Caoimhe said something that they could cling to. A new subject, a new distraction. “Actually, I used to use spurs. I was a ranch hand for…for my relatives.” Metzli paused, letting the wave of despair pass through their chest before continuing. “Was pretty good at it too. I especially took care of a horse named Mariposa. Means butterfly in Spanish.”

“Hm, I did say that.” Caoimhe hummed around a smile, spinning her glass slowly against the table top. Her hands were always carefully towards the bottom of the stem. For as much as she’d been playing with it, she’d yet to drink any. It wasn’t a date. If she wouldn’t actually drink the wine, if she never said it, it wouldn’t matter that Metzli had offered up so much of their story to her; their earlier insistence upon it wouldn’t mean a thing. She still meant it, but she wondered how they felt. She wondered how it would feel to say it again.

She wondered how it would feel to lie. To do it so easily, so casually, without it catching in her throat and her stomach twisting in on itself. Caoimhe had always been good at twisting half-truths until someone believed a lie she hadn’t told, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same as Metzli’s eyes softening, the way they cleared their throat and moved on like Caoimhe hadn’t actually hit on something. She pursed her lips and absorbed their diversion without comment. It was a lie, she wondered about it, but wondering over lies wasn’t for her.

They’d already given her enough truths.

“A ranch hand? An artist, an entrepreneur. Is there anything you haven’t done?”

Caoimhe did well to take whatever was said and turn it around. No words were needed when she did so. Her knack for navigating a conversation was enough. Choosing the right moments to speak, choosing the correct things to respond to. She’d been at this a lot longer than Metzli could have anticipated. It made them worry a little. Worry that they had bit off way more than they could chew by going out with a woman who obviously knew a thing or two about dancing around a subject. But there definitely was no going back now. If they were going to say the truth, they were going to use it to their advantage. 

“Live.” A true, and brutally honest answer. Metzli had yet to truly live, and they thought it best to not sugarcoat anything. After all, it seemed to be the one thing that Caoimhe couldn’t fully navigate around. It was like her kryptonite. And the question on the tip of her tongue was something she was holding back. Like she was keeping a secret. A secret similar to the one they kept. A secret of feeding on blood and living forever. 

“I have a feeling you relate. But you’re exceptionally good at keeping that side of you undisclosed. Which is fair. That information is reserved for loved ones to hear. But loved ones are dangerous. So better yet, it’s reserved for late nights on your own. For a little punishment when you think you’ve reached too far out.” A pause for a sip and they locked eyes with Caoimhe, smiling softly. “And right now, even just entertaining this date, you’ve reached too far.” 

The piano seemed to grow distant, straying deeper into the background as their focus hardened. “I’ve lived a very long time, Caoimhe. I know you’ve got a story, and you don’t have to tell it. But can you do me the courtesy of giving me the biggest question you have? It’s at the top of your tongue.” She felt something different about them, that they were almost sure of. If it was the question they were anticipating, that could only mean one thing: she was otherworldly too. 

Caoimhe knew there was more to them. They were stories and a life lived and so, so much more. She’d known the moment her hand had brushed theirs and she didn’t even have to try to practice restraint. A moment of weakness had turned into a knowing Caoimhe wasn’t sure what to do with, yet. She was still toying with letting the knowledge go when they shifted the tone.

The chatter around them fell away to nothing. Her fingers tightened against the stem of the glass until she had to consciously tell herself to let go. It was as though they flipped in a moment, the casual request for a quid pro quo abandoned in favor of a demand, and Caoimhe had never been good at evading direct. Not when her game had been discovered, and the questions posed left little room for movement. Metzli was leaving her very little room for movement.

It made it marginally better that it wasn’t about her. Concern for themselves, Caoimhe could understand. They’d figured out she knew something, somehow, and there was an inherent danger in not knowing exactly what it was Caoimhe thought she knew. They didn’t live in a world forgiving of other, whatever that perceived other might be. “My loved ones are few and far away, and they know what they think my story should be. My punishment is tied to me like strings I already have pulled as far and as taught as I can get them.” She leaned forward, brave even as she considered she shouldn’t be. “And I believe you, that you’ve lived a long life. I’m curious as to how, and for how long. But that was your story, to tell as you wanted.”

Metzli couldn’t help the smile that curved their lips. Their new approach had given them better results than they could have imagined. Caoimhe hid her secrets well. Years upon years of experience taught her well. But Metzli’s curiosity, mixed with their ability to shift conversations, was going to make her say something. She had already said more than she would have obviously liked. Body language be damned, she was nervous. And for once, Metzli wasn’t causing anxiety out of imminent danger, but of pursuit of knowledge and connection. 

“I’m much more interested in what your story actually is. Considering you know something about me that everyone overlooks or can’t see,” As they spoke, their hand, a little absentmindedly, slid towards Caoimhe's hand on the table. A part of them craved that touch, to feel that solid connection of someone similar to them in the evasion and artistic regard. But they stopped themselves and let out a shuddered and unnecessary breath. Instead of reaching out fully, they opened their palm towards her, giving her the option. 

“Of course, you don’t have to tell me. But…I’ve lived long past a century thanks to that little war that eradicated my people. Thanks to teeth and blood.” Metzli averted their gaze from Caoimhe as they spoke, not only wanting to cover their despair, but to wait for her reaction. “Take that as you wish.”

Thanks to teeth and blood.

It was all the answer Caoimhe needed. She wasn’t surprised, if anything she wondered at their bravery, admitting it in so many words while in a fairly crowded bar. But their booth afforded them a fair amount of privacy, and Metzli didn’t seem like the type to be shy. Their confidence spoke more to their possible centuries of living than anything else had. No, Caoimhe wasn’t shocked.

“Okay.” She absorbed the information with a small nod and a half-smile. Her mother was beyond beautiful by all standards, simply by nature of who and what they were, but Caoimhe knew where to look for the signs of aging. She knew what tired looked like, how centuries of experience could be belied in the tone of her voice. Metzli had been through wars, had been forged in blood, and Caoimhe wondered at long lives and the cost of them. Perhaps they were expecting her to be scared, but Caoimhe found she was only curious, and sad just around the edges. “I’m sorry, for all the life you haven’t been able to live.”

They held out their hand, an obvious invitation, and Caoimhe considered it a moment. There was something to be said for connection. She spoke of her strings like punishment, but she hadn’t said for what, and how. She didn’t talk about what it felt like to stare adoration in the eyes and know none of it was real, not really. They shambled along the roads behind her like marionettes to her puppet master, and not a single one actually wanted to be with her. They wanted their art, they wanted that feeling of absolute inspiration. They were blind to what it cost because she had made them blind to it, and it was that knowledge which each string tugged raw.

Metzli couldn’t be strung up. They couldn’t become another ghost of her past, pressing their faces against her windows and begging for entry. Caoimhe reached out, always so aware of touch and what it could mean, and let the tips of her fingers play across their palm. And nothing. Nothing at all. She rejoiced for the parts of her that were relieved, and wondered at the parts that were just hungry. “You’re a great artist, Metzli. I meant it, when I said you weren’t nothing. You can trust that.” A beat, “I’m a really bad liar.”

“It’s all right. I’ve got plenty of life to live now.” Metzli had spent so long denying themselves connection, while Caoimhe avoided them like a plague. And in a way, the connections probably were just as bad as a virus. Because that virus was her own, and she could do nothing to stop it. Of course, they didn’t know exactly why, but they could see the effects it had on her as a whole. Her personality though, was untouched. It was still there despite all of the barriers it took to get to it. Caoimhe was kind, honest, and even a little playful. She was an artist with a past, just like everyone else. 

When her fingers touched their palm, Metzli jumped a little and moved their gaze back to their companion. Eyes glistened with the threat of tears from the topic. The effect of the emotions they were feeling a lot more often. And then Caoihme admitted they could trust what she said. That she was a really bad liar. “Fae?” They asked, already knowing their first answer was correct. “That’s why you didn’t want to touch. I understand now. But you don’t have to worry. You have no effect on me in that regard.” A small smile curved onto their lips and that same hand she had touched, moved towards her cheek. Another attempt, but this time, it was a tender approach. Their thumb caressed her cheek and let it linger for a moment. “That must bring some relief, hm? No te preocupes. Um, don’t worry.” They translated, moving their hand back to their glass. 

“Does this mean it’s a date now?” Charm returned to Metzli’s voice and they let out a breathy chuckle. “I’ll keep trying until you tell me to stop. Can’t help wanting to be around someone with an artistic mind.”

“Have some experience with fae, do you?” It wasn’t an answer, but it was as close to one as she was willing to get. There would be time for talk some other time, when they weren’t huddled into a quiet booth in an otherwise crowded bar. Caoimhe thought of art galleries, and spending time with someone who truly enjoyed it, for no other reason than their own genuine love of art. Someone inspired by their own rites, and not because Caoimhe pulled some string inside of them. She thought about Metzli, and how they’d probably only scratched the surface of their own story. Not many wars took centuries; they both had so many blank spaces to fill. They both had so much time to fill them.

Then Metzli touched her cheek, and Caoimhe could see how it would all play out. She’d call it a date, and there would be the expectation of another. They’d spend a late night in an art gallery, or perhaps Caoimhe would take them to Dell’s, she hadn’t been yet. They’d have fun, they’d spill their stories to each other one piece at a time, and the strings would be different this time. They’d be less like anchors and more like balloons, and Caoimhe would think them beautiful (she thought all of them were beautiful). And then she’d leave. And Metzli would look like empty art galleries and quiet bars and another ghost, but this one with frayed strings where they were effectively cut.

But then, that would be true whether she called it a date or not.

“Hm, it’s not just drinks.” It wasn’t, that much was true. “Is there an in between? A ‘this was a lot more than I’d bargained for.’ Or a ‘I’d like to see your gallery, but I’m not going to say second date?’”

“Yeah, I do.” Metzli answered, a little passively. They nodded and finished the rest of their glass before making eye contact with Caoimhe once again. “How about a fun-friend meeting?” Metzli couldn’t help but chuckle and raised their hand once more to her cheek and laid out all the honesty they could. “I don’t get serious about people. It’s safer that way, you know? But that’s not to say I wouldn’t enjoy a little fun with an artistic approach.” Their smile reached their words and soft eyes met with Caoimhe’s. 

“We don’t have to call it a date. We don’t have to be anything. Just two ambitious artists that came together and found each other attractive. I’ll show you my gallery and you can show me your music. And in between, we can find some fun to have.” Metzli leaned forward, slowly and carefully. The night would be fun, the night would consist of new experiences. All of them with Caoimhe with them. And with a kiss to Caoimhe’s cheek, they begun a new relationship based on mutual interests, and not definite ties.

[wing-ed-thing]

Cabaret (Might Guy x Reader, Chapter VI)

Synopsis: You can't stand Might Guy. Honestly, how could anyone be so boisterously unaware and sickeningly positive? Your heart sinks as the both of you are teamed up to infiltrate and collect information from the Hidden Sound's gritty nightlife. Maybe losing yourselves in the dark of the underground will help you both come to an understanding.

Word Count: 2,251

Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIIIChapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI 

Warnings: Minor Sexual Assault (you are kissed without permission), adult themes, alcohol, fowl language

You were at the club early the following day. You sat down at the bar with a deep exhale. Guy hadn’t arrived but the girls helped themselves to what was behind the counter. You couldn’t choose between water or hair of the dog. You opted for both.

The hangover wasn’t the only factor worsening your exhaustion. Chiasa had just helped you finish hanging up your gowns. One gown on its own didn’t yield much weight, but you severely underestimated how heavy multiple evening gowns became when jutsu wasn’t used to store them. Your headache from your first night on the job pounded in your ears. You were just about done downing your third glass of water when you heard a man clear his throat.

You turned on the stool, seeing the Sound ninja from last night. He wore his uniform still… and still looked the slightest bit like Might Guy. You blinked rapidly, trying to physically banish the comparison from your head. His bangs framed his hitai-ate. The eighth note on his forehead shone under the lowlights of the club.

“Oh, hello.” You greeted him weakly.

“Accompany me for a walk.” His demanding words carried a passive tone. It was not a question. You looked over to one of the other hostesses. She did not look back, but her side eye told you that you better leave with the ninja before you.

You removed your gloves and placed them on the counter before following the man out of the building. It was that time again. The sun just began to set on the Sound. You didn’t know what it was, but the sunsets appeared different in the Hidden Sound. Equally beautiful, but different. The air smelled like the ocean.

You walked with the ninja. The sandy gravel of the path crunched under your heels.

You noted his sports gloves and the hole open on the back, exposing the skin of his hand. Another patch lay exposed between his ear and his scarf. You took in the many cuts and scrapes on his arms, honing in on four puncture wounds. His face remained unobscured. You remembered his high cheekbones from the night before. You remembered his lean frame. You remembered his bangs, his almond shaped eyes and thin lips.

“I would like to take you on a date.” The ninja told you. “You will be compensated for your time and the meal. I already worked it out with the woman known as Mama-san. I’ve taken a liking to you and you will be ready for me here tomorrow before you work at six. Then, you will sit with me for a drink. This conversation is a courtesy, of course.”

You felt an unpleasant pang in your chest. Objectification. Subhumanity. The sheer fact that he thought that he was doing you a favor to tell you before buying you was enough to lose your temper where you stood, but you shut your mouth. You had no choice but to accept, but that did not mean you wouldn’t seethe silently the whole way back to “HEAVEN”.

“Marigolds keep snakes away.” You told him when you got back.

“What?”

“The snake bites on your arms. Marigolds.”

***

“It’s called dohan,” Chiara explained when you told her later. “You’re very lucky!” She told you, lips puckered and eyes bright. Lucky. “You get extra money for dohan! You just got yourself a regular, Yume-san!” In her excitement, she nearly tripped. You caught the tray of empty champagne flutes from the table you just cleared. You exited the kitchen when another hostess approached the two of you.

“There’s a request for Yume-san at table fifteen.”

“Okay! We’ll be out in a moment!” Chiara chirped.

“Just Yume-san.”

“Just Yume-san?” Chiara questioned. The hostess nodded. She perked up. “It might be that guy you told me about! From earlier! You’re doing such a great job, I can’t believe you already have regulars!” You frowned, less than happy at such a prospect.

Your two coworkers sent you out with a tray with a scotch and a martini.

“I’ll take a scotch and whatever it is that the lady wants.” Your new client apparently said.

You sauntered past the bar to your assigned table in the upper left corner of the club. A hostess performed on stage and her gorgeous melodies flowed throughout the area. She shook her hips, making explicit gestures as she ran her hands down her body. Another hostess accompanied her on the piano. Another few played various brass instruments. You would have to ask Chiasa about that later.

You caught sight of your client. You nearly stopped in your tracks. Seeing his full face now, your mind flashed back to the Leaf’s bingo book, but you pressed on as to not alarm the wanted man. He lounged in the booth like a prince upon a throne. He lazily swirled around the ice in his drink. His hitai-ate restrained his overflowing silver locks. When he noticed you approaching, he made no effort to adjust his posture.

You placed the tray on the table in front of him. You pushed down the heat rising to your skin and picked up your martini. You handed him his scotch, mentally picturing him in cuffs on his way to prison. He gave you a silent nod of acknowledgement as you sat down next to him. His arm immediately came to rest around your shoulders. His circular glasses caught the light from the lamp above.

“Hiya… Handsome, how are we doing today?” The words were still clunky as they rolled off your tongue despite your day of experience.

“Just fine, thank you,” He took a sip of his drink and put it back down on the table. His eyes narrowed and a wide smirk encompassed his lips. The hand around your shoulder played with your hair. The ninja leaned down, two fingers under your chin. His cold touch on your skin coursed through you. You fought off the urge to recoil. He breathed, “You can call me Yakushi-sama, Beautiful.”

The hand in your hair came to pin your shoulder back against the booth. The shock of his touch encompassed your system, pounding in your head. He leaned down to place a kiss on your lips. You mentally shattered. You felt dizzy, your senses overloaded by his shifty spirit. He came crashing into your mind. You felt arrogance. Snark. Devotion. Loss. Need. Hunger.

Clients weren’t supposed to touch you. You weakly pushed him off you, bowing your head away before the exchange, leaving the overload of sensations erupt in your core.

When you looked into his round frames, you could have sworn he looked through you. You felt on display. You took a deep intake, the sharp frost dissipating into a balanced equilibrium.

“Of course, Yakushi-sama.” He looked amused at your reaction and reached back for his drink. Your smile faltered as he did so. The room may as well have been spinning. You gripped your glass, the sensation of the smooth glass under your fingertips grounding you to reality. “I’m honored that you chose me for your company tonight.”

“Well, I’ve heard a lot about you, Yume-chan.” You eyed him and tried to ignite a semblance of fire within you. Guy’s words echoed in your head. Prepare yourself, watch your back. But you found yourself unmotivated and failing. “And I must say that I am disappointed.”

Kabuto finished his drink. The cubes of ice clinked as he once again rested the glass on the table. He took out his wallet, fishing out a few ryō before he stood. The ryō were placed on the tray. And he left you alone to down your martini.

***

You stumbled into your studio apartment, wasted but sobering up. You were beginning to build up a tolerance, but that process was ever slow. You flung your heels off and tossed your gloves on the bed. You trudged to the bathroom, taking soaked rag to the glue of your wig. The lace peeled from your skin inch by inch.

You took a large bottle of mouthwash out from under the counter. Swirl, gargle, repeat. Swirl, gargle, repeat. The bottle stood half empty by the time you slammed your cup down for the last time.

You leaned, a hand on the counter. You looked up into the mirror. Your makeup smeared around your eyes and wig gel flaked at your hairline. The bags under your eyes stood out more prominently without concealer. You stripped out of your gown, hanging it up on the hook on the door.

The steam from the shower began to clear your head as you washed your hair out. But even under the hot water, you felt grimy. You scrubbed at your skin, trying to wash away the unwanted touches from the club. You pushed the loofah into your skin, but the sensation still remained. You turned the heat up before returning to lather the loofah in soap once more. You returned to roughly scoured your skin as the water scorched your back. But once again, the feeling of hands remained. You kept trying and trying and trying until your skin became red from both the heat and the friction. You could still sense them: each and every client. Their spirits etched themselves in you with every grope. Every moment of bitter exchange and unpleasant balance. The ninja from the bingo book flashed across your memories. You let out a bitter cry, throwing the loofah down. Your head met your hands as you sat, crouched, crying.

Guy had sat on your couch once again when you came out of the bathroom. You wrapped a towel around your hair. You balanced the weight as you finished buttoning up your night shirt. You sat down next to him. He did not bring beer this time.

“Rough few nights?” Guy threw on his usual jovial smile. You curled up into the couch.

““I have some things to tell you about the mission but… give me a second, okay?” That was all you said. He sat with you silently and patiently. A clock somewhere in the room ticked on. You took a deep inhale, your voice a whisper, “We need to get into that back room.”

“And we will!” Guy was overdoing it. A beat. A pause. Your features didn’t change. His voice became low, “You don’t have to go with him tomorrow.” You felt the sting of tears gathering in your ducts. You weren’t sure why you were crying.

“Yes I do.” You blinked, tears streaming down your face. You wiped them away with your sleeve. “That’s not it…” Guy cleared his throat.

“Well, I don’t think you should go.” Guy promptly put. You shook your head at him, brow furrowing farther in sadness.

“Don’t-... Guy, don’t-...” Your hand wove itself in your hair as you clenched your eyes shut. “I told you it’s not about that.”

“It would be hard for me to spot you. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be there, but it’s harder to follow you away from the club-” He began to get lost in himself.

“Guy please! I don’t know if I can do this!” His eyes met your tired puffy ones. “I know it’s not a big deal. I know I shouldn’t be bothered.” You let out a huff of a laugh as tears streamed down your cheeks. “But fuck… I hate that I’m so worked up over this.”

“What is it?”

“My kekkei genkai,” You took a breath in an attempt to slow your breathing. “Sure, I can connect myself to others. If I can get my hands on someone’s face I’m golden, you know?” You kicked a leg out. The coffee table tumbled across the floor and you cried. “But that’s when I can get information and be done. That’s when I’m in control! I can’t turn it off! I feel it all day, every touch from men and their slimy spirits.” You scrunched your nose in bitterness. “We better find what we’re looking for soon.”

“And we will.” You gripped onto a pillow, screaming into it.

“ I can see shit I wish I didn’t, hear the things they want to do to me, to other women and I can’t do shit about it! Fucking pathetic!” You melted into the cushions around you. “I don’t know how much more I can handle and it’s only been two days! I-I... was the wrong choice for this.”

Your features contorted themselves in pain, in hurt. The way of the ninja always was gender neutral. It didn’t matter if you were a man or a woman or anything in between, your duty to your team remained your duty to your team. You were always a confident kunoichi or at least you thought so. The fury buried itself in your chest. You didn’t understand. You did not understand what this mission was doing to you and you didn’t like it one bit. Unable to escape, you felt it burn you from the inside out. For you were no longer a capable kunoichi, but a doll to be ordered off a menu.

“Please, talk about anything else.” You pleaded at this point. Guy’s features softened.

“Anything else, huh?” He pursed his lips. He tried to replicate the usual brightness in his eyes. You appreciated the attempt. “Well, let me tell ya’! Mine and Kakashi’s last rivalry challenge was truly one for the record books! It was a barbecue eating contest and I’m convinced that he cheated!” Guy continued on with gusto as tears fell from your eyes. “We’re seven pieces of flank steak in and all of the sudden he’s tellin’ me he has to go to the bathroom-”

You softly take his hand into yours.

A wave overtook you. You felt it again. Warm. Kind. You let his spirit swirl in your core and you exhaled thankfulness. Guy sat with you silent now like a foreigner in a sacred temple. You knew he felt it too.

“Please continue.” You whispered. Your thumb traced his knuckles. “I think I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Ah… right! So it’s neck and neck, we both have two more plates to go…”

You basked in his comfy spirit, watching the glow in his eyes that was just for you. The sensations from the club slowly began to fade away and not once did Might Guy falter.

You know, I was watching Spirited Away when editing this. I want to like it, I really do. I love Studio Ghibli, but dear lord, did they have to make Chihiro scream all her lines? Like the animation and story is gorgeous but jeez so much yelling. 

Aaaaanyway enjoy!

[theimprobabledreamersworld]

Whisper of the Piano- Chapter 3

Yaay! Another chapter of Whisper of the Piano is written! 

I had to play the piano for quite a while to get enough ideas for writing it into this chapter, which was fun!

Taglist for this story: @writerwithtoomanyships @omnipresence-daily @psychedelicships @jwillowwolf @lost-in-thought-20 @red-imeanblue (If anyone like to be added to this stories taglist, let me know! <3)

Read on AO3!

Chapter Three: Unlocked Memories

It’s been a few days since Virgil fell, and disappointedly for him, none of his memories had returned yet. Though he had to admit, he didn’t mind if he could never remember his name, he preferred Starlight more.

It was his first piano lesson today, and as he lied awake in his room, he wracked his mind trying to work out why he was so nervous. It was just with Logan after all. What if he was no good? What if he annoyed Logan so much with his lack of musical… anything that he just gave up on him? He shook that thought from his mind and got changed quickly. He slowly navigated his way around the maze of walls towards the centre of the cave. He traced the puzzle piece formations on the stone walls and smiled as they glimmered with tiny crystals. Virgil realised that he didn’t see them before, but when he slowly became more acclimated to his surroundings, he noticed some beautiful things and he knew that he would see more over time. He looked around one more time and noticed a small bush of tiny, delicate flowers growing out of the cave wall. Their colours were magnificent, such rich shades of magenta and blue, Virgil had never seen colours like this before. He debated whether or not to pluck a couple of them to give to Logan, but the flowers decided for him as two of them fell gently into his hands. He cupped them carefully and continued to make his way to the centre of the cave. Logan was leaning on the piano, waiting with silent excitement for Virgil.

“Good morning, Starlight. Are you ready?” Logan’s voice echoed around the walls and Virgil couldn’t stop the small smile that spread across his face. He nodded and held his hands out before releasing them and Logan gasped at what he saw.

“Wow! Uasciper! I thought this flower had gone extinct, they were my favourite for thirty years!” Logan started talking in detail about the flower and its origins, Virgil listened with great interest. It was so nice to see Logan so bubbly about something he was clearly passionate about.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to talk for so long. Are… are those for me?” Virgil nodded and placed them into Logan’s open hands. Logan stared at the flowers in wonder and he put them on top of the piano before gesturing Virgil to take a seat.

Virgil looked at the piano is bewilderment, there was so much to it! The keys of varying shades of white, accompanied by faded black keys. He took a peek under the opened lid and saw the strings with the hammers attached. Who knew that such a simple looking instrument could actually be so intrinsic and complex. It was beautiful.

“Right, we’re going to start with something simple. This is the first thing I learnt as well. Now. What you have to do is watch my hands, and play the exact keys that I do. Is that alright?” Virgil nodded and Logan placed his hands on the piano. He pressed down on four keys and Virgil watched them move down, the hammers hitting the strings delicately. Then he listened to their simple but pretty melody, he took a deep breath and held his hands over Logan’s. He followed the keys Logan had pressed down and he slowly got acclimatised to the notes and the tempo that Logan set. He smiled and giggled, he was playing an instrument! The most wonderful instrument in the world. He continued to play the notes constantly and Logan marvelled at how quickly Virgil had picked up the pattern.

“Hey, do you trust me?” Virgil looked over at Logan and he saw a genuine curiosity in Logan’s eyes behind the question. He continued to play the notes but quieter as he decided how he was going to reply.

“Yeah, sure I do!” He felt his heart beat a little faster and he still didn’t understand why he trusted Logan so easily, but it was such a natural thing to do.

“Keep playing your notes, exactly how I showed you. Try to keep the speed to same, and I’m going to play something over the top. Is that okay?” Logan sat down tentatively beside him waiting for an indication. Virgil nodded and Logan closed his eyes before examining the keys carefully, working out how a melody could fit with Virgil’s accompaniment. As the first keys began to sound out through the cave, Virgil was in awe.

He could feel the notes streaming around him, the melody wrapped around his notes like insects to flowers. They were creating a complex orchestration and the nature around them turned it into a performance. The fireflies flew in from the hole of the cave and flew around the piano. They lit the piano up from the inside and it helped the music glow until Virgil felt it in his soul. He watched Logan’s hands fly up and down the keys like a puppet on a string. He looked lost in the music like birds flying over water for fish. He looked over at Virgil and smiled before putting his passion into the music. He added chords and the music swelled into a legato chaos at a volume Virgil never thought the piano could reach, as one of his notes collided with Logan’s, his eyes widened and an image flooded into his mind.

‘He was standing in front of a grand castle. Fifteen solid, round towers dominated the skyline of this massive castle and were connected by huge, thick walls made of bronze stone. Stained glass windows were scattered here and there around the walls in seemingly perfect symmetry, along with asymmetric crenelations for archers and artillery. A vast gate with tall metal doors, a draw bridge and archer holes offered a safe home to all those in need in these cold mountains and it was the only easy way in, any other side would be futile. Well-kept gardens with fragrant flowers, gorgeous trees and many bushes decorate the outside of the castle. This castle had clearly stood the test of time, the rocks of the walls are aged and vines and plants grew inside the cracks, but this castle will last for ages to come. The shadows of two people wearing crowns rained down upon him from one of the towers of the castle. He thought that he should be scared, but their eyes broke through the shadow that sparkled with a kindness, and when they reached an arm down towards him, Virgil felt compelled to reach his arm out in return.’

“Starlight?? Star?? Can you hear me?” He shook his head violently, and the image disappeared. He looked around him and remembered where he was. Logan’s hand was on his shoulder, and his eyes were filled with worry. His hands were glowing a light blue ready to heal if he needed to. Virgil smiled and put his hand on top of Logan’s, the worry slowly fading out of his eyes.

“It’s okay. I’ve just… remembered something.”

Virgil excitedly recapped his memory to Logan who listened patiently and took in every word with the same kind of energy. It was incredible, music helped trigger a memory response.

“This is amazing, Starlight! Maybe the piano is the key to unlocking your memories after all! It’s quite possible that they’ll all come back over time when we have more lessons. I’ll always be here, whatever memories come back to you.” He realised that his hand had been on Virgil’s shoulder the whole time, and Virgil’s hand was still on top of his, but it didn’t matter. It felt nice.

Logan smiled, but his mind was locked in a battle that he hid from Virgil. That castle… it sounded so familiar, there was only one place that fitted Virgil’s very distinct description.

He just hoped that he was wrong.  

[jobanismworlddomination]

The Fire Within

Ferdinand Foch once said that the most powerful weapon on Earth is the human soul on fire. Every once in a person’s life, they will hear a voice, calling for them to pursue the uncertainty of the future that lies ahead. I personally believe that everyone has heard it at least once in their lifetime. It all starts with a thought, a dream, and then you start to question whether if it will work on you, whether you can trudge and sail the big waves in the ocean. No one ever knows what’s on the other side, until the moment they honor and followed the voice; their calling in life.

To describe my mind as a child, it was utterly a mess. I am the type of person that knows exactly what I wanted to do. The problem is that, I wanted too many things, which led me to be confused on what I really want. I would look around and see other kids my age, that knows exactly what road they will take on. Because of that, I was pressured to think about my future. It’s like driving into countless roads, but still, I don’t have a clear destination in my mind. I don’t have any talents, and it really took a toll on me. I felt like I had nothing special to do with my life.

As a kid, I also liked listening to classical music, analyzing every note and harmonies that passes through my ears. I was mesmerized by how individual notes, when combined together, makes such a heavenly and pleasing sound. I am particularly fond over a musician named Ludwig Van Beethoven. I listened to his music, and I was very astonished to learn that majority of his famous work were composed when he was already deaf. How can someone, lacking of hearing, make such good music? This can’t be, I thought to myself, and from that day on, something inside me lit up. I don’t really know what it is, but from that moment, I knew exactly what I want.

I asked my mother to accompany me to our attic, which stores objects that belonged to the family of my aunt and uncle, the previous owner of our home, who now resides in the United States of America. There I found the dusty piano that once belonged to my aunt. I helped my mother to pick it up and transfer to my room. After decades of sitting in the dank and old attic, it still looked brand new once we cleaned it up. The moment I first struck the white and black keys, I felt something in my heart swelling, a rush of joy, and excitement, even though it sounds like random keys being smashed.

I would sit and hang around inside my room for hours and hours every single day, watching people on YouTube and various tutorials. I would patiently listen to their explanations, and there are days when I would think to myself, that what I’m doing is pointless, because after weeks of trying, my fingers would still slip and make a mistake. But I still found myself every time, propping in my chair, watching videos, and then slowly picking up on them.

After an excruciating four months of hard work, patience, and persistence, I played my first piece, which is “Fur Elise”, by Beethoven. I thought before that playing piano is just all about memorizing which key to press, or by how fast you play it. A statement that Beethoven said that helped me how to play the instrument the right way, is “To play a wrong note is insignificant, but to play without passion is inexcusable.” And then, it struck me. The thing that helped me going on, no matter how hard, no matter how long it took me, no matter how impossible it may seem at first, is my passion. It fueled my heart, and it enabled me to unlock the talent that I didn’t think I had in me.

That was three years ago from today, when I first played Fur Elise. I still have so much to learn, so much to understand. But I know that my love and passion for playing piano will take me from places I never thought I could reach. My father bought a new piano for me last year, but I would still visit the attic, which stored the instrument that I had bonded for years. The thing that helped me find my passion in life.

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas20 Christmas Eve: All These Broken Things

... Is it really the end of FicMas if I haven’t posted something from All These Broken Things? I think not. The first sections can be found here and here. This is the fic where Alice travelled with James and doesn’t meet the Cullens until that baseball game. 

It's very strange finally being with the family she was always destined to be with, when she thought she had lost them so long ago.

She finds great satisfaction just watching them - Emmett yelling at the sports on the television; Edward perched at the piano, Rosalie working on her cars. She hovers, like a little ghost, folded into corners and against doorframes, vanishing the second they might acknowledge her.

Esme seems to like her company, as she goes about day-to-day things, chatting away to the silent girl with the enormous, sad black eyes, who trails after her like a stray.

She stays away from Carlisle, trying to avoid the moment he declares her to be cast out, too far gone for them to redeem.

And she stays away from Jasper, because it hurts too much. She doesn't tell Jasper what she knows, what they were meant to be to one another. The past is gone, and she has been broken into too many pieces. He watches her like a hawk, and without words, she knows he will be the one to destroy her if she steps out of line. His hands will crack her limbs apart and he will not flinch or feel any loss.

She wonders if she should tell him that if he was the to destroy her, she would not fight it. She would part in his hands like a paper doll, and hold no ill will to him for such an act.

Sometimes, she lets herself remember the old visions, the ones where they were everything to one another. Only when Edward's away, though; she doesn't like him rifling around in her head. No one deserves being forced to see some of those things.

And it hurts, a raw wound in her heart, that she was meant for something else, for happiness and peace and love, instead of what she was dealt in life. One of her greatest unanswered questions is why? What unforgivable thing did she do in her forgotten human past that earned such a punishment?

Then she remembers what she has done at James’ side for so many decades, at the faces and the screams and the suffering, and somehow she lived her crimes and her penance at the same time.

So she continues to pretend she doesn’t notice that Edward keeps Bella away from the house; that Emmett or Jasper hover in the background as she trails after Esme, as she watches Rose. That she can only go hunting when Jasper and Emmett can go along too; the ones strong enough and fast enough to restrain her.

When Edward does bring Bella back to the house at Esme’s insistence, she sits on the opposite side of the room, and listens to the conversation, keeping still and silent.

When Carlisle arrives home from work, she focuses on the magazine or book she has found, pretending to be absorbed by the glossy pictures, still and silent, to not notice as he studies her with patience she isn’t sure is genuine.

When Jasper joins Emmett for something noisy and angry on the television, their gazes occasionally sliding towards her, she is frozen in place, her gaze out the window.

She’s played this game before. Be good and quiet and still. The blow will come, eventually, but at least she can prepare herself for it, brace herself for the inevitable fall. They don’t trust her.

She doesn’t trust her, either.

Six.

They settle into a sort of routine.

She’s allowed to hunt with Esme and Rosalie now, though she’s careful to keep her distance, to trek a little further into the forest, to reassure them. She usually waits until they call her back.

She is always carefully supervised during their hunts, and finally, finally, the cracks James left across her nose and cheeks have finally faded away. They hunt too often for her, and when she forces herself to finish the animal, she vomits everywhere. She says nothing, but she feels safer a little hungry, her eyes black rather than a strange gold-orange.

Edward lets her sit beside him when he plays the piano, tells her about each of the pieces of music. He tries to teach her once, attempts to guide her hands into position, but she panics and jerks away, and he doesn’t offer again.

Emmett is nice to her. He seems to understand not to come up behind her without warning, not to touch. Sometimes she perches on the end of the couch and watches the television with him. She doesn’t stay very long, but he always gives her a big smile when she leaves, as if he’s had a wonderful time.

She doesn’t understand Emmett, but she thinks she could like him.

Rosalie can’t seem to decide whom she dislikes more – her or Bella - and she’s sure that Rose is going to get whiplash from changing her mind about both of them so many times. But Rose addresses her and is reasonably civil, mostly out of some kind of misguided caution that she is some kind of threat, and that is some kind of progress.

She and Bella have few words to say to each other. ‘Sorry I helped someone attempt to torture and exsanguinate you’ isn’t something she can work out how to say out-loud and have it sound genuine. Mostly because the truth is closer to, ‘I’m sorry you found yourself in this situation, but I don’t regret my choices. The consequences for me would have been much, much worse than you can ever comprehend. Your fragile mortality would have spared you of the worst of it. I’d make the same decision one hundred times in a row without a second thought.’

She’s certain that would upset everyone.

Bella seems rather reluctant to spent time in her presence, and she does wonder if that’s because she’s the side of the coin that isn’t beauty-wealth-love. She’s the side of suffering, of pain and of misery, murder and regret. Bella wants perfection, wants the glamour and magic of the Cullens, and none of the honest truth of being a vampire.

But it’s probably the murder attempt.

Then there are things that haven’t changed since she arrived. She’s not allowed to be alone, or to leave the house aside from hunting – even then, she has to be accompanied.

But every single day, James is still gone and she is still here. And there will never be a time when that knowledge is not sweet.

//

Her wardrobe is limited - a few old t shirts that once belonged to Esme and are too big, her worn jeans and the filthy, stained cardigan that she had when they found her. Her thin knees have long since torn through her pants, and the cardigan's sleeves are frayed and holey, but she is clean and free.

And then she is deemed in control enough to go shopping. Esme approaches her with the idea, with glossy magazines and gentle suggestions. It is an idea that has even intrigues Rosalie enough for her to join them.

They clearly still think she is a risk, though, because it is a family outing, with looks of such boredom and long-suffering on the faces of the male Cullens when it is decided, that she laughs softly behind her hand.

The building they take her to is huge and full of people. It is like a blow to the face, of blood and scent, and she visibly recoils from it at first, unsure and on edge. And they are patient, escorting her in, with encouraging words.

Eventually, though, they show her the clothes and the sight of the racks is enough to distract her from the heady scent. It is overwhelming, the colours and fabrics and styles, and she simply stares, with Emmett laughing at her stunned expression.

Esme is so kind, guiding her gently through the racks, telling her to choose anything she likes. She is careful, though, picking new jeans, a new cardigan, soft and clean and sunshine yellow. Esme helps her pick shoes out - the first pair she's had in decades. Soft brown winter boots, black sneakers, gold and black flats that make her feel like a princess. At her childlike delight with her fancy shoes, Esme buys her a black sundress with ties at the back and bows on the straps, that will bare her arms and triangles of flesh on her back.

Underwear is a strange concept. It's nothing that she has ever bothered with before. She is useless in the wake of so many choices, and let's Esme and Rosalie choose what she needs, dress her like a doll, whilst she amuses herself with how clearly uncomfortable both Jasper and Edward are in such a department.

She almost feels pretty – even desirable - in the plain cotton that make her skinny frame look almost womanly. She’s too embarrassed to even try on the satin and lace sets Rosalie has chosen. They aren’t for girls like her – girls that wear those things are more than she will ever be – prettier, sweeter, bolder. They are too much, and when she refuses, she doesn’t understand the look Rosalie and Esme exchange, Rosalie looking sly and Esme with an expression of warning.

Afterwards, they look for other things. The books hold little interest for her, as do the endless electronics. She doesn’t mean to wander off, but a demonstration by the art supplies store catches her eye, and she stands a little away from the crowd, watching the man draw. It is Esme and Jasper who find her, both looking alarmed, but she pretends she doesn’t see them, her gaze focused on the pencil that so carefully makes its way across the page.

“Alice,” Esme is at her side. “You scared us.” Her smile is bright, but her eyes worried – what would the Cullens do if she attacked in a place like this, with so many eyes? She doesn’t get to ponder that thought much longer, as Jasper’s hand closes over her shoulder and she is guided away.

For the rest of the afternoon, Jasper is her ominous shadow, as she dutifully trails after them.

She doesn't have her own room, but she doesn’t truly need one. Until now, she hasn’t had any possessions to store, and she doesn’t require the privacy a mated couple does. But, she has found she likes the attic. Full of things that need repairs or to be stored, it is a mad tea party of furniture and items.

There’s an old grey chair is missing a leg, and has an ugly stain that not even Esme could draw out that she likes. She folds herself into it, and she feels safe in that little corner, with the narrow window that overlooks the forest and spills in afternoon light. There's an old dresser up there, too, so that's where she arranges her new things, carefully folding and smoothing them into each drawer, precisely and lovingly.

Rosalie brings her some cosmetics and half a glass bottle of perfume – the bottle is shaped like an egg and etched with tiny flowers and curlicues and it is so delicate and beautiful, she is frightened to hold it. Rosalie watches as she sprays the scent into the air, the delighted look at the scent of flowers. She is nervous at Rosalie’s gesture, but grateful. Grateful enough that she allows Rosalie to cut the matted ends of her hair off into a neat, shorter style.

It makes her look more delicate, younger, maybe sweeter, she thinks as she strokes the strands in the mirror. And less like a roving maniac, at least according to the shiny-haired Rosalie, who watches her with satisfaction in her eyes.

She should be offended, but there’s this tiny hope that maybe, just maybe, Rosalie is turning her into something new. Something good and better.

Something like a sister.

//

It’s Esme’s idea to invite Bella around the evening of her birthday. Just a family gathering, with a few simple gifts. Everyone sort of agrees, and try to work out what to give the sullen girl.

She manages a portrait of Bella and Edward seated together at the piano that Esme gushes over, and has framed.

There have been some hints, from Carlisle and Edward that she will have to attend school eventually. She doesn’t understand that, but is just waiting for them all to graduate. They’ll leave when they’ve graduated and she won’t have to worry about school again.

She arranges peonies on the piano for Bella, upon Esme’s request, and is reminded of her old, fragmented vision of blood and glass. But nothing comes to her; the future is clear and her mind has decided to play tricks on her again.

Or perhaps her mind is the best part of her, the gentle warning she ignored becoming obvious as soon as Bella’s finger slips against the wrapping paper. Jasper’s eyes blacken as soon as Bella’s flesh parts and the blood beads, and suddenly he is lunging. She sees it in an instant, Bella’s crumpled body in his grip and Edward’s howls and the house of the Cullens irreversibly fallen. She sees an endless parade of James’ victims, broken and dead in Bella’s blank eyes.

She sees the horror and the guilt in Jasper’s eyes, sees the vastness of Mexico and the rise of a monster born of regret and impulse.

It is over before he even moves, decision made, and she has to stop this.

The shriek startles them all, coming from her mouth as she darts in front of him.

In another life, the flavour of her desperation and fear would be enough for him to pause, to grasp wildly at his resistance. Instead, he throws her aside, her body crashing through the front windows in a rain of wood and glass, leaving an imprint of her body in the flowerbed outside.

She picks herself up out of the flower bed as Emmett and Rosalie drag Jasper bodily from the house, Esme close behind them. Their eyes are all pitch black; a harmless paper cut did not cause this reaction.

“She cut open her arm,” is Emmett’s grim explanation as Jasper’s struggles slow, his eyes firmly on the door of the house.

“It was an accident,” Esme adds, shame in every line of her stance.

“Alice seemed to know,” Rosalie murmurs, her eyes still on Jasper.

She will never understand Rosalie, why she always needs to assign blame, to identify the victim and the antagonist. She ignores the statement, even as they all swing to look at her, as she examines her shoulder. Jasper didn’t hit her hard enough for cracks to form, but it doesn’t look like it’s properly aligned.

When she does look up again, she can see it in all their eyes – did she let this happen on purpose? Does she hold some ugly vendetta against poor, sweet Bella?

She did help James …

She’s surprised – she thought it would be Edward that came after her, later, to criticise and punish her for the limitations on her faulty gift. He still might – he hasn’t decided properly, too focused on patching up Bella.

But it’s Jasper, wrenching out of Rosalie and Emmett’s grasp, with murder in his eyes and the target on her.

He doesn’t yell, but his words are poisonous, nasty and accusing. She flinches, Esme gasps and even Emmett tries to get him to stop. Some of them, she knows, aren’t meant for her. They are frustration, humiliation and disappointment directed at himself, at his own weakness.

But when she instinctively backs away, and he grabs her wrist, and she lets out a tiny cry of fear; it is Rosalie who comes to her rescue, who snarls and yells and pries his iron grip from her.

“I don’t care how pissed you are, you don’t touch her like that.”

The words seem to echo, and Carlisle, Edward and Bella are watching from the front door.

Her apology is stammered, weak in the sudden silence, her insistence that she didn’t know sounding bewildered and feeble as she darts away, into the forest to pick glass and wood out of her hair and wonder just how many other warnings she’s missed.

//

[chunhua-s]

CHERRY RED  ➽ ASAHI AZUMANE X OC

genre: ongoing, fluff

warnings: mutual pining

Chapter 1: As The Sunlight Kisses Her Skin

The summer's heat burned brilliantly on the day he met her, captured her radiance and lit her up so that she shined in his eyes.

Azumane Asahi's face burned both from the heat of the sun and his own nervousness as he met eyes with the little girl across the street, hesitant as he watched her stare right back at him with curious red eyes. Of yellow-brown skin that drank in the sun's rays and black curls that framed a round face, she tilted her head with something of an inquiry, a question to the brown haired boy who stood watching her family move into their new home. Her blue sundress was vibrant against the grey of her house as it blew gently with the passing wind, and Asahi found that his very breath seemed to lock in his throat, cut off lest it should find itself swept up with the summer breeze.

Hesitantly, the girl waved her hand, barely lifted it from her side in the motion as she searched him for a reply. When he gave her one with equal shyness, a gentle smile grew over her lips, one that glowed so shiningly in the way that it lit up her features and painted her like the image of utter beauty. What breath remained behind Asahi's lips fell from him at the sight, he could no longer fight against the effects of his heart racing and blood pumping so loudly in his ears, sounding like the drums of a summer festival. This girl, so unlike anyone he'd ever seen in his life up until that point, was the absolute manifestation of summer's sweetness, the flavour of watermelons on a hot day that coursed through his chest and lit fireworks under his skin.

Ah, the thought came to him unbidden, an unwelcome intrusion that tilted his world on its side, I think this might be a crush.

"Do you want to come over?"

Seconds passed him by like years before he realized that she'd spoken to him, and the red that dusted his cheeks became one of embarrassment as he lightly jogged across the narrow street at her invitation. Coming to stand before the girl, he noted immediately that they were nearly on the same height, with her only a short way beneath him where he could meet her eyes. The red colour he found in her was sharp, filled up with something like excitement and quiet fires that made Asahi himself feel giddy. "Hi," the word fell out from his lips in a nervous mutter, one that caused him to mentally punch the air and wish that he could take it back. Despite his rapidly spreading heart-attack, he pushed forward, "Are you moving in?"

There came a nod from the girl as her eyes lazily drifted over to one of two moving trucks, the back of which was filled up with furniture and appliances; he was able to spot a particularly large something in the back of one, wrapped up in dark blue blankets and tape that was turned over on its side, the working men grunting with the effort of lifting it so that they could place it down on a little wheeled device and roll it through their front gates. "My father's job gave him a new... a new..." her eyebrows furrowed, her lips pushing out into a thoughtful pout and her gaze fell forward as she seemed to struggle with finding the right thing to say. Patiently, Asahi waited for her, and noted to himself that she had a slight accent that popped up around certain words. She must've lived outside Japan before moving, he figured as he observed her features a bit longer, taking note that, despite her darker skin tone, she still possessed features that were very much East Asian. Maybe one of her parents was Japanese?

Soon, sudden in the motion that it startled Asahi from his thoughts, the girl snapped her fingers and pointed upwards at something, her lips forming an 'o' shape as she made a sound to accompany. "Chance! They gave him a new chance to work here, so we moved."

Asahi's brows furrowed as he repeated the word, derived from regular English and adapted to daily Japanese language. Her context, he found, sounded unnatural, the word 'chance' fitting in awkwardly with the rest of her sentence and made him try and think of a better one to replace it. It finally came to him in a moment of sudden thought, similar to the one that had come over the girl only moments before, and he wound up pointing one finger upwards in the same way he'd seen her do. "Like a new position?"

"Ah!" Her smile turned into something bashful as red adorably scattered across her nose, "That's the word I was looking for!" Something of an embarrassed sigh fell on her lips, "My bad, my Japanese still isn't at a hundred percent — I only ever practiced with my father so I can only say a few things."

"Oh! Well—" Understanding passed through his features as he nodded once, "I could help you if you ever need it?" He offered up almost thoughtlessly, barely even registering his words as they slipped out of his lips and caused him to immediately fumble once they were out. His face burned bright red and his hands lifted to wave around in nervous gestures, as he tried to retract his words, "I-I mean, only if you need the help! I assume you'll be practicing with your father so you might not even need anything from me, but—"

A beautiful sound cut off his rambling, harmonious and warm as it rang in his ears and in his flustered state, he realized that the girl was laughing. Her expression was warm and open beneath the summer's sun, drawing Asahi in under the season's spell and, wow, he couldn't help but stare after her as she sounded out with such joyous notes. His heart fluttered again inside his chest and lit his face aflame with admiration that only intensified when her red eyes met his once more and he saw a world of song and a galaxy of sweet lullabies.

"You're really kind," the words hit him harder than they should have as they caused Asahi's head to swell, her expression turned gentle and gratifying with her smile and he couldn't help himself but to return the expression. "I'd love to learn and practice with you."

Under the heat of the summer sun, Azumane Asahi's heart raced for the very first time.

════════════════

The sound coming from the music room was familiar to him, his feet almost instinctively guiding him until he stood directly in front of the door that did very little to withhold the sounds of a piano reaching down its hallway. He could perfectly hear each note that was played, could nearly picture her with her back straight and eyes closed, a gentle smile on her lips as she let herself go in her music. The image of her caused his beating heart to calm with a serenity he would so effortlessly associated with her, and his usually racing mind become eased into tranquility as he took a deep breath and finally reached one hand out to pull the sliding door; she was there, constant and permanent, the one factor in his day-to-day life that he could depend on never changing.

Her fingers didn't give pause from their motions across black and white keys, though he could tell from the slight tilt of her head that she'd heard him enter through the door. An answering smile took place on her lips, familiar in the way that he'd seen it every day since they met that summer; made his breath falter with unfailing consistency every time she gave it to him. Without making any vocal indication of his arrival, he made his way over to lean against the far wall, his gaze becoming locked through the window from where he was able to spot the football and baseball fields. The cherry blossoms, picturesque in the way they fluttered on the wind, felt as if they were somehow lending their scenery to the girl's music as her sounds danced across the room and straight to his heart, pulling at the strings there until he was wrapped up in her song; he kept his attention outside the window so that he wouldn't lose himself watching her, as he always seemed to let happen more often than he liked to admit. Sometimes he would wonder in his moments of idleness, in afternoons spent in his living room with so little between them as a show or anime played on his screen, if she would ever catch his lingering gaze, if she could identify every flicker of emotion that followed so faithfully on her every breath. Did she know the effect she had over him, that she could send him out to the very ends of the universe and bring her a galaxy if only she willed it?

Ah, the thought alone terrified him, drove a cold fear through his heart at the idea that she might have been aware. That his constant, the sun that he could always trust to stay with him inside his galaxy, would she hide her light away from him if she found out about his feelings? Would her light be covered up by rain clouds in her departure? Would she fight against gravity until she disappeared from his solar system, leaving his planets and asteroids to collapse and suffocate under the hands of a black hole? The one factor in his life that he could trust would never leave him in the dark, he worried that any hint of his affections for her would drive her away from him, that should he ever show to her his heart in its entirety, she'll be scared off by what she found there. His sun would go cold and leave him and his planets to plunge into the throws of an icy wasteland and he would be left with nothing more than frostbite and frozen limbs, and the very notion of her ever leaving him frightened him more than anything.

And yet, as he stood basking in the music that she played and watching the petals fall, that he gave in to the overwhelming urge to look at her, to watch as she lost herself atop the ebs and flows of musical waves before they abruptly paused when her fingers left the keys. He watched her as she brought a finger up to her plush lips, the very same way he would see her do whenever she had something on her mind as she pondered over a page of lines and symbols, something that Asahi had long since given up on understanding, before she snapped her fingers and quietly exclaimed an 'ah!', picked up her pencil and scribbled away.

Just like planet Earth never dared to stray from her orbit, Asahi found himself unable to leave the force of her gravitational influence, and he'd long since resigned himself to a destiny where he could only have her from so far away.

"That doesn't sound like Chopin," he teased her lightly, smiling as he crossed the distance between him and where she sat, nudged her side so that she'd allow him space. Her answering chuckle echoed in the room now void of the music she played as she gave him her full attention. "I got a bit caught up with transcribing this song in time to upload it," she easily confessed, to which Asahi's lips set down into a helpless, something of exasperated, smile. This girl, she was always so scatter-brained, jumped from one item to the next without a second thought, going of on endless tangents until she'd lose herself in her words and forget her starting point. It was a wonder that she was able to keep her attention on the monochrome keys long enough to play them, he often times found herself baffled on how quickly she jumped from one thought to the next. And yet, all wonder and doubt would immediately disappear whenever she began to press her fingers against them.

"Don't you need to prepare for a competition next month though?"

The orange hues of the setting sun filtered in from the window and made golden skin shine as her expression became one of quiet mischief; the way her eyes narrowed as her lips pushed upwards with her smile was a telling of subtle playfulness that was one of a thousand charms on her. "I can spare myself some time to enjoy outside of the classics, can't I?" She hummed, gently shoving into his side with her shoulder. Since their childhood, Asahi had grown to tower over her even whilst seated, and it was always something that she would teasingly complain about— "We were on the same height before middle school, how did you grow so tall so fast—?"

He answered her with his smile and a bit of an exasperated sigh as he cast his eyes down to the black and white keys. Here with her, it felt almost as if he could forget the encounter he'd had that day during lunch, felt as if the boy who so passionately spoke to him as an aspiring ace was a fragment of a blurry dream and that it would vanish away from him in a gust of wind. And yet, it was as he sat next to her that his words rang out so loudly in his head as her gaze intently searched him, picked him apart by the worries and uncertainties he wore on his lips and spread them all around them like the notes on her music sheets.

"And when I jump, the whole other side of the net just kinda goes fwaaa!! And opens up!"

There was a moment that passed between them, one punctuated by fears and insecurities left to flutter around them like the falling blossoms, and without saying anything to him — as if she could feel every fluctuation of his heart as it danced around inside his chest — her hands reclaimed their positions over the piano keys, though when she began playing again, it was a tune that Asahi had heard a thousand times over, one that he'd have on loop in his mind and would lull him to sleep. 'Soffia la note' sang out in her melody, warming the music room under the orange of sunset lights and fluttering cherry blossoms; the boy-turning-man felt his heart swell with all his feelings of doubt and hesitance until they were tumbling out of his lips, flowing like a dam whose floodgates had been gently coaxed apart by her hands, came undone from a mere brush of her fingertips. The sun gently grazes his skin with her warmth and he finds himself unravelling.

"I... I miss it..."

A hum of acknowledgement flowed up from her throat, gently urging him to continue as she played the song that he'd heard her play from her piano room, situated across from his bedroom at night. "That scenery... I miss seeing the other side of that wall."

"What's stopping you from seeing it again?"

He gave in to her gravity and looked over to her, and the feeling of pure want and longing intensified inside his chest as he took in the sight of her closed eyes and sun kissed skin, a smile on her lips as her body gently swayed side to side with her administrations. Tight black curls brushed against the back of her neck in round spirals, she'd tucked away the strands that normally framed her face to rest behind her ears; the ones that he so often brushed with his fingers in mindless actions as if it had all been second nature to them, that she'd idly twist around with her fingers as she would hum a sweet melody. Ephemeral, a scenery he wished to burn inside his mind forever; the view of the other side of a thin line where she stood opposite from him, close enough for his fingers to brush her face but far enough where he could never fully hold her in his arms and call her his, just like the Earth was forced to stay so close to the sun without being able to bury herself fully in its brilliance and shine. 'What's stopping me from crossing that line?' The question burned within him, turned and festered and pushed out again in another wave of words and feelings.

"I'm afraid that I'll be shut out," he was near whispering as he spoke, entranced and tortured so sweetly by her visage that it left him in a familiar state of breathlessness. "When the other team throws a strong, tall block up in front of me, I just can't see myself punching through it anymore... All I can envision is getting shut out — or being so afraid of getting shut out that I take myself out of the game."

'I'm so afraid that you'll shut me out and leave me here by myself,' those words stayed on his tongue, locked up and choked back so that she would never have to find them. And yet, he worried that somehow, she would have been able to see right through him, just as she so easily did whenever he attempted to keep something from her, to hide his troubles from her sight even though he'd crumble under her patient caresses. No matter what he tried to hold back from her, she'd manage to sense whatever it was and gently pull him out from his fears, hold him so closely to her with unending understanding and tolerance for him that it only made his heart yearn all the more for her and cry out for something that he wouldn't dare to let himself have.

"But you love that feeling, don't you?"

He did. He absolutely loved the feeling of the ball hitting his hand, heavy in its weight and impact; of her mere presence sitting next to him like this, a constant and comfort to him when he needed her most. They were things he could very well get drunk on, waste himself away with them until kingdom's return, but whenever he reached out for their sensation, he was met with walls and red lines, barriers put up to surround him and close him in; to shut him out and keep him away from her. "I feel as if I'd only weigh the team down again if I went back..." he confessed heavily, "What kind of ace would I be if I can't even make the ball count?"

'If I chase after that feeling, I'll only push you away.'

She was silent save for her playing, letting the music surround them for a while before she opened her eyes to look up at him, and Asahi felt his heart lock up and suffocate around chains when chocolate brown met cherry red. Her smile was encouraging, filled to the very depths with understanding, serene in the way it gently touched her face. Soffia la note rang out in its light and encompassing sounds as he took her in, heard her words so clearly beneath keys and melodies so that they coursed through his entire being and drew him in.

"If you love that scenery so much, then there's nothing stopping you from chasing after it, is there?"

They were the same words that Daichi had said to him after the captain had caught the ace slinking around by the gymnasium, and yet their weight when spoken from her lips had become all the more impactful, hit him harder and twisted around in his gut in a way that mutedly screamed at his existence and lit a fire under his skin. Her gaze was almost knowing in the way it searched his very soul, found what she sought for and urged him forward. "I'll be here after you're finished with everything," she promised him; unsaid was 'I'll wait for you until the ends of the universe,' though they still managed to travel between them in the silence of her melody and fill the boy's heart up with affection and reassurance. His smile was grateful and warm, let slip past his reluctant barriers a bit of the tenderness he felt for her.

"Thanks, Sora."

Azumane Asahi was a boy in love, with his heart humming along to the gentle tune of Soffia la notte on the early evening of a Spring day.

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the original author's note i left up on wattpad:

ahhhh here it is! i've been stewing over this for days and i've finally got the first chapter out! that said, i'm probably? going to let myself pace and solidify a few more chapters before i put more out for this content, but i sort of wanted to put this out as a pilot chapter in the mean time? but anyways, i love asahi. he's a literal darling and i just want to hug him. it's all i want out of life. 

also this is heavily inspired by your lie in april! i finished rewatching the anime some time back and i've been in a mood ever since, so i ended up scheming several small ideas until i finally wrote this! i'm like, 70% certain i won't add such heavy angst but... maybe just a teeny bit? still debating tbh :D

thank you for reading! i'll accept any form of criticism and feedback that you guys have for me and i'll do my best to review and improve!

notes for tumblr!

hi everyone! so here's the story i mentioned earlier! i'm a little nervous about how it will do? because most of the work i see here is from reader inserts and i debated making it one for a while but eventually i decided to stick with what's most comfortable for me :D it's easier for me to write when i have a character fleshed out in my head, so even if i did change sora's name to (y/n) she would still have the same appearance. if this interested you at all, please stick around! i'll try and do my best so that you all won't be bored by it!

//written and published under wattpad acc @/-xiaoli !

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[scumbagg]

The Moonshiner

Summary: Ruby and Charles y’allllllll. This is their first time ever meeting. 

Warnings: None, really! Slight bit of gore but it’s just pure drabble. Not even any fluff or angst. 

Word count: 1,225. 

Note: This is literally only the second thing I’ve ever written in my life. There might be more, who knows but This kept me up until 4am I literally could not sleep until I finished it

tagging @eddescuella​ @theunholyoutlaw​ @verai-marcel​ @r0xy-w0lf​

Ruby sighs in relief as she pulls the wagon carefully to a halt outside Rhodes saloon, bottles clinking together in the back softly. The revenue agents had dropped off as she hit the outskirts of town, falling back after she had single-handedly shot down their comrades with her Lancaster repeater - which was now slung across her back, accompanied by her bolt action rifle. The saloon owner thanks her and hands her the money, signalling for two other men to help him unload the crates of moonshine from the wagon and take them inside. Ruby thanks the owner for the cash and heads inside the rowdy saloon for a drink.

The saloon is crowded tonight, the piano played surprisingly well in the corner by a man drunkenly slouched over the keys. Ruby recognises most of the faces in the room, being a regular patron and supplier for the past year. A group of four men sit at a booth by the front window, drinking and laughing loudly. Ruby recognises the man with light brown hair from around town with the drunken idiot the town calls a sheriff, but the other three are unfamiliar. Paying them no mind, she turns to the barman and orders a whiskey, throwing her head back and slamming the glass back down on the bar as she wipes her mouth and orders another shot.

As the barman passes her drink, she notices from her peripherals one of the men get up and head down the hallway to the back of the saloon. He’s a large brawny man, with dark skin, long hair sweeping down his back and scars swimming across his right cheek. Ruby tenses as he passes her, uncomfortable with having a stranger behind her.

She turns back to her drink, about to down it when a slimy voice grabs her attention from the other side of the bar. Two men dressed in ragged clothes had walked in, their hands on their grubby guns in their holsters.

“This here is Lemoyne Raider territory. You ain’t got no business here, moonshiner!” one of the men stalks over to her, his lips pulled back in a menacing grimace, revealing what blackened teeth remained in his mouth.

The piano stops playing from the corner as almost every eye in the bar is on Ruby and the Raiders.

“I sell to whoever’s buyin’,” Ruby answers non-chalantly into her glass. She throws her head back once more as she finishes her drink and turns back to the Lemoyne Raiders. “And it seems as though the owner of this saloon considers my ‘shine to be of better quality than yours… so I do in fact have business here... Raider.” Ruby smiles smugly into his grimy face.

“I think you should leave,” the man says menacingly, pulling his dirty cattleman from its holster.

A shot rings out, and the Raider falls backwards to the floor, a hole in his forehead and blood splattered on the wall behind him. The other man has his back against the wall, Ruby’s navy revolver under his chin, her other revolver aimed at the place his associate had just stood a moment before.

“No, I think it is you who needs to leave before you end up like your friend here,” Ruby threatens. She removes the gun from under his chin and steps back, allowing the man to straighten up enough for him to run from the saloon, the door swinging shut in the silence behind him.

“My apologies for the disruption” Ruby says to the room. She flicks a coin at the pianist. “Next round’s on me!” The room is filled with raucous cheers and the sound of the piano picks back up as two men carry the body of the Lemoyne Raider outside. Ruby turns back to the drink in front of her.

“That was impressive,” says a deep voice behind her. “You’re fast. I hope I never have to cross you in a bad mood.”

The man who passed her earlier on his way down the hall stands at the other end of the bar, surveying her humorously. He orders two drinks and slides one down the bar to her. Ruby catches it and nods, saluting the stranger with her glass as they both down their drinks at the same time.

“Let’s just hope both our guns stay in their holsters, then.” Ruby replies, eyeing the sawed off at his hip, still unsure of his intentions. Since the first stranger she’d trusted had caused the slash across her left eyebrow leaving her with a permanent scar, she was cautious to new people.

The man chuckles. “I don’t plan on using it against you, that’s for sure,” he says, noticing her eyes trail down to his hip. “Would you like to join my friends and I for a drink? The barman told us the moonshine here is the best around.”

Ruby lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Well, I’d hope it’s the best around. It’s my moonshine. And I’m fine right here, thanks.” She eyes the other three men suspiciously.

The stranger’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead in surprise. “You made this?”

“Well… I didn’t cook it, but I own the moonshine shack it’s cooked in. I co-own the business and pay for the ingredients and equipment.”

“Like I said before, impressive.”

Ruby smiles. “Thank you, Mr..?”

The stranger holds out his hand in greeting. “Smith. Ch-“

But the man’s words are cut off as a bullet breaks through a nearby window and whizzes by their heads, lodging into the wall behind Ruby. She jumps behind the bar, ducking as gunshots ring throughout the saloon and bullets fly. A dozen men run into the saloon as the patrons run for the exits.

“Looks like your friend brought back-up!” Mr Smith shouts from the cover of a nearby booth, firing his sawed off into the chest of a passing enemy.

“Ha! Nothing I can’t handle” Ruby calls back as two men burst through the saloon doors and crumple immediately from two of her bullets. She spots one of Mr Smith’s friends pistol whip a Raider while another sends a Raider flying back through a window. Ruby runs for the stairs, shooting another enemy along the railings above her, the man crumpling over the bars of the railing and hitting the floor below with a sickening thud. Mr Smith follows behind, shouting to his friends below.

“Arthur! John! Javier! Meet back at camp! Go! Go!”

The three men continue to shoot their way out of the saloon, more bodies hitting the floor as they make their exit. Ruby and Mr Smith fire more bullets at the unfortunate Raiders as they head for the double doors, exiting onto the outdoor balcony. Ruby whistles for her horse, grinning at the handsome stranger as Bones comes running from the darkness, waiting patiently below. Ruby climbs over the railing, holding onto the balcony behind her and balancing on the thin ledge.

“So, Mr Smith.. I don’t believe I ever caught your first name?” Ruby smiles over her shoulder.

“It’s Charles. Charles Smith.” he says.

“Well… see you ‘round, Charles Smith,” Ruby winks before jumping from the ledge, landing on Bones’ saddle below with a hard thud.

“Wait!” Calls Charles over the railing. “You didn’t tell me your name!”

Ruby laughs as she rides off into the night.

[brokenbuttonsmusic]

Eleni Mandell: L.A. Singer-Songwriter with Smoky Chrissie Hynde Vocals and a flair for Tom Waits’ Influenced Experimentation

This post is a near- transcript of the Broken Buttons: Buried Treasure Music podcast (episode 5, side A). Here you’ll find the narration from the segment featuring the L.A. singer-songwriter, Eleni Mandell, along with links, videos, photos and references for the episode.

Listen to the full episode on Spotify, Apple, Anchor or Mixcloud.

Have you ever bought the wrong record? Like, you intended to buy something that sounded like one thing and you accidentally grab something that sounds very different. 

I don’t know if this happens anymore, but I believe it was quite common years ago. Imagine hearing an artist on the radio and being blown away. You go to the record store, find the plastic divider with the name of whom you’re looking for, but you can’t remember the name of the album, or even the song. Remember, you don’t have a tiny computer in your pocket. You’re too nervous to ask the store clerk for fear of looking stupid. So you roll the dice. 

“I know it was someone called Neil Young, but there are a thousand Neil Young records here.”

“Hey, this pink one looks cool.”

That exact scenario didn’t happen to me, but that album, Neil Young’s Everybody’s Rockin’, happened to be the most played Neil Young album in my house growing up, so for years I thought Neil Young was a rockabilly revival act. In reality, that was one of several oddball records Young released during a tumultuous period with his record label to fulfill his contract demands. I still love that record. 

Eleni Mandell did live out the scenario of buying the wrong record though. She shared the story during a segment of the show Bullseye with Jessie Thorn, where she describes seeing Tom Waits on MTV late at night—back when MTV still cared about music. It was either 120 minutes or IRS’ The Cutting Edge. This would have been around 1984 or 1985, so right around the time of Wait’s masterpiece Rain Dogs. When she went to the record store though, she picked up the 1976 Tom Waits’ Asylum release, Small Change instead. Now Small Change is still a great Tom Waits album, but it sounds nothing like the drastically reimagined sound and musical approach he had begun to employ starting with 1983’s Swordfishtrombones. Something Tom Waits called his “junkyard orchestral deviation.” The spare, off-kilter percussion. Moaning trombones and muted trumpets. Marimba. Plenty of marimba. Experimental instruments mixed in everywhere. Megaphones and CB radios. Trash can lids. 

This is the sound Eleni was looking for. 

Instead she got lush strings. Delicate piano. Cinematic swells and a melancholy wail. 

She got this.

Still awesome, but not the same. She credits the experience with changing her life. She grew to love both sides of the Tom Waits coin. The jazzy piano man in the smoky, whiskey-drenched nightclub and the eclectic, experimental carnival barker that she had her first encounter with on late night MTV. 

You can hear that deep appreciation and influence for the full Tom Waits spectrum injected and swirling through Eleni Mandell’s own spectacular catalog that spans more than 20 years now. 

She’s got plenty of experimental Waits, especially in her early catalog. 

And quite a bit of the jazzy nightclub vibe.

There’s also plenty of folk-y Eleni mixed in, and even some country.

You’ll notice that Eleni’s voice doesn’t sound like Tom Waits though. Did you notice that? It’s less of a deep, gravelly howl and more of rich Chrissie Hynde croon. Spin compared her to Chrissie Hynde and PJ Harvey. Rolling Stone compared her captivating melodies and witty lyricism to early Elvis Costello. 

While she doesn’t have the Tom Waits’ wail, she does specialize in his particular brand of character song-study. Like this first song we’re going to hear. The first track off of Eleni Mandell’s second album Thrill. Released in the year 2000. This is Pauline. 

Pauline, from Eleni Mandell’s second record, Thrill. So how did this remarkably unique singer-songwriter get her start and pull together so many interesting influences to create the sound we just heard.

Eleni grew up in the Sherman Oaks region of the San Fernando Valley, Los Angeles. She started playing music when she was just 5, beginning with the violin and then piano. Eleni didn’t love playing either, but continued to take lessons until she was thirteen. She remembers wanting to learn to write songs early on, but didn’t have the first idea of how to approach it, especially on violin. She jumped from violin and piano to guitar as a teenager. Her parents exposed her to a variety of musical styles. Her mom would take her to musicals and her dad, a serious record collector, played her Hoagy Carmichael and plenty of jazz standards. She loved the Beatles and remembers Diana Ross making an early impression. 

Another early life changing moment came when she discovered the Los Angeles punk band X.

X were huge in LA, and their first album (called Los Angeles) was the first record Eleni ever owned. Or maybe the first she asked to own. The first record she was ever given was Shaun Cassidy’s greatest hits for her 4th birthday. The first she ever purchased with her own money was X’s third release, Under the Big Black Sun. She tells a story of when she was out record shopping at a place called Aron’s Records, located on Melrose, and to her utter befuddlement came face to face with John Doe, lead singer of X. He was shopping for records too. She quickly snapped up a copy of the band’s third album and asked John to sign it. He did. She still has the signed album, which reads “Yours” complete with a big X “-John Doe.” That was the last autograph she ever asked for. It was not, however, the last time her path would cross with that of the band X. 

When she was a little bit older, she met Chuck E. Weiss, songwriter, rock n’ roller, beat poet and peculiar Tom Waits associate. Also the subject of the song, Chuck E.’s in Love.

Yes, that Chuck E. Weiss. Waits was in a relationship with Rickie Lee Jones. Waits, Jones and Weiss all lived at the seedy Tropicana Motel in Los Angeles. One day Weiss up and left out of nowhere. Some time later Chuck E. called the apartment where Jones and Waits were living. He explained to Waits that he had moved to Denver because he had fallen in love with a cousin there. Waits hung up the phone and announced to Jones, “Check E.’s in love. Rickie Lee Jones liked that so much that she it turned it into the song we just heard. 

Who is this episode about again? Oh, right. Eleni Mandell. Anyway, Eleni Mandell met THAT Chuck E. Weiss when she was not yet 21. Still, she had a friend who was able to get her into The Central, a Sunset Strip club that would later become The Viper Room. This would’ve been around 1990. Weiss was playing there every Monday. 

Here’s how the write up on Eleni’s original website describes her first encounter with Weiss.

“The first time she ever saw Chuck E. Weiss perform, he walked right up to her and smiled like a cross between The Cheshire Cat and an escaped mental patient. She met him a month later at Musso and Frank’s.”

Eleni says she was at the famous Hollywood restaurant and recognized Weiss. She worked up the courage to approach him and told him how much she loved his show. He asked if she wanted to accompany him to meet up with a friend at Canter’s Deli. She agreed. When they settled into one of the landmark eaterys iconic red, vinyl booths in walked her hero. Tom Waits. What a night. Tom asked Chuck how he and Eleni had met. 

“Hebrew school,” he declared. 

Here’s a tune from Eleni’s debut album, Wishbone, released in 1999. This is Sylvia. 

From Eleni Mandell’s first album, Wishbone, that was Sylvia. 

Under Chuck E. Weiss’ mentorship, produced by Jon Brion and self-financed by Mandell, Wishbone, as well as her next several records, received strong reviews and drew comparisons to Waits and PJ Harvey in style. 

Before Weiss mentored Mandell, he hired her as a door person at his club. She said he would test her to see how tough a door person she was by trying to grab money out of her hand. Weiss would continue to mentor Eleni over the years and they’re still friends to this day. 

For her fourth album, Mandell shook things up by diving into traditional country. A mix of covers and originals, 2003’s Country For True Lovers is an exciting update to her sound. And one of her life changing moments came full circle. Weiss introduced her to former X guitarist Tony Gilkyson, who produced the project. She also stacked the sessions with all star players, including Nels Cline from Wilco, and another X hero, drummer D.J. Bonebreak. 

Eleni continued to mix and mesh genres on her next release, 2004’s Afternoon. 

From the No Depression review of that album:

“Last years Country For True Lovers found Los Angeles chanteuse Eleni Mandell turning her sights on twang rather than her previous more PJ Harvey-oriented material, and she received plenty of critical acclaim in the process, sharing the LA Weekly 2003 songwriter of the year award with the late Elliot Smith.”

“On Afternoon, her fifth album, Mandell combines her love of various genres, including country, pop, jazz and rock, to stunning effect. Produced by Joshua Grange, who also lends his considerable talents on guitar, pedal steel, Hammond organ and piano, Afternoon mostly takes the slow and sexy approach. I’ve Been Fooled and Can’t You See Im Soulful give Mandell the chance to show off her breathy but passionate alto, which can devastate in a heartbeat.”

“Mandell does rock out from time to time, as on Easy On Your Way Out, which has a grungy Elvis Costello-gets-on-with-Liz Phair feel to it. I wanna be your afternoon/I want you coming back for more, Mandell sings on the sorta fun/sorta sad title song.”

She can also write catchy singles. Like this song from Afternoon, “Let’s Drive Away.”

That was Let’s Drive Away from Eleni Mandell’s fifth album, Afternoon, released in 2004. That song was also featured on the TV show, Weeds.

And here comes the challenging part of covering an artist like Eleni Mandell, who’s put out consistently solid albums for over two decades. There’s not enough time to feature all the good stuff she’s produced, but trust me, over her eleven albums, she always delivers. From the diverse shifting sounds of Artificial Fire [play clip] to the smooth and breezy Dark Lights Up [play clip], Eleni whirls a magical combination of jazz, folk, pop, country and rock, with just enough experimental twists to keep everything fresh. 

She’s also branched out from her solo artist gig to release two albums with her band The Grabs. The Grabs allows her to exercise more of her pop side and features Eleni on vocals, Blondie bassist Nigel Harrison, and Silversun Pickups’ drummer Elvira Gonzalez. 

And, she’s also released records with the Andrews Sisters inspired supergroup, The Living Sisters, with Inara George, Alex Lilly and Becky Stark.

I’d recommend checking out all of this. 

So now that we’ve established that the Eleni Mandell road is paved with the goods, let’s skip ahead to focus on her most recent album: 2019’s Wake Up Again.

Here’s what Eleni and her website have to say about the latest release: 

“For two years or thereabouts,” Mandell says, “I taught songwriting at two colleges and a women’s prison.”

The prison gig came about via Jail Guitar Doors, the organization founded by Wayne Kramer, guitarist of the vaunted Detroit band MC5, in partnership with English musician Billy Bragg. “I don’t know why exactly I was drawn to that work,” Mandell says. “But I had a family member who had been in prison in the 1940s. He wasn’t around when I was growing up, but that sort of fascinated me and I was always curious about what kind of person disappears and what kind of person commits crimes — what are they thinking?”

Working with the inmates also provided many epiphanies for her as a person, and proved fertile for her as an artist, as captured in the 11 songs on this album, her 11th studio release. In many ways it’s the culmination and fulfillment of all the strengths as a writer and performer going back to her start under the tutelage of Chuck E. Weiss, Tom Waits and other top chroniclers of people in the shadows.

“I really enjoyed it,” she says. “I was inspired by the stories, and surprised by the laughter I heard there. And I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was, by how many different kinds of people were there: teachers, lawyers, nurses, and also people who grew up in poverty.”

Here’s a song about one of the woman she met during those songwriting classes she taught. This is Evelyn.

Evelyn from Eleni Mandell’s most recent album, Wake Up Again. Another great addition to her expansive, impressive catalog. The album is filled with rich character studies and deeply personal self-examinations.

Her early Tom Waits inspiration continues to ignite and propel her, even after 11 albums. Only now she can call Tom a longtime friend. 

And she went from obsessive punk rock X fan to counting a member of X as a member of her own band. What a cool, thrilling ride she’s had so far. Eleni Mandell. 

References and other stuff:

Eleni interview with Luxury Wagers

Eleni interview with Mr. Bonzai

Eleni interview with Tyler Pollard on Timeline

The bio from Eleni’s current website has a great write up on her most recent album and I quote from it in the episode.

No Depression review of Afternoon that I quote in the episode

Here is the original bio from Eleni’s old website that is now archived. I also quote from this

Eleni has been featured on NPR segments over the years. I did not use anything directly from these, but they are good and informative

Pop Matter review of Dark Lights Up

Good L.A. Times article about Eleni teaching songwriting to female inmates and her latest album

[abundanceofsoph]

SkyFire 2: Chapter 9

Harry comes home: July 2016

Word count: 2.4k

Fair warning, I know absolutely nothing about prosthetics and I've made all of this up, especially all the new tech that Tony and Peter have designed.

The song Louis and Rori write in this chapter is Turn The Lights Down by Cavalcade

SkyFire 2 MASTERLIST

>Instagram posts

A week before Harry was expected home, Louis was still staying with them and he accompanied Aurora as she stepped into her fathers’ workshop.

“JARVIS said you needed me,” she said when they stepped through the glass door.

“We’re ready for testing,” Peter announced excitedly, gesturing to the prototype hand he had been helping Tony to build for the last few months.

“I haven’t met with a prosthetist yet,” Aurora pointed out. “Not sure I’m meant to be trying anything on yet.”

“No need,” Tony explained. “We just want to test out the neural connection to see if you can operate it.”

Aurora nodded in understanding, Peter having excitedly explained some of the science to her weeks ago. She hadn’t really understood most of what he’d said but she’d been able to grasp the basics. She swept her hair out of the way, allowing Tony to slip an electronic device around her left ear that looked a little like a hearing aid without the part that went in the ear itself.

“What is that thing?” Louis asked, watching on with interest.

“Normally the way the body works is that the brain sends a message down the spine to tell certain muscles to move. This device will pick up on that neural message and convert it into an electronic signal,” Tony explained, oversimplifying a process that had taken him and Peter months to design. “If we’ve got this right, that signal will be picked up by the prosthetic and move the hand.”

“So, you’re saying that Rori will be able to use the prosthetic hand just like it was connected to her and part of her body?” Louis asked, his voice laced with awe in the face of something he would have thought only possible in science fiction.

“That’s the idea,” Tony replied. “We want to avoid fusing the prosthetic to the skeleton like Bucky’s is. This way will be a lot less invasive and less painful.”

“Two things I am all for,” Aurora joked, attempting to shake off her own nerves.

“Ready?” Tony asked.

“Yep,” she said. “What do I do?”

Tony tapped away at his tablet for a brief moment, monitoring the connection between the device on her ear and the prototype hand. “Ok,” he finally said. “The transmitter is sitting correctly and it’s picking up everything. Rori, I want you to close your eyes and try to clench your left hand into a fist.”

Aurora followed her father’s instructions and the three men held their breath; the prosthetic on the table in front of her didn’t move. “Did it work?”

“Not yet,” Tony said. “It might be easier if you try to do this with both hands, just to give you something physical to focus on. Try to make a fist with both hands.”

They all watched as the fingers on her right hand curled up to form a fist, again the prosthetic remained unmoving. They continued on for another 20 minutes, trying different things to no avail.

“I don’t get it,” Peter huffed. “The device is picking up all the correct signals, but nothing’s working.”

“It’s not the device,” Tony replied. “Aurora’s spent the last 10 months not moving her left hand. Before the amputation her brain spent 6 months teaching itself not to move it because it used to cause pain. We need to train her brain to rebuild those pathways.”

Louis had been watching on in silence, not wanting to interrupt. Without a word he stood up and left the workshop. Everyone watched him go, confused by his abruptness. “I guess he’s not very patient,” Peter mumbled. “Don’t worry Aurora, we’ll work this out.”

She smiled back at him. “I know you will Pete.”

Louis returned a few minutes later, carrying the keyboard from the recording studio down the hall. “What about trying this?” he asked, placing it in front of Aurora. “You’ve been playing for over a decade. If your brain needs to remember how to use both hands, it knows how to play. You could do this with your eyes closed.”

“Louis, you’re a genius!” Tony exclaimed, smiling broadly.

“I’ve been trying to tell her that for years,” Louis joked, elbowing Aurora in the side. She laughed loudly, the tension leaving her body.

“Alright kiddo,” Tony said, turning back to his daughter. “Wanna play us something?”

She placed her right hand over the keys, the stump of her left arm resting on the table as if the ghost of her hand was also extended towards the keyboard. She took a deep shaking breath and began to play. At first it was disorientating; in her head she was playing both the left and right hand of the piece but only half of the notes were actually being played. She pushed through the discomfort, focusing on visualising her left hand dancing across the keys. She knew she’d done it when Peter let out an ecstatic whoop. She looked away from the keyboard to watch in fascination as the fingers of the prototype twitched and bent as if playing. A wide grin split across her face and tears spilt down her cheeks, her hand faltering, the song stuttering as she watched the prosthetic move.

“Holy shit,” she murmured. “You did it. Dad, you did it!”

She launched herself from her seat and into Tony arms, hugging him tightly as she cried. “I knew you would but oh my god. I’m really going to be able to play again. I’m going to get my life back. Thank you.”

xXx

By the time Harry returned to New York the following week, Aurora, Peter and Tony had conducted many more tests and work had begun on creating a wearable version of the prototype so that it would be ready when Aurora met with her prosthetists in a few weeks’ time. As a result, she had been in an excellent mood, one that was contagious, bringing smiles to the faces of all the residents in the tower. The mood was instantly apparent to Harry when he finally arrived at the tower, thanking Happy for the lift before taking the elevator up to the penthouse. Since Aurora had always enjoyed surprising Harry by arriving unexpectedly or earlier than planned, he had told her he was arriving the following day, and so he dropped his bags in the living room before going  in search of her. Steve was in the kitchen when Harry arrived, they hugged briefly, and Steve welcomed him back before directing Harry downstairs to where he found Rori in the recording studio with Louis. He smiled as he watched them together. Louis was sat on the sofa playing his guitar as Aurora danced around the studio singing.

Turn the lights down We're gonna shut it out Close your eyes now We won't know tomorrow Only one night No one's gonna see you here No one's gonna hear you clear

Harry continued to watch as Louis added his own voice to Aurora’s, the sound of a piano playing out of the speakers in the ceiling, clearly something they’d recorded earlier.

I saw you walking through the street Street lights bright on your misery Stumble down falling from your feet No one understands you

Louis stopped playing when he spotted Harry watching them, a grin lighting up his face and drawing Aurora’s attention. The next line of the song died in her throat when she saw him, rushing across the room to jump into his arms. The piano track continued to play in the background as he lifted her into the air, spinning them around as he kissed her.

“I missed you so much,” she murmured against his lips. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Missed you too my love,” he replied, chuckling as she planted kisses across his cheeks, her legs wrapping around his waist so that he couldn’t set her back down on her own feet.

Over dinner that night Harry was caught up on much that he had missed while he was away and shared his own tales from set. Once the meal was over and they all migrated over to the sofas, Aurora curled up in Harry’s lap, her head resting against his shoulder as conversation swirled around them. One of his hands absently rubbed along her spine, a pint clasped in the other as he chatted away with Louis, happily looking at all his photos of baby Freddie.

xXx

In the initial weeks following the amputation back in April, Aurora’s arm had been heavily bandaged and, in a bid to regain her independence, she had chosen to go alone when she returned to her doctor for her check-up appointments. Because of this, Harry had left for France to film Dunkirk before she was ready to have the limb exposed. So, it wasn’t until he was back in New York, 3 Months after the surgery that Aurora finally had to prepare herself to show him. Thus far she had avoided anyone other than her doctors seeing the stump without its compression stocking and despite growing comfortable with the other scars she had collected, she still felt vulnerable in an entirely new way showing it. Despite feeling exposed, she knew that if she was ever going to learn to be comfortable with her new body, Harry was the first person she needed to show it to. Rationally she knew that it wasn't like he would recoil in horror or anything, but she still felt nervous as she sat down facing him on her bed the day after he came home.

“H?” she began hesitantly.

“Yeah love?” He replied, reaching out to run his hand along her thigh.

“I want to show you my arm,” she explained, her voice shaking with her nerves. “No one’s seen it yet.”

“You don’t have to if you're not ready,” Harry said, shuffling closer on the duvet. “I don’t want to push you.”

“You're not,” Rori promised. “I want you to see it. It’s probably silly of me to be nervous again. I feel like I’ve had this exact conversation with you so many times. It’s just a big step, you know?”

“I do know,” he said, “and there’s nothing wrong with being nervous. This is different to you showing me your scars, but just like I said back then; this doesn’t change how I see you.”

“I love you so much Harry. I don’t think you realise how rare you are.”

Harry blushed always shy to receive compliments and he leaned forward to kiss her instead of replying. When they pulled apart from the kiss, Aurora’s hand fell to where the compression stocking covered what was left of her forearm and she slowly peeled the edge back.

Slowly Harry’s hands fell over her fingers. “May I?” he asked softly. She nodded, swallowing against her nerves as his long fingers removed the last of the stocking from her stump, revealing the angry red incision line at the end. “See?” he asked. “Nothing to be nervous about.”

Her eyes shot up to meet his, and she found only love and acceptance looking back at her. “It really doesn’t bother you.” She hadn’t meant it as a question, simply in awe of how lucky she was to have found such an incredible man to spend her life with.

“Of course, it doesn’t,” Harry answered any way. “Nothing could change the way I feel about you. I hope you understand that someday.”

They kissed then and Aurora pushed Harry backwards until he was lying flat across the bed. She moved with him until she was lying atop him, their lips never leaving each other’s.

xXx

Louis stayed for a week after Harry arrived home, both men glad to have some time with one another, but eventually he flew home.  Harry spent a few days with Aurora, enjoying some much needed time together, before he returned to the studio to get back to work. After months away from music he was excited to be back in the studio and the team he had assembled earlier in the year were equally excited to return. Aurora spent more time in the studio than she had before Louis and Niall’s visits, jumping in wholeheartedly with the writing process, which Harry loved. She would occasionally slip out of the studio to either go paint or to assist Peter and her father in further testing for the prosthetic.

xXx

At the end of July, Aurora’s prosthetist came to the tower for her first appointment. Given the fact that Tony was building a custom prosthetic it had occurred to them early on in the process that the fitting process would need to be a collaborative effort that would go smoother with home visits.  Aurora was already in the workshop with Tony and Harry when the prosthetist was accompanied into the room by Happy. He introduced himself as Ben Sherman and shook everyone’s hands.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” he said. “I’ve been looking over your medical files Aurora, and I’ve also read over your designs Mr Stark and I’m very excited to be involved in such a revolutionary project. If it’s alright with you I would like to start with looking at your residual limb. May I?”

Aurora nodded, holding her left arm out towards Ben. She was only wearing a tank top, allowing him to take full stock of the limb. She winced a little when he pressed against the incision line and he apologized. He then had Tony show them the latest prototype and they demonstrated how Aurora was able to operate it, something she had been getting much better at over the past weeks.

Once he was satisfied, he showed Tony some examples of sockets and the pair discussed the best methods and materials for constructing one to suit Auroras needs. Once that was completed, he set about taking a mould of her stump for Tony to use to form the socket.

“OK,” he said when he was finished and had repacked his bag. “I think we’ll be ready to start trying things on in about 2 weeks, so if you think you’ll have the next prototype ready by then we can book in a time for me to come and help you try it on and get used to wearing it.

“Thank you, Ben,” Aurora replied with a gentle smile. “I really appreciate you making a house call.”

“Well this is a special circumstance case,” he said. “I’m happy to help.”

Harry walked him out to the elevator and when he returned Aurora was staring at the prosthesis with excitement. “I can’t believe I’m going to finally get to try it on soon,” she said. “I can’t wait.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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[millenniumfae]

Black Jack And Pinoko - Cute Headcanons

its canon that Black Jack goes abroad a lot, and is forced to eat out. but he grew up eating homely food like simple curry, chazuke, porridge, etc. and there’s only so much full-course dishes he can stomach before he begins to crave simple cuisine. once Pinoko learned to cook, she learned all of Black Jack’s favorite dishes and always tries to prioritize the meal on his preferences. Black Jack knows Pinoko doesn’t like some of the foods he does, so he never asks her to cook them - but sometimes she does, for his sake.

the original comic has Pinoko and Black Jack sleeping in the same room, while the 2004 anime has them in separate rooms. i like the idea of Pinoko having her own little girly bedroom - Black Jack’s old cottage isn’t huge, if there’s only three bedrooms, then surrendering one means less room for him to work, and one less room for patients to rest. but Black Jack loves his daughter and she deserves her own room.

the anime moves up the timeline and places the Black Jack serial during the early 2000′s. and Pinoko has a cute little pink flip phone, which definitely means Black Jack bought it for her, along with a data plan. he buys a lot of stuff for Pinoko, sometimes because she asks, and sometimes just because - her books, most of her toys, some of her clothes, her cute furniture and room dressage were all bought by Black Jack. he tends to wander into a shop and whimsically buy a toy she thinks she’ll like, or a book he thinks she’ll enjoy. for her clothing, on the other hand, he sets aside time to take Pinoko to a boutique or a mall and she’ll pick out stuff she wants.

and Black Jack is rich, no doubt. he puts aside a lot of his ridiculous funds into his secret revenge plot, or to buy islands to preserve the environment, but once Pinoko came into the picture, he’ll easily relinquish money on her. but he’s still a parent, so he won’t buy everything she asks for. no, Pinoko, you can’t have that giant chocolate teddy bear, that’s way too much sugar. no, we’re not taking first-class to London, business class is just fine. that floor-length cocktail dress isn’t gonna even fit you, Pinoko. if you want a fancy outfit, you gotta check out the kid’s section. 

he knows that Pinoko likes to emulate what she believes is a woman of 18 years, even if she doesn’t particularly enjoy it, or understand it. she wants to buy a bottle of Chanel no. 5, because that’s what adult businesswomen wear. but look, Pinoko, it’s making you sneeze. “you can afford it, can’t you?” that’s not the point, Pinoko. Black Jack doesn’t want to dissuade these coping methods of hers, exactly. he can see that it’s tough for her. if its not actively destructive, or dangerous, then what’s the harm? when he comes back from another job abroad, he hands Pinoko the traditional souvenir; this time, its a small bottle of a girly perfume intended for teenagers. Pinoko sniffs - smells like sweet flowers. Black Jack gets a hug for his trouble.

people who read the original comic tend to say that the animated adaptations don’t make Black Jack angry enough. true, there’s a lot of panels where Black Jack shouts his head off at every turn, but everybody’s emotions are exaggerated in the comic. in the animated adaptations, Black Jack loses his temper only on occasion. and rarely with Pinoko. he doesn’t get angry when she throws fits, he gets angry during surgeries when lives are on the line. because that’s worth getting riled up over. not tantrums.

its canon that Black Jack doesn’t want Pinoko to know about some of his surgeries. such as ones where he’s paid to alter animals for the owner’s own entertainment. Black Jack emphasizes that its animal abuse. Pinoko’s asleep right now, i don’t want her to see what i’ve been talked into doing. she can withstand the blood and gore of surgeries, she bounces back from being kidnapped or threatened, but ill protect her from the darker, twisted sides of mankind for as long as i can. she deserves better.

one of his favorite activities to do with Pinoko is to teach her. she struggles a lot with the formal school system - being 18-years-old in a child’s body - so she has to learn everything from Black Jack. he rarely has time to sit down and tutor her, but sometimes he can put aside time to do it, and its so important to him. helping her read and write, introducing her to science and literature, teaching the piano, correcting her math, it makes him feel like he loves someone. loves his daughter. 

Black Jack is canonically fluent in english, and knows some spanish, too. so he teaches Pinoko some, and her young mind picks them up quickly. they’d just be walking home from an op, and Black Jack’ll ask her something in english so she can practice. after just a couple of years, and the occasional time spent abroad in english/spanish-speaking countries, Pinoko can fluently speak english and spanish, just like Black Jack. many point out how talented she is, being trilingual at such a young age. Inside, Black Jack is glowing with pride.

Black Jack and Pinoko share a kinsmanship when it comes to bodily struggles. Pinoko’s body goes through the occasional high-risk complication due to her special circumstances. Black Jack’s scars ache on a regular basis, not to mention many of his organs being weak and delicate due to being blown apart and stitched back together. they take a lot of the same medications. sometimes, both of them end up having simultaneous abdominal pains, and spend the day resting on the couch - Pinoko curled up in Black Jack’s lap as they watch the latest Bob Ross.

they canonically live on a island, with their cottage a good fifteen minutes away from town (in Japan, that counts as quite a ways). its one of those islands that’s connected to the mainland by a ayre, meaning they can drive to the bigger city. their local town, meanwhile, is a port suburbia with no big department stores or skyscrapers, just streets of vendors and the occasional blocky office complex. Pinoko loves going to the nearest city, but she prefers living in a quieter place. Black Jack, meanwhile, would spend all his free time shut in his cottage if he could, but he knows Pinoko needs more socializing and he’ll accompany her.

Black Jack didn’t intend to be a father. but when Pinoko was abandoned right on the heels of her agonizing rehabilitation, he saw himself in the girl - how his parents had left him bandaged and aching, stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his childhood. Black Jack had Dr. Honma to save him from darkness, and he’ll act the same towards Pinoko. 

he knows her favorite desserts, her preferred bath water temperature, how she likes to drink orange juice for lunch and apple juice for dinner, her current obsession with that particular american boyband, how she’s saving up money to buy a laptop like his (he’s still not sure if he should allow her that), or how she’s getting more and more interested in makeup and cosmetics (he’s definitely sure he’s not gonna allow that), how she hates using a kids toothbrush but loves her kiddie apron, how she struggles with literacy but grasps math surprisingly well, he knows her birthday, the sound of her footsteps, her entire medical record, her laughs, her cries, her shouts, her hopes and dreams.

like, edgy gorified medical dramas are ... nice and all, but the Black Jack series is best when the story is about being pure and good and thats the hill ill die on